Ryan and Ginger

It's already been noted that Ryan "hates cats." He especially "hates" Ginger.

Ginger loooooves Ryan. Ginger (or Gigi Wigi, as she's known to friends) runs away from pretty much everybody else. She'll come back out to see Cindy or my mom, but other than that she's very skittish. She came fully grown from the Las Vegas Humane Society and judging by her reactions to things and her reluctance to get very snuggly until a year or so ago, I'd say she was probably mistreated.

The very first time Ryan came to my house Ginger stood on the back of her green chair and sniffed him out like he was her best friend...instead of running and hiding like she does with everyone else. Smart cat!

Ginger likes to share chairs with people...and by people, I mean either myself or Ryan.




And possibly even better...What they're looking at. I only caught the end, unfortunately.

You Can't Top That

Warning: This blog contains episodes of ceramic frontal nudity!

This is the star on the top of our tree. Pretty run-of-the-mill considering that we have a parrot, a cactus, and a shamrock on our tree. You were probably expecting something a little bit more, I don't know, interesting from us.


Especially considering where we come from. This is the fantastic star on top of the Sitter family tree. I, for one, like the wire. It's very nice. It seems there's been some confusion as to who made it and why it holds such a sacred place on top of the tree. At any rate, it's still less racy than what I grew up with.


There is no star on the top of this tree. There has been a naked redhead on the top of the Henneman (my mother's side of the family...surprise, surprise) tree for as long as I can remember. This picture doesn't do her justice (or, if I had one that did, I'd suddenly find myself rated X). She's a stunner.



As I've told Ryan, if silliness is genetic, our kids are doomed. We've got it coming from all sides!

Chef Ryan and the Panini Press

By the time Ryan and I actually get married, I think we'll have one of the best equipped residential kitchens in the world. I had a head start on my own, but we're racking up the fabulous kitchen tools left and right.


We got a lot of help this Christmas. Here we have the first non-quesadilla product from our new panini press. You'll notice that Ryan couldn't wait 30 seconds for me to grab the camera before he took a bite.


Chef Ryan, always equipped with a glass of wine, wields his silicone pastry brush with his usual manly flair. He's smiling because you don't know what the secret ingredient is.



Another beautiful team effort...broiled chicken, bacon, cheddar jack cheese and tomato...this time without the bite! Ryan made this one, but made me cut it diagonally. Bellissima!

Boys Will Be Boys

Ahhh. The Sitter men. There's something sweet about how they have to see who can beat each other the hardest when they hug. Brotherly love at its finest.


A proud moment for Sue, I'm sure. Who knew that Grandma Sitter's gifts for the girls in the family would be so well received by the other half of each couple (the half with much less hair to dry)? Or that Ryan looks so hot in pink?


Three generations of Sitter men. I can only hope that Ryan will look as good as Santa Gil 40 years from now.

Thinking Outside the Box

Ryan is spoiled rotten.

Anyone who knows us or reads me is already aware of this. What you might not realize is how spoiled I am.

This Christmas is a perfect example. In addition to stunning sapphire jewelry that goes very nicely with another famous sapphire ring and gorgeous, hand-turned, hardwood crochet hooks (coming soon to a Whichcraft near you) I also got a beautiful handmade jewelry box (a collaborative effort from the better part of the family). Ignore me in this picture and just look at how pretty the box is.


It's not finished yet, but it's already amazing. Mahogany, rosewood, walnut...and gorgeous.


I never realized how special it is to get something handmade, because I'm usually the one doing the making. It feels pretty great to give someone you love something you made especially for them. I guess now I know how awesome it is to get something that someone who loves you made with their own hands.


Not to mention it's a HUGE step up from the Fossil watch tin that my jewelry is currently in. Ryan has made a little fun of that.

Gracie is Distraught

Gracie misses Ryan soooo much that she hardly knows what to do with herself.

The weather's been bad enough that without her trusty co-pilot she hasn't been able to fly. So she's hanging out in the bathroom sink, waiting for his return!

Ryan is a Bad Liar

I realized the other day that now you all know how we met, but most of you don't know the story of how Ryan actually popped the question. It's hard to make something you've been discussing for a couple of weeks much of a surprise, but he managed it somehow.

I found the ring during one of my occasional searches for antique jewelry. I never buy anything, but I love antiques, especially jewelry. I saw the ring and it stopped me dead in my tracks. We'd been talking about this for awhile. Ryan was trying to get a feel for what I liked. I showed him the ring, mentioning that while he obviously didn't have to get it, it was the sort of thing I could see myself wearing for the next 70 years or so.

He ended up getting it, but you knew that already.

Since there was no one around to pick it up, it was being held at the post office. The post office in Fairview closes at five. It was about a quarter to five and Ryan was at Union Station. I got a text shortly after that saying he didn't make it (I still have the text, because I'm a girl and we're allowed to keep things like that). I wondered about this...Did he text me because he knew he couldn't lie convincingly? I'd had kind of a crappy day. It was the first day back to school for teachers and I was tired. I didn't really feel good and now I was trying really hard not to be disappointed.

When Ryan got to my house, he did a great job of convincing me he really hadn't gotten there (I'll have to get him to tell the harrowing tale of how that actually happened) and was obviously trying to cheer me up. We decided to go to the yacht club for dinner. He made a big deal about sitting out on the deck, but he usually does so I didn't think much of it. We had dinner, it was gorgeous, the sun was setting over the lake.

