Is there any worse torture than riding in a car with 7 hungry children for two and a half hours and then getting lost? Yes…there is. Not only were we lost, late, starving, needing to pee and breaking up fights, but the road we were on was winding, narrow (the size of a freakin’ bike lane) and adjacent to a two hundred foot drop off into Malibu canyon. Had I known that we would be navigating our way through the seventh sanctum of hell, I would have popped some Xanax. Was it worth it? Read on.

We did make it, obviously, to our destination. Bony Pony Ranch was the X that marked the spot. We were invited by my girl Wendy to help celebrate Dr. Ryan’s birthday. Picture the nine of us, dragging our disheveled rear ends into a party full of celebrities and beautiful people. The boys were still exchanging blows, the girls were whiny and sweating in the 90 + degree heat and I was trying to walk in new Ariat boots on loose gravel. We entered Bony Pony Ranch to find fabulously dressed women in Christian Dior boots, carrying little doggies who donned more expensive outfits than I do. The men looked like they were straight off a runway and they were all lounging around under shade umbrellas, drinking Mojitos.

We must have looked friggen awesome, chasing our little monsters all over the horse ranch, picking up spilled hot dogs, getting painted with mustard and yelling at the kids to stop touching all of the beautiful people with their greasy hot dog hands. This is what happens when normal people go to rich people events. They end up being the entertainment. And I haven’t even gotten to the concert worthy rendition of Happy Birthday, sung by some velvety voiced Peabo Bryson sound alike. There were my kids, happily belting out the good ol’ fashioned version of the song, complete with “Cha cha chas” and “On channel80, a big fat lady!” Nice. Why pay a professional singer when you can get the real deal, complete with “Scooby Doo on channel two?”

I swear, the experience was like Cheaper By The Dozen sequel, minus a few kids. You know what I realized though, as we tried to keep the chaos to a minimum? All of the beautiful people were missing out. Sure I had mustard on my stylish top and I was sweating like a hooker in church. Sure my calves were crying from constantly running around a horse ranch in cowboy boots. Sure I probably looked like a mess and my children had no knowledge of whom they were wiping hot dog grease on, but we had fun. The pretty ladies and modelesque men just sat and did nothing on the most amazing ranch I’ve ever seen.

We got to play pretend in tee pees, comb a buffalo, ride horses, get our faces painted, hike through gorgeous territory and chase bubbles. We sat on a wooden swing and looked out over the ocean. We had fun. We came. We saw. We partied. And the pretty people just sat and tried to keep hot dog grease of of their Dolce and Gabbana sun dresses. It must really suck to be rich and bored.

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