To Know Such Love

They would have been married 55 years this Thursday. Havana, Cuba 1959.

I don't know if my father remembers the date but today was especially quiet, as if a premonition of the anniversary. I mourned my mom in a different way. I mourned her for him, for his sadness. A tether keeps him attached to his body, knowing full well his soul wants to be next to hers, that his life is meaningless without her. Time stands still, stuck in the past of all he has ever known, the one constant in his life, the woman he most loved, my mother.

Would we all be so lucky to know such love.

BREAKING NEWS! Multiple Orgasms Don't Exist As Proved By Binary Sequences!

If only all sex was as good as a Pastrami sandwhich at Katz's.

I was just pondering the concept of multiple orgasms. Technically, an orgasm is an anatomical event that starts and stops -- kind of like the bars in a musical score. So if you have multiple orgasms, when one ends the other starts, then it's not multiple anymore, right? In that case, you experience orgasms in succession with a beginning and end point to each orgasm. Now, if you have one long-ass orgasm that lasts forever -- if you don't know where it begins and ends -- then that is technically not a MULTIPLE orgasm because it's part of the same neuromuscular physiological sequence.

If you are a tech geek, think of this as a binary program.  It starts. It stops. And that is the way the body communicates pleasure to the brain. Or vice-versa.  It is the morse code of the body.

Men squirt and they're done with business. Women's bodies are more mysterious.  And sometimes, even women don't understand their own bodies.  It's possible to walk around in an orgasmic state of bliss, even when your glorious clitoris isn't blowing Joy to the World like the angel Gabriel at heaven's door wielding a gilded trumpet.

You can thank oxytocin for that feeling.

My point is, however, that you cannot technically have multiple orgasms. You either have a really, really long one, or you have them in succession with pauses in between.

Yeah, I know. I think about this shit. It's not a first world problem, but rather a first world luxury.

And ... I have experienced all of the above. What about you?




Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional. Take all thoughts and advice with a grain of salt and maybe your favorite adult beverage.

That Smile

I wonder what this little girl was thinking.

Why did she look so forlorn?



Oh, she was a sassy, spoiled kid. She hated having her photographs taken by doting parents.



But what if, somehow, she knew then what she knows now?

Did she know that she’d fall in love in high school? That she’d leave the love of her life almost a decade later, because she was too young to get married and wanted to find herself?

Did she know she’d have an amazing but financially troubled career as a writer? That she’d follow her heart’s passion at whatever cost, that she’d make people laugh, cry, think, that she’d help friends and foes, that she’d sometimes write words to blind eyes and speak words to deaf ears?

Did she know that one of her lovers would rape her?

Did she know she’d get pregnant in her forties and lose that child?

Did she know she’d become a mother to her own parents, that she’d have to give up everything in her life to take care of them and put them in hospice less than a year after losing that child?

Because if she did, if she could foresee, a tiny glimpse, an oracle in a little body wearing a colorful frilly dress, then I can now understand the expression on her face, that beautiful face, still so fresh, young and promising.

The decades have somehow spared me of wrinkles, but she’s not, of course, what I see in the mirror now.

But I see her clearly in my heart. Her sorrows, her fears, her joys and dreams are all imprinted in that invisible mirror inside, that photograph you cannot see, yet you know indelibly.

And she still wonders: what’s going to happen?

I want to change this face.

After a moment of passion, some lovers have said to me: “Maria, that smile.”

There he is, lying on top of me. He’s still inside of me. We’re sweaty. We’re spent. His eyes gaze into mine while I am beaming, my body floating in plenitude while muscles quivering.

That smile is a gift to the world and to myself, not just to any man who is my lover. It is a smile of gratitude, of pleasure, of joy in being embraced. That smile is the gift of love and compassion. That smile is everything that comes from my heart to everyone I have ever loved and supported in any way. I even bequeath that smile to those who have judged me.


Fret no more, little girl.

You know why you haven't got crows feet around your big blue eyes, child? Because you haven't smiled enough.

And as I help my parents end their lives -- it was their passionate sexual embrace that brought me into this world, after all -- I’m going to bring a very mindful and heartfelt smile back to your beautiful face.

Silk

A friend of mine gave me a luxurious silk robe for my 46th birthday.

At first, I thought it would just be a beautiful wardrobe item to wear at home.  But it has become more than a work of art that dangles on the wooden paravan behind my bed.

At night, after a long day of toil, I wear my birthday suit instead of pajamas.  I practice a beauty ritual of bathing, followed by moisturizing my skin with softly-scented lotions and oils. Some nights, it is lavender.  Other nights, citrus scents like lemongrass, bergamot and ylang-ylang perfume my soft skin. If I'm feeling frisky, I'll resort to my trusted nutmeg.

When I first wore the robe to bed and let the silk touch my flesh, I felt a kinship with the fabric. Something magical happened. In the absence of a lover, I felt loved. I felt enveloped, swaddled in some kind of gentle sensuality. I felt embraced by a sense of peace, as if God was holding a tender bird in his hands.

The robe caresses me. The robe gives me sweet dreams about love, lightness, joy and well, perhaps a naughty thought here and there.

The robe has become part of my meditation ritual -- the one I practice in my bed, which is a tantric sacred space, even when no other body lies next to me.

When I awake at sunrise, I remove the robe and hang it back on the wooden paravan. I face the day naked but soothed. Never raw.

Every woman should enjoy a robe such as this, even when she sleeps next to her beloved. Or even if she sleeps alone.

The Way to a Woman's Heart Is ... Well, Through Her Heart

A woman's body is a temple. A woman's heart is a place of worship. When a man honors a woman with love, respect and fidelity, amazing things happen. Ladies, protect your heart from unfaithful men who prey on your vulnerability. Let yourselves receive from men who recognize the goddess in you, who will adore you for who you are, taking the best and worst of you all in, embracing all that is feminine in you, including the tempests and calm seas, but always with honor and devotion.

I'll share with you a more prosaic analogy. A woman's heart is like a tootsie pop. You have to lick it hard to get to the soft center.  But it's worth it.

My words above.

Quote from the video:

"At the center of every woman is a mystery that restores you to wholeness, which is in every woman, but you need to find it with one woman. And if you are lucky, you will find one woman who will guide you through the gates."

Video via Cheryl -- an amazing life coach, artist and friend.

