Knott’s Berry Farm considers you a VIP mom…

Well, sweet!  Who cares if thirty minutes ago I was letting the DragonMonkey pee on a tree in front of Wells Fargo because we couldn’t find a bathroom in time…… I’m a VIP mom!  And I’ve got proof!

Join us on April 29th for what will be a wonderful and calming ‘Mother’s Day Champagne Brunch’ at Mrs. Knott’s Chicken Dinner Restaurant at Knott’s Marketplace…..In addition to a brunch that offers a variety of delicious choices, Knott’s will also like to give you a special Gift Certificate to pick a gift at selected Marketplace Shops like Virginia’s Gift Shop & Berry Market.

 SWEET! 


I scanned the rest of the way down and was a little disappointed not to see a reference to park admission.

Well, drat.

I mean, I am not upset. In fact, I feel petty for even feeling disappointed.  I’m going to get a free meal and a gift certificate.  They called me a “VIP mom” even though I let my kid pee on trees in public.  This is the second invitation they’ve been gracious enough to extend, and they’re promoting their restaurant’s Mother’s Day brunch, not the roller coasters.

Still.  I’m going to be within a stone’s through of Colossus…. and instead of throwing my hands up in the air and screaming my heart out as I plummet down the track, I’m going to be nibbling from a buffet and doing a little light shopping in the marketplace.

Well, okay, let me be honest:  I’m not going to be nibbling.  I’m going to be piling a plate high and going back for seconds and thirds while trying to ignore the single serving, gorgeous, size two Orange County moms around me. 

I hate buffets.  I always feel obligated to eat more than I would otherwise, just to “get my money’s worth”. 

I wonder— if I were a guy blogger, would I get invitations to all-you-can-eat-steak-buffets followed by laser tag tournaments and bull riding competitions?

Probably not, but it’s still fun to imagine.

Actually, now that I think about it, that just sounds like a recipe for puking.  Never mind.

Anyways, one of the things Knott’s ask you to do in exchange for accepting is to share the news with other people.

You know what?  No problem.  I’m happy to do that.

After bragging about announcing it on Facebook I blew off my dusty Twitter password and logged on.

I’ve never been able to get into Twitter.  I like the idea of it, but I dunno… something about it makes me feel like a grandma.  I feel like everyone is sitting on the sidelines, snickering at me ignorance, while I’m fumbling with the Twitter mic, wincing at its squeal and muttering, “Is this thing on?  Hello?  You know, back in my day we just passed good ol’ fashioned notes to each other… mumble, mumble…”

Besides, I’m long-winded.  It’s hard for me to say what I want to say in only 140 characters.

It took a few tries, but I finally came up with what I felt was an appropriate response:

I was trying to echo the whole “You had me at hello” scene from Jerry McGuire, but I ran out of room to make it apparent.  Like I said, I really don’t care for the whole 140 characters thing.  Still, I’d managed to make it obvious that I was grateful, and I’d even worked in a mention to the most exciting part of the invitation… Yaaay!  FREE FOOD!

Free food that I don’t have to make or clean up after is by far my favorite kind of food.  It’s so much tastier than any other kind, wouldn’t you agree?

Pleased with myself, I decided I’d take a look at what the other bloggers had said.

etc, etc, etc.

Well, crap.

Apparently you’re supposed to say thank you for the invitation and market the product… not pounce on the fact that you’ve been given free food, like it’s some kind of upscale homeless shelter soup kitchen that was kind enough to invite you along.

I swear, why do people invite me to these things?

Embarrassed, I went back and read the invitation again. Alright, alright, I admit it, I didn’t actually read all the way through the first time.  It was long.  It had a whole bunch of details and a lot of words, and as far as I can tell, none of those words were actually dialogue, so I kind of got distracted midway through. 

No, I don’t have ADD.  In order to have ADD you have to have a diagnosis.  Shut up.

Anyways, when I finally went back and checked out all the pertinent details:

Oooh!  Snoopy will be there.  Cool!  Even better, I won’t have a three year old trailing along beside me, trying to bolt for the door and insisting in shrill panicked tones that Snoopy is actually a large monkey trying to suck his brains out.  Maybe I’ll even get a picture with him (Snoopy – not the non-existant, flesh-eating monkey.)

Wait… what was that?

Oh.   Oh, my. 

Champagne’s a sneaky drink.  It tastes delicious – it doesn’t taste like alcohol at all.  It’s just kind of dry, fizzy apple juice.  Also, they tend to serve it in delicate little champagne flutes.  Have you seen those ridiculous glasses?  Who invented those things?  Whose bright idea was it to create a tiny, snappable, breakable little fragile glass and then serve a beverage in it known for impairing your motor abilities?

I get nervous holding champagne glasses.   I get even more nervous trying to set them down on the table.  I just know if I set the glass down it’s going to topple over and break… and everyone knows that if you a break a glass that has an alcoholic drink in it that you might as well trumpet to the entire world “I”m a big fat drunk!  You all should keep an eye out on me, because any second now I’m going to vomit and then spin around and fall off a stage!”  It doesn’t matter if you haven’t actually had a sip of alcohol or not—- once you break that glass, you’re a drunk.

That’s why I think it’s just a lot safer never to put the champagne glass down.

I mean, I guess it would be safest if I never even picked it up… but c’mon.  It’s champagne.  You can’t resist the lure of the bubblies.

Anyways, since I can’t seem to avoid picking it up… and I’m too socially awkward to put it down, I usually just end up trying to look nonchalant.

Everyone knows the best way to look nonchalant is to take tiny, “I’m a feminine young lady who never gulps her drinks” type sips from the glass in your hand.

Are you guys following the math here?  I’ll have a glass in my hand I can’t put down… it will full of alcoholic liquid… and the only way I can try to blend in is to constantly drink out of it.

