My Heart? Liars Need Not Apply!

No woman should ever feel like this in the morning.

Deep breath ...

I haven't hinted about my love life on Sex and the Beach in a long time, at least not since my last post in '06 about Mr. Thinks He's Huge, Fractured Mannequin.

There's a reason I created a persona, because I don't believe in airing out my dirty laundry and I highly respect the privacy of others. But sometimes, a story is just too good to be tucked away on some dusty shelf of memory. And besides, this is a single woman's guide to chronic living, isn't it? I owe it to my single gals out there.

So here ya go, ladies, fasten your seatbelts ...

THE AFFAIR

Unless you were literally born yesterday, the story I'm going to tell you is something you've heard before. Boy meets girl. Boy is a player. Boy lies. Boy uses girl.

Because you see, this story isn't just about how I met a man who was one adverb away from being a pathological liar, but also about how impossible the dream of real intimacy seems to me right now.

This man, who hailed from another city, came recommended by a friend. Everything was perfect: chemistry, personality, wit and intellect. We hit it off smashingly and couldn't wait to see each other again. He returned to Miami and after a wonderful time together, I came to find out he was still married; he'd hidden this fact brilliantly from the world, especially from my unsuspecting friend, a trusted person who would have never condoned such an affair.

But one morning, without even looking for proof of anything amiss, Twitter, Myspace, Youtube and Google lay it all out before me. All his seriously fucked up lies started to make sense. The manipulation and craft was brilliant. Earlier I mentioned the word player, but this guy was a top performer, worthy of an Oscar.

I'm not naive. I'm not a prude. I'm not a floozy. I'm not a doormat. I'm not a player. So how the fuck could something like this happen to me? It's embarrassing and humiliating to admit, but I have the courage to speak my mind, God damn it, as I always have. I am not gonna fucking lie: I was used. I hate it. And most importantly, I never deserved it.

Every single of my female readers knows EXACTLY how this feels. It sucks, but we have to own it and move on.

PIGEON HOLES ARE FOR PIGEONS, NOT REAL WOMEN

Being single gets old, folks, especially if you're in your 40s, never been married and childless. I'm tired of the jibes, the pressure and the jokes about being a cougar or a spinster. What? Because of my status and age I have to be either a penis-hunting whore or a zero to the left of plus one? Why can't I just be a regular Jane who wants some honest good lovin' and a decent man to grow old with?

Well, you know what? I'm not out to fuck younger men and I don't particularly care about signing a paper that means I get a break on taxes because there's a penis in my life. What I do care about is living an authentic life and sharing that with someone who is not a lying sack of shit.

I want love. I want intimacy. I want great sex. Why the hell not? And the only way to achieve that is with a man who not only doesn't lie, but also understands what it means to be authentic. This is not about the size of a man's penis, this is about the size of a man's heart.

Did he really think he could pull the wool over my eyes for much longer? This isn't the first time a married man has tried to get into my pants, but at least the others were honest and respectful of my boundaries.

What blows my mind is that my little sordid tale happens all the time ... and what does this say of relationships and intimacy in general? Seriously, on a very deep, human level, what does this say about trust, if even lovers can't trust each other?

The trust that two lovers share creates a chain reaction outside of the bedroom. The kind of disrespect I have experienced is profoundly disturbing not only because it affects me personally, but because it also reflects the state of humanity.

Of course, you bet your ass he didn't get away with squat. I called him on it privately. He gave me his bogus apologies. Whatever.

WHAT A WOMAN WANTS

Freud once asked: "what does a woman want?" That's simple, guys: a woman needs to be able to trust. Break that trust and you're also breaking her heart. Break her heart and she will never spread her legs the same way again with you, even if she fakes her orgasms.

In truth, I feel sorry for him. (Oh, and terribly sorry for his wife and whatever other women he has manipulated.) Tapping into my compassion, I've forgiven him on a human level, but as a woman, forget about it. I'm no sucker.

It's a good thing I found out so soon, before I got more tangled in his duplicity. I really thought I had done enough spiritual work to avoid manifesting an asshole like this, but I guess the universe had some unfinished business for me.

So like I said, ladies, this is a story you've heard before, but there's always room for more caveat emptor. Like chronic living, you can't exactly give up on loving, can you? But when it comes to dealing with men, be very honest with yourself about what you really want. Be on your guard, without being bitter. Open your heart, but don't play victim. Love takes courage, and as shitty as I felt the day I found out he was married, I'm still only joking when I say I'm going to star in the next edition of Golden Girls.

If not, you'll see me and my gray-haired cougar spinster divorcée goddesses living together in some house in West Palm Beach ten years from now. We'll be twittering about hot flashes, the best lube for our dried-out vaginas and tossing coins about who gets to fuck the poolboy.

But I haven't lost hope -- not yet.

Bullshit

No sooner do I go on hiatus from blogging, that all this interesting stuff happens I want to blog about! So as I make the transition to the new and improved version of Sex and the Beach (it's going to be called Sex and ... WHATEVER), feel free to join me over at Posterous.

I like Posterous. It's elegant, simple, quick and you can post from email, if you like, or from the site online. It's more in the spirit of microblogging, which I'm really into these days.

I have some new social media consulting work, telecommuting with a pretty hot company out of Silicon Valley. And around the corner is an opportunity to blog for a major bank. (I can't even believe it.) And as always, I continue to do my forum work at Miami Beach 411, which I so dearly love. (Believe it or not, all of this is still part-time.) So needless to say, with this kind of job (and prosperity!), it's a lot easier to be creative in short spurts. When companies start paying you to blog and you're already a blogger, you really need to manage your writing time, otherwise you can burn out very quickly, and this is precisely what I'm trying to avoid. I'm looking for that happy medium -- being an artist while making good money with my craft.

I plan to return to a regular blog format sometime in January. Sex and ... WHATEVER is going to be less about the characters I've created and more about whatever my heart desires to put in writing. Manola and company of course may make an appearance from time to time. This will broaden the range of topics I can shuffle and I will not be limited to any particular location. It's a win-win.

Happy blogging, everyone!

Manola Moves On to Sexier Pastures

The best writing is the kind that comes from the heart. And when that heart is looking for a place of its own, it's best to lay off writing for a while. Sometimes, writing sucks the will to live out of you. Sometimes living sucks the will to write out of you. Sometimes, it's a little of both.

And that's the kind of limbo I find myself in right now.

Someone once said I was worth reading. Am I still? Absolutely. But that's because I live by the following: Live authentically. Write authentically.

I'm not saying Sex and the Beach is closing its doors. I'm just saying that this blog can no longer be about a series of characters who are attached to a particular place or lifestyle. I've changed and the characters I created need to change with me.

And as most of us agreed on November 4: change is indeed a good thing.

And you know what? I’m starting my change now by just telling it like it is.

I spent three years crippled by anxiety disorder and agoraphobia, which is something that I never really talked about on this blog. So while I was stagnating, writing kept me alive. I produced material here for three years that I didn't even know I was capable of …

… Manola was a glimmer of light and laughter in an otherwise dark world. You could say Manola saved my life.

And now that I've started to live again, I need to find that balance between living and writing.

Yeah, I need to come to terms with Manola -- even though she’s smooth as butter and WD40 or axle grease.

Oh yeah … as well … agoraphobia, that lovely thing … it’s embarrassing actually. How can’t you leave your home, whatever home is? Baby, talk to me. I know it. But I can also teach you how your spirit can soar, because I also know what it’s like to be stuck.

