Also, in the spirit of “it’s my blog and I feel like bragging on myself”:
Guess who had a bright red face and cried when she crossed the finish line of her first 10k last Saturday?
I didn’t even puke afterwards, although there were a few minutes where it was touch and go.
I said as much to the bake sale lady while I was sipping water, trying to calm down, and the look on her face reminded me that I really need to find a way to get better at small talk.
Anyways, I went for a nice, slow run today (and by slow I mean that the DragonMonkey leaned his head back at one point and asked if he could get out and walk beside the stroller) and realized that one day I may even be crazy enough to try a half marathon… or at the very least a Ride and Tie event.
Maybe I’ll even learn how to cross the finish line without bursting into happy tears.
I was attacked by ninjas. Do you have any idea how hard it is to type up a blog post when you’re fending off silent shadows of death?
I did write a post. It was the most inspiring, poignant blog post anybody had ever read, in the history of all literacy. In fact, it was so brilliant that I was singlehandedly responsible for every single Knott’s Berry Farm Soak City ticket sale during the 2012 season. You’re welcome. What’s that? You don’t remember reading it? Well, they say that mind is the first thing to go.
Oh, no! Someone stole all my fingers! It’s really, really hard work typing things out with my tongue. You can’t be angry with a tongue-typer, can you? It’s like hitting a man with glasses, only worse.
Disneyland caught wind of how much fun I had at Soak City and sent mobsters to my house to rough me up and scare me out of publishing my review. They said if I published my blog post that they’d hurt a kitten…. a KITTEN. I could hear its pitiful, heart-wrenching meows in the background. A poor, innocent kitten! Those MONSTERS!
Or, perhaps, the truth:
What in the WORLD was I thinking? I was in the middle of leaving my job, packing my house, and seeing to all the details of a 1,000 mile move. I can barely make it to the grocery store on a schedule. Why did I think I was going to be able to say yes to Knott’s Berry Farm’s offer of free tickets to the Soak City opening weekend, and then somehow come up with an honest, interesting review within a decent length of time?
If I’d managed to write it within a week or two… or maybe even a month or two, it could have been forgiven. I did manage to get down the framework of the day, but I kept putting off polishing it up and posting it.
The thing was, I had such a great time that I felt obligated to turn in the WORLD’S MOST INCREDIBLE REVIEW EVER!!! It would have been a lot easier if I’d had a crappy time, or even a mediocre time.
Unfortunately for the Knott’s, I didn’t. I had a great time. And the longer I took to post (seriously, how did all the other bloggers manage to post within a day or two of going? I bet they’re the same kind of weirdos that remember to write thank you notes and always pair up their socks before putting them away in the sock drawer), the more I realized that I was going to have to make it a really, really, REALLY good review to make up for how long it took me.
But the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months… and the next thing I knew it was November, and cold, and I lived a thousand miles away, and writing a review about a water park which was closed for the season just didn’t even make sense.
So.
Yeah.
Heya, Knott’s. I bet you thought I forgot about you, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t. In fact, so you know, we had such a great time at your park that when my family came up from Mexico to visit last summer, the first place my parents dragged them was to Soak City.
Anyways, here goes.
******
Have you ever had one of those absolutely perfect days?
They don’t happen very often – not once a week, or once a month, or even once a year. Maybe it’s their rarity that makes them so precious – rich, warm, golden moments where time itself seems to slow in honor.
The day we went to Soak City at Knott’s Berry Farm didn’t start out like a perfect day. Maybe that’s why it made such an impact on me.
In fact, the day itself started out pretty crappy.
I was fat. I know there’s no one to blame but myself for that one, but it didn’t make cramming myself into a bathing suit any more pleasurable.
Also, the Squidgelet was sick. He’d started in with the coughing the day before, and by the time Sunday morning rolled around, he was trailing green snot down his face, occasionally smearing it around with a grubby little hand.
I know I’m his mom, but when I walked into his room that morning to get him out of his crib, even I didn’t want to touch him.
There was no way I could take him with me…. which meant that instead of the wonderful day of bonding I’d envisioned with The Bean, the kids and myself, I was going to have to take my parents instead.
Don’t get me wrong – I love my mom and stepdad, but it just wasn’t what I had in mind. I was having a hard enough time dealing with the fact that I was going to be parading around in public in a bathing suit (who invented women’s swimsuit fashions, anyways?). Having my plans derailed by greenish, slimy snot and a grumpy baby turned my mood from grumpy into downright foul.
And then there was the DragonMonkey.
“Knott’s Bewwy Fawm? Go fwimming Knott’s Bewwy Fawm? Go fwimming? Go fwimming? Go fwimming Knott’s Bewwy Fawm Soak City?”
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid Becky. Why? Why did I always forget ,and end up telling the DragonMonkey about things early? I guess it’s because I liked seeing him happy, but really, I ought to have known better. No good every came out of telling a three year old kid about something ahead of time. What was I thinking? Did I really think he would hear the news, nod sagely, reach for a toy, and continue playing peacefully?
“Quite right, Mother. We are going to Knott’s Berry Farm’s Soak City today. What a grand adventure we shall have. Thank you for this lovely opportunity. Would you please pass me Thomas the Train? I shall endeavor to keep myself quietly busy while you prepare everything for our outing.”
Nope. He was three. This meant that from the moment he’d heard about Soak City the night before, he’d been trailing around behind me like I had him on a leash, tapping me with his hand to get my attention, and repeating the same cycle of questions over and over again.
Where we going to Knott’s Berry Farm? Yes. Well, sorta. We were going to Knott’s Berry Farm’s water park.
Where we going on the train? No. The normal section of Knott’s Berry Farm had the train. We were going to Soak City – their water park.
Soak City? Yes. It’s across the street from the regular Knott’s Berry Farm. It has water. Slides. Pools. We could go swimming.
Fwimming? Yes.
Fwimming on a twain? NO. There were no trains. Besides, you can’t swim on a train. There’s no water.
Does Knott’s Bewwy Fawm have a twain? Yes. But we are going BESIDE Knott’s Berry Farm – to Soak City. They will have pools. And slides. And swimming.
Soak City? Yes.
Fwimming? Yes.
Fwimming Knott’s Bewwy Fawm? Yes – at Soak City.
Soak City? YES! YES, WE’RE GOING TO SOAK CITY.
By the time we were loaded up in the minivan and on our way, I was daydreaming of taping his adorable little mouth shut. Just two minutes of silence. Please? Just give two Mama two minutes of precious, beautiful, blessed silence. PLEASE?!
