Tag Archives: breaking up

He Dropped Me

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It was a long day.

I had an early meeting. I had projects to finish. I had projects to start. I had Cuban coffee to drink.

Somehow my boss convinced the VP to go to lunch at my new favorite Cuban place (Bella Cuba) and so what is usually lunch at my desk became two hours of not being at work with the added bonus of the VP mentioning how much “Kiki LOOOOOVES chocolate” (and he wasn’t talking about my eating habits – though how he learned about that I’m not sure because all three people I’ve dated since being at the company have been … *ahem* vanilla).

As I was finally leaving the office, LATE, the wind howled and stole the last drops of café that were in my cup… and proceeded to spray them onto my favorite pair of white pants.

I hurried home to change into a pair of less favorite jeans so that I could hurry to the cd release party of an African girlfriend of mine.

I called an old BFF to make sure he was going. He was. We walked in together, but then an ex of his pulled him away just in time for me to see the ex-girlfriend of an ex of mine. She was absolutely thrilled to see me and demanded we take a picture together. Why not? Now there is a permanent record for me to review and wonder how the hell I ever ended up following an act like hers…

After the picture, I turn to greet a few other old friends and then see the pregnant wife of another ex. Of course, she has no idea of my ex status because when she and I met everyone thought I was with my BFF (when, in fact, it was his roommate I was with… ish). She is super sweet and absolutely adorable, but I get the sense that she’s not entirely thrilled to be pregnant and is worried that her mixed baby is going to come out less-than gorgeous. After hugging her and catching up a bit on her and then on everyone else who has had babies lately and everyone who was about to have babies, I found my old BFF again and we went looking for seats.

He had someone he wanted me to meet and started steering me in that direction. Of course, the friend he wanted me to meet was sitting right in front of the pregnant wife and her husband (my ex).

The break-up conversation that led to this ex becoming my ex was simple, to the point (something along the lines of “Kiki, you deserve better than what I have to offer you right now“), and we stayed friends. Since this was several years ago, certain things shouldn’t bother me, right? Of course, right!

My Ex With The Pregnant Wife: KIKITA!! It’s wonderful to see you! You’re beautiful! Do you know that? Really! You are so beautiful, and you have a beautiful heart and are just an amazing and beautiful person. Have I told you how beautiful you are?
Me: Not today…
My Ex With The Pregnant Wife: Come! Sit with us!
Me (to myself): You have GOT to be kidding me right now.

It was a spectacular concert. And the sound was done by the awesome Cuban guy from my church because the world is really that small and my night wasn’t weird enough.

Meanwhile… on my phone…

Dance Buddy: Hey there sexy lady! What are you up to?
Me: At a concert having a weird moment.
Me (to myself): I’m sorry, who gave you permission to call me “sexy lady”?
Dance Buddy: Oh, sorry to hear that baby! Just imagine I’m there dancing with you.
Me: Ha!
Me (to myself): Baby? Seriously? And this whole time I thought he was gay…

After the concert, but before leaving…

My Ex With The Pregnant Wife: Kikita, you know you need to have a mixed baby.
Me: Yeah, ok. I’ll get right on that.
My Ex With The Pregnant Wife: Why not [your old BFF]?
Me: That will never happen. Beyond not being attracted to him, when I turned 25 and freaked out about getting old, I asked him to be my back-up plan. If I turned 30 and didn’t have any prospects, I asked him to have a kid with me. Of course he agreed, but then we spent the next 6 months discussing baby names and were never able to agree on anything. So, even if I WANTED to have a kid with him, which I don’t, we could never name it.
My Ex With The Pregnant Wife: You are too much. Poor guy. He’s really awesome.

A little while later, some other individual came up to introduce himself to me. We ended up having quite a bit in common, including a penchant for learning new languages. My Ex With The Pregnant Wife  overheard us going from Arabic to English to Spanish and was kind of amazed.

My Ex With The Pregnant Wife (to the new guy): Kikita is an amazing woman. She’s really quite brilliant. Kikita! Have you ever tested for your IQ? She likes to pretend she’s not very smart because she’s blond, but really she is brilliant.

I guess the sales pitch worked because when some of the other girls asked if we could all go to a nearby dance place (which just happened to be my Sunday night hang-out), the new guy was happy to come along. And fearless about dancing even though he wasn’t very good.

My old BFF pulled me aside: Kiki! You have to dance! I’ve told everyone what a great dancer you are!

No pressure.

