The Perils of Taking Online Dating Offline

*This is not an exploration of the pros and cons of online dating - nor offline dating, for that matter. This is just a story about a Friday night. Or more accurately, it's a story about a Saturday morning.

This was too perfect...

I woke up on Saturday at 1:24 p.m. - which is about four hours later than I ever sleep in. I rubbed my eyes, my head, wondering if the previous night was just a bizarre dream. I check Facebook - the most reliable and uncompromising record of recent history in most of our lives.

Status update from the early hours of Saturday morning: OH. MY. GOD. NO.

I wish I could just leave it there. I wish a lot of things with regard to Friday night. However - in the interest of processing what happened, and hopefully preventing someone else making the same mistakes - I will share my experience with you, albeit with a bit of reluctance.

The picture: I'm sitting in my gorgeous apartment on Friday night, having finished work late. I'd eaten a delicious dinner, read my book, and had settled down with Netflix and a glass of red for the evening. At a few minutes past midnight, my evening bliss was broken by the buzz of my phone ringing.

It was the guy I'd been talking to online for a few days, with whom I'd made plans for Saturday afternoon. We'd talked about going for a walk through Bute Park, which runs alongside the River Taff in the centre of Cardiff, then maybe finding a pub for a quiet drink. I hadn't felt butterflies, but he seemed nice enough, cute enough, just enough for a Saturday afternoon.

I assumed he was calling to talk about our plans, or possibly to cancel. It was late, and I was tired, but I picked up the call, curious to hear his voice before meeting in person.

As soon as I picked up the phone, I could tell he was having a good night. He laughed a lot, I could hear the smile in his voice and it was infectious. He cajoled me into agreeing to meet him for a drink, and I dragged my butt off the couch and got dressed - nothing too impressive, I didn't want anyone to think I was prepared to put in effort for a last-minute meeting after midnight.

As I walked toward the buzz of Cardiff Bay, I couldn't keep myself from yawning and hoped the guy wouldn't be too put off by my obvious exhaustion. Turns out, I needn't have worried about what he was going to think - about me or about anything else. He was already wasted, with the sole intention of getting even more so, and no interest in getting to know me at all.

As we walked into a bar, we ran into three boys - I can't call them anything else, they looked like they were about 14 - and ended up chatting with them for a while. One was tall with Bieber-sweep hair, and formed an instant drunken bond with my date. One wasn't drinking, and was kind of cute (for a man-child.) The third one . . . well, he at least had some interest in getting to know me. Over lunch, the next day.

I politely declined, at first out of respect to my date and the plans for the following day, which I could tell I was probably going to cancel at this point, especially after he went outside with his new little bro to smoke a cigarette. Dating smokers just isn't my thing.

Before they went outside, Bieber asked me what I wanted to drink and then bought me some sickly pink cocktail that I couldn't drink. I pretended to be sorry, he pretended to be offended. Or perhaps he was truly offended. Either way, I ordered three shots of tequila and said thanks for the drink, while his two friends, and my date, looked at me with bewildered admiration.

Manchild #3 asked me again if he could meet up the next day for lunch. I asked him how old he was.

"I'll be 22 in nine days." I couldn't help myself, I burst out laughing. I almost told him I was 24-and-three-quarters, but caught myself.

He was persistent, showing his age as he began to beg - beg! - me to let him take me to lunch, or coffee, or anything. At a couple points, he leaned in to kiss me, and my own laughter wasn't enough to stop him, though pushing him away to arms' length was.

He told me he was mature for his age, in spite of my efforts to explain that a mature man knows what "No" means without continuing to beg for what he's already been denied. I continued to decline his offers, less politely, for a myriad reasons, some more legitimate than others - but none of them were enough.

Weary from trying to explain why I didn't want to go to lunch and trying to inflate the kid's self-esteem, and feeling tired from the booze, though unfortunately nothing else, I watched Bieber stroll in with my date and announce he had to leave. Who knows what happened out there, but suddenly I was left with a swaying, slurring guy who kept calling me dude (which I kind of like) and accidentally hitting my boobs every other emphatically gesticulated sentence (which I didn't like.)

Now he was sufficiently shit-faced, the topic of conversation (read: monologue) turned to getting high and coming back to my place to hang out. He leaned in to kiss me, his tongue rapidly going from right to left as it approached my face. He didn't even register my look of disgust or my laughter as I pushed him away and told him I'd be going home alone.

