Jun 8, 2009

The Meltdown

Every weekday morning, I have a similar routine:

1) Utilize gravity to roll me and my bump out of bed;

2) Give my honey a kiss (I’m talking about my computer, of course);

3) Feed my cats before they start eyeing me like I’M a bowl of Meow Mix;

4) Grab a depressingly tiny iced latte at Starbucks;

5) Eyeball Facebook for my friends’ fascinating updates, such as the quiz results revealing “Which U.S. State They Belong In”;

6) Get down to work and scour my usual list of Web sites for fun news to report.

I managed to work my way through #5 today (Brian is apparently not pleased he “should live in Alaska”), and just started to tackle #6 when I realized it was an exercise in futility. I was in the midst of reading a particularly depressing article about “pregorexia,” a condition wherein expectant mothers are “horrified” by the thought of eating or gaining weight, and my downhearted soul couldn’t bear to read another word. Because I am weakened. I am still recovering from last night. Yes, folks, last night IT happened.

I am of course talking about The Meltdown.

Pregnancy is rife with mood swings for many women. Although I’ve joked about raging pregnancy hormones, I’ve had a fairly drama-free eight months. Something Mr. Candy probably didn’t fully appreciate until last night, when I completely lost it over THIS:

OMIGOD, THE CRIB BEDDING IS SO FREAKING WRINKLED!!! OUR BABY’S LIFE IS RUINED NOW! RUINED, I SAY!

No, really. After laundering our baby’s bedding, it became more wrinkled than Jack Nicholson’s ass after an hour in the Jacuzzi. And NO AMOUNT OF IRONING HELPS!

Oh, c’mon, Candy. Surely you jest, you’re saying. You didn’t actually try to iron Jack’s ass, did you?! For God’s sake, he’s an Oscar winner!

I meant the bedding, silly. Presenting Exhibit A in my defense:

This valance is the result of, oh, one hour of ironing. Just the valance! My wrist is more cramped than Carrot Top’s after a romantic night with the latest Penthouse magazine. (Apparently, one of the Meltdown side effects is an affinity for disgusting puns. My apologies.) I finally put down the iron in defeat and gazed at the bedding for a good fifteen minutes. To my surprise, it did not magically unwrinkle. That was it: My breaking point had arrived. Dramatically clutching my carpal tunnel-riddled wrist, I sunk to the floor and let the tears flow.

Enter Mr. Candy.

“Hey, it looks good! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Then he patted my head like a poodle. Yes! A poodle!

“THIS BEDDING IS THE WORST THING THAT COULD EVER HAPPEN TO ME AND OUR BABY!” I cried.

I surveyed my husband’s face for any ounce of sympathy, any trace of understanding about the disaster that was our baby’s room. Instead, he looked like he wished HE could move to Alaska with our friend Brian.

“There, there,” he replied. He might was well have thrown me a rawhide bone.

Worry not for me, dear readers. I am a survivor. I am determined to rise above this epic tragedy and erase those wrinkles, steamer in-hand. Right after I erase the image of Jack Nicholson’s ass from my mind. Oy.

Filed under: Candy's Column

8 Responses to “The Meltdown”

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lainey says:

i suggest trying in the dryer on low with a wet hand towel
June 8th, 2009 at 12:03 pm - Reply
Cowgirl in the Sand says:

Don’t worry — you’ll soon hit the stage when you’ll just rotate the crib ruffle around so that the poopy stains aren’t as noticeable, and you’ll think that’s just fine.
June 8th, 2009 at 1:31 pm - Reply
Eize says:

Would you recommend letting Mr. Candy have a hand at de-wrinkling the bedding AND Jack Nicholson’s posterior?
June 8th, 2009 at 3:11 pm - Reply
Candy says:

My mom just suggested the same, Lainey. Or ironing it with a damp towel underneath? I’m domestically-challenged, so I’m getting quite an education here.

In Mr. Candy’s defense, he did offer to take over the ironing responsibilities last night. But I was determined to show I could handle it — to no avail. Now, de-wrinkling Jack’s posterior would be QUITE an accomplishment!

Cowgirl, I suspect that stage is going to arrive sooner rather than later.
June 8th, 2009 at 3:36 pm - Reply
Lauren says:

I just discovered your site yesterday.

I am in love.
Thank you for doing this.
June 8th, 2009 at 9:15 pm - Reply
Candy says:

And thank YOU for swinging by!

xoxo,
Candy
June 9th, 2009 at 2:03 pm - Reply
Jessica says:

If it makes you feel any better, it may be a PTSD brought on by a bad ironing experience. It could possibly not be pregnancy related and you may return to normal as long as you never again pick up an iron. Consider this: It places stress on pressure points that are already a target for most people’s stress-neck, shoulder, and back. I had a similar experience-sans pregnancy hormones. I decided to purchase 20 table runners for my wedding, and after receiving them, discovered they looked a great deal like what I now realize was Jack Nicholson’s ass post-Jacuzzi happy hour. I spent hours ironing those d*mn things, only to break down into psychotic tears when they refused to smooth out. (I was apparently ironing my fiance’s back in my sleep.) The worst part-once he worked some sort of household magic (I, personally, prefer dry cleaning, so I am not familiar with the magic of damp towels) and we delivered our pretty runners to our catering department of the Biltmore Estate…which has been ranked #1 in Wedding Events… they forgot to use them. Just…forgot.
Ok, apparently I’m not over it yet. But seriously, it could be do to the stress ironing puts on your already stressed body. That’s MY story, anyways, and I’m sticking to it.
June 10th, 2009 at 6:06 am - Reply
Moonlight Dancer says:

Very funny Jessica. If you need counselling in the future you should send the bill to the Biltmore
June 12th, 2009 at 7:57 am - Reply