Somebody on the Garden State actually had the nerve to say that the POF blogs are better than my regular ones.  Like…  stupid twats are more interesting than my clothes and my social life?

 

Never mind.  That couldn’t be.  Drum roll, please.  This week’s seekers of Jeano’s radiance.

 

Dreamweaver456 is 21 and lists his occupation as ‘thrillseeker’ and his sole hobbies & interests as ‘fun loving women’.  I didn’t realize not all women like ‘fun’.  I sure do.  Just put me in a Bloomies or a Century21 and I can have fun for hours.  Days.  Weeks.  His email was succinct: ‘gorgeous pic xxxx’  There are four bloody pictures on there and I’m dressed in all of them.  I swear.

 

‘Dear Dream – Tell me the truth.  When you saw my picture, did you unwittingly start reciting ‘one ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them’?  If not, then could ya email Olover@pof and tell him he’s a dickweed?  Thanks a whole bunch, Sweetie!’

 

Fitnessinst is a Dentist. Okay.  He’s a fitness instructor, but dentist sounded funnier.   He says: ‘Hi im a geniune guy looking to chat and then meet up and take it from there basically. I love goin away on holidays and also i love goin out whether its clubbing or for a meal and the pub.  I love reggae music and rnb. I love goin gym and i also like playing rugby which is my fav sport.’  And he promises the first date will be a ‘surprize’.  His email: ‘hi hun howz u’  Well, hell.  He spoiled the ‘surprize’.  I just assumed he was dumb; now I’m absolutely certain.

 

I know that I’m fussy and a bit of a snob, but SmallBoobsOnly left me speechless.  ‘A lawyer living in NW London and working in the West End into boats,holidays,and slim women with small, waists, hips etc. (ideally size 6 8 or 10)  not alcholics or druggies. She must be intelligent, tactile, affectionate and with a touch of class willing, if necessary, to travel to London.  I am looking for somebody with whom I can share good humoured conversation, debate, culture, a glass or two of good wine, laughs and new challenges and adventures and experiences. Somebody who is fun, opinionated, generous of heart, caring and loving, confident, interacts and communicates, but lets her guard down now and then and will truly bond with passion and love to create a partnership that will last for ever. She needs to be sexy, attractive and wear great clothes.’   His email: ‘I think we could connect on many different levels’.

 

Golly.  This is tough.  Okay.  ‘Sexy’.  Check.  ‘Attractive’. Check.  ‘Wear great clothes’.  I have so nailed this one!  MegaCheck.  My boobs are small.  Many… some… a few of my clothes are size 10.  Whew!  I was worried.

 

My email:  ‘Sorry but only a Jewish Dermatologist called Dr. Wolf Saperstein can get away with requirements like yours. And only if the rock is at least 10 carats.’

 

Igniton1979 (do you suppose he meant ‘ignition’ but didn’t know how to spell it?)  had a pretty boring profile but for the first date he thought we should meet ‘some place where we could be ‘ourselfs’.  He wants to meet on the third floor at Bloomingdales?  Okay.  If you’re sure.  And his gem: : ‘wow and wow again ,you are livinmg proof that britian has got talent’

 

Oh come on.  I had to.  ‘Maybe it does, but I wouldn’t know.  I’m an Italian citizen.”

 

Francis988 is 26.  His interests are going out with his mates, football and the gym.   And his profile: ‘looking for a bit of fun, meet up see what happens have a laugh, make friends. Interests including going out with mates drinking, training at the gym, footy and usual stuff.’  In case you didn’t understand it the first time.  Oh!  Do you like football, the gym and going out with your mates?  I never even consider a man who doesn’t absolutely live for those.  And for the first date: ‘see what happens’   Yeah; that works for me.  How about ‘not showing up?’   His missive: ‘hope you're having a good weekend so far - what are your plans for today? im in basingstoke so not far!  danny x

 

‘Actually it is….light years away.

 

 Let’s see… My plans today:  (1) training at the gym; (2) footy (I’m doing the entire Tottenham Spurs team today including the water boys); (3) hanging at the pub drinking with my mates.  Just an ordinary boring Sunday for me, I’m afraid. 

 

1sexi1 says among the other inane comments in his profile that ‘im whitty’   He says his interests are sports, socializing and women.  Is it just me, or do you see a pattern here?  Of course, when he reaches the ripe old age of 22, perhaps he’ll expand those interests to include world hunger, global warming and hip hop music.  He cautions female POF-ers  in his about me section: ‘If you view my profile.. Message me, don't be shy, or else I'll think you viewed me and didn't like, You don't want to upset me now , do you .. ? :P’   His email: ‘ur sexy xxx’   I didn’t think it was possible to ever get tired of hearing a man say that.  Take my word for it; I am.

 

Since 1sexi1 is so whitty, I’m sure he got a chuckle out of my clever, satirical reposte.  ‘I viewed your profile.  I didn’t like.  Sorry you’re now desperately upset.’

 

Laira1943 is 29.  He claims his interests are ‘all sorts’ which I believe is a candy.  He couldn’t come up with anything to put for a first date.  I guess he got brain overload writing his about me section:  ‘hello one and all just looking for good friends to chat to and maybe one day to hock up for a laugh and for a drink and maybe for the odd get together and some were or over sometime hope to talk soon’

Jesus Wept!  His email: ‘hi ya wow what can i say but what a wonderful woman you have lovely eyes and a lovely smile
i am peter 30 from hounslow in middlesex i am single and i am on herer looking for new friernds and maybe to find that special someone could it be you theres me wishing lol. i like most things in life i love my music and i love a good film. i like going out doing bowling, ice skating and yes im ok on skates as i have my own lol, i like going to the cinemas and the usual stuff i am quiet happy staying in and cooking a meal for my family or even taking my lady out for a meal at a local restrauant and a quiet drink.  i like to go for drives and walks in the country and i like going for walks in the woods and i would love to go for a walk by the seaside on a summers sunset with the lady i love in my arms.
not sure what else to say apart from if you fancy a chat then message me back here hope to hear from you soon all the best and take care
peter xxxx’

 

Um…Sweetie.  Did you get confused?  Don’t be embarrassed; it happens to us all.  And some more than others.  That part where it said ‘profile’?  That’s where you were supposed to put the long, rambling dissertation.  That little part that started ‘hello’ should have been the email.  Get it now?

 

My reply:  ‘Sweetie…Sweetie… Sweetie…  I seem to have gone off ‘Peters’ for the foreseeable future. 

 

I never say this….

 

Can I please, please, please rewrite your bloody profile?  And send you a few sample emails (25 crisp, concise, evocative words or less) to use in future?’

 

And the Turd of Camberley award winner this week is Duranz.  The good news is he’s a doctor (he didn’t say what kind).  The crappy news is he’s 28 and Indian.  A profile from a doctor: ‘well...i am just here to look for someone interesting. thatz about. I live and work in london. been pretty busy...the usual work week....and weekends..thatz abt it. just wanted to break all the monotony. anyway yup. love indie uk bands...thatz it.’  I swear on my Paulies and SmallBoobsOnly’s Ralph Lauren’s that I didn’t make that up. 

 

His email, though, was magic to my ears… eyes… parts of me.  ‘‘Shalom.  I matriculated at Johns Hopkins in Balty and did my internship and residency at Sloan-Kettering in the Big Apple whilst simultaneously revising for my Bar Mitzvah at Rodeph Zion Yeshiva.‘

 

Oh, for fuck’s sake!  Of course I made that up.  What he actually said was: ‘so ure a writer????’

 

I almost felt bad.  My reply:  ‘Yesz I am.  So ure a doctor??? r u shurez???”

 

 

The quiz at the Grotto on Sunday night was cancelled, due to an outbreak of Asshole-itis.  I know.  I said I wasn’t going to go anymore, and I really wasn’t.  But I had to collect money for The Walk from people there, Colin was supposed to be away golfing, and I was bored.  So when the Irish Lad rang, I let myself be coaxed into walking up Monument Hill.  With no Colin and no quiz, I ended up staying and having a couple of drinks in the garden with Tee (it is so bloody hot here at the moment, Giovanni might be making an appearance very soon).

 

It was a banner night for Chelsea Supporters and mosquitoes.  There is this bloke – I don’t know his name, I call him Filibuster Guy because he just never stops nattering on and on about nothing. He was there, pissed as shit and having a long conversation with an invisible mate.  Or perhaps Tee and me.   I know that I certainly wasn’t listening to him.  Nor was the Lad.  I finally said to Terry “Ya know, we could go to mine and sit in the garden there…and take turns pulling out each other’s teeth.  That’s got to be more fun than this.”

 

But it got even worse.  A really strange guy came out, sat next to me and then proceeded to climb all over me.  I got up and moved away, and he mumbled to Tee “Oh…sorry.  Am I interrupting you two love birds?  You’re a couple, yeah?”  Tee chuckled the patented maniacal pixie laugh when I answered “Yes, you’re interrupting us. And no, we’re not a couple.  His wife is really funny about stuff like that.”

 

And while this was going on, Cheese Boy kept texting me with strange messages.  The heat is affecting positively everybody.  ‘Turn on BBC3’ was the first cryptic message.  For a split second, I thought maybe another Jackson died and BBC3 was carrying it live.  The second one said ‘USA winning 2-0’.  I showed it to Tee, commenting “Well of course we’re winning.  Whatever it is.  We are the USofA after all.”  Tee just laughed and explained that it was one of those boring, bragging rights kind of soccer games and the US was playing one of those South American countries.  I have no idea how he knew that; we were on Monument Hill at the time.  They did have the game on at the pub, but I wasn’t interested in watching it.  I’d rather watch paint dry, frankly.  I believe that BRA beat the US, but don’t quote me on that.   

 

The Irish Lad is quite my most favorite person in the world right now.  He’s the Pixie!  He’s the Univac Brain!  He’s the Studly Irish Lad!  He’s the Main Man. The Geator with the Heater… the Boss with the Hot Sauce!  Okay.  I’ll stop now, but he’s also still got loads of credit for Amsterdam and cheap fags.

