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”
I have been thinking about my VBI lately. You know, my Visual Business Identity. Okay, so technically, I’m not a business. But this little blogging thing I do has become a job of sorts, and I find myself at the point of wondering if this whole thing is going anywhere. And if it is, where? And why? And how? And am I a “mommy blog“? A humor blog? A write-whatever-random-thoughts-come-into-my-head-blog? An anti-Chuck E. Cheese blog? A blog where every post would be about The Monkees if I didn’t think it would drive away 98.4% of Continue reading “What Would My Blog Self Do?”
It’s really true. Everyone does. It’s not even like it was this whole mind game where it just seemed like each and every driver was putzing along at a snail’s pace. I literally did not breach the speed limit once on my way to the emergency room. And I couldn’t even vent my frustration by calling them all jacklegs because I was too busy singing “Beautiful Boy” to try to calm down my screaming son. Knowing your child is in pain and not being able to do anything about it, or not being able to get Continue reading “Fact: Everyone On the Road Goes Under the Speed Limit When You’re Driving Your Kid to the ER”
Today is a special day. Today my little boy turns five years old. And today it is time I told the truth about whom exactly my son is named after.
Anyone who has asked me how Michael James got his name has likely heard this response: James came from both of his grandfathers, who very conveniently have the same first name, giving my husband and I a no-brainer way of making our child a namesake without offending the other side of the family. And Michael was agreed upon because we liked it, we liked the nickname attached to it, and frankly, we thought that Mike Suellentrop sounded like “a hell of a guy.” Mike Suellentrop? He’d give you the shirt off his back. Hell of a guy…Have you seen Mike Suellentrop? Yeah, he’s been working the beer tent all afternoon. Hell of a guy…Oh, Mike Suellentrop’s going to be there? Then it WILL be a party. Count me in. He’s sure a hell of a guy.
But Michael James is actually named after an anesthesiologist. Let me take you back to the year 2005.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I ended up needing a scheduled cesarean section two weeks before her due date because she was breech, and my rising blood pressure meant my doc didn’t want to wait for her to take her sweet time to flip. To be completely honest, I was very okay with that decision. In fact, the only thing I was really worried about was the epidural. I mean, a giant needle piercing my spinal cord sounded worse than being stuck at the DMV wearing a pair of Spanx that are one size too small after just having eaten a Big Mac, sitting next to a guy who hasn’t showered in a week and being forced to listen to “The Electric Slide” song on a continuous loop. Getting an epidural doesn’t sound like something any woman would enjoy, but at least those in labor are already in searing and ripping pain and willing to endure anything that will make them more comfortable again. But me, I wasn’t in labor. I was feeling just hunky-dory, thank you very much. And I didn’t have the distraction of contractions to keep my mind busy, so all I did for the days leading up the surgery was worry about it.
And it didn’t help the morning of the c-section when the nurse who put in my IV was obviously trained in the art of medieval torture. According to her, I had dainty veins. So when my anesthesiologist was ready to put in the epidural, I was deep in prayer that I didn’t also have a dainty spinal cord. And I let him know how nervous I was. He had many words aimed at assuaging my fears, but the thing that put me at ease was when he told me his name. Mike. Mike the Anesthesiologist. My husband and I smiled. We were part of the rebellious few who don’t find out the sex of the baby, so we had our girl and our boy names ready to go. Well, we actually had two boy names. It was down to Brian or Michael, and we figured if baby came out a boy, we would just decide which he looked more like. My husband jokingly said to Mike the Anesthesiologist, “Well, if you do a good job and we have a boy, we’ll name him after you.” But we didn’t have a boy. We had Grace. Still, I was so thankful that our lighthearted conversation about names helped take my mind off of getting the epidural (which really wasn’t that bad, meaning Mike the Anesthesiologist was also a man of his word), and his calming presence in the operating room kept me at peace so that I could fully enjoy the birth of my daughter. Not only that, but he also took the very first pictures of her emerging into the world so that my husband didn’t have to see my innards (ew, awkward). I would remember Mike the Anesthesiologist as an integral part of that special day.
