I’M COMING…..

It’s positively brilliant to report that the next few entries in my blog will probably be written in Weybridge. I cross the pond tomorrow night for ten days of much needed R&R.

To all of my British readers who were ENTHRALLED by my reporting on Villanova and March Madness….the ‘Cats choked and lost to Florida in the Elite Eight round. It was never even close. End of discussion.

I SOLD MY HOUSE! Yes, on May 26, I will be homeless, which, frankly, is a huge relief. I now have lots of decisions to make, not to mention lots of stuff to unload. GIANT BOOT SALE AT MY HOUSE- – – Date to be announced.

Of course, selling the house also helps with this little problem I’ve been having with a stalker. Yes, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton and I now have something in common. Only in my case, the stalker doesn’t want me. You all figure it out.. I can only pray that she’s not skulking out there in the morning with a camera and zoom lens snapping pictures of me in my jammies and fuzzy pink slippers dashing out to retrieve my Inquirer.

Sadly, I’d been quite down lately, on a number of levels, and shared those feelings in my blog. Apparently, Stalker Barbie (possibly the source of the "Evil Jeano" comment?) disapproves of the raucous, rollicking life I’m living. I simply MUST switch to orange juice with my morning coffee instead of zinfandel. Apparently, I’ve missed all the fun I had.

Well, I should go pack. I already have one suitcase crammed with goodies, including Captain Pecker. Not to take the piss out of anyone, but the Dublin lad asked for "fuck-me" high heels in size 10 and fishnet stockings. Are you pondering what I’m pondering?

HOW ‘SWEET’ IT IS

What an exciting night it was. I went with a friend’s husband, and his friend, to watch the Sweet Sixteen round at Hooters. Note: Eat yer heart out, James. My friend was delighted to get rid of us, and the mess, so everybody was happy.

Villanova, a local uni, and alma mater of Howie Long, had been brilliant in the early rounds. Most of the #1 seeds have faltered, like Duke. They always choke in the third round. "Nova, which is an Augustinian school, played Boston College last night, which is a Jesuit enclave. ‘Nova is the #1 seed in the Big East Conference.

It kinda got me pondering who does God root for in these circumstances? I know that ‘Nova had a special "Crush the Eagles" mass, and one assumes BC did likewise. It’s a poser. If BC won, would that mean that Jesuits are better than Augustinians? But if God likes the Jesuits best, why didn’t the Hawks, from St. Joseph’s, make it to March Madness? They’re my favorite local team.

God, and the Wildcats, sure had some problems. The ‘Cats left their mojo on the bus or something, and played flat for three quarters. They didn’t score until 3:45 into the game. Allan Ray (cute) and Randy Foye (hot) were well covered by the Eagles. With 9 seconds left in overtime, Will Sheridan (great butt) drove for the basket. BC’s Sean Marshall (hubba hubba) deflected it, but got called for goal tending. The shot counted. ‘Nova pulled out a 60 – 59 win.

Pandemonium ensued. That was too damn close for comfort. Maybe God should just stick to pro football games in the future. The Wildcats next play Florida in the Elite Eight round on Sunday.

CAR WOES

I swear I didn’t do it! The bloody car was perfect on the outside. (The inside was condemned by the Board of Health, but that’s a different story.) I DON’T want to hear any Camilla jokes.

Here’s the story. My trailblazer had a warning light on the dashboard. At first, it blinked occasionally, and finally it stayed on. The message: Service Engine Soon. Well, that’s real clear. Define "Soon". Unfortunately, I’m the kind of girl who is thrilled when the damned car starts in the morning. And I’m the girl who ignored the four recall notices until they sent the orange one saying, "Your car will explode on Tuesday unless you get it fixed."

Being a responsible grown-up, I made an appointment at the dealer’s to have it serviced. Okay, I did blow off the first three appointments I made, but I got there on Wednesday. The Service Manager started nattering about 12,000 mile checkups, tire rotation, oil changes and that kind of shit, so I just said, "Yeah, Whatever.."as I was in a hurry to get to Strawbridges with Toots (finally closing, deep discounts, 80%!, Jesus Wept!)

They called in the afternoon to say the car was done, and that there was nothing wrong. Apparently, it’s not a good idea to keep the plastic thingy that goes over the gas fill on the floor in the back seat with the Burger King bags. I have a great deal of difficulty getting it off to get gas. So what this means is that it’s all Jerry’s fault.

