All posts for the month December, 2009


Published December 30, 2009 by jean cohen

Of course, celebrating Christmas wasn’t over on Christmas night.  Unless you’re a Titans fan.


I was doing my Second Annual Boxing Day Dinner, another venerable Weybridge tradition.  Or as it’s known in the strange Jewish/Italian/American World of Jeano ‘Give Me Louis (Vuittan) or Don’t Even Bother’ Day.


Last year, it was still Chanukah on Santo Stephano Day so I lit the candles and said the blessing in Hebrew and Italian to cover all my bases.  Chanukah was early this year. 


BooBoo rang early in the morning to announce that Cassie had nine puppies!  She rang back an hour later to say “Ten!”.  “Bar the doors in case she tries to get outta Dodge City” I advised.  Not that I would have thought any less of Cassie.  And I did kind of relish the image of CheeseBoy with an eyedropper of milk feeding the tiny bundles of joy. 


I’m going to be mean now and talk about someone.  She should feel absolutely free to comment with her side of the story.  Trigger was a terrible mother.  It’s a fact.  BooBoo’s other lurcher had a bunch of puppies and immediately tried to book herself on a non-stop to LA.  Other dogs, and humans, had to step in.  In a flight of fancy (and a lot of Zinfy) I half convinced Boo that Trigger was ‘counseling’ Cassie about what to do after the blessed event: #1: Steal an Amex, preferably a gold one.


Not to worry.  According to reports, and the 7,962 pictures she’s emailed me, Cassie is a Stepford Dog and takes her responsibilities seriously.  She barely has time to go out and poop.


Anyway, Boo and the Boy came for Boxing Day dinner, along with my friend, Hester.  Of Sam Bric fame…”Oh, Jeano.  A brand new Ghost skirt in a size 12 for an awesome,  looking good Warm Autumn just came in…”  Reply: Click.  I am so there.


I made BooBoo check that all of her plastic was in her wallet, just to be on the safe side.


Dinner was lovely, and Boo has obviously been hanging with me too long.  She went home and took the piss out of Stuart on Facebook about how great the meatballs were.  Well done, Girlfriend!


We got into a discussion about Christmas carols.  I was talking about the caroling at the Salvation Army on Christmas Day.


“They sang ‘Away in a Manger” I reported.  I. of course, did not sing; those people have enough problems what with being homeless and everything.


“I read in the song sheet that it says ‘No crib for a bed’.  How come?  You keep telling me it’s a ‘cot’ not a ‘crib’.  Don’t people get confused?  I did. I pictured poor Baby Jesus rolling off the side of an Army cot.  Maybe Trigger was babysitting.”


Cheeseboy snickered “No surprise there” but BooBoo took the question literally.  “It was actually a trough because there was no room at the inn and they were in a stable.”


“Yeah; I know.  I read the book” I told Boo, going for just a touch of sarcasm, but not meaness.  Really.  “The point, BooBoo, is that all you English people sing a hymn about a kid in a crib.  Why don’t you say ‘no cot for a bed’?  I had to stop the caroling and correct them all.”


I love winding BooBoo up.


I’m sure enquiring minds want to know.  It’s an American carol.  It was written in Philadelphia in 1885, where ‘cribs’ are called… well… cribs and they don’t make cream cheese.  It is the second most popular carol in Britain.  Don’t take my word for it.  Google said that was the result in a 1996 Gallop Poll.  I think it got beat by ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’


New Year’s will be relatively quiet; I’m going to a house party at friends’.  Perfectly okay with me.  I’m not into pubs and assholes because it’s New Year’s Eve.  On the 2nd, I have a Hen Do, which will probably more than compensate for a tame New Year’s Eve. 


I need my wits about me, not soaked in Zinfy anyway, to do my pools for the Bowl Games.  I’ll be glued to my computer on the 1st; it’s Penn State vs LSU in the Capital One Bowl.


And Sunday is the showdown.  Yeah, sorry.  Here it comes.


The Saints clinched the NFC South despite the two losses; they’re the top seed.  The Cards won the West, and the Vikings stole the Norris from the Pack.  With me so far?  The loathsome ‘Boys beat the Redskins last week, prompting a nightmare in Philly.  It all comes down to Sunday’s game.  If the Eagles win, they clinch the NFC East and claim the all important bye.  If the ‘Boys win, they clinch, and might bye.  Minnesota could help the Birds by losing, but the ball is really on the Eagles’ 35 yard line, if you get what I’m saying.


