My sister called and invited me to a restorative yoga class and because “Namaste home ’cause I’m busy eating my kid’s Toblerone bar”, did not seem like a good enough excuse to not leave the house, off I went.

I had no idea what to expect of restorative yoga, I imagined all my rusty bits getting an undercoating, or someone sanding away at my bootie to uncover my 25 year old ass, maybe chopping my hair into a mushroom cut, restoring me to my original condition. But, no. It’s not that kinda restoration.

Just as we placed our mats down, wisely at the back of the class, a man walked in with a giant duffle bag and set up camp in front of me. He pulled out every piece of yoga equipment known to (wo)man, and some things I’m not certain were part of yoga at all. I looked on expectantly, waiting for him to pull out a puppy, or a small child. Then he constructed a wall of yoga items around himself on his mat. Another woman asked yoga man if we’d actually be needing all those things, and he was all “Oh yes, you’ll need props for this class. You’ll definitely need a belt.”

A what now?

I give my sister the “What the frig do we need a belt for? My yoga pants stay up just fine!?” look, and she gives me the “I have no freaking idea” look. Yes, we’re telepathic. We then give each other the “sweet baby Jesus” eyes for the 10 minutes before class started…but my mind was open…my body in need of restoration…


Then class began and I forgot all about duffle bag yoga man and I entered blissdom. Yep, that’s a thing. #Blissdom (Let’s start it trending).

Let me tell you about restorative yoga, people…there are eye masks; there are head rubbins; there are cozy blankets to be tucked into. COZY. FREAKING. BLANKETS.

There is BLISS. Dom. #Blissdom

The instructor was a phenomenal woman, with a beautiful, bold, blue mohawk. At one point, I was lying down under the blanket she kindly tucked me into (I mean, come on!), with an eye mask on, blanket rolled under my neck, a big comfy pillow tube thingy under my knees (why yes, that is the proper yoga term, just ask duffle bag yoga man), breathing….just breathing…feeling better than I have in a very long time…and then she asked a question.

Do you want peppermint oil?

Well, I had no idea what she was going to do with the peppermint oil, and I couldn’t see a thing with my lovely eye mask on, but my answer was a hearty yes. YES! YES! YES! Bring on the oil, baby! Soon, I smelled it wafting across the room and my desire for a Mint Aero chocolate bar became pretty intense…but I’m breathing…breathing…feeling pretty zen…I was vaguely aware of movement around the room, but I was so completely blissed out that I didn’t care to move, or even peek. #Blissdom
I eagerly awaited her visit to my mat.

And then – brace yourselves – the instructor rubbed the peppermint oil on her hands and then she rubbed it into my temples and my hair. And she gave me a freaking head massage! Only myveryfavoritethingintheentirefreakingworld!

We lay in this blissful position for a few more minutes until she told us to slowly sit up, and as I removed my eye mask, I discreetly glanced over at my sister. She appeared to have just seen heaven, and probably Ryan Reynolds was there, baking cupcakes. Her hair was all poufed out and crazy-like, and she obviously got the head rubbins too. A minor burst of hysterical laughter ensued.

The class continued on with one more blissful relaxing pose after another, until we ended with the most touching Celtic prayer I’ve ever heard, which we initially spoke, and then sang. The instructor’s voice was so beautiful that it made me cry. I couldn’t sing the prayer after I heard her sing, because her voice struck me to my deepest core, and all I could do was stand there with my hands in the heart position, as I let the tears stream down my face. I felt restored.

In the end, you sing the prayer to yourself, then to the others in the class, and lastly, you send it out to someone who needs healing. It was magnificent. I hope it reached you.

So, that’s where I’ll be once a week. Being restored. Mind, body, and soul. Because sometimes, you just have to put down the Toblerone bar, as delicious as that nougaty chocolate is, step out of your comfort zone, and step into the light.

Also, we didn’t need a belt.

Namaste, friends.

There is no butter in my coffee, that’s just nasty

For those of you wondering if you should hop on the Ketogenic low carb, no sugar, high fat (*cough cough* no fun), “lifestyle” train…this post is for you. This post is not for the hard core Keto-ers. You’ll hate this. Look away. No really, stop reading. And please don’t send me hate mail, or thwack me upside the head with an avocado if you see me walking down the street.

