8 Ways to be a Good Customer (and avoid the bad juju)

Ahh the joys of customer service. *she says as an involuntary twitch travels over her left cheekbone.*

I suppose this vocation needs no real introduction because all of us, at some point in our lives, have probably partook in such means of work.

Except, maybe that’s not true. Maybe, there is a portion of human beings who have never had to take an order, clean up after someone or do anything remotely of the sort. Because, correct me if I’m wrong here, I feel like if everyone knew what it was like to work in customer service, well, there just wouldn’t be as many delusional asshat customers as there are.

But that’s not the way we humans work is it? I’m as bad as the next guy. Just a few weeks ago I was a total jackass to the cashier at the gas station because they had changed their pumps to prepay and they hadn’t thought to reach out personally to me and let me know this vital information in advance.

Why did I feel the need to stomp around like a friggen maniac because I had to go in the store and pay before pumping my gas? Now looking back it was outrageous of me and I hope to God that the gas-bar attendant got a good laugh in at me on account of my temporary insanity.

However, I received all of that bad juju and more in karma today at work. It was pretty much a day from hell. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. I need me some redemption, I need to make things right again in the universe. I can’t deal with anymore “hell-days” so I’m here to right my wrongs.  

So here it is. Redemption.

A list. Because everyone loves lists.

8 Ways to be a Good Customer (and avoid the bad juju):

  1. When entering a business location if greeted, it is wise to greet back in a friendly/polite manner…as is, and has always been the social norm since, well, pretty much forever ago. When one does not greet back it is awkward and makes actually no sense at all; leaving the greeter to conclude that they must be in the midst of a total fucking chode-monster.
  2. Do not, under really any circumstances, ask the person behind the register if, “anything is good here.” It’s a completely senseless question. Like, I’m not sure what you expect the answer to be but in pretty much every scenario, whether it’s an employee/owner/volunteer, they are probably going to tell you that the product is good. Even if it is some little shit employee, they aren’t risking their job to tell you all the gruesome truths and malevolent corporate secrets of this establishment. Sorry to break it to you, but nobody is going to think twice about spewing out some rehearsed line, “of course it’s good…Everything is good here at Daisy Dukes Dildo Shack.” So save everyone a lot of weirdness and just don’t ask and judge for yourself.
  3. This one is more for just the food service industry so it pretty much involves everyone on the face of the planet. Do not, I repeat DO NOT, go into an eatery during lunch/dinner to inquire about anything other than eating right then and there. No, they do not want to hear about your cutting edge new knife product. No, they are not interested in your organic vegetables. NO, they cannot give you a minute of their time. Why you ask? Because they are balls to the walls busy with people who are actually spending money at their establishment. Try again in the downtime…or don’t, nobody cares.
  4. Do not treat a cashier any different than you would treat the owner of a business. Plain and simple.
  5. Many of us like to talk about only eating and shopping locally. It’s great. It’s actually fantastic because it is a community minded way to be. I applaud you for that. The thing is, when you shop/eat locally that often means you are doing so at tiny Mom and Pop businesses. Sure they may have fantastic food and yeah, I bet every lunch hour that you go in there they are just hopping busy. That doesn’t mean (even in the slightest) that they can afford employees. So, before offering your breadth of knowledge just know that the last ten customers probably said the same, “looks like you need to do some hiring” spiel before you. And despite the general consensus of these people who have never come close to seeing the financial books of this establishment, unfortunately, that doesn’t make their suggestions even a little bit more attainable.
  6. Sometimes businesses run out of stock. Don’t argue with the staff about it. If they are out they are out. No amount of “well this is ridiculous!” will change that.
  7. If you notice a customer in front of you being a right ol’ bag-O-dicks to the cashier, please by all means, say something. It is in fact your business as a human being to stop the blatant verbal abuse that customer service people endure daily. Be the difference.
  8. If you’re sort of shy and non-confrontational, that’s okay too, once the cashier has so aptly moved the smacktard on his way, show the person behind the till your solidarity by rolling your eyes and saying quietly, “what a jive ass turkey that slime ball was” and then promptly pull yourself out of the 70’s and continue on with your day.


Heed these words my friends! And know that out there somewhere there is a retired front desk associate wearing an avenger’s shirt that is two times too small bottling up karma, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to throw it in the face of some twittlefuck who has told off his last cashier.

In other words, the bad juju’s a bitch, and she’s coming for ya.



Paninis & Writing

There is one thing you need to know before you carry on reading this little thing of mine. One thing that may or may not change your thoughts on whether this relationship of ours is going to go any further. One thing that might indeed change EVERYTHING.

Well this is awkward, it seems I’ve amped it up so much that I can never make it sound as awesome as it needs to.

So here it is: right now at this point in my life I have exactly three things on my brain. My kids well-being, the panini palace and writing.

A while ago Sophie told me she wasn’t exactly fond of me writing all of these, she says “embarrassing” I say “adorable” stories about her. So I will respect her wishes and the tales of the children will have to be kept to a minimal. Which leaves us with paninis and writing.

Hence, if you choose to continue frequenting this account you will probably be reading about a whole shit-ton of misadventures which Jamie and I find ourselves getting into daily at the shop. That and my ridiculous obsession with pop culture, I will probably throw that in here somewhere too. Example, Vampires. Another example: my love for Mindy Kaling…She’s so fucking cool.

Ahem, allow me to paint you a little picture here.

It was lunch-rush and busier than we’ve ever been before. INSANITY to be exact. But good insanity. Exciting insanity. We were running into each other like chickens tend to when their heads get cut off except babbling back and forth so perhaps more like a pair of challenged baboons. I was panting for the love of God! Panting! I’m so out of shape.

Then everything froze.

Now everything did not actually freeze to be literal, it’s not like there was some kind of super natural force which actually stopped time or anything. This was more of an emotional freezing moment where I looked at my husband and this sandwich kingdom we have assembled and I couldn’t be more honoured to be in this thing with him. Like, how did I become so lucky to have found a partner who I can raise a family with but build a business alongside too? It is nothing short of a miracle.

Time jumps back to reality and Jamie runs past me clutching his hand. He returns to the line a few minutes later with his index finger wrapped up like a mummy and two clear plastic gloves on over top.

“Did you cut if off? Do you need stitches?” I ask with not a hint of yarn in my voice because my husband has literally cut off the tips of his fingers several times before in his career and had to get them sewn back on. So this was a serious and vital question at the time.

“No I just sliced it down the middle.” He said. Then we disinfected what needed disinfecting (becasue a restaurant is nothing without clean and proper health standards) and continued on with the lunch-rush because stopping just isn’t an option these days.

I’m not going to lie, it’s been a tough go of it lately. We are feeling the debt that we created when setting up the shop and it’s proved to be a lot more difficult than we anticipated to begin paying it down.

Of course, it’s all part of it. This is the big shebang of starting a business. Them’s the ropes, as they say. We get it. But if you’ve ever had debt hanging over you, if you’ve ever felt that suffocating fear of relying utterly and completely on your next day’s sales, your next week’s paycheque, I’m sure you can feel where we are coming from.

So today, this fantastic day that we were not expecting but eagerly hoped for had finally come! At one point as I slid in beside my husband on the line and poured a bowl of soup we caught each other’s eyes. He looked at me and smiled this smile that just said, “I may have just sliced my finger open but that’s okay because we’re doing it! We are making this happen!” and it gave me a stomach full of butterflies.

It was a long day, twelve hours to be exact with even more paper work and planning to be done once I arrived home that evening. When they say starting a small business ain’t for the faint of heart, believe them, they wouldn’t lie to you. **I don’t know who “they” are but they sure know their shit.

When Jamie got home we cracked a couple of beers and talked about the day. It was in fact the busiest one we’ve had yet and despite our aching feet and weary brains it was our day! We had done it. Sure there were a few mishaps but we recovered. We moved forward and now are ready for another day, and that my friends, feels fabulous!




Early Morning Brain Activity

Well, here I am again. That didn’t last long did it? But, with me being the narcissistic and 100 percent self-absorbed human that I am, I mean really, how long did I expect it to last? So I am back at it. I’m back writing on this blog of epic proportions. It may not be often, it probably won’t be interesting in the slightest, but I’ve got to hear myself think once in a while. Decidedly, this is how I must do it.

So it’s 6 o’clock in the morning, I’m drinking my coffee with almond milk in it and it is probably the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. Hopefully it’s one of those creations that you get used to after a while becasue I’m trying to make “healthier” life choices right now. Or maybe I should just start drinking it black. Like my hair…and my soul.

