August in St. Louis typically feels like wearing long underwear in a sauna. It’s sweaty and sticky, and sometimes too oppressive to even breathe. Typically. But this August has been anything but typical. I would venture to call it downright lovely. Even recently, when temperatures did break into the nineties, I have found it hard to be all “holy-crap-Dante-must-have-written-Inferno-sitting-under-The-Arch.” St. Louis is a nice place to be, and I felt a little sorry for my husband when he called from his trip in Austin, Texas this past weekend to Continue reading “Perry Tries to Poach More Than Eggs in the St. Louis August Heat”
Category: Culture
How MTV Led Me to Tulsa, Oklahoma
I was one of those savagely underprivileged children who did not have cable growing up. Thankfully, I had grandparents who did, and it was at their house where I would gorge myself on Nickelodeon shows like “Mr. Wizard” and “You Can’t Do That On Television” to hold me over until my next visit. And, like any good red-blooded preteen of the time, I wanted my MTV.
In the mid-80’s, MTV was a fantastic bizarre of sequins, neon, hairspray, androgyny, and synthesizers. I didn’t care that Boy George Continue reading “How MTV Led Me to Tulsa, Oklahoma”
Never Defend a Kardashian
I should have known it was going to come back to bite me in the extremely round and prominent rear end. I mean, it IS Kim Kardashian. Two weeks ago I proclaimed Kim K. to be “The Patron Saint of Puffy Preggos Everywhere.” While I feel my reasoning is still sound, I distinctly remember ending the post with this statement:
“Now, when Kim flaunts her post-baby body in a skimpy bikini on the cover of some magazine in a few months, I request to be traded to a different team. Because I’m Continue reading “Never Defend a Kardashian”
Radio Roulette
When I was growing up, listening to the radio in the car with my dad followed one rule: his car, his choice. But I never knew where exactly that choice was going to land as a cacophony of song snippets whirled in and out of my ears. My dad worked the car radio (and the television, for that matter) like a roulette wheel Continue reading “Radio Roulette”
Kim Kardashian: The Patron Saint of Puffy Preggos Everywhere
Disclaimer: I am NOT, under any circumstances, a fan of Kim Kardashian.
Okay, now that I have made that absolutely clear… I decided I am on Team Kim. Wait, whaaaaaaaa?
Let me explain.
I accidentally watched an episode of “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” yesterday. And by accidentally I mean I was shamelessly Continue reading “Kim Kardashian: The Patron Saint of Puffy Preggos Everywhere”
Hell Hath No Fury Like a Punked Nine-Year-Old at a Slumber Party
A really fun idea was recently hatched by two of my favorite bloggers, Emily of The Waiting and Ashley of Zebra Garden. They are kind of like the Laverne and Shirley of my blog world, making me kind of like the Squiggy who always comes late to the blogging party. Or maybe I’m Lenny. Anyway…Emily and Ashley have started their own version of “Throwback Thursday” called “Remember the Time: A Blog Hop.” Each week they designate a topic about which bloggers can Continue reading “Hell Hath No Fury Like a Punked Nine-Year-Old at a Slumber Party”
Is It Newsworthy to Love the Midwest?
There was an article that caught my attention yesterday, mostly because it was shared multiple times on Facebook by not just friends, but also by local businesses, attractions, and radio stations. It was a piece that ran in The New York Times called “Loving the Midwest” by Curtis Sittenfeld. In it, Sittenfeld explains how she and her husband, who came to live in St. Louis in 2007 by way of a job, evolved from being critical transplants to residents who have grown to accept the city as home. A home they could stay in forever. A home that is indeed a really great place to raise a family.
As many of you might know, I am a born and bred St. Louisan who loves the city that has raised me. And everyone sharing the article on Facebook were also proud St. Louis residents, both natives and transplants. As I scrolled through my news feed, I caught glimpses of words like “vindication” and “finally.” It was like this virtual communal sigh of relief. See? We haven’t been lying. St. Louis really IS a nice place to live. I mean, if The New York Times is willing to run the article, then it must be true. New York is the ultimate authority on everything after all.
But unlike so many others, the article didn’t inspire such a warm and fuzzy feeling in me as to make me share it on my timeline as well. Don’t get me wrong. I think Sittenfeld did a wonderful job highlighting many of the reasons St. Louis is a fantastically livable city, especially for those raising families: friendly communities, a unifying love for our sports teams, a city that is pretty easy to access from one corner to the other, and the insanely numerous attractions that are both incredible AND free, or at least affordable (which also makes St.Louis a great place to visit. There are cities my family has visited which could change their mottos to City X: Where nothing is cheap or easy. And if its easy, its really not cheap. And if its cheap, its wrong.)