“KNOTT’S BEWWY FAWM? WE GO FWIMMING AT KNOTT’S BEWWY FAWM?”
“Yes! YES! WE’RE GOING TO SOAK CITY. PLEASE JUST SIT THERE AND BE QUIET, FOR THIRTY SECONDS.”
There was a brief moment of silence, just long enough to give me hope, and then, “Go fwimming at Soak City? Go fwimming Knott’s Bewwy Fawm?”
“Here. Have a cookie.” It was a little early in the morning for cookies, but chewing kept his mouth occuppied, and an occupied mouth meant a brief reprieve from “Go fwimming Knott’s Bewwy Fawm?”
Parking was easy – I’ve never been in a more convenient parking lot. With most amusement parks you have to park way out in Timbuktu, and memorize latitude/longitude coordinates so you can hopefully find your way back to the same zip code.
The parking lot for the water park was wonderfully close to the actual water park (gasp! What a concept!), so score one for Knott’s.
On the other hand, the happy glow brought about by nice parking soon faded when we started dragging all of our stuff out of the car.
Unloading bag after bag of kid-related crap was vaguely depressing, and can best be described by haiku:
I love my children
But they need way too much stuff
Stuff, stuff, stuff, yuck, stuff
Thankfully we didn’t have a very long walk to the front gate, where I met a friendly woman at the check-in table.
I tried to be classy, and act like I was someone cool, but I’m pretty sure I ruined it by audibly squealing when she handed me my favorite thing in the entire world: Free Stuff.
I want to say that I am a classy person with a discerning palate…. but the truth is, I go gaga over anything that’s free.
That said, it was some pretty awesome stuff. There was a mesh swim bag that I still drag with me EVERYWHERE, even though it’s been a year since they gave it to me.
I’m not the only one who loves it – it’s Fat Cat’s favorite place to pee in the entire world, but that’s a different story. Also, Knott’s? Whatever you paid for that bag was worth it – that thing holds up to a LOT of washing.
Inside the bag was all sorts of cool stuff. There were a couple of bags of Knott’s Berry Farm cookies, which are one of my all-time-favorite things ever. If you haven’t had any, I highly recommend them.
Those cookies are AWESOME. They come in flavors like “Raspberry” and “Boysenberry” and other fruit like that, so you can pretend you’re actually eating something healthy.
Yes, yes, I know there’s a reason I don’t look good in a bathing suit. Shut up.
Anyways, I’m pretty sure the cookies in the Bag of Free Stuff were for me to share with everyone… but the parents were on a diet, and the DragonMonkey is allergic to gluten, so it fell on me to eat all four bags. I mean, I couldn’t just drag them around all day, right?
Oh, the humanity. It was terrible.
Because I didn’t make a note of it, and because I have the memory of a houseplant, I only remember two other items that were in that bag :
A Knott’s Soak City OC towel: this towel has become the bane of my existence. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a very nice towel. The problem is that according to the DragonMonkey, it’s HIS TOWEL, HIS KNOTT’S SOAK CITY TOWEL, NOBODY ELSE CAN USE THAT TOWEL, and woe to anyone else who dares to touch it. He seems genuinely attached to the towel, so for the most part I try to respect his unreasonable passion for it…. but as you all know, I’m terrible at keeping up with the laundry, and, well… a towel is a towel. Sometimes, when you need to take a shower, you just plain need a clean towel…. and there’s nothing quite as creepy as pulling back the shower curtain, and reaching for a towel…. only to have a short, angry person burning holes in your skin with his WHY-ARE-YOU-TOUCHING-MY-TOWEL glare.
Flaccid, wrinkled, pointy noodles – I’m serious. I had no idea what they were for most of the day…. and then about 30 minutes before we were ready to leave, I suddenly figured it out. All around the park they have little water stations. You take your flaccid, semi-phallic noodle thingie (I’m sorry, but that’s what it looked like), plug it into the little water tower stations they have situated around the park, and VOILA! It fills with water (one might almost say it becomes turgid), and you have a neat little water gun type toy. I wish I’d figured it out sooner. I’m not one for purchasing souvenirs and stuff, but those things are definitely worth the money. We had some awesome water fights with them.
The entrance to the park was really pretty.
I know this because I spent about 15 minutes there while my stepdad trotted back to the car for some cash. It turns out that to rent the locker rooms was cash only – that may have changed by now, but that’s how it was when we went last year.
For the record, I wasn’t going to write about the cash-only thing, but my mom insisted I put it in there.
“This is cash only?” She shook her head in disappointment at the attendant as my stepdad made his trip to the car. “You guys are missing out on some business. What if we didn’t have any cash in the car?”
The attendant mumbled something apologetic, and my mom turned back to me, shaking her head. “Make sure you inform your readers about this.”
“Mom, it’s not like that. I don’t have ‘readers’ – like, actual people who hang around and wait for me to review stuff.”
“They need to know about it anyways. What if they didn’t bring cash?”
So, there you have it. A year later: Bring cash if you want a locker.
Speaking of lockers and boring non-ride stuff like that, the bathroom facilities are pretty legit. Once again, my mom took her reviewer responsibilities very seriously. She walked the entire length of the shower/changing areas with pursed lips, examining every nook and cranny, before returning.
“These are very nice facilities,” she announced. “Make sure you let your readers know they’re nice.”
“Mom… seriously. It’s not that kind of a blog. People who read my blog aren’t interested in the bathrooms, unless I embarrass myself in them, somehow.”
She ignored me.
“Becky, take a picture to show how nice they are.”
“MOM. I’m not taking a picture in the bathroom. I’m pretty sure that’s against the law.”
“Why? Nobody’s here. Here. I’ll move out of your way. Take a picture to show your readers.”
“Moooooom. Seriously. I can’t walk around and take pictures of a changing room and shower area. This is where people get naked, and change clothes and stuff. What if someone sees me? Someone’s going to think I’m a pedophile. That’s the kind of creepy thing that will get me sent to jail. I’m not doing it.”
“Rebeca Bean, just take the picture.”
See, there’s a problem with bringing your mom to your fancy functions. She’s, like, your MOM. And when she pulls out your full name… well…
“Fine, fine! Just… here. Get DragonMonkey in the picture, so it looks less weird if someone comes in.”
Becky Bean: Taking creepy bathroom pictures because her mom told her, since 1981.