In short, what I understand, is that the aim of a Ketogenic diet is to burn unwanted fat by forcing the body to rely on fat for energy, rather than on carbohydrates (the yummy stuff). I decided to give it a try this year because I recognized that I was eating way too much sugar (the ladle full of Nutella I ate at Christmas may have been rock bottom for me), and my ass jiggled when I brushed my teeth. I wanted to make healthier choices. My hope was mainly to have more energy instead of feeling the sugar highs and lows. Also, I’m forty five and I really like skinny jeans. My days of eating whatever I wanted and staying slim, are long over.
So, here are a few things I’ve learned in the 2+ months of eating (mostly) “Keto” that may help you decide if you’d like to get on this crazy ride with me, because even though I’m not digging it, I am sticking with it (for now), or if you’ll be more likely to high five me as you run on past to get a piece of pie.


Wait for meeeeeee…..!


Kidding. I don’t run. Please bring me back a piece of pie.


Here is the best thing that has happened to me so far while trying out this keto thing…my sugar cravings are gone. When you full on stop eating sugar, you really do stop craving it. WHAT!? This alone is a major miracle for the sugar addict in me. I can have all the chocolate in the house for the kids and I don’t eat any. Guys, I. Don’t. Eat. Any. Valentine’s Day came and went and I did not have a single chocolate. I don’t take whole pies or packages of cookies to bed with me anymore. A bonus perk of keto is a lot less crumbs in my bed and more room on my bedside table where my snackin’ stash used to be.


And you really can eat all the bacon.


And butter.


Hell, you can have bacon wrapped butter.


And you really can lose weight. Quite quickly. Almost immediately, I noticed a change in how my clothes fit as you initially lose all the water that the fat cells were hanging onto. Be prepared to spend a lot more time peeing. I’m actually writing this from the toilet. It’s just more convenient.


And you will lose inches. I don’t use a scale, because I don’t want to be fixated on a number, but I take measurements using string – again, no numbers – and the change is real. I may post before and after photos on here someday, but the ones I initially took are in my undies and no one needs to see that. You’ll go BLIND!


You will definitely get your daily recommended servings of vegetables. I absolutely eat a lot more veggies now. But, for the love of all things holy,  do not eat the delicious carb filled veggies, people. Yep, some vegetables are actually off limits. VEGETABLES! And do not even dare to eat fruit. There’s SUGAR!!! It’ll throw off the whole burning fat for fuel Ketosis thing, doncha know.


If you let a piece of pineapple cross your lips, I’m pretty sure Keto police show up at your door, bash you over the head with a sock full of butter, and drag you off to solitary confinement where you are forced to eat cauliflower in rice form for the rest of your days.


Which FYI, does NOT taste AT ALL LIKE RICE! I ain’t fooled by you being shredded into little rice shaped nuggets, cauliflower! Don’t even get me started on cauliflower smushed into mashed potato form. Cauliflower, I’m sorry to have to say this because you think you have it goin’ on, but, you will NEVER, EVER be delicious, feel good, comforting, mashed potatoes. Just stick to being a delightful raw vegetable for dipping and stop all this nonsense.


I loathe cauliflower now, in all of it’s stupid ass forms. Well, all except the cauliflower tot. Those things are my jam.


And I never want to see another piece of bacon as long as I live. Yes, Keto has ruined bacon for me. It is possible that my love for bacon may not have run as deeply as I thought it did. It was perhaps more lust than love. And as we all know, lust fades fast.


And I don’t like avocado. GASP! I said it. Locking my doors now just in case the butter sock is coming.



Will you find new things to eat that you enjoy? Possibly.
Will it be some fat laden but delightful keto version of chocolate cream pie? Nope.

Zucchini noodles? Meh. I’m not mad at them.


Or cabbage…sauteed, in a salad, keto’d into coleslaw, or shredded into the infamous “eggroll in a bowl” recipe that every Keto-er raves about and lovingly refers to as “crack slaw”. I rename that asshole in a bowl. I want my eggroll in a deep fried wrapper like a NORMAL HUMAN!!!! No. Just the smell of cabbage makes me gag now.

