Sunday, April 10, 2016

Send help. And butter tarts.

I'm having one of those days months...when I just can't get my shit stuff together. Ever happen to you? 

March began on an especially positive note - I was all "Oh yessssss, I am at one with the Universe"...

No matter what happened I could see the positive. Someone barfed at the pool the one time I took the kids. They go every week with their dad. Every single week. No barfing. Ever. Then the one time their barf-a-phobic mom takes them, the pool shuts down due to barf on slide. Sweet baby Jesus! But in my zen state I was actually able to laugh when the 12 year old yelled "MERM (which is how he says Mom now)! They're bringing out the NET!" His humor saved me in that moment and I saw the positive...yes someone barfed and my mind was racing but I focused on the fact that my kids have my humor, and I thought maybe the pool barf incident happened to keep me from shooting down the giant swirly slide like a bullet to surely break my old lady neck, which I was just about to do because I was feeling all YEAH check me out, I kick pool slide ass!

I was seriously feeling all the good things...ohm...

It felt really nice. 

The ex-husband was away for most of the month of March and the 12 year old and 8 year old were with me for a much longer stretch than usual. For me, being a single parent with two kids has taken my anxiety to a whole new level because I can't just hide if one of them is sick. But we survived THE WHOLE TIME he was away without my head popping off or a Valium overdose. Don't get me wrong, my head spun around a few times and came close to popping off, but we survived. Whoever tells you parenting is easy is a hard core mother effing liar. Period. 

I bravely planned a road trip over March break, just the three of us, which is not easy when you have anxiety and the thought of being in another province and not being able to manage is especially scary. But we soaked up all the hotel living luxury, enjoying room service, swimming every day (without any barf incidents), and never making our beds or picking up our underwear. One night my son stayed up late with me and watched a comedian and I must say hearing him laugh loud with me was about as close to parenting perfection as I've known.

I also rented a mini-van for the trip (despite the serious uncool factor) so the kidlets had movies to occupy them on the drive and they could sit far away from each other.  And honestly, so they could sit farther away from me. The drive was my own little mini vacation and instead of the usual "I will pull this car OVER, turn around, and put you both up for adoption when we get home, if you punch each other/scream again/throw onion rings/fight over who actually farted ONE MORE FREAKING TIME" kind of shenanigans that I usually have to manage while trying not to drive off the road, I barely noticed I had kids with me. That is a parenting win! Also, the heated steering wheel and doors sliding open and closed for me were pretty magical too. 

Then all Hell heck broke loose.

It wasn't just one thing really but one big ass thing on top of all the tiny things adding more degrees of difficulty than I could manage. I like to think of myself as pretty damn tough and able to manage A LOT on my plate. But not lately. I would say I typically handle sadness and my anxiety quite well most days...with humor, with medication, with love and gentleness...but other days it kind of handles me. 

I've lost misplaced my peaceful easy feeling. I've looked under the bed. At my favorite coffee shops. I've looked in the backseat of my car. All I found was old donut sprinkles, enough dog hair to make a really good voodoo dog, and 70 cents. I'm working on getting the happy back but it's slow going. I've opened my laptop 324 times to write because writing always, ALWAYS helps...but instead I stare at the screen for a moment and close the laptop. 

I'm focusing hard on getting back to the optimistic, all is right with the world, Colie. I quite liked her. I've framed quotes I love at home. I've painted some new life into my old house. I've put down my phone. I've taken up arm knitting (badly), and I'm re-reading The Secret. I'm giving it my best "think happy thoughts" effort but...

There's a state of sadness I'm sloshing around in these days. I've got my rubber boots on but I feel it in my throat, in my chest, in my gut. I just feel it. I wonder if the six year anniversary of my beautiful momma dying is causing this crushing feeling without me even realizing it. Maybe the sadness is waiting there quietly even after all this time. I've lived without my best friend, my biggest fan, my one of a kind, make everything better, batshit crazy, absolutely perfect mother, for six years. Six. Years. My daughter doesn't even remember her being alive. Time passes whether we want it to or not. But it can't possibly hurt forever. 

Can it?

