Tag Archives: men who stare

YOLO

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You. Only. Live. Once.

It’s a mantra for those of us being BRAVE this year. (And by “us” of course I mean “me”)

I went out for Dim Sum with some people from work, “Kikita, would you like to try chicken feet?”

Bring it.

 

I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to ride on the back of a motorcycle.
I made it happen.
It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time.

I’ve wanted to have braids in my hair forever. Not corn rows, just braids. I thought I could rock it, but was worried because some white people look REALLY STUPID with them.

There was only one way to find out…

I bought the hair.

I made the appointment.

I sat.

And sat.

And sat.

And then I was done.

I have braids now.

 

My family HATES them. My mother was very diplomatic. She said she loves the braids, she just doesn’t love them on me. My sister, however, said they look horrible on me and she hates the color and I look bad and she proceeded to stomp around.

Most of my man friends love them. A couple asked that I not call them until I take the braids out and go back to being myself.

One idiot went so far as to say, “Why don’t you leave braids to black girls?”

I love them. I love the color of brown. I love how the blue pops and the purple blends. I love how I can tie them in a knot.

I was not ready for how much attention they would bring. It has taken some getting used to. Everywhere I go, eyes are on me. That alone would make me think twice about getting them again. The other reason was just sitting for 8 hours was brutal.

Yes, I can wash them. That was an adventure in itself. I’ve learned that I have quite the sensitive scalp. The moment the water hit the exposed places on my scalp, I got chills. They didn’t stop. It was wild. And DRYING my hair… It’s been two days and my hair is STILL wet. ūüėČ ¬†(Ok, that’s not true, but I swear it took a long time)

If I HAD looked like an idiot (which I don’t think I do), hey, it’s just hair…

Besides, YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE!!

The Speed Date

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Once upon a time, many years ago… I was getting ready to go out dancing.

My girlfriend had turned on the tv and it was then that I saw my very first CSI: Miami episode ever.

It was Season 3: Episode 8 “Speed Kills”, a story about speed dating gone awry. It was the first time I had ever heard of speed dating and was fascinated by the idea. Granted, I decided I was too young to be speed dating, that it was something that people with “real careers” did.

It came up again when the movie “Hitch” came out and there was a scene of speed dating, but I was still not quite “old enough” to be resorting to such measures with my singlehood. Regardless, it looked rad.

Enter Groupon.com.

For $20 (instead of the regular $44), I was given the opportunity to finally attend a real speed dating event!

Plus, I finally have a “real” job (SEE: impressive) and am old enough to not feel like a bimbo.

Of course, while I am a professional when it comes to doing things alone, I thought the whole experience would be heightened by having another girlfriend there with me. Unfortunately, I have a shortage of single girlfriends. (Well, single girlfriends that I think would be fun to go speed dating with, that is.)

However, I was able to convince a girl from work to join me. We carefully planned our outfits. We decided dresses were more appropriate than pants. So I wore a long dress of hot pink paisley on a white background (it looks way hotter than it sounds) with perfectly matched heels and jewelry. We had also decided a bit of “pre-game” was essential (aka a shot of Wild Turkey, no I don’t know why we chose that, but we did).

As we entered the bar where we would be speed dating, we were given a score card and a number. The number would let us know what table we would be sitting at for the duration of the event. The score card was to help keep track of the gentlemen callers who would be stopping by our table.

We arrived just early enough to get a drink before the hosts led us all to our tables.
My girlfriend’s table was as far away from me as possible.
My table was actually an open booth on a step with it’s own chandelier… basically, I looked like I should’ve been wearing a tiara as the queen of the event. I was thoroughly amused by it all and ready for my first date.
Asian.
Beyond that, all I really remember is that he seemed nervous and was thoroughly interested in my love for cigar smoking.

Date #2: Obviously Latino. Mmm, my drink was delicious. He was an underwriter which I mentally interpreted as “lots of money, but can’t spell.” He lived super close to me. He was obviously interested.

Date #3: Asian.

Date #4: Asian. I didn’t get to finish telling him about how great cigars are.

Date #5: Break time! There were more women then men, so I got a breather… and another drink.

Date #6: Late arrival. Black guy.

Date #7: How many frakking “Billys” are there at this thing?

Date #8: Break time again! Phew! Time to text people and tell them how freaking fun this is.

Date #9: So… what kind of Asian are you?

Date #10: More breaking! Oh good! Texting!

Date #11: Holy cow! You’re HOW old? Don’t look at me like you like me. You’re old enough to be my father.

Date #12: Lemme guess… Flipino? (shoot! I hate O.D. Churroman and his use of racial slurs! And I hope homeslice over here did not hear it.)

And then it was over.

The Latino immediately came over and offered to buy me a drink. “Sure!” (Of course, I should have followed him to the bar to make sure he did not slip anything into my drink, but this was a private event in the O.C., the odds were in my favor.) While he was getting me another drink (the better to seduce me with), one of the gals came over to sit with me and chat about the event. Then my girlfriend came over. I was walled in by women so when the Latino Drink-Getter came back, he had to sit at the end of the booth and attempt to charm me from afar.

My girlfriend was ready to go, so he followed us out and asked if I’d like to meet at a bar near where we live. “Sure!” (Of course, I should have told him some other time, but I was caught up in the fun of the moment. Besides, he seemed harmless enough.)

