You are currently browsing the monthly archive for May, 2008.
In wordpress, you get these little ads that say you can get a personalized URL for just $15. And they give you a sample URL. Today, mine was easymelissamammal.com. I’m a little offended, but I’ve been called worse.
We haven’t checked in with the lawn in a long time. And it is still not mowed. I know, you’re shocked. Well, cut me a bit of slack, ‘kay, I write books n’ shit, isn’t that enough, WORLD? Here’s what happened: we tried to puzzle through Ken’s comment and had no idea what a single part was that he was describing, and then we decided to take it to the shop for a tune up and for a guy who knows something about things to touch it with a wrench or wave a sparkly wand over it to make it work or whatever people do who own tools and have a sense of machines and life and are blue collar — something we Californians scorn until we need to do something useful.
So the day we’re going to take it to the shop, they close at six, and it was 6:15. And then they are closed the next day. And so we take it the following day. Won’t be ready for a week. A week later, Saturday, I call to pay for it over the phone so Steve can grab it on his way home. They don’t take payment over the phone. So I say okay, and I bake some cookies and do some other things that I can’t remember and then I head over there to grab it. Well, they are closed, in fact, they close at 2:30 on Saturdays and it was 2:48. Fucking cookies. But they’re closed on Sundays all day.
Saturday, our next door neighbor is out there mowing his lawn, and our neighbors are the nicest people in the world, and I send Steve over there with some cookies to tell them the whole lawn mower saga and we’ll have it taken care of on Monday. They laugh it off.
Sunday rolls around and I do my usual thing of dashing in and out of the house because I don’t want to see any of our neighbors because I’m sure they hate us 1) because we’re from California and 2) because we’re from California and don’t know shit about the maintenance of a house.
But, I won’t give up. I decide yesterday that Arch and I will go on the world’s longest bike ride to go buy plants at the organic nursery because I’m fucking cheap and don’t want to buy gas all about cutting back on my fossil fuel consumption. And along the bike ride I was thinking what I’ve been thinking for the past week: “oh my god, I’m going to California where I will see dear friends and people I haven’t seen in a long time and DO I LOOK GOOD ENOUGH? I DOOOOOOOOOOOOOON’T!” The bike ride, in total, was like ten miles. And so I arrive home, tired and hot and hungry and tired and feeling not great in my brain, when a woman in a Mercedes pulls up and screams out her car window, “Your lawn looks like crap. Cut your fucking lawn.” And then drives away.
And I think a few things: when was the last time I saw a Mercedes in St. John’s? That woman is very unhappy. Who the fuck yells things out car windows. And finally, SHE. IS. TOTALLY. RIGHT.
So I start to cry and I call Steve at work to blame him to share my feelings of embarrassment and disappointment. And to ask the all important question: how did both of our parents instill nary a shred of anything resembling practical skills. And how is that we are both in our 30’s and neither of us have ever mowed a lawn.
To make matters worse, the woman in the Mercedes was visiting with our across the way neighbors who are eleventy-hundred years old. And the husband still mows his lawn every single weekend. They’re so old, that they came over when we first moved in to share two things: 1) they watched our house being built (our house was built in 1954) 2) The previous owner had such lovely taste, and gee, it looks…different…in here without the wood paneling.
I can’t exactly go over to the old people’s house because I don’t believe in yelling at old people, and yet, I was crying and didn’t think I could handle the situation without tears and passive aggressively blaming other people for our shitty looking lawn.
I tell Steve on the phone, “bring them some cookies, and you tell them that we don’t know anything about lawns and houses and shit and that at any point they could have come over and offered some helpful advice about things instead of letting some douche bag yell at me when I’m hungry and tired and feeling like a fat cow. AND ARCHER BROKE HIS LEG SO THEY CAN CUT US SOME SLACK. Okay, say that OKAY!”
So Steve comes home and grabs the cookies and goes over there. And Steve is really, really good in situations like this. He might not know shit about lawns, but he knows how to assuage angry people, which in my book, is way better than knowing how to mow a lawn.
Here’s what I’m trying to say, Internets: I’m picking up the lawn mower today. And the lawn will be nice and tidy by 6pm today. Okay, now get off my fucking back. And if anyone knows anyone in St. John’s who lives by us, if you could just pass that message along. It’s way cheaper than buying a sign and draping across my house.
I found an old blog of mine today. Sadly, it was not my dearly departed, Bedrest Without Television. I wrote this blog when Arch was born and I was super obsessed with celebrity gossip and the Bush Administration.
I present you with
Enjoy.
