Oh, to be in England...

Being the sort of person who steals jokes, ideas, and spare change out of people’s coat pockets (not to mention candle holders from restaurants; oh, wait. That was Vickums), I was extremely jealous that Terry started a blog. Not exactly that he started blogging....I’m way funnier than him. It’s the site he’s using. MSN Spaces. Much nicer than LiveLogCity.

So I decided to move...figuratively of course.

After today, January 31, you’ll find Oh, to be in England at:

http://spaces.msn.com/rmcroyal/

Bookmark the new site.

The weather here has been scarily warm (shirt sleeves), and while it was lovely, weather forecasters are predicting a cold and snowy February, which really sucks.

I got an email from Karen, explaining that she is not from Manchester (my British geography is not that great). Therefore, the Manchester Mammaries will heretofore be renamed the Tyneside Titters. I hope they are both well. She also sent a picture of Stewart Hall at Old Trafford, proudly wearing his Tampa Bay Buccaneers shirt....right before the Man U fans beat him to a bloody pulp. Jamie and Daniel sported their Eagles gear. I am sooo proud of them.

Terry has started a blog. I guess he was spurred on by my magnum opus. His is actually a nicer site , as you can add pictures. However, I was at a couple of the events he wrote about, and he left out a lot of stuff. I guess he forgot what all happened; I wonder why.

Pinkie texted me on Thursday night to say she and the ladies were at Live Music at the Grotto. SOD THEM! I rang them and Pinkie couldn’t wait to tell me that on Sunday night, Robbie Lee would be performing. This is what my British friends call “taking the piss out of you.” I meant to ring during Robbie’s gig, to request “I Shot the Sheriff”, but I forgot.

My big news of the week is that I COOKED DINNER on Sunday. Lovely Rita, my step-son Jay’s partner, was really missing Hamish. She calls to talk to him. Really. So, anyway, they wanted to come and see His Highness, so I decided to make dinner. There were two American football games on telly, but I promised Jay he didn’t have to talk to anybody except during time-outs or commercials, Note to Stewart Hall: Did I tell you I bought Jay a Man United shirt? He was pleased, but did not fully comprehend the global implications. Note to James and Jarvo: Brian, Lovely Rita’s son, loved his “Quins” jersey, that we bought at Twickenham.

Anyway, I found the manual for the range, and figured out how to turn the damn thing on. I was cooking Italian, my specialty. I made stuffed shells, and actually stuffed those little suckers by hand. Also, meatballs...and chicken with mushrooms and onions.

Everything went well until I started cutting up the veg for the salad. Yeah, you guessed it. I chopped off my finger. Well, okay, it was just a teeny little bit off the end. But it really hurt. At this point in time, I remembered why Jerry never let me near a knife...ALL TOGETHER NOW...”because I’m handicapped.” I stuck a band-aid (plaster) on the life-threatening injury, and bravely soldiered on. My friend, Kay, who also came for dinner, was most unsympathetic and said, “I offered to make the salad.” Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have anything to whinge about. I let her slice the garlic bread.

The meal was excellent. After dinner, I brought out a lovely apple pie, which I had craftily removed from the Acme box and stuck on a dish. “I made a pie”, I said with a straight face. Kay, who was loading the dishwasher, had to hold on to the counter because she was laughing so hard. She must have had too much wine.

It was a brilliant evening.

A bit of sad news; Mary is not going to be able to cross the pond for Rocky. Please be gentle when you tell Leechy. The pressures of work. Gee, I feel sorry for people who have jobs.

Well, back in King of Prussia again, and back to reality with a thud. Evil Child was quite angry when I returned. I’m not sure if it was because I went away, or because I had a brilliant time. I was rather annoyed to learn that, while I was gone, she’d been calling some relatives complaining about me and looking for a new place to live. It seems that I don’t suit. All of her problems and difficulties are a direct result of my parental shortcomings. She has enlisted a rather odd neighbor, called Linda, in our personal business, and they have decided that all E.C. needs is a “positive role model.” I am somewhat perplexed. Which of my nefarious activities have knocked me out of the running for “Mum of the Year?” Is it the Meth Lab that I operate out of my garage? Maybe it’s the Phone Sex Shop I run while she’s at school. Note to FBI: That was meant to be sarcasm.

In any case, this journal is NOT meant to be about Evil Child, so end of story.

Yesterday was my Meals on Wheels day. My driver, Pat, had surgery, and is off for a few weeks. The program is run by a local church, and Pat is an enthusiastic member. She’s very nice, but a little too “Jesus-y” for me. I don’t know about you, but I get a little creeped out when people’s answering machines tell me to “have a blessed day.”

Anyway, Pat is off, so they paired me with a bloke called John. Hubba! Hubba! He is very tall, (he played college B-ball), and gorgeous. I certainly had some interesting ideas of what we could do with the desserts we were meant to deliver. Seriously, it was all quite professional and above-board. He’s married, although that doesn’t have to be an impediment. At one of our stops, the very elderly gentleman said to us “Thanks, kids”, which I thought was rather endearing.

I’m having dinner tomorrow with my friend Kay, whom I’ve not seen since Pinkie’s party. ( She’s the friend who has a minor obsession with cake pans, but Jesus Wept! Can she cook.) Kay, who is also a recent widow, had a date over the holidays. The datee was a very old friend, who lives in Maine but was visiting family here for Christmas. I, of course, demanded all the details, and Kay said, “well, we went to brunch. He brought his mum, and I brought my sister.” I felt compelled to explain to Kay that IT’S NOT A DATE IF IT INCLUDES MUMS AND SIBLINGS. I guess there’s a learning curve when you re-enter the dating scene. Kay and I obviously need to share; she can teach me what all those pots are for; I can explain all about “no strings attached” shagging.

Sorry for the pause in my journal updates. I came home from Weybridge with a nasty English cold and have been under the weather.

Let’s see. After the full-blown Christmas dinner at Paula’s, it was back to Lulu’s to change and off to the Spanish restaurant for tappas, with Louise, Pinkie and Karen. After dinner, we went to the Grotto for my last evening. Steve, the publican, who was always so grumpy, was absolutely charming during my visit. He’s broken up with his long-time girlfriend, lost a couple of stones of weight, and generally seems a kinder, gentler bloke. We actually had some pleasant chats during this visit. Anyway, I had mentioned earlier in the week that every time I hear “Daydream Believer” on the radio, it reminds me of Friday nights at the the Grotto and everyone singing along with the Monkeys. STEVE PLAYED IT *TWICE* FOR ME as it was my last night in Weybridge. The girls and I sat and chatted ‘til last call. Really, the only disappointments in my visit were not seeing Vickums, who was in India on holiday, and not catching up with Ewen, who appears to be in hiding. I don’t know why. Something about a stalker.

