Wow! This was the kind of weekend I used to fantasize about when I wasn’t an Italian and I was in exile in Jerseylandland at Exit 145 of the Garden State.
I spent a quiet Friday night at home. But I spent it with the pulchritudinous blokes in tights from ‘The Tudors’. Honestly, if I’d known Sir Thomas Moore was so damned hot, I might have been nicer to the boys from Saint Tommy Moore High School when we went there for dances. (I don’t think that made any sense, whatsoever.) And, in case you’re interested, Cardinal Wolsey could have had me in a Sixteenth Century minute. The King’s brother-in-law could too, but he’d have to spring for a Louis Vuitton first.
On Saturday, I was up bright and early for shul. I am repenting those very few sins I committed this year (mostly outfits that didn’t totally work; hey, you have to work with what’s available here). Obviously, I want to be inscribed in the book for the coming year. I must remember to ask Rabbi Jackie at Erev Rosh Hashanah services if the ‘book’ is Vogue or Women’s Wear Daily. I might have been Jappy (okay, really mean) to a few hapless civil servants or clerks this year but I’m not a damned bit guilty about it.
Anyway, I dashed home from services to get changed for the barbecue at Ed and Claire’s. I had sort of noticed during the last week or so that it was only necessary to wear three layers. There is a big yellow thingy in the sky every day, and I’ve almost forgotten what rain is. In the States, this phenomenon is called ‘Indian Summer’; in Britian it is called ‘A Fucking Miracle’.
I finally selected an outfit and it was off to Hersham for Killer Hamburgers and Ed’s latest culinary creation, ‘Absolutely the Best Marinated Lamb on the Planet’. God, he’s amazing. Besides the usual suspects, Ed had invited some of his biker friends and their Biker Chicks. It was an experience.
I have to confess that Pinkie and I wound Claire up. I’m working on getting inscribed in the bloody book. I’m sorry…kinda. Claire is great, but she’s a very literal sort of person, and lacks any sense of humor.
“What time are Spanish Joe and Edwina turning up?” I inquired. Claire turned white. “Spanish Joe and Edwina???” I didn’t invite them” she gasped. Pinkie and I shook our heads sadly at Claire’s gaffe and she panicked. “Should I ring them now? Will they be insulted? Do you have their mobile numbers?” We let her freak for a good five minutes before we explained that nobody in their right minds wanted to be anywhere with Edwina. Spanish Joe, of course, is cute and tremendously entertaining when he’s pissed. Edwina is toxic. Sadly, Jarvo and Lulu didn’t make it.
And in the ‘You Read It Here First’ category, Mike has a new nickname. I refer to the ‘Mike’ married to the ‘Mule-ess’, not the Dickweed one Formerly Known as Bagpipe Guy. The one who loves Notre Dame. Penn State is Number 6 in all the polls.
The blokes were entertaining themselves by texting each other stupid jokes and mp3 clips. They’re so mature. Anyway, because Mike and Pat’s flat in London is on ‘Drury Lane’, Mike is now called ‘Muffin Man’. Claire and I didn’t think it was especially funny either.
Pinkie had to work on Saturday night and Amy and Eamonn had a paid gig Irish dancing at a wedding so I’d agreed to go with the Irish Lad and provide emotional support. Plus, I wanted to check out what people – especially of the female persuasion — wear to a wedding in the UK.
The wedding was at the Hilton in Cobham. I swear that in a past life as a tour escort I’d been there before; or it looks like every other Hilton I’ve ever stayed in.
The venue for the dinner part of the wedding had some white fairy lights strung around and some wimpy flowers in a chintzy vase plunked down on each table. Voila! The mood was set. The guests had apparently all popped into the Princess Alice Charity Shoppe and picked up numbers left over from an off-off-Broadway revival of Saturday Night Fever. The Groom was wearing a purple silk shirt. And the Bride… What can I say? Oh hell. I didn’t want to be in the book anyway. She was in grey. It was a pair of drapes at Windsor Castle in a prior reincarnation. She gained a lot of weight after she stole the material, or she didn’t get enough. It wasn’t flattering. I haven’t seen that particular gown style since my Junior Prom, and it was on one of the Sacred Heart nuns…that really grouchy one. And she had on white shoes—with sparkly bows. She will always have to remember that she married a bloke in a purple disco shirt whilst wearing white shoes—after Labor Day. I couldn’t do it.
