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.

…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.

Every family has their little holiday traditions. For some it’s carol singing. For others it’s having a blazing row after dinner and spending the rest of the day not talking to one another. But in our case, it’s cookies.

Not surprising, really, for a Pennsylvania Dutch family, that one of our most cherished traditions* involves food, especially sweetstuffs. (These are the people who invented Scrapple; a meat product that’s basically whatever is left over after the butchering process shoved in a blender, formed into a loaf and then pan fried. I personally have never partaken, but my parents used to bring some back every time they came back from visiting family up in PA. However, I was not made aware of it’s contents until I was older and possessed a stronger constitution.)

My great grandmother was the guardian of Christmas in her time. The family Christmas Eve celebration was always held at her house in the little town of Bally. These events are much remembered by the older members of my family and although the most wonderful celebration passed on to my mother’s cousin (Christmas Eve was always my favorite part of the holiday due to these gatherings!) Christmases past “at Grammy’s” were always much talked about and fondly remembered.

My great grandmother, was of course, like most grandmothers, a fantastic cook and many a grandchild (my mother included) would always make for her kitchen upon arrival at her house to see what treats lay in store. Grammy Kemp’s cookie tin (an octagonal affair decorated with sailing ships that already had a fair few years under it’s belt by the time my mother discovered it’s delights) was always full of delicious baked goods. It was the memory of this that inspired our Christmas tradition many years later.

Although the cookie tin was lost for some years, it began to find it’s way to various family members at Christmastime, filled with cookies and a poem from the baker. A book of the poems began to appear to accompany the tin as the list of recipients grew. While it moved for a long time in exclusively the female family circle, I am proud to say that when /I/ received the tin while I was in college, I passed it on to it’s first male recipient, my cousin, Jim. (Who passed it on the next year with a collection of store bought cookies, but a hugely clever poem about how hard he’d worked to bake them.)

My mother, who’s seen the tin more recently than I, says that it’s lovely pictures are nearly worn off of it’s many surfaces from it’s constant journies across state and sometimes country lines. Due to some extremely hard eBay graft of Jim’s sister, my mother now has an exact replica of the tin with all of it’s pictures in their colorful glory; a wonderful reminder of Christmases past, even when the original is far away.

Although I’m not sure about the whereabouts of the tin at present, I very much hope that it makes it’s way back into my hands again so I can share it’s story with my daughter and send it off on it’s continuing journey.

*Our other most cherished tradition which ended several years ago involved sneaking a completely hideous looking candle into each other’s luggage following family get-togethers. Said candle traveled the length and breadth of the US, surprising recipients for many years before the death of our family matriarch, Great Aunt Louise. The candle (as she loved a good prank and would have laughed her ass off) was supposed to go in her coffin, however, I’m not sure that anyone had the bottle to do it and it was instead, I believe, left on her grave, where it quickly vanished. (I’d like to think that Aunt Louise manged to somehow pass it on to some other family of worthy recipients who could properly appreciate it’s awfulness.

I imagine a great weeping and gnashing of teeth today in all of the nations of the world that celebrate December based holidays and run on traditional, Gregorian calendars as millions stagger out from under self-induced holiday comas and find their slightly larger rear ends sitting in familiar leather seats, staring once again at monitors and wondering where the heartburn medication is. (Me, I always know.)

The Rock Star and I had a truly brilliant holiday with my folks at their lovely home in rural Maryland. Their house is one of the quietest, most restful places I know; the pleasure of lingering over breakfast or lunch in their sunny kitchen alone is worth the 8 hour flight across the Atlantic. The Rock Star and I had a week before the rest of his family arrived (we had a joint Christmas with the Rock Star’s family this year- something my parents have been hoping to happen for nearly 6 years now) so we took advantage of the stillness for reading, guitar playing and catching up with my pater familis. Both of them were much admirous of my burgeoning bump.

To spare you a huge post on the specifics of all of our holiday misdeeds I shall endeavour to condense our doings into a list of highlights. Although all that we did was wonderful, jolly and interesting to US, I have no illusions about its interest value to those who frequent this site.

