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Excuse me sir, are you randy?
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Let me start out by saying that although my passport claims that I am American, I grew up in the Foreign Service and lived all over, including in a British colony. I also spent some time in London, where I had an English boyfriend. Words in “American” sometimes have very different meanings in “British” English.
So there I was, one hot night in September in San Francisco at my American friend Tom’s apartment for a dinner party, to celebrate the arrival of Tom’s wife’s brother from Virginia. This was in the eighties, so you know, any excuse for a party! The wife was supposed to pick him up from Union Square; which was right down the street from the apartment, where he was to have taken a train from the airport. It was at this time that the kitchen pipes decided to spring a rather sizeable and dramatic leak, and pandemonium ensued. There were already several guests already at the house. Tom, in a panic, asked me if I would just walk down to the square and meet his brother in law, so he could deal with the exploding pipe situation. I of course agreed, and as I was going out the door, I asked “by the way, what is his name?” Tom replied “Randy-you can’t miss him, about 5′11 medium brown hair, and he’ll have luggage.”
So off I went down to Union Square. It somehow slipped my mind that there is a huge taxi stand in Union Square, and there were dozens of non- descript white males tourists there that fit the description, that were dragging luggage behind them. Also, it should be noted, that this was the 80s, and it was one of the rarest of evenings in San Francisco-meaning a hot one, and I was dressed in my appropriate 80’s party clothes for a summer evening (scant dress, big hair, disco ball earrings, lots of makeup.) I suddenly realized that I had neglected to ask what was Randy’s LAST NAME, so that I could at least approach people and say “Excuse me sir, but are you Mr. ______?”
I was then in the position of walking up to the first gentleman that looked like he fit the description, and asking him, with a big welcoming smile on my face, “Excuse me sir, are you Randy?”
. . .
The horror of what was just uttered from my lips hit me, and I looked at the guy, and started laughing uncontrollably. Hysterically. Like. A. Hyena. And then I ran and hid behind the potted palm in front of the hotel.
For those of you that aren’t following this, in British English, “randy” means “horny”. (As in “don’t go out with that bloke-he is totally randy”).
I couldn’t get it out of my mind that I was approaching perfect strangers and asking them, in my tarty 80s getup, IN THE MIDDLE OF UNION SQUARE at 8 o’clock on a Saturday night, if they were horny. Well, this guy was not Randy. He probably was not even randy, considering that he was being accosted by some apparently crazy chick with disco ball earrings. And neither were the 4 or 5 other men that I approached. Even after spending a few minutes collecting myself, what can I say, I just could not maintain! Each time, I tried, oh lord jesus, I tried to look serious, and keep a straight face. And every time, I only got through the first syllable “Excuse me sir, are you Ran….. (snicker)………are you Ran………Rannnnndd………..BWAHAHAHAHA!” and then I would run behind a marble pillar and berate myself for not maintaining. Since all the guests at Tom’s house (ok, including me) had been imbibing in copious amounts of herbal supplements for at least an hour before the pipes burst, I suddenly started getting paranoid that with the time of night, and my outfit, that men were probably thinking that I was soliciting them for prostitution, I would surely end up arrested and in jail, disco ball earrings, and all. And how in the hell was I going to make the long distance telephone call to my dad, who was now posted to Rome, that I was busted for solicitation and needed someone to bail me out? This was before the days of the cell phone!
So, what did I do? Did I brave it out for the sake of my friendship with Tom? Did I manage to “buck up” and finally find the stranded “Randy”?
Hell no! I did not! I ended up taking a cab back to my apartment, passing out, and cowardly calling Tom the next day.
Sadly, this was the beginning of the end of our friendship, as alas, he did not grasp the irony of the situation.
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August 14th, 2008 at 8:41 pm
Ah that’s just a classic. Kinda sad ending, but i’ve felt the same a few times before.
Reminds me of my first day of school in canada, grade 7. Growing up in the middle east, we called erasers “rubber”. Apparently rubber meant condom in this side of the world, so when i asked the girl beside me, “do you have rubber on you?” she stared at me for a few seconds, trying to let that sink in.. Yeah. I mean, the fact i was filipino but grew up in the middle east and studied in an international school with a bunch of other asians, europeans and arabs was weird enough for her already. Now asking her for rubber when we’ve only met a couple of hours prior to that was, i suppose, overwhelming. Anyways, i did the (i think) universal charade motion for rubber/eraser and she went “ooh” and let me borrow (or as they said it in calgary, loan) hers.
I didn’t know until a few months later that rubber meant that (meaning i asked for rubber instead of eraser more than once), and i still remember her face to this day. It was, indeed, priceless.
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August 16th, 2008 at 5:32 pm
LOL Margo,
I was laughing so hard when I read your story. Like Kristine said, it’s said that the friendship ended but omg I could see you laughing so hard and trying to maintain it at the marble pillar.
I am reminded of the word “Let’s table it” which has different meanings in British and American English.
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August 16th, 2008 at 5:38 pm
Kristine, that’s just really really bad. haha
Here’s a story about Korean teenagers. One girl was new to this Korean middle school and she was greeted by another girl who asked “Iban iya?” which in the school setting will be without doubts translated as “Are you (in) class 2?” (referring to the classroom number)
The new girl answered yes because she is assigned to classroom 2 and is invited to this gathering of ibans. Now the new girl gets confused.
And here’s the explanation to this story.
Iban is also known among teenagers as “lesbian.” So actually the question could also be translated as “Are you a lesbian?”
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August 16th, 2008 at 10:34 pm
That story is hilarious…and how can you go wrong with glitter ball earrings as well? I wish I was there crying/ laughing with you…
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August 16th, 2008 at 11:07 pm
Flippin’ hysterical, Margo, and, wow, what a good writer you are…and Kristine, oh! I feel for you in that original situation! Miyon, arggh! Open mouth, insert foot…and part of what is so priceless about each of these stories is the ‘huh?’ moment, the people in each setting thinking, “what!?”… with you (or others), on the opposite end, in all your innocence…
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August 18th, 2008 at 8:44 pm
HAhaha yeah right? It’s hilarious, from a bystander’s point of view; being in it, not so much. At least, not when it’s happening. I suppose at time passes, you just get over it and laugh.
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October 3rd, 2008 at 2:02 pm
Margo, your story is hilarious!
I know we all had experiences where we felt stupid because we didn’t know how things were to be said - in our own passport country, where we look like everyone else, but never quite fit in. I have no stories as good as yours, but I did feel very embarrased when I was a teenager, in a car full of teens, and I was expected to give everyone’s order at a drive-in restaurant. One kid wanted french fries, and he was the only one, so I said loudly into the box, “One french fry!” and everybody cracked up! That was decades ago, but the embarrasment sealed the event securely in my memory. I also remember when I learned the embarrassing way that when you notice a friend’s hair is shorter, unlike in Thai, you do not ask “Oh, did you cut your hair?” because the answer (preceded by a snort) will be, “No! I HAD it cut!”
I think for us TCKs, the need to fit in wherever we are is such a part of our survival strategy that when we make a language or cultural blunder, we are very embarrassed and have a hard time just blowing it off. At least I know I am like that. Still am. I now work at a hospital in the U.S, and if my co-workers are laughing over some joke or comment that I honestly don’t understand, I am too proud to ask them for an explanation. I just chuckle like I think it’s really hilarious too. What a silly old fool I am!
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