Cluster Chuck

About a month before Camille's birthday, we had this exchange:

Me: "Hey, what should we do for your birthday? We'll do anything you want!"
Camille: "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese."
Me: "We could have a little party here ...maybe a bouncy castle?"
Camille: "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese."
Me: "What about that place, 'Sweet and Sassy' salon? Princess makeovers!"
Camille: "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese."
Me: "Hey, I know- swim party! Petting zoo? Tea party? Remember our tea party?? Fancy!"

Desperation was setting in, but it was no use- she was like a blonde broken record.
She stopped what she was doing (putting her galoshes on the dog) and stood up.

"CHUCK E. CHEESE! I TOLD YOU! CHUCK E. CHEESE!" The Kraken screeched.

And an adult can be wallet-raped by a rat!

Crapola.
I knew it was coming. Until now, I had managed to avoid the mind-numbing, snot-slimed, sticky ball-pitted, pizza sauce-coated petri dish that is "Chuck." I wanted to upchuck. I heard the stories, and that was enough for me. Throughout my older child Henry's toddlerhood, I feigned ignorance.  Anytime he saw the commercials, got a birthday invitation or drove by the place I changed the channel, rsvp'd "no" or said it was, "Uh oh! Closed that day... darny."

Yeah, I know- terrible. I'm a terrible, horrible person. Mother Of The Year. Have we not covered this in the other posts? If this offends, then you obviously don't have kids.
To you I say, Eff off, Judgey McJudgerson!

Now, where was I...

Henry, "The Good One," takes everything I say at face value. Bless his heart, he believed me and quickly forgot about Chuck. Camille, not so much. She is a different animal. Very inquisitive and relentless in her pursuit of the obnoxiously advertised, she pays attention, that one. She saw the commercials and could smell a rat. A giant animatronic rat. Also somehow, somewhere she got a healthy dose of the tacky gene, making her irresistibly drawn to any gaudy, swirling candy-colored carny-style of fun. I detest it. This is one of God's little jokes on me.
But when the lip quivers, the heart quivers. Even mine. Surprised? Yeah.. me too. There was no way around it. So I gave in, reluctantly. Camille was having a party at Chuck E. Cheese.

Even almighty Brangelina is powerless against the CHUCK.

We live in the suburbs of Houston which means it's just like the big city, but with all that icky culture, originality and diversity taken out. The many Houston locations of Chuck E. Cheese probably have actual rats performing ...so in this one instance, I was glad to be in the Stepford-ized, sanitized, homogenized new world of the 'burbs. We sent the invites and I gotta give the Current Legal Spouse credit- it was his idea to have the party in the earliest time slot available, 9:30 a.m. His theory being the place would be empty (and clean?...ish?) and this nightmare would be over by noon. He does have fleeting moments of brilliance. Fleeting. Who cares if kids would be eating pizza and cake for breakfast? Not our problem and let's face it- probably not the first time.

We arrived that Saturday bright and early and truly had the place to ourselves. Score! Kids started to arrive, then more kids... plus a few... siblings. M'kay. As part of the package we pre-purchased 16 tokens for each child. Each child that was invited, that is. As soon as they hit the door, they snatched their token cups and ran. Five minutes later they were back asking for more tokens. A couple of kids I didn't recognize showed up and soon the place was swarming with screaming, running, token-crazed midgets. Because of the recent news stories of children actually being left at Chuck E. Cheese, (yes, wtf!?!) I was relieved to see several parents that stayed behind and pretended to help. Mostly they just sat in a booth, sighed heavily and drooled into their smart phones. Some just dumped and ran. Did I blame them? No, I did not. Did I envy them? Yes, yes I did.

"Please, sir.. may I have more tokens??

Other, non-party patrons were filing in and I was a tad stressed. I tried to keep track of our guests but they scattered like roaches, only returning to the table to demand more tokens like little beggars on the streets of India. Even Henry got caught up in the mob mentality and darted from one game to the next. At last count we had 17 kids in our charge. I invited 12 kids. Nine had rsvp'd. Really?? We ordered more tokens, pizza, ice cream and more goody bags. The Current Legal Spouse would run one way, I would run the other. Occasionally we would meet by the skee-ball machines and have this clenched-jaw exchange:

Me: "I cannot believe the nerve of these people! That one chick? She brought all her kids and then hauled ass!! This is not a free babysitting service!"
CLS: "Ssshhh! Lower your voice! Do you want them to hear you?"
Me: "No one can hear me! I can't even hear my own goddamn thoughts! My ears are bleeding- I may never hear normally again! I have an eye twitch!"
CLS: "Holy shit, we are never doing this again. This is costing a goddamn fortune. These kids- they're wild... they're everywhere." <looks around, frightened> "How much longer til the pizza comes out?"
Me: "I don't know! Stop handing out tokens like the fucking pied piper! You just want them to think you're cool- they are six years old! They will keep asking until you say no, dumbass."
CLS: "I am cool, and don't worry about it, dumbass! I want them to have fun!"
Me: "Oh ok.. I can't wait til you get the final bill, Mr. Moneybags!"

And then we would storm off in different directions and repeat that every twenty minutes. Good times.

"Dude...I'm out of tokens. This party blows."

Finally we corralled most of the kids for pizza and cake. Guess who ate the most? That's right- the little shits who weren't even invited. Then Chuck E. Cheese himself [stoned teenager in stinky costume] came out, posed for pictures, danced and high-fived Camille. She was in heaven. We were in hell.

The rest of the kids sprang from the table and mauled Chuck. I'm hoping one of them gave him a swift kick in the mozzarella balls, because after fighting them off, he stumbled behind the curtain and disappeared.

"Mama, why does Chuck E. smell like cigarettes? And failure?"