 

He’s the possessor of coveted tickets to see Cousin Lenny at Brooklands. And the one that says ‘relative’ has my name all over it.  I am so excited I could plotz.  (It must be that ‘Cohen’ thingy; I’m feeling very Jewish today.)  The concert’s on Saturday, July 11.  I’m counting the days.  And I’ve got to start thinking about what I’m going to wear.  It crossed my mind to wear that teeshirt from a few Pesachs ago, the one that says ‘Have Afikomen; Will Deal’.  Lenny would spot it, and me waving, and know instantly that I’m definitely a landsman and quite possibly a close relative.  But Tee scotched that plan by meanly reminding me that Cousin Lenny is a Rosacrutian or a Buddhist or something now, so maybe he doesn’t celebrate Pesach anymore.  I guess I’ll just have to buy a new outfit.

 

I’m working an extra shift at Sam this week, my regular volunteering gigs, the Quiz at the Ash Tree and I have two dates booked—one with James Bond Guy.  Oh.  And a dinner for Jeanette’s birthday, plus a visit to the Church of the Poisoned Mind.  That should be good for quite a few laughs (‘I see a cab driver in your past… what were you thinking?  Boy, is he pissed off at you!’)

 

And I have tons of stuff to get done for IS Guy (my new employer).  The accent thingy is going pretty well (Three episodes of ‘Cold Case’; seven of Law & Order: Criminal Intent’).  “Hi, this is Jean Cohen, American person calling.  You alright?  Oops, I mean how are you?  Blah Blah Blah Blah etc.  Have a nice day!”

 

Finally, another one of those chain emails thingys that people keep sending.  No.  It’s not a Michael Jackson one.  I didn’t even open any of those.  I thought this one was pretty funny.

 

Why Men Don't Write Advice Columns

Dear Simon,

I hope you can help me here. The other day, I set off for work leaving my husband in the house watching the TV as usual. I hadn't driven more than a mile down the road when the engine conked out and the car shuddered to a halt. I walked back home to get my husband's help. When I got home I couldn't believe my eyes. He was in our bedroom with the neighbour's daughter. I am 41, my husband is 44, and the neighbour's daughter is 22.

We have been married for ten years. When I confronted him, he broke down and admitted that they had been having an affair for the past six months. I told him to stop or I would leave him. He was let go from his job six months ago and he says he has been feeling increasingly depressed and worthless. I love him very much, but ever since I gave him the ultimatum he has become increasingly distant. He won't go to counselling and I'm afraid I can't get through to him anymore.


Can you please help?

Sincerely,
Sheila

******************************

Dear Sheila:

A car stalling after being driven a short distance can be caused by a variety of faults with the engine. Start by checking that there is no debris in the fuel line. If it is clear, check the vacuum pipes and hoses on the intake manifold and also check all grounding wires. If none of these approaches solves the problem, it could be that the fuel pump itself is faulty, causing low delivery pressure to the injectors.

I hope this helps,
Simon.

   

I’ve been too busy to blog, but I feel like I should start off with sincere condolences to Petitenessbuttheassfat, my admirer (probably ex-) from Plentyoffish.  (June 18 blog.)

 

‘Dear P – So distressed to hear that the King of Pop passed away.  And if MSNBC is to be believed, you’re not getting a refund for those tickets anytime soon.  I guess now you’re ‘a little bit cheeky, a little bit naughty, and a whole lot sad, instead of a little bit ‘bad’’.  This might be an opportune moment to rewrite that profile!  I might be able to help with that…  For only 10 quid, I can make you sound almost intelligent.  (You don’t want to intimidate* them.)    Of course, if you ever actually get to a face-to-face meet, you’re on your own, Sweetie.  I’m not a miracle worker.’

*intimidate means to ‘fill with fear’ or ‘awe’; shit.  You don’t want to scare them off before it inevitably happens.

 

This ‘real’ work stuff is certainly playing havoc with my social life.  I had to miss a couple things this week because of deadlines.  Fortunately, I do most of it at home, so I save an hour or two not frantically deciding what to wear while I’m toiling.  And the ‘American’ accent is progressing nicely, but for some reason it sounds more Midwestern than East Coast Intellectual Elite.  Who’s going to notice, anyway?

 

I went to a Sam ‘Do’, which was a luncheon at a posh golf club.  The theme was ‘Wimbledon’, which, in case you don’t know, is all about tennis, not golf.  The best part was that we had to dress all in white (don’t ask me; I wasn’t on the committee).  But that was sort of a good thing.  It limited my choices and the time it took to select the perfect outfit.  Of course, thanks to Ruby and being a Warm Autumn, I don’t wear white anymore.  Well, hardly ever.  So I only had three white skirts and five pairs of trousers to pick from.  Plus that really stunning white sweater from Zara that Ruby told me to get rid of.  As if!   

 

And I made it to the Quiz at the Ashtree this week.  Pinkie’s back on nights, so it was going to just be Cheese Boy and me.  Fortunately, Jim, who is the bass player for that pub band, Normal, that we like came in just as we were starting and joined us.  Our name was ‘Who Are We?’  I strongly suggest that anybody who’s planning to do a quiz schlep Jim along.  He knows positively everything about music.  And children’s cartoons.  As long as you have someone else on your team who knows about sports- the boring British kind.

 

We were doing quite well – in second place – until the guys caused us to wipe out in the Wipe Out round.  It was a question about an advertisement on television.  I never have a clue on those.  They had two choices, and they guessed wrong.  We never caught up, even though we all knew a lot of useless stuff in the General Knowledge round. Oh well.

 

I guess the big news is that I had two dates this week.  Wowie zowie… Hubba hubba.  Ho hum.   Honestly, I’m always flabbergasted when I open an email on POF and they’re not 25 and ‘wanna chat’.  And their emails actually make sense.

 

Date #1 was Paul.  He’s an attorney.  He was very nice, and funny, and interesting.  And short.  That sounds like the kiss of death, doesn’t it?  Yeah, I just wasn’t attracted to him.  And I guess I didn’t make that much of an effort to be charming and scintillating.  I haven’t heard from him since the date, but I’m really not bothered by it.

 

The second date, on Saturday, with Richard, was loads better.  He’s very good looking and tall.  He’s a consultant with the Ministry of Defense for Arab dialect studies.  We had lunch and a long walk, then sat in the garden at the Grotto until dusk just talking.  I got a couple of texts later in the evening saying that he’d had a really nice time and wanted to see me again, so we shall see on this one.

 

I got a text from BooBoo while we were at the Grotto.  She’d forgotten about the date and was inquiring where I was, since she hadn’t been able to reach me all day.  I was at Syn in the morning.  ‘On a date; remember?’  I texted back.  ‘Oh right’ she sent back. ‘Is he circumcised?’  Everybody’s a fucking comedian.  ‘Don’t know; won’t find out if people keep texting me!’ I shot back.  And I turned the damn mobile off.

 

I’ve got another date booked for this Wednesday.  His name is Paul.  Honestly, the names are always the same.  Oh for a Hymie or a Vinnie.  Paul is a Homeland Security official at the Foreign Office.  And, no, I did not make that up.  His number is 018. Okay.  That part I did make up.

 

Here’s the best part.  When we got to the telephone conversation stage, he asked, naturally, where I was from.  “Philadelphia” I admitted, praying that cream cheese wouldn’t rear it’s shmeary white head.  “Oh” said Paul.  “I went to uni in Philly for two semesters on an exchange program.”  “No shit?” I asked, ‘Where?” figuring he’d say Penn or Drexel.  “Temple” he replied.  “Me,too!” I yelped all excited.  “I went to Temple.” “Did you hang out in Mitten Hall” he asked.  “Of course” I replied, deciding right then and there that I was in love.  Paul lived on campus (surprisingly, he lived to tell the tale) and asked where I lived.  “In the suburbs” I told him.  “After I was married, we lived in King of Prussia.”  “Were you near the Mall? I loved the Mall.”  Oh.  My.  God.    

 

 

 

God, I had this horrible nightmare.  I was in bed with this gorgeous 30 year old guy.  It was going absolutely brilliantly, except everything we said appeared on the ceiling in a dialogue cloud.  LongestCircumcisedDickinSurrey69 said: ‘U r so sesy hun!’ on my ceiling.  I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t get a tummy ache.  Then the idiot said: ‘Dew u no what i wanna dew 2 u now?”   I had peeked; I couldn’t help it.  I opened my eyes and read it. Big mistake.  “i fink u need 2 leav” I whispered onto the cloud and in his adorable ear (the one with the three piercings). Then, fortunately, I woke up before he could say another bloody word.

 

Yes…it’s time!  More emails from my overflowing in-box on POF.

 

A Special Mention this week to Herestrouble!!, last week’s Turd of Camberley Award winner.

 

I sent him the blog last week.  I thought he should know that he took top honors.  Apparently, this guy just can’t be insulted.  This week, he’s still trying to undo that first impression: ‘Hi thanks for the advice the other week, no fool like an old fool....but learn't a great lesson....keep it up your a real sweetheart...mike...x’   I guess he’s hoping I’ll just overlook my second, third and fourth impressions, which were identical to the first.

 

And kudos to BoyToyinKent1502.  He actually read practically the whole damned blog and made some clever and astute comments.  He might be worth a second look.

 

MagicFingers777 is 54 and confesses ‘I really need a nice cuddle’.  Aw!  Was his mother mean to him?  Was he a ‘middle child’?  His email: ‘hiya hun great piccy xxxx’

 

 Okay.  What did this moron just say?  Yeah.  Yeah.  I got ‘hiya hun’.  I can now translate almost everything they write.  But what the hell is a ‘piccy’?  Is he referring to my boobs?  People talk about ‘pikeys’, at least that’s how I thought it was spelled.  But I’m from Philadelphia and I do not reside in a caravan, not even when I’m visiting the Garden State Parkway.

 

  Dear Magic (hey, do you play basketball? That would be such a coincidence!): Although I am Italian, I only speak English.  And that’s a problem, believe me, when the Consulate in London reaches out and touches me. I get so confused.  But I digress.

 

Your email confused me, too.  But I often am.  Confused, I mean.  I mean I am, if you know what I’m saying, all the time; I’m just confused about 75% of it.   What, pray tell, is a ‘piccy’?  What language are you speaking?’

 

Poor MagicFingers777’s fingers obviously lost their magic ability to type.  He didn’t reply.

