Archives

All posts for the month March, 2008

WALKING IN THE RAIN

Published March 30, 2008 by jean cohen

I had a date.  A proper one.  On Friday night.

 

I had mentioned that I had gone on a coffee date with British Commando Guy last week.  Well he rang and asked me on a ‘date’ date.  Since the Jew of My Dreams is still being damned elusive, I thought ‘Why not?  One can never get too much practice.  And I have some divine new FleurT undies.’  I am such a hopeless romantic – or optimist.  Whichever.  And I haven’t been on an actual date since New Joisey and Israeli Guy.

 

We emailed and texted, discussing what we should do on the ‘date’, finally deciding to go for a nature walk, call in at the Grotty for a few pints, have a meal, and come back to mine… to play Scrabble of course. 

 

Note to faithful readers:  Obviously I am writing in ‘code’ again. Get it?  Wink.  Wink.  Some details must be censored.   Christ, or Adonai, knows who is reading my blog by now.

 

In customary English fashion, it was pouring like a son of a bitch when Steve got to mine, so a nature walk was out of the question.  I opened a bottle of Zinfy, put on some mood music, and we chatted…sort of.  There were an awful lot of “Sorry?”, “What?”, “What does that mean if you were speaking to an Italian-American who doesn’t speak whatever language it is you’re speaking?”, “Could you repeat that…and s-l-o-w-e-r?”  Really.  But it was nice.

 

When the rain slowed down to Category 5 Hurricane status, we walked up Monument Road to the Grotty.  A piece of valuable advice:  Never have your date in a little town if you live in that little town.  Go to a pub in Esher or Woking, where nobody knows your name.  First, as we raced through Katherine Howard Close (I was running; he was apparently marching to Rule Brittania or some other patriotic song), we ran into Mad Tommy, and then Mabel and Eve, my old neighbours.  I just waved and carried on.  When we got to the lane, there was the Irish Lad getting out of his motor.  He stopped and waved, and I have a sneaky suspicion that was his mobile flashing through the pelting rain as he got some commemorative snaps.

 

The Grotty was packed.  Stupid me; of course it was packed.  It was Friday night.  So naturally I had to introduce Steve to like twenty blokes.  And whilst we were eating, at least ten people wandered through the Dining Room for no apparent reason except to check us out.  I actually heard someone say “Take a look.  Jeano has a date and they’re in the Dining Room right now.”  That is true.   Monkey Joe isn’t that discreet.  He came right over and sat down at our table, so he could check Steve out leisurely, asking where he’s from, what he does, etc.

 

This next part is embarrassing; embarrassing but true.  When we walked back to mine, I couldn’t find my house keys.  Booboo was working so I rang Terry, but he was out with Bald Rob.  I rang Pinkie, but she was in Woking.  “Do you have your key to my house” she asked, a little annoyed I think.  “Yeah, but it’s in my house with my keys” I told her.  “I’ll ring Terry” she said.  In the meantime, British Commando Guy was doing a reconnoiter around, probably planning to rappel the wall and come down through the chimney flue.  Suddenly, the front door opened and Steve said, “You left the back door open; your keys were in it.”  Oops.  I quickly rang Pinkie who rang Terry who was in a cab heading to his house to get the bloody spare set of keys.

 

Note to criminals and ex-friends:  I have now hidden another spare set of keys in the third flower pot on the left.

 

 Note to British readers:  Terry was at the Volunteer; Terry took a cab from the Volunteer to go home and get the keys.  I think you get the point I’m making.  It must be at least ten blocks.    But I was mortified.  And I am handicapped, as you know, and a little confused.  And it’s Rheims, not Rouen, Gabrielle…I mean Irish Lad.

 

Note to the Irish Lad:  I’m sorry I said you had a big car and a little brain (even if it was in French and nobody understood it anyway).