Then the mini-mob turned on us and again demanded more tokens. This time Current Legal Spouse, aka "Cool Dad" decided he was done being cool and said, "No, the party is almost over, you can go turn in your tickets for prizes at the counter." They stared at him collectively, then ran off.
By the time they finished carefully selecting their plastic fifty-cent crap prizes, over two excruciating hours had passed and parents started trickling in. It was over- we had survived. The hubs and I held each other and wept softly.

Camille wanted to open her gifts there but we told her HELLZ NO, we would do that at home. It was high noon and the place had reached full hysteria. I made a final sweep of the perimeter while the hubs loaded the gifts and the kids.

We drove home in silence physically, emotionally and spiritually spent. Camille was asleep before we left the parking lot. Henry stared vacantly out of the window. When we got home I made everyone take a Silkwood-style shower. You can't be too careful.

I've done my tour of duty. I've seen the face of hell. Been up close to it, smelled it. It's a giant rat that reeks of Pop Rocks and B.O. That's it. I'm sure one day we will look back on this experience wistfully but not today, friends. Not yet. The ears, they still ring. The eye- it still twitches. I'm still washing my hands obsessively.

The pain is too fresh.

Never again, Chuck. Never again.

Brallelujah!

Sorry I've been away so long. Recently I experienced the sudden loss of a friend that I'm just now able to speak about. My breast friend. That's right- I'm talking about my favorite bra. The underwire broke and "Old Beige" had to be put down... *quiet sob.* To you, this may seem like no biggie. You might be a dude in which case this post might bore you, as there won't be any pics or video of my bra-less jubblies (or anyone else's). Move along, pervy.

If you have breasts of any significance you know that a woman's relationship with her bra collection is a special one. One bra style cannot serve every need. Much like a cherished group of friends, they have different personalities and strengths. You might have the "good girl", the "beautiful one", the "slutty one", the "exercise buddy" and the "BFF". And everybody should have at least one "sassy black one". Diversity, y'all! It's a beautiful thang!

"We're gonna need a bigger bra..."

They are all important but there is always one bra you keep coming back to, day in and day out. Your go-to gal. The BFF, which of course stands for Breast Friend Forever. It can be very difficult to find a great bra for the outrageously endowed. Once you find a style you like, you're a lifer. This bra is working overtime for those bodacious ta-tas. It's usually not the prettiest bra, but the most comfy and dependable. It's your heavy-duty, industrial strength workhorse. The Borax of bras. It never lets you down, except when it does- when the fabric is threadbare, your cups runneth over and the underwire fails... you know it's time.


To get to this point I had to go through the five stages of grief:

Denial: Several months ago I was out running errands and as usual I was locked and loaded in my favorite bra. It was lifting and separating dutifully when something struck a nerve- and that nerve was right under my armpit. It was a little bit of the underwire poking through. I pulled at it, readjusted and powered through my day. It was fine.

Anger: When I got home I took my bra off and inspected it. Sure enough, a tiny hole had formed and the underwire was just peeking through the opening. This goddamn bra was $85.!! Arrgh! I don't have time for this bullshit. I pushed the wire back in and hastily put it back on. I had shit to do. I went about my day in a foul mood. Two hours later, half the wire was coming up, practically out of my shirt and stabbing me repeatedly. Fucksticks.

Bargaining: I washed the bra and carefully hung it up to dry. I was sorry that occasionally I had dried it in the dryer. That's a no-no. I'll never ever do that again. Ever. Maybe I could just stitch the little hole? I can't sew for shit... Gorilla Glue? Duct tape? I guess I'll just pin it.

Depression: This isn't working. Now the pin is bothering me. And these straps are shot. I never really noticed that before. I can see my nipples through this threadbare fabric and it's not cute, even though when Current Legal Spouse sees it he says, "Oh, hellooo nipples!" and dances toward me. Um, no I don't think so. It's over. I can't believe this is the end. How can you do this to me, Beigee? After everything we've been through? Remember that weekend in San Francisco? Good times... *sniff*

Acceptance: My friend was gone. Gone to that ladies lounge in the sky. I had a small, private ceremony by the trash can while Josh Groban played softly in the background. The song was a fitting tribute and it really did raise me up, so high. Also, I may have been drunk. Josh knows a little something about love, loss and I bet, boobs. Strange, random middle-aged stalker boobs coming at him in his dressing room nightly- but I digress. I had to get out there and find a new breast friend and fast.

You cannot wear those lacy numbers in the back of your dresser on a daily basis. You guys can think what you want, but no woman in her right mind is running around Kroger in her sexy $200 Le Mystere lingerie. Or as my friend Steve calls it, "LINGER-REE!" It's too damn itchy. I think I wore my jog bra for three days straight, if you must know. But then I got tired of uni-boob. I've heard when you lose a leg or arm, you often have "phantom pains" of the lost limb still being there. I had that, too. OMG, y'all- I was a BRAMPUTEE! I would open my drawer and reach for Old Beige, but she was not there. She left a hole in my heart (and my armpit.) So when I felt ready, I went online and checked out a few prospects first. Then I met with Jean over in the "Intimates" department. Jean was matronly, cheerful and amply endowed herself. She understood my pain and loved me through it. She took me by the breast as only a woman groping another woman (in a strictly professional bra-fitting manner) could. I was measured, cupped, fastened-in and fascinated. I fell into a new relationship that fits perfectly. With several new friends in tow, I emerged from Intimates, triumphant. My heart (and my bra) will go on...

My new BFF, Nudie has not disappointed. That Jean was a bra JEANIOUS. I have a song in my heart and a spring in my chest. Not too much spring, just the appropriate amount. Let's just say things are really looking up!

Thank you for taking this journey with me.

Can I get a Brallelujah!