About Nicki

South African by chance and Californian by choice, I live in the California Bay Area with my husband, four kids and Pretzel, the aging dachshund. As a reluctant yet full-time, barely-at-home mom, writer, avid reader, country music lover and wannabe surf diva, I write it like I see it - with tears, humor, skepticism, and truth. Keeping it real, for me. And hopefully for you too. I wear my red cowboy boots whenever I can - they make me feel like I can do anything, and when I do it, I'll rock it (that may or may not happen, depending on the day and also if it's raining - cowboy boots do not do well in the rain). They have come to represent the part of me that does not love being a stay-at-home mom, the part that wants to wander, explore and discover, and that sometimes does get to do all of that - both in real life, and on the page.

Tea for Two and Two for Tea

Posted on June 3, 2014 by Nicki

There is no better place in the world to enjoy a cup of real English tea than in England.

The thing about tea is that when it’s good, it’s very very good – heavenly actually – and when it’s bad, it’s horrid. And we don’t get very good tea in America. We get Lipton. And Lipton is horrid.

I’m not talking about herbal tea. The U.S. has fabulous herbal teas, many even locally produced like Oakland’s very own Numi Tea, and I love me a cup of organic mint or chamomile tea after a meal as much as the next guy.

But that’s not the tea I adore. My tea is real English breakfast tea, milk two sugars (although now I’m trying to eliminate sugar because I live in California where everyone is eliminating something from her diet and I had FOMO). So real English breakfast tea for me, with milk. And by real I mean not a U.S. brand. This is the Starbucks nation after all. I mean a brand from England. Or anywhere in the U.K. Or South Africa. Australia. I guess a brand from anywhere they play cricket. Because tea and cricket go together like Laverne and Shirley, Danny and Sandy, E.T. and Elliott (all of whom are American and would probably never drink tea, but rather double espressos. Sandy is Australian though – she definitely drinks tea).

Tea makes my day. It starts my day. Often ends my day. Calms the chaos (all that caffeine) and enhances the calm (more caffeine). It has moved me through moments of terrible sadness and despair, and held me happier in the happy. Weekend afternoons are always about tea, whether rain or shine, soccer or swimming (no cricket in my very American family) because that’s how our parents do it in South Africa, and that’s how their parents did it too. One of my favorite memories is slurping tea from my grandmother’s saucer, like a cat.

source: http://www.chamdol.co.uk

And last week I did get to enjoy tea in England. And it was delicious. It wasn’t even a special brand – just regular PG Tips, but the English kind. And it tasted so much better. I didn’t pay attention to it while I was drinking copious cuppas in England. Rather, I noticed it when I came home. Because when I made a cup of tea on Saturday morning – real English tea – in my own kitchen, it tasted different.

And it could’ve been because it was rainy and damp in London all week, or because the water tastes different over there (the big story last week was that traces of cocaine have been found in Britain’s drinking water), or that I was using brown sugar instead of white sugar (or no sugar).

It could have been because of all those, or none of those or some of those. But it was definitely because of who I was drinking those cups of tea with in London.

A friend so dear and special. A friend who has known me 35 of my 40 years. Who wanted to clear the slate on a little dispute we had in high school. Who loves “Mad Men” as much as I do and for all the same reasons, Don Draper being only one of them. Who remembers things I have forgotten and who can’t believe the things I have remembered. Who took me to see the fantastical cut-outs of Henri Matisse and then schlepped the banks of the Thames with me in search of tea and scones. We came up empty-handed – can you imagine? No traditional tea and scones on the south banks of the Thames?!

We made tea for each other every single day, many times a day, during my week-long stay in London. We sat together at the beautifully distressed wooden table in her kitchen, while her slightly unruly English garden steps away on the other side of the glass door soaked up the gentle rain. She thought I made the best cup of tea, and I thought she did.

Because a lot of love and decades of friendship, book reviews, gossip and chitchat, fashion do’s and don’ts and movie synopses, big decisions, hard conversations, silly stories, and so many tears and hysterical laughter and comfortable silences were poured into every cup of tea, made each one stronger, taste better, last longer.

I missed her on Saturday morning when I drank my suddenly strange-tasting tea without her. And it may well be there is no better place than England to drink real English tea – or it may just be that I miss my forever friend.

Because the thing about finally being together after a long time apart, about spending wonderful time with that special someone I haven’t seen for a while, is that I miss them more than ever after.

And the tea tastes a little less satisfying… but only until next time.

