About the Author

All about me, in a nutshell:

Wait, why do we say "in a nutshell"?

Let me google that.

Whoa. Google knows everything. Stupid things I looked up on the interweb today: "It is thought that the first use of the phrase “in a nutshell” was a literal one...the famous Roman, Cicero...saw a copy of the famous poem, Homer’s Iliad, being miniaturized so that the whole text, written on tiny parchment, could fit into a walnut shell. Why would anyone do such a thing? Some people have unique hobbies. My guess is that they probably do it for the mere challenge and satisfaction of success that it brings."

So, I am clearly not going for that level of success and thus, I take back my first line. I lack the kind of commitment required to write all of this on parchment small enough fit inside a walnut shell. But, not gonna lie, that would be super cool, and if you're gonna write inside a nut, the walnut is a solid choice. Also, you should know that from my Google search above, I ended up on a page selling a t-shirt with a walnut on it. Because the interweb is a strange and wonderful place. And you too can get one here: Who doesn't want a walnut shirt?

Back to me:

I bought myself a guitar 4 years ago and I pawned it to take salsa lessons. Now I can't play guitar, or salsa dance.

I joined a fitness boot camp once. I almost barfed during the first session. Which is a fate worse than death for me. It may have been the six chicken fingers I ate prior to class, but still. I paid over $300 for an eight week program and I quit after two weeks. Highlighting, once again, my lack of commitment. However, my therapist and I determined that it was money well spent because I realized exercise is not my thing. Also realized joining things, is not my thing.

I have two talented, smart, awesome kids. They're less annoying than most kids. I actually don't really enjoy other kids. But mine make me laugh. Loudly. They're basically tiny versions of me and I find myself hilarious. I have made them promise that they will always support each other; that no matter who comes and goes, they will always be best friends; and most importantly that they will never pluck their own eyebrows. I feel a twisted sense of pride in my parenting skills when one covers for the other. They are known to lovingly whisper when they hug each other goodnight: "sleep with one eye open" and they are my masterpieces.

I am chronically late. For everything. It's not that I don't care. I do. About most things. Okay, I care about some things. Or at least a few things. And I legitimately try to be on time. I set alarms. I prep the night before. I wear my hair in a 3 second bun 6 out of 7 days. But I will still be late. Sometimes five minutes, more often twenty. Okay, once I showed up a full day late. I get my kids to school on time every single day. But I am late for work every single day. I actually really hate strongly dislike that about myself. I would say I'll work on it but my track record for this kind of commitment is pretty poor.

I am obsessed with thrifting. As in digging through smelly bins of clothes at thrift stores. Thrift stores are my happy place. Along with Starbucks. And my back yard hammock. And IKEA.

I heart garden gnomes. Especially napping gnomes. Those guys just seem to have life figured out.

I am a sleep eater. I frequently wake up with granola bar wrappers, chip bags, cookie remnants, and cereal bowls in my bed, and occasionally chocolate smooshed onto my neck causing me to panic and think I have grown a new mole overnight. I won't recall eating it, but unless someone is sneaking their garbage into my bed (and shrinking my jeans), it's me. My kids know to hide the good snacks before they go to bed.

I was married for a long time. I'm not now. I don't hate him; he might hate me. You can read about the big D here.

I'm allergic to bees, exercise, all things deliciously filled with gluten, smelly people, and possibly relationships.

I sometimes always lie down in my stand up shower.

I loathe ketchup. That shit is narsty.

I just started drinking coffee. I still think it tastes like dirt.

I am an olive person and for future reference, you really can eat too many olives. Walk away from the olives, Nicole.

I have anxiety and a phobia and these things can affect me daily. I've been hypnotized, cognitive behavioralized, EMDR'd (yes, it's weird, Google it), and medicated...but still, the phobia remains. Emetophobia to be exact. It makes parenting hard, and sometimes just makes life hard.

I use humor a LOT to help with the things I'm scared of, and writing is a lot like free therapy for me.

My mother and my biological father have passed away and some days I feel like a forty five year old orphan and I want someone to adopt me and let me keep my stuff in their basement.

I'm writing a book about my life. I think it's pretty funny and sometimes sad, but mostly funny, and hopefully it will have a happy ending. This blog is sort of my test run. Plus, my kids don't think I'll ever actually write a book, so I have to prove them wrong.

I am the kind of person who will write a book out of spite.

I know that I am far too old to not know what my purpose is, aside from purchasing pointless t-shirts, sometimes making people laugh, organizing a closet like a mofo, and raising the best kids ever, but honestly, I'm still trying to find out who I really am. If you have any inside scoop on how to do this, please enlighten me. By text or email only, however. I hate talking on the phone. No really, don't call me. Ever.

So, this is "Finding Nicole". Welcome. I'm not sure if we'll find her here, but I'll give it a good go. If not, we could try looking at IKEA. They have everything. I suspect she'd be in the bedding section, wearing kick ass thrifted boots, surrounded by KitKat wrappers, with chocolate on her face.

I sometimes weirdly speak of myself in the third person.

It bothers me that one eyebrow looks thinner than the other in this photo of me. You can't stop looking at it now either, can you?

And lastly, I am really glad you're here.