Goodbye to the guy who taught us life's important lessons . . .

. . . like "Never eat 50 boiled eggs."
And "Take your money and use it for good."
Or "Turn tragedy into something positive."
And "Why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home?"

Goodbye, Paul Newman. I'll sure miss those blue eyes.

Brother, can you spare $700 billion?

Whew! I'm really feelin' it for all of you big-time investors out there. Such a roller coaster ride (on the downhill side)! OK, I'm really not feeling it so much, since I'm pretty small potatoes in the investment game. And I managed to sell my Atlanta house in December 2006 just before the bottom fell out. I have no car. No silver (well, not much), gold, fine antiques, or a library of first editions. As daughter Kate said the other day, for once I'm glad I don't have any assets. How true, darlin'.

It's kind of interesting reliving 1929. I guess things really do go in cycles. Since I am at the complete mercy of the Powers That Be and refuse to check my 401K balance until 2014, I'm taking the Mildly Interested Outsider approach to the current financial meltdown of Wall Street and Washington DC. To be sure, it's a big ol' whackin' great mess.

I have no answers or advice, except to learn to love canned beans and cheap pasta. But I don't feel bad about not having solutions because I haven't heard anything from the rich and/or powerful, either. Guess we're all in the same boat, except that I don't feel the urge to fling myself out of my 5th floor window - not about this thing, anyway.

Can we take any clues from the Crash of '29 and the Great Depression about how to get through it all? Hm.

• Dress styles will change from short and flirty to long and drab. Get a jump on that right now and make a quick buck.



• "Homeless" will morph back into "hobo." A hobo is really cool (unlike homeless). Find yourself a stick and kerchief knapsack and get to the nearest passing train.



• Big Hollywood musicals and curly-headed stars will hit the screens any day now. Start sparklin' up those little Shirleys so you'll be ready for the casting calls.



• No more Hoovervilles, but Bushtowns instead. Stake your claim early for the most advantageous campfire location.



• Buy low, sell high. If you can't do that, just hang on to what you got. Simma' down!

Fortunately, it's just about prime apple season. I'm already planning my tricked-out apple stall at Park and 51st. (I've claimed it; go find another spot fer yerselves.) Ain't life interesting?

Once I built a tower, up to the sun, brick, and rivet, and lime;
Once I built a tower, now it's done. Brother, can you spare a dime?
(Or $700 billion. Inflation, you know.)

Remembering to make poverty history

Today has been declared a day of prayer, fasting, and witness in support of the Millennium Development Goals by various faith communities around the world. The United Nations is renewing its commitment to end extreme poverty in a special session of the General Assembly.

If you're not familiar with the Goals (I eschew the popular acronym "MDG" because it sounds like something you don't want in your Chinese food), there are lots of sources of information. I'll leave it to you to read up on them. While the goals are a direct product of the United Nations, they reflect the basic underpinnings of most faith communities involved in peace and justice and active mission around the world. Some folks squawk that churches are doing the bidding of the UN, but actually the opposite is true. Faith communities (and many others) worked long and hard with the United Nations to craft the Goals in 2001.

My visit to Africa in 2007 brought me face to face with the reality of need and progress of the Goals. Hunger, child mortality, HIV/AIDS/Malaria, universal education take on real meaning in a community situated on the town dump or one with hundreds of AIDS orphans. Seeing first-hand the work of teachers and medical personnel combating these enormous problems 24/7 brings the need to achieve the Goals into sharp focus.

What can ONE person do? Well, in the Episcopal Church, we believe that if every individual, parish, and diocese designated just .07% a year to alleviate poverty, we could make a little head-way. Now, .07% isn't a lot per year, even in the current economic car-crash. It's only $350 for an income of $50,000. You probably already donate at least that much in support of one of the 8 goals, whether you call it supporting the Goals, or not. (Feel free to wear one of the white ONE bracelets or a big ol' "ONE" button.) Episcopalians believe that actively supporting the goals is one way we serve Christ in the world.

On this day of prayer for the Millennium Development Goals, look over the eight goals. Think about what you can do to help achieve one or more of them in your own community or the wider world.

For more information about the Goals and the Episcopal Church, visit Global Good, Episcopal Relief and Development, or Episcopalians for Global Reconciliation.

