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.

Chivalry is officialy D-E-A-D Apr 12, 2008

#Life#Rants and Raves

So I’ve arrived at Starbucks at 6:30 this morning so I can start work. It’s 70 degrees outside. The fog is lifting off Lake Washington in an angelic flight and bikers head to the Burk Gilman for a rare April non-rainy ride.

You can hear the heavens singing to the tune of Allelujiah, “SUNNN-SHINNEEE. SUNNN-SHINNNEE” (Only in Seattle is this a miraculous event.)

There are two power outlets at this Starbucks. One near a window and one in the far back corner of the seating under a florescent light that flickers until you get seizures.

Remember, it’s six-fucking-thiry on Saturday.


I walk in and there is someone’s stuff parked at The Only Table near the plug-in at the window. There is no person with said stuff. I order, walk around and start asking if anyone knows who’s stuff that is. I talk to a nice mom from out of town who makes me laugh because her kids got up when mine did. I talk to nice little old couples reading the morning paper. I talk to the Baristas who say, “Nope, we haven’t seen anyone there for an hour.”

I assume it was left there on accident. The Barista comes to remove it and put it in the lost and found. Until just then, two old men sitting on the other side of the store come out to claim the stuff. “Oh, that’s mine.” He strides over and sits at the four person table. “Oh, do you mind if I share the table with you?” I ask because I’m showered, not smelly, and really very quiet. “Um. No, you can’t.” He looks at me like this should be enough but I’m a persistent little thirty year old bitch that doesn’t really let people get away with being rude anymore. “Oh, see, I just need the plug-in, and.. well… this is the only one here…”

He looks at me.

I look back at him.

He smiles.

I don’t.

“Well, I’m a poet and I need to sit and not be distracted. So.”


“Oh, ok, I just didn’t know anyone was sitting there. They said it’s been here for an hour or more.” “Yesss,” he says, “I always save this seat. You’d have to get here really early to beat me.”

Oh. I didn’t know you saved seats at Starbucks. At mother-fucking-six-thirty-in-the-morning-on-Saturday.

I hope he’s drafting a poem about me RIGHT NOW.

“Ode to the bitch who wants my seat. Fuck you. The End.”

Sell that to Hallmark.

**P.S. Yes, thank you! I see all your fun Prom stories and want to update my post with your links. I do. After I beat up this jackass and get some work done I promise I will.

**P.P.S. Thank you to everyone for participating in Brutal Honest Monday. Don’t forget it’s almost Monday again so get yer questionable attire out and start drafting your post!

**P.P.P.S. Yes, I cuss a lot when I’m pissed. Or drinking. Or writing.

***P.P.P.S. My Mother is so proud of that fact.

Prom Apr 11, 2008

#Life#Flash Back Friday

This week’s Friday Flashback was “Prom memories: what did you do (or not do) on prom night?”

Mr. Flinger would say. “I did not get laid.”

Friday Flashback: Prom

I would say, “Gossiped with friends and danced with a boy with a hardon.”

Friday Flashback: Prom

My Mom would say, “Such good kids, those two. Never worried about them having sex and getting pregnant because I raised a good little Catholic Girl.”

Friday Flashback: Prom

My friends would say, “Smoked pot and gossiped about how much we wanted to get laid.”

Friday Flashback: Prom

Because we all know Prom is about getting laid and not the over priced dresses and stinky corsages.

God I hope my daughter is too cool for prom. I don’t need to read about how much she wanted to get laid on her blog twenty years from now.

*Yes, I went to two Proms and two Winter Balls with Mr. Flinger. Yes we were high school sweethearts. Yes we broke up shortly after High School. Yes, he did get laid. Eventually. Yes, we got married, made babies and yes, we still talk about how much we want to get laid now. It’s the circle of life. Or Karma. Or a cruel cruel joke. Or whatever else you want to call it.

Other Awesome Prom Flashbacks You Really To Read:

Oh The Joys

Also! If you’re my twitter bud and you’re playing along with high school picture day please let me know. I will add your link here when I get back online.

People Rockin’ the Big Hair and Prom Photos:

Mamma Loves
Old Silly Bear
Single Super Mama
Colleen (also Via Twitter)
Don Mills Diva
Queen Of Spain Via Twitter
Busy Mom Via Twitter
Jennifer Via Twitter
Crunchy Domestic Goddess Via Twitter

Brutally Honest Monday 1 Apr 06, 2008

#Life#Brutally Honest Mondays

Have you ever wanted to know from your closest, say, 200 friends if you should keep something in your closet or if the rest of the world scoffs at you when you walk out in public? Like, wouldn’t it be nice if we as a community, the blogging community, could band together and say, “OMG! You, like, TOTALLY have a booger!” and save each other the pending embaressment of said boogie? And, like, wouldn’t it be nice if you could tell me with brutal honesty how you’d really like me to stop saying LIKE already because, like, OMG, you’re, like THIRTY.

