You Say Potato

In my old job, I used to joke about how many hours of productivity were lost as we all scurried into each other’s offices, trying to glean what the boss really meant in his terse e-mails (some of them maybe a sentence fragment long)! But that’s nothing compared to the energy single women expend trying to decipher e-mails, texts, and even actual conversations with men – entire countries could be powered.

At the moment I’m dealing with a British man who’s perhaps as much an Americanophile (is that a word?) as I’m an Anglophile. He loves American slang (whereas I prefer English English, preferably said in his posh accent). He’s only been to the U.S. once (two days in New York when he was 18) but last year he wrote an article arguing for the greatness of America – that “they trust you there and they’re pragmatic.” (Ha.) Yesterday I shattered his illusions and told him that a bunch of the things he thought existed there – supermarket bag boys (and courteous ones!), two domestic first class mail stamps equals one overseas one, right turns on red, passing on the right and left, valet parking – are not ubiquitous. (And maybe I’ve been gone too long, but when were you ever supposed to pass on the right?)

His ideas of the U.S. – including his ideas of “dating” (a concept that literally does not exist in England) – come entirely from books, TV, newspapers, and his family’s 35-plus-years-old experience (they lived in Chicago for a few years before he was born). So I can’t even begin to interpret half the stuff he says or does: Is he being English, male, faux American, thick, infuriating, or some combination of the five?

I haven’t seen him since this, when he told me at the end of the evening that he couldn’t make any plans until he had a medical problem that’s making him incredibly tired and irritable sorted out – but there’s no guarantee about when this will be sorted out. We were exchanging emails every day, but after more than a week of that, I did start to wonder if I was ever going to have an offscreen conversation with him again. Then while I was in Spain I got an email from him saying he’d bought me a “bloody silly present” (love that phrase) because it made him laugh and referred to a ongoing strand of the conversation. Hmm, I thought. Well, I guess he assumes we're going to see each other again.

Yesterday I got an email saying he was heading to a stag ‘do (bachelor party) in Ireland, and did I want to meet up next week when he was back. I wrote back saying I wasn’t trying to be coy – yes, I have learned the hard way that British men have ridiculously fragile egos – but that I was busy all next week (true) and it would have to be on the weekend or the week after. I was promptly slayed by two female British colleagues (as the only single person in the office, my life acts as soap opera if I allow it), who said: “What could you possibly be doing all week?” I told them I don’t break plans for men – a sentiment most of my American female friends would understand – and they were horrified. “Can’t you rearrange?” they wondered. Well, no.

Let’s hope the Fig’s (aka the Guy’s -- nickname to be explained if there actually are any future posts about him to warrant it) reading of Americana is sufficiently broad enough to include The Rules.