Re-posting this from September 28, 2010 in honor of Teacher Appreciation Week…

I walked to the front of the classroom and handed my homework, an essay about the horrors of babysitting, to Mr. Shirley.  The writing assignment had been due the previous week, but I’d forgotten all about it in the midst of going to Pittsburgh for state orchestra.  I had won fourth chair in the viola section, an honor of which I was quite proud, and assumed that being an orchestra geek and generally well-behaved student would earn me a free pass on missing the assignment deadline.  I was wrong.

“Too late,” Mr. Shirley hissed, not even looking at me, busying himself with the important task of randomly shuffling papers on his desk.

“But I had state orchestra!” I cried indignantly, shoving the assignment under his nose.  He shoved it back.

“That does not exempt you from deadlines in this classroom!”

“But you let Jill hand hers in late –”

“Jill asked for permission beforehand.”

The increasingly angry paper shoving continued.

“I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Mr. Shirley finally met my eyes, his face redder than a maraschino cherry.  My assignment now a crumpled ball in his hands.

“The big deal?  The big deal is that I want you take this class seriously because I think you could be a professional writer!”

Mr. Shirley did not merely state this.  Mr. Shirley screamed this, in the way that you scream at a dog about to eat his own excrement.  The entire classroom went silent, barring a few students’ muffled snickers.  My jaw dropped and my head went fuzzy.  It was the most embarrassing — and the most awesome — moment in my academic life.

You could be a professional writer.  The words reverberated in my head.

“Oh.  Okay.  I’m sorry I was late.”

I turned around and walked back to my seat, biting back a smile the size of Texas.

“All right, I’ll grade your paper this time.  But don’t let it happen again,” Mr. Shirley muttered to the pile of papers on his desk.

You could be a professional writer.  I will never forget those words, words that have both inspired and haunted me throughout countless careers and life choices since.   Six words that continue to have a profound effect on me to this very day.

Which is why I’m proud to post this sponsored video in support of “Thank A Teacher,” a campaign presented by Mudpies and Butterflies.  Unfortunately, Mr. Shirley passed away five years ago at the much-too-young age of 55, so I will never have an opportunity to thank him for not only humiliating me into following my passion, but also giving me the confidence to do so.  Don’t let the same opportunity pass you by — thank a teacher who has touched your life, or your child’s life, today.

Yes, even the camera was weeping.

You know how it’s commonplace to compare disasters to the Hindenburg?  Well, I wanted to personally alert you to the newest, hottest metaphor in town — because after my family’s first-ever professional family photo shoot last weekend, people surely are going to start gasping, “Oh my gosh, it’s almost as disastrous as the CANDY KIRBY FAMILY PHOTO SHOOT OF 2013!”

I thought I had it all figured out.  I had the family dressed in complementary, but not too matchy-matchy, clothes.  I cannot overstate how important this was to me:  “By God, NO MATCHING POLO SHIRTS!” I implored Mr. Candy, who was raised in a Pro-Matching-Polo-Shirts household.  And bless my husband’s heart, he turned his back on everything he had been taught to believe about family portraits and dutifully bought a lovely green shirt to complete the blue-yellow-green motif the photographer had suggested.  My hair was even cooperating for a change, falling to my shoulders in casual waves rather than its usual dirty-looking frizz.  This was likely due to the fact that I had actually washed it for once.  Our 22-month-old son, Drew, took a two-and-a-half hour nap before the photo session.  Hallelujah! I cheered, patting myself on the back as we left the house ON TIME, my bag full of snacks, extra diapers and even a change of clothes in case of emergency.  (Meaning: If Drew purposely spit Cheerios all over himself and his sister, as he has been known to do.  All part of his charm.)

You would think that after being a mom for almost four years that I would know that the best-laid plans of moms and dads often — nay, ALWAYS — go awry when there are kids involved.  But no…!  I was so eager for a good family portrait that I deluded myself into believing this time would be different.  I was having a good hair day, after all!  What could possibly go wrong?

Such was my first mistake.  Because the question should have been:  What couldn’t go wrong?

