Monday, January 23, 2012

Some things don't change

My older nephew, the newly-minted sailor, was at my mom's house this past weekend. He has a couple weeks in town before he boards his ship and my mom, ever the doting grandma, wants to spend every moment with him she can. And she likes to show him off, so I went out of my way to stop by and visit with him, even took a few photos of her grandsons together.

The problem is my older sister. My nephew asked me why I keep my cyst in a jar. That's what his mother, my sister, tells people, that I keep my cyst in a jar to show it off.

First of all, it measured 11"x8"x5" and was shaped like a football. It wouldn't fit in "a jar." Secondly, the reason why it, and my ovaries and uterus, were removed was to biopsy them for cancer. So no, there's nothing left for me to carry around. I did ask the doctor for copies of the photos -- ones he would have taken anyway -- because I was dying to see the cyst that had such an impact on my life for months and months.

My sister happened to call my mom's house so I asked her, "Are you telling people I carry my cyst around in jar so I can show it off?"


"Your son says you do."

"Yeah," he said loudly. "You told me that repeatedly."

I didn't have the stomach to make her squirm. After all, she's tried to reach out to me recently and besides, our being civil makes my mother so happy. So I made a joke of it and passed the phone to my nephew.

But old as we are, my sister is exactly who she always was. She really cannot stand anyone thinking highly of me. Never has been able to. It makes me sad.

The best actor of the year is Uggy

Look at him! He completely stole The Artist. He is loving, funny and brave -- everything you could want in a movie hero. And I'd much rather gaze upon his kisser than Brad Pitt's.

I demand an Oscar for Uggy!

Oh, we do that here?

WARNING: This is not the post of a grownup. It's the brain fart of a very immature gal. 

My boss was out Thursday and Friday. He explained these unscheduled absences by saying his son was in the hospital. Today, when he came back into work, he called us all into the conference room and told us that the 21-year-old is waging a brave, and so far successful, battle against bi-polar disorder.

I listened with an open heart until my boss said, "He's scared in the hospital and he would love to get cards. Just send them to my home and I'll make sure he gets them." He then went on to post his address outside his door so we can get the cards to his son right away.

What? Huh? I'm still waiting for an official card from coworkers. When I was in the hospital last autumn, when I was recuperating at home, I got individual cards from two of my coworkers, two others checked in via text and Facebook, but none of these messages were from my boss, and none were from "the team."

Oh well, we're talking about a scared kid here, not my boss. So of course I will send him a card. But I'd be less than honest on this blog if I didn't report that I'm feeling very petty right now.