Yeah, you read that right. My last entry was on the 20th of November. I had fully intended to write a “Christmas Card Apology” post at some point, but this was just the kind of Christmas that didn’t allow for little indulgences like, oh, sitting on my ass for longer than 15 minutes, so I must apologize for the delay.

Things started to go slightly pear shaped in Potamus land round about Thanksgiving when my father had what he likes to call “the first of my ischaemic episodes”. (Translated into English, this is a small stroke.) Of course, my immediate reaction was to book the first flight out,  but was told in no uncertain terms by both parental units that this was vastly unnecessary and that they would prefer that I and my burgeoning bump remained just where we were, thank you very much. However, two weeks later, when  he had what he likes to call “the second of my ischaemic episodes” (which was expected, but nonetheless, traumatic) there was little hesitation on my part to book a flight for the earliest possible opportunity that would not cost a small fortune. Of course, I didn’t inform my parents of this decision, deciding that the old addage, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission” would have to do in this case.

Christmas itself was enlivened by a visit from my childhood friend Virginia, who spent Christmas week with us, having a gander around London and amusing the Prawn to no end. It was lovely having her here and even lovelier to have an extra pair of hands for large Christmas related tasks like the inevitable day-before-Christmas shopping trip which is ALWAYS nightmarish, but this year was made worse by pre-Christmas snowfall which trapped people in their homes for some time leading up to the holidays. The crowd in the local Waitrose, which is usually characterized by their relative civility in contrast to the average crowd at Tesco, was VAST and manners pretty much were NOT the motto of the day. One would think that being hugely pregnant would keep people from deliberate ramming you with shopping trollies, but one would be very much mistaken.

Christmas, although somewhat stressful for the rest of us, was utterly joyful for the Prawn, who spent the day being showered by wave after wave of presents. Since we didn’t want to add a whole lot to our “Stuff Footprint” due to the impending move Westward over the ocean, her gifts were numerous, but small and easily transportable. Remember the time in your life when you’d open a pack of SOCKS on Christmas morning and still be excited about it? (Me neither. But my point is, little kids don’t need big, expensive stuff to get excited about.) We managed to stretch out the gift giving until well after Christmas dinner was finished, which, for us, was a serious parent-forethought coup. (This from people who have, on occasion, gone out for a whole day, not realizing that we’ve forgotten diapers. Or juice. Or Mr. Moo.) The biggest Christmas hits were probably her stuffed Tigger (a fabulous sale find at the Disney Store who has now joined the ranked of anointed “friends” who take up 80% of her bed) and her new Brio trainset from PPD, Uncle Duff and Auntie Trumpet. (which she would probably also take to bed if we let her.)

I was lucky enough to have booked a flight to the US on New Year’s Eve that left Heathrow and arrived at Dulles within half an hour of Virginia’s, so after saying goodbye to her in the morning, we met up again 8 hours later on the other end of the planet in order for me to bum a ride back to the homestead. Air travel is weird, weird, weird.

Also, due to the douchecanoe in Detroit with exploding underwear, I was subjected to probably the most stringent security measures I have encountered in my years of flying so far, even post 9/11. Not only was the normal security line fairly painful, but once at the gate, every passenger was patted down and all carry-ons were completely unpacked and searched as well. (did I mention that I only traveled with one rather full carry on? And that while TSA agents are happy to unpack your luggage for you, packing it again is TOTALLY up to you?) Not only this, but once inside the gate area, we were unable to leave to use the toilet without having to go through the whole process all over again. (Imagine the joy of being 6.5 months pregnant and being told that you may not pee for 2 whole hours after having had a large, decaf skinny latte for breakfast.) The flight itself was entirely uneventful; a fact that made it EXTREMELY eventful as I’ve not experienced an uneventful flight for the last 2 and a half  years. There was no one to worry over for kicking the seat in front of her, getting crumbs everywhere and repeatedly asking for juice, so I cherished what is certainly to be the last flight before traveling becomes even MORE complicated with the arrival of someone who might scream for the entire 8 hours for no good reason.

