Two second place finishes this week.  I’m not a ‘not first’ kind of girl.  I’ll be sulking for days.

Tuesday was the Senile Bowl at the Hersham Day Centre.  Golly, it’s way nicer than ours in Weybridge.  There was no way in hell I was riding in the garish Elmbridge ‘CRAFT’ bus (Can’t remember a fucking thing; Oh, do I live here?)  Sanjay drove four of us and one of my team brought the other two. 

We were called ‘Weybridge WAGs’; I have no clue why.   I guess they were wives when Victoria was on the throne and now they’re cheap floozies for former soccer players on Medicare.  Yeah, right.

Being the Captain was a nightmare.  They couldn’t agree on which round to use our joker, and divided into two camps trading insults and arguing over every answer.  I had to write the answers down so it was like “Well, it’s absolutely not ‘Cutty Sark’.  Meg doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Or Win.  A lightbulb would go off and she’d go “Charles II”.  “Huh?” I would say.  “The question was ‘what is the second moon of Jupiter called’.  The king one was in the last round. We had to turn that one in already.” “Oh.  I just remembered.”

Fortunately, there were quite a few American questions, and I knew an embarrassing amount of trivia about Christmas.  It’s insidious how we get bombarded around your holidays with warm and fuzzy carols and folklore.  I haven’t heard ‘the Dreidle Song’ once on Smooth Radio yet. 

Note to readers:  Chanukiyot is at mine on December 21 promptly at 7:00 PM.  BEHP.  (Bring eight Chanukah presents…for me.)

Anyway we came second of seven teams.  Hersham won again, for the third year in a row.  Those guys looked awfully damned good for being practically dead.

I worked a shift at Sam on Thanksgiving Day, but I wasn’t being un-American.  I just figured I did enough turkeying with the Thanksgiving Dinner and my annual ‘serious’ blog.  If you’re keeping score, the ‘Boys won (shit!) and so did the Eagles.  I honestly didn’t know the Birds were playing.  I must be losing my touch.  Donovan got unbenched.

And while I’m at it, congrats to the Nittany Lions for winning the Big 10 Conference, with eleven wins and one loss.  Run for the Roses.

Thursday night, we were defending our title as Quiz Mavens at the Ashtree.  We were confident that we could make it two in a row.  Our name this week (chosen by Irish Lad): Wicked Bitch of the East (Coast).  I don’t know what it meant.

We started off strong, getting all ten names in the Picture Round and nine of the In the News.  We were comfortably ahead.

The Quiz Nazi always gives us the two Top Fives and then lets us have a break for a pee or a fag.

“Okay” she said, “Number 1:  Name the five oldest Ivy League Colleges in America.” 

The other teams all groaned and looked at me.

“And Number 2:  Name the sport each of these teams from Chicago plays- Bears, Bulls, Cubs, Black Hawks, and Fire.”

The other teams hissed and booed and glared at me.

“Thanks, Quiz Nazi” I yelled, “Pay ya later!”

Honestly, the blokes on the other teams all had hissy-fits.  And thirty five of them tried to get into the little cubicle with me in the Ladies Loo because I sometimes...yeah okay, often…talk to myself out loud.   Then they all trailed behind me to the garden for a fag.  Tee and Steve-o from Strange-o were laughing manically.

Jessie, from the Scooby Dos, asked, in general but looking at me, “What is it about fucking Americans?”; a deep and insightful comment.

“Gee, I don’t know” I agreed.  “I hate fucking Americans.  They’re so arrogant and self-important.” 

“Uh….Jeano” inquired Doug from the Scary Fairies, “But aren’t you…like…American?”

“God, no, Dougie” I explained (again).  “How many fucking times do I have to say ‘I’m Italian’?  Can’t you guys tell? Should I bring my passaporto next week to prove it?”

“So, do you know the answers, Jeano” asked Rob from Who Farted.

“You bet your British ass I do, Rob-o.  I’m feeling very stars and stripe-y tonight.  And it’s Thanksgiving.”

Although I messed up a bit on the Ivies-- I knew them all but I wasn’t sure which were the oldest—(of course I got University of Pennsylvania right).  After all, the development we lived in in Bala Cynwyd was called ‘College Park’ and all the roads were named after Ivy League Colleges.  We lived on ‘Cornell’ Road.

I knew all the sports teams in the Windy City; I love Da Bears and Da Cubbies and Da Bulls.  I am not especially keen on Da Blackhawks.  I even knew the Second City’s soccer team, Da Fire, named after Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, even though there’s no bloody reason to have a soccer team except so that Beckett has someone to kick the white ball to when he visits Chi-town with Battlestar Gallactica.

We got the anagram and the Connections Round easily and played it safe in the Wipe Out Round, a wise decision since we were wrong on a couple and would have…wiped out.  I knew that ‘George Bush’s poodle’ referred to Tony Blair, not Gordon Brown.  Tee and I got into a little ‘Rheims…Rouen’ tiff on that one.

It was looking like a lock until the General Knowledge Round.  We had none.  Zilch.  Nada.  Diddley-squat. Zippo.  We blew it, big time.  And there was only one American question.  We ended up tied with the Scoobys for first.

We lost in the tie-breaker.  No money, no free drinkies, no bragging rights.  As Cheese Boy always says “It’s only a fucking quiz.”  

A couple dates this weekend, the Quiz Nazi’s Birthday Do, and a Trunk Show with Pinkie, plus Synagogue for my serious side. 

It’s that time again… the one and only annual ‘serious’ blog.

I know its clichéd, and more than a little over-worked, but today is that day… Thanksgiving… the day when Americans are meant to reflect, to look back or look inward, take stock of their blessings, and give thanks to whomever they pledge allegiance to.  And eat a Turkey Ready-Meal.

