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.
I’m your maid, not your cook Jul 25, 2006
Mr. Flinger knew I hated cooking when he married me. He was OK with this. Maybe I was alluring him with my pre-marital sex. Maybe it was my witty ways and good looks. (snort) Maybe it was my ability to separate darks from whites when doing the laundry. Whatever. He knew I ate bagels, cream cheese and an apple every day for lunch for three years. He married me anyway.
Now I’m all “grown up” and feeding your guests rice with a garden burger patty on it (with a side of salsa) just isn’t acceptable. Apparently, as a mom and a wife you’re supposed to cook? Did anyone else get the manual on this? Here’s a hint: My toaster is broken. My oven over heats and the stove top is tilted. I would rather not eat than cook. I’ll sit, as I am right now, starving and pretty much fading into nothingness (don’t judge my size 10-ish ass. I’m fading, damnit!) and be a grump because I refuse to actually fix food. I’ve had a luna bar, grapes, two coffees, and an english muffin (not toasted per damn toaster). You might think this is my quest to “Get Skinny! 2006!” when reality is I’ve long since given up on the area formerly known as my abs and now known as “stretch mark village” in the country Flab. This is no diet. It’s laziness.
If only being food-lazy actually did make one skinny. I’d be trim! Instead, it makes me feed my child all these wonderful things, from a can, like cold green beans, olives, and peas and watch her thinking, “We really should heat those up for you.” And she has no idea that she’ll be cooking for herself in ten years because her mom doesn’t know where the kitchen is, but she can point to the hidden chocolate any day of the week.
I’m begging you, Internet, on behalf of my child and my husband, what great cooking sites do you go to? I need Light, Quick, and “Special Needs in the Kitchen” cooking. The Domestic Diva is always a lovely resource, but if you have a fave, please fill me in.
My child (and all subsequent children) and husband thank you. (I, on the other hand, am holding out judgement to see what kind of half baked sites you send. But I’d like to think I thank you. Indeed, if there are no special meats that I have to travel to Australia for, or spices I’ve never heard of, which most are, I’ll be happy to send you great cooking karma back.)
And, P.S. A big ol’ Shout Out to Amalah on Club Mom for the fantastic writeup about ye ol’ blog. Really? I almost wet myself. (Oh, wait, my comment said I peed a little. Fine, it’s a technicailty.) At any rate, the other flingers I live with were just as overjoyed as I was. In their own way, mind you. After I told LB, “Yo mamma done won a John Cougar Mellencamp Hurt So Good Blog Award of Excellence!” she spit out her peas and threw her yogurt on the floor. “Clean it up, beyotch.” (I swear she muttered this under her breath.) Mr. Flinger, on the other hand, passively said, “uh. is this a blog thing? And what does it have to do with tuna melts for dinner?”
Faith My Eyes Jul 24, 2006
We’re not just sex and farts here on Mrs. Flinger. We’re also about depth, and faith, and trying to get The Big Picture while cleaning cheerios off the kitchen floor spilt seconds before having to run to work. We have it all. So excuse the drastic topic change, but we’ve been talking about a few things…
Mr. Flinger and I have been contemplating harmony. It seems a topic we landed on a few days back and can’t seem to put our finger on exactly what we want to say to each other. We both understand one another without having to speak actual words, but being the verbal person I am, I struggle without the vocabulary to express my feelings. So I turn to my blog to hash it out in public among friends, new and old, IRL and IBL (in bloglnad) to see if y’all have The Big Answers. You know, if you have harmony.
Some time back I used to be, I don’t want to say “Religious” because that sounds pios. I don’t want to say “Spiritual” because that sounds too new age. I don’t want to say “Brainwashed” because that’s too condescending. So I used to be… someone who sat at coffee shops, read her bible, wrote in her journal and thought long and hard about the Big Topics and Self Proclamation and Fulfillment. As I grew older, I found Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden Pond” to be more of an inspiration than my bible. I found myself relating to quotes such as, “I carry less religion to the table, ask no blessing; not because I am wiser than I was, but, I am obliged to confess, because, however much it is to be regretted, with years I have grown more coarse and indifferent.” I marked passage after passage about living simply and finding joy in the small things keeping “my affairs to a minimum”.