Also, Knott’s Berry Farm Soak City: Passing my mom’s very strict “are the bathrooms nice and clean” standards, since 2012.
Anyways, once we made it out of the restrooms, the rest of the day was, well, it was perfect.
The venue was perfect, as you can see from the exquisitely detailed picture below:
Just kidding.
Dear Knott’s: This is a ridiculously tiny image because I totally stole it off of your website. Dude. What is this… a water park for ants? (Zoolander reference for those of you who don’t watch it nearly as often as I do.)
Seriously though, you guys need better pictures. That Toyota Beach House “ride” thingie, with the pullies, and the levers, and that giant bucket of water that dumped on you was, like, THE MOST AWESOME THING EVER. That picture you have of it looks like a bunch of tiny naked people standing in line for a group shower – which is exciting for some people if they’re into that, I guess, but it doesn’t really show how totally awesome it is. If you need a recommendation for new pictures I’d go with John Norling Photography – he’s done work for Hearst Castle, and other fancy places like that, and is very affordable for how great he is. Or if you have your own photographer, just have him take some new pics. Also, if you do have better pictures and I’m just too ADD to find them, you need to make them more ADD accessible.
After all, how many ADD kids does it take to change a lightbulb? Hey, wanna go ride bikes?
Anyways. Where was I?
Ah, yes. The perfect day.
The venue was perfect.
The weather was perfect.
Even the DragonMonkey was perfect:
Like I said, the whole day was just perfect.
Now, here’s the secret, and yes, Knott’s Berry Farm sent me here for free, and yes, I’m a great big slut when it comes to free stuff, but believe me when I say that I’m telling the 100% non-biased truth:
We had that much fun BECAUSE of how cool Soak City is.
And that was due to one very, very important factor:
Soak City is not a meat market.
I feel like I’m doing a disservice to Wild Rivers by even bringing this up, because I honestly loved that place and was really, really sad when it closed down, but if you ever went to Wild Rivers, or Raging Waters, then you know what I’m talking about.
Those places are a creepy dude’s dream come true, and a low-self esteem chick’s worst nightmare. I even felt that way when I was 14 years old and in my skinny prime.
Wild Rivers was a lot bigger than Soak City – I’m not gonna lie. They had more rides, and the kid/lounging area was significantly larger.
The thing is, I never really enjoyed myself there, because I was too busy feeling annoyed and ashamed as I watched 14 year olds mincing around in string bikinis, batting their eyelashes at college-aged guys. It bothered me on a lot of levels – first off, they were too young for that crap. I mean, I hate to sound like a boring mom, but I the last time I went I wanted to grab them by their thin little shoulders and shake them. “You’ve got your whole life to play ‘Who Wants to Hide the Sausage’ – knock it off! Quit the flirting, grab what’s left of your childhood, and just enjoy yourselves! Stop mincing about!”
Also – did they really have to look so skinny, tanned, and perfect in their teensy little bikinis? Stupid little taut, thin-thighed teenagers.
The thing is, Soak City didn’t have that sex-charged vibe. Even though everyone was still running around in bathing suits, and bathing suits show a lot of skin, the place had a very family-friendly, easy-going feel to it. There were a couple of teenagers flirting about, but they were the exception to the rule, rather than the norm.
And you know what?
It was really nice.
For an entire day I just hung out with my family, and relaxed, and rode rides, and just stopped caring about how I looked in a bathing suit, or if we live in an over-sexed society, or the fact that I had to pack a whole bunch of stuff and move 1,000 miles away in a few short days, or any of that.
I went down slides with The DragonMonkey:
I lounged in the sun chairs with my family.
I watched my son have an absolute blast the entire time he was there – there were no meltdowns, or crying, or anything.
I’d go into description of all the rides, but I didn’t take a lot of pictures (I was too busy having fun), and, honestly, their website does a better job of describing it anyways, although you shouldn’t judge the coolness of their rides from their sparse pictures:
So it was a perfect day, with the exception of one thing:
Holy CRAP, I got sunburned.
Dude. I mean, I know I’m white. I may be half-Mexican, but you sure can’t tell it from my skin.
My forearm is pretty pale, and, well… here’s what it looks like against my leg:
The thing is, I know I’m really white, and I take precautions. Before I even left the house I slathered myself up with SPF 50, waterproof… and then I reapplied it several times throughout the day. And yet… if you look in the picture above, you can already see the pink starting to sprout.
It only got worse from there. When I tell you I fried like a lobster, I’m telling you: I fried like a lobster. The next week, once it had started to heal, my skin didn’t peel. Oh, no. I freaking molted. It was disgusting.
To be honest, I don’t think there’s anything I could have done to avoid it. SPF 50 is pretty strong stuff, and it didn’t do a darn thing to protect my skin. Unless they start coming out with SPF Wool Sweater, I think I’m just destined to sunburn.
Still, the mom in me wants to warn you. If you are going to check out Soak City, bring some sunblock. Lots of sunblock. The sun reflects (refracts?) off the water and turns it into some kind of nuclear ray with skin-searing power.
Anyways, there you have it. If you’re in there area, I highly, HIGHLY recommend checking out Soak City OC. There season passes are pretty affordable in the grand scheme of amusement parks – I think they go up in price starting on May 27th, so if you’re thinking of buying, buy soon.
As far as how The DragonMonkey liked it, well, it’s been a year since we went there and he still asks to go back, from time to time. A year to a four year old is a pretty huge deal, so I think it’s safe to say he had a great time there.
Also, Knott’s? Seriously. I’m sorry it took so long for me to write this up.
Also, thank you for the memories of a really wonderful day. I know it sounds like I’m sucking up, but I’m not. It was really that awesome of a day.
It’s been over two days since I took a 15 minute horseback riding lesson, and I still can’t walk right.
Ow. My thighs.
OWWWWWWWWW.
Ever since I moved up here to the Pacific Northwest I’ve been wanting to take a lesson with Dory, the trainer over at Fish Creek Farm up in Washington. My desire to take a lesson was due to a variety of reasons….. most of which boiled down to:
Dude. She’s totally affordable.
Everyone who trains with Dory speaks of her lessons and riding ability in hushed, reverent tones. I find it intriguing, because the people who are so in awe of her are serious horsewomen themselves.
No, seriously. She’s affordable.
Friday morning I dropped the boys off at a friend’s house and made the drive up past Seattle to Fish Creek Farm.
Yes, that’s right. For Mother’s Day I ran away from my kids.
