Infant Brit and I met online. I can’t say that it was love at first sight, given that our first date was on a freeway exit ramp where his car had broken down on his way to meet me. I waited with him for the tow truck and we chatted. He was very British. So British that he had a tattoo of an English bulldog holding a British flag on his bicep and he carried a Ziploc bag of tea with him everywhere he went.
We went out again on a proper date and he charmed me even more. Within three weeks I was beginning to think the word “boyfriend.” Then the unthinkable happened: he was deported. Yes, a second guy I was dating was being shipped back to Europe. (see entry: dearly deported) This would be why I secretly think my life is one of those dreaded romantic comedies.
For three months while he attempted to have his work visa renewed, he called me every day. He even offered to buy me plane tickets to England to see him. This, finally, was my whirlwind international romance!
And then he came back.
I was thrilled, thinking finally I had met a wonderfully nice, normal guy that actually liked me. We went out to dinner his first night back followed by drinks with my best friend where he immediately insulted her about her impending divorce.
This was a bad sign.
My friend told me to give him a second chance, even though his behavior around her was appalling. She blamed jet lag.
Infant Brit had no shame for his comments. He simply shrugged and said “I’m British.” He did, however, dislike my resentment and attempted to make it up to me by getting highly intoxicated. As in falling down drunk. I had to carry his hefty British butt out to a cab.
We went to my house where he promptly crawled into the bedroom and passed out on my bed with his shoes on. This was not the romantic, running-through the fields with passion in our eyes reunion I had envisioned.
Tired and somewhat bitter, I fell asleep next to him.
Sometime later I heard a sound. It was odd, like I had left the tap running in the bathroom. Then I felt something wet on the back of my arm. I rolled over to see that Infant Brit has stripped off all of his clothes and was urinating on the headboard, the wall, the bed, and of course, me.
It took me a minute to comprehend that a slightly pudgy, naked, European was actually marking his territory on my wooden headboard. Was this really happening? Was the charming boy who insisted that my tea collection was substandard standing up in all his glory and urinating on me?
Yes, yes he was.
I immediately punched him in the leg and screamed “What are you doing?”
“Wha?” he said, still in a charming accent. “I’m out back.”
“Out back of where?!?”
He chuckled drowsily, saying again he was out back and with a fart, proceeded to lie down in the puddle of urine and snore.
I showered and spent the rest of the night on my couch. We did not work out.
Lesson learned: Any boy over the age of two should not be urinating on you, ever. Add to my list of requirements for dating: potty training.