Okay, everyone is doubting my blog readership, and I will say this to you, check out my blog roll. I’m friends with several of those people in real life, and because I spent ten years in the Bay Area, I’ve participated a live sex show and had several boyfriends who said things like I thought it was prefectly normal to kiss that guy on the train, I feel perfectly comfortable asking people how many hits a day they get. In the Bay Area, the first thing every single person says upon entering an apartment — how much rent do you pay. Here’s my point: I get a fraction of the hits the people in my blog roll and my commenters get. A fraction. A small fraction.
I’ve not really participated in a live sex show. I have seen them, though. And I’ve still not had an STD. I do have an SUV, however, and in Portland that carries about the same social stigma.
Here’s how I explain it to my friends who get a lot of hits: I’m a blogger’s blogger. There are writers that great writers love, but the general population has yet to catch on. And I’m like that, but for blogging. Very popular bloggers read this blog, and I love them, but their masses have yet to make the leap, which is fine. There are only so many times I can open my email and find an angry missive about something I’ve written. If you must know, because I believe in total honesty in all things, yesterday I had 69 unique hits. And those 69 people love this blog, and I love them right back. So thank you 69-ers. You’re my favorite position.
Last night I went to see my friend and partner in crime, Frayn Masters perform with her group (well, there are two of them and I don’t know what that’s called) Eastland Academy. It was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in my life. I was crying, I was laughing so hard. They did this sketch where they were two teenage boys at their final high school party and feeling maudlin, except they were wearing unicorn horns. And their names were Cinnamon and something else I can’t remember. Anyway, I laughed for the entire sketch. I laughed through the dialog. And then I laughed harder. And I embarrassed the people around me, for sure, because I was laughing so hard.
And then I remembered how when I was in high school, I wanted to be an actor so badly. I wanted so much to be in a school play and I never got cast. And then, at sixteen, I knew the feeling of pure hate because I hated the drama teacher so very much. And I still might a little. I also hated my writing teacher because she gave me Fs, and I thought that was bullshit. And I had to walk out of her class a few times just because I was so pissed and because I was a teenager. For the record: my writing teacher and I have worked that shit out and I love her to bits. My drama teacher has yet to call to apologize for not casting me in David and Lisa. What the fuck? Just because you have a pert, blond deaf girl in the drama class doesn’t mean you can’t try a different person in the starring role of a pert, blond deaf girl. Think outside of the box, woman.
In any case, my desire to be an actor and then seeing my dear friend be such a good actor — and a funny one at that — made me think, I CAN DO THAT TOO! After the play we went out with (half) the cast for a drink. And several of her friends who I’ve never met went and because I was around people I didn’t know, and because I always try extra hard to contribute to the conversation around people I don’t know because I don’t want to be that person who just sits there and has nothing to say because in these situations, when the pastie is on the other breast, I always need to make conversation with the quiet person because I feel responsible for their quiet state AND I was thinking, I can be funny and project my voice and be funny and I WANT TO PERFORM! It led to my not saying the most appropriate or socially correct things. Like (apropos of nothing): “you cannot take a guy dancing because THAT SHIT CAN GO VERY WRONG.” And: “have you gotten married before, because I have, and I’d imagine that ACTING IN A PLAY is a lot like YOUR WEDDING DAY. Because SHIT goes by really fast and then you need to come down and after my wedding my husband and I sat on our living room floor and said, WHAT THE FUCK DID WE DO?”
The people who we were with were lovely and polite about the whole thing and I think were rather relieved when I said my goodbyes. I don’t blame them.
Here’s my point, and really, this is a message to Steve: maybe we can find some sort of microchip on Craigslist that can be placed in my brain so that when I leave the house there will be a filter between the brain and the mouth (or the outloud voice as Steve calls it) so I don’t regret conversations the morning after quite as deeply as I regret sexual encounters in my 20’s wherein the only comfort I have is the fact that I always used a condom. I need a conversational condom. Anyone know where I can pick one of those up?
And to Frayn Masters: You rocked the house, girlie! Thanks for being awesome. Sorry about the cookies. And the conversational train wreck. If we could have our meetings in the unicorn horns, I think we’d be ten times more successful. Think about it.
I have three blog readers on the weekends, but they are my favorite readers and though others don’t post on the weekends, I gladly put out for these wonderful examples of humanity.
Had a great day yesterday. Someone who shall remain nameless had an awful allergy attack and had to come home from work. And because I make all of my decisions based on Jane Austen novels, I decided we needed to go to the shore because that’s what British people do when then have lung problems. They go to the shore. THE SHORE.
