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Princie rang to wish me a Happy Purim, and to tell me that he loved the last blog, ‘It’s Only Words’.  He said, and I quote: “That was the funniest blog ever.  I wet myself laughing.”  He said some stuff about Brits too, but I won’t bore you.

 

For those of you who complained you didn’t understand it, here’s an American colloquialism you might be familiar with: Tough Shit!

 

I have a confession to make now.

 

You know how I always said ‘my kids won’t watch violent cartoons on Saturday morning, and eat fast food at Mickey D’s?’  I did say both of those, many times.  And then I caved in to insidious peer pressure from the other 5 year olds at Montessori School?  Yeah. It’s like that.

 

I absolutely love Facebook.

 

No, I’m not going back and edit all those blogs.  We can only go forward.  ‘Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream’: Kahlil Gibran.   (That doesn’t actually mean anything contextual; it’s called ‘dissembling’ as Sally the Editor from Hell would be delighted to explain to you.  In great detail.)

 

I found this group on Facebook, from my grammar school, Our Lady of Pompeii.  With pictures and discussion boards and stuff.  It was so neat.  Of course I joined. (Five seconds after I joined, Princie did too.  I wrote on his wall ‘Copy cat!”. Hey!  Walls are neat!)  It was a school for Italians only (and that one is true, too, by the way; I didn’t just suddenly decide to be an Italiano one day ‘cause I was bored.  There was, like, historical precedent. )

 

 It’s really funny to see all these alums whose names end in ‘a’, ‘i’, ‘e’, and ‘o’, and then two Cohens.

 

I dashed off a note to Leo Verrechio, possibly the hottest boy in Philadelphia once upon a time, to say “I had a crush on you in sixth grade”.  It’s never too late for full disclosure.  Besides, he lives in California now.  I know.  Why would anybody move to California unless they were wanted in Pennsylvania?  I think his famiglia might have been ‘connected’, if you get what I’m saying.  Anyway, we’ve been chatting back and forth about the old neighborhood .  And I’ve reminisced with other former classmates as well.  I’m not certain if any of them made it to The Big House; several were strong contenders.

 

Anyway, it’s like… nostalgic.

 

How adorable is this? Princie discovered the whereabouts of the love of his life- when he was eleven.  She has a store at Reading Terminal Market.  He wants me to fly home to attend an OLP reunion in April.  Maybe I will.

 

I still think much of what is on Facebook is inane and banal.  I don’t give a rat’s ass if somebody is ‘looking forward to a large glass of wine’.  You won’t see ‘Jeano is so looking forward to shagging Tom’s brains out on Tuesday night’ on my wall.  Although, come to think of it, I am quite looking forward to …

 

Quickly changing the subject, I had an amusing experience at Sam the other day.  I was working with Paul, whom I still take the piss out of, all the time, for accepting a donut from a strange woman.  I mean a woman who was a stranger.  I don’t know if she was actually strange, although giving out donuts to people you don’t know isn’t … well … normal.

 

When we were putting out stock, Paul handed me a book, saying ‘You’d better have this one.  You’re acting more and more British every time I work with you.  How long have you been here?”

 

It’s called ‘Xenophobe’s Guide to Americans’.  I haven’t read it all yet, but I thought I’d share the opening sentence:

 

‘Americans are like children: noisy, curious, unable to keep a secret, not given to subtlety, and prone to misbehave in public.’

 

Can somebody tell me?  Should we be insulted, or what?  And I can keep a secret.  Trust me; I know scads of peoples’ dirty business.  Too bad I don’t know any poop on Xenophobe’s author; I would be sharing right this second on my Facebook wall.

 

 

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ITS ONLY WORDS

Sunday was rehearsal day again for the Purim Revue.  It’s really coming along.  I was feeling quite smug, everything worked, so naturally somebody had to rain on my parade.

 

I got a Twitter from Adonai.  “You can’t say ‘goyim.”  Actually, it was a message from the Rabbi.  Same difference.  The edict came down from the proverbial mountain.

 

“Az oy” I said gobsmacked.  “Farvos nisht?”  I’ve been spending a lot of time perusing The Joys of Yiddish; sort of a refresher course for writing funny song lyrics.  Yiddish words are just popping out when I least expect it.

 

“Huh?” said Mim.

 

“Oops.  Sorry” I told her. “Oh really?  Why not?”

 

“Because it’s a pejorative term” Mim the messenger explained.  “Like saying the ‘N-word’.”

 

I was stunned.  Cartman uses it on South Park all the time.  And they wouldn’t ever offend anybody, would they?