My daughter, Skye — well, let me preface this by noting that she is generally well-behaved for a three-year-old.  I know that “generally well-behaved for a three-year-old” could be defined as ” doesn’t blow up our house that often,” but she really is a good kid.  So I don’t know if Drew blew Cheerio chunks in her ears or what because she did not listen to a single word the photographer said.  Or Mr. Candy said.  Or I said.  Or the Family Portrait Gods, to whom I was praying for help, may have said to her.  If the photographer, who also happened to be one of the nicest ladies I’ve ever met, told Skye to stand on the right, she would go left — and, oftentimes, just keep on going so we would have to chase after her.  If the photographer told her to stop putting me in a choke-hold, she would squeeze tighter.  And laugh evilly.  It got so bad, and so embarrassing, that Mr. Candy took her aside and gave her a stern talk.  Which is always wise:  when you want good pictures of the family, MAKE THE KID CRY!

But it seemed like a good idea to both of us at the time.

Twenty minutes into the shoot, and my hair realized its nice waves were being wasted, so it returned to its frizzy roots.  Sweat stains decorated my silk blouse (attractive) from running after both of the kids.  The headband I had so painstakingly chosen to match Skye’s dress had been tossed on a pile of dirt, and Drew…?  Was still pissed that I tricked him into wearing a sweater vest at the last minute.  It seemed that no amount of bribery — lollipops and chocolate and Mommy’s eternal gratitude… oh my! — would mollify our daughter.  She was determined to achieve the Hindenburg level of family photo sessions, and I’ll be darned if we didn’t reach it.  We were doing pretty much everything you shouldn’t do at a photo shoot, and by “we,” I mean both the kids and us.  The kids were acting wild, yes, but Mr. Candy and I were also guilty of becoming too frustrated and too controlling, too soon.

Meanwhile, the photographer’s assurances of “It’s okay!  Really!” grew increasingly softer and less convincing.

When it became clear that my dream of getting a nice family portrait would remain just that — a dream — we packed up the kids, dejected, my blouse more sweat than silk at this point.   We drove to dinner in silence, the kids finally quiet in the backseat.  Of course.  Drew and Skye were even well-behaved at the restaurant, having expended all of their demon-like energy at the photo shoot.  An older lady, clearly taken with the sight our well-dressed and obedient kids, came over to me and cooed, “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but your children could be in magazines!”

I chuckled to myself for the first time in hours, thinking of our kids at an all-day magazine photo shoot.  But rather than snorting in the nice woman’s face, I simply smiled and thanked her, then reflected on what we could have done differently that day.

Maybe next time we should wear matching polo shirts.

I’m pretty sure that’s how we’ve ended up with TWO more cats.  That, plus the fact that I’m a sucker who couldn’t say no when approached by two different rescuers about adopting the fluffballs.

One-year-old Lola comes from a family that rescues all kinds of animals — cats, dogs, horses, wayward snails, you name it — and no longer had the time to look after her after rescuing a litter of stray kittens. Enter: us.

Her name is Lola.  Not exactly shy, this one — here she is snuggling with Drew exactly two seconds after meeting him.  Although he was initially surprised by Lola’s unabashed show of affection, he was kissing her just moments later.  Just like a man.

Lola already has Mr. Candy holding her cocktails for her.  Well-played, Lola.  Well-played.  I have nothing left to teach you, my feline friend.

Larry is a ten-month-old sweetheart whose family ended up having cat allergies. Their loss, our large and fluffy gain.

People, meet Larry.  Larry, people.  Larry obviously has no problem making himself right at home.  Even with his lack of decorum, Miss Skye rewarded him with a sticker for “good manners.”  Which makes me wonder what, exactly, they’re teaching her at that fancy preschool of hers.

You’ll be happy to know that Lucy has assumed the role of Big Sister without missing a beat — although now she is always asking where HER cocktail is.  And, while Mr. Candy and I are are happy to open our hearts and homes to these cats, our liquor cabinet is a whole ‘nother story.  You want to sleep on my head all night?  Fine.  Hawk a hairball in my cereal?  All right.  BUT PAWS OFF MOMMY AND DADDY’S “SPECIAL JUICE,” CATS!  It’s all we have left.

