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!

I’ve spent the whole conference with the lezzies. Except for yesterday when I squared my shoulders and told Kathryn (Recovering Straight Girl) that I would stop hiding behind the skirts (worn, baggy jeans) of the lezzies and branch out on my own. I would find my own people. I would hang out with straight women.

Lunch rolled around and I chose a table with some friendly-looking women. I sat down and put on my best friendly Portland face. Ready to make some conversation.

Let me explain something about BlogHer. It’s very well organized and like all events, the amount of money people pay doesn’t match up to the expenses. I know. This is my favorite misconception about Back Fence — that we’re making money hand over fist because 300 people attend the event and pay $10-12. It’s pretty easy math, but what’s less easy is calculating the behind-the-scenes costs. BlogHer is no different. So there are sponsors to make up for the loss.. The sponsors take over the whole bottom floor and have booths full of laundry soap and MaryKay makeup and more laundry soap.

And every single time slot has a session on Mommy Blogging. Mommy Blogging. These Mommy Bloggers own this conference. As I’ve overheard the conversations of these women, they say Mommy Blogger without a touch of irony. I’m confused. But whatever.

So I sat down with some friendly looking women. The woman next to me was a PR person for a laundry soap company and as I sat, she asked me, “Are you a Mommy Blogger?” And I said, “Well, I have a child and I also blog, but I wouldn’t call myself a Mommy Blogger.”

After that, not a single person at the table engaged me in conversation. I tried to chat with the other women at the table, who were, by the way, wearing t-shirts that had some variation of Mommy and Blog written on them. In pen. I tried. And I was totally iced out.

I finished my food, put my plate away and sat down with the lezzies and joined right in the conversation. They know I’m straight and they never bat an eye. I went to the lezzie party and had a blast. And now I’m sitting with the lezzies for the lezzie keynote speech. From here on out, I’m identifying as lezzie.

Just until Sunday when I leave. For Portland. Home of the lezzie.

This morning @seeger posted a link to an article about Ikea. And how bad it is. I’ve not read this article because I’m a fragile flower and I care about the world and I don’t want to subject my frail flowerility to any world naughtiness. Also, as I re-do my house I’ll be purchasing things from Ikea. Like window treatments.

But I want to be a good person and I don’t truly want innocent oranguntans bleeding because I have a fancy bed.

Isn’t it fancy? I feel so pretty in it. And I love it and want to hug it. Also, I’M PAINTING MY BEDROOM PINK!

Where was I?

Right, I went to Home Depot today with a genuine lesbian–the Recovering Straight Girl. Unfortunately, she sold her Lesbaru before we went so we took my SUV. And I wore my Dansko clogs because it’s -7 degrees in Portland today. And as we were wandering the aisles, I told her again that she was my Ikea person. An Ikea person is that person you trust and love enough to go to Ikea with. That person whose face you know you won’t rip off by the end. And then we talked about the Ikea article. And I told her I hadn’t read it because I still wanted to shop at Ikea in peace I am concerned about oranguntans.

And then I said this, “What’s your honest opinion. Can I use Round Up on my weeds.”

And she said, “Do you want to single-handedly ruin our ground water?”

And I said, “If I don’t use Round Up, can I still shop at Ikea?”

And she said, “Yes.”

So we discussed the Ikea footprint. What you have to give up in order to shop at Ikea.

So, I already ride my bike all over the place, though I did drive 40 minutes to get to her Scary Suburb. And at the end of the Home Depot excursion, we opted to not take bags. But we were shopping at Home Depot. Though I did choose paint that has primer included so I won’t be using primer and paint when I paint, lowering the waste. But I didn’t choose the low-toxicity paint.

Basically, today, I earned a single pillow case from Ikea. Over the course of the next few weeks, I hope to have enough Ikea footprint credit to purchase some window shades. It’s all composting and locally grown food for me for the next five days. And also no changing my SUV’s oraguntan blood oil* in the street and dumping it in the sewer.

I ask you, Fan Club, what are you doing to earn your trip to Ikea today?

