The Melissa Lion International* Superiority Smugacity Self-Improvement Challenge

Good day, Fan Club.

This week, or at least for the next two days, I will be hosting the Melissa Lion International* Superiority Smugacity Self-Improvement Challenge. For the next five (or two depending on my gnat-like attention span) days, I will challenge you to improve yourself using methods I am using to improve myself so that you too can look down upon those around you like I, Melissa Lion, do every single day. It’s a wee Mobius strip of narcissism, isn’t it?

We will do things all week (or for two days) that will improve your health, save you money and, best of all, make you better than other people.

Today’s challenge: cook something from scratch that you would ordinarily buy pre-made. Maybe it’s your morning coffee at Starbucks, or that breakfast bar from Starbucks. Or a muffin from Starbucks. Basically, stuff you buy at Starbucks is like 100% more expensive than anything you could make at home. Maybe you don’t go to Starbucks. Then insert whatever indie coffee shop you go to because it makes you superior to Starbucks denizens. (Good on you for taking superiority steps before I’ve instructed you to do so.)

Not to mention the fat in those Starbucks bits — gah.

Or if you’re not a sweet treat person, you could make your own salad dressing (extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, pinch of salt, pinch of pepper) or put some popcorn in a paper bag with a bit of oil (don’t forget to roll the top down a few times) and put it in the microwave for 3 minutes or until you hear the popping slow to 1 pop a second.

Remember if you need to purchase any ingredients, do it in the bulk food aisle where it’s easier to “mislabel” the organic as regular so much cheaper.

So, for day one of the Melissa Lion International* Superiority Smugacity Self-Improvement Challege, I made granola from scratch. Oh my god, this is the easiest thing ever. I bought all of the ingredients in the bulk aisle and my homemade granola is not full of the scary stuff that store bought granola is usually full of. Like fat. And have you see how expensive granola is? It’s like we’re paying for young men and women in uniforms to fly to a foreign land and kill other young men in uniforms and women in burkahs for granola rights or something. Blood money. Granola blood money! You hear me Kellogg’s?!? I’M DECLARING A GRANOLA JIHAD ON YOUR ASSES!

WHO’S WITH ME?!?

Or maybe just make some bread.

If you need a recipe and going to epicurious and typing in whatever it is you’re looking for is unsatisfactory, email me and I’ll send you a recipe. (Contact form on the Who’s That Girl page. Yes, I’m a little bit paranoid about my email address. Forgive me, I had a dream last night in which people I do not wish to have contact with had contact with me and I didn’t fancy it. At all.)

Onwards, Fan Club! I command you to go forth and be SUPERIOR! Don’t forget to post about it on your own blog and send me a link! Or just leave a comment. Or keep your superiority to yourself, but what fun is that?!?

Granola with dried cranberries, pecans, oat bran, freshly grated nutmeg and a pinch of cardamom. I followed the basic instructions for Homemade Granola from Baked, my favorite cookbook of 2008.

*I have a Canadian reader.

Also, will someone please send me $520 American dollars so I can buy this. Found via GalaDarling.

Pr0n Hang Over

Because I live in Portland, I was required to give up one whole level of the food pyramid. It’s sort of like a rite of passage here. You must give up something. Meat, sugar, a sense of humor, whatever. You must give it up. So I had to give up booze. As you all know, I was suffering from some pretty serious hangovers and I cut beer out completely. I haven’t had wine in years mainly because I woke up one morning after drinking some wine, and felt sick, headachey and like killing myself. I also realized I was fat. I decided it was wine’s fault and I gave it up. Believe me, the hangovers were enough impetus to make me never, ever crave wine or beer. I have a cocktail once in a blue moon. And I enjoy it. And then deal with the aftermath.

Well, I’ve been thinking that giving up booze was a lot. A lot a lot. Like I’m way better and more givey uppy than anyone I know. AND I LIVE IN PORTLAND! Where everyone can’t eat something. And I’m like the holiest of everyone because I gave up booze! Booze is vegan, people. I’M BETTER THAN VEGANS!

So I’ve been thinking that I’d add a vice back in. I can’t smoke because it makes my skin icky. I find drugs to be a) expensive and b) redundant. So what?

