37 Candles

I have made no bones about my long and illustrious fascination with Molly Ringwald. From her red locks to her two piercings in one ear to the grunge-era ode to her by the band Sponge, I love me some of the Brat Pack Princess. I thought the closest I would ever come to being like Ms. Ringwald would be a result of a box of Ms. Clairol and my mother not buying me a birthday present when I was 17 until I cried at the local fish restaurant and guilted her into taking me to the video store for a VHS copy of Help! starring the Fab Four (John, Paul George and Ringo, will never, I repeat NEVER let you down).

But alas, as James Bond so helpfully reminds us, Never Say Never Again. Thirty seven years and about 1 hour and 45 minutes ago on a Monday evening I entered the world, if my mother's recollection is to be trusted. Then again, she could have me confused with my brother's birth. Regardless, this birthday I was forgotten. I got calls from my brother, my mother-in-law, my step-daughter, my step-step-son, my grad school friend, and my next door neighbor. That doesn't include the countless greetings from people I barely knew in college who I am friends with on Facebook. But my mother—nothing.

So kiddies, when it comes time for your grown-ass children to hit their 37th, 57th or 87th, if you are still walking the Earth, I prey that you do not forget them. Because whether you are 16 or any age, having your mom forget your birthday SUCKS BALLS.