Empty Time

My little self-help goopy hippie dippie universe energy book tells me to quit my driven behavior. That it just leads to congestion and my good energy can’t flow properly. The book asked me if I knew how to do nothing. And the truth is, I don’t. If a free moment arrives, I think what work can I get done right now? And then I do it. But it doesn’t ever feel good to me. So I have a few hours to myself and instead of working, I’m going on a bike ride. Alone. And I’m going to bring my knitting and my new guilty pleasure book and either read or knit.

OKAY THE BOOK IS FOR A REVIEW. But it’s a book I want to read so badly because it’s by an author who wrote one of my most favoritest guilty pleasure books.

Maybe just a bike ride then.

Have you done nothing today?

My Lezzie A Game

As you all know, I’m a friend to lezzies everywhere and in an effort to meet and befriend as many of my lezzie sisters as possible, I agreed to go lezzie dancing with RSG and her wife, HG, on Saturday night. Under one condition: we could NOT go to the Egyptian Room. Because a trip to the Egyptian Room is scary and I have to hold my pee because I can’t use the restroom unless RSG comes with me because the lezzies there are not friends of Melissa Lion. No. They are not. In fact, I’m pretty sure they’re not friends with any woman who has ever worn a skirt, looked at a man with anything resembling lust, or fancies bras that do not bind her breasts, but rather accentuate them.

So, we went to the Hot Flash Dance at Barracudas (Steve asked me if the bar was actually called Cougars, which I found very funny) and then we went to Holoscene for lezzie night.

The Hot Flash Dance was fine. But Holoscene was most excellent. We boogied to some actual dance music that had nothing to do with Melissa Ethridge and the lezzies there were young and cute. Like we are.

There was romance in the air to be sure. And, as RSG informed me, “You just talk to lezzies! Just pull one over to you and start chatting.” I saw this behavior happening all around me and I put a smile on my face and wandered around, waiting for someone to pull me over to her and start chatting. But, because this is a bar and the combination of alcohol and nighttime means that somehow I become repellent to strangers, I was not hit on. At all. Yes, right, good, I’ve never been hit on in a bar.

But RSG and HG were talking to all sorts of women, and eventually they found themselves talking to a group of women, one of which I thought was attractive and maybe I’d try out some of my lezzie moves.

So I worked up my nerve and gave her my opening line:

“That shirt is so cute, where did you get it?”

Right? Because that’s how women in the straight world befriend each other. We compliment each other’s clothes and then try to be like the other person.

The cute lezzie paused and a brief look of confusion (and dare I say pity) crossed her face. But she was very sweet and gave me the information.

And I thought: Excellent, I am making some headway. So we chatted a bit more and I decided it was time for my next move:

“Your hair is so cute. Who cuts it?”

Again, same pause and crinkled nose. “I cut it myself,” she said. “Oh!” I said, “I’ve always wanted to try that.” And then, fortunately RSG sensed that something wasn’t quite right and engaged me in some sort of conversation just to rescue me from what can only be described as a swamp of uncomfortableness and anxiety.

Finally, the cute lezzie said to me, “You look great in those knee socks.” And I said, “Oh, I got them at Target! They come in a packet. Two for one!” (See there they are. Except those are the argyle ones and I wore the brown ones with the orange bands on the top.) The cute lezzie then said, “Melissa, are you having a good time?” And I said, “Yes, well, I left my purse inside and maybe I should get it and I’m worried that my friend is going to barf because she’s had like 77 cigarettes and she doesn’t smoke so maybe I should take care of that.”

I then rehashed the whole conversation for HG who had the same look of pity combined with a vague embarrassment and regret that we are friends and that I’ve eaten her food and will be, for many years to come, a fixture on their couch watching their mom-cable.

I said, “I think it’s time to go.” And she agreed and we grabbed RSG and hot-footed it out of there. Only to walk down the street to Sassy’s strip club where I had the same series of thoughts that always go through my head at strip clubs:

1) Why the hell isn’t this amateur night because I could totally show those girls what’s what on the pole.

2) Would they really kick out a woman for biting the bottom of one of the strippers?

3) What would I have to do in my life to make it so stripper heels were a reasonable fashion choice? I mean that with all due respect to strippers because what it would mean is that I never had to walk anywhere quickly and I’d be 6 feet tall with abs of steel and a full, round bitable bottom.

