Now that I have gotten back into the Christian Church Small Group Phenomenon after being absent from it since college, I have been thinking about religious attitudes. I didn’t attend a church small group when I lived in Arkansas because I had a broom up my Aston Martin about it. Part of this broom was my own arrogance, but part of it was valid: sometimes people use Bible Study to complain about their problems or to stand on a soapbox.

Also, in the community where I lived, it seemed that single people my age either slipped through the cracks within the church community, or we were forced to attend “singles” groups, which really should have been called: How to Find Your Future Spouse In Just 10 Easy Sessions Disguised as Bible Study Because You Cannot Be Godly Unless You’re Married Especially if You’re a Woman. I lived in a community that was significantly family-based. Those who were not already building their families were surveying for land, if you know what I mean. I am not a field tilled for the planting, thank you very much.

I love the church small group that I have attended a few times here in L.A. Health issues and people’s visits have hampered my attendance a little, but what makes me excited about this group is that they accepted me willingly. It’s a group of creative, outgoing, hilarious people, most of whom moved to L.A. to work in one of its many industries, the most predominant being film. I feel at home in the group, and that is something I have not felt in a church group for a very, very long time. Sometimes it seems that we find our peace not only in discussing our faith and values, but also through laughing. I am a firm believer that laughter can heal a multitude of ailments. That is one reason I am with D. He doesn’t get all sappy and goo-ey when I’m having a tough time. He listens to me. He hugs me. Then he makes me laugh. It’s his way of saying, “I understand, but get over yourself.”

My friend LR is one of my favorite people in the world, and one of the wisest people I know. She is one reason I am so glad that I moved to California – I have been able to see her about once a month since I got here, and it has been a blessing, indeed. She says that marriage is not about cuddly feelings and sharing one another’s hopes and dreams. Those things are part of marriage – the lesser purposes, if you will – but they are not the main point of marriage. “Marriage is about sanctification,” she says. To use less churchy language: The main purpose of marriage is to challenge one another to be better people. That is not easy. Sometimes it is downright annoying. Sometimes it hurts our feelings. Sometimes it makes us so mad that we want to cuss.

For instance, on Sunday D and I went to Borders to look for a book. I was walking a little ways ahead of him. I should point out that last weekend I morphed into Deranged Girlfriend – a mess of emotions and unhappiness and fold-your-arms-and-slump-over-in-your-chair-because-daddy-won’t-give-you-a-guinea-pig-ness. There were constant tears, constant frustrations, constant silent-treatments, and, from D, constant patience. As we were walking to Borders, D totally stepped on the back of my flip flop by accident, and I did that horrible, awkward jerking thing where you feel like you’re going to trip and the thong (thong?? rah-cha-cha) part of the flip flop digs into your toe cleavage (cleavage?? rah-cha-cha). I totally knew it was an accident, but it pissed me off. Oh, how it pissed me off. So, I told D: “I know you didn’t mean to do that, but nothing annoys me more than when people step on the back of my flip flops.” So, D, in his incredible boyfriendly kindness DID IT TWO MORE TIMES. “Does that annoy you?” He asked, smugly. “BLEEP yes,” I said. He smirked. “Well, get over it.” HE ACTUALLY SAID THOSE EXACT WORDS, TWICE. And I was so angry, so very, very angry that I wanted to break up with him right there in the middle of Biographies/Non-Fiction. I coddled my sweet little tenderness, thinking, I am sensitive. I should be with someone who is sensitive to my needs and wants. I deserve someone who will never, ever annoy me. I deserve someone who will pick me up when my toe cleavage hurts rather than hurting my toe cleavage more.

At the end of the weekend, I called D crying. I was mad at myself for being such a Dog of the Female Variety, seriously considering getting on anti-anxiety medication again, and I was afraid he was contemplating breaking up with me. I imagined the conversations he would have with his friends: “Ann went the way of Lindsay Lohan when she got to California. She’s not cool anymore.” But instead, D listened to me talk, and then he said something that didn’t excuse my behavior. I was expecting to hear an “Oh, it’s okay, Doll-Face,” but instead he spoke the wise truth: “I accept your apology. I know that not every weekend will be like this one.”

(Disclaimer: D and I are not thinking about getting married at all – neither of us are interested in that right now – but I do appreciate what he does to challenge me in his wild boyfriendly ways.)

So, from hanging out with my church group, from Laura’s wisdom, and from seeing the ways D makes me a better person, I am confronting an issue that many Christian women grapple with, but in a different way than it usually manifests itself: Why are Christian women so concerned with whether or not we are “marriage-able”?

