Time for my annual, the only completely serious blog- the Thanksgiving Edition.

 

Funny, I’m not feeling especially thankful this year.

 

Not that things are awful.  As usual, most of my life is great.  I think I need to add up the highs and lows of the year and reassure myself that it was a damned good year and rates suitable gratitude and pride in my accomplishments.

 

All those people I wrote about being grateful for last year- well, almost all of them – are still a huge part of my life and doing the stuff that makes me appreciate them.

 

And this year I got to go home and see all of the American ones, reconnecting and catching up in person.  My cousins, Abe and Janet, even my brother-in-law.  Pat and Mike.  Israeli Guy. 

 

And Stuart, naturally.  The real, true constant in my life.

 

So I guess one tick on the grateful side of the page. √

 

My bond with my British friends, the blokes and Pinkie and BooBoo, is still as strong as ever.  Lulu: you don’t ring or pop into mine often enough.  So another grateful tick.  √

 

And I can’t fail to mention becoming undivorced from Toots.  I’m so glad I initiated that.  We talked on the phone for three hours the other night!   Clarifying things, it was three 59 minute conversations; Thank you, Sky Talk.  √

 

And even though I was extremely pissed off at her, Scary Fairy will always be a part of my life.  I don’t like getting divorced from my friends and I still love her.  √

 

I’m fortunate for both of the Davids who’ve come into my life since last Thanksgiving.  JDavid has taken me in a new direction professionally, and BDavid has proven to put his hard work and considerable skills where his mouth is.  √√

 

I’ve added new friends, too; Deb, my fellow American, Carol, my fellow shop-a-holic, and Brenda and Sarah, from Sam.  √

 

I did lots of ‘good works’, my charity gigs, and stuff at shul, so I feel like I haven’t wasted most of my time on frivolous pursuits.  But I sure enjoyed the frivolity, especially Amsterdam with Pinkie and Sunderland with BooBoo.  And Cousin Lenny with Irish Lad.  √

 

My love life continues to be a train wreck or a twelve vehicle pile-up on the Schuylkill Expressway, depending on which day it is.  It shouldn’t matter so much.  I know that intellectually.  But it still does.

 

Last year I was grateful that Bagpipe Guy came back into my life.  I didn’t stay grateful very long, really.  He hung around just long enough to decimate my self-esteem a second time, and as if that wasn’t abusive enough, he turned up to do it all over again in the Fall.

 

Sadly, the whole category ‘Guys’ gets a tick on the Dark Side.  √

 

Naturally, other people disappointed or hurt me, too.  Like Janette, with that whole business about the blog, which I still honestly don’t get.  And Cousin Bernie.  But other people reached out in unanticipated and kind ways, so I guess that still earns a tick on the plus side.  √

 

If I wanted to be completely forthright and brutally honest, I would talk about Marina being in my life this year.  I don’t, and I won’t.  A tick on the negative side.  √

 

I performed my yahzreits and honored my loved ones with dignity and grace.  I am a mensch.

 

Okay.  That’s a lot of pluses and only a few minuses.  So I guess I am actually grateful.  This year’s journey through the Wilderness had some rough patches, but I’m still here and I’m still happy.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!  I hope you all have a lot to be thankful for, too.

 

 

I jumped ahead a bit with the mobile crisis for chronology, but obviously the day of the Thanksgiving Feast was not the most auspicious time to be without a mobile.

 

My cooks for the various vegetables and desserts were all lined up and had their instructions from me, General Cohen, so that was one item ticked off my huge list.

 

I got up early and whipped up sage stuffing and green bean casserole for 70 people.  Separately, of course.  I don’t want you to infer that I mixed them together.  And no, that’s not an exaggeration or a whopper.  I bought all the necessary ingredients except green beans when I was in the States and Stuart shipped it to me. 

 

Booboo popped in to the Butcher and picked up the turkey (uncooked) which she dropped off at mine.  Then I cooked the turkey.  Really.  I have to be honest here and admit that Boo and I checked for clues but we couldn’t figure out if it was a ‘Tom’ or a ‘Hen’. 

 

All kidding aside for a change, I have cooked a turkey before.  Many times.  There were a lot of Thanksgiving holidays during my other life as Sadie the Married Lady.  Including one memorable year when I made a completely Kosher Thanksgiving dinner because my brother-in-law’s girlfriend-of-the-month was ultra orthodox and he begged me.

 

The English turkey of undetermined gender and I got along just fine; in fact, it was cooked to perfection- moist and juicy with a lovely crispy skin.  Happily, my oven doesn’t even go up to 325 degrees, and I remembered that 190 is the British 325.  Fifteen minutes per pound unstuffed is the way turkeys prefer to be cooked here; the same as at home.

 

My setting up team was due to meet me at Jesus Christ Prince of Peace at 3:30 to put up the tables and then decorate and set them.  Boo and I walked in at 3:00; we’d schleped a full carload of stuffing, stringbean casserole, decorations, hot trays, etc.  (Mr. Turkey was left home to cool on the counter.)

 

Imagine my surprise to find a crew of painters on scaffolding painting the bloody room.  And all the curtains down.

 

Yes, I did get hysterical.  I remember saying “Jesus Christ!  Prince of Peace!” quite a few times, among other things.  This was not cursing; I was simply orienting myself to time and place.  I calmly went off to find the Church Secretary.  (The ‘calmly’ part is, in fact, a really big one.)

 

She apologized profusely for the screw-up, and made the painters pack up and go.  We opened all the windows to dissipate the smell, and got busy.

 

I had a nice man called Ben who set up all the tables and chairs and a decorating crew comprised of two Sam Beare committee ladies and Pinkie and BooBoo, my long-suffering BFFs.  I’d picked up table decorations and a giant Thanksgiving flag in the States, and they did a beautiful job.  The tables were done in Fall colors, with green floral runners and gold and green napkins, and little gold and brown and purple leaves sprinkled about, and cute little pumpkins for the table numbers.

 

Meanwhile, David had arrived for duty as Chef.  Regular readers will remember that I met David at the Salvation Army in Addlestone on Christmas Day last year.  He cooks the entire dinner every year.  We’d kept in contact and he’d agreed to work at my Do.  He was amazing.

 

He made all of the pumpkin pies, some of the Laura Bush’s Sweet Potato Puree, and heated everything to perfection with perfect timing, and then carved the turkey with aplomb and poise as the guests came to the serving window.  We served the veg buffet style, at two stations.  He even dressed for the occasion in a wild Western shirt.

 

We had music (a jazz trio), entertainment for the children, a Raffle, and a Silent Auction.  An artist friend from shul donated two pieces of original work, and someone whom I don’t know, donated a beautiful handmade American quilt with a Thanksgiving theme.  Marion, the Events Organizer from the Hospice, made a little speech and said Grace, and I explained the history and symbolism of the holiday and the food served, which I wrote beforehand.  I’m not good speaking extemporaneously.

 

We had 75 guests, which actually was a perfect number.  I don’t think we’d have coped with 120, which we’d hoped for initially.  And again, friends from Sam and the Centre came, friends from shul and people in Weybridge whom I now know, at least as acquaintances.  My new fellow committee member at Friends of Weybridge Centre came with her husband, the Surrey County Council Member.  She brought along two friends.  She started to introduce me.  “We know each other” I told her.  “We belong to the same synagogue.”  Little towns!

 

This is the shameless bragging part.

 

We raised over £1500.00 for the hospice!  The auctions and raffle did quite well, and David had the crafty idea of selling all the left over pies and vegetables.  They went like hotcakes.  

 

Anne, my Co-Chair, who missed the actual event, and I are going to have a party to thank everybody who worked so tirelessly to make it a success.

 

I was quite full of myself Friday night after endless compliments right into Saturday with a steady stream of congratulatory phone calls.

 

Everyone said “Next year we should …” so I think it A Traditional American Thanksgiving Dinner has become an annual not to be missed Event in the Weybridge Social Calendar. 

 

I am quite pleased with myself, even if ‘Someone’ isn’t.

 

I have to add a postscript here in the interests of Honesty, Fair Play, and other boring character traits.

 

Ira Gershwin popped in to visit me.

 

Yeah, at 3:30 in the morning.  Maybe it was the four slices of pumpkin pie I snarfed.

 

Anyway, he was mad that I’d quoted from his song (and his brother’s) in the blog without giving them credit.  Everybody’s a critic. 

 

There were a lot of ‘Oy veys’ and ‘Gottenus’ tossed around and I thought “Gee, my bedroom is busier than Grand Central Station and I’m not even having sex with most of them.”

Of course I apologized profusely for my oversight and any offense caused.  Blogging is a tiring profession.  Trust me.

 

In true JAP style, though, I got the last word.

 

“Um.  Mr. Gershwin?  Next time could ya just Twitter me at the Wailing Wall?  I pick up my messages on Wednesday.”

 

 

I had my coffee date with Barry, but there was absolutely no spark.  No reason in particular; ‘I’m fussy’ comes to mind.  I just didn’t fancy him and drank my cappechino in warp speed and got out of Dodge.  I got an email saying I wasn’t very nice, but, seriously, so what else is new?  Who ever said I was?

 

I didn’t even make it to the ‘meeting for a coffee’ stage with Richard.  It started off with some okay emails and two seemingly normal phone chats.  We made arrangements to meet, but then I got that email.  Basically, and I am trying very hard not to be crude or smutty here, it talked about me being naked and him sucking lots of body parts, including my toes – which I absolutely detest, if anyone’s interested; I don’t even like pedicures.  

 

Anyway, I thought “Gee.  I didn’t know Café Uno was a Bare Naked Coffee Shop.  I was planning on wearing that stunning new black and cream jacket with the embroidered flowers.  With those amazing winter white trousers.  I guess I’ll be kinda overdressed.”

 

Never mind what I really muttered to myself.  Discretion is the better part of blogging so that supposed friends and critics don’t get their panties in a bunch.  I just emailed him and said ‘No thanks.  Forget it.” And blocked him from contacting me again.

 

I was frantically getting stuff done for the Turkey Fest, running around and making poor BooBoo drive me to ‘around’ all day when my brand new mobile chose to die.  It’s six weeks old.  BooBoo, and naturally any child under the age of six, knows how those little suckers work. 

 

She took out the battery and gave it the Kiss of Life.  “It’s got a battery?  I thought the mystical magic comes through, like, the air” I said, seriously impressed.

 

She fiddled with (in a totally appropriate, non-sexual way; I saw her hands and the thingy during the entire fiddling) the SIM card.  “What’s a SIM card” I asked, just for something to say that sounded even remotely interested.

 

Dr. BooBoo diagnosed a broken SIM card.

 

I was actually quite relieved.  Because she had been mumbling some stuff.  And it was harsh.  I definitely caught ‘Stephen King’ and ‘Carrie’ and ‘frying electrical devices by just touching them’.  “Seriously, Boo” I defended myself huffily, “English electricity doesn’t like me.  Like the Home Office.  I’ve only killed three or four hairdryers, one straightener, and one TV.  Oh yeah, and one VCR.  And two mobile phones.  This one isn’t my fault.  You just said so.”

 

She gave me The Look and I added, “Besides, if I had real Carrie-power, do you honestly think you-know-who would still be alive and functioning in you-know-where? I wouldn’t waste it on a bloody phone.”

 

Booboo decided we needed to call Orange.  Like I wasn’t stressed enough.  She actually did the talking, but she had to practically hit me by hour three of her conversation with Customer Support in Delhi.  I was trying to grab the phone and hang it up; just because I’d gone a teensy bit insane just listening to her side of the conversation.

 

Customer Support has a clever little trick.  Just repeat the same thing over and over until the downtrodden English person on the other end of the phone’s head explodes.  Piyush did it, until he accidentially on purpose disconnected Booboo.  Then Dibnasu did it when she called back and started all over again. 

 

Finally, she convinced him that she wasn’t me and actually knew her way around a SIM card and the inside of a mobile.  His diagnosis: the SIM card was broken. 

 

They agreed that Orange would dispatch a new one immediately.  To be delivered by courier on Saturday, between the hours of 8:00 AM and 6:00 PM.  I could not leave the house as I had to sign for it personally when it arrived.  You might think they were delivering some C4 or something.  And my next door neighbors never mind signing for my packages, even the ones of plutonium in the red boxes with the skull & crossbones.

 

Well, I expect Piyush and Dibnasu had a good laugh over that one.  I knew… I just knew… a SIM card was not going to turn up at mine.  And of course it didn’t.  I waited home all day.  Am I gullible or what?

 

And I didn’t even start calling Customer Service ‘til about 1:00 in the afternoon.  I won’t even go there; it’s too pathetic. I got six different stories from three different people in Delhi, but no SIM card.

 

I went to a Charity Do in West Byfleet on Saturday night with a new friend called Angela who lives in Turkey.  I met her at the Thanksgiving Do.  Although we hadn’t known it, we’d often been in the same place at the same time.  She worked for British Air in Washington, DC.  I attended a slew of BA Do’s over the years.  She mentioned the Concorde Launch Party at Dulles.  I was there.  So was she.   Ditto several unforgettable Christmas parties in New York.  And I was the Agent of the Year, twice, for selling the most tickets on BA in the Northeast Region, for which I was wined and dined fabulously by the Sales Team.

