Evening, Guvna'

Above what you're reading now, you will no doubt have seen a British flag. It's a bit odd. None of my previous entries have had pictures. I just want to drive a point home with this one.

I'm British. I didn't choose to be British, but according to the British Embassy in Washington, DC, I was registered as a British citizen on October 3rd, 1991. There's nothing I can do about that, but we'll work through it. Together.

I bring this up because in the past year I've faced resistance to this notion. I've had people tell me that I'm as British as a Bolivian Botfly. That might have been from when I had a really bad trip and met Dr. Seuss, actually.

In any case, people have told me that I'm not British because I was born in Fairfax. I can kind of see some sort of diluted argument in there somewhere, but to defend myself, I'll call the aide of a fellow hockey player.



The large human being above is Robyn Regehr, a defenseman for the Calgary Flames. He was born in the Brazilian city of Recife. That's right. Brazil. Robyn has been a steady defensive defenseman for years on the Calgary blueline. So much so that he got the call for his national team at the 2006 Olympics in Torino.

He got an assist during his 6-game stint with Team Canada.

Wait what? Canada? This guy's Brazilian, right?

No. No he's not. He's Canadian. So is his brother Richie (who was born across the globe in Bundung, Indonesia). Both were born far outside of Canada's borders, but somehow they're still true blood Canadians. Could it be because of their two Canadian parents? What a novel fucking idea.

But for some people, this logic doesn't seem to translate over to my own experience. Both of my parents are British, but the fact that I was born in Fairfax suddenly nullifies any tea-drinking, cricket-playing, crumpet-eating Britishness. Is there a sub-rule to this rule? Do my parents need to be missionaries in countries less-developed than their own in order for me to inherit their nationalities?

I think not.

You might be asking yourself why I care so much. It seems like I'm just clinging to some random personal fact to give me something to brag about to a lot of you, I expect. It's not, though. It's pride; patriotism.

I'm proud that I'm British, just as other people in this country are proud of being American. I'm proud that I was raised to appreciate a brand of humor that is seen as hard to understand and high brow. I'm proud that my country has such a rich history filled with all of the romance and intrigue of a cheap erotic novel. I'm proud that, given enough time to decypher it, I can understand Cockney rhyming slang. And yes, I'm proud that, when called upon, I can speak in and sustain accents from all of the different corners of Britannia.

I haven't really gotten around to it, but I've often meant to ask the people who put my heritage into question why they're so insistent on putting me down. Is it really that annoying to hear me go on about it?

I'll remind you of that next time you mention you're half mexican.

The Perfect Girl

Let's get the moping out of the way right now. Sunday was Valentine's Day. I decided to spend this post-three day hiatus entry talking about the aptly named Singles Awareness Day.

Apart from spending it working for five hours, I also spent Valentines alone. For the 18th straight year. It got me thinking when, and certainly if, I'll ever have someone to give chocolates, flowers, and stuffed animals to somewhere down the line when the calendar dictates I do so.

Then I got into thinking who she'd be, what she'd be like, where she'd come from, etc. In between sticking my hands in three or four different kinds of meat, I started to carve out what my perfect girl would be like.

Now, ask any guy to describe the perfect girl and they'll tell you one of three things.

The first thing would be a slew of romance novel adjectives. The guy will list off all of the things you'd expect them too: she's smart, funny, and fun to be around. They might throw in "beautiful" or some form of "fantastic", and all of this may well be true, but it seems to me that people that only list these things off in their descriptions are really just sugarcoating what they truly mean.

"I don't really find her that interesting, but oh my god she's got big boobs."

Crude, I know, but we're talking about guys here. Though some pompous pricks will say that this is just some beaten-to-death cliche girls chatter on about when they hand around in groups of three or more, the male is just not a very complex being. It is true that we think with two completely seperate parts of our bodies, moreso in the area that doesn't actually have any cognitive ability. That much I admit. I can't exactly apologize for it though. It's just kind of how we are. The differentiation lies in how open we are about it.

The second thing is a less veiled form of the "baby got back and front" description. This is the misogenistic douchebag who says that a woman's place is in the kitchen, not speaking unless spoken to, and being generally submissive. There's nothing interesting in that. There's just no personality in submission. Saying that all you want out of a woman is sandwiches and quiet approval is like wearing a giant sign around your neck (or wearing a novelty t-shirt) that says "I fuck on the first date" written across it. For one, it doubles as a crown labeled "The Douchebag", italics and all. For another, the kind of girls you attract with such statements tend to be terrified of being anything more than one-dimensional.

The third thing is flat out admitting that physical features are the most and least, and by extension only, positive things about her. I mean, technically that's what nature diversified them for. Sort of like the petals on flowers, the size of certain physical features act like one of those mosquito lamps that put the annoying little bastards in a trance before zapping the horny out of them. If you can tell me any other advantage to having such natural endowments, other than "instant seat cushions" or "instant back problems" (if you're into constant, unrelenting pain), then you'd probably be the first.

Regardless, they're not exactly a platform for perfection.

I've heard a few other definitions of a perfect girl from several people, a few alcoholics telling me that they're the ones that you can just have a beer with like they were just another one of the guys and one less-than-mature fellow telling me they're the ones that "you know are going to put out on Prom night".

I have a lot of time to think in silence in my job, or at least I do now that I've learned to drown out the same fucking 80s and 90s pop music playlist that plays every single day without fail. I also have quite the imagination, as I'm sure a few of you have discovered. It took me a little bit, but I think I pinned down the truth about the perfect girl.

They just don't exist.

Of course, the same goes for the perfect guy. I mean, there are more than a few guys that I've seen that are smart, witty, and have the bodies of Olympians; Girls drool over them, and then find out that he plays a game called "Fudge Popsicles" with his gardener Esteban on the weekends.

There's something wrong with everyone in the world and it's in how we learn to overcome those imperfections that we learn to love them.


It's bursting out laughing when they start talking with a weird accent or impediment, and having them look straight back at you and laugh just as hard.

It's saying something completely, mind-bogglingly random or downright stupid, quieting the room in the process, and seeing them try to contain laughter as everyone stares.

It's being able tell them anything and everything, and remain in good spirits when they start making fun of you for it.

It's coming home after a frustrating day and lighting up as soon as you see they texted you.


It's the intangibles. You can't define it at all, but there is some element of perfection to be had in everyone.

I've often said that my desire for a girl that is as smart if not smarter than me is going to be the death of me, but I'm positive that in the end it'll all be worth it because at the end of the day I'll still love her for it.