Come on. You can admit it. Isn’t that what every mom really want for Mother’s Day? Who doesn’t daydream of a little quiet time to herself and a full night’s sleep with no responsibilities?
Yeah. Me too.
The drive was uneventful (AND QUIET!), but since I got a late start I arrived a little later than I had originally planned. As I was running behind schedule, I had thrown on some half chaps and was up on a horse almost before the dust from my tires had even settled.
For the record, that is the way that all road trips should end.
Also for the record: I may or may not have put my half chaps on the wrong way and walked around with them facing completely backwards until someone let me know.
Don’t worry – one day, with a lot of practice, you can be just as good at horse stuff as I am.
Once I got straightened out Dory threw me up on Gangster – a sweet faced paint with a nice, solid build.
In the picture above this I look like I’m just kind hanging out in the saddle, leaning too far forward.
The reality is that I am deep in conversation with my legs, begging them to ignore the build up of lactic acid and do what Dory was asking.
I know, I know. All of you English riders are snickering under your breath. You guys have probably been holding two point and stuff like that since you were six years old. You’ve got thighs of steel and can crush beer cans with only a slight twist of your knees.
I don’t. Apparently, I have flabby, useless thighs. All of this “hold two point with no stirrups for two laps around the arena” stuff was really new to me, and my legs let me know that they did NOT approve.
I wasn’t even aware that it was possible to drip sweat and gasp for breath just riding a horse at a walk.
I was wrong.
Fifteen minutes later, legs visibly trembling from the “warm up exercises, I had to crawl off the horse and hand him back because I had broken him.
I never actually got the official word on what was wrong with Gangster – it might have been tying up from “the heat” (a whopping 75 degrees – all you desert people can engage in a deep belly laugh right about now) or the beginnings of founder, or…?
All we knew is that a normally good-natured horse was sulky and refusing to trot, sweating way too much for the amount of work he was being asked to do, and the muscles along his flanks were quivering in a steady tremor.
I gotta tell you, I hate breaking other people’s toys. Even if it wasn’t really my fault, I still felt a little guilty.
Since the lesson was cut short we headed back to Aarene’s place, who had graciously offered to let me crash in her spare bedroom.
Lounging in the grass, drinking good root beer and watching chickens and a horse graze simultaneously is the way all Friday evenings should be spent.
We spent the evening roasting hot dogs and visiting with a couple of of her friends who dropped by. I’d like to say that I was fascinating company, but the truth was I spent 90% of the night poking a stick into the fire and trying to remember how to interact with other adults.
It turned out that I didn’t need to worry about being interesting – Aarene’s friend kept us in stitches with stories about her father-in-law “The Hammer”. No, that’s not me coming up with a code name. She really does have a father-in-law that everyone calls “The Hammer” – an 80 year old manly man who was recently thrown out of his local YMCA for brawling. The stories just got better from there.
Some people’s families are just cooler than mine.
The next morning we got up and headed north to drive to Greener Pastures. Duana was originally slated to drive – a roadtrip of four horse women all crammed into an adorable Mini. Unfortunately, she had forgotten her passport at home so the three of us (Aarene, Siri, and I) piled into my Scion and headed north.
That far north the view on the 5 freeway is both beautiful and monotonous.
If you look to the left, you see green trees.
If you look to the right, you see green trees.
If you look in your rearview mirror you will see some green trees you’ve just driven past.
Up ahead, if you squint reeeaaaaally hard, you can make out– you guessed it: Green trees.
I spy with my little eye… something green.
Aarene, who is honestly one of the coolest people in the entire world to go on a roadtrip with, was regaling us with stories about the places we past, complete with local history and interesting side notes.
Seriously, if you ever get a chance, roadtrip with a gregarious librarian. It’s informative AND fun.
About halfway to the Canadian border, as she was speaking, I noticed that I began to get a little lightheaded. I’m not prone to carsickness unless pregnant, and I knew that wasn’t the case, so maybe it was just too stuffy in the car?
I cracked the window, tilting my face into the breeze, but the feeling didn’t go away.
Maybe I was nauseous, and my body was interpreting it strangely? I was already chewing a piece of gum, but it wouldn’t hurt to get a new piece.
Nope. That didn’t help either.
In fact, it was getting worse. Not only was I edging from lightheaded to just plain dizzy, my heart had begun to race violently. I reached my fingers up to the side of my neck and discreetly tested my pulse – not only was faster than normal, but it felt like each heartbeat was two to three times harder than it should have been.
Now, I don’t know about the rest of you guys, but I really don’t like getting sick in front of people. Call it pride, or fear of showing weakness, or whatever, but if I’m going to get sick I like to do it in the privacy of my own home, without anyone watching. It’s one thing for me to tell this story in retrospect on the internet – it was another thing to go through it in front of witnesses. I was feeling really, really weird, but I didn’t want to say anything about it.
I shifted in my seat, uncomfortably, and tried to slow my racing heart by taking deep, even breaths through my mouth. The air felt stale, almost too thick. I lowered my window even further, hoping to clear my head with the fresh air. What the heck was going on with me? Was I having some kind of weird caffeine reaction to the cup of coffee I had earlier?
“You know,” Aarene said. “They’ve tried to develop this land around us quite a few times, but it’s never worked out. Strange things happen in these mountains.”
I glanced at the mountains rising up around me – at the towering, thick layer evergreens all around me….. shadowed, impenetrable. Foreboding.
I took a few more deep breaths, but they didn’t help. My heart was absolutely racing, I was downright dizzy and for some inexplicable reason my hands were beginning to shake. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to clamp down on it and get control of myself, but it didn’t help.
What the hell was going on with me?
“The locals weren’t surprised when nobody can make anything work out in these mountains – if you talk to the local tribes, they all stay away from this mountain.”
I blinked hard, and shook my head to try to clear it, but whatever was wrong wasn’t going away – it was just getting worse.
There are many places where it’s inconvenient to either pass out or have a total nervous breakdown. Driving 70 mph down a busy freeway with two passengers in your car kind of tops the list.
“Hey, uh, Aarene?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you drive stick?”
“Yeah, I do. You getting carsick? You need to pull over and puke?”
“… I’m not nauseous. I just… I just don’t feel right.”
“Well, I really don’t think you should pull off in this area. It’s just…” She shook her head. “It’s just not a good area. There’s a rest stop just up ahead, but I just really don’t recommend it.”