Even though this blog has nearly always been semi-fictional, the other side of fictional -- real, lived life -- is what truly inspires me. How can I really be a single woman's guide to chronic living if I'm not living actively like a single woman? Currently, my life is quiet and contemplative; I don't expect it to change dramatically any time soon.

Like many of us, right now, I'm just trying to get by -- chronically living.

Also, I'm not doing that thing people do to get hitched -- dating. And quite frankly, I'm not particularly interested in sex as a principal topic. And even if I were dating, I'd run into the question: should I share my private life with the world? My first instinct is NO. I'm a grown-up and I need to respect the privacy of those who are involved in my life, let alone those who come within a meter of my genitals.

Again: live authentic, write authentic.

And based on that mantra, I'm thinking about ways to evolve this blog so that my writing grows with me and doesn't get stuck on the beach, in the city or in any particular damn place -- least of all my private parts, puhleeaze!

Isn’t that the true meaning of growth: Not getting stuck anywhere? Growing in spite of whatever/wherever it is that wants to get you stuck?

And besides, I never really thought of myself as a blogger, but rather as a writer who just happens to use the blogging tech/platform as a means to publish and share her work.

I don't see a blog as a "thing," a noun, but rather as a "verb," a dynamic energy. The blog format is simply the container of that energy. It's the energy that matters -- that energy that comes from the heart, that comes from the love.

(Not to take away from those tech wizards that make it all happen, believe me!)

But at the end of the day, writing without love isn't writing at all, but just an exercise in emptiness. It’s about that energy. And it's because I love writing so much, because I know that my words can move others to love or compassion and maybe a moment of levity and laughter, because I’m driven by some Darwinian stubborn life purpose to write stupid shit that makes people feel for a moment alive or get excited or depressed or whatever, that I'm respecting the direction where my heart wants to travel.

Writing connects.

And without that, writing is nothing.

So you see where this is going.

Every artist knows intuitively when it's time to evolve and I've come to that point with regards to this blog. This isn't the end of the book -- it's just the end of a particular chapter and the incubation period of a fabulous new manifestation.

I'm going to spend some time literally remodeling the blog, upgrading to the new blogger or switching platforms altogether. As well, I have a great idea for a new section on this blog that will actually be useful to the local community, involving the health, education and culture sectors. We'll see if I implement that at some point.

I'll be back, new and improved. Oh and a little older -- this professional champion spinster proudly turns 41 on Sunday, November 9.

In the meantime, please go do something – vote (too late?) or have sex (ok?) … well if you’re bored with that then please browse the archives on the sidebar ... or listen to a very cool song below about taking things easy ...

... really, at the end of the day, where is the fucking fire?

South Beach Angel

A friend of mine, a fellow writer at Miami Beach 411 whom I dearly admire, recently lost a pet rat. Yes, a pet rat who succumbed to an all too common rodent condition involving tumors. The forum thread reminded me of one of the most interesting experiences I ever had on South Beach -- one that didn't involve sex or sand, but something far more important.

One night, I took a yoga class at Synergy on Hispaniola Way. I had parked a few blocks away, just around the corner of Tantra. After class, as I drove past the restaurant, I saw a dark, furry blob on the road but didn't stop. One block later, at Euclid, I turned around. I just knew I couldn't leave it there, whatever it was. It was calling to me, tugging at me. Well, it was a black cat in some kind of diseased stupor -- heart beating and lungs breathing, but body not moving, blue-black fur mottled with crimson blood.

Some of the valet team from Tantra were also investigating. "Was the cat run over by a car?" I asked. No one knew. The men stared kindly, yet clueless, at the dying cat and this frustrated me to no end. What's more, I was blocking the road, hazard lights blinking. I had to make a decision fast. "Bring me an empty box from your storage room," I demanded. "And a pair of gloves from the kitchen."

The valets obliged. With the gloves snugly fitting, I endeavored to turn the animal until it released a shriek that resounded with a familiar kind of primeval, feral intelligence; this unintelligible feline cry struck me to the bone. I knew then it was in pain and on the brink of death. I called a friend of mine who was into cats (because I'm a bird person, after all) in the hope that she might know what I could possibly do or where I could possibly take it. It was about 10 pm on a weekday night in South Beach. Should I even bother? Should I leave the animal to die on the sidewalk or take it to a clinic?

Well, I chose the latter. I put the cat in the box and drove across the 836 expressway to Knowles Animal Clinic in Miami. The veterinarian on the night shift told me the animal was probably dying from an array of conditions, so I replied yes to the option of euthanasia. And just like that -- this animal that was probably a stray cat from South Beach, died soundly while I petted the dirty, matted fur on its head.

I paid $80 just to walk into the door and another $90 for the mercy killing. That's about exactly what I had in my debit account that day. But this wasn't about the money, of course. What spent me was some of the deepest crying I ever experienced -- driving back home towards Miami Beach with downtown shining in the distance -- an empty box and blood-stained gloves in the back seat of the car.

I helped a stray cat into death that night. I was the minister of passing, the dark angel, the merciful hand of transition. I loved this cat unconditionally, even if for a span of a few hours. My heart expanded so during this time that it swelled to unbelievable capacity. And to this, and only this, can I attribute the quantity of tears.

This dying cat gave me a lesson in true compassion. The experience became, for me, a kind of standard by which to uphold all other relationships -- sexual, intimate, familial, friendly, business or otherwise -- and to this day, I always ask myself: "How does this relationship bring out the best in me? How does the relationship arouse my deepest compassion? If the person were dying, would I react differently?"

So I'll always wonder: who was the real angel here? Is the one in need not just as much of an angel as the one offering a helping hand?

The loss of animals touches us because without language, animals still communicate on a level that we are readily eager to dispel in our daily lives -- that unspoken language of the body and the spirit -- those words without words that echo in our hearts.

Lessons from the Garden

I wrote this story in 2005, several months before I started this blog. Obviously, I'm not in love anymore, but the person I mention in the last paragraph was Mr. Thinks He's Huge and the man I left was Sir Fish A Lot. It doesn't matter -- what matters is the story. And it would matter more if it gets anyone to think about the importance of love in one's life. It certainly itched my marrow today -- I say marrow because being single and out of love for a long time is like having an itch you can't scratch -- itch down to the bone.

Seven years ago, I found myself in a very uncomfortable situation. My ex- boyfriend and I, graduate students at the time, shared a house with a colleague who sublet a room in the spacious property we called home. But the lack of proper privacy, as well as the rental agreement, was the least of our problems. Our relationship suffered for other reasons, which I eagerly desired to put in the past. I anticipated the sigh of relief I would breathe in a place where we could pick up the pieces of our broken love, because it had shattered and was struggling to survive.

It was no coincidence, I am certain, that the house had an enormous, labor- intensive lawn, yet hardly any land suitable for gardening. I had planted some flowers in an area just in front of the porch and had potted a few plants by the pool, but that was the extent of the opportunity to exercise my green thumb.

One day, I heard about a cottage for rent that was a gardener's paradise. The cottage had a landscape where my imagination could go wild -- shady areas for ferns and bromeliads, sunny spots for marigolds and pentas. An enormous avocado tree shaded the northeastern side of the property, while other trees -- sapodilla, lychee, ficus and an array of palms -- made the dwelling a cozy, intimate space.

