Dear Asparagus,

Who exactly do you think you’re fooling? Do you think there is not any way I’m not on to you? Because I am, I most certainly assure you.

I first met you in the summer of 1986. I was at my regular Saturday night babysitting gig, and the family I sat for invited me over early that night for dinner. I glanced around the table, eyed the roast, oogled the potatoes, and then my eyes wandered to a large white serving platter containing something the likes of which I’d never seen before.

You sat in a bowl, long and pointy, the shade of green that strikes terror in the heart of anyone under 5′ tall. The father of the family asked, “Wanna try some?” I, not yet quick-witted enough to weave a tale desperate or agonizing enough to escape such horrors, politely obliged. I took one small, calculated bite.

“Well, it appears we should call it asperGAGus, huh?”, he chuckled. I countered his chuckle with one hearty chuck. The “le” alluded me that night.

I never saw you after that fateful day of my twelfth year (my family’s poverty did have its upside) until nearly 20 years later. I was employed at a dark, smoky, posh little bar in downtown Denver that thought way too highly of itself, and on the Saturday night of the fall menu roll-out, our paths again crossed. On the new menu, which consisted solely of over-ingrediented (is TOO a word) tapas, you smuggly sat, glaring at me with a thick air of superiority surrounding your pointy little green head.

Asparagus. Wrapped in prosciutto. Drizzled with strawberry compote. Oh, how you mocked me as you defiled all those fine, innocent young ingredients. How you smirked as you rubbed up against a perfectly good slice of almost-bacon, as you soaked in the sweet juices of the most sensual berry. I turned my gaze away from you that night; why feed the fire? No one would order you, and you would sit cold, alone, and slowly growing flaccid in a stale downtown refrigerator.

How foolish I was.

Table after table oooh’d and ahhhh’d over your pretentiousness. Customer after customer indulged themselves in your vitamin-laded, urine-toxifying stalks. I was brought, nightly, to your putrid alter, but I was stronger than you thought me to be. I never did succumb to your mind games, whiskey shots and drunk-munchies be damned.

I began seeing you rear your ugly head around town. On tapas, in soup, mixed with pasta, you had no shame or discretion. You even dared to appear one morning in the middle of my beloved Eggs Benedict, as if you thought I wouldn’t notice you under a sea of hollandaise. Your worst offense, however, happened only days ago when you spied me nearing the refrigerated section at Safeway, pushing a full cart and simultaneously carrying a dead asleep, 5,000 pound almost three year old. As I came closer to you, sweat pouring from my furrowed brow, distracted by two pre-teens desperately seeking cookies, you wiggled your way up to the front of the ravioli section, cleverly hidden amongst cheese raviolis. Knowing there was no way for me to actually read what package I batted into the back of my cart, you made certain you were front and center, the easiest choice.

You made it all the way into my home, sat comfortably in the back of my fridge, and almost saw your scheme to fruition as I boiled water and tossed a salad that one night, only days ago. However, your evil plans were thwarted at the last minute; even though I have no glasses and can barely see, I saw YOU. You underestimate me, and that is a sad mistake to make, my friend. I’m on to you, and I always keep emergency hot dogs on hand. I don’t NEED you.

It would appear that you chose to bring some of old cohorts back to the mainstream with you, possibly to deflect some of the attention away from yourself in your attempt at a Retro Resurrection. I will fight, hand over fist, until your asparagus eating, leg-warmer wearing, hairspray using, New Kids on the Block touring, Care Bear collecting, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle animating, Camaro driving, Wayfarer and jelly bracelet wearing posse is disbanded, drawn, and possibly quartered, depending on what time of the month I find you. The 80′s were only cool in the 80′s, and you, like avocado colored appliances, should never have made it out.

Once, in your prime, you were a valuable source of vitamins A, B, C, folic acid, and an excellent source of torture for parents, but this is the 21st century. We can make something just as vitamin rich as you out for cardboard, and old muffler and some duct tape. And it would be shaped like a teddy bear. And taste like chocolate. And we still have brussel sprouts, and at least they don’t run around trying to be all phallic.

