I sit here in front of you a total failure of a mother. This blog is the closest thing I have to a child and yet, on May 6th she turned one year old and I completely and totally didn’t even realize it. What kind of parent forgets their child’s FIRST birthday? I mean my parents forgot to pick me up at someone else’s birthday once, but that’s like a totally different ball game. I bet they remembered MY birthday, especially the first one. I mean I can see screwing up when the kid’s like, 32, or some other random, non-milestone age. But Porky is only 1 and I’ve already sorely disappointed in my recognition of her birth. I mean?! On mother’s day I thought to myself “hm, weird, I bet it’s been about a year since I started my blog.” Because I distinctly remembered making and writing about a disastrous rhubarb crumb cake that I made for last mother’s day. And then, like a shady friend who realizes they’ve screwed up, I avoided this blog. I side stepped around her to other websites, websites that demanded nothing of me, where I could go to avoid her accusatory gaze. Until yesterday, when I once again remembered my probable neglect and decided to take a peek.
Yep. Sure enough, on May 6, 2009 I took my first hesitant steps into the blogosphere. It’s funny to look back on because at the time the idea of actually keeping this up was just a way to get me out of a rut, creatively speaking. I felt like I had too much time on my hands. Now I’m like Jesse Spano “time?! There’s never enough TIME?!” Oh and I kept Porky a secret at first. I had posted at least twice before I even had the nuts to tell Paul about it. And now, I find myself squeezing in posts at the last minute on a Friday morning, staying up late to upload photos of something I made the week before. I mean, what the heck is wrong with me? Have I gotten too comfortable? Is this the relationship equivalent of letting myself go? I feel like Ronald Miller in Can’t Buy Me Love (jeez, can I come up with any more ridiculous cultural references in this post?) you know where I once doted on Porky and even sunk my life savings into purchasing a suede outfit for her, now I’m like wearing mousse in my hair and cut off sleeve tee shirts, vandalizing my former best friend’s house and reciting poems that Porky wrote me to some other skanky blog, with no regard for her feelings.
Well, I’m here today first and foremost to apologize and to rededicate myself. I will never forget Porky’s birthday again. In fact, I’m going to put it as an annual reminder in my Google calendar. How’s that for dedication? I hope that Porky and I can grow old together and that I never let myself get too comfortable again. In the meantime, I will just do what I do best and try and nudge myself back into her good graces with first a cocktail, followed by some chicken wings and ice cream cake (from Carvel). Once we have gorged ourselves on cake and chicken, I will give her a spa gift certificate, a homemade coupon book full of favors from me, fine Swiss chocolates and perhaps, a proper post with actual recipes and photographs. I am so sorry my little blog. I hope you can forgive me.
Here’s to one year (and one week) of food, photos, fables, bad jokes and entirely too many exclamation points and parenthesis (I have a problem). Happy Birthday Porky Dickens. I love you so.