Crap. What I’ve realized is that this “lifestyle” may work because you simply lose all will TO LIVE when you can’t eat any of the things that you used to love!!!


Whoa. Is Keto rage a thing? I think I may have a minor case of that.
It would be major, if I wasn’t mostly dead inside. Instead of coated with caramel sweetness like I used to be when I had a cali-style Caramel Machiato on the regular.


Fancy coffees and sass aside, I haven’t had as challenging a time as I thought I would kicking sugar, which is beyond shocking for someone who could eat an entire family size bag of Maltesers in one sitting. And did so nightly. BUT, I have a very hard time eating as much fat as is required for ketosis to occur (and that is when the magic happens supposedly). I just can’t do 70-80% fat in my diet each day. So, I see less physical changes now, but, I am staying off the sugar and eating low carbohydrates – most of the time. Because it’s healthier than the sugar coma I was living in.


I understand that some people living this “lifestyle” – let’s face it, you can call it whatever you want, but it’s a diet – are doing so to lose large amounts of weight and they’ve made a very successful change in their health by sticking strictly to this diet, and they can’t or don’t “cheat”, ever. I send out a huge “you rock!” to all of them! Sincerely. It’s dedication and commitment that makes it work. But these last two months have made me realize that I am not a hard core keto-er. But it has changed me. Even in this short time, I’ve been reminded that what you put in your body has consequences, and you should choose wisely. I want to treat all 5’2″ of my own body much better than I have before.


Keto reminded me that real food is the best fuel for my body. And I was also reminded that it’s okay to eat purely for the sake of enjoyment sometimes. Food is delicious, and it should be enjoyed. And I will sometimes have dessert. Because it’s super duper delicious. And I won’t feel any guilt about it. None. I can eat dessert once in a while and not fall right off the keto train and binge eat a whole pie now.  That is some serious change. *Toot toot* Yeah, I just tooted my own horn.


So, do I recommend keto? Heck yeah, I do. If it helps you make the change you’ve been struggling to make, it’s worth a try. But don’t feel bad if you make adjustments. You do you. And stay away from cauliflower rice. That shit is what evil tastes like.


Ninja Pooping 101

I’m allergic to wheat and that basically rules out all things delicious (especially deep fried doughy donuts) but who can resist them? They’re warm. And mini. And rolled in icing sugar. So yeah, not me, man.

And then bad things happened people.



If talk of poop makes you panic. Skip this post. And read this book: Everyone Poops.

So I was on the toilet at Starbucks. Yep. I said it. I had to stop in between visiting clients the other day…cause when ya gotta go, ya gotta go…and *ahem* I may have eaten several mini donuts at lunch.

I’m allergic to wheat and that basically rules out all things delicious (especially deep fried doughy donuts) but who can resist them? They’re warm. And mini. And rolled in icing sugar. So yeah, not me, man.

And then bad things happened people.



So, you know when you have serious poop issues but you are attempting to do so in a ninja like fashion by not breathing or moving and doing the flush and poop at all the right times so no one knows you’re in there, near death? I have mastered the ninja poop. I would dare say, I’ve actually become TOO good at the ninja poop.

Because of my mad skills, things took a surprising turn.

You see where this is headed, right?

Without warning, the bathroom lights went out.

Pitch black in a public washroom stall. On the toilet.

I was totally freaked out. I may have screamed.

Began flailing arms to see if the lights were on a motion sensor.

Apparently motion is not detected inside the stall.

I curse myself for reading a good book while pooping.

Am trapped in dark stall.

Waiting for someone to walk in and magically make the lights come on. ‘Cause that won’t be weird AT ALL when I pop out of the darkness.

Can’t see my hand in front of my face.

Cell phone buried in giant bag.

Can’t find giant bag.

Have to *GASP* feel around the stall…the germs, my god, the germs. Finally I find my phone and use flashlight app.

Make mental note to Lysol phone.

Kiss phone.

Make mental note to Lysol lips.

I come bursting out of stall waving arms frantically and. the. lights. came. on.


