Slob blob.

For my birthday, someone who will remain unnamed got me a book called The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing by Marie Kondo.  Being the lovely and good-natured girlfriend-ahem-person that I am, I graciously accepted the gift and the not-so-subtle hint.  I am the first to admit I have always had a clutter problem, but I haven’t lived with someone as bothered by it since I shared a room with my older sister.  And I always knew we’d be shipping her off to college eventually so I could wait her out.  Her bed would make an excellent clothing storage surface.  During and post-college, I lived with girls whose habits (abilities?  disabilities?) were at least on par with my own.  (CJ and Ashley—miss you guys.)  Once during college, a suitemate of ours, apparently complaining to a friend about how messy we were, brought this friend into the double that CJ and I shared to show off our abominable messiness.  She did not notice that CJ was napping under the heaps on her bed and heard every word.  Point CJ—she never could have been that stealthy in a spotless room.

Anyways, I know this is a part of my life I can improve and all parties will be happier when I do.  (I would, however, like to clarify that I am messy, not dirty.  It’s an important distinction.)  So today I started reading the book.  I’m only 47 pages in, but felt compelled to share my thoughts thus far.

It’s amazing how hilarious a humorless author can be.  I don’t think Marie Kondo and I would be friends in real life.  I'm sure she is sweet, but she does not appear to have a sense of humor.  She says things like, “Tidying up by location is a fatal mistake.  I’m ashamed to admit that it took me three years to see this.”  No hint of sarcasm, totally lacking the self-deprecation of Martha Stewart (and perhaps the hardening of prison).  And yet I have laughed out loud several times.  Tell me this is not funny: “I never tidy my room.  Why?  Because it is already tidy.”  Completely earnest.

Most of what I have read so far has just been promising me how much my life will change with the Kon-Mari method of tidying (Kon-Mari = combination of her names).  She has even offered such glowing testimonials for her method as: “Your course taught me to see what I really need and what I don’t.  So I got a divorce.  Now I am much happier.”  (Important question for testimony giver…did your partner buy you the book…) 

Marie hasn’t gotten to the specifics of the plan yet, but I’m sure my mind will be blown when she does.  One thing she has emphasized is that I can’t begin cleaning until I know all the rules of the method.  Marie, you have my word.

“Once you have experienced the powerful impact of a perfectly ordered space, you, too will never return to clutter.  Yes, I mean you!”

"Happy holidays."

Today as I was walking home from work, I realized I was feeling rather blobby.  Blobby as in I’m rapidly approaching my winter weight, thanks to successful Thanksgiving festivities.  Thinking about the word “blobby” reminded me I haven’t written in my blog in a while, so after my dinner of Mexican blend shredded cheese...hello.  I’m in California dreaming about who we used to be.  Also I just found myself staring at the word “Thanksgiving” and found myself thinking about that word as well.  We’re pretty lucky the Pilgrims named it “Thanksgiving”—it’s almost as if they could foresee the political correctness shitstorm that would be the 21^st century.  “Thanksgiving” is about as inoffensive, religiously noncommittal, and secular feel-goody as we can get.  It’s also my favorite holiday, so I’m glad people aren’t coming after it because of their triggered feelings.  Well done, Puritans.

I can feel in my blood pressure where this post might be going, so I’d like to preface anything I am about to say with: I am not voting for Donald Trump, he is a hateful and angry man.  (Although the mind-boggling fact that he is still leading the polls makes me think he may be the president our country deserves.  Or at least the nominee the Republican Party deserves.) 

I would, however, like to say this War on Holidays has got to stop.  I’m not super worried about the “War” on Christmas because the religious right isn’t going anywhere.  I am, however, quite disturbed by the WAR ON HALLOWEEN.  What is this garbage.  I hope Yale students can manage to unwad their panties, step out into the world (which, newsflash, is not your “safe space”) and redirect their tears toward actual problems. 

