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!!

Live The Story You Want To Tell

This blog is my journey to owning my story, but to not living it any more. I am surrendering my story. I am unburdening myself of that story I’ve told myself over and over – – that I am unlovable.
I wonder how I will feel if I let go of it for good? I’m excited to find out…

I always felt different.

I would ask my mother if I was adopted and she’d deny it vehemently. In fact, she’d act completely offended and insulted.

I have three older siblings, each two years apart. All are tall, and striking, with thin lips, and thin noses, and they all look very much alike. The perfect family portrait. I always wanted to Sharpie myself into their childhood photos. I am ten years younger, Yes, ten. YEARS. I am too short to reach the top shelf at the grocery store without using the shelves below as a ladder, with big lips, a round nose, thick hair, and giant eyes. My siblings are all incredibly talented, both musically and artistically. I can’t whistle, or trace a stick man.

Growing up, I frequently heard “You look nothing like anyone in your family” which only reinforced the feeling that I just didn’t belong. I desperately wanted siblings closer to my age. I don’t recall living with my siblings as a child. I have snippets of memories, which are likely created by stories told and re-told over the years. I remember wanting my mother to adopt a child. Preferably Webster. You know the child actor? Emmanuel Lewis. Yes, him. I longed for a Webster. I cried and begged my mother to please, please adopt Webster for me. Although, in looking back, had she adopted the fictional non-Caucasian Webster, I still would not have looked like my sibling. I didn’t think that through. I wanted someone to fight with. Someone to laugh with. Someone to lessen that feeling of being alone.

Most of my life was spent with just my mother, an always struggling, always working single parent. We moved from the country to the city when I was eight years old, and my siblings stayed behind. Many a boyfriend came and went; none leaving a positive mark on my life. Some leaving negative marks. I adored my mother growing up, although she was not around often, and she made some pretty poor choices. She was all I had, and no matter what was happening in our lives, I always knew she loved me. She said it; she showed it with hugs and kisses; and with little gifts I’m sure she couldn’t afford. As an adult, she became my best friend, and my biggest fan. She was funny, brave, smart, and beautiful. If you wanted the entire family to know something, but you didn’t have the time or energy to tell them yourself, you just told Mom. And within minutes, they all knew. Strangers at the mall knew.

You see, normally, she could not keep a secret to save her life.

But she kept one secret. For eighteen long years.

I think she kept it so long that even she no longer knew what was true.

I went away to university, fresh out of high school. I desperately wanted to figure out who I was apart from my mother. When I was home visiting one weekend, I asked her one simple question. I have no idea what we were talking about at the time. I don’t recall why felt compelled to ask in that moment. I remember only my question, and her answer.

I asked my mother: “Dad isn’t my father, is he?”

“No”, was all she said.

And with that one word, my entire life was changed.

That lie became the foundation for “my story”.  At times, my story made me stronger. I made it through that, and all that followed. More often though, it made me doubt everyone. And I no longer belonged anywhere. Even with my family, I was, in fact, different. Now, I’m recognizing that piece of my story is just a part of who I am. Just a chapter of my book. I don’t have to allow what happened from that moment on to impact the rest of my life. I am so much more than that little girl who was betrayed, and then rejected by both of my “fathers”.

I realize now that I have viewed much of my life through that filter. Perhaps not intentionally, but every relationship, every person I met, I saw through that filter. Could they be trusted? Was I good enough for them to truly love me, just as I am? Was it even worth the risk?

This blog is my journey to owning my story, but to not living it any more. I am surrendering my story. I am unburdening myself of that story I’ve told myself over and over – – that I am unlovable.

I wonder how I will feel if I let go of it for good? I’m excited to find out…

“Do the best you can, until you know better. When you know better, do better”

– Maya Angelou

New phone. Who dis?

