Listen up, Blogosphere. This is part 1 of a 3 part series.
That’s right. What I have to say is so important, I am going to do it in three installments. This? Is number one.
Here is a short post on how to not write like a douche.
Its is possessive. The book is torn and its page is wrinkled.
It’s is a contraction of it and is. It’s about to rain.
You’re vs Your
Editors note: This one makes my tongue curl to the back of my throat and sputter strange noises only gophers understand, so listen up.
You’re is a contraction of YOU and ARE. You’re going to DIE when I tell you this!
Your is possessive. Your husband is getting you beer.
(Maybe you’re still confused? Go here.)
Their, There, They’re
Their is possessive. Their dog just pooped on the floor. Their shoes are moldy.
There is a location. You can find the cup over there.
They’re is a contraction of THEY and ARE. They’re going to catch a plane.
Here vs Hear
Here is location. (Similar to THERE. In fact, this is how I remember this. THERE and HERE are locations - both abstract and real.) We have the best coffee here
Hear is what you do with your ears. In fact, EAR is in the word HEAR. Did you hear that? You can remember now!
People? THAT IS WRONG.
Apostrophes are for showing possession (or contraction). It is NOT for plural.
:: taps glass to computer screen ::
Apostrophes are not for plural.
So, let’s say (oh! see what I did? LET US = let’s) we want to tell everyone we have a moms club.
It is not a Mom’s Club. That is one mom’s club (perhaps she’s a cave-woman or a police-woman.)
We have WOMEN’S RIGHTS.
We own cats. We have a cat’s kennel. I hate cats.
Who the fuck cares? That’s what spell check is for.
About a week ago, I decided to join Weight Watchers. I’ve posted a lot of my weight loss struggle here, and as it turns out, I’m still at the exact.same.weight I was after having losing the Man Child’s pregnancy weight.
That very same Man Child, the apple of his Mother’s Eye, announced something last week:
It’s a good thing I started counting my “points” and started watching what I eat. “Watching” is the optimal word here. I haven’t actually made any changes this week, I just sort of called this week “Learning What Goes In To My Body” week.
Holymotherofperl people. I eat a lot of points.
And apparently, like golf, you want less points in this game.
In an odd way it’s comforting to realize my working out really might pay off. It’s nice to know when I’m doing suicide runs in the gym and huffing until my kidney rolls out my mouth and then NOT LOSING WEIGHT, it’s something I can control.
The time.. it is now.
So starting today I get to pay a little more attention to how I choose to nourish my body. I get to say “no” more often. I get to choose smaller portions and I get to see the scale finally, ohpleasegod finally, move.
Or else you will see a lot of “hangry” posting. (That’s Angry Hungry.)
I suppose this is all good timing now that the Man Child is almost too old to carry. I won’t be needing my stomach shelf for much longer.
One of the greatest joys of having children is how they “keep you young.” (And by that I mean give you gray hair and wrinkles).
My children come from a long line of silly.
Their Grandpa and Grandma are silly.
Their Pappa and Oma are silly.
I sort of love that it runs in their genes.
(heh. I said “runs in their jeans.”)
Because some days, when things hit the fan, some days, it’s the only thing that can save you.
*Yes, I’m re-posting this video. I just wanted to watch it again today and figured HEY! Maybe your day sorta sucks and needs something fun to watch, too!
It’s been a long time that I’ve been blogging in this little space. There are a lot of things you already know about me. You know more about my womanly cycle than I do most of the time and you know how to talk my engineer husband in to getting a vasectomy. You know the day I knew I would marry him and you knew the day I peed on a used pregnancy test and called the doctor sobbing because I wasn’t ready for another baby. You were with me during the miscarriage and the next pregnancy and celebrated his birth with us. You waited with us while he learned to breath and grow big enough to come home.
And yet, you still have questions.
I have answers.
Is your last name really “Flinger”?
No. But I do accept mail at that name.
Why Flinger, then?
When I first started blogging, back in July 2003, our first domain was frisbeeflingers.com. I never wanted to publish our last name and people started calling me “Leslie Frisbeeflinger”. From there it became Leslie Flinger and Mrs. Flinger. I launched this domain in April 2005 as my own space thinking I would keep it separate from the family, whish so totally didn’t happen.
*The FrisbeeFlinger’s Logo from 2001.
So do you play ultimate frisbee a lot?
You’d think so but no. I mean, we HAVE in the past, but not we’re not die-hards. We became the “Frisbee Flingers” the summer of 2001. Mr. Flinger asked me to marry him at one of our regular frisbee breaks after work in the field by our apartment. We kept the tradition by playing frisbee hours before our small wedding on top of Mt. Constitution on Orcas Island. The running joke was that we’d rather be playing Frisbee.
You got engaged in 2001? But I thought you were High School Sweethearts?
We were. We broke up in 1994, my Freshman year in college. At the time, we had too many different expectations for us to remain together. We seperated, dated other people, went to different colleges and stayed friends. Best friends, in fact. After moving to Texas in 1999, we spoke daily on the phone and realized our differences were smaller than we thought. We fell in love again, or maybe we just acknowledged what was always there, and I moved to Portland in June of 2000. The rest is history.