Soon after we moved into our would-be love nest, a place where we could start anew together and alone, I planted several types of vines, including passionflower. It would not be long before caterpillars devoured every leaf of that vine. Once they had entered the cocoon phase of their amazing metamorphosis, the plant looked like a surreal, leafless Christmas tree -- nothing but twigs with dangling cocoons as ornaments. My ex-boyfriend and I observed this process day to day. And I wondered, as well, if we were nourishing our own love and if it too would someday become something beautiful.

One morning, I stepped outside and was greeted by countless ruby-orange wings fluttering softly in the air. The caterpillars had eaten all those leaves for a reason and I became a witness to the most breathtaking moment of their life cycle. If I had been fussy and treated the plant with insecticide, I would have interrupted their cycle and would not have been rewarded with the sight of these gentle creatures. The butterflies taught me that some of the plants in the garden should be reserved for such special purposes. Surely, I would not let all my plants be decimated by pests, but I would at least give caterpillars the chance to transform into butterflies. I would let go of the ego's desire to prune and cultivate the perfect plant. Instead, I would let nature take its course.

Our relationship would also take its own course. As much as we enjoyed our home as a living space, our love, unfortunately, was not growing as bountifully as the flowers and foliage in my garden. Love, like plants, must be watered, fertilized, pruned, checked for pests and diseases on a regular basis. Love must not be over-watered because nutrients will be leached from the soil and its roots will rot. Yet love must be watered just enough, especially when its leaves are
wilting sadly from neglect. Love must be repotted when its roots have outgrown the container. Most importantly, love must endure the ravages of hungry caterpillars.

Early the following year, my ex-boyfriend kept dropping hints about an engagement ring. Nothing too obvious, mind you, but just enough to put my woman's intuition on the alert. On Valentine's Day he gave me an orchid instead -- a stunning oncidium with a flourish of yellow and garnet leopard print flowers. To my heart's surprise, I knew then that if he had proposed, I would have said no. I asked my sorrowful heart for an answer and it replied that our love had transformed into something genuine and real, to be sure, but not into a creature that could be called marriage.

When we left the cottage I also left behind most of my plants, since I was moving in with a friend who offered me temporary shelter while I gathered my bearings. Her apartment was large but had no balcony. I had to make a decision about which plants to take with me on this journey that would be the rest of my life. I took all my orchids and my most prized potted plant -- a bleeding heart vine that I would place on a sunny, outdoor stairwell.

Eventually, I moved to an apartment on the beach with a balcony. By then, the bleeding heart was very ill, convalescing from an unidentifiable condition that caused it to drop its all its leaves. Although the vine appeared to be dead, every time I would clip one of its stems, I could see that it was still green and vibrant within its dried-out woody exterior. So I waited patiently for nature to take its course once again. I watered it regularly, yet expected the plant would die on its own timing.

Many months passed before I noticed a tiny spot of bright green stretching out from one of the twigs. Within weeks, the plant was in full bloom once again, its thick spinach-like leaves serving as a backdrop for voluptuous bracts of tender white and red heart-shaped flowers. I wondered then if the plant had been mourning the loss of the relationship all this time -- a quiet, steadfast companion by my side -- because my heart had also dried and shriveled up with pain. When I witnessed the vine's slow yet steady perseverance, when I watched it bloom in spite of its temporary phase of illness and ugliness, I knew that I too could blossom and that a bleeding heart was better than no heart at all -- a heart that lives and feels and grows -- in spite of everything.

Recently, I moved to an apartment with a garden overlooking a canal. The bleeding heart is still with me and is ill once again, showing no outwardly signs of life, although teaching me, as always, lessons in patience. Another one of my plants, that fateful Valentine's Day orchid, still graces my sight. In seven years it has never bloomed, exhibiting a rare stubbornness, considering that all my other orchids bloom at least once a year. But I grant that orchid the right to bring forth flowers on its own timing because in the past seven years, I also refused to let love enter my heart.

I waited patiently for a new love. Happily, I have fallen in love again and in my garden, we hold each other dear.

As some of you may recall, I recently sold everything I owned and moved to South Miami with six of my orchids. The *damn* orchid is still with me. It bloomed once since I wrote this, but hasn't flowered since. And that bleeding heart vine? It died. But it was, I must admit, the most difficult, courageous and stubborn plant I ever took care of -- one I'll never forget.

Planet Manola: The Truth Is Out There

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not more frequently. If you are easily offended, do not read on!

HEALTHY IS SEXY

On the one-year anniversary of my heart troubles, my dear friend Stephanie Quilao, publisher of Back in Skinny Jeans, asked me to write a guest post on her blog about a very personal issue I've never discussed here.

She urged me to share my untold story because I have recently made a complete recovery from a crippling, long-term episode of anxiety disorder and agoraphobia. And in the process of getting my life back, I lost 50 pounds.

You may be surprised to learn that I started this blog in one of the darkest moments of my life. In the post, I explain why the quirky phrase "a single woman's guide to chronic living" is so significant.

I thought it would be challenging to discuss this condition publicly, but the truth is, there is nothing to be afraid of and no reason for holding back. Millions of people worldwide suffer from anxiety disorder and if I can help ONE person find inspiration and hope, it will all have been worthwhile!

Read "Overcoming agoraphobia, panic attacks and losing 50lbs in the process" at Back in Skinny Jeans.

Thank you Stephanie for encouraging me to write this post. As always, it's an honor to contribute to your incredible, inspirational blog!

By the way ... Stephanie will be speaking at a BlogHer session on Saturday. If you're attending, don't miss it!

SEX AND THE SINGLE BLOGGER

On an unrelated note, I found out yesterday that this blog is in very good company! Citylink Magazine, where I used to write a column, considered Sex and the Beach as one of four of South Florida's sexiest blogs written by singles. The other three were Ipanemic, Naked Boy Chronicles and Restaurant Gal.

Thanks Citylink!

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

Alexander's Note

I come from a family that left their homeland with nothing but the clothes on their backs, so it's interesting that I have little, if any, attachment to personal belongings. I detest clutter, but my mother hoards all her countless knick-knacks with the possessive zealousness of a child. Her life is measured by an inventory of things she owns, whereas my life is measured by an inventory of things I've done.

I sometimes wonder if her sense of loss inspires the compulsion to be a pack rat; I also wonder if my seeming detachment betrays some fear of loss. This much I do know: what I possess should never possess me.

I once promised myself, however, that I'd always keep a treasure chest -- one simple box filled with all the little things that shore up memories.

Recently, after making the decision to free myself of most possessions, I rummaged through the box and came across a stash of notes from high school. I laughed at myself for holding onto such peculiar keepsakes -- the yellowed ruled paper, folded into little squares, carrying words that are now over two decades old, evoking the thoughts and feelings of people who filled my life with joy then, reviving long-gone friendships that left their mark on my heart.

I had to pause and think about high school in the digital age. Do friendships forge differently over text messages? Do students know the mischievous pleasure of writing long letters during boring classes? Do the hands of lovers touch in the hallway as they exchange secret notes?

I picked a random note from the stash. It was from Alexander, a friend with whom I once shared a night of passionate kissing -- a night that took both of us by surprise.

You remember that night, don't you? I know you do, even though you weren't there.

Alexander and I were studying for college placement exams when we realized we already knew everything we needed to know except the one thing we didn't know -- each other.

