Incredible.

Friends, I have good news and bad news.  Let’s share the bad news first. 

Zero bids.

While I am disappointed, I admit I am not surprised.  I think my dress description managed to alienate all potential buyers.  I did try to make this an internet sensation.  For the first time ever, I used my Twitter quite aggressively, reaching out to famous and semi-famous people to alert them to the cause.  Unfortunately, all my efforts got me were a) one weird new Twitter follower and b) locked out of my account.  (By the by, my Twitter spirit animal may be Cher.  She is full of emojis and anti-Trump rage.  Not enough to bid on my dress though.) 

There is still time to sell the dress.  5 hours.  Miracles happen. 

Now the good news.  My week of Ivanka-trolling led me to an important realization: Ivanka is Mirage from The Incredibles.  We excuse her propensity towards evil* because she is hot and her boss is creepily in love with her.

*This comparison is unfair to Mirage, I know.

“But doesn’t Mirage double-cross Syndrome, save Mr. Incredible, and turn out to be good in the end?”  Correct.  I already told you the comparison is unfair.  I hate to be the one to tell you, though….real life is no Disney movie.

But it is pretty incredible.

 

Women who work.

I had a very unsettling dream last night.  It was Election Day, the result of which somehow was related to the outcome of the NCAA basketball championship (also happening that day).  Hillary’s chances would increase with one team’s victory, and Trump’s would increase with the other’s.  I was watching the game at a bar with Meryl Streep (of course). The refs were making horrendous calls, Trump’s fans were getting loud and rowdy, and Hillary’s team kept throwing the ball away.  (Apparently my subconscious is good at metaphors.)  Meryl and I were tearing our hair out, and at one point I believe we were crying with each other.  The game did not end and I remember thinking “How could I have gone to sleep before finding out who won the election?” (Sometimes in my dreams, I am aware that I am sleeping, but not aware that the dream is not real life.)

When I woke up this morning, I felt I needed to take action.  But how?  I only have one vote.  But…..I also have an Ivanka Trump dress in my closet.  Though I used to love this dress, I know now I can never wear it again.  Rather than let it languish on a hanger, perhaps I could use it for good.  I decided to sell it on eBay and give half the proceeds to a charity that would make Donald Trump squirm (a group that distributes feminine hygiene products to homeless women) and the other half to the Hillary Victory Fund. 

The dress sale description:

This dress is as beautiful and thin as Ivanka Trump herself.  It will give you all her class and poise--you too can look effortless as you defend the your father's bigotry and hate.  Be warned: this dress may make your father proclaim that he would date you.  But don't worry, that's definitely not as creepy as it sounds. Ivanka was cool with it, so you should be too.

I bought this dress about 4 years ago and it is still in excellent condition.  Slip is included.  The outer shell is a bit shear, but the slip mitigates its see-through quality.  It's the best of both worlds: sexy enough for men to tolerate your presence, but chaste enough so as not to elicit their sexual harassment.

Lovingly hand crafted by the best Chinese workers.  Cannot guarantee that they were paid.  

50% of the proceeds from this sale will be donated to (fem)me, a nonprofit in Athens, Georgia that "seeks to relieve the unnecessary suffering experienced by homeless women who do not have access to feminine hygiene products."  The remainder will go to the Hillary Victory Fund.  And yes, I will actually donate this money.

I’m realizing I may not be cut out for sales.  (No bids yet.)  But please do share and consider bidding.  I’d hate for Ivanka to think no one wants her dress. 

Sonoma in crisis.

Editor’s note: We were in Sonoma  this Labor Day weekend for the beautiful wedding of college friends Steffi and Rob.  Rice reunions are always wonderful.

Despite our many trips to wine country, Will and I had never been to the town of Sonoma.  Our bed and breakfast was a quick walk to the lovely town square, where we enjoyed browsing the boutiques, tasting rooms, and farm-to-table restaurants.  I would be shocked if a single processed food dared exist within 15 miles.  Well-dressed families strolled and picnicked, children rode their bicycles, and perfectly groomed dogs led their owners on leisurely walks.  Just a block or two from where we stayed stands the original Williams Sonoma.  Shoppers exited the store radiating sunbeams and song.  I admit I even squealed with delight. 

