Tomorrow I have jury duty. I’ve never actually had to go into jury duty before so I suppose this is my overdue civic duty. But I’m going to be honest here, I feel resentful. I feel resentful because it really couldn’t come at a worse time. We’re moving on Saturday, I’m slammed at work, it’s a Back Fence month, Mom and Dad Fancyhats are in town and, you know, I have that whole “family” I try and see occasionally.

Here’s my goal for jury duty: try and not be resentful when I’m there. This is going to be very tough for me because I feel very resentful when my time is taken from me without my consent — I tried to postpone and they declined. And when I am resentful, there’s very little I can do to mask this. And it seems to me that when I’m resentful and doing a poor job masking it, the screw gets driven in a little bit tighter.

Fancyhats hates it that I talk about jury duty this way. He keeps telling me that it’s part of living in a free country, and I should understand that it’s necessary and I’m doing the right thing, but the time thing is just stuck in my craw.

I hate HATE hate having my time taken from me. I have very little of it and I like sleeping until 6am every morning. I don’t like getting up at 5 to get things done and eating three meals a day in front of the computer working so I can fit everything in in a week where there is simply too much happening.

Okay I just needed to get that out.

I’m not going to focus on getting out of jury duty (unless someone has some tips), I’m just going to focus on not having poo-face when speaking with the jury duty people because they will see that and decide they’re going to wipe that poo-face right off my face face.

Love,

Melissa

The first part of my plan involves all new clothes. When you’re a freelancer, clothes are not that important and they’re also out of your price range. Most things are out of your price range, but whatever. So I’ve decided that in this move, I’m getting rid of all of my old clothes. ALL OF THEM. And I’m buying new. ALL NEW.

I’m buying them full price and I’ve decided that the only kind of sweaters I’m going to wear are cashmere ones. So, yes. It’s expensive, but I want the cashmere. I want to feel warm and soft and relaxed.

I’ve bought three cashmere sweaters so far and I have one more that’s in my shopping cart — oh it’s so beautiful. Long, fawn colored thick cashmere. I want to snuggle up with it. And I’m going to. I’m going to wear it and sit by my fireplace in my new house and then I’m going to take it off and sit in the jacuzzi that’s also at my new house.

There is more to my plan. Things that involve airplanes and lots of reading and also not being as busy as I am right now, which is way too busy.

But so far, that’s my plan to combat the SADS — throw clothes at them. Tell me your strategy. I want to steal your ideas.

Private message to Jake — I’d never roll my eyes at your bike shoes. NEVER.

Next up, I went to the doctor and I AM NOT GOING TO DIE! EVER! This is my fear whenever I go to the doctor. That I will arrive for a normal visit and suddenly I’m in the hospital in triage because something is very wrong. I believe this because it’s actually happened to me when I was pregnant with Archie. I went to a normal appointment and suddenly I’m being hustled to the hospital where I’m peeing in a bottle and lying in bed with a monitor and maybe they’re going to induce labor at like 26 weeks because I may or may not stroke out.

And that, my friends, is why I will not be having any more children. Also the bone-crushing PPD.

Which brings me to my blood pressure. I told the doctor that I have some serious stroke-worthy blood pressure and she should pretty much prepare to inject me with whatever blood pressure medication there is because my head might explode at any minute — oh how Fancyhats hates when I joke about this. He didn’t laugh at a single joke I made about my blood pressure. He just stared at me, a bit pale.

ANYWAY. The doctor took my blood pressure and everything was normal. It wasn’t even close to high. It was perfectly normal. She listened to my heart — normal. Checked me out — normal. Asked me some questions and concluded, “We’ll you’re healthy.”

I reiterated the fact that the person who took my blood pressure at the other place took it no less than six times and nearly called the paramedics. And she said that I should just go to the market and put my arm in one of those cuffs and test it here and there.

I’m going to go ahead and self-diagnose and say that when I went in for the first test, I was extremely stressed and that cuff thing was so tight. It was one of those electric kind that closes over your arm and makes you (me) think DEAR GOD, I’M GOING TO BE AMPUTATED! And when I went into the actual doctor, the actual doctor was so lovely and calm and pleasant and I was very relaxed.

Here’s the moral of the story: I need to chill out sometimes. And I also have moments of panic in situations where I feel like my arm is going to be slowly removed from my body.