Eight Sexual Positions Even South Beach Hookers Don’t Dream Of

Dear readers, you know I don’t typically do book reviews, but I just couldn’t resist this one. The Kama Sutra Bath Book had me at “water.” After all, this is Sex and the Beach, right? Although I do write about stuff that’s more interesting than sex, yeah … whatever.



For those of you still stuck on the Mayflower in the 17th century, the original Kama Sutra is an ancient tome from India, a portion of which is devoted to sexual pleasure. Contrary to popular perception, much of it is also devoted to living in a state of grace and love, upholding family life.



Think of it like Martha Stewart meets 50 Shades of Chrysanthemums.



Well, you gotta have sex to have a family, right?



So behold, this little book, which easily fits into the palm of your six-foot tall, body-builder pool boy. It has a whopping eight pages of sexual positions you can try at home.

Now, let’s be fair here. One of the greatest signs of intimacy (and fun!) is being able to bathe or shower together. But getting frisky in the water is another thing. It’s slippery and wet and a bit more risky than doing it on your old, tired mattress.

Each page, illustrated by Nicole de Meneses, comes with (pardon the terrible pun) a rhyming couplet, in a goofy, Dr. Seuss style.

The book starts out with lotus pose – girl sits on guy as they hug each other -- which is easy enough in a tub. But there are other positions, like the hanging bow – man screwing woman while she does a full back bend with hands on the wet shower floor -- which even the most expert yogis shouldn’t try without a really good insurance policy and weeks of workouts at the gym. Make sure you turn the shower off before you attempt this pose, otherwise, the woman will get a good sinus neti pot cleaning as well.



And if he’s kissing your yoni blossom underwater (please google yoni if you don’t already know what that is … and no, it’s not a Cuban starch side dish with garlic sauce, that's yuca, not yoni) … then make sure he doesn’t drown.


Made of vinyl, the book, however, is a definitely a fun accessory for those watery, happy moments in your life with your beloved that don’t involve tears. It could inspire.

Here are my recommendations. Start simple: candles; luxurious, scented soaps; essential oils; a coconut shell full of scented Epsom salts; a rubber ducky; and if all else fails, a waterproof vibrator.



Or heck, well screw all that and how about just two bodies and 20 fingers?


And yourselves. That’s all you really need.

Oh, well wait ... you might want an anti-slip bath mat.  And if you are over the age of 50, some handicap rails.

But I digress. Let's get back to simple. There’s nothing like shampooing your lover’s hair with a good scalp massage or kissing when it’s already steamy. If you live in South Florida and have a pool under the moonlight with the frogs serenading at night, fireflies providing mood lighting and gators screwing in the swamp nearby, well then … what are you waiting for?



Just make sure, ladies, that you take proper precautions regarding lubrication, safe sex and birth control. The only mammals that typically have sex in water are called cetaceans, a.k.a. whales and dolphins. They have blowholes. Yeah, I know, some of my ex-boyfriends had blowholes, too.

The Kama Sutra Bath Book is fun, cute and very amusing. It’d make a great bachelorette party or gag anniversary gift. And it will definitely get you thinking about positions whether in or out of the water. If you subject your body to CrossFit, you’ll probably make this part of your WOD.

Besides the hanky-panky, bathing with a beloved is definitely one of the most intimate thing a couple can do and for this it gets a thumbs up from Sex and the Beach. And hey, who says you need a partner? You know, when he’s not at home, wink, wink ... I’ll leave that to your imagination.



ANNOYING FTC DISCLOSURE

The publicist sent me a complimentary review copy of this book, bla bla bla.

 Please check with your doctor if you have an orgasm that lasts for more than four hours, etc;

10 Miami Women You've Probably Dated

Aren't we being a bit too picky, ladies? I mean when you really love someone, this is what you end up seeing every morning.

This one is for the guys.

I am so sick of the male bashing going on with the "Miami guys you've dated" posts both in Miami New Times and Huffington Post. What pisses me off more is this xenophobic attitude written by "outsiders" who think shit is wrong with Miami.  Nothing is wrong with Miami and yet everything is "wrong" with Miami. It's just another freakin' city, for pete's sake, populated with people from all over the world.  Get over it, already.

Grow up! If you don't like it, get the hell out! Why did you move here in the first place? Why are you still here? Maybe YOU are the problem.

No matter where you live, you manifest and attract what you are and how you live.  Yeah, I may be single right now, but I'm not ungrateful for some pretty awesome dating experiences I've had in the Magic City. Sure there have been some duds, but that could happen anywhere. I've met some really great guys here and who cares if the dating didn't result in marriage?  Sometimes dating is just that -- dating.

As my friend and relationship coach Gladys says, "men go on dates, women go on relationships."

So let's see, if it really takes two to tango, there's a reason why assholes attract each other in this mating dance.  Now, I'm obviously a woman and not a misogynist, but ladies, sometimes that so-called jerk you are dating doesn't know what the hell to do with you.  If you keep thinking he's a bad guy, well guess what? He's gonna end up being a bad guy -- ever heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy?

If you really want to question why things aren't working, then look inside yourself.  The city has nothing to do with it.  Watch enough episodes of Sex and the City, and you know New York is not really the central character.  The narrative is really about the brave hearts of several women navigating the waters of sex, love and relationships. Same deal with Golden Girls, by the way, which was figuratively set in Miami.

So which type of Miami girl are you?  Be honest, now.

1.  You're the tourist or transient type who just wants casual sex, yet you complain when he bolts out the door.  Why are you expecting commitment if you don't act like someone who wants commitment?

2.  You're the ultra-vain girl who expects to be treated like a queen, but you play hard to get and don't give the guy the time of day unless he's got cash. You may have missed out on a good guy just because he didn't have an Amex black card. If you think vagina is a gold digging tool let me introduce you to a shovel that picks up a shallow emotional life instead of real love.

3. You're the woman who doesn't give a divorced guy a chance. And by divorced guy, I mean FULLY divorced, with some recovery time to spare.  And what's more, why do we give divorced fathers a hard time in those cases when they are actually devoted dads who are working hard to support their kids? If you don't want that situation, then don't date divorced fathers or otherwise, accept his baggage. You've got yours, too.

4. You're that gal who saves all her cash for plastic surgery enhancements on your body while you put no focus on your spiritual side -- and yet you want a guy to appreciate you for who you really are? Who the hell are you, anyway? A silicon-filled barbie doll?  What happened to your heart? Yes, it's important to stay beautiful, but at what cost?

