I spent MLK day at the spa of a very high-end hotel/condominium. It was lovely. I went from steam room to the sauna to the igloo to the humidity room and back again. Let me not forget the tropical themed shower with settings such as ‘Caribbean monsoon’ and the Jacuzzi… or the heated chairs to lay on in order to keep the muscles warm. After showering and giving up the most delightful robe, I enjoyed refreshing vodka citrus and soda made of course with organic vodka and some yummy appetizers. It was wonderful. It was as all my Mondays should be.

It really is how it should be. THAT is what my life is supposed to be, not this 9-6 Monday thru Friday bullshit routine that confines you with words like budget and 2 weeks vacation.

A one bedroom at in this cemented slice of heaven goes for $3,500 a month. Which is why my own floors are currently vibrating thanks to my new ghetto ass neighbors who just moved into the unit below mine. This is not fair. It is not the way my life is written in the stars.

Clearly it is way to late in the game to ever receive any sort of trust fund (It would have really been the most desired of all the situations since I like to have my own money rather than depending on others), but there is still always the chance of meeting someone with a trust themselves (in which case I will have to learn how to take money from someone. A sacrifice I am willing to make.) It’s either this or winning the lottery – I figure the chances of either are just as slim, so my best chance at the life I deserve is to remain open-minded.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not going to pinhole my life to just the search for a trust fund child, I am willing to learn to accept any good fortune. I am not above being a working mans housewife. I am not above being barefoot in the kitchen that was cleaned by our cleaning lady and making dinner after a long day at the spa. I can live with that. I … I just want much more than this provincial life.

Like the good Doctor I too have a dream. I have lots of dreams, and none involve working until I’m 65.

The actual story, is that I got it from a book I read in one of my philosophy classes in college called “The Art of Living.”  In a nutshell the idea is that acceptance is the key to happiness, but it refers to acceptance on many levels. For example – accepting that the only factor you can control in a situation is you and your very own reaction to the action; or accepting that every person in your life is not really yours, they are a person borrowed for an allotted amount of time, and when that time with them is up you must return them back to wherever it is they came from.

OF COURSE this is all much easier said then done, but the theory never claimed that acceptance was easy.

It especially isn’t easy when it comes to matters of the heart. However once in a while, when I’m not picturing myself curbing someone (I at times have violent daydreams what can I say?) I have moments of clarity – Like today. – Today I was having a somewhat stressful day when I started thinking to myself “the only thing you can control is your own reaction. You can’t control the situation. Only the way you choose to handle it.” (I did after all get the tattoo as a reminder for christ’s sake.)

So today I made a choice to not begin hating him, and I must admit I’ve been on that thin line where I could tilt either way for a few days now. Today though, I decided I wouldn’t hate him. I won’t hate him because I think he has already managed to make multiple people do so over time, and one more really doesn’t make a difference. I won’t hate him because when it was good, I had a lot of fun. But ultimately, I won’t hate him because he reminded me what it felt like to love someone, and that felt really fucking good. I don’t give in easily – I don’t let go or let people in regularly. Every so often though it becomes scary to think that you possibly forgot how to do it, and that you could be alone forever (kind of like the stereotype of an old cat lady but sadder because I don’t even like cats.) So even though it didn’t go as desired, its nice to be reminded that you can give that much of yourself, and you can have feelings such as those again. It’s nice to know that the possibility still exists.

I accepted a lesson learned and found a reason to consider it worth my time.

So today I decided not to hate him. Tomorrow however, can be a totally different story…. and I make no guarantees.

I sat there, opening gifts, when pieces started coming together in my mind. It dawned on me suddenly that things appeared to good to be true. I asked a question; to which I received an answer, and just like that – my life was never going to be the same. I cried.

Lets face it – no Christmas is ever the same. I say this not only because you are no longer surrounded by an overflow of Barbie and Board games, (though let’s be real – who doesn’t’ miss Barbie??) but also I feel as though people kind of just stop trying as you get older.

Though I continue to love the holidays and I always enjoy myself while they are being celebrated I can’t honestly say I consider them all special. Once in a while though, when you least expect it, special ones arise.

I spent so much time hoping I would end up with a Hollywood Christmas – ala’ Love Actually – that I didn’t consider what the rest of the day held.

My great aunts came out for the night. Tia C. is 94 years old and just had hip surgery, so she’s not the biggest fan of making cameos. She’s been known to stand us up on holidays  (can you blame her?), and then Tia M. feels she should stay behind too so Tia C. won’t be alone. The thing is though, they haven’t met the twins, and it was their first Christmas. How could they say no?