 

“Bloody something or other!” I said sweetly.  “Honestly.  If they’re not Jewish, then what are they?  I’ll tell you: they’re goyim.  What are we supposed to stick in the lyrics instead?  People of a non-Jewish persuasion?  It’s too many bloody syllables. to scan correctly.  Goyim is a perfect little word where I come from.”

 

I lost that round. Es mach meir nit oys.

 

Then she said “That other word… ‘boychick’.  That’s kind of iffy.  Doesn’t it mean ‘gay’?”

 

I hit the ceiling.  “Mim, if I want to call somebody gay, I just come right out and say it, ‘Du bist takheh a fegele’.  I don’t fuhnfeh around.  Boychick means, like, a boy.  A cute young man.  If I was Scottish, I’d say ‘wee laddie’.  If I was Bernie Cohen, I’d probably say ‘wee boychick’. “  (I think maybe he gets confused sometimes, too.  It’s, like, an epidemic.)

 

I mumbled a few more things under my breath, like ‘hok mir nisht en chainik’, it being a particular favorite of DeadJerry’s at3:00 AM, but it didn’t really matter since Mim doesn’t speak any Yiddish at all.   I’ve said this before: I’m not 100% convinced you can be Jewish and British.  At the same time.

 

JDavid and I had a couple sessions arranged to edit and rehearse our skit, ‘The Purim Seder’.   Don’t bother commenting.  Of course there isn’t a Purim Seder.  But we made one up, using the format of a Pesach Seder, that is, modestly, pretty damned funny.

 

We had the same problem.  The parts I wrote had a lot of Yiddish words in them, none of which David understood.  Yiddish words are just … better.  They say so much more.

 

During the Prayer to Bless the Hamentashen, I wrote: ‘G-d commanded us on the mitzvah of fressing apricot-filled hamentashen’.  I know; it’s side-splitting.

 

David said “What’s ‘fressing’?”

 

I just glared at him.  “What’s ‘fressing’?  ‘Fressing is … well… it’s fressing.  It’s when you more than esn, a whole lot.”  Sometimes Yiddish is hard to translate in ten words or less.

 

David looked farmisht.  “Huh?”

 

Me: “It means ‘pig out’, ‘over-eat’, ‘stuff your face’, ‘eat a whole bunch’. ”

 

David: “Will anybody know that?”

 

Me: “Genug! S’art eich!  Just say ‘fressing’ when we say the bloody prayer!”

 

David: “Huh?”

 

Then he wrote a bit about skipping the Questions.  Only he called it the ‘Manishtana’. 

 

“Will anybody know what that is?” I asked, taking the piss back just a tiny bit.  “Actually, I don’t. What is Manishtana?”

 

“You know” he prompted helpfully, “’Why is this night different than all other nights…’”

 

“Aha!”  The penny dropped.  “The Fir Kashen!  Why didn’t ya say so in the first place?”

 

“Fir what?” he asked.  “Is that in Yiddish again?”

 

Oy vey!  We’re supposed to be on the same team.

 

Then there was the folk song about the little bottle of beer, Chad Gad Low-en-brau.  I know it’s a goddamned kid goat in the Pesach version, Chad Gad Yo.  But I didn’t think it worked if we sang ‘Chad Gad Coors Light’ or ‘Chad Gad Stella Artois’.  Is it my fault that they don’t sell Lowenbrau here?  I had to make my own Lowies.

 

Then there was the dramatic ending of a Seder, the part where everybody yells ‘L’shana haba bi ‘Yerushalayim!’  What should we say?

 

“Let’s say ‘Next year in ‘Marbella’" David suggested.  “It’s sunny there.” (The British-Jewish definition of ‘Heaven’; any place that’s sunny.  Never mind if there’s a Louis Vuitton store there.)

 

“Uh uh” I disagreed.  “Next year in Miami Beach”.

 

“That’s not funny” he kvetched.

 

“And saying ‘Marbella!’ is?” I countered.  “Jews love Miami Beach.  It’s a proven fact.  Okay.  They actually live in Boca because Miami’s full of Cubans, but it’s right up 95 from Miami, so close enough.”

 

We compromised.  David is saying ‘Marbella’; I’m going with ‘Miami Beach.’

 

Touches ahften tish.

 

BROTHERS WITH ARMS

I’ve been trying to catch bits of the Olympics in between dashing around.  The time difference doesn’t help.