David Bowie serenaded our tentative bodies. To this day, I cannot help but think of Alexander when I listen to Major Tom. Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do ... specifically, I cannot help but think of Alexander's tongue, his smooth blond hair and long hands. If I close my eyes, I can recall a faint, salty scent and the intangible softness of his love making. But I didn't know he was so gentle then, because I didn't yet know much about men's embraces. This was just the beginning of my life's inventory.

Maria,

It's 12:50 am, post-facto. I've been thinking to myself -- not for long actually, just the ride home. This is the way I see it. At the beginning of the school year, nobody could've predicted this . . . and no one can predict what will happen now. I understand exactly what you mean -- "all or nothing." I think we should wait to see what exactly happens between us -- tonight and this week -- before we make any standing decisions. Could this have been a whim? I don't think so, but it certainly wasn't planned to work this way. If it comes, fine; if it doesn't, that's fine also. I need a friend, let's not ruin a good friendship over passion.

All my love,

Alexander

Alexander and I would never become lovers and while the night passed into memory without any awkwardness, our friendship would dissipate, as so many friendships did, after graduation.

We weren't in love; we were just curious.

I smiled as I read his note, twenty three years and many embraces later. I was impressed by his diction and touched by the delicacy of his feelings. The fact that he took the time to write the note, that he thought of a potential "us" that warranted contemplation, that he handed it to me first thing in the morning at school -- all of these details led me to the conclusion that perhaps we weren't so immature at 18 years of age.

No money can buy this memory, a memory that swells my heart with a life lived well. I'm glad I stashed this old, crumpled piece of paper because over the years, it acquired new meaning and afforded me a glimpse into that hazy realm of the eternal. A life's worth of loves, of writings -- these are the things I'd keep under lock and key, these are the cherished possessions.

Traveling Light

A funny thing happens when you decide to let go of all your material possessions. You realize that they were never really yours and that those things you do own -- your heart, faith, purpose and love -- are the things that no one person or circumstance can take away from you.

An even funnier thing happens when you decide to let go of your attachment to place. You realize that as a spiritual being on a human journey, being rooted anywhere is just a temporary illusion. The most important anchor you have is yourself.

I'm getting a divorce and having an affair all at once -- separating from places, people and things that no longer serve me and falling in love with all that truly matters. This is an interior place of peace that only exists within. It doesn't have a name. It's not on any map. This is the place we should all be so lucky to find, no matter where we live on this earth.

When I first began this process, I let my ego talk me into seeing this as a step backward. But in reality, being 40 and free of all obligations is actually a blessing. No divorce, no mortgage -- in short, no personal or financial baggage -- is a really good place to be in our country this year, all things considered.

This is also a good place to be as a writer. It's a blank page full of possibilities.

I have to be honest, my life in Miami Beach never supported much stability for me, even though, ironically, it was boot camp for spiritual growth. Growth isn't a glossy tourism brochure. Growth is struggle, wasted weekends, one night stands. Growth stumbles on the sidewalk. Growth smells like piss on the bathroom floor at Finnegans 2 on Lincoln Road.

See, the funniest thing of all has happened -- the thing I never expected to happen. Miami isn't Miami to me anymore. Nor is Miami Beach. Here on the mainland, I'm now navigating streets I've known since childhood, but I'm not attached to them. I am perfectly suspended in that peaceful place between love and detachment.

I pass by my old elementary school often, where as a little girl, I stared in awe at the big trees on Sunset Drive. I was a child and it would be many years before I would learn who I was. I still love looking at those trees -- the giant green canopies all over this part of town. But now I know who I am and I stare in awe at the boundless pages of my future, of things I have it in my heart to write.

My face smiled then. My heart smiles now.

South Beach: Requiem or Rhapsody?

"When the quest to fill your inner emptiness by appropriating something from outside becomes desperate, repetitive, or automatic you have what is called an addiction." -- Edmund J. Bourne, The Anxiety & Phobia Workbook

Addiction. That's brilliant. There's no better way to describe my relationship to this place. I was addicted to the idea of the beach, even though, two and half years ago, I started this blog in a process that was really the beginning of the end. I had some kind of unnatural attachment to the island and everything it represented -- a life of longing, a life of being single with no responsibilities, a life of flotsam and jetsam, minus the consequences. A life of cocktails, minus the hangovers. A life of tourism, a life of running away, traveling to and from my own life -- except that doesn't really work, because living life, you're not a tourist. A life with an "excuse" for sex, minus the real sex, the real intimacy, minus the body of the beloved, the reality of physical contact and the responsibility for another's heart ... well, I say this all with many grains of salt ... because I lived South Beach in my twenties and thirties, and lived it well. I was loved. And I did love. Loved well ...

However, I was shoring up in heavenly, gilt- and guilt-ridden sunrises -- my life was being dragged toward the undertow, with no one to swim in the riptide . . . at the end of the day. It's this time ... the end of the day time ... these liminal, transitional moments in our lives when we really appreciate who's around, right?

In my time living on Miami Beach, I have known many addictions. You may assume I'm referring to your run of the mill substance abuse -- drugs, alcohol -- but no, the substance is just a choice. What are you really addicted to? It's that and so much more. There's something about this place that creates addiction in a deeper, spiritual, existential sense, which is true of so many spaces we inhabit as individuals.

For me, the island, hanging on by a grain of sand to the vast ocean, has become a prison. This island of everyone else's vacation has become my invisible, walled-in cloister.

In my time living in this place, I have witnessed lives that were addicted to so many things ... women, addicted to low self-esteem, babies that have been born from this, children that were supposed to validate a shallow life; I've known men addicted to photographs, holding on to the illusory reality of image; I've known people so sullen who were addicted to body types instead of their hearts -- "I can't love you if you don't match up to this specific detail" -- people forever giving themselves a broken heart -- this is what really breaks my heart, actually, this ability we have to make shipwreck even in calm seas -- and yes, I've known people who didn't even know they had broken someone else's heart; I've invested in meaningful yet transient friendships that have been broken suddenly, like a twig snapping off a branch; I've known good businesses that have come and gone, like the bead and coffee shops on Lincoln Road before the gentrification tourism process (hey, it's what Carl Fisher wanted in the first place, so I'm not complaining); I've caught and slaughtered fish; I've known so many superficial details about this place, but damn it, I've also known deeper things -- deeper things running far lower, unfathomable in these shores ... and because of this, I don't regret a breath I've drawn as a citizen of Miami Beach.

But most importantly, I've seen this as blank canvas for egos to flourish and draw their own demise ... or rebirth. I could go on and on ... but what would be the point?

And this is why I can't decide if my leaving this particular geographic location is a requiem or a rhapsody. Because part of me wants to sing to this place; yeah, like Walt Whitman, I'm going to sing Song of Myself because I can, because I have the luxury and pleasure of writing poetry, prose and some such other words in this blessed island by the ocean.

And this place (which has nothing to do with the literal Miami Beach, geographically speaking) will always be inside me. You see, Manola is going to thrive, no matter where she goes -- "a little me, a little Miami Beach" -- isn't circumscribed by location. Sex and the Beach has always been a state of mind, not a place . . . the characters I have created have always been of this world and not limited to this island.

