Porridge Fit for a Queen - Try Waitrose

Can you explain to me why I've just spent the last 45 minutes searching online for purveyors of McCann's Irish Oatmeal in London? The steel cut kind.

I'm missing my favorite comfort foods in the worst kind of way today. Though having grown up as a Quaker Instant Oats girl...the variety packs, especially maple and brown sugar...I was surprised to find myself converted to steel-cut after a trip to San Fran to see my friend M. She made some for breakfast one day and OMG...I wondered how I had managed to exist for all those growing up years without their nutty goodness in my life. I also found out how to get around the impossibly long cooking time (15-25 minutes)...e.g., cook big batches, divide into microwaveable bowls and refrigerate for individual morning delights! Voila!

Unfortunatelly, early results at finding source in London turned up zilch. Sainsburys, nada. ASDA online, bupkis.

I should mention though, I had to give up on looking for oatmeal...it's called porridge in this neck of the woods. Mind you, I kinda associate the term porridge with the gruel of Oliver Twist's workhouse or the stuff Tim Robbins' character, Andy Dufresne, gets served his first day at Shawshank...yep, that's right, the PRISON.

But I digress, potato, poh-tah-toe. I knew what I was after and I would not be deterred.

So back to the chase.

After hitting the major search engines and then wading through a sea of blog posts, including the lively lulu loves bombay, I finally came to Sybil Kapoor's Guardian article How to make perfect porridge. So I'm off to Waitrose to try my luck.

Yum awaits!

The Early Hours

Yawn. Stretch.

Wow, it's bright out. Must be morning.

Yes, it's definitely morning.

Though now, in the midst of winter, in London no less, I realize I've forgotten just how *bright* bright can actually be. To whit, my friend C tormented me yesterday with yet another weather report from Florida..."81 and sunny in the MIA."

Darn it all!

But it is morning, Saturday morning to be precise and like the article I read last week, I'm not giving over my most creative time to the mundane...to email, or Twitter or FB. Nope, I'm going to give it over to...BLOGGING! lol

I guess we all have to pick our poison.

But I can't help it. I'm a digital junkie. This is the space in which I live. I've made my proverbial bed and so I've just got to lie in it.

But back to the story, the author made a good point. When you take the first couple of hours of the day to wade through a bunch of hygiene to-do's, you miss the opportunity to apply the fresh, creative you to your most outrageous, audacious and zesty love-to-do's.

So because I'm rubbish at bookmarking, I've lost track of the article but in searching came across a couple of interesting new people to read and follow, so not a bad outcome after all.

(Yes, I've searched and tweeted in the time it's taken to complete this post. I told you, I just can't help it.)

For example, in a big hello from snowy MN, Caroline, of Caroline Royce Design, tweeted: "Lately been in a creative rut. Cure: Looking at blogs all morning. #productivity."

Similarly, Alex Knapp who writes for Forbes recently blogged on research about night owls making the best of the morning.

And if that doesn't convince you, then what about a little wisdom from the coolest cat to ever put lips to mouthpiece? The Davis himself.

Mike Folsom, self-confessed quote junkie, provides the Miles Davis classic “My future starts when I wake up every morning. Every day I find something creative to do with my life.”

So the point is not to say you should quit emailing from bed, tweeting from the shower or leave FB til lunchtime.

The moral of the story is to give the best of yourself in the early hours to the passions that most move you.

And let the rest of the day take care of itself.

(Almost) Last Day of the Year

There's a golf ball in my throat.

Oh wait, that's actually just my throat.

Scratchy, scratchy. Ugggh!

OK, so I'm a little down and out health-wise but hopefully by the time this post is done, the paracetamol will have kicked in and bliss will be forthcoming. (Funny, we don't have "paracetamol" back home. It's some exotic concoction that the FDA hasn't yet approved for sale, I guess. Or maybe it's just Excedrin PM with another name. Not sure, but I LIKE it.)

So time to wax poetical about the year gone past? About the dramatic twists and turns life has taken? About the great leaps forwards in matters of the heart, wallet or shoe collection?

Nahh...

I thought I'd keep it simple and talk about the joy of fuzzy socks.

