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.