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.

Pig Flu didn’t get me. But I have tumbled headlong into the disorienting embrace of jetlag.

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to experience my homeland in the summer time. Over the last few years, our American sojourns have occurred during the festive period (either Thanksgiving or Christmas) and while I love the woods where I grew up, there is something tremendously melancholy about loads of bare trees waving their naked braches in the cold. In addition, if I want to freeze my ass off, I’ll just go outside in the UK around mid June.

I had completely forgotten how summer utterly transforms the area. My parent’s yard looked more akin to Eden than Frederick County when we pulled in the driveway on the way home from the airport. It was a veritable wonderland of big, blowsy blooms and green as far as the eye could see. The Prawn has eyes only for Grams and Pop Pop in the moments after we arrived, but I could hardly stop gaping at the yard and drinking in the summer smell that we are so sadly lacking where we reside.

I should reverse gear and mention that our trip over was once again very smooth, despite the presence of a toddler. We are fortunate in that we have a rabid Sesame Street addict on our hands and with this currency, we can buy any amount of good behaviour. Even nearly 8 hours worth. Yes. I know. Very bad parents, but very happy ones. However, this experiment led us to discover that an iPhone has a pretty astonishing battery capacity if you don’t mind watching videos in 4’ x 2’. To make extra sure of no gaps in our Sesame Street delivery system, we had videos on BOTH of our iPhones AND both of our laptops. With the Prawn safely anesthetised, I was free to watch the goggle box as well in the form of “Benjamin Button”, (note to self: DO NOT WATCH OVERLY EMOTIONAL MOVIES IN PUBLIC PLACES. The stewardess that came around with orange juice midway through the flight asked me if there was anything she could do for me. Doofus.) “Anchorman” and an episode of “Flight of the Concords” (which, by the way, is simultaneously funny and deeply unfunny at the same time.).

We were lucky to get mostly fabulous weather for our visit. Of course, the time change wrecked havoc on the Prawn and the first morning, the Rock Star found himself blearily blinking at her in the kitchen at 4 am. This was also the setting for one of her best quotes of the trip. The Rock Star had just turned on the coffee maker, which began making it’s burbling noises, startling the Prawn.

After just about jumping out of her skin, she declared. “Okay. Not scary. Just man having a wee.”

First of all…I HAVE A CHILD WHO NOT ONLY RECOGNIZES THE SOUND OF SOMEONE HAVING A WEE, BUT CAN TELL ME ABOUT IT. Secondly, I think perhaps that we need to have a chat with Boy Racer about leaving the bathroom door ajar when he uses the toilet in our flat.

The Rock Star and I took a little grown-up excursion to the beach during the second week of our visit. We wondered how the Prawn would take being abandoned with her grandparents for two days, but truth to be told, we ended up missing her far more than she did us. Oh, those two other people that are usually around? What were they called? This was pretty much the Prawn’s reaction to our absence.

I’ve not been to Ocean City since Senior Week way back in the mists of time when I graduated from high school. (During this visit, Virginia and I found a truly depressing photo of us taken during that week and wondered WHY IN THE HELL we weren’t wearing itty bitty bikinis when we both had the bodies for it.) My memories from those three days aren’t very clear. This isn’t due to alcohol consumption (I was in a slightly sanctimonious phase at the time, apparently) but rather just because I’m old. Virginia reminded me that aside from the reading on the beach and eating junk food, she and I and our third compatriot in mischief spent an evening building a giant sand penis. (Maybe not quite so sanctimonious.)

The Rock Star and I refrained from any sand sculpture during our visit. Sadly, we got the worst weather of the week for our visit and spent most of our one full day at the shore either indoors (we went to see “Star Trek” in a cinema who’s heyday was probably in the mid 50’s, but enjoyed the film, nonetheless.) or walking the boardwalk in sweatshirts. Luckily, the day we arrived was fairly warm and clear, so we indulged in lunch and drinks at Hammerjacks. (I fully indulged my margarita cravings on this holiday since bartenders on this side of the Atlantic seem to be thoroughly incapable of making one that doesn’t taste like grass clippings.) Of course, we also got caught in the mandatory, mid-afternoon downpour. By the time we decided maybe we ought to take shelter, we were already soaked through and trudged the 20 blocks back to our hotel, squishing merrily as we went. (this rainstorm necessitated the purchase of new shoes on the Rock Star’s part as his took nearly 4 days to dry completely.) In the absence of decent weather to sit and read on the beach, we mostly just wandered about aimlessly, (a pursuit that’s curiously satisfying after you have children) ate utter rubbish and discovered a hideous dead puffer fish in the middle of the night by way of my almost stepping on it.