Can't Help Falling: My Elvis Moment at Tabla

Talk about a fall from grace! Well, all right, I'm not known for my grace, so take out the "grace" quotient. But Sunday night I did have a spectacular fall in one of New York's finest restaurants, Tabla. And just let me say that if one is going to make a complete fool of oneself, a fancy restaurant is a good place to do it. I mean, why settle for a fabulous meal when you can cause a stir and make a memorable evening even more so by becoming an innocent public spectacle?

Tabla's main dining room is situated at the top of a lovely wooden staircase. After two courses of a grand three course meal with Atlanta friend Barbara and her brother and sister-in-law, I excused myself to go to the ladies' room before dessert was to be served.

In my defense, I did not approach the staircase lightly. I was watching my step and holding on to the rail. God forbid I should fall! Also, I was not drunk; I'd had the equivalent of one glass of very good wine, but I was totally sober. And I was wearing low-heeled shoes, so I can't blame what happened on the shoes. Well, I made it down the first section of stairs to the first landing and headed down to the reception/bar/restroom area, still holding the railing. After a few steps my shoe must've slipped or I misjudged a step, because the misstep pulled me away from the handrail and I started to tumble.

And I mean tumble. Base over apex. Head over heels. Ass over tits. Tumble. I realized right away that there was no way to save myself or break my fall, so I just gave in to it. Good old ice skating training kicked in, I suppose. The tumble itself was interesting. I was totally aware of what was going on, and my eyes were wide open. I didn't scream or yell out. Just rolled with it. My one thought, besides "Well, aren't these wooden steps hard?", was "Kate will kill me if I break something a month before her wedding!" Once I landed, after 6 or 7 steps, another thought crossed my mind. "Boy, I'm glad I'm wearing underwear!"

The good news is that even though the wooden steps were hard (especially those pesky edges), I did not break anything. Or need stitches. Or damage this gorgeous face. :-) I have three good sized knots on my head - one on the very top, which should tell you the trajectory of my tumble - and bruising across my back, shoulders, and hips.

The staff at Tabla was very solicitous, especially the manager. Yeah, I know he was just trying to avoid a law suit, but he was helpful. One of the waiters was an EMT, so he check me out for broken bones and applied ice to the goose-eggs on my head. I let them fuss over me for a few minutes and then I really needed to get back to the business at hand, which was to go to the bathroom - accident or no accident. And I didn't want another accident, if you know what I mean.

In the meantime, the staff had alerted my friends about my fall and they came down to check on me. Whoever broke the news must have said it in a panic, because I think Barbara was more shaken up than I was. (I'm fine, Barbara.) For the rest of the evening I was treated like a dotty fragile old dear - I mean, who knew when I'd take another spill?

But tumbling down a flight of very hard wooden steps did not keep me from my dessert course, a wonderful chocolatey thingy. I think the chocolate did as much good as the ice on the head. I was able to walk down the staircase unassisted (though I'm sure everyone was nervous) and out the door on my own steam.

Tabla took my name, address, and phone number, and did indeed call me yesterday to find out how I was feeling. I figure the restaurant is keeping my name on file, in case I ever try for reservations. I'm sure my name is starred as a "faller." Well, at least I had one good meal there, eh?

So, channeling The King, my theme song this week: I. can't. help. falling . . .

Daddy's sleepin' and Mama ain't around

I suppose I should do a serious blog about 9/11, but I just don't feel like it. I prefer to think about more joyful news right now. Like today's big story about Chubby Checker's "The Twist" ranking as the No. 1 most popular single over the past 50 years of the Billboard Hot 100. "The Twist." Chubby Checker. Not Elvis or The Beatles or P-Diddy or Britney. It's Chubby.

What's not to like about "The Twist," as a song or as a dance? Simple rhythms. Easy to do. Why, any gathering worth its salt that has a band or DJ will play some kind of twist-music because everybody - from toddlers to grannies - can dance to it. You just stand there and, um, twist. But Chubby wasn't the only one to make a mint with twist songs. That twist bandwagon was pretty big.

