The Absurd and Amazing Adventures of Cafe Girl

Things I Never Thought I'd Worry About

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 20:57:00 +0000

Granted, this was an April Fool's post from one of my go-to wedding blogs Offbeatbride.com, I have to admit, it hit a note for me. I do worry that my wedding is too "wedding." I don't really want the white tablecloths, chair covers, and tall centerpieces. I wanted it to be quirky enough that it would raise a couple of eyebrows. (Yes, I'm THAT girl.)

But well, turns out, I'm pretty offbeat. Because our wedding:

Is outdoors
Has cupcakes
And a candy buffet
And maybe, just maybe a photobooth

We also pondered and talked about:

Food trucks
Ice Cream

And I'll be way over the 215 DIY hours on the chart (800 paper flowers, anyone???)

Saying Yes to the Dress

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 21:37:00 +0000

Two things I've learned during my engagement - wedding dresses need to breathe. And yes, there is such as thing as a dead, lifeless wedding dress.

I know that a wedding dress can "die" because right before I went shopping for a wedding dress, I became obsessed with TLC's Say Yes To The Dress. In one episode, a tearful bride has to shop for a new dress weeks before her wedding because her seamstress sent her first dress to a dry cleaner who put the dress into the washer, and basically, killed the thing. I learned that a dead wedding dress looks wilted, doesn't have the form and structure of a wedding dress, and is basically unwearable. You apparently can never, ever put your dress in a washer. Ever.

I know that a wedding dress needs to breathe because I did some online research about how to store a wedding dress before your wedding. Apparently, you're supposed to wrap your dress in a white sheet, and lay it flat in one of those garment boxes, and then store it in a cool, dark place. But only if your dress is made of expensive lace. Your polyester dress, however, can hang where ever. What the Bridal Internets all agree upon is this - your dress should be protected by a breathable garment bag. And it should stay there until you take it to get altered. And then after that, keep it safe until the wedding day. Do not, under any circumstance take it out of the bag before, and put it on "for fun" or to show your friends and relatives. Do not let anyone touch the thing until your wedding day lest it get dirty, smells like smoke, or gets otherwise damaged. Do not even look at it slant-eyed because at any given moment, that dress, the dress you loved and paid half your life savings for, could wilt and be damaged. (Ok, not really, but the Internet sure made it sound like that.)

Of all the things I had to invest in for the wedding, I have been the most conflicted about my wedding dress. On the one hand, I hated the idea of investing in a dress I would only wear for 8 hours, and then would go into a box, never to be seen again, saved for the daughter(s) I may or may not have. I was unsure about how much to put towards such a dress, torn between the idea that this was supposed to be a dress for "the biggest day of your life" and my greater desire to invest my time, energy and resources to putting together a kick ass reception that would be enjoyed by all.

On the other hand, so much of this time of engagement and wedding planning is also about "the experience" - the experience of being a bride-to-be, the experience of trying to join two lives. And, whether or not I liked it, the experience of putting on a wedding dress. I feared that if I didn't at least try a wedding dress on, and consider wearing one, that I would always regret missing the experience.

In the end, I chose to give shopping for a wedding dress a go because I didn't want to regret never having the experience of wedding dress shopping. Whether I chose to buy an actual wedding dress, or walk down the aisle in a store-bought sundress was beside the point. In the end, it was about having the experience - which I'm told is supposed to be "once in a lifetime."

I was terrified of being sold to, so I picked a bridal big box store, rather than a bridal boutique. All the so-called "cons" of the bridal big box - lack of personal attention, your bridal consultant serving two brides at once, being herded in and out - were precisely what made me comfortable. I didn't want attention lavished on me. I wanted to be bunch of dresses and then to be left to my own devices. I wanted the bridal consultant to be just a little bit distracted so that I could look at myself in the mirror, feel wonderful (or ridiculous), and take my time.

And that was exactly what happened. My kind, but distracted, bridal consultant didn't bat an eye when I told her my budget. In fact, she said - oh, that's going to be fine. She brought me six or seven dresses, and, other than helping to get me into the dresses, basically left me alone. In fact, I even got to sit around in a couple of dresses waiting for her - which is invaluable because being able to sit comfortably in your dress (to you know, rest and eat dinner) is really important.

I haven't been privy to many of my girl friends' wedding dress shopping experiences. But I do remember, post college, I was the maid of honor to a dear friend. And the moment she found her dress, she turned to us, teary eyed and said, "I feel like a bride." The memory stuck with me for over ten years.

Now, obsessively watching TLC's Say Yes To The Dress, I've noticed that the moment these brides knew the dress was "the one" was when they felt most like a bride. It was the moment they felt beautiful and, more often than not, there were tears. Before I went to my bridal appointment I wondered - would I have this moment? Or would I make the dress decision like I made most of my wedding decisions, with some emotion, but a lot of practicality, and with a keen focus on my budget?

In the end, the moment "I knew" came subtly. We'd tried on all seven dresses and narrowed it down to two - one of which was about twice the cost of the other. I was sitting around in one dress, waiting for the bridal consultant to come back so she could unzip me, and I was talking to one of my bridal party. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, dress, veil and all and I thought, "Oh god, I look like a bride."

