halleyscomet

I just broke the glass carafe to the small French Press I use at work. This is about about the fourth time I've done this. Admittedly, this is four times in four years, but these things are supposed to last longer than that.

On the bright side, it looks like there is now a plastic, shatter-proof replacement carafe available for about the same price as the glass one.

My son wants to be a big brother, and his endless campaigning for a younger sibling is getting increasingly shameless.

While driving Caleb to school I heard a heavy, dramatic sigh from the back seat.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm sad," Caleb replied.

"Why?"

"Because I STILL don't have a baby sister."

"Does it have to be a sister?"

"Yes."

"Well, if Mommy and Daddy have a second kid, it could be a boy as easily as a girl. We can't control that."

"Ohhh, OK. Can we make it a girl by giving it a girl name?"

"No, giving a boy a girl's name won't make him a girl."

I decided not to get into transgendered issues, as that struck me as a bit heavy a conversation to have with a four year old while driving to school. Introducing the idea of someone being born with a female brain and gender identity with male or ambiguous genitalia struck me as a bit much for the moment.

We drove for a few more minutes and then he said "Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"When my baby sister is born, Mommy will have to make her a baby size apron for her to wear in the kitchen!"

"Will she now? Like the one you wear, the one that was Mommy's when she was a kid?"

"Yes. I'll help her pick the fabric. I want the baby apron to have cars! And we'll have to get a new bed, or put together the crib that we took apart and put in the basement."

"I think it's a bit early to work out logistics."

"Oh, OK."

Lemon Balm is astoundingly resilient. Once ONE of those buggers flowers that soil will forever harbor lemon balm seeds. I feed it to the rabbits. The gravely area on the side of the house that's still covered with rocky fill from rebuilding the porch is being taken over by lemon balm instead of grass. This works nicely for me, as it's lower maintenance. While it CAN be mowed, if you normally use one of the higher cutting settings on your lawnmower, you won't notice the difference. I'm tempted to replant the yard with lemon balm when my wife and I finally do something about it.

Facebook is stubbornly presenting me with ads for "LSD Planet" A Latter Day Saints dating site. I'm getting these ads despite having a status of "Married" on facebook. I'll resist the urge to make a joke about Mormon polygamy. While I have a number of poly friends who are married and could make use of a dating site, I doubt a MORMON dating site would be the sort of thing they'd be looking for.

Facebook pretends to let you remove ads, and I've tried to remove the LDS Dating ads. When promoted I offered the following reason:

"I'm married. I don't need ads for a dating site."

From a forwarded e-mail that was subsequently posted on skeptic's fourm I frequent:

</blockquote>
If you've 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!

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 expression 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 exclaimed. "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 said accusingly to my wife.

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

"No, but you were supposed to get two boys!"

"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!)

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.

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.

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 labor. 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.

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 vicious, cruel wife started to giggle.

And giggle. And then even laugh loudly.

Tears were now running down her face. "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 lizard 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 did, Dad," he told me.

"Oh, you have NO idea," my wife agreed, collapsing with laughter.

Two lizards: $140.

One cage: $50.

Trip to the vet: $30.

Memory of your husband pulling on a lizard's winkie:

Priceless!

Moral of the story: Pay attention in biology class.

Lizards lay eggs!</blockquote>

This weekend will likely be a homy one. Whuffle is working a contract job and needs the car, so Caleb and I will be at home on our own for the bulk of the weekend. A MBTA enabled trip to the aquarium is tempting, but he's asked that we make cheese this weekend. It seems he remembers making cheese with Daddy in the past and wants to repeat the experience. :)

There's talk of a hare-brained scheme Saturday afternoon to help move a hot tub, but without a car the logistics are complex, and I was having back spasms Monday when I got home, meaning Whuffle is justifiably dubious about the wisdom of helping move a hot tub.