Mrs. Flinger: A work in progress

UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015

Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.

So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.

One of those times where I’m bored to tears. Hand me a tissue. Jun 12, 2006

You know how you have a million CDs (or now-a-days, gigabytes of music) and you can listen to the first two seconds of every song and be bored with it? You know how you have a million things to do at work, can be standing in front of your classroom teaching and be bored? You know how you are playing the same game with your toddler, the one where you chase her and she runs away screaming while you yell, “Let’s put your shirt on. Come here, LB. I mean it. Let’s get you dressed so we can leave the house. COME HERE!” and be tired of your life as you know it?

It’s not just me is it?

I think this is what happens when I’m happy. Maybe I’m not used to the blissful feeling of loving my life. My job? LIke it. My family? Love ‘em. My child? Playing happily. My husband? Being adorable. Why do I keep phrasing sentences as questions? You’re guess is as good as mine.

I think this is why in college I called myself a “free spirit.” Really, I’m not a free spirit, I’m easily bored. I can use this to my advantage, at times, if I really want to. Like this morning I took my new new programming book to the gym and came up with six new things to beef up my designs with.  As far as a career goes, this quality bodes well as I’m always learning something new and since I’m in a field that changes roughly every .28 seconds (as fast as a page load).

On the other hand, in terms of sitting still and watching a two hour movie, not so much me. In terms of not moving every nine months, not me either. In terms of waking up, doing the routine, and going to bed… well, as much as I love our routine, I’m needing a shake-me-up.

Anyone wanna drive to San Fransisco with me? Damn that price of gas and hitchhiking being so 1963. It’s probably a little less poetic to hitch with a toddler, a car seat, a pac-n-play and six elmos, two computers, an iPod….

On blue eyeshadow and notes in class Jun 08, 2006

Music does amazing things. I can hear a song and am instantly back in that place where I used to hear it, complete with pre-teen zits, puffy bangs and blue eyeshadow. I can smell the cut grass of our Texas neighbors or I can feel the humidity of the Gulf. Or, I can see the Bellingham Bay or the Pudget Sound and feel the wind blowing in my hair as I feel the freedom and fear of leaving for college.

It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately, this phenomenon, and find myself wondering around iTunes looking for songs to bring back memories I’ve long sense (thankfully) forgotten.

Don’t understimate the work of carrying around this hormonal bagage, MmmmMMK? Jun 07, 2006

#Good News#The Flinger Family

Yesterday, being the hormonal wreck that I’ve been lately, I tell Mr. Flinger how LB has been really *really* grating my nerves. The jar of spinach she threw at the grocery store was not only the last straw, it got all over my new, white skirt (note to the Internet: DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT BUY WHITE WITH A TODDLER). It’s hard to look smart and sophisticated with green goo running between your legs while your boobs pop out of your stylish shirt when you bend down to shove your squirmy child back into the mammoth truck stroller thingie as she flings her head back yelling, “Moorreee!!! MOOORRREEEE!!!” 

Damnit child, I’ll show you more…

See, I understand “Love you forever” now. I used to cry out of terror because can you imagine driving to your kids house to pick him up and rock him? Can you imagine crawling in to his room and wanting to hold the man with the life and the car and the money? Can you imagine wanting to hold your teenage kid, all piercing and tattoos and hair goo who hasn’t bathed in two weeks? But I understand now. I thought I knew when I was pregnant what it would be like, but I had no clue. Now? I could write that book complete with toilet paper races in the potty and green goo dripping from my knees in Albertsons.

Motherhood is this club that nobody can ever really tell you about. Oh, sure, you’re pregnant and you hear “sleep while you can” and “your life will never be the same.” Sure you see babies and think, “Ahhhh, how cute!” and “Can I hold him?” Then they fart/poop/puke all the while screaming and you hand them back and go home and want your own because even if you still smell like vomit-filled-crap, it’s kinda cute, right?

Not at 3AM.

But then this thing that only craps and keeps you awake goes to sleep. And as we all know, “There is no better behaved child then the sleeping child.” Angelic, really. And you stand over the crib as the tears splash on the new hands and new cheeks and new feet and you can not believe, there’s just no way, you made that.

