Where is Mr. Lusty?

I went on a date the other night with Traveling Businessman dude. It was a second date and a second chance after we both botched the first one. Complicated, not worth going into. He's the one that I met on a flight and had felt lust for ever since. He has oddly cool gray-blond hair, gorgeous blue eyes, sexy lips. He comes from my hometown, a very small place where neither of us live now, so it was chance that we met at all.

I had high hopes for TBD (Traveling Businessman dude). I think he evoked a sense of place for me. He reminded me of high school boys I always had crushes on. His accent was like hearing the breeze through the trees back home. He just poked some sort of fire in me that I guess I never knew I had smoldering. I have been out of my home state for so long, and I definitely wasn't dating while I was married, so maybe it was just a big giant nostalgic head-fuck to meet this guy right at the beginning of my single life. It made me wonder if I should move back to that end of the earth to be closer to people I know and understand. Maybe I was pinning too many unrealistic hopes on this dude. The poor guy had no idea about all that was going through my head.

If the date were a movie, however, it would get a mixed review. TBD would get a thumbs up for being a fun conversationalist. He's quick witted, direct, funny. Very bright. I would not say he had the manners of good Southern gentlemen, but his etiquette was about what is expected of average guys these days. He checked in with me, made sure I was okay, comfortable. Paid for dinner. Opened the door for me.

But -- and this definitely comes from Cazadora, the lusty divorcee -- he gets a thumbs down in the passion category.

Now I know men and women play by different play books. Girlz are supposed to act coy and unavailable, while guyz are supposed to tone it down and stay cool. I say, this is a recipe for disaster. If both sides are acting disinterested... then no one's ever going to get together. I know I gave TBD good eye contact and smiles, etc. He did the same. We were both interested. He made some moves on me at the end of the date. I was glad to finally kiss those lips I found so delectable. But by the end of the night I could see we were probably better matched as friends than anything more. The level of passion I am capable of feeling outmatched his by far.

After a marriage that ended as a "passion free zone," I am not looking for Mr. Right as much as Mr. Lusty. I want to be kissed passionately and held. I want to know a guy would lose an hour of sleep if it meant spending an hour with me. TBD would probably make a great husband and father, for someone. I mean he was very considerate. I would be bored to tears, however.

It was my second big disappointment over TBD. It's hard to know why he caught my imagination so much, or even made my heart flutter a little bit. And it's hard to turn that off, even when I know, as deeply as I know anything, he ain't the one for me. And I know I barely know him. But I want to honor that deep place in myself that is all about knowing things.

What is a girl to do? I need to find Mr. Lusty.

Fighting the good fight

In nearly 10 years of marriage, my ex and I never had a constructive fight.

We didn't know how. We weren't solution oriented, but instead loved to blame each other for things. We'd get wound up in twists and knots and terrible pretzels, and we could never, ever unwind. I believe a primary reason we broke up was this basic lack of problem solving skills. I definitely include myself in this problem. And I definitely include him in the problem. No blame, just two people who needed more tools in their toolbox, so to speak.

We just had a spat regarding the logistics of our divorce. I have been kind of swept up in the divorce like a hiker in an avalanche. I am finally dusting myself off to make sure I'm alive, to see what's broken and if all of my limbs are intact. I am alive and well, but the ride down the hill was rocky and it hurt.

This week, the ex and I for the third time had the same conversation about something we both agreed to, but now he is angry about. The first two times, I explained to him how he needs to call a therapist, lawyer or friend, because I wasn't the right person for him to be complaining to, as he was complaining about me! I'm no longer his wife. Don't live in the same house. I clearly don't have to put up with that, right? Yesterday, and I'm not proud of this, I just hung up on him. In the middle of his speech. This sucked. We always had an agreement that we wouldn't hang up on each other. I hated doing it. But... I had asked him nicely and politely twice not to rant at me, and he was doing it anyway. Not cool. So, he got hung up on.

Today, I sent him a long e-mail explaining how I am sorry he is upset, yadda yadda yadda, followed by my own logic and reasoning as to why he shouldn't be upset, yadda yadda yadda, plus some other mumbo jumbo about feelings, yadda yadda yadda, and I hit send.