But this day Whole Food was right on my way home and I was starving and all I wanted was to have yummy bread and also get home. So I brought in my reusable bag, and grabbed a few odds and ends and headed to the check out.

Once there, I waited patiently for a cyclist to put all of his glass containers of organic juices into his messenger bag and I did a very good job not rolling my eyes and his wee bike shoes and dirty fingernails and then it was my turn to check out.

The cheerful checkout woman who is not being paid a living wage because that’s not how the libertarian owner of Whole Foods rolls, said, “Thank you for bringing your own bag.”

And I said, “YOU ARE VERY WELCOME.”

And she said, “Would you like a credit for bringing in your bag?”

And I said, “Yes.”

And she bagged my groceries and my brain began to spin. What did she mean did I want a credit? Did I mishear? Do I want credit? As in Whole Food will say MELISSA LION IS THE MOST RIGHTEOUS HUMAN BECAUSE SHE BROUGHT IN HER BAG? Or did she mean that if I didn’t want the credit, then they’d just sort of add it to their obscene profits? WHAT DID SHE MEAN?

So I said, “What did you mean when you asked if I wanted credit?”

And she said, “You can donate your credit too.”

And I said. “Oh.”

And she said, “You can donate your credit to any of those charities right there.”

At this point, Internet, I have to say all I cared about was how I was going to keep my credit with my pride still intact and also get to check out the line of Portlanders behind me so I could see their reaction to my keeping my credit, because what would be a better plan, WHOLE FOODS, if you matched my bag credit and donated some of your profits.

So I looked at the charities and they were to benefit the following groups in this order:

1) Dogs

2) Bikes

3) Schools

Which is pretty much Portland’s priorities in the correct order. I might insert performance clothing between bikes and schools, but whatever.

So I read them and looked up and the woman was waiting on me expectantly and I said, what’s the total? And I paid and as I turned to go I heard the check out woman and the guy behind me snicker conspiratorially. Which is fine because I GOT MY FIVE CENT CREDIT, PORTLAND. You are not going to get me that easily, Portland. Oh no.

I really had dreams of having long hair that I could braid and it would be so wonderful and awesome and I’d feel like a beautiful womanly woman BUT I COULDN’T DO IT.

Here’s the problem, I have very thick hair and as soon as it becomes un-layered and un-texured my hair looks meh. Just meh. Not pretty or cute or stylish and not ugly either. Just meh. At that point, I’ve lost my superpower. I’ve lost my cute hair.

I haven’t had long hair since I was 13 years old, and I’m not destined to have it now.

So there, Internet.

I’m back to my distinctive mop of black curly hair.

Well, Fancyhats has informed me that he runs the dishwasher every night. I was very confused and alarmed by this. I pride myself on my low power bills and my greenessmugocity.

But we are going to be living together so some compromises will have to be made. I’ve been trying running the dishwasher each night, and I have to say Internet. I don’t love it. Where’s the payoff? Where’s the reward? Where’s the awesomeness? I’m going to keep trying because I hate the environment love Fancyhats but so far — meh.

Fancyhats and I are both sad to leave our respective places but we’re ready to start our new life together. Finally. It’s been a while coming. I think Fancyhats spends maybe one night a month at his place. And our lives are already so meshed it’s weird that our clothes are scattered between two places and in the mornings I drop Arch off at Fancyhats’s house so he can take Arch to school.

It’s hard for me to leave my place. It was my first house and somewhere I thought I’d be for years, but it’s just not meant to be. And it seems the neighborhood is conspiring to get me to leave. Within two days, the corner store burned to the ground leaving a charred pit and chainlink fence all around and the across the street neighbor came over to let me know that someone had stolen her rain gutters. HER RAIN GUTTERS.

Our new house is in a fantastic neighborhood, it’s big, has a fireplace and a great yard and a garage. And I think the owner is leaving the jacuzzi. It’s a sweet house. Not perfect, but lovely. And we were looking at rentals which…um…ick. And it’s very close to Archie’s school and Tyler’s work. And it’s still near to my work but not as close.

So I’m packing and getting rid of stuff and general feeling the sadness of leaving combined with the excitement of my new life with Archie and Fancyhats. Just the three of us plus a yellowish reddish dog.

And if anyone wants to help me pack, I will pay you in smiles.

Also, before agreeing to help me pack, please know that I would never help anyone pack because it’s the most miserable chore ever.