I squeezed the steering wheel tighter, trying to control the shaking, and debated whether or not I could make it to the rest stop, much less anything further.
Nope. It wasn’t gonna happen.
Whatever was wrong with me, I needed to get out from behind the wheel of this car, immediately. I felt like my heart was going to rip out of my chest from the force of its beats – what if I passed out and killed us all in a car crash? I was keeping it together, but just barely.
I turned on my blinker, crossed four lanes of traffic in about ten seconds, and pulled the Scion to a stop on the side of the road.
Aarene exited out her door and around the back of the car and I crawled over the center divider into the passenger seat. I put on my seatbelt and leaned forward, burying my face in my hands as the tears began to flow, trying to get control of heart, my breathing, the shaking in my hands that had now traveled all the way from my hands to my arms… and most importantly I tried to dampen down the overwhelming sense of dread and fear that felt like it was gripping my chest in an icy band.
I began praying, but I’m ashamed to say that I couldn’t really think of the right words.
Five minutes later we were approaching the outskirts of Bellingham, and I was 100% recovered, except for a lingering sensation of acute embarrassment.
I decided to try to put whatever had happened behind me. Was it some kind of spiritual attack? Was it some kind of panic attack? Maybe I had some kind of an ear infection brought on some kind of allergy?
The day was young, I was on my way to Canada, and I was about to visit the Greener Pastures horses. I could think about what happened later on.
We crossed the border and finally arrived at the barn. It felt almost surreal to actually see the horses in person – for those of you who aren’t friends with me on Facebook, I’ve been actively stalking Greener Pastures for two years. Not only do I fully support what they’re doing (rehoming retired Standardbred racehorses), but I love the work they do with each horse. All their horses are fat, shiny, and healthy – the ones who underweight or who have dull coats join the ranks of fat and shiny within a few weeks and/or months.
I support any rescue who can show improvements like that in such a short time.
Anyways, onto the horses.
They had about 10 horses on the property, but only a couple really fit what I was looking for.
Although I knew we weren’t really going to be buying a horse until later in the summer, I was really excited about seeing Chester in real life.
I’d had a big crush on him when he went through the program last year, so when he was returned due to financial hardship, I couldn’t help but get a little excited.
He was just as cute in real life, and MUCH larger than he appeared in his photo album. The lady on his back, Alina, is about 5’11 in real life – and about 90% of that is in her legs. She makes him seem like a nice, boring size. In real life he was tall enough I had trouble trying to imagine how the heck I would get in the saddle without a mounting block.
Despite his beautiful movement, there just wasn’t any click, so I didn’t spend much time with him.
Horse number two was called Heart to Beat: She’s an older mare, early teens, and built like the side of a barn.
She also had the world’s most ridiculous “scratchy face”. This picture just doesn’t quite encapsulate how stupid of an expression she was making.
I liked how solid she seemed, but despite her friendliness she was a little bit mareish – nothing bad, but she would need a few lessons to remind her where she needs to be in the pecking order. If she’s available in August, when I’m hoping to get a horse (DUDE. I’M IN THE MARKET FOR A HORSE. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!) I will definitely check her out.
The third horse, Red Star Vamp, is the one who really stole my heart.
I’d say something about the slightly stoned expression on my face, something like, “What the heck is going on with my face?”… but, yeah. That’s kind of how I look like every time I get a hug from a horse. Did you really expect anything different?
I gotta be honest – Vamp is much, MUCH younger than I would really be looking for.
She’s only three.
Or rather, her third birthday is in a couple of days.
Her personality oozed out of her— and I’m talking “whipped cream oozing out of the world’s most delicious cream puff” typing of oozing, not “puss from a rotten wound” type of oozing. The filly just radiated an aura of friendly happiness. When you combine that with her nice conformation and her overall mental maturity, well…
It was a pretty intoxicating combination for someone as horse-starved as I was.
She was a pretty decent mover, too, for as young as she was.
With horse buying not occurring until closer to the end of summer, there’s a decent chance somebody else will snap her up before I am ready.
I really hope that she’s still around, though. I mean, look at her. She’s adorable.
Anyways, that’s what I did for my Mother’s Day Weekend. What did all of you guys do?
And he was – sitting there calmly on the side of his bed, bleeding and laughing, his teeth stained an eerie red, with the entire side of his room coated in a layer of blood. It looked like a scene from Dexter.
“Holy crap… are you okay? DragonMonkey, how the heck did this happen?!”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stomp on Squid’s nose with my foot to make him laugh.”
“Again?! Again, DagonMonkey? Hahahahaha…Kick me again!”
****
“MAMA! Squid is throwing the kittens’ poo-poo all over the toy room again!”
****
“MAMA! Squid made Artemis all white with baby powder again, and now it’s everywhere!”
****
“Mama! You need to get outta the shower – I tried to count the chicken eggs but they all fell off the counter and I’m sorry and they broke and now Artemis and Squid playing in the mess and it is everywhere. Please help.”
****
“MAMA! Squid trying to get Artemis to chew the TV cord and it’s gonna burn her and she’s gonna die, and then I’m not gonna have a puppy, and please hurry up going poo poo or we gonna have a fire!”
****
“Mama, Squid opened the dishwasher again and he got a big knife and he won’t give it back to me.”
****
McDonald’s BBQ sauce is borderline impossible to get out of a carpet. So is oil. And a quarter pound of bacon grease.
****
If you dump apple juice on the ground and walk on it, you can make sticky footprints EVERYWHERE 😀 😀 😀
****
“Mrs. Becky! DragonMonkey and Squid are throwing books and breaking things and they won’t stop, no matter how much I tell them to.”
****
“Mama, Squid bit me!”
****
“Mrs. Becky, Squid bit me!”
****
“Mrs. Becky, Squid bit my brother, and then when DragonMonkey told him to stop, he bit DragonMonkey!”
****
“Mama, Squid’s eating the dog food again!”
*****
“Maaaa, D’agonMonkey hiiiiit meeeee…….”
*****
“Mama, I sorry I color the walls and your jacket and my book.”
*****
“Mama, I sorry we chew up the library book. I sorry you have to pay lots of money to the library man to buy the book.”
***** ***** *****
My book revolves around a woman trying to do whatever is necessary to keep custody of her three year old boy.
The thing is, the only time I have to write is at 9 o’clock, after I put my little monsters in bed…. and by the time 9 o’clock rolls around, the last thing in the world I want to do is pick up my laptop, open my writing software and immerse myself in a world where I have to take care of another kid, even if it’s a fictional three year old.
