I've Been Tagged

And I've never been tagged before either. Yes, Tami, I read your blog; in fact I check for something new every day. Keeps me from having to do the dishes. :-)

1. Did you date anyone from your high school? Yes; I married someone from highschool.

2. What kind of car did you drive? My mom's Subaru wagon

3. Were you a party animal? No.

4. Were you considered a flirt? Nope.

5. Were you in band, orchestra or choir? Orchestra, my senior year.

6. Were you a nerd? Well, I don't think so.

7. Were you on any varsity teams? No.

8. Did you ever get suspended or expelled? No.

9. Can you still sing the fight song? Yes, but I won't.

10. Who were your favorite teachers? Mrs. Mansfield, Wally, Mr. Denison. and all my Seminary teachers. Tommy Teacher was nice too.

11. Where did you sit for lunch? Who sat for lunch?

12. What was your school's full name? Kearns High School

13. What was your mascot? Cougars.

14. If you could go back and do it again, would you? Probably not.

15. What do you remember most about graduation? The dress I made, and playing Pomp and Circumstance with the orchestra.

16. Where did you go on Senior Skip Day? Who had a "Senior Skip Day?"

17. Were you in any clubs? Does Orchestra count?

18. Have you gained weight since then? Yes. :-(

19. Who was your prom date? Bruce; but for Junior Prom, not Senior Ball.

20. Are you planning on going to your 10 year reunion? Missed that one; went to 20 (can you believe that?!) and wished I hadn't..

21. Did you take any school trips? One; to St. George with the band. I was faking an instrument so that our band would look bigger. The uniforms were terrible--relics of the 70's, maybe even the 60's; you know, double-knit, with the tall, furry hats..

22. What are your best memories from high school? Orchestra, AP Music, and getting to know Bruce.

tag, Becky.

I'm Still Here

Well, here I still sit at 160; no loss, no gain. This is pretty good, considering the chicken quesadilla last Wednesday, the Cub Scout Cake Auction on Thursday, the roast beef on Friday, the making of four birthday cakes on Saturday, and the surprise birthday/dinner party—complete with lasagna, garlic toast and five kinds of cake (among them were lemon cheesecake, chocolate truffle cake, and a buttercream icing that could give a pig heart failure). At least I am holding my own.

The trouble is that 1. I really like food; I like to try new foods, I like my old comfort foods and I like to cook; and 2. I really don't like dieting. I know how to diet—heck! I've spent most of my life dieting and learning about health and nutrition and losing weight. I've tried lots of different things. And I've found that I just don't want to skip certain foods or count every calorie or add up points for everything I eat for the rest of my entire life. I happen to think that I'm here to be happy and have some fun, and not one of those things sounds like fun to me!

I actually do have a healthy diet—I like lots of veggies and fruit, I prefer whole-grain foods (wheat bread, brown rice, etc.), I don't usually eat a lot of sugar, I don't usually eat a lot of meat. But I am prone to overeating. I heard somewhere that when your body has had all it needs then your food doesn't taste good to you any more. I really don't believe that. So instead of dieting by deprivation, I just want to work on eating a little less of it all.

And then there's exercising. I am loving that! My body was made to move and I love to do it. I think that will be the biggest key in getting where I want to go.

So I'm still working at it. I'll keep you posted (I'm sure you're thrilled about this). Check out my new progress chart at the bottom of the page. :-)

Happy Birthday to Bruce!

My sweetheart is 40 years old today! Bruce is my very, very best friend and I am so happy that I get to share his life. So, in honor of his 40th birthday, here are 40 things (not in any particular order) that I love about Bruce:





40. Bruce is really good-looking.
39. Bruce would massage my shoulders all night if I wanted him to.
38. Bruce loves people; he takes real interest in them, he is friendly and people like him. Everywhere we go, someone says, "Hi Bruce!"
37. Bruce works hard to provide for his family. Even when things look hard, he keeps working at it.
36. Bruce is a great dad. He loves to do things with and for his kids and they love him.
35. Bruce plays duets on the piano with me.
34. Bruce plays other kinds of duets with me too. ;-)

