I don't know if John knew this before we got married, but I have a tendency to make really bad jokes and then think that they are wildly hilarious. Today John and I were sitting down for lunch and he was making a sandwich with ham we got from the deli. The ham wasn't in nice, neat slices, but was really torn up around the edges. I took one look at the ham and said, "man, that deli lady really butchered that ham!" BA DUM BUM. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, I'll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitresses.

Two weeks ago I wrote about the trials of packing for a trip. Now, having returned from that trip, we are home and unpacking. Although it's good to be in our own home again, leaving Kansas is always bittersweet. To those whom we saw on our summer excursion to the heartland, we had a wonderful time. Thank you. And we can't wait to see you all again this Christmas, if not sooner.

People are always saying that the more you travel, the easier it becomes to pack. I think these people are trying to sell something. Since moving to Florida, we have become accustomed to flying off to Kansas to visit family and friends, and never has packing been easy. Inevitably, I feel the need to launder every article of clothing I own in order to pull together just a few outfits for the trip, I wind up packing several pairs of shoes (to the tune of "why does anybody need this many shoes?" by John), and I pack for all seasons-- from the blistering heat of summer to the dead cold of winter. So no, packing has not gotten any easier. And at 3 this morning, I was still thinking of things I had forgotten!

Last week, it rained for two or three days straight here in the Sunshine State. Not that we mind, of course; rain is great for our plants. But on Wednesday night, as I closed the blinds, I noticed that the ugly cedar (that we are in the process of tearing down) that adorns the left side of our fireplace was soaked. (See photos below). After some poking around outside, we noticed that there was no flashing around the chimney, allowing all the water to funnel directly into our living room. A trip to both Home Depot and Lowe's later, we are ready for our first roof-related home improvement project. Stay tuned!

I was reading the Lawrence Journal World this morning and came across this Letter to the Editor (the author's name has been concealed to protect the clinically insane):

Beleaguered bride

To the editor:

Today, the Jennifer Wilbanks' story occupies the top spot in U.S. media. For Pete's sake, leave these people alone so they can live their lives in privacy and resolve their problems at home without the interference of the snoopy media.

The mayor of Duluth, Ga., and the district attorney of Gwinett County (to say nothing of the FBI and GBI) are considering charging her with making a false report (12 months in prison) or even a false statement (a felony resulting in five years in prison). She endured eight bridal showers and the whole event was to cost $60,000.

Someone needs to ask "What's the fiancé got to do with this?" (the media portrays him as a victim of biblical proportions) and also "What's wrong with the poorly funded financial administration of the hard-working Duluth social services and women's safe houses that a desperate woman in our society has nowhere to run but the Greyhound bus station with a ticket to nowhere?"

The political administration of Duluth, Gwinett County and the state of Georgia should be investigated, but certainly not Jennifer Wilbanks. She needs to be welcomed home, loved and not prosecuted. Surely the gas-guzzling, SUV-driving citizens of Duluth can absorb the $40,000 to $60,000 cost of the investigation; they invented the story anyway. They owe it to her since they let her down.

P. M., Lawrence

Not that I know this kook or anything (or if I did, I surely wouldn't admit to it!), but it sounds to me like there might be something lurking beneath this facade of concern for Ms. Wilbanks. "Good morning, this is Dr. Freud's office. Would you like to set up an appointment?" Maybe I'll write to the Journal World and request P.M.'s address, so I can send out a basket of "Get Into Therapy Free" cards...

Just so we're clear: I'm not the only one with odd night habits. In fact, sometimes living with John is like living with someone with Tourette's Syndrome. Allow me to explain: John talks in his sleep. But he's a pretty loud guy, so often times it amounts to him yelling in his sleep. Early the other morning, I was awoken by John shouting "GOOD MATTRESS!" and then falling back asleep. Between John talking in his sleep and my night terrors, we certainly have an interesting night life.

I just saw an ad for a book called "How to Find the Right Person in 90 Days." It had sections marked for each month, presumably telling you how to locate, pursue, and catch your prey. And it made me wonder: if, through no fault of your own, you do NOT find the right person in 90 days... can you sue?

When John and I went to Britain two years ago, we discovered that beverages across the pond are a bit different than they are stateside. When I first ordered a lemonade, for example, I was surprised when the waitress brought me a bubbly drink in a can. It was a San Pellegrino Limonata, and oh how sublime it was. They're pretty hard to find here in Gainesville, but the grocery store down the road just recently started stocking them and we at the Casey household are very excited. In the words of the great Ferris Bueller, "If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up."

After checking my grades online, I found out that I've gotten all A's again this semester! Three cheers for me! Seriously, though, I'd like to thank all the little people who helped me along the way...

Everyone has their quirks. Some people have facial ticks, some people have uproarious laughter, some people talk in their sleep. For my part, I have night terrors. I have had them for as long as I can remember. They tend to follow a basic format: According to John, I sit bolt upright in bed, eyes completely wide open, and I'm staring at something. More often than not, I see a person in the room. Usually the person is holding a weapon, and it's almost always some kind of medieval weapon, like a crossbow or something. And inevitably they're trying to kill us. Sometimes I start screaming, sometimes not. In any case, John can't wake me out of it. Lately, I have taken to trying to jump, like a ninja, out of bed and run to safety. In my mind, I'm tossing back the covers and-- not unlike a cat-- leaping swiftly and deftly out of bed. In reality, John has told me, I sit up, flail my arms and legs, and then propel myself off of the bed and onto the floor. Not at all catlike.

I'm not one to sing the praises of food from restaurant chains. However, there are notable exceptions and yesterday I savored one such exception: the Pear Gorgonzola pizza at California Pizza Kitchen. John and I shot down to Orlando for an end-of-the-semester treat, and there I feasted on CPK's Pear Gorgonzola pizza. It was truly divine. For those of you who haven't yet tried it, I urge you to. Don't be put off by the salad perched atop the pizza; it makes it that much better!