This one's for you, lady.

(Top photo: Anita, me, Lonni, Sherri and baby Charlotte, Maria [sitting], last April)

{Me and Lonni}

My pal Lonni is laid up. In the hospital. For 70 days now. On bedrest. Pregnant. Unexpectedly. At 43 years old. Enduring a trial she'd probably rather not endure. Anticipating her baby boy (she has three girls), who is currently dubbed Spartacus for his tenacity. Who will arrive via induction on Monday. I wish I could teleport myself to Boise to talk to her in person. And eat some of the desserts her friends have been bringing her in a failed attempt to get her to put on some weight. And partake of blessed "Massage Day Thursday."

My p.m. girlfriends (pre-Marc, pre-marriage, or pre-McThanksForRescuingMeFromSinglesWardPurgatory) came over today with their kids for a playdate. Stacy, Sherri, Maria, Anita, Camille. We were talking tons about a certain conspicuously absent girlfriend. Who was laid up in a hospital somewhere in Boise. Maria even tried to call this girl Lonni so we could all reminisce a tad. (she was probably off galavanting around at her 75th ultrasound).

After they left, I was musing about the many things that we women have collectively gone through since becoming friends almost 15 years ago: marriages, divorce, miscarriages, infertility, adoption, years of schooling, loss of employment, physical ailments, surgeries, loss of a parent, disappointment, financial hardships, many moves across the country, agonizing over which school to send our children to, the joy of our children. We don't get together often, yet when we do, it's as if not a day has passed. We pick up right where we left off.

I practically begged my friends not to leave today. Stay a little while longer. I was just starting to get caught up over Diet Coke, deviled eggs, hummus, Sherri's cream cheese pineapple bars, and pigs in a blanket, but alas, naptimes and whines ultimately trumped adult conversation.

On an entirely unrelated tangent, it's entertaining to note that every single one of this group of girlfriends got married in our thirties (OK I was 29), which is like 72 years old in Mormon Girl years, or 11 years in dog years. We are all older moms, and occasionally find ourselves lost in a sea of stereotypical 25-year old energetic Barbie-esque moms at our childrens' schools. I get tired just watching them hop their lithe little top-heavy bodies into their Hummers with lift kits. Ho hum. [bitter spell is...over].

Our experiences weave a strong and unbreakable cord of commonality among us "vintage moms".

Random memories:

I was always impressed that Lonni was an investigative reporter for NBC (?) I loved hearing through the grapevine about her stories/stings/undercover stuff she was working on. Very Nancy Drew. For example, going down to Haiti (?) to blow some scam wide open about people faking their deaths and buying a body to bury and somehow pocketing the life insurance. I probably jacked up every detail about that story.

Lonni threw a birthday party at Anita's house for Teresa R. This is where I first met McDidn'tKnowHowLuckyHe'dTurnOutToBe.

I was insanely jealous of Lonni at Rebecca Reese's birthday party at Rosa's Mexican Cantina because she platonically leaned over and smelled Marc's aftershave at the table the night I set my sights on him. I almost beat her up.

Lonni hosted a ton of people (including my SIL Maren who wasn't my SIL Maren at the time) at her parent's house in Vegas one New Year's Eve, circa 1996.

Beautiful tall blonde Lonni.

With squawky hair.

We love ya, girl. I miss you. Can't get you off our minds. We're worried with you about your impending blessing/challenge/adventures.

Now if this video clip doesn't cheer you up a smidge, I got nothin'.