I've always argued that blogs must develop organically like life; this is what makes good writing -- sharing your experience, even if under a semi-fictional veil -- experience that is still grounded in authentic, lived life, life that is raw, unabashed, smelly, broken, half-assed, saintly yet questionable, a life that is not formulaic, but questioning, raising eyebrows always -- this life, this life on this island ... what is your life? Seriously. Your life, beyond your blog, beyond web 2.0, your life as it is, raw, plain and simple -- this is the organic fodder of good writing. And is not every man and woman -- at the end of the day -- an island?

I may be moving to the mainland, but I'll be here again. Just expect some new inflections, new voices, new locales ... the world is my oyster, want a sip?

I'm proud of my life, damn it. Join me in this plenitude, this abundance ... the ocean really is vast.

Sex and Relationships Revisited

In case you missed my first sex and relationships column in Citylink Magazine last year, I've retyped the printed column below (Citylink doesn't archive its stories online).

Writing under Manola Blablablanik as nom de plume, my stint at Citylink was brief; after only three columns, the publisher reorganized editorial made a dumb-ass decision and the topic of sex fell by the wayside. My editor assured me that I was no less adored -- the decision to toss off the topic of sex had nothing to do with me. You'd think a street-smart local rag that focuses on entertainment and makes revenue from escort ads would want black, white and sex all over! But no ... chalk it up to one of life's great mysteries.

I'm very grateful for the experience, which I thoroughly enjoyed, even though it was challenging to adapt Manola's voice to print. She had to be true to herself while addressing a different audience. This was no ordinary navel-gazing column a la Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City; I had to play journalist -- interviewing, reporting, fact-checking and so on. I also had the pleasure of working with Dan Sweeney, a funny, no-nonsense editor. Being a columnist changed the way I blog and will undoubtedly influence the course of Sex and the Beach in the future. Happily, what dizzying and amazing turns my writing career has taken!

In any case, I've been a bit burnt-out lately. I sent Manola Blablablanik, Dr. Annie Steelclit and Professor Chancleta to an undisclosed luxury health spa in Arizona a couple of weeks ago. I suspect they'll return refreshed and ready for much unabashed mischief in no time. Expect to see more street-smart reporting here in the not so distant future . . .

So in the meantime, enjoy a reprise!


Going at it like the animals
by Manola Blablablanik

A trip to Miami MetroZoo can be a learning experience – and maybe even a turn on.

It’s a cornball scene: The music rises. Man grabs woman and plants a smoldering wet one on her lips. She hesitates, but barely. Apparently furious, she steps back and slaps him. “You’re an animal,” she cries. Another crescendo and boom! The two start humping like monkeys.

For Ron Magill, that scene wouldn’t be just cornball, but the age-old replay of the birds and the bees, or more accurately, the orangutans and the chimpanzees. As a matter of fact, if apes could talk, they’d probably tell us that human sex is a real snoozer. Magill is here to speak for them. “Animals don’t have preconceived notions about sex,” he says. “If it feels right, they do it. They’re pure teachers about sex.”

As goodwill ambassador and communications director for Miami Metrozoo, Magill knows the ins and outs of sexual behavior in animals. He’s a wildlife expert with years of field research under his belt as well as a master at communicating scientific facts to regular folks like you and me. His annual Valentine’s Day Sex and the Animals show, now 18 years running, is part educational talk and part slide-show presentation with a heavy dose of slapstick. “Sex is one of the most beautiful gifts given to human beings, but you have to be responsible about it,” he explains. “Animals have much to teach us about sex.”

Magill says that, back in the day, public lectures at the zoo were a bit humdrum. Sex and the Animals aimed to educate audiences in an entertaining way while fulfilling the zoo’s need for community outreach. “I really wanted to call this Sex and the Animals,” he admits, “even though the zoo needed to maintain a wholesome family image.” He got his way.

We jaded adults think of the zoo as a place to let kids run around for a day, and while we may keep the porn channel blocked at home, we can’t always shield junior’s eyes. At the zoo, everyone’s a voyeur. “Sex takes place spontaneously and unpredictably,” Magill says. “Let’s say one day spot a crowd in front of the zebras. You know people are watching. They feel safe watching animals have sex without being stereotyped.”

After attending Sex and the Animals, I’m game for some beast porn, which will definitely spell return visits to the zoo for me. The seduction was easy: It started with a little wine, a little cheese and a show during which I laughed my ass off. The show starred Magill’s addictive enthusiasm, a bevy of naughty photographs and some larger-than-life props.

I really got in touch with the animal kingdom after the unforgettable experience of stroking a walrus penis bone, which was passed around the audience. The object gives whole new meaning to the word boner and could very well be the inspiration behind many sex toys. Approximately the size of a baseball bat, the walrus penis bone is sleek, sporting a slightly rotund tip.

Why the bone? Sex organs are designed to work quickly and efficiently. “It’s not absolutely clear why, but in some species, the male needs to be immediately ready when the female displays,” Magill explains. “In nature, penis and vagina shapes fit like pieces of a puzzle.” In other words, if you’re an enormous walrus who has to penetrate your zaftig mate, boy, does that bone give you an advantage.

Magill isn’t shy about demonstrating the wonders of animal sexuality himself. He doesn’t just describe tortoise sex; he air-humps an imaginary partner in order to explain the exquisite timing of orgasms. The male tortoise is quite a screamer, and Magill’s imitation would put a histrionic porn star to shame.

Some animals are into the titillation of porn, proving that even cute, furry mammals sometimes need a little help from their friends. In one breeding program, captive male pandas that were standoffish got their freak on after watching other pandas get down on a TV monitor. But most animals are naturally horny and don’t need technology for stimulation. “Sometimes, it’s all about quantity vs. quality,” Magill says. A male rhino will engage in intercourse for an entire hour ejaculating every two to five minutes. On the other hand, the Shaws jird, a type of rodent, will breed every 15 seconds for an hour, earning the record for frequency of sex. Don’t feed the animals Viagra, please. Do give them a tube of K-Y.

All this sex talk got me thinking about the many times I’ve referred to South Beach as a zoo. Now that I’ve received an education, every time I see a woman wearing a microminiskirt, I’ll be thinking about a chimpanzee in estrus, displaying her lovely, swollen come-hither vulva. Lesbians kissing on Lincoln Road? No problem. Female pygmy chimpanzees rub uglies when they say hello, just for pleasure. Some bimbo on the arm of a rich geezer? Well, now, that’s predictable. Those same lady chimps are also gold diggers; they’ll screw dominant males to climb the social ladder or to receive gifts like fruit.

The highlight of the show confirmed something I already knew. Even though men may appear to be the aggressors in hot pursuit of nooky, women rule the roost when it comes to sex. A married man, Magill wasn’t just speaking from his knowledge of scientific data: “Absolutely – 99 percent of the time in all invertebrates, it’s the female that ultimately dictates if, when and how many times.”

The orangutans do have something to teach us. The image of one hunky, hairy ape performing oral sex on his female partner before intercourse will forever remain etched in my mind. That’s not just sex, that’s superior service.

Originally published in print for Citylink Magazine, March 7, 2007

tags: sex animals, citylink, sex relationships, columnist

EXCLUSIVE! Manola Interviews Maria! Scandalous!

Manola Blablablanik interviews Maria, the author of Sex and the Beach, on the occasion of her fortieth birthday. Bonus Seesmic video added below!

Manola: Happy birthday to my favorite ho! Tell me, what does it feel like to be a withered old hag with dried-up ovaries?

