Fashion Design

Pattern by Measurement is an interesting class. We are making our body drafts (I can't say we are drafting patterns because Signe tells us many times each week that these are not patterns—they are body drafts. I understand why. But to most people "drafting patterns" makes more sense.) The work is fun and interesting—I like it; but almost every week Signe makes me feel fat. Whenever I have a question about how to draw something, or how much seam allowance to put in, Signe will pat me, feeling the place in question (my sides, my hips, my belly . . .), and say something like, "You're a little heavy there, so . . ." It's a little disheartening. But, in spite of the little sting, she doesn't offend me because she really doesn't think a little weight here or there, or a little bit of "extra floating about the middle" is bad. "We are all different," she says, "and that's why we are not boring. If we were all the same we would look like sacks of potatoes."

Well, my body drafts are finished. I need to sew them up in muslin and see if any changes are necessary. When it's sewn it will pretty much be skin-tight (body-draft, not a clothing pattern) and, hopefully—if I've done it right—will fit perfectly. Then I can start making patterns from it. I have to make a dress or a blouse and a skirt, and I have to make a pair of pants. So I've been thinking about dresses. I love full skirts—very classic, and you can actually move in them. I'm not planning to do tour jetés in my dresses, but I do like to feel like my legs aren't tied together; and climbing into our van on Sunday in a straight skirt is nearly impossible.

Friday I googled "1950's dresses" and found some that I really like. I don't have the classic, tiny waist—far from it. But I did a "shop your body type" search and here's how it describes my figure: "Womanly. Ultra-feminine. You have a fullness through your core, arms and legs."

Right on! And much kinder than I would have been to myself. It says: "Look for clothing that draws attention to your face and elongates your silhouette. Vertical, stripes, collars and details at the neck, dark colors, flared skirts and well-fitted clothing are best for you."

So maybe the fitted bodice, full-skirt thing would be OK for me. Anyway, some of the fabulous dresses I found are scattered throughout this post. Some are vintage, some are new, retro designs. What do you think?

Curly Girl Gone Astray-t

I should probably charge admission, sell tickets, because this is something that won't be repeated often—if ever.

Yesterday I had my hair cut. Well, first, on Thursday, I put some auburn into my hair. But then yesterday morning I went to the SLCC Cosmetology School to get it cut; it's just time for something new. Nicole, my student-hairstylist, is on her second-to-last semester there, and she did a very good job. And the instructor was lots of fun, and suggested a cut/style for me—which I like, because I never know what I want. We broke all the rules, and it was quite a fun and lovely experience.

Curly-Girl NO-NO number 1: They shampooed my hair. And I got a delicious scalp massage to go with it.

Curly-Girl NO-NO number 2: They used a razor to trim my bangs. This was a little disconcerting because they started cutting right at eyebrow level—great for straight hair, but I'm not so sure about when it curls up. We'll see.

Curly-Girl NO-NO number 3: They brushed and blew my hair dry.

Curly-Girl NO-NO number 4 (this is a BIG NO-NO): They straightened my hair with a hot flat-iron.

It is very different—I like it!

For the first time—probably ever—Bruce can actually run his fingers through my hair; that's nice. :-) And it feels really smooth; my hair is always pretty soft, but it's got a . . . bumpy? texture. And it moves differently too. And I got several compliments, and it's just fun to look so totally different.

Some of my kids didn't recognize me at first when I went to get them from school, and at the store Bruce didn't recognize me from behind. That was kind of funny too.

But it won't last. My hair is still clean and shiny this morning, but after I wash it (probably tonight or tomorrow morning) it will be straight no longer. Will I invest in a flat-iron? Maybe. But not right now. So if you missed the big showing, you may not ever see this look on me again. Yep. I should have sold tickets. ;-)

It Takes a Woman

Our bathroom has problems—not the least of which is ten of us sharing one bathroom. But I am talking about actual, physical problems that need repairs.

For one thing, due to a long-time but difficult-to-find leak, we now have a hole in the floor which can only be fixed by taking out the bath-tub and tearing out the floor. Well that's not going to happen until we get a shower (and walls, and a sink, and a door, and lights) in the basement bathroom. And who knows when we'll be able to manage all that? It will take some major moola. (You remember that the kitchen remodel is everything that can be done with paint. This is because paint is relatively cheap—compared to new floor, new flooring, new everything . . . for both bathrooms). Yes, this is a big problem which requires a big solution.