 

Team Italia has four medals, one silver and three bronze.  Well done, Pietro (cute), Armin (hot), and Alessandro (hubba hubba).  Arianna (the lone female medaler), please do something about that hair.  Subito.

 

Of course, I secretly root for Team US of A when nobody from the Home Office is around.  Unless it’s Curling.  I don’t think I want to live in a country that takes that sport seriously. 

 

Seriously.  It’s kind of weird.  Any sport that includes a broom and bowling shirts is one I don’t ever want to ever be forced to watch.

 

Fortunately the American men lost to Denmark and are, happily, out of it now.  The lady ‘curlers’ are still a contender.  Maybe they’ll have a ‘bad hair day’ and stop embarrassing themselves, and all of us. 

 

And since I always take the piss out of Canadians—what is it aboot Canadians?—how come they all keep tripping and slide down Whistler on their heads or their tushies?  It’s their bloody mountain.

 

Having been to British Columbia, but during the summer when it was a balmy 50 degrees F, I know it’s a big mountain.  I saw it.  (“Golly!  That’s some big mother mountain you Canadians have. Can we go shopping in Vancouver now?”)  Maybe Team Mounties should have checked it out once or twice before they attempted skiing down it.   Hey, it was just a suggestion.

 

Otherwise, it’s been another week of working, dashing and socializing. 

 

A bit of happy news to report.  Scary Fairy is planning to invade Britain in the summer.  The ‘happy’ part is that she’ll be here for the 4^th of July, my annual Festa Di Indepedenza celebration.  So she will escort the Jews to Britain this year in style: First Class on Continental.  You can’t have a Festa ‘if you don’t have any Jews’.  (I ran out of the ones Princie smuggled in by Boxing Day.) 

 

Boxing Day!  Tee  Hee!  Tee Hee!  That’s the day Tiger … I mean … Turd…. Do you suppose Tiger thought ‘When I grow up, I want to be even scievier than the Turd of Camberley, but rich, with a lot of endorsement deals?  As long as some deranged spurned female doesn’t do a ‘Jeano’ on me.” Yes, I’ve entered the popular lexicon on my way to be infamous.   Imploding somebody’s extremely fragile glass house is called ‘Doing a Jeano’.

 

Tuesday was Tom night.  As I’d had to skip Book Club to fit him in, I said “You’d better be better than brilliant and in better than Gold Medal form.”  He did not disappoint, the big sweetie.  Although due to another miscalculation on my part – I was talking about a folk song by the Chad Mitchell trio called ‘The Tarriers Song’, about coal miners, during dinner at Our Italian – and, naturally, this morphed into a great many sexual innuendos with a ‘mining’ theme later in the evening.  We both got the giggles and lost track of what we were meant to be doing.  But only temporarily.

 

I did learn some things, however, after being forced to watch 62 Mark Knopfler videos on You Tube. Tom had started this long story about Mark making a surprise appearance at a benefit in New Castle last weekend.  He played ’Local Hero’, which I’d never heard of. 

 

Then I said wasn’t Dire Straights an ‘Irish’ band, like U2?  Down to the computer I was frog-marched.  After six clips of Local Hero (I promised to rent the bloody movie; I lied.), I made matters worse by asking “But isn’t ‘Walk of Life’ about baseball?  I’ve seen the video on MTV.” 

 

After a long dissertation about the Geordie references in the song, I couldn’t resist tweaking Tom again.

 

“Then I guess ‘Sultans of Swing’ isn’t about New Orleans?”

 

Most of my time, however, has been taken up by the Purim Spiel.  Emails galore, frantic phone calls, and temper tantrums.  And my cast is even worse.

 

We are still one Shtetl Person short for Yud-Mem-Chof-Hay.  Anybody up for being a singing, dancing Security Warden? 

 

And our diva can out-diva your diva.  Any time.  Although she has a truly amazing voice and will do us proud with ‘Purim’.

 

Here’s a taster:

 

Song: Purim   Tune: “People”

 

Purim-

People who have Purim

The most menchedik people

In the world.

 

We’re Hebrews

Shlepping with other Hebrews

But tonight we discard our pride

Show off our crazy side.

And we’ll do more drinking

Than goyim.

 

 

JDavid and I had a very childish spat about our respective parts of the Purim Seder piece that we wrote.  We needed to trim it; we kept deleting each other’s parts.  (Mine were much funnier.)

Then he wanted to cut the ‘Top Ten Movie Titles’ and I wanted to drop ‘Top Ten Reasons Purim is the Coolest Festival’.  He won that one.

