Dec 9, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Grrrr
Pampering is a rarity in most moms’ lives. It certainly is in mine. Even when I have the time to do more than splash water on my face before bed, I usually opt to spend those extra five minutes passed out under the covers, dreaming about things such as being bullied by “mean girls” at high school and becoming Warren Jeffs’ 71st sister-wife on the Texas compound.
I know. I KNOW. I really need to stop watching Dateline right before bedtime.
So when I took the time and effort to go the salon for a haircut — only my third since having Skye last year — a few weeks ago, it was, as the kids say, a Big F*cking Deal. Only without the, like, totally lame asterisk. I was expecting to relax and revel in a much-needed ego boost from my fabulous new style. Instead, I sat down in the chair, and the stylist (whom we’ll randomly call Dick) tilted his head and pursed his lips at me.
“Can we talk about your color? It is SO DINGY,” Dick clucked.
I should note that my previous hair stylist changed salons, to one aaaalllll the way in Malibu, so I decided to try my luck with a new stylist at a closer salon in Beverly Hills. A “stylist to the stars,” if you will. Figured I could afford to upgrade to a chichi stylist given I only cut my hair every other presidential administration or so these days. Meaning: THAT was his greeting, the very first words he ever uttered to me.
Also, for visualization purposes, Dick is not gay. A piece of information that seemed to blow my mom away. He is, however, British.
I was not there for highlights — I go somewhere else for color — yet I found myself shrinking down further and further into that chair as Dick berated every aspect of my color, even inviting other stylists over to join the Candy’s Hair Color Bites Big, Sweaty Balls! fun. It wasn’t until Dick noticed me pointedly eying his scissors and his testes, and twirling my mustache that he realized it might be in his best interest to back off.
I know. I KNOW. I should consider myself lucky he didn’t mention my mustache.
Oh, but Dick mentioned plenty of other things. A delightful conversationalist, Dick is.
DICK: What do you do?
ME: I’m a writer. I publish a family humor blog now. And I used to write for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful…
DICK: Ah, yes. I watch that all the time. NOT!
DICK: Where are you from originally?
DICK: From the countryside, I assume.
ME: Uh, why would you assume that? [LAUGHING UNCOMFORTABLY] Do I seem like a country bumpkin?
DICK: [NO RESPONSE]
DICK: How on earth are you going to style your hair on your own?
ME: Um… with a brush and hair dryer. Like I always do.
DICK: But… it is just SO DIFFICULT.
Yeah. My ego had shriveled to the size of a week-old chicken nugget by the time I left that salon. It was, I can say with great certainty, the Worst Day of Pampering in the history of the world. That’s right! Your children will have pop quizzes about my experience when they learn about it in World History class. I mean, sure, Socrates may be a kind of interesting martyr for being killed for his philosophies — kind of — but the day Candy Kirby’s ego perished under the fatally and unnecessarily sharp tongue of a hair stylist…? THAT is a tragic tale for the ages.
Here is the worst part: I AGREED WITH HIM ABOUT MY COLOR. Between you and me, it hasn’t been the same since I was pregnant and my colorist temporarily switched to vegetable dye, which she deemed “safer” (it’s not, according to my OB, who says normal highlights are perfectly safe during pregnancy). But, let’s face it, that is not the point. The point is (yes, I DO have one, thankyouverymuch), when you are in customer service, you do not greet a new client by insulting her hair. Everyone knows you’re supposed to start off by insulting something small, like lipstick color, then work your way up to hair color. Customer Service 101. Duh.
No, I lied. It gets even worse: I love the cut. I really, really, love it. It curls out softly and, goddammit, it SWINGS like I’m in a freakin’ hair commercial. Yes, it swings in slow motion! I even find myself skipping through daisy fields and holding conversations with Mr. Candy with my head turned dramatically over my shoulder. Comes with the haircut, apparently.
Which is my way of admitting that I might, um, consider, er, going back to Dick for more abuse. I know. I KNOW. Typical Battered Salon Client Syndrome behavior. And now that you have lost all respect for me, I am gonna go skin a raccoon and rustle up some moonshine for dinner. Because that’s what us country bumpkins do.
Dec 6, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column
Screw toilets! We Crazy Cat People litter box-train our youngins. And their dolls, too.
Dec 6, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column
There are only a few decisions in life that will irrevocably change the fiber of your being. The decision to give up your virginity, for example*. Or the decision to pour the sweet, sweet nectar of fraternity keg swill down your throat for the very first time. Or, of course, the split-second decision to exclaim, “Yes! Of course!” when asked if you are still interested in adopting that ridiculously adorable Blue Persian kitten you had first inquired about more than a month ago — even though you are in the midst of a kitty battle with the other cat you have adopted in the meantime. A decision to adopt a third cat. Which can only mean one thing…
Hello, my name is Candy. And I am now a Crazy Cat Person.
Oh, and so is Mr. Candy. Because when I asked him if we should adopt this cat that had been abandoned at a shelter, thinking he would dump a litter box on my head, grab me by the shoulders and tell me to get a grip, you know what he said instead…?
“How can we not?”
How can we not, he said. Then the cat’s foster mom sent me this picture of her.
Needless to say, that sealed the deal.
We have only had this doll of a cat** for a day, but she may just be — I say this with complete objectivity — the sweetest cat ever known to man. She is so laid-back, in fact, that she falls off of chairs while she sleeps. True story. She also fell asleep in my arms, purring, when I met her at a PETCO adoption event where we were surrounded by screaming kids and barking dogs. Most comfortingly of all, she barely blinked when Marcy nervously approached her. (We have not yet introduced her to The Bully.) Such an easygoing demeanor. And you know what that means, right?