Though Chubby Checker's "The Twist" has been declared the most popular of the No. 1 Billboard hit singles over the years, it doesn't make the top spot on my Top Ten Twist List. OK, I really don't have a Top Ten Twist List, but I do have a Top Eight:

1. "Twist and Shout" - The Isley Brothers and/or The Beatles. I'm fine with either. So much so that I've told Kate I want it played at my funeral. :-) Though I suspect the Episcopal Church won't let me use it for the actual funeral. :-(


2. "Dear Lady Twist" - Gary U.S. Bonds. Do the Twist and you'll never grow old. Ah, if only that were true, Gary.


3. "Peppermint Twist" - Joey Dee & the Starliters. Meet me baby down on 45th street. Bop-shoo-ah-bop-bop-bop-bop-shoo-ah.


4. "Twistin' the Night Away" - Sam Cooke, who's somewhere up-a New York way. Where the people are so gay. Well, yeah, there's that.


5. "Let's Twist Again" - Chubby Checker. Do you remember when things were really hummin'?


6. "The Twist" - Chubby Checker - see it only makes it to #6 on my list. Fun song, though.


7. "Slow Twistin'" - Cubby Checker & Dee Dee Sharpe, 'cause there's no no twistin' like-a slow slow twistin' with you.


8. "Soul Twist" - King Curtis. A great, great instrumental - the sax, wow!

YouTube has some great videos of most of these old twist songs. And I'm thinkin' that if I spent 20 minutes a night doing the Twist, I'd whittle my waist down in no time.

Who knows? Maybe Gary US Bonds was right: Do the Twist and you'll never grow old! (Extra credit points if you can name the three guys in the first photo.)

The Change

No, not that change. And I'm not talking politics, either.

All of a sudden it's darker when I get up in the morning, when I get home in the evenings. And there's that smell in the air. You know the one. That dry, leafy smell. Even when there are no leaves on the ground, the ones still on the trees rustle, "Stay tuned - I've got one last great show in me. The best is yet to come!" Their very tips are fading from green to pale yellow and faint orange. Another few weeks, and the color riot will be in full swing.

And even on warm days, there's a hint of a different kind of breeze. It feels . . . fall-y. Slowly, slowly, the thermometer settles itself south of 80 . . . 70 . . . 60.

Halloween fol-de-rol is already on store shelves. The dry cleaners are licking their chops at all that wonderful wool coming through the doors. Schedules become jam-packed as everyone settles back into routine.

Autumn - my favorite kind of change.

UPS = OOPS

I am so frustrated with UPS right now, I could just spit! United? Hardly. Parcel. Can't prove it by me. Service? Don't make me laugh. No, really. Don't make me laugh.

Two very important deliveries are in UPS-Limbo, and no one can help. After paying overnight delivery charges for both orders (one is actually a small, but much-needed, stock payout check), UPS claims it has tried to deliver twice and that no one was home to sign. Um. I was home. I worked from home on Friday specifically to received several deliveries and never left the apartment, except to give Bailey a potty-break. Even then, I stayed where I could see the front door.

Interestingly enough, FedEx managed to make two deliveries to me on Friday. Hm. Seems they found me just fine. But UPS? Nope. Both times they claim to have attempted delivery I was sitting in my small, but comfortable, living room working on a PowerPoint presentation. While it shows delivery information on the website, UPS didn't leave a delivery attempt sticky note, which leads me to think no attempt was made.

After going online only to find out UPS had just attempted delivery (where, I wonder?), I called UPS and the customer service rep (and I use "customer service rep" loosely) informed me UPS wouldn't try to re-deliver until Monday. Monday! You know, when I'd be back at work and - you guessed it - I wouldn't be home to receive a delivery. That is, if the guy actually tried to deliver. What kind of delivery service doesn't deliver on Saturday? Sheesh! Even the US Postal Service delivers on Saturday, for goodness' sake! Is this a racket, or what?

Well, I cancelled one of the orders. It was something I needed for Bailey, and since it didn't arrive in a timely fashion, I was forced to get on the subway and make my way to and from Petco. Sigh. I explained to the mail order firm that I'd be glad to order from them again when they changed carriers.

But I can't (and don't want to) cancel the check. So I just have to wait. I called to see if they'll deliver to my work address. Fingers crossed, it arrives tomorrow. At work.

So, here's the thing. If you have something to send me, do not under any circumstances send it via UPS. Go FedEx or DHL. Or, shoot, good ol' USPS. But over the course of the last four days, I really believe they should rename UPS "OOPS." Or maybe "AARGH."

