Nature or nurture? The latest studies seem to be giving the edge to nature. I tend to agree with that. Before my family finally purchased a home stereo, I spent countless hours of my childhood trapped in a car listening to the likes of Tammy Wynette. Ocassionally there may be a tear in my beer, but actually, I have to say I'd rather smell teen spirit than stand by my man.

Clearly, nature saved me from a lifetime membership in the Grand Ol' Opry. Then came men in makeup. A good portion of the seventies was spent hoping to earn enough money to join the Kiss Army. My love of hard rock was born. It continues to this day, although I'm no longer very intrigued by men in makeup.

I've recently been thinking about some of the other ways I've been wading in the family gene pool though. It can be pretty startling to consider. Did you ever make a conscious effort to be nothing like your parents? Well, good luck with that.

When I was a small child, I used to catch my Grandma Wiesemann nodding off in her recliner from time to time. Seeing how little kids can't stand seeing an adult sleep, I was obliged to wake her up. According to her, she wasn't sleeping, she was "resting her eyes". Now, if I'd had a more fully developed sense of sarcasm at that time, I might've asked her if she was resting her ears too, because I had to call her name three times before her eyes would "wake up".

Apparently sleepiness runs in the family on my father's side. Dad likes to rest his eyes a lot too. Much to my dismay, I now spend as many nights in my recliner as in my bed. At least I have the sense to position my head against something before I nod off. It cuts way down on the head jerk. I hate the head jerk. You're drifting off into a peaceful slumber and then WHAM! Your head feels the need to pop up like a jack-n-the-box.

My dad has two different head jerks - forward and backward. He finally did get a desk chair with a higher back so his head doesn't hit the wall anymore on the back swing. Few things are guaranteed to wake you up like a brick to the back of the head.

There seems to be a built in shame about falling asleep too. Have you ever woken anyone up who was amused afterward? I don't care who you are, you're ticked when someone wakes you up. And you'll deny it! For now, I know when I'm caught in the act. When I start watching a two hour movie, and ten minutes later, the end credits are rolling, I have to admit I fell asleep, if only to myself. But I really do think my grandma reached a certain point where she truly believed she was merely resting her eyes. I'll have to ask my dad what age the delusions begin.

It's also interesting to see what traits your siblings have picked up from the genetic buffet. My brother inherited my dad's sense of direction when it comes to driving. They're like Magellan when it comes to finding a destination. I, on the other hand, have no idea where I'm going. And for the love of God, if you're giving me directions, don't tell me to go north. I don't carry a compass. Am I supposed to calculate the position of the sun in relation to something? Just tell me the color of the building where I have to turn.

On my mother's side, it's safe to say that I inherited grandma's inordinately large knee bones. The extra sturdiness is nice, I suppose. I just wished I looked better in Bermuda shorts. Both sides of my family gave me hearty German qualities. It almost makes me sad that I never had children. Such a waste of good childbearing hips. I also put on muscle pretty easily. If I knew how to swim and could secure dual-citizenship, I'd be a shoe-in for the East German Women's Olympic Swim Team. My dad is a terrible procrastinator. When I started this article five years ago - well, I'll tell you more about that later.

The sloppiness genes run rampant in my family. I tend to grow according to my habitat. Give me a two-foot surface, I'll pile stuff on it. Give me a three-foot surface, I'll pile stuff on it. I especially have a real problem with boxes; not the existential ones you put yourself in emotionally. As I sit here and write this, I'm wondering how long the box from my ear drops has been sitting on the windowsill. (Yes, a windowsill is a surface, and therefore qualifies for a pile of something.)

For a few months, my dad was exiled to the living room to smoke his pipe. The rarely used room had managed to stay relatively free from clutter over the years. One day, I walked in and there he sat, smoking his pipe. On the floor around the chair lay about six different stacks of newspapers and magazines. A few items were perched on the edge of the nearby piano bench. If he could reach it, there was a pile. It was like looking in a mirror. I also picked up my Grandma Hoffman's tendency to jot notes on any old strip of paper I can find. Despite inheriting my dad's love of office supplies, I never have a scratchpad handy when I need it. I've designated three pads at work for note jotting. But whenever I need to write something down, they tend to be buried beneath of pile of something.

My mom is the hypochondriac in the family. If she doesn't like the sound of a fart, she wants to be tested for colon cancer. Unfortunately for her, she never seemed to realize that checking for these conditions means having to take some not-so-pleasant tests. To be a true hypochondriac, you have to appreciate a good colonoscopy.

I'm not exactly sure I'm a hypochondriac, but I do recall worrying about the silliest things when I was little. Maybe I was just too smart for my own good. Yes, I did lie awake one night worrying that I might die from lead poisoning because I punctured my finger with a very sharp pencil in school. But frankly, what other first grader even knew what lead poisoning was? So, was it neurosis or just really good linear thinking that was slightly flawed by the fact that I wasn't smart enough to know there wasn't any actual lead in a pencil?

My sister claims I was afraid I had breast cancer when I was eleven because I started to feel the lumpiness that apparently is puberty. I seriously have no recollection of this. It strikes me as a little crazy. I can definitely say we're all a family of short memories and even shorter fuses. Somehow my sister remembers plenty though. She'd be the first one to tell you that I tend to overreact. All I have to say to that is, what the hell is that supposed to mean? What exactly constitutes an overreaction? Is there some sort of time limit for reacting to something? Is there a decibal level beyond which your voice has to reach or can an overreaction be gauged by, say...something heavy flying across the room? Quite frankly, I've lost my train of thought.