I just spent the loveliest weekend with a British girl named...
Give me a second, it’ll come back to me.
My brother Ted invited her to the U.S. for the week because he was feeling a little blue about the finality of his Christmas dump fest. He and the woman became friends years ago during his pre-college stint in Europe—which, incidentally, my parents funded, along with a welcome-home Nissan Pathfinder, rent expenses and tuition for golf school.
Know what my parents funded for me? One-third the cost of a piece of shit, rusty Subaru, circa 1972. One-third! It couldn't make it up hills!
Wait, where was I? Ah yes. Catherine. The British chick’s name was Catherine.
Ted invited her to the good ole US of A so he could get to know her better (i.e., see if he wanted to have sex with her). Why he couldn’t have met someone at a bar and come to a similar conclusion is beyond me. Then again, I'm the kind of person who settled for a Subaru with a hatchback that didn't close all the way. Of course I'd think parochially.
By day four, Ted decided that no, he didn’t want to schtoop Catherine. According to him, she talked too much, and interpersonal relations were like “humping a cardboard box.” So sweet. He also decided that he didn't feel like taking her on the whirlwind tour of New England he’d promised, so he brought her to our house.
Because nothing screams “I’ve seen America” like boarding with a tired married couple, a train-on-the-brain toddler and two obese cats in Mulletville.
Poor, poor girl.
Amazingly, she made the best of it. While my brother slept
she oohed and ahhed over Junior’s Thomas the Train collection (she’s British, she loves that stupid train), watched every trash TV show she could find (Kendra, Housewives of Orange County and Jersey Shore) and asked if she could take a “proper” shower (which I learned involves washing your hair).
She also ate like a horse. In two days we ordered pizza and Chinese three times and made multiple runs to Krispy Kreme. She couldn’t get enough donuts. She ate six in one sitting. An hour later, she was torn about being too full to try the six assorted donuts left in the box, so she took a bite of each one.
The crazy part is that it all went to her boobs. All weekend she wore a tight black t-shirt with pink hearts on each breast; by the time she left, the hearts were the size of footballs. Chuck was like a giddy school girl. Even I couldn’t stop staring.
And Junior? Junior was in love.
Within five minutes of meeting her, he'd invited her up to his bedroom to see his Thomas the Train bed. By Sunday, she’d seen it 12 times and he was calling her his “big girl friend.”
I was a little sad when she left. Could she be our British nanny? Could she forgive us for the fop that is my brother? I mean, what the hell, Ted? You bring your British fling to our house, and we’d all bonk her. Can't you take one for the team?
I can’t keep going on like this. When do I get to ride in a Nissan Pathfinder?
About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.