Beloved non-churched readers, I don’t mean to alienate you from this issue. You might find it interesting that many Christian women seem to have elevated the idea of marriage to such a high place that it almost seems unattainable. And I wonder if this is part of the reason the divorce rate is so high among Christian couples… people walk into marriage expecting a Disney movie and get a Grimm’s Fairy Tale, chopped off feet and all, instead. I hold the value of virginity before the wedding night and believe that divorce is a sad, sad thing. Marriage should be a respected and revered institution, but do we sometimes revere it too much by wanting to become better people in order to be marriage-worthy, rather than wanting to become better people simply because it is good?

And why do we religious women tend to think that marriage is the alpha and omega of our lives? I don’t doubt that marriage is good and fulfilling and that offspring can be an amazing element of a woman’s existence. Heck, I love my niece and nephew so much that I could gobble them up, and I am just their aunt. Their parents love them thousands of times more than I. Marriage and children must be precious and good, but they are still wrought with their own problems. I see so many girls who are simply living to get married rather than living to, well, live. And are we so hard on ourselves, so skeptical about ourselves, because we wonder if we will ever be good enough, not just for a Prince Charming, but also for Marriage itself?

If marriage truly is about making one another better people, then why should we question whether or not we are good enough? Marriage might just be one more thing that helps us be better, in the same way that Christ does: “I am not good, but I know that you will take me as I am, and from your acceptance, I will become who you made me to be.”

Once Upon a Dream

April 29, 2008

I left work at mid-day today, struggling with a migraine. I’m not even sure what I told my boss before I left. It probably did not make much sense. I had to stay about an hour later to process a few orders and make some phone calls. Now, after 3 hours of sleep, an overdose of ibuprofen tablets, and a hot shower, I finally feel better. I cannot tell you how much I wish my health would return to me. I’ve always been a naturally tired person (need naps!), but I haven’t felt 100% in a long, long time. I need to start exercising, but I think I might have mono, and I don’t want my spleen to erupt. How’s that for an excuse?

All that aside, I love my apartment. It was a glorious day, and now the wind is blowing through the palm leaves and into my bedroom through the balcony door. I especially love the night-time. Summer evenings are some of my favorite things. I can’t wait to return to Minnesota for a family reunion in August. We’re totally camping at this hoe-down of a fair called the Threshing Bee, which celebrates old methods of farming. My grandfather built a windmill on the grounds where the Bee is held, and one of his tractors, an old green  and yellow John Deere is one of the focal points of the train, tractor, and antique car parade. It’s a great ol’ time of threashin’, blue grassin’, and barbeque-in’. I am trying to convince D that it will change his life. We have been dating two years this July, and he has still not been to my hometown. He has still not met my dad. Send him nasty notes, please.

Speaking of D, the other day someone googled “my boyfriend is a model,” and it led them to my blog. It showed up in my stats, and I felt this amazing breadth of anxiety fall from my weary shoulders BECAUSE IT’S ABOUT TIME. IT’S ABOUT TIME SOMEONE ACKNOWLEDGED THAT MY BOYFRIEND IS A MODEL.

(thank you)

And also speaking of D, I am going to be single this weekend. D is going to a retreat for a class at school, and that means plenty of margaritas and inviting the pool boy up to my bedroom to fan me with palm leaves. It also means that I am going to spend the whole weekend sleeping, eating ice cream, and looking very, very closely at my cuticles. Oh, and I’m hoping to go to the one and only Newport Beach community garage sale to see if I can find, among other things, a bicycle built for D. That, and a Free Box full of Gucci bags. Oh wait. I am not really looking for that. That was just what I dreamt about last night. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if I actually have a pool boy.

A few weeks ago, an after-work few hours spent at the Gap, Borders, and Anthropologie at the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica led to my first parking ticket. I even dodged the Koreans witnessing on the corner to save time, arriving back at my car not five minutes after the meter expired, only to find that typed out envelope with a little receipt inside. You owe the State of California $35 for your presence, here, in this parking space. You’ve stayed far too long, Minnesota. Go home.

The other day on the drive home, I glanced over into the passenger side rearview mirror on my car only to find it hanging by a wire. Someone was so kind as to knock the mirror off my car while it was parked in my work parking lot and didn’t even care to leave an “I’m sorry!” note. Thievery! Treachery!

But what I am really writing this post about is this: That despite those things, despite those drip, drip, drip details that can add up to a gargantuan level of torture from living in the second largest city in the United States, there is lobster ravioli.