I was, as you might imagine, reluctant to leave The Rock Star and the Prawn for a whole week but knew that I’d certainly be happier to see my Dad for myself and reassure myself that everything was indeed okay. My arrival was unexpected, which was slightly unnerving. Not because I thought my parents were going to be out carousing to ring in the New Year, but simply knowing that THEY didn’t know I was coming made me slightly nervous. I chose to withhold this information until I was about a quarter of a mile from the house when I phoned and asked my mother to put the kettle on. This of course made no sense to her at all, but she heard Virginia laughing in the background and immediately assumed that we were BOTH still in England and HOW IN GOD’S NAME DID SHE MANAGE TO MISS HER FLIGHT? I then had to gently explain that Virginia was NOT in England and that /I/ was in fact in America and basically at the front door, so how about a cup of tea?
So, it turned out the only thing I needed to ask forgiveness for was making my mother cry.

I had a tremendously relaxed week with my parents. I was indeed glad for the opportunity to see my father for myself. He’s doing well, all things considering. The most hated of all of his post “ischaemic episode” symptoms; a hideous case of the hiccups, had just abated when I arrived, (Yes, brain swelling can cause hiccups. A new one on me too.) so he was happily enjoying life post persistent diaphragmic spasms. Even his word recovery was much, much better than I would have expected  and will continue to improve, no doubt. In the meantime, he can competently talk “around” words that escape him until those new little connections start forming again.

As for myself, I rather enjoyed the novelty of sitting on my rapidly expanding posterior on a new and tremendously comfy couch IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY reading books and covered in cats. I also got to indulge in some shopping at Target, lunch with Virginia at the orgasmically nom-tacular California Tortilla Kitchen (words cannot describe how happy a giant burrito and yummy chips and salsa made me) and spending time in my parent’s lovely home. The weather during my visit couldn’t have been a whole lot colder, so remaining indoors at all times was high on the list of all of our priorities. I managed to speak twice a day with The Rock Star and the Prawn, who, of course put on her best puppy eyes and pleaded with me to come home and reiterated many times over that she’d “lost” me. Parental guilt overload.

All too soon, it was time for me to get BACK on a plane for the return journey. Strangely enough, during the week of my absence, I discovered that I had become slightly more uncomfortably pregnant, so dragging two suitcases around Dulles at 6.30am became  more of a chore than it was when I came over only 6 days earlier. (Well, the second suitcase was my own fault. The siren song of Target overcame me.) My only moment of levity during the morning was noticing that the TSA rep who gave me a pat-down in security was called “Agent Wang” and trying not to let him know that I was sophomoric enough to find his name patently hilarious. The actual flight was not quite as restful as the one before it; an hour of prolonged turbulence, worry over whether or not the plane would have a place to LAND due to snow in the UK and a mentally ill seatmate put paid to any restfulness that was to be had.

So I am once again home and have realized that now that the holidays and my traveling are past me, the next big thing on my personal schedule  is having a baby, which is harshing my calm a bit. The baby was always that thing that I’d deal with after the holidays; that thing I didn’t really need to think about just yet. However, it is now starting to dawn on me that there might be some things I need to take care of between now and mid to late March. Like finding that elusive black sack full of 0-3 month old clothes and washing them. And buying a new Moses basket. And PBA Free bottles. And trying to get the Prawn used to the idea of someone else coming to live with us forever and ever who might be kind of disruptive for a while before she gets cute and play-with-able.  I hope that she will accept the arrival with good grace, although, at the moment, virtually NOTHING she does, (being a two and a half years old) is with good grace, so I’m not holding my breath. Perhaps more calm will descend the closer to 3 she gets. Or perhaps not. At any rate, I’ll keep reading “Big Sister Dora” to her and see if it does any good.

This little missive has now rambled on sufficiently to classify as self-indulgent so I will simply end by saying that I hope I can get a few more entries in before the world as I know it goes completely haywire.

Sorry I have been absentee. Most of my time has been devoted to trying not to throw up while coughing and I was simply SWAMPED.