Except they came on because someone walked in. To find me crazy arm dancing in the bathroom. We both stop and stare at each other. I wash hands like it’s perfectly normal to be dancing in the dark public washroom.

And because I’m a thoughtful gal, I say “Make sure you move around a lot in there.”

Awkward silence.

Exit Nicole.


Post originally written for the blog The Colie Chronicles © 2014

Random Facts About Me. Because I Just Don’t Share Enough with the Interweb.

I love talking animal videos. Have ya’ll watched Lucas the Spider? I can’t even deal with my love for Lucas.

Bloopers at the end of a movie make me ridiculously happy. I will be the last to leave the theater…just…in…case…

I lie down in the shower and I’m not talking my bathtub. The stand up shower. Torso across bottom of shower. Legs up the side. Head on pouf. Every single time.

I wanted to be a hairdresser.

I became a Social Worker. Still not sure if I made the right choice.

I have no tolerance for lactose.

I keep a gratitude journal. I try to write in it every day. There really is always something to be grateful for. Even when I’m pms-y and life seems overwhelming.

Pretty journals and fun pens make my heart happy.

I have seen You’ve Got Mail 7,346 times. That is barely an exaggeration.

Dumb & Dumber is one of my favorite movies and I can quote the entire film.

I worry all the time about whether I’m a good (enough) Mom.

Relationship status: mostly sleeping diagonally.

I never leave home without whatever book I’m reading. My books always look like they’ve been through a hurricane. Don’t loan me your books.

I freaking love T. Swift. Yeah, I said it.

I can get ready to go out in ten minutes. Or I can take an hour. There’s no in between.

I could overhear a complete stranger in a line up at the grocery store talking about getting food poisoning and I will ban whatever food they ate from my diet for all eternity.

I have never been in a fist fight. I do, however, have a growing number of people on my “people who need a punch in the mail” list.

I’m not tall. At all.

I drive a standard. Like a bad ass. I will judge you if you can’t.

I’m right handed. I can’t go left.

I have two children. One is a leftie. One is taller than me. Both are incredible and they are my favorite people in the whole world.

I have wake me up after I’m asleep rage. I’ve been known to throw things. Like a remote control at the ex-husband. If I fall asleep. Anywhere. Just leave me there. For your own protection.

I’m a morning person.

And a night owl.

I don’t think orange juice goes with any meal but breakfast.

I rarely eat breakfast.

Water is my favorite drink. Always with ice. Give me all the ice. Wine ranks a close second.

My favorite flower is a daisy.  I absolutely love fresh flowers in my bedroom.

I have kept an orchid alive for three years. This makes me a strange kind of proud.

My heart has been broken.

Music has the power to make me instantly joyful.

I sing loudly in the car. In the shower. At my desk. At Starbucks. In stores. My son hates this about me. My daughter happily sings with me and we think we are the bomb diggity.

I like my right eyebrow best.

My eyes used to be dark brown and they are now almost green.

It would be my dream come true to own a little cafe and bookstore.

I have a thing for beards. Not on me.

I do have one arsehole of a neck hair that I can’t get rid of, but I pluck that bad boy.

I get headaches from too tight pony tails, and from wearing sweaters with hoods, or necklaces. Yes, I’m a delicate flower.

I have been engaged three times. Four, if you count twice to the same person. Which I do not.

I wear my engagement ring from my ex-husband on occasion. I still adore it and it still sparkles like a mofo.

I wear a bracelet that I never take off, with charms for happiness, love, and loyalty. Tiny reminders of three things I value and want in my life.

I can never find my keys. Or my phone. Or my phone charger.

I’m a bit obsessed with slippers. The uglier, the better. I also steal slippers. Not from the store, of course. But, family. Friends. Your slippers are not safe with me.

I am a legit sugar addict – known to eat entire packages of cookies, tubs of ice cream, whole cakes, don’t even get me started on Cadbury Mini Eggs…basically, just pour sugar directly down my throat and I’m a happy girl. BUT – – I stopped eating sugar on January 8th of this year – today marks my one month sugar free anniversary! YAY ME! And the good news is, I’m still sweet as a freakin’ butter tart. I haven’t even knocked anyone down to steal their cookie. But I damn well think about it.

