You know what really sucks?
When you pack your toothpaste in your luggage, later to find that it has squirted all over your $300 sequined cocktail dress. Bad day comin’ at ya, right there.
You know what else really sucks?
When you crack an egg into a pan, trying to be all chef-like, and the yolk breaks. Like, really yolk? Really? You’re going to do this to me at 7am?
Or how about those idiots checking out at the supermarket, who just have to “run back for one thing.” I mean, what if I was on my way to find the cure for cancer? Hurry it the fuck up, lady.
However. *pops collar*
I may have had the mother of all things-that-suck happen to me the other day. And no, this has nothing to do with business, but since it’s my blog, I’m going to write about it anyway na na na na na.
I mean, tomorrow’s my birthday, so I can do whatever I want, right?
So here it goes. I promise you will laugh. Or at least nearly choke on your coffee, which is always a good time.
I, Ashley Ambirge, met a Colombian.
Not just any Colombian, but a Justin Timberlake look alike Colombian. A Colombian that I found extremely attractive. A Colombian I wanted to….get to know better.
When he kissed me for the first time, I nearly lost my balance. Granted, I was wearing platform heels, but I prefer to believe that his charisma outweighed my clumsiness. I mean, this guy was such a good kisser, he’s definitely going into the Ambirge Book of World Records. (A prestigious publication, if I do say so myself.)
So when I hadn’t heard from him for a while, I admit–I was a tad bummed. I was really hopeful he’d continue to break other world records, ifyouknowwhatImean.
But of course, he couldn’t resist the Ambirge charm for too long–wink–and sooner than later, up pops “El Colombiano” on the display of my cell phone. Being a girl, I deliberately ignore his call (I wasn’t kidding in the past when I said that you really don’t want to date me). The next day, I play it cool and send him a casual text message with a flirty yet could-take-it-or-leave-it vibe. You know the drill, ladies.
Next thing you know, we’re engaged in a rapid fire text conversation, full of sarcasm and innuendos, when he tells me that he needs to see me. He wants to meet at a salsa club that weekend, and promises, oozing thick Colombian sex appeal, that he’ll “make me feel like a whole new woman on his arm.”
I giddily accept and, as I was getting ready that night, felt like a punch drunk teenager. Ohmygod where’s my perfume?! It has to be here! Wait, should I wear the boots that look sexy but suck for dancing, or the shoes that make me look frumpy, but that I can dance better in?! GAH! Shit. Wait. Seriously, where’s my perfume? What if I smell like a buffalo?! Ohmygod I’m totally going to smell like a buffalo. Hurry up with the flat iron! Jesus, was I wearing this the last time he saw me? Oh thankgod, there’s my perfume. Necklace or no necklace?!?! Well, I don’t want to smack him in the face with it if we’re salsa dancing. But that means that I have to wear earrings, and earrings so don’t go with this top! Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck! Someone pour me some vodka!
Can you imagine? That shit is actually happening in girls’ bathrooms around the world, as we speak. As a matter of fact, some poor girl is practically about to burst every blood vessel in her face. Awwwwkkkkwwwarrrrrddddd.
Anyway, I miraculously manage to get ready without bursting any blood vessels, and my friend Maiten and I head off to this salsa club. Meanwhile, the Colombian and I are texting one another back and forth about my arrival, and I’m pretty excited about it.
His last message before we arrived: “Te llevaré al cielo y de vuelta.” I’ll take you to heaven and back.
Good god these Latinos.
The taxi drops us off on the corner, and we stand there momentarily, looking for an entrance. I’m there taking deep breaths as if I’m in labor, nervous to see him, when suddenly, we notice this dark-skinned guy who looks like he’s fresh out of a Ludacris video, grinning at us from ear to ear on the other side of the street.
Greeeaaaattttttt, a creeper, we whisper to one another, when suddenly, aforementioned creeper proceeds to throw up his arms like, “Yo yo yo!” and begins crossing the street.
Enter: Crisis mode.
Here in Chile, the men aren’t always that…polite, so to speak.
