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Shopping Under the Influence of Idiocy

Candy's Column

Shopping Under the Influence of Idiocy

One of my biggest regrets since having a baby, besides not asking Clooney for child support (that might actually be marginally amusing if the kid didn’t look so darn much like Mr. Candy), is getting a nursery glider that does not recline.  The glider we have is cute, which is all that mattered pre-baby.  In fact, cuteness is my sole criterion for most purchases.  Sure, I can’t get those skinny jeans over my thighs, but they are so CUTE.  Sold!  Trying to sell me a car?  Don’t bother me with trivial facts such as horsepower, safety rating nonsense and whether it has an engine or not.  What I want to know is:  Does it come in that cute Candy-Apple Red color?

“Look at how the glider’s stripes complement the dragonflies on the bed skirt,” I had smiled, quite pleased with myself.  Mr. Candy nodded somberly in agreement, making a mental note to find out what the hell a “bed skirt” is and, for that matter, a “glider.”

360 hours of holding our crib-averse baby in that glider later — not that I’m counting or anything — my self-satisfied smug is long gone, replaced by a constant look of exhaustion and a bad back.  Miss Skye is a good baby, a baby who generally sleeps through the night, but also a baby who is a light sleeper and HATES taking daytime naps in her crib.  The second her head hits that mattress?  She wails so loudly, you’d think I was making her listen to Steven Seagal sing. Then she refuses to sleep any more, protesting my cruelty by boycotting the nap altogether.  A boycott that makes for a very cranky girl.  We did that song-and-dance many times until Skye wore me down and I resigned myself to holding her during naps.  Also helping her cause is the fact that she is very, very cute — for which, as you know, I have a weakness.

Somewhere my mom is shaking her head and sighing, “SPOILED!”

Yeah, whatever, Mom.  Next you’ll be telling me the cats shouldn’t be allowed to eat their Meow Mix on the dining room table!  Jeesh.

Speaking of protests, my ass is so ready to march on out of here.  I am literally talking about my ass — because, after sitting in that glider for any more than thirty minutes, my left butt cheek grows completely numb.  My ass is not pleased, not pleased at all.  Numb also describes my state of mind, given I am not able to sleep in that non-reclining glider, not even when the baby wakes up really early, eats and goes back to sleep… in my arms.  So I just sit there, bleary-eyed, sometimes for hours on end, glaring at the dragonflies on the crib’s bed skirt (I swear they’re mocking me now) and dreaming of a world where I have a recliner that allows me to sleep comfortably and retain feeling in my ass.  Oh, what a glorious world that would be!

I just never imagined I would be spending so much time in that thing.

So I decided to finally look for a new glider this weekend.  The one we currently have…?  A sunk cost, I’m afraid — a fact that makes me sick but makes my ass deliriously happy.  Almost as happy as it was about butt-lifting jeans.  Almost.

First I went to La-Z Boy, where the salesman pounced on me like a vulture on a rotting carcass, only less charming.  Our conversation went something like this:

ME:  Does this Reclinaglider come in other colors?

SALESMAN:  La-Z Boy is the U.S. leader in recliner sales.

ME:  That’s nice.  Do you have some swatches, or…

SALESMAN:  That’s the Pinnacle recliner, our best-selling Reclinaglider.  We sold fourteen-gazillion of those yesterday alone.

ME:  I’m going to dump my baby’s poopy diaper on this recliner.  That okay with you?

SALESMAN:  Our American-made advantage allows us to provide the fastest custom-order furniture delivery possible, a feat none of our competitors with outsourced production facilities can match.

ME:  I’ll take that as a yes.

Skye and I eventually ended up at the L.A. Rocking Chair Store, where they actually — GASP! — answered my questions, helped me find a ridiculously comfortable chair within, oh, ten minutes and offered to deliver it TOMORROW.  Still not thrilled about spending money on yet another glider, however, I hesitated for a moment.

“Oh, your daughter is so cute.  She looks exactly like you,” the saleswoman cooed.

Sold.

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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