 

The Wine Bar was packed, and noisy, and we didn’t stay very late.  I wanted to get home and practice making my mobile phone self-combust.  Today mobile phones, tomorrow everybody who gets on my nerves.

 

Bloggers Disclaimer:  Booboo has vetted this entry and removed all curse words and ethnic slurs.

 

   

 

I read back through sections of the blog Sunday night while I was watching the Packers take care of business and crush the Cowboys, which was a lot more fun than reading about myself in flashback mode.  The Eagles lost.  Again.  I know.  No more breathless play-by-play reporting on real, proper American football.  Can I just quickly mention that Notre Dame lost and Penn State won?  HaHaHaHa!  Okay.  Sorry.

 

I was curious; probably more the Red of angry than the ‘Yellow’ kind.  Smutty?  Cruel? Mean?  Actually, it was pretty tedious.  Banal comes to mind, too.  It seemed to be mostly about shopping, lunching, shul, meetings, shifts at Sam and the Centre, and not nearly as many fantastic dates as I most definitely deserve.  Maybe I missed the ‘Playboy After Dark’ blogs.

 

Saturday night was the long anticipated Trunk Show.  Naturally, being England, there was a nor’easter on Saturday with driving rain and hurricane force wind.  We’d cajoled Sanjay into letting us into the Centre in the morning while he did Meals on Wheels to set up.  I was a bit neurotic about getting everything organized and just right.  Pinkie and Carol were much more laid-back.  I stressed unnecessarily and probably annoyed my partners; it went brilliantly.

 

It really did.  The turnout wasn’t as great as we’d hoped, but a lot of women turned up despite the crappy weather.  It was polished and professional, and we all, including the other stalls we sub-let space to, made some coin. 

 

Best of all, everyone asked when our next Show was going to be and gave us input on what sorts of things they’d like to see next time.   

 

 

Patting myself on the back (hey, can I do that; will anyone get offended?) I was thrilled by the number of my friends who turned up to support me.  Co-workers from Sam and the Centre came, my new friend Deb, friends from shul, and even my hairdresser came, bringing some of her friends, including another American, named Gerry, with whom I instantly bonded.  I am (modestly, of course) a full-fledged presence in Weybridge now.

 

Ticket sales to the Thanksgiving supper have, fortunately, started to trickle in so it won’t be a total wipe out.  But I got another call from another local radio station asking me to come on the Wey Too Early Show on Radio Wey to talk about the dinner.  Hey.  I didn’t coin that slogan, and I didn’t make this up.

 

I spoke to the presenter (DeeJay to Americans).  He’d heard the interview on BBC1 Surrey.  He actually asked me “What do you serve on Thanksgiving with cream cheese in it?  You’re from Philadelphia; isn’t that where the cream cheese comes from?”  Feel free to groan; I did.

 

When I got to the studio, we went over what we’d be chatting about.  My friend Sarah, who’s doing the pie baking for the dinner, came along to get in a plug for the newest Sam Bric-a-brac Shop opening in Walton-upon-Thames. 

 

Unfortunately, or at least boringly, he wanted to talk about My Troubles.  Again.  I didn’t want to, and I told him that nicely.  He insisted.  He said it was the most interesting part of the story.  I gave in, ungraciously.  I’m really tired of Jarvo and the Eagles shirt, Immigration and getting deported, and the Italians.  Well, I mean I love the Italians.  I just don’t want to talk about all that business anymore to strangers.  Especially on the radio.  So, like, don’t ask me again.

 

Radio Wey – don’t get excited; they have, like, twelve listeners – offered me my own radio show.  Jon, the presenter, had read the blog and thought my Adventures in England would make a cute, humorous show, especially the mix-ups with British vs. American terminology.

 

We had one on the show, on the air.  Sarah mentioned the ‘Tomato Turkey’ we would be serving, and I kinda went “Huh?  ‘Tomato turkey???”

 

“Yes” she said seriously, “The menu you emailed me; Turkey in tomato sauce.”

 

“Um… Sarah, it said ‘Tom’ Turkey’.  It means a boy turkey.  A girl turkey is a ‘hen’ turkey” I hastened to explain.  Maybe that’s why ticket sales weren’t wonderful.  Who the hell puts tomato sauce on turkey?  Yuck. 

 

Blogger’s Disclaimer:  While it is true that my family, being Italian, always served a pasta course on Thanksgiving, never mind the sixteen side dishes entirely comprised of carbohydrates and saturated fat with the damned turkey, we never, ever let the gravy (tomato sauce) get up close and personal with the bird.

 

“Besides” I added, always needing to get the last word, “It said ‘Tom’ not ‘tomato’.” 

 

Not to be outdone, Sarah countered with “But that’s how you abbreviate ‘tomato’”.

 

“No. No. Noooo” I replied. “Not where I come from.  Where I come from we abbreviate ‘tomato’ as ‘tomato’.  When we mean tomato, we just use the whole bloody word: ‘tomato’. It’s, like, four extra letters.”

 

Of course, what made this exchange even funnier was that Sarah was saying ‘Toe-Mah-Toe’ and I was saying ‘Ta-May-Toe’.  Yeah, just like that song Irish Lad keeps singing to me.  Thank some Divine Being (politically correct, generic, don’t piss off anybody name for you-know-who) we didn’t discuss the sweet Poe-tay-Toes or any of my many, many vacations in the Car-ib-be-in.

 

Anyhow, the Producer thought my blog was clever and funny, too. “Gee, I guess he doesn’t know Janette or Somebody” I thought.  Yeah.  It was another cheap shot.

 

I declined their kind offer, of course.  I have enough trouble making the time to write the damned thing as it is, let alone go regurgitate it on the airwaves in Surrey.  They said they’d like to invite me on the show from time to time just to ‘chat’.

 

Last night, I had a date with Tom.  Am I allowed to say that?  We had dinner at Il Ponte again, which has become ‘our’ Italian Restaurant.  I made a passing reference to Billy Joel, prompting himself to start singing it, in the restaurant.  This set us off on nattering about ‘diners’, ‘waterbeds’, and ‘Sears Roebuck & Co’. (Pinkie would have loved Sears.)

 

And being serious for a moment, this is one of the quirks I adore about Tom.  His mind is so quick, and our conversations go off into so many interesting directions.  After we did ‘Italian Restaurant’ and Christie Brinkley’s well publicized love life to death, we got onto the USS Arizona and Japanese tourists.  See what I mean? 

 

Appendix 1 – This blog was not intended to offend any citizens of Japan, even if they have ever been on vacation in Hawaii.

 

Appendix 2 – I like tomatoes, however you pronounce it.  They’re so …. Round…. And squishy.  Unless they’re Jersey ones; I don’t like Jersey tomatoes; they’re too juicy.  However, no tomatoes got their feelings bruised during the production of this blog.

 

Appendix 3 – I hate, loath and despise the Cowboys, as does everyone with class.  I’m glad they lost.  Ditto Notre Dame.  Sue me.

 

Appendix 4, relative to Appendix 2 – Further clarifying the issue of the origins of the red items under discussion, perhaps ‘don’t like’ is too strong an emotion.  Please edit that to read: ‘do not prefer the tomatoes grown in the Garden State, although I will graciously eat them without comment if they are served by the hostess.

 

Well, I had my fifteen minutes of British fame.  I was a guest on a local radio show called Surrey Breakfast with Nick Wallis.  Pinkie came with me for moral support (plus she drove).  The radio station is located on the campus of the University of Guildford, her alma mater.

 

In another one of those peculiar English twists, I learned on Thursday that ‘Guildford’ is pronounced ‘Gill-ford’; the ‘d’ is silent.  Like Chiswick is pronounced ‘Chis-ick’; because it is.  That’s the reason.  Really.

 

The radio station is BBC1-Surrey, which I guess is more or less local, covering the news and information about the towns that comprise the county Surrey.  They have this PR thing going, with posters, signs, even coffee mugs, proclaiming stuff like ‘Exciting in Esher!”, ‘Grand in Guildford’.

 

When I’d sent the producer a little blurb about Thanksgiving, he picked up on the little advert in my emails about my blog.  He read some of it, and was intrigued by the story of my quest to get back to England, my Home Office troubles and the Italian citizenship.  As I commented to BooBoo, all of that is so ‘yesterday’.  But they wanted to talk about it, on the air.

 

It’s ironic, really.  When all the bad stuff was happening, in real time, I couldn’t find anyone in the media, or connected, to do anything or provide any help at all.  Now it’s all in the distant past, and I did it… all on my own.  It’s not really that interesting any more. 

 

But I gamely told the story again, including the famous ‘meeting Jarvo at the Grotto wearing my Eagles sweatshirt’, so I could promote the damned Thanksgiving Dinner. 

Which, unfortunately, isn’t selling well.  Why?  I’m not sure.  Probably the economy has a lot to do with it.  And the plethora of competition by other fundraising events.  One could literally spend every weekend, and a few weeknights, at various ‘Do’s in Aid of Something or Other’.  Even the competition for raffle prizes for the various events is cutthroat.  Charity is a very competitive business.  I actually had a little table at a Christmas Fayre on Friday for Hands Across the Andes talking up the dinner.  I was right next to the table selling rosary beads made by the poor orphans in Ecuador or somewhere like that.  Come on.  You can’t eat rosary beads and call it a jolly evening.

 

Anyway, it was unbelievable how many people rang or emailed to say they’d heard it, including PPeter, my landlord.  Little towns!  Honestly.  If I want to catch up with anybody, I just have to go outside Sam for a fag during my shift.  Positively everybody in Weybridge will walk by at some point.

 

There’s a link to the site, so family back home and folks who missed it live got to, and still can, for a week or so, hear it: www.bbc.co.uk/surrey and click on ‘available now on BBC1 player’.

 

And while I’m on the subject of my blog- I was, wasn’t I? – a very peculiar thing happened.  I got divorced by another one of my friends.  Honestly, this is weird.  The reason is my blog.  Not that she read it; she’s not computer literate.  She’s known about the blog since I’ve known her, and I have talked about it with her.  It seems an unidentified ‘someone’ told her about it.  Exactly what I’m not sure.  But she used words like ‘smutty’, ‘mean’, ‘foul language’, etc.  She went on about a piece where I was ‘cruel to an old lady’.  I truly didn’t get what she was on about and said so.  Right before she hung up on me.  Twice. 

 

I went back and read like four months of blogs.  The rest of you got that ‘Mary’ wasn’t a real, specific person, right?  And that several different people could be ‘Charles’?  Parts of it were true, parts weren’t, and, all of it was written for comic effect.  I guess some people didn’t get that.  ‘Rita’ isn’t a single, specific lady either.

 

I try, very seriously, and except for a few ill-advised ones where I ventilated about a guy and shouldn’t have, to not take the piss.  Except on myself.  I am always the butt of my own stories.  But it’s about me.   And whatever has caught my fancy at a particular moment in time.  Remember the endless references to the Queen’s hats?  Chill.  I am so over Elizabeth II’s headgear these days.  And then it was Cousin Bernie for a bit. 

 

But since it is about me, that means everything that relates to said person, Jeano, is fair game.  Including my sex life, or lack of one, and my spiritual journey and the bumps in that particular road, as well as my ordinary successes and failures.  I’m afraid I can’t produce an Appendix with every entry to disclose what is word for word true, what’s a tad enhanced, and what got blown up to (hopefully) comic proportions.  Since I am assiduously endeavoring to live this life to the fullest, I obviously interact with many people, and other characters must make appearances from time to time or the anecdotes wouldn’t make any sense if I was the only one in them.

 

As I’m the one writing it, I think it’s my call when I want to emphatically emphasize something by using Anglo-Saxon words instead of ‘oh heck or ’gosh darn’.  Is there truly anybody left anywhere who can be shocked by a few expletives?  And the clue, ‘Someone’, whoever you are, is in the Tag Line: “The Truth Is So Boring If You Don’t Make At Least Some of It Up”.   That means artistic license to exaggerate or blue-pencil as the particular circumstances warrant.  Trust me; I metaphorically bite my tongue sometimes when I’d really like to ventilate.

 

A situation occurred last week that I briefly alluded to in the blog, not wanting to exacerbate it, and frankly, because I wasn’t sure if I was comfortable with the rationale purportedly behind it.  And there are sometimes incidents where it’s simply kinder or courteous to ‘not go there’.  As my true friends can attest to. 

 

What I find paradoxical, and more than a little eerily coincidental, is that I just mended a fence with a dear friend over a strikingly similar thing.  Who I am or who I chose to become.  And my feelings about this particular situation are precisely the same.  If I didn’t steal from you, burn your house down, or sleep with your husband, am I required to apologize to anyone for my personal behavior or defend my personal opinions?  If there’s a ‘Manual for Friends’ out there where it says ‘You will never do or say anything that some of your so-called friends might not approve of’ I haven’t read it, nor do I ascribe to it.  That is so not what friendships are built on.  I have very different views from many of my friends on a myriad of hot button issues.  I had a serious fight with CheeseBoy on one of them; then we agreed to disagree and not discuss the topic ever again.

