currylove

Posts Tagged ‘british

As Mom and Dad keep on trying… so do I. And as each interaction crashes and burns, I tell them.

There was a guy who I’d been emailing with – he was really nice, thoughtful, sent really well written emails. We finally speak on the phone, and he tells me about himself, and then busts out with this:

I just want you to know that the Unitarian Universalist church is a big part of my life.

Me (internally): SIIIIIIGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Of course it is.

Him:

Yeah, I just have a thirst of knowledge about all religion and why we do the things we do. I don’t want to just do things for the sake of doing them, I really love to discuss and understand and KNOW.

Me:

Um…yeah. I’m mostly Hindu by ritual. I do things I know/think I should because if I don’t, my kids won’t know them.  Also, I have a religion degree – so … I’ve done this before.  I’ve had these discussions for a grade, and it’s not necessarily something I want to revisit.

Here’s the thing – I don’t mind discussing religion here and there. But all the time? It’s fucking exhausting. People like that are exhausting. I know… I took classes with them.

I just want to watch the crap shows on my DVR and not think about the higher reasons we’re all here. I’m not opposed to smart discussions, but I think I’m more vapid than he needs in his life.

Also, if I wanted a Christian guy, I’d just marry a hot white one.

The best part of all this? I told my parents and my Dad asks:

So…. does he go all the time? Or like just once a week…?

They’re so desperate. Any standards they had flew out the window when I turned 30. I swear, a Nazi could show up and they’d be like, “Well, he’s not THAT bad.”

SO THEN. Because the universe is trying as hard it can to keep me single, and doing a damn good job at it, I get this email from this guy that contacted me online, on an Indian dating website. To note, he is super cute, and I was SUPER excited…until this:

Thank you for replying my email, i think you should create a yahoo or gmail if we have to connect on chat, otherwise you can share you mobile number.

 

Um… this guy is SUPPOSED TO BE BRITISH. DOES THAT SOUND LIKE HE WENT TO SCHOOL IN ENGLAND, LIKE HE CLAIMS?

I did email he back, because he’s hot and I’m superficial, but the response I got was this – all punctuation, spelling and capitalization is his:

my grand father settle very UK a very long time ago and making it possible for my parents to also gave birth to all of us in UK.

Don’t get me wrong but i am always very optimistic in everything that i do and i hope this works out between us .
I have to stop here to avoid boring you with my long e mails, but i will like you to share your Mobile with me if possible , we can get more connected right there by voice and i hope you have mine as well.    This is my roaming number xxxxxxx and if you will i will as well give you my local number here as well.  attached are few of my Pictures.  So much regards to you and your family,please do reply me next with your Pictures.

 

I think I’m getting catfished. SIGH.

 

AND THEN.  My parents gave me the email address of some random mom out there in Michigan, and told me to send her my biodata. So I did – she emailed me back (very well written, always impressed by that) to just say that she got it and she forwarded it to her son.

He writes the next day, clearly from his phone, and this is what it said:

 Good morning.  What ifs your phone number? We can text and chat.  My horrid are very weird and wanted to make sure I was not ignoring you.  Look forward to hearing from you.

Ok – here’s the thing. I get that autocorrect is annoying and everyone has mistakes. Just the other day I whatsapped my girls and instead of saying, “I’m so confused” I somehow sent them a message that said, “I’m so sinuses.”

But you know what, I’M NOT TRYING TO MARRY THEM.  Fucking hell. Proofread that shit.

But I emailed him back, like a good girl and we just cut to a phone call the other night. He’s truly British, and so I was enjoying the accent, until this:

Me:

“So your number shows up as a Michigan number, but I think you’re in the mid-west, right?”

Him:

“Well, listen – I should tell you that about 5 months ago, I quit my job. The manager was horrible and racist. I’m living in Ohio right now but my mum thinks I’m still in Kansas.  She has high blood pressure and I didn’t want to upset her by telling her. But, since you talk to my mum, if you want to tell her, that’s on you.”

WHY WOULD I TELL HIS MOM THAT HE HAS NO JOB!?!?!?!?