Anyways.  We should talk about happier things.  Like, Thanksgiving.  It was a wonderful, whirlwind trip to Boston.  So, so nice to see all the cousins, aunts, and uncles, and I’m glad Will came along to join the fun.  Maybe next time we will pick less painfully timed flights.  Avoiding being on a plane at 5am (whether at landing or takeoff) could be a good general rule of thumb.  At least our pilot began our flight home with a comforting announcement:

“Blah blah currently 47 degrees in San Francisco, blah blah some turbulence over the Great Plains, blah blah.  And…I know some, if not most, of you may be nervous to travel in light of the recent events……in Paris.  However, we want you to know that we are always in touch with our company and that there are no specific threats against this flight.  So sit back, relax, and enjoy this 6 hour and 6 minute flight to San Francisco.”

Ah yes.  I will.

(Was that our cue to look around and make sure no one was snickering evilly?  Was United test-driving that as a new part of the safety demo?  I will be giving them a piece of my mind in my post-flight survey.)

Nerd alert.

Last night, I finally embarked on a self-imposed assignment that I have procrastinated for almost a year.  Last night, I finally got cozy with Martin van Buren.

Be still my heart.

About six years ago, Erin and I made a pact to read a biography of each president, starting with George Washington on down.  Erin quickly abandoned our agreement, but I forged ahead.  In 2009, I read His Excellency: George Washington by Joseph Ellis, John Adams by David McCullough, and American Sphinx: The Character of Thomas Jefferson by Joseph Ellis again.  Then, faced with the incredible 760-page hulk, James Madison: A Biography by Ralph Ketcham, given to me by Uncle Pat, I took a three-year hiatus from the project in order to pursue other interests, like getting a boyfriend.  In 2013, I was ready to dive back in.  I tackled and defeated James Madison.  Invigorated by my victory, I went backwards in time to read ANOTHER book about Thomas Jefferson—Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power by Jon Meacham.  In 2014, I read The Last Founding Father: James Monroe and a Nation’s Call to Greatness by Harlow Giles Unger, who would have you believe that James Monroe single-handedly won the American Revolution.  I will not be reading any more biographies by Harlow Giles Unger.  I then read John Quincy Adams: A Public Life, A Private Life by Paul Nagel and finished out the year with American Lion: Andrew Jackson in the White House by Jon Meacham. 

After Andrew Jackson, I peered out over a long stretch of boring until Abraham Lincoln.  But, as a later president once said at Rice University, “We do not do these things because they are easy—we do them because they are hard.”  And actually, I’m lying when I say I’m bored by the idea of reading about these dudes (why would I do this to myself if that were the case??).  Martin van Buren (MVB, as I will affectionately call him from here onward) gets a lot of airtime in American Lion, and definitely piqued my interest.  I’m also looking forward to the John Tyler presidency (annexation of Texas, baby!).

So I researched which MVB biography to read, and as it turns out, there are not too many options.  The only people reading about him are reading a biography on every president.  The only people writing about him are doing a deep dive for some obscure dissertation.  My options were the 700-page version or the 500-page version.  Not that I don’t want to give MVB a fair shake, but I went with the 500-pager.  Hopefully I can still get the full picture.  I will report back when I am done.

I’m sure you are all curious as to my assessments of the presidents I have read so far (that is, if you haven’t already had the joy of hearing me discuss them in person).  It’s bedtime here, so I will have to save that for another post.  I will leave you with the man of the hour, MVB.  He was supposedly quite the snappy dresser in his younger years.

Bye bye birdies.

I may have mentioned this on the blob before, or you may have heard me say this in person, but I could see myself getting into bird watching.  I also thought nothing of going out wearing socks with my Sperry’s the other day.  (I’m lying…I did think while I was doing it, and the thought was “why have I never done this before”.)  So I think this might be how people get old.  Regardless, imagine my delight when, about a month ago, I discovered a bird’s nest hidden behind our flowerpots in the corner of our fire escape.  (Don't let me mislead you into imagining a more peaceful scenario than what actually occurred— it was more like I finally understood why some bird was always squawking away in terror (and therefore scaring the crap out of me) whenever I went out to water the plants.) 

Teeny egg and my mint in happier times.

I worried that I had scared mama bird (she was a dove) so many times that she would not come back or would be gone for long enough that the egg would get too cold.  But I should have trusted her.  We eventually established a mutual understanding, in which I could go out to water the plants and she would stay quietly on her nest and watch me.