I must report that Toots was APPALLED that I pump my own gas. I explained that I am afraid that if I go to Full Service, I will wake up at 3:00 in the morning to find Jerry sitting on the bed yelling at me about wasting money. I like going to New Jersey because it’s the law there that the attendant must pump (the gas). I confess that I often con kindly men into doing it for me by standing at the pump with the nozzle in my hand looking confused, like "where the fuck does THIS GO?"

I digress. The dealer is directly across the street from the mall, so Toots dropped me off and went back to my house to unload our purchases. I paid my bill, and went outside to get my car. While at the dealer’s, my car got hit and there it sat with a crumpled bumper and deep gashes in the body.

I went back inside to tell them, and they blamed me! They mentioned some stuff about the Queen’s Road, a big lorry, and ending up under the lorry. Well, that part’s not true, but they did blame me. The Service Manager said the damage did not look "fresh", whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. He actually said to me, "Maybe your husband did it." I, of course, replied, "That would be very strange as he’s dead." They brought out the guy who had serviced the car, who had to admit that the car wasn’t damaged when he worked on it, and that it happened in their parking lot. Hah! Score one for Jeano, who did not let a bunch of jerky guys push her around. The car goes in on Monday for repairs, and they’re giving me a loaner. I hope it’s a Corvette.

ST. PADDY’S DAY IN EXILE

I just finished a rather bizarre convo with Stuart Hall. I guess he’s still in Witness Protection, as he wouldn’t say Where in the World is Stuart Hall. He did email me some super cool pictures which I will try to upload to my blog later.

Although I was nostalgic about St. Patrick’s Day at the Grotto last year, I actually ended up in a pub this year, but it’s not what you think. Toots and I went shopping (when do we ever not shop?) before going to a book-signing and lecture by one of our favourite authors, Lisa Scottaline, who is from our area. We decided to grab a bite to eat before the lecture and popped into a restaurant/bar called Charlie Brown’s. The bar was crammed with idiots in green hats drinking humongous glasses of green beer and singing "Danny Boy". As if they know how to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day. Toots and I just ate and left quickly, managing to not interact with a single blotto pseudo Irishman.

The lecture was fantastic and we snagged our signed copy of the book and headed back to my house, where I convinced Toots to take some bar stools home with her, squeezing them in her tiny little car. Hey, I never said we didn’t drink at the bar. I just said we didn’t kiss any blarney stones. I’ve decided that everyone who comes to my house (the postman, the gardener, the Jehovah’s Witnesses) must leave with "stuff". I’m having nightmares about what to do with all of my "stuff" when I sell the house, so if I can unload one or two things at a time on unsuspecting friends,

or strangers, hell, why not?

Saturday night, I went out to dinner with my friend, Kay. Afterwards, we popped into a small "local" called "The Pub" (clever name, yeah?) , where St. Paddy’s Day was apparently still being observed. Jarvo, your tutelage served me in good stead. I immediately started chatting up the guy sitting next to me (young, cute as hell, diamond stud earring). He and his friend were doing some kind of shots, so I, of course, started telling him all about my adventures in Weybridge doing Slippery Nipples and B-52s with Lulu and Theresa. It turns out he’s a wine salesman (Note to Vickums: Get your ass over here NOW). Kay, who’s a bit more reserved than me, (and as everyone knows, I am VERY reserved), did not seem comfortable when I kept inching my bar stool closer to Mr. Shooter-with-the-diamond-stud.

We did have a lovely natter about wine. Jeano knows wine. And, of course, it’s March Madness time here (college b-ball tournament for you readers who honestly believe soccer is a "sport") and we got into a heated discussion about the Sweet Sixteen and the Elite Eight (just look it up on the web) and whether our local college, Villanova, who is the Number One seed, can go all the way. Jeano knows college hoops, too. Actually, Jeano knows about hot young guys in little shorts. Kay’s eyes started to cross from boredom at this point, and she dragged me out of the bar and made me go home.

This seems like enough excitement for one weekend, but no….it wasn’t over yet. Sunday night, very bad influence #1 step-son Stuart, and Aileen and Fran came over to watch the Sopranos on the 900" telly. We rang up Famous George and had him rush over some CHEESESTEAKS (note to James: Ner Nerny Ner Ner!) Stuart brought a bottle of vodka…for shots…and I was persuaded to indulge. I had mixed up a 55-gal. drum of Pimms (Aileen refused to come over unless I provided Pimms) and I should warn everybody. Don’t mix Pimms and vodka. I think I remember Tony Soprano dating one of the Desperate Housewives, but I’m not real clear about this.

