Right and good. I’m sorry, I’m a little absent. I am blogging, but it’s all behind the scenes stuff. And learning self-hosting things. That’s harder than it seems. Oh my god. IT HURTS MY TINY GIRL BRAIN!
For now, go to Back Fence and read a great Fish Out of Water post by one of my favorite bicycle mamas, Kathleen McDade (whenever I don’t feel like riding, I think of Kathleen and jump on my bike). This one is about being out of place on the job. It’s super sweet and totally real. Reminded me of the year I spent as a bartender. It was not good. Not good.
Fair warning, fan club: I’m about to start self-hosting this blog using wordpress.org. This means that you’ll be able to find me using melissalion.com, but not that address you see in the little rectangle right now. What? It’s been a year and I’ve had sufficient time to fully hate my blogging platform and now I must move. But not too far, kay. And I’ll tell you when it happens. Right now I’m trying to find a nice three-column theme with a header I can customize. Not that easy because apparently wordpress theme designers FUCKING LOVE ink splots and bananas and ladies! shopping! Sit tight and very soon (like in two days) my blog will be all bright and shiny.
Anywhoozle, Kiala came to town to see me (and others) and I dominated Kiala’s time. I tried to act all, “gee, we don’t have to hang out the whole time you’re here and I know you’re only here for a short time so you really shouldn’t spend all of that time with me.” And while I was saying this, I was quietly handcuffing her to the inside of my car. Anyway, it was so amazingly good to see her and my brain feels like it feels after I chew Altoids cinnamon gum — fuzzy and warm.
She took me to see Battlestar Gay-lactica at the Baghdad theater. The Baghdad holds (no kidding) 600 people (it’s where I gave my social media talk) and for B-Gay it was at capacity. Right. With people still waiting outside for the question and answer period. I just…I…whatever.
Well, I love the Baghdad except for the part where there’s but one line to get drinks and food. For more than 600 people. But we got there early and had several hours of waiting for the show so I offered to go stand in line for drinks and grab myself some popcorn and (get this) a regular coke!
And as I got on line, I reached in my bag for my knitting only to discover that I had no knitting with me. So I reached for my book — NO BOOK. I felt for my phone: NO PHONE! So I was facing a 20 minute line with no way to entertain myself or call Kiala and ask her to come stand with me.
There was a nerdy guy standing behind me so I decided I’d chat with that dude. I mean nerds seem to appreciate the Lioness, so I’d just, you know, make conversation.
Me: Is this the line for cocktails too?
Nerdy Guy: I don’t know. [continues staring just over my left shoulder]
A few minutes later
Me: Crowded here tonight!
NG: Yes.
I turn back around. Wait a few minutes.
Me: Is this show just an hour?
Him: [scoff]
I smile at him and nod my head a bit as if to say, FUCK YEAH PEOPLE WHO DON’T KNOW THAT B-GAY IS BUT AN HOUR ARE POTARDS! And then turn back around.
Me: Have you been to the Baghdad before.
NG: Yes.
Me: Hey, me too! [screaming inside, I've spoken on that stage about COMPUTERS don't you want to talk to me more???]
I won’t be stopped.
Me: Good people watching.
NG: [shurg]
Me: I’m going to get popcorn and a regular soda.
NG: [eye roll]
Me: WHY WON’T YOU ACCEPT ME?
And then, as if she has some sort of spidy sense, Kiala and our friend Alison emerged from the theater and they saved me by talking and home decorating and clothes.
Here’s the moral of the story: I’m not good at talking speaking to other human beings.
I know, it’s another New Seasons post. I know. I blog about New Seasons all the time. Because I have a love/ hate relationship with that stupid store. Basically I love every single thing they do and stand for EXCEPT for the fact that it represents the trademark hypocrisy of white liberal America, particularly sanctimonious Portland. I find it repellent that New Season is so damn expensive while, literally, homeless people are outside pawing though the cans and bottles the liberal white people leave in the bins so that the homeless people can paw through them and return the bottles and cans for cash. Honest to god, this is what happens. New Seasons has these bins out front where you can leave your cans and bottles for the homeless people to pick up. And like fucking hell the homeless people could afford that higher quality food inside. I hate that. I hate it.
Mainly because I hate homeless people. And I moved to Portland because I heard the homeless *and, bonus!, Blacks* were tasered upon entering the city.
But I was in New Seasons today wandering around and I was thinking these very thoughts as I was shopping for, no shit, a copy of the New Yorker and Harper’s so I could then put them in satchel and ride my Bianchi Milano Cafe Racer (color: Celeste!) bicycle in the sunshine to go drink loose leaf tea in the sunshine. What? I’m not homeless, I’m a writer! A WRITER.
And as I was wandering around New Seasons and thinking about my outrage on behalf of the homeless, I had this thought: What the hell? Is it homeless day in this fucking store?
I stopped in the middle of an aisle and looked around and every single person was in a khaki jacket, torn jeans, fingerless mits. Stringy hair was everywhere. And as I stood there, a pregnant woman in terry-cloth hello kitty hot shorts and black Ugg boots passed me and I just about fainted.
