We won’t starve this winter

We did a little bit of canning this weekend. That’s salsa with stuff from the garden, blackberry jam (from last weekend) peaches, peach jam and more peaches. I bought a lot of peaches. Last year Recovering Straight Girl and I went peach picking and she taught me how to can. I love her for that.

This weekend, Fancyhats and I did the canning. We didn’t pick any peaches, but went to an orchard and bought a pre-picked flat. Because, really, how much work can I put into this? Those jars took us the better part of a day, but I swear, come February, I will start opening those peaches and for a few small moments, it’ll feel like summer.

Fancyhats is a very good cook. He had to cook for himself for years. I am a good cook too because I like to eat and I’m super cheap and also I’m a bit on the paranoid side about what goes into my food. So we were in his kitchen together. On a warm day. Canning. Together. We both have strong personalities and are both used to being the boss in the kitchen. Let me just say, there were a few moments of, “that’s really great, how about you do it?”

And then coming back together again. A hug. A kiss. As much as we stepped on each other’s toes, we laughed a lot while we canned. I almost peed myself watching Fancyhats try not to instruct me on knife-usage and then finally giving in and pretending he was hosting his own cooking show. I told him cooking with him is like being tickled. It’s like torture, but it makes me laugh uncontrollably too.

Again, a learning experience. Learning, for both of us, how to let go of the reigns. For a long time, I was the boss of the whole house. I took care of most everything. If I didn’t nag about something, remember something, schedule something, or do it myself, it just didn’t happen.

I tend to let go a little faster than Fancyhats does, though I’m sure he’d disagree with that. But I try and let go. I relax a bit. I put my hands up and enjoy someone else driving. That he’s willing to be in control for a little while is a pleasure in itself.

I am Slowly Killing Myself!!!

Arch and I went to the posh arty preschool getting to know you picnic last night. I wish I had a story for you, but people were pleasant and fine. There were a few conversations I had to endure with parents describing all the languages their little girl speaks, but beyond that, everyone was nice. It was a picnic so I brought our picnic food in my new reusable bag that Kiala gave me.

At first I hoped worried it might alienate the other parents and then I figured it would be a beacon for the parents who might have a sense of humor. No one commented on it. I don’t think anyone noticed, or if they did, they were like “oh, I’ve totally seen ironic reusable bags before. Huh.” Hipsters.

But there are two other little boys in Archie’s class who are only children. I gravitated toward their families and A played with those little boys so at least we have that, right? AT LEAST WE HAVE THAT.

This morning, I was looking up that article about high fructose corn syrup containing mercury because Fancyhats didn’t believe me that such a thing existed and in these arguments he likes to bring up the fact that he was in the National Honor Society in high school and also on the Dean’s List at his fancy New England College. And I’m like, “WHAT? I managed to graduate high school without an eating disorder. HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?!?”

And once I found the article I followed a link that said “6 Daily Habits That Make You Sick.” You know I had to look at that because what if the hookers and blow are making me sick. WHAT THEN?

I clicked on the article and I am trying to make a joke about it but really, it’s difficult to make a joke about something as retarded as this article. I am not the Diane Arbus of blogging, you know.

Some ways I’m killing myself: vacuuming, sleeping with a pillow and mattress, and WORST OF ALL opening my windows. Yes, opening my windows is making me sick. What I should be doing is running the air conditioning. But, as the article goes on to state, watching television will also kill me. So I am supposed to stay inside with the air conditioning on, not watching television.

I don’t have a television. I also don’t have air conditioning.

Basically, I think WebMD is suggesting a hole will open up in space and time and I will be sucked through it and I will live in the clouds with the unicorns and the hamburgler and the guy who wrote Wizard of Oz and we will all sing this song all day long because this shit is bananas:

Gwen Stefani – Hollaback Girl

Updates

Mmmkay.

First up, Entertainment for People tickets are ON SALE NOW! This is a Back Fence PDX production and it is going to be so damn funny. We have Dan Kennedy, Beth Lisick, Eastland Academy and auGi all performing. These are all funny people. FUNNY. And, like the name says, it will be entertaining. For people.

And not to freak you out, but the space we’re having it in is half the size of The Mission, from which we had to turn people away last time. So maybe you want to buy tickets in advance. Just sayin’.

Next up, my business is launching September 1st. I’ve been promised this by my handsome, fabulously smart, wonderful web developer. So for those of you who have ever said you’d pay teh monies for a class with me but we don’t live in the same state, know that you’d better be ready to pony up. Thanks to the power of technology, you will soon be able to take classes from me. FROM THE COMFORT OF YOUR HOME.

