Not exactly Sex and the City

What do 3 single, sexy, intelligent, hipster ladies do when they have a sunny Saturday stretched out in front of them? Why, they head out to the country to buy farm fresh produce to make jam and pickles, that’s what!

The ladies might go to this place outside of Seattle called Remlinger Farms, in search of quaint country kitchiness and farm fresh produce. And then, because they’re already there, they might also pay a $10 admittance fee to go inside of the “Country Fair Family Fun Park” because, seriously, who can turn down a freakin’ Country Fair Family Fun Park if it’s RIGHT THERE, I mean, COME ON PEOPLE.

Except, as they slap on their hospital patient-esque wristbands, they realize they’ve entered an amusement park that is not so much tailored for single, sexy, intelligent hipster ladies, but rather for “farm girls” and “farm boys” that are, on average, three to four years old. But the ladies are already there, right? And they might as well enjoy it ‘cause they’re already driven into the country and slapped down $10 a piece for this Freaky Fantastic Family Fun Fair Park. So they continue to wind their way through the pint size petting zoo, the haphazardly assembled carnival rides, the waist-high hay maze, the “peacock enclosure” that featured a wounded, possibly paralyzed, peacock, as well as something called a “goat climb” that did NOT deliver on its promise of goats that climb, until they have reached their fill of Family Fair Fun Park Festivities.

These ladies would try not to pay attention to the fact that they’re the only Fun Park visitors without children and are, in fact, getting stared at by concerned parents who find it odd that these 3 thirtysomethingish single ladies are wandering around looking for the pony rides when they frankly should have just stayed in the city and drank bloody marys all morning like they usually do on the weekends.

Sigh. We followed all of these Funky Fun Farm Fair Family Festivities up with beer and appetizers at the Claim Jumper because we had already fallen so painfully, irreversibly far from our sexy hipster realm that we had no choice but to embrace it by eating an iceberg lettuce wedge with suburbanites wearing hummingbird sweatshirts and mom jeans.

It was, let’s just say, not one of our hipper weekends.