Showing how other people are unpredictable, and we, apparently, are not so.

There's no guessing about what kind of people you will see from one moment to the next. I've tried it, and it's impossible. Today at the Pannikin Coffee Shop in Leucadia, I never could have guessed to see the large, sparklingly dressed, expensively sun-glassed, possibly Persian family ordering food like it was their last meal. The men did the ordering, the women told the nanny what to do and what not to do to the baby, the children were replicas of their parents, and the nanny smiled, nodded, and spoke Spanish. How they possibly ordered anything amidst their own chaos is an illogical mystery. The Salads! The soups! The sandwiches! The eggs done this way and that! The breads with whole wheat please, not toasted too much, you know what I mean! Ah the espressos and juices all around! Oh! and when the food came to the table, what passings of plates, what cries of joy, what sharings of spoons, what reachings-for, tuggings-at, and switchings-around of meals! Such perfected ado about nothing was never before seen. Here was a family that loved being itself. That evening we drove up to San Clemente and camped at the State Park on the beach. A long pier shot out to sea, at the end of which a man had just hauled in a stingray and was quartering it. The stinger looked like a stretched Indian arrow head made of the sleekest metal. A woman nearby was coaxing a live starfish to stretch its feet, and some dolphins were leaping high above the water surface nearby. At the other end of the pier, the Fisherman's Restaurant was swarming with people waiting nearly two and a half hours for a table. They'd miss the sunset by that time. One of the lucky few, who'd already eaten and was forcing her way out of the crowds, was a wispy-haired old woman who didn't care that her dinner party had left her behind. "Look at you two" she grabbed our cheeks. "You're just a couple of kids, and now you're married!" She had reason to belittle us... she and her husband were about to celebrate their 67th wedding anniversary. "And only sometimes did we have 'arguments' or should I say 'discussions' in which we raised our voices only a shade above what I'm using now." Her joyful eyes looked at us laughingly. She was probably thinking "You're young. You don't know anything yet." We were probably thinking "You're old. You don't know anything anymore." And we would both be wrong. Casson asked where else might be a good place to eat without such a wait, and the little lady rattled off a few restaurants that didn't sound appealing. A man in dark sunglasses was leaning against the wall nearby and was listening to our conversation. He took the opportunity to suggest the White Horses, just across the road, where they served French-ish food. It looked quaint enough, so we walked and waddled on over. We only had to wait a half-hour for a table on the balcony, and the owner took down our phone number to call us when it was ready. In the meantime we sat down on a lovely bench before some grass patches, and some picnic tables where some young skaters were congregating. After sitting a while, we decided to walk down the pier for a moment, and we were approached by a tired-eyed skater who held a mini-bible in his hand. "I have a verse for you guys" he said awkwardly but not nervously. He then read us something from Matthew that discouraged divorce. "And for your little one," he motioned to my belly and I smiled the kind of smile you give when you feel a little embarrassed for someone else. He flipped a few pages and read the verses about it being better to have a millstone hung about our necks and be flung into the sea (our imaginations were not needed, here) rather than lead one of these little ones astray. Casson and I tried to talk to him, ask him where he was from and such, but he seemed to not feel comfortable just talking. "I don't even know if you're Christians" he stammered. "We are," we told him. His manner showed that he didn't seem to believe us for some reason. "Have a good good Friday," we said as we headed off. I think he may have stared after us for some time, but I'm not sure. Dinner was great and rest was better. The next day we rode our bikes from San Clemente to San Juan Capistrano, along the Pacific Coast Highway and beach trails, and East along the San Juan Creek Trail. In San Juan Capistrano we saw the old Mission and Basilica (the first winery in California was started there, they say). On the ride back to San Clemente I had to stop off at a cafe to get a drink and rest. Casson went for the truck while I waited. That's when I called my folks, and they've already heard all of this. We then drove north along the route where we had ridden. We stayed the night in San Juan Capistrano at a not-so-cheap cheap motel, but we were glad to have a shower and a soft bed (the hard ground doesn't treat my joints well these days). Then deja-vu happened "all over again." We turned on the TV and ended up watching Lethal Weapon-4 from a point about 20 minutes into the story, until about 20 minutes from the end, when we decided that we were so tired, and that it really didn't matter that we see the ending, again. I'd be surprised if you made it to the end of this. I hope you had a happy Easter!