Lulu got me up early on Thursday, as I was spending the morning with Pinkie, and I wanted to get to her house in time to say goodbye to Amy, Eamonn and Terry. They both looked gorgeous in their school uniforms. (Terry looked cute, too.) We walked the children to school, had a quick tour, and went for a last stroll on the High Street, followed by coffee at the Slug & Lettuce. Note: No, the hunkalicious producer bloke was NOT there looking for Californians.)

Jesus Wept! It was awful saying goodbye to Pinkie. Why am I so totally relaxed and happy in Weybridge? Pinkie is organizing a group of degenerate friends to go to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Victoria Theatre in Woking in April, and I have promised to go over for the event. Hopefully, Mary will come with me. Leechy was quite dismayed that she wasn’t with me on my visit; at least I THINK that’s what he said. My ability to understand him has sadly deteriorated since I left.

Pinkie swore that she was not having another Great Big Do After Jeano Leaves Again. (I rang Robbie Lee, just to double check.)

Lulu and I had lunch at the Grotto (Steve played “Daydream Believer” AGAIN!) And I said my absolutely final goodbyes. I asked Lulu to just drop me off at Heathrow, and not wait, as I did not want to drag the whole goodbye thing out. Of course, I cried. I was very careful to watch the time, this time, even though I would have been not at all sorry to miss my flight. Darling Jim got me upgraded to World Traveler Plus, which was lovely. (Yeah, Giants!) I can’t believe I actually wrote that. I’m really looking forward to Scotty and Jim’s visit in a few weeks. Hopefully, Lulu and Helicopter will come over for a visit in the spring, as well.

I can’t honestly say that I’m glad to be back. My sojourn in Weybridge did not disappoint. Although I realize that I was there as a guest, I feel at home and settled there. Much love and a great big “Thank You” to everyone.

After being dropped off at Lulu’s by Allison, I needed to pack a bag for a Hen’s Night at Paula’s, with Paula and Eileen, who came down from London. The plan was dinner out Tuesday night at an upscale pub called The Minnow, followed on Wednesday by Paula doing a full-on traditional English Christmas dinner. Honestly.

It was wonderful to see Eileen again, and there were lots of hugs&kisses&tears. I told Eileen that we had eaten the Christmas pudding she bought me and thought about her on Christmas Day. Note to Toots: We were supposed to COOK it. Eileen has had a new grandson, and I brought Finley the cutest little Eagles warm-up suit. You can’t start children too young on being fans of the right team. I gave Eileen some instructions on repeating to Finley continuously “We hate the Cowboys” and “Kill those Wanker Redskins”, but she’d already polished off quite a lot of champers and probably won’t remember. The Minnow was okay, but a bit pretentious. It’s very “Architectural Digest” and looks more like a martini bar in Manhattan than a local in Weybridge. After dinner, we went back to Paula’s, put on our ‘jammies, and drank a couple more bottles of champagne. It’s important to note that the only time I actually got “pissed” on my visit was at Paula’s house. Fortunately, I only had to climb one flight of stairs and fall into bed.

The next morning, Paula wanted Eileen and me out of her hair so that she could prepare “Christmas Lunch.” She bundled us into the car and dropped us off on Baker Street to shop, with instructions to return at 12:30. Despite feeling peckish, Eileen managed to buy some boots, a coat, a suede jacket, a hat and scarf, some wine, and some other stuff I can’t remember. We had time to kill, so we trudged off with all her carrier bags to the Slug & Lettuce for some strong coffee. While there, I was chatted up by the most charming young man.

He leaned over and said, quite sexily, “Are you American?” I have a hard and fast rule to never admit that I am unless I’m quite sure the person asking is not a Paki toting a backpack filled with explosives. (A girl simply cannot be too careful these days. ) “Why, yes, I am,” I replied, batting my glasses-free, made-up eyes at him, while giving Eileen the universal girls’ signal to disappear to the loo for a while. She completely ignored the signal. “Are you, by chance, from California?” CALIFORNIA? Jesus Wept! I ditched the spectacles and got my hair streaked and now gorgeous men think I’m Malibu Barbie! Of course, it was just the residual effects of the champagne. It seems that he was producing a play, “City of Angels”, and wanted me to speak in Californian for him. Sadly, I explained that I live on the Right Coast and have a very strong, nasal Philadelphia accent. I don’t even know any Californian except, “Have a nice day.” But when I say it, it sounds more like Rocky Balboa than Marissa on the O.C. He did let me borrow his mobile to call Paula to say we were waiting for our cab to arrive and we were sorry we were late getting back.

Really, words fail me (almost). Paula made a full-on dinner: Turkey, stuffing, sausages, veg, roasted potatoes, etc. We had beautiful crackers (from divine Harrods, of course). I didn’t pop mine, as I wanted to bring it home. Paula and Eileen popped theirs so I could see what was inside. She made a Christmas cake and a huge truffle. Honestly, all we needed was Jack (playing the part of Tiny Tim) to say “God bless us, everyone.” Note to Paula: THANK YOU! You do not have to keep doing stuff like this to repay me for Jack-sitting.

I forgot to mention that on Sunday night, Sky Sports carried the final regular season Eagles game live. It was quite a blast to watch American football in Weybridge with my mates, and give them the benefit of my expertise, as well as teaching them some new, extremely vulgar expressions . Pinkie was at home, but loyally watched the game and sent me texts whenever something good (for the Eagles) happened. I texted her to say that airport chauffeur/stepson Jay was at the game and to look for him. It all went terribly pear-shaped at the end. However, on Monday, I was looking forward to going to a Harlequinns match and watching a 13-0 team.

Jarvo loaned me a spare ‘Quinns shirt, taught me a few cheers, and we cabbed off to Twickenham to meet his mates at the local. The reason there was an extra ticket was that one of Mark’s friends was suffering from Too Much New Year’s. I mention this because dearest Scotty was going to the match, but didn’t know I was. He was expecting to see me later in the evening. I walked into the pub and we threw ourselves at each other and, you know, hugs&kisses&tears. Jarvo’s other mates were a bloke called James, whom I had met in the summer, and Steve, whom I’d not met before.