Regardless of any "stranger danger" element here - the guy was clearly harmless, just someone who'd had a bad week and gotten too drunk to do anything but drink and rant about work - there was no way in hell I was bringing anyone home with me. I told him as much. I didn't want to help him walk anywhere, I didn't want to help him up four flights of stairs, I didn't want him crashing at my place, I didn't want to deal with him in the morning, I didn't want to meet up in the park.

I. Don't. Want. You.

I wasn't sending mixed signals, I was being completely unequivocal. I was done here.

Well, almost done. He'd lost his sense of direction, and I knew he had to get to the other side of the city, probably two miles from where he currently stood, leaning on me for support. I hailed him a cab, took out the cash I'd withdrawn to pay for drinks, and gave it to the driver, telling him to take my date to wherever he could unlock the door.

Waving them off, I turned, shuddered, and walked home, where I finished the bottle of wine I'd started earlier, and looked at the clock. Almost 3 a.m., I though, shaking my head. What a weird night.

After finishing the wine, the movie I was watching on Netflix, and skyping with my best friend to regale her with my crazy night, I collapsed into bed at around 4 a.m., struck by the surreality of the night, and laughed gently to myself as I drifted off to sleep.

Now, I realise I shouldn't have gone out for a drink with a guy who calls at midnight. But when he said, "Why not?" I literally didn't have (or perhaps want) a reason why not. I just moved to a city where I don't know anyone, and was getting pretty tired of sitting on my own in the evenings. I wanted the spontaneity of deciding to go out at midnight, having a wonderful time with a guy I'd just met, and coming home again. The potential was there. Unfortunately, the guy was not.

I think I'll keep my spontaneous meetups to the daylight hours from now on.

Did They Send Me Daughters When I Asked for Sons?* (Spoiler alert: Yes!)

I read the New York Times Room for Debate on “Are Modern Men Manly Enough?” the other day, and it infuriated me. The current trajectory of deciding to attack men and masculinity because it’s no longer PC to attack women and femininity is really frustrating. Gender roles are frustrating and problematic, and I’m going to leave it right there.

Yup, right there.

I did not find any persuasive arguments in that particular RFD: I agreed with the common sense authors, and found those stuck in Leave it to Beaver, well, stuck in Leave it to Beaver.

It did, however, get me thinking about what I think a good man is, and subsequently, my father and his father. My grandfather died earlier this year, leaving behind a legacy of gentle faith, natural living, and beautiful carpentry. All his sons learned woodworking from him, though my father is probably the best at it because he uses it the most often. (Don’t worry, uncles, you’re both very talented also!)

My grandad built me a dollhouse when I was six, and a carved pen and pencil set when I was twenty-three. My dad completely restored the house I grew up in. It’s not for me to say whether or not we should always follow in our parents footsteps, but reading that RFD made me realise how much the builder’s aspect looks like love to me, to my family.

Love also looks a lot like this. That's my granddad. And a wild fawn.

So, I’m going to learn woodworking from my dad. I’ve always wanted to, but never had the wherewithal to just go down to his woodshop and start helping him. Like me, my father is an introvert, and the shop is very much his space.

But it’s not just about love and family tradition. It’s also about practicality. The other half of modern culture where I live (and who I’m friends with) is “throw money at the problem until it goes away”. I am firmly entrenched in this camp. My brother can reshingle a roof. My mom can fix and replace pipes. My dad can… do everything. I can write blog posts, make cookies, and make you a mean martini when you get home from your hard day. If something breaks, I wail into my candy-striped apron until Lennon fixes it.**

I have some basics down. You don’t grow up in a family like mine without getting excited about sawzalls (my parents each have their own) and tablesaws and knowing to watch your fingers while you’re cutting that plank because that’s how pop-pop lost the top of his. That led me to tech theater in college. I can build a set. But, I couldn’t build you a chair. Or a cabinet. Or a door. I can’t install a doorknob. Or sand a floor. Or put up real walls.

Ultimately, I’m hoping the tutelage will turn to finishing the master bathroom - the very last room to be done in the house my parents bought twenty years ago. I learn by doing. I should have all the practical DIY skills I need by next year.

And next Christmas, everyone gets reindeer made of pipe sockets and copper tubing.