What changed that made you compatible?
It wasn’t one thing specifically, but an over-all change in our outlook. Personally, I went from being a Liberal Christian to being a Libertarian Agnostic. It was a change that took years to cultivate but ultimately we ended up in a more similar place in life than we thought we ever would be. We were asking the same questions and decided to search for the answers together. I no-longer felt like I knew everything based on my ideals I grew up with.
We laugh about a conversation my Father-in-law had with my husband when we were in High School. “Son,” he said, “I know you think you’re in love now but the real test is if you go different directions. You know if your paths cross again, it was meant to be.”
In our story, our paths simply crossed again. And continued on the same direction.
Libertarian Agnostic? Really?
I don’t like to talk politics or religion a lot. To me it’s a non-issue. I can love you even if we’re so very different so long as you don’t disrespect my beliefs and I respect yours. I get defensive when attacked politically because I have strong convictions and believe we can all strive to be the best we can for our Country, our Family, our Neighbors. I don’t push politics like I don’t push drugs. Except beer. I will always offer you a beer.
As far as religion, I have a long, very long, past with Christianity: both Catholicism and Evangelical. I’ve studied scriptures from varying religions and read the bible through, twice. I’ve read Richard Dawkins, The Dali Lama, and Julia Sweeney. In the end I’ve created my own creed, the Flinger’s Creed. In short, we sing our own song.
But I do still find comfort is some of how I was raised.
Do you participate in Blog Drama?
Godno. I have, before, been swept up by it. But mostly I rail against it and find community in blogging. I believe in blog drama like I speak of religion and politics. Here! Have a beer! Let’s sing “Kumbaya” and whatnot.
Do you actually love your children? You’re pretty snarky.
Nothing I say is real. It is all one giant sarcastic ball of shit. If you believe everything I say, I can surely sell you our used car. It’s perfect. Never squeaks or moans. Or my children! Who are also perfect. They never squeak or moan.
But of course I love them. And yes, I’ve actually been asked this. Please, if you have to ask, stop reading RIGHT NOW. I don’t know about your kids, but mine drive me to drink and cause me to want more in alternating moments. I call this Motherhood.
Do you really have a barn?
Yes. That really is our barn. You can’t make that shit up.
You won BlogHer’s worst hair contest? Really?! Can I see your hair?
Yes. Really. I finally found a redeeming quality from 1986. A new iPad. Thank you, BlogHer!
If I didn’t cover your question here, feel free to ask me another one (frisbeeflingers AT gmail DOT com for you shy people). I’ll answer pretty much, almost, anything. Except maybe my pants size. Or my favorite brand of Tampon. Or when I lost my virginity.
Ok, fine, size 10, Tampax, 25.
Fling it at me.
A long while back, I asked for a barn.
Today, I have a barn.
There’s something about moving to “the country.” And by “something” I mean A HECKOFA lot of work.
There’s the septic system that can be blocked by trees.
There’s the old kitchen oven that may or may not work.
Perhaps you lose a hen. Or two.
There’s the riding lawnmower that worked.. once.
There’s the weeding, the garden, the broken chicken coop.
There’s the jeep hand-me-down that has a dead battery and YET! We somehow manage to love it.
All 1.0 acres of unkempt house and yard is ours.
With our very own barn.
Three year olds are assholes. It’s true. It’s been documented somewhere. Probably on twitter or a wiki or something. Three year olds make 13 year olds familiar. Moody. Cranky. Angsty. Parenting a three year old (or a nearly three in my case) prepares you for the upcoming hormonal swings and mood changes akin to knife fights in gay bars.
Working gives me some perspective. I’m able to look at my adorable children and appreciate their innocence. I can hear their whines and love them because I do not get enough.
HA! Did you read that? I almost didn’t make it through with a straight face.
In reality, yes, I get to shuffle my children to be RAISED BY OTHER PEOPLE YOU HORRIBLE MOTHER GOING TO HELL HULK SMASH. And while they are gone I think of them and their soft faces and their long long legs and arms wrapping around me when I pick them up. I worry less about them than I used to but still wonder if I am doing the right thing sometimes. The Mommy Guilt: Second only to Catholic Guilt.
The other day I crawled in to bed with my son to rouse him awake and prepare for the day. He opened his eyes a slit and looked at me. “You came back!” he whispered. “You came back…” he snuggled his cheeks in the side of my neck.
And then I died.
My son and his sweet Cherub face can control me like a marionette. “Play Wiff Me, Mommy!” and suddenly I find myself playing RAUR SMASH TRAINS. My daughter looks at me with the biggest blue eyes, eyes I can not fathom where they are from, and asks me to read with her. I suddenly forget what I was doing and find myself sounding out words in amazement as she reads whole books to me.
Take that!, Harry Chapin.
Balance is elusive. It will not exist. Should I be home, I’d miss working and while I work I miss them at home. I can’t decide if this is my being difficult or truly the Plight of the working mom.
Either way, I suspect I’m in for a long road ahead. Raising children isn’t for the weak. Or the sane.