Your usefulness has seen its last days. Your welcome has officially worn out. Anything that can make my children’s stay in the washroom a more smelly experience is not fit for modern society. It is time to remove yourself from it, before I am forced to do it for you. Asparagus, you are on NOTICE.

Yours in Christ,

Mr Lady

I’m attempting to become more organized, dare I say professional? in my real life.  I have a Blackberry now, which has only been lost three times and has only had one near-fatal injury in the two months it’s been with me.

Nothing to worry about, though.  I’m pretty good at fixing broken technology.

And I can change my own oil.

So the Blackberry is clearly not making me More Professional, but iCalendar sure is. Every night, I sit down and I plug in all the shit I have to get done the next day, and that syncs to my phone and that buzzes like a gaggle of hornets in my pocket every time I forget to do something, and if Blackberry offered a small electric shock with every calendar reminder, I’d be the most effective person in the whole world, or at least have the tallest hair.

I’ve started working part time, from home, which is so ludicrously impossible I can’t even tell you but my daughter has figured out that when momma is “doin’ hers woik*” she can pretty much do whatever she wants, and whatever she wants usually ends up being testing the laws of gravity, thermodynamics and common sense with little more than all of the good toilet paper and the only clean toilet in the house.  I suppose my income could go to paying for daycare, but it’s so much more fun to fork it all over to the plumber, right?  You hardly get to see any ass-crack at daycare these days.

Taking this job has meant that I’ve had to give up a few other things, and obviously this blog has been one of them, but I’ve also put washing (insert your choice of the dishes/our laundry/my children/the baseboards/myself/all of the above) on the backburner just until I find my feet and get into the flow of being gainfully employed again.  But thank god for that iCalendar, man.  That bitch is keeping me on task.

Like, how it reminded me yesterday that I actually paid good money to go to a Storytelling seminar tonight in Gastown with, um, this guy?

Yeah, that guy.  And those are just the books I could find in this pigsty.  And by reminding me, it reminded me to totally inconvenience my neighbor at the very last possible second by making her babysit for me.  No wonder she’s moving away.

I’m just about as excited for this thing as I was a few weeks ago when I went to hear Chuck Palahniuk tell a few stories and sign a few books, which was awesome because ohmygodseriously, Chuck to the Palahniuk people, and awesomely horrifying because getting the Teen Girl Squad** together is a whole lot like mixing the most ridiculously cute baking soda and the silliest vinegar together.

Which actually isn’t horrifying at all to the people doing it, in fact it’s kind of rad and we want to do it all the time, but it’s apparently fairly traumatic for the 20-something angsty I-drink-soy-chai-and-smoke-cloves wanna-be writer who had to sit near us. Someday, woman, your uterus is going to betray you, and hard, and karma will remember us and your big steaming hot bag of scorn and I will be standing right there when it happens saying NEENER NEENER and also asking you to shut your kid the fuck up with my eyes and the better part of the left side of my body.

And since I’ve been all on this Going Out For The Night But Calling It Professional Development Because I’ve Duped The Donor Into Thinking I’m Kind Of A Big Deal On The Internet kick, when in reality the only person I’m a big deal to on the internet is the operator of of little eBay store where they sell my favorite and impossible to find elsewhere girl’s dresses and I assure you, I am a very big deal to that woman, I’m thinking about going to the Chicks Who Click conference in Vancouver at the end of June. Because seriously, if going to a conference is what it takes for me to get out of this house for the day, sign me the fuck up, yo. Hell, I still have my Leia outfit, and they have Star Con up here, don’t they?

But sadly enough, while I’m all busy trying to justify reading Fight Club for the purposes of writing corporate web copy, which now that I say it out loud actually makes a good deal of sense, my daughter is just about to get fired from the only job she’s ever had. A job which, mind you, pays her in outfits.  And she’s getting fired simply because she grew, so I think I’m going to demand some workmen’s comp, which I imagine will get paid out in capri’s and halter tops.