But our bathtub also has another, smaller problem. Somehow it got chipped, and the bottom started to rust (not all the way through, thank goodness). So we went to Home Depot and bought a $20-ish porcelain-bathtub-repair kit. It's this stuff that you just paint onto the bottom of the bathtub, let it set for 48 hours, and voila! Good as new!


Except that instead of setting up hard, it just made a rubbery layer of stuff that peeled right off.

So Bruce and I wondered if we'd done it wrong, if we should buy another kit and try again, or just what. I thought, What we need is something we can paint over the hole, that's waterproof, that is hard and long-lasting.

Hmmm.

I've got it! Fingernail polish!

So that's what I used. I washed and dried the tub, then applied about three layers of clear undercoat, and eight layers of white nail polish, followed by two more layers of clear topcoat (with 15 to 30 minutes of dry-time between each coat).

Smooth, hard, durable, waterproof. Voila!

It works great! I've used this bathtub-repair method three times now in the last year or so. One application of nail polish on your bathtub lasts four to five months before it starts to crack and chip. Then you just get out the nail-polish-remover, clean it all up and do it again. And after three applications I still have half a bottle of clear-coat, and half a bottle of white. Bathtub repair for about 66¢ a shot.

Seriously, a man never would have thought of this! ;-)

Perfection

"Our vision is clouded when we forget we are not in competition. As children of our Father in Heaven, we are already unique and valuable, beyond anything we can achieve in this world."

—Elder John C. Taggart

"All Things in Wisdom and Order"

August 2010 Ensign

Ever since I was little I've wanted to be the "est." The tallest, the smallest, the smartest; the best. As a teenager I received enough praise from all around to feel like the best at many things—at least to feel pretty great about myself. As an adult I know I'm really good at lots of things, but I want to be better in so many ways.

"nearly" perfect

The other night Bruce and I were talking about body-image. A week or two ago I read a magazine article about Cindy Crawford, the supermodel. The writer said something about her "almost perfect body," which I thought was crazy. If Cindy Crawford's body is only almost perfect, then I must be a cow — and so must most of the rest of the female population! That can't be right. But when Bruce asked me who has a better body—me, or Cindy Crawford—I answered without hesitation, "Cindy Crawford."

Hmm.

nearly "moo"

"But I am like as yourselves, subject to all manner of infirmities in body and mind" Mosiah 2:11
"And ye are still indebted to [God], and are, and will be, forever and ever; therefore, of what have ye to boast?
"And now I ask, can ye say aught of yourselves? I answer you, Nay. Ye cannot say that ye are even as much as the dust of the earth; yet ye were created of the dust of the earth; but hehold, it belongeth to him who created you." Mosiah 2:24-25

So if we are all the same and all either worthless or of infinite worth, it really is silly to compare, isn't it? But we do. I do, although not as much as I used to, I think.

Playing Dress-Ups

Ever since Lindsey has gotten taller than me (5 feet, 6.5 inches to my 5 feet 3 inches), it occurred to me that this is the only time she might come close to fitting into my wedding dress. And what good is my big, froufy, $500 wedding gown if all of my girls will be too tall to ever wear it? (Or if they think it's too 1990 to ever wear it?)


So last Friday evening Lindsey and I played dress-ups. I curled her hair and brushed a little mascara onto her lashes, and then we hauled out the dress.

Check this out:

It's almost a perfect fit

Lindsey was two years old when she started asking me if she could have flowers for her wedding. And, wow—look at her now! She looks amazing! But she's still got a wait—her wedding is at least ten years away. She is only 13 1/2!

Candid Camera . . . or is it Thrill-Cam?

Hmmm.

Hmmmm.



Who do you think took these pictures?

I think I can talk about it now

This should be a Halloween story, not a Thanksgiving story!

Last Tuesday and Wednesday, before Thanksgiving, there was a horrid smell in our kitchen--like something rotting--and it seemed to come from the refrigerator or pantry area. (I know, horrible thought.)

As we tried to figure out what the smell might be, I remembered the way Abbi had been acting a few weeks earlier. Staring intently at the space under the fridge, ready to pounce there if she could. A sure sign that we had a mouse. When I saw her behave like that I moved the refrigerator out, cleaned underneath it and left some mouse poison there.

