So after pushing for two ungodly hours…

Side note: Thanks so much, Doc, for letting me push that long even though I kept telling you that I didn’t think things were progressing (and I imagine that you could definitely tell that things weren’t progressing, but didn’t respond to my comments). Oh yeah, and super thanks for following up my frustrated pleas that I just wanted the asshole baby out of me with: “Well, it’s all up to you.”

Really, lady? I think everyone in the room, included a pee- and poo-covered YOU, can attest to the fact that I literally was pushing my guts out. How I managed to not utter a big “Fuck you, you stupid mother fucker” at that moment is beyond me. Who knew I could maintain somewhat of a filter in such a time of stress?

So the doctor had just told me that we could try yanking Bug out of my vagina, but if that didn’t work, we’d have to do a C-section.

Awesome.

After a very light tug, the doctor decided that there was no way that the baby was going to come out my babyhole as intended.

People have asked me if this is when I totally freaked out. Surprisingly, no. Like I said before, I just wanted the dude out of my goddamn uterus. I’m pretty sure that if the doctor had suggested letting a pack of vampires gnaw the baby out of me, I would’ve ushered those sparkly douche bags in to the birthing suite with a smile.

I gave a quick goodbye to my family (who I guess were freaking out way more than I was) and was wheeled to the operating room. Mr. Bee was taken aside to get dressed in some ridiculous Hazmat suit. I’m guessing it was just a precaution in case Bug turned out to be radioactive?

I also got to wear a hawt shower cap, which was pretty considerate figuring that I had taken the time to flat iron my hair before we left for the hospital. Who knows what kinds of junk would be flying around when they cut in to me?

As Mr. Bee donned his hard hat and eye protection, I was wheeled in to the OR and thrown on to the table ER style. Doctors and nurses started prepping for surgery by counting all the instruments (which I kindly reminded them to please not leave in my abdomen unless it would somehow ensure me a free tummy tuck later) and the anesthesiologist settled down at my head to get me nice and numb.

See, friends, all this time, I’ve still been having contractions. I’ve just been completely without my support system to deal with them. So while I’m being laid out on the table with the big blue sheet up so I can’t see the God-awful things that they are about to do to me, I’m contorting about trying to get through contractions without hitting someone.

After 30 minutes (THIRTY MINUTES) of suffering through contractions and having to declare “Yep! STILL FEELING THEM!!!!”, the anesthesiologist finally got me numb enough for doctors to slice me open. Oh, and during that 30 minutes, I also got “prepped”. And by prepped, I mean that some poor nurse who totally doesn’t earn enough had to shave part of my…region.

This is where I sincerely apologized for the 1970’s porn-esque bush I had been maintaining (or not, as the case may be). She assured me that she had seen worse in her day and I felt obligated to explain my “I can’t see it therefore it doesn’t exist to me” pubic maintenance policy.

Honestly, I can’t believe that I’m allowed out in public most days.

At this point, I am laid out Jesus-on-the-cross style, with the big curtain up, and my right arm hooked up to a blood pressure cuff. Shockingly, I was tied down completely because, girlfriend, I was fucking seizing around from either shock or the fact that apparently the operating rooms were all occupied and they had chosen to open me up in the cafeteria’s freezer.

Seriously, I half-expected to see a piles of Drumsticks and ice cream sandwiches on the tables that surrounded me. Maybe the nurses had been counting plastic cutlery instead of operating implements? I swear to God if I end up getting sick because someone left a spork in me…it will be the most awesome thing EVER! I mean, how many people get to say that?

To recap, I’m so cold that I’m having shivers so severe that my entire body is shaking AND I’m still suffering through contractions AND THEN I notice my right hand. Remember, my right arm is hooked up to the blood pressure cuff? Well, apparently I was suffering some weird calcium deficiency that would cause my right hand to contort up every time the cuff filled with air.

That’s right, folks. Every few minutes I got Palsy Hand.

Also referred to as The Claw.

So, yeah, I was a fucking mess. And the baby wasn’t even out yet!

Since this post is ridiculously long, stay tuned for Part Four: Why I’d Rather Shoot A Baby Out My Vag Hole Than Have It Cut Out of Me. Shit, that’s a long subtitle…

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

When we left Part One of Bug’s Birth Saga, the nurse was just heading out to fill an order for Pitocin to get things a-moving. The peanut gallery (aka: my mom, dad, sister and best friend) had all arrived at that point and we all waited impatiently to get transferred in to a birthing suite.

