It's About Time

I feel like November Mondays like this are rare.

When I woke up to find it was almost 70 degrees, all my intentions were forgotten.

Errands? Bah! Editorial? Not today. Anything inside? Not happening.

Given how late I got up and how early dusk arrives these days, I figured I had just under five hours to savor the bright blue sky and warm air.

I started out walking toward the river, soon passing a man who looked at my pink shorts and t-shirt and smiled, saying, "You're not going to be able to dress like that much longer."

Sir, I haven't been able to dress like this for weeks.

I followed Second Street to the new connector road and down toward Belle Isle, with crossing the pedestrian bridge the only chilly part of the walk because of the wind sweeping off the river.

A couple of loops around the island and a stroll through downtown and by the time I got back home I'd used up half the daylight left.

I squandered the rest planting pink, purple and white tulip bulbs in my garden and raking and sweeping my handkerchief-sized front yard only to watch more leaves fall as I did so.

Oh, well, this was not about results, just an excuse to be outside where everyone who passed by was smiling and commenting on the weather.

I sat on my balcony and started reading "Diary of a Mad Housewife" in the late afternoon sun.

But once it set, I knew the temperature was heading down into the '30s, a rude and unwelcome change from my day spent in shorts.

Now I was willing to go inside and a movie seemed like just the thing.

I ended up at "About Time," partly because I like British films (that dry humor) and partly because I like Bill Nighy (he can say more with a glance than most actors can say with full-on emoting) and partly because I'd seen the preview and I knew it was one of those films where you feel, rather than think.

And today was a feeling kind of a day.

I got there as the previews began but the projector was stuttering and before long a woman notified the projectionist of the problem.

They said it would take ten minutes to restart the projector, allowing me and the women in my row to talk about all the screwy problems we've experienced at the Bowtie.

One had a horror story of a woman who came in to a movie an hour into it, sat in the back row and proceeded to talk full-voice on her phone, at least until a guy walked up there and told her to knock it off.

I had a similar thing where a guy came in to a movie in progress, sat down in my row with a drink, candy and a large popcorn, consumer it all noisily in about 15 minutes and walked out, leaving his debris scattered around his seat.

My question is, and I put it to the women I was talking to, were these people raised by wolves?

Finally "About Time" began, telling the idyllic story of Tim's childhood being raised in Cornwall, where the family had tea on the beach everyday and family movie night on Fridays outside on the patio year-round.

But now Tim was 21 and moving to the big city to practice law.

The movie was a lot of things - a romance, a family story and even science fiction because it had time travel in it- but I especially enjoyed the parts of the movie set in London.

In one scene, Tim and a friend go to a trendy bar downstairs that is intentionally completely dark.

As in, customers are asked to put their hand on the host's shoulder and he leads them into the dark room where strangers have conversations with each other for hours, just like at a regular bar, except you can't see the person you are flirting with (or kissing) until you leave and go outside.

Then there's the language difference. Dresses are frocks and bangs are fringe.

And less reliance on tradition. The bride wears a red dress and she walks down the aisle to "Il Mondo" by Jimmy Fontana, described by one of the characters as "an Italian singer with what looks like a badger on his head."

Of course there was romance, too, and not just young Tim's, but also his parents, whose devotion and enjoyment of each other was impressive.

When they learn the husband has cancer, the wife says, "I am so uninterested in a life without your father."

Now there's a powerful statement.

The film had a lot to do with do-overs, opportunities to go back and make right what you screwed up in a relationship the first time, only in this case, Tim could time travel to do it.

Oh, if it were only that easy.

But it also concerned time and how we decide to use the time we have and appreciate the moments we're experiencing as they happen.

According to Tim's father, the secret formula for happiness was simple.

Live day by day. Live day by day but notice the good parts of each day. It's the simplicity of the little things that actually matter.

Like walking down to the river. Reading a book and talking about it to someone. Baking cookies at 10:00 at night. Wearing a frock and sporting fringe at the cinema. Feeling happy with what I have.

Shoot, I nailed this formula years ago.

Love is in the Air

I thought I was going to a 70s cult film today when I went to see Harold and Maude for the first time and instead saw a love story that had me welling up in places. Who knew?

Second only to the surprise of the romance was how much I enjoyed the Cat Stevens soundtrack. You have to understand that Cat Stevens is an artist I have detested since the very first time I heard him sing and that feeling has never wavered upon additional listenings insisted upon by fanatics. I loved everything about the music I heard today. What gives?

