No Regrets by an Unapologetical Fierce Woman

“I live with no regrets. Unapologetic. And one day at a time.”  _E.R.L.

Hello World,

Sometimes, I wonder why would anyone wants to read my blogs? Or what is it that will finally bring them to my pages, my books? What can I do to get people to read me, see me as a Writer/Blogger/Author. Am I even interesting enough? I ask myself many questions every morning, as the sun penetrates the sheer lime green courtains of my window and bathe me with its glistening warm.

For example, What I’ll be sharing with my few loyal followers? The book loves who fallow my random stories and short novels. What I’m expecting to find or to give back? And what if I’m sharing to much or maybe to little? What things will interest them, hook them to me? Do the same things will interest me, if it was the other way around?  How can I get people like me and read and share my book? ( By the way is at: )

I also ask why do I care for all of this? Why do I care so much? Yes I def. care too much! I want to be liked, to be loved. Admired. Not judged. I never was this needy, but now I need it. Maybe more than sex. Writing and being appreciated as Writer has devoured me, consumed me, involved me in a dream of words & letters that wasn’t important to me before. Fashion and makeup was my love, reading too, but writing?    Never.

I always enjoyed writing, it was never my priority. I guess we, bloggers, journalists, writers, and artist in general have a bit of need for approval, or exhibitionism too, if you may. We are a little bit of attention-addicts, opinionated people, intellectuals, and dreamers, just like I am. Some of us may be gifted, or geniuses turned crazy. Some are a bit crazy turned into geniuses. Or maybe a just a little healthy mix of both, like I sometimes consider myself to be. (I don’t know what category I fall into really. Maybe in none of them or all. Who knows! )

There is a fine line for everything. So I try to concern myself in being  myself, unapologetically me! Nothing more, nothing less_and breathe. Namaste! ( a yoga reference from a book I’m reading, another project, I’m not even a Yogi.)

I can be very extroverted when it comes to share things with total strangers, because I don’t care if they will judge me or not. Mostvof the time they don’t judge, because they don’t care. I can say, for example, “I want to have my boobs done just like yours ” to a busty bartender bragging about her recent boob’s job,  even slightly touch them if the allow me too, but I can never tell that to a close friend, “Chica, I want to get my nose or chin done, just like you got it done” “Here, let me feel them!”. But I can be pretty blunt with a stranger, a friend my get offended, so I measure my words and actions around them. The prude of the group. The good girl. Most of the time they only get to see half of who I am. Unless we are really really very close friends.

Somehow I have created an outer wall, even from the closest people to me. There’s many levels of friendship to me, more than the levels in Cientology, I believe. Not that I don’t trust people or care for them and their capacity of empathy and understanding is that, as a person I can be a bit reserved. In turn, as a writer I can just be bold, let my walls down and cloaks fall, really express my opinions and my controversial ideals, and my out of the box, points of view.

It makes me feel so helpless when people think they can abuse others, hurt others feelings, and treat other people as less. I was always this person that always stepped forward to voice out my feelings to help someone else. Now not so much. I’ve been changing, becoming cynical, distant, cold, bias, and even egotistical, things I picked up in my many years living in FL. But when I write, I am honest, soft, kind, open, and even fierce again. Overall, people’s opinions are important to me.

It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it that it really matters. For me, it depends whether I’m in the mood to accept your opinion or helpful critics, or I’m feeling bitchy and don’t want to hear someone’s arrogant, spoiled mouth running and blabbing their bullshit to me, specially when it is about me, about my own person and my life.

So I would usually speak up my mind, when it comes to stand for myself, though I pick my battles. If I stay quiet when someone offends me, whenever it’s possible. It may still be bothering me later and will linger on my pillow at night like a funky smell, with the akin thought that I wasn’t really there for myself, to defend myself. But you can’t just fight everyone who’s snippy or nasty with you.

Someone once told me, when I first came to Florida, from Puerto Rico, “chill out kiddo, and learn to pick your fights!” and “you have your heart on on your sleeves kiddo.” Now I pick my fights more carefully. But I won’t stay quiet when I face or see injustice. I will find a way to speak up even if its by writing and Blogging. That’s just who I am. I certainly have no regrets of being Me! I am an Unapologetic Woman. And I’m proud to be this way!

Featured post





Florida has seen its coldest longest Winter this year. So it seems that the scarf  fashion style, also called “Ethnic” look, is back with a splash!

