But She Still Thinks It Was Her Tonsils

Flashing Cousins: Muggles and Lo

One of the reasons I am sure that The Chief hasn't made his arrival yet is that he is waiting for the right time. It seems that my side of the family has been infused with dramatics as of late from the sad news that Page miscarried, to last night's destruction of Lucy's fence by a sleeping-pill-induced drunk driver. Not to mention Alex's mild depression since Kobe sent the Jazz to their locker room clean out.

But the news that continues to have the family on our knees was last week's emergency removal of my seven-year-old niece's appendix. This niece, who belongs to my brother Andrew and his wife Megan, has a good Christian name but for some reason she answers to Lo, Lolo and yes, even sometimes, Lolita, in our family circle.

Chup and I have long-since been fans of Lo. From her self-enforced diet of carbohydrates-only, to her unique voice (think Mickey Mouse mixed with Sylvia Brown) to her insistence that everything is "weird." (I told her the name that we are thinking of naming The Chief and she responded with her certified "That's weird!" which, ok, it kinda is an odd name, but then my sister-in-law Lindsay said that they are thinking of naming their baby Maria and Lo said the same exact thing. Half this planet is named Maria! It can't be that weird.) But we love her mostly because she was born with spice that Thailand hasn't even invented yet. Spi-cy.

So when we got the news that she was in a lot of pain (physical and emotional), that her white blood cell count was approaching the roof, and that the Dr. Uncle Jim was thinking an appendicitis we were all on high alert. Not our Lo! How long would it be until we'd see her unparalleled dance moves while singing little lines of Fergalicious? No little girl (besides Madeline) should have to go through such excruciating pain. What was to be done?

They removed her appendix.

Later, when the surgery was successful, Megan told me that as Lo sat in the throws of torment, begging for relief, our already-prone-to-high-amounts-of-prima-donna exclaimed, " Why me? Why can't this be one of our cousins instead of me?"

After Meg finished that punchline boy did I laugh. How perfectly Lo! A story for her collection of Funny Things I Said As A Child (which is going to be voluminous). Remember that time when you were so eager to give your appendicitis attack to one of your lowly cousins who apparently deserved more than you?

But since then I've thought and thought about that comment. Actually, now I see it in another light. Maybe in that moment Lo was remembering the crowd of cousins who love her, those who play with her almost daily, who watch her spontaneous dance shows and let her eat tortilla chips (carbs!) off their plate at Cafe Rio. Perhaps she felt that any of them loved her enough to trade her places if she couldn't do it herself. This vast army of kids who all share blood and light brown facial freckles are closer than I thought.

Behold! My siblings have produced a second generation of kids who really care about one another. And I can't wait for The Chief to join them.



(When things have calmed down, of course.)

We Looked Out Our Chimney And What Did We See?

I don't make a billion dollars blogging like Dooce does, but I do have a raccoon in my chimney. That should count for something.

Guess what I named the raccoon?

You'll never guess.

Tuned in Tuna

This afternoon I got a call from Lucy.

"I made you a sandwich. Tuna with tomatoes."

I love a tomato-and-tuna sandwich, so much so that I drove across town to devour it. I went all the way down to Bulldog Ave, up to Grandview Hill and out on the South Point where Ric's jewelry shop is located. There, under an inspiring panoramic veranda did I dine with Lucy, Ric and Ric's Papa. Tuna never tasted so good.

At the risk of enduring ten thousands "Haven't you had that baby yet?" I have deemed myself quarantined from most of society. I am so blessed to have a multitude of loved ones who love me and await the arrival of His Honor the Grand Chief. Only, all that energy is hard to swallow. And so it is that I choose to feel their love while staying quiet in basement rooms of Retro House.

But I will reappear for tuna, I guess.

Once I arrived at the lunch date I was greeted by Ric's Papa and a hearty "Oh, you don't look that pregnant to me. You could still go two more months!" Bingo! That put me in the best of moods. A complete remodel from current comments. But even better, he allowed me to eat my lunch while he told story after story of tales ranging from the sharing of chilled pineapple with strangers to what to do in Milwaukee on a Harley to the exact location of Bluebell, Utah (who knew?)

I hardly had to say a word the entire lunch.

Do you know how wonderful that was?

I could completely focus on something other than me and my thoughts on The Impending. It was pure entertainment accompanied by food and a glass of liquid and frozen aqua (or, in other words, a cup of ice). I could've kissed the man, but instead I ate a lot of guacamole-flavored chips and sometimes asked follow up questions. Like in his story about how he conned some guys into giving him a breakfast burrito I asked "What was in the breakfast burrito?" to which he replied "Scrambled eggs, bacon and some pico" to which I followed up with "No potatoes?" to which he answered "No" to which I thought in my head, What a dying shame.

