...to which the Clack House can probably attest. g

I’ve always loved birthdays. Every time I have to fill out a questionnaire, under “favorite food,” I always write “birthday cake.” And I’m not picky about what kind it is, either -- upscale flourless, old fashioned bakery, or grocery store freezer case, chocolate or yellow or lemon or cheesecake -- I love them all equally.

And it isn’t just the cake. I love the candles, the decorations, the cards, the idea of honoring someone annually just for making it through another year. I don’t know why. I only wish I knew more people -- I sing “Happy Birthday” to strangers in restaurants and look up birthday trivia for people I’ve never met.

Maybe it’s because I’m a twin and never had a birthday to call my own. Always had to go out and buy a present, even though it was MY birthday. Always had to share the cake and the party. In my father’s photo albums, there are photos of my brother and me from every birthday, starting with side-by-side highchairs and one candle in the cake (which I doubt they let us eat), through the gender-specific outfits (cowboy and cowgirl, Indian and squaw, Raggedy Andy and Raggedy Ann, Superman and Wonder Woman, Captain Kirk and ...well...some woman crew member...oh, you get the idea). In all of the photos, I’m wearing an expression of simmering resentment. Which finally boiled over at age eight, when I threw a tantrum and demanded my own party. (My brother must’ve been so sick of my famewhoring by then). In later years, he and I started dispensing with the formalities -- we’d make a shopping trip a few days before the big day, and we’d each buy ourselves the thing we wanted. Then we’d exchange them, take them home, wrap them up, present them to each other at the family party, and act surprised. And our parents were none the wiser. Wish we still had the time to do that. And that my parents were still around to be hoodwinked.

Outside of picking out the funniest card -- a very enjoyable pastime, and I like to stockpile the really good ones -- my favorite aspect of birthdays is finding the perfect gift. In my opinion, the ideal birthday present is: a) something the person really, really wants (bonus points if they haven’t told anyone and you managed to find out somehow) b) something luxurious and decadent that they would never dream of buying for themselves (bonus points if you managed to get said luxurious item without maxxing out your credit card) c) something ingenious and personal that makes them laugh like crazy d) any or all of the above

I once had a rather eccentric but charming British boss who loved black. All her clothes were black. Her furniture was black, her car was black, her dogs were black, her jewelry was black -- black, black, black. (I’ll give her this -- she was easy to buy for.) I once convinced her favorite florist to spray paint a big floral arrangement black. Another year, I bought her a big glass bowl of black marbles for her desk. That backfired, though, when one day her husband mistook them for malted milk balls -- extensive dental work ensued. My proudest moment came when I convinced my coworkers to go in on a more expensive gift -- we bought up as many boxes of Crayola crayons as we could get on sale, and subsequently presented her with an all-black box of 64 Crayolas. I was honored to encounter it a few years later at her house -- when I went up to collect my coat at a party, I found it displayed in a Plexiglas shadow box on her bedroom wall.

I must take after my aunt -- for my 40th birthday, she gave me a shoebox. Inside, were 40 paperclips strung together like a necklace, a 40-watt lightbulb, 40 uncooked macaronis, a deck with 40 cards in it, a box of 40 pushpins, a gift card to a store in the amount of $40, a roll of 40 pennies, etc., etc. Clever, I had to admit. And I started to wonder about her sanity as she got older -- after decades of exchanging saccharine birthday cards featuring kitties and bunnies and puppies, out of the blue one year my sweet, pure Southern Baptist aunt sent me a card with two side-by-side Xs on the front instructing me to open it holding it down at my waist. When I did, I was startled to see this message: “Here’s where your tits have ended up.” Well, after that the game was on, and the cards flying back and forth have gotten raunchier every year. I don’t think she shows them to my uncle.

Today I had to come up with a birthday gift for a close coworker of mine -- a high-strung workaholic who chews gum incessantly and never leaves her desk. Seriously, I think she’s got a chamber pot under there. Correction: the only time she leaves her desk is to beg people for gum -- she never has time to buy any. The other day I managed to trick her into telling me her favorite flavor. Then it was off to The Container Store to buy a tall $5 clamp-lid Mason jar and a wine bottle gift bag, and then to the drugstore to buy out their supply of Wrigley Extra Sugarless Cool Green Apple. Then I spent some time pulling 200 pieces of wrapped gum from the packages and putting them in the jar. Think she’ll like it? Although if I have to smell Wrigley Extra Sugarless Cool Green Apple gum ever again, I think I’ll puke.

So I’ll probably be giving her a wide berth for a while. I hope she has a happy birthday. Maybe I’ll hear about it afterwards.