WHAT WAS HAPPENING?
I breathed a moment and tried to refocus and told myself that when I was checking out, I’d ask the cashier if it was, you know, a special day at New Seasons. Like a day when old people get a discount before 10am simply because they stayed alive long enough to be confused by the Internet. But this day was homeless day. And homeless day would entail New Seasons discounting their food so that it would cost the same as regular food.
Of course, I knew I would never do that because my internal life is so much more daring than my external life. And I knew New Seasons would never deign to have normal costing food when there are homeless people and the working poor to be excluded from the shopping experience.
And then, for a split second, I thought, maybe this is just the Portland aesthetic. Maybe it’s cool to look homeless. It could very well be.
But then the sunshine and a bike ride was calling to me, and away I went to read my New Yorker in the sunshine and as far away as possible from all of those homeless people.
Also, this must be the greatest blow job ever given. I’ve never in my life wanted to be a man, but suddenly, I do. A lot. (Found via Violet Blue.)
Go here for a fantastically amazing blog post by one of my most favorite twitterererers @jarvitron. Jarvitron aka Aaron Walker holds the distinction of being the author of the most of my favorite tweets. (On twitter you can mark tweets as favorites.)
And he’s a fascinating guy. I’d like to sit down and observe him because he’s full of surprises. Funny and kind and funny and crass and kind. All of the things I hope to be and know that my friends already are.
So, please, go read his post. It’s everything Aaron is — truthful, hilarious and human.
Kiala has asked me to blog and I do whatever Kiala says. I have a post in The Printed Blog this week. I like that thing. Basically, they’re taking blogging and putting it on paper. I love this. I have a class coming up on March 21st that you should attend for no other reason than I’m super-charming in front of people and MediaChick is making muffins and explaining tech stuff and she’s super-charming too.
I’m actually an excellent teacher, hard to believe I know.
Here’s what I wanted to talk about — why is there no Jane Austen pron? Like videos. And not greasy guys and women with faque boobs, but like Colin Firth gettin’ all passionate? Yes, we have the Tudors, but I find that show too stressful. That guy’s eyes are just so disturbing and you know Anne Boleyn, not matter how far she rises, will end up with her head in a basket.
See, I got sick *again* and this time I know exactly the moment it happened. We were on the airplane and this five year-old kid turned around and sneezed right on me. I said, “You really should cover your face when you sleep sneeze.” I said it just like that too because my voice doesn’t travel into the baby talk range. And then I got sick. I hate that kid.
And I was in bed and I watched Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion and Northanger Abbey and I’d just come off watching Sense and Sensibility about 25 times. And I was thinking, you know, I could really use an empire waist dress and some tea. A lot of tea. TEA CURES EVERYTHING. And why is there no Jane Austen porn?
There are some good soft core books. Mr. Darcy takes a Wife is excellently smutty. But someone should really make a soft-focus, high quality, empire waist-laden porn movie. And not something like Pride and Pumpyoumuch or whatever it would be called. But like Lizzy Bennett’s Boudoir. Or the Inner life of Lizzy. Or Lezzy Bennett and she could get together with Caroline Bingley — H.O.T.!
That’s as far as I got because I think I passed out from a fever.
See, I blogged.
And it wasn’t me who called Portland the most miserable city ever. It was someone else. Some news thing or whatever.
I don’t know how this post will end up because I’m so beat, it took me five minutes to tie my apron today. Five minutes to figure out how to turn to strings into a bow. I was confus-ed. And had this thought in the midst of trying to make a bow: maybe the internet could tell me how…no I can’t follow pictures real good.
And then a long thread of drool poured from my mouth.
I’m kidding about the real good part. You know I’d think, “rather well.”
Anyway, the title of this post ought to be:
Like North Shore. Or something.
Because I was going to tell you about how I went back in the water, Internet. Back in the water! You know why? Because the only thing that scares me more than the ocean sucking me into its deepest depths and squeezing the life out of me is gaining the Portland 15. I did that when I moved here. I gained fifteen pounds because I was unhappy and beer and chocolate made me feel better temporarily. And so, by this time last year, I was larger. Larger. I don’t want that again, Fan Club. I don’t want it.
GOD PLEASE LET IT STOP!
So I got back in the water and went snorkeling with my brother because I spent my entire Hawaii vacation full. Full of mom food. You know the food you find in your mom’s cabinets? I ate it. All of it. That included kettle chips, vanilla coke, Dr. Pepper, steaks and steaks and steaks, and we went out to eat a lot where I ate cheeseburgers and French fries and sushi and carne asada and carnitas and linguisa and nary a piece of broccoli passed my lips. God, I felt so fucking mellow.
And then I started getting scared because those are all bad things.
So I went back into the water with my brother. And remember that scene in North Shore where Rick Kane, from Arizona, goes out on the North Shore the first day there and then eats it big time in the coral and the dark-haired lady puts aloe on his wounds? And then they fall in love and he gets his paints stolen and the shaper takes him in and shows him how to be a soul surfer? Well, that was a lot like what happened to me. Just the coral part.
