Mouse Traps and Pedicures: 11 Steps to Setting A Good Mouse Trap, Part 1

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I don’t like to spend money on myself.  I much prefer spending money on an oil change and reaping the coffee and recliner side effects than going shopping for a new outfit (I go into instant overload when I walk into a clothing store), buying a cute new wallet (Lord knows I could use one!) or getting a pedicure. I have 327 other uses for that money that are more immediate and a new outfit (#328), a cute wallet (#329) and a pedicure (#330) simply don’t qualify. 

Buuuuut, due to a series of well meaning podcasts from the “You Need To Take Care Of Yourself” gurus, I succumbed to the pressure and sprung the thirty bucks for a pedicure about a week before my back went out.  

When I walked in the door and was told, “Hi!  Pedicure? Choose your color!  Someone will be right with you!”, I debated between going with a standard burgundy, swinging out with black and glittery gold for the soccer team, or getting a trendy blue to mimic my friend Shannon’s summer vacation toes. 

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I had secretly been jealous of her toes but wimped out and opted for 90’s burgundy then climbed into the well used massage chair, gazed at the inside of my eyelids, soaked my feet in slice of blue, bubbly heaven and searched for inner peace.

But then I lost myself in the country music video and tried not to gag at the scantily clad women on the big screen and had to coach myself to stay in the moment.

The gurus whispered: Enjoy the foot rub. Feel the exfoliation. Try not to kick the lady in the face when she rams the sharp object into the corner of my big toe.  Thumb through a sleazy magazine. Wonder what the foot woman is saying to the nail guy.  Consider brushing up on my Korean.  Suppress the laughter at seeing a cheese grater being used on my heels. 

Notice that lots of people come in all at once for pedicures.  Notice there are no more technicians.  Notice they get the same, “Hi!  Pedicure? Choose your color!  Someone will be right with you!”  Notice the nail salon patriarch, Grandpa Pedicure, come out of the wings, hair askew, possibly just dragged out of his recliner chair at home by an emergency call to come give a pedicure. 

And much too soon, after my toenails were cuticle crunched, oiled, cleaned, clipped and painted, I did the obligatory sit-my-feet-under-the-fan-light routine for-EVER, gratefully donned the flimsy foam footwear and clumsily carried my clogs to the car. (Say that ten times fast). 

A few hours later is where this story takes a turn for the worse…

And that’s where I’m going to leave you hanging until Part 2, tomorrow.  

Your friend,

Lindsey

P.S. I don’t have any contracts with Sally Hansen, just so you know.

P.P.S.  Did you enjoy this?  If so, comment below or on facebook…your positive feedback keeps me going!  And if you’ll go the extra mile, share it with your friends on facebook!  Thanks!

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Which Super Star Are You?

Why do some of us shy away from the gift of praise? 

It’s a question I’ve been asking myself due to a perplexing reaction I recently had to one of my most #1 fans. Of the thousands people who have read my stories over the years, there are a handful that wholeheartedly and unabashedly support and enjoy what I write.

One is my mom, one is my sister and one is Hillary. I see Hillary about once a year, usually at the birthday party of one of my nieces.  This year, it was on Labor Day at this popsicle’s 8th birthday party.

I was late arriving and the guests were outside on the deck.  When Hillary saw me coming through the dining room she launched out of her seat, blazed a trail toward me, stretched out her arms and gushed, “Oh My Gosh! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” 

I instinctively knew she was not thanking me for last year’s Christmas card…

…but for writing again. 

I immediately extended my arm in front of me, my hand a human stop sign and blurted, “Shut up!”  I lept out of her path to hide behind the other pane of the sliding glass door. In my mind and in my heart the “Shut up” comment was sarcastic, lighthearted, joking.

But in my soul, I question, why did I react that way?

The other day, I watched as a Teenage Girl walking down the sidewalk gestured for a passing car to pull over.  After it slowed to the curb, she walked toward the open passenger side window as her Friend began singing Happy Birthday.  Friend had barely made it through the first line when Teenage Girl arrived at the car with both hands raised, birds flying.

Teenage Girl was smiling, shaking her head and chuckling, but nonetheless, F-bombing Friend in sign language.  Friend obliged and stopped singing.

The encounter between Teenage Girl and Friend made me again consider my reaction to Hillary.

