About Joseph, Jesus and Then A Guy Whose Name I Can’t Even Pronounce Because It Has a Silent T

I was with someone for eight months named Joseph. I loved him dearly. It ended.  Well, he ended it. But that’s not what this story is about.

This is about lifting yourself up from the ground no sooner than you fall.  I used to ice skate, remember? You fall. So what? Get up and continue gliding on ice with your entire body -- which in my case involves a large, luscious Cuban ass and some nice tatas – yeah, all of that good womanhood hoisted upon on a tiny sliver of metal.

See? It’s a metaphor for life. I put my entire weight on it. I put my entire faith in this relationship. But it didn’t work out.

 We’re all skating on thin ice sometimes but if you’ve got strong ankles and a strong spirit, nothing is going to stop you.

Not even falling out of love when you want to fall in love.

When you want to be in love.

When you are love.

When you simply already are love -- a love that is not waiting to happen, because it’s already there.

 It’s a love that’s waiting to be acknowledged and appreciated by the right guy.

And there’s the rub. Finding love in Miami is not like finding a needle in a haystack. It’s like finding that one special bacteria on that heroin dealer’s needle that you almost accidentally stepped on while doing the Wynwood art walk some second Saturday in a rainy August afternoon.

Yeah, it’s that rare. That precious.

So after some coaxing from friends, I did it.

I joined an online dating site, something I swore I would never do again.



My past experiences with online dating yielded an amazing friendship with Creepy Guy from Spain, who turned out to be not so creepy, although he did try groping my thighs during lunch in Madrid, but I forgave him for that, because he taught me how to drink sherry the right way, with the sweet liquid lingering halfway between your palate and throat.



And who could blame him for wanting a piece of me?

But alas, romance never evolved. He ended up marrying a Russian bride and they had a baby while we developed a long-lasting friendship. What’s more, he ended up hiring me for a writing project.

Yes, my online date across the Atlantic, who never got past the scrimmage line of my quadriceps, became a client.

But it’s called online dating, folks. Not networking. It’s not like you use Linkedin for romance. Good grief!

So, you can imagine how scary it was to click on Match.com on my browser this time around.

Did I really want to go back there? Was I going to meet another creepy thigh groper who would hire me for my mad wordsmithing skills?



Or, if I really put all my faith into this journey, if I became open-minded, threw out the checklist and “interviewed” every pinga in Miami, would I meet someone new who would be worthy of my love and affection?



Well, that wasn’t going to happen with my old online profile. I changed my name, photos and proudly boasted I was “big and beautiful.” Too bad there isn’t a physical description category that says “fucking normal, sometimes I buy shirts at Lane Bryant."

First of all, my profile name used to be churrocaliente, which means “hot fried dough pastry covered with sugar” but I figured that now, at age 45, I should choose a moniker that is more appropriate in describing the classy, elegant and wise woman I’ve become.



Now the thing is, for the sake of privacy, I can’t tell you my current online profile name, but I assure you, it’s as cool, clean, crisp and colorful as a Lilly Pulitzer dress.

Navigating the current online dating scene challenged me. It’s different now then when I met my dear Creepy Guy.

These days, you can wink at people “for free,” send emails and even create a fake phone number before you take the step of giving him your real number.  You know, just in case he’s the booty call you never wanted to meet.

But here’s what I don’t get.



See, when a woman first joins an online dating site, she’s like a piece of rotting chicken in a pool of ravenous piranhas, quite the tasty morsel in a feeding frenzy. Sure, there’s plenty of fish out there, but it’s a fish eat fish world, and really, why tease me with your winks when you don’t follow through?

Good grief, if you’re going to eat this juicy pollo, eat me right, for pete’s sake.

If a guy can’t lift a “finger” after you wink back at him, he shows no promise of rising to the occasion.



But it’s not just about this new-fangled online courtship technology.

I think I have a literacy problem here in Miami.

The first guy I talked to -- via the fake phone number, of course -- I couldn’t even understand him. He was from the Caribbean and very sad, a poor soul looking for a green card. Sorry, not for me.