5.  You're that lady who gives a hand and then lets the guy take the whole arm. You don't set any boundaries. If you don't want guys to treat you like crap, well, then, don't let them.  Yeah, they may try to take advantage of your emotional vulnerability, but ultimately, you have power over your own feelings and the goods, wink wink.  Stop playing the victim all the time.

6. You're that woman who constantly complains about everything and is never grateful. She never says "thank you" and because she feels so entitled, the guy stands no chance of ever pleasing her.  Honey, maybe he's not the problem. Maybe he's actually sweet.  Maybe it's you, because you're bitter and haven't forgiven yourself for past romantic blunders.

7.  You're that kind of woman who wants to control every minute of the date and never goes with the flow.  Just let the damn guy do his thing -- provided it is safe, of course.  If you don't like what he planned, well you have no obligation to see him again.  NEXT.

8.  You're that girl who is so afraid to take a chance, you blame the opposite sex for not wanting to go out with you.  Who wants to go out with someone who is afraid to go out?

9. You're that overly-confident yet insecure woman who plays sex up to the hilt yet you expect guys to respect you.  Leave something to the imagination, girl. A guy doesn't need to see your semi-nude photos on Facebook, unless soft porn is you part-time job and you are using social networks for business purposes.  We've had enough already with Miley Cirus twerking on national TV.

10.   You're actually a really accomplished, eloquent and elegant professional, who is healthy and holds her own.  And you can't understand why you're not happily married at this point.  I admit this one stumps me ... but it's not like there aren't any self-accomplished, similar professional guys in Miami.  Of course there are! Gotta keep looking.

And finally, this woman is ME.  It's YOU. It's all of us. Straight, gay, whatever, we have all stumbled and made mistakes, which aren't really mistakes, but life journey lessons.  There's a little of us in all of these behaviors.

Come on, who hasn't acted like an idiot sometimes? I'll be the first one to admit it. Stop blaming the guys for everything.  Stop blaming the city.  Look inside yourself.  Otherwise, get the hell out of Miami.

And I can pretty much guarantee that leaving Dodge isn't going to result in instant dating success.  Otherwise, Miami would be a city full of men with mail order Russian brides and yet it's not. For every woman I know who's single, there's also some other one who is a in good relationship.

Heart on Sleeve Doesn't Mean Dirty Laundry

I am grateful for all my ex-boyfriends and lovers.  There haven’t been that many in my forty-five years of life -- I’m not a Blanche Devereaux -- and if some readers may recall, I even took pride in a stint of celibacy not long ago.

I am grateful for the beloved who taught me how to cook. I am grateful for the one who, years later after our relationship, came out of the closet. I am grateful for the one who taught me how to fish. I am grateful for the one who thoughtfully brought me a book of Pablo Neruda’s poetry. I am grateful for the one who treated me like a queen and spared no expense. I am grateful for the one who wasn’t as wealthy, but whom I fell in love with after a simple picnic outdoors.

Were there problems? Yes, of course.  What relationship doesn’t eventually face challenges? That’s what relationships are for -- to help us grow and become better people in mind, body and soul. Relationships are a form of yoga.

But dear readers, that’s not really the point.

What's the common denominator here?

The point is, that in my blog, you will never know their names. I have always respected the privacy of my exes in that way.  But I do write for every woman, the archetypal soul woman, the woman who has heartbreak yet is resilient, who -- check my tag line -- lives, laughs, loves and cries chronically.  That's just life, for pete's sake!  The normal ups and downs.

Why am I writing this?

It recently came to my attention that someone sent a link to one of my exes about a fairly recent post I wrote about relationships.  The story apparently blew up into a misunderstanding.  I apologize if anyone’s feelings were hurt.

But let’s make a few things clear. Whatever happened is between us and whatever “informant” gave him a “tip” doesn’t know squat, because I haven’t seen him in months and in fact, I even joined an online dating site after he broke up with me.

So which ex was I referring to? Readers, you’ll never really know.

And here’s why.  I have been writing in the first person for nearly a decade.  My audience appreciates my raw and candid style.  Sometimes it’s banal and funny; sometimes it’s sublime and sad.  It’s just my voice, one that I refuse to silence.

I always tell it like it is.  But it's not always just about me.

Are you going to ask Adele to not write and sing Someone Like You?  Will you ask Elizabeth Gilbert to not write a semi-fictional memoir like Eat, Pray, Love?  Would you go back in time and burn Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice?  Would you tell Maya Angelou to rescind her poems? Would your life be better if Toni Morrison did not describe birth the way she did in Beloved?

I have been a witness to life. I have been a witness to many relationships, not just my own.  This is what writers do: they witness and they write.

Some posts about relationships have disclaimers and when I started this blog, it was under a pseudonym, because nearly a decade ago, women my age didn't have the level of comfort and safety they have now in social media, although that's another wholly debatable subject.

The “I” is just a familiar voice, but it represents the many voices and stories I have heard from women about their love lives; it stands for the many narratives I have read, heard and witnessed over the years.

If you’ve read my blog since its humble beginnings, you’d know that my style and voice is one that has evolved beautifully and one that I have carefully cultivated -- there is an art to taking something personal and making it universal. But that “personal” may not always be just me.   More importantly, in this editorial, you will never know the name of anyone I’ve loved, at least not in public, and if anything, only by a fake moniker.

What’s more, I was recently hired on a short-term contract to write a column on sex and relationships for an online magazine. It’s not the first time I’ve been hired for such a task.  So part of what you’ve seen here is just overflow from my wordsmithing.

Let’s face it.  Readers don’t just want to hear about stories that are all rainbows, unicorns and lucky charms. Readers want stories that are real, even if they are based on a semi-fictional interpretation of the world.

To the particular lover who took offense: I apologize, but the world really had no way of verifying it was you and honestly, it wasn’t really all about you.  You were a good person who did do some nice things for me, but it didn't work out, although I tried my best to honor the love we shared, to resolve our issues and question my own expectations.  I know you tried also, in your own way, but you did disappoint me on some levels, as I suppose, I did you. I was never perfect. No one is.  After I’ve had time to heal, our relationship could evolve into a lovely friendship because you are, in spite of everything, a cherished presence in my heart.

To the person who sent him the link: mind your own business.  I’m not running a gossip tabloid here.  I'm not writing the journal of a high school girl going through puppy love. Stop jumping to conclusions.

There’s some real irony, actually. This particular lover and I never even had a picture taken together posted online anywhere.  It’s rather sad actually, because I truly loved him and no one ever really knew his name -- at least not online. And we looked very good together!