So, Candy Begging Day is upon us once again. The UK hasn’t quite caught up with the US hysteria that surrounds the annual night of living dead zombies/witches/Barbie Dolls/Transformers and one is more likely to find a bar in a city centre giving away cheap beer for costumed adults than seeing a mass of trick or treaters at your door. Or, at least this seems to be the case in my neck of the British woods. (Chances are, if a group of kids rings your bell after dark, no good is going to come of it.) In the US, the holiday seems to drive the market for spooky goods, whereas over here, the market is trying VERY hard to drive the holiday. In the next 10 years, I can see Halloween being more US like, especially with the rise of large,new estates, which, as every trick or treater knows, are the Holy Grail.

Instead of doing anything that involves going outside in the evening, Trumpet (my sister-in-law) and I are going to have an evening in with the Prawn. Our respective significant others are venturing up to Leicester for a stag night (When questioned on the wisdom of a Halloween stag do, the Stag in question’s response was, “Is the 31st Halloween?” Any evening on the streets of Leicester is bound to be interesting, so we’ll see how our intrepid revelers make out on All Hallows Eve.) and since Trumpet and BoyRacer’s home is in the end of the village where various ner’do wells tend to congregate, Trumpet pleaded sanctuary rather than be subjected to window eggings at best and a firework through the letterbox at worst. (Really, UK government? Selling fireworks to 16 year olds? A good idea?)

Our two pumpkins have been sitting out in our lobby for the best part of a week or so and the Prawn has been excitedly pointing at them every day when she returns from nursery. “We’re going to carve pumpkins! And eat the seeds!” she squeals. Pumpkin carving has always been a task that’s fallen to me; not because the Rock Star is disinterested, but because I probably have slightly more patience when it comes to separating the multitude of seeds for baking from the rest of the pumpkin innards. And every year I have the same reaction while pulling the little white devils from the stringy goo to which they are attached: “God, this is gross.” However, the yummy nature of the pumpkin seeds when baked with butter and salt is well worth the effort.

Sadly, at 2 and a half, the Prawn is slightly young for any other Halloween related merriment, especially around here where a GOOD night walking the streets in costume might include 14 year old holding a can of Stella Artois spitting on you. So our evening, especially once the Prawn is abed will probably include telly, (the X Factor most likely, as sis-in-law is a devoted fan) chocolate rice krispie treats and exchanging various bitches about pregnancy. (Trumpet is due 3 weeks before me, so it would behoove most rational people to just avoid the area entirely for the month of March.)

Speaking of pregnancy related mischief, our “big” scan is coming up on Tuesday, so you may commence betting on a pink or blue outcome. The Rock Star is convinced that the  Squid will be at least as shy as the Prawn was at her 20 week scan (cord running between the legs,  legs crossed and hands over the whole no-no area.) but I am more hopeful that the Squid will allow us to answer the million dollar question of “SO, DOES IT HAVE A WEINER?”

On one hand, it would be interesting to sort of “start over” in the parenting stakes and learn how to raise a boy. (I have imagined many conversations with my son. Me: “Why were you and Timmy kicking eachother in the crotch on the playground?” Boychild:“I don’t know. It was funny?”  Me: “There must be an escape pod of some kind around here.”) However, I think I might feel a certain sense of relief to discover that another girl was on the way, girls being a known quantity. (And of course, there is that matter of all of the pink clothes in the attic.)

So, all bets are welcome. If you’re right, you win only the smug satisfaction of making the right choice in a 50/50 multiple choice question.

…have been greatly exaggerated.

I don’t know how it’s gotten to February without my managing to blog ONCE, especially regarding our extended Christmas holiday but there is something to be said for a return to routine after a long absence of it. Day and night don’t blur together so much. You don’t still find yourself in pajamas at 5 in the evening. (Although, to be fair, even on routine days with a toddler, one can find oneself in that situation.) And the small creature that lives with you no longer wakes up at 3 am ready for the day and wanting to play with the noisiest toy that she owns.