We hit up the Circle K on the way out of town, so I could purchase a bag of ice. I emptied half of the ice into the rocks next to the free air machine, and put the rest in the small cooler to preserve the cheese, milk, pickles, and eggs that I'd grabbed from the fridge on the way out the door. The Shapiro's were in the back, Mike already telling glorious people-stories, like the one about the Modern Mountain Man and his friend who ate the entire 15 lb salmon and slept til 3 the next day, and nearly got ticketed for fishing without a license. Past Red Mountain to the North, past the Superstition Wilderness, past the state trust land which is empty except for the ghosttown Renaissance Festival, past Superior at the base of the great cliffs, and Miami at the back side of them. We went to Globe, AZ. We'd been there before, sort of admiring the Duluth-like streets and the wedding cake-like strip mines, eating Little Caesar's in a Basha's parking lot. Casson's coworker is from Globe and hates it, but claims that it has the best Mexican food restaurants anywhere. "Where's the best one?" we asked. "Y-Oh's," she said. "Y-Oh's?" we echoed. "Yeah, let me think... wuh wuh why-oh's... yeah it starts with a Y." Anyways, we found it, actually spelled Guayo's, but the pronunciation was accurate. I ate one taco and sufferred from heart burn the rest of the night. After dinner we weaved our way up into the Pinal Mountains, found a classic campsite, started a fire, pitched tents, and read Wind In the Willows, though we were living the Wind in the Pines. Wind In the Willows is so quaint and beautifully written, that you, too, would crave cold tongue and pickled herring after only one chapter. In this chapter, Mole had returned to Mole's End, feeling completely snug, secure, and satisfied to be home, feeling that it really was a safe harbor for him to always return to, but never thinking for a moment that he would give up his dream to see the world. No plans were made for the next day, for not making plans the night before is a way of communicating that we all have no requirement for waking up early, and our plans will have to take shape as a consequence of how late we sleep. We slept until the sun was well above the cliff over our heads. We made ourselves a fire and breakfast; eggs with feta, avocados, and ripened tomatoes, fresh melon, and hot mochas, chocolated by that mistress of the Mexican food aisle, Abuelita! After packing up, we began searching for the trail that would lead us through Six Shooter Canyon. Alas! We had passed it on the road the night before and were not destined to find it that day. We found another, however, that began by heading down a small stream, with a nice set of granite falls to lure us on. When we arrived at a trail division, we took the uphill trail to the right, East Mountain Trail. Up and up, we switched back and forth, slowly and happily the whole way. At the top we found ourselves on a ridge, with views to the East and West, valleys of green and yellow rolled out like carpets. We continued on the trail for another few miles, sometimes on the edge of a steep mountain grade, sometimes in what felt like a kind of desert thicket on flat ground. Eventually we made it back down to meet up with the road we were parked on, only a few miles south. We got back to the car, drove down the mountain, back through Globe (convinced even during daylight that the town must be heavily and illegally drugged), stopped to buy a book at the Book Bank in Miami, and finished our weekend off with a large Irish dinner at Rula Bula's in Tempe.

25 weeks

This is because Vanessa said she wanted to see. This picture may look like a scary back malformation, but it is a belly.

HOT DOG CART SHOWROOM

It's definitely a girl. She weighs almost two pounds already. She looks just like she will look, only extra small. We saw her open eyes on the ultrasound today. Unfortunately we forgot our camera. She was sucking on her umbilical cord, waving her hands, kicking and hiccuping. Her head isn't abnormally huge like I suspected. She is probably ten inches long. That's about as much as I can say about what she's up to.

I went for a hike in Dreamy Draw park on Sunday - look how green it was! Yellow and Purple flowers were everywhere! I can't wait to have Spring Break next week. I plan on being outside all day long every day, before it gets too hot. Red Mountain in Mesa is gorgeous this time of year, but there was such strange traffic getting home from there. There were people running a marathon on Power Rd/Bush Hwy with no shoulder to run on. I was scared someone would faint in front of our car.

