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.
You shouldn’t have to think this early on a Monday, but… Apr 23, 2007
This weekend we did some of the “to do” items from the “before our lives change and never really go back” list. We finally did some small things like put up the ties for the blind-pulls so the toddler doesn’t end up strangled while we ignore her to feed the baby. We re-arranged their closet to fit all of CB’s new baby things. We got the stuff to stain the diaper changing station and a few other home projects that we’ve neglected. Just having marked off several list items made me feel like this little man actually might fit in our tiny house.
But there’s an item on my list that I really am not good at. It’s something I’ve confessed here before. I have “make dinners and place in freezer” on my list. But Internet? I don’t know what dinners to make. Or what would freeze well. Or what will fit in the freezer with the two-farking- turkeys that are STILL there from Thanksgiving. (That’s right, Internet. Anyone up for Turkey dinner in about four days? Gawd.) So, if you have some ideas on what *I* might be able to cook and freeze that might come out decent, I’d be happy to hear them.
And you remember those neighbors I told you about? I’ll test out one of those recipes on them, too. Because there’s nothing like “hey! I make shitty food!” to really get you on the right foot when you’ve been spying on the people with the new baby.
How weird is this? Apr 16, 2007
Not that we’re peeping Flingers or anything, we aren’t. It’s just that our tiny townhouse is crammed in with a bunch of other tiny townhouses. Which means One could, potentially, look out the window and see in to about seventeen other people’s tiny townhouses, if One was to look. And, should One not close the blinds on the stairs, One would see a family just across the street who recently set up a crib in the spare room giving One the conclusion that One was right when One thought the gal looked pregnant walking to the mailbox.
One is getting a bit confused here.
So, our neighbors were gone for a few days and, being the stellar observer that I am, I turned to Mr. Flinger and said, “I was right! I was right! They’re out having a baby! I bet you money! MUHAHAHAHA!” (Read in a snotty tone while doing a really obscene dance because I am almost NEVER right. Ahem.) He says something about “not spying on our neighbors” and how “you really shouldn’t assume someone is pregnant just because they’re heavy,” and something else equally as man-ish. Meanwhile, I’m jirating on the floor because there’s another new baby next door and I WILL MAKE THEM MY FRIENDS! or something less crazy sounding.
I’m fully aware misery loves company. I know this because just today at story time, another mom of a five month old and a two year old told me horror stories of raising two babies in a two bedroom house. I say a few positive things, “Yea, we thought of that. We’re just hoping it works out ok…” I turn to Michelle with an “Oh, dear god, save me” look, which she did, but only after my wavering spirit was crushed to bits and I vowed to find the largest cork-screw known to man and shove it up my vajaja so this child will never come out, no! he will never. come. out.
As it is, I don’t know our neighbors any more than I know the chick from the library. I run the risk of being That Chick, the one with a toddler who was a collicy baby and gassy and full of sleepless months, full of bad stories of first time parenting. Or, I can be That Chick who brings over dinner and says congratulations, I don’t want to stay too long, but if you need anything we’re right over here and will be in your shoes shortly. I’d love to be That Chick, the latter one, the one that makes cookies for her neighbors that just moved in and the ones who just brought home a tiny person only two months older than our newest family member.
But I don’t need to be That Chick that weirds out her neighbors with the binoculars and the fake camo. I’m just not sure which Chick they’d think I was.
Herding Buffalo Mar 22, 2007
I have this disease Mr. Flinger calls “Herding Buffalo.” It usually occurs when life is in complete chaos and there is little time for anything. It usually happens when an idea enters my busy brain and suddenly it can’t get out. The single idea turns in to fifty things that need to be done RIGHT! NOW! and suddenly there is the sound of herding buffalo in my head.
Right now, I have Herding Buffalo.
I last got Herding Buffalo when we were moving to Seattle. It came up often during the moving process, since moving is a bit stressful, especially moving states and jobs. Instead of writing a list of simple things such as “Sell House. Get rid of Crap. Buy House. Get moving truck. Move.” I started getting dizzy with details. Once the “sell house” entered my head, I was crazy with lists of things we had been meaning to do for two years. “Fix stairs in backyard to playhouse” “get rid of dog pot-holes” “plant flowers” “re-landscape!” “Add on second story!” “Have roof replaced!!”
Each item gets louder and bigger. Each item grows from necessity to complete obscenity. Each time there is another buffalo and suddenly I’m crying under the kitchen sink because OH MY GOD THERE IS SO MUCH WE HAVE TO DO. Mr. Flinger would look at me and say, “I have “sell house” on my list. That’s. It.”
Sometimes I wish I was a simple man.
