Happy Birthday, Mr. Pres-i-dent

There was a day after I first went to college, when I was sitting in a hot roach-infested dorm room that had formerly been an army barrack with tin walls and a gun rack in every cell. If I had balls they would have been glued to my leg, it was that hot, and I had been getting my hat handed to me all day in the gauntlet of preseason soccer madness. Moreover, I was home sick as all get out and my sister (yes, the advertising executive) called to tell me she was at a party in NYC with Lil Kim and Dr J.

I was suddenly overcome with the awareness that I was in the middle of nowhere slaving away at something where no one would ever notice whilst my sister was kicking back rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. And all of a sudden the two of us, born a year and a half apart, having shared a bunk bed and bicycles and toys our whole lives, seemed to be worlds apart.

When I look back on it now I don't feel like I missed a thing. In fact if you gave me the choice, today, and if my body could handle it still, I would rather be in that dorm room preparing for another day on the pitch in the middle of nowhere and I would be happy as a clam to know it wasn't going to get me anywhere in life. But at the time it was hard to be happy for her or for myself.

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That same semester I sat and watched a certain US president on the television screen in my room. I was typing a paper on post-apocalyptic literature (I am underwhelmed by my former self) while I watched. Although I thought him the best president in my lifetime I was appalled by some of the words that came out of his mouth and by some of the programs he proposed which to me, in my very literal political period, seemed like blatant violations of state's rights.

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Nowadays my sister and I chat most frequently through text messages or on IM.

She sends me little notes:

South by Southwest rocks. Spent the day with Belle and Sabastian. Check the pics.

In London. Haven't eaten all week. Everything has curry in it. Beer is gross.

This is your sister, your hungover sister. How's Wyoming?

Saw Bowie last night. Begged him to sign my pay stub. He said no.

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A few weeks ago my sister told me what I have come to think of as a typical Julie story. That is to say it involved famous people, making a fool of yourself, and coming out of the whole ordeal on top, somehow.

So, my sister's pal who works for an undisclosed former president, the same president I sat watching in my dorm room at Clemson, sent my sister an email inviting her to sign said ex-president's birthday card. My sister who imagines herself to have a keen nose for bullshit smelled a practical joke and decided to take steps to keep herself atop the haha-wave.

She went to the website and wrote a terse and heartfelt birthday greeting. It read:

Happy Birthday Big Boy,
Am I allowed to call you that? Here's to 60 more years of sexy. Enjoy.

She then replied to her friend's email saying:

I just sent a little message to the birthday boy. I'’m now waiting for secret service to pick me up from work.
Thanks.

When recounting the story to me she said that her email, "Naturally prompted an urgent phone call," from her friend during which she became very aware that this had not, in fact, been a practical joke. It was a real birthday card. A real birthday card that she had signed, in a moment of great flair, with her real name. Her full name. You may or may not be aware of the fact that my sister and I inherited two last names from our incredibly indecisive parents. So she signed the note, hyphen and all, Julia Xxxxx-Xxxxxxxxxx. So, there was no mistaking her for a different Julia Xxxxx. It was definitely THE Julia Xxxxx-Xxxxxxxxxxx.

My sister's friend had invited her to sign the note because she was to be a guest at the ex-president's party the following week.

For ten or eleven straight days after my sister told me this story my mom and I walked around the house role-playing the following scenario:

Julie enters the gala-party-ball event like Cinderella in her gown. Trumpets blast. All eyes turn to her. She is radiant. She stands atop a long stairwell covered with a wide, lush red carpet. A loud voice calls out, "Presenting Miss Julie Xxxxx-Xxxxxxxxxxx of the Lower West Side." A light flashes in the ex-presidents mind. He knows he knows that name, but where? Where does he know this radiant creature from? He leans to his personal attendant and without being otherwise prompted his man whispers in his robotic attendant voice into the ex-president's ear, "Hello big boy. Is it okay if I call you that?"

Julie said that she went and read through the other signatures on the ex-president's card. They went on about his humanitarian efforts, about his strength of character, about his composure in the face of great adversity. But, I told her, "The thing he will always remember is that wonderful little tart that cut through the pomp and circumstance and made him feel alive. Joke or no joke."

While my sister was preparing for her big night with her big boy ex-president I was outside watching birds swoop and catch flies in mid air. The sun was setting through the trees. A child was laughing. The geese were flying south and my dog stood in her spot, whining at the fence, praying in her doggy language for the neighbor dog to come out and pine to copulate with her through the chain links of propriety that keep them apart.

On the phone I asked Julie if she had practiced her personal platform. She said, "I'm wearing a gown and heels. There are not going to be any platforms, shoes or otherwise." And I said to her, "If you can only say one thing, remember: gender equality, gen-der e-qual-ity."

My sister, in her own magical way, had no interest in the political aspects of the evening. She wanted to have a good time. She spent the night talking about normal things with a crowd of less than normal men who got to loosen their ties and put their respective hats on the hook for the evening to celebrate the most natural of things, the passing of another year.

In her way of keeping things in perspective she told me the following day, "The party was great. Big dicks swinging all over the place. No one remembered the card."

Of course, my sister gets invited to these things precisely for her ability to keep her personal politics - which are very enlightened for a heterosexual, white, blonde haired, blue eyed, upper middle class, 20-something advertising executive - to herself. I couldn't have done it and I will never get the chance to prove myself wrong. But in the end, I am glad it was her and not me that went. After all, what would I have written about if it had been me?