 

Big_mo198 is 18.  That poor, poor child. ‘ i play cricket and have played it for 4 years. i enjoy having a social drink with friends but who doesn't not realli into clubbing for some reason. im not only looing for relationships but also some fun if u want. i enjoy most music aswell but am open to listen listen to more kinds.’  And for a first date Big M threatens: ‘i would like to go out for a social drink and then go to yours or mine for some fun.’  

 

His email:  ‘hi im most probalby not what your looking for but i would love to be taght a thing or too by an oldy lady. maybe you could be the one xx’   And he sent me a cyber bouquet of flowers.

 

Of course I laughed.  I even read it to the postman who happened to turn up at that exact moment.  I suspect he just likes seeing me in my ‘jammies in the morning.

 

My reply:  ‘Thank you for the flowers, Sweetie.

 

I expect that I could teach you quite a few things.  Like spelling, punctuation, and grammar.

 

"Hi.  I'm probably not whom you're looking for, but I would love to be taught a thing or two by an older lady.  Maybe you could be the one."

 

And think about this:  your email is that all important 'first impression' ladies will remember about you.

 

Do you want them to think "This child cannot even write a coherent sentence; he’s probably lousy in the sack too”

 

Exactly.’

 

I just love it when they indignantly write back.  Biggie pondered long and hard on this gem: ‘ahhh thank you for the english lesson. It will help me alot. would you like to teach me some other stuff other than the items you suggested. Xx’

 

‘Sure, little guy.  On offer this week: (a) Yiddish; (b) crocheting; (c) making gnocchi from scratch.’

 

TonyH is 28 and in the Army.  ‘hi ya my name is tony i am 28 yr old a single dad and love my son to bits he is my world and would do any thing for him i have been split from ex wife for over 3yrs now,i enjoy playin rugby and also love to watch it im a big Bath fan,but with my job i dont get to watch them as often as i would like to,if u would like to no more please ask.’

 

And his email: ‘Hiya hun wanna chat??????????????’

 

Really.  I can’t help all these guys.  I have responsibilities.  Okay, even if it’s just shopping, it’s a responsibility.

 

‘Dear Tony:  No.  PS  Just because you didn’t bother turning up too often, I hope you are actually sending your son to school.

 

  George0101 (that’s the number of years he completed at school) ‘: i like to think i am down to earth not with my head in the sky but what u see is what u get i am very out going and good laugh to be with like to make afuss of my i women? in all the right ways. i like most music from 60s to the 90s i dress very smart and wood like my partner to be the same.this is hard to talk about there is a lot more but i have gone brian dead //////////  (Brian’s dead? nobody even told me he was sick!)

 

And on a first date: ‘wood like to go four a meal and wine and talk; to get to no each over.like to see if we have the same out look on life? i liketo go places i go on hoilday three times a year.’

 

George’s classy invitation:  ‘hi lets meet 4 coffee and chat and see where it gos..........george’

 

George, you really, really pissed me off. 

 

‘Um…George?  I thought you wood like to go four a meal and wine and talk on the first, oh-so-important date .  If ‘talk’ is what guys like you euphemistically refer to it as these days.  How come you wood only like to meet me 4 coffee?  Am i two cheep and not good enuf to bye food 4?’

 

Parker6969’s profile didn’t sound too awful:  ‘A Parker (not the nosey kind )Looking for an Un-Shockable Lady Penelope to wait on hand & foot & pamper please Endlessly LOL Within reason - Professional - No Life (ouch) - Well educated - Articulate - A Good Orator !! - Clumsy - Fit ish - Wicked and twisted sense of humour.........Pleasant and good mannered - bit of a gent at heart (The Times and a Carnation given half a chance - LOL)’

Oh…but the email – ‘Your Soooo Yummmmy I could eat you xxxx  YOUR PICs wow so sexy xxxx  love TO BE YOUR PRIVATE STRIPPER / MASSEUR ANYTIME - now? LOL I would love to chat with you or cam if you have an MSN or Yahoo addy?? xxx I would love to tease and chat with you angel’

 

Bye-bye, Parker.  Delete!

 

Bigdikkfunnyguy has found the time to get a lot of tattoos in 31 years.  Maybe he started when he was five.  His profile: ‘gosh what do you wana know..just hit me up for a msg,and il be happy to reply i can say im a great guy,love to have a laugh,hate fakes.....love to joke around, i can be naughty,i can be playful,i can be very tempting.lol

And for the first date:  ‘if i told that wouldnt be a suprise.but i could say you would be impressed ‘  I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess the surprise.  He’s really a Dermatologist!  And he’s Jewish!  No.  Probably not what he meant.

 

His email was rather disappointing.  I guess I expected someone with a man muscle that big to…  Forget it.  ‘lovely pics..lovely smile.hehe’

 

And the Turd of Camberley Award this week goes to Olover.  I think perhaps even the actual Turd of Camberley, for whom the award is fondly named, would be in awe of O’s style and fabrication talents.  They're certainly a helluva lot more original than theTofC ever managed.

 

I was waiting for BooBoo to go shopping and, I confess, I got into a little war of words with O, until I got bored and blocked him from emailing me ever again.

 

His profile: ‘hi there im danny hello 2 all, ok bit bout me im tall well over six foot,blonde green eyes stocky muscular build,gsoh fun kind caring   passionate,romantic,got many ints,play the sax and guitar,im also qualified tattooist and piercist,so any lady brave enough im ur man .i love romantic times soft music candle lit meals cuddles holding hands etc also love hols,love maldives dubai and goa so need a lady 2 take and lie on a white beach together i also got bikes and horses so need a pillion i also play rugby so got rugger player bod; but not a broken nose lol'and sorry not got photo up, me and computers arggghhhhh but i got web cam if u want see me but i not 1 these sit naked lol i also do martial arts run my own classes’ 

 

His email: ‘g morning im danny how u ? please get in touch b nice to get 2 know u,and u never know i may take ur fancy’

 

Not too dreadful, I realize, but tattoos, piercings, motorcycles & large animals, the beach?  I hate the beach. 

 

I thought I was polite: ‘No, I don't think so. But thank you for asking.’

 

Back came an immediate response.  Crap!  I hate when they can't take a simple 'no, not if you were the last man left on earth'.  And I so dislike men who whine. ‘sou can tell by my pfofile god ur good’   I believe what O was attempting to say was ‘So, you can tell by my profile.  God, you’re good.’  (I realize you readers don’t all fluently speak cyber-gibberish yet.)

 

Oh my.  No more nice Jewish American Princess.  ‘No, I can tell by your emails. You can't write an intelligible, grammatical sentence.  I'm looking for someone with whom I can converse and share interests. I find tattoos and body-piercing disgusting.  Ditto for Hogs and Trigger.  I certainly wish you well, and meant no offence, but I am realistic and I have extremely precise, exacting standards.’

 

Friday Night was the 10 mile Midnight Walk in aid of Woking and Sam Beare Hospices.  Another ‘second’ for me here.  It’s hard to believe that I’m already doing things a second time.  First Pessach, now the Walk.  The upcoming Turkey Thingy.  Where has the time gone?  Besides shopping, of course.

 

Sadly, BooBoo didn’t participate this year, citing revision (‘cramming’ in American) for her exams, but I know that her family problems continue to be an issue, and I am worried about her.  And frustrated, because there seems to be nothing concrete that I can do to help her.

 

I did take the piss out of Cheese Boy, texting him in the afternoon to inquire ‘What are we doing tonight?’.  He rang me asking somewhat perplexed “Did we have plans tonight?”

 

“I expect so, El Cheese-o” I told him.  “Tonight’s the Midnight Walk.  Aren’t we going to drive to London, jog six miles to the O2, climb a million steps, see a concert, run back to the car and floor it 95 miles an hour on the M-whatever to West Byfleet getting changed in the car to check-in before registration closes?  We’re not?  What am I supposed to do until 10:30?”  Silence on the other end.  I live for just such moments.

 

There were 1400 women walking this year, and Pinkie and I both met scads of women we know.  Amy was walking for the first time.  It was as amazing and uplifting as last year.  And a bit easier, since the route was reversed and we did the hilly part through Weybridge at the beginning, before I got the blisters.  And, yes, I pinned a picture of Jerry to my shirt so he was with me on the walk.

 

When I got to Pinkie’s (she made me walk all the way to her house), I said “Say ‘hi’ to Jerry, Amy”, turning around to show off the picture.  Amy is a darling young lady but, how can I say this nicely, a tad blonde.  “Oh” she replied, “How come I never met Jerry?”  Hmm.  Well you see… once upon a time, in a country where everything actually worked, there was this Jewish American Princess…

 

“Probably because he’s dead, Sweetie” I explained kindly.  I didn’t bring him with me to Weybridge.  I left him in Har Yehuda Cemetery since he was all settled in and comfy there.”

 

This year’s walk even had a trauma.  If 1400 women are going to simultaneously walk somewhere in the middle of the night, the odds are that the one who’s going to trip, fall, hit her head, cut her chin, break her arm, and lose consciousness would be me.  Okay.  I admit that I’m a bit clumsy.  But I’m handicapped.  That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.  Ha! Ha!  It wasn’t me.

 

It happened right in front of us.  A lady walking with a group of friends did all of the above.  Sister Pinkie to the rescue.  “I’m a Casualties Department Sister” she snapped to the twittering friends who were milling around in a panic.  “No, don’t stand her up!  Sit her down…gently.  Amy, sit behind her and let her lean on you.  Jeano, give me some Kleenex!”  (to stop the blood that was spewing out of the big hole in her chin.)

 

Everybody snapped to it; wow, Casualty Sisters talk really mean.  Not a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ to be heard.  Then she whipped out her mobile and called an ambulance (she even knew 911’s phone number).  Pinkie impressively switched to medical speak explaining to the Dispatcher what had happened, using words like ‘pulse’ and ‘respiration’ and ‘cold and clammy’ and ‘probable concussion’.  Fortunately, a volunteer EMT crew from St. John’s pulled up, and they took over, freeing Pinkie of her responsibilities as an Angel of Mercy so we could carry on walking.

 

As an amusing sidelight to the story, we ran into the EMTs again at the finish of the Walk.  The NHS ambulance, unable to understand ‘look for 1400 women in horrendous yellow teeshirts and flashing bunny ears.  We’re the ones sitting down on the curb directly across the road from the nightclub with the flashing lights and loud rap music outside the train station.”  It took them twenty minutes to spot her.  We can only hope that they didn’t remove her appendix or amputate her foot by accidental when they finally got her to St. Peter’s.