I need some help getting my groove back lovely readers. I need tips, inspiration, your always wise advice, and if all else fails I'll try Taye Diggs and butter tarts? As long as it doesn't involved me running a marathon, I'll give it a try. This tiny little blog and every single one of you who read it truly make my heart happy. I thank each of you for still reading The Colie Chronicles after all this time, for always supporting me and encouraging me to keep going, to keep writing, to keep being the mostly foolish, embarrassing, completely shameless me that I am. I thank you. 

Colie xx

Please don't forget to vote for The Colie Chronicles each day by clicking below and then clicking again at Top Mommy Blogs ('cause you have to prove you're not a robot). 

Just two clicks to keep Colie in the Top 10. 

I've made it to # 4 in humor which seriously! I've checked out my competition and I have a LOT of votes and books to write to ever knock them out of the top 3 but I have faith in all 11 of my loyal readers. We can do it! 

Vote because my daughter says I'm the funniest and that kid is wise beyond her years.

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Monday, March 28, 2016

Twenty Four

Things I've actually done in the last 24 hours:

Accidentally wore the 8 year old's leggings. In my defense, I am short and they are super stretchy but spending all day with the crotch sliding down to my knees was a little less than enjoyable. Not to mention embarrassing since my top may have been hers as well and seemed to barely cover my butt.

Got my boot completely tangled in my laptop cord at Starbucks when very gracefully attempting to pick up my soy caramel macchiato. Causing me to flop onto the unsuspecting 20 something guy next to me who was not happy to have strange 40 something woman suddenly splayed across his lap. And his girlfriend didn't like it either.

Took whole bathroom vanity apart to paint and then decided not to paint. Because ugh. I remembered that I hate painting. Determined it's rather convenient to be able to see inside the vanity without having to open any doors.

Almost got run over. I FINALLY remembered to put out giant overflowing heavy green bin at last minute and I went booking it down my driveway dragging it along behind me. Of course it was all tippy and I was all whoa! whoa! WHOAAAAAA! Yanked too hard to the left trying to avoid another scrape to my car creating major speed wobble! Speed of green bin shoved me into street, narrowly escaping death by garbage truck. Gonna have to go a little faster next time.

Ran into same woman at Starbucks three times who repeatedly told me about her brain injury causing her to regress to 9 years old at 21 years old, a back injury, a shoulder injury, kidney stones, knee surgery, and being hit by a car in a crosswalk. Three times. Same stories. Brain injury validated. Then added that she is in the top 10% of intelligence in Canada. Then asked me if Chai tea has coffee in it. Felt a little like I was living out Adam Sandler's "50 First Dates" only she is not Drew Barrymore and I really don't want to date her. Tried to figure out why universe keeps sending me this woman...concluded I need to cut back my Starbucks visits.

I stuck my square head onto Kiefer Sutherland's body. I didn't even bother to make myself skinnier. Kiefer works out. Bad ass.

What will the next 24 hours bring?

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Thank you sweet peeps
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Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Boob squishes

I finally did it, my lovely readers. 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 (ghetto fabulous homemade walk in closet) and the door frame, but, on purpose.

Every day when I go into the washroom at work I see a sign wisely posted inside my favorite stall door which gives the number to call to schedule a mammogram and reminders of when you need to start getting them and how often...

And I'd think  - I really need to remember to call and book an appointment when I get back to my desk...I'd attempt (and fail) to memorize the phone number and by the time I got back to my desk I'd typically be rummaging through my snacks and checking my blog stats working diligently. For months, possibly a whole twelve of them, I would pee, tell myself to make the call, and promptly forget.

But this time, peeps - - I did it!! My first mammogram.

And if you're over 40 (or fake 37), you should too!

I had to go to the local hospital x-ray department for the big M. The same hospital my momma died in. To that I say nothankyou. The smell as I walked through the doors immediately evoked a very dark, melancholy place in me and I contemplated running right back out through the doors but the new and improved optimist Colie* was all "Hells no missy, you march your tiny boobies in there and GET.THEM.SQUISHED!"

By the time the nurse called me I was basically hiding in a corner near a shelf of Johnny shirts, deep breathing, but that's not much different than any other day when I am forced to go into a hospital setting or to the doctor, or basically any place where there is an increased chance for a stranger barfing incident without any warning. That's my "stranger danger". Abduct me if you want** but please, please, don't barf within 500,652,743 miles*** of me.

