Dentist

Anyone out there remember the Smurfs? I'm sorry about that. Well, there was a record album called Smurfing Sing-Song which had mostly a lot of dumb songs sung in Alvin and the Chipmunks-style. But there was one really cute song called You're a Pink Toothbrush, I'm a Blue Toothbrush.

You're a pink toothbrush, I'm a blue toothbrush

Have we met somewhere before?

You're a pink toothbrush and I think, toothbrush,

That we met by the bathroom door.

Glad to meet, toothbrush, such a sweet toothbrush

How you thrill me through and through

Don’t be hard, toothbrush, on a soft toothbrush

'Cause I can't help loving you.

Every time I hear you whistle. . .it makes my nylon bristle. . .

You're a pink toothbrush, I'm a blue toothbrush

Won’t you marry me in haste?

I'll be true, toothbrush, just to you toothbrush

When we both use the same toothpaste.

But that's not what I'm writing about. This week my whole family went to the dentist. My kids have had regular check-ups all along, but Bruce and I haven't had dental insurance for a while—this is the first time in about four years that we've been to the dentist. (Eeeeew, gross!) Well, we do still brush. The dentist's office couldn't accommodate us all in one day. I went with Lindsey and Brandon on Tuesday morning; this morning Bruce went, and took Kaylie, Rachel and Jessica; and this afternoon I took Michael, Jason and Ryan. We mostly came out all right. Ryan had a small cavity, and Jason had a small cavity. But Bruce has to go back for a root canal. Poor Bruce. All in all, we are glad we went.

Call me strange, but I've always liked going to the dentist.

132

132 is the magic number. I'm not sure why, but it's 132.

Yes, I am at it again. The weight-loss kick. This time there's a little more to it than just my vanity, although my vanity does play the biggest part in it. But I actually was told, at my last physical (in February), that the pinched nerve that plagues my hip joint (actually, my fanny) would feel better if I weighed in the mid-130's. The number 132 sticks in my mind as the perfect weight for me, so that's what I'm aiming for. (132 is almost smack in the middle of the dr.'s weight chart as well as the life insurance weight chart for someone my height and age, so I guess that's a pretty good place for me to go.)

The good news is, I already weigh 132!! I just have to trim off about 35.

So here are my top-ten, compelling reasons for wanting to weigh 132:

1. I will look better. You'd think health would come first, but I am strictly a girlish-girlie and so, yes, my looks come first.
2. My clothes will fit more comfortably. I hate it when my clothes feel tight. A size bigger is too big, so going down is the only option.
3. I will feel better about myself.
4. My pinched nerve will feel better—or maybe go away! Well, I hope the nerve doesn't go away, just the pinch.
5. I'm not telling you this one. ;-)

6. I want to firm up (or just lose) the saddle-bags and the pouch. I want that trim, lean feeling I had when I danced all the time. OK. I didn't believe it at the time, but I can tell you now that I felt awesome compared to how I feel now. Hindsight, you know.
7. I want to be more active without getting tired quickly. When Bruce and I were first dating we used to play tag and run around all the time. Now I get tired going up the stairs; I very much prefer the energetic feeling.

8. I'll feel like I can get the cute clothes.

9. Bruce says he'll be really proud of me for accomplishing my goal.

10. I want unqualified compliments. Instead of, "Wow! You look really great for having eight kids!" How about this: "Wow! You look really great!"

In the recent past my trouble spots have been: First, that I don't exercise much; make that hardly at all. (Which is really a funny thing because I really enjoy exercising and moving around.) I think exercise is going to be the biggest factor. Then, I eat really healthily (healthily?) but I really like food—and I'm a great cook—so I tend to overeat. (Coming from a family of plate-cleaners probably factors into that problem as well.) Anyway, I'm going to work on those two trouble spots.

And now, just for kicks, I will share my before and after pictures with you. "After pictures?" you say. Yes! I found this funny website that takes your height and weight and makes a model of you—you can even put in your hair color and hairstyle. Then you put in your goal weight and it makes the "after" model. (I have to confess that I spent too much time playing around making different models. Loralee's version of playing The Sims.) Bruce says my model's body is about right; hopefully the "after" model is about right too.