We ordered chocolate cake for dessert. No matter how hard he tries to convince you otherwise, know that Ryan LOVES chocolate cake. We shared a slice on our first date, too. He was denying how much he loves chocolate cake when I told him what a bad liar he was.

And he smirked.

That's the only word for what he did. I knew then that something was up. He reached behind him and pulled out a pretty red box (which is in the hutch...because I'm a girl and we're allowed to keep things like that, too) that had been tucked into the back of his shirt because the box was too big for his pocket and he was worried about losing the ring if he put it in his pocket loose. He got down on one knee and asked if I would marry him.

And I dropped a forkful of chocolate cake on my pants. Oh, and I said yes.

But you knew that already.

Oh, Chistmas Tree

For those of you who don't read my crafty blog, but like to see Ryan drinking wine in a stocking cap...

On Black Friday (because we're crazy), we went to Lowe's and bought a Christmas tree. A fake, not pre-lit, "Grenada pine," made in China, fabulous, wonderful tree. I haven't put a tree up for the last couple of years because the cats try to climb them. I haven't been excited about Christmas for a couple of years now. I'm excited about this Christmas.


While we assembled said tree, we had a bit of an audience. They think we're stupid. They know that trees belong outside.



Here's Ryan posing in front of his "job well done." Nobody fluffs fake pine branches like my man. The funny part of this picture is the hat. It really is that cold in my house!


Ginger helps out by making sure that the tree smells good and tastes right. She gave it the thumbs up (even though she doesn't have any) and we proceeded to decorate.



The finished product...It's been up for a day and the girls have only knocked four ornaments off and tried to eat a couple branches. Let's just say we're waiting to put up any of the really breakable ornaments. Those of you who decorate your trees with distinct and uniform color schemes should probably not look too closely at the tree. You might have some kind of seizure. I'd feel bad about that.

Gracie is Angry

Since Ryan is allergic to cats, I shut the door to keep them off the bed when he's home. The girls are used to having the run of the house and they get a little testy about this.

Gracie gets especially angry. She lies in wait on top of the bookshelf in the morning. She also creates elaborate lies about big ferocious doggies trying to eat her or being boiled in oil (you have to speak cat to understand all of this...Ryan usually translates). She coordinates attacks with the other cats. They are usually swarming around the door, waiting to attack in the morning.

They miss Ryan, too.

Sunday Stroll

I was bored on Sunday so I took a stroll by...



BUM BUM BAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!

THE SECRET NUCLEAR BUNKER. Shhh!!!!!

I should say the infamous SECRET NUCLEAR BUNKER, revealed to the American public for the first time by Lynnsey's blockbuster expose blog during the summer of 2007. Notice the cunning and guile employed by the British in locating their Secret Nuclear Bunker in a Leisure Complex where no Commi Pinko would dare tread, nor Bolshevik think to sniff er...eh nor illiterate Soviet spy could locate on an Ordanance Survey map. Simply bloody BRILLIANT! That's why the sun never set on the British Empire and the US never closed its English air bases ;-)

I love this country!!!

Craftiness

I'm putting the crafty stuff in it's place! Don't worry! I'll still be here. I have too much time on my hands and there's nothing good on TV.

For those of you who like the crafty stuff...go here. Whichcraft Get frequent updates on how I spend my time when I should be grading things and doing homework!

"Home Ec."

Warning: this turns into a little bit of a rant. Sorry about that. Really.

Some of you who don't know me very well were probably wondering why having string all over me was an "occupational hazard" or why I'm cooking with 7th graders. I'm a Family and Consumer Sciences teacher.

Everybody over the age of 25 just went, "a what?"

Home Ec. I teach Home Ec. Which, of course, means that I must be stupid or something. "Did you have to go to school for that?" is my favorite question. That didn't come from a teenager. No, that came from an adult. A professional colleague. I've actually heard it a couple times now. My second favorite is, "Oh, you teach cooking and sewing?" Yeah, and about 500 other things.

Add to that the fact that I'm a pretty fabulous cook, I know how to sew, knit, and crochet and for some reason everyone assumes I'm a total moron. It's as though people somehow think that knitting negatively affects your intelligence quotient. Now, remember, these are some of the same people who burn water and can't sew a button, but they teach algebra or geography. So they must be smarter than me.

Too bad that I can still do algebra and locate all fifty states. I can balance chemical reactions and I've read most of the modern classics (and then some...around 150 pages an hour on a good day). I teach teenagers how to cook and sew without hurting themselves or others or setting fire to anything. I teach them about personal finance and interior design and child development and personal relationships and everything else. I've had kids tell me my class is the only reason they decided to come to school that day. I teach your kid how to do the laundry, balance their checkbook, make breakfast, lunch and dinner, sew on their buttons, how to not get pregnant and what to do if they do, how to find a home, buy a car, and everything else they're not learning at home anymore because we're all too busy.

"Did you go to school for that?"

String Theory

No. This blog has nothing to do with physics. Ten points, though, to those of you who thought it might. You never can tell with us. Minus ten if you had to go 'wikipedia' string theory. (I even made it easy for you.) Minus ten more if you got a headache reading the first paragraph.

