As time passes, there are more and more birthdays to be remembered by those fortunate enough to have large families.
There are the kids, grown or small, and the grandchildren, the nieces and nephews, the godchildren, the siblings, and, of course, the spouse.
Keeping track of all these dates isn’t easy.
I now use a high-tech computer calendar program that automatically beeps and whistles and flashes a message when a birthday is approaching.
My wife, who takes warped pride in her computer illiteracy, uses a low-tech $2 paper calendar stuck to the refrigerator for such events. It seems to work, which I find infuriating.
But between the two systems, we manage to avert forgetting to stuff a bauble into the grabby hands of a greedy child and being blamed if he later turns into an international drug dealer.
So I don’t need any more such responsibilities.
Which is why I was startled when I received a fax marked “URGENT” from an aide to an official in Cook County government.
I’m not going to identify this official or his office, for reasons that will become obvious.
The message from his aide said: “I would greatly appreciate it if you would acknowledge (the official’s) birthday, as per the attached news release.
“Mister (the official) is the Cook County (job title), a prominent attorney and a businessman. He has contributed greatly to the county and state.”
The second page of the fax provided the name of the man’s law firm–including those of his partners–and a list of the many civic organizations to which he belongs.
It ended by saying, “All of his friends and co-workers wish him a very happy 39th birthday.”
That’s nice. But I’m not one of his friends and co-workers. I wouldn’t know the guy if he walked into my office and tap-danced on my desk.
And while the bureaucratic office he holds could be considered important, he is not exactly a household name.
So I looked at the fax and wondered why this man’s aide wanted me to acknowledge his boss’ birthday. And how I was expected to do it–send him a card, a gift or maybe throw a party for him at Chuck E Cheese and help him blow out the candles on his cake?
The aide answered her phone and a few questions.
“Why am I doing this? We just wanted to wish him a happy birthday because he does so much for everyone. So it would be wonderful to get him recognized on his birthday.”
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And how are we do this? Maybe hire a stripper to show up at his office and sing a bump-and-grind version of “Happy Birthday”?
“Oh, no, it would be enough for him to get a happy birthday greeting in the column.”
So that’s it. I don’t even get to go to a party and pop balloons and eat some artery-clogging gooey cake.
But I’m expected to slip a line into my column that says something like: “Hey, everybody, birthday greetings to Joe Blow, who you don’t know and I don’t know but who runs a really dull bureaucratic agency in Cook County government. Happy 39th, old buddy.”
Which led to the next question: What is so significant about this person turning 39?
His aide said: “Uh, actually, he will be 50, I think.”
Fifty? But in the urgent fax you said he will be 39.
“Well, you see, he’s a little sensitive about his actual age. But couldn’t we just say that he’s 39? Would that be appropriate?”
Appropriate? Not only am I asked to confuse readers by wishing a total stranger a happy birthday but I am supposed to lie about his age.
In that case, why make it 39? Why not go for the big fib and say: “Happy birthday from this column to the widely unknown Joe Blow, who turns 15 today, which makes him the youngest Cook County official and law firm partner in history. The precocious lad says he expects to try shaving quite soon.”
No, it is not appropriate. I don’t lie about my age–just look at the mug shot in this column. So why should I mislead the readers of this newspaper about the age of Joe Blow? So he is sensitive about turning 50. Do what any sensible, mature man does at that stage in life–buy a youthful hairpiece, join the East Bank Club, flatten those abs and tempt a young tart with shiny baubles. Act your age, man.
“One other thing,” the aide said. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
A surprise? Ah, now that has real possibilities. Yes, how about if I come leaping out from behind a chair and say: “Surprise, surprise–how much of the taxpayers’ money is your aide spending on dumb faxes that ask journalists to lie about your age?”
As a gift, I’ll bring him some cardiac pills.