Back to School: The Perfect Schedule

Now that all the kiddies have started a new school year, I find myself wishing that I were going back, too. I want to go buy a new notebook and new pencils and pens. I want new school shoes and a couple of new sweaters. I liked school, for the most part. It's hard to beat the thrill of having a great teacher teach a great subject.

In short, I'd gladly return to school, but I want it on my own terms. I want to choose the subjects and the schedule. In my fantasy school I am paid top salary for each subject I take, with a bonus for each A. Every teacher is top-notch and interesting, to boot. No old fart boors or idiots with halitosis. I'm willing to read appropriate materials for the class but no textbooks. I'll even churn out a paper, if so moved, but it can't be required. Only reading, group discussion, lecture, and fun stuff. I've done all the boring textbook-term paper thing before, so I don't need to do it again.

Each school day includes one full hour for lunch and one full hour to goof-off. Goof-off hour can be used to take a siesta, draw, work on the computer, play on the "playground," or whatever. Goof-off time can be scheduled right before or after lunch, at the beginning or end of the day, or split into goof-off increments throughout the day.

Here's my dream schedule for Fall 2008:
9am - 9:55am History: The Great War 1914-1918
10am - 10:55 am Early 20th Century British and American Literature
11am - 11:55am Art History: 19th and 20th Centuries
12pm - 12;55pm Lunch
1pm - 1:55pm Goof-off Time
2pm - 2:55pm Political Science: The Constitution of the United States
3pm - 3:55pm History: The Age of Enlightenment

Oops! No math or science. Oh, too bad. Math will never make my fantasy schedule, though biology and earth science might pop up in the future. I'm a social science kind of gal. I will require grading, however, because I am reward-driven and competitive. Now - off to buy notebook paper and pencils.

What's your fantasy schedule?

Gustav is a silly name for a hurricane

It's hard for me to take a hurricane named Gustav seriously. Don't get me wrong. Gustav is perfectly fine as far as Swedish names go; in fact, it means - appropriately enough - "staff of the gods." But really, we had to go to Sweden to find a good "G" name? There aren't enough English, Spanish, French, Creole, Dutch names to fit the bill? I can't think of one dot of land in the Atlantic/Caribbean/Gulf of Mexico with deep Swedish roots. So why the "Gustav"?

I'm rather picky about hurricane names. And let me say right from the start that I'm resentful we started using masculine names back in 1979. Hurricanes are clearly the daughters of Mother Nature. Opening the door for the likes of Igor, Omar, Otto, Peter, and Gordon just demeans a hurricane's power force. (Igor? Omar? What?!) Even fluffy female names seem more appropriate. Hurricane Dolly works. Hurricane Nestor does not.

Who chooses these names anyway? And what are they thinking? OK, OK. Giving in to the dictate to offer masculine names equal time, there are still a lot of questionable hurricane names on the list, even on the feminine side. The rules should be: 1) a name reflecting the culture and ethnicity of the hurricane area, and 2) a kick-ass name. So, Arthur, Josephine, Fred, Bonnie, Helene, and Pablo are fine, reflecting both rules 1 and 2. But Cristobal, Lisa, Bret, Kyle, Barry, Nicole, and Olga fail on at least one of them. And why have both a Kate and a Katia? (I vote for Kate.)

If the current trouble-maker's name were changed to Gustavo or just plain Gus, well, yeah, I could go along with it. Those are perfectly good Atlantic/Western Hemispheric hurricane names. But Gustav should be reserved for some Scandinavian disaster, like an over-abundance of Midnight Sun or a dearth of pickled herring.

As for me, and out of deep respect for the late Flip Wilson, I'm going to refer to the inaptly-named Gustav as Geraldine. Better brace yourselves because "What you see is what you get, Baby!"

Pull my starter cord. Please.

After two months' worth of conferences, houseguests, and travel to far-off places, I am having a hard time getting back to the daily grind. I can't focus on any one thing for more than a few minutes. I'm tired, but not sleepy. There's a mountain of important work to do, but I just can't get into it. It's overwhelming. And it's not only affecting my work life. I'm frustrated with every book I pick up. There are four - four! - half-started books next to my bed. And as for writing, well, fugitabatit. Blogging? Meh.

