Text From Mr. Flinger: Am Going To Be Late. C U after Kidz R In Bed
Thoughts by Mrs. Flinger: Oh No He Didn’
A little ala FussyPants style:
We took Baby O for his first swing experience the other day. I realized LB I had a picture of LB around the same time swinging her first. So here they are, experiencing the joy of flying, freely through the air with nothing but strong metal and plastic keeping them safe.
If you want to play along, give me a caption. I have no fun prizes to offer you except a hit on technorati and some linky love. And also a cookie. With sprinkles on top.
Is it still wordless Wednesday if there are words? I always get the rules messed up…
A few days ago I was sitting in my home, with the children running and crawling all about us, talking to some good friends. We were comparing our twenties and now our thirties. We agreed we’re more comfortable in our skin, more confident, more sure of ourselves. We spoke of regrets, things we’d change, and those we’d do again. But overall, we were pleased with the possibilities of this decade and thought it held the most promise so far.
It’s not a new theme: the men getting wiser and more handsome, the women more horny. If you combine those two, you end up with two Stay At Home Moms joining their preschoolers’ class trip to see a fireman giggling and poking each other like school girls because (seriously, what IS IT) there is something that happens when men hit their mid-thirties and begin to gray around the temples. It helps if they’re in uniform. (Of course)
While we were talking, I found my old copy of Walden, Life In The Woods by Thoreau. This is The Book I’d grab if there was a fire. It’s The Book I’d take to an island and it’s The Book which has more notes in the margin and dog eared corners than any other. I guess it’s my coming-of-age bible in a way. My Hippie Bible.
This book represents my twenties to me in a way I couldn’t express on my own. There are passages that struck a chord in my college angst phase. There are the quotes that brought me clarity during the searching years. I have remembered one quote, on page 141 for those of you also pre-occupied with all things printed, “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.” Maybe I love this because I’m there or because he uses just as many commas as I do.
Either way, this always meant something to me.
I wonder what my forties will bring and what having teenagers will do to my own reflective angsts. I wonder if I’ll keep identifying with my daughter as she goes through her own passages. I wonder if I will look in the mirror at my graying temples and see the beauty of wisdom or if I’ll simply think, “damn that Clairol. Time to color again.”
Bust mostly I hope that every stage reminds me I’m still essentially me, maybe covered in a few more coats of wrinkles or rolls, but still me. I hope I remember to listen to music, to tap my toes, to visit with good friends and to walk when the sun is just cupping the trees over the houses.
I guess, at the end, I just hope I enjoy the view around the stream. The stream I go a-fishing in.
This is what I heard from the customer service representative for Starbucks today. He was just the kind of sweet talkin’ man that I believed him. Really. (Of course, I also believed Jesus came from a Virgin and my Dad didn’t know how to change the toilet paper so I may not be the best judge of character.)
Here’s how things played out:
A few days ago, I ordered my usual non-fat/sugar free blahblahblah. I was informed this is now a “skinny” latte. “Oh, skinny?” I giggle. Because really? Skinny Latte? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? So I reapeat, “Fine, skinny, yes. That’s what I’d like.” It gets rung up at 4.15. “Yesterday it was 3.70” I tell the barista. “It’s promotional.”
Meanwhile I get my coffee and move on because I am easily distracted by very tiny people.
A few days later I go in and order a skinny latte, feeling all proud of myself for knowing the lingo. “4.15” the voice in the speaker says. I stall, in the drive through, scouring the menu for what I ordered. “Latte: 3.10. Syrup, (lists all syrups including Cinnamon Dolce, my fave) additional 35 cents.” Now, I happen to be good at math. Or rather, at least pretty decent at third grade math. So I add that up, give it some tax… “Shouldn’t that be about 3.65?” I ask. There is some static on the line. “Please pull forward, Ma’am.” So I do.
I go ‘round and ‘round explaining the whole thing: Latte and Syrup: 3.70 (she rings it in and tells me I was 5 cents off in my calculation. I figure that’s pretty great since taxes change almost by the minute). Cinnamon Dolce Latte: 4.15. She rings in a Skinny Vanilla Latte: 4.15. But a Nonfat Sugarfree Vanilla latte (same drink for those following along at home): 3.70.
Obviously, there’s been a major oversight.
The gal is lovely and nice and says, “hu, I never noticed that” and give me my drink with a nice pat on the back. Off I go.
Same thing different starbucks the next day. At this point I’m just going to make my case and see if I actually have a case to make.
So I call up Starbucks because, honestly, forty cents difference for the exact same drink depending on the words you use is a pretty tricky way to run a business. And no, I haven’t read Their Book but I do know they pride themselves on finding a way to get people to pay four bucks for a cup of coffee whilst the nation complains about 3.00 per gallon gas prices. And yes, I’ve done the math on how much coffee costs per gallon and it’s considerably more than three bucks.
The customer service rep is nothing but nice and listens to my math babble. He admits it sounds like there’s an error and apologizes. (I’m sure he does this a million times a day for things that are not his fault. If that man is not married, he needs to be. He is The Perfect Husband and I hardly know him. But hearing, “You’re right, I’m sorry” can’t be a bad start.) He offers me a $25 gift card for my trouble to help make up the cost of the drinks.
Babe? I’ve spent a hellofalot of money at Starbucks. In fact, I dare-say my children will be going to (gasp) public school because of it.
I’m not proud, I’m just saying.
I, again, ask how long it’ll take to “fix the error” and get a nice, “If it takes too long, just call us back.”