But that’s how privately we conducted our relationship.

And yet my online acquaintances and friends, including relationship coaches, post thousands of status updates and pictures of their babies, lovers, spouses and members of their social circles, with real names of loved ones and even children in the mix. I know folks who make announcements about relationships five minutes after they’ve started dating. That’s their prerogative and I’m not judging them.

I do want to add some perspective:  I don’t spill as many beans as people might think.  I don’t even want to be a celebrity, rich or famous reality TV “blogger” -- privacy is in fact, quite important to me.  I just want to tell stories. I’m a storyteller. That’s what I do.

If being a woman writer means no man will ever trust me with his heart, then fine.  I guess I’ll have to live with that, but I’m not going to stop being the amazing woman I’ve become and will always be. I’m not going to stop expressing myself through the God-given gift of language or film or other mediums I’ve used to be a storyteller.

Just know this: I’ve never betrayed anyone’s true identity and never intend to.   In fact, the running joke now is that when I meet my future husband (if I haven’t already met him, wink wink), I’ll probably elope and spring the news on you unexpectedly.

I write about all hearts, not just my own.  We all have dirty laundry. You’ll never really see all of mine. I don't always wear my heart on my sleeve, but damn it, many of you appreciate it when you catch a glimpse, because it's part of being human and sharing stories.

And for that, I am very, very grateful.  Thank you, faithful readers.

When He Gets Under Your Skin

This post falls under the Manola Blablablanik series.


Some people will tell you that love is a social contract. Others will tell you it’s a disease rife with melancholy and heartbreak. And yet others will tell you that, if done right with copious hard work, it’s a panacea.

Everything I just mentioned above is the biggest bullshit, because love is all that and yet it isn't all that.

A contradiction. Yes, I know.

If two people unite their bodies, make commitments to their souls, then "love" become a virus you can’t get rid of easily when someone goes away. This is love on a cellular level.

A friend of mine recently said, “love doesn’t know time.” And that’s true.

There’s “clock” time and then there’s “soul” and “love” time.

When you truly love someone profoundly, that love does get under your skin. I’m not a scientist, but I would venture as far to guess that it probably transforms mitochondria. Two patterns of DNA come together, for better or worse.

And why the worse? Who wrote that shitty, negative vow? It should always be for the better.

Our hearts aren't kept in tight, bound boxes.  They spiral and cross boundaries, like the DNA helix, whirling and creating amazing shapes and possibilities.  Love doesn't just end; sometimes, unfortunately, it stays inside, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

One of my favorite lines from The English Patient is from character Katherine Clifton’s notebook: “tastes we have swallowed, bodies we've entered and swum up like rivers.”

Intimacy requires this incredible journey, fishing for comfort and solace in the heart, up dark, scary rivers, hiking on a body full of hair and bumps, of smells and holes and vulnerability, all beautiful, binding and incredibly annoying when regular life kicks in, constantly shifting from the banal to the sacred, back and forth.

Finding the highest gift of all -- to love someone, to love yourself and be present for a greater good as a couple made up of two individuals -- all that in communion with the body of another, all that in mutual adoration and respect.

Tonight, as I write this, the clouds float slowly and gently through the pale blue sky. But love, to me, without you in a state of embrace, it’s as if the soft vapor was sandpaper grating my skin.

Expectations

This post falls under the Manola Blablablanik series.

I recently had a conversation with my ex in which he claimed I had too many “expectations.”

That word. That dreaded word. I'd like to believe he didn't mean to hurt me with it, but it punched me in the heart.

Let’s turn this around, shall we?

Because my ex had way more expectations than I ever did. All I wanted was quite simple. No marriage. No kids. Just be present. Show up. Hold me. Love. Sex. Eat good food. Fun. The actual bearable lightness of being.

Instead, what did he want?

Oh boy, I can’t even publish the laundry list, because he expected so much of me. From massages to making him breakfast, micro-managing many details of my life to make it more convenient for him, most of which, by the way, was my absolute pleasure to oblige, except that after a while, I realized that the balance was fully tilted in his favor and I felt myself depleted of energy and completely neglected, unappreciated.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but really, you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.



I understand the whole “surrendered” principle, but we ladies need to know the difference between a woman and a doormat. Not that I ever was truly a doormat, but I ended up feeling that way. While I thought I was being nice, I also intuited that something might be amiss and yes, I took that risk.

Love requires risk, no doubt about that.

And while all this was going on, I was, as usual – as a writer – an observer, a witness to what messages the universe was sending me. The messages came from others.



I have friends, family and others -- inadvertent "teachers" in my life path -- who are in great but of course, not perfect, relationships. No relationship is ever Cinderella perfect. All relationships require “work.” 

But when you’re around these people, you know they really care about each other. Good lord, I am bombarded by it all the time -- the media commercials, the messages, the daily signs -- all these bazillions of people -- who are devoted to each other because you know what? They have "expectations" of care, devotion and sincere love.

EXPECT LOVE LIKE THE NEXT BREATH OF AIR


Ladies, there is nothing wrong with having “expectations,” so don’t ever let a guy you’ve got deep feelings for guilt trip you because of that word, push that ridiculous word on you as if you’re the one who’s doing something wrong.

This is what all relationships are built upon, the foundation of morals and ethics in all aspects of life: “I treat you well. You treat me well. We take care of each other.”



When you have kids, when you sign a contract for a job, when you are loyal to a friend, when you uphold the law, when you become a caregiver, or a pet owner, for example – all these things – this is what defines us as humans.

Heck, even animals have “expectations.” Baby bird is born, cracked egg in the nest and boom! mama and papa bird are there, feeding the fledgling a worm.



All of social life is rife with “expectation.”

Expectation of the beloved – the person to whom you give your heart, mind, body and soul to, entrusted with care, now complaining that you have “expectations” because, I don’t know … you might ask for some ginger ale when your tummy hurts and even that “chore” can’t be delivered?



A guy can’t expect a woman to do all kinds of things for him, when he can barely lift a finger and then claim that it’s “expectations” that’s pushing him away when he has way more “expectations” than you do.

It's a two-way road, if it's going to succeed. Not a one-way dead end.

Ladies, think about that.

I rest my case.

Don't let your heart shrivel up when it is truly expansive. "Expectations" let you have hope that your heart can truly fly in a space of comfort and love. "Expectations" means opening a door where you can surrender and relax in trust and this means taking a huge risk.

