Archive for the ‘cute’ Category

Tuesdays, in my opinion, are worse than Mondays.  I’m usually imbued with a sense of optimism on Mondays, a sense of “let’s totally kick this weeks ASS!  I’m gonna get so much stuff DONE!”

That lasts until about Monday night, when I am dead tired and I have to take pictures of stupid furniture and post them on Craigslist and argue with H about prices…(can you guess what I did last night?).  But it wasn’t just last night.  It’s Monday nights as a whole.  The whole burden of an entire week to go before the weekend hits me, and I am not a happy camper.

Which explains my stance on Tuesdays.  Tuesdays: the bleakest days of the week.  Unless you attend St. Lawrence University, where Tuesdays are the magical “Senior Blues” night at the local bar, night of $1 Labatts (we were close to Canada, okay?).  Suffice it to say Tuesday nights are awesome for Larries.  And hazy.

Sadly, I’m not at St. Lawrence anymore, and I definitely don’t go out boozing heavily on Tuesday nights.  I wish, on both accounts.

Instead, I will most likely spend my Tuesday night watching this on repeat as I irately shove kitchenware into cardboard boxes.  Welcome to post-collegiate life.  Word to the wise: never graduate. Cause they sure as hell don’t sell beer for a dollar in New York City.


Edit:  This vid was brought to my attention by my littlest sister.  Props, C.  Better now?


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Today seems like a good day for some cute.  It’s rainy and muggy and just uncomfortable outside.  I’m wearing a dress that makes me look semi-preggers.  My deli sandwich for lunch was disappointing (I have very high deli sandwich standards).  I need some cute.

So to that end I give you Charlie the meerkat. I don’t watch that weird meerkat show on the Discovery Channel or whatever it is, so I don’t really know a lot about them.  But I DO know that 1. Charlie is small 2. HIS NAME IS CHARLIE and 3. he was rejected by his family because he was the runt.  WHICH IS SAD.

Runts really touch my heart.  The best dog my family ever had (Casey, RIP) was the ‘runt’ of his fancy pants purebred litter, and it was that precipitous fact that landed him in our home.  Destiny.  Also, sometimes I like to think I myself am the runt of the family.  Because I’m very delicate, you see.  VERY DELICATE.

Also, the cuteness of this video is increased  x 50 because the people in it have British accents.  And Charlie + British accents = sqeeeeeeep.

It’s probably safe to add Meerkats to the list of pets I want.  Also, doesn’t it look like working at a zoo is the FUNNEST JOB EVER?

I’m in the wrong industry.

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There are a few things that I really, really, really love in life.  Chocolate & peanut butter, sushi, noodles, party dresses, sleeping…and most pertinent to this post: BABIES.

I really love babies.  I like watching them do funny things on YouTube (type in ‘funny baby’ and you’ll be occupied for 165 hours, at least).  I like it when they try to sell me stuff on the TV (especially those E-Trade toddlers), and when I see them on the subway/on the street/in a restaurant/really, anywhere, I will blatantly stare at them and make faces until I garner some kind of reaction. I love them.  I really do.

So when I saw a trailer for the documentary “Babies.I knew I had to see it.  Someone described it as “March of the Penguins, except with babies.”  Considering I had cried like a (appropriate!) baby at that movie, I was sold.

It’s a pretty basic concept.  A film crew followed 4 babies from vastly different environments (San Francisco, Mongolia, Tokyo, and Namibia) during their first year of life. There is little talking, but LOTS of fun baby noises.  Also featured: exceeding cute facial expressions, fat chipmunk cheeks, and drunken-sailor walking attempts.

Now lest I start a rumor within my own gossip-friendly family, there is a very specific difference between loving babies and wanting to have a baby.  I DO NOT want to have a baby.  God no, not now.  When I do, you can bet I’ll be pumped to the gills with any and all drugs I can weasel out of the attending docs.

I think my baby-affinity stems from being presented with those drooly little life-forms at very young age.  My hey-day at being the ‘baby of the family’ lasted an extremely brief 3 years.   Throughout my formative years it was always “take care of your brother!” “brush your sisters hair!” “hold their hand when crossing the street!” “stop hitting them! Go play in traffic! (just kidding on that last one, mom)”

I mean, there were 5 of us.  So God forgive my mother for pawning some care-taking off on us older ones.  It made us better people, I think, even when the end result was occasionally stitches, concussions, and hospital visits.