Emotions flew. I must admit – there is something really beautiful about old meeting new. The sight I saw is ideally the beginning and end of life’s journey. Happy and healthy at both ages, and surrounded by people you love. They kept saying (in Spanish) Do you know what it is to be my age and experience this?

When I dropped them off Tia C. hugged me and said Please don’t forget me.  I don’t know how I held my composure at that moment, but 7 hours later I’m awake in the middle of the night thinking about it.

Tia C. is family, because that is how I have always known her, but she’s technically not my direct blood, she’s actually Tia M.’s best friend. They grew up together in Cuba and they were always so close she was just part of the family. A friendship that is so strong that when the conversation came up about a nursing home for Tia C., Tia M. took her in as a roommate.

I am lucky enough to confidentially say, “I have friendships like that.”

I have really amazing people in my life. Both family and friends, I mean shit – even my acquaintances are pretty cool.  All these amazing people are part of my life because they choose to be (well not the family portion but we choose to be close), and yet they are part of what makes my life so great.

-       Queue Michelle Pfeiffer in “Dangerous Minds” teaching how ‘choice’ is the strongest word in the English language.  –

Being part of my life is not something I force upon anyone – it’s a choice. Though I’m particular about who I extend the choice to, I do no feel that I should in any way have to convince anyone to accept the offer, because the truth is – with or without that additional person, I still have an overflow of love surrounding me.

I may have not gotten the act of love I wanted today, but I certainly experienced all the love I needed to remind me of how lucky I am.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

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For me to bring someone home to meet the family is a HUGE deal; not only for me, but for my family as well because they know it is a rare occasion. I actually haven’t brought anyone home since X-M and that relationship crashed and burned about 6+ years ago. At that point my youngest nephew ‘Z’ was still a newborn. Tonight however I had a very brief conversation with my now six-year-old nephew that reminded me why I never bring anyone home to meet the family. It went a little something like so:

Z: “So what happened with you this guy (insert name here)?”

Me: “What do you mean what happened?”

Z: “Well I haven’t seen him. I heard you broke up.”

Me: “Funny. It’s what I’ve heard too.”

Z: “Well why?”

Me: “Why what?”

Z: “Why did you break up?”

Me: “I have absolutely no idea. I’ve been dying to know the same thing.”

He looks at me confused…

Z: “But I thought he liked you.”

Me: “I thought so too.”

Another look.

Me: “If you figure it out first let me know ok?”

Z: “Ok.”

He looked confused but aware of my tone and stopped asking questions. The point is though, that he asked. I had brought someone, and spoken about someone enough for my nephews to notice that he is no longer around. The older ones knew better than to ask, but I’m sure they all thought the same thing. Only the eldest could remember that I had ever brought someone home before this one.

It was by far the worst “what happened” I had to answer. The average person can accept my “I don’t know” as a sincere answer, but for a child (well and even for me) that answer doesn’t’ suffice.

Note to self; there is a lesson to be learned from all of this: Don’t ever bring someone home again.

I listened as he told me “I miss you. I really miss you in my life.”

We spoke for a little while. It was mostly him doing the talking, telling me everything that he’s been wanting to tell me for the past few months but hasn’t had the opportunity to. He told me that I’m an awesome girl and one of the coolest people he knows.

And though it’s too little too late, hearing ‘you’re awesome’ is always a good thing; can’t say it really ever gets old. Hearing a man admit that he realizes that you were a great part of his life that he took advantage of – it feels good. Don’t get me wrong – it would’ve felt even better if I would’ve been appreciated from the start, but we aren’t in a perfect world. I mean all those times that someone has told you “One day he will realize you were the best he will ever have” – are encompassed into this moment where you can smile internally with immense satisfaction and say: Oh, I know I was the best you’ll ever have.

He apologized, he apologized for being an asshole and he wanted to ensure that I did not think it was me who fucked up (um no, I never thought it was but thanks for voicing it). He made sure to point out that I myself am not easy to deal with – to which I did not challenge – but I reminded him I was always good. He told me that me walking out of his life left some sort of void.

I have to admit I was taken back with some of the things he said. We never really had that type of relationship. We never talked about “us” or where we stood or what we meant to each other. Things were just pretty much understood.  Though I always knew I meant something to him, I never really knew what that was. It was good to hear out loud that I was more than I actually assumed I was.

