WTF?

On June 5th, I replied to Amos’ succinct email with a decidedly non-succinct one of my own. I decided maybe he needed to be drawn out -- laughable, in retrospect. Amos was -- and is -- the King of Bombast, outgoing, energetic, aggressive, a never-shuts-up kind of a fella. There was nothing holding him back if he wanted to be forthcoming. So obviously, something was holding him back. But instead of facing up to that, and just leaving it, I sent him a gushy email. I referenced our conversation about the Seven Deadly Sins -- I said I had looked them up, as he and I had not been entirely sure that night if we had them right. I listed them and made a joke or two about gluttony and sloth. I decided that making one about lust would be too forward. I gushed (read: lied) about the Red Deer Report. I said it was great. I said Brit Balding was "awesome," that Kristi Morning was "refreshing" and so on. I drew on my considerable -- and almost entirely untapped -- wells of insincerity. I flattered and gushed and gushed and flattered and told him I had had "fun" too, and that I hoped he would call me next time he was in Toronto. My email went on and on. I hit "send," and hoped for a similar response.
I was disappointed. I got another short one. It read, "Jane, it’s fun [that word again] to see the list of deadly sins. Thanks for that. Glad you like the Report. Cheers, Amos." Huh? WTF? What? What was going on? Did I completely misread him when he was in Toronto? Or had I done something that turned him off?
I called my friend Camille and ran the whole saga by her -- the panel, the emails, the evening listening to Pierre-Marie O’Reilly talk about privatizing sidewalks, the flirting, the sins, the Tory toadies, Charles Taylor, Sassafraz, and so on.
"So," Camille asked, tentatively, "was that night a date?"
"Well that’s the thing," I said. "I don’t know. I thought it was, but...well, nothing happened. And now he’s all cold and weird."
"Men," sighed Camille.
"Exactly. So here’s what I think I should do. Not answer his email, right? I mean, he didn’t ask for a reply. And I don’t think he should be rewarded for such a cool reply, especially after my friendly, verbose, chipper, warm email, right?"
"Absolutely," said Camille. "Absolutely. Pull back, because he sure has."
So I didn’t answer. I left it. And it was hard. And everyday I checked my messages madly, and there was nothing from Amos. Nothing. Not a thing. I did google him though, and looked at pictures and articles. He was cute and smart, but he took a lot of grief and criticism from mainstream Canadian media. I tried to find stuff out about his divorce, by googling "Amos Loewenstein, divorce," but nothing about his divorce came up. A column he wrote about the Clintons came up, though, and one about the new pope. "Pope Nazi the First," as my mother calls him.
I had pretty much given up, and figured my "date" with Amos would just be another addition to the long list of odd, inexplicable experiences I had had with men. I mean, I knew I would run into him again -- Canada was small, Canadian media smaller and conservative Canadian media smaller still. And I assumed we would exchange cheerful "hellos" and all would be well and whatever had been there would be left unspoken. But still...it felt unfinished. And then, on June 13th, 2005, Amos replied to my email. Here is what his message said: "Dear Jane, Would you like to come on a fact-finding media trip to Israel from July 16th to 25th. If so, let me know quickly -- it’s a great opportunity. Hope to hear from you soon, and really hope you can come along. Cheers, Amos."
WTF?