Tall Trees, Mosquitos, Ga-ga… Magic

Posted on May 20, 2014 by Nicki

Dust everywhere. Incessant mosquitos that attack any exposed stretch of flesh, with a bloodthirsty affection for the neck and ankles. The dark night is chillingly cold, except near the warmly leaping flames where it’s suddenly and uncomfortably too hot. The bathroom is many, many, many miles away, on the other side of terrain treacherously strewn with gigantic tree roots and fallen logs hiding in plain dark sight. Easier, safer to hold it in.

(Actually, the bathroom is less than 200 meters from the campfire and there is only one potentially, not-really-dangerous exposed tree root. But everything is amplified in the dark).

Tall, tall pine and redwood trees stretch their lean, leafy necks right up to the moon. The inky black sky and its twinkly blanket of stars keep everything hushed. Whispered. Even the guitar’s lazy strums and the low, rumbly voices talking about everything and nothing float quietly in the night. Sometimes splashes of laughter musically disturb the drifting melodies, and tumble gently into the crackling orange fire.

The mystery of sleep-away camp: where you feel so uncomfortable, and so exquisitely happy all at once. Where the icy wind stretches its long skinny fingers into your sleeping bag, but you curl yourself up even tighter and those fingers tip-toe away, stealth like a ninja. An owl hoots in the trees above, the frogs are loud and the crickets are louder, and the last thing you see before you fall soundly asleep is the bright full moon peering down at you through its frondy redwood veil.

Camp is a magical place. It’s dirty and rustic and very, very dark at night. Hot and buggy during the day, everything is a bit (or a lot) of a schlep, and no matter how prepared you are, you’re never prepared enough. You smell vilely and chemically like insect repellant, sunscreen and sweat, always thirsty or hungry or both. Your neck itches and your eyes stream and no matter how dirty you think you are, you are definitely going to get even dirtier.

That’s right… magical.

Because somehow all the dirt, and mosquito bites, and attacking allergies that make you sneeze 700 times in a row are left in the doorless cabin as the bell sounds for breakfast: cheesy eggs, English muffins and raisin bran with organic milk. None of those taste half as delicious at home. The fear of heights is checked on the ground as you’re hoisted to the very top of the world (or at least to the top of the gigantic pine trees), and that paralyzing panic leaves your gut with the butterflies as you release the clip and swing like a monkey through the trees, whooping and shrieking with pure, exhilarated glee.

My monkey moment!

There’s candle-making and Herbal 911. Brew potions for lip balm and lotion, learn beekeeping and blacksmithing and how to create fire. Maybe you zip-line at 90 feet or 80 feet or not at all, throw knives, train to be a ninja, tie-dye, yoga, read in a hammock, do nothing… or play Ga-ga.

Ga-ga was invented in Israel and is similar to dodgeball. But somehow less malicious. And less ridiculous. Played in an octagonal pit, It combines dodging, striking, running and jumping and the object is to hit the other players with a ball below the knee while avoiding being hit. (Did I say less ridiculous? Maybe not). The most inclusive, non-discriminatory, contained game I’ve ever seen – also one of the most exciting.

It epitomizes the magic of camp.

Even ninjas play Ga-ga

It’s every rule you learned as a child come to real life: no cheating, no hurt feelings, no injuries. Nobody left out. No arguments. Girls. Boys. Grown-ups. Kids. Ages 5-55. Counselors and campers. That Ga-ga pit is rarely empty. And everybody is smiling.

And while these are certainly the types of interactions we strive for on the playground, in the workplace, at home, in life, this is not what makes Ga-ga and Camp so magical for me.

What’s magical is the feeling of “together” – we are here together, in it together, dirty together, creating, freezing, eating, singing, itching, playing, swinging, being together. And not only are we together, but also I “got” you and I know you got me.

The Ga-ga pit was the nucleus of the family camp this past weekend. There must’ve been 40 players – mostly kids – in it at any given time. They cheered each other on. Encouraged. Looked out for the littles, and taught the older ones the rules. They were both fair and competitive, and not one player felt neglected, sidelined, less good than another.

I swung from trees, dyed T-shirts, baked bread outside and almost shaved the skin off my fingers striking a fire with steel and flint. I did something new with each one of my kids (except ninja training – really, no interest) and watched a lot of Ga-ga. The mosquitos gnawed at my neck, my throat was always dry and my hands were constantly stained with tie-dye and very, very grimy. In between games I arched my whole back in a half-moon to catch a glimpse of the very tallest tree scraping the bluest sky.

