I’m a little obsessed. And by a little obsessed I mean tuned in to The News 24/7 palpitating with each dramatic climb or drop of the market, watching twitter for latest information, basically becoming a human news ticker. “Market down! Market up! Bill didn’t pass! Bill being updated!” and on and on. It’s annoying my own self.

I’m having a hard time focusing on anything other than the Economy. On anything aside from “THE MARKET”. From anything aside from “THE GREAT GLOBAL MELTDOWN OF TWO THOUSAND AND EIGHT IN WHICH THE FLINGERS LOOSE THEIR HOUSE AND FORTUNE.” Because, if I’m honest, we are those people. We believed the nice Countrywide lady. We took a mortgage out with interest only on a 297K condo because the housing market in Seattle was so out of control, we couldn’t get a house. We were smart, really, not wanting to pay more than 300K for anything knowing we couldn’t afford it and yet? Here we are: 45K upside down on our teeny tiny condo praying that in 12 months everything will turn around because we are so totally fucked if it doesn’t. The ARM comes up in 12 months and our kids may be playing with sticks and beating each other with rocks at that time.

Or maybe they already do that but it will henceforth be known as “home.”

So I’m watching for selfish reasons. For concern. As a libertarian I despise all things Big Government. As a stupid idiot, who bought in a high market and will refinance in a low market, I’m giving myself an ulcer.

So forgive me if you come to my house for dinner and I sit with you at the table for two hours telling you why DEARGODWEAREALLGOINGDOWN. Which is what I did last night after fish tacos and two glasses of wine.

I’m really sorry about that conversation. And probably the lack of cumin, too.

And, as is custom when I’m all sorts of “I don’t know how to end this,” Look! My kids are cute!

Shizam!

So if you were on the House of representatives, or if you were a person who cares about the Country or if you were a home-owner or a parent or a tax payer:

How would you vote for the bailout?

Consider it your first Brutally Honest Monday poll of version two point oh.

*This is totally just information and out of curiosity only. That is all. After chatting with Mr. Flinger about how far away from the people in their party most representatives have fallen, I’m curious if that is indeed fact. It’s your chance to vote in the comments below. Thank you for participating!

<a href=“http://mrs.flinger.us”><img src=“http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3130/2394484739_8a1ed73b65_m.jpg” alt=“Brutally Honest Mondays” border=“0” /></a>

About a month ago I found a little mass on my right leg right next to my girlie bits. I thought maybe it was an ingrown hair. It was small. Harmless. And right Down There where I’m never going to see it, and let’s face it, probably nobody else would, either.

A few weeks ago it had grown and I thought maybe it was a boil? Or a zit? Or something very very unattractive down there between my right leg and my girlie bits.

Today I realized it’s grown in to a large, hard mass. A large mass right there on my leg by my girlie bits.

You know me, right? The hypochondriac dramatic freak who was pretty sure she was giving birth to a three headed baby because she ate (GASP) SOFT CHEESE. She, who also was completely convinced the baby would be born blind because she had to take three rounds of anti-biotics during pregnancy and she who was convinced her child was going to die from a three day fever.

You’d also be happy to know I’ve gone on a drama diet. That’s right. Less Drama! More Life! It’s been very lovely, somewhat boring, very mediocre and tame few months. Dare I say Quiet? Not in the “I have nothing to do” but in the “Bygod the world is not collapsing right this minute.” I’ve even maintained this throughout the economy crash and the presidential debates, although it’s been somewhat difficult at times.

So here I am not using google to diagnose myself. BEHOLD the strength of Not Googling. Be impressed. Oohhh you are impressed (I can tell).

I know it’s no big deal. It’s not. I know. My best friend had a cyst removed from her arm just last week. It’s no big deal. Nope. It’s not.

But I’m still a little scared. Mostly because if I don’t get this taken care of sooner than later, I’m afraid of what I’ll find in another few weeks the next time I look Down There. I can see it now: The Mass That Grew In To What Looks A Lot Like One Testicle! Come One! Come All! The Girlie Freak With The One Ball!

Then try to convince my husband to have sex with me.

I don’t think there’s enough alcohol in the world for that one.

**Oh, what’s that? You want picture evidence from the Leisure Olympics? Fine. Fine. Yes. I’ll post them. Twist my arm.
***Are you sure? It’s just a bunch of pictures of my friends and I drunk and in awkward poses attempting sports in our early to mid thirties.
***You’re right. It’s hilarious.

Please welcome a post by the lovely Michelle of Mamaspod (Where we do podcasted reviews of places and life in Seattle. She’s UBER fun.)

