They say it's your birthday.

When I was 7, birthdays were a very big deal. There were banners, cakes, parties, and games. It would be decades before I acknowledged my mother's creative abilities, but I'm sure that crafting Bert & Ernie pinatas out of papier-mache was harder than it looked. Birthday cakes were decorated by a woman named Lavonne, who lived on the gravel road next to our gravel road, and whose last name was something that sounded like 'pastry', but wasn't. My chosen cake design was probably something lame like rainbows and hearts, destined to be outdone by my sister's racecar theme a few months later. Still, seven was a good year, I think. Seven was fun. Seven felt like roller skates and surprises.

After that, birthday parties got smaller before they got bigger again. Thirteen was tough. Thirteen felt like devastating crushes and Firehouse songs. Seventeen was better. Seventeen felt like bonfires and ambition. I don't really remember birthdays in college until the year I turned 21. I remember twenty-one. Twenty-one felt like 99 Bananas and shame.

My 24th birthday fell during my first few weeks of law school. I'd chosen a school three states away in a city where I didn't know anyone. My mother, more confident than I in my ability to make friends quickly, called a local grocery store and ordered me a cake. She seemed certain that I would be celebrating with new friends, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that I hadn't made any yet. When I picked up my cake and handed over my last twenty-five dollars, I looked down into the box. "Happy Birthday Pammi." Pammi, which is not my name. Pammi, which is the worst name in the history of names. Pammi, who I think was the panda on Shirt Tails. After I got back to my apartment and unsuccessfully attempted to turn the "P" into a "T" with my finger, I started eating the cake directly out of the box and didn't stop until I'd eaten the entire thing two weeks later. Twenty-four was not good. Twenty-four felt like bulimia and failure.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Over the past several days, I've celebrated with family, co-workers, teammates, and my very best friends. Tomorrow, my friend Jackie will call and, for the 14th consecutive year, will sing me a song. Penelope will leave a message on my phone in a ridiculous voice that I won't understand. And one more time this year, with old friends, I will blow out the candles. Like every birthday before, this one feels different. It's more complicated than 7 but less confusing than 17...more sensible than 21 and less absurd than 24. As more time passes, I don't know exactly what I'll remember from this year, but I've loved those who have been a part of it. So thanks, guys, because I can't imagine thirty-one feeling any better than this.

belly full of baby in a shotgun wedding

I got a letter from my health insurance company today telling me how to get pregnant.

"Dear Unfortunate Lawyer: We have analyzed medical claims data that indicate you might be interested in or are pursuing treatment for infertility. We want to make you aware that UnitedHealthcare has infertility services available to you..."

Wow, UnitedHealthcare. Wow, did you ever get that one wrong.

"You and your partner have access to a network of superior services...etc, etc...we look forward to helping you on your journey."

Really? Do you? Because I could list 1,000 things that I want right now, and exactly none of those things would be "baby." In fact, if there's one thing I dislike more than the sound of children playing, it's the sound of children singing. And if there's one thing I detest more than the sound of children singing, it's the sound of babies crying. But sure, let's do this. Let's embark on this beautiful journey together. A journey that started, apparently, with me changing my birth control prescription, and progressed to you writing me letters about my unwanted child and a "partner" that I don't have. Thanks. I can't wait to see where we go from here.

What the $#@%!

When people go out to dinner, they normally do not order dessert. That has been my experience and it kind of pisses me off. People will inevitably say no when the waiter comes by the table and asks if anyone is interested in dessert. Why? Why don't you want any dessert? You're too full? Really? I don't think so. I think you're just too afraid to say you want dessert because you think people will secretly judge you.

There is, however, a time when almost everyone will order dessert. That is when it's someone's birthday. But here's the thing: if it's someone's birthday, there will usually be a group of people and they will only order ONE DESSERT. I went out to dinner for three of my friends' birthdays in January. And of course this is what happened.

I sat in my corner of the table silently brewing over the complete absurdity of the decision to order one dessert for eight people. How does that make sense? How is that logical? IT'S NOT. But I told myself to relax. Everything would be okay. The fact that my friends think it's just FINE to order one dessert for eight people would probably mean that I would not get to have very much of it. I reassured myself that I could always go to the McDonald's drive thru and get a sundae afterward. Because I do things like that.

When the dessert came, everyone took one bite. No one seemed to care about it. Pretty soon I was eating that entire thing by myself.

I ain't that baby's daddy, but I treat him like my own.

Lawyers make mistakes: we miss deadlines, we forget things in our calculations, and sometimes we just lose when we really should have won.

Occasionally, on an ill-fated Friday, we ask the wrong person for sperm.

I think the lesson here is that when your job is to ask a young father to donate sperm to the mother of his child, so that she can have another baby, you shouldn't just grab the file on the top of your stack and dial the number. Because you might end up asking a 50-year old, divorced, happily re-married man if his ex-wife (whom he divorced 10 years ago) can please have some of his sperm in a cup. And when he sounds confused and asks what, exactly, you're talking about, you might repeat the entire pitch one more time before realizing that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong.

It could happen. I'm just saying.

In your hallucination, were the "C"s open or closed?

Boss #6 is back in the office after a case of pneumonia.

"You know," he said, "When I was laying there - sick, sweating, not knowing where I was - I think I was hallucinating, because I looked into the closet and I swear I saw a Coach purse."

"Doesn't your wife have a Coach purse?"

"This was different."

I want you back.

Dear Dish Network SmartCard:

I am coming for you. Hang on.

My television warned me that I needed you, or my cable would stop working. Still, I didn't watch for you in the mail. That was my fault. Sure, I could call my cable company and have them send a new card, but that could be 4...5...maybe 6 or more days without television. So that's not going to work. Besides, I know exactly where you are. Just hold on.

Love,
Unfortunate


Dear 96-Gallon Trash Bin:

I wish I had rolled you out to the curb last week. Or the week before. Because now you are quite full and you smell unpleasant. And I am about to do something very shameful to get my cable television back.

See you soon, with a surgical mask and rubber gloves,
Unfortunate

Indecent Proposal

I watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" last night and it made me hope for one thing:

If a guy ever proposes to me, I want him to be shirtless.