The Mailman

images.jpgI have a crush on the mailman. How ridiculous does that sound? I – a 39 year old woman – has a “crush” on the “mailman”. Let me say that again. I a woman of 39 has a crush on the mailman.

No matter how much I repeat it to myself, and to others, it doesn’t stop sounding ridiculous. But it is a fact that my days lately have been consumed by literally hunting the mailman. Now that I think about it I should’ve named this post “How to hunt a mailman and other hypotheses”.

I moved into a new place mid-summer last year. It’s a really cute, small apartment in the heart of West Kendall. Yes, that’s Miami. So I moved into this place and a few weeks after I met the mailman. At the time I was not fully aware of what I am today, but the first time I saw the mailman I thought to myself, “well, he’s cute.” But I left it there, as I do everything. I just left it there because why in this world would I even consider dating the mailman? Well, why not? I am single, available and considerably datable (a person who is worthy of taking out on a date). Considerably.

The truth is I left it there because, as I have realized today, considerably datable and all, I am just not brave enough to even ask the mailman for his name. Instead, I told my bestfriends. My bestfriends. Does this sound middle-school-ish to you yet? Let me break it down to you again. I, a 39 year old woman, has a crush on the mailman, but instead of asking him out, I tell my two bestfriends. Yes. Totally middle-school. I have officially regressed.

Back to my bestfriends. My friends are both of the Cancer sign, strong women who charge head on like a bull when they see a man they like. Like, what is there to lose? Pride? Who the hell cares about that?! Pft! And then there’s me. A Capricorn. Should I say more? I am often referred to as Wednesday Addams. And that about covers it. I could be dying inside to tell a man I really, REALLY like him. And all you will ever see is this:


I’m a little, just a tiny bit socially challenged. My version of flirting is this:


So you see my dilemma here. I am entirely too scared to even approach him. I refrain myself to just hunt him. When I see him I just smile and say hi. And while yes, I have exchanged a few words with him, I cannot for the life of me come up with something remotely interesting to say to him. Which is why, I just don’t.

So I tell my friends about this crush, and ALL HELL HAS BROKEN LOOSE. Like, OH-MY-GOD, the mailman is the trending topic. There is even a WhatsApp chat open in his name. If he only knew.

We spend hours over dinner at Isakaya, shopping for furniture at Rooms To Go, having lunch at Pei Wei, you name it, just talking about the mailman for hours. Text messages come and go, all around the mystery of this man, who knows nothing about me, and he just innocently does his job. Well, all he does is leave those God awful mail inserts that I end up putting in the recycling bin. But the truth is also, that I know nothing about him. So we have decided to start a list about the things we do know about the mailman.

  1. He is a mailman. Duh! Obviously.
  2. He is Cuban. Presumably from Havana (judging by his accent).
  3. He is chunky. But hey, who am I to judge anyone by their weight. I think he’s really cute. (Dear Mailman, if you ever read this, please know I think you are very, very cute.)
  4. That’s it.

We know not his name, not if he’s married, not if he’s engaged, not if he has family, if he likes to drink, smoke, go to the beach. WE KNOW NOTHING, JON SNOW. NOTHING.

And it’s killing me. (Judging by this post)

The hypotheses about the mailman could be endless, and hilarious. More than once I have broken in full blown laugh, no matter where, at the most ridiculous theories my friends and I come up with. It has actually gotten out of control. But it is so much fun.

There is one peculiar thing about the mailman. He listens to music while he delivers the mail. He always carries a Bluetooth speaker with him, and he listens to all kinds of music while he methodically pushes envelope after envelope in the mailboxes. I have heard rock, reggaeton, romantic pop, classic 80’s ballads, you name it. He has played them all. And I enjoy watching him do that. I wonder if he ever knows that I sit in my balcony just to hear his music.

He also carries a chain clipped to his belt where he has his keys. As he walks, he swings the chain back and forth, jingling as he goes. He may not even notice he does that, as it seems it’s part of his rhythm when he walks.

So why am I telling you all this, you may wonder? Well, I don’t even know myself. But if you know a mailman, probably in his 30s, who delivers mail in the West Kendall area, let him read this. Maybe he’ll figure out that Wednesday Addams has been trying to flirt after all. I believe in six degrees of separation.

Till then, I’ll be listening from my balcony.

*Pictures courtesy of Google search.

After a while

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul, and you learn love doesn’t mean leaning and company doesn’t always mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t always promises and you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers

And you learn that you really can endure, that you really are strong and you really do have worth and you learn and you learn 

with every good-bye you learn.

Veronica Shoffstall

In the blind

3468497c4b892688d0571a36dd82f30a“Houston, in the blind…Houston, in the blind…”

Sandra Bullock – or her character I should say – desperately looks for a signal back to earth in the middle of nowhere in space. Gravity. She’s looking for gravity.