I wouldn't have called that moment magical, or beautiful. It was more a moment of slight terror and surprise. But it was the moment I knew - this is the dress.

Of course, this was the dress that was more expensive of the two, and I couldn't bring myself to buy it. The practical side of me wanted to keep shopping to see if I could get a better deal. The practical side of me knew I should sleep on it. On the other hand, if I bought the dress, I'd be done. I would have THE dress. I could move on to some other wedding planning task.

It took a phone call to Guillermo to help me with a decision. I told him my dilemma, tried to explain what each dress was like, and then he asked the question, "Can you send me a picture?"

(Altogether now - *GASP OF HORROR*)

Yes, I sent him the pictures. Yes, he saw me in the wedding dress. And he picked the same one that I thought was "The Dress." I was relieved. My worst fear was that I would pick a dress and when I walked down the aisle he'd think, "What the hell is she wearing?" We'd made all the major decisions about this wedding jointly, even the picking of the engagement ring, and it didn't seem right to me to make this dress decision alone.

When he said yes to the dress, my emotions kicked in. It moved me to think that he considered me beautiful in this dress - that something I enjoyed would also bring enjoyment to him. When I cried in the store, everyone thought it was because I'd found the dress. In reality, it was because Guillermo thought I was beautiful.

So the dress now hangs on the back of my bedroom door, in a breatheable garment bag, away from the sun, from prying eyes, and from fashion shows for friends and relatives.

Tradition often dictates many things about engagements and weddings - he's supposed to pick the engagement ring, and I'm supposed to pick the dress. Both engagement ring and dress are supposed to be a surprise - something that the other will automatically love even though they have not been privy to the choice. But I'm not sure how often that's true to our life. Guillermo wasn't sure he could hit a home run with my engagement ring, and truth be told, I wasn't so sure what kind of dress he would think I look good in. In the end, the tradition didn't work for us, and we chose a different way.

In so many ways, this upcoming wedding is a reflection of our mutual yesses - first to each other, and then to each aspect of the wedding. Guillermo may not look it, but that man has opinions about what he wants in this wedding - how he'd like it to feel, and how he'd like our guests to be taken care of. And so, each aspect of the day has needed both my yes, as well as his.

It's my hope that this planning process is the beginning of how we make all our major decisions in our lives together - with some thought for the other and ending in some form of a mutual yes.

About Those Puppets

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 27 Dec 2012 08:11:00 +0000

So, before we continue, a little update that will help put this post in context.

I got engaged, you guys! It happened on November 25, 2012 in a way that surprised and touched me. It's a great (and absurd) story that I'll share with you in another post. In the meantime, wedding planning has begun.

To my surprise, I've found that part of the wedding planning process is not only about dreaming of what might be but also about unearthing dreams long ago buried.

In this spirit, I bring you today's post about a dream long-buried that got resurrected again in the last months. And now, about those puppets...

I was in college when I first saw the Ventriloquist Dummy Choir on Late Night with Conan O'Brien.

The Ventriloquist Choir is just what it sounds like - ventriloquists and their dummies, dressed in choir gowns, singing. It's bizarre. It's hilarious. It's unspeakably cool. Especially if you love puppets. And I do love puppets.

I joked back then that I would get the Ventriloquist Dummy Choir to perform at my wedding. It garnered a laugh from my friends and some strange looks from acquaintances. The more incredulous gasps of "Oh my god, not at your wedding???" I heard, the more I pushed the envelope. The Dummy choir could sing me down the aisle. They could provide background music to the lighting of the unity candle. Hey, they could even sing our first dance as a newly wed couple.

I kept pushing the idea because it was funny. But also because I was so convinced that I'd never walk down the aisle - and so it was safe plan a ridiculous, absurd and goofy wedding. Complete with puppets. That sang. Over the years, as I got into serious relationships that could have potentially ended in marriage, I casually tossed out the Dummy Ventriloquist Choir in conversations with my then-boyfriends. By that point a choir of puppets had morphed into a whole puppet wedding - with puppets that looked like me and my husband-to-be.

Shortly after such conversations, the relationships would end. I don't think these relationships ended solely due to my fascination with puppets. But perhaps I was subconsciously throwing out the idea of a puppet wedding as a litmus test of whether those men could share my ridiculous sense of humor and tolerate the absurd. Most of them couldn't. One of them found my love of puppets incredibly creepy and half expected me to have puppets hidden away in a closet somewhere, ready to spring on him at any given moment. (For the record, I do not own any puppets.)

After the Dude and I got engaged, as a joke, I typed in "puppet wedding" into a Google search. Much to my surprise, a blog post popped up on offbeatbride.com, a wedding blog I've come to love. The couple featured did have a puppet wedding - complete with puppet look-alikes of the whole bridal party.

And it turns out, puppets and weddings are more common than you think. There's a whole set of Offbeat Bride posts tagged with "puppets." One couple got married in the middle of the Million Puppet March, another got married at the Jim Henson Studios in Los Angeles with actual custom bride and groom muppets.

