Where's Jake Ryan when you need him?

Yo, it's my birthday.

I'm gonna party like it's my birthday.

Which is to say, not at all. My husband is 3000 miles away so it's just me and Chicky. And the dogs. Maybe I'll throw us a bacon party. That will make everyone happy.

Bacon makes everything better.

We'll be like the pigeon in the Mo Willems books, except instead of a hot dog party we'll have a bacon party. And of course we'll invite Knuffle Bunny. Because nothing says a swinging good time more than a children's book about lost bunnies. I hear copies will be handed out at Diddy's next party.

And cupcakes! We can make cupcakes and gorge ourselves on frosting.

Bacon and cupcakes. Two great tastes that don't really go well together. But we're going to try it just to make sure.

Yeah, so, 35. I'm 35 years old. I wanted to write some grandiose post looking back on the last five years since I entered my thirties but it's really kind of a downer. Lots of death, lost jobs, a bit of depression, a butt load of uncertainty and self doubt. In other words things I'd rather not think about today.

I met my girlfriends and their kids at the park this morning and they brought me a coffee cake with "Happy 35th" and my name written in frosting on the top. That was nice.

My Nana left me a birthday message on my answering machine this morning, complete with music from her amazing singing birthday candle. That was nice.

Mr. C just called and sang the first two words of "Happy Birthday" to me. That was really nice. For about two seconds, until he told me he went to a totally nude strip club last night. In his defense I know he hates those places. It was "business". And I'm sure a lot of "business" is done in places where women flash you their coochies. I wonder if I should be worried about the flowers that were just delivered.

Where was I? Oh, my birthday. Yeah...

It's 78 degrees and sunny today. That's nice too.

Bacon and frosting and flowers and cake and musical candles... I should be happy right? Yeah, not so much.

I don't know why I always feel so blah on my birthday, it's not like traffic cops and mail carriers are going to stop what they're doing and serenade me from the street, complete with a dance routine and jazz hands. Though how cool would that be?

I think it started way back when I was 16 and nobody wished me a happy birthday until well after I had returned home from school. I shit you not, I was Molly-freaking-Ringwald for a good ten hours.

Or maybe it started on the day I turned 13 and my mom made her famous shoe leather steak and I choked on a bite, necessitating a maneuver cum Heimlich at the hands of my father. I still eat my food in really small bites.

And you'd think being that my birthday is on the thirteenth that the ones falling on Fridays would be horrible. Nope. Just the opposite. Those are always the best ones. Today is Thursday. So what does that tell you?

Screw it, I'm going to make my own party. We will have the aforementioned bacon and cupcakes party (but not together because the more I think about it it's really making me nauseous) and I'll cop a squat on the couch this evening and watch John Hughes movies. I've already been listening to albums from my youth for the past 24 hours and I will continue to do so even if my air keyboard solo during "That was Yesterday" only got me eye rolls from Chicky. She didn't even like my Lloyd Dobler impression during "In Your Eyes". I suppose something is lost when you're holding an iPod dock in two hands instead of a boom box.

But for now I'll just take a nap and hope to dream about Jake Ryan whisking me away to private birthday party for two in his little red Porsche. I won't even feel awkward about thanking him for getting my undies back.