Well.  That could be interesting.

On second that, maybe I’ll skip the champagne.

“So, we’re accepting the job offer with Portland?”

 “Yes, Becky, it looks like that’s the one we’ll go with.”

 “Awesome, Bean! This is great! I already have a lot of friends up there!”

 “Wait…friends? I thought you said you’d never been up there?”

 “I haven’t. Oh, Bean, this is going to be great! I already have tons of people we’re going to have to go visit and ride with…”

 “Are these friends you knew from before we met?”

“Nope.”

 “How do you know them?”

 “Oh, well, I haven’t really met them. They’re from my blog!

“From your blog?” Bean raised an eyebrow. 

“Don’t look at me like that.  Yes, from my blog.  They still count as friends.”

Whatever, Portland friends. Psssht. Bean doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You and me… we’re tight.

Although, in the interest of maintaining an honest friendship with you, I do have to be blunt.  I will not, ever, EVER wear hiking sandles with socks.  I can embrace the rain, the overcast skies, the mud, the hipsters, and everything else you throw at me, but a girl has to have standards.  I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.  

Anyways, in response to some of the comments my new friends (YES, Bean, they are my FRIENDS) wrote to me….

POA girl said:  “I’ve been told that Clackamas has more horses per capita then any other county in the country. I don’t know if it is true or not but oh boy do we have horses here. Wanna know another secret? There are a number of Canadian horses here (they look like foundation style Morgans). You prefer other types? We got it all.“

Is this true?  I don’t care if it is or not.  I’m going to say it’s true.  And even though I will be living in Colombia County, I’m just going to pretend that it’s Clackamas so I can brag.  I think it took me all of thirty seconds after receiving this comment to google “Canadian Horse”.  This is what I found:

 I immediately went to equine.com to see how much they are going for…  Drat.  Does anyone have about $10 to $20 thousand dollars I can borrow?  I can repay you in angry DragonMonkies and Squidgelet puke.  Let me know if you want to take me up on the offer – I have plenty of “currency” on hand.

Albigear said: ” One time I went there I got to see the naked bike ride (7,000 strong?…”

And then she went on to say some other stuff, but I have to be honest, I quit paying attention after that.  Because, seriously.  Wait a second.  Hold on there.

NAKED BIKE RIDE?  As in… naked people?  On bikes?  Riding?  7,000 of them, all at once?

But… but….but people have flibbly bits.  And dangly thangs.  And wobbly fat.  And…

Gross.

How do you even sit comfortably on your bike seat?  Wouldn’t it chafe after awhile?  What about when you have to stand up to pedal up a hill… what then?  Sure, it may not bug you… but what about the person behind you?  Do they really need that view?  Or worse…what if you have one of those comfortable gel bike seats— the kind that’s sorta made out of absorbent material?  How in the world could you get that thing clean enough to ever lend it out to a friend after riding around naked on it? 


“Oh, hey, Jack… Yeah, no problem.  You can borrow my bike.  Oh, and hey, here’s a paper towel.  You might want to give it a quick wipe before you sit down.  I just spent two sweaty hours with that skinny front portion jammed up against my….”

GROSS.  Bad, Portland.  Bad.  I’m giving you -2 coolness points.

Snipe asked if the house we’re moving to is horse-friendly.  Sadly, it isn’t.  We had to work within our budget, and unfortunately, we had to choose between “horse-friendly” and “land with an actual house on it”.  I tried convincing The Bean that it would be a really great adventure to spend the next few years squatting in a tent on some property while we saved up enough money to build on it, but he wasn’t buying it.

That said, the area I’m moving to is fairly horse friendly.  While I can’t have a horse on my property, I was able to find several reasonable-looking barns close by.   In fact, there are some downright gorgeous barns nearby. 

Check out this place:

For those of you too lazy to click through, check out this picture:

 I.  Want.  To.  Ride.  In.  That.  Covered.  Arena.  

Okay, what I really want is to one day have a covered arena like that on my property.  But unless I make it big as an author one day and just have stupid money to throw around, I don’t think that’s very likely.  So, instead, I will settle for lusting after other people’s arenas.

I also want to go check out this barn:

For the record, you guys are allowed to browse the sales page all you want, but I already have dibs on “Quik Like A Jackrabbit.”  No, I do not have $12,000 dollars.  And no, I have no idea what I’d do with a cow horse with that much fancy breeding— I expect I’d just fall off a lot.

Even so, it doesn’t matter.  I call “dibs”, and everyone knows that “dibs” is an all-powerful claim.  Even Urban  Dictionary recognizes it.

“Dibs:  The most powerful force in the universe, it is used to call possession of a certain object or idea. There are very few things that trump dibs.”

You can’t argue with a dibs.

While we’re on the subject of “dibs”ing, I’ve saved the best thing for last:

Holy crap.

I’m going to be living near a Morgan horse farm. Admit it.  You’re jealous.

I understand that it’s very greedy of me to call dibs on so many of their horses, but I’m afraid that’s what happens when you’re second to the table.  Besides…. finder’s keepers.

Now all I have to do is work on the email where I introduce myself to the farm owners and ask to visit.  I’ve been working on this stupid thing for weeks.  I swear, I put less time and effort into dating The Bean than I am into trying to hit just the right note with the owners of this farm.

Does anyone have any suggestions for how to word a “Hi, nice to meet you” note which will result in them saying, “Hi, Becky, we’ve been waiting for someone like you to write!  Why don’t you come on by and meet our herd?  You can basically pretend that they’re all yours and groom and ride them any time you want.  We’ll even provide free baby sitting and gas money for the drive!”

Shhhh.  Don’t interrupt my daydream with reality.  It could happen, right?