I was just chilling out, dealing with mild contractions, and trying not to punch Mr. Bee in his face while he sarcastically encouraged and supported me.

See, when Bee was born, I think Mr. Bee was in a little bit of shock. And I say this with the utmost respect and admiration for my husband, but you seriously could have replaced him with a cardboard cut-out of himself. In fact, I’m pretty sure he hardly uttered two words during the whole experience.

So this time around, I encouraged him to be a little more vocal, with the caveat (of course) that I could tell him to shut the fuck up whenever I choose to. I just didn’t think that time would come before we had even moved in to a birthing suite!

Before we could even get to our suite (or even get hooked up to that lovely Pitocin), my body decided to kick things in to high gear. Suddenly the question of whether or not these were “real” contractions went out the window. Mostly because they fucking huuuuuuuuurt.

Once we got to our birthing suite, contractions had really ramped up and thank God for Sissy, my gold medal birthing coach! It wasn’t too long before the contractions got too painful for me – I ain’t no hero, people – and I asked politely for an epidural (read: I’m pretty sure I screamed at the nurse for drugs of any kind. I mean, come on. I was in Renton, for Christ’s sake. Crack or Meth should have been readily available…).

Now, when I imagine asking for an epidural while in labor, this is what I think the response should be: “Of course, ma lady. Regular or super-sized? We will get you a fuck-ton of pain meds post haste.”

What did I get instead?

“Oh, so the anesthesiologist is in a procedure right now and then he has a C-section and then we’re up. So we’re third on the list.”

What. The. Fuck.

This is where I cried for the second time during my labor (the first was when the contractions started getting really bad and we were still in a tiny triage room). The only way to describe how I felt was if you can imagine the nurse reaching in to my body, grabbing hold of my soul, wrenching it out through my eye sockets and smashing it to smithereens while simultaneously peeing on it.

Needless to say, I was crushed. Also, I thought I was going to die. So that was really fun.

Luckily for me and my sanity, the drug doctor was able to sneak me in between procedures and I soon had a very mild epidural, which really? When I ask for an epidural, I want to be able to shove a fork in to my leg and not even blink an eye. This epidural? Barely took the edge off of the contractions. Grrr.

I probably could have asked for more drugs, but immediately after giving me the epidural, the nurse checked my cervix and guess who was totally dilated and effaced?

Are you fucking shitting me? I just went through that whole painful labor without an epidural but now I can’t tell people proudly that I did it au natural? Jesus Christ.

Even though the doctor, upon checking me, said I was a “sloppy eight”, she let me start pushing anyway because, well, I wanted to. So for the next two hours, I pushed my heart out.

Well, not literally my heart. My pee, poo and god knows what else? Yes.

Did you know that you can pee all over your doctor while in labor? Well, I can apparently. Jealous?

I even asked Sissy at one point if I had pooped (not that I really cared. I poo’d all over the place with Bee; for some reason I just wanted to know if all my bodily fluids were shooting across the room at that point!). Her response was “No, I don’t think so…” Later I found out that Arla-Shay approached Sissy and was all, “Uh, why did you lie about the pooping? She poo’d EVERYWHERE!” Sissy assures me that she hadn’t witnessed said poop at that point but Arla-Shay guarantees that the room looked like a poo-throwing monkey had a fiesta in it. Nice.

So, approximately two hours later, Bug was finally within an inch or two of the world when the doctor noticed that he was sideways.

That’s right, folks.

Not face down. Not sunny-side up.

Fucking SIDEWAYS.

Oh, and guess what else? Every contraction was also paired with Bug kicking the shit out of me. My family could actually see him kicking against my stomach from the outside.

Most painful thing I’ve ever felt.

And I don’t think it will come to a surprise you, but for some reason the doctor was surprised at the nicknames I had for Bug during labor. I think her favorites were “Jerk” and “Asshole”.

So after two hours of literally gut-wrenching pushing and the only thing born was Bug’s hair, the doctor tried reaching in and turning the baby the right way.

Um, ouch.

THEN, she tried the suction cup with a handle method to see if the kid would budge.

Double ouch.

When turning and pulling didn’t work, the doctor educated me on irony. That is, I had been going around for ages telling people that the only way that Bug’s labor and delivery could be worse than Bee’s was if I was forced to have an emergency C-section.

Well, guess what?

Stay tuned for Part Three of the Bug Birth Saga which includes freezing to death, being cut open while making porno jokes, and my weird palsy hand.