What came back to me was a gift from the Gods, Goddesses, Cupids, whomever. He sent me the best explanation to date -- in our 10 years together -- in a succinct, well-reasoned manner about his feelings. It was amazing. It was sensitive and sweet, but still made his points. He left off the stuff that I had been finding a bit mean, if not demeaning. He acknowledged how hard I worked at the marriage, that I had changed for the better, etc. He admitted he had just given up on the whole thing. These were huge, huge disclosures from someone who made a job of not opening up. My therapist has called him one of the most challenging customers she's had. He had exhibited an absolute refusal to look deep inside himself for answers, at least in her office. It got to the point last year, before the divorce, that the therapist looked at me and said, "You're done!" but looked at him and said, "Let's get to work..." He shockingly agreed to it, but of course, that was never going to happen. And it didn't. Truth be told, our relationship was probably too far gone at that point anyway. If you've given up, pretty much no amount of therapy brings you back from that abyss.

Nonetheless, the things he put in yesterday's email were things I had been hoping to hear from him for ages. Just some acknowledgment that he gave up, that I had worked hard and done everything I said I would and that I possibly could. It brought me an incredible sense of closure. I would argue it was the best fight we ever had. It made me think of the phrase, "Fighting the good fight." I know that has a different meaning, but to me, this was how it felt to have fought a good fight. Finally, a fight that resolved our issues and no one felt blamed. No one lost. Now that's a good fight.

The Law of Attraction

When my husband and I first broke up, and I moved out, I went a bit boy crazy. The funny thing is that I was never boy crazy in high school, college or my twenties. I liked guys, and all, but I really never learned how to turn on my charm and tap into that sweet energy that is female mojo. I had never looked at the world of men as my own personal playground where the game is a sexy round of tag.

Well, I guess I had beginner's luck. I charmed and flirted my way through summer, and had my share of success. Also, ladies, take note: I think a memo goes around once you get into divorce proceedings, because I found more than my fair share of men who seemed to know exactly the state I was in, and wanted to provide "comfort." Hot divorcee is no stigma, ladies, at least in this state. One of my male friends even told me it was okay to go crazy (I was kind of working my way through his friends... not on purpose or knowingly... but stilll!). But he was so sweet about it. He just told me to go crazy for two months, and then stop. "What do you then?" I asked him, desperately. "You go on actual dates and get to know people first," he said reasonably. We both laughed. Definitely good advice. I still had a month to go, he told me then. Well that was a relief, because I certainly wasn't done yet.

What makes me marvel is how in several cases I really was more lured by the hunt than the catch. I felt no emotional connection to several guys who seemed promising at first, but not after we had "intimate relations." Of course, I had two of them like me more after that, but instead the bedroom showed me that it wasn't going to work. I liked them less.

But, in several cases, what happened in the bedroom translated to stronger feelings outside. Even though I wasn't looking for a boyfriend or mate, you can't turn off that part of you that is hardwired to succumb to the law of attraction. My best friend is now dating someone she actively disliked for years. I asked her last night what was the turning point with him? "After we had sex," was her blunt and honest answer. Before they had sex and were just dating, she still wasn't sure she had feelings for him. But the sex was so hot and good, it's translated into very strong emotional feelings. Now they have a very serious relationship in which they really care for each other now, and I note, seem very well-suited for each other inside and outside the bedroom.

I think, however, that there is a part of me that needs that initial spark. That initial knowing. Something in the eye contact. I met a guy on a plane this summer, and I swear I had hardly laid eyes on him before I wanted to kiss him and rub my fingers through his chest hair. What was it about him? I felt like he cast a spell on me. His eyes were beautiful and his lips so kissable. It just did something to me.

He ended up being the one, however, that got away. And he was the one I felt the most feelings for from the outset. He wasn't particularly tall or buff or those things women seem to want. He had a great regional accent -- one that reminded me of home. He had a great sense of humor, seemed wicked smart. But why him and not some of the other guys I met? Honestly, only some naughty cupid probably knows. He's the one I also built up the most expectations around -- around who he was (I still am not sure I know who he really is), around what he might represent for me.