However, it IS hard to come back from almost a month on holiday that included fantastic times with family, much homecooked goodness, 24 hour babysitting services and lots of leisurely afternoons in a bookstore coffee shop, staring off into space.

Since I observed two years ago that America is “bigger with more stuff”, I shall once again try to hit all the major bullet points of our adventure without sending all concerned to the land of nod.

Prawns in Flight

Yeah, yeah. We’re that family that you dread when you see us coming down the aisle and whisper a silent and fervent prayer to the travel gods that we aren’t seated directly behind you because we have A TODDLER. I know, because I used to whisper the same prayer, to little effect because the travel gods are fickle and I had not pleased them with offerings of tiny packets of Worcestershire sauce flavoured pretzels beforehand. But listen up, travel bitches, don’t you give me that look, because MY KID ROCKS.

This is the third time the Prawn has been on an airplane, although only the second time she’s been subjected to a long haul flight. Her first transatlantic run went off magnificently; as a 9 month old, she sat quietly in her seat, playing with toys and waving at people for the whole 7.5 hours. (She was the only child on the entire plane and all of the stewards melted into warm, sticky piles of goo on the floor every time they passed us by.) On the way back, she fell asleep at the gate and didn’t wake up until we landed at Heathrow the next morning.

This time, we were expecting the worst seeing as how she is physically incapable of sitting still for more than 10 seconds at a time. However, we got perhaps the best seats on the plane for those travelling with a toddler; a 3 seat bulkhead row. The Prawn seemed quite happy to play in her seat or on the floor and only briefly showed any signs of wanting to go wandering beyond the confines of my leg, which was strategically placed to prevent escape. However, by the time we’d reached security at Dulles, she’d obviously had enough and became simultaneously grumpy and boneless. We were hugely relieved to be reunited with our stroller so that we could restrain the tired and angry beast until such time as a grandparent could be located.

Our way home was slightly more fraught was peril. Having been spoiled by the intensely good organization of Terminal 5 on our departure, we were even more blindsided by the excruciatingly bad service at Dulles.

“I can’t afford any more delays and you’re one of those fish that causes delays. There’s a whole group of fish. They’re delay fish.”

When you spend as much time in airports as I have over the past 10 years, you tend to start to recognize the delay fish. In our case, it was a family of 16 West African travelers who obviously weren’t aware that to travel you require:

-a passport

-a ticket

-less than 28 pieces of luggage weighing under 100kg per passenger.

This unholy rabble spent no less than AN HOUR at the ticket counter, monopolizing all available personnel, who all looked as if they wished that they’d gone ahead and just taken that job at the bank like their mothers wanted them to in the first place. Thank the stars in heaven that my father elected to remain with us to act as Prawn Wrangler until we’d finished checking in, or we all would have had a much more miserable time. He spent nearly 2 hours traipsing up and down the terminal with the tired Beast, making up songs, spelling out words, looking for numbers and trying to convince her that not EVERY person that she saw who possessed a slightly darkened skin tone was “OBAMA!” as she gleefully shouted.

Once we finally REACHED the counter, we discovered that we’d actually been split up, at which point, the top of my head fell off of its hinges, spewing unearthly purple light into the startled face of the already harassed check in desk jockey. Luckily for me, The Rock Star started speaking before I could and politely requested that we be seated together due to the fact that a) we’d both like to get some sleep and b) The Prawn would be the one sitting in the single seat beside some unsuspecting passenger, so unless they wanted THAT on their conscience, they’d best find three seats together.

Upon boarding the plane, (after the most incompetent safety staff on the planet ran me and a pantsless toddler through the metal detector a total of three times) I was of a mind to return to the gate, FIND the ticket desk jockey and lick him profusely due to the fact that we had, in fact been upgraded to World Traveler Plus, featuring bigger seats that recline further have leg rests, which the Rock Star just about wept over. (Being 6’2”, he always endures a leg cramping flight.)