*To clarify my title, my father was tickled pink at having a daughter. I am the only girl child in my family. 

**To clarify that entire paragraph.

Quiet Time

I'm sitting here. On my couch (read: futon). Watching an intellectual documentary (read: Kardashians). Bettering myself as a person (read: doing my nails - you know what this is). I'm alone. The man is out. The roommate is out. It's kinda weird.

Honestly I hate alone time. I don't know what do to, there's no one to talk to which means I have to talk to myself because, naturally, I can't not talk.

I know plenty of people who love having some peace and quiet. I envy that because it seems really nice. I would love to curl up with a book and a blanket, passing an evening with my cats or something. But I have the attention span of a three-year-old and a nasty kitty allergy. So what am I to do?

Having lived alone for more than a year and now cohabitating, I absolutely dread having the house to myself. There are so many possibilities, so many options... and there's the interwebs, where I usually end up, creating outfits I don't have on Pinterest and reading about the crafty DIYers I'll never compare to. But is that so bad? Sometimes it's nice to turn your mind off, right?

Personally I chalk a lot of my restlessness during what should be my time of rest and relaxation to my age. I don't have homework and haven't for years, of course. Not at the homeowner stage yet (and likely to never get there. Let's face it, I'm broke), I find there's only so much to clean, only so much to organize, and, frankly, I hate doing both of those things.

So help me out – what does everybody else do on those quiet nights at home? Pjs and a movie? Polishing off “War and Peace?” Seriously, why is it so hard to find a hobby? 

See? I wasn't kidding about that. It's bad. 

  

First World Problems: We Got Cable, and Suddenly My Three-Bed Is Too Small

I’m an introvert. I know the internet is currently on tail-end of its “WTF IS AN INTROVERT” phase, but it’s relevant. I much prefer quiet and solitude. I need personal space. Lots of it. It's hard to come by when a) you work in an open plan office, b) live with your boyfriend, and c) do not have a personal space in your own apartment. Right now it’s causing a lot of emotional distance problems in my relationship. I'm not checked in, I admit it.

When we were finally forced to get our own internet and stop mooching off the landlord, Lennon put the account in his name, and got us some goddamn fancy FIOS. The kind that has cable. I have never owned a television, and the last house I lived in that had some form of TV entertainment (besides my parents') was in my sophomore year of college. His television was old, and not flat. We have limited space. You can see where this is going.

Not here, though.

Enter his (he paid for it) new television. I like putting on pilates, yoga, or watching Netflix via the XBOX. I could do all this with my laptop, but TV is bigger and nicer and the sound isn’t coming out of a three-year-old Macbook’s blown-out speakers. The rest of the time, it drives me a little crazy.

Did you know TV still has ads?

Lennon is a media junkie with ADD. He’s an multi-concentrator. Last night when we got home from dinner, he started watching Family Guy on television, and a nerd-stuff webseries. At the same time. With audible volume on both. I have a thing where if there’s more than one type of noise going on at a particular volume, I can’t concentrate on anything but getting out of there as fast as possible.

I took my Kindle into the bedroom to read, just like every night since we got the television. At the end of the day I am desperate for quiet. Lennon is desperate for distraction. We don’t spend time together in the late evening anymore. I know we don’t have to watch television: he can turn it off and read comics, or play on his phone, or any number of other things.

But the television asks the least of him, and he needs that recharge too.

It's not a total wash; the quiet downtime is necessary for me to continue functioning. But, relegated to the bedroom because of the TV... there is no space left in the apartment to be mine.

I’d love the solution to be setting aside another room, so he can be comfortable owning spaces in the rest of the apartment. Unfortunately, everything I would use to furnish it is needed elsewhere, and I don’t want to take anything away for fear I will say he can use the room for a specific purpose and suddenly it will "belong" to him... which is what tends to happen.

I'm very good about respecting other people's spaces. I don't like disturbing the energy, or otherwise changing the feel of it. I try to keep my own energy small if I'm in there. It's why Lennon now has the whole office and I generally don't go in there except to get a book from a shelf, or if I need to work from home. I don't go into his dressing room (the second bedroom) unless I need the iron, or a towel from the closet. The kitchen is common space. The living room is common space. The front bedroom is big closet storage and the rabbit's space, because she's destructive, and pulls books off the shelf.

And she will eat them.