Despite my Year of Living Religiously, my gratitude seems to be directed not at Yahweh or Jesus or any of the other designer deities zealots squabble about, but rather to the real, flesh and blood, (in some cases) family and friends who, fortuitously for me, play a major part in  ‘Jeano’s Strange World’.

I’ve done that quoting Kahlil Gibran thing to death, so this year I’m dedicating a song to each of you, something that evokes a special memory that we shared or makes me smile and think of you.  In many cases, it was hard choosing that ‘just perfect song’.

Don’t worry.  I won’t be singing them.

Since I see Dead People, (at least they keeping turning up at mine at 3:00 A.M. even when I haven’t been hitting the Zinfy),  it’s appropriate to begin with the No Longer Here With Us. 

Jerry.  I could go all Zen here and say that I’m living the life I was destined to live.  But I’m not.  I’m living a life I’m loving every minute of because of Jerry.  And for Jerry.  I experience every success and failure, revel in every happy moment and repent my mistakes twice as much, because I’m living for two.  Certainly the wherewithal to support my adventure was his legacy to me; but so too was his absolute conviction that I would rise to the occasion and build that new Jerry-less future to my own specifications.  It’s a work in progress, but I know he approves.  He was ‘My First, My Last, My Everything’. (Thanks for that song lyric, Barry White. So many memories; far too many choices.)

Ditto to Matthew.  In addition to Thanksgiving Day, today is his birthday.  Thirty years ago today, I gave birth in a crippling freak ice storm while a movie crew filmed Rocky 2 right outside my window at Pennsylvania Hospital.  Maybe that ‘Rocky’ thing was a portent of what was to come.  There are so many ‘what if’s’ or ‘what might have beens’.  But I wouldn’t ever want Matt to have not existed to negate the pain.  Nor will I ever stop mentioning him and recounting funny or bittersweet anecdotes about him.  His soul dwelt in the House of Tomorrow, but he enriched my life and my memories of his all too brief time with us are precious.  For my son:  John Cafferty’s ‘Tender Years’.

Grandpop.  Although he never turns up at 3:00 AM (he needs his sleep), I have to say “Grazie, Nonno, per essere Italiano.”  I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.  I meant in England, but, come to think of it, I wouldn’t be here here if he and grandmom didn’t have my mom.  Merda!  You know what I mean.  For Grandpop: Caruso’s ‘Funiculi, Funicula’.  He loved it and sang it to us when we were little.

Moving along to the Living…

Stuart.  Ah, what can I say about my extraordinary step-son?  He looks like Jerry, he sounds like Jerry – in fact, when he rings, my heart always stops for a beat because for a nanosecond I imagine it’s a really, really long distance call -  and he has so many of Jerry’s qualities, both good and really irritating.  I know that he loves me, and he encourages me and unselfishly kvells at my successes. Even if he did forbid me in no uncertain terms to become a Synagogue Warden in case I got blown up.  (A teal or cranberry fitch vest would be a most appropriate Chanukah present under the circumstances.)  He is a mensch and I am blessed to have him.  For Stuart: Cat Stevens’ ‘Father and Son’.

My cousins.  More living people (except for Rere, but she still counts in this category even if she’s dead) I am lucky to have such great relatives.  GerryP will always be my wise older cousin, and Joanne and Colonel Mickey among my favorites.  Blood Relative and License to Injure Slightly are my ‘go to’ cousins, too, but they should email more often.  I know, Margaret, I should call.  As far as the other sixty-two cousins, it’s just shared DNA.  For mia cucinas:  Bobby Rydell’s ‘Volare’.

Of course, I’m thankful for my friends…the true ones.  But I’m perversely grateful for the so-called friends who disappointed me or hurt me, like Toots.  They have taught me that I can rise unscathed above petty jealousies or judgmental presumptions and be comfortable with, and damned proud of who I am. For Toots: Roger Whittaker’s ‘The Last Farewell’.

Janet.  She’s my biggest cheerleader and thinks I’m wonderful.  And she tells me so often.  She’s a brilliant friend and one of the most erudite people I know.  For Janet: Judy Collins’ ‘Who Knows Where the Time Goes’.  Have I really known you and Abe that long?

Georgia.  How could I fail to mention that I was at Georgia and Ron’s in Cleveland last Thanksgiving when my Italian citizenship came through?  I’ll never forget that morning or that holiday when I was an honorary ‘Napoli’.  I will miss them (and non-stop football games) this year.  Although I love being here, a part of me wishes I was there, at least for the holiday.  For Georgia: Bobby Darren’s ‘Somewhere Beyond the Sea’.  That cruise must have been fate.

Pat.  What can I say about a friend who smuggles the necessities of American life, like Jews or Pepperidge Farm,  into the UK for me, and gives me all of her stuff that she doesn’t want anymore?  Even if she said about me: “Jeano is a genuinely nice person, once you get past that Philly attitude”.  Yeah, but… yeah, but…  I forgive you for being a New Yawker and a G-men fan.  I’ll give you ‘Philly Attitude’.   For the Mule-ess: Billy Joel’s ‘Only the Good Die Young’ because… you know why.  It’s about us.

Scary Fairy.  I would love her even if she sucked at Scrabble.  Nah.  Maybe not; she’s so sarcastic.  Maybe, but she’s a true friend.  She’s proven that, big time.  For Mary: Lee Anne Womack’s ‘I Hope You Dance’.  And I hope she does.

Karen. My ‘Jewish American Princess-in-Training’ is so embedded in my life I wonder how I managed the first forty-something years without her (it was only a tiny fib).  She cheers me up, listens to me kvetch, and goes along with almost every hare-brained scheme I come up with.  She cooks, she cleans, she irons.  We’re working on correcting that.  For BooBoo: Simon & Garfunkle’s ‘America’.  We really did ‘count the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike’, especially since we were meant to be on the Garden State Parkway at the time.

