Sandy Supposes....

Fun Facts in a Jiffy

PROMPT: List three random bits of useless knowledge, and tell us a little about each one.... maybe they hold some specific significance to you, or it's important in your line of work, or how they relate to a particular hobby you have. Be creative.... and have some fun with this prompt.... don't be afraid to show off a little!

         Ah, so we're looking for some fuel, or an edge to that game 'Trivial Pursuit'? With this in mind, I suggest the website www.funfunnyfacts.com . Someone has been busy compiling facts ranging from gross to animal-related.

          One amusing fact I found is this: a 'jiffy' is an actual unit of time for 1/100th of a second. Really? I remember my Mom using this word, and intimating that it was a short time. "I'll be with you in a jiffy." "It'll only take a jiffy, and then you'll be free." "Hold your breath the stitches will be out in a jiffy." "If you swallow that in a jiffy the yucky taste will soon be gone." Jiffy, second, minutes, hours, days, a week, or a month, all of it is relative, and too long for a child. All of this means you are asking a fidgeter to wait, and children loathe waiting. Don't try to fool them with a cutesy name that rhymes with 'spiffy'. I suppose there was nothing available to rhyme with 'second'? Wait, I just thought of 'reckoned', but that's a mouthful to say when time is fleeting. "I reckon it'll take a second for you for you to eat those peas; ice cream is melting."

          Okay, here is yet another useless factoid: in a year, the average person walks four miles to make his or her bed. Whoa! Do the manufacturers of the Fit-bit know this? Is this part of their fitness propaganda? "I can't join you in the driveway just yet Harold. If I hurry, I can fit in a few more laps around the bed before we go out to lunch." You know, this is probably why so many mothers are tired. Think of the miles they cover plumping pillows, and picking up covers from the floor. Returning wayward children to their beds and tucking them in adds many more Mommy miles. This explains the reluctance of teenagers to tidy their beds. First of all, they have to summon sufficient energy to vacate their beds. Once out, they must be threatened, cajoled , or bribed into expending precious energy in the making of it. Walking all those extra miles just to neaten their beds is torture. Everyone knows that teens prefer to be chauffeured everywhere; walking isn't 'cool.'

         Fun fact number three is a doozy: male hospital patients fall out of bed twice as often as female hospital patients. Actually, this isn't too surprising, or utterly unfathomable. When ill or otherwise incapacitated, the male of our species is incapable of rational, adult thought; they are reduced to whimpering, helpless infants. I once witnessed a hilarious exchange between a doped surgical patient, a male, and several nurses. He was still quite groggy and disoriented in the recovery room, but he was blissfully unaware of his limitations. First of all, he was only wearing a flimsy hospital gown. He was caught mere inches from the floor more than once. He was so uncoordinated and dopey/loopy. "Hi. You're so pretty. What's your name? Wanna come with me? Are my feet on the floor? Can you tell? Where are my feet? Where are my keys? Where'd you put them? Do I know you? I can't see too good. Did you do somethin' to my eyes? No, no, I don't wanna stay here. Hey, you're pretty!" In the end, the sides of his bed were pulled up, and the bed was pushed up against a wall. So, basically most husbands are safer in their own beds at home.... I think. But wait, there is this indisputable fact: the odds of being killed by falling out of bed are one in two billion. Whoo, good to know! Not too many men marry close to two billion women.

         A fourth fun fact that I dispute: the highest speed ever achieved on a bicycle is 166.94 mph my Fred Rompelburg. Now, I don't plan to challenge ol' Fred to a bike race, but I'm fairly certain I surpassed that speed record back when I was fourteen. My bicycle and I raced/sped/shot down a steep hill in my hometown. My long hair was streaming straight out behind me, my cheeks were jiggling, ( my facial cheeks), the wind whipped up dirt devils, my eyes were tearing, and I know I heard whistling. The rapid descent was thrilling until we, my bike and I, skidded on loose gravel and sand which catapulted me into the air, and left my ride to wobble to a stop without me. My jolt of a landing forced me into a super slide atop asphalt. Skin cells do not travel very well at high speeds, and they tend to abandon the host body; yep, road rash. This was to be the first time I fractured a thumb, but not the first need for stitches. You know, bed-making is a slower, gentler sport.

         And one more tidbit of useless knowledge: the ball on top of a flagpole is called a 'truck'. Was no other name available? What was wrong with 'round-ball-thingy'? This gives "I'm going to move the truck", or "get in the truck", or "Put it in the truck" a whole new meaning. My hubby is a trucker, and I don't recall that he has training to handle flags and their poles.....