 

British Commando Guy left on Saturday morning (the ‘Scrabble’ was intense) leaving me barely enough time to get dressed and get to synagogue.  I rushed home, changed and Lulu picked me up to go shopping at the mall and have a late lunch.  Lulu dropped me and all my lovely loot off, (divine undies and drop-dead gorgeous boots; they were on sale-practically free)  when Pinkie texted that Pat was meeting us at the Grotty.  I quickly changed again, (why do you think I have so many clothes?) and dashed to Pinkie’s to walk up the hill with her for a drink with Pat.

 

Pat had been across the Pond in the States for absolutely ages.  Sadly, it appears that Pat and Mike are moving back to New York.  Hopefully, they won’t be leaving for a while.

 

We had a proper Girls’ Night Out, chatting and laughing and being deliciously bitchy and mean.  One drink turned into six or seven, and we didn’t leave until after last call.  Yes, Pinkie and I held each other up stumbling down Monument Road.  “Do you have your bloody keys” Pinkie asked when we got to hers.  I double-checked, just to be sure; I didn’t want Terry to have to take a cab two blocks down the lane at midnight.  “Yep” I assured her.  “And the spare set is in the third flower pot on the left…on the right…the one closest to the wheelie bin…I think.”

 

Monkey Joe was at the pub Saturday night.  He came over to ‘hug, kiss, knock into sharp object’ me, and said “I liked your boyfriend.”  Wow.  What a relief.  I don’t have to dump British Commando Guy.  ‘Sorry but you are hereby dumped.  Monkey doesn’t like you.”  “He’s not my ‘boyfriend” I told Monkey, “Just a bloke I’m dating until the Jew of My Dreams materializes.”

 

For some reason, I was not in great shape on Sunday.  I begged off dinner at Pinkie’s; I was in my pj’s all day.  I didn’t get dressed until Cheese Boy rang to say he and BooBoo Blondie were on their way over to pick me up to go to the Volly.

 

It must have been “Wear the Absolutely Worst Outfit You Can Think Of” night at the Volly for the Pub Slags and nobody warned BooBoo or me.  I begged Lou to take some pictures (he got a new camera and had it with him) but he wouldn’t do it.  I don’t think anyone would believe me if I described some of the getups.

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

FOOLS AND KINGS…I’M TELLING YOU IT’S RHEIMS

Published March 30, 2008 by jean cohen

Stop whinging that you’re blog deprived.  I do have a life besides sitting at my computer being interesting and hilarious.  I had a lot of engagements this week.

 

Easter Sunday it snowed…whenever the torrential rain wasn’t pelting down.  I did not put my nose outside the door.  I even eschewed the Volly that evening, opting to curl up under a throw and watch scintillating Sky Cable,  “The Queen’s Fifty Most Boring Public Appearances” followed by “Prince Charles Talks Frankly to His Organic Veg”.  Not that there weren’t other choices.  There is a channel that runs continuous episodes of ‘Law and Order’ twenty-four hours a day, or I could watch ‘Medium’, ‘Jag’, ‘CSI’, ‘Cold Case’, (I do watch that if I’m missing Philly), ‘Walker: Texas Ranger’, or ‘Nash Bridges’.  Seriously, I have met people who actually watch ‘Nash Bridges’.

 

On Monday I got an email from Bernie Cohen about the Comm Committee meeting on Tuesday night.  That was not particularly earth-shaking.  What was stupendously horrifying was that it came through MSN Live Spaces.  In the email, he noted that he didn’t have my email address so he’d googled me and found my blog.  “You didn’t, like, bother to read any of it, did you” I emailed back, going for a casual tone.  “Yeah, I did” he emailed back.  “It’s ever so funny.”  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!

 

I went to the Board Meeting anyway.  I met loads more new people.  After the Comm Committee’s part was finished, Bernie came over to introduce himself to me.  I knew who he was; he was the bloke in the kilt and yarmulke (at least in my fertile imagination).  Jane, Bernie’s wife, had to stay for the rest of the Board Meeting so he offered to drive me home.  Cousin Bernie came in for a coffee and to discuss the Haderech and ideas to jazz it up a bit.  Bernie could turn up at our Cohen Family Seder at Pesach and everybody would go, “Yo, Bernie!  Whassup?  What do think of the Phillies’ chances this year?  Why are you talking funny?”  He looks exactly like at least fourteen of Jerry’s relatives.

