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.

101 reasons I think this baby will stick Oct 15, 2006

I know I’m only five weeks past the miscarriage but I feel weirdly optimistic. And sick. Very. Very Sick.

Here’s how I break it down:

Reason #1: Hormonal. Wheee! Care to join the “I’m so excited to be preg…. WTF ARE YOU DOING ON THE DVR! I SAID TO NOT STAND ON THE DVR! ... gawd I love my kid…” ride? ‘Cause I’d like off.
Reason #2: Stuff stinks. Bad. The house? Smells like ass. That beer you’re drinking? Also like ass. My Pad Tai? Totally like wet dog. I’m not kidding.
Reason #3: Ralph. I’m feeling slightly pukey. Excuse me but your beer is making me want to hurl (and I like beer).
Reason #4: Sore boobies. Damn. ‘Nuff said.
Reason #5-100: I. Am. So. Fucking. Tired. I. Am. Going. To. Die.
Reason #101: Why not?  It’s our turn.

If poop is introspective, I’m freaking Budha. Oct 12, 2006

#Getting to know me#Good News#The Flinger Family#Depth and Faith

I have an unusual hobby. I enjoy listening to, contemplating, discussing the Big Picture. Every so often, I enjoy talking about the Big Topics. The “where do we go when we die” topics. The “is religion a way of man to cope with death or is death a way for man to come to religion?” You know, those types of issues that we’ll never have the answer to but can discuss in circles for an entire lifetime. It’s a cheap hobby and it never dries up.

My new life leaves little time for reflection. I’m no longer the 21 year old dreamer writing in her journal on Saturday afternoons. I’m not taking time between classes to sit and contemplate the universe. The biggest chunk of alone time I have is in the shower and by then I’m so intent on listening for my daughter to either fall down the stairs, climb on to a counter, fall in the toilet, or push the tiny TV off the shelf. So it’s not a huge surprise that the biggest topic of late is potty training, not heaven vs. hell.

Last week LB pooped. This is not unusual in and of itself, but the child pooped in the potty. I always thought I’d gross out the first moment I had to wipe my child’s behind after she goes on the potty. There’s something different to me about wiping poop from a diaper and poop from a toilet. Call me strange, but pooping in the toilet is private bidniz but pooping in one’s britches deserves some public forum.

The way we carried about when we saw the floating poo, you’d think the Pope had his first Holy Crap. I mean, we hooted and hollard and talked about what a big girl she is. “MY MY! Look! Poop goes in the potty!” and we danced and sang for three days. She’s not repeated the act, but still we talk about it like it’s some deep foundation of life, “Poop goes in the potty! That’s right! You poop in the potty!”

We’ve been talking about this now for almost a week. For her birthday, I purchased her first pack of girl panties. I broke down in tears when I called Mr. Flinger and told him I got our daughter panties. PANTIES. I wasn’t crying because she is growing up and I’ll be buying her bras and cars before I even blink an eye, but because her panties, her pretty Small Paul panties? Are a million times cuter than what *I* wear.

It brings a tear to the eye. Trust me.

This is it Oct 06, 2006

#Good News

We’re getting the We-Haul today. We’re loading it up while LB sleeps tonight and then finishing up a few bits tomorrow. Look for us swerving in a large U-Haul up the I5 corridor on Sunday yelling cusswords and demonstrating true white trash values. (read: unknowingly cutting off people, blaring the AM radio, drinking copious amounts of mountain dew.) We return to our tiny rented townhouse on Wednesday to clean and visit a few people before we leave town for good. I can’t tell you what this is doing to my emotions. I’m happy! I’m scared! I’m running around packing like a run away whore! I’m sitting on my ass doing designs because I’m in denial! I’m over using exclamation marks! AND CAPS!

LB is being adorable and wonderful and making me so much more teary than necessary. We pull up to our little townhouse, the only home she remembers now, and says, “We’re HOME!” Then doesn’t understand why I start bawling. “Mommy sad?” she’ll ask. “no no, I’m fine. I’m happy. See? Happy tears!” I’m not so good at lying.

It was a decision we made six years ago. We discussed this thoroughly. It’s time. It’s a dream come true, in some ways, and a bitter sweet ending in others. Today when I loaded LB in to the car, she asked for Luke? Rebekah? Jelly Belly? Traci? I cried again. I don’t want her to forget them. I don’t want her to not know who they are. They’ve been such a huge part in her little life, all two years of it, and I can’t imagine her not asking for them.

The cheesy line is that friends come and go in your life like tides in the ocean. I’ve never liked that saying. Aside from the gagging bile I feel when cheesy statements like these are made, I also hate the thought of losing something so valuable. Someone my daughter grew up with. Someone she watched learn to walk and, consequently, did so herself. Someone she giggles so hard with, hugs, kisses, and asks for.  At nearly two, my daughter has what some people wish and hope for. A friend. And it’s my lifelong hope for her that she will never be without her friend JB. We love you.

*Please excuse the very cheesy, very teary, very cute video I made. These girls have been friends since they were tiny tad poles, or Lima Beans and Jelly Beans, as the case may be, and how could I post about it without something to make you cry? For all posterity, then, I give you a very large file, about five minutes long video, “A tribute to Jelly Belly.”

Shhh, I’m not here. Blogging from the cardboard boxes or a bathroom in Starbucks. Oct 03, 2006


I’m sneaking in to my website like a coke addict in a bathroom at some sleezy bar. Don’t tell anyone I’m here. I’m apparently burried under piles of boxes and begging for Verizon to get my DSL hooked up before next week. I’m selling out my soul, people. Verizon-whoreing. I am doing it anything to get the man with the switch-my-life-on access to just flip the damn switch already.

In the mean time, I’m here at Starbucks for ten minutes watching my kid throw muffin on the floor. To the people who work here: I AM SORRY. But I must blog.

There’s been this debate in my head for some time now. I’ve talked to a few people about it a little bit about it and then I went and signed up because everyone else is doing it, too. We’re talking about ads. Blog ads, to be specific. And if it’s a sell out or a great opportunity.

I used to get all pissy when “so and so” who must have about fourteen readers, like me, put ads up. I think there’s a breaking point when it’s ok to put them up and when it’s just tacky. Say, for example, you are Dooce or Amalah or someone. SURE. I bet you make money on your site and why not? You have the audience, the wit, the writing and the people clamoring to be on your adspace. Now, let’s say you’re a much smaller blog. Do you put ads up? Do you risk pissing off the readers? Do your readers even care?

Where do you stand? I probably agree with Jamie that “If ads take over the writing, it’s about as obnoxious as mySpace.”  But would I put ads on my site?

Let’s just say we are now living totally house-poor and I have one mean Starbucks addiction.

P.S. Shit! I missed the Perfect Post Awards again this month. I keep forgetting to nominate someone! But in my defense, I also forget my OWN MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY for godssakes as well as other good friend’s birthdays. OH! And Anniversaries! And Easter! And..