/






Today I had lunch with my coworkers at POR FIN
http://www.porfinrestaurant.com/

this new restaurant in Coral Gables on Ponce de Leon.

I usually get raw or semi raw dishes at nice places.

This was so good, it was passionfruit sorbet, coconut foam and mint icey gremolatta



I had a Gazpacho as well.


Flower arrangement


I like the orchids inside the glass




It rained and I was trapped under Miracle Theatre.

Look how high the rain comes over the sidewalk, all in a few minutes. There was thunderstorms as well.




/


Here I go again running to my blog. How hard is

being honest? How honest can I be? It's so hard, we live in a closed world where all is

vague.

Nightgown pic. I had this on my camera from being in Costa Rica last week. I just got out a few hours from anesthesia. I pulled the iv out my arm, not thinking, there is a whole tube up there! It was messy, I was so embarrassed and wrapped up the blood all over my sheets, got dressed and left. Just like that! After surgery. I was so scared they were gonna find I made a mess. Plus I didn't want to be there.




I always have flowers in my place. Usually my mom likes to bring them.

I had watermelon juice all day. And later snacked on some Apple Ginger Sauerkraut

it was so sweet, the juice was almost sugary. I really sucked it out of it, so good, and

in my stomach it felt like love. I was on antibiotics all week, so I am replenishing my

bacteria count I guess. SO people say, who knows!

READ THIS< I am so jealous of this girl. She is such a great writer.


THE NEW YORK TIMES
May 4, 2008
Modern Love: The College Essay Contest
It's a Complicated Subject
 
Just before Valentine's Day this year, Sunday Styles did something 
very unromantic: we asked college students nationwide to tell the 
plain truth about what love is like for them. We weren't sure what to 
expect, but we thought we wouldn't receive many essays about red 
roses and white tablecloths.
When the contest deadline passed seven weeks later, more than 1,200 
essays had arrived, from 365 schools in 46 states and Puerto Rico. In 
perhaps typical collegiate fashion, nearly 700 poured in on the last 
day, 400 over the final hour. We counted only three red roses among 
them, and one was bestowed in a laundry room.
As for the more complicated stuff, and the uniquely 21st century 
struggles — those we got by the hundreds, covering everything from 
how students view communications technology (as a lifeline, a crutch 
or a scourge) to their ambivalence about the no-strings-attached 
sexual opportunism of the hookup culture.
Five of these essays will appear as the Modern Love column, starting 
today with Marguerite Fields's winning entry, "Want to Be My 
Boyfriend? Please Define," an eloquent, clear-eyed account of her 
generation's often noncommittal dating scene.


