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.

The Day I Felt Pretty Good

Today was my boyfriend.
I hated to see our affair end at sunset.

I woke-up with only a distant desire to heave.
I ate some Oh's which surprisingly buried any morning sickness.
I danced in the shower.
The sun was shining,
my hair curled right
and somehow I even wrestled my way into some
slightly
fish-netted
tights.

We were more than on-time to church.
I love my Sunday School class so much that I could
adopt them all
and make them matching jumpers
from my old floral curtains.

They weren't even judging me when I couldn't,
for the life of me,
pronounce the word "catastrophe"
as it continually stuttered out of my mouth as
"castrophe."

Am I too lazy for the extra syllable?
Maybe.
But don't my imperfections just make me cute?

And oh!
I sat next to my dear May in Relief Society
where they asked her to give the Opening Prayer
for the second time this month.

And though she didn't care to share my offered fruit snacks,
she was more than kind to let me fan myself
in the
ninety-and-nine-degreed room
full of sister senior citz.

(In Spain are they called Seniorita Citz?)

And after church my pink skirt and I
took a tiny nap,
made cookies
and bugged Chup.
There is nothing better than teasing Chupa when
he is feeling his
church-hangover.

We had dinner with my Dad who is
home alone for the week.
Jesse and Lindsay were there with
three gorgeous children
(and one on the way!)

And as I was helping myself to Dad's roasted cabbage
Jesse patted my tummy.

For good luck?
(I hope).

And I only wanted to puke once
when Chup made some smelly gyoza,
but he was so excited to devour those
tenderly fried,
drizzled-in-soy-sauce,
pieces of Oriental culinary cuisine
that I could hardly ruin such a moment.

That would be a catastrophe
(to be sure).

Is there a word
that you have a hard time pronouncing aloud?
Specific?
Spaghetti?
Salutation?

*Photo from Cook Almost Anything At Least Once

They Eat A Lot

I went to Page's house for lunch today. It is Tuesday, Bread Making Day, a great day to have lunch at Page's because who doesn't like homemade 12 grain all hot and dripping with whipped honey butter?

But just moments after Page delivered the bread pans from the hot oven, the front door charged open and also delivered four teenage boys. All sporting earphones and hungered bellies. From what I could tell, two of them were my nephews, two were not, all obviously coming home from high school in search of a lunch break.

Oh drat. I thought. There goes my quiet lunch of bread and carrots shared with a few sisters and a sampling of their children. The boys quickly crowded the kitchen with their energy. Such big voices. And shoulders. With enough combined hair to donate to a balding alpaca.

They wasted no time raiding the fridge. Layton made fruit shakes while Clark finished off some flat Root Beer. Chips and salsa (mixed with sour cream) were offered on the dinning room table. In the midst of the chaos, I asked Clark what he was listening to and he responded, "Message in a Bottle by The Police."

"Sting?" Lucy asked trying to get in on the act.

One boy with dramatic bangs rolled his eyes.

"Would you boys like some bread?" Page asked with oven-mitted hands.

"Yes." Said the boy with the hair like Screech.

"Yes Sister Checketts." Page corrected.

"You don't really make them call you that?" Lucy protested.

"They are at the age where it is terribly awkward to know what to call your friend's parents. I am just letting them know that they can call me Sister Checketts. Sister Checketts, you can call me that from now on." As she commanded, Page was testing out a loaf of bread for durability.

"I called my math teacher Brother Jenner today on accident." Clark said reaching for some crackers with cream cheese. The other boys laughed. Loudly like, WAAAHHH! WAAAHHH!

Finally Page gave up on slicing the bread warm and hacked it up into four man-sized chunks. The boys each grabbed a piece, smothered it with sticky honey butter and stuffed it into their mouths like starved Vikings on pillage.

I dared not look.

As I turned away I thought about this whole business of having boys. How aggressive, awkward and constantly hungry they are! How indefatigable, red-blooded and grumpy they can be! And here I am, only months away to giving birth to one! Someone get me help.