Me:

“Um, I don’t talk to your mom. I only sent her the email with my info cause that’s the email address she gave my mom.”

Him:

“Ok, I didn’t know what was going on… oh, so you hear my British accent? [I replied yes] Yeah… it’s great. SUPER helpful in college… heh heh.”

JESUS CHRIST.  Are you fucking kidding me?

So we had a bit of normal conversation and then he says:

“By the way, you’re not so bad looking. You’re actually kind of pretty. I couldn’t just come straight out with a compliment, you know…”

I JUST GOT FUCKING NEG’ED.

So, I relay most of this to my parents (especially the jobless part and how he’s lying to his parents) and my Dad goes,

“Well, that’s just how some Indian communities are. They don’t share everything. So…. do you want to see him? “

WHY DO YOU WANT ME TO MARRY INTO THAT. WHY WHY WHY????

Well, I know why – because we’re all desperate.  We agreed (because my dating life is now only happening by family decision) that if he pursued or came to Atlanta, we should hang out, but that I shouldn’t call at all. Which was my plan anyway, but at least we’re all on board now.

And then Dad says,

Well … This is all that’s left.

 

Fuck. My. Life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Last year at this time, I was nervously sitting on a plane next to a half-naked Russian, on my way to Edinburgh. I didn’t know if British would remember to come get me or what I was getting myself into.

This year, I left work, got about two blocks, heard a “thump…thump…thump” as I drove and realized there was a nail in my tire. I sat at the gas station waiting for my roadside assistance and bought a lottery ticket while I was there. (Wouldn’t that be an even better story for next year??? Keep your fingers crossed.) And then went to the mall to spend money I shouldn’t be spending. I just didn’t want to come home and be alone.

I hate that I still open my email and sometimes, out of nowhere, I get this thought that I’ll have an email from him. Spoiler alert: I never do. It’s now a year to the day of the only time we ever met. He never put the effort or time in to coming here – and that still hurts, a lot, mostly because it’s a reminder of what an idiot I was. Possibly still am.

He left me with so much doubt about myself – Why wasn’t I good enough for him? Why didn’t he love me enough? What was missing in me that he would rather end it on Facebook than try to make it work? Why didn’t he want to give us a second chance?

And I know that it was never me… it was always his issues, and nothing I could’ve said or done would’ve changed any of that. And I know that if we’d stayed together beyond last Christmas, the outcome was going to be the same, just delayed and more hurtful. He had given me enough signs and flat out told me things that I chose to ignore because I didn’t want to believe him. I wanted to believe I was different, stupid girl that I am. UGH.

Honestly though, I don’t think I’m crying over him anymore. It’s everything else. It’s a year later and NOTHING is fucking different, except we’re not together. But, given that we were never really together, even that’s not so different. I haven’t met anyone new that I’ve sparked with. My job hasn’t turned out the way I thought it would. I am completely underwater on the mortgage for my place. (I actually just wrote out my property-tax check…. it’s so devalued, it’s worth less than a Port-a-Potty. Fucking awesome.)

I have never felt so stagnant in my life and it’s killing me. I look at my friends who are married and raising their kids and I’m nowhere near being in the same place. 30. My magic number had been 30: Married, 3 kids, great job. All by 30. Nope. Didn’t happen.

But, even with all of that, I know I don’t have it bad. At all. My job, regardless of how I feel about it, more than pays my bills and takes me to exotic destinations that I would have never otherwise seen. My friends, who I love, listen to me and put up with my bullshit and are amazing. My family, who drive me nuts in the best possible way, loves me and wants the best for me. I have more than a lot of people ever do and ever will.

When I was waiting for the auto-repair guy, I watched a man – very skinny, 80’s looking jeans that were barely staying up, a strange “crop-top” button down shirt that seemed like it was for a kid, big bushy hair in a ponytail, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I decided in the 3 seconds that I watched him that he’s a meth-addict. He went in and I was curious to see what he would buy… nothing. He came out with a black bag, some papers, and then went through the trash and left.

