The British Are Coming!

Where was the midnight rider on the eve before my British friend landed at LAX! Oddly enough it was in the month of April that Paul Revere saddled a horse and warned his fellow citizens of the British. It’s 2006 and not 1775. I had the last two weeks of April to tell my friend, Mr. British, that his intended stay was too long. But, I felt so uncomfortable with having to tell a 'friend' straight that I kept sliding away from taking responsibility on controlling his visit.

How it Happened

I met Mr. British near Paul Revere's house in Boston over four years ago. I was in the middle of one of those I need to totally kick my ex-boyfriend to the curb, get independent and travel the world phase. I traveled solo from Chicago to NYC, Boston, London, Oxford, Paris, Chartes, LA/OC within a two-month time span.

On Thanksgiving Day, Mr. British and I had breakfast together at the Boston Hostel. He had asked to borrow my milk and in exchange I could have some of his cereal. I let him take as much milk as he wanted and I declined the choice of his cereal, which was one super large unsweetened organic mini-wheat. The mini wheat filled the entire cereal bowl.


It was over breakfast that Mr. British made a confession to us that he had traveled to Boston and proposed to a Harvard medical student. They had been emailing another for the passing of a few years and they had taken a couple of quick trips. He had bought two tickets to Niagara Falls followed by a flight to Florida for the weekend on acceptance of his proposal. She said no and didn't want to speak to him again. He sat watching the Macy day parade play loudly in the dining room after he was done speaking.

I never expected to hear from him again because he was so smitten by the blonde journalist sitting beside me. As a far well gesture, we exchanged email address and we all went our own way.

A month after I returned back to my lofted apartment in Chicago, I received a email addressed to the blond journalist that had been sitting next to me in Boston. Mr. British had enclosed a poem that he had written and he was seeking a critique of his work. Well, he didn't get the journalist, he got me. I went ahead and sent him feedback. We exchanged a few emails and that was it.

A few years later, I move to Cali in search of the good life. I update my address information by using bebo. Mr. British responded and I was surprised that he remembered me from the hostel. Actually, he didn't but in some strange way life had us fated to become pen pals. We wrote each other all the time and I enjoyed having a cross-Atlantic poet to send my emails. Though, I never sent him ideas about my work because I'm too quite about my working process for that, I did enjoy learning about British eBay, London shopping secrets, and Beatle inspired stability-ball workout moves. Most often I thought he was a really cool guy and I appreciate that Internet pen pal connection. Ah, the Internet! It is so easy paint the truth and spread the beauty of fiction.

In April, I had casually mentioned in an email that it would be great for him to stop by in OC sometime if he was ever in the area. Five days later, he booked a two-week trip that included staying at my house. I think Edward Albee was standing behind me with goosebumps and chills because of the drama. In fact, he booked his stay without a car! Holla! It’s LA! I convinced him to rent a car and I asked him where he was staying but he ignored that question. I was starting to get nervous. I had suspicions that things weren't going to go that well.

The Arrival & Stay

He was three hours behind schedule when he knocked on my front door. Standing in front of me was a stranger. In all the pictures he had sent, I had not seen this image. His eyes frightened me more than anything. Despite that I wrote a specific email stating that his visit was only in terms of our friendship, I could see his wheels clicking. He walked into the dining room where my mother and sister were waiting to meet him and he took off his brown hiking boot pulled a can of foot deodorant from his bags and sprayed so much of this fowl spray into his shoes that it left a thin haze inside the house. Things were already going bad.

On the whole, his visit was abhorrent. I really couldn't stand to recount it all. I never knew that having a guest so could be so bad. He not only made several passes at me but at my sister and her best friend. And most of his passes included offering foot massages. I caught him several times staring directly at my feet in strange circumstances like when my four year old nephew was singing with his class to family and friends for Mother's day. Yuck!

There were also the notes that he stuck to my door every morning as I slept. I thought they were notes that he needed to put into his poetry notebook. I wouldn’t read his notes but I’d give them back to him. He insisted that I read them so I could understand what was going on inside his head. Yet, when I started on one note about “touching” and “wanting to touch inside you” and “the touch of your soft skin under my lips.” I knew it was time for someone to check out. I had expected more of Mr. British because he a lawyer in London and his family owned a private plane and an 18-foot yacht in Dorset. Doesn't that tend to mean he understand etiquette? We all know the answer to that one.

How could this Brunette have let so much slip out of control? Being nice can kill you and it was time for etiquette to be thrown from the window. I could feel my horns growing and my claws sprouting.

The Departure of Mr. British

In the four days that Mr. British had been on holiday, he was in a terrible habit of attempting to corner me. I managed quite well to avoid it, even using my dog as the excuse for so many things, until it got to the point where I couldn’t. At least, he asked to speak with me uninterrupted in the patio garden. Where else would an Englishman want a heartfelt chat?



The roses were in full spring bloom, the white lilies had yet to be wilted by the sun, and a serene breeze was circulating the scent of California sage. Like the Monet garden painting, there was an unromantic light of hard shadows and awkward symmetries that brought out the alienation and loneliness of the day.

My sister had attempted to save me from this moment by insisting that I mix up cosmos martinis for the pool. But, after the drinks were poured, Mr. British insisted on a few moments with me alone. I sat with my cosmos and watched my sister walk away.

During the course of our little chat, I told him four times that we were friends and I wasn’t interested in him. At first I thought that was all this chat was about. But, being a friend, despite being terribly put off by all of his behavior, I had a sense of urgency to tell him that his romantic ideals were preventing him from experiencing many things. Of course, a good cosmos can make most words fall out with importance and meaning (hey, every brunette likes a good pink drink and a chat-that’s why we’re brunette). Now putting aside what I’m going to be posting about, I told him long distance relationship never work. Mr. British complained that all of his relationships have been long distance. Ah! I said that’s why none of them worked for you. I even walked back in the past to the Harvard medical student that he had proposed marriage to. Had you lived in the same town as her? No. Had you spent any real time with her other than quick and glamorous vacations? No. Nothing, Mr. British, was ever real about that relationship. I got heated, maybe a little from the booze, when I started to tell him to stop meeting girls outside the country and think locally. Mr. British complained that he couldn’t meet anyone in his city because it was seen as being as interesting. That’s part of your problem, Mr. British! I told him how I had heard the writer S. Browne speak at a conference about everyone’s rush to couple-up. Why rush, S. Browne spoke, get to know yourself! It’s okay to be single!

Mr. British, I say, romantic ideals kill love before it ever arrives.


I believe my entire four-year relationship with Mr. British culminated in that garden chat. He left the next day for San Diego and I sent him an email that told him I was sick. He made plans to travel up the coast. I got emails from him about his escapades in the town outside of Heart’s Castle where he got drunk in bars and danced with German girls. Nothing may have changed for Mr. British from our chat, but I could see my own character arc. I had stopped being a Mr. British and I’d let the world move me in whatever direction it would take me.

The scent of summer was in the air.