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.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
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!
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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.
Friday, November 6, 2009
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.
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, August 2, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
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!
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