None of this is anything new; every fall mice come into the house. When Abbi starts acting funny I put poison under the fridge and under the stove--where our pets and kids can't get at it. After a little while I might find a mummified mouse or two (in our dry, desert climate the mice just dry up). And then I make Bruce dispose of the little corpses. Not nice, but no big deal, and never smelly.

Well, back to the big stink.

I figured a mouse must have died underneath the fridge. So Tuesday I pulled the fridge out again and, sure enough, as I moved it the smell got stronger. Yuck! But, there was no mouse to be seen! I swept and cleaned out the space and put the fridge back. And it seemed a little better for a while. But the next morning it was worse than ever.

We were super busy cooking for Thanksgiving all day Wednesday, and cleaning the house, but Bruce took another look. Nothing to be seen; we weren't really sure what to do about it. A mysterious, vile odor that came from an invisible source near the refrigerator. Then that night I thought perhaps a mouse had crawled into the refrigerator coils and died in there. Not a pleasant thought at all--how on earth would we find it, let alone get rid of it?

Well Thursday was Thanksgiving Day, and we spent most of the day at my in-laws' house. It would have to wait until Friday.

First thing Friday morning Bruce and I got up and went straight to the fridge. He pulled it out again and removed all the back panels that could be removed. Oh the stench! We thought we'd throw up. He started vacuuming out some major dust-bunnies, and kept his eyes open for a dead mouse. And he found it. The refrigerator coils are about an inch off of the floor, and right above the coils there's a metal tray--probably there to catch any extra condensation. And in the corner of the tray, about nine to twelve inches in from the back of the fridge--and just out of reach--was a dead mouse lying in a puddle of water.

OK. It's making me sick to write about it.

Well, Bruce couldn't get his hand in there to move it out. We couldn't vacuum it out. No, it had to be my smaller and more dextrous hand. So I tied a bandana around my nose and mouth--which lessened the smell considerably--and tried several tools to get the nasty thing out. (The "tools" were mostly long sticks, but they were too thick to do any good. At one point I did get desperate enough to wrap my hand in lots of plastic and try to just grab it out. But I couldn't quite reach it--which didn't break my heart.) Finally, after lots of prodding it around, we realized that even though it's body would move, the tail (which was even farther back, where we couldn't see it) was stuck to the tray.

I had been trying to lift it out with a bamboo skewer (no, I did not stab at it. Ugh! How gross!). And every time I touched it, some of it's fur would scrape off. So it looked like a pinkish-gray; slightly translucent slug; and it was totally limp like Frieda's cat. (Frieda is the Peanuts character with the "naturally curly hair" and the cat that just hangs over her shoulder.) Everything I tried to get it out would twist it or turn it until it's nasty little body was twisted halfway round. This job was so repulsive that I was shaking. At one point I'd put down the skewer to try something else, and when I picked it up again I grabbed the wrong end and got slimy mouse fur on my hand. Is there a word, or even a sound, for how disgusting that is?

Finally I got a second skewer--a metal one this time, with a loop on one end--and while I used the bamboo skewer to hold the body down, I used the metal loop to scrape the tail loose. At last the mouse was free. I could now scoop it up with one skewer while I used the other to steady it. I got it all the way out of the fridge, dropped it on a waiting pile of old plastic bags, and then wrapped all of it--the mouse and both skewers--in several plastic bags, which Bruce promptly took out to the trash. (Fortunately the garbage truck hadn't come around yet, and we wouldn't have to live with that thing rotting in our trash can for another week.)

When my foul chore was done, and the mouse was safely out of sight, I went and scrubbed--and scrubbed and scrubbed--my hands. Then I prepared a bleach solution for Bruce to use to clean up the condensation tray; I was not sad when I spilled bleach on my hands. While Bruce sprayed bleach into the tray and vacuumed it out with our small wet-dry vac (several times) I worked on other things in my room, wanting to cry the whole time.

Even though the stench was gone, I couldn't bear to eat anything in that kitchen; we had plenty of good food in the kitchen that Friday, but I was starving. All day long I had visions of slimy, limp, hairless, dead mouse dancing in my head. The whole morning was so upsetting that I couldn't even blog about it that evening.

By Saturday I thought I was over it, but cooking dinner almost made me gag that night. Today I'm doing OK. But thinking about it and writing about it is . . . sickening.

