The Blunder From Down Under

Just after 9/11, I fell in love with a Seattle girl. We went back to her boat the same night we met—coincidentally, the same boat where her husband had suicided about five months earlier. And, well, we really hit it off. Maybe not love at first sight, but that did come later, of that I am certain.

I was working on a major construction project at the time, and when my contract was complete, I had to return to Australia because of U.S. immigration constraints. I miss her so and those warm, loving embraces. We laughed, we drank some wine, I cooked roast lamb for her friends and children, and we were, like, "as one." We have maintained contact ever since, trying to contrive a situation whereby we can be together again, permanently, as one.

Back here in Australia, however, my wife has been diagnosed with a debilitating liver condition requiring constant medical attention. Just when the U.S. has relaxed its visa requirements for Aussies, I am torn between loyalty to the girl I married and longing for the girl I fell in love with.

What do I do?

Befuddled Down Under

What you do is stay right where you are. Honestly, the U.S. has filled its jackass quota and then some. The last thing the beleaguered women of America need is another philandering schmuck polluting its shores. Believe me when I tell you we already have puh-lenty.

Besides, you're not in love with your American—you two had a vacation fling. Haven't you ever had one of those before? The very thing that brings you together is the fact that you'll soon be apart. Every little nuance is amplified and made more dramatic by the constant looming presence of your impending departure. Boo-fucking-hoo.

All this was made even more theatrical by the fact that your side action had just lost her husband in a most horrific manner (which was a very odd, yet telling, detail for you to include) and it seemed like the world might end at any minute. She needed someone to shtup her through her grief and help her see that there would be life after his death. You did that, and now the kindest thing you could possibly do would be to set her free. Your widowed woman needs an extended involvement with some married douche about as desperately as she needs a hair ball on rye.

And what is this "as one" crap? Are you trying to make me vomit over here? Couples who consider themselves a single entity (I can't even write those words without bile creeping up the back of my throat) are the kind of couples everybody else hates. And not in a we're-so-jealous way, either. You're the simpering ninnies who speak in we-ese (rhymes with disease) and won't ever shut it about how "in love" you are. Gag. I've got news for you, bub: These types of relationships never ever stand the test of time, because along with sending everyone around you skittering for their barf bags, you eventually make each other just as ill.

Obviously, I feel sorry for your wife. She's ailing, and the person who signed on to love her in sickness and in health is a wussy little puker too busy pining over his lost American love to help her get better.

I realize that relationships often end and their dissolutions can occur in inconvenient ways, but yours is a truly stellar example of completely shitty behavior. As a result, maybe your wife would be better off without you. I certainly wouldn't want you around. If that's the case, I suggest you pry your head out of your own ass and come up with a humane plan of action. Make certain she will be OK financially—even if that's inconvenient to you and your skyrocketing long-distance bills. Foot the bill for the appropriate health care providers and ascertain that she has friends and family who'll help take care of her when you go off to live your midlife crisis. Be kind about dumping her, and don't act surprised if most of your mutual friends decide to hate your guts.

As a parting gift, I suggest you buy her a DVD collection of the final season of Six Feet Under. Watching the main character drop dead minutes after cheating on his wife might provide her with some much-needed laughs. Narm!

Dating a douche bag? Write Dategirl at or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

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