Last night, I decided I’d take in some pron. And not the good stuff like I’m used to, but the free stuff. Free internet pron. I watched, I think, about two hours of pron. Because this seemed like the proper amount one of those weak-willed vegans would watch. I watched so many MILFs and “lezzies” and three-way office scenes, I was surprised when I wasn’t wearing hooker heels and fake glasses. I particularly enjoyed Ultimate Surrender, which might say something about me, or might just be because it was the only thing I could find that wasn’t “lezzie” sex, but actual lezzies having sex. (I think my 18 year old brother is reading my blog. In which case, this whole post is either a form of punishment or an education. My parents are pretty cool about this stuff, so maybe it’s just like whatever. But, swear to god K, you better stop reading now.)

After two hours of free internet pron, I masturbated meditated (okay I did both) and I slept fitfully. And woke with a headache and a case of the hangzieties so severe my skin was crawling. It was like I was hungover from booze. But it was pron of which I consumed far too much.

I ask you, Fan Club, is it possible that I suffered from a pron hangover? Is it possible? If so, what the hell am I supposed to do now?

It’s Video Day!

First off, check out a three minute short story video over on Back Fence. It’s like This American Life, but shorter. AND IN PORTLAND! And get yer tickets.

And, also I needed to pay homage to Kiala paying homage to a cheerleader.

I Hoard Food

Have I written about this before? I can’t remember. But I do. I hoard food. Well, one specific thing.

Scharffen Berger nibby bars. Only the single greatest chocolate bit ever created. They are not easy to find, internet. I get mine at New Seasons. And yes I know that Hershey’s has nibby bars and also Hershey’s owns Scharffen Berger, and so I could buy a nibby bar from Hershey’s for half the price, but I just don’t care.

There used to be a time when you could only get this wonderful thing in the Bay Area. Steve and I have paid homage to the Scharffen Berger factory where they had a cafe and most every dish was made with chocolate. Oh my god.

Anyway, nibby bars. They must come in the wee bar with the brown paper wrapper covering a firm silver foil wrapper and part of the pleasure I take in them is squirreling them away in my purse. And then I sneak off and eat exactly two rectangles and save the rest for an emergency.

I ate a bit tonight and it was delicious. So very delicious. And the I hid it away again. Because it’s mine. ALL MINE.

I had another post about seeing a guy on the street with a parrot on his shoulder and how that simple scene made me want to ball my hands into fists, tilt my face up to the sky and let out a single scream. But I thought Surviving Myself already covered birds on shoulders and I didn’t want to be a copy cat.

You all should know that I fear birds. Particularly those that people keep as pets. Ever hear of avian flu, PARROT MAN?

Frisbee Golf

We live by this really great park here in Portland called Pier Park. It’s more forest than park. Tons of great conifers and, because it’s an up and coming area, all the meth you can buy!

But this park has two fancy things that we’re proud of here in St. John’s — a world class skate park and an even worlder classer frisbee golf range (green? field? Grateful Dead venue?)

I’ve not ever played frisbee golf and at the risk of sound snobbish, I’d rather lick the soles of my shoes after taking the Parisian Metro than have a conversation with someone who would consider frisbee golf a reasonable way to spend an afternoon.

But yesterday was 45 degrees in Portland, and sunny and Portland was OUT. And not just in the I’m gay and have intimate relations with CHILDREN in bathroom stalls in the city building way. Okay, that’s just our mayor and my special feelings for the people who have been upset by the SCANDAL and the MINOR he kissed. The guy was 17.

I digress.

As Archie and I were walking in Pier Park, I learned about frisbee golf. I learned enough that I can now share with you, Fan Club, the rules of frisbee golf.

1) You must have a beard. You must have a beard and a North Face vest and, if you’re a man, your cargo pants rolled up above your ankles. If you’re a woman…well I don’t know because I saw one woman the whole time. Apparently frisbee golf is as disgustingly sexist as Sam Adams is a disgusting MINOR KISSER.

2) You must have a large dog off leash. Extra points if your huge dog comes running up to small children who are clearly frightened of your ginormous dog and the kid is climbing up his mom’s leg and you don’t call your dog back to you but rather, let it sniff the scared kid until the mom picks up a stick and is about to hit your dumb fucking dog right in the face.

3) You must smoke copious amounts of marijuana. And smoke it right out in the open. Preferably near the kids’ play area.

