As Big as it gets. As in, Mr. Big.

So, it's over. I'm officially another year older, and what do I have to show for it? Not much. But I don't have even a smidge of a hangover, which must mean I've either grown up or I just know when to stop. I think a little of both.

It was a nice birthday: the fiance got me flowers, books by authors I like, a subscription to Jane and Elle, which is just awesome. He got me chocolates, always good, and made me cupcakes. Oh, and he also left his manhood at home and went out and bought me a Carrie Bradshaw purse -- Carrie Bradshaw, as in "Sex and the City" Carrie Bradshaw. And he actually went out and said to the lady at the store, "My fiance likes 'Sex and the City;' I want to get her a Carrie Bradshaw purse." So I got this vintage, fabulous, gold clutch purse. For a Midwestern girl, this is as Big as it gets.

And a friend from work got me balloons and a gift bag full of goodies. And people said happy birthday. And Mom and my stepdad sent me flowers. And Dad and my stepmom called. A friend from work made chocolate cheesecake. I went out for chicken wings with people from work.

But what was missing? The phone calls.

There was this awful "Dear Abby" letter I read in high school that made me about want to die. It was the Debbie Downer "Dear Abby" to beat all Debbie Downer "Dear Abby"s. It was about this grandpa who was alone on his birthday. He had to go to the store or something, but didn't, in case someone stopped by. He didn't eat because someone might come over and take him out to eat. He didn't go out of the house because he didn't want to miss any phone calls, he stayed up really late in case someone stopped over, he went to bed with the door unlocked in case his kids happened to drop by. I mean, dang, Dear Abby, that's a hard core letter.

But that letter made me call people on their birthdays. Parents. Friends. Brothers. My widowed grandpa.

But this was the first year I didn't get those phone calls in return from everyone. And I'm not talking about people I don't keep in contact with. I was fairly sure college friends wouldn't call, and they didn't, and I'm OK with that. I don't think I called them, either.

But others whom I thought would call didn't. I'm kinda upset about it, dang it. I didn't sit at home and dwell on it; it didn't ruin my birthday, and I don't want pity; it's not that big of a deal. I realize people have lives and those lives don't revolve around Jan. 13 being my birthday.

I had a great time last night. Hung out with great people, took some great pictures, had great chicken wings. But, to be honest, because I think that's the point of blogs, I have to say I'm homesick, and that didn't help. There, I said it.

But, because I want to end on a happy note, the fiance and I are pretending today is my birthday. Ergo, today will be fabulous. I'll live it up, or something less nerdy-sounding. 'Cuz, dang it, I have a dry apartment, a Carrie Bradshaw purse and 22 cupcakes left.