Pinkie.  I think we were ‘separated at birth or Nordstrom Rack’.  Our psychic bond is unbreakable.  We live to shop, (and shop some more), love Dick Francis and Agatha Christie, and have exactly the same sense of humor.  She gets even the subtlest funnies or digs in my blog.  She sends me cards out of the blue that are so amazingly apt. For Pinkie: Neil Diamond’s ‘Coming to America’.  JFK, no luggage, Pimm’s in a pitcher, pouring rain, and Neil; we smiled through our tears.

Lulu.  Darling, Lulu, I love you.  You make me crazy, but I can’t imagine you not being one of my best mates.  We’ve had so many adventures and I know there will be loads more.  The Sex Fairy and Queen might be hard to beat, though.  For Lulu:  Meat Loaf’s ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’.  Nobody sings it like us, drunk or sober.

Bagpipe Guy.  What incredible timing the man has!  An email extending a hand across the Pond (or, technically, for accuracy’s sake, across the River Wey) resulted in a rapprochement in our personal Border War just in time for being thankful .  I sure am happy to have Mike back in my life, for many reasons.  Relax.  I’m not going to elaborate.  For Mike: Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812 Overture’.  What?  You were expecting ‘Michael the Lover’?  That was my second choice.  Really.

Rabbi Jackie. Despite my tongue-in-cheek approach to religion (The Atheist’s Prayer: ‘Dear God, if there is one…’) my spiritual life is richer and more meaningful through her guidance and teaching.   For the Rebbe:  ‘Sabbath Prayer’ from Fiddler on the Roof.

The Blokes.  Oddly, it’s not really the ‘done thing’ in the States to have male friends… who are absolutely strictly ‘friends’.  I have so many here.  They coddle me and schlep me, tease me and kiss my JAP Tush, and bring me fags from places that start with an ‘A’. Just the way it should be.  Irish Lad, Oz Ed, Monkey Joe, Steve-o from Strange-o, Mike and Mike from Sam, Muffin Man, Jarvo, James and, last but certainly first, Cheese Boy.  For the Blokes: The Weather Girls’ ‘It’s Raining Men’.

I guess, in summation, I have to say ‘Well done, You All’ for encouraging me to be ‘Me’.  I’m where I want to be, with the people I care about most, doing what I want to do, firmly in charge of my life and not accountable to anybody.  To me:  The Pretenders’ ‘Brass in Pocket’.

Thank you all for being in my life.  Happy Turkey Day.  Go Team, Whoever’s Playing the Cowboys.   

Last Saturday night was a raucous pub and Normal in Egham.

Last night was a date.  Wandering through the Desert-Island Discs: A conversation with Tzvi Avni and Michael Wolpe, composers from the Jerusalem Academy of Music and Dance at NWSS, along with a performance of Avni’s ‘Summer Strings’ by the Yehudi Menuhin String Quartet.  After the performance, there was a posh champagne supper.  It was the final event in the Synagogue’s year long ‘Israel at Sixty’ celebration.

Polar opposite evenings.

Tsvi Avni is in the UK for the premier of his work ‘If This is a Man’ based on ‘Se questo e un uomo’, Primo Levi’s memoir of his incarceration in Auschwitz, which will be held in Queen Elizabeth Hall on November 30.  In the States, it was published as ‘Survival in Auschwitz’.  I’d not read any of Levi’s work before I came to Oy-veybridge; I’ve sampled a few from the NWSS Library now, although I’ve not tackled ‘If This is a Man’ yet.  Avni read from the memoir, in Italian (Levi wrote in our native language) and even with my miniscule grasp of my native tongue, the images evoked were heartbreaking. 

I would have loved to go to the London concert, but it’s been sold out for ages.

And speaking of my Italian roots, I had an electronic encounter with a goombah from Coli A Volturno, my home town.  BooBoo was at mine and we had the radio on in the background. I was creating a blog and Boo was meant to be doing her homework.  She was actually goofing off, reading me juicy tidbits of gossip from OK! Magazine.   One of my co-workers at Sam had introduced me to this station, which is the same format as Easy 101 at home. The DeeJay, or presenter as they say here, is called Paul Coia.

“Hey!  I was at school with a bunch of Coias” I told Boo.  “I wonder if he’s a relative.”  “Send him a text or an email” she suggested. 

So I did.  I emailed him.

About five minutes later, after a song, we hear the DeeJay say “I just got an email from Jean Cohen, who’s from Philadelphia in the States, and likes my show.  This is for you.”  He played ‘Philadelphia Freedom’.  I hate that stupid song.

Boo’s like “Wow!  You got mentioned on the radio!”  I’m like “Shit!  I hope nobody from Immigration’s tuned in.  I forgot to use my Italian name.”

I also got an email back from Paul saying that he’s from Scotland, but his family came from a little town near Naples called…you guessed it…Coli A Volturno.   We’re probably cousins or something.

We went to the Volly on Sunday night, something we haven’t done for ages.  Repo Man didn’t enjoy it, so we stopped going.  Gabby was chuffed to see me (naturally) and played ten songs in a row for me.  “Other people, besides Philly Girl, have tunes they’d like to hear” Cheese Boy whinged.  Sadly, the PSs were otherwise engaged (they weren’t there) so I’ve nothing to report on their attire.

When we got back to mine, we rang Scary Fairy so BooBoo could talk to her too.  It’s been a while.

When I got the phone away from Boo finally, I inquired “How ya doing?”

