So. Birdgyrl and I have a very careful, calculated plan of attack for our Friday night, designed to ensure both maximum fun and ultimate victory. We've got strategems, we've got goals, we've got rhythm, we've got music. Watch out, Ballard. You may not be ready for us.
Last night was book club night at Mrs-Roboto's neighbor Judy's house. Judy, like Mrs-R, has a really beautiful house, and as you are probably aware from Mrs-R's journal, their back yards are linked by a pretty wooden fence with a gate. They both have dogs, which are each others' "life partners." It's all pretty damn nice.
Anyway, we had margaritas and I personally ate about three pounds of Mexican food, and engaged in a lively literary discussion. Actually I didn't read the book this month, but that doesn't matter because however the conversation starts out, it always comes back around to butt plugs, and I am an expert on butt plugs! (Just kidding. I'm only a near-expert! I don't have a Regional Certificate or anything.)
We also played a round of "Worst Job Ever," which is always a pretty fun game. Although my real worst job ever was working 12-hour, standing night shifts at a factory that made those little motors for power windows in cars, that story is not very funny, and so the story I always tell when playing this game is the Rat Story. (For those of you who have heard me tell this story lately, this is your chance to avoid hearing it again.)
My first job, when I was barely 16, was to be The Rat at Chuck E. Cheese. If you have never been inside a giant rat costume, I am here to tell you that it's not quite as much fun as you might imagine. For starters, you have no peripheral vision whatsoever, so you have no way of defending yourself against those 8-year-old boys who sucker punch you from the back. And actually, since you're seeing the world through those tiny screens/eyeballs, your straight ahead vision isn't anything to get excited about either.
Then there is the heat. Aside from the ordinary misery of walking around a crowded restaurant in a furry mouse outfit with a giant plastic head, I was also required to stand by the highway and wave at the passing traffic, to encourage them to come and experience the joy and wonder that is a day at Chuck E. Cheese's. In a lot of places that might not be so bad, but in Dothan, AL, where summertime highs crest at around 107 degrees, it could be uncomfortable, to say the least. And you can't have water because Chuck E. doesn't break character. Chuck E. is a performer.
You also have to sing and dance twice an hour for the birthday parties. We did "Happy Birthday," of course, but the main musical number was "Mony Mony." To this day I have a panicky Pavlovian reaction whenever I hear that song on the radio.
Eventually I got promoted to "Chuckette," which meant that I was a waitress. You'd think that this job would be better, or at least less embarrassing, and in some ways it was. But the Chuckettes a.) were issued blue visors and red aprons which had to be worn on all occasions, and b.) had to sing and dance alongside Chuckie during the musical numbers. Without any disguise. So that when your punk rock high school boyfriend came to pick you up from work, he might catch a little something like this:
"So good! (turn, clap) So good! (turn, clap) I got YOU! (fall onto one knee at Chuckie's feet and, along with other Chuckettes, frame Chuckie with your waving fingers)"
And I wondered why that relationship didn't work out.
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