All posts for the month July, 2009


Published July 30, 2009 by jean cohen

Well, as Mr. Loaf, another of my favorite singers along with Cousin Lenny, always said “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad”. 


Three dates; two passes.  The third guy flunked out.  It was an apocalypse.  I’ll just leave it at that as I won’t be booking a return engagement.  Ever.  The champagne, flowers and chocolates didn’t score any brownie points whatsoever.  Although the offer of a Louis Vuitton bribe if I visited him in Birmingham for the weekend did tempt me for about a nanosecond. 


Geordie Guy and ‘Hey, Can I Call Ya Wolfie Instead of (ugh) Peter?’ both advanced to Round Two. That’s it.  No details.  Use your imagination.  Geordie Guy did utter the two magic words I love to hear.  No… that’s three words and I don’t especially care whether they even like me very much.  Nope, he said “I’m circumcised” in his practically unintelligible Newcastle accent.  I almost missed it since I’d given up trying to understand anything he was on about.  This simply proves that lightning does strike more than once if you hang around enough bloody trees.  In a thunderstorm or a 42’ Bayliner.


On Sunday I managed to drag myself up, shower and don my McNabb jersey to meet Pat and Mike for a coffee at T-5 at Heathrow with Pinkie before they jetted back to the Garden State.  (Yes, the jumbo jet lands right beside Exit 82 and drops them off.)  During their whirlwind visit to Europe, our various schedules and commitments had precluded a get together.  Pat’s sarcastic suggestion of ‘coffee at T-5’ appealed to my twisted sense of humor.   Insults via text were exchanged.  “Costa T5 1:30.  We’ll be the gorgeous chicks at 5 wearing #5’s.”  “If you are in McNabb jerseys meet up in Loserville Café.”  “We’re at T5 in the Winner’s Circle.”  “They have a Giant’s Corner at Costa??? Sweet.”  You get the idea.


It was fantastic to see them and catch up on everyone’s news.  I bragged about Princie smuggling in the Jews and the Scrapple.  They were impressed.  Mike told us every detail of the U2 concert in Dublin.  We exchanged insults about each other’s teams in the upcoming Proper, American Football season (Giants Suck!).  It was fun.  And hopefully Pinkie and I will manage to get to Exit 82 while we’re in the States, even though Pat requested half-seriously “Can you two arrange to be shopped out before you get to Ortely Beach?  Not like the last time you came.”


Oh.  And speaking of scrapple.  I cooked up a batch.  Yes.  You read that right.  I cooked.  Scrapple.  All by myself.  It’s really not difficult.  You coat the scrapple pieces in flour, place them in a skillet with a little olive oil and voila!  Oh yeah…turn on a burner, preferably the one the frying pan is on.  After about 20 minutes, you have ‘cooked scrapple’.  It’s best served with eggs, but that was a tiny problem.  How does one ‘cook’ eggs?  I took a gamble and attempted to make some scrambled ones.  I’m still here so I guess I did it right.  The sour cream looked a little funky (old),  but I remembered that you have to fold a tablespoon into the eggs before you cook them.


And I won the election.  Effusive congratulatory cards and flowers are not mandatory, but are expected.  I now hold a coveted slot as a Committee Member at the Senior Center.  I get a really cool badge which I’m supposed to wear whenever I’m on site, kind of like when I was Captain of the Safeties in Seventh Grade and responsible for orderly lines of students for second-bell dismissal or recess.  Power, and it’s symbols, are a slippery slope to pride and anarchy.  Despite that jealous cow Mary’s grass roots movement to coerce people not to vote for me, I won in a landslide.  Translation:  Nobody else wanted it either.  Reg is the new president, and I will be working closely with him to bring the Weybridge Senior Center forward to at least the Eighteenth Century.  I hope Mary’s okay with that.  We all know about elected officials and Caesar’s wife, or the gay guy who does Meals on Wheels on Tuesdays.


I would be a poor cousin if I didn’t take a moment to send Get Well Wishes to both Blood Relation and License to Injure Slightly, who are both recovering from minor surgery.  Well, sort of ‘minor’ but scary anyway.  License had a couple basal cell carcinomas removed, but Blood Relative’s, on her cheek, turned out to be melanoma.  I rang the Old Folks down the shore and Margaret is a bit freaked out.  About the scar.  Vanity, Thy Name is Woman blah blah blah.  As we are the only two Incollingo cousins who got Grandma’s fair skin and freckles, I could relate to her experience.  My personal count is three basal tumors and a melanoma whacked off my nose.  (Spare me the nose jokes.  Please.)   They’re confident that they got it all, and that should be what really matters. 


I worked a few extra Sam shifts this week, had a meeting with Reg (I’m re-organizing the Centre’s Lending Library) and have a date with Wolfie.  And it’s my birthday this weekend, so it should be non-stop partying, including a cake at the Oneg at Syn on Shabbat. 



Published July 25, 2009 by jean cohen

Stuart and I went back to London on Monday.  As it was his next to last day here, we had to go to Divine Harrods.  And we had theatre in the evening.  We ate lunch at the posh Georgian Room in Harrods, fueling up for some uninterrupted solo shopping.  We just agreed to meet back at the ‘Eagle’ in an hour.  (That was a little Philadelphia joke.  When shopping at Wanamakers, everybody met at the Eagle, a huge sculpture in the Great Hall.  The ornithology kind; not the football kind.)  I don’t remember if either of us bought anything.  Discretion is my middle name.  Just like his father, he doesn’t carry bags.  Guess who schlepped them all?


We cabbed it out to Hampstead Heath to visit Eileen, who, sadly, isn’t well at the moment.  But she was anxious to meet ‘your American’ and provided a champagne and nibblies supper for us.  Since Princie’s in the real estate biz, he was enthralled by Eileen’s amazing house.  Then, a bit tipsy, it was off to the Dominion to see ‘We Will Rock You’.


I, of course, had seen it before.  Lulu took me as my Leaving Do the first time I was in England.  It’s still brilliant, and has adapted as times change with ‘current’ references like MySpace and FaceBook.  They even mentioned Michael Jackson in the scene where they talk about rockers ‘who died too soon.”  It’s only, like, two weeks since Jacko did the Big Q. 


Stuart loved the show and said it was the perfect choice, particularly since he was a Queen fan in his wild youth.  And it seemed rather illogical to see ‘Jersey Boys’ in England.  It’s, like, so not that Jersey.  And I’m meeting up with the real ‘Jersey Boy and Girl’ at T-5 at Heathrow on Sunday anyway for a Garden State fix and a coffee.  Muffin Man will probably play it safe and have a hot chocolate.


