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.
I guess the real question is, would you have to look for me in the fetish section, too? May 16, 2010
A few weeks ago, I attended an amazing panel about our girls being “sexy too soon” by Parent Map. I was asked to tweet about the event during the discussion and received a ton of great feedback via twitter regarding the content of the session. It was well done and truly full of wonderful ideas to reach out to our girls.
As I grabbed the courage to stand and ask a question, an Asian lady stood up before me to ask hers. “It’s taken us two hours and we haven’t talked about race,” she said. The room fell silent. The all white panel stammered. “Um, yea…” The question-asker went on, “You know where my husband has to go find porn that looks like me? The FETISH section. That’s because we over-romanticize and sexualize our blonde-hair, blue-eyed women.”
Everyone sort of smacked their gum and pushed their collection jaws shut.
I honestly can’t remember exactly what this ladies point was. Was it about how we don’t treat all races equal? Or was it that I, a two-time-c-section recipient with abs that jiggle when I walk am not overly sexualized in porn films, too? I mean, let’s face it, if MY husband wanted to find a film with someone who looks like me in it, he’d have to hit up the “your mama has two babies and you wanna do her hot ladiez” section.
I’m pretty sure it would start a mom running with her uterus flopping around madly yelling at her kids in her sweats.
How many times have I blogged about my weight and my body? You’ve lost count, you say? So have I. It’s a struggle I’ve had long before I was ever a mom. I struggled as a pre-teen, as a teen, as an early 20’s and now as a mom. It’s hard to stay at my “happy weight” and I’m clearly miles from it now. (Literally MILES people. As in “run/bike/walk a shit-ton of miles and maybe you MIGHT be at your goal weight as long as there is not a brewery at the end of the rainbow.)
I like beer. I like Wine. And I love Chocolate.
I hate my body right now.
In a fit of disgust, I did a facebook search for Body-for-LIFE and found Formerly Fat Matt. My husband and I have both been successful on Body-for-LIFE so I thought perhaps we can do it as a team again. I was inspired.
So inspired, in fact, that I ate smores, three (and a half) beers and full-fat-stuffed-salmon and mayonnaise with salad on it for dinner on Saturday.
I talked to Mr. Flinger about it this morning. “You know who always talks about diets?” I said. “Fat People.” He agreed. Skinny people just DO it. Fat people talk about doing it.
Man, I talk a lot about losing weight, don’t I.
So here I am. Almost thirty-five, frustrated, laid off, not having sex enough and trying to find some sort of balance between being a mom and being me. I’m the perfect “before” for Body-for-LIFE. Give me 12 weeks. I’d like to prove that I’m the perfect “after” too.
Starting the challenge for round 3 in 2010. If you join, let me know. I’d like to know who’s ass I’m kicking. heh
Mother’s Day 2010: Epic Awesomesauce May 10, 2010
Mother’s Day started early. Saturday night my friend Ashley picked me up in her awesome mobile to head to our favorite local restaurant.
We met Trix there and she totally smelled my hair.
It was great girl-time in which we talked about wine and sex and being a mom. Not in that order. Or maybe in that order. I forget because the wine was first.
The next morning I woke up to flowers, cards, and the Sunday Paper. I love the Sunday Paper. I love that I look studious while perusing the Target Ad.
We went for a hike near our home. The kids ran ahead because they aren’t old enough to realize you still have to actually walk BACK to the car.
Silly kids. They never learn.
This is shortly before the Two Year Old lost his mind because his feet stopped working.
These are the cows we communed with. I’m pretty sure I insulted one of them. Mooo.Moooo.Moooo. (That’s cow for “Are you expecting?” She is not.)
Here is the picture of my family at the top of the hill. This is shortly before the Five Year Old lost her mind because her feet stopped working.
Then I took a picture of my arm.
Here we are at the top. This is where my daughter shelves my boob for me.
We got home and decided to built a fire-pit.