No, this blog has to do with the strings I spend a lot of time picking off my clothes. Even some of my students help me out (I have some of these kids 3 times a day, they get pretty comfortable with you after that). It's an occupational hazard. I am always covered in string. It's like I'm a string magnet. Someone else can be sewing and I'll get their string. I'm not even safe when I knit.

Today, though, I am celebrating the string. The t-shirt quilt is finished. It's in the dryer. I had to wash it to get rid of lines and cat hair, but it is completely done! Yay! Yippee! and all kinds of other celebratory noises!

Not only that, but I also knit the gauge swatch for The Sweater (do you like that?). It's coming out perfect. I never, ever knit to the right gauge on the first (or eighth) shot. For those of you who are nearly as confused by this paragraph as you were by the string theory reference, gauge is what careful knitters try to get before they start knitting, so that the sweater fits the person they're knitting it for (instead of being twice as big as it should be). Basically, the pattern says, "you should get X number of stitches over 4 inches" or something similar. You usually get one more or one less, no matter what you do and then you throw the whole thing in a closet somewhere and go back to making scarves (because it doesn't matter what size the scarf is).

I, however, "got gauge" as they say. And I'm thinking of doing a little dance about it.

So, if my needles ever show up, I can start knitting The Sweater. Hopefully, it will be done before it starts snowing in Brentwood.

Love Story

Since I tell the story better...I guess I'll go ahead and tell it.

My friend met a great guy (that's you, Vince!) on Match.com. Apparently, she thought everyone should be so lucky...so, while visiting her in beautiful Orchard Park one weekend, the two of them decided that I needed a profile. Under threat of them making up their own version, I proceeded to create a profile that was witty and charming and just a little embarrassing. I posted an ok-ish picture and voila...I was back on the market.

Before I go any farther...a few things about internet dating:

There are some weirdos out there. A friend once described herself as "flypaper for freaks" and after the first week I understood with almost crystal clarity what she had been talking about. I had (for some reason...that picture really wasn't all that great) over 400 profile views and a couple dozen emails in the first week or so. Unfortunately, there were a lot of frogs.

I'm sorry, but if you're old enough to be my father you should not email me. If you're "hear to meat women," we have a problem (I'm prejudiced against people who can't spell...a typo is one thing, but, c'mon...really). You should also not start out your profile professing your porn addiction/alcoholism/drug abuse/felony convictions. I'm just saying...

At any rate, there were a few decent-seeming guys. I had a couple of phone conversations that quickly ended that delusion. Then, this guy emails me. Wants to know if I want to go to the Erie Philharmonic tonight (even though he doesn't know my name). He actually used the word (?) "din-din." I should have known then, anyone dorky enough to use din-din and philharmonic in the same sentence was destined to be my soul-mate.

I had my reservations. You know, where this person is a potential axe-murderer and I don't know anything but his first name (more on that later!). I, however, had plans and had to ask for a rain check. No, really. That's exactly how I responded. He, apparently, recognized a fellow dork and agreed to call me later the next day.

This was the conversation about how much he liked to run, how he hated cats, and that he was leaving the country in a couple months. It was also the conversation about how I think people who run for fun are weird, I have three cats, and I'm in the middle of a divorce. Neither one of us ran screaming into the night, and we ended up emailing each other a few times and meeting for dinner a couple nights later.

We met a Figgie's around 6:30. We really hit it off. I learned that he loves chocolate cake (among other things). They all but turned the lights out on us, so we decided to go get coffee. He learned that I love Tim Horton's (among other things). It seems that Timmy's is the place to be for Jehovah's Witnesses at 12:30 in the morning. So, as I said before...dinner, a bottle of wine, a couple cups of coffee, and some Jehovah's Witnesses later, we called it a night. He kissed me and then asked if he could because "it's easier to beg forgiveness than to ask for permission."

It wasn't until the next day when the other half of my department was asking me about my date that I realized we'd hit it of too well. I didn't know his last name! I knew all other sorts of things, but had no idea what his last name was. Computer nerd that I am, though, it didn't take me long. I'm a pretty good listener and I knew where he worked. I figured LP would have a website with some kind of contact list or something and that I could at least narrow it down. Even better, they have photos of the employees! Thanks, Jim, for my making my search a lot easier! It's a good thing I'm not some psycho stalker, though (...just between you and me, I felt like one when I was trying to find him).

So...that's the beginning of the story. It just gets crazier from there! Did you expect anything less from the two of us?

Summer in Erie

An update for all of our faithful readers :-). There is some big news to report...but first a quick note on where we are and what we're up to...

Lynnsey and I came back to the US of A on 5 August a couple of weeks in advance of Lynnsey's planned return (today 8/20 :-), now 9/29 :-)...see Lynnsey's blogs on our trip home). I needed to be Stateside in order to apply for my extended stay visa at the British Consulate in New York so we decided to come back together. It turned out to be a fortuitous decision as I was subsequently drafted to co-manage a project at the "Mother Ship." Its a cool project and August in Erie has been a big step up from summer in England (believe it or not :-)). More importantly it's meant that I got a couple of extra weeks at home with Lynns which has been GRRrreat.