Doesn't that look just like me! (heeheehee) And doesn't my 132-self look great in a swimsuit?

Family Pictures

The very most recent picture of my family that hangs in my house was taken when Ryan was about six months old.

He's nine years old now, and we've had three more babies since then. I've been wanting a new family picture for a looooooong time. The thing is, it is really hard to get eight kids to cooperate with the photographer long enough to get a good picture. And if everyone does stay where they are put, it's hard to get ten people to all look good at the same time.

Well, this morning I got all my kids up early and dressed them in matching clothes (thank goodness for school uniforms!) and we went to Murray Park with my sister-in-law, Becky, and she took pictures of us. Becky takes great pictures; she gets people at nice angles, and sees nice lighting and backgrounds--not like some of the pictures I take. (This is me: "Here. Stand in front of that door and smile.") Well, I have taken some nice pictures; but I think Becky takes more, nicer pictures.

I digress. Becky and Brad (her husband, my brother-in-law) went out with us and shot two rolls of film as well as taking some digital pictures for us. And we got some really nice family pictures! I've chosen the two I like best and I'm going to get one enlarged and--get this--framed, and hang it in my living room. We're good for another nine years!

Which one do you like better?

A Close Call

Last night Bruce and I took the kids and walked to Melanie's (my sister's) house. She lives about half a mile from us (I'd guess). We stayed and had a nice visit until the sun went down and then we walked back home. We have to cross a major road between our houses, but there's a light and crosswalks and walking signals so it's not a problem. Well, we waited at the light until the crossing signal was in our favor; but when we were about half way across the street we heard an engine to our right rev up. A light-colored truck sped through the red light and missed hitting Lindsey by about five or six feet! It was too dark and he was going too fast for us to see his license plate or we would have called the police on him right then and there. (Well, after we all got all the way across the road.) The first, immediate wish of my vengeful little heart was that he'd wreck his truck soon (which actually is very likely, the way he was driving). But I won't be that way. Now that I've slept on it and it's in the past, I can be good. Anyway, I'm extremely thankful and very glad that nothing bad happened!

Another Piano Story

Wow! I'm just full of these!

Bruce and I first met at the piano—want to hear about that?

On Friday, March 2, 1984 I was suffering through some kind of teenage trauma and decided I just did not want to go to school that day. I couldn't just go sluff at home because Vovis would be there; and, besides, I had a big test in my 3rd period AP American History class. So, instead, I spent the day feeling sorry for myself in the Seminary building (I did go take my test, though). Well, my Seminary teacher was concerned that I was sitting around all day instead of going to my classes (very uncharacteristic of me), so he asked me to stay after school and talk with him. When the school day ended and I was waiting for my teacher I thought I'd play the piano a little (no surprise), but this tall guy came in and beat me to it; he sat down at the piano first. So I went and sat by him (also very uncharacteristic of me). I guess we said hi, and he asked me if I played. I said, "A little." So he played some stuff; he said he liked chords and chord progressions (or something like that). I told him I knew a cool song that was nothing but big chords and I played a simple Chopin Prelude for him (Op. 28 No. 20—which really is simply a cool progression of chords). And then he had to go catch his bus. As he left the room the teacher called out, "Bye, Bruce!" Now I knew his name. I kind of looked out for Bruce in the halls at school after that, but our paths didn't cross. Really, I don't know what I would have done if our paths had crossed; he wouldn't have known me and I'd have been too shy to talk to him.

Fast forward to August, 1984. I was getting registered for my senior year in high school. One of the classes I'd signed up for was not going to work out, and my counselor was desperately trying to find anything that would work in my schedule that I might be remotely interested in. Finally she asked if I played an instrument; I said piano, and she suggested orchestra. I was a little skeptical; I'd never really considered it before since I didn't play violin (or any stringed instrument). But she talked me into it, "They'd be happy to have a good pianist!"

