Posts Tagged ‘embarrassing stories’

#OopsFiles 19: Guest Blogger Island Living 365

island-living-featuredYou know when someone says “I hurt myself laughing”/”I almost fell off the sofa in hysterics”/”I literally howled at this”? Well, they’re usually just phrases aren’t they?  Yes you read something funny but actually physically hurting yourself?  Hmmmm…  Guess what?  When the Island Living 365 #OopsFiles submission by Emma landed in my inbox, I actually did all of those things.  I snorted so hard and so many times that I actually hurt the inside of my nose about half way through reading and had to take a break.  Nope, not making that up for dramatic effect…actually hurt the inside of my nose.  (By the way, it’s only about the second time in my blogging life that I’ve had to read a blog post in two stages.  Seriously, I challenge you to actually read this all the way through in one sitting without pausing to get your breath back or give your abdominal muscles a rest.)  I then resumed reading, howled, startled my husband (he’s never startled) and then kind of slid off the sofa onto the rug mid howl.  The only thing missing in this whole scenario is the mention of “I wet myself laughing”.  All I can say is, I’ve had three kids; my bladder is not what it once was.  So I guess that answers that one then.  Talking of nether regions, things are about to get worse…a lot worse.
So….HEEEEEEEEEEERE’S EMMA!

island-living-title-image

 

So when the lovely Prabs asked me if I would write something for the #OopsFiles series my first reaction was to run and hide. I mean I have a lot of embarrassing tales, a plethora if you like. What’s the saying? “I have a list as long as my arm” except my arms aren’t unusually long so that saying really does not convey just how many embarrassing tales that I have. I mean every day, I embarrass myself. Every. Single. Sodding. Day. To stop myself from becoming a nervous wreck, I have blocked most of them out. However, for the lovely Prabs, I have agreed to revisit some of these tales again.

I guess I should start at the beginning. Apparently when I was young, I’m talking 4 years old, I liked to leave a calling card whenever I went somewhere new. Yes, that’s right every time we went somewhere, I would promptly ask to be excused so that I could go and use the toilet and leave a massive dump. I know. I was a classy four year old. I guess I saw it as a creative expression, a way of leaving my mark on the world. I left massive poos in some very auspicious places, from the vicarage to our local supermarket. I wasn’t fussy, as long as it was new. One day my Mum and Dad announced we were going to go round for a cup of tea to our lovely elderly neighbours that lived at the back of our house in the biggest bungalow I had ever seen. I was convinced that because they lived on one floor, they must be indeed very posh and therefore a very worthy recipient of my calling card. It had been drummed into me that I should behave myself. I was not to touch the pretty ornaments nor was I to climb over the antique furniture. However, no one had told me that I couldn’t go to the toilet. So soon after arriving I made my excuses to go to the toilet.

Oh what a glorious posh bathroom it was too. A huge corner bath…fancy! Gold taps…even fancier. And all in glorious avocado…and hang on…what’s this? A toilet with taps? Ooooh, triple fancy!! So I sat on this new lovely toilet. Praising myself on finding the latest posh toilet. Oh my bottom was in for a treat. After curling one out, I struggled to locate the toilet paper and then realised that it was sat on the ‘regular’ toilet. I carefully wiped my bottom. I liked to use a lot of paper to make sure that I was clean, I’m not an animal you know! I deposited it in the ‘posh’ toilet then looked for the flush. Only there wasn’t one, just two taps. So obviously I turned them both on but instead of taking the poo away it started to fill up, my toilet paper blocking the plug at the bottom and now my poo was swimming dangerously close to the top. In fact it was close to breaching. I quickly switched the taps off and took the approach I still take today. Just roll with it, all will be fine.

See? I look quite pleased with myself don't I?

See? I look quite pleased with myself don’t I?

 

When we got home I found myself desperate to share with my mum the posh toilet that I had used. On telling her my story, her face visibly whitened before she shouted “oh shit” (yes quite apt really) “you did a poo in their bidet!”. I have never seen my Mum move so fast. She dashed back round on the pretence that I had left something in the bathroom. Again quite apt as indeed I had left something. On arriving, she was ushered in by the elderly gentleman who looked a little shaken. She went into the bathroom to find the lovely old lady wrestling my poo out of the bidet. Now that I am sharing this story, I realise that actually this is far less embarrassing for me and more embarrassing for my mum. We were never invited back round.