And yet, behind its idyllic façade, Sonoma is a town with some real problems.  I refer to its struggle against the tyrannical leaf blower lobby.  For the last six years, the Sonoma City Council has weighed the critical issue of leaf blower legality.  These vile instruments of lawn maintenance have pitted neighbor against neighbor.  Lawn signs proclaiming “LEAF BLOWER FREE ZONE” demarcate the battle lines.  Could there be greater threats to their community than the noise, greenhouse gases, and particulate matter that leaf blowers spew into the air?  Still, some residents and their landscapers selfishly cling to these tools of destruction.  (When will they think of the children?)  Thankfully, Sonoma Neighbors Against Leaf Blowers, or SNALB (pronounced similarly to the word “snob”), is on the case.  In March, largely thanks to SNALB’s advocacy, the city council voted to ban gas-powered leaf blowers and restrict the use of electric blowers.  Refusing to give in, however, pro-leaf blower activists gathered the necessary signatures to overturn the ban and place the issue on the November ballot.  (And you thought Hillary v. Trump was the crisis of our times.  Sad!)

Will Sonoma succeed in removing this menace from their streets?  Will this election finally spell doom for the leaf blower?  Or will the leaf blower continue its reign of terror…  Only time will tell.  I'll keep you posted.

My first book.

Will and I went back to New Jersey two weekends ago for a glorious visit at home.  My mom kindly had put all my things in banker boxes and storage bins, and was very excited for me to go through it all and decide what to keep or throw away.  I didn't end up making much progress (sorry, Mama) because we were quickly distracted by the many gems we found.  (I was a prolific author and cartoonist in my day.)  The following is definitely a favorite among the discoveries.  Please enjoy the 20th anniversary edition of my first book, written for an assignment in second grade.  It was a simpler time.

Actually kind of looks like him.

His mom, however, was indifferent.

Ever supportive Barb.

Pew pew pew pew look out for lone Japanese man with laser gun pew pew pew mayday mayday

Happy Marrige!

Only dropped him once or twice.

Wait....John??????????

Back when I thought working in oil and gas meant using a bicycle pump to extract that sweet black gold.

Reagan, praise his name.

Definitely busy.

No one will ever take that away from him.
Also this was back when I thought both candidates waited for the election results together on a stage...  
...Can we make that happen this year?

Memo to the Party of Lincoln.

On this day, one hundred sixty-one years ago, Abraham Lincoln wrote a letter to his friend, Joshua Speed.  Though he and Mr. Speed disagreed on politics, they remained friends throughout their lives.  In an eerily relevant passage of the letter, Lincoln comments on the nativist party of the 1850s, the "Know-Nothings".  Pardon this future president's spelling—his sentiment is worth consideration.

I am not a Know-Nothing. That is certain. How could I be? How can any one who abhors the oppression of negroes, be in favor or degrading classes of white people? Our progress in degeneracy appears to me to be pretty rapid. As a nation, we began by declaring that "all men are created equal." We now practically read it "all men are created equal, except negroes" When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read "all men are created equal, except negroes, and foreigners, and Catholics." When it comes to this I should prefer emigrating to some country where they make no pretence of loving liberty -- to Russia, for instance, where despotism can be taken pure, and without the base alloy of hypocracy.

A peek into our relationship.

Will just made me guess the 10 most populous counties in the US.  I pretty much got them all except for Maricopa County in Arizona, which I don't feel too ashamed about missing.  As Lucille Bluth says, I'd rather be dead in California than alive in Arizona.  (Will would like me to disclose that he gave me the names of the two New York counties on the list.)  (Kings and Queens Counties.)  (Who knew that the five boroughs were separate counties?  Not me.)

Skunk's alive.

On this, one day after their 37^th anniversary, I would like to dedicate this post to my parents, the unbeatable Jim and Jane. 

A recent (mis)adventure of theirs continues to warm my heart and I want to share it with the world.

A pesky groundhog has been living under our poolhouse for quite a while now, so my parents decided it was time to evict him.  Rather than have an exterminator do the job, they purchased and set up a trap from Home Depot and planned to release the groundhog into the Great Swamp once he was caught.  The following morning, however, they awoke to troublesome news: the groundhog was still cozy under the poolhouse and they had caught a skunk instead.

None of the exterminators in the area provide service on Sundays, so Jim and Jane had to improvise (or else have a baked skunk on their hands).  After consulting the internet and some more nature-minded friends, they decided to cover the cage to shield Skunky from the hot sun and to keep him from spraying.