Then, in the corner of my view I saw Page attempting to move Mery's glue-and-dried-beans project from the kitchen counter out of the way of our teenage army. The bottle tipped and glue went pouring down Mery's little jean skirt and fell into a puddle on the floor.

Mery gasped.

The kitchen was suddenly quiet.

"Nice one . . . Sister Checketts." Quipped one of the boys.

And that is when I went to get my camera. "Stay there." I said to the formidable gang, "I need to remember this moment."

A picture to remind me of the other adjective that describes transforming males: surprisingly clever.

Necessary Denial

Not fish sticks, chicken tenders or even chicken nuggets. No, it is a six pack of chicken McNuggets dipped in honey that I crave day in and day out. I haven't had one since I was in high school. After a stomp. In the commons.

So I guess this is my the first lesson in "How to refuse your child food from McDonalds."

But I am going to have a Granny B's sugar cookie sometime today. You know, the one with the gallon of pink frosting and sprinkles.

Ba da da da da I'm lovin' it.

There Will Be No "Agree to Disagree"

Vote for one:
1.) Del Taco
2.) Taco Bell
3.) Taco Time

Chick and Me: A Story of Baptism

Chick was baptized this weekend. Her hair was in two adorable buns on each side of her head and her teeth were all in place. A bright turquoise sweater matched the ever-clever look in her eyes.

Chick was born while I was on my mission. Anytime a letter would grace my mailbox it would be all about the cuteness of Chick. Chick this and Chick that my letters would read. I wondered at times if anyone cared about me at all.

She was born the 12th grandchild, the fifth niece. There was no explanation for this enthrallment, I figured, other than the fact that this baby was beyond beautiful. Perhaps even an ethereal entity. So it was in a cold Canada that I decided I'd have to meet this Being and decide for myself.

Well.

When I arrived home and on the first occasion possible, I reached for the chubby faced cherub everyone had written about. Only she screamed ghastly horror at me. And things got worse in the following months. At family occasions Chick pleased the crowd by serving hugs and kisses to every single person in the room. Though, when it was time for "Aunt Courtney's hug. Give Auntie Courtney a hug! GIVE HER A HUG THIS MINUTE!", I received nothing but a daringly-dished terrible scowl!

I'm melting! I'm melting!

It was comical. And wholly unchangeable. Unable to dissuade her daughter, Megan could do nothing but get a good chuckle out of seeing Chick have so much distaste for one person. My efforts towards my niece were thwarted by her snappy comments while I watched her angelic attitude grace the other members of my family (still to this day she does breathe a quick flame of verbal fire!)

Things followed in-like manner as the years went by. One time she told me about her "Favorite Aunt" list, which she read in descending order from Favorite to Not Favorite. Guess who was dead last? You got it. Me.

So I decided to wait for her affection.

And I waited.

And waited.

Years passed.

Until finally one late Sunday evening Chick made an announcement.

"I have a new 'Favorite Aunts List.' "She proclaimed, "First Aunt Stephanie, then Aunt Katy and . . . then . . . Aunt Courtney."

I almost choked on my Sunday treat.

She liked me (sorta!)

Slowly I had maneuvered my way into Chick's grace. Though her quick-witted, snap-snappity comments didn't cease entirely, I heard less of them when I was in her presence. And scowls only on occasion. Oh the reward of patience!

And so it was on Saturday we heard a talk about baptismal cleanliness from Chick's other grandmother. She mentioned how great her granddaughter was, how sweet, how kind. And now that she was baptized she was clean from sin and ready to start a new life, even sweeter and even kinder.

After the ceremony there was a lovely luncheon at Chick's house. It was a perfect day with bright roses in vases, children playing whiffle ball and BYU mint brownies. I stole away for a moment to congratulate my niece. I found her playing with cousins and friends on the side of the house.

"Oh hello!" I said to all of them. And then, by a way of introduction to those who didn't know me, I said "I am Courtney. Chick's favorite aunt."

Chick scrunched her face up in protest, froze for a moment, then swallowed in a big gulping gesture of whatever it was she was going to say.