Tuesday was catch-up day, last chance to meet some more of my friends and finish Princie’s souvenir shopping.  We went to Windsor, skipping the castle (it’s so been done before) and hitting the upmarket shops.  We had a lovely Last Supper at Thai Garden – just the two of us – called in to Pinkie’s so Princie could say his goodbyes to the Dyers, and just spent the evening together, talking about family stuff and reminiscing.   It was lovely and a bit sad to have Stuart visit and I enjoyed every second.  It did make me a tad homesick for ‘home’, but ‘home’ in that context, because it was so entwined with Jerry, doesn’t exist any more.  Home is now wherever I am and whatever I make it.  Hershey bars and scrapple do make it a bit tastier though.


BooBoo, Cheese Boy and I took The Stepson Formerly Known as Prince to Heathrow on Wednesday morning.  By prior agreement, we didn’t hang around.  It would have been upsetting for us both.  Of course, we both cried again, and Stuart promised to visit more often in future.  And I’ll be seeing him in just a couple months when Pinkie and I cross the pond in October.


Then it was home to my Wilderness in Weybridge and my ordinary life- shifts at Sam, shopping, girlie plans and a weekend with three dates in a row (Thursday night, Friday night and Saturday night). It’s always hopping in Jeano’s Wilderness.



Published July 23, 2009 by jean cohen

Somebody commented that the last couple blogs sort of tapered off abruptly instead of having the usual clever and witty final comment.  My apologies.  I’ve been writing a few lines here and there, when I had a few minutes, and it was disjointed and out of sync.


We have been frantic busy, with social engagements and people popping in to meet ‘your American’.  (They’re the newest accessory for the Italian girl who has everything.)  And when I’ve gratefully sent the Prince out to P-L-A-Y with the Irish Lad, I was too tired to think, let alone write coherently.  Although a pop-in to Sullivans with Tee, Boy and  Rob-o for one beer resulted in the Irish Lad and Princie having an hilarious conversation under my window at 2:00 AM about who walked whom home.  I was moderately amused but really pissed off that they woke me up.


I got my revenge by waking the Prince up on Saturday morning –hang-over be damned – to go to shul.  And I made him walk.  I’d had a slightly embarrassing situation at Film Club on Wednesday so I was careful to explain “This is Stuart Cohen.  He’s my step-son”.  After the movie, an acquaintance had come up to me and whispered “Your new chappie is very nice.”  “Gottenu!” I yelped.  “Oh, no.  No. No. No.  He’s not my boyfriend.  He’s mishpokhe. He’s my step-son.” 


I’ve grown accustomed to the slightly-far-right-of-Orthodox, British Reform service; conservative Princie was gobsmacked.  “They’re singing” he informed me in horror, sounding exactly like his father during one of those goddamned 3:00 AM visits and making that exact same annoying little face where he purses his lips and wrinkles his Cohen nose.  “Why are they singing?  Are you sure they’re really Jews?” “Yeah, I checked out every single one” I hissed at him.  “They don’t use a Chazan here.  Just go with the flow, okay? You’re not in Rodeph Shalom anymore, Toto.”  Fortunately Jackie was at a conference in America or he would have plotzed.  “Your rabbi is a woman?”  “I’m pretty sure.  Her kids call her ‘Mum’.”


The service, as always, fueled my spiritual core for another week; Stuart managed to stay awake the entire time.  I took pity on him after we got home.  He took a nap; I went shopping.


After two days of Stuart being around, my Yiddish came back from a long sojourn in the wilderness.  Preparing for the Festa di Independenza barbecue on Sunday, I assured Boo on the phone “I’m not farklempt.  Az oy. Well…a bisile.”  (We were hanging a gigantic Stars & Stripes that Irish Lad gave me on the fence at the time.  And people wonder why I get confused sometimes.)  “Huh?” said Boo.  I tried to figure out what I’d said in British English, but that is, of course, not possible.  Every Yiddish word means, like, fifteen different things depending on context, tone of voice, and where in Russia your family emigrated from.  “I’m not having a JAP attack—at least not a big one.”  “Oh, good” said Boo, relieved.  She’s witnessed more than a few.


The barbecue was fantastic.  The Irish Lad came over on Sunday morning and erected this giant marquee in my garden in case it rained.  Of course it rained.  And it was bloody freezing.  Just your typical English summer weather.  Oz Ed brought some Killer Hamburgers, I parted with some precious Jews (very unwillingly) and Tee cooked a plethora of yummy food.  Perfection.  


BooBoo made coleslaw (from scratch… whatever ‘scratch’ is), but I made real proper onion dip for the potato chips.  It was a lot of work, but nothing is too much trouble for guests at my parties. I had to figure out how many .mls equal an ounce of sour cream and mix the Lipton’s soup in it.  It’s a very exacting science.  Everyone loved it and Princie said it tasted ‘right’ so all that toiling was worth it. 


The usual suspects all turned up, with the addition of Lulu and Jarvo, the Quiz Nazi and JDavid, my boss.  Monkey Joe was on vacation in Spain, but he rang to say he was sorry he was missing all the fun and said ‘hi’ to everybody.  Jarvo never gets over to Weybridge any more, and it was lovely to see him.  He told Princie the story (everybody knows this story) about how he was the very first person I met in Weybridge.  We did get a chance to have a serious conversation about Al Davis, just like old times. 


And one of the best parts of the party was throwing all the serving trays and glasses and stuff into the dishwasher!   My other option used to be ‘the trash can’.


Fortunately, due to the rain and 60 mph winds, people went home relatively early this year.  A few times they just never left.  Princie and I had another full day in London on tap for Monday.     




Published July 19, 2009 by jean cohen

It’s wet in Weybridge, and cold.  Did I say some crap about never complaining about the weather again?  I lied.  I’m back in woolies.  But on the bright side, I didn’t have to hook up Giovanni after all to feed the Prince’s ‘A/C’ habit.


I took the opportunity of Stuart’s visit and non-stop social engagements to dump Spook Guy, who didn’t really suit after all.  He’d made a quick trip to Iran for MI6 and, I don’t know, maybe he drank a coffee at Heathrow.  Anyway, he ceased to amuse.  I tried a new approach.  “Hey, Spook Guy.  Welcome to Dumpsville.  Population: You”.  He did not handle it well.  And, no, I don’t actually care.


On Thursday morning, Boo and I took Princie to Kempton Market, which is really the closest thing to Shopping Heaven in Surrey.  I only bought a lip liner, and Boo bought mouthwash.  The Prince bought three pairs of really divine slacks.