Camp Augusta, CA May 18, 2014

Yep. Magic.

From Nashville, With Love

Posted on May 12, 2014 by Nicki

(hit play – turn it up, way up)

“Hot, fried, and awesome. You know you’re in the right place when there’s live country music… at the airport!”

I’d been in Nashville all of four hours when I sent this text back west to California. Four hours. Hardly enough time to fall properly in love with a place. I’d glimpsed the muddy Cumberland River, deduced that the tall AT&T building was the Nashville skyline, looked down a hot, still 4^th Street and wondered where the hell everybody was on a Thursday afternoon. Downtown Nashville. Not a soul in sight.

But I was. In love.

There’d been that live country band serenading me as I walked my red boots through the Southwest terminal. The best devilled eggs I’d ever tasted at lunch. The only item not fried at the friendly Southern where the hot chicken burns, and the cocktails go down way too easy. There was that southern accent flirting with me in the hot, steamy air, the twang that melts every bone in my body, and enough y’alls to send me to heaven and back again. And there was Johnny Cash. Just there. On the street. In an abandoned parking lot.

We have murals in Oakland. They’re beautiful. They brighten the darkest underpasses, and bring colorful life to bare street corners. They’re of typical Oakland-ish scenes: Lake Merritt and the geese, Fairyland and the famous Grand Lake Theater, and the most iconic are the giraffes on the structural pillars holding up the 580 freeway. I don’t know what they symbolize, but in Oakland we have giraffes. In Nashville they have Johnny Cash. And Willie Nelson.

Tennessee calls itself “the state that made country music famous.” This was my dream trip: Music City.

I’m not usually the trip-planner – I leave that to my husband. I don’t have a list of places I’d like to visit, or sights I must see. We’re a large, beach-lovin’ family so most vacations we pile into the minivan and motor down the California coast. If we have an opportunity to go somewhere adventurous, he and the kids have the strongest opinions. I let them decide. We always have fun.

I’m also not a milestone-marker kinda gal. Birthdays are birthdays – whether you’re 10 or 25 or 37 or 60. Yes, celebrate, feel special: party, balloons and cake, happy birthday, the end. (Except if it’s your bar or bat mitzvah – then it’s a really big deal, spiritually, religiously. Or if you’re 70 plus. That seems like more of a reason to go all out to me, having loved and endured and lived, really, for decades).

But suddenly never-turning-40 me was almost turning 40, and it felt like some kind of milestone. And my country-music-loving heart was starting to long for a visit to just one dream destination: Nashville.

Screw not marking a milestone – I wanted to go to Nashville. For my 40^th. With my husband. And my friends. And absolutely no kids.

“It’s going to be like a dream come true,” I emailed a friend a few months ago. And it was.

I had imagined watching country music greats perform live. Dreamed about seeing those large, bearded guys with sunglasses and enormous cowboy hats pulled down so low you could see only their mouths move, tapping their weathered boots and playing the fiddle faster than a train hurtling down a track at midnight. I had wondered about this seemingly mythical southern city, where a guitar was practically the state emblem and whiskey flowed like water. Fantasized walking in my red cowboy boots past a honky-tonk bar, catching a tune and tapping my own heels to the country beat.

But I could never have imagined it would be so perfect.

The Charlie Daniels Band at the Grand Ole Opry May 9, 2014

I never dreamed it would be The Charlie Daniels Band singing “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” that I saw live at the Grand Ole Opry. A speeding midnight train had nothing on that fiddle. Could never have imagined that the honky-tonk bar from my fantasy was every few doors on Broadway, with a live band downstairs and a different one upstairs and where guys and gals of all ages turn out in their country finest – classic to hipster – and dance the night away: two-stepping, hip-swaying, clapping, spinning and twirling to more country music I could ever have hoped to hear.

And I could never, ever have imagined how it would feel to be in the City of my Dreams, with people who love country music, Nashville, fried food and classic cocktails like I do, who wanted to buy boots and go to the Johnny Cash Museum. With people who had arranged kids’ schedules, and sitters, and skipped work on Friday, given up Mother’s Day with beloved kids and moms on Sunday, schlepped from New Jersey and Oakland (and damn it’s a schlep), and who wanted nothing more than to celebrate just like I wanted to celebrate, who wanted to celebrate me with me. People who know me, who love me (or maybe know me yet still love me!), and whom I love.

