When we were in the hospital waiting for Sophia to come, I checked online to see who she would share her birthday with. November 30th turned out to be quite a day of birthdays: the great American writer Mark Twain, the British satirist Jonathan Swift, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, the artist Gordon Parks, the politician Shirley Chisholm, American Bandstand host and the guy who stores his head in a freezer in between television appearances Dick Clark, leader of the hippies Abbie Hoffman, author David Mamet, crooked lipped 80s rocker Billy Idol, and, of course, American Idol champ and the number one reason why I barely watch television… Clay Aiken.
It seemed a great day to be born. My child would share his or her birthday with my favorite author (Twain) and other great American and British artists and politicians. But as the day wore on and it seemed like Jacqui’s stubborn cervix might hold things up for a day, I went online again to check December 1. The three most interesting birthday’s on the 1st were comedians Richard Pryor and Woody Allen and smaltzy actress and singer Bette Midler. Judging on birthdays on that day alone, December 1st seemed not such a great day to be born. Though Allen and Pryor were great comedians, one had a penchant for hookers and cocaine, and the other for his daughter. And would the cosmic influence of sharing a birthday with Midler steer our child into a career as a two-bit lounge singer? I immediately called for the doctor and demanded a C-section so the baby would be born on the 30th.
I take it as a good birthday influence that Sophia has already begun to pen her first novel, a satirical examination of today’s baby industry, written in saliva and spit up on the walls of her bassinet. Anybody know a good agent?