Read Online Stories From Candyland by Candy Spelling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Candy Spelling
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those shows, as they were on too late, but I was always proud at how polite they were at these times.
Tori always felt important when someone asked her to sign a napkin when we were out to dinner. She liked being the center of attention.
Randy, too, would accommodate strangers who asked to have their picture taken with him, although I’m not sure he knew why.
I still haven’t recovered from the first time someone in a public ladies’ room asked me to autograph a paper towel and address it to “Tifany with one
f
.” I dried my hands firstand then tried to explain to Tori, who was with me, why I was signing a paper towel. I don’t remember how I explained it.
I spent a lot of time explaining to the kids that some people would be nice to them because they thought they might get something from them. It wasn’t a message I wanted to give my children, but often it was true. I would point out the flaws I saw in some of their so-called friends, but they got angry with me and questioned my motives. Some of the teens they were friends with ordered my staff around. One houseman refused to serve some of Tori’s friends because, as he told me, “there was a distinct lack of manners and a collective sense of entitlement.” One night, two of Randy’s friends ended up in Tori’s bedroom. Tori was no longer living at home, but that didn’t make it any easier when I found them in her bed, the girl looking at me coyly as she puffed on a cigarette. My own kids weren’t like that.
I didn’t like it when the children were mad at me, so I’d usually give in when those same “friends” of theirs persuaded them to hold parties at our house. I either allowed the parties (and cooked and prepared for them) or risked alienating my children. Suffice it to say we had a lot of teen parties at The Manor. Tori was in full teenage mode when we moved into the house, and Randy became quite a host, too.
Expectations are always high, and that’s especially true with my house. People who visit don’t know if they’ll see Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara before the Civil War, the CarringtonHouse during a black-tie party, or the Beverly Hillbillies’ mansion.
My insecurities rage when I invite people to The Manor. I’m afraid they’ll find something they won’t like, afraid they only want to see the house, not be with me. Maybe it’s too many years as a celebrity by accident?
At the end of 2007, I took a deep breath and decided to have a holiday party. I spent weeks working with the socalled “celebrity” party planners, caterers, assistants, artists, chefs, tree decorators, and others to make sure everything was perfect. I hadn’t entertained in a long time, first because my husband had been ill for years, and, after he passed away, because I didn’t feel like socializing. But I decided it was time. . . .
I spent weeks agonizing over every detail of the décor, food, invitation, table settings, songs the piano players would perform, making sure everything was perfect for the 140 guests I was inviting. All 180 boxes of my Christmas decorations were used, from holly to adorn the lamppost at the bottom of the driveway, to hundreds of toy soldiers standing at attention outside the front door, to the antique ornaments on the trees and stuffed animals carefully placed on the staircase, to even miniature holiday decorations in my doll museum.
And then there was the candy. How can Candy not have the right candy? I collect candy jars, candy dishes, candy dispensers, and antique candy machines, so my guests canhave their choice of candy. As long as I’ve been entertaining at home, I’ve felt I would be judged on my candy (and lots of other things, as you now know). The afternoon of my party, I realized I hadn’t taken care of the candy. I bought thousands of calories of goodies—hundreds of little candy bars with all our favorite childhood brands, Hershey’s Kisses, M&Ms (plain and peanut), Snickers, Hershey bars, bags of Sour Patch Kids,
Tori always felt important when someone asked her to sign a napkin when we were out to dinner. She liked being the center of attention.
Randy, too, would accommodate strangers who asked to have their picture taken with him, although I’m not sure he knew why.
I still haven’t recovered from the first time someone in a public ladies’ room asked me to autograph a paper towel and address it to “Tifany with one
f
.” I dried my hands firstand then tried to explain to Tori, who was with me, why I was signing a paper towel. I don’t remember how I explained it.
I spent a lot of time explaining to the kids that some people would be nice to them because they thought they might get something from them. It wasn’t a message I wanted to give my children, but often it was true. I would point out the flaws I saw in some of their so-called friends, but they got angry with me and questioned my motives. Some of the teens they were friends with ordered my staff around. One houseman refused to serve some of Tori’s friends because, as he told me, “there was a distinct lack of manners and a collective sense of entitlement.” One night, two of Randy’s friends ended up in Tori’s bedroom. Tori was no longer living at home, but that didn’t make it any easier when I found them in her bed, the girl looking at me coyly as she puffed on a cigarette. My own kids weren’t like that.
I didn’t like it when the children were mad at me, so I’d usually give in when those same “friends” of theirs persuaded them to hold parties at our house. I either allowed the parties (and cooked and prepared for them) or risked alienating my children. Suffice it to say we had a lot of teen parties at The Manor. Tori was in full teenage mode when we moved into the house, and Randy became quite a host, too.
Expectations are always high, and that’s especially true with my house. People who visit don’t know if they’ll see Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara before the Civil War, the CarringtonHouse during a black-tie party, or the Beverly Hillbillies’ mansion.
My insecurities rage when I invite people to The Manor. I’m afraid they’ll find something they won’t like, afraid they only want to see the house, not be with me. Maybe it’s too many years as a celebrity by accident?
At the end of 2007, I took a deep breath and decided to have a holiday party. I spent weeks working with the socalled “celebrity” party planners, caterers, assistants, artists, chefs, tree decorators, and others to make sure everything was perfect. I hadn’t entertained in a long time, first because my husband had been ill for years, and, after he passed away, because I didn’t feel like socializing. But I decided it was time. . . .
I spent weeks agonizing over every detail of the décor, food, invitation, table settings, songs the piano players would perform, making sure everything was perfect for the 140 guests I was inviting. All 180 boxes of my Christmas decorations were used, from holly to adorn the lamppost at the bottom of the driveway, to hundreds of toy soldiers standing at attention outside the front door, to the antique ornaments on the trees and stuffed animals carefully placed on the staircase, to even miniature holiday decorations in my doll museum.
And then there was the candy. How can Candy not have the right candy? I collect candy jars, candy dishes, candy dispensers, and antique candy machines, so my guests canhave their choice of candy. As long as I’ve been entertaining at home, I’ve felt I would be judged on my candy (and lots of other things, as you now know). The afternoon of my party, I realized I hadn’t taken care of the candy. I bought thousands of calories of goodies—hundreds of little candy bars with all our favorite childhood brands, Hershey’s Kisses, M&Ms (plain and peanut), Snickers, Hershey bars, bags of Sour Patch Kids,
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