I am finding the translating for Princie a bit tedious. A friend, or anybody British will say something and Stuart turns to me and goes “What’d they say?”  And then, patiently and slowly, in a loud voice I have to explain “She said she will be here at 2:30 (‘two-thirty’).”  “Wow!  You’re really good at speaking British!”     


In the afternoon, Pinkie and I took him to Mercedes World at Brooklands.  We were planning to do the car museum and the racetrack one or preferably dropping him off and beating it, but once he discovered he could drive a SL65 around and around a special test track for an hour (for only about a million Quid- complete with souvenir video of it-), there was no stopping him.  We had a coffee in the really posh café (“Excuse me?  Did this coffee pass by Heathrow before it came here? No?  Okay!  Two, please.”)  Then we hit the Gift Shop.  The museum was really interesting, and Stuart certainly had a ball so we honestly didn’t mind missing the sale at Marks & Sparks.


We dashed to our respective homes to have a meal and change for the quiz at the Ash Tree.  The Prince changed clothes three times on Thursday if anybody at home is filling out one of those ‘You Know You’re Really a JAP’ questionnaires about Stuart in their free time.  Actually, now that I think about it, so did I.


Steve-o from Stange-o drove this week so Stuart got to ride in the space module disguised as a Peugeot.  Stuart from the Scary Fairies seems to have permanently moved to our team now, so with Cheese Boy, Scary Fairy Stuart and The Stepson Formerly Known as Prince there were three Stuarts on our team. 


I explained this before.  There are, like, five guys’ names in Britain and they have to take turns using them or get a really dumb nickname.  I have a date on Friday night (after Princie goes home) with a new guy.  All well and good?  But no.  His bloody name is Peter.  “You’re kidding!” I moaned much dismayed.  “Really?  ‘Peter?’  Can I call ya ‘Wolfie’ instead?”


Sorry.  So we were called ‘Stuarts’ Bitches’.  (I made sure it was punctuated correctly.)  It was really hard this week for some reason.  And yes, I screwed up on the Michael Jackson question, as the Irish Lad has reminded me 67,262 times since Thursday.  And the Gettysburg one. 


Note to Tee: Sod you and your shit-eating, maniacal, pixie, Univac-ly, etc. grin and the horse you came in on.


As you may have already ascertained, we lost.  But other Bitches besides me got answers wrong.


At least the Prince got to experience a proper pub and meet a lot of British people in their natural state- extremely drunk and yelling at each other over an absolutely meaningless quiz.   And that was just at our table.  


On the ride back to Weybridge I got a tad annoyed at Tee mumbling over and over “I said it was fucking Diana Ross!”  So I said “Hey, Rob-o! You know I don’t live at Tudor Walk anymore, right?  Some people get confused, like about Rheims and Rouen.”  Everybody laughed, and I felt almost as good as if I’d just bought a new pair of Versace jeans to cheer myself up. 


On Friday, Princie and I took the train to London to just mooch around.  I insisted that we had to do something mentally challenging (besides figuring out how much we were spending in dollars instead of pounds) so we started at the Imperial War Museum.  I got to pick and I really wanted to see the Holocaust Exhibit. It was well worth seeing.  It’s quite a large exhibit, and I plan to go back because it’s simply too much to take in in one visit.  In fact, I’ve promised to take Amy to see it during her summer holidays.


After the exhibit we needed something ‘light’ so we decided to do an ‘On/Off’ tour bus so Stuart could get a highlights tour of the London Landmarks, finishing our day with a cruise on the Thames before we took the train back from Waterloo to Weybridge.


Of course, we dashed home to quickly change our clothes as we were off with the gang for a traditional Tapas dinner.      


Published July 17, 2009 by jean cohen

Stuart rang before he left Philly for a telephonic final check-in, and slipped into the conversation that he really didn’t want to be called The Prince, because ‘I’m really not Jappy’.  (He brought 5 pairs of shoes for 7 days. You’re impartial; you be the judge.)  Naturally, I shared this tidbit with the guys, who immediately renamed him ‘The Stepson Formerly Known as Prince’.  I’m afraid this one is here to stay.


Pinkie, BooBoo, Cheese Boy and I drove to T5 at Heathrow to pick him up.  In the proud, long-standing Weybridge tradition, we were all wearing Eagles shirts and carrying Eamonn’s Eagles pennant.  Pinkie wore her new Donovan McNabb jersey that matches mine, and Boo was wearing my training camp shirt. 


We got coffee at Costa (Pinkie graciously stole all the Sweet N’Low they had; Costa is the only place that seems to have it here).  Not Boy, of course; we made him have tea.  We were all worried about that morphing into a wanker thingy that happens at Heathrow if you’re a guy and you drink the coffee.  I think it might be a bigger epidemic than Swine Flu.


I had spielkas and couldn’t sit still, wandering over to check the status board or out for a fag.  I was worried.  If they nailed Princie for smuggling in food and deported him, would I get to at least keep the Jews?  I promised everybody Jews again this year at my Festa di Independenza barbecue. 


There was this really cute guy sitting next to us at Costa, so I started chatting to him.  With my keen powers of deduction, I recognized a fellow American.  He had on a Yankee’s shirt, his accent (he was on his mobile) was pure Exit 75 of the Garden State, and he smiled at me so that definitely ruled out ‘British’.  “Was there a ‘two fer’ sale somewhere on McNabb jerseys” he teased. “I should go to it.”


We explained about the proud Weybridge tradition (like the ‘Oxford’ one, but way cooler) and assured him that when we go to Philly in October the first thing we’re buying BooBoo is her own Donovan.  Pinkie shared that she was wearing her Eagles knickers too (I guess in case we got strip searched by Immigration because it was a slow day for terrorists) but I restrained her from flashing them.


The guy was in the Air Force (US) stationed in England and was picking up his wife and kids after a visit home to Oklahoma.  We started talking about foods we miss (because of the smuggling worry) and he said he gets to buy American stuff at the PX.  How lucky is that?  I decided maybe I should be looking for a Jewish Colonel or General or whatever instead of a Dermatologist.  I mean I have nice skin except for the freckles, and I love Welch’s Grape Jelly, especially with extra crunchy Jif.   We agreed that the positively worst ‘they totally fucked up that recipe’ food in England is pizza; they so get it wrong and then they eat it anyway, even if it’s got ham on it- with a knife and fork.


I glanced up, and there was Stuart coming through the doors!  He made it!  They didn’t find the Jews!  He was schlepping two suitcases.