I wish I had a starter cord like an old lawn mower. But it would take many pulls before the motor cranked up, me thinks.

Where everybody knows your name

Sometimes you need to be around the familiar. Where you don't have to explain, justify, or put on airs. Where there's no need for a complicated backstory or resume because folks who "knew you when" wouldn't fall for all that stuff anyway. A place where everybody knows your name. Well, I got a good shot of "familiar" when I went home to Atlanta.

This daughter of the South spent four whole days breathing in the lush, languid green of late summer in Atlanta, delighting in massively tree-line boulevards like Peachtree Battle and Paces Ferry. Throwing Weight Watchers caution to the wind, I (over-)indulged in the particular culinary (OK, wrong word in this case) delights of the Colonnade's fried chicken, Krystal's little square burgers, Jalisco's queso and enchiladas, pimento cheese sandwiches, cheese straws, pecan pie, shrimp and grits, and Chik-fil-A's, well, chick filet. My eyes feasted on wildly-colored clothing - yes, New York, not all apparel is black! - clothing that's marvelously appropriate for lush, humid greenness and fancy bridal showers.

But the greatest thing about being back in Atlanta was being surrounded by people who knew me. Not just knew my name, but knew me. I went to two dress fittings with Kate, and both times ran into folks I knew. I got to have a wonderful dinner with Carey and Joanna - catching up, looking forward. I was welcomed back to my own dear church with open arms, giving real meaning to the work I do so many miles away in New York. And then, there were the bridal showers. I won't go into detail about them here, as I'll reserve that for The MoBster Diaries, but I cannot adequately express the complete sense of belonging that I felt at both parties.

I will say this. There is nothing as wonderful as a loud, laughing, loving group of Southern women. Lots of hugs and kisses and great stories made even better with mimosas, wine, and great food. Throw in bright colors and shower gifts, and you've got yourself an occasion for the ages.

My new world is friendly (yes, New Yorkers are pretty friendly) but anonymously so. I'm blessed with cheerful, mission-minded co-workers, and I meet truly wonderful people from all corners of the world on a regular basis. But sometimes that's just not enough. Sometimes a person needs familiar smells and tastes and most definitely faces and embraces.

So I can survive in my new world just fine, especially now that I've spent time in my old world, where everybody knows my name.

Heading home

I haven't been to Atlanta in over six months. I haven't seen my child in over six months. I haven't tasted real fried chicken in over six months. Tomorrow, I'm heading home for few days.

After a stressful spring and summer packed with conferences and responsibility-overload, I just want to go home. I need to be surrounded by family, old friends, and Southern accents. I need to laugh till I cry. I need to cry till I laugh. I need to sit in my pew at All Saints'. I need to be reminded of who I am and where I come from.

Family and friends have scheduled a couple of wedding showers for Kate over the weekend so that I can attend, since the window of my availability is pretty small. (Thanks, everybody.) Addressing wedding invitations is also on the agenda, as is seeing the newly-crafted wedding gown (we hope). Of course, there are lots of other little things to track down, and I'll be along to give my Mother of the Bride opinion. And I will make time to eat real Southern food (Weight Watchers will be on hold for a few days).

I love New York, but right now I need some South. That's why I'm heading home.

I just adore a penthouse view

I attended my first penthouse party on Saturday. A friend from my office hosted a farewell do for a colleague who recently retired. It was very cool to walk into the building on East 56th, show the doorman my invitation, and be told to press "PH" in the elevator. The apartment was small (there are 4 others on the penthouse floor), but the wrap-around balcony was marvelous.

It was a beautiful, low humidity day in NYC. To sit in a comfortable chair on a penthouse balcony and have gin and appetizers served to me was just a fine, fine way to spend a Saturday afternoon and evening. After we were suitably buzzed (did I mention the gin?), a lovely meal was served (there goes a million Weight Watchers points). There was a cool breeze and good conversation.

And don't think I didn't take the opportunity to scope out the goings-on in the surrounding rich folks' apartments. You get a really good view into those flats from a penthouse, I tell ya'. Ahh. I can't imagine living in such swell digs in the East 50's, though I certainly live in swell digs in East Harlem. Somehow, it ain't the same.

Now I know a little something about the other half and how it lives.

No, really. I've been busy.

