Me again. I understand that there is another holiday on the way. New Years. Okay, a few questions. First, do we need a new one because someone broke the old one? If so: it wasn’t me. (Unless by “year” you mean Mommy’s necklace. That was totally me.) Next question: does this holiday mean I get boxes wrapped in shiny paper. No? Well, then honestly, what’s the big deal?
I hear that on New Year’s people sometimes start screaming and carrying on right around midnight. Really? Cuz I’ve done that. When I was like THREE MONTHS OLD. (Seriously, people, grow up.) Frankly, I don’t remember anyone considering it a holiday. If memory serves, Mommy and Daddy were slightly peeved about the whole thing.
That said, something about this holiday does intrigue me. Mommy told me that people sometimes make resolutions for the new year. I’ll be honest with you: there are a few things that I’d like to work on in 2014. I know, I know, you’re thinking, “How could Emma POSSIBLY improve herself?” A fair question. But here’s my list.
Resolution #1. Okay, elephant in the room. I’m just gonna go ahead and say it. HAIR. This year I MUST. GROW. HAIR. Yes, bald is beautiful. Yes, I do realize that I’m more aerodynamic this way. (Which has some advantages when you’re trying to keep up with a four-year-old brother. Ain’t no head fuzz weighin’ this girl down.) Still, it would be nice to have a little something on top. Why? First off, how about: BECAUSE IT’S FRIGGIN’ COLD OUTSIDE?!? Second, I’m all fine with wearing my brother’s hand-me-down winter jacket. (Blue is my color.) But it’s a bit tedious listening to people constantly ask my mommy things like: “What’s HIS name?” “How old is HE?!?” And of course, “Do you think HE’LL take home the Nobel for peace, literature or astrophysics?” (Spoiler alert: I have some cutting edge theories about black holes . . . based mostly on the odd disappearance and reappearance of my binky at night. But I digress . . .)
Seriously, people, what the heck? This is NOT a super-short boyish haircut. I’M BALD. And, NO, this is also not MALE PATTERN BALDNESS. I am a little girl who has NOT YET GROWN HAIR. Why is that so hard for you to understand? Whatever. I’m taking care of the problem. I recently ordered a generous supply of Acme Hair Grow Solution. From a very reputable company I found on the internet. (It got a great review from some fellow named “R. Runner”.)
Resolution #2. All right, here’s the situation. Mommy speaks to me in English. Daddy speaks to me in Japanese. This is supposed to make me something called “bilingual”. Awesome. Because when you’re trying to learn a language like English which is chock full of irregular verbs and idioms (and not even spoken correctly by people that are supposed to be native speakers), you know what is SUPER helpful . . . ? SOMEONE ELSE CONSTANTLY SPEAKING TO YOU IN JAPANESE. There is only one way to deal with this. I will learn to speak Swahili.
Unazungumza Kiswahili, Daddy? I didn’t think so.
Resolution #3. Figure out how to activate this thing.
Mommy and Daddy gave it to me for Hanukkah. Because every time Mommy takes hers out, I pitch a fit. Until she gives it to me. And, NO, Mommy, your library card is not an acceptable substitute. (LET’S SEE YOU PAY FOR SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIBRARY CARD.) Anyway, for some reason, this card hasn’t been accepted at any of the places I’ve tried to use it. How is a girl supposed to make it through a long, hard winter without a little retail therapy? Whatever. If I can’t figure out how to activate this thing I am SO liquidating my stocks. That’s right, Mommy, STOCKS. Why do you think I’m always trying to “play with” the phone? (By the way, my broker does not appreciate you constantly hanging up on him.)
Okay, last one . . .
Resolution #4: Exercise. This girl needs to get her sweat groove on. Are you with me, America? And, NO, it’s not just cuz I like saying the word Zumba. (Zumba. Zumba. Zummmmba.) And, NO, it’s certainly not because I want to lose this adorable tummy. (HELLS NO: this one-pack is insured by Lloyds of London). I need to start working these pecs because I need strength. I need power, people. Not to put too fine a point on it but: I need to be able to pick up my brother. I’ve noticed that this is what Mommy and Daddy do to ME whenever they (willy nilly) decide that I should be in another location. Like my high chair. Or my crib. Or not inside the cabinet with all the breakables. Whatever. (How am I going to learn if they won’t let me make my own mistakes?) Anyway, my brother has a good twenty pounds on me. He’s hard to relocate. Believe me, I’ve tried. He giggles. Not acceptable, America. NOT. ACCEPTABLE. I think I’m gonna hire a trainer.
So, watch out, folks. Because before 2014 is over, your favorite little fumbling guest blogger (okay, I’m assuming) is going to be a lean, mean, hairy, muscle bound, debt accumulating, Swahili-speaking machine. Hmm. When I say it like that, it feels a little overwhelming. And time consuming. I’m wondering if all these resolutions will interfere with my nap time. Mommy, just so I’m clear, how long do most people hold to their New Year’s resolutions . . . ?
Really? That’s it? Okay. I can do this. Happy New Year, folks.