I’ll keep you updated on that.

Finally, let it be known that August 26th was the day I turned into my mother. I’ve been craving Coke-a-Cola for a week now. Dying for it. But, basically, I feel soda is pure poison so I don’t drink it. I mean, sometimes I’ll get it at a bar, but I haven’t bought it for my house ever. Never. This house has never contained a six-pack of soda. I have a bottle of 7-Up for when I have crummies in my tummies (we read The Lorax last night) but I’ve never bought Coke.

Yesterday I had to give in. I needed it. NEEDED IT.

So I went to the market and marched right over to the soda aisle and OH MY GOD there were so many choices. I was so confused and lost and confused. I marveled at people just marching into the aisle and grabbing what they wanted. I had no idea. I mean, I knew I wanted Coke. Regular Coke. But why were there so many variations?!?

So I started narrowing things down. I wanted a six-pack. Cans.

Just for kicks, I read the side of the red can. And, just like I imagined, PURE EVIL. So I thought, I don’t want that naughty high fructose corn syrup. Maybe I’d get some Diet Coke. The Diet Coke promised “Real Coke-a-Cola taste!” And WHY WOULD THEY LIE TO ME?!?! Then I noticed Diet Vanilla Coke. They just had it in a 12-pack. I didn’t want that.

But I remembered my mom and her cupboard filled with Diet Vanilla CHERRY Coke. She also has Diet Vanilla Cherry Dr. Pepper. I remembered the last time I saw her and the delight she experienced when 3:30 came and she cracked open a can, poured it over ice and sat quietly with her soda.

We didn’t have the cherry variety because this is Portland. And Portland, despite its “mass” transit, is a small town. We shun cherries. And SUVs.

So I bought the next best thing — Diet Vanilla Coke. I bought it. And today, this afternoon, I plan to sit and enjoy it. Because I am now my mother.

I Don’t Know How to Do Stuff

So, you all know I don’t know how to garden. I also don’t know how to make mashed potatoes, and my rice always turns out so very wrong. I can’t drive stick to save my life, in fact one of my former friends was a used car dealer and he said I was the only person he’d ever seen who got worse every time.

I self-host this blog, but beyond that I know very little about how to make it go. I don’t know how to fix the lawn mower (Fancyhats did that — it was out of gas) and I don’t know why some things are funny (AIDS) and some are not (AIDS).

And I don’t know how to do so much stuff in this new life. Last night Fancyhats and I had a situation. Not a fight at all, but it was us and a tired, grouchy almost 4 year-old in Fancyhats’s condo, which is smaller than my house and for the past several years has served as the quintessential bachelor pad.

This same almost 4yo spent some of the summer in little classes. I didn’t realize until yesterday how important that structure was to him. Having someone else to answer to calmed him, organized his thoughts, helped him focus on instructions. Those classes made him more agreeable. He has another two weeks before preschool starts. Ugh.

Back to last night. Fancyhats had had a long day and he’d burned himself making dinner. I had been with this 4yo for two days already.

We wanted to talk to each other. To reconnect. But, as all parents know, this is impossible when there’s a grumpy, tired, wound-up child around.

We tried to eat and catch up and also get Archie to eat. And Fancyhats kept soaking his hand in ice water because it was a bad burn and we tried to talk and manage everything and by the end, I was simply frustrated. I put our dishes away and got Archie, sat him in his bike trailer and I rode home.

I threw a goodbye over my shoulder at Fancyhats and took off.

This new life, this new relationship, is a learning experience every day. Fancyhats and I have a thing that no matter what, we must kiss each other hello. This is more for me than for him. I tend to walk in and just start doing something. Talking or cleaning or cooking or whatever. I have a hard time pausing. At my bookselling job, the owner actually had to tell me that I needed to greet my co-workers when they walked in. I forget to say hello to people.

Fancyhats saw this in me immediately and always grabs me and kisses me. The same goes for goodbyes, though that’s not been stated. We hug and kiss and say goodbye.

That I simply walked out yesterday was a step back for me. That I let my frustration and disappointment and my feeling of being disconnected disconnect me further.

New lives are simply about learning. And unlearning. Every day I need to stop myself from doing something that got me into my old life, and try something that will enrich this new life.

Also, I think I’m going to have a party on Sept 1st. An early party. Nothing crazy. Kids are welcome. Details coming.

Preschool!