Apparently in 1971, girls majored in poli-sci and minored in home-ec ("So I have something to fall back on") and nurses still wore nursing caps. A smiling picture of Nixon hung in a military office and a somber picture of Freud in a psychiatrist's.

To find him a bride, Harold's mother contacted The National Computer Dating Service, which must have sounded very clinical and futuristic at the time. Maude blamed her reckless driving on the new-fangled power steering. VW bugs were everywhere.

Age discrepancy aside, the movie was one of the sweetest romances I've ever seen; her optimism and joie de vivre were so attractive that it wasn't hard to see how her age became a non-issue to him.

There are so many ways to convey two people falling for each other on screen, but the ones used in this film were wonderfully offbeat. Smoking a hookah, waltzing to Strauss, having a picnic at a demolition site all conveyed the increasing pleasure they were taking in each other's company.

And, yes, it's almost Valentine's Day and it's been almost three years since I had a Valentine, so maybe I'm just ripe for a good romance. Or maybe it's that now that I'm dating, it's tempting to hope that something along those romantic lines is opening up for me.

And for the record, I can only hope that someone wants me to model nude for them when I'm 79, like Maude did. Because, you know, I will.

Snap Out of It!

When I became suddenly single eight months ago, a female friend and local legend kindly took it upon herself to tell me exactly what I was now up against. "Dating sucks," she warned me. "It's awful out there. I've given up." I didn't doubt she was right because she'd been back on the market for a while at that point and knew the score and I didn't, having been absent from it for 6+ years.

Of course, while she was not trying, a great guy found her and she's now happily, if a tad warily, dating him, appreciating how much he appreciates her and enjoying it all. I am thrilled for her because she deserves it and because it gives me hope that I'll have a similar experience eventually. I'm the serial monogamist type, so not much for whole the dating scene.

I started thinking about all this because I went to see "Moonstruck" at the Bowtie today, a movie I hadn't seen since it opened in theaters in 1987. The plot about a woman close to settling for a man she didn't love instead of waiting for the right one was full of romantic hopefulness, for which I'm a sucker these days. But it was a speech by the Nicolas Cage character that really (moon) struck me:

"Love don't make things nice. It ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess...We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and to love the wrong people and die. The storybooks are bullshit. Now I want you to come upstairs with me and get in my bed."

I'm not sure whether playwright John Patrick Shanley intended those words to encourage or discourage those still seeking true love. I can see taking them either way, but, for now, I'm going to allow myself to feel like anything is possible and I'm most likely to get lucky when I give up completely. My friend is proof of that.

He Used to be Sad, Now He's Just Bored with Her

My friend Holmes got dumped because he wasn't as romantic as Noah in "The Notebook."

Apparently the woman actually said that to him.

I'd like to say I know what Noah was like except I've never read or seen "The Notebook."

And it wasn't like she'd told him ahead of time that she wanted him to be romantic like Noah, and since he hadn't read or seen it either, he didn't exactly know that he was supposed to measure up to Noah.

Fortunately, he's smart enough to be glad to be rid of a nutcase like that, but it got me thinking.

Since everyone defines romance differently, what are the chances that when two people start out together they'll instinctively know what kind of romance to bring to the table?

And, realistically, how many people state their romantic preferences right up front?

I don't want to come off like a downer here, but, looking forward, how likely is it that I'll meet someone who can figure out how to romance me right?

Holmes thought he was doing just fine until that woman brought him up short.

Tonight was devoted to hearing Holmes' tale of woe; we began the process at my place with old music and a bottle of Famille Peillot 2007 Bugey Pinot Noir (hence the need for the decanter, per wine whiz Julia) so Holmes could share all the gory details.

Holmes loved my wine choice: lots of red fruit, medium-bodied and earthy.

After that we moved on to First Fridays since Holmes had never partaken of the art extravaganza, augmented this month with 2 Street Festival goings-on.

Seriously, Art6 is only allowed to have 20 people in its 2,000 square foot space at a time? Hell, yes, I'll sign your petition.

We concluded at Avalon (which I hadn't been to since June on an ill-fated date; the guy was disappointing, but the food was quite good) with an extended meal of mussels, scallops, rosemary and Parmesan grits, roasted corn, filet mignon and Pinot Gris.

Holmes shared all the little details leading up to The End: the lies, the letter, the weirdness about smooching.

He's decided to put off dating for a while and just hang out with his female friends, since we don't expect any Noah-like behavior out of him.

He joked that he's definitely planning to watch "The Notebook," maybe even take notes in a black and white composition book.

I least I think he was joking.

Men...