Tag Archives: Converstating

He Dropped Me

Standard

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.

 

The Gas Company

Standard

Friday night.

I had no plans.

Ok, that’s not true. I had BIG plans.
I had to go to the grocery store.
I had to fill my car with gas.
I had to read more of the “Game of Thrones” sequel: A Clash of Kings.

Like I said, BIG PLANS for my Friday night.

I got caught up at work, though. And found myself leaving at around 7:30pm which had me arriving a mi casa around 7:45pm.
(Why is this important? Because Mami had picked up Abuela at around 4, which means my house had been empty for around 4 hours.)

When I opened the door, the house smelled like someone had been cooking, but cooking something odd.

I shrugged and went to the kitchen to rinse my empty mug of café.

That’s when I smelled it: Gas.

I glanced at the stove. The burner was on, but there was no flame.

Off went the burner. On went the fan. Open went the doors and windows.

I figured I’d just run to the store and then I’d be fine.

My mistake was calling Mami just to double check…
“GET OUT OF THE HOUSE NOW!! CALL THE GAS COMPANY… FROM OUTSIDE!”

Nothing like an over-protective Cuban mother freak-out to bring drama to a Friday night.

I called the Gas Company. They would send someone out, but could not give me a time frame. Awesome.

To the garage I went and practiced my timbales for an hour. And then read. And texted Mami every ten minutes so that she knew I was fine.

At 9:30 Mr. Gas Company shows up.

He was a strange little man. Very nice, but talked a lot. And fast.

He pulled out his gas detection device (I swear it looked like he got it from the movie Ghostbusters) and got to work.

After having me explain what happened, he mentioned that he couldn’t smell gas anymore. I agreed.

Next he had to check behind the stove… which meant we had to pull it out.

It turned out there was a ridiculously tiny leak that had “probably been there for years.”

And he fixed it within 30 seconds. And was all happy that it was a super easy job. His last job for the night and it was so simple.

As we were pushing the stove back into place, Mr. Gas Company noticed the oven bar was loose so he grabbed his screwdriver and tightened it.

Me: Wow! Thank you! It’s been loose for a while, but I only notice when I’m actually USING the oven and it’s too hot to fix.
Mr. Gas Company: I TOLD you I would impress you.

And he explained that the gas I had smelled would not have hurt me, but it was good that I called anyway, if only because it ended his night on a good note. He handed me “An informational pamphlet… I don’t know.”

The man was cracking me up. Definitely an odd bird… I don’t think he had Asperger’s only because he was able to make eye contact, but maybe at his age he had learned to make some eye contact. Who knows?

He thanked me what seemed like a thousand times and left.

6 minutes later, he knocked on my door.
Mr. Gas Company: Sorry to bother you again. I just wanted to let you know that the gas you smelled was natural gas and it just rises and dissipates so just leave a window open for a while and you should be fine. You have nothing to worry about. It’s just natural gas that rises. It rises and then it dissipates.”
Me: So I don’t have to worry about blowing up tonight?
Mr. Gas Company: Shhh. We don’t like to use that word. But really, it just rises and dissipates. Would it be alright if I saw your drum set?
Me: Sure!

So I showed him my timbales and explained how they were Cuban drums. And made a short little sound on them…
Mr. Gas Company: Shhh! I didn’t ask for a demonstration! I don’t want your neighbors to get upset with you on my account! Thank you though. They are very beautiful. Sorry for the imposition! Thank you! Have a great night!
Me: It’s Friday night. I’m sure my neighbors are fine. Thank you, Mr. Gas Company!

Meanwhile, my mother had not stopped texting me.

Her new stove had arrived, but they couldn’t install it yet.

Mami: When was the last time we texted STOVE pictures back and forth?? All good?
Me: RIGHT? Yeap! Aparentamente the gas I smelled wouldn’t hurt me.
Mami: I didn’t think so, but then I’d hate for those to be famous last words. “I don’t think the gas smell will hurt me….” KABOOM! I’m glad it’s over. Also, I’m going to call you KABOOM from now on.

Just another Friday night Kikitiando con KABOOM.

French or Italian?

Standard

No, not food.

Yes, I love both kinds of food, but I am currently thinking about languages.

I have a list of languages I want to know “one day when I grow up.” I forced myself to stop after 10, but I could easily get up to 20.

Here they are, in no particular order:

  • English – done
  • Spanish – done
  • French
  • Italian
  • Swahili
  • Portugese
  • German
  • Russian
  • Arabic
  • Hebrew

This list is always in my head. (So are the lists of “things I want to do” and “things I want to learn”, but those are lists for a different day.)

As it is with most of the magic that happens in my life lately, Living Social sent me an email.

Considering that for most Language Courses you’re going to spend AT LEAST $100, but likely more in the neighborhood of $200, this really is an amazing deal. Granted, I have no idea how good the course is, but for $25 there’s not much I could lose. So I’ve decided to just go for it. But what language to learn first? French? Italian?

