My fabulous Mommalah.

"All that I am,
or hope to be,
I owe to my angel mother."
~~ Abraham Lincoln

Mommalah.
She is the most loving, kind and just downright incredible person I know, or probably will ever know.
It's a great feeling to know that you are loved so completely and so unconditionally.

Yesterday was her birthday, so we went to the fabulous Tunkhannock Rotary Harvest & Wine Festival.
We got our commemorative glasses and hit the grapes, falling in love with a few wineries, and the exact opposite with a few wineries - though you'd never know the latter from our always-empty glasses!

We got ourselves a nice little sunny fall day buzz before heading to the fabulously quaint Twigs for dinner. If you ever find yourself in Tunkhannock, you simply must eat there! Athenian chicken is to die!

I wanted so desperately for her to have a wonderful birthday, a day she's never really been too crazy about.
{Clearly my obsessive compulsive zest and excitement for my own birthday comes from the mailman.}

And she totally did.
And so did I.
I hope and pray everyone has as amazing a woman for their mother as I do.

"God could not be everywhere,
and therefore he made mothers."
~~ Jewish proverb

This is my OCD blogging.

Mommalah and I headed up to Walmart in Tunkhannock today.
When I need to make a run to Wallyworld, I prefer to hit up this store.
It's a gorgeous little jaunt from the country house, and it's less, well ... less like the one in Wilkes-Barre.
{Let's just leave it at that.}

So we enjoyed cruising in the Bitch pod to the store, and I dug out my miles-long list.

Locating everything went swimmingly. Mommalah was even so kind as to pick up some new fall flowers (fake) to put in my basket on the sidewalk, which she, for some reason, entrusted upon me the task to put them in and make them "like so," incorporating with them the scarecrow figure she picked up for $1.
{She was not pleased, though, that I wanted the scarecrow in the blue faux denim overalls and not the orangey one that would offset said flowers better, but she'll get over it I s'pose.}

Toward the end of my list were the Parcels of the Most Importance: Ivory Liquid Hand Soap and Ivory bodywash.

I scoured each shelf in the respective aisle to no avail.
There was not hide nor hair of my beloved products I've been using for probably the last 20 years.
Panic set in as Mommalah suggested substitutions, even being so kind as to hold up some vanilla-scented monstrosity for my sniffing approval.

"No, no," I said, trying not to sound as panicked as I was, practically getting down on my hands and knees to check the bottom shelf "just in case."

"What about Dial?" my angelic Mommahlah said and I swear on my love of Gerard Butler, my hands felt like they were burning at the thought.

I took a deep breath and tried to calm down.
Then a terrible, horrific and utterly frightening thought entered my mind:
What if they discontinued Ivory Liquid Hand Soap?

My local grocer no longer carries it, and Walmart, my trusty, tried-and-true retailer doesn't have it, what the hell will I and my sensitive skin do if Ivory Liquid Hand Soap is the d-word?
{I cannot even bear to say it again.}

{Anecdote: When my Colgate herbal toothpaste got discontinued a few years back, I was just sick over it for like two weeks. I recently thought Aim was on its way out, so I enlisted Mommalah into picking me up some at her store, and she dropped off three boxes. All three included a trial size, so at least I'm set there for a good long while.}

So we left the store and heading into Tunkhannock for a bit and then drove to Grotto Pizza, and while we had a splendid time, in the back of my head I was seriously worried about the soap situation.

I asked if we could stop at her grocer on the way home because "I could swear they carry my soap."

So we did.
And they did.
They had like eight of them and my OCD whispered to buy all eight of them "just in case," but I bravely just bought two, and the Ivory bodywash I adore as well.

As I beeped goodbye to Mommalah as I left her house, I debated going back to her store to buy just two more soaps, but alas, I did not.

When I got home to put all my parcels away, sure as shit I already had two full Ivory Liquid Soaps in my closet, giving me a total of four.
Crisis averted!
{For now.}

No nannys in this childhood.

Against my better judgment, I watched "The Nanny Diaries" after my brother and "sister" retired for the night.

I thought it was so good!