On the first day of school that year Bruce was there, in the orchestra class, in the violin section. I was 99-percent sure I recognized him and when the teacher took roll I knew he was the same Bruce I'd met briefly last March. Through a strange turn of events both band and orchestra had been scheduled for the same time. It must have been fate; Karma; destiny! While the school was working out the scheduling, we orchestra kids spent some time getting to know each other a little. Now Bruce and I really met each other (more than a ten-word conversation).

Throughout the year I would often go into the band room to find Bruce sitting at the grand piano. Sometimes I wondered if he was waiting to talk to me, or if he just wanted to play the piano; either way, I got to talk to him a little. I had work-release for the second half of each school day, so I went to classes until lunch time and then I was free to go home. I just skipped lunch and then stayed in the band room practicing the piano for the rest of the school day. When Bruce found that out (by the second half of the school year), he started coming back to talk with me after he ate lunch. Sometimes we sat at the grand piano and talked, sometimes on the floor, sometimes under the piano; we just talked and talked and became better and better friends. Sometimes he skipped his next class as we chatted; occasionally I'd go his seminary class (his next class period) with him. I was starting to realize that he really did like me and not just the piano. :-)

In the early spring our class went to play in the State Orchestra Festival (some kind of competition between schools). We girls got dressed in our formal, black dresses; the boys in black slacks, white shirts and ties; and we waited in the band room until everyone was ready go. I'd made my own dress; it was in the required black: a long, full skirt with a chiffon overlay and a deep ruffle. The fitted bodice had chiffon sleeves, off the shoulders. (I had a gorgeous neck and shoulders and I knew it, and—contrary to all the lessons in modesty I'd ever had—I wasn't afraid to show them off. Chalk that up to dance lessons.) When Bruce saw me in my dress, he just said, "Wow!" I could tell it was a sincere, spontaneous, and heartfelt "Wow". That was the best compliment I've ever gotten! (Bruce has since told me that I looked like I was going to a party while everyone else looked like they were dressed for a funeral.)

The Festival was OK. One of the girls in our class had to go up to the University of Utah right after we performed and since Bruce had brought a car she asked him to drive her up there. I have to admit I was a little jealous—but not for long! Bruce's friend, Allen, asked if he could go with for the ride but Bruce said, no, he'd rather go by himself. Then he turned to me and asked if I'd like to go with them. OK. I was a tiny bit embarrassed and felt kind of bad for Allen, but I was very glad he wanted me to go (as opposed to spending time alone with another girl).

As the year rolled on I was wishing Bruce would ask me on a date some time before school ended. During one of our lunch conversations he told me he couldn't decide who to ask to Senior Ball; I had a good suggestion for him, but didn't have the nerve to say it. He finally did ask me to Junior Prom a couple months later—that was a fun date! But that's a story for another time.

The Piano and Me, part 2

By the time I graduated from high school I was an excellent pianist. I still had my job at the dance studio—I played for LeAnn about three hours a night, four nights a week. I was still taking piano lessons and I practiced formally about three hours a day; I also played with the school orchestra and I played just for enjoyment as well. I played the piano a lot! It was rare that I would see a piano and not stop to play it. When friends came over to my house they often asked me to play for them; they knew my repertoire—which was extensive (I could memorize a piece easily and quickly back then)—and they would frequently request songs. I was glad to play for them, because I loved playing the piano.

Well, the summer after I graduated from high school my family went to Arizona to visit my two brothers, Wendell and Mark, who live near Phoenix. Neither of them owned a piano and I was suffering from major withdrawal. One day we went to the mall with Wendell and Amy, his wife. As we entered the main drag of the mall, Hallelujah! The first thing I saw was a piano store! So I told Amy I wanted to play the piano, and she said to go ask the salesman; I did. He said it was all right as long as I didn’t stay too long. So I sat at one of the grand pianos, and tried to decide what I should play. There were so many fun pieces! Finally I wondered out loud, “What should I play?” The man said, “Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor.” That was a piece I’d been considering, having spent much of the last year learning it; so I played it. I was pretty oblivious to my surroundings once I started playing, and was surprised when I finished to be applauded by a large crowd of people standing behind me. Then my mom started telling me to play one piece after another, which I was glad to do. I probably spent an hour or so there, entertaining the shoppers (yes, and myself) before we went on with our own shopping. Amy told me later, “You should have seen that guy’s (the salesman’s) jaw drop!”