“Better than the Eagles” she quickly replied.  Har! Har! Har!  Thank you to everybody who emailed the details of the game yesterday.  I didn’t need a play-by-play.  Honestly.  The bloody score was depressing enough.

My ex-roomie then inquired “What’s new?  Dump any blokes this week?”

I believe she was taking the piss.  She loathes that expression.

“Nope” I told her.  “In fact, I’m storing them up for the winter.  I’ve got the Filthy Rich Jew, and two Peters on the hook now.  Oh, and Bagpipe Guy is back in my good graces… for the moment.”

Sadly, I have to report that Scary got a little raunchy about the two Peters.  This is a woman who was able to come up with twenty seven euphemisms for a penis in five minutes one Zinfy-fuelled evening, including the now classic ‘purple helmeted warrior of love’.

“I don’t think Brits use ‘Peter’” I said.  “BooBoo, does ‘Peter’ mean a putz in British?” 

Of course, a three way conversation on manly swords ensued.  Cheese Boy stared at the TV (it wasn’t on) and chugged four Fosters in a row.  I still vote for ‘Leroy’, but I am not, nor ever have, dated anyone of that persuasion.

Johnny is doing extraordinarily well after his heart transplant (and craving a lot of Chinese food)  I’m pleased to report.  Scary is heading to Manasquan for Turkey Day.  And it’s Scary’s birthday next week, on December 12. 

I did take the piss too, by enquiring when she’s going to put up the Christmas tree.  Start laughing, everybody.

Note to Scary:  Yo.  Give me Attytood about the Birds.  Back at youse. 

It’s going to be a busy week.  The Senile Quiz, a couple extra shifts at Sam,  dates with Peter #1 and Peter #2, and the Quiz Nazi’s Birthday Do.   

I will have lots to dish.

Last week, using Limp-o-man’s suggestion, we were the ‘Sad Bitches’ at the Quiz.  It didn’t bring us any luck.  This week, we were ‘Stylish Bitches Playing Bagpipes.’

We won…decisively.

You make the call.

The Boy was stuck in Doncaster or Darfur, or some place starting with an ‘D’, so it was on Irish Lad, Bald Rob and me.  Pinkie was on Nights.  We dragooned BooBoo, who hates the Quiz, into filling in until Lou arrived.

We were totally amazing…even if one of us got three American questions wrong.  Bloody hell! How many times do I have to say ‘Sorry!’?  I don’t know squat about Obama; sue me.

We got  both Top Fives and the Connections Round.  We got all ten answers in the Wipe Out Round, giving us a bonus 5 points, putting us six points ahead of Forgotten.

In the General Knowledge Round, our luck held.  We all knew really stupid stuff.  I did blow the American question in that round (I was obviously having an Italian night).  Tee, I’ll save you a text or phone call.

Note to Muffin Man:  Which American sports team is the most profitable from endorsements and logo merchandise?  I said ‘Dallas Cowboys’.  It was the ‘Damned Yankees’.  Go ahead.  Take the piss, Mike.  I still don’t believe the Quiz Nazi. (This is the new nickname I coined for Leyla; all she needs is the whip and jackboots.)

Nevertheless, we won by four points.   We all started texting everybody like crazy and hugging and kissing…everyone in the pub.

Speaking of the pub, it was a strange night.  Maybe it’s the full moon.  It’s definitely the Triangular Phase on Planet Strange-o.  Rob kept trying to get me drunk.  I have no idea why.

 “Tee” I whinged, “Make him stop.  What’s up with him tonight?”  The Irish Lad just laughed and came up with a few colorful scenarios.

Meanwhile, that bloke…you know who…was all over me.  He followed me into the garden.  He did enquire about what happened to Repo Man before he made his move.  I should have lied and said Limp-o was laid up after emergency prostate surgery.  I didn’t; I confessed that I dumped him.  So Steve asked me out.

Back at the table, I started telling Irish Lad the story.  “Ya know, I have lousy luck with ‘Steves’.  South Jersey Guy was a Steve, Doo Wop Guy was a Steve, British Commando Guy was a Steve.  Limp-o Man was Steve, too.  Even that wanker who took me to Casa Romana for dinner was a Steve.  Do I need another Steve in my life?”

“There you go” Terry crowed.  “Just start calling Rob ‘Steve-o from Strange-o’.  That should nip it in the bud.”  Irish Lad is so damned smart.

On Friday morning I hosted a Coffee Morning for 75 for the Hospice.  I’m starting to get on my own nerves being so altruistic and charity-minded. I need to buy a set of wings to go with my halo.  It wasn’t a big deal really.  They have these mornings every couple weeks so there’s a set format.  We got about sixty people.

I just corralled the helpers to set up and take down, and threatened people into doing ‘tables’, like the White Elephant Table, Book Table, Christmas Decorations Table, and, of course, Raffle Table.  I made the coffee; someone else served and cleaned up.  Come on, this is not a fairy tale.  I make fantastic coffee.  I don’t do washing up.

I was telling Pinkie about it during our daily natter and she said something profound.  (She usually says stuff like ‘You shoulda bought those burgundy boots, too.’)  She said “I’ve lived in Weybridge eleven years.  You’ve been here nine months and you know more people than me.  Practically everybody on the High Street says hello to you.”  I am special, aren’t I?

This coming week, on Tuesday, I’m captaining a quiz team…for the Senior Centre.  It’s an intra-Surrey competition of all the Day Care Centres being held at the Walton Senior Centre.

Sanjay, the Weybridge Centre Manager, told me that he heard I do a pub quiz every week and could I field a team from our clients.

Small Towns!  “Did you hear Jarvo’s in the States, I had Thai with Lulu, shagged Bagpipe Guy, and bought a stunning    mauve suede jacket, too?” I asked. 

