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.

The MIX 10 site boasts powerful, clean visual design and the fantastic user experience you’ve come t Dec 10, 2009


We’re proud to see MIX 10 launch it’s new website. Blue Flavor and Microsoft teamed up to deliver this fantastic site for the upcoming Mix conference in Las Vegas, March 15-17 2010.

The MIX 10 site boasts powerful, clean visual design and the fantastic user experience you’ve come to expect from Blue Flavor. Transparency, texture and tranquil colors with a dash of Ajax and jQuery create a pleasing site which guides the user to sessions, speakers, registration and technomania. It’s an honor to work on a site by, for, and in hope of a better web. As always, it’s a pleasure working with Microsoft. We celebrate the launch with you!

mix Home

Mix Sessions

Mix Regisger

Also posted at Blue Flavor.

Have yourself a Racially Diverse Christmas Dec 09, 2009

#Family Life

It seems to me that Racism is gone. I mean, we have a black president. Can’t we all just get along and sing koombia and all that shit? Seriously, people. Do I care what you look like? No. Do I care if you’re an asshole? Very Much So.

It would appear, though, that race is most certainly not something that we joke about being a thing of the past. “Ohyea, sorry ‘bout them segregation shit. That’s TO-TALLY our bad.”  (Which, for the record, I did not live back then and thus can only apologize for shit my ancestors did and let you know I think it’s bullshit, too. And hey! How ‘bout we grab a beer! Because deep down I’m totally Canadian. Peace Love Beer. Amen.)

No, it appears race is being brought up over and over. I’m fairly sheltered here on the left coast with a variety of people and a city that accepts. What do I care who your lover is? Am I going to judge you for looking like a punk-ass-kid? Yea. Am I going to judge you because your hair is kinky and mine isn’t? No. So do you have control over how I view you? Absolutely. If you look like a ganstah wanna-be I’m going to think, “Hey look at that stupid ganstah-wanna-be.” But if you look like a person living a life and being yourself? I say Go Girl. Or Man. Or Lover Of All Men. Whatever. Do yer thing, yo.

So why then have I had SIX, I shit you not, conversations about race in as many days? Why then do I hear it coming up on the radio? On the TV? On the DISNEY-CHANNEL-OMG-IS-NOTHING-SACRED. Why?

I don’t know. Or I didn’t know. Until I heard my children singing a, what used to be, lovely christmas song and I realized: THEY ARE RACIST BIGOTS.

“And may all your Christmases be WHITE.”

Oh dear lord! NO! NO NO. I’m not teaching my children that shit!


No, children, let us sing, in honor of ALL people, “And may all your Christmases be Racially Diverse.”

We? Are holding on to a myth people. One started by a secret under-cover racist homophobe. (Tossing in the homophobe for good measure that racist bastard.)


There he is: Father Racist.

Jolly Holly and all that.

So I searched the internet and found this incriminating photo:


I’m not shocked, really. For years now it’s been seeping in to our minds this time of year. We’re mummys just mouthing the crap we’re grown up with.

The cycle ends here.

No more while I wish you a White Christmas. Hellzno. I will, instead, hope for a rainy, somewhat humid and possibly a tad warm so you can get a sun-burn red christmas. Or an eerily frigid blue christmas. Or perhaps a carbon-friendly green christmas. But I will never hope all your Christmases are white again.



A note: This post is written tongue-in-cheek. I do that from time to time. You know, sorda lose my shit on the ridiculousness?

If you say anything bad, I’ll call you a racist.

And probably a punkass kid, too

Clean Food is Dirty! Dec 09, 2009


A wonderful post by my friend Laura who inspired this whole mess to begin with.

I have an egg dealer. I found her on CraigsList. Every week or two, I meet her at her downtown office in the middle of the workday for my goods. I slip her some cash - $2/dozen (the best price in town) - and she hands over a couple cartons of product. I’m totally addicted.