But here’s what strikes me as funny: I took that salesman completely at face value. It didn’t occur to me that kids who knew no music but “Chopsticks” probably came and asked him if they could play one of the pianos—probably daily. So it didn’t occur to me that he probably didn’t really want me to come and play; he was probably letting me play because he had to be nice. I was used to friends requesting songs from me (as I said before)—and Toccata and Fugue was a very popular request—so it didn’t occur to me that the man was probably being sarcastic when he told me to play a very difficult piece. I just took him at face value, and that’s what I played. About the time my concert ended, someone in the “audience” suggested that I should get a job at the mall demonstrating the pianos daily. I said thanks, and went on my merry, innocent way. I only heard later from Amy and my mom that the salesman was kind of crabby about the whole thing; maybe I had embarrassed him (which is too bad because that certainly wasn’t my intent). I was just playing the piano for my own enjoyment, unaware of the fact that in asking me to play such a difficult piece this salesman was making a kind of snotty request, probably hoping I'd go away quickly. But I can get a little chuckle out of the whole thing because I was naïve and oblivious to any sarcasm. And I did enjoy playing that piano!

Well, I don’t play the piano nearly so much any more. Being married with eight children, and having a house to take care of takes precedence over constantly sitting at the piano. And that's OK with me; it should be that way. People who hear me play now think I’m very good—and I am. But they should have heard me when I was teenager! It used to make me a little sad to think how good I was and compare that to now. Sometimes I do get frustrated playing because my fingers aren’t as nimble as they were (OK, sometimes they feel like big, fat sausages—but a little practice works that out). It can be a little frustrating, practicing and having ten or twenty other little fingers get in the way of mine—although that doesn't happen as much as it used to. I just don't really practice much any more—beyond playing for church.

But you know, the piano isn’t my great love any more. I still love music and I don’t want to lose my skill completely; but I don't really think I will. Every now and then I'll sit and play for fun; try to learn something new. But now I have other loves that surpass the piano; and that’s a good thing. Anyway, I still have my fun music stories to think of. And it was fun!

The Piano and Me

Some of my favorite memories about myself are connected with music. In fact they are of me playing the piano, specifically. So I’ll tell you about them:

The first one was when I was about 13 years old. I was taking piano lessons from a lady named Annette. I was a pretty good pianist by then—I knew that I could play anything I wanted to. (I don't know that quite so much now.) So in addition to my regular piano lesson I decided I would learn the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata as a surprise for my teacher. I had ulterior motives: I wanted her to teach me the second and third movements. Anyway, I worked on it for quite a while, learning the notes and fingering; but more importantly, deciding exactly how I wanted the dynamics to sound—where it should be louder or softer, what notes to emphasize, etc. Finally I was happy with it; after my next piano lesson I told Annette that I had a piece for her to listen to. I played it as I’d practiced and she sat very quietly and still through the whole piece. After I finished she was quiet a bit longer, then she said softly, “That was perfect.”

Wow! What a great moment.

When I was 14 years old I got a job as a ballet pianist at a dance studio. (As a side note, my first paycheck was about $82. Pretty exciting for a 14-year-old!) I also took dance lessons there; so between my piano skills and my knowledge of ballet I think I did a very good job. I worked there until I graduated from high school.

Well, occasionally LeAnn (the teacher) would have “stretch days” where she had her students do a lot of stretching and not much of anything else. A lot of us really liked stretch days, but the one exercise most of the students hated was doing the splits. So when it was time to do the splits LeAnn would always ask me to play a funeral dirge—just a slow piece of music appropriate for stretching to. One day I decided that, for a joke, I would learn a real funeral dirge to play the next time she asked for one. Of course it had to be very recognizable as a funeral piece, so I chose Chopin’s Marche Funèbre, Op. 35 (the one they use in cartoons a lot). It took me a few weeks to work it up, and by the time I was ready LeAnn went through a non-stretching spell, so I had to bide my time for a while.

