The Lakes District vacation was perfect--just what Clarissa and I needed before returning to a debaucherous weekend in London. By midnight Saturday I wished I'd never come back.
Well, at least, close to London. Gerald invited us to dinner at the French Horn in Sonning-on-Thames. Gerald wanted to take his brother Arthur and other friends out--Arthur just took silk (we had to google this: it meant he could now represent clients in criminal court--something like that).
What it meant to us: Clarissa knows Gerald is kind of a wanker, but she just wants to have fun, and he was the first man to offer himself. Having been out of town all week, we couldn't rustle up any new blood. Relieved that Gerald was now Clarissa's problem, and happy that my "have other people pay for dinner while I'm unemployed" plan was wildly successful, I was more than happy to go.
Gerald and his brother picked us up for the hourlong drive. He and Clarissa wanted to sit in the back together--presumably to paw each other. I stepped into the front seat, reached out to shake hands with Arthur, and suddenly time slowed down again. It does when something momentous happens.
The momentous something: Arthur was unbelievably, catastrophically hot. How could he possibly be related to Gerald? I looked back at Clarissa--I could see she felt equally confused, and cheated. Hmph--not my problem.
I turned back to Arthur. He slammed on the accelerator, hurling us into traffic. "I love to speed," he said. "Sorry if it scares you, I just can't help myself." "Absolutely no problem," I said, "Go as fast you as want, I don't want to stop you." Oh crap, I thought--dear, dear old Dr. Freud would be delighted.
We chatted--Arthur was a good chatter. Great stories about his weird or crazy clients who possibly should have gone to the Big House, but didn't have to because wickedly HOT Arthur used his brilliant skills to get them off. At some point I looked in my mirror, back at Gerald and Clarissa. Ick. They were making out, and Gerald's hand was up her blouse. Why did I do that to myself?
Right now, I need a break from writing. Dinner was both one of my best evenings in England, and my most embarrassing. I'll finish this story after happy hour. Bottoms up.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Sunday, August 16
How long have I been in London? Three weeks? Something like that. I already need a vacation. As soon as we've recovered from last night, Clarissa and I are driving to the Lake District for a few days.
Clarissa slept on the bathroom floor all night--poor baby is sick, sick, sick. Something about England makes people drink like a dehydrated runner locked in a distillery.
I've tucked her in with a pillow and comforter. She says the cold tile floor helps with her nausea, and there's the added benefit of having the toilet right there when she needs it. As long as I'm propped up by pillows, I can sit here in bed and type.
I know we're adults, but I really blame outside forces for last night. Force number one: Penni Penniwether, who insisted we come to her friend Beryl's wedding yesterday. Force number two: a free-flowing drinks bar. Free drinks turn people into insatiable drunkards.
Let me roll back the clock to 4 pm yesterday. Clarissa and I both looked fantastic. We both had hats, which you can only wear to weddings in England. It felt like a costume party.
Penni and her husband Neville picked us up in his Bentley. I was trying hard not to judge, but it's kind of a car for jackasses. I've always suffered from an unbecoming disdain for expensive cars. Neville is at the London office of the company from which I got laid off--he's Vice President of Something Something. He spends a lot of money on everything, and always makes sure people know.
We stepped into the car, smooches and hugs all around, and settled in for the drive to St. Martin-in-the-Fields. The wedding was in the church, and the reception was in the Crypt under the church.
Penni, bless her uptight but well-meaning soul, was giving us the lowdown. John Spaht, the groom, did p.r. for some politicians, names omitted (mostly because I can't remember them, and don't care). He's a respected and up-and-coming professional. A reputation for womanizing. Beryl Tuddick, the bride, didn't need a job--she was the daughter of Lady so-and-so, and an heir to her father's condiment fortune. Pickles and sauces galore.
They were going to combine forces to have a double-barrelled last name. You know, like Helena Bonham Carter. Or Sasha Baron Cohen. They'd be the Tuddick Spaht family.