The game was brilliant. The guys patiently explained the rules and stuff, and were not too embarrassed when I screamed “kill the Zebras” whenever the officials threw a flag. Actually, if American footie refs wore those cute little shorts, I probably would like them much better. The other team could have just mailed it in, as the ‘Quinns demolished them 45 - 3. As Manfred Mann says, “Come on without; come on within. You’ll not see nothing like the mighty ‘Quinns.”

We returned to the local after the match, where we were meeting Lulu. Scotty and James, and another friend, are crossing the Pond for Super Bowl weekend, an annual event. They don’t go to the game; they watch it at an English pub in Hoboken, NJ. (Maybe they’re closet Sinatra fans.) Anyway, this year they will pop down to King of Prussia for a couple days for cheesesteaks and shopping. Should be fun!

I had arranged to meet Allison at the Senior Center on Tuesday morning, and be Guest Tea Lady. I really missed all the Old Dears, and it was lovely. Again, after re-reading my journal, and remembering my first shift at the Tea Bar, all alone, and my problems with the money, I just immediately got into my groove making “lovely teas”and “weak coffees,” and operating the till. Happily, all of my special pets are still there and pretty well. When I was living in Weybridge, I always seemed to end up wearing my favorite jeans, with all the rips and holes (hey, it cost extra for those holes) on Tea Lady day. Allison, who is quite proper, hated those jeans. I had forgotten to pack them, and when I turned up at the Center, the first thing she said was “Why aren’t you wearing those trousers?” I explained about forgetting them, and ALLISON MADE A JOKE. She said, “Well, shall I get some scissors and sort out the one’s you have on?” Maybe you had to be there.

After our tea lady duties, Allison and I went to the Old Crown (her local) for a lovely long lunch and natter. I hoped that I would see Allison again before I left, but there simply wasn’t time.

Pinkie went home....but, Jesus Wept!, I was in Weybridge!

Saturday night was New Year’s Eve and the festivities were at the Grotto. Helicopter and Steve came up to Weybridge, along with NK, so I booked a sleeper sofa at Chez Dyer for the night. Obviously, it was brilliant. Radio Four played non-stop commercial-free music, and there were even more hugs&kisses&tears as I caught up with the people I’d not seen earlier. Note to readers: The Weybridge Woofers were quite lovely in a revealing outfit purchased in the Colonies for just such an occasion. However, they were eclipsed by the Manchester Mammaries in sexy, extremely low cut black sported by Karen. In order to not let our side down, fellow Americans, I was compelled to flash the King of Prussia Kupcakes several times so that that Stuart Hall bloke could get some snaps. Honestly, the things one does for National Pride.

It was chaos, but the best kind. Dearest Ed, inventor of the Killer Hamburger, had a brainstorm sometime in the early hours of the new year, and invited the entire pub ‘round to his and Claire’s new house that day for a barbecue. Claire was off in a corner chatting with the girls, blissfully unaware of any of this. I felt obliged to go over and whisper, “Um, Claire. Ed is a little pissed and has just invited sixty five people to your house for a barbie at 2:00.” Gee, was she surprised. Pinkie had to treat the world on New Year’s Day in Casualties, so she left Terry and me there imbibing and mingling. We carefully held each other up on the old, familiar walk down Monument Hill, past Arlington Lodge, to their house.

The very loud pounding in my head woke me up in the morning, but I managed to fix a pot of (strong) coffee, and Terry and I sat in total silence, building up the energy to actually get up and walk around. Ed rang to say the barbie was definitely on, so I walked up the hill back to Lulu and Jarvo’s to rest, shower, and change.

Claire was so funny. She said Ed woke up with apparently no memory of his impetuous invitations, but she sorted him right out and told him to get his bum out of bed and over to Sainsbury’s to buy food for the party. They’ve just moved into a lovely house in Hersham, which they’ve started to remodel. Although it was quite cold, Ed went out into the garden and barbecued a batch of his Killer Burgers. Mine were pretty good when I made them, but definitely not as good as Ed’s. Karen and Stuart Hall were there, and I was chuffed to see Stewie sporting his Tampa Bay Bucs shirt (with a Man U one underneath). I got some pictures. The barbie was fantastic, and we had a brilliant time, We all left around 8:00, as we had to get to the Grotto for Live Music.

Bobby Hamrick, the American singer, was doing a special one night stand. I like Bobby; he’s good, but he comes with an entourage of obnoxious Americans from Cobham, and they embarrass me by being so bloody “ugly”. The pub regulars sure had a lot of negative stuff to say about them. We had a great night despite them. Then it was home to Louise and Jarvo’s for some sleep, as the next day I was off to Twickenham with the guys to see our beloved Harlequinns play exciting Rugby. Did I just say “beloved Harlequinns” and “exciting Rugby?” Wow.

There’s still lots more, so watch this space.

Well, I spoke to Stuart when I got home from my flying visit across the pond and he was rather miffed that I hadn’t updated my journal since Pinkie left, so here goes.

I got upgraded to Business Class on my outbound flight by a “secret admirer,” so I arrived at Heathrow well rested and ready to go, despite arriving about four hours late. Louise met me, and after hugs, kisses and tears, we zoomed off to Weybridge (if you’ve ever ridden with Lulu, you know exactly what I mean). I was so excited to fly past all the familiar places - Dexter’s, Sullivan’s, The Hogs Head, The Queen’s Hat, the Old Crown, the British Volunteer, the Grotto, at 120 mph to Louise and Jarvo’s flat. More hugs and kisses, and I presented Mark with one of his Christmas presents, 5 lbs. Of frozen Steak-ums (for cheesesteaks) that I had craftily smuggled into the U.K. I promised to “cook” one night, but, sadly, never found the time.

As it was Thursday, after a rest, a meal and calls to let friends know I’d arrived.....you guessed it....it was off to the Grotto for Live Music. I wish it had been Robbie Lee, but Paul Strobel, was, as always, excellent. It was absolutely brilliant to see everyone again. More hugs, more kisses, more tears and lots of wine. Pinkie and Terry turned up around 10:00, after Pinkie finished work. More hugs, etc., etc. As I was due at Paula’s for a Welcome Lunch the next day, it was a relatively early evening, but we were, of course, booked in at the Grotto for New Year’s Eve and, Jesus Wept, Jarvo and Lulu live even closer to the Grotto than I did when I lived there.