Maria: What are you talking about you cheap tramp, I'm only 40 and I feel better than ever!

Manola: Oh come on, get real. You're supposed to have a mid-life crisis, babe. By Hollywood standards, you're already a prime nip/tuck candidate. And to add insult to injury, you can't even be a MILF because you've failed to push out a baby. Double whammy!

Maria: Listen, bitch, the only "double whammy" here are the cheeks on my big fat Cuban ass! Manola, I can't believe you buy into that stupid shit! First of all, I'm still HOT and what makes me even HOTTER is the fact that I'm wiser and no longer a twenty-something Britney trainwreck about to happen, but a real woman with her high heels firmly planted on the ground. Hello? I survived the doormat years with grace, chutzpah and barely a wrinkle!

Manola: What about rug rats?

Maria: If it's meant to be, I'll manifest a solid, loving relationship with an extraordinary man who also desires a child. Call me crazy, but why should I settle for a spermsickle up my yin yang instead of a hot beef injection from someone who adores me?

Manola: Well yeah, a romp with your hunk is the best way to be sperminated, but what if ...

Maria: Look it. No one really has a baby, you know. You have a human being and you shouldn't bang one out just because your uterus can keep it alive for the first nine months. It's a serious matter ... can we talk about something else?

Manola: Ok ... calm down. Damn girl, this is supposed to be a fluffy interview! So, speaking of "extraordinary men" who are you banging these days?

Maria: Well, I know you're not going to believe this, but I've been celibate for over a year.

Manola: SHUT UP! GET OUT! You are so fucking lying to me!

Maria: Nope. I actually took a vow of celibacy about a year ago to devote myself to a spiritual healing practice. Celibacy isn't just a hiatus from sex, but also from emotional entanglements that distract you from facing the void. Sounds scary, doesn't it?

Manola: Sounds BORING!

Maria: Actually, taking personal inventory is the best fucking thing any woman can do for herself. The results are quite sexy -- I'm more confident, secure, at peace with myself and the world and far more capable of loving.

Manola: Oh, who cares about all that rubbish. Come on, a whole year without sex? Not even a little smooch?

Maria: I've lived life well (wink, wink) so I haven't missed much.

Manola: I don't believe you.

Maria: Well, I might have been walking on the beach and accidentally slipped on someone's penis a couple of times, but that's none of your fucking business!

Manola: Oh come on, dish!

Maria: No.

Manola: I bet that "slip-up" was a blogger.

Maria: Shut the fuck up.

Manola: Does he follow you on Twitter?

Maria: Cut it out.

Manola: Oh wait! I bet he's a dude in one of your cartoons ...

Maria: I am SO going to walk out on this interview!

Manola: Ok, ok ... FINE. So how could you write about sex if you weren't into it?

Maria: Ah, that's the magic of the craft, grasshopper. When I started this blog two years ago in October, I was actually deeply depressed and had only just begun to refine the art of being reclusive. Never would've guessed it, huh?

Manola: What? Wait a minute. Now I feel shitty. Did you create me just to vent your frustrations? Is that all I am to you? I feel so used!

Maria: Manola, there's a little bit of me in you and little bit of you in me, but we're not the same person. One fine day, I'll grow up and hook up with a deserving man, but you, my dear, must always be single.

Manola: Always single, huh? That sounds like fun! But Maria, if you don't have sex, how the hell am I going to get some dick vicariously? I mean, you don't plan on keeping your hoochie hidden under lock and key for the rest of your life, do you?

Maria: Don't be ridiculous! Of course I want some dick, but I want some heart, too. This isn't about morals, it's about getting to that point in your life when you don't do dinner and bullshit anymore.

Manola: So let's go to Club Douche tonight, get real drunk and pick up some ...

Maria: No way. I'm not a cougar who's into prowling bars, even though the chastity belt is off. You swig a wine cooler with the tourist boys, honey. I prefer to sip a fine, aged scotch. I'm perfectly content to be who I am, where I am, how I am ...

Manola: Ugh. You and your stupid spiritual crap! Sometimes you sound like Oprah and Dr. Phil's love child. Why can't we just talk about penis and pussy?

Maria: Dude, we have been talking about penis and pussy. Sheesh!

Manola: OK, well, hmm ... I was hoping that by being a nosy bitch I could get a sordid confession out of you, but I see you've decided to be all deep thoughts instead of deep throat.

Maria: Honey, at my age, "classy" is the new porn.

Manola: Well, Maria, I'd love to wish you a very happy 40th birthday and hope that you'll get laid soon with some "nice" guy. Geez ... picky, aren't we?

Maria: I've learned so much from you -- you impudent, foul-mouthed slut! You're resilient and aren't afraid to speak your mind. You've been one of the greatest joys in my life. Thanks to you, Manola.



tags: confession, interview, birthday, video, seesmic, cleavage

Fractured Mannequin

Ladies, welcome to Manola's lounge. Sit back, sip on a martini, slide off those sling-backs and put your feet up on the velvet ottoman. Allow me, oh goddesses, to offer you a tale of caveat emptor -- retail therapy gone bad.

WHY DON'T PHARMACEUTICAL COMPANIES MAKE AN 'ASSHOLE CONTROL' PILL?

Shortly before I went off the deep end, I decided to take birth control pills to please Mr. Thinks He's Huge, because His Royal Anus couldn't stand condoms. Indeed, something happens when you fall in love with an asshole -- your brain, that otherwise reasonable organ that reminds you to look both ways before crossing the street to avoid being hit by a car -- completely shuts down.

Never mind that you've always gained weight in the past just from even thinking about progesterone. Never mind that you couldn't even talk about hormones without getting bloated. Never mind that you went from junior jeans to bearded circus freak overnight. No, never mind that you're not a fairy prancing about the forest in ballet slippers, like the waifs in the commercial.

"You too can enjoy fucking like a rabbit just by popping this little pill," said pharmaceutical company spokeinthecorporatewheel, Mr. Pack O Lies. "Only .25 percent of women gain half an ounce on this otherwise harmless medication that has liberated women worldwide!"



Liberated? My ass! I really mean it this time: MY BIG CUBAN ASS EXPONENTIALLY MULTIPLIED! I belong to that .25 percent, you snake oil-selling carnival barker! How can it be liberating to sacrifice your health for a man who isn't willing to collaborate with you on family planning and do what's best for the both of you to prevent an unwanted pregnancy?

So the pounds packed on, the fucking became less frequent and the depression turned more rampant.

The formula is simple: You love an asshole. You take a pill to prevent mini-assholes. You get fat. You stop fucking.

WRONG PLACE, WRONG ASSHOLE

And wrong timing. My nephew's wedding was two months away and the entire family, in a most interesting and utterly dysfunctional twist, gave me shit about the fact that I wasn't going to look like a Hollywood hobag anorexic lollipop head, as if I had to be a red carpet silicon and collagen-ridden celebrity skeleton to make myself presentable. Even though I wasn't a bridesmaid, the family rumor mill buzzed about the disgrace of my weight gain and the shame it would bring to the family.

Seriously.

Not only was I in love with an asshole, I'd been born into a clan of loving folk turned suddenly -- because of the stress of the event -- into a pack of irrational yapping prolapsed colons.

My mother wanted to control my wedding wardbrobe, because my arms were too fat to go sleeveless and the fate of the Middle East somehow depended on whether or not the guests at my nephew's wedding gazed upon my horribly deformed upper limbs.