Yep, that's right, fuzzy socks. I'm wearing them. Warm, woolly, fuzzy socks made by Totes with the little slip-resistant pads at the bottom...e.g., the closest adults can get to footie-pajamas without shopping in the husky boys section of Penny's. Paul got me some for Christmas...see other, forthcoming posts for who this "Paul" is...and I dig them. They like put the split in banana split, the party in party time, the friday in TGIF. You get my drift.

I like the fact that they keep my toes warm...always an issue in England, even in summertime. They also allow me to go all bed, bath and beyond with no change of footwear...another big plus. And because they've got snowflakes and a furry top on, they make me feel like I'm in a Swiss ski chalet, toasting myself in front of the fire after another great black diamond run.

Ahhhhh.

In other words, they make me feel comfy.

So maybe that is my philosophical waxing for the year.

Don't forget to take joy in the simple pleasures of life. Even if they border on the delusional--I can barely survive the bunny slopes but Swiss Alps there I was!

It's your life, your delusions. Make the most of both!

Happy 2012 everyone!

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (and Chiswick)

Today is the first day of Lent.

I'd like to say it snuck up on me, but seeing as I had a calendar alert programmed weeks ago, the answer would be no.

That said, I WAS surprised to see the alert pop up when I sat down to my computer this morning. (What a struggle to get it into gear...boy did I need that first cup of coffee.)

On the one hand, I'm kinda bummed that I missed the chance to celebrate Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday as we call it back home, in proper, over-the-top style. I had dreams of hosting a bead-festooned, King Cake-loving, Bourbon Street-themed extravaganza for friends here in London. Show folks how to celebrate like they do in ol' New Orleans.

Heck, I might have even flipped a pancake or two for the cause, as that's how it's traditionally celebrated here in England. Alas, the evening turned into lamb shanks for one and an argument with my boyfriend. More on that later.

But that leaves me thinking, in the spirit of Lent...in the spirit of preparing for Easter with a real sense of expectancy that something great is about to happen...how will I prepare?

In the past I've given up TV, caffeine and alcohol. Of the three, TV was the most interesting choice. Alcohol and caffeine were much easier to kick as I'm a light drinker at best and a "one cup is more than enough to get me going" coffee consumer.

Giving up TV definitely had its hardships. 40 days! Cold turkey? Really???

So that particular sacrifice had to have its own rules. For example, I could watch movies and syndicated shows on DVD but no broadcast/no Internet viewing. The idea being that I should be more thoughtful of what I consumed (or chose not to consume) each day, rather than just mindlessly flipping through the channels at the end of the day and settling for whatever crap...I mean quality programming...was on.

At first it was hard, admittedly. Living alone, I missed the noise, if nothing else. It's called a squawk box for a reason.

But at a deeper level, it felt more personal. It felt like I'd lost an old companion. A faithful friend who greeted me enthusiastically every morning and then sweetly lulled me to sleep every evening. And despite living in a high-rise apartment in the center of Manhattan and having a world of friends just walking distance away, I had to admit that TV had become through routine my first and last "human" contact of the day.

Maybe this Lent thing was going a bit too far.

Then I got more into the spirit of it all and discovered a wealth of classic movies, e.g., Cassablanca, North by Northwest, Roman Holiday, etc., that cried out for viewing. So I started picking a new title each night so I could settle in for some uninterrupted, choice-based entertainment.

Ha!

It didn't take long to realize how hard it was for me to sit still for 2 hours and not be drawn into multi-tasking...a phone call here, an email there, a little web surfing in between.

God how I craved those heavenly breaks...every 8 minutes or so...that you could rely on during broadcast TV. So darn useful for doing odd bits around the house, dashing off a quick text or grabbing a sandwich between cliff-hanging plot points. Oh yeah, that's me saying I actually missed COMMERCIALS!

So despite trying to work my way through Hitchcock's entire ouevre--or maybe because of just that--I found out that I couldn't really be mindful with the tube on after all, which had been the whole purpose of switching off to begin with.

So I simply found myself in front of the TV less and less.

Tell you what.

