When I was 7 years old, I got my very first Cookie Puss for a birthday cake.  For 8 consecutive years, my birthday always consisted of a homemade card from my mom with her god awful (but sweet and sentimental) poetry and a Cookie Puss ice cream cake.  In 1990, for my sixteenth birthday, I didn’t get a Cookie Puss cake.

I didn’t get a Cookie Puss cake that year because my grandmother was a floor below us, dying of cancer.  Her birthday is July 2nd, whereas mine is July 3rd so they basically went hand in hand.  That year, my entire extended family was there… and for whatever reason I got a cake with lemon filling.  In hindsight, it was a good thing since Cookie Puss only feeds 8-10… and there were at least 20 people there.  My grandmother passed on that August.

The following year, 1991, I didn’t get a Cookie Puss either because the local Carvel supposedly didn’t have any.  There were 4 of us for that occasion… because since my grandmother was no longer alive there would be no trips by my extended family, no Cookie Puss, and really I found no reason to celebrate.  That year was the year I decided I truly hated my birthday.  Little did I know the psychological scarring that not getting a Cookie Puss would have.

This year, my mom got me a Cookie Puss.  The first one I’ve had in 19 years… and it was good. I my mom.

But I still hate my birthday.