33. Bruce takes out the trash and waters the lawn.
32. When Bruce holds me tight I feel little and safe in his arms.
31. Bruce is faithful in our religion.
30. Bruce is healthy and strong; he almost never gets sick.
29. Bruce has a fun sense of humor.
28. Bruce speaks my language; we understand each other.
27. Bruce has a big, booming voice that I can hear all over the neighborhood.
26. Bruce was my highschool sweetheart; and I think I loved him even before that.
25. Bruce knows how to make me—and/or the kids—smile even when we try really hard not to.
24. Bruce loves music; and good music too! Our taste is the same.
23. Bruce tells everyone he meets how great I am, until I am almost a celebrity.
22. Bruce has to wear his shoes; if he's out of bed, his shoes are on his feet. I'm a barefoot girl, but I find this endearing about him.
21. Bruce cleans up after the kids when they get sick; he never expects me to do that. (I find that endearing, too!)
20. Bruce was with me each and every time I gave birth to one of our babies.
19. Bruce was with me each and every time I conceived one of our babies. ;-)
18. Bruce likes to talk with me about our past history; fun, sometimes exciting, always happy reminiscences.
17. Bruce has a great laugh that makes me smile when I hear it.
16. Bruce is nice to me and patient with me even when I'm tired and cranky.
15. Bruce loves my cooking.
14. My children love Bruce; they love to play with him, wrestle with him and spend time with him.
13. Bruce is tall and strong and has sexy, broad shoulders. And did I say he's handsome?

12. Bruce always reads my blog. And he leaves comments, too.

11. Bruce tells us all, regularly, how much he loves us.
10. Bruce loves to sing. He loves to sing with me. And he has a nice singing voice. And he says I have a nice voice too.
9. Bruce is a great kisser.

8. Bruce likes to look nice; he takes good care of himself.
7. Bruce likes to play games with his family.
6. Bruce is enthusiastic about all the projects he undertakes.
5. Bruce doesn't make demands of me, but he has high expectations of me.
4. Bruce loves my family—and I love his family too.
3. Bruce exercises with me; walking, dancing . . .
2. Bruce has integrity. When he feels something is right and important, he doesn't let others talk him out of it or discourage him.
1. Bruce loves me!

I am so happy to have this wonderful man and get to share his life. My life is joyful because he is in it. I love you with all of my heart, Bruce. Happy Birthday!

About Books . . .

I've decided that reading is a very bad thing. Yes, yes, I know that all educators and just about the rest of the entire world would disagree with that statement, but there it is. I suppose I could modify it a little and say that reading new books is a very bad thing for me.

In the first place, when I have a new book I pretty much ignore everything else until I've read the whole thing. Well, I do take care of the bare minimums: feeding the kids, using the bathroom. But everything else suffers; it seems I am really into escapism these days. That doesn't actually bother me as much as it probably should—which kind of bothers me.

No, the real problem is that even though I enjoy reading the books—even Twilight—they just leave me feeling dissatisfied. This is true even of the fun books that I understand, and in which I don't find problems with the characters or plot. Things just work out so perfectly, and it's all happily ever after, and it's so neat and tidy. And then I put the book down and look around at the mess I've been ignoring, and consider real life—and it's just not like that at all! So I find that even the books I like kind of annoy me (which makes me wonder if I should tame my scathing book reviews a little).

On the other hand, I do like "happily ever after." So maybe I just can't be pleased.

Maybe it's just that fiction is bad. Maybe I should only read non-fiction, but I don't know if my simple mind could take that. Blech!

I think I'll just stick with "reading is bad." Of course, I won't stop reading new books. We all have our vices. ;-)

You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile

One day when I was a senior in highschool, during my AP Music class, I got a call from the office. There was an emergency and my sister needed me to call her.

