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

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.

 

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.

Bad.

Things.

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.

Bad.

Things.

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.

YIPPEE!!!

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