After a year and a half of marriage

Me: [alone in the closet past midnight reading the last book of the Hunger Games trilogy] I can’t believe it ended! I can’t believe it ended. I can’t believe it ended… [crying commences]

Bianca: [crying in bed]
Matt: [wakes up] What’s wrong?! What happened?
Me: Oh nothing.
Matt: Bianca, it 1:00am and your sobbing so hard the bed is shaking. What happened?
Me: I feel if I tell you won’t care or you’ll think I’m crazy…
Matt: What’s wrong? I’m here to listen.
Me: Well, I finished the Hunger Games trilogy and I just can’t believe it ended. Peeta was the most amazing man and, I mean, I saw two people fall deeply in love and fight for each other and beat the odds and  I feel… I just feel so…
Matt: [silence]
Me: I feel so…
Matt: Zzzzzzzz… [snoring]

After a year and a half of marriage, my love affair with fictional characters and great story lines is the best antidote for inducing sleep of my spouse.

In the 2011 wrap-up, I’m realizing I’ve had many moments where melting down felt like my only option. I’ve also discovered I’m not alone. Charlie Sheen, Khloe Kardashian, Lindsey Lohan all melted down in 2011. In no way shape or form do I want to be associated with those names, but at least I don’t feel so bad.

As we head into 2012, remember, it’s okay not to be okay. Enjoy the rewind post from 2011!

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When life is tough and you feel like you can’t go on, it’s okay to not be okay.
When money is tight and you are stressed about the bills, it’s okay to not be okay.
When your heart is broken and you’re devastated and alone, it’s okay to not be okay.
When life doesn’t make sense and you feel lost in a maze, it’s okay to not be okay.
When dreams are shattered by reality, it’s okay to not be okay.
When death takes someone you love, it’s okay to not be okay.

Sometimes as Christians we lose perspective of the One who fights for us. Like, since we’re Christians we shouldn’t lose our marbles, yell alone in our car, or cry because life is too much. We should be perfect and pretty and polished. We should quote scripture and hold onto to promises and never, ever be angry.

However, when I look at scripture I see ordinary people, serving an extraordinary God, still have meltdowns. David was a emotional basket-case; yet he was king. Job cursed his birth; yet lived a long life. Naomi admitted she was bitter and forgotten; yet her promise was met.

These characters had space to not be okay. And it was okay.

Job, Naomi, and David all professed God as the provider of their needs. They trusted him. They loved him. But in their lives we see moments of stress, depression, turmoil. Confusion, aloneness, despair. Fear, doubt, poverty.

In moments of confusion, desperation, or bitterness, don’t hide alone in a closet. Or worse, don’t isolate someone because they’re not okay. We all need space to process our emotions without the feeling of needing to be fake or fine or in control. God’s in control. We run around like fools acting like the world is ending until He stops us, reminds us, and assures us… everything is going to be okay.

In the meantime, know you have the space on this blog to say when you’re not okay. I will be a good listener… unless you’re in sin and I bust a Cher in Moonstruck on you!

Merry Christmas and cheers to a new year! May 2012 be as prosperous and joy-filled as this holiday season.

From our family to yours, MERRY CHRISTMAS! 

Love,
Matt, Bianca, Parker, Ryen, and Ricci

Frankie came into youth group after several counseling sessions with me. She wore dark lipstick and walked with swag only the hard core kids could pull off. She was from the streets. And though our church is located in the concrete jungle of East Los Angeles, she was one of the few kids who’s unknown father and thrice-married mother still gang banged in the ‘hood.

She had a hard exterior, but I saw the soft within. The stonewall face was to protect her from the hurt she felt from the hurt she encountered. Frankie came to our church hopeful… hopeful she could be one of the few that got out, that got better, that ended the life lived by fear. She wanted more. The summer of 2006 she spent with me going to lock-ins and beach parties and the other youth activities I planned. Seeing her laugh and smile and sing and hope was glorious. Absolutely glorious.

I can still hear her raspy voice and loud laugh if I close my eyes long enough.

Summer turned into fall and the laughing girl with the raspy voice had to go back to her high school routine with people who lured her slowly back to the gang life. I still called her and invited her to hang out with me, but she slowly stopped returning my calls.

Until it happened.

Frankie’s mom called the church office frantically trying to contact me. All she told me was that Frankie was at the hospital and severely injured from being jumped [read: gang beaten] by a gang at a local park. I left the office and immediately drove to the hospital where Frankie was surrounded by four Pico Rivera police officers.

