If you’d rather bypass my ridiculous attempts to amuse you with really ridiculous witty San Francisco and BlogHer related haiku, then may I recommend heading straight for the good stuff full Flickr set. (Run! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE.)

(Seeing as I took my characteristic fifty gazillion pictures over the course of the trip, I will be traipsing through them day-by-day, and will be uploading more continually this week, until there are no more pictures to upload, amen.)

Moving right along then to the 5, 7, 5s:

Hayes is quite cute;
Poor Jigsaw, covered in pee.
Blue Bottle coffee!

Laugh so hard you cry.
Lefty O’Douls, how we love
your mashed potatoes.

Traipsing about town,
a horn honking symphony,
randomly sunburnt.

Soirée in the lobby;
Westin bouncers can’t be bought.
No Fail Whaling allowed.

A hugger finds her
people. Next year’s schedule needs
blog karaoke.

————–

As a bonus that you didn’t even have to ask for (I’m so GENEROUS, I know!), and in the spirit of all of the flight-related travel this past week, I bring you:

Kerri’s Top Six List Of Things That Should Be Confiscated Before Anyone Is Allowed To Board A Plane, Ever, Amen

6. Your power trip. I’m looking at you, TSA employees. I know that “heightened security” is a priority, and far be it from me to interfere with your ability to scowl at an entire airport full of travelers do your job, but when I provide my passport AND my birth certificate AND my driver’s license AND my marriage license, I’m pretty sure I have all my bases covered to an obsessive degree, and the least you could do is SMILE for even point five seconds. You aren’t curing cancer from your little stool; you are double-checking boarding passes.

5. Your screaming child. Children=yes, sure. Screaming children=fine, at your house. Screaming children on an airplane that is not your house=tranquilizers. For me, I mean.

(On the flip side, you can also earn bonus points in my air travel book if your kiddo starts enthusiastically clapping when they board the plane, or as we’re taking off, asks in a concerned tone, “Mom, where’s the ground?”)

4. Your need for five or more alcoholic beverages. If you’re that scared of flying: DRIVE. Or, take the train. The smell of bourbon and luggage doesn’t mix well. It also doesn’t help your breath any, and no, thank you, I don’t want to hold your hand.

3. Your pathogens. The least you can do when you decide to become airborne is make sure none of your germs are, because, honestly? we all well know that planes are to petry dishes like Tyra is to a vat of vapid.

2. Your Loud Cell Phone Voice. Not everyone in the entire cabin cares to know that you forgot your toothbrush at home, or that you had a great flight except for the fact that the lady sitting in front of you smells like Gouda cheese.

1. Tuna sandwiches. Now I like tuna fish as much as the next girl, but in such close quarters “ewh” doesn’t really even begin to cover it.

————–

Welcome home! guys and dolls. It’s pretty incredible to me how much I miss you all already. A special thanks! to my hilarious roommate, for making me laugh, and for being exceedingly rad, and for trying to warn me how much the water I was snuggling with on Thursday night was going to cost me in the morning.

(But, aha! The water that was once thought to be $25.00 a bottle ended up not being $25.00 a bottle, and I might have stuck my tongue out at The Westin to celebrate my water bottle victory, because it was just the right thing to do, and also I am 12 sometimes, and never mind that I could have just drank from the TAP (The horror, the horror!), as Jen so helpfully pointed out later on in the weekend.)

And for those of you who never left: hello! again. It’s good to be back.

Overall I would say my trip was, if I had to use one word: insane. And by “insane” I mostly mean “crazy, sexy, cool, with endless one-liners and mountains of awesome.”

See, me using one word to describe anything is tricky. Mostly because I can rarely do it.

Speaking of things I cannot do, I would promise this would be my last post about San Francisco, and BlogHer, and the heaps of rad and the tiny piles of less rad I experienced therein (I’m looking at YOU, sunburnt shoulders), but I would be lying. And I don’t want my pants set afire. I happen to like my pants.

That being said, I promise not to be (too) annoying with said stories, because I like you, too, and I know it’s hard to read endless accounts of high-flying adventures boasting inside jokes and burly security guards, and a guy who could quite possibly be the worst Piano Man of all time, when you weren’t there. Believe me when I tell you I’ve been on both sides of this situational coin.

But there is indeed still quite a bit I want to say, especially because my friends are amazing, and San Francisco is, shall we say for now, interesting, and I want to talk about both sans haiku at some point.

For the time being I’m finding that:
1. Work, it waited for me (LAME, yes, I know).
2. My amazing husband, while I was traipsing about a new city, wearing a McDonald’s hat on my head, cleaned the entire apartment AND organized our storage space, AND cleaned the car, AND bought me a beautiful bouquet of flowers.
3. Our poor forlorn little puppy has taken to sitting on my feet whenever I stop moving for five seconds.
4. Both afore-mentioned amazing husband and forlorn little puppy are requiring quite a bit of my attention, and, honestly, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than give it to them in full.

At least until Project Runway and SYTYCD come on tonight.

(I’m KIDDING. That’s what Tivos are for!)