*I’ve never changed my own oil. I pay* small Thai children to do it for me.

*By pay, I mean not pay.

I had another post all planned and it was going to be so funny, but (and here’s the thing with living in a tiny city like Portland) I realized I knew some people loosely connected to the thing I was going to crack on. So I pulled up. PULL UP! PULL UP! But it was funny, Fan Club, very funny. And now it is not funny because everyone I know does Important Things. That are not at all really silly and would provide excellent blog fodder. Also, if I did write about it on my blog, please know that in my heart I always believe 100% of the white liberal 50 year-old women in flowing skirts edificating me on how to be a powerful woman in this male-oppressive corporate-dominated HELLHOLE called America and there is no CLASSISM except for those same 50 year old women treating service people like the help and me like I don’t know shit despite my being 100 times more successful at 33 than they are at 53.

Ahem.

So I took a photograph of my new shirt.

With my fancy camera and no bra. And when I looked at the pictures, I realized Stever would have an anuerysm because they were not safe for work. And, more importantly, my boobs looked lopsided.

See?

Lopsided as are the text and photos because for fuck’s sake, it is just a black blog day.

This does not make me happy, Internet.

Here’s another one.

So I put a bra on.

See, isn’t that better? I’m sure I’m totally NOT subverting the dominant paradigm by being upset that my boobs are lopsided. Because that structure and form and symmetry is a TOTAL PENIS THING.

The moral of today’s blog post: burning bras and being condescending douchebags is something that we can look forward to doing when we’re old. Unfortunately, that’s when a good fitting bra is most important.

Fight the power.

Or whatever

As of today, the 23rd day of March, 2009, pineapple juice will move from its current category in my life — never think about it– to its new home — only with a knife to my Frye boots and my computer dangling over the St. John’s Bridge. Incidentally, this category is shared by melons, fennel, shellfish and Jenna Elfman. (Private message to Jenna Elfman: it’s not so much your blind devotion to a ridiculous cult that makes me want to beat you with an old shoe, but, simply, your nose.)

Here’s what happened: I went out partying with the lezzies on Friday night, as I am wont to do. It was RSG’s birthday and her wife not only threw her a great private party at a swank bar, but later when it was just the three of us, she schooled me in the ancient lesbianic tongue arts bought me a full tank of gas. Which, as anyone with a car knows, having someone fill you up is…well… Ken? I’ve lost myself in my sex metaphor. Little help?!?

[For the record, I have never had sex with a women. A fact that I find at once shocking and disheartening.]

Where was I? Pineapple juice. Yes.

So after the posh party, RSG and her wife and I went to Vault Martini, which is owned by gay men. It is not a gay bar, except in the way that every single man there was a homosexual between the ages of 28-32. These men were at that sweet spot where they weren’t young enough to make me feel devastated for possessing a vagina and a stray eyebrow hair, and they weren’t too old that I wanted to ban leather chaps for the whole of the United States just so I’d never have to observe another 45 year-old, pot-bellied man press his pale flesh into a pair.

No, these men were simply beautiful. And so I sat there and drooled. I took in the perfectly manicured hands and yummy smelling hair and crisp white shirts and I died a little inside, because for many years, I’ve believed myself to be, in small part, a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. LET ME OUT, SISTER!

And RSG’s gay male friend (GMF) showed up and we were able to admire these wonderful specimens together. We pointed out particularly handsome men and described the various ways we’d have them. GMF said, “Locked in my house,” which, I think we can all admit, wins.

I had one cocktail: a lemon drop. And I decided to call it a night. But GMF (who is also Thai) handed me a pineapple juice and told me to drink up. I believed I was being handed some Thai cure-all. Like a 12 year-old s/he prostitute or a shark’s tooth, but you know, in liquid form.

I took two sips and my stomach started feeling like a lava lamp. I got to the halfway point and I had to say my goodbyes, certain I would upchuck at the bar, and heavens knows, vomit is never flattering to one’s figure or haircut.

