I am so grateful to you for your sweet responses to my last post. While the post meant a great deal to me, I--well, I’m usually not one for the serious posts. I love READING other people's, but I always get incredibly nervous writing them myself, like you're going to start pelting me with tomatoes, or--in the internet corollary--inundating me with spam (touting ways in which I can turn my “man hose” into a “truue luv bone” or places I can buy my very own PhD, obviously) for attempting to write anything of substance. Which is clearly not the case, and I truly appreciate your kind words.
So, thank you, seriously, for reading.
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Lo is thisclose to crawling. Up on all fours, rocking back and forth, moving her hands around, and then…plopping onto her stomach, frustratedly shrieking in a pitch that is eerily similar to that of an overexcited ANTM contestant. It was annoying me, honestly, because: (a) the shrieking, MY GOD THE SHRIEKING; and (b) she totally COULD crawl, but was being stubborn.
As a result, I inducted her into the Bela Karolyi School of Crawling earlier this evening. And if you don’t know who he is, then you have obviously never seen the made-for-T.V.movie Nadia, which is all about the fascinating life and turbulent times of former Olympic champion gymnast Nadia Comaneci, and then I just feel sorry for you. Anyway, I can’t go into all of my teachings, but they include (though are not limited to): a Hansel & Gretel-esque trail of fruit puffs, the gentle coaxing of chubby baby legs into Proper Crawl Formation, and the loving…nudging of said chubby baby legs along in the direction of the fruit puffs, all the while offering words of encouragement in a quasi-Romanian accent. I have to say, it worked. Kind of. I mean, at the end of our session, she was inching each leg forward ONCE, all on her own, and then…plopping back onto her stomach. But still--progress! We’ll try again tomorrow, though I’ve instructed J to stop me if I start wearing track suits and growing a hypnotically luxurious mustache.
In other news, my secret Twitter boyfriend Michael Ian Black (who DOESN’T love his commentary on I Love the '70s/'80s/'90s/New Millennium/SuperDistantFutureEra?) recently wrote about his anti-“bucket list”--called his F*ck It List--wherein he lists all the things he doesn’t care about doing before he dies. To which I say, awesome. And also, that I’m following suit. In no particular order:
Metalia’s F*ck It List
1. Understand NASCAR – I sort of suspect that it really IS just racing around an oval track very fast. If I’m right, the fact that it’s considered a sport AND that people attend it would just make me sad. And so, I prefer the mystery of NOT knowing.
2. Learn to appreciate scotch – I’ve tried, and honestly, it makes me feel like I’ve swallowed an open flame. I love vodka. I love wine. I even like a little tequila every now and then. So I think I can live the rest of my days in blissful oblivion to the “oaky” "smoky" and “velvety smooth” taste of scotch. Huuuurrrrl.
3. Pump gas – Okay, so I know this is a weird thing, but I’ve actually never pumped gas in my life. I grew up in New Jersey, which is one of the few states (what up, Oregon?) in which it’s illegal to pump your own gas. I now live in New York, where gas is significantly more expensive than in New Jersey, and so, we never fill up here, opting instead to fill up when we visit my family in Jersey. See where I’m going with this? We will likely live in New Jersey one day, and so, yeah. I will probably never pump gas. It looks kind of intimidating, and yes, I know I sound completely moronic right now, but I’m SORRY, HASN’T ANYONE SEEN ZOOLANDER? THAT GAS FIGHT-EXPLOSION COULD TOTALLY REALLY HAPPEN LIKE FOR REAL.
4. Own a pet - I grew up with two cats and a dog, and I am DONE, people. I have had my sweaters peed on, and my shoes filled with cat barf. I have experienced the excitement of a clinically depressed dog on Prozac, and fancy dresses used as clawing posts. I have paid my dues. I know my kids will eventually beg me for a puppy, and I’ll admit that they’re adorable, but no. NO. I will remain firm. (heh)
5. Swim in the ocean – I know people are all about the serenity and rejuvenating properties of an ocean swim, but it petrifies me. Worst case, you get eaten by a shark, or dragged off in the undertow. Best case? You smell like a fish market, and have sand in your bum. Again, that's BEST CASE. Not gonna cut it, OCEAN.
6. Go to a U2 Concert – I like some of their music, but I don’t want to give Bono the satisfaction. I know he does a lot of good things, but he strikes me as a sanctimonious, smug jerk, and damned if I'm going to pay for another pair of his hideous sunglasses.
7. Skydiving, bungee jumping, paragliding – No.
8. Write the next great American novel – I think a big part of accomplishing your goals in life is knowing your limitations.
9. Have anyone serenade me with a guitar (ever again) - Ladies! IT’S JUST NOT WORTH IT.
10. Go camping (ever again) – Remind me to tell you all one day about the camping trip that will live in infamy, involving a broken-down car, an itinerant child we nicknamed Smelly Ralph, and a DAMN BEAR. Never again!
What about you? (Let me know if you do this; I’d love to read yours!)
UPDATE: I must address the question a lot of people seem to be asking, re: vacationing in a place where we would have to pump our own gas. I should point out that J grew up in NY, and is therefore well-versed in the fine art of pumping his own gas. As such, I always beg him do it whenever we're in a state where such activity is sanctioned by the law. He obliges, but makes me promise to pay attention so I can learn how to do it myself, and I agree, but then COMPLETELY INVOLUNTARILY start spacing out and thinking about really important things, such as red velvet cupcakes, and how I would like to be eating one right that very second, and also, the awe-inspiring Tom Cruise movie, Legend, which includes not only a pre-Scientology, early-'80s Tom playing a forest elf man who must stop Tim Curry/the devil from slaying a magical unicorn, for if he fails, Darkness will fall upon the land and PLEASE TELL ME I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS SEEN THIS MOVIE.
As a result, I still do not know how to pump gas.