I’m at a different coffee house this morning - I thought the people watching prospects might be better here. They really aren’t. One gal looks like a Dr. Seuss character, too skinny and topped with a stocking cap that’s colored like a hypnotizing wheel. I’ve never been able to pull off the stocking cap look. There are a lot of looks that don’t work well on me, and wearing an adornment that hugs my large geodesic dome is one of them.

Ugh! A mom is digging for gold out of her three year-old’s nose right in front of me. I think she’s looking for an artery. I won’t be able to sit on that couch ever again. More moms and kids coming in to the coffee shop now. We’ve tried to hold business meetings at this coffee shop, but every once in awhile it’s more like a Chucky Cheese than a coffee shop. I was hoping Saturday morning would be different.

Nose picking mom is actually really nice. She has a quiet demeanor and a relative ease that I’m not used to seeing from a mother of two young kids. There’s another mother here doing her best to look like Britney Spears in the Los Angeles sun, only we’re not in Los Angeles and it’s cloudy, so those designer sunglasses  seem a little forced. Wear a t-shirt that says “High Maintenance” while you’re at it. I don’t mean to be harsh, I’ve just never been one to appreciate the high maintenance woman. I prefer beauty without the artistry in that regard.

I don’t have much to say, so I’m going to reprint a forward that I got yesterday. Seems perfect for a Friday:

If you have raised kids (or been one), and gone through the pet syndrome including toilet flush burials for dead goldfish, the story below will have you laughing out LOUD!

Overview: I had to take my son’s lizard to the vet.

Here’s what happened:

Just after dinner one night, my son came up to tell me there was ’something wrong’ with one of the two lizards he holds prisoner in his room.

‘He’s just lying there looking sick,’ he told me. ‘I’m serious dad, can you help?’

I put my best lizard-healer statement on my face and followed him into his bedroom. One of the little lizards was indeed lying on his back, looking stressed. I immediately knew what to  do.

‘Honey,’ I called, ‘ come look at the lizard!’

‘Oh my! gosh,’ my wife diagnosed after a minute. ‘She’s having babies.’

‘What?’ my son demanded. ‘But their names are Bert and Ernie, Mom!’

I was equally outraged.

‘Hey, how can that be? I thought we said we didn’t want them to reproduce,’ I accused my wife.

‘Well, what do you want me to do, post a sign in their cage?’ she inquired. (I actually think she said this sarcastically!)

‘No, but you were supposed to get two boys!’ I reminded her, (in my most loving, calm, sweet voice, while gritting my teeth together).

‘Yeah, Bert and Ernie!’ my son agreed.

‘Well, it’s just a little hard to tell on some guys, you know,’ she informed me. (again with the sarcasm, you think?)

By now the rest of the family had gathered to see what was going on. I shrugged, deciding to make the best of it.

‘Kids, this is going to be a wondrous experience, I announced. ‘We’re about to witness the miracle of birth.’

‘Oh, gross!’ they shrieked.

‘Well, isn’t THAT just great! What are we going to do with a litter of tiny little lizard babies?’ my wife wanted to know.  (I really do think she was being snotty here, too. Don’t you?)

We peered at the patient. After much struggling, what looked like a tiny foot would appear briefly, vanishing a scant second later.

‘We don’t appear to be making much progress,’ I noted.

‘It’s breech,’ my wife whispered, horrified.

‘Do something, Dad!’ my son urged.

‘Okay, okay.’ Squeamishly , I reached in and grabbed the foot when it next appeared, giving it a gentle tug. It disappeared. I tried several more times with the same results.

‘Should I call 911,’ my eldest daughter wanted to know. ‘Maybe they could talk us through the trauma.’ (You see a pattern here with the females in my house?)

‘Let’s get Ernie to the vet,’ I said grimly. We drove to the vet with my son holding the cage in his lap. ‘Breathe, Ernie, breathe,’ he urged.

‘I don’t think lizards do Lamaze,’ his mother noted to him. (Women can be so cruel to their own young. I mean what she does to me is one thing, but this boy is of her womb, for God’s sake.)

The Vet took Ernie back to the examining room and peered at the little animal through a magnifying glass.

‘What do you think, Doc, a C-section?’ I suggested scientifically.

‘Oh, very interesting,’ he murmured. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Cameron, may I speak to you privately for a moment?’

I gulped, nodding for my son to step outside.

‘Is Ernie going to be okay?’ my wife asked.

‘Oh, perfectly,’ the Vet assured us. ‘This lizard is not in labour. In fact, that isn’t EVER going to happen… Ernie is a boy. You see, Ernie is a young male. And occasionally, as they come into maturity, like most male species, they um…. um…. masturbate. Just the way he did, lying on his back.’ He blushed, glancing at my wife.

‘Well, you know what I’m saying, Mr. Cameron.’