Archie is starting preschool next month. I’m pretty excited, except for the part where I don’t do well in situations with other parents and their children. Feel free to blame this on my own self-important, self-centeredness. I mean, when I’m in a group, I need it to be about ME and not anyone else. So the thought of introducing myself as Archie’s mom and not as MelissaLion — you might know me from my two Random House novels or Back Fence, or Twitter or my FAMOUS blog Recovering Californian. What do you think of my distinctive mop of black curly hair as identified by The Oregonian? — is sort of scary. I’d like to add that when Fancyhats and I went to that wedding a few weeks back, he actually scolded me for being in the buffet line talking to strangers about the O writing about hair. He was like this, “You were not just talking about the Oregonian article, were you?” And I said, “OH MY GOD, YOU’VE KNOWN ME FOR A YEAR, YOU KNOW HOW I AM IN SOCIAL SITUATIONS. I INFLATE!”

Where was I?

Oh yes, my child.

So I had to fill out the preschool questionnaire about A. And the questions were supposed to give the school a glimpse at Archie through my eyes. I’m paraphrasing, but the eyes part is right. Anyway, there were questions like: what brings your child joy? What things cause your child emotional distress? What relationships are important to him (animals, books, arts)?

So I answered them as best I could.

Joy: Running, climbing, music, painting, cooking.

Emotional distress: someone taking toys away.

Relationships: Mom and Dad, Grandma, etc. And penguins, dogs, cats, elephants, all books, painting (he’s not into crayons).

And then I thought about this a little bit more and realized I was sending him to a posh arty preschool with rich parents who can actually afford it and who maybe aren’t single moms with a boyfriend (because how 1985 SoCal can I get?!) and living in North Portland. For those of you not in Portland, please know that North Portland is an “up and coming” neighborhood, according to my realtor.

Gah.

So maybe I should rethink the answers to those questions.

My tentative new responses:

Joy: a chilly evening, a glass of port and a quiet moment with Camus.

Emotional distress: Blood diamonds.

Relationships: Wittgenstein, Linnaeus, Ellie Wiesel. Please don’t bring up Camille Paglia, she just upsets him. He sometimes takes his chalk and his Ikea easel and recreates The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch.

I think these seem like better answers. What say you, internet?

Also, Archie has a male teacher. If Arch gets a bad mark in finger painting or  song time, I plan to solve that like I solved bad marks in college: in a push-up bra, a camisole and tight jeans.

My PR Person is Working Overtime!

So, the story on Viva Las Vegas is on the homepage of the Daily Beast today! Head over to thedailybeast.com and it’ll scroll past…above the fold! If you haven’t left a comment, please do. I’d appreciate it.

And I’m on Martketplace talking about cheapening blogs by taking free stuff. Yes, I have taken free stuff. But I’m special because I do it to support local Portland businesses. And not to get free stuff…wait. Read it, or listen to me sounding like a 12 year-old two pack a day smoker here.

This weekend Fancyhats and I went to Seattle. We stayed in a posh hotel on the water and ate delicious tapas. We had a lovely breakfast at Caffe Presse. You can tell it’s European because of all the extra letters.

I have no idea what’s happened to me but I’m pretty sure I’ve turned into an 85 year old man. We got to Seattle and my first thought was, “Look at all of those tall buildings!” And then when we went out that night and every single young woman was wearing a skirt shorter than my underwear, I thought, “Oh these young women. Don’t they know MEN WON’T BUY THE COW IF THEY CAN GET THE MILK FOR FREE!” I thought that. On the serious. And then I constructed a wall down the middle of our hotel bed and donned a burka because I don’t want Fancyhats thinking he’s going to get any milk for free. He’s got to pay for that milk. With money. Just like the bible says.

The Daily Beast

Okay, this is a very big deal.

My first story was published on The Daily Beast. I’d love it if you all went over there and read it. And commented too.

If you don’t know what The Daily Beast is, it’s a blog run by Tina Brown who was the editor for The New Yorker and Vanity Fair. Yes. I know. I KNOW!

So click now and comment if you’d be so kind.

Also, for those of you who don’t want to click, the story is about a stripper and her boobs. GO NOW!

Me and Michael Phelps

Last year I rode my bike year-round. And, granted, I still managed to put on about ten pounds over winter, I’ve lost it all and I’m down to my summer weight. I credit all the puking I did last month.

I love riding my bike. Love it. But the problem with riding year-round is that it makes me cold. If I rode in the morning, I’d be cold all day long. And my toes would hurt because they’d be so cold. I also think my freezing my ass off contributed to the sads last year.