Fast forward to three years later, when I again found myself carrying a breech baby. (What is with my kids and their directional problems?…OH, geez. Now it all makes sense why they never listen to me! They began life disobeying Mother Nature.) When I was scheduling the c-section date with my OB, I sheepishly asked if I could make one strange request. I wondered if I could have Mike the Anesthesiologist there again. My OB laughed, and said he unfortunately couldn’t make that request. I would just have to hope that Mike the Anesthesiologist was scheduled that day, at which time I could ask him to do my epidural if he wasn’t already otherwise engaged. So I hoped.
It was one of the first questions I asked when I got to the hospital. “Is Mike the Anesthesiologist working today?” …holding my breath…No. No he was not. Bummer. So I set off to my hospital room to get prepped for my surgery. And despite rationally knowing that Mike the Anesthesiologist was just one of many, many qualified people who could give me an epidural, I began getting nervous about it all over again.
Until, that is, this sweet little nurse came into my room and said, “You’re not going to believe this…” It turns out that the anesthesiologist who was scheduled for that morning broke her arm, and guess who was filling in for her? Mike the Anesthesiologist! Suddenly I knew everything was going to be just fine. It had to be. And it was.
Of course Mike the Anesthesiologist didn’t remember me, but he was curious as to why he was “requested.” Apparently that doesn’t happen that often in their field of work. So we told him the story, and told him once again that the name Michael had made the cut if baby turned out to be a boy. As I was being wheeled to the operating room, Mike the Anesthesiologist said to me, “Here we go. By the way, what’s the middle name if you have a boy.”
“James, after our fathers.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No. Why?”
“Because that’s my middle name.”
Fifteen minutes later, Michael James came into the world, five years ago today. My Michael may have been accidentally named after Mike the Anesthesiologist, but the fact that he is seems like part of some divine plan, just like the way Mike the Anesthesiologist accidentally became my guardian on that second special day in my life. Who would have known that when we decided Mike Suellentrop sounded like “a hell of a guy” that he would be sharing his name with another “hell of a guy” for whom I will be forever grateful.
I have not seen Mike the Anesthesiologist since that day, but I wonder what he would think of his namesake. Me, I think he is indeed turning into one hell of a little guy.
The suffocating heat of the afternoon is losing its grip as early evening sashays in a few cool, cottony clouds to block the slicing rays of sun. The landscape is relatively quiet; the day has been without incident so far. The other lookouts and I settle into a false sense of security, letting our attentions wander to other places we would rather be.
A methodical pinging sound slowly begins. I am coaxed out of my complacency by a sense of impending doom. I know that sound, like flesh on metal. I need to warn my troops. My eyes feverishly scan the terrain, but I don’t see them. They have already heard the signal and have taken it upon themselves to act. And not just my troops. They all have. In the blink of an eye, they are all thrusting themselves into the middle of it. I’m too late.
And then the screaming begins. I see hands and feet whiz by me at a breakneck speed. Some appear to be actually enjoying the primal emotions being brought to the surface. They become emboldened, even ruthless, in this dangerous dance of sorts. But others weren’t meant for this, and they cave from the fear. For brief seconds I glimpse the desperation that flays their eyes wide open, and I hear the terrified pleadings for their mothers.
I blurt to one of the other lookouts, “We have to stop it!” But we are helpless. The wheel is in motion and has gained too much momentum, and the ones who have been hardened by years of this torture are maniacally eager to keep it going. Our pleas for them to stop fall on deaf ears. All that is left to do is futilely stare at what we should have prevented had we been doing our jobs, had we been properly looking after our troops, and pray for minimal casualties.
It’s every man for himself as the centrifugal force starts picking them off, one by one. They fall to the ground, pieces of bark and shredded tire impressed into bare knees and tangled into hair. Their comrades don’t even try to help as running feet trample them, caught up in the rush. Oh, the horror! They’re only children, for God’s sake! Every mother stands on edge, not wanting it to be her son or daughter. Just let my child make it off alive.
I hate that %#@*&% merry-go-round.
