Okay, I understand that cursing is probably not the most graceful way to jump back into a blog but seriously people, holy shit. Today when I tentatively typed in my url to check on my little blog here there was a part of me that believed it had been, oh, 3 or 4 months since I last posted (obviously, this part of me lives in a world where unicorns drop us off on mountains of sundaes, which we ski down landing in lakes of calorie-free fudge sauce; a magical place where leggings actually are pants). Imagine my surprise when I realized it has been almost TWO YEARS since I last wrote here. See? I think that deserves a serious “holy shit.”

The funny thing is that with all I’ve been doing (and it’s been a doozy of a two years – moving numerous times, new jobs, new friends and a couple of big surprises I’ll share later this week) this little blog has haunted me wherever I go. And today it hit me that being scared of restarting and looking foolish is not a reasonable excuse for stopping something I genuinely enjoy. Well, that and my husband told me it was time to put up or shut up and I think we can all imagine the terror I felt at the prospect of not talking.

So, I’m back and rather than making any large pronouncements (which I realize I’m quite prone to) I’m going to say, “It’s lovely to see you all again and I look forward to many adventures ahead.”

Never fear, though, I’m still doing all sorts of fun things – like resting my fevered face on our bathroom’s cool tiles and slamming glasses of oj followed by chasers of Theraflu. Really, there’s no end to the good times around here.

This little post has sapped all of the energy I’ve stored up over the past two days so I need to go take a 4-hour nap in order to recover. I’ll talk to you all on the other side of this nonsense.

LB: If you could only eat one of the following foods for the rest of your life, keeping in mind you will never again be able to eat the other ones, which would you choose? Volcanic Beef, Amici’s pizza, Indian or pork cracklin.

Me: Oh my God. WHY do you do this to me? I don’t know I have to think. Only one! This is so hard. Okay, I know I’m not going to choose Indian or pork cracklin.

LB: You’re not picking pork cracklin? But didn’t you just write a whole post on how much you love pork cracklin? I know that because I read your blog every single day. It’s the highlight of my day, I mean, life.

Me: I just think I’ll get sick of too much pork cracklin, ya know? Once a week for the rest of my life? That’s a lot.

LB: Excellent thinking. I’d just like to point out that one of the things I love best about you is your intelligence. Right behind your beauty and singing voice.

Me: Thanks. Me too. So, now we’re down to Volcanic Beef and Amici’s?  I don’t know!  I love them both so much! This is soooo hard. Wait, is there a way that I can alternate choices somehow? Like maybe visit one of them, only just on weekends?

LB: Kara. You need to think of this like a marriage. Only to your favorite food. You have to choose the one you like best and that’s it. No visiting. No thinking about it. You are committed.

Me:  So, I would never, ever be able to eat the other one? Okay, I think I would totally get sick of Volcanic Beef so I’m choosing the pizza.

LB: Wrong. You love Volcanic Beef more than pizza.

Me: I know! You’re totally right. As soon as I said, I instantly regretted my decision! Volcanic Beef, it is! I am married to Volcanic Beef for the rest of my life.

LB: That is really good we just got that sorted.

1. I’m really bad at it. The one time I knowingly flaunted the law a couple of friends convinced me (yes, they made me do it, Mom) to jump the fence at a local community center so we could sit in the hot tub. Our luxuriating lasted about two minutes before the security guard ferreted us out (my friend’s LOUD TALKING could have had something to do with it. I warned her repeatedly she should keep her voice down but did she listen? No! It was like she just couldn’t stop having fun!) and while everyone else ran, I was somehow petrified into place. A very loyal friend stayed with me and watched with disbelief (at the depth of my cunningness, obviously) as I gave my name as “Kara Krull.” Oh, wait. You can’t see how clever I was. See, you pronounce my name “Car-uh” but the name I gave him was “Care-uh.” Fiend-ish, no? Oh, and, I added an “r’ to my last name. They will never track me down.

2. My reflexes cannot to be trusted. For example, I once slammed a car door on my hand. No, you read that right. I slammed the car door onto my own hand. Got into the car and for some reason left my right hand on the roof while I reached over with my left hand and slammed the door shut. And, I did not think to open the door. No, instead I turned to my best friend and said, with tears in my eyes, “Holy shit. My hand is stuck in the door.” She had to open the door while I sat there watching her.  And I should note: the only reason I can still type today is because her car was such a genuine piece of crap that instead of breaking my hand, I bent her car door. I was like The Hulk for one brief instant…

I was going to add a third but I think that pretty much sums it up.