She is hiding in the corner.

My coworkers warned me that the babies would be loud, but these little doves were very well behaved.  I didn’t even realize they had hatched until one day I saw them peaking out from under their mother.  (I was also surprised there were two of them, but the mom must have popped out another egg after I had quit scaring her…or the birds are twins!)

Dove love.

It seems as if the babies grew exponentially.  The nest quickly got crowded, but mama bird insisted on sitting on her babies until yesterday morning, when we noticed she was gone.  Then, by the afternoon, the babies/perhaps-now-teenagers were gone too.  I have to admit I’m sad to see them all go.  And that I can’t help but think of the whole experience as just another example of how quickly this great circle of life turns.  Also that I am grossed out by how much bird poo is crusted around the nest.

Maybe next year one of them will be back to start a new dove family.  In the meantime…more Elton.

Philadelphia freedom.

(A belated Pride and 4^th of July post.)
(You thought I was going to say Pride and Prejudice.)

As one might imagine, San Francisco is the place to be for Pride weekend (especially this year, in light of the Supreme Court’s ruling).  What better way to celebrate, I thought, than to attend the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus Elton John sing-along?  No better way.  I bought 6 tickets for a triple date with Evan and Hannah and the newly engaged (!) David and Christine, and listened to all my Elton favorites in preparation. 

I expected (and received) an evening of musical fun.  I did not, however, expect to bawl my eyes out.  I am having trouble expressing how powerful it was to witness these 300 men joyfully sing Philadelphia Freedom.  (Who knew Philadelphia Freedom followed by Can You Feel the Love Tonight would be such a lethal combo.)  Any words that I’m putting to paper/ screen right now are either coming out too sappy or preachy and I really hate both of those things.  So I will just say: I felt like I got hit by a truck full of relevance and emotion.  They can get married! Life liberty pursuit of happiness!  For real!  America!  Slowly but surely filling out the wisdom of our founding fathers!

On a less sappy and possibly more awkward note, I accidentally wore a semi-transparent shirt to work today.  I’ve worn this same shirt to work many times without issue, so imagine my surprise when I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and suddenly felt semi-naked.   The problem, I realized, wasn’t the shirt so much as the bra.  I recently purchased a white bra as it had been approximately 298374 years since I had done so.  I thought today would be a good day to wear it, as my shirt is also white (with a lovely lace motif).  I guess I am used to wearing a brownish-gray white bra (which camouflages quite well under this shirt) rather than a blinding-here-I-am white bra.  Sorry, coworkers.

Wonderful wedding weekend.

Erin and Peter got married in DC on Saturday.  I cannot put into words how love-filled and wonderful the entire weekend was, so I'm not even going to try.  Instead, here is the text of the toast I gave at the reception.  Sadly, the crowd's enthusiasm is not reflected here, but thankfully neither is my loss of composure...

Erin is nothing if not consistent.  In our many years of sharing a room (good luck, Peter), Erin would write down the various things I would say in my sleep and would share them with me the next morning.  It was only appropriate, then, when I woke up this morning, to get a full report of my unconscious ramblings.  Apparently at some point I very decidedly said, “Europe!”  More fittingly, I later said, “When push comes to shove, I’ll be ready.”  I don’t remember what I was dreaming about, but it very well could have been this speech.  So here goes.

I have had a good deal of time to prepare my maid of honor toast.  That is not a dig at Erin being old, but rather a reference to how she unwittingly let me know 12 years ago, that I would be her maid of honor.  For her theology final on vocations her senior year at Villa, Erin had a choice of researching a religious order that suited her, carrying around a flour sack “flour baby” to simulate motherhood, or planning her wedding.  Erin chose to plan her wedding.  (Side note: when I was a senior, I chose to carry around flour baby because it was the least amount of work…which is not what I understand motherhood to be in real life.)  Erin’s project consisted of making a program for the wedding—picking out the readings, the hymns, the bridesmaids…the husband—and writing a report on the vocation of marriage.  For some inexplicable reason, Erin would not let me see the wedding program she had come up with.  So, like the dutiful younger sister I am, after she had gone to bed one night, I went through her things until I found it.  I was as honored then as an eighth grader as I was when she asked me a year ago, to read that she had chosen me to be her maid of honor in her wedding to His Royal Highness Prince William Phillip Louis Arthur of Windsor.