What I am excited about, however, is I may get another bite of the apple. He's coming back for work next week. And after an initial false start in which our wires got a bit crossed, I'm looking forward to seeing him with fresh eyes. To see if I still feel that hooked by those baby blues and that smile. To see what feelings bubble up this time.

You know? I'm open for it to go either way. I really don't think it will take a lot of work if I just succumb to the law of attraction.

Happy Hunting Grounds

So, The Cazadora was off for about two months. There were extenuating circumstances. Maybe I'll go into that later... maybe I won't. Let's just say, the break was a necessary righting of the ship. I hadn't known the ship was off-kilter, but indeed, in hindsight, it was listing...

But the huntress returned with a full arsenal last week, and she had quite a catch. Thursday night, it was RiRa Pub in Midtown, followed by Twisted Taco. The catch that night was an Indian with a hot British accent. I am a sucker for anyone foreign and dark, and who knew that Indians would be on that list. He was wearing fine clothing -- high quality dress shirt, fancy cuff links, every bit the British gentleman. There is absolutely no future with that one, but the flirtation did me very good.

Friday night, I took the good advice of my best girl (who would never lead me astray) and finally sidled up to the bar at French restaurant Anis in Buckhead. We told the owner we were there to practice our French, and he sent us only French-speaking waiters (one delicious example was from Tunisia. Yum.). They told us we wouldn't get dessert if we spoke in English, and we became very obedient! It was so fun how seriously they took our mission. The waiters, who were excellent and patient with us, later introduced us to the entire bar which consisted of delicious French men who also were very appreciative of our efforts in their language. Let's just say, we're going back for French movie night, and possibly New Year's eve.

But here's an observation, made by one of the Frenchies. "Americain men are stupide!" he declared, as he caressed my hand, my check, and kissed my head. My friend and I had commented on how American men rarely make moves on women. It's a wonder we procreate at all in this country. Men here are so shy, timid... They seem to want to know something is a sure thing before they risk anything.

Not so the French (or fill in the blank: Italian, Mexican, Brazilian, Indian). Men from other countries seem much more appreciative of the female form. Femininity. Flirtation. Connection. They seem to get the underlying heartbeat in male-female relations. They don't seem scared or intimidated by it. Instead, nothing ventured, nothing gained, seems to be their motto. It meant so much to me to be appreciated, admired, touched last night in sexy and seductive ways without feeling like those beautiful men had an underlying goal. Of course they do, but they seemed very in the moment and like they knew seduction might take a little time.

My new mission is to get asked out on dates. Hooking up in bars is too easy. It's like eating a diet cookie -- instantly gratifying but completely unsatisfying. I feel lucky that I have already received correspondence via email from one of aforesaid delicious French men. We'll see where that goes, but a polite and respectful email was an excellent start to my mission. It was also all in French! Is there anything sexier?

Let's just say that nothing happened last night, but everything happened. A whole new world opened up to me. Cazadora found very good hunting grounds indeed.

Relax the sphincter

I hit the gym tonight. I love my gym. It's a really funky place. Small. Everyone knows you.
The somewhat unfortunate thing is that my ex-husband trains there too. And there are hot men there -- I mean H-O-T -- (and they aren't even Gay! I know! In the ATL!) But they all know us, so not so sure this will be the best hunting grounds for Cazadora. Case in point. One of the h-o-t men there tonight was training next to me. Kept looking at me. He recently broke up with his girlfriend he's had since high school. I pretended not to notice him. I later figured out I probably just had a really bad panty line he was staring at! I don' think I'm H-O-T enough for him away. Dude is full of tats, and really ripped. A bit immature. Yells a lot as he works out. I mean full-on caveman grunts. I picture him with a girl that looks like a really hot stripper and might enjoy him yanking her around by the hair. Definitely not me. Anyway... I digress.

When I first started there and hired one of the trainers, he told me the all-time funniest thing I have ever heard about working out. I think I was making a very bad effort at doing a dead lift.
"Relax your sphincter," he said.
"What?" I sputtered.
"Relax your sphincter," he repeated.
I couldn't focus for the rest of the night because I was laughing so hard. I literally laughed -- at home, in the shower, in my car, at work -- every time I thought about that for two weeks. I was still with my husband, so we had a great laugh about the "sphincter" that night as we made dinner.

