Fifty. Schmifty.

We just attended a birthday party for our friend Greg, who will be turning 50. His wife, Jen did a fantastic job on the whole party, including the fact that it was a surprise. She managed to plan the shindig, content in the fact that he is so self-absorbed that he wouldn't suspect a thing.

Now, for me, it was really tough avoiding them for the last week or so, because everybody knows that I'd blow it. And blow it big. At the last minute. Something like:''See you Sunday at The Caboose for your big fiftieth birthday party at 5:00, Greg!" But that's just me.

I could get into a psychological discussion here about how much I hate surprises, how I need to be prepared, how my main fear is that of the unknown. But that would be making this all about me.

Oh, wait. This *is* all about me.

About how I was put in charge of picking up the single-most important facet of any birthday: The Cake. And how I didn't eff it up in the spectactular manner to which I've gained reknown.

Jen called me on Thursday, and took me up on my offer to help out. Her Mom couldn't get the cake from the bakery, like she'd planned, and since I was the closest to both the bakery and the venue, would I do it? This I was glad to do for her.

So, there I sat. Armed with the phone number of the contact person at the bakery. Many thoughts went through my mind. Like, would I ruin it if I called and had them change the inscription on the cake? Something tasteful, such as "Kiss My Fat Ass. I'm Fifty!" Or, as put so eloquently before: "Eat Me! I'm Fifty!"

I did, however call to inquire what flavor of cake Jen had ordered, because I'm not above changing a cake order to one I prefer. One time, the Mother of the Bride had chosen a carrot cake for the bridal shower. I'm sorry, but if you're ordering carrot cake in JUNE you deserve to have me step in and make a switch to strawberry shortcake with whipped cream icing. Because carrot cake is just wrong in Summer. Or at any other time of the year for that matter. And, really, what are you going to say when the perfect cake that you didn't ask for rolls into the shower?

So while I didn't change any of Jen's order, I did pick up some candles that weren't sanctioned. It was for all our safety. I've seen sleeves lit on fire while igniting fifty of those tee-tiny candles. So I got sparklers. And those party poppers that spray glitter and foil confetti streamers everywhere. Because if candles are good, candles and sparklers and poppers are better.

So Saturday comes around, and we go to pick up the cake. The problem was that I didn't know under whose name the order was placed. I couldn't call Jen, because then I'd ruin something. So the bakery lady brought out four cakes before we found the right one. You know. The one that said "Happy Birthday, Greg!" Duh.

But here's the thing: the cake was decorated with a big rainbow on top. And Greg is an ex-army pilot who works for the FAA. All his old army buddies, his airplane mechanic co-workers, and his new FAA inspector guys were going to be at the party. It was no time for "don't ask, don't tell" discussions. And this cake had all the trappings of Let Your Freak Flag Fly. But I persevered and left with the cake.

So this is the part where I tell you that as I left I tripped over the threshold and splatted the cake all over the sidewalk, right? Nope. Completely uneventful. I got everything to the Caboose without a hitch.

We all behaved ourselves. Nobody drank too much box wine. I drink my merlot right from the box spigot everyday...that picture is nothing special. Lori has raised putting stuff up her nose all to a fine art. Ron will always eat mashed potatoes off the giant buffet spoon. Kevin likes to schmear the blue icing over his teeth to see if it'll stain. Greg will launch into his Elvis imitation; all you have to do is ask. Because he *is* a hunkahunka burnin' love. And Jen...well Jen's undies will be shown at some point in the evening. We were really good. The discussion didn't devolve into bodily functions until after everybody went home, and we were outside.

Everybody gets older everyday. You're only young for a little while. You're only fifty once. But you can be immature forever.