Also, Archie is starting preschool in September and the school isn’t bikeable for me. But there is a indoor pool nearby. With a sauna.

So here’s my brilliant plan: I’ll swim in winter.

Here’s the problem: We go to an outdoor pool here in Portland. It’s little. Tiny. And I can barely swim the length of it. When I reach the other side of the pool, my lungs feel as if they’re going to burn their way out of my chest cavity and explode.

The indoor pool is 25 yards long. I don’t think I’ll actually be able to cross it once. I have no idea how I can ride ten miles on my bike with Archie in the trailer on the back and not even be sore the next day. But swimming feels like an act of suicide.

I’m determined to change this. I’m going to swim in winter. And by the end of winter, I’ll be like “Oh yeah, I swim 87 laps a day. No problem.” Because you know when you hear crap like that it makes you feel bad. And I’m all about using my physical fitness to shame others.

Also, I plan to smoke a lot of dope and win gold. Just, you know, gold. In whatever form.

Back Fence is Tearing it Up in September

So one of our dreams with Back Fence is to produce other events. We’ll still do our big Mission shows, but we want to stretch our wings a bit. One of our goals when we started out more than a year ago was to have an event that’s accessible to everyone. We didn’t want it to be literary or stuffy. We wanted it to be relaxed and enjoyable. Most decisions we’ve made have been with pleasure for our audience in mind.

Over the past week we took on a new event that would give us an opportunity to bring cool people to our audience. A few people will tell stories, a few will perform. The audience will laugh. A lot. Dan Kennedy, author of Loser Goes First, Rock On and host of The Moth’s StorySLAM in New York is coming to town and wanted to work with us. So he’ll be there. The Moth is New York’s live storytelling series. Beth Lisick of San Francisco’s Porchlight is performing. And yes, Porchlight is San Francisco’s live storytelling event. (See how the names all fit together — The Moth, Porchlight, Back Fence) She also told a story at the October Back Fence. Eastland Academy is doing some sketch comedy. We’ll have some music too.

Happens September 10th. Door at 7, show 8.

Basically, it’s going to be awesome. We’re doing it at The Woods, in SE Portland. It’s a former mortuary. And it’s about half the space of The Mission. So tickets will go pretty fast.

And, of course, we have our regular show at The Mission on Sept 23. Storytellers to be announced on that one!

Here’s to Back Fence branching out!

I’m an Art Collector

So at the start of my new life, I painted the walls and had the floors finished and if that wasn’t indulgent enough, I bought a painting. I could afford none of this. My bills are now doubled but I have an unwavering feeling that the money will follow. I’m working hard and pursuing my dreams and Oprah said if I do this, the money will follow. I believe Oprah. Because she knows about monies.

I bought an original piece of artwork from the artist. I actually have two other pieces of signed artwork, but this is my first painting. I saw it at Posies Cafe (my favorite cafe) and thought it was pretty and then I thought it was wonderful and then I saw a woman sitting beneath it working and I had a mental breakdown. Like this: GET OUT FROM UNDER MY PAINTING. IT’S NOT YOURS!!!! Except it wasn’t mine either. So I checked out the artist, Katie Todd, and read her story. She picked up painting again during the midst of her postpartum depression. As you all know, I suffered from such a bout of postpartum depression, I will never have children again. I still have ripples of that depression. A sudden burst of bone-crushing ennui that feels unstoppable. Post-partum depression is remarkable. If you know a woman who has just had a baby, be extra kind to her. If she seems different, REACH OUT. She will push you away, but reach out again.

Back to my painting. I emailed Katie and talked with my girlfriends about it. And I knew that if I didn’t buy it, I’d regret it. So I did.

Here it is. By the way, it’s super hard to take a picture of a painting.

It’s called Upside. And it reminds me of a Malibu sunset. I figure in the winter months, I can sit under my sunlamp and stare at it and remember when I was a Californian. Isn’t it so beautiful? Look at those oranges and greens!

It reminds me of places I’ve not been. Flat places with big skies. It reminds me of a single trip from San Diego to San Francisco on the 5 in my 1982 Volvo. It was my final road trip with my high school boyfriend. Archie said it looks like the sea.

Look how pretty it is against my blue walls! Love!

Next up, I need a new couch. I’d like it to be big and brick red, or navy blue. And microfiber so I can clean it. If you have that couch and you’d like to give it to me, do email or leave a comment.

Check out Katie’s other work here.