This was the problem: Melanie worked for LeAnn at the dance studio teaching the littlest kids, and she had to choreograph a dance for one of her classes (about 8 years old). The song LeAnn wanted her to use was You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile; they'd even picked out the costumes they wanted to use. The emergency? LeAnn wanted Melanie to show her the choreography by that evening; Melanie had gotten a lot of the dance but was stuck in a few parts, so she wanted my help. I didn't have any trouble getting checked out of school, so Melanie picked me up and we worked it out.

The way these little-kid song and dance routines work is usually like this: There's some music that's sung, so you try to do actions that match the words but still look like dancing. Then there's a middle, instrumental section that, in this case, would be tap-dancing; and then there's an end bit where the song is sung again. So we came up with a really cute routine for the singing parts; the tapping stuff would be easy to fill in later.

That night, after the regular classes were done, Melanie and I did our dance for LeAnn. She loved it. "This is too cute for little kids to wreck it!" LeAnn said. She wanted to do it herself, with Melanie and me. She chose a different song and choreographed a dance for Melanie's class herself, so that we could do Never Fully Dressed.

Since Melanie and I were both at the studio every night, we would just stay after classes for about half an hour and work on our dance with LeAnn. Together we choreographed the non-singing part, and figured out how to take our bows at the end. It was fun—and it was way cute! (Actually, I wish I had a video of it to post for you.) Anyway, it was a BIG secret; nobody else in the studio knew we were doing it. Even at the dress rehearsal we waited until everyone else had gone home before we practiced it on the stage. LeAnn went so far as to make up silly names for us to put on the programs: Tillie Thun daThize, Tara Ra-Boom-Deay, and Boris L. TaDeth; that way no one would know ahead of time who was doing this dance. (Although I suspect that when we actually performed it people figured out who we were. LeAnn would have been an obvious guess, Melanie was eight months pregnant, and I was very well-known at the studio too.)

I cannot possibly describe in words the amazing feeling of being on the stage, and the feeling of everyone loving you in that moment; it is like magic! The moment we entered the stage we were a big success; people were laughing, and the applause at the end was terrific. Magic! That was the most fun dance I've ever done!

LeAnn, Melanie and Me

I love this picture; it always makes me smile—so I guess I am always fully dressed when I look at it. ;-)

Huh!

I told you there was no rhyme or reason to this. Today I am up .2 lbs, although I have to question the accuracy of my scale. It said 160 this morning—which I didn't like. So I tried again, with the scale in a different place this time, and it said 161.2; I really didn't like that! So I put the scale back in the first position and I tried one more time; it said 160. Maybe I should try every spot in the house; maybe there's a space on the floor that will make my scale say 132. ;-)

However, I did lose 2 3/4 inches off of my waist in the last two weeks. The exercise must pay off.

The Other Side of the Story . . .

My mom loves to tell the story of when I cut Denise's hair. The way she tells it, she and my dad had been out for the evening; when they got home, they went into the bedroom to check on the littlest girls (Denise and me). Denise was asleep in her bed with a hat on. Mom thought that was odd. When she removed the hat, she was shocked to see that Denise's hair had been butchered! (Yes, "butchered" is Mom's word.) Apparently her hair was very short all over and cut to the scalp in some places. Mom also found one of our dolls with the same stylish hairdo. She says she made Denise wear a bonnet every time they went out, for a long time. That's how Mom tells it.

At last, after 35 or so years of concealment, here is my side of the story:

First of all, I'm not sure how old we were; I'd guess I was between four and six years old which would make Denise between one and four. But what I do remember is this: It was school picture time; that meant that in the evening you could take your whole family to the school and get a family picture for a really good price. So we went. And when we got there the photographer went on and on and on about how cute Denise was and, specifically, what beautiful, long hair she had. He just couldn't get over how much beautiful hair that baby had, and there was my mom agreeing with every word he said. And this little, blue-eyed angel was bitten by the green-eyed monster! After all, my hair was longer than Denise's, and it was a pretty color; but nobody was saying anything about that. Huh!
[picture: blue-eyed angel]

It was probably not the same night as the photo session. I remember my parents were not home. I remember that all my brothers and sisters were in the living room, watching TV. I remember trying to talk Denise into letting me cut her hair—maybe I even pointed out that Mom had short hair, or perhaps demonstrated on the doll. I don't remember what I told her. I do remember sneaking across the hall, through my parent's room, through their bathroom and into the kitchen to get the highchair, then sneaking all the way back to our bedroom with the chair. (How did my siblings not notice that?) I remember Denise "had to be in the highchair" so I could cut her hair.

