Don't make me eat, please!

I remembered today a story from my childhood.  I didn't like to eat much, so my parents decided I would stay on the table until I had eaten everything on my plate. That resulted in a third of my first childhood years spent in the dining table, while other children played outside.  I even remembered falling asleep on the table several times, as I wasn't allowed to leave it, and being woken up abruptly by one of my parents to force food into my mouth (through my tears, may I add). They apparently thought I had to eat to stay alive. I know, right? Go figure.

As I reflected on that story, I think my parents did a good job, as nowadays you would probably have to beat me to stop me from eating.  As usual, I blame my parents from everything that is wrong with my life :P

A microphone was all that stood in the way of the best day of my life

If you've known me for more than a couple of minutes, you know that I love U2, and that I have the biggest crush on Bono. I'd do a lot of things to go to their concerts, really don't care how much tickets are worth, and have engaged in a lifelong journey to get all of their CDs. I saw them in their Vertigo tour in 2005, and I am actually driving to Denver in June to see them again in their postponed 360 degrees tour.

So imagine my excitement when I found out an impersonator band of the best band of all times was playing here in Vegas, at Fremont Street, and free!! I logged in to their website, saw a couple of videos, and noticed that Bono's impersonator looked, dressed, and sang a lot like the real thing. So I grabbed the first victim I could, and went to their concert last Thursday night (which was also St. Patrick's day, and so crowded it was difficult to walk). I was right below the stage, singing all the lyrics, screaming and jumping for 2 straight hours.

Again, imagine my deepest satisfaction when "Bono" came down the stage, stood in front of me, and put the microphone between his face and mine, as he was singing...I don't know, I wasn't paying attention to the song, but to his close presence.  He kept flirting with me for the rest of the concert, and I thought I was in heaven.  Even though I had to wake up early the next day, I couldn't sleep, as I had just had the best day of my life, and couldn't scream it out to the world. But at least I'm blogging about it :)

If the real Bono ever reads this, please, honey, make my day, and finish what your impersonator didn't last Thursday.

Au revoir, Canela!

I learned last week that our family dog, Canela, had passed away last month (judging by the speed with which these type of news get to me, you'd think we'd gone back to pre-email days).  Canela was a mix of Dalmatian and callejero (street dog), so she was kinda cute.  Aside from a pet tarantula, Emma, that I had to free into the wild a couple of days after I got her (my family refused to have her in the house, and/or to feed her while I was away in my frequent business trips), I have never had a pet, and neither have my brothers.  My family has never been into house animals.  In fact, Canela was not our pet, she was my grandma's, who lives in an apartment behind my mom's house. 

So Canela would not receive the usual pet treatment with us.  I'm ashamed to admit that we were a little mean to her, but nothing cruel, really (I mean, we're still human).  However, Canela was kept in total isolation from other animal life. And so it was that my brothers and I taught her to smile, in exchange for petting her a bit.  Now, have you ever seen a dog show you his/her teeth? Not exactly an enticing sight, but Canela had been programmed to think that "smiling" was a good thing. So whenever we had visitors, they would completely freak out by the statement that she wouldn't bite.

I even have a picture of her "smiling".  I'll look it up and post it.  I'll miss that freak dog.

Post-it, or, how obsessed do you think I am?

Sometime in the middle of my Institute class this week, someone opened the door, quickly placed a post-it in its corner, and left. Nobody caught a glance of who it was.

Intrigued, I walked to the door, and realized the post-it was from one of my students, who had to leave a couple of minutes before "the incident". Some of my other students curiously asked who it was from, and as I told them, they rapidly insinuated that this guy must like me, leaving notes and all that. They kept bugging me until I turned red (if you know my skin color, you know turning red is not an easy feat), and kept at it for a while.

It all takes me back to middle school. I wouldn't be surprised if next time they saw me, they start chanting Karla and So-and-So sitting on a tree... Seriously? Us LDS YSA need to get on with the program sometimes.