That’s me swinging. I’m not really one of those moms who enjoys the playground. In fact, I’m more like the mom who’s sitting there and wishing my kid was just a little bit older so I wouldn’t have to actually stand up and act concerned that my two year old has climbed on top of the monkey bars. But yesterday, there was something about the shore breeze and the hot, hot sun and allergies that made me push the nameless person off the good swing, and tell Arch, “goddamn it kid, legs forward and then back, forward. back. FORWARD. BACK. GOD, IS THIS YOUR FIRST TIME ON A SWING?”
I needed to SWING! And shout things like, “I’m going over the bar this time!” I think I might have had some Seasonal Affected Disorder (what we in Portland call, a case of the SADs) because just three days ago that phrase would have been, “I’m going over TO the bar this time.”
It was a really awesome day, and honestly, while we were picnicking, I got a little teary because I was having so much fun with my little boy and the nameless person.
Today it’s warm again and Arch is napping because he woke up at 3am. What is up with that? It’s a little like torture and when he climbed into our bed and wanted to chat and hang out, I said, “Okay guys, I’m going to the potty.” And then I went to Arch’s room, shut the door and got into Arch’s little boy bed. I heard him calling for me a little while later and I said, “I’m still in the potty,” and I went back to sleep. The potty is sort of a magical place and I hope he realizes that soon. Very soon.
I have four book reviews due this week. One of which I was like the biggest tough-talker about to my most favorite editor. He said, “How about you turn this one in after BEA.” And I said, “What the fuck, dude? I can totally have it before BEA. HAVE I BLOWN A DEADLINE YET FOR YOU?” And he said, “are you sure?” And I said, “SHYAH!” And before you all think, she is totally lying about this conversation, know that I am not. I talked like that because the editor is a guy and I know most of his reviewers are boys and I need to always be way tougher than I am and pretend like I have a big dick, and that was exactly what I said. In his office. I’d also like to say, “Hi Jeff, thanks for reading my blog, and I’ll totally have both book reviews for you, don’t sweat it. I was not just talking tough, but I am a capable woman who smokes crack and surfs blogs all day budgets her time properly.”
Okay, I’m off to read the 300 page book that needs to be reviewed before Friday.
Here’s the most important part: I got a shout out in the Chicago Sun for this book review. I am damn witty.
1) I have a sunburn. That’s because it’s 80 degrees and my new plan to lose the final few pounds before LA is to ride my bike eight miles a day. I did that today. And I thought, oh, this is Oregon. Who gets a sunburn in Oregon? And now I know: I do. I get a sunburn in Oregon. Now my arms have that tight itchy feeling that I normally associate with my nether regions — did I just go too far for a laugh? I might have. I’d like to add that I’ve never had an STD.
2) Archie’s favorite word today is taint. I really don’t know where he heard that because that word is not part of my hourly cuss fest. The names for all the other orifices and areas in that region are, but not taint.
3) I talked to V today. She is one of my favorite people in the world. I feel better, more focused every time I talk to her.
4) Chris nominated me for best humor blog. You can vote for me here. He is also nominated and maybe this makes us mortal enemies. I don’t know, but frankly, I think he’s funnier, so vote for him. He also nominated Crissy and Kiala and they are funnier than I am, so vote for Kiala here. Crissy is nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger too. Vote for her here. I think we should come up with new blog awards. Like Most Offensive Blog. Or Blogger I’d Most Like to Undress. Or gah, Shut the Fuck up Already. I’m sorry. I just hated on Dooce. Okay, I suck.
5) Steve is making me pizza now and I need to finish the last 40 pages of the lezzie biography I’m reviewing. This makes me an honorary lezzie — an award I value far more than being the hottest mommy blogger. Okay, what am I talking about, I’m hideously jealous of Crissy. But maybe she’s jealous that I’m an honorary lezzie. Yes, that’s what I’ll tell myself as I wake in the night seething with envy.
6) I feel very smart for making my blog posts the night before. And then in the morning, I have the luxury of surfing blogs without pressure of working on writing I get paid for.
7) And if I knew the state’s anthem, I’d sing it to California today. My home state has overturned the ban on gay marriage. I’m so proud to be a Californian today. I’m always proud, but today, I’m especially happy to be from California. There’s no place I’d rather recover from.
“I’m your biggest fan
California, I’m coming home”
– from my favorite California song, Joni Mitchell’s California.
Have a good Friday.
This is the money chant for those who missed it the first time.
Today, instead of reading about me thinking offensive things about people in Portland, I’d like you to read Portland Blogger, Jess Under Construction’s post on Back Fence PDX. Be warned, this post will make you cry. I’ve read it more than five times now and it’s made me cry each and every single time. Maybe I love it because I have an only child, maybe it’s because my former mother-in-law said exactly what Jess’s did. The writing is so lovely, I bet you’ll find something poignant there too.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back to the inappropriate things I believe the internets wants to hear. And never judge me for. Thank you internets for understanding.