I don't remember cutting her hair, or the doll's hair, or cleaning up or putting away the highchair. I don't remember what her hair looked like when I was finished with it. I don't remember putting Denise to bed with a hat on. I don't even remember getting in trouble—unless you count Mom telling the story over and over again for the whole rest of my life. :-) But that's just funny.

Now you know my side of the story.

I can't tell you if this picture is just before the hair-cutting, or the year after. I'm guessing it's the year after—see how short Denise's hair is?

Bonus Note: Surely you have all heard of the "Mother's Curse"—you know, the one where your mom curses you with children who are just like you. Well, Kaylie, Rachel and Jessica—hmmm; and I think Ryan, too—all went through about three years of scissor-happiness. It seemed like every time I turned around they were cutting their own hair, each others' hair, the cat's hair . . . sheets, T-shirts, pillowcases, you name it. Mom got her revenge!

Whoo-Hoooo!

I'm down to 159.8 this week! There really seems to be no rhyme or reason to this—I actually thought I'd gain a pound or two this week. So it's pretty exciting to be down by nearly three. Whoo-hoooo!

Brandon

It must be time to talk about another of my great kids!

Brandon is my funny, funny boy. He was born in Tennessee (does that have something to do with the funny stuff?). Can you guess which kid is Brandon?

When I was pregnant with Brandon, Bruce was going to school full time and delivering pizzas every evening for work, so when Brandon's due-date got close I was a little worried. For one thing, my babies came pretty fast once they decided to come; but more worrisome was that if Bruce was on a pizza run I would have no way to contact him if I went into labor. I had friends who would have been more than willing to take me to the hospital, but that's just not the same as having your husband there. So when I went for a pre-natal appointment and they said I was really close, I told them my woes. The doctor said, "You are so close; just go to the hospital and we will start you." If you have ever been in the 39th week of pregnancy, you will completely understand that I was more than willing to take them up on that.

So Bruce and I went home and called some friends to babysit. We took Michael, Jason and Lindsey over to their house, visited a little, got some lunch, went to the bank. It was kind of surreal. I told Bruce, "This is more like we are going out to buy a puppy than going to have a baby." When we got to the hospital, they checked me, hooked me up with some pitocin and left us there. For six hours! Nothing interesting happened until about 6:30 p.m. The doctor came in and broke my water and Brandon showed up around 7:00. Brandon is the only baby I saw being born—I really had no desire to watch myself (or anyone else) giving birth. But when his head was delivered the doctor sat me up so I could see him. I never knew before that babies came out blue! Isn't that funny? Brandon's mouth was twitching and moving even before the rest of his body was delivered—at the time I thought he was just preparing to cry, but now I think he just couldn't wait to tell me his first funny joke. :-)

When Bruce brought the kids to see Brandon and me at the hospital, Lindsey was so excited. She kept saying, "BeBe! BeBe! BeBe-Daw!" (Baby! Baby! Baby-doll!) Brandon was a good baby—very content.

When Brandon was starting school he had NO interest in learning his letters and numbers, thank you very much. Now he is a terrific reader; I can't drag him away from his books. He is very smart.

All of Brandon's brothers and sisters like to play with him, from Michael who is six years older, to Jessica who is five years younger. He frequently says hilarious things, but in a very dry way—which makes them more hilarious. Better still, he knows he's funny and plays that up for all of us. He can also quote you lines and sing songs from every movie he's seen. (Actually I think he instantaneously memorizes every movie he's seen.) He uses movie quotes in every day conversations—usually in a way that will make you laugh.