 

And Laurence tinkered with ‘We are the Chosen’, ostensibly to make it ‘flow’ better.  Huh!  I liked it the way it was.

 

There’s a week to go before the show, and still a lot to polish.  It’s actually kind of fun when I’m not getting insulted or pissed off.

 

WAMPUM

So much went on last week that I got tired of blogging it.

And it’s a fact that when I’m having the most fun, I’m too busy to blog.  Unless I stop changing my clothes for each event.  Nah.  That’s not going to happen.

 

As I’ve mentioned before…okay, whinged about… my new duties as Vice Chair of the Friends of the Weybridge Centre are taking up a lot of my time.  Since I’m in charge of coach trips, Vicki and I did a reccy to East Molesey.  We have a trip there arranged for the 24^th.  Actually, for American readers, that’s where Hampton Court Palace is. 

 

We didn’t stop at the Palace; been there, done that.  We checked out the shops and restaurants.  So we knew what is there and could tell our old dears.  Really.  It was work and it was selfless.

 

We had a lovely lunch and an even lovelier mooch.

 

We were passing a really posh shop when Vicki said “A sale!  Look at that sweater in the window!  I want it!”

 

I was gobsmacked and excited.  “Vicki, I suddenly more than just like you. I think I love you.  Want to be my very best BFF?” 

 

Actually I said “Me, too!  Let’s both buy it.  In different colors, of course, because I’m a Warm Autumn and teal’s not great on me. I look a little washed out.”

 

So now we’re Best Friends Forever and we know everything there is to do in East Molesey.

 

Friday was the Centre’s Valentine’s Day luncheon.  The Committee all had to turn up.  I had a coffee thingy scheduled in the morning, but I got a frantic call from Phyllis on my mobile.  She was getting complaints about the raffle prizes.  Could I make a pit stop at Waitrose and get some biscuits and wine for prizes?

 

Luckily I had chosen my outfit the night before.

 

I dashed home, changed into the stunning black skirt and amazing red jacket I bought last week when I was shopping in Kingston with Hester.  And that gorgeous red and black cami I found when I was shopping with LiveGerri in Guildford that exactly matched the jacket.  It was, like, fate.  And the boots I bought when I was shopping with … um… um…. somebody.  Somewhere.  Recently.

 

Well…duh.  Valentine’s Day… you have to wear red.  I didn’t have anything red.  I know; it’s not my color, but… it was all practically free!

 

The luncheon was really sweet, and quite a few people actually realized it was Valentine’s Day.

 

I am so busy I’ve had to give up one of my Sam shifts.  There simply isn’t time with everything I’m involved in.  With the new, dedicated Book Shop Manager, people who’d quit are now eager to come back.

 

So I ‘sold’ my Monday pm slot to LisaB for two 3 lb. cans of Costco’s Kirkland 100% Columbian Coffee and 5 lbs. of American bacon.  And no, I’m not even slightly ashamed.  I was as happy as if I’d bought Manhattan Island for $24.00 worth of jewelry from K-Mart.

 

All you people who turn up at mine and beg “Can you make some genuine American coffee, Jeano?” had all better not say diddly-squat either.

 

This week is crammed with commitments again, and I had to blow off Film Club at shul to squeeze Tom in.  I really, really wanted to see the film, ‘Paper Clips’.  That wasn’t sarcasm; it’s won tons of awards.  Two more rehearsals are scheduled for the Purim Revue, two ‘ladies who lunch’ dates, a Sam dinner, dinner and a movie with Divine, and an emergency shopping trip with Carol to find an outfit to wear to the Purim Revue.  I have absolutely bupkas; not a stitch that’s suitable.  I checked all six closets.  Honestly.

 

Next week is even busier. 

 

But I slipped out of a Shrove Tuesday pancake fundraiser early to have lunch with BooBoo.  At least I picked up the anti-freeze and Blue Nun while we were out and about.  Two items off my list. And I got LisaH to agree to do the video-taping.  Okay. I threatened her.  Never mind what about.  She’s doing it.  So you’ll all be able to see it in all it’s glory.

 

We got back from mooching, and I checked my emails.

 

“Gottenu, Boo” I whined.  “Seventeen emails.  And they’re all about the Purim Revue.”  At that precise moment, all three phones went off;  Hazel on the land line about spotlights, JDavid on the TripleD about work stuff (who has time to work?) and Sarah inviting me to a concert.

 

“I guess you’re really an important person in Oy vey-bridge now” said Boo.

 

I think she’s right.

WE ARE THE CHOSEN, MY FRIENDS

It was a dreadful week.