Why do some of us, when we are being celebrated, reject or attempt to divert attention?  Teenage Girl could have walked joyously toward Friend’s car with a smile on her face, gladness in her heart and waited for the song to be finished before wholeheartedly thanking her Friend for remembering her birthday. 

But she didn’t.

I could have stood in the dining room as Hillary blazed through the sliding glass door, awaiting her praise and absorbing with great happiness her joy, appreciation and heartfelt, spirit filling pleasure at thanking me for writing again.

But I didn’t.

Pay attention to your own reactions. Are you rejecting praise that is rightfully yours and you should be proud to receive?  Are you embarrassed to be the center of attention?  Is your gut reaction to hide behind the sliding glass door or speak Teenage Girl’s love language and flip off your Friend, albeit jokingly?

I’m asking myself those same questions.  But one thing I do know. The other night, I watched Tyra Banks strut her stuff on America’s Got Talent in front of celebrating crowds. 

(She walks onstage at minute 1:19…scroll forward in the video below so you can see what I mean.)

Next time I am on the receiving end of a what feels like a standing ovation, I am going to stand tall, proud, envision myself in Tyra’s stunning red gown and embody the Super Star that I Am.

I hope, if you struggle with this, you will too. 

– Lindsey

P.S.  Help me spread the word…if people think we’re great, we should let them!!  Share this on Facebook and with your friends!  And go put on your red dress!

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11 Ways To Live Like You’re In The Country

1. Slow down when the chickens cross the road. It’s true, chickens really do cross the road. It happened on the way home from soccer practice the other night.  I slowed down for a Barred Rock, a Silkie and a Rhode Island Red. Their destination?  You guessed it.

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However these are not the chickens I slowed down for…this is the vulture chicken from years ago.  Thanks to Crunchy Betty’s mom for the picture.

2. Pull over and help the driver stranded on the side of the back country road. You could be the only one she sees for the next who knows how long. She could be a young girl from the city who doesn’t know what to do about the fact that the steel I-beam secured haphazardly to her truck rack is waving back and forth, ready to slide off into the front seat of the car behind her.  Right here is a 2 for 1 feel good situation: You might be the only one that offers to help strap it on and you can pat yourself on the back for preventing the guy behind her on the highway from being decapitated.  (True story. This happened. Not the decapitation part but the pulling over and strapping and preventing).

3. Tip your hat. If you don’t have a hat, do a discreet little miniature “yes” nod. You don’t have to smile necessarily but just tip your head the slightest bit. Of course, when combined with a smile and #11, it really sets the standard for a well mannered country person. You can do this to people you pass on the sidewalk, people you pass in your car, people you walk past in the grocery store parking lot. It probably won’t work well with your spouse though so you better stick to a full on smile, kiss and hug.  But if you went around smiling and kissing and hugging everyone in the country that would be weird. So for strangers, stick to tipping your hat.

4. Master the Steering Wheel Wave. While driving, when you pass an oncoming car on a country road, lift two, three or four fingers (but not your thumb) off the steering wheel a couple of seconds before passing.  This is a “how ya doin’?” wave. You won’t know the person you are saluting. If you DO know the person, then release your thumb as well and do a full wave with a smile. 

5. Look out for your neighbors.  Some people might consider this being nosey. But I say phooey.  Is it better to ignore the hose overflowing the horse trough all day long while your neighbor’s at work or let her know it looks like someone forgot to turn the water off?  To seal the deal as a country neighbor, just offer to go over and close the spigot. 

6. Grow a handlebar mustache.  I can’t advise on this one, but it is a common facial hair status of the men in my neck of the woods. Although as I age, I am beginning to grow more facial hair myself, thankfully it is in no quantity to become a handlebar mustache or any other type of mustache. Actually, it’s more beard quality.  Car tweezers come in handy for this situation.  Hint: If you are suffering from the affliction of growing a handlebar mustache or unintentional beard but are of the gender that typically does not shave their face, I would stick some tweezers in your car. Car tweezers come in really handy at stoplights or in parking spaces because you usually feel the stubble while you’re driving, exactly when you can’t do anything about it.  Unless you have car tweezers.

7. Eat the fruit that grows on your tree.  Or have someone else eat it but definitely don’t complain that it’s such a nuisance because it messes up your yard.  Whoever planted that tree years ago is probably long since gone but had dreams of savoring those plums you just raked up and threw in the trash.  Honor them by at least posting “free plums for the picking” here.