I could have said this all in one sentence: "There is absolutely nothing wrong with expectations."


Namaste

Noodles

The last time I asked my unrequited love to let me go, to never speak to me again, I ended the night with comfort food. What could be better than pappardelle noodles? It reminded me of our lovemaking, warm and buttery but still al dente, him stiff enough to please, but us melting in between my legs.

I dined alone, stoically, having no seasoning in my dish other than butter, crushed black pepper, a wee bit of chicken broth, a dash of pecorino romano and the salty taste of my tears.

And then I laughed at how “the salty taste of my tears” would sound so corny in writing.

And then I cried some more about the cooking process that led to this last supper.

It’s the yin of pasta and the yang of sauce.

For months, he’d start hard but stay dry in his heart, my hot water being the only place where he could crack, soften and let go in some kind of crazy sauce of devotion. You see, in order to be happy as a couple, the pasta must let the sauce stick to it, without fear, and both ingredients must blend in harmony.

He was my noodle. The only noodle I adored for a very long time. But my noodle had no give and wouldn’t let me stick, no matter how many wonderful, warm yummy sauces I offered him.

And this got me thinking: you can’t have your pasta and eat it, too.

This is the recipe for love. Both noodle and sauce must surrender to a heavenly combination of flavors and texture and be willing to repeat or vary over and over again, each night, as you humbly prepare supper for someone whose kisses refill that empty pot every day.

My pappardelle, were, of course, delicious, even if I had to eat them while watching stupid reruns on TV.

To be fair, he always complimented me on my cooking. Too bad he didn’t complement my heart.

Photo via VancityAllie on Flickr via Creative Commons license.

Manola Blablablanik: Familiarity Breeds Gas

Remember the original nom de plume that started this blog? Well, she's back! All posts under the Manola Blablablanik series are semi-fictional.

Last night, my ex-boyfriend -- who can’t seem to let go of me and I’ll admit, I’m still holding on to a string or two -- came over for a late supper.

During the otherwise pleasant evening, he kept farting in a seemingly involuntary manner. He apologized with each burst of air from his anus and said he didn’t know why he was having digestive trouble. Certainly, it wasn’t my delicious beef and peppercorn stew, served with jasmine rice. He was farting before he even walked through the door. In fact, he probably deployed gaseous emissions to fuel his SUV on the way to my pad.

You’ve heard the old saying: “familiarity breeds contempt,” which means you’ve let go of boundaries and courtesies to the point of disrespecting someone you know very well, romantically or otherwise.

Now, let me coin the phrase “familiarity breeds gas,” which means you don’t care anymore about breaking wind within earshot of your beloved.

Well, he didn't do it on purpose like a drunk, sophomoric frat boy.  He's usually a polite, classy guy. And mustering up my deepest compassion, I reflected upon the fact that sometimes our bodies get the best of us, no matter what our best intentions. I had to set my ego aside and accept that the man in front of me was simply farting. I couldn't take it personally. I couldn't equate him with the stream of wind parting from his rectal orifice.

LOVE IN THE AGE OF NO CHOLERA

And this got me thinking. He’s over 50 and still a spring chicken by today’s baby boomer standards.

I’m 45. And like many woman my age, I take care of two elderly parents, who thank God are still stable enough to live in their own apartment. But there’s a reason we call them “old farts,” because old people just fart all the time. In fact, you could be having a conversation with an old fart and it's like a machine gun crescendo in between every two sentences, punctuated by coughs that are trying to mask farts, which is a very ineffective form of subterfuge a sotto voce.   Look, your farts will always be louder than your cough. That technique just doesn't work!

So if you must fart, at least do it honestly.

This geriatric flatulence is cute and causes numerous giggles, just like it’s so adorable to wipe a baby’s butt when it’s slathered with stinky green poo.

But babies are different. They wear ribbons on their heads and simply don’t know better. Sphincter control comes later in life.

“Lord have mercy, what do I have to look forward to?” I thought this morning. “Old guys who fart, burp and then on top of that, add the indignity of snoring in bed without being able to get it up other than that rare morning woody?”

When we’re younger, we dream of co-habitation in the prince and princess castle. No woman in her twenties falls in love and thinks: “Oh, I can’t wait to go buy cheap IKEA furniture with you, honey! And how I’ll savor the first time you fart and I queef under the plush down comforter!”

But by the time you hit 40 and are either divorced, widowed or a bonafide spinster, it’s a whole different story. Maybe it’s just better to be in a relationship that preserves two separate households. He can have his man cave and fart, burp, snore to his heart’s content. And she can keep her girly, candle-scented apartment intact – save for the occasional fart invasion when he tries to mark his territory.

Actually, the fart symphony didn’t bother me so much. I was more worried the fumes would kill my houseplants.

And truth be told though, the way to a woman’s heart is not through farts, but if that’s all that’s wrong with him, you might want to compromise and turn his prodigious talent into a helium balloon business.

TO COUGAR OR NOT TO COUGAR

When I lived on Miami Beach, my then neighbor Helen – a 92 year-old Jewish widow with much chutzpah to spare – once told me: “I don’t like to date old men. I changed enough diapers already raising my kids. I won’t even look at a guy unless he’s under 70.”

What a cougar she was.

So yeah, then there’s that. Maybe there’s a good reason to date younger men. I mean changing diapers isn’t a chapter in the Kama Sutra. And don’t let me get into weak bladders and pee smell. Not particularly sexy.

But see, it's all about unconditional love, when you can accept poo, farts, burps, snores and sneezes as part of intimacy. And when you get married at a young age “for better or worse,” you are signing up for that.

Sigh. This is the irony of romance over 40. Just as you are growing wiser and more in control of your life, you start losing control of your sphincters.

So wherever you are over 40, have faith that love is still very possible. And you might just accept and love someone with great passion, not warts, but farts and all.

Be prepared, however, to wear a Hazmat-grade gas mask well into your mid-life and old age. I wonder if they come in pretty pastel colors and with sparkly bling? Maybe spunky 70-something Betsey Johnson should rethink her designs!

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.

A Tango For All Lovers

Dancing alone.

I remember being at a milonga waiting for someone to ask me to dance the next tango. Couples swirled about me. And until I got to dance, I felt the absence of a partner deeply, intensely, no matter how discreetly poised I might sit at the end of my chair, enchanted by the dances unfolding before me.