I can’t wait for Sunday night!


Note to Eamonn:  By the way, the G-men are on vacation after Sunday.  Eliminated!  And won’t Shaun O’Hara be lonely at the Pro Bowl, Ed?  Six Eagles made it.  De Sean Jackson is the first player ever voted in to start both offensively and on special teams.  Need some matches for that Eli jersey?





Published December 27, 2009 by jean cohen

Well. My Second British Christmas as a resident.  Some repeats, some new festivities and some variations of Italian American/Jewish Christmases past.


I worked at Sam on Christmas Eve morning with Paul.  It was pretty entertaining to spot the glazed eyes of the truly panicked shoppers dashing in to buy anything that looked shmaltzy for pressies.  We were rushed all morning.  At 12:30 we had to ask the remaining dozen or so to buy something or leave.  Or preferably both.  The girls in Brics had the mulled wine and minced pies ready.


I found my house after a few minor blips on my radar, planning to finally get around to wrapping my gifts for friends.  I have no idea what I’ve been doing for the last few weeks.


Yeah, I do.  I’ve been Doing.  And Doing.  And Tom.  And entertaining. Friends kept popping in unexpectedly and needed to be entertained.


So I got out the wrapping paper, scissors, etc. and stared at the mound of gifts on the floor.  Ding Dong!  Saved by the bell!  Deb popped in to visit.  “No, I’m not doing anything.  Let me entertain you!”


She came with the coolest accessory; her son, Colin, who’s here for the holiday from North Carolina.  Deb has two mighty hunkalicious sons.  Deb got a little bored when Colin and I moved on from discussing Cardinal Dougherty High School (his dad went there; how cool was that?) to Real, Proper American Football and the Saints choking.  Colin doesn’t like the Saints, I guess because of living in North Carolina.  Then it was on to the wild and wonderfully wacky NFC East.  We both loathe the Cowboys.  But, seriously, who doesn’t hate America’s Team?  (That was extremely mean and snotty sarcasm; I was going for cruel and smutty, but I drew a blank.)


Wait a minute!  I thought of something.  Tony Romo banged Jessica Simpson for a while ‘til he dumped her.  At an IHOP.    Over Rootie Tootie Frooties a dieux.  (I’m guessing on that detail; but the IHOP part is absolutely true.)  Who do ya think was dumber?  Okay.  Cruel and smutty handled.


Deb asked what I was doing Christmas Eve and I said just wrapping presents and watching Fiddler on the Roof, a Christmas favorite.  She invited me around to her’s for Chinese and champagne.  Lots of champagne.  I casually accepted.  “I’d love to!”  Screw the wrapping; I’m handicapped anyway.


Strangely, when exchanging holiday wishes on the phone with Blood Relative and License to Injure Slightly, he commented when informed of my plans for the evening “Oh, a traditional Jewish Christmas Eve” which is so true.  That’s exactly what Jews back home do on Christmas Eve- eat Chinese take-out and/or watch Fiddler for the seven-hundreth time.


So Mark and Deb picked me up and whisked me to the land of the free and home of the brave (sort of).  Except for Camille’s boyfriend, Fritz, whom everyone referred to as ‘The Good German’, I was serendipitously spending Christmas Eve with five fellow Americans.  And not just any old Americans, Right Coast ones.  They all speak exactly like me.  We all understood exactly what everyone was saying.


The Chinese was superb, as was the conversation.  And the champagne flowed like Budd Light at Charlie McGruders, except it wasn’t in pitchers and we didn’t play ‘quarters’.


I consoled myself that I’d wrap the goddamned gifts when I got home.  Afraid not.   I barely made it into bed before I passed out.  I did wake up about 2:30 in the morning.  No, Jerry didn’t pop in.  I guess he was watching Fiddler on the Roof.  (There’s a five hour time difference between Heaven and Weybridge.)  I was dying of thirst; must have been the Chinese.  At least I was sober enough to set my phone alarm.  I had to be up bright and early for the Salvation Army.


I did get up.  It was early, but I sure wasn’t bright.   Netta picked me up, chirping away.  But she’s always chirping.  She had a brand new routine of Scottish and Christmas jokes to tell me.  Sorry, I can’t share.  Netta’s jokes are generally dirty and often (always) include that nasty ‘fuck’ word.  Somebody should speak to her about that.