Frankie was gang raped. Repeatedly.

She sobbed in my arms asking the ageless question, Why. With bruised eyes and swollen lips, she said she wanted to stop. She knew this wasn’t what God had for her. She knew there was more. 

For the five months that followed, I walked Frankie through court proceedings and prayer sessions. The day arrived when she would testify against the gang members in court and she showed up to the church office in her mother’s clothes. The black mini skirt was two sizes too small. The bright red blouse was sheer, revealing her undergarments. The heels were too big. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other as we spoke about the case.

Within five minutes we were racing out of the door to a local clothing store to find Frankie some clothes that fit. We ambushed the store, throwing piles of clothes at Frankie to try on. She laughed, raspy and loud. I remember it vividly because it was the last time I would hear her laugh.

The court scene was brutal. She was portrayed as a sixteen year old woman who solicited sex from adult men. She unraveled and before long, she sat lifeless on the stand, watching her perpetrators walk free. Six men walked free and she sat captive.

Frankie sent me an email a few months later saying the year we spent together in youth group was the best year of her life. She said she wasn’t ready to come back to church, but she promised one day would. She would return to the home she loved with people looked beyond her tattoos and dark lipstick and saw the soft, sweet girl within. I never heard from her again.

Today the Los Angeles Times reported that Frankie was murdered, a victim in a homicide case on December 18th, 2011.

Her whole life was summed up in two sentences. Twenty years of life garnished twelve words. The words stung because black letters on the Los Angeles Times made it official. Frankie’s gone.

I have heaps of guilt about what else I could’ve done, should’ve done, would’ve done… but now I can’t. Where I find solace is in the fact that there are others, mothers, sisters, brothers, who are saying, One day I’ll be back. One day I will come around. I won’t accept that answer. I refuse to let that be acceptable.

At our core is the belief we are created for more. More than our pithy lives. More than what the world offers. More than the empty promises of returning to the place God wants us to be.

Because life is more than two sentences, I’m fighting for more.

I’ve officially become a Dog Nut. I’ve capitalized the words dog and nut because it’s a title. You know those people who baby-talk to their furry friends, have pictures in their wallets of mangy mutts, and take their pets on picnics? DOG NUT. And  I’ve become one. I’m not proud of this at all, in fact this is more of a confession than anything else.

I used to be the person who would roll their eyes when someone would cry about life without their dog. I used to be the person who couldn’t understand why dog owners would refer to their pet like a member of the family. I used to be sane. Now? Let’s just say I drank the Koolaid.

If you think this was my idea, you’re wrong. I was completely against it. Against all it! The house that smells like canine, ain’t mine, was more along my thought process until Ricci wiggled his way into my house… and heart. In a matter of three days we went from dog-sitting to dog-owning. He’s the missing piece to our family and he has been the best thing in bringing our blended home closer together.

He’s a full-bred Dachshund with honey-colored fur and weighs about five pounds [yes, I'm announcing his arrival like he was a child]. But don’t you roll your eyes and shake your head just yet. Though I live in Orange County I WILL NOT be carrying him in my purse… but excuse me if I wanna cuddle wiff my widdle cutie patootie and talk baby-talk. Like I said, I becoming a Dog Nut.

And to give you a glimpse at how cuddly my new friend is, here’s a random picture from my phone. Yes, my phone. Because what Dog Nut doesn’t carry a picture of their dog on their phone?

On Millionaire Matchmaker [don't judge me], Patti Stanger made a great comment, Divorced men are the best kept secret. I laughed at first, but realized me and my matchmaking mate are on to something.

If a divorced man is interested in marrying again, it ensures one thing: been there, done that, willing to do it again.

I began researching this statement and found that it’s true. There is a 64% greater chance a divorced man will remarry. Except this time, they are specific about the type of bride they desire.

The first time around, it’s a chemistry experiment with flasks, beakers, and imbalanced litmus tests. Though I do not advocate or endorse divorce, there are a few cases which grace is extended and God can restore the years that the proverbial locust has eaten.*

Getting married for the first time is ideal and better and lovely and new. But it does come with it’s own set of issues. Marrying someone who has been to the circus before understands what it takes to survive in the freak show. I’ve listed some benefits in case some single women out there are wondering if dating a pre-owned man is the route to take.**

• He’s been to war [read: divorce] and realized it was not fun. He—here’s the benefit—probably won’t go there again. Win.
• The likelihood of him understanding children and/or wanting children is higher. And, if you aren’t planning on having children, then it’s taken care of by the woman before you. Win.
• He’s domesticated which means he knows how to do laundry and cook. Otherwise he would have starved half-naked wondering how to boil water.
• He’s seen the body of a woman after giving birth. Win.
• He understands mood swings, chocolate cravings, chick flicks, and the need for make up. Win. Win. Win.