 

At the most simplistic level, anyone who finds the blog untenable or inappropriate can simply not read it.  I don’t expect people to always agree with my choices (hell, I don’t always agree with my choices) or enjoy reading about American football.  (I get a lot of complaints on that topic.)  But I will confess; I do hope it’s usually pretty funny.  I’ve been assured that it is; maybe those readers haven’t read the ‘Manual for Friends’ either or simply grasp the concept of ‘hyperbole’.  And I occasionally learn a valuable life lesson, not always positively unfortunately, and I like to congratulate myself in print that I’m not always shallow and ditzy.

 

On another level, the blog has been around long enough that regular readers recognize the subtleties left unsaid or hinted at, and the running in-jokes.  And put up with the ones that are maudlin or self-analytical. I find it hard to fathom that anyone could label the totality  ‘dirty’ or ‘mean’, as it is a running journal of my personal journey through the wilderness.  We’re all mean or grumpy, or maybe even inappropriate, at certain times; but it surely doesn’t define who we are or invite labeling.

 

I think what was the scariest part of my newest divorce was that my ex-friend hadn’t even read any of the stuff she leveled accusations about.  She was making judgments and tossing out labels about me based on someone else’s impressions or interpretations and, sadly, their sense of humor.  And in what context?  The point of that anecdote was that I was running for a committee position that nobody wanted and I would have won even if this was Fall River and I was Lizzie Borden, let alone being a third of a love triangle.   Because this kind of shit… I mean poopoo … always happens to me.

 

I find it almost McCarthy-ish that I was tried and convicted in absentia and then denied an opportunity to state my position and defend my right to free expression, however I choose to employ it.  Twice.  She hung up on me twice.  Because I called her back because I couldn’t make sense of the whole thing after she hung up the first time and I was certain that as a grown up she would understand that hanging up on someone is… well …  really stupid.  Let’s move right past unfair to ignorant, childish, and pejorative. 

 

I hope it’s okay with the Thought Police out there that I like to use quotes sometimes to illustrate a point.  Wow.  Golly.  I hope Shakespeare is still politically correct and I don’t inadvertently offend anybody.  If I want to blatantly offend somebody, trust me, you’ll know it and they will too. 

 

This has been the month from Heck on so many different levels. 

 

‘When sorrows come, they come not single, but in battalions.’  

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, it’s been a long time between blogs.

 

Although life in Jeano’s World is generally perfect, even I have the occasional rough patch.  My Muse is apparently on holiday in some other solar system and I haven’t felt like blogging.  Even a cuddle with the Alcohol Fairy couldn’t get the creative juices

 

What happened?  Stuff.  Yeah, that’s all you’re getting.  One of my New Year’s resolutions for Yom Kippur (along with ending World Hunger and resisting the temptation to wear black and white) was to be more circumspect in the blog.  No angst about my love life, or the toxic waste I seem to keep unwisely stepping in.  No thinly veiled insults about people who have disappointed, or more importantly, seriously pissed me off. 

 

So basically I had nothing to say.   Because I stepped into the doodoo again and ended up with bupkas and more hurt feelings.  Again.  And the most unlikely person in the universe fucked up royally, disappointed me, and made me so angry I had steam coming out of my ears and expletives spewing out of my mouth.  In shul.  Really.

 

Of course, other stuff – the usual good or amusing stuff – happened too.

 

I had a fantastic date with Tom.  He has lasted a hell of a lot longer than they usually do; it’s, like, four months.  Maybe we’re ‘going steady’.  Nah.  Maybe it’s just become a comfortable routine.  If only I could understand him when he talks.  Maybe not.  Maybe it’s better not to know what he’s on about.

 

But I guess it must be those expensive dinners; I like to eat.  And the cute/funny/sexy emails and texts.  I enjoy sparkling repartee.

I mean, what else could account for such longevity?

 

Anyway, I have dates with a ‘Richard’ and a ‘Barry’ penciled into my diary.  I just hope it’s not the Richard or Barry I already went out with.  That is just so ‘been there, done that’.  As a precaution, I just delete their emails if their names are ‘Peter’, ‘Steve’ or ‘Chris’.  I have a Losers List, and you can bet I check it twice before accepting new candidates.

 

My favorite Mike, the Sam one, rang me on Friday to ask a big favor.  He was in the shop on his own, and needed to leave a little early.  Could I pop over and close for him?  Of course I said okay and wandered over to the shop at 4:00.  I reassured Mike that I could handle all the closing tasks on my own and sent him on his merry way.

 

At precisely 4:20, the last minute browsers turned up as usual.  It’s a changing cast of characters, but they’re all on contract to turn up every single day to wander around in a zombie-like trance until we finally have to ask them to leave.  Great!  Friday’s crew included a woman with a push-chair the size of Houston.  That required opening both doors to get the bloody baby carrier inside, and then it took up half the shop. 

 

At precisely 4:29, she came to the counter with two books and inquired “Do you take cards”.  For a 3 quid purchase.  “No” I snapped, not really very nicely.  “Oh” she said, “I’ll dash to the hole in the wall”.  (This is what stupid women with giant push-chairs call the ATM.)

 

Then she said “Can I leave the push-chair here?”

 

Believe me, England is a very small country; it would probably fit on Exit 82 of the Garden State Parkway, with room left over for Vatican City.  And what with being simply crammed with illegal immigrants and terrorists who managed to score a legal visa, push-chairs are, like, the final straw.  They’re every-bloody-where and they’re huge.  I can’t imagine why people insist on reproducing even more tiny Brits to take up even more space.

 

Anyway, that pesky American syndrome kicked in… ‘I am here to provide service…’ “What?  What does ‘service’ mean?  Check one of the dictionaries in the Reference Section.  And I might actually smile by accidental; don’t take it personally.”  I said “okay”; a sale is a sale and Sam needs the bucks.  I mean pounds.

 

She dashed off and I rang up another last minute sale.  Then the push-chair started to howl. 

 

The other customer said “She left the baby in the chair” rather surprised.

 

I said “Bloody fucking hell!  She left the baby in the chair!”  I was way more than surprised.  Panicked comes to mind.  It did cross my mind that she’d abandoned Houston, plus the kid, in the Sam Beare Hospice Bookshop on a Friday afternoon when I had to dash home because I had an engagement.  I could be tied up for hours with the police and social services.  “What did she look like?  I don’t bloody know!  She was a woman.  I think.”

 

The other customer wasted no time getting out of Dodge, leaving me to stare at howling Houston wondering why shit always happens to me.

 

Ten long minutes later she returned mumbling about a ‘queue at the hole in the wall’.  You can bet I didn’t smile at her.

 

Another reason I haven’t had much time is the first ever Buy Design Trunk Show.  Partners Pinkie and Carol, and me, are having a clothing sale this weekend.  Very professional and extremely posh.  It’s being held at the Weybridge Senior Centre.  Don’t snicker.  It’s a lovely venue, large and airy, with a kitchen (plus dishwasher for the wine glasses) and nice loos (very important to ladies).  As I am now ‘connected’, what with being the Secretary of the committee and everything, I got a special discount rate for the rental.

 

Hopefully, it will be a huge success and the first of many such shows. 

 

And switching hats, I’m running around to meetings and events promoting the Thanksgiving Feast as well.  Although, frankly, Pinkie, Carol and I seem to have an awful lot of Buy Design Board of Directors meetings with an awful lot of wine.   

 

I’m going to be a guest on a radio chat show this week, on BBC1 Surrey, to talk up the dinner.  I’m sure I’ll bore you all senseless with the breathless details afterwards.

 

And of course there were many ‘ladies who lunch’ lunches and meets for drinkies.  So lots of fun stuff’s been going on in Jeano’s World too.

 

But I’ll end on a sad note.  Mary, my competition for Charles’, the gay Meals on Wheels Guy, passed away this week.  Gosh, she was the fourth senior this month.  It was actually quite sad, really, even though Pinkie kept taking the piss and mentioning that the way was now clear for me to make a move on Charles Saturday night while he’s chaperoning the Trunk Show.   Hmm.  I need to check my list; I don’t think I ever dated (a) a gay guy or (b) anyone called ‘Charles’.

 

 

Sorry, but I have to start the blog with Proper, Real American sports again.

 

The Eagles spanked the pesky Redskins on Monday Night Football no less, which is always so special.  The Nittany Lions blanked the Wolverines 35 – 10.  So it was already an excellent weekend from a fan’s perspective.  I did watch the Bucs-Pats game on telly; it was played here after all.  But it was lame.

 

But.  But that’s not all!  The Phabulous, Phantastic, Phearce, Phrenetic Phillies captured the NCLS pennant in five and advanced to the World Series.  I wore my Phillies shirt in hommage.  Especially to that cute Cole Hammels guy.  That’s a pretty cool name, huh?

 

And I predict an East Coast World Series.  Yep, the Battle of the Joisey Turnpike.  The Damned Yankees will defeat the botoxed California Angels in the ACLS as soon as it stops raining in New York.  But not to worry.  The Phils will take game one in the House That Steinbrenner Built, 6 – 1, shutting up all those loud New Yawkers.  (I have ESP; okay, it’s really ESPN, but it sounded cleverer with ‘ESP’).

 

I’m afraid I have nothing terribly interesting to report.  Work, meetings for the Thanksgiving Feast, meetings for the Buy Design Trunk Show, shifts at Sam and the Senior Centre.

 

A date with Tom.  I cooked!  I made an ‘American’ turkey dinner.  Well, no, I didn’t cook an entire turkey; I made a turkey joint.  With ‘American’ accessories (I believe they’re called ‘vegetables’ by people who do the cooking thingy frequently).  Mashed potatoes (courtesy of Mr. Waitrose), Pepperidge Farm Cornbread Stuffing (courtesy of a bag smuggled home in my suitcase) and string bean casserole (courtesy of me).  With traditional apple pie for dessert.  I think the apple pie is still in my frig; Tom had other ideas about dessert.

 

Oddly, he ate almost all of the string bean casserole.  I got, like, two spoonfuls.  He kept saying “This is really delicious!”  Who knew men like green vegetables?  I had to write the damned recipe down for him.  But, much like Rosie the Terrible who never shared the true details of Cohen recipes, I kept the spoonful of Worcester Sauce to myself.  And he’s not gonna find Durkee French Fried onions at Sainsburys.

 

Due to a conflict in my schedule, I had to skip the Senior Centre’s marvelous bus trip to Camberley.  Golly.  Four whole hours wandering around Longacres Garden Center.  I’m so disappointed.  I did hoof it over to get them boarded onto the bus and make sure they had their name tags in place before I sent them off to have ‘fun’.  And we did lose one this time.  Really.

 

Longacres must have been so exciting that she came home, went to bed, and woke up dead.  Another one bites the dust.  Sadly, this was the second one in a week.  And both of them were members of the cliquey group of ladies who sit together and share a cheap bottle of wine at 11:00 and, truth be told, are very mean to the other ladies they don’t like.

 

“Where the hell does Sanjay buy that crappy wine?” I muttered to Hester when I heard the news about Joyce.  “It tastes like horses’ piss, not that I’m familiar with what horses’ piss tastes like.  I don’t personally know any horses.”  

 

I did wonder, secretly, if Rita, who has been frozen out by the bitchy ladies (she does natter on and on) like seventh grade, maybe is sneaking into the Tea Bar before it opens and putting poison in the Bookers Private Label- ‘We use the grapes that Tesco’s threw out’. 

 

I went to London on Wednesday instead, to have lunch at Eileen’s.  With my busy diary, I simply don’t get to see her much anymore. 

 

I was back at the Senior Centre on Friday morning to decorate for the Halloween luncheon, another of the responsibilities of being ‘On the Committee’.  And then I had to turn up again at the luncheon to support the Centre.  I gave this guy, Frank, my glass of Bookers’ Private Label in case Rita was having a really bad day.

 

On Saturday evening I turned up at three separate Sam fundraisers to promote the Thanksgiving Feast.  I had to give a little speech at each of them.  I did drink the wine they offered me at all of them, (I get really nervous when I have to do public speaking) but I did okay, I think.  They clapped and they didn’t throw anything at me. 

 

That wasn’t such a good idea, however, as I had to meet Pinkie and Carmen at the Queens Head after my duties were done.  They were a bottle of Zinfy ahead of me, but I soon caught up.  Carmen is getting married.  And somehow I am now in charge of organizing her Hen Do the night before the wedding.

 

It was Matthew’s yahrzeit this week, which is always a terrible time for me.  There was a heartbreaking tribute on Facebook.  And this coming weekend is Jerry’s yahrzeit.  I have an Aliyah at shul in his memory on Shabbat.

 

And also on The Darkside this week, I had to see those wonderful folks at National Health for my flu shot.  The flu here is very nasty (like the people who work in service industries) and I am in the high risk group.  Lucky me!  I got to have two.  The regular ‘Surpress the Urge to Smile at People’ kind and the brand-new, just whipped up Oink Flu vaccine.  I was a bit dubious; I don’t quite trust health care in Britain.  Why should I believe they came up with a vaccine?  I’m not convinced that they didn’t just stick me with a dose of Bookers Private Label.   