 

On Wednesday, I entertained a new friend from synagogue at mine—only for coffee, though.  I’m not confident enough yet to try preparing actual food.

On Thursday, I went to support Misa at my friend Chris’ sentencing at the High Court in Kingston.  He was found guilty.  So adding to my British ‘firsts’ I now have a friend in the Big House here.  It is called ‘Wandsworth Prison’.  I am being flippant because the whole thing was so damned unfair and upsetting and I’m not going to go into detail here. 

 

The Irish Lad turned up for Quiz Night, as did Sandra.  She is still sickeningly ‘in love’ but they have reached the point in their relationship where they can be away from each other for a few hours.  They just text each other every ten minutes.  Our team name for the night: Four Bitches and Two Butches. 

 

We came in third.  We could have won.  Sandra, frankly, had a misspent youth, and she and lover boy obviously spend a lot of time snogging on the sofa watching telly.  She knew positively everything about the dumbest stuff.  Examples:  Number of red balls in a game of snooker; number of apprentices on ‘Apprentice’; the surname of the family who lived on Nelson Mandela Close. 

 

As usual, I aced the ‘American’ questions.  In fact, the quiz moderator came over and quite seriously asked me how something was pronounced.  I looked at it and said ‘Des Moines?”  I pronounced it, and she said that at least four other people had said it differently.  “Trust me” I assured her, “I spent a year in Des Moines one weekend.  My husband’s company was there.  Everybody wears a cap that says ‘John Deere!!!’ on it with their overalls and says ‘the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye!’  “Really?  Why?” she inquired.  “I have no bloody idea” I lied. 

 

Note to Iowains with no sense of humor:  Yes, I know Iowa produces more  corn than all the cosmopolitan, sophisticated Right Coast states put together; yes, I know John Deere Tractors is the biggest manufacturer in the state and if you grow corn it’s probably a good idea to have a tractor or two; and yes, I have seen the musical ‘State Fair’.  I just don’t admit any of it.

 

I should be loyal to my butch teammates.  Screw that.  They’re both prats.  Men are so…. Stupid.  Question:  In a survey of 10,000 women,  the men of which European country were rated as the worst lovers.  Me instantly: “Germany!”  Cheese Boy: “Shut up, Jeano.  You only said that because you have that Jewish thingy going on, like not riding in a Mercedes. It’s probably Belgium because they’re so bloody boring.”  The Boy and the Irish Lad proceeded to diss the men of every other country in Europe except, of course, England and Ireland.  I think they finally agreed on Croatia.  Germany was, of course, the correct answer.

 

Question: The girl group that had five Billboard Top 100 hits.  Pinkie, Sandra and me: ‘Spice Girls!”  Dumb and Dumber:  “Bananarama!”  Me:  “Who?” 

 

And don’t get me started on how those two could think Klingons have red blood.  Honestly.

 

But the piece de resistance was the question about les roi de France and where they were crowned.  Rouen!” crowed smarmy Irish Lad.  “No, you stupid git” I corrected him.  “It was Rheims.”  “Jeano, I know France very well” Terry said, getting all ‘I’m not an insular, clueless American’ on me.  “Yeah, well so do I” I retorted.  “I’ve been there a lot, unwillingly, it’s true, since I hate French people, and I’m telling you it’s Rheims.”   We bickered, male solidarity prevailed, and we went with Rouen.  Hommes- grosse corvette, petite cervelle.    

WE’RE #1…WELL ALMOST

Published March 22, 2008 by jean cohen

I am pleased to report that ‘Me and My Bitches’ did not come in last at Quiz Night at the Ash Tree.  Oh.  That is the cute team name Cheese Boy coined.  It refers to Pinkie and me, and Sandra, if she turns up (she and her ginormous boobs are ‘in love’ at the moment).  And Trigger, BooBoo and the Boy’s huge Lurcher, who takes up a lot of room and never knows the answer, no matter what the topic is.