But as I counted how many times this article was shared in my news feed, all I could think was, Why do we need The New York Times to tell us what we already know? It’s like in every teen dramedy when the cool kid finally sees the nerd for the pretty rockin’ person he or she truly is. But isn’t the real lesson of those movies the realization that the nerd never really needed the cool kid’s approval at all?
Maybe I am bringing a little bitterness to the table. I can own that. But I would bet that just about every proud St. Louisan has heard our great city lambasted by an outsider at least once. A few months ago while in New Jersey, I was having a conversation about music, and I made the comment that St. Louis sometimes gets bypassed for various concert tours, despite the fact that we have a lot of stellar venues for live music. This man, who did not know me, responded, “Because St. Louis sucks. That’s why.” He made this incredibly informed statement having never visited, but because “that was the word on the street.” Maybe he had heard about that bogus list that put St. Louis as the third most violent city in the world. Oh, and he also provided the very solid reason that “St. Louis is in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the country.” Well, you got me there, bud. I guess we can blame it all on Lewis and Clark then. The whole time he was talking, I couldn’t help but think that my city was getting dissed by a guy from New Jersey. Hmmm…people in glass houses? You would think someone from New Jersey would be more sympathetic towards a native from another place with a bum wrap. Or maybe making fun of someplace else just helps ease the pain of years and years of getting bullied by New York.
Some non-natives may not outright criticize St. Louis as Mr. Jersey did, but on more than one occasion I have experience attitudes of superiority from transplants from the coasts. Like Sittenfeld described of her and her husband’s attitudes on first arriving in the city after living in Washington D.C. and Philadelphia, coastal transplants seems to find a lack of sophistication in our city because we might not have the raging nightlife or fast-paced energy or as many hybrid cars or…whatever. And that subtle, veiled feeling of being a tad superior for having lived elsewhere before comes across in comments like, “It’s funny how hardly anyone uses your mass transit system,” or “People sure have an interesting way of saying forty-four around here,” or “Why does everyone care what high school you went to?” or “With a crust that thin, can you really call it pizza?” We sense it. And it makes us feel bad about our own city, while in our own city, even though we shouldn’t feel that way. We listen too much to people who don’t know St. Louis like we do, and that is what leads so many of us to become the “self-hating Midwesterners” that Sittenfeld mentions. We are right to love our city the way it is, and we really don’t need anyone else’s approval for doing so.
It is nice that Sittenfeld wrote the piece out of love for the Midwest. And it makes me happy that she and her family have found their place here; though it doesn’t surprise me at all that they did. St. Louis really is an easy city to love. Which is why my Facebook friends and all those local businesses, attractions, and radio stations shouldn’t have been surprised that praises for our home made it to The New York Times, so surprised that they felt the need to make sure everyone knew the cool kid had noticed us. After all, if the St. Louis Post-Dispatch ran a piece about what a great city New York is, I doubt anyone in New York would even notice. Because they know they are fabulous. And we should know we are as well.
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Abercrombie’s CEO Doesn’t Bother Me…But His Cologne Still Does
Many of you may already be aware of a story that recently made the news concerning Mike Jeffries, the CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch. I briefly made mention of it in my last post as a passing aside, but I have been thinking more about it since. In case you missed what all the hullabaloo was about, Jeffries and his company are accused of not carrying clothes above a size 10 because he wants to target cool, attractive consumers. This statement would suggest that Jeffries does not believe anyone larger could be considered cool or attractive. And in case you didn’t make that inference, he pretty much spells it out that is indeed what he believes.
Well, as you can imagine, this whole thing unleashed the virtual ire of bloggers everywhere. (To be fair, our ires aren’t very tightly leashed to begin with.) This was perfect fuel for Jen over at People I Want to Punch in the Throat. You can be as sure as the sky is blue that the Huffington Post had a take on it…and another one. One of the best beat-downs (albeit a restrained and intelligent beat-down) came from my friend Nicole at Here’s the Diehl. The consensus: people are outraged.
But you know what? I’m not outraged. In fact, I would even go so far as to say I think it is great that he said it. More people should be like Mike Jeffries. Actually, let me amend that statement: more CEOs should be like Mike Jeffries.