Nurse 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 take one from my hiding place? I peek into next room and ask..."So, I just come in here all guns blazing?" She is tapping on her machine asking me to clarify my date of birth...she doesn't look up so I do a little boobie shake test. Nothing. Just a "yes". Tough crowd. I say "But you didn't even have to buy me a drink first!" Still nothing. She's super fun and friendly (note sarcasm).

So there I am in my boots and black leggings (which, when you are *cough cough* fake 37, as I am, should not be worn without something long enough to cover your jelly but I clearly did not think my outfit through today when I foolishly chose a dress). 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 now' (i.e. father of child during child birth) and a one being 'huh, did you just breathe on me?' So, a two. That's not even a toe stub people. 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 - 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! 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 as we all know...cancer can SUCK IT!!!


*Optimist Colie - putting all good things into the Universe.
** If you like ass whoopins!
***I'm a proud Canadian so not sure how long a mile actually is but I was going for far, far away.

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Sunday, March 6, 2016

My Brown Eyed Girl

Note: In memory of momma, your completely awesome Nanny, who was NEVER on time, I'm posting this 7 months late. It's ummm...totally on purpose.

Dear baby girl,

You are eight years old now. 

Yep. I have an eight year old little girl with my hazel-y brown eyes, my Flinstone feet, my mood swings, my passion for jewelry and obsession with lip gloss, and my penchant for exaggerated story telling. I am one very lucky mom.

In honor of your big day, I'm sharing eight things that make you the incredibly special little person you are. I could write 8,000 but this is a start...

1. You wake up happy every single day. You bee bop down stairs to my bedroom, burst through the door, and crawl into bed with me all smiles and loud talking.  Your hair standing on top of your head in a messy bun, skin glowing (and you have PERFECT skin - for future reference try not to cover it with too much make up because you are simply beautiful). It's impossible to be annoyed by your cold feet and close breathing because you are just so damn cute.

2. You're not scared of anything. If there's something your brother wants to try, but he's too scared, you will try it for him. You're kind of my hero that way. And I love how you cover for each other sometimes. Yes, I know when you're doing it and I love you both a little more when you do. Remember there will be no better friend than your brother. But someday, when you're a teenager out with your friends, just say no little miss risk taker. Because I'll find out. Moms always find out.

Big bro + L'il sis 
3.  You are funny. And I mean FUH-NAY. My fave kinds of people are the funny ones. And you are sometimes funny without realizing it. Like the time you thought 'Magic Mike' was a magician and you were confused about why he had no cards or shirt and didn't do any magic tricks. You, like me, love to make people laugh. Don't ever lose that. Laughter truly is the best medicine.

4. You're thoughtful and sweet. When you're not stomping and whining and giving me attitude, which you have PERFECTED by the way, little miss 8 going on 18! You truly can be the sweetest most thoughtful little being. You color me pictures and make me little presents, write me little notes I find in your back pack, you tell me when you think I look pretty (and when I don't, thankyouverymuch), and you hug with all your heart.

5. I love your honesty. "Mom, what were you thinking getting a matching tattoo. What if you break up?" or "Mom, that outfit looks like a teenager, you are too old for ripped jeans" *(Fake 37 is not too old, by the way). Or my favorite "You are the best mom in the whole wide world and probably even other worlds we don't know about." Nice. I out-mom even alien moms!

6. On the flip side you can fib like it's your JOB! A sly little grin spreads across your face when you lie and you know I'm onto you. Then we laugh over your latest crazy story typically about 80% made up. I'm told when I was little I did this all the time so you come by your "story telling" naturally. Embrace it. Maybe someday you'll also write some of your stories. 

7. You have a laugh that lights me up. Usually you're laughing AT me, but still. The BEST little laugh. Funny thing this year was when you decided you needed a "new laugh" and began doing an old man wheeze for your laugh. While I frantically told you to stop wheezy laughing because you'd get a sore throat. We're both a little nuts.

