Men don't have "showers" -- they have "parties."

I learned to play bridge when I was a teenager. My high school boyfriend's parents taught us to play, which was a stroke of parental genious, I think, because we spent most of our dates in their living room playing bridge. So even if it was midnight, they knew where we were and what we were doing. Brilliant.

Anyway, I didn't play much in college, but when I moved out here for law school, I signed up to take an adult education city recreation commission bridge class just for fun. At class, I met Mark and Wally, two friends who worked together here in Champaign. They played bridge with some coworkers everyday during lunch, and they invited me to join them whenever I could tear myself away from my studies.

And thus began a fun relationship with a group of guys at a publishing company in Champaign. (There was a woman who played back in the 1998 or 1999, but for the past 6 years or so, it's just been an assortment of 3-7 various menfolk.)

I've been joining them for bridge at least a day or two a week since February 1998, excluding the times when I left the area for various jobs. This group celebrated with me after Alan and I got married, made Clarice Starling/Silence of the Lambs jokes when I got the FBI job out in DC, applauded my law school graduation, emailed to keep in touch while I was living in Chicago, came to our going-away party before we left for Palau, and admired my tan when I returned.

In keeping with tradition, the guys threw me a baby shower yesterday, except they refused to call it a shower, adamently proclaiming that men have parties, not showers. Nomenclature aside, they ordered a cute baby cake (the wife of one of the guys is a professional cake-baker -- just my luck!!) and picked out a gift designated specifically for Alan -- diapers.

Talking with them yesterday, it hit me that the "baby boy" gene is somewhere in the water at that office. The five guys who were there yesterday have a combined total of 15 boys and only 3 girls. And they quite enjoy tormenting me about baby boys -- things about throwing baseballs into ceiling fans and mixing bleach with brake fluid to make smoke. Yeesh... what am I getting myself into...