All American Hero School- Coming back from dinner one evening before the rest of The Rock Star’s clan arrived, we stopped for petrol at a station not far from my parent’s house. Filling up at the pump opposite was a fire truck from the local engine company. The Rock Star had a definite 9 year old boy moment- oooing and ahhing over the shiny chrome fittings and the inherent coolness of a large, shiny, purpose built piece of machinery. He mentioned to my mother how, while he was a fan of American fire trucks, his brother, BoyRacer, had had a full blown fetish for them when he was a child. My mother, who tends to store little bits of information like that away for future use, took it upon herself to call the local fire company that the truck belonged to (which just so happens to be situated next to the school where she teaches) and asked them if it would be alright if we stopped in to have a gander at the engines.

While not the strangest thing I have ever done over Christmas, pulling into the fire station on Christmas Eve Day with a wildly excited BoyRacer (accompanied by the lovely Trumpet) in the car (he had no idea where we were going until we pulled into the driveway) probably ranks fairly highly on the randomness scale.

We were met in the engine bay by the watch commander, who’s last name I cannot recall at the moment due to the fact that it is difficult to remember anything about him other than the fact that he was an inch or so taller than the Rock Star and nearly twice as wide. His Christian name was Andre and he looked like he was possibly an ex-Marine, power-lifter or, at a stretch, a pro-wrestler called “The Punisher”. He introduced us to the rest of the company, who also had rather macho ranks like “Lieutenant” and even more macho surnames like “Varney” and “McKendrick”.

“You guys fire-fighters back in England, then?” he asked, trying to find some common ground with the rather odd assortment of people that had just turned up at his station on Christmas Eve Day.

“No, we’ve just always liked American fire trucks,” offered the Rock Star.

“Okaaay,” said Andre, sceptically, “no, no, that’s cool. Let me show you around.” He looked at me sideways. “You’re not about to have a baby, are you?”

“Nope, I’ve got two months yet. You’re safe.” I said, thinking that while fire fighters are, in theory, trained in basic medical procedures, if given the choice, they’d probably rather not perform any of them if they don’t have to.

After the quick tour of what I imagine is a very modern station, and a quick introduction to a volunteer called Wilbur (“He’s not pregnant, he’s just fat,” offered Andre) what I had been secretly hoping would come to pass did: Andre offered to let the boys play dress-up.

I remember visits from fire fighters from very early school days. They’d bring the truck around and then pile all of their gear on one lucky kid to see how long it’d take them to fall straight over. Having very little to do on Christmas Eve, the company assembled to watch in amusement as The Rock Star and BoyRacer got the same treatment. “You guys can feel like All-American Heroes!” Andre said, without a trace of irony.

Both of them are fairly fit guys. The Rock Star does Marathon training and BoyRacer has spent the last year doing triathlons. But stepping into Andre’s boots took some doing. Apparently all the gear has to be on a fire-fighter’s body and functioning within two minutes, and given that both BoyRacer and the Rock Star had to use Andre the Giant for support while stepping INTO said boots, my guess is that neither would be fire fighter material at the moment. (Plus, Andre called Boy Racer a “peanut head” due to the fact that his own personal helmet didn’t exactly fit him, although I can’t imagine that Andre’s helmet would fit many people, except for the Rock Star who has a slightly oversized cranium himself.)

At any rate, we left the company with a plate of cookies and chocolates (from the mountain of sweets and baked goods in their kitchen, I could see why they needed their well equipped gym) and our grateful thanks for a truly surreal day.

Quote of the Morning:

The Rock Star: Thanks so much for the visit! Is it ok if we take some photos of the truck?

Andre: Sure! Do you want me to pull it out for you?

The Rock Star: (not able to stop himself in time) I bet you say that to all the ladies.(and immediately thinking, “I wish I hadn’t said that to the largest man I’ve ever personally met without checking to see whether or not he’s got a Jesus fish on his pick-up tailgate.“)

Andre: (smirking) That’s nice. I’ll remember that.