8. You have the ability to instantly read my panic level when I see a big mystery splatter on the ground and you immediately take my hand to steer me away and say "Don't worry mom, it's just spilled coffee, it's definitely not barf". Even when it is. Thank you for caring. Or for enabling me. Either way, thank you for being so insightful, even at just eight years old.

8 and 3/4 *because that'a technically how old you are now and because this one is a bit of a love/drive me batshit poop crazy one. You hate getting your hair done. This drives me absolutely bananas because as you know I wanted to be a hairdresser and having a daughter should be kind of the next best thing - - a tiny person's hair to style YES PLEASE! - - but, no. You'd rather be all messy hair, don't care. I do love that you already have a strong sense of who you are and what you like, and apparently it is not a cute side braid. Never stop thinking for yourself. Even when it drives your mother bonkers. 

You, my brown eyed girl, are simply the smartest, cutest, funniest, little girl ever and I’m so incredibly thankful to have you as my daughter. With each passing year it becomes more clear that we have that thing my beautiful momma and I had. 

An indescribable kind of love. Irreplaceable. 

I hope she's watching over, and as proud of that love as I am.

My cup runneth over.

All my love,
Your Mom xx

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Friday, December 4, 2015

My near arrest experience

So while off work over the last couple of months...trying to get past the sudden unexpected death of my biological father and all the emotions that brought up to the surface which is not at all where I like to keep my emotions. I'm more of a shove that shit down kinda gal...I had to visit my doc a fair bit and on this one particular day I was running late. Because I always am. There is no good excuse other than I always underestimate how long it will take me to get someplace, or I can't get my eyebrows just right. 

So I get to the underground parking at my doctor's office and I'm five minutes late but five minutes late is on time for me so I'm high-fiving myself all check me out! I made it! And then the parking machine which spits out the ticket won't work. The older feller working there says he will write down my license number and 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. 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 Colie pretty much on time late. I park and book it to the doctor where she confirms I'm crazy. Kidding. I'm not completely bonkers, just enough issues 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 may have said motorcycles only? Yeah, that. I had to crawl out the passenger side and couldn't fit my purse out at all. My purse is bigger than my butt! Yay! And getting back in was even more troublesome. As though my butt GREW?! NAY NAY to that. Only Flat Stanley would have been able to get in the driver's side - - or my 11 year old, he's a twiggy little thing. 

I get the ticket he has left on my window and go to pay. Take ticket to pay station and...wait for 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 watch us go while you sit here ticket-less STUCK in hot pee smelling PARKADE! LATER SUCKA!! 

I push the little help button and say ticket got sucked in. "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 and 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?

No one comes.

Buzz buzz. Me again, still stuck in *FUCKING* PARKADE (*also in head). 

And then he comes. The license plate man. This does not make me hopeful that I will get out of the parkade in 2015. He's so slow he's Tim Conway shuffle slow. 

He opens the machine - finds my ticket - HOORAH!!! Then goes to close 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 BAAARRRRRMP 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 fucking fuck fuck?!

About twenty five minutes passes and Tim is making no progress and I've gone deaf. I ask again to 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".

"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 actually 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 has tipped me over 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 glare at shuffley Tim. I very seriously contemplate busting through the gate. I'm getting later and later to pick up my kids. Would I get arrested? 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 FUCKING parking garage for over a 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 Tim Conway is gonna be the first one to get a punch. 

She says she'll open the gate. 

HOLD UP. The gate that shuffle footed Timmy said can't possibly be opened without a paid ticket? Yuh, that gate. 

I go back to my car and Tim yells angrily - so loud I actually heard him over the alarms still blaring - "SHE IS OPENING THE GATE!! GET IN YOUR CAR RIGHT NOW! AND GET!! OUT!!"

Seriously Tim? I was TRYING TO DO JUST THAT for the last 45 minutes!! Was it your $4 I didn't get to pay? Jeeeeebus. Chill out Timster. 

I walked over and punched him in the throat and then very calmly walked back to car like Walt from Breaking Bad when he blows shit up. Or I gave him the stink eye and did one of the boomboom fist bump swears from Friends and got in my car and left *Side note: may be watching too much Netflix.

I didn't get arrested. But it was close peeps. Close. 

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