So fuck it…  At least I’m not going through trash for food, or money or anything else.

But still, this is how I feel for now (and here’s hoping something changes, soon):

 

When British and I first started our ill-fated adventure in cross-continent relationships, one of the things he would often tell me was “You are so pretty.” And I lapped it up like a little puppy.  Seriously, who doesn’t want to hear that, especially when it’s softly said in an amazing accent??  I sure as fuck did.

But little did I know it’s just the British equivalent of the American frat-boy-ism: “You’re sooooo hot!!!”  Which means nothing, actually. It’s just a segue to “Wanna come back to my place??”   Sigh.

I didn’t realize it till this trip though. The first night we met the British military boys, their commander kept telling me how much he liked my “pretty face.” Sweet, and again, I have no problem receiving attention, so I totally bought into it.

Then the next night, we went to another pub in Leicester Square. I was waiting for my drink and the bartender (tall and cute, just my type!) came over and asked for my ID. Ok, isn’t the drinking age in the UK like 16 or something? There was no way he needed to ID me. But I handed it over, and he looked at my year of birth and this look of utter surprise came over his face and he says: “Wow. You look great!”

Um, thanks!?  I was pretty offended. Can I just get a damn drink? I don’t need to be reminded I’m old as dirt. His take was that I should be flattered he needed to see it. Hmph.

Anyway, he continued to chat, asked what I was doing there, how long I was in town, etc and finally after making my drink (hello, the ONLY thing I wanted) he leaned over and whispered, “You are so very pretty.”

Which then threw me off guard – and it was my turn to look surprised because it was so random, and yes, SUPER sweet, but that’s also when the light bulb went off. Do they even mean it, or is it just a numbers game? Like if they say that to 100 women, 5 will be flattered enough to do something?  I can’t figure out if the boys there actually do think I’m attractive and are being honest and I should move to take advantage of it!?!?!??? OR is it just a line?

(Also, did I get any free drinks out of this? NO. So totally useless as far as I was concerned, even if he did mean it. )

The rest of the night was spent with these Italian guys we met at the bar – they were hilarious! Two spoke English perfectly fine, but the third didn’t. So how is it that he spoke with his hands, on our bodies? It’s like he got away with free grabs just because he was unable to speak the language… not a bad play, actually.

Some highlights from the night:

Me and C: “Hey, look at that Italian place, Bella Italia, would you want to eat there? ”
Them: “No-a! Would you-a eat-a in a place-a called Beautiful USA? Because-a all that meanz-a is Beautiful Italia. It’s-a dumb-a.”

Them (talking about having two taps instead of one in the bathroom sink): “Why are there-a two faucets? You either burn-a your hand-a or you freeze-a your hand-a! It’s-a impossible to get it right-a!!”

Them: “We love-a going to the pubs-and-a-clubs-a!”

Them: “We are staying with a divorcee. He likes to talk-a. He is lonely and tries to talk-a to us-a every day. We try-a to avoid him.”

Them (while we’re eating pizza): “It’s ok-ah. For pizza not in Italy, it will do-a. We don’t-a use ketchup on our pizzas like you do-a.”

Them (after I spilled water on myself at dinner): “That’s-a what you get-a for drinking that poison-a!”

It was a great night overall. I definitely still have a thing for cute boys with accents… just need to figure out how to make that work in my life here. Or you know, marry this guy and have it all (or this guy, both are pretty amazing in their abilities)…

Actually…without the accent, he’d just be American. And wearing a funny hat.

 

I feel like this picture sums up the night better than I can in words, but I’ll still try. We (my friend (C), who’s giving the ‘thumbs up’ in the pic and I) met the Brits on the tube. We chatted a bit on the train, and quite honestly, they didn’t seem like they wanted to talk to us, but  since they just happened to be alighting at the same stop as us, and we just happened to go to the same bar as them, we ended up spending a LOT of time together that night.

We started at a pub, where we all bought rounds of drinks – they boys were cute and fun to chat with and they were in London as part of the military brought in to help protect the games. So, I’m a sucker for military boys and when they told us they’re not treated as well as the guys (and girls) in the US military, I thought it was our duty to show some American hospitality. Honestly, I would’ve bought all the drinks if they let us!