I had re-read parts of my journal before I left, and I was reminded of St. Patrick’s Day, when I was greeted by sixty-five total strangers with whom I was destined to become life-long friends. It was amazing and wonderful.

The next day, I cabbed over to Paula’s house, and I actually knew the cab driver. He had driven me many times in Weybridge. More hugs, kisses and tears at Paula’s. Plus, she had invited Allison as well. Paula did her usual full blown all out (the good china, etc.) number and cooked a wonderful meal, complete with ROASTED POTATOES. She had remembered, as did I, that the first time I ever had roasted potatoes was at her house. Sadly, Jack has mentally deteriorated quite a lot since I left, and I’m worried about Paula. We ladies had a wonderful visit, and made plans for another lunch at Paula’s (with Eileen), and a day at the Senior Center with Allison. Then it was back to Lulu’s to pack a bag, as I was spending a couple nights with Pinkie, Terry and the children.

It was lovely to see Amy and Eamonn, and we exchanged Christmas presents. I was thrilled to see that Eamonn was wearing his Philadelphia Eagles hoodie, and of course, I had brought more Eagles gear. Eventually everyone in Weybridge will be wearing green and silver. Karen and Stuart Hall came over. Did you know that Stuart Hall is Lou? We exchanged presents as well, and I must say Lou was speechless with delight at his Tampa Bay Buccaneers shirt. At least, I think it was delight; maybe it was horror. We meandered to the Grotto (no surprise there) for another wine fueled evening of hugs and kisses.

I would be remiss if I did not mention that Pinkie COOKED ME DINNER whilst I was there. I did have to remind her that I did make her a bagel once at my house, and actually microwaved some party leftovers one night, Honestly, the things we do for our best mates are sometimes under-appreciated.

Well, this is getting quite long, and it’s only day three, so I will post this blog, and continue later.

I should be continuing the saga of Pinkie Does The Colonies, but emails and phone calls from Across the Pond report that there was a mass evacuation from Weybridge. Terrorist threats? Nah. Pinkie at the Grotto, toting 656 pictures, a scrapbook, and a carrier bag crammed with souvenirs. Apparently, the regulars draw lots, and the loser has to go to the Pub and check if her sisterness is there, waiting to pounce and begin the whole tale again...”When I was in King of Prussia....”

On a serious note, it was lovely to have Pinkie visit. That girl can SHOP! We actually only got through about a quarter of the Mall. This was my fault, as I took Pinkie to my house of worship, the Church of St. Nordstrom Rack. She became an instant convert, and any time we were near the church, she grabbed the wheel and made me drive there.

Actually, Pinkie did most of the driving. I’m not sure why; it’s not like I’m a menace on the road. She did refer to my Trailblazer as Camilla Too. Total one measly car, and they never stop taking the piss out of you.

We never got to Valley Forge, or any of the historical sites, which is really a shame. We did get to Atlantic City, staying with my friends, Ellie and Jackie, and had a really posh dinner before hitting the Casinos. One small complaint; Pinkie forced me to walk all fifteen miles of the boardwalk in the freezing cold so she could take pictures. We stood on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and waved to Terry and the gang on the other side. Ellie, who’s too damn smart, pointed out that Atlantic City is pretty far south, so we were really waving to Africa. It’s the thought that counts.

I’m sure the highlight of Pinkie’s trip was her day at CHOP. I wasn’t there, but my friend, Rhonda, tells me Pinkie was a big hit with the staff. I used that day to catch up on some much needed rest.

Pinkie’s ten days went far too quickly, and before I knew it, Jay and I were taking her to the Philadelphia airport for her flight home. The house seemed very quiet without her. I guess I would have had a big letdown, except for the fact that I’m flying to England in less than two weeks. I absolutely can’t wait.

We met Mary at the Port Authority in New York for a Girls’ Gone Wild night in the Big Apple. We had a lovely dinner at Henry’s, and strolled through the throngs of tourists to the theatre to see “Movin’ Out,” the Billy Joel musical. Pinkie and Mary liked it; I didn’t. At least they didn’t dance this time. After the show, we went to the top of Rockefeller Center, with it’s breathtaking views of the New York skyline. Then it was off to Clifton, New Jersey to Mary’s house, where we stayed overnight.

After an “American breakfast” at a diner on Friday morning, we headed back to King of Prussia to prepare for our Pajama Party. I set Mary and Pinkums to the task of blowing (up) the eight-foot penis, which was our main decoration, named “Captain Pecker.” Pinkie was meant to bring Captain Pecker back to Weybridge to live, but she “forgot” him, and now wants me to deflate him and pack him in MY luggage when I cross the pond. Yeah, right.

Toots provided a selection of hats for us to wear with our ‘Jammies, the Pimms flowed freely (it’s always Pimms O’clock) and the “ladies” got quite boisterous, or pissed (if you’re English). Our activity for the evening was to make placemats for Pinkie to take home as souvenirs, using an assortment of garish and truly tacky decorations. Despite some squabbles over scissors and glue sticks, and the most outlandish accessories, the “hens” produced some true works of art. We will all be quite hurt if Pinkie doesn’t laminate them and use them for company dinners.

Somehow, the girls found places to sleep (It’s a big floor in the Great Room) and we staggered into the kitchen in the morning to find Kay cooking a gourmet breakfast. We started off with Asti Spumante and grapefruit juice (healthy). I must confess that Kay brought her own pans. She had asked me earlier in the week if I had a bundt pan and muffin tins, and after I got up from the floor (I fell off the chair laughing), she decided she should bring her own frying pans, too. Ha! Ha! I DO own a frying pan. I think. I know I saw it once in a cupboard. Anyway, breakfast was incredible, but I had to kick everyone out to get ready for ANOTHER Party on Saturday night.

When Kay and Kimberly offered Pinkie a ride to the Mall, she got dressed in 60 seconds, and was waiting by the front door (like Hamish, when we say “Who wants to go Bye-byes?”) I don’t know if she tinkled on the floor. She said it was Hamish. She was jumping up and down, however.
With everyone gone, Mary and I collapsed in the Great Room to watch the Army-Navy football game (Mary was a sailor, which is probably why Pinkie is so fond of her.)

