howfabisthat.com

Nov

2009

I’ve been absolutely sidelined by an attack of the flu.

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.

Oct

2009

Please note: This happened exactly as recorded except for the places where it was necessary to modify the dialogue because 1. I couldn’t remember exactly what we said, 2. I wanted to pretend that LB reads this, and 3. I wanted to show myself in the best possible light. Other than that, a verbatim transcript follows.

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.

Oct

2009

I am not a rule breaker for a couple of reasons.

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.

Oct

2009

This weekend, in between shoving stuff into bags and boxes (and I know I’ve mentioned we’re moving 500 bazillion times but I have to keep bringing up because even though we’re only moving a studio apartment, I can’t believe how much stuff (ie. clothes) we have. Where did it all come from? And why aren’t my outfits a whole lot cuter?) LB and I ran around San Francisco, trying to jam as much of it into our brains and bellies as we could. It’s like Saturday morning we realized we’re moving to the mountains for a month and won’t have ready access to Volcanic Beef or bridges or Victorians or trolleys.

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.

Oct

2009

Friday night LB and I went out with some friends to check out a couple of bands – one of which was a Grateful Dead cover band. And you might be surprised, dear readers (as was my husband) to find out just how many songs I knew. Like not as many as the bearded guy in the tie dye but many, many more than you’d expect from a woman wearing a headband with an attached bow.

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.