This dog was awesome. He was rescued from some teenage miscreants who were bent on his destruction by my aunt's brother, who was half their size. (Let's just say that's the reason why he only had half a tail.) He had markings of a bandanna - like a bandit - on his face. This dog was known all over several neighborhoods. Everybody knew his name. He loved to play, and would play fetch for hours. He'd go into the closet and chew open a tennis ball canister if there were no balls to play with. He would also do the job of fetch and carry for the kids. Auntie M said if the kids put the groceries away strategically, all they'd have to say was, "Bandit! Go get a can!" and he'd go down to the food storage and nose a can of food off one of the lower shelves. Chances are, their mom had asked them to get a can of tomato sauce or tuna fish, so they'd put them on the lower shelves. If he brought up the wrong can, they'd just say it to him again, and odds were, he'd bring up the right type of can so they wouldn't have to do it. This dog was also like a homing pigeon. Auntie M grew up in Orem and one night her brother took the dog on a Boy Scout camping trip up Mt. Timpanogos. At dinnertime, the boys noticed that Bandit was gone. They looked and looked, but to no avail. No Bandit. Her brother felt sick, thinking a cougar had gotten him. They went home, and lo and behold, there was Bandit, sitting on the front porch. He had walked miles, all night, to get home. If he got bored, he'd just go home. He always knew how to get there. He was part homing pigeon!
You Can Teach an Old Dog New Tricks: Sometimes Bandit was a bad dog. One time he had gotten ahold of a kitten and was the means of its demise. Auntie M's mom got really mad and chased him around with a broom yelling at him, telling him how inappropriate his behavior was and what a bad dog he'd been. He sulked for hours. But he never did it again. In fact, years later, Auntie M's dad and his crew of kids were in their big car and were pulling in the driveway when all of a sudden Bandit dashed in front of the car, a little white streak. He wouldn't move out of the driveway. Auntie M's dad got out of the car to see what was making Bandit be so stubborn, and there was a cat and her brand new litter of kittens exactly in the path where the tire would have gone. Another time, Auntie M's mom was putting away the hide-away bed - the old fashioned kind that you fold up and then insert into the couch - and she'd left the sheets on. Bandit immediately started barking and barking and standing at attention by the couch. Auntie M's mom was curious - what was Bandit being so insistent about? She could have just left it but she didn't. She started pulling out cushions, and there was no indication of what Bandit might be after. Finally, she took the bed out again because Bandit would not stop barking. It turns out that their cat had been hidden in the sheets and was probably so surprised that she had no time to make any noise, and had no air with which to meow later. Bandit knew she was there, and saved her life. So you see, you can teach old dogs new tricks.
Bandit also apparently was a good dad. One time, he insistently barked and barked at one of Auntie M's brothers and gestured for him to follow. Bandit took him two miles across town, and waited while Auntie M's brother awkwardly tried to figure out what was going on. The lady of the house came out and said, "Are you Bandit's owner?" When the answer came back affirmative, she showed him to the backyard, where there was a litter of puppies just a few days old. Bandit was a proud daddy and wanted to show off his springoffs (as my dad would say).
Sadly, Bandit would eat almost anything...and one day, it turned out to be his ruin. The neighbor, Mr. L, hated Bandit, and always claimed that Bandit did his dirty business in Mr L's yard. One day, the mean old man actually put a shovel full of dog droppings that were far too large to be Bandit's doing on the front porch. That made Auntie M's mom mad. (Go figure.) Anyway, Bandit was poisoned, and it was a sad way for an awesome dog to go. Auntie M suspects Mr. L had something to do with it. But at least he had a good long life first.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Gold and Green and Brown
On St. Patrick's Day, I went to a party.
I made Irish Soda Bread.
It went over very well.
I watched Darby O'Gill and the Little People. Who knew Sean Connery ever had brown hair?
I wore green.
Then, I went to the Gold and Green Ball.
I didn't wear gold. Or green. Neither did pretty much anybody else. A lot of people did wear jeans, though, which I thought was odd, considering it was advertised as a 'formal dance.' I thought it was so weird, and a little depressing. "Och, the ways of the young!" and all of that.