Jocks

Strangely enough, the Rock Star and I met because of professional football. In my first few days at Cheltenham, I noticed him walking the hallways in a Washington Redskins jacket. Having a bit of a thing for ponytail boys, I made a point of stopping him and telling him that the Redskins were my hometown team. He smiled politely and skedaddled. It took me leaping on him after a night on the town for him to get that I was interested.

Since our plans to visit the Big Apple were scuppered by LUDICROUS prices, we wanted to find some fun things to do while on holiday. The Rock Star has ALWAYS wanted to go to a major league football game, so when he found that the Redskins were playing the Eagles the first Saturday of our visit, he snapped up a pair of tickets. (He DID consult me first, I must add, although I do seem to remember a fairly long and drawn out “PLLLLLLEEEEEEEEESE?”)

I like watching football on tv if I have some interest in either team. However, watching football in the comfort of my own living room and being asked to sit in the stands in December are two very different animals, so it was with some trepidation that I set off with him on a chilly, but thankfully sunny Sunday afternoon.

FedEx Field (don’t even get me started about stadiums being named after companies. It makes me throw up a little.) is a VAST sporting complex; probably even big enough to affect the weather around it. During my time served in the Baltimore Colts Marching Band, I once played half-time at a pre-season Steelers game at Three Rivers Stadium, which, even though it was a bit overwhelming, is probably nowhere as big as FedEx Field. (Plus, although they won the Superbowl, the Steelers are on my shit list at the moment anyhow for knocking the Ravens out of the playoffs, so, HEY, PITTSBURGH! YOU’VE GOT A TINY STADIUM! SO THERE!)

The Rock Star and I had seats in the 3rd tier, which, despite the height, afforded a very good view of the field. Our seat neighbors were two incredibly intoxicated gentlemen and their rather embarrassed female friend. (Apparently, when one owns season tickets, it does not behoove one to bring loud, drunk, asshat friends along for fear of complaints which can result in the loss of said tickets) While they began with a tirade of rather more abusive language than is required at sporting event that wasn’t taking place in someone’s basement involving fighting poultry, they were soon admonished by one of the completely righteous stadium monitors and lapsed into less offensive choruses of anti-Eagles propaganda. (“You boys can’t be cussing up here! There’s ladies present!”)

The atmosphere went a long way to diminish the effects of the absolutely biting cold. Aside from our completely wankered neighbors, everyone seemed to be in good spirits including a very large African American gentleman who seemed to appear from nowhere every time the Skins scored a goal shouting, “WHO GONNA KICK THAT ASS? WE GONNA KICK THAT ASS! WE KICK THAT ASS!” and so forth. Despite the fabulously inflated prices for the beer, hotdogs and sweatshirt that was necessary to keep the brisk wind off of my legs, we both had a really good time. (It didn’t hurt that the Skins won.)

The Rock Star couldn’t wipe the smile off his face all evening.

Considering that we’re not really SPORT people, it’s a bit surprising that our two major outings over the holidays were BOTH to sporting events. Toward the end of our visit, we made our second ever trip to the Verizon (AAAARGH!) Centre for a bit of what the Rock Star calls “puckfoolery”.

Hockey, unlike football is a game that I’m totally disinterested in watching on television, because more than half the fun of hockey is the coliseum style atmosphere surrounding the game. Hockey appeals to the common denominator. There aren’t many fancy rules; you either score a goal or you don’t. And unlike real life, you’re completely allowed to give someone a vicious beating with the end result being a two minute time out, which is less than you’d get for drawing on your living room wall. (This is, of course if you are able to keep the laws of physics from preventing you landing a decent punch without falling flat on your face.)

Accompanying us to the match were my old high school buddies Virginia and the Phantom Scribbler. Virginia attended our first Capitals match with us back in the early noughties and due to her contribution to the ambiance of the evening then, (“STOP PLAYING LIKE PUSSIES!”) we thought it was only right that she come with us again. The Phantom Scribbler had NEVER been to a hockey game, and as he is known for his acerbic and dry wit, we believed that experiencing a match might be a good laugh for him.

