by Abigail Luftig

Created on: July 28, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

Most people wouldn't understand the phrase "fishstick popsicles". Most people don't come from a family where the family motto is "we put the 'fun' in dysfunctional!". They don't turn Monopoly into a corrupt criminal enterprise, complete with money laundering, embezzlement, real estate theft and slum landlords. They don't present cause to ban forks from birthday cake celebrations. But you see, my family is not like most families.

For those wondering what fishstick popsicles are, they were an invention of my ever-creative mother who was presented with dual circumstances of Molly, my lovably selfish and perpetually hungry childhood cat, and the countless anonymous goldfish my brother and I were so adept at winning at carnivals. Those of you who have won carnival goldfish know where this is going. Carnival goldfish have a varying lifespan, which seems to last exactly as long as it takes you to drive them home and become attached to them. Shortly after you have named this fish and decided who will be responsible for feeding and caring for it, those tiny air bubbles cease to be blown and you are left with a dead goldfish, crying children, and a manipulative cat who is pretending to nuzzle her owner as a means of comfort, but is really using the time to intoxicate herself with the smell of the goldfish that will soon become her meal, just as soon as the silly two-leggers turn their backs. My mother, in an attempt to stall the cat until said crying children had gone to bed, took to putting the dead fish in the freezer and giving them to Molly at a later time, telling us only that she had given the cat a "fishstick popsicle". It wasn't until well into my adolescence that I discovered the origins of these popsicles. It wasn't until very recently that I discovered that not all the goldfish had ceased to live when they entered the freezer. It's a wonder I am as normal as I am.

With that being said, I love the quirks that make my family my family. As embarrassing as it was to be 15 and have your dad super-glue a rubber ducky to your car dashboard, it is now a memory I look back on fondly and has now become a running joke for the last decade. (In fact, just this past Christmas, he snuck into my car and left me a stuffed duck in a Santa outfit that when its foot was squeezed, launched into a variety of quacked carols.) We are not allowed to use forks to eat our birthday cakes, because my great-grandmother's ice box cake (a recipe born from the necessity of an impoverished

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