“No problem, Sweetie” I told him.  “There must be six or seven people here who know we’re actually in England and it’s 2007.” 

I nixed all the deaf ones right off the bat.  I could see me screaming at the top of my lungs “No!  I’m not telling you to carry on.  Who starred in ‘Carry On, Henry’’’?

I asked them a few questions.  “Who’s the president of the United States, Nigel?”  “Um…Woodrow Wilson?”  “Okay, Nigel’s on the team.  I hope they ask a lot of questions about World War 1.”  “What about that lady who’s always nattering about the London Blitz” suggested the Carer helping me interview.  “Good idea” I agreed, “We need someone who knows sports.”

You can be sure you’ll get a full report.

My nether regions have been the site of intense speculation this week.  In a Gallup poll, ninety-six percent of responders thought it was just the right size.

BooBoo was a little worried.  “Are you going to Shul on Saturday” she asked.  “Yeah, I suppose so, unless I go out with Monkey Joe again on Friday night, in which case I probably won’t be conscious until Sunday.  Why?”

“Well the Jews all read your blog now.  Everybody there will be talking about your Down There” Boo suggested.

“Honestly, Boo!  It’s called a knish.  Stop calling it Down There, unless you’re inferring it’s as big as bloody Australia”

“Jeano, that’s Down Under, not Down There” she corrected.  Whatever.

Besides, fussy Israeli Guy gave it a satisfactory grade.  Hopefully he was using the Pass/Fail rating method and not the letter kind; I would hate having to obsess over if I’m  a C-  rather than  a B+ or so on.  In fact, I can’t believe the goddamned subject ever reared its head.  Perhaps if someone, and something else, had been able to raise its head, I could just happily carry on nattering about my clothes and my social calendar as usual.

 Amazingly, Bagpipe Guy, formerly known as Dickweed Formerly Known as Bagpipe Guy, (did you all get that?) was moved to comment publicly in the blog on my Australia.  Along with some deliciously mean comments on Repo Man, he publically proclaimed ‘Speaking as the Man Who Knows, the JAP is in fine fettle in that department…’

Yeah, okay, he obviously wants to get shagged.  By me.  So he needs to say nice stuff.  But that’s the point!  If my Southern Hemisphere was as vast as Australia, would he be panting for it?  I don’t think so…

While I’m on the subject of Australia—it’s absolutely fascinating how my mind works – it was Oz Ed’s 50^th Birthday on Tuesday.  I got a text from Claire saying that Jarvo told Ed that I was having Thai with Lulu on Monday at the Grotto and would we like to join them for dinner.  Small towns; I love them.  You can’t fart on the High Street; they know all about it on The Queens Road in 3.2 seconds.

“Jarvo’s in the States” I said.  “I know” Claire said, “He was at Heathrow waiting to board when Ed spoke to him.”  See what I mean?

When Lulu got to mine, eerily almost on time, I told her “Jarvo told Oz Ed we’re eating at the Grotto tonight.  Claire and Ed are joining us.  It’s Ed’s birthday.”

“Jarvo’s in the States” Lulu said.  I had a fleeting thought that I hoped Jarvo wasn’t pulling an Irish Lad and went to the States when he was really meant to be in Sao Paulo or Stockholm or some other place starting with an ‘S’.  Especially since all of bloody Weybridge is talking about ‘Jarvo’s in the States’.

It was sort of last minute, but I went through my greeting card inventory.  I came up with one birthday card, with a cute puppy on it.  Ed is not a ‘cute puppy’ kind of bloke.  Inside, I wrote “Sorry about this card; my other choice was ‘Mazel Tov on Your Bar Mitzvah’”.  (Thank you, Pinkie!)  At least Ed laughed.

Dinner was lovely, and Ed spontaneously decided to have a barbecue on Boxing Day, much to Claire’s surprise.  Bring on the Killer Hamburgers and Marinated Lamb! 

Note to British readers:  You’re all invited.  You heard it here.

Note to American readers:  If you want to hop across the pond for Boxing Day, I’m sure Bagpipe Guy would love to pick you up at Heathrow.

I was pretty wiped out on Saturday.  I spent the day in my jammies fielding congratulatory calls and texts for my brilliant success on Friday night.  I might be, I think, a little hard to put up with for a few weeks…until the glow fades.

And I tried on clothes, deciding what to wear on Saturday night.  Hey.  That can take up a whole day sometimes.

The usual suspects and I were ‘Normalizing’ on Saturday night.  This means we were ‘Deadheading’, only instead of following the Grateful Dead to gigs, we were traveling all the way to darkest Egham to see Normal play at the Red Lion pub.

Cheese Boy has an amicable relationship with his sat-nav and we completed the arduous journey without anyone or any electronic device having to scream and curse.

The Boy is Normal’s official photographer so we get seats right next to the band.  I hope some day to be able to hear again. 

Of course, we all missed their last gig in Surrey; Walton Bridge was closed and we couldn’t get out of Weybridge.  Yes, that was a funny.  Ha ha ha!  We were at the Quiz in Aid of Sam Beare that evening.

Normal was, as always, brilliant, doing two very long sets.  I have to confess that I prefer their versions of covers to their original material.  Maybe it’s just better if you know the songs and can sing along; except when somebody got them to do ‘Sweet Home You Know Where’ for me.  God, I hate that bloody song.

During the interval between sets I told the lead singer how great they are.  “Wow” he said really chuffed, “Did you come all the way from where you sound like you came from just to hear us?”

“Yes” I told him straight faced.  “I came all the way from Weybridge.”

And I picked up a bloke.  Relax, I didn’t keep him, even though he might have been a keeper.  Most Twilight Zone-y, he looked an awful lot like Muffin Man.