And then on Sunday, I woke up early and RSG and I and the boys all went to check out the livestock at the Oregon Flock and Fiber Festival. Because that’s how we do in Portland. By day we appreciate the domestic arts, by night it’s all lezzies and strippers.

Some Pretty Bits

Here’s my Happy Shawl. Oh how I love it. I have two skeins left and when it’s done, I’ll have used 770 yards of yarn. Knitting knitting knitting.

And here’s the first dahlia I’ve grown and those are some of the chocolate cosmos from my garden too. It’s odd because it’s my understanding that hydrangeas and dahlias are very easy to grow here in Portland, but I’ve annihilated both of those plants. My cosmos (more challenging according to the garden guy) are going like gangbusters.

And I was reading Amy Lowell’s poetry this morning and found her poem Autumn. Oh it’s wonderful!

Autumn

They brought me a quilled, yellow dahlia, 
Opulent, flaunting. 
Round gold 
Flung out of a pale green stalk. 
Round, ripe gold 
Of maturity, 
Meticulously frilled and flaming, 
A fire-ball of proclamation: 
Fecundity decked in staring yellow 
For all the world to see. 
They brought a quilled, yellow dahlia, 
To me who am barren 
Shall I send it to you, 
You who have taken with you 
All I once possessed?

   


Amy Lowell
(Source)

Back Fence PDX Day!

Okay, I took a day off and it was very lovely. We went to Hood River Valley where we visited alpacas (I just can’t get enough of those things) and we wandered around the little town with 11,000 cafes. It was a good day.

And today is BACK FENCE PDX DAY!

This story is by Nora Robertson of Solanova fame. The story is what I’ve tried to capture so many times — that feeling of love lost and that moment we’ve all experienced, standing alone reveling in past memories only to find ourselves in the present without that past love (for better or for worse) and wondering how long have we been standing in this very spot?

So wonderful.

Go now!

Dear Internets,

I’m calling in sick to you today. But, in fact, I’m NOT sick. I’m playing hooky. We’re going to the Hood River Valley for the day. Sightseeing and prettiness and Portland will be just a distant memory.

I hope it will set me right.

Go read The Underblawger. He’s one of my favorites.

Calgon? Hello?

I have two book reviews to write today and my day began with Arch’s nose running like a sieve. What he decided to do was stick one finger up there and then touch something. Like this: finger up the nose, touch my arm: “Here you go, Mama’s arm.” Finger up the nose, touch the table, “Here you go table.” Finger up the nose, touch the couch, “Here you go, couch.” Finger up the nose, touch my computer, “Here you go, Mama’s bwoooooog.” That’s how he says it too, “Mama, I want to write on your bwoooooooooooog.” I wonder if it’s a little sarcastic like, “Gee, Mama, didn’t you used to write novels for a big publisher and now you’re spending your writing time on this little bwoooooooooooooooooog?”

Uh, yeah. But PEOPLE LOVE THIS BWOOOOOOOOOOOOG. And you can’t comment on novels for everyone to read.

I was going to write about how totally unsexy I’ve been feeling lately. So very, very unsexy. And how I’m in that state where the act of sex makes me cry afterward. I’ve always cried after sex, I have no idea why. But these days it’s been like sad boo-hooing. And I don’t know how to make it stop. I feel empty afterwards. I feel empty most of the time lately. I’m having a hard time engaging with life and people.

[Here's the moment where I remember how many hits I get a day and try and justify writing something so personal on the internet for the world to see and the only thing I can think is that one of my main goals with this blog has been an open discussion about sex and maybe this will help?]

I think a few things are driving this feeling. One is boredom. I’m so bored with Portland right now. I hate to say it, but I am. I need to get out of this town even for a day. Just to refresh my eyes. I’m fucking bored as hell with house work, and cleaning and cooking and my daily mom-routine. And it’s leading to resentment big time. And resentment leads to self-pity because WHY THE FUCK ARE WE SO MESSED UP IN THIS COUNTRY THAT MOTHERS ARE NOT HELPED AT ALL?