I was in the mix for the annual MS Regatta which landed on my dad's birthday this year. We won, again :-). Not bad considering its the only race we contest all year. Funny story a couple of days after the regatta my dad's buddy, Doug Beers, heard some fellow competitors on a boat in a neighboring slip commenting on our performance. Seems there were some sour grapes to the effect that "either their rating (sailing handicap) is wrong or the timer on the committee boat is wrong because there is no way that PEDESTRIAN CREW could have gone that fast." :-) Just to set the record straight our crew is VETERAN, not pedestrian, and has never finished worse than 3rd :-) Kudos again to Gary, Greg, Mike and Vance for another superior performance.

Being back has also meant mornings at Greg's torture cell aghhem! I mean Peak Personal Fitness studio :-). I'm getting close to fighting form again after I was ruined by my fight with Toblerone addiction and the Brit Bitters. I had my bike rebuilt over the weekend and hit the 'ninsula for 40K on Sunday...let's just say I could feel the 3 bikeless months on my way back home up Sterretania Rd :-). But hey as Greg would say: "suck it up, pepper." Looking forward to the Presque Isle Tri this weekend (especially the run :-)) and to a couple of late season races in the UK (stay tuned to the blog for more).

Well now that I'm getting back to this post at the end of September (argh) I can update you on the Presque Isle Tri. For those of you not familiar with triathlon its really a competition that alternates between 4 timed events: swimming (700yds)--clothes changing--biking(13mi)--clothes changing--running(3.5mi). The tri starts with the swim and transition (clothes changing) area at Beach 6 at PI.

With all the craziness of setting up camp in the UK I hadn't seen a pool for 4 months (let alone dipped my toes in open water) and hadn't seen my bike for 3. So opening the door of Lynnsey's Pathfinder to the sound of roaring surf gave me a bit of the butterflies...but you tell yourself its never as bad as it sounds.... We got my gear all set up in transition (I'm not the best triathlete by a long shot but Lynnsey is definitely the best Pit Chief in the business) and I decided to stroll over the dunes to take a look. You tell yourself its never as bad as it sounds...until you see it...6 ft waves...rrruuhh ro...and tell yourself it isn't as bad as it looks...until the head life guard (who swam across the lake), Bob North, gets on the megaphone and tells you it IS as bad and pleads with you not to get in the water. I must admit I probably should have listened to the little voice telling me it was possible to surrender with honor...but I'm glad I didn't. Somehow I dog paddled my way through and actually had a great run at 19:26 5k pace (my PR was 18:36 as a 17 year old harrier). It was a great time and I vowed to come back next year as an improved swimmer to compete for my age group :-).

Lynnsey does a better job of telling the story of how we met and fell in love than I do (she's a much better writer among other things - see her blog on Uncle Bob about the greatest aviator of our times :-)) but I do want to say a quick word. One of the big reasons we are still together in spite of the long geographic distance between us is the very short distance between who we are and want to be together. Most important, Lynnsey understands the creative nutcase side of me most people never see. And she shows her love with actions (instead of just words) by investing everything she has, is and does into our relationship. Those of you who have had the privilege of checking out her blogs on Uncle Bob and her crafting blog http://whichcrafty.blogspot.com have seen a glimpse of what I'm blabbering about :-).

So without any further ado...the big news you've all been waiting for...drum roll...I know, I'm a cheese head...drum roll...bombs away...Lynnsey and I are ENGAGED!!! The big hitching is set for June 21, 2008 at my parent's place in Fairview. Anyone reading this will be invited so mark your calendars!

Jim, if you read this, many thanks again from both of us for your engagement gift and for all that you've done.

Ryan hates cats...

Or so he told me the very first time we spoke. I remember thinking to myself that this guy was probably not gonna be my type. He was talking about running and how he "hated cats" and he sounded like a health nut (I am sooo a steak nut, a reading a book nut, all kinds of nuts...except a health nut). He did have some other interesting aspects, though, so I thought I'd give him a chance.

We went out to dinner a couple of nights later and hit it off. Six hours, a bottle of wine, a couple cups of coffee, and a swarm of Jehovah's Witnesses later he kissed me...and then asked if he could. That's not even the best part. Wait for it...The next day when a friend at work was asking about my date, I realized that we'd hit it off so well that I had no idea what his last name was!

Obviously, I figured it out (an interesting story for another time perhaps).

Anyways, being owned by three cats, I was concerned about his "hating cats." All guys say they hate cats. This one is lying...

If your audio isn't all that great, he is in fact saying "flying kitty coming in for a landing." I missed the airplane noises on the way through the living room. He's also been quoted as saying that, "Gracie is the greatest pilot of our time."

I'm glad he hates cats.

Keeping Busy

For those of you out there who were unsure about this, let me tell you. Being an ocean away from the person you love SUCKS! (I know, I know...that's not a very lady-like word, but little else properly describes the situation) While I realize that it's not 1630 and there's email and Skype and text messaging and cell phones and what have you, it still sucks. So, I'm trying to keep busy.

In keeping busy, I finally finished quilting the T-shirt quilt. Really, like an hour ago.


Backstory: While Ryan was packing up the first time to go to England, he ended up with that pile of T-shirts that we all probably have. The ones you don't wear, but you can't get rid of. My pile is much smaller, but it does exist. Anyways, he was contemplating just getting rid of them when I suggested making a quilt out of them. He seemed surprised that it could be done (this was before he knew what I was capable of...ha!). I'm not one hundred percent certain he understood exactly what I meant to do with them, but he went along with it. I sent pictures of the progress to him when he was first in England. He thought it was great, thought I was great.