See, my brother and I were snorkeling and we saw a bunch of sea turtles. Oh my god, sea turtles are the neatest things ever. And we saw a bunch of tropical fish and it was a calm day and we were swimming and I was thinking (smugly, I might add) that I could eat another steak that night because I had been swimming in the ocean! And we swam in, I took off my foot paddles (what the hell are those things called???) and, just like Rick Kane, I cut my heel on a piece of coral. And my finger too.
Now if some pretty Hawaiian lady had rode up to me on horseback and offered me some aloe, I would have taken it, but my mom handed me some Mexican antibiotic lotion and told me to get it on there quick. I swear, if you ever need any Mexican antibiotics, just drop me a line. Between my parents (who go down to Mexico to hunt) and Steve’s mom (who is Mexican and goes to Tijuana –or TJ as we called it in high school, or Aunt Jane’s if we were sneaking out–frequently for produce) we have plenty of Mexican medication. Plenty.
Where am I going with this?
Here’s my wound.
Here’s a sea turtle.
Here I am.
I use 70 sunblock.
If you have emailed me over the past ten days, and I have not responded, please know that I may or may not respond and don’t take it personally if I don’t get back to you over the next few days. If it’s Monday and you haven’t heard from me, then do email again, would you?
Leaving Hawaii today. It’s sad, I’m sad. But there you are. Back to the most depressing city in America.
But go over to the Back Fence website and check out some stories from the last event, would you?
No kidding.
First let me tell you something about where I am. I’m in Hawaii, yes. But not the Hawaii you’re thinking of. We’re on the Big Island and my parents live at an altitude of about 2000 feet. And they’re on the side of a volcano. So it’s cold where they are. Very cold. Right now, it’s 50 degrees and it’s rained non-stop since I got here. It’s like Portland where my parents live. Except it’s windy. Very windy. The trade winds just haul ass across the island.
Now at the beach, it’s in the 80’s and sunny, but those trade winds still blow. Yesterday they were blowing particularly strongly.
My brother goes out snorkeling most days, and unlike his older sister, he grew up surfing and swimming in the ocean. You see, I grew up a fair-skinned brunette girl in the 80’s in Southern California. I never dieted because I dislike being hungry and so I’ve always been normal weight. Not too skinny, not fat. I think, with the exception of my pregnancy, I’ve been a size eight since I was 15. In other words, I was ENORMOUS, according to Southern California standards, and, what’s worse, I COULD NOT TAN!
This resulted in my not being a strong swimmer. Nor am I a confident swimmer. Mainly because I’m so worried that my ass is looking fat and pale in a swimsuit.
I haven’t owned a swimsuit for maybe 10 years. I own short board shorts and a bikini top, which I cover up with a rash guard because I get burned too easily and I don’t want my stomach showing.
Anyway, yesterday my brother was going snorkeling and I wanted to go with him. Because I think my brother is about the coolest dude on the planet. And I’ve been eating so much since I got here, I’m afeared of putting on my jeans when I return to Portland, so I needed exercise.
We went snorkeling and checked out the reefs and it was quite lovely and the sun was shining and I was swimming and feeling fine and I said to my brother, “let’s head over there and check out that reef.”
And my brother looked across the bay where we were swimming, to where I was pointing and said, “no.”
And I said, “C’mon.”
And he said, “okay.”
So we swam across the bay and snorkeled over on the other side, but there were no fish so we decided to head in. Right as the trade winds started blowing again. Right in our faces. And there’s my brother swimming along, and suddenly a white cap blows up and the ENTIRE WAVE pours into my snorkel. I tear off my mask and snorkel and gag several times, start gasping for air, gag, watch my brother swimming away from me, have 75 more white caps pour onto my head and into my mouth resulting in more gagging and panicking and finally I scream for my brother. BUT HE’S SWIMMING AWAY!
So I have to scream louder while sea water is actively trying to drown me.
And all I can think is, I’m about to Virginia Woolf this bitch.
Finally, my brother hears my screams above the gale force winds, and he swims over to me.
“What’s up?”
“I’m going to fucking die. Your sister is going to die,” I tell him.
“You’re okay,” he says.
“No, I can’t make it in,” and then I grab his arm and my thought is this: I’m going to take you with me unless you help.
So he grabs my arm and he pulls me for a second, and then I think, why am I such a stupid girl? WHAT SELF-RESPECTING PORTLAND MAMA BIKE RIDER WOULD FREAK OVER THIS??
So I let go of my death grip on my brother and I turned on my back and we swam in on our backs. Except about halfway through when another 11 million waves broke on my head and I had to grab my brother again and scream at him that we’d die here. WE’LL DIE IN HAWAII!!
Now here’s the thing I’m alternating about being pissed about or very proud. You see, when I was panicking and certain I would drown, my brother didn’t even flinch. He didn’t even react to my, quite reasonable, screams that I was going to die. I was watching him carefully too. Very carefully. And he just stayed mellow and as we were swimming back in, he chatted with me the whole time. And then we arrived and I said, “Don’t tell Mom and Dad that I nearly drowned.” And he didn’t. So, I guess I’m proud. And I guess my brother remains the coolest dude on the planet.
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