Like last year, the Salvation Army was rewarding.  I felt really, really good, despite feeling so bad.  And I knew practically everybody working.  I actually met two people I know from my other charity gigs.  Plus I knew several of the guests from the Senior Centre.


BDavid was there, with Susan and his faithful crew, whipping up a turkey dinner for 136 people.  I can say this now.  His American turkey dinner is way better than his British one.  It does not include mounds of nasty brussel sprouts and it ends with homemade pumpkin pie.  Friday’s ended with some brown thingy with fruit in it covered with yellow stuff.  Everyone said the mystery dessert was very tasty, so don’t go by me.  The turkey, and the trimmings, were delicious.


I was run off my feet.  We served coffee, tea and biscuits in the morning before the religious service and caroling, then we served the dinner and cleared, helped with Pass the Parcel (a most peculiar game; I’m not sure I can explain it), served more coffee and tea, and then helped Santa distribute the Christmas presents.  After the guests left, we had to take down the tables and put them, and the chairs, away.


I wanted to just lay down on my sofa when I got home, but I couldn’t.  I was due at Pinkie’s for Christmas dinner.  Okay.  It was decision time.  Wrap the bloody presents, or get changed.  Thank The Birthday Boy that the recipients of some of the gifts weren’t coming to mine until Boxing Day dinner.  This is why when they ask me at Waitrose “Do you want a carrier bag?” I always answer “No, I’ll just carry it all with my teeth.  Of course I want a bag, you stupid cow.” 


The Irish Lad cooked an incredible Christmas dinner, too.  He roasted a sheepie, and a beef joint, and concocted this stuffed mushroom starter that was fantastic.  And he served champagne.  A lot of it.  Again.  It did cross my mind that the world must be a good place sometimes if men cook multi-course dinners.  Twice in one day.


I barely made it through dessert (also unfamiliar and odd; but yummy), but I was exhausted.  We exchanged carrier bags – Pinkie had to work – and I went home and ended a perfect Christmas Day in true American style, on the sofa watching the Chargers murder the Titans.    





Published December 23, 2009 by jean cohen

I got so excited about football that I forgot to mention all of the exciting stuff I did last week. 


The G-men crushed the Redskins.  That’s it.  I will say no more.  Ask one lousy favor of your Native American neighbors to the south…


Another week of partying hearty in Weybridge despite some crappy weather.  I know, I shouldn’t complain; the Right Coast really got socked with up to 30 inches in some places.


Positively everybody rang to tell me it was snowing in Philly.  I’m not sure why, exactly.  It’s not like I could do anything.  Except give advice.  “Well, stay at home then” I advised.  “Like Mayor Nutter said.”  I am au courant on all matters political in the City of Brotherly Love.


Tuesday night I went to Chanukah Dinner with JDavid.  We couldn’t actually call it a Christmas Do, could we?  He took me to Silvermere, the really, really posh golf club in Cobham.  It was a super evening.  2010 is looking to be a very exciting year for David and me.  And I mean that in a totally professional, non-sexual-innuendo way.


Wednesday night I had a date with Tom.  That was some Sugar Plum he brought to the party.  Give me a break, please.  I thought of that little bon mot the other night, and I couldn’t not use it.


It was a dreadful day here; cold and snowy.  I decided to make the lasagnas for Saturday night’s do since I wasn’t venturing out for any reason.  I had shopped over the weekend for all the ingredients.


Mid-afternoon, I texted Tom to say he should come right to mine instead of Our Italian Restaurant; it was too damned cold to go out and I would cook again.  He texted right back was I sure I wanted to bother cooking and not eat out. 


“It’s okay” I texted back. “I don’t mind…” trying to sound selfless, whingy and JAPPY all at the same time.  A healthy dollop of guilt is good for the male soul occasionally.


The truth, of course, was that I’d already made two giant lasagnas for the Do and gravy and meatballs and chicken.  So sticking some of all of that in a casserole and proclaiming “I cooked for you!” was maybe just the tiniest bit deceitful or manipulative.


Dinner was, obviously, delicious, as Tom kept telling me as he ate seconds and thirds and got a tummy ache.  But not from the food.


Friday night was the Sam Bookshop Do.  We had a nice meal and as Tanya, my cleaning lady, had been to mine in the morning and the place was pristine, I invited everybody back for coffee.  I should have given that plan a little more thought.  Since I only own about six coffee mugs.  Fortunately three or four of them stuck with more wine.  I possess dozens of wine glasses for some reason.  That’s a lie.  Bad Jeano!  Pat gave me lots of glasses when she moved back to the States, and Pinkie five-fingered more than a few from the Grotto, along with a really posh wine cooler. 


