"Linda perra, Linda perra, linda perra"
-- a woman's voice whispered malevolently into the phone.
Stirring from my slumbering stupor, I propped myself up and thought "What?! --It's 2:30 in the morning. What was she saying? Was she saying "Pretty female dog?"
And then I thought-- Isn't that kind of incongruous? I mean, if you're going to call someone a name at 2:30 in the morning, wouldn't you call that person an ugly b*tch, not a pretty one? Well, better a pretty one than an ugly one. What sort of insult was that? Who IS this woman? And why is she calling me?
And then I remembered...how could I forget...El Cubano.
El Cubano (aka "Mojito" as he was known to my friends) was my smooth, delicious, minty/ guilty pleasure. My fair-haired, sexy Cuban waiter with the gorgeous green eyes who stared at me the minute I walked through the door of the restaurant. The man who put a heart in my cappucino cup (which my friend had to point out to me after I accused him of liking her, not me), and then asked me for my number and out for a glass of wine the next night.
So imagine my embarassment when I received a phone call on my cell shortly after leaving the restaurant and he said, "You didn't pay your bill." And I responded, "What? That's impossible. Of course I paid my bill." And he insisted, "No, you gave me your credit card..but you didn't sign the receipt." Oops-- distraction! So of course, my friend Meli and I turned around and went back to the restaurant. I was surprised he still wanted to keep the date.
When we met up the next night, he was the ultimate caballero- he was on time, he was sitting and waiting for me at the table, and he stood up to pull out my chair for me-- In Latin America, that's the triple crown. He waxed eloquently about how he wanted the simple life, now that he was divorced and had two kids. He was charming, fun, smart, quite a foodie, and great to speak with.
For our next date, he picked me up after work and we went dancing. It was like the night was designed for us-- great drinks, great dancing, and the band was playing Cuban music all night long. Although he swore he hadn't been dancing in years, we moved together effortlessly and like we had danced together a thousand times before. Our chemistry was electric. He told me he wanted me to go with him to Cuba, and it didn't seem ridiculous. It seemed like, "Of COURSE you want me to go with you to Cuba! Wouldn't that be fun?!" At 3am, as he was driving me to my place, he suggested we just keep driving and go to the beach. By that point, I was ready to sleep, so I suggested we take a cat nap and then think about it.
We didn't leave the house all day long. Someone seemed eager to get ahold of him, but it was Mother's Day, and he said it was his Mom wondering where he was, so he called her back and left it at that.
And then...the nightmare began. He moved in. And he just didn't leave. I told him that I had to get to bed early, because I start working early, and he would turn up at 10pm at night and want to have a glass of wine to wind down and talk until midnight or one in the morning. I told him that I could only see him on the weekends, and that he could not live in my house, but he just kept showing up. I noticed that a small pile of clothes were developing in the corner of my bedroom-- his clothes. When we went to open his car one day, I noticed a whole bunch of clothes and stuff in the back, and I said, "Are you LIVING out of your car? I thought you had a house. " I noticed that he had gone through several bottles of wine and nearly wiped out my bottle of Grey Goose-- all one week.
Then the phone calls started. A strange woman called me and wanted to know if I was his girlfriend. When I asked her who she was and how she had gotten my phone number, she just repeated the question. When I told her that I was "a friend," she seemed satisfied and hung up. There was radio silence for a few days, and then I would receive phone calls and hangs ups at night.
Then he told he wasn't really divorced, he was separated from his wife and had been for two years. He said that they had had a huge falling out over an issue-- which later turned out to be his third child born to a previous relationship. Then he told me about the credit card debt, his failed business ventures, the foreclosed farm and his fraudulent first marriage ("it was on paper only') to his long-term Cuban girlfriend in order to secure citizenship of where he was living now. So he went from cute, single guy to a guy with one ex-wife, one wife and three kids-- only two of whom he recognized. My God-- could this situation get any worse? This telenovela was not my life.
He had even introduced me to his family (no, not that family)-- his Mom, sister and niece.
After things became clear, I told him please not to drop by. When he tried to call me at 10:05, I soaked in a luxurious bubble bath. By the time I called him back at 10:30, he told me he was on the road to his Mom's and that I had all his clothes. I had all his clothes? Good Lord. And evidently, his wallet, too. Who doesn't carry their wallet with them? This was just too much.
The next day, he texted me to ask me if he could pick up his things. He walked in, gave me a formal peck on the cheek, asked me for a bag to carry his belongings, and left. And that was that. Or so I thought.
Until I received that phone call last night. As Meli (who feels terribly guilty about introducing us in the first place) pointed out, it's just confirmation I made the right decision-- because obviously he was at someone else's house.