My dog, Gabby, loved it! She never saw so much of Central Park as during that time. We spent the evenings and weekends exploring its lovely grassy knolls...traipsing North to the reservoir, east to the Met, west to Strawberry Fields and everywhere in between.

But denial hasn't been my only experience of Lent. In my home church, Fifth Avenue Presbyterian, we also observed the practice of chosing to add a commitment to your life during Lent, something that could serve as a daily reminder of the journey.

This curiously enough, I found much, much harder.

Why?

Well, when you're a natural doer, giving up something feels like a release, a vacation, a well-deserved break. Taking on something more feels like, well...a punishment. "Don't I already have enough on my plate?" "Who needs another to-do on an already overcrowded list?"

But interestingly enough, the "adding on" years were some of the most heart-changing. I made more friends, found myself being happier, and connected more with my city, during those seasons when I chose:
* to say hello to one stranger each day or
* to start every morning reflecting on something I was grateful for or
* to take at least one detour during work/play/errands so I could practice seeing things afresh.

So back to 2011.

To give up or to take on, that is the question.

Well, this year, as you know, I'm a little behind the curve but the meditation has begun.

I'm in a period of transition at the moment and I feel like there's a lot I'm missing...my family, my plucky sense of security, my dear old FAPC, my late 30s (ok, well in one month I will be). So as a result, I'm sensing gratitude needs to be back on the list.

I find that I've been feeling a little put upon lately and experience proves there's no better cure for that feeling than to adopt an attitude of thankfulness.

So though the roots of my Lenten traditions are firmly planted in Brooklyn, where I was born, this year "the tree" and the journey towards Easter begins in terra (kinda) incognita...Chiswick.

Tonight you'll find me expanding my traditions, observing them here in England, as I join the everning service at St. Peter's in Hammersmith for communion and the imposition of ashes.

Hopefully great things will bloom.

Cupid's Arrow

Oh my, looky here, it's February 14...

Again.

And what do we behold? Yet once again, there's a brazen, naked cherub flitting about, shooting candy-coated, heart-shaped arrows into lovestruck men and women the world 'round.

And once again striking fear in the hearts of singletons.

I should know. I used to be one of them.

Uh-huh. Yep. SINGLE.

But let me tell you what happened...and to do it properly, best to begin at the beginning.

....................................

Valentine's Day for me has always been the Hallmark holiday to hate.

For those in love...Great! Fab! Excellent!

But don't you love-smitten pups get 365 perfectly good days to demonstrate your affection? Why pick just one?

Ahhh, because you forget and need a reminder? Because you're lazy and need a bit of a nudge? Because you're cynical and can't be bothered to wash, rinse and repeat more than once a year? Yes, now we're getting to the bottom of it.

But what about us, your single, unpartnered friends? Why must we suffer!

Whether by choice or by circumstance, we're out there facing this great big world on our own.

And whether that means cocktails out with the girls, footie down at the local with the lads or nights home on the settee with our designer puggles, we don't need your pink, fizzy love erupting all over us every February like a build-your-own-volcano kit gone very wrong.

We need you to remember what it was like not to have Jane's tights drying over the shower rail and John's tighty whiteys strewn across the bedroom floor.

We need you to remember what it was like not to share mortgage payments on your first fixer-upper, end of terrace Victorian in up-and-coming East London.

We need you to remember what it was like when begging off a house party at your college roommates' new Williamsburg duplex was as unthinkable as spending a Saturday building flatpack furniture from Ikea.

Heck, let's cut to the chase, we need you remember what it was like to pick up the darn phone and answer our calls to come out for cocktails or footie or walking the puggle!

And I haven't even gotten to the best of the worst...all the horrors of Valentine's Days past. Too many to recall, but there's one that lives long in the annals of BFs gone to rest.

It's the one where the guy I was seeing at the time completely and utterly freaked out after we'd shared a particularly intimate moment, broke things off immediately and forced me to walk home (alone!) in the middle of a snow blizzard. Yep. On Valentine's Day. And trust me, you can't make this stuff up. Were the hedgehogs he kept as pets a tip off? As in his inability to connect with warm, fluffy, approachable creatures like cats, dogs and girlfriends?

So when did things turn around?