I’ve been looking for gravity. Floating out in space like a lost satellite. No signal. I got on a bus and forgot to get off on the last stop. I’m roaming, constantly moving somewhere but don’t know where to.

Gravity. I lost my gravity. Houston, in the blind.

A message comes through and I sit, for days at a time analyzing every word, every letter. And nothing makes sense. I make a list of all possible reasons why this message arrived. But I never answer. I dissect it into small segments. Read it. Read it again. No answer.

Houston, in the blind.

If we are all bound to be attracted to something, the way gravity pulls us to earth, why are we still so lost? Floating, roaming, spacing out and not getting any signal. Sending messages out in the blind? Receiving them. Not answering. Not listening.

Houston, in the blind. This is the Ugly Duckling.

I keep moving. Constantly moving, going somewhere. I don’t know when and if I’ll make it there. But the bus never stop. The satellite continuously transmits a signal that nobody receives.

Houston, in the blind. This is the Ugly Duckling. Houston, in the blind, searching for gravity.

*Photo credit:


adjective: unapologetic
  1. not acknowledging or expressing regret.
    “he remained unapologetic about his decision”

13912638_491113847762179_5759191534147855225_nA few weeks ago, in the midst of one of the toughest heartbreaks of my life – not that I’ve had many, although one is enough – I decided to tattoo the word “unapologetic” on my right arm. As it is customary for me, I simmer on the idea of a tattoo for a long time before I actually decide to mark my skin permanently with something that could potentially be a temporary emotion.

Therefore, I must clarify – although I don’t need to offer explanations to anyone but myself – that even though this tattoo occurred in the midst of emotional turmoil, I had actually given plenty of thought to this one single 12 letter word for a long time, before branding it on my skin.

Unapologetic is a harsh word. It’s often misunderstood and thought of as that person who point blank does not care about the damage or pain that his/her actions may cause to others. I do what I want and I will not apologize for it.

Far from it.

In this journey called life, more often than not, we become this mixture of who we want to be with what we think others want us to be. We abide by society rules, follow the teachings of our families and we end up being very, very…unhappy. I was an unhappy human. I still am. I struggle daily with the choices that will either make me or break me. But I have a strong desire, above all, to be ME. I want to look back in life at 87 – if I make it there – and say: I became the human I wanted to be.

At some point in the past two years, I began changing the human I was for the human I long to be. I stopped caring about others’ opinions of me. No,  I did not turn into a rebel, I just don’t allow myself to make decisions based on the opinions of others. I put me and my own first. I prioritize my life and my needs not only in the order where it makes sense, but in the order where it makes ME HAPPY. I started what I called the project All-About-Me.

Oftentimes I found myself apologizing for my feelings, as if, my feelings were germs. I’m sorry if I’m asking you to give me what I deserve. I’m sorry I feel frustrated. I’m sorry I feel insecure. I’m sorry I’m disappointed.


I am not sorry at all. Feelings are a consequence of an action, and yes, although they occur on a very cellular and personal level, feelings are also an external responsibility. Some feelings, are inevitably provoqued. And no one, and I mean NO ONE, can make you apologize for something they caused. As you are responsible for the way you feel, you are also responsible for what you have made others feel. Let’s start wearing our big girls and boys pants, and realize, you are responsible for the way you treat others. Period. No excuses.

When you start putting yourself first, you also realize that there is a level of freedom out there that you have not fully reached, but you are well on your way. The freedom of not letting anyone dictate your life. I won’t say the process has been easy. I’ve found myself questioning everything I do, and asking people for their opinion, more than I care to ask. But there is an immense field of potential when you realize that no matter what you do, the world will continue turning.

So I gave myself this set of rules/questions to live by and those I use everytime I find the inevitable fork in the road:

  1. Does it add positively to your life?
  2. Does it harm you or anyone in the process?
  3. Is it legal, moral or ethical? (Note, morals are purely a personal concept. Use yours, not your neighbors’)
  4. Is your child, or family, fed, cared for and in a comfortable position?
  5. Does it make you feel happy?

If the answer is Yes, by all means, DO THE THING! Whether is a tattoo, a new car, a piece of clothing, food, ending a relationship, letting go of a friend. Whatever it is. If it’s not adding constructively and positively to your life, DON’T DO IT or LET IT GO.

I have made myself the promise to live unapologetically. What does that mean to me? Easy. If I lived a truthful, loyal and caring life for me and mine, I’m simply not sorry about anything.

I am and will be Unapologetically Me.

The Ugly Duckling Can’t Run

image1.JPG“You have a stress fracture in one of your vertebrae.”