I guess I wasn't so absurd and ridiculous afterall.

Sadly, there will be no Ventriloquist Dummy Choir at our wedding. Not because the Dude objects, but because I don't think the troupe still performs. Besides, even if they did, I'm pretty sure they are out of our budget range. I'm not, however, ruling out the possibility of puppets at our wedding yet...

Since they won't be singing at our wedding, here's a YouTube clip of the Ventriloquist Dummy Choir for your viewing pleasure.

http://youtu.be/nmpMvEyCNFQ

PS: In case you were wondering if I ever told the Dude I wanted a puppet a wedding while we were dating - I did. As a testament to what kind of a man he is, we made a visit to Puppets on the Pier at Pier 39 in San Francisco on Christmas Eve. We even jokingly picked out potential puppet versions of ourselves. That's how I know I'm loved.

Love

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 21 Aug 2012 04:05:00 +0000

When the band breaks into a rendition of The Beatles' All You Need Is Love, I lean over and whisper in his ear, "Do you bristle when you hear that?" I am teasing, of course. Teasing him, because what he does for a living is listen to people and help them get to the root of the issues they are faced with. Precisely the kind of issues that would make one believe that all you needed in this life was love, or money, or food, or booze, or sex.

I am also doing what those in his business would call projecting. Because, of course, if I were in his shoes I would certainly bristle at the idea that all you needed was love - no matter how brilliantly and tunefully The Beatles put it. And surely if I would oppose, why wouldn't he?

He laughs. One of those big, warm laughs, which trails into a smile.

"There are many types of love," he says, "Love has many depths."

I narrow my eyes at him a little, fighting a losing battle against a forming smile. My attempt at flirty banter melts away. I am bested. I find myself somewhere between suspicious and impressed. Suspicious, because his words are elegant and romantic. Impressed, because his words are insightful and somehow ring true.

This is when he reaches for my hand and pulls me close.

I snuggle into his chest. I smile. I smile because I know he's somehow managed to get to me. For whatever reason, in this moment at least, he's said exactly the right words to me.

He's somehow managed to find his way to the door of this fortress where I keep my heart. He's run through the forest, he's swam through the mote. He's avoided the alligators. He stands at the door way of the fortress.

And, for whatever reason, in that moment at least, I choose to let him in.

Why I'd Gave Dating (at Church) A Chance

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 07:58:00 +0000

Full disclaimer: The Dude-I-Am-Dating was not part of my church community when we first met. In fact, when we met, I hadn't dated anyone from my community since the last serious and painful relationship. Like the men I mentioned in my last post, I was meeting singles outside of my church circle through online dating, mutual friends, and an inter-church singles group.

Throughout that season of dating, I found myself relieved. I was relieved because I could date in perfect anonymity. No one from my community was really watching. I dated quietly and without much fanfare. A small group of women in my life knew I was "out there" in the market. Months later actual dates would turn into hilarious stories told over breakfasts or happy hours, with cryptic references surfacing on Facebook and this blog. I'd tell these stories as if I was the main character in an urban chick lit novel. I figured if, by some horrible twist of life, one of the men I ever went out with found my Facebook or blog, I would invoke the all persons fictitious disclaimer - any resemblance to persons living or dead was purely coincidental.

As relieved as I was, I was also incredibly lonely. It wasn't just that I walked my dating life alone, away from the support of the larger community. It was also that I consistently met strangers. Sure, occasionally, I would get set up with a friend of a friend, but for the most part I was meeting men from whereabouts unknown, un-vetted by anyone other than an algorithm designed by a dating site web developer.

It wasn't bad, per se. It wasn't even damaging. It was just exhausting. Over and over again, I found myself comparing these early relationships with those I'd had when I dated within my community. And as awkward and as painful as dating within community can be, I found myself yearning for it. Here's why:

Reason #1: Community (pain in the ass as it is) is a hedge of protection.
And I don't mean in the community-watches-us-so-we-won't-have-sex way. I mean that community catches us when we fall. And in dating, we tend to fall quite often.

We, both men and women, fall when we are careless with the hearts of those we date, when we make fun of them when we should lift them up, when we have unrealistic expectations of the opposite sex. Community catches and protects us from ourselves when our girlfriends remind us that he isn't about to dump us because we had a fight. Or that we should seriously consider having a discussion with him about some needlessly harsh remarks he made.

Community challenges us to be better daters, to serve those we date, to be gracious to them, to remember that they are God's children too. It's far too easy to be selfish and judgmental towards those we date when Community isn't there to gently call us out.

Of course, let's not forget - community mourns with us when the relationship ends. They'll always be a comfort whether or not they've been privy to your dating life. But if they've walked with the two of you in relationship, they can comfort you more authentically and speak to both of your hurts. This kind of authentic, collective mourning helps us not to see the other as enemy - which, while satisfying post break-up, does nothing to heal the heart.

Reason #2: You can't hide ugly at church, nor should you have to.
Community, if done well and authentically, is meant to reveal both our strengths and our weaknesses in a safe environment. I think what makes dating within community so incredibly frightening, yet incredibly fruitful, is that our weaknesses are on display for our potential partners to see very early on. This completely defies all conventional dating practices of putting on your dating game face and showing only your best, and most agreeable side to your dating partners. Sharing a community forces a level of openness and honesty about who you are that is a great foundation for the openness and honesty that is to come in marriage.