We set up the wardrobes yesterday. This is a much better system than the piles of boxes we’ve been living under. In theory, that is.
I started setting up the different shelves, organizing all the things I thought so important to force my good friends to spend an entire day moving with us.
I started with undies and socks, you know, important things. Moved on to hang-up items, shoes, scarves, sweats, workout stuff, shit I don’t wear any more, shit I shouldn’t wear any more, shit I don’t fit any more, shit I never want to fit in to again.
That’s when it hit me: WOW I have a LOT OF SHIT.
People say things to me like, “You know, the one great thing about moving is that it forces you to clean out all your stuff.” To these people I reply, “You know, the great thing about a colonoscopy is that it forces you to clean out all your shit.”
We are undergoing one giant (echo: GIANT GIANT GIANT) colonoscopy here.
The next person to try to tell me how awesome moving is will be getting one, too.
Not that I don’t love it or anything. About the same way you love eating a large juicy burger and a “non-invasive” scoping procedure.
Funny thing about Teh Interwebz: You just might find out someone lives 1.1 miles from your new home. And that someone just might be like SO SUPAH AWESOME that you trade emails and find out you’re eight thousand shades of the same. Maybe you even share the same tummy issues and love of wine and eating clean and working out.
So maybe you start hanging out.
Funny thing about hanging out with someone sorta like you: It freaks people out. You mean there are TWO OF YOU?! Yes! YES THERE IS. And that somone maybe happens to attend the same boot-camp class you do at the YMCA and probably has seen you there before but now you know to look for each other. And maybe you sort of wish you didn’t, but not until after the fact.
Last week I went to bootcamp with my new friend Ashley. We’ve exchanged tweets, emails, IMs and a few games of Facebook Scrabble, and a beer. Then, suddenly, I find myself knee deep in sweat and cussing at my new friend. Swearing, actually. To her face.
It’s a little surreal to have your ass kicked by a former twitter stranger. And by surreal I mean painful. But comparing sore muscles the next day and realizing what a great workout it was. The girl? She kicks my ass. In a good way.
There is an accountability when someone is willing to not let you lie to yourself. When someone is willing to see that you NEED to go harder, faster, longer. When they realize you can do it, you just .... don’t. She pushed me in a way I haven’t been pushed in years. To find a new level of expletives I’ve never yelled in .. years. To be so physically exhausted I could not push another jumpy out of my ass if I tried.
And oh, how I tried.
A week later I find myself planning to return. Call me crazy, and you will, but apparently I’m a sucker for pain. I’m in a battle with the bulge and right now the bulge is winning. That bulge has no hope against my new friend Ashley. Not a chance.
I’m just hoping I live long enough to tell you about it.
A common theme within our family conversations as of late center around the ability to fail. We, the Flingers, believe failure is not only acceptable, but completely necessary. Taking away the ability to fail creates a chasm between lessons ultimately preventing the ability to make the proper choice later.
We let our children fail.
We allow ourselves to fail.
We analyze, talk about, and come back from our failures.
Failing. Is. Ok.
It’s hard, as a mother, to allow your children to fall knowing you could’ve stopped it. It’s hard to watch them struggle when you can simply step in and complete it with them twice as fast. It’s difficult to hash out topics with your spouse knowing you’ll disagree or patiently waiting on a promise you’re skeptical will come true.
It is the same in my family. It is the same in my government. It is the same in the schools. Failing. Is. Ok.
My dad talks about how he flunked out of college. He attended Texas A&M and failed his freshman year. He went in to the Army, “played soldier”, came back and finished up his Bachelor degree. He went on to complete a MBA and a Doctorate. My dad flunked out of college and holds the highest degree you can attain. Had he never failed, he may never have pursued with such passion the education he now gives to other graduate students.
My undergraduate degree is in Exercise and Sport Science. My Dad, the one with all that insight, told me to go in to computer programming. I said no. I wanted to be a dietitian. I wanted to create workouts for people. I wanted to find my own path.
Ten years later I got a Masters in Information Technology because I failed at finding a job in Exercise Science. I failed at earning a living. I failed at having perspective. I failed at realizing what a passion I had for programming. Having that hindsight, I find myself working in a job I adore doing something I’m passionate about with people I enjoy.
It’s a strange concept, to allow failure. So many of us want to help, prevent, provide against it. As parents we cringe at our child’s decisions. We can guide them, we can shape them, we can offer our opinions, but we can not choose for them. It is their choice, it is their lesson, it is their failure.
And that is ok.
I’m trying desperately to allow small failures realizing it will guide them as they mature. Tiny ways of learning now: how it is cold without a coat, how you can’t drink from the other side of the cup, that stepping in a puddle gets your shoes wet. I’m trying to allow those tiny lessons so the bigger ones won’t be so harsh.
But sometimes I fail at allowing their failure. I am a mother. Sometimes I over-protect. I fail.
And that is ok.
P.S. Yes yes, Easter was lovely thank you. You want pictures? OKTHENFINEDAMMIT. Twist my arm.
19 guests here now.