Just kidding, my soul is grey at best. But it is well on its way. I blame this on two distinct things. One is working in customer service again. Don’t get me wrong, the people I love, I REALLY love—that, may have come off a little too strong, shall I go as far to say creepy? Probably.

We have these regulars that are pretty much the greatest people on the planet! I actually get excited when they walk through the door because I realise that for a mere moment in time I will be relieved of the shit-storm which is the customer service industry. Okay, okay that was dramatic.

But they are just so awesome compared to the horribly awful people that sometimes darken the door of our shop-I won’t go into detail in fear I will frighten you too much. But it makes me realise that nice people are something NOBODY should take for granted. You guys can quote me on this: Nice people are the nicest.

So I’m sure you get it, nice people are nice and rude people can go and suck some big fat monkey balls. Nutshell.

Uhhh what else, what else? *she says mentally sifting through the vast experiences and moral lessons she has had since turning off The Blogging Mama.

Well, I guess the two most important things would have to be that I still haven’t got any fiction work published (my reason for leaving in the first place) and I now have an unhealthy obsession with Vampires. Little late on the last one, kind of missed the boat there.

Which brings me back to my blackening soul. Reason number two for darkened soul: I’ve eagerly turned myself over to the popularly evil side of vampire enthralment. No I haven’t gotten myself wrapped into the whole Twilight mania. I’m more sophisticated than that you guys. I, ahem, have fallen madly and deeply into the grasps of a little production called “True Blood” and it is AMAZING.

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing with my life, and then I pretend that I’m on the run from evil fang wielding vampires and the good vampires have come to save me and then Jamie will turn into a vampire and we will have us some crazy human/vampire lovin’ and it will be glorious until all the crazy religious folk start coming at us because of our taboo Vamp/Human relationship.

And I realise that I am exactly where I need to be in this life.

So Friends, to sum up; still desperately trying to make my fiction work “a thing” (not to sound needy, who me? Never), I love nice people and really really dislike not nice people. I’m going to start writing on The Blogging Mama a bit more regularly than my former verdict of never again because I have a sever inability to stick with any decision I’ve ever made. And, if there is a vampire reading this I’d really like to meet you…But please don’t kill me.

Well, it’s been a slice folks.

And I’m sorry if you got through this post and are now thinking, “What a waste of the last fifteen minutes.”

Jokes on you if it took you fifteen minutes to read this.


Taking a Breather

Quickly I run the mouse over the red X in the right hand corner of the screen. If I am going to get anything done I have to pull myself away from the tantalizing grips of my Facebook world. As I watch the screen disappear I feel a momentary melancholy because all I really want to do right now is mindlessly scroll through a sea of Selfies and dumb political opinions. I don’t want to think, or read or have to conjure up anything from the foggy depths of my brain because I am just too damn tired for that.

It’s been about two weeks now since I’ve sat down at this computer and wrote anything at all. I force myself to put my fingers to the keyboard because whenever I happen to go this long without writing a sneaking fear begins to burrow its way into the better judgement section of my brain. What if I forget? What if I lose the ability to sling sentences? What if I lose interest in the art of wordsmithing altogether? What the hell then?!

As much as I don’t actually believe this will happen, there is a small part of me that will probably never let go of this completely irrational worry.

So here I am, writing. I don’t really know what to write about at this very moment but my hands seem to be clicking away at a good pace so I will just let them do the work I suppose.

Everything has been going pretty swell at the Panini factory. Our doors are open and every day we seem to be gaining more happy customers which is truly a beautiful thing. I think one of my favourite parts of this new adventure is meeting all of the people who walk through The Hot Wire’s doors.

A few have been back several times and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know that our little shop is a place that people just like hanging out. This is what Jamie and I always envisioned when we talked about opening The Hot Wire. Now, it is coming to fruition and we couldn’t be happier.

Of course it hasn’t all been a pleasure cruise. For the first few days we were pretty dead. Like I mean NOBODY new about us at all. Here I was thinking I was such a marketing wizard with my awesome Facebooking skills. What I’ve learnt about Facebook advertising is that a whole lot of people can “like” your page and that does not mean jack when it comes to them coming into your shop.

On grand opening day we were packed to the roof with prep and bread from the hordes of people we imagined would be fighting each other (literally just destroying each other) to get a mere taste of our sandwiches. In reality we had about ten costumers. It was not very glorious at all. So in the days to follow Jamie and I would be mentally willing the people who walked past the front of our shop to pop their head in and take a whiff of the delicious treats we had on display.

Now, by “mentally willing” I actually mean awkwardly staring down anyone who came near our doors as we wore ridiculously large smiles and expectant expressions on our faces. We were probably scaring more people away than anything. I would have been scared.

However a few humans did brave the weird vibe we were giving off and ended up loving the food. This is exactly why you shouldn’t judge an oddball book by its cover people!!

And there it began, the infamous word-of-mouth advertising. Seriously it works like a charm!

Each day our numbers are growing. We are becoming more confident in this huge endeavour we’ve taken on. And damn does that ever feel good!


The Trusted Words of a Friend

In my experience, the humans who run in my usual circle of friends do not seem to like the idea of me writing stories about their personal lives. Weird, right?! Since my literary debut I’ve had a plethora of acquaintances utter the words, “this better not go in your column Lindsay” on several different occasions. So I’ve come to accept the fact that I simply cannot use the real names of the people I write about.

None of this however applies to my friend Janelle. We’ve been through way too much together to worry about details like that.


Janelle and I have been friends for longer than Justin Beiber has been alive. We endured all of the embarrassing moments of puberty side by side. We’ve fought over idiotic things. We’ve cried together for no reason at all and nearly wet our pants during adolescent laugh attacks (who am I kidding we were well into our twenties and still peeing our pants laughing at one another). We were there for each other’s pregnancies and the aftermath of birth. We have surpassed many of the milestones that lifelong friends ought to.  I’ve always been the eccentric one that on occasion tends to blow run of the mill situations sky high. And she is the reasonable one who usually pulls me back to earth.


So a few weeks ago when I had had a headache for three consecutive days I decided to phone her to dictate my Last Will and Testament. Yes, I had one foot securely plunged in the grave. The doctor I had spoke to about the situation told me that if the migraine meds that had been prescribed did not work our next course of action would be a CT scan—to rule out a brain tumor. Well, obviously this was not my usual doctor and she did not realize my, I’m going to be kind and say “slight” case of, hypochondriac tendencies.

I literally wrote out the first paragraph of my own obituary. It was good. You would have cried.

“Stop being stupid, you’re just getting old.” Maybe those weren’t Janelle’s exact words, perhaps she was a tad nicer (probably not) but you get the gist. I proceeded to tell her my entire list of woes and exactly why I thought I was probably going to die of a brain tumor or meningitis or some other fatal brain related doom. How could Jamie raise the kids alone? How could he handle work and our full time school and extracurricular schedule? What about Sophie’s particular hair-do requests? What would become of mine and Lars’ wacky breakfast conversations? What of the hopes and dreams for the future that I may never get to witness!?

“Look, you probably just need a massage.” Might I add Janelle is a massage therapist. Sometimes I think she thinks that massage will solve ALL of life’s problems and this was one of those particular times. I didn’t want to hear that a massage would relieve all my fears of an untimely death; I wanted her to wallow with me in my preconceived misery!

“But the doctor said…”

“There are tons of reasons that could cause a headache. Book a massage and if it doesn’t help you at all then you can start to worry.”

So I booked a massage. And yes if you were picturing me to be that awkward first-timer who asks if they need to take of “all” their clothes and then proceeded to make inappropriate and very unfunny jokes throughout the entire process then you are pretty much right on the money.

But after it was done, my headache was considerably less. My back felt better even though I didn’t know it was hurting in the first place. I have now been back to the massage therapist several times and the headaches are almost all gone and for all intents and purposes I now know where they were coming from in the first place. I am indeed getting older and a combination of dreadful posture and a bit of stress has managed to wreak havoc on my upper back and shoulders.

So I suppose what I’m trying to say is that it’s beneficial to have those levelheaded comrades in our life. And if Lars and Sophie inherit this particular worrywart trait of mine then I will have to make sure they have a few friends like Janelle around. Because everyone needs that special someone in life who’s not afraid to tell you you’re simply getting old.


Picture Day; why you do this to me?

