High Fives and Cussing

You might be having PMS when you get to work after no sleep and you realize you left your delicious Christmas-y flavored coffee in the coffee press on your counter AT HOME, and you cry in the car. You actually lie your head on the steering wheel and you cry. Because of a coffee.
You might be having PMS if you’ve watched nothing but mushy love Hallmark Christmas movies for 24 hours and you decide that you need to date a harmonica playing barista. Preferably with his own coffee shop, but whatever, you’re not that picky.
You might be having PMS if the sound of ice swooshing around in your kid’s drink of water makes you want to MOVE. Houses.
You might be having PMS if your underwear keep sliding down inside your jeans and you have to keep reaching down inside the ass of your pants to jack them back up and you really want to punch someone EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
But you don’t punch anyone, because that would be wrong. You choose to wipe your tears, deep breathe, and know that tomorrow will surely be much better…a new day, with new underwear.
You stop crazy coffee crying and you strut your ass into work. On time. With cute hair. WHAT? Yeah, you rocked it, girl! You are damn impressed with your ability to get your shit back together.
You high five yourself.
You sit down at your desk and take a big ol’ drink of icy cold water to wash down some drugs, and the water does that sploosh directly out onto your face thing and even gets you in the maa effn’ eye.
Fuck it. I’m punching people.
Yours, with high fives and cussing.
Nicole xx

Run, Nicole, Run

An oldie but a goodie…originally posted in August 2010 on my first blog, The Colie Chronicles, which I wrote for nine years, almost daily. It remains so close to my heart because of the people it brought my way, and the laughs we shared. Read on and let me know if you want me to share a few more flashbacks.

***

So I woke up this morning, clearly bat shit crazy, and decided to go for a run. I leave for Italy in a month and I plan on eating and drinking A LOT, and I can’t afford a new wardrobe, so evil exercise it is. I tiptoe to the bathroom and get myself all geared up and then tiptoe back to the sleeping husband. I poke him to tell him I’m going for a run. Just so he doesn’t wake up and think I was abducted in the night, and to prevent me from arriving home to find him blowing up the celebratory balloons (because I’ve finally gone missing without him having to slowly poison me – which I’m quite certain is his plan).

The husband gave me a crazy squint squint look…one eye open…trying to focus on my lovely glowing face at 6:30 am…then he looked over at my side of the bed and looked back at me hovering over him…squint squint squint again. Yes, I said I’m going for a run. A run! No, you are not dreaming. If I’m not back in an hour, call an ambulance.

It’s a beautiful sunny morning, the city birds are cawing, the street is quiet and peaceful…and off I go. I start out walking because let’s face it, I don’t want to drop dead from a heart attack before I even reach the end of my driveway. That would be embarrassing. I really should have asked the husband move my body a kilometer or two away from the house before calling 911. I’ve got my music playing and I’m so impressed with myself that I’m practically skipping.

I reach the path between the houses and I set off running. I’m all, “oh yeah, who won the 100 meter dash in 1980!!??” Yeah, that’s right, I did! Mmm hmm. I was all that and a little red ribbon back in the day, folks. This adrenaline rush lasts for all of 7 seconds. Then my feet start hurting. Must be why all those fit peeps stretch first. Silly me. I forgot to stretch. So I stop and stretch against a telephone pole. I’m feeling all lean and mean. I’m checking out my shadow and thinking, not bad Colie, not bad. I set off running again and I pass a couple walking their dog and I’m all “Wheeee hoooo! I rock!” Those losers are only out walking at this hour to prevent the dog from pooping in the house. But not me, baby, I’m running just because. Just. Because. Check me out. I choose to run.

It’s about now that my inner dialogue begins to change…Oh sweet baby Jesus.

Must.

Stop.

Running.

Whoever invented running is clearly in cahoots with the devil. Time to walk. Breathe and walk. Quite sure I forgot to breathe. Breathe, breathe. Breathing is important. I have a pain in my right shoulder. Frig. Is that a sign of a heart attack? No, I think that’s the left side. Okay. Why did I buy these cheap ass sneakers for my big flat Flintstone feet? My arches hurt. My god. Is that my knee cracking? How old am I? Man, I really hate sweating.

Shut it woman.

Get moving.

I turn up music.

I am blasting Eminem now – thinking how I love it when he lies – okay, getting kinda distracted now. I swear to you I am dancing as I walk – head bobbing – skipping a little bit – hands in the air – a little Flashdance-esque run in place from time to time just for fun…I’m finding myself quite amusing…okay, I’m good now. Ready to run again. I’ll run to that street corner…yep, I’m running…running…my shadow looks like it knows what it’s doing. Hey! I’m taller in my shadow…that’s cool…crap, that corner seems a bit far…maybe I’ll just run to the parked car. Right in front of me…okay, made it to the car. Sweet cabinet making Jesus. I need another pole stretch. I spot another dog person. Look at me stretching. Dog walking dude probably thinks I run. Maybe I’ll run past him? Yes, yes I will. Look at me go. Sucka. Okay, he’s gone.

Oh heavenly walking.

I’m now bee bopping along to a little Dixie Chicks (shut up) and then there’s a break in the music and I hear a wheezy old man behind me – holy frig. I didn’t even tell the husband my route! My mother always taught me to tell someone my route! What if I’m murdered out here by the heavy breather and buried in his back yard? I would really hate to eat dirt. I whip around, ready to give him the don’t mess with my stink eye, only to realize that I am the heavy breather. Turn the music up louder.