The world of capitalism has provided a practically infinite number of places I can spend my money. There are billions of pieces of clothing for sale all around the world, and thanks to Jeffries’ transparency about his disgusting view of what is good business practice and his sad, unfulfilled view of humanity, he just made my shopping trip that much shorter. I never again have to consider giving his company my money when anyone in my family needs a new outfit. And the way I see it, if more company CEOs were more brutally honest about their own views of potential consumers, I could even more drastically narrow down the number of places I patron. I mean, wouldn’t it be nice to know that most of your dollars went to companies whose goals mirrored your own? I for one would love to support businesses who aim to better the human experience in some way or another. But if you are the kind of person whose priority is looking cooler at the expense of another’s self worth, it is nice to know that Jeffries has molded the perfect store for you.
Furthermore, I would also like to thank Jeffries for making my job as a parent easier. With a daughter who is wading into the outer banks of the fast-moving current of fashion, I know the time may soon come when she cares about brand names. When she is pestering me to buy her this “outfit” from Abercrombie & Fitch,
I won’t have to annoy her with the obvious reasons for saying no (1. that someone has again mistaken some obviously uncomfortable underwear for swimwear, and 2. that there is no possible scenario in which I would willingly fork over $198 + tax for her to look like she got interrupted halfway through getting dressed to go scatter chicken feed from her satchel on the family farm). Now I have moral ground. All I will have to tell my daughter is that our family doesn’t give money to companies who place value on people based on how their appearances fit into a predetermined mold. And my daughter will understand, because even at the age of eight, she already knows that’s not cool. Then again, Jeffries and I seem to have very different ideas of what is cool.
I doubt that any of the recent criticism of him is phasing Jeffries, including mine. I am actually quite certain he does not want my money anyway. While I have always been slim (aside from say, oh, the years of 2005 to 2010 when I was growing babies and living off the extra blubber they brought with them), I was never drawn to Abercrombie & Fitch, even as a teen. Part of that could be because my parents’ unwavering “thriftiness” inevitably taught me that brands weren’t all that important. But it could also be because the image the store put out to the world subliminally told me I wasn’t wanted there. They were just another cool kid to me; and I may have been skinny, but I wasn’t cool. Nowadays, I am slim again, and pretty popular around the schoolyard, thanks to my very local smash hit video, “My Van is Stacked.” But I heard a rumor that A&F clothing spontaneously combust if you get behind the wheel of a minivan, so I probably don’t make the target customer list. I also feel certain that Jeffries wouldn’t even want my children as customers. While it is still a bit too early in the game to know which rung of the social ladder they will end up on, I have a suspicion that my daughter may not blossom into the body type of the prized A&F prototype. See, my daughter looks very much like her father…she is also built like him. And it’s a good thing, too, because it turns out that my husband makes very beautiful girls. But her broad shoulders and wider hips that sometimes struggle to fit into the clothes cut to fit tiny little girl frames might just have to wear an extra-large someday. And I’ll be damned if I give one cent to a company that says she’s only worthy of their clothes until she outgrows what they see as acceptable sizes. Consequently, I also won’t buy A&F clothes for my son, who is built tall and lean and may very well one day have the abs like the naked models who are supposed to be selling clothing. Because I’ll be damned if I give one cent to a company that tells him that his only worth lies in the fact that he does fit into what they see as acceptable sizes.
So hey, Mr. Jeffries, it’s no skin off my back. I thank you for your honesty, and I heard you loud and clear. You have sincerely done me a huge favor just by being yourself. And I will happily return the favor by keeping my uncool family and our imperfect bodies out of your clothes. That’s American capitalism at its finest.
Now Mike, can we talk about your signature fragrance…
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Ireland, It’s Okay To Be Yourself
I haven’t been giving my blog much love lately. And the fact that many of the blogs I follow have been all up in my inbox recently, posting multiple times a week (some even being brave enough to tackle the “Blog Every Day in May” challenge), has made me feel a scosche inadequate. I really have no excuse…except that I was away, traveling in Ireland. That is so a good excuse.
Scratching Ireland off of my bucket list was exhilarating. Only I have already added it back onto my bucket list, because a week was not enough time to properly spend there, to see all I wanted to see. Just like Lucky Charms, Ireland really is magically delicious. I feel like I ate a whole bowl of it, but now I want to go back and pick out all the marshmallows left behind in the box.