Parenthood is a constant learning curve. With each milestone achieved comes a thousand and fifty one mind-numbing lessons on how it could have went smoother.

Once again I had stumbled blindly into the vast pit of things I still don’t understand about parenting.

It was picture day at Sophie’s school. The night before I dreamed luminously of my darling daughter in an adorable sweater dress with an adorable smile from ear to ear. Buoyant, and of course, adorable ringlets flowing down from her adorably tiny scalp. She was going to look- you guessed it- adorable.

I wasn’t worried at all about the day. I had endured picture days before with Lars and it had always gone swimmingly. I actually felt like one of those perfect champion mothers who love all things parenting…Well, when it came to picture day at least- I was a freaken Pinterest Mama.

Upon waking that morning Sophie wanted her hair done immediately. Uh uh uh but I knew better. Sophie’s school doesn’t begin until 1 in the afternoon so her hair I would start by 11 and she sure wouldn’t be putting said sweater dress on until after lunch. M’lady can be a wee bit boorish when it comes to consuming her beloved KD.

I had it all figured out.

So when 11 o’clock rolled around I whipped out the flat iron and began to curl the girl’s tresses. I was quick like The Flash speedily twirling the iron through her locks creating a plethora of beautiful curls flowing down her tiny neck. The prophesied adorableness was coming to fruition, and I could not have been more contented.

As I finished she looked up at me then into the mirror then back at me and said in the sweetest of voices, “Thank you Mama, I love it!” She then ran off to the living room to show her big bro. As she flitted away a fleeting thought about how I never had to worry about Lars` short cut hair on picture days buzzed through my mind.

I disregarded it though, because someone as awesome as me when it came to picture days shouldn`t worry about such things.

I was in the midst of creating a tweet about how picture-day-amaze-balls I am when I heard Lars let out a deafening scream.

I ran to the living room just in time to hear Lars say, “NO SOPH! MOM IS GOING TO BE SO ANGRY!!”

There was Sophie ferociously worming head first into a huge pile of cushions and blankets. It was as though I could see the static electricity snapping around her cranium as whispers of ‘all for nothing’ and ‘you suck at picture day’ zipped through the air.

“NOOOOOOO! What the hell are you doing?” I screamed so loud that I could feel the sour looks of judgement that I’m sure were coming from the passerby’s outside of my home.

Sophie popped her head out of her makeshift mountain, looked at me innocently and smiled. It was the same smile that we had been practicing earlier that morning. That very smile demolished any ounce of cockiness about picture day I had left.

I looked at the clock. We had t-minus 45 minutes until the school day began. I didn’t know whether this was a good thing or bad. More time for me to fix the hair but also more time for her to fuck it up again. We were at an impasse. A hair stalemate if you will. I knew I had to make my move despite what the consequence would be.

I re-curled. The two of us in the bathroom would have been a sight to see. Me bawling for all of my hard work put to waste and her bawling because she realized she must sit in the bathroom for another 15 minutes while I completed the task. Plus I’d like to think she was feeling even a teensy weensy bit remorseful over what had happened. The latter I`m sure was completely made up of my own delusions.

I threw her sweater dress on and out the door to school we went.

As we waited outside her classroom for the teachers to ready themselves for the day I noticed Sophie had a bit of a runny nose. Before I could even rummage through my purse to find a tissue it happened. Sophie had single-handedly taught me the most important lesson about parenting I will probably ever learn.

As Sophie Anne rubbed a huge snot booger onto her dress and somehow into her hair as well, I realized that when it came to parenting- arrogance never pays.

Pre snot episode

Moments of Tactlessness by Lindsay Brown

It has come to my attention that I am an undeniably awkward person. Whether it be the fact that I’ve lost so many of those inhibitions that held me back in my younger years or I simply crave making a fool of myself for your reading enjoyment, recently the notion of my strangeness is palpable.

So, with that said, I give you: The Gaucheness That is Me..Moments of Tactlessness by Lindsay Brown.

1. That moment when you are madly itching your psoriasis on your knee (because it’s acting up due to the dry weather) but you don’t realize your under a blanket and your incessant scratching really looks like you are going to town on your crotch. That is, until you glance at your husband who is staring at you with a look of pure horror.

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2.  That exact instant you realize red wine is fine for a few drinks at home in accompany with some awesome blog writing, but is not suitable to drink the entire duration of date night out on the town. You realize this when you wake up on your brothers couch with a splitting headache and a note from your bro. The note reads, “We sent your husband home in a cab because you were passed out so hard we couldn’t wake you up. We will drive you home in the morning. P.S. You puked on our freshly shampooed carpets…You suck.”


3. And of course there was that time when you answered the door with your tit hanging out for the damn carpet cleaning guy to ogle over.

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4. Recently your husband told you he was going to start up a counter blog to defend himself over all of the embarrassing tales you write about him…And all you could think was, ‘that would be great for publicity.’


5. That split second when you are walking by a group of good-lookin’ guys and you are trying your damndest to look hot but in your attempt to strut you forget how to walk, trip and fall flat on your face with your ass sticking straight up in the air and to make matters worse you let you let out a massive fart that sounds a little wet…That was an unfortunate one.


6. The other day when you were waiting in line at the grocery store and some dude commented on your dummy string mittens hanging gingerly from your coat sleeves, and instead of gracefully laughing along with his comments you feverishly defend your dummy mittens, until you are yelling at the good-humoured man that these mittens are the most ingenious thing man-kind has ever came up with. Meanwhile in your fit of waving your arms around to get the point across you don’t realize you are slapping the person in front of you with the stringed mitted glove in question.

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7. Your incessant need to make people laugh has got you in some pickles as of late too. When sitting around the table, indulging in the drink with your nearest and dearest, you think you have a good one (a hilarious one to be truthful) so you spew your funny out for the whole of the room to hear and when it is received with nothing but a chilly hush you make one of your ‘faces’ to lighten the scene. They laugh. But what you don’t realize is that they are laughing at you Lindsay, not with you. There is a difference.


8. When taking your Selfie pictures you practiced your poses in abundance. So much that you soon didn’t notice where you were practicing these silly and stupid faces. Before you knew it you were in the shoe department at Wal-Mart with a great post idea making ridiculous faces in the shoe viewing mirror while the other Walmartians were looking at you like YOU were the weirdo.

"Look at that crazy bitch, makin' selfie faces in the shoe mirror...That mirror is for shoes"
“Look at that crazy bitch, makin’ selfie faces in the shoe mirror…That mirror is for shoes”
"OMG did you see that lady making selfie faces in the shoe mirror over there...How embarrassing..."
“OMG did you see that lady making selfie faces in the shoe mirror over there…How embarrassing…”
Betsy thought: "Don't be too hard on the crazy girl in the shoe department...Some people just don't know how to compose themselves in public."
Betsy thought: “Don’t be too hard on the crazy girl in the shoe department…Some people just don’t know how to compose themselves in public.”

I’m sure there are many more tactless moments by yours truly, in fact I know there is,  but I will leave you to stew over these for now.

And to end this post I would like to thank each and every one of you readers for putting up with my mindless notion of hilarity. I can’t come up with any reasons as to why you people continue to read my ramblings, but I suppose that’s for you to know and me to continue to preposterously indulge.

On a side note, we are only a few more souls away from 500 readers, so help The Blogging Mama gain some popularity by liking the Facebook page and sharing the fun!

‘Me Plus Three’

Anticipation can do strange things to a person; strange and terrible things…

I woke up this morning brimming with anticipation. Today would be the first day my brand spanking new column ‘Me Plus Three’ would be featured in the local newspaper, The Red Deer Advocate.

A year of blogging paid off in a way I would have never expected, when a few weeks ago an editor from the paper approached me asking if I would like to write a weekly humor column about the misadventures of family life.

“Uh hell yes I would!” Is what I would have said, if my mom had not taught me the importance of professionalism years ago. So instead I replied with, “Yes, I would enjoy that immensely.”

Maybe I wasn’t that stuffy.

Anyways, today is the day that the first column prints. I was awakened with the thought at an early 5:30 in the morning and it took all my might not to drive on over to the gas station to grab a copy at that time. To be truthful the only thing holding me back was the road condition.

We recently received a boat load of snow here in Alberta and I had yet to drive in the stuff. That first snow drive is ALWAYS a rough one.  But for this, nothing would stop me. So out to the van I trudged and fired ‘er up.