Come along with me now for just a minute. Focus on relaxing your sphincter. But not too hard, you know, or stuff might come out...
My trainer even said that!
But he's so right. Everything in life is better if you relax your sphincter. I mean, you've got to try it while stressing out at work, while fighting with your spouse, while drinking with your friends. Relax your sphincter, and your whole personality changes. You relax, go with the flow, have more fun. Don't you think it would make a really good bumper sticker, in the vein of "Mean people suck"? "RELAX your sphincter." There'd be fewer accidents, more courteous driving, less"rear-ending"... Okay, bad pun. I think I might even vote for a political candidate who used that as his/her slogan. Anyway, it was an endearing moment -- I have thought the world of my trainer ever since. He's real. He's human. He's funny as hell.

He's also tough. He's the one who once put me on a 1,200 calorie-a-day diet. I felt like I was PMSing for two weeks as I tried it. I was grumpy, irritable, angry even. I really felt like I was capable of killing someone for so much as parading a chocolate bar in front of me. I mean, that would have incited murder. And I would have been able to plead "insanity" as I was insanely hungry! I made excuses as to why the calorie restrictions weren't for me. I tried to justify eating more. My trainer was having none of it. Then, about a week into the experiment, I suddenly adjusted to the near-starvation, and the thought of eating more actually grossed me out. Then as I shed pounds (added to me the unhappier my marriage had gotten) I started to really believe in my trainer. Trust him. Basically do anything he tells me to do. On that note, he recently offered to take a field trip with me to find some "special friends." So far, I haven't taken him up on that... I think I can buy sex toys on my own, thank you very much. Nevertheless, I should basically do anything he tells me to do. (Now go thinking he's hitting on me... he's married, two gorgeous kids. His wife and mom train at the gym. Nuf said.)

One time I was working out at the gym, about a year before my divorce, and another guy said a funny thing. He had been seeing me more frequently at the gym. "Hey, are you getting married or divorced?" he asked me. Now that was funny. As if working out and feeling good are not for married women, only those getting ready for the big white dress, or signing divorce documents. But there was a kernel of truth to what the man said. He must have been part Nostradamus.

So right now, I have several goals in the gym. 1) look like I'm 26 again (don't laugh! Relax the sphincter.). 2) Tighten up that booty, belly and any other flab that doesn't belong there. And 3) prepare for a big weekend in which I'll be on my feet a lot, dancing my tushy off. I mean hopefully literally off.

Tonight, it was the elliptical machine for me, followed by the stairmaster. Been using a lot of the medicine ball too. Doing all kinds of fun and weird stretches and exercises. My favorite one is something I am really bad at, and of course my trainer came up with it. You hold a medicine ball, stand on one foot, then move the ball up like you're doing a lay-up, then down and tap it on the ground, then back up again, all while keeping your balance. You're not allowed to tap your other foot for balance. I know! It's not easy! The first time I tried it, the trainer must have thought I had a developmental disability... But I have been practicing! I think I'm up to five reps before I fall over. Next time I do it, and I truly just thought of this, maybe I should relax the sphincter.

So, here's the really embarrassing part, and the point of this whole post. Recently when I saw my trainer, he complimented me on my behind. "I could bounce some quarters off of that thing," he said of my booty. Now of course I tell my "bestie" everything, and we got a big kick out of that one. So next time I posted on Facebook I was going to the gym, she commented, "Go bounce those quarters, girl. Get some!"

Of course, who didn't see these posts the next day, and write, "I see everyone's into the quarters these days." Yeah, you guessed it. The trainer. I was so horrified and embarrassed. Right then, right there, I panicked, wondering how on earth I could save face with that one. Then the words came to my head:
"Relax the sphincter." And what else could I do, really? And, I did hand him a quarter the next time I saw him.

Today, I blushed until the roses asked for their color back.

So, I had a business meeting today with someone whom I had never met.