Houston, we have a problem. We have a three-bedroom apartment, and I don't even fit in it.

Babies, babies and more babies

I was in Texas with my boyfriend for Labor Day weekend and after the excessive summer heat of the south I am so happy to be back in New York where fall has decided to grace us with her lovely presence.  I am also appreciating my life as I always do when I return from a trip; my perfectly soft bed, my conveniently located closet full of dresses and shoes, and the ability to do pretty much what I want to do when I want to do it.  I love traveling and seeing new places, but I also always love to return home and revel in the things that I had been taking for granted before I left.

The reason I am extra pleased to be back in New York after my latest trip is because we were in Austin, Texas to visit my boyfriend's brother, his wife and their three month old son.  Now before I get myself into trouble here let me make the disclaimer that I thoroughly enjoyed myself and had a lovely time hanging out and getting to know my boyfriend's family.  They are really chill, sweet people and the baby is about as cute and well behaved as you could possibly imagine, which is pretty darn cute.  But we stayed at their place and worked on their schedule, which is always a little stressful.

But the heat was easily escapable with central air and swimming in the creek and the house was immaculately kept and my boyfriend's family were excellent hosts keeping us as comfortable and as entertained as possible.  What really ruffled my feathers that weekend was the sheer amount of time that we spent with the baby.  The baby was cute and barely cried and is practically my nephew, but I just don't like babies that much and a five day vacation that revolved around a three month old was just more than I could handle.

I don't really know what it is about babies or myself that makes me want to leave the room instead of coo over them, but I have never really had any interest in small children.  Sure I had baby dolls as a kid and I did a decent amount of babysitting and teaching children various activities at summer camps, but I always preferred working with kids closer to the age of ten where they could articulate themselves and have something interesting to say about the world.  And for all my capabilities and motherly instincts and experience working with children of all ages I still would rather go to a museum than gawk over a baby's smile.

They kind of smell funny to be honest and I mean they smell funny when their clean; they smell horrifying when they are dirty and soiled.  And they are pretty boring too, all they do is sit there and stare at whatever you put in front of them; I just don't see what is so entertaining about a baby making random sounds that have nothing to do with anything.  And as soon as the baby isn't happy things get really ugly.  Messes are made, screaming ensues, and no one can focus on anything but the kid and no rest is to be had until the baby is pacified.

Maybe I'm selfish, maybe I'm just young (I'm only 24!) or maybe I'm a product of my generation and am just an independent woman and a confused college graduate more concerned with what I am doing with my life than if a baby can hold it's head up by itself.  I do think that it is strange that I feel the need to explain myself to everyone who asks about my relationship with kids that I am not some monster of a person or a disgrace to the human race I just don't like babies and whatever the reason may be I don't think that is such a crime.

Of course it really isn't a crime and I suppose no one is really judging me too harshly based on my reaction to babies.  I'm actually pretty fortunate that my family is more concerned with my career and my well being then having grand-kids.  But I guess my concern stems from the only person's opinion that I am truly concerned about.  As where I have no interest in babies or having kids at all for that matter, my boyfriend gets a doe eyed look when he watches his nephew squirm in his car-seat and I guess there is the dramatic, irrational part of me that worries he is going to leave me if he realizes how I really feel about babies.  The reason this is a ridiculous notion is because we have talked about kids before and I have told him all the plethora of reason I don't want to have children and he has so far shown no signs of dumping me or even pressuring me to change my mind (because he is amazing!)  But my dramatic side is not governed by the silly rules of reason and I worry that there is something wrong with me, I worry that my boyfriend will find someone who is ready to settle down with him, and I worry that I will decide to settle down myself one day and miss out on so many amazing experiences.

I suppose at 24 no one (except for myself since I often feel more like I'm 80) really expects me to have a baby of my own (or my life "together") and no one really cares if I want to hold the baby for an hour or only a minute, but sometimes life challenges you with experiences that you are not ready for.  And during the hours that I find myself unwillingly in charge of a tiny human I have to trust that the 80 year old in me will know how to handle the situation as gracefully as possible.  And so my weekend in Texas, while long and more stressful than I prefer my vacations, is over and was really quite nice now that I look back on it.  And while I'm not home free from babies since my boyfriend's other brother lives much closer than Texas and also has a small baby in tow, I am for the moment relieved to be baby free.