Pinkie rang to say Macy’s was closing because there was nothing left in the store to sell, and Mary and I picked her and her seventy two carrier bags up. I’d like to say she bought Terry and the kids some nice things, but I never lie. Mary and I had to sit through a Pinkie fashion show, as, Jesus Wept!, she modeled every f*cking thing she bought. We had to finally stop her, as we were expecting guests for the next Pinkie Partay.

Sister Pinkie invaded the US of A on Tuesday, November 29, and we will never be the same. They Love Her..yeah...yeah....yeah.

She rang me from Frogland to say she had missed her connection to Newark and would, instead, be arriving at JFK in New York. Undaunted, faithful step-son Jay and I, plus Hamish (in his little kilt) motored up the turnpike. We arrived without incident, and prepared to wait. I had made a nice sign (in case Pinkums forgot what I looked like) and every time a blond or redhead came out of Immigration, Jay said, “Is that her?” “Jay”, I kept saying, “Her hair is PINK. You’ll know her when you see her.” Well, the doors popped open and out came Pinkie. Jay said, “Jesus Wept! It IS pink!” Okay, he didn’t say the Jesus Wept part, but now everyone in Pennsylvania and New Jersey is saying it like fifty times a day.

Air Frog had “misplaced” Pinkie’s bag, and after a strange conversation with a Baggage representative who spoke neither English, French or Ebonics, we headed to the car with the promise of a suitcase delivery the next day. Then the party began.

I had prepared a little Arrival at the Airport Do, complete with Neil Diamond belting out “Coming to America” and a very large pitcher of Grottos. Jay got a Pepsi, ‘cause he was driving. We hopped into the back seat, poured the Grottos, and...I guess we were both tired...that’s my excuse. It seemed like a REALLY GOOD IDEA to call everyone I knew and put Pinkie on the phone to mumble incomprehensible British expressions into the phone. It was quite a hoot to hear the people we’d woken up going, “Who the f*ck IS THIS?” Maybe you had to be there.

Despite a horrendous storm, Grotto-less Jay delivered us safely to King of Prussia. We found some stuff for Pinkie to wear, and poured her into bed.

Wednesday morning, after a quick check with Air Frog, who had apparently sent Pinkie’s luggage to Zambia, we had no choice but to hit the Mall. Pinkie actually cried because it was so big. There were a lot of “Jesus Wepts” and “I’ve died and gone to Shoppers Heaven” from Pinkie. Seventeen hours later (I was pondering just leaving her there and going home to bed), she had bought enough to tide her over till her suitcase arrived, or hell froze over, whichever came first.

We had a leisurely morning on Thursday, as we had to catch a bus in the afternoon to meet Mary in New York.

Here in the States we’re preparing for Thanksgiving. Joke for British mates:
Do the British celebrate Thanksgiving? Yes, on July 4. Get it? Anyway, we have turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, corn, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie for dessert. My family, being Italian, adds a pasta course to the above. Several relatives of whom I was fond perished over the years by exploding after dinner. It is considered a nice touch to invite a Native American to Thanksgiving Dinner (if one knows any; I don’t) to commemorate the tradition of friendship, not to mention stealing their land.

Thanksgiving signals the start of the Christmas shopping season. The Friday after Thanksgiving is called Black Friday. So I was wondering, if the Brits don’t have Thanksgiving, and Santa Claus doesn’t come to town in the parade, how do you know when to start Christmas shopping? Do you get a notice in the post or something? I bet people, probably ones who spend all their time in the Grotto, miss Christmas altogether. They look up from their Guiness, and Jesus Wept! Everybody is wearing green because it’s St. Patrick’s Day.

I’ve got a sticky etiquette situation going on, and I’m perplexed as to what to do. My neighbor is going to the Big House on Monday. I went to the card store looking for a card with just the right message, like “ Hope Your Four Years in the Federal Penitentiary Fly By” or “While You’re Incarcerated in the Joint”, but they didn’t have anything remotely appropriate. I mean, they sell cards that say “Sorry Your Hamster Died” or “Congratulations on Your Divorce From the Jerk” but nothing nice for close friends who are felons. They did have sweet little note cards for the felon to send home to family and friends when he officially becomes “Bubba’s Bitch” and they register their china pattern at Tiffany’s. I just got him some soap on a rope, so he doesn’t have to bend down in the shower...if ya know what I mean. How cool would it be to go visit him, and get searched by huge prison guards?

I am busy preparing for Pinkie’s arrival. Only 10 more days! I thought about cleaning the house, but then I thought “No, I’ll just keep her drunk. She’ll never notice.” I did wipe the cobwebs off the range, in case she feels like cooking anything. Fortunately, when Pinkie leaves, it will only be a few weeks until I come over for New Year’s. I can’t wait!

Well, I outdid myself this week for the Rockall Times Fourth Anniversary Issue. I was extremely funny and on target with regard to American politics. I may be back in Weybridge sooner than I thought; I think I’m on Dick Cheyney’s shit list.

My eyes continue to improve and I LOVE not wearing glasses. I’ve begun a diet, I’m going to go blond, and then I’m coming to Weybridge to shag my best friends’ partners. A girl needs a plan.

The arrangements for all the Dos for Pinkie’s visit are coming along nicely. Planning all this stuff is only slightly more complex than arranging the Invasion of Normandy. We have New York, with Mary, drinking, two partays, drinking, Atlantic City, gambling, drinking, more gambling, more drinking, the Largest Mall in the World, shopping, drinking. You get the idea. I’m also determined to drag Pinkie through Valley Forge National Park (kicking and screaming, if necessary) so she can learn firsthand about our valiant struggle to deport the pesky Brits in 1776. If time permits, I will show her the Liberty Bell (made in Britain; cracked the first time they rang it. Can you say “Rover”?) Independence Hall and Betsy Ross’ House (she made the first American flag; she was shagging George Washington, or maybe it was Stuart Hall; I forget.)

The hardest part was getting Robbie Lee to come over to play at the AFTER PINKIE GOES HOME Party. Note to Pinkie: I NEVER forget! But it’s all good. His goddamn guitar needs it’s own seat on the plane.