I got another cup of coffee into me to amp myself up for the two block venture to the newsstand, but my nerves mixed with eagerness was getting to me. So much, that I decided that going out in my torn up pajama pants, no bra and hair in dishevels would be an acceptable way to present myself when going to pick up my prize.

The drive was unnerving at best. Almost sliding into three parked vehicles and then slowing down to a ridiculous 10 kilometers an hour for the remainder of the journey, I was bound and determined to get to my destination in one piece.  I apologize if you happened to be that vehicle behind me that was honking furiously and waving your fist out the window at me…Sorry.

Finally I had got there! I located the area in which held my accomplishment and hurriedly made my way towards the cashier. she looked at me in an odd way, and I thought, “Well there it is, people are already recognizing me…Wow!”

In retrospect I realize that she was judging me for my cataclysmic appearance and possibly the smell that was emanating off my un-showed body, but that didn’t stop us from engaging in this awkward conversation…

“I’m in this paper…” I say in a weird under my breath but confidant kind of way,

“Um excuse me? Sorry I didn’t catch that.” The poor girl replies, obviously wondering if a crazy lady has just entered into her store.

“Me, I am a columnist in this paper, that’s probably where you recognize me from.”

“Um okay…”


Great way to represent the paper Lindsay!

The drive home wasn’t as bad, but upon arriving home I realize that the parking spot in which the van should be is much too small for me to maneuver into, making me park another block away from my home.

I may as well have walked to the gas station this morning.

So like I said, anticipation and excitement can do strange things to a gal, but in the end it was worth it.

So make sure to pick up a Red Deer Advocate today and every Tuesday to catch, ‘Me Plus Three’…Because ya know, I’m in that paper.


And on a more sappy and sentimental note, I would just like to thank everyone who has read , liked and shared The Blogging Mama. You guys are awesome for helping me get to this point.




So several months ago, a few girlfriends and I had a day out in the city. What did we do on this day out in the city you ask? Well, we had an extremely enlightening day mulling around the Taboo Sex show exhibit.

I saw things my naive self had never even dreamed of in regards to bedroom provisions, and I felt as though I learnt a little something and I even got some free samples of some interesting flavoured lube and chocolate body paint.

“Well that could be fun!” I thought upon arriving home, but instead of using any of it, I shoved my little bag of goodies in the bedside table as this is where things of this nature typically go.

And then I forgot about the lot of it. That was, until a few days ago…

I am cleaning the house in preparation for some upcoming parties, so I am doing a good intense job of it. I am wholly involved in my cleaning and have placed the children in my bedroom to watch a movie.

I haven’t heard them for a while, and any parent knows that when the kids get quiet it means;


A- There are badly hurt.


B- They have got into something.


Panic becomes me as I briskly half-walk half-run toward the boudoir.

At first I see Lars, I immediately notice the look of guilt that is painted all over his face. Something gooey glimmers off his little hands. He knows they are doing something wrong and is trying his damndest to play it cool. He does a terrible job of it.

My second glance moves towards Sophie. At first I see her face is covered in some sort of brown swathe, I think it may be poop and I begin to gag a little. But then, then she begins placing the brown stuff in her mouth and gobbling it up like it is….


On my third take of the situation, everything becomes disturbingly clear. There sprawled on my bed is a bouquet of individually wrapped lube packs. All of them open and smeared upon my duvet like some kind of sadistic joke, a vibrator is humming somewhere between the bedside table and the bed and Sophie has her hands embedded in a jar of ‘erotic body chocolate’.


“Mama we found chocy!” The smile that gleams through her chocolaty face is so upsetting that I have to turn away.

“Mom, what is this stuff…It’s so slippery!” Lars asks me while he tries to wrangle a pack of lube, attempting to keep it within the confines of his little four year old hands.

Okay Lindsay you must deal with this. As much as you’d like to walk away and pretend it is not happening you HAVE to deal with this.  This horrid chain of events. The fact that your children are currently consuming sex chocolate, playing with lube and more than likely have been handling your vibrator…That of which is still MIA aside from its droning buzz that is currently drilling into the back of your mind.

Yes, it is time to deal with it.

And so that is what I do. I clean up the girl, wipe off the boys hands, establish the vibrators locale and place everything back in its rightful spot.

As well as explain to Lars that NO condoms are not balloons and I will NOT blow one up for him.

Before deciding that I will never speak of this instance again (aside from the blog that I HAVE to write about it) I tell the children;

“This drawer is Mama’s special drawer…We do not go in this drawer. From now on, Mama’s bedside table is OFF LIMITS!”

Don’t Quit Your Day Job

When it comes to housekeeping, I really do enjoy it. I lock myself in a room, that needs to be transformed from an unkempt in shit hole to a clean unlived in looking area.

I just plug away at it until the job is done, cleaning on my own terms. It’s a beautiful thing really. Unfortunately there are times when I get a little carried away, and the beauty turns rapidly into mortification.

Like most of us, I really enjoy cleaning alongside some of my favorite tunes. There I am bustin’ a move whilst making the bed. Hitting the high notes with Aretha, I like to Say A Little Prayer of  R.E.S.P.E.C.T for that Natural Woman. You get the drift.

So the other day, I got a flashback to end all flashbacks when good ol’ ‘Spice Up Your Life’ came on. You see, I was a HUGE fan of the Spice Girls in my younger years, and secretly still love them with a burning passion.

So there I am scrubbing some sort of disgusting matter of a toilet bowl and hear the starting lyrics come on…

“La la la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la”

Ahhh Ya! Now I’m excited, oh man this song is going to get, and doesn’t even know it!

So Ima singing and a dancing….

“Slam it to the left
If you’re having a good time
Shake it to the right
If you know that you feel fine
Chicas to the front
Uh Uh go round
Slam it to the left
If you’re having a good time
Shake it to the right
If you know that you feel fine
Chicas to the front
Hi Ci Ya
Hold tight!”

Oh I am having ‘A good time’ so I’m shakin’ and I’m slamin’ and at this moment I feel like I am 14 again. I never want this song to end.

I am currently on top of a freshly made bed, giving er my all, dancing and singing like no one is watching…Because no one is, right?


There is several guests of the hotel now congregating in front of the door of the room I am in, watching the catastrophe that is my Spice Girls reenactment.

Kill me now.

I am a 27 year old woman so entranced with my own awesomeness, that I have not noticed that I am making a complete idiot of myself in front of strangers who may or may not think I am now mentally unstable.

I quietly get down from my make believe Spice Girl stage, and move stealthily into the bathroom to resume scrubbing.

And as quickly as the nonsense began, I think “Don’t quit your day job Lindsay.”

The Downfalls of Day Drinking

Sometimes in life, an event will take place that reminds you of how old, you truly are. It will bring those crows feet just a little too close to the surface, or summon that aching back that you have recently acquired. It will leave you weary, after little to no physical work, which summons the question; When the hell did I get so old?
Yesterday was my beautiful sister-in-law’s 18th birthday. How wonderful it made me feel to be allowed to celebrate with her, the awesomeness of legality here in Alberta…And I was prepared to indulge readily with her in this merriment.

The entire family brought the freshly crowned adult out for lunch, where I, in my overtly optimistic way, declared we would be getting ‘day drunk’.


Oh how exciting I thought.

It has been many a moon since I’ve indulged myself with beverages of the alcoholic kind during the daylight hours. This will be a jolly good time.

And so the horror began.

After eating (thank God for eating), and three beer later, we moved locations from the restaurant to mine and Jamie’s home, where all of Heathers friends were meeting us. This is when things got a little hairy for ol’ Lindsay.

I mean who would have thought that sitting around on a deck with a bunch of 18 year olds could be so darn exhausting! All of these adult-teenagers have this vibrancy about them, a quality that I can vaguely remember myself having, but am positive has long left me since becoming ‘Mother’.

So it is about 7 o’clock pm. I am past the point of no return. I vaguely remember having the fleeting thought about an hour and a half ago that I was going to impose myself upon the young-ins and join them at the clubs this magnificent evening.

The thought now terrifies me, as I feel I have no place in a hip joint like that.

The fact that I just referred to the club, as a hip joint proves this point wholly.

I’m not sure if this has always been, or if once again this is old age kicking in, but when drinking the drink, I seem to go through some horrific stages. Once I am a little buzzed, I get this outstanding feeling of omnipotence…I CAN DO ANYTHING! I am the coolest, freshest, peppiest person this part-ay has ever known! I then will continue to pamper myself in yet another poisonous swig and all too soon my stylish demeanour comes crashing down around me.