But, on Monday I did it. I successfully broke the law. Well, okay, not the law but Apartment Rules. Well, so they’re not written down anywhere but everyone knows you’re not supposed to do it, okay?

I rode our apartment’s luggage cart up and down our hallway (I believe “surfed the way” would be the technical term) over and over (basically until LB got tired of dragging me around, ie. was worn out by my shrieking and giggling) and I DIDN’T GET CAUGHT!

This could usher in a whole new era; sneaking into multiple movies while only paying for one, calling people to ask if their refrigerator’s running and all sorts of other untold events that are best not discussed here.  If you know what I mean. WINK, WINK.

Or pork cracklin. Well, we might have pork cracklin. I don’t actually know if Winter Park has pork cracklin because before Saturday morning, I’d never tasted pork cracklin. Now, though, I totally understand why there is an entire Network dedicated to Food and I firmly believe pork cracklin should have its own show. I can’t say pork cracklin enough. It’s like I’m trying to resurrect those few, brief moments I had with pork craklin before it was gone. Pork cracklin, pork cracklin, pork cracklin. It’s not working.

Here’s LB’s sandwich. Notice his hand. If you had a sandwich with pork cracklin on it, you would feel possessive as well.

Here are our potatoes. They were also ridiculously good. Although they were not pork cracklin.

Here’s the truck where we bought our pork cracklin. Although it was a lot more full when we bought our pork cracklin. This is several hours later when I went back to visit.

Pork cracklin.

Our entire weekend wasn’t completely consumed by pork cracklin (officially). We also went to Mount Davidson and looked at some of the most amazing views I’ve seen of the city, we tooled around the Mission, we visited the ocean that I completely forgot we lived by (LB: That makes sense that you’d forget the entire Pacific Ocean.) and took a bunch of pictures, which I’d planned on posting here until I found this website and realized my photos of San Francisco are like overcooked bacon to Caliber’s pork cracklin.

But had you known me back in the day… Wait a minute! This is exactly what I’m going to sound like talking to my kids! It’s like deja vu, only in reverse. What would that be? Va vu? Vava vu? Vavavoom?  I don’t know; I don’t speak French. Anyway, had you known me “in the day”  you would not be surprised at all I knew the words to Dead songs because I looked like this:

Okay, upon closer inspection, I realize I don’t actually look like I’m following the Dead at all (which I wasn’t); I look like I’m on my way to class (which I was) with a really bad perm that is growing out much too slowly (Lordy be, it really was) while wearing a really ugly jacket that I will not realize is ugly until I see an ex-boyfriend wearing the same one (it was so, so ugly).

And I will admit that while I listened to the Dead and jam bands and saw more concerts than you can shake at stick at (and now I’ve become a grandma) I pretty much saw the “jam” parts as “the bit you had to make it through in order to get to the words.” So, in all actuality, I’m not even a little bit of a Dead Head. I’m not even sure how you spell Dead Head – Deadhead? DeadHead? Dead Haede? Ack! It’s starting to look like it’s not a word anymore, like when you say the word “toilet” too much and then can’t remember what it means and it totally freaks you out because you know that you know the word toilet but the word doesn’t sound anymore like the word you thought was toilet before and how can a word lose its meaning like that just by repeating it over and over again and, dude, I’m totally flipping out right now and freaking myself out, I just want toilet to go back to meaning toilet!

So. I believe the conclusion we can come to is this: I didn’t follow the Dead, I don’t look like I followed the Dead, I wasn’t especially into the Dead but I can sing along to a few of their songs.

Another hard day’s work, all wrapped up, here at the blog.

Now, on to the orders of the day!

1.  Do you have your Incogneato yet?  All of these cool kids do… JustKat, Little Bit Funky, Big Glasses.  And, if that’s not enough incentive, it’s free! Just send me a quick email with your address and viola! a master disguise (purse-size) will find its way to your mailbox…

2. Would you mind taking a sec to vote for me? So, I entered a couple of my greeting cards into this competition and really, really, really want to make it into the next round. Just click here to vote. And thank you!

3. I keep forgetting to tell you when my Chat, Chew and Chocolate is updated… It’s updated! I take you through some tips on shopping discount stores, tell you how to look old fast, and then (as if that wasn’t traumatizing enough) give you another way to look old.

4. And, I spent some time today organizing all of the Fun Project categories (look in the right hand column and click on “Fun Project”), in case you decide you want to play along. Although after today’s post, I’m thinking that’s probably not very likely…

Have a fabulous weekend!

Fine, my plan was a little lame. But you know what is not lame? My adoration for Joel McHale. I know, I know. The first thought that pops into all of your minds is “But, what about G.Love?” And readers, I have given this many, many hours of thoughtful contemplation and have come to the conclusion that there is room enough in my heart for both G. and Joel with a little left over for Becks, if he’s so inclined.