Steve and I haven’t been out alone in months. Literally months. And I have no idea what we’d do if the opportunity came around. I miss my brother-in-law desperately. He lived with us for a short time when we first moved here and it was just really great having family near. Now we have no family near and it’s just so hard. So damn hard. I try to justify this by thinking about my newfound family here in Portland made up of all of my wonderful friends. And god, I have good friends. Really amazing friends. But I miss family. Well, I miss my brother-in-law, who’s great and makes me laugh and takes my shit like a trooper.

There’s hope, though. I looked after our neighbor’s new baby a few days ago so they could have some time and they’re going to repay the favor. I think we just need to agree to an every two week thing where we do the kid swap and each of us has a night off.

But right now, my brain feels like two things. It feels a little like a relationship death spiral. And a little like the post-partum depression I experienced. I can hear people talking to me, but I have no ability to care what they’re saying. Both of these feelings are scaring the jeebers out of me.

And, for fuck’s sake, someone please, please please, come and clean my house.

I’m sorry today’s post is a downer.

I’m just not up to anything funny today. Also, the fantabulous CamiKaos wrote a far better thing today about Moms and sexy. Go read it. Much more well written and coherent.

Here’s all I feel like doing:

That’s a crappy picture of my Feather and Fan comfort shawl. It’ll look like this as it grows. I’m using seven skeins of Noro Kureyon and it’ll be 5′ in diameter when it’s done. I’ve already used 1 1/2 skeins. I used them while being up late, late, late last night watching hulu and You Tube. I saw the new 90210 and all it did was make me miss California like nothing else. Oh, the palm trees! Have I mentioned that I haven’t slept a full night in months too? No sleep, no time with Steve, a constantly messy house that I’m constantly cleaning. These things make me want to sit on the couch and knit and cry and not speak to anyone. Ever. Again.

As my bloggy friend Heather says, “sorry to be so heavy.”

Me, Me, Me

Come see me tonight at Twisted yarn store where I will be modeling a few knitted things. You get 10% off Louet yarn during the show and there will be prizes, plus I’ll be there mingling and talking about the garments. I get to talk about knitting! I love it.

I’m sorry, Fan Club, that’s about all I can blog about today. I woke up this morning and looked at the internets only to find them thoroughly disgusting. From the Sarah Palin trolls on RSG’s post, to the bible thumpers over on this post at LA Now, to the most ridiculous, navel-gazing, baldly rabid blog about, no kidding, the feminist merits (or demerits) of erotic book covers. On this particularly banal and thoughtless blog, I was accused of attacking feminism when I suggested that we ought to give credit to some really fantastic erotica book editors for treating sex with ease. I’d link, but they don’t deserve a single hit of my traffic. I’m sure that when their schtick of getting attention from doing hit jobs on the very people they hope to be published by wears out and they realize that people have long memories and that publishing is a very small world, the blog will disappear and these women will realize that, perhaps, being argumentative and incendiary in much the same way Sarah Palin and her bible banging counterparts are, is not exactly the way to change minds, but rather an excellent way to alienate people. Though, at least Sarah Palin poses in a bikini with a rifle, something feminists ought to consider doing if they want to be taken seriously. (I threw that last one in so they could see what an attack on feminism actually looks like.) Nicely done, ladies. We’re on the same side. Now step the fuck off my blog.

Contests and Mugs and Fashion Shows

Okay so the Melissa Lion Mug Recognition Contest has come to naught. Not a single Portlander has recognized me and thus no one has won the mug. I will, however, be appearing at the Ace Hotel today at noon with Kiala Kazebee so if you’re around, do drop by and pretend to be impressed.

But the fact that Portland is blind to my genius and beauty no one has recognized me on the street is not going to stop me from LOVING contests. And Stoogie has the contest going where if you vote for Crissy for Hottest Mommy Blogger, and you are the number he chooses of the commenters or vote or passwords or something I’m not clear about, then you win a digital camera. Details here.

Well, I don’t feel like a digital camera is enough. And I want Crissy to win because, goddamn it, someone needs to win something around here. So, I am throwing in signed copies of each of my books too. I will sign the books however you want. Maybe you want me to write, “You were great last night,” which you probably were. Or “Your skin is beautiful” or “I wish I were you” then I will totally do that. And I will ship them to you. Because this (THIS!) is totally as awesome as a digital camera.