The second guy I talked to was from the Midwest and sounded like an automated voice call. I thought he had a tracheotomy at first and when prompted to speak he gave rote answers that made me think of the proverbial teacher in Peanuts, wa wa wa wa wa.



And then, salvation.

Jesus came along. Oh my God! He was actually literate. He spoke English. He spoke Spanish. And we talked. We talked for hours on end.



But, as a born Catholic and believer in God, I pondered long and hard about the idea of dating a man named Jesus when my love had been Joseph and my name is Maria.



You see, Maria was put in an awful predicament. She had a baby daddy named God, gave birth to Jesus and still had to put up with husband Joseph. And this was back in the day before Real Housewives of Bethlehem on BRAVO.

Good lord! What if I were to call out his name during sex? I mean isn't that redundant? Would I have to say "oh Jesus, Jesus?" And if I say "oh my God" would I be offending his father? If we bathed together, would that be baptism? And would I have to buy specialty salt scrubs from the Dead Sea?

If we had bread and wine would that be the last supper? How terribly depressing! I would be worried that I would never break bread with him again after every Sabbath!

And can you imagine the wedding invite: "Jesus and Maria cordially invite you to their holy union."

Holy mother of God you can't marry your mother!

Christ Almighty, what if I were an atheist? How would I then feel about his name popping on my caller ID?

But I gave Jesus a chance. After all, if we went out on a date, he could turn my Pellegrino water into a Chardonnay.



And it’s Miami, after all. I figured that if I did end up having a relationship with Jesus, I could just call him “papi” -- you know, just to avoid the awkwardness of it -- never mind that if I had to yell at him in a public space, every guy’s head in the room would turn around and all eyes would land on me.



In fact, I would love to walk into Casola’s Pizza one night and holler “papi.”  I bet every mouth in the dining hall would stop chomping. And every wife in the room would think that I was having an affair with her husband.



Jesus and I did eventually meet in person. Nice guy, but I’m not sure if I’m going to see him again. You see, he’s a hunter and can shoot and skin a wild boar without hesitation, but he’s also afraid of anthropods.

So, while we chatted and had our first and only drink together so far, I imagined that scene from Annie Hall, with Diane Keaton calling Woody Allen about a spider the size of a Buick.



“Oh hi mamasita, here’s a half ton tasty pig I just roasted after shooting him with packed heat in Ocala, but can you please spray some Raid on this tiny spider?”

To be fair though, Jesus seems like the kind of guy who could catch a fish and build a house.  He’s got beautiful hazel eyes, backbone and chutzpah -- not a bad thing to have around during hurricane season in South Florida. See? Jesus. Fisherman. Carpenter.


The next guy on my list to meet is from a now undisclosed country in Europe. He speaks English beautifully, with a slightly lilting accent that transports me to the moment when decades ago, I had strawberry ice cream in a German village. His name is in no way related to any major spiritual historical being but it does have a silent T. In fact, I might even have to practice pronouncing it.

I told you I had a literacy problem.



I am grateful for Joseph and Jesus though and thankful for all the men on my quest to find the one who will put up with me in that so-called forever, long-lasting crazy thing called love.

I don’t believe in fairy tales, but I do believe in love.  Some day, the shoe will fit and I will wear it. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll enjoy saying his name during sex without cracking up.



Keep the faith, ladies.

Low Brow Encounter at High Brow Miami Resort

On Tuesday, I went to jury duty and sat on a panel about battery and even though I was too much of a smart-ass to get picked as a juror, it got me thinking ...

You see, earlier this month I went to fancy-schmancy Fairmont Resort at Turnberry Isle in Aventura to meet some out-of-town friends for drinks and dinner. Everything was fine -- the property, food and service were top-notch -- just what you'd expect from a world-class resort.

The reason I'm telling you this story is because that night I met a random jackass who threw a cloth napkin at my face.

Yes, you read that right. Jackass balled up a cloth napkin and pelted me close to the temple. It actually hurt my eye. Yes, this happened at the beautiful, elegant dining salon and bar at the Fairmont Resort.

