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. 

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:

Public service announcement.

A British friend recently informed me that “blob” is slang for “period”.  So if someone were to, let’s say, name a blog “Claire Blobbing” or perhaps “THE BLOB”, others might infer this blog is somehow related to Claire’s menstrual cycle.  Given the semi-regularly scheduled bitching that may occur on such a blog, some might even think it a clever, if vulgar, title.  Any resemblance to such cleverness, however, is purely coincidental.  Longtime readers may recall the rationale for this blog's name back from episode one.  I apologize to my British readers and friends if I unwittingly distressed their polite sensibilities.  We all can now share in the awkward terminology commonly employed here ON THE BLOB.  GOD BLESS.

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?

Lent prep.

It’s definitely a big fat Tuesday.  At 11:00 this morning, I was shocked to see that it was indeed 11:00, as my subconscious had led me to believe I had already eaten lunch and we were well into the afternoon.  And then I remembered it’s Tuesday.  And not just any Tuesday.  Tuesday of a five-day work week.  Life is hard.

Lent begins tomorrow.  I am giving up Facebook because it’s annoying and Twitter because it turns me into a rage-against-mostly-Paul-Ryan-but-also-others-machine.  Don’t worry, I will continue to blob, but I won’t be posting to Facebook.  Allow me, then, to shamelessly beg you to subscribe to my blog.  If you scroll down to the bottom of this page, you will see a box where you can enter your email.  I’m pretty sure it won’t spam you.  Blogger is a Google operation, so if you have problems, take them up with Will.

As our President would say, a blessed Lent to all the haters and losers.

But Bob Loblaw no habla español.

Above: Mexican president Enrique Peña Nieto
Below: Bob Loblaw, as portrayed by Scott Baio.

Treat yo'self.

Tuesday dinner: pizza

Wednesday lunch: pizza

Wednesday dinner: birthday pizza

Thursday lunch: office gluttony potluck

Thursday dinner: skipped for my health

Friday dinner: French restaurant birthday burger and fries

Saturday dinner: birthday dinner party feast of cream of cauliflower soup, Caesar salad, braised short rib, mushroom pasta, and ice cream sandwiches

Not listed: alcohol consumed (much); exercise performed (zero)

So accept my regrets for a late blob, but be assured I have kept the cause of becoming a blob close at heart.  And waistband.  My goals this week are to consume only iceberg lettuce and perhaps to exert myself in a physical fashion.

Coming soon: The Blob’s Favorite Podcasts of 2016.  After a short snack.

An announcement.

Friends, I have purchased the domain “claireblob.com”, and Google tells me that is now a legitimate way to get to this website.  I can also set up email addresses ending in @claireblob.com, which is very exciting.  Let me know if you would like one.  I am reserving claire@claireblob.com for myself, but anything else is available.

I am working on a review of our trip to Italy, but jet lag is preventing further progress.  I promise I will post it this weekend.  (I feel like I’m asking a professor for an extension.  Which I never did because it felt too shameful.  Almost as shameful as the time I had to beg my creative writing professor not to fail me because I completely forgot about the final project.)

**UPDATE: It seems claireblob.com will take you to an error page.  I am upset because Google took my $12 and now I have nothing to show for it.  Plus I have made a fool of myself by advertising a broken link on my blog.  Very embarrassing.  I will get in touch with Google/Will shortly to resolve the issue.

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.)

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.