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

After a week and a half, after at least four or five days of truly trying to find the time to sit down with the laptop, and with baby planted firmly on boob with netbook balanced precariously on my breastfeeding pillow, here, my loves, is Bug’s Birth Story.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Nah, actually it was a clear and beautiful Thursday that began as any other, full of the Play Date. I had seen all the same women the week before and was greeted kindly with “Why the hell are you here?” and “Aren’t you supposed to be giving birth or something?!”.

After explaining that apparently a week’s worth of contractions does not equal a baby shooting out from my vag, everyone decided that as much as they like me, I was forbidden to see any of my friends any time soon as I should be giving birth.

Little did they know…

Later that afternoon, while Bee was taking a nap, I was resting on the couch in between peeing every five minutes. During one trip to the bathroom, I noticed, well, discharge.

This is probably a good time to mention that this birth story is chock full of bodily fluids and gory ass (literally) details. Basically, if vaginal discharge scares you, this blog story is probably not one for you!

Anywho, I initially didn’t think much of it but each subsequent bathroom visit, as I reached the standing position: goosh. For the ladies who are curious, it kind of just felt like “that time of the month”. It wasn’t the stereotypical Niagra/Vagina Falls that you see on television. And did you know that less than 15% of women actually have their water break on it’s own? Jealous?!

So once I realized that my vag was leaking more than normal, I called Mr. Bee to share the exciting news and tell him to get his ass home post haste.

Ring.

Ring.

Mr. Bee: Is it “go time” or is this just another pointless phone call?

That’s a QUOTE, people.

Me: Well, my water just broke so I’m gonna go with “go time”…

Mr. Bee: Oh shit! Really?! I was just joking!

Ha. Ha.

After getting all the important folks on the phone and Grandma over to watch Bee, Mr. Bee and I headed to the hospital. During the drive up, I was all “omg, omg, omg, omg, omg, I’m going to be having a baby tonight! omg, omg, omg,” while the Mr. was all “Yeah, that’s kind of how this works.”

Thanks, Mr. Wizard, for that breaking science development.

Upon arriving at the Birth Center triage, we began what they refer to as the first state of labor and delivery: The Waiting.

Well, before the waiting, the nurse wanted to make sure that my water had really broken. Makes sense, right?

So she asked for my soaked pantyliner that I had put on so I wouldn’t leak all over the car.

I’ll be honest, it’s not the first time that some stranger has asked for my used feminine products, but usually they buy me a drink or two first…

As she performed her tests, the nurse asked Mr. Bee and I how long it had been since our last sexual escapade – thinking that maybe the goop in my pants wasn’t amniotic fluid but Mr. Bee’s baby batter.

((Cue hysterical laughter))

I’m not sure of my exact words, but I think I assured her that unless my vagina was a sperm bear trap that could hold on to that junk for longer than 4 months, we didn’t need to worry that I was just oozing man juice.

After her sniff test or whatever the hell she was doing with my dirty underwear, she confirmed that indeed, my sac had ruptured and I was good to go to Labor & Delivery. You know, as soon as a nurse could get away and get me a room. In the meantime they would put in an order for Pitocin to start my contractions being productive (since my water had broken, I would be much more prone to getting an infection if they didn’t nudge things along).

Little did they know, I wouldn’t need any Pitocin…

Song title: The Birth of… by Imperia

Man, I miss not having enough time, energy or sanity to write posts right now. I have birth posts, posts featuring my first mental breakdown with two kids and posts about just the random awesomeness that is my life (please detect the sarcasm here) just floating around in my head!

I love that you are all still checking back for posts and I super duper triple promise that I will be back the second that I figure out how to wrangle Bee, nurse Bug and type no-handed on my computer!!

PS: I highly recommend not sneezy while sporting a c-section incision unless you want to feel like your abdomen is ripping open. Unless you like that kind of thing.

Song title: Miss You, Love You by Maroon 5

After a week and a half of sleep deprivation, I’ve realized a few things: there is absolutely no way that I will willingly give birth to another child, I absolutely need a personal assistant/chef/pharmacist, and you, my tens of readers, probably would like a grand introduction to the newest member of the Bee Family! So without further ado and henceforth and whatnot, it is my pleasure to present to you for the first time…

Bug
(the artist formerly known as Cletus)

Born August 6th at 1:38 in the butt crack of night/morning
Weighing in at a whopping 8 pounds, 11 ounces and measuring 19 inches

He is already much loved by all, with the minor exceptions of my vagina, my c-section scar and my bloody nipples.