BUT! Hurray for British chivalry and not letting us do that! (Because, come on, it’s fucking expensive with the conversion. I tried not to think about it the whole time and just pretended that that one £ equals 1 USD. According to my bank statement, it does not.)

Anyway, they ranged across ages and we had almost one fight, because boys will be boys, no matter where in the world they are.  But, I loved them because their crew leader kept telling me how pretty I was and how much he liked my face.  Yeah, I’m a sucker.  Whatever.

We drank at the pub, ate some crappy Chinese food, and then went to the club (where the shots were taken). SO MUCH FUN!! Music was awesome and Team Slovenia was there! They were the freaking tallest girls I’d ever seen. I totally wanted to take pictures, but they were drinking, having fun, hanging out… I didn’t think they’d want some random taking pictures of them like they’re in a zoo.

So we danced the night away. And drank the night away. We didn’t leave the club till 330am and didn’t realize we had no trains left to get home. The two boys who were left with us were super sweet and offered to walk us back to our hotel, which was literally an hour in the wrong direction from where they needed to be – we told them we’d be fine on our own, and they said: “Oh no! You can’t walk alone here! It’s LONDON! It’s not safe! If this was Somerset, you’d be ok.”

Which made me and C both giggle, because clearly they have no idea what it’s like to walk at night in the ATL. Although, honestly, neither do I because I refuse to do it for fear of being shot.

We parted ways in Trafalgar Square, and C and I weeble-wobbled our way home, getting lost and giggling the whole way back to our little room. We finally made it back at 430am. Yeah… we were not up so early the next day, but it was well worth it.

It was a chaste night, nobody made out… hell, actually, nobody made a move. Which is honestly refreshing and a little weird. I”m so used to “Nice tits! Wanna fuck?” that I get totally stunned when that’s not what’s said or what happens.

We kept in touch with them while we were there, and they even tried to get us into the stadium using their credentials. Nope, didn’t work out so well, but it was nice of them to even bother trying.  They even offered to take us site-seeing on Sunday, their day off. We declined because we had plans, but seriously – how nice is that!

It was really a great first night and welcome to London. They did the city proud 🙂

 

Walking through London at night, with our bodyguards

 

The quintessential phone booth picture from our 100mile hike back to the hotel. I didn’t realize there was someone in the last booth. Turned out there were two someones, engaged in a make out session, because of course. I stunned them with the flash. Haha!  😉

 

There were a few more random things I forgot to mention in the previous post….

5) I couldn’t tell if it was the locals or visitors who were engaged in amorous displays of love, but the PDA was everywhere. Seriously. EVERY-FUCKING-WHERE. On the tube, in the park, while walking in front of you on the way to the tube or the park, early in the morning, late at night, at the bar, near the bar, in the bar… it didn’t seem to matter where or what time of day. Maybe seeing all those girls walk around with no pants puts everyone in the mood?

In any case, I’m a single, jaded, bitter, angry fuck-all of a human at times and basically wanted to punch everyone in the face for putting a love that I don’t have on display for me to see. It’s like the Universe is saying: “Oh! You dated a British guy and were supposed to be here with him? LOOK AT WHAT IT WOULD HAVE BEEN LIKE! It would’ve been awesome. You could’ve been loved up all over the city. You could’ve held hands on the tube! You could’ve kissed in Trafalgar Square!  But nope. You’re SINGLE. Sucks for you, CurryLove! SUCKS.FOR.YOU.”

Or you know, it’s just me being sensitive. Whatever.

6) The other thing I meant to discuss is the London love for Potato Wedges. Is this an overall British thing? An English thing? WHY do people choose to buy wedges of potatoes for a snack? Why are these sold instead of just chips (fries)? Aren’t wedges and chips(fries) the same thing, just different cuts of the potato? WHY have I put so much thought into this??