The wedding was lovely. Clarissa and I were checking out hot men, trying to see who they were with, and if they had wedding rings. I reminded her she was still married until her divorce was official in a another month or so. When the ceremony was done, we bounced down the aisle with Rondeau by Jean Joseph Mouret crashing from the organ.
Neville was saying "Thank Gaaaaawd the reception is under the church, because there's nothing I love more then a short walk to the bar after an arduous wedding ceremony." Short walk indeed. After we got our drinks, we got right back in line, on the assumption that our first drink would be done by the time we made it up to the bar again. I could tell this was going to be a crazy night.
Chatting with Clarissa, I suddenly felt a hand on my ass and turned around to see Gerald. Of course. He was friends with Penni and Nev. I downed the rest of my wine. For a few seconds all the wedding noise seemed to recede, and the Crypt became a setting for a Noel Coward play:
Monica (coyly, and moving away from Gerald's hand): "Gerald, how aaaare you? No hard feelings about my leaving the restaurant the other night?"
Gerald (pervy eyes, reaching in for a kiss, which lands on Monica's cheek when she turns her head in alarm): "Of course not. I was being naughty. Very much so. Introduce me to your friend."
Monica (with a clever look in her eyes): This is my dearest friend, Clarissa. (sotto voce to Gerald): "She's going through a divorce--I hope we can cheer her up tonight."
Clarissa looks mildly interested, Gerald looks pervy. Monica's work here is done.
The wedding took the usual route. First, dinner, toasts (touching, funny, embarrassing), the cake. Dancing to boring music. More toasts and drinks. A better DJ comes on with 100 times better dance music and the fun part of the evening begins. More drinking and dancing. Me talking to strangers about God knows what. Eventually eyeing Clarissa and Gerald making out in the line to the bar, realizing I was an excellent matchmaker. This wouldn't last, but at least Clarissa could have fun while she was visiting London.
Hours passed. I finally peeled Clarissa away from Gerald and dragged her back to our table to see what Penni and Nev were up to. Clarissa was waaaaasted. Beryl and John walked over. Penni and Nev were hugging up a storm with the couple, and, I'm pretty sure, trying to hide us from the newlyweds. Clarissa reached out and put her hand on Beryl's arm and just started running at the mouth.
"You know, Beryl...my marriage is a shambles. It's fallen apart. Raleigh--that's my husband--well, my almost ex--he's a pig. I hope you have better luck, I really do. He's a pig. But you just never know until after the wedding..." At this point, Beryl's eyes were wide and she was starting to pull her arm away. John kind of snorted and winked at Nev.
Then Clarissa completely changed lanes: "And I love that you're keeping both last names, but instead of Tuddick-Spaht, you should do Spaht-Tuddick. Get it? Spotted Dick, like that nasty dessert...get it? Spotted Dick...get it..." Penni started pushing Beryl and John away from us, and turned around to give us the evil eye.
I love dumb jokes and terrible puns. I wish I didn't, but I do. I was dying laughing. Clarissa, though, started bawling. BAWLING. "Raleigh...pig...PIG...never married..should have..." Huge heaving gasps and a vale of tears that was washing her mascara down her cheeks. I was hugging and consoling her. It was after 3 a.m., and I knew it was time to go home.
Clarissa slept on the bathroom floor all night--poor baby is sick, sick, sick. Something about England makes people drink like a dehydrated runner locked in a distillery.
I've tucked her in with a pillow and comforter. She says the cold tile floor helps with her nausea, and there's the added benefit of having the toilet right there when she needs it. As long as I'm propped up by pillows, I can sit here in bed and type.
I know we're adults, but I really blame outside forces for last night. Force number one: Penni Penniwether, who insisted we come to her friend Beryl's wedding yesterday. Force number two: a free-flowing drinks bar. Free drinks turn people into insatiable drunkards.
Let me roll back the clock to 4 pm yesterday. Clarissa and I both looked fantastic. We both had hats, which you can only wear to weddings in England. It felt like a costume party.