Of course we both cried.  I introduced him to Pinkie and El Cheese-o and he hugged BooBoo, whom he’d met in Philly.  He wanted a coffee, but we whisked him out of the terminal, explaining that we couldn’t take a chance on him turning into a wanker right before our powerless eyes. 


Note to Costa:  It might only affect British blokes, but I couldn’t take the risk.  He’s staying for a whole week.


We drove to mine and Stuart presented me with the ‘Goodie Suircase’.  Oh My God.  Besides the lovely, lovely Jews, there were Hershey Bars, Durkee French Fried Onions, Lipton Onion Soup Mix, two giant bottles of Hidden Valley Ranch, and 500 Extra-Strength Tylenols.  But that’s not all!  Drum roll, please…  There was a 10 lb slab of Habersetts scrapple.  The sweetest stepson in Pennsylvania…the Mid Atlantic States… the entire Right Coast had gone to Costco.  Everything was ‘family size’ (if your family is that lady who had the octuplets).  And I’m not sharing any of it, except a few Jews at the barbecue for ‘special’ people like the Irish Lad.


The Stepson Formerly Known etc. reads the blog religiously and, unfortunately, believes almost all of it.  “Do you know how to cook the scrapple?” he asked seriously.  Pinkie and BooBoo started tittering (the cows).  “Duh!” I retorted, mortally insulted.  “Of course I bloody do!”


I took him for a stroll up the High Street and to get some lunch.  It’s not like I was going to prepare anything myself, was it?  Then he had a nap, because I had committed weeks ago to turning up for Film Club at Syn in the evening and I couldn’t back out.  For one reason, it was my movie.  I had to break the bad news that we were walking there, but he took it almost well.






Published July 14, 2009 by jean cohen

I had a couple dates this week, but nothing to write home – or blog – about.  A pair of 10s on the boredom scale and 2s on the ‘go out with them again’ probabilities index.  I know.  It’s me.  I’m too picky, as Cheese Boy never tires of reminding me.  And consequently I guess I’m not especially nice, making the likelihood they’ll ring me again pretty remote.


When Boy and BooBoo were over the other day, El Cheese-o inquired quite seriously “What subjects are off limits to talk about while the Prince is here?”  I was surprised (and confused).  “Well, nothing, I guess” I answered.  “I’m not sure what you mean.”  “What can’t I say about you, and what shit you’ve gotten up to doesn’t Stuart know about” he explained.  “Oh.  Then nothing” I reiterated, “The Prince and I have no secrets.  We tell each other absolutely everything.”  And I was struck by how true that is.  This is going to be a fun visit, I hope.  As long as we’re not Jappy at exactly the same times.


On Saturday morning, I went to Chiswick with JDavid, my boss, to a seminar.  Chiswick is in West London.  For one of those inexplicable British reasons, it is pronounced ‘Chis-ick’.  Hardly any places here are pronounced like they’re spelled.  When the Irish Lad popped over for a coffee late Saturday afternoon, he made me repeat ‘Chis-wick’ about fifteen times before he gleefully started taking the piss.  And he didn’t stop the whole bloody weekend.


Anyway, David texted me on Friday night: ‘Shabbat Shalom.  Do you want to come to a Networking Seminar with me in London tomorrow morning?’  ‘Sure’ I texted back. ‘I was only going to shul but can be persuaded to hookey for a better offer.’  (Yes, I was.  But it was only a 6.2 on the Guilt-o-meter.)


David said he’d ring me in the morning with the details.  What he actually did was text ‘Pick you up in fifteen minutes.’  I went ballistic.  I rang his mobile kvetching ‘David, I’m standing here in my underwear surrounded by a matterhorn of clothes.  You can’t just say ‘I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes’!  What should I wear?  Honestly, men- even Jewish ones- are so clueless sometimes.  But that might be a British thing too.


David rang, chuckling. “Gee, you surprised me, Jeano.  You’re always so organized and collected.  You just morphed into ‘frantic female person’ on my voice mail.”  “Haha” I told him, “I am a female person.  And I get frantic about what to wear when I only have to dash to Waitrose to pick up coffee filters.  It’s a JAP thing, Sweetie.”


David said ‘business smart’ attire so I told him to drive slow or just come in for a coffee while I got dressed, after I decided what the hell to wear.  I swear on my Paulies I only tried six outfits on because I was going to wear beige, brown or green so that narrowed the field considerably and the brain-freeze wasn’t debilitating.


Because, in a related development, fervent novenas and candle-lighting to St. Manolo of Blahnik, the patron saint of shoes, had resulted in me scoring a pair of incredible stunning to die for chocolate brown pumps on Thursday.  Get it?  Thursday + Sam + Hester in Bric-a-Brac + phone call + Mike taking the piss.  “Good afternoon!  Sam Beare Hospice Book Shop.  Jeano speaking.”   “Jeano? Hester here. The most divine brand new chocolate brown Kurt Geigers in size 6 came…” Click.  I’m so next door.  And it proves the point that trekking all over bloody Surrey was a colossal waste of time.  I just needed to wait for someone who wears size 6 to scoop them up in Sweden and then not like them or something.


The seminar was fun and very interesting, and I did network with lots of people.  Unfortunately, or maybe not- it depends- most of them are in IT/IS, which is David’s field.  We took a walk up the Chiswick High Street after the meeting, and stopped for lunch in a café before heading back to Weybridge.  I was pressed for time; I had to figure out what to wear for Cousin Lenny’s concert.


Pinkie texted on Friday to report ‘Cousin Lenny tickets are in the house!!!’.  There had been a little glitch in that Tee hadn’t received them and was a bit panicked.  They were actually there- buried under a pile of take away menus that get shoved through the mail box and dumped in a pile on the kitchen table like everyone does.  I immediately replied ‘Hallelujah!’.  Damn, I’m witty.  And clever.


The weather had changed on that bloody coin again and it was freezing and pissing down rain.  Perfect weather for an outdoor concert.  I didn’t realize that Mercedes Benz World was an outdoor venue until the Irish Lad popped in for a cup of coffee and broke the news to me.  That is so ‘English logic’.  Why have a building with a roof and walls when you can make people sit outdoors in the 110 mph wind and driving rain?   I mean, it’s not like it rains a lot here.  Only every 15 minutes.


So that narrowed my choices somewhat.  I wasn’t wearing anything stunning, because you couldn’t bring an umbrella either.  “How do we stay dry?” I inquired of Tee.  His reply: “You don’t.”  Occasions such as this are when those plastic rain slickers in the little sacks that English people are born with attached to their umbilical cords come in mighty handy.  I borrowed Amy’s.