I make todo lists. This is not a huge shocker since I’m anal and bit compulsive. I like a clean house. I like bills paid on time. I like things neat and done and marked off the list. The first item on my list? “MAKE TO DO LIST”. It’s instant gratification. As soon as I’ve done my list, I have something to mark off.
Right now my list is longer than Santa’s. “Grade things, Do dishes, Respond to email…” it’s dull and long and makes my brain spiral in to, “Paint kitchen” “Re-sand diaper changing table” “Add shelves to hallway!” “GET NEW CAR!” It spirals out of control until I have “MOVE FROM TINY TOWNHOUSE” in big bold letters underlined at the bottom.
Like that’s going to happen.
I’m working on priorities. I’m working on those items that actually have a deadline versus those items that pop up simply because I’m flustered. I’m working on breathing while accomplishing a task or two and knowing that my todo list might not get finished each day but it’s an ongoing project.
And most of all, I’m trying to not be angry at myself when I hear the Herding Buffalo. Instead, I’m trying to let them run, roam a bit, and realize that I really can wrangle them back in. I just stay out of their way for now. I know they don’t last forever.
When God Speaks Feb 26, 2007
Or rather, when the Blog Gods slay you. I’ve talked before about why I’m glad God is not a blogger. I’m going to assume God is out there doing more useful things instead of ignoring her/his children and putting in Elmo for the tenth time that day. I’d like to pretend God does not tune me out when his/her website goes wonky or when there is a deadline for work. I’d like to think God never drops me off at day care or leaves me to nap on cots three inches off the floor while she/he grabs a latte.
But sometimes that God is a hardass. Sometimes when she says, “Thou shalt not blog” and one particular person goes, “Oh yea? You wanna watch?” like the inner-two-year-old she is, God will lay-ith the smackdown on the site. God and my website have been in the ring for a week now duking it out. I’m really not sure who’s winning. I will say, though, my website is taking a few hits pretty hard. She’s a site for sore eyes, I tell ya.
About a month ago, I crawled in to bed and asked Mr. Flinger how long I expected to keep up this website. How long did I think people would want to read about our pathetic sex life or my musings of motherhood. I asked him what I will do when we have this other baby. I pestered him to tell me to stop. I wanted him to tell me I’m a much better person when I’m not blogging. That blogging is interfering with our lives and I really need to cut it out. He didn’t. Instead he told me to post about our sex life as much and as often as I wanted to. “You laugh more when you blog,” he replied. “Personally I don’t need our family reading about my sex life but on the other hand, you seem to need to write and that’s on your mind so write about it. Laugh about it. Don’t stop.”
I was shocked.
All these years I forced him to read an entry here or there. “Read this,” I’ll say. It’s a theme in our house; me posting about him and then asking him to read it. He’ll laugh, because he gets me, turn away and say, “That’s a good one.” Either he’s being extremely insincere or he really doesn’t care that I write about us. “US” as a topic, which so many of you can relate to. “US” as parent. “US” as individuals lost in our own goo of parenting and work. Somewhere in there, blogging helped me remember we are “US”.
Then shit went down and I started to write a list of reasons I thought the Universe was yelling at me to stop. I actually started a list. I’m really that anal. I’d scan it for you but really, it’s a lot of BLAHBLAHBLAH All- Those- Things- Each- Of- You- Ask- Yourselves- Every- Effing- Night- Before- You- Hit- Post. I just never think before I hit post and I started to think one day and couldn’t turn it off. Then there was the near death experience. The realization that moments after almost getting swiped to the Netherlands I think, “Oh, I’ll have to blog about that…” There was the pathetic realization that I am blessed beyond the computer, beyond a metaphor for real life. I was actually blessed. In. Real. Life.
And I tossed and turned and still have no answer. But the longer my site and God rack it out in the ring with slow-loading-pages and DNS issues, the more I’m feeling it’s a sign.
And I thought I didn’t believe in signs.
Oprah and Bon-Bons (or, why I suck at being a WAHM) Feb 24, 2007
Anyone else feel like you’re treading under water? Grey’s Anatomy aside here, we’re all drowning in snot and a megga slow server. I swear I’ve tried to update only to get a “page loading” message for, oh, more than the .2 nanoseconds that I have patience to wait so I close my browser and decide my site hates me. No, it’s not you, it’s me. It’s the snot. It’s the fever. It’s the holy-hell-sinus-pressure-that-I-can-only-take-farking-saline-spray-for (!?) and the other things the Internet was telling me you don’t need to hear about.
Being sick is boring as hell, y’all.