So anyway, back to the movie.  Not only was it squeal-inducing cuteness overload, but it was interesting.  You don’t realize how much babies actually see/understand until you really leave them alone and watch them just do their thing.  The movie also ended up being pretty eye-opening in terms of how different cultures raise their children.  To no one’s surprise, the USA-born Hattie (hello, hipster name) seems to have parents who were determined to have her read by age 2 and grow her own organic veggies by 4.  Meanwhile, in Mongolia, little Bayar’s mom thought it was totally cool to leave him to wander around the yurt or whatever it’s called and defend himself against cows, goats, chickens, cats, and a big brother whose sole joy in life seemed to be making him cry.  My friends and I kept asking why this little guy was alone so much.  He was so happy, though, even when he was getting semi-trampled by baby cows.  Here he is saying his first words.

Sigh.  I could literally watch this movie on a never-ending loop for the rest of my life.  OKAY FINE, here’s another adorable clip:

That adorable little muffin was another poster-child for the ‘leave your children the hell alone’ camp.  She liked to eat dirt.  Not exaggerating.

So if this movie is playing in your general vicinity I would say RUN, don’t walk, to go see it.  And then buy it on DVD.  And then send it to me as a gift so I can watch it whenever I am feeling sad or baby-deprived.  Thank you in advance.

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It’s been a week since I last posted, and I’m sorry.  When I started this little project my goal was to post twice a week, or more if there was something very post-able going on.  I had no delusions of grandeur…I would NOT be the sort of blogger who posts every day (that would be my hetero life partner, go read her blog at Just Slightly Neurotic).

But things happen.  I host amazing BBQ’s and have a busy social life and I’m sorry, but I can’t hold your hand and give you something witty and interesting to read EVERY DAY.

So in case you haven’t gotten it yet, this post isn’t about anything at all. I don’t have any snarky insights and I don’t want to comment on any current events.

All I want to do is show you guys the baby sloths.  The orphaned baby sloths.  Accompanied by jaunty music (you don’t need sound to watch this but OH does it make the video).

Did you watch it?  No? WATCH IT.  And then try to tell me that you don’t want a baby sloth as a pet and that these things aren’t the cutest weirdest things ever.  They are like muppets.  Except alive.  And those weird claw-hand things?!  You had me at hello, baby sloths.

That’s all I have for you today.  Baby sloths.  WHO ARE ORPHANED.

Where did I find this, you might ask?  Am I sitting at work googling “baby sloth orphanages” just for shits and giggles?

Well no, I’m not.  The thing is, I have developed a rare combination of Adult ADHD and Super-Terrible Procrastination disorder (it’s a real thing, I think I contracted it from my sister, the Procrastination Queen).  Pair that with a slow season in the ole academic publishing industry (read: June to August) and you’ve got so-cute-you-can’t-breath baby sloth videos. Oh, and online shopping.  LOTS of online shopping.

Just to make it up to you vultures I’ll even post later on this week, but be forewarned: it’s going to be a food post.  There are a few chicken breasts marinading in buttermilk in my fridge as we speak.  Beware.

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My boyfriend turned 25 last week.  That’s a big birthday, so I wanted to do something special.  So I bought tickets to a Broadway musical.

*insert sound of record screeching to a halt here*

Literally every single person that I told this to has had the same reaction: “Uhh…WHAT?  You’re taking H to a musical?!

Well yes.  Yes I am.  Because here’s the thing, guys.  H LOVES MUSICALS.

This is shocking news, I know.  And he’s probably going to be pissed that I’m blowing up his spot right now.   Because H is the epitome of Manly, with a capital M.  He likes sports.  He likes to shoot things for fun.  He likes to drink beer.  He has approximately 3 feelings in his emotional spectrum: hungry, tired, and annoyed (at me, usually, for being slow/late/acting dumb). Oh, and happy.  When the Red Sox or the Patriots are winning.  Or when he’s playing corporate softball.  Or when I unexpectedly clean the apartment.  So, four emotions.  He’s a complex individual.

I kid.  He has more than 4.  He maybe has 5, when he tries.

Anyway…the musical.  Let me first say that I am a sucker for a good deal.  And you know what has good deals?  Broadway shows that haven’t opened yet.  Because no one really knows if they are going to be awful or not, tickets are usually fairly cheap.  And thanks to some broadway ticket discount website, they were even cheaper.

So I bought tickets to “La Cage Aux Folles.” Didn’t really know a lot about it, so I did some Googling.  Turns out, this play is what one of my fave movies is based on: The Birdcage.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the movie, the basic premise is that a gay couple’s son (had from a 1 night stand w/a woman) brings home the girl he wants to marry–whose parents happy to be big players in the super conservative family moral values political scene.  Hilarity ensues when the two sets of parents meet.  Now watch the below clip, and try not to die at Robin Williams’ Dance speech (at the end).