The kids danced beautifully, but we had to hustle them out of the festivities quickly afterwards. I really wanted to check out some more ‘Don’ts’, but I had to get home and change again. I had a date with Repo Man.
I thought Israeli Guy had defined a ‘long date’. This one lasted from 9:00 on Saturday night until Monday morning at 1:00. I didn’t even make that up. Or exaggerate. What did we do for almost two days? Please.
Steve was playing in an on-line Texas Hold’Em Tourney on Saturday night. He got to mine, and whipped out two bottles of Zinfy from his ‘Weekend at Jeano’s’ case. Cool. But he forgot his mouse. He couldn’t play Texas Hold’Em with a touch pad. Push hold and ring the Irish Lad. He might be getting a tad tired of seeing and hearing from me eighty-seven times a week.
“Tee Darling, Repo Man’s here. Do you have a spare mouse?” I enquired. “Your Maj, you’re really starting to worry me” Irish Lad replied. “No! No! No!” I reassured him, ‘not that kind. A computer one.” After some obligatory piss-taking, I popped over to his to get the critter.
Steve played in his tourney and tried to teach me strategy and basic arithmetic. “But I can’t see the other players! I want to know what they’re all wearing. How much does eight and three make, Sweetie? Did we win?” (Royal ‘we.’)
Despite being up until 4:00 in the morning and polishing off the Zinfy, I was up bright and early for the Car Boot Sale. I have to share something truly awful. Don’t be shocked. When Steve stumbled downstairs at 8:30, I snarled “Coffee, Sweetie?” I am not at my sweetest in the morning, but I am at least polite to guests. “Tea” he mumbled, “A cup of tea, please.”
I was gobsmacked. “Tea? You drink tea? In the morning?” You just never really know about people, do you? Of course, he is British. I put the electric kettle on for him and told him to sort the nasty business out for himself.
Then we had a little hiccup. We got into Repo Man’s car and he said, “Where are we going?” “Duh” I replied, “The car boot sale.” “Yes, I know” he said patiently, “Where is it?” Like I’m supposed to know stuff like this. I’m not from here, in case anybody didn’t realize. Push hold and call BooBoo. “BooBoo, where’s the car boot sale?” “In Walton.” Gee, thanks. That cleared it right up. “Jeano, you’ve been there a hundred and eighty-seven times. Don’t you pay attention?” Why do people always ask me if I’m paying attention? Of course I don’t bloody pay attention.
Boo gave me ‘Jeano’ directions – carry on past the Princess Alice Shoppe where you bought those skinny black jeans, turn left where you bought the grey boots, past the Woolies with the good Pick & Mix counter, bear right at the Indian Pound Store, etc. and we made it to App’s Farm. Just as a point of helpful information, you have to reverse the directions if you’re going home. Otherwise you end up at Hampton Court Palace and I’m not quite sure where that actually is.
The boot sale was fun; I really had a nice time with Repo Man. He was very patient while I browsed and bought loads of tatty stuff. I was so chuffed that I actually made him a sandwich for lunch. After he drove me to Tesco Express to buy bread and stuff to put inside it.
Then we played Scrabble. Again, I’m not speaking in tongues. If I wanted to talk about the shagging, I would just do it. He challenged me to a game to see if my claims of killer status were just talk. I so seriously whipped his tush. I beat him by 120 points. I haven’t had a real Scrabble competition since the Garden State and Scary Fairy.
Three moves into the game, Steve got a bingo—‘mourning’ — just missing a triple word score. Okay, that was it. No more Miss Sweetness & Light. We both play very defensively, and we blocked almost all the triples, although I got him good by adding an ‘a’ to his ‘flame’ and getting double triples for it. I played his ‘q’ for a double, he capitalized on my ‘x’, and he placed the ‘j’ where it was unplayable for more score.
And the shagging was damned fine, too.
Sunday night we went to music at the Volly with Cheese Boy and Boo. I explained very kindly that the chances of me ‘cooking’ any food were slightly less than wearing anything white after Labor Day so we got some take-away for dinner.
It was a fantastic, long, date and a brilliant weekend.