Hmm. What the Bleep Shall I Write About Today? OR On Taking My Only Child Shopping

Oh, the topics.  Oh, the things that have happened that I feel compelled to discuss.  Oh, the fact that I feel compelled to use the word 'compelled' over and over and over again.  Compelllllllllllllllled.

Usually what I want to write about is what happened recently.  So recently someone (my daughter, Cressy, age 7) wanted to spend her allowance at...(dah-dah-dahhhhhhh) Build-A-Bear.  For those of you without children, this is a place where a child picks out a plush animal skin (plush animal = not real) and then proceeds to stuff it, and then dress in it in appropriate accouterments.  Then one hands over their entire savings to the clerk in exchange for the privilege of taking one of these genuine Taiwanese beauties home.  (Bet most of you don't know what movie I stole that from.  HIM doesn't count.)  (Hahaha.  HIM couldn't remember what movie it came from.  I love being a movie buff.)

And furthermore, for those of you without children, one can have parties here.  One can have funness and delight overwhelming here.  It spooges with the essence of funnocity.  (I may be making up words galore here.  Me and George W. Bush.  We're simpactico.  He liked to presideniate.  I like to wordiate.  Yeah.)  One prances into Build-A-Bear and begins giggling immediately.  (It's their atmosphere, I believe, or possibly a strange gas that they pump into the air there.  Not really their gas.  That might have been the broccoli I ate earlier.)

So Build-A-Bear before I veer drastically off course again.  Cressy picked out a ice cream themed bear.  (Big surprise.)  If you're a really savvy parent you can get the child to buy a cheaper bear and then skip the whole ensemble thing to save on money.  But most parents won't walk out of Build-A-Bear without paying a minimum of $45 on up.  (I'm just saying, if you haven't been there before, you're going to spend a little money.  I know.)

Wow. Fat Woman slammed Build-A-Bear. Does this mean I
will never shop there again? No, it doesn't mean that. For
we have purchased one of their bears and there is an unspoken
agreement that I will purchases compliments and stuff
from them until I die or until the bear mysteriously
vanishes in a tragic exploding peanut butter jar
accident. (It happens.)

Okay, the ice cream bear cost $22.  Okay then.  Then she wanted sound effects to go into the paw.  This is a little dohickey that costs $5.  It says things like, "I luv you," and "You're my best friend," and "Can you spend more money on me?" (Okay, it doesn't say the last thing, but it should have.)  A clerk approached with happiness and effervescence overflowing (I don't mean this is a good thing but the clerks are learning about Asskissing 101 in a way that probably will behoove them later in life.  They could be President.)

The bear becomes stuffed through a fun looking machine that spews stuffing around inside it and is visible through a glass window.  There's a nozzle attachment on this machine that would make a proctologist nervous.  Before the bear is stitched up, the clerk has my daughter put in a little heart.  But not before a little ritual about bringing the heart to life is performed.  It involved rubbing the heart and dancing around and the sacrifice of a chicken who frankly appeared as if she wanted to be laying eggs somewhere instead.  (Okay, exaggerating again, but it sure seemed like it at the time.)  And ta-dah, the bear had been constructed.

The ideal toy for your 7 year old child.

Here's where the clerks earned her brownie points.  (Not from me, that was sure.)  "Be sure and 'wash' off the bear in the back," she said and pointed to the 'Fluffing' area.  One must go to the fluffing area by passing through the accessory area.  The accessories are located at eye level to my daughter, who is eying them with no little regard.  Rather, she's checking out the ensembles with the eye of a woman who has just been given the golden key to the city.  She has hit the mother-lode.  There is more bling, glamer, and 'it' stuff there than on the Las Vegas strip at sunset.

"Look, Mommy, Hello Kitty shirts," Cressy announced.  Certainly, there they are, all in convenient bear size for the plush thing you've just committed yourself to buying.  Hello Kitty tank tops.  Hello Kitty sequined dresses.  Hello Kitty slutty leather skirts.  And let us not forget the Hello Kitty line of shoes.  There are peep toes, closed toes, stilettos, and twinkly ones.  (Hello Kitty dresses much better than I do.  But then I don't have to cut off one of my toes to fit into the shoes that look good, either.)

The bear doesn't really say this, but it's implied.

"Look, Mommy, wedding dresses," Cressy cooed.  Yessirreebob, there are wedding dresses for the bears.  There are little tuxedos for the boy bears with teensy weensy bow ties.  You can have a Build-A-Bear wedding if you're so inclined and have the black American Express Card.  In fact, if I Google it, I bet I'll find that somewhere, someone has gotten married at Build-A-Bear with a stupid bear as the maid of honor and another bear as the best man.  (Hold on, I'll be right back.  Oh, my goodness gracious, I found the cutest Build-A-Bear wedding ever.  The bears got married as officiated by two girls who obviously get into their toys.  This is so cute that you may need insulin afterwards.  Don't say I didn't warn ya!)

"Look, Mommy, military bears," Cressy shouts.  Her Daddy and Mommy were in the military so this calls to Cressy's roots.  As a matter of fact, she's got a long line of military on Mommy's side of the family but I'm digressing.  There are Army outfits, Marine outfits, Navy, Coast Guard, and indeterminable outfits.  They have camouflage outfits.  They have matching boots.  They've got backpacks and other things I don't even know the name of.  (They didn't have little Build-A-Bear weaponry, but I guess they must have thought that was going too far.  M-16s dripping with bling = tacky.)

I swear I heard the bear say this, or maybe that was just me
thinking it.  Maybe.

"Look, Mommy, lots of other bear clothes," Cressy bellows, in case I'm not paying attention.  Well, yes, I'm paying attention and apparently, I'm paying for a helluva lot more than attention if I'm not careful.  And yes, you can even buy panties for your bear, unless you have an odd compulsion to have your bear go commando.

It's possible that I'm going overboard with this, but I don't
really care.

So quickly, I point her toward the area where we input all our details into a computer so Cressy's bear can have a 'birth certificate.'  Also we can enter all of our information onto the computer so they can sell our information to ANYONE with a checkbook and also send us stuff about Build-A-Bear until the throbbing vein in my forehead explodes.  (And hey, do I need to mention that we haven't even made it to the register area yet?)

You cannot say you didn't laugh at this.  This was funny.

Anyway, Cressy got the bear.  I think I have a few pennies left in the jar in my closet.  Oh, well.