Voting to-do list.

Alright, kids.  We have a critical election on Tuesday.  Here are two things we can do:

1. Vote.
2. Have The Talk with your parents.

The second item applies however you think your parents will be voting.  If you are on the same page, great.  Encourage them and thank them.  But if you disagree, talk to them.  I know it sucks and is way easier not to.  Your siblings may get angry with you and wish you’d keep your mouth shut (may I recommend a time other than dinner?).  But it’s important.  You may not change their minds or sway their vote, but they need to hear your voice.  Tell them you are worried.  Give them reasons why.  Show them evidence.  Don’t resort to name-calling.  Tell them you love them instead.  Donald Trump has split up enough families.  

Maybe they are also troubled by the current climate, but they think we are too far down the path of corruption to make any difference.  They’ve thrown in the towel.  Tell them how strange it is to hear them say such things, when you’ve been so accustomed to them telling you to never give up.  Ask them where we would be if that had been the attitude of their parents in the 1940s.  Tell them you will not give up without a fight, because that is how they raised you and how their parents raised them.  

Tell them what you see of your generation.  I see optimism, inventiveness, and determination.  We have big ideas and big hearts.  We crave the freedom and opportunity that is our inheritance from this great nation—the nation you will hand over to us, even if we have to claw it from your cold, dead fingers.  We will make it new again.  Because you taught us to participate.  We weren’t out there buying those participation trophies for ourselves.  You gave them to us.  You enrolled us in softball and dance and scouts and summer camp.  You taught us to participate because you knew its value.  We learned participation is not just valuable—it is essential.  Healthy society cannot function without it.  Democracy cannot function without it.  

Happy voting, friends.  

Only 2 years ago?  What a wild ride.

The prodigal daughter returns.

The Blob began about three years ago as a way for me to put off packing for the big move from Houston to San Francisco.  It feels appropriate that it should end now with me being a giant procrastinator again, but this time packing for my big move back to the east coast (beast coast, as they say).

I'm so glad people have enjoyed this blog.  I promise there will be more to come (possibly "Reports from Solitude"...we'll see).

Merry Christmas (isn't it great we're allowed to say that again?  Just don't mention that Jesus was a vulnerable fetus) and a happy, healthy, peaceful 2018 to you all.

I'll leave you with my packing playlist--all songs that appeared on my Spotify Top Songs of 2017 (you'll find I am not "hip").  I can recommend these songs for singing aloud while moving piles from one place to another and mulling over your life choices.

• "9 to 5" by Dolly Parton: Particularly satisfying after you have quit your job.

• "You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling" by Hall and Oates: Becca and I are going to be Hall and Oates for Halloween next year.  This has been good practice for the karaoke portion.

• "I Want Crazy" by Hunter Hayes: Not sure I need too much more of it though, tbh.

• "Montezuma" by the Fleet Foxes

• "Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise" by The Avett Brothers

• "Fuck You" by Cee-lo Green ;)

• "Respect" by Aretha Franklin

• "Send Me on My Way" by Rusted Root

• "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon & Garfunkel: SAIL ON, SILVER GIRL

• "Time to Say Goodbye" by Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli: CON TEEEEE PARTIROOOOO (also, why is she so weird in this video?)

• "One Day More" by the 10th Anniversary Cast of Les Miserables (the best version IMO, 25th Anniversary also acceptable): One day more to pack and get rid of all this, plus several items not shown:

Panhandle peanut gallery.

I wore a neon green Rice t-shirt on a run in the park after work today.  Comments received:

“Jerry Rice—he was a good, good friend of mine muttermuttermuttermutter”

“You run to burn calories, but you wear rice on your shirt!  HA HA HA HA”

“Rice!  It’s what’s for dinner!”

“You don’t eat a lot of rice—I like you have no belly.”

WOW THANKS EVERYONE RICE FIGHT NEVER DIE

And we're back.

2017 is not turning out to be my favorite year ever, but I’m not looking for a pity party.  Ladies and gentlemen, I am newly single and have already continued my rampage of breaking hearts across San Francisco (sorry to Sergei, my brief Muni romance).  As he said after I texted him that it turns out I’m not into 40-year-old Ukrainians, maybe we will meet again another rainy day on the Muni.  (We won’t, because I changed my commute.)

For the first time ever, I understand Taylor Swift.  I, too, feel compelled to fill my art (blob = art) with Starbucks lovers.  But then, the lilting voice of an old English teacher creeps into my head—girls, do not sell your souls in the marketplace.  I won’t, Mrs. O.—at least not more than I already have.

And thus, The Blob returns.  I leave you with one more bit of wisdom, from Sergei’s final text—don’t waste the pretty.

What did I miss?

Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist: A Treatise on the Current Racial Tensions in America

FAKEOUT. I did consider writing such a treatise, but I cannot bear to be the bazillionth person to contribute preachy thoughts on race to the black hole that is the Internet.  I just loved the title too much to let it go.  Instead, allow me to be the bazillionth curmudgeon to examine the resurgent popularity of Pokemon.[1]

Perhaps you have heard of the latest fad, “Pokemon Go”.  If somehow you blessedly missed this, go outside and watch for the swarms of millennials[2] staring down at their phones.  More than the usual number are out-of-doors and they are all playing Pokemon Go.  The game has consumed the entire population of San Francisco[3].  As far as I understand, the goal is to catch virtual Pokemon—catch them all. After that…the end game is unclear. 

Back in our youth, Maureen, Patricia, and I enjoyed Pokemon.  We had the cards and played the various Gameboy[4] games, but our true love was Pokemon Snap on Nintendo 64.  Nothing tickled us quite like luring dozens of hungry, adorable Charmanders with apples.  And convincing Pikachu to surf?  We would melt with delight.

Such joyful creatures.

Precious.

So why doesn’t Pokemon Go resonate with me?  After all, it’s basically the “real-life” version of Pokemon Snap.  As a millennial, I ought to gobble up anything that feeds into my nostalgia for the nineties.[5]  And yet, it will not do.  My distaste for humans becoming solitary, screen-staring robots trumps[6] whatever I could like about the game.  Sure, it’s great that people are getting out and about, but they might as well be inside for all the looking around they’re doing.  They look up when the game tells them to look up.  If “augmented” reality is the future, I may consider becoming a hermit. 

I listened to an interview with David Schwimmer on a podcast today.  He thinks one of the reasons kids are watching Friends is that it’s a window to a time they’ve never known.  They have never seen six people sit in a coffee shop and talk.  Call me an old-fashioned grumpma, but I miss those days.  It’s funny to me that Pokemon Go is trying to evoke the nineties, but actually makes them feel much farther away.[7]

---

[1] This is still a treatise so there will be footnotes.

[2] My computer apparently is too old to recognize the correct spelling of “millennial”.

[3] Neither children nor old people inhabit this city.

[4] Join me next week for a discussion on how the sexist name “Gameboy” destroyed my game playing confidence as a woman.

[5] Make America great again, am I right?

[6] This word is ruined for me forever.

[7]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UNoouLa7uxA

Tidbits.

1.   From the real estate office down the street: 

San Francisco: where 2 beds + 1 bath = 2.7 million dollars

2.  From the Ballast Building Systems ARE study guide: 

     “To quantify the effects of clothing [on human comfort], the unit clo was developed.  One clo is about equal to the typical American man’s business suit or about 0.15 clo/lbm of clothing.”

     My comments:

- The unit clo is hilarious and cute.

- The second sentence from the study guide does not make sense.  One clo cannot equal 0.15 clo/lb.  (That it can equal a typical American man’s business suit is also up for debate.  Does this mean when Will and I are packing to go to the next wedding I can tell him not to forget his clo?)

- Upon further investigation (Wikipedia), I believe the study guide should have said 0.15 K·m²/W.  If you are interested (and even if you’re not), K·m²/W is the same unit for the R-value for insulation.  Which makes sense because clo measures the insulation value of clothing.

- Furthermore, according to Wikipedia, another unit for the insulation value of clothing is the tog (1 clo = 1.55 togs).  “Togs” is supposedly a British slang term for clothes.

3.    ABC 13 Eyewitness News wants to know: “Can Houston Clean Up Its Chronic Dumping Problem?”  I want to know…can anyone really?

I object.

Many of you may know that Super Bowl 50 is coming to the Bay.  It’s been causing all sorts of road closures and traffic issues in downtown San Francisco this week, which seems odd to me, as the actual game will be played down in Santa Clara on Sunday.  Regardless, lots of people have come to town to enjoy the pre-Super Bowl festivities, which presents wonderful opportunities for PROTESTERS.  I enjoyed the email we got at work today warning us about added traffic problems due to upcoming protests.

I admit I am very curious about Bloodstained Men & Their Friends, but am too afraid to google them.

On a mildly related note, I just had a great idea for a business venture.  Why is no one producing Ted Cruz punching bags?  

Don't punch the messenger bag.

Usually when I have these ideas, someone has already done it.  (For example, I wanted to make a blog called “Right to Bear Arms” and would photoshop bear arms onto various political figures.  But apparently other people have already thought of this joke.  I may still do it.)    Elevator pitch: “Need a break from Feeling the Bern?  Try Punching the Ted!”  I imagine I could get some investors out here.

I need a drink.

Two “over it” gay dudes (I have named them "Over Eager" and "Vaguely Disgusted") have a very San Francisco conversation on the not-actually-crowded Muni.  The font gets bigger whenever my blood pressure rises.

Over Eager: Oh hey!  You’re missing a wheelchair.

Vaguely Disgusted: What?