 

I felt absolutely fine on Saturday, other than the damned blisters.  I guess if I’m going to make a habit of charity walks (I’m never gonna run; unless it’s a sale at Bloomies or the Church of St. Nordstrom Rack), I should invest in some sort of proper walking shoes.  I was damned proud of myself for doing my bit for a good cause, for walking ten whole miles, and for just being exceedingly cool.

 

A sincere thank you to everybody who sponsored me.  I raised lots of gelt.  And if you didn’t, it’s not too late!  You can still go to www.justgiving.com/geltforjeano and just give some.

 

On Saturday night I went to a ‘Pre-Henley’ Bash at Amy’s Rowing Club, which, of course, was also Marina’s club when she lived here.  Positively everybody remembers her.  I’m not saying that’s a good thing or a bad thing; it’s just a statement of fact.  It was an elegant Do with marquees placed along the river strung with fairy lights.  An animal (a dead one) was roasted on a giant spit after being Koshered under strict rabbinical supervision by a bloke who once passed through Golders Green on the underground.  (Pinkie said so.) 

 

I wore my brand new Escada trousers.  Hester, my partner at Tea Lady duties at the Senior Centre, also works at Sam Bric-a-brac.  She rang me at Books on Thursday to say “A brand new pair of amazing Escada trousers with your name on just came in”.  “Emergency at Bric-a-Brac” I told Mike as I ran out the door, leaving him to cope single-handedly.  “Jacket or skirt?” he inquired.  He’s so amusing.  I had been in somewhat of a panic since I had absolutely nothing to wear to the Do.  It certainly helps to have friends on the Bric-a-Brac side of things.   I’ll post a few pictures so you can all see just how stunning they are.  And me.

 

Strangely, this was quite possibly the first ‘event’ in England that I didn’t enjoy.  I found the Rowing Club members to be unfriendly, clique-ish, and more than a little rude.  Both Pinkie and I were still a bit tired from the walk on Friday night, so we left relatively early.

 

The Irish Lad was in Spain, or some place that starts with an ‘S’, for the weekend golfing, so Pinkie and I had to go it menless for the quiz at the Grotto.  This meant, of course, that we didn’t know the answers to any of the sport questions.  So we lost, rather badly.  For the umpteenth time, we agreed that we hate the Grotto, loathe Colin and his obnoxious Chelsea Supporter clientele, and need to find something else to entertain us on Sunday nights.  Stay tuned.  Last night he got particularly shirty with Pinkie and me in separate incidents.  Mr. A(sshole) makes up the questions himself and thinks he’s very clever.  Often, they make no sense. He mangles the grammar and has a dreadful accent.  Pinkie asked him to repeat a question and he came over to our table and shouted it at her.  Later on, he asked “What month is the Jewish holiday, Channukah, celebrated?”

 

“Colin, that’s wrong” I told him sweetly.  (Yeah, sure I was sweet.)  “You can’t ask it like that.  There isn’t a specific answer.  Channukah starts on 25 Kislev, but uses the Jewish calendar, not the Gregorian one.  The Jewish calendar is 13 months, so it doesn’t always start in the same month.”  He gave me the finger and told me to shut up. (And he couldn’t even pronounce ‘Channukah’.)

 

Just to prove my point, in 2002 Channukah started on November 30; in 2013, the first night will be on November 28.

 

And while I’m on the subject of Turds I have unfortunately known, my mobile went off while I was sitting in the garden reading.  Wow… there are all sorts of thingies doing their plant thingy blatantly out there.  Inside is another story.  When Jeanette popped in unexpectedly for a coffee, I whisked her out to the garden even though it was 40 degrees Fahrenheit out there and pissing down rain.  That damned plant she gave me is sitting in the lounge dead as a doornail.   It’s BooBoo’s fault.  Because it is.

 

Sorry.  I lost track.  Anyhow, my mobile went off, with a text.  It was from a phone number, not a contact name.  “Hi Jean how are you am just back from holiday had nice time how have you been xxx’

 

Could it be?  No, it couldn’t possibly.  ‘Who IS this?’ I texted back.  Call me old-fashioned, but I believe in God, the American flag, and punctuation at the end of sentences.

 

Yeah.  It was.  ‘James’ came back in a split second.  I’d deleted Unfriendly and So Dumped Guy’s number ages ago.

 

Adonai Wept!  I guess he’d been on holiday in Sri Lanka or Devon or one of those places where there are simply no satellites.  Or maybe he ‘stupidly forgot to pack his charger’.  Hey.  It happens.  So I’ve heard.

 

‘You’re kidding!’ I texted back.  ‘You stood me up, never called, and then disappeared.  You don’t exist any more.  I deleted your number.  I strongly recommend that you do the same.’

 

Back came his reply:  ‘oh sorry ok then take care’

 

I related this wildly humorous anecdote to Pinkie walking up Monument Hill to the Grotto.  We agreed that the moral of this parable is: Don’t Drink the Coffee at Heathrow.

 

Those emails from More Bottom Feeders at POF are losing their luster and starting to bore me.  Pathetic is funny, sure, but it gets tedious after about the hundredth one.  I delete scads of them; they’re just so ‘more of the same shit’.

 

But here goes… the weekly winners.  Actually, losers, but you know what I mean. 

 

BlackKnight really upset me.  Not because his email was graphic and really filthy.  It was obviously a generic email he sends to anyone who is female.  It was because he said I was fat.  Sort of.  He wrote ‘i luv larger woman all shapes sises and ages expecillialy wit big boobs’.  Excuse me? Larger women?  I’ve had Uncle Guido on the Garden State whack guys for less.

 

‘I love men with brains bigger than their penises.  Boy, it sure is hard to find any.  But I’m sure you’ll find that incredibly old fat hag with expecillialy big boobs and no scruples whatsoever if you just keep looking.’

 

FunLovingMale37 sounded tempting (that is such a big lie):  im 6ft3 medium build light brown hair blue eyed soldier stationed down south but from grimsby. im funloving like trying new things like my f1 and motor sport enjoy a game of pool of ten pin bowling like to have adrink but mainly during he weekend. If you want to know more please ask me anything’

And his message: ‘Nice cleaveage’.

 

Dear FLM:  Wow!  f1.  motor sport.  Pool.  Ten pin bowling.  And a soldier!  (Do you wear a uniform?)  I am dying to know more.  Like what were you thinking?  Or why would I be even remotely interested?’

 

Petitenessbuttheassfat (I swear this is true – he’s a dead ringer for that guy who plays the captain on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (like… do you know Ice-T… like, personally?) and he wants to be some lucky lady’s ‘Night’. His profile: ‘Well a little about me.. I'm a little bit cheeky, a little bit naughty and a little bit bad! However I am on here to meet the "right" girls! So if you are respectfull, intelligent,fun and cheeky I wanna hear from you ;-p I play football for Athletic Worthing, were not great but we are definatly better since I signed for them! I like all kinds of music and I'm a great dancer...Kind of! I have tickets to go and see Michael Jackson on the 14th July! I'm originally from up North. I just changed jobs recently & I am currently considering applying for Fire & Rescue! However I have lots of dreams and aspirations, they seem to change more often than the weather! I am looking to meet new friends, I crave new adventure and really want to start trying new things! If that sounds like you,then hit me up!’

 

Gosh.  This is so tempting.  Michael Jackson tickets.  He might become a Fireman.  I’ve never dated a fireman.  He’s cheeky and naughty and bad.  Can a Jewish Dermatologist say that with a straight face?  And his email: ‘were u checking me out?’  Could this be Mr. Write, my Night in Shineing Armore finelly?

 

Oh, please.  ‘No, I most assuredly was not checking you out.’

 

AmericanChopper went for the sympathy vote with his profile:’ i am deaf (since birth) i can hear (with hearing aids) and i can talk and lipread well and i been living in west london since birth (22 years) i have adhd i love going out to different places and explore whats around and i would love to go aboard again, i like all types of music (except of classic heavy rock blues, opera) i am a romantic guy who will do anything for his partner and keep her happy much as he can, i only go for personality i do have a car but its off the road as it needs work done to it’

 

Aw gee!  His email: ‘are you looking for a good time in bed????or something’

 

‘Oh, Sweetie….  Or something.  And definitely not with you.’

 

Billy91 is Asian and blatantly states that he’s married.  ‘Hello I'm Billy. Discrete, adventurous even naughty on occasions !! and looking for a similar minded woman to enjoy and explore mutual pleasures and desires. I enjoy good food and drink and yes good ... Very flexible . ‘   His email:  ‘Would you like to meet up for some fun????’  ‘I'm very rigid, especially where my standards are concerned. God, no!’

 

James73Yes is in the Royal Air Force, stationed in Belgium.  ‘You look gorgeous, hope you don’t mind a younger guy saying hi, but I just love au natural redheadsXXX’

 

Seriously, if I have to hop on the Eurostar to get shagged, why the hell wouldn’t I just stay on the bloody train ‘til Paris and find a French guy?  Use some logic here.

 

‘Nope, Flyboy.  ‘Hi’ is fine.  ‘Goodbye’ is even better.’

 

Klimteastwood says he’s sensitive, but pulls no punches in his profile.  ‘I enjoy a good laugh most of the time, but am also sensitive and sensual at heart. I respect people and expect the same in return. I am not after a permanent/heavy/serious/boring/angst-filled relationship.’

 

Well I’m glad you made that clear, Klim.  ‘It’s important to know exactly what the man expects in a relationship.  May I suggest a nice compliant blow up doll?  That way, there’s no pressure, except possibly on the doll’s seams.’

 

Goldenboy234 wants someone who’s going to last.  (Probably to help him with his spelling and grammar if he is ever forced to get a job.)  ‘23years old 6ft1inches tall,girls com n go bt i want some one who wants 2 stay 4 the future.i love football ,i love playing football as well am an asernal fan,am funny as well.’  And he’s funny; that is so crucial to a lasting relationship.

His email:  ‘am here,ar u alright sexy’

 

‘You’re there, so yeah, I guess I’m alright.  You might be here, and then I guess my answer would be different.’