Our encounters with the natural world were not restricted to our journey to the beach. The Rock Star left his shoes on the front porch and when he brought them inside to put on again, he neglected to do what every child raised in the forest is taught to do if your footwear has been outside for any length of time without you; turn them upside down. This resulted in a rather girly scream and a swear in front of the Prawn when the bottom of his foot came into contact with a VERY large toad who then disappeared under the couch, prompting all of the adults in the room to go a little crazy, much to the delight of the child, who spent the chase laughing like a loon. (I was having a shower at the time, however, I could hear the commotion.)

Several days later, we made the unsavoury discovery that the baby birds in a nest on my parents front porch had become cocktail snacks for very small snake. My mother demanded that the offender was removed from the scene of the crime, much to the chagrin of my father, who’s dislike of snakes is well documented. (So much does he dislike them, when he DOES manage to capture one, he’ll put it in a sealed bucket and drive it almost 10 minutes away before releasing it. Therefore, a family phrase, “being driven to Libertytown” has been coined to mean getting something distasteful as far away from you as possible.) The Rock Star, ever game for new experiences, offered to wrangle the serpent, armed only with a bunny shaped oven mitt. Being deemed too small to be deserving of a roadtrip, the offending reptile was released in the woods. However, only hours later, my father nearly stepped on what can only be described a “much larger” identical snake who was obviously coming to protest the treatment of his offspring at the hands of a long-haired, oven mitted buffoon.

Of course, no trip would be complete without some good times luxuriating in the company of family and friends. We got to spend some good times with Virginia and the Phantom Scribbler as well as a quick visit with another high school chum, my parents neighbors (who I’ve known since I was 7) and cousins various. The Prawn heartily enjoyed playing with all of the children of said individuals. Virginia’s Boy became “ MY BOY” to the Prawn, which registered quite high on the cute scale. She also enjoyed frolicking with her first cousins-once-removed in their paddling pool. It’s always satisfying to see your offspring getting on nicely with other people and not having to worry about uttering phrases like, “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU: NO BITING!” At least not yet.

Our flight back was an unusual one. As we took off, we were keenly aware that the next time we landed on American soil, it would be as immigrants. (Well, two immigrants and one citizen) Although we’ve always known that we were going to migrate back to the States, we’ve now decided that 2010 is the year of the big move. We spent some time on our visit pootling around local communities that we’d like, which was equally exciting and daunting, as there is so much that we need to get done over here first. However, as they turned the lights down in the cabin, we were just pleased to think about the prospect. We were also pleased that the Prawn decided to sleep for nearly the entire flight. (As did I, miracle of miracles)

So we now find ourselves back home in our little flat, having to deal with day to day issues like that strong mildew smell that seems to be coming from the sink, but can’t be beaten by drain cleaner, the creeping damp in the bedroom and the small mountain of laundry piling up in the hamper.

Cest le vie. Back to the routine.

I’m back in it.

It’s felt like the last few weeks have raced by in a frenzied blur of felt, silver and baby snot. Not necessarily a healthy combination. A sick and increasingly sentient toddler has made what was difficult an uphill struggle against the elements of craftiness. Bits of thread and small silver burrs have joined the dried peas, dust bunnies and lost blocks under our dining table (which I hope someday to reclaim from the heroic expansion efforts of my activities) that are STILL waiting to be swept up. It’s been one of those months.

Although I’ve spoken before about my experiences with craft fairs as a sometimes unwilling visitor in my youth, yesterday was my first experience as a vendor, so some slight butterflies were to be expected. However, what was most remarkable about the day was the fact that nothing went disasterously wrong, which, when living in the state of nearly constant chaos and mild bad fortune that I have of late, was quite simply miraculous.

The fair being in Oxford, there was of course the obligatory wretched traffic. Oxford is a city of pedestrians and bicycles and in its academic grandeur, casts a dour eye on automotive traffic, encouraging motorists to take advantage of one of it’s several out of town park and ride locations. However, when attempting to haul the entirety of your creative output over the last 3 years as well as a 20 month old who’s super pissy due to being strapped into a car seat WELL past nap time into the city centre, well, park and ride just isn’t an option. Instead we choose the “park straight in the path of an oncoming bus due to inadequate unloading space in front of the venue approach” which seemed to work out alright. I had with me The Danish Muffin, who very kindly agreed to help me out with my first venture into the world of craft pimping, so we were able to snatch the supplies from the back of the car and make a dash for the door before the bus driver could engage The Rock Star in a heated debate re: his parking choices.