Ahhh, well that's a long story. Involving time, toil and quite a few sessions on the therapist's couch. Thanks Joe!

But as a result, I can happily report that this year...I'm as loved up as I can stand.

So at 5:30 this morning, after a lovely homemade breakfast of fried eggs, cumberland sausage, kiwi and bananas, my eyes grew very wide when, from the hidden depths of his workbag, my beloved produced an over-sized, overly red, and all-round over-the-top greeting card, making me promise not to open it until he left for work.

So off he went, then it was back to bed for me. And now, at a much more reasonable 10:00am, I'm sitting with a cup and his card and having read his words of love and commitment, I'm thinking, hey, maybe that Cupid guy ain't so bad after all.

Cereal Wars

It's a slippery slope.

Writing a blog about being a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker turned Londonista and not falling into the all-too-easy trap of trying to compare and contrast everything.

Is New York better? Is London better?

Even friends and acquaintances fall down the rabbit hole. "Don't you miss New York?" "Isn't London so much cleaner?" "Isn't it hard to find late-night takeout over there?"

Yes. Yes. And yes.

But there's so much more to talk about...and I'm a firm believer that simple questions can attract simple answers. Two world-class cities like London and New York, can't be reduced to side-by-side pros and cons lists.

Well, except when it comes to today's meditation.

Breakfast cereal.

That's right. Uh-huh. I'm gonna write (and you're about to read) about my love affair with Rice Krispies, Cocoa Puffs, and Cap'n Crunch. And why I'm desperate for my old favorites in a land that eschews these breakfast (...lunch and dinner) staples.

It may not be as highbrow as fellow Stephen Fry lovers might like, but if you've ever faced an empty cupboard at 10:30 at night with nothing but a bowl, a spoon and 8 oz of semi-skimmed milk to see you through til morning, you'll know it definitely deserves a pass.

So, um, what happened here? And by here, I mean in the UK. I've been to the largest grocers/retailers...Sainsbury's, Tesco, M&S, Waitrose, Asda...and it's like wandering the aisles in the land that cereal forgot.

Oh, don't get me wrong. There's "cereal" on the shelves all right...muesli, porridge (e.g., oatmeal), unsweetened corn flakes...but there's no CEREAL.

Cereal. You know the stuff that turns your milk pink, your tongue blue and your insides...well, let's not think about that right now. I'm talking kids cereal, sugary cereal, fun cereal. Cereal that comes with toys, with clusters, with a surgeon general 's warning.

I've concluded. It's far too healthy here.

And I'm not ashamed to say, I DO NOT like it. I do not like it one bit! It's enough to make a single expat gal cry out, "Darn it all; I want me Lucky Charms!"

Sure there's "Honey O's" and "Honey Balls" and "Choco Puffs" but none of the over-the-top cereal creativity I've come to love back in the US. Or to imagine inventing myself...like corn flakes covered with honey and peanuts, combined with chocolate nougat pecan clusters and star-shaped multi-colored marshmallow bits. The kind of creativity that can make a grown woman look forward to that rummage in the cupboard at 10:30 at night.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating that we feed this food to ACTUAL children. Kiddies should have muesli...and porridge...and unsweetened corn flakes. As well as fresh fruit, lean proteins and lots of bright-colored veg.

I'm just saying that we need a UK food retail industry that learns to cater to the adults that these well-fed kids grow up to be. Time-starved, 30-minute (or less) recipe dependent, and yes, every once in a while, desperate for a late night sugar fix...adults.

Londoners like (you and) me!

These Hips Don't Lie

My back hurts. My shoulders ache. My knees go "Snap, Crackle, Pop!"

And I haven't even gotten off the couch yet!

OK, maybe I'm exaggerating just a wee bit, but suffice it to say, as the new year rolled around, I took a good long look in the mirror and saw that I was ripe for some intervention...exercise intervention, that is.

So what did I want to achieve from this new fitness buzz?

Sure, like anyone else, I wanted to tone up, slim down and look better, but it wasn't just cosmetic concerns spurring me on. More than anything I wanted to have fun. Find something I could do consistently (rain, snow, sun) and that I found inherently motivating. I wanted a date at the gym vs. an appointment. (You know the difference.)