So important was this poo event in my life that I have never been allowed to forget it. It has obviously scarred me for life too because when I was in labour, I spent the whole time shouting at the midwife, “i haven’t done a poo have I??” I even kept sending Mr C down to that end to check. No, this story is the one I’ve not been allowed to forget, despite several more embarrassing things happening later in my life. Let’s not discuss the time I was queuing up in Primary school for my lunch and I was desperate for the loo. They were serving shepherds pie but I wasn’t going to lose my spot…… Only after I had finished every last morsel did I admit what I had done. Don’t worry it wasn’t a poo! Then there was my first date with Mr C when I had my tongue piercing (call it a late rebellion for not being allowed to have my ears pierced when I was a kid). I got my risotto stuck on my tongue piercing, then spent the whole meal pulling strange faces, (which was rather alarming for Mr C), as I tried to get the risotto off my piercing but instead I ended up flicking Mr C in the face with risotto. Then to top it off, I realised I had forgotten my purse so couldn’t pay for my half. Now you know why I keep banging on about us being married 10 years this summer…it’s a miracle!

No. despite lots of daily embarrassments, my parents still love to reel out the poo in the bidet story. So much so that as I was just about to walk down the aisle to get married to Mr C, my mum informed me that she had just seen my dad’s speech and it was all about my poo in the bidet. So when I was saying my vows, instead of being in the moment I was worrying about shit instead. Story of my life really. I really should spend less time worrying about random shit because it really does all work out in the end. We just need to roll with it, bidets and all!

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.

island-living-photo-of-emEmma says: “I’m mum to two girls and wife to Mr C. We used to live in wild and wonderful Yorkshire on the edge of the moors. We have now moved to the rather lovely and sunny Jersey, Channel Islands.  So basically, I’m an adopted Yorkshire lady now marooned in Jersey, blogging and ranting to keep sane!!”
Follow Emma on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and  Pinterest and the blog Island Living 365


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The #OopsFiles 13: Guest Blogger Pink Noam

pink-noam-featuredWelcome back for another edition of the #OopsFiles, the guest blog series that’s earning a reputation as a place where willing bloggers – yes they’re actually WILLING – come to  confess their sins/embarrassing life stories!  Now, two themes have come up a few times since the series began: nakedness and public transport indiscretions.  Blimey.  This week’s guest post by Pink Noam includes the latter plus a bar story.  I did think of regaling you with a few of my own public transport stories, you know, like the time I nearly broke my own hand grabbing the hand of the twunt who molested me on a packed Parisian metro train.  Or the time I was in my Saturday night glad rags and got up when the train stopped, only to be stuck to the seat because the PVC of my tights pants had ‘welded’ itself to that plasticky non-leather material on Paris metro seats…and then entertained the passengers with the sound of me literally peeling myself off the seat (I can still hear it some 20 years later).  And let’s not even go there with my bar stories.  Instead we’ll go there with Pink Noam’s…


pink-noam-Missing-a-Train-title

 

The past few weeks have been an endless source of material that I could submit to the #Oopsfiles, some people, myself included, have even sustained some bruising from it…

My journey home from work involves a carefully timed train ride and then a tram ride. I get off the train and then I have two minutes before the tram arrives on the next platform. In theory.  Because I use public transport, the amount of times this works out can be counted on one hand though.

A couple of weeks ago, I arrived at the platform for my train and saw that the train had been delayed by ten minutes. Faced with the prospect of missing my connecting tram and having to stand in the pouring rain and cold for 20 minutes, I got a little grumpy. I then had to stand sardine-like on the train for 27 minutes before having to battle my way out of the train at the stop.  Bereft of hope, I climbed the stairs to the tram platform. As I reached the top of the stairs, there was my tram, miraculously waiting for me to board.  Now these trams don’t hang about, they’re there for all of 30 seconds before they move off. It was pissing with rain and it was bl**dy freezing so I did what any sensible person would do. I started sprinting for the tram. The person in front of me did the same.  Unfortunately, he then decided that he wasn’t going to make it and gave up.  He came to a sudden dead-stop two feet in front of me.

Before I go on, it’s important to note that I currently weigh about 230 pounds, and that I was running at full sprint speed to get on that tram.  Also, I was running about a foot from the edge of the platform.

