The Absurd and Amazing Adventures of Cafe Girl

Food and Me

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 09:47:00 +0000

I learnt to cook late in life. I'm not one of those girls whose mother passed down family recipes or who watched my mother cook family meals in the kitchen. My mother liked her kitchen to herself, and I somehow grew into an adult that did not know how to make a meal. Post college, I quickly realized that if I didn't cook, I was dooming myself to a lifetime of sandwiches and anything that could be warmed up in a microwave. It seemed to be a cruel fate to subject myself to, and so, bit by bit, I learnt how to cook.

My first foray into the kitchen was making a dessert out of a box mix. I remember being so proud of a successful pan of brownies that I declared to my room mates, "Look! I'm cooking!" To which one of them wryly replied, "That's not cooking."

Since then, thanks to staples such as Betty Crocker's Cookbook - Everything You Need To Know To Cook Today, I've learned to understand the difference between sauté and fry, become closely acquainted with terms such as "blend," "chop," and "julienne," and even browned a few tablespoons of butter in my time.

In learning how to cook, I've come to see how food, life and love are intimately intertwined for me.

Food not only sustains my physical life, it also sustains my emotional life. I've shared deep longings with girl friends over a simply packed lunch in the park. I've seen the death of a relationship over a pot of chili on a brutal fall evening. I've been able to bring home to those far away from family each Thanksgiving with a lovingly prepared turkey. Food breaks the ice, starts conversations, tears down defenses. Food unites.

Food is a symbol of love and care -- care of self and care of others. When I eat well, I care for my body, making sure it gets the correct nutrients in the tastiest ways possible. When I want to show love for others, I cook for them, picking the finest and freshest ingredients.

I've come to see food as a representation of the cycle of life and death -- something must die in order for something else to live. Food marks seasons -- greens in the spring, strawberries in the summer, pumpkins in the fall, and yams in the winter. Food is intensely emotional for me. It can not only make but also spark memories. I will always remember a certain Quiche Lorraine recipe as being the first time I took an emotional risk in a budding romantic relationship. But Quiche Lorraine will also serve as a stark reminder that budding relationships full of hope can die very quickly and with a lot of pain.

I desire to capture the beauty of food and life. I hope as I share my food life with you that it will inspire you to look at food through your own lens. What role does food play in your life and what does food mean to you?

Daring to Hope

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 04:26:00 +0000

Last week, Good Morning America had a feature in its 8.30A hour called Single Bridezillas. The piece highlighted the trend of Singleton women who had a wedding already planned before there's a proposal, or even, in some cases, a boyfriend. Two young women in their mid to late twenties, attractive, professional, urban talked about how they had planned their dream wedding - from selecting a dress, to picking the flowers, to choosing the caterers. They had folders, they had filing boxes, they had inspiration boards. In short - they had a wedding ready to go, sans groom.

Culture seems inexplicably uncomfortable about a single woman on a quest to be married. The tone of the piece was quizzical, and ever so slightly judgmental. These women are "putting the cart before the horse;" focusing on having the perfect wedding rather than a strong marriage. They don't care who they marry, they just WANT a wedding. They'll just scare the men (who presumably don't ever want to be married) away. There will be no room in their dream weddings for the opinions of the currently non-existent groom. Even the term "Single Bridezilla" is derogatory - a single woman, on the rampage to be a bride. Stay away from her boys, she'll eat you.

I've never been one of those women who've dreamed about their perfect wedding ever since they were a little girl. When my teens turned into my twenties, and no first dates, or any kind of dates appeared, I came to believe that l would never be married. I watched as my peers found life companions while I remained inexplicably single. One year turned into ten, and by my late twenties, it became too exhausting to hope for love, something that seemed so impossible to attain.

Because I never thought that I would get married, I've spent most of my womanhood avoiding the dream of a wedding. It was too painful to wish for and want something I thought I could never have. I didn't want to dream because I didn't want to hope. Hope was, and still remains for me, something risky and dangerous. When I hope for love, I soften my heart and open it to the possibility of disappointment and the pain that comes with. Worse still, to want love and marriage - something every one else in this world seems to be getting - and to not receive it makes me feel that there must be something wrong with me. That line of thinking feels me with shame.

And so, it is easier not to want, not to hope and to pretend as if my singleness is a desirable state of my own choosing.

A few years ago, watching the "Single Bridezillas" piece would have caused me great discomfort. I would have placed myself in the shoes of those women and projected my fear. How could they want marriage? How could they risk imagining the happiest day of their lives? How could they believe that getting married is something that would inevitably happen to them? How could they possibly do this without being terrified of the shame that comes with possible failure? In my discomfort I would have formed judgment - these women were desperate and crazy. I would never be like them.

These days, I'm wondering if these women have something I need to learn more about - hope. Perhaps they are a little crazy, a little desperate, a little scary. Or maybe, these women just have immeasurable hope. Hope that one day, they will find that person for forever. Hope that the one they were intended for does exist. Hope that love, marriage, and a life together will happen for them. Hope enough to take a little risk and dream a little, fantasize a little, even plan a little. Hope enough to share their dreams with us on national television.

I could learn a little from this kind of hope. The kind of hope that asks of me to risk. The kind of hope that asks of me to dream. The kind of hope that asks of me to desire. In this season, this kind of hope would do me good.

Watch Good Morning America's piece on Single Bridezillas here.

Trying Something New

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 09:46:00 +0000

The first time I ate Brussels sprouts, I was fifteen.

We were on a family vacation in Europe. I think we were in Italy, or Switzerland. The exact details of where escape me, but the memory of the taste of of these tiny cabbage-looking vegetables, do not.

The Brussels sprouts were mushy, slightly bitter, and smelt like old rubber shoes. In short, they were disgusting.

Since then, and it's been approximately 19 years, I've avoided Brussels sprouts. In spite of multiple friends who have told me that Brussels sprouts are sadly misunderstood - that they don't have to be mushy and smell like old shoes - I simply couldn't bring myself to try them.

Just the thought of Brussels sprouts brought back memories of that first bite. That first, squishy, pungent, bite. That bite that made me gag and spit into my napkin. First tastes are not unlike first dates - that first impression counts. And in my case Brussels sprouts had made a bad first date fumble.

But last week, I decided to give Brussels sprouts another chance. Partly because it was the new year, partly because I really believe in trying new foods, and partly because I'd been told, again, how yummy these could be.

Ina Garten's recipe for Roasted Brussels Sprouts is remarkably simple. With just four ingredients - Brussels sprouts, olive oil, salt and pepper - it was a easy week night recipe. Getting home after work and my evening run, I sliced the Brussels sprouts into halves, tossed them with olive oil, and liberally salted and peppered them. Then I put the sprouts into the oven and jumped into the shower.

At twenty minutes, I could hear the olive oil crackling in the oven. In another twenty minutes, I was greeted with Brussels sprouts that were caramelized and crisp on the outside, and tender on the inside. I popped one into my mouth. It was savory, peppery, and just this side of sweet. It was luxurious.

It feels a little silly to say now, but in the moment, I felt victorious. I had taken a risk, tried a new way, and now had a new food to add to my plate.

I guess I've been thinking a lot about taking risks and change recently. Thing is, the latter half of 2011 has been all about taking risks and accepting change. In the last six months, life took an unexpected turn. A conversation turned into a first date, then a second, and a third, and then a fourth.

There is now a "we." There are date night Fridays, and Saturday morning brunches. There are day trips, long road trips, holidays spent together. There are the meeting of friends and the meeting of families. There is now a "plus one." And there are conversations - light ones, funny ones, absurd ones, long ones, emotional ones, quiet ones, ones where we ask, "What is next for us?"

I've found myself asking, more than once, "Should I say this?" I've found myself thinking, more than once, "Should I feel this?" And the memory of first heart break, bitter and pungent, comes back strong. It makes me want to gag.

But in the end, I choose to take a risk. I risk my pride - showing emotions that make me feel, and possibly even appear, weak. I risk my heart - opening it a little earlier and a little wider than I previously have. I choose to try a new way - a painfully and awkwardly honest new way. And with every risk, I hold my breath and brace myself.

Yet, I am not alone. With every conversation I have, every change I make, every risk I take, I see that he is going through the same. For the first time, I can say with absolute confidence - I am not alone in this. I am with.

Life is now just this side of sweet. And it feels luxurious.

Eternally Confused

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 10:18:00 +0000

I recently expanded my match parameters in eHarmony from a 60 mile radius around Los Angeles, to the entire state of California.

For those of you that are unfamiliar with eHarmony (or online dating sites in general), eHarmony allows users to decide what is important to them in a match, and adjust their settings accordingly. Settings that users can adjust include geographic location of the match, whether the person smokes, drinks, and wants or has children. Settings even include factors such as age range, faith background, ethnicities, income, and educational level. eHarmony encourages users to keep their settings broad to increase their number of matches, but in reality, you can make your match criteria as narrow as you like. It is, after all, your membership, and ultimately, what you want from your love life.

In general, I'm not a proponent of long distance relationships. For one thing, I've been a part of one, and it was lonely and exhausting. Practically speaking, I believe it's a huge challenge to have an emotionally honest relationship when you don't see someone regularly in their day-to-day life. It's much easier to be on your A game when you are only in the same location for a few days or weeks at a time. I personally would have a very hard time trusting that the "wonderful" man I spend a weekend with every two months is equally wonderful when he sees me every day. But that's just me and my baggage.

That being said, I opened up my geographic parameters in eHarmony out of sheer practicality. Having a 60 mile search parameter was giving me a certain type of man - the LA man who wanted an LA girl, or the San Diego man who also wanted an LA girl. And if there is anything I am not, it is an LA girl. I wanted to see what kind of men resided in other parts of California and whether or not they might be a better fit for an atypical Asian girl who was formed in the Midwest. I figured if there was someone who was really a good fit, I wouldn't be opposed to driving a few hours to be with them. After all, in Los Angeles, sometimes going from work to home takes a few hours.