Oh! Will this trauma burn in my mind forever?

Weighing

I am in one of those funks where I'm just not sure if I really want to lose weight.

I usually look at myself in the mirror and really don't think I look bad. I don't look like a giant medicine ball (or anything close to it). I look around at other people—yes, I am one of those horrible women who compares herself to everyone else (but at least I don't compare other people with me)—anyway, I look at other women that I think are attractive and I can see that my figure is pretty much the same as theirs. I am far from looking like a fashion-model, but who isn't? I am healthy. So what's the big deal?

Then, other times, I look in the mirror and see a tummy that's fuller than I like, fistfuls of stuff hanging onto my hips and thighs and I think, "Yech!" (This is usually when I'm about to get into the shower, or I'm in my pantyhose.)

But most of the time I keep my clothes on, and I think I'm not really so bad. The only other person who ever sees me without my clothes thinks I'm pretty fabulous—which kind of makes me question his judgment, sometimes.

Still, the number on the scale nags at me. I want to feel wonderful no matter what that number says, but I just don't know.

So, what do I really want? Can you answer that?

Buggy

The other day my sister-in-law, Becky, told us of her life-long fascination with bugs. Her stories were very nice. Her timing is funny though, because for a couple days now I have been thinking of telling you about my own fascination with bugs. She and I couldn't think more differently on the subject. I will admit that bugs in their natural habitats are kind of interesting--as long as they stay at least two feet away from me. They must never touch me; and if only the bugs could understand, I'd like to make it very plain to them that I DO NOT LIKE THEM IN THE HOUSE! Not in my house, or in anyone else's house. I don't like the way they sneak up and catch you unawares, and scare the pants off you. I don't like the way the little ants clean up my kitchen floor (you'd think I'd appreciate that, but I don't). I look upon bugs with a disgust that amounts to absolute detestation!

Just for the record, I am quite sane.

Well, anyway, let me tell you about me and the water-bugs in Tennessee--the most bug-ridden state in the land of the free. Bruce and I and our little family lived in Tennessee for three-and-a-half years while Bruce went to school (a story for another time). And it was there that I was introduced to bugs I'd never imagined; the worst one to come into my personal space being the water-bug. (And let me tell you now, for the record, that people can give them cute names like "water-bug" but they are really just giant, ugly, disgusting cockroaches!)

Night of the Waterbug

The first time I ever saw a water-bug was on a dark and stormy night. Well, maybe it wasn't stormy. I'd just put the kids to bed and Bruce was out working, so I was alone in my kitchen, writing a letter home. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see this GIANT black thing creeping across my kitchen floor. It was the biggest roach I'd ever seen and it was heading toward me! (OK, up to that point it was the only live roach I'd ever seen--but it was in my house!) After squealing and jumping up onto the kitchen chair I realized that I had to do something or I'd be trapped, sitting on my table all night. So, gathering all my courage, I leaped past the monster into the laundry room where we kept the bug-spray on a shelf. I leaped past it again (so I'd have more space to make my getaway, if necessary), took aim and started spraying it. Well, all that did was make it mad. It ran toward me; I backed off, still spraying. I don't think I let go of the trigger for a good minute or two; there were clouds of bug spray in my kitchen and I could tell it would be me or the bug. Fortunately for me, the bug started getting a little confused. I was able to leap past it again and get a canning jar to clap over it. Unfortunately, to capture it I would have to get close enough to put the jar down over it. I summoned up all my courage and, standing as far away as possible, trapped my adversary in a glass prison. I left it there for Bruce to dispose of when he got home--no way was I going to get any closer to it than I already had!

After my horrid battle I had to open the kitchen windows. Then, to calm my nerves, I had to call all my relatives in Utah and tell them of my terrifying experience. I think they thought I was loony, and possibly over-reacting. I can tell you, that is simply because they've never come into close contact with a cockroach that is three to four inches long!

By the way, Bruce did not dispose of my foe. He saved it to show Michael (then about six years old). Michael named it "uglybug" (how appropriate). That bug lived in a jar in my home for another two days before they finally put it outside. I don't know why they didn't just flush it down the toilet!