Years later, I find myself a mom, a wife of five years, a teacher of the virtual kind. There are very few tangents in my life. I have love, I have happiness, I have joy, a job, an outlet. I no longer write on paper, my work is online, my friends are online. I think about my visions as a young 22 year old graduating with her bachelors and the goals and dreams I had are far from where I am today. I’m ok with that, mostly. The one piece I’m sad to have let go so far is my contemplating of The Big Picture. I’ve let go of a hope in Something Bigger than myself and I’ve struggled to regain control in a world I can not control.
Mr. Flinger comes from a drastically different, and very scientific, background. This is what I love about him. Logic rules our house. I am a logically person, really. Aside from the “I’m pregnant” once a month regardless of the fact that we did NOTHING to produce said child that month. Pretty much at that point, I’d be the virgin marry. Sordda. But I’m back to sex and I told you this wasn’t about sex for once. So, back to logic, I’ve always had a math brain and Mr Flinger, being a civil engineer, pretty much let’s his brain rule all. Poor LB is destined for major nerdome. But we’re happy to pass along this gene hoping to inspire some major wise girl who can help us in our old age when our retirement piddles away at 60.
Logic and fath are not always synonymous, however. Faith in something or Someone bigger than yourself defies logic. It isn’t logic to have fath in something you don’t see. Logic says we don’t fall off the planet because some old guy called it gravity. Does it take faith to believe in gravity? Or do you see the effects of gravity and call it logic?
We were discussing this very thing and decided we believe in Harmony. How New Age does that sound? See, this is why it’s difficult to grasp this concept without the right words. People have a flow, or a harmony about them. Some people have flow, and others just.. don’t. How do you put your finger on this? What is it? I don’t think it’s isolated to only a specific religion of people with Flow. I have a Buddhist friend with Flow. I know some Christians with flow and some without it. There are non-religious types with flow and some super-religious onse that spew disharmony all over the place. So where is it? What’s the missing piece? Observation? Understanding? Empathy? Wisdom?
Regardless, after we had this discussion, I opened an email from someone I’d like to work for and found at the bottom of his email he signed it, “In Harmony.” I don’t know if you believe in signs or not, and to be honest I’m not sure if I do or not myself, but if I did, I’d be willing to bet it’s something. It just takes faith to know what.
My desert island has a Starbucks, a Thriftway, and not enough Anne Lamott Jul 18, 2006
You know how people always ask you what book you’d take on a desert island? You know how there’s always some jackass that says, “I’d take how to survive on a desert island.” You know how you’ll never-ever-ever have this possibility so you say something like, “Charles Dickens!” or “Ralph Waldo Emerson!” and you know you never have to actually follow through? Well, I had to make that choice, sordda, and I chose wrong. Very. Very. Wrong.
We’re now living in our “temporary housing” which means it’s way too small, costs way too much and can’t hold crap. We’re in between homes. We’re living the summer o’fun! Renting a townhouse in a town we’d never afford in real life and enjoying every damn renter-dwelling minute.
Minus the part where we pay an additional 100 bucks a month (GASP, I know I know) in a storage unit. Our current home is about 400 square feet smaller than our previous one. This means we had to make choices. I had to decide what to keep out for our 6 month lease and what can be packed away in to the storage unit until we find out permant
trailer later. It was a tough call, really. Because if I would choose to save anything in a fire (ok, aside from LB and her photos and her blanket and monkey) it would be my books. I write in my books. I make notes. I dog-ear my pages. I love my books hard. I love my books very “Velveteen Rabbit” like. I do.
So it was a tough decision when we packed the book shelf. I had to pick out a few books to keep with me for the next six months. I chose books I wanted to read and only one or two old loves. The thing I didn’t realize is how much I refer back to my books when I’m thinking of something, or needing inspiration, or just wanting to cuddle up with characters I already know. I didn’t realize how often my library comes in to my life and my head and my writing. I’ve been looking for a specific passage from this book, or maybe that one. And I remember wanting to re-read this. Or that. And suddenly I have never wanted my books more than I do right now. And all I have here is a starbucks, a thriftway, and the “Nanny Diaries” which is lovely, but not exactly right.