Needless to say, I’m going to have to set up Lucy, Larry and Lola with their own blog on here.  In part to share their feline antics, but mostly so I can make them earn their keep by modeling embarrassing cat hats.   Which officially checks off one more box on the “CRAZY CAT LADY” checklist!  Once I buy some cat dishware and shower curtains, and purchase a sizable collection of t-shirts with cats on them, I should be able able to collect my membership card.  Woo-hoo!

R.I.P. Dora Watch*

Sung, of course, to the tune of “Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer”:

Dora got run over by Mr. Candy.
Dropped under his car by Miss Skye.
We can say the watch just “got lost,”
But as for Miss Skye, she don’t believe.

Skye’d been drinkin’ too much OJ,
We’d begged her to leave the watch on.
But anything we say, she doesn’t listen,
So Dora stumbled out the car door onto the ground.

When Candy found Dora the next mornin’,
At the scene of the hit-and-run,
There were big cracks on the face,
And incriminatin’ tire marks — Dora was done.

Dora got run over by Mr. Candy.
Dropped under his car by Miss Skye.
(Way under his car)
We can say the watch just “got lost,”
(Say it just got lost)
But as for Miss Skye, she don’t believe.
(Lord, she really don’t believe)

*Picture does not do it justice.

Also:  We should have a moment of silence for Boots, as well.

You see, my year ended with less of a bang, more of a wince.  December slapped me upside the head over and over and over again.  It was the Moe to my Curly.  The swinging door to the face of my clueless-but-adorable Three’s Company character.  The… well, it just sucked.

I watched helplessly as my 18-month-old son battled a potentially fatal respiratory virus in the hospital (longest 30 hours of my life).  I came home, only to unexpectedly have to put our beloved cat of eleven years to sleep that same night.  I rescued a sweet one-year-old cat from a shelter soon thereafter, only to have HER die a few days later from a virus she had apparently contracted on the streets.

I mean, really?

We received that news on New Year’s Eve.  I was determined to shake it off and enjoy a rare date night with Mr. Candy while my mother-in-law watched the kids.  But even that night was a comedy of inconveniences, with me discovering that my three-year-old had left one of my pumps at my parents’ house (after wearing it, along with one of her dad’s sneakers, for the better part of our visit with them), and stepping into the shower at my mother-in-law’s house…to be greeted by ice-cold water after my husband had used up all of the water above 33 degrees with his shower.

My reaction to that cold water hitting my body was, I imagine, the same as Paris Hilton attempting to read a three-syllable word:  A series of surprised, incoherent grunts.

The silver lining of seeing your child in the hospital, processing the gut-wrenching news of a school shooting and having two pets pass away in the span of a few weeks:  You realize that having to wear casual boots with your cocktail dress is hardly the end of the world.  Nor is 12/12/12, as it turns out.

Taking time off from the site helped me recharge the batteries.  I enjoyed time with the family, took stock of the many, many things for which I have to be thankful, and sat back and smiled as I said:   Screw you, 2012.  Screw you.

See?  I already have a healthier attitude.

Belated Happy New Year, everyone!  With special thanks to Kim and Kanye for their pregnancy news.  That is truly a special gift you are giving to us humorists… er, I mean, to yourselves.  *Ahem*

So, for my kids, I created this chart of things I hated about myself as a crazy, insecure teenager but now embrace as a crazy, more secure mom, in hopes that they’ll one day be able to have a similar appreciation for their “imperfections.”  And laugh at my permed ’90s hair and un-waxed eyebrows.

To my even greater surprise, Marcy seemed to enjoy Skye’s attention and incessant fussing.  Or perhaps she was just so desperate for love at that point — pets really do become second-class citizens once you have kids — that she was willing to take it in any form.  Even if that meant having to wear dish towels as a scarf.