Finally, one day she instructed the students to do the splits; she turned to me and said, “Loralee, a funeral dirge.” I was ready. The class was standing in fifth position, ready to go; LeAnn set the tempo, “Port de bras, one; two...” And I began playing the funeral march. I hadn’t even finished the first measure when LeAnn started laughing—I mean really laughing; and the more I played the more she laughed. She laughed so hard that the little girls who were on the floor in the splits started laughing too. She laughed so hard that she had to go sit down on her chair at the front of the class; and then she laughed so hard that she fell off the chair! Even better was when she had the next class do the same exercise and I played the same piece. The result was almost the same—except that this time she didn’t fall off of her chair. My joke was a tremendous success! And I still laugh when I think of it!

Another story:

In September of 1985, soon after I graduated from high school, I performed a solo piano recital. My teacher, Cheryl, suggested that I should do one and so we spent most of the year preparing for it. (I don't know why I agreed to do it; I always froze up when I played in recitals.) Anyway, I learned and memorized four pieces of music: part of a suite by Handel (five short pieces); Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique, Op. 1; Polichinelle by Rachmaninoff, and the Overture to Guarany by Carlos Gomes, a Brasilian composer (that one I learned for my mom). I practiced these pieces for at least three hours a day; I could play any of them flawlessly. I loved playing and I'd frequently stop at any place there was a piano—the mall, the church, friends' houses, etc, and play one or more of my songs—all from memory and all perfectly. Unfortunately in our preparations Cheryl and I didn’t factor in nerves. I could play all day knowing that people just happened to be able to hear me; but to have an audience there just specifically to listen to me was another story. So the actual recital didn’t go as well as we'd hoped it would.

I was nervous to begin with, and then a short way into the first piece I made a mistake. So I got even more nervous and things just snowballed from there; I made mistake after mistake and even forgot small passages. The audience (mostly family and friends) loved it anyway and told me how great it was. I thought they were just being very nice to me. We had tape-recorded the recital, but I didn’t want to hear all my horrendous mistakes, and just put the tape away. It wasn’t until about a year later that I actually listened to that recital. And you know, it wasn’t really so bad—in fact, it was really good! I definitely did not play as well as I could have, but it wasn’t nearly as horrible as I had thought either.

Anyway I was in my mom’s house listening to that tape on a summer day when my brother Gregory came over. He heard the music through the window as he came up to the house and he called to me, “Don’t you wish you played that well?” I was surprised! I told him that it was me playing and he said, “Oh, sure!” All right; OK, I was pretty naïve. I really believed that he didn't realize that it was a tape of me playing the piano. Looking back, I’m pretty sure he did know; but it was still a nice compliment.

Well, I have one more really good piano story to tell, but this is already a really long blog so you'll just have to wait in breathless anticipation until I tell it to you. I'm sure you are on the edge of your seats, but you will just have to wait!

Life

I just finished reading a novel. While it was interesting enough for me to read the whole thing--and even care about the characters somewhat--it was kind of... well, like a novel. A little far-out. It was an LDS romance and the main characters are a young man (early 20's) who, after living a wild and reckless life, was in a terrible car accident that nearly killed him, joined the church and was disowned by his family. He moves to Utah to go to BYU and meets the leading lady, who is raped three days later (by another, creepy guy). Then the rest of the book is about all of the trauma that Leading Man and Leading Lady endure so perfectly together until they all live happily ever after.

Have you ever noticed that the characters in books have lives that are...well, too full of stuff? I am really extremely fond of Jane Austen's novels, but they are kind of far-out too. Nothing really terrible and traumatic happens to any of the main characters; mostly they endure a lot of mental stress before they finally end up happily ever after with the rich men of their choice. Which, I think, is actually a lot more realistic than the novel I just finished this morning.

