For the, um, five or so men who read this site, and for the hubbies/partners/dads of the REST of you, I asked Mr. Candy to prepare a “Top Ten” list in honor of Father’s Day. And Mr. Candy, as you’ll read, has wisely learned to indulge my requests during this hormonal time…
Tag - Mr. Candy
In a world filled with famine, war and incurable diseases, I think it’s important that we address the moth situation in my house.
Candy and Mr. Candy last year — a night that, if I’m not mistaken, ended with Mr. Candy having a lively conversation with the milkmaid statue outside. (They remain in contact via Facebook.)
Mr. Candy this past Saturday evening — a night that, if I’m not mistaken, ended with us fighting over the Snuggie before passing out at 10:30.
Between you and me, I felt rather good about myself in my Easter Sunday dress. Form-fitting enough to really showcase my bump, but also cute enough to make me feel like a stylish mama. No small feat six months into pregnancy.
I bounced — okay, waddled — down the stairs, prepared to welcome the compliments my husband surely would heap on me. Instead I was greeted by silence, a silence broken only by the tap-tap-tap of Mr. Candy’s fingers playing his favorite computer addiction, er… game. I, with absolutely no pride, made a point of “casually” hanging out by the TV, a place I knew his eyes would eventually land.
And… succcess! A wide smile crossed my hubby’s face.
“My shirt is perfect for Easter, isn’t it?” he asked, clearly impressed with himself.
Was this guy serious?
I continued to stand there, waiting. La-di-da. Now, I am not usually the kind of woman who seeks validation. The words “How does this make me look” have rarely, if ever, escaped my lips. But I AM A HORMONAL PREGNANT LADY WHOSE BODY IS CHANGING EVERY DAY, DAMMIT! It’s a weird thing to deal with. Wonderful, but weird. Just throw a few scraps of praise my way, please. Please? Sincerity not required. I even tried to help him out:
“My pink ribbon is very Easter-like, too, don’t you think?”
“Yes — AND you’re shaped like an Easter egg!”
Oh yes, he did. Followed by a guffaw. So I did the only thing I could, and scorched an Easter egg-sized hole into Mr. Candy’s head with my no-fail Laser Stare of Death.
“I’m kidding!” he insisted. “I just say these things for your column!”
Yeah, mmm-hmmm. Actually, my hubby is a kindhearted goofball and self-professed “laugh slut,” so I was inclined to believe him. Not laugh, but believe. However, it dawned on me that this column has — oy — bestowed Mr. Candy with a free pass to passively-aggressively lob insults and claim immunity because he’s “just helping me do my job.” I processed this development, thoughtfully rubbing my big belly, and said to myself:
“Huh. That’s pretty damn clever. Well-played, Mr. Candy. Well-played, indeed.”
That is, until this Easter Egg cracks!
“Cheap, cheap, cheap, cheap!” my father-in-law once tweeted like a bird while laughing at my husband’s penny-pinching ways.
Just how cheap IS Mr. Candy, you may ask?
Mr. Candy is so cheap, he orders his sodas without ice to maximize his drink investment.
Mr. Candy is so cheap, he uses Scotch Tape to hold his six-year-old Blackberry together — even though he’s a partner at one of the top strategy consulting firms in the world.
Mr. Candy is so cheap, he positions the holes in his socks as “air vents.”
As soon as Mr. Candy saw Baby Girl on that ultrasound, however, a miracle happened: his fraying wallet opened. Yes, the AmEx heavens parted and the overpriced baby boutiques on Montana Avenue knowingly smiled down on us. NOTHING is too good for for our daughter, according to my hubby. A baby Blackberry? It’s hers! Diamond-encrusted binky? Hell yeah, Diddy’s babies ain’t got nothin’ on our daughter!
We shopped for nursery furniture last weekend, and Mr. Candy immediately fell under the spell of the Mother of All Cribs called — what else? — the “Park Avenue,” powerless to resist her appealing curves and alluring base mouldings.
“A crib fit for a princess,” the beaming daddy-to-be declared.
I stood there in shock as my husband lovingly stroked the crib without even glancing at the price tag once. Who IS this man, I wondered, and what has he done with my husband who’s so cheap, he’ll only buy a t-shirt at Target if it’s on clearance?!
And my hubby wasn’t the only spellbound parent in that store. Far from it. Intricately carved armoires and thousand-dollar strollers were flying out the door, recession be damned. In the midst of my bemusement, one thing became abundantly clear:
I MUST INVEST IN BABY STOCKS!
“I told one of my colleagues in Chicago today you’re pregnant, and she told me I should tell you that you look good. So… you look good.”
—Mr. Candy delivering the Lamest Compliment Ever (LCE)
“Oh my god, our daughter has such a pronounced labia!”
–Mr. Candy’s response to seeing the SECOND ultrasound in which our baby left no doubt about her gender