Or thirty-two. I forget.

Anyway, with that in mind, here is my first Brutally Honest Monday Photo for your review:


What do you think, too much toe-cleavage? Feet too white? Too much leg-foot-feg? I’m torn. Mr. Flinger thinks these are just hideious. I’m giddy because they were six whole dollars and pretty fun for summer. I can picture myself walking on the beaches with my kids in tow feeling like one badass MILF. Oh, that’s right. One thirty-two year old MILF with hot sexy fegs. Raur.

So, Internet, do I keep? Or not?

I can feel my feet sweating in them already. Yum.

Do you have something you’d like to ask us about? Do you have a skirt you’ve been wondering if it’s out of style now for some time? Do you think, maybe, you’d like to ask an opinion of peoples whoa re not agraid of being honest because your husband has years of “yes dear” under his belt?

Why not ask?

Let me know if you’d like to play along. Put your link in the comments here. ‘k? And honesty, no, seriously, as much you might want them to be back in style, stirrups? They just aren’t. Sorry.

*** grab the code for the button here ***

<a href=“”><img src=“” alt=“Brutally Honest Mondays” border=“0” /></a>

Hawt Topics Gallore: Wherein my three year old needs zantac Apr 04, 2008

#Life#Parenting Siblings#The Flinger Family#Working Mom

I’ve been working a lot this week. With five clients, thirteen websites to launch, and several installs to complete, I had to hire a nanny

freaking goddess to come take my kids a total of 28 hours this week while I worked in my office.

Behold Thy Office

Mah 'office'

It’s been good to get some things off my plate so I can take on new clients. I’ve recently coded these wonderful sites as well as made lots of progress on some other big sites you’ll recognize here shortly.

I’ve also consumed more lattes than I think is humanly possible. I think I pee straight caramel machiatto.

The upside to this, of course, is the fact that I love my job and my co-worker. The downside? The spiders.

Oh, the spiders.

Those damn spiders that fill my daughter’s anxiety ridden mind and make her latch on to my leg like a leech. Or maybe one of those little fish that swim up urethras in the south pacific. You know those? More painful than a leech but not as prevelant.

Kinda like that.

The last time she flipped her shit out like this was just over a year ago when I was teaching online and had to place her in daycare just twelve hours a week because DEARLORD she does not stop moving. Both of my children are the most active/hypervigalent children you will ever come to know in your entire child-bearing life. I swear to god, I have friends, and strangers for that matter, that shake their head and say to me, “you’re busy.” It’s usually about the time my three year old spins in circles until she spotaneously combusts and my ten month old crawls in to the toilet for the eighteenth time that day.

And that’s called Monday. At 8AM.

So to say it’s mother-flipping-impossible to work from home is an understatement. It’s not “difficult”. It’s IMPOSSIBLE. Hear the angst in voice? You should.

I hired some friends, trusted wonderful women whom both my children and I adore, to take them a few hours at a time. The kids really don’t know that much difference. They’re playing with their friends, they’re doing the same things I do with them, I’m just not there. I figure it’s the best of everything.

But it’s not. LB asked me not to work. She asked me to work when she leaves when she grows up.

My three year old asked me not to go.

What do I do?

So it’s just this one week, this one very busy week that I tried to make up for some lost time when I was puking and not attending to my clients. Just this one week wherein I tried to make some clients happy and do the job I adore and have a little bit of me time.

Apparently, I put spiders in my daughter’s mind with my absense.

She screams at night. She howls in terror in the dark. She clings to us, she bawls, she throws up from anxiety. It’s hard to watch. It’s hard to help. It’s hard to pee by myself.

It’s just hard.

There’s this drive inside of me, the one that makes me not want to stagnate and use my creativity and my love of all things web programming. Then there’s the other side, the mom, who watches her daughter physically suffer from her absence and the old conflict rises. I’m a mom now.  But I’m also a woman. I’m a programmer. I’m a nerd. I’m a big squishy belly of snuggles and warmth to the people I gave life to.

Who am I living for now? Me? Or them?

*This weekend Mamaspod is posting a podcast on working moms. You can see fine interviews from such wonderful women as Elaine, Sydney, Jamie, and Shannon. If you’d like to call in with your own advice, let us know before Saturday night!

**You should totally take a picture of your office for Friglet. Like. Totally.

In which I offend most of you except maybe my dad. Or Rush Limbaugh. Apr 03, 2008

#Life#Getting to know me#Mother F.U.C.K.E.R.#Rants and Raves

Be warned, Internet. I am ticked. Ticked, tired, and in charge of tiny tiny children who have no respect for “get off the floor and stop licking that stranger’s shoes fortheloveofgodI’mnottellingyouagain.”


