My Near Arrest Experience

I calmly got out of my car, walked over, and punched him in the throat. Then I walked back to my car with swagger that could rival Walt from Breaking Bad when he blows shit up…

So I was running late for a medical appointment. Because I always am. There is no good excuse for my lateness, other than I often underestimate how long it will take me to get someplace, or I can’t get my eyebrows just right.
I arrive at the underground parkade at my doctor’s office and I’m five minutes late, but five minutes late is actually on time for me, so I’m high-fiving myself all ‘check me out! I made it! I am totally kicking today’s @ss!’ And then the parking machine which spits out the ticket, won’t work. The older fella working there says he will write down my license number, and then he’ll come find my car and put the ticket on my window so I can pay when I leave. Righto!
Behind my car he goes to WRITE down my license plate number. He takes 4 minutes. FOUR.  MINUTES. It’s 6 digits, people. He wasn’t memorizing it. PEN AND PAPER. I’m now gonna be ten minutes late and that really is late, late, not just pretty much on time late. I park and book it to the doctor, where she confirms I’m batsh!t crazy. Kidding. I have just enough crazy to make me one of her favorite patients, and a very good social worker.
Did I mention the only parking spot I could find was two levels down and wedged between a wall and a giant concrete post and it may have said motorcycles only? Yeah, that. I had to crawl out the passenger side and I couldn’t fit my purse out at all. You know what this means? My purse is bigger than my butt! Yay! Getting back in the car was even more troublesome. As though my butt GREW?! NAY NAY to that. Only Flat Stanley would have been able to get into the driver’s side – – or my 14 year old, he’s a twiggy little thing.
I get the ticket that the parking lot attendant has left on my window and I go to pay. Take ticket to pay station and…wait for it….it SUCKS THE MOFO TICKET RIGHT IN and says “CALL CASHIER – your ticket is invalid.” SONOFABITCH!!
At this point, I want out of this underground Hell. Like right now. It’s hot and smelly and people are coming and going paying their tickets and trotting off, yes TROTTING, all LA LA LA LAAAAA watch us go while you sit here ticket-less stuck in hot pee smelling murdery parkade! LATER SUCKA!!
I push the little help button and say “Heeeellllpppp…my ticket got sucked in.” “Really? That’s never happened before”, they say. Like I’m making it up. “Well, it happened now, so can someone come let me out, please.” “Sure, sure, our maintenance guy will be right there. Oh, where are you?” I’M IN THE PARKADE. AT THE PAYSTATION. *MOTHER EFFERS* (*that part was in my head). Where did they think I was?
I wait.
No one comes.
I wait some more.
Buzz buzz. “Me again, I’m still stuck in the *F#CKING* PARKADE” (*also in my head).
And then he comes. The license plate man. This does not make me hopeful that I will get out of the parkade in 2018. He’s so slow, he’s Tim Conway shuffle slow.
He opens the machine – finds my ticket – HOORAH!!! Then he closes the machine and every alarm known to man screeches so loudly that I’m quite certain my ears are bleeding. Tim Conway looks frazzled. Keeps opening and shutting door. Pushing all buttons. The most annoying high pitched BAAARRRRRMMP BAAAARRRRRMMP alarm I’ve ever heard continues. I’m holding my ears now. It’s beyond ridiculous. I yell, “Can you just open the gate? I need OUT. I have to get my children.” “Oh no, dear” he says. NO? NO?!!? What the actual f#cking f#ck f#ck?!
About twenty five minutes pass, and Shuffley McShuffleton is making no progress. And I’ve gone deaf. I ask again very sweetly to please be let out. “Oh no, dear, you have to pay to get out.”
“BUT I CAN’T PAY!!!!” I scream.
“You’ll have to wait, dear.”
ME:…… very dramatically acts out hanging self.
“The gate CANNOT open without a paid ticket, dear”.
Have I ever told you how much I HATE being called “dear”? Every time he said it I mentally throat punched him. HARD. And I envisioned slamming his head in the door of the machine a time or two. May need to go back to doctor for anger issues?  Or insane alarm ringing tipped me right over the edge.
So my sighs got louder and louder – – although completely pointless since he couldn’t hear them over the incessant alarm screeching.
I finally stomp off and go get my car. I drive it right up to the exit gate. I park. I give Shuffley the side eye glare. I very seriously contemplate busting through the gate. I’m getting later and later to pick up my kids. Would I get arrested for busting out of a parkade, I wonder? I’m pretty sure my sister told me someone she knew got arrested for a gate bust. Today is not a good day to be on the news. I have a hole in my leggings and not enough highlight on my cheeks to give me that J-Lo glow.
So I walk outside to the little ticket taking machine and buzz the buzzer there. I say “I have been trapped in this MUTHA EFFING parking garage for over half an hour with the alarms going off and if someone doesn’t LET! ME! OUT! RIGHT! NOW! I’m gonna lose my mind and Shuffley McShuffleton Tim Conway the no-maintenance-man is gonna be the first one to get a punch.”
She says she’ll open the gate.
HOLD UP. The same gate that Shuffley McShuffleton Timmy said can’t possibly be opened without a paid ticket? Yes, that gate.
I go back to my car and Tim yells angrily at me; he’s so loud that I actually hear him over the alarms still blaring – “SHE IS OPENING THE GATE!! GET IN YOUR CAR RIGHT NOW! AND GET!! OUT!!”
Seriously Shuffles? I was TRYING TO DO JUST THAT for the last 45 minutes!! Was it your $4 that I didn’t get to pay? Sweet baby Jesus. Chill out Timster.
I’m a little hurt that he didn’t add a dear on the end.
I calmly got out of my car, walked over, and punched him in the throat. Then I walked back to my car with swagger that could rival Walt from Breaking Bad when he blows shit up.
Or, in truth, I gave him one doozy of a stink eye, and the boomboom fist bump swear from Friends, and I left. It was pretty bad ass.
*Side note: may be watching too much Netflix.