The number of matches didn't quite increase as I hoped, but the variety of guys marginally did. The eHarmony malaise, however, did not dissipate. For some reason, my personal eHarmony experience is not unlike a junior high party - boys and girls stare at each other across the virtual room, but no one is making contact. Two nights ago I decided that I wasn't going to waste my paid subscription by sitting around, looking at people's profiles without ever initiating contact. So I went through all the matches I'd received in the last three months and made a decision - either file them away because I wasn't interested, or get in touch if they could even marginally be of any interest.

One of those matches responded back today. He lived in a town I wasn't familiar with, but I knew was some distance from Los Angeles. Apparently he was fully aware of how far Los Angeles was from where he lived. He was so aware that in this very first communication, where eHarmony makes you answer pre-formulated, multiple choice questions, he took the time to type in the free-form field, "We are several hours drive apart. If we really click, how often would we really see another?"

Out of curiosity, I looked it up - we were, at most, a two hour drive away from each other. Not quite the "several hours" he said.

Nonetheless the question bothered me, not so much in its content, but in its intent. The problem I had with this man's question was that he was asking me to guarantee him something (that I would be able to make this distance thing work) before there was anything between us. Honestly, my first thought was - I think there's a lot of opportunity for us not to click, so let's focus on getting to know each other before we worry about distance, shall we?

I think a lot of times, in an attempt to be "wise" about not getting into the wrong relationship, or not going too far down the road of an impossible relationship, we want to set arbitrary parameters on who we even consider that we might date. Everything has to be in place before we will even consider getting to know someone. I suspect the underlying fear is this - I could fall easily, and what if I fall for the wrong person and get my heart broken?

But the reality of dating is that to find someone you hit it off with, are attracted to, who shares your same faith, and who is reasonably emotionally healthy is quite a rarity. The odds that I'm going to "really click" with someone are actually pretty low. And honestly, if my experience in the last two years is anything to go by, men certainly don't fall easily for me either.

This is why I cast the net wide. This is why, in the early stage of meeting people, I purposefully choose to put aside things such as income level, educational background, some physical attributes, and most recently, geography.

Not falling for the wrong person doesn't mean making sure they are "right" before you get to know them, but really to not fall so easily for those you are trying to know.

In truth, there's really no written profile, picture, or set of multiple choice questions that can determine if a person is right for you. All those things can do is help you decide if the person is definitely wrong. People are complicated; who is "right" for you is incredibly grey. That's why it's important to take time to get to know someone - who knows, they might surprise you. Or horrify you. Whatever the result, it's going to be far less complicated, and far less painful if you didn't "fall in love" with them before you got to know them better.

The wisest thing I've done in these two years is learning not to be so eager to fall for someone right off the bat, put all my hopes and dreams of a relationship on him, and then find myself stuck with a man who isn't right for me, but who I now feel emotionally attached to. It certainly takes the pressure of getting to know someone. I don't have to know if they are "right" before I go on a first date, second date, or even a third date. Today, coffee is just coffee, dinner is just dinner. There's no "danger" that it could inevitably, uncontrollably, and uncomfortably lead to disastrous heartache.

The other thing that gave me the heebie-geebies was this man framed his question in a way where there would only be one acceptable answer - he wanted reassurance from me that we would see each other often. Say anything else, such as - well, no, realistically we wouldn't be able to see each other all the time - and I would sound like a cold-hearted bitch. It's like asking, "Are you still beating your spouse?" What's a good answer to that? Personally, these kinds of questions don't sit well with me. Don't ask a question if you're not prepared for an answer you don't want to hear.

In the end, I said something to the effect that we were only two hours apart, and that I preferred seeing if we would hit it off first. It sounded really bitchy, of course, so to temper it, I added a smiley face. As expected, he closed me out and ended all communication. It was fine by me, except here's where I'm confused:

Seeing that eHarmony lets you set your geographic match radius to as close as 30 miles from where you live, and you can tell them not to match you with anyone outside that radius, the fact that I, a person who lived 80 miles away, got matched with this man means that he asked to be matched with folks that weren't within a 40 minute drive from him. And that makes me wonder - if geography was THIS important to him, why didn't he just change his geographic match settings?

On top of that, once he got a match that was too far away, why did he bother to respond at all and ask a rhetorical question that had no good answer? It's perfectly acceptable, actually preferable, to just say no right off the bat. There's really no need to "test" for the right answer.

If you haven't gathered by now, online dating is an odd cyber-version of real life dating. Having great algorithms that bring around people you may not have otherwise met doesn't compensate for the fact that the people you meet, who are confusing online, are probably the same ones who are confusing in real life. The only difference is that they know how to use the Internet, and sometimes, even barely.

As they say, "Peoples is peoples." (who said that, by the way?). And peoples are confusing.

Preservation

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 08:53:00 +0000

I made the foray into canning.

It all started with a trip to the Salinas Farmers' Market last week. I found a vendor that sold home made jams of all kinds - from conventional flavors such as strawberry, apricot, peach and blueberry, to more unique flavors such as pineapple jalepeno. There was something so pretty about those mason jars filled with bright red and orange preserves and tied with ribbon. The jars fascinated my mother, who loves fruit jams. Somewhere in my head, a fantasy began to develop - what if I learnt how to make jam, and made some for my mother one day? I scoured the Internet for recipes. A trip to Trader Joes' garnered ripened, if not particularly sweet, peaches.

Turns out, jam is not difficult to make. It's basically a combination of fruit, sweetener, and pectin heated to a boil then allowed to cool and gel. Pectin, the jelling agent that gives jam its gel-like consistency, is activated by sugars in the sweetener. The trick, of course, is in the proportions. How much fruit, versus how much sweetener versus how much pectin is the difference between spreadable deliciousness and runny fruity mess.

What is less simple is the canning process. Canning requires mason jars and a coordination of various hot liquids. Mason jars are sanitized in steaming, but not boiling, water while the jam cooks. Once ready, hot jam is poured into those jars, which are sealed with lids and secured with bands. The sealed jars are then boiled in a water bath for about 10 minutes. This boiling process kills bacteria and helps form a vacuum seal around the mason jars. Upon removal, the sealed jars are lifted out of the water bath and placed on a surface to cool for 24 to 48 hours. If done correctly, the lids "pop" and a vacuum seal is formed, preventing air from touching the surface of the jam. If not, jars are rushed to the fridge to prevent spoilage.

Jam, unprocessed, lasts about a month or so in the fridge. Jams that are processed in the canning water bath can last anywhere between one year, and some say, even longer. The problem, of course is if you don't get the canning process just right, you risk breeding bacteria and jam spoilage.

The online instructions on canning felt like warnings from a friendly, if somewhat dire aunt. The canning process is easy, you just have to following this ten step instruction list to the T or risk dying from a bad batch of jam, not tomorrow, or even the day after, but six months from now, when you open that jar of jam and an angry hand reaches out to grab your neck, because bacteria has not only bred in your jar, it has also developed a murderous personality while sitting on your shelf. All because you were careless. That one time.

Because I have a slightly obsessive personality anyway, I pondered longer and more deeply than I should have on whether I really wanted to make and can jam. I'd have to buy mason jars, a canning kit that included a funnel, a pair of tongs and a magnetic lifter to remove mason jars and lids out of hot water. I wondered if I had to shell out the money for a canning pot. What if I tried and I hated it - what would I do with all this equipment? What if I tried to can and did it wrong, and all the jam went bad? What if I boiled the jam for too long? Or too short a time? What if I couldn't get it "just right?"

As the jam bubbled, and a large pot of hot water simmered, I wondered about my compulsion to get things "just right." There are many reasons for this compulsion of mine. Some of this is cultural, some of this is due to family history, and some of this need is simply because it just hurts when things go wrong. It's disappointing. Sometimes, it's even humiliating. I always want to get it right because getting it wrong can be painful.

In many areas of my life - professional, social, even in my faith walk, I've come to the realization that mistakes are inevitable, that to expect and strive for "just right" is a fruitless endeavor. Mistakes are, and should be, part of the learning process, part of a life journey, part of growing into a mature, whole adult. I understand this in every aspect except for my dating life.

In my dating life, I still somehow mistakenly believe that the reason I am single in my 30s, is because I didn't and continue not to get it "just right." I am not "just right" in my physical being - I am a tad too chubby for LA, I have bumps and rolls where others do not, I am not outside all the time, spending my spare time hiking, running, going to the gym. I am not "just right" in my faith - I don't spew the word Jesus in every other sentence, do not declare that I look to God for all my needs, all the time, do not loooove my church, do not pray unceasingly, do not even read the bible daily, do not know what exactly entails being a Proverbs 31 woman. But most of all, the thing that gives me most angst, most worry, most consternation, is that I do not know how to maneuver the dating world "just right." I do not know the rules, do not know if he is interested or if he's just not that into me, do not know what to say, do not know how to say it, or if, in fact I should say it at all.

Part of my problem, of course, is that I have absorbed dating advice from Christian and secular circles for far too long. Much like the online instructions for canning jam, dating advice, Christian and secular alike, sounds like a cheerful yet oddly dire aunt.

Christian circles will warn you not to "pursue," to "guard your heart," to "look to God to be your husband." The stories they tell paint a picture of a young woman looking heavenward (because that's where God is) with one hand outstretched in the ""stop" position, holding ungodly men at bay. And then one day, out of nowhere, when she least expects it "BAM!" along comes the perfect young man who has followed God and somehow found his way to her. The stories they tell about the other kind of young woman, the one who dared to look at a man, dared to ask him out, dared to complain about her singleness, well those women... actually, they don't say anything about those women. Instead, they quote men saying things to the woman like, "Well, if I am interested, I will be the one that lets you know." Which may sound polite on the surface, but is actually pretty humiliating and dismissive. The Christian dating message is this - be "just right" in your desire for a husband and the man who is "just right" will come along.