I think this baptized Chick and I are going to get along even better.

Congratulations Chicky. I love you!

The Original Craftsman

On Saturday I woke-up in the grumps.
"Look," said Chup whose very definition of ENEMY is Wife in Bad Mood "what do we need to do to get you happy?"
"Hmmm." Good question. I thought about it.
Why was I in a bad mood in the first place? It was embarrassing. The day before I had done the Utah Valley Parade of Homes with my mother and her VIP pass. Only, I couldn't stand the first house because I wanted it to be a "restoration project" of a 1930s cape cod style home, instead it was a "remodeled" glorified bachelor pad. The second house was so terrifyingly tasteless and gaudy that I almost used the copper "bowl sink" to desert my distaste.
Why don't people get it?
I tried to explain this to Chup.
"You know when you see a movie that has awesome possibilities, a great script, loads of money but the actors ruin it with their mediocrity?" Chup nodded.
"That is how I see these homes. It's like everyone wants to have a craftsman home because it's so trendy right now, but they don't get craftsman. You can't have French Country Craftsman. Building homes is art, not money. And even if you want to have the biggest, most overwhelming house in the whole city it doesn't mean that I want to take a tour of it."
Before I could go on, Chup interrupted to ask me again.
"What do we need to do for you?"
Exhausted, I mentally posted a white flag.
"I need a fish taco."
Chup loaded me in the car and drove forty minutes north to Sugarhouse where I had not just a fish taco, but a Rubio's signature fish taco . . . my favorite.
After finishing off the last of a corn tortilla, Chup asked me how I felt.
"Better, only, can you take me on a drive so that I can see original houses? You know, wipe away all bitterness."
We drove up and down the bungalows of Sugarhouse, the original craftsman of Millcreek and over to the spectacular homes of Yale and Harvard. We spent the whole day researching and plotting. Going to open houses and comparing prices. Looking at neighborhoods where kids were actually outside playing on front lawns instead of holed up in some ridiculous "home theater". It was a trillion times more domestic than that lousy Parade of F-ing Homes.
I was feeling so refreshed that I asked Chup to drive me past the Energy Solutions Arena so I could see the pre-game going ons. However, as we drove by there were only a few people milling around . I took the opportunity anyway to yell out my car window, "Go Jazz! Go Jazz! Go Jazz!" to which nobody cared.
After some silence in our car I sheepishly asked Chup if he wished I hadn't done that.
"Do you wish that someone would've cared?" he asked me back.
I was laughing too hard to respond at the time.
But today I say this:
Dear Chup,
I could never wish for more caring in my life. You do it plenty.
Thanks for the fish taco. And the bungalows.
with all my heart,
c jane

Where Has the Magic Gone?

Chup took me to lunch at Bajio's today to tell me some bad news. It is about the "magic" in my Magic 8 Ball. He claimed to have indisputable evidence that my Precious Object is a not a Divinely Guided Medium with Floating Answers to the Great Beyond.

In actuality, it is filled with nothing but--are you ready for this?--water and blue dye.

Click here to have your heart broken.

(Don't cry for me Blogarentia: There was a happy trip to Target afterwards.)

(Scroll Down for Monday's Post)

Happy Birthday Councilwoman, You Wild Child

Handmade invitation-design by Yours Truliest

I am holding a brunch in my mother's honor today. I am thinking of serving Vodka. Then again, I am not thinking of serving Vodka because we are Mormon.

So instead there will be a nice pasta salad infused with my secret balsamic vinaigrette, chicken curry sandwiches for some, tomato and cheese for the others, plump strawberries, Mediterranean cheese chips and Aunite CW's sour cream lemon pie for dessert. And, sigh, lemon water.

Chup most certainly will take pictures of the affair.

Will you please excuse me? I have to tend to the asparagus. We need less of stringy asparagus in this world. (To be sure, never cook a vegetable longer than 3 minutes.) Also, as I have stated before, one of the world's greatest pleasures is asparagus pee.

Can you agree?

Happy Birthday Councilwoman!

For more reading, check out Segullah's newest issue by clicking here.

