Win Lose or Draw

Yesterday the Internet was like a mine field. Seriously. I was called fat. This, I thought was peculiar because I am many things, Internet, but fat is not one of them. I’m not particularly skinny either. Ask Kiala about the time we went to Forever 21 and I couldn’t zip up the size 28 jeans. What?!? I bike everywhere and I have a big butt.

And then AND THEN I went on Facebook to book the intermission act for Back Fence (Katie Jean Arnold singing pop Christmas carols!) and lo and behold were two friend requests — one from my 18 year old brother and one from my best friend from high school. Is it odd to me that my little brother is writing on my wall on Facebook? YES! Is it totally awesome that a friend who could tell storieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez about me in high school and college is now in touch and moving to Portland? YES!

Andy — remember when we’d drive around singing Erasure? So. Fun. And remember how we were heartbroken like 98% of our lives and also Roger? And La Jolla Denny’s? And when we were Laverne and Shirley and Squiggy for Halloween?

I love that so many of my California friends are coming up here. It’s terribly reassuring to develop a safety net.

Andy has always been an amazing friend and though he’s very gay, he allows me to flirt with him when I’m lonely and touch his hands potentially inappropriately. He’s good that way.

And I’m starting to knit up that orange yarn. So beautiful.

My Domestic Bliss

I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you, Internet. I was doing homey things. Like making Thanksgiving dinner from scratch.

Look at me, Internet. I made a turkey. I made pies too. From scratch but there will be no pictures of those because apparently I’m not all checked out on parbaking pie crust. I swear, I make the ugliest damn pies. They taste excellent, but gah.

I also finished knitting a pair of socks. These socks are called, “The Sock Store Is Closed.” I’m officially only doing hats and fingerless gloves for the rest of the Christmas gifts. I sort of hate socks right now.

Aren’t they so cute? The yarn was dyed by a small hand dyer. I love the colors, but the yarn itself was not quite as firm as I like.

Stever’s mom bought me a Thanksgiving gift. It made me pee in my pants a little bit.

That’s a NEW Kitchen Aid mixer in Empire Red. Yum. My last Kitchen Aid gave up the ghost after a particularly vigorous wheat bread session.

What’s that in my new Kitchen Aid mixer? Oh, it’s the sponge for tomorrow’s ciabatta bread that I’ll be baking.

I cheated a little bit with the ciabatta — I’m using yeast. I know!

I’ve made sour dough bread from scratch a few times, but I’m opting not to spend three weeks and five pounds of flour on a single loaf. Call me lazy!

And because I had the type of day today where I thought that if someone were to make that computer program that will allow me to take out my aggression on websites and people who frequent those websites with the equivalent satisfaction of taking a baseball bat to someone’s car windows, then I would give that person *not a blow job* but a big coke and a smile because damn, that person deserves the Nobel, I bought yarn.

Oh Malbrigo, how you do me so right. What will this lurvely ball of yarn turn into?

Mom Tired

When I was in college, I had a friend whose name was Michael Sean Patrick or Patrick Micheal Sean or Micheal Matthew Paul or something. I can’t remember. He had three first names and that’s all you need to know. Anyway, after a hard night of drinking followed by a lengthy day of classes (SFSU — home of the functioning alcoholic) he’d say he was Mom Tired. And I would laugh. I’D LAUGH, INTERNET. I’d laugh and then, every year or so I’d go to the lady doctor and lie back and stare at the waterfall/tropical beach/ three wee puppies in a basket picture tacked to the ceiling and you know what I would not say? I would not say, uhhh doctor, would it be possible to, while you’re scraping my cervix, to just lob off my ovaries because I know that one day I will be PUNISHED by the fires of hell for laughing when Dylan Brandon David said Mom Tired.

Internet, I have to tell you, I am Mom Tired. To the max. My measles-rubella-scarlet-fever-cancer-monkey-plague is still harshing my mellow (does anyone remember Paulie Shore? I wish I didn’t, but I’m from Southern California and it’s one of many crosses I bear) and AND I was a true journalist and stayed up past my bedtime on Saturday night to interview Belladonna, star of hundreds of adult films, including The Greatest Asswhores Ever! (Please, Internet Search Gods, go easy on me. And yes, that exclamation point is part of the title) and The ConAssuer. I can never correctly spell that word either.

My interview will be up on PDX Pipeline and I’ll link to it here. But in my interview, I asked Belladonna how she balances a full-time acting and directing career while having a small child. Yes, she is a mom. And she said something, but all I could think was, oh my god, you’re wearing clothes and I’ve seen right up your bottom and you’re just talking to me like I haven’t seen up your bottom. She was very sweet and charming. She gave me two hugs. Anyway, I don’t know what she said about balancing family and work, but I should have paid closer attention because maybe I wouldn’t be so damn Mom Tired today.

Ken, Stoogie — comments are open if you want to explain to my readers about Belladonna and the baseball bat.

Do Ya Think I’m Sexy

For the last 24 hours, I’ve been a mouth-breather. You know why? Because I have a cold. It’s the kind of cold where your voice is hoarse and not sexy hoarse, and you need to keep wadded up toilet paper in your pockets for you faucet-nose.