Traveling alone in Madrid one August, I would see lovers sitting at benches, lovers holding hands, kissing, as if their pleasure was public, a story told only outdoors, as if their pain, arguments, separations, bereavements, were reserved for private occasions, behind closed doors.

They say Paris is the city of lovers … but I’m not convinced. Paris cannot claim possession of something so universal.

Paris only adopted, but didn’t invent, the tango.

Someone once told me that in Buenos Aires couples always displayed their affection publicly, but not because of some cultural tendency toward exhibitionism. No. The explanation is quite simple really. They don’t have the luxury of privacy. Young adults live with their parents and aging parents live with their children.

El dia que me quieras … the day that you might love me. That day of possibility was born in Buenos Aires, in the throat of Carlos Gardel, but that day has never come. It can’t.

You see, tango takes place in this space of waiting, this space of possibility.

Love is no different.

Writing is no different.

Writing takes place in the space of loneliness, where I see more keenly, my vision clear, not muddied by passion. I walk, write, eat, drink alone, a witness to life that seems much more real than the blank page.

And when you finally ask me to dance, the plenitude of your embrace is blinding. I forget my words.

These lovers unwittingly tell me their stories. They are dancers embracing on the theater of the street, repeating that ageless ritual, a tango that takes place in public parks, sidewalks, restaurants, alleys, taxicabs. Lovers strolling, lovers saying goodbye at the train station, coming and going, lovers defying unto death the loneliness of the individual in the big city.

I still dance the tango, it carries me into the night, accidentally, unconsciously, and before I know it, I am shoved by the city’s pulse into the arms of the night, dancing this tango, the dance of drinks, of furtive kisses in a smoke-filled bar, of groping, of syncopated push and pull, of escorted walks to the hotel, of steps resonating in the alley, slowing down around the dark corner, the tango of begging, refusal, the tango of her cruelty and his banality, of his urgency and nothing more, that late-night dance of the American writer and the Spanish man who thinks she’s easy because she’s a tourist.

I think of that painting in the Thyssen B Museum, Hopper’s Hotel Room (1931). I imagine my body as a hotel room for transient happiness, an impermanent residence for would-be lovers. But I am so in love, deeply, irrevocably in love with this place, this freedom, this freedom to write, this freedom to dance, so in love with so much more than the image of that woman sitting at the edge of a bed in a hotel room, and for this reason alone, I refuse them. I refuse them all.

And so I claim that Madrid is a city of lovers. And that the day for all of us to love has finally arrived.

And I dedicate this tango to all lovers, to all lovers everywhere, to lovers of bodies, souls and cities, lovers of past, present and future, lovers who hold hands and lovers who dance alone.

-- Republished from Meridian, originally titled Madrid: City of Lovers, 2004.

Listen to Astor Piazzola's Libertango with Yo-Yo Ma on Youtube.

A Heart Never Sleeps

"Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again."

-- Almasy to Katharine Clifton from the English Patient screenplay, by Anthony Minghella.  Drawing by yours truly.

Love Is Not Engagements, Weddings, Marriages or Babies

This is an interesting time for me.  I’m in my 40s, right smack in the middle of life. I’m blessed with multi-generational family and friends – some are younger, some are older. And what I see is a vast kaleidoscope of life’s richness, perched up here on the cliff of mid-40’s.

Why am I thinking about this? Because I’m a caregiver now.  I didn’t have children; I had parents.

My parent’s building got tented this week and I literally had to watch over them for 72 hours while they stayed in my apartment. I don’t know how mothers do it, running after toddlers and catering to all their needs.

My toddlers are in their 80s, forgetful, slow-moving (another source of frustration) and weigh 150 pounds.



But there was a lesson for me this week amid the challenges. It made me think of the true meaning of love. You see, I have family and friends who are caught up the blossoming of life – getting married, having babies, wrangling careers, buying homes and so on. And then I have my folks, who remind me of mortality, of nothing to look forward to but ultimate death.

I don’t mean to sound morbid, but actually dealing with the elderly who have dementia or Alzheimer’s issues makes me realize how precious our connections are. What is love, anyway? Is it all the fuss about engagements, weddings, marriages and babies?


No.

Love is being married for over 50 years. Love is wiping the smelly ass of someone you care for. Love is sagging skin, frail bones, grey hair, wrinkles and dentures.  Love is age spots. Love is doctor’s appointments. Love is a weak bladder. Love is pull-up adult diapers, on sale at CVS for $10. Love is brushing your mama’s hair, like the way she used to brush yours when you were a little girl. Love is aging and its bastardly toll on our bodies and brains. Love is an unfathomable amount of patience. Love is the brain eroding while the heart connection sticks stubbornly. Love is remembering that you are connected to someone deeply even when you can’t remember a damn thing or where you left your keys one minute ago. Love is all this, wrapped up in unconditional devotion.



Of course, most of the time, you don't get this kind of love without the engagements, weddings, marriages and babies.

None of which, by the way, I’ve had. But you know what? I have something that’s perhaps better: the commitment to dive into caregiving completely, because that is love too. It’s not pretty. It’s frustrating. It’s annoying. But it’s love.

And I have been blessed with a man – seven months now, a world record for me in recent years! – who has stuck by me as my caregiving role evolves.



When I least expected to find love myself, at the time that I would have otherwise thought it was inconvenient, there he was, beaming a smile at me. I never turned away.



This morning I was thinking about Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ novel, Love in the Time of Cholera.  The two protagonists, lovebirds in youth, live separate lives until they reunite in old age.  When I first read the novel, I thought the senior romance was incredibly awkward.

But I get it now.

Love itself never gets old.

Dogs Are a Woman’s Best Friend

The ficus at the Kampong. 

Yesterday, I drove through one of my favorite areas of Coral Gables, delivering leftovers from a delicious saffron-infused seafood paella I had made over the weekend. First stop, my parents -- for whom I’m still caregiving -- and second stop, my sister's home.

I always take this detour to admire an amazing banyan tree. There are glorious banyans all over this tropical and lush section of Coral Gables, but this one in particular is like the Taj Majal of banyans – competing locally for that title only with other extraordinary Ficus benghalensis growing locally at Pinecrest Gardens, Pine Tree Park in Miami Beach, The Kampong in Coconut Grove and the Edison Estate on the gulf coast.

While driving, I saw a dog in the middle of the road, a rather dangerous place to be, as cars coming around the corner can’t see oncoming traffic right away. Drivers should steer cautiously here.



I’ve driven through this bend hundreds of times, but I had never seen this dog.