 

Ha! Ha!  Just kidding.  But I didn’t want you all to immediately click on that ballet dancer from Kiev’s blog.  So her arches are falling; big deal.  So are my boobs.

 

A lot of JDavid work this week, plus a couple sessions with him writing material for the Purim Spiel.  Luverly Henry Levenstein, of the Marlboro, New Jersey Levensteins, sent me some good stuff, but it all had to be ‘British-ised’ as the funny bits were very American.  But I had a similar problem; a joke I wrote about levity amongst Levites failed to make David laugh because British Jews pronounce it ‘Leave-ites’ not ‘Lev-ites’.   

 

But it’s coming along.  I’m hardly waking up in the middle of the night having panic attacks and scribbling notes like ‘Pick up a bottle of anti-freeze and one of Blue Nun at Tesco’s’ or ‘you must know somebody who has a really big Pesach platter’. 

 

I don’t want to give too much away.  Because you will all have to watch the entire video on YouTube.  If only I can find somebody who knows how to work the shul’s video equipment.  Really.  Where is Israeli Guy when I need him?  I’ll answer that.  Probably at another goddamned social at Let My People Go in the Big Bagel.

 

But I’ll whet your appetite.  One of the highlights will be  our very own NWSS ‘Shtetl People’ singing ‘Yud Mem Chof Hay” or:

י–מ–כ-ה!

 

Boychick! I am talking to you

I said, Boychick! Want to try something new,

I said, Boychick!  Here’s a fun thing to do,

But you’ve got-to-pray in Hebrew

 

Boychick!  Oh don’t make it so hard

I said, Boychik!  You need only one God,

I said, Boychick!  Just go down to the shul,

And you’ll see why yids are way cool!

 

Chorus:

It’s fun to play with us

Yud-mem-chof-hay י–מ–כ-ה!

Come on and pray with us

Yud-mem-chof-hay י–מ–כ-ה!

There’s the Torah and stuff

That you’ll really enjoy

So much better than being a goy!

 

Shul on Saturday was good, although I was bad.  Jackie is in Eretz Israel (not that you’d realize it since I’ve emailed her sixty five times changing her lines for the Purim Spiel everytime I think of something funnier).

 

Richard took the service, and he was very good.  But he likes singing in shul.  A lot.  After the Sh’mah, he said “Let’s sing a psalm- from Ecclesiastes.”  Everyone kinda groaned really low, and he started: “To everything, turn, turn, turn.  There is a season, turn…”

 

Well, I immediately thought of the Church of the Poisoned Mind with BooBoo and the Carpenters warbling ‘Your Love Put Me at the Top of the World.’  I got the giggles.  Hazel, who was sitting next to me, poked me, hard, and whispered “What the hell are you laughing about?”

 

“This Psychic church…Indians…Pocahantas…Karen and Richard” I chortled most unbecomingly.  “At least Richard coulda brought the Byrds’ CD for backup. We suck.”

 

Note to BooBoo:  We haven’t talked to Dead People in positively ages.

 

Fortunately, Hazel forgave me for acting up at services and suggested that we adjourn after Kiddush to the Oatlands Park Hotel for lunch.  I allowed myself to be persuaded.

 

When we got to the OPH, there was this huge mother white Rolls parked at the entrance, all decorated with streamers and stuff.  “Ooh Goodie!” we said.  “A wedding!  Let’s eat in the lobby and criticize everybody’s outfits.”  Well, okay, I said it, but Hazel was up for it.

 

This one was kinda more ‘wedding-y’ than the few I’ve seen here; lots of hats.  I positively adore hats.  Although there was that woman in white… not the bride… (do the words ‘After Labor Day’ mean anything to you, Honey?) with the visible panty line.  (Hell. It was as big as the Mason-Dixon line.) (The Vogue Editor bought some rope and fashioned a perky noose.)

 

We dawdled waiting to see the bride.  The bridesmaids came downstairs, in coordinating teal outfits, and then everybody left.  Hazel said to the waiter “Where’s the bride?” 

 

“Those were the brides, Madam” he explained.  “The two ladies are marrying each other.” 

 

How romantic. Young love.  And just in time for Valentine’s Day. 

 

Damn!  I thought they were the bloody bridesmaids!  I hardly paid attention to their outfits.  Except to clock that one had on really dreadful shoes.  And the other one had flowers sticking out of her head- all over the place.

 

What else did I do this week?  Wow.  I’m going to have to start keeping notes.