Meanwhile, I’m expecting a starbucks card in the mail that could easily be spent in a week’s time. The kicker? I don’t really like their skinny lattes. In fact, here’s the ingenuity of Starbucks, I don’t really like their coffee. But for some reason, I go. Often.
And like a meth addict, making my own at home doesn’t seem to cure me from the need of walking in to a Starbucks to see the pretty things I can’t afford.
Pretty things I won’t be able to purchase because I pay 4.15 for a 3.70 drink. And, frankly, who’s fault is that?
(Answer for those of you just waking up from reading this whole post: Mine)
Warning: You may only get half your leg shaved if this, or any other birth control, fails. “Mommy, I pooooppeeddd and I need you to wipe me. NNNooOWWWW”
Condoms are only 97% effective. Consider double-ing up. (Or Quadrupling)
Heard, very recently, at The Flinger’s:
[SHRIEK!] [MELTDOWN] “He’s going to eat my strollerrrrrrrr! NooOOOOOOoooooooooo”
“He’s not going to eat your stroller, he’s just going to roll it around and lick it a little.”
Things heard at your house?
(Baby O says, “I will eat your stroller! Muhahahhahaha!”)
I taught preschool for a few years. Did you know this? No? I did. It was the year I switched from Elementary Ed and went for Computer Science. That’s how profound the experience was for me. P.R.O.F.O.U.N.D.
Anyway, so I had this kid in my class, this really cute little guy named Evan. Evan was 4 years old when we met. He had a tremendous crush on me. “Miss Leslliieee” he’d say, “I made you a necklace!” He once told his parents he was going to marry me. “No, son,” his dad said, “She doesn’t make enough money.” I loved his parents.
He was the kind of kid everyone wants to have in their class, the kind of kid everyone wants to be friends with and the kind of kid that would befriend the shyest girl in the class because she was always alone on the playground. The guy was a hero. His parents called him “Big E” because he was. He was a big little guy.
I always wanted to call my son Big ___. But instead, we had a “baby O”. Because? Big “O” just didn’t sound right.
Not that we don’t call our children completely innapropriate names out in public. There’s Doodiehead, pooper, stinker. Doodiehead is one of those things that flew out of my mouth one day and kept flying out of my mouth for three years.
We also use Sweetie, Buddy, Lil’ Man.
But my personal favorite? “MAN BABY!” It’s not “man baby” like a baby man, but more like MAN BABY! Just, exactly, like how you say “PIGS IN SPAACCEEE”. Try it out loud, go ahead, we won’t judge: MANN BABBYYY.
Cute, isn’t he?
So what names do you call your children? Aside from the ones when you’re at The Limit, of course. I think those are universal. Or is that just us? It’s just us, isn’t it?
(God I miss this show!)
(Piggssss Innnnn Spppaccceeeee)
(That’s just for her)
*Thanks to Christine for the awesome hat!!
One of the funniest memories Mr. Flinger and I have about being first time parents, is the time we went to Borders Books with our 5 week old. We had the large diaper bag, the bjorn, the carrier, two blankets, binki, bottles, a lovey and I think, maybe, a baby with us.
People laughed at the amount of stuff we were carrying. We did not.
Over the years, I’ve been known to (let’s say) carry too much?
Now, though, I’m pairing down. Diaper bags are getting smaller (a lot like the cell phone or MP3 player or a my brain capacity or hours of sleep per night). My purse is a wallet on a string. My children, godbless’em, if they piss themselves they are, as the saying goes, “S.O.L.” But at least now I don’t walk around with my shoulders haunched over like a Sherpa.
I wish I could say the same thing about the trunk of my car…
Do you ever wake up, look around, hear your kids in the next room and go, “when the hell did THAT happen? I have.. kids? TWO KIDS?”
I always heard marriage was hard work. To me, as a young married person, I never got it. Marriage? Marriage was never work. Marriage was the one thing that made sense to me. It was the single decision that I didn’t mind making. That was the easy part.
Married with children, on the other hand, not so much.
But some days, even among the most frustrating of them, it’s not the marriage part that’s hard, really. It’s just the kid part. And I wonder… does anyone ever explain this to the young folk? And this is also why the post that was here is no longer here and why you get me rambling about nothing instead.
Because right now, I can’t remember when we had two kids, and even though I wouldn’t give them back to save the planet, I’d certainly not mind a little bit of the young me that didn’t really know what sleep deprivation was or how frustrating a three year old can be.
And I wouldn’t mind that young married person’s body back while I’m thinking about it.
I don’t know if it’s in the Mom code, but my mother used to say this line to me in the midst of punishing me, usually via spanking, as I cried. “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” I remember thinking, “Oh yea, lady? Bend over and let’s find out.”
Today I took away LB’s first “privilege”. After walking over the umpteenth book and seeing the pages ripped laying strewn all over the floor, I sat down and quietly said, “LB, why do you hate your books so much? You are always ripping them.” She looks concerned, baffled, (as if she has never seen a ripped page and didn’t JUST tear it out a few minutes ago… Me? She looks lost..) and says to me “Ok, I won’t do it anymore.” This is about the billionth time she’s said that.
“This is about the billionth time you’ve said that,” I repeat to her. “No more TV today because you keep ripping your books. Turn off Sesame Street right now.”
Now, for the remainder of the afternoon, I get to entertain my preschooler. And today, for the first time, I think to myself, “This hurts me more than it hurts you.”
(This has nothing to do with the post, I just wanted to show you that I cooked. And lo, it was good. You know, for the record.)
11 guests here now.