8. Set a good mouse trap. Make sure it grabs the mouse. Not your fingers when you set it or your toes when you forget it’s there.  In case you don’t know how, stay tuned for a future instructional course.  I know, the suspense is killing you.

9. Say things like yonder, plum and hankerin’. “See that car over yonder?” or “I’m just plum wore out!” or “I got a hankerin’ for some chocolate.” (Maybe save these phrases until you’re in the 80 and older category. They make you endearing to the younger 40-somethings.)

10. Go to the feed store for dog food and come home with baby poultry. Most likely it’s chicks, but it could also be ducklings. Rarely it’s turkeys, but that can happen too.  The feed store is a dangerous place to go if you don’t have a strong resistance to impulse buying. Warning: Baby chick impulse buying has longer side effects and requires significantly more work than impulse buying a candy bar. Unless, of course, you daily impulse buy a candy bar, in which case your side effects may be quite lingering and you ought to refer to my ironing tips.

11. Make eye contact. When you pass someone on the sidewalk, in the store, at the Friday night football game, look ‘em in the eye. According to my observations, per capita, spontaneous eye contact happens more frequently in the country than in the city.  Note: This is usually seen in combination with #3.

And with all that said, now I have a hankerin’ for some of that coffee over yonder ’cause I’m plum wore out.  (I know, it sounds sort of dorky since I’m only 43, but I’m just practicing my lingo for when I’m 80+).

– Lindsey

P.S. Thanks to Heather for inspiring #10 and Emily for suggesting #11.  You are two prime examples of good country girls.

P.P.S.  Did you enjoy this?  If so, comment below or on facebook…your positive feedback keeps me going!

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Where Do You Get Your Oil Changed?

Things I Value:

My husband offered to have me leave my car at home for him to do an oil change (although very kind, that’s not the part I value). Since he’s been building a farm table in his shop at home, he wouldn’t be needing his work truck and I could take it into town to see my patients.

$800. Reclaimed barn wood farm table. 7’x37″.  Call Herbert for this table or custom orders 719-651-6480.  Shameless advertising by a proud wife. 

Nothing against the smell that has lingered for the last ten years of the previous owner’s armpits, but when the oil change boutique gives my car an oil change, I get a break from work.  I get to sit in a recliner chair and have coffee.  Recline.  Relax.  Put my feet up.  Enjoy me time.  Relax.  Chill.  Relax.  Write (this) and chat with my dad and my brother at the front desk.

Well, I don’t even really know the guys at the front desk since I just met them three times ago when they performed an emergency alternator replacement and they aren’t my dad and brother because my dad’s in Germany and I don’t have a brother, but they may as well be because they make each person that walks in the door feel like family.

And all this family and relaxing happens right here at our local oil change boutique.  With me in a leather recliner chair.  Not kidding, you read that right, a recliner chair.

Yes, I have to pay for the oil change where my husband could have done it for the cost of supplies, but then I’d miss the whole recliner, relax, write, coffee, put my feet up, chat with the guys experience.

And that there is better than a pedicure. For me, time where I am forced to put my feet up and lie back in a recliner chair really is a better investment than a pedicure and one of the best $68 cups of coffee I’ve ever had.  It’s not that the coffee was delicious, it’s that the experience was.

I’m not good at spending money on myself. I tried that a couple weeks ago when I actually did get a pedicure and it didn’t end well (story about that in a future addition), but this feels different.

I am spending money on my car.  Therefore the recline, relax, write, drink coffee, put my feet up, chat with the guys experience benefits my car which transports me to work and my boys to soccer practice and our family to soccer games.

I love it because I’m not really spending $68 on myself.  I’m just reaping the side effects.  But considering a pedicure, they could upgrade the oil change boutique one step further by adding foot massages.  Just a thought.

Now for the reality check: it’s not always sweet peas and roses when I go into the oil change boutique. There are only two recliner chairs and they don’t take reservations.  Last time, an elderly lady and an old man in a neck brace were occupying the recliners and it would not have done to haul one of them out to appease my desire for a recliner chair. 

I did not outwardly complain as I downgraded to one of the standard lobby style waiting room chairs but did place mental wagers on whose car would be ejected first from the garage so I could assume the position.  If it had been anyone other than my elders, I would have volunteered to arm wrestle for their early departure.  Even though I don’t milk a herd of goats anymore, I can still beat granny at an arm wrestling match.