I have been thinking about relationships a lot lately; the lessons I’ve learned, the people I’ve been lucky enough to share some of my life with, and the ones I want to go back and punch myself right in the face for ever dating. And it came to me while talking with my kids about the few people they’ve met over the last six plus years, as we reminisced, and they ranked each person in order of favorite, and told me what kind of person I should look for going forward. I.E. Must be funny, play football and basketball, not be boring, and have kids of their own so they “get” it.

Simple things, right?

They’re very wise kids. I may start getting them to make my life decisions. Instead of my Magic 8 ball.

After our talk, I realized I should compile a list of reasons that I have broken up with someone in the past, so I don’t accidentally do any (more) repeatsies. I am actually quite good for the environment because I have recycled almost every relationship I’ve ever had, so clearly I need a quick reference sheet to help ensure I go forward instead of backward.

With my list, I’m thinking I will save a lot of time, emotional investment, and money spent on cute new underwear. If a prospective partner has qualities on this list, we can move immediately to the ‘sorry, that one’s on the list, peace out’ phase of dating.

So, here we go. Top twenty. In no particular order:

1. Not funny (no exceptions). Funny is mandatory;

1A. Doesn’t find me funny, or get my humor (I’m hilarious, just ask my kids);

2. Bad kisser (no exceptions). By now, you should have it mastered. 2.(a) Bad breath (no exceptions);

3. Texts and swipes on cell phone with middle finger and/or pinky finger. That’s just weird;

4. Says “I seen”;

5. Homeless (you can’t live with me). Please have your own home, car, job, bed on bed frame, and most of teeth;

6. Long fingernails. No, just no. I can’t even;

7. Hair too fancy;

7A. Refuses to do fun hat montages because of fancy hair. Loosen up. You are never too old, or too cool, to just have fun, and be silly;

8. Wears man jewelry and/or bad dad jeans (I snuck two in one here). I cannot get past the gold chain, and he’s got to have good jeans, that fit, and aren’t from 1987;

9. Hums when chewing. And doesn’t realize hums when chewing;

10. Psycho yogurt eater. No need to scrape the container like it’s the last bit of cocaine before you enter rehab;

11. Enters rehab. Feel free to be addicted to loving the Hell outta me, but that is all;

12. Tries to feed me mayonnaise from 2015. In 2017. Why don’t you just slip me some cyanide!?

13. Surprise d!ck pic. No. 13.a  D!ck pic with my name written on it. Creative, but still a hard core no;

14. Hates wind. Who doesn’t ride on the top of the ferry? See # 7.

15. Mr. Vomits A Lot (i.e. barfy when hungover, or if they cough too hard, or when they smell rotisserie chicken, or if they eat too many chips. You get the idea). Swipe LEFT. *If you have a good ten year streak of no barfing, and would rather rip off a limb than vomit, you could very well be my soul mate;

16. Judges me for eating pie* in bed (*substitute any delicious snack food);

17. Wants to build a house out of dirt, powered by potatoes. And draws sketch of said house on restaurant window; really taking away from my happy cashew chicken eatin’ vibe. When you end the date, they go play harmonica on the waterfront for some cash to get home. By bus.

Congratulations! You have just dated a mentally ill Busker. This should probably be moved to top of list.

18. Is mean. Gets angry at everything. Other drivers, slow cashiers, loud talkers, space hoggers, cute puppies. I pretty much always assume the bad drivers have to poop. Hell, I just assume everyone has to poop. Try it;

19. Won’t crack a window in the heat of summer in bed at night. Because theft. I don’t care if someone busts in and steals ME! I am sweating my fool ass off, crack a window! I dreamt of being abducted and taken to a house with air conditioning and a kidnapper who let me turn on the damn fan!

20. Liar, liar pants on fire. I can take a little fib here and there. Exaggerate a story, tell me you made a steak when you ate a chocolate bar for supper, tell me I look extra cute in my sweatpants…these little fibs make life more interesting…but no thank you liars.


I recommend you attempt to get through the list on the first date. No point wasting time. Just work each item into conversation:

“So, you say you’re an engineer…what are your thoughts on potato houses?”

“I see you have very nice hair – how do you feel about wind?”

