Admittedly, I have learned that blogging is a lonely adventure. You pour your heart & soul into some nice little piece of script and launch it to the Web for all to view. And you discover that your efforts are just a shadow of you former social self... the silence is then deafening (except for the demands of my singular fan whom we shall call No. 1 Fan - N1F for short).

However much like trying to loose weight by eating just chocolate (a diet I highly recommend), even in the plateaus one must persist (just one more bite of a Belgian cream). So, after a rather long hiatus and avoidance of a bloggerblock, I will endeavor to stare at my blue happy light in the mornings (if one can tell what hour is actually morning from the limited light outside) and resurrect my lonely blog and write little ditties into the vast silence of space.

Maybe drinking more will help...

When living in London, one should be lucky enough to live near a 20's crash pad (often filled with Kiwis or Aussie's) where you can experience the true sights and sounds of an all-night party - that you have not actually been invited to. Music is good, party goers are drunk until all hours, and in the morning you are then privileged to behold the wobbly aura of the party survivors left standing on the garage roof (still holding their beers, trousers optional).

During the most recent extreme party fest at the Kiwi all-night party-pad next door, a pair of shoes narrowly escaped the rigors of party mania by sneaking through an open window and landing on a small sturdy roof. (Please note: We are confident that this small roof is indeed sturdy because the house is actually inhabited by roofers who are still employed).

After waiting almost 2 days for the owners feet, the shoes decided to wander on and have not been seen since. Most likely they have started a new life by joining the Oxfam bin down the street (which is conveniently located in front of the cemetery).

This Saturday eve Brian (Expat husband), Milo (large dog) and myself once again failed to plan in advance, call anyone, or book tickets to some comedy (it is UK comedy Season). Although it would have been productive to paint the living room or Hoover the hall, instead we dug out a few DVDs my sister gave us before she escaped the UK. One of these excellent flicks turned out to be Valley of the Dolls, which neither Brian nor I had ever seen... until now.

The storyline was spectacular, editing and music stupendous, we have no idea how we lasted so long without seeing this cinematic masterpiece. In celebration of finally achieving enlightenment, I brought Brian a bowl of dolls (which are actually being played by raisins as that is all we had in the house) and he is now practicing his 1960's dancing and screaming "everybody loves me".

Too curious, we are now watching Beyond the Valley of the Dolls which came in the DVD 2-pack.

NOTE: This blog entry has been deemed "not of proper quality for Lorie's Blog" by my critics (which has been agreed by the author of the blog too). I promise never to write without ingesting mass quantities of caffeine in the future.

Yes, it is true my many readers (who number less than my fingers), I have been neglecting my blogging duties during the Summer season. However, I think often about blogging and take many pictures - like this one about my new MN Lake Cabin pet It-Sam.

I discovered this exceedingly cute critter (just look at his little head-wings!) while drinking my first morning of MN Lake coffee and sitting in the "keep the bugs out" mesh enclosure built by my father-in-law to ward off the MN bird-bugs. As my first MN lake pet of 2008, I decided to name him Sam. However my mother-in-law commented that a more appropriate name would be "it" - thus the crafty name of It-Sam was agreed. Although similar in size to many of the local MN mosquitos, It-Sam is actually "some kind of big bug".

Sadly, it is likely that It-Sam passed away sometime last week, though we are confident that he lived a full fluttery life.

As seen attacking this parked auto (believed to be a BMW of posh origin), this London leaf was spotted and photographed before it could flutter off to do more damage to London transportation. These dangerous leaves are rarely spotted, but feared by all District and Circle Line Underground riders and operators alike. Usually rumored to be at their most vicious in the Autumn season, the fearsome London leaf are known to attack innocent above ground Tube tracks.

Usually informed about a random London leaf attack when the announcement "Leaves on Track"  is broadcast on station loudspeakers, District or Circle rail passengers live in fear of the London leaf during the Autumn commuting season. "My blood runs cold and I shake a little when I hear that London leaves are in the area" said Alfred Nigel Puddle, a frequent passenger traveling on the Circle Line "but I know that train officials are doing their best to protect the trains from future London leaf attacks."

Unfortunately London Underground officials declined to comment on the type of danger posed by the dangerous London leaf due to public security. "Our top priority is keeping passengers safe during a London leaf attack", said one unnamed Earl's Court station master, "not getting them to a particular destination."

For many of us who try to make ends meet living in London                              (as you may have heard, life here is a bit expensive), we                                  are always happy to find a healthy inexpensive meal out. Lucky for us local Londoners, car parking and a proper English Breakfast may often be found in the very same place.

Next week parking spaces will feature a curry lunch.

A friend commented recently how much she would like a quaint English garden for her home in the US. She was quite jealous of the wonderful English gardens that we enjoy while living in London. Although our garden is nothing special (mostly storage + Milo's bathroom), instead I thought it would be nice to feature a view of our neighbors lovely garden. Just imagine bees buzzing, birds chirping, + bunnies hopping around this beautiful example of English culture at it's finest... I can smell the flowers now...

While visiting Berkeley last week, I discovered a horrible truth that had been hidden from my view by my father. While caring for the beloved Purple Clover (not son-of-purple-clover who lives in the UK), it appears that my good father (commonly known as GF) failed at his duties of ensuring the continued happiness and conditions to which Purple Clover had become accustomed. These conditions to which Purple Clover had become accustomed included a substance named water.