 

Gee.  I cooked dinner for Tom again.  I need a Twelve Step Program for lapsed JAPS.  But it was only beef stew in my crock pot; nothing fabulous.  But I made my famous apricots stuffed with ricotta and nutmeg wrapped in prosciutto for the appetizer.  (Naturally, I used the Kosher prosciutto.)

 

Tom is quite nice to cook for.  He’ll eat practically anything, and a lot of it.  And no, that wasn’t smutty.  Or dirty.  I meant the food.

 

“What’s this?” he asked poking it with his fork. 

 

“It’s apricots stuffed with sweet ricotta wrapped in ham” I explained. 

 

“Really?  Sounds interesting.”  Then he proceeded to eat all of his and half of mine. 

 

“Is that an American dish?  It sure isn’t British” he mumbled between bites.

 

“No, dummy.  Of course not.  It’s Italian.  Remember?  I’m Italian. That was one of my ‘company’ appetizers.” 

 

(Dereh, the diva who’s doing Streisand in the Purim Spiel told me that she’s South African, a former shiksa, married to an Israeli, living in England.  “Sometimes, I get very confused” she confided.  “I can so relate to that ‘confused’ thingy” I commiserated. “Some days I have no bloody clue what I am.”)

 

 

Which leads me to the Olympics.  I watched the Parade of Nations, sort of.  It was a recap, because of the time difference it was on here live at 2:00 in the morning.  I’m not that patriotic to any nation so conceived.  A friend from shul has a relative on Team Israel.  And Team Italia looked the best- hot, hot, hot – in those black Mafia outfits.  Team USA always gets me teary eyed when I see the Stars & Stripes.  Iceland gets my vote for the awful-est hats, and Finland for those coats.  Who picked them out?

 

But, as always, I will just root for the guy who looks the sexiest in his tight little ski suit.  There are girls in the Olympics?

 

HEY, MR. POSTMAN

Another excellent week in Weybridge, hold the angst.  I am not kvetching.

 

The big news is I got my driving permit.  Actually it’s called a ‘Provisional License’.  So be forewarned if you live in Surrey.

 

My marone passaporti Italiano turned up in the mail on its own, however.  They didn’t even spring for registered.  I about plotzed when I opened the folded, spindled and mutilated envelope to discover my passport, along with a note that my license would arrive ‘someday soon’.  And a personal note from Mustapha that if I’m ever in Madras to look him up; he adores feisty redheaded Italians.

 

 Uh…I made that last bit up.

 

My provisional license arrived a couple days later.  It’s a separate document.  Probably because I’m Italian, not American.  Details, details.  I immediately emailed Divine Ms. M: ‘Vroom! Vroom!’ to share the good news.

 

Quite a bit- perhaps too many – social engagements, but I worked my shifts at Sam and the Tea Bar, and even went into the Bookstore on Sunday morning with Mike and Jeremy, our new boss, to re-organize the Mystery Section, my personal baby.  And lots of JDavid work.  Another busy weekend is on tap, including a meet-up with EtcKaren and Smack.

 

And I’m going to be restrained here, probably because I bet on the Colts.  Who Dat?  The Super Bowl was awesome.  Amazingly, on BBC1, they showed it with no commercials!  I had to go on line to watch them all this morning.  Sometimes the commercials are better than the game, but not this year.

 

Shul on Shabbat was uplifting, as always.  Adonai spoke to me directly.  He Twittered.  He said: ‘I hear the Turd of Camberley is real sorry he pissed you off.’  But that might have been Tom taking the mickey.  What Adonai really said was “We had some lolly left over in the charity fund, so here’s  ₤500.00 for Sam Beare Hospice, Jeano. 

 

That one was true.  And they love me at Sam. 

 

I did think people were trying to avoid me at Syn, but not because of that nasty blog business; because I’m trying to con them into being in the Purim Revue.  I got a serious number of rejections.  I may have to threaten to mention them in the blog unless they participate.

 

I do have about seven victims…I mean performers… so far.  JDavid and I have written some awesome material and JDavid’s going to do a Stand-up Routine.  (He doesn’t know that yet, so please don’t tell him.)

 

Speaking of Tom, he reacted with shock and awe when I filled him in on all the Turd news.  “Remind me not to make you mad” he said admiringly.  I think that’s what he said; it was on the phone and I have trouble understanding him sometimes.  Most of the time.  All the bloody time.

 

“Well…duh.  Yeah” I agreed.  “As DeadJerry could attest to, if he wasn’t, like, dead, or he knew where the Turd lived so he could visit him at 3:00 AM and maybe warn him.”