During the interval, we were standing by the service area of the bar, and it was a madhouse, with people trying to order drinks.  This guy was behind me and couldn’t get the bartender’s attention.

“What do you want” I asked him.  “I’ll order it, but I’m not paying.”

“Fosters” he replied, and then as the penny dropped, “East Coast!  Mid-Atlantic!  Philly or South Jersey?”

“Philly” I yelled (it was very noisy).  “New England?  Connecticut, maybe?”

He finally got his Fosters and we went out into the garden to have a ciggie and chat.  Todd lives in Arizona, but he’s from Danbury, Connecticut.  He was in the UK on business and came with a group of people to the pub just to hear Normal.  One of his co-workers knows the bass player.

We had a delightful conversation.  We talked about the Phillies winning the World Series...World Series…World Series.  We talked about the Eagles; okay, there’s isn’t a helluva lot positive to say on that topic.  We talked about the suddenly hot Sixers; he’s a hoops fan, I’m not.  We talked about Penn State and the BCS; they don’t get any respect.  An invitation to the Rose Bowl will be so anti-climatic.  And we talked about cheese steaks… and hoagies.  In other words, it was a fascinating dialogue on interesting subjects that did not include the Primeship nor Rooster and whatshisname…Beckett.

After Normal brought the pub down (almost literally; everyone jumped up and down at the appropriate lyrics) with ‘500 Miles’, Todd came over to say goodbye.  “When are you back in Philly?” he asked, giving me a huge snog.  “I get to Philly occasionally.”

“I live here” I told him regretfully, thinking “gee…he likes proper sports and he’s probably circumcised and everything.”

We exchanged phone numbers, but I’m sure it will end up as just another random encounter in a pub.

Now that the (hugely successful) Thanksgiving Feast is over, hopefully I will have some free time to concentrate on other, important stuff…like getting organized to move.

Peter, my landlord, rang to discuss the kitchen renovations with me the other day.  Not only is he installing a dishwasher, there’s going to be an oven and microwave, too, at eye level in a cabinet.  How cool is that?  I thought ovens came already inside the middle of the cooker.  He wanted to know if I preferred gas or electric. As long as it magically gets hot enough to heat a ready meal at 190 degrees, who cares? 

I’m going to go shopping with him to pick out the paint colour and the tile.  I’m looking forward to that.

What I’m not looking forward to is dealing with the idiots at British Telecom and Sky about my telephone, cable TV and wireless.  I hope two months notice is enough for them to get their shit together. The simplest things are insurmountable obstacles here.

And Chanukah will be here before we know it; it starts on December 21.  And Christmas.  And Marina arrives on Boxing Day.  December is already filling up with ‘can’t miss’ Dos.

I had to postpone a second date with Irish Guy and eschew a few coffee date interviews because I was just too busy to squeeze them in.  Maybe I’ll just postpone finding a Replacement Guy until I’m cozily settled back in Rede Court.  Maybe not.

The prize at the Quiz Thursday night was a 100 pound bar tab.  My teammates really wanted to win that.  “Could I have my share in cash” I inquired.  “I saw this jacket at White Stuff…”   “Shut up, Jeano” they all told me.  They’re so rude to me.

As recommended by the late, unlamented Limpwood Guy, we called our selves ‘Sad Bitches’.  We thought it was a hoot.  When Leyla came around registering the teams, she commented “’Sad Bitches?’ That’s a strange one.”  Pinkie hastened to explain the derivation (I’ve shared some of Limpy’s most outrageous and childishly spiteful comments about me with practically everybody* in the free world) and, of course, all the other teams took the piss all bloody night.  “Did you get the anagram, you lot of Sad Bitches?”  “You look sad.  Did you not get the Connection Round?  It’s Diana Ross.”  “There’s an awful lot of laughing going on at your table for being Sad, you gits. I expect you’re not as Sad as you’re meant to be.”

We didn’t win, but we came in in the top three, a very presentable finish, especially since there were more teams than usual given the prize on offer.

It’s not even Thanksgiving yet (except in Weybridge), and my calendar is chock-a-block with invitations to Christmas Dos.  Most exciting is a Do at the American Embassy on December 6, a cocktail party.  Amazingly, I’ve never been to the Embassy, at least in London.  (I’ve been to the one in Paris; one of my stupid tour clients got robbed in Paris, and even though we told them to absolutely not carry their passports around sightseeing…)

I discussed the situation with the organizers; should I be Italian or American that night?  We agreed that it would be better to be American, since the Do is only for Americans (and their guests), and that it's totally cool to be a Jewish American Princess.   What am I going to wear?  At least I have a couple of weeks to find something that screams “I’m Absolutely An American (Sometimes) and Absolutely Fabulous All of the Time!’.

* Note to Readers:  Don’t read this part if you’re sexually repressed or have delicate sensibilities.

One of the more flaccid comments was that I was too big down there.  Hmm.  Can one really wear it out?  Do I have to buy a new one?  I might have to stop buying divine clothes for a while.  I pondered the matter. I could ask Bagpipe Guy; he never had any complaints or equipment failures.  Then I had an inspiration; I pushed hold and rang Israeli Guy.  He was chuffed to hear from me, even though it was 3:30 in the morning in New York.  That bloody computer changed the time again.  “Sweetie” I began and then asked the question.  “Ya know, Moshe, you complained about everything.  My earrings scratched you, my diamond necklace got tangled in your chest hair, my very expensive White Linen skin cream made you sneeze, you wanted me to get a Brazilian; but you never complained about that.” 