 

This week, the coveted Turd of Camberley award goes to HeresTrouble!!  He sounded passable in his profile: ‘Its not as easy as putting pen to paper, how would one sell themselves??? its funny you can have a special person in your life someone you love but do not fancy. sex is an understatement, its good but should rule your life, its true if you put a pea in a jar for every time you got intamate for the first 6 months you would have it half full. for the rest of your life you took a pea out every time you got intimate you would never empty the jar. Beauty is skin deep as is the mind!!! what is the point of having an pretty woman by your side if you can not converse with her. women like men they come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, some pleasing to the eye, some pleasing to the mind. The most important factor for a relationship is friendship, honesty, wit, mixed up with cuddles and kisses....(xxxx)’

 

Yeah, it didn’t make any sense to me either.  But he wrote me a poem:

 

I came and peeked and liked what i saw,
An attractive woman, someone to adore,
loved the profile it made me smile.
I hope your brave and text me back,
then I know i'm on the right track,
that smile so devilish those eyes devine,
woultn't it be nice to share some wine.
if in fact you choose to decline.
I wish you luck and hope true love you find...Mike...x

 

I played it cool, sending a brief note thanking him for the poem.

 

His reply:  ‘mmm your making me all horny...how you feeling...xxxxxxxx’ 

 

Curses!  He must send that same banal poem to every female on the site.  At least he could fix all the spelling mistakes.  But I decided to answer him.

 

‘Oh dear.  Asshole Alert.  Let's see... Turned off. Revolted. Disappointed. Bored. Where's that damned thesaurus when you need it?’

 

Unbelievably, he replied, backtracking desperately (I guess the poem doesn’t work that well): ‘sorry like to shock i'm a nice man really honest....xxxxx’

 

So I decided to take the piss: ‘No problem. I write a popular blog and use all the trash I get from POF. And my traffic simply goes through the roof when it's another 'More Emails from Bottom Dwellers' entry.  This week was a little exiguous; a deaf guy on a motorcycle, a black dude who wanted to be my 'Night', and then...YOUR'S!  A really big ‘Thanks’.  I just hate disappointing my readers.

 

Maybe he can’t read?  Or he wouldn’t know sarcasm if it jumped up and bit him on the tush.  ‘lol i'm a sweety really honest.......i appologise and send warm hugs.....you really seem like a nice girl and yes sexy......but i expect you already know that sweetheart....xxxxxxxx’

 

I guess it’s time to be more direct.  ‘I'm not the sort of woman you're looking for. And you're not even remotely what I'm looking for in a man.

A bit of unsolicited advice, Mike.  Try using a modicum of self control: refrain from the tacky sexual innuendos until the third or fourth email at least.

 

Oh… and correct the damned typos in your poem before you send it out again.’

 

Apparently Mike is living on a different astral plane than the rest of us.  His God makes men pigs and women desperate.  ‘ .....i'm sure you will find mr right...your a very attractive woman and also have a lovely mind...look after yourself god made you special....xxxxxxxx’

 

Duh!  I know that, Stupid!

Another week of dashing from engagement to engagement.  Some hits.  A few ‘misses’.  Humdrum.  But as the Jewish Buddha says:  Accept misfortune as a blessing.  Do not wish for perfect health or a life without problems.  What would you have to talk about?

 

I guess that should be changed to ‘blog about’.

 

My shifts at Sam were, as always, fun, although Mike has taken to calling me ‘Juliette’, as in ‘Romeo & …’, because of BPeter.  He has stopped ringing (finally) and other than standing outside and looking at me wistfully through the window at the shop, he seems to have gotten the message.  He did whinge more than a few times to Mike (as reported by Mike), who finally lost patience and told him to “Shut up about Jeano.  Get over it.”

 

Moving on to some exciting news, Stuart is finally crossing the pond in July for a long anticipated visit.  I got frustrated and rang him, ordering “Give me your fucking Amex number.  I’ll book it and tell you when you’re coming.”  BooBoo had a super idea; postpone my annual Festa de Indipendenza barbecue from the fourth of July (coincidence… really) to while he’s here.  “This way Stu can get to meet all your friends” Boo thoughtfully suggested.  “Yeah.  And he can smuggle in the Jews this year” I agreed happily, my mouth watering at the very thought of a jumbo Kosher Hebrew National.  And seeing Stuart, too.

 

Stuart’s ringing me about twenty times a day with suggestions (demands) for stuff he wants to do here while he’s visiting.  I ring him fifty times a day with urgent pleas (orders) for stuff I can’t live without, like Hershey bars and Sweet ‘N Low and the brand new Daniel Silva novel.   He owes me.  After all, Marina smuggled two of ‘the greatest meatballs in the entire fucking world’ home to him after her visit at Christmas at great personal sacrifice.  (I’m sure she wanted to eat them herself.)

 

I’ve serendipitously landed myself a ‘real’ job, although it’s hard to describe.  It’s basically writing promotional material.  I say ‘basically’ because the other skill that aced it for me is my accent.  I’m doing a lot of ‘networking’ for my employer, who earnestly instructed me to try to reach out and touch some people in his field ‘and sound very American; it’s cool’.  “Gee, Sweetie” I told him half serious, “I don’t know if I can any more.  Not to worry.  I’ll start watching ‘Law & Order’ or ‘Cold Case’ again to brush up.”

 

And just a little side complaint.  I did catch a few episodes of ‘Cold Case’.  Except for the cute dumb guy, there’s not a Philly accent in the whole show.  And the pronunciation!  “Where the hell is ‘Tacony Creek’” I pondered. “Oh.  Of course.  They’re dragging the ‘Took-any’ Creek for the murder victim’s body.” (About six blocks from GerryP’s house.)  They do stop at Geno’s a lot for cheesesteaks in between interviewing suspects which made me nostalgic and very hungry.  “A cheesesteak wit’!” I yelled at the guy at Geno’s, which is kind of freaky when you’re home… alone… and in Weybridge, England.  “Yo! Make that double wit’!”

 

Anyway, with my ‘real’ job, and my volunteer jobs, and my fund-raising events for Sam, I was conflicted when I was asked to join the synagogue’s Tikkun Olam & Tzedakah Committee.  I mean there are only so many hours in a day, and I do have a social life.  And let’s not forget that sluggish economy that needs bolstering by mega shopping sprees.

 

 But I felt guilty.  Maybe the world would get repaired better if I did more.  So I said ‘yes’.   I might have to decline one or two engagements (I’m not sacrificing shopping) but I’m sure I’ll be getting a big gold star in The Book this year.

 

Irish Lad and I did the Grotto quiz on Sunday night, finishing second again.  Tee was tired; he’d celebrated his birthday the night before.  I was tired, too.  I’d gone to a Caring Seminar on Sunday afternoon sponsored by Chai, the Jewish Social Services agency, on cancer support at NWSS, which was honestly extremely heavy.  The Irish Lad was quite chuffed by his birthday pressie; I stole a yarmulke at shul and popped it into a Tesco’s carrier bag along with a “Mazel Tov on your Bar Mitzvah!’ card, as I’d forgotten to pick up a boring old birthday one.  Too bad they don’t keep spare tallits laying around.

 

Pinkie and I did a Table Top Sale (all those clothes Ruby won’t let me wear any more because I’m a Warm Autumn), went out to lunch and then hit a Craft Show.  And I went to an art exhibition in Dorking at Denbies Wine Estate this week.  A friend from shul was one of the artists exhibiting.  The winery is lovely, with an amazing panoramic (very posh) restaurant on the top floor.  Of course I bought a lot of wine.  And a painting.  It isn’t very big, only about 20” X 12”, but ‘it spoke to me’.  I’m posting a picture of it.  I’m calling it ‘Jeano’s Door to Her Personal Wilderness’ and I’ve hung it over my computer work space for artistic inspiration when The Muse and I are writing.  A brief explanation:  a ‘wilderness’ is a good thing. It’s the journey we all take, and it’s entirely up to each of us what we get out of that journey.

 

Speaking of my wilderness, I had another date this week too.  (Big Sigh.)  This one was from J(erk) Date, and he sounded okay; double Masters Degree in History and Maths, South African, wrote intelligible emails (didn’t once say ‘u r sexy’ or ‘hi hun’).  His name was Ian and he took the train down from London for lunch.  I honestly didn’t mind that he told me more about the American Civil War and the Battle of Gettysburg than any American has any need to know.  I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that I grew up only a couple of hours away from the site. 

 

I minded that he assumed I was dessert.  I assume that he minded that I didn’t feel like being dessert, because he was definitely sulking when he left.  Gee.  Come to think of it, he hasn’t rang.  I have to wonder, and there’s no answer, if I was dessert would he have rang again or is it always just a one off with creeps like him.  ‘The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here’. But they will read all about it in my blog.   

 

 

 

Pinkie dragged me away from my computer—and my emails at POF—last night to go to the quiz at the Ash Tree.  Due to everyone’s hectic schedules and Sister’s week on/week off Nights, we’d not been in ages.

 

It was a perfect opportunity to hit up the other teams (after the quiz; when they were all feeling no pain) for money sponsoring us for The Walk.  They did not disappoint.  Of course, it helped immensely that Pinkie wore that stunning black and pink top (I hate Cool Winters), the low cut one where the Weybridge Woofers balance precariously like magic.  She dropped the pen a lot.

 

The Irish Lad (and Bob the Ulcer), and El Cheese-o were in a manly snit for some reason; they refused to have ‘bitches’ in our team name.  Since there were three of them (Bob got a vote) against Pinkie and me, we ended up being called ‘No More Winker’, which I believe has something to do with being a Chelsea Supporter.  Two of the members of ‘Forgotten’ were off on a Mediterranean cruise, so Chris and Graham were ‘Two-gotten’ last night.  Some blokes can be almost clever, if you only encourage them.

 

We did okay in the early rounds; we were in second place.  The second Top Five question was golf terminology; Irish Lad aced it, of course.

And we were perfect in the round where ‘the last letter is the first letter of the next answer’. 

 

The fun really started in the Connections Round.  With the first question.  “Whose shooting on November 24, 1963 in Dallas, Texas was seen live on TV around the world?”

 

As usual, all the other teams surreptitiously looked at me.  “Jesus Wept!” I said scornfully in a stage whisper, “J.R. Ewing”, as I scrawled ‘Lee Harvey Oswald’ on a scrap of paper and passed it to Pinkie, our answer writer-downer. J.R., or JFK, which a few other teams went with, made no sense with the other answers and, naturally, the Connection between all five.  It was Gary Oldman.

