dos.

I've been best friends with Kimberly Noelle (not for long!) Julian since the two of us were in diapers. When my parents moved into the Newton Ward, our moms became fast friends once they realized their daughters were only a month apart in age. The two of us were dragged to Relief Society events as toddlers, played together in nursery, and entered our first Sunbeam class hand in hand, sporting identical bowl haircuts (it's times like this I really wish I had a picture scanner). Kimberly's family lived in McPherson (30 miles north of Newton) so when we'd have sleepovers over the years, our parents would pawn us off on each other for three or four days at a time, especially during the summer.

I really can't think of one time that Kimberly and I played Barbies or house or made up dances or bothered with any other kind of girly games growing up. Both of us were raised in households with only brothers so we were more interested in climbing trees, jumping from roof to roof on the houses in my neighborhood, riding bikes, or swimming in the creek a few blocks a few blocks away. One of our favorite (but strange) things to do was wade up to our knees in the creek and throw huge wads of moss up on the walls of the bridge above us. One particular summer day as we were making our way "back to shore" from a moss-tossing session, I felt a sharp pain on the bottom of my foot, lifted it out of the murky creek water, and saw that I had sliced it on a piece of broken glass. Of course I immediately started bawling, and Kimberly, who was already up on her bike, threw it down and yelled "I'll be right there!" She yanked off her sandles (I think they were those AWESOME gel shoes that were all the rage that summer) and ran down the hill back into the creek. A few leaps in, I saw her face change into a horrified, pained expression. She lifted her foot out of the water and I could see the blood dripping from a small cut on her heel. She had stepped on a different piece of broken glass (one of the million reasons why we were strictly forbidden to swim in this nasty creek). We both were sobbing and trying to hop out of the water, literally crawled on shore up to our bikes, and peddled with one foot all the way back to my house.  When we reached the front door, it was locked, so I ran the doorbell over and over (we were both still wailing in pain). My mom answered, saw both of us standing like flamingos with blood dripping down into a small pool on the porch, and started laughing. "You girls! Is that ketchup??? Wash it off with the hose, you know we just replaced the carpet!" and then she slammed the door shut. I rang the doorbell fifteen times again before she opened it back up to realize that we were seriously "injured" (they were just tiny cuts-- naturally, we were behaving like dramatic seven year old girls).  Of course she brought her neosporin OUTside to fix us up (new carpet, remember?) and we proceeded to skedaddle off to find some other tomboy activity.

I could tell so many stories about our adventures over the years; her attempt to save me from nearly drowning at the age of three ("use big arms, Dani, big arms!), us mooning all the cars that drove down our street (only to have our neighbor call my mom and tattle, causing us to collapse on the ground with remorse and worry ourselves sick over our eternal salvation), our awkward middle school phase, girls camp (where we thought we ruled the prairie), our first boy crushes, and dozens of moments from our freshman year at KU, where we were roommates in the dorms. She is such a loyal, compassionate friend.  We know each other so, so well. We have the quirkiest humor-especially when we're together- and she always knows how to get a laugh out of me even when I'm down in the dumps. She's smart (I call her whenever I'm faced with disgusting math problems), sarcastic, and gives the best recommendations at new restaurants (seriously. once she's suggested a dish to me, and I try it, I never order anything else on the menu).  I'm so grateful that, even though she lives far, far away in Utah, we can talk on the phone several times a day and know every little tidbit of what's going on in each other's lives. It feels like Christmas each time she comes home for a visit. In just a couple of weeks, I have the great privilege of being maid of honor at her wedding to the dashing Patrick Cannon. I can. not. wait! Love you Cranbarryl.
 our song:

I mean...what's not to love about this girl?