I swore to myself I’d have my rough draft done by the end of January, and be ready to submit it by mid April.
The thing is, every time I open up a chapter and start writing I begin actively daydreaming about having my main character just give the kid back to his dad and drive off into the sunset, never to return.
Since that’s the antithesis of the entire book, it’s not exactly something I can just fold into the storyline.
And that’s how I gave myself writer’s block.
Mental note to future self: make the next story about freedom and lack of responsibility and sleeping in and horses, so it’s a place to escape to, not escape from.
On Thursday, I finished up NaNoWriMo – a full day ahead of schedule.
This was….
Well, it was huge for me.
I’m not sure why I needed the “win” so bad, but I think it had a little to do with becoming a stay-at-home mom, and the move to Portland, and… well, everything all wrapped up all in one big ball.
One of the things that happened, right after I moved here to Oregon, was that my words left me. I don’t know how else to explain it.
Under normal circumstances, most of the day, as I go around doing my stuff, I have stories and scenarios playing in the back of my head. I don’t know if that’s how it is for other people, but it’s how it is for me.
It could be something as simple as seeing an interesting character on the street and recreating a back story for them, to playing back an argument I had with someone coughTHEBEANcough and inventing a newer, better ending for it (I’m always brilliantly witty and verbally annihilate the opposition, in case you are curious). Sometimes I just imagine how I can best use to describe something I’ve seen, tasting the different words in my head until they feel just right.
This blog has always been my happy place. Back when I started getting more readers – not because I was actively recruiting anyone, but because you guys became my friends, in a weird sort of a way – I started playing around with the idea of trying to make it a big blog. If I had about 100 people when I was only updating about once a week – what if I tried harder? What would happen then?
What if I promoted myself, and tweeted about it, and created a Facebook page, and posted 3-4 times a week, on a schedule, and tried harder with my stories, and, and and….
And seriously… who needs all that headache?
Not me.
So, this blog has been my happy place.
I may share some of the trials and tribulations of parenting, and stupid stuff that I do, but I’m not really complaining – and that’s on purpose. Because, honestly, even when my life gets hard, or emotionally draining things occur….
Seriously. I’m a “rich white chick” (comparatively speaking, at least) who grew up in Orange County, one of the wealthiest sections of California, one of the wealthiest states of the United States, one of the wealthiest superpower nations of the world.
If I start complaining about my life, I give you full permission to pick me up, stick me on a plane, and drop me in the middle of refugee camp in southern Somalia. You know who has free reign to complain? Them. Not me.
So, I try not to complain.
That last year in California- the last two years, really – they were not easy years. We worked our proverbial heinies off to make it happen and to get where we are. I got up, I went to work, I came home, I fed the kids, I did a chore or two, I went to bed.
Over, and over, and over.
It wasn’t all hard work, but the majority of days were like this.
That’s okay, though. It was worth it. I’m not complaining.
It’s just that – when we got here, after the initial excitement wore off, I was left with a kind of “Well, now what?” feeling. I’d been “Becky who loves horses and works 24/7 and wants to move out of California” for so long that I wasn’t really sure what to do now that I was “Becky who loves horses and lives in beautiful Oregon and only has to keep two kids alive during the day”.
It was hard enough to deal with without my words leaving me. I rely on my words to help me process my life, even if they never even make it onto paper. Not only was it very quiet in my head (that makes me sound creepy and schizophrenic, doesn’t it?), but every time I went to go write something, it took days, instead of an hour or so, and it felt forced. It wasn’t depression – I’ve done depression – heaven knows I’ve done depression.
It felt more like I’d had one of my senses amputated. I’m not sure what caused it, but time was the only thing that fixed it. I think I just needed to be quiet for awhile, and that was okay, because my words are back now.
Still, by the time my words started to come back to me, I was caught up in trying to figure out how to be a stay-at-home mom again. The Bean’s hours this first year at his new accounting job are…. are pretty horrendous. So, most days, it’s just me and the boys, from the time they wake up until about 30 minutes before they go to sleep.
I love my children. I love them, I love them, I love them.
But sometimes, when I hang out with them, and only them, for days on end, they make me want to poke a fork into my eardrum so I can remember what quiet sounds like.
The problem with being a stay-at-home mom is that, well…. errr….
I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing much.
I know, I know, them’s fighting words. I’m not saying that I’m not doing anything, because I’m actually working my a@@ off trying to keep my two little mongrels alive, and fed, and teaching them manners, and the alphabet, and reading, and counting, and skills, and all that necessary human crap that none of us actually remember learning, even though someone in our past worked really, really hard to teach it to us. .
I work hard, I just don’t feel like I’m accomplishing anything.
I went from a pretty decent job as an office manager/executive assistant to running around and saying, “SQUID, get away from that toilet! DragonMonkey, put some pants on! SQUID, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE JUST STAY OUT OF THE STUPID BATHROOM!”about ten times a day, with no noticeable effect.
I trained the dog how to sit in three tries. Why can’t I get through to the boys that easily?
When I work with my children, it seems never-ending. The progress is so slow that looking for results is like trying to watch grass grow. Some days, the only thing measurable thing my hard work seems to produce is diapers full of poo— which I hate, because when the kids are going poo it means they’re making room for more food – and holy crap, you two are hungry again?! Already?
This makes it sound like I don’t love them, and I don’t appreciate the chance to be home with them – I do, and I do. It’s just that me, on a personal level – I like seeing results. I like having a tangible feeling of accomplishment at the end of the day…. and that’s something that’s hard to find as a stay-at-home-mom.
So.
I started writing.
And then I won NaNoWriMo.
And you know what?
That felt incredible.
And then, on Saturday, I got up early in the morning, and I went out and ran a 5k – an actual 5k race, with an official time, and everything.
I’ve never run in a race before. In fact, I’m not really a runner. I am really, REALLY not a runner, but I used the Couch to 5k program (I highly recommend it), and I went from running a 14 minute mile (for reference, people walk a 15 minute mile), to a 13 minute, to a 12 minute….
…..and on Saturday, my jogging partner and I crossed the finish line with a 36:57, which means we ran an 11:53 pace.
To really understand what that meant to me, you have to understand that back in April of 2010, I was walking with a cane. I know that’s not really that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, but it really bothered me.
I hate Rheumatoid Arthritis.