“It was average” Israeli Guy assured me (Israelis are not famous for being effusive flatterers; particularly when geographically there’s not a chance in Hell of getting any), “And the sex was fine.  Wasn’t it?”  “Yeah.  That’s what I thought” I reassured him. “The sex was pretty good.  I just thought I’d ask because if anybody would know—not to mention kvetch about it – it would be you, Sweetie.  The only thing we didn’t argue about was the sex.” 

“He sounds like a Putz” Moshe laughed, actually breaking down and speaking Yiddish for a change.  (I always knew he could.)  “Exactly!” I said, “The Putz; therein laid the problem.”  Wow, I wasn’t even trying for metaphysical or allegorical or one of those clever thingies; it just came up.

*Readers with Victorian hangups can resume reading here.

Friday night was the Thanksgiving Feast.  On Thursday, I woke up and decided heading to Heathrow and boarding any flight out of Dodge City was an excellent idea.  Pinkie and BooBoo talked me out of it.

I carried on cajoling my cooks and extorting raffle prizes from shops and other contacts, feeling like I was heading right for a head-on with a tractor trailer on the Schuylkill Expressway.   Sorry; a collision on the M25 with an articulated lorry.

It was brilliant.  We ended up with 97 people attending.  Between ticket sales and the raffle, we raised over 1500 pounds.  That is a truly amazing figure for a local fund-raising event.

The hall looked so pretty with the tables set with the Thanksgiving tablecloths and napkins Pinkie schlepped here from Garden State Land after her hols.  We got little pumpkins for the tables, to put the table numbers on, and created a beautiful menu for each table describing what the various dishes were, and explaining the origin of the holiday.  BooBoo ‘borrowed’ the menu holders at the Ash Tree for the evening.  (I can picture Alex, the publican, going “But who would steal menu holders?”

My table, with my special guests, had a huge American flag on it. (As a surprise for me.)

Not that there weren’t hiccups.  The ovens weren’t that great, and heating up the food and getting it out to the buffet tables was a bit of a nightmare.  I had assumed there’d be a microwave, but there wasn’t.  And clearing up wasn’t my favorite part of the evening.  People tended to sit around nattering after the Pumpkin Pie instead of politely going home.  But nothing untoward happened and I will be completely prepared when the Second Annual Thanksgiving Feast rolls around.

My head is quite too heavy to hold up; it’s completed swelled from the endless (well-deserved) compliments I received.  Trust me; having oodles of people making a huge fuss over one is extremely pleasant.  (The Queen told me that; I didn’t believe her, but she’s right.)  Don’t worry.  Cheese Boy and Pinkie both took pictures.  I’ll be posting them in the next few days.

And lastly, a disclaimer: 

The opinions expressed in this blog are the writer’s.  That’s why it’s 'Jeano’s World'.  She isn’t remotely interested in what a certain quaggy bloke says, and expresses quite badly, to futilely try to retaliate.  Comments that matter reach the writer just fine.

This was a rather bittersweet week.  It always is.  It was Jerry’s, and Matthew’s, yartzeits.  So I lit candles and said Kaddish, and recited Psalm 91 for good measure, because the Rabbi said it was the tradition here.  I hope they were both pleased that I performed the appropriate acts.  I’m still plenty pissed at both of them.

And in my own custom of observances, I bought two stunning sweaters (one in memory of each of them).  Thanks to the stock market, the budget wouldn’t stretch to even one…small….Louis Vuitton this anniversary.

I had a date on Tuesday night.  We went for Thai Food at the Grotto.  Strangely, every date I’ve ever had that included eating at the Grotto didn’t lead anywhere great.  He’s nice; he’s Irish.  I guess if he rings again and we have another date I can call him Irish Guy-not-to-be-confused-with-Irish Lad.

The Thanksgiving Feast is this coming Friday.  We’re up to 75 people.  I emailed the Mule-ess in a bit of a panic on Tuesday, asking her to pop out to the Acme, buy a dozen boxes of Jiffy Corn Bread Mix and Fed-ex them over immediately for the corn pudding.

You have to picture this:  4:30 AM in Garden State Land;  Pat, ubiquitous fag and cup of Chock Full of Nuts coffee (the bitch) next to her, opens my email. 

Her reply :   Morning,  OK now lets get a few things straight here once and for all. You say that I don't call.....I don't write.....

Listen luv, the only bloody time i hear from you is when you want me to buy, bring, give or mule you something. And the only time you write things about me and my loved ones is when it involves dissing the Giants, Notre Dame, or New Yorkers. Well Notre Dame do suck, so I will give you that one.

Ok now that we are on a level playing field.

Before I head out to the A&P and then to the post office with your cornbread mix, have you tried Cobham Allsorts and Garson's Farm? Cobham Allsorts is on the Portsmouth Road across the street from Fired Earth and Garsons Farm is up in West End Esher. They both sell many USA products that nobody else does. Try giving them a shout if no one is around to chauffeur-- I mean drive you over to them.

As you can tell from the time that this email has been sent that it is 'stupid o'clock' and I don't have to run straight away to the supermarket, so find out if one of those places have it and let me know.

I am waiting for the sun to rise so I can go for my morning walk on the beach.

One other idea...........recipes.com. Do you have an oven?

Lots of love,

Providentially, I had loaned Lisa my Costco card on Monday, so she was willing to chauffeur—I mean drive—me to the two stores Pat mentioned.  I found the cornbread mix, and creamed corn, as well as other stuff that made me cream in my jeans. 

I rang the Mule-ess to report “I’m sitting here eating a jar of Jif Extra Crunchy peanut butter…with my finger.  Oh yeah, I got the cornbread mix, too.”

Lisa had picked up the pumpkin pie filling at Costco’s, so I’m pretty well set on the ‘American’ ingredients now.  The only problem left is the green beans.  We may have to use fresh (that means from the earth) ones, not frozen.