Now I know the answer to the question. I would take the books I love the most, not the ones I have not read yet. What would you take?
Taking Trailer Trash to a new level! Jul 15, 2006
We’ve been searching for a new home. Lately we’ve gone from “Ohh! hardwood floors! A Jacuzi tub!” to “Well, you can’t really see the seam if you don’t look too closely.” It’s not that I have too much pride to live in a double-wide, it’s just that, well, it’s a DOUBLE-WIDE. The thought of purchasing a home that some trucker guy had to pull over the side of the road with to take a leak does nothing for me. Mr. Flinger was looking at one such home when I said, “Yea, but it faces the wrong direction. No sun.” “Uh, it’s a double-wide, hon. We just pick it up and move it.” Like that’s a selling point or something.
I know what you’re saying. That Mrs. Flinger, she sure is snotty. That Mrs. Flinger, she’d rather waste away her daughters college on Starbucks and iTunes music. That Mrs. Flinger, she’s one hot bitch. Well, that last one you’d throw in just to please me. But really, you’d be a little right. I *am* a little snotty. I mean, look, I happen to not want to own a house with wheels, seams, or fake wood paneling. I just don’t. Also, the Starbucks/iTunes thing? I have a plan. I work at a college, see, and my children will get cheap college. See? It’s ok. Really. I’ve thought this all through.
The thing I didn’t think through is the ammount a mortgage will cost in one of the “bubble? what bubble?” cities. Apparently, the bubble is not topping out here in the next ten years. So even if you sell your home at 40% more than you purchased 2 years ago, you will not be able to afford a house even with that equity, savings, prostitution, or selling your child on ebay.
That trailer is starting to look pretty damn good. I believe our couch would look lovely on that porch.
Time to reflect on “why the hell would I do that again?” Jul 15, 2006
LB isn’t sleeping well tonight. This is a relative sentence as she is a pretty good sleeper for the most part. When she was new, I swore she was doing herself no favors for a sibling because the child didn’t like naps, didn’t like sleeping period. I was dizzy from sleep deprivation and going more than a little nuts. I thought of pulling my ovaries out myself to prevent some freakish “ooops” accident (which I realize can’t happen unless you actually have sex so in reality, there was little worry. Little sleep also does nothing for the libido).
As I was saying, she isn’t sleeping well. She’s been up a few times, if only for a few minutes, but it’s just enough that I can’t go back to sleep. I have this “once I’m up, I’m up” thing going. I was like this when she was little. I could never go back to sleep if I knew she’d be up soon anyway. Or if I actually got my white pasty ass out of bed. My ass has an affinity for bed but once it’s up, it’s up.
This is how I came to be blogging at 3AM today. After I got LB comfortable again, I came downstairs to “relax” and have some down time. An hour and a half later I’m thinking horror stories of how tired I am going to be tomorrow and how this is just the smallest taste of having a newborn. It’s like this but only worse, people. Remember? Neither did I. Until this morning.
In a way, I’m glad to have the archives from my daughter’s infancy. I’m glad I can look back in those first three months and see that she was tiny, she had no neck control and she drooled. A lot. But on the other hand, I think it might be the best “er.. I’m good” medicine ever. Because if I read one more entry about how many times I got up each night and stayed up and slept an hour a day? There might be no number 2.
I should just stop reading and go to bed. If we’re ever going to try again, that’s my only hope. Blissful ignorance. Mother Nature was brilliant with that mommy-amnesia. Let’s not ruin that.