Brandon also invented one of our favorite family games: The Movie Question Game. To play, one person will ask a question from a movie—a question that a movie character asked; then someone else has to answer the question with the line used in the movie. For example, Brandon will say, "I've got a movie question: 'What's that got to do with anything?' " Then anyone in the family has the chance to answer; the right answer in this case would be : " 'No, no. He's got a point.' " You might go on to explain that the question was asked by Kronk in The Emperor's New Groove, and it was his shoulder-angel who answered the question. It is currently a favorite game of our family.

We all like having Brandon around. He's a good kid and a nice one. I think we'll keep him!

I Love Ballet!

Well, I am really doing it—the ballet on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In fact, I just finished with today's work. This morning, being a lady, I worked up a good glisten doing my barre work. [Horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glisten.] And as I sit here I feel a tiny tremor in my legs; the little shaking that says, "You've been working." It feels good! I love that my body and my brain still know what to do, and I can feel that I am doing it right. I can't do as much as I did when I was eighteen, after eight solid years of ballet classes. But I know that even after a 20-year sabbatical I'm still pretty darn good. And I know I can get even better again—for an at-home, in-the-closet ballerina. Good enough for what I want anyway, which is just to tone up and regain some flexibility. I don't know why I never did this before. I love it!

The Right Direction

I think I'll be able to get walking and/or running again this week; that will help immensely. I've decided that instead of walking every day I'm going to walk on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and then do a ballet barre and some tap-dancing on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (Weekends are nutty around here, so I don't really have any solid plans for Saturdays and Sundays.) The ballet will be great for strengthening and toning, and the tap will toughen up my lower legs and help out with the shin splints, I think. That's the current exercise plan.

As for the food part, I've been following Weight Watchers because I've done it before with good results. But my sister-in-law has started on South Beach and lost 2.5 lbs. in the first two days! Very tempting! I'm going to look it up at the library, but I don't know if I'm tough enough to restrict myself from all carbs for two weeks—I'm also not sure I think that's the most wonderful idea. I'll have to learn more about it.

The good news is that today I've actually gone down .6 this week. A baby step in the right direction!

Perspective

"I couldn't love anybody as I love you."
"Oh, Diana," cried Anne, clasping her hands, "do you love me?"
"Why, of course I do. Didn't you know that?"
"No." Anne drew a long breath. "I thought you liked me of course, but I never hoped you loved me. Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me."

—from Anne of Green Gables

When I was growing up, and particularly as a teenager, I never felt like I had friends. Not that I was bereft, or unhappy. I could talk to people; they seemed to like me well enough. But I didn't really have anyone who would come hang out at my house or who I thought would go shopping with me. I knew people thought I was talented, but I didn't know if they really liked me. I felt like I could join in their conversations sometimes, but I was never sure how much I really added. And, unfortunately, before my senior year I was never involved in any school groups or clubs that would have automatically given me a common ground with other kids. I had a few friends in each class that I chatted with, casually—while we were at school, but none that I was really close to.

A couple weeks ago, as I was looking for pictures of Kim and me, I came across some letters and notes that I'd gotten from different people during my teenager-hood. It was kind of an eye-opener. First of all I found a couple of pathetic letters from a boy who had a major crush on me—but that's a story for another time. I also found a note from a guy we'll call "Cliff." Cliff had come to my surprise 17th birthday party [which is also a story for another time]. In his letter he mentioned that maybe he and I could go on a date that summer (I was really surprised when I read that a couple weeks ago—I didn't remember it at all); he also signed my yearbook and gave me his phone number. I also found a letter from a girl named Lori who was a year older than me, and had moved into my ward when I was about 14. I smiled at her and said, "Hi." the first time I met her—I always do that. When we saw each other in church or at school I'd chat with her. I didn't feel like I'd done anything exceptional. But she really liked me. In her letter she told me how much it meant to her that I'd been so friendly and how comfortable I'd made her feel when she moved in. I remember receiving that letter and feeling surprised at the time; I really hadn't done much.