I begin yelling to him in Spanish that we’re waiting for a friend, before turning away to face the other direction, but it was too late. There he was, front and center, with his big, stupid, smiley grin, and his bling bling dangling from his neck.
I look at him blankly, but there he was, still smiling away.
Finally, he says: “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Me: Um….errrr……nooo? (Uncomfortable.)
Me: Luisssss…..Luisssss….ummmm…..yeah, noooo, not so much. (More uncomfortable.)
Him: But…the messages?
Me: The messages?
And it was right then and there that I realize what has happened. My facial expression contorts into something out of a horror film, as I slowly take a step back, my mouth literally wide open, eyes bugging out of my head.
Ohmygod, I say under my breath to Maiten.
Ash, what the hell is going ON? she blurts.
And at that point, I just lose it. There was no holding back the laughter that ensued. There, on a foreign street corner, underneath the glow of a flickering street light, I laugh. And I laugh. And I laugh with everything I am.
Maiten realizes what has happened, and she begins laughing, too.
Before you know it, the both of us are doubled over with laughter, unable to breathe, unable to talk, and unable to stop, huffing and puffing with uncontrollable, balls-to-the-wall laughter, as I stomp my feet on the sidewalk and head to the nearest street sign for support.
Meanwhile, Luda is behind us, patiently waiting, surely thinking that I have lost my damn mind. I’m trying to pull it together, because we’re being incredibly rude, but I simply could. not. help it.
You’ve figured out what happened, I’m sure.
As it turns out, all this time, I had been texting “El Colombiano,” which I naturally assumed was my Justin Timberlake Colombiano. I had recently switched cell phones and transferred my contacts so when I saw “El Colombiano” pop onto my screen nearly a week prior, I just assumed it was my Colombiano–the one from NOW. What other one was there?
Apparently, there was another. One I had long forgotten about. One I had met when I first got to Chile, and one that I had gone out of my way to avoid. And yes, I had been wrongly texting him this entire week.
In retrospect, it all made sense – he had sent me some strange messages saying that he was so glad to be in touch, and that he wanted to “see me once more in this lifetime.” And there I am thinking, Damn…these Colombians are so dramatic! I just saw him three days ago!
Little did I know.
So there I am, on a street corner, in the middle of Santiago in a place I’m not familiar with, next to this guy who, for an entire week, thinks he somehow suddenly lucked out…and that six months after meeting me I suddenly want to see him…(ha)…..and now I’m stuck with the job of explaining to him that that, in fact, wasn’t the case, and that…I thought he was someone else. I mean, my only other option was to bolt down the street running, and yes it absolutely crossed my mind.
I cannot describe how incredibly bad I felt in that moment. He had gotten dressed and came out especially to see me, and so I also debated having us just stay…but from my memory of him before, he was not someone I preferred to associate with, and I didn’t feel like that would be a good idea.
So, of course, as I’m explaining to him what has happened–feeling like the biggest jackass on the face of the planet–I may have exaggerated my relationship status with the Justin Timberlake Colombian, in order to not hurt his feelings that we weren’t going to stay regardless.
I tell him that Justin Timberlake Colombian and I have moved into a more serious relationship, and that it wouldn’t be cool if I stayed.
And naturally, he says: “So…..you have a boyfriend. But…..you don’t have his phone number?”
Cue the most awkward moment ever, with me there flailing my arms about, rambling on about changing cell phones and…weird!…and I don’t know WHERE he is…and on and on and on.
Finally, we leave.
But before we do, this Colombian shouts to me: “Do me a favor, too? Make sure you delete my number from your phone this time.”
So, as it turns out, I spent the entire evening fretting like a school girl for nothing. As it turns out, I had been bragging to my girlfriends about the Justin Timberlake Colombiano “coming back around,” like I was so smooth and irresistible. And, as it turns out…that wasn’t the case at all.
Welcome to my life.
Can I get you something to drink?
I think I’ll have a double.
Drink, that is. Not Colombians.
This time, anyway.
P.S. If you were really sad that there was no business included in this post, I encourage you to hop over to Matthew Kimberley’s site, where you can listen to a podcast I did on getting my first client.