Bring it on Sister.

Oh my gosh.

How embarassing.

All this over a stupid recliner chair.

Marketing/Customer Experience:  If you need any ideas for how to win customers at your oil change location (if I’m your customer), step up your coffee area to include a keurig, cream, sugar, nice disposable coffee cups (i.e. not white styrofoam), granola bars, tea and a couple recliner chairs (or more if you don’t want granny getting kicked to the curb by a sweet 40-something with recliner rage).

You might say, “We’re good, we already do that.  We have a coffee pot with some cream and sugar packets over on that table in the corner.  Help yourself.”  

But dare I say that your coffee pot, when empty, has a brown film all over the inside and when it’s half full, it’s the afternoon and the coffee’s from this morning?  Sure, I’m being nitpicky, but if you give your women customers (ok, me) a little more of a spa experience, they (ok, me) will show up in droves for oil changes at your shop!!

In conclusion: It was the thought of losing my time in the recliner chair sipping from my cup of hazelnut fresh brewed keurig coffee that gave me the guts to deny my husband the experience of back slithering under my car to emerge with oily hands and another week’s worth of back pain.

#appreciatethesmallthings,

Lindsey

P.S. I don’t get paid for talking about the oil change boutique. I just really like going there and when you get good service it’s the right thing to do.  My dad (the real one) owned his own business for years.  He always told me if your customer gets good service, they might tell one person.  If they get bad service, they’ll tell twelve!  I decided to flip that on its head.  I got good service and, with your help (please share this on your social media), I’m telling hundreds!

P.P.S.  If YOU go into the boutique to have an oil change, let the guys at the front counter know their daughter/sister Lindsey sent you.  They’ll have no idea what you’re talking about.

P.P.S.  I forgot to tell you that front counter dad, while I was kicked back with my coffee, walked toward me, ripped open a giant box of granola bars and said, “Linds, you want a granola bar?”  Only my family calls me Linds.  And my college BFF’s.  I tell you, front counter dad treats you like family.

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7 Benefits To Back Pain

As many of you know, my life as a fast moving train was derailed last Monday when my back went out.  After a year of no back problems, a year of thinking my change in employment would eliminate the risk of future back injury, it is the truth when I tell you I’ve been fighting off some minor depression this week.

I couldn’t work for 2 days, and on day 3, after only working in the morning, I was MAD at the situation.  Tired of and still not thinking (or standing) straight because of the pain, I came home, curled up and fell into a deep sleep of escape.  Man, this was really feeling like a lemon.

But, when given lemons, I can make a damn good lemonade.

So here are 7 Benefits To Back Pain:

1. You don’t have to make the bed.  Because you actually can’t.  Bending, twisting and yanking aren’t part of your recovery plan.

2. You don’t have to blow-dry your hair.  You can’t bend over at all and raising your arms overhead is hardly possible since you have to hang onto the counter top at all times while standing.

3. You don’t have to shave your legs.  After a few days, you get a 5 o’clock shadow, but this is your time to practice being a hippie.  You can’t even reach your knee, let alone your lower leg and propping one foot up on the wall is out of the question, so you accept your inner gorilla take some Tylenol.

4.  People might offer to rub your back.  Personally, I would stay away from strangers on this one, but if it’s anyone you know, let ’em do it.  Never pass up a back rub.

5. You begin to understand why your grandfather walked, always bent over, with his hands clasped behind his back.  You physically can’t stand up straight. Your bones just don’t allow that at this time.  Therefore, gravity is pulling the top half of your body toward the ground with each step.  If your arms keep dangling there, gravity pulls harder.  You figure out that if you clasp them behind your back, resting on your gluteus maximus, you feel slightly lighter and your nose drags further away from the ground.

6. You understand the benefits of  your grandmother’s rolling walker with a built in seat.  You can use it to hold you up while you walk and sit on it when you need a break since you can only walk part way to the mail box before threatening to fall over.

7.  You learn to accept help.  Even though you might not be good at it, you find you must accept, otherwise your Taco Bell will not make it to the stands at the soccer game.  Even the car keys are too heavy to carry.

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Thanks to Carrie and Emily for the laughter. Photo credits to Carrie Canterbury.

I’m fortunate.  When my back goes out, it goes back in and I’m usually back to 100% in 2 weeks. But I know there are people out there, and you might be one of them, who live with chronic back pain.