And it made me really thankful to have the parents I did ... and do.

Our parents worked their asses off when we were kids in the horrid restaurant business. They pulled many 16-plus hour days - almost every day - whereas when I have to do one I piss and moan about it or act like I found a cure for feline AIDS or something. Plus. I don't come home to a kid who needs help with homework or a feeding.

The best thing I learned from this movie was that while Laura Linney's Park Ave princess ccouldn't see or be a mother to her kid because of her oodles of "obligations," my own mother - who had a hard job that has taken its toll on her health over the years - was there for absolutely everything for my brother and I. She worked so many Mother's Days and holidays but never once do I ever recall either of us saying "I wish Mom was here."

Because she was. Always.

You say "child-less." I say "child-free."

"It is dangerous to confuse children with angels."
~~~~ David Fyfe

It's a well-known fact that I am not the most patient person in the world.
It may also be widely known that I can, in fact, err on the side of - gasp - bitchy.

But what might come as a surprise, especially considering I am a single woman who is past the age of 30, is that I am not a fan of children.

At all.

Sure, I've had good friends and coworkers who've had children and I've enjoyed watching those children grow up, but being a mom just isn't for me.

I often wonder, as I did this evening as I wandered through Target, how parents do it.
{Back story: Every single time I shop at Target I am surrounded by children screaming bloody murder. I don't know what the store does to them, especially since I am always pretty happy to be shopping there myself, but it's bloodcurdlingly ridiculous.}

"A child is a curly, dimpled lunatic."
~~~~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

It was so horribly noisy on today's trip I almost wish I had a Xanax to take.
It got me to thinking.
What would I do if I were a parent?
Does that inner anger I felt today go away when it's your own kid?
I'd like to think that I sure as hell wouldn't let my kids carry on the way I've been appalled to see time and time again.

I've been told that the pixie version of Nikki threw a tantrum or two, but it was something Mommalah never tolerated for longer than a minute.
Granted, I grew up in the days you were allowed to spank kids - which you should still be allowed to do, given the jerk kids I've seen in my day - but my parents took my brother and I out to fancy dinners and we never, ever misbehaved.
Not out of fear, mind you, but out of respect.
{But there is a story where Mommalah infamously dropped trou on my brother right in the middle of the Wyoming Valley Mall back when there used to be fountains. She sat herself right on the side of one and let him have it for being bold. He he. Never mind that there was one instance the dropped trou offender was me. That's moot.}

That's how we were raised. To be humans. To behave in public. To speak when spoken to. And that's carried over into both of our adult lives.

When I was 14, my parents got me my beloved dog, Zakk. A boisterous and bold yellow Lab who could have used a few spankings himself.

He saved me from myself. He taught me how to love and care for something other than myself at a very crucial point in my development, and that too carried over into my adulthood.

I nurtured and cared for Zakk until the day he died 14 years after we got him, exactly half of my life at that point, and I've nurtured and cared for sick parents, boyfriends and friends, so it's not that I am a cold-hearted bitch - which I suppose is debatable depending on our relationship.

I admit I've heard that "tick-tock, tick-tock" bellow maybe once or twice - and even have had names picked out since I was 10 like any good girl - but it goes away right quick. And to be quite frank, I never imagined I would love a kid as much as I loved my Zakk. He was my kid and his death devastated my family and I.

Every time I see a parent with a bad child, or hear an "Ethan, no. ETHAN. Ethan NO!" or similar, I cringe. Would I be able to hold back the scream I, an innocently-shopping bystander, want to let out at that kid that's not mine?

Or would I be the one cooing "Shh" and looking around smugly like my child was made out of gold? I shudder to think.

I raise a toast to myself - and anyone else who doesn't really feel like they're missing out.
Yet.