Said jackass was probably in his late forties -- a handsome, well-traveled, well-educated man who owns a resort property somewhere around a famous vineyard region in the state of California. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. It starts with the letter N.

He was at Turnberry for a conference that was held on site earlier that day. A friend of mine who attended the same conference insisted I meet him as he could be a great travel writing connection.

That's all fine and well. After dinner, my friend, the jackass, three of his colleagues and I sat down around a coffee table chit chatting when all of a sudden, out of the blue, jackass, who was sitting across from me, launched the missile.

Folks, I cannot tell you how surreal this was. There was no provocation. In fact, he was mostly engaged in conversation with my friend. Who in their right mind throws a napkin at anyone? Let alone a woman he just met? Who does this? Come on, this aint no honky tonk biker bar where someone might break a bottle of Bud over your head. This was hoity-toity, white-glove service Fairmont Resort!

So here are my theories:

1. He's forty-something going on seven. He threw the napkin because he liked me and that's his way of expressing his feelings, kind of like the boy in 3rd grade who pulled your pigtails when you weren't looking.

2. He's taking flirtation tips from British literature. In Thomas Hardy's novel Jude the Obscure, country bumpkin Arabella throws a pig scrotum at Jude as a sign of her affection.

3. Or au contraire, he threw the napkin because he wasn't sexually attracted to me and therefore felt he could get away with it. A man like that would never dare to offend a woman he wants to take to bed. I don't care if a dude isn't attracted to me, but what's insulting here is that he may have thought he could treat me this way just because he didn't want to screw me.

4. He suffers from a rare form of Tourette's in which soft objects are hurled instead of verbal obscenities.

5. He takes "I'm in Miami, bitch" seriously and thinks that's an excuse to act like a complete asshole.

6. His mother didn't breast feed him so he harbors a deep-rooted misogyny and irrational love of Chardonnay.

7. He's simply a jackass with no manners.

By the way, my first reaction was to say "What the hell?" And after a few minutes of sitting there, completely stunned, I threw a napkin back at him. At least he paid for my drink.

The whole episode was so bizarre; it definitely goes down in my top ten list of "only in Miami" moments.

So if "battery" is non-consensual touch, that which you can't consent to because you don't know it's coming (and man, I really didn't see this coming), do you think I could have taken this guy to court?

The graphic above designed by the inimitable and infinitely talented Nikon Miami. Thanks, Jim!

Planet Manola: Love Lost, Love Gained

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not less frequently.


Dating should be really called carbon dating, because by the time it's over, it's ancient history.

The topic of dating has crept up back into my life again. No, not because I'm dating creeps, but because I've come across some good dating reads!

BUSY DATING

I learned about this brave and sassy chick while attending Blogalicious earlier this month. (Anyone who actively dates is brave in my book.) Busy Dating describes herself as a "thirty something single woman exploring the dating scene with an open mind and a fresh pair of eyes. Learning, laughing and chronicling along the way."

Yes, a girl after my heart! Every woman should read her dating horror stories section Don't Get Punched. Also, follow her twitter. She recently had me cracking up on when she announced that some jackass on an online dating site had asked her if "she could clap her hind parts."

(I'm wondering if he misquoted William Butler Yeats, "soul clap its hands and sing.")

In any case, while she was at the conference, Busy Dating had a far more pleasant and innocent enough encounter in South Beach that led to a phone call on her way back home. Could romance spring up between two out-of-towners on the sidewalk? Stranger things have happened on the island. No, I'm sorry. The strange thing would be romance. The normal thing on a South Beach sidewalk is a walk of shame before the hookers come out for coffee.

Could a South Beach flirtation find fertile ground elsewhere? We shall see ...