And, Back Fence is on Twitter. Backfencepdx. We’re on Good Reads too – Back Fence PDX. We’re on Facebook too, but I have no idea how to work that site, so add at your discretion.
Hey, thank you all for those music suggestions. I put them in a word document and I’ll cross them off my list as they make their way onto my ipod. I have it on shuffle right now, but why the hell does it play Elvis Costello every other song? Because it’s technological, I’m pretty certain it does this because it hates me. And is trying to mock me. And question my feeling that Elvis Costello is the true king of rock n roll. No, I really believe it, I DO! Please play something else. I named my ipod Mr. Wickham too, which is what I named my computer. I explained this to Steve this way: He’s Mr. Wickham’s Mr. Wickham. Steve understood this.
To the blog! As a freelance writer, I get to do a few things. I get to wear whatever I want (garters, fishnets and stilettos yoga pants) and I get to hang out in cafes. Well, I don’t get to do this often because I have a small child who doesn’t appreciate the finer points of being slightly abused at the hands of a barrista while listening to discordant indie rock and paying a small fortune for a cup of tea. But today, my friend Cathy is watching Arch while I work. So I went to a cafe.
And I ordered a tea. And I’m working on my mac. And now I have an urgent question for my blog readers.
It is this: Is it okay if I stab the two men next to me in the ears with a wooden stirrer because they are having a heart-to-heart discussion about selling insurance and what that means, and Jim’s intention vs. Jerry’s intention and how does one sell insurance and really OWN ONE’S OFFICE?
No, that’s not the question. I already know the answer: yes.
Here’s the question: can I leave my computer on the table while I go pee? I don’t want to take it with me because that would make me look like I don’t trust my fellow cafe go-ers. And I totally trust them! Except I don’t. Not at all. Even though, we’re in Portland, so they are all white, I STILL DON’T TRUST THEM. But I can’t look like a big non-trusting person. Or a shmo who needs her computer with her in the bathroom. And I fear interrupting the insurance guys because they might just try to sell me something like a new air filter for my car, which I’ll be forced to turn down and then scowl and then they’ll say something like this: You should smile more. And then I’ll be arrested for man slaughter.
Okay, answer quickly because I need to go bad. Real bad. So bad, I can’t use adverbs.
Wait, oh god, I think I’m in luck. An Asian girl just walked in. PLEASE LET HER SIT BY ME. NOOOO! Sat across the cafe.
Please COMMENT quickly people, for the sake of my bladder!
I got my mother’s day gift early. Steve and Archie and our cat Monkey saved their kibbles and Mommy got this. It’s an ipod nano. To say I’m happy and shocked as hell is an understatement. Here’s a little fact about me: my ipod before this one, I inherited from my 17 year old brother. It was a shuffle. The one that looked like a pack of gum. With no screen. Yes, that’s what I had. It was fine. I ran with it. I couldn’t figure out how to play the songs I wanted, but it always seemed to know what I wanted to hear. Lately it wasn’t letting me do much of anything. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it just sort of froze. But I ran with it every single day.
Anyway, Steve decided it was time for an upgrade and I’m very grateful. And excited. And stoked to have a new toy to play with. Thank you Steve and Arch and Monkey!
So, mother’s day. Well, I never wanted to be a mother. Growing up I didn’t give a rat’s ass about baby dolls or wedding dresses or any of that crap. I met Steve when I was 27 and I loved him so very much. And we got together and had a blast for a few years, and then I don’t know what happened but I all of a sudden I needed to have a baby. And I went off the pill and got pregnant. Like magic. And it’s had its incredibly hard moments. Steve and I went through a solid nine month spell when I didn’t think we’d make it. We’re on a very wonderful upswing now. We’re back on that track we once were. I’d rather spend time with no one else but him. And life with Archie gets better, but there are still moments when I think god, what the fuck was I thinking.
But I have moments when the three of us are lying in bed and laughing or when we’re all dancing in our kitchen and I have a thought like a thunder bolt. I think, this is my family. My FAMILY. I come from divorced parents. I grew up in condos. I moved from my hometown when I was eighteen. I haven’t spoken to one of my parents in more than a year, and the other, I love deeply, but we speak only a few times a month at the most. My grandparents are dead. To have a family now, for me, is always amazing, and sometimes extremely confusing. To have a family, for all intents and purposes, is an entirely new thing and I love it.
So happy mother’s day to all the mamas out there. Big hug, ladies. Now go out and do something just for you. You deserve it.
Oh, and my blog readers, you know what I want from you for Mother’s Day? I want you to leave me the five songs you think I should put on there. We can even arrange something where you drop them into my idisk. I know. I’m fancy. Thanks!
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