Also, with my other active passions, like tennis and salsa, I also knew I wanted to ramp up my energy levels and improve my stamina. All that fancy footwork on the court and in the dance studio comes at a cost!

Last, I thought, if I was super lucky, I could maybe even figure out how to work a little more sazon ("spice") into my not-quite-so Cuban motion.

I think I had just the ticket.

I'd heard about a new exercise craze called Zumba (http://www.zumba.com/) and even vaguely remembered seeing an infomercial on it a while back in the States. But in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, I'd pretty much forgotten about it.

That is until a friend posted on Facebook that she'd gotten a set of DVDs from her mom for Christmas and loved them. Then another (mutual) friend responded, saying that she could top that! She'd become a certified instructor back in Minneapolis. That was all the motivation I needed.

Now luckily I belong to a gym here in London, Virgin Active (www.virginactive.co.uk), that not only offers great equipment and facilities, but that also specializes in innovative fitness classes. So I scoured their club listings until I found enough classes to fill a week's worth of options.

Feel like getting my workout in early? I could hit the 9:30am class at Hammersmith. Got a little time in the City after work? How about the 5:45pm class at Tower Hill? Indulged a bit too much at the weekend? Ahhh, then a wealth of Saturday and Sunday options abound.

So many choices. I decided to hit my nearest club first to see what kind of local talent was on offer.

Trust me, I was not disappointed!

Jasmine rocked it out!

How to describe?

Imagine taking your favorite latin rhythms (reggaeton, salsa, mambo, cumbia), adding your favorite artists and songs (Celia Cruz, La Vida es un Carnaval; Daddy Yankee, Gasolina; Shakira, Hips Don't Lie) and smushing them all together with super-sexy, booty-shaking, dancefloor-worthy moves ("gimme a shimmy!", "work it out") that keep you smiling, laughing and pumping your arms, hips and legs the whole time! That's Zumba.

Yes, you warm up...how about a little belly dancing? Then you get the blood flowing...now we salsa. Feeling adventurous?...must be time for some drumming and V-steps with a reggaeton twist. Still want more? There's isometrics and sun salutations, cumbia and mambo. And the mix goes on and on...

Needless to say, I'm hooked.

Wepa!

New Year, New Me

I'm not a huge fan of resolutions.

Well, at least not at the New Year.

I think the practice is rife with commercialism...wow, they sell a kit for that???...not to mention, the potential for utter disappointment and failure...was I supposed to enjoy eating cabbage and leeks 5 times a day?

Not exactly the best way to start off a new year.

Plus, in my mind, anything done while still giddy on drink from the night before can't be good.

Hmmm, well, I take that one back. Most things done while still giddy on drink from the night before can't be good.

So back to resolutions. I try to avoid them. Like the plague. I prefer to think of every day as a new day to try something different, to be someone different.

So instead of making rigid commitments on January 1 to say:
* lose a stone (for my American friends, that's 14 lbs....don't ask why), or
* knit scarves for my entire family by Easter, or
* finally organize my photo collection into themed albums, complete with ticket stubs, menu snippets, and witty narrative

...I prefer to reflect on the previous year and choose just a couple of things that I think will be good steering for the one ahead.

So in that spirit, I've decided I want to do three things this year...
1. meet more people
2. write more
3. become more interesting

Easy enough, right?

Even better, they all seem to share a seed of commonality. For example, if I meet new people, interesting things will happen...and no that's not a euphemism for something more sinister...which will certainly fuel my passion for writing. And if I write more, I'll obviously need material and sources, encouraging me to reach out to an ever-broader circle of friends and acquaintances to find new things to write about, becoming, yes, that's right, more interesting in the process. And if I become more interesting...let's say I attempt to stake a claim at being the world's leading expert on carillon bell societies in 19th century Britain...see post to come later this spring...well, then all bets are off. Let the resolution trifecta begin!

Which brings me to last night. I made a modest, yet exciting step towards that goal. I went to a Meetup. (http://www.meetup.com/)

Sure, sure, sure. Scoff if you will..."that's not very original, or hard, or even dangerous" and I'm sure it's old hat to most, but for the uninitiated, Meetups are activities going on around your town, generally for free, where like-minded people gather for social, professional, educational or other ends. Nice, huh?