I CAN DRESS HER IN KITTY HATS, PEOPLE!
Yup. We’re going to have fun with this girl, all right.
*Oftentimes making that decision takes longer than the act itself — not that I would know, of course. *AHEM*
**Name TBD. We’re waiting for inspiration to strike.
Dec 1, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Time to Open a Can of Whoop-Ass
There are a few simple rules I expect daycare to follow: watch my child; do not hurt my child; empty my child’s diaper every so often; keep my child off porn sites (at least the ones involving goats or any Kardashian sisters or both); and, most importantly of all, do not, under any circumstances, CUT MY CHILD’S HAIR.
Behold the unwanted choppy bang trim courtesy of daycare — not that they’re fessing up to it, of course. So I guess her bangs just miraculously cut themselves. Amazing!
Granted, Skye’s bangs were getting long, but that was a positive development because I could almost put a barrette in them — a new style option that made me overwhelmingly giddy. So not only has Skye’s self-appointed mystery stylist deprived me of experiencing my daughter’s first haircut, but she has also deprived me of ACCESSORIZING MY DAUGHTER WITH FABULOUS, SPARKLY BARRETTES.
I haven’t been this upset since McDonald’s refused to let me walk through the drive-thru to order a crispy chicken sandwich. Yes, alcohol may have been involved.
After I asked Skye’s primary teachers about the mystery cut — I don’t think it was either of them; Detective Candy suspects it was one of the afternoon assistants who would always slather Skye’s hair with gel and slick it back, as though she were a member of Arthur Fonzarelli’s old street gang — the director of the school called and “assured” me that none of her teachers would do such a thing, nor would they let any of the other children run around with scissors and play Vidal Sassoon.
“But I did notice her hair was shorter,” she admitted.
“Uh, YEAH,” I replied with my usual eloquence.
So I did the only thing I could in this bizarre and frustrating situation: asked Skye who cut her hair.
“Kitty!” she exclaimed, as she responds to most all questions.
Ah-HA! I should have known it was Marcy; her not-so-subtle way of exacting revenge for tormenting her with yet another bully — accomplished with no opposable thumbs, no less. Well-played, Marcy. Well-played, indeed.
Oh, and did I mention…? Grrrrrr.
Nov 30, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Mama Needs Another Pair of Boots
ME: I don’t think she’s left that box all weekend.
MR. CANDY: I know, right?
ME: Why do we even bother buying toys?
MR. CANDY: Good question.
ME: All she needs are more boxes.
MR. CANDY: Exactly.
ME: Which means I need to buy A LOT more boots off the Internet.
MR. CANDY: Well-played. But no.
Nov 29, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Miss Skye
Miss Skye turns [INSERT MELODRAMATICALLY SENTIMENTAL SIGH HERE] 16 months old today. SIX-FREAKIN-TEEN months, people. Say whaaa–?
And, not to brag or anything, but she already performs one hell of a dramatic interpretation of Green Eggs and Ham.
I think we can all agree she really nails Sam-I-Am’s passion for moldy breakfast foods.
Nov 25, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Holidays
Re-posted from Nov 25, 2009 (and we’re doing the very same thing for Thanksgiving this year, wild and unpredictable folks that we are)
Thanksgiving is a special holiday when we give thanks for elastic-waistband pants. It also is a time for history appreciation, as we honor the momentous harvest feast shared between the Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians by marching a gigantic Mr. Potato Head balloon down 42nd Street.
To be honest, Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. After all, what could be more fun — or American — than a holiday centered around gorging ourselves until actual gravy oozes from our pores? I am a little bummed that we won’t be flying back to the East Coast this year; this will be only the second time that I’ll have missed Thanksgiving dinner with my parents and Grandma Kirby, who always makes me feel loved by asking, “Why didn’t you become a lawyer? Now that’s a good job.” But given that we will be flying with Miss Skye next month for Christmas, I thought it would be best to minimize baby travel by staying in Los Angeles this Turkey Day. The city’s residents are known for their bountiful Thanksgiving platters — just as the Pilgrims enjoyed many centuries ago — filled with tofurky and sushi.
Thankfully, however, we’re going to be venturing just outside of Los Angeles to my cousin’s house, where she will serve REAL turkey, stuffing, potatoes and pumpkin pie lovingly picked up from the grocery store with her very own hands. Yes! A pre-made dinner! That’s how our family rolls. Saves us precious time and energy better spent with Mr. Candy’s and my thoughtful contribution to the day: a case of Heineken.
To all of my American readers: Have a wonderful, bloated Thanksgiving! And to everybody else, let’s raise a glass and give thanks we’re not turkeys.
Hugs and kisses dipped in cranberry sauce,
This year I would like to give thanks for the twinkle in my daughter’s eye, especially when it’s not the harbinger of a temper tantrum, and on the occasions that it is…? I am thankful for earplugs and aspirin and jumbo-sized bottles of Ketel One. Amen.
Nov 23, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Mama Needs a Drink
Behold: What my mom had in mind when, many, many years ago, she rolled her eyes at me pounding my fists on the floor at Sears because my three-year-old ass did NOT WANT TO PUT ON MY COAT YOU CAN’T MAKE ME, WAAAHHH!!!, and ominously declared:
“I cannot wait for you to have a child of your own someday.”
This one’s for you, Mom. Soak it in. Victory is yours.
[Ed. note -- Don't you just love how I'm all, "Oh, you're having a meltdown, sweetie? Here, LET ME GRAB THE CAMERA!"]