It was possibly the best decision of the weekend. Nothing beats fresh camp-fire hotdogs. Nothing, that is, except camping in your own backyard.
I hope yours was just as fabulous.
I make a terrible fairy-tale princess, a crappy mormon, a shitty buddhist and a worse country wife May 07, 2010
We have mice. When I tell this to people they laugh. “Welcome to the country,” they say. They tell me to get a cat. They tell me this is part of being surrounded by all this land.
Last night we saw a mouse. Instead of being the calm, rational person “they” expect me to be, I jumped on a chair while yelling, “KILL THE FUCKER” and simultaneously pouring a glass of wine. It was not my proudest moment.
My daughter has lived with invisible mice for nearly three years. It started one night after introducing her to Cinderella. I asked her doctor about it when one cute “invisible mouse” turned in to two years, a million mice, and actual conversations between them. My daughter often draws all of her mice in her pictures, a group of small circles grouped below her lanky legs and flowing blonde hair. She talks about them daily. She tells me when it’s her mice’s birthday. She tells me when they talk to her.
It’s really, very very creepy.
We’ve been keeping our mice problem from her until now. Unable to utter “Kill The Mouse” in front of my precious Cinderella-esque daughter, we’ve kept the entire thing to ourselves.
This morning, though, when the trap caught The Fucker, my strong, able husband escorted his skittish wife to the garage to share in his triumph. A moment later our daughter pushed through, “I wanna see! What are we looking at?”
Her eyes caught the mouse. She stood for a moment and then turned back to the table to finish her breakfast. I thought it went well. Mr. Flinger and I exchanged a glance and a shrug.
A few minutes later she leans to her brother, “I can’t find my mice. I can’t see them. I think they’re dead.”
I’ve often wondered about her mice and the long term effect her invisible friends would have. I’ve asked her to get an invisible cat. Her mice, though, have been the one solid in her life, always with her, always near. And now her mother has gone and killed them.
Forget being a good wife, mother or country-girl. Forget getting in to the seven layers of heaven as I pour my glass of wine. Forget thinking animals have purpose and respecting life of all living things. I’ve single-handedly killed my daughter’s spirit with one single mouse trap.
I may as well have turned her in to a pumpkin at midnight.
At least The Fucker is dead.
Moms, Business, Family and Pepperidge Farm May 06, 2010
I don’t always believe in Fate. I want to keep my life organized in such a way it does not possibly involve anything other than my own strength. But sometimes I have to confess that there are strong coincidences that can not, nor should be, over-looked. I had no idea this post would be one of them.
When Blog Nosh Magazine came to me with an offer to read about and reflect on the founder of Pepperidge Farm, I said yes without truly understanding the impact this would have. I did not know I would lose my job this week, nor could I have known how much I would identify with Margaret Rudkin. Truly, I did not appreciate the exact timing of such an offer.
I do now.
Sitting in my “Mommy Time Out”, reading over the tale of how Pepperidge Farm began, I found myself appreciating the community of motherhood, entrepreneurship, and clean eating. These three things are the tenants of my site here, the foundation of my life. I found myself reflecting on how easy it is to forget this balance, to allow one aspect to dominate another. As a mother trying to re-group in the business world while finding a path to healthier eating and lifestyle, I was simply inspired by Margaret’s tale.
Hey, Margaret! My first bread attempt sucked, too!
We have this platform here to connect. We have this place called “blogging” in which we can pour out our hearts on a bad night and have the support from friends near and far. I don’t remember life before this and I never parented it without it. You have been here with me since my daughter was born nearly six years ago. I could not, nor would I want to, imagine doing it without this village.
Margaret- Founder of Pepperidge Farm
Seeing old photos of a mom striking out on her own, alone in her quest to find a healthier lifestyle out of necessity for her son, I’m taken aback by her strength. Such strength she must have had to endure criticism from her child’s doctor, skepticism from her community. And still, even still, she pushed foreword. I reflect on my own strength and I ask myself, truly, could I do it alone?
