I live in a family of practical jokers. I have to admit, I started my training a little late, but I am a fast learner. When I was nine, I created a spider out of black pipe cleaners and pompoms, and I tied it on a rung that was above the lower bunk in the boys’ room while they were sleeping. I woke up the next morning at an unearthly hour – maybe 8:00 – to a loud series of screams. Andrew wasn’t totally thrilled with that. My mom wasn’t so thrilled either, but I can’t remember my punishment. How she knew it was me, I’ll never guess.

When I was ten, I taped the little flap on the toilet paper roll down with double sided tape, and listened with glee outside the bathroom as my other younger brother spun and spun, until finally he became entirely exasperated and simply got a new roll out.

When I was eleven, or maybe twelve, I was persuaded by a nameless person (I really wish I could take credit for this one!) to put my lobster in my mom’s shoe. You know those squishy little “hands” that come in little plastic containers and you slap them against the wall and they stick? Yeah, well, my “lobster” was of the same material as those squishy things and I can only imagine what it felt like when my mom (the only person in my family without a – what shall I call it – a “highly developed sense of humor”) stepped in the shoe, only to find it, um, occupied!

Thirteen and fourteen were not my best years for practical jokes. I was more interested in boys at that time. However, I developed a talent for back-handed compliments, so much so, that I may even be the best in the family by now. My mom is frequently the target of these, with most of the comments centering around her age. Example: “Mom, really, you look great for a woman of your age.” (She actually does, and I can’t imagine why she gets insulted.) My mother usually retaliates by giving me her (quite withering) version of “the Look” and shooing me out of the kitchen with her dish towel. I have retained this particular talent to this day. As far as practical jokes go, now that I’m fifteen, I often walk up to my mom and casually say, “By the way, I’m engaged.” and watch her turn around and stare in horror. Juvenile, perhaps, but so much fun.

When my dad was really young, he would try to fix radios while his mom lived in fear that he would be electrocuted. To confirm her fears, he would stick his finger in the midst of the wires and cords, and jump up and down screaming, while his mom screamed as well, probably believing that he was dying. When my dad was in junior high, he and his friend squirted the 5th graders with water guns, one by one as they came out the door, until they came to the last one, which they watered down as well. Turns out the last one was the teacher. They got sent to the principal’s office where presumably they said something equivalent to, “You naughty boys!” and told them they had to apologize to everyone, or some equally uninteresting punishment.

Around the same time, my dad took up trombone lessons, for the sole purpose of sitting in the back row and hitting people in the back of the head with the slide.

My family, excluding my mom, of course, is also one of lock-pickers. My dad first picked the bathroom lock with a bobby pin when he was two, and (I assume) has been improving his skills ever since. I have only recently begun learning the highly venerable art of lock-picking, but as it runs in the family, I have hopes that I will soon be highly skilled in this area. So concludes the account of my family’s special talents. I hope you enjoyed it.