THEY ALWAYS LEAVE ... OR COME BACK FOR THE CASH ON THE NIGHTSTAND

My sarcasm does a terrible injustice to Jeremy Glazer, a local writer whose prose I've recently discovered. He had me at the the first few sentences of a story published over at WLRN's blog, Under the Sun. Glazer's beautifully written fictional account of a local man who falls for a transplant explores the bane of every native Miamian's existence: the good ones always seem to be from elsewhere. From They Always Leave:

You want to say you and Tanya broke up because she smoked too much. Or because she was on facebook all night. Or because her apartment was a complete mess. But those are all excuses.

Just like every other relationship you’ve had in Miami, it ended because she moved away.

Glazer's poignant story about love lost begs a question about romance in a city of accidental residents. Yes, alas, the good ones leave, but why do all the damn psychos stay?!?

LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHARLES DEERING

While love may last as long as the life cycle of a fruit fly in South Beach, a different story comes out of Old Cutler.

Last night I took the first Deering Estate ghost tour of the season, during which a staff member shared one of the best South Florida love stories I've ever heard.

You see, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Deering each had their own personal servants. But for some reason, these servants were not allowed to date each other, although they were madly in love. They kept their romance secret for many years until the Mr. and Mrs. passed away. The lovers eventually married -- she at the tender age of 61 on the day of her nuptials.

Oh, can you imagine the kisses they stole behind the Richmond Cottage? The furtive embraces in the dense foliage of the mangrove forest?

Speaking of romance, ghost tours are a great way to explore one of the most hauntingly romantic spots in Miami-Dade -- haunting as in "its beauty will haunt you." If you can't make the night tour, go during the day with a picnic basket for wooing under the royal palms or consider attending one of their moonlight concerts on the gorgeous bayside lawn. More information about it all here: Deering Estate at Cutler.

My story on last year's investigative ghost tour is over at Miami Beach 411.

Broward Woman Goes on Dating Spree

I first heard about Claudia's dating project when an acquaintance told me I should do the same. "Hey, you should do 30 dates in 30 days in Miami," he chatted on Facebook. I replied: "Are you out your mind? That's crazy! What the fuck are you talking about?"

It turns out that 30 Dates in 30 Days is the brainchild of Broward-based Claudia, a Texas via New York transplant who wants to explore the treacherous waters of dating on the eve of her thirtieth birthday. Yeah, you heard it right: the goal is to cram thirty dates into the month of August, starting today, on the 1st. She's not necessarily looking to bang out thirty dates with thirty different men, mind you, but it's still a whopper of a social experiment! Speed dating on steroids. Boot camp with a chance of booty.

I knew I just had to meet the woman behind this project. It's Claudia, a lovely, friendly and easy-going gal I had the pleasure of sharing a couple of pints with in Fort Lauderdale last week. As with so many women I know, her looks and personality beg the universal question: "How can someone so pretty and nice not have a date?"

Claudia's stance on relationships is not that of a desperate, needy chick. Some ladies are serial daters because they're very insecure; heaven forbid they should spend a moment alone. Claudia didn't come across like that. And before you say she's doing this because she's an attention whore, think again! I've even met married women who are the biggest drama queens -- consummate cock blockers with no consideration for us single sisters. Claudia didn't come across like that either. She seemed content, like someone reaching a milestone who probably just wants to push the envelope of fate a little. And I do feel for her: when you're a confident woman with a conscience that extends beyond your vagina, it's even harder to find a good man in South Florida. It's the bimbos who easily score dates and Claudia is no bimbo.

Being a jaded South Floridian, I thought I'd give Claudia twelve tips for dating in the nation's dicktip.

1) One of Claudia's challenges is even scheduling thirty dates. Why not try checking in to Foursquare and seeing who's hanging out at all the bail bond shops on Andrews Avenue?

2) If he says he's taking you to the Everglades on a first date, run. Or bring bottled water, a compass and machete.

3) For extra protection, stop by a botanica in Hialeah for holy water and a Horatio Cane amulet.

4) Don't say you're a transplant; he might be after your kidney.

5) In Florida, an Ed Hardy shirt automatically means douchebag. When in doubt, shake his hand and check for tanning spray residue.

6) Make sure the only white powder on the table is salt.