"If a child annoys you, quiet him by brushing his hair. If this doesn't work, use the other side of the brush on the other end of the child."
~~~~ Anonymous

Infestation fascination.

The parents - Mommalah and Papa - are still deciding on whether or not to open the pool this year.

To them, it doesn't seem to suffice when I'm the only one who goes in it - and by "go in it," I mean I just float in my purple inflatable boat (sans oars because they were a disaster I don't want to retell. Ever.).

So Mommalah and I sat in our chairs in the nippy breeze for a few minutes today to enjoy the fall-like weather we so love.

Something on the pool's winter cover piqued her interest and she went to investigate, telling me to stay put because she thought it might be a snake, which is something I'm always in fear of seeing this time of year at the country haus.
{Known from here on out as "That Which We Do Not Speak Of."}

Thankfully, it was just a big ol' frog, so I joined her on the far side of the pool to see if I could spot it for myself.

When I peered into the water on the cover, I yelped, "Oh. My. God."
Just below the surface were thousands - and I mean thousands - of tadpoles.

I ran around the pool in complete shock and fascination because, despite growing up in Bumblefeck Egypt, I had never seen a real, live tadpole.
{They look just like sperm - which is all sorts of gross, but at least they were not thousands of TWWDNSO. I'd die. Die, I say.}

I said, "Mom, there must be like a million here."
To which she replied, "I can see that."
I took a few steps and found even more and said, "Mom, look at all these over here!"
And she said, "OK, stop, I see them."
{It should be noted that, at this point, she was nearing a boiling point.}
And when I got around to the steps in the shallow end, there was the mother load (pun not intended, ew) of tadpoles.
I mean seriously, at least 500 in this part of the cover, so I said:
"Mom, holy shit! There's a ton over here!"
And then she told me to shut up, and the tone of her voice actually, for once, made me shut up.

I hope to be there if they ever get to the point when they decide to turn from tadpoles into frogs. I may have to take video - of her reaction.

Happy Moirthday Mom?

I bought my mom a gorgeous Hallmark card for Mother's Day.
It's a soft pinkish hue with burgundy velvet flowers on the outside and exactly what I wanted to express to her on the inside.

Wrapped her presents this morning in gorgeous sage green paper, and sat down to sign this aforementioned Gorgeous Hallmark Card.

Decided to reread it, knowing she was going to just bawl over it (which I discuss here: http://nikkimmblogs.blogspot.com/2009/02/cmon-get-hallmark.html), an exercise which make me cuss very early on this nice fine sunny Saturday morn.

The card ends:

"If I could give you anything
in return for all you've given me,
it would have to be
the love I hold in my heart always
for you.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY."

Shit.
(good thing I always back up sappy cards with a funny one. But arrrrgh!)

Sane person of a solitary nature.

"She talked to herself often, a habit of sane persons of a solitary nature."
~~ Truman Capote

Once, when I was a young Nikki, my father walked past my bedroom and heard the chattering of many voices.

He asked Mom if I had friends over and she shook her head, to which he then inquired who the hell was in my room with me, concerned about his precious youngest child.

“It’s just her playing with her Barbies,” Mom answered, proud that her daughter was so brilliantly imaginative and creative.*

Puzzled, my dad peeked in on me, and sure enough there I was happy as a clam in my imagination. I always gave my toys different voices as I played, and I could sit there for hours concocting story lines for them.

I guess you could say that I was talking to myself - something I still do, which I realized the other morning as I blabbered on about the strawberries I was cutting for my cereal.

{Blogger's clarification: I live alone. And I love - live even - to talk.}

I've always been able to entertain myself, be it lose myself in a book, my journal or just my imagination.

Is that weird? I'd like to think not - well maybe just a little. But I guess all creative people are a bit daft ...

*This is by no means an assumption ... my darling mother has admitted such on several occasions ... and not all of them were at my insisting at gunpoint.

Monday, March 23, 2009.

Had a pretty decent day today {knock wood!}.
I am going to give a run down, mostly because I want to give myself the run down to refer to should a crappy day follow ...

- Day started with an an intense 20-minutes of Windsor Pilates. Oh Mari Windsor, let's test that concept again Wednesday, kay?