That was water-bug story number one. Here's the second:

Attack of the Waterbug

One evening after a nice shower I was lying on my bed, bare-naked, air-drying and chatting with Bruce. (A side-note: it's nearly impossible for anything to really air-dry in Tennessee.) As we were talking my eye was drawn to the little breeze-way above our bathroom door. There was a water-bug up there and I could tell it was watching me. Bruce noticed the color leaving my face and followed my horrified gaze upward. Trying to soothe me, he said, "It's OK, it's clear up there." Ha! I could see that bug checking me out. I swear, it's little head was moving back and forth, looking me over and I knew it was going to fly down and land right in the middle of my back. Bruce said, "They don't fly." Ha!! Almost as soon as he said it the beastly thing took flight, aiming for the small of my back. Bruce, my hero, swung his arm like a baseball bat and hit it with his bare hand as I scrambled to make an escape. THOCK! It hit the wall. Did that kill it? I don't know, but we didn't see it again. It was a close call, but I survived it. I also made Bruce wash his hands.

Last story for the night; it was another lonely evening and I was sitting quietly in my kitchen, writing a letter to my family. (Have you noticed that these evil bugs wait until I am most vulnerable before they attack?) I will quote directly from the letter I wrote when it occurred:

Revenge of the Waterbug

"I just had near heart-failure a little while ago . . . I sat down at the kitchen table to work on some things. I sat here, very involved in what I was doing. and from the corner of my eye I see some movement. So I glance over and a giant roach (yeah, yeah--they call them water-bugs) is creeping out from under the table. It must have gone right by my bare toes! (At least it didnt go over my toes. After all, a roach is a roach. And this is a BIG one!) It got over toward the cabinets. Here's the layout: So I jump away and I'm trying to decide whether to trap it under a jar--which would be really scary--or spray it, which would be really gross (stinky). But I would have to go past it to get a jar, and it was moving pretty fast. So I sprayed it. Then it took off along the edge of the cabinet (away from me, thank goodness!) and disappeared into a little crack between the wall and the cabinet front--which put it right in my cabinets where I keep all my canned goods. And I'm thinking, "Bruce had better find that bug and kill it, or I'm never cooking for him again!" But at least I can rest easy and go back to work at the table (with my feet up), right? Ha! Just as I settle down, I hear this, 'click, click, click' of its feet in my cupboards. Then I hear it 'ping!' on the top of a can. 'Click,click, ping! click, ping! ping! click,click.' I shudder with each sound; violent shudders--the sound is coming toward me!" [I can't concentrate on my work. I cringe in terror, my eyes wide and my heart pounding. I am obsessed by the evil I hear coming closer and closer toward me.] "Finally it gets to my end of the cabinet. 'Scuffle, scuffle, click, ping! Scrape, scuffle, ping!' But at least it's trapped in the cabinet, right? Ha!! (Did I ever tell you this house is poorly built?) After a second, I hear a 'Thunk!' and there it is, about three feet from where this terror all started. Well, it is obviously not in as good health, so [I gathered my nerve and] I trapped it under a jar, where it is still giving me the shudders. (But it's Bruce's job to dispose of big, ugly bugs.) Then I went and looked under my countertop, and there's a big hole in the side of my cabinet where Beelzebub obviously reappeared from. This is why I will not live in Tennessee any longer than I have to."

Well, OK. Just one more story. As I was writing this, it occurred to me that I ought to include a picture of a water-bug. So I did a Google search. But when the screen full of bugs popped up I jumped away from the computer about three feet, shuddered, caught my breath . . . Yes, that's me. I had to reach my arm's length to click the mouse and get away from that screen. Find your own water-bug pictures!

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?

I'm strictly a girlish girlie...

Last night, as I was walking into a business meeting, a friend greeted me and said something about my gorgeous hair. How fun! Thanks!

But again, after the meeting, as she walked past she actually touched my hair and told me what great hair I have. She said she has naturally curly hair too, but it always just "looks like this" (making that sound like it wasn't a good thing). And so I revealed my secret: I don't wash my hair. In fact, I haven't washed my hair for nearly two years.

Well, that's not exactly true. I do wash my hair, but since I read the book, "Curly Girl," two years ago I almost never use shampoo in my hair. (No-Poo for me!)

I am not normally patient with my hair. It's been long, short, long again, red, brown, blonde, spiked, highlighted, curled, straightened...you name it. But since I read the book it's been growing and curling and I am really happy with it. What's even better, I get a lot of compliments on it! How much more fun can it get?