Sadly, it appears that GF caused the demise of the original Purple Clover... and then he covered up his eeevil crime. Realizing that I would be visiting soon and immediately ask about the welfare of Purple Clover, GF obtained an appendage of one of the cloned children of Purple Clover (this child now lives in a large area under a deck in the Bay Area, very Harry Potter) and then he secretly planted it in the original hand-painted-art-pot designed for Purple Clover. Propped on the Purple Clover porcelain throne, I was oblivious to the hideous deception of the Zombie Purple Clover (though quite impressed with his robust health). Although I am still working through the grief of loosing such a good friend at the hands of my father (time for more therapy), no one else in the family appears concerned by the fact that my father continues to babysit my niece Zoe...

Sometimes when traveling with one's spouse (and sponging off the corporate account) one runs into the coolest design (this would be because as a sponging spouse, one often has a bit of time on one's hands because one's spouse is actually working... but that is just a detail).

While meandering the Art Deco/Art Nouveau city of Helsinki in April 2008 eating my snack of Reindeer jerky and looking for Cloudberry jam or maybe a set of Marimekko ear muffs (just to fit in), I happened upon the most perfect Amoeba sink.

Next I'm on the hunt for a Paramecium bath...

While drinking my morning tea and re-setting my circadian rhythms for 30 minutes with my beloved blue light, I always notice the Edwardian fireplace "featured" in our living room. The mantle is painted a basic shade of black (save the faux marble designs which are made to look like the real marble inset - can you tell which one is real?) and it has rusting iron insert with these horrid flowery granny tiles. Additionally, whatever ancient system that was supposed to keep the chimney gunge way up in the chimney has clearly failed. Thus some swift-thinking fireplace expert shoved several orange recycling bags up the chimney to hold back the flow of 100-year-old debris from falling into our living room. Depending on how much the wind is blowing, one can see just enough of the orange recycling bag creature as it breathes in and out of the chimney entrance.

For almost a year now, I have looked at this fireplace while sipping my tea and wondered "What can I do to make this Edwardian monstrosity in my living room look just a bit better? Gut it? Paint it? Get some new tiles? Bring back some black Rust-o-leum from the US? Or maybe just paint the tiles?" Luckily, there does exist an inspiring British invention of tile paint, which was clearly brought into being due to situations just like these... 

As my longest living pet (17 years and counting), I am happy to announce that the son-of-purple clover is moving up the evolutionary chain with 4 growing leaves (note: there are 2 little ones that are hard to see in the picture). The parent of Son-of-purple clover, Purple Clover, does not admit any knowledge of how this son was conceived or when it was illegally smuggled across the pond to England. Purple Clover continues to reside and thrive with Father-of-Lorie in Berkeley.

Once upon a time a long long time ago (when I was 9 years old) we had a cat named Figaro. Unfortunately Figaro did not have a very good life with small children, so eventually she began to protest by using the whole house as her personal litter box. Never dealing well with a fecal challenge, my mother unceremoniously announces to my brother (Danny) & I that she sent our beloved (though horribly mistreated) white cat to a place of no return. After many hysterical tears, I did not speak to my mother for several days.

Just a few years later (I am now 11 years old), my younger sister has this pet white rabbit (Snowflake) who has a little eating problem where her teeth don't grow or work right. So unfortunately poor Snowflake cannot eat without hand-feeding.

One day my sister, brother and I arrive home from school to the smell of freshly baked cookies, the happy sounds of Simon and Garfunkel are playing in the background, and my mother asks us to all sit down in a nice friendly circle in the kitchen. Relaxed and calm we each get a cookie (or two) and my mother begins the story of Snowflake and how she took her to the vet to figure out a way to help her eat. As it turned out the vet knew of this little old man who lived on a place called Bunny Island where he took in and cared for pets with special needs. As my mother explained, she immediately handed Snowflake over to this vet to go to the little old man and the many other friendly bunnies on Bunny Island to ensure that Snowflake would have the best possible life and we would never have to worry that the bunny was getting properly fed. Happy in the knowledge that Snowflake was in a wonderful place with many friends and a little old man to take care of her, my brother, sister & I ate more cookies and then watched cartoons.

So lets fast-forward a bit... and maybe a bit more... I am now 22. I am taking a gap year after college in New York where Danny (now age 20 and has revised his name to Dan) is also attending film school at NYU. One afternoon I am chatting with my sister on the phone about all our family pets and we talk about how poorly my mother handled the removal of Figaro from our home, but how wonderful it is that Snowflake moved to live with a little old man and that wonderful place called Bunny Island. My sister noted that she had not noticed exit off of I-80 for... that wonderful place where Snowflake went called Bunny Island... oh...ooo...oh no. Ugh. There was suddenly a lot of silence as we realized the true meaning of Bunny Island.

I decided to check in with Dan to see if he was maybe a bit more intellectually advanced than his sisters. So I asked him if he remembered where Snowflake the white bunny of more than 10 years ago lived.... "Oh definitely" Dan replied, "Snowflake lives on a little island...with an old...man....oooo ugh".