A PARTY AND A JOKE

The weather here has been glorious and my sulky mood has lifted somewhat. Friday is St. Patrick’s Day, and I can’t help wishing I was in Weybridge to celebrate.

Yesterday, I went to an engagement party in Dover, Delaware at blood relative Joanne and relative by marriage Mickey’s house for their son Tony and his fiancée, Kate. I went with cousin Maria, and her husband, Jerry, and came home with famous (at least to my blog readers) blood relative Margaret and License to Injure Slightly John (a particular favorite of Pinkie’s).

Mickey was in the Air Force, which explains why they live in Dover, which, to put it kindly, is the boondocks. (There’s an Air Force Base there, which we got to see up close and personal, as Cousin Maria got off at the wrong exit and we ended up in a restricted zone. The sentries with the big guns were kinda cute.) Anyhow, the Mickster opened a Coffee Beanery franchise in the Dover Mall when he retired, so they have grown roots in Delaware. It’s about two hours to Philadelphia and civilization.

Mickey has a large and boisterous Italian family and it’s always nice to see them and catch up. In one of those queer, "Six Degrees of Separation" things, I had met one of Mickey’s sisters in Italy, of all places, when I was in high school. Strangely, Joanne and Mickey both like to cook. I don’t know why. A quick survey revealed that they both knew all about potatoes and what to do with them after they’re born.

I’m always amused at the distinctly "ethnic" chasm between social events thrown by my family and Jerry’s family. I spent countless hours at Cohen events searching in vain for the meatballs (maybe they hid them under the rye bread???) And starving, as there usually wasn’t anything served that I was willing to eat. I’m pleased to report that the food was wonderful…Joanne even made her own pizzas! I believe she even "baked" for the occasion, whatever that means.

License to Injure shared a joke, which I am reproducing here, dedicated to all you "sensitive guys" out there.

 

A woman meets a gorgeous man in a bar. They talk, they connect and they end up leaving together.

They get back to his apartment and she notices thathis bedroom is completely packed with sweet cuddly teddy bears. Hundreds of cute small bears on a shelf all the way along the floor, cuddly medium-sized ones on a shelf a little higher, and huge enormous bears on the top shelf along the wall.

The woman is surprised that this guy would have a collection of teddy bears, especially one that’s so extensive, but she decides not to mention this to him, and actually is quite impressed by his sensitive side.

She turns to him… they kiss.. and then they rip each other’s clothes off …. After an intense night of passion with this sensitive guy, as they are lying there together in the afterglow, the woman rolls over and asks, smiling, "Well, how was it?"………

The guy says: "Help yourself to any prize from the bottom shelf."

JEANO WHINGES

Thank God February is over! Winter is always a depressing time of year, and this one was extra bad.

Maybe I’m having a chemical imbalance or maybe I need some chemicals. I just know that I’m feeling very sorry for myself. The list of people who have disappointed me is enormous. Obviously, the answer is not to rely on anyone– for anything. Poor Jeano is definitely not soaring. I am. however, at least having a good time wallowing in my misery.

I’m in absolute overload, what with all the decisions I have to make; selling the house, getting rid of stuff, moving, where to move, what to do about Marina. As I told some one the other day, I don’t want to be a grownup any more. It’s too fucking hard. Too bad it’s too late to run away to Haight-Ashbury and drop-out of my current life.

At the risk of incurring the wrath of the reader who dubbed me "Evil Jeano", I must share a typical encounter with my child. "I HATE YOU!" she screamed at me, in response to a "no" over something or other, in the car, as I’m driving her to work. "I’m going to kill myself! I’m going to jump off a bridge!" Fortunately, my sense of irony is still intact, and I started picturing THAT scenario…"Can you drive me to the bridge?" Me: "I don’t drive into the city." Her: "x#&*#" Me: "Which one?" Her: "I don’t know! The bridge!" Me: "Well, there’s the Ben Franklin, the Walt Whitman, the Tacony-Palmyra, or, if you want to make a feminist statement, there’s the Betsy Ross." Her: Silence. Me: "It’s gonna cost you two bucks." Her: "I have to PAY you?" Me: "No. You have to pay to go over the bridge." Her: "I’m not paying." Jesus Wept!

I was watching a programme on BBCAmerica the other night, and one of the characters kept saying that…Jesus Wept. It reminded me of a friend I used to know.

 

 

 

JEANO COOKS….REALLY

It’s Thursday here (what day is it in England?) And there’s a major storm passing through, bringing snow, sleet and rain. Schools are closed; you know what that means. I prepared yesterday, filling the car with petrol (even though I don’t drive in bad weather; for the rest of the population’s safety) and stocking up on basics like bread, eggs and milk (in case it’s a really bad storm; I wouldn’t want to have to eat Hamish).