I do not know. And I do not want to find out.
What I know is that we’re here as a community to encourage. I know when I fail to post my clean eating progress, someone will ask me about it. I know when my job ends that I can count on the community to keep an ear to the ground on my behalf. In truth, I admire the spirit and strength women like my Grandmother, my own mother, and Margaret had in the face of being everything to everyone, and I confess in transparency, I do not have the same strength.
My Grandmother often spoke of her life as a working mother. She passed away before my daughter was born and I miss being able to ask her what it was like for her to balance work and family. I’ve heard my mother’s stories of raising her three brothers while her parents worked. I know her childhood was limited and her time was mostly spent caring for her younger siblings, doing the dishes, laundry and making meals. I watch my own children, wrestle with my own motherly guilt, wondering what I am doing to their long-term memories. I want a better way for them, a garden with fresh veggies, a life of outdoor adventures, and in this spirit we moved to the country. We work to provide a better life. I pursue a career, an education, a job that enables my flexibility to be all things to all people. In theory.
Never do I appreciate the struggles of a working mother, an entrepreneur, all the love of sacrifice and strength it takes, until I understand I am not alone in this quest.
Endlessly thankful, I continue to find hope and comfort in the story of women both past and present as we strive to be great in all we pursue, however alone we sometimes feel.
Please join Blog Nosh Magazine in the Pepperidge Farm Carnival. We’re asking for your own stories of strength, of fighting for something, or someone, you love. We want to pull together with you as a community of support during the week of Mother’s Day to hold up one another. You are not alone. With the generations of mothers past and the community of mothers today, we stand joined together by love for our children, strength for our families, and a commitment to a better life for everyone.
This post is sponsored by Blog Nosh Magazine as part of the Blog Nosh Magazine and Pepperidge Farm Celebrate the Heart and Art of Motherhood carnival. Gladly endorsed and happily reflected upon by me.
Mommy Time Out May 05, 2010
I’m sitting in mommy time out. The children are on their beds reading. Supposedly. Since my last post wherein I promise to be funny at least two more times, a lot has changed. The last few months have cumulated to this one night wherein I totally lose my shit on the children during bath time.
And now I sit in time out.
I can point to a variety of excuses, reasons, I’m feeling so… Off. So.. Depressed. So… Tired. I acknowledge my depression, my monster-in-the-closet that is mostly kept at bay 99% of the year. I recognize this huge success that only 1% of the time I find myself wanting to stay in bed, drink too much wine, sit and ignore the world. I’m living that 1% right now and I hate it.
I can blame the tumultuous housing market, our condo that is for sale at nearly half what we paid for it. We knew it was possible, but never realized how terrible the market truly tanked.
I could blame being cut back at work for economical reasons which ultimately makes me want to blame Obama and maybe Bush and also Hurricane Katrina.
I could blame Mother Nature for being a foul mouth bitch and bringing May Winter instead of Flowers that really pisses me right off.
I could blame my weight because HEY! Why not!?
I could blame the kids because they caused my tummy which subsequently made me less attractive and thus start working out more and create these bags under my eyes because I am entirely too tired and OHMYGOD I haven’t slept since 2003. Or something.
:: deep breath ::
Ultimately, I had a bad day. The kids pushed the wrong buttons and I am tired and cranky. I can see, already, the way things are looking up. The offer on the condo, the awesome opportunities of work coming, the house I’m thankful to lose my shit in and the bedrooms I can send my children to time out in.
But right now, I want to sit in Mommy Time Out. It’s the only quite spot left. And it offers wine.
How to not write like a douche Apr 28, 2010
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.
I started Weight Watchers last week possibly not a day too soon. Apr 25, 2010
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.
Sometimes you just have to laugh Apr 24, 2010
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!
Flinger FAQ Apr 21, 2010
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.
I asked for a barn.. I got a barn. Apr 18, 2010
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.