Birthdays have never been that huge in my family. About the only big thing was whatever you wanted for dinner, you got. That was about the only thing you wanted that you actually got (for the most part, but i'll cover that in a bit) This all has to do with the fact that my father was born on Christmas Eve, and in his family, there was a special dinner reserved for that day...everyone else to got eat what they wanted for their birthdays, he got to eat Oyster Stew...needless to say, my father HATES Oyster Stew (tho with a name like that, i an hardly blame him).
I don't really remember most of my birthdays...and the ones i do remember generally sucked to begin with, so that's why i remember them. Like my 17th birthday...My parents were in Palm Beach for a golf tournament. They don't even like golf. But, being the youngest, and the only girl, i did manage to milk it for all i could. I got a car and a two week trip to Spain (yes, i am a spoiled rotten brat, thanks for asking =-) ). So people who wonder why they can't guilt me into doing anything that's why...i'm the Queen of Guilt. No, really...my 16th birthday, i was still pissed at my parents for moving to Fort Lame...so i guilted them into sending me to Boston for five weeks...(ok so i only stayed three of those weeks, but that's a long story involving my first and only time being a narc) My 18th birthday, i managed to guilt my parents into letting me to go Maine for two weeks (instead of staying home alone while they were God knows where) and also on a choir tour of Europe for a month...and those are the only presents i remember...the ones i milked out of them.
That's what birthdays are all about, anyway...guilt. At least, that's my humble opinion (okay james, you can stop laughing now, YES, my opinions ARE humble...but they're also always right...and BTW, jorena, i'm NOT opinionated...the p.c. term is 'Opinion Enhanced'...LMAO) And the key to it all is storing up the minor stuff...It's not the trump cards that count...it's the rest of the deck...I have been milking one minor event for 18 years...I was dropped on my head by my next door neighbor (I've heard all the jokes, i don't need a repeat, thankyouverymuch) For all these years, any time he says something i don't like, or won't do something i want him to, all i have to do is put my hand on the back of my head, look down at the ground (to prepare myself...) look back up at him with my big brown puppy dog eyes, and say...in that little girl voice that all women should have perfected by the time they're 12..."But...but...you dropped me on my head when i was four..." and anything i want is mine...if i really wanted to, i could probably guilt him into marrying me because of it...but that would be too cruel. Behold, the power of Guilt.
Back to birthdays and why they suck, in my whole life, i've had three birthday parties...one when i was in first grade...i don't remember anything from that one except that there were more guys there than girls...=-) And two when i was in high school, both of which were the lamest excuses for parties i've ever seen...i know that this is because i let my (former...thank God) friend Maren plan them. But of those two...one sticks out in my memory...It was doomed from the moment i mentioned having a party. I wanted to go to this Japanese restaurant in town, you know, the kind where they cook your meal right in front of you...and i told her to make the reservations at least a week in advance, for around 7:00. She made them the day before at 5:00, so none of us were hungry.
One of the more widely known facts about me is that i HATE having my picture taken...cameras hate me, i always look like a reject from the fat farm. Well, Maren, being the camera-happy-i'm-the-editor-of-the-yearbook-so-kiss-my-ass that she was, decided to take pictures at the restaurant, AFTER i'd specifically asked her NOT to. So i got a little pissy with her (ok, the cook was taking bets on which one of us would walk out of the place alive...i was the odds-on favorite). THEN...there was the cake...
All my friends knew that at that particular point in my life, i was a little obsessed with half naked men (ok, so i havent gotten out of it, and probably never will...and little is probably the understatement of the year...i LOVE men...clothed or unclothed...preferably un.) Anyway, Maren knew of this little bakery that made these cakes that she KNEW i'd like...and proceeded to tell me about it for well over a month, without actually coming out and saying what was on the cake. However, as most of you already know, and some of you actually acknowledge, i am not dumb. Figuring out what was going to be on that cake was not hard. So, there i am, standing in the kitchen of my house...Maren's showing the cake to eeryone, and they're all giggling, and i'm like 'uh..ok...i'm tired...let's get on with it.' So i'm leaning over the cake, and they take the cover off...Maren's posed with her camera and i'm asking myself why i didn't break it in the restaurant...and i look down to see exactly what i knew i would..a sheet cake with white icing, and as the decoration, a wrinkled old naked dude, holding a newspaper over his genitals...so i say 'gee, that's nice...um, i don't like cake (which is the truth), and i'm tired, so i'm going to bed...g'nite' and went up to my room...Needless to say, Maren and i didn't speak to each other much after that.
So, your next birthday, remember the lesons i have learned in life...Guilt is a WONDERFUL thing and a cake with a wrinkly old naked man holding a newspaper is only funny if you don't know beforehand what's on it. But this is MY birthday, dammit...and i have to work on my birthday...but i won't complain, my father always had to work on his birthday, so i shall work on mine...I will however, use it to guilt my boss into giving me a raise...
Anyway, may i be the first to wish myself a very happy birthday, and be one of few to wish myself many, many more...LOL