 

Yeah, I know; I thought the Turd outlasted his stint as blog fodder eons ago, too. 

 

But that’s not all!  I hate sounding like an infomercial.  But I keep finding out more delicious dish.

 

I was sharing with Princie.  I’d already shared with Toots, Scary Fairy, BooBoo, Divine, everybody on LinkedIn  and Mad Tommy, who’d popped over to ‘borrow’ a beer.  (They don’t, like, grow on trees, ya know.)

 

“You gotta blog this shit” my stepson chortled, sounding eerily like DeadJerry.

 

“Sweetie, that defeats the whole purpose.  I don’t want to prolong his fifteen minutes.  The blog’s about me.”

 

“Well this is about you” he said.  “You’re writing it.”

 

So, bear in mind whilst reading, it’s all about me, and my two new BFFs, Smack and EtcK.  The Turd is merely a tangential character, a literary device, as Sally The Editor from Hell would say.

 

The Turd Report®™

 

The Turd is a ‘Smooth Operator’.  Apologies, Sade.  At least until the three women he fucked over compared notes.  Then it was just banal and trite.  And sort of sad.

 

Unbelievably, Smack and I discovered he was sending us the same romantic/sexy texts.  I guess he had us set up as a ‘blast’.  Well, it saved typing and he did have that problem with stupidly forgetting to charge his mobile.

 

Worse, he said exactly the same crapola to each of us while doing the ‘deed’ (code for ‘shagging’).  That is just so… creepy.  

 

He sent her erotic poetry.  I didn’t get the poetry.  Probably because he got it from me in the first bloody place.  I gave him copies of some Persian poems that were in a book that came into Sam.  Waste not, want not.

 

But I got the naked pictures of Turd getting dressed in his kilt.  Ditto Smack.  We’re debating: playing cards or beer coasters?

 

But the best has to be Boxing Day.  He did all three of us.  Kind of gives new meaning to the term ‘Boxing’ day’, doesn’t it?  I’ll never hear that term again without tittering.  It prompted Toots, when I was updating her, to say “Gee, you should call him ‘Tiger Turd’.  All three of you?  In the same day?  Does he pop little blue pills?”

 

Comparing dates and stories, the Turd must have left a lot of travelers stranded at T5 as he Grand Prix-ed around Surrey from one of us to the other to the other other.  I’m surprised he didn’t ask for petrol money.

 

Smack got the ‘I’m sorry; I’m a rat’ e-mail, which she immediately shared.  It was hilarious and echoed the infamous one I got last March, which I posted in the blog with comments.  I suggested, ala Pat’s ‘coffee at T5’ (which we actually did), that she write back ‘Jeano’s writing the comments for me right now; she’s got quite a way with words, doesn’t she?  We’ll all post it on Facebook when she’s done.’

 

I’m sure there will be even more amazing revelations, so stay tuned for the next installment of ‘The Turd Squirms’.

 

TAPESTRY

As things here were finally back to ‘Excellent’, I decided to take a walk on The Dark Side again, and get really frustrated by dealing with some British bureaucrats.   The blog is just so not funny if I’m in my Happy Place. 

 

Sample:  “It was a superb week.  Excellent meals out, scintillating social engagements, quality time with my BFFS, creative genius output for JDavid’s site.  Fabulouso sex.  And deleted 7,621 more perturbing adverbs.”  I mean, like, who wants to read about any of that shit?

 

I need to kvetch to shine brightly in the Blog Firmament..

 

I decided it was high time I thought seriously about getting my driver’s license.  And of course I will warn everybody in Surrey to stay off the roads if I’m on them behind the wheel of a motor vehicle.

 

The Divine Ms. M (Deb’s potential nickname; we’re test driving it) <Driving joke; get it?> already has her permit so we’re going to do it together.  I’ve been calling Deb ‘Divine Ms. M’ for Marlena Dietrich or just ‘Divine’.  It would be real nice is you busybodies in Philly don’t all email her to tell her ‘Divine’ was the most famous transvestite in the Mid Atlantic states and all about that unpleasant shit that happened at that club on Bank Street.

 

Anyway, so I applied on-line with the DMV for my provisional driving license.  It’s not the ‘DMV’ here; it’s called the ‘DVLA’, which is an acronym for ‘Service? Are You Fucking Kidding?  This is Britain, Stupid’.  I know; it doesn’t quite work, does it?  They need to change the letters.

 

I needed to send them a picture of me- not smiling; not difficult since we have not seen the sun for 672 days (I’m counting), a form filled in by someone who has known me for two years, and my precious marone Passaporti Italiano.