My Tres Jolie Life

Sometimes I get crazy and surf the net. I caught a big wave last week that took me to my new friend Emily Anne's blog where she was singing the praises of her pink frilly skirt. If you've read my chronicles here on cjanerun.com you know, that I know, the joy of a perfect pink skirt. And so you also know why Emily Anne is my new friend.

Just yesterday morning I was shuffling around the house in my undies and discussing with Chupa where I wanted to trade money for a burrito that afternoon. As I decided on El Azteca, the door bell went like this: ding! Our doorbell doesn't: ding-dong! It just: dings! And that is okay with me. I mean, I am at peace with that.

Because I was in my undies and all, the Man of the House had to answer the door. And I was hoping that it wasn't ANYONE trying to sell ANYTHING because NOTHING makes Chup more irrate than that. He made a sign. He has a bb gun. He gets a little ruthless (my apologies to Ruth.)

But instead it was my new shoes! My new shoes! To chase away the blues! Clearing of any bad news! Specially whilst in my underoos! The Councilwoman bought me them two weeks ago but Nordie's wasn't "in to" carrying my size. So I made "an order." Every girl knows that the you must bond with shoes immediately after you take them home. So I put them on and we took a tour of the house together. "This is the bathroom, where we'll come to apply make-up and use q-tips." And we met Chupa who said, "I am Chupa and I have a groping problem." (Which I didn't think was appropriate.)

After the three hour tour it was burrito time so I dashed into my room to get dressed. Hmmmm. Nothing looked appetizing to wear. Then I saw something flash out of the corner of the plastic spring/summer wardrobe bin. Pink skirt. Pink skirt! When I brought her out, she looked so refreshed from her six month hibernation. Just lovely. Then I finished the whole ensemble with, get this, a shirt that Azucar gave me last year, because when that girl has clothes to give away I LINE UP and yell ME! ME! PICK ME!

And because I am like Angelina Jolie, after I buy something new, I like to have pictures taken of me bonding with my new-found prize. Then I sell them to People magazine for MILLIONS! The proceeds of which will go to my favorite charity: Outlaw Bluetooth Usage Organization. They aim at making the world less awkward for us all.

After that I had a burrito.

After that I chips and salsa.

After that I peed my pants playing Lazer Assault with my family for Family Home Evening.

(Oh what? Like you've never peed your pants from laughing at your Dad running around trying to maneuver into small spaces in the dark with the Stars Wars Soundtrack blaring in your ears?)










Girl. You haven't lived.

Linger Longer Eater Pants

You've got it. Yesterday I came to the post-birthday realization that in all the celebrating and late-night fake wine tasting, the c jane has indeed added some poundage to her short frame. This will not do. T'will not do at all.

So I've decided to take it easy on myself (now that I am thirty.) The only thing I am going to do is weigh myself every morning until I get back to my pre-party frame. My theory being that just the fear of getting on a scale will be motivation to get Ralph in the car and shake my derrier to some Lilly Allen (although, talk about dirtymouth! I need to throw that cd away, it's just that I can't live without her "Smile" right now...I'll get to that later, after I've regained my composure.) My other fear is feeling fat at Girls Camp. I can see me now with Cheetos cheese stained fingertips trying to build a fire. Pffff I only have like four months.

After I got off the scale yesterday I thought of my babelicious sister Stephanie. I hope she doesn't mind me saying so, but the girl has a body that rocks this existence. When she was here last week she got on Lucy's scale and proclaimed that she loved her life. Who does that? I've spent enough time with her to study her ways.

Here are her ways:
1.) Great genetics. She got our Aunt Liz's body, the body that Botticelli would paint.
2.) Don't hike the Y. Run the Y. And if you've never hiked to the Y then you've never tasted the sampler of Hell on Earth.
3.) Linger Eating.
I can't do much about 1 and 2 isn't looking good for this lifetime, but 3 I can try 3.

