  It's that time of year again. The sun is shining, the temperature is high, and the mosquitoes (the state bird of Minnesota) are out. The kids are out of school for the summer, and while road traffic is lighter and my morning commute faster, our street is filled from sun-up to sun-down with neighborhood children of all shapes and sizes. The front lawn is littered with bicycles and skateboards, and there are a half-dozen boys in my son's room playing "Grand Theft Auto" on his PS2. Big Bunny, a rabbit the size of a cocker spaniel, is eating the flowers my wife planted, and the woodpile for the backyard firepit is growing. The Cubs started strong, but are slipping in the National League Central standings.
On the other hand, the Schaumburg Flyers are in first place in the Northern League, and as of today have won nineteen of their first twenty-seven games. Yes, my birthday is fast approaching. Happy Birthday to me. Next weekend I will be forty-one years old, yet I am worse than a kid when it comes to birthdays and Christmas. As much as I like surprises, I can't wait to see what my wife and kids have picked out for me. On the other hand, I'm just as bad when I'm the gift-giver.
Last month I presented my wife with her birthday gift a week in advance because I couldn't contain the surprise any longer. Not that she minded, of course. She's just like me. She prepares for my day running secret errands. If I ask her where she's going, she grins and says, "Just shopping. " When she returns from her trips to who-knows-where, I am banished to my room in the basement while she and the kids haul in (and hide) whatever she has purchased that day.
Three weeks ago she called me in the middle of the day and said, "I just ordered one of your birthday presents. " It had begun! I managed to contain my excitement and curiosity when I nonchalantly asked, "What did you get me? " "I can't tell you. " "Is it bigger than a breadbox? " "Let's just say that it's something you can't touch.
But I'll be there. " What in the hell was she talking about? Something I couldn't touch, but she'd be there? That definitely left out a romantic weekend getaway. That night we were on our way to the movie theater when she said, "I know what you're getting for your birthday. " I nearly ran her brand-new Santa Fe into a ditch.
"What is it? " I asked, knowing full well that she wouldn't tell. I had to ask anyway. It wouldn't be any fun if I didn't play along. "I can't tell," she teased. "It's a surprise.
" "Give me a hint. " She pondered for a moment, and then said, "It begins with a 'B'. " That was helpful. Naturally my guess was of an adult nature. It began with a 'B', all right, and is something every man wants. She laughed until she cried.
"I'll give you a better hint," she said. Oh, good. "It begins with a 'B', but it can also begin with a 'T'. " "Baseball tickets! " I shouted, and to other drivers I must have appeared to have been having a stroke. I am a Chicago Cubs fan now living in an American League town; and since the Cubs never make it up here, I have been dying to see my favorite minor-league team, the Schaumburg Flyers, when they venture north to play the St. Paul Saints.
My wife was happy that I was excited about the gift and said, "I got tickets for us and the kids to see the Saints on July 10th. I know that it's two weeks after your birthday, but I wanted to go when your team will be in town. " "We're going to see the Flyers, we're going to see the Flyers," I sang, and I can just imagine how ridiculous I looked. Today my wife ran several secret birthday errands after work and, after making a stop at home to drop off whatever surprises she has in store, took our son with her do to more secret birthday deeds. She won't tell me a damn thing. She did make our son change into nice clothing before they took off, which piques my curiosity all the more.
They left hours ago, and I am home alone with the dog, the cats, and an insane birthday jones. I don't dare snoop. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but my wife would murder me. 