7) And speaking of white powder, only meet in public places. This does not include the bathroom stalls at Yolo's.

8) South Florida is full of nursing homes, but they're not just for the elderly! Make sure he's not a pansy who needs nursing and frequent manicures.

9) Don't meet up at the same place on Las Olas every day. Cops will start to think you're a hooker.

10) Don't confuse "rum runner" with "drug runner" ... the former is a drink and the latter comes with a speedboat bigger than his house but only slightly smaller than his ego.

11) Broward County Clerk of Courts case search is your best friend! "So you have fifty speeding tickets" makes for a great ice breaker at the dinner table.

12) If he complains about you sharing your dating adventures in the public eye, tell him that "personal branding" is a fetish club in Dania.

Soon enough, Claudia will learn what it means to date South Florida style. It's just like hurricane season: hope for the best, but expect the worse.

Claudia is boldly going where few South Florida women have gone before! It would probably be easier to navigate all 300 miles of Fort Lauderdale's waterways on a paddleboard ... without a paddle. Sex and the Beach admires her courage and chutzpah!

Follow her adventure on See Claudia Date or on Twitter @seeclaudiadate. Sex and the Beach will do a follow up interview after date number thirty.

BREAKING NEWS! Looming Penis Threatening Miami Women!

Sexy Miami bitches beware! Attack of the Big Penis coming soon to a luxury condo near you.

I know this news is so last week, but I how could I resist? I used to write for Miami Living, a luxury style magazine, and I'm so glad that they continue to epitomize all that is classy and sophisticated about the Magic City. Just take a look at the ad (shown above) that they approved for Miami's #1 dating site gold digger meets sugar daddy service Establishedmen.com!

Apparently, the editor-in-chief did not notice the ad before sending the issue to print. There's even some question about whether the editor-in-chief lives in Miami, which is duh! so obvious something is not quite 305 right. What true Miamian would miss this oh-so-subliminal message of two greedy ho-bags about to suck on a looming schlong? Come on!

See Miami Living Magazine? SEE WHAT YOU'VE BEEN MISSING? Obviously you haven't seen peen in a long time!

By the way, I want to know which stupid-ass rich mother fucker is so desperate he's willing to fork out money for a pretty pussy. Because you know, I have plenty of girlfriends who could certainly use "successful and generous benefactors to fulfill their lifestyle needs."

Oh wait, that would never work ... none of my girlfriends would suck cock for a wad of cash.

More at Miami New Times and Huffington Post. For more fabulous cock shadow fun, visit The Cockshadow Blog, "the number one site on the internet for all your cock shadow needs."

Slab of Beef

Somewhere in South Miami, a better beach to have sex: no buildings, no hotels, no tourists, no attitude ... just beach.

You can take the girl out of the beach but you can't take the beach out of the girl. Had you been an iguana sunning on the shore, you may have overheard this mobile phone conversation at Matheson Hammock Park.