I don’t know if Pinkie was sober enough to tell this story at the Grotto. WHAT AM I SAYING??? Of course, she wasn’t. Pinkie proportedly went to a nursing conference in Manchester. At least, that’s where she told Terry she was going. Whilst at the “conference”, she met the Head of Emergency Room Nurses from Childrens Hospital of Philadelphia. Nancy immediately emailed Rhonda (my friend), who immediately called me. The world is not such a big place, is it? By the time Pinkie called me, I knew the whole story. Anyway, CHOP is poised for a shift in the ER by Sistah. I will take pictures, I promise.

Speaking of pictures, since it’s almost impossible to download “British” pictures - it hardly ever works - please load Pinkie up with lots of pictures of you all. I am sure you will all pass out into your Guiness looking at the 1785 pictures she brings home from her visit.

I’ve had a busy week. I think I need to cancel Pinkie’s visit. The last two British citizens staying here wore me out. SHE is not too bad; HE’S a twit. The Rottweiler at least got her own bloody tea in the morning; His Nibs needed his delivered directly to the top bunk in the guest room (his Pjs have little crowns all over them). The American press was very mean to Camilla, calling her the “Frump Tower”. I say, “AT LEAST SHE DOESN’T WEAR ANY GODDAMN HATS!” And that gown she wore to the White House...yeah, she borrowed it from me. (The jewelry she stole from Saint Diana.) The Big Question is, of course, are they now my “Pub Friends” or “Posh Friends”? Will they fit in at the Grotto? Will they enjoy Robbie Lee on Thursdays nights? Maybe I should actually delete all of the above, or I may not get a visa.

I have actually been busy. Yesterday was the first anniversary of Jerry’s death. As I mentioned before, I decided not to have an unveiling, or at least a public one. Stuart and I, and a pitcher of Pimms, are going to do our own thing. But I decided to have a brunch yesterday for family and friends. It was lovely.

Toots came over on Saturday, staying over, to help me set up and prepare the food. I made Coronation Chicken. Well, Toots made Coronation Chicken, but I bought the chicken. I downloaded a recipe and got all of the ingredients, except curry paste, which they don’t seem to sell here. Toots started adding ingredients to the sauce, and then we had our first issue. “Where’s your mixer,” she asked. “Mixer?” I replied. “I don’t have a mixer.” Toots, looking very shocked, asked, “Well, how do you mix things?” “Easy. I never mix anything.” Duh. Then she says, “Well, give me a stainless steel bowl.” Stainless steel bowl? Was she kidding? I offered her some old plastic bowls left over from something or other (one is shaped like a football (American); must have been a Super Bowl party). At this point she’s mumbling under her breath about a house with eight TVs and no mixer, blender or stainless steel bowls. We survived the crisis, and the Coronation Chicken was divine...and a big hit.

We had tossed around the idea of having Champagne to have a toast to Jerry. I don’t like champagne, and he’s dead and didn’t get a vote so I decided to create a drink for the toast, using Asti Spumante. I culled some recipes and put together some ingredients. I named it a “Grotto”. I cannot divulge the ingredients now because I’m going to serve it at Pinkie’s partay whilst she’s here. Be assured, however, that it is healthy, since it does have grapefruit juice and fruit in it.

Obviously, Toots and I had to mix up a batch and try it out before we served it on Sunday morning. You all think I’m going to say we got looped and passed out on the sofas in the den. Not! We had one glass...okay it was a very large glass...each and played Scrabble. Then we went upstairs and passed out. We had to be up really early to set up on Sunday.

The brunch was elegant and everything went perfectly. The Grottos were a huge success and everyone wanted the recipe. We prevented Janet from pouring her wine into it, reminding her what happened at her party with the Pimms. As she had passed out, she didn’t remember too much. I was quite proud of myself for making a great day out of what could have been a really shitty one. I’m soaring again.

As readers can tell from the tone of this blog, I’m feeling more like Jeano With Bleach again. Of course, planning for Pinkie’s arrival in the States (IN THREE WEEKS!) And my upcoming return to Weybridge for New Year’s has cheered me up. Note to Pub Friends AND Posh Friends: There’d better be a lot of Jeano Is Visiting Dos planned. Note to Monkey Joe: How could you have a Barbeque without ME? And I better get a ride in the cab.

I promise I’ll be better at keeping up with my blog.

Pinkie Dearest: I was KIDDING about canceling...

Yeah, I know. I haven’t updated my journal in a while. Sorry.

Firstly, I fell off my perch for a bit and stopped soaring. A lotta stuff all seemed to happen at the same time, and I was really down. I have given Jeano With Bleach a good talking to.

The second reason is that I had laser eye surgery, and my big brown ones are still adjusting. No more glasses! No night glare! Lots of dates (“Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.”) The procedure is really fast and painless. I will describe it. If you are squeamish, skip this part. They freeze your eyes and you lay on an operating table, staring up at a red light that says “Guiness”. I made that part up; it says “look here”. I was a teeny bit upset that they weren’t going to knock me out, but the surgeon, Dr. Shah, who looked all of sixteen, said, “Duh! We’re going to cut a hole in your corneas; it’s too messy when we go through the eyelids.” You feel pressure on the eye, and it smells like hair burning. Dr. Teenager kept saying “Keep your eye still!”, which, of course, meant that it immediately started twitching and focusing everywhere but at the red light. I probably should have had some Pimms before the surgery. Anyway, it takes less than sixty seconds for each eye, and it appears that Dr. Teenager was able to cut the flaps cleanly, despite my eyes salsa dancing. It’s amazing. You get off the table, and everything is clear. It does takes a few weeks for your eyes to stabilize. Note to concerned friends: Since I was awake for the whole freaking thing, I’m pretty sure my brains didn’t ooze out of the little flaps.

My big news is that I am going to Dear Olde England for New Year’s. I’m staying with Lu-Lu and Jarvo, but I expect you will all see me at the Grotto...a lot.

Speaking of Jolly Olde, it has been raining here almost continuously for about twelve days. We got the tail end of Hurricane Wilma, which devastated Florida, and now we’re getting Alpha. For the first time in recorded history, they used up all the hurricane names and had to start over using the Greek alphabet. I’ve forgotten what the sun looks like! And it’s starting to get really cold. I’m not looking forward to spending the winter in King of Prussia.