Yes.  It’s about gay people.  Actually, it’s about drag queens, which is even better.  And here’s a hint: the play? ALSO about drag queens.

So.  To recap.  Not only did I buy my manly boyfriend Broadway musical tickets for his birthday, I bought him tickets to a big gay men-dressed-as-showgirls jazz hands sparkly sequins sort of show.  Yup.

Exhibit B:

So I know what you are all inevitably asking: Did he like it?

WELL.  As the lights came up and the applause died down during intermission (or “halftime,” as he goonily called it) I turned to my dear boyfriend and asked him what he thought.

And I quote: “It’s great!  I love it.  Mary, you are the best most beautiful girlfriend and I am SO LUCKY to have you.”

OKAY…so the last part he didn’t say.  But he did say he loved the show.  Which is enough for me.

Happy 25th birthday H!  I’ll watch drag-queens with you any time.

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No, not diamonds (although I am fully confident I could write an entire post on that topic, too! And maybe I will, some day, when I have a diamond all my own….AHEM.)

What I’m talking about is dogs.  More specifically, PUPPIES.

It’s slow here at work today…and after I’ve exhausted my go-to amusement websites (Gawker, NY Magazine, Facebook, Twitter), my mind turns to little furry bundles of joy.  I start puppy-stalking.

Growing up, my family always had a dog.  There was Tiny, the psychotic beagle.  Casey, the doofy easy-going English Cocker Spaniel.  Libby, the ladylike and graceful Chow-Lab mix.  I refuse to mention the current dog in our family since he is not actually ‘mine’ and he’s the worst dog in the history of the planet.  I am not exaggerating.

They were all good pets in their own ways (minus he-who-shall-not-be-named), and I think that having a dog around made for a much better childhood (minus the fighting about who walks the poor thing.  That was always a big issue in our house, because we are a family of lazy-bones).  Now that I am out on my own, I find myself missing having a pet.  And so for the past few months I have had puppies on the brain.

At first I was insistent: medium sized, non-white (white dogs are yucky), non-shedding.  Because dog hair grosses me OUT.  I have had enough years of plucking (or having people pluck) long black dog hairs from my clothing/belongings with a disgusted expression.  Bleckkk.  So my solution?

How can you resist?!

ARE YOU DYING FROM CUTENESS?!  This guy is a Schnauzer.  I am a big fan.  They don’t shed, they aren’t too big (unless you get a Giant Schnau, and why you’d ever do that I don’t know), and they are smart and good-natured.  Apparently.  My aunt and uncle (Hi Aunt Lisa & Uncle Chris!) have a Schnauzer and he is just precious.

However, as I gushed about Schnauzers and Schnauzer mixes (please, do yourself a favor and google “schnoodles”.  Your day will be made), my darling H started complaining.  You see, he grew up with small dogs.  His currently “girlfriend” (and I’m not talking about myself here) is a Rat Terrier named Penny who lives with his parents in Massachusetts.  Small dogs are easier, says H.  Small dogs don’t wreak havoc like bigger dogs, says H.  Small dogs are smart, says H.

Well FINE.  I was pretty biased, since every small dog I’ve ever met has been sort of ‘eh’.  But being the open-minded girl that I am I started casually perusing dogs of the smaller variety.  And what did I come across?  Ladies and gentlemen: I give you, the Morkie.


And just because I can’t resist, here is another.

Oh Hai!

I literally cannot breathe due to how freaking cute this things are.  YES they are ‘designer dogs’ and YES they could potentially fit into an obnoxious purse, but let’s not judge.  I never thought I would be a small-dog kind of girl, but dare I say I am being convinced by every new Morkie I see.

There are so many more contenders.  The noble Cock-a-poo.  The playful Pomeranian.  This blog could be entirely dedicated to puppies and I wouldn’t have enough space to show all the ones I love (by the way, there is a blog entirely dedicated to puppies: thedailypuppy.com)

Sadly though, I live in the real world.  And in the real world, puppies are expensive to both purchase and to keep.  They require an owner who can hang out with them, rather than work from 9-5.  They are loads of responsibility.  And they need a landlord who allows them in apartments.  None of these things really mesh with my lifestyle right now.

So I guess I remain puppy-less. Sigh.  Browsing petfinder.com (it will break your heart, beware) will have to suffice, for now.

But my puppy biological clock is ticking.  And it’s only getting louder.

PS: If I hear one ‘that is a rat’ comment about my beloved Morkies I will sever friendships without a second thought.  Don’t even try.

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