- Jetted in the Bitch pod (my Ford Focus hatchback) to Scranton in the a.m. for a photo shoot. Blasted Poison and sang along at the top of my lungs entire way. Thoroughly enjoyed listening to my "happy place" band, think after spending a delightful day with Mom yesterday and part of Saturday, I'm regressing back to that carefree kid ... and it's everything I knew it would be.
(For however long it lasts.)

- On same ride, however, nearly had an aneurysm because I am FOREVER perturbed by those people who drive from Wilkes-Barre to Scranton in the passing lane going 30 mph. If I'm lucky. Why didn't the Pod come with some sort of taser device to take care of this blemish on society???? Good Lord.

- Wrote most of the day and got lots done for production day tomorrow, but naturally, 'tis never enough for me. Am such a work horse.

- Came home and did 20 hardcore minutes on Air Climber whilst watching end of "No Reservations" in Tuscany and part of Andrew Zimmern eating various internal animal bits in gross manner. Still, I'd love to hang out with the dirty mouthed (because of his food choices, duh) fella.

- Followed up my nice hot Italian sausage with pasta, broccoli and salad with a nice sugar free rice pudding with cinnamon. I cannot wait for Lent to be over to go back to chocolate. This is longest Lenten season EVER.

- Am now sitting with freezing feet because my apartment likes to rival the Arctic Circle. It's part of its charm.

Well, I'm sick of blogging such boring monotony and my desk is in dire need of organization that it's starting to distract me, but I'd rather watch Mr. Bourdain so off I go, weeeeeeeeee!

Everyone loves a parade.

Not true.
My mom loathes parades - and "parks and picnics" too.

I follow suit.
- While I love food on the grill, I'm not a fan of eating outside. Too many bugs, too hot, etc.
- I like to hike, but only when it's cool, like in the fall or this time of year, and definitely before the snakes wake up.
- And I certainly do not like parades, for several reasons:
---- They congest traffic.
---- There is just way too many people and I'm not one for mobs.
---- You just end up waiting forever, especially if you are part of said parade waiting for your moment to march.

However, one parade is just too much fun: St. Patrick's Day Parade.
Parade Weekend starts this Saturday morning in Scranton well before a normal workday starts ... like 6 a.m. I kid you not.
It's so much fun, even with the mobs in the bars and on the streets. It's mayhem, Mardi Gras and Carnival but more fun.

I don't care what your nationality is (mine is mostly Sicilian/Italian BTW), it's the one day that everyone is - or wants to be - Irish.
See exhibit A below:

It's just a damn fun day.

On Sunday, it happens again in Wilkes-Barre.
Now, this parade isn't comparable to Scranton's parade day, but you know what?
This is definitely the year that could take W-B to the next level - there's so many more places downtown open, it's refreshing.

Over the past four years, I've seen W-B grow so much, from hundreds of spectators, to thousands. From nothing, to some things open on parade route.
This year is going to be pretty exciting for W-B and if you believe in hair of the dog as they say, make sure to slainte both days!

Show, don't tell.

"Writing well means never having to say 'I guess you had to be there.'" -- Jef Mallett, "Frazz" comic strip

Such words to live by ... rather, words to write by.

Recently, I read a concert review that was so dry and devoid of any emotion that it got me thinking about how people write - and how I write.

I'm a very nosy person by nature, so I'm always looking around or researching to the fullest extent to ask that "one question" no one else has ever asked someone before (wishful thinking I know, but I digress). I'd like to think it just adds a certain something, you know?

If I'm covering a concert, or reviewing a CD (as I am doing the latter this week so be sure to check it out at www.theweekender.com, you're welcome for the shameless plug), I want a reader to hear it like I did, or see what I saw when I listened. I want to capture every single moment and relay that.

I guess it stems from being a chronic journaler since the age of 17, where I'd capture nearly every single second of my day - who said what, what I did, where I went, etc., etc.

Or, it could be from my worrywart Mom who always told me to "get the big picture," meaning be observant of my surroundings - and keep myself safe, because as you well know, bad people lurk every where ... God forbid.

(Ahh, my auto pilot reflex phrase, another thing to thank Mom for inflicting into my daily life ...)

It's starting to hit.

Spring fever.