The scruffy, silver-haired dog was small, looking a bit worse for wear. I noticed a collar and I followed it to a dead end street, thinking it might be lost and that I would help return it to its rightful owner.

Or I rather like to think she led me to the dead end street.

As I got out of the car, she plopped down next to a bowl of water and some dog biscuits. And then the furry creature barked viciously at me.  “Uh-oh,” I thought. "Here’s an alpha dog protecting her property."

“Ok, sweetheart,” I said out loud. “I was just trying to see if you were ok.”

Within seconds, a wizened woman came out of the house. With whiskers on her chin and grey hair wrapped up in a ponytail, she reminded me of fairy tales, where I might meet an old crone in a forest of mossed-draped oaks, acorns, saw grass palms and magical banyans.

But despite her age, she was also in remarkable shape.  She had clearly been an athlete and a bombshell, to boot.

We chatted for about half an hour. A few minutes into conversation, the dog sniffed around my feet and licked my toes.  And the previously aggressive canine seemed to tell me, “Ok, you’re cool, you’re allowed here.” Then the four-legged guardian pawed a little area in the dirt and took a nap.

Was it new friends meeting or old friends meeting anew?

I would hear an incredible tale from this woman about how she used to live in Hawaii, not far from where my brother currently resides. What are the odds? She told me about how she won competitions in surfing and outrigger canoeing, the former a sport my brother practices. She was even a stuntwoman in film.  We discussed Kaneohe, the North Shore, the current economic state of Honolulu, shaved ice and Kahuku shrimp, double rainbows and mai tais.  We were both transported, she perhaps to another time, when it was all about marriage and kids.  Me, just an amazing vacation I had been blessed with when visiting my brother and sister-in-law.



I felt the aloha spirit, right here in Miami, where you least expect it -- a random moment in an afternoon filled with kindness, compassion, harmony, the breath of life -- all because of a dog and a tree.

I saw that aloha spirit in this widowed grandmother, in that wrinkled, toothless face.  I saw it in some of the most beautiful, lively blue eyes I have ever seen, beaming vitality.  I saw myself in her.  “Will I be like this when I’m in my eighties, forty years from now?” I asked silently.

It was challenging to let go of the conversation, but I had to leave. I asked her name even though I wasn’t sure if I would ever see her again. I knew I had made a new friend, all because of a scruffy dog who seemed to be wandering around aimlessly, but like a barking oracle, clearly had a purpose.

Maybe I was lost and it was guiding me.

Perhaps the trees really are magical in this enchanted forest.

And now this banyan means even more to me.

Living in Love Even When You're Single

I drew this on the deck of a Windjammer sailboat in the Caribbean, oh so many years ago.

After a considerably long time in a state of celibacy, I met a great guy – very unexpectedly.

He literally walked into my life. I was perusing some artwork in a gallery I wasn’t even supposed to visit that evening. A friend brought me there on the way to a party. There I was, living in my own protective bubble – what I now call the “la la land of singlehood” -- and he just started talking to me like he had known me forever. It was as simple as that. So yes, ladies, love does happen when you least expect it.

At first, I panicked a little, because within ten minutes of our happy banter, he was twirling me around in a hilarious attempt to dance a tango, right there, on the spot, beautifully spontaneous. And the next day, we would dance more, looking into each other’s eyes, smiling brightly and shining in our souls, all of which led to an amazing first electric kiss.

I decided then and there to just let go of my fears and insecurities. No more protective bubble, no more la la land. I said yes to the universe. I took the risk. It was scary as hell. And wonderful as all that.

We would then continue this dance in the heart, body and soul space for three months. And like a true tango, there were moments of sheer elation as well as the inevitable tension of awkward push and pull. Although it seems that the man leads, he actually follows the woman, yet she must also be receptive to a lead that is generously given. And when the tango is perfectly balanced, ying and yang entwined, both hearts and bodies come to a space of mutual understanding and intimacy in the hectic and distracting pace of life.

We had that miracle … for a spell.

But sometimes, the dance takes a pause. The ballroom suddenly becomes resoundingly empty. Footsteps on the wooden floor become silent. Glasses no longer clink. Dance shoes come off, in exhaustion. The lights darken. Joy fades into memory.

Pain, past and ego gets in the way of love. It shouldn’t, love should conquer all, but there you have it. A very hard lesson for me to learn: a man and a woman can love each other and yet not be right for each other.

I'm grateful for what he taught me. I know I’m ready to love immensely. Not just in a tantric way for a sexual lover, but extending my passion to all aspects of my life, including charity. How can my heart be so full and expanded, even when it is hurt? Because love does that to you – it makes you grow in ways you never thought you could, even when he may not be the right guy for you.

Love isn’t just what he gives you, but the compassion, forgiveness and thoughtfulness that grows inside you. By avoiding love, I could never overcome what was holding me back from love. The ground was never fertile. And with him, I blossomed into the woman that was hiding behind a shield, the woman I always wanted to be, one capable of extraordinary love.

Love was always there, but I wasn’t open to it until I met him. It’s something bigger than me, but part of me.

This was the wonderful gift he gave me, for which I am very grateful.

Love is boundless, but sometimes you have to set boundaries. I’m human, after all, and I have to honor what is right for me in my particular circumstances. But damn it, I did give it a good go and I’m OK with that.

Being vulnerable to receiving and giving love is a huge risk, but one well worth it when you surrender to the idea that it’s your birthright.

No more celibacy for me. I’m ready for the one who is right for me.

So to all my single ladies out there, I say this to you: give yourself the gift of love, even if it means things might not work out the way you expected. We’re not all fated to have just one dance partner in life. So dance away that tango, even through the awkward push and pull. Give it a chance.

Don’t give up. And I don’t ever want to hear there are no men capable of loving, because the first one who has to be capable is you and you won’t know unless you try.

Live in a state of grace and love already, even before you meet the guy. If love is what you want, get out of la la land.

And when you do meet him, muster up that courage.


PS … I’m doing HeartCamp again next year. Save the date for February 2, 2013. I’m looking forward to Heart’s Desire being part of the event next year.

Why Men Obsess Over the Remote Control and Other Observations

Ever wonder why he hogs the remote control and zones out while channel surfing? It's not the he's neglecting you. Watch the video.


Men and women's brains are wired differently, according to Arnie and Michelle Roza of Heart's Desire International -- that was just one of many love and relationships lessons we learned at the Lifelong Romance Retreat in Fort Lauderdale last month.