The house smells delightful, as I decided this morning to whip up a batch of homemade soup. It’s a family recipe and we call it "Italian" soup; most likely because we’re Italian. This is all true, by the way. I am making the soup from scratch. And before some smart ass emails to take the piss out of me, "scratch" is not a brand of tinned soup. I had some difficulty finding a pot, but once that was sorted out, (why on earth the pots were in Jerry’s underwear drawer is beyond me) I was good to go. As my readers know, vegetables do not get "born" here. They come nicely chopped and ready to go in the frozen food cabinet at the Acme. This is important as I need all my fingers. I won’t bore you any more, but the key is to top the dish of soup with heaps of grated Locatelli cheese. Or put it in the oven topped with thin slices of Provolone ‘til it melts. I can’t believe I’m writing about the "c" word.

The other dish that is my extra-speciality is Stuffed Cabbage, which is a Jewish dish. My mother-in-law taught me two things during my marriage; how to win at slot machines, and how to make stuffed cabbage. Oy vey! What a character she was. The secret ingredient is ginger snaps. I have no idea why I’m blabbing all my culinary secrets. Must be the Pimms I had for breakfast when I heard schools were closed.

On to some good news. My much anticipated visit to Weybridge was iffy due to child care issues. Happily, it’s resolved. I had considered various options (I won’t list them; some readers have no Humor Gene) but finally worked out an arrangement for my step-daughter’s daughter, Heather, to come and stay at my house. My step-daughter, Aileen, and I were sort of estranged for a while, but it’s all good now. She calls me her "favourite step-mother with the Pimms." How cute is that?

A relative, who shall not be named, asked me the other day, "Do you fly right to Weybridge?" "Of course" I replied with a straight face, "The plane drops me off right on the High Street behind the Kabob Caravan."

MOTHER TONGUE

This is kind of a melancholy anniversary. One year ago yesterday, I got on a plane to England. Yeah, yeah…I know….you already heard THAT story.

I had mentioned the Irish Lad’s blog in my blog, and I’ve had a lot of feedback from my devoted readers. One of the printable comments, the only one not to use the "F" word, (as in "What the F*ck did he SAY?" comes from Mary, who wrote:

I tried to read Terry’s blog. I think the entry may have been about soccer, rugby, cricket ….or maybe volleyball? In what language is Terry’s blog written and where can I find the english (or american) translation?

 

Sorry, Mary. There IS no translation. As Terry’s favourite author, Gen. Ulysses James Joyce once said, "Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives." Terry, obviously, must have been Caligula in a prior incarnation. And because I am erudite and conversant with other Celtic literary lions, let me throw in a quote from Brendan Behan, who is, I think, either a famous Irish writer or a football player at Notre Dame. He said, "Other people have a nationality. The Irish and the Jews have a psychosis."

On the subject of Mary, she says "Hi" to everyone, especially Leechy. Since she’s gotten a big promotion at work (there goes the bloody phone service on the East Coast), she’s unable to come with me in April. She is coming down to KofP the weekend before I leave with a "few" (a suitcase full) presents for "her fiancee". Leechy is generally very well dressed (this is true; odd, but true) and I have promised Mary to try and prevent Dave from peeing all over her offerings. However, I draw the line at going into the Gents with him at the Grotto.

Some blog-cleaning news. I’ve edited my picture albums, and taken down the Pajama Party pictures. Someone (a husband) was rather upset at pictures of the "girls" with a six-foot penis. Well, certain girls. Sorry if anybody else was offended; it seemed hilariously funny at the time. That might have been the Pimms. I am definitely bringing Captain Pecker to Weybridge on my upcoming visit. I think he will enjoy Rocky Horror and hanging at the Grotto.

Back to the subject of English/American languages, blood relative Margaret’s husband, John, sent me a list of Redneck medical terms for Pinkie, in case they ever let her back in Children’s Hospital. Of course, that would mean LEAVING THE MALL for a few hours. I’m sharing a few here; if you want the entire list, email me.

D&C…..where Washington is.

Cesarean section…..a neighborhood in Rome.

Seizure….Roman emperor who lived in the Cesarean section.

Pap Smear…..paternity test.

Coma….a punctuation mark, like an atrophy but lower.

 

Just a quick update on the "Evil Jeano" debate. Apparently 82% of people who actually know me think I AM evil. However, 96% of them consider that to be a highly desirable character trait.