So, the Rock Star and I have some sort of mental deficiency when it comes to shopping. As much as I would like to try to blame it on the brand of lighting that they use in the now dreaded showrooms of Ikea, it’s probably more likely that the both of us are total gimps.

So we went again in the week to return our curtains and the defective chair. As one might expect, although we only received a refund of about £45 pounds in total, we came back out again with about 250 pounds worth of crap. Although we got the bed, would anyone like to place bets on whether or not we picked up the replacement for said returned, defective chair? (hint: DON’T.)

Being not only brain dead, but masochists as well, we dragged ourselves into the Swedish hellstore yet AGAIN on Sunday, (for the “absolutely freaking last time) which, for anyone who’s ever done that before, (we’ve only ever gone on weeknights) you’ll know can severely damage your faith in humanity.

For example: After I disembarked to get some last minute supplies at Asda next door, the Rock Star witnessed an example of karmic justice playing out in the parking lot. A Chinese man was waiting for a parking space when a van load of chavs in a white van cut him up and took the space. Not only did they take the space he’d been waiting for, but they LAUGHED at him and reached through his car windows to pat him on the head when he remonstrated with them. However, no sooner had this pack of human offal entered the store, when the scorned Chinese fellow returned to let down their tires. The Rock Star almost went to help him.

At any rate, we picked up most of the items on our list. Although we had some lights to return, the queue was so long, we decided that it was worth the 12 pounds we’d get back NOT to wait in it. We also picked up the missing chair. However, it was the last one in the stack and the box was somewhat damaged, so we had to weigh our options. Do we take it and risk another trip back to return ANOTHER defective item? Our reasoning- if it’s fine, we rock. If we DON’T buy it, we’ll have to come back ANYWAY to get it, so it was worth the risk. (It wasn’t. The chair was utterly smashed when we took it out of the box back at home.)

We have now been there so many times, I have worked out shortcuts through the showroom. This is information that no one should ever have to be burdened with.

Okay, apart from this, which I documented ages ago, this is probably the best place to hide money or valuables that I’ve ever seen. The height of bad taste and security, all rolled into one.

After our onslaught of Ikea on Monday evening, our lovely, newly painted bedroom was filled to the brim with many flat boxes of differing sizes which we’ve slowly been plowing though, as we could bear it, after work during the week.

However, last night it became apparent, that in our daze of Swedish design, we had actually managed to not purchase the bed.

This is not exactly a huge surprise. With three flat pack trollies and Ikea’s unfathomable warehouse system in which every componant of a certain item is housed in a different locations, it doesn’t exactly floor me that we managed to forget it. This hasn’t really been a huge deal as they didn’t have the mattress we wanted ANYWAY, so we have to swing by again today to get it. And probably a dozen other things that we will be forced to get due to the vibes in that store.

What have we been sleeping on, you ask? Well, instead of purchasing a permanant guest bed, we instead went for possibly the most expensive inflatable mattress ever conceived. And I must say that it was worth every penny. For someone who wakes up 3-4 times a night ANYHOW due to a currently 4 pound person who’s set up camp in my lower extremities, comfort is a must. Although it cost nearly £250, it’s nice to know that our guests will have something really comfortable to sleep on without waking up on a pile of half-deflated plastic in the morning. (A major hazard with most inflatable mattresses.)

So, hopefully, sometime by the end of the weekend, we should be comfortably snoozing in our new, permanant, non-air-filled bed.

If we manage to bring all the bits home.

The art of the customer complaint is a delicate one.

It is my feeling at the moment that I am not the best person to make a customer complaint. As I have said before, pregnancy has removed my filter that allows me to speak civially to someone who obvioiusly doesn’t care about my problem and is most likely spending a good portion of their day with their finger jammed straight up their ass. Therefore, it falls to The Rock Star to do the bulk of complaining on both of our behalfs.

Today, the task to re-connect our Broadband connection in the new flat fell to him and he quickly discovered why BT has one of the worst customer service reputations in the whole of the UK. We did battle with them once before while trying to set up our Broadband connection on the boat. The most frustrating thing being, WE LIVED DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE LOCAL EXCHANGE. We discovered that some other inhabitants of the boatyard simply went over there with an extra 30 quid and asked an engineer if he might pretty please come over and connect their phone service without them having to wait for a month or whatever other stupid period of time BT needed to stare off into space for.