You can’t find a venue much grander than The Oxford Town Hall. It felt slightly daunting to be selling my wares under the ornate carvings and slightly faded Victorian glory of the main gallery. As I set up, I was thankful that I’d tried a test run before the fact, so I didn’t have to worry about whether or not the whole thing was going to collapse in a heap. PPD was kind enough to make wooden backs for my stands, so sturdiness was not a factor, but my method of attaching the products to the stands had been entirely my idea, which is always tends to set off alarm bells. Luckily, my button magnets were strong enough for nearly all of the jewelry and the rest fit nicely on the table in front except for the jewelry bust (also one of my creations. Engineering is not my strongpoint) which had a tendancy to topple when someone near it had a particularly strong thought. However, I was terribly pleased with my set up after it was finished.

So…sales. One can’t argue with the public. And the public seemed kind of bored with silver. But they were all about felt and buttons. To me, switching my production more to favor my felt and button endeavors rather than concentrating purely on silver feels a little like being an actor that desperately wants to do Shakespeare but keeps finding themselves cast in sitcoms as the goofy neighbor for a hell of a lot more cash. Silver seems like the serious thing to do. The work of an artisan. But people really responded to the bright colors and if I’m honest, I really ENJOY doing it. And after taking in almost 100 pounds almost exclusively from my felt and button creations (I made two silver sales, and one was a silver/felt mixed media piece) it’s really hard to argue with the conclusion that that might be the way to go. The silver will always be there, but for my December show, I think I’ll be spending more time with needle and thread than with my jeweler’s saw.

The day itself was really quite fantastic. After 2pm, the door staff stopped counting visitors at around 1034; a really quite remarkable turnout. (The finally tally was estimated to be around 1300) Customers were pleasant. Other sellers were lovely. And to top it off, The Danish Muffin and I were blessed with a terribly pleasant stall neighbor who specialized in cupcakes and other tasty comestibles. Besides being rather charming, her baking skills were all too evident in the two cupcakes that I consumed as well as a generous bag of leftovers that I was presented with after the fact. (The Rock Star’s face as he drove home, eating free fudge was evidence enough of her culinary prowess.)

So, now what? My tasks for the next few weeks include sewing and making a start on our annual Christmas letter (eep!) which has become something of a family tradition, albeit one that I probably should have begun work on sometime in July.

But I’m back. Hello, world.

It’s been a bit quiet here at Prawn Central recently. Since starting on my meds, I’ve been trying to keep my head down, take deep breaths and get on with things.

The Prawn has developed into quite a little conversationalist recently. It’s been convenient for those moments when I need to get something accomplished in the kitchen and am always able to pinpoint her location in the flat from the endless stream of chatter that issues forth. There are a few words that are clearer than others. Her first word, guitar, is a clear favorite, said at varying levels of inflection depending on the mood of the speaker. “geeTA,” for instance, can conceivably mean, “Look, mother, there appears to be a guitar hanging on the wall.” “GEEta,” is more like, “Father, you appear to be playing a guitar. Allow me to assist you by stealing your pick and attempting to ingest it.” Whereas “GEETAAAAA!” generally means, “Attention parental units: you decision to remove the guitar from my sticky-fingered grasp is one that you are likely to regret imminently.”

We’ve also made our first linguistic forays into the world of barnyard animals. Her favorite playthings, ever since the age of 6 months or so, has been a set of DK picture cards, which feature many toddler favorites such as “cat”, “dog”, “sheep” and “sweater”. (For some reason, “sweater” keeps turning up in the animal box, leading us to make up fantastic stories about vast herds of winter clothing that live on the prairie.) It occurred to me that this admission might lead people to believe that we are “those” parents who consistently shove flashcards underneath their progeny’s nose, determinedly willing them on to academic excellence despite the fact that they’re still predisposed to eating week old Cheerios from under the sofa. I swear to god that we’re not. Our holiday companions Mr. Steve and the Danish Muffin brought some along for their 2 year old and the Prawn seemed fascinated, so we picked up a pack for ourselves. DK is marvellous when it comes to children’s stuff; the bright pictures and textures are baby gold. The only ill conceived card in the packs as far as I’m concerned is “jelly” which featured (notice I use the past tense) a sticky blotch in the middle of a photo of a piece of toast. Of course, the sticky blotch remained sticky for all of 15 minutes and was quickly un-stickified by hair, carpet fluff and spit.