My usual gregarious method is quieted…Quieted to such an extent that the 18’s look at me and think, ‘What’s wrong with the old foge in the corner over there, what is she doing just sitting there staring at us with that strange/eerie glare?’

Now that I have unintentionally allowed myself to get to this catatonic point, I realize I must still attempt societal visitations. So as the kids are speaking of new age issues and cutting edge fads, I will attempt to add my 2 cents. I do this by letting out a ‘HA’ to let them know I still am involved in the convo. Unfortunately this rouse of mine, has been injected into a serene part of their exchange, which indeed does not call for laughter.

Clearly I have not been listening.

They all stare at me and their questioning glance is burning a hole into the outer most part of my self confidence. It has become awkward beyond repair. I attempt to correct my faux pas by muttering nonsensically while ‘Shut up Lindsay…Stop now while you are somewhat ahead.’ runs gingerly through my mind.

So I use the only two pieces of ammo I have left to get the hell out of the situation.

“Oh I think I hear my kids crying, better go see what they need.”

As I leave I take a fleeting glance at the evidence of my stupidity that lies in bottles gingerly sprawled across the wooden patio table. I sigh relief, but hear ‘Aren’t the kids in bed already?’ as I walk in the door.

Yes of course they are in bed, safe and sound watching a movie, but I decide not to humour the question with an answer. Adding to my drunken plight.

I busy myself within the house, picking up mess and putting away muddle. As well as downing giant mugs of water to try and rid myself of this terrible feeling of inadequacy. I realize that now, at this time in my life, ‘day drinking’ is not a wise idea.

Heather and co. decide around 9pm that it is time to make their way to the bars. And as happy as I am to have them over and get to know my sister’s friends a bit better, I am ecstatic to have my home back to myself and head to a welcoming bed.

At 9:30 last night, I am snuggled securely into my big duvet, watching my PVR recorded episode of ‘Under the Dome’. And at that moment, I feel completely and utterly satisfied.

Maybe I can’t keep up with the 18’s anymore. But maybe I don’t need to. I am in fact almost ten years their elder, and in what sick and twisted universe should I be expected to run with that sort of pack?

Sometimes, in life, an event will take place that reminds you of how old, you truly are.

And in the end, I come to the conclusion that now, in this day and age; I will take herbal tea and baby snuggles over day drinking and hip joints any day of the week.


Just In The Nick Of Time

As much as I love and trust my husband, there is certain lights I do not want him to see me in. I know, I know all couples get to ‘that point’ at some time or another, I am just not ready for that time to be now. Hell, maybe I’m crazy but I just don’t think the sight of me sitting on the can…Or say, picking my nose, would be something that would get his motor revving (Yes, I just used that phrase, do not judge!)

So I have just got off work, Jamie and the kids are out at my parents farm, trying to fix the van which AGAIN has something wrong with it. I am on the computer psychotically toggling between my WordPress Stats page and my brand new, Blogging Mama Facebook Page.

‘Oooh another like on the Facebook page, let’s check out if I have any action happing over at WordPress’ and I go on like this for awhile…When did I become so attention crazed? I think to myself, but the thought is quickly pushed aside by a strange jabbing feeling inside my nose.

‘Holy lord, that hurts, what the heck is that?’

But I already know what it is. A booger, and not just any snot wad, one of those buggers that are hard and compressed up against the side of your nose…And they Jab you…And it hurts.

Since beginning my new housekeeping regime I have been accosted by a continuous stuffy nose, maybe it’s the chemicals I breathe in all day, or the fact that I am constantly touching things that potentially cold infested strangers have touched, but regardless it is happening.

I decide to go in for a dig, because I already know a simple blow job will not suffice.

I locate a jutting edge of the hard poky character, I begin to pull but am awfully careful as I feel one wrong move could lead to a nose bleed…I bleed easily from the snout-al region.

As I am pulling I hear something I truly do not want to hear. The door is opening, I hear the boy child enter, then the girl…Soon to follow will be husband and I am smack dab in front of them with a huge hard booger half hanging from my beak.

I try to speed the process along, GET IT OUT OF THERE, ya know!? When I realize only the front end of the thing is hard, following it is a long pliable stringy bit….The ol’ ‘Toss and Flick’  is now totally out of the question!

“Theeeere Coooming….” is ringing in the most frontal area of my mind, and the panic is starting to kick in.

This is going to be messy.

I hear Jamie’s footsteps making their way up the walk. The kids have now gained entrance, they do not notice my plight yet…Yet. If they do see what is truly happening, they will call me on it for sure!

I frantically look around, searching for a tissue, no tissue to be found. A rag, an old sock, for the love of god; I NEED SOMETHING!

I have now removed the rock like mucus with its squishy tail and have it hidden in the palm of my hand. It feels sickening making me feel weird.

I am trapped, as I stand in the middle of our living room floor. The only way out; the 3 steps towards the kitchen, then to make my way to the bathroom where the solace of toilet paper awaits me.

My issue though is this, Jamie is now blocking my escape route as he stands in front of those glorious stairs, jibber jabbering on about his fix job on the vehicle.

“Uh huh…Oh sweet…That’s awesome hunny…” I indulge him, whilst feeling more and more uncomfortable with the gooey substance that still lies tentatively upon my hand.

As he talks, I still am looking around, and I am surprised he hasn’t mentioned the odd and eerie demeanour I wear out of pure fraught he will catch on to my repulsive ways.

Yes! I spot a pair of Sophie’s soiled pants lying in the entry way (in any other circumstance I would be mad they were there, not today; Not. Today.) Lars then too comes to my aid as he asks his father a question and as Jamie turns to speak to his son, I make a dive for the article of urine soaked clothing.

Upon turning back towards me, I coolly throw the little pink pants that smelled of urine and now house my boogery mess as well, down the flight of stairs towards our homes laundry room.

‘Jamie you really shouldn’t leave her stinky pants laying around, it’s gross.’ I think of saying, but decide not to press my luck.

It was a close call, but like always The Blogging Mama made it out…Just in the nick of time.

Armpit Spray

Lars enters my bedroom, where I am sprawled out on the bed; nursing an aching back and sore feet due to my being completely and utterly out of shape, and now back to work on my feet doing a highly physical job.

“What are you doing Mama?” He asks while clambering up on the bed to sit with me.

“Oh I’m just resting baby, what are you doing?” I already see the opportunity of roping my son into giving me a back rub.

The boy ignores my question and sets his glance towards my armpit…A look of complete horrification crosses the young man’s face.

“Uh…Mama, what is that?”

“That’s my armpit Lars.” I say too tired to even attempt being offending by the child’s inquiry.

“But…But why is it so scary looking?” His face is now so close to my pit examining, I can feel his breath creeping up my underarm.

Before I have time to answer he continues on…

“I think you need to get some spray for that Mom.” It is a direct statement, no tip toeing around the fact for this kid, he just says it how it is.

“What do you mean spray?”

“You know armpit spray.” Like duh…How can I not know what he is talking about…

“Like deodorant?”

“No Mom! You know, you spray it on your armpits and it makes them look and smell nice.”

“Where do you get this armpit spray?”

“I’d say…Probably the dollar store.”

“Sounds about right…I’ll look into that Lars.”

“You should Mom…And soon.”

Not even fifteen minutes later my brother and Ashley come over for a visit. As we sit, and I gripe to my pregnant sister-in-law about how uncomfortable ‘I am’ she grabs my feet and proceeds to give me a foot rub.

She stops abruptly.

“God Lindsay, you are really letting yourself go. Look at your armpits and hairy legs…Even your feet are in need hair removal!” And I all too soon, I am aware of where my son has learned his no-nonsense way with commentary.

Ok so in a matter of thirty minutes I have had two people, basically tell me I am a hot mess…Hot being the inoperative word.  So I suppose it may be time to buck up, embrace being back to work, thank my lucky stars that the sequencing of events leading up to, and post finding this job has happened the way it has…

And maybe in between all of it, cut out a bit of time for a date with the razor.

You saved my LIFE lady! You saved my LIFE.

The Purse. The one accessory I own that will leave me lost and helpless if its location is unknown. So what happens when you add one stressed out mother trying to get her kids in the car, about a hundred things spinning through her mind and a complete and utter lack of observation to her surroundings?