The definition of linger eating is this: A practice common to nursing mothers, linger eating is the act of trying to feed yourself amidst multiple distractions causing one meal to last for several hours. For example, when a mother starts to eat her salad and hears her hungry baby, the meal is interrupted by the nursing. Mother returns to eating salad when 2-year-old needs a diaper change. Stop salad. Start Wet Wipes. Mother returns to salad and repeat.

Linger eating is also the style of the French. Eating in Paris is an all day event. You are seated, you order, the food comes and then you don't see your waiter until sunset when he asks if you'd like some coffee. My gosh I love that place.

Linger eating is also the style of the toddler-set. See: Jane.

I decided to try linger eating just yesterday. I picked Cafe Rio because Stephanie loves Cafe Rio (so much so that she will have an IV of the stuff post-birth.) I ate some of my salad at Cafe Rio, but became distracted by a recent bride showing-off her four-times-the-bible thick wedding album to a table of over-the-top-interested ladies. You know how I feel about big weddings at this point and so yes, the whole scene made me lose my appetite just a little bit. This was good.

When I got home I didn't stuff the salad into the fridge like I'd normally do. I say "stuff" but there are only a couple items in my fridge at the moment. Some weird truffles that Chup bought from a YW for her band trip and a jar of hummus. It never gets more crowded than that either.

Grocery shop? What?

I got the salad at 2pm. Yesterday I was online for the whole afternoon trying to answer the calls of my e-mail inbox. I'd type an e-mail and then eat a little, type another, until I finished that salad at 5pm. Linger eating works my friends because at 5pm you don't want no dinners. (Regrettably though, I did not finish answering all my e-mails.)

This morning I accepted another rendezvous with my scale. You've got it. One pound was lost in my linger eating transaction. Thank you for your inspiration Stephanie.
Kiss. Kiss.








But the real question is, do you love Chris Isaak's Baja Sessions? And if you don't, what is stopping you pray tell?

Chris Isaak - Think Of Tomorrow

(Loves to The Famous Kelly M. for introducing me to MusicJesus.com. A delicious way to spend one's time.)

Four Brags and a Question

It's my birthday week and well, I'd like to brag.

Angie, my fellow Segullah Sister highlighted my first published essay "Infertility and Fulfillment" yesterday on the Blog Segullah forum. The writers at Segullah are intelligent polished women for whom I am grateful to share printed space. Thanks for the honor Ang!

Read the discussion here.

Read my essay here.

To carry on with my bragging, I want to point out that Sunstone, the Great I AM of Mormon intellectual, cultural, spiritual, social and artistic literary discussion and reporting has had my "Modest About Modesty" linked on their "Of Good Report" sidebar (linked as: Fun Fashion at Segullah: A little cleavage never hurt anyone!) Which I think means that they liked it, they really, really liked it.

As a side note: the great Mormon philosopher and writer Eugene England first introduced me to the Sunstone society, and although I only earned a B in his Mormon Lit class, I think he'd be glad to know that his prestigious institution gave a tiny nod in my direction. That is what I'd like to think.

What? Did you think I would stop there? Yesterday www.cjanerun.com was off the charts with stats. 2,772 page loads with 988 unique visitors! Holy flapjacks and happy gravy! Of course I owe it all to those who participated (either by posting or by linking) to our intriguing Theme Day activity. Thank you one, and thank you all. Now that I am a professional blogger (because I have ads-you know) traffic is what keeps food in Ralph's bowl. And not just the cheap Costco brand that causes sea green/yellow mounds all over the backyard, I mean the real chunky dog food that crawling babies like to eat! So again, THANK YOU!

Last of all, I had the honor of babysitting niece Phoebe and nephew Hugh while Chris and Lisa jet setted off to yet another film festival in California (la-tee-da) and while making lunch for the little critters, Chup and I had a very serious discussion about the use of bread on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (a run-on! a run-on! I write the best run-ons!) I like Great Harvest Honey Whole Wheat, he likes a thick Texan White Bread, that for non-nonsensical reasons, he ate a lot of in Japan. He will not eat raspberry jam because of the seeds, but I say bring it on. I am seedy that way.

And this is where I ask, how do you like your pb&j?