Apparently, skunks will not spray if they can’t see you, and they are soothed by the slow, floating approach of a large, blue Snuggie.  Armed with this information (and of course, a blue Snuggie), James bravely risked his usual scent of Old Spice and baby powder for the task of covering the cage.  And Jane, with her ever-steady hand, videotaped the whole thing for posterity.

(How calmly he walks away at the end!  I would have bolted.)

The skunk got picked up on Monday.  After all that, my parents decided to let the groundhog remain in his residence under the pool house.  When asked for comment on this story, Jane said, “I don’t think we’ll try again for the groundhog.  We feel like amateurs.  Should pay the pros.”

I, for one, am glad they didn’t.  Not only did this episode provide my sisters and me with great entertainment (“Oscar-worthy footage”, said one), it is yet another example of how my parents continue to confront life’s challenges as a united team, armed with tenacity and good humor.  Happy anniversary—here’s to many more years of catching skunks and taking names.

Mr. Speaker.

Good evening, Mr. Paul….Mr. Ryan…Mr. Paul Ryan.  I admit, I always have to think twice when I’m reading an article about you—is this author referring to the Speaker by his first name? his last name? which one is which?  I suppose with the last name Ryan, you were doomed to be someone with two first names.  Sadly, this is not your only burden.

When you reluctantly took over as Speaker of the House, literally zero people envied you.  The House is a shit show.  You knew this.  I knew this.  But I was glad that you were the one for the job.  You are a decent man and you bring an important perspective to the budget debate.  I thought you could keep down the more deplorable aspects of the Republican party.  Maybe you could kick the crazy.

And yet, here we are.  You, as standard-bearer for your party, feel obligated to endorse its candidate, despite the strong possibility that he is the orange Antichrist. 

Shame on you.

I wonder how it feels to look up at Ted Cruz, basking on his moral high ground.  Another unenviable position for you.  Aren’t you supposed to be the good guy?  It must be infuriating to know that slimeball will always be able to hold these moments over your head.  I can already hear him running for the 2020 primary—“Remember when Paul Ryan was willing to sacrifice his integrity on the altar of party?  Remember my ‘vote your conscience’ speech?  It’s up there with Lincoln’s second inaugural.  We are the party of Lincoln, after all.  Praise Reagan.”

Don’t you think it’s time to stand up for yourself, if not for your country?  Donald Trump does not deserve your loyalty.  He is not your man.  He is not going to advance your agenda.  When has he ever done someone else’s bidding?  (Besides Vladimir Putin’s, of course—who can blame him for having a man-crush on that soulless KGB bod?)

It’s (past) time to grow a pair and withdraw your endorsement.  I think you’ll sleep better.  Don’t wait to see how low he will go.   

We miss your smile.

Email leak.

You may have noticed some buzz in the news about emails getting leaked all over the place.  We’ve got Hillary’s emails out there thanks to the FBI, we’ve got DNC emails out there thanks to the Russians and Julian Assange.  It’s all very exciting.  I decided I wanted in on the fun and have elected to leak a few of my own emails. 

Some of you may have heard the recent This American Life story of a guy who accidentally receives other people’s emails, on account of his very generic name and email address.  While I like to think I don’t have a completely generic name, I too periodically receive emails that were meant for someone else.  Usually that someone is a Claire O'Connor from Ireland, but there was a string of eHarmony Australia emails for a while too.  I do hope all the Irish emails are meant for the same Claire O'Connor every time.  She could be my alter-ego.  

I received one of these emails this morning, which inspired me to share.  My favorite is probably the very detailed offer for a SillyBilly face painting job, with a darling note from a romantic Daniel O’Mara coming in a close second.  Please enjoy.  (Also forgive the terrible formatting.  Blogger stinks sometimes.)

Today's email.

This is a hen party!  Women only!

Dreamy Dan.

All time favorite.

Jonathan: a good, honest lad.

Helloooooo Steane!

A time for tolerance.

Greetings, blob-o-sphere!

I have generally both agreed with and enjoyed previous posts from Claire Blobbing, but in good conscience, I cannot let last week’s post lie. 

My name is Will Randall, and I think Pokémon Go is a blast. 

Our blobbing overlord does not share my enthusiasm for Jynx and her friends.

In elementary school, I played the Pokémon card game, Pokémon Snap and dabbled in other videogame iterations of the series, but no installment in the Pokémon pantheon has enthralled me like Pokémon Go. It’s a drug for the curious and wandering mind. You have no idea when and where you will uncover something exciting. That unknown keeps you coming back for more.  