 

    

Back in Weybridge in real time, I had a scrumptious date with Tom, who looked quite cute in his Eagles boxer shorts.  He insisted I put on my Donovan jersey (just the jersey), and he obviously boned up on football terminology for the occasion.  I never thought football was particularly sexy.  Trust me, it is.  When somebody’s yelling “In the grasp!”, “Caught behind the line for another safety!” “Interference!”, “Score a touchdown…one…two…three!” (I emailed him the mp3 of the Eagles Fight song and he memorized it, the big Sweetie.)   I’ll stop now.

 

A warm welcome to the newest reader of the blog, Anthony John Dell Aquila, Jr. who was born on Sunday, grandson of Colonel Mickey and cousin Joanne.  I got an email from License to Injure Slightly.  As a relative of mine, I’m sure he’s already reading and eating meatballs of the Neapolitan style.

 

License mentioned in his email that I haven’t talked much about the Phillies.  The reason is that British readers’ eye glaze over and they immediately switch to that guy who’s backpacking in Guatemala’s blog if I get carried away with American sports reporting. 

 

But okay.  The Phantastic Phillies are now up three games to one over the Dodgers in the NLCS.  The last game was a masterpiece- a pitching battle of pure perfection.  J Rol had a walk off two run double with two out in the bottom of the ninth!  At least that’s what License said.

 

Note to British readers:  How’s that dude in Guatelama doing?  Did he get away from the Contras after they kidnapped him?

 

Back in Vacation Central, Scary Fairy had blown Pinkie and me off the day before we were due to arrive at hers.  Yeah, I totally agree with that assessment.

 

We could have stayed on at Stuart’s, he was up totally for it; he loved having us stay.  But we’d booked our return from Newark Airport.  And we’d booked our train tickets to Newark.  And we wanted to see Pat and Mike.  And I had a date with Israeli Guy scheduled.  What an inconvenience and a pain in the tush.  Not to mention deplorably ill-mannered.

 

North Jersey Babe graciously invited us to stay in their luxury penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side in Manhattan.  Gosh…what to do? 

 

Don’t be daft.  Get Princie to drop us off at 30^th Street Station (after some final, final Philly shopping), cop a plea with the train conductor: “We made a mistake!  We thought we were booked to the Penn Station in New York, not the one in Newark.  Why are there two?” delivered in Pinkie’s poshest British.  “Well then don’t get off the train when we get to Newark” he suggested.  “Thank you” I piped up in my best British accent.  Pinkie said it failed miserably.  I think she called it ‘a train wreck’.

 

We grabbed a cab when we got to the Big Apple, and were whisked by the ubiquitous African person aiming directly at hapless pedestrians to Pat and Mike’s with hardly any accidents.  We came bearing gifts, of course.  Americans simply can’t not do that ‘hostess gifts’ thingy.  I thoughtfully had picked up several boxes of Tastykakes during our last Search & Seize in Philly, telling Pat “So you’re not, like, forced to eat Entemann’s for your sugar fix.” 

 

In my on-going war with Mike, I’d gotten him a special box of Eagles Tastykake Touchdown Krimpets, in a festive green and silver wrapper. He so got me back.

 

I think at this point I’ll mention the lovely snaps I posted of the Bolins proudly sporting the famous Eagles hat.  (Bet you guys are sorry now that you got really pissed that particular night in the Grotto.)

 

Pat told us “Mary’s loss is our gain” which was incredibly hospitable and gracious.  Mike poured us a giant glass of Zinfy, and asked “Where would you two like to go for dinner?”

 

We admitted to being a bit tired from all the shopping/socializing/fancy dinners.  “Can we stay in?” I asked.  “I’ll be happy with a real, proper American, New York pizza in my Eagles ‘jammies watching the wonderful, awesome amazing Yankees taking care of business.”  Okay.  So I lied a bit.   But we were at their house, and they actually like the Yankees.  And that guy- not the A Rod one – the other one…Derek Somebody… is extremely hot.  The one with the incredible grey eyes.

 

So that’s what we did.

 

Mike had thoughtfully made sure that my bedroom was crammed with every fucking piece of G-men memorabilia he could get his hands on.  Including a catalog of the shit for me to take home.  I love Mike.  If the Yankees end up playing the Phillies in the World Series, I will just stop answering my phone for a while.

 

Of course, we shopped some more.  Even though New York is outrageously expensive.  The weather had changed drastically, and it was actually snowing as we queued for an hour to get into Abercrombie & Fitch.  I would have said “Up yours” but Pinkie had to get a hoody for Amy.  It was so cold, and we were so wet, that we had to stop in every store on Fifth Avenue to get warm.  And look around.

 

I said to Pinkie “Here’s a real treat.  I’ll take you to Bergdorf’s.  That’s where Jewish American Princesses go when they die.”  Sadly, after all the prior shopping, neither of us could afford to buy a hair slide at Bergdorf’s.  If they even condescend to sell them. 

 

New York + bad weather = no taxis.  We stood on a corner frantically waving at the Africans passing by and laughing at us from their toasty cabs.  Then a cab pulled up to drop someone rich off at Bergdorf’s.  I swooped in and jumped in front of a bedraggled couple who spoke no English.  Boy, cursing sounds really harsh in whatever they were speaking.  “Get in and ignore them” I ordered Pinkie, pushing her into the cab.  She was seriously impressed by my cunning and lack of conscience.

 

Back in the lap of luxury, we opted for real, American Chinese food for dinner, one of the last few ‘must eat’ foods on my list.  I missed devouring a Reuben with extra Russian dressing.  Pat’s fault entirely.  She told me there was a New York Deli at Newark Airport.  There is; it just hasn’t opened yet.

 

Friday morning we paid for our sins.  After we shopped one last time for little stuff.  Do you know that Hello Kitty bandaids cost $4.39?    We packed.  It really wasn’t terrible.  Princie had already mailed two huge boxes to boxes to me, and Pinkie had brought along some vacuum bags which really worked.  We sat around drinking coffee and chatting to Pat until our shuttle to Newark arrived.

 

I admit that I was terrified.  And Pat, trying to be helpful, suggested that after I got on the plane I should give Pinkie my American passport to hide in her stuff so that when I got strip searched at Heathrow they couldn’t find it.  But after British Air checked me in and took my luggage quite willingly, I relaxed a little bit.  So we hit the Duty Free Shops.

 

The flight was fine; I slept all the way courtesy of a nice flight attendant and several bottles of burgundy.  We landed and headed to Passport Control.  And absolutely nothing happened.  I handed my Passaporti Italiano over to the bored agent and she popped it into the machine and handed it back.  No trick questions like ‘Come sta?”.  She didn’t smile, but, of course, I was now in England.  They just… don’t.  Ever.   Not even if Derek Jeeter walks by naked except for his batting helmet.  So I guess that whole nightmare is finally over.  I can stop worrying about it, and I guess I can go home whenever I feel like it for a visit.

 

The Irish Lad picked us up and I was officially back in Weybridge. 

 

And I think that is now ‘Everything I Did On My Summer Vacation’ or at least what I’m going to share.

 

In real time, the Phillies are up two games over the Dodgers in the NLCS, Penn State blew out Minnesota, and the Irish snatched another defeat in the closing seconds against USC.  Brees took care of business in the Dome; someone needs to tell Eli to close his mouth.  He looks really dumb with it hanging open as he contemplates life without endorsements because Peyton got them all.  Oh yeah.  Donovan was not in his Happy Place.  He might not have actually been in California at all; I couldn’t tell.  The Birds lost; they sucked giant eggs.

 

And I posted a few pictures.  There’s more, but they’re on Pinkie’s camera and she started her new Top Secret, Hush-Hush job as Nurse Ratchett to deported illegal aliens on Monday.

 

Back in vacation-land, Princie, Pinkie and I drove down to Wilmington to have dinner with dear friends Abe and Janet.  Janet has been one of my staunchest supporters during the entire citizenship adventure and she thinks I’m wonderful.  And tells me all the time.  I’d not – in fact, Pinkie and I’d not-  seen them since we popped over to Paris for lunch and shopping when they were there for their anniversary.  One of the pleasures of living in Britain… popping over to Paris for lunch or Amsterdam for the weekend.

 

We went to an extremely posh ‘DuPont Country’ sort of place called the Buckley Tavern.  The meal was gorgeous and it was lovely to catch up on what’s been going on in all our lives.  We went back to their house for dessert (Janet is a fabulous baker) and screaming and yelling.  No we didn’t argue; they’re not Italian.  The Phillies game was on telly.  Abe and Janet are huge baseball fans.  In fact, when we left the restaurant, Abe stopped to go to the Men’s Room, and the rest of us went out to the car.  We waited and waited for Abe, finally getting concerned.  When he eventually appeared, we all said “Are you okay?  What took so long?”  Abe looked surprised.  “The Phillies left three men on in the bottom of the 7^th” he explained.  “They had the game on in the bar.”

 

Tuesday morning Pinkie and I shopped some more.  Several happy hours flew by in the Church of St. Annie Sez.  And we went to Geunardis so I could buy stuff for the Thanksgiving feast.  That’s what I bought – stuffing.  But I’m going to have to mail it to me.  The suitcases have ‘no room at the inn’ for anything that isn’t clothes. 

 

I got quite adept at piloting the Mother of All SUVs (and a German, no less) over hill and dale, and then back again.

 

Two diametrically opposite events occurred on my trip home.  I rekindled a friendship that had floundered and died a tragic death, and I finally gave up on another friendship for reasons that I won’t go into, other than to say that we’re all responsible for our own lives.  And not for anybody else’s.  I can only make my personal journey through the wilderness; I can’t and shouldn’t try to help anybody else with their trek.  Or feel sorry for them if it’s a camel* wreck.  (*continuing the ‘biblical’ theme)

 

I had shared in the blog – golly, it was July of 2006 – when Toots divorced me as a friend.  And what I wrote then still applies now.  I chose what I wanted to do with my life, and then I went out and did it.  But I missed her.  I won’t bother quoting any of the excellent zingers I unleashed; the blog is in my archives.

 

So I rang her.  The week before I went home.  “Hello, Toots.  I don’t want to be unfriends anymore.  I think we should meet and talk about this.”  Well, yeah, of course she was gobsmacked.  But she was happy too.

 

So we met for lunch.  At Ardmore East (a mall).  Well, it wasn’t going to be at a library or hospital, was it?  Pinkie tactfully went off to shop and left us to not rehash old negative feelings but rather to forge a renewed relationship with different expectations.

 

Being a JAP, and always needing to get the last word, I did tell her “What you did wasn’t fair.  If I stole from you, or burned your house down, or slept with Ron (her husband), then you would have been justified in dumping me.  The choices I made were for me, and I stand by those choices now.  They were the right choices for me and you had no right to judge me by your standards.”

 

So I’m friends with Toots again, the real way not the Facebook way, although that 3856 miles that separates us will make cutthroat Scrabble games neigh impossible.

 

Tuesday night, Sister and I were both tired.  It had been an almost endless round of shopping and social occasions.  Princie, Pinkie and I went out for a quiet dinner to Clam Tavern.  You will appreciate how tired I was; I didn’t change clothes.  In fact, I don’t think I combed my hair.

 

After dinner, Ira, another of my stepsons, popped in to visit.  Pinkie and Stuart both went to bed; I sat up nattering to Ira ‘til the wee hours. 

 

Finally, since the trip home nurtured, revitalized and strengthened both friendships and family ties, I thought I’d end with a quote.  From ‘The Prophet’, naturally.

 

“And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend. If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.

 

 

In the magic of the Modern Age, I’m actually home in Weybridge.  But let’s pretend I’m not.  Because I’m only halfway through my adventures in America.  Let’s pretend we’re in a movie.  Filmed in Philadelphia. 

 

At least these next few blogs will look nicer since I can use ‘Windows Live Writer’ again.

 

Although Pinkie had been to the City of Brotherly Love once before, she’d never actually seen it, except in passing.  She’d spent a day in Children’s Hospital observing and 14,879 hours in the King of Prussia Mall.  This appalling oversight had to be rectified.

 

“We’ll do the historic sights” I assured her.  “We’ll start at the Art Museum and wander down to Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. You’ll be able to get some awesome pictures.”

 

Princie obligingly dropped us off at Eakins Oval, across the road from the justifiably world famous museum. The weather had changed drastically, and I was mighty thankful I’d bought an Eagles fleece at BJ’s.

 

An amusing anecdote:  On Sunday morning before heading out shopping I’d said to Pinkie “It’s Game Day here so I’m required by the City of Philadelphia Charter to wear my Donovan.  You don’t have to, though.”  Everywhere we went, everybody had on Eagles gear.  Pinkie confessed that she’d thought I was taking the piss.  I have no idea why.  It’s not like I ever lie or anything.

 

“Well, this is it” I told her at the Art Museum.  “These are the famous steps.”  “Why are they famous” Pinkie asked curiously.  “’Why are they famous?’ You’re kidding!  These are the Rocky steps!” 

