oh yates...

scene:  sarah's and my house for a heroes marathon

people: me, sarah, hill, robby, and yates

event: so we're all sitting there when yates's phone rings. it continues to ring and we ask yates if she's going to get it.  she doesn't know the number, and for those of you who don't know yates has an intense phobia of unknown numbers so of course she doesn't answer.  well, about five minutes later it rings again. same number. we ask, hey yates you want one of us to answer it for you?  no, she says, if it were important they would leave a message.  ten minutes later, phone rings again...you sure yates? you don't want robby or hill to answer it for you? no guys, she says, really it's okay.  another five minutes after this the phone rings again, for the FOURTH time...

(ring ring ring, yes the phone has been on loud the entire time and she can't silence it because then "they will know," we all turn to yates...)

yates:  "okay will one of ya'll answer it for me"

robby:  "here i got it yates..."

(on the phone)

robby: "wait pita pit? but yates you didn't order pita-"

yates:  "OH MY GOSH I FORGOT I ORDERED PITA PIT"

the poor poor pita pit man. but hey at his expense we get a great story for the blog.

we love you yates.

i'm not sure if i can convey how funny this actually was in words.

kate

People in Scotland eat blood. And sheep stomachs.

Anna has said and done some pretty priceless things on this trip. Unfortunately, it's hard to know when a quote or situation will translate well onto this blog. But here's one instance that I want to share with all.

For a little background, you should know that Anna, after finally tasting the bliss that is a freshly baked scone, has now become totally obsessed with them. She wants scones all the time, 24/7, talks about them unceasingly, and comments on every type and style of scone we find. Well, last weekend we journeyed to Ireland, and on a tour of the countryside stopped for tea and scones at a little shop.

These were Grade A scones, made even better by the rich clotted cream that was dollopped in plentiful amount on our plates. We praised and complemented them in every way possible; in fact, everything about the experience was perfect, except that someone had baked a few raisins into the scones, which we picked out before eating. During this process Anna raised her head, sighed soberly, looked at me like she was about to say something truly serious and/or important, and emitted this gem:

"I like my scones like I like my men. Without raisins."

The layers of this quote are manifold and very deep. I'll leave its interpretation up to you.