Remembering her project and thinking it could be a useful prop come June 20^th, I again played the dutiful younger sister the last time I was home.  With the help of my co-conspirator, Jane, I dragged Erin’s boxes of high school paraphernalia from the attic and methodically went through them piece by piece.  We hoped against hope that she had not thrown it away…so we were thrilled when we found this artifact had made the cut.  (Dramatic reveal of The Program.)  We were also astonished to learn that Erin apparently possesses some clairvoyant abilities (although they are not entirely reliable).  For instance, she predicted her wedding would be in Washington DC (correct!), but at the Washington National Cathedral (not quite).  Of her nine bridesmaids, she guessed 3 (Maureen, Patricia, and me).  Of the other 6, only one was even invited.  She also predicted, interestingly enough, she would get married on June 20^th…in 2010.  (You are 5 years behind schedule.)  She also was not quite accurate in terms of who her husband would be.  As we know, that gold digger Kate Middleton beat us all to our shot at a royal wedding.   So what did Erin do in her heartbreak? …..She found the next most eligible bald bachelor, the most excellent Peter Joseph Dwyer of Williamsburg.  Peter, you’re a prince in our hearts and we could not be more thrilled that our royal wedding fell through.  I think the only ones who may feel slight twinges of regret might be your future sons, when they look upon the luscious locks of Prince William and dream of what might have been.

Seriously though, Peter, you are everything I could wish for my sister.  You have blended seamlessly into our family, you are kind, thoughtful, patient, and generous, you have a good sense of humor, you’re tall, handsome but not vain, your family is very nice, you have a well-balanced diet, you don’t do Cross Fit, you’re neither a liberal hippie nor a conservative whack job, you appreciate the value of several beers or a few stronger drinks, but you are not an alcoholic, you exhibit qualities that lead me to believe you will make a fine father, you have never done jail time (have you….), you’re not a member of a cult, you enjoy playing board games, you do not over-share on Facebook and I haven’t had to hide you from my newsfeed, you help with the dishes, and the first day I met you, you, Erin, Will and I tasted a few too many beers in our elementary school gymnasium, and when I accidentally vandalized the youth group room, you did not judge me.

Erin, on behalf of Maureen and Patricia and all our cousins, I want to thank you for paving the way.  You’ve always been the first to reach the major milestones, and you’ve done so with such grace.  We look up to you and I do not know where we would be without you.  No one can take charge like you can, make a reservation like you can, plan a wedding like you can.  Everyone needs an Erin, so we are all the luckiest to have you—Peter is most of all.

I love you both and I’ll always be on your team.

Now Erin, I’d like you to hold out your hand.  Peter, put your hand on top of hers.  Look into each other’s eyes, and cherish this moment, as everyone who loves you bears witness to last time that you, Peter, will ever have the upper hand.

Will you all please raise your glasses—to Erin and Peter, may your love always grow.

Will-o'-the-wisp encounter.

As I was walking by the Castro Theater on my way to work the other day, I noticed a woman wearing big sunglasses walking with two men.  “Wow,” I thought, “she kind of looks like Julie Andrews.”  When I passed by them, I heard her talking—it was the unmistakable, wonderful voice of Julie Andrews!!!!  Julie Andrews in the flesh!!!!  Commence internal freak out—do I bother her for a picture, would that be rude, but how can I let this moment go by, she’s about to head into the theater, go after her, now...now!!

Me: Excuse me, I’m sorry, but…are you Julie Andrews?

JA: [with a smile] Most of the time, yes.

Me: [with UTTER JOY] Oh my gosh, I am a huge fan.  [Immediately kicking myself for saying that—of course I’m a huge fan, everyone is a huge fan.] Could I bother you for a picture?

JA: Of course.

One of the men took our picture.  She had to go into the theater, so I thanked her and we said goodbye.  I immediately took my phone out to text the picture to my family, but for some reason, I could not get to the message app…my phone was stuck in the clock app…my alarm was going off…I was in bed…it was time to get up for work.................

