Thankful for . . .

It's funny the way the weather can make you smile. This has been the mildest November I can ever remember, and it is a delight. I am bopping out of the house each morning without scarf or gloves, and taking in long, deep breaths of air that almost smells as sweet as spring.  There are big, beautiful hydrangeas bursting on the enormous bush in our front garden. I'm fairly certain I am wearing a silly grin as I head to the bus stop. I'm smiling at everyone who passes . . . I occasionally get a smile back.

This weekend Tim and I saw some people in shorts walking along Cowes High Street. No flip flops were on display, though even shorts this late in November gives pause. Our long walk along the parade to Gurnard was glorious--I was wearing a jacket, but unzipped. A couple of times I realised I stretched out my arms as if to let the air envelop me, and making a cape of my jacket. I felt like Mary Tyler Moore, happy as Larry (one of those odd British-isms), and would have gladly tossed my beret high in the air, only it was too warm to be wearing a hat. And I felt so in love--with life, with all that I have, with my husband. Lovely weather, my friends, is an elixir. 

The nights this November have been just a bit cooler than the days, with inky dark skies. To my surprise this weekend it was clear and dotted with stars that you don't often get to see in the better-lit London skies.It all feels so precious, this November warmth, and I know it is short-lived. Everyone is talking about it--and yes, Brits do talk a lot about the weather (apparently because it's generally rubbish), but this spring-like spell commands a lot of talk in the coffee shops and at bus stops where the outerwear ranges wildly from knit scarves (because it's November, it's what you're supposed to wear) to light jackets (which are more prevalent).

At the same time this unusual stretch of weather has thrown me a bit off kilter--I am having trouble rationalising this fabulous, temperate weather with all the decorations that scream "Christmas!" along Oxford Street. And I realise, well, I need to write out Christmas cards before we go on our honeymoon. I need to buy gifts for the nieces and nephews. 

But I can't quite get in the mood. Perhaps as Thanksgiving approaches, it will set me straight. This year we are bypassing our usual Thanksgiving gathering at Bodean's BBQ in Soho for the more comfortable and likely less noisy environs of the home of our friends Taron and Neil, who will be hosting an honest-to-goodness Thanksgiving feast. I'm excited; an intimate occasion in a warm home that will no doubt have the aroma of home-cooked turkey, stuffing . . . I am hoping there's pumpkin pie. 

In fact Thanksgiving had always been a favourite holiday of mine--it brings friends and families together without the need for cards and pressies; it reminds us to be thankful, and to cherish our ties far and near. I liked that all of us trouped to my mother's house or, later, to my sister Debbie's home for turkey and ham and the ever-popular mushrooms in a sour cream sauce, and of course the array of pies--pumpkin, yes, but also apple and mince pies too that my mother would make. It was a rare occasion to get us all together as we got older and gained spouses or significant others, yet more often than not we managed it for a number of years. I think I was first in the family to throw a monkey wrench into the annual gathering--going away for Thanksgiving became a bit of its own tradition for me in the late 90s and for the next several years--still spent with friends and, even in a place like Jamaica, turkey on the menu.

The first year I was in Britain I found it strange to work Thanksgiving Thursday and Friday--I didn't miss the Black Friday shopping, but I did suddenly miss having Thursday with my family, like the good old days. Having my American cadre of friends here helped fill the gap--and Bodean's even showed NFL football, which before coming to England was a staple of not just Thanksgiving but many of my weekends. 

We adjust; we find ways to celebrate the things that are important to us even when those things may not be widely recognised in our new landscape.  I suppose the Fourth of July is another example--but here there is Guy Fawkes Night, and the fireworks are legal!

I have learned to be grateful of one more thing this month--don't laugh--the Transport for London's new online bus arrival schedule in real time. OK, go ahead and laugh, but I'm becoming slowly addicted. You punch in your stop--the name, or the number if you know it--check the correct direction, and voila, a list of all the next buses coming toward you! It's brilliant, especially now that I've practically stopped using the tube because most of my travel is on foot or by the double-decker, where I still inwardly squeal when the seats at the front of the top deck are empty and I can sit and watch the London scene. 

Case in point: Tim and I take the 341 from Waterloo Station back to our home in London. The 341 runs notoriously poorly--you just never know how long you're going to wait. As popular as the Waterloo bus stop is, it is one that does not have an LED display of arrivals and several buses stop within feet of each other at three stops in a row. As each bus several blocks down turns the corner on to Waterloo Road I'm squinting to see if it's a 341, or just another 172 or 168 or 4 (which is an alternative, but requires a transfer at Angel). Thanks to the TFL I can now simply whip out my Blackberry, go to the site, and know exactly how long the wait will be. And, I can call the site up while we're still on the train, approaching Waterloo Station, and then know whether it's worth hoofing it to the bus stop or if a leisurely stroll will get us there in the nick of time.

I found myself calling up the site this morning at my bus stop to the office--3 minutes! Know what I'm afraid of? I'll start a little earlier--before I leave the house--and arrange my time around the bus schedule. The good: more time with Tim in the morning sipping coffee, knowing there won't be a bus. The bad: less time with Tim in the morning sipping coffee, knowing I can catch a particular bus if I just look at the site. Deep breath. I   won't   let   it   happen.

Life's simple pleasures: Family. Friends. Food. Love. Life. Technology. Be thankful.

Ode to the 40+ Females

I'd forgotten how I enjoyed Andy Rooney's monologues until the media reported his death last week. I read it in the NY Times, not the British Times; there may have been a small piece in some newspaper here, but at the moment it's all gloom and doom in the Eurozone that takes up the newsprint. (That and Princess Zara's husband being kicked off the England rugby team. A minor scandal as royal scandals go.) 

