YOU’RE MY MAN

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   

Mantra.

 

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.

 

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