Of course, The Rock Star was connected to The Least Helpful Customer Service Rep on the Planet and was left with a rage the temperature of a thousand suns. Hoping against hope that someone, SOMEWHERE might respond to his extreme frustration, he wrote a rather clever complaint letter that reads thusly:

*To Whom it May Concern:

We have moved 500 yards down the road from our previous residence in a small village, keeping the same number from the same exchange (which was across the street from our previous home). Hardly the communications scenario from a complex military engagement I think you’ll agree.

I spoke to a very helpful BT lady prior to the move and had our existing number moved to the new location, to coincide with previous owner’s line being canceled - 2pm last Friday, the 19th January. She advised, probably whilst tapping her nose knowingly and/or winking like some wise old auntie, that contacting the ISP immediately might cause complications relating to the line not being ‘freed up’ when they placed their order, and so I should wait until Tuesday (2 working days).

Knowing that these things tend to go the way of the pear if you try to hurry them along, I duly waited until *Wednesday* afternoon. Meanwhile, the phone line went live on Friday as planned. Hoorah! All hail the mighty phone gods!

However, all was not to remain peachy.

Having spoken to the ISP today, it now seems that there is a ‘cease marker’ on the line which doesn’t clear until January 31st, at which point the ISP can place the order, which takes another 7-10 working days, with an estimated live date of 9th February. Given that it’s the 24th now, that’s over two weeks without access to email, naked celebrities and whatever else the internet is used for.

Unless “cease marker” is BT jargon for “300 tonne concrete monolith”, I fail to see why it takes nearly two weeks from the date that the original line was canceled for said obstruction to be removed. Perhaps it’s some kind of prickly beastie that has to be poked at with sticks and wrestled into a chain mail bag?

What with this mysteriously stubborn monster on the line, coupled with the apparent simplicity of the situation and the relatively small size of the exchange, it seems almost funny that it would take this long to sort out. Being serious for a moment, I work with the internet for a living and this kind of delay in establishing connectivity is an enormous inconvenience.

Blah blah blah etc. I’m sure you get bazillions of these and couldn’t give a monkey’s either way. In fact, you’re probably a bot reading this, and will automatically filter me out for using the word “poked”.

Anyhow, for what it’s worth here’s a complaint from an annoyed but, frankly, not at all shocked BT customer. Pull your finger out guys, it’s the 21st century. NASA probably has trained baboons who could organise an ADSL move quicker than this.

*Much more reasonable than my first response which was, “WHAT THE HELL? FUCK YOU AND YOUR FEBRUARY 9TH, COMMUNICATIONS BITCHES! YOU GIVE ME MY GODDAMN BROADBAND ASAP!”

I’m feeling slightly more human today after having spent most of the weekend covered in paint.

It always boggles my mind, in what little I have seen of property programs, that people can go through a house, wrinkle up their noses, go, “I don’t like the color much,” and seriously be put off buying due to someone else’s love of a shade called Harvest Orange. The flat that The Rock Star and I were first planning on purchasing looked as if it had been lived in by a giant 6 year old girl- every wall was a different shade of childish pastel. (This was not, of course, what put us off the property- a bunch of lying bastard estate agents took care of that.)

The flat that we’ve just now taken possession of was much more liveable right away. Even if we’d had no money for paint, we would have been able to feel alright living there with fairly little assault to aesthetic or dignity. However, the Rock Star and I are not ones for putting up with a half-assed aesthetic for even a few minutes when we could have a whole-assed one, so this weekend was less about moving and more about image enhancement.

We decided this weekend would be all about the living room and the master bedroom- both places we’ll be spending the most time in. The bedroom was my top priority as I felt it was most urgently in need of cosmetic assistance. Mustard yellow, while cheerful, is hard on the brain, so literally 5 minutes after having stepped across the threshold for the first time as homeowners, I had at least 4 square patches of tester on the wall.

