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.

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.

Dear me, where was I? Yes. Did you know that you can make your computer talk? And did you know that NFL games are infinitely more interesting when accompanied by computer-generated commentary?

“Do these brown pants make my butt look fat?”

“I just made me a touchdown. San Diego, tonight, you are on KP duty.”

“I would just like to say boo-ya, in your face. That was an early Halloween joke.”

Updated: So in rereading my commentary I just realized they sound so very, very lame when not done in a computer-generated voice. I apologize.

Updated 2: I was just informed that they are also lame when done in a computer-generated voice.

Updated 3: I was also just informed that there was an entire “Office” episode dedicated to this so there is absolutely NO POINT to this post so please stop reading immediately.

Updated 4: LB’s computer won’t stop saying “boobs”, which I’m going to go ahead and blame on a computer hostage takeover so if I’m dead tomorrow you know why.

Updated 5: Just been informed that “boobs” was also used on the “Office” so LB’s computer can’t even come up with an original idea and all I can say is THANK GOD IT’S 5:00 AND QUITTING TIME.

I went along by myself (LB was sick and honestly, I just didn’t have it in me to spend all day describing to LB the very real pain the dancers would feel after their performances. When they would be unable to lift their phones.) and ended up watching a Mexican dance and then a very abstract dance which featured a lot of dancing with suitcases, all of which was topped off by a dancing man-bird. I’m not sure how else to describe it. Basically, while we walked to the train stop, a guy dressed like a bird performed leaps and spins, culminating in a telephone pole dance that almost took out an unsuspecting lady who happened to be walking by. It looked like a whole lotta fun.

The idea was we’d then get on the train and head off to the next stop, which featured synchronized swimming (what a day, right?). So, I got on the train and sat down with an open seat next to me. And sat there for about five minutes waiting for everyone to board the train (still with the open seat by me) while all the other passengers around me talked and laughed with their friends. And I started to feel like I was back in 8th grade. And 8th grade really, really sucked. Except for Chad Kellogg, who was really cute and had great (albeit heavily gelled) hair. So, I got off the train.

And then, because I’m not 12 and solely concerned with whether or not my hair wings have fallen, I spent the next hour walking around the city, berating myself for not making more of an effort while wondering if maybe I’m not that much fun anymore and maybe this shows I don’t actually know how to “be myself”anymore and maybe, just maybe, if I’d smiled a bit more, or looked more friendly, or, I don’t know, pulled out my Step routine, or something, I’d still be there, laughing away, with my trolley-full of admirers.

You can see where this was going. I arrived back home thoroughly despondent and delivered LB the bad news – he actually had married a social outcast; my days of Friendly Kara were behind me; all he had to look forward to were long days of nothing fun, ever again. And you know what he said?  “Sounds like you weren’t having that good of a time; probably a good thing you left.” Wasn’t having a good time. Probably good I left. Damn.

And THAT is why I married this man.

PS – I have to say something very brief about Saturday’s Fun Project, which was lying in bed, reading (aka. Best Morning Ever). I finished up “Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie”, an absolutely delightful book. It reminds me a bit of the “No. 1 Ladies’ Detective” series in that you just can’t get enough of the main character, Flavia. Such a fun read for these chilly fall days.

With this in mind, I went to my first Step class, something I’ve always wanted to do but was too scared to try because, well, frankly, I lack basic skills in the coordination department. I am the gal who broke her ankle after falling off of a sidewalk. You know the flat bit of concrete generally considered safe for babies, wheelchairs and runners? Not. So. Much.

No matter. I decided Step sounded a lot more fun than pounding the treacherous curbs and sidewalks of San Francisco and that regardless of how many times I tripped over my step (no pun intended) I would keep smiling and concentrate on having a good time.

And, holy cow, was it FABULOUS. A million times better than running any day. There was so much to take in I hardly had time to concentrate on the moves, evidenced by the fact that the only move I actually mastered was the “Funky Repeater,” essentially, a knee bend. In fact, I was so entertained I completely forgot I was working out (remedied today by my inability to extend my calf muscles at all, which means I either have to walk on my tip-toes or hunched over with my knees bent, a source of endless amusement for a certain someone who keeps asking me to fetch things), something that has never happened before.

Not only were there mambo steps and cha-cha-chas and a “Superstar Pivot”, which was all about who could bring the best Supermodel pose (in my mind), but our instructor sang the moves in time to the music. Which is hard. I know because last night before my Class Reenactment Performance, I practiced forever in the bathroom and still couldn’t get it down. There’s something about counting while changing octaves and staying on beat that was just too much for my brain to process. He was good, people. Really, really good.

Also good? My neighbor’s dance moves. He did not miss a beat, kept his toes pointed and even got our instructor back on track when he lost his place, all while shouting out things like “It’s a Step Emergency!” and “Love it! Move it! Do it!” I wanted to fold him up and put him in my pocket to pull out for times when it’s boring around the house.

As for my performance? Awful. A lot of the time I was so lost I just stood on the step, watching everyone else. The rest of the time, I looked like an octogenarian who’d had a few too many wine coolers. I’m totally going back.