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.

In case I’m too drunk to post this later: The obligatory “I was left out at BlogHer” post Jul 09, 2008

#Life#This one time? At BlogHer?

It’s nigh. That Conference I won a trip to? That Conference I practically shit myself in total an utter fear because OH MAI GAWD I get to meet these people that I’ve read and, like, TOTALLY have a girl crush on? (Too many to link to holyhell I love you people)

And oh dear god, they get to meet me.

Thankfully, two of my dearest friends are traveling with me. This means several things, 1) I have someone to sit with at the lunch table already to talk with so I can put away my inner 13 year old 2) they already love me

because of

in spite of my nervous-gassy stomach and 3) I will introduce and be introduced to many many bloggers, famous, not-so-famous, well known (no, wait, that means famous) and quiet, but amazing, amazing women.

And 4) I will probably be too wobbly to remember.

So, if things don’t pan out and maybe, say, some people have other people they’re talking to and maybe I walk in to a room and people get all, “ShhhHHHHHhhhh” it’s ok. No, REALLY (caps). It’s OK (caps! again!). Because see? See this post here? WhaWhaWha I feel left out because some people are cliquish and whahwa I’m not in it.

And that’s the end of that. Now, let’s all go enjoy being women who love to write and learn new things about this outlet we’ve all come to love and hate sometimes. And hate to love.

To each one of you, I can’t wait to meet you. Seriously. And if I look a little “bitchy” please know, my bitchy face and my drunk-for-three-days-and-I-think-I-just-farted face are The Exact Same.

Mrs. Flinger
(The hardly-known lover of good wine and vodka martinis and smart code but only slightly read… Me)

(Similar to, but not exactly, like Sparks and Butterflies disclaimer. Play along! Comon. I’m licking her..

From Fear to Love: A friend’s quest Jul 08, 2008

#Life#Depth and Faith

It’s no secret we’re done having children. In fact, we’re a little gun-shy in the whole “boink-a-boink-a” department because of it. In the words of Mr. Flinger, “I am a potent man!”

Now, it’s not so much a good thing.

However, I have friends who want, crave, try to have children. Who may not get the opportunity. Who undergo treatments, stress, financial burden all to obtain the thing I take for granted on a daily basis: Motherhood.

It’s a little bit astonishing to me how much I don’t appreciate my own gift of birthing to healthy babies. Some days I look at our children in marvel and wonder and think I may explode from the sheer love of having these people in my life. Other days I wonder what-the-hell and when I can get back to me. Me. Not Mom, just Me.

There are people unable to get to the place in life where I’m at right now, sitting here with children needing and wanting me more than anything in the world. Children who squeal with delight when I walk in the door. Children who yell out, “Mommy! I was just missing you A WHOLE BUNCH!”

What kind of a rotten, horrible person am I for not loving every minute of it?

I’m normal.

I once asked Mr. Flinger if he thought I had a drinking problem. “No, I think you’re a mom” he replied. He’s right. With every second of joy and love there’s alternating seconds of frustration and irritation. Would I trade any of it? No. I wouldn’t. But I’ve been so vocal about the frustrating parts that I sometimes forget to share all the mushy wonder of my soft, lovely tiny humans that we created.

We created.

Some people can’t create. Or need help creating. Or adopt. Or suffer possible serious physical consequences stopping medication to create a home for a child in their body. And here I sit, sputtering, wishing I could take back ever negative thing I’ve said. While it’s real, true, it’s not fair.

It’s never fair.

So what do you say to a friend who can’t get to the place you are? The place you some days wish you weren’t? The place where children are so needy you cling to your sanity with threads and other days you snuggle to their soft breathing as their tiny chest rises and falls beneath your hand. The chest, the heart, the body you grew?


BHM: Self Tanning Disasters Jul 07, 2008

#Life#Brutally Honest Mondays

You know that I live in Seattle, which really does mean it’s sunny six times a year here. Okok, sorry, eight if you count those two days in Winter. (Picky Picky) At any rate, being in such a northern state means I’m prone to bi-polar skin. Uhhu. My skin is six degrees of tan depending on what you look at.

For example:

Mah arm. Mah leg. Oh mah gawd.

This here? My arm against my leg.


So what’s a girl to do? SELF TANNER! Now that there is a product made for people like me. Spray Tan! No Sun! Half the cancer!

Over the years, I’ve tried literally tens of fifties of self tanning products. I’ve been orange. I’ve been burgundy. I’ve had disastrous streaks. I’ve had nightmares about my orange fat

So, see, me ‘n self tanner go way back.

Why, then, can’t I use the new and improved products? Like the Banana Boat Sunless Tanner Spray? Or the million other “NEW AND IMPROVED NO-STREAK NO-ORANGE” products?


I. Don’t. Know.

So today, for Brutally Honest Monday, I thought I’d fill you in on a secret. I’m one white pale mother down below and a sunny golden kissed mama up top.


Now, isn’t that lovely?

(Feel free to join in and tell me your self tanner mis-haps. Or am I the only spray-tan-challenged one out there?)

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We are outnumbered. Chaos. Send. Booz. Stat. Jul 03, 2008