So last night, I decided to pick a Meetup that feeds both a personal and professional passion...social media (http://www.socialmedialondon.co.uk/).

The guest speaker, Marko Saric, blogging pro from HowToMakeMyBlog.com and Social Media Manager at PartyPoker.com, talked about being intentional about making time to blog and other tips for being successful in social media.

The particular tip that made several folks in the room gasp, myself included, was the idea of gaining more time in the day by simply tossing out your telly. That's right, kids! Giving the boob tube the old heave-ho, Marko suggested, so you could try trading 3-4 hours a day of (unintentional) entertainment for more focused, productive time doing the things you love.

Now how's that for a radical New Year's resolution!
..............

Whew, that was close!

It's a good thing for my telly that I don't do resolutions.

But if I did, that one would certainly be INTERESTING.

Lost and Found in Vauxhall

Really? Is this where I'm headed? Brrrr.

As I step off the number 156 into the dark, cold and wet of the Thames' south bank...and no, not the pretty bit up by the London Eye, mind you...I wonder, what have I gotten myself into?

But then pure instinct kicks in. Well that and my fierce "don't even look my way" New York attitude, so I double back a block from the bus stop and head straight into the empty, more-than-slightly forboding industrial park across the road. Hopefully the Thames and the Battersea Barge will lie just on the other side.

Well, maybe not.

After several minutes wandering back alleys, passing FedEx depots, cement mixers, seemingly abandoned boats plus who knows what else...things do take on weird shapes in the dark, don't they?...I get a wee bit concerned.

"Maybe you only THINK you know how to get there," the little voice in my head scolds.

"But I'm good with directions. Remember how I just seem to find my way out of things. And when I get lost, I always seem to figure out how to get back on track, no maps, no GPS. Anyway, Cauline told me so once and she must be right!," I retort.

The confidence lasts...at least another 30 seconds or so, until a beat up sedan slowly pulls out from the curb, headlights off, making its way towards me. And then, just when I'm about to really despair, ahh, a good samaritan arrives. (OK, a guy on rusty bike).

"Um, hi, do you know where the Battersea Barge is?"

He says, pointing, "Yeah, it's just that way. You can either cut through this industrial estate over or head that way and follow the river. It's basically the last boat moored down at the end."

"OK, great. Thanks!" I say. And he's right. Less than 10 minutes later, I see the welcoming beacon of bright lights...OK, a string of twinkly Christmas lights...and the broad gangplank of the Barge. A couple enters just ahead of me. I step through the wooden door and take a minute to let the warmth and security sink in.

"Oooh, Cherryl, you're here. So good to see you." Kiss, kiss Paul.

"I didn't know you were coming until Paul told me this morning. How nice!" Kiss, kiss Alessio.

"Wouldn't miss it," I say, smug now that I'm inside with both my wits and my purse intact. "How was your Christmas?," I ask.

"Great and yours?," says Alessio.

"Delightful and happy new year."

"Buon anno nuovo."

"Wait, how do you say it again?" Me, just loving the tongue-twisty slipperiness of the Italian.

"Buon anno nuovo."

"Hmmm, maybe I better stick with what I know and can pronounce. Buon natale, it is then."

"Buon natale. Now tell me about this young man of yours..."

And so, the loneliness of the walk soon forgotten, I'm swept along in Alessio's warm embrace, shown to my table, introduced to two other panto enthusiasts like myself and invited to join in a good bit of chin-wagging with an old friend. All too soon the music starts and the performers take the stage.

Everything as it should be.

...................

You know, without being lost, being found wouldn't feel nearly so good.












NB: Though never excessive, certain narrative liberties, designed to heighten the storytelling, may have been taken in the writing of this blog.

The real deal...

Reached easily from Vauxhall tube station by the #344 or #156 bus, the Battesea Barge is an absolutely lovely cabaret venue set on the Thames. Last night's show was the spectaclar final performance of the 2010 panto, "Cinderella and the Glass Ceiling," produced by Paul Martin of Excess All Areas. Feel free to visit http://www.excessallareas.co.uk/ or http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/ for 2011 productions.

