Lucky #7

by Phyllis

I read a blog recently here, and I felt almost compelled to respond. Well, not respond, so much as I felt I had a story of my own to tell. And, oddly enough, it is about #7 as well. I, too, had to bid him a (not so) fond farewell. In a different way.

Like Koozown (my name for the author of that post), I lived in a town with a very popular orthodontist. Indeed, I cannot get past the feeling I know the town he is speaking of. Only this man never put braces on my teeth. I am relatively certain I needed them, but it never happened.

And I don't really know why. I am sure my parents were much like Koozown's: nice, middle-class folks living in a small town, probably had their share (or more) of children. I imagine they lived in a fairly large house with a big back yard, a pasture maybe, and perhaps a few farm animals. Just a guess.

But my parents decided not to get me braces. I watched all my brothers and sisters (all six, mind you) get braces--the complaining, the pain, the retainers, the replacement retainers for lost or broken ones, the retainers used to cut popsicles to pieces--and thought I hadn't missed out on much.

Except that in high school I started to notice something: I used to stick my finger in my mouth. Don't ask me why--I supposed it was just a nervous habit. A bad habit, maybe, but not the worst thing that could be done with a finger and a mouth. But I would place my left hand index finger directly behind my two front teeth. And if I turned it sideways I could just feel the edge of #7 and whatever number is on the other side of your front teeth on each side of my finger. Only as I got older, this gap was narrowing. I didn't have to turn my finger all the way sideways anymore. And then finally, not at all.

I had said farewell to #7. Or rather, he had said goodbye to me. But he is still in there, chilling out behind the front line, poking my tongue everyday. Look closely--he's back there.


So, yes, I pity Koozown; I don't want pain, pus, or a root canal with a limited warranty. But I have gone to dentists and requested that #7 be pulled, and no one will do it. They claim that sort of problem can be fixed (only at my age it would require oral surgery and breaking my jaw and palate--no, thank you), and I can assume from Koozown's experience there could be other issues down the road.

Indeed, for some of us, #7 has not been so lucky.

Jay Clocker

by Phyllis

And you know I have no bias when it comes to this.

Ten things the end of the BYU-UW game made me think about:

1. Jake Locker threw the ball high enough in the air that anyone would expect a penalty to be called. Take away the situation (end of the game, [potential] tying touchdown) and would that call be made? Yes.
2. He did not throw the ball in the air when he scored a touchdown in the first quarter. So he knew not to.
3. The emotion and situation caused him to throw it up 25 feet in the air? Please.
4. People who are saying it is a stupid rule and shouldn't have been called are missing the point: it IS a rule.
5. Come on, teams out there. You have to make him throw the football. He will kill you running it. He will not even hurt you throwing it. Try it and see.
6. Hey, Washington placekicker, you are welcome to make the PAT, even if it is from 35 yards. But to do so, you might want to get the kick at least three feet off the ground. I'm serious. At the trajectory he kicked it, the ball might have been going down when it was blocked.
7. Please, BYU, could you at least once blow out an inferior team? And if you do suck out a victory at home against UCLA, would you mind NOT losing to UNLV or SDSU later in the season?
8. Tyrone Willingham is a wussy. At least be planning to go for two. Ride the momentum and emotion and beat the favorite when you can. Seems like a team from a school I went to did that once.
9. Jim Caple is a wingnut and a whiny homer. Check out what he said here: "It was one of the absolute worst calls I've ever seen in football." Really? Then I hope you never saw the Oregon-Oklahoma game in 2006. This is a good one, too. And that only took me five minutes.
10. The pass Locker threw after he scored the last touchdown is the most accurate pass I have ever seen him throw. For reals.

English Degree

by Sue Modray

Yes, Phyllis asked me some time ago if I would post on his blog and I am sorry it has taken me so long. I am nervous and afraid that someone will think what I write is dumb. I am afraid of offending someone, too. Phyllis has assured me his readership is small, possibly less than ten. I don't know if he is serious but it makes me feel better. He also told me he was not going to post again until I did. I thought he was kidding, but I think I believe him now. So here goes.

Phyllis asked me to write about going to BSU. He has posted about how we met in one of our first classes, and saw each other frequently as we both worked toward a degree in English literature. We are a lot alike and wanted about the same thing from our educational experience, only he likes Maugham and I love Austen. My only real problem with Phyllis is that he uses colons and parentheses too much in his writing. He is also always correcting people in their pronunciation and grammar. I am not sure he is always right.

I am not really sure I know what Phyllis wants me to write about, although we talked a lot about what the experience studying English at BSU was like. Maybe he means for me to write about how I felt so different sometimes. I did not fit into the group of 19-year-olds apologizing to each other before class started for forgetting to record Smallville, or how much fun it was last year to dress up as Hermione and go down to Borders for the release of the latest Harry Potter book.

Am I supposed to talk about the skills we were being taught in our English classes? We read many novels, short stories, and plays, and our instructors taught us skills to interpret, criticize, and respond to the works we read. But it seemed my interpretations and criticisms were only valid as they fell in line with those the instructor had. I wondered at times if the interpretations of my instructors were really theirs or just those of some great professor from long ago. It reminded me of The Wizard of Oz, almost complete with loud crashes and flashing lights. "Who are YOU to question to Great and Powerful Oz?!??"

But I was not a sponge, like, I believe, many others I saw. Just because the professor liked Evelyn Waugh, or Salman Rushdie, or D.H. Lawrence, I did not decide to. And even though we were assigned to read only one small piece by Nietzsche, I did not immediately latch on to "God is dead" and announce my intention to change my major to Philosophy and explore my new-found atheism.

I don't know what I expected studying for an English literature degree. I love reading and found many new authors and books to read. But I did not so much enjoy the interpretation and criticism. It seemed forced and planned out. I wanted more history and biography of the authors. I don't suppose that kind of English degree really exists, the one where you read a lot, learn a lot about the authors, and talk about it with others. No, not a book club. A way to become an expert about a certain author, know his works, know his characters, know him. And then move on to the next author.

Now I just need to find a graduate program that offers that. Or I can just do it myself.