An awesome splash of earthy colors and plenty beautiful Ethic styles to choose from.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait for Fall & Winter, each year, so I can chose for those comfy silk or cotton caftans and scarves that you find on every store and every corner you glance at. They go great together and come in all colors, textures, sizes and lengths. I just love to go window-shopping to the Mall, the beaches, or the movies with my girls wearing them and always looking fashionable and feeling great and cozy. You can wear these caftans by themselves, with leggins, mini skirts, or jeans. They are very flattering to any body shape. Mine is a very curvy one so I like the longer ones but all of them look amazing on you. I use the caftans even during summer time over a bathing suit or my short shorts. They seem to be very versatile. You can even go from work to play with them with a change of accessories or shoes. Just a little tip there. 🙂 Remember, always enjoy yourselves wherever you are. Life is short and we only have one to spare.

And don’t forget to cover up, cause Baby it’s cold outside!

Author/Writer: Evelyn Rodriguez

Featured post

Lost Identity: Who am I?

Some people have said to me that I have Sofia Vergara’s accent and Kim Kardashian’s exotic looks. It’s easy for people to approach me, as I have a constant smile on my face, except when I’m “randomly checked” at the airports and being shoved aside like a criminal by their TSA reps. But other than that and regardless of my looks I’m someone who is a magnet to others. And I still don’t know the reason for such an unexplainable reaction.

Now, being or looking exotic have many advantages. But also many disadvantages as well. You either fit in or you don’t. My personality fits in well, but sometimes my looks or my accent doesn’t quite work well into fitting in with certain people or groups. For example, each time I visit Puerto Rico, I get asked, “What are you?” To which I’m inclined to reply, “Human of course!”, “I’m not an alient” (Pun intended)

It is so frustrating that even in your own community one is a foreigner, a total stranger. All because one may sound or look a bit different. I get asked that a lot, if I’m from Puerto Rico or Dominican. Other’s assume, rightfully so, that I’m probably Indian.

Here is the thing, I’m part Puerto Rican and part Indian and some other part of me must definitely be African, but I’m getting a bit ahead of myself in that other topic. TMI! (To much information) (*chuckles)

However, my accent is totally, utterly Spanish. I love the British accent though. If I lived in the UK I would probably be able to learn that sexy sophisticated accent. But I’m stocked with my mixture of Penelope Cruz, Sofía Vergaras nasal accent instead. That is exaclty what comes out of my mouth whenever I speak, and I can’t control it.

My brain on the other hand thinks I’m Anglo. In my mind I have this pretty nice American news anchor female accent, that is if Mariah Carey was a news Reporter .

My present concern is more of “Who am I? ” I know it deep inside. I have this reassuring inner voice that assures me everything will be alright. And that I need to stop being insecure about being Multiratial. We are on the tip of the 20th Century and people still concern themselves over such trivial issues. But they are not as trivial as they should. We made them important. Our biased humanity made ratial issues the center of the attention. Now I’m under a spotlight because of that. Someone greeted me today this way, “Hey Níggerhow you doing? Do you work in this building?” There were two odd things about it: 1. He said “nigger”. a) He was a Caucasian male. 2. I’m not black and you don’t go around calling people nigger. 2. He thought he was being friendly. He wasn’t it. That’s not nice. You are professional, a Security Guard, act like it.

I ignored the remark, simply said, “What?” He continued talking like a chatter box, repeated his question, without the insulting N word, showed his yellow teeth and complimented me on my shirt. I was surprised to such an odd behavior thowards me but somehow everything was fine. I thanked him for the compliment. And wished him a nice day too, he did the same and left with a wide smile on his face.

I felt like yelling at his back. “I’m not Nigger. I have a name and that’s not it.” Back in school I had some problems with few friends about calling me names based on my skin color. I was confused. I thought I was just a regular Puerto Rican, but for these group of children I was an Indian or someone who was part African and Dominican. If I knew for sure that that was the case it wouldn’t have affected me. But since I never met my dad nor his family, my anguish and speculations about me being half Indian, Native American, or African American made me angry. To this day I don’t know if I’m part Indian or if I’m part Black.

My husband and some of his friends have somewhat confirmed the suspicions, that I’ve kept hidden inside of me for a long time. They think I may be part African American. And there is nothing wrong with being that regardless of some of my own family members that had this terrible wrong old idea that being of color or a darker skin isn’t the ideal or the “typical Spanish beauty standard”.

