Children On Their Birthdays

Please do not infer from the title of this post that I am about to plagiarize Truman Capote. That would never occur to me and I will thank you not to smirk! It's just that I've been thinking a lot about birthdays as I am prone to do in March. Between TG, me, and our four kids, there are three March birthdays.

Go ahead and label me a curmudgeon! I've been called worse by better people.

Let me pull over here and park for a mo.

Have I ever told you how our family is split down the middle, the sheep divided from the goats? Well, it is. On the one side stand three cool, sensible, prudent, responsible, down-to-earth, principled, look-long-before-you-leap virtuous white sheep. They may not have actual halos but they are equipped with the necessary hardware should such become de rigeur for veal on the hoof.

On the opposite side are three hotheaded, stubborn, impetuous, vocal, emotive, opinionated, look-briefly-after-you-leap-if-at-all shiny, glossy black goats with large, dazzling smiles. The three goats were born in March. I'll let you decide which of us is which. We -- oops! -- they wear tiaras (more sparkle), except for Andrew (you already knew he was numbered among the goats), who favors swanky cufflinks.

Continuing on ...

Now that the March birthdays are behind us for another year, I've been thinking a lot about birthday parties. When our kids were growing up we eschewed traditional classmate-clotted, pinata-bludgeoning, tailless-donkey type shindigs in favor of family-oriented fetes on their birthdays. You know ... the kind where there is homemade lasagna and a gloppy Betty Crocker cake, and you are likely to receive socks as a present.

This was our habit mainly because I was too lazy to send out invitations, hate blowing up balloons, and don't want cake heeled into my carpet by children who never occupied my womb. Also I didn't want other parents buying presents for my kids any more than I wanted to pick out presents for their kids. I kept all that nonsense to a minimum on purpose.

Go ahead and label me a curmudgeon! I've been called worse by better people.

But as the girls grew up, somewhere I got the brilliant idea to give each of them a very special party on their fourteenth birthdays. Stephanie was first. In September of 1994 we planned an elegant luncheon and invited her three closest girlfriends: Jennibeth, Michelle, and someone else. I planned a light menu and displayed baby pictures of Stephanie, along with wee outfits she had worn as an infant, and some of her old toys. So charming! I pressganged Audrey into service as a waitress, a designation with which she was markedly less than whelmed.

Having gone to some trouble and wanting to do it up right, and always keeping a sharp eye for the teachable moment, I pulled Audrey aside toward the end of the meal and issued detailed instructions. "Now Audrey," I said, shoving a platter of food into her fingers (which were limp with apathy). "Go over to Michelle's LEFT side -- because you always serve from the left -- and ask politely if she would like more sandwiches. If she says yes, offer her the plate and wait while she takes some. If she says no, that she's finished, switch to her right side -- because you always remove dishes from the RIGHT -- and quietly take her plate. Okay?" I gave her a gentle nudge Michelle-ward.

Anxious to demonstrate that she considered the caliber of performance specified to be light years beyond her pay grade, Audrey did a slow saunter the length of the kitchen and approached Michelle's left side. Expressionless, she uttered two words: "You done?"

Audrey and Erica had girly luncheons to mark their fourteenth birthdays too ... at tea shoppes with waitstaffs comprised of trained professionals. Score one for the goats.

Lame Of The Game

I began blogging in earnest eight months ago. Since then I have learned lots of stuff I never knew before about this juggernaut that is the global blogging phenomenon, and the infinite amount of it that exists in cyberspace. I think it's here for the duration. Don't forget you heard that here first.

To write about not what you think your audience wants, but what you are simply dying to write about.

I routinely embark upon reconnaissance missions -- fact-finding expeditions as it were -- to determine what else is "out there" beyond the environs of my infinitesimal virtual staked-out postage-stamp-sized blogging milieu. That's because we bloggers are inclined to consistently seek out like-minded blogs which we can read and upon which we can thoughtfully comment, in hopes of establishing mutually profitable cyber-relationships that might result in vital blog-linking. Quid pro quo, y'all. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

One would think that this aforementioned activity, time-consuming as it is prone to be, might impinge upon the blogger's availability to perform the very function that inspired it. Funny though, the more I read blogs and the more I blog myownself, the more subjects spring to mind upon which to base a future post, without my even having to try. And as you know, I always find a way to blog about them. Of course it helps that I do spend quite a bit of time purposely thinking about what to put before you, my four dedicated readers (besides TG, my mom and my kids).

Like for example, last night (or early this morning to be more exact) in a state of half-consciousness (it might not even have been that much but for the sake of getting the story told let's say half) I mentally composed a blog about the spatulas and spatula scrapers lying around my kitchen waiting to be utilized in my infrequent culinary endeavors. Said implements reside in the drawer -- the one between the sink and the stove -- that I dip into while preparing the delicious meals and snacks for which I am quasi-famous. (That's different from queasy-famous.)

Make no mistake: If I blogged like I cook, you might well starve within a week.

But back to subliminal blog composing. In my zzz-fogged brain the post would have been entitled "Silicone or Say Lean" (go ahead; snicker ... you know you want to) and would have involved overt praise of my red silicone spatula scraper (and by proxy, my equally red but much more flaccid silicone muffin "tin" that's designed to endure an oven cranked up to 500 degrees and from which the baked goods all but take wing and fly out) and the way it (the red silicone spatula scraper, that is ... stay with me) just stands so tall, so proud, so head-and-shoulders-above the lame-o white rubber one that can't seem to remain on its black plastic handle (actually TG pitched that one in the trash the other day, thereby saving me the trouble).

Aren't you glad you were spared that one? I mean, come on. Spatulas?

Mercy.

However.

In reading about blogging the other day I came across some excellent comments by celebrity blogger Mark Cuban, owner of the Dallas Mavericks, whoever they are. His advice was to blog only about that which you are passionate. To write about not what you think your audience wants, but what you are simply dying to write about.

Now, lest you doubt, I'm fully aware that no one is ever going to read my blog in the numbers that they read Mr. Cuban's blog, or Mr. Cuban's dog's blog, or even Mr. Cuban's dog's flea's blog. I'll likely never be Google-ranked or singled out by Technorati or win any contests sponsored by BlogCatalog or Digg or del.icio.us for being an up-and-coming blogging star. Last time I checked, no major Internet advertisers were begging me to return their emails. I don't need an agent quite yet and probably won't before time to file for Social Security benefits, if then.

But I promise: When I blog, I will say what is in my heart and every attempt will be made for it to be at least marginally interesting ... even if it's only about rating the gravitas of my personal cooking tools. If you read, I sincerely hope it is enjoyable for you but I know it is for me. And I humbly thank you, as do my spatulae.