This is a daunting task, though. Someone you care about hands you their favorite t-shirts and you cut them into small pieces and sew them back together. There's a certain EEK! factor to that alone. You drink heavily and then you quilt the whole thing (with help from your cats).

So, now the hard parts are done. I think. I have to bind the edges and wash it to get rid of the lines I drew for quilting (and the cat hair!).

He'd better leave some room in his suitcase next time he comes back. He's going to have to fit a quilt and a sweater in there! I'm doing my part to warm up the UK!

Never Knit Your Man a Sweater...

There's a curse among knitters all over the world (well, there's more than one, but now's really not the time...). Basically, you like a guy. Knitters are natural givers, so you knit him a sweater. You put in a lot of time, effort, and love. You give him the sweater, and HE LEAVES. Not only does he leave, but he takes your great sweater with him.

So, (female) knitters have implemented a rule. "Never knit your man a sweater unless you've got the ring." It's actually the title of a book. The book has all kinds of other things you can knit your beau...scarves, hats, gloves, blankets, beer cozies (I don't really know if that's in there, but I have seen them!), socks, even a vest. But NO sweaters.

I told Ryan about this a long time ago. I even showed him the book to prove that I'm not totally crazy. He respected this rule. He stole my brown alpaca hat. I made him a blue (suitably manly) scarf. He didn't push (too much) about a sweater.

Now his time has come. I have ordered yarn and new needles (darn...had to buy more needles, terrible thing, that), and found a pattern. Because...






= Sweater!

7th Grade Pizza

Today was the conclusion of the famous 7th Grade Pizza. Hearts were broken. Chicken was barbecued. Yeast was baked at high temperatures.

What?

My first class of the day is what they call "7th Grade Rotation." I have approximately 30 days to teach a dozen and a half 12-year-olds everything they need to know about everything and then they go to art or shop or whatever and I get a new batch (they're like Gremlins, don't get them wet!).

In the course of this class I have learned who the three most popular 7th grade teachers are, because they get the most pizza. It's become a highly coveted prize. Last year's Walmart Teacher of the Year was the only person (besides me, of course...they loooove me) to receive a piece.

This year's first rotation made their dough yesterday and cooked their pizza today. It was good. It helped make my week a lot better all of a sudden. It's been at least a year since Ryan left (and by year, I mean 5 days) and I've had a crap week (whoops...year). They did a good job. It helped...a little...it's a start.

This class is a source of constant amusement. Things I have already learned from 7th graders...

* "I wouldn't buy her a gift until we were married."

* "You can't date your friend's sister." But the girl their friend is "in love" with is okay.

* "The boy should pay (when you're out to dinner)."

* You can burn Velveeta cheese in a microwave if you try hard enough.

* Their favorite subject is lunch.

* Most of them would rather be wise than rich...because they figure they could make money that way.

* They're really bad at Charades.

* They think Hoss's is a fancy restaurant.

* They're excited to cook eggs...and bacon...and French toast. Really excited.

* They help start my day...them and two cups of caffeine.

You can't get there from here (part 2)...

And now the exciting continuation of the expedition to Gatwick Airport (much like previous epic journeys such as the Kon-Tiki expedition, Hilary's climb of Everest, and navigating a Walmart on a Saturday morning)...

When I left off, Ryan was just getting his first dose of the Henneman travel mojo. This rare condition afflicts my mother's side of the family. It does, however, come with the bonus of always finding a parking spot in the front row near the door and generally being right about everything all the time.

At any rate...The train from Brentwood went as far as Stratford (I think...It was awfully early). We took the Underground, ran across some station, hit the Gatwick Express, took a kayak, rode a camel, traveled back in time, and finally arrived at Gatwick Airport. Funny side note...Ryan really is the whitest fast man alive. Even carrying both suitcases (one of which weighed something like 60 pounds...hmmm, I wonder who that belonged to) he had me running to keep up.

Now the real fun begins. Apparently the fine people at Gatwick Airport have some trouble figuring out the basic art of communication. In that, when one person tells you to go to this line, three more tell you you're in the wrong one. It's a very good time, especially when Ryan wakes you up at 4:30. They did however (eventually) manage to seat us together, so I can't complain too loudly.

Some of you may recall the earlier story of the 18 miles I walked to get from the plane to the terminal when I arrived in England. Apparently, the same is true in the opposite direction. After another 18 mile long trek and a Starbucks kiosk manned by one lone (and flustered) employee, we reached the right gate. Of course, we were searched again, because I look incredibly dangerous. Finally, some 6 or so hours later we were on our way.

Of course, I could detail the 8 hour plane ride, but I'd like to keep our readership high...so I will refrain from describing in great detail the 3 or 4 episodes of CSI I watched or the absolutely fantastic chicken-like sandwich we were served.

Up next in the epic tale of our perilous journey...we will answer the questions that have plagued mankind through the ages:

Why is Newark, New Jersey so incredibly fabulous?

Why would anybody accept luggage from a stranger?

Why can't Ryan get a smaller Sam Adams?

Why is it my bag that gets lost on its way to Pittsburgh?

Why don't I have any American money?

Why does Papa John's pizza taste so great at 9:30 at night?