This is what I wore. <---
As you can see, for the first time in almost ten years, I decided to do something new with my 'accessories.' -->
Also, my very inebriated neighbors invited me over for a drink. They met me in the elevator with my Irish Soda Bread leftovers, wearing my formal. I must have looked a little unusual. I went and had an ice water, much to the disappointment of at least one of them. He kept trying..."Just one li'l shot of vodka. Look, it's even in a pretty shamrock glass." Much to the amusement of his friends, I steadfastly refused, and they were like, "Dude, you're embarrassing yourself and getting nowhere with her. Just leave off already." It was kind of funny. Anyway, the point is that I went over with a plan in mind: to have them eat said leftover Irish soda bread. The plan worked like a charm.
I made Irish Soda Bread.
It went over very well.
I watched Darby O'Gill and the Little People. Who knew Sean Connery ever had brown hair?I wore green.
Then, I went to the Gold and Green Ball.
I didn't wear gold. Or green. Neither did pretty much anybody else. A lot of people did wear jeans, though, which I thought was odd, considering it was advertised as a 'formal dance.' I thought it was so weird, and a little depressing. "Och, the ways of the young!" and all of that.
This is what I wore. <---
Also, my very inebriated neighbors invited me over for a drink. They met me in the elevator with my Irish Soda Bread leftovers, wearing my formal. I must have looked a little unusual. I went and had an ice water, much to the disappointment of at least one of them. He kept trying..."Just one li'l shot of vodka. Look, it's even in a pretty shamrock glass." Much to the amusement of his friends, I steadfastly refused, and they were like, "Dude, you're embarrassing yourself and getting nowhere with her. Just leave off already." It was kind of funny. Anyway, the point is that I went over with a plan in mind: to have them eat said leftover Irish soda bread. The plan worked like a charm.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Tongues and Dentists and Sunday School, Oh My!
Last week I went to the dentist. He told me that like 5-10% of the adult population of the world, I have a weird "tongue thrust" that makes me look weird when I swallow. (I am between 5-10% of the population in so many categories, especially medically, that it seriously boggles my mind that I could be outside the standard deviation in so many ways.)
It also complicates my life greatly because my orthodontist had to put a lingual bar across my top teeth, really high up close to my gumline, so that my teeth wouldn't move when said muscle thrust its way toward the top of my mouth.
Furthermore, it means that for whatever reason, I swallow down the wrong tube more often than it seems anybody else ever does and therefore I am always eye-watering and trying to contain myself (usually it happens at public events, like work dinners, banquets, or dates), failing miserably, until I can swallow more stuff and soothe the passage and make it all go away.
Anyway, I was thinking about tongues, and it hearkened me back (yes I know that doesn't make sense; I am going to create a new colloquialism) to the time when I was either seven or nine (can't remember which). I was in Sunday School, and there were two or three of us that had the answers more regularly and wanted to share even more regularly than we knew the correct answers in the class. Everybody else just seemed like they were there to either moon about or socialize. Sometimes, socialize meanly. Occasionally, nicely. We are people, so that is how it goes. But I digress (as usual).
I remember that Bishop T was our teacher. He'd just been let go of his official duties, and got stuck teaching the little kids. I wonder if he was overwhelmed or if he had requested the assignment. In any case I think that handling seven (there were fourteen of us, so we had to be split into two classes) inquisitive minds (or even three) is a lot of work.
As a side note, one time, for Christmas, he invited us over to his house and we had gargantuan banana splits. I had never had a bona fide banana split before. It was glorious. He even had the cherries!!! (I don't like cherries, but it totally blew my mind that banana splits could be so fancy. Heretofore, "fancy" was getting bubble-gum flavored ice cream at Baskin Robbins.)
Anyway! Back to Sunday School. He was trying to teach us a lesson. He asked us which muscle in the body was the strongest. Me, being who I am, immediately piped up (most likely without raising my hand) and said that the uterus was the strongest muscle. (I think I really meant myometrium, but I wasn't that advanced yet.) How could anything else compare to something that was strong enough to push a baby into the world? It was indisputable logic; however, it was not the logic he was looking for. He immediately started to interject, to guide us to his point. He began by saying, gently, "No, it's the tongue that's the strongest."