And I swear on the sweet baby Jesus that Bug’s birth story is in the works! Part One should be up soon! It would’ve been up sooner if Bug would just learn some independence already. He is so needy…

Song title: So May I Introduce to You by Dilated Peoples

For those of you that haven’t followed the daily ups and downs of my uterus via Facebook, first of all, why the hell not?! Become a Fan of Mom to Bee on Facebook and you’ll get all the awesome updates including but not limited to these gems:

If you have been missing out on these web gems, here’s a quick update on my uterine status. Last Wednesday, at my doctor’s office (because it’d be kind of awkward otherwise) my doctor and I got pretty intimate. Let’s just say that she pretty much shook Cletus’ hand while he was still in the womb.

For those of you who actually care, my doc “stripped my membranes” which **disgusting warning** consists of her jabbing her fingers up my hootch and separating my amniotic sac from my uterine wall around my cervix. And let me tell you, it feels just as awesome as it sounds. In fact, at one point she asks, “Are we breathing?” I’m pretty sure my response was a muffled, “Mmm hmmm”.

In my head, I was thinking “NO, I’M NOT BREATHING! BUT I WILL HOLD MY BREATH FOR AN HOUR IF IT MEANS THAT THIS BABY WILL BE COMING OUT OF MY VAGINA SOON!!”

But shockingly, I tend to be able to filter myself pretty well in front of professionals.

Most of the time.

As my doctor departed, she told me that she’d probably be seeing me within a couple days, as the finger bang she just performed should stimulate labor.

::Cue Mama Bee’s brain becoming completely obsessed with labor and delivery::

Of course, losing my mucus plug and having contractions didn’t help with any of that either. In fact, at the crack of dawn on Sunday, I was 90% sure that it was Go Time. I woke up Mr. Bee and we got all our shit together and sat down to watch television until the contractions got close enough together to leave for the hospital.

And guess what happened?

That’s right. The mother fucking contractions stopped.

Just stopped.

Wham. Bam. Thank you, uterus.

Since then, I’ve waddled walked about four miles on the treadmill and through our neighborhood, I’ve enlisted Arla-Shay to press the crap out of my pressure points, and I’ve even twisted the hell out of my boobies trying to stimulate labor. And all I get are sporadic contractions that don’t even warrant timing at this point.

So if you see me walking down the street, possibly with tears in my eyes and likely clawing at my vagina to get Cletus out, please just pass me on by. Unless you too would like a flaming bag of dog shit on your doorstep. The recipient list is getting longer and longer.

It would probably help if I owned a dog…

Song title: Labor in Vain by Vanessa Bell Armstrong

Dear Preoccupied Mother at Outback Steakhouse,

First of all, congratulations on your new bundle of joy! I couldn’t help but notice when my family walked in to the restaurant to celebrate my father’s recent retirement that you have a little girl about Bee’s age and a newborn. Being 85 months pregnant, you immediately got my sympathy. But you looked like you were having a good time with Grandma so you definitely had your bases covered.

So when your daughter came over to our table to share her books with Bee, we all thought it was just pretty cute. Obviously, we made the mistake of acknowledging her existence (something you are pretty good at avoiding) and letting Bee play with her for approximately 30 seconds. Stupidly, when our food came to the table, we kind of thought that would be a clue to you to reel in your daughter and let us enjoy our night out.

But instead, we got the pleasure of babysitting your daughter at our table while we attempted to eat dinner between “No, sorry, she can’t play right now” and “Okay, we’re going to eat our dinner now…”. Little did we realize that these subtleties would be lost on a four year old.

Every time we thought we were in the clear, your sweet daughter, through no fault of her own (this is where I‘m STRONGLY hinting that it‘s YOUR fault, Preoccupied Mom), popped back up asking yet again if Bee could play with her, which is kind of inappropriate to begin with figuring that your daughter was ALL OVER THE PLACE. In the aisles, at our table, sitting in the middle of the floor getting in the way of the wait staff.

In fact, when we finally left the restaurant, your obliviousness impressed even me when your daughter just started running around the restaurant and played in the front lounge area (you know, by the front door, where she could have easily been snatched or even worse, run out in the busy street) unattended and pretty much ignored by every person in your family.

So thank you, Annoying and Negligent Outback Mother, because you reminded me once again that, despite all my flaws, there are so many more ways that I could suck as a parent.