 

“I never saw ‘Rocky’” Pinkie sniffed.  “Sylvester Stallone is in it and it’s about boxing.” 

 

I wanted to take her directly to the airport without passing go and collecting $200 (which I could have used; boy, did I spend a lot on Sunday).  “You never saw ‘Rocky’?  What’s wrong with you?  It’s not about fighting.  It’s about Philadelphia, and love (ya know- ‘Yo, Adrienne’), and Italians.  And maybe just a teensy bit is about boxing.  Now run up those two hundred steps pronto and jump up and down pumping your fists when you get to the top like every-fucking-body else is doing!”  That part was true; the steps were clogged with idiot tourists running, jumping up and down at the top, and pumping their arms in the air like idiots.  Some people lead really sad lives. 

 

Just for that, I made her take a hundred pictures of me with the actual Rocky statue, and some snaps on my mobile, which I immediately whisked off to Tom, who was seriously missing me.  He emailed every day to tell me. 

 

I explained that Benjamin Franklin Parkway, which goes from the Art Museum at the top to City Hall at the end was designed by some French dude in 1917 and is a replica of the Champs-Elysees in Paris.  Minus the rude French people, of course.  It is really quite lovely with beautiful buildings and lined (weather permitting) with flags from every country, even the ones we don’t like.

 

Princie was horrified that we planned to walk all the way to Independence Hall, suggesting cabs were a good idea.  “We walked ten miles in the middle of the night for Sam” we reminded him smugly. 

 

Okay.  We never made it to the Liberty Bell.  But not for lack of trying or laziness.  The first distraction was Wanamaker’s.  I know it’s not Wanamaker’s any more; it’s Macy’s.  But Philadelphians still call it Wanamaker’s.

 

“You must have seen ‘Mannequin’” I told Sister Fussy About Movies.  “It was about clothes.  You love clothes.”

 

Pinkie agreed that she loves clothes and that she’d actually seen the damned movie.  “Well, it was filmed here.  And I’ll show you the Eagle- the one everybody says ‘Meet me at the Eagle’ about and voila! does.” 

 

I pointed out various incredible sights like the gold organ, but before I knew it, she dragged me up three levels on the escalator to ‘Women’s Fashions’.   She tricked me.  “Where’s ‘Women’s” she inquired casually.  “Third Floor” I answered before I realized it was a trick.   It was Columbus Day and there was a sale.  Several hours later I dragged her out the front door muttering “’Blow Out?’  John Travolta?  It was only sorta-kinda about motorcycles.  He drove his right through that front window in the movie.”  Some people can’t be educated about the finer things.

 

We made it four blocks before I said “Modell’s! ‘Gotta Go to Mo’s’ is their slogan.  And I do.  Gotta go.”  And besides the stuff I bought for me, several people of the manly persuasion will be thrilled with their Eagles boxer shorts.

 

We made it two more blocks without incident.  But it was the Burlington Coat Factory.  We couldn’t just walk past it, could we?

 

Finally Princie rang that we needed to go home.  He was tired from sitting in his office all morning and wanted a nap before we all changed to go to Wilmington and meet Abe & Janet for dinner.  He looked at all the bags and asked suspiciously “How was Independence Hall?”

 

“Stirring.  Patriotic.  Filled with Japanese tourists” I ad-libbed most creatively I thought.  “Pinkie was very moved by it all.  Especially the Declaration of Independence.  She loved Nicholas Cage in ‘National Treasure’.”  Pinkie nodded in agreement, subtly sending me the ‘What the fuck are you on about now?’ look. 

 

I think she needs to spend a little less time shopping and more time focusing on M. Night Shyamalan.

 

      

See?  I’m doing so many things I can’t remember them.  And I have no time to sit and blog them.  I know we did something on Friday night…

Oh yeah!  It was Princie’s birthday.  His girlfriend made dinner.  An Italian dinner.  She is very brave or very foolhardy.  Nobody, except members of my immediate family, serves Italian food to me.  Friends and more family members came over and it was a jolly evening.  I think.  My opinion of the meal was expunged in the interests of family harmony and/or a place to stay the next time I come home. 

 

Something else occurred, but Princie swore he’d whack me if I told.  Once I’m safely back in Weybridge, I will spill the beans.

 

On Saturday morning Stuart and I had Breakfast in a Diner (a truly American experience) with Zack and Eric, Stuart’s gorgeous sons.  I have to confess that I was a bit dismayed to be addressed by an 18 year old and an almost 16 year old (who is 6’ tall; how the hell did he fall out of the Cohen tree?) as ’Bubby’.  ’Bubby’ is Yiddish for ’Grandmom’.  “Hey, dudes” I suggested, “I’m really informal.  ’Jean’ is fine; ’Hey you’ is okay; ’Yo’ works for me.  Don’t fucking call me ’Bubby’.  I’m not technically anybody’s grandmother, nor do I want to be.”  No.  Of course not.  I have to get married first in order to be a bubby.  Just ask Gene if you don’t believe me.

 

I coaxed Stuart into taking me to the Grand Opening of a brand new Tar-jey Store (two floors!) even though he bitched and moaned.  I am quite  unmoved by manly distress about shopping.  I did relent and let him drag me back to his house so he could have a nap (the shopping ‘exhausted’ him) while I blogged, answered emails and texts, decided what to wear out that night and watched college football on TV. 

 

Pinkie trained it up from Balty to Wilmington, and we picked her up at the Amtrak station on the way to dinner with my cousins.  I’m not sure who made the arrangements, but you will be totally surprised.  We went to an Italian restaurant.  Yeah, I know; you don’t have to tell me. 

 

And it was lovely to see my cousins, even Joanne who almost started a war by insisting that Sicilians invented the meatball.  Boy, ever since the Puccio cousins went on vacation to Sicily they got a little crazy.  Maybe there’s a Costa Coffee there or something.  And everybody knows that the Sicilians didn’t invent diddley-squat except the Mafia and those really yummy olives (the green ones).  We all almost came to blows over whether we’re considered Abruzzi or Neapolitan.  Just your typical Incollingo get-together; screaming, cursing, and death threats.  I really missed my cousins.  Stuart said he felt like he was appearing in an episode of ‘The Sopranos’.

Funny really.  Of the six Italians at the dinner, only one of us is actually an Italian citizen.  That should count for extra points instead of being told to shut up because  “you’re the baby of the family“.

 

Sunday was a shopping day for Pinkie and me.  I really wanted to spend twelve hours watching football with the guys;  I really wanted to shop.  This is known as ‘conflict’, or in this case, ‘Nuclear Meltdown’.  Stepson #1, 2 or 3 (I forget) “There’s this new show called the ‘Red Zone’.  It switches to that specific game when any team gets to the 20.”  I started to cry.

 

Pinkie wasn’t having any of that.  “Take me to the Mall” she ordered.  “And not any old mall; the King of Prussia one -- The Church of St. Nordstrum Rack, to be specific.”

 

We made two brief pit stops, a visit to Jerry and Matt at Har Jehuda (they were chuffed to see me; I left a pound coin instead of a stone for each of them) and a quick two hour mooch at B.J’s.  Stuart asked very seriously if he should remove the back seats from the Mother of all SUV’s.

 

I whisked Pinkie up to KofP like I’d never been away.  (And I made her put the game on the car radio so I could at least hear what was going on.)  We pillaged Nordstrum, then Penney’s, then a bunch of minor stores.  Since I was feeling a great deal of love for my BFF, I confided “Ya know, there’s a Marshall’s here.” 

Pinkie was gobsmacked.  “There’s a Marshall’s???  In King of Prussia?  Why haven’t I ever been there before?” 

 

“I don’t fucking know” I told her, insulted that she was hinting I’d been holding out on her.  “Maybe because the last time you were here we dropped you off at Macy’s at 8:00 AM and you didn’t call to get picked up until 7:00 PM.  We were all starving.  We thought you got kidnapped by the Mexicans.” 

 

So I took her to Marshalls.

 

Cadet Cohen was meeting us at Princie’s for supper.  She was bringing hoagies.  This required fifteen phone calls to build the perfect hoagie. 
Pinkie answering my American mobile as I negotiated mall traffic on a Sunday (absolutely terrifying): “It’s Marina.  Do I want ’capicola’ on my hoagie?”  Me:  “No.  You won’t like it.  But I do on mine.  Lots of it.”  Pinkie: “Marina again.  Do I want ’American’ or ‘provolone’?”  Me:  “Don’t give a rat’s ass.  I want provolone and lots of it.”  Pinkie:  “Mayonnaise, please.”  Me: “You ordered mayonnaise on your hoagie?  Ewww!”

 

When we got back to Springfield, the guys had eaten without us, so we grabbed our hoagies and sat down to watch football-- any game.  The Eagles had already taken care of business; they crushed the Buccaneers while we were shopping.  Pinkie spent about an hour plucking onions out of her hoagy.  The cadet forgot to tell her that normally they’re jam-packed with raw ones.

 

Note to readers:  I was excited when they opened a Subway on the High Street in Weybridge.  Unfortunately, the franchise holder thinks it refers to the one that runs underneath New York City.  I would tell you some of the sandwiches they offer but you would puke.

 

Note to the Creator of the Universe:  Thank you, Adonai, for making Donovan’s rib all better and his head in a Happy Place.  (He was positively brilliant.  Even New Jersey Babe said it; a BIG concession for a G-men fan. )

 

I woke up on Wednesday morning to the joy of Things…American Style.  Hey!  The toilet flushes every time.  Even if you try to trick it and sneak away for like five minutes.  When you creep back (don’t put the light on to further confuse it) damned if it doesn’t obligingly flush anew.  I almost stayed in all day to just keep flushing all five of them. 

 

 

But then I had a shower.  In continuously hot, hot water.  Aah!  Ooh! Wowie Zowie!  And a whole bunch more words like that!  It was almost better than sex.  Actually it was a lot better than sex with certain people, but too damned close to call in a few specific cases.

I made proper, real American coffee.  I threw trash into the compactor.  I made some food waste so I could stick it down the garbage disposal and watch it get gobbled up.

 

This was all very entertaining, but there was a huge mother BMW SUV parked out on the driveway with my name on it.  (What it really said was “Please don’t drive me.  I’m very fond of my bumpers, taillights, etc.”)

 

I hopped in and ordered “Take me to a Mall; any old one will do.”  Nope.  Despite being German (I thought their cars could do everything) it expected me to pilot it.  I’m adventurous and, hey, it‘s the US of A, so I did.  The vehicle and I both survived the jaunt just fine.

 

I found a gigantic mall with no trouble (did anybody really think I wouldn’t?) and spent a splendid nine or twelve hours in Target, Kohl’s, The Church of St. Annie Sez and some other stores.  And I went to Geunardi’s.

 

Supermarkets are pretty neat, American people.  You should get down on your knees and thank Yahweh for Mr. Acme, Mr. Geunardi, and all the other Misters.  It went okay until I checked out.  I paid, and put my Club Card number in the little machine (it remembered me!)  A man at the end of the aisle took my groceries.  “Yo” I said with attytood.  “Whassup, dude?  Whatcha doin‘ wit‘ my Breyers Orange Creamsicle Yoghurt?”  I am in suburban Philadelphia after all and I speak the local dialect.  He looked confused (I can always tell).  “I’m bagging them, Madam” he said huffily. 

 

“No shit?” I shrieked incredulously.  “You’re bagging my groceries?  Really?  You’re not five finger discounting them?  How come?  Is it because I’m handicapped?”  I think that’s about when he started looking around for the Rent-a-Cop.  

 

Perhaps I have been away from the amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties, not to mention the fruited plains (which is not a Gay Airline Company despite what anybody tells you), a bit too long.

 

Wednesday night Cadet Cohen came over to visit me.  Yes, my sweet little princess daughter has joined the ROTC at Widener and confided that she can take apart and put back together an M-16 rifle.  I am sure that’s a valuable skill to have.  After all, one probably has to take it apart to fit it into one’s Louis Vuitton.  Otherwise it would stick out and not match unless you happen to be wearing gun metal grey.  (Not in the color palette of Warm Autumns.)  

 

Princie, my own petite ‘Pvt. Benjamin’ and I had a lovely dinner at the Clam Tavern. 

 

Thursday was Reach Out and Touch Everybody Day.  I rang all the people I want to see while I’m here and confirmed various engagements.   Like Israeli Guy is driving over to Clifton on Thursday night to see me at Scary’s house.  That kind of thing.

 

Thursday night I had dinner with a dear friend, Flora.  I’d not seen her since she was passing through London a few years ago.  We’d worked together- I was her mentor and boss at Rosenbluth- and it was great to catch up on all the people we’d worked with together and mutual friends.

 

Friday was (gulp) lunch with His Honorableness, Judge Cohen.  I made Stuart promise to come to deflect some of the heat. 

I didn’t want to get up at the crack of dawn and go into the city with Stu so I said I’d make my own way into town.  Not that I wasn’t up.  I can’t adjust to the time.  I’m up at 5:00 every morning.  I never was a good traveler, despite all the jetting around.