Have you ever noticed that life isn't really like that? I mean all the disaster. The news would have us believe everything is horrendous. Yes, I do know these terrible things do happen to some people. In fact I am very closely acquainted with someone who had to deal with a truly horrible relationship; his (now ex-) wife did some things that were atrocious. But now things are better and it looks like he will live happily ever after, too. Still, for the most part, most of us have lives that wouldn't make fascinating reading in a novel. Or do we?

After finishing this swell novel, I started thinking about my own life with Bruce (after all, it was a romance novel). Our life has been good, and it is good. We met in highschool and were instantly married. OK. We didn't actually get married or live together while we were in highschool, or anything like that. We just acted like we were married in every other way. Five years after we started dating we really, officially got married. Wow, that was great--I'd do it again! We put Bruce through school together; we moved across the country and lived in Tennessee for three years (a story to tell later); we've had eight kids; we've had some ups and downs. That's the short version.

But maybe if people could read the detailed version it wouldn't sound so mundane. Maybe if others could feel the things we've felt, our life wouldn't look so tame. If our troubles seem small to one person, maybe they seem insurmountable to someone else. And just maybe our plain and ordinary story would be someone else's best-selling novel. I think we could read "amazing" in every life around us--without any of the extraordinary, novel-like sensationalism to accompany it. Just life.

Life is amazing!

Brave, Brave Kaylie!

[Be sure to check out the slideshows of Kaylie's adventures! (below this post)]

On July 1, Kaylie went to ARUP Laboratories in Salt Lake City to participate in a child diagnostics study. ARUP is working with the University of Utah, giving a physical exam and taking blood and urine samples from healthy volunteers (ages 7 to17) so they can have a baseline of what a healthy child looks like. They can then use this information as a comparison when they are helping sick children. The children (and parents) participating in the study can use the exam results for school, sports or scouting activities, and the children are given a gift card as compensation.

Michael, Jason and Lindsey participated in this study a few years ago, so when we found out they were still looking for more kids we asked the younger ones if they wanted to do it. Ryan did not; Brandon did, but they already had enough information from boys his age; and Kaylie, who just turned seven, wanted to go. In fact, she was pretty excited about going--she was looking forward to that gift card.

So this past Tuesday Bruce took her up there. He said she was happy and excited; she'd taken her coloring book and crayons and colored on the drive there.

Kaylie says the first thing they asked her to do was "pee in a container and I couldn't do it, so I had to do it last." Then she had her eyes checked and her reflexes checked ("it feels funny"). She was a little bit nervous about the blood-draw, and she says, "it hurt a little bit. She [the technician] said it would feel like a little pinch, but it was more than that." But her dad held her hand and the phlebotomist was very nice; they took six vials of blood--about 1 teaspoon each, and then Kaylie got her gift card and they gave her some juice. She felt very happy to get that gift card; Kaylie said, "It was cool." After a few more drinks of water and the rest of the exam she was able to produce the urine specimen as well. And then she was happily on her way home again.

I got to take her shopping! I had thought she'd choose some cool place like Toys R Us, but she chose Wal-Mart. We looked at everything! One-and-a-half hours later she was at the checkout buying her new desk caddy (a little box with papers, markers, crayons, stickers, etc. to keep in it). Since she had signed the gift card herself she also had to sign the card-reader pad; she could barely reach it--it was pretty cute.

To sum up the whole experience, Kaylie said, "The doctor was nice; his name is John. It was fun." I'm proud of Kaylie; and I think she is too!

Kaylie plays with her well-deserved prize.

ARUP still needs a few boys (I don't remember what ages) and girls of all ages (7 - 17) to complete their survey. If you know someone who is willing to go, they will get a complete, free physical exam and be given a $30 gift card. Print the flyer (below) for information and please print the referral card to take with you--Kaylie will get another $10 gift card for every child she refers. Thanks!

Kaylie Helps Out at ARUP

Kaylie's Shopping Trip