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An Open Letter to Our Neighbors

Candy's Column

An Open Letter to Our Neighbors

Dearest Neighbors,

Remember when we moved into this complex three years ago?  We were all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, excited to have bought these brand spankin’ new townhouses with their gorgeous views of the Hollywood Hills.  It kind of felt like we were moving into a dorm, didn’t it, as we moved in at the same time?  Only instead of beer pong, we played the “How Quickly Can Our Townhomes Fall Apart?” game.  Pretty quickly, as it turned out!  The faulty sewer caused our toilets to overflow and ruin our new hardwood floors.  The moisture led to mold behind our walls, which had to be torn down.  Our loft floors were inexplicably uneven.  We lived in a state of repair indefinitely.  In fact, we became so close to the workmen that one of you named your dog after the foreman.  Little Darryl the Chihuahua will forever remind me of moldy walls.  And sewers.  Awwwww.

Oh, what fun we had commiserating about our home-owning woes…!  And that was before we even realized we had bought at the top of the real estate market, right before house prices plummeted — and before our 25-year-old neighbor who owned a Mercedes and a Lotus Esprit, yet hadn’t paid his homeowner’s dues in a year, foreclosed on his home and left town before we could collect the dues.

Yay!  Good times.

Given that we’re all probably gonna be stuck here for a while, until the market rebounds something fierce, I think you should know something:  Mr. Candy and I have had a baby.   Yes!  It’s true!   Sure, a few of you have kindly congratulated us.  However, to those who have seen us pushing a stroller around the courtyard and have not mentioned a WORD about the baby — well, we are not collecting recyclables in the stroller, if that’s what you think.  I mean, you must — because it’s kind of weird to say “hi” to us but not even acknowledge that we now have a tiny human being living with us, as several of you have done.  It’s not like we expect people to gush.  Hell, we don’t even expect complete sentences.  A simple “A baby?  Huh.” would suffice.  Because we know when it comes to children, You’re Just Not That Into Them.  Which is totally cool!  But refusing to acknowledge the baby…?  Kinda odd.

After all, everyone knows the proper protocol:  Congratulate us to our faces, then complain about hearing the baby scream in the middle of the night BEHIND OUR BACKS!

That’s what a good neighbor would do.

With much neighborly love,

Candy, Mr. Candy and Baby “I Will Not Be Ignored!” Skye

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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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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