And this is how I found out I really have no taste Jul 14, 2006
LB and I had a pretty good day. I joked once that naps are like mini-exorcisms. Yesterday Mr Flinger informs me that he’s so thankful for the ol’ Aunt Flo (isn’t that just the dumbest thing to call a menstrual cycle? seriously? But I do it, too. Oh, and I have a hayhay, thankyouverymuch. I’m mature like that.) Like I was saying, so thankful for the ol’ Aunt Flo because it’s an exorcism of sorts for the wifey. That psycho PMS bitch? GONE!! I quote, “Every day I’m praying for the MS portion of the PMS.”
Well, there you have it.
So there has been napping and hormonal recovering in the home which means the girls are doing pretty dang well in our family. So, I decided to take charge of this, ahem, baby weight :: cough cough:: and go to the gym today. I got LB dressed, put on her sunblock (because we were outside a total of ten minutes and my god! The skin cancer! The UV rays!) and headed to the gym. We get to the play area and the pretty, young, skinny, makeup girl signs up LB to be in day care. She laughs, “Well I know who picked out HER clothes today.”
Uh, Excuse me?
“HA! I have a nephew that insist on dressing himself. He refuses to let my sister dress him. He always has on some plaid shirt with striped shorts. It’s horrible.”
Well, now, see *I* dressed LB in a cute little polka-dotted shirt and a cute little flower skirt that MATCH. Ok, not in the obvious way. But they do match in the “they both have brown and pink” and “they were both purchased by Auntie Paige” kind of a way. I’m aware nobody else would realize that latter portion but the pink and brown should be a dead give away.
So this is how I learned I have no taste. Thing is, it runs in the family. My poor LB is screwed. She’ll be telling me what the cool kids are wearing when she’s 12 and I’ll be making her wear pigtails and cat sweatshirts because I’m that out of touch. But they MATCH.
The Schedule Jul 11, 2006
I will do anything for The Schedule. I am not a slave to The Schedule, but rather a willfull employee. I love The Schedule. The Schedule is god. The Schedule is high priestess. The Schedule is the driving force of life.
The Schedule is Mecca.
When we are using The Schedule, LB will wake up at 8ish, play nicely for an hour or two, begin to get pissy and challenging, go for a walk to Starbucks and the park, eat lunch, and nap at 1:00. She will sleep until 3 or 4, wake up and be joyful for an hour or two, begin to get pissy and challenging, go for a walk to the library or the park, eat dinner, bathe, and go to bed at 8ish.
See why I love The Schedule?
I am teaching online. This requires that I am on the computer, working for school, from 1-2:30pm daily. I also have assignments to grade and emails to reply to. I do this from 2:30 to 3 or 4. I also have my business and in my :: cough :: spare time I work on a design or two. The Schedule allows me that opportunity. The Schedule let’s me play in the morning, work in the afternoon, be a fabulous wife and make dinner at night and have a quiet walk and story time with my family at night.
Therefore, I no longer feel sorry for other moms who are “prison” to The Schedule. I’ve seen the joy The Schedule brings. I see the happiness and fulfillment The Schedule allows. I believe in The Schedule and I will stick with The Schedule for as long as I possibly can.
And even then, I will pursue The Schedule like a drunken Irishman coming home late on a Friday night. Because The Schedule? It is my bitch. Or I am hers. Either way. The Schedule may have its way with me. As long as it sticks around a while.
**Edited to add: Bitch. The Schedule. LB is not napping. Well, la-dee-da. See? This is what I get for blogging about The Schedule. She will not be mocked. *sigh*
Speak up! I can’t hear you over the toddler yelling NO NO NO Jul 10, 2006
If there is ever time to think, not that I can hear myself think mind you, but if I could these are the things I’d be thinking lately…
Traci and I were talking going to a movie alone. I’ve never gone to a movie alone. Before I probably would feel like a tard. But now? I’m thinking it might be heaven. Very. Loud. Totally-worth-the-twenty-bucks. Heaven. Would you go?
Why the hell do I eat apples with diet cheese, brocoli with hummus for lunch and gain weight? Oh. The four coffees a day? The nightly chocolate chip cookie? The ten pounds of baby weight I still carry around like a suitcase melded on to my mid-section? And how long can you call it “baby weight” before it turns into just “weight”?