As well, my sister wanted to influence my choice of dress, because God forbid I show a speck of bosom and turn my nephew's wedding into a skank back-alley version of Moulin Rouge, which surely would've exacerbated the effects of Global Whoring on the ozone layer.

So unwittingly, my normal-turned-Stepford-family alienated the crazy aunt -- "Well, she's a writer ... you know!" -- sucking me dry of any enthusiasm I might have about the future of a nephew whom I dearly love. I resigned myself to the fact that my self-esteem was slowly, excruciatingly being crushed into a non-descript blob of fat labeled hazardous waste.

AT LEAST PINOCCHIO BELIEVED WHAT HE WAS LYING AND DIDN'T SHOVE HIS LIES UP YOUR ASSHOLE

On one of those rare evenings in which Mr. Thinks He's Huge had consumed half a liter of vodka and felt affectionate, which was really an unsuccesful ruse -- nay a losing excuse -- to shove his wanker up my rectum -- we talked about what I'd wear to my nephew's wedding. He held my hand and promised that we'd upstage the couple celebrating their nuptials.

"I'm going to buy you the most beautiful dress, Manola," he lied through this teeth. "I don't care how much it costs. Buy something to match the color of your cerulean blue eyes. I'll wear a matching tie. We're going to upstage the couple celebrating their nuptials."



The weeks passed. I stayed on the pill to please him and kept gaining weight, in spite of diet and exercise -- yes -- exercise: an exercise in pointless frustration.

A week prior to the wedding, I was looking forward to buying the dress, because even though I was in love with an asshole, at least he was on my size 14 side. He had mentioned more than once that he'd be the macho man holding my arm, making the family swallow humble pie.

But as was to be expected, three days prior to shopping, Mr. Thinks He's Huge put on indifferent airs, picked an argument out of his dossier and like a prisoner of war, simply disappeared. And truly, there was no war to speak of. Nor a prison.

I brought the now infamous dress alone on a Saturday morning at Macy's in Aventura Mall. My heart, which was now barely beating like road kill on its last breath, sunk deep as I peered into the mirror at the woman wearing the soft yellow empire-waist dress, wrapped in flowing, fading turquoise gauze.

I looked at her yet didn't recognize the face or the body. I had let others tell me who I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to look like and what I was worth based on their idea of this boundless thing called a soul bound up in a body that had put on extra pounds to please its lover. I shrugged my shoulders at a gorgeous dress that meant nothing for an event that had been spoiled before it even happened.

The dress was supposed to mean something for someone, but instead, it became ordinary, dirty and inconsequential, like a smelly kitchen rag tossed into the hamper.

Automatically, without feeling, I wrote a check for $150, knowing that I'd have to ask my family to cover the cost of the dress.

That was a good day, wasn't it? Admitting to my family that the man who would walk with me, arm in arm, down the aisle and to the first row of pews, was an asshole who didn't keep promises. Admitting to myself that the man I was in love with wasn't worth the little scrap left of my heart.

But at least I kept my promise of not showing the now infamous dress in public until the ceremony.

It hung patiently, waiting to be embodied, in my closet.

AN ASSHOLE IS JUST AN ASSHOLE

Mr. Thinks He's Huge finally returned my phone calls on Monday. He rang and spoke cooly: "I'm penciling in my agenda. When are we having dinner with your brother? Oh and did you buy the dress?"

"Yes."

Click.

No offer to compensate me for the cost of the dress, no enthusiasm about seeing the dress, no looking forward to the wedding. Was it a question of money? Surely, an honest man would've been honest.

I swallowed my humble pie. I was going to have to put on a face and go through with this, reluctantly, because when I had sent out the rsvp, me plus one had been an important number, considering that one of my nephew's cousins had refused to attend because she was not allowed to bring her boyfriend. See, only those who were officially attached were encouraged to bring guests. I had branded my disaster as official.

The day of the wedding arrived.

Guess what? I drove there alone, because Mr. Thinks He's Huge was late. He never walked down the aisle with me, arm in arm, to sit with me proudly, on the first row of pews. He missed the entire ceremony and showed up just in time to drive to the reception.

It's just as well. I sauntered down the aisle in my four-inch heels and and sat next to my other sister. Before I could say hello, pain melted and we giggled, sobbed like idiots and felt such love and joy, What the heck -- the moment had finally come -- we were here for my nephew and his bride. I forgot all about Mr. Thinks He's Huge, the dress and my family's arrogant humiliation. I let the love wear me. The dress was just an accessory.

After the ceremony, ironically, I was the belle of the ball. My sister even said: "Why, you're positively glowing! Your dress is absolutely stunning! You don't even look fat."

Why? Because I was happy, bitch. I wasn't going to let anyone get in the way of this celebration. And yet, it was the best and worst of days, because in order to rejoice in the wedding, I had to push aside this festering canker in my heart that dared called itself my the love of my life and then I had to put on a face for a family which, instead of accepting me for who I was at the time, tried to turn me into the laced-up lab rat I could never be.

BODY DOUBLE NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE

My dress was a beautiful shade of yellow, draped by a fading turquoise gauze. But I was color blind. More importantly: heart blind.

A few weeks after ny nephew's wedding, I'd been off birth control and Mr. Thinks He's Huge was pulling one of his morning suck-me-and-fuck-me pranks. Instead of pulling out, he came inside me.

I lay in bed, stone cold mortified. He got up out of bed, put on his pants over his still leaking penis, looked evasively at the mirror while he brushed his hair back and said "well, you can take one of those morning after pills."

I had two choices: 1) risk a pregnancy from a man who claimed he had been cheated into having two children by his former girlfriend or 2) my health, by taking what is essentially a month's worth of hormones over a period of 72 hours.

The choice was simple.

HAPPYLOGUE



My nephew and his wife are happily married and happily, my family's momentary lapse of reason has long ago subsided. They've come to accept the nutty wordsmith crafting away in her little Miami Beach hovel.

And several moons ago, during one long, dark night, Manola was born ... it's good to laugh when the laugh's good ... fractured and imperfect, laughable and loveable.

Helen of Oy and Her Three Husbands

Helen was born in Hungary 94 and a half years ago. Her family owned a saloon where all the farmworkers would come to quench their thirst and addle their brains after a long day at the field. Helen's grandma was a tough-as-nails barkeep. Her muddy, alcohol-soaked leather boots were worn at the heels. That tough lady would kick burly, drunken men out the door -- literally.

Helen, to look at her today, she couldn't hurt a fly, but she inherited that spunk in her blood.



During the early years of Helen's womanhood, she had no idea of the future that would bring her, after a much convoluted route, to a little apartment just off Arthur Godfrey Road. Yes, although Helen was born in Hungary, she would spend most of her life on Miami Beach.

And I, Manola, who has quite a bit of bark, but still rides on a relatively soft thirtysomething spine to back up her bite, would be honored to have crossed paths with such a remarkable woman. Manola never had a grandmother. All separated by the divide of exile.

Sometimes, however, exile makes for strange familiarity. I once called Helen bubulah and she pinched my cheek.

"You are adorable! How do you know Jewish? You pronounce it so well! Did you know I had three husbands?"

"Yes, Helen. You told me about your three husbands."

And she did. Oh yes, she loved talking about her three husbands.