I started to doubt myself. After all, I knew that muscles had to be exercised in order to get stronger. How could a uterus be strong if it had never been exercised before? I had never exercised *my* uterus, so I wasn't sure. But then one of the other "always knows the answer" kids agreed with me. (He knew more of the details than I did, but suffice it to say, the lesson plan was completely derailed within the blink of an eye.)
Poor Bishop T. His point, of course, was that tongues can be vicious, and can hurt more than anything else. Sticks and stones, and all of that. I don't remember. All I remember was the muscle talk.
My dentist sure thinks my tongue is strong. He said, "That's why I can't take the lingual bar off your teeth - your tongue is such a strong muscle that it will move your teeth." I don't have kids, so my uterus hasn't been tested, but I bet it's pretty strong, too.
It also complicates my life greatly because my orthodontist had to put a lingual bar across my top teeth, really high up close to my gumline, so that my teeth wouldn't move when said muscle thrust its way toward the top of my mouth.
Furthermore, it means that for whatever reason, I swallow down the wrong tube more often than it seems anybody else ever does and therefore I am always eye-watering and trying to contain myself (usually it happens at public events, like work dinners, banquets, or dates), failing miserably, until I can swallow more stuff and soothe the passage and make it all go away.
Anyway, I was thinking about tongues, and it hearkened me back (yes I know that doesn't make sense; I am going to create a new colloquialism) to the time when I was either seven or nine (can't remember which). I was in Sunday School, and there were two or three of us that had the answers more regularly and wanted to share even more regularly than we knew the correct answers in the class. Everybody else just seemed like they were there to either moon about or socialize. Sometimes, socialize meanly. Occasionally, nicely. We are people, so that is how it goes. But I digress (as usual).
I remember that Bishop T was our teacher. He'd just been let go of his official duties, and got stuck teaching the little kids. I wonder if he was overwhelmed or if he had requested the assignment. In any case I think that handling seven (there were fourteen of us, so we had to be split into two classes) inquisitive minds (or even three) is a lot of work.
As a side note, one time, for Christmas, he invited us over to his house and we had gargantuan banana splits. I had never had a bona fide banana split before. It was glorious. He even had the cherries!!! (I don't like cherries, but it totally blew my mind that banana splits could be so fancy. Heretofore, "fancy" was getting bubble-gum flavored ice cream at Baskin Robbins.)
Anyway! Back to Sunday School. He was trying to teach us a lesson. He asked us which muscle in the body was the strongest. Me, being who I am, immediately piped up (most likely without raising my hand) and said that the uterus was the strongest muscle. (I think I really meant myometrium, but I wasn't that advanced yet.) How could anything else compare to something that was strong enough to push a baby into the world? It was indisputable logic; however, it was not the logic he was looking for. He immediately started to interject, to guide us to his point. He began by saying, gently, "No, it's the tongue that's the strongest."
I started to doubt myself. After all, I knew that muscles had to be exercised in order to get stronger. How could a uterus be strong if it had never been exercised before? I had never exercised *my* uterus, so I wasn't sure. But then one of the other "always knows the answer" kids agreed with me. (He knew more of the details than I did, but suffice it to say, the lesson plan was completely derailed within the blink of an eye.)
Poor Bishop T. His point, of course, was that tongues can be vicious, and can hurt more than anything else. Sticks and stones, and all of that. I don't remember. All I remember was the muscle talk.
My dentist sure thinks my tongue is strong. He said, "That's why I can't take the lingual bar off your teeth - your tongue is such a strong muscle that it will move your teeth." I don't have kids, so my uterus hasn't been tested, but I bet it's pretty strong, too.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
XYB, PDQ
On Monday, I woke up and thought I was going to immediately expire from the sheer exhaustion that overcame me as soon as I opened my eyes. I struggled into my clothes, and made it to work in a moderately timely fashion.