But lucky for us, we have two photo shoots this month and even though I’m so busy stalking crazy gay men all over Vancouver to, oh, I don’t know, read the manual that came with my camera, the first of our photo shoots turned out pretty freaking magnificently, if I do say so myself.

And I got to skip out on an entire afternoon of work to take them.  I love living in a different country than either of our bosses. 

*And yes, she says “woik” because she is clearly a little old woman who lived in Brooklyn until she was 11 and then moved to Philadelphia until she was 18 and then went to college in Boston and then moved back to Brooklyn to live out the rest of her days.

**If you’re cussing me out right now for killing your eardrums, well, I tell you guys all the time to hover over links and pictures first, but you never listen.

I’m posting this from an iPhone.

Thank you all for pointing that app out to The Donor and me; he added it right away and now, 1 3/4 of a sentence in, my thumbs joints won’t unlock.

What I’ve learned: iPhones were designed by rodents in an attempt to rid us of our opposable thumbs and thereby Take Over The World. Don’t worry, it’s the same thing they do every week.

So, yes, this can bite me and I wouldn’t be expecting another post until my piece of shit HP comes home from the shop, if I were you. Remember a year ago when I dropped $80 at the vet on a hamster we’d had for a whole week and you guys were all “you so dumb” and then that hamster died anyway? Yep, pretty sure we’re reliving that nightmare, just with wardrobe money, not Starbucks money.

What I’ve learned: don’t buy hamsters for christmas and mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to be pc’s.

I actually have so much stuff to talk about once I’m functional again that I’ve forgotten ALL of it. You know when you see the sign at the gas station that says Do Not Pump More After This Thing Shuts Itself Off and you do anyway because what do THEY know and then all the gas you pumped in comes shooting back at you because what THEY knew was how your gas tank is pressurized and you end up dousing you, your car and everyone within a 5 mile radius with gas and when you start your car to leave before THEY yell at you, you blow the whole place up?

What I’ve learned: That’s the blog section of my brain after two weeks with no computer. Do Not Overfill.

That reminds me: what do you call a hooker with a runny nose?

I do remember that I wanted to mention that yes, we have one computer. And it’s a laptop. We also don’t own our house, drive 12 and 10 year old cars and I have exactly 4 bras. No one will ever blame Economegeddon on me.

(Truth be told, we have three computers. One has been dead for five years and one has been dead for one. At least they’re not on cinderblocks on front of it house. YET.)

My whole point was that there’s a light over at the Frankenstein place. I should have a computer again by early next week, and then y’all are IN FOR IT. If I can remember anything. Which, probably not.

Orange mocha frappucino, anyone?

Also, full.

First: You’ll never have to hear it again, I swear.  Voting for the 2009 Bloggies ends today, and I really wouldn’t mind coming in 4th place instead of dead last, so if you haven’t voted, well, don’t make me beg.  It’s unbecoming.  While you’re there, Secret Agent Mama is up for Best Photog, Blog Nosh is up for Best New Blog and Best Blog Design, all of my favorite Aussie blogs are up for Best Australian, Craftastrophe is up for Best Arts & Crafts, BlogHer is up for Best Communtiy and Television Without Pity is up for Best Entertainment and, well, um, The Donor sort of knows the girl that started that.  Um, you know, *knows*?  Yeah, vote for it.  Moving on….

Secondly: I am not many things.  I am not a professional anything.  I barely qualify as a mother on my best days.  What I am, however, is someone who is very capable of learning from her own mistakes.  Which are many in numbers.  The most recent thing I’ve learned: I am NOT a doctor.  Hell, I’m not even a pharmacist.

A really long time ago, I was prescribed some lovely brain candy to treat a whole bunch of stuff that began with Post.  It was gorgeous.  It worked like a charm, and I didn’t chew my fingernails or grind my teeth or freak out about my new baby.  And then I stopped taking it.  The worst things that happened when I stopped were treatable by a manicurist and a dentist.