So he stopped and desperately, I tried swerving to avoid crashing into him.  I probably yelled ‘F*** at the top of my lungs too but sadly my efforts were to no avail.  I went into the guy like a high-speed train into a brick wall, which is to say that I kept moving at the same speed and he got smashed out of the way.

Sideways.

Onto the track.

I don’t think ‘oops’ quite covers that.

Lucky for him, I knocked him over onto the track behind the tram so there was never really any danger of him getting his head squished by the tram as it departed.  For some reason this didn’t appease him judging by the stream of very English-sounding expletives that poured from him as I continued sprinting for the tram.

What?  No of course I didn’t stop to make sure he was OK, I’d have missed the tram!

As it was, I didn’t miss the tram and I sat down, risking a look out of the back window.  I saw him climbing back onto the platform with a couple of concerned passers-by helping him out. I’m sure that he got a bruise or two from the fall but as yet, I haven’t had a call from the police so I think I’m in the clear…

Of course, this sort of behaviour often comes back to bite you in the bum, and so Karma got its revenge not long afterL

The weekend after, my partner Ant and I decided to go out for a few drinks, to a local gay bar.  We had a warm up drink at home (3 spiced rum and cokes and a couple of tequilas – oops) and then headed to the bar.  We were fairly squiffy before we went out, but we continued to have a great night, listening to cheesy Dutch music, and singing loudly.

There came the inevitable point in the night where I had to break the seal and go for a pee and this is where the universe got its own back for me throwing a guy onto a train track.  As I attempted to dismount from the bar stool, I failed to realise that my feet were stuck behind the footrest and so, as my torso moved forward, the rest of me didn’t.  This resulted in me tipping spectacularly, face first onto the floor.

smartly dressed man falling off bar stool

Wasn’t nearly this fabulous [Image courtesy of Vogue]

 

I also hadn’t yet put my drink down so, while falling forward and putting my hands out to stop some involuntary facial re-arrangement, I flung my drink forward and completely soaked the pristine white shirt of a man in front of me.  Soaked it in spiced rum and coke.  Which is brown.  Very dark brown.  When I’d disentangled my legs from the stool and staggered to my feet, I apologised to him profusely. For his part, he seemed placid enough and I was about to offer to buy him a drink when his boyfriend decided to take some revenge and simply threw his drink all over Ant’s back.

Silly boy.

Ant immediately turned around and shouted at him, at length, in a stream of words heavily laden with some pretty spectacular profanity.  The guy burst into tears and then flounced out of the bar. It was ****ing glorius.  The guy that I’d soaked, looked like he was about to say something but Ant, still full of wrath, simply raised an eyebrow at him and then he left too.

No doubt the universe will be looking to balance that one soon, too.

PinkNoamLogoHeaderThe Pink Noam is a UK-born blogger now living in The Netherlands. He works (using the term loosely) in IT, where he tries not to get too upset at people who have no business being anywhere near a computer.

Follow Pink Noam on Facebook, Twitter and Google Plus and the blog Pink Noam

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.

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The #OopsFiles 10: Guest Blogger Daddy Mind Tricks

shocked baby face for OopsFiles 10

I’m so pleased Daddy Mind Tricks is joining the other dad bloggers featured on the #OopsFiles so far (Baby Pink and the Boys and Papa Does Preach).  Let’s face it, women are not the only sex guilty of many an Oops moment.  For some reason, this week’s guest post puts me in mind of an incident from a few years ago.  I had turned up at someone’s house for a birthday party, thoughtful beautifully-wrapped gift in hand with my three kids smartly dressed, sporting sparkly shoes and clean faces and ON TIME (praise be…take a bow Mama Prabulous!) at 4pm, as stated on the invite.  The slight drawback was that I hadn’t paid attention to other minor details on the invite…such as the date…we were 24 hours too late.  If my poor kids could have fired me and hired a new mother, they would have.  I think the only reason they didn’t is because they needed someone to drive them home.

There is no party in this guest post…just a fortunate little boy (eventually!) and an even more fortunate father!  Step this way, Daddy Mind Tricks, step this way…


Son of #OopsFiles 10 guest blogger Daddy Mind Tricks

 

Being a father has unfortunately given me too many “oops” moments than I can count but if I have to choose one that I can at least look back on and laugh about (now) it’s the time when my wife asked me to drop our son Edger off at our friend Sarah’s house for the morning. This was a bit of an unusual request since Sarah, who lives just down the street from us, was never available to help watch him during the day because she had a nine-to-five job, however, she had recently quit and taken a much needed hiatus from the workforce.