Giddy Anticipation

So, I've just spent the morning working on my 2010 "Year-In-Review," aka the tongue-in-cheek run-down of my madcap adventures from the last year and have bravely decided to include a link to this blog for all my friends and family to see. Trying to give myself the kick up the pants I need to be more dilligent. Wondering if four posts will keep them entertained for the length of 2011. Guess not, eh? Well, let me get going then. More moving and shaking means more stuff for blog making!

Discipline, Discipline, Discipline

No, not the chains and whips type, my dearies. Just the kind of discipline that comes from making this blog a priority. How fast the time passes! Right, I'll get down to it then. Right after I shed my big pink fuzzy robe and get my bum off the couch. The teary eyes, runny nose and swollen glands suggest it might just be a little bit of a wait for that. I am, as the saying goes, just a wee bit "under the weather." And since it's England, "weather" means 2 straight weeks of rain, with last night's downpour being quite the rager. Luckily I was snug like a bug in a rug. A lovely Thai curry courtesy of the restaurant next door and a good movie made the evening bearable. Not to worry. I'll be fighting fit again soon. Til then, kisses.

Mea Culpa

I know, I know. It's been too long. And exactly what have I got to show for my lengthy absence? Bupkis. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

OK, well let's not get overly dramatic.

While I may not have spent the time as "fruitfully" as I might have hoped, I do return to the blogosphere with a renewed sense of purpose. Well, at least for tonight, that is!

So today's hot topic?

Ahem...Why in my opinion prest-o/change-o is an absolute no-go, or, in other words, why you should always look like the guy/girl in the picture.

That's right kids, I'm talking Internet dating and the extreme (sometimes painful, sometimes hilarious) shenanigans that go on when men and women put up profile photos that are not just out of date, but so out of date that they seem a miracle of science (or of science fiction or better yet of just pure fiction...shout out to all the Dorian Gray lovers out there).

Now lest you think I'm just having a rant, let me set the scene.

I made plans earlier in the week to meet up this evening with N, nice late-30s lad from the Manchester area, now making it in the big city as a high street solicitor. All good so far.

We'd exchanged a few emails and both felt ready to take the plunge. He asked me to suggest the location. So, in very unBritish, but very SoCal fashion, I picked a multi-level shopping complex (all steel, glass, and white marble) about equidistant between our respective homes, with the idea that we'd have our choice of over 15 different bars/restaurants and an opportunity for a little retail therapy if the mood struck. First stop--a quick dalliance at the Apple Store; second stop--on for a drink and a little get to know you better chit-chat.

So there I am at Shepherd's Bush tube station at 8pm (or thereabouts). If you know me, you'll know why I say "thereabouts"...always need that 15 minute grace period. Never longer, I promise!

Anyway, so I text my impending arrival and get a message back saying..."It's raining" (um, like every day lately), "so find me just inside the station near the maps and ticket windows." Easy peasy, I think, and head inside confidently upon arrival. Try to keep it very cool and casual, like I'm not meeting some random stranger for the first time. As I make my way over to the ticket counters, I see that there's just one set along the far left wall, and I wonder why he's not there?

Did we miss each other? Did he take a walk to one of the other exits to look out for me? No worries. Figure I'll stake out a nice spot and await his return when I realize that there's a kindly, but "oh-so-not-the-person-I-was-expecting-to-meet" guy in a dark blue suit trying to catch my eye. And then the realization dawns...slowly...that this is the guy.

Ooops!

The rest of the evening was fine, honestly. The shock of it all wore off quickly enough but the possibility of romance was dashed before it ever got started.

No matter what the context, no one likes to be on the receiving end of the "old bait and switch." And so I say, even if you aren't super confident about your looks, isn't it better to know that the person you're about to meet is genuinely attracted to you, that is the you you are now, not the you you were 10 years, 30 lbs and several lost follicles ago?

And believe me, I've dated all types, so I can honestly say, it's not that being older, somewhat paunchy and slightly balding means you don't fit into my attraction spectrum--just ask T, the 50-something Paul Giamatti look-alike that I went gaga for this past spring. (Or for that matter, ask Paul Giamatti himself, on whom I have been crushing for years.) It's just that I don't want to feel duped into making the connect.