And then a not so long time ago, I started some new brain candy.  If the old stuff was Tootsie Pops, the new stuff would be Pop Rocks:  Hard core, has urban legends about.  It did what it was supposed to do, which was to work without me noticing it was working, and it had one totally freaking fabulously awesomeiddity (is to a word) side effect that if I explained to you, I’d be crossing the imaginary line my husband has drawn in the sand for what I can and cannot tell you about our relationship.  Yes, he actually has one and yes, I actually stick to it.  Kind of.

*ahem*

Of course I didn’t realize said awesomeness had anything to do with the pills and not the fact that I’m finally that age where parts of you peak until I decided that since I hadn’t noticed any effects of the pills, they must not be having any and I stopped taking them.  Because I’m that moron.

Thankfully, nothing too major came of my sudden cessation of medication, but I did notice that something was different.  Just a subtle, quiet little something way in the back of my head, just enough that I realized maybe I shouldn’t go running around self unmedicating.

You know what the Pop Rocks pills didn’t ever help?  The nails, the teeth, the tension.  The obvious stuff.  I realized I really missed that, and dear god in heaven I needed Awesome Side Effect to come back, so I decided to start taking both the Pop Rocks and the Tootsie Pops again, together.  I asked my doctor first, shut up.

I started the Tootsie Pops first, and waited for the Miracle From Heaven that they brought the first time to rain down on me again.  It didn’t.  So I added the Pop Rocks back in.  And I waited.  I waited kind of a while and the Tootsie Pops never really did much of anything that I needed them to.  I’m sure they did something, but not what I cared for them to.  So after a few months on both, I decided that I didn’t want to unnecessarily take two medications when only one was doing what I wanted it to.  So I dropped the Tootsie Pops.

Smarter things in my life I’ve done include but are not limited to: wearing white pants and a maxi-pad, upside down, twice; letting my 8 year old color my hair; walking 2 blocks home from 7-11 to find my car stolen from outside of my house, then remembering almost an hour later that I’d driven it the 2 blocks to 7-11.

I figured that I’d quit them once before with absolutely no ill effects whatsoever, but what I didn’t figure was that maybe I was on, like, 4 times the dosage the second time around.

Hello withdrawals.

Of course, I wasn’t expecting withdrawals and so I didn’t realize that they were withdrawals and I instead figured I’d caught the stomach flu, then the regular flu, then the plague, and then I was clearly either being poisoned with carbon monoxide, experimented on by aliens, or even worse, pregnant.

Insomnia is a funny, funny thing.  I’ve never really had it before, and all I can say is I’m glad I didn’t have a day job.  Also, being a zombie must really suck.  No wonder they eat everyone’s brains; they’re pissed that you can SLEEP.

The good news is that after only a few (of the freaking longest of my life) weeks, I could see straight, my head didn’t hurt, I wasn’t afraid to leave my house anymore, the vertigo was gone and I got to sleep.  Finally.  The bad news is that hot flashes in the middle of the night have nothing at all to do with withdrawing from the Tootsie Pops, and that just insists on happening anyway.

Hello menopause.

Mr. Lady once referred to me as her high school sweetheart. Make of that what you will. Suffice it to say, we go back a ways. Supposedly this week Mr. Lady is enjoying a sabbatical and her laptop is powered down and tucked away in a little box under the bed … and the Easter Bunny and Santa really do exist. Also, I have a fine ocean-front property for sale right here  in Colorado. Ahem, so despite compelling pleas from my inner demon, I’ve opted to be on good behavior. I know where she hid the bodies but I ain’t tellin’ – at least not this time around.

Since the advent of  Marge In Real Life, I have made the occasional reference to the CLF. I’ve said once or twice that maybe one day I’ll explain just what that is but then I never got around to it. Why? Well, because the whole story hails back to an era in my life that is sometimes better left alone. Incidentally, it’s an era that owes its finest memories to its main characters – not the least of which would be Mr. Lady, or God’o'Editors as I was fond of calling her in those days. So, I says to myself, what better opportunity to tell the tale than right here on her blog?