And, finally, a whole lotta good that breast reduction did. LB just pushed a crayon down my shirt, between my boobs, and said, ?byebye!? Apparently, I was showing a bit of cleavage.
On meeting other Bloggers (aka: Prison Inmates) Jul 06, 2006
There’s a lot of talk lately about meeting people in person. Busy Mom is currently out in Nashville with a group of bloggers. I’d lie if I said I didn’t wish I was there. With so many fabulous TN bloggers, I’m sure it’s one KICKASS partay. There is always talk of so-and-so meeting in person or you-know-who and that-girl meeting for coffee. I’ve met a few bloggers myself and became unafraid when they turned out to be pretty dang normal and not at all the mullet wearing inmate I tagged them as.
Recently, having been in “Seattle Proper” I was hoping to hook up with a few Seattle bloggers. Poor Isabel was a little freaked out at the thought of having to see someone in the flesh. I don’t blame her, really. I mean, when Claire first asked me to hook up in Seattle, I totally crapped my pants. And having not showered that day, all comfy in my sweat-skirt and tired and worn from a long weekend, we still got together and enjoyed seeing our little peeps play. Now for the rest of my blogging life, I can always say, I met Claire. I’m cool! I. Met. Claire! So the can of worms was open and I started meeting other bloggers as well. I met Bree after finding out she lived two miles from me and I met Kelli when she came our way on a family vacation. Suddenly I’m the “I meet girls online!” infomercial complete with cheesy music and an audience going “Oooohhh!! Ahhhhhhh!!!”
And, I’m so bold now, that if I can’t meet them in person, I’ll talk to them on the phone! I’ve talked to R*Belle, MamaSeuss, Jenny, and Texasbelle. I have plans to meet up with a few Texas bloggers (and one Louisianna one) on the next trip south, I’ll be hooking up with R*Belle on my trip to Florida and I just as recently as tonight, asked another gal if she wanted to get together. (I know, how very lesbian of me. Nono, really. I’m just a little overly friendly is all.)
So I ask you, would you be comfortable meeting a fellow blogger? Who? Under what circumstance? ‘Cause seriously? If you’re in the area, or any of those I might be in, I’d so meet you. Just lemme grab my mace and body gaurd and have Mr. Flinger close by. ‘Cause you know. They allow inmates to blog.
They throw a good party, I’m just good at attending Jul 05, 2006
Every year, the H-dawg family throws one rockin’ fourth of July party. We’re talking Amazing food, great settings, perfect decorations. They are kind, warm, great hosts. They invite anyone and everyone and are happy to meet anyone who comes along, friend or stranger, and they open their home to us all and make us feel like part of the family. It’s a tradition I look forward to and have made four or five trips north just for the party alone. Their fourth of July party is only topped by their New Year’s party and it’s pretty tough to top that.
I am one of those people that is not only the anti-Martha Stewart (and I’m not talking about the prison thing), I usually don’t even remember to offer my guests water. Or, if I remember, it is usually in the sentence, “The cups are in the kitchen and the water comes from the fountain.” Don’t even THINK about wanting ice. Forgetaboutit. It ain’t happenin’.
So it’s no surprise that I suck, royally, at throwing a party. My parties usually look something like this, “come on over! We’ll have some BBQ, some beer and some salad! Oh, shit, we don’t have any buns. Well, that’s ok. Bad carbs, right? Oh, and beer? You mean you didn’t bring beer?? Oh, a place to sit, right. Um. Well. We have the floor and….”
It’s even worse when I plan a party for other people. I’ve offered, and strangely people take me up on it, to throw various parties for people. The thing is, I WANT to throw a party. I WANT to help out. I WANT to make someone feel special and happy and warm fuzzy because they should be celebrated. I just suck, royally, at it. My imagination stops with “punch! Let’s have punch!” and decorations usually include something from 1987. Streamers and balloons. That’s about it.
So while some people are creative and fun and make cute little decorative Chinese takeout boxes into gift bags, I usually burn toast and offer warm beer in a can. You’re still welcome to come. I love the company. You just might want to bring a folding chair.