Secular circles, in the name of pointing out the differences between men and women, paint a picture of a man who is easily intimidated and turned off by basically anything you might, as a woman, conceive as being somewhat normal behavior. Talking for one thing, apparently frightens men off, as does having a full life - because it signals you have no room for them. And let's not forget responding too soon to any communication, or responding too late. Being too good at whatever you do, or being too stupid. Not asking for help, or asking for too much help. The quote that often confounds me is this, "I want to feel that I am needed, but also that she can be independent." I've heard this so many times and in so many different places from men unknown that I'm starting to wonder if this statement has become bastardized and completely misquoted, as in that game "Broken Telephone." The secular message for dating is this - be "just right" in how much you respond and who you are, or men will be frightened away.

Before you scream, "Bitter woman!" and log off, never to read this blog again, I want to point out that I don't actually believe dating advice from Christians and non are great, or accurate, or reflect what men and women are really like. If we really follow this advice "just right," it would make for incredibly insecure and skittish men, and incredibly passive and manipulative women. And we all know how that combination makes for an incredibly healthy relationship.

As I lifted out the jam filled mason jars from the hot water bath, I heard the quiet "pop" of each jar - the sign that the vacuum seal was in place. Clearly something worked. I let the jars cool on my dining room table over night and watched the jam slowly set. I ended up eating two of those jars, but I did save one of the jars in the pantry, to be opened six months from now. I guess we'll know then whether that jar of jam will delight me - or kill me.

As for dating, I'm not so sure it will be so clear cut. Sometimes, dating delights, or more accurately, amuses me. But these days, it's starting to feel like dating is slowly killing me. I haven't actually been on any dates, but I sure put a lot of effort into being open, being available, meeting new people, being myself - everything that I've been told will increase my chances of finding a husband. The results are meager and the effort is exhausting. What I do know from watching my peers is that there is no "just right" formula for ending up with a husband or wife. Jerks find wonderful, Godly women. Stupid women end up with PhD candidates. Fat chicks date. Ugly guys marry. No one is "just right" and people date and marry every day. So clearly "just right" is not the solution.

I know this. Now I just have to believe it.

Meatloaf

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 08:55:00 +0000

"What is this?" my father asks, pointing to a picture of something I can't quite decipher. We are at Erik's DeliCafe in Gilroy, CA, on our way home to Los Angeles from a week long road trip to San Francisco. The sandwich guy tells us it's meatloaf, to which my father asks quizzically, "What is meatloaf?"

You see, we are not an American family. In Singapore, meat doesn't come politely ground - it comes in chunks, slices, and sometimes, still with a face on it. Meatloaf, which in that photograph looked more like a hunk of bread than a piece of meat, is as foreign to my father as haggis is to an American.

When I explain that meatloaf is exactly what it sounds like - a loaf of ground meat seasoned with onions, ketchup, and held together by eggs and bread crumbs - my father's eyes light up. This makes me laugh, and realize that whether American or Singaporean, man's love of meat must be congenital.

Later in Solvang, CA, my father tries to order meatloaf off the restaurant menu, which is how I realize he's been thinking about this "loaf made of meat" for the last day and a half. Except we find out that the meatloaf on the menu is made of beef, the only meat that my dad does not eat. My father shrugs and says something like, "Well, I guess it's not in the cards."

"Why don't I make you some meatloaf when we're back in LA?" I ask, "We can use pork and turkey."

My father doesn't say it then, but he's happy.

Back in Los Angeles, I scour my cookbooks for the perfect recipe. The last time I made meatloaf, I was just out of college. I used cheap ground meat and probably half a bottle of ketchup. Since then, I've grown to be a food snob who doesn't think ketchup should really be an ingredient in any recipe.

For my dad, I wanted a recipe that fell somewhere between the American 50s classic and gourmet. For some reason I couldn't articulate, I wanted to give my dad something that was a classier than ground meat and ketchup.

Bon Appetit's Turkey Meatloaf with Sun-dried Tomatoes from their 1996 issue calls for ground dark turkey, sauteed onions and celery, sun-dried tomatoes, and dried sage and oregano. Ketchup is used as a glaze, rather than a key ingredient. In other words, it satisfied the snob in me, while still having echos of the classic American comfort food that is meatloaf.

As I preheated the oven, poured olive oil into my pan, and heard the sizzle of chopped celery and onions, it struck me that I was doing something that was quintessentially Asian - serving my father. Traditional Asian culture is highly patriarchal, women serve their men. Wives serve their husbands, single daughters, their fathers. My mother grew up being told that an education for a woman wasn't necessary - women were, after all, destined to be married and spend their lives serving their husbands, and really, who needed an academic education for that?

My father, as a father of two daughters and no sons, straddled the world of traditional patriarchy and the world of meritocracy where a good education was the key to success for both men and women. Even as he used to say to my mother, "What's a wife for, if not to serve?" he never raised his daughters to be home makers. When it came between a choice to take Home Economics or Music as an elective in high school, both my sister and I took Music. Which is why, today when I serve you chicken for dinner, I can do so with a side of Chopin. My sister and I grew to be articulate, well educated, high functioning women with careers who can be financially self-sufficient, single or married.

And yet, I know my father harbors double standards - boys must be more independent than girls, daughters, once married, belong to their husbands' families. And though he never says it to my face, single daughters should serve their fathers in a way that sons are never called to. I think that's partly why when I made my father meatloaf without him asking, my dad beamed with pride. He'd raised a daughter who would serve. As a father, he'd arrived.

When we sat down to dinner, and I put a slice of freshly cooked meatloaf on his plate, my father said something else that sent a shiver down my spine. "Who would expect that a man like me, from such a poor family, would be able to send my daughters to university, and be sitting in LA with my daughter, eating meatloaf?"

As a man, my father had arrived.

The Strong Willed Child

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Thu, 19 May 2011 09:05:00 +0000

There's a story my family tells about me.

I am about 3 years old. We live on the 16th storey of a high-rise building. Each morning, my mother takes my sister, who is about 10 years old, down to the street to wait for the school bus. Each morning, my mother takes me with them.

One morning, however, for some reason, I get left behind. I will have none of this. I cry. I throw a tantrum. My father, whom my mother has left in charge of me, loses his patience. In a fit of what can only be poor judgement, he shoves me out the front door of our apartment. "If you want your mother so much," he says, "Then go find her." With that, he closes the door in my face.

This is where the telling of the story stops, and my memory takes over. My sister and parents insist I must have taken an elevator down to the street. But I remember stairs, and a stairwell, so I suspect I walked down 16 stories - which is pretty incredible for a toddler.

I'm not sure how they found me, or who found me for that matter. But the fact that I'm sitting here, telling this story at all, is a sign that things ended up just fine. I wasn't kidnapped, I didn't get run over by a car.

Everyone in my family has a take on this story. My older sister, now a mother of three children of her own, is horrified by my father's bad parenting. My father, ever one to disconnect, never expresses remorse at shoving me out the door. My mother uses this story to prove a point about my restless spirit. She's always wondered how I could possibly have left my country of origin and chosen to live, away from family, all by myself.

When I was younger, the story used to hurt. It hurt because I couldn't reconcile a father, whom I believed truly did love me, with a father who was also easily impatient, impulsive, and frankly, selfish. It also hurt because I imagine that little three year old girl, looking straight into a threat, and hardening just that little bit to forge out on her own. It makes me cry because no three year old should have to harden like that.

Was this moment when I began to believe I couldn't rely on my parents for security? I'm not sure, but I'm sure this incident didn't help what would eventually grow into a lie that I really couldn't rely on anyone. Or that the people I love would always fundamentally disappoint me.

Over the years, the story has surfaced in my memory from time to time. It's no longer a pain point - thanks to a lot of prayer, tears, and taking risks to let God show me truth. But I do think about that little three-year-old. In my head, I see a tiny little girl narrowing her eyes, raising a chubby little fist to the sky. Maybe the thoughts of the little girl have merged with the thoughts of an adult woman, but I can almost hear the three-year-old declare - "You think I have no guts to do this? Just watch."

I think the story reminds me that I have a part of my personality that, when pushed to the limit, when faced with a seemingly impossible task, raises a fist to the sky and declares that nothing is impossible. Don't let the easy-going demeanor fool you. When I'm determined, when I see the goal, when I believe it's worth fighting for - nothing can stop me. I couldn't be stopped when I was three. I'm certainly not planning to be stopped when I'm 33.

This is a good thing to remember in a town like Los Angeles, where I struggle each day to stay focused on the goal of building meaningful and thoughtful community. Where I struggle to be the type of person who is meaningful and thoughtful myself. Where I find myself swayed and distracted by what seems true, and what feels true, rather than what is true.

Every time I want to give up, I see that tiny little girl with a glint in her eye. She'll walk down 16 stories with her chubby little legs to look for what she believes is worth finding. What will I do for what I believe is worth having?

This Week in Life

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Sat, 14 May 2011 18:44:00 +0000

I left my laptop in my office and forgot to take it home with me.

I left my make up bag sitting on my kitchen table.

I must have not locked my car, because someone got in and stole my GPS and aux cable for my iPod.

I've been discouraged.

And was told I can appear to come off as bitter...

I pondered why people say the things they do to me.

I wondered if I was really bitter.

I thought about what I considered to be "not bitter" and all I could come up with was a person who was positive all the time and happy all the time. And someone who was satisfied no matter what was happening.

Then I felt trapped because I can not be happy all the time. And I am not satisfied with some of the things that I find happening in my world and my life. In fact, I might go as far as to say some things are not acceptable.

And I don't want to be a liar.

So I settled on sad.

Which is where I find myself this cold, grey, Los Angeles morning.

I'm just sad. There. No explanations, no excuses, no trying to feel better by stuffing it, or declaring that things will be better. Maybe they will be better, maybe they won't, but it doesn't diminish the fact that at this moment, I'm sad.

And that's ok.

Will Warm In The Afterlife

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 03:50:00 +0000

I have a confession. One of the blogs that I read (and I won't tell you which one), which is supposed to be an anonymous blog, has intersected with my real life. I've read this blog for almost two years now, and through some random, twist of social circles, the blogger is now in my social community.

I won't tell you how I found out said blogger writes said blog. Suffice to say, it involved some social networking site unnamed, and some detective work on my part. Also of note - I probably have way too much time on my hands.

