Felicem natalis diem
“You forgot DocNerd’s birthday?”
Flavius stared up at me in horror. I shifted uncomfortably. Forgetting birthdays wasn’t something his kind of Popularity Sim took lightly.
“Well, no-not forgot-not forgot as such. I just haven’t had time to-well, to produce the sort of present I usually send her.” I neglected to add that this sort of present usually involved soft-core porn featuring one of our distant descendents. It seemed tacky.
“We’re Roman!”
“You’re Roman,” I muttered.
“Romans do not forget birthdays! We practically invented celebrating birthdays!”
I sat down on the triclinium, and tucked my feet up underneath me. “Do please enlighten the barbarian. How would a true Roman go about celebrating Doc’s birthday?”
Flavius began unwinding himself from his senatorial toga, which he’d been knotting up in his distress. “First, we’ll have to find a suitable sacrificial beast-maybe a white bull-and then read the entrails. The haruspex can find out if Doc’s going to have an auspicious year.”
“I don’t think the Weivtnasaelp Board of Sanitation is going to like that. Perhaps we can sacrifice a can of lamb n’ green peas and let the cats decide if those entrails look auspicious.”
Flavius was already jotting names down on an enormous scroll. “I’ll let you handle it the Egyptian way this time. Hmm-of course we ought to invite everyone we know, but I don’t know if I have that all written down anywhere.”
“Why not start out with the telephone directory and cross off the people you don’t know?”
“Good idea,” he said, by now thoroughly embroiled in party preparations. He looked up from the scroll. “Do you think there’s anyone New for me to Meet?” he inquired wistfully.
“I doubt it,” I said honestly. “Just remember that any party can’t start before seven. Ulysses can’t get up before then, or he’ll fry.”
I rang the bell, and Flavius’ gentleman’s personal gentleman, the super-intelligent Servo Jeeves, answered.
“I gather the Senator will be throwing another party. Will you be wishing for me to arrange the usual refreshments, madam?”
“Yes,” I said distractedly, then, “-no. No, I think we ought to order the cake from J’Adore. Something very large. With quite a lot of melted chocolate. And ask Mr. Marius-Jacquet if he would please like to come and bring his husband. And would you also please stop by the following address?”
I gave him the directions to a large Edwardian townhouse in the historic district. “Ask my great-great-great-great-great-grandson . . . .I lose track of the ‘greats,’ Jeeves. It must be increasing age. Max. Tell Max the matriarch of his family requires his presence, and if he jibs, you can jolly well point out that I am a goddess and rarely require anything of him these days other than to go gallivanting around on motorcycles and fooling about in his basement with chemicals, and that I expect him to be present at 7 pip emma this evening in full party regalia. And add that I shall be responsible for forwarding an invitation to the plus one he never bothers to mention and that I shall make the necessary arrangements.”
Jeeves turned to go. “Oh, and Jeeves?”
“Yes, Madam?”
“You might also drop by and personally invite every Simself in town. And secure some alcohol. Quite a lot of alcohol.”
After all, I thought, perhaps some things can simply write themselves.
Happy 25th birthday, Doc!