We took Emily to Chuck E. Cheese last night. What a totally overstimulating experience, they really should start handing out Xanax at the door - not for the kids, let them work off that hyperactivity, but for the moms and dads. After an hour there, Jacob and I were both sort of blankly staring at the Whack-A-Munch game with long lines of drool connecting our chins to our shoulders. So sexy.

Lots of odd fashion choices wandering around Chuck E. Cheese. Several little girls with outfits my mother still wouldn't let me out of the house in, and lot of little boys in camouflage. Which is bizarre, you'd need to wear a Christmas tree in order to blend in there. I did feel that I was adding to the fashion ambience, because I've got my cute little Old Navy low-rise jeans which rub directly on my C-section scar so I wear high-waisted granny panties with 'em, they end a good inch or two higher than the jeans waist. It's the post partum ghetto look, very cutting edge. Oh, yes, AND if my shirt rides up at all (i.e., while bf'ing) I can show off my all-the-way-around-the-waist stretch marks, just really adds to the overall sex appeal.

Then you get some teenage boy dressed up as The Mouse come wandering through getting all the little kids all riled up. Didja ever stop to think about the job this kid has? "Here, put on this big, heavy, fur suit. And a full-head mask that smells bad. Great. Now, go wander through the crowd, most of whom are too short for you to see while wearing the mask, so you'll step on them. And they'll all come running over and give you a great big hug - and again, given their height, they will be hugging you with their face directly at crotch level. Enjoy!" Sounds like a great job for a sex offender, but the rest of us might feel there are better ways to earn a buck, ya know?

(I actually dated a guy in high school who would dress up as The Mouse, we determined that I'm far too prudish to incorporate the costume into my dating activities. No "plushies" here, thanks.)

Just a generally spastic place. Then we stopped at Toys-Backwards-R-Us on the way home, and the little girl running the cash register (since when can you get a job at 6??) was just not the sharpest cheese in the refrigerator. Took three tries to convince her that, no, really, this is a credit card, not a debit card. Really. Honest. No, no, not a debit card. No, we don't want cash back, it's a credit card. No -- you get the idea.

Such fun. So glad we live an hour away, so we're not expected to make that little trip again right away. I need a month or two for my blood sugar level to come back down.