My family didn’t have money. If we wanted the latest greatest song, my sister and I didn’t go buy the 45 or the full-length LP. In 1983, our collection of shiny vinyl consisted of a three-year-old Xanadu sound track, a mid-70s Disco Duck K-Tel release and my dad’s old Jerry Lee Lewis albums. Seductively shiny new "Like a Virgin" or "Rebel Yell" LPs were completely out of the question.

So if we really loved a song, we had to take our tape recorder and sit in front of MTV until the video came on — then, we’d press "record" and hold the tape recorder up to the television set.

One sunny summer afternoon, I walked into the living room to tell my sister about some new and exciting discovery in my 7- year- old life. Her eyes met mine and she froze — staring at me with a blood thirsty look. The tape recorder was in her hand, pressed firmly to the brown speaker on the front of the television set, recording "Jack and Diane."

Oh yeah, life goes on… long after the thrill of livin’ is gone…

The song played on but she just sat there, staring at me. The she snapped.

"HOW DARE YOU!! I'VE BEEN WAITING ALL DAY FOR THIS SONG AND YOU RUINED IT!"

I hadn’t even noticed that she was recording when I walked in and started talking to her. Now, my voice was a dark stain on the 3 minutes of magnetic tape she’d dedicated to "Jack and Diane." I had ruined the precious croon of John Cougar that she’d been waiting for — by sitting and watching MTV — for an entire afternoon.

I didn’t know what to do. But before I had time to think about it, she ran after me. I fled. Our room — wall to wall green shag carpeting and two twin beds decked out in Holly Hobby —was just down the hall. I ran in and slammed the door, but wasn’t fast enough. She tackled me and we fell onto my bed.

She kicked and punched me. "IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU!"

I cried. Her punches hurt and she just didn’t seem like she’d ever stop.

Three years ago — 18 years after this incident — my sister, Schmoo, called me crying. Ohmygodissomethingwrong? Was she dying? Are our parents okay? Why is she crying?

"I just. <sniff> I’m really sorry I beat you up during "Jack and Diane.’"

"What the hell are you talking about?" At the time, I barely remembered it.

"I’m really sorry I beat you up. Will you forgive me?"

These days, the "Jack and Diane" incident is a childhood memory that we joke about a lot when we see each other on holidays. But from the older sister who used to do nothing but beat me up and antagonize me as a kid — she once chased me around the kitchen telling me I was fat and ugly, spurring me to go on a diet of apples and whole milk for two weeks in the 7th grade and once left me, as a 4 year old, standing in a mosquito nest while she smooched the guy who lived down the street — this was really something. She was actually crying.

Sure, we didn’t get along as children, what siblings do? But as adults, those tears and the hearty laughs we’ve had about the mosquitoes and the diets are proof of just one thing — my sister is my best friend, and I wouldn’t change anything.