Oh, and PS: fellow diners are NOT free babysitters. You will be receiving my bill in the mail. Kthnxbei.

Song title: Parenting Parents by Advent

FYI: If you’d like to follow the “blow-by-blow” action that is my impending labor and delivery of Cletus the Fetus, you should “like” the Official Mom to Bee Facebook Fan page.

Updates including, but not limited to, me cussing out anyone around me and blaming Mr. Bee for “doing this to me”.

Song title: Blow Out by Vell Rob

As we quickly approach The. Most. Dramatic. Season. Finale. Ever., we are reminded of why we oh-so-love The Bachelorette ever so much. As Chris Harrison so eloquently put it, it’s because of the “Romance, love, betrayal, heartbreak and, of course, a lot of tears.” He must be referring to Ali after she realizes that the bottle of wine is empty, because I don’t remember too many tears this season (sans the Frank Catastrophe last week).

Anywho, this week we join a panel from “the twenty-five handsome men“, which I think is a pretty bold statement given some of those dudes. I mean, did you SEE Chris N./The Phantom? He’s more orange than Lindsay Lohan after she goes in to liver failure.

But before we get to the boys, Chris Harrison has to have yet another Ya Ya Sisterhood Moment with Ali and discuss some of the season’s best (and worst) moments. I apologize for how choppy this recap is going to be – they were just all over the place!

Chris Harrison’s Ya Ya Sisterhood with Ali
Rated Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
We immediately learn that Rated-R took a quick journey from first impression awesome guy (in Ali’s mind. Everyone else knew he was an asshat) to the Istanbul douche bag hiking around topiaries. Ali, ever the feminist, wanted to be empowering to women everywhere when she confronted Justin about his girlfriend. You know, because The Bachelorette is such an empowering show. She’s a regular Rosa Parks, that one.

Guard and Protect Your Heart
I think I just figured something out: when I originally suggested that a drinking game should be made out of Kermit’s proclamations, I think Ali might have taken me a bit too seriously. Maybe that is where her alcoholism began? The FCC should fine Kasey every time he utters those obnoxious words.

It’s a Caribou Foot with Eyes (because, duh)
Ali insists that meeting the parents on the hometown visits told her a lot about Kirk? Like that he might have an insatiable need to murder and stuff poor little woodland creatures? And that he may or may not keep all those dead animals staged in a creepy ass basement for his viewing pleasure? Whatever, I still love Kirk even if his dad is the Dexter of the woods.

Frank the Tank, if Tank = Ass Hat
Omg, please just read last week‘s recap. I can’t handle reliving something I just watched two days ago. Especially something so painfully long and drawn out (like Ali’s extensions ::rim shot::)

Robert-Oh Oh Oh!!
Through outtakes, we get to see Robert-Oh’s one fatal flaw: the inability to open a champagne bottle without endangering the lives of people around him. Obviously, Alcholic Ali should’ve taken the reigns when it comes to opening bottles of alcohol. I fear this may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back for Robert-Oh’s future with Ali. Girl obviously needs to be with a man who can supply her with a never-ending supply of alcohol while keeping her head intact.

Frank’s Dad’s Toast
Apparently, upon meeting Frank’s family during the hometown visits and sitting down to eat, Frank’s Dad gave a toast of sorts, which had Ali confused and, well, yeah confused is a pretty good description:

“From and among the greater, ‘til then now and until here, as it was in front of before, for once do we near…Such as beyond past, presently and victorious should the little ant dianectically rise to drink now and forever.

First of all, do you know how many times I had to pause and replay that to make sure I got all the words down correctly? I’m pretty sure that he just randomly choose words out a dictionary and threw them together!

But, oh my god, thank the little baby Jesus that he was playing a joke on Ali! I’ve got to say that after Kirk’s creepy dad, it would have been kind of awesome if it WASN’T a joke. And thank you, Frank’s Dad, for giving us the idea and script for when Bee brings her boyfriend home for the first time. Ahhh, my poor children…

Kasey’s Planetarium Date
How awesome is it that Ali has no recollection of playing doctor astronauts with Kermit during her planetarium/museum/this is my heart, jump on in date? Alcoholic Ali rears her drunken head once again!

Chris N. (aka: The Phantom)
Thank GOD that someone finally acknowledge that Chris N. didn’t say a goddamn word the entire episode! And Chris L.’s “impression” of The Phantom literally had me laughing out loud in hysterics. If I wasn’t cemented in Team Chris before, I definitely am now that I’ve seen how funny he can be!