Note to BooBoo:  Yes, I know you bought me one.  I haven’t seen it since I moved, along with that gorgeous gold bowl.  Maybe the Poker Ass Guys stole them both?


The concert was at 5:30.  And no, that wasn’t a typo.  The Irish Lad and I, with darling little Eamonn in tow (Tee has so taught Mini Lad excellent values of the musical kind) drove over to Rob-o’s house in Brooklands for a pre-concert libation and to park the car there.  The traffic and parking was a nightmare.  So we walked to the venue. 


Suzanne Vega was the opening act.  I’m not really a huge fan, nor are the guys.  We kind of wandered around having a ‘Be In with Lenny’ while she performed.  I was going to pick up some souvenir teeshirts, but they were outrageously expensive… 25 Quid… for one shirt.  The Sister, on nights again, texted to say she’d be really, really pissed if we all suicided after three hours of Lenny whinging about life, disappointments, and lost loves.  And Tee found it incredibly humorous to keep telling Rob-o “Keep Jeano well away from the Mosh Pit.  And take her drivers license away, by force, if you must, so she stops flashing it and telling every-bloody-body ‘I’m Lenny’s cousin from King of Prussia’”.   I love hanging with the guys.


It poured, but I didn’t even care.  Not even that my hair went all curly.  Pinkie admitted later that the first thing she’d asked Terry afterwards was “did Jeano go all JAP on you because of the rain?”  I did not.   Lenny was magical.  Brilliant.  Fantastic.  Amazing.  Cool.  Hot. Circumcised.  (I presume; I didn’t actually get to check.)   And the Irish Lad did not complain even once because I sang along with every song.  Lenny sang all of the classics, although I was disappointed that he didn’t do ‘Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye’, which, in another context, could well be my personal   



Naturally, we fans didn’t want to let Lenny go, and he did three encores.  Terry, Rob-o, Eamonn and I slogged through the puddles and mud back to Rob-o’s for hot drinks and towels.  I was soaked, and freezing, but it was so worth every second of discomfort.


On Sunday the Irish Lad texted inviting me to Sunday Roast.  He was whipping up the classic English dinner, featuring a Sheepie.  Okay.  Maybe it wasn’t actually a ‘BaaBaa’, but for various reasons involving a rabbi, we agreed to refer to it as one.  Delicious!  Someday I’m gonna have to learn how to cook one of those ‘Roast’ thingies.  Nah.  Probably not.


The Fresh Prince of Philadelphia arrives tomorrow and we have so much on I’m not sure I’ll get time to blog while he’s here, but I will try.



Published July 12, 2009 by jean cohen

I had my interview with BathToy the other night.  I simply had to do it.  I really wanted to meet a guy who’s blatantly looking for some nookie on the side and specifically ‘someone with time during the day would be ideal, evenings are difficult for me although not totally impossible, and a place to be alone together would be a bonus.’   Please don’t email to remind me that I already tried one of those; I so know.  I just really wanted to meet this guy.  I thought he must be pretty amazing if he can get women to buy into that.


In reality, he was boring and pretentious.  And those were his good points.  Obviously if he’s a cheater, he lies.  And he lied about his looks, too.  I’m tall, and fairly good looking, even sexy!! (I’m told)’.  Someone else he dated or his wife is a big fat liar, too. Well, okay, he was tall.  But not even remotely attractive, or well dressed.  I couldn’t decide whether to ask him ‘Do you ever feel guilty about hurting your wife’ first or ‘did you  actually look in the mirror after you put that shirt on with that suit and tie?’   Being totally honest, if he’d been a cross between Sean Connery, Sting and Steve McNair before his girlfriend shot him in the head four times (give me a minute here… I need to cool down) I might have been tempted to shag him a few times just for the hell of it. 


We met for a drink, and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I heard about every single vacation he’d ever had in the States.  I know what Orlando’s like; I’ve bloody been there.  And San Francisco, and Boston, and Seattle.  Then he tried to impress me with an anecdote about a visit to the Moulin Rouge.  Wow!  The Moulin Rouge!  Gee!  “Have you ever been” he asked.  “The one in Paris” I countered, ‘or the one in Abiline, Texas?  The one in Abiline is okay; the one in Paris is so tacky what with all the British tourists paying 75 quid for a bottle of cheap champagne and thinking they’re so sophisticated. I always tried to talk my clients into going to McDonald’s instead.”  


He said he’d ring, so this morning I zinged him with a pre-emptive strike, the ‘I’m not interested’ email (the polite one, not the slice his nuts off one; he wasn’t a groper or whatever).  I moved him to the ‘Toast’ folder, cheerfully singing along to Cousin Lenny.  Well, I was cheerful; Lenny was moaning about razor blades and gas pipes. 


Wow.  BathToy actually replied.  ‘To be honest, right from the moment you walked into the garden, I had the impression that you took one look at me and decided that you really didn’t like me. You were perfectly polite company but I had the feeling that you couldn’t wait to get out of there. That impression may well have been wrong but in any case, as you said…. you felt no spark at all.’  I’m no Helen Mirren, but I thought I was a better actress than that.  Should I feel bad or something that I hurt his manly feelings?


Otherwise, with a few exceptions, it’s been just more of the same old ‘u r sesy wanna chat’ mash notes at POF.  I’m starting to despair for the future of the human race.  These guys are not the anomaly; they’re the norm.  But a few of the funniest anyway…


Kenny 761 isn’t married.  However, he is 5’3” and his hobby is stock car racing.  I don’t think I have any clothes that came with a label ‘suitable for debut at the English equivalent of ‘Cecil County Dragway’.   His email: ‘hello how are you today’  Again, I hate that question too.  Why do they ask dumb unanswerable questions?  Do they mean ‘how am I’ in a general way; how ‘am I today’ specifically as opposed to yesterday when I might have had a Jappy moment when something I tried on didn’t look perfect or some server didn’t snap to it as quickly as I’d expected; or how ‘am I’ in the ‘we are the world’ and/or the ‘brotherhood of man’ context.  No, in retrospect, forget the philosophical twaddle; if the only thing he can say about himself is that he likes stock cars he probably just means ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass how you are; I just wanna shag you.’  Bye-bye, Dirt Track Guy.


IanforFun is ‘looking for a sexy woman’ – He has an ulterior motive – ‘I love cycling and enjoy the outdoors. I am an inventor and working on a new exiting everday product, may try dragons den? Some people think me eccentric and pehaps i am, you judge! My musical tastes are hugh and like everything from chopin through pink floyd to electronica like goldfrap, anything that can transport me on a journey of the mind. I often like to cross dress although i am straight, if you contact me i will email you a saucy picture!’  And I thought phishing scams from Nigeria were naughty.