The prim and proper Sam girls stayed.  And stayed.  Wow.  They’re not so prim and proper when they’re Doing.  I distinctly heard the word ‘Fuck’ used several times.  I took notes.  The last two finally left about 1:30 in the morning.


Brenda was back in a minute to say that her car door locks were frozen, necessitating boiling the electric kettle and praying that it defrosted them before I found myself having an impromptu pajama party.  It did.


Saturday morning I had to be up early to go to Anne’s house to set up for the Thanksgiving Thank You Do.  Anne made the salads, Maya made dessert, and I, as I’ve been bragging, made the delicious lasagna.


It was a diverse group, from Amy, my Major Domo at the dinner, to David (the Chef) and Susan, to Joan (Thanksgiving decorations) and John,  Pinkie (my chief supporter) and Sarah (apple pies and corn bread pudding), and Anne and Paul, our hosts.  Amy was amazing.  I thought she might be bored or uncomfortable at a party with all adults.  She wasn’t.  Every time I spotted her, she was poised and grown-up, chatting away to somebody. 


Sadly, we had a few last minute cancellations due to a nasty flu going around, but the evening was a brilliant success.  And everybody enthusiastically promised to work on next year’s Thanksgiving Supper, which was kind of the point.  


Sunday was a rest and recuperation day.  And again, it was just too damned cold to go out anywhere.


I had my weekly marathon phone convo with Toots in the morning.  Well, morning for her, afternoon for me.  On Fridays she emails to tell me when to ring.  I rang, as instructed, just after 8:00 AM her time. 


“Are you ready” I asked solicitously.  “I wanted to give you time to get your coffee made and grab your cigarettes.”  I wasn’t being especially nice.  I have known Toots for 35 years and I know exactly what she’s like at 8:00 in the morning without coffee and cigarettes.


Pinkie popped in for a coffee at the tail end of the call, after her stint of making breakfast at the Rowing Club.  As we sat and nattered about the Thanksgiving Do and stuff, she laughed and asked “How long were you and Toots talking?”


“I don’t know” I said.  “A couple hours.  Why?”


“Your accent has completely changed” she told me.  “You sound totally ‘Philadelphia’ again”.


“I don’t have an accent” I corrected her politely.  “This is exactly how people are supposed to sound.” 


And finally, although I seldom give publicity to people who are much cooler than me—and after 6 million hits on YouTube he doesn’t need my help—I got an email about this guy from License to Injure Slightly.  The short version of the story is that United Airlines damaged his very expensive guitar on a flight to a gig.  Then they said ‘Tough shit”.  He wrote a song about it, did a video and the rest is history.  Check out ‘Dave Carroll’ on YouTube.  It’s hysterical.


And finally, finally, we are all anxiously awaiting The Birth.  No, not that Jesus guy.  And for your information, Christians, He was actually born in March.  Which would make him a Pisces.  (That one is true.) 


Nope, it’s Cassie, one of CheeseBoy and Boo’s lurchers.  She had a very close encounter with a Greyhound mix and is due to pop any second.  I ring BooBoo every hour to ask “Nu?”  “Bupkas” Boo replies frustratedly.  Maybe Pinkie should have a talk with her about her vocabulary.  This isn’t the Catskills, is it?






Published December 22, 2009 by jean cohen

To Football or not Football, that is the question.


Tough shit.  I decided.  Skip this part if you’re one of those Somebodies who likes to criticize.


The ‘Boys beat the Saints.  I know.  How could that have happened?  I don’t know; the game was on here at 1:30 in the morning.  I didn’t watch it.  The Saints were 13 – 0.  No ‘Perfect Season’ for Drew & Co.  The ’72 Dolphins sent the ‘Boys’ D the obligatory cases of champagne.  Jimmy Jones was wearing what can only be described as a ‘shit eating grin’.  It was awful.


So the power rankings in the NFC East got a little treacherous.  The Birds had the Niners visiting and the G-men travel to DC to play the ‘Skins on Monday night.  Philly got socked with a massive snow storm – actually the whole Right Coast got hit.  The game was actually postponed until 4:15 to give the ground crew time to clear the stadium.  The Niners are a West Coast team, so they probably weren’t very happy campers. 