Excited about the prospective of some new found convenience, I had an extra skip in my step as I got my son dressed, packed, and ran us out the door in a hurry so I wouldn’t run late to a very crucial appointment my wife and I were going to meet up at. As I pulled up I noticed that there were a lot of cars in, and blocking, the driveway. I hadn’t given much thought to why that would be but it made me jokingly wonder if she had started a daycare or something. I knocked on Sarah’s door and when she opened it, Edger looked inside the house and froze.

Before I knew it he started to cry, which is very unlike him, but it was clearly because he didn’t know some of the people who were in his line of sight and since he had never been left there alone before he was apprehensive. It was clear this was more of a family reunion than a daycare startup. I couldn’t blame him for his confusion, he wasn’t alone, I didn’t know she was going to have family over while she watched him but I guess it made sense that with her new found extra time she was taking advantage of it to the fullest.

I was a bit confused because to me it was common sense that maybe you don’t have a bunch of people over, who I don’t know, when you’re going to watch my son but Sarah is a close friend to our family and we trust her more than most people so I figured either she told my wife about them being there, who didn’t tell me, or that the family was probably leaving soon. Either way, I still had a confused look on my face I’m sure.

Sarah too had a confused look on her face. This is probably one of the last faces you want to see on the person who’s about to watch your kid because at least one of us needs to know what’s going on here but due to limited time I had to assume it was because of his crying and freezing up and how completely out of character that is for him, as he loves everyone and is never, ever, afraid of anyone. Since I was in a hurry I didn’t have time to completely bring resolution to the situation so I suggested that Sarah take him to see their dog in the kitchen (as a distraction) and that while she did that I would leave his bag on the table and duck out (knowing full well that not only would he warm up to everyone but that in no time they’d all be his best friends). She agreed with the plan and everything went without a hitch.

That is until I called my wife to let her know Edger was dropped off safe and sound at Sarah’s and that I was just pulling into a gas station near her house. Before I could even finish my sentence she interrupted with, “Why would you have backtracked to go to that particular gas station?

“What are you talking about? It’s on the way,” I replied. And that’s when it hit me. I dropped him off at the wrong Sarah’s. All I could think about, as I drove Fast and Furious style back to her house, was why did she just take my son and not ask what the hell was going on? Who just goes along with something like this? Either the most amazing person, who would do anything for you at the drop of a hat, or the most creepy and insane person who would take a child and sell them on the black market. I hung on to the hope, as I sped and swerved, that she was the former in this case.

As I pulled up to the house, all the cars that had filled her driveway were gone. Either I was right and the family really was about to leave or I was right and they stole my kid. I ran up to the house and knocked on the door but no one answered. I knocked several times more only much harder and included ringing the bell but still no answer. I took out my phone as my heart raced and called Sarah only for it to go straight to voicemail. I had only been gone a little over five minutes but somehow my life seemed to have been flipped on its head in that small amount of time.

The diaper bag! I needed to see if the diaper bag was still on the table or not because in it was a GPS traceable iPad that might help me find his exact location. The only way I’d be able to see it though was looking through the back window. So I ran to the backyard to get a better view but before I knew it, I saw what was going on. In the world of Ohio it’s not uncommon to share your backyard with egg-laying chickens so Sarah had taken him out there to see them, knowing it would help get his mind off being left there, and in her quick thinking she had left her phone in the house.

I ran over, picked him up and hugged him like something out of a Lifetime movie. When I explained that I dropped him off at the wrong “Sarah’s” house I pointed out that I couldn’t believe she would just take him without asking what the hell was going on. She explained that she really did have no idea what was going on but before she could even get an intelligible word out, I was out the door and she was showing Edger the dog.  When her family asked her what the hell that was about she just assumed her husband must have told me I could drop my son off and that he must have forgotten to inform her of the plans (she obviously wouldn’t put that past him which cracks me up but then again concerns me).

The lesson here is don’t have more than one Sarah on your babysitter list but in all seriousness, all really is well that ends well and as parents we need to give ourselves a break when we find ourselves in that not-so-proud or “oops” moment.

