Meatloaf

"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

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

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

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.

Weak and Strong

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

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?

Resolute

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.

Top 10 Cities for Single Women

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

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

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

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

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

When Someone Is...

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

Bricks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Baby Is Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Facebook and Me

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


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

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

Why I Cook

Michael Ruhlman, chef, writer, and food blogger, posed this question to his blog readers - why do you cook? Ruhlman challenged bloggers to write about why they cooked because, "Writing it down forces you to know what you think."

The challenge is apropos to this season I now find myself in - thirty-something Singleton living in a city that hungers for connection. These last six months, I've found myself cooking more than I have in the last two years since moving out to Los Angeles. I've been cooking with a ferocity and joy that is new for me. And I have been pondering, "Why do I cook?"

I cook because I don't like what I eat to be limited. If I'm craving lasagna, I can make it. If I want cake, I pull out the flour, eggs, butter, and sugar and get the Kitchen Aid mixer going. I no longer have to scour the supermarkets for what I crave and be disappointed when I can't find it. I can make what I want, when I want it.

Cooking relaxes me. After a stressful day, I find all that chopping and simmering to be very soothing. Cooking particularly relaxes me after I've had an emotionally hard or disappointing day. I think mostly because...

Cooking is both science and art. Food works together in a very specific and very predictable ways. In the words of Julie Powell in the movie Julie/Julia, "I love that after a day where nothing is sure ... you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. It's such a comfort."

Yet there is a clear artistry in cooking. Coming home, feeling defeated and belittled, I often turn to the creativity of cooking to express who I really know myself to be. With a few simple turns, tried and true recipes from cookbooks become my own.

I cook because food unites. These past few months, I've had people who would otherwise never have met come into my home to enjoy a meal that I've made. There's something about sharing a meal that creates a bond, even if it's only for a moment. It gives even the most disparate individuals a point of connection.

I cook to create a sense of family. As a singleton who's been single longer than she's been dating, I sometimes wonder if I'll ever have a family of my own. When my friends and I sit down at a table for a meal I've cooked, it reminds me that family can come in all sorts of forms and structures and isn't limited to those who are married or live close to their parents.

Cooking is my stance against the stereotypes of singleness. Say the word "Singleton" and up comes that picture of a freezer full of microwaveable convenience foods and cupboards filled with only diet soda and popcorn. Along with that comes the sense that Singletons are still children, unchallenged to take care of themselves and others. I may be single, but I am certainly not a child. I cook good healthy foods because I do want to take care of myself. And, contrary to popular belief, single people do have others they take care of - friends, co-workers, subordinates. Singleness could possibly breed self-centeredness, but it doesn't have to.

I cook because my mother never taught me to. My mother ruled her kitchen and I was rarely allowed into it. The one time in my teenage years I tried to cook for her, I ruined a recipe. She sniffed at the food and didn't say a word kind or unkind. The silence hurt me more than my teenage brain could articulate. I learned to cook in my twenties using Betty Crocker's Everything You Need To Know To Cook Today. The cuisine I do best is Western, not Asian. Now that I live so far away, there are recipes from my heritage I'll never learn from my mother, even though she's now mellowed and would love to teach me to cook. I think that's a real loss. If I'm ever blessed with children, I would love to teach them to cook. Partly for the bonding, but also for the simple life lesson that sometimes you do fail, and you do ruin things. Sometimes these things can be fixed, sometimes not so much. But a silent sniff is never the solution to anything.

And, apparently, cooking is a man magnet. This one was a pleasant, if somewhat disconcerting surprise. In the last two months, I've had two different men ask me these questions in the following order, "Do you cook?" and when I answer, "Yes, quite often, actually." It is followed by the question, "Are you single?" That succession of questions always makes me laugh, then slightly creeps me out. I'd hate to think that someone would date me for my Chicken Parmesan and Double Chocolate Chip cookies. It's almost as creepy as thinking someone would date me for my big boobs.

The more I cook these days, the more I wonder if I cook in response to the emotional hunger of this city, which consequently I absorb by living here. We are hungry. Hungry to be known, to connect deeply with those around us. We long for just one taste of grace, one taste of acceptance, one taste of assurance.