Looking back, I see now that I probably could have had a lot of friends. I think maybe people really liked me. I could have dated a few different guys, and maybe even had another best friend for a couple years (Lori moved away after about two years). It surprises me because those letters and notes I just read don't match my memories at all. Perspective.

But now there's this funny thing going on in my mind, because I kind of feel the same way as an adult as I did then. I can get in on conversations with people; we are pleasant together. I see ladies in my ward who really seem to be best of friends and sometimes I feel kind of wistful—like I wish I had a good girl-friend close by. I don't feel like I could just drop in on someone or ask them to go out and play with me—as if I would be imposing on them. I still know that people think I can do anything—it surprises them when I admit to something I can't do well. This is probably just my own insecurity speaking, but sometimes I feel like people admire me from a distance, but that I'm not really someone you'd get close to. Does that make any sense?

Last night we had a Relief Society friendship dinner. I chatted with everyone in the group and I fit in well enough; I believe I contributed intelligent and sometimes even witty conversation. After the dinner my former visiting teaching partner came and said how good it was to visit with me and how much she'd missed talking with me. I feel the same way about her as I did with Lori—we got along well, but I didn't think I'd done anything exceptional; certainly didn't think I'd been missed. I had another person last night tell me how glad they were to talk to me. Maybe I'm kind of slow; but I am beginning to be surprised by the realization that people truly would be my friends. They seem to really, actually like me.

Confession

Yes, I admit it. I read Breaking Dawn, the fourth book in the Twilight series. I couldn't help myself; I had to read it because it was the only book in the house that I hadn't read yet. I do love reading! I did not bother to read the second or third books—it wasn't really necessary; I did not get lost for having missed the events in those books. Once again, the book was so fraught with angst (trouble; anguish; torment) that I had to wonder, "How can these characters take everything so seriously, all the time, without a break?" Everything—and I mean every event, thought, feeling, you name it—is High Drama. Somber; crucial; anguished; grave.

Oh, all right. Michael says it's not that the characters were never happy. He says they just didn't dwell on their happiness. Well, maybe we should all dwell on our happiness a little more, instead of always fighting it and trying to prove that we actually shouldn't be happy—like Bella, and particulary Edward do. Heck, they even fought on their honeymoon—give it a break, please!

The bigger wonder is this: "How can the author bear to be so heavy?" I think maybe she tried to include a little humor, but it was hard to detect, and short-lived. Maybe Ms. Meyer is a depressed person, and this is her outlet. Yeah, we're talking about vampires and werewolves, but still . . .

Friends Forever

When I was growing up, my very, very, absolute best friend of all time and in the whole world, was Kim Shakeri.











[That's Kim in about 6th grade, I think. I think that's me in about 6th grade too. I hate that picture of me, but I guess that's what I looked like.]
I didn't have many friends when I was little. That seems strange when I grew up in a house with eight children, but that's how it was. Melanie was five years older and had no use for a little pesty girl like me. And besides that, it took a long time for her to forgive me for usurping her position not only as baby of the family but also as the only girl in the family. When Melanie and her best friend played Barbies, I'd ask to play with them; they'd say OK—but they made sure that my Barbie's house was as far from theirs as it could physically be. And their Barbies were never home when mine came to visit! It was usually like that when I wanted to play with them. They even made up a song about me once: "Contamination! Contamination! When Loralee comes around, you better run away. Contamination! Contamination!" (I didn't know what contamination meant, but I could tell it wasn't good. And I could still sing it for you, but I won't.) I got over it, and so did Melanie. As she got older we liked each other better and better. Now she's my best friend—after Bruce, of course.

I was popular enough in elementary school; kids liked me. But I have never been one to have a whole group of close-knit friends that I would hang out with all the time; I did best one-on-one. Hilda (not her real name), my best friend through most of elementary school, was difficult. Sometimes we got along great; but lots of times we were not speaking to each other. One time—when we actually were speaking and, I thought, getting along—she made a point to tell me that I wasn't her best friend, some other girl (whom I'd only met once or twice) was her best friend. That hurt! But when we were getting along we had fun; and she was still the best friend I had around.