You can't get there from here (part 1)...

Oh, where to begin. I guess the beginning is as good a place as any.

It's already been implied (perhaps more strongly than necessary by some) that I am not a morning person...so when Ryan revealed his 'high level' plan to get up around 4:30 on Sunday in order to get to Gatwick and come on home to Erie, I was understandably less than enthused.

His plan...leave Brentwood around 5:30. The train's plan...leave Brentwood at 6:35. That's the earliest train that leaves on Sunday. In a way, I kinda respect it. I wouldn't get up early on Sunday if I didn't have to either. ( I would like to point out now, because I didn't do it then, that I did not take this opportunity to point out to Ryan that I could have stayed in bed...that took a lot of effort...ahhh, the things we do for love.)

So we left Brentwood station on time (well, the train's time...not Ryan's time). Of course, we couldn't travel directly to where we wanted to because of work being done (aren't Sundays faboo?). This is fairly standard procedure in London and I think the locals just get accustomed to never travelling directly to where they want to go.

What Ryan didn't understand is that this is all part of travelling with me. For those of you who missed the fantastic beginning of my trip...let me explain.

I left Erie on Sunday, July 1. My mom drove me to Cleveland (thanks, mom!) and left very early to humor me (which is a good thing because, apparently, as they were leaving the airport there was a huge backup that we would have been stuck in...see, I told you). I waited around in the manner of most at airports all over the world after being thoroughly searched (because, God knows, I look dangerous) . Now, even not having flown often, I knew something was wrong when they hadn't started boarding and there was only 10 minutes or so until the flight was supposed to leave. Of course, it was cancelled. A crew member had gotten sick (read, drunk...no, I really don't know that for sure) and they couldn't find anyone to fill in.

After a lovely night in the Cleveland Airport Marriot (which was actually pretty nice, all things considered...try the stuffed mushrooms at Jack's steakhouse if you ever have the misfortune of being in Cleveland) I was back at the airport. I was back at the airport 6 hours early because I had to check out at noon and my plane left at 6:00. Yay! Nothing like 6 hours in an airport.

I'm sitting, waiting for the second start of this journey when my new friend Scott Z. from Delta (the guy who had set me up after the failed flight the night before) grabs me and very quietly ushers me to the next gate. Scott was making me a little nervous as he started typing furiously on the computer here. Then I hear the guy at the gate I was supposed to be at announce a delay that would have made me miss my connection in New York. Our hero, Scott, is putting me on a flight to Cincinatti, so I can make it to Gatwick (hooray for Scott from Delta). All of this was accompanied by much hurried texting to (a half-asleep) Ryan and my mom. Very nice. The flight was okay (as okay as any 8-ish hour flight can be) and I was on my way.

The flight was a little early, so, of course, Ryan was a little late (missed the train he wanted to get). Now, remember...I've had a rough start and I've barely slept and this is my first trans-Atlantic flight and I can't find the only person in this (bloody) country that I know, so after the tenth person I hit with my bags, I'm getting a little anxious. Then, this guy runs into me. Just bumps right into me. I've got two big bags and I'm obviously a little stressed and he just runs right into me, but because I'm a nice person, I turn and start to say excuse me to this jerk. Instead, I give him a huge hug, because it's Ryan. He ran into me on purpose. Dork.

This was followed by some subway and train rides of which I have almost no recollection whatsoever (even though they were firsts, too!) and Ryan substituting carrying my (rather heavy) bags up and down all the stairs in London for his workout that day. When I asked him if I could at least carry something, he handed me the umbrella. Still a dork.

As Bill Cosby always said..."I told you that story so I could tell you this one..." The rest of our trip back make sense in light of my travel mojo.

Stay tuned for the continuing saga of our return trip in which many trains don't go where they're supposed to, many people from Continental don't know what the hell they're talking about, and my bag gets to Erie a day behind me (hopefully).

The Rat Pack..Live (in a manner of speaking) and Swingin'

Another Friday night in Canary Wharf...this one cut unfortunately short by what was supposedly a summer shower (quite frankly it felt more like October, but...hey). Featured this week were the performers from a West End tribute the immortal Sammy, Dean, and Frank. As quite a big dork, I mean fan, of this music for a number of years, I can tell you they weren't half bad. The gentleman impersonating the legendary Francis Albert Sinatra was the best, even with a bit of British peaking out from under his adopted Hoboken accent. The big band from Brighton that accompanied them was spectacular. They played a great Soul Bossa Nova (both Quincy Jones and Austin Powers would have been proud).

Bruce and Caroline, formerly of New Zealand, were present once more, but had much better seats than we did. Instead, proving how small the planet really is, we were sitting in front of a group that included some Americans. Not only were they from Columbus, Ohio, but one plays hockey for a school that competes against Mercyhurst and another has friends in Saegertown (what are the odds?). The latter took this picture...

The Friday nights at Canary Wharf have become not only a (free) good time, but an opportunity to hone my picnic skills. This week's menu included sandwiches of brie and hand-carved turkey breast (deli meat means something very different here) a la Christie's Baby at Figgie's, the now-famous stuffed mushrooms, more cherry tomatoes, more fruit, chocolate eclairs (from the bakery I want to live at), a bottle of German rose, and (of course) the obligatory Toblerone. (I would just like to note that I got exactly two pieces of the Toblerone.)