Lost in Transition

When I was offered my first well-paid job outside childcare after a year and a half of being broke as a live-in au pair, my first response was: Oh my god – I'll be able to afford my own apartment. I can walk around naked whenever I want to. And drink. And play loud music. I can be drunk, naked, and dancing whenever I want to! Huzzah!

That makes my post-childcare life sound like one big naked party, and it isn't – after all, I still have to work at my new job to get paid. But there's nothing like live-in childcare to make you truly appreciate being in your mid-twenties – even if it's only at the weekends. And occasionally on Tuesdays.

Being an au pair taught me some of the best – and worst – things, about children and families, about the relationships between mothers and nannies, about education and child development, and about myself. The biggest and most important thing I learned is that I will never take another live-in childcare job again in my life. I may even move out of my house when I have my own children. Well, that might be an exaggeration, maybe, but my 18 months as an au pair for three different families put my feelings about starting my own family into perspective.

I used to be one of those girls who would melt at the sight of babies, cooing and fussing over the small children I saw on the bus or in the supermarket. I have one other friend who is like this, and she once said her uterus would ache at the sight of a baby – that's what I felt once, too. The uterine ache of longing for babies.

Then I started getting paid to look after children.

As much as I love children, I never planned to go into childcare after college – it was close to last on my list of post-graduate jobs I would be willing to take – but after moving back to the UK from the States and discovering that care jobs were the only ones available in abundance, my choices were narrowed down to one question: old people or children?

I chose childcare because I thought I'd be good at it – or at least, better than I knew I'd be in eldercare. I'm ashamed to admit that old people who need care – especially personal care – gross me out and frankly scare me. I met plently of eldercare workers who said the same of children, so I guess they're in the right job, and that's what I was afraid of the most. I didn't want to be in a job looking after old people when I knew I'd be the wrong person for the job. They didn't deserve to have me looking after them.

I quickly learned that I wasn't exactly the right person for childcare, either.

My first 'job' as an au pair was in Wales, living with a close family friend, someone I've known since I was nine years and have always considered a big sister to me. When I moved back to the UK, I needed a place to live, and Lucie needed some help with the kids and the house. We were eager to reconnect and grateful that we were able to help each other out; we both felt like we were each getting the better end of the deal, me room and board plus as much pocket money as she could afford to pay me, her a clean(er) house and childcare that allowed her to establish and develop her new business as a grower of fresh produce and herbs as well as herbal bodycare products.

Another upside? Buying birthday / Christmas / baby shower gifts are a snap!

Looking after her two children didn't feel much like a job, but it was definitely hard work. Thankfully, their mother and I, despite seven years without seeing each other and rarely writing, seemed to have near-identical childcare philosophies. Food and nutrition, playtime, schooling, discipline: whatever was happening, we gave the children consistent messages, which I didn't know at the time was a rare and precious thing. When the children were with their fathers, or away at sleepovers, we would get all the mums together and go out dancing, or stay in and cook delicious meals that were uninterrupted by children, and these women became my friends, my support system. Having to move back to the UK, away from my mom and my college friends, could get lonely sometimes, but they were always there for me. I felt completely at home with them, and loved all their children too. We were one big happy [crazy] family.

Lucie and me on a to-scale bouncy Stonehenge. The kids complained about it being too wet. We had a blast.

My next two jobs were far from Wales, with families I didn't know, and I'm not sure whether I truly had less personal space during my time with these families or if I was simply more aware of the fact my space was being invaded by strangers instead of people I considered my family. I was still lonely, more so than when I'd first moved, but I was never alone. Close by there was always the noise, and the needs, of others.

To cut a long story short – though I've got plenty of stories from those families that I'm sure I'll share in other blog posts – my third au pair job ended abruptly in May just as I was being approached by someone from the Mozilla Foundation to work on their Open Badges team, and I was suddenly back in Wales, looking at potential apartments online, and getting set up with my new position at Mozilla. Within two months, I had a new laptop, I'd been flown back to Maine for the team retreat, and my bank account was in shock, having reached a figure it hadn't seen since I was in high school.

This summer has been one of transition. I try to use “transition” instead of “limbo” to describe my life, because being in limbo feels static, and out of my control. Transition means change, and I like change. It's been a long summer, with many steps forward and almost as many steps back – but I saw somewhere that optimism is seeing one step forward and one step back as a cha-cha. I like that.