 

El Cheese and Lad got into a tiny disagreement about one of the answers.  (They acted worse than prepubescent girls.)  They did ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ to decide what our answer should be.  And they were still wrong.

 

We played it safe in the Wipe Out Round, answering seven questions we were certain about.  We couldn’t resist, though, taking more piss.

 

“In which American state is Fort Knox located?”  Boy:  “How many esses?”  Lad: “That’s not how you spell Nevada, you stupid cow!”

 

I got the Anagram immediately.  And I didn’t stop bragging about it.  ‘Notions We Rarely Use’; something you make.

 

We were clinging to Second, three points behind the Scary Fairies, at the final round, General Knowledge.  It all went horribly pear-shaped.  We only got 9 right out of 20.  I say ‘we’ but, of course, it was the other three who were deplorable.  Yeah, okay, I got the American question wrong in that round.  ‘Going west to east, the American states bordering Canada:  Alaska, Washington, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, _____?’

 

“I don’t bloody know” I snapped.  “Neither one is a ‘cool’ state.  I don’t think about them a whole lot.  It’s either Minnesota or Michigan.”

 

So we  tossed a coin and put down Michigan.  Chris of the Two-gottens sauntered over and asked ‘What did you put?”  “Michigan” I told him.  “No” he said, “It’s Illinois”.  “Honestly, Chris, I not sure which one it is, but I can guarantee its not Illinois.  Illinois doesn’t share a border with Canada.” 

 

You can’t tell men anything sometimes when they think they’re smart.  “I’ve been to Chicago” he told me.  Well, whoopty-do.  So have I.  Like a hundred times.  “And what” I inquired, “Did the Canadians row across fucking Lake Michigan and invade it while you were there?” 

 

I did know stuff; at least as much as my teammates.  And I was totally clueless, like them, on a few.  We lost.  Badly. 

 

It did not stop the Irish Lad from making a few snide comments when it turned out to be Minnesota.  “Rheims … Rouen.  Rheims … Rouen.  Rheims … Rouen.” I countered. 

 

You could feel the Love at our table.

Back by popular demand, even more not very close encounters on POF.

 

Okay.  I’m now seriously addicted to my email on Plentyoffish.  I check for new messages every hour.  I can’t get enough of really lame missives from eager suitors vying for the hand (well some anatomy part) of unquestionably one of the most popular Princesses on the site.  I am on 23 blokes’ Favorites’ List.  Don’t get jealous; I’m sure I recognized ten of them from Interpol’s Most Wanted List.

 

Maybe the rest ‘share’ rejection stories and bruised manly feelings in a special, secret Chat Room called ‘That Bloody JAP Really Gave Me Some Fucking Attitude’. 

 

I always check their profile before I read the email.  A tiny part of me keeps hoping it will say: ‘I’m a Jewish Dermatologist and I own the entire county of Hampshire including all castles and stately homes.  I enjoy motoring around the French Riviera in my 200’ yacht, the Bella Regina (crew of sixteen).  I drive a Jaguar usually, unless it’s in the shop and I make do with the Porsche. It’s a tight fit; I’m 6’3”!   I only shop at Whole Foods for the ingredients for the Cordon Bleu meals I whip up for that special Jewish American Princess during those romantic evenings pour deux in my cozy 23 bedroom McMansion. I can’t get enough of watching Real, Proper American Football games on my 162” Plasma TV; especially the Dallas Cowboys.’  (Nobody said he had to be perfect.)    Maybe Dr. Saperstein’s email is buried in my spam folder by mistake.

 

But I get really disappointed when the emails aren’t funny or kinky enough.

 

NiceBlokeinKent:  “Hi.  I liked your straightforward profile.  How long have you been in England and why are you here?  What do you write?  Have I read anything you’ve written?

 

My reply:  ‘Yo, Buddy!  What’s your problem?  Couldn’t think of anything dumb or dirty to write?  Maybe you don’t have an imagination.  Unless, of course, that was some sort of pornographic ‘code’ that I missed?  Have a boring day—like your email.’

 

Nope, I like the ones from guys like Wolveslad.  His profile says: ‘I am 5/11 med  built blue eyes brown hair i have 2 taas and 3 bodypiercings i like all sports and i live life to the full i want to share y life wit someone. Looking for woman to spoil on first date hoefully it will lead to a second i will go to he pics and maybe a resturent or whatever the woman wants.’  Is there a woman alive strong enough to resist such blandishments?  And his email…  such prose!  ‘Wow!’  (That was it.)

 

I responded in kind.  ‘Ugh!’

 

Wolveslad, poor idiot, was unfazed.  Or he thought those were the international call letters for an orgasm achieved simply by thinking about meeting him.  ‘Ur sexy!’

 

Oh dear.  Tit for tat again?  Why even try.  ‘You are not, not even remotely’.

 

Kevinloveshoney made me realize that I should have dubbed myself as ‘JeanoAdoresLouisVuitton’.  I guess we should start as we mean to go on and all that crap.

 

‘hi how are you xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxlooking for someone for a bit of fun fun fun.’

 

‘Sure, Sweetie.  But I’m expensive expensive expensive.’

 

Lofty234 was direct.  ‘I much prefer ladies older than myself.  I don’t know if you would consider a younger man and a sexually based relationship.  If you would then I’d love to hear from you.’

 

“Well hell; when you put it like that… What woman could say ‘no’?  Unless, of course, she has a brain and a modicum of self-respect.  Um…NO!’

 

Afterdark69 was very tempting.  ‘divorced with 3 children , medium build green eyes and short shaved hair (on my head )
Enjoy the simple things in life caring 4 my children they are girl 7 boy 11 and girl 13 Would like someone special in my life to enjoy things with , if you have children thats fine , dnt like being alone lol . I have 2 jack russels so walks in the country are good as are family days out .’

 

Wow, a short guy with a shaved head and three brats.  And two dogs.  Maybe my life isn’t so perfect the way it is.  And he promises (or threatens; you be the judge) ‘Our first date , well maybe a drink then a meal maybe an indian ? I'm easy lol then whatever followed from that , i'm tactile so maybe a walk home holding hands and a kiss goodnite at your door step lol’   Yeah right.  He’s going to find out where I live so he can drop off the dogs and the brats for me to doggy-bratty sit so he can get all tactile with some unwed mother from Brixton.

 

His email:  ‘hi you look great maybe we could chat n meet ?’

 

My reply:  ‘Maybe we could.  On second thought, no, we couldn’t. Not ever.’

 

But the Wanker of the Week and hands down winner of the Turd of Camberley award has to be Woo69d.

 

Reading his profile, he is The Man; the one every woman is desperately seeking.  ‘It’s all about connecting with someone… with sensitivity, passion, laughter, communication, and trust. Maybe it will be a shared passion for music, film and theatre that will draw us to each other, as well as a love of travel, dining (out and at home), outdoor adventures, and good times with friends and family. You should know that I am warm, fun-loving, affectionate and thoughtful, with a quiet confidence, both a serious and a silly side, as well as a lively sense of humor. I seek a relationship where I can share passions and feelings with a partner who, has experienced much of the world, yet retains a curiosity and desire for that still to be discovered.

The woman I am drawn to is warm, giving, easy-going, communicative, playful ... someone tender, settled yet adventurous ... who savors touch and long soulful kisses. Is emotionally expressive, enjoys cultural pursuits, travel, and has a lively appreciation for food. Someone who loves feeling connected, looking forward to beginning and ending each day with one special person. She is ready to invest her emotions and her time in a real relationship. Her life is balanced and good, but she knows it would be better, more complete, with a loving companion. She enjoys fun and sharing the simple pleasures. We will bring out the best in each other as friends and lovers.’

 

Golly.  I had tears in my eyes.  It’s too damned bad that his mom, or his sister, or some other entrepreneurial female ghost-wrote his profile.  I bet she charged him like…  at least 10 quid.

 

I excitedly opened his email, anxious to discover even more of his lyrical tender soul.

 

It was two simple yet evocative words:  ‘Wanna shag?’

  

I met Jewish David #1, and Susan, his partner, at the British Volunteer on Saturday afternoon.  We had exchanged emails regarding time and place, and I’d explained that I would be coming after shul.  Humorously, David emailed: ‘I’ll accept taking second place to “the big fella”.  JMT 1:45 at the Volly.”  He also left a really cute comment on the blog.  Oh…  look it up and read it yourself!

 

I was pretty sure I got ‘JMT’ but asked him when I arrived.  Yep.  Jewish Meeting Time.

 

Adorable David (feel free to kvell, Bubeleh) and Susan are totally in the Zone for Turkey Thingy.  In fact, they both had loads of ideas and suggestions, which I’ve added to my growing portfolio.  Stuart may be coming for a visit in July, but after he leaves I will get my touchas in gear and get my committee moving and shaking (I’m pretty scary when I’m in charge and can push people around for ‘charity’).

 

Note to the Mule-ess, c/o Exit 82 of the Garden State:  I’ll be emailing this year’s list of Demands shortly; handle it.

 

And speaking of charity, let’s get cracking on those donations sponsoring me for the Midnight Walk.  Do not embarrass me.  The site, again, is: www.justgiving.com/geltforjeano.  Scary Fairy popped for 25 Quid, which is oodles in real, American money.  The other contributions, so far, are from members at Shul.  Do you want to be shown up by some British members of the Tribe you don’t even know?

 

Sunday I went to a wedding.  All week, every time I said that’s what I was doing at the weekend, people went “Tee Hee.  You mean Saturday.”  “No” I would reply patiently, “Sunday.  The wedding is on Sunday.  Who gets married on a Saturday?  It’s Shabbat.”  Sorry.  Apparently Christians do.  Or maybe just English people who have to work on Sundays.

 

Although I would swear under oath that I’m not sentimental or a romantic at heart, I love weddings.  They’re just so… so… romantic and sentimental.

 

This was my ‘First Wedding’ in England.  Not too many ‘firsts’ left.  I did put in an appearance at an English wedding with the Irish Lad where Amy & Eamonn danced.  I believe I trashed everything about that one from the decorations to the Bride’s truly awful outfit.  (I couldn’t find the blog to refresh my memory, but I know me.) 