4) If you see people walking on a public path that bisects your frisbee’s path, DO NOT be patient and let them pass. Rather call out to them that you’re about to take your shot.

5) Finally, you must throw round bits of plastic, which look like yogurt lids into metal net things and behave like you’ve just won the javelin throw in the Olympics.

And that, my friends, is the new official rule book for frisbee golf. GAME. ON.

Living The Dream

Or the precise opposite of the way I grew up.

I know I say it a lot, Fan Club, but I still sort of marvel at the things I simply did not do as a kid. Like live in a house. Or have a yard. I’m so glad to have these things now.

Knitting, canning, baking bread. I had no idea how do any of these things growing up. None of these skills were handed down. I learned how to bake bread and pie from a book. Though my apple pie is from V. I learned how to knit from the internet and from some nice women at the yarn store in San Diego. Canning from the Recovering Straight Girl. So, I guess I did get some woman knowledge from somewhere. But there is always a bit of remorse that I never learned how to do this stuff from a family member.

I have a small family now. I have Steve and Arch. And I have my mom, my stepdad and my brother. No cousins, aunts, grandparents, though my stepdad’s family has taken over many of those roles and I’m grateful. I do have a fabulous aunt from my stepdad. That aunt that you always wished you had — the cool one who would have let you chew gum and gently steered you away from that asshole guy.

My mom calls all of my baking, canning, and knitting my “back to the earth” movement. I daydream to her about growing all of my own food and having solar panels so we can live off the grid. She’s perplexed, I think. I’m perplexed too.

On Sunday, I did a whole lot of my back to the earth things with Archie.

We ate peaches that I canned this summer. Oh my god, they were just amazing. I ate some cheddar cheese with them and had some Irish Breakfast tea. Heaven. (We ate the whole jar.)

We checked out the garden a bit.

Look it’s our composter!

Daffodils coming up!

Look, it’s my new cherry tree! I realize it has no branches. But I have a thing for the saddest plants at the store. I need to take home the most decrepit plants possible. I think it takes a master gardener to bring those things back to life, and then take them to the brink of death again.

I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I also have THREE blueberry bushes.

I also have two hydrangeas, one of which I found on the street with a sign that said, “Free!”

This is the free one.

This is the one I spent ten bucks on and nearly murdered at the end of summer.

More bulbs coming up.

Look! My strawberries survived the snow.

And back inside where I baked bread. Archie nibbled the end as soon as it came out of the oven. I rarely have moments of thinking, “I’m doing an okay job at this parenting thing.” But I always think that when I see my son eating homemade bread.

I also made barley and veggie soup, but I thought that would just take what could be construed as my dirty hippiness to an unforgivable level.

We Went to Target

And I made you a little photo essay. You see I love Target. With all of my heart.

First stop: Lingerie department.

Look at these! Target has cute panties.

And they have really great nursing bras. (Crissy, that was for you. My maternity camisole got me through so many nights wherein Arch would nearly suffocate because he was in bed between us and I was the shame of our neighborhood because sometimes the kid slept in bed so I wouldn’t have to get up in the night to nurse him co-slept.)

And Target has been getting some cute clothes in. Well, that’s been happening for a long time. But recently they’ve been extra cute. So cute, I need to try them on EXCEPT my body, which under normal circumstances is pretty well-proportioned, is FREAKISHLY MUTANT because nothing fits me at Target. I have actually never purchased an article of clothing at Target. And last night was no exception.

Sweet Jeebus, what the fuck is happening with this dress? Is it supposed to reach my mid-calf? And gather around my armpits? WHEN DID I TURN INTO THE 14 YEAR OLD POLYGAMIST WIFE?

And this dress. This one was okay, but I wasn’t going to spend $20 on okay. I only spend $20 on fan-fucking-tabulous.

I left the juniormisseswomensmaternityoverweightjuniormisses department and wandered into children’s where I was relieved to see Target taking action against the obesity epidemic afflicting our nation.

Ooooh posh stationary!

And I went upstairs to make sure that consumerism wasn’t too rampant. Hand towels specifically for Valentine’s Day? Well, I hope they were made by some Tibetan leper child! Better– they’re on sale!

While I was upstairs, Steve found me and asked which yoga mat he should get. Baby blue or lavender?

He chose lavender.