I’m staring at the X-rays of my back hanging from a lighted metal box on the wall. My ears are buzzing. What did he just say? A stress fracture? What does that even mean? I look back and forth from the wall to the doctor’s face and back again. My bones are so pretty. All lined up in a perfect row. And broken.

-“So, can I run?”

-“No. No running of any kind. No high impact sports. No jumping. No pounding of any kind.”

Gulp. No running. Now you’ve done it Ugly Duckling. How did you fracture your spine anyway?

For a few months now, I’ve been having all kinds of back pain, headaches and hip pain. Every time I ran during training, I was in a lot of pain. Subsequently, I would limp for about a week or two because I couldn’t bear putting any weight on my hip, or else pain would inevitably follow. So I decided it was time to reach out to an expert and find out what was wrong with me.

As I sat in the doctors office, occasionally walking back and forth from the x-ray room – they took at least 7 images from my back – I couldn’t imagine he would say something was wrong. I was already envisioning starting my training for the two races I’ve signed up and paid for in October. I even heard him say in my head “you’re fine, you have nothing to worry about”. But when he blurted out the words fracture and vertebrae in one sentence, something hit me in the gut.

I can’t run. I can’t do the only thing I’ve been fighting so hard for. What else are they going to take away from me? Doughnuts?

So, now I’m looking at – at least – three weeks of therapy, an MRI, a possible herniated disc and God only knows what else. So what? Therapy? Bring it. I don’t care what it takes, I want to lace up my shoes again, safety pin the bib to my shirt, wrap my bandana around my head and pound that pavement. I will look at the Finish line in the face again, and tell it: You’re mine bitch!

Finka – Table and Tap

Note to self: Next time you decide to write a post about a restaurant, bring your camera!

First of all, I’d like to begin this post apologizing – which is, I know, a horrible way to start a post about anything – about the mediocre quality of my pictures. Thing is, you see, I’m an idiot. I completely forgot to bring my camera to the restaurant, that I, beforehand, intended to write a post about. But since I’m an apprentice in this business, I think y’all can forgive me this time. Right? No biggie. Bad pictures. Who cares?!

Well, I do. So, promise – no wait – pinky promise! next time I’ll take better pictures.

That being said, let’s get down to business.

logoI’ve lived in Miami for 21 years now, and it is fairly known among the Miamian population that there are some parts of Miami that are, well…boring. I live right in the middle of, you guess it: boring town. Southwest Miami has barely a few things to do for fun. Other than the occasional big chain restaurant or scattered – also corporate – coffee shop, there isn’t really much to do. No theaters, no big cultural movement spot, no art gallery strip, no…fun. We are all a whole bunch of middle-class, suburban lawn mowers, van driving families. (That was too stereotyping. My bad!)

Except me.

And a whole other generation that travels aaaaaallllll the way to Midtown Miami for a little bit of fresh air and good eats. But times are changing folks! Times are changing! I say in the next 5 years, boring town is going to get some action! Maybe I’m being a little too positive, but I like to dream big. Why do I think so? Because Finka Table and Tap, that’s why!

Finka Table and Tap sits right in the middle of boring town, aka: Southwest Miami. The moment you drive by it, you can’t miss it. It’s homey looks, and refined country hipster decorations, are something out of this city. As I sat there on a Sunday afternoon, my best friend said something that struck me: “Right now, this feels like we could be anywhere in the world. Somewhere in Europe, or New York. It’s a mixture of both worlds.”

And she hit the nail in the head.


Finka Table and Tap is a fusion restaurant, that brings good food, beer on tap and a full stocked bar, all in one. The good-looking waiters are also included in the experience, but sorry, you can’t take them home. With a full menu of Cuban-Korean-Peruvian dishes, your palate is sure to have a delightful experience. If you’re a beer lover don’t forget to try their selection of craft beers. Delish.

For an appetizer we ordered the Korean Style Brussel Sprouts, a combination of bacon, Brussel sprouts and fried wonton, in a sauce that transports you to the middle of Asia, even if you’ve never been there. For the main dish I ordered the Spicy Kimchee Fried Rice. Let me tell you: you know that feeling you get when you see the person you love walk right to you? Well, better. When Mr. Fried Rice showed up at my table, I almost died. The mixture of kimchee, vegetables, water chestnuts and scallions, top with a gorgeously looking fried egg was simply, heavenly. Anything fried egg related is heavenly.

I highly suggest you go with an appetite, because the portions are generous. I had to take half of both dishes home, which I eagerly devoured for lunch the next day.

The atmosphere and the decoration are the icing on the cake, adding up to a great experience. Make sure to check out their webpage for more information and of course – *cough, cough* – better pictures.

So if you live in boring town, or even if you don’t and are visiting the area, make sure to check out this mouth-watering and lovely place. Us boring-towners are feeling a wealth of luckiness to have this treasure close by.