Manola: OMG, there are two horseshoe crabs mating!
Friend: Really?
Manola: Yeah, it's quite beautiful. Male is latched on to female and the two are gliding gracefully through the water. I can see them underwater because I'm wearing polarized sunglasses.
Friend: What? Your sunglasses are bipolar?
Manola: No, polarized sunglasses. They reduce glare on the water. Great for fishing.
Friend: So those crabs are having sex? Oh, I didn't know crabs had sex. I just thought the male spewed all his sperm in the water. You know, like salmon.
Manola: Gosh, I really don't anything about crab sex. Crabs and sex ... a friend of mine had to wash her sheets once in hot water and lice shampoo ... wait a minute! That may be true of other crabs, but these horseshoe critters like to get down and dirty. This is only one pair here now but I've seen hundreds of them before. Like a horse shoe crab orgy.
Friend: Ew.
Manola: Yeah, not that I've ever been, but I've heard it's just like hanging out a swingers club in Fort Lauderdale. All these people humping with no taste for privacy.
Friend: Well, I thought that crab eggs were fertilized by free-floating sperm.
Manola: Oh God, not the kind that squirms up your leg and makes you freak out about your period being late?
Friend: Yeah.
Me: Free-floating sperm. Gosh, if you're a sperm and don't have a good sense of direction, you're screwed, aren't you?
Friend: Yeah, but just think about it. You're competing with a lot of other dudes who don't give a shit about where they're going.
Manola: You know, come to think of it, don't guys spew all over everything anyway? If he pulls out, it's a sticky mess on your belly.
Friend: Yeah and if you give him a blow job ...
Manola: It's not Cartier.
Friend: Hell no!
Manola: I don't remember what sperm tastes like.
Friend: Do you remember that scene from Sex and the City where Carrie just wants a man to lie on top of her?
Manola: Oh yeah! She goes to San Francisco for a book signing and hopes to high heaven she'll get laid with Big.
Friend: Yeah, I think she says something like "I just want to feel the weight of a man on me."
Manola: Shit, I miss that.
Friend: (Sigh)
Manola: Crap, why can't I just go to Winn-Dixie, buy a Fred Flinstone size T-bone steak and slap it on my body?
Friend: So you want a slab of beef instead of a boyfriend?
Manola: What's the difference? It would just lie on top of me with no regard for my pleasure.
Friend: At least the beef doesn't spew ...
Manola: But the steak is warm ...
Friend: And it doesn't have crabs ...
Manola: Holy shit! This shirtless jogger dude just walked up to the crabs and tried to poke them. Can't the crabs get it on without being hassled?
Friend: Is he a hunk?
Manola: Nah, more like ground chuck.
Friend: Would you do him?
Manola: Probably. Wrapped in bacon with Bearnaise sauce.



tags: sex and the city, beach, miami, dating

Sex and the City of Pleasant Living

As I settle into my new life in South Miami, the city of pleasant living, the possibility of dating again has begun to rear its ugly circumcised head. But what would I know about ugly? I haven't seen a live penis since the pre-construction phase of Stonehenge!

Speaking of the past, that's precisely what I'm determined to no longer do. I've put the past behind me. You see, before I could even contemplate the idea of ever having to gaze at another penis, I needed to develop a healthy relationship with my past.

Uh-huh. These days, I like my past. I came to terms with it. Long estranged now is that ridiculous (yet important) vow of celibacy and my fractured relationship with Mr. Thinks He's Huge.

The past is just like my big fat Cuban ass -- it's there, it supports me, it's my foundation. But I don't have to look at, do I?

I take that back. I wholly embrace the reality of having a big Cuban ass that is never going to go away. I like my ass. And you know what, sometimes I wish I could look at it more often, but I shouldn't. Such narcissistic rear-view mirror indulgence would put a serious strain on my neck!

Anyway, I can however look at the past in ways that will make it easier for me to leave my comfort zone and no, I'm not talking about all the padding on my luxury caboose. I'm talking about taking risks with an even bigger part of me -- my heart.

As I saw Sex and the City this weekend, observing the fabulous four unravel the details of their love lives, I also saw my own life as a movie in the context of the bigger picture. Not just my life, but that of many friends. How many loves lost? How many conquered?

This weekend, the very same Miss Boobette who inspired me to start this blog in 2005 is coming back to Miami for a bachelorette party. She met the man of her dreams, but he lived in LA. Move away, she did. Engaged, they got. Married, they shall be.

Damn it. At the end of the day, it seems like the most permanent memories I have of South Beach are the homeless folks scooping a meal out of a garbage can.

Everyone I cared about in the past who has found love has moved away from South Beach. It's always a leaving South Beach story. And like all good stories, the denouement always comes on the verge of a climax, in many cases with a pre-packaged carton box conclusion: "Ya know, just the other day, as I was crossing the causeway ..."

Perhaps I should tempt fate and change the description of this blog to A Single Woman's Guide to Chronic Loving. So long as I inhale and exhale this miracle of being alive, I can't help but live. And maybe, just maybe ... I can't help but love.

tags: sex and the city, beach, miami, dating