Ireland has to be one of the most breathtakingly gorgeous countries of the world. Raw yet refined natural landscapes meld with remnants of past civilizations and a national pride born out of respect for both history and the God-given beauty bestowed upon them. The Irish don’t simply tear down what is old to begin anew; they either maintain it for posterity with diligence and attention to detail, or simply let the impression that remains exist among what continues to thrive and grow. My husband, who works for a window manufacturer, marveled at the quality of workmanship in the homes we saw that had to have housed generations upon generations. And as we drove across the country, it became a sort of game to call out “Random Castle!” every time we saw a ruin amidst a neighborhood of houses or atop a small hill, surrounded by green pastures…or next to a petrol station.
Yet there was one thing missing as we traversed the Technicolor green landscapes, populated with sheep, cows, and rainbow painted cottages. There we were, feeling very “local” driving on the opposite side of the road and the opposite side of the car, taking in the beauty of Ireland. All we needed was some good Irish music to complete the mood. I turned on the radio, and out comes one of Rhianna’s crappy monotone songs. Yeah, no. Next station: Nickelback. Next station: “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Seriously? Is there not ONE station in Ireland that plays local music? The answer is no. Their radio waves are pretty well dominated by American music. Well, that kind of killed the mood. So we listened to Mumford & Sons on my husband’s phone. Okay, so technically Mumford & Sons is from London. But same side of the pond. I’m counting it.
Music was not the only aspect of American culture to invade Ireland. Of course there were smatterings of our good old fast food restaurants about the country. Subway and Burger King seemed to be favorites. But the kicker for me was walking past this old, gorgeous feat of architecture in Dublin and suddenly getting a whiff of something that made me concerned I was about to be pick-pocketed by a swarm of fourteen-year-old hooligans trying to impress a giggling gaggle of scantily clad middle school girls (yes, sadly, even Irish girls dress like o’tramps). You know the smell I’m talking about. It is the smell that can actually offend all five of your senses every time you go the mall. That beautiful old building housed an Abercrombie & Fitch. I was embarrassed to be an American. So far, my country was being represented in Ireland by Rhianna, fast food, and Abercrombie & Fitch. (The last of which is particularly hard to swallow after recently reading an article where company CEO Mike Jefferies admits to not carrying larger sizes because he wants to cater his clothes to the “cool kids,” and he doesn’t feel larger women in particular can be cool. Hey, I guess it’s his prerogative. The way I see it, it just makes it that much easier for the rest of us to spot all the a-holes. They will be the ones wearing Abercrombie & Fitch.)
Then, in a gift shop, I saw these:
Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe the Irish are trying to pass off their own versions of He-Man and Gene Simmons. It’s so blatant, it’s not even funny.
And then there was this at the Murphy’s Centra grocery store:
American style. I am not an expert on pandas, but they don’t strike me as having talent to make peanut butter. Now Peter Pan, he’s got mad skills. I think I’m going to trust the flavor palate of the guy who undoubtedly has a permanent case of pixie dust induced munchies over an animal whose ideal snack is bamboo. I’ll call the panda when I need new wood floors.
But the piece of American pop culture to beat all others invading Ireland was this bag we received after purchasing some souvenirs in a gift shop in the town of Adare, known as “the prettiest town in Ireland:”
Take a good look. Does that charicature look familiar? I thought it did as the cashier handed it to me, but I quickly brushed the thought aside. I mean, it couldn’t be. Why WOULD it be? It just doesn’t make any sense for it to be. So we walked around the town a bit. But I just couldn’t let it go. I examined the bag more closely, trying to read the words that were printed backwards. Winning…I got tiger blood man. Holy O’Guiness! It was, in fact, CHARLIE SHEEN on my gift bag…from a tiny souvenir shop…in a small little town…in Ireland. Well, I just couldn’t let this go, so we went back to the shop. I had to get to the bottom of this. I very politely asked the cashier why in the world she had Charlie Sheen on her bags. She immediately laughed and said I was the second person that day to ask her about it. And frankly, she had no idea why. She didn’t even know who Charlie Sheen was. When she found out that he was Martin Sheen’s son, she did tell us that the Irish LOVE Martin Sheen. They are always giving him awards. I laughed and broke the news to her that Charlie is, well, kind of a horrible person. She laughed so hard, and decided that maybe she should stop using the bags, in case it might offend anyone. But she planned to use it at the smoke shop she owned down the street. According to her, “we’re a bit politically incorrect down there anyway.” Honestly, it was one of the best parts of the trip.