The thing is, I never hated him and I was never really mad at him, so I had nothing to forgive. I did, however, tell him this out loud so there wouldn’t be any misunderstanding. I made sure I told him I appreciated his words, because I did. I appreciated his words because they are words I’ve been dying to hear.

 ….just not from him.

I realize it’s absolutely random to most, but I’ve got family here. And by family I mean non-blood related, awesomeness that encompasses a great portion of my heart.  It’s not only my best friend, but her whole family as well. ALL of them. From dad to mom to sister to daughter to fiancé to step daughter, they are all a part of a comforting extension that is just as reliable and dependable as my own bloodline

Her kid is really one of the cutest kids you will ever see. Not only is she psychically cute, but also her personality rocks (this coming from someone who is not a big fan of children who aren’t directly related).  She actually wanted me to sleep in her room. She wanted to take the couch so that I could sleep in her bed. She gets excited when she hears I’m driving up and she stays up so she can say hi. I mean – she’s just… she’s just an extension I suppose of the awesomeness that her mother is.

Point being… I’m here. I’m in her room and looking around and I can help but think of the innocence behind it. From the lavender walls to the fairy bears hanging on them, the ‘my little pony’ and the ‘hello kitty’ – those toys that remind me of my own childhood. The princess table set up with a princess tea party, all these ideals of magic and happily ever after.

I can’t help but be a little envious.

How sweet it must be to still believe in all that. Before you have any real troubles or worries. Before heartache and before illusions of happily ever after crash and burn at your feet.

But then again maybe it’s exactly this that I should be angry with. Why ever give the illusion that there is such thing as magic and fairy tales and happily ever after? Isn’t it just a false sense of hope and unreal expectations? Why can’t we train them to realize “You will meet someone. You will think they are perfect. They will be fucked up to a point that you can’t even comprehend. They will break your heart and leave you wondering what the fuck just happened.” I mean at least when the time comes (because it WILL come) they will have had a lifetime of training on what to do in such a situation.

Because me? Well – I’m fully prepped on trying on glass slippers, and responding in song when picking berries in the woods. Fuck, I even know how to handle a beast. What I apparently don’t know how to deal with though are thirty(ish) year old men who think they are Houdini.

I must admit though that I find great comfort in being in this room – regardless of the lie it actually is. I will fall asleep tonight with images of magic and wonder. I will fall asleep with the notion that someday, my prince will come…..

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Seeing as though I used words such as ‘believe’ and ‘foolish’ I am clearly referring to a matter of the heart.

Ok, so yada yada ya…. girl meets boy. Actually no. This girl met the boy 15 years ago through mutual friends and had a crush on him even then. We reunite recently and the crush gets even bigger now because he’s sans jnco’s and has evolved into quite a guy. This time we start dating. This time, I fall in love.

It’s a situation where I fell fast and I fell hard; too fast, and too hard actually. The thing is, it’s just the way I fall. I’m so particular about even taking such a step with anyone that I kind of just let myself fall when I think its right. That however, is my problem – I think it’s right.

The first time that there was trouble in paradise I remember speaking to one of my sisters and her saying of her husband “when we first met he would do immature shit all the time, but something in me told me he was the person I was supposed to be with and I just knew it would work out.”

I think of that comment all the time, because inside it’s what I feel. Or I mean, is it what I want to believe? What separates that difference? What if I just want him to be it? What if I just think he’s perfect for me because he’s here now and I haven’t actually had feelings for anyone in a long time, but it would be in my best interest to let him go now before its harder to walk away. Or what if this feeling inside really means something – what if I think he’s perfect for me because he is perfect for me, and if I’m willing to work a little I can end up sharing something really special with him?

If someone could just tell me; Give me the answer. Because if this will all be worth it in the end I’d be able to swallow this bullshit down, but the possibility that this is all a fantasy I’ve created in my mind – well that makes me want to say enough is enough.

I’ve been so hesitant to write about him, because I know he’ll read it, and I know all those people who were happy for me may be disappointed but it’s what I do. And though I may not know where the line lays when it comes to believing in another person, or being foolish – I know myself. And though I know I’m a fool – I also know all the reasons I have to believe in myself.

