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.