Chronic or not, I encourage you to see the bright side of your situation.  Look for the things you CAN do.  Make changes, temporary or permanent, to your work, home life, recreation and leisure that will cause you to get the most fun and enjoyment out of life.  Appreciate and seek out the things you CAN do.

  • If you can’t go to work because you can’t complete the necessary functions safely for yourself or the people around you but CAN go to your son’s soccer game where you will be able to ice your back in the car, do your stretches on the bleachers and fill your spirit with laughter and new memories created with your girlfriends, do it.

 

  • If you want to fulfill your consulting obligation but can’t load the car with all of your presentation equipment and have committed to teaching 50 kids how to be better employees at their summer jobs but CAN ask a friend to go with you to load and unload and set up, because you know how much your presentation will impact the lives of the young people you are influencing, do it.

 

  • If your doctor says by the time you have grandchildren, you may not be able to use your arms and you fear not ever being able to hug them but CAN make quilts now so that when you have grandchildren each one will have their own quilt to wrap up in as their hug from grandma, do it.

 

  • If you can’t walk as fast as usual but want to make the annual girls night New Year’s Eve hike to the summit of the local hilltop to light off sparklers but CAN ask your bestie to go up at your pace and help you sit and slide down the steep spots on your butt, do it.

Do it because you only live once, because we all should appreciate the small things and because it’s good to have friends.

Lindsey

P.S.  Thanks to Mom and Jeanie for the inspiration, Emily and Carrie for the soccer trip.

P.P.S.  On day 1, instead of sulking all day, I used my time in the recliner chair to find a good chiropractor and write this.

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Holding up the flag pole kept my nose off the ground and our soccer team won 2-0! Photo credits to Carrie Canterbury.

 

 

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What Does Your Armpit Smell Like?

There’s that saying, “It all comes out in the wash.”  Well apparently for me, it all comes out in the armpits. 

Here are the facts: 

1. In school, I was a “good girl” who didn’t drink or do drugs.

2. Marijuana is legal in Colorado. Even recreational marijuana. But you knew that.

3. My back goes out every year or two and has since high school. It sucks. Really sucks.  True to form and right on schedule, it went out Monday in the middle of performing a highly risky procedure: putting on my sock.

I followed all the rules when I was in school. I was a good student. When my friends went to a party, I never went. Which is why now, as an adult, I can hardly even say the word marijuana. It has been ingrained in the fibers of my being that it’s “against the rules”…even though it’s legal and many of my patients and family use it in various forms, I find my mental lips pursing with visions of a prim and proper old lady school teacher wagging her finger at me…tsk, tsk, tsk.  

(I know! Get over it!)

So you can also understand my delay in accepting it into part of my reality, despite the fact that I live in Penrose, Colorado, home of way too many skunky smelling grow houses. 

But when the back pain kicked in at a friend’s house on Sunday and she and her husband touted the pain relieving benefits of their homemade marijuana rubbing alcohol, I decided to throw caution to the wind and accept.

Under the following condition:

It better not stink. I HATE the smell of marijuana. There’s the smoke smell and there’s the skunk-grow smell. I would have flat out refused if it had any odor at all. But, after taking a whiff and nearly being flattened by the vapors of the rubbing alcohol (akin to taking a whiff of black pepper…stupid choice), I determined although the liquid looked like a swamp, I could not sense marijuana and proceeded with the plan.

Herbert rubbed it on my back and I hoped for the best because we still had to go grocery shopping and ride in the car for an hour home. Two tasks that would be easier accomplished with less pain. 

The results are in:  It sort of helped. Nothing to write home about, but I did feel a little better. 

And so are the other results:  Two days later, after my morning cup of coffee but before my shower, I noted an offensive odor coming from my axillary area.  My husband, who is brave with addressing my frequent bodily malfunctions, aimed his nose toward my armpit, and reported it smelled like goat pee.

Although I could sense the similarity, that wasn’t it. I am known for having a REALLY good smeller (and not known for sleeping in the barn).

Case in point: Last week, I smelled a gas leak in a house when neither the resident nor the emergency responder’s gas leak detector sensed it.  Turned out the hidden oven pilot light was out.

No, this was not goat pee. 

This was weed.  Straight up bud smell.

Coming from my armpits. 

But, how on EARTH?  I’ve heard things about the body organs processing ingested items and excreting them through the skin, but if that’s the case, why don’t my armpits smell like caramel macchiatos?  Or honey nut cheerios? Or spaghetti and meatballs?