I was biting my nails, sitting through the Bengals-Chargers game on Sky.  Who really, like, cares?  They don’t even have a Two Minute Ticker on Sky.  So I had the Eagles game on Fox Sports on my computer.  God, football is S-L-O-W on a computer. 


Digressing for just a mo here, the commentators on Sky are clueless.  There is Stupid Black American Guy who dresses really nice, and Stupider White English Guy who doesn’t own a mirror.  Plus every week there is a guest commentator.  Sometimes it is Johnny Mitchell, who played for the ‘Boys (do I need to say more), and speaks Ebonic.  I have enough bloody trouble with British.


This week, however, the guest was my cousin, Mark Cohen.  Not that I knew we had black, British, Jewish relatives who were Wide Receivers and played Real, Proper American Football for the London Monarchs, whoever they are.


I immediately rang  BooBoo.  “Turn on NFL Dead” I instructed.  “You won’t believe this.”  (That’s what I call it; NFL Dead.)  “There’s a football game on” Boo reported.  She’s so literal.


“Nah.  It’s just highlights of the Saints self-destructing Thursday night.  Hang on.  You’ll see in a minute.”


“Bloody hell!” came over the receiver when it switched back to Stupid, Stupider and Cousin Mark.  “He’s not actually British” she added as he pontificated importantly.


“Is so” I disagreed.  “No, it’s not quite a British accent.”  Honestly.


“You’re missing the point” I said testily.  Honestly, sometimes I have to explain everything.  “He’s black.  His name is ‘Cohen’.  It’s funny.  And he dresses a whole better than Stupider.  So he’s Jewish.


Boo didn’t know anything about him, so I googled him.  I couldn’t find anything on him, but I read a nice article about cousin Mark Cohn who sings ‘Walking in Memphis’, which, come to think of it, no self-respecting Right Coast Jew would ever do.


Anyway, the Eagles took care of business and beat the Niners 27 – 13, in a sloppy game; the O was not in synch, but the D was– 4 takeaways.  So we’ve clinched a playoff slot, but not the NFC East title.  Yet.  We need a little help from our friends, the ‘Skins.  Stay tuned.    


Published December 14, 2009 by jean cohen

Boy, that quote about ‘sorrows’ and ‘battalions’ is, like, so true right now.  It’s like ‘what else can get totally fucked up?’  Maybe it’s Seasonal Affective Disorder and I need some artificial happiness pills from the nice folks at the NHS.   Nope.  It’s all too very real stuff that will just have to get straightened out the best way I can manage rather than ignored in a psychotropic daze.


Although the mink coat one is seriously tragic.


I might have forgotten to mention that one.  I destroyed my mink in a freak accident.  Don’t ask.


So the answer is to keep busy.  Doing.  And I sure have been at a lot of Dos, with plenty more in my diary.  I guess that’s one of the rewards of lots of volunteering; you get invited to tons of great parties.


The first Sam Do was at Sarah’s, a gorgeous house right on the Wey River.  It was a sort of combined Do, with folks who have moved to the new Sam in Walton-upon-Thames and the Weybridge people.  Great noshes, lots of wine and sparkling conversation. 


I had one of those Solomon-type decisions to make too.  I had committed ages ago to go to the Clothing Show in Birmingham with Pinkie and it turned out to be the very same dates JDavid needed me for preparation for a seminar in London.  I made the decision to forego the show; for a lot of reasons, some of them stretching across the Pond to Philadelphia.  Despite the fallout, and it’s pretty bad, it was the right decision, the grown up one, to make at this particular time. 


Conversely, and beneficial for me as well as David, the seminar went extremely well and opened the way to some exciting new opportunities.  JDavid is certainly chuffed and and eager to get started on various projects, which is financially rewarding for me.


I had a fabulous date with Tom, a luncheon with the Senior Centre Committee members, and I entertained the American Club, which is what we’ve dubbed the new triumvirate of Deb, Gerry and me.  It was just a coffee morning, nothing elaborate; I served Mr. Waitrose’s finest Danish.  Then it was a Sam luncheon with the fund-raising team and dinner at my friend Brenda’s. 


Oh and I had another date.  Chill.  He was awful.  This one was a ‘fix up’, which gave me a little bit of hope.  And his name is Frank, which I thought might be a positive sign.  I figured it had to at least be better than the losers on line. Angela, the woman who lives in Turkey, set it up.  We went to the Dining Room, a really posh and pretentious restaurant in Hersham.  It sucked.  The restaurant, the date, actually the whole thing.  I know; I’m too fussy.


