Mrs. Flinger: Blog

Summers of my youth were filled with sunny, sticky hot days, swimming parties, bike rides, and friends. Houston weather, relentlessly suppressing, choked your lungs with moisture. Us kids would ride around, ignoring the heat, to each other’s houses like mormons on mission. We would bike everywhere, arriving sweaty, sticky, and breathless ready to play and repeat the entire process.

This summer, as an adult, I’m able to re-live that experience. Or, at least in my own way, reminisce about it.

One of my best friends lives 3.6 miles away. I’ve always been fortunate to have friends near, but this is especially helpful when shit goes down for a dear friend. It’s nice to be able to be close, to have the option of hopping on my bike on my lunch break and literally riding to my friend’s house in 15 minutes or so, just like I did as a child.

Even if those are a hard, hilly, hot, sweaty, sticky fifteen minutes. (This is where I say, “That’s what she said.”) (And you all laugh.)

*Wobly 55 second clip of the process. minus the part where I stopped to fix my pedal or where I walked my bike up a huge-ass hill. Dudes. It’s a fucking big hill, don’t judge.

I wanted to get my friend something that says, “I’m sorry your body is an asshole and didn’t grow your baby correctly. Fucking babies. Always making their own decisions, anywho. Well, FUCK THE BABIES. Stupid fucking uterus,” but do you know how hard that is to find at Target?

PEOPLE.

There are cards for dead pets and not for dead embryos. What. The. Hell.

I happen to know, from experience, the only thing that really helps during a miscarriage is some kleenex, chocolate, and alcohol. And maybe a lovely smutty magazine or two.

So that’s what I got. The miscarriage basket.

I made my own card, though, because Hallmark is well behind the times of “Kick Mother Nature in the crotch and spit on the ground” cards. Seriously, there’s a market for this.

Perhaps I’ll start one.

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We moved in to this house five months ago. Six? Five. No, Four and a half, wait…

Like I said, we moved in to this house a few months ago. The oven? Does not work. I think it turned on once, sputtered, threw out some smoke and never turned on again. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when this happened. No, actually, I was a little tiny bit glad. We, thankfully, have a home warranty purchased by a fabulous real-estate gal here in town, so I knew at least we’d have some sort of compensation, chance at recovery.

Did I mention that was six months ago? Or a year? Ten? I forget. Feels like a long time now.

This weekend we went to finalize some Oven Shopping. There is nothing more “home-owner” than going OVEN SHOPPING. I don’t even care that much, people. I don’t care, except that once I started looking in to ovens do you know that I DO CARE? There are BTUs! And number-of-burners! And convection! And Stainless vs Shiny Black! And and and…

I found one at Home Depot that wasn’t too fancy, not too plain, and looked exactly practical enough that I loved it. It had a SIMMER spot in addition to the four burners. SIMMER. Dudes? I can simmer. That, I can do.

So I decided that was it. IT! Just like that I made a choice and VIOLA.

Except we had to go shopping because nevereverever settle on your first choice, so I’ve been told.

Five stores, six hundred and twenty ovens later, we went back to home depot to get the oven I picked out originally. The one I just knew was it.

I’m telling you, there’s an analogy in here somewhere.

Or a children’s book

Here she is: The newest member of the family. Ain’t she a bute.

God, really, now is the time to tell me: “THIS IS AN OVEN OHEMGEE. Get a puppy, we’ll care.”

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