My current posse

Whether Pokémon Go is the most successful plank in Michelle Obama’s “Let's Move!” campaign, an effort to cash in on 90s nostalgia by Niantic and Co., or something in between, I cannot wrap my head around a worthy cause for outrage or alarm. Because of this game, people are exploring and enjoying their surroundings. They’re socializing with strangers - celebrating the appearance of a wild Charmander or lamenting a server error cancelling an exciting catch. They’re having fun, and they’re hurting no one. 

Pokémon Go inspired satire

Sometimes, I think we worry too much about “what’s the point” in life. So much of the joy in living life is in just living it! I know I don’t need an end goal to have fun. I’m reminded of the fantasy game in the book Ender’s Game. There was no way to win. There was no “point”. It was a vehicle for exploration and curiosity - a means to blow off steam. Ultimately, the fantasy game was a game in which the player created their own victory conditions. Sure, knowing the end goal of game can be fun, but sometimes there is just as much fun in the unknown and discovering for yourself what a world might hold. 

Not sure what Niantic is trying to say about Detroit with all these Drowzees...

I firmly believe it is not our place to tell others how to have fun (in socially responsible ways). We are all entitled to our own pursuits of happiness, and we should learn to celebrate, or at least respect, what makes each other happy. There is a lot of scary shit going down in the world - be it the attacks in Orlando, Nice, Dallas or Baton Rouge, the failed coup in Turkey, or Rudy Giuliani's speech on Monday at the Republican National Convention. As a nation and as human beings, we are better than these reprehensible expressions of fear, disgust, and hate. These are base emotions that threaten to tear good people and nations apart. 

I can’t help but think we all need more of the joy and fun that Pokémon Go brings in our lives. Every little bit of goodness in the world matters. The greatness or reprehensibility of a civilization is built on the mundane foundation of all our lives. So make good choices, learn to love your neighbor, and the next time a stranger fistbumps or yelps when they catch a Pokémon, smile and share in their small moment of happiness - it’s only a game. 

Keep chasing the dream.

Speechwriter application.

Thank you.  Thank you so much.  Please.  Thank you.  Thank you.

I am thrilled to be here.  As I look out at all your bright, white faces, I am excited at all we can accomplish together, with my husband, Donald J. Trump, as our king.

Some people wonder—what is the best thing about being the beautiful wife of Donald J. Trump?  Or perhaps, why did I debase myself and marry the man some consider the vilest American alive?  Two words: bank account.  Oh, and his giant dick, which I am contractually obligated to mention on a monthly basis.

I don’t understand why people think my Donald hates immigrants.  I mean, hello?  They don’t make bodies like mine in America.  Donald fully supports the importation—sorry, I mean immigration of beautiful women.  Rich American douche bags need people to marry too, you know!

When I am your queen, I will work for a cause very near to my heart—the cause of all the beautiful women and children.  And I do mean just the beautiful ones.

But for now I want to address all American women, even the ugly ones.  I have heard that some of you think Donald hates women.  It’s just not true.  Donald loves women.  Look at me—I’m a woman, and he loves me.  So you shouldn’t worry. 

Please, vote for my husband.  He is the greatest husband, the best. 

Thank you so much for all the love you've shown for Donald and me.  You’ll hear from me again in a few years—I’ll have a tell-all with Anderson Cooper after my contract expires when I turn 50 and Donald has upgraded to the next hot, young piece of ass.  We can’t expect him to keep an old hag by his side!

Anyways, God bless Donald J. Trump, and God bless America.

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

Pompeii.

(Let's be honest--we all know that I will never finish writing a comprehensive review of our trip to Italy.  Instead, I will do some individual posts about some highlights.)

I remember learning about Pompeii and Mount Vesuvius for the first time in fourth grade.  The details of the event horrified and captivated me—I can still picture the photos of the crouched plaster bodies in our textbook.  Pompeii has occupied my imagination from time to time over the last 17 years, so when faced with the prospect of actually visiting the place, I worried I would be disappointed.  Would this be the Italian Alamo? 

NOOOPE way cooler than the Alamo.

My fears were unfounded—Pompeii exceeded all my expectations.  I had imagined a small, excavated site with barriers keeping visitors from the ruins.  Instead, Pompeii is HUGE (yuge?) and tourists are free to walk around, touch the walls, and go in the buildings.  I had also imagined that the famous plaster casts of the unfortunate souls would be littered all about the site….they are not.