That baby turns into a toddler. You fall more in love. She does things, she spits, or hits, and it’s your job to teach her it’s not ok to spit or hit unless your spitting when you brush your teeth or hitting a ball with a bat. You are The Authority. You are The Comfort. You are IT. She exclaims, mouth wide open, “MOMMY! MOMMY!” when she sees you come down the stairs and you melt, just a little more than a little bit, and swoop her up and forget all about the streak of poop you just cleaned off the capert… again. You forget all about the thousand cups of yogurt you cleaned splattered all over the fridge and pantry door. You forget.

So you end up crying to your husband, literally tears streaming down your face, royally pissed off about the spinach/grocery store episode until you remember something she learned that day and you begin to laugh through your tears, crying even harder saying, “she’s just the best. I want to be home with her. She’s just the best. Please don’t make me leave her. She’s just the best.”

To which your husband replies, “I think I underestimate the emotional work being a mom is. It’s not just physically hard to chase a toddler butemotionally draining, too.”

Internet, he got it. Amen, he got it. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

I’m a teenage mom with wrinkles, cellulite and gray hair Jun 05, 2006

Had I known being a mom would be so like High School, I might be more for teenage pregnancy. Ok, not really, but why is it when we?re all grown up and professional at work we can?t be grown up on the playground? What is it about being around children that make us act our child?s age? Why do moms feel the need to exclude other women simply because they are new?

I know a lot of you have written about this before. I?m sure I could link to several (hundred) posts of yours where some beyotch mom makes you feel like crap because you don?t have the right jeans, the good hair, the child with the perfect nose. Or, there are moms (skinnybitch is my personal thorn in my side) that love your child so much, mostly because she will mostly likely be so pretty and popular in High School and if she goes to the same school as her son they absolutely MUST be friends, so they?ll bite the bullet and be your friend. Except they?ll let you know it?s only because your daughter is just so cute and even kind of looks like her. Not at all because of who you are. Your ass is just too big and your house is never clean enough.

I know this happens even in the less attractive neighborhoods but here in ?I?m too rich for my own good?-ville it?s at a whole new level.

The chick you meet online and his prison mates Jun 03, 2006


Mr. Flinger teases me often about the “women” I speak with online. Every time we’re out in public and see some scruffy dude, he’ll tell me “that inmate-looking guy? That’s your ‘R*belle’ chick.” Or we’ll see someone on the news who is doing random acts of weirdness and he’ll tell me, “That’s your “Mari” friend and was seen on the computer shortly before the rampage and he was IMing a group of M O M M Y B L O G G E R S.”

He thinks he’s funny. He’s not. But this happens a lot.

It does leave me thinking. I’ve been wondering this more and more as I read about crazy people stalking or stealing pictures or as my faith wanes as I get older. Then, I read an amazing post by Yankeebelle and I realize I’m not alone in this fear. What *are* the implications of living an online life? What will LB say to me when she reads some of the posts about my hayhay and our sex life and her poop. I mean, I can’t even handle knowing my parents HAVE sex, how would I react if I knew


50 people read about their sex life?

I. Don’t. Know.

It’s an interesting thought and one I think is good to keep in mind when blogging. Especially since when I’m at Starbucks working now, if I am IMing someone, I’ll see another person on the computer typing and watch to see if they pause when the IM person pauses. ‘Cause you never know. Maybe that mullet head, wife-beater wearing, drug-dealing bum is my client?  Maybe Raybelle isn’t so southernbelle because she’s not so much a girl? Maybe she’s an inmate down the street just waiting to get out and stalk my hot ass? Well, see? It’s worth a thought.

Date Night Jun 02, 2006

#The Flinger Family

Tonight we get out like grown ups. We get to eat dinner

, go to a movie and not have sticky fingers in our hair on food thrown on our laps. We get to have conversations that do not include the words, “night night. Wha Wha. LB, no, ma’am. Good girl, Please sit on your bottom. LB, stay here.”  We get to talk about politics! And our effed up government. We can talk religion, and sports and drink wine and sit by candlelight without the fear of squirmy starting a fire. We can enjoy using sharp objects and small, chokable items, if we want.

I think I’m going to miss our LB. Wearing spaghetti sauce has become a bit of a style for me and I’m used to dull knives now. But a few hours of big people time is hard to pass up. Thanks, Oma.

*updated to add: Forget dinner. MR. Flinger is still at work. Movie starts in thirty minutes. I’ll let you know if we make it. *sigh* So much for grown-up night.

**updated to add: We made it. We saw The DaVinci Code. Our rating? Ehhhh. But the mango margarita afterward was tres yummy. Thanks!