Two nights ago, Steve rolled over to me in bed and tried to cop a feel and I said, “Ibe siiiiiick.” It was so hot, I tell you.

It’s a little like I was flaunting my non-sickiness what with my vowed avoidance of flu shots (they only make you sicker!) and when in the comments on Chris’s post about how you don’t catch cold from washing your hair, I wrote this: “True dat. My throat is sore and I never wash my hair…” It’s true, I don’t wash my hair very often because it’s curly and color-treated as the shampoo bottles always so delicately put it.

But here I am, mouth breathing and swiping at my face with toilet paper. Today I removed Archie’s cloth diapers from his room and now they are called rags and I thought for a long moment about abducting one to use as my faucet-nose wiper. But that’s wrong, right Internet? It’s wrong to use diapers to wipe my nose.

I think. I mean it’s clean. And smells fine. And my son poops roses and gold, just so you know.

I also realize that paragraph number three makes no sense, but whatever. My nose is running and my diaper toilet tissue has reached its maximum density.

I’ve met Rod Stewart. He’s a ponce.

I’m Trying to Protect You

Hello Fan Club,

Two days ago, I received an email from an cellular telephone company saying that they would send me, MELISSA LION, a cell phone if I would blog about it and tweet about it. And because I’m a greedy, greedy person, I hit reply and started typing out my answer, which was YES! But, Fan Club, I’m all about the self-improvement and self-reflection and when I have this reaction to things, I’m trying to sit tight a moment and improve and reflect and not just jump up and wave my hand around. So I let it rest and I went about my day abusing orphans and eating fast food reviewing books.

And in the afternoon, I opened a new email to a friend who is wise in all things giveaway and I began typing this email, “[blank] wants to send me a phone so I’ll blog about it and the thought of doing this makes me feel like a whore, and not in a good way.” I didn’t even hit send, because I had my answer, which was no for those of you who don’t believe I could feel bad about feeling like a whore (you know me too well).

So I sent the nice woman at this company an email saying I am a professional writer and my blog is for my personal writing, and while my personal writing might be done for free, it’s led to paying work and so if there was a project that they needed professional writers for, this is my hourly rate and my dollar per word rate.

She’s not emailed me back.

Here’s my point, Fan Club, I did it for you, I don’t want my blog being a playground for corporate America, I only want to shill for things I like and care about and can you imagine me suddenly lurving a cell phone? Like I love my four-inch heels that Zappos.com gave me a phatty discount on?

So with that in mind, I’m reading this book right and loving it.

Here’s the Greatest Poetry Book OF ALL TIME.

Register for my class here.

Back Fence tickets here.

And, LG if you want to send me this washer and dryer, I will film myself tongue kissing them and, I don’t care if my clothes smell and look like 3 day old barf after being washed in these things, I will change my blog’s title to LG Makes My Panties Wet *get it?* for ONE WHOLE WEEK.

Love,

Melissa

Back Fence PDX Day!

I totally relate to today’s Back Fence PDX post. It’s by Geoff Kleinman author of On PDX, which is a great Portland blog. The writing is clean and tight and the stories are always news to me — love it!. His story is about not being a holiday person. I am not a holiday person, Internet. If Christmas never happened again, I wouldn’t even notice. Thanksgiving I like, because I like cooking, but I’m always confused about the whole “we can’t eat until the big dinner, which happens at 2:14pm, because uhhh, I don’t know why.” You should know, Fan Club, that I eat a lot. A lot. And when I eat at 2:14 and am expected to then not eat until the next day, well, I think that’s lame. Really lame and it makes me grouchy.

Where was I? Oh yes, clean writing. On PDX is totally awesome. And I’m a big fan of Geoff’s writing. Especially when he compliments me. So go check out his story at Back Fence PDX.

We’re selling tickets to the next show here.

And, please register for my class on 12.13. If you liked my Ignite presentation, this is the extended remix, with free lunch thanks to Rick Turoczy.

The Pantry is Bare

Steve and I have this thing where we go as long as humanly possible without going to the market and we have to eat every last thing in the house and by the last day we’re staring at each other a lot like Bugs Bunny stares at Elmer Fudd (is that even right, I’m not a fan of cartoons. Don’t even get me started on my pure, white hot hatred of Tom and Jerry) in the life raft. (Like a big old ham bone, for those of you who did not grow up in So Cal on a steady diet of Saturday morning KTLA.)

(And while I’m on the topic of Southern California, let me just say that I was on a friend’s blog looking at her comments and someone is talking about boycotting In-n-Out because of the Prop 8 lameness. Now I’m not even sure In-n-Out supported Prop 8 or what, but give me a mother fucking break. PLEASE. Boycotting In-n-Out? They pay their managers 80 grand a year, all of their food is fresh, not a single freezer or microwave in the place, the food is cheap cheap cheap and they often have the only clean restrooms on very long car trips. I think we need to choose our battles, people. Boycott actual shitty establishments that do actually commit grave human rights abuses, contribute to poverty, obesity, and illiteracy and not places that may or may not have contributed to a political campaign, but for the most part, have one of the few decent business in a landscape that is now COVERED by multi-national chains. Boycotting In-n-Out is lame.)