Me; sprawled on the kitchen floor, a dead cordless phone in one hand tears streaming down my mascara ridden face and slowing chanting ‘No, Nooo, NOOOOOOOO’ between hyperventilating gasps of air.

Perhaps it would be wise to start from the beginning rather than the end, so here my friends, is my story.

The woman held her two children’s hands while walking briskly through the grocery store. The to-do list in her mind was quickly building and the stress had snuck up on her.

She retrieved the 2-3 size pull-ups for the girl child, paid the cost of them to the cashier and left, again setting into her brisk walk, almost dragging her children behind her.

“Ok Sophie, get in the car baby. Lars you can go get in on the other side, the door is unlocked.”

The children were testing the woman. They thought it was some sort of game to ride in the small green Toyota Tercel, their family van was once again in the shop getting fixed for some problem or another.

The woman’s anxiety levels were rising, she was tired from her first day of work and concerned about finding stable childcare for the future. Again the To-Do list was ticking away in her mind.


The children obliged.

As the woman drove out of the No Frills parking lot, she did not see the throng of concerned citizens flagging her down with flailing arms and yelling mouths. The woman was to engrossed in her mental To-Do list.

As she got home and unloaded the children, she realized one vital piece of hand-baggery was not in her midst. Her purse…Her life, was nowhere to be found. The woman again packed the children into the little green car to backtrack the whereabouts of the missing article.

She drove slowly though the streets in which drivers behind her honked and yelled furiously for her ridiculous plight of creeping down the loaded road.

She didn’t care, she needed to find that purse.

She went back to the store and asked them if it had been turned in. No luck. Shit!

Again the woman packed her children into the car that resembled a can of sardines when all was burdened in it.

As she made her way home, the tears began to flow. What was she to do? How does she even go about beginning to replace everything that resides in the thing.

Again she searched the house, the car, everywhere it could have possible fallen between the 4 block radius from the grocery store to her home.


She begins phoning people to cry her woes to family and friends. maybe someone will come over to help her search she thinks with a distant fleeting hope.

The woman is in mid dial of her husband’s cell phone number when the cordless phone she holds dies. All of the cordless landlines in their home are now dead. Her cell phone? Somewhere in her purse; somewhere.

And this, is the pivotal ‘no hope’ moment.

The woman collapses to the kitchen floor, tears overflowing her already bagged and bloodshot eyes. She is saying ‘No, this can’t be happening’ over and over to herself…But probably loud enough for bystanders outside to hear through her open windows.  The woman knows she has to pull herself together but she cannot. The dramatic scenery of the circumstances and her reaction almost feels natural to her, like home. And she takes comfort in the theatrical production she is putting on for the walls and few insects that venture near her vicinity.

The woman’s production is cut short when she hears a phone ringing….A PHONE RINGING?!

This means there must be another phone in the home that is not dead. Yes of course! The ancient phone that her parents had given her a few months ago, because her cordless phones were always dying.

She runs to it.

Misses the call by half a ring, but checks the message that has been left.

“Hi this message is for Lindsay. This is Joy from No Frills, someone has turned in your purse. Your welcome to come and grab it anytime, we close at 9 today. Thanks.” Click.

When the woman retrieved the purse from the grocer, she was told that the Lady who had turned it in watched as she placed the thing on the roof of the car…Buckled the kids and without thinking drove away. The lady tried to wave the woman down, but to no avail.

Today I would like to thank the anonymous woman who returned my purse. You lady, seriously saved my life!

As well, just a few morals to the story;

  • Never, I mean never, become so stressed out you do not pay attention to your surroundings. Devastation can strike anytime, anywhere…And usually when you are not expecting it.
  • Don’t drive a vehicle that is small enough to place things atop it.
  • And finally, when things get tough, don’t feel bad about throwing some dramatic efforts into your pleas…It really does make for a more satisfying tantrum!

That awkward moment when you realize your boob is out…

So I am madly indulging my cleaning regiment this morning, in an attempt to make my house presentable to some family that will be arriving in town shortly. It is about a thousand degrees outside, which makes my houses temperature I’m sure close to two thousand.

I have put on my loose fitting green strapless dress as it is what I can imagine to be the coolest article of clothing I currently have in my closet.

Once I have begun I do not stop for anything. I’ve removed the junk off the deck, placed about three loads of laundry on the line, and started wiping down the windows and mirrors with Windex.

The door bell rings.

I debate even answering, but have the fleeting thought it may be something important, so I make my way to the door.

Oh how I wish I had looked down. Just one glance would have saved me a whole lot of awkwardness and unease.

I answer and it is the damn carpet cleaning guy again. I had thought I was on their ‘Do not go to that crazy bitches house’ list; guess not.

Upon opening the door, he looks at me without saying a word. I stare back at him with a questioning glance.

“Can I help you?” I finally say after some uncomfortable amount of time.

“Um- Uh Miss…” He points towards my  chest.

I am utterly taken back and troubled by the gesture…That is until I look down.

In my haste to get the house clean, and my inability to think of much else this morning, I neglected the fact that I had been wearing a dress with an elastic top. A top that would more than easily slip down to reveal the left cup of my bra, which unfortunately is a bit too small and more revealing than not.

So there I am, in my green dress with the elastic top. Left boob hanging out for all to see and a horrified look on the individuals face who stands before me.

Similar to most gruesome instances like this in my life, I freeze.

Again this salesman and I are at an impasse, both standing there unable to remedy this terrible situation.

I am frozen; he, more than likely scared and I’m sure a little confused.

“I’m just going to shut the door now…” I say to the man who was just trying to sell me a steam cleaner and got more than he bargained for.

He simply gives a slight nod of the head and turns away.

I suppose the one good thing that has come out of this;

If I wasn’t on their ‘Do not call list’ before….I sure am now!

Toy Box Banter

“Auntie Ashley is having a baby, right Mama?”

“Yes she is.”

“Well I think, when the baby comes out of her bum, the baby will live in my toy box, so I can hang out with the baby all the time.”

I decide to let the ‘coming out of the bum’ part go. I feel that further explanation will lead to a conversation I am not ready to have with my four year old son yet.

“Well don’t you think the baby will want to live with Auntie Ashley and Uncle Dustin?”

“Maybe, but I think the baby will have a lot more fun in my toy box.”

“I’m sure the baby would love to come over and visit. But babies need their Mommies and Daddies to be really happy and healthy. So I think we will just have the baby over for visits for now.”

A moment for contemplation from the boy.

“Well maybe when the baby comes over I will hide it in my toy box.”

“How about we have the baby over for a sleepover when it gets a bit bigger?”

“Can he sleep in my toy box?”



“Because it will be a baby, and babies do not belong in toy boxes.”

“Aunties baby will love being in the toy box.”

“Why do you want the baby in your toy box so bad?”

“Because babies can’t walk, so if it stays in my toy box it will never crawl away from me.”

Interesting thought process, I suppose.

“Lars, as long as you are a nice big cousin, the baby won’t want to crawl away from you. So you won’t need to keep it in your toy box.”

Yet another contemplating moment for the child.

“Ok, I guess the baby doesn’t need to be in the toy box…But Mama?”

“Yes Lars?”

“If the baby does ever wants to crawl away from me, can I put him in my toy box?”

“No Lars, no you can’t.”

And the realization that I may have to get rid of the potential infant harbouring toy box has suddenly surfaced.

Thank God I’m Not The Only One!

There has been many a time, when I look upon my children and eagerly wonder what goes on in those tiny brains. What kind of thought process do they use, and where in the depths of their mind do they come up with some of the insane acts they display.

Sometimes it seems they do these crazy things, simply to assist me in growing a thicker skin. They are forever deciding to engage their disgustingness in the utmost of public places, leaving me to stumble and stutter my way out of these rickety situations.

I have become quite versed in my way of dealing with their communal oddness, and for that I am quite proud.

Unfortunately at times, disciplinary words will fail me. Whether this be out of panic because the situation crept up on me too quickly or I am at a loss for words because this new faucet of weirdness is just a little too far over the edge.

Yesterday, was one of these times.

The three of us are gliding through the produce passageway. Lars is walking beside the cart because he has all too soon realized that he is much too big to ride in a cart like a ‘Baby’.  (And there goes the days of easy grocery shopping)

Sophie thankfully hasn’t followed suit with her brother and is still happy to ride, but goes the complete opposite direction and insists on riding in one of the carts that have the infant car-seat type holder attached to it. I try to explain that this is for babies, and she should sit in the normal type of cart that big kids sit in…After some struggle I digress, because in the end it just isn’t worth it.