I got a lovely letter yesterday from my bank manager at Barclays telling me my account is overdrawn. I felt just like Bridget Jones! I have an overdraught! How British of me. I rang the idiots at the bank, but they were right. I forgot about that last little spree at Divine Harrods. I guess Stuart Hall is not the only fugitive from Weybridge anymore.

Painter Guy is back working despite his booboo. He actually had surgery on the knee, and feels compelled to come all the way down to my office like once an hour to show me how it looks. Maybe it’s just me, but having some bloke in tight, white shorts stick his hairy leg in my face and ask “Does it look swollen?” is just the tiniest bit strange.

Yesterday, it was like smorgasbord here. I had the pool closed and the pool service sent not one, but two, “Pool Boys”! I especially liked the part where they knelt down and pulled the cover across the pool. I guess they did the boring stuff like...whatever it is they do...It gave me an idea. Perhaps I should get some estimates on double-glazing. (Stuart Hall did suggest this.) Of course, I don’t think they have double glazing here, and my windows are new, but what the hell!

Now for some real news. I scored the LEAD STORY ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE ROCKALL TIMES THIS WEEK! Yes, it is a very big deal. Lester, the Editor, was even moved to send me an email congratulating me. It’s a brilliant piece on Mr. Bush’s newest nomination to the Supreme Court. Note to British readers: Nine old farts who sit around in black robes and play Texas Hold-Em.
I did have four other pieces accepted (I LOVE the Britney Spears one), but I don’t get on the front page a lot.

I’m not reproducing them in my blog. You can find them at www.therockalltimes.co.uk The guys at Rockall take satire seriously. The e-newspaper gets 2.4 million hits a month. I think this means that a couple million people with time on their hands are reading my stuff every month. How cool is that? Anyway, the Rockall Times is receiving a lot of positive feedback in the UK (the Guardian said it was “better than The Onion”, which is the newspaper I aspire to write for.) I am now, sort of, a Foreign Correspondent; so much crap goes on in America that I have an inexhaustible supply of material. Frankly, a lot of their stuff is incomprehensible to me, even though I’m so very, very British. I did a story a few weeks ago and used the terms “circumcised” and “uncircumcised.” The article which appeared in the paper used “roundheads” and “cavaliers.” I’d never heard that expression. I DO know all about the Roundheads and Cavaliers. I saw a show on Masterpiece Theatre.

It’s been raining for three days straight here, and that can put a damper on anyone’s mood. Actually, given what the folks down south have endured, it’s probably really not that bad. On the plus side, it reminds me of dear old England.

Painter Guy rang on Wednesday night to say he had a little accident playing hockey and hurt his leg, so he wasn’t coming for a few days. I checked-up on Toots’ whereabouts and she was at home (I thought maybe Toots and Painter Guy...I’m terrible.) Besides, she left her mobile here, and in between sending dirty messages to Computer Guy on her phone, I monitored to see if she was getting any “interesting” messages. She is as boring as I am.

Yesterday was Stuart’s birthday (the “real” Stuart; not the portrait-painting, guitar-teaching, house-building, Catholic one.) I rang to sing “Happy Birthday” to him.
No he didn’t hang up on me, and yes, I know that was mean of me to “sing.” Anyway, he asked me if I was having my way with Painter Guy! I was NONPLUSSED! As if I am that kind of girl! Besides, when he does show up, I’m more interested in his painting.

I’m busy planning all sorts of activities for Pinkie’s visit. We are going to the Big Apple (New York) to see a show and visit Mary, unless it gets blown up between now and Pinkie’s arrival. I can tell you we will NOT be hopping on the subway. It’s much safer to risk our lives in a cab driven by a non-English speaking illegal alien from Haiti. I am somewhat bemused by the idea of being concerned about terrorists on the New York subways. They couldn’t possibly be scarier than the paranoid commuters who routinely ride the subways; they all have guns and knives.

I’m making up a list of “must-have” items for Pinkie to bring. She must bring several packages of that Knorr’s Stilton & Broccoli soup mix for Ed’s hamburgers. She must bring lots and lots of pictures, and, of course, she must bring Ewen in one of her empty suitcases. Note to Pinkie: Don’t worry about filling the suitcase with all the stuff you buy to bring home. I’ll take care of shipping Ewen’s remains back after I’m done with him.

I’ve been derelict regarding getting my Ebay store re-opened, although I have started to trawl the ritzy thrift shops again, looking for treasures. It’s definitely on my agenda for the next few weeks. I promise.

I just have to mention a little “situation” that arose. As faithful readers know, I was less than impressed with the emotional support and concern I received from Jerry’s family. I got an invitation in the mail to a baby shower for his niece, which is taking place on the ACTUAL DATE OF THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF HIS DEATH. I ran it past a couple of my friends. Did they think I was being overly sensitive, or was it an unbelievable faux pas? I don’t know the answer either, but they agreed with me that it was more than a little unseemly to schedule it on that exact date. Marina, who has no scruples whatsoever, is going.

The painter guy was here yesterday working in those little white shorts again...

Actually, he was here on Monday when Marina got home from school. She came in, and called down to me (I was in the basement, working in my office) “Who’s car is in our driveway?” Several exceedingly clever yet ribald replies sprang to mind. “I used that Man Trap I bought on TV and caught me another one!” “It’s the Water Meter Reader and we’re trying to figure out where MY fuse box is.” “It’s a Jehovah’s Witness, and I may not have found Jesus, but I sure as hell located Paradise.” I don’t think she trusts me in the house all day...alone. I have no idea why.

However, I simply succinctly said, “It’s Dan, the scrumptious sex god painter in his tight white shorts and even tighter white muscle shirt painting in my bathroom, which is right in my bedroom (Jesus Wept!) , right next to that big, big bed.” I had only told her, like, 65 times that he was coming Monday to start painting. There was no school yesterday because it was Rosh Hashana, and Marina stayed home all day to protect my reputation with our prurient neighbors.

Toots turned up around 3:00, mumbling some crap about “forgetting to pack the Pimms.” Fortunately, I was prepared and had laid in some industrial-size bottles of white zinfandel. As she had been busy tending to her dog, Autumn Kate, who had surgery, we had missed the annual birthday dinner I have for her every year. I am Italian, and have a special gene that magically produces the best Italian food ever. Toots, however, is White Bread (genuine American ethnic classification) and feels that Ragu in a jar and a box of Pennsylvania Dutch noodles is as close to Tuscany as she wants to get, when SHE’S cooking. She requests the same Christmas present from me every year; an immense pot of homemade Italian Wedding Soup. But I digress.

