Bitchyface

So when I was in Colorado hanging out with my niece, I taught her lots of stuff. She's only ten weeks old but in the sevenn days I was there I taught her how to spit up milk on my pants, and how to let someone give her a bath. I taught her how to watch Oprah and how to fart loudly so that it reverberates against your diaper if you're sitting on someone's lap. She aced all these tasks. Obviously, she 's quick on the uptake; she has a lot of knowledge to gain from her big city Auntie and this is only the beginning.

My brother in law bought an "I Love New York" onesie for my niece when she was born; he had recently visited the city and really enjoyed his time here. One day while I was in Colorado my sister put the onesie on the baby so I decided that THAT was the appropriate day to teach my niece an essential New York City talent: bitchyface.

If you're a woman lucky enough to enjoy any hint of attractiveness (i.e., you DON'T have a goiter hanging off your face and you weigh under 350 pounds), it's likely you'll endure daily harrassment on the streets or in the subway, several times a day if you remembered to comb your hair that morning. "Bitchyface,"-- a steely-eyed, pursed-lip, silent rebuttal to all this nonsense -- is a necessary evil. If I walked around with a smile on my face all day long, street harassers would probably see it as some kind of invitation to stick their dirty fingers into the waistband of my jeans, or worse. And no one wants that.

It was high time my niece learned this skill. So right before we took this picture, I leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Now give the camera a look like you wish it was DEAD."

I think she'd get along real good in New York: all cuteness and cuddle on the outside. Until you look into her eyes and see: ICE.



(And that's the end of indulgent baby pictures. I promise, this won't turn into Dooce.)