OK, part busy, part slug. I'm way behind in my blogging since my England trip. I didn't post in England for two reasons. One, I was busy from early morn till late at night, meetin' and greetin' folks coming through the marketplace at Lambeth. And two, I was pouting because my laptop refused to talk to my photo disk, and you have to know that pictures come first on this blog. So, yeah, pouting.

Got back to the land of air-conditioning and cheap food last Friday evening. Never thought I'd think of NYC as "cheap," but 15 days in England made the city look like a veritable Dollar Discount Store (price-wise, I mean). So, simma' down about inflation, Americans - inflation is paying over $3 for a regular little bottle of water or over $17 for a taxi ride from Canterbury West station up the hill (not a big hill) to the University of Kent. The only thing cheaper in the UK is over-the-counter drugs, so stock up when you go.

Highlights of the trip? Here ya' go:

Dinner with the Mo' Mo' Moores. I've already posted about my grand evening with Jo, Chris, David, and Thomas. The meal was wonderful, but the best part was relaxing with "family." We had lots of laughs and proved that blog-friends are real friends, not just virtual ones. I did neglect to mention the beautiful pendant necklace Jo made for me. I got so many compliments on it throughout my time in England. Thanks again, Jo!

Candlelight Tour and Compline at Canterbury Cathedral. Got in on the first-come-first-served opportunity (limited to 50) for a tour of cathedral and candlelight service. We were divided into two groups for the tour, where we saw all the highlights, including the undercroft. We came back together, were given our candles, and proceeded to the altar area for Compline. When time came for the prayers, we walked up to the normally roped-off shrine of the martyr, and encircled it for the prayers and dismissal. It was an over-powering, goosebumpy experience.

Dover. I had Sunday the 27th off, so I took the train down to Dover. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and I latched on to one of the harbor tours for a spectacular view of the White Cliffs and castle. After lunch and a cold cider, I schlepped up a very big hill to Dover Castle and St. Mary de Castro. More spectacular views. I explored the castle, with its secret underground tunnels used strategically during World War II, and St. Mary de Castro and the Roman lighthouse. Dover's castle and harbor did not disappoint - a great day out.

I'd better get back to this stack of work on my desk. Glad to be home.

Three Tired Women

Big conferences are tiring. Days start early and end late. You have to be (or appear to be) knowledgeable, friendly, and interested for 10-14 hours a day. You do a lot of sitting (if you're a workshop participant), standing (if you staff an exhibit hall booth), and walking (because whatever you need - food, ATM, sleep - will be miles away from wherever you are at the moment).

Then there are all the little unexpected surprises. Temperatures reaching the upper 80s with 70% humidity in a country that eschews air-conditioning. A computer that refuses to acknowledge your heretofore-acknowledged photo disk (aaargh!). Being consigned to two weeks' of cold breakfast because your particular lanyard is the wrong color (white, not purple or red).

Welcome to Lambeth Conference 2008.

But not all of the unexpected surprises are bad ones. The best kind are the impromptu conversations that crop up throughout the day. Some of the conversations are bridge-builders, allowing the people at either end of the bridge to at least meet in the middle. Some are laden with "isn't it a small world?" and the wonders of six degrees of separation. And some start out very ordinary and grow into conversations of amazing possibilities.

The other evening after a long day in the exhibit hall, friend Elizabeth and I met up with another friend, Hellen Wangusa, on our way back to our dorm. Hellen is the Anglican Observer at the United Nations and based in our offices in New York. We were three tired women, I tell ya', as this kind of conference wrings it out of a person. The main topic of conversation as we made our way to the dorm was where to eat dinner - go down to Canterbury or endure one more University of Kent meal. Hellen decided not to join us in Canterbury but opted to come to our rooms while we unloaded our laptops and put on comfortable shoes.

We didn't intend to get into deep conversation about anything. We were tired. We were hungry. But at some point our brains woke up and big things started happening. It started off with a mention that many voices weren't being heard during the Lambeth program time, even the time for spouses. American women (well, fine, we were expecting to be marginalized) and developing world women were virtually left out of the program presentations. We were particularly concerned that our sisters from remote areas of South India, Myanmar, Kenya, and many other areas didn't have a forum for their compelling stories. It was obvious to all of us that those stories weren't going to push through at this Lambeth Conference. How could that change in the future?