Our seats were LITERALLY in the last row of the top tier, so clutching our 8 dollar beers, we made our way skywards to watch the action. And action there was. I’ll pleased to say that we were treated to two rounds of icy fisticuffs in between play, which were encouraged heartily by the crowd. The second bout saw the loser literally stripped of his shirt somehow and both contestants sent to penalty boxes various. The game, as far as I can tell, was fairly typical in it’s pace and level of violence as well as the completely chock a block crowd as the game let out. After seeing the throngs in Metro Centre, we decided on a little beverage to kill some time before the subway wasn’t Tokyo-rammed any longer. Sadly, most pubs and bars in the vicinity were almost as rammed as the subway with the exception of one: Hooters.

Yes. We went to Hooters. My verdict? They have awesome wings.

Frozen Fish

Having grown up in close proximity to both Baltimore and Washington, I spent a fair amount of my youth being shuttled between different educational establishments under the auspices of these outings being “field trips”. What they actually were was a contest to see who got chaperones cool enough to let us eat at McDonalds when it was all over. But I digress.

The National Aquarium in Baltimore has always been one of my favorite places, even when I was young and forced to read all of the information that, as a 7 year old, I couldn’t care less about, because as a kid, all you really know is that there’s some seriously gnarly stuff that lives in the sea and it’s cool to get to look at it without the possibility of it eating/stinging/impaling you. Naturally, I was eager to take the Prawn because I believed that she would feel the same way even though her comprehension pretty much only extends to “FISHY!”

Omen number 1 was the fact that the Prawn got up at an ungodly hour. Omen number 2 was that she didn’t sleep in the car. Omens usually come in threes, so I wasn’t particularly surprised when we arrived at the aquarium to discover that buggies were not allowed in the building. So we were left with the walking dead toddler who began to show her colors round about the time we first glimpsed the manta ray tank. (The manta ray tank is the very first thing you encounter.)

I personally can spend hours gazing into the tanks and marvelling at the complexity of sealife, but it’s amazing how much marveling you can get done in a short space of time when a seemingly 200 pound boneless toddler is kicking you and shouting for milk, juice, raisins and the other 16 things that she already got through 2 hours ago. Despite the extreme crankitude displayed by the Prawn, she did enjoy conversing with the “peekaboo fish” (a small, wormlike fish that kept disappearing down a hole and then popping out periodically to say “WAZZUUUUP?”) as well as birdwatching in the tropical rainforest and dolphin spotting at the dolphin show.

Being one of the coldest days of the year that day combined with the fact that we were by the harbor made being outside an excruciating experience (The Rock Star was the only one to brave the cold for any extended period of time- he took some lovely photos) and we all agreed that the Prawn was certainly the luckiest of all of us, bundled up in her stroller under several dozen layers.

The Unholy Army of the Night

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love me some cats. I dream of having kittehs of our own one day once we own a house big enough to accommodate them. But I think 2 is kind of a natural number for cats; enough to keep eachother company and more space to skulk when they’d rather be alone. My parents (qualification: my mother) has always been a sucker for strays. She has hardened significantly over the years since the space under their deck has, for some reason, become the most popular feral labour and delivery ward in the immediate area. Mom and dad are constantly trying to coax entire families of felines out from under that damn deck with the help of food and traps left by the local no-kill shelter. A few of these little fuzzballs have really gotten under my parent’s skin, and at present, there are now 4 cats who currently call their house home.

Vandella is the matriarch of the group. She showed up around our wedding and was subsequently named for the rose that made up my bouquet. Brother and sister Crackers and Parsnip came next and the most recent addition is Broadband, or BB, for short. (So named because of her girth.) These four creatures are completely unavoidable no matter WHERE your location in the house. You are much more LIKELY to encounter them (usually all at once) if you sit down with a bowl of cereal, at which point four noses will simultaneously appear in the middle of your Wheaties.