I get rubbed with pot laced alcohol one time and smell like this??  It was seeping OUT OF MY PORES!  Although I had to milk and Chocolate wouldn’t mind the odor, I couldn’t stand the thought of that smell even being on my milking clothes!

I contemplated throwing away my PJs and jumped into the shower (well not really, it was more like I gingerly lifted one leg at a time over the tub edge while holding onto the wall, squatted as little as possible to turn on the water and emerged 20 minutes later with only my hair, face and armpits washed because I couldn’t reach anything below my waist and because any movement I attempted was slower than molasses.  Shaving my legs was out of the question and my feet might as well have been at the bottom of a cliff.).

Refreshed and deodorized, I slugged on, but became quite mortified when, trapped in a three hour car ride with two friends later in the day, my armpits began seeping again.  Not as potent, but still not your run of the mill B.O.  Turns out it’s not a one shower affair.  The good news is, after owning up to the situation in lieu of them wondering why my car reeked if our soccer boy teenagers weren’t even in it, they reported they didn’t notice a thing.

Please note: If you will not judge my unshaven legs, I will not judge your choice of marijuana use. I am just writing to let you know in advance that I will be able to smell it. (But since you are not of age, My Boys and Friends Of My Boys, consider yourselves forewarned.  If I smell it on you, trust me, you WILL smell like goat pee.)

Have a good day,

Lindsey/Mom

P.S. In case you’re wondering, the foul odor lasted only that day. By the next day, I was back to my usual self and, as I sit here in the sun writing this two days later and sniff to the left, all my sweaty armpit smells like is deodorant. Phew.

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Why I’m Back, An Update

Thank you to everyone for your kind words upon my reappearance as The Goat Cheese Lady.

Where have I been? Well, I have spent the past year as Lindsey: Soccer Taxi Driver.

When you live in the country, driving to and from town for soccer practices and games occupies most of your waking hours.  There’s barely any time left in the day to work and be a mom and wife.

OK.  So that’s not entirely the truth and as we hang out more together, I’m sure more details will surface, but in a nutshell, and as I just updated under “About” on the menu above, here it is:

I am Lindsey.  At first I was a city girl.  Growing up, the closest thing I had to farm animals were a cat and a cockatiel.

In 2009, Herbert (my husband) and I bought our first milk goat and I instantly became an urban farmgirl, attempting to balance city and farm life..before I knew “urban homesteading” was a thing.  That’s when we began The Goat Cheese Lady Farm, hence The Goat Cheese Lady blog you’re visiting now.

After moving to the country in 2014, I embarked on life as a rural farmgirl. We continued teaching farm and cheesemaking classes, raising more goats and began construction on our cheese creamery.

But life had other plans and in 2017, we decided that, due to financial and health issues, we had to close the farm for business. No more classes, no more creamery, a lot less milking.  We went back to off farm jobs, I as an Occupational Therapist, Herbert in construction with his business, D&A Home Remodeling.

At that point, I made a silent promise to myself that I would corral my entrepreneurial mind and focus on a job for a year.

Well, it has been a year and I am back.  Not to classes, cheese, soap or lotion, but back to writing.  I love it.  I’m not sure where it will lead me, but that’s where I’m starting.  I’ll continue to write as The Goat Cheese Lady for now, and whatever the future holds, I’ll let you know.

Our two boys are 14 and 11 and continue to be louder than my sister and I ever were.  We have two dogs, Montaña and Flash, a cat, Jumpy, a flock of chickens and three goats.

Yes, we still have Lucy, the goat who helped us start it all and was milked by over 1,000 people. She’s retired but still the boss. Chocolate provides enough milk for our family with some to spare for the dogs.  Soccer friends, school friends, coyotes and mice are frequent visitors.  There are way too many flies and every so often we see an owl.

I’m glad you’re here.  Sometimes you’ll laugh out loud, other times you’ll be inspired to appreciate the small things.  My hope is that, over your morning cup of coffee or your afternoon work break, you’ll enjoy the antics and inspiration that are my daily life.

So, there you have it. I’m back in action.  Slinging from the hip and hoping it hits your funny bone or your softer side.  Stick with me and spread the word.  Let’s enjoy life together!

Lindsey

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circa 2012. We’re a fair piece older now.

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