But the whole thing begged the question: Ireland, why do you feel the need to assimilate so much of American culture into your own? And if you are going to continue, at least import the good stuff. I mean, it was a little disconcerting to hear “Regulators” by Warren G on the Galway Bay ferry ride over to the Aran Islands, which hold close to traditional Irish culture, still primarily speak Irish Gaelic, and only recently installed one ATM at the small grocery store on the largest island, Inishmore.
If anything, America should adopt more of Irish culture. Here are a few suggestions I think we should implement:
1. Mansize Kleenex. They were enormous. And if you could realize how many Kleenex we go through at my house, thanks to my husband and his fog-horn nose blowing, you would understand why this was such a big deal.
2. Bottle Openers in the Bathroom. I kid you not. This picture was taken in the bathroom of our hotel in Dublin. The Irish really do drink beer anywhere. Cheers.
3. Public Holy Water Fountains. Because sometimes waiting for a priest to do an exorcism just won’t do.
4. Gaelic Football. It’s not soccer. It’s not rugby. It’s not football. My best guess is that it’s like those games you played as a kid where everyone made the rules up as you went along. Now it’s okay to touch the ball with your hands…You can run with it, but only if two people are chasing you…First you have to kick it, then catch it, then pass it…You can score by getting a goal, or by getting it through two poles…Seriously. We went to one of these games, and couldn’t figure it out for the life of us. But I still can’t figure out American football, and Gaelic football players wear tight shorts. I vote for Gaelic football.
5. Cute Old Men Strolling/Riding Bikes/Walking Dogs. These guy are everywhere in Ireland. Everywhere. And one thing you might not know about me is that I am a tad obsessed with cute old men, especially if they are riding bikes, walking dogs, or strolling in little Irish tweed caps. All I wanted was to take one photo of a cute old man in Ireland, but I just couldn’t find the right moment…mostly because said old men would have totally seen me taking a random picture of them, and then I would feel like a weird creeper. The above photo was my one chance of going unnoticed. This cute old guy was walking his dog, who wasn’t on a leash. It was perfect. But just as I went to snap the photo, the dog shot ahead into the street and almost got hit by a car. Happy ending for the dog (since the car stopped in time), but sad ending for me, who only got this picture of a cute old guy thinking he’s about to see his dog meet an untimely death. I will say that it was partly worth it to hear him properly scold the dog afterwards with his jaunty Irish accent…and dropping f-bombs like nobody’s business. But I move that we need more of these cute old men on the streets of America. Here, they are all behind the wheels of cars, decreasing the cuteness factor, as well as the safety for all drivers in the vicinity. I may try to start an organization that works to put new shiny bikes in the hands of cute old men everywhere. It would be a step closer to my utopia.
Speaking of driving, there is one American thing I would suggest the Irish adopt: our roadways. Irish roads, traffic lanes, road signs, and lack there of are ridiculous. Don’t believe me? Here is a video of us driving:
Other than that, I really think Ireland is just fine being itself. It is a country rich in history with unparellelled beauty. I hope to return someday. But next time I will know to bring my own Irish music from home.
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A Suburban Horror Story: The Return of Chuck E.
When most people hear the name Chucky, two things come to mind: a demonic doll who terrorizes mankind and a mouse who pushes pizza and skee ball. Or maybe they are actually one in the same! GASP!
Think about it. Have you ever seen them in the same place at the same time? And they have the exact same M.O. They both worm their way into our lives through our kids as if they are harmless byproducts of childhood fun, only to later strangle the life out of us and our well-meaning desire to make our young ones happy.
A disgust for Chucky from the Child’s Play horror movie franchise is normal; but what do I have against Chuck E. Cheese, you say? Many of you already know my seedy background with this over-sized cartoon mascot. But if you don’t, I suggest you first read my post, “Chuck E. Cheese Could Have Been Your Father,” before proceeding. Everything will become crystal clear after that…I promise. Don’t worry. I will wait for you…
…I know, right? What can I say? I’m blessed. Anyhoo…
So here is the next chapter in the ongoing horrific saga of me and Chuck E. He’s stalking me. I am completely convinced of it. I thought I had managed to escape from his clutches oh so many years ago, but I didn’t count on having children…children he would end up using as pawns enabling him to come back into my life and terrorize me.
It is true that since becoming a mother, we have visited Chuck E. Cheese restaurants on numerous occasions, mostly for school fundraiser nights and a few birthday parties. But I honestly thought that Chuck E never noticed me, that the wear and tear of motherhood and almost two decades had rendered me unrecognizable to him. But I should have known he wouldn’t show his cards that early in the game. Silently, and unbeknownst to me, he patiently endeared himself to my two kids with each passing visit. A high-five here. A free extra token there. How were they to know they were playing right into his grubby, freakishly large paws?