I came home, went to bed already feeling hung over. Woke and had this though: Bootsie. Sweet jesus, so bootsie. [I just looked bootsie up in the Urban Dictionary to confirm the spelling, but it's not in there. I fear that bootsie is not a common expression. It means hungover. Derived from To Boot, which means to vomit. I added it to Urban Dictionary.] I then threw up twice and went to my appointments that day.

Here’s the moral of the story: pineapple juice is toxic.

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.

The big winner was RSG’s mom! She entered two pies and won three ribbons. The blue ribbon was awarded to a woman who sells her pies at the Farmer’s Market. So, well, she’s had a lot more practice than this Cali girl. BUT I STILL GOT ONE VOTE…in the fruit pie category, but WHATEVER. I got a sticker on my sheet! A tiny blue circle that equals love and respect and eternal admiration from an anonymous judge.

I had a blast. There were about 100 people there and I got to see so many friends. I also met some of my bloggy readers including the very, very cool Matt in Overlook and Jeanette and her partner Nan. Jeanette reads this blog, but Nan does not. I tried not to hold it against her, but I have faith that she will be reading my blog after meeting me because I can be charming in person. It’s rare, but the charm surfaces once every 30 years. Plus lezzies love me.

I’ll be seeing Jeanette and Nan on Monday and I’m storing up witticisms because I just can’t stand that someone I’ve met in person does not read this blog. Nan — you are mine. Oh yes, you are mine.

That’s me at the pie off. See, aren’t I charming? Thanks to RSG’s DD#3 for taking that pic. I didn’t take any pictures of my pie because I’m a moron.

Besides the apple, I made a chocolate pecan pie and I paired it with a Deschutes Black Butte Porter. One of the categories was best pie and drink combo. There was one other entrant. And she won. She made a rosemary blueberry pie and paired it with a dessert wine. I’m sorry, but this is a pie off. WHAT SORT OF WORLD DO WE LIVE IN WHERE BEER AND CHOCOLATE LOSES TO DESSERT WINE? IS THIS PORTLAND, PEOPLE? (Ooops, out loud voice.) I am not a sore loser, much. See, the pretty picture, everyone?

What else happened? Uh… lezzies, pies. That’s about it.

It was a great event and my congratulations and gratitude to LeLo, Radio Gretchen and Lizzy Caston for a most excellent time. It was just so good to see so many friends and eat good food. I vote for a chili cookoff next!

I had pie dreams last night. Dreams about fruit splatter and burnt crusts. The Pie Off is on my mind, people.

I know mediaChick is making pie after pie.

Betsy Richter just bought vodka for her pie, which seems like a pretty good plan to me. And she’s putting her daughter in a Lelo apron.

I have a Lelo apron that I could wear too. Lelo is also a competitor and maybe she’d be intimidated if she saw me roll in wearing her Mapron with a wrestler on it and know that she sewed it FOR ME. Except it wasn’t for me exactly, but I OWN IT NOW. You hear me, Lelo — I OWN YOUR APRON, GIRL.

Lelo is preparing by being quoted on various food blogs.

The Oregon State Fair pie winner is praying to the pie deities and burning sage and sacrificing pecans or something. Whatever one does to win eight blue ribbons at the State Fair in a state where every single resident is required to make perfect pies.

RSG is, I don’t know, having lezzie sex, which would make any pie taste better.

As for me, here’s what I’m doing to prepare:

That’s right, I’ve forsaken my normal Starbucks mug to drink my tea from my Zuma Beach General Store mug. Given to me by my coach. THAT’S RIGHT, PIE LADIES, I HAVE THE LA TIMES ON MY SIDE.

I am also reflecting on my past baking disasters like the time I made zucchini bread and used salt instead of sugar. And the time I too made cookies with baking soda when it called for baking powder. And that one time I made wheat bread and the dough broke my Kitchen Aid stand mixer – a single tear falls down my cheek.

