Rules of Engagement

This week was an interesting one at work; we had a three day training led by some of our American colleagues over from our Texas offices.  So, woah, total collision of cultures.  Ironically, I was supposed to take my life in the UK test to qualify for my Indefinite Leave to Remain status (Or; if you’re American: green card), but had to cancel it.  (Of course, I had already had to cancel it once as I foolishly scheduled it for a Saturday morning after a work event with open bar.) 

Tsk, tsk.  

Really, I should have known that while, taking the test with a raging hangover would most definitely make me qualified to live in the UK, the official view remains that I have to know what percentage of the population of the UK is black-asian and what year women got the vote.  These are facts that one cannot just wing (or; if you’re British, “blag.”  See, why do I need that test anyway?).   But, I digress.

So, here I am in an audience of all Brits and me, watching some VERY American style corporate training.  I am not even sure I can put it into words, but, let’s just say that all those Brits now know what the phrase “drink the Kool-Aid means.”

And, no, they didn’t know what it meant or what Kool-Aid was before.  I guess it is just Americans who add artificial colors, flavors and chemicals to sugar to make a powder that we add to water to feed to children.  Actually, come to think of it, my old Aussie flatmate (wait, read that as old flatmate who was an Aussie not some Australian geriatric lady that I live with.  That would just be creepy.) But, anyway, she pointed out, while I was unpacking all the groceries I had brought back from Texas (read: smuggled past customs) it was all powdered food.  Yes, I liked my Crystal Light, Good Seasons’ zesty Italian dressing, cream gravy, ranch dip packets of goodness.  But, sadly once I realized what I was actually putting in my body, the idea of a bunch of powdered chemicals seemed a bit weird as I wasn’t actually combating gravity or facing a lack of storage space to carry actual food.  No, sadly I am not an astronaut.  Turns out, the wonders of Tang-like products are actually unnecessary.

In any event, the Brits were pretty horrified by the gung-ho, pep- rally, “how great is our job!  Our company! Our training!” training.  And, yes, I was equally jaded (note that is American jaded, not British jaded, which is, yes, shock, surprise, another word for hungover).  My own skepticism, carefully cultivated from 5 years of living in London, made me equally disillusioned. 

But, sure enough, after three full days of indoctrination, even the Brits were drinking the Kool-aid.  And, when we all got to present our final presentation, everyone embraced the humorous side, dressing in costume, singing, and being generally silly.  Pretty much the way that they would all look after 12 pints of beer.   Victory for the Americans, right?

Well, not so much. 

Because, sure enough, some dude thought he really was down at the pub after 12 pints and started telling jokes. 

About the trainers’ premature ejaculation and whore houses. 

Cue American shock and horror.  And, suddenly I am right back there waving the flag for the Americans.  Um, hello?  NOT appropriate.

So, maybe this whole British conservatism isn’t such a bad thing. Kinda reminds me of that old Eddie Murphy joke about the quiet women being the most dangerous.  You know, because all women have skeletons in the closet and the women who are quiet are only keeping their mouth shout because they are afraid a bone is going to come flying out!  I mean, think about it.  A sex scandal in the States is an extramarital affair.  A sex scandal in the UK is a member of parliament dressed in a Nazi uniform with hookers.

I think we must just have very different rules of engagement.  We Americans like to treat our jobs like they are vocations, a marriage of values and a paycheck. 

And, the Brits?  Well, let me point out that Friday is called Poet’s Day.  Which, stands for Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. 

Rumor has it, a VERY senior person at my company has started pulling security logs on Fridays to see who actually shows up at work.  (Let’s hope he doesn’t pull the times or I am screwed.  I am notoriously late on a Friday.  Well, actually, every day.  On Fridays it is just less noticeable, particularly as I am wont to sneak in at lunchtime as if I had just popped out for a sandwich!)

We Americans get two weeks’ vacation a year.  The Brits?  Well, 4 weeks is considered a “bad benefits package.”  Luckily for me, I have 5 ½.   And, as I am a slave to my travel addiction, that is perfect for me.

Unfortunately, the downside of all this is that salaries don’t rival the US.  So, while I have all this vacation time, I don’t really have the cash to use it.   But, I am American.  I have credit.

And as any one who knows me will point out, I live like Mastercard is my paycheck.  So, the fun continues – next stop, Morocco.  Suitably attired in Jimmy Choos, natch.

Some day it is going to catch up to me (read: the credit limit is exhausted), and as my dad is fond of saying, I will have to pick up my toys and go in.  But, until then, I am going to be a skeptical, pint-swilling, vacation taking, credit card living, non-offensive joke telling, Texan-Britishy person. 

I am a Texish person.  And, those are my rules of engagement.