Anyway, we did the thing where we didn’t shop for many moons. And we haven’t had any bread in the house for days. And so, gentle reader, I looked in my pantry and I had everything I needed to make wheat bread. FROM SCRATCH.

IN YOUR FACE IN-N-OUT BOYCOTTERS. AND PROP 8 SUPPORTERS.

Isn’t it pretty? I’m going to put some of my homemade peach jam on it too. Because I’m rustic. And down home. And main street-y. And a lot like a pitbull in lipstick (see above rant).

Some Things on My Mind

1. A good recipe for orange marmalade. I’d like marmalade recipes for blood oranges, grapefruit and Meyer’s lemons. The recipes need to be superb because I love orange marmalade. I like it bitter and I like to smear it on a baguette and put some sharp cheddar on top. I like marmalade out of the jar and on a spoon and I’d probably just stick my entire face in a vat of it if it was bitter and sweet and citrus-y. I have the canning equipment, I just need the recipe. Internets?!?

2. My headache. When you grow up an only child, you have make believe friends. You talk to the voices in your head because, more often than not, they’re the only people speaking to you. My headache, which I’ve had since Monday, is like one of my only-child-made-up friends. I took a fancy prescription pill for my little friend (I don’t actually have a prescription, but my friends are fast and loose with the pills) and it helped for a day and then my invisible-headache friend returned and was like, “What. Is. Up. melissalion???” And I was like, “Whoa, you are very persistent.” And he (yes, this headache is male) was like, “I’M YOUR BEST FRIEND FOREVER AND EVER AND YOU LOVE ME.” And I couldn’t say anything because this headache has gone all Single White Female on my brain and I’m scared, Internet. *hold me*

3. Thanksgiving is drawing near and Stever’s family is coming to visit. I am making the entire dinner from scratch because I’m a controlling perfectionist.

4. On the flip side, I’ve had no inspiration in the kitchen lately. Two days ago, I sauteed sweet potatoes and soyrizo, warmed up some corn tortillas and called that dinner. Last night? Nachos. I told Steve that tonight he should look forward to cheerios and milk and maybe some sugar on top if I’m feeling FAB-U-LOUS.

5. I have very good friends. Online and in real life. I started crying in the car yesterday when I thought of all of you. I don’t know how I got so lucky.

6. This headache has made me soft.

7. I think Ignite Portland burned me out on myself. Is it possible to change my name for a few days

8. Other stuff.

9. Maybe I’ll get a complete night of sleep during Obama’s presidency? Maybe? I hope.

10. My new project.

Did We Get Married?

I have no idea what happened last night. I know I saw a bunch of friends, I stood on stage in painful shoes. I gave a speech and yet, I didn’t come home to find oodles of kitchen gear. Odd.

I did come home to a 3 year old with a fever who didn’t sleep at all, and that headache that’s been like such an attentive lover — always on my mind — is back and in full force.

I got to reconnect with a woman I went to college with — so much fun. I might be a little in love with her and I might have sat at the bar with my hands under my chin batting my eyes and smiling my pretty smile. Is Portland ready for two Sassy California Melissas? We shall see.

Here’s my presentation. The mic wasn’t working for the first few slides and I was so deer in headlights, I couldn’t work out what to do. I was also the first one up after the intermission. The organizers kept saying to me, “You’re a professional. You’re a professional. You’ll be great.” I don’t know what gave them this impression — it was my first time ever opening Power Point, and I’ve never ever spoked to a crowd that large. But whatever. I’m a professional. You can see for yourself.

Nobody. PANIC.

Tonight I’m going to stand in front of 700 people and talk about narrative. For five minutes. I have a wee slide show that will show behind me. The slides move every 15 seconds. DO YOU KNOW HOW FAST 15 SECONDS IS? I wore my 4″ heels yesterday for two hours. Afterward, I felt marvelous.

At 4am, I woke up like this:

That second deer would have been Steve if I hadn’t kicked him out of bed earlier because I NEEDED TO REST.

I’m good in groups, Internet. I’m extremely charming in groups. And I laugh like this, “oh-hahahahah!” And I put my hand on the person’s arm and let my eyes convey the message, “You, dear one, are the most compelling, charming human being I’ve ever met,” and by doing this, the other person actually believes I’m the most compelling, charming human being ever.

True dat.

And so, will MelissaLion (that one was for you, Shelly) fill the whole 700-person auditorium with her radiant charm, energy, frankly disarming personality?

FUCK. YES.

Thank you, Internet. I needed that pep talk.

I also made this vimeo for you with my neeeeeeew camera. It’s a little like what’s going on in my head right now.

*Warning: if you have a shoe fetish, an ankle fetish, or feel like Prince’s “When You Were Mine” might just break your heart, you may want to wait to watch this at home.*

And I still can’t figure out how to make it not-skinny. This time I did not put the camera on its side. Little help. But wait, it’s not skinny, it’s hotdog. Or whatever. Still, little help??