If you’ve never tasted a fresh, local free-range egg, then you really have never enjoyed an egg before. My pastured eggs are gorgeous. Their vibrant orange yolks stand proudly above pillowy whites; there’s nothing yellow or watery about these beauties. They are flavorful. They are real…

...And they are dirty!

Nine times out of ten, my eggs come out of their reused cartons caked with mud, straw, chicken feathers and….well, chicken poop.

It’s ironic to me that the cleanest food (that is, according to Michael Pollan’s definition, the food that is least processed and closest to its source) is often the dirtiest. We’re so used to sterile displays of pressure-washed potatoes and waxen-cheeked apples that we are affronted by a trace of dirt or the telltale leavings of a worm.

I started buying farm eggs because I was really disgusted by the way American chickens of mass-production are raised. (Just Google egg factory farms for a lot of horrific visuals.) What’s kept me paying the big bucks, though, is the flavor and quality of pastured eggs. They’re simply better.

And, it turns out, they’re better for you.

In 2007, Mother Earth News led an investigation comparing the nutritional value of pastured farm eggs to “the official egg nutrient data from the USDA for “conventional” (i.e. from confined hens) eggs.” The results are dramatic. Eggs from hens who are allowed to forage outdoors for food (in addition to supplementary grains and meal), as compared to hens in cramped factory-farmed cages (the USDA standard condition), typically contain:
• 1⁄3 less cholesterol
• 1⁄4 less saturated fat
• 2⁄3 more vitamin A
• 2 times more omega-3 fatty acids
• 3 times more vitamin E
• 7 times more beta carotene

More recent tests last year showed that pastured eggs contain 4-6 times more vitamin D than their supermarket counterparts. (Here’s a nifty graphic to really make that information pop.)

In every area, pastured eggs are better for you - supporting Michael Pollan’s mantra of “You are what you eat eats too.”

And it makes sense, right? A chicken with free-roaming access to fresh greens and juicy bugs will be a healthier chicken than the one crammed into a cage and fed nothing but corn and soy by-products (or - yum! - bits of its sisters and children - or even other animals, euthanized pets and roadkill not excluded, for added protein) and a cocktail of chemicals (often including arsenic, antibiotics and steroids).

Sadly, the healthy stuff is often cost prohibitive. In areas where pastured eggs are in high demand, it’s not unusual to see them at farmers markets for upwards of $5/dozen. You’ll do much better to search for eggs on your local CraigsList page, newspaper classifieds, or even those hand-lettered signs on telephone poles at the edge of town.

The cheapest (yet more time-intensive) way to get gorgeous, local free-range eggs is to venture into animal husbandry yourself and keep some laying hens in your backyard. Many American cities will allow you a few chickens in an urban lot (roosters are, understandably, outlawed within city limits). The website is an excellent starting point for those with interest in raising their own eggs.

Whichever route you decide to go, I hope you’ll see the value of “dirty” eggs. They’re better for the chickens and they’re better for you, plus they taste amazing - what’s not to love?

Eat clean: Live (and let live) well!

Writing Challenge 1- Official Launch : Character Dec 06, 2009



This Monday, as part of the official kickoff of {W}rite-of-passage, I’m doing a story about “Character.” This challenge originally came from Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott and is the structure for which we’re working. This challenge comes after a small rant I made and decided to do something.

Welcome to my something. I hope you join in.


* Preface: A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to travel to Paris with a friend who lived in Paris and was able to give me a complete tour, on foot, in six hours. One day I’ll eventually share that story with you. For now, though, I am focusing on a character we met on our last leg of the trip waiting for the train back to Leiden. The extent of our meeting was the time it took to take this photo. I saw him from a distance. He is the perfect subject for this post.

He’s been waiting in the station for six hours. He’s working on his last cigarette. The partner is late. He is always late. He misses the train every third trip and Chakov is left waiting in the station. He mutters under his breath as he puffs. He’s another face in the sea of people traveling, waiting, touring.

He sees two tourist across the station taking photos of a homeless man sleeping in the corner. He over-hears the man lean in, “Only in Paris, a homeless man wears a fur coat. Even their homeless are more classy.” She chuckles. He gravitates to them out of boredom. They look American. He has never been to America but hears terrible things. “Phaw, they are all fat!” His grandfather would never have allowed him a trip to the land of abundance.