Yesterday I

took schlepped my children

monkeys to the DMV. Having every forseen document I could think of, title of car, insurance, bank account information, birth certificate, passport, photos of my children. a letter from my teacher in fourth grade and my checkbook, I figured 2pm on a Wednesday was a pretty good time to try to get our cars licensed in the Evergreen State.

It’s never a good time to go to the DMV. Trust me. Never.

I walk in with the baby strapped to me and toting the three year old by the arm. Three meltdowns and twenty minutes later, we get to the counter. “WE DO NOT ACCEPT VISA OR DEBIT DO NOT PASS GO.” I politely ask the lady at the counter if I can keep my place in line and run out to my car for the checkbook which I dropped in the car while getting the kids out. “No.”

Alrighty then.

Twenty more minutes later and four more meltdowns we’re back up to the counter. “Here’s a letter of reference from my Biology professor in college, a passport, a drivers licensed and a cookie. I’d like to get my car licensed.” She looks over my papers and shakes her head. “Where’s your EPA paper?” “My whu?” “Your EEE PEEEE AYYYY paper.”

Apparently you have to visit another government agency about three miles south to have your car tested, pay 15 bucks and come back with an EPA paper.

Alrighty then.

So, an hour later I shlep the monkeys back to the counter (remembered my checkbook! YEY!) and get everything up to the same gal. “Hi again,” I’m out of breath now. “I have my EPA paper.” She’s quite, nodding, looking over everything and eating that cookie. “Hrm. No. You need to go to the Department of Revenue.”

Excuse me?

“Yes, see, blahblahblahdyblah title blahblahblah I’m going to charge you 800 dollars unless you go prove bladbloahblahablahhh”

I stare. LB licks the floor. Baby O scratches me.

“The department of revenue is 7 miles up the highway on the left. You’ll need to see them.”

Alrighty then.

Here’s where I get pissed. “YOU MEAN TO TELL ME….” there is a long string of words I’m not really sure of that came pouring out of my mouth. I may or may not have cussed. I may or may not have spoke in tongues. I may, or may not, have wet my pants and I may, or may not, have been talking a wee bit too loud.

The lady doesn’t budge. LB continues to lick the floor. Baby O scratches me again.

I sigh deeply, heavily, and with every fiber in my very tired mom body. I kick my daughter in the foot and tell her to “getoffthefloorrightnoworelse” and then grab her arm. With angry tears stinging my tired eyes, I walk out of the DMV shaking my head.

I know you have this story.  It’s something we can all relate to. But still we’ve somehow managed to pass out drivers licenses to most people, residents or not. But bygod, if you’re a mom with two small children trying to obey the law? Fuckyou.

I shiver in my soccer-mom shoes at the thought of the ever-so-efficient government being in charge of our medical care. Because the first time I go to the ER with my child having an asthma attack and some bitch behind the counter tells me I need such-and-such approval from the President to seek care? It will not be pretty. For any of us.

Friendships Apr 01, 2008


I’m listening to these girls chat at the coffee house. They must be young, just out of college or fifth year seniors. They splatter the word “like” over their conversation the way we used aquanet in the 80’s over our bangs. It’s obvious one girl is more in to the other. The one with the boobs, she’s the one carrying the conversation. She also slaughters low cut like a hungry butcher. The boobs, they pour out in overflowing pale whiteness.

I’m practically blinded.

The other girls is sensibly dressed, obviously the more mature of the pair, conservative but hip. She’s sitting back, leaning on her left arm while her friend leans forward almost throwing her words at her.

Being young is terribly awkward, isn’t it?

It makes me think of friendships you tried so hard to hold on to. People who wanted to hang out with, to share stories with. People you maybe had something in common but then became on the fringe of their life. It happens to everyone, it’s happened to you. It happens in blogworld and in realworld and in life in general. Your Way Totally BFF Like OMG Totally might move to, say, Ohio and marry someone she met on the Internet and you’ll be left wondering what ever happened to so-and-so and remember-when? Or the person who’s wedding you were in four years ago that you lost touch with but glance every so often in the peripheral of life. These girls are new in life, barely 21, with boyfriends and no children. It’s a Tuesday at 3pm and they’re in a coffee shop talking about college courses. They’re on Spring break. They have a Spring Break.

Remember Spring Breaks?

They may stay friends for a few years more. They may be in each others wedding, wearing fancy low-cut dresses and dancing in nylons. They may send a Christmas card once a year and marvel at the children who grow like weeds.

And then they’ll be left telling their husbands about this friend they used to have back in 2008… remember her? What was her name?

Remember anyone like that in your life? I do.