In any case, Skye and Marcy were best buds.  So when I broached the subject while serving dinner to our other cat, Lucy, on Sunday, I could literally hear my heart pounding in my chest.  I had no plan, no script, no crazy suggestions from the perpetually entertaining Yahoo! Answers on how to discuss death with a young child.  (Sidebar:  I just looked some up because I can’t help myself.  One helpful suggestion?  “LET THE CHILD BURY THE CAT.”  Um, no.  Our kids’ shovels are strictly for making sand castles and hitting siblings on the head, thankyouverymuch.)  All I was armed with were shaky hands, a cloudy head and a bowl full of Meow Mix.

Our conversation went something like this:

ME:  So… Marcy isn’t here anymore.

SKYE:  (Startled)  Why?

ME:  Well, she got really sick and we took her to the doctor last night.

SKYE:  Marcy’s sick?

ME:  Really sick.  (Deep breath, choking back tears)  She died, honey.

SKYE:  Oh!  (A look of sadness, then:)  I only have one kitty now!

ME:  That’s right.  We’re all very sad.  It’s okay to be sad…

SKYE:  Yeah.  (A second later)  We feed Lucy now?

THAT WAS IT, PEOPLE.  Where were the tears?  The confusion? The increasingly distressed and hard-to-answer line of questioning about The Meaning of Death?  Heck, a twisted seat belt gets more tears and drama from Skye than our poor Marcy dying.  On the one hand, I was relieved Skye appeared to take it so well.  But on the other?  I have to admit, I was little ticked on Marcy’s behalf.

Oh, she probably just hasn’t fully processed what death means, I told myself.  She may just think Marcy is sleeping at the doctor’s office or something.

Not content to let my daughter remain unfazed and well-adjusted — hey, I didn’t want to be the only one with a tear-stained face and red eyes around here — I may nor may not have needled her a bit at breakfast this morning.  Because that’s the kind of nurturing mother I am.

ME:  (Making the sad eyes)  I bet Lucy’s really sad without Marcy around, huh?

SKYE:  (Matter-of-factly) Yeah.  Marcy died.  She’s gone.

And that was that.  Five minutes later, Skye proceeded to cry at the top of her lungs because I put M&Ms in her pancakes instead of chocolate chips.  Displaced grief or simply the outrage of a chocolate expert’s offended delicate palate?  It’s hard to say for certain; I’ll have to look it up on Yahoo! Answers.

“Where’s Marcy?” I asked Mr. Candy.  It wasn’t like her to not run down the stairs the second we walked through the door — especially considering I, her favorite person in the world (if I do say so myself), had been gone for a couple of days.  I was on high alert because Marcy had been having coughing fits for a while now and, although I’d tried to convince myself she just had allergies, I knew in the back of my mind that it could be a symptom of something worse.  Way worse.

When I found her lying at the top of the stairs, a strange place for her to take up residence, she was breathing heavily.  Her frame, once full and fluffy, appeared alarmingly gaunt.  We attempted to lure her with her favorite dinner; she sniffed it and attempted to take a bite, then turned away.

“Should I take her to the vet?” Mr. Candy asked.  I nodded, choking back tears.  This was my real firstborn, the kitty who hopped into my lap and wrapped her paws around my arm when I met her eleven years ago — choosing me and thus throwing my original plan of getting a male kitten straight out the window.  The kitty who kept me company when I first moved to Los Angeles, comforting me when my dad had his stroke and being one of the only constants in my life as I got married, moved several times and had two kids.  The kitty who adored being walked on a leash — purring as soon as I would get it out — and cuddled beside my baby bump when I was pregnant.  This was the kitty who allowed Skye and Drew to do pretty much anything to her without protest, including putting blankets on her like a baby, smothering her with vice-like hugs and (accidentally) falling on her.   The thought of something being wrong with this cat, this one-in-a-million pet, was more than I could bear.

Later that night, I got the call from Mr. Candy:  Marcy had heart failure.  Already exhausted from our stay at the hospital, I could feel the floor fall out from under me.  As I attempted to mute my sobs, Mr. Candy explained that we had two options:  drain the massive amount of fluid from her lungs to give her more time or put her to sleep now.