 

No, we ended up tied for first place, with another team that is comprised of five blokes, all of whom apparently spend every minute of their days watching films, chat shows and bloody soccer matches.  We lost in the tie-breaker.  How was I supposed to know in which year the Hoover Vacuum Cleaner was invented?  It’s not like I send Mr. Hoover a ‘Thank You’ card every year on his anniversary.  I did ask Pinkie and the Boy if we were talking about the ‘Mr. Hoover’ who went on to wear women’s undies and spy on Elvis Presley, (I’ve been to his building in Washington, DC – as a tourist, not a detainee) but they said no; the vacuum cleaner one was an English bloke.  Hey, they didn’t know the answer either.

 

I did shine, as usual, on the ‘American’ questions.  The second question of the night almost got me.  “Eight American states begin with the letter ‘M’.  Michigan, Missouri and Montana are three of them.  Name the other five.”  “Right.  Carry on” Lou ordered.  “Okay” I said.  Maine, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Mississippi and …”  I drew a total blank.  “Well?” my teammates pressured me.  “I’m thinking” I whinged.  “I know it.  Really.  I’ve been to all of the ‘M’ states.”  They started firing questions at me.  “What’s the state that New Orleans is in?”  “Is it the one next to New York?”  “What’s the one with all the cowboys?”  “What about the one next to South Dakota?”  “Yeah.  That’s it” I said.  “How could I forget ‘Morth Dakota?  It’s such a fun state.”  “Shut up.  I’m visualizing the map” I snapped.  Finally, the penny dropped and I crowed “Maryland!”  Maryland?” Lou asked.  “Isn’t that the one where you claimed you kept your boat?  The one you said you spent every bloody weekend in for fifteen years?”  “Exactly” I answered.  “And I said booze is really cheap there.  What’s your point, Cheese Boy?  Just write down ‘Maryland.” 

 

A later question was “Name the movie in which Tom Hanks and Antonio Banderas were lovers”.  “Streets of Philadelphia” said Pinkie.  “No” I told her with a lot of Philly ‘tude.  “That was the song; the movie was called just ‘Philadelphia’.”  A childish squabble broke out, and I had to explain, very kindly, that they filmed the scenes at Tom Hank’s parents’ house right around the corner from my office.   We used to walk over at lunchtime to try and catch a glimpse of Antonio.  And of course I knew the governor of New York involved in a prostitution scandal.  But clever Pinkie solved the anagram question; that is usually my specialty.

 

On Friday night, I was out with Pinkie and Julie Clifton.  We went to posh Hampton Court – to a pub, what else?  This one was called the ‘Cardinal Wolsey’ after that really hot bloke in the ‘Tudors’ on American telly.  Not the one who plays Henry VIII; he’s hot, too, but I meant Sam Neill.  The Wolsey has live music so it sounded like fun.  Go know Julie likes heavy metal.  The band was called State of Cain, and every number consisted of the singer screaming really loud and rubbing the mike on his privates to keep it warm; the mike or his willy – I’m not sure.  The State of Cain groupies, and there were scads of them, were all dressed in black and chains.  I personally feel that gold compliments a little black skirt of some indescribable man-made material better than industrial steel.  I think Vogue would agree with me on that one, although diamonds work, too.   

 

I got schpielkas and wandered around checking out the pub slags and biker wannabees.  I met a lovely British couple when I went outside for a fag.  They had actually been to Philly.  (They were not ‘heavy metal ‘heads’.)    I spent ages shouting with them (over Willy Mike Guy’s screaming) about England and America and the pros and cons of both.

 

I will be attending my first meeting of the Public Relations & Communications Committee of the NWSS on Tuesday night.  I have already promised to help out with the Haderech, the synagogue newsletter and the website.  Bernie told me that they have ‘plans’ for me.  That’s why he called; Bernie Cohen is the Chair of the committee.  I did say to him “Cousin Bernie!”  He laughed and answered “Probably.  At least we’re mishpokhe (family).”  I almost fell off the sofa at the sound of Yiddish with a Scottish accent.  It was very sexy.  I confided that my Yiddish, although rusty, is loads better than my Italian, so we switched and chatted for a bit in mame loshn.  I will report all the details after the meeting.  I wonder if he wears a kilt with his yarmulke?