The Men Whine About Everything Tell All
During the introductions of the guys on the panel, I was half “oooh, I liked him!”, half “Ugh” and half “who the fuck was that?!” Seriously, though, there were at least four guys that I’m convinced were completely new to the show last night.

And back to Chris N. for a second, the boy said more in the first few minutes of the Men Tell All than the entire season!! Where was he during the dates, etc?! Too busy being all phantom-ey, I guess!

For what seemed like 800 hours, the men discussed the douche baggery of Rated R. I’ve got to say that when Kermit calls you creepy…that’s fucking saying something! Pot meet Kettle…

On that topic, Ty (who, among others, apparently has an awesome sense of humor that the producers decided to edit out until he was Auf’d) applauds Kermit on the consistency of his craziness. I mean, if you are going to be bat shit bonkers, you might as well stick with it 24/7, right?

Also, FYI: if you ever need a spot-on vocal impression of Kermie, please hire Arla-Shay for your next party. It’s a perfect combination of Heller Keller and Kermit the Frog.

Also, after this week’s episode, I’m pretty sure that Kasey has the same sort of basement as Kirk’s dad, but filled with women instead of animals. And he’s probably “protecting their hearts” with them safely locked inside of a freezer or something.

After discussing Rated R and Kermit’s insanity for FOREVER, we get yet another fucking Frank recap, where we learn…oh wait, nothing. Frank is a god damn douche canoe. That was clear last week, thanks ABC.

Ali as Disco Barbie
First of all, what was she WEARING? It fits her horribly. Second, what the hell was wrong with her hair? We’ve often discussed her horrible hair extensions, but this takes it to a whole new level. It’s like she’s Cinderella and her hair was styled by a bunch of woodland creatures. Drunk, rabid woodland rodents who later took up residence in their nest handiwork.

And, of course, an episode of the Bachelorette wouldn’t be complete without some douche declaring his love for Ali via the medium of song. I only have this to say:

Kermit. Needs. To. Stop. Singing. Like by Presidential Decree, if necessary. Fuck the immigrants in Arizona, can we deport Kasey to, like, Iceland or something?

In the end, everyone is mostly all grown up about being dumped by Ali. Even Kirk is all, “you taught me that I’m ready to love again.” Boooooooring.

And I was really hoping for more tattoos on Kermie. Maybe one of Ali flying from a glacier on a helicopter? Is that really too much to ask?

So a while back, the family and I got invited to a child’s birthday party at the infamous Chuck E. Cheese. And by infamous, I’m referring to all of Perez Hilton’s posts about the violence and mayhem that occurs at da Cheese regularly around the nation.

Obviously, we were totally looking forward to it.

But really, we were. If only for blog fodder.

And fodder, did I find.

First of all, upon arrival, I couldn’t help but notice this…woman? Girl? Honestly, I’m not sure how old she was. Basically because I was captivated by something other than her face.

See, this approximately 85 foot tall Amazon beauty was chillin’ at the Cheese with what I would assume was her daughter. I assume it was her daughter because she was obviously borrowing her daughter’s clothes.

The issue, besides the obvious questionable fashion offense was that, you know, she was surrounded by kids.

Because she was at Chuck E. Cheese.

And kids are, how do you say, short.

Please enjoy the not-at-all-subtle photo I took of this woman’s outfit from across the game floor.

I swear to Baby Jesus in a manger that when I first saw her, her butt cheeks were ACTUALLY poking out from underneath her skirt. God only knows what the 3 foot children running around were seeing. I just had my fingers crossed that the chick wasn’t going commando that day.

I mean, really. Who wears something like that? And around children?! SHORT children?!?

But that wasn’t all.

I couldn’t get a good photo of it because of all the people and my shitty camera phone, but in the birthday party section, among the other trillion personalized balloons, was this:

In case you can’t read it (which, sorry, blame Blackberry and their shitty phones), it reads: Aryan.

Yep, you read that correctly.

Aryan.

As in Nation?

What, was Klu Klux Anderson not available?

I was assured that Aryan is actually a real name in some cultures, but fer reals? Them folks need to crack open a history book, right?

Needless to say, we came away from our first visit (with Bee) to Chuck E. Cheese with many stories, a lot of blog fodder and probably a case of hepatitis.

Song title: Chucky Cheese by Rodney Carrington