“How much time would she have if we drained the fluid?” I asked.

“About a day,” Mr. Candy said, trying not to cry himself.

Dying from heart failure is a miserable way to go, causing the pet to painfully gasp for every last breath, so we made the heart-wrenching decision to put her to sleep.  Mr. Candy said his good-byes, then came home to stay with the kids while I went to the vet to have my last final moments with my sweet Marcy.  Even frightened out of her mind and mildly sedated, she purred when they laid her in my arms.  After we had our alone time, the vet came in to end Marcy’s suffering.  I was the one who was there when she came into our life and I wanted to be there for her when she left — so I held her as they euthanized her.  Marcy laid down on the blanket on my lap, just as she had done countless times before, and within seconds, life escaped her body.  It was peaceful…and yet so very haunting.

But this is how I choose to remember our girl:  sweet; fluffy and clean (thanks to her OCD cleaning habit); full of life; and unbelievably tolerant of a three-year-old’s hug-slash-stranglehold and her mother’s strange penchant for kitty hats.  Our crazy family won’t be the same without you, Marcy.

Okay, SO… I hadn’t planned on getting Miss Skye’s picture taken with Mr. Claus just yet.  I knew Mr. Candy would want to be there for the Big Moment — after all, meeting Santa is a beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime rite of passage that we force upon our frightened kids — so I had intended to wait until Mr. Candy returned from his business trip.  However, Santa was working the beat at the Beverly Center, where I walked by his station on Friday and his elves (read:  two sullen out-of-work actors) spotted the “SUCKER” branded on my forehead.   It’s not my fault!  I swear!  They reeled me in with a very compelling pitch, yelling out:

“Hello, Miss!”

Damn them and their hard-sell tactics!  I mean, there was no way I could resist that, right?

Hey, cut me some slack.  There was no line.  Miss Skye was in a good mood.  I figured there was no time like the present.  And did I mention I’m a SUCKER?

It’s funny how we usually protect our children, demanding that friends and family dip their entire bodies in Clorox before we’ll even allow them to TOUCH our baby, and yet we’ll gladly hand over our kid to a complete stranger just because he’s wearing a Santa costume.  Because if he’s pretending to be a 1400-year-old man who uses flying reindeer as his primary mode of transportation he must be safe!

Thankfully, Skylar is too young to realize she was in the hands of a potentially crazy man.  No!  I kid!  Not potentially — this Santa was crazy.  As soon as he started kissing the top of her head, I instinctively inched closer so I could catch him if he bolted with my child.  “Oh, I love her!”  “Oh, she’s so beautiful!” Santa kept exclaiming.  Cute, sure, (well, not the kisses… ick) until I went to take Skylar from him and he made no move to give her back.

“My name really is Kris,” he informs me.

It struck me:  This dude truly thought he was Santa.

“How nice!” I responded in a too-high voice, as I pried my baby from his arms.

“Here — touch my pole,” Kris said.

I swear to God, that is exactly what he said.  NO, the story does not turn into a Christmas porn — “A Very Merry XXXmas” — at this point.  He really was carrying a festive pole to lord over his mall minions.  But the story does venture into weird territory.  So I, um, touched Santa’s pole.

“Now make a wish for your daughter.”

I looked around, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out of the Nine West store and tell me I was being Punk’d.  Alas, Ashton must have been too busy Tweeting and pompously snapping partygoers with his Coolpix to help me out.

“Do you feel the pole getting warm?”

Again, I SWEAR I am not making this up.  I didn’t want to disappoint Kris, so I slowly smiled and nodded as you would with any lovely person who’d just escaped the insane asylum.

“That means the wish will come true!”

I released his hot pole, thanked Crazy Claus and got the hell out of there, so I could pick up our THIRTEEN-DOLLAR picture with Santa.  Yes!  Thirteen freakin’ bucks for one 5×7 photograph.  Santa clearly isn’t suffering in this recession.