On Monday, I'm supposed to be moving into my new apartment – which, after weeks of delays and staying with friends and in hotels, has been a long time coming. I will have my grown-up job, my all-to-myself apartment, and my friends will be living nearby. Bring out the wine and turn up the music, for I will no longer be in transition, no longer in limbo.

I will be on my own, but I won't be lonely. I'll be dancing.

Channeling a fictional english housewife

I've been reading Agatha Christies' "The Postern of Fate" recently, and feeling very domestic.  So after a half hour ride on my bicycle, I began to make shepherds's pie.  I'd been meaning to make the dish in any case, the book just adds a certain flavor to my actions.  (As a side note, my boyfriend and I did talk about my last blog entry - Things are picking back up, and he's still the love of my life.  So the following recipe does take his corn and dairy allergies into account).

First I chopped an onion and began to caramelize it in the largest frying pan with some olive oil.  Next, I peeled and smashed a whole head of garlic.  Not a bad way to practice my palm-heel.  Into the pan went the smashed garlic with a touch of sesame oil.  I pulled my carton of mushrooms from the fridge and minced half of them and added them to the pan as well.  Then I mushed around my ground beef and added it to the pan, allowing it to just brown and start producing juices.  I poured the juices from the meat, garlic, and onion into an adjacent pan and spread the meat as the first layer in a baking pan.  Then the extra into a bread pan. Bonus pie.

At this time I recalled that the last three bottles of the stout I'd made with my best friend last Winter were still in my basement.  I retrieved them and placed two in the fridge, pouring most of the third into the pot with the drippings.  The remainder filled half a pint glass for me.  I decided that the other two bottles should go perfectly with dinner.
To the nascent gravy I added sherry vinegar, thyme, cayenne, bay leaves, garlic powder, onion salt, crumbled sage I've been drying in the pantry, more thyme, sea salt, a splash of cider vinegar, and a few handfuls of flour over the course of the next hour as it simmered.

For the second layer I chopped up carrots, celery, broccoli, the remaining mushrooms, and set aside my bag of fresh english peas.  (Everything is english today.  I even had earl grey for afternoon tea).  I steamed the chopped vegetables until they were just barely cooked and then spread them in the pans atop the meat.  The peas I poured over to fill in any gaps.

It was around this point where Tommy Beresford asked in my head "Well, what's for pudding?"  Ah.  I thought to myself.  Quite right, fictional englishman.  If I'm going to the trouble of making a nice dinner with a matched beer, I had better well make dessert.  I brought some pie crust and two packages of berries (cherry, raspberry and blackberry in the first, strawberry in the second) and left them out to defrost in the pantry.

Then I chopped and steamed most of a bag of russet potatoes, leaving the skins on for smashed potato topping.  They took quite a while to cook through, so I cleaned the kitchen from Phase 1.  When the potatoes were finally soft enough, I dumped them into the large pot and mashed them  - manually, with a masher and a wooden spoon - together with half a log of honeyed goat cheese and a touch of coconut milk.  Then I spread the  goat enhanced smashed potatoes on top of the two nearly full baking dishes and popped them in the oven for twenty minutes at 350 degrees.  Then I turned them around and baked them another ten minutes.

When I pulled them out the second time, I set them on the counter to cool.  I'll pop them back in for another ten-ish minutes just before dinner at seven.  Now for dessert pie.  My frozen berry packages were not quite defrosted, so I put them in the sink with room temperature water while I chopped about a half dozen small plums.  After greasing the pan with canola oil, I rolled out the bottom crust and laid down the layer of strawberries.  Then the mixed berries, then my plum slices.  And the top crust.  You get it.  I made a pie the lazy way.  But I forked the damn edges, put the little slits in the top, and it'll be damn delicious, so shut it.  I don't have to bother with making my own crust.  (...That comment was to Albert, the english butler in my head, giving my modern cookery of frozen pie crust disparaging looks.  If you're not Albert, please disregard.  If you are... Well.  Damn.  Sorry fictional-character-come-to-life, but it's either you stop existing or I go to the mental ward.  I trust you'll do the right thing).

Now the berry plum pie is cooking, and my dinner guests arrive at 7pm.  And I still haven't cleaned up the laundry.  I think I'll end my stint as an english housewife before then.