Also, I’m worried about my XX chromosomes. Very worried. I think one X might be mutated because I am not loving The Time Traveler’s Wife. I’m not even liking it. In fact, I’m thinking of putting it away. I know women love this book. I know because I was working in a bookstore when it came out and EVERY SINGLE WOMAN LOVED IT. It’s been years of people telling me that I need to read this book, so finally I picked it up and oh my god. WHY!?! Why, Audrey Niffeneger?

The plot is this guy time travels. He can’t control it. Just happens. He’s married to a wonderful woman. They’re in love, but the time travel thing is harshing their mellow. Also they have plenty of money.

God.

I’m a sucker for a book about loving a man. I mean I read Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking and wept the whole way through because I totally understood loving your mate and your child more than can be expressed. And I was ready to shed some solid tears over this Niffeneger book, but I just can’t. I also realize how totally unfair it is that I compared this Niffeneger person with one of the greatest American writers of all time. BUT STILL.

The whole premise throws the narrative arc off. It’s not even an eliptical plot structure. It’s simply vingettes totally outside of time and place with no real reason for why their sitting next to one another. In other words, the plot never moves forward. And it’s constantly hitting the same note: The man is frustrated and deeply in love. The woman is frustrated and deeply in love. After hearing that note for 70+ pages, I just don’t hear anything anymore.

I guess I’m most frustrated because many people I love and respect love this book and clearly I’m not getting something. Clearly it’s me. And I really wanted a good tearjerker. I really wanted a good love story. Unfortunately, this is not one.

Here’s what I want to talk about today — has David Sedaris lost it? A question for the ages, amirite? I started reading Sedaris when I was in high school — Barrel Fever — and I had no idea prior to that that writing could be funny. Not just funny but hysterical. After that, I was his biggest fan. I have first editions of all of his books up to Dress Your Family. At that point I was a bookseller and he came to town for a reading. I was over the moon. So excited to meet him. I had friends at the bookstore where he was reading and when I went through his line to have my first editions signed and also to tell him that I loved his work and he was an inspiration, he was downright nasty to my face. Clearly the guy has a mean streak. His books are all snark. But I guess I think that when a fan stands in front of you with ten years’ worth of your titles, you might be nice. Just a little bit nice. Not make the person cry with your meanness.

After that, I stopped reading him all together. Until yesterday when I read his short essay in the New Yorker. It’s about flying and seems like material that’s been worked over several times. Yes, flying is a pain, yes, there’s a whole lot of humanity. Oh the humanity. Yes, you’re in conversations with strangers and all you want to do is stare at a wall.

I read it and there were some funny moments, but it seemed a bit aimless — is it a diatribe against the hypocrisy of our politicism or is it about how ugly Americans are or is it about how we should have never let people of the lower classes get on airplanes? It’s not that long and it’s just all over the place.

Because this is the first thing I’ve read of his in about six years, I have no idea if this is his style now and I hope you’ll tell me. He used to write essays about things I had never thought of. He told me about experiences I’d never had or have. I wonder if he’s tapped all of those and is trying his hand at the common moments. If so, he’ll need to take a more focused approach. One that reveals the smallest details of the situation and not just paint it in the broadest strokes. Otherwise he seems like what I saw that day six years ago, a bitter, small man trying to wring out the last bit of funny from whatever victim was nearest.

Basically I’ve kicked some major ass here.

And I’ve had some really difficult times. I’ve been betrayed by many people here. The backbiting is unreal. And no one here says what they think to your face. There are still moments when Portland itself drives me crazy. I had a tantrum fairly recently about how I hate it here. I have moments of hating it, but more often than not I’m just perplexed bordering on frustrated. I feel like I’m in a constant state of confusion about the weather and the provincial attitude.

When I had my tantrum, I said I wanted to move. That’s all I wanted was to leave. But Fancyhats won’t move. He loves it here and we’re building our life together as a little family so where he stays, I stay.

In the coming year, I hope to make a bit more peace with this town. I hope to get less frustrated and learn to take that slowness in stride. I’ve whittled down the people I call friends to those who won’t sell me out. And I’ve been doing more outdoorsy things, taking advantage of Portland’s beauty. I hope that will ease the depression I feel here when the weather turns.

There are days when I just want to drive back the way I came and live in a place with sunshine. I want to go to a place where people don’t all know each other. But I can’t anymore. My life is here. In Portland. For better or for worse.