-- a woman's voice whispered malevolently into the phone.
Stirring from my slumbering stupor, I propped myself up and thought "What?! --It's 2:30 in the morning. What was she saying? Was she saying "Pretty female dog?"
And then I thought-- Isn't that kind of incongruous? I mean, if you're going to call someone a name at 2:30 in the morning, wouldn't you call that person an ugly b*tch, not a pretty one? Well, better a pretty one than an ugly one. What sort of insult was that? Who IS this woman? And why is she calling me?
And then I remembered...how could I forget...El Cubano.
El Cubano (aka "Mojito" as he was known to my friends) was my smooth, delicious, minty/ guilty pleasure. My fair-haired, sexy Cuban waiter with the gorgeous green eyes who stared at me the minute I walked through the door of the restaurant. The man who put a heart in my cappucino cup (which my friend had to point out to me after I accused him of liking her, not me), and then asked me for my number and out for a glass of wine the next night.
So imagine my embarassment when I received a phone call on my cell shortly after leaving the restaurant and he said, "You didn't pay your bill." And I responded, "What? That's impossible. Of course I paid my bill." And he insisted, "No, you gave me your credit card..but you didn't sign the receipt." Oops-- distraction! So of course, my friend Meli and I turned around and went back to the restaurant. I was surprised he still wanted to keep the date.
When we met up the next night, he was the ultimate caballero- he was on time, he was sitting and waiting for me at the table, and he stood up to pull out my chair for me-- In Latin America, that's the triple crown. He waxed eloquently about how he wanted the simple life, now that he was divorced and had two kids. He was charming, fun, smart, quite a foodie, and great to speak with.
For our next date, he picked me up after work and we went dancing. It was like the night was designed for us-- great drinks, great dancing, and the band was playing Cuban music all night long. Although he swore he hadn't been dancing in years, we moved together effortlessly and like we had danced together a thousand times before. Our chemistry was electric. He told me he wanted me to go with him to Cuba, and it didn't seem ridiculous. It seemed like, "Of COURSE you want me to go with you to Cuba! Wouldn't that be fun?!" At 3am, as he was driving me to my place, he suggested we just keep driving and go to the beach. By that point, I was ready to sleep, so I suggested we take a cat nap and then think about it.
We didn't leave the house all day long. Someone seemed eager to get ahold of him, but it was Mother's Day, and he said it was his Mom wondering where he was, so he called her back and left it at that.
And then...the nightmare began. He moved in. And he just didn't leave. I told him that I had to get to bed early, because I start working early, and he would turn up at 10pm at night and want to have a glass of wine to wind down and talk until midnight or one in the morning. I told him that I could only see him on the weekends, and that he could not live in my house, but he just kept showing up. I noticed that a small pile of clothes were developing in the corner of my bedroom-- his clothes. When we went to open his car one day, I noticed a whole bunch of clothes and stuff in the back, and I said, "Are you LIVING out of your car? I thought you had a house. " I noticed that he had gone through several bottles of wine and nearly wiped out my bottle of Grey Goose-- all one week.
Then the phone calls started. A strange woman called me and wanted to know if I was his girlfriend. When I asked her who she was and how she had gotten my phone number, she just repeated the question. When I told her that I was "a friend," she seemed satisfied and hung up. There was radio silence for a few days, and then I would receive phone calls and hangs ups at night.
Then he told he wasn't really divorced, he was separated from his wife and had been for two years. He said that they had had a huge falling out over an issue-- which later turned out to be his third child born to a previous relationship. Then he told me about the credit card debt, his failed business ventures, the foreclosed farm and his fraudulent first marriage ("it was on paper only') to his long-term Cuban girlfriend in order to secure citizenship of where he was living now. So he went from cute, single guy to a guy with one ex-wife, one wife and three kids-- only two of whom he recognized. My God-- could this situation get any worse? This telenovela was not my life.
He had even introduced me to his family (no, not that family)-- his Mom, sister and niece.
After things became clear, I told him please not to drop by. When he tried to call me at 10:05, I soaked in a luxurious bubble bath. By the time I called him back at 10:30, he told me he was on the road to his Mom's and that I had all his clothes. I had all his clothes? Good Lord. And evidently, his wallet, too. Who doesn't carry their wallet with them? This was just too much.
The next day, he texted me to ask me if he could pick up his things. He walked in, gave me a formal peck on the cheek, asked me for a bag to carry his belongings, and left. And that was that. Or so I thought.
Until I received that phone call last night. As Meli (who feels terribly guilty about introducing us in the first place) pointed out, it's just confirmation I made the right decision-- because obviously he was at someone else's house.