Besides, I’m not THAT big of a fool – Worst comes to worst I at least bought him a Christmas gift I knew I would not mind being able to keep

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He has like 4 pictures in which he looks totally different in each one, and there is one in which he’s holding a little kid. At the end of his short profile he points out that the little girl in the picture is his niece (douche flag #1). Seriously? That’s like a girl taking a dog to the park to attract men.  He also states that he would like to go to California to learn how to surf.  Umm…we live in Florida buddy. The ocean is our backyard (douche flag #2). So I respond telling him just that. He writes back nicely to my sarcastic remark. Now I’m feeling kind of bad and then I get an instant message from him.

I get the urge to end the conversation almost immediately once he starts talking about p90x, but I remind myself I am being open minded this time, so I stick around and then find that we actually have things in common. Things like some music and a few movies. There must have been more, because I remember him repeatedly saying “god its crazy how much we have in common” in the four days that our knowing one another lasted, but to be quite honest that’s all I remember.

The chat lasts like 3 hours or so, and I have to admit I went to sleep patting my back saying, “see it pays to not be judgmental.”  The next morning since he was unable to email I was suckered into giving my phone number when after I expressed “I hate talking on the phone” he told me “we’ll just text until you feel comfortable.” Yea well the pressure to call started (flag #3), and I eventually caved in on my way home from work because driving and talking is way better than driving and texting.  The conversation lasted for like another 4 hours (for the record, 4 hours for someone who hates the phone is pretty much like a lifetime).  Then he started asking me questions such as “so I noticed your profile says your not sure about having kids. Do you not want them?” The commitment phoebe in me tensed up and wanted to run, but since I said I was going to give this a serious shot I actually continued the conversation. However, after sitting there while he read to me the compatibility between a Virgo and a Libra (I really don’t know why I didn’t hang up once he started) I decided I wasn’t intoxicated enough to keep going and it would be best to just go to sleep.

The next day the communication already started to die.  I had already agreed to a date on Sunday which – for the sake of keeping an open mind – I wouldn’t allow myself to break, so I just told myself that it wasn’t a big deal – there was just no need to really talk until the date. But on Friday night after I tell him that since I haven’t been feeling well, and haven’t been sleeping that I was going to take nighttime cold medicine and watch Harry Potter until I pass out. Cue the “So that’s it I’m not going to talk to you again tonight” in a sad puppy dog tone (red flags #4-8). Are you kidding me? Have I not told you that I am sick? Have I not told you that I HATE the phone? Didn’t we just fucking meet?  Don’t you have a life and something to do??? I hang up the phone with an urge to poke his eyes with metal skewers.

I wake up the following afternoon (thank you p.m. medication) with 3 text messages from him. Two of which are asking me if I am mad at him and if he did something wrong (flags #9&10). Words like insecure are added to his list. Right under words such as “needy” and “clingy.” My response to him is an annoyed “I told you I was taking p.m. medicine. We just met. Stop taking it all so seriously.”  I have the immediate urge to cancel the date but my sister convinces me to go on with it and tells me “its not his fault mercury is in retrograde. Be nice.” Ugh. Fine.

Sunday finally comes around and its time for the date. I wake up early but successfully manage to eat enough crap to be late. We are meeting at the zoo at 12pm (or in my case 12:30). Yes. You read that correctly. Miami Metro Zoo in July, in 90-degree weather at the worst possible time of the day. At first I had thought it was cute and original. I later realize it’s only cute and original if it’s done in autumn.

He’s hung-over (flag #11). HE chose the zoo in the middle of summer and now HE shows up hung-over. I think “Idiot” and “Get me a beer ASAP” almost instantaneously. His pictures I realize aren’t exactly accurate and he is lacking some inches in the 5’8” he is claiming to be. He is wearing black sketcher sneakers and although I’m so congested I can’t smell the elephant shit – I am being suffocated by the massive amounts of cologne he used to cover up the smell from the alcohol that is seeping through his pores.

There is nothing. No spark. No connection. Shit there’s barely conversation! (Guess that’s what happens when you haven’t let me STOP talking to you in 4 days). The only laughter rises while we are watching the animals have sex. Which then also helps build even more discomfort. I stop for another beer.

He had already mentioned the “next time we go out” line about three times when I realized I had to turn him off from any idea of ever calling me again before I left this zoo. And that’s when I heard it – children’s laughter.

I make some comment (which I don’t recall) and he says, “Wow, you really hate kids don’t you?” and I respond “No. No I don’t hate them. I mean if they are related to me through a direct bloodline I almost even like them. But that” I say pointing to the children, “that’s just noise. Don’t you think the zoo would be so much better without kids? Like Disney; Disney would be so amazing if those kids weren’t running around and ruining it.”