Yes, friends, I have a Trader Joe’s not even a mile from my apartment, and today I discovered that they carry lobster ravioli. Just drop it in a pot of boiling water for five minutes, and voila: gourmet dinner. Goodbye, Skinniness. I am selling you for a plate of pasta encased crustacean.

Also, I’ve had a long string of good hair days.

And even though I haven’t really been working on it, I’m actually getting a tan, just from living in California. I’m convinced that it is the state of mind more than the sunshine. I work in an office with no windows, and yet I, sickly pale Minnesota girl, am getting a tan just from breathing the air and drinking the water. Maybe I will start selling Pure Los Angeles Tap Water, Straight From Our Sewers to the land-locked states of our fair union. And all those fools told me I probably shouldn’t drink the water. Bah. I’ll show them.

But maybe the best thing so far this week as that this evening I walked into my bedroom after leaving my balcony door open to release the stuffiness, and my room actually smelled like the ocean. Now, I live about five miles from the ocean, so it surprised me, but perhaps tonight the wind is just right to bring that lovely, salty, fresh, sandy smell right into my sleeping-space. Hopefully masked gangster gun-men, bent on stealing my 1960s sewing machine and 2004 Macbook (it’s nearly obsolete!), will not follow. Will lock screen door. Most thieves do not carry scissors.

Friend AA came to visit from Arkansas last week, and oh, what joys we had. I have pictures. But for now, you cannot see them. I can’t find the cord for my camera. And anyway, I should wait until AA sends me copies of her photographs because they will be much better than mine.

Sunday night AA, G, and I went down to La Mirada to have dinner with D and his roommate B. We like to call our dinners together Family Dinner. We consumed the usual inexpensive and easy spaghetti with meatsauce and garlic bread, and our dinner conversation was as entertaining as it was humorous. At one point during the meal, D mentioned that he and B had earlier discussed a prank B had played on some girls while he was getting his undergraduate degree. They never mentioned what the prank was, but apparently it involved the girls moving a bookshelf.

“Then we started talking about what would have to fall behind a bookshelf in order for a girl to move it,” D said.

“Like an Anthropologie catalog,” B said.

“A designer shoe,” D said.

“A copy of a celebrity gossip magazine or Vogue,” B said.

“I wouldn’t move it for that,” AA said.

“I’d move it for Vogue,” I said.

“A girl would move it for a rich man,” B said. “Oh, I think I dropped my rich man behind my bookshelf–”

And then G said the thing that has had me laughing all week: “And then she moves it, and out walks a family of Jews.”

Later I admitted to D that I have a Pre-Celebrity Crush on this starving actor I know who happens to be British. I told D because it doesn’t mean anything — I just think the guy is highly date-able, and my crush on him is mostly accent-related. Heck, I barely even know the guy. But those shy Brits, descended from the line of Hugh Grant and Jude Law… men whose whole faces smile when they smile… Gah. Who could resist wrinkles at the corners of the eyes at the moment of smiling?

After I told D about the Pre-Celebrity Crush, G said, “Now you should talk in an accent to her.”

D turned to me with a mouthful of spaghetti and said, “A-llo, Ay-an,” in the worst cockney accent I’ve ever heard. And then I remembered why I’m with D and not some Celebrity Crush… D makes me laugh until I cry, as he did at that moment, at the dinner table, and I nearly choked on my spaghetti. Indeed, D nearly killed us all.

Speaking of G, the other night while conversing with the same group of people sans G (he was on a date with a lady-friend), I made the assertion that no matter what I say, G could say the same thing and be funnier. G is just a funny, funny guy. So, at the dinner table, we tested my theory. B said, “Ann, say, ‘G sucks.'” I was giggling when I said it, and my declaration was met with mild to moderate laughter. Then G had to say it. And indeed, what is funnier than hearing a funny guy say that he sucks in the third person?

Probably only the image of a family of Jews walking out from behind some sorority girl’s bookshelf after hiding for 60 years.

Last night I called D around 9 p.m., and the following conversation ensued. I have changed D’s name to Q to protect his innocence:

“Hi, Q. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just at Solar de Cahuenga.”

Pause. “You’re where?”

“Solar de Cahuenga.”

“You mean you’re in Hollywood and you didn’t tell me you were coming up here?”

Silence. “I didn’t think about it. It was a quick trip.”

“It’s 9. When did you come up?”

