The Fighting Irish: Part II

Picking up where I left off yesterday: I don't think I've ever been so at odds with a person on so many (mostly) trivial issues before--neither one of us could say anything right, and from what I could tell, what follow are the three main things I did wrong. Since Joseph was a ballplayer, I thought the baseball analogy was fitting.

Strike One: I wasn’t jumping at the bit for marriage

In the car on the way to dinner, I asked him about the wedding to be polite. I was expecting something along the lines of “Oh, it was really nice”—what I got instead was a detailed ten-minute rave. I nodded my head vaguely throughout, and then made an innocent remark about the number of acquaintances I had who were getting married in the next year.

Me: Yeah, it seems like everyone and their brother is getting married these days.

Him: Why do you say it like that? Like it’s a bad thing?

Me: Um, well I didn’t mean it’s a bad thing necessarily. There are just a lot of weddings coming up. I guess I’m just nowhere near being ready for that sort of thing.

Him: …

Strike Two: I was in love with the supreme enemy

We never ran out of conversation during our meal, which was heartening. During the course of our little tête-à-tête, Joseph confesses something to me.

Him: You know, I’ve never read a Harry Potter book

Me (in mock shock): You’ve never read a Harry Potter book! That’s un-American.

Him (deadpan): Why is it un-American to have not read an English book?

Me: A British book.

Him: Same thing.

Me (who practically minored in British history): No…

I then take this opportunity to talk about my Anglophilia—how I’ve been to the UK three times,  how much I love London and Tudor history, how side-achingly hysterical I find their particular brand of humor, how mesmerizingly adorable I find their accents. I end my mini-rave with this throw-away statement:

Me: …and I think their system of government is so much better than ours.

Him (looking at me very seriously): I don’t.

Me: (looking at him very bemusedly): Quoi?

Him: I think that it is horrible how they treated the Irish during the Irish Potato Famine.

Commence a full-on FIVE minute rant on the Brit’s treatment of the Irish during the afore- mentioned disaster. I really wish there was someone there to record my facial expressions during this segment of our date, as I’m sure they were priceless.

Sidebar: I later asked my friend, Joey, another Irish-American, if he was still personally offended by the Irish Potato Famine. He said no.

Strike Three: I’m an argumentative bitch who likes uniforms

After dinner, we get in the car and are driving to what I think is the next portion of the date. During this time, Joseph tells me some stories of his experiences at a Jesuit high school out west. Among these was his explanation of the “Great Sock-Off of 2003,” which had something to go with the guys wanting to wear flip flops to school. I stop him right there:

Me: Wait, you didn’t have to wear uniforms?

Him: No.

Me: I’ve never heard of a Catholic school that didn’t require uniforms before.

Him: Well, I was glad; I hate uniforms.

Me: That’s interesting, since you’re a sportsman and all. I mean you wear a uniform on the field…

Him (exasperatedly): Well, why do YOU like uniforms so much?!

Me (thoughtfully): Well…I think that it certainly makes things easier in the morning. I never had to think about what I was going to wear.

Him (emphatically): Neither did I.

Me: Okay, I get that you’re a guy, but you still had to choose a shirt.

Him: Hmph.

Me: And, I think that since we looked more professional, we acted more professionally at school.

Him (heatedly): I think our ninety-nine percent graduation rate onto a four year college proves that we showed up ready to work!

Me: …Dude, not trying to personally attack your school, just giving you my reasons for why I like uniforms…

And she's out!

Very quickly after this exchange it became clear to me that Joseph was driving me back to my cousin’s house. Time elapsed since he picked me up? Exactly one hour.

He gave me a butt-out hug, as if prolonged touching would turn him into a psycho, marriage-hating, uniform-loving Anglophile.

The next month, he unfriended me and blocked me on Facebook. Apparently, my evil powers could also travel over the net. Who knew I had that kind of sway?