As a young woman in Europe, Helen was no stranger to the swagger and palaver of men. She owned a corset shop in town, which forced her to walk about ten miles a day -- first, to work, then back home for the big midday meal -- then back to work and home at the end of the day. Men would lurk on the streets, asking unsuspecting and yet flattered ladies if they could simply escort them for a walk.

Helen confessed that her father, who often found himself commuting by foot or horse-drawn cart on the same road, would pretend not to see that she was holding hands with her boyfriend.

"Boyfriend?" I asked.

And with endearing coyness, Helen replied: "Oh ... of course! He walked with me everyday. He held my hand."

Hand-holding in public. Yes, I'd forgotten about that.

She barely escaped the war, but that didn't break her spirit.

On an average day, I'd see Helen by the mail dispatch and we'd talk about the weather and, inevitably but with much affability, her three husbands.

She only well and truly loved the second man. The first one was a German pilot who, in a grand stroke of irony, died in a plane crash on a detail to Israel. Helen speaks little of husband number three, but number two, well ... he was, without a doubt, THE LOVE OF HER LIFE.

"You only love once, Manola" she explained as her eyes twinkled and she grabbed my shoulder with bony hands. "I told you I had three husbands? Yes, I've had three husbands, but the second one, the father of my children, the one I met at a dance in Chicago, well, we were love birds. He held my hand all the time."

In an instant that spelled eternity, the aging woman shrugged her shoulders.

"He held my hand until he died."

Yes, holding hands.

I'd forgotten about that.

Helen loves that I know a smattering of yiddish.

"Knock, knock. Excuse me, Helen. I need change for the laundry. Look at me, I am such a meshugenah shiksah wearing schmatteh" (which is true, by the way, being nuts, broke and wearing rags) and instantly, I get not only a pinch on the cheek but a kiss to boot.

"How do you know Jewish? You pronounce it so well! Here's the change. Let me teach you how to say 'I love you' in Hungarian ... Hungarians are so romantic ... did you know I had three husbands?"

Yes, Helen, time and time again, I know you had three husbands. And that's the only story you can tell. And you think it matters to me? Of course it does! I haven't even managed to have one. In fact, I've avoided three divorces.

Deep into conversation -- which only took a few minutes, if you navigated imaginatively with the mind of this somehow sharp yet senile lady who survived a brutal past of persecution, a woman who had lost her family to a holocaust and then endured three marriages -- well for Helen, it was all in a day's work.

Concerned about my life, she would ask, quite bluntly, if my ex-boyfriend fulfilled me.

"Does he make you feel good, you know, like a woman?"

Imagine my surprise! A question about a sexual life that she might've heard across drywall and concrete -- oh, no she was too deaf -- but she knew what she was asking, even if she sometimes depended on my courtesy to turn on a lamp Friday evening, when the timer failed to work on Shabbos.

When I re-entered singlehood, she inquired -- out of the blue, bumping into her on the 41st street sidewalk -- about the fact that I, now free to do as I pleased, and a very good-looking girl, did not go to dances to meet boys. She didn't just ask -- she'd perk up and sway her flat, barren chest side to side.

"But you, you should go to dances to meet boys! You know, Hungarians are very romantic and we love to dance. When I clean my house I listen to czardas. Here, let me show you! Did I tell you I had three husbands?"

This tiny creature, made of bird bones, sheer courage and grit, grabbed my waist and twirled me around.

I smiled knowingly. Yes Helen, I know you had three husbands. But I kept quiet because I'd never want to spoil Helen's memories with the sordid truth.

Men and women no longer meet at dances. I thought of Crowbar on South Beach. Nineteen year-olds on exstacy humping in the VIP section. Is that really love? What of holding hands? What of until death do us part? And does death really part souls who share love?

Yes, Helen. You dance. You live. You survive.

And now you're moving to Detroit to be closer to your progeny. Years are catching up to you like the yarns of your knitting. You've defied death long enough, but you've done so swimmingly, marrying three men, keeping house, bearing children, wearing your color-coordinate polyester outfits just to walk to Kosher World at 3 PM everyday to buy supper, even though you have nothing much to live for, at least as far as my own eyes can see.

And I could very well be blind.

No one could imagine that this wrinkled waif, strutting happily in Miami Beach, still bothered to give herself a french manicure and coordinate her jewelry with her ensemble.

Helen, fashion is trivial. But in you, Helen, fashion is defiance. You believed in yourself, Helen. Dead family, lovers and love-of-your-life aside, you believed in life and lived it, even when your body shrank and shriveled and you survived on the Friday wine of memories.

Last week, speaking about life in assisted-living, Helen worried about making new friends.

"Helen" I winked, "maybe you'll meet a nice fella in Detroit."

"Oh, I don't like old Jewish men. They are not worth the trouble. I'm not going to change anyone's diapers. I'm too old for that. For me it has to be a man under 70. Did I tell you, I had three husbands?"

The woman in me would like to believe that Helen, spry flirt she is even with one well-shod foot in the grave, enjoyed more than just holding hands. I'd like to believe she reveled in tender kisses and exquisite love on the shores of the beach.

But that dream is stored in a dusty collection of black and white photos only her great-grandchildren might find some cold day in Detroit while exploring an attic. Memories come alive in the grainy voice of a singer sulking in the melody of a Hungarian czardas.

Maybe her idea of love had to do with holding hands, which, at the end of a long life, is a far better keepsake than some random encounter on the sand.

Never second-guess love. Never assume passion is a thing of the past. I saw it in this old, weathered face and those cloudy yet bright eyes.

"Manola, if you don't take care of yourself, who will?"

Yes, Helen. And if I do make it to that ripe old age of 94, living alone and still able to bend over and pick up a fallen kleenex, slice an apple with a knife, sweep the floor and do calisthenics in the pool, dance to old tunes from my grouchy cassette player, dress up every day, cut my own hair and give myself a mani-pedi, remember ... well, yes, remember ANYTHING for that matter, well yes, I'll remember you, your three husbands, definitely, as well as my three near-miss husbands ... all long, long after you're gone.

"After you die, nothing matters. I like to enjoy each day. I thank HASHEM for each day. Do you know how to say God in Jewish? Everyday, I ask him, if he is going to keep me alive, keep me well."

And he will.



This little voice that embraces life, this vivid little flame that illuminates an aging body is quickly darkening.

The day she dies the sun won't rise as brightly on the beach. Or maybe, knowing Helen, it will. Matching shoes and hat, no doubt.

During a thunderstorm last summer, Helen, wearing a satin robe and panther-print sandals, knocked on my door. So short! Standing well below my own petite frame, I could only see a few whisps of gray hair through the peep hole.

"Look, the clouds are getting black! Are you afraid, Manola?"

"No, Helen." And in my mind, I thought of grandmothers I never met.

Silently, I answered: "Of course not. What's a little storm when you've weathered the most horrid fate so elegantly with grace and gratitude?"

And speaking loudly so her feeble ear could hear, I replied: "No Helen, of course not. But call me if you need anything, ok? I'll always be here for you."

Damn, I'll miss my neighbor.

I'll always be there for her because she was always there for me ... and, most importantly, always there for herself.

UPDATE: March 2007 -- I heard from another neighbor that Helen slipped, broke a hip and passed away while in Detroit. Can you believe it? After all those years of living alone she moves to assisted living and dies? Had she stayed here, I reckon she'd still be kicking. But you know what? She's at peace now and making heaven a better place. I will always honor you, dear Helen.