The truth is, I am rather obsessed with looking good. If I'm in the doctor's office the first magazine articles I read are 1. how to lose weight (or get in shape); 2. how to do your hair and makeup ; and 3. how to dress. I'm not completely hopeless; I haven't sold the family farm so I can buy the fashion magazines (or the recommended makeup or clothes). But it may be possible that I have reached the height of vanity when I shower, do a complete make-up job, fix my hair and pick out my cutest clothes so that I can go to my sisters house and spend the day there by myself doing my laundry!

I love to use makeup; I want to have fabulous hair; I adore new clothes; I find cute, new shoes almost irresistible, and you already know that I'm a little neurotic about my weight. All those things that are so, so very important in America today.

My perfect day would be to get up, have breakfast with Bruce and then head to a day-spa. I'd get the works: a massage, facial, manicure and pedicure. I had a pedicure for the first time last year--something that seemed like a fluffy extra that I wouldn't care about. My feet looked so nice and pink and felt so soft! I've been dying to have another one. Well, anyway, I'd want to have all those things done. And these places do have "gentlemen's facials" as well as gentlemen's manicures and other stuff, so Bruce wouldn't have to spend the whole day just watching me be spoiled. Although I'm not sure that would bother him.

No, I guess it would have to be a perfect two days. The first day we'd go to breakfast then go get our hair done (I'd have to find a place that would follow my curly-girl ways). Then we'd spend the afternoon shopping for new clothes—for both of us. We could go to dinner and the theater (live, not movie) and spend the night in a nice bed and breakfast. The second day we could wear our new clothes and do the day-spa thing. OK. Make it three days. After the day-spa we'd go to dinner and spend another night at the bed and breakfast. Then we could just play around the third day.

I truly do love being a wife and a mom. But just think...to have three days of being a girl, with none of the usual daily business. Just a few nice days of living the carefree life we had when we were single—but with the privileges of being married. And then I'd be happy to go back to real life again.

Cashmere!

A few weeks ago one of my boys (Jason...or maybe it was Brandon) asked me this: "If you could have any super power, what would it be?" So I gave it some serious thought for a second or two. Flying? No. Super strength? Maybe. Super speed? That would help with the housework. But then I came up with the perfect one: The power to have money shoot from my fingertips! I'm not sure how I'd save the world with that, but at least it would be a lot of fun for me. (Yes, it really is all about me.)

A few days later, on the way to a family outing, I told Bruce about my chosen super-power (which he thought was a good one, too) and told him to come up with a good name for my super-hero-self. "Cashmere."
Oh, yes! Feminine; refers to my super-abilities...fabulous!

Then Michael just had to spoil the whole thing by saying that I'd be going around shooting out counterfeit money all the time. Since when does logic have anything to do with being a super hero?! But Bruce saved the day again: he said that at the same time the money was speeding along, it would also be registered at the mint. Of course, I don't know what havoc this would wreak on the economy. But what does logic have to do with this?

So the next time you're out shopping you can think of me.

Look! There, in the check-out lane! It's a cash machine! It's an ATM!
No, it's Cashmere!

Does this little girl look fat?

As an adult I can look at this little eleven-year-old girl and say that she is definitely not fat. In fact, if one of my kids looked like that and thought she was fat I would be really sad and very worried about her. But, oh! My memories and feelings say, "Yeah, there's a little too much tummy there."

I was 10 years old. I had started taking ballet and I loved, loved, loved it; I was going to be a ballerina. My teacher, who had danced with Ballet West herself, was excellent. But she frequently told us how tall and how light and how thin you had to be if you ever wanted to be in a ballet company. I had been taking dance from her for two months; it was early in October, it was a Tuesday, it was around 5:45 p.m, and I was standing in the northwest corner of the room. Our teacher was telling us about how tall you had to be--something she acknowledged you had no control over--but she also said that you had to very thin, and if you were serious you would work on that. She also said that some of us would be too heavy to be in Ballet West.

And I knew she meant me.

I looked around the room at the other girls and thought, "Well, some of them are bigger than me." But I knew she was talking right to me.

OK. Looking back, I'm sure she wasn't singling me out at all. But I was 10 years old. Then, outside of class the teacher's mother would regale us with stories of her daughter's time in the ballet company. One of her favorite stories: the director put all the ballerinas on a diet, except for my teacher, because she was already so thin. I just knew I had to lose weight if I really ever wanted to be a dancer.