But I find myself wondering now... am I going to make it onto this blog? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have now become one of those people who think others write about them.

As I'm trying to gain blogersphere stardom in my twisted, juvenile way, I started to think about what it would take for someone to have an appearance on my blog.

For the most part, as you know, I almost NEVER verbatim, talk about a particular event or any place I've been to. I've pledged to keep the dating specifics off of the Internets out of sheer respect. And I've for the most part tried not to bitch about conflict on this blog.

I have decided, however, there are three things that could possibly make me blog about you. You would have done any ONE of the following:

#1 You have angered me.

#2 You have pleased me.

#3 You have made me think.

I almost threw in #4, which was - you brought me a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting, but I think that's way too easy.

In any case, I'm sort of on a warped quest to see if I can make it into this anonymous blogger's blog. I don't know if her criteria for writing about someone is the same as mine. But I guess I could try any and all of the three things I listed and see what happens.

It's awful, but it's sort of a challenge. I will probably go to hell for this, but as my dear friend from Chicago pointed out - this may not be the reason I burn in hell, but it certainly warrants a little bit of warming in the afterlife.

On Days Like This

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 06:23:00 +0000

"My brother died on a day like this," she said, "So now on really sunny days, I think of someone dying."

-Claire, The Town

On a day like this, with clear, blue skies, white sunlight, and crisp cool air, we rode in a car to Venice Beach. It was February, much too cold to go to the beach, but you were visiting from Chicago where it was below zero, so this actually felt like summer for you.

I was delighted you were finally here, beside me, instead of just that far away voice on an unpredictable cell phone line. I wanted to touch your skin; hold your hand. It'd been two months since I'd last seen you. Two months of my longing, my waiting, my yearning. I had so much to say to you.

You pulled out a cell phone and called Chicago.

On a day like this, we walked along the beach. As the warmth of sunshine retreated into twilight, I shivered. I was much too cold. We'd been walking for four hours, and all I wanted was dinner. I didn't say a word because I was so eager to please. I wanted you to think that I was one of those girls who was game for anything, rather than one of those who complained too much over things too inconsequential.

You kept on walking, we didn't eat until well past nine that night.

Sometimes, on days like this, with the sky so blue, the sun so bright, and the air ever so crisp, I'm struck by a yearning I can't explain. Yearning for something as simple as sitting at a cafe across from a dark-haired man with a kind smile. Him, reaching for my hand, perhaps for the hundredth time, and me, still feeling that little thrill. This yearning gives me hope for what is not yet.

But too, this yearning fills me with dread. Dread that the kind smile is really one of thin patience, that the reaching for my hand is merely out of habit, and that the thrill is all my own. I think it's because days like this remind me of that day when I so desperately wanted you, but you had already left, and I probably knew it, but chose not to say a word. Instead I just tried harder - smiled wider, laughed louder, walked longer, talked about everything I thought you cared about. Everything, except what I really wanted to say.

On days like this, I think of someone dying.

Weak and Strong

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 20:23:00 +0000

This week, in the middle of worship during small group, God reminded me, "I have made you strong. There is nothing that happens to you that I have not already prepared you for, nothing that is more than you can handle. Nothing that I do not protect you from."

With that, I let out the breath that I'd been holding for the last two years.

You see, in the last two years, I've delicately balanced my passion for vulnerability with my fear of judgement. It's quite the conundrum. On the one hand, I strongly believe that being honest about who I am - my fears, my struggles, my anger, my shame, my hopes, my dreams - makes for a whole me. Vulnerability gives room for God to work in my life. But if I am only honest with God in the privacy of my own room, my own mind, and my own heart, and put up a mask for the world around me, how is that being honest at all? How then can God use those around me to reflect His grace and mercy if no one outside of the Divine is allowed to know my weaknesses?

On the other hand, I can't control how the world chooses to perceive me. Any moment that I put myself out there, I am open to judgement. Even more terrifying, showing weakness sometimes leads to abandonment. This is a reality of the broken earth upon which we walk. People of God are sometimes the worst offenders - weakness is seen as some kind of lack of faith. Oh, we're allowed a certain amount of weakness, but persistent struggle? Life-long struggles? Surely if we trusted God more, let Him be more of a King in our lives, we would not struggle this hard.

I also know, because it was just about two years ago that I showed weakness and was rejected. The words spoken were, "Your life is full of fear." The words unspoken were, "And I want nothing to do with that, or you." Actually, the unspoken words really didn't need a voice, the actions that followed were clear enough.

The judgement and rejection came so quickly and so unexpectedly that I was stunned. Most of all the words struck deep. I was equally passionate then as I am now, about being vulnerable, so I had shared my fears quite openly. But instead of getting compassion, I got rejected - by someone I trusted and cared deeply about. The pain that comes from rejection after being vulnerable is a deep and special pain that shakes one to the core.

My heart shattered into a million pieces and I spiraled. I felt unwanted. Rejection sealed the lie that there was something wrong with me. Shame set in.

The Well-Meaning gathered around me pointing out truths such as, "The only opinion that matters is God's, not Man's," or "do not cast your pearls before swine" (i.e. whomever said that was just a bastard to begin with). There was lots of talk about guarding my heart and how I had given this person all this power by believing those blatantly untrue words.

None of this, however, made the pain go away and I languished in my sorrow. When weeks, turned into months, then into almost a year, there was more talk about how I needed to forgive, and move on. Those were also truths. But they were not helpful. All it did was cause more shame - shame that I couldn't take such truths and apply them. Shame that I could not forgive. Shame that somehow I hadn't given God this supreme place in my life and therefore was susceptible to something that was carelessly and foolishly said.

And the more open I was about this shame, about this fear, about this question about myself, more advice would come, more scripture, more quotes about Jesus. And then more shame set in. Finally, tired of feeling badly about myself, I just shut up. And everyone grew quiet and left me alone. I was relieved. Life moved on and I appeared to have moved on as well.

I've spent a lot of the last two years pondering how this experience has colored my belief that emotional vulnerability is a pathway that God can use to heal our souls. I know deep emotional vulnerability is painful, and now I am convinced it is also terrifying, not just to the person sharing, but also to those on the receiving end. I've wondered if sharing one's fears and struggles isn't just a tad bit overrated. Maybe by talking about our struggles we encourage a kind of victim mentality that keeps us stuck. Maybe one should just zip up, chin up, and put "more faith in Jesus" by simply believing, no questions asked about what that means, or how it's supposed to happen. A lot of people of faith do this - and they don't seem to be any worse for wear because of it, right?

I tried to be that way, I honestly did. Except that every time I tried, my mouth would move quicker than my head and I would blurt out what was on my heart without thinking. And every time I said something, it was incredibly truthful, and raw. Then I would blog, and each time I did, I would sob. Maybe it was from pain, or maybe it was just the relief of having a place to say what I was feeling deeply without fear of judgement - or advice. I wondered if my inability to hold it together was because I was weak - weak in my personhood, weak in my faith. I wondered if this rawness was just another sign of how these wounds have not healed, and how I have not moved on.

But every now and then I see this happening - I'm in a group, and we're talking about nothing in particular, and I share a story that's a little raw. I don't cry about it, or ask for advice. I simply tell the story as it is. I'm honest about what I've learnt and what I am still learning. There's a moment of silence, then inexplicably, everyone relaxes and starts to tell a story of their own along those lines. No one has a solution for anything, but yet, the group grows closer.

Or someone who's read my blog will say - wow, that was pretty honest. And I can see the longing in their eyes. For what, I'm not sure. But I suspect, the same kind of room to be honest as well.

This happens enough that I'm convinced I need to continue to be vulnerable about who I am, come what may. I know there's no guarantee that this kind of openness will be reciprocated, welcomed, or even grudgingly accepted. I know the sting of being rejected after I've opened my heart is a special kind of pain that is particularly unpleasant. But I also know that I am not weak for feeling this pain and being wary of it. In fact, it is because of strength that I am able to feel this pain, understand it, and still forge on being as honest as I know how.

For I have been made strong. I have been prepared. I am protected. Pain and rejection does not destroy me. There is nothing that happens to me that I have not already been made to handle.

I know this, because God said so.

The Weight of Issues

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Sat, 12 Feb 2011 20:19:00 +0000

Can't Stands - Excessive Overweight - I can't stand a partner who is overweight.

The statement stared back at me from the computer screen, relentless, unwavering. It was about as clear as it could get.

The Fat Chick in me narrowed her eyes while a variety of cutting yet funny statements flew through my mind. Hey buddy, John Denver wants his hair back. Peter Pan, it's time you grew up. Who writes a profile with no caps and exclamation marks? Where'd you go to school anyway, Tween College? Want to dot your 'i' s with couple of hearts there?

Every so often, I am faced with the stark reality that I have unresolved issues. That's right, issues. As in plural, as in more than one, as in many. I suppose, like everyone else that walks this earth, I am tempted to say that these unresolved issues really don't affect my day-to-day living. For the most part, that is true. These unresolved issues don't ever touch me as I wake up, drive to work, deal with clients, spend time with friends, worship at church, watch television. It isn't so much that I'm hiding these issues, it's just that they are latent.

That is, until one seemingly innocent statement from a man who, at this point, is merely a photograph and a series of poorly constructed phrases sends me into spiral of pain and shame.

You see, I used to be excessively overweight. Up until my late twenties, I consistently carried an extra thirty pounds. On a five-three frame, that isn't something you can hide. Growing up, I was teased for my weight by my peers and by some really mean adults. My mother hovered nervously around desperately wanting me to be thinner while never wanting me to "go on a diet", as if I could, miraculously and naturally, drop the lifelong weight without doing anything on my part. As I grew into adulthood, no man would have any romantic interest in me. I'm sure there were many other reasons for that, but I'm also sure one of those reasons was my weight. Over time, I came to believe that unless I was slender, I would never be attractive - not to a man, not to anyone.