“B and I left around 3. You were at work. We were just supposed to come, pick up the Lord of the Rings books from G, and leave. But then we ran into traffic and ended up staying longer.”

“You picked up the Lord of the Rings books? Does that mean you’re reading them?”

“Yes.”

“YOU CAN’T!”

“What? Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t. Remember? We were going to read them together this summer.”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“But you did. We were sitting on the couch during the movies over the weekend and you said to your roommate that you wanted to read them and I said, ‘We should read them together this summer,’ and you said, ‘Yeah,’ so we were going to read them together this summer.”

“I never said for sure. And that never works.”

“We’ve never done it before. How do you know it never works?”

“Because G and I started reading them one time when we were traveling a lot back and forth between Arkansas, Texas, and California, and we only got part-way in and never finished. It’s hard to read a book at the same time.”

“Well, your trip ended and that’s why you never finished. We’re not on a trip. We’re going to finish.”

“What I’m reading now is what I read the, so you’re really not missing out on anything.”

“You just made that up right now, didn’t you?”

“Are you mad?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you came all the way up to Hollywood and didn’t tell me you were going to be near my house. I had such a bad day that I went to to the mall to see the puppies after work. And when I was looking at the puppies, I could’ve been looking at you.”

Laughs. “Really? You went to see puppies?”

“Yes, I did. And they were cute. And they made me happy inside. But I’m not happy inside anymore.”

“Ann, I’m sorry. I’m just stupid with that kind of stuff.”

“You’re not stupid. You’re just very, very absent-minded.”

“I was absorbed in a book.”

(Ann doesn’t even justify that excuse with a response.)

“Why didn’t you just call me? Even if I could’ve just seen you for a half hour that would have been great.”

“I thought about it. I really did. But we were only going to be here for a short time and since B was driving I didn’t want to put him out to go all the way to your place. I’m sorry. I should’ve just called you.”

“Stop apologizing. It’s ticking me off. And another thing, I’ve ever been to Solar de Cahuenga.”

“What? Yes you have. I’ve taken you there.”

“No, you haven’t. I’ve never been there.”

“Well, I’ve driven you past it.”

“Yes, but that’s hardly going inside with one’s boyfriend. You owe me. You owe me big time. You owe me a round of Word Twist on Facebook.”

“But I can’t get addicted to another Facebook game.”

“You owe me this.”

As of 3:38 p.m. today, Q has not yet played that round of Word Twist on Facebook.

It’s time to bring out the big enchiladas: the first five episodes of Gilmore Girls.

The other day D used my computer and opened a bunch of pictures that his sister E emailed him. So, lo and behold, what do I find when I open my iPhoto today? BLACKMAIL:

This is D with his family’s massive yak dog, Boo*. The first time I met Boo, D, his mom, his friend LB, and LB’s now-wife A, were sitting around D’s living room. I had just met D’s mother for the first time. I was sitting on the couch, and Boo came up and sprawled his massive body across me, content to just lie there while I stroked his hide. Then my legs fell off.

The other day D and I were talking about stuff, and I showed him some of my favorite blogs. They are blogs that I read every day but never really tell people about. They’ve become such a huge part of my life, but since they are just every-day things, I never think to mention them, even though they cause me to think and laugh and evaluate and cry. Today I want to take a few moments to mention some great things I’ve been reading.

My friend Katie has a blog called See Kate Date. You should check it out — there’s some good discussion going on.

My friend Sarah has a HILARIOUS blog. And a cute little dog. Find her at sarahthe.

Ever the literary, Lee Ella never ceases to amaze me with the beauty and seemingly effortlessness of her writing. She will make you think. And laugh. She’s at Measured Out In Coffee Spoons.

And finally, my favorite professor in college, and author of Confessions of an Amateur Believer, Patty Kirk, has a blog that she updates periodically. The posts are excellent and always make me think. I especially enjoyed her most recent one about connecting with her teenage daughters through discussing the questionable scenes in horror films. Find her at Amateur Believer.

These are just a few, and I’ll mention some more later. Happy Thursday… it’s supposed to be nearly 90 degrees on Saturday, and I’m in the process of convincing D that we need to go to the beach this weekend. Hello, Southern California. Have we met?

*Edit: Upon further perusal, doesn’t Boo look stuffed in this picture?

This post was supposed to be about my own abyss of staggering, suctioning desolation. It was supposed to be about my struggle with anxiety, including dripping references to Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath and how all great writers eventually asphyxiate themselves.