And to my family, I was the exotic creature. The little Indian. Try and think Pocahontas with a suntan, or a lighter version of Halley Berry. And What does that matter? I always asked them. No logic answer. It affected how I view them and how I viewd myself. Because I began to feel the outcast. Like I was somewhat different. Not the ugly duckling but the little Swan who belonged somewhere else.

People and the media lies. They tell you what matters is the inside, and how you feel about yourself. Your confidence. Not if you are skinny or fat. Black or White. But in reality not everything is black and white. There are gray areas too. I happened to be and feel like a gray empty area.

I wish I could find my true self, know the whole truth about my paternal family. But taking an online DNA test for those sites that tells you have such and such percentages of many races, mostly Eastern European, is not the solution for me. My mother is no longer in this world. So I may die one day still questioning “Who am I?”

I can truly relate with the adopted and homeless children who have no idea of who they really are. A lot of these then have probably a particular way of defining themselves. And they are happy with that, with no issues or problemas about their racial background. But I’m not. Because I am an answer seeker. And I had enough. I had to speak up about. It’s something that I should’ve dealt with years ago. But recently the fact and fear that I may become sort of an “allien” in my own country, without fully knowing the truth about my existence and past is completely hunting me. Maybe one day I may find closure. But I’m not there yet.

Creative Curious Piñatas

My sister has created and design amazing piñatas and they are so great, durable and also pretty that I want to share with everyone how amazing they are.

Here is few of them.


If you like these pinatas and would like to order some they range from $30 to $50 because of their large size. But if you email me at and mention you saw my blog you get $5 off your pinata first order. WE SHIP TO: (US & PUERTO RICO. HABLAMOS ESPANOL! )

Dear Uncle P.


The story I’m about to share is based on a real story, said my uncle Peter as I sat on the cold floor of his recently waxed terrace. I laid down over the white and black, cookies and cream ice cream tile floor and crossed my hands under my head, with my left foot crossed over my right one, and looked straight at my uncle. I stared hungrily at dear uncle Peter. “Yes, please tell me more stories Uncle P. I really love hearing them.” “Pay attention India so one day you can tell the same stories to your children and grandchildren.” I smiled ear to ear and paid very close attention.

I used my little winning voice with my favorite aunts and uncles, and from time to time, that little winning voice resurface again each time I ask someone for something that I really want. My uncle nodded and began telling me about the time hurricane St. Patricio flooded a whole town and it was barely visible even months after the hurricane was gone to other lands and the waters has stopped flooding the streets, towns, and villas.

To this day a town named Guajataka was so overflown that its lake swallowed half of the town during the non stopping rains. It is said that the town’s first church and buildings surrounding it are to this day hidden inside the lake. And when there’s low tides, or during the very dry summer days if you go closer to the lake Guajataka you can see from the distance a cross and the roof of that church peering through, right at the center of the lake. People still gather to this day on the shore of that lake to pray for their loved ones and for the relatives they lost. So I knew Uncle Pete had a very good story to tell me, just like other amazing stories I heard from him since I was 4 years old and moved with my divorced mother and sibling into a 4 bedroom wood bungalow near my great aunt and uncles. We had no tv at home nor running water or inside toilette, not much food either. My aunts sort of adopted me. They taught me lady like things that I were going to need one day when I became a woman, just like them. My uncles and my cousins also took me under their wings and taught me things a hard working Spanish girl should know. They taught me to pick coffee beans from its own tree and laid them under the sun to dry up to later on be sold, among many other fruits and vegetables at the Weekend Fresh Market.

But during the time my uncle was resting in his old brown hammock that was tied up to his terrace beams with strong farming ropes, the same one he used to tie his cows with, he would lower his strong loud voice to almost a whisper as if he was talking to himself and began his stories. “You see that mango tree by your aunt Lucy’s house over there on that hill?” “Yes I play hide and seek there with my friends there after school.” “Once, many years ago, even when your Aunt’s home wasn’t built yet, right over there, a helicopter  passing by, looking for some bad people, got fire, and it exploded in the air falling down over that tree.” “Wow uncle. But how that happened?” “No one really knows. But big pieces of it feel all over the streets, the tree, and over a neighbor’s roof top.” “That’s and amazing story. Can’t wait to tell my friends.”

