When I was four, I broke my face. My grandmother used to read me the story of the gingerbread man. Brief synopsis (as if you didn't know the story) - old married couple never had kids and now are too dried up for that kind of thing. So the lady bakes a cookie kid, it comes to life and runs fast as fast can be.

We lived in Oshgosh Wisconsin for one year. My parents and entire family are from Wisconsin. And in that house if you opened up all the doors on the first floor you could run an entire circle nonstop. And the gingerbread boy inspired me to run around the house shreiking "fast as fast can be, try as you can you can't catch me, hee hee". I think that's when my mom started going grey. One time I was running and as I flew into the bathroom I slid on the particle rug that was in there. Did a face plant right onto the porceline rim of the toilet bowl.

I had a bruise that covered half my face. My great grandfather whistled and said "What a beaut". Of course old biddies used to follow me and my mom around in the supermarket, whispering their disparaging remarks about her. I used to sit in the bottom of the cart under the basket area, and sneak boxes of cookies and sugary cereal into the cart. It was a constant game with me and my mom. But since the old ladies wouldn't leave us alone, my mom grabbed one of the bags of cookies I was sneaking and yelled "Dammit Frankie if you don't stop I'm gonna blacken the other eye." The biddies gasped and scurried away.

For a while there the only picture that my relatives had on the wall of me (I have a huge family - my grandmother alone had fourteen brothers and sisters, all with children and so forth) was me and my vast bruise. So comforting around the holidays.