Several weeks ago, we went to an outdoor performance at a local park. My son enjoyed the juggling and we both took in some serious Vitamin D on this sunny, sunny day in the Northwest. It was beautiful. Crowded, but still great fun. We ran into a friend and her almost 3-year-old daughter. Her daughter had recently broken her leg after an accident on the playground.  So that day she was riding in style around the park- wagon all decked out to accommodate her cast- she seemed to be adapting well even though it only happened a few short days before.  So of course seeing his friend in a cast prompted questions from my son. So we had a long (and extremely repetitive) conversation about how she got herself into that cast and when she could get out of it. Here are the highlights:

Him: How long does she have to wear the cast on her leg?
Me: I think for about 6 weeks.
Him: WOW, that’s a long time.
Me: Yes, it’s almost 2 months; it takes the body a while to heal.
H: Why does she have to wear the cast to heal?
Me: The cast holds her leg still and keeps the bone in the right place and then new bone grows and fixes the broken bone - blahblahblah - science stuff - blahblah- way too much information for a 4 year old- and done.
H: How does new bone grow? (Probably saying this while simultaneously laughing on the inside as he forces his poor old mother to remember back to her college anatomy days in an effort to try and provide accurate information to someone who probably isn’t even listening and even if he was wouldn’t know what the hell she was saying anyway- but yet, I feel compelled).
Me: Your body uses the vitamins, minerals, and nutrients inside of it to create new bone. Isn’t your body incredible?! And your brain helps tell your body where to make the new bone! Our bodies are amazing, aren’t they?!?!
H: Yeah… and also… (without skipping a beat)... My penis is AMAZING.

** sigh **  Proof that men are born that way, people.

And that was the end of that conversation- all of that teaching and effort for not.  What more could be said?  Somehow those boys always circumnavigate the conversation right on back to their “member”- whether they are 4 or 40 it never fails.  I just changed the subject resolving to the fact that I had birthed “another one” into the world.

...Some time passed…

Then recently, my son was taking a bath while I hopped in the shower right next to it.  As I was stepping out of the shower to towel off, he yelled to me that he was all done and made it clear he wanted out- NOW!  So, I grab my towel and quickly wrapped up and helped him get out and dry off too.  As I am standing there drying him, my towel flies open- as they always do (Remember those towels/cover-ups that our moms used to have that had Velcro on the side to hold it closed? - Yeah, I am going to personally make sure that those make a come back- especially after this)...  So as my towel flies open I see my son…  staring… at The Girls.  He stares a while and I ignore him just trying to get him dried off.  He stares some more- I try to cover up again with no luck.  I am sort of hunched over him drying his hair when he says (looking up), “What are THOSE??”

Crap, here we go…

And because you now know I am all about providing accurate information (as best as I can) and anatomically correct names, I say, “Those are my breasts”. 

“Oh ok”.  Easy enough. I thought I was in the clear.  Oh no, not a chance. 

“Do you sleep with those on?”  He asks inquisitively.

“Uhhuh”.  Christ.

“You mean they don’t come OFF?!?”,  he squeals in horror.

“Nope, they are permanent”.  I sigh as I look down at the fleshy flapjacks before me in all their glory, trying to hurry and finish toweling him off so this frightening peep show can be over.  As I catch a glimpse of them from above in my super awkward hunched over angle I realize now why no woman should ever, EVER, agree to be on top in the missionary position anytime after the age of 30 and after having birthed and breastfed even one child.  Don’t DO IT- no matter how much they beg.  You know it isn’t pretty people.  The only reason I am still a DD is because before I fasten my bra I roll up each one like a cannoli and stuff it into the cup giving only the appearance of perky.  The only way I can describe them is like a couple of bivy sacks with two lemons dangling at the bottom of them.  Add in a couple of pesky nipple hairs, a few ever-popular stretch marks, and VOILA! 

So after assuring my son that those “dingle dangles” {as he referred to them that day) actually don’t come off, he asks why he doesn’t have any breasts. 

I told him technically he did, but that men and women are made “differently…” blah blah blah and that “our bodies are all unique”... blah blah blah. 

To which he says, “Yes I know, our bodies are amazing”.  “And Mommy”, (he says while pointing at me and probably remembering our previous conversation a few weeks earlier about broken bones and our incredible bodies), “I just have to tell you, those breasts are AMAZING!” 

Ahh, from the mouths of babes.

We recently joined the YMCA (que: YYYYY EMMM CEEE AAAIIII ) and I’ve been going at least three times a week. The children do fine, I get an hour to myself and work off some angst and stress. It’s the best investment we’ve made truly for our own good in a long long time.

There are a lot of families at the Y. There are moms. Kids. Teens.

There are also a lot of old women.

Old. Flabby. Women.

Who don’t use towels.

Probably because they don’t fit.