The Prawn seems to dig on animals. At the moment, she seems to have a “cow” thing going on, so we were thrilled to have a chance to take her to a dairy farm last weekend that a friend of ours works on to show her the real thing. Our friend, The Colombian, is possibly the most laid back person we have ever personally met in real life, and seems to very much enjoy his job, despite the fact that it drags him out of bed at 4am every morning. He refers to his cows as his “ladies”.

As soon as we hauled the Prawn from her car seat, she pointed at the nearest cow and shouted, “MOOOOOOOO!”

We were lucky enough to be there at a moment when one of the heifers was about to calve, so the Colombian invited us into the stall to watch the blessed event. I was vaguely hesitant as the stall also contained about 16 other cows and a 1.2 ton bull. “Oh him?” the Colombian said, when I asked him if he was sure all would be well, “Tommy’s okay.” This is not entirely fitting with my experience of bulls, nor of the Colombian’s (he was once attacked by another bull on the farm twice in about 15 minutes. “It was like being hit by a car and then having the driver realize he didn’t hit you hard enough the first time and then coming back to run you over again.”) so I was still a little wary taking the Prawn into the bovine domain, despite Tommy’s glowing character reference. However, Tommy seemed to take much less interest in the proceedings than the rest of the herd, quietly retiring to a corner to possibly contemplate his absolutely enormous testicles.

For The Colombian, birthing calves is like doing paperwork, so he chatted to us merrily while elbow deep up the backside of a clearly uncomfortable cow. (One wonders what it must feel like to try to give birth to something with 4 legs.) “Hello, mate!” he exclaimed, as the calf’s head became visible, “Welcome to being a cow!” The Prawn, at this point, was unimpressed and desperately squirming in The Rock Star’s grasp in order to be allowed to roam freely among the beasts and among their many leavings. “Dude, this is the miracle of life happening right here,” we kept trying to tell her. “Dude,” she seemed to say in return, “I see some cow shit that I would desperately like on the knees of my jeans, so hands off!”

The calf, a little bull, was finally delivered. “You want me to take your picture with him?” asked the Colombian, reaching for the camera I was holding. (which happened to belong to future sister-in-law, Trumpet) “Erm…” I said, shrinking back, “maybe you should wash your hands first.” He looked down at his hands, covered in every conceivable cow fluid imaginable, in surprise. “Oh, yeah!” he laughed, going to dunk them in a not much cleaner water trough.

I could just imagine Trumpet’s reaction.

“Um, why is there after-birth on my camera?”

When documenting the passage of time, especially in regards to the growing process of children, it’s easy for details to start leaking out of your ears. I’m fairly sure that if I didn’t have pictures of the Prawn as a tiny blob, I would have a difficult time remembering that she did not spring from my womb fully formed, toddling, demanding cheese and shouting “geetar!”. I actually think that our instincts to procreate also allow the brain to secrete a substance that helps you forget the aforementioned blob stage in order to trick you into thinking, “Huh, that wasn’t so bad. Maybe the Prawn could use a brother or sister.” Traitorous swine brain.

At any rate, our little crustacean has now been with us for a whole year. Both to celebrate her birthday and spend some time with their trans-Atlantic granddaughter, my parents flew in last Monday. From stories that have been passed down to me of my babyhood, I’m fairly certain that The Prawn is a far more charming child than I was. Luckily, this innate charm has completely won my parents over; I don’t believe there is any residual resentment that I haven’t yet had what’s coming to me in the baby karma stakes. I don’t think they’ll be disappointed forever, though; I imagine that the wheel of retribution is turning slowly but surely my way.

While we spent most of the week pleasantly sipping tea on the couch, reading and watching the Prawn discover new concepts like, “clock”, “duck” and “cow” (her cow impression, which is a strangled roar, is not to be missed) we decided that we should complete my parent’s London Landmark tour by going to the Tower. The Tower is one of the more pricey attractions in the city’s tourist arsenal, but to my mind, well worth the expense for such a lot of history in one place.