“That’s not all”, said my uncle smiling this time. He rarely smiled. But he continued with his story ignoring my questioning little eyes, opened wide as cow eyes. “They said that the Pilot was such a Christian man, and did so many good things for the people he knew, that he prayed for his own life with so much faith that he came out of it unharmed.”Did he grow wings uncle P?” “Not quite. People ran to his rescue and found him hanging from a tree branch with his parachute wrapped around his arms and shoulders, but he was barely hurt by the accident. In a way he grew wings.” “Yes, he did for sure.”

“This means that the pilot was really a man of God. Because he believed even when things were going so terrible for him. You see, he almost died on his helicopter accident but he was not angry at God. He believed God intended to save him and prayed for that. And God in return protected him from the fire and his fatal fall. The pilot, whom no one ever knew his true name, was saved.” “Great story. That’s why I always pray when I’m scared, specially at night. I’m afraid of the dark.” My uncle touched my hair and messed my bangs a little smiling again. He looked happy then. “You will never need to be afraid because I’m here to protect you, and God is up there also watching after you. Just like you grandma and my mother are. They are your guardian angels. Pray to them. And always pray to God, because he listens to his children, specially to such a pretty and sweet girl like you.”

Uncle P. is my guardian angel now, and last night as I closed my eyes to sleep, he told me, “Remember my stories, India? Well it is time to share them. Is your time to pass them along to your children and grandchildren, and other people’s children and grandchildren too. They’ll need this stories as you needed them when you were a kid. This will help them to know that not everything is bad. That their is still hope in this world.” “Thank you Uncle, I needed to hear your words once again. I will SHARE these stories and many more from now on.” I really miss talking to you, and listening to your great stories, my dear Uncle P.

Good Morning from Starbucks!

What can I say?

I woke up with a bad pain on my left neck
and temples. I knew I needed my medicine, coffee. Sometimes is impossible to live or function without it.

So I rushed to a nearby Starbucks and got myself a Grande Cafe Latte, my usual lemon cake, and an egg bacon sandwich taken out a frozen plastic bag and heated up to justify it’s price tag of $3.45, so very typical of the Starbucks brand. But regardless of my disdain for it, I’m also addicted to their lemon cakes.

That frosting that seems to melt inside your mouth leaving your tongue and lips tingling with a rush off tangy flavor and sweetness. The soft almost smoochie cake texture that I like to squeeze between my fingers when it crumbles and the coffee itself bold and strong, almost like Spanish coffee strong but with many different distinct and delicate aromas. However $4.99 a cup, when for a $1.50 I had a huge Grande cup of Cafe con Leche back in my hometown Moca, Puerto Rico.

Yes. I’m whining again. I do that a lot lately.  So boring! But I wanted to share that drinking that strong Colombian bean freshly scented coffee while sunbathing over one of these outdoors chairs previously blessed by beautiful love birds or whatever those tiny white marks were, probably left by the colorful birds my crumbs from the ground…

That coffee was the medicine I needed to start my day. “La medicina ideal para mis dolores”. That could be a great sales slogan for Starbucks’ coffee, “The ideal medicine for all your pains.” It made me chuckle thinking of a tv add announcer saying that “slogan”. I was definitively born a Sales woman. Everything I say or do has a sales ring to it. Well, back to my latte, lemon cake, and sandwich before they get cold. Darn! to late. going for my refill.

Till my next post.

***Like, Comment, & Share if I drew a smile on your face this morning!

Poema- Yo Soy Jesucristo

(Basado en las palabras de un joven en un sueño, que no era nada de Dios por cierto, y que era un desconocido que va se sienta en mi mesa, y me mira bien serio y me dice: )

Soy Jesucristo enamorado de un chico
(Un joven así como tú)
Te voy a contar esta historia
Si no me sale
es que no estaba el decirlo.

Yo soy Jesucristo.
Y amo a todos mis hijos!
Y quiero estar con el mundo
Pero el mundo se me aleja.
No quiere estar conmigo
Por eso no puedo estar contigo.

Por qué tu me niegas?
Yo Soy Jesucristo
Yo soy Jesús!
Y te amo.
Como amo a todos mis niños.

What Women Wants, It’s not a Hook Up

What women want from their man?

Women not only wants to cuddle and watch a movie. We want attention, trust, love, communication, and details. We want silly talks, and funny texts, a romantic dinner before sex, maybe some wine or a drink, or just a cold bottle of water near the bed.