 

I’d planned to take the trolley to 69th Street and then the El to Center City.  Nobody told me about the ’Exact Change’ thingy.  I think the last time I used public transportation in Philly I was in high school. 

 

I boarded the trolley and handed the driver my lone $10 bill (all the American money I had).   “Exact change only” he growled at me.  “Oh!  This is all I have” I explained.  “I’m from England and I’m just visiting.”  And that is true after all.  He glared at me so I turned around and asked the  other riders “Anybody got change of a $10?”  Naturally, they all just ignored me.

 

I went back to the conductor and offered with my winningest smile “Here’s two pounds.  It’s worth way more than two bucks.  You can give it to your kids for Show & Tell.”  “I can’t take that” he told me, shaking his dreadlocks at me.  “Just go sit down.”  Rasta Trolley Driver was a sweetheart!  I thanked him profusely for whisking me to 69th Street for free.  Of course, other people got on the trolley for free too, but they all were carrying weapons.

 

The el part went smoothly after I broke my $10 and asked the agent “How many dollar bills to go to 15th & JFK?”  It was another glorious day, warm and sunshine-y, so I wandered around City Hall soaking up rays and local color, and some dollars at a Wachovia ATM, before heading down to the restaurant to meet Gene.

 

Stuart was late (damn him) but my brother-in-law is a kinder, less judgmental guy these days.  After the obligatory “You look fantastic! England certainly agrees with you” (Him) and “Gee!  You’re even balder than Jerry now” (me), his first question was “So are you getting married?” 

 

I was a bit flummoxed.  “Um.”  To whom?  “No.  I don’t think I am.  I don’t think anyone’s asked me, to be honest” I confessed.  “Except Cheese Boy, and he didn’t really mean it.”  Of course I felt like I was on the Witness Stand or maybe even already in The Electric Chair. 

 

“Well, according to Your Blog …” he went on.  Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  He still reads the blog?  Have I been a teensy bit indiscrete in the blog?  I think that might be a ‘yes; occasionally’. 

 

It was really a delightful lunch and I was truly happy to see Gene.  I promised to be better about keeping in touch, and made a mental note to be a little more circumspect… at least in CyberSpace, since the world really does revolve around me.

 

 

 

The last couple days in England were cold and damp.  And pissing down rain.  In other words, the usual.  It wasn’t hard to be excited about going home; Action News on line boasted ‘Sunny!  75 degrees!”

 

Sunday was what is becoming a typical day.  Noon:  Fundraiser Launch and luncheon at Syn.  4:00 PM:  Community Tea Party at Syn with neighbours who are not crazy about living right bloody next door to a synagogue.  6:00 PM: Meet Caroline and Katie at Runner in Cobham for ‘one quick drinkie’.  8:00 PM: Date.  Most embarrassing to admit, I only changed outfits twice.

 

Special Note:  A gigantic Mazel Tov! to Katie and Colin on their engagement.  Special special note: her ring is Yummy!

 

On Monday, Pinkie and I did a final mooch on the High Street, doing last minute errands.  Pinkie needed to pick up dollars, but I didn’t have to.  My magic Wachovia ATM card will obligingly spit Hamiltons and Franklins at me when I’m across the Pond, instead of Elizabeths.  I did had to buy another currency convertor for my hair straightener.  And to charge my American mobile, which I almost forgot I had and couldn’t actually find in my junk drawer.

 

My British mobile chose to die a horrible death a few days before the trip.  Well, at least it did die; I might have been responsible for the horrible part by repeatedly throwing it at the wall.  Repeated calls and visits to Useless Carphone Warehouse got me nowhere, so I just gave up and bought a new one.

In a perfect world (i.e. anywhere that is not Britain), the new phone would have arrived, Eamonn or any child under 12 would have popped, plugged, and stuck in it whatever makes those puppies magically work.  My new phone disappeared into a black hole in a DHL truck somewhere on the M-whatever, necessitating a JAP tantrum and Pinkie and I having to drive to the netherworld (okay, it was Chessington) for a hostage negotiation.

 

Pinkie rang every seventeen minutes on Tuesday morning with a progress report.  (I timed her.)  “My little suitcase is packed!”  “My little suitcase is in my big suitcase!”  “I have schpielkas!”  I was trying to finish up some work for the Thanksgiving Do.  “Pinkie” I begged, “Save it for the plane.  We’ll be sitting next to each other for eight hours.  I’ll be the Vietnamese guy and you’ll be Ted Striker.” Ring. Ring.  “Are we wearing our Donovan jerseys to Baltimore, or just on the way home?” 

 

Leaving the UK was surprisingly uncomplicated.  Of course, the Home Office is always happy to wish me a ’Ta ta, Cheerio! (And don’t bloody come back!)” 

The flight was fine and I actually slept a good bit of it, assisted by three bottles of merlot and the little blue ’happy pill’ Princie thoughtfully left for me when he crossed the pond the other way.  I woke up and got a bit teary as I poked Pinkie to say “That’s the Home of the Brave down there!  Look.  There’s Camden Yard.”

 

As a US citizen returning from abroad, I had to fill out a customs declaration.  Pinkie had to do a white form, a green form and maybe even the pink one.  The declaration asked ’where do you reside’ and I got a little nervous about it, but I did answer ’United Kingdom’. 

 

When I got to the window, the first strange thing was the officer smiled at me.  I turned around in case his Mom or a Baltimore Raven or whoever coincidentally just happened to be passing.  Nope.  He smiled at me.  “You live in the United Kingdom” he asked.  “Yes” I answered cautiously.  “Welcome home!” he said, smiling again.  “Enjoy your visit.”  Wow.  Americans in America are sure very cheerful people. 

 

Princie was waiting right outside for us, and after more tears, hugs and kisses, we dropped Pinkie off at her hotel at Inner Harbor.  We won’t see each other for five whole days!  But we’ll talk on the phone constantly.

 

As we drove up dear familiar treacherous I-95, Stuart asked what I wanted first.  No contest whatsoever.  “A jumbo Wawa cappechino and a cheesesteak with ’double wit’” I moaned.  Mmmmm!  They were both heavenly.

 

I’m really here.  Home.  Well, it’s not home; Weybridge is.  But it is home.  I guess it always will be.

The Blogging Police have issued a warrant for my arrest.  Sorry…sorry…sorry.  I don’t know where the time goes.  And after writing up the minutes for the Senior Centre Committee, my sense of humour and faculty for deadpanned and clever understatement were exhausted.

 

But here goes.  What have I been doing?  A lotta stuff.  Of course, many things cannot be zapped out there to cyberspace.  For a number of reasons-- mostly national security.  That was  a whopper; in case you were just skimming.  My friends and/or relatives would shoot me if I spilled the beans about certain shit.

 

Let’s see.  Who doesn’t want what I did blabbed?  Princie, for one.  But since he let me use his Amex card to buy Amtrak tickets and I’m staying at his house next week, it’s best not to piss him off at the moment.  I will say it required the full mega-watt power of my creative writing talents.

 

Well, North Jersey Babe too.  Nope, she’s ‘connected’ and she’ll get my Uncle Guido to whack me if I tell you the tsuris she’s been causing.

 

The Segreti Ufficiali di Jeano’s Bloggo Atto (Official Secrets of Jeano’s Blog Act) does not, however, cover Mike.  After several weeks of clandestine but hysterically funny digs in the blog, the most he could retaliate with were some trite quarterback jokes when I spoke to him on the phone.  We were disappointed and not terribly amused, Michael. Answering machines were invented for long, rambling song mixes, weren’t they?

 

What else can’t I talk about?  The coffee at Costa at T5.  I  can’t discuss liking it again.  That’s some damned fine … um….oh yeah!  Coffee!

 

And I can’t discuss Scooterman’s official Dumping Ceremony, except to say that I always use ‘Pomp & Circumstance’ while deleting their phone numbers from my mobile.  Some ladies prefer ‘Wooly Booly’ (the Sam the Sham & the Pharohs version); a fine choice also.  There was minimal damage to the coffee table during the ceremonial burning of the ‘Top Ten Reasons Chris is a Giant Dickweed’. 

 

I can’t discuss my date with Piano Man this week.  I can discuss ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ however.  It came up, among other things.  He thought Toploader sang it.  “They covered it, Sweetie’ I told him.  “Along with a lot of other groups.”  An altercation ensued, necessitating coming downstairs and looking it up on YouTube.  I was right, naturally.  King Harvest did the original.

 

In a ‘Weybridge is a Very Small Town’ moment, we ran into Pinkie on our way to my house after dinner.  Of course, she was standing outside her house at the time, so she probably wasn’t stalking us or anything.  I mean we, like, had to pass it to get to mine. 

 

I had a split second decision to make: pretend I didn’t see her or introduce her to Tom.  And pray that the Irish Lad wasn’t home so he could race out, give me the patented maniacal, shit eating, evil pixie grin and take the piss for months because Piano Man is a Geordie.  Eamonn raced out, and manfully attempted the maniacal, shit eating etcetera etcetera in his father’s stead. 

 

I think the introductions went well.  In the four seconds it took to get down the lane to mine, my BFF shot off a text, which actually arrived (a divine miracle with Orange) cooing ‘He’s really cute!  Good looking and funny. Mmmmm:)’.  We had a little tussle over the phone.  Piano Man said (mostly masculine-ishly) “That’s your friend!  What’d she say about me?”  “She said you put her in mind of Chuckie in ‘Friday the 13^th’” I told him yanking the phone out of his hand.   There’s no point in stroking men’s egos; they’re Extra Large Jumbo Size at birth.

 

Now…what I can talk about. 

 

Okay, Penn State played the suckiest, sloppiest game ever; they lost to Iowa (I know…Iowa for Christ’s sake!) 21 – 10.  Mike did not forget to mention that the despicable Irish won in the last second.  But the Eagles beat the Chiefs.  Stuart rang during the game and was horrified that I was watching the Jets game.  “Sweetie” I explained patiently, “It’s not like they’ve got NFL Sunday Ticket here and I can watch 14 games simultaneously.  I’m watching the Jets because that’s the one they’re showing  and loving Scotland for it.”

 

Carol, the third member of our Triumvirate of Clothes Mavens, hosted a formal dinner for Pinkie and me to celebrate our little business .   And I shopped.  With Pinkie.  With Carol.  With strangers.  Hey, it’s another one of my many jobs now.

 

I broke the fast for Yom Kippur at JDavid’s parents’ house this year.  They had mostly friends over, but, as the Queen of Weybridge, I actually knew everybody.  It was quite a different meal than we did at home (no brisket or kugel), but it was a pleasant evening.  Hazel and Bernard own a holiday resort in France,  luxury apartments in a converted embroidery mill.  When I finally find the Jewish Dermitologist of my dreams, La Gaudane is definitely the first place we’re going on vacation.  It’s in a town called Cordes-sur-Ceil near Toulouse.  Check out the website; you’ll plotz.  www.lagaudane.com. 

 

I’ve had seemingly countless meetings on the Thanksgiving Feast, and have another this weekend with BDavid (not to be confused with JDavid), who will be helping this year.

 

I sent a quick email to Cousin Bernie, inquiring about the appropriateness of publicizing the dinner in Haderech, since it is most definitely not Kosher.  He replied and added a little ‘personal’ note: ‘Thanks for the link to your blog again.  I’d lost it and was missing the entertainment, and the flattery.’   I, of course, immediately sent back: ‘My pleasure.  Let the kvelling commence…’  He’s so damned cute.

 

I honestly can’t remember what else I did; but it was a lot of stuff.  Oh yeah!  I went to a cocktail party at the Rowing Club.  And I had dinner with my friend, Jennifer.  And coffee at my new American friend Deb’s house.  I went to Film Club at shul. 

 

This Sunday, I have two separate Synagogue functions, a meet at the Runner for drinkies, and a date.  I will tell you all about the functions, and the drinkies.  The date will not be mentioned again.  Not even if you bribe me with a new (genuine) Louis Vuitton.  Well, okay.  If you’re willing to spring for $2000, I’m willing to share.

 

I think perhaps it is time to think about packing.  The Packing Police (AKA Pinkie) have threatened to come over to mine when I’m not here and empty half my suitcase.  “How can I possibly know now what I’m gonna feel like wearing next Thursday?” I asked quite seriously.  She was unimpressed by my logic.

 

Yes, we are off to the US of A on Tuesday!  I seriously doubt I’ll have time to blog, what with social engagements and sightseeing (Pinkie, not me; I’ve seen it all).  The Chosen Few will get the occasional text and photo.  Hopefully, not at three o’clock in the morning if I can remember about that bloody time difference. 

 

Perhaps I’ll just… Twitter.

 

Yeah, people laughed at me when I talked about Adonai texting or Twittering.  I’m not so dumb after all.

 

In my Yom Kippur greeting from Chabad.org (a Jewish religious site which sends practically weekly emails telling me what I’m doing wrong in my life, and, by the way, could I send some money) there was an advertisement.