It has sprung its ugly, yet hopeful head.

It hit me yesterday when it was so brilliantly sunny and bright, and I could hear the staccato drip-drip of the snow melting into colossal puddles on the front walk that I had to leap over.

It hit me this morning as I walked around the school in the spring-scented-yet-chilly winter air as I remembered seeing those same types of rays of sun coming down to earth in stripes through back lit clouds as a kid and thinking, "They're taking someone home to heaven" - how innocent and kind of profound for a young Catholic school girl with a crooked smile and vast imagination.

It hit me sitting at my parents' kitchen table with the sun pouring in around Mom and I as we read the papers and caught up, not needing the little heater for warmth for the first time in weeks.

It hit me as I ran out to my car before I left their house, as the moon - high and bright in the sky - ricocheted off the snow refreezing from today's defrost.

And it hit me when I got home and didn't have to crank up the heat too much to keep this drafty old house comfortable. (An Eskimo would fare well with me, me thinks, or a narwhal at the very least.)

That's the magic of spring fever I guess.
It's like a mirage - just when you are fooled into thinking "It's over!" and get the itch to crack open a window or stop wearing a jacket, you remember that it's only early February - we've still got a lot of winter left.
[Deep sigh.]

Loaded question.

From the moment I joined MySpace, I was addicted to surveys.
The addiction came naturally: I'm a nosy, inquisitive kinda girl, so I love reading other people's answers, and, likewise, love having people read mine.

I was so frequent a surveyor, that a coworker - who we will call "Tiffany" for shits and giggles - did nothing short of an intervention, so, as one of my 2007 resolutions, I resolved to keep surveys to a minimum.

Proudly, I have kept that vow now for nearly two years.
I still do some here and there, just to keep my public interested (JOKE!), so now it's an occasion when I post one, and not some eye-roll inducing occurrence.

Of course, when I see one posted from one of my favorite fellow survey junkies, I can't help reading it and I cannot tell a lie: I sometimes copy a survey, fill it completely out and then delete it without posting. This way, the addiction gets fed and I don't make anyone sick of me.

Tonight was one of those nights, and one question in particular stuck out.
"What would your one wish be?"
My immediately reply was what it always is: Unlimited wishes.

Of course, that struck me as something so completely selfish, but I refuse to change my answer.

- I'd wish that my upcoming Christmas present Uggs will miraculously find their way to my feet before my trip into the tundra that might be New York City tomorrow.
- I'd wish that my credit card would somehow pay itself off.
- I'd wish that the monster cover story I'm working on and mapping out in my head could telepathically be translated to the computer without typing.
- And I'd sure as hell wish that I was Heidi Klum's identical twin sister.

And then I'd wish that narcissistic wishes like that would be negated by the wishes I already have, and the ones that I pray for, such as:
- "I wish Mom and Dad would feel better."
- I'd wish that all my loved ones, like my brother, could have their own dreams come true.
- I'd wish that God wouldn't let kids get sick, hurt or worse.
- I'd wish that our world wasn't so far gone in regards to ignorance, strife and the mayhem that gets closer every day.

I'd wish a lot of things I guess, but mostly, I'd wish that, if all my wishes came true, I'd stick to paying them forward.

And then I'd wish to come up with a better term than "pay it forward" because the saying really just rubs me the wrong way.

Two haiku for you (+ a tanka) ...

Spent day - as I do nearly every Sunday - at my parents in Dallas, or my "country haus" as I fondly call it.
Mom and I took a nice walk around our pond, and up our dirt road a little. I so love this time of year up there.
The smells are so fantastic, the air is just so crisp and fresh and I found it very inspiring, majestic even.

So much so, that I am going to share two haiku and one tanka poem with you - as well as two pics I've taken previously. Enjoy ...

Rusty trees reflect
on the black inky water
under chilly sky.

(this photo was taken a few weeks ago, before the colors of the trees exploded)

Country air just smells
different - more pure, holy -
than the city air.
Breathing in its cool freshness,
I am reborn every week.

A sun-dappled path
leads off into the unknown,
leaves crunch underfoot.

(this was taken last fall, I love how ethereal the light is shining through the trees)