The Rock Star: (to himself) Whew.

Shopping: No trip to the States would be complete without splashing out on stuff that we get routinely financially fleeced on in Britain; namely, everything. At Christmas, there were bargains galore and Trumpet, Boyracer, the Rock Star and I spent a good many hours in Frederick, buying last minute gifts and a few things for ourselves as well.

As it was Trumpet’s first trip to the US there were some questions to be answered.

“So, what’s Home Depot?”

“It’s like B&Q only bigger and with more stuff.”

“Ok, and what’s Michael’s?”

“It’s like Hobbycraft, only bigger and with more stuff.”

At this point I realized that this particular description could be applied to the country in general, hence the post title.

Away in A Manger: Now with Added Llama! - The Rock Star and I were married in a church in downtown Frederick. This same church also holds an annual Christmas Eve service with a live nativity INSIDE the sanctuary. Although none of the UK contingent hold any particular religious convictions, it was something we felt like we might just have to see. My mother had a service to play for at her church and my father elected to remain behind with the cooking and the cats, so the rest of us smartened up and went for the novelty factor of seeing a couple of live cows wandering around the altar where we said “I do.”

As it turned out, this particular nativity did not feature cattle, but rather sheep, goats and interestingly enough, a large llama. While the Bible doesn’t specifically say anything about a llama in the stable at Bethlehem, I imagine that it was more the thought that counted and maybe a docile enough cow couldn’t be found. Llamas don’t fit well into the Nativity story; partly because they come from the other side of the world and partly because they’re ornery bastards. The llama in this particular tableau, however, seemed to be fairly well behaved. Until the annunciation to the shepherds when two member of the youth group came flapping up the aisle dressed as angels, at which point the llama, who had been a pretty good sport up til this point, went “Shit! Angels!” and tried to make a break for it. Luckily, the “shepherds” were also trained veterinarians with hypodermics up the sleeves of their robes. The sheep and the goat didn’t seem to have any such qualms about the appearance of the heavenly host, but sat quietly, munching hay.

The sermon that evening centred on how we should make our souls soft like a baby. (I think I’m not doing it justice with the description; it was actually a fairly decently crafted homily) To remind us of this, we were given, on our way out, small squares of soft felt. The Rock Star was overjoyed, as he has a fuzzy fabric finger fetish left over from childhood. (I have a similar one, only with sharper pieces of fabric) Upon our return home, I presented him with my square to “la-la” as he wished.

“Mmmm…” he said, contentment spreading over his face, “flat, fuzzy Messiah.”

Feasting- Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without many varied caloric things to consume. Seeing as how I’m destined only to get fatter in the next two months anyhow, I pretty much consumed anything that was set in front of me.

Those who have been following my quest to bake the perfect Shoo-Fly Pie will be pleased to note that I actually managed to turn out THREE during the festive period, concluding once and for all that some kind of hoo doo is messing with my Shoo Fly mojo here in the UK, whether it be vaguely different ingredients or our unreliable marina electricity supply. I made THREE. Count them. THREE. And they all tasted AWESOME.

Eating out is also substantially cheaper in the US than in the UK, so we took advantage of this fact to hit all of our favourite restaurants in the area including the local Perkins TWICE for breakfast, a hibachi joint, a great soup and sandwich bar, a new favourite Italian joint and a nearby upscale seafood place that tries to shove crab meat into absolutely every dish. (Tuesday special: Maryland crab cakes with crab and parmesan sauce served with a side of crab Imperial and petit pois covered in Old Bay seasoning. Side salad with crab and Blue Cheese dressing) Although the crab/parmesan dip and baked pita chips were well nigh irresistible, I managed to keep my main course crab-free. (Salmon with pomegranate glaze. Yum.) There was also fabulous home cooking to contend with. I haven’t yet stepped on the scale since I got back (it’s hard to read the numbers anyhow because I can no longer see my feet) but I imagine that I’ve gained a good few pounds over the holiday that I can’t blame on the Prawn.