HELLO…ARE YOU THE JEW I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR?

Published March 21, 2008 by jean cohen

Sunday night was the Volunteer as usual, with the addition of Julie and the Jolly Scots, David and Margaret.  The DJ at the Volly is fantastic .  He plays an eclectic mix and really knows his music history.  Lou says he used to be on the radio.  The pub slags were there, looking as whorey as usual, except for BB.  Oddly, I ran into her during the week on Tudor Walk.  She lives in the next building from me.  I wanted to inquire how the dead furry thing was, but I restrained myself.  I did not invite her ‘round to mine for a coffee or copious amounts of alcoholic beverages.

 

Sunday night’s entertainment was provided by Pinkie, who exhibited a heretofore unmentioned talent.  She took on some of the regulars, and then David, and solidly trounced them all playing Snooker.  She was quite modest about her skills, but did tell us all that this week we need to get to the Volly at 7:00 instead of 9:00, as she has several high-stakes (Five Quid a pop) matches organized.

 

As I seem to celebrate a lot of ordinary Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, etc, St. Patrick’s Day passed with hardly a ripple.  I did walk up to the Grotto with the Irish Lad, but only to watch Amy and Eamonn Irish Dance.  Pat and Mike are selling the pub, and it has lost its flavour.  And there are forty-two other pubs just in Weybridge that are more convivial.  It’s sad, really; I had some great memories of wild long nights spent in the Grotty.  

 

Tuesday night I went to the Ash Tree with Cheese Boy for ‘A Night at the Races’, which were, of course, videos of horse races.  It was in aid of a children’s charity.  Neither the Boy nor I did well on our betting, but we did win the quiz done between the races.  I told you I was smart; this quiz was more general knowledge.

 

Wednesday, I had a date.  Really.  I’m telling the truth again.  Space constraints prohibit me from going into more detail.  English Guy was very…English.

 

On Thursday I went up on the train to London with Paula for Eileen’s luncheon at Boodles.  Boodles is an ultra posh ‘gentlemen’s club’, which has been around since 1762.  It was originally called ‘Savoir Vivre’.   At some point, probably in the 50’s, the 1950’s, they began letting women into the hallowed site.  I have quite a fondness for servile peasants in frock coats bowing and scraping to me as they lick my shoes (Ferragamos; from Neiman Marcus).  Honestly, it’s just like being on Masterpiece Theatre.

 

There were five ladies at the luncheon, which Eileen had pre-arranged and pre-ordered.  We were each presented with a personalized menu, written, I’m certain, by hand by another of the peasants in the Boodles Ye Olde Menu Shoppe in the cellar.  The meal included Fillet of Lamb with Herb Crust, Mixed Seasonal Vegetables and Jersey Royal Potatoes, followed by a lovely Grand Marnier Souffle with Orange Cream.  To compliment the meal, we drank Macon Uchizy 2006 (not the very best year) from Domaine Talmard, and Chateau de Gironville 2003 (a very good year) from Cru Bourgeois Haut-Medoc.  I complimented Eileen on her fine choices; there was no need for me to mention that I usually buy Ernest & Julio by the jumbo jug.   We had champagne before, during and after luncheon, as well.  Followed by cordials and then a lot of coffee.  (That helpful message at Waterloo, ‘Mind the Gap’,  is so true.)  I decided right then and there that I want to be filthy rich and posh if I ever decide to grow-up. 

 

The afternoon was quite jolly and more than a little risqué (especially after that much champagne) and as a finishing touch, Eileen presented each of us with an exquisitely wrapped present from Fortnum & Mason – beautiful taper candles.  I couldn’t help myself; I asked her for the Fortnum’s bag.  At least I will appear very posh to the rest of Tudor Walk carrying my ready meals home from Waitrose in my Fortnum’s carrier bag.