I do however give a fleeting thought to the woman who will come in 20 minutes later with thoughts of grandeur and groceries only to find there is no appropriate cart  to put her 2 month old in, because my 2 year old was adamant and unruly.

Oh well, not much I can do about it now I think with sanguinity.

So as we walk/run/slither along, I notice some of the Wal-Mart patrons looking at us with a funny sort of stare. I am about to pipe up and ask them if their mothers ever taught them any kind of manners, when I realize what these strangers are in fact, staring at.

It happens almost in slow-mo. I look at Sophie who is laughing her hearty belly laugh and looking down towards her brother. I follow her gaze and see Lars…My Lars, the child I am raising, the child I have taught and  trained, fervently licking the thick metal mesh of the Wal-Mart shopping cart.

My first reaction is an over exaggerated gagging motion. I then, in a loud hissing whisper say, “That is so disgusting…Stop it!”

The children both start laughing. Their cries of glee are currently drilling holes into my psyche, and I am at a loss. Maybe it is my imagination, I truly hope it is, but I can feel the other humans in the store staring at me. And I dare not look towards any of them, in fear I will have to indulge these strangers with some sort of explanation. So I say nothing more, I continue on with our shopping.

We have made it to the dairy section and I am checking  a pack of eggs, with my back turned to the babes when I hear an unfamiliar voice speaking towards my children’s general direction.

“Oh little boy…That cart has a lot of germs on it. You shouldn’t be putting your mouth on it.”

God please give me strength to deal with this situation in a polite and acceptable manner.

“Lars I told you not to do that, it is really icky poo!” I turn my attention to the older woman who has took it upon herself to discipline my child, “I don’t know why he keeps doing this…” My tone is pathetic and I am hoping she will just give me a sympathetic smile and go on her way.

No such luck.

“Well maybe he’s hungry.”

Maybe he is Hungry? What the hell kind of kid do you think I have lady? What? He realizes that is tummy rumbles and thinks it will suffice to suck out any kind of sustenance this cart will provide?!

I am appalled at this quick comeback from the 70 something year old woman and cannot hold back my next response.

“No ma’am I am sure it’s just that he is a 4 year old boy and doesn’t understand the repercussions of what he is doing. I so appreciate your concern, but I will be able to take it from here.” I peel off with Sophie squirming in her infant seat and Lars still drooling all over the fucking cart.

Now I suppose to you confrontational people this may seem like a very passive statement to say to the ol’ hag, but to me, I am reeling inside. Indignity takes me over and I have to force myself ahead, so not to run back towards the woman and apologize for my hasty response.

By the time we finish our expedition, I have told Lars to remove his mouth from the cart several more times, and Sophie to stop copying him.

I am at the end of my rope and am wondering why the concept of germs is so difficult for my son to catch on to. We wait in line at the till, and I keep a vigil on the children assuring that they do not begin their quest for nourishment via cart eating while we are in this abundant area.

This is when I look to the line beside me and see a young mother with three children. I shudder inwardly because if I thought two were difficult, I can’t even imagine three.  The one that looks as though he would be the age between the other two, is perched much the same way as Lars was on our grocery trip; holding on to the side of the cart.

The mother looks down at him and in much the same kind of hissing way as I, says; “Don’t not do it Jacob!”

That is when the kid looks up at her with a mischievous grin, and licks the cold metal of the cart with a vengeance.

And all I could do was give the woman a knowing smile and think, ‘Thank God I’m not the only one!’

If I had been looking where I was going…

Just a quick post pertaining to my inability to be a normal human being…And the fact that I must blog ANYTHING that happens out of the ordinary on a daily basis…more than likely, I suspect, this is why I get little to nothing done in a day.

It is 2:30 pm, Lars is at school and Soph is watching Bubble Guppies on the tube while I am trying to figure out what I am going to scrounge together for dinner.

Sausages and perogies…easy, quick, little effort needed, PERFECTO!

I am making my way down to the basement to get the sausages from the deep freeze when something pretty catches my eye. It is the frills at the bottom of my favorite bohemian style skirt ever so gracefully trailing down the stairs I have just descended.

Oh my! That is just wonderful, I am so utterly happy that I caught that moment of prettiness.

And for some strange reason I feel the need to look at this beauty in motion while I continue to walk down the stairs.

This was a bad idea.

You see when making your way down a flight of stairs I would hope that most people would realize that one should be looking forward; not backwards while being distracted by the bright-colored garment of clothing.

If I had been looking where I was going and not at my damn skirt, I would have seen that Thomas The Train figurine.

If I had been looking where I was going, and not at my damn skirt, I surly would have noticed that there was a tid bit of dog turd at the bottom of the stairs.

If I would have been looking where I was going…and not at my damn skirt; I am positive I would have avoided stepping directly on the small train, causing me to topple over and awkwardly roll down 5 more stairs and consequentially avoid landing in dog shit that smeared its way all over my favorite bohemian style skirt.

So friends, despite how pretty some things may be when they catch your eye, pay attention to your surroundings. For it only takes a mere moment that your life will take a drastic turn, and somehow in the wink of an eye you will be nursing a sore neck,  whilst covered in dog poo, lamenting about soiling your favorite bohemian style skirt.


Happy belated six-month anniversary to The Blogging Mama!

It has been well over 6 months since the debut of ‘The Blogging Mama’. It all started out as a few text messages I would send to my good friend Janelle at random times, reciting odd and amusing things that would happen to me throughout the day.

‘So I am brushing my teeth (and the damn sink is plugged again) and I emit into a sink full of water, then a big ol’ ball of spitty toothpaste recoils back up at me and lands directly in my left eye…It is currently still burning.’

Now whether she just got tired of receiving long random texts every so often she finally offered the idea, for me to start a blog.

I didn’t really even know what a blog was.

But I went and did my research, found a little blog site named ‘WordPress’ and started writing.

And boy oh boy an I ever glad I did. Over this half year span I have wrote 52 posts for my lovely readers to read…And they do read, which is pure awesomeness! Since sometimes, I even wonder what the point to my ramblings are.

I feel like I have made some friends through WordPress, which is also pretty awesome. It is simply amazing to me that you can become close to complete strangers, who simply have the love of writing and verve for telling stories, in common with you.

What a wonderful thing!

The best thing about blogging is that I can exercise my love of the written word daily, not that I post daily, but I read others blogs at least once a day and have learned much in doing so!

So to commemorate the beginning, here is the first post from The Blogging Mama!

(notice how I simply copy and pasted for you viewing convenience)  




A Morning to Remember

Posted on November 20, 2012 by lyndzeerae27

I have engaged in many avenues of employment in my life, from cashier, to housekeeper to telephone operator…The list could simply go on and on. Yet, not until the moment I found out there was an embryo implanted in my uterus did I know the meaning of laborious work.

There comes a point in life when one must STOP, sit back, and glance at the situation you have been given, then chose the wisest road to drag your tired body down.

I would love to start the story with “It was a wonderful October morning, the air was crisp and I was feeling buoyant…” Instead; It was a bitter, god awful morning. I woke up to a massive sodden spot smelling of urine on one side of me and my husband sleeping soundly on the other side. What the hell happened here, was my first reaction in my sleep deprived state. That’s when I noticed the Scooby doo blanket resting ever so gently across my left foot. My 4 year old son must have woke up at some point in the night to simply make his way into my bed, lay 2 inches away from me, pee, and then wander back to his superbly dry urine free sanctuary.


I glance at the clock, making my best effort not to grace the cold wet spot with my bare thigh, unsuccessful. 5:30 A.M. Alright let’s do this. I will not let this ruin my day, I say to myself in an desperately optimistic voice.

After 3 cups of smoldering coffee, I am beginning to feel a bit more like myself so I decide to shower and get ready for the day. After all my husband, Jamie will be awake soon and god knows those sheets are going to need to get off the bed soon.

The panic of whether I had remembered to put the mattress protector on last time I changed the sheets crept in, but I managed to ward it off with the thought of a nice warm shower and maybe even some make-up today to conceal the treacherous bags that were beginning to encompass the entirety of my cheekbones. The shower did feel nice, I daydreamed of a time when I wouldn’t have to daydream in the shower.

“Mamaaaa, I awake, you get me cereal please.” And it begins.

