My family is awesome. Now I know I'm biased, because we all lead normal lives: nobody's the chief of state anywhere, we aren't rich, and outside our immediate circle of friends we're pretty much unknown, but how can that matter? Love isn't measured by notoriety.

I was going to tell you a whole bunch of stories about growing up with my sisters. The only thing is, that when we're all together, usually they tell stories about me.

So what I thought I'd do instead was, I thought I'd beat them to it, and tell you all the REAL versions of what happened, so that when you get to meet them you aren't swayed by their admirable, but inaccurate, versions of what we were like when we were younger. (Never mind that their memories are two and three years' worth better than mine. They're biased, I tell you.)

When I was about six, I remember that one of my dad's favorite snacks was yogurt.

(His other favorite snacks were Rum Raisin Ice Cream and Moosemilk. My dad's weird. I love my dad.)

So the way he mixes his yogurt is, he holds the lid onto the container with his thumbs, and he shakes it up. So I'm six, and I notice my dad shaking the yogurt to mix it. I do notice he does it rather forcefully, so I try to mix the yogurt The Way Dad Mixes It.

What I don't notice is, I don't notice his thumbs over the lid when he shakes it (at Mach 4).

It took less time to clean the Blueberry Yogurt off the kitchen floor and refrigerator than it did to clean it out of my hair; mostly because nobody could stop laughing long enough to really make an effort.

Well, this story has two versions. One is where we're playing tag downstairs, and one is where we're fighting.

Now, I remember us playing tag downstairs, and I was on a 'safe spot' and didn't want to let go, but I wanted to get my sister's attention, so I tried to grab the back of her shirt in my teeth. I missed, and got her back instead. (I also got her attention, but it wasn't quite what I had in mind.)

She remembers this story a different way entirely, and I've heard it so often now I really remember her way better, although it really didn't happen this way (remember, their better memories are biased).

She says that we were fighting, and I guess she bit me on the arm or something, and I ran upstairs (we were playing in the basement - both stories are consistent in that respect) to where my dad was reading and said, 'Daddy! Daddy! Bridget bit me!' (Please remember that I'm between six and eight years old.)

According to the story, my dad looks up from the book he was reading, peers over his glasses, and says, (barely keeping his laughter in check,) 'Well, bite her back.'

Well, anyway, you can guess the rest. I went down to the basement, says she, and marched right up to her, ducked around, and bit her on the back.

Both stories have one other thing in common: the sound she produced as a result was positively piercing. I can hear it ringing in my ears to this day.

Now, as anyone who's ever grown Zucchini will know, you'd better hope you have creatively hungry friends. Lots of them. And we didn't, really. So we ate lots of zucchini growing up. I was partial to Zucchini bread, myself. Still am. (To say nothing of the Rare Norwegian Mountain veriety.)

But what I wasn't prepared for was what greeted me on a plate one night at the dinner table. I loooked at it and made a sort of Calvin-face when he's contemplating cold manicotti.

My father says, in the bassest profundest voice possible, Eat it, kid. It may look like Elephant Snot, but it's good for ya.

My mom and my dad were separated before the year was over, and this story sure played a part. But it ought to've counted for something that he got me to eat my dinner that night all right. No contest.