I met him at the bar. He drove a very nice car. I switched to water. We chatted for about an hour about everything… He used to be a Marine. For some reason, he started quoting Jack Nicholson’s “You Can’t Handle the Truth” monologue from A Few Good Men. I laughed in an appreciative, “Hey! I know that movie!” way, but he didn’t stop.
HE. DIDN’T. STOP.
He did the WHOLE MONOLOGUE. –¬†Strike 1, sir.

He walked me to my car and asked, “What? No good night kiss?”

I proceeded to lecture him on how any potential for a good night kiss had just been ruined by asking. He interrupted my lecture and kissed me. (Not bad, but I’ve definitely had better.)

I thanked him, said it was lovely to meet him, and good night.

He asked, “That’s it then?”

Me: Umm… yeah. It’s late. I have to work tomorrow. Oh, and I. JUST. MET. YOU.
Him: Can I come over?
Me: No. Are you kidding? NO.
Him: Ok, do you want to come to my house? I live right down the street…
Me: No. I’m going home. Good night.

I left. And quickly.

Multiple text messages and a phone call later, I was finally able to sleep.

The next morning, the texts started again.

Was I available for lunch? Dinner? A quick coffee? Dinner tomorrow?

I was busy.

Midnight: Was I awake?

The following day I explained that I don’t like when people message me late at night. His response: Could I escape work for a quick coffee? ¬†What about dinner after work?

I get an email from the Speed Dating people.. I have TWO matches! TWO people thought I was cool enough to see again.

The really old guy.
And one of the Asians.

Not the Marine who was trying so hard to see me again.

Strike 2.

Saturday night, Midnight: Would I like to go to breakfast the next morning? If I said no, then he would never call again.

I politely reminded him it was Easter and then silently kicked myself for responding. For some reason, I felt like I should give this poor guy a chance… he HAD served our country, after all.

He didn’t see a problem with it being Easter.

And, really, there are plenty of people I would happily get up and go to breakfast with, none of them are so pushy, though. I don’t like being pushed. Strike 3. Latino is out. (And thus endeth the one last chance I was giving Mexicans.)

Yay! Speed dating!

Truth be told, I would SOOOOO do that again (without the after-party-for-two-at-another-bar scene, though). ūüôā

Not My Baby

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An (African) Ex: How are you, my sister?
Me: GREAT! How is your beautiful baby daughter?
Him: My daughter is as cute as can be!
Me: I can’t wait to meet her!
Him: Come over! She looks more like you than me.

Ummm… Yeah, I guess so…

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Check Please!

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I was out to lunch with my sister, mami, and mami’s in-laws. Since mom didn’t have cash, she asked me to have the waiter give us a separate check.

Me: Can you give us a separate check?
Him: Only because you’re so beautiful.
Me (to myself): I don’t care about your reasons so long as you’re making it happen.
Me (to him): Thank you!

Later…
Him (to MY MOTHER): Suegra, I just wanted to introduce myself. I actually thought you were her sister.
(For those non-Spanish speakers, “Suegra” means Mother-In-Law.)

And then he brought me Kevin for dessert…

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The Art of the Ninja

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When one is a creep magnet, it is probably a good idea to know how to kick a creep’s ass (or at least how to make a quick getaway) should the occasion ever arise. Odds are that simply having the knowledge will help to de-magnetize one from creeps and will never actually have to use such knowledge, but still… a golden goddess can never be too careful, right?

Besides, what could be more Kikita than becoming a ninja?

Luckily, my friend, The Ninja, was willing to spend an hour with me and show me the basics.

First we spent about 30 minutes watching YouTube videos so that I could take a deeper look into the world I was about to step into.

I was amazed.
And super excited.

My friend, The Ninja: If you really decide to take this seriously and go for it, look at where you can go.

Where we went was to a nearby park.

And I learned the basics.

My friend, The Ninja, seemed a little surprised that I was such a willing student.

My friend, The Ninja: I could teach you how to roll, but most people learn that on a mat first.
Me: Oh? Not on slightly damp, leafy, uneven ground covered in twigs and rocks?
My friend, The Ninja: Exactly. So if you would rather skip that…
Me: Hell no! I am learning how to roll.
My friend, The Ninja: I like your attitude.

So I learned how to roll like a ninja.

Of course I got bruised.

And covered in leaves.

It was glorious.

Maybe it sounds a little clich√©… (ok, maybe it sounds REALLY clich√©), but I felt like I “got it.”

There’s so much more to it than just learning moves.

It’s about balance.
Physical Balance.
Emotional Balance.
And, yes, Spiritual Balance.

I felt so lucky to be a student of this ancient art form out at a park… it almost felt like I was more centered and grounded because of it.

As we were leaving the park and I was processing what I had just been through, an old man walked up to us and asked if we had been practicing yoga. He was holding yellow prayer beads¬†and had an accent that I couldn’t place until he said, “There is an old French proverb … Vie¬†des jeunes sur¬†l’espoir,¬†la vieillesse¬†sur le souvenir…¬†Youth lives on hope, old age on remembrance. Enjoy being able to move as well as you do now because I can’t move the way I used to.

Oh, I am, sir.

But, considering it was a FRENCH man with YELLOW beads… the magic was almost too much for me.

It was like God was saying: You are EXACTLY where you’re supposed to be.

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 caf√© 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

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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.