I am hungry. I am hungry in my desires for a spouse, for children, for roots, for family. I am hungry for more of God, His touch, His voice. I am hungry to connect the lonely, feed the poor in spirit, raise the emotionally dead. But so often, in this city, the sustenance is poor and I feel weak. I cannot raise the emotionally dead, because some days, I am emotionally on a deathbed of my own.

Seeing the chasm between what I long for and what is, I pull out my frying pans, my baking sheets, my slow cooker, my dutch oven. I fill pots with chili, ovens with chicken, cookies, lasagna. I stir-fry, saute, caramelize, and broil. For when food for the soul seems so elusive, the least I can do is make food for the body.

Happy Thoughts

Turning off the filter between my brain and my mouth.
Ending sentences in an email with "moron."
Microwaving Peeps.
Hearing someone lose it on a conference call.
Making decisions by rock, paper, scissors.
Making decisions by cage fighting.
T-shirts indicating who is single, married, taken or just simply trouble.
Having subtitles, so the real meaning of everything that's said is evident.
Having stage directions, so the real meaning of everything that's done is evident.
You getting exactly what you asked for.
Being a benevolent dictator.
Saying no and not having to explain why.
Saran wrapping your car.

Thoughts of the Sick and Slightly Out of It

I need to lie down.

I want food.

I wonder what's on television right now.

Who's having fun without me?

I need Kleenex.

What did you just say again? What?

Daffodils are such a pretty flower.

If I collapse right here, hit my head and die, no one is going to find me, and the cats are going to eat my face.

Oh wait, I don't have cats.

And I'm sure work would check up on me.

At some point.

Was Nyquil supposed to keep me up all night?

What's happening on Facebook?

I'm going to be old and alone, aren't I?

I want cupcakes.

So if I'm sick, the calories don't count, right?

My nose hurts.

I'm Pretty Sure I'll Be Going To Hell For This

As a general rule, I try not to make fun of those who get in touch with me on the Romantic Internets. Whether you've chatted with me online, written me a note, or visited my profile, I try to find something interesting and unique about you. Even if I have no interest, even if you are completely not my type, even if you are way too old or way too young for me, I respect the fact that you got in touch. It's sweet, it's nice that you took the risk. I truly appreciate that.

But every now and then, I get these absurd gems that make me go, "What the..."

For awhile now, I've been keeping these stories to myself and a small group of select women who are walking this journey of dating with me. Recently, however, I've been getting more than absurd gems. I've been getting comedic gold. I'm stunned because each encounter seems to trump the next. So here I am, sharing them with you. Because, to be honest, these are just too good to keep to myself.

Comedic Gold #1 - The Late Night IMs
Granted, I shouldn't be online at midnight because nothing decent happens after 11PM whether online or in real life. But on the other hand, no one should be chatting me up like this, no matter what hour of the night. Oh, and I didn't edit a single spelling error, but I did take out the "f" word because I don't want some online bot crawling this site and spamming me with porn.

NameDeletedforHisSake: hi

AbusrdCafeGirl: Hello

NameDeletedforHisSake: hi

AbsurdCafeGirl: How's it going?

NameDeletedforHisSake: giid

NameDeletedforHisSake: u ?

AbsurdCafeGirl: Not bad

AbsurdCafeGirl: You look awfully familiar?

NameDeletedforHisSake: good

NameDeletedforHisSake: really?

AbsurdCafeGirl: Where have I seen you before?

NameDeletedforHisSake: maybe

AbsurdCafeGirl: So... what do you do?

NameDeletedforHisSake: i am horny?

AbsurdCafeGirl: Is that a question? And also, horny is what you do for a living?

NameDeletedforHisSake: student

AbsurdCafeGirl: Horny student...