He also asked me if he should get a bag to put his yoga mat in. I told him it was okay to leave it unsheathed.

And while Archie and Steve got all Oedipal in the toy aisle…

I became insanely outraged on the behalf of all Mexicans, Chilangos, Puerto Ricans, Chicanos, Eskimos, basically anyone with brown eyes and a weakness for cheddar cheese because, hello and what the fuck. Why is the low rider called Ramone?

Finally, someone implied that Archie’s gymnastics class would make him gay. While I’ve often dreamed of Archie reaching an age and living a lifestyle for which I could ostracize him for decisions he makes in his personal life, I submit this proof that Archer is not gay.

After he took that bathing suit off the hanger and held it to his body, he informed me that the swimsuit was “for big boys.” He then hung it perfectly back on the hanger and replaced the hanger on the rack. Who’s gay now?!?

And here’s Steve pretending like two yoga mats are boobs from which you can shoot bullets.

And that was our trip to Target.

Do Your Part

Okay, all of you know someone who could be a better blogger. And who’s in Portland. And has $45 to spend on a class on being a better blogger/writer. Or just wants to learn about narrative.

So go. Tell them about my class. GO NOW.

I do have a blog post. But I can’t remember what it was.

And Then I was Like I Want to Move to Portland!

Here’s the view from this morning.

Will it ever end?

And before any of you people in other parts of the world start talking about snow and feet and it’s way colder on the East Coast than it is there, just remember this one thing: I do not live on the East Coast. I once went to Katz deli in Manhattan and ordered a sandwich with avocado. So just, I don’t know, give me a break.

Here’s some knitting I’m working on. It’s the Noro striped scarf. And I’m sure it would be a better picture if there was sunshine.

I bought that yarn the other day when I met up with Boldmama at Twisted. We hadn’t seen each other since high school and she said I looked just the same. And that’s proof that I dye my hair the exact same color it would be if I didn’t dye it. It was so great to see her and my only regret was that we didn’t get to sit down for a proper catch-up. We weren’t friends in high school, mainly because I was a huge douche when I was a teenager and Nicole was very cool and mellow and I was lame. I’m glad she didn’t spit in my face, which would have been reasonable.

Also, when I saw the snow this morning, I thought I would write something creative. I’d do some creative writing this morning. But I have no idea what to write. So, if you have an idea, please leave it in the comments and I’ll try to write something on the topic and post it here tomorrow. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just lie in bed because I’m on DAY SIX of the Black Death.

Does My Hair Smell Like Vomit?

I’m suffering from the Black Death, Internet.

I blame children.

Archie’s been taking all these classes and I’m around all these little germ monkeys and I’m pretty sure one of them passed me his toxins. So I’ve been crying. A lot. Which doesn’t help the sinus situation. And I’m still sick. It’s been four score and seven years since I first felt the telltale sore throat and still I’m sick.

I had to inform Steve that he was not to look, speak or touch me amorously because when I lie down, I feel as if I’ll drown in my own mucus.

But then there’s this weird thing happening where I can actually smell ten times better than normal. I’m at pregnancy-level nose-sensitivity. Except, I can smell the smell, but I can’t pinpoint its location, so it’s been seriously confusing and frustrating.

Like the other day when I was reading a book to Archie that we’d checked out from the library and suddenly I smelled vomit. I stopped and smelled Arch, smelled the couch, smelled my yoga pants. Nothing. And then I thought, is that my hair? Is it my hair that smells like puke? It could very well have been. My hair is not, I don’t know, clean. My mother might or might not refer to it as a rat’s nest. But that’s how I get it all, you know, bed-heady.

I’ve found dead bugs in my hair. And Arch has picked food out of my hair and eaten it.

But look at it Internet. It looks good, doesn’t it?
See, that’s my hair after a millenium of sinus congestion.

So I sat there feeling even sorrier for myself because I was sick and my hair smelled like barf until I realized that it was the library book that smelled like barf and I felt sort of better. But Arch is addicted to this book, so we’ll be reading the barf-scented book about 67 more times before I can sneak it back to the library smelling not only of barf but riddled with Black Death germs.

And that, Internet, is how I give back to society.

And I also want five more people to sign up for my class. So go do that, would you. I promise I’ll be all cleaned up and smelling sweet by Saturday.