Penni and her husband Neville picked us up in his Bentley. I was trying hard not to judge, but it's kind of a car for jackasses. I've always suffered from an unbecoming disdain for expensive cars. Neville is at the London office of the company from which I got laid off--he's Vice President of Something Something. He spends a lot of money on everything, and always makes sure people know.
We stepped into the car, smooches and hugs all around, and settled in for the drive to St. Martin-in-the-Fields. The wedding was in the church, and the reception was in the Crypt under the church.
Penni, bless her uptight but well-meaning soul, was giving us the lowdown. John Spaht, the groom, did p.r. for some politicians, names omitted (mostly because I can't remember them, and don't care). He's a respected and up-and-coming professional. A reputation for womanizing. Beryl Tuddick, the bride, didn't need a job--she was the daughter of Lady so-and-so, and an heir to her father's condiment fortune. Pickles and sauces galore.
They were going to combine forces to have a double-barrelled last name. You know, like Helena Bonham Carter. Or Sasha Baron Cohen. They'd be the Tuddick Spaht family.
The wedding was lovely. Clarissa and I were checking out hot men, trying to see who they were with, and if they had wedding rings. I reminded her she was still married until her divorce was official in a another month or so. When the ceremony was done, we bounced down the aisle with Rondeau by Jean Joseph Mouret crashing from the organ.
Neville was saying "Thank Gaaaaawd the reception is under the church, because there's nothing I love more then a short walk to the bar after an arduous wedding ceremony." Short walk indeed. After we got our drinks, we got right back in line, on the assumption that our first drink would be done by the time we made it up to the bar again. I could tell this was going to be a crazy night.
Chatting with Clarissa, I suddenly felt a hand on my ass and turned around to see Gerald. Of course. He was friends with Penni and Nev. I downed the rest of my wine. For a few seconds all the wedding noise seemed to recede, and the Crypt became a setting for a Noel Coward play:
Monica (coyly, and moving away from Gerald's hand): "Gerald, how aaaare you? No hard feelings about my leaving the restaurant the other night?"
Gerald (pervy eyes, reaching in for a kiss, which lands on Monica's cheek when she turns her head in alarm): "Of course not. I was being naughty. Very much so. Introduce me to your friend."
Monica (with a clever look in her eyes): This is my dearest friend, Clarissa. (sotto voce to Gerald): "She's going through a divorce--I hope we can cheer her up tonight."
Clarissa looks mildly interested, Gerald looks pervy. Monica's work here is done.
The wedding took the usual route. First, dinner, toasts (touching, funny, embarrassing), the cake. Dancing to boring music. More toasts and drinks. A better DJ comes on with 100 times better dance music and the fun part of the evening begins. More drinking and dancing. Me talking to strangers about God knows what. Eventually eyeing Clarissa and Gerald making out in the line to the bar, realizing I was an excellent matchmaker. This wouldn't last, but at least Clarissa could have fun while she was visiting London.
Hours passed. I finally peeled Clarissa away from Gerald and dragged her back to our table to see what Penni and Nev were up to. Clarissa was waaaaasted. Beryl and John walked over. Penni and Nev were hugging up a storm with the couple, and, I'm pretty sure, trying to hide us from the newlyweds. Clarissa reached out and put her hand on Beryl's arm and just started running at the mouth.
"You know, Beryl...my marriage is a shambles. It's fallen apart. Raleigh--that's my husband--well, my almost ex--he's a pig. I hope you have better luck, I really do. He's a pig. But you just never know until after the wedding..." At this point, Beryl's eyes were wide and she was starting to pull her arm away. John kind of snorted and winked at Nev.
Then Clarissa completely changed lanes: "And I love that you're keeping both last names, but instead of Tuddick-Spaht, you should do Spaht-Tuddick. Get it? Spotted Dick, like that nasty dessert...get it? Spotted Dick...get it..." Penni started pushing Beryl and John away from us, and turned around to give us the evil eye.