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.

Take a Ride With Me

Join my gang of self-loving bad asses. There will be pastries!

Welcome to Finding Nicole.

My goal for this blog is to take you along with me on a journey of self discovery. At forty-five, I am still trying to figure out who I am; still learning to accept myself, just exactly as I am. I will write about my life, divorce, grief, parenting, the world of dating, and everything in between, and mostly – – I’ll be writing about love. The most important kind of love: self-love. Look out Oprah! I’m gonna fall in love with life, and madly in love with myself, with a little help from this blog.

Over the last few years, I have spent a lot of time feeling as if I’ve gotten off track in my life, but I’m realizing that Plan B is sometimes even better than Plan A. Okay, so, I’m actually on about Plan T, but there is beauty in getting there if you look hard enough. Squint. Put on your glasses. Get a new prescription if you have to. There is beauty there, in the struggles, and the pain, and the sadness. I haven’t gotten off track. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Those who know me, or who read my previous blog, know that I use humor to handle most of life’s challenges, and for a while I thought that may not be enough, so I stopped writing. I thought that I wasn’t enough. But I am starting to see that in just being who I really am, sometimes ridiculous, sensitive, and pretty freaking funny, there is tremendous strength. So, I’m just letting it happen. I may write about serious topics here, or I may not. What I know for certain, is that I hope to always make you laugh. Because it heals me. And I hope it heals you, too.

My wish for you in reading Finding Nicole is that my cup of self love gets so full that it spills right over onto you, as you come along with me on this bumpy road to self acceptance. We can all get matching bikes with streamers on the handle bars, and a basket for flowers, and we’ll stop at cute cafés to sip coffee and share buttery croissants. Hair blowing in the breeze. Feet off the pedals. We’ll be one big gang of self-loving bad asses. On cute bikes!

I may watch too many Meg Ryan movies. But stick with me, it’ll be worth the trip.