 

I couldn’t believe it! Do you know what it took to get that bloody passport?  Well, I guess you do if you read the blog.  But I actually rang the DVLA up.

 

“Let me get this straight” I said when I reached a live person six hours later at the call center in Madras.  “You want me to actually entrust my passport to The Royal Mail?  Put it in an envelope and drop it in a Black Hole or a red post box?  Same difference.   And hope it makes it to Swansea?  Are you people at the DMV insane?”

 

“It’s the DVLA, Madam” he corrected me huffily.  “And that is the procedure.”

 

“Whatever, Mohatma or Mustapha, or whichever you said your name was. Fat chance.”

 

“You can send it recorded delivery” he grudgingly admitted.  “To keep track of it.”  Yeah, right.

 

Well, I did.  Send it, I mean.  But only because Divine told me they put the learner’s permit in the passport, like a visa.  I went onto their site, but, unbelievably, there is no way into it.  Nada.  No little tab that says: ‘Log In’ or Click Here for secret code that takes you to the real site that has answers to questions’.  So I rang Mustapha again.

 

“Your paperwork hasn’t arrived” he tsk-tsked. “Your application is going to expire.” 

 

“Yes, it did so arrive” I yelled at him.  “Her Majesty swears it got there the day after I mailed it. Somebody signed for it.”

 

“How long ago was that?” he asked.

 

 “Nine days ago” I answered through gritted teeth.  “Your site said it was a three day turnaround.”

 

“Ah,  Yes.  After we open the envelope.  We are two weeks behind on opening our mail.  We should get to yours … soon.”

 

“But my application is going to expire.”

 

“Yes, it is.”  Then we out waited each other.

 

“Would you like me to request an extension” he finally offered.

 

Gee.  Ya think?  It’s not like I call bloody India because I’m lonely.

To be continued.  I hope.

 

After the last blog, unbelievably, or maybe not, Booboo queried “Who’s Freddie Boom Boom Whatchamacallit?” 

 

“You’re taking the piss” I laughed.  “Who’s Freddie?   Come on.  The Geator Wit’ The Heater?  Jerry Blavat?  Steel Pier in AC?  Saturday Night Dance Party?  Everybody dancing and singing along to ‘Palisades Park’.  That’s like saying ‘Who’s Len Barry’?”

 

“Who’s that?” she obligingly asked.  Urgh!

 

“Sweetie” I explained slowly. “Never mind Len Barry.  He blew it all on black chicks, booze and …well, blow. You obviously had a deprived childhood.  How could you not know these things?”

 

Booboo is so literal.  “Maybe because I grew up in Britain, in Sunderland?”

 

Yeah, okay.  Maybe that does explain it.  I quite forget sometimes that she’s a foreigner, what with her schmoozing in Yiddish and using American slang now.

 

My anniversary celebration was brilliant.  It began in the morning with a shopping blitz.  I finally found the perfect kitchen table!  Yay!  Then it was a quick reccy at the outdoor market at Kempton Park, and back to mine for a ‘French’ lunch (bread, meat, cheese & lots of wine) to commemorate our auto train journey from Calais.  It’s been an amazing and wonderful two years.

 

My weekly Tom fix was also brilliant.  As always.  Although he did explain the intricate, specific details of Rugby until I wanted to murder him.  All I’d done was ask casually “Who do you like in the Super Bowl?”  Which led to Arena football, Beckham and the Galaxy, cricket (God help us all), and then rugby.

 

I think I might have to institute a new blog feature called ‘The Turd Report.’

 

This whole thing has been the most fun I’ve ever had that didn’t include shopping.

 

The Turd Report:

 

EtcKaren and I became friends on Facebook.

 

The new Ladylove found out about everything and dumped him.

 

The new Ladylove and I became friends on Facebook.

EtcKaren and the new Ladylove became friends on Facebook.

 

Positively everybody unfriended the Turd, even people he probably didn’t sleep with, like Aston Kutcher and Demi Moore.

 

The Witches of Meadway are going to have a blow out Girls’ Night.

 

I’m pondering a nickname for Jacqui:  I’m liking ‘Smackwater Jack’ at present.

 

With apologies to Carole King, and changing the ‘he’s’ to ‘she’s’, it’s pretty cool:

 

‘Smackwater Jack, she bought a shotgun.

‘Cause she was in the mood for a little confrontation.

She let it all hang loose…’

 

She didn’t buy a single lie or excuse.