When I was a teacher, one of my favorite pieces of literature I had my students read was The Misanthrope by Moliere. For those of you who may not be familiar, it is a 17th century comedic play, written entirely in rhyming verse, that pokes fun at the hypocrisies of the French aristocracy. Moliere accomplishes this primarily through his main character, Alceste, the misanthrope, who very simply hates humankind. Alceste easily sees through insincere words and is quick to point out the despicable behavior so prevalent in aristocratic society. The piece is quite witty, and the rhyming verse makes it as fun to read as a good children’s book. Only it makes you feel all smart and sophisticated since it’s French…and old.
I bring up The Misanthrope not because it would be a smashing addition to your summer reading list (though it would), but because God must have mistaken my admiration and love for the play as a prayer for a misanthrope of my own. Because he gave me Michael, the littlest misanthrope.
Not only does Michael hate humankind, Michael hates just about everything. I know this because regardless of what I bring up to him, his response is often that he hates whatever it is. Michael, it’s time to go to school. I hate school. Michael, we’re having chicken for dinner. I hate chicken. Michael, why don’t you go see if those kids by the sandbox want to play. I hate those kids. Michael, did you see that huge possum just cross the street? I hate possums. I think I might head to Target this afternoon. I hate Target. SCREEEECH! Okay, I won’t let that one slide. Saying “I hate Target” is pretty much the supreme profanity in my house…the house that Target built…well, that Target decorated, and made cleaner, and populated with candles, and filled closets with cute, affordable clothes and shoes. WE don’t hate Target. That is not how I raise my children.
So my kid hates everything. Well, almost everything. The only things he seems pretty adamant about liking are sugar and, for some unknown reason that makes me laugh and weep all at the same time, Justin Bieber. On more than one occasion he has named the Biebs his #1 favorite musician, despite never having heard an actual Justin Bieber song. Well, I actually like Justin Bieber. I just do. Fact: I am more worried about my child being a Belieber than a misanthrope.
For a time I thought maybe Michael might be outgrowing his misanthropic phase (and hopefully his Belieber phase along with it). Instead of hating everything, he started wanting everything to be a joke. Usually that just means he adds the word pee/poop/butt/eyeball/diaper (or some compound combination) somewhere into his statement. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the dirty diaper eyeball station! If I ask him what he wants for lunch, I might get an answer along the lines of a poop sandwich…with celery. Sometimes his humor comes in the form of bodily noises or other sounds that only other kids think are funny. Once, after I told him that his preschool teacher commented that he was doing really well in school, he was not surprised. He knew exactly why he received that compliment:
“Well, I’m funny. I’m so funny. I’m the funniest one in the class. When I took my tortilla to the trash, I was an elephant with my arm and everyone laughed. I also know how to snort now. *SNORT*!!” (Side note: He was likely taking his tortilla to the trash because, you guessed it, he hates tortillas. )
While so far, his brand of humor hasn’t tickled my funny bone, I do prefer this demeanor over that of the littlest misanthrope. Fingers crossed that I could end up with the littlest Will Ferrell. I could get behind that.
Only it looks as though Michael may be adding yet another facet to his personality. Recently he almost seems to have found a certain meaninglessness in things. Michael, “Team Umizoomi” is on television. So? Michael, you get to go to Mimi and Papa’s house today. So? Michael, it’s time to pick up your sister from school. So? Michael, world peace has broken out and the Hershey’s company has decided to now make their chocolate bars in our backyard. So? I’m just playing with my Transformers right now.
Great. Now I have the littlest Existentialist on my hands. I hear they are beasts to discipline with that whole I’m-an-individual-who-creates-my-own-values-and-true-essence-so-stop-trying-to-thrust-the-absurd-and-meaningless-outside-world-onto-me-lest-I-cast-myself-into-the-pit-of-despair-or-at-the-very-least-become-anxious-that-I-even-have-the-possibility-of-casting-myself-into-the-pit-of-despair. I need to nip this thing in the bud right now because the last thing I need is a teenage Existentialist.
Did Dr. Spock have any suggestions for parenting through this? Because I’m pretty sure neither Kierkegaard nor Camus ever wrote any parenting books. And the only parenting advice I could find from Will Ferrell was this quote from Parade Magazine: “Don’t let them play in old abandoned refrigerators. Let’s see, what else? If you’re flying with your children, it’s better to book them on the same flight as you and not on a separate one just so they can have more leg room or something. Travel as a family.” I mean, it’s good advice. It just doesn’t help me with my particular situation.