Naively, The Rock Star and I had hoped not to have to spend more than 150 pounds on paint. However, over the course of 3 days, we managed to drop a whopping 475 between lucky home improvement chains B&Q and Homebase. Not all of this was paint of course. It’s the other stuff you see while you’re looking for paint. Like brushes and masking tape and rollers and pans and bath towels and small tool kits and Britta pitchers and pipe insulation and pretty light fittings and dead bolts and trash bins and oh my god, we just spent 475 POUNDS.

However, spending money is not all we did this weekend. Against all odds, we managed to finish the two largest rooms in the flat with the help of BoyRacer, Trumpet and PPD.

I spent 2 summers on my college’s paint crew, back in the day, sprucing up properties owned by the college, both off and on campus and was pleased to renew my acquaintance with the feeling of wall paint between my toes. This is a hazard when you are moving a ladder around the outskirts of the room and lose track of where your supplies are in relation to you. You find that you narrowly miss stepping in a full roller pan and while smugly congratulating yourself and heaping abuse on the pan for it’s failure to ensnare you, you find yourself up to your ankle in an open bucket. Luckily, while I managed to avoid full on ankle sinkage in a can of Dulux “Bracken Salts #4”, I did ruin several pair of socks and manage to track base coat across the laminate floors in the rest of the flat. (Yes, I was up a ladder. Everyone can shout at me for that if they like, but the room is done and I’M GLAD.)

I’m hugely pleased with the results, really. Our lovely red wall in the living room makes the space much more cozy and will look quite groovy with a large black and white photo collection on it. The bedroom now no longer looks like you could receive radiation burns from long exposure.

Of course, with the completion of the painting, no new property owned by soon-to-be penniless 30-something parents would be complete without a full compliment of furniture from Ikea. Again, our naiveté lead us to believe that if we turned up there at around 4 knowing what items we wanted, we should be out by 6 and home in plenty of time to spend an evening putting things together.

I think we lost the will to live somewhere around the textiles section of the Marketplace. At around 8.30pm, when we were finally wheeling all of 4 hugely laden trolleys and flat pack carts through the check out with the help of the Idiot, (I give him all respect here, we never would have been able to do it without him) we were utterly exhausted and I couldn’t help but look at our gargantuan haul with a nameless dread, knowing that my credit card was going to bear the full force of this DIY disaster. (We actually have the cash, and are going to pay it off right away, but the lure of getting 15 pounds worth of Amazon.co.uk gift vouchers with my credit card was too strong. Spend 1200 pounds and get a free paperback. That’s value for money.)

“Oh my god,” I said to the Idiot, “this is going to come out over £2000.”

“You’ve never shopped at Ikea before, have you?” he said, pointing at our small items cart, which was overflowing. “90% of the stuff in that cart is well under 10 pounds.”

And he was right. The bill came to just over 1200 pounds, which was well within the budget we set ourselves, so despite the overwhelming tension headache, I was pleased.

In the end, we fed The Idiot a generous helping of spaghetti bolognaise for his trouble and managed to assemble a coffee table and two lamps before collapsing, exhausted, into bed. The rest of our vast flat pack haul lies waiting in the bedroom, like a troop of compressed Scandinavian soldiers awaiting deployment.

And so the remodelling continues. More updates from the front line as the war on banality progresses.

Today is moving day.

Money has changed hands and we but await the phone call telling us to come to pick up our keys.

Although Galileo has done all in it’s power over the past month or so to make us ready to flee the canal, there’s still a sense of melancholy about leaving a home that you’ve occupied for 7 years, which is the longest time that either of us have lived ANYWHERE since leaving home at 18. With all of the changes in store over the next few months, it feels very much like beginning a new chapter.

Galileo will remain in the family, so we are comforted to know that we can still spend long summer’s evenings sitting on deck with tall glasses of Pimms. We will be able to enjoy the boat’s comforts without having to endure its miseries. The Prawn will also get to enjoy life on the canal, which is a happy thought for both of us.

Thanks to everyone for all of the encouragement and support you’ve given us. When we finally have everything under control, you’re all invited for dinner. (Although maybe not all at the same time. The flat is bigger than the boat, but not by a huge amount.)