I love dumb jokes and terrible puns. I wish I didn't, but I do. I was dying laughing. Clarissa, though, started bawling. BAWLING. "Raleigh...pig...PIG...never married..should have..." Huge heaving gasps and a vale of tears that was washing her mascara down her cheeks. I was hugging and consoling her. It was after 3 a.m., and I knew it was time to go home.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
I forgot to post about my blind date with Gerald last week. When I was guessing that he'd be a perve, and cheap, I was only half right. We went to The Ledbury in Notting Hill, and as we walked through the door, I realized Gerald wasn't cheap.
When he called for me, Gerald was wearing a pin stripe suit. You're probably having visions of Daniel Craig or Clive Owen. Think more in terms of a chubby lawyer with a jagged bowl cut--kind of Cadfael minus the monk's robes.
Getting out of the taxi, Gerald steered me forward by placing his hand on my lower back, dangerously close to my butt. Thank goodness I was wearing my airtight panties with massive coverage (my last line of defense when I haven't had time to do my laundry).
His touchy fingers put me on edge, but walking into The Ledbury pushed me into high alert. I was doing quick math: Saturday night plus pinstripe suit plus expensive dinner equals...I wonder what exactly Penni Penniwether had told him about me. I was quickly reconsidering my plan to supplement my severance pay with free dinners.
Fortunately, Gerald chatted constantly, which gave me a chance to gulp the Catena Zapata Malbec 2005 and eat more than my fair share of the foie gras (bless those geese and their fatty livers). I was so excited to eat that, for the first hour, I'm not really sure what he was talking about, I just caught some phrases. I'd take a sip, and hear "she still lives in that dreary council flat..", then a huge chunk of bread, and hear "that old slapper can't even turn on a computer, I don't know how she ever..." and so on.
After about an hour, I hit maximum satiation and really heard what he was saying for the first time, which was "I'm glad you can join us. Don't worry about mother, she really doesn't like any of the women I bring home." My mind started racing--what had I agreed to? I thought when I'd nodded my head and said yes it just meant that I wanted more wine. Turns out I'd agreed to some kind of fundraiser at his parents' house.
The waiter was taking away our dinner plates and like magic, I felt Gerald's pale, thin fingers on my thigh. If he got any sauce on my dress, I'd really be pissed off. I pushed off his hand and gave him a look. He wasn't phased in the least-he just smirked and said "it never hurts to try." This dinner was turning into a Benny Hill show. Any minute now he'd be chasing me around a table, and hilarity would ensue.
Right. Well, it was time to ditch this jackass. Years of experience taught me this would just end with Gerald trying to stick his tongue down my throat, and then I'd have to kill myself. Long story short, I grabbed my purse, said bye and thanks, and before he could follow me, I was in a taxi on my way home.
When he called for me, Gerald was wearing a pin stripe suit. You're probably having visions of Daniel Craig or Clive Owen. Think more in terms of a chubby lawyer with a jagged bowl cut--kind of Cadfael minus the monk's robes.
Getting out of the taxi, Gerald steered me forward by placing his hand on my lower back, dangerously close to my butt. Thank goodness I was wearing my airtight panties with massive coverage (my last line of defense when I haven't had time to do my laundry).
His touchy fingers put me on edge, but walking into The Ledbury pushed me into high alert. I was doing quick math: Saturday night plus pinstripe suit plus expensive dinner equals...I wonder what exactly Penni Penniwether had told him about me. I was quickly reconsidering my plan to supplement my severance pay with free dinners.
Fortunately, Gerald chatted constantly, which gave me a chance to gulp the Catena Zapata Malbec 2005 and eat more than my fair share of the foie gras (bless those geese and their fatty livers). I was so excited to eat that, for the first hour, I'm not really sure what he was talking about, I just caught some phrases. I'd take a sip, and hear "she still lives in that dreary council flat..", then a huge chunk of bread, and hear "that old slapper can't even turn on a computer, I don't know how she ever..." and so on.
After about an hour, I hit maximum satiation and really heard what he was saying for the first time, which was "I'm glad you can join us. Don't worry about mother, she really doesn't like any of the women I bring home." My mind started racing--what had I agreed to? I thought when I'd nodded my head and said yes it just meant that I wanted more wine. Turns out I'd agreed to some kind of fundraiser at his parents' house.
