Childhood birthdays aren't for the faint of heart

It was 1984 and my 5-year-old self was unaware that I would need to pack heat into my Strawberry Shortcake purse to attend my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. Maybe it was a Hello Kitty purse; “Girl Power!” with Rainbow Brite and She-Ra: Princess of Power, didn’t take shape until 1987. Those purses leave very little room for much other than your fake lipstick and fake tattoos from the Cracker-Jack boxes. Even then I was a little bad-ass. I was a tomboy. Usually I was found tromping in the mud, playing with trucks and cutting the hair off all my Barbie’s. They all looked like Sinead O’Connor when I was done with them. There really is no accounting for why I did the stuff I did. Everyone thought I was going to be a lesbian; which would have been fine too. I probably would have turned out much cooler playing for that team. (Lesbians everywhere hate me right now) I was so innocent that night though: ruffled socks, black patent leather shoes, frilly dress that I twirled in every chance I got. Literally (I hate when people misuse this word) every chance I got. I still take to wearing dresses – I think it off-sets my sailor mouth, and if I run across a temporary tattoo I will still sport that thing too, even if I have to arm wrestle my son for it. He’s getting pretty tough and I hate losing though, so my odds are better with rock, paper, scissors.

I don’t know whose genius idea it was to take us to Chuck E. Cheese. If you really break it down, the food is terrible, the games are sub-par, you spend about the same there for an hour of games and food as you do at Whole Foods for a single roll of toilet paper, a container of organic quinoa and a Bartlett pear. Guess that says more about Whole Foods than it does Chuck E. Cheese. To hell with them both! Chuck E. Cheese offers Whack-A-Mole and The King, which for those of you who can’t remember is a giant animatronic that gyrates and sings Elvis hits.  Great, so now you’ve given me nightmare material to work with and cardboard pizza to fuel this childhood equivalent of a Stephen King novel. Thanks for that! Let’s not forget the life size rat that walks around shaking hands with the customers and wishing the birthday girl a very happy birthday. I still don’t like rats and the only time I visited New York I made sure it was day time and we went to The Museum of Natural History. Still, this wasn’t my choice. Rumor has it, New York has rats. I have a special kind of hate for these guys. My birthday party when I was 12 was so much more kick ass. Straw-Hat Pizza, countless games of Rampage, Debbie Gibson’s Electric Youth on the Jukebox (over and over and over) and no guns or knives being pulled on unsuspecting victims. Yep, you read that correctly.

I’ve spoken before of my Grandfather - he was a strong man who cared and provided for all of us, but he made more than his fair share of enemies along the way. There were some happenings where my Grandfather had no choice but to defend himself and in doing so killed two men; it was sort of Mafia style. The whole thing went to trial and he was acquitted. We’re Mexican though and so were these guys’ children. REPARATIONS!! They didn’t give a shit about what the courts decided. They had been following our family around for a while and apparently chosen my birthday to swing on by and say “howdy neighbor” only not so friendly. Guess they never watched Mr. Rogers. Manners would have been nice; I would have shared some pizza if only they would have asked instead of staring at us from the other side of the restaurant. My Grandpa is the only who noticed this, I think he was ready for what was about to go down….

We all got up and left the restaurant, some of us walking a little straighter line than others. Beer was cheaper then and the only thing on the menu at Chuck E. Cheese that couldn’t be fucked up.  Exiting the establishment, we were approached by the two men within seconds – they followed us out. I say men because to me, anything older than 15 was ancient; they were probably 22. Guns drawn they began threatening us. My mother managed to tuck me behind her and by this time I’m certain my Grandmother is crying and praying in Spanish. She probably already has out her rosary beads.

I’d like to introduce our hero in this story; an unlikely savior, but they come in all shapes and sizes. This one is 5’ 11” and 150 lbs. with a white man’s afro. He’s my Dad!! The least likely (in my opinion) to have the cojones to do anything in this situation has walked directly into the line of fire sputtering some nonsense about “women and children” to two mafia brats brandishing guns. By all accounts Dennis is my Dad. He is not my biological father, but he is the man who taught me to throw a ball, throw a punch, change a tire, change my life and has been there to see me do all of those things. He has stayed around long after he and my mother divorced. Someone give some street cred to the skinny white man with the afro! Love you forever and ever, Dad!! I don’t totally remember what happened next, all I see is stars because my Dad just threw on a cape and beat up the bad guys with words and dignity!! 

It was my birthday. I watched Romper Room that morning. Miss Nancy – you did NOT see me in your stupid mirror. Perhaps if you had, you would also have seen the tragedy that would befall that night and we could have avoided all of this nonsense. You still show up on my resentment lists. I just thought you should know this.