State of the Blob.

My fellow Americans, the state of the Blob is middling to fair.  I know I said I was going to end it, now it’s back, will I end it again…not sure.  I think I’m resuscitating it.  I know, I’m a tease.  (Speaking of resuscitation, did anyone else expect a reference to the Bee Gees while our president got into the particulars of CPR during his State of the Union address?  I sure did.)

I just finished watching the SOTU while drinking wine straight from the bottle.  So there’s a new low.  I had to turn it off as soon as the post-game commentator used the word “Reaganesque”.  Pretty sure the “shining city on a hill” speech didn’t include any “very, very, very, very”s.  To be fair, maybe that dude was using “Reaganesque” to mean “gradually incapacitated”.  Or maybe he thinks “Reaganesque” means “proving one can read”.  In that case, okay, sir, you have a point.  I think we can put to rest the conspiracy theory that Donald Trump does not know how to read.  I am confident if, at the ripe and stable age of 71, the man does not know the words to the Star Spangled Banner, he most likely was unable to memorize the second longest SOTU address in history and therefore must have read it instead.  Bravo.  (It did occur to me they might have rented the Disney World Hall of Presidents animatronic Trump for an evening...did anyone actually see Donald Trump walk away from the podium??  Or did they know we would all turn off the TV in disgust BEFORE a president would typically leave a podium…he could be stuck there…“he” as in “it”…“stuck” as in “bolted to the floor”…this also explains Mike Pence’s periodic gazes of loving admiration…holy moley, it all adds up…cannot think of a single flaw.  New theory: Disney animatronics running the country.  Thank God.)

To close, I will presume to borrow a few Reaganesque words, the last lines of his “shining city on a hill” speech.  If you have time, the whole thing is worth the read.  You can decide for yourself if it bears much relation to the address we heard tonight.

Let us resolve tonight that young Americans will always see those Potomac lights; that they will always find there a city of hope in a country that is free. And let us resolve they will say of our day and our generation that we did keep faith with our God, that we did act "worthy of ourselves;" that we did protect and pass on lovingly that shining city on a hill.

PS, Mr. Putin, tear down this wall!  lol jk love you man. 

To sleep, perchance to dream.

Until recently, I have secretly judged people who have trouble sleeping.  I was like, please, insomnia is not real.  Being a light sleeper is not real.  What will you tell me next, vaccines prevent disease??  (Jokes.)  Friends know that I am very good at falling asleep and staying asleep.  The talent runs in my family on the O’Connor side.  Head back, boom, asleep.  So these last few nights have unsettled me, as I have done a lot of tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.  Sleep finally comes to me between the hours of 7am and 12pm (which, to be fair, has always been a natural tendency, but that period of sleep normally follows a nice 8-10 hours of REM filled glory.)

So here we are.  I am wide awake.  My right leg hurts and I’m worried I have a blood clot but I’m afraid to google it.  Maybe it’s just a tight IT band.  (Does anyone actually know what an IT band is?  I don’t.)  The pain in my leg is more likely attributed to how I sit while working at my computer.  As it turns out, if I am not forced to enter society and sit in a chair like a civilized adult, I simply do not do it.  Most days, I am a pretzel wearing pajamas, twisted over my mouse and keyboard.  Longtime blog readers may recall a smug Claire mocking her London office safety consultant’s instructions on how to sit properly in a chair.  I may need a refresher course.

It's been six years and I'm still shocked by the graphics of this image.

I really should work on my posture, as one of my greatest fears about getting old is developing the old woman hump.  You know the one.  Maybe I should get one of those machines that makes you hang upside down.  Livestrong.com tells me inversion therapy could benefit my posture and circulation.  But I don’t know if I can trust Lance Armstrong anymore.

Alright, I should stop looking at a screen and attempt to sleep.  Sweet dreams, friends.  (Or if you are lucky, Harry Potter themed dreams.  I found a Horcrux in a dream the other night and it was very cool.)

Blob is back.

Blob is back, blob is back, blob is back.

Speaking of wholesome songs from my childhood, today on Sirius XM radio (Pop2K channel), I heard “What’s Your Fantasy” by Ludacris for the first time since attending/standing-stiffly-with-arms-folded-at Oratory Preparatory middle school dances.  Am I the only one who completely missed the lyrics?  Like, all of them?  It’s quite an exhaustive list.  I almost crashed my car at the (thankfully faded) memory of sixth graders humping each other to this song in a dark, hot gymnasium. SIXTH GRADE.  Are you even ten years old in sixth grade?  When I see a freshman in college now, I’m like, wow, you are a child.  So what do sixth graders look like?  Fetuses?  Terrifying.  How were the chaperones not traumatized by these images?  They must have been drinking to forget.  Feels like the only way to cope.  No wonder my parents hated those dances. 

And this is how I know I’m getting old.  Thoughts like these occur with increasing frequency.  I always remember my dad’s line for when we thought they were being mean parents for not letting us attend this or that event: “You think it’s because we don’t remember, but it’s because we do.”

ANYWAYS, I meant for this post to be a small update, but I think I’ll leave it there.  The Blob is momentarily reactivated.  Details to come.  GOD BLESS.