Nothing is new, really. We both get home late each night, eat dinner, and go to sleep earlier and earlier. We watched a few interesting movies in the past few weeks: Metropolitan, A Room with a View, Moonstone...though I don't highly recommend any of them. Casson really wants to see There Will Be Blood at the theater, but the preview scared me so I make excuses why we can't go. I'm sure he'll go see it on his own. He really doesn't mind going to the movies by himself.

Stores in a small strip just across the street from us: HOT DOG CART SHOWROOM, TRACKS IN WAX RECORD SHOP, THE FLIGHT OF PHOENIX EXOTIC BIRD STORE, and our very own PSYCHIC. These stores are what divide the super beautiful campus of the Jesuit private school from the nasty painted brick Central High School...why would they build them that close together? Anyways, I still love the neighborhood where we live... we saw the price on a one story, little, plain, square house just down the street from us... 2 bedrooms, 2 baths, super tiny everything (we looked in), all for a mere 340,000. There aren't even trees in the yard! How can anyone buy a house right now? Could you possibly ask that much just because you renovated the kitchen recently? Casson says we should go offer them 180, just so they get an idea of the ridiculousness of it all.

Two Ladies Out for a Pleasant Walk

The two ladies were led by their little dogs down the sidewalk in front of my apartment. They were gossiping about somebody or other. I keep my windows open on fine afternoons, and any conversations that take place in the street sound as clear as if they were taking place on my front porch. Just fifteen minutes before this, when I had arrived home from work, there'd been a high school girl sitting on the electric box outside my gate, waiting for her boyfriend to come pick her up. Lots of teenagers hang out at that spot. Each morning there is a group there, smoking and talking about things I would rather not have to listen to. But they are very polite to me whenever I leave for work. And whoever is there when I arrive home is just as polite. They do leave quite a mess in their wake. Hot pink and black cigarette boxes, nasty cigarette butts, strips of paper torn off of failed English assignments, and broken plastic cups don't outright destroy the overall scenery, but they don't let you imagine that you live in a secluded country home, either. I was sitting at my desk when I saw their shadows on the sidewalk outside the gate and heard their voices over the brick wall. Two ladies. The word lady in Noah Webster's Dictionary of 1828 states that a lady is "A woman of distinction. Originally, the title of Lady was given to the daughters of earls and others in high rank, but by custom, the title belongs to any woman of genteel education." "Just look at this!" cried the younger. Their shadows stopped advancing. "What is it?" demanded the elder. "It's those d***** high-schoolers. They're always sitting around here, and then they go and leave their s*** all over the place." She had discovered the mess I was referring to, and was using genteel vocabulary to describe the scene. "That's disgusting," commented the elder. "Typical," sneered the younger. True ladies recognize bad education and repudiate its influence. "Let's turn around here," said the younger. "He's done." "Who's done?" I wondered as their shadows retreated. I was curious about the immature mess that had sparked their commentary. When I had arrived, I hadn't really noticed anything worth looking twice at. So I grabbed my key and didn't bother to slip on my shoes. They and their dogs were already gone around the next corner. I opened the gate and glanced at the grass. But before my eyes could be attracted by anything resembling teenager trash, they were hijacked by the sight of a large pile of dog food that had travelled the full extent of the dog's digestive tract. Not two seconds later I was assaulted further by a most unpleasant odor, compared to which cigarette smoke and ashes is a rose garden. I had to retreat directly, and I was forced to shut my windows on what would have otherwise been a quite pleasant day in the big city. Moral: Whenever we encounter utter depravity in the world, we should do our best to grace the situation with our own little gifts of decency and decorum, for the betterment of society.