Ryan has expressed some feelings of inferiority in the face of my culinary prowess...I would like to state, for the record, that, under the circumstances, his picnic was superb...I had all day to stuff mushrooms and make sandwiches...Now, if he'd just stop eating all the Toblerone.

During the "interval" the rain that had been threatening all night started to fall. We stayed for a bit in the cover of one of the many huge buildings that ring the park as they started singing again..."Singin in the Rain" and "Stormy Weather"...very clever. We left after a medley of West Side Story songs by "Sammy" to the accompaniment of a bongo.

Canary Wharf Take 2

Back to Canary Wharf Friday night for Moya Brennan (the mother of contemporary Irish music)! Bono said of her voice, "It's the most enchanting sound that any human being will ever experience" :-) We agree!! And in an enchanting place...or at least as an enchanting as it gets in "Big City" London ;-). I'm a sucker for a skyscraper and the whole thing is surreal (see pic at left for an idea).

OH THE IRONY!!! Moya on the big screen singing so beautifully in Irish and strokin her harp just 20 yards from the site of one of the biggest IRA attacks in history!

Last week I pulled off one of the best impromptu picnics in the long and distinguished history of British Picnics (caps). This week, once again, Lynnsey proved her culinary prowess (outdoing herself and me in the process); this picnic was FABUSCRUMPTUOUS! Everyone who passed by our blanket (parked about 15 yds from stage btw) was droolin: garlic herb tortellini in a marinara sauce, fresh ripe cherry tomatoes, roasted chicken, ciabatta and olive oil, fresh berries, a bottle of fine french chardonnay AND TIRAMISU...oh and...the Toblerone thief struck again!

Chilly night but we kept each other warm after killing the bottle of vino. We'll have to blog soon about the weather (I know Lynns has touched on it a bit already but it deserves a whole dissertation. Reeeedickulous! But you just start to roll with the punches after a while. Next time it rains I'm gonna bring my camera with me so stay tuned :-). The sum of it is that its A LOT cooler here than in the US.

The coolest part of the evening (like that transition) though was meeting Bruce and Caroline Le Gros. Interesting couple from New Zealand of all places who live aboard their boat, came here 20-30 years ago and stayed. Not sure what they do exactly (we didn't get that far) but he was deadeye dick with a camera and took this shot of us :-)...hopefully we can feenangle our way into dinner on their barge on the Thames :-D!

Off to watch the first Pyrennean mountain stage of the Tour!

Yours Truly,
--R

A study of the Ryan in his natural habitat

Today we take a look at the Ryan in his natural habitat. These never-before-seen photos bring to light the strange, but fascinating, daily routine of this mysterious creature.

In the photo below, we see the Ryan on his 'computer.' The Ryan spends a great deal of time throughout the day seemingly attached to this strange device. He seems especially attracted to something called "news."

Here we see the Ryan in his most natural state. He is holding what researchers initally called a 'blackberry,' but have renamed 'crackberry' because of the Ryan's apparent addiction to it. Interestingly, when the device is taken from the subject, he gets increasingly anxious. Researchers are debating the ethical questions of depriving the Ryan of his 'blackberry' to further study the effects of its absence.

Again, the Ryan is captured on film with his 'blackberry.' This time, however, he seems to be using it as some sort of primitive communication device. Perhaps he is looking for more "news."

One intrepid photographer, at great personal risk, startled the Ryan early in the morning at his most dangerous. Here, we see him with a cup of some sort of caffeinated beverage.



Researchers are excited to continue their studies of this Ryan and will be periodically releasing new findings to the public as they understand more about this intriguing specimen.

Mum's the word...

Essex has great schools. More than half (I believe) of the top 10 in England are located here.

This might explain the odd thing I've noticed while wandering around our little corner of it...A large percentage of women are in one of the following three situations when I see them in my daily wanderings:

1. Pregnant...very, very pregnant. Not just pregnant, but annoying, happy, cute pregnant. Not my-ankles-are-swollen-I'm-the-size-of-a-house pregnant, but Liz-Lange-pretty-clothes-cutesy pregnant.

2. Pushing a "buggy" with a newborn (not a "proper pram like we used to 'ave" as the lady at the laundromat told me today while I waited for the sheets to dry...some things you just can't hang on a drying rack). These strollers are usually the double kind and often have a toddler in them as well. Most of the time that toddler is way too old (in my humble, but educated opinion) to be in a stroller.

3. They are pregnant (again, cutesy pregnant...not I-vomitted-all-morning pregnant) AND pushing a buggy with (usually) an infant in it.

There are an alarmingly large number of them. I'm thinking of going into business selling buggies, as a matter of fact. If they ever decide to revolt, all of England will be in danger.

It must be something in the water. I think I'll have some juice.

The Sun Never Rises on the British Empire...

Every morning it's beautiful here when we wake up (I mean when Ryan wakes up and I pretend that I'm awake and mumble incoherently for a bit...stinkin' morning people). Anyways, it's sunny and not too cool, not too warm. Then around 8 a.m. it clouds over. It's great again around 10, then cloudy again around noon, when it usually tries to rain. Sunny again until about 3 p.m. when, according to the locals, it rains just in time for school to let out. Every day. If you don't like the weather, wait 5 minutes...It'll change. This place makes Edinboro, PA seem consistent.