It’s strange, really. We were in Hyde Park to watch the games and there were food trucks everywhere. Lots of food trucks that had lots of meat (example pic below). And lots of people really like all that meat… But I am not one of them. I’m a veggie-eater only. So my options were limited since I didn’t want to have “Britain’s Best Gourmet Burgers.” Luckily, there was a Mexican food truck. And at that truck, I had two options: a veggie burrito (which honestly didn’t sound very good) or Potato Wedges with Cheese.  I chose the cheesey wedges.   Ok… I thought it was going to be the gooey melty cheese we get here. No. It was not. It was shredded some-type-of-cheese on top of wedges.  And since the wedges weren’t hot, the cheese didn’t melt, which essentially meant it just fell off the top of the wedges as we walked back to our seats. Not the best thing I’ve ever had. Not even close.

You know the other option for toppings for the wedges? Refried beans and sour cream… you know what that’s usually on top of??? NACHOS.  Why did they take YUMMY Mexican food and make it … not yummy English food? WHY?  And who actually wants beans on top of their potatoes? I don’t understand. At all.

On the bright side of all of this, the guy serving in the truck was incredibly fucking hot. I have no pictures to prove it, but just trust. He was.

 

Watching Andy Murray play on the BIG screen at Hyde Park

I tried to get my friend to pose with her mouth open underneath this sign, but she refused. Spoil sport.

 

 

 

 

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaack!

Not necessarily happily, though. If I had my way, I’d still be in London, still soaking in the rare sunny days and not getting my layering correct so that I’m either too hot and sweaty or too cold and shivering, still reveling in the Olympic atmosphere that was everywhere, and still enjoying the chants of “Team GB!!” all around.

A few random things I noticed while there:

1) British girls love to not wear pants.  Apparently, wearing a long shirt (they ARE NOT dresses) that barely covers the cha-cha area, and then donning black (always black. Always.) panty-hose is de-rigueur these days. Um… TIGHTS ARE NOT PANTS.  They are sheer pieces of fabric designed to help you stay warm, under dresses. THEY ARE NOT TO BE WORN ALONE. WITHOUT SOMETHING COVERING THEM. LIKE A DRESS.

Seriously, Brits, WTF? I don’t want to see the pantyhose thigh-line that doesn’t get covered. I don’t want to think of how you sit down at a restaurant or on the tube, in just tights, your nether regions being barely protected and how I might sit there after you. And what about when you get a run in those tights? Then what? Do you just take them off and stroll around London in your semi-long-ish shirt, that is still not a dress???   (Ha! I’m not the only one who feels this way.)

2) They take their cycling seriously. Super seriously. Not just in the Olympics, but in the bike lanes too. They will mow your ass down if you dare walk in the “bike only” lane. While I understand it’s bike-only (and no, this didn’t happen to me, but saw it plenty of times), given the influx of visitors from all over the world, you think they’d cut some slack on certain things. Yes, it’s annoying to have all these tourists in your country that don’t know the rules, I totally understand that, but is there a need to be so unpleasant about it? I think not.  I knew this from ‘dating’ British, but I didn’t realize it applied to the whole country. Now it totally makes sense how he had money for fixing his bike but not for taking me to dinner. Totally.

3) The Brits are among the most self-deprecating, self-flagellating group of people, ever.  The interviews by the BBC after the events were sort of amazing. The athletes can barely breathe, they just competed and won/lost/lost out on a gold by seconds/whatever, and the BBC pundits ask questions like: “Are you disappointed in yourself?” Listen, you little twat – they just competed in the Olympics. Yes, they’re upset if things didn’t go well, but don’t lead them on with those questions! And then… the responses. Most Americans would say something to the effect of : “Yeah, I’m disappointed — I tried my best, it just wasn’t good enough today.”

The Brits? You get this: “I’m so sad. I let myself down. My family down. All that training was a waste of time. I could’ve been spending time with my family instead of training for a match I would lose.”

Holy fuck, man. You didn’t kill someone. You just didn’t place in your event. It’s ok.  Really, it’s ok. (I tried to find this interview but couldn’t – if I find it, will update with a link. It was with the BBC’s Phil Jones and I don’t remember the runner, but it was in the Athletics competitions.)