I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I hate that there’s no real cure, and I hate most of all that it is nobody’s fault but my own, really – that it is my own stupid body destroying itself.
I hated the pain – it wasn’t so bad, compared to some pain – it was just that it didn’t stop.
Ever.
There was no respite.
Pain isn’t so bad in small bursts- but when it never lets up, even for five minutes – when you spend all day trying to ignore it, and then all night, and then all the next day… and the days meld into nights, and then back into days, and back into nights, and that pain is still there – gnawing and chewing at you with its hot, pressure-filled little fangs—-
I only had to deal with it for three or four months before the immune-system response from pregnancy knocked it into something manageable again.
There are people out there who deal with flares that last for years – even decades.
I don’t know how they manage it. I really don’t.
So there I was 28 years old, and hiding my cane in the trunk of my car like it was an illicit drug habit – gritting my teeth and faking a limping “real” walk in front of my family so I didn’t look broken or weak….
….pulling into the parking lot at work an waiting for it to be empty so nobody saw me using the cane…..
….staring at the stairs in front of my work – should I use the cane and try to hop up one-legged? My knee hadn’t bent out of its locked position for almost three months, so there was no way to fake it up the stairs, not anymore. Should I try it, or should I take the long-way around to the elevator, doubling my distance when every step really, really, REALLY hurt?
Anyways, you get the point.
People – I FREAKING RAN A 5K YESTERDAY. IN 36 MINUTES.
Do you have any idea how good it felt to do that? Yesterday, I didn’t just run a 5k. Yesterday, I owned this body.
If you’ll pardon my french, yesterday this body was my bitch. Boo-yah.
Something about the jogging seems to be making my joints feel better, so I’m going to keep on doing this and see how far I can run (ha, ha, pun) with it. My knees hurt at first, but if I push past that first bit of hot pain, it actually recedes and I feel better than if I don’t run at all.
Even better, it feels so incredibly empowering to actually be doing something to beat back my idiotic immune system, instead of just passively watching it eat my joints.
Take that, body.
So.
On Thursday, I finished NaNoWriMo.
And yesterday, I ran a 5k.
And it feels good. Really, really good.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to bed. I’ve got to get up early so I can go jogging in the morning before I take the boys over for a “Thomas the Train” playdate. Then, if they both take a nap at the same time, I’m going to go back to my NaNoWriMo story, to see if I can finish it up over the next month.
Why?
Because I can. Because, lately, I’ve been good about finishing things I start…. and that feels good.
“Trick or treat!” said the chorus of other children.
“We no have money,” slurred the barely three-year old DragonMonkey last year, holding out his little candy sack sadly, like the world’s tiniest beggar.
When the candy hit the sack he mumbled out a thank you, trotted down the driveway to the next house, knocked on it, and repeated it.
“Hello, there! Are you a little train conductor?”
“No money. We no have money,” he said with a sigh, holding out his little candy bag in dejection.
It was my fault, really. When I’d made plans to join up with the boys’ cousins to go trick or treating, I hadn’t thought through the location of the neighborhood.
There was a train track less than half a mile away, and ever thirty minutes or so, a train went by, complete with piercing train whistle and rattling tracks.
The first time he’d heard it, the DragonMonkey almost came out of his skin.
“TWAIN!” he shrieked at full volume. “TWAIN! TWAIN! TWAINTWAINTWAIN! TWAINTWAIN!”
“Yes, it’s a train.”
“TWAIN! WIDE TWAIN!”
“We can’t. The train isn’t for riding. That train is not a passenger train, it’s actually a cargo train. Cargo trains are an efficient way of transporting goods across—“
“TWAIN! WIDE TWAIN! WIDE TWAIN!”
Choo-chooo! taunted the train, merrily.
“We can’t ride the train – it’s a cargo train,” I continued to try to explain, over his increasingly frantic shouts of “WIDE TWAIN!” With our trip to Knott’s Berry Farm so recent in his memory, the DragonMonkey wasn’t taking no for an answer. In the heat of his passion, explanations of cargo versus passenger weren’t clicking, and I could feel the entire evening slipping away with every toot of the train whistle.
Finally, I hit upon something that seemed to make sense. “We don’t have any money, anyways. Even if it was a passenger train, we wouldn’t be able to go.”
The DragonMonkey cut off mid-whine, and looked up at me. “No money?”
“No money,” I lied solemnly. “We don’t have any money to ride the train.”
Having kids has turned me into such a liar. I used to be honest. Before I had kids, I used to promise myself I would never lie to my kids…. but each day is so long, and lies are so easy. We can’t ride the carousel because it’s asleep. We’re destitute and have no money for anything – train rides, ice creams, McDonald’s, etc. The batteries on every toy are perpetually broken, which is why it no longer plays that high-pitched annoying song.
My poor, disillusioned children. They are being raised on a throne of lies.
But…..
It works.
The DragonMonkey mulled that over for half a moment, then seemed to accept it. “No money.”
I squirmed guiltily, knowing I had plenty of money in my wallet, but….. “Nope. No money.”
We continued on our trick-or-treating way, and I thought the matter was over… until we came to the next house, where instead of saying “Twick o tweat”, the DragonMonkey felt it was necessary to share the sad news.
“No money. We no have money,” said my tiny little pauper, holding out his candy sack like a tiny, starving train conductor orphan.
Sigh.
It served me right for not telling the truth.
*****
Note: I’d forgotten all about this story. Then, as we left to go trick or treating yesterday, the DragonMonkey stopped in the middle of getting into his car seat, looked over at me and said without preamble, “We don’t have money to ride the trains? No riding trains? We just go trick or treating?”
“Nope,” I lied easily. “No money. Once again, we don’t have any money for the trains.”
“No money,” he said, his voice an exact echo of the last year. “No money to ride the trains.”
Yup. Redding, California. That’s where we are right now. We’re tucked in, nice and cozy in a hotel that accepts pets. The Bean is taking Max out for a last-minute walk (Dog, please, PLEASE empty your pea-sized bladder and make it through the entire night without having to go pee), and the cats are creeping around, finally starting to look a little less terrified now that the kids are completely asleep and the room is quiet.
You know, on a similar note… Please wish me luck. I am not looking forward to trying to shove those cats in their cat carriers in the morning. We managed it smoothly this morning because we had the element of surprise on our hands. I don’t think Coyote and Fat Cat are stupid, so I think they’ll know what’s coming as soon as I try to grab them in the morning.
I hope I don’t lose a finger.