I had started preparing the feast early in the morning, so we were able to crack open one of the Zinfy bottles and play scrabble. Okay...she won...I got shitty letters. We had several projects we planned to work on, but somehow we didn’t get around to any of them. We opened the second Zinfy and I got the extremely peculiar idea of inviting painter guy to stay for dinner. I thought, “Well, it’s only polite. Toots is here to chaperone...maybe he’ll eat in those white shorts.” My daughter was horrified, but she need not have worried. Toots sat next to him, served him, and the two of them nattered on and on until midnight, when I finally said we had to go to bed. Toots and I swore that we would get up at 6:00 and do our projects before she had to leave for work.

I stumbled down at 7:30, and at 8:15, I called her on the intercom to get her ass out of bed. It was deja vu all over again, as we swore we would never drink that much Zinfandel again in one night. Yeah, we’ve said that many, many times. (One time, Toots actually excused herself from the dinner table, went into the den and passed out, not even waking up when all the rest of us came in and watched a movie. We just left her there overnight. This is why I was able to relate so well to people in Weybridge.)

After several cups of coffee, we did re-cover my chair, without any serious staple gun mishaps. It looks quite nice and it was probably a good thing we waited until we were sober to do it. We didn’t, unfortunately, get anything else done.

Did I mention that painter guy is single? Rhonda is single. She has an old house. It needs a lot of painting.

Danny, the painter, is here working this week, and true to my word, I turned OFF the air conditioner. He’s wearing these cute little white painter’s shorts, with little holders for all of his tools (Jesus Wept!) And A WHITE MUSCLE SHIRT....Where’s a freaking rabbit when you need one....I tried to steal Vickie’s before I left, but she keeps it in the wine vault. He has a mighty fine bum.

The spaceship made another pit stop in King of Prussia Saturday night, so I had a Close Encounter of the Fourth Kind, again. Unf*cking believable.

I got a very worried email from U.S. Marine John, saying that his uniform no longer fits (he’s kinda old)...just the hat and the shoes fit. Well, of course, that set me right off picturing him at Pinkie’s party in a Gyrene hat and boots...with nothing else. Unless his gun belt fits (if they ever trusted him with a weapon). I assured him that people turn up at parties in Weybridge all the time in just a hat and shoes. I understand that at Pinkie’s Party AFTER Jeano Left, everyone was wearing just a hat and shoes. What IS it with you Brits and hats? I can understand the shoes; one doesn’t want to step on glass from all the broken Pimms bottles laying around. But except for Leechy, you all look really dumb in hats.

I have heard not a word from that Stuart Hall bloke. Is he running from MI5 again? Didn’t he take his computer when he set off for the Outer Hebrides? Tell him that at the Tampa Bay Buccaneers game on Sunday (Malcolm Glazer’s REAL football team) they sang “Farewell, Stuart Hall” instead of “The Star Spangled Banner.”

I spoke to my friend Paula the other day. She and Jack celebrated their Ruby Wedding Anniversary with a big party, WHICH I WAS NOT INVITED TO. Allison told me I was greatly missed, and was the main topic of conversation. I’m happy Allison and Paula got to be friends because of me. Yeah, they’re probably having a jolly old time together, and don’t even MISS me!

Toots is coming over tomorrow for a Girls’ Night, which will include a lot of Pimms, a lot of Scrabble, and a staple gun (before the Pimms) We are going to attempt to re-cover a chair. I will let you all know which hospital we’re in as soon as I can type again. I’m a teensy bit nervous about that staple gun...

Anyway, I’m keeping busy, and keeping a stiff upper lip. But I miss you all!

Pinkie called last night to talk about her upcoming visit.

Bollocks! She wanted every little detail about my Close Encounter! Jesus Wept! She asked if I had PICTURES! Like I carry my camera around on the off chance someone wants to get it on. Note to Vickums: Is that why YOUR camera is always in your purse, right next to the salt and pepper shakers, floral arrangement, and candle holder you boosted from some restaurant? She made me tell the whole goddamn story TWICE, and the second time, she sounded kinda breathless and I kept hearing these little “rabbit” squeaks and a motor running. What on earth could that mean? Pinkie definitely needs a vacation in King of Prussia...soon.

Even stranger, the whole time we were talking, I could hear Terry chortling in the background at the computer. He was reading my “The Truth About Stuart Hall” blogs, which were hysterically funny, but WHO actually talks on the phone with their husband around? How can you be honest and forthright, and say really, really mean things about your spouse, if he’s five meters away?

Pinkie did say she needs to haul ass to J.C. Penney’s on the way to my house from the airport to buy a “special” bra to wear at her Arriving Do. She is pathetically fixated on blood-relative Princess Margaret’s husband, John (License to Injure Slightly). Note to Cousin by Marriage: Does your Marine uniform still fit? Pinkie has requested that you wear it to the party. She has a little “problem” when she sees a bloke in uniform (i.e. the Milkman, the Postman, the Traffic Warden). She has this compulsion to flash the Weybridge Woofers....She is also looking forward to imbibing your Parris Island Passions, which, of course, I made up. Additional Note to Non-blood relative: Check out Bartending for Dummies and whip something up. Pinkie won’t know the difference.

Pinkie said Stuart Hall was at the Grotto last night for Live Music, despite the BOLO on him (Be On The LookOut). Apparently, one of those rogue priests from the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, after a detour at the Stuart Hall School in San Francisco, was sighted in Weybridge. No, I take that back. Scotland Yard is probably just looking for that guy who shags underage teenagers. Pinkie also said she did not dance with Leechy, but I got an email from the Scottish Laddie’s Brother this morning reporting a very intimate tete-et-tete right by the Ladies’ Loo. Of course, they could have just been holding each other up.

Anyway, back to Pinkie’s visit. I NEVER gossip. My friend, Rhonda, is planning a tour of Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia for Sistah when she’s here. Also, to have her work a shift in the Emergency Room (for free). If this happens, I will definitely be there with a video camera to record Pinkie trying to communicate in West Philly Ghetto-speak. “I be SICK, girl!” “Dohn be pokin’ me with that pink thingy; only my pimp, Jethro, be allowed to poke the merchandise.” “Yo! Y’all talk real funny. Where you be from? King of Prussia?”