I may not have always watched the entire hour of 60 Minutes, the talk program Rooney held the last three minutes of, but I was almost certain to tune in to hear what topic he was going to bring his brand of sensibility to. He wasn't always politically correct and had more than a few dissenters--I certainly didn't agree with everything he said--but I found he often made a good point. I don't really watch much TV now, and honestly I don't miss it--most Brits in fact bemoan the fact that most of what's on the telly is crap. 

Hearing of Andy's passing though made me pause and reflect on how my habits have changed since coming to the UK--getting to the theatre and opera more, spending Sundays without football (though I'll admit I truly enjoy rugby at the national level), watching almost no TV (I didn't even own one the first year here and still don't on the IoW), and, alas, eating less pizza. Those are all actually good things, but oh how I get that craving for a slice from back home. 

The day after Rooney's death, a friend of mine shared a monologue that is commonly attributed to Andy, but in fact was penned by a gentleman called Frank Kaiser. Andy wasn't all that fond of women over 40; his response to whether he agreed with Kaiser's opinion is said to have been "not particularly." No matter; I appreciated Rooney for his honesty.And I liked that he occasionally referred to his wife, fondly, in his three minutes.

Some of what Frank Kaiser said made me smile, and thought was worth sharing. For my friends over 40 and those inching ever closer to the mark, then, enjoy:

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 40 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why: An over 40 woman will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, "What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think. If an over 40 woman doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And it's usually something more interesting.

An over 40 woman knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is,what she is, what she wants, and from whom. Few women past the age of 40 give a darn what you might think about her or what she's doing.. An over 40 woman usually has had her fill of "meaningful relationships" and "commitment". The last thing she wants in her life is another dopey, clingy, whiny, dependent lover. Over 40 women are dignified. 

They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it.

Over 40 women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated. An over 40 woman has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women. A woman over 40 couldn't care less if you're attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won't betray her. Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to an over 40 woman. They always know. An over 40 woman looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women. Over 40 women are forthright and honest.

They'll tell you right off you are a jerk if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her. 

Yes, we praise over 40 women for a multitude of reasons. 

Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coifed hot woman of 40+, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.

It's Not about Love

Sometimes you just feel like you have to post, even when what you have to say isn't interesting or funny or important. It's been a while since I've blogged, and that's partially because I've been uninspired. Yes, I know, again. It's not that there haven't been wonderful things going on; it's just that they haven't compelled me to write. Time has also been hard to find, and yet when I did find the odd hour or two, I found myself preferring to do something else. I sense I'm going through one of those phases where I'm trying to figure out what I want my blog to "be"--at this moment I've settled on "whatever comes to mind"!

I thought about posting about love. My friend Taron, who writes a wonderful blog called Mind, Body & Scroll, encouraged her mates to write on the topic in October . . . but my adventures in love have been complicated, and I felt like I couldn't be true to my feelings about the subject without possibly unsettling others. I will simply say that each love has been different in wonderful ways, and I am blessed to have had an abundance of love in my life, which shows no sign of fading with age! I think, deep down, that I didn't want my current love to think there was anyone or anything more important to me than him--that is the truth--and sometimes bringing up the past can place too much meaning on what should, simply, be left in the past.

I came across two things that struck me today. One was from Mona Simpson, who eulogised her brother Steve. Her words were simple, evocative, and honest. She made me cry. There are phrases like "He treasured happiness." Or "Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day." I thought, what love between them; what genuine caring and admiration her words spoke. I want to live some of those words, I want to emulate that caring. I hope I do. And oddly enough, I feel I was taught some of those lessons from someone who, like Mona's brother, battled with pancreatic cancer. At the end of the article I smiled and wished I could reach out to her and say, well done and thank you.

The other bit that crossed my inbox today was a clip of Malcolm Gladwell, one of my favourite writers, giving a presentation for TED about the Norden bombsight. Norden was born in 1918, a Swiss engineer who developed the technology to target bombs. He is not all that different from Steve--he worked hard every day, passionate about his contribution to the greater good. I'll admit I watched the 15-minute video because I like Malcolm Gladwell; he is an interesting, funny, and compelling person who finds unusual things to talk about and make me think. The message, at the end of the day, was that Norden was a Christian who wanted to mitigate the human cost of war by being able to, with pinpoint accuracy, target important sites and make the enemy weak. In fact it was an inaccurate device, owing to the constraints of technology and the presence of anything but clear blue skies in a time of war. And, in the end, his device delivered the bomb that annihilated Hiroshima.  Apparently no one told Norden that it was his device the Enola Gay carried; as Gladwell said, it would have broken Norden's heart. I'm not sure what the moral of the story is meant to be; for me, it is simply that sometimes things go awry even with the best of intentions; we don't always have control of that.

It is November! I won't count down the days until Christmas--I did take note that the sandwich shoppe placed my takeaway in a bag that was decorated with holiday trees. I am quietly anticipating time away for a delayed honeymoon; time away to see wonderful things, eat delicious food, and explore a different part of the world with someone who I know will make it exciting and brilliant and fun and romantic.

I think this is perhaps my most unusual post--both for its brevity and stream of consciousness. I half thought to scrap it, and dig out the day planner that reminds me that I went to a French cheese and wine tasting earlier this week, or that I've officially changed my name and have the passport to prove it . . . then again, those stories today moved me, and whether you love them or hate them, I wanted to share them.