Hellen sat on my bed, while Elizabeth and I drew chairs closer into a tighter circle as the conversation progressed. Could Hellen's office not find a way to pull together all the powerful women's groups and networks across the Anglican Communion (and there are many) to make sure these incredible stories of triumph and need and despair and hope rise above the silly din of political posturing? Believe it or not, no such umbrella task force exists. These groups seem to work at cross-purposes most of the time, accomplishing not much of anything except baby-steps to affect change.

I loved Hellen's story about her daughter's explanation of music re-mix. "Mom, it's like your old familiar music in the background, while our new interpretation is layered on the top, giving the old song new life." In other words, we have the comfortable/familiar given a new spark.

Well, "re-mix" became our watchword. How could we re-mix, re-imagine a new way to work together? The old familiar, with the new/young/fresh? Specific goals and ways to reach them came out of nowhere (i.e., three tired women). Names of traditional stakeholders and fresh faces began to emerge from the three of us. Plans were made for Hellen's office to pull these women together to begin the conversation. We surprised ourselves with what we came up with in this moment at the end of a long day. We held hands, said a prayer, and were re-energized.

Such an ordinary slice of time - three tired women, a little conversation to pass the time. But that moment was ripe for big ideas to pop. Ideas that just might make a difference if we follow through and bring in more (and less tired!) minds. Just a little conversation.

Just three tired women.

. . . until . . .

Here's something you may not know: the 11:43pm/23:43 train from Weybridge to Waterloo stops at almost every station between the two, even Vauxhall, and I don't think I've ever stopped at Vauxhall. (It's spittin' distance to Waterloo - what's the point?) So when the HRH Slow Boat To China pulled into the station at around 12:25am/00:25 after my fine visit with the Moore family, I made my way to the good old Bakerloo line for the straight shot to Paddington.

Imagine my chagrin (and that of other Bakerloo-wannabees) when I found the gate to the platform closed. En masse weary travelers ran to the Northern Line as the last train was about to leave. Whew! sez I to meself! Made it!

Ah, but my relief was short-lived. My Plan B was to hop off at Tottenham Court Road, then catch the Central Line to Lancaster Gate where I was staying. Plan B didn't work. Ours was the last train into/out of the station, and all were unceremoniously shoo-ed out the door and onto the street as the station gates slammed behind us.

Hmmm. Now what? It was a few minutes to 1am, and I'm on Tottenham Court Road trying to figure how to get back to my hotel. Cab, you suggest? On Friday night? Hardly. It was like Times Square after the theatre lets out - impossible. Bus, maybe? Sounds like a plan, but which way and to where?

I walked purposefully but aimlessly (can that be done?), going in the wrong direction for several blocks twice, eating up about 15 minutes. I asked a couple of people to point me in the right direction. One got me completely turned around (thus, wandering the wrong way for the second time). The second person did point me right, but suggested I get a cab or bus since I was so far away from my destination.

Again, I started walking, turned right when I got to Oxford Street and headed south. Such a busy, happ'nin' street, I figured I could easily get a cab or find the right bus. No to both. Every so often I'd stop and spend a couple of minutes trying to hail a taxi, but they were all otherwise engaged. Oxford Street is quite the party-place in the wee-small-hours of the morning, I've found out. It was knocking on 1:30, my feet were aching, and I was close to worn out.

OK, I'll just cut to the chase. I ended up walking all the way back to my hotel, arriving a little after 2am. I was tired, but not really uncomfortably scared (I'm a Noo-Yawka') until I got to Marble Arch and Edgeware Road. Suddenly, all the people disappeared. Guess no one takes early-early morning walks in Hyde Park, so the walk from the Arch to Lancaster Gate was a lonely one. I was hyper-aware of everything, walking as fast as I could without breaking into an actual run for the last 15 minutes or so.

Completely my fault. I certainly knew way back in the 1970s when I was living there that the London tube closed down around 12:30am, but I suppose after 24/7 New York, it never entered my mind that the tube still closed early. Or that I wouldn't be able to get a cab (and no Mr. Big offered to pick me up). Or that I couldn't figure out which bus to get on. I'll know next time.

And by the time I got back to the hotel, I'd walk off that wonderful Chinese meal I'd shared with the Moores. Ah, me!

It was a wonderful evening . . .