Ironically, what made me eventually drop the weight was a health scare, not a beauty one. By the time I started to lose the weight, I had already come to a grim but ugly belief that perhaps I would never be considered attractive. But as the pounds rolled off, people, men in particular, started paying attention to me. One afternoon, as I walked down the street in a sun dress, a man driving by did a double take. A few weeks later, a man pulled up and asked for my number. Then they started coming out of the wood works, smiling at me on the street, being gracious, paying attention.

At 168 pounds, I was smart, funny, gracious, and loving. At 128 pounds, I was still the same woman on the inside. It was just that now, people started to notice. But I wasn't flattered. I was horrified and angry. Where were all of you when I was fat?

Most of all, I was sad. The lie that only the attractive can ever find love and acceptance seemed to actually be true. Afterall, that was how my life was playing out. When I was fat, but smart and funny, no men would come around. Now that I was not overweight, the same smart and funny was now interesting to these men. So it was true, I thought, men don't care about what's on the inside, as long as what's on the outside looks good.

It would take another few years, and many other models of good people in my life who love their mates for who they are, for me to dispel the lie that no one can see me for who I am because of how I look. Every day I work towards the truth - I am loved for what is on the inside. This is the kind of love I want to receive. This is the kind of love I want to give.

Ironically, now I live in Los Angeles - where yes, it is as shallow as it seems. It's not that everyone is attractive here - they just think they are. And they certainly believe they are entitled to a mate of great attractiveness. This is pervasive not merely in secular culture, but also in circles of faith. A few nights ago, I was part of a conversation, where people of faith were wondering if at a singles party, a Christian man would be willing to spend a few minutes talking to a Christian woman he wasn't immediately physically attracted to.

More often than not, when the topic of physical attraction comes up among Singletons, even those of faith, the consensus is that if a man is not almost immediately physically attracted to you, there's no hope of him ever developing an attraction to you, and ergo, no hope of him ever even thinking of pursuing you. And, to make matters worse, that "immediate" physical attraction is supposed to come within 4-5 seconds of seeing you. And it's not just that old adage that men are shallow. Women have told me it's the same thing for them - immediate physical attraction, or bust.

In the same breath, the "Immediate Physical Attraction" camp claims that what is physically attractive to one man or woman, is not necessarily physically attractive to another. That is supposed to make it all better, because it really means that you TOO could be immediately physically attractive to someone.

Except that I look at who the Immediate Attraction camp is attracted to and they don't vary in scale of attractiveness. The Immediate Attraction camp, regardless of their own level of attractiveness, is attracted to beautiful, lean people with good skin and limited physical flaws. There are no balding men, short men, or chubby girls in the mix. And there are certainly no people that are like me - of average physical beauty but clean up nice.

When the Immediate Attraction camp is questioned on why they are attracted to people of this high level of attractiveness, the response I get is that people are naturally attracted to what they are attracted to. In other words, everyone is wired to have a type. What no one is admitting, is that the "type" is also known as "unbelievably hot."

And with that, my heart sinks. Now, to be attractive, I can't just not be fat. I also have to have good skin, be lean, and, for a lack of a better term, be hot. The lie feels true - you are loved for how you look. No one will even find out how wonderful you are because they can't get past the fact you're not hot. Horrible thing is, the "hot" bar seems to get higher and higher. Since I can't reach it, and I'm not particularly willing to die trying, my alternative seems to be a life of being alone.

More horrifically - the longer I live in LA, the more I find myself gravitating towards what I've been told by LA culture is attractive. LA tells me that an attractive man loves the outdoors, exercise, and fitness. He surfs, he swims, he spends his weekends hiking. He's tall, he's tan, he's lean. He eats organic food. LA does not tell me what he thinks about, if anything. LA does not tell me how he treats those around him. LA doesn't give me a clue what he holds dear and true or if he has any integrity or grace.

When I lived in Chicago, I wouldn't have given this man a second thought. But now that I live in LA, there's a spark of me that wonders if I could, somehow, "win" this kind of trophy LA man. I find that I'm soaking in the culture I live in, morphing into the kind of person that perpetuates the lie that physical attractiveness is the key to a life of being wanted, valued and loved.

Tonight, I am helping to run a singles speed dating event - where it is literally all about first impressions and immediate attraction. Tonight, the questions of what one is immediately attracted to, what one thinks they want, and what one thinks they deserve in a mate, will all come into play. Thankfully, tonight I will merely be facilitating this event, so all the worries of whether I'm "hot enough for him" aren't a factor. But that's just tonight. Tomorrow, the question will still remain. In spite of what appears true - that physical attractiveness is king - do I still strive for what I believe - that the kind of love I want to receive, and give, is based on what is on the inside?

I Should Probably Explain...

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 20:58:00 +0000

... my last post.

I'm not sad about dating, I'm not heartbroken by any stretch of the imagination. I have not actually been seeing anyone, ergo, I have not been broken up with.

That picture, of that little Asian girl's silent scream is about frustration. Pure, unadulterated frustration. I am frustrated with dating. Frustrated with what seems like a cycle of no one getting what they want. Not the women, and not the men. We are looking around at who's available to us, and for some reason, nothing is appealing to us. Ergo, we do not date. Or if we do, we do so half-heartedly and bail at the first given sign of trouble. Or we date the ones we know we don't have a future with. Or, we think we can do better... always better....

I hear women complaining. But I also hear men complaining. And it's almost always the same whether you are a man or a woman - the other person is too shallow, too picky, too uncommunicative, too dishonest, too uptight, too loose... Whatever a woman has complained about, a man has complained about something similar. It seems, men and women want the same things...or SAY they want the same things, at least, but no one is finding these things they want in the person of the opposite sex.

And eventually, I turn this inability to find someone even CLOSE to what I say I want, into a question about myself. Is there something wrong with me? Is that WHY it's been so difficult. Turns out, I'm not alone in this either. Just google "Island of Misfit Toys" and "dating" and you'll find a whole list of blog posts, discussion boards, and comments about how we feel like there's something wrong with us, or something wrong with someone else, and that's why we're not asking, or being asked out. And guess what, it's not just disgruntled women claiming that men are shallow... guys are saying the same thing too. Everyone is feeling like there's something seriously wrong with the singletons out there.

So if we women don't like what's out there, and you men ALSO don't like what's out there.... and yet, for centuries, decades, and even as recently as last month, people somehow figure out a way to get together, be married, and make it work (sort of). What exactly is the problem here? Did EVERY married person lower their standards? Really? I don't think so. What is it that keeps us, men and women alike, from moving closer to what we want. since apparently, we all want the same things?

This, I'd really like to know.

How I Feel About Dating Right Now

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 06:04:00 +0000

The Anatomy of Demise

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 22:16:00 +0000

Anatomy (from the Greek ἀνατομία anatomia, from ἀνατέμνειν ana: separate, apart from, and temnein, to cut up, cut open)
By the time he shows up for your date dressed like a homeless person, you realize that it might be a little too late to save what you hope might have been a relationship. Albeit a little early, demise has, once again, arrived.

You realize that it's not just because he looked a little filthy that you knew demise had come. It was really that sense of not even trying that was your clue. Afterall, the same scene played itself out in an evening, two years ago, when you put on that pretty cocktail dress to go to the theater and he showed up in jeans and a plaid shirt. And though you looked and looked and looked, you couldn't, for the life of you, find the horse that came with said plaid shirt. Or the shirtless cowboy who wanted it back.

You masked your disappointment then, you smiled and you went to the theater anyway with the Plaid-Clad-Man-At-The-Time. Two weeks later he ended things - then had the balls to say it was all about you.

(As it turned out, those were the only balls he had. But that's another story for another time.)

You claimed you didn't see it coming. Just like you claimed you didn't see it coming two years before that, when demise was the long-distance call that shattered your first ever hope. But demise, though quiet, and often stealthy, is never silent. And demise is certainly never hazy.

Demise is the emails gone unanswered, the messages gone to voice mail, that piece of communication you wait for but never comes, and never comes, and never comes. Demise makes no eye contact, can't hold a conversation with any feeling, will never give you a straight answer.

Demise is funny. Oh, how funny it is! It is full of jokes, one-liners, quips, and witticisms. Demise will make you laugh, and even as you do, you can feel that sharp pain in your heart, that catch in your throat. But still you laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Because you know the moment you stop, the tears will come.

Demise starts to get very busy. There's work, other commitments - going to the gym, running errands, doing laundry, cleaning house. Demise is often unavailable to chat, unavailable to spend time, or simply unavailable with no explanation at all.

If you do not pay attention to demise, it starts to get nasty. It's critical and cold. Demise talks and talks, and talks, and never lets you get a word in edgewise. Or demise is silent and grunts every once in a while in response to the question, "Are you alright?"

When you cut open demise and look at it with the cold eye of a surgeon, it all seems so simple. You want to slap your forehead and yell, "Doh!" Homer Simpson style. There is it, clear as day, how could you not have spotted the symptoms? How could you have been so foolish?

The problem with demise, why it is so hard to spot, so hard to pinpoint, is that it can start from anywhere. One bruised ego, one stupid story told, one careless comment, and demise can set in. Sometimes, demise has no reason at all. It just arrives, unannounced, and stays like an inconsiderate relative. And like that inconsiderate relative, it invades your personal space. It's hard to ignore demise, hard not to let it into the rooms of your heart, hard not to hear its whispering insinuations. Once demise arrives, it is near-impossible to fight off. Trust me, you've tried, and it feels like swimming in molasses - dark, thick, suffocating.

So when you look over to him and see the long, dark shadows cast across his expressionless face, you feel that familiar flicker of fear. You realize that you've been holding your breath, just as you were two years ago, and two years before that. The dread is hauntingly familiar. Demise has indeed arrived. In fact, it not only has arrived, it has settled itself on the couch and put up its feet on your coffee table.

Maybe it's a little extreme. Maybe there's a very good explanation for everything that's happened, maybe there's room for benefit of the doubt. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

But enough is enough. You leave.