 

After I got home, as I was dressing to go out again, to Quiz Night, my phone rang.  The most incredible voice, with a Scottish accent, inquired “Is that Jean Cohen?”  “Yes, it is” I admitted, and the wonderful voice said “Well, hello.  This is Bernie Cohen.”

ERIN GO BRAGH….EFSHER? NU?

Published March 17, 2008 by jean cohen

This past week saw a return to true ‘English’ weather, torrential rain and strong winds causing uprooted trees and seven hour delays on the motorways.  Actually, the Brits call that ‘Just Another Boring Monday”.

 

I was grateful to be picked up in a cozy warm Mercedes (it was definitely mink coat weather)  to go to Jack’s funeral.  To add to my list of ‘firsts’, this was my first proper English funeral.  Hopefully, it will be my last too, for a long time. 

 

It was a Catholic funeral, but I’ve been to many of those.  It was so…reserved.  It’s true that my experiences have all been Italian funerals, but Paula could have hired the ‘shrieking ladies’.  These are the professional mourners, dressed from head to toe in black, who moan and sob throughout the mass, pitifully calling out the deceased’s name.  The first time Jerry went to a three day long funeral for one of my relatives, he was gobsmacked.  He never forgot the sight of two of my aunts fighting for territorial rights and actually pulling one of poor Uncle Vinny’s shoes off.  (He was the dead bloke – in the coffin.)   

 

Of course, Jack had not been well for a long time, and in many ways, his passing was a blessing.  But everybody was so damned unemotional.  His cremation was private, so I don’t know if they had a ‘Fat Jenny’ for the grand finale.  She was the ‘pro’ who tried to throw herself into the open grave with the deceased.  This was quite a scene, as she was, indeed, extremely large and it took quite a few strong men to keep her from slipping down and landing on top of some poor dead goombah.

 

There was a lovely luncheon at Paula’s after the service, held inside due to the pounding rain.  Paula’s little house was mobbed, but somehow  I found myself chatting away to Anick’s father-in-law, Eric, the filthy rich Norwegian widower.  Perhaps he will invite me to Oslo for a weekend.  Why didn’t he invite me to Oslo for the weekend?  It’s like practically next door to England, and I can go positively everywhere now that I’m Italian.  Perhaps he’ll ring.

 

Eileen, and her accommodating chauffer, dropped me at my door, and I’m up to London on Thursday for luncheon with her at Boodles, one of the oldest and poshest private clubs in England.  It is certainly very nice to be me, the me who persevered for thirteen months to get back here and have all these brilliant experiences.

 

Pinkie and I did ‘Ladies Who Lunch’ on Wednesday, and then took my entire ‘fat wardrobe’ to the posh consignment shop on Baker Street.    Her car was full to the brim.  BooBoo had faithfully stored everything (after washing and ironing it; really, that’s true).  They were certainly chuffed to get all those stunning American clothes.

 

Lulu popped in for coffee on Thursday afternoon and then it was off to Ashford for Quiz Night.  Despite Pinkie and the Irish Lad, plus David and Margaret, we still came in third from last.

 

Friday morning was coffee at Brenda’s house, a new acquaintance from the synagogue.  I had to dash from that as I was meeting Allison for lunch at the Jolly Farmer.  Allison was one of the few people I hadn’t seen yet since I got back.  After lunch, she came back to mine for coffee and a long natter.

 

Unbelievably, I had no engagements on Friday night; I actually turned on the telly and watched back-to-back episodes of Torchwood.

 

Saturday morning, of course, I went to ‘Where the Jews Are’.  I needed some dates from the Irish Lad so I could work on the girls’ ‘Girls Gone Wild in Amsterdam!’ weekend.  I texted him, and as it was Saturday, I did the entire text in Yiddish.  He did answer, and with the dates, but I was prepared for retaliation.  This morning, I got a long text from the Irish Lad in Gaelic, in honor, I think, of St. Paddy’s Day.  These are the things that make being here so much fun.  I countered with an Italian one; let the language war begin.