 

For only 99 cents, you too can send Yahweh a text message- right to the Wailing Wall.  An iPhone is required.  Apparently the rabbi downloads them, prints them on little scraps of paper and takes them over and sticks them into a crevice for you.  So you don’t, like, have to fly 12 hours to Israel to do it yourself.   Such service!

 

And if it’s not a Yahweh-caliber request, you can send it to Rebbe Schneerson, of righteous memory, instead and they’ll stick it in his tomb.  I think an example of the Rebbe’s turf might be “Dear Rabbi: Please make Donovan’s rib all better by Sunday.  Jeano PS – you’re not a Giants fan, are you?  In which case I won’t waste my 99 cents. Unless you can give Farve a rotator cuff injury so Sage starts.  (Hey, he’s one of Us so that should count for extra nachas.)  And Penn State…the National Title..” .

 

It’s hard to know where you got your 99 cents worth when you start one of these heartfelt pleas for divine assistance.

 

So, seriously, how long do you think it will be before your mobile rings and the little window flashes ‘G-d ringing …and don’t even think about letting it go right to voice mail’?  Or you’re surfing Twitter to see what Ashton Kutcher  or Demi had to say about anything, and you see one from St. Theresa of Avila: “How did we screw up so badly with Reginamaria? What happened to that proud Little Flower Tradition of ‘educating young women since 1939’?’ I told you she never paid attention when anybody talked to her.”   

Well I made the cut; I’m in the Book.  Of course, the Book isn’t sealed until Yom Kippur, so it’s a kinder, nicer Jeano during the ten days of awe and repentance.  ‘Til after Monday.  Unless Yahweh sends you a text or something saying “You flunked!” I always wonder how you know you’ve actually repented enough. 

 

An idea:  The Prize Patrol pulls up to Rede Court in the Publishers’ Clearing House Sweepstakes van. Ed McMahon comes to the door. (Forget that he’s dead; I see dead people all the time.)  In addition to the balloons, he’s holding a giant facsimile of a check which says “Congratulations!  You didn’t win $10,000,000, but at least you’re sealed.  Mazel Tov!”

 

Let’s get the bad news over fast.  The Birds got blown out on Sunday 48 – 22.  I couldn’t even watch; I turned it off.  Of course it helped that I was invited for a festive L’Shanah Tovah roast dinner at the Dyers’. Irish Lad made that special “Sheepie’ that I love, with that crackling stuff.

 

Kevin Kolb started in place of the injured McNabb. I think #5’s sulking; he was wearing his ‘Does this look like a happy face to you?’ expression. In addition to playing like total crapola, his name doesn’t conjure up anything remotely sexy to fantasize about. 

 

And okay, Mike, I’ll admit it.  The Irish beat Michigan State 33 – 30.  I was wrong; the Irish got lucky. Not exactly a barn burner, though, was it?  The Nittany Lions, unsurprisingly, crushed Temple 31 – 6.  They moved up to #5 in the national rankings this week.

 

I had a date (maybe it was two; I can’t remember) did my various shifts at Sam and the Senior Centre, had a class on ‘Web Design’ with JKeith and lots of other stuff.  I just know I was hardly ever home.  And I trained for a full day of ‘Search & Seize’ with Carol on Friday.

 

Pinkie, Carol and I are starting a little business.  We’re going to host Trunk Shows.  Naturally, if each of us just cleared out our closets we’d have enough clothes to have a show a month until the Warren Commission releases the classified details of JFK’s assassination.  I suppose the clothing would have gone out and come back in in a big way.  Anyway, we’re all dutifully blitzing the shops religiously for finds for the show.  And us… oh, not all the time.  We’ve got a couple other vendors lined up too, a jewelry designer and a knock-off pocketbook pusher, to participate.

 

Anyway, Carol turned up at mine bright and early, ready to rumble.  We did every charity shop in Molesey, Shepperton and Addlestone.  We were meant to do Cobham as well, but I was practically in tears from exhaustion and lack of coffee.  And I really did have to get home to change for Erev Rosh Hashanah services. 

 

Of course by Saturday afternoon when Pinkie suggested a mooch up the High Street and a coffee at Poppins,  I was sufficiently recovered to agree enthusiastically.  We scored some stunning stuff at Sam naturally.

 

On Sunday I was up at the crack of dawn.  I was helping BooBoo do a table at a car boot sale.  For a variety of reasons, I was up late on Saturday night, and Boo took one look at my ‘does this look like a happy face?’ face and made another pot of coffee, which she poured into a giant thermos she’d thoughtfully brought along before leading me to where the car was parked (where it’s always parked; right outside my door.)

 

Fortunately, it was a gorgeous day.  I helped her set up her table and then headed off to check out all the other tables.  I like to poke around, but I seldom buy other people’s junk.  She did okay, and after we packed what was left up, we headed home about 1:30.  Pinkie, whose washer had bitten the bullet earlier in the week, was at mine washing.  So we three sat in the garden enjoying the sunshine and discussing my complicated social life.  Well I discussed; they just took the piss.  And, of course, the trip.  The one Across the Pond.

 

It’s only two weeks away!  After Princie and I drop Pinkie off in Balty, I have a full schedule of lunches and dinners booked until we pick her up at Amtrak in Wilmington for an Incollingo cousins’ dinner.  Then we shop, and shop.  Then we head down to Atlantic City, then back up to New York City and then to Scary Fairy’s in Clifton-on-the-Garden-State.   I think after that we come home.  If we can figure out how to get all the shit I’m sure we’ll be buying into our suitcases.

 

On Tuesday, I attended my first official ‘Friends of the Weybridge Centre’ committee meeting.  Imagine my surprise to discover that not only am I on the committee, I’m the Secretary.  I have got to stop zoning out and fantasizing about Sage when people are nattering to me.  I had grumbled to Hester (she’s on the committee, too) before it started that ‘I really have enough friends now, thank you very much!’ 

 

Then President Guy Reg announced that I had to take minutes.  “Who blabbed about the shorthand” I mumbled to myself, mentally putting pins in little voodoo dolls.  This obviously meant I had to pay attention.  Wow!  Apparently when I’m not buying clothes, planning a Thanksgiving Dinner for 120, administering JDavid’s web site, and shifting at Sam, I have duties at the Senior Centre.  There goes my sex life… up in a puff of smoke. 

 

I am escorting the last whoop-de-doo excursion of the season on October 21.  To Camberley.  I am not shitting you.  Really.  “Um, Reg?  Why are we going to Camberley?  Is there anything there?”

Of course, nobody knew the answers to those probing questions.  “If there are charity shops there, then Hester and me are covered.  But what are the rest of them supposed to do for four hours?”

 

Sanjay said rather unsympathetically I thought, “That’s your department.  You need to figure it out.”

 

Note to self: Start paying attention when ‘everybody’s talking at you’.

 

 

I have to admit to having had a morbid interest in Patrick Swayze’s battle with pancreatic cancer.  Part of it was really a tinge of jealousy; he lasted twenty months.  I did wonder cynically if movie stars got access to better treatment options since the prognosis is generally approximately six months, but he succumbed finally too and probably just as horrifically.  I wasn’t especially a fan, but I’m sorry, mostly for his wife and family in a ‘been there, lived through it after all’ sort of way.

 

Jerry has been much in my thoughts anyway, as I’m making preparations for my trip home and his yahrzeit is rapidly approaching.  (Yes, I got the candles already.  No room in my suitcase for extras on the way back from Across the Pond.)  No trip could be complete without a pit stop at Har Yehuda.  I can show Pinkie my name on our tombstone, which freaks people here out for some reason.  And have a conversation with my husband, during which I get to do all the talking, as opposed to the 3:00 AM ones where I never get a word in edge-wise.

 

Tuesday was an awful day here; it was grey and cold, and it poured buckets without a break.  Typical English weather, in other words.  I did my Tea Lady shift, managing to dodge Mary, who still firmly believes we’re in competition for Charles’ affections,  and planned to come home and put a few hours in working on JDavid’s web site.  But I simply couldn’t concentrate.  If anybody wants to check out the site by the way, the web address is www.profitfrominformation.com.  My friend Jeanette rang whinging about the crappy day, and asked if I wanted to go to the movies and out for a meal.  Is the pope a German?

 

We saw ‘Julie and Julia’.  And before you snicker that I went to see a movie about a renowned chef even though I don’t, you know, cook, that wasn’t the point of the story at all.  It was the blog.  Julie, a writer who can’t get published, decides to cook every recipe in Julia Child’s French Cookbook in a year and blog about it.  Obviously, she already knew how to cook ordinary stuff that isn’t a Ready Meal.  Well, the blog takes off big time, and she gets famous.  Hmm.  I must be doing something wrong.  But I’m still not gonna start cooking to become more interesting.  I thought my blog was incredibly and endlessly fascinating already.   And most of it’s true.

 

It was a sweet film.  Of course I’d seen Julia Child on TV (probably when I was flicking over to NFL Today), but I really didn’t know anything about her.  It was sort of a love story- she and her husband had a special relationship and the plot wove back and forth from Julie’s cooking adventures to Julia’s efforts to write a French cookbook for American  women while living in Paris (her husband was a diplomat).

 

After the film, we went to ‘Somebody & Somebody’s New York Style Italian Restaurant’, which, needless to say, wasn’t… by any stretch of the imagination.  Hope does foolishly persist in springing eternal.  The service was atrocious, as was the food.  Being a tiny bit grumpy from sun deprivation, when some official person (I wasn’t sure if it was our waitress; we only saw her for a second when she snippily took our order) asked “How was everything?” I replied “Sweetie, trust me.  In New York, Uncle Guido would have you whacked for even serving pasta that crappy.  Do the words ‘al dente’ mean anything to you?”  The restaurant came to a standstill because I complained.

 

Right.  Maybe in a different galaxy.  I just got ‘the look’.  The one that says ‘gee, you’re an unhappy customer. And I should care because … ?’

 

And moving on to another ‘Weybridge is a small town’ anecdote, Sanjay rang and said that I needed to sign bank cards as a new signatory on the Centre’s bank account.  He asked if Vicky, the new Treasurer, could pop over with the forms.  She did and I offered her a coffee.  I didn’t know her- we’re not there on the same days- but as we sat and chatted about changes we’d like to make, we both said “Did we meet before?  You look so familiar.”  We mentioned possible local charitable events we’d both been at, but couldn’t come up with one.  Later, she mentioned that her husband is a member of the Surrey County Council.  The penny dropped.  With a thud.  “Oh my god” I squealed.  I have no bloody clue when the aliens did the brain transplant and I stopped talking like a normal American.  I find myself saying shit like  ‘Hello, you’ or even worse ‘Love you!’ to everyone when saying goodbye on the telephone.  The guy from Sky Sports replied ‘Dinna ken blah blah tank ye”.

 

Anyway.  I said “Oh my god!  Is Miles McLeod your husband?”  When Vicky confirmed this, I said “I interviewed him for an article I wrote for the Haderech, my synagogue’s newsletter.  He spoke at a Bagels & Lox meeting.”  “I was there, too” Mrs. McL told me.  “I went to the meeting with him.   At Jenny Jenkel’s. That’s where I met you!”

 

Fancy that.  I pretended that I remembered her clearly.  I know Cousin Bernie was there looking adorable, but he’s the only one I remember.  And I damned sure remember having to ring Miles McLeod afterwards and make him repeat practically the whole talk so I could come up with a reasonably intelligent article.  Gosh, I love little towns.

 

Female readers will be crushed to hear that the Birds did not sign A.J. Feeley to help out during Donovan’s latest crisis.  So no ‘touchy Feeley’.  They signed Jeff Garcia instead, who happened not to be busy for the next couple of Sundays.  I can’t think of anything remotely funny to say about Garcia.  And he’s not hot.  He’s bald.  In fact, if Terrell Owens is to be believed (and I personally don’t put much credence in anything he says) Garcia’s gay.

 

This week Penn State takes on the Temple Owls.  I’m going to make a prediction here.  64 -3.  And Notre Dame faces Michigan State.  Okay.  I’m up for another prediction.  Commentator: “The Irish have this one in the bag.  There’s only 3 ticks left.  Wait a minute!  Michigan State just intercepted the ball!  They’re running it back 147 yards for the go-ahead score as time expires.  Looks like the Irish fucked up another one.”

 

I’ve got my shifts at Sam and a meeting for the Thanksgiving dinner, plus an entire day of shopping with Carol.  And a car boot sale with BooBoo on Sunday.  Friday night is Erev Rosh Hashanah so lots of Syn time this weekend.  I’m invited to friends’ for dinner after services on Saturday night.  And Piano Man is back from holiday on Monday.  Unless he dumped me while he was away and forgot to mention it in one of his emails.

 

Shana Tovah!

I got conned into working at a Sam Do on Sunday.  It was an 18 mile bike race in conjunction with the Horsell Village Festival.  Okay, I thought.  I can sell cupcakes (made by someone besides me) or man the Tombola booth.  And a Village Festival sounds quite ‘Agatha Christie-ish’.  Should be fun and another ‘first’. 

