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.