25

Wednesday was my birthday and I turned halfwayto50 years old. It was a special day, and not in the way my mom thinks I'm "special," according to the birthday card she sent me. Russ decorated my apartment while I was at work and planned a little treasure hunt. I came home and found instructions and a map of where to meet her at DePaul in Lincoln Park. But first I had to find her locker and open it to retrieve my presies. Then we went to dinner at a Mexican restaurant and I had a giant burrito and a giant margarita.

Russ had Christine make my birthday cake(s). She's a lovely pastry chef. Not only did she make me a deliciously rich flourless chocolate cake with a refreshing raspberry layer, she also made four light red velvet birthday cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. PEOPLE, I have not known cake. I have separation anxiety when I go to work.

As soon as I finished my giant piece of cake, I got a serious stomach ache from over eating and had to send Russ home because I thought I was going to throw up.

I did have a birthday epiphany, which sparked from the cards I received from my family. I realized they all had a common, alarming theme. My grandma sent me a card about farting, my uncles Bill and Kent sent me a card about beer drinking, and my uncle Dan sent me a card about burping—all of them accompanied by a line something like, "I couldn't pass this up!" My family thinks I'm a big man. Maybe for my birthday my mom should have gotten me lady lessons. Something other than Miss Bobbie's School of Southern Charm. Obviously that's been counterproductive.