You know that there's a strong chance your resolve will soften, that you'll come up with some reason, true or not, to explain it all away. It'll probably happen, you'll probably go back, you'll probably be wrong, and two years from now, you'll probably be writing all about this moment and its ensuing emotional baggage. But that is all later.

For now, in this singular moment, you've recognized demise and chosen not to play in its sand box. For now, you have the wealth of choice about who you are and how you want to be. Savor it, for now.

Resolute

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 03:44:00 +0000

I've never been one for New Years resolutions. Like many, I find them somewhat discouraging and shame inducing because inevitably by about mid January, I've not only failed at what I've set out to do (work out everyday), but also have done exactly the opposite (sit on my couch and eat cake everyday).

Somewhere in my life journey, in a bid to battle the shame of failed resolutions, I developed the habit of determining goals for each year. They were somewhat broad in category and motivational in nature (Have more fun! Go on more dates! Be honest!). And then The Great Depression of 2009 happened and motivation just wasn't in the cards. All I wanted was to be able to get through the year without killing myself or others. And so, goals dissolved into hopes, as evidence by this post.

Quite honestly, I woke up on January 1, 2011 discouraged. There was something about realizing that all my issues from 2010 were still part of my life in 2011 that just felt, well, sad. The adult in me knows that issues don't just magically disappear once the calendar changes. The adult in me understands that there is nothing particularly magical about the end of one year and the start of another. The child in me, the one that wanted the magic, cried.

Many talk about the new year bringing clean slates and fresh starts. But in reality, it's not like at the stroke of midnight I miraculously become a different person. I'm still me on January 1, the me with all the trepidations, sorrows, ghosts, spite, pettiness, and absurdity of 2010, 2009, 2008, and a lifetime before that. The start can be fresh, but unless some of the darker parts of me get healing and resolution, one year is, sadly, going to be very much like the next.

I actually meant to write a funny post about my 11 Not To Dos in 2011. It was supposed to make you roll on the floor laughing, I promise. But sometimes, posts take on a life of their own, and things that are secretly crying out to be expressed find their way onto the screen in spite of what I plan to do. Funny how that happens when you write.

I guess there is still some magic left, afterall.

Absurd Cafegirl's Christian Dating Tip of the Day - Just Do It

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 01:41:00 +0000

Some of us Christians have a crazy notion that ALL forms of dating must be scrutinizingly intentional. And by all forms, I really do mean all forms. Even something as basic as a first date, over a cup of coffee, has to be something thought through with the precision of a surgeon's laser. Is he/she "right" for me? Do I like him too much? Does he like me too much? Will I give him the wrong idea? Have I guarded my heart? Is she going to think we need to get married over this cup of coffee? When do I make my intentions clear - after the first sip, or the third sip? Won't it be awkward if I don't like him/her, I don't call, and we have to see each other at the same church/young adults group/ministry event/mutual friend's party?

And then, after all that, we inevitably come to the conclusion that it's probably better if we didn't even venture to have the cup of coffee. After all, this kind of painful awkwardness can't possibly be good for our hearts - which really should be turned to God anyway. And if we were faithful, and waited, and God really wanted us to be with someone, He'd make a way.

And so we wait. And wait. And wait.

And then we complain about how Christians don't date.

Then, in a fit of motivation we join sites such as eHarmony, Christian Cafe, or crazy Facebook groups for singles. And then when someone of interest surfaces, we get back on that merry-go-round - does he like me? Do I like him? What if I like him too much? What if I don't like her and have to see her at events? What if.... oh, let's all just forget it.

My tip of the day for Christian dating is this - Just Do It. Just send her that email/Facebook message and ask her out. Call her, if you're the phone type of guy. And you girls, don't take offense if he asks you for coffee over email instead of calling - it's OK.... at least he's asking. Say yes to the slightly awkward dude who hemmed and hawed his way but managed to get out the words, "Can I take you out?" He was just nervous - it's charming, trust me. And dude over there hoping for the Godly woman who has a 10 body - SHE DOES NOT EXIST. The 7 is just as great - especially since you are closer to a 6 yourself.

Go out, go out, go out with each other. Go to coffee, go for beers, go eat bad bar food at Happy Hour. Stammer and yammer your way through the first date. Slip into your stand up routine in the middle of a conversation without warning her that's what you're doing. Spill food down your chest. Whatever you do on this date remember that first, second, third, and even fourth dates are supposed to be awkward anyway. And guess what - at least you are trying. Trying to date, trying to do something to fulfill the desires of your heart for marriage that you know you have, but won't admit.

I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

I suppose you could go for coffee and out of the blue he tells you something to the effect of he isn't an adventurous sort of guy and what he really likes is routine. And on the inside you curl up into a fetal position and rock back and forth while the next 40 years of your life going to the same movie theaters, visiting the same coffee places, eating at the same restaurants, having sex in exactly the same way, flashes before your eyes.

And then you walk home, horrified, and tell all your friends how you met the antithesis of you, and WHO doesn't like to try at least something new every once in a while? And then you all laugh about it for the next six months because you can't imagine someone who would be a worst fit for you than that. Besides, who says they only like routine on a first date anyway? And if you were really being honest, this story's kind of funny and you secretly enjoy mocking this dude a little bit too much.

And then six months later you bump into him at a party and he completely ignores you and doesn't acknowledge your existence even though you are standing RIGHT THERE in the circle of conversation he's chosen to join.

And for two seconds you feel humiliated. Then you laugh at this whole thing and craft it into a post on your blog.

That's it? If you're telling me THAT'S the worst that could happen, I say you need to have a little more guts.

Now go date.

Top 10 Cities for Single Women

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 01:56:00 +0000

Singlemindedwomen.com, an online community devoted to the needs of single women, analyzed major cities within the United States, evaluating employment opportunities, cost of living, access to travel, social opportunities, singles population, healthy lifestyles and, of course, the ratio of women to men to come up with a list of Top 10 Cities for Single Women.

Let me spare you the suspense - Los Angeles is not one of them.

Us Singletons of the Female Persuasion have often wondered, when you can't find love in one city, do you move to another where your odds might be better? Where exactly would that be? How badly do you want love? Enough to uproot your life for somewhere else? And how come in a city like LA, that boasts a population of over 3.9 million people, with a median age of 34.7, where there are just as many men as women, and about 50% of the population is single, is everyone struggling to find a date? (Don't answer. That was a rhetorical question.)

Well, with this list, the "where" question may very well be answered. Here is the list from #10 to #1. Is your city on this list? If not, would you consider moving?

#10 - Austin
#9 - Dallas
#8 - Pittsburgh
#7 - Denver
#6 - Phoenix
#5 - Philadelphia
#4 - Seattle
#3 - New York (Erm, yeah. It beat out LA)
#2 - Washington, D.C.
#1 - Boston

When Someone Is...

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 01:36:00 +0000

When you need creative ways to say.... you just f-ed me over, didn't you?

Bricks

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 06:14:00 +0000

These days, I’m carrying around a brick. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about this brick. It is red - made of whatever it is bricks are made of. It is heavy - although not too heavy for me to lift. I need two hands to lift it though, so I often feel as if I’m cradling this brick like it’s something valuable, something irreplaceable, something I must hold carefully, or risk breaking.

This particular brick has a big, pink bow around it. It was a gift of sorts, I suppose - but why someone thought it was a good gift is slightly beyond me. I have a vague recollection of who this brick is from, although I’ve been cautioned against assuming that the name in the “from” field of the gift is indeed the giver.

People keep telling me my parents sent it to me. I have my doubts. My parents aren’t the gift giving type. I guess it’s possible mom and dad suggested the brick, maybe even pointed to how to make the brick. But in the end, Mom and Dad didn’t put it in a box, take it to the post office, and buy the postage for it - of that, I am certain.

See, thing is, this brick with the big pink bow is just the latest in a series of bricks with bows I‘ve been getting. I feel like I’ve been getting these bricks for years. They show up on my door step in non-descript boxes from mysterious senders who only have first names but no return addresses. Sometimes, they’ve come via FedEx Overnight - fast and furious, thrust upon me without even the need for my signature or acknowledgement. Other times, they’ve come stealthily through the post, ground shipping, unregistered. I can tell they’ve taken years to get to me - their boxes are battered and bruised as if they’ve been bouncing back and forth in the delivery van.

In fact, I think I have a whole collection of these bricks with bows - blue bows, yellow bows, red, sparkly bows with the words “I love you“ on them. The bows are all different, as if the giver thought that the bow could somehow disguise the content of the gift - a brick, a plain, simple old brick. It’s like on Christmas morning, opening presents with everyone watching, and you already know what’s inside the box but you want, so badly, to express surprise and delight, because you know that’s really what everyone wants from you. Oh my God! A brick! I could never have guessed! It was just what I wanted.

Except it isn’t just what I wanted. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with these bricks. They sit around my house in piles. If I’m not careful, I trip over them going from room to room. I’ve learnt to watch out for them I suppose, but they’re still an eyesore - they certainly don’t go with the décor, and have never been part of my vision for the kind of home I want.

Every time I get one of these things, I ask around to see if anyone else has gotten a brick in the mail. Some people look at me funny - they don’t understand why I keep telling those around me about what I’m getting in the mail. After all, isn’t mail sort of personal? We don’t want to hear about your bills, your notices from the credit bureau, your love notes, or your bricks with bows around them.

Ever so often, someone will deny ever so fervently that they’ve never even heard of such a thing as a brick with a bow coming in the mail. In fact, it’s so ludicrous to even conceive of the idea of mystery brick givers that I must be making the whole story up. Or I must somehow have done something of great folly to get myself involved in some kind of brick-of-the-month club - like a twisted version of Harry and David’s Fruit-of-the-Month club, only less useful and less tasty.

Occasionally, someone will say that they’ve gotten one of these bricks with bows before. Fascinated, I ask what they do with these bricks, for I secretly hope they know of some never-before-revealed method of brick removal and disposal. They look at my face, perhaps searching to see if I am, indeed, a fellow brick receiver. Perhaps they are looking to see if I understand what it feels like to see that package sitting at the door. If I understand that sinking feeling - half knowing what is in the box, half hoping it’s merely a poorly marked shipment from Amazon.com that you really wanted. If I understand that confusion of getting something you have no idea what to do with. If I understand the frustration of having something that is remarkably difficult to dispose of.