See because, thinking about the contents of a breakfast burrito was better than thinking about how to rid myself of a case of late-pregnancy-induced acid reflux. You know? Even if it was a potato-less breakfast burrito. (Did I already mention what a shame that is?)

My thanks to Lucy for the tuna sandwich and Ric for sharing his Papa this afternoon. It was worth the unexpected travel plans.

Do you feel like talking about yourself? My comments are open. Feast.

Today's Headlines Confirmed What My Heart Already Knows

People are always like "c jane you never answer your phone. It is really annoying. Why don't you answer your phone once-in-a-while? Why don't you want to talk to me? It hurts my tender feelings so badly. Like you don't care about us. Why don't you care about us?" and so on like that.

This is why people. This is why. And (like every study done under the sun) it's SERIOUS.

Click here.

The Parakeet's Name is Bella

Tonight's almost-full moon called for a nice bath. A gentile soak in warm waters. And so it was that I climbed my heavy body upstairs in The Retro House to disrobe in my bedroom (if you will). With the moonlight filtering in the back windows I decided to leave the lights off, making the top story dark except for a dim green night light emanating from the hallway. After undressing I set my clothes in the hamper and prepared to make the short journey from my bedroom to my bathroom. As I did so I encountered an unknown trespasser at the top of my stairs.

I screamed!

I jumped!

I hid my lady parts with my arms!

I screamed again!

I realized I was in shock!

I tried to hide my lady parts better by repositioning my arms!

I locked eyes with my trespasser!

It was my fourteen-year-old niece Lindsay!

I could see in the light of the hall that her dark eyes were horrified. Like really appalled. Like seeing the violence that is alligators feasting on water buffalo on the Planet Earth Series.

"We . . . knocked . . ." she stuttered.

"Hold on!" I screamed and ran the rest of the way to the bathroom where I managed to find a towel. Only, a towel at this point in my life doesn't cover up nearly enough (you know) so I dashed back down the hall ("Wait again!") to my XXXL terry-cloth robe.

After the adrenalin settled in my mix-o-hormones I calmly walked down the stairs to see Lindsay and Emily (the other fourteen-year-old niece) awkwardly standing in my kitchen. Lindsay was petting the tropical-colored parakeet she got for her recent birthday and Emily was holding the camera bag (the Nikon D-40, another birthday surprise Lindsay wanted to show-and-tell to me).

There was nothing to do but laugh. And laugh we did. I held the parakeet on my fingers and we laughed. I tried the shutter speed on the new camera . . . and we laughed. Then Lindsay said seeing me nude in my pregnant glory was kinda like Jim Carey's naked Grinch which made me laugh then, but now I am not so sure.

To tell the truth though, I felt bad. It was only yesterday that I was fourteen. Having been asked to serve at our neighbor's daughter's wedding party (oh the 80's!) I arrived a little early to help out. As the story goes, I needed to use the restroom and in doing so walked in on my neighbor shaving in front of a large mirror (surround-sight) as he straddled a metal stool. Yes, I saw it (all). Yes, it was the first time I had seen a grown man naked. And yes, he was our home teacher at the time.

I pretended not to see. I told no one. I prayed he didn't see who it was that barged in as he made his beard disappear. Even so, I am left with the mental scar of which I shall never-even-in-eternity forget. It my disturbing cross to bare (pun intiendo!)

So I think I did the right thing tonight by laughing. Lindsay even made some surprisingly funny jokes about the whole matter making me believe that she didn't go home and purge. Besides, my body really is beautiful. I'd write more on that subject, but how do I know you aren't some lurking pervert?

I mean really.

I'll See What I Can Do

Chup (this morning): Could you not have The Chief today?

Me: Why?

Chup: Kristy won everyone on the team free Chipotle burritos for lunch.

Me: You eat Chipotle once a week already.

Chup: I know, but today it is free.

Pro Test

I had the distinct pleasure of watching the Jazz game via my parent's bedroom tonight. The family room had been taken over by an army of teenage boys (some who call me Aunt) of sharp wit and unfailing energy. My parents and I fled the scene as we were no match for such a crowd.

As the game progressed we found ourselves also becoming involved--during commercial breaks--with a Vh1 documentary about feminism. I am so confused about my identity with the whole movement which started decades ago and still wages on today. Most of the time I feel that I am the anti Feminist-of-Today, she who yearns to not just be equal to man, but be man. But I like the feminist who cheers on the causes of free-spirited women. Women who can make their own life choices based on intuition and female divinity.