‘Well of course a first date has to be somewhere comfortable and but public where a chat is possiable. a caf’e or a bar without crowds and a pleasant atmosphere. I am a romantic at heart but also a GSOH. i like to dress well and hope that the person dresses like a lady with a hint of sexiness.’  That is so dangerous.  We could both turn up wearing the same Donna Karan Signature Coat Dress (the one with all the buttons) in Butterscotch.  How embarrassing would that be?  What if he found the perfect shade of chocolate pumps?  I still haven’t.


On the other hand, IanforFun just might be the one.  He mentioned clothes and dressing like seven times.  Hell, we might be Soul Mates!  So he cross-dresses.  He might have more expensive taste than me and be a Warm Autumn.  How big is this guy?  Shit!  He’s 6’ tall.  And his bloody feet are probably huge too.  I’m not going to fit in any of his ‘her’ clothes or shoes.  Maybe he adores Louis Vuitton and Chanel?


‘Dear Secret Shopper:  We might work.  A little quiz to determine if we’re on the same page in Vogue:


(a)            On which date does one begin wearing white (i.e. divine Betty Buckley trousers)?  Hint:  It’s a holiday in the States.

(b)             Can Warm Autumns appear in public wearing black and white like that bloody cow Pinkie?

(c)            On which date does one put away their stunning white Juicy Couture handbag ‘til ‘next year’?’  


BradX is 29 and he’s looking for a ‘gorgeous woman’.  I so want to hear from the first guy who’s looking for a ‘total Bow-Wow’.  His about me: im just a half decent honest bloke, looking for for a half decent honest girl and im startin to think that is to much to ask i live in surrey, i work as a drayman delivering tons of beer to you lot to keep you all happy although i dont really drink a lot .  Been single for a while now and am bored of my own company now If your sort of local then give us a message if you like the look of me ‘


And his idea of a first date: ‘do you know what i would love to go home thinkin what a wicked night she was well funny we proper clicked, and in my opinion that aint happenin over dinner is it i think dinner is a bit to serious for a first date  we’ll know what we want to do when we get talking’

I swear; he really wrote that.


And his email: ‘mmmm you are hot im not to far from you lets hook up’


‘Dear Braindead…Brad….Whatever – Are you quite certain you only deliver the beer?  And frankly, is this what I get for paying that exorbitant Council Tax to Surrey?  You’re not incarcerated and are free to wander the verdant country lanes in a truck looking for anorexic women who don’t eat dinner?’


Sirtified007 is not looking for a date!  What he said was just looking or the occassional chat, im abit flirtatious, so be warned ladies,’   He’s a 53 year old man who wants to talk dirty on line.  How pathetic is that?  Through the magic of cyberspace, I can provide a valuable service and help Sirty get his rocks off.  Do you think that would help my score in The Book next Yom Kippur? I mean I have been a teensy bit unkind to some folks this year.


His email: ‘Not a bra tutt been much better if ud have left it to our fantasies, i mean at our agwe we dont get many fantasies these days xx’


‘I know what you mean!  I have this fantasy that there’s a guy on POF who isn’t a wanker.’


Far2Hot_Scott may think he is, but he’s deluded.  He’s 29 and in his pic he’s bare-chested in his BVDs.  He lists his interests as: fashion, shoes and aftershave.  Maybe there is a commonality after all.  Nope.  His about me says: ‘love all women, love to socialise, go out meet new people, like to have fun and want to live life to the full before i think im too old!!,’  Maybe he should stop listening to Snow Patrol.  ‘first date would be relaxing and what ever happens happens, go with the flow, anyway i dont look at it like a date, thats a 60s phrase!!’   Oh, please.  I am au courant with the current terminology; it’s called ‘fuck buddies’.


Scotty’s email:  ‘would love to hook up w you’


I wasn’t being lazy or having an off day creatively.  Really.  I tried for hours to come up with a great put-down.  I know it wasn’t one of my best efforts.


‘Yo, Scotty! I just beamed you up…back to Planet Dickweed, where the rest of the Turds live .’



And the winner of the prestigious Turd of Camberley Award is TomtheGuy.  TomtheChelseaSupporter (Come on…it’s so obvious that’s what he should have chosen) lists his interests as ‘sexy ladies’.   Yep, that’s it; it’s the only interest he has.  Perhaps his wife isn’t—sexy, I mean.  He candidly admits to being married.  On the first date he’d like to wine and dine the lady and then take it from there.’   I wonder where or what ‘there’ could be?

His email: ‘I fancy the pants off you xxxxx’.


Sometimes I just delete them, sometimes I’m nice; sometimes I just have to let it rip.


‘Really? I can’t imagine why you thought that would be flattering.  Especially since ‘fancy’ wasn’t the word that came to my mind when I read your profile.


Let’s see… married.  Hm.  ‘Cheater’ popped right up. And ‘jerk’.  As did ‘trolling for easy sex’.  Oops!  That was more than one word, wasn’t it?


Well here’s three more:  Definitely not interested.’


He actually replied.  ‘I couldn’t be arsed to bother going on dates’   I’m not quite sure what that meant, but I do know Armageddon is upon us.


Published July 8, 2009 by jean cohen

The capricious weather changed on a dime and it’s cold again.  Make that a ’20p’.  Fortunately, I wasn’t dumb enough this year to put my woolies away.  I covered a shift at Sam, turning up layered with a turtleneck, a (cute) top and a sweater.  I could have used my mink by the end of shift.  And an umbrella.  I gratefully accepted a ride home from Mike, and not because I’m lazy. 


My campaign, at least, is heating up nicely.  I don’t remember if I mentioned the election before.  I am running for Committeeperson-at-Large.  Well, I didn’t realize I was running.  I thought Sanjay caught me in a weak moment and I agreed to be on the Senior Centre’s Committee.  I’m pretty sure nobody else on the committee is even capable of running.  But I have to be endorsed by two people to get on the ballot and then voted in.  (“Who’s this Jeano person on the ballot?  Is she the one who plays the piano?” “No.  That’s Jenny and she’s Korean.  Jeano’s the American lady in the Tea Bar.”  “Oh.”  “We have a Tea Bar?”)


I have received a rousing endorsement from Jack, the president, and today, while they were putting up pictures of the candidates (I provided my own; I looked dreadful in the one Sanjay took) positively everybody wanted to endorse me.  Except Mary.