Maybe walking on the first day out of the gates is a better idea…much better than eating Fruit Loops, right? And then I see this man running up the hill that I’m walking down. He’s running UP the hill, people. He’s checking a gadget on his wrist and he’s all sweaty and fit, and so I have no choice but to trip him. Okay, not really, but I thought about it. Freaking show off.

I decide to run again and off I go down the hill…I make it to the next pole and have a little sit down on the curb. I’m just sitting there enjoying the morning, smelling the roses, soaking up the sun. Who am I kidding? I’m dying. I briefly contemplate calling the husband to come get me. Serious question – how did Forrest freaking Gump just start running? That shizz was NOT realistic people.

I’ve been gone about 45 minutes by now and with some musical encouragement I manage to walk/dance my way home. When I stroll into the house the 6 year old sweetly greets me with “Mommy, are you running because you’re fat?” and the 2 year old leaps into my sweaty arms and smooshes my face. Both just so happy I’ve actually returned alive from my walk. And honestly, it was touch and go for a while there.

Oh oh oh! I also rode the exercise bike tonight. Who AM I?

I won’t be able to walk tomorrow but I’m determined, so, if you see me sitting on the curb outside your house or stretching on a pole near you, give me a little “RUN, COLIE, RUN!”, won’t ya?

Or you could invite me in for Fruit Loops. That’s more my speed.

2018 update: I still don’t run. And at this point, even if someone was chasing me I’d probably be all, meh, I’ve lived a good life. I’ll just lie here and make it easier for ya.

 

 

Proceed With No Caution

Forty five is weird, yo.

I’m working really hard on embracing getting older. On accepting myself, just exactly as I am.

Ever have one of those days when you look at yourself in the mirror, and I mean you really look…you sit up on the bathroom vanity, with your feet in the sink,  you lean in a little closer, pull at your skin, examine each eyebrow, your teeth, each new line, every sun kissed freckle, scrunch your face, unscrunch your face…
And then you spot a hair.
A grey hair.
No big deal, right?
I’ve actually stopped dyeing my hair, and I’m all kinds of good with a few sprigs of grey on my head. But this bad boy is sprouting from what was once an adorable Cindy Crawford-esque mole on my cheek!
Yes, it’s a mole hair. And it’s about an inch long.
SARAH JESSICA PARKER!
How in the name of all things holy did I not notice that mother effer before? Every day I stand in front of this huge bathroom mirror to do my hair, brush my teeth, put on my eyebrows, moisturize my eyes, face, neck (because forty five, bitches, forty five). Did it just appear overnight? What kind of evil sorcery is that? I initially hoped it was unattached, perhaps actually belonging to the dog. Possibly stuck to my face with last night’s French Mint Laura Secord chocolate bar remnants. Surely, I could just flick it away.
But, no.
What the actual f*ck?
It brought back a memory of the time I was pregnant with my oldest child; I couldn’t see the bottom of my belly anymore, and the (ex)husband panic whisper-yelled to me after my doctor finished her exam: *Cough, cough* “You have a BIG DARK HAIR GROWING ON THE BOTTOM OF YOUR BELLY!” He was horrified. At the time I thought, jeez man, couldn’t you just ignore it? Maybe discreetly yank it out while lovingly caressing my ginormous belly, which houses YOUR CHILD, and an obscene number of Hershey’s Chocolate Hugs? Tell me I have never looked so glowingly beautiful, even with a new gross hair, and my belly button freakishly sticking out (it went back in, don’t worry). I am very busy and important, growing your child up in here, doncha know? I don’t have time to worry about the underside of my belly! Pffft.
But, now, to the ex husband I say, thank you. Thank you for telling me. Because who knows how long I have been walking around thinking that I was the bees knees, with my grey mole hair, just hanging off my cheek, flapping in the wind. And no one said, “hey, Moley H. McMoleyton, you better check yourself. And what really gets me is that I didn’t see it! I’m like those men with spidery leg nose hairs peeking out from their nostrils. The ones they seem completely oblivious to (okay, that gave me the heebie jeebies just typing it). I’m now sorry for judging you, fellas. I will still completely judge you, but with much more empathy. Because, now I know, hair happens.
I’ve actually been working really hard on embracing getting older. On accepting myself, just exactly as I am. With the exception of facial hair, that is. That bastard is long gone. But the rest. I’ll take it. The grey hair (on my head). My not twenty five year old boobs. Stretch marks on my hips from growing two perfect babies. The paunch above my c-section scar. All the new wrinkles. Yes, please. They’re from a life lived full of laughter, after all. And I’ve even come to accept the fact that my underwear keep sliding down inside my jeans. Because perhaps I’ve laughed my ass right off. Or my ass has morphed to a front bum and explains the paunch? I’m unsure if this is actually related to being in my mid forties, but it’s a new development, and I am blaming it on aging. Or poor underwear manufacturing.
Forty five is a little weird, yo.
Thankfully though, most days, I feel younger than I am. I’ve finally reached that stage where I’m more content in my own skin. Every scar, every stretch mark, every wrinkle, everything that is this vessel that I’m lucky enough to exist in, it tells a story. And each year that passes is a chance to add more to that story. To deepen the lines around my mouth from smiling, because I’m lucky to have the life that I do. And I’m hopeful that the best is yet to come. I’m hanging my hat on it.
Or on my mole hair.
“Aging is an incredible process, where you become the person you always should have been” – David Bowie