I spoke to the Muffin Man this week too.  Actually, I meant to ring the Mule-ess, but being me, I rang Mike by mistake.  Boy, did I pick the wrong week to call Mike by mistake.  “Jeano!  I was gonna call you!  Do you know what Sunday is?”

“The day after Saturday?” I asked.

“Ha ha!  Funny” he laughed.  “G-men & Eagles on Sunday!  What shall we bet?”

“Really?  This week?”  I pretended I hadn’t known.  “Too bad I won’t get to watch it.”

“I’ll text you with updates, and call after each quarter” he threatened…I mean promised.

Golly, I love my friends.

And speaking of people who no longer exist, wow!  Repo Man left some spiteful comments on my blog.  I’m not sure if anybody saw them, because I deleted them.  (I saved copies so I could read them to the girls for a giggle. They were, unintentionally, quite humorous and badly spelt.)  The blog is supposed to be about what I think, not him.  Does anybody care what he thinks…if he does?

Along with ‘Pick fruit!’, the newest catch phrase in Jeano-land  is ‘does my clitoris look big in this?’  Sorry.  I guess you had to be there.  But, trust me, it is funny.

Wow!  Did I get a ton of comments after the last blog.

Everybody is really chuffed about the Thanksgiving Dinner.

I’m just kidding, of course.  If you dish about the intimate details of your personal life in cyberspace, some people think it’s an open invitation to express their opinion.

Note to readers:  It’s not; unless you totally agree with me.

And Special Note to the Spelling Challenged Reader:  No.  I’m not a ‘mizrabel cant’.  I’m a JAP.  

In my weekly phone call to Exit 145 of the Garden State, Scary Fairy couldn’t resist taking the piss. 

“You promised not to dump this one” she whinged, “At least until I got there to play Scrabble.  Do you know how long it’s been since I played serious Scrabble?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I had a great shag” I countered petulantly.  Some people are so self-centered.

“Couldn’t you have stayed friends even if you dumped him?  For the Scrabble?” she asked pathetically.

“No way, Jose. When they’re dumped, they cease to exist.”

And BooBoo, my bestest friend in the world, suggested that when I move back to Rede Court and have a Garage Sale (I guess because: a) I’ll have a garage and b) she’s the one with all the tat to flog) that I should have a Dumpee’s Table where I sell all the stuff blokes have given me or left at my house.  That is actually not a bad idea.  I still have like ten of Israeli Guy’s CDs and movies, plus books from Bagpipe Guy, Repo Man’s mouse…  I am not a sentimental horder of mementos from wankers.

My girlfriends thought the blog was a scream; in fact Pinkie said it was one of my Top Ten Best Ever.  She liked the Snowstorm analogy a lot.

Janet, who is very astute and thinks I’m wonderful, wrote: “You have the most interesting love life.  It's a revolving door of what appears to be ineligible men--what gives?   You're prime stuff and are soooooo unappreciated.”  Yeah, that’s what I keep thinking.

Pinkie was on Long Days over the weekend so I had Sunday Roast with the Irish Lad and Bald Rob.  Rob teleported in from Strange-o and Terry cooked.  He peeled and chopped real vegetables that didn’t come from the freezer section at Acme (‘cause there aren’t any Acmes here) and roasted a joint.  In the interests of Kosherness, I will not divulge what kind of ‘joint’ it actually was.  We just referred to it as ‘The Sheepie’, as in “The Sheepie is ready” or ‘Tee Darling, The Sheepie and the pig crackling are absolutely delicious.”

Of course, my two (almost) white knights in shining armour on Thursday night took the piss endlessly on Sunday night regarding my love life.  They’d both read the blog too. Naturally, they both had funny and really unkind things to say about Repo Man.   I am getting used to alien personalities now; Strange-o is kind of like Vulcan, and I had a major pash for Mr. Spock. Rob is extremely intelligent and has a wicked sense of humor.

I have to say a heartfelt ‘Congratulations!’ to those awesome Phillies.  Phinally…after 28 years, they won the World Series…World Series…World Series.  When Game 5 was halted in the bottom of the Sixth, tied, due to a monsoon, I was afraid they’d lost their momentum.  When Game 5 resumed the next night—the Seventh Inning Stretch occurred five minutes into ‘Play Ball’; how funny was that?—the magic happened.  And at home.  There was minor looting, pillaging and rioting, but it was just Philly fan exuberance.  I enjoyed watching the Victory Parade on line although I kind of wished I’d been there.  (Yeah, that was a twinge of homesickness.)

Note to American Readers Who Are Required to Send Me Christmas Presents:  Anything proclaiming ‘Phillies’ and ‘World Series…World Series…World Series’ would go down a right treat for taking the piss.

I went to my first meeting of the Writers Group of the American Women of Surrey.  Maybe my last one.  In all honesty, I was awed and more than a little intimidated.  These women are published.  One has a contract for a series of childrens’ books, one is writing a book for pre-teens based on a real girl who lived in the 14^th Century.

And one woman, Meg Gardiner, has been called ‘the next suspense superstar’ by Stephen King!   He said she was as good as Michael Connolly and far better than Janet Evanovich.  I actually shared a sofa with someone Stephen King thinks about when he’s not busy creating haunted hotels and murderous cars.

Meg has a series of mysteries now published in the States.  I came home and looked them up on Barnes & Noble’s web site.

“And what have you written, Jeano?”  I just knew somebody would ask.

“Gee, I wrote a love story with an Evil Nazi and a beautiful American heroine in Tunisia…I wrote a Mills & Boon with lots of hot sex in Amsterdam…okay…nobody actually wants to read either of them.  I write a blog…my friends think it’s really funny.”  Hmm.  See what I mean?