See that? My books are already in the picture!

If, however, I win the contest, I keep the digital camera and Stoogie picks another number to give the books to.

Go to Stoogie’s website and it’s all there.

Also, if you want to see me in the flesh, I am doing two fashion shows because I’m a supermodel. No kidding. They are fashion shows at my favorite yarn store, Twisted. There’s one on Friday night at 7, and another Saturday morning at 10am. You get 10% off all Louet yarn too. I’m modeling a couple of sweaters because I’m sassy like that. I’d love to see you there. And if you don’t know me and pretend to just happen to be there because you love Twisted and NOT because you read that I’d be there, then maybe you’ll win the mug. Details here.

Back Fence PDX Day!

My favorite stories are the stories that contrast the eerie and the mundane. Add a splash of humor and pathos and I’m in heaven. I love the contrasting emotions and that the transitions force the writer to dance a bit, all the better for the reader. This week’s Back Fence PDX post does all of that, creating a mood and telling a story. It’s by Adrianne Dow Young from All 23 Bunnies and How To Eat (that). How to Eat (that) is a fantastic food blog that takes the piss out of all of those posh or ultra-healthy food blogs that make us, the Hoi Polloi, feel bad about our non-superhuman diet. Check it all out!

Thank you all for your birthday wishes! We had a great day doing all kid things. Children’s Museum, toys, fountain and we increased our family by one:

That’s Mr. Fishie, Archie’s Beta Fish. He’s cute and blue. In answer to MissBurrows, people were yelling and banging pots and pans because most of the hospital staff was on strike. And they were demonstrating on the sidewalk below the windows of the maternity ward. After Arch was born, Steve went down there and told them to get the hell away from the windows. There were newborns and new moms up there! And they left. It was awesome.

Right before I woke this morning, I had a dream that all of the regular commenters and I were at a picnic. It was so real and I was so glad to meet the people I hadn’t met, and see my friends. I’m still a little bit stuck in my brain at that picnic and being so happy to be around everyone. So, I guess, hugs to everyone. In my dream, Kiala and I were leaving (we were on deadline for the Merc) and I said, “Oh wait, I have to press my breasts against Ken.” It was almost like my blogging voice was my real voice, except I was dreaming so it wasn’t real. BUT WHATEVER.

One more thing: Look, Stoogiepie took a picture of a camera and MY BOOKS are in the background. It’s something about naked bloggers and MILFs so maybe read the text and let me know what it said. All I see are my BOOKS!

Three Years Ago

Three years ago, under a harvest moon and as people banged on pots and pans and sang and danced and yelled, one moment we were two, just me and Steve listening to too much Nick Drake and Elliot Smith and watching the ocean from our one bedroom in San Francisco. And the next minute we were three. A little family. Mom, Dad and a little moon man who we would call bug and wiggle worm and sweetie bear.

I grew up in a single parent household. I’m an only child. I never knew what it meant to have a family. I never knew what a Mama – Dada sandwich felt like.

When Steve and I were in our worst moments, I would cry and tell him he was my only link to my past, to San Diego.

“Oh,” he said, “I’m your family.”

And he is. And we are a family of three. Unconventional — mom and dad will never, not ever get married — but here we are. In our little house in a pretty city we moved to so the moon man could grow up around trees.

Trees! I said to Steve. He must grow up around trees!

And as we drive around this pretty city, the wiggle worm says, “Ooh look at the trees. They are amazing.”

“You’ll learn to climb them,” I say. Broken arms be damned.

Three years ago today. Under a harvest moon. I told Steve to get my mother. I was going to push the baby out. My mother was in the cafeteria. The doctor said not to worry, it would take two hours at least. I grabbed Steve by the shirt and told him to get my mother.

My mom came running up the stairs, disappointed to find that they hadn’t even raised the table.

“I’m going to push this baby out now,” I said.

No one believed me.

“You better get ready,” I said.

The doctor shrugged and raised the table. I remember her putting on her booties so slowly.

And then I pushed.

Twenty minutes later I was holding him.

And that was the last time, in three years, my will has won out over the bug.

Happy Birthday, little man.

Mama and Dada love you more than the sun and the stars and a thousand guitars.