 
Want to Be My Boyfriend? Please Define
By MARGUERITE FIELDS
 
RECENTLY my mother asked me to clarify what I meant when I said I was 
dating someone, versus when I was hooking up with someone, versus 
when I was seeing someone. And I had trouble answering her because 
the many options overlap and blur in my mind. But at one point, four 
years ago, I had a boyfriend. And I know he was my boyfriend because 
he said, "I want you to be my girlfriend," and I said, "O.K."
He and I dated for over a year, and when we broke up I thought my 
angsty heart was going to spit itself right up out of my sore throat. 
Afterward, I moved out of my mother's house in Brooklyn and into an 
apartment in the East Village, and from there it becomes confusing.
So, a few days after the chat with my mom, when I found myself 
downtown drinking tea with my friend Steven, I asked him what he 
thought about dating. He has a long-term girlfriend, and I was 
curious how he viewed their relationship.
"The main thing," he said, "is I don't mind if she sleeps with other 
people. I mean, she's not my property, right? I'm just glad I get to 
hang out with her. Spend time with her. Because that's all we really 
have, you know? I don't want her to be mine, and I don't want to be 
anybody's."
I sucked my teeth and looked over at the next table, where two men 
sat opposite each other. One looked over his shoulder and gave me a 
closed-mouth grin.
Steven explained that it's not a question of faithfulness but of 
expectation. He can't be expected not to want to sleep with other 
people, so he can't expect her to think differently. They are both 
young and living in New York, and as everyone in New York knows, 
there's the possibility of meeting anyone, everywhere, all the time.
For the sake of brevity and clarity, I'll say I've dated a lot of 
guys. It's not that I've gone out anywhere with a lot of these guys, 
or been physical with most of them, or even seen them more than once. 
But there have been many, many encounters.
I've met guys in the park, at the deli, at galleries, at parties and 
on the Internet. The Internet idea came from thinking that if I could 
sift through people's profiles, like applications, I could eliminate 
the obvious lunatics.
And that didn't work out very well. One leaned across the table an 
hour into dinner and screamed: "You love me! I know you do!" Another 
stood outside my apartment with one finger on the buzzer and another 
covering the peephole, occasionally banging his fist, until he 
finally exhausted himself and left.
As for the guys I first met in person, there was the construction 
worker I ran into on the train twice before saying anything, kissed 
the third time, kissed the fourth time, got stood up by the fifth 
time and never saw again. Then there was the guy with tattooed 
knuckles, the young Republican, the Irishman on vacation and the guy 
who stole $300 from me to buy drugs. There was the activist, the 
actor, the librarian, the waiter and the bond trader.
So when my friends and I started having a conversation about the 
nature of monogamy, I thought I knew something about monogamy. 
Because, despite the fleeting nature of most of my encounters, and 
despite my own role in their short duration, I think what I have been 
seeking in some form from all of these men is permanence.
Sometimes I don't like them, or am scared of them, and a lot of times 
I'm just bored by them. But my fear or dislike or boredom never seems 
to diminish my underlying desire for a guy to stay, or at least to 
say he is going to stay, for a very long time.
And even when I don't want him to stay — even when he and I find each 
other as strangers and remain strangers until we stop doing whatever 
it is we are doing — I still want to believe that two people can meet 
and like each other well enough to stay together exclusively, without 
the introduction of some 1960s rhetoric about free love or other 
noncommittal slogans.
But noncommittal is what we're all about.
There was the guy with red hair and big steaklike hands that walked 
with me arm in arm through Washington Square Park, kissed me on the 
stoop of my mother's brownstone and said he wanted to be my 
boyfriend. Until our next walk, when he kept his hands to himself and 
said he meant boyfriend "in the theoretical sense of the word."
Then there was the installer of soy insulation who cooked soggy pasta 
and made me watch football and whimpered and kicked in his sleep. In 
the spring there was the guy 12 years older than me who shared an 
apartment overlooking Tompkins Square Park with an antediluvian man 
who walked around in graying long underwear.
There was the guy who wore more makeup than I did, and the one who 
waxed his eyebrows clean off his face. And the one who slept with a 
guy when he was drunk, then with another when he was sober. (But he 
insisted he wasn't gay, just curious, and since when was I so uptight 
anyway?)
Over the summer there was the Jesuit taking a break from the seminary 
who stopped calling after I said I wouldn't sleep with him on our 
third date. In the fall, back at school, there was the banjo player 
from the woods of New England who took me home to meet his family, 
then moved away and told me to wait for him. And I did, for months, 
until he called to say he was falling in love with me, and oh, man, I 
had to come see him right away ("Buy your ticket tonight!"), before 
he called again to say it was moving too fast and he wasn't ready.
And on, and on, and on.
Then this winter I met a guy while waiting to have my computer fixed. 
He had big blue eyes and a wide red mouth and delicate hands and 
greasy brown hair. He sat down and asked what I was reading and did I 
have a boyfriend because he was asking me out. He smelled like 
incense and clean linen, and I was overwhelmingly and instantaneously 
smitten. Among other things, I liked his indifference, confidence and 
knowledge of foreign film directors.
On our first date he explained his theory of exclusive relationships, 
which was that they shouldn't exist. We talked about our (and all of 
our friends') divorced parents, about how marriage was nothing but a 
pragmatic financial venture, and about the last time we cheated on 
someone. He said that his disregard for monogamy wasn't a 
chauvinistic throwback, but quite the opposite: the ultimate nod to 
feminism.
On our second date we watched coverage of the Iowa caucus, and later, 
after listening to jazz at his apartment, he crawled onto his bed, 
leaned against the headboard and said he didn't burn artificial light 
after dark. I sighed and edged into bed next to him.
During the night he kicked and snored, grabbing greedily at me with 
his well-moisturized hands like a child snatching at free candy.
We overslept. In the morning I watched him dress frantically, the way 
a drifter would (gray pants and shirt tucked in and tie and vest and 
brown wingtip shoes and gray sweater and red scarf and jacket: it was 
lovely). He looked up occasionally from his scrambling to give a big 
toothy smile. I made the bed and drank the orange juice he bought for 
me the night before. We left his apartment and tried to find a cab.
As we crossed Hudson Street, we waded through a passing stream of 
preschool children walking in pairs, holding hands. I watched their 
teachers — one at the front of the line, one in the middle, one at 
the back — while he hailed a taxi.
A week passed before I saw him again. I was about to go back to 
school in Vermont, and he was headed to Jamaica on vacation. When I 
entered the restaurant, he said: "The nice part about having a shoddy 
memory is I forget how pretty some people are. You look beautiful."
As we ate, we theorized about the effects of pornography on romantic 
relationships. Dinner ended; he had to go pack for his trip. I asked 
casually when I was going to see him again.
He sighed. "That's a loaded question."
I asked what he meant, because I thought the question was fairly 
straightforward.
Then it came. The story. The long, boring, aggravatingly rehearsed 
and condescending story. It spewed, overflowed and dripped off our 
table and onto the floor and underneath the shoes of the other 
patrons and into the street.
He said he had just gotten out of a long relationship, and now he was 
single and didn't really know how this whole dating thing works, but 
he was seeing a lot of other people, and he liked me; he thought I 
was special. Cross my heart, he actually called me special.
WHEN he was done, he asked: "That's what you were talking about, 
right? Seeing me again and the nature of our relationship? Like, what 
are we to each other?"
I said I just meant to ask when we were going to see each other 
again, because I thought that was the polite thing to do after a few 
dates, and I wondered if he wanted to make time for me to come back 
to New York to see him. And he said no, that was "too much, too 
soon," but if I'm ever in town I should call him. He would love to 
see me.
We left. It was raining, he hailed a cab for me, and we hugged 
without looking at each other. I got into the cab and rode away.
And tried to process it. And tried to remind myself that when we 
first met I thought he was an arrogant, presumptuous little man. I 
tried to think about my conversation with Steven. I tried to remember 
that I was actively seeking to practice some Zenlike form of 
nonattachment. I tried to remember that no one is my property and 
neither am I theirs, and so I should just enjoy the time we spend 
together, because in the end it's our collected experiences that add 
up to a rich and fulfilling life. I tried to tell myself that I'm 
young, that this is the time to be casual, careless, lighthearted and 
fun; don't ruin it.
Marguerite Fields is a junior at Marlboro College in Vermont.



//


Wasn't that great, its so poignant.



I made coconut mylk with some rose petals from a rose bunch
that the writer gave to me a long time ago. Makes it pink.

That Picasso scarf , from the Picasso museum in Spain.
It was a present from E, the Miami DA assistant attorney,
its been almost a year since we were friendly.
 



/



I also saw my brother. I bought him mussels, saffron, sherry, pasta etc, because I like when he cooks.
 I didn't eat any.  I watched him eat, my god, he had two
plates and he just snarfed it. I never seen anyone that hungry before. Yes I have I am sure.