This morning in the shower, I found myself inexplicably humming a tune from an old Saturday Night Live routine. Garret Morris, one of the show’s alumni from the 70’s (back when it was funny.) plays a prisoner about to be released on parole and when asked what he’ll do on the outside, he breaks into song, declaring, “I’m gonna get me a shotgun and kill all the whiteys I see…” (I discovered it was in my head due to the fact that the Rock Star had been humming it in the car on the way to work. Why HE was humming it, I have no idea.) Of course, the sketch could never air today, as the only things we’re allowed to make fun of now are sex and politics, both of which are terminally ridiculous.

It started me thinking about the nature of satire and the absolute deathblow that political correctness has dealt it. It was then that I remembered the story of Stetson Kennedy.

After the Second World War, white supremacist groups experienced a rather astonishing resurgence in the South. After having turned their collective hatred on the the now defeated Nazis, racists returned to their favourite pastime of hating people of different skin colors and religions. Stetson Kennedy, a young writer and collector of African American folklore, was deeply disturbed by the development and decided that the only way he could do something about it was to learn more. So he joined his local chapter of the KKK.

What he found were rather a lot of sad rednecks who used the Klan as a way of boosting their own low self esteem, in the fashion of many so called “secret” societies. The Klan was steeped in rituals and secret code words, all appearing vain and ridiculous to Kennedy, who hit upon the perfect plan to trivialize the society and strip away its mystique.

Post war, the writers of the popular radio serial, Superman, had been hard pressed to come up with any new baddies for the Man of Steel to do weekly battle with. That is, until Stetson Kennedy approached them with his idea. The result: 4 radio episodes in which Superman took on the KKK, broadcasting details of their secret rituals into every home in America. Only days later, children in the street were spouting details of the Klan’s most revered ceremonies as they gleefully re-enacted the drama in schoolyards.

Rather unsurprisingly, Klan membership in the South took a severe nosedive; its members not wishing to be associated with the general mockery aimed at the organization. By making them a laughing stock, Kennedy all but negated any power they had and dispelled some degree of fear surrounding them. (addendum- Kennedy has since admitted that he didn’t come to all of the conclusions about the clan on his own, but also “borrowed” from the experiences of another journalist who was engaged in the same sort of activities.)

I realize the inherent contradiction of someone like me talking about the evils of Political Correctness with any kind of conviction- me, a middle class, liberal, white female; a person with a fairly decent amount of redress should I encounter any kind of discrimination. None of my ancestors suffered under the yolk of slavery. My ethnic group doesn’t have a particularly high mortality rate due to socio-economic factors. I have also never been the subject of a racial tirade by Michael Richards or Mel Gibson.

My point? Words are words. And the more we make words forbidden, the more scary they become. We’re terrified of words. Demonizing words insults our intelligence and our capacity to recognize arrogant, racist bastardy when we see it, as in the case of Senator George “Macacca” Allen. (A frontrunner in the Virginia race for Senate who rather unfortunately imploded his campaign by hurling racial epithets from the podium at a member of his opposition’s campaign staff who had attended his rally.) Did we make fun of him? Yes we did! And guess what? HE WENT AWAY. Voters in the strictly Republican state of Virginia turned their backs on him and elected his Democratic opponent instead. Laughter dispells fear. Is there any better way to take away power than to mock?

Although PC culture hasn’t reached screaming, hysterical heights here in the UK, the US, who needs to be unshackled from it most urgently, still suffers. An snippet on MSNBC today revealed that box office golden boy Will Smith would love to star in a romantic comedy opposite Cameron Diaz, but due to his previous experiences with the movie “Hitch”, (Smith was cast opposite Eva Mendez due to the fact that studio bosses didn’t believe audiences would accept him with a white leading lady) worries that the public would be “uncomfortable with the interracial pairing”.

Is there a country that needs political correctness LESS than the US where attitudes like this seriously exist? Is there a country MORE in need of free satire than one where people REALLY BELIEVE that there is something deeply offensive about a black man appearing to date a white woman?