This week is more of the same, Do’s and more Do’s, only I’m doing some actual cooking for one.


On the Good News/Bad News front, my daughter is not coming for Christmas after all.  The bad news is that I paid for the damned ticket; the good news is …  Hell, you figure it out; read between the lines.


On More Good News, I have found an editor for my novel!  The real one, not the Mills & Boon one.  Someone I know here – she’s a published author – was at the same party as me.  We were chatting about the difficulties of finding such an elusive creature.  She was chatting, I was whinging.  Adrienne said she knew someone who might be willing to read ‘The War Inside the Walls’ and do some editing on it.  She contacted Sally, and voila, after a few meetings and giving her the synopsis and the first three chapters, Sally agreed to work on it.  I probably won’t have much to report until after the holidays.  But I have visions of Tunisia and Evil Nazis dancing in my head again.


Sunday night has become my most favorite-est night of the week.  It has settled into a pleasant routine—I hope I’m not turning into a spinster lady who has routines.  And cats.


It is, of course, NFL Live on Sky Sports, a doubleheader.  This week was sort of a tripleheader; the Eagles-G-men game came on at 1:30 in the morning.  My Donovan jersey, a six-pack of Coors Light and a Scalea’s tomato pie.  Well, I do wear the Donovan at least.


The first up was the Vikings-Cinncy game, which I wasn’t too interested in.  I was primed for the second one, the hated ‘Boys versus the Chargers.


A bit of clarification for British readers:  While the Saints have already clinched top seed in the NFC with a perfect record, the Eagles and the ‘Boys both had a shot at moving into first in the NFC East, and, mathematically at least, the G-men had a chance for a wildcard slot.  It’s complicated.  The ‘Boys still have to face the Saints, the Chargers, the Skins and us.  The G-men play the Saints, the Vikings, the Cardinals and the ‘Boys.  We have to beat the G-men, San Francisco, Denver and the ‘Boys.  The important games are the NFC East showdowns ‘cause the percentage points are higher.


The ‘Boys lost!  Yippee.  They showed old bo-toxed Jerry Jones having a sissy fit right on national TV.  I guess that was international TV.  And the awesome Eagles went to the Meadowlands and took care of business, 45 – 38.  DeSean Jackson broke all sorts of records.  So we stand alone, at the top of the NFC East. 


Sorry.  This is always a two edged sword.  American readers bitch if I don’t mention the Eagles; British readers complain if I do.


And finally, I can’t fail to mention the incredibly sweet and supportive comment BDavid left on the last blog.  For anyone too computer illiterate to figure out how to open the comments, I’m reprinting it here.  (And just because I really, really loved it.)


‘Anybody who takes offence at your blog is not mature or responsible enough to be allowed onto the internet unsupervised.
Like the song goes, we like you just the way you are.’


Thank you, David!



Published December 7, 2009 by jean cohen

Wow!  I sure have gotten a lot of mail about the ex-friend and Somebody

and the blog.


The votes are in.  I’m either boring as hell or a jezebel.  Who knew?  I think I’m leaning towards boring, at least for readers right at the moment.  It’s almost New Year’s!  Time for those BCS pools and Bowl Games.  ‘Bama and the Longhorns.  Holy Bear Bryant!  The Nittany Lions and LSU?  They just don’t get no respect.  I’m done.  For now.


I guess it could be worse, though, than just getting dissed at shul.  I could be Tiger and have my sexts splashed all over the internet.  I always promptly delete my hot ones just in case.  Although I do have a cute little slide show of somebody getting dressed in a kilt.  It might come in handy some day.  Naturally, he swore he deleted the ones I sent him in return.    


Anyway, so putting the whole thing in perspective, about 5000 people know I say ‘fuck’ occasionally and way too damned infrequently, in my humble opinion, have sexual intercourse (but only with men).  Whoopee. 


Princie was funny on the phone last night.  “Who’s this meshuga woman from your synagogue” he inquired.  I explained that he’d met her at mine at the Festa de Indepedenza barbecue.


“And she said the blog is dirty and cruel?”


“Well she said ‘smutty’ and cruel” I corrected.  “But Somebody told her; she didn’t read it.”