And it worked. About a month or so ago, these words oozed from my daughter’s lips: “I want to have my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese this year.”
Despite the many, many, many other options I offered to her, she was staunch in her desire. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, she begged. Fine. I am not a victim. If this is the game you’re playing you sick bastard, I’m in. I’m not scared of you anymore. Me OR my 6 foot 6 enormously giant husband who once ripped a life-sized wrought iron wagon wheel lawn ornament straight from the ground. We will see who is going to be squeaking in their boots.
After trepidatiously making the reservation for the party, I tried to calm my nerves by being rational about the situation. That was a long time ago, Kelly. He has probably changed. Certainly a nationwide franchise wouldn’t risk their reputation or the threat of lawsuits by keeping a sleazebag of a mouse around for so many years. Would they? So I decided to do some research of my own. What I found wasn’t pretty. I should warn you; the following pictures may be disturbing. Please make sure your children aren’t present, and I apologize in advance for scarring for life the child that resides in your heart. But the truth must be known…
On the day of the party, my guard was up. I secretly took vengeful satisfaction when Chuck E. emerged to greet our party and my daughter’s friends ran up, encircled him, and started poking and prodding his mouse parts. My mouth mumbled a dutiful but half-hearted, “Girls, don’t assault Chuck E.” However, my mind was screaming, “NOT SO FUN TO BE GROPED, IS IT, YOU ANTHROPOMORPHIC CREEP?”
But Chuck E. knew where to hit back where it hurt: my kids wanted a picture with him. Now he would forever be a part of our sacred family memories on film. I could feel a panic attack begin raging through my body as my finger pressed down on the shutter release.
And he wouldn’t just leave us be after that. He insisted on being part of that special moment, when we sang happy birthday to my daughter and watched her blow out her candle. I felt violated by his blatant photo-bombing.
But it was almost over. The party was nearing the end. At one point, my daughter came over to me, looked at Chuck E. and said, “Don’t worry, mom. I’m sure it’s a totally different guy in that costume than the time he creeped you out.” Those were her exact words. My keenly perceptive, incredibly astute daughter said that during her birthday party. Listen to the children, they say. She was right. I finally felt like I could breathe again. I was being silly. Here I was giving the stink eye to someone who was probably not even born when that long ago Chuck E. made a pass at me. I needed to let it go. Besides, it was time for my daughter to take her turn in the ticket blaster machine, and for Chuck E. to make his exit back to the break room.
The sun came out again, and in its glowing rays, Chuck E. Cheese didn’t seem like such a menacing place after all. Everyone was smiling. We had made it. We had survived a birthday party at the place where a kid can be a kid. We made it out alive.
I stood among the group of 8 year olds crowded around the ticket blaster, watching my daughter try to ineptly grab tiny tickets flying around her. At first, I thought some of the air had escaped the machine, until I recognized the familiar stench of Limburger breath linger on the back of my neck for just a moment before it disappeared into a purple door adorned with the sign “Employees Only.”
My son, gluttonous for his own turn in the ticket blaster, turned to me and said, “I want to have my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, too!”
My nightmare continues…
* Disclaimer: While based on true events, this post is entirely for entertainment purposes only. At no time did anyone employed by or associated with Chuck E. Cheese restaurants harass or behave inappropriately toward me, my family, or our party guests. In fact, I would actually recommend having a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese (did I just say that?????). Despite it not being MY favorite place to go as an adult, it was a very easy and relatively inexpensive experience. In fact, we ended up having to cancel our party at the last-minute due to an incredibly ridiculous and unexpected snowstorm (at the END of MARCH?), and the manager was extremely understanding and did not penalize us at all. Everything, including our bonus tokens for originally scheduling on a Sunday, were transferred to our rescheduled date (which was not a Sunday) with no hassle. Our party attendant was attentive, easy to work with, and she even ended up giving my kids bonus tickets for no reason. It was literally the easiest birthday party I have ever thrown (see my Birthday Party Planning Junkie post to understand what I mean). All in all, happy kid and happy mom. As for the mouse…he was completely harmless.
Photo Sources (in order of appearance): gamingbolt.com/chuckecheese.com; fark.com; outpost81.com; nursethehateblogspot.com; dulutheast86.com; fanpop.com. The last three photos are mine.
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Are You Finished Yet? 