Nighttime Brain is a delight, as you can imagine. Typical thoughts it thinks include:

WHAT WAS THAT NOISE? Definitely someone breaking in. Oh well. So tired.

Forgot to sign off Skype. Hope no one calls in the middle of the night.

WHO IS THIS OTHER PERSON IN MY BED? I DON’T RECOGNI… Oh. Stephan. I’m married to him. Okay.

What was that noise? Don’t worry, brain: every single one of those stairs creaks. They would never make it up here unnoticed.

What if our visa extensions aren’t approved? How did we end up with all this stuff? WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?

Where’s my phone? Hope I don’t need it in the middle of the night. Oh well. So tired.

Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep.

OMG STEPHAN HAS FOUR ARMS.

For us, it was lots and lots of games. We had at some point decided that since it would just be us for the Christmas weekend, what we really wanted to do was play every game we owned. And so we did. The rules went like this:

1a. Every game must be played one time, and one time only (no do-overs).

1b. Each version of each game must be played  (for instance, we have three sets of backgammon: one normal, one magnetic travel, and one electronic).

1c. Each deck of cards must be used to play a different game (for instance, we have three decks, which we used to play speed, another version of speed, and cribbage).

2. One point for winning a game, no matter the amount of time or effort necessary (Monopoly win = speed win = Guitar Hero win).

3a. The winner puts away the game (this is a house rule anyway—it makes losing much more palatable, and the winner is generally too busy gloating to mind doing it).

3b. The loser selects the next game and sets it up.

4. The selection of any background entertainment (music, movies, etc) is alternated.

We may have to alter the rules slightly if there are ever more than just the two of us playing, but I think what we have here is the beginning of a fine Christmas tradition.

In conclusion, and in case you didn’t hear:

[Okay, FINE—Stephan won 18 to 13. Bah Humbug!]

“Can I write on the back of this?”

On finding out about Prince William’s engagement:

“‘Princess William Gives Fiancee Dee’s Ring.’ Oh wait…‘Prince William Gives Fiancee Di’s Ring’…I should definitely get a job where I have to read off a teleprompter.”

2. A constant stream of visiting strangers who hope to rent one’s current house just as soon as one moves out is a great motivator to actually picking up after oneself.

3. Stephan and I really are perfect for each other. I know this because I am probably the only person in the world who would 100% sincerely appreciate these two gifts he’s given me for Valentine’s Day and Christmas, respectively: 75 cents (three of the state quarters I was missing) and a spray bottle for additional ease of ironing his button-down shirts.

4. I have been hearing these rumors that the weather in Portland for the last month or so has been dreadful, and not at all what it should be for May. Perhaps it will hearten you Portlanders to learn that for approximately the first time in 2.5 years, the weather in England for the past few weeks has been (mostly) glorious. Not a cloud in the sky, negligible humidity, and a nice, comfortable 75F-ish. Mostly.

Glorious! I have tan lines!

First baby duck rescue, then this. Is there anything he can’t do?*

* Rhetorical

We had a bit of bread to feed the ducks on our canal walk yesterday, but we couldn’t find very many, so we had to walk farther than we usually do, down to the lock that looks like this:

At the top of lock , there is a drain off to one side so the canal water has someplace to go when the the lock is full—the water is tunneled under that grassy bit off to the right there, and empties back into the canal at the bottom of the lock.

So there we were, minding our own business, when we noticed there was a stupid swan doing his stupid mustachioed-villain thing. I normally don’t get too worried (anymore) because he’s usually just being a jerk to other birds who could fly off if they really wanted to.

But as we got closer, it became apparent that he was traumatizing a mother duck and her tiny little baby bitesize duckling, who had somehow ended up in the slopey bit between the canal and the lock drain.

I don’t know if you know this, but traditionally all of the “unmarked mute swans in open water” in the country belong to Her Majesty the Queen, and it is a major offense to injure, kill, or disturb the breeding habits of one. Plus, they’re a little bit scary just because they’re so big (and have been rumored to “break the arm[s] of full-grown men”), so there was nothing we could do to physically dissuade the swan.

Stephan hopped down into the slopey bit between the ducks and the drain, but the duck was sure that Stephan was more of a threat than the swan that was snapping at her and her baby, so after a minute or two, she panicked and hopped out of the canal altogether, leaving her tiny little bitesize baby alone between two equally terrifying menaces.

I distracted the swan, mostly with taunts regarding how my down coat was packed full of swan feathers (how would he know?), long enough that the duckling scooted over to the other side of the slopey bit.

Where he promptly lost his footing in the deeper water and was swept toward the drain!

Whereupon, Stephan caught him just before he went through the grate!

And popped him up on the bank with his mum.

I continued taunting the swan, and the ducks waddled off toward the end of the lock, where apparently three more ducklings and the father duck had been waiting the whole time. And it was only when the entire family was reunited that the mother duck stopped her incessant alarm quacking.

A happy ending was had by all!

Especially when, after all of this, the mother duck tried to get her babies down to the canal below the lock by taking them BASE jumping off a 3- to 15-foot wall (she tried the 15-foot part herself first, but they weren’t having it, so she convinced them to try it off the other, shorter end—it was still pretty entertaining to watch four little fluffballs launch themselves into the air, only to collapse in heaps at the bottom).

