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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:


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!


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.

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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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