Don't fall into the trap of thinking that if someone knows you "too well" you automatically fall into the "friend zone." That's for the emotionally juvenile. Ask any married person, and they will tell you that their love, intimacy and sexual chemistry grows when they are open and vulnerable with one another.

Admittedly, being open is an incredible risk. Even though I've always been part of faith communities that have encouraged me to be vulnerable with my struggles - whether it's doubt, or grief, or fear or anger, I often feared that showing my weaknesses would frighten away potential dates in my community.

Sometimes, it did. But more often than not, openness led men to see the type of woman I was and was becoming. The men that did approach me already knew something of my heart and my character. It made that dreaded "first date," where there's usually the struggle to find something to talk about, much easier. There was already a foundation of openness, honesty, and some level of friendship.

For me, personally, I find seeing a man who is open and honest about who he is, and where he is currently at, extremely attractive. I would dare say most women would agree that a vulnerable man is a sexy man.

Reason #3: Sharing a community of faith increases the likelihood that you share the same theology.
I re-wrote this one over and over, trying not to come off sounding like a narrow-minded, conservative fuddy-duddy. I'm not sure I can. What I'm trying to say here is that sometimes, a difference in theology can a deal breaker. Maybe for most, it won't matter, but for some, me included, it matters a great deal because what we believe affects how we live our lives as single people and as married people. And when I talk about differences in theology, I mean big things - like egalitarianism vs. complementarianism or cessationism versus continuationism.

I won't speak for the entire Christian population, but as a woman who believes that men and women are equal, and therefore women can also hold spiritual leadership roles, and who also believes that the Holy Spirit and all spiritual gifts (even the scary ones) are alive and well today, I'm not going to be able to marry someone who believes the exact opposite. Nor, I suspect, do men that believe the exact opposite want to marry a woman like me. It's true that we all evolve as people and our views may shift over time. But if I'm pretty set in these two theological view points, why would I expect that my dates shift in their view points?

Also, maybe these issues don't come up in day-to-day dating or married life and we could live for years perfectly happy with our differences. But when we have daughters, you bet it'll affect how we raise her. What if she's been gifted to teach and lead both men and women? Would we never even see those gifts because one half of our family doesn't believe that women can be called by God to lead all kinds of people? What if my daughter feels like God is leading her to be in some sort of spiritual leadership role over both men and women? What then?

In my season of dating outside of my community, my greatest dilemma wasn't where to find Christian guys. It was finding the kind of Christian guy who shared similar viewpoints on foundational theological issues. Turns out there a quite a few Christian men in Los Angeles. The ones that shared my theological views constituted a tiny subset. The men in my community may not always share my theological views, but there's a higher percentage of them that do, compared to any other place.

Reason #5: Sharing your faith community is going to have to happen eventually anyway.
Maybe dating in community is awkward, and strange, and feels like you're in a fishbowl. But, if you date someone long enough, and if you're serious about "becoming one," you're going to have to merge your communities of faith at some point. It's not like you can keep going to different churches forever.

Maybe some of you are going to wait till you're engaged to start going to the same church. But that's probably not very practical, since part of the journey from dating to marriage is being part of each other's faith journeys. And it's really difficult to try and be a part of someone's journey if you're driving in a different car. So at some point, after you start dating exclusively, and before there's a promise of marriage, you'll find yourselves having the discussion about being in the same community of faith.

I personally think that as we grow more emotionally intimate in our dating relationship, we actually crave worshiping together because worship is a high form of intimacy. At some point, it's going to feel incredibly lonely worshiping in one place while the person you love is worshiping clear across town. I know, because that's exactly what happened to me.

My two experiences of dating men from my community both ended sadly and poorly. These experiences left me believing that I needed to keep my community of faith a sacred place where I was going to heal when things inevitably ended badly. Keeping it sacred meant keeping my dates out. Which is why I never invited the Dude I was dating to visit my church, nor did I actively ask to visit his. He'd invite me, but I would hesitate.

Until one Sunday, I went to my church and just felt incredibly lonely. Worship was full, and rich and wonderful, and it made me sad that the Dude wasn't there. It didn't feel right that he wasn't beside me. It was a shift in my heart I wasn't expecting. We'd only been dating about four months then. It would take me another five months before I would join him in his community for good. So here we are, exclusive, but not engaged, and sharing the same community. For me, it's risk. But it's one of those good, make-you-grow kind of risks.

All that pressure you feel dating someone in your faith community? Increase that hundred-fold, and that's the pressure you're going to feel joining your partner's community of faith after your relationship has become serious. The community can't help itself but watch, and ask questions, and say things. Some of these questions and things are going to feel great. And others are going to make you feel like you have all these expectations to fulfill.

The first time I went to the Dude's church, the community kept saying to me, "We have been praying that he would find someone." Implying that I was that answered prayer. It was awkward, but also incredibly endearing. I could see how much his community loved him, and rooted for him. It made me even more sure that I was with a good man - a man whose friends are so for him is a man worth growing to know more.

