I read back through sections of the blog Sunday night while I was watching the Packers take care of business and crush the Cowboys, which was a lot more fun than reading about myself in flashback mode. The Eagles lost. Again. I know. No more breathless play-by-play reporting on real, proper American football. Can I just quickly mention that Notre Dame lost and Penn State won? HaHaHaHa! Okay. Sorry.
I was curious; probably more the Red of angry than the ‘Yellow’ kind. Smutty? Cruel? Mean? Actually, it was pretty tedious. Banal comes to mind, too. It seemed to be mostly about shopping, lunching, shul, meetings, shifts at Sam and the Centre, and not nearly as many fantastic dates as I most definitely deserve. Maybe I missed the ‘Playboy After Dark’ blogs.
Saturday night was the long anticipated Trunk Show. Naturally, being England, there was a nor’easter on Saturday with driving rain and hurricane force wind. We’d cajoled Sanjay into letting us into the Centre in the morning while he did Meals on Wheels to set up. I was a bit neurotic about getting everything organized and just right. Pinkie and Carol were much more laid-back. I stressed unnecessarily and probably annoyed my partners; it went brilliantly.
It really did. The turnout wasn’t as great as we’d hoped, but a lot of women turned up despite the crappy weather. It was polished and professional, and we all, including the other stalls we sub-let space to, made some coin.
Best of all, everyone asked when our next Show was going to be and gave us input on what sorts of things they’d like to see next time.
Patting myself on the back (hey, can I do that; will anyone get offended?) I was thrilled by the number of my friends who turned up to support me. Co-workers from Sam and the Centre came, my new friend Deb, friends from shul, and even my hairdresser came, bringing some of her friends, including another American, named Gerry, with whom I instantly bonded. I am (modestly, of course) a full-fledged presence in Weybridge now.
Ticket sales to the Thanksgiving supper have, fortunately, started to trickle in so it won’t be a total wipe out. But I got another call from another local radio station asking me to come on the Wey Too Early Show on Radio Wey to talk about the dinner. Hey. I didn’t coin that slogan, and I didn’t make this up.
I spoke to the presenter (DeeJay to Americans). He’d heard the interview on BBC1 Surrey. He actually asked me “What do you serve on Thanksgiving with cream cheese in it? You’re from Philadelphia; isn’t that where the cream cheese comes from?” Feel free to groan; I did.
When I got to the studio, we went over what we’d be chatting about. My friend Sarah, who’s doing the pie baking for the dinner, came along to get in a plug for the newest Sam Bric-a-brac Shop opening in Walton-upon-Thames.
Unfortunately, or at least boringly, he wanted to talk about My Troubles. Again. I didn’t want to, and I told him that nicely. He insisted. He said it was the most interesting part of the story. I gave in, ungraciously. I’m really tired of Jarvo and the Eagles shirt, Immigration and getting deported, and the Italians. Well, I mean I love the Italians. I just don’t want to talk about all that business anymore to strangers. Especially on the radio. So, like, don’t ask me again.
Radio Wey – don’t get excited; they have, like, twelve listeners – offered me my own radio show. Jon, the presenter, had read the blog and thought my Adventures in England would make a cute, humorous show, especially the mix-ups with British vs. American terminology.
We had one on the show, on the air. Sarah mentioned the ‘Tomato Turkey’ we would be serving, and I kinda went “Huh? ‘Tomato turkey???”
“Yes” she said seriously, “The menu you emailed me; Turkey in tomato sauce.”
“Um… Sarah, it said ‘Tom’ Turkey’. It means a boy turkey. A girl turkey is a ‘hen’ turkey” I hastened to explain. Maybe that’s why ticket sales weren’t wonderful. Who the hell puts tomato sauce on turkey? Yuck.
Blogger’s Disclaimer: While it is true that my family, being Italian, always served a pasta course on Thanksgiving, never mind the sixteen side dishes entirely comprised of carbohydrates and saturated fat with the damned turkey, we never, ever let the gravy (tomato sauce) get up close and personal with the bird.
“Besides” I added, always needing to get the last word, “It said ‘Tom’ not ‘tomato’.”
Not to be outdone, Sarah countered with “But that’s how you abbreviate ‘tomato’”.
“No. No. Noooo” I replied. “Not where I come from. Where I come from we abbreviate ‘tomato’ as ‘tomato’. When we mean tomato, we just use the whole bloody word: ‘tomato’. It’s, like, four extra letters.”
Of course, what made this exchange even funnier was that Sarah was saying ‘Toe-Mah-Toe’ and I was saying ‘Ta-May-Toe’. Yeah, just like that song Irish Lad keeps singing to me. Thank some Divine Being (politically correct, generic, don’t piss off anybody name for you-know-who) we didn’t discuss the sweet Poe-tay-Toes or any of my many, many vacations in the Car-ib-be-in.
Anyhow, the Producer thought my blog was clever and funny, too. “Gee, I guess he doesn’t know Janette or Somebody” I thought. Yeah. It was another cheap shot.
I declined their kind offer, of course. I have enough trouble making the time to write the damned thing as it is, let alone go regurgitate it on the airwaves in Surrey. They said they’d like to invite me on the show from time to time just to ‘chat’.
Last night, I had a date with Tom. Am I allowed to say that? We had dinner at Il Ponte again, which has become ‘our’ Italian Restaurant. I made a passing reference to Billy Joel, prompting himself to start singing it, in the restaurant. This set us off on nattering about ‘diners’, ‘waterbeds’, and ‘Sears Roebuck & Co’. (Pinkie would have loved Sears.)
And being serious for a moment, this is one of the quirks I adore about Tom. His mind is so quick, and our conversations go off into so many interesting directions. After we did ‘Italian Restaurant’ and Christie Brinkley’s well publicized love life to death, we got onto the USS Arizona and Japanese tourists. See what I mean?
Appendix 1 – This blog was not intended to offend any citizens of Japan, even if they have ever been on vacation in Hawaii.
Appendix 2 – I like tomatoes, however you pronounce it. They’re so …. Round…. And squishy. Unless they’re Jersey ones; I don’t like Jersey tomatoes; they’re too juicy. However, no tomatoes got their feelings bruised during the production of this blog.
Appendix 3 – I hate, loath and despise the Cowboys, as does everyone with class. I’m glad they lost. Ditto Notre Dame. Sue me.
Appendix 4, relative to Appendix 2 – Further clarifying the issue of the origins of the red items under discussion, perhaps ‘don’t like’ is too strong an emotion. Please edit that to read: ‘do not prefer the tomatoes grown in the Garden State, although I will graciously eat them without comment if they are served by the hostess.