 

The Events Coordinator was a bit vague about the details, but hooked me up with a guy from Walton who’d also volunteered to work and agreed to pick me up and bring me home.  Hubba! Hubba!  She hadn’t told me Simon was my age, drop-dead gorgeous and a widower.  Don’t get excited.  He’s engaged already.  Why is it if they’re even slightly worthwhile they get snapped up in a New York minute?  I actually worked with a woman who read the Jewish Exponent obituaries religiously and showed up at Shivas  toting a casserole in a Tupperware container with her name and phone number on it so the grieving widower would have to call her to come pick it up after he ate it.  Hey, it’s a jungle out there.

 

Anyway, imagine my surprise to find that I was going to be a Traffic Warden.  Seriously.  In a nifty orange vest and everything.  With Simon as my partner.  Between ogling Simon and still looking the wrong way when crossing streets, it was definitely not an auspicious day to be a bicycle rider in Surrey.

 

We’d been given the wrong time to arrive, so Simon and I had an hour to kill.  No.  Get those minds out of the gutter.  We just had a coffee and sat and chatted.  We got three seconds of instructions on wardening, and then got dropped at our roundabout for the start of the race.  That part was easy.  I just had to stand at the marker and direct the bikers onto the path into Horsell Common.  After we got them on their merry way, we got to go back to the Hospitality Tent and sit around drinking more coffee and flirting like mad.  I meant chatting amiably. 

The serious business came at end of the race.  My job was to halt oncoming traffic on the approach to the intersection to get the straggling bikers, most of whom chose to ride in bizarre costumes or gaudily decorated bikes for some reason, across the road.  Yes, I had to step into the road and stop traffic.  I know that my very ‘Jeano-ness’ can, and has, stopped traffic in the past, but my me-ness was somehow not working properly on Sunday.  Many of the fuckers tried to mow me down or zipped around me.  I didn’t think to carry a pad and pen with me so I could jot down their license plate numbers so Uncle Guido could have his goombahs whack them or at least do some reproachful kneecapping.

 

I was freezing, and more than a little bored, waving people across the road muttering “Hurry up!  The natives are getting restless and making fists at me.  It was only eighteen bloody miles.  Don’t tell me you’re knackered.”

 

When the van drove up to tell us that the last of them were finally crossed and take us back to the Fest, I was a popsicle.  They wouldn’t even let me keep the vest.  Simon and I had some food and lots more coffee, and then wandered around the booths.  Homemade cakes?  No.  Plants?  Definitely no.  Face-painting?  No, that’s what Ruby was for.  In other words, the fest sucked.  The Our Lady of Pompeii Block Party was a million times more exciting even when nobody got whacked- for those readers who remember it.

 

Simon drove me home and came in for another coffee and more chatting.  I will probably see him ‘around’ as he’s now on the list as another stupid person who is willing to help out at Sam Do’s.

 

While I was busy wardening, Scooter Man had rung cancelling our date on Sunday night.  I could hardly hear him- I was standing in the road at the time – but the dog apparently ate his homework yadda yadda.  Whatever.  I was relieved actually to just have a hot, hot, hot shower, put on my Eagles ‘jammies and watch seven straight hours of American football.

 

First up were the Vikings and the Brownies.  No, Jock Jew didn’t play.  I concentrated really, really hard on Favre breaking one of his brittle 43 year old bones, but no joy.  Of course, in the way of cosmic karma, all that concentration transmuted to Philly by mistake and Donovan cracked a rib on a touchdown scramble.  The Dog Murderer is still suspended for two more games, so next week doesn’t look so good.  Maybe Feeley’s not busy next Sunday?  Hey, that’s a pretty cute name.  “What are you doing tonight, Jeano?”  “Oh…I don’t know.  Maybe some touchy Feeley.”  The Birds, of course, spanked the Panthers handily.

 

Then it was time for the G-men and the ‘Skins.  This is a tough one to watch when you’re hoping that both teams will simultaneously combust and go up in smoke.  As I faithfully ring Scary Fairy on Sunday nights, we watched the game together courtesy of Sky Talk.  Just because she lives in North Jersey, Scary pretends to be a loyal Giants fan.  I think it might be mandatory in her zipcode.  I got in a lot of really cool digs about Eli; he’s a bow-wow as well as being a crap quarterback.  Plaxico is so last week.  She reciprocated, naturally, with the latest Vick jokes.  The conversation kinda went like “He stepped out at the 35!  Is that Zebra blind?”  “Pass Interference?  Your mother!” “Wow! Did you see the ass on #67?  I’d like to get my hands on that!”  “#72’s got the hottest thighs ever!.”  We enjoy all aspects of the game.

 

Naturally, Scary concurs with me that Jock Jew is adorable, and she thinks ‘Sage’ is a really cool name.

 

Congrats to Coach Joe and the Nittany Lions for taking care of business in Syracuse 28 -7.  And mazel tov! to Notre Dame for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory and losing to Michigan in the closing seconds of the game 38 – 34.  I was worried about my pool there for a while.

 

And Simcha Tov to Pinkie on her new job!  I knew she’d nail it.  Since she will be working in a top secret location that I cannot discuss (okay; it’s near a really big road that starts with an ‘M’ in a place where people arrival and depart in big silver thingies, unless it’s Virgin, in which case they’re red).  As she’s required to get a security clearance and vetting that she doesn’t hang out with any terrorists (I don’t count now that I’m Italiano), I won’t tell you any more.  Okay.  Except that I spent more than a few hours there, more than once, as a guest of Her Majesty’s Immigration Services.  Well done, Sister!

 

Pinkie’s been waiting patiently for her new car to arrive, and only mentions it 17 times a day.  “When I get the new Jazz…”  We were coming back from shopping, and she started talking about the new car again in the car.  “Pinkie” I chided her, “You shouldn’t talk about the N-E-W  C-A-R in front of this one.  It’s got to last two more weeks and it might get pissed off and implode out of spite.”  Pinkie laughed, but guess what?  The next day, when she was coming home from her shift at Guildford, some important part of the car’s underneath workings gave up the ghost and landed on the driveway with a loud crash.  (I forget what she said it was.) The neighbors actually came running out to see what the hell happened.  Which proves that Pinkie should listen to me more often.

 

It’s another busy week for me with JDavid stuff, a committee meeting at the Senior Centre (I’m the Secretary?  How the hell did that happen?), Sam shifts and Erev Rosh Hashanah beginning on Friday night with special services. 

 

I hope you all performed Teshuvah and May You Be Sealed for a Happy Year.

 

I carefully packed away all my white clothes.  Happy Labor Day!  Not that I won’t see them; I’ve run out of closet space for some reason, so they’re all squashed in the one packed with ‘What was I Thinking?’ mistakes and my minks. 

 

I don’t have to pull out my winter woolies.  They never got put away.  Last year I changed my closets around and then in July I was digging under the (never worn) Bermuda shorts for a turtleneck.  And believe me, I wore them all summer.

 

Congratulations to JoPa and the Lions on a brilliant game on Saturday, shellacking Akron 31 -7.  And because I don’t want to have to sleep on a park bench in Central Park while we’re in New York, a rousing ‘well done!’ to the Fighting Irish for narrowly edging Nevada 35 - 0.  I didn’t see the game; perhaps the Pep Squad played.

 

I did catch part of a ‘49ers game on NFL Roundup on Clueless Sports.  Their rookie running back is called Glenn Coffee.  I love coffee; I live on the stuff.  I might possibly have more ‘coffee breaks’ than ‘booty calls’.  Well… okay, it’s too close to call without the chains.

 

Anyway, I think I prefer being asked “What do you want, Jeano?” so I can say “I’ll have mmmm… Coffee”; it’s more amusing than the  ‘booty’ imaginary conversation.   I used to have a thing for Tedy Bruschi.  He’s not remotely hot, but I thought if I was married to Tedy, he could say cute shit like “Mrs. Bruschi, get the linebackers another brew-ski while you’re up.” 

 

Maybe I’ll start a new index of football players with cool names.

 

I had a meeting with the Sam managers the other day; not just me, the three people designated ‘Senior Volunteers’.  I said to Mikey “That’s not, like, because we’re old, is it?  It’s because we can read and we know that Jilly Cooper isn’t ‘classic British literature’?”  Honestly, you would be shocked if you saw what some of the staff put in the Classics section.  Some of the volunteers are worth exactly what we pay them.  Bupkis.  Really true example: “There’s a lady on the phone asking if we have ‘The Forsyte Saga’.  Did you ever hear of it?”  Several evil yet witty rejoinders came to mind, but I just took a deep breath and looked in the ‘G’s’ in Classics for Galsworthy.  And I’m not even British.

 

That reminds me.  Jennifer, the third member of the triumvirate, and I stopped to have a coffee after the meeting.  We were criticizing one of the managers and I said “Well, ‘the devil can cite Scripture for his own purpose’, you know.”  Jen was gobsmacked.  So was I, even though I often impress myself.  But I do use quotes a lot; usually from ‘The Prophet’, it’s true, but I can download a Shakespeare or two from my memory banks on occasion.  “Where’s that from” she challenged.  “Merchant of Venice” I told her.  Jen, who has a much more thorough background in English Lit than I, disagreed.  She bragged that she’d directed the play while attending her posh boarding school.  I promised to check the quote source when I got home, and ring her.

 

Yes, I was very childish.  “Na-na-na-na! You were wrong” I crowed when she answered the phone.  “Merchant of Venice – Act 1 – Scene III – Antonio.”   She had to admit I’d stumped her.

 

On Tuesday, I had to go to Chiswick for JDavid, and enticed Pinkie into coming along by promising to take her to ‘the Mother of All Consignment Shops’.  Wow.  That was an expensive outing.  We stopped for lunch on the way home at the Minnow, where, naturally, I ran into two people I knew (and Pinkie didn’t).  One was Myra Cohen Cohen, who said, basically, ‘You don’t call.  You don’t write.  You don’t come over for a coffee.  Did you forget where I live? Lose my phone number? I could be dead and you wouldn’t know it.”  Well, I am paraphrasing, but just a tiny bit; she was looking especially Rosie the Terrible-ish and I thought “Trust my mother-in-law to be having a very expensive lunch at the Minnow.   She wouldn’t be caught dead…well…alive at the Slug & Lettuce.”  I said to Pinkie afterwards “God!  I feel so guilty.  I’m a terrible person.  And there’s probably another big black mark in my fucking Book!  Oy vey.”  You can ask Pinkie; it’s true.

 

Jen rang late Tuesday afternoon to say she’d been to lunch in Richmond (coincidentally practically next to Chiswick) with a group of her school chums and related the story to them about the Merchant of Venice quote.  She told me that she’d said “I was bested on Shakespeare by an American from King of Prussia, Pennsylvania!”

 

Hmm, I wondered.  Which part of that statement is the most insulting?  Granted, a lot of Americans are illiterate, but it’s not generally the done thing to say so, and I’m certainly not.  Or does she think King of Prussia is, like, Alabama or Arkansas and I went to school in a one-room schoolhouse like Abe Lincoln or those obnoxious children on ‘Little House on the Prairie’?  British people have the most peculiar misconceptions about Americans sometimes.

 

On Wednesday, I escorted another coach trip for the Senior Centre- this one to Worthing.  I believe Worthing is the seaside, but I’m not sure.  Hester (who came for company) and I never stopped shopping long enough to verify this rumor.  Hester is the sort of friend you want by your side during a crisis-- like when you have to go to a seminar with JDavid and you have nothing to wear.  She’s a bit rigid, however.  Everything is black-and-white, literally.  Like she refused to let me buy that stunning sweater coat because it was black-and-white.  “You’re a Warm Autumn.  Ruby and I say ‘No!  You can’t have it!’”  (Not to worry; they had it in beige and brown.)

 

The summer outings had all been arranged before I got elected to the committee and, apparently, there had been issues with the bus on a few of them.  As this was the last one, the bus company sent their poshest bus.  It was an executive coach, with four seats together, two on either side of a table and satellite TV.  It should have been quite pleasant.

 

It wasn’t.  This woman got on and plunked herself at our table.  I felt just like that Vietnamese officer in ‘Airplane!’ who made the mistake of sitting next to Striker.  She didn’t stop nattering, and in this truly awful accent.  I don’t even notice British accents any more, but this one was like a cat with it’s tail caught in a Chop-o-matic.  Ignoring her and one word answers didn’t even slow her down, so in lieu of hari kari – on her, not me – I pulled out my .mp3 player and cranked it up, drowning her out and leaving Hester to cope.  Since the woman was on her own, I gave my little ‘We’re in Worthing.  Let’s be careful out there.’ shpiel in double quick time and dragged Hester off before Cat Woman latched on to us for the day.   Yeah, just put another black mark in my Book.

 

The regular season starts on Sunday.  The Birds travel to Carolina to play the Panthers.  Would everybody please send Donovan ‘happy’ thoughts?  And while you’re at it, focus on Farve getting a nasty bug or arthritis in his playing elbow so Jew Jock starts?  You’re the best, faithful readers.

I have a date with Scooter Man on Sunday night.  This will be a watershed in our relationship.  He has never seen me watch an American football game.  It will get ugly.  I guess I’ll have to be extremely attentive in other ways to make up for it.