I've often pondered if I could have done anything differently in my years between my last heartbreak and meeting the Dude that I'm now dating. I think, for one thing, I would have tried to bear the pain a little more and tried to press into community rather than withdraw from it. I was so ashamed of being dumped that I couldn't handle being in the same community as the ex. I think it was my loss that I didn't let community comfort me and help hold my pain.

Unfortunately, the community I did land in after the break-up didn't have single men of an appropriate age. Most men were in their early 20s, or already married, or in their 50s and 60s. I think had the community been more demographically appropriate, I would have liked to give dating within community another go, in spite of how painful the last ending was.

In then end, if you're asking for my advice, here's what I would say: at the minimum, at least consider the single men and women in your community. Don't automatically dismiss them - being part of your community shouldn't be a mark against them. In fact, it's a great plus point - these men and women already know you, and to some degree, already do sincerely care about you. If that isn't a good start, I don't know what would be.

He Kissed (Church) Dating Goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 04 May 2012 22:45:00 +0000

I first came across the article: Why Won't Christian Men Date Women Who Go To Their Church when a friend of a friend posted the article on Facebook. Originally from the blog Your Tango, it's a thoughtfully written article by a Christian woman who interviewed five Christian men ranging from their 20s to their 40s about why they are hesitant to, or even completely avoid, asking out the women who share their communities of faith.

The five Christian men were surprisingly honest - all of them wanted a relationship, and wanted to eventually be married. Most of them had been in some kind of relationship with a woman at one point or another in their adult lives. But these men were all in agreement that they would rather not date the women that go to their church for these five reasons:

Reason #1 - They're worried about their reputations.- Men didn't want to be perceived as "that guy" who preyed on women in the community.

Reason #2 - Dating girls at church reduces their options. If they dated one girl in their community, and it didn't work out, all her girl friends were instantly "off-limits."

Reason #3 - It complicates things. People at church gossip. Also, break-ups are painful and awkward when you have to share the same circle of friends.

Reason #4 - There are better ways than church for meeting women. Because the men can't date the women that are already at church, and meeting new people at church is impossible, men prefer other options of meeting women - such as online dating sites, or, more "organically" through mutual friends.

Reason #5 - It feels inappropriate. Church discourages men and women from expressing their sexuality, and turning something as sacred as church into a pick-up playground was just too "shady."

The article caused a riot on Facebook. There were hundreds of comments within a span of days- from both men and women. Some were horrified and disgusted - these men were clearly selfish, only considering their fears, their needs, their comfort.

Others applauded these men for their honesty and agreed wholeheartedly with their reasons. Some took this as an opportunity to point out that church-going women's expectations were too high anyway, and all Christian women ever did was say no to well-meaning men.

Yet others shook their heads and rolled their eyes cyber-style and declared the entire system of dating as we know it today dysfunctional. Others encouraged commenters to wait on the God to bring the right one for them. Words like "bitter" and "letting go" got thrown around.

Eventually, the person who posted the article took it down, along with the thread of comments - I think all our posting was causing the poor poster's account to implode.

I've been reflecting on this online interaction ever since. Two out of three of my serious relationships had been with men who were attending my church at the time. And I had experienced every one of those emotions the men expressed - awkwardness, pain, confusion about how to express my sexuality. When one of those relationships ended, I found myself in a community where most of the available men were friends with the Ex - I had become "off-limits."

So while the men in the article made a good point, were these the same reasons I would not date the men with whom I go to church? Well, not really. For me, avoiding the church as a dating pool isn't about worrying about my reputation, or trying to appear appropriately non-sexual on Holy Ground. For me, it comes down to these reasons:

Reason #1 - Community certainly means well, but is a pain-in-the-ass.
I cannot even begin to tell you how much Community loves me and wants to see me happy, and I would dare saw that your Community loves you so very much too. In fact, Community can't believe that someone as awesome as you is still single. That's why, the moment you start dating, Community rejoices. Finally! Someone has seen how so very awesome you are! Finally! Someone who deserves you! Community has all the hope in the world that this is The One For You.

The problem with Community's hope for you - hope that this is the last man you'll have to date, hope for a timely engagement, hope that you'll never be lonely again - may not be the same things you're hoping for yourself. And sometimes, because Community loves you so much, you may find it hard to say no to their hopes. Before you know it, their hope becomes your hope. And if the relationship comes to an end, the weight of hopes dashed - hopes that you may never have had if Community had just shut their yap - is staggering.

So in some ways, it does feel like a relief to date outside of the eager eyes of Community.

Reason #2 - There's no freedom to go at your own pace.
By that I mean as quickly or as slowly as you need to. Depending on the dating culture of the particular church, you're given the message you're either moving too fast, or too slow in your relationship. Getting engaged under a year of meeting could be met with raised eyebrows and concerns of whether you are aware of what you're doing. On the other hand, dating for years without an engagement is met with questions about what issues you're avoiding, and how you could possibly have enough self control to stay celibate throughout the time.