NameDeletedforHisSake: yes

AbsurdCafeGirl: Good lord, that's like a bad porn movie waiting to happen

AbsurdCafeGirl: LOL

NameDeletedforHisSake: absolutelly

AbsurdCafeGirl: SOrry, babe, you're too young for me. I'm sure you'll be entertaining... But you're too young

NameDeletedforHisSake: but i can f*** u good

AbsurdCafeGirl: Oh I'm sure you're wonderful. But I don't do young guys

NameDeletedforHisSake: ok good night

AbsurdCafeGirl: Nite

Before you start e-mailing me with comments, let me just say for the record that "I don't do young guys" is just a line that I use for comedic purposes. In no way, shape or form am I ever going to accept a late night booty call. Or any booty call at all.
But wait, there's more! The next night...

NameDeletedforHisSake: hi

AbsurdCafeGirl: Yeah, dude. You talked to me last night.
AbsurdCafeGirl: If you're horny. No dice
NameDeletedforHisSake: no dice?
AbsurdCafeGirl: No dice, no go, no
AbsurdCafeGirl: no, no, no
NameDeletedforHisSake: ok

The late night dirty IMs aren't always so long drawn out. Here's my favorite - short, and to the point:
NoNameUser: down fuk?

And, tonight, as I was composing this blog post:
DeletedUserName: hey there, up for some webcam fun?

Comedic Gold #2: Erm.. ok...
Sometimes, I get messages that leave me no way to respond simply because they say absolutely nothing. What am I supposed to say to this?

Wink.
And when I wrote back asking that he tell me more about himself, I got this response:

Happy Holidays!
I know I'm a writer and all, but a girl's got to have something to work with. I can't conjure up a whole correspondence out of nothing. I'm bright, sociable and a pretty strong conversationalist but I'm not a magician.


Comedic Gold #3: No, really... it's fine if you just moved along
Background: My profile indicates that I like to play poker. Also, I'm clear that I'm not looking for a long distance relationship. And yes, I do actually want four kids. Seriously. This is the note I get one morning:

Hello from Phoenix Arizona,
Wow! So you want 4 kids. God bless you.
Stop gambling and tithe and have faith in the Lord.
God bless,
P.S.
Your photos are nice.

Did he just call me a faithless gambler who is withholding my first fruits from my God? I think he did. I'm not sure what his motivation was to send me this note. Maybe he felt moved to correct my sinful, gambling ways. Maybe he was practicing the compliment sandwich technique favored by corporate trainers - give a compliment (wow, 4 kids, God bless you), make a criticism (Stop gambling, tithe, have faith), close with a compliment (Your photos are nice). My favorite part of this whole note is how this man thinks gambling is a problem, but somehow has no issue about passing judgment on my heart and, apparently, my appearance.


Comedic Gold #4: What Not To Say
Please note: If your wife has passed away, please do not say, in response to the profile question, how did your last relationship end: It was lovely, too bad she's dead. Because my next question is going to be - did you kill her?


Comedic Gold #5: Leave Your Fetishes For... Never
If you're listing your fetishes along with your desire for a woman who has good values and loves Jesus, I'm going to take a leap here and say you might be a little conflicted about what you want. I'm also going to say that you might be scaring away the Jesus-loving ladies with the aforementioned good values if you indicate in your profile that you want to spank them when they've been bad. And, by the way, I saw your profile pictures and in no way would people describe your looks as "stunning."

Yeah, I know. I've been quite mean. I'm going straight to hell for this post. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. And there's going to be a special Single Hell for people like me who have been wicked about others. Single Hell is going to be filled with beautiful people who won't talk to you, but if they do, will end every sentence with the inflection of a question. I'm going to go get a drink? This is so much fun? (I would make a joke about LA here, but I'm going to choose to avoid the cliche.)

All, however, is fair in the world of the Romantic Internets. Who's to say the guys who have gotten notes from me haven't rolled their eyes and declared themselves out of my league? Who's to say there isn't some dude equivalent of me out there in the bloggersphere making fun of my attempts to be bright, witty and funny in my online sojourns?

If you're out there, Dude Equivalent of Me, raise your hand. I'd love to meet you. We can have a cup of coffee and LMAO at this crazy thing called the Romantic Internets.

And hey, if I don't see you around, I'm sure I'll see you in Single Hell?