Loud chewing is top of my ‘things that annoy me and will make me contemplate punching you’ list.

My siblings are truly my best friends. I am the youngest in our family. I hated this when I was growing up; I love it now.

I buy most of my clothes from thrift shops. I so love a bargain. Also see *I became a social worker.

I have about 6 lip balms with me at all times. This is my latest favorite.

I starred in a commercial when I was five years old for the Halifax Shopping Centre.

I won first place in the 100 meter dash in grade three. That was the high point of my athletic career. I peaked in grade three.

Now I only run if someone is chasing me. And sometimes when I think someone is chasing me, but his hat just blew off. True story.

I never drank coffee until I was in my 40’s. I am making up for lost time now. I’m often grateful for yummy coffee.

I ugly cry at sappy movies.

I’m completely addicted to Hallmark movies. No, really. It’s a problem.

My first job was at K-Mart in the cafeteria. I was the youngest employee at 15 and I made a whopping $4.55 an hour. My uniform was brown and orange polyester and I rocked it.

My son painted the picture of Martin Luther King Jr. in the photo at the top of this post. He does not get his artistic abilities from me, but I sure wish I could say that he did.

I’m planning a new, very fun thing for my blog! Hint: my very talented son will be involved.

I have five tattoos. There’s only one I regret and I have dreams of more. Educational side note: do not get matching tattoos with anyone you date, ever.

Two of my tattoos are written in Italian because I find the language beautiful and romantic and so far, Italy has been my favorite place that I’ve visited.

I stole our pup, Dixie the Wonderdog. She came along with a previous partner and when that relationship ended, I kept the sweet fur face. She is pretty close to perfect, aside from her snoring and hogging the bed and occasional marble chewing.

I weirdly FEEL much taller than I am. I’m always genuinely surprised when I see how small I am in photos next to other people. In my head I’m a good six feet tall.

My nickname is Colie (pronounced coal-ie). None of my family members or close friends call me Nicole.

I can’t raise only one eyebrow. I’m jealous of those who can. Can you? Please teach me.

I never blog at home.

I only write at coffee shops. I’m at one now. Singing. A little too loudly.
















5’2″ With Some Attitude

Over the holidays I had one of those A-Ha moments. I felt a little like Oprah, but without the ability to give everyone a new car and my favorite cozy robe.

It happened as I was giving some thought, as I often do, to the fact that my life hasn’t turned out as I intended, and at times it remains a struggle, but then, as I sat building my daughter’s Christmas gift in my sweet little home, with a turkey in the oven, and getting my John Cusack on with Serendipity on the television, my Christmas tree lights sparkling, and the sun still not up, I decided that I should spend more time focusing on all that I have accomplished on my own. I realized that it’s actually quite possible that my life, just as it is, is even better than what I had planned.

When I simply changed my perspective, I realized that it is in recognizing that there have been some very hard moments over the years since my married life ended, and in knowing that I got through them all, with humor, with grace, sometimes with wine and an attitude, that I finally found what I was looking for. And it wasn’t in the arms of another person. It wasn’t in anyone’s love, or in anyone else’s approval. It was in me. In my own strength. In approving of my self.

If I had not taken this road, would I be able to do all the things I can do now?

Install a dishwasher. Build the shit out of IKEA furniture. Cook a full Christmas turkey dinner all by myself LIKE A FREAKING BOSS. Shovel my driveway. Mow my Hell lawn. Turn our cozy house into a home, that my children love and feel safe in.

Would I be as bold?

Would I be as brave?

But possibly not.

I have come a long, long way since my marriage ended. And this Christmas, instead of feeling disappointed with where I am, or where I am not, I feel really proud of myself.

Every single day, I show my children that they can do ANYTHING. Even when they are scared. They can do it. Even when it’s hard. They can do it. They grow and learn the most from all the hard stuff and there is always something to be grateful for. I’ve shown my children, and myself, that there can be real happiness, and wheezy old man belly laughs, even in the most challenging moments. I know, more now in this moment than I ever have before, that I have made good choices. And not in spite of the decisions I’ve made, but rather, because of the decisions I’ve made, I have created a life for my children that I am truly proud of.