Things have been hoppin' the past few days, what with working my way down to Canterbury and getting used to my duties here at the Lambeth Conference. Also, I'm a bit bummed that for some weird reason, I can't upload photos to my computer, so I'm having to put them on a friend's computer and email them to myself. Aaargh!

Anyway, let's catch up, shall we? When last I posted I was on my way down to Weybridge to have dinner with Joanne and Chris (and David and Thomas). The good news is that I made it, was graciously met at the train station by Chris, and escorted to her home for tea and talk before going for a lovely dinner at a Chinese restaurant.

The food was grand and the company grander. We never ran out of things to say, noting several times how this whole blogging thing had lead to relationships that would've never happened otherwise. Alas, Pete couldn't join us, and we just missed Chux (next time?). And we did our best to embarrass young Thomas (nearly succeeding several times, I suspect!), but he put on a good game-face and suffered through.

I rolled out of Weybridge station at 11:43pm (er, 23:43), and then the adventure started.

Stay tuned.

God bless Albert, Pan, and Micky D's

Well, I made it. Got to London last evening around 7:30, almost 45 minutes early, if you can believe it. Made my way to my hotel at Lancaster Gate. Tiny room, big price tag. Everything here is sooooo expensive. Or maybe everything in the US is soooooo cheap. Even given the exchange rate (lousy), things cost twice what they do in Little Old New York. I don't need to eat whilst I'm here, really. This will be great for my diet!

Rolled out of bed, had breakfast (included in said big price tag), then crossed Edgeware Road and spent the morning boppin' around Hyde Park. Walked straight through to the Albert Memorial and Albert Hall. Ahhh, poor old Vickie! She did miss that guy when he died, eh? And the Proms are happening at Albert Hall - wish I had time to take in one or two. Been there, done that, though. Still.

Sauntered by the Serpentine and Princess Diana Fountain, though it's hardly a fountain. Then found Peter Pan and some lovely flowers. Exciting morning, eh? Then I went back to my room and crashed for a couple of hours - the time difference finally taking its toll.

Always the bargain hunter, I refuse to pay 6 pounds 99 for the hotel's internet service, when good old McDonald's is around the corner and offers free wifi. Why, I'm sitting in the big MD's right now. A salad. And just the meat (and I use that term loosely) from the burger, I promise. Coke tastes like Pepsi - way too sweet, but maybe the caffeine will wake me up.

Big plans tonight, friends. A meet-up with the Moores (Jo and Chris) in Weybridge for dinner. We'll take lots of pictures and talk about all of you, I promise! Wish Pete (the other Moore), Chux, and Liz could join us. Well, maybe next time. I'm scheduled to come back to UK the first part of November.

OK. I've finished my meat and salad, which tells me it's time to end this blog. Tonight Weybridge. Tomorrow, Canterbury.

Travel Insomnia

I always have a hard time getting to sleep the night before a morning journey. I'm sure part of it is the fear of sleeping through the 4:30am alarm and missing a flight. That, and the weird things that go round and round in my head like "What am I forgetting?" or "Did I remember to put the black dress shoes in the (already zipped) suitcase?"

As of now, the larger bag is packed and sitting by the door, while the smaller one is waiting for the morning's last-minute items like the laptop and curling iron. I wanted to get the main suitcase finished early to make sure I could, indeed, stuff two weeks' worth of gear into a carry-on bag. British Airways allows two carry-ons, and thankfully, both of mine seem to comply with size and weight. I'm flying into Heathrow's notorious Terminal 5 and don't like the odds regarding lost luggage. So, yeah, I'm carrying my bags with me, thank you very much.

Anyway. Back to getting a little sleep tonight. I'm thinking a hot bath and a little G&T might lull me to Slumberland. After all, the alarm is set (for AM, not PM - I double-checked) and my bags are ready to go. All travel/hotel documents are in order. Yes, the passport's with the travel docs. I printed my boarding pass earlier today. But somehow, I'm not feeling sleepy. Probably won't until, oh, say, 3:30am. Aargh!

And now for that bath and gin. Hmmm. Did I remember to pack my underwear? . . .

Sunset from my window

If it looks this good from a dinky little apartment in Spanish Harlem, imagine what it must look like from a penthouse on Fifth Avenue!

Nah. Couldn't have been any prettier from a penthouse.