 

The congregation at NWSS takes the Jewish commandment of Tzedakeh very seriously.  This refers to ‘kindness to strangers’.  I have received so many coffee and lunch invitations that I’ll be busy for months.  And I have been invited to the first seder for Pesach by no less than five people.  People actually ring just to welcome me to Weybridge and the community.  I did try to explain to Jackie, the Rabbi, that while I am here by myself, I am not strictly ‘alone’.  I do have good friends and support, but I guess you can never have a big enough network.

ON LINE DATING…BRITISH STYLE

Published March 14, 2008 by jean cohen

In a email from DooWop Guy from Exit 143 of the Garden State, he mentioned that two of the dating sites he and I, and many of the folks from the Schmooze, use have a UK site.  I had thought about deleting my profile from the USA sites; but the emails are so entertaining.  And I love to correct the grammar and spelling and send them back.  I hadn’t even thought about getting on any sites here.  But it was a simple matter to change my details and, voila, I’m on in England.

 

Amazing.  Same site, different location, same assholes, only with cooler accents.   Obviously there’s a pandemic of asshole-iness and nobody’s noticed.  Maybe some scientist will discover a vaccine. I honestly almost hope they’re actually the same guys from Jersey, just pretending to be British.

 

Jerk #1…ugh.  I don’t even want to discuss him.  Well, okay.  We instant messaged, which I hate.  It’s so inane.  He had an arsenal of emoticons so that he seemed witty or funny.  At least I guess that’s why a grown man would use winking heads and flashing thingys that go ‘Cool!’, ‘’Wow!’, etc.

Then he flashed one that was a woman doing oral sex on a guy.  “Did that give you any IDEAS?” he texted.  “No, not really” I texted back.  “I wasn’t really paying attention.  I was thinking about these stunning grey boots I saw in that really expensive shoe store on the High Street.  I should just pop in and find out how much they cost already. And it’s end of season; they should be on sale soon, don’t you think?”  (I type really, really fast.)  Strange, but he got annoyed.  “You’re fantasizing about boots?” he whinged.  Seriously, was I supposed to be fantasizing about him?  Okay.  Here’s a fantasy; he buys me the goddamned boots.   He hasn’t IM’d me again.  

 

Jerk #2 looked promising.  He could string a sentence together and even used words of more than two syllables.  Then he mentioned he was married and just fooled around.  I confess.  I was very bad.  I strung him along for a few days.  I was kind of bored and thought it would be fun to experience his seduction technique—on line, of course.  Besides, I’m ever mindful of the onerous job of blogging, and coming up with interesting and funny material is hard work. His thing was to send a long string of xxx’s and ooo’s and announce, “That was a hug!”  Wow, are we, like, in Pre-school and doing ‘Pretend Hour?”  “Ooh, Darling!  I’m a lioness now and my fur is all tingly from your hug!” 

 

XOXOXO Guy was never a serious candidate.  There was that little being ‘married’ strike; I don’t poach other women’s men (unless I get an opportunity to do Sting- in that case, all bets are off). And I certainly don’t need some bloke who thinks he’s going to sneak to mine on Tuesday afternoon for a quickie.  I am a JAP.  I require wining and dining, and expensive presents, like stunning grey boots.  Did I mention that he was Indian?  There’s that whole ‘cavaliers’ thing.  And he was smarmy; it was actually pretty funny.  I did wonder how he justified his behaviour to himself, but he didn’t seem to think cheating was a big deal.  If that’s not a humongous clue that he thinks women are worthless… 

 

We were chatting on line and getting romantic (he was, anyway. I was thinking about this black blazer I saw in that really expensive store on the High Street.)  Right in the middle, he goes, “I have to go” and signs off.  Hmm.  Is his house on fire?  Did MI5 just raid the premises because he’s the clandestine leader of an Al Qaida cell?  Or did his wife come home earlier than expected from grocery shopping at Sainsbury’s?  Whatever the reason, it wasn’t a real smooth move for someone trolling for casual sex, at least to me.