 

But not this time.  And let me assure you it’s not because the mother of the bride sprang for a sizeable wad of cash for the Midnight Walk.  And it’s not because positively everyone at Syn seems to be reading The Blog these days and talking about it.  You know, actually maybe I should take those factors into consideration.

 

The wedding was at 3:00, followed by two hours of cocktails and hors d’oeuvres in a huge white marquee erected in the shul’s parking lot.  There was a formal dinner later in the evening, but I wasn’t invited to that.

 

BooBoo was quite fascinated by my recollections of Chuppahs that were so over the top (after I explained what a chuppah is) that I brought my camera to get a few pictures.  The chuppah was simple and understated; in other words, English.  But it was very elegant and lovely.  I’ve posted a picture.  I tried to get one of the Ketubah (also understated, simple and downright boring) but it didn’t come out.

 

As the wedding was at 3:00 it was a real dilemma about what to wear: dress up, dress down, or dress really Jappy.   I wore the ‘Paulies’.  As another guest (she’s American too, an attorney from New York… you get where this is going) said to me “Wow!  They don’t scream ‘expensive’!  They whisper ‘Designer’!”  “Did you get those in New York” she asked, green with envy (or blue with cold; I couldn’t tell).  “No.  Amsterdam, the last time I popped over for a few days’ shopping” I simpered. 

 

The bride looked … nice.  One of the members of the wedding party, in white and black linen, could have used the ministrations of Obama Luther X before it started.  ‘You supply coffee me iron me show you me damned special presser all eleven million wrinkles go by by.’ 

 

And I simply have to mention that if anybody in Surrey is missing their fluffy beige bath mat, I saw it.  It turned up as a dress and matching pashmina.  At least she was probably warm; I was freezing my tush off in that drafty tent.

 

It was pretty much your standard ceremony, although being  a ‘modern’ couple, instead of the bride walking in a circle around the groom seven times, they compromised.  She walked around him three times, he walked around her three times, and they walked around each other once… not an easy task with all those people squashed under the chuppah.  They followed the tradition of the groom placing the wedding ring (very nice…a circle of diamonds) on her right index finger and Frank managed a very respectable ‘Pop’ when he stomped on the glass.  English people do manage to murmur ‘Mazel Tov!’ almost enthusiastically at the appropriate moment.

 

I had to dash home, thaw out, and change for Quiz Night at the Grotto.    No way were my beloved ‘Paulies’ putting in an appearance amongst Chelsea Supporters.  We didn’t win; second place again.  We lost by one point.

 

Thanks to my friend Nanci, who sent me the fantastic YouTube clip of the Dos Equis guy.  I am seriously in lust.  They just don’t have clever TV commercials here.  If you can believe it, McDreamy actually does an advert for a man’s moisterizer for L’Oreal.  Yeah, he’s gorgeous, but it’s not even remotely funny.  The Dos Equis clip is clever, with lines like "The police often question him just because they find him interesting," "His beard alone has experienced more than a lesser man's entire body," "His blood smells like cologne."  It’s worth checking out.

 

I’m doing an extra shift at Sam this week, hosting a Coffee Morning, and working a stall at a Table Top Sale with Pinkie.  And I have two dates this weekend.  Plus another Caring Seminar at NWSS.  Somehow I have to squeeze in some walking.  Just another ordinary week in Weybridge.

 

Some more advice from the Jewish Buddha:  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Forget this and obtaining Enlightenment will be the least of your problems.

 

 

Well another one bites the dust.  FSGuy is history.

 

We had a date scheduled for Friday night.  About 6:00 I got a text.  His mother had been taken quite ill and he would call me when he could.  Of course, he didn’t call. 

 

Adonai Wept!  Is there a book out there titled ’50 Transparent Excuses for Unimaginative Sheygetses’?  Come on, you can tell me.  I thought ‘Gee, that sounded kind of familiar…. Where have I heard that particular ‘dog ate my homework’ excuse before?”  

 

Then I remembered, so I wrote myself a memo:

 

To: Jeano; From: Jeano; Subject: edit the ‘New Guy Questionnaire’.  After the foreskin question and before the D&B Financial Statements, add:  #17 – Do you, or anyone in your extended nuclear family, currently have a mother?  If yes, 17a) is she prone to strokes or ‘bad turns’ suspiciously just prior to the commencement of a date; and 17b) does she often die, resulting in your being unavailable for long periods of time ostensibly 'making funeral arrangements'.

 

Oh hell…Question #63 for added peace of mind:  Are you always prepared, like a JAP or a Boy Scout?  Do you always remember to brush your teeth and charge your mobile?

 

I declined going to the pub with the blokes, and decided to answer some of my emails on Plentyoffish to vent my annoyance.  I’d been saving a few choice specimens for just such an occasion. 

 

I have to add here that my screen name is ‘Wet in Weybridge’.  Although that nom de guerre had been used in another context in a prior life, I meant it to relate to the incessant rain here.  My profile is straightforward and grown-up, and nowhere does it even hint ‘I’m naked here in Weybridge just waiting for you to come and shag me senseless!”

 

Apparently, they read what they want to read. (If, in fact, they can read.)

 

From Jamesrb69:  ‘Cor u look grate how are u hope speake soon’  Little Jimmy’s profile says that he is 19.

 

My reply:  ‘Sweetie… does your mother know you’re using her computer to troll for women?  I’m 52, educated, etc. etc.  What could we possibly find to speake about?’

 

Boxerxxx is 26 going on eleven.  ‘do u like young willy xx’

 

My reply:  ‘Sorry.  I’ve not met Young Willy.  Does he live in Weybridge?  I do know ‘Deaf Peter’ at the Senior Center where I volunteer.’

 

Ashenden1470, another youthful Cassanova in training, went with ‘hey there hows u hun?’

 

My reply: ‘First of all, sonny boy, I’m not your ‘hun’.  Secondly, maybe you should invest in a grammar and punctuation manual before you email a university educated writer in future.  May I correct it for your next suave missive?  “Hey, there.  How are you, Hun?”  That would be grammatically passable if seriously trite and banal.’

 

Diamondgeeza is fond of ‘sound effects’: ‘wet mmmmmm is it raining? awwwww’

 

My reply:  ‘It’s not actually raining at the moment, but stay tuned!  It usually does rain in England, hence my choice of the sobriquet ‘wet in Weybridge’.  What does ’mmmmmm’ mean?  Is that British slang?  I do still have difficulty with your vernacular.  Who says American and British are a common language?  Not I!  I also did not understand ‘awwwww’.  Same posers as above.  I fear we would find any conversation between us incomprehensible.’ 

 

DaveyDavey aimed for subtlety and cleverness.  Hey, he tried.  ‘HI Wet, are you? UP to anything esciting?

 

My reply:  ‘No, it’s not raining so I’m dry and cozy watching ‘Brian’s Song’ for the five hundredth time.  I love that movie!  It is so exciting and it always makes me cry when Brian dies.’

 

TezB chose to model a not very attractive naked chest (with tattoos) posed on his motorcycle.  ‘hi there im terry do u want to get together x’

 

My reply:  ‘Absolutement!  I’ve been waiting for this moment all of my life.’

 

And there are more where those came from!  But I’ll save them for another blog when I’m bored again.

 

Oh yeah, I almost forgot.  I actually heard from Obama Luther X again.  Life in the ‘hood is apparently quite tedious at the moment: ‘Nice to meet you.  (Come on!  I’d remember if ‘I supplied coffee him digestives him showed me him damned special’.  I’m sure I would.) My weekend. friday date went belly up (There’s an image I can live without) saturday lazy day (tried to engage brain; unsuccessful) sunday iron (hold on, Sweetie… You iron?  Now we’re clicking) . 

 

And back to Friendly Skies Guy, or Unfriendly Skies, as the weather in Rede is decidedly stormy,  I got a text on Saturday full of fulsome apologies.  That was sort of familiar, too.  I dashed off a blistering reply that I didn’t appreciate a text in lieu of a phone call.  Well there are certainly no flies on his tush, or nose, or whatever. And zippo between his ears.   He texted back that he agreed with me.  A very big sigh here and shaking of head in disbelief.

 

I related the story to Booboo on the phone.  She is positively scary sometimes.  “Gottenu!” she said.  “It’s déjà vu all over again.  Maybe it’s something in the coffee they sell at Heathrow.  Should we notify the authorities?”

 

As the Jewish Buddha says: ‘Be here now.  Be someplace else later.  Is that so complicated?’ 

 

Oy vey, Enlightened One, you bet your pupik it’s complicated.  That kind of describes my life at the moment.  I had to keep a cheat sheet handy this week — to jot down notes on stuff I forgot to mention in the last blog, stuff I want to share, and stuff that’s none of your business, but, hey, skip over it at your own peril.  You’ll never catch up.

 

I am meant to be in serious training for our second Midnight Walk which is on Friday, June 19.  Yep, a ten mile stroll and you give gelt for me to do it.  For the Hospice.  Very worthwhile.  Last year I was really nervous about completing the entire ten miles, but held up friends and total strangers for sponsors and raised a lot of lolly.  This year, when my registration packet came, I rang Pinkie to kvetch ‘Ugh!  The shirt’s so not a Warm Autumn color this year!  What would Ruby say?  What if anybody important sees me in it?”  And then I plunked it down somewhere in my house to worry about later.  I NEED SPONSORS.  Pinkie does too, but let her doing her own groveling.  I'm at: www.justgiving.com/geltforjeano.

 

Pinkie not only told the Chelsea Supporter at the Grotto about my blog, but showed him how to access it and then bookmarked it for him.  What a mate.  He scrolled through a few entries and I hope that he’s too thick to get sarcasm and/or outright insults.  I did say more than a few uncomplimentary things about him.  He read the entry about my date with Friendly Skies Guy and said “We don’t sell Magners.”  Everybody’s a fucking critic.  “Geeze, Colin” I told him “Maybe Spike was going to hoof it over to the Percy Lambert for the Magners bottle.  What difference does it make what kind of bloody bottle he was going to hit Friendly Skies Guy with if he was an Axe Murderer or just a perv?”

