I offer the strongest proof I can think of that I was raised by wolves: my mom just sent me an e-mail with the subject line "Uncle Woody Died."
In. The. Subject. Line.
He was my great-uncle, and lived in Florida, and I'm fine -- I mean, it's sad, but he was close to 90 (I think), and ran marathons into his 70s, so he had a good life. I really don't need brackety hugs, please.
(I do, however vehemently dislike the trend of one dead family member per month. August, Tim's mom; September, my uncle Steve; October, Uncle Woody. After I read the e-mail to my co-workers and commented on the one-death-per-month thing, I asked if anyone wanted to sign up early for November, to beat the rush.)