Moral of the story: You just can't cheat chemistry.

Sunday on the Heath

So what makes for a perfect first kiss?

Is it the anticipation? The mini Vesuvius of delight and expectation that wells up within and then bubbles deliciously over the top of your curiousity.

Is it the unknown? The terra incognita you travel when crossing from the desert of wonder to the oasis of awareness.

Is it the body language? The twinkle of eyes meeting, the crookedness of smiles upturning, the softness of lips brushing.

Well friends, whatever it is...I just had one.

But let me start at the beginning.

It was a simple enough invitation. "Meet me at the Hampstead Tube at 7:30 for a drink."

But since that doesn't give you any idea of the felicity about to unfold, I'll set the scene a little better. As Sophia used to say on The Golden Girls, "Picture this, Sicily, 1942."

It was a warm summer evening. I was facing a fairly light...alright, alright, downright empty...social calendar. The request had come from a tall, dark, handsome man I'd never met before.

Let's just say it didn't take much persusasion to dig out the heels and the go-to dress.

Oh, you know the one. Blue and white print, falls just above the knee, cut close in all the right places. Hot rollers in the hair...thank god for modern appliances...black eyeliner at the ready, a splash of Chloe to set the mood and I was off for my adventure.

An hour and 10 minutes, 2 tube lines, and a bumpy lift ride later, I was there. Not wanting to look like a wally meeting someone for a blind date, I languidly reached into my purse, fished out my new pay-as-you-go mobile and gave R a ring. So Keira Knightley. So Londonista.

Well, how did I perfect this particular move, you ask? Experience has taught and I'm a quick study...that the phone call on arrival is all basket, no net...and it's a two-for-one play to boot. You look fully engaged as you step out onto the curb, and even better, you know it's him when he reaches for his vibrating pocket.

Well I didn't have to wait long because there he was...all long legs and liquid eyes, leaning casually against the side of the station. A rake of the fingers...not at all affected or self-conscious, just practical...and I saw him brushing his thick hair back from his forehead. And smiling. At me.

"Hi."
"Hi."
"You must be R."
"Yeah, get here OK?"
"Sure. No problems. It's nice to be back in the old neighborhood. I used to live in Hampstead, you know."
"Ahhhhh. OK. Nice. So I thought we'd go to this little pub I know just down the street here and around the corner."
"Sounds good."

So that's how the evening began. And how it all ended, well you know that much already. But in between it was magic.

We talked, we laughed, we pet the 14-year old golden retriever visiting the pub while his owner had a glass or two of Sunday chardonnay. We nibbled on chips...that's fries for y'all Americans...enjoyed a couple of pints and sampled some chenin blanc.

We debated politics, we interpreted each others' strange childhood dreams. We shared growing up stories...about me in the US and he in Iran...and then grown-up stories too. How he came to London to study for his Master's degree in Mechanical Engineering and how I just moved back after a long hiatus. And all the while, we drifted closer and closer to that kiss.

So what makes for the perfect first kiss?

You know it when you feel it.

I did.

Diving In

It's Saturday night. Errands have all been run. Dinner dishes are in the sink. I'm sprawled on the couch and Wentworth Miller...yowza, what a fox!...is entertaining me on the telly. Everything's just as it should be. In fact, it's a rather unremarkable evening. Except, oh wait. Did I mention that both the couch and the bum on it are in London?


What gave it away? Was it the "telly" reference? Or my use of the word "bum?" Or the fact that when you called my cell number back home, the call went straight to voicemail. (Sorry Uncle Bob.) Whatever your clue, I'll confirm it's true. This New Yorker has flown the coop.


And she's loving every minute of it.


So what better way to celebrate than to document my adventures in cross-cultural understanding with a blog. Virgin territory all around. Hmmm, I guess I meant the blog part, not the living in London part. For those in the know, this is round two. But what a difference 10 years makes! In me, in the city, in the number of planned road works mucking up traffic. But I wouldn't have it any other way.


So stay tuned and watch this space. The fun has only just begun!