Something flashes across their face that I can’t read. In a moment, a decision is made. Oh, we just stick them in the garage, they say, shrugging their shoulders, we don‘t let the bricks bother us. They don’t look me in the eye when they say this. In fact, they don’t ever really look at me afterwards.

I wonder about these bricks, sitting silently in these garages. Are they packed away neatly in containers? Are they labeled by date of arrival? What kind of container has the strength and security to hold that many bricks? Just how big are these garages? Are they overflowing with boxes upon boxes of bricks? Will there be a time the boxes become too worn, the garages become too small, and these bricks come tumbling out, burying those around them?

For now, my bricks are sitting in piles in my living room, my dining room, my kitchen, my bedroom. I find myself unable to put these into boxes, stuff them into closets, organize them efficiently, or hide them. There are just too many, and I just don’t have the fortitude. I’m not sure brick organization and storage is my strong suit anyway. I’d much rather keep searching - maybe someone in my future will know how to dispose of them. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn how to build with them.

My Baby Is Four

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 07:05:00 +0000

Today marks the fourth anniversary of The Absurd and Amazing Adventures of Cafe Girl.

I started this blog as an exercise in writing. At the time, I wanted to write, had written all my life, but since graduating college, had not shown anyone any of my work. In fact, I hadn't been working at all. Stuck in some kind of a tangle of fear, doubt, and just plain lack of discipline, I scribbled sentences and paragraphs in numerous notebooks and journals, but couldn't string together a cohesive piece, one that told a story - my story, someone else's story, any story at all.

When I first hit "publish," I did so with fear and trembling. I didn't want to be one of those bloggers who only had one post, ever. I straddled between worrying that I had nothing to say, to worrying that all I had to say was inane. Ultimately, it came down to this - was what I had to say worth saying and, more importantly, would anyone think I was worth listening to?

Over the years I've grown to write in a way that's personal, deeply intimate, and, in many ways, exposing of myself. I've explored my thoughts on faith, on forgiveness, on love, on food, on dating. I've opened the door on my depression, my breakups, my hopes and my fears. I'm not sure I started the blog with the intent to lay it all out there, but I've certainly learned the value of emotional openness through writing this blog. In so many ways, this blog is that bridge between where I am and where I want to be. I want to be this open in my day-to-day life, to be articulate, to say how I feel without an overwhelming fear that others will judge and reject me because of it. But life, being what it is, doesn't always lend itself kindly to emotional honesty. And I don't always have the strength to battle the things within myself that hold me back.

So I practice on this blog, formulating thoughts and opinions, putting them out in the world. There's a certain safety with this - I have the cover of being Absurd Cafe Girl. I can monitor comments and delete those that are openly hostile. I can state without having someone argue with me the moment these words leave my head, or as in this case, my keyboard. But there is also a certain risk with this. These posts, once out there, float on the Internet, open for interpretation by those who know me and those who do not. Those who read may wonder if I'm writing about them. Those who don't read the blog wonder if I write about them anyway.

At the end of the day, this blog has become an object lesson for a very important principle in my life. The world will always have an opinion about me whether I have an opinion about it or not. So I'd rather have an opinion and share it openly with the world, rather than be silent and let the world dictate to me the opinion I should have.

Nowadays, I write because I want to. Because I have something to say. Because I sincerely believe there are folks out there who are waiting for someone to say the things I do, to make a space where it's okay to talk about dating, about being single, about being sad, about being lonely, about being frustrated at hope deferred, about wondering where God is in all of this, about being hopeful anyway.

And because sometimes, absurd adventures are just too good not to share.

You

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 07:28:00 +0000

You were my first love. I was nine at the time, and you were a two-dimensional cartoon, but I was convinced that you were the type of man I should want - muscular, exceptionally strong, able to ride a fancy horse. I would spend years trying to find you outside the cartoon world, having crushes on real life versions of you, brawny, with fancy rides and equally two-dimensional personalities. It would be many years before I learned that while nine is a magical age, it is not the age of reason.

You were my most intimate relationship. You were my closest companion for years, wrapping yourself close to my body, making sure there was no room for others. I let you stay because you had always been there - I didn't know a life without you. You were there for my most formative years, shaping my perceptions of self, and others of me. Because of you, I learned to be smarter, funnier, and quicker than every one else. For that I can be grateful, I suppose. But you also shielded me from love - the love of others and the love of self. You lied to me and made me believe that you were an integral part of who I am. It would take me years to leave you, shedding our relationship bit by bit. Even after you were gone, it would be even more years before I recognized myself apart from you.

You were my first real relationship. Though you came late in my life, with you I covered enough relationship ground to make up for never dating in my teens and 20s. In our 14 months, I was that infatuated teenage girl, then that long distance girlfriend, and then that girlfriend betrayed. Because I didn't know better, I was convinced that when we talked about how much space you needed, or how you didn't like to hear that I missed you, or how you liked your goodbyes clean and swift, we were just negotiating an adult relationship, not slowing ending an immature fantasy. Because of you I learned to listen between the lines, to what is unsaid rather than said.

You were my moment of folly. I mistakenly put on one of my favorite CDs while making out with you in my car. When you disappeared into the great chasm known as, “People Who Don’t Call” it would be many months before I could listen to that CD again without shuddering. From you I would gain the invaluable gift of the Date Horror Story. You’ve provided hours of endless entertainment for all my friends. Fear not, when I tell your story, I don’t come off looking too great either.

You were my longest lasting relationship. I was with you for four years, giving you my best even though I knew in the back of my head nothing short of perfection would please you. I spent holidays and vacations with you, blowing of friends, making excuses for you to my family. Even when I was supposed to be having “me time” I’d obsessively check my e-mail in case you “needed something.” In our time together, I lost ten pounds, lost my confidence, and lost my self. I think I was so dependent on you because you were the only one I had at the time. You would eventually break my heart by choosing someone else. At first, I felt betrayed - how could you after all these years and all I've done for you? But these days I find myself relieved - you are someone else's problem now. Let them handle your incessant need for attention. Because of you, I know the importance of diversifying, not putting all my eggs in one basket, if you will. In fact, I keep a roster of those just like you, reminding myself there's always someone just around the corner.

You were my most significant relationship and also the most deceptive. You encapsulated the phrase, "Didn't see that coming" in every sense of the phrase. I didn't see you coming to find me; I didn't see you preparing to leave. Being with you was like cruising along in a car, happy and free and then suddenly being pushed out into a ditch to bleed to death. And I never saw it coming that you could, till this day, still make my heart ache. Because of you I know a lot more about depression, a lot less about love. But more importantly, you've left me to wrestle with the meaning of grace and the practice of forgiveness. And I have grown in integrity because of it.

You were my first experience with pure physical attraction. When you walked into the room, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you. Something akin to, “Me. You. Here. Now.” flashed across my mind. You were everything that I imagined pure bad boy to be - a musician, a lover of fancy, fast cars. You surprised me by asking me out. You surprised me again by being so human, so tender, and even a little unsure if I would like you. What you didn' t know at the time, what you might never have the chance to know, is that whatever chemistry you sparked in me broke me of a six-month depression. For that you'll always have a special place in my heart. Because of you I know I have the capacity for great physical desire. Because of you I will settle for nothing less.

You held my face and whispered words that healed my heart. It was all part of your plan, you said, ever so cryptically; ever so mysteriously. I never quite knew what the plan was, except I suspect it involved making me very happy for a very long time. Because of you, I smile a lot more.

You were every man and no man. I met you at a coffee shop; I met you in a bar. We went to the movies; we had pizza together. You've told me stories; you've laughed at my jokes. You've frightened me; you've bored me. I've genuinely liked you; I've felt nothing for you. You've made me savvier about conversation and picking up on red flags. Because of you, I know everything there is to know about escape routes and will not hesitate to climb out of a bathroom window if necessary.

I am waiting for you, sometimes with impatience, sometimes with excitement, but always with great amusement. Everyone is convinced you are just around the corner. I am convinced you got distracted at Bob's Big Boy. Many have told me what you are supposed to be like - how tall, (very), how smart (extremely), how fit (somewhat), how much you should love me (enough, but not too much). I've seen enough traces, enough signs, enough hints that I know you are a possibility. I've also seen enough disappointment, enough frustration, enough heart break to know you are not a promise. Because of you I've learned that hope cannot be a band aid for disappointment but must be a consistent state of consciousness, unmoved by circumstance, or ironically, even emotion. In waiting, I know I will be delighted to find you, but that I must also be satisfied without you. This is perhaps the most valuable lesson of all.

And as I wait, I rest in the knowledge that it was all of you that set me on the path to that one and only you. I rest knowing that because of all of you I am growing - growing in my ability to feel -to feel compassion, to feel empathy, to feel love. Growing in my ability to give- to give grace, to give forgiveness, to give of myself. I rest knowing that when you, my one you, finally arrives, I will be fully ready to welcome you into my forever.

Why I Date

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 05:29:00 +0000

Honest confession: when I tell Christians that I am actively and regularly going on dates with different people, sometimes concurrently, I cringe a little inside because I think they will judge me. I picture them looking at me and thinking, "Oh, this woman does not trust God to bring her a spouse. Look, she's dating. ALOT OF PEOPLE AT ONCE." I imagine them shaking their heads, wanting to say to me that I should be patient, that I shouldn't be "looking," "searching," "pursuing" or whatever other synonym that can be used for "desperate." Clearly, all of this just goes on in my head. No one who knows and loves me has ever insinuated once that I'm desperate, or that this kind of casual, getting-to-know-you by going to coffee or drinks is unhealthy, bad, or worse, unbiblical.

