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 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.
The plight of the working mom Apr 14, 2010
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.
The Next Time I Move, It Will Be Via Tornado Apr 13, 2010
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.
My Very Own Jillian Michaels Apr 08, 2010
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.
Given the Ability to Fail Apr 05, 2010
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.
I’m a Libertarian, not an asshole Mar 31, 2010
I was at the gym a few days ago when this commercial came on. Maybe it was the hormones, maybe it was the stress of moving, maybe it is me being all “woman-like” but I started to tear up right there at minute 11 on the elliptical.
Shortly after, I went to the weight room and saw a little old lady shuffling her workout mat back to put it away. The woman could barely hold herself up, let alone this large green workout mat. I offered to take the mat and put it away for her. She thanked me.
It wasn’t too long after that I turned on the car and heard the craziness that is now our country. People hating white people and not calling it racism. People lashing out. Others telling people to give is their duty and others fighting being told what to do.
It’s at this point that I realized, regardless of my political affiliate, I’m still not an asshole, no matter who you think I may or may not vote for.
I’m just a little bit sick and gottayam tired of people placing everyone is boxes. Little boxes made of ticky-tacky. I’m tired of hyprocicy. I’m tired of name calling. I’m tired of empty promises. I’m tired of the misunderstanding that spans the isle and I’m tired of people assuming.
I’m a Libertarian. Not an asshole.
I believe less government is a good thing. I want to decide ON MY OWN that McDonalds is not healthy, to select businesses with models I agree with, to let my decision effect and change the world, not the government. I want to see change and I want to see others helping each other, not because Big Boss Man said so, but because we are raised with the core belief to respect human life, however different from you that may be.
I want to see healthy discussion. I want to see honesty. I want to see a world where opinions matter and are not immediately deflected. I want to see my children become people who will accept a large variation of lifestyles not because the government mandates it so, but because I teach them we are different and that is OK. I want them to acknowledge and accept change while understanding core principals. I want them to love people for who they are not who they profess to be.
I want my son to be allowed to be a boy. To play too rough, to jump in puddles, to sleep in the dirt. I want a school system that encourages learning of all types and does not shelter nor prevent any one child from being more than another.
I believe competition is healthy. Striving for something better, to be a part of something more, is a part of growing up.
I believe failure is OK. I believe failing teaches lessons and without failure, there is no growth.
I do not believe it is the governments job to prevent that failure, or that growth.
I’m the kind of girl that will pick up your baby’s sock if he/she kicks it off when you’re walking. All I want in return? A smile and a thank you. I’m the lady that will stop to let you in if I haven’t been cut off six times since two blocks ago. All I request is a nod and a wave. I’m the lady who you are calling a racist, a homophobe, a biggot. All I want is a chance to discuss, ask questions, admit I have no answers.
I am the lady who will see a lesbian couple linking arms and think how awesome love is, and how we all need our very own person, whatever package that comes in. And I do not want to be judged for that thought. I’m the gal who hates being called racist simply because of my skin color. That, alone, is racist, is it not? Determining my opinion of you because of your skin color based on my own skin color, well, that’s just fucked up.
I’m the programmer who is humble enough to shrug. I’m the woman who will admit she needs help. I am the mom who knows my children will not understand or respect every decision I make but who strives to make decisions based solely on the fact that I make them out of love and in the belief they are the best for this minute for my children.
I’m someone who believes in small business, who has faith that the system allows each to rise to their inner potential, who strives to let free market be truly free. I’m the person who is consistently shouting hands off to most all things government. I’m the lady who believes jobs will cure an economy, put strength in people’s hearts and a backbone to this nation.
I am honest to a fault. I am torn by two parties. I am not an asshole.
I’m a Libertarian.
Drishti Mar 26, 2010
Life is chaotic now. I knew the change was coming but you can never fully prepare for it. It’s like a pregnant mother waiting for the birth of her child. She hears all of you telling her to “sleep while you can” and “Woahboy, your first, hu? Big change is coming!” but those words are simply words. They are not experiences until she is in the midsts of it, and then it is irrelevant.
Words can be meaningless.
Or they can change your world.
The other day my Yoga instructor kept telling us to find our Drishti. Drishti, I repeated in my mind. Drishti. I knew she was telling us to find our focus. Our point of concentration. I looked up the meaning and found this definition: “Drishti is the focus of the eyes in meditation. This is the focal point where one’s gaze lies to attain concentration alignment, and inner and outer balance. One actually does this to prevent distractions, but should be looking inwardly and not concentrate on the physical object. This could be the tip of your nose or in between your eyebrows, depending on your yoga pose.” (source)
“This is the focal point where one’s gaze lies to attain concentration alignment, and inner and outer balance. One actually does this to prevent distractions.”
I am a very distracted woman right now. I need to find my Drishti.
With the chaos at home, there is no zen. With the lack of Internet, work is sporadic at best. With the children in unrest, life is constant soothing, meeting their needs, not finding time to put their beds together because WHERE IS THE HARDWARE IT WAS IN THE BOX ZOMG.
Life… lacks Drishti.
So I find this word as powerful as the act itself. “Drishti.” I start planning ways to focus. I find ways to balance. I shift a bit left, a little right, a new list here, a meeting there. I work to re-compartmentalize my life in ways I can find peace and harmony.
And in the mean time, I remind myself words are only words until you are in the middle of the experience, however difficult that may seem.