And what better way to convey my adoration than by trying to plant one on Joel every time he came on screen? I figured I’d pucker up a couple of times, LB would return with dinner and we’d settle in for a quiet evening with our stories. Except, turns out it’s not quite that easy…

The photo log presented here documents one woman’s descent into Crazy Town and should not be viewed by: ex-boyfriends, future employers, small children, Joel McHale, G. Love (or Special Sauce for that matter), people who suffer from heart conditions, anyone over the age of 25 or anyone under the age of 30.

A couple of noteworthy details:

-These are the photos where I look least crazy.  If you can imagine. Please don’t.

-LB walked in in the middle of it all. He looked at me. He looked at Joel. He put his hand out for the camera.

-From here on out, you never again have to worry about taking a bad picture because I can guarantee I will have posted one on the Internet that is worse. It’s my gift to you. Go forth and grimace.

LB and I live about one block back from the water and for a gal who grew up in landlocked Colorado, it’s been spectacular. Standing on our balcony we’ve watched: seals, pelicans, sea gulls, tourists screaming on the Rocket boat, very large cargo barges, yachts (including one whose classical music was turned up so loud we kept going downstairs because we were convinced there had to be a concert somewhere nearby, not realizing it was coming instead from their rockin’ party yacht), a cruise ship, and once, a car on fire (well, that was on the Bay Bridge but we could see the actual flames so I’m counting it).

And, if you venture off the balcony, it gets even better. At the local dock you can sometimes see the seals up close and personal as they swim   by, off to entertain the folks at Fisherman’s Wharf. The only problem for me is that they make their pilgrimage early. Very early. Like in the 6’s early. And I do many things fairly well; getting up early is not one of them. Ask anyone who has ever lived with me. In fact, comments are open – friends and family, feel free to reminisce among yourselves.

But, I did it. I got up as the sun was rising (you’d have thought my head was on backwards, my poor husband was so confused) and went down to the dock to witness Nature in All Its Glory.

Unfortunately, nature never showed up. No, the seals decided to take the day off or go a different route or maybe hold their collective breath as they went under the dock, because I never saw them. I did see something out in the distance that looked “seal-esque” but a friendly fisherman informed me it was only a bird. So helpful those friendly fishermen.

So, I did get up but I didn’t see the seals. Which begs the question: If your Fun Project event is to see the seals and there are no seals to see, is it still a Fun Project event? I’m thinking…yes?

One of the things I’ve been dying to do before we head back to Denver is a walking tour. And yes, I realize “dying to do” and “walking tour” aren’t typically found in the same sentence but then most people aren’t as all out cRaZy as I am, are they?

Now for those of you who have never taken a walking tour, let me sum them up for you. THEY ROCK. They fill you up with the kind of information you will actually remember. The kind of information that will make you a hit at cocktail parties. For example…

Non-walking tour tidbit:
The City of Edinburgh Council is one of Scotland’s 32 local government council areas.
Snore.

Walking Tour tidbit:
When they buried people in Edinburgh after the Black Plague they would tie a string around the “dead” person’s finger that was connected to a bell above ground. That way if the person was only in a coma and suddenly woke up, they could notify the graveyard staff. Can you imagine working the graveyard shift? “Oh, can’t talk, Ma. Just heard a bell; gotta go unbury someone.”
Tah-dah! Buy this gal another round!

So, I headed over to the Palace Hotel Walking Tour, which is given by San Francisco Walking Tours, and often led by Richard here, who is so knowledgeable that he literally wrote the book on the Palace Hotel. Literally. Like, you can buy it in the gift shop.

Which is the other thing I should mention about walking tours – they are always led by interesting, knowledgeable people who often donate their time just so you look smarter and be more popular. That is called giving, people.

So, I don’t want to ruin all of the interesting bits about the tour, just in case you’re planning on going (which you totally should because it rocks) but here are two tantalizing tidbits.

First, this is a very famous painting (can’t remember its name) by a painter (whose name escapes me) that sits in the bar of the Palace Hotel, and, here’s the good part, features all of the members of the painter’s family. And I do mean all.

(Please note: Richard gave us all of the facts; unfortunately, like sands through an hour glass so is my brain.)

Secondly, President Warren Harding died at the Palace Hotel and while wikipedia claims it was most likely a stroke or heart attack, we know better. There were some very suspicious circumstances surrounding his death and Palace (Hotel) insiders believe his wife did him in. See? Walking tours make you smarter than the Internet.

Like I said, they rock.