************** (page break made fashionable by Gnillips)

According to the great and sometimes fallible Wikipedia, the term or acronym ”CLF” may refer to any of the following:

• Conservation Law Foundation, a legal environmental advocacy organization
• Church of the Larger Fellowship
• Chlorine monofluoride(ClF)
• Clear Sky Lodge Airport‘s IATA code
• Cleveland-Cliffs Inc., a business firm specializing in the mining of iron ore.
• Clifton Forge (Amtrak station)‘s station code
• Contingency Logistics Flights – Space Shuttle missions STS-131 and STS-133
• Common Log Format – A standardized text file format usually associated with web server logs.
• Contactless RF Front End (also called NFC)

Sadly, it neglected this important possibility:

• Colorful Liberation Front

If you ask him today, my good friend Joshman will likely deny any and all involvement with the genesis of this movement. In truth, it was his idea but he certainly never intended it to become anything real, much less a creature of cult-like proportions. Math class was boring and we were passing a note filled with our usual mindless banter which came to the conclusion that our school was colorless and mundane and it should be the mission of (spontaneously invented) Colorful Liberation Front  to do something about it.

In the days that followed, I would commit many a misdemeanor as I defaced school property and recruited others to do the same. My friend Steph was insanely organized and all of her class notes were color-coded on neat little note cards. I thought she was super cool and before long I had my own little obsession with colored markers. And a new-found use for them. In my shamefully abundant spare time, I designed possibly hundreds of brightly colored, often nonsensical, always whimsical little stickers.

And slowly, but surely an almost imperceptible change began to come about. On locker doors, the underside of stairway rails, inside text book covers, on table legs and chair backs, windows and even smack-dab in the middle of Mr. Bunge’s classroom clock. Ok, that one wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. And when the stapler-throwing, eraser lobbing English teacher did take notice, he simply requested an explanation. The details of the confession are a little fuzzy but when he heard the premise behind the little sticker, he actually didn’t think it was all bad and the CLF badge was allowed to remain.

My morning ride to school was an early one and as I sat around the study area of the second floor watching the sun come up, I cranked out more and more stickers. My little army of rebels did their part too. Soon I was discovering the CLF mark in somewhat unexpected places. One day, as I was walking back through the parking lot with some of the trench-coat clad smoker crowd (no, I wasn’t one of them, I just had friends in every clique), we noticed a car with the window rolled down. Pressing a sticker to the back of the rear view mirror was a small and satisfying act of vandalism.

After two years of this craziness, the powers-that-be reviewed my progress and determined that I had just barelymet the criteria to receive my diploma. I’ll admit it, I’m a dork, and to prove it, I painted CLF in large letters on a bandanna and attached it to the top of my commencement day cap for all the world to see.

After a summer of cheese-keeping and fun in Lake Todd Colby, I entered the adult world of responsibility, employment, and flying airplanes  with nary a thought of the old CLF save for a small collection of undeployed stickers which I plastered onto a cardboard tube for a pencil can on my desk. 

It must have been at least two years after graduation that I heard through the grapevine of a friend that was at a Front 242 concert at a popular local venue and discovered a CLF sticker in the bathroom. What the….?! I wanted to believe it but it seemed too bizarre until I began to hear that the torch was indeed still lit and had been carried by other students at the school. To this day these rumors remain unconfirmed and I’m sure with time the legacy faded away. I’d be willing to bet there are still some relics of the great CLF lurking where one might least expect to find them.

And that, gentle readers**, is the Tale of the CLF. Now let us never speak of this again.

* Mr. Peabody’s WABAC machine
**It’s a Rudyard Kipling reference. C’mon.

*************

I know I said I was going to be good but then I was down in the crawl space – you know, where the bodies are buried – and I ran across a few gems.