What's in a Name?

Hi, my name is Candy and I'm an alcoholic. When I was 12 years old I was at a party with some privileged high school kids in my neighborhood playing quarters at a dining room table with a cherry finish and smoking More 120's I had stolen from my mother. At some point four members of the high school football team decided I was the one they were going to keep making chug cups of Molson Golden. I held my own for a while, but then things started getting fuzzy. I didn't feel so good so I went into a spare bedroom and crawled under a quilt and went to sleep. When I awoke, I realized #72 was in the midst of taking my virginity. Lucky for me I didn't start getting my period until I was 13.

When I got to high school I decided if I was going to have sex, I was at least going to get something out of it. Occasionally that meant sexual gratification, but more often than not it meant drugs. Weed, hash, LSD, whatever the spoiled brats could get their hands on. When coke was involved, I had no problem pretending to enjoy fellatio. (Sometimes if I was really wasted, I actually did enjoy it.) When you're a long legged natural blond who's smart but just a little flighty and is known to have a wild side, you may not have any boyfriends, but you'll always have a lot of boys.

In college I tried to change my ways, but let’s be honest: once you’re damaged goods, you’re always damaged goods. Most people will always hold the past against you. Before I know it, I'm 25 years old making $400 a week double matting people's provincial art work and keepsakes at a small art studio on Elmwood Avenue. I realize I have to make some changes if I'm going to get anything in this life. Living in a small one bedroom apartment in a cool but dangerous section of town and wearing thrift shop finds and making necklaces out of guitar picks wasn't going to cut it much longer. That's when I decided I was going to become a different person and start spelling my name with an "i."

Candi immediately knew the only way to better her life was to get a man. And not just some loser who drove a Saturn. A man with real earning potential. He would probably have some flaws in the looks department, of course. (Candi doesn't exactly exude aristocracy.) But Candi's a hottie, especially when she wears makeup. (She's done modeling for a prestigious regional publication.) Even when Candi doesn't wear makeup, she has that cute, earthy look when her hair's down or pulled back into a pony tail. And Candi's really good at Scrabble, and even better at Boggle, which totally impresses most guys. (They think it's particularly cute when Candi finds words in French and then feigns like she totally forgot the game was being played in English.) Candi would definitely be a catch for the right guy who was looking for a devoted trophy wife to bear his children and boss him around (sometimes, not always).

Finding "Mr. Right" didn't take very long. Candi just went to a trendy supermarket in the Buffalo area a few times during the week after work and scoped out guys who parted their hair to the side and wore one or more of the following: barn coats, Ralph Lauren button downs, khaki pants, argyle socks, or black loafers. Candi would then check out the contents of their cart. If she saw grocery items such as pasta, jarred sauce, peanut butter, Wheaties, beer and lots of microwaveable products, she knew they were single and not just being "Mr. Nice Guy" shopping for a little honey at home with child. After she identified a candidate, she would pass by him a few times and smile. If he stopped at a particular section, she stopped at that section and said something to start a flirtation. "Why do they call them Grape Nuts if the cereal doesn't have any grapes or nuts in it?" "I love how they put peanut butter in the same container as the jelly now. Like can't people just open two jars?"

Anyway, it took three weeks until Candi met a boy named John. They started their conversation in Aisle 13 - the cleaning supply section - went through the check out line together where they discussed among other things whether a tabloid story about a famous married actor being gay could possibly have any merit (John said I hope not because that's gross and Candi said it's possible but why should it matter) and then walked to her aging Ford Escort in the parking lot. Candi gave him her phone number and said "we should meet for coffee sometime." When Candi saw him get into his gas guzzling Land Rover, she knew he'd be perfect despite the fact he was an inch shorter than her and suffered from a mild case of adult acne. After Candi slept with John on the third date, Candi told him she'd only had three lovers besides him, two of whom were long-term boyfriends. (The actual number was closer to 50, but who’s counting?.) Candi told John that she had never had a drinking or drug problem, she was just someone who partied a lot at one time. Now that she was into yoga and watercolor painting, she didn't miss that lifestyle at all. At some point in the relationship, she tried to persuade John to be more environmentally conscious by trading in his vehicle for a Suburau Outback (but truthfully she really didn't care).

Today Candi and John own a charming four bedroom house on a tree-lined cul-de-sac in an affluent suburban neighborhood with a great school system and lots of boring neighbors who are sleepwalking through life (when they're not cutting their lawns, that is.) Candi has been a stay-at-home mom for four years watching over two kids – Isabelle, four, and Jack, two. Sure, Candi's husband doesn't know the difference between Mark Rothko’s style and Barnett Newman’s, and when Candi wanted to name their chocolate lab Raskolnikov, he had no idea who that was. At least he takes Candi to a nice restaurant every Saturday night while his parents baby sit and on one vacation a year to some place warm. (This year they're going to Disney.) John also works long hours peddling drugs to doctors. This means when Isabelle’s at pre-school and Jack's taking a nap, Candi has time to work on one of her watercolor paintings while listening to NPR or to sneak one of the three Marlboro Lights she has throughout the day. Sure her life could be a lot better, but it could also be a lot worse. If you don't believe me, just ask Candy.