I was actually not counting on seeing much of the felines during our visit due to the noisiness of the Prawn. However, after several days, they learned that she was not exactly DANGEROUS and went back to their normal habits, albeit sleeping with one eye open. Vandella was most tolerant of Wren’s attentions, which consisted mainly of rather heavy handed petting, although, amazingly, she also tolerated being layed upon for the best part of 5 minutes. Truly, a queen among cats.

The Holiday

Oh yeah, the whole reason we were there. It was truly a season of merriment, filled with good food, good wine and good friends and family. I got to catch up with old friends. (Even abcgirl and Mr. abc swung by in the course of their holiday visitations. abcgirl and I then went on to have a serious crafty evening while the guys kind of stared at one another.) The Prawn got to spend a whole month in the bosom of her doting grandparents as well as visiting family that she’d only met before as an infant. (Most memorable, her cousin Alberto being christened “Potato” and my cousin Marge, who became “Humpty Dumpty” for some strange reason.) The Rock Star and I got to do some relaxing and catching up. A hugely good time was had by one and all.

This has been the post that has held up other posts that I have had in mind, so it is my hope that the festive log jam is now cleared, paving the way for more potablogs in the near future!

A very Merry Christmas from rural Maryland!

Our holiday so far has been relaxed and filled with good food, good drink, good friends and four cats who necessitate us uttering the phrase, “STOP LICKING THAT!” at least 5 times a day. The Prawn, of course, is in grandparent heaven and adores them to the exclusion of all others, meaning, of course, us. But this is just fine, allowing us more time to linger over coffee and hang out in Target, which most people would consider pretty sad, but, in lieu of a vacation this year, is probably more exciting to us than it should be.

I hope that you and yours are having an equally stimulating holiday and that I’ll see you on the other side.

So, since the world DIDN’T end, I suppose I ought to pull my finger out and write something.

After the Rock Star’s stag antics of last weekend, (I got an awful lot of interest after posting my facebook status, “Blogapotamus is chuffed that her husband got into a shouting match with two strippers over the weekend.”) I am off for hen tomfoolery this weekend with Trumpet and Co. We’re heading down to Brighton for a day of windsurfing (in the Atlantic, in September, yes) and an evening of eating and drinking and hopefully a bare minimum of inflatable men.

After a bit of reading up on the internets, within those in the bachelor/bachelorette party industry, there seems to be an overwhelming consensus that people would rather deal with a stag do than a hen do any day of the week. Bar owners, restaraunteurs, limo drivers and others that deal with large groups of men and women out celebrating last nights of freedom before matrimony are definitely of the opinion that women are far more badly behaved when out in large groups. The driver of the pimptastic limo that the Rock Star hired to take BoyRacer and the other stags on their Ocean’s 11 style evening in London told the lads that large groups of women scared the Christ out of him*. (As did one woman in particular- Trumpet, who was standing by, unnoticed, while he made the obligatory “So who’s the unlucky man?” jokes.)

One wonders why this should be, especially since it is the sterotypical getting-drunk-starting-fights-tying-the-groom-to-a-flagpole mentality of stag nights that often makes the news. Could it be that men, as lone hunter/gathers are less likely to cause trouble in groups than women, who rely on a close support network of other women? When we get the chance to cut loose, why do we do so in such bad grace?

Trumpet’s day, I speculate, will NOT be such an occasion. A little bit of humility in the form of a wet suit and getting hit on the head by a runaway sailboard will most likely take care of any bravado that may be lurking.

April is an inauspicious month in which to have a birthday in the UK. As we learned last week, one can never count on the weather to do anything other than whatever it pleases. One moment there may be brilliant sunshine and the next, you might have snow dumped all over your unsuspecting ass. The last few days, we seem to have had a recurring hail motif. LOVING IT.

Also inauspicious was the first email I received on the first morning of my 33rd year, firing me from my position with AQA, a text based answer service that provided drunk morons with information. I would be more upset about it, but quite frankly, I’d let my account slip into inactivity due to the fact that I was getting a little tired of answering questions like, “If u r so smart, what’s my name?” (To which I dearly would have liked to reply, “U jst paid a £ 4 this question. WHO’S THE DUMBASS NOW?”