Daddy Mind Tricks logo

DaddyMindTricks.com is dedicated to the real dads that do their absolute best and strive to earn Level 42 Paladin status so they can slay dragons with one hand while triumphantly braiding their daughter’s hair to perfection in the other.  Follow Daddy Mind Tricks on FacebookTwitterPinterestGoogle +

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


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The #OopsFiles 8: Guest Blogger Mum Revised

#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised featured imageSo amongst the fabulous #OopsFiles guest posts so far, we’ve had dubious commuter behaviour, hilarious vocabulary misuse, bare bums, yelling at the wrong person and key disasters galore to name a few.  You know what we haven’t had?  Evacuations.  You know of the body variety.  Comprende?  Now I’d love to be a team player and say that I totally relate to this week’s post by the unique fearless and downright funny Kristine Laco.  (If you’ve not yet visited Kristine’s blog, Mum Revised, you’re in for a wonderfully forthright irreverent but clever style of writing which is a breath of fresh air – ok, ‘breath of fresh air’ probably doesn’t apply to her guest post but hey ho.)  Seriously her arts and crafts spoof…oh my days!  Anyway, I would relate to this week’s #OopsFiles post but my bottom doesn’t ‘cough’. Ever.  My nether regions are well-behaved.  Cleaner than the Queen’s.  Practically perfect in ev- okay I’ll stop now.  Mental note to self: this post is not about me.

PS after recently writing here and here about the many problems I’ve had with my name, I’ve got to love this woman for managing possibly the most unique name mistake of them all…

Over to Kristine.


#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised guest post title image

 

When Prabs, or Erica* as I sometimes like to call her, asked me to submit a post for #TheOopsFiles I had to really take stock.

I am generally the person making everyone else uncomfortable. I say things that are controversial, off-colour and probably not very politically correct on more occasions than most. My husband is known to cower at my dancing joie de vivre. My children disown me when I bust out the lungs in rousing karaoke. I don’t much care what others think because I am a confident woman with lasting friendships and I am not in the market to be besties with anyone else.

Then I farted.

It wasn’t a small break of air with nary-a-butt lift required. It was an egg-rotting, dead-mammal, decaying and fermented masterpiece of bowel pre-shart air juice. It was so wonderfully disgusting that I no longer thought my foulness smelled like ripening peaches.  I thought I stank. So bad, in fact, I had to leave my office to cleanse my lungs.

As I was gasping for oxygen I heard her.  My housekeeper had come up the stairs and was proceeding to make her way to her first stop on the main floor—the powder room.

I had but 10 minutes to somehow air out the only room in the house without a working window.  I poured a coffee while I planned a strategy including loudly blaming the dog and a great deal of scented candles and Lysol.

I turned the corner to grab supplies when I saw her.  She had taken the opportunity to tidy up my office while I was not seated. The dog had long since escaped and was no use at all.

I backed away gently from the scene of the crime.  I did not tell her to wait.  I did not apologize. I did what any good person would do, I avoided eye contact for the remainder of her time in my house.

She has been with me for 6 years. She will be missed.

*****

*OK, full disclosure, the other time I was red-faced, I called Prabs Erica all over the internet because, brain fart. That is a full circle folks.

#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised logoKristine Laco shares her stories at MumRevised.com with a splash of sarcasm and a pinch of bitch. She lives in the Toronto area and is a stay-at-home mother of two kids aged 14 and 12 and a fur-baby. Her middle finger is her favourite.
Follow Kristine on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram.

If you’d you like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


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The #OopsFiles 7: Guest Blogger Life Love and Dirty Dishes

shocked face pic for #OopsFiles postI nearly fist-pumped the air when this week’s OopsFile post landed in my inbox.   [Taps mic and clears throat before announcing:] Not only is it by a member of blogging aristocracy – Claire of Life Love and Dirty Dishes no less – but I’ve also finally found someone who’s as hopeless with keys as I am!  Seriously, I thought my key disasters were legendary but I’ve found my equal. (Oh alright then, Claire has grown out of this habit whilst I’ve carried on and actually become worse in adulthood.)  Anyway, this post took me back to memories of my first car.  It was a beloved old baked bean can of an automobile that gave me hypothermia  in Winter and then overheated so badly during the Summer that I spent weeks driving it with the heating on full blast and the windows down just to relieve the radiator and keep the whole thing from blowing up (as I couldn’t afford the repairs), which resulted in me turning up at work with sweat dripping down my face looking like I’d run a marathon by 9am already. I will forever feel guilty for not saying goodbye to her properly when she went to the scrap heap. You can stop giggling at me assigning her an agenda, thanks.  The cheek…

Anyway, I’m chuffing delighted that Claire is this week’s OopsFiler.  She is such a talent (producing one of the Huff’s most read posts of last year!) and has a way with words that pulls me in and never fails to make its mark on me.  So without any further ado…


Austin Metro
When I first passed my driving test I raced drove around in a light blue Austin Metro.  It was technically my Mum’s car, but possession is only nine tenths and all that.  It was an old car.  It had a manual choke and everything!