Learning to Labor and Louis Lamour

Don't worry, Casson decided not to apply for the army. The interview was very enlightening: it was obvious that despite the excitement of travelling and "being a part of it all", the likelihood of having to go on several 15 month assignments without being able to take along your family is just too much. Three months was what we had in mind, and that would be hard enough. He did have his first day in court on Thursday, all on his own. Basically it ended up that the judge rescheduled the hearing because the other side wanted to make some changes to their defense. Casson said it was still pretty fun to stand in front of the judge and speak for his client. He's doing a lot at the firm that he enjoys. We both really like our jobs and are learning more than could be learned in school. I just pray that his job will lighten up a bit as far as the feeling of extreme pressure. Sidenote: I wonder what ever happened to all those Louis Lamour books that used to be in the upstairs den at my parents house? I always figured they were worthless and cheezy westerns. But recently we rented an audio book "Mohave Crossing" and "The Sixth Shotgun" and listened to them while driving across the desert. If its not the best writing in the world, its nowhere near the worst. Both stories were perfectly told and we laughed throughout both of them, especially at the endings, which sound almost like punchlines. Conclusion: Louis Lamour westerns make for great listening on road trips.

Sandy Ego

"I could never live in Arizona. There's not enough excitement there," stated the elder half of the couple that sat next to us at the seaside coffee shop in La Jolla. I was already a little bit bummed that the coffee came in paper cups, the cheesecake was frozen, and I'd shown a little table-rage when an outside seat opened up. But I was really in the best of moods, beginning to forgive myself. The lady in green took her place at the table that I had previously been at, with her sweater only a shade greener than before. I stuck my legs out of the iron bars that divided the cafe from the traffic-packed street. I made a point of looking hard out onto the water, to make sure the lady knew that I really appreciated my new prospect, and hoped she would feel a little generous because of it. I turned my head and made eye contact with the man. "Hey, we're from Arizona." I can't remember much of the rest of the conversation, other than that he tried to justify his remark by stating that when he referred to "Arizona," he was really talking about "Gilbert," and that he was mostly concerned about the water supply. "Well, you've got us there," said Casson. A bike ride from Carlsbad to La Jolla and back was just what we needed this last weekend. The coastal highway is a constant stream of speedy cars, family vehicles, elastic bikers, and long distance joggers. It's awesome! Only in California can you be out of spares, get a flat tire on your bike, look up, and see a bicycle shop across the street. Just make sure you go cross at the light, because the fine for crossing the Coaster tracks is something like $1000. Only in California can you see people crossing the said Coaster tracks in broad daylight. Actually that only happened once. The thing about the lack of spares/looking up/appearance of bike shop probably only happens once, too. But these things do happen.

Phoenix is Green

The herbage is a foot deep outside my door, in the empty lot that is usually nothing but a barren field of broken glass and pebbles, and used exclusively by dirt bikers. I wish I were in Turkey with my sister. Casson says so, too. But we're going to San Diego this weekend, which is almost as nice. I can barely bend over anymore, so we'll see how the bike management goes. Nadine and I got the tea-service at BORDERS again, yesterday. I know that Mike and Robin had been there before because "their" books, Mascot and She Got Up Off the Couch, were both on the Please Reshelve-rack, and looked slightly more used than a pair of brand new books should appear. The tea-service: a-hem. First of all, let me say "tea service" makes it the most fabulous item on the menu. Forget paper cups... let's get back to teapots and teacups and lovely service. What if this were an option for all coffee drinks once again? I think even Starbucks used to have the option: for-here or to-go cups. Now they are subliminally communicating inhospitality. Anyways, I wish I could say that this all led to lower prices for coffee drinks, but it doesn't seem to. The exact opposite happens with the tea-service...$2.65 for a pot and any number of teacups? And you don't throw anything away (except Sugar-in-the-Raw packets).

Being 'Pregnick'

Second Grader Quote of the Day: "Hey, you'we weawwy dedeen pat."

If you like this, you'll love vanessapeterzen.blogspot.com

Sorry about the Latin plural "the-mathi" (from the plural of Mathis, our last name), but we live amongst cacti and can't escape the logic of it. I hope that this way of communicating outdoes facebook and hotmail and letter-writing. I think that it's partly due to the signing in and out of facebook and the like, and especially the stamp-buying and -sticking and placing-outdoors of the letter that keeps me from being more of a correspondent with friends and family. What do you say?