 

When XOXOXO Smarmy rang a couple days later, he actually had the chutzpah to say “Where did we leave off in our chat?”  When I sent his “You are Hereby Dumped” email, I couldn’t resist adding a little piece of advice that he needs to work on that jumping off-line in the middle of a sentence because his wife turned up.  Some women, unless they’re either clueless or desperate for male attention, might get put off.  I, of course, am so out of his league.

A RARE NIGHT OUT

Published March 10, 2008 by jean cohen

The Live Dot Spaces Blogging Police Cow rang me this afternoon (after she finished her shift at Terminal 4).  “Did you blog today?” she asked in a very threatening tone.

 

“BooBoo, I was at Jack’s funeral today” I reminded her.  “No, I didn’t blog.  Was I supposed to tote my laptop and do it during Communion?”  “I forgot” she replied.  And then, “How long is ‘Communion’? Could you have managed a short one?”  Really, BooBoo is so bloody literal.

 

Last night, I went to the Volly with the Three Musketeers, Manny, Mo and Dopey, or Pinkie, BooBoo and Cheese Boy.  That has become our regular Sunday night outing.  It was a most peculiar night.

 

I’ve mentioned Julie and the Pub Slag before, but last night the Volly was choc-a-bloc with whorey-looking women who were badly dressed.  Of course I don’t include my best mates, Weybridge Woofers and Ashton A-bombs in this demeaning category, even though a lot of texting back and forth had obviously occurred before they got to mine to discuss their attire.  The Bombs and the Woofers were proudly on display.

 

There was a female person called ‘BB’ who was giving lap dances to every bloke (and some women) in the pub.  This part is true.  She had on black evening shoes…with rhinestones, and she was wearing jeans.  She had this unidentifiable object slung around her hips…it might have been a belt.  As I commented to Pinkie, “Whatever it was, I hope it was well and truly dead before she tortured it.”

 

There was this blonde, sporting the Mother of all Camel Toes, and the jeans were truly tacky, with embroidery.  But wait; that’s not all.  As I commented to Pinkie, “That Sherpa from the Himalayas just rang again.  He wants his boots back…or else.”

 

The Pub Slag opted for a tight grey denim mini skirt, with spangles, paired with that awful black schmatte from last time and the black plastic boots.   Oh, and black tights, for that ‘goes together’ looks.   As I commented to Pinkie, “I guess her little sister can’t go out because the Pub Slag is wearing the entire family’s spare article of clothing.”

 

There was this other blonde, badly in need of a root job, a hot oil treatment and a good blunt cut, wearing light blue denim with, I kid you not, black tights, brown high heels  and a striped top.  As I commented to Pinkie, “The ‘Do’s and Don’ts’ Editor at Vogue just hung herself in the shower.”

 

For some reason, I feel so good I might take a break and go eat some ice cream. 

 

I’m back.

 

At this point in the evening, I got tired of critiquing the fashions.  It might have had something to do with the hunkalicious soccer player from St. George’s College who shoved his washboard flat stomach in my face.  I obligingly got out a byro and wrote my mobile number around his adorable little navel.  Then I danced with all of his mates.  I know that I make stuff up one in a while, but sadly, this is all true.  Cheese Boy recorded it on video on his phone, whilst Pinkie took candid snaps on hers.

 

Then as if the evening could get any more exciting, three blokes sat down at the next table from us.  Bloke One kept staring at me.  Bloke Two kept tapping my genuine (positively to die for) black suede boot with his trainer.  Bloke Three tried to start a convo with me.   As I commented to BooBoo, (Pinkie had, for some reason, gone and sat at a table with total strangers)  “Yahweh Wept!  And that other guy, too!  They’re Arabs!  I am such a bloody Arab magnet.”  I simply ignored all three of them with my best Philly ‘tude.

 

The Three Arab Amigos had a quick pint, – isn’t imbibing a no-no for them? – and got up to leave.  As I commented to Cheese Boy, “They’re probably running late for the bombing.”

 

I had fun.  I can’t speak for Manny, Mo and Dopey.