It was starting to rain...around 3 p.m. (go figure) when I took this picture of my second favourite (they've gotten to me!) sign.

I say this is my second favorite sign, because we passed one the other day that I pray I'll be able to take a picture of. We were in the car on the way back from Stanstead Airport (no, this was not the time Ryan nearly killed me...although riding with him certainly livens up my days) and I saw a sign that said, "Secret Nuclear Bunker." (C'mon, SECRET nuclear bunker? That's funny! I don't think I'd want a sign on my secret nuclear bunker...) If we can find it again, I promise I'll take a picture.

P.S. Mom, Ryan didn't really almost kill me...I was just kidding. He's really doing quite well...what, with the steering wheel being on the wrong side of the car, having to shift with his left hand, and driving on the wrong side of roads which are often only a car and a half wide. You'd be proud!

Paddy Whack

One of our buddies is crashing at our place in Brentwood this week. Sort of an Austin Powers International Man of Mystery type - from Darkest Peru, did a stint in London, lived out of his backpack in Corfu...He showed up at our door on Sunday looking like he'd been in hibernation for 4 months. Said he passed out on St. Patrick's day at Molly's and just woke up with 4 sets of beads and a wad of Andy Jacksons in his g-string...I don't wanna know...

L & R

My cup of tea...

This really is my cup of tea (although tea is better in the kitty cup Ryan bought for me...you know the way ice cream tastes better on a fork?) in our kitchen here in fabulous Brentwood, Essex. You know, the one that has a washing machine in it. I drank a lot of tea before I came to England, just ask my seventh graders. Tea is about the only thing they're doing right.

This leads me to the question of British cuisine (I'll take oxymorons for 100, Alex...). People in the United Kingdom are in deep denial about the quality of their native cuisine. What's funny is their obvious preoccupation with other foods. There are more Italian, Indian, Chinese, and French restaurants in Brentwood (in that order, I think) than there are pubs (and that's saying alot!) not to mention all the cookbooks available dealing with other cuisine. If you dare to address the situation, however, they are much offended. It's as though they can ignore the fact that the rest of the the world thinks their food is horrible.

Toad in the hole, bangers and mash, bubble and squeak, spotted dick? C'mon! Who wants to eat something called spotted dick? It's actually a sponge dessert (or pudding) with raisins and some not alltogether disgusting things, but it's still called spotted dick. Don't even get me started on haggis...

So, as an American who is a reasonably accomplished cook, I have dutifully looked through the "cookery books" and tried to find something that look normal or at least edible. I haven't really come up with much (with the possible exception of a recipe from Gordon Ramsay...the Hell's Kitchen guy...it was a ravioli of brioche pastry around a sphere of chocolate ganache that is deep fried and then rolled in sugar...I just gained back some weight thinking about it).

I have made tacos. That was an interesting shopping trip. And just ask Ryan about trying to find maple syrup, eh? Those of you in Erie, thank your neighbors to the north for their often underappreciated contribution. He finally found two bottles and bought both just in case! You certainly can't have (the best) French toast (ever) without syrup.

I went all traditional on Sunday and made a roast (I think that counts as the "meast and two veg"). It was better as leftovers. I think that's the point, actually.

I'm plotting on picnic-y stuff for another Friday in Canray Wharf. That shouldn't be too hard...Should it?

Tomorrow's dinner is pork chops and home-made mcaroni and cheese (which Ryan seems to think means Kraft). I have to admit, for all my abilities in the kitchen, I love some Shake 'N Bake on pork chops. The original chicken kind, not the pork. I never though I'd find it here in Englad. I was right, but I found something even funnier...

The Empire Strikes Back

We were totally stoked out last night! The BBC has a summer series at Canary Wharf's Canada Tower Park. Last night the London Symphony Orchestra played movie scores. These are the guys that brought you the Star Wars score 30 years ago and they finished with a set from the movie!! Way cool! Na Na Nana Na...!

We improvised a picnic on the pitch with a bottle of screw top rose (no glasses necessary) and a stick of Toblerone :-) (see left some guy trying to steal our picnic)

The building in the foreground is the HQ of Barclays, the one to the left is the HQ of HSBC. An the big one above is Canada Tower, the tallest building in London. Who says size doesn't matter? :-D.

R

Mind the Gap

They say that England and the U.S. are two countries separated by a common language. You realise (ha!) this the first time you try to find the exit or the dish soap.





We all knew this, of course, but it's sometimes truly funny to be immersed in it. I'm not sure why exactly it is that I am so cracked up by the "way out" as opposed to the exit. Or why "washing up liquid" is amusing (especially since I don't much care to wash dishes). It is, regardless of the logic behind it, a constant source of amusement.

It's not just that, either. I'm of the firm belief that the washing machine does not belong in the kitchen. Nor do I understand why people who live in one of the dampest places I've ever been seem to be unconcerned with owning a dryer. Unfortunately for me, the washer continues to maintain its existence in the kitchen no matter how silly I think it is. It's probably not going anywhere either, so I guess I'll just have to live with it.

Everything here makes me think of a Monty Python sketch. Really, everything. No kidding. I never really understood how perfectly they satirized this culture. Things are even funnier in light of being here and experiencing it, even thirty-odd years later.

--Lynnsey