What an emotional roller coaster.

*As a rule, I hate stories that end with “…and then I woke up.  It was all a dream.”  But I couldn’t resist.  It was so real.  The only way Dream Claire could have known it was not real life was that Real Claire doesn’t walk by Castro Theater on the way to work.  But I cannot blame her for being distracted by the excitement of meeting Julie Andrews.

Maybe one day.

We're back.

Hello friends.  It has been a busy time.  This weekend was the first weekend since March 7-8 that Will and I were here in San Francisco with nothing on the calendar.  So nice to just relax and park-hop with friends.  (I think Corona Heights is my favorite park in city so far.)  Thankfully, only good things have been keeping us so busy: AshleyCJBecca “Field of Grapes” weekend, bridal shower and surprise 30^th birthday for Erin, Andrew and Camille's wedding in Houston, ErinPeter&co visit over Erin’s birthday/Easter weekend, and Christina and Tyler's wedding in Austin.  The weddings were so fun and perfect excuses to go back to Texas.  (This was in our head most of the time.)  I am, however, quite broke right now.  This comparison might be a bit of a stretch, but bear with me: I am feeling a bit like the French aristocracy must have felt when Louis XIV made them move out to Versailles with him and party all the time and spend all their money.  It’s like, this is great, I love this, we have all the wonderful friends, but can I afford this lifestyle…who cares!, this is Versailles, we are so hot right now.  Not sure if I want to see how this metaphor plays out down the line...let me eat cake.

Sorry.  A glass of wine and high gravity beer with dinner and this is what we get.  Anyways, there is a bit of a lull in the wedding schedule for the next few weeks, so it will be nice to actually be here and explore the city.  I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open, so I think it’s bedtime.  Coming soon on The Blob: The Real Explanation for the California Drought.  Stay tuned.

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!

Field notes from Baker Beach.

In da club.

I find myself with a few hours to relax here at the glamorous Newark Airport United Club.  I was the last person to snag a $700 travel voucher by switching to a flight to San Francisco later this evening.  So I am celebrating with a gin and tonic and catching up on my Blob.  Let us rewind to last weekend…

The Days of Wine and Mini-Toast

By some happy twist of fate, almost all of my best friends from college also now live in California.  (Merrick, time to make the move!)  So last weekend, Ashley, Becca, and CJ (all former roommates of mine) joined Will and me in San Francisco for a wonderful visit.  Ashley arrived first on Friday, so she and I headed to Pier 39 to catch our ferry to Alcatraz.  In typical Clashley fashion, we missed the ferry we had reserved tickets for, but thankfully the ticket people were very gracious and got us on the next ferry.  Alcatraz was super interesting (also the second prison Ashley and I have toured together.  The first was Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin.  Apparently we <3 prisons.)  I’m really glad we got to experience the Ai Wei-Wei art installation throughout the different prison buildings.  (Nerd alert.)  It is a poignant commentary on freedom and incarceration, particularly of political dissidents.  Through several different media (Chinese paper dragon and kites against the stark concrete walls and pillars of the old work room, recordings of songs and poems played from individual cells, etc), he very artfully poses the question, how can one contain the human spirit?  I thought it was a really effective piece. 

All our time on Alcatraz made us very hungry, so, upon our return to the mainland, Ashley and I had a small feast and soju bombs at one of my favorite places to eat by my office.  We then met up with Becca, CJ, and Will back at home for a night of general debauchery and not allowing Will to express any opinions as “the only man in the room”.  (Is it necessary to say that we finished several bottles of wine?  I probably should explain about the mini-toast.)  I can neither confirm nor deny that there is video evidence of me passed out on the bed while everyone else is dancing around me and singing Dolly Parton’s “Jolene”.  However, I can confirm that “singing” is a generous description of the sounds certain people were making.

Somehow on Saturday, we wanted more wine, so we drove to Napa and wined and dined in style.  It was such a beautiful day.  As we drove from the first winery to the second, singing along to Johnny Cash and the Dixie Chicks with the windows down, I had one of those “I cannot believe I live in California” moments.  I LIVE here.  This is my life.  So weird. 