I posed the question of French or Italian to my friends on Facebook and received an almost unanimous response in favor of Italian. For some reason, though. I was not pleased with that response. Que boberría! What is the point of asking people if I am only going to shirk their responses? Then again, if the goal of asking was to help me determine what I wanted to learn first, then I suppose their opinions are less relevant than my ultimate decision, right? Because, in the end, this is about me.

Come to think of it… considering my theme song for the year, I guess it would stand to reason that I learn French first, no?
No WONDER I am leaning towards French!

Besides, I get the feeling that Italian will be a breeze to learn since it is so close to Spanish. Meaning, I can save it for later.

Ok, it’s decided French… I think.

O.D. Churroman and French Toast a lo Cubano

Standard

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.

 

Abuela Duty

Standard

Last Saturday…
Him: I had a dream about you last night. You were very flexible… So, what are you doing tonight? Want to go to Pedrito’s Posada with me?
Me: I’m on abuela duty.
Me (to myself): And I’m not that flexible.

 

On Monday…
Him: What are you doing for New Years?
Me: I think I’m going to Palm Springs.
Him: Who is he?
Me: There is no “he.” Debbie invited me.
Him: How am I supposed to get my New Year’s kiss if you’re in Palm Springs?
Me: You wouldn’t get one. I don’t kiss at midnight.
Him: I’m heartbroken now. It was the perfect excuse to kiss you… What are you doing tonight?
Me (to myself): Staying away from you, it would seem.
Me: I’m on abuela duty.

 

Today…
Him
: I miss you too much already*…. Can I just propose and get it over with? This way you can be around more…
Me: Stop it. Wait… I forgot that it’s Friday**. Yes, go ahead.
Him: I got some chickens, a cow couple of goats and some pigs. I think that should be a good thing to present…. Besides I have been saving myself for marriage and you would be my first. Estoy señorito.
Me: I don’t believe you… about the chickens.
Him: I think your grandma would appreciate that kind of live stock that I am presenting to get you. A few people are coming over for dinner tomorrow, you should stop by. You could even stay the night if you like.
Me: Thanks, but I have family stuff and will be on abuela duty.
Him: You’re always on abuela duty.
Me (to myself): She is the best excuse I have when “I just don’t want to” won’t work.
Me: Yeap.

———————————————-

*Already? I can’t even remember the last time I’d seen him. And this was the first ever that I was hearing about him missing me. Granted, he invites me over all the time, but I rarely go.

**There were three Fridays in September where various individuals asked me to marry them for various reasons. I had shared the stories with this friend of mine, he found it hilarious and tried proposing the following Sunday. I explained I only accept proposals on Fridays so he waited for the next Friday. Today’s story marks the third time he has jokingly proposed. I am starting to worry.

Creepy Work Guy Asks Me Out

Standard

I genuinely believe he is lacking in social skills. That there is something wrong with the way his brain works and that is what adds to his creepiness.

He carries a Batman lunchbox and has somehow made it UN-cool. It takes real talent to make something that is always cool UN-cool. He has that talent.

I have caught him staring at me. With a creepy look on his face.

One day, while making my afternoon café cubano…
Creepy Guy: Kiki, how much time do you spend making coffee every day?
Me: … Would you like to try some?
Creepy Guy: Ok! I was going to ask you to get a drink with me sometime after work, but now we can just have a drink here!
To Myself: *shudder* Thank GOD I didn’t have to deal with that.
Me: HA!

Another time…
Creepy Guy: I love that dress. Did you wear it just for me? Green and black are my two favorite colors.
To Myself: I’m burning this dress the minute I get home.
Me: …
(I really didn’t know what to say.)

And Another time…
Creepy Guy: Hi Kiki! I love your hair like that!
To Myself: I’m shaving it all off the minute I get home.
Me: Thanks.

Last Friday…
Creepy Guy: Nicole! Come here, I want you to witness this. Kiki, will you be my date for the Christmas Ball?
Me: No. *pause* My boyfriend wouldn’t like it.
Creepy Guy: Boyfriend? I heard you were SUPER single.
Nicole: Boyfriend? Really?
Me: Ok, no boyfriend, but no, thank you.
To Myself: Super Single and Super Not Interested. And now I have to find  damned date to this party.

Not So Happy Halloween

Standard

I have no idea what happened.
One minute I’m out dancing having a great time, going home, ignoring a mild headache, eating, and going to bed in the wee small hours of the morning… and the next minute I’m waking up with a pounding headache and can’t keep anything down.
Not even Alka Seltzer.
Not even just water.

And while my body was rejecting the sip of water I had taken, I wondered if my eyes were going to pop out of their sockets because it felt like they might.
They didn’t.
I had to call in sick.
I hate calling in sick, but I haven’t eating since Saturday night/Sunday morning and have yet to drink more than a couple of sips of water at a time.

The good news?
I was able to take the call from an old girlfriend of mine and catch up with her.
It wasn’t until we got off the phone 20 minutes later that I realized how much I’d missed talking to her.
Hopefully, we’ll get together for dinner sometime soon.

Meanwhile, I’ll go back to watching TV so that I can go back to work tomorrow.