*Restaurant logo taken from Finka Tap and Table.

The Ugly Duckling Eats

SKU0759_WebYesterday afternoon as I am driving home from work, my high school best friend and the only soul from that era whom I still keep in contact with, sends me a text message. After we exchanged a couple of greetings, formalities and pleasantries, girlfriend gets right down to business and the reason why she texted me. Her words ran along the lines of how much she looks forward to reading my posts and how she loves my creativity in writing. So far so good. I’m feeling good about myself. Shit, my best friend from high school thinks I can write! I’ve accomplished something. But then she said something that hit me right in the face. She said: “lately I feel like I am reading a novel that is a page turner!”

Hold up.

Did she just say novel? Did my best friend from high school just took 10 minutes from her life to tell me I’ve been writing up a storm of a novel? That’s it Ugly Duckling! You’ve crossed the line. This is not what we came here for, ya know? You gotta stop girlfriend, and you gotta stop now.

As for my bestie, girl: THANK YOU! You gave me a dose of reality in just two lines. Thank you. No, really, I mean it.

The Ugly Duckling was not conceived for drama. Well, maybe some, a healthy dose. But not full-blown-novel-drama?! Nope. Negative ghost rider. Go on and find your way back. You came here to talk about life. And that constitutes far more than just that inevitable part of life we call heartbreak. It’s much more than that.

That’s why today we will start off a new section called The Ugly Duckling Eats. Yup. She eats. And she loves it. In this section we will share mouthwatering recipes, our review of some local and/or international eats as they occur, and also how to balance fitness and healthy eating.

The Ugly Duckling gets down to business, or shall we say eating? And while yes, we may sulk on our broken hearts every now and then, we will stop boring you with our…uhum…novel.  After all, it’s really difficult to cry with a full mouth…of food. *wink*

*Photo credit:


We will never.

408ff47d74fcc970fe38551e2c26543fYou’ll never see my daughter grow up. I’ll never see your son grow up. They will never be a family. And one day, the universe will put them together in the same room, and they won’t know how much their parents loved each other. How much future was in our eyes at one point. They’ll never experience coming home to a happy family, to a pair of tired adults from working all day, but with full hearts of happiness and warmth to give them both.

We will never know what it takes to build a home together, cook together, fix the kids room together. The joy of building their beds and painting the walls to their favorite colors, and decorating the rooms for a girl and a boy who, despite being born in different worlds, would have grown up in one whole, loving family.

I will never know the feel of your kiss at the end of a long day at work, when you would get home and wrap your hands around my waist and whisper in my ear while I prepare dinner: I love you so much. You will never feel the breeze of the night, as we would sit out in the balcony, sharing that so desired glass of wine, while you’d tell me how your day was at work.

I will never hear your lips call me bonita one more time, or feel the weight of your arms crushing my ribs while you sleep, deeply, snoring away. We will never feel the sunshine peeking through the window in a Sunday morning, poking our lazy bodies, tired from a night of love making, laugh inducing silliness and deep long stares.

We will never.

You should have opened your eyes. I was crazy about you. And that, you will never find again.

Photo credit:


Why do you love me?Because you’re a good woman.
My ex husband used to tell me he loved me because I was good. Not because I was pretty or smart, or because I was fun. He loved me because I was good.


I used to ask myself if it was better to be someone’s impossible love or to be someone’s “let-me-settle-with-this-girl” love. The latter seems to lack passion. The unmistakable definition of it is what it is and I take what I can get.

I was good. So I decided to be bad. And bad I’ve been.

Many people have loved me because I was good to them. Because I go out of my way to please them. Because there isn’t an action in this world full of good intentions, that would amount to being the greatest person they’ve ever met. So I was good to them.

I was good to them because I don’t know how to say no. Because I rather deprive myself of something than to fail their expectations of my “good” self.

And in turn, they’ve paid me with bad. I’ve kept them company, so they leave me alone. I’ve supported them, they pay me with neglect. And it has never failed, as that of a bible excerpt, that they will deny me three times before the rooster crows.

Last year a friend sent me a book called: Men love bitches.

I laughed as I read it because I find it ridiculous to fathom the idea that evil can be repaid with kindness. But it does. My upbringing has brought me many a disappointment. Lead a life of servitude they taught me. Find pleasure in serving others. And pleasure I find.

But as hard as it is to realize, I am alone, sitting at the end of the strip of street that runs behind my house, right at the dead end that looks upon a highway. I am sitting here alone, looking at and endless stream of cars traveling God knows where to. I am entirely alone. A life of service for a destiny of loneliness.

We are forever responsible for the monsters we create. And those monsters will never understand how much I needed them. No amount of bad will ever fill my emptiness.

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