I think Christians love timelines and formulas because it adds certainty to grey areas. And dating is an infinite grey area. In a season of dating, you are neither married, nor are you completely separate. You're trying to express and grow in love and yet stay away from the full physical and emotional expression of love - sex. You're to trying to share your heart in hope of growing intimate, and yet you're somehow called to "guard your heart." There really can be no formula for this - some of us may know this is the person they want to spend the rest of their life within moments of meeting. Others will need to take the two, three, or *gasp* five years to feel safe and known enough to share a lifetime together. And yes, we'll have to figure out how "not to have sex" while we're at it, ok?

I'd certainly be more eager to date within Community if there was less talk of where I'm heading in the dating relationship, and more coming alongside of during the relationship.

Reason #3 - We complicate things.
For me, there's no question that breaking up and having to share the same church and circle of friends, having to still have to see your Ex week after week, having to quite possibly lose some friends in the process is one of the painful realities of dating in community. But I would argue that people who don't go to church still struggle with these situations. Just read any dating blog or lifestyle magazine and you'll find articles about who gets to keep which friends, whose side you choose in a break up and how to act if you run into your Ex on the street. Hell, Sex in the City did a whole episode about that one.

I think we, the loving Body of Christ, make dating complicated by adding a spiritual dimension to every little facet of dating. So I don't go to coffee to get to know someone better, I'm going to coffee and discerning if this is the person God has for me to spend the rest of my life with. We don't just share a kiss - by kissing, we somehow develop soul ties so that if we break up, our souls are torn asunder. When we break up, we don't just get to be depressed and eat ice-cream. we also need prayer for healing of a broken heart. And if we're depressed too long, and eat too much ice-cream, we need the next level of prayer - "intensive prayer." Everything has such spiritual weight on it. It's no wonder why no one feels particularly excited about dating in this kind of environment. Who wants to carry around a spiritual anvil?

Sometimes, I wish the people of God would just chillax. Coffee can just be coffee, kissing and then a little more may not always lead to intense spiritual bonding, and sometimes, we just need to be sad for awhile because, well, ending a relationship is incredibly sad. Dating is hard enough without this added pressure of having to consider whether each interaction with the opposite sex is going to damage my soul, or his, for eternity.

Reason #4 - Men? What men?
I'm not being snide and saying that church is full of boys, or there are no "real men" around. What I mean is that there is a gender disparity in the Christian faith as a whole. According to the site Church For Men the typical U.S. church congregation is 61% women and 39% men. That's all kinds of men, of all ages. If we take a guess and say the percentage of single people in church follows the trends of the U.S. as a whole, then it means only 44% of those men in church are single. So basically, less than 20% of any given congregation is single men.

Statistically, church is a terrible place to find a date if you're a woman.

Reason #5 - It feels a bit much.
Because there's not a lot of men coming to church, once an age-appropriate, apparently single man walks through the doors, women pay attention. But quite frankly, as a woman, I hate the idea that all of us women are looking out for the next new single guy at church. It makes me feel like a vulture. It makes me feel like I have to do whatever the local church version of batting my eyelids might be (Can I pray for you? Are you new? Come to lunch with us? I serve in Children's Church.) hoping that the New Guy will pay attention to me.

We're not on The Bachelor here... I really don't want to compete with women in my circle for that one new guy that happens to grace our pews. (Why did that sound strangely filthy?)

So church going men, here's the good news. Relax. Not all of us are sitting at these church pews eagerly hoping you'll ask us out. We women are aware of the baggage dating at our churches brings. Hell, some of us are even in agreement with you in Kissing Church Dating Goodbye. (It's probably one of the few kisses we'll enjoy this year). So don't enter those sanctuary doors looking like the hunted from a Discovery Channel special.

However, consider this:

If we automatically dismiss the single people that go to our church because we want to avoid gossip, awkwardness, or pressure of expectations, we're dismissing some really great potential here. The men and women in our church are the ones we see the most often, who know our strengths and weaknesses, who share in our beliefs, who pray together and support one another. Call me crazy, but that sounds like great potential for deep, intimate romantic relationships to me.

That's why next time, I'll tell you why I'd give church dating a chance.

Your Ex Is Fugly, Now Let's Eat Cake

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 21:04:00 +0000

Sooner or later, it's going to come out - your friends never liked the guy you were dating anyway. When you first broke up, all your girl friends declared that you were awesome and he was awful. But they were your friends, in your camp. What else were they supposed to say? But when your other friends started to say the same things, from your guy friends, to your acquaintances, to someone who barely even knew your ex, you started to realize - no one liked him. Not before you were dating him, not during, and certainly not after.

And no one bothered to tell you.

Ok, in my case, it wasn't that bad. The Ex wasn't awful. I didn't think he was awful when I dated him, and certainly didn't think he was awful after we broke up. None of my friends ever said that either (to my face, anyway). But he was, how shall we put it... an unlikely candidate. We were very different in terms of temperament, energy levels, and, as I came to realize, how we looked at the world and the people in it. But, at the time I thought we were both shared a faith community, we seemed to be on the same page with life goals, and we seemed to be attracted to one another. And everything else, we could at least discuss, work through, and see where things go.