I remember walking around hiding my body back in my teens and twenties. Those same girls still walk around the locker room hiding behind a towel and scurrying to the dressing area like rats in the sun. They’re also so tiny you would hardly know they were there save for the swoosh of the air as the slightest frame wafts by.

Compare that with the older, more established ladies. They come in from swimming class dripping wet, peal off their suits and shower all while chatting about this or that. They walk to the locker with their towel in their arm. They make eye contact. They laugh. They are truly comfortable in their own skin. One lady walks up to me with her towel in her arm, “Where do we place dirty towels?” she asks. I tell her it’s down the hall, just before you leave the building. She thanks me and I half expect her to march down there butt naked in front of God and everyone.

As I’m wrapping my towel around half my body, allowing my left butt cheek to poke out like those hospital gowns that allow for so much dingity, I realize I’m nearing middle age. I’m not the age of self-consciousness, hiding my young, perk body thinking it’s so fat and ugly, but I’m not at the age of towel-less wrinkle pride with a body that’s suffered years and experiences and still carries on. No, I’m somewhere in the middle; half-heartedly covering my stretch marks and wrinkles padding bare-foot to the shower not quite too shy to hang up my towel before dissapearing in the stall but not proud enough to leave the towel behind.

As it turns out, I realized age doesn’t just bring wisdom, it brings comfort in ourselves. The kind of naked, boob-flapping nakedness that sings of self confidence. Or, at least, a lack of caring. And honestly, isn’t that the same thing?

The best part about blogging is how it brings together people you might not get to meet otherwise. It’s amazing how like-minded so many of us are, and yet, here we are all so very unique and offering new perspectives daily.

A while back I met a gal from Teh Internetz. She was someone that always made me laugh and we had a billion things in common. Like: WINE! TODDLERS! VERY ACTIVE AND INTELLEGENT OLDER DAUGHTERS! A LOVE FOR CAPS! AND EXCLAMATION POINTS!

I also found out she was a web programmer (for that pesky .NET language, though) and went to Western Washington as an undergraduate. She graduated in 1997. She was probably in one of my classes. She lived in Bellingham not far from where I did for five years.

So I went to meet her in person convinced I happen to be HER and I was writing myself, somehow, like Russle Crowe in A Beautiful Mind but without all the nazis.

She was real.

She bought me coffee.

My kids adored her.

So we kept in touch and read each other daily. We called. We hung out. We became great friends and one day we confessed to each other how crazy life is and how blogging just isn’t in the “Great List O’ Shit To Do Each Day” anymore. It fell right after bathing children and sweeping the floor, which were also rarely happening. Then a great idea was born and I asked her to move in with me.

She accepted.

I told my super close friends Michelle and Laura that I was having a roommate on my blog and asked if they’d join sometimes. They agreed. Then I told Oma to stop in and visit and help me tell stories of my childhood. She promised not to talk about how I was made or post about condoms. Too much.

So here we are: A community of real friends. The people I adore seeing in real life are now the ones you have the joy of reading here along with your regularly scheduled over use of caps and too much information about my sex life.

LUCKY YOU!

But really? We just want you to feel welcome in our pad. Come kick up your feet, grab a

glass

bottle of wine and let it all hang out. I know you’re going to enjoy these ladies as much as I do. Consider yourself blessed. I know I do.

Please go read her first ever POSTED HERE LIVE entry she wrote yesterday. Her archives are here, too. Enjoy the goodness of Single Super Mama!

**For the record, it’s not EXACTLY finished. There is the link blog coming back, my stumbled upon faves, the awesomeness of teh community and the “people we read”. And some other things. I forget. But right now I have to go take a few drabs of whiskey to ease my throat and stop my brain from over-using if-statements and global variables.

Was that out loud? Am I still talking? Right. Must be the fever talking. Off to enjoy a “medicinal” shot. Of anything.

It’s been a long time dream of Mr. Flinger’s to hold a “Leisure Olympics”. Today that dream comes true.

A Few Good Friends of ours will be competing in what will become a national, nay, a world-wide phenomenon. That’s right. Hold on to yer britches (that’s with an ‘R’, people) because today marks the first annual LEISURE OLYMPICS 2008!

:: the crowd goes wild :: much clapping :: much cheering :: possibly some fireworks except only the lame little legal kinds so like a sparkler or two lights up ::

:: Athletes come marching in wearing matching colors in teams. Children are seen running amok in the background. It’s the most anticipated event of our lives. .. ok.. or maybe like since two weeks ago when we decided to do this. Either way IT WILL BE HUGE ::

Can’t compete? Don’t feel left out: For Rules and Regulations, please follow along below. For pictures, please come back tomorrow. For a tweet-by-tweet account, please follow here starting at 4:30pm PST.

In the mean time, I’ll be warming up and stretching for the beer relay and obstacle course which is sure to kick my arse.