On top of that my family was very body-conscious; Mom frequently commented about people who were "fat." And, of course our society perpetuates this all over the place. In eighth grade, my friends complained about how heavy they were--100 pounds. I weighed about 10 pounds more than any of them. You know, my muscles--especially legs and butt--were rock-hard. I took dance classes eight hours a week, plus the practicing at school (plus I was young and active anyway). But I didn't think of that; only that I was heavier than my friends who all thought they were too fat. It's a hard thing to grow up in a time and place where so much emphasis is placed on how good you look, and where the "beautiful people" are brought so much into the forefront.

By the time I was 13 I had put myself on a perma-diet. When I first heard of anorexia and bulimia I thought those were really good ideas for losing weight. Fortunately I had a good--all right, terrific--self-esteem and I never had those problems. But I did stop eating breakfast and lunch. I might have a cup of milk in the morning, a small bowl of cereal if I was really hungry. I skipped lunch at school; instead I took my dance shoes with me and danced through the lunch period. After school I might have a glass of milk again; a half peanut butter sandwich if I was really hungry. Then I went to dance lessons for the evening; I was there not only for my own classes, but waited for my sisters' classes too. By the time I was 14 I was the pianist for all the ballet classes I didn't actually dance in. So I didn't usually get home again until 9:30 or 10:00. Then I did eat a good meal--and down a lot of milk (at least I wasn't getting a calcium deficiency).

Sometimes I wondered...I didn't think I looked too bad, even if I could "pinch an inch." But I knew that I wouldn't--couldn't ever be a ballerina; I would lose one of the great loves of my life if I didn't lose some weight.

When I was 16 I took a ballet class at the University of Utah two evenings a week. I had to audition for the class (bad news--I'm terrible at auditions; nerves) and ended up in the adult class instead of the serious, young ballerina class. Once I was there and my new teacher got to know me and see me dance, she wondered why I wasn't put into a different class; it must be my weight, she said. In December of that year I had to have jaw surgery (orthodontics) and my mouth was wired shut for two months--liquid diet (UGH! I still hate strawberry Quik!). I dropped 10 pounds in the first week but I was so hungry! I skipped school and dance through all of December. In January, when I returned, my University dance teacher said I looked just perfect. And I thought, "Great. If I never eat again I will be thin enough."

The very instant my mouth wires were cut, I gained the ten pounds right back.

This is me at my surprise birthday party. I was 17 and I thought I was 20 lbs. too heavy. I see this picture now and wonder, "What was I thinking?!"

So, for my entire life--since I was ten years old--I've thought I had to lose anywhere from ten to 20 pounds. A few days ago I was going through pictures that my mom had stored away and I found that surprise-party picture. I was in shock!! I looked at myself and said out loud, "Wow! I was hot!" How could I possibly see the girl in that picture and think she needs to lose weight?!

Now I'm married, I'm older, I have eight kids; I've gained some weight. Even though I'm softer now, I think I look OK--except for the mom pouch that doesn't seem to ever go away. Well, and the thighs. Sometimes I look at myself and think I look really good. Sometimes I look at myself and I see "fat." I have mostly come to terms with my body; over all I like myself (self-esteem is still not a problem). But old habits and ways of thinking die so hard! I can't help feeling I'd like to weigh quite a bit less. I tell myself that numbers on the scale don't mean anything, but I don't always entirely believe it.

A couple months ago I was in the temple. I looked around and saw people of all body-types; tall, short, some very heavy, some very thin, and all of them dressed in white. All equal. I had this freeing thought that it really doesn't matter what I weigh; I don't have to lose weight. That lasted about a week.

Soon after that, I had a physical; my doctor told me that my pinched nerve trouble would probably go away if I lost a little weight. He brought out a chart that said a woman my age and height should weigh between 113 and 142. He felt my wrist and said I had a larger bone structure and that the mid 130's would be good for me. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. But in a way it was a relief, as if I now had a good excuse to obsess about my weight. Is this long-time arch-enemy--the need to lose weight--also my friend? A security blanket? A self-identity thing? Hmmm. But if I did lose 30 pounds would I be satisfied? Or would I still look in the mirror and think I need to lose a little more?

And 20 years from now will I see pictures of myself and wonder, "What was I thinking?!"