We were silent, absorbing this.

‘So Ernie’s just… just… excited,’ my wife offered.

‘Exactly,’ the vet replied, relieved that we understood.

More silence. Then my viscous, cruel wife started to giggle. And giggle. And then even laugh loudly.

‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded, knowing, but not believing that the woman I married would commit the upcoming affront to my flawless manliness.

Tears were now running down her face. Laughing ‘It’s just… that… I’m picturing you pulling on its…its… teeny little…’ she gasped for more air to bellow in laughter once more.

‘That’s enough,’ I warned. We thanked the Vet and hurriedly bundled the lizards and our son back into the car. He was glad everything was going to be okay.

‘I know Ernie’s really thankful for what you’ve done, Dad,’ he told me.

‘Oh, you have NO idea,’ Closed mouth, my wife agreed, collapsing with laughter.

1 - Lizards - $140…
2 - Cage - $50…
3 - Trip to the Vet - $30…
4 - Memory of your husband pulling on a lizard’s winkie….. Priceless

Moral of the story - finish biology class - lizards lay eggs.

The coffeeshop is much busier in the evening. This establishment also makes its own ice cream, and as a regular patron, I have to think that they make as much or more on the ice cream than they do on the coffee. Mornings here are actually pretty quiet - save a dedicated few that all know the baristas name, and the barista knows their drink.

I’m a little worried that I’m losing my “young at heart” status. A few of the people that are here seem so carefree. To be fair, they are all women, and all without kids - so measuring myself against young women probably isn’t fair. Still - even spontaneous events (like ducking into a coffee shop for an hour) need to be scheduled, or ratified by the house.

I can see the…umm…butt cleavage of one of the carefree patrons. Like the other form of cleavage, I have a hard time believing its display isn’t intentional. Apparently low-riding jeans weren’t meant to be sat in. I think that “Half-Mast” would be a good brand name for jeans of this sort: made for the commando in all of us.

A little girl with red curly hair (and Selah’s age) just walked in with her sister and her dad, and on her tip-toes she can just make out the jetstreams of chocolate ice cream within a stainless canister.

Johnny Cash just walked in as well - a young business man in black shoes, black socks, black slacks, black belt and black shirt. I can hear him speak now, and apparently Johnny Cash is a Russian. A happy Russian. He’s describing where he lives in Everett, which (if he’s describing it correctly) really isn’t in Everett at all. Someone did drugs at his work today, which reminds me to leave the coffee shop before Johnny Cash gets on the road.

I bought my last car new six years ago, when I was 25. I love my car. Like an old saddle, the seat is broken in, and like a trusty steed, it gets me where I need to go reliably. I can’t justify the expense of a new car, but that doesn’t keep me from wanting to sit in an unblemished chariot, to breathe in the exhale of treated leather and plastic.

My current steering wheel is eroding - the fake leather wrap wasn’t meant to hold my grip like a saddlehorn. I remember driving old Ford pickups where the hardened amber of plastic had broken from the metal skeleton of the steering wheel. I think the tolerance of the men that drove these rigs before me must have been diminished in the presence of anger. Or nicotine. Or resolve.

My steering wheel quivers at the thought of such men.

Kami’s pregnant! Due on January 5th - two days after my own birthday. Kami’s starting to show, but Selah still doesn’t quite understand how much her life is going to change six months from now. Before you ask, we don’t (and won’t) know the sex of the baby. I was up for finding out this time and Kami looked at me and said “Who are you?!” I took that to mean that it’s going to be a surprise again.

He’s here now, and they’ve been talking across opposite sides of a small table. She’s leaning back, her arms hanging like a mannequin, the decal of her shirt stretched awkwardly across her large breast, which seems to be her point. He leans forward and starts rubbing his hands together – unconsciously telling the female of his species that he can make fire with two sticks, that he can kill wild game and wrap her in their skins.

She can’t stop tilting her head to the side, and he can’t stop talking with his hands. He’s taking up over half of the table now, as if his consumption of coffee table real estate will leave her with no choice but to sell her family’s share and take up with the wealthy coffee table real estate baron.

In reality they are talking about conversation starters, his t-shirt, and her favorite jeans, which she happens to be wearing now. He finished his entire drink in three minutes (grande iced mocha, easy on the ice), and she’s still sipping from her tall vanilla mocha, which she was warming her hands with before I got here.

His interview continues, and he’s starting to talk too much. She’s looking absently at her coffee cup, and she is staring more and tilting her head less. She’s realized that she doesn’t have to work hard with this one, and I can’t tell if this puts her off or if she’s content with the capture.

40-year old guy with long skater hair and soccer shoes just walked in to buy ice cream with his girlfriend and their two friends - but not great friends - they have the relative ease and awkwardness of neighbors.

I pack my things up and leave before I write something I regret.