“Yes baby, let me just get out of the shower and I will get you some cereal.” Of course this would not be the end of the conversation,

“Mama, I hungry now!” As I jump out of the shower throw my robe on and exit out of our on-suite bathroom, I see my husband, still sound asleep. In the dry part of the bed no less. I feel as if I could take that beside lamp and just…

”MAMA I HUNGRY!” OK, OK no daydreaming out of the shower, I know the drill.

Both kids awake, husband awake. Sheets in the wash. Things are going smooth. Jamie does the usual dad thing and plays with the babies before he leaves for work. Regardless of how frustrated I get, he is a wonderful father.

This gives me the opportunity to make myself look like a human being by caking on the foundation and mascara until I literally look like a different woman. And for this small reward I am thankful.

Jamie gives us all hugs and kisses and wishes us a good day, the kids are occupied at the moment, so I decide to take the opening to make a call to my best friend for our long-established daily coffee chat.

5 minutes I had been on the phone, when I felt a familiar tingling in my nostrils. When I say tingling I mean burning sensation that would offend anyone who is not well versed in the parental condition. I knew it must be bad, it never stinks this much when it is confined in the diaper. I tell my friend I need to let her go.

I don’t know how long this will take.

I take it slow, there is no use rushing into these things, I know what I am up against here. At first I see nothing, then my son rushes me, yelling in a tongue that I can’t quite make out. He’s pointing and screaming and all I can recognize is him yelling my daughter’s name ‘Sophie’ while the Thomas The Train theme song plays joyfully in the background.

He motions toward the computer chair, and I spot a pudgy little leg sticking out. Except, it does not wear the pink leggings I had dressed it in this morning, but instead a thick brown that somewhat resembles sludge.

“NO, NO, NO.” It is all I can bring myself to say as I frantically begin to search for the diaper in question.

Where could it be?

The computer chair will need a complete overhaul after I get her cleaned up, I think for a brief moment.

That’s when I saw it, violently shoved under the desk, hidden away from disciplinary eyes. Its contents destroying the one piece of clean carpet I could still speak of.

Keep it together Lindsay, keep it together.

I pick up Sophie clean her off, calmly make my way to the cupboard with the cleaning supplies, pick out the tools for the job and make my way back to the computer desk.

I clean up that poop with grace and dignity, because that’s what Mothers do, we do what we have to do…Because that’s what our Mothers did, and when we became Mothers, that’s what they taught us.

I was doing okay, until the door rang. A little girl selling Chocolates. YES! I could use some chocolate right now!

I run to my change jar to retrieve the needed 3 dollars when I glance down at my brand new, albeit from Wal-Mart but new none the less, shit covered shirt. A streak that felt as though it could have filled the depths of hell, it was that streak of shit on my new Wal-Mart shirt that started the breakdown.

The tears were welling up in my eyes, and that poor little girl selling her Chocolate, she saw the shit streak, she knew it was there, I knew it was there, and she knew I knew it was there.

We still exchanged our trade though, because at this point what else could I do? I could care less about the damn chocolate covered almonds, I literally am wearing a shirt full of poop right now.

I will always remember that little girl and how kind she was, not to mention the rank smell of toddler feces that was now emanating from my new Wal-Mart Shirt.

It was when the door closed that the tears began to flow. Streams of Lash Blast Mascara flooded my face, the foundation I had caked on earlier streaked in a manner that held a Van Gogh-ish appeal, but the beauty of the situation was lost on me as I dwelled in a puddle of self pity… and poo.

In the back of my mind I began to wonder how I would ever pick myself up from this guilt ridden moment of self involvement.

My daughter, Sophie came to me.

She saw me with my face in my hands sobbing out tears of frustration and anguish. She raised her pudgy little hand, touched my face while I looked up at her, she then backed up a step and started laughing hysterically at me. Just Laughing and pointing, my 2 year old baby, this of course invoked my son to come over and yes, he too began to find humor in my misery.

And this my friends is life, I very well could have lost it, thought it was unfair to be put in such a situation. Instead I felt the laughter rise up within me and in-between sobs and the gagging smell of poop that was securely fastened to me, I grabbed the two most important little people in my life and we all laughed together…For about 30 Seconds then I couldn’t take the smell anymore.




Sophie, Me and The Bee

The Bee; that strange little flying creature that wears its black and yellow suit oh so flatteringly.  Fluttering around, collecting nectar and allowing our beautiful summer flowers to pollinate into magnificence…All the while, having no idea what effect it is having on the humans it surrounds.

In my experience, there are three types of reactions you will find humans having when coming in contact with these airborne insects.

1. The Runner: When the individual spots the all too familiar markings of the bee, no matter how far away the thing may appear, they run. Their hands will fling up towards the chest  in a very unbecoming manner, let out a life altering bellow and begin their scurry to safety.

Whether it be, hiding behind some large mass that they assume is unknown to the bee or locking themselves in a car or simply moving strait towards a strangers house to rid themselves the risk of that oh so horrifying sting.

They will end their plight by telling the people who are calmly sitting watching the fiasco, ‘THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE! I’ve never been stung before…I could be allergic.’

2.  The Spectator: This type of person is calm…cool and oh so collected. Although, they do not want to be stung, because really who does? They even more so do not want to look like the weirdo who has been running up and down the block for 10 minutes claiming that there was a Bumble chasing them.

Although they come off as having their wits about them, they are truly trembling inside. They watch that bee with a fervent glare, and do not let the little bugger out of their sight.

Because deep down, just like the fear that jades ‘The Runners’ mind, they dread the thought of the buzzing insect getting so close it becomes tangled in their hair, stinging their already sunburnt scalp…or something of a similar effect.

So they watch, and wait and patiently will that Bee away.

3. The Motto Master: Any person of the Runner variety has more than likely heard hundreds of adages from this type of person…’Just stay still, and bee won’t bother you.’… ‘If you run, it will follow you.’… ‘If you ignore it, it will ignore you.’… ‘ It is more afraid of you, that you are of it.’

I’m sure The Motto Master is quite annoying to the person who is running for their ever lovin’ life from this killer bee, and even The Spectator who although is quiet, is blubbering like a baby inside…Regardless there is one of these people at any summer outing.

And they are masters at letting people know how to deal with this bothersome summer issue.

So, now that I have explained my take on human beings and their pollinating flying friends, I will begin my bee story.

And to clear things up if you were curious, I believe I am a number two…The Spectator.

AHEM…Here we go, it is going to be a little difficult to rehash this one, but I will try to sum up the best I can.

It is 3:30, the kids and I just arrived home from picking Lars up from school. We are tired and I am still trying to conjure up something to make for supper…A daily dreaded task if you ask me!

The kids bee-line (pun definitely intended) for the living room, while I make my way towards the kitchen to scrounge through my freezer for some grub.

I stop dead in my tracks. I begin to whimper a bit, because I know that there is no one to come to my aid and help my current concern that has so suddenly hammered down upon me. There is a bee…Not just any bee, a bee that must set a length of an inch and a half and fat to boot, sitting delicately atop my kitchen window screen.

My first thought is to grab the flower vase that sits to right of me and pummel it until all I can see is its juices streaming down the perforated pane.  But I figure Jamie would be a little upset if I were to ruin a perfectly good window panel over a not so teensy bee.

So I collect myself, I am a Spectator after all, I can deal with this…

Sophie enters

In a complete over reaction of stress and anxiety I say, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET BACK TO THE LIVING ROOM! THAT BEE COULD STING YOU!!!!”

You see, I am a tad anxious when it comes to the kids and bees….since they have never been stung….And they could be…Hmmm I suppose this sounds slightly familiar. Maybe I am more of The Runner type than I thought.

Well I can tell you this much my friends, my two year old is the bravest kid I think I have ever seen!

She makes her way to the rooms pantry, grabs the fly swatter and proceeds  to boost up her 27 year old mother with this spiel,

‘Mama! We gunna get dat fwy (fly) We gunna get it and we gunna destroy it! No fwy get in our house and stay! We brave Mama…I brave, you brave…And Yarsy (Lars) brave…Right Yarsy?’

‘No I not Brave…I’m scared of the bee, I will just stay down here.’  Was the faint reply from the living room quarters, but the girl carried on her speech,

‘Well, I brave Mama, and you too!’ Then, the girl thrust her fly swatter trident into the air above her head and yelled with vigor, ‘LET’S GO GET DAT FWY MAMA!’

I don’t think I can even categorize this…Amazing, that is what this is….Awesomely Amazing!

Oh yes, and we totally got that fwy…(bee)