In sixth grade this new girl, Kim, moved in. I thought I might like to get to know her, but "Hilda" said, "Let's not be friends with that new girl." And she said that she wouldn't be my friend any more if I befriended Kim. Well, that's not a dilemma; it's a no-brainer—for an adult. But that ultimatum was a big deal to an eleven-year-old kid who needed a friend.

It was hard for me to avoid Kim since she and I were in the advanced reading group together—a group of only six kids (and she and I the only girls). We went for a few weeks trying to ignore each other (Kim thought I was a snot—Hmmm. Wonder why?). But I still thought I'd like to get to know her. I finally told our teacher my problem, and she advised me to just try playing with Kim—even suggesting that "Hilda" might not be such a good friend if she behaved that way. So I invited Kim to come play with my dollhouse; we really hit it off and after that we were inseparable. We would walk to school together—which meant one of us walked all the way past the school to pick the other up. Every day after school we were together for hours, either at her house or mine.


Kim and I played lots of silly games together; most often it was Barbies, sitting behind my dollhouse. My Barbie, named Karen, was a wizard and hers was a Nina Ballerina doll; obviously she was a world-famous ballerina. Oh yeah!—and they had a pet tiger (named Kitty—how original!). We played Robin Hood together. Since Kim was a lot taller than I was, she played Little John and I played Robin. We made up our own country; we even had a national anthem (I remember the melody, but not the lyrics; and, no, I won't sing it for you). Kim and I both had little sisters who were three years younger than we were; our country was constantly at war with them. We often had tea with my toy china tea set. We were very proper, and gossiped with "English" accents; her name was Adeline and I was Elizabeth. We had sleep-overs as often as our parents would permit. We liked the same kind of music and books; we could talk about anything, real or invented, and completely understand each other. And we had fun!

Kim's parents were divorced, a novelty in my world then. It was very sad for me when summer came and she spent the entire vacation in California with her dad. But we wrote each other every week; I haunted the mailbox that summer. It was a happy, happy day when she came back to Utah for the school year.

Kim was more social than I ever was and easily made new friends in seventh grade. Again, I was popular enough; I could talk to just about anyone, but I wasn't tight friends with anyone else. Kim and I didn't have any classes together that year, but we did have lunch together and walked to and from school together. Things were pretty much the same between us, The Inseparables.

But at the end of seventh grade, tragedy struck: Kim was going to live with her dad permanently. I was heartbroken. We still wrote to each other pretty much every week, but there would be no reunion at the end of the summer. I remember the first day of eighth grade, when my Health teacher called roll; Kim's name was on the list (the teacher couldn't pronounce "Shakeri"). It was all I could do to keep from crying. No one knew a Kim Shakeri—except me. [That's Kim in her 8th grade year. This is how she looked about the time she moved away. Funny; for as much time as we spent together I couldn't find any pictures of the two of us together.]

My time after school quickly got filled up with dance lessons and piano lessons (I'd done both all along, but now I was advancing and spending more time at them). Soon I got my job at the dance studio; my after-school days were completely packed. Kim and I still wrote each other frequently. I don't know if she truly realizes how important she was to me, but I never had another friend like Kim until I met Bruce. (Except he and I didn't play Barbies, and we never had sleep-overs until we got married.)

Over the years Kim and I have kept in touch. Sometimes we've lost track of each other for a few years at a time, but then we find each other again. Now we email each other kind of sporadically (actually she's very prompt at writing; I'm the sporadic one). She's married and has two darling girls; she still has a wide circle of friends. I'm glad that I'm still part of that circle.

[Senior highschool pictures. Doesn't Kim look beautiful?]

It's NOT My Fault!

Well, maybe it is. But it hardly seems fair. First of all, I got shin splints during my morning walks and had to go off of my walking routine for two weeks. Then I spent last Monday night puking my guts out, and was slightly nauseated for three days after that. But then, I must admit, that even when I felt all better I was not very careful. (Like my eating about a half-dozen applesauce cookies yesterday.) So maybe going up by only .4 lbs. is actually a great triumph! ;-)