He actually found me through Linked In, so I had seen a microscopic photo of him, and he looked cute. But given that I have been in the single doldrums until about two weeks ago, I really hadn't given it much thought. Besides, Linked In, unlike Facebook, doesn't disclose much personal information. And honestly, I assumed he was either gay or married. Such is A-town, right ladies?

Anywho, I showed up this morning, and he was so cute, I blushed to my knees. I mean, I blushed so hard that I blushed again, embarrassed at how much I was blushing. I blushed so deep the roses called me and asked me for their color back. Blushing, at age 37? Really? Is that what we're doing? I was suddenly transported to seventh grade when you get that first real crush, and so much is riding on the outcome. A first love letter. A first kiss. A first stolen glance in the hallway between class. A first time you feel those butterflies flutter in your stomach. While all that was delicious, all this was so new again! So unexpected! So out of my control! Control, ladies, that is what I completely lacked.

So, to cover up my blush, I smiled like a stranger in a strange land, where you don't know the language so you smile in greeting, thinking that makes you fit in. Remember that movie, "The Gods Must be Crazy?" Okay, you have no idea about that movie, but for that other person out there who watched it, I smiled as much as that Kalahari bushman in the courtroom. I mean I smiled so big that I think Businessman could see the skeletal structure of my head behind my strained skin, like an X-ray. I smiled so much in fact that he looked at me with that grin movie stars give their fawning fans, that sort of slightly embarrassed but flattered look? You know the one, you've seen it a thousand times on TMZ as stars get "spotted" by the hoi polloi. Anyway, what a great way to introduce myself. Like a fawning, friggin' idiot. Totally smooth.

Okay, all of the awkward introductions out of the way, we proceed to the business portion of the meeting. I had to take pictures at his company, and this guy (did I mention he was hot?) became a complete ham... I couldn't get him out of the photos, and really, he didn't need to be in them! I was annoyed, and then I gave him one of those looks grammar teachers give pupils who can't diagram a sentence. A bit stern. Suddenly, I had the upper hand. Oh this is fun!

Once I figured out that he was a ham and actually knew he was hot (of course he did!), then I relaxed and had fun with the meeting. There were some flirty e-mail exchanges later on, in which he couldn't see my blush, or skeletal structure.

The long and short of it is now I have a lunch date. And that, my friends, is the unbridled power of a blushing rose.

It's nearly final.

My divorce papers were signed today. We took them to my bank. The poor young man who had to be our notary public. It was obvious how awkward it was for him. I apologize to you, sweetheart. That was a terrible moment for you to have to go through. Especially so early in the morning and before you had finished your coffee! Oh, the horror.

About my divorce, I feel confused. Seriously sad on the one hand. I had all my eggs in that basket, so to speak. And literally, really I had all my eggs in that basket. I had hoped my eggs would be a part of procreating with my husband. It was my only procreation plan, really. I guess right now, I still don't have any other plan involving my eggs. All my eggs were in that basket.

On the other hand, I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off my back. It was, by most accounts, a marriage that ran at a low-grade level of comfort and discomfort for many, many, many years. We were married in round numbers about a decade. A decade of bad sex, misunderstandings, failed attempts at therapy, empty threats to leave each other, superficial attempts at patching things up.

What we lacked -- in my flawed analysis -- was problem solving skills for our relationship. What I had in tenacity he lacked in will. What he had initially in patience I lacked in wife skills. When I gained wife skills, he lacked patience. What we had too much of was compatibility. That's why we lasted 10 years. 10 years! Had we been incompatible, it would have last less than 3 years, max.

I will tell you -- just for your eyes -- I am still madly in love with this man. I love him like I love my left leg. I can't live without it. It's become a part of who I am. I limp when it is hurt.

However, unlike my left leg, my husband left me. So I am left without him. I am learning to walk without him. Luckily for me, I still have my left leg. One day I may think it's lucky to not have him. Today? Let's leave luck out of it.

I love myself, despite my failed marriage. And I love my good friends, my town, my life. My life is very big. My life is very full. My marriage was like a pacifier. It felt very good, but it really didn't satisfy me.

Enough said.