33 was not an auspicious year for either Alexander the Great or Jesus Christ. As my friend Pablo pointed out, 33 is a numerical palindrome. It is also the International Country Code for France. There are 33 vertebrae in the human spine when counting the individual bones of the coccyx. It is the atomic number of arsenic. It’s binary equivalent is 100001. And the number 33 is printed on every bottle of Rolling Rock. Of all of the meaning that I’ve been trying to derive from the number, the later is by far the most significant. Maybe it’s just because I could really use a beer.

Lucky for me the Rock Star is taking me to dinner. While the dining establishment in question is unlikely to sell beer as utterly terrible as Rolling Rock (don’t get me wrong, I’d still drink it.) I’m sure I’ll be able to find an appropriate substitute.

Holy gadget, Batman.

I got just one present this year from The Rock Star.

A most excellent present.

A most unexpected present.

A present that doesn’t run Windows.

I am now the proud owner of a lovely white Macbook that I have lusted after for many months, but had no thought of being able to own. Not only did I get a Macbook, but I got a Macbook that had been lovingly installed with all of my favorite programs, a Vienna reader with my entire blogroll on it and my favorite geektastic monster-slaying game, Heroes of Might and Magic V.

I win Christmas. The Rockstar rocks in many, many ways.

On behalf of The Rock Star, the Prawn and me, we’d like to wish you a happy Judeo-Christian, Pagan, Middle Eastern, Indian or African American holiday of your choice. Us, we do the Christmas thang, so we’re snowed under with pre-preparing a feast of grotesque proportions for tomorrow afternoon as well as a fancy-ass breakfast, so by tomorrow night, I imagine we’ll all feel well and truly sick. Happy Christmas! Pass the Gaviscon!

At any rate, hope the holidays find everyone well with many agreeable friends and relations to make merry with.

Just wanted to share the Christmas card that I’ve received that’s caught me most off-guard this year and kind of made me wish that I’d had the balls to send it.

The inside reads, “Merry Christmas, no matter who you fucked.”

Mmmmm.

When I was little, my grandmother on my father’s side used to make a batch of 6 DOZEN cookies every Christmas. When I asked for the baking directions the other day, my mother e-mailed it to me and to my horror, I discovered that the recipe calls for a full HALF POUND of butter. This is probably why there is a history of obesity in my family and why I myself am having trouble shifting this damned baby fat off of my hips. (I know, I know, but I prefer to blame my genetics instead of my predelection for cheese, so shut up.)

My kitchen is great source of glee for me. After years of being relegated to a galley style boat kitchen with room on the counter for approximately 1 chopping board, I am having a huge amount of fun actually being able to COOK. Cooking used to be one of those things that people on telly did well, but I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. (Not that I was incapable of cooking before we moved to the flat, but it’s certainly broadened my horizons having room to, you know, store ingredients.) However, when I decided to bake some traditional Christmas sugar cookies, I was still a little nervous.

Dough has always been a little frightening to me. Anything that I can’t correct once it’s made is kind of nerve wracking. Instead of my grandmother’s heart stopping recipe, I chose one of my mother’s that features far less butter. (In fact, my mother’s recipe actually subsitutes vegetable shortening for butter, but as I had none lying around, I used butter as a fallback.)

To my utter shock, I actually managed to turn out a rather enormous batch of cookies that tasted exactly as I remembered them from childhood despite the fact that I consumed about 2 glasses of wine during the baking process. Trumpet assisted as well as both BoyRacer and the Rock Star were cavorting at a client Christmas do, and baking Christmas cookies seemed like a satisfyingly girlie activity to engage in while our respective men went out to do whatever it is that men do.

The real fun, however, lay in the decoration. Not abandoning our wine glasses, we broke out the decorating icing, M&Ms and hundreds of thousands and decorated our unholy pastry army in shades of red and white.

Notable cookie figures included Ghosty Lady (eaten), the Swimming Instructor (eaten) and the Rude One. (eaten in the line of duty)