This is a difficult situation.  Mary is a sweet-looking, quite elderly woman.  Appearances are deceptive.  She is several knives short of a Ginsu set and more vicious that Imelda Marcos at the Nordstrum MidWinter Shoe Extravaganza.  She has an obsession with Charles, one of the Meals-on-Wheels drivers.  She has practically comes to blows over him with Jackie, another of the old dears to sit next to him.  At the Volunteer Recognition Dinner this year, I danced with Charles.  Mary saw a picture of it, and now she throws her 70p at me and snarls “Tea!  Not too strong.  And a sausage roll that’s not burnt.”  I’m afraid to go to the loo without a bodyguard.


“This is so silly” I said this morning to Sharon, one of the carers, after Mary had a sissy-fit because I sold Charles a half-dozen eggs.  Maybe I smiled at him by mistake; I really didn’t mean to.  I quite understand the concept of ‘service’ in England now.  Customers are an interruption to the enjoyment of one’s personal nirvana.  “Charles is gay.  He lives with his mother.  Can’t you explain that to her?”  “She doesn’t know what ‘gay’ is.”


“Peachy!” I replied. “I always figured if I got dead in England it would be because I still look the wrong way when I cross the street.  I don’t want to die because of a love triangle with a gay guy and a 94 year old woman who’s senile and wears polyester slacks.”


I’ve got two dates this week.  Yeah, I’m still interviewing for Replacement Guy.  The POF emails are still pouring in, but I have gone off writing about them, I think.  They’re still funny, and I save a few in case I need to dash off a blog if I have a dry stretch in my exciting life.  But I manage, inadvertently, to do enough clueless stuff to fill a blog a day.  Fortunately, for you, I don’t share them all.


I turned on the television the other night to catch up on what Michael Jackson’s up to these days, now that he’s dead.  Horror of horrors!  The picture’s just a mass of squiggily lines.  I’m not stupid.  I found the manual for the TV and read it.  Okay.  I am stupid.  And Donny the D who made a lucrative living catching tvs as they accidentally fell off trucks is in bloody Manyunk.  Push hold and call the Irish Lad.


Tee dropped everything (a Fosters) and drove around the corner.  I met him at the door with a cup of coffee (the real stuff from Costco, saved for special occasions) and a fag.  “Let’s take a look” he said kindly, turning on the telly.  (Wow.  He got the right remote the first time.  I have to use the instructions Boo wrote out for me and laminated.)  The picture obliging jiggled shamelessly.  “Hm” the Lad said knowledgeably.  He walked over to the fucker intoning some Irish pixie spell, stared it down, and pushed in a wire that had come loose when the Mad Venezuelans were cleaning the lounge.  The picture stopped jiggling. 


“Hm” I said.  “I guess you won’t be needing any of those pink tools BooBoo bought me for Channukah.”  “No” replied the Lad, with the patented shit-eating maniacal pixie grin, “Blog!”


And in a new segment of the blog dubbed ‘My Friends Are So Fucking Hysterically Sarcastic and/or Smart Ass’ this week’s winner is…. The Mule-ess.


Muffin Man and the Divine Mrs M. are making a pit stop in the UK on their way to – and from – Spain.  I dashed off a quick email asking if we’d have a chance to catch up while she’s here.  The itinerary she emailed back didn’t have an open minute.  7:00 am arrive.  9:00 am drinks at the Mare.  10:00 am more drinks at the Mare.  11:00 am Drinks at the Runner.  And so on.  I emailed back saying that Pinkie and I would just catch up with her when we’re on the Garden State in October.  Back came a zinger.


‘how about a coffee at T5 heathrow on 26-of july?  Seeing that you love the coffee at LHR.  (Sorry i could not help myself.)’


I called and woke Pinkie up so I could read that little gem to her.  Hey!  That’s not a bad idea!  ‘Great idea!!! We’ll be the hot chicks in the Eagles’ jerseys.  Will coordinate time etc. closer but def. coffee at T5.  Yo!  Maybe Turd of Camberley will be there too!  We’ll have a party.’


‘i am so glad to see that i haven’t lost my touch and i can still wind you up. how about asking the pilot guy to join us as well. Oh i could bring the jews with me, sorry i forgot this the departure side of my trip not the arrivals.’


‘Yeah.  You’re really good!!! 
‘I called and woke Pinkie up to read your email to her.  Could picture you saying ‘couldn’t help myself’ and cackling like a Jersey girl. And Na-na-na-na, Stuart is bringing the Jews when he arrives on the 14th.  I hope he doesn’t try to bring anything else, if ya know what I’m saying. 
Seriously, we’ll come over to T5 and meet ya at Costa for a cup of joe.  Great idea to invite Unfriendly Guy too!  Is there anybody else we seriously hate that we should invite?’



Published July 5, 2009 by jean cohen

BooBoo and Spook Guy are both tired of the POF blogs.  I know I haven’t mentioned Spook Guy.  Duh!  If I told you about him, he’d have to kill you.  And me.  And I haven’t had a chance to wear that stunning Roberto Cavalli skirt yet.  (on sale; practically free.)


So… a regular blog – all about my mundane and rather ordinary life.  


Another dashing about week in Weybridge; work, Sam shifts and social engagements.  In the blistering heat and bloody sunshine.  Doesn’t it ever rain in this goddamned country?  It’s hard to dash when I’m melting.  I have stopped wearing my thermal undies.  I will never complain about being cold again.


It must have been a hundred degrees at the Senior Centre on Tuesday morning.  But that didn’t stop a queue from forming for ‘nice cups of tea’.  “They’re all senile” I snarled to my partner, as Wacky Winnie repeated her normal Tuesday morning instructions: “Save a sausage roll for the driver.  I paid for it already.”  Yes, I know she did.  But it was once, and it was in 1987, when the bus driver still had hair and teeth.  (Win mucho fancies him.)  “Why don’t we whip up a few pitchers of Long Island Iced Tea ‘because of the heat’” I suggested half-seriously, “We’ll get through the morning and it’s not like anybody will notice if they’re comatose at Bingo.”


Meanwhile, the Jewish American Prince thinks of something else he wants to see or do while he’s here about every ten minutes.  And calls to tell me.  “Rent a car and we’ll go on a road trip!” he ordered me the other morning.  “To where” I asked a bit grumpily.  “I only know how to get to Walton or Addlestone.”  “Sat Nav!” he replied.  “England!” I countered. “No sat-nav, no A/C, no power anything, and definitely not automatic, unless you feel like buying a Jag while you’re here and leaving it for me after you go.”