I’ve also spent some time meditating on the fact that I have no idea what makes a good pie. I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten a pie and had the sense to know what was good about it. I mean, a tough crust? Flaky dough? What? It’s pie. You’re eating it. Be happy, people. But I suppose the judges will know what’s what. And the other contenders who did not grow up near Bob’s Big Boy will know what makes a good pie.

But, I got an email from my coach last night and you know what it said? It said, “NO!” That’s all it said, “NO!” Are you shaking in your shoes, pie competitors? Well, you should be, people. YOU. SHOULD. BE.

And one other thing — I have entered a pie competition before. Oh yes, I have. I entered a little thing called the Malibu Pie Festival. And you know what, Pie People — I ENTERED A GALETTE. Now you know what you’re dealing with. Oh yeah.

But first, I have been given a shout out on a very cool sex toy website. They also make real lezzie pron. I watched the free bit of some of the videos and wow. Those are real lezzies going at it. They are attractive bull dykie sorts. At least I think they are bull dykie sorts, I don’t really know what denomination of lezzie they fall into (little help, RSG?), but I was impressed by the video and after a day in which I received some bad news, the shout out was a very bright, bright spot.

To the video!

For those of you who don’t want to read yesterday’s comments, the people who posted were Robert, Intern Meagan, and Rachael. I also gave Crissy a shout out too, though I did not address her topic because I recorded the video before she left it. I’m psycho psychic that way.

[vimeo 1572820]

Oddly I get a few hits a day searching for melissalion.com. Why search google for that? That’s what the rectangle at the top of white square on your computer where the internet appears is for.

I’ve been getting a lot of hits asking booty call questions. I think we covered that over here. But basically, you know if you’re a booty call because a person calls you, maybe hands you a cocktail (one hopes) and a roofie and then you have sex, then the person leaves. This pattern repeats itself for a long time until one of you gets a boyfriend/ girlfriend. Now, you know if you’re a boyfriend/girlfriend because that person brushing his/her teeth in front of you has requested you not sleep with other people. And (for a short time at least) the urge to call the booty call person vanishes. All agreed? Good.

Do the young people still use the term roofie? I mean, do you slip a roofie into a crunk cup and get down to biznaz? That sentence made me cool, right? RIGHT?

I also had someone look for “Scoochy Sex.” I have no idea what this is. Like maybe you scooch around? But is this hot? I mean, “let’s have scoochy sex? Could you move over just a tad?” The thought is not making my yoga pants stockings and crotchless panties wet. Any thoughts on scoochy sex, internets?

My friend Recovering Straight Girl got a hit from a person looking for “Melissa Lion Naked Pictures.” Let me just clear that one up. If there were naked pictures of me, they’d be on my own blog. Or on my flickr page. So you can just keep checking back here. Often. (Go 30,000!)

I don’t know that I would take naked pictures of myself. It’s not to say I haven’t, but I think if I were to do it, it would be with an actual photographer and not me with my wee mac because the last time I did it, my body was sore for a week from contorting in various angles to get a shot that was flattering, horizontal and so I was still able to press the button on the computer. And those weren’t even naked.

I did get an adorable new pair of shoes, so maybe I’ll try a round with those babies. Ken, any suggestions on flattering, sexy and still able to press the button poses? Flattering is the most important.

Okay, that’s it for me. It’s 17 degrees here and rainy and Arch wants to go to the park. I’ll ride my bike to the park and sit on a bench and knit while he plays on the playthings and other parents interact with him and then glare at me because clearly I AM A BAD PARENT. Who says children need to be spoken to 24 hours a day? Not me.

Oh, and this is for Crissy — yesterday I was at the supermarket and this woman was pushing a cart with a nine-month old baby. The baby was playing with one of those plastic bags for fruit. The kid had it in her mouth and the mom was just letting her do it. I was pretty stunned and sort of pointed at the kid and the bag like, “gee, I’m pretty sure people who are decent parents might think this was a bad thing to do, but I’m not one of those parents so I’m just shooting in the dark here” and the mom reluctantly removed the bag from the kid’s mouth and then let her hold it again. And all I could think was, “Well, that makes me and Crissy MOMS OF THE YEAR!”