7 WEIRD OR RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME.

My friend Pam tagged me with this:

1. Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4. Let each person know that they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Okay, Pam, first of all I don't know seven people with blogs to tag. So, I'm afraid that part will have to go unanswered. I keep telling my friends to start a blog (you are the only one who has minded) but they just look at me like I'm an adolescent, trapped in a grown-up's body and say, "What's a blog?" Then they say, "What's the purpose of a blog?" And then they say, "I don't get it." All the time they are giving me that look. I do visit a lot of blogs, almost daily, of people I've stumbled on but they are popular and probably wouldn't even read my comments. So, I'll do the weird or random facts.

By the way, what does it mean to tag 7 random people? Who are these random people? Am I a random person? What makes a person random? maybe that's a weird fact.

7 weird facts about me:

1. I slept on the front porch as a kid. It was dripping with Virginia Creeper (the vine, not a weird--or random--person from Virginia). The porch looked like an grotto. I slept in a real double, brass bed with a down comforter. I had a night stand with a lamp, a box of comics--later a stack of books, and a portable radio. Mom said I could sleep there until the first frost. I prayed for a late frost. I would have slept there all winter if she had let me. As you can probably tell I lived in a very safe, small town. Mom left the front door open (screen door closed) and her bedroom was ten feet away so don't think she was negligent. She was the best. I sleep in a bedroom now--I wish I could sleep outside--but the window is wide open, summer and winter.

2. I think I am thin. When I pass a mirror I am always startled--and disgusted.

3. I think I am young. When I see my face I am always startled--and disgusted. So I smile. Then I look better but I do not, under any circumstance look at my profile. I have considered wearing a chin strap to bed to firm up the profile but it sounds too much like a jock strap.

4. I used to be a good cook. I had dinner on the table at 6:00 pm sharp and it was tasty. Now I don't love to cook but still love to gather recipes, as if I'm going to go right to the kitchen and pull out pans and measuring spoons. I watch the food network--except for Emeril--I copy recipes off the Internet and put them in files. It's my hobby. Reading people's blog is my other hobby. I read people's food blogs, especially the vegetarian food blogs. I found a recipe on A Veggie Venture called SPICY THAI NOODLE SALAD that I did make and it was very good. I had to make a whole extra recipe of sauce though. So, out of perhaps 100 recipes that I have saved I have made one. One percent. Not a very good track record, is it?

5. I love to sleep but never get to bed early enough to do enough of it. Maybe that's not weird. Maybe it's just poor planning.

6. I love to give gifts. I used to take a little gift (a loaf of sweet bread, etc.) to the people I visit teach each month (visiting teaching is an LDS thing) and then one day two of them said it made them feel guilty so I quit. I have never understood that. Why would they feel guilty. I wanted them to feel loved. I also used to buy Wednesday gifts for my girls--the ones I gave birth to and the ones who married my boys. Not every Wednesday, not even one Wednesday a month. But if I found something and I couldn't wait until Christmas or their birthday's to give it to them I gave it early. Then my fortunes took a nosedive and I couldn't buy Wednesday gifts anymore. When my fortunes reverse I am going to buy Wednesday gifts again. I can hardly wait.

7. I know sugar is a poison. I know it in the depths of my being. So, why am I always making caramels, I wonder? I just finished making 500 caramels for one order--that's over sixteen pounds of the stuff, and twelve Thanksgiving bags with name tags for my sister for her Thanksgiving table. I am slowly contributing to people's ill health. Someone should shake me. But not before I get my chin strap on because I don't want that wonky chin flopping around because I think I'm really young and fit and I don't want anything flapping all over the place, giving hints that I'm not.

There, maybe those aren't weird. Maybe they're just random.

And this post is too long. I really must learn to condense.

THE TOILET FLUSHED

It's late and I should be in bed but I've been reading other people's blogs, some so beautiful it amazes me. Some with photo's of things I would walk right by, not seeing the gift. Some funny, some thoughful. I wish I could give back to the world like these blogs do. I wish I had something profound to say. But, it's late and I am not profound, I am fuzzy headed from this head cold and worn to a frayed stump from the constant cough. I need to crawl into the waiting bed, which will warm and snuggle me in the room with the winter breath from the open window. So, here is a story I wrote for my Personal History group. I've belonged for a year now and have probably and even fifty stories written. I thought I had a bad memory, I was wrong. I am grateful.

THE TOILET FLUSHED

It was late. We were in the family room but on our way to bed when we heard the toilet flush.

The sense of foreboding settled like ash after a volcanic eruption. “The toilet flushed!” we whispered in unison.

Trent’s arm hairs stood like quills on a startled porcupine. One long leg stepped out and the next thing I knew he was in the bathroom. I heard the door lock.

Taylor, not to be outdone for speed, plastered himself against the basement door, arms flat, fingers splayed. He sucked all unnecessary mass from his body, becoming one with the door. He looked like a Bobble-head cartoon.

I was left. A lone woman to face my garment clad husband who suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Where are the boys?” he said.

“Um, I’m not sure,” I was careful not to look at the ashen-faced twelve-year-old who was inches away. “One of them might be in the bathroom.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? It’s 2:00 am and you have kept the boys up, doing nothing?”

I never kept the boys up. Trent, at age sixteen always had something interesting to say, thereby keeping me up. I often told him, “Quit being interesting. I need to go to bed.” That encouraged him to say more interesting things. Taylor was a twelve-year-old willing participant; two interesting boys were too much temptation.

“Well?” he said.

I shrugged.

His nostrils flared. Too late I realized shrugging implied casual indifference.

“I suggest you find them and then I suggest you get them in bed. Now,” he said. His words were slow, crisp.

I nodded.

“And you need to get in bed too.”

I nodded again. “I know.”

“I know you know. Just do it.”

“I will.”

He rubbed one hand over his face, tired. Tired of having a wife who was always up late. Tired of trying to deal with uncommunicative teen-age boys. Tired of being the disciplinarian. Just plain tired.

“I’ll find the boys and get them to bed,” I said in a semi-whisper.

“Thank you.” He sighed, “and please, just come to bed.”

“I will.”

A slight smile came and went so quick I thought I imagined it. He nodded and then was gone. The stairs creaked, the bedroom door clicked shut.

Taylor’s indrawn breath sounded like a dozen cans of soda opening at once. His head looked regular size again as his body pinked and plumped to normal proportions.

Trent peered around the corner on a telescoping neck, then glided in. We stood in reverenced silence.

And then it happened. Someone snorted.

When disaster is averted, laughter—or a changing of the underwear—usually follows. That night it was laughter.

“Come on, boys, let’s get to bed,” I said when I could finally breathe. I put my arms around them and they came willingly. There was a feeling of peace and goodwill in the house.To this day, the words, “The toilet flushed,” bring panic, followed by euphoria. And laughter. Always there is laughter.