Road Trip, Anyone?

For my birthday in December, I am contemplating a road trip down or up the coast.

I am one of those rare breeds of people that really like driving. And the thought of driving on the coast for a few days by myself sounds like heaven to me. I'd take lots of pictures, find quirky and random sights to visit, try new foods, and blog. This is just the fodder I need for Absurd and Amazing Adventures.

The thought makes my heart beat a little faster, my stomach flutter, and my wicked side want to come out.

So, any suggestions on where to go along the West Coast between the week of Christmas and New Year? It has to be drivable, and the trip would have to be between three and five days.

Oh, I'm turning 32, by the way, so any suggestions that would add significance to turning 32 would be greatly appreciated.

Best suggestions get a prize, yet to be revealed. And I'm not kidding about that.

Here's the song that inspired the idea of the road trip. Maybe it will inspire you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J3i7EFYk-_c

The Hope of Plenty

Three days before Thanksgiving, I found myself standing in the middle of LA LIVE ringing in the New Year. The stores had already started decorating for Christmas, but the New Year was still too soon to think about. Yet there I was, wearing a tiara that said 2010, noisemaker in hand, counting down from ten.

Turns out, in LA, everything can be manufactured, even New Year's Eve. This was a taping for Carson Daly's New Year's Eve Special. Green Day was performing, and we were the audience. They handed us funny hats that said 2010, gave us glow sticks and those annoyingly nasal horns made out of sparkly cardboard. We counted down from sixty, screamed, "Happy New Year!" and then counted down again from ten, and yelled again. It was all so very surreal.

But as I was standing in a crowd of 9,000 people, pressed up against strangers, it struck me that this moment of ringing in the New Year could be taken as a symbol of God's permission for me to end difficult year and start afresh.

I never like to declare that something is horrible - it sounds so very defeatist and also somewhat bitter. But I have to say 2009: Sucked. Royal. Ass. And that's the polite version. Some highlights of 2009 were - major depression, heartbreak, pettiness, broken community, not to mention some Very Expensive Therapy. It has not been a stellar year.

So here I was, part of a simulated New Year's Eve celebration when I thought, how many times in this life am I going to get to celebrate New Year's Eve in November? Why couldn't I close out 2009 and bring in 2010? Who's to stop me from having an Early New Year?

The loveliest part of a new year is how there can be infinite possibilities and boundless hope. Nothing has happened, and so anything, even everything, could happen. It is in this spirit of boundless hope that I am going to practice the hope of plenty. This is the hope for abundance, the looking forward to the bounty of good things.

Since it's 2010, I thought it would be fitting to name ten things I hope I have plenty of in this upcoming year (which starts today).

Laughter
And I'm talking about coming-from-deep-within-your belly-shake-you-up-roll-on-the-floor- tears-flowing-from-your-eyes laughter. I want to laugh. Loudly. Hard. Often.

Connection
May 2010 bring lots of meaningful connection with friends old and new. May there be numerous conversations where we challenge our minds and open our hearts. May we all know and be known by one another.

Open Houses
I want to make my home a place where people feel welcomed and loved. Since moving to a city of transplants, shared apartment living, and single-serve dinners, I've missed entertaining. I've found that every time I open my home, people flock -- maybe they too miss that warmth of going to someone's house, hanging out, and sitting down to some home made food. I've been blessed with a spacious apartment and a genuine enjoyment of cooking. So in 2010, I want to say more often and to more of my friends, "Come over. I'm making you dinner."

Adventures
Bring it on in 2010! I am ready for the unexpected, the risky, the roads untaken. For far long too long I've been far too cautious, too cerebral, too precise. May 2010 bring more spontaneous and uninhibited adventures. It's about time.

God Speak
I have to say, having heard God speak directly to me, in a way that's unique, conversational and full of tenderness, it's hard to imagine a life where God stands off to the side, silently watching me, keeping notes and making judgement. I have tasted and seen an all powerful God who loves me personally and uniquely. I won't settle for anything less. In 2010, I want more of Him speaking to me.