Whilst laying around for days (as in five) trying to get the She Child to just not kick mommy in the belly and let me sleep while she plays with knives and electrical outlets (at the same time), it never occurred to me to turn on Oprah. Y’all, I’m home almost every day at 4pm, the heralded Oprah hour around the country, and to this day I’ve seen Oprah about 6 times ever. That includes a few times that I tuned in on accident when trying to flip to a Sesame Street on TiVo.
I don’t dislike her. Except that I do. I didn’t realize I felt anything for Oprah until Thursday night when I watched the stars interviewing each other about the Oscars. Julia Roberts? So my kind of gal. George Clooney? Hot. Ovbiously. Hot and hilarious and I don’t mind telling you that shortly thereafter I went upstairs and begged my husband to put out, what in my sexy snot-o-mania voice and all. But the Operah portion of the Oprah show is a tad bit.. much.. for me. For some unknown reason, she gets under my skin and crawls around like a dung beetle wearing too much mascara. Runny mascara, maybe. Maybe she’s born with it? Maybe it’s too much plastic surgery.
Mr. Flinger asked me if I ever watched Oprah during the day. I laughed, said “all the time, beyotch! While eating bon-bons and stuffing my bra, duh.” Then I wondered why I don’t. Why don’t I like Oprah? What has she ever done to me? I like that she’s out there doing good in the world and spreading the luff. All good for her and those who watch. And if you watch, I am not judging you in the least. Instead, I’m wondering what the hell is wrong with me that I can’t seem to get behind someone with so much influence, for the better even, on working and stay at home people everywhere.
Maybe my heart is stone. Or maybe my kid is too busy to watch an hour talk show in the middle of the day. Or maybe Jamie is right, women are more in to blogging than watching TV. Either way, I think I’d prefer reading Sweatpants Mom‘s version of Oscar Night. And as far as Bon Bons and Day Time TV, well, I’ll have to get back to you on that one. As soon as I figure out what a Bon Bon is.
Sometimes I’m heroic, mostly I’m just “ick”. Feb 11, 2007
It’s really not what you think. I’m really not off contemplating The World At Large and finding solutions to global hunger and poverty. No. I’m actually knee deep in grading and laundry and baby-nesting and am not here right now blogging. You don’t see me. See? Not here. But maybe in a week or so I will be able to breathe and have that feeling of accomplishment when I actually got something finished and remembered that I’m blessed and happy and whole. Right now I don’t feel very whole so I’m off finding wholeness while I work.
If that makes any sense at all. And if it doesn’t? Well, it’s ok because it doesn’t to me either.
I got an email today alerting me to the fact that someone nominated my very unlikely blog in The Bobs. (Someone from the Mom group, I think? I suspect as much..) Anywho, I’m not ungrateful or anything, I swear. It’s so sweet. Really, made me all warm and giddy inside like the lovely fudge brownie I fed CB an hour ago. (YUM… Brownie…. Which is probably why I already look like this at 22 weeks… But I digress…) It’s just that I believe I’m not qualified since I have just a little over the alloted daily visitors. (I have no clue why you people come back and listen to me rant about things but I love you for it.) And that’s ok, I think the new blogs just getting started deserve some love, too. As well as all of these blogs, no matter how big or little. So thanks, really, but please run and nominate a few other bloggers who have wonderful blogs and are amazing writers and who don’t post about their small mental breakdowns; Or if they do, it’s so beautiful and well written, you kind of want to have a mental breakdown with them.
I’m up for company if you’re in to that.
Oh My God, I am the “Days of our Lives” of blogland Feb 05, 2007
Let’s say, hypothetically, that you used to read this website and then stuff happened and you didn’t get to read much. Then you came back and Lo! I was STILL posting about my sex-life (and lack-there-of) and how my child still isn’t sleeping. I’m like a really bad soap opera minus the hot men and women that can’t act but have so much Botox their eyes pop when they smile.
I tuned in, briefly, during Jr. High to Days of Our Lives when I would visit my friend Mercy at her house in the summer. She was a complete DOUL addict and would watch it religiously. Then I grew up, went to college, and had roommates that watched it. The first time I came walked in on them watching DOUL, the exact same characters were in the exact same predicament. They seemingly aged “three days” in the course of 12 years.
I used to wish my life was like that. Now I realize it is. In the worst possible way.
It’s been almost two years since I started this website with a post about my boobs. I then followed it up quickly with the time I peed on a use pregnancy test and completely freaked out. Remember that? Oh, gawd, how did you forget? Then I wrote about how we never have s.e.x and how clueless I am with a tweezer.
And does any of that sound remotely familiar?