Anyhow, that’s just my little random toot for the day. I leave you with a rather brilliant piece of satire (again from the golden days of Saturday Night Live) featuring Chevy Chase and the brilliant Richard Pryor in the famous “Racist Word Association” sketch. Definitely NSFW, but a good reminder, in a country still living with the spectre of slavery and all of the misery it’s wrought, of why we need to keep laughing.

It looks as if we are finally close to breaking out of our sausage casings and becoming homeowners.

Anyone who’s ever commented that buying a home is probably the most stressful thing that you will ever do (apart from having a baby, which, as you know, we’re also doing) now has my complete agreement. Never before in my life have I actually dreamed of disembowelling people before beginning this process. I hope this vicious fantasy does not continue beyond the moment that we put the key in the lock.

We had hoped to be into the flat by the 5th of January. This was a slightly far-fetched hope, based on little more than misguided faith that anything might have gotten accomplished between the 15th and the 29th of December. Also, on the faith that someone hadn’t informed the sellers that we wanted to move in on the 26th of January. While the disembowelling daydreams began a good deal before this, (towards the end of our first, failed purchase, actually) they became slightly more vivid when this piece of information was imparted unto me.

Luckily for me, the Rock Star is unhampered by pregnancy hormones and was able to talk sensibly to all parties involved to secure the moving in date of the 19th. (Only put back so far due to those who move money around and insist that it takes 5-7 working days to move LITTLE ELECTRONIC NUMBERS THAT FLASH UP ON THEIR SCREEN TO A DIFFERENT SCREEN. Sweet, fuzzy Jesus, what a load of shit that is.)

Our biggest problems seem to have stemmed from our solicitors and the solicitors of the sellers being thoroughly unable to communicate with one another without one or the other of us having to call them up and prod them with sharp objects. Just for the record, can anyone think of any drawbacks to changing the home-buying process so that both the seller and the buyer use just ONE mutual set of lawyers? (The only drawback for the lawyers, of course, being that only one set of lawyers got any cash out of the deal?) If it’s not our solicitors, it’s theirs. And neither ever seem to have any excuse more believable than “Erm, our dog ate your lease agreement.”

But I must now channel my rage into packing up all of our earthly belongings and preparing to evacuate our tube-like, floating domicile, which has been doing nothing since our return to make us miss it very much. Our electricity is scatty at best and the constant high winds make it impossible to light our boiler, leaving us without heat. (The mild weather has been a small mercy.) Also, trying to kneel in a very small bathtub at 32 weeks of pregnancy? Like trying to cram a marshmallow into a piggy bank.

While it’s true that we’ve had less space to accumulate stuff, there is also less space to keep stuff that’s all packed in boxes. Not only that, but as far as actually MOVING things goes, I’m pretty much a giant, swollen chocolate teapot. The Rock Star has reiterated time and time again that I can sit on the couch, make tea and tell him what to do, but not only would this make me feel like a terrible sloth, but I actually WANT to be involved in the process, so it’s a little demoralising. It is my hope that I am still able to wield a roller and a brush for the grand repainting. Canary yellow, (which covers the entire flat) while cheerful, has a way of burning your retinas, so first order of business is to slap some new cream colored Dulux on the walls in most rooms.

Anyone in the vicinity of our little town in the next month or so would be richly rewarding with food and drink for a few hours labor in our new abode as we try to get it presentable for the arrival of the Prawn. Not that the Prawn, his or herself is going to give a flying toss about the state of the apartment, but I’m quite sure that after he/she arrives, the two of us are going to be FAR to lazy to sort it out.

At any rate, we’re counting down the days.

As a little diversion…

1. Torn- No matter what you think of Aussie soap bint turned singer Natalie Imbruglia, this performance done for Amnesty International’s Secret Policeman’s Ball is a good laugh. I have no idea who the “mime” performer is, but he does a stellar job. (Apart from obviously not being aquainted with one end of a guitar or another.)

2. Can You Do Your Job While Being Electricuted?- The answer is generally no. The UK’s guerilla science show Brainiac attached electrodes to several different people in various professions to discover the result. While the guy trying to put together furniture from Ikea was amusing, this clerk at Asda provided the greatest entertainment.

Enjoy!

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!