Anyone who’s followed my column with even infrequent regularity knows Mr. Candy and I have enjoyed our fair share of partying. (Translation: If it weren’t for the apples and oranges in sangria, we would have starved.) Yes, we may have been drunkards, but at least we were realistic drunkards, waiting for the day we got the partying out of our systems to start a family.
Okay, so that day never came.
What can I say, we love the liquor! Almost as much as Skylar loves the boob. But we forged ahead with Operation: Baby anyway and, lo and behold, when I spied those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, I developed a completely different kind of thirst — a thirst for a happy and healthy baby. You may remember that day…? It was the day distillery stocks plummeted and my liver did a jig of relief. Yes! My liver! Gettin’ jiggy with the anti-cirrhosis dance! It can viewed on YouTube to this day.
Fast forward to two days ago, when our newly expanded family celebrated Mr. Candy’s birthday with — wait for it… wait for it… — um, sandwiches and shakes at Johnny Rockets. Don’t be jealous of our glamorous life, y’all. Now it’s all about bottomless fries instead of bottomless drinks. And, as you can see, the only person who passed out at this party was Skylar. (Those boob-tinis get her every time.)
When I laughed about how much things had changed, Mr. Candy just smiled: “Skylar’s the best gift you could have given me.”
And, given the way he sucked down his Oreo milkshake, that was a close second.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Candy.