Since we live 45 minutes outside of the city, the question is, To Drive or Not to Drive. Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone would much rather that we took the train, but Ken Livingstone is not in possession of a pre-toddler who would much rather be spelunking in carriage trash bin for Burger King remnants than sitting in her seat. Also, he’d need to lend me the 25 quid in fare, so he can politely sit and spin. Neither the Rock Star nor I object to the congestion charge (which is only 8 pounds) and neither of my parents were particularly keen to ride the Tube, so driving won hands down.

Our TomTom, which we rely on rather heavily when venturing city-wards, is obviously having some sort of elicit affair with the M1, which is not at all the way to get where we were going. While it has made our lives easier in a lot of respects, TomTom has yet to learn a rather elementary navigation lesson; that the shortest distance between two points might not necessarily be the FASTEST, especially in a city. For the second time in as many weeks, we resolved to next time ignore TomTom until we got to some part of the London that we recognized. Long story short, the 1 and a quarter hours journey actually took closer to 2.5 hours due to route diversions and roadworks. Lucky for us that we brought several pounds of Cheerios with which to distract the Prawn. (The US kind, without the sugar coating. If she ate as many of the British variety, we would have needed a sedative of some kind. As it was, we’ll still be hoovering those things out of the car for weeks.)

Upon our arrival at the Tower, we congratulated ourselves for bringing the new backpack-style Prawn transportation device instead of the traditional buggy, which works fine in the local shopping centre, but does not have shocks capable of withstanding 10th century cobbles. She seems quite content to let the Rock Star haul her around like a load of camping gear.

I quite like the Tower. It’s an extraordinary mish-mash of architectural styles resulting from it’s myriad of uses over the years, including prison, execution site, royal quarters and military station. It’s always quite something to come face to face with very old things, no matter how commercialized they’ve become. Apart from the several gift shops (which I have to say are tastefully incorporated into the scenery) the Tower has not yet needed to resort to Madame Tussaud type tactics to bring in visitors. The sheer weight of past events is sufficient to draw a crowd.

After the obligatory tour of the jewel house, the Prawn began to become restless, so we let her out of her pack to stretch her legs. The problem being, of course, that she doesn’t regularly use them yet, so after tiring of my attempts to help her navigate the cobblestones, she took off crawling towards the scaffolding site. Human nature dictates that we’re grimly intrigued by the gruesome. However, on the site of the scaffold where a good many nobles including Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey lost their collective heads, and artist has attempted to create a dignified memorial in metal and glass. I think this disappointed some visitors, as they much RATHER would have had a Madame Tussaud type re-constructed scaffold complete with re-enactments on the 12, 3 and 5. But instead, the memorial squashes our morbid fascination and makes the viewer feel just a little bit guilty. This was not the case for the Prawn however, who was all like, “Whee! Heads!” as she gleefully scooted around the edge of the memorial as fast as humanly possible, staying just out of the reach of the Rock Star, who was dodging German high school students to get to her.

My mother’s favorite part of the day hands down was getting a picture of the Prawn with Moira Cameron, the first female Yeoman Warder in the regiment’s 523 year history. Right on, strangely dressed sister, thought the Prawn.

The Prawn’s birthday fell on Good Friday this year, despite being born on a Wednesday. This had me vaguely confused until I remember that we experienced Leap Year calendar tomfoolery just about a month ago. Both my mother and I (and now The Prawn) have often had birthdays on Easter weekend due to whatever bizarro solstice related system is used to determine when the holiday falls. It was convenient, however, when planning a party for a day that everyone had off. My mother and I spent the evening before making a small cupcake army in lieu of a traditional birthday confectionary; who can argue with a self contained cake that, in a pinch, you can shove in your mouth at one go? My father and the Rock Star helpfully did the manly chores which involved hanging bunting and scrubbing mildew off of the bathroom tiles that I’ve been trying to ignore for the last few months.

Everyone knows that birthday parties for very young children are pretty much an excuse for a lot of grown ups to get together, eat junk food and finish off a couple bottles of Pino Grigio. Occasionally, the birthday boy/girl is the only child present at said gathering and earns his or her keep by pulling amusing faces in exchange for Cheetos. However, there were in fact 5 other children of various ages and at varying stages of mobility present at the Prawn’s natal festivities, so there was quite a lot of “omigodwhathaveyougotalloveryourshirt?” going on. The mountain of food that I had purchased the day before and was having sinking feelings about the chances of it getting eaten pretty much all DID, which was a relief for both me and my refrigerator. A hugely pleasant time was had by all, despite the fairly major space restrictions. The Prawn’s birthday dress was covered in strawberry juice within the first hour. And there were remarkably few tears considering the critical mass of rampaging children and adults balancing plates of food on their laps. A roaring success.