The waiter was taking away our dinner plates and like magic, I felt Gerald's pale, thin fingers on my thigh. If he got any sauce on my dress, I'd really be pissed off. I pushed off his hand and gave him a look. He wasn't phased in the least-he just smirked and said "it never hurts to try." This dinner was turning into a Benny Hill show. Any minute now he'd be chasing me around a table, and hilarity would ensue.
Right. Well, it was time to ditch this jackass. Years of experience taught me this would just end with Gerald trying to stick his tongue down my throat, and then I'd have to kill myself. Long story short, I grabbed my purse, said bye and thanks, and before he could follow me, I was in a taxi on my way home.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Blind Date Night; Devon in Summary
I have to get ready for my blind date with Gerald, so, quick summary of trip to Devon. Perfect ponies. Luscious lambs. Gorgeous goats. Love them all.
In Whitchurch spent one night getting drunk and talking to strangers at The Whitchurch Inn. It was originally built by monks about 1 million years ago. Bless the brothers for their beery good works.
Stopped at Country Cheeses for artisanal cheese and made a fool of myself shoveling fistfuls of soft cheese into my mouth. It was literally smeared on my face and I couldn't stop, I dove right back into the wrapper for another fistful.
Saturday night is expensive social real estate--my excuse is, I have just about no friends here. But Gerald, my blind date--why does he have Saturday free? I have a bad feeling about this. I just know he's either a perve, or cheap. Possibly both. Anyways, I have to run and put on something lovely. And of course, you can never wear too much make-up and perfume. Gobs of both, put on with paint rollers and soup ladels. More details tomorrow as to how date went.
In Whitchurch spent one night getting drunk and talking to strangers at The Whitchurch Inn. It was originally built by monks about 1 million years ago. Bless the brothers for their beery good works.
Stopped at Country Cheeses for artisanal cheese and made a fool of myself shoveling fistfuls of soft cheese into my mouth. It was literally smeared on my face and I couldn't stop, I dove right back into the wrapper for another fistful.
Saturday night is expensive social real estate--my excuse is, I have just about no friends here. But Gerald, my blind date--why does he have Saturday free? I have a bad feeling about this. I just know he's either a perve, or cheap. Possibly both. Anyways, I have to run and put on something lovely. And of course, you can never wear too much make-up and perfume. Gobs of both, put on with paint rollers and soup ladels. More details tomorrow as to how date went.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Tuesday, Part 2
This story begins with ponies, and ends with being bullied into a blind date.
I'm doing an embroidery project (have done no work on it in days--too consistently hungover to be trusted with a needle). I call it Happy Ponies. It will be a triptych, rendered in pillows. Ponies, butterflies, and bunnies everywhere.
It's going to be horrible--I'll have to bury it in the towel closet, or possibly give it away. But doing it helps me avoid real life by pretending I live in a world where nice ladies sit around doing needlework, having tea with Miss Marple and blithely discussing the murder in the vicarage. Would you like clotted cream with your scone? So, you say his head was bashed in with a blunt instrument? Could you pass the strawberry jam?
Thinking about all this, I hear the magic ding! on my cellie. Sure enough, another text. I've more or less communicated only by texting in the three days since I got to London. I think actually speaking on the phone is too painfully intimate for the Brits.
It's a text from Penni Penniwether, someone I know through my friend Clarissa (Cally). When she found out I was in London, she insisted on setting me up with some guy. Penny is a snob, and uptight, possibly a result of her unfortunate name. But I said yes because 1. I don't have many friends here and 2. Hopefully we'll go to a fantastic restaurant I can't afford on my own.
Really, though, he'll probably be an awful perve, and we'll go out for pizza.
Anyways, off to bed, I have to get up early for my trip to see the Dartmoor Ponies.
I'm doing an embroidery project (have done no work on it in days--too consistently hungover to be trusted with a needle). I call it Happy Ponies. It will be a triptych, rendered in pillows. Ponies, butterflies, and bunnies everywhere.