There are of course factors that need to be weighed prior to dating anyone [do they love Jesus, do they have a job, do they brush their teeth]. But sometimes divorced men are viewed as damaged good, sloppy seconds, or losers. With divorce comes emotional baggage from surviving the circus, but if someone is willing to go through the work of healing [counseling, therapy, community], believes in the institution of marriage [again], and is willing to live in a house with you and all your crazy, I’d say go for it.

Any divorcees out there who want to drop some knowledge? Feel free!

This blog was brought to you by Matthew Olthoff Inc., a non-profit company committed to cleaning dishes, doing laundry, and living with emotional human beings who watches horrible reality television.

*If you know Matt’s story, you know why his divorce was given a biblical thumbs up. And hello?! He got ME on the second round. Win.
**This statement has not been evaluated by the Federal Department of Marriage. All opinions are personal.

Back spasms and hypertension swayed and convinced me to heed the advice of my sister Alexandria to attend a local Bikram Yoga spot near her house.* I had heard all the benefits of therapeutic stretching, so thanks to my sister I attended my first class last Thursday.

[And this is where my life took a turn for the worst.]

Upon walking into the studio, I was overwhelmed by the smell. Akin to underarm, a junior high boys locker room, and mold, I was jolted awake for the 5:00am class. In case you don’t know what Bikram Yoga is, let me give you a visual: it’s like being in the fourth ring of hell while body odors permeate the air and sweat runs down every pore of your body. Seriously.

The room was set to 1112 degrees and there were TWO fans at opposite sides of the room circulating at extra low. Encouraged by Alexandria, I totally felt that I looked the part. I wore my yoga outfit, carried a water bottle, and brought wee little towel to dab my face if I perspired. [Oh Lawd have mercy, what a fool I am!]

This is stuff the instructor could do?!

The instructor locked the door [or should I say trapped me in] and the class began with simple poses. Within the first five minutes I was dripping with sweat. I reached down for my bottle of water like I had crawled through the Mojave desert and as I did I heard, Fight through the thirst and do not break for water or interrupt those around you. I stopped midair and was taken aback that this woman is telling me not to drink in a 112 degree room. I gave my infamous Fool-You-Must-Be-Trippin’ face and continued stretching until our designated break.

40 minutes into hell I confessed my trespasses and failures, vowing to repent from all evil ways if God would allow me to leave my Bikram Yoga class. Somewhere in between Standing Mountain and Warrior pose, I knew something was going on. I felt it in my quads, then my head, them my heart, then my eyes.

Oh no. I’m going to faint. I’m going to pass out like an idiot in front of the entire class, I thought to myself. I wanted to tell my sister, but my tongue was stuck to my mouth and I couldn’t talk. I felt myself go weak and I knew I was going to topple over, so I squatted into a seated position and remember saying to myself, If you faint, be classy. Don’t fall doooooooowwwwwwnnnnn. 

The next thing I see is the blurred face of my instructor and Alexandria. The instructor shook my jaw rigorously and said, Wake up! You fainted. What’s your name? In my head I said my name is Bianca, but what came out was something like, Muuuaaaaddd sssttattttt Icccannnca. After drinking water and coming to, the instructor told me not to leave the class and to simply let the heat cleanse out my toxins. For FORTY FIVE minutes following my fainting catastrophe, I laid out on my mat like a dog in the summer.

I’ve never been drunk or have tried drugs, but if that feeling was anything like it, I will proudly quote Nancy Reagan and just say no.

Once the class ended I stumbled to the door, grabbed my keys, empty water bottle, and drenched towel and convinced my sister I was fine. The instructor commended me for staying the full time in the class and to come back the next day. As I began to say good bye, I felt it again. Oh no, it is happening again. Before I could say another word, I passed out on the floor of the reception. The instructor said it was normal. She said this stuff happens frequently. She said all the toxins are leaving my body.

And she was right. The last five days have been marred by headaches, dry mouth, and a smoker’s cough. I’ve called my little sister several times since the incident and we both laugh hysterically while recounting the story. Just so we’re clear, I will not be going back to Bikram Yoga any time soon. As therapeutic as everyone says it is, I’ve had more therapy laughing about being trapped in the room than any Warrior pose could ever do. And if anyone says I should try it again, they’ll be getting my Fool-You-MUST-Be-Trippin’ face!