“If you’re sweating, do you A. Turn on a fan, or B. Shut all windows and add flannel sheets to the bed?”

“Do you love yogurt, or do you loooooove love yogurt?”

It’s a super handy dandy time saving date screening tool.

Now, there are some exceptions; it may not always be one strike and they’re out. If they are funny, with good jeans, pro open window, upper level ferry riders, but they have an aversion to nail clippers, you may be able to overlook this. I likely will not. But you may.

And don’t misunderstand, I know I am not (quite) perfect…and I could (and likely will) write a much longer list of the things that will drive someone batshit crazy about me. First on the list may be that I have this list. But, for now, I prefer to let the brave ones figure those things out on their own.

I’m hopeful that while travelling this Finding Nicole trip, that I will also find the absolute right person for me, and I will no longer need a list at all. I will find each quirky thing about them endearing, and completely wonderful, and not at all annoying or weird. Oh, who am I kidding? Right person or not, relationships are complicated and people are weird. I’m hopeful. Not insane. I hope to someday find my weirdo.

I See Your PMS and Raise It Eleventy Thousand

I have PMS. Not right this minute. Don’t panic. But in my life. Hard core PMS.

I’m a crier by nature. And my kids are used to me crying over every single Meg Ryan movie that I’ve already watched 652 times. Don’t even get me started on “You’ve Got Mail” when she says at the end “I wanted it to be you”. Stop it. I’ll cry RIGHT.NOW. Or when no one turns their chair on The Voice. I can’t even. But my kids are used to me, and typically they just whisper to one another “Oh look, Mom is crying again” and move on. Nobigdeal. Please note that I am not usually a PMS crier. I’m more of an, everything is TOO LOUD, everyone is TOO ANNOYING, life is TOO HARD, groceries are TOO HEAVY, I am TOO TIRED FOR LIFE, people need to STOP CHEWING, kind of pms-er.

But this past weekend, I full on cried for a good two days. So much so that my daughter asked me: “Mom. Be honest. Did someone die?” Nope. I’m just a hormonal hot mess, sweet girl, not to worry.

I came up for air long enough to decorate the outside of house for Halloween, go drink Starbucks, and buy three more throw pillows.

My daughter sneaky stuck post it notes all over the house with little messages for me, in drawers, and on walls and doors, and I swear to all things holy (like Reese peanut butter cups, and gnocchi) that as I found each note, I squeezed her so tight that I worried her eyes would stay bugged out.

The notes said adorable things like “You shine bright like a diamond.” And on my sunglasses: “Your future is so bright, you gotta wear shades”. Yes, she plagiarized Rihanna and Timbuk3. But some were originals, like: “Thank you for feeding me” on the microwave. Shut up. I can so cook. She just loves microwave KD. And “Thank you for doing my hair even though I scream about it” was hidden in the hair brush drawer. What is up kids acting like their mom brushing their hair is a form of torture worse than hacking off seven of their toes and a butt cheek with a chainsaw? But if a someone else brushes it, nary a peep. The hairdresser can basically twist their head right off, and nothing. This is a mystery I may never solve.

Along with those little rays of sunshine were 32 other post it notes with different versions of I love you, and basically stating for the record, that I am the bestest, most fun, coolest mom in all the land. Sorry if you thought it was you.

One note said “You are the best mom. Even when you have PMS.” That was very strategically placed on my box of Midol. I squeezed her hardest for that one. And then took two Midol. Sometimes lies are okay.

When I tucked her into bed that night and thanked her again for being so incredibly kind, she looked up at me with her big brown eyes, and asked “Mom, be honest. Will that happen to me? Will I cry like a lunatic for two days, too?” And I said: “Yes, yes, my darling sweet girl. You will. Let’s just pray by then that I am menopausal so your brother doesn’t want to move out.”

Sidenote: Dear Bayer, I would be thrilled to sponsor Midol here on Finding Nicole. Please feel free send large quantities of Midol Menstrual, Extra Strength.