We took it easy on Sunday, starting with some mimosas in Dolores Park.  We then paid homage to our Gulf Coast roots and got a delicious Louisiana style brunch.  So much yum.  After that, we toured around Golden Gate Park and Baker Beach (where we unwittingly crossed over to the nude side), got Bi-rite ice cream and before we knew it, it was time for Becca to take Ashley and CJ to the airport.  Such a nice weekend with my buddies.  I’m so glad they are not too far away. :)

I do love to cuddle.

Jury is still out on "well behaved".

Glory Peep.

Happy Lent, y’all.  I missed getting ashes yesterday because the church in our neighborhood did not have an evening service.  Luckily, Ash Wednesday is not a holy day of obligation, so missing Mass yesterday will not be the reason I go to hell.  This, however, might be:

I am the artist.

Yes, those are stained glass Peep saints.  It’s probably a good thing there aren’t any Christian extremists terrorizing cartoonists around the world for portraying Jesus as a Peep, because a) I would be their next target and b) that would just be silly.  I suppose an explanation is in order, however, for this immaculate peepception. 

For the last few years, my sisters (without me because I was always far away) have participated in the Washington Post’s annual Easter Peeps Diorama contest.  This contest is one of those things out there that makes me believe that people (peeple…) are fundamentally good.  Just google it.  Lots of punny, good, clean fun.  My family’s favorite submission from last year was the finalist “Everyone Peeps.”  (I do think my idea for a “Governor Peep Peepie and the Bridgegate Scandal” diorama would have been a strong contender for the top prize.)

This year, my sisters didn’t think they were going to be able to schedule a weekend to meet and create a Peeps masterpiece.  We did, however, all find ourselves in Williamsburg last weekend to celebrate Erin and Peter’s engagement party and bridal shower…so my mom and Patricia thought, why not combine the wedding and Peeps festivities?  Thus, the “Erin and Peeper Wedding” diorama was born.  We presented it to Erin at the bridal shower on Sunday.  While I think everyone was amused and impressed (as they should have been), I think Peter’s family and friends may have been a little…confused.   

And they lived peepily ever after.

TWO, ah ah.

Apparently, a Google image search of "Count von Count" yields some humorous results.  Who knew.

The Count vs. Edward Cullen. 

The Count Mii!

Yes please.

California makes you soft.

Five-day workweeks are just exhausting.  Thankfully, my office works on a 9/80 schedule—that is, 80 hours of work in 9 days—that is, every other Friday off, BABY.  We’re very civilized here in San Francisco.  This week was my first full workweek on the job (thank you, Martin Luther King), so I am quite done in on this blustery Friday evening.  I will take this time to reflect on my job.

It’s hard to believe I’ve been here for four weeks already.  I’m definitely enjoying the change of pace at my new office.  I loved my little office in Houston, but I’ve found I really appreciate the range of projects and opportunities a larger office can offer.  Prime example: Breakfast Club.  On these Fridays when we find ourselves at work, those in the Breakfast Club take turns bringing in small breakfast feasts.  (Only members of the Breakfast Club are supposed to partake in the feasts, so of course I promptly joined.  Also, the number of Friday workdays combined with the number of people in Breakfast Club means members only have to make breakfast about once a year.) This morning, we had samosas, mango lassi, and fruit tart.  Delicious, even if I am a wimp and the samosas were a little spicy for me.  That’s what the lassi is for.  The standard for Breakfast Club is quite high, as far as I can tell, so the pressure will definitely be on when my turn to make breakfast arrives. 

Speaking of food, I have already gained a reputation at the office as a “cereal killer”.  Apparently I eat a lot of cereal.  As a nickname, however, I would prefer Cereal Girl, as it is one of my favorite Sesame Street music videos.  I have also been teased about my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch.  Back off my grammar school diet, Cali people. 

But really, I already love my coworkers.  I knew it was love when, at our volunteer day at a food bank last Friday, my rice-packaging team kept track of our completed boxes in the style of Count von Count.  (Von, AH AH AH.  Two, AH AH AH, etc) (So much Sesame Street in the post.)