Here's one...peekaboo?

We had a great tour guide who showed us a lot of things I would have missed had I just been exploring on my own.  He pointed out these long grooves at the thresholds of all the little houses—tracks for sliding doors!!  This just totally blew my mind and I still can’t quite put my finger on why.  Maybe it’s that 2000+ years later, I am still drawing sliding doors on floor plans.  The Romans were ahead of the game on indoor/outdoor living.

ARE YOU NOT AMAZED

I loved seeing the many clever details in Roman architecture.  In the bathhouse, the barrel-vaulted ceilings have grooves so the condensation from all the steam would just run down to the walls rather than drip on the bathers.  The angles of the windows in the ceiling allowed the bathers to keep track of the sun and get home in time for dinner. 

Grooves and windows

Will inspects the tub.

I shouldn't have been surprised that the Romans were good at building roads.  All the roads are just as they were back then.  The little marble specks between the bigger slabs were reflectors. I also enjoyed the elevated crosswalk stones--gotta keep those Roman sandals out of whatever muck might be flowing in the street.

Safety first.

Crosswalk.

As we walked around the very spots where ancient Romans shopped, socialized, worshipped, and lived, I became increasingly bowled over by the fact that 2000 years separate us from them.  Sure we’ve had a few technological advances since their time, but in terms of essentials…how much have we truly progressed?  Will reminds me that most people don't do slavery anymore.  So that's a good step.  

We still get drinks at the bar.

Headlines.

Today, Nigel Farage, one of the leading geniuses of “Brexit”, snidely remarked “it’s almost as if [Hillay Clinton] feels she has this sort of divine right” to the presidency.  Seems like odd commentary coming from someone whose country has a monarchy.

In other news, Donald Trump praised the old American pastime of waterboarding.  “I like it a lot,” he said.  Where can we sign him up?

Finally, rest in peace, Pat Summitt.  Even though we always cheered for UConn women's basketball, I still knew you were a badass.

A history lesson.

My love for history began when I was a kid.  I remember one Christmas I got a book containing stories, letters, and images of real people during World War II.  I was spellbound.  Here were ordinary people doing extraordinary things in extraordinary times.  The victory gardeners, the Navajo code talkers, the concentration camp inmates, the D-Day soldiers.  Perversely, I was actually jealous of these people—they got to live history.  All I could do was read about it.  In the naïve, grammar-school mind of an upper-middle class white girl, history was over.  The world, or at least my world, was stable and prosperous.  Nothing exciting or dangerous would ever happen again.  The struggles of earlier generations had born the fruit that was my blissful childhood in the ‘90s.

Of course, I was so wrong.   I had thought of history as stories with neat beginnings, middles, and ends.  It was a convenient way to take it all in.  But history does not happen that way.  We can’t know how historians will classify the present moment.  Is this moment—the departure of the UK from the EU, the rise of Donald Trump—the beginning of a new, fearful era in the experiment of liberal democracies?  Is it a strange, momentary aberration in the trend toward global economic cooperation?  Or is it (pause for melodrama) the end of the world as we know it??? 

When I read history now, I consciously try to erase my bias of hindsight.  I had realized I was taking events in history for granted. Of course the Allies won World War II.  Of course the D-Day invasion worked.  Of course Neville Chamberlain should have known never to shake Hitler’s hand.   But when I suspend my knowledge of how the story ends, the plot becomes more treacherous.  Certain characters, like Chamberlain, engender more sympathy.  His country had not long before emerged from the worst war it had ever known.  He did not know something more terrible could be on the horizon.  Other characters, like Eisenhower and his D-Day soldiers, earn even more admiration and awe.  The D-Day invasion had absolutely no guarantee of success.  Eliminating the advantage of hindsight allows us to understand that the moments we study in history are defined by their uncertainty. 

More now than at any other time in my life, I am hyper-aware of the uncertainty of the future.  For the first time, I look to the future with great unease.  The only other moment rivaling this is 9/11 and its immediate aftermath, but the difference between now and then is my faith in the stability of government.  I don’t know if we can overcome the dysfunction in Washington.  I am afraid of a Trump presidency.  I don’t know if our system and national wellbeing can weather his ignorance and narcissism.  That scares me more than terrorism.

I finally feel like I’m living history, but I wish I could tell fourth-grade Claire that it’s not as cool as we thought.