If I can’t take drugs, at least one of us better Feb 01, 2007
Small note to poison control: Obviously if I’m calling you because I’m afraid my child had a double dose of cough medicine, I am not one to dope her up regularly. And yes, of course the medicine is up in a cabinet that she can not reach. Who am I? Britney Spears? No, obviously I was standing right there with her when she pulled a fast one and grabbed the bottle and started chugging it like the fans at an Aerosmith concert. And is it really necessary to ask me if she’s actually sick? Because no, of course she’s not, I just need a few hours and thought a double dose would take care of the nap-strike she’s on.
Suddenly it didn’t seem like a bad idea. I mean, if I can’t take drugs one of us should. And, well, she *does* have a runny nose.
Am I the only one slightly giddy at the sight of a runny nose because that means *maybe* she will nap today?
Am I the only one that then gets flaming pissed off when she continues to jump in her crib and yell for an hour when she doesn’t nap?
I know she needs The Nap. She is one cranky mofo without it and I’m a little worse for wear when the mister arrives home. Also, there is work. They actually pay me to log in and help people learn things. And then there are the bills and that garbage that makes our house smell like butt.
Somewhere along the way, I also have to grow a kid. Which is seeming to be more and more elusive these days. Kid? What kid? We’re doing this again?
So, see, it’s not that I’m a bad mom. I’m just… hopeful ... when she gets a little sick that maybe her body needs rest. Maybe she’ll take a nap. Maybe I can have two hours to myself this afternoon.
Then again, maybe pigs will fly out my ass.
If there’s ever a question Jan 24, 2007
Our kids are images of our inner selves. I noted that in the past, when I saw so much of my own personality in her. But now that she’s older, I see how much of our mannerisms, our quirky characteristics and our obsessive/compulsive behaviors rub off on these impressionable little people.
Here I have documented the color coding our two year old has recently taken to. One day, blue became Daddy’s, red became LB’s and everything green became Mommy’s. We try to ask her what color the baby gets but her head spins in circles, her eyes glaze over and she starts to drool. We try to persuade her in to mixing up the colors and handing the wrong color to the other person but she’s way to bright for that. (Is it bright? Or anal like mommy?) And, in the end, she not only catches me asking for coffee, but steers me toward water. Then my choice is milk? Or water?
Not that she hears that all day long.
*note: There’s an uncut version on the podcast site. I just figured some of you nice people might have other things to do with your time than watch our home movies. No? Swell. I made popcorn.
My secret super hero power Jan 16, 2007
If I was a Super Hero, I’d be super anxiety gal. I’d probably wear yoga pants because this 19-weeks-pregnant ass should never be crammed in to spandex, but I’d surely have a cape and probably a wrist-watch thing that could read the future and comfortable shoes.
Not that I’ve given this much thought or anything.
See, I have this secret power in which I take my worst fear and turn it in to reality. Lately, I’ve noticed how much more afraid I am when I’m pregnant. I’m afraid something is going to be wrong with the baby. I’m afraid my husband will die and not be here to see this baby grow in to a person and want to borrow the car and get witty and crass. I’m afraid the cough my daughter has will spread in to some horrible virus and she’ll die well before we ever really appreciate all she can do or be.
I know you think I’m really off my rocker here, but it gets worse.
When I am pregnant, I have the ability to take some random passing thought I may have under normal circumstance and turn it in to reality. For example: My thought process can quickly turn from, “I haven’t heard from Mr. Flinger to know if he’s going to stay late tonight. .... I wonder how the ride to work was this morning? It WAS icy… I wonder if he ended up in the ditch.. OH MY GOD, there was an accident on the freeway this morning. That was my husband. SOMEONE CALL ME! My husband is dead! What will I do? I’m shaking now, I gotta call the police.” Just about then he calls and says he’s on his way home and I forget I went clinically insane for thirty seconds.
Or like when I’m rocking my daughter and her snotty nose before bed and she’s biting her binki because she can’t breathe through her nose and there’s a suck/bite/suck/bite pattern as she tries to soothe herself to sleep. I think to myself, “if she bites the tip of the binki off, she’ll probably choke on the end. That thing could be lodged in her throat and I’d find her dead by morning. We have got to wean her off that baby-killing-binki! Why does she still have it? Baby Killers! Those damn binki manufacturers! BABY KILLERS!”
Then I go up four times to check on her and make sure she’s still alive and quietly move the binki to the other side of the crib. Like I said. Clinically insane, I’m sure.
It’s not that I’m like this all the time. In fact, the reason I can make fun of myself is that this is so far from who I really am. I’ve jumped from an airplane at 18,000 feet. I’ve climbed a mountain. I’ve moved across the country leaving my mom and dad six states behind to take a job in a place promising a new life. So this girl that can’t let one tiny thought go without obsessing is someone I’m not really a fan of. Unless she can get in with Spider Man. That would make Super Anxiety Girl a little worth it.