“Don’t change anything” Princie advised.  “It’s funny and it’s cute.  If you do, I’ll stop reading it.  So will everybody else.  Because it will be boring.  And you never say mean things about real people…you just hint.”  (And trust me, he damned well knows what I leave out.)


“Well except for the Turd of Camberley ones” I reminded him, trying to be objective.


“Yeah, but he deserved it” my sweet stepson reassured me.  “So fuck him.  And her.”


This is exactly why I love Stuart the best and intend to leave him my fortune after I’m rich and famous.  And get one.


I did my shifts at Sam and the Senior Centre, worked with JDavid some more on the presentation, and did my usual socializing.


I worked at a Sam Do, a Coffee Morning, which is a boring, big waste of time, in my opinion.  There were about six stalls, two jewelry designers, a woman selling children’s books, a raffle (naturally) and a few others.  I did the coffee service with Therese, whom I know well.  She works in the Sam Bric-a-brac shop.  We didn’t get many people; maybe because another group had a coffee morning the day before ours in aid of something or other.  Maybe everybody had the jitters from overdosing on too much caffeine or too many raffles.  Anyway, we only raised £260.00. 


It was Held at Christ Prince of Peace.  Gottenu, I spend a lot of time hanging out at the Catholic church.  As we were clearing up, another group came in and started setting up for their Do.  Honestly, it’s a bloody revolving door.  Mary, the Church secretary, told me it was a luncheon in aid of Italian earthquake victims and invited me to stay. 


Well, gee.  I mean I like Jews and people with cancer a whole lot, but I owe the paisons.  Big time.  Of course I donated some money to stay and eat minestrone soup and homemade pizza.  And bought some tickets for their raffle.  The homeless Italians had nicer raffle prizes; they had a really awesome espresso maker.   I had my heart set on snagging the Padre Pio crocheted pillow sham, but no joy; somebody else snapped that up.  I got the 3D crucifix.  (Um.  That was a joke.)


What was interesting, though, is that I actually knew about 25 people at the luncheon, from, like, around.  And a lot of people know me, or of me, because I am the Famous American Who Lives in Weybridge and makes a Mean Turkey Dinner.  And writes a dirty blog.  (Kidding again!)  I didn’t even brag to you all that there was a really complimentary article about moi in the Surrey Herald, the local newspaper.  Reprints available, natch.


And while I’m not bragging, Pinkie was in Sam Brics mooching with Allie, and mentioned to the clerk that “my friend Jeano works next door in Sam Books” and Beverly said ‘Oh!  You’re Jeano’s friend.  Lucky you.  I will  automatically extend the secret 25% discount. For being friends with Jeano.”


I’m only repeating what Pinkie and Allie told me when they popped into Books to show off all the loot they bought.


Since it’s December now and Weybridge is festooned with some truly tacky Christmas decorations, Holiday Do Season is obviously upon us.  Tonight is the first Sam Do (I think there are four more); it’s at Sara’s house.  There’s a luncheon at the Senior Centre on Friday, but I have to miss it; I’m booked for a different Do. And the list goes on and on.  Plus Tom on Thursday night.


Tuesday night I’m up to London with JDavid for a Do at MY American Embassy.


Note to self:  Bring the American passport, stupid, not the marone passaporti Italiano, or they no let-a you in-a.


I went to the Embassy thingy last year with a friend, and it was fun.  Good wine and noshes, too.  Naturally.  Sadly, last year the Turd of Camberley met me in London afterwards and we went back to mine and had really hot sex…  Forget that last part.


Anyway, I will faithfully report on all the Do’s and what the ladies were all wearing.


The ingredients used in this entry are certified to be:  Bullshit: 23%, Bubblegum: 31%; Wishful Thinking: 18%; Fluff: 24%; Outright Whoppers: 9%; Tact/Discretion: 1%.








Published December 2, 2009 by jean cohen

Another Jeano-ish busy week in Weybridge.


JDavid is prepping for a seminar for a prestigious computer think tank next week, and we’re spending positively hours preparing the power point slides and handouts and worksheets.  And running through the actual talk.


Tom canceled our date; I was sort of squeezing him in, truthfully, so I wasn’t really upset.  His father died and he went up to Newcastle to do whatever Christians do when somebody passes away.  It seems like it involves a lot of sitting around and waiting for a coveted slot to actually plant the deceased.