I hope as you head into this new year that you are able to reflect on where you’ve been, and where you’re going, and that you also have moments of being proud of exactly who you are. Whatever choices you’ve made, or twists in life’s path that you’ve followed, or fallen off of. Each decision has the power to make you stronger, braver, bolder…if you let it. I hope that you start this new year knowing that although life doesn’t always go as planned, it could be even better, and you will rock it!!

Happy holidays my bad asses. I heart you!



Things I’ll Never Say

My father died.

My biological father. Just like that. We had just spoken in the weeks before. By email of course. Because that was the relationship we had. A life in writing.

I don’t think I replied to his last message. We talked about lawn mowing. His fondness for it. Enjoying the mindlessness of it. My hatred for it. Given my Hell lawn. But I didn’t reply.

Because I thought I would have time.

Our messages sometimes started mid sentence and likely would make little sense to anyone but us. His shenanigans often made me laugh out loud. Our emails read much like the ramblings of a crazy person with a lot of “…” and never ending sentences. And they could not have been more similar. I could read an email he wrote and think it was my own writing.

But the last one, I didn’t reply.

And then he died.

Leaving me no more time to show him that I am good enough to be included among the daughters he left behind. Good enough to tell the whole town who loved him, that he had more than two daughters. He had more than two grandchildren.

By his choice, for his own reasons, he never met my children. My boy who has the same little cleft in his chin which my father kept covered by a beard, he never saw that he has his blue eyes with a puff of skin underneath like he’s tired no matter how rested, he never met my boy who is an amazing artist with the kind of humour that would have lit him up. And he never met my daughter; my dramatic, adorable, funny, compassionate little ray of sunshine. He never looked in her eyes that are the exact same greenish-brown as mine, or heard the way she loves telling stories, often exaggerated to make them a tad more interesting,  just the way I do. The way, I think, he did too.

He chose to have no funeral which is quite fitting for someone who hid in the attic when company came to his house. Not unlike my own personality. But in choosing no funeral, I was left floundering. Confused. Unsure.


So I went to his town. I walked the streets he walked. I threw a stone in the ocean for him. Offering peace. Remembering the many stories he told me about his office, his work, all the people in his life. He had told me all about them over the many years we wrote. Twenty five years. And some years, we wrote every single day. Several times a day. I feel like I know his colleagues, his wife “the sensible one”, his in-laws, his daughters, his grandchildren. He told me about them often.

And he told them nothing about me.

And so I’m left alone in my sadness. The only one in my life who feels this loss.

Left wondering, as I have since I was eighteen years old and my whole identity changed in an instant. Left wondering why I wasn’t good enough for him to talk about? Left wondering why he would leave me out of his obituary that he wrote himself? Knowing, surely knowing, that it would cause another little piece of me to disappear. That it would cause my heart to break into a million tiny pieces. That I would never be the same.

I’ll never know. I can’t ask him. But I do know what he would tell me…at some point, everyone feels like they don’t belong. Because he felt it too. He knew.

I should have insisted that he meet my children. They are so worth knowing. I should have visited. I should have…

I know he would tell me to write more. And to publish my writing. Which is so much like his. In one of the last messages he said to me “you are hilarious you know……somewhere out there is a magazine that would publish your material…” Words he had said to me many times before. Publish. Write. Publish.

I wonder now if I had published my writing, would he have said my name in his final words?

I know now that someday I will hunt down that illusive magazine he swore was out there, just waiting for my writing.

Until then I’m left with these things I’ll never say…

That I was his daughter too.

That I loved him.

That every word he wrote to me was important and special and that I will miss him. My confidant. My friend. My father.

Every single day.

We saw a hummingbird on one of the few times we saw each other in person. Him in his ever present Tilley hat. Me nervous and rambling. Since then, we’ve sent each other gifts and little reminders with the tiny bird a symbol of that day in the park together. He sent me a hummingbird necklace and joked it was so ugly that I’d never wear it . But to me, then and  even more now, it is beautiful.