That may seem like stating the obvious, but there are definite relationship skill sets that work based on these biological differences.

The three-day retreat featured author Laura Doyle, whom I've written about here before at Sex and the Beach. During the weekend, Doyle, who penned The Surrendered Wife and The Surrendered Single, lectured and worked with small groups on relationships coaching.

Gladys Diaz and Brandi Baldwin, also with Heart's Desire, were involved in group coaching along with the Rozas.  All the women leading the retreat were humble while sharing their past mistakes and generous in revealing their best practices.

Topics covered included how to practice gratitude, how to become better listeners, how to communicate our desires clearly without drama, how to be open and receptive without being a doormat, how to enjoy a dating life graciously, why we should be devoted to self-care and so much more, including fun tips such as how men will pay more attention to a woman wearing red lipstick.

A "man panel" of five guys -- single, in relationships or married -- let us probe gently in the mind of the opposite sex.  Their answers were light-hearted but enlightening.

The retreat was also just plain fun. Social activities included happy hour at Blue Martini, lunch aboard a yacht and Mary Kay cosmetics sessions.

I attended with a group of gal pals, all of us in different stages -- moms, divorcées, single, married --  and it helped us create stronger bonds in our friendships.

Of the new women I met, some were incredibly candid and it was eye-opening for me to see how resistant and hardened they had become in their hearts.  One divorcée confessed how she told every man she dated that she'd have friends to recommend for him in case things didn't work out -- this before he even picked her up at the doorstep for the first time. Talk about self-sabotage and not even giving the guy a chance.  Of course, it was all about fear of rejection, despite the combative attitude.

But love is neither a competition nor a battle.  Or at least it shouldn't be, according to the philosophy behind Heart's Desire.  Instead of putting the blame on the man, we have to look inside, too. It may be cliché, but it really takes two to tango.

I see this in so many women -- utter confusion and anxiety when it comes to men, as if they're reaching out in a deep, dark mine for a diamond with no light, no tools and no skills.  It just aint gonna happen if you keep repeating the same negative though patterns within yourself that prevent a shift in behavior.

Ladies, being single isn't easy but the grass doesn't necessarily get greener just because a man puts a ring on your finger.  We go to college for our careers, but we often don't take time to learn relationship skills our mothers never taught us. This wasn't a weekend about finding a husband with hokey promises, but a time to reflect on what is to come and to be prepared for all the love we deserve.

I'm still not inclined to actively seek out dates (Doyle would ask "Why not, Maria?"), but I do feel incredibly enriched by this experience. I realized that because I've taken time to work on myself in the last few years, I've gotten rid of the fear and anxiety I used to have as a younger woman when it comes to love. I'm at peace with myself and have faith.

Every single woman owes it to herself to work on these skills before the man walks in the door.  Just like you go to the gym, get your hair and nails done and shop for clothes, don't neglect the inside. It's your spiritual homework, which once completed, is amply rewarding.

Love Is Your Birthright

An impromptu interview from 2011 with New York Times best-selling author Laura Doyle and Gladys Diaz of Heart's Desire International.

It has been a while since I've written about sex and relationships or even celibacy, but the topic is fresh on my mind as Heart's Desire will be hosting a Women's Lifelong Romance Retreat in Fort Lauderdale, June 22 - 24, with Laura Doyle.

Laura Doyle's "surrendered wife" and "surrendered single" concepts appear controversial at first glance, but they're not archaic tenets about being submissive.  Being "surrendered" is about knowing how to communicate your desires properly, among other relationship skill sets.

The idea of learning how to communicate with men and learning to be more feminine isn't really that off the wall. And the principles of communication -- knowing what to say, when to say it and not becoming desperate in anticipation of a reply -- apply to all kinds of relationships, not just romantic attachments.

After reading Doyle's Surrendered Single, I examined my own communications skills more closely. And even though I'm not in a romantic relationship, I've found I've become more relaxed when it comes to handling communication challenges and have adapted more comfortably to the idea of openly and graciously receiving what is good for me.

Although, quite frankly, I still remain in a state of limbo, a kind of "suspended celibacy" (Doyle would probably scold me for saying that!), I must say I do feel prepared for the next right one -- the right and best possible one for me. It's just that right now, romance isn't a particular focus in my life, but as Doyle would say (and has said to me): "What are you waiting for? Love is your birthright!"

She's damn right, you know.

Heart's Desire International, a group of relationship coaches inspired by Doyle's principles, were a huge hit at my HeartCamp event last February.  I expect the "man panel" at the retreat to be equally as successful because it's also good to know what thoughts are lurking in their thick skulls.

But we ladies can be pretty stubborn, too.

Have you ever gotten a phone call late at night from a panic-stricken girlfriend? OMG why isn't he calling me? Why did he say that? Why is he acting that way? I recently fielded one of these calls and had an 'aha' moment even though it had nothing to do with me. Before you place the onus on the other, examine your own behavior. True, sometimes a guy is just a jerk.  But it does take two to tango, even when the dance is uncoordinated and clumsy.

I learned this beautiful lesson years ago, actually, when I literally danced tango. The best tango is the one that flows smoothly from one step to the next, with male and female energy gently pushing and pulling in a balanced yin and yang.  In dance, those steps take practice. It's no different with relationships.

Why train to be in a relationship when you're not in one? For the same reason you train to run a marathon. You can't expect to just do it without skill sets, without preparing your mind and body for what's to come. Growing up, our parents didn't always teach us the best relationship skills. They did the best they could with what they were taught in turn.  And in school, we focus on careers and book learning, but not what matters to the heart.

And more importantly: dating sucks. (Doyle will slap me on the wrist for that one!) Go armed with knowledge and the ability to have fun.

So single ladies, if you've ever splurged a few clams on shoes and hair, why not treat yourself to some spiritual pampering? If you wish to attend the retreat, sign up with the code MARIA and you'll get 50% off admission. The retreat includes not only seminars and lectures, but also a welcome cocktail party, a lunch aboard a yacht on the intracoastal, VIP party at Blue Martini and optional morning yoga, plus networking with like-minded women.

The retreat takes place at the beautiful Gallery One Doubletree Hilton, just off the intracoastal waterway. For more information visit Women's Lifelong Romance Retreat.

DISCLOSURE

I am receiving absolutely no financial compensation for any ticket purchases made with this special Sex and the Beach discount code. It's a gift to my readers courtesy of the retreat organizers!  And you know I only give props to good stuff I believe in!