I haven’t heard from him since

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This morning I ignited a new relationship with a new doctor.

He has been highly recommended to me and has a great reputation. His office is responsible for the delivery of my nephews and my future nieces, and the best part is that he is on the beach. I pass by his office on my way to and from work on a daily basis. Perfect.

As I walk in I wouldn’t exactly call myself nervous, it’s not like I’ve never done this before – though I doubt I will ever find comfort in the idea of being molested by stainless steel first thing in the morning (or any time of day for that matter) – and that’s when I see them. A waiting room full of pregnant women. Now I’m officially uncomfortable.

As if it may be contagious – I sit myself in a secluded corner and hold my breath.

After an excruciatingly long wait I finally meet him. And he is a sweetheart.

He goes through the usual questions and marks my answers in my file – which is actually not a file but a handheld computer (which alone implies that I am moving up in the world in terms of better established gyno’s). Then he asks “Are you married?” No. “Do you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend?” I have to let this question sink in for a second. First, because I can’t believe that the new man in my life is so politically correct and in tune with the times – I’m impressed I must admit. And secondly,by asking if I have a boyfriend is he asking if I’m sexually active? Because in reality those are two totally different things. In the end I decide that my honest answer to his question is “No.” He looks like a smart man – he’ll figure it out when I ask him to refill my birth control for the next twelve months.

Next we move on to the not so charming part. But to my surprise it’s not all that bad. Don’t get me wrong – its molestation by metal regardless – but he’s talking to me the whole time and telling me that with the nuva ring I could essentially just keep replacing them and avoid my menstrual cycle all together. A tid bit of information that I previously did not know; all of a sudden the upcoming summer skies seem a lot bluer. And then, before I know it, it’s over.

As our rendezvous comes to an end he tells me that it is nice to meet me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. A kiss on the cheek!!

My friend C called the action weird.

I personally call it feeling a little less used after stripping down and revealing yourself.  He’s a keeper.

Today just may mark the end of my gynecological promiscuity.

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I went to lunch with hopes of disconnecting for an hour and watching Law & Order (irony), only to find out that the news had been showing nothing but live coverage of this memorial all day. So instead of entertainment I watched an arena of cops. I later made a comment on Facebook, but instead of saying I watched an arena of cops I called them pigs as I usually do. Apparently I am now insensitive. I’m sorry – but is that not the universal nickname of cops?  Hasn’t it been for decades? I wasn’t calling the deceased cops pigs – I was calling the ones sitting with blank stares, playing with their phones, having side conversations as the children of the deceased cried – I was calling them pigs.

Shit I have a good friend who just became FHP (the most hated of them all), and so I now call him Oink.  He doesn’t mind the nickname, and he’s one of them – so why the hell do you care.

I am not insensitive. I am truly sorry that two individuals died because of some bastard. I am sorry that they left behind children and families. I really am. But that does not mean that I am going to pretend to have a deep love and respect for the police force. I cannot respect a profession who has given so many reasons to not respect them. When I think of cops I think of the ones who sit on the side of the road waiting to pull someone over. Of the ones who show up 2 hours after you call 911 saying you need them. Of the ones who abuse their power – of the ones who are doing drugs; the ones cheating on their wives on their lunch break. I realize that in an ideal world we should respect them because they are “public servants”, but unfortunately that ideal was shattered long ago.

I made a comment stating that I didn’t understand why such a huge memorial is being held for these officers. No one else receives that sort of recognition when they die. Doctors who save lives – their deaths don’t even make it to the news. Teachers don’t even get respect while alive much less at their time of death. So why put this type of charade on now? I just don’t get it.

Nor do I get all of you – calling me insensitive while you fake some sort of care and newfound respect towards law enforcement. Just because I’m not going to pretend that I think all officers join because they want to “protect and serve”– does not mean that I don’t care that individuals lost their lives. I do care, but I am not going to care any extra because of the fact that they were cops. I care just as much as when I hear of any tragic loss, but I still don’t believe it justifies using taxpayer’s dollars to put on a production. I would have much rather preferred the money go to the children. You know – the people it actually affected. Those people who will remember this in two months; the ones who had real respect for the ones lost.  

Because I guarantee you that the next time you are pulled over, or the next ticket you receive, you will be uttering words of disgust to the person in uniform. Then they will once again turn into pigs – and you will once again be an ass – and life on our farm can get back to normal.