You know those trend starter types? The ones who can make waking up in the morning and posting a picture of themselves, Sans makeup, cool? The ones who can say, “Ppppssttt, you should do it TOOOOooo” and you go “OK!”
So here I am, all muchtoogodforsaken early without caffeine, makeup, or a shower. Or Sleep. Because last night was a marathon of Rock-Snuggle-Rock-Lay-CRYCRYCRY-Rock-Snuggle-Lay repeat.
There’s a big discrepancy among my friends that makes me need to post a question to you. It’s of dire importance, naturally, as I wouldn’t waste your valuable, precious time if it wasn’t.
If there is a men’s room and a women’s room, both the exact same except the sign on the door, do you wait in line for a busy women’s room?
Or do you go to the men’s room?
I ask because once, as a very very large pregnant woman, I stood in line at... Read more
I was recently asked if having two children was worth it. After all the sleepless nights, the PPD, the jealous older sibling bit.
I finally have a way to express my answer:
I’d like everyone to say hello to Mr. Flinger and Sister Flinger: Both of whome decided, after years of asking, “Hey, you wanna read something I wrote?” decided THIS week was the week to start reading ye ol’ blog.
Hi Mr. Flinger! Hi Sister Flinger!
Already, we know Oma, the In-Laws and several clients read ye ol’ blog.
And one day, ye ol’ kids will.
I’m sure of it because she’s just like me.
So, Internet, I ask you,... Read more
Hindsight is not “2020”. Hindsight it almost always a romanticized version of history. It’s usually a picture far off reality generated by emotion of regret and wishful thinking.
The day I left Bellingham to move back to Texas is as vivid in my romanticized mind as a novel cover. Mr. Flinger and I stood on the train platform in Fairhaven. We hugged. He told me to call when I got back to Kelso before my flight to Houston. I agreed. My eyes were curiously dry as I boarded with the last of my belongings from... Read more
After knowing Mr. Flinger for nearly twenty years now, seven years of those married, six of those as best friends, and 5 years of dating, you’d think I kinda know the guy a bit. You’d think that. And you’d be right. Mostly.
For some reason I’ve been approaching this whole birth control thing completely wrong. I’ve been approaching it like a women, with logic and emotion. *We* don’t want to have children, so *we* need to find a solution that works for *us*. *We* need to get a cost effective/low impact solution. *We* don’t need the Mommy (hi) to be an emotional wreck from the hormones of Birth Control Pills (also? I can not be counted on to take them thus making their reliability around 2%) or the IUD*. *We* don’t like condoms. *We*... Read more
There are a few standard Saturday Morning experiences Mr. Flinger and I tend to dwell on: “Remember when we didn’t wake up at 6am on a weekend?” “Remember when we used to go out on Friday nights?” “Remember spending money on ourselves?” “Did we used to go hiking on the weekends?” “Didn’t we use to have sex /go to dinner / see a movie / shower every weekend?”
Then we usually laugh, “Buhahaha. No, I don’t remember.”
Perspective changes as often as the months of each year. Very few experiences in life truly and profoundly have the impact to change the steadfast ways of your rutted thoughts. Some days come in and out of memory blurred with every other and change is slow and gradual... Read more
Remember those angsty years known as “The Eighties” and possibly “The Decade Following The Eighties” or even “The Decade Before The Eighties”? Because, frankly, if you remember The Eighties, you’ll remember they were loud, bossy, full of ozone-depleting sprays and makeup and really quite full of themselves.
Your first assignment (should you choose to play along and face it, you will) is to let us know how (obscure old pop rock band) changed your life. Mine is a story, of a girl, with a song in... Read more
Guess who learned to clap?
It’s like having my own personal audience all day long. And boy, I’m really impressive with cherrios in my teeth. And banging my forehead on the table. And barking like a dog. And…
*it’s only 20 seconds of this because, seriously, it’s only cute for about 23 seconds if he’s not your own kid. Maybe 32 seconds for Grandma.
*Also, one day I’ll write in complete sentences.
We’ve hit a portion of time known in our circle as “the three-and-a-half-year-old” stage. ohdearmotherlivinghell. The “terrible twos”? A warm up. The teenage angst? Being foreshadowed. My mental health? On the wire.
Tuesday we had what could only be referred as “a throwback to Rambo” There was yelling, fighting, dramatic throw-downs. This all in the first ten minutes of the day. She literally turned in to a fish out of water gasping for air because, ohgodforbid, her mother asked her to wipe her own bottom. That’s right, Internet, I forced my child to use her own toilet paper. IknowIknow. I see you shaking your head. Trust me. I disappoint many.
The trouble with this behavior is that I don’t so much like it. And the... Read more