Luckily, one of my Sunday night buddies was there. He’s a bit odd, but fun to dance with so that’s all that really matters. We were dancing, but joking around a lot, too. Somewhere in the middle of the dance, he dipped me. No one ever dips me, which I understand, there’s a lot of me to dip.

Well, this kid dipped me, and then we kept dancing.
And then the song ended.
And he dipped me again.
And I am not sure exactly what happened…

He might have tripped me.
Or I might have lost my balance.
Or he wasn’t supporting me…

Whatever the reason, I found myself on the ground… sort of.

I really don’t even know how it happened. I was on the ground, so I knew I had fallen (or had been dropped).

But the kid hadn’t fallen on top of me.

And then he did.

And I didn’t think it was possible, but I fell MORE.

And I think we sort of rolled…

And I couldn’t stop laughing.

He dropped me.
He dipped me.
And he dropped me.

I’d never been dropped before…. Well, not LITERALLY dropped.

Obviously, all the exs of the evening had dropped me at some point…. figuratively speaking.

The lesson: You are going to get dropped and even if it doesn’t hurt too much at the time, you’ll still find bruises.

 

O.D. Churroman and French Toast a lo Cubano

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I love churros.

A. LOT.

I used to have a date with myself on Friday nights where I would go to Disneyland for a churro and a coke and then just sit and people watch. Sometimes I’d catch a parade, too. Sometimes I’d ride a ride or two. Sometimes I’d just walk around. But I always had a churro. I went for the churros.

And then I learned that Cuban churros are not the same as the churros that are sold at the Magic Kingdom. They are not as crunchy or as long. They don’t have the same taste. And Cuban churros don’t have cinnamon on them, just sugar.

Plus, you’re supposed to eat them with thick hot chocolate.  You know the saying “We go together like peas and carrots“? Well, in Cuban the saying is “We go together like churros and chocolate.”

Having learned about these churros, I was dying to try them, but here in Southern California they are impossible to come by. The only place to get them is from the kitchen of a Cuban who knows how to make them.

I found myself in Miami for a few days before going to Cuba. And some close friends of mine took me to have my first churros con chocolate in Hialeah. (Basically, it doesn’t get much more Cuban than that.)

Months later, I would be craving them again. So I asked Mami to make them… in August, which (apparently) is just not done.
Me: Mami, can you make churros?
Mami: Churros are a winter thing!
Me: Ok.

Me: I really want churros, but Mami says they’re a winter thing.
A Certan Stubborn Bear that shall hereafter be referred to as O.D. Churroman: She’s right, they’re usually a winter thing, but I’ll make you churros if you want. Nobody’s churros are as good as mine.

Of course, it didn’t happen. O.D. Churroman and I lost touch. Life moved on. And it was winter again. And I asked Mami for churros. And churros didn’t happen. And then Mr. O.D. Churroman showed up again, in January, and I still wanted churros.

He made me churros.
Not just any churros, either.
These were special.
He remembered that I was a lactard (SEE: Lactose Intolerant) and made the churros with Lactaid.
They were the best churros I’ve ever had.

In March, he made them again. And taught me how. And showed me his secret ingredient. And then we burned them.
In September things got complicated and came to an abrupt halt.

I asked Mami to make churros again because I can’t remember the measurements O.D. Churroman told me.
She said she would. And she also told me about an idea she had for Cuban-style French Toast using Crema de Vie (SEE: Cuban Egg Nog) instead of just eggs and milk. It sounded great, but (like the churros) it didn’t happen.

I haven’t made French toast since I was maybe 6 years old and my father was explaining to me how to do it, but I am being BRAVE this year.

I pulled out the Crema de Vie, bread, a frying pan, and I got to work.

“Work” is putting it loosely, it was one of the easiest things I’ve tried to make.

Mami had wanted to make it with Cuban bread leftover from Christmas.
I didn’t have any, so I used sourdough.

I can’t tell you how delicious it was.
Crema de Vie is a winter thing, (especifically Christmas), but if I crave French Toast a lo Cubano in August, I’m going to make it.

The Cuban French Toast definitely helped with my craving, but I can’t help it…

I still want churros.

 

The Roxbury Twins

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When one is suffering from “Freshly Single Stupidity,” there will inevitably be consequences.

Some are worse than others.

If you feel a case of FSS coming on the best thing you can do is: STEP AWAY FROM THE ALCOHOL.

Trust me, you can do stupid all by yourself.

For example, if you are out at a concert and still bummed that you’re not there with a certain special someone who is no longer so special, you may be tempted to just give your number out to … just about anyone. This is not jumping back in with both feet; this is a belly flop into an empty pool.