Beasts of a Different Nature- My parents own 3 cats who were all highly amusing to everyone over the Christmas period. It must be heavenly for a cat- a house full of crinkly things and one very big plant indoors with shiny things on it to swat at. Since we all had a vague feeling of guilt about the animals in the UK languishing in a kennel over Christmas, (more like the dog and cat equivalent of the Ritz. They probably didn’t want to come back) we were happy to transfer our affections to my folk’s fuzzy trio, Vandella, Parsnip and Crackers. I personally have no idea how my parents get anything done with 3 of them in the house. The moment you sit down, they’re right there, in your face, investigating everything including the cereal you’ve just poured into a bowl, the glass of water you’ve just sat down on the table or, in Vandella’s case, anything shiny and hard that you might have on your person. (Buttons, watches…all are fair game for chewing)

One of my gifts to my folks this year was a “Caution: Cat Vomit” sign. I’m not sure if it was the fact that it’s printed in Spanish on the opposite side (“Cuidado: Vomito de Gato”) or the simple, but meaningful illustration of a cat barfing in the middle, but it tickled me and I know that they’ll actually USE it. (it was given it’s maiden run while we were still there. Parsnip is a champion hornker.) There is actually a photo of the sign being used for it’s intended purpose, but it’s kinda gross.

After finally bidding a rather melancholy farewell to my folks, (we actually tried to extend our tickets to prolong our peaceful holiday, but were rebuffed by Virgin Atlantic customer service, much to our dismay) We boarded the place exhausted, hoping for some rest on the return flight. However, we were bordered on both sides by screaming babies, so that idea went out the window quickly. I always feel bad for mothers travelling alone with babies; they get “ohgodpleasedontsitnexttome” vibes from everyone on the plane and dirty looks when the screaming starts. Being painfully aware that everyone wishes that you weren’t there can’t be easy and hell, people have got to get from one place to another. (Spot the person who is, herself, shortly going to be the target of 7 different kinds of hate the next time she boards a plane.) The Rock Star and I took vastly different approaches toward the noisy onslaught; I popped in earplugs and he listened to Black Label Society on his iPod. This is a man who regularly, in his youth, would fall asleep to Guns N Roses, so whatever works, I suppose.

New Year’s was the damp squib that it usually is. The whole of the holiday season is hard to celebrate year by year as a rule; it’s always sort of an amalgamation of every Christmas and New Year’s that’s gone before, making it vaguely depressing to a lot of people. While I find Christmas cheerful and positive, there’s something about New Year’s Eve that’s utterly uninspiring.

The Rock Star had a gig with the Mis-Spelled Band at the Hog’s Head so I waited around until 11 (as not to subject the Prawn to more smoke and noise than humanly necessary) before joining him. As far as holiday gigs go, the mood of the crowd was good and no obvious fights broke out. I did have two utterly strange mad, drunken women kissing and talking to my belly and telling me it was going to be the greatest experience of my life, but other than that, I was fairly safe from any excess oddness. Some pregnant women have a real thing about strangers touching their bellies; me…it doesn’t bug me so much, but I still wouldn’t do it to anyone I didn’t know. It’s not like you’d do it to a random fat person in the street…what’s so different about being pregnant?

So that brings me up to the moment, sitting at my desk and attempting not to fall asleep. It does nothing to help matters that the cat is curled up in her plush basket on a chair across the room, taunting me with her easy slumber.

I hope the holidays were as full for you and yours! Normal blogging service to resume as soon as my body clock manages to successfully reset itself.

Happy New Year!

Just a quick hello before we jet back to the UK…

When The Rock Star and I got married, we were pretty broke. We didn’t do traditional engagement rings because, “I’m just not a diamond person.” Or so I thought.

7 years later and 2.2 months away from the birth of our first child, I decided that I actually AM kind of a diamond person, so The Rock Star kindly obliged me with an engagement ring for Christmas. My father (the guy with the pitchfork in the background) insisted that it was also a good photo opportunity.

Not only that, but it’s a bit of a supreme belly shot. Yes, the Prawn is going to be a mighty Lobster.