There was a segment in the documentary where the feminists of the sixties talked about how they decided to protest the Miss America pageant. The film split scenes from energetic women burning their bras outside the convention center to polite women walking down the Miss America stage in their evening gowns. Women holding "sisterhood power!" signs. Women holding bouquets of roses. Back-and-forth.

I looked at my parents. They were engrossed.

"Which one would you rather have your daughter doing, the protesting or the pageantry?" I asked very intrigued.

They slowly peeled their eyes from the tv to my direction.

"The pageant. Of course." My dad said.

"The protest." Replied my mom.

Interesting.

Then when the game became too intense for my mother to watch she left the room. My dad and I were alone flipping between the channels.

"Dad?" I asked.

"Yes?" He replied.

"Did you really mean the pageant? You know that in real life, your daughter would probably be doing the protesting. Not to be mean, just to be different. You raised me that way."

He thought for a second.

"No, really, I'd want you to be in the pageant."

I exhaled. Was my dad losing his edge? I had a feeling that he'd always quietly championed my causes for the contrary.

In the last seconds of the game, as the Jazz were trying to pull out a win, I caught on to my dad's maneuvering. He could never admit that he liked his daughter to be The Protester. Doing so would extinguish the flame that he had worked so hard to stoke.

His game: Hide the Pride.



Well anyway, GO JAZZ!





***Image from JoFreeman.com

Chup Has a Revelation, or, How I Get Free Singing Lessons

Last Week:

Chup: Oh hey. Guess who was in-line with me at the airport today?

Me: Who?

Chup: Marie Osmond! She was surprisingly normal looking. It was weird because I kept waiting for her to recognize me.

Me: Did she?

Chup: I don't know. But we did lock eyes.

Tonight:

Chup: Oh hey. Guess who was coming into Target as I was leaving?

Me: Who?

Chup: Marie Osmond! She had a load of kids with her. And a head of foot-long black hair extensions.

Me: What does all this mean?

Chup: (answers without missing a beat) She is supposed to be our sister-wife.

And Still Nary A Contraction

I've said it before and I will say it again, if you ever want to know who reads your blog go to Target. (If you don't have a Target nearby take two of these and call me in the morning.) There--out of the shoe aisles or in the middle of the fluffy pillow section--you will meet someone (an old friend, a new friend, a stranger) who greets you and says, "I read your blog!" And cheers all around strengthening my testimony that Heaven is a big Target (Super Target because I love the groceries, Archer Farms anyone?)

From the response we got on Saturday evening's trip to Target/Heaven apparently there are those out there who are interested in knowing if The Chief has held his final pow wow (so to speak). No, he is still here, right here, between me and the keyboard. Did you feel that squirm? That is was him getting comfy. There's just no rushing The Chief when he's got a pound a week to gain and amniotic fluid to float around in.

And now allow me to answer (candidly) some of your questions.

Am I dilated? I don't know. I've decided not to care. Such things have driven many a good woman batty at a time like this. My pupils are dilated for sure though because it is dark in the Retro House and I am typing by the light of my laptop.

When is my due date? What is a due date? A number that pops up on a little laminated wheel chart at the doctors office? Is it the date your computer gives you when you type in the date of your last period on baby.com? A message from the ultrasound machine after measuring your baby's cranial? I don't get it. I think the Gods laugh at us. I just read that only 5% of babies are actually born on their "due date." Where is the comfort in that prediction?

I tried to attach numbers to my body when trying to get pregnant. It didn't work. Sometimes I ovulated on day 11, others on day 16. My cycle was sometimes 24 days, other times it was 27. If numbers didn't predict my fertility then why should I attach numbers to it now?

And that is the short answer.

What is your birth plan? I eloped to Vegas to marry my husband, that should tell you something about how I coordinate(i.e. plan) my momentous life events. Also, I am going to eat sushi directly following the birth. Sushi. Sushi. Sushi. Not that I've denied myself during the pregnancy, it's just that I can never get enough of Mercury. Mercury. Mercury.

Do you have a name? Yes, but I go by c jane when I am blogging.

How are you feeling? Positive, hopeful, maybe a little sarcastic in conversation. My body has amazed me these past nine months. Everything is just getting more intensified here at the end. I love it. What a funny ride.

If you'll excuse me, the wind is blowing outside like mad. There is talk of barometric pressure inducing births. The Chief and I need to do some conversing before the rain starts to fly.

Pray on!