The car it had its problems.  When it rained, the passenger foot well would fill with water, and there was a weed growing by the brake pedal.  The brake cable snapped, then the accelerator cable.  The suspension also snapped.  It didn’t like to start in the rain.  I was on first name terms with the AA man.  But it went like @#$* off a shovel and I loved it.

As an 18 year old girl it was my independence, my gateway to the rest of the world, well the UK anyway.  I have many happy memories bombing about in my little metro with Alanis Morrisette blaring out from the cassette stereo.  I know what you’re thinking, I can’t possibly be old enough 😉

My Dad had booked the Metro in for an MOT.  I still lived at home and my Dad did stuff like that for me.  He told me the time and the place that I had to take the car.  Now I totally believe in equality, but when it comes to cars, I am a typical ‘girl’.  I couldn’t tell you what car any of my friends drive, but I could tell you what colour it was.  When people start talking about engine sizes and spark plugs, my mind wonders to Orla Kiely handbags and Gerard Butler.  And car garages?  It doesn’t matter how grown up, strong and independent I am, those places make me nervous.  It must be all the testosterone in the air.  It temporarily shuts down my brain cells and renders me useless.

I left the car at the garage and went for a browse around the shops whilst the MOT was being done.  When I returned to the garage to collect my car one of the mechanics informed me they hadn’t done the MOT.  The other mechanics were laughing and I had the distinct feeling it was at me.  I became a little indignant, and demanded to know why they hadn’t completed the MOT in the two hours I had been gone.  I was busy, I had places to go, people to see, I couldn’t possibly be without my car, and this kind of service was unacceptable.  It wasn’t a bad spiel for a wet behind the ears 18 year old, who was well and truly out of her comfort zone.   After allowing me to finish my rant and climb right to the top of my high horse, the mechanic told me the reason they hadn’t done the MOT was because I had locked the keys in the car.

Remember I said it was an old car?  I always used to lift the handle and push the lock down, then close the door.  Only the keys were still in the ignition.  On the inside.  I can still feel myself blushing crimson with embarrassment when I think about standing in that garage.

I had to use their phone (yes, we didn’t all have mobiles then) to call my Dad to bring the spare set of keys.  The independent woman look was failing badly.

man handing keys to woman

My Dad is a very easy going guy.  He would do anything for his little girl.  I rarely remember him ever being cross with me.  However, he was fuming.  I know it’s a simple mistake, right?  It could happen to anyone.  It’s just that it wasn’t the first time it had happened to me.  Or the second.

Three days prior to the garage incident my Dad had an appointment and needed to borrow the Metro as my mum was out in his car.  He couldn’t get in the car because it was locked and the keys were once again in the ignition.  To make matters worse my mum had the spare keys with her.

Two days prior to making my Dad miss his appointment because I had locked the keys in the car, he had to come and rescue me from 35 miles away, because guess what?  Yep, I had locked the keys in the car again!

Three times in one week.  (It also happened the week before, but a kind, if not slightly dodgy man broke into the car for me, but shhh, my Dad doesn’t need to know about that one.

Thank god for remote locking nowadays!

And yes, my family have never let me live it down.

life love ddI’m Claire. I’m in my  mid thirties (37 still counts as mid, right?).  My claim to fame is that I once spoke to Phillip Schoefield on a Going Live phone in.  I know, awesome.  I’m married with two boys, The big one is six and believes he is a ninja.  The little one is almost two and never ever stops running.  We live in a Lego house.  We don’t really, but we have so much off the stuff I could probably build one.  My blog is mainly about the amusing side of parenting and the situations we find ourselves in, like getting wedged in the rollers at soft play.  Occasionally I am known to have soppy moments too and it all gets a bit sentimental.  Then there’s the odd rant.  After all, what’s life, without love and a few dirty dishes?
Follow Claire on FacebookTwitter and her blog: Life Love and Dirty Dishes

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