Now that a new stranger with the most intense eyebrows you’ve ever seen has your number, don’t you wish you remembered his name? Good thing he’s the “text first” type, because the “who is this” stuff is harder to pull off on the phone. I’m sure you really were just excited to find new people to dance with, but next time try dancing with them before you give them your number.

The good news is that you can just ignore phone calls, right? Of course, right.

The better news is that you were so happy to have new dance friends that you told them where you would be dancing a few days later and will most likely run into them.

So you suck it up and are polite. And might realize he’s not such a bad guy, this Eyebrow Man. In fact, he’s kind of funny… Perhaps a little on the short yet gangly side, but funny. And his taller, and rounder, friend is very sweet. Eyebrow Man is a better person sober. You know this because you were sober the night you met him (having learned the FSS + ALCOHOL = BAD lesson early on in life so you didn’t need to repeat that one) and he was very much not sober.

You might notice that you don’t have anyone else to hang out with and have many more hours to wait before the band you came to see is going to start. But, hey! You’ve got new dance friends and might actually enjoy their company! Now you just need to get the to dance… except, they’re eating. No problem! you’ll find other people to dance with in the meantime. You ARE quite the social butterfly, after all.

As far as your dancing goes, you’re having a magical night. One of those nights where people can’t take their eyes off of you. you are in The Zone and having too much fun to care about anything but the music.

Finally, the band starts and Laurel and Hardy (aka Eyebrow Man and friend) found me. It was crowded so it was nearly impossible to do anything but step side to side and move my hips, shoulders, whatever. It was “standing dancing” not dancing with the stars dancing. The kind of dancing that happens when you’ve chosen to be close to the stage. And that’s when I felt it.

The Bump.

The OUT OF RHYTHM Bump.

And then again. *BUMP*

Like I was in a crowded store and everyone was looking for the same thing. Maybe Bump isn’t even the right word… perhaps Jostle is better.

And it happened again.

And again.

And it almost knocked me over.

To say it “threw off my groove” would be incorrect. This Bump did not throw my groove off, it launched me.

It was not with mild irritation that I turned to see who the Bumpers were. They smiled like little kids. They were so happy. They had no idea how ridiculous they looked.

In that moment, I was so sad to be there by myself. I NEEDED someone to witness this moment.
I had just been transported to the Roxbury and I was being danced with by the Roxbury Twins.

I narrowly escaped.

If I ever run into them again, I just hope there are people with me to share the Roxbury experience with.

“Not Bored” got Boring

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I finally asked him if he was bored.

He wasn’t. He said that if anyone should be bored, it was me.

I asked what had happened before when he had gone radio silent. He couldn’t give me an answer.

Too bad, too. Because now, a month later, I’m having deja vu.

Saturday night: Honey, I am not going to make it tonight.

A few hours later: Hey hun, I feel like hell and have an early day tomorrow so you should probably just go home after the thing.

That was a week ago.

I’ve grown bored wondering the why behind it. So, I’m going to a concert tonight and I’m officially available again, though I have no intention of advertising that. I’m going to dance.

(And I’m going to miss him.)

Getting Over It

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So he hasn’t called.
He never not calls.
Any girl who has ever not been called knows exactly what happens next. A total freak-out. It’s where the “psycho-girl” stereotype comes from. Obviously, it’s not our fault. If he would just call, we wouldn’t be feeling crazy.

Here is how any normal girl who is feeling crazy can work to get over the fact he’s not calling and get on with her life:
1. DO NOT CALL.
2. DO NOT CALL.
3. Call a girlfriend instead. Be all the crazy you want at her, she understands.
4. Pick two movies. One needs to be an Action/Adventure/Drama type. The other can be the requisite uber-chick flick.
5. Make sure there is plenty of popcorn and M&M’s on hand for all this movie watching.
6. You have two choices: Either call some girlfriends and go out, or continue to stay home and catch up on Grey’s Anatomy, Private Practice, and Castle.
7. DO. NOT. CALL.
8. Sleep on it. In the morning, you really should be over your craziness (or it should have gone down to a simmer).
9. Go out to lunch with friends who tell you how amazing you look and are.
10. Go for a long walk and take deep breaths.

If one is kikitiando properly, he’ll call the moment you’re over it*.

*When he does call, there is no need to push a “Why didn’t you call?” because he’s calling now and, odds are, if you sit back and wait, he’ll just share about what a horrible couple of days it’s been and how he hasn’t had any free time. It is up to you to decide whether or not you believe it. But remember, we all have those moments.