Writing through the stress…usually in a unicorn onesie.

If you need to know one thing about me, it is this: I love my name. My name is boss. To be clear, my name isn’t actually “boss,” which would be weird. But it is boss as in the slang (that dates back to the 1880s!), meaning super hip and with it. Somebody should give my parents a medal or something for coming up with this spectacular moniker for their firstborn child.

My name is Lindsay Rae. Currently, I am standing over a garbage can in my unicorn onesie, eating a chicken leg and typing on my laptop with fingers…


How we maintain the relationship magic in our busy lives

Photo by William Daigneault on Unsplash

All I want is a damn coffee. I feel like the warm brew of beans will help squelch this hangover threatening to ruin my day.

The thing is, I can’t have my beloved coffee yet because I’m trying my damndest to remove gin-soaked mint leaves from my French press’s filter.

Jamie had the bright idea last night to make a large batch of mojito mix in the press to save us from having to use the one-cup shaker every time we wanted to mix a drink.

It honestly seemed like a great idea last night — fueled by sunshine and…


But I’ve grown attached to the thing

Image by Ryan McGuire from Pixabay

My mustache is getting out of control.

I’ve told this joke before, but I think it’s worth telling again. Mostly because people didn’t react to the anecdote with gut-splitting laughter the first time, so being the wise humorist I am, I’m going to try to tell it again and see if I can get a few laughs the second time around.

I know, in my heart, I need to wax the thing.

I should maybe do that turmeric paste method where you make a thick goo of turmeric and some other ingredient that I can’t remember at the moment and…


A chronological ledger of all those who have crossed me

Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash

For a 35-year-old housewife living in a small Southern Albertan city, I have acquired a significant amount of mortal enemies.

I don’t know how this came to be, but what I do know is that I have kept a strict mental list of those humans who have crossed me over the years. This helps me in holding a grudge against these people for the rest of my damn life.

Lindsays. Don’t. Forget.

Let us begin.

The nurses who cared for me in the hospital as an infant.

Sure, they helped keep my 6-week premature body alive, but they also nicknamed me Queeny. Queeny! Not because of my regal manner but instead due…


Dwell on this, my darlings. Dwell and dance to the music of your soul!

Photo by Muhmed El-Bank on Unsplash

Are you an overthinker?

Do you find yourself waking up in a cold sweat thinking about the time you told your boyfriend’s buddy’s girlfriend that her man wasn’t at your house? He was at your home, of course, but you were too lazy to get off the couch and go out to the backyard to tell him that his girlfriend was on the phone. And then you were caught in the lie and had to explain to the girlfriend that, no, there weren’t any weird threesome shenanigans going on, you’re just a lazy asshole.

Have you ever found yourself worrying…


When your nickname is cockblocking you

Photo by Elsa Olofsson on Unsplash

Do you want to know what’s sort of the worst?

Being 17 years old and nicknamed The Hempster. Like, not just a slapdash nickname, where people only call you that when they happen to remember or when you’re lung deep in the biggest bong hit of your life.

Oh no, my actual name, according to my peers, was The Hempster — sometimes shortened to Hemy.

HEMY!

I once had a stranger ask me if I had trouble with hemorrhoids because why the heck was everyone calling me Hemy?

How does a self-loathing 17-year-old even answer a question like that? So…


Adventures in trippin’

Photo by Tania Malréchauffé on Unsplash

I didn’t plan on eating magic mushrooms at noon on a Tuesday. It just sort of happened. You know, as all spur-of-the-moment illicit drug use happens.

I had been living in Victoria, BC, for the past six months and was back home in Sylvan Lake, Alberta, visiting family for a week’s vacation. I was revelling in the fact that, for once, I got to be a tourist in the bustling lake town that I grew up in.

Except now, all my friends had jobs, and I found myself all alone one bright and sunny morning, walking the strip and wondering…


Just another humiliating story for the books

Photo by Isaac Pollock from Pexels

I’ve briefly mentioned this story in a few of the many listicles I love putting out into this great wide web but have never actually told the thing in its entirety.

As I drink my coffee and contemplate life this morning, I know in my heart of hearts that this is the tale I must tell on this rainy morn. For it is these moments in life that wake us from a dead sleep, cold sweat layering our goose-pimpled body, revealing the people we really are at the core of our existence.

I’ve never been great at dating.

I am an awkward gal who falls in…


What a morning

Photo by Charles Deluvio on Unsplash

The jarring ping of my email notification reminds me that I now have yet another porno subscription awaiting me in my inbox. You guys, there are SO MANY porn subscriptions in my inbox right now!

I know I sound excited about that, but the constant “Giant Dicks for For Your Big Butthole” subject lines are starting to make me feel deeply uncomfortable.

Things are looking grim.

I want to make it clear that I am not opposed to porn. I like porn. Albeit, the porn I fancy isn’t readily available. I don’t want to see women halfheartedly gobbling cock with…


I think I need to invest in a bathrobe for my poor children’s sake

Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash

Have you ever been lying in bed, eyelids drooping, about to fall into the beautiful escape from the daily grind when a brilliant idea pops into your head?

Those eyelids that were languishing only moments before, now wide open. A melodic stanza for your next epic poem whooshes into your mind, and you are helpless to carry on with the act of sleep because you know if you don’t write it down before you fall asleep, it’ll be lost forever.

So you drag your exhausted body to your home office and proceed to spend the next hour toiling over the…

Lindsay Rae Brown

Mother, writer, user of too many hashtags.

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