When is a Meme Not A Meme?

When you just pluck one out of the ether and use it for NaBloPoMo.

I’m not doing tags, but here’s the basic idea:

Seven random or strange facts about myself. If you read this and feel inspired to share, link to me!

1. I sucked my thumb as a child. As a matter of fact, I sucked my thumb until I was 12 or so. Not in public (not after I was 6 years old, anyway), but at night as I slept. I don’t remember how I finally broke the habit, whether it was wearing socks to bed or some bad-tasting ointment. Maybe I just outgrew it.

2. I absolutely cannot fall asleep in a room where a closet door is open, especially if it is open a crack. This is because of the short story by Stephen King called “The Boogeyman”. I read it when I was 12 or 13. It scared the sweet be-jeepers out of me. The same day I finished it, I went to sleep over a friend’s house. Her closet door was open a crack — and it didn’t close (I tried). I lay awake all night waiting for the boogeyman to come out of that closet and scare me to death.

I am not kidding.

I was an imaginative child. And, apparently, for some unknown reason, my parents were letting me read Stephen King at 12 years of age.

3. Related to #2: I cannot put my hand down a kitchen sink drain with a disposal. This is because of a scene in Firestarter, which was the first King book I ever read. If something goes down that drain, it’s staying there until DearDR gets it. Most times, while he has his hand down the drain, I have to leave the room.

4. I once left my apartment — after getting ready for bed — to go to the bar where I was pretty sure my then-boyfriend would be so he could come back to my apartment to… (can you guess? I bet you can’t)… kill a cockroach for me. He wasn’t there; I was too embarrassed to ask anyone else I knew to help me. After a couple of beers, I went home. Fortunately by the time I got back, my roommate’s cat had killed the roach. And was eating it.

Another night of a lot of sleep for me.

5. I have kept a journal (NOT a diary) since I was in sixth grade. Some years I have written more than others. This blog is my journal now.

6. Somewhat related to #5: When I was 15 or 16, my father read my journal, and based on what he read, coerced me into psychotherapy. In my opinion, it was the usual teenage angst (which I do not mean to belittle as at the time it was very weighty to me. I hope I remember to not condesend to my daughters when they have teenage angst. And not to read their journals, either. Dad.), but if I recall correctly, he was worried about something to the effect of “I’d like to go to sleep for a very long time” and perhaps thought I was suicidal. I went to therapy, where I was pretty much told (to my disappointment) that most teenagers felt the exact same way I did at times, and I wasn’t alone.

It took me a long time to forgive my father for reading my journal. But I did.

7. I wrote my first poem when I was in fourth grade. It was called “Imagination”. I read it in front of my class and everything! It was very exciting. That was when I knew I wanted to be a writer. I remember telling my mom I wanted to be a writer. Her response, “Oh, honey. You should be a pharmacist, and you can write in your spare time.” My parents are pharmacists. I recalling thinking, “We are not communicating here.”

For the record, and lest you get the wrong idea from a couple of these facts, I have great parents. We are just different in some basic ways. For example, they are very scientific and I am very creative. It took us a long time to be able to understand and accept each other. And now I consider them great friends as well as awesome parents. And, frankly, as grandparents, they rock.