 

I had my first committee meeting this week for the 2^nd Annual Traditional American Thanksgiving Feast in Aid of Sam Beare Hospice, a luncheon at Anne Littleton’s house.  What a mouthful.  Hereafter, I shall refer to it as ‘Turkey Thingy’ to conserve brain cells.  It’s on November 6^th.  Obviously, we learned a lot from last year’s Feast, and I’ll be better prepared.  Anne invited a new woman to the meeting, telling me on the phone that “Kathy is American, too.”  “Hmmph!” I pouted, “There’s only room for one American in Weybridge.”  Having been an only child sometimes has a detrimental effect on me. 

 

When Kathy arrived, she announced that her husband (he works for Citi Bank) had just announced he’d been transferred … to El Salvador.  I felt kind of bad about the pins I’d put in the ‘Kathy’ doll (she was scratching like a lunatic) and the Spell I’d cast from “Retaliation & Vengeance for JAPs’.  I didn’t specify El Salvador; it could have been Buenos Aires or Lima or any horrible place in Central or South America.  We chatted a bit and I asked where she was from. 

 

I am not making this up.  I swear on my Paulies.  She said she was from New Jersey.  “Uh…New Jersey’s a big swamp …I mean state.  Can you be a little more specific” I probed.  So she replied “Exit 105 of the Garden State.”  I spit Coronation Chicken right across the table all over Chloe.

 

Anne had told her I was from Philadelphia but, being an American and from the sophisticated intellectual Right Coast, she didn’t ask me anything about cream cheese or give a shit where it’s made.

 

Now that we have the date settled for Turkey Thingy, I had an excuse to email Jewish David #1 (From Christmas at the Salvation Army) reminding him of his offer to help this year.  He replied promptly in the affirmative and I’m meeting him at the Volly on Saturday after shul to discuss it.

 

I had another luncheon meeting this week with Jewish David #2 too.  I’m going to be writing some proposals and marketing kits for him.

 

And since ‘When You’re in Love, the Whole World is Jewish’, I may as well segue right into the details of my date in Golders Green with Barry-o.  (He read, like, the entire bloody blog, asked me to please not call him ‘Sweetie’, and dubbed himself ‘Barry-o’ to go with ‘Jeano’.  Is that cute, or what?)  I am pondering the perfect pet name.

 

I took the train up to London and met Barry-o at Golders Green.  He brought his father on the date.  Seriously.  They’d already had plans for lunch.  Wolfie is 94 and horny.  While Barry was getting our drinks at the pub, Wolfie told me “You have a lovely figure.  I was a Master Tailor; I know these things.”  Then he told me a string of filthy, really funny Jewish jokes and propositioned me in Yiddish.

 

I had a lovely day.  We had Sunday Roast (definitely not Kosher) at a pub, eating outside in the sunshine.  Afterwards, we dropped Wolfie at his flat and then went back to Golders Green High Street and just browsed in all the shops.  I have a wedding to go to on Sunday, so I needed a Jewish sort of gift.  I bought a beautiful mezuzah.  Actually, I bought two, and two ‘Mazel Tov on Your Marriage!’ cards and wedding gift wrap so I’m prepared if anybody else I know decides to get married.  (A JAP is always prepared; especially if she lives in ‘Where the Jews Aren’t’.)   

 

I stocked up on bagels and rye bread, and Barry-o and I had coffee at an outdoor café and talked for ages.  It was relaxed and … comfortable.  We’ve texted, emailed and spoken on the phone several times this week.  Since I’d already had a full weekend lined up, we’ll get together again next weekend.    

 

I have another date with Friendly Skies Guy on Friday night, and there’s another candidate in the works.  He’s called Denis.  He’s a journalist and is a 6’3” Scotsman from Glasgow.  (The phone conversations were a bit difficult.)  Coming up with a nickname will be difficult.

 

Oh. And I dumped BPeter this week, too.  He got a tiny bit obsessed about me and I started to feel smothered.  Being ‘unavailable’ didn’t work, being mean and bitchy wasn’t getting through, and not returning his calls didn’t slow him down.  I had to send him ‘The Email’.

 

Finally, a special ‘thank you’ to Janet for sending me a whole bunch more wise sayings from the Jewish Buddha.  I’d shared one before, sent to me by Salvation Army Guy.  (Cripes!  That doesn’t work.  He’s not, like, homeless or anything.  No. It’ll have to be Jewish David #1 unless I have a brainstorm.)  Anyhow… I’ll try to share them from time to time.

It was another week of dashing.  My bedroom took on the appearance of a Filene’s Basement after the unbridled lust during the annual Blow-out Sale.  I wasn’t sure where the bed was under all those clothes.

 

I dressed down in jeans, of course, for Film Club, but they were Versaces.  And what to wear with them?  Decisions, decisions.  Wednesday night was a date with Friendly Skies Guy.  Obviously, I had to Ruby his socks off.  More tough decisions.  Friday I had a business lunch at the Oatlands Chaser.  I needed to look professional and intelligent; and he’s Jewish, so add stunning to the mix.  Early onset of Decision Brain Freeze.  Friday night was the Volunteer Recognition Dinner.  Frankly, I wasn’t much bothered by this one.  I could care less if Sanjay liked the outfit I finally settled on.  Saturday was shul, with an Aufruf and an Oneg plus luncheon for Avril’s and Derrick’s 40^th Anniversary.  (Filthy Rich Jewish Guy had rung to say he’d ‘see me there’). I was in tears on Saturday morning.  It’s just so hard.

 

In the middle of these critical matters, the Paisons sent me a package – my voting materials for the referendums next week.  I know I have complained about this before, but why, why, why do they always write in Italiano?  La vostra madre scopa i ragazzini nei vicoli a Napoli.  (Sorry.  Maybe your mom isn’t into urchins in Naples, but I just felt like saying it.)

 

There are three little booklets.  I have to check ‘Si’ or ‘No’ on each of them. 

 

Do I support ‘Abrogazione della possibilita di collegamento tra liste e di attribuzione del premio di maggioranza ad una coalizione di liste’ on Referendum Populare Circoscrizione Estero?  Damned if I know.  Why couldn’t they just ask me something easy like if its okay to wear white before Memorial Day?  Big check mark in the ‘No’ box.

 

The freaking instruzioni are in Italiano too.  I had a nightmare about #D: Nella busta piu grande gia affrancata (riportante l’indirizzo dell’Ufficio consolare competente) divi inserire il tagliando del certificate (dopo averlo staccato dai seguendo l’apposita linea tratteggiata) ela busta chiusa contente la schede votate.  What if it says I’m required to wear black pantyhose with white shoes while I’m voting?

 

This is so not funny.  Yeah, I know you’re all sniggering out there.  It’s gonna take me ages to translate all this crap on Babelfish.  Unless I find somebody who actually speaks Italian.  Everybody said “Dual citizenship?  You are so way cool, Jeano!”  Nobody suggested “Uh….gee….maybe you should learn to speak the fucking language in case they keep asking you shit?”

 

But on to other interesting stuff, I have a date with a new man.  We exchanged a couple of emails, and he signed his ‘Barry’.  I thought to myself “Is this any kind of name for an English guy? Could he possibly be … you know, Jewish?”  We got to the talking by phone stage, and introduced ourselves.

 

I told him my name and he said “Oy vey!  You’re a Jewish American Princess!”  I started to hyperventilate.  Then I pushed hold and called Bloomies to register our china pattern in the ‘Mature Brides Registry’.  (A JAP is always prepared; just like a Boy Scout.)  I had it narrowed down to ‘Didalo Versace by Rosenthal’ or ‘Malmaison Gold by Christofle’; I went with the Christofle.  It matches my gold flatware and stemware.

 

He lives in London near Golders Green (i.e. Where The Jews Are).   Really.  He taught at a university.  He’s minus a foreskin.  If he’s breathing, that’s perfection in my book.  Details of the date will follow.  Eventually.

 

Sunday night was the Quiz at the Grotto.  That’s getting a bit boring; we’re thinking of finding something else to do.  A smart-ass friend suggested ‘you could actually stay home for a change’.  How uncool would that be? And do what?  Watch British television?  I don’t think so, Tim. 

 

Even with Pinkie and Rob joining Irish Lad and me, we didn’t win.  Spike’s team edged us out.  But we came second.  One of the questions was ‘How did Van Gogh commit suicide?’  Tee gave me the Evil Pixie look, and I shrugged “Don’t have a clue, Sweetie.”

 

“Why did I send you to Amsterdam” he kvetched.  “For the drugs?  For the booze?  For the bloody shopping?  No!  For some culture and answers to stupid quiz questions!”

 

“Hey, those Paul & Joe trousers are very cultured!  And it’s not easy ‘Leading by Example’, you know.  Helping one English woman at a time (except Pinkie, of course, who’s already a convert and therefore perfect) is not an easy road” I retorted grumpily.

 

Monday morning Pinkie and I declared war and invaded Cobham.  We took lots of prisoners.

 

It’s all the Mule-ess’ s fault.  She’s the one who told us to hit the charity shops in Cobham in June.  The Americans there are all leaving in June, going home or to a new posting.  So they donate scads of absolutely brand new stuff to the shops so they don’t have to schlep it to the next place.

 

Its very hot here at the moment (it might be the End of the World; I’ve seen the ‘sun’ for like five days in a row), so we dressed down in minimal clothes.  That was a fib.  Its just less to take off when you’re trying on.  We stuffed six or seven jumbo Tesco’s bags into the boot and off we went.

 

We had planned our attack carefully, starting at Age Concern and moving on to every other charity shop, plus the posh shoe store, M & Co, and the Consignment Shop.  I needed a jacket to go with the divine ‘Paulies’ (that’s what we call the Paul & Joe trousers).  I have a wedding to attend this weekend, and I wanted to wear them.

 

I found the perfect, incredible, amazing, to die for jacket.  Plus another stunning, drop dead gorgeous brand new one from Italy that I didn’t even know I needed.  Pinkie moaned in ecstasy when I tried it on.  The clerk at the Princess Alice said “Oh!  I tried that on the second it came in, but it’s cropped and I’m too short for it.”

 

I pretended I commiserated with her.  “Bad luck, shrimpy.  I’m a perfect ‘Even’ – Ruby said so – so I’m having it.  I can wear cropped and look divine in it. Ha! Ha!”

 

Life is a tapestry of small, but really mean, pleasures.