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A Day in the Life

Candy's Column

A Day in the Life

A play-by-play of my so-called life today.

1:00 a.m. — Hit the sack, tired after a particularly aggressive shopping session on

1:30 a.m. — Childishly poke Mr. Candy in the ribs over and over again, bored and unable to sleep, as usual.  Mr. Candy’s response:  Zzzzzzzzz. I stare at the ceiling and play scenes from “The English Patient” in my head.  And…

1:31 a.m. — Zzzzzzzzz.

5:00 a.m. — Awakened by the sound of Skye coughing/hacking up a lung and, possibly, a small intestine.  Which leads to…


5:03 a.m. — Comfort and nurse my clearly under-the-weather baby, who cannot get comfortable enough to sleep, what with the hacking and the small intestine situation and all.  She lays in my arms.  Moves up to my chest.  Flops her head side-to-side.  Hangs upside down like a bat.  I begin to wonder if she’ll ever fall back to sleep when…

6:00 a.m. — Zzzzzzzzz.  Bat baby sleeps!

6:01 a.m. —  Ugh.  Will I be able to sleep in this new recliner with my clingy baby?  Doubtful.  It’s comfy, sure, but I’m a terrible sleeper.  I’ll just try laying back my head…

9:45 a.m. — Skye and I wake up.  Whoa.

9:47 a.m. — Change Skye’s ridiculously full diaper.  At least I think I’m changing my daughter’s diaper, as I do not have my contacts in and am just feeling my way around.  For all I know, I could be putting a toga on one of the cats.

10:00 a.m. — Put Skye in her Bumbo seat so I can brush teeth, throw on clothes, feel human-like…

10:01 a.m. — WAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!  Oh dear.  This is unusual.  I pick her up, hold her and put her back in the seat — which is met with:  WAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

10:02 a.m. — A water gurgle and quick clothes change later, I hold Skye and sway back and forth with her.  She continues screaming, her body temperature spiking as she breaks into a sweat.  Oh crap.  Poor thing.  Also, so much for daycare — or me working — today.

10:30 a.m. — Call the doctor’s office, Skye still crying and sweating and clinging to me.  “Yes, you should definitely bring her in.  Can you come at 2:30?”  I need to wait four hours?  No way, I think.  “Yeah!  Of course!  Sure!” I say.

11:00 a.m. — Check Skye’s diaper and spot the cause of her sweat and distress.  Um, let’s just say it wasn’t pee.  Or small.  Or soft.

11:30 a.m. — And… REPEAT.  I feel like I should hand the poor kid a newspaper or something.

12:00 p.m. — The coast appears to be, er, clear now.  Skye seems happier, although she’s still working on bringing up that small intestine.  Being the caring mother that I am, I throw her in the back of the car and head to Santa Monica Audi for an oil change.  Because that warning light has been on way longer than I’m comfortable with.  (Skye is all, Don’t even talk to ME about comfort, woman!)  I don’t know what happens when your car’s oil is gone, but I’m guessing it’s not good — sort of like when I let my car run out of gas when I was a teenager, making my dad roar, “Your ass is grass and I’m the lawnmower!”

I would really hate to have to mow my own ass.  (Which isn’t a euphemism for what you think.  Get your mind out of the gutter, people.)

1:00 p.m. — I have to PAY for the stinkin’ oil?  Even though we leased the car from that very dealership?  LAME.

1:20 p.m. — OUCH.  Caffeine withdrawal headache.  Sure, Skye is fussing in the backseat, but I need to swing by a Starbucks for my latte.

1:30 p.m. — Oh, espresso.  Sweet nectar of the gods.

1:50 – 2:20 p.m. — Drive in circles looking for a parking spot on the street, so I can avoid paying the exorbitant fees at the doctor’s office’s parking garage.  I circle… and I circle… and I circle some more…

2:30 p.m. — Having finally found a spot, Skye and I walk into the office… where I realize I FORGOT TO PUT MONEY IN THE FREAKIN’ PARKING METER.   In West Hollywood, where Parking Enforcement sniffs out expired meters with the same voracity that Mel Gibson sniffs out bottles of Cuervo.  So my cheap ass drove aimlessly for a half-hour to avoid paying ten bucks, only to probably pay $75 in fines.  Yay me!

2:35 p.m. — Skye has a virus, but no fever or ear infection, says the doctor.  Use a humidifier for the cold, prunes for the other problem, blah, blah, blah.

2:45 p.m. — Skye and I have a serious battle over a tongue depressor that she dropped on the floor.  Master negotiator that I am, I finally assuage her with a bottle of water I find in my purse (that probably fell on the floor at some point, as well).

3:00 p.m. — I rush back to the car.  The parking meter is flashing FAIL.  The meter doesn’t work!  No ticket!  Yay me!  The tide, it is a’turning.

3:30 p.m. — We return home.  As does Mr. Candy, who had an unusually free afternoon and came home to help with the Sick One.  Yay me for having such a sweet hubby!

3:31 — I vow to stop mentally congratulating myself.

6:00 p.m. — Mr. Candy gives Skye a bath upstairs when I hear her start to cry.  Very odd, considering bathtime is her favorite time of day.  I run upstairs…

6:01 p.m. — ABORT BATH!  ABORT BATH!   Yeah, um, we really need to start that prune diet.  Mr. Candy lifts Skye out of the water, while I get the glamorous job of clean-up.  Also?  The first time that’s ever happened in the water.  Lovely.

6:15 p.m. — That’s it!  I’m going to work on my column now.  With a laser-like focus —

6:16 p.m. — Oooohhhh! Would you look at that?  The kitties are being so cute, hanging out together.  Must.  Take.  Picture.

Relieved to see that neither one is wearing a toga.

6:20 p.m. — Okay!  Focus!

6:30 p.m. — Well, after I feed Skye and put her to bed.

8:00 p.m. — And eat Thai and watch “How I Met Your Mother” with Mr. Candy.

8:15 p.m. — Mr. Candy and I marvel at how many storylines the show’s writers have stolen directly from our lives.  AND YET WE’VE NEVER SEEN A PENNY.

9:30 p.m. — Caress my computer.  Hello, old lover.  It’s been too long.

10:29 p.m. — Post this jibber-jabber.

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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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