This post was supposed to be gushing and emotive and altogether moving; a post in which everything the heroine says or does resonates within the reader, until the reader bursts out shouting: “Yes, dear writer, your plight has been my plight, and your life, my life! I love you for brilliantly expressing what I, as a mere reader, cannot express! You are the voice of humanity and all that is poetry!”

While writing said post, I had a fit of writing-hating: hating myself via hating my writing. I called Best Friend L in San Francisco and gushed to her about all my irrational fears and my struggle with anxiety these past few days and how I have no idea what I’m doing with my life, and (sob) I miss Francis the Cat.

Then L told me that when she was in Peru a few weeks ago, she got sick one day and vomited, and right after she vomited there was an 6.5 earthquake while she was naked.

And lo, I laughed. L laughed too; she said, “I’m so glad you reacted that way. No one laughs when I tell them.”

“What, do they say, ‘Oh no, you threw up, I’m so sorry?’”

“Yes, but I wish they would laugh. It’s really funny.”

And lo, lo, I laughed, heartily.

And then I told her… I told her all the irrational things I’ve been anxious about… virgin pregnancy being the forerunner.

“See?! See how irrational it is?” I asked. “I’ve never even had sex, but suddenly I gain weight and my breasts get swollen from PMS, and I’m all panicked that I’m giving birth to a deity and asking D if he’s had any prophetic dreams lately.” I didn’t tell her about the fears that the bank is stealing all my money (“This girl has $2000 in her checking account and $30,000 in school debt… she looks like she wouldn’t notice if we took a grand here and there…”); or my fears about my feet growing really, really wide; or my fears about my eyelashes falling out. You laugh. You just go ahead and laugh, but seriously, guys…

What if this happened?

And then I told her about how D and I were kissing the other day, glorious, healthy kissing in the purest way possible, and I actually started crying. Not because the moment was so romantic and emotive and meaningful that I couldn’t help myself. I started crying because I imagined what it would be like if we broke up. And suddenly, that Worst Case Scenario became my reality instead of the real reality – the attractive young man beside me who likes me so much that he lets me place my mushy, saliva-covered lips on his.

And then L said, “Give yourself a break!” She named off all the tough things I’ve done lately, dating all the way back to the moment of the big move to California in December. “Seriously,” she said. “Give yourself a break. We need to start making this our mantra whenever anything is scary: ‘At least I’m not pregnant.’”

And that was just what I needed to hear, just what writing a million gushing posts could not cure. Well, it was what L said AND D’s earlier affirmation that the bank is not stealing my money, and even if they were stealing my money, I would not die.

That’s the nice thing about having so little money. There isn’t a whole lot to lose. And really, the best thing about all of it is that even if the bank were stealing my money, the bank could not make me pregnant…

…right?

Inspiration

April 8, 2008

Yesterday evening one of my favorite art bloggers, Emily Martin of The Black Apple, posted a link to a podcast of an interview on Craftsanity. The interview is a long one — over an hour and a half — but inspired me at this I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing-with-my-life period because Martin took something that she loved and made a successful business of it in just a few years. I listened to part of the podcast last night before going to bed, and while I enjoyed hearing about the process of her business, I was struck by how similar her experience living in Brooklyn for a few months was like my recent experience moving to L.A. Martin says that when she moved to Brooklyn, people never asked her what she was doing in Brooklyn — the moving to Brooklyn in and of itself was the large accomplishment. I’m not patting myself on the back here in saying that moving to L.A. was some gigantic feat. It’s just that what Martin said about it resonated with me. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that anyone besides my mother asked what I DO at my job. A year ago when people would ask my parents what I was doing, my parents would have to tell them that I was working at a church in Arkansas. Now they can just say, “She moved to L.A.,” and that is interesting enough. Perhaps it is such a huge accomplishment because of the sacrifices one must make to live in cities like New York or L.A. or Chicago or San Francisco. The cost of living is so high, the traffic is so crazy, parking gives you ulcers… I paid $400 a month back in Arkansas for my huge one-bedroom apartment with two walk in closets and abundant parking. Now I live with two other people and pay… well, that’s my secret. It’s shameful for a mid-western girl to admit how much she pays for rent in L.A. I’m doing all right though. Working at a church for a year back in Arkansas and getting paid on the non-profit organization level taught me a lot about what my mom likes to call, “living on a shoe string.” Plus I’m not too far removed from the student stage of my life when having $60 in my checking account was a solace.