It's going to be horrible--I'll have to bury it in the towel closet, or possibly give it away. But doing it helps me avoid real life by pretending I live in a world where nice ladies sit around doing needlework, having tea with Miss Marple and blithely discussing the murder in the vicarage. Would you like clotted cream with your scone? So, you say his head was bashed in with a blunt instrument? Could you pass the strawberry jam?
Thinking about all this, I hear the magic ding! on my cellie. Sure enough, another text. I've more or less communicated only by texting in the three days since I got to London. I think actually speaking on the phone is too painfully intimate for the Brits.
It's a text from Penni Penniwether, someone I know through my friend Clarissa (Cally). When she found out I was in London, she insisted on setting me up with some guy. Penny is a snob, and uptight, possibly a result of her unfortunate name. But I said yes because 1. I don't have many friends here and 2. Hopefully we'll go to a fantastic restaurant I can't afford on my own.
Really, though, he'll probably be an awful perve, and we'll go out for pizza.
Anyways, off to bed, I have to get up early for my trip to see the Dartmoor Ponies.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Tuesday, Part 1
The weather was gorgeous yesterday so we went to Prospect of Whitby on the Thames, and sat outside. I know I had Old Speckled Hen. At least two. Then other beer. All delicious.
Today: chilly and cloudy. Ick. I only, barely, have three friends here, so I have to space them out. No one I know is coming to visit this week, probably because I left Chicago unexpectedly just three days ago. This means...sigh...I have to keep myself occupied.
Ponies. I love them. They're my theme for the next two or three days. Tomorrow I'm renting a car, and driving to the town Tavistock, in Devon, to see the Dartmoor ponies. I've visited before, years ago. The place is a Hollywood movie set--ponies gamboling about, and little lambs and goats napping in the road. I'll be as far removed as possible from working, thinking about work, finding work, despising work. It's an idyllic no-work zone.
Maybe I'll stop in other towns also. I'll see.
Today: chilly and cloudy. Ick. I only, barely, have three friends here, so I have to space them out. No one I know is coming to visit this week, probably because I left Chicago unexpectedly just three days ago. This means...sigh...I have to keep myself occupied.
Ponies. I love them. They're my theme for the next two or three days. Tomorrow I'm renting a car, and driving to the town Tavistock, in Devon, to see the Dartmoor ponies. I've visited before, years ago. The place is a Hollywood movie set--ponies gamboling about, and little lambs and goats napping in the road. I'll be as far removed as possible from working, thinking about work, finding work, despising work. It's an idyllic no-work zone.
Maybe I'll stop in other towns also. I'll see.
I just picked up my new cellie--I did some googling and voila, the shop was just one tube station away. But I took a taxi instead. I'm determined to spend my way to the poorhouse--I want to fall out of the middle class in comfort.
So the man who sold it to me had, I think, bigger boobs than I do. He wasn't overweight--really just kind of a bit chunky. I didn't mean to stare. Honestly, if he'd lived 200 years ago and put on a dress, he could have gotten work as a wetnurse.
The fact that I'm talking about this means I still have crazy jetlag, and, that I really need to talk to human beings.
Luckily, I actually know two or three people in this city. Someone from university. A former co-worker. Someone from my old running club who, I know from Facebook, likes Madmen as much as I do. It's pretty tenuous though. I'm seeing Former Co-Worker, aka Emma, in a couple hours for drinks. I hope to drink too much. Because I don't have to go to work tomorrow.
So the man who sold it to me had, I think, bigger boobs than I do. He wasn't overweight--really just kind of a bit chunky. I didn't mean to stare. Honestly, if he'd lived 200 years ago and put on a dress, he could have gotten work as a wetnurse.
The fact that I'm talking about this means I still have crazy jetlag, and, that I really need to talk to human beings.
Luckily, I actually know two or three people in this city. Someone from university. A former co-worker. Someone from my old running club who, I know from Facebook, likes Madmen as much as I do. It's pretty tenuous though. I'm seeing Former Co-Worker, aka Emma, in a couple hours for drinks. I hope to drink too much. Because I don't have to go to work tomorrow.
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