From the land of the free and the well fed, I wish all of you a very Merry Christmas. I hope your bellies are as full as mine.

It seems that I start an inordinate number of travelogues with references to the Wrath of God. Its not that I believe that god has got anything against us personally, but all I’m saying is that rivers of blood or a plague of frogs falling from the overhead lockers wouldn’t be entirely unexpected.

After 11 years of trans-Atlantic travel, The Rock Star and I like to think of ourselves as fairly seasoned travelers, accustomed to delays and fuckwittery in all of their many forms. However, around Christmastime, something comes over the traveling public at large that reduces us all to the level of beasts of the field, lowing and shuffling ever forward to our doom through the aeronautical abattoir.

Arriving 3 hours before our flight departed seemed like a sensible precaution during the busy holiday period. Indeed, this would have been plenty of time had it not been that the whole population of greater London hadn’t had the same idea.

It never ceases to amaze me how airports seem to drain people of common sense. In the HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES we spent queuing for check in, the 20 minutes in security and the relatively short queue at the gate (the flight was boarding, necessitating a 10 minute, fast-paced yomp through the concourse. I discovered why one never sees pregnant sprinters.) we saw at least 50 examples of prime rib, grade A stupidity including a group of Chinese students who spoke flawless English, but couldn’t seem to understand the concept of emptying their pockets before going through a metal detector and an American student who’d obviously had a bad morning and eventually dealt with the situation by wailing, “I JUST WANT TO GO HOME!” over and over at the top of her voice. I have had similar days in airports, but have I never believed that a biblical style breakdown was going to get me anywhere.

I have rarely been so pleased to actually get ONTO an airplane in my life, despite the fact that I discovered that my Prawn-enhanced girth now no longer allowed me to fit comfortably into an average airline seat. To make matters worse, in a stunning display of stupid design, my personal entertainment system’s controller was wedged against my thigh, making it highly likely that anytime I shifted slightly, I ended up either calling the cabin steward, ordering duty-free or watching the Spongebob Squarepants movie.

However, the trip and all it’s little discomforts have been well worth it ever since arriving back at my parent’s beautiful woodland home, full of all the comforts of Christmastime. Although the weather has been vaguely freakish (72 degrees F yesterday) we have felt very jolly indeed. (As have the frogs in my parent’s pond who were enjoying their brief sunbathing session before settling down in the mud for the winter) We have eaten heartily, shopped decadently (new clothes at almost $1.85 to the pound) and very much enjoyed watching the trio of cats that inhabit the house poke their be-whiskered noses into anything and everything.(luggage, wrapping paper, the bowl of cereal that you’re currently eating, etc)

Hope everyone else is beginning to wind down for the holiday and that the Travel Gods take you safely to your destinations!

In the holiday related madness of the past week and a half, I have barely had time to scratch my ever-expanding ass, let alone try to form a coherant blog post. I HAVE, however…..

-Sent out over 200 Christmas cards that HAVEN’T BEEN FROM ME. I have to do THOSE today.

-Waged war with Amazon.com, Oxfam Unwrapped and a small specialist chocolate shop in the middle of London.

-Nearly completed 6 pieces of jewelry.

-Pushed 3 loads of laundry through the machines.

-Arranged appointments, turned up at appointments, gotten stuck with needles DURING appointments. (The Prawn, by the way is measuring “two weeks ahead”, whatever the hell THAT means. All I know is that I’m having a hard time fitting through my bedroom door.)

-Badgered, bullied, threatened and cajoled other people into completing things that needed to be completed.

So quite frankly? I’m knackered. I have survived the last two days in particular on a diet of vitamins, water and heavy metal.

Tomorrow morning, The Rock Star and I are hopping a flight back to the land of my birth to spend two weeks of well deserved rest at my parent’s beautiful house in the Maryland woods. Two weeks of good food, tea, cats and doing bugger all.

I. Can’t. Wait.

Further updates from the States!

Although I spent a good many years behind counters in retail locations, I only ever worked one Black Friday.