First Dates
Because they are fun. And oftentimes funny. Because I never know what to expect and have always been pleasantly surprised. Because every time I go on first dates I learn something new about myself and the person I am going out with. This year alone I have learnt about - insurance modeling, psychedelics, unicorns, the foster care system, and riding in a C-130 military transport aircraft. I've also learnt when to say yes, how to say no with grace, and the importance of asking for what I want.

Spiritual Community
These are the folks that will pray for you when you've been beaten down by The Enemy. These are the folks who will look you in the eye and say, "I know you have issues, but I love you regardless." These are the folks who will utter the ever healing, ever comforting words, "Can I pray for you right now?" I know that in order to have spiritual community I need to be present, both physically and emotionally, and be open to sharing what is on my mind and heart. I've been making small steps. Here's to leaps and bounds in 2010.

Creativity
To explore different writing styles, learn more words, and experiment with different forms of prose. I'm also hoping for creativity in thought, in problem solving, in listening to God and walking the path that leads to Jesus. I've always been a person who can come up with new ideas, explore unexpected thoughts, and create new experiences. I've often thought this made me too strange to contentedly exist in the mainstream. I've come to realize the mainstream is overrated. In 2010, I want to treasure and nurture my creativity - in all its forms.

Riding In Cars With Boys
And everything that entails. From the loveliness of having the car door opened for you, to the sweetness of sharing our favorite tunes on the CD player, to the deliciousness of having the seat pulled back to a reclining position, I find the whole proposition both wicked and hilarious. I probably won't be doing this with every boy - and definitely not on a first date. But in 2010, I'd be open to a few car rides to places unknown.

Long Runs
The runner in me has had enough of a running break and is about ready to go again. I want to do another marathon in the summer or fall of 2010.

And since I am hoping for plenty, why not take the extra step and shoot for excess? So here's one more extra thing I hope I have plenty of in 2010:

Drummers
I met one of those in 2009. Beautiful, lovely people, these drummers. And they have coordination and a sense of rhythm. All things that bode well for... well, let's just say it bodes very, very well.

This Singleton's Prayer

Dear God,

I'm extremely grateful for this season of singleness. This season discovering who you made me to be, this season to have freedom to experience the many adventures you have put in my way, to have these adventures completely alone, unfettered by responsibilities of husband and children.

I'm even grateful for the learning lessons in dating. Lessons in forgiveness, grace, and keeping one's tongue in check. As I have dated, I have also learnt so much about what I want in a husband. "Not an ass," for example, has emerged high on the list, as has "actually likes me as a person."

So for everything You have done in my singleness and for everything You will be doing, I give great thanks.

But, if you will hear one complaint of mine.

There are enough factors keeping me single, some circumstantial, some purely of my own doing, that I really don't need an inexplicable bout of adult acne as yet another factor. My face has exploded like a teenager. As I sit here, I can actually feel new pimples sprouting. How, in my thirties, I can have acne more severe than I've ever had in my life is confounding. Is it a changing body chemistry? Hormones? Some strange side effect of the depression? My body's way of making sure I never get sex?

Lord, this is Los Angeles, the land of "there has to be something better." People here get their faces replaced. But I have chosen to serve You. To try and have a healthy perspective about physical attractiveness, to not judge someone simply based on appearances. To try and be beautiful on the inside, to have my self-esteem based on you.

But could you give your precious daughter a helping hand here by not making this any harder than it has to be? Adult acne does not help. No matter how confident, how self-assured, how faithful I am, my Pizza Face makes me feel small, insecure, like.. well, a teenager.

You were there when I was a teenager, Lord. It wasn't pretty. I was fat, I was pimply, and for about a year, I looked like a boy. It was miserable.

So, if you will Lord, can you heal this acne? You've made the lame to walk again, caused the blind to see, raised the dead. Please Lord, just clear my face.

In Jesus Name, Amen.

What To Do? Who To Do?

What should I do for a Christmas/birthday/you survived a crappy year gift to myself?

Buy this?



Or go back to Chicago in the middle of winter to see this?


And potentially be this:

Votes, anyone?