When things ended between The Ex and I, I was pretty devastated. I was devastated for the usual reasons - I felt rejected, I felt confused that something I thought was good and had a future could end so abruptly, I felt an acute sense of loss. I was lonely. I felt small. I missed him.

But of course, the competitive, vindictive part of me did not wish The Ex well on his journey without me. I was obsessed about which one of us would start dating other people first. I was convinced it would be him, and I hated the thought. If anyone was to start dating first, it would have to be me - the one who was dumped. That was only what was fair according to the relationship cosmos, right?

My friends patiently waited for me to tire myself out as I went on and on about how The Ex would probably start dating first. One day, one of my girl friends looked at me and said, "You know, you guys were kind of cute together. But now that he's not with you. He looks, sort of, I don't know.. odd."

Months later, in response to one of my teary protests, my guy friend said, "Nah, you're so going to start dating before he does. You're so much cuter than him."

That's when I started to pay attention. I always thought my girl friends were just being loyal girl friends when they said The Ex was sort of weird looking. But when my guy friends, who weren't bound by the Girl Friend Honor Code said the same thing, I had to wonder - what did everyone see about The Ex, that I completely missed?

Years later, I would get the answer. Over dinner one evening, one of my girl friends said, point blank, "Your Ex is not a good looking man."

Oh. Apparently what everyone was trying to tell me, delicately, was that The Ex was Fugly.

OK, maybe not Fugly, per se, but definitely not as attractive as I seemed to think he was when I was dating him, and certainly not as attractive as I made him out to be after we ended.

Oh well.

So, in tribute to the Not Quite Fugly Former, I'm sharing pictures of the Salt-Kissed Buttermilk Cake my girl friend and I were sharing over dinner that one evening when I learned the truth about what my friends were thinking. This is a simple cake, mixed in one bowl, baked in a tart pan, and topped with whatever fruit happens to be in season. This particular time, I used plums, but I've also used peaches or blueberries.

I think this cake is a good representation of what the my experience with The Former was like - all at once salty, sweet, sour. I've oscillated between deeply regretting ever dating him, to being grateful I did because I came out on the other side having grown through the sorrow.

I love the idea of this cake, but I've made this recipe three times now, and I'm always just a little disappointed. The cake never tastes like what I hope it would taste like. It's always slightly too sour, or too salty, and never quite sweet enough.

Hence, it's the perfect metaphor for the relationship that was.

The other thing that is significant about this cake, is that I made a version of this with blueberries for a potluck in the Summer. It was at that potluck where I met The Dude In My Life. And yes, that version was a little disappointing too.

The cake, I mean, not The Dude.

Yeah, I Did That

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 07:17:00 +0000

At a wedding this past weekend, I remarked that I had pretty much tried every tactic in the modern dating scene to "get out there and meet people." I've done the online dating sites, gone speed dating, attended singles group events, ran a singles group for a short while, and even tried the now defunct "Crazy Blind Date" whereby I was set up to go on blind dates at a very short notice.

This week, I stumbled onto an old email reminding me of one tactic that I had tried, but didn't remember that I did. I responded to an ad on Criagslist. Oh yeah, you read that right. Craigslist. The place where you buy other people's used stuff. Reading the email, I remembered that, at the time, I couldn't believe that I was doing something that felt like a last resort. Criagslist, I remember thinking, was for creepers.

And I also remember thinking, "No one must ever know about this."

Well, it's been two years since that fateful email. And frankly, at this point, having had the absurdest first dates and last dates that have kept me and my friends rolling on the floor with laughter for years after the fact, one email sent to a man unknown on Craigslist seems almost benign.

It would have been a better story had he replied and we'd had some sort of contact. But he didn't. Months later, I'd find his picture on another online dating site where his profile said something very similar to his Craigslist post. I remember thinking, "HA! Had you replied to my post you wouldn't have had to be on this stupid dating site."

So here's the email I sent that fateful night over two years ago. As I read my email today, I'm struck by how I came right out and said I was bright, funny, fun and cute. And made references to the Spanish Inquisition. Yeah, romantic, I know...

Just as a background, he was a white guy who had said he was of the Christian persuasion, and the title of his Criagslist post was "Asian and Ready to Marry."

Glad to hear you're NOT an Asian woman, as that would make things very, very awkward, since, well... I am. "Ready to marry" is a concept that has many, many interpretations, but that's discussion for a later date.

I stumbled on your Craigslist ad completely by accident. (Ok, I know that's probably not the most original statement, but I promise you, this is completely true.) It was very late, and I was basically looking for something to laugh at. "Asian and ready to marry" seemed like perfect fodder for that. I was, however, pleasantly surprised at your sincerity and your willingness to put up a clear, undoctored picture of yourself. Kudos on the risk taking. It was enough to get my curiosity piqued. So here I am, doing something I never thought I'd do - responding to a personal ad on Criagslist. But hey, it's a new decade.

Alright, a little about me. I'm a 32 year old Christian woman living in West LA. I'm very serious about my faith. I matured in my faith in a non-denominational setting, so I'm more inclined to church environments that are "low church" - i.e. not very traditional.

