It's my husband's birthday--not a milestone year like the beginning of a new decade or quarter--but a day to celebrate, nonetheless. I would like to throw him a big bash, maybe even a surprise party, but that would not bode well with the birthday boy. My unassuming hubby wants to observe the day of his birth with a movie and take-out food. With me by his side, of course.

    When we started dating, he said he could cook chicken. I was enthused-a man who can fix dinner is a good thing. I imagined boneless, skinless breasts marinated overnight in a fancy sauce. Reality involved a trip to the freezer section of the grocery store and a box marked "Swanson's." We've compromised: I fix the food and he shops for it--on Wednesdays, when there is a senior citizen discount. He happily obliges the cashier's request for his driver's license to verify his eligibility.

    When we told my father we were getting married, Dad was in the hospital. We stood by the side of his bed and I extended my hand so he could see my ring. Dad motioned for my intended to come closer so he could whisper something to him. I was sure he wanted to say, "Congratulations," or "Be good to my lovely daughter." Instead, Dad told him what floor the psych ward was on and encouraged him to get right up there and have his head examined. After we were married, we took the wedding pictures to show Dad, who said my betrothed had a "How the heck did I get myself into this mess?" look on his face. I often wonder if my even-tempered husband recalls my father's words when I'm flying off the handle about something he doesn't bother to bat an eyelash at.

    I don't want to get mushy, but my mate really is one of the good guys. He never says a mean word about anyone. A hard-working man, he keeps his mind open, willing to try new things--whether it's a marathon at the age of 52 or a "Curious George" movie at the age of 62. He cheers for his grandchildren's good grades as hard as he does for the Cubs when he and his son are at Wrigley Field. Strong enough to be moved by the film, "Brokeback Mountain," he's soft enough to teach a grandson how to fish, standing quietly on the shore beside him as the hook comes up empty time and again. Last year, when I broke my toe, a friend told my husband he would have to wait on me hand and foot. "Business as usual," I said. "That's the same treatment I receive from him every day."

    His birthday gift has me stumped. I thought about showing up at his place of business to serenade him, but I can't carry a tune and I know it. Where is Marilyn Monroe when you really need her? Imagine having the blonde bombshell sing to him: she'd be poured into that famous gold lamé dress. In her breathy voice, she'd sing, "Happy birthday, Mr. Langworthy, happy birthday to you." On second thought, it's probably a good thing Ms. Monroe isn't available. I don't know if Mr. Langworthy's heart could take it.

    As I work on my column every week, I read it to my husband first. If he rolls his eyes or looks dumbfounded, I know it still needs work. But not this week. Since I can't catch him off-guard with a party, this column will have to do. Surprise, honey! Happy birthday to you.