So, what do I DO here? And more importantly, is this job contributing to the big scheme of my life? Well, I work at an organic juice company in Santa Monica, as I’ve stated before. It’s a small start-up company, but it’s quite successful, and the products are high-quality and sold nationwide. The company has grown 50% in sales since last year. It feels weird for me to be talking about all this because business never really interested me until I took this job. My official title at said job is Administrative Assistant, but I mostly assist on the financial side of things. This is a new realm for me, and even though the thought of entering numbers and searching for missing pennies and balancing accounts once sounded like prison to me, I have to admit that I sort of like it. My last job was almost entirely creative, and while I loved it, my creative energy was completely sapped at the end of the day. It’s kind of nice to have a job that is one giant formula, so all I have to do is plug the numbers in.

And the real reason I am kind of liking my job is because I’m learning a bunch of things about running a small business. Now, I’ve only worked there a few months, but I did grow up in a small business as well, so I’m catching onto things pretty quickly. And even though this job isn’t the answer to my quarter life crisis, at least it seems to be leading somewhere. Which brings me to another somewhere:

Today I signed up for a beginner and intermediate sewing class. It’s an adult evening class at a nearby elementary school. It starts April 21 and will continue for 5 Mondays, 6:30-9:30 p.m. I know how to sew already at a rudimentary level, but my skills need some refinement.

And this class, small as it may be, fills me with excitement. Maybe I’m not doing exactly what I want to be doing right now, but in some ways I believe this class may be the beginning of something very fulfilling.

Emily Martin’s podcast

Gone in 60 Seconds

April 6, 2008

Friday night held the birthday party of the millennium at my apartment, during which around 20 people came over to pay their birthday respects to D and his brother G. Much merry-making took place, much cake-eating from a marvelous cake G’s roommate A made, and talking, laughing, etc. It was a good time. Toward the end of said party, friend DH told a story of how has car had been stolen two weeks before and returned a few days later. It was stolen right out his apartment garage, which was not locked, but the door was closed. The police picked it up a few days later, and while it was not harmed, DH received the bonus of drug paraphernalia and actual methamphetamines stashed in the car. At one point in the conversation, my D made the comment that he always tries to park near Lexi (the plural of Lexus) and Mercedes so if someone decides to run off with a car, that someone is more likely to choose the luxury option.

The party went late, so D crashed on my couch that night rather than driving 45 minutes south to where he lives. The next afternoon he went out to get something out of his car, but returned to ask, “Did you move my car this morning?” I shook my head. “No, I didn’t.”

He pointed out the window to the empty curb space not fifty feet from my bedroom balcony. “It was right there last night.”

“Are you sure you didn’t park it somewhere else?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

We went outside to survey the situation further. We walked around the block but didn’t see his car anywhere. We looked around the vacant space for evidence of broken glass. Nothing.

We were supposed to go on a long fun date that afternoon, taking the bus to the Grove mall and using our free movie vouchers to see Leatherheads, after which I was going to take D out to dinner. We were supposed to go to the Laurel Canyon General Store way up in the winding Hollywood Hills to see the special mystery guest who would show up… alleged to be Joni Mitchell but not for certain. Instead, we spent the afternoon waiting for phone calls and sitting in the police station, working on filing a report and feeding change to the parking meter outside every half hour. I was pretty upset about D losing his car all day, and I was amazed at his positive attitude all afternoon. “We’ll get the car back,” he said. “It’ll all work out.” He was so positive that if he hadn’t started getting a little upset about it right after I took him out for dinner, I was going to tell him straight up, “It’s ok to get mad, D.”

We are sad that his car is missing. I am disturbed that it was right outside my house and angry that people can be so selfish. D is a student. He doesn’t have any money. And one of the worst things about the situation is that his school books and information he needs for his job as a Teacher’s Assistant are in the car. Now, not only does he not have wheels, but he also does not have the stuff he needs to function in his life.

That sucks. D’s brother G is boycotting society. And I’m just really, really sad.

If you see a Suzuki Verona in the LA area with Texas license plates and a dent in the driver’s side door, call it in. It’s probably D’s car.

All of you who are praying people, please pray that something good will come out of this. Please pray that if the car doesn’t show up abandoned somewhere or if the police don’t catch the people who took it, the insurance money will cover it.

And please pray for my boyfriend.

A Quick Little Post

April 3, 2008

Tomorrow night I am hosting a birthday party for D and G with G’s roommate A at my apartment. Because I am exhausted and have been staying up writing far too late into the night for the past few evenings, and because I have a zillion things to do tomorrow, this post is going to be quick.

Another thing I like about D is that he has dimples.

Yeah, I said it. So there.