Of course, if you’re reading this, Stuart Sweetie, I meant the ‘Prince’ comment as the highest form of praise.  We trained you well.  And could ya add two bottles of Hidden Valley Ranch dressing and a pound of Habersett’s scrapple to my dire necessities list?


Wednesday night was Psychic Night.  BooBoo, Jeanette and I paid a visit to the Church of the Poisoned Mind.  Being psychics and whatnot, I would have thought they would have known it was going to be 110 degrees in the shade, and prepared for it.  They didn’t; Spiritual Indian Guide Wept! It was hot.  Pocohantas (the minister) didn’t even have feathers in her braids.  But we sang Hymn #4 in our Praying to Dead Busybodies handbooks, ‘Your Love Took Me to the Top of the World’ (with Richard & Karen; she is dead, you know).


Maybe it was the heat, or maybe just that I’m an awful person.  The Facilitator of the week, who was leading our journey to hear uplifting and really, really hokey cliches from ghosts, had a speech impediment.  So she said stuff like: “I’m sshtanding wif a wady wif a wery fwancy hairdo.”  I got the giggles.  And I fell in lust with the guy sitting in front of me.  I don’t think the two were connected, but who knows? It might have been a cosmic thing.   Great Commanche Chieftain!  He was so  h-o-t.  Well, so was I.  But he was gorgeous, too.  So I amused myself by flirting shamelessly with him and making fun of Miss ‘I’m sshtanding’ who went into a hysterically funny twitchy trance every time a new spirit joined the party.  Pocohontas actually hollered at me.  She said I was ‘disturbing the spirits’.  Yeah?  Well they were getting on my last nerve, too.  Really Hot Guy’s wife wasn’t doing too bad either.


Unsurprisingly, given the incredulous vibes emanating from my corner of the sauna, neither BooBoo nor Jeanette, or especially me, got any messages from Beyond.  BooBoo was disappointed; she said it was all my fault.


Thursday night was the Ash Tree Quiz.  Pinkie skipped, so it was Cheese Boy, Irish Lad, Rob-o and me.  With the addition of Stuart from the Scary Fairies.  So we were the Scary Bitches.  Since I was the only team member of the female persuasion, that might have been a subtle message to me.  No!  Of course not. 


Let me make short shrift of the quiz – we lost – and get to the funny bit.  Irish Lad was driving, and heading back to Weybridge afterwards, I was enjoying one of Rob-o’s rants about absolutely nothing (he is such a hoot when he’s pissed).  Tee had Cousin Lenny pumped up on the sound system and we were analyzing the metaphors in ‘Dress Rehearsal Rag’ (Consumer warning:  Do not listen to aforementioned tune if you’ve gained 5 lbs, been dumped by a Turd, or Pinkie bought another fucking black & white dress and brought it to Sam to model for you); yeah, it’s a little depressing.


Anyway, nobody was paying attention, and Tee drove to Tudor Walk.  He sort of stopped the car and went “Um… you don’t live here any more.”  Rob-o, naturally, chimed in 5 minutes later with “Jeano doesn’t live here anymore!”  (Did I mention he’s really funny when he’s pissed?)  I looked at Tee; he looked at me.  “Blog?” he whimpered.  “Oh yeah, Sweetie” I chuckled maniacally, if not quite as Univac-ly as I would have wished, “You are so blogged.”


Friday night I went to the Oneg Shabbat at Syn.  Mr. Waitrose whipped up a lovely quiche, which I left sitting on the counter and didn’t remember until I was halfway to the synagogue.  I bet it was a lot cooler Friday night than it was on Saturday morning at shul.  Our discussion after dinner was on tents.  Not that I’ve ever stayed in one, mind you.  It’s really that passage in Midrash that says ‘How lovely are your tents…’ and it really is about community and the people with whom we build our support networks.  As always, I felt like there were several specific messages directed at me. 


And I’m grateful.  I have an amazing network of friends and people whom I can always rely on.  I am not alone in my wilderness.  Take BooBoo, for instance.  She is always there; just like Canada.


Saturday was the 4th of July.  But not here.  They just skip it and go right to the 5th.  My phone went off all day with texts from friends and the Irish Lad wishing me a happy ‘We Kicked Some Serious British Tush’ Day.  Strangely, there were no fireworks, John Philip Sousa, or barbecues here; that I heard about or got invited to.  I proudly wore my American flag shirt anyway, hoping the Italians wouldn’t pick that day to make a surprise Favorite Citizenship inspection.  And I played my ‘American’ playlist, really loud.  I was a little homesick, which I didn’t expect.  But it was my choice to postpone the Festa di Independenza until Stuart’s here.


I know I said this wouldn’t be a POF blog, but I can’t resist adding this contact on the blog.  Another ‘First’!   His initial email was actually okay.  “Hi, I’m Mark? What do you think of my profile?”   Hm.  His screen name is Bootlicker.  That’s a little odd.  Maybe Bootlicker69, or Licking 69Boots was already taken.  What does he say about himself?  Oh Dear.  ‘hi i am a young 54 year old professional from bedfordshire who enjoys meals out and in and a social drink and holidays abroad especially america. as my name implies i am a submissive guy seeking a dominant and demanding lady for a long term relationship: so what have you to lose by contacting me!!!!’ 


Despite stating that he’s looking for ‘a dominant leather clad lady’ I replied politely.  ‘Hi, Mark – I hope it was meant to be tongue-in-cheek or self-deprecating…  While I am a Jewish American Princess and realize that men exist merely to cater to my every whim, I’m not into kinky.’


Reply from GrovelGuy: ‘it’s true that i love a lady in black leather and boots and i do adore serving and pleasing a dominant lady in whatever way she demands but wouldnt say i was particularly kinky just submissive mark’


Oh shit!  This guy wasn’t kidding.  Okay.  Analyze the situation.  Make a list.


Reasons to go out with Bootlicker:  a) New wardrobe, and all of it yummy leather.  b) lots of boots; a girl can never have too many pairs of boots; ironing slowly reaching the ceiling. 


‘Dear Submissive One – a tiny problem.  Is that ‘black’ leather thingy written in stone?  Could we negotiate on ‘Biscuit’ or perhaps a lovely ‘Ripe Wheat’?  You see, I’m a Warm Autumn and Ruby says I can’t wear black any more.  I would so not be able to concentrate on hitting you with my whip or walking on you in my (new) high heeled boots if they, and my undies, were black.  I would be worrying ‘Gosh! Do I look washed out? Am I not at my absolutely most radiant under this mask?’  Not very erotic.  Actually, thanks, but no thanks.’