HEY! It's time for a party! A virtual party, to celebrate my one-year blogoversary AND my birthday. February 11. There is no truth to the rumor that I chose that date so I would always remember it. Nope. I wanted to give myself a gift. So I gave myself permission to seek out writerly things and put my little hobby out there for folks to see. That I had a totally different blog up and running since 2005 did not matter. It's different here at the unbagged cat house. Perhaps I should rephrase that...
The good news about my virtual party is that you're all invited! See? I'm not one of those cool kids who excludes the nose-picker and the mouth-breather and the eyeball-sniffer. Come one, come all. The only thing I ask is that you bring a covered dish for my virtual potluck. Is your imagination too poor to put a cover on your virtual dish? Not to worry. Any snack or beverage will do. Just tell me in the comments what you're bringing.
I must caution you: Don't be THAT guy. The guy who brings a loaf of day-old white bread from the outlet store. A marble rye is acceptable, as long as you don't take it with you when you leave. It matters not to me how you procure it. Chocolate babka, cinnamon babka, all babkas are equal in my eyes. I also enjoy a good nonfat yogurt, lobster bisque, calzones, muffin tops, and big salads. No eclairs off the top of the wastebasket, though.
My party will not be a sit-down, formal affair. No Veal Prince Orloff will be served. I can't pick and choose who amongst you must sit at the tiny table and share a plate. I don't have a maid named Consuela to put out a big spread. And there'll be no mutton, no Gramma Mimma's napkins, no pudding skin singles.
Be ready to be useful. A party does not just throw itself. I might need people to play music, put coats on the bed, sweep up, patrol the fish tank for tappers, keep glasses off my coffee table, and look out for double-dippers. We'll roll back the rug and have a dance contest to see who has the best thumb thing and little kicks.
Because it's my birthday, it might be nice if you whipped up something out of nothing as a homemade gift. A statue of me out of pasta, perhaps. If you're not crafty, I'll gladly accept whatever you re-gifters have to offer. Label Baby Junior? I'm down with that. Cigar Store Indian? Why not, as long as you're not going to be one of those people who gives someone something and then takes it back. I don't expect anything extravagant like a massage chair, or a big-screen TV. A watch your Uncle Leo found in the trash bin will do. A cashmere sweater (without a red dot) would be lovely. But let's get one thing straight. If you give me an astronaut pen, I'm keeping it.
Let's all be on our best behavior. I wouldn't want to saw up my banisters just because somebody got her head caught between them. No peeping in the medicine cabinet. If you smell smoke, do not shove women and children out of your way. No drinking grape juice on the white couch.
See? That's not too many rules. We'll have a fabulous time. Please stop by (with a dish and a gift, of course) and help me celebrate my year of living plagiarously.
I'll start things off. I'm providing my world-famous Chex Mix, and gifting myself with a red Solo cup to use as a pencil-holder.