I've been living in LA for 2 years now. Got relocated here for work. Now, it's a career that I wish were merely a job. I'm a graduate of Northwestern University. I'm a writer at heart, and hoping that one day, before I die, I can be a writer by trade.

I'm bright, funny, and very fun. I think I'm pretty cute, although not LA cute (if you don't know what that means, then we'll get along just fine). I'm easily amused and inclined to laugh loudly and often.

I hold honesty in very high value. I have an extremely curious nature and often ask many, many, many questions. In fact, I am brimming with questions for you, but will hold back so as not to well... appear like the Spanish Inquisition.

I'm sending not one, but TWO pictures of me. They are happy pictures. And as a sign of not being a scam, I'm sending you e-mail from my personal, real, e-mail account, not the dummy one I use for dating sites. I'm even giving you my first name. Imagine that.

Don't Give Up, Make Cake Pops Instead

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 00:45:00 +0000

I'm not sure why when the cupcake recipe read, "2 sticks unsalted butter cut into one-inch cubes" I automatically assumed that the butter should be cold.

Had I read a few more recipes, or thought about it for a moment, I would have realized - you can't bake cakes with cold butter. Because cold butter doesn't blend into your batter. In fact, if your batter has any unincorporated ingredient, such as unbeaten eggs, or say... oh...cold butter, you'll end up with cake that's possibly dry, chewy and have "tunnels" that look like this:

That's how I ended up with 24 cupcakes that were less than perfect. In fact, they were a bizarre combination of chewy and greasy. For a moment, I pondered just covering the tops with frosting - after all, what wrong can't be covered by a good, homemade frosting?

But the perfectionist in me hesitated. Perhaps my non-foodie friends might not notice, but I certainly would know. And, more importantly (and more neurotically), I was actually making cupcakes because it was The Dude In My Life's birthday.

Yes, The Dude In My Life. It's taken me six months to even hint at his existence. But that's another topic for another blog post. Suffice to say, a dude now exists in my life, he was having a birthday, and I wanted to bring cupcakes to celebrate.

Sadly, there were no cupcakes to be had. I pondered throwing out the ruined cupcakes and starting another batch. But the rest of my butter was in the freezer, and the thought of throwing out food just made me sad. I think it's the Asian in me. While all you kids growing up in America heard, "Don't waste food, there's starving children in China," I grew up hearing, "Don't waste food, there's starving children in Africa."

Then, cooking eureka.

If the problem with my cupcakes was texture, not taste, why not reuse the cake for another kind of dessert? Enter cake pops. These tiny bites of cake on a stick, often coated in chocolate and sprinkles, have been all the rage in the last few years. Despite their fancy appearance, they are surprisingly simple to make. Cake pops are essentially cake crumbled and mixed with frosting, rolled into little balls, and stuck on a stick

I searched my pantry and found powdered sugar for frosting and a bag of Hersey's Dark Chocolate kisses for coating. My junk drawer yielded a box of toothpicks. Within minutes, I was crumbling, mixing and rolling. Cooking blogs reminded me to freeze the cake pops before coating them in melted chocolate.

The cake pops weren't perfect. Since I had to sit them on parchment paper so the chocolate could harden, chocolate pooled around the bottoms of the pops. Also, the pops had flattened, rather than rounded, bottoms.Often, when I bake for others, I try to make the end result look bakery perfect. These cake pops clearly looked home made, but I didn't care. I was proud of their imperfections.These cake pops had come from something I thought had been ruined, and yet, there they were - new and delicious. I took them to the Bible Study that The Dude In My Life and I attend together. We sang Happy Birthday. Everyone loved them.

I don't claim to have had the greatest story, nor can I claim to have had the greatest tragedy when it comes to love. I've had two serious relationships, both of which ended unexpectedly, and with a few cruel words. For some reason I've never quite fully recovered from this rejection. Instead, as much as I hate to admit it, some tiny part of me wonders - what is it about me that causes such cruelty to leave the mouths of men? There must be something terrible about me that deserves such harsh words. These aren't thoughts I voice often because they reflect a part of me with which I'm uncomfortable. The part of me that is willing to accept cruelty and blame myself for it. The part of me that believes I don't deserved to be loved because I am imperfect. I don't like this about myself, not one bit.

But even when I don't voice theses thoughts, they remain, floating around in my subconsious, coming to the surface in moments of silence. Because I still feel wounded, I'm like one of those ruined cupcakes - not quite lousy enough to be declared a total loss, but just imperfect enough that I'm not fit for company. I have a few gaping holes in my heart, been a little dry, felt just not quite right. I've not known what to do with myself.

Making these cake pops gave me a little bit of perspective of what's possible. Maybe I shouldn't discount myself as ruined, quite yet. Crumble a little, add a little bit of sweetness, mold a little and maybe, just maybe there may come something new and delicious. It won't be picture perfect, but it may very well be loved anyway.

I don't have a recipe for cake pops, but the lovely folks at The Kitchn do: How To Make Cake Pops

Food and Me

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

The Anatomy of Demise

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — 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 (Unknown) — 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.