Cazar or casar? To hunt or to marry?

I have been fluent in Spanish since I was about 16. I earned Spanish. I am not a native speaker. I studied it for years, and went away as an exchange student in high school to really master it. My high school friends were in awe of me. "How could I go away?" they asked me, as I packed my bags at the end of my sophomore summer. "How could I stay?" I thought, looking at the four walls of our subdivision. Spanish was an escape. A great adventure!

I would say, really, I didn't become "fluent" until college. It took, quite frankly, lots of study. Verb and vocab look-up in real "Spanish" dictionaries (not English-to-Spanish, but the equivalent of Webster's, only in the king's Castellano). Reading the entire "Don Quixote" in Spanish. My paperback version comprised two, 1,000-page volumes. Spanish has been a partial source of my identity ever since. That foreign land became a part of me: a culture, language, music that I could own. Luckily, the Latinos accepted me, this Gringa, even when she didn't accept herself.

I love all things related to Hispanic culture. I mostly love the men.
They have, in general, a dark complexion, which my fairness matches in equal measure.
They have, in general, a great sense of humor, which shakes me out of my Anglo-Saxon seriousness. They make me laugh, nudging my Protestant-American sensibilities. They often are self-deprecating, acknowledging their own macho bravado and innate sensuality, which makes my feminist upbringing quake to its core!

I married one -- he wasn't Hispanic, but from another Latin-tinged language that still melts my heart. His country is vast, mysterious, perplexing, exotic, brutal, soft, harsh and melting. I love it. The rhythm of the language and music beating a path to my heart. They are a sweet and loving tribe.

Yet, we didn't work out.
Who knows why.
My feminism? My American-ness?
His patriarchy, ingrained as an accent?
Who knows.
I will be honest. I still love this man. I adore him. Find him sexy. Delicious. Mysterious. Boring.
I know he loves me too. But I drive him inexplicably crazy. We can't make this work.
I wasn't about to give up though. In the end, he divorced me. I had a hard time accepting this.

At the same time, I knew that after many difficult years, we had most definitely not worked out. We had no kids to show for ourselves. Only a house, mostly-renovated, and yet as empty inside as when we found it.

I am in parts heart-broken, and yet, inexplicably, ecstatic.
It's my new freedom that finally embraced me when I wasn't looking this summer.

It woke up a part of me that never, not in my teens or twenties or early thirties, ever reared its wild, sexy head.
Part of me woke up that said, "I am woman, hear me roar! But come closer while you listen..."
I felt empowered, like a woman in the 1960s discovering birth control and LSD all at once.
Empowered, like listening to that song, "It's raining men."
Empowered, like listening to, "I will survive!"
Empowered, like Madonna's "Material Girl."
Empowered, shaking like Shakira's hips.

The awakening was abrupt. And all at once, I couldn't move without hitting a man who was ready and willing.

I couldn't swing a cat without knocking into a hot guy with devilish intentions. I didn't even know that I had devilish intentions. I had always, and I mean always, wanted to be a bit of Angel. There was some form of solace and self-esteem in being angelic. Some sort of smugness that I wanted as my own.

Not anymore, I tell you. Angelic-ness, be damned! And strike me down Jesus, Mary, Joseph and David and Allah, Buddha and Yaweh, but I tell, I'll have none of it! It didn't serve me well. Only good girls get the blues, I tell you. Even with my divorce, I've spent fewer blue days recently than I think in my most of my sweet, angelic life...

So, with this blog, as the Gods are my witness, I will tell you all about it. The blues, the men, the friends, the crazy with a Kapital "K."

But first, my name.

In Spanish, the verb "to marry" is spelled "casar." It's the root of the word "house," or "casa", like "mi casa, su casa," right?

But, a similarly pronounced verb, "cazar," means "to hunt."

In my case, it seems oddly appropriate to contrast "hunting" and "marrying." So Cazadora means the hunter (only huntress, I suppose).

I am divorced, yet single and looking, yet a bit gun shy. What will I catch as I go hunting? More single types? Fun and naughty? Serious and waiting to tie the knot? Bad boys with good intentions?

Come along with me as I see what I catch in my traps.