It’s bedtime here.  I hope everyone has a lovely, restful weekend.  It’s supposed to rain all day tomorrow, but I still may go for a run in Golden Gate Park or start pulling up weeds in our backyard.  I want to get some plants in the ground and take advantage of the California growing season!  Yes, I am an old woman.

AH AH

Settling in.

All of my stuff from Houston finally arrived last Thursday, so Will and I spent Saturday unpacking boxes and rearranging furniture.  I was a little worried my stuff wouldn’t fit (we have a studio and I somehow have a lot of stuff), but everything fits quite well and makes for a homey space.  We also have a generously sized storage room, made even more generous when Will and I dismantled a bizarre sex den/smoking corner in the back.  Previous tenant(s) constructed this elaborate set up with a room divider screen, mirrors, and Christmas lights.  We also found a mysterious futon cover that I promptly made Will dispose of. 

Sunday was a beautiful day.  We went to a driving range in the Presidio with our friends Evan and Hannah.  Will and I were definitely the less practiced half of the group, but by the end, we both felt that our swings had improved.  I could see myself getting into golf.

The East Coast got/is getting quite the snow event.  Family and friends in New England, stay safe and warm.  This is for you.

Holla at my Jumbos.

A California adventure.

Will and I both had Martin Luther King Day off from work, so we decided to drive down to LA to visit Ashley and Colin.  (You may remember Will and Ashley, frequently recurring characters in Claire Blabbing.  As both are also new residents of California, I imagine they will continue to appear in the Blob.)  The drive down on Friday was long—extra long because there was an accident that took us on a two-hour detour through the middle of nowhere.  Better to be in traffic than in the accident, as my mom would say.  Nevertheless, I was a grumpy passenger (sorry, Will).  We finally made it to Chez Ashley Colin and unwound with our gracious hosts on their porch with a few beers.

Ashley and Colin live on the top floor of a wonderful, quirky 100-year-old house perched on top of a hill.  The floor plan is really unusual—rather than have a hallway to circulate through, all the rooms are pushed together in this little maze.  Very funky.  Apparently the former downstairs tenant was a Korean mask artist/serious hoarder, and a few of his art pieces are scattered around the yard.  Colin said it was quite the excavation job to salvage the apartment after that guy moved out.

The weekend was mostly an exercise in eating wonderful food, drinking beer and margaritas, and lounging in beautiful weather.  Colin's friend's Facebook status summed up the weather pretty perfectly: "Janu-marry-me, Los Angeles?? <insert sun and palm tree emojis>"  We spent a lovely afternoon by the pool at Colin’s parents’ house in Pasadena.  Ashley proved that California cannot thwart her from making a Texas-worthy pulled pork feast.  (I have missed my personal chef :_______O <<that emoticon is crying and has no food).

On Sunday night, Ashley, Reiko, Will and I went to a comedy club.  We saw five different comics.  The first three were mostly funny, but the two after intermission completely lost me.  I consider myself a fairly intelligent person with a decent sense of humor, but I just did not get the fourth guy’s jokes.  Could someone please explain this one to me:

Q. Of all the historical events he was directly involved in, which makes Forrest Gump most proud?

A. 9/11.

……………….it’s probably really bad.

The dude also did not win me over with his grating, Gilbert Gottfriend-esque screaming and occasional phlegm hacking up.  (To be fair to Gilbert Gottfried, I feel obligated to say that I recently listened to an interview with him and he is actually hilarious.)

After coffee with Colin on Monday morning, Will and I set out on our journey back to San Francisco.  (I got my first In-n-Out burger—quite yummy.)

Sending many thanks and hugs hugs hugs to our perfect hosts—can’t wait for you to come visit San Francisco!

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.”

Kids these days.

A “smooth” twenty-two-year-old dude, upon hearing my age: “What??  No!  But you look so good!”

Sorry, guy, I said TWENTY-six, not NINETY-six.

Anyways, if you have spent the last 24 hours fretting about my packing fate, fret no more.  You will be relieved and impressed to know that I have achieved a small miracle—I am packed and ready to go.  California, here I come.  Now it’s time for this old lady to go to bed.

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.