We enjoy details and attention. Not for your guy to tell you I’m taking you out to dinner tonight and you get all done and pretty then he try to take you to a Dennis, or Mc Donnalds, or some Buffet. (Though a nice Buffet is OK) We want our guy to spend time with us, to talk, and to listen what we have to say, no matter our issue or topic; about work, about life, & about nothing in particular…And to COMMUNICATE with us too!. That’s important in a relationship. COMMUNICATION AND TRUST!.

I personally need him to share with me his plans not with his family 1st., to be sweet, to trust in me and not make a fuss every time I want to go somewhere. But to give me a space too. I need my “Me Time”. I can’t baby sit my children and work all the time, and every single day. WOMEN DESERVE A LOT MORE. I deserve a break. I want to play too, to have fun, to go on a fishing trip, to play tennis, or volley ball on the beach. I want to climb a mountain. To ride a boat or a Jetski. I want to swim in a river or in the ocean, and watch a Sunset together or travel together, even if just cruising in car around town or other cities nearby…

I need to be treated like a woman not like an object. I’m not a photo, not a painting on the wall. I’m fucking real!

I’m not a plastic doll, if you know what I mean. And I’m not a trophy (wife). A trophy that you leave on a corner, put up on a shelf and forget about. One that you don’t touch and don’t want anyone to touch either. I’m a woman that feels, wants, and needs. And I need you to open up your heart to me. To show feelings, not being a cold bucket of ice but a warm fire that devour my body as well as my heart.

I want to simply be talked to, listen to, hugged, kissed, caressed without me having to be asking for it. I want to be invited to places without me being the one who makes all the plans 1st. I respect him when he takes charge of things and asks me how I feel about it. I want to be cuddled and not only when he wants sex, but also just for the comfort of having the person I am with and care about being there for me, when I need it. No just when he needs me or wants me. Is that so much to ask? 

But most men don’t get these things, for some strange reason. They seem to have their sympathy and sensibility button turned off. The only switch they have one is the one on their pants. But their brains and heart seems to me malfunctioning almost since their birth. I’m not against men or a Feminist either. But men needs to learn what women wants and need for them in order to find long stable relationships and not just a hook up. Cause I know they too have feelings, hidden deep in their many onions like skin. And they too feel lonely at times and may even want to be loved too.

So Men out there, all that a women need is communications, attention, trust, faithfulness, and TRUE LOVE!

Irás Bien Lejos; Mi Niña Revoltosa

Irás Bien Lejos; Mi Niña Revoltosa

Así como llegaste a mí
de improviso;
Alegremente y tenaz,
desafiaste al mundo
y todo lo previsto.

Tan pequeña
y tan determinada.
Tan segura de todo,
y tan madura para tan escasos años…

Que fuerte te movias en mi vientre,
querías tu propio espacio.
Yo sentía que así mismo serías,
cuando finalmente te cargara
y estrechara en mis maternales brazos.
Sorpresivamente, como eres siempre,
te anunciaste a mí,
y cuando te cargue y bese
tus manitos chiquititas
y satisfecha bese y conté
cada dedito de tus tiernos pies
entendi que eras lo mas preciado en mi vida.
Supe desde ese entonces mi niña
que muy lejos caminarías…

Mi querida Tayzlin.
tu y tu hermanita,
que con toda su alegría te recibió
y compartió contigo todo que tenía
incluso mi amor,
han sido para mí la mas grande bendición…

Si pudiera cambiar algo de ustedes
o de mi vida,
nada NUNCA cambiaría,
sólo sería mejor madre aún,
las mas orgullosa de las madres
por tener tan hermosas y cariñosas niñas!

Tu eres como ese remanzo
que empieza en un río callado
y que termina luego
en una cascada riente
y elocuente…

Ambas, tu y tu hermana son mi caudal de energía.
Son un vaso refrescante de agua fría,
del agua que me sostiene y me da la vida…
Sin ustedes nada valdría,
ya nada significado alguno tendría…

Recuerdo como ayer
tu sonriente rostro
al abrir tus ojos
por primera vez.
y tu llantico corto al nacer
parecia casi una carcajada…

Mi querida Tassy,
tus quince llegaron hoy
y tan derepente
igual como llegaste tu a mi vida…
Ya pronto llegaran tus dieciseis,
tu tendras tu novio y en futuro
rehaceras tu vida.

Viajas e irás lejos con tus propias alas
de exploradora y aventurera.
Irás muy lejos mi niña alocada y revoltosa,
llegarás alto contra marea y viento,
igual como llegastes a mi vida…
La luz y niña de mis ojos.
Mi Tazzy querida!

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