My parents departed this morning. I’m always terribly sad to see them go, but I think the Prawn will be even more bereft to have lost her two constant companions who filled every spare moment of the day with learning, tickling and funny faces. I imagine that she’ll wake up tomorrow and be like, “YOU two again? What happened to the older models? THEY didn’t have to work on laptops, cook or do the laundry! I DEMAND THAT YOU SIT DOWN HERE AND THROW THAT BALL TO ME 250 TIMES IN A ROW! AND IF YOU DON’T, I’LL CLING TO YOUR LEG AND GO EEEEEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH UNTIL YOU DO!” Such is the nature of grandparents.

Before I try to rescue my house from the disarray of the past week, I leave you with some gratuitous Prawn-related imagery.

Although at heart, I am a creative soul, there exists in my life an unfortunate need to make enough money to keep the Prawn in socks and Weetabix, so I have a regular job.

I work for my father-in-law, who is something of a European GPS guru. Satellite navigation may seem like a relatively new science, but it’s been going on in earnest since the 60’s, and PPD pretty much got in on the ground floor. The technology is hugely complicated, and like a lot of technologies, is loaded down with enough acronyms to sink an aircraft carrier. A couple of years ago, when I attended a conference as PPD’s dogsbody, I tried to learn as many of them as possible so I could follow the thread of conversations, but in the end, ended up just wondering how some of the other delegates hadn’t yet noticed that they had eyebrows that were starting to escape the confines of their faces.

PPD deals with higher end GPS applications; surveying, marine and air navigation, etc. We often get calls from vaguely confused consumers asking if we could please keep their TomTom from driving them through the middle of a field, thinking that it’s the M1. We usually tell them politely, no, but if they have a EuroFighter jet with the same problem that we’ll be glad to take a look.

Sometimes it gets a little quiet around the office. When this happens, I usually end up doing odd jobs for PPD that he lacks the time to do himself. This week, it happens to be scanning old family slides into digital format. This has been a pleasant task, as I have spent most of the time getting mildly gooey over shots of The Rock Star and BoyRacer as wee people. I must add, that due to his impending nuptials, BoyRacer should be slightly concerned about the manner in which some of these images of the past might manifest themselves. Out of respect and not a little bit of fear, I shall not post any of the offending pictures on this blog, but suffice to say that PPD was probably already thinking ahead to the best man speech when he snapped the obligatory baby-on-the-potty shots almost 34 years ago.

It’s interesting going back into the history of a family that you weren’t born into. The reel that I’m currently scanning is labelled simply “1” and covers the beginning of The Rock Star’s parent’s lives together. The family lore of their meeting while serving on board The Queen Mary in the 60’s is well known, but it is quite something else to see shots of my mother-in-law posing provocatively in her nurse’s uniform on her bunk. (She was, in fact, a nurse, and not just kinky.) As I don’t wish to disturb PPD when he is doing something complicated involving aforementioned acronyms, a lot of the files are getting titles such as “drunkshipscaptain.jpg”, “mendrinkinginshipscabin1.jpg” or “mendrinkinginshipscabin14.jpg” Apparently, back in the golden days of transatlantic ocean travel, being sober was not necessarily a pre-requisite for being in control of a 81,000 ton cruise liner.

It is always interesting to see where the people you love have come from. It is, of course, even more fascinating when you have a wee person of your own at home to compare childhood photos with. If there had been any doubt in The Rock Star’s mind about the Prawn’s paternity, they will undoubtedly be laid to rest by these photos. My personal favorite slice of early life so far is a snapshot of The Rock Star and BoyRacer dressed as cowboys; while BoyRacer exudes as much John Wayne- like swagger as a 4 year old can muster, The Rock Star is looking directly down the barrel of his gun.

Yes, yes, I married that man.

Most weeks, The Rock Star, BoyRacer, Trumpet and I try to get together for dinner or drinks at Chez Potamus after the bedtime of She Who Must Be Obeyed just to keep up with what’s going on and to demolish bottles of wine. I may start referring to these get-togethers as Evenings of Knowledge, because we will inevitably, in the course of our conversations, have to go to Wikipedia 3-4 times.