To be clear, I'm by no means the Harlot of West LA. It's not as if there's a line of men pounding down my door, asking me out. But they do come around, and they do ask, and I do go. I go without knowing them very well. I go without knowing if there'll be a connection. I go without any clue at all whether they are "The One." I sometimes even go without knowing where they really stand on Jesus. And, wait for it... sometimes I go out with them AGAIN. I go with the mindset that it's coffee, I don't know them very well, and if they are weird, I'll just drink the coffee really, really fast and then leave. Or if I'm weird, they'll drink THEIR coffee really, really fast and then leave.

There's not supposed to be a lot of emotional investment with dating like this, and it's supposed to be a lot of fun. No one is supposed to be taking their clothes off, and everyone is supposed to be able to back away at any time, no harm, no foul. Supposedly.

I'm finding dating to be a perilous proposition that leaves me feeling like Goldilocks, on the quest for 'just right' -- not too young, not too old, not too fat, not too thin, just the right kind of Christian. Just the right 'fit' if you will. This fit, like the porridge of just the right temperature, the bed of the right softness and the chair of just the right size, is pretty elusive. Everyone has an opinion about 'just right.' There are schools of thought that claim, you'll just know when it's 'just right,' other schools of thought that say there is no such thing as 'just right' and yet other schools of thought that insist I shouldn't settle for anything less than 'just right.' What everyone can agree on, however, is that no one quite knows how to get to 'just right' or even 'close enough.' So like Goldilocks, I'm left to taste a few porridges too hot, or too cold, and sit in a few chairs too big or too small. But since I am also a follower of Christ, I guess I won't be trying out any beds anytime soon.

The story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears traditionally ends in one of two ways - Goldilocks runs from the Three Bears' house, terrified, never to return. Or Goldilocks ends up being eaten by the bears. And sometimes, I feel like Goldilocks - wanting to flee from dating, screaming and terrified, never to return. Other times, dating does feel remarkably like being mauled by bears. In light of all this terror, why then do I date?

Because I would like to eventually to be married. Sure, there are some people who never need to date and their future spouse just shows up in their circle one day and they "just know" he/she is the one. We love those people and wish them well. We also hate those people for setting up an impossible fairy tale that leaves the every day guy/gal disappointed when Mr/Miss Right doesn't just show up.

Because I don't want to marry the UPS guy (although the one that comes to my office IS awfully cute). Or the Fedex guy. Or the mail man. And those are the only dudes who are going to show up at my door if I don't just get out there, meet people, and go on dates. In many ways, dating is just a practical way to get to know more guys. Besides, I don't have the money to keep ordering from Amazon anyway.

Because there are only five (ok, maybe seven) single men in who are age appropriate in my circle of friends and I've already had a relationship with one of them. And it didn't end well. And they all know each other, some of them are even close friends. I'm the queen of being open and honest and all, but that is just too weird. Besides, I don't want to see any of my exes dating one of my friends, so I think I'll spare everyone the awkwardness of that and move on to another pool of people.

Dating is highly entertaining. Oh. My. God. It is fall down, rolling on the floor, laughing your ass off funny. The situations I find myself in defy all sense, logic, and sometimes, even the boundaries of personal hygiene. Friends look at me in wide-eyed wonderment and ask, "How do you get into these situations?" What can I say? Absurdity follows me where ever I go. And, as I always like to say, "At least it'll be a good story." And boy, do I have some good stories.

Dating exposes me to different types of people and increases my compassion for those around me. Alright, sometimes. Sometimes, I'm just stunned with incredulity at the sheer assinineness of the human population, men and women alike. Dating, however, challenges me to exercise compassion far more often. I'm reminded that my dates are people - with their own set of heartaches, brokenness, pain, and histories. I actually find myself asking the question: What Would Jesus Do? What would Jesus say to the young man who says to me that he used to be a believer once and Christianity just wasn't working? What would Jesus say to the not-so-young man who offered to show me the delights of losing my virginity and then in the next breath also admitted that he no longer trusts his own judgement because he'd been burned so badly before? Would Jesus scream, "Get thee behind me Satan?" Or would He offer compassion and thoughtful discussion? Would He tell a parable? I don't really know.

Dating teaches me to stand up for myself, when to say yes and when to say no (and sometimes even, HELL NO). If I've learnt nothing but this, it'd be worth it: I need to stand up for myself. Not in the selfish, me only, my needs, my wants, my desires kind of way. But more in the if someone says something about you or believes something about you that is blatantly untrue, it is very important to kindly, and clearly state your case and then hold your ground. Because at the end of the day, no one can truly know your heart except you and your Maker. Dude Over There can never truly know your heart - even if he were the greatest Christian in the world. Why? Because he isn't you. And most importantly, HE ISN'T GOD.

Dating triggers areas where I still have emotional baggage and gives me the opportunity to examine and deal with my issues of rejection, body image, and judgement. There's nothing more sobering than realizing that while I fear that men reject me because I'm not slim enough, or pretty enough, I sometimes do the same thing by rejecting guys who, at first glance, aren't all that physically attractive. Also sobering - the realization that if I chose to, I could spend the rest of my life never quite letting anyone into the deepest, most vulnerable parts of my heart for fear that they will reject me when they see just what goes on in there. That sort of a life would be safe, peaceful even. But it certainly would be incredibly lonely.

Sometimes, dating shows me that it's impossible for everyone to like me, and that's ok. This one is a hard pill to swallow, especially if the reason someone doesn't enjoy me is innate to who I am, such as the way I meander around topics to look at every angle, or my sense of childlike wonder about the world. Or because I like puppets. You'd be surprised at the number of people who find my love of puppets bizarre. And creepy. The hardest part for me is that this kind of rejection feels so much like a rejection of my person-hood - who God made me to be. What I've had to learn is that it's not that I'm unlikeable in general, it's just that I'm not likable to that particular person. And one person (or two, three, four, or five) does not the entire world make.

And because, sometimes in dating, you meet very hot drummers who, with nothing more than one look, remind you that it's possible to feel fun, sexy, and feminine again. And you get to ride in their very big, very loud, very old, classic cars with a subwoofer under the passenger seat. And really, who wouldn't like that?

Why don't I date?

Because it can be exhausting to open your life to strangers on a regular basis. It's not as if I share all my deepest, darkest secrets with a person the first time I meet them, but I've often shared things I'm passionate about on a first date. Again, it's scary to do so, because even in the most basic ways, I'm putting some of my heart out there for someone to accept or reject. It's perfectly appropriate and very advisable to be yourself when dating, but boy is it a challenge to show who you really are to strangers on a regular basis.

Because sometimes dating is like having Grandstand Seating at the Parade of Wierdos. Pay attention, men and women: whomever told you that it was appropriate to write long emails about how you two were "meant to be" before you've even met, needs to be fired. Also inappropriate: declaring your undying love after a first date. Over e-mail. With no sign of a second date. Please also do not ask, 45 minutes into the first date, how do you like me? Because you will not like hearing the truth, which is, "I like you as much as I can in 45 minutes of knowing you" or worse, "Actually, I don't like you that much right now." And whatever you do, please, please, please don't lick. Now, to be fair, I have probably marched in a few Parade of Wierdos of my own. So I'm not judging here. I'm saying, there's a lot of strange characters out there.

Dating, for all it's fun and games, has an immensely dark side. Sometimes, dating exposes me to those who have a specific agenda, who want things from me that I don't want to give. And I'm not even talking about the "All guys want is to sleep with you" cliche. There are some out there who want to pull emotion and information from me, without ever showing the same level of exposure themselves. There are others who don't listen, or respect my requests, those whose prime concern is their satisfaction, at a cost to mine. There are still others who want to move emotionally too fast for my comfort level and are insulted by my hesitation. In those times, I feel tossed around like a Raggedy Anne Doll. Those people are frightening to me. In dating, I meet these people more often than I like. It reminds me that the world IS a harsh and cruel place, and that as much as I hate it, I need to be wary.

Sometimes, I look at my life as it is, and it seems perfectly fine. I have all the freedom in the world to do whatever I want, whenever I want. I have friends who love me, a God who loves me, and a life that has infinite possibilities. Given this scenario, do I really need to be married? It's not like I live in the era of Charlotte Bronte, where single women are doomed to being a governess in a damp, English countryside manor and eventually die of tuberculosis. I have a job, I have a 401K, with some planning, I don't really need a man for economic comfort, or social safety. In fact, adding a man into the equation may very well cause my well-planned, well-developed life to fall apart. Gasp in horror all you want, single or married, you know the thought has crossed your mind before. In this day and age, marriage is a choice. And if I'm perfectly honest with myself, there are some days I could very well choose not to be married.

And now I turn the question to you, why do you date? And why don't you?

Facebook and Me

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Sun, 04 Apr 2010 00:02:00 +0000

As of today, my blog will have its own Fan Page on Facebook. For all of you who have been relying on my Facebook updates to find new blog updates, you can now be a fan of The Absurd and Amazing Adventures of Cafe Girl and get the same blog post notifications, as well as all other absurd, and if I say so myself, amazing thoughts. You can also comment, start discussions and post thoughts of your own about adventures, absurd, amazing or otherwise.

Having my blog on my personal Facebook page melds my personal and blogging life together, something I find myself less and less comfortable with. This delicate balance of honesty, vulnerability, and downright exposure on my blog is something I'm still exploring. As I learn what the right balance of this is for me, I'd like to be able to feel some level of safety. And with anonymity, does come a sense of safety. Even as I write this, it doesn't feel logical, since a number of you already know who I am. But it instinctively feels like the right thing to do moving forward.

To that end you will find, on the right of the screen, a Facebook fan button. One click will let you fan The Absurd and Amazing Adventures of Cafe Girl on Facebook. Feel free to enjoy and spread it to your friends. Hopefully, we'll have a gathering place for you to enjoy, experience and share absurd and amazing adventures of your own.

Engaged

noreply@blogger.com (Absurdcafegirl) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 19:05:00 +0000

It's finally happened. The question has been popped. The ring has been given and accepted.

I'm engaged. He's wonderful, if somewhat mysterious. The whole thing came as a surprise, to say the least.

I am gloriously happy. We have an October wedding planned. Here's a picture of the ring and a link to our registry. More to follow.