I started walking away, admiring my beautiful daughter’s first overpriced picture with Santa, when who should sneak up behind me but CRAZY CLAUS!  He proceeds to tell me his life story, his two daughters’ life stories and how I should rub Skylar’s gums with wine now that she’s teething.

I always knew that Santa was a wino.

In all seriousness, I think this particular Mall Santa was just a lonely old man with a Santa Complex.  Good intentions, stalker-ish vibes.  Awwww.  But, really, the moral of this story is:  ALWAYS ask how much the picture costs before you agree to let them photograph your kid.  Thirteen buckeroos!  Yowza.

“I want underpants with cars on them!” she exclaimed with genuine excitement.

“Excellent choice!” I replied, also genuinely excited, because of her request:  CARS!  Something that was decidedly not a princess or fairy.  While I don’t actively discourage the princess nonsense, I have to admit:  I have a hard time masking my disdain for it.  “Put on some freakin’ pants,” I grumble as Tinkerbell appears on the iPad, her butt practically hanging out of her teensy green dress.  “Would it kill ya to eat a sandwich?” I ask Ariel with concern.  “You don’t need a man to save you — just drag your lazy ass out of bed!” I yell at Sleeping Beauty, trying to knock some sense into her pretty head.

But I shouldn’t blame the princesses, I suppose.  What can you expect when almost all of their mothers are dead, their stepmothers are jealous and evil, their fathers are overbearing, and their bodacious bodies are borne out of the perverted minds of sexually frustrated animators?  No wonder they’re always confiding in animals.  I’d be singing with a lobster, too, if those were the only people I knew.

So cars?  Heck, yeah!  I might even spring for two packs of underwear at this rate.

“Take your pick,” I smiled, magnanimously waving at the rack of undergarments.

“FAIRIES!” Skye yelled, grabbing a pack adorned with the tiny, bewinged, pantless whores… er, I mean, magical creatures.  I gripped the handle of our Target shopping cart, crushed.

“But what about the cars?  You wanted cars!” I implored, unsuccessfully trying not to sound desperate.

“No cars,” she said.

“But –” I started to protest, when my eyes finally landed on the rack.  She was right; there were no cars in sight.  Not on the rack of girls’ undergarments, that is, which was limited to princesses and fairies and Dora… oh my!  I whirled around — imagine I did this in slow motion for amazing dramatic effect — and let out an equally dramatic huff when I caught sight of the boys’ rack, FILLED with — you guessed it — CARS underwear. And Spider-Man.  And Superman.  Hmpf.  Quelle suprise, I thought… because I always think in French when I’m recounting a story to make people think I am just that sophisticated… with a dramatic arching of the eyebrow.

“There are the cars, Skye!”  I pointed to distract her from noticing me chucking the Fairy pants behind us.  “On the other rack.”

Notice I said “other” — not “boys’”.  Because if I had made the mistake of saying we were getting (GASP!) BOYS’ underwear, she would have silly fairies on her butt right now instead of the more bad-ass Lightning McQueen.  In fact, there are several girls in Skye’s preschool class who wear “boys’” underwear with Superman and the like, presumably desiring similar undergarment diversity.  Or possessing parents with a similar fairy prejudice.  (YES!  I admit it — I’m an anti-Fairite, okay?!)

To the Children’s Underwear Makers of the World, I would just like to humbly request that you consider mixing it up a bit.  There are girls who don’t want to wear Cinde-freakin’-rella all the time, just as I’m sure there are boys who don’t want to don Superman because that idiot wears his underwear on the outside.  And then?  I won’t have to have conversations like this with my daughter:

Why is there a hole in the front of my car underwear?

For, um, ventilation.

What’s ven…tation?

Uhhhhh… Like a breeze.  Sort of like what passes through Sleeping Beauty’s ears.

I kid! I kid!  I’m sure Sleeping Beauty KICKED ASS on her SATs and becomes a rocket scientist in the sequel:  Engineering Beauty with a Healthier-Sized Waist.  *Ahem*