(Over Eager points to homeless dude’s empty wheelchair in the car.)

Vaguely Disgusted: Oh. Ha. Right.

Over Eager: So I didn’t know you work around here!

Vaguely Disgusted: Mm, yeah, at Front and Market.

Over Eager: Oh, I work for (undistinguishable nonprofit).

Vaguely Disgusted: Oh wow, good for you saving the world.  Not like me, working in real estate.

Over Eager: Oh stop it!  I am not saving the world, just putting clothes on people’s back.

(chuckle chuckle chuckle)

Over Eager: But seriously, it really makes me feel bad about our consumer culture, you know?  It is just sickening.  We produce so much crap in excess.  Like this vest is American Eagle, so you know it will never biodegrade.  I mean, I guess you could recycle it.

Vaguely Disgusted: Oh my God, it could be a flotation device.

Over Eager: Oh my God, you’re right! 

(chuckle chuckle chuckle)

Vaguely Disgusted: Ugh, I hate this commute, this crowd is giving me anxiety.

Over Eager: Oh my God, I know.  Like, I hate when people just push, you know?  So rude.  Like, this is San Francisco, aren’t people supposed to be nice and have flowers in their hair and stuff?

Vaguely Disgusted: This city has really changed.

Over Eager: Ugh, you’re telling me.  My boyfriend just hates it now.

Vaguely Disgusted: What, with all these miserable young tech people with too much money driving up our rent?  What’s not to love?  How long have you guys lived here?

Over Eager: Oh, three years.

Vaguely Disgusted: Oh wow, I’ve been here fifteen.  I’m just pissed because I’m never gonna be able to move out of my apartment.

Over Eager: Oh my God, us neither.  You’re in rent-controlled too?

Vaguely Disgusted: Yeah, so basically I can never move.

Over Eager: The worst.

Vaguely Disgusted: Alright, well this is my stop.

Over Eager: What are you doing for dinner?

Vaguely Disgusted: Eating.  Alright, see ya later.

Over Eager: Don’t forget your wheelchair!

I don’t think I have the energy to type the rant that is living inside of me.  It’s just mildly infuriating to listen to two people (WHO LIVE IN RENT-CONTROLLED AKA CHEAP RENT APARTMENTS) lazily bitch about what all the native San Franciscans love to bitch about (AND THEY AREN’T EVEN NATIVE SAN FRANCISCANS).  But I will spare you all this rant.

This story does have a happy ending.  What was the first thing I saw upon my exit from the Muni station?  

Westie butt!

Welcome to San Francisco.

(Hello friends.  I have arrived.  All is well.  Three days in to my new job—so far, so good!)

You may have heard that San Francisco has a large homeless population.  Yes, there are lots of homeless people here, some say, but they’re so friendly!  With this in mind, here is the account of my welcome from the people of San Francisco.

Monday morning: As one of my new roommates (also named Clare, no “i”) and I walked down the hill toward the metro, a woman dressed in a Santa suit approached us.  She started walking with the pair of Cla(i)res and greeted us good morning in her own friendly way:

“It’s YOU.  Because of YOU ASSHOLES, I’M out here FERTILIZING.  You TRASH OUR CITY and DON’T PICK UP AFTER YOURSELVES.”

Top of the morning to you as well, madam.

Tuesday evening: In the middle of a crosswalk yesterday on the way home from work, a man walked up to me, spread his arms like Batman, and went “RAHHHHHHH.”

And I will leave you with the friendly piece of advice I got today on the way home from work:

“Don’t forget your vibrator, babe.”

The Blob

What is it about packing that makes my brain go, “Maybe you should write about how much you hate this”?  Misery while packing was a recurring theme of the Claire Blabbing blog (may it rest in peace).  Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a new blog, because what better time is there to start a blog than when I am 65% packed for a cross-country move, occurring Saturday, with movers coming at 9am tomorrow?  There is no better time.  How else to capture the raw emotion of leaving Houston, this big, ugly, beautiful city I’ve grown to love, for San Francisco, unknown land of hippies and earthquakes?  What’s an anxiety-ridden Jersey girl to do?  The answer: not pack.  Sure, I will eventually get everything in boxes.  But it’s only 9:00.  The night is young.

While my packing aversion spurred me to write this first post, I have been considering a return to blogging for a while now.  I kept attempting to revive Claire Blabbing, but it just never felt right.  I am at peace with my decision to let it die.  New life, new blog.  I again will find myself in a foreign city with a somewhat inconvenient time difference from the East Coast (Beast Coast, as they say), so a blog feels like an efficient way to communicate.  As for the title Claire Blobbing, I used a similar approach to one I used for naming my childhood pet hermit crabs (Jaws, Claws, Jaws II, Claws II, etc).  I also drew inspiration from the mess that currently threatens my apartment and existence.  I suppose it may be time to tame the beast.

I may steal the tagline, though.