On Tuesday, I woke up and wished that I could just have five more minutes...so I took five more minutes of precious sleep time. And then five more. And then five more. And then I had to get out of bed. I blearily selected my outfit, thinking that my standard of slacks and a button down shirt would suffice. So that's what I wore. I went to work and felt better by the time I arrived. (Something about endorphins...) Typing along, fact-checking, etc., was fine until I decided to use the ladies room and walked in. Normally I don't look at myself in the mirror but this time I did and it was probably a good thing because the bottom button of my shirt wasn't buttoned. Oops. So I remedied the situation and continued with my normal routine.
On Wednesday, I don't think my alarm went off at all. Or rather, it did, but it was in another room, so I woke up in a panic...and I wish I could say I immediately shot out of bed when I saw that my body's alarm clock was approximately 30 minutes after my physical alarm clock was set to go off, but I did not. It took about three minutes for me to haul myself out of the warm cave of covers I had built myself. I started to prepare lunch but then remembered I hadn't gotten dressed yet, so I took care of that, then finished, and trundled out the door only to find that it was snowing. And then it started snowing sideways. I was feeling a mite underprepared, wondering if this would turn into a full-on blizzard. (It didn't.) But when I got to work, I went to fill my water bottle up but for some reason I decided to stop off at the bathroom first to wash my hands. Again, it was a good thing that I did, and that I looked in the mirror, because today, I had gotten sidetracked and forgotten to button the last two buttons of my shirt. I sighed and used the skill I learned when I was about three years old, rolled my eyes, and drank my water.
On Thursday, I woke up early squirrelly for a pre-work dentist appointment. (No cavities...yay!) and decided that I better wear a shirt without buttons on it, just to be on the safe side. Two buttons might go undetected while I was sitting at my desk, but my brain was awake enough to realize that if the pattern continued, three buttons would *not* go unnoticed. (Who knows how many buttons I would have forgotten, since I left my house before 7am.!) The no-button thing worked out pretty well for me that day. Well enough that I tried the same tactic on Friday, with equal success.
Maybe next week I'll go back to buttons...
On Tuesday, I woke up and wished that I could just have five more minutes...so I took five more minutes of precious sleep time. And then five more. And then five more. And then I had to get out of bed. I blearily selected my outfit, thinking that my standard of slacks and a button down shirt would suffice. So that's what I wore. I went to work and felt better by the time I arrived. (Something about endorphins...) Typing along, fact-checking, etc., was fine until I decided to use the ladies room and walked in. Normally I don't look at myself in the mirror but this time I did and it was probably a good thing because the bottom button of my shirt wasn't buttoned. Oops. So I remedied the situation and continued with my normal routine.
On Wednesday, I don't think my alarm went off at all. Or rather, it did, but it was in another room, so I woke up in a panic...and I wish I could say I immediately shot out of bed when I saw that my body's alarm clock was approximately 30 minutes after my physical alarm clock was set to go off, but I did not. It took about three minutes for me to haul myself out of the warm cave of covers I had built myself. I started to prepare lunch but then remembered I hadn't gotten dressed yet, so I took care of that, then finished, and trundled out the door only to find that it was snowing. And then it started snowing sideways. I was feeling a mite underprepared, wondering if this would turn into a full-on blizzard. (It didn't.) But when I got to work, I went to fill my water bottle up but for some reason I decided to stop off at the bathroom first to wash my hands. Again, it was a good thing that I did, and that I looked in the mirror, because today, I had gotten sidetracked and forgotten to button the last two buttons of my shirt. I sighed and used the skill I learned when I was about three years old, rolled my eyes, and drank my water.
On Thursday, I woke up early squirrelly for a pre-work dentist appointment. (No cavities...yay!) and decided that I better wear a shirt without buttons on it, just to be on the safe side. Two buttons might go undetected while I was sitting at my desk, but my brain was awake enough to realize that if the pattern continued, three buttons would *not* go unnoticed. (Who knows how many buttons I would have forgotten, since I left my house before 7am.!) The no-button thing worked out pretty well for me that day. Well enough that I tried the same tactic on Friday, with equal success.
Maybe next week I'll go back to buttons...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)