Last evening’s conversation turned to Mother’s Day and the fact that the American holiday is celebrated the second Sunday of May while the British one is tied into Lent. (the 4th Sunday after, apparently) According to the mighty Wiki, British Mother’s Day is actually tied to a Roman festival honouring Juno, mother of the gods. The US celebration is loosely based on the British one, although it was started after the American Civil War in order to rally woman to an anti-war stance.*

This is my first Mother’s Day. My induction last year fell on Mothering Sunday and I naively believed that being induced might result in, oh, I don’t know, AN ACTUAL BIRTH, so I was kind of looking forward to becoming a mother on Mother’s Day. This morning, by the time I woke up, my daughter was already down for her morning nap after having emptied the dishwasher, taken out the recycling, cleaned the kitchen and made me tea all while her father sat on his ass on the couch and scratched himself. Well, according to him, anyhow.

My favorite Mother’s Day story, which I might have told before, but can’t find in my archives anywhere, takes place the year I was about 5 or 6. During the annual Mother’s Day church service, all of the children in the congregation were invited to the front of the sanctuary to choose a colourful plant to take back to their mothers. Whoever did the purchasing of said plants must have had a momentary brain lapse, because in between the little impatiens and petunias, there was a single cactus.

I’ll give you two guesses as to who got the cactus.

I got an email from my mother this morning.

“I was just looking at Ms. Cactus yesterday and thinking about how lucky I was to have a daughter who, at the tender age of whatever, had the foresight to realize what a great choice this was. (But truly, I wonder what on earth made you choose a cactus over all the other colorful, flowerage available.)”**

Well, it might have seemed like a rather contrary choice at the time, but all those other kids can totally suck it. Because while those petunias and impatiens all met a quick, neglected death in someone’s kitchen window, my cactus (which was no bigger than an adult thumb) now looks like THIS. One wonders why the cactus industry (if there is such a thing) has never tried to capitalize on the symbolism. “Roses wither in days. Nothing says eternal love quite like something that is short, squat, spiky and hangs on despite the fact that you only water it once a year. Plus, the cats won’t eat it.™”

I hope that one day, the Prawn will give me a Mother’s Day cactus that I can look at as a reminder of her love for years to come, free from the threat of drought or being the salad course.

*The other two items that we looked up had to do with the word “nee” (inserted after a woman’s married name and before her maiden one.) and Jewish holidays. We run the conversational gamut on Evenings of Knowledge.

**I probably was kind of fascinated with the idea of a plant that could hurt people.

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!

A very happy 30th to my much beloved Rock Star. He may be 30, but he’s still younger than me, so I gots me a toyboy.

It’s poker night.

The Idiot has invited The Rock Star and Captain Hairy over with the intention of having a testosterone filled evening of King, Queens, bluffing, swearing and drinking. (But no cigars because of the baby, Captain Hairy isn’t allowed beer due to a nasty stomach complaint and probably only til 11 since it’s a weekday. Ah, the joys of manhood at 25+)

I shall not give away The Rock Star’s level of play; I will not say whether he is very good or very bad or somewhere in between. What I can say with certainty is that is he better than me because he knows what all those tricky little cards mean when they’re all standing next to eachother.

I am a reluctant game player. With my mother’s Pennsylvania Dutch/English Major/Mennonite blood flowing through my veins, this is hard to believe. (Game playing is integral to Mennonites; you have to do SOMETHING while lunch is cooking.) But I’ve always been of the sit-around-on-the-couch-with-a-glass-of-wine-and-talk-to-people school of action. Apparently, as a child, I was a fiendish game player; board games, card games, anything I could challenge anyone to I was all over. I don’t know what happened at some stage in my development- perhaps I developed “dice wrist” or was brutally savaged by the dog shaped Monopoly piece or something, but at some point, I fell out of love with games. This must have been a blow to my family, who are so dedicated to games that my late great aunt Louise once broke her wrist playing an incredibly enthusiastic game of “Pounce”.

I wish I could shake the feeling of dread that rises within me when someone walks into the room with Cranium or Pictionary, but I am completely bemused by my apparent aversion to table top merriment in all its forms. This is something that I know I will have to overcome when we have children and am already dreading the squeaky little voices exhorting me for just one more game of “Candyland” when we have already played 48 times in a row.

Luckily, this evening, my cooperation is not required in the gaming stakes. The other women and I shall wallow in our own estrogen in the corner and coo over the baby while the men satisfy their competitive nature by losing money to one another.

As long as we’re in bed by midnight.