*Before you get all crazy and think I’m a heretic for attending a yoga class, there was no chanting, phrases of enlightenment, or music. I did my research. It was just a room with industrial lighting and 112 degrees of heat.

On this episode of Foot In Mouth, our horribly mindless victim will document a growing disease permeating her social life. Watch as our victim makes a fool of her self in a one-week span!

Hello, I’m Bianca. I have foot-in-mouth disease. There isn’t a direct cure to this disease, but preventative muzzles, oral SuperGlue, and the basic think-before-you-speak tips will help me from dying a social death of embarrassment.

• While backstage at Catalyst, one of the foremost leadership conferences for the next generation, I got to interview some amazing leaders and pastors, each hosted by assistants escorting them to interviews, recordings, or main stage platforms. After a lively dialogue with Francis Chan, a middle aged man wearing khaki’s and a polo came into the room and leaned casually against the wall as we finished up our interview.
  Wanting to welcome and make him feel comfortable, I extended my hand to introduce myself and asked if he was Francis’ host and tour guide. He shook my hand and said his name of Dan Cathy. I asked the PRESIDENT OF CHICK-FIL-A, entrepreneurial guru, and leadership mogul if he was a tour guide?! Foot. In. Mouth.
• While meeting with a church leader about an event I’d be speaking at, she asked some theological questions. To affirm her I wasn’t an insane, Feminazi Pharisee, I jokingly said, Don’t worry, I won’t cry or start screaming on stage like someone from a crazy Christian television network.
  To which she replied, Oh how funny, my husband has worked at [insert Christian television station here] for years!  Foot. In. Mouth.
• While at the gym I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in a while and immediately gave her a hug. Uncharacteristically emo, she gave me a limp, one-arm squeeze and sighed. Cheer up, Charlie, I jokingly said. You look like Sad Sally with that face! What, did your dog die?! It turns out her dog died. Yesterday.
  Foot. In. Mouth.

Stay tuned for another episode of Foot In Mouth with your star, Bianca Olthoff!

Please tell me I’m not the only one who needs a muzzle. If not, share your foot-in-mouth moments freely and without judgement. Grace is the order for the day!

What are YOUR best feelings in the world? Inquiring minds want to know…

Goodbyes are so hard. The waving hand and the blowing of air kisses indicate an end, a permanent change in a particular moment. For most people, letting go is difficult, but in two days I’m running away from home. Yes, sprinting down the street, waving frantically, and blowing air kisses to the apartment I’ve called home since the day I said, I DO.

I want to be sentimental about leaving our nest, but truthfully, it’s an answer to prayer! I moved into a preexisting man cave with two kids. Can you imagine was it was like to see an XBOX, a PS3, and BluRay DVD player, but no coordinating hand towels for guests, or lamps for the rooms, or duvet for the bed box spring? Or what it was like to try to cut fruit with a butter knife because it was the only knife on hand? Basically, moving into our apartment was an adventure! A caper! An experience! [I added exclamation marks to those words to make them sound fun. It didn't work.]

After much prayer, rearranging of finances, and responsible budgeting, Matt and I found a house to call home. It’s not a mansion or my dream house on Pacific Coast Highway, but it’s ours. And we love it.

I’m on a busy packing schedule set by the resident project manager [aka Matthew Olthoff], but I am definitely making room on Saturday to do the following:

• say au voir to our next door neighbor with the cat who is perpetually in heat and screams like it’s being tortured
• blow air kisses to our down stairs neighbor below us who bangs on her ceiling/our floor with a force that says, STOP MAKING NOISE OR I WILL GO UP THERE AND WHOOP YOU
• sprint away from our upstairs neighbors who bicker and smoke cigarettes like Marge Simpson’s sisters
• give my best pageant wave to the screaming kids who play in the courtyard at all hours of the day
• never drive around the apartment complex aimlessly after work in hopes of finding parking
• hug the door of our apartment that was my welcoming committee as I entered the man cave

We’ve created memories in our little apartment and I’m grateful for our first home. But now it’s time for my own garage and backyard Now if you’ll excuse me, my project manager is keeping me on a tight timetable before I leave for work.

If you have any moving advice, let me know. This is my first big move as a family, so I wait in eager anticipation for the wisdom you’ll dispense.