Man, maybe Alceste was right. Human nature can be a real pain in the eyeball-poop-butt sometimes.
*Nerd Notes: If you are interested in reading The Misanthrope by Moliere, I recommend the version translated by Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Richard Wilbur, which is superior to all others. If you are thinking that what your summer beach experience needs is an Existentialist page-turner, you can’t go wrong with The Stranger by Albert Camus. Cool pop culture fact: The song “Killing an Arab” by The Cure was inspired by and based on The Stranger, and not a song with racist overtones as the title suggests.
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I have a problem when it comes to endings. I know I am not alone in this, as I was reminded when The Middle referenced a genius Shel Silverstein quote in this week’s episode:
“There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.”
Suffice it to say, this time of year can bite me. Here are some of the reasons why. Continue reading “It’s Time to Move On…Seriously”
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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In a little over two weeks, I will be the mother of a child old enough to ingest the body and blood of Jesus Christ. I also like to call this the legal Catholic drinking age. First Communion is a BIG deal. Not only does it signify the point at which a child is finally able to actively participate in all parts of the Mass, but it’s also the first of only two times a girl can wear a veil in public without people thinking she is a deranged lunatic. (Actually, Grace isn’t wearing a veil; she’s wearing a wreath of flowers. And it was totally her choice…because it was the only choice I mentioned to her. I was afraid that if she looked too much like a child bride, my husband would move up her nunnery induction date from the day she turns sixteen to, well, tomorrow.)
We’ve had First Communion Fever at our house lately. I’ve been running around like a mad woman, prepping for the big day. Order wreath. Check. Send out invitations. Check. Plan food for the party. Check. Figure out the design for the cake. Check. Meet with seamstress about G’s dress. Check. Help G with her banner. Check. Meet with banner committee to put together the class banner for church. Check. Find shoes. Check…oh crap, too big. Uncheck.
Grace, on the other hand, has been doing the prep that really matters, as evidenced by the fact that she asked me to “play church” the other day. All I have to say is, I’d join her parish in a heartbeat.
Mass began with the first reading from the Book of Mom’s Sleepy Time Tales of The Story of Three Billy Goats Gruff (cue the Church Lady: “Was it a troll, or could it be SATAN?”), followed by a second reading of a poem about band-aids. Then we were treated to a poem called “Chester” from the Gospel of Shel Silverstein, after which Grace gave her homily: “I have no idea what that’s about.” Honest, simple, and short. My kind of homily. Even Michael found himself entertained, which rarely happens with him at church.
I was feeling so good about how quickly this whole thing was playing out that I didn’t even mind when Fr. Grace started passing around the collection basket…and expected me to fork over some real money. I gave her a quarter. Just consider me the poor woman who cast in all that she had, unlike the rich who only gave from their surplus. Or something like that.
Next it was time for the Eucharist. When Grace informed me that she was “really good at turning water into blood and bread into body,” I made the mistake of assuming she was pretending to have those skills. When I stated what I thought we both knew was a fact, that only a real priest can perform the Eucharist, church suddenly took a turn for the ugly. The poor thing was heartbroken, and she started crying at the realization that despite her little prayer, all that sat on the table was ordinary bread and red water. I blame her Catholic school. Hello?? Isn’t this what I’m paying you to teach her? I expect a deduction on my next tuition payment. Don’t laugh at me like you think I’m joking. I’m not. …Whatever.
I was finally able to get the “mass” back on track by agreeing with her that her prayer at the very least made the bread and water holy. It’s debatable, but I had other things to do. Let’s get the show on the road. So Michael and I processed up to receive Communion from the Snuggie-clad Grace. Then we sat down while she sprinkled us with holy water from a bath poof.
Fr. Grace was just about to offer the final blessing when Michael realized that Grace never got to take Communion. So he offered to be the priest. What a sweet and kind little brother, moved by the Holy Spirit no doubt. But as he put on the Snuggie, he let out an evil laugh and said, “I want de blood…he, he, he, he.” Typical. Then he took all the money OUT of the collection basket, handed me a quarter and said, “Body of Christ.”
I think Catholic school tuition will be well worth it for him.
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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