Prompting BooBoo, who has an awfully long memory, to quote almost verbatim a blog bit about my ‘New Guy Questionnaire’, in which I said: #17 – Do you, or anyone in your extended nuclear family, currently have a mother?  If yes, 17a) is she prone to strokes or ‘bad turns’ suspiciously just prior to the commencement of a date; and 17b) does she often die, resulting in your being unavailable for long periods of time ostensibly ‘making funeral arrangements’.  


It also caused her to start mumbling again about ‘Stephen King’ and ‘Carrie’ and blowing stuff up simply by calling on the Dale Carnegie method, but I ignored her censure and changed the subject.


Blogger’s Disclaimer:  If a ‘New Guy Questionnaire’ actually exists, and I’m not admitting that it does, the criteria are Top Secret, and constantly shifting… like sands in an hourglass.


And for the record, Tom never, ever forgets to charge his mobile.


On Tuesday, in my role as Committee Member and ‘Cruel Person to Elderly People’ at the Senior Centre, I fielded a team for the inter-centre Quiz.  We competed last year, as BooBoo probably remembers.  Don’t go back and read about it; I think I said some mean things about the team I organized.  But it was probably because we lost; not because I’m especially cruel.  I just hate losing, one of my many character flaws.


This year, we didn’t lose.  We beat seven other Centres handily and won decisively.  There were a lot of American questions, so I felt pretty smart.  One of the categories was ‘Partners in Crime’ and I tried to talk my team into using our Joker on that round.  Fortunately, they mutinied.  I thought it was going to be fictional detectives, but it was partners, some detectives and some not, on British TV shows.  So I didn’t know most of the answers.  I did ace the ‘Cowboys & Injuns’ round, getting a perfect 10.  Oddly, most of the questions were about the Civil War.  Or Texas.  And the obligatory one about Sitting Bull.  There’s always one.


Anyway, we each got a cheap medal and a ditto bottle of wine, and Weybridge Centre gets to host the event next year.


I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t wish BooBoo a speedy recovery.  She has Swine Flu.  I think she caught it at Cheese Boy’s Birthday Do at the Ash Tree on Friday night.  The pub was packed with pissed and exceedingly germy people.  I sailed through with no problems; probably because I had the flu shot.


And condolences to Scary Fairy on the death of her brother.  Again, I didn’t read back to check exactly what I’d said in the blog (for Scary’s privacy),  but John had a heart transplant in the spring and after a positive initial recovery it all went horribly pear-shaped with insidious infections and complications.


I spent a fun evening with Deb, and Gerry, our new American chum, at Deb’s house.  Gerry lives part of the year in England (her husband is British) and part in Georgia.  But don’t hold that against her, Right Coast readers.  This week, the  ‘American Club’ is getting together at my house.


And I had a pleasant dinner with a new friend (female) called Brenda, who is a new volunteer at Sam.  So I keep expanding my social network.  I probably shouldn’t mention the damned blog, huh?


I’m working at another Sam Do on Friday, a ‘Coffee Morning’; just working, not chairing.  I already know I have to turn up early to make the coffee.  Everybody loves my coffee.  I make a damned excellent pot of joe.  Am I allowed to say that? 


Anne, my Co-Chair for the Thanksgiving Dinner, and I are hosting a dinner party for our dedicated volunteers on December 19.  I’m cooking.  Really.  I’m making lasagna.  It’s at Anne’s because she has more room than me.  And dishes.  And after they all have several glasses of wine, we’ll announce that we’ve already booked in next year’s event.  It’s November 19, 2010.  Anne cleverly nailed the date and then informed all the other fund-raisers in Surrey, so that we’re not competing for bodies next year.  Put it in your diaries now.


Finally, and it’s a shame really, I haven’t mentioned shul lately because I haven’t been going.  That whole business with the ex-friend and ‘Somebody’ really put me off.  I wrote to her- since she obviously wasn’t going to let me speak in my own defense on the phone.  Of course, I didn’t hear back, but I didn’t really expect to. I have spoken to other friends from NWSS, who don’t seem to be in the Lashon Ha-ra loop (disparaging speech) where I’m the topic, or victim, but I’m just really uncomfortable with the whole business. 


So I’ll end with a quote.  From Proverbs.  ‘Each man’s way is straight in his own eyes.’  Wow.  That could apply to so much crap that’s gone on lately.  I may need to do a special blog, the kind that doesn’t get posted.



Disclaimer #1:  BooBoo was too grumpy from the Oink Oink Flu to vet this entry and give it her seal of approval.  You’ll just have to trust me that most of it is accurate and/or true.