Live and let live.

If I had a nickel for every time I heard that I’d stab this hipster in the genitals

The Science of Cuteness: Part Two

Welcome to the second installment of The Science of Cuteness: Baby Edition, soon to be a major motion picture starring Justin Bieber. If you’re new here, thanks for stopping by — I think the last time I got 70 comments on something was when I gave myself a boy haircut in the wee hours of a Saturday night. That being said, behold — the remaining laws of The Science of Cuteness.

The Science of Cuteness: Laws ONE-SIX

4 1/2 inches long for your playing pleasure.

SEVEN. Babies make cankles look good. Their legs are like those squishy tube water balloon things which years later you realized might have been a rejected sex toy prototype. We probably shouldn’t, but we poke and squeeze and tickle the crap out of that baby fat. Secretly, we probably envy them for fearlessly parading around their enormous milk-bloated tummies at the beach in a pink polka-dotted bikini. Without getting the stink eye.

EIGHT. Reactions to the sound of their own oral gas expulsion or flatulence. There are few things more hilarious than the look on a baby’s face after he rips a blanket bomb. (Yes, I did have to consult the Fart Thesaurus for that one). And remember, babies are the only ones who can get away with unleashing a trouser cough during that pivotal Church moment when Father Greg is breaking Christ in half. Remember that next time you “innocently” crop dust some poor innocent soul while muscling your way through the $5 DVD bin at Walmart, aight?

NINE. Attachment to inanimate objects. Linus and his blanket. Tommy Pickles and his screwdriver. My nephew and “his” kitty stuffed animal, which he totally stole from me, and I’m still pissed about. Bedtime just DOESN’T HAPPEN without their favorite little toy. There is a negative correlation between level of cuteness and age of the child. Exhibit A: 1 year-old clinging mercilessly to his Bankie. Subject achieves a cute coefficient of 10. Exhibit B: A 40 year old clinging mercilessly to his Bankie — cute coefficient of 1.

TEN. Tiny clothes. I’m not talking about the vomit-inducing (mine, not Jack-Jack’s) onesies that say “iPood,” but rather the miniature adult outfits such as the three-piece suit (which should work nicely at his job interview next week?) or my personal favorite, this little number

which pretty much guarantees the little guy’s future position as “Catcher” during kickball because he’s too fat to run from years of gorging himself on Twinkies after the kids at school made fun of his clothes. ‘Poop and pee’ must have been the color combination that Mom was shooting for when she knit 25 of these for Etsy. Poor kid. But I digress. Fact is, the U.S. baby apparel industry is estimated at $45.4 Billion dollars as of 2009 (see Yahoo Finance to support the fact that I made that number up) and growing. Women just love to buy mini-clothes with mini-buttons, mini-zippers, mini-pockets, mini-hoods… I think it’s safe to say that half the fun of having a baby is buying baby clothes.

ELEVEN. Belly buttons. At the risk of being accused of posting juvenile belly button porn:

TWELVE. They’re self-esteem machines. I can pretty much guarantee that even the C.E.O. of the Taliban has made a baby laugh at least once in his life. Due to embarrassingly bad cognitive skills (the baby’s not the terrorists’s), a baby will laugh at anything as long as it sounds musical and involves a peek-a-boo. Theoretically, you could even read Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders as a bedtime story if you follow these techniques. However I would advise against this particular book as it could either cause your child to form a quasi-commune for aspiring murderers at KinderCare or cultivate an unhealthy adolescent obsession with The Beatles while other kids are listening to a mutated hybrid of late-90s Cher singles and Lady Gaga; two outcomes that are equally harmful.

And there you have it, the twelve laws of The Science of Cuteness. If you’ve made it to the end, thanks for reading! Figures that I’d get Freshly Pressed the week before I leave the country for a solo backpacking trip through Europe. In between dodging projectile lava from the Eyjwtfffffffff volcano and putting the finishing touches on my plan to shanghai Jake Gyllenhall at the Cannes Film Festival, I’ll be blogging. Topics may include: dirty hostel haiku, inappropriate photologues of whoever pisses me off at the hostels, and pictures of doodles I draw on napkins while on the train.

Last Night at the Rodeo

In case I didn’t mention it, I’ve been in Texas this past week for spring break. I’m here in Dallas visiting my cousins, partly to get some sun, and partly to see if this is where I want to move to when I break out of the death grip that is college this May. So far I love it here. We visited Austin last weekend (more on that later), and spent the rest of the week in Dallas.

I feel that I’ve accomplished a lot this past week. First, I’ve realized that not everyone in Texas is fat. Austin is teeming with runners, and I actually have grown so accustomed to seeing thin people in Dallas that I do a double-take when someone larger walks by. Which I’m not sure is an accomplishment, but whatever. Second, I’ve forged a relationship with my cousin’s two cats — a major feat because the older one, Rascal, is apparently a punk ass bitch to most people. I feel special. Oh. Two accomplishments might not be “a lot” on paper, but it was in my mind. But onto the rodeo topic.

awkwardface.com

Being my last weekend in Texas, my cousin Laura bought us 2 tickets to the rodeo. This entailed using lots of hair spray, squeezing into tight flared jeans (which I haven’t done since I was 17), and layering on the eye makeup. I felt like we were going to an 8th grade dance.

We drove to Mesquite, Texas, ended up at a dark, empty building (wrong night), and turned around and drove 50 minutes in the opposite direction. We ended up at Billy Bob’s in Fort Worth, where we paid $12 to see Billboard’s newest sweethearts, Micky and the Motorcars. After seeing several cowboy hats, 2-steppers, and a girl in a baby tee, we decided to check out the rest of Fort Worth. = Sup tumbleweeds. Really, if you can avoid the city, do so please.

All in all, thanks for sitting through my anticlimactic story. I’ll have more interesting things to write about at a later date, when I’m not salivating over a Boboli pizza cooking in my cousin’s oven.

Can YOU find the Condom Tree?

I made a slideshow of photos I took yesterday in a greenhouse at Wellesley College. It smelled so good in there.

Turn up the sound, there’s Minus the Bear in there, dear.

See if you can spot the Condom Tree (Ficus Magnumus).