It’s been a long day, and I had a lot of time to think, since I didn’t have the radio to distract me. Well, let me rephrase that: I was playing a CD and music was coming out of the speakers, but a certain little DragonMonkey had an absolute meltdown when I tried to play anything but Bingo, so that’s what we listened to.
Bingo.
I listened to Bingo for the vast majority of 600 miles.
Are there any “How I Met Your Mother” fans out there?
Remember this scene?
I’m actually in a good spot with Bingo right now. This is a good thing, because I imagine I’ll get several more hours of it tomorrow.
Farmer Brown, he had a dog, and BINGO was his naaaaame-o!
Anyways.
As I sat there, alone with my thoughts and the 973rd repetition of Bingo, I actually composed quite a few posts for this blog. I thought of some funny ones, with witty anecdotes… some serious ones, full of bittersweet, nostalgic memories…
….And I even mentally composed some long-overdue ones.
Last Sunday (as in, Sunday the 20th, a week and a half ago) Knott’s Berry Farm sent me to Soak City OC.
I had one of the best times of my life there…. It was, hands down, an absolutely incredible day.
In fact, it was so incredible that I knew I didn’t want to just write a quick, silly post about it… I wanted to do the place justice.
So I put off writing about it for a day or two.
And then I caught the Bohemian Death Flu… or a sinus infection… or some kind of creeping-Ebola-Flesh-Eating-Infection-of-the-Lungs. To be honest, maybe it was all three. Suffice it to say, I was sick.
I was sick on my last day of work.
I was sick when The Bean graduated.
I was sick through the final two days of packing.
I was sick on the day we loaded the truck (U-Ship…much cheaper than a POD.)
I was sick on the day the truck left for Portland, a day later than we had planned, held up by the fact that I was completely useless for close to a week.
Anyways, I’m feeling better now, and I’ve been writing posts in my mind all day…. I’ve got the Knott’s post all mentally planned-out and ready to go…
And, honestly, I’m not going to get to it for a day or two.
Sorry, Knott’s. If it helps, I feel bad about it.
If it really helps, I can tell all of you out there in the SoCal area: GET A SEASON PASS. I’m a little annoyed that I didn’t really find out about this place until the week before I moved. I mean, I knew it was there, but I just never really went. So if you live near it, and were waiting to see what I had to say about it… quit waiting. Go. Really.
Okay, I still feel guilty, but that’s going to have to do for now.
Anyways, I know this isn’t my most thrilling post ever, but hey, I’ve been up since 2:45 this morning, and spent most of that day listening to Bingo and the boys. Although they did WAY better than I expected, Squid and the DM alternated between whining, crying, and just being generally loud and needy. They’re little, and it’s a lot of time to be stuck in a carseat so I don’t blame them… but that doesn’t mean I’m not secretly daydreaming of running away and joining a nunnery where everyone has to take a vow of silence…. sweet, sweet, blessed silence…..
The Bean will be back any moment with Max, so I’m going to finish putting all of our stuff together. 2:45 in the morning is absurdly early, but it buys me a few short hours of quiet driving time before the boys wake up around 6:30 or 7.
I’m looking forward to crossing the border and getting my first glimpse of Oregon.
I’m also looking forward to seeing what Portland looks like.
And if I’m completely honest, I’m most interested in seeing what my new house looks like. We never got a full set of pictures from the realtor, and The Bean’s camera broke and ate all the pictures he took, so I only have a vague idea of what the full layout is actually like. I’m not picky, so I’m sure I’ll love it… but the suspense is killing me.
Well, it won’t have to bother me much longer. If all goes well we should be HOME by mid afternoon tomorrow.
Well, you’re going to feel pretty foolish in another moment, because I’m going to prove it.
Earlier this week The Bean and I went down to the County Clerk’s office to get copies of some important paperwork (Squid’s birth certificate, etc.) in anticipation of our upcoming move. While we were there we picked up a copy of our marriage certificate, just in case.
Without further ado, I present to you the evidence supporting my claim….
My marriage certificate:
Yeah, that’s right.
What you see is correct.
Signature of Groom?
Yup!
Signature of Bride?
Uhmmmm…… Nope?
Yeah. So, it appears I forgot to sign my own marriage certificate. How did this happen? I have no idea. I remember entering the room. I remember watching The Bean sign it. I remember watching the witnesses sign it.
However, when it came time for me to actually sign the danged thing, apparently something distracted me. I really have to wonder — what on earth could I have found more important than signing my own marriage certificate? Did a really cool butterfly flutter by? Did someone offer me a really shiny stick of gum? Maybe someone told the world’s funniest joke?
I wish I knew.
Nevertheless, there you have it: tangible evidence that I am The Queen of ADD.
I mean, I’ve had my suspicions of this before.
In high school I forgot to show up for the SATs. I paid for it, I bought the study book…. and then I just forgot about them. I didn’t realize I’d missed them until I overheard some kids talking about them the next week.
Whoops.
I also forgot to show up for a final in one of my college classes.
I didn’t even remember about it until nearly a week and a half later.
Double whoops (and an “F”, in case you were curious.)
Still, I think this new “proof” might actually take the cake.
Not only is it as confusing as heck (seriously, nobody noticed that I didn’t sign it? Not a single witness? What’s the point of having witnesses, if they’re not going to have your back on stuff like this? Yeesh.), but the Bean has started referring to it as his “Golden Parachute”—as in, “Becky, you’d better be nice to me. I’ve got my ‘Golden Parachute’ out of here unless you treat me reeeeeally good. What’s that, Judge? Marriage? No, sir… I wasn’t married… just look at this here certificate. Do you see any signature on that? Nope! Me neither! Have a nice day!”
The Bean is also very, very close to spending the night on the couch, in case you were interested.
At any rate, there you go.
I am the Queen of ADD-land.
You may all bow before me, and.. and, CRAP I forgot to pick up milk at the store. I really need to text The Bean to remind him to pick some up on his way home, so we can have some for The Squid’s bottle for tonight. Definitely gotta text him….Where’s my phone? I know I put it around here some place…..ah-ha! Here it is. Crap. The battery’s dead. Where’s the cord? Oh, yeah, I know where the cord is! It’s in that overnight bag – the one I put in the boys’ room. I need to get it out. Let me just pull it down and… Oh, hey! That’s where that purse was hiding! I’ve been looking for you, you dumb thing! Heh – here’s that little note my coworker gave me last week. It’s such a sweet note. It always makes me think of..