The UK retail sector doesn’t have an equivalent to the frenetic one-day pre-Christmas madness of their US counterparts, having to rely on steady, heavy trade for the whole of the season rather than getting a massive kick start to the season the day after Thanksgiving. (Interesting side note- Black Friday is NOT the busiest shopping day of the year. That honor falls to the Saturday before Christmas. There is little to motivate someone like a healthy dose of panic.)

For my sins, I spent 9 months working at a large branch of Borders in Minneapolis. Since I began in October, it was inevitable that at least one of those months was going to include December, being slaves to chronology that months tend to be.

After one of the most surreal Thanksgivings ever, (my housemate and I were invited randomly to the home of some members of the congregation of a church we were attending. It was very pleasant, but very odd to spend a family holiday with the complete, extended family of total strangers, but it probably kept us from poisoning ourselves trying to cook something resembling turkey.) the morning of Black Friday dawned clear and cold and we braced ourselves for a hectic day on the shop floor.

Although the particulars of the day escape me, I do remember that the place was rammed, but in a fairly congenial way. Although the store occupied a warehouse unit in a strip mall full of warehouse units, the lines for the till stretched all the way back to the computer section. (Tucked quietly in the very back due to the fact that geeks generally don’t shoplift. It’s for this reason that the erotica section is near the front.) Although some people were frustrated at the waiting times, no one got surly or unpleasant. Café staff served small cups of gratis coffee (a pumpkin blend that I couldn’t bear the taste of, but if heaven has a smell, I guarantee you that it smells just like that) and bits of cookie.

The only thing people REALLY wanted that Christmas was a little book who’s popularity had spread by word of mouth; a little known title called Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. And other than a short supply mid month, everyone who wanted it could have it. The patient, festive atmosphere in the store that day probably had a lot to do with the fact that we didn’t stock toys or electronics.

Following on from talk of Christmas retail, I feel obligated to spew forth a small amount of venom regarding the whole Farepak Christmas savings scheme scandal which is currently getting rather a lot of airtime here in the UK.

I have to admit to not knowing a huge deal about Christmas savings schemes or understanding what the advantage of them over say, putting a little cash aside every month in a bank account, is. The only thing I know is that a lot of people put a lot of cash into a company that they were expecting a return from only to have the whole thing go belly up. Today on the news, they were interviewing some of the people who got the most royally doinked by Farepak and they admitted that they were taking out loans at criminally high interest rates in order to buy things for Christmas.

However, the people interviewed were determined not to have modest Christmases, as one in dire financial straits might expect. They were going to go whole hog. Xbox 360s for the kids. Flat screen tellys for themselves. Vast quantities of cash flying out the door with little regard to how they were going to pay for it in the future.

So here’s my thing: Company bad. Obviously. Collapsed. Gave lots of cash to high level management before it did. VERY NAUGHTY COMPANY. People have every right to be enraged.

BUT…

WHY IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN WOULD YOU TAKE OUT A LOAN WITH AN INTEREST RATE OF 140% PER ANNUM IN ORDER TO BUY HUGELY EXPENSIVE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS WHEN YOU KNOW THAT YOU’LL BE CRIPPLED WITH DEBT WELL INTO NEXT CHRISTMAS?? JUST BECAUSE SOMETHNG ISN’T FAIR DOESN’T MAKE IT ALRIGHT TO DO SOMETHING RECKLESSLY STUPID TO “FIX” IT!

Obviously, having children who are being bombarded every day with the message that the more things you get, the more that you’re loved, (and if you get an Xbox 360, which will allow you to spend hours bathed in the radioactive glow of the television, alienated from your family, you’re loved the MOST) piles the pressure on more acutely. So it’s obvious that there is more than one problem here. And no amount of spending is going to fix it. Exactly the opposite.

So, we’re off to the races in the Christmas stakes. May your financial escapades be prudent and thoughtful. And be kind to shop assistants. This will be the first day of the next 30 or so that they will have to listen to “Silver Bells” on perpetual loop. This will take a high toll on just about anyone.