On a personal note – I knew this from ‘dating’ British as well. We were chatting one night, and he, in a heavily drunken state made reference to the size of his “member” not being that impressive. And how I should know that up-front. Well, alrighty then. I mean, sure, it’s better to not lie about it, but isn’t that just odd? And totally so opposite of what an American boy would say, which would be something to the effect of: “Yeah, I need Magnums.”  (And no, it wasn’t impressive. Neither were his moobs.)

4) The stupid Olympics ticketing system was a piece of shit. We tried, with NO luck, to get tickets to anything, anywhere. You know what error message we kept getting? “Tickets for this event will be released on June 8.” IT’S AUGUST.  It was so annoying to be in Hyde Park, watching Andy Murray and Serena Williams play on the big screens (obviously, not each other), and see empty seats in the stands. We would’ve waited in queue for hours if we had to, but no. They decided that they only way people would get tickets was online, via a system that crashed continuously. Even the locals were complaining as they’d all had the same issues we had.

For all those little points, everyone was super proud and patriotic, regardless of what country they were from, and everyone was really welcoming. We had an amazing time – the city was clean and prepared for the tourists, they had hundreds of volunteers, all easily found in bright pink, who would answer any stupid question we had, and the signage everywhere was just fantastic – we couldn’t have got lost if we tried. I am so glad I had the experience. Will post pictures soon 🙂

For now, here’s London Bridge with the O-rings – a picture I took on our last day. Just awesome.

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve always prided myself on being self-reliant. For more than 10 years… Nobody needed to take care of me, I could do it myself. I would never rely on anyone else to pay my debts. I am such a strong woman. I take care of everything: the garbage disposal that doesn’t work? I fix it. The hallway light that needs to be replaced? I do it. The circuit that breaks? I take care of it.

And then, I found out today, that my brother’s paid off some of his fiance’s student loans. WTF. Seriously. What. The. Fuck. She got those loans by earning a degree, that her parents should have helped with or prepared her for. But lucky her… she got my br0ther for ‘better or worse’… he’s willing to give her a 2K ring. A 5-digit honeymoon. And apparently some help on her fucking student loans.

I’ve never been needy. I’ve always taken care of myself. I’ve always done what I can for my own. And yet, here I am, alone. Nobody wants me. Nobody loves me. It didn’t matter that I voluntarily paid my own way for anything. I have no-one. There’s no one when I come home. There’s no one to tell me I’m pretty. There’s no one to hold me when I sleep.  There’s no one to wipe my tears away. There is no one that cares about how I feel. There’s no one to love me.

And she… this girl who is 10 fucking years younger than my brother,wh0 couldn’t take care of herself,  gets whatever she wants.

Should I have played the same games of need and want? Honestly, I don’t think I could  have. It would have killed me to pretend to want someone or need someone when I knew I could do it myself.  I thought British was great because he loved me for who I am. Ha ha ha. Big fucking joke that turned out to be.

I would have been better off pretending to be helpless. Look at the Duchess of Cambridge… she did whatever she needed to land a prince.  She waited 10 years for him to propose and she got exactly what she wanted.

I worked hard, I got my masters degree that I paid for (through loans, that I paid back), I bought my own condo with my own money. And what did it ever get  me?  Fucking nothing.  I’m underwater on my mortgage. I’m alone. I’m in my mid-30s. And I have not one damn thing to show for it because I didn’t play the game right.

So here I am. So strong sometimes and so worthless at others. I never wanted it to be with this way. I have had so many guy friends tell me that I am exactly what they want, but they go on to marry and be with the exact opposite. They marry girls that are 20 years younger, that don’t speak the language, that are completely okay with being dependent on them.

So maybe I should have been stupid and willing to take what I could get and not worry about being a strong girl. Cause there seems to be no reward for it.

I’m alone and broken and just wanting to be loved and I can’t find it.

Maybe I should have been the Disney princess who needed to be saved, instead of trying to save myself?


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