A piece of advice

The first time I had to take Deb to the hospital was when she got food poisoning. She didn't feel well, so she asked me to speak for her at the emergency room check-in.

When they asked her birthday, I turned to her.

"You don't know my birthday?" she asked, in a tone I imagine she would've used if I had just admitted that I didn't know nose picking wasn't socially acceptable.

In my defense, if I was good with any sort of numbers, I could've gone farther in life, I feel. As it is, dates are numbers, so there you go.

So I learned her birthday. Aug. 23, 1965. 8/23/65. I worked at it. I got to remembering as easily as I remembered my own. I memorized it so I would never hear that tone again.

A couple of years later, some guys at work was planning a guys' night out. We were going to catch a Sky Sox game (the Colorado Rockies minor league team) on 50-cent hot dog night. Baseball, cheap eats, beer ... toss in a cigar and it would've been perfect.

So I tell Deb my plans.

"A guy's night out," she says.

"Yep."

"On Wednesday."

"Yep."

"The 23rd."

"Yep."

"Of August."

That tone was back.

Needless to say, there was no guy's night out for this guy.

So, fellas, here's that advice. Don't just memorize her birthday. Write it down on every calendar. Put up Post-Its all over your computer. Tattoo it someplace conspicuous. Do whatever you have to do to remember it, because whenever you forget it, you'll get that tone, and brother, that ain't good.

You'll thank me one day.