“Legends say that hummingbirds float free of time, carrying our hopes for love, joy and celebration. Hummingbirds open our eyes to the wonder of the world and inspire us to open our hearts to loved ones and friends. Like a hummingbird, we aspire to hover and to savor each moment as it passes, embrace all that life has to offer and to celebrate the joy of everyday. The hummingbird’s delicate grace reminds us that life is rich, beauty is everywhere, every personal connection has meaning and that laughter is life’s sweetest creation.” – Papyrus

Nipple Confidence

I had my first mammogram.
In case you haven’t had the pleasure yet, I will walk you through it now so you are prepared…

I finally did it. I got my boobs flattened. And yes I know they’re already flat, no need to be sassy. This time I got them completely squished. Professionally. Not like that time I got wedged between the wardrobe I was installing in my backroom and the door frame, but, on purpose.

I had my first mammogram.

In case you haven’t had the pleasure yet, I will walk you through it now so you are prepared:

Where I live, they do them at the local hospital in the x-ray department. In general, I am not a huge fan of hospitals where there could be unexpected barfing and there are way too many germs but I MUST GET MY BOOBIES SQUISHED!! I’m basically hiding in a corner near a trolley full of Johnny shirts when I get called in. Nurse wastes no time. She asks me a few questions and then says, “Now take all your clothes off, except your pants, and come into the next room”. And off she goes. Say what now? I am looking all around for a Johnny shirt to cover my girls up but there are none. Was I supposed to bring one in from my hiding spot? I peek into next room and ask…”So, I just come in here all guns blazing?” She is tippy tapping on her machine asking me to clarify my date of birth…she doesn’t even look up so I do a little boobie shake test. Nothing. Just a “yes”. Tough crowd. I say “You didn’t even have to buy me a drink first.” Still nothing. She’s super fun and friendly.

So there I am in my boots and black leggings (which, when you are *cough cough* fake 37, as I am, should never be worn without something long enough to cover your jelly but I clearly did not think my outfit through today). I attempt to walk in all la la la, check out these bad boys, nobigdeal. Exuding nipple confidence. But it was actually more like trip, tippy toe, tippy toe, check out my butt in leggings, gasp in horror, arms awkwardly placed across the boobs, eyes averted.

She tells me to wash my deodorant off. For future reference, don’t wear deodorant when you go get your boobs squished unless strutting about with your nips out in front of a stranger isn’t weird enough for you, and you wanna add some arms flailing, boob jiggling, armpit washing. Whatever floats your boobie boat.

One of my sisters told me it hurt so bad I better take drugs first, and try hard not to punch the person. The other one rated it only a 2 on the pain scale. With ten being an ‘I’m sorry but I am going to have to kill whoever is causing this pain right now’, and a one being ‘Did you just breathe on me?’ So, a two. Please. I’ve had two children. I got this.

Here’s the thing, when you have itty bitty boobs, there is a lot of grabbing, pulling, and yanking that needs to occur in order to get enough of your mini boob onto the little shelf of the machine. While keeping legs forward, head turned to side, chin up, chin UP (she was bossy!), cheek pressed hard against the cold machine. I keep moving my feet and putting my chin down to look at my boob. This is chalking up to be a lot like my attempt at salsa dancing. Sister # 1 not as tough as I thought. This is not too bad. Check me out. Then she pushes a button which lowers a top see through shelf ONTO the bottom shelf – you know the one where my boob is resting peacefully? She makes me take a deep breath in and then out, and then “NO MORE BREATHING!” – as she sandwiches my tiny boob into what could easily be mistaken for a little piece of ham! SONOFABITCH!! Sister # 1 was right! I fight off growing urge to throat punch nurse each time she maneuvers my boob into a new position and then pancakes it. I think about how this is a small thing in comparison to what some of my family and friends have had to go through because of cancer. And then I can’t help myself…

I punch her.


All done in mere minutes. Punches thrown only in my mind.

I’d give it about a 4 on the pain scale so you may think seriously about punching someone (particularly if you’re a tiny boobed woman like me) but the urge is brief and it can be resisted. And you’ll be A-OK afterwards. Miraculously, my ham boobs popped right back up.

Thank you boobs.

So what are you waiting for? Go get those boobs squished because the C word can SUCK IT!!