So anyway, that was a really long story that could probably be better summarized in this artist’s representation of the events:

[I do apologize for the egregious inaccuracy in the representation of the mother duck, who was, in fact, a mallard.]

The bonfire we went to this year was a fundraiser for the local Scout troop and featured a hastily constructed pile of wooden pallets, assorted food stalls in an open building that quickly filled with smoke, a  bouncy castle, and a relatively impressive firework display.

Except for the egregious lack of Staffordshire oatcakes and hot cider (I even took an empty Thermos I co-opted from Stephan with me, just in case), it was our favorite Bonfire Night so far. Closer (walkable, even), cheaper (and fundraising-er), more authentic (although without the Guy Fawkes effigy, which was fine by me), AND I had my first ever toffee apple (delicious).

The music was pretty good too, but if it were up to me and my mad DJing skillz, the playlist would solely comprise songs having to do with fire—how we didn’t start it, how we don’t need no water, and how baby, you need to come on and light mine.

2. I know some of you thought it couldn’t be done, but we totally have British friends now. And let me tell you: it is not easy trying to explain the subtle connotative variations between “white trash,” “trailer trash,” “hick,” “redneck,” and “hillbilly.” All in the name of cultural literacy, people!

3. Since most American football games are played in the middle of the English night, we record them on our new DVR and watch them on the weekends. What I’ve learned this season:

a. Stephan is jealous of my affinity for NBC sportscaster Al Michaels, whom I also credit with my current inability to say “coffee” without a Brooklyn accent.

b. In a delightfully American move, Chad Johnson, number 85 of the Cincinnati Bengals, legally changed his name to Chad Ochocinco. Did you know about this? And if so, why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t give up all my rights when I moved here!

This may not long be the case, however, as we do have this one ongoing issue that as yet is unresolvable:

Whether I am singing along with Chicago’s “Look Away” with the appropriate level of sincerity.

Yes, we actually fight about this. I contend that a) it’s in the perfect key for me to sing at the top of my lungs, thus making it appear as though I’m not taking it as seriously as I very well may be, and b) come on, IT’S CHICAGO, for crying out loud. And it’s a BALLAD. A ballad about being so distraught over an ex moving on that you ask her or perhaps him to kindly look away if you happen to burst into tears when your paths cross. If there were ever a song that warranted the tiniest bit of singalong insincerity, it is this one.

Stephan’s contention: JUST KIDDING. He can start his own blog if he wants to garner support for whatever cockamamie argument he dreams up! (Hi Stephan! Love you!)

Though I can’t quite embrace their generally sickening sentimentality, ballads are ranked number one in singalong fun, so I’m trying to stockpile an adequate supply for non-Stephan-offensive singing.

And so I turn to you, dear Internets, for suggestion. What we’re looking for here is something along the lines of “This Kiss,” “You’re Still the One,” “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” and their ilk. I don’t know why the best ones are from country artists, but I am an equal opportunity ballad lover. Bonus points for songs featuring both male and female vocalists (Stephan’s preference, which I am happy to indulge).

And…go!

ANYWAY, so there we were, minding our own television-watching business, when one of us whimpered and assumed the fetal position. At first I thought it was in response to some horrible thing on television, until I tracked what Stephan was pointing at: the largest spider I’ve ever seen in the wild, maxin’ and relaxin’ under our radiator. He was like practical joke big. His body was about the size of, let’s say, a cashew, and his leg span was easily three inches.

As mentioned, I usually deposit them gently outside, but there was NO WAY this guy was being set free to terrorize us again. Sorry dude, but you must have missed that day of Survival Of The Fittest training: if you grow too big, you become a threat that must be eliminated.

He was too big to smash, and he was too big to fit under the rim of a drinking glass like normal, so I had to catch him under a Gladware container and he was NOT happy. I dropped him in the toilet and he wiggled around for the few seconds it took for me to operate the lever, and then he was gone.

Gone, but not forgotten.

Three repercussions I in no way expected:

Guilt—Most of the spiders I deal with just sit complacently under their glass until I deposit them outside, whereupon they thank me for my graciousness and wave a cheerful goodbye. Whereas this fellow scrambled furiously about and tried to swim his way out of the toilet. I’m pretty sure I heard him call me a name that I can’t repeat here because my mom reads this.

Insomnia—Although this was a good two hours before sleepy time, the adrenaline and the remembered creepiness kept me up for a while.

Irrational Terror—I could not bring myself to use that toilet for the next three days (note to nosey parkers: don’t worry; we have two others).

Stephan and I later discussed how the whole experience was much creepier than, say, finding a tarantula, because as big as the tarantula is, it’s basically a small rodent whose presence is more easily monitored.

We plan on leaving this hypothesis untested.

There were lots of pelicans there. Seriously. It was almost scary, like in The Birds, or in a short story of a similar nature I read this one time in which the protagonists exhibit concern for their bird-surrounded circumstances with the classic line, “But was it only a semicircle?” (No, no it was not.)

Chilling, I tell you.

So then, in real life, this more or less happened:

Stephan: I’ma go down there [where the pelicans are] and get me a baby.
Person 1: Don’t you mean from a stork?
Person 2: No wonder [you guys] don’t have any kids yet! Stephan doesn’t know where babies come from!