He asks the man to take his photo. “AH! An American Photographer!” He glances as his partner finally walks up. He laughs. The partner eyes the scene and flicks his cigarette to the ground. He’s disgusted. Chakov looks over his shoulder and sees the tension oozing from his pours. He speaks in French, “I understand you had to wait but you are jerking off with American Tourist?” Chakov fights back, “It was a photo! I had a photo taken. Robert is waiting for you and is bitter. You are late again.”

The two are lost again in the sea of travelers. It is raining lightly as they walk in to the street, the Americans long forgotten now as discussion turns to business. “We have not received the boxes. You do not have them with you, I see,” Chakov glances around dramatically, “so what is your excuse this time?” Pallo is used to his jabs. Chakov has been wanting Partner for 3 years but is too young to understand the implications of that position. “Do not worry of the packages, Chakov, I have it under control.” Pallo speaks to him as if he’s a child, which he almost always act as, and feels already knows more than necessary.

They turn the corner together, the tension growing, as each man contemplates his role in the company. Alpha. Omega. Partner. Prodigy. Suddenly they are confronted by a gang of tall men holding guns. The Ally is dark. This is not the way they usually travel. Chakov glances at Pallo, “What do you mean by this?” he accuses.


Other Participants today include

Writing Challenge #0.5 Dec 01, 2009



I’m inspired by the number of people willing to open up about their Most Embarassing Story. I’m inspired by reading people who are willing to be critiqued and by the people who joined. Really, I’m thrilled that so many of you want to pursue more. Reach out. Reach deeper. Grasp. Write.

If you know me, you know I have an entire portion of my website dedicated to my most embarrassing moments. There’s the time I showed my nipples to the movie theater. The time I flipped off my chair in front of a cute guy. The time my daughter yelled “POOOOOP” at the cute starbucks guy.  The time(s) I spazzed out at Blissdom, BlogHer08 and! BlogHer09. There’s the time I titled a post, “Maybe I should just start wearing lycra and get it over with” because honestly. These archives are full of embarrassing moments I’ve shared over the years with you and still, you are here. I love you for it.

However, when asked to think of my MOST embarrassing moment? I immediately go to a time in life filled with truly, horrifically, mortifying moments. Even as an awkward tween in Jr. High, there’s the one that stands out more than any others.

I’m twelve. Seventh Grade. Awkward. Unsure, Insecure. I’m walking down the hall after making a quick bathroom stop where I was afraid people in the next stall heard me tear the wrapper off my pad and know I’m on my period. The bathroom is an echo chamber. “RIPPP.” The sound of crinkling plastic, the clank of the disposal bin. I’m sure the entire school, by now, is aware I’m bleeding. All these things run through my head as I’m walking down the hall.

I notice people giggling. The short kid from second period points and jabs his annoying pizza-face friend. One of the 6th graders mouth something to me. Then I hear it, the song my best friend’s youngest sister sings, belting out from the doorway, “I SEE YOUR HINEY NICE AND SHINEY BETTER HIDE IT BEFORE I BITE IT.” It’s Mercy, my best friend, yelling down the hall to me. A teacher steps out from the classroom and pulls me aside, “Honey,” she says with the sympathy of a thousand Jr High years, “Your skirt is tucked in to your panties.”

The floor did not open and swallow me whole like I’d hoped. The moment did not last six years like it felt. But my face turned shades of crimson as the sound of giggles ran through until the bell rang.

Finally I find my way to class, slip in to my seat, and open my book without making eye contact with a soul. Years later I would find out that moment is not only something I remember in clear detail but that others recall it just as clearly.

My ass is sort of a history event at Friendswood Jr High. Just ask anyone there in 1987.

Or rather, don’t.

Other people participating with awesome stories include

That photo is in 1988 in which I learned to never wear skirts again. Ever. AGAIN. And also when I’m too cool to have a photo taken.