you really want to hate her

I've known my friend Liz since preschool. From what I've been told, we both liked to chase boys. Our mothers became friends, and it just happened that Elizabeth went to the same Catholic school where my mom taught (and therefore I attended). We were inseparably best friends throughout elementary school. We carpooled to ballet together for years. I have vivid memories of us in the back of her van, changing into our leotards and tights and eating crisp apple slices and carrot sticks. Or the thrill of seeing our recital costumes for the first time (minus the unfortunate misstep of the butter tub hats). Or waiting in the wings at Jewett Auditorium, counting the beats until we made our grand entrance as rose attendants, playing cards, or guests at the wedding of the Little Mermaid.

Eliza (as she was known then) and I shared a love of writing stories. We created and performed elaborate plays on the blacktop playground. We spent nights snuggled up in her amazing playhouse, pretended to be mermaids in my swimming pool, ran away from the orphanage in my grandmother's old hats, and solved mysteries as detectives Snyder and McGraw. We had wildly active imaginations and the 1980's freedom to roam our neighborhoods without adult supervision.

We also got into trouble. A lot. Once when Liz was playing at my house, we decided to investigate the attic. I'd never been to the attic, and I wasn't even certain we had an attic, but I knew there was some kind of door on the ceiling of our huge walk-in pantry. So we hauled inside my dad's enormous, rickety old wooden ladder and somehow manuevered it up the stairs to the kitchen and into the pantry. It was a tight squeeze. I was on the top rung of the ladder when we heard my parents returning from their bike ride. (Yes, children, in those days parents went out bike riding and left their children home alone. It was safe - I think.) I scrambled down the ladder and we raced down the stairs. I remember that my dad was coming in the back door just as my left foot rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs. I don't know what we were expecting - that he would see the ladder and think, "Man, I can't believe I brought this ladder in here and forgot to take it out?" We had just made it to my bedroom when we heard my dad yell "ALISA!" in the "you are in so much trouble right now" tone. And I was.

Liz and I went to different junior highs and quit ballet, and we drifted apart for a few years. We became close friends again when my family moved into a house across the street from hers. How thankful I am today that my parents chose that house! Liz and I remained tight friends through high school and college, and I watched as she slowly became the brilliant, talented, funny, self-effacing, and ridiculously beautiful woman she is today. Liz is gorgeous, no doubt. I swear she has absolutely no fat on her body, which is sickening. Her saving grace is that she has a warm, genuine, charismatic personality that makes it impossible not to love her. Liz is kind and compassionate, funny and humble. She is the single greatest hugger I've ever encountered. She hugs you long and tight and makes you feel like you are the most important and loved person in her world. I would walk to Seattle for one of her hugs.

Liz is now married (to a truly awesome guy) and her name sounds like that of an investigative journalist - "Elizabeth Broenneke reporting from the front lines" - although she is actually a very successful accountant. Liz and Jason live in Sammamish, Washington and are two of the most down-to-earth, enjoyable people I know. We are separated by miles, but she is always close to my heart.