I could never have imagined how that would feel. Like the first lick of caramel ice cream, water-skiing on the lake, tight hugs, love letters, warm pajamas, bonfires and marshmallows on the beach, winning a trophy, sweet juicy peaches, kisses and a breathtaking purple sunset all at once.

Josh and Lisa sang to me in the hotel lobby, a song they created specially for me, to the tune of Dolly Parton’s “Nine to Five” – they were nothing short of foot-tapping, finger-snapping a-ma-zing. Deb and Larry crooned the beautiful tune “A Life That’s Good” from my favorite show (Nashville, obviously!). Amy stopped Jared, The Matte Gray Band’s lead singer, on his way to the bathroom so that Bill could take a photo of all of us with him. When a country band can play Garth Brooks, White Snake and everything in between, that’s fantastic to the max. It was perfect. All of it.

I hate when trips, any trips, come to an end. I get moody and sad when it’s time to pack. I sigh heavily. Mooch a little. Ryan usually shoots me a warning look, one that says: “Don’t go down that wishing road.” He knows how much I hate to go back to “real life.” How I “wish I could stay here – wherever here – forever.” He reminds me that even the any “here” of my wishes would eventually become “there” – the place I have to go back to.

But I sat on the plane heading back to California so full of happiness I probably could’ve floated the whole schleppy way back home. I wasn’t sad it was over. I wasn’t wishing I could stay “here forever.” Because it was a dream come true… in ways I could never have dreamed.

From Nashville, with love.

(thanks, Deb, for this line)

Whole lotta Country

Posted on May 6, 2014 by Nicki

Guess where my red boots and I are headed this week? The country music capital of Nashville, TN! I am counting the sleeps – just two more – till I visit my musical mecca. Reposting one of my favorite pieces about some of my favorite music.

Red Boots

(Hit play and turn the volume way up)

When I was ten-years-old I saw Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton perform the song “Islands in the Stream” on TV. Dolly was wearing a whispy, flowing black dress, her bottle-blonde hair in its signature Dolly-style. Kenny wore a tux and his mane of gray made a big impression on me. They were both very glam. Exotic even, to my wide eyes. They stood together on the stage, and Dolly waved her dress and tapped her heels as she sang. It was that southern drawl that drew me in, as much as the catchy music and lyrics. Bitten by the Country Bug.

dailymail.co.uk

Music played in our house and in the car all the time when I was growing up, but it was never country music. My mom loved rock – Dire Straits, Talking Heads, Fleetwood Mac – and everything by Billy Joel and…

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Zom-body to Love

Posted on April 30, 2014 by Nicki

source: unbiasedtalk.com

I love to love. To feel love. It’s a warm, happy, feeling that fills me from the tips of my toes to the very ends of my hair. Often it overwhelms me in intensity, or moves me to tears of wonder. Sometimes it feels far away, unreachable, and then even in the happy I feel sad. But still, I love to love.

I was not an emotional type as a child and young adult. Didn’t cry much, not even when a pet died. Felt awkward in situations heavy with feeling, blinked back the tears that threatened to spill when the movie was so sad. Hugged and kissed family and friends, but in a happy-go-lucky way, keeping it one layer light.

But as I’ve married, given birth – pregnancy, labor and delivery have no regard for emotional discomfort! – aged, experienced, argued, reconciled, lived… that intricately latticed fence that kept my messy tears and intense loving feelings “up there” has been weathered down, its two by fours weakened by the hot sun and pouring rain. The lattice is cracked, blistered, decomposed.

And now here I am – exposed to love.

I love to love. And to show my love. For my family, near and far. For my friends, also all over the earth. For my graying, aging, blind little doggie. For my kids’ teachers, and my rabbi, and my hairdresser. By saying, doing, writing, or just feeling.

This month, writing daily from A to Z, has been one of the most fulfilling, soul-destroying experiences of my life. I have amazed myself with my discipline, my creativity, my perseverance. And have disappointed myself with my creative lack, my inability to carve out time to write, my willingness to give up. There have been days when the words have bubbled happily forth in no time at all, but more when I’ve searched for every drop in any corner of my heart, mind and soul. It has been a month of memories, dark and delightful, of intense emotion almost from the start. I have cried, raged, felt joy, defeat and accomplishment – often all those, every day.

And today is April 30. Z-day. And what I feel, at the end of it all, is simply: Love.

Zom-body to Love by OPI

This is my final post in the April A to Z Challenge. Thank you for joining me on this crazy, colorful ride through the alphabet. To read all my A to Z posts click here.