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.

We knew we wanted a special element to the ceremony; something to include the kids and solidify our marriage not as two becoming one, but as four becoming a family.

In theory, it was holy and right and intentionally inclusive. In reality, it was a disaster.

Set in the middle of our wedding service was our first act of holy communion. I picked the song, had elements set on a light green vintage plate, and used a heart-shaped water cracker as His body broken for us next to a cup of grape juice. We discussed multiple times with Parker and Ryen that we’d all go up to the small table, pray together, and partake of communion as our first act as a family.

The ceremony was flawless until I heard a whimper, then a whining cry break through the air. Matt called the kids to join us after our wedding charges had been exchanged and they apprehensively approached us, Ryen nervous, Parker crying. We were all suppose to pray, but Ryen had no clue what was going on and Parker kept his runny nose and moist face buried in Matt’s charcoal grey suit, refusing to take a bite of my heart-shaped water cracker.

Instead of feeling like the kids were not making this the happiest day of my life, I felt an empathetic wave of sympathy for them. He was their dad before he was my boyfriend. He was their Papa before he was my husband. He was their protector before he was mine. And now everything was changing. On the stage during our ceremony Parker wept loudly and Ryen clung to my wedding dress while Matt prayed, then broke the heart-shaped water cracker and shared it with me.

This was the beginning of our life as a family. Two crying kids, friends watching, and the promise to be a family.

A year later, Matt and I sat on the floor of a log chapel at Forrest Home family camp with the same kids who a year prior were scared, confused, and unsure of the changes taking place. Yesterday, as Matt brought communion elements to where we were seated, I had a flash of remembering our wedding ceremony and the trial it was simply to act like a family. Matt passed out water crackers and small glasses of grape juice as the four of us sat in a circle and prayed the prayer that was holy and right and inclusive.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was us.* Four becoming one. For life.

It was a second shot at a first holy communion. And we survived. Without tears.

*[Ryen let out a big EWWWWW when Matt explained the juice represented the blood Jesus shed on the cross and Parker kept asking the difference between Jesus and God.]

Dearest Matthew,

365 days later, I’m still here. Endless sunsets, thousands of heartbeats, millions of seconds passed, I’m still here. Through meltdowns and delayed flights and missed expectations and fits of laughter and moments of tears, I’m still here. 12 months, 48 weeks, 365 days later, I’m still here.

One year ago today I stood on cobblestone steps of a Santa Ynez vineyard and vowed to be your wife and do life with you until my last, dying breath. Quite dramatic sentiment from a seemingly stable woman, but we both learned  this year that I’m needlessly dramatic and wildly entertaining.*

I’m still here. Through fall, winter, spring and summer, I’ve remained faithful to my promise to you before God and our friends. To never leave you. To be by your side in sickness and health. To love you in richness and poverty. To honor you in my brokenness. To never leave you when I want to run. I’m still here. And I’m not leaving.

We’ve endured hardship and pain and loss and failure. We’ve survived children and fights and dinner parties and travel. We’ve made dinner and friends and dreams and a home. We’ve succeeded in communication and work and life and love. Through it all, we’re still here… 365 days later.

September 7th, 2010

The day I’ve been waiting for has come and I’m so excited. Excited because I know. I know you are the man I not only love, but the man I need.

You have extended grace and forgiveness. You have shown me love in spite of fault. You have displayed strength in my weakness, culpability in my failures, and organization in my creative chaos.

Today, in the presence of our Almighty God, amazing family, and astounding friends, I vow promises to you and have a great counsel of witnesses to hold me accountable.

Matthew Ray Olthoff, I promise to love the Lord my God with the totality of my being; with all my heart, soul, mind and strength…

I promise to never give up on the quest of learning and discovering you…

I promise to love you even during the times I may not like you…

I promise to be committed to honest communication…

I promise to remember to put the tag of the fitted sheets on the side nearest to the wall and never load the dish washer because we both know I’m horrible at both those things…

I promise to let you make the executive decisions for our family, though I will always give you my opinion…

I promise to work on my bad submission skills (we both know I’m sub par in this area)…

I promise to be by your side living in an apartment or in a mansion, riding in public transportation or in a Lamborghini, eating hot dogs or filet mignon…

But most importantly, I promise you before our Almighty God that I will NEVER cheat on you for forsake our vows of fidelity. I will NEVER leave you. I will NEVER leave our family.

Your home will be my home.

Your bed will be my bed.

Your children will be my children.

Your God will be my God.

Matthew, please take me to be your wife and I vow to be your best friend until the day that I take my last breath. I love you.

I’m here. 365 days later, I’m still here. And I’m so glad I am.

Your wife,
Bianca [aka "Peggy the Peg Leg"]

* [Remember the time I locked myself in the closet because I didn't want to talk to you? Or the time I cried because I thought you didn't buy me a Christmas present? Or when I fell to the floor and "fainted" because you didn't love me enough to live?]

Okay, seriously people,  I don’t care how tight we are or how much you value being “real,” I don’t want to hear you pass any form of gas from any orifice on your body. At all. Ever.

Furthermore, I don’t even want to talk about. The topic is thoroughly disgusting and nothing makes me more comfortable than when we normalize the conversation by saying, Everybody does it! Friends, I’m not everybody.

For some context, I grew up in a house where my mother created an etiquette course as part of our education. We didn’t call it burping, we referred to it as belching. Farting was hushed and replaced with flatulence. [Side note: My mother has never flatulated in front of my father in the 38 years they've been together and I'm pretty sure he appreciates it.] So you can imagine my horror when last night’s dinner conversation took a turn for the worst.

Someone—to protect his identity we’ll just call him Natt—said, Hey, it’s normal! I can be real. Everybody does it! At this point, the artisan appetizers are going sour in my stomach because I could see this conversation going south… dirty south. I gave Natt one of those We-aren’t-going-to-go-there looks accompanied with a frozen smile. What? he innocently asked. Like you don’t fart?

Natthew, I barked. You better watch your words! All the Southern etiquette my momma taught me was going to go out the window in 2.5 seconds if this man was going to throw me under the bus. Just so we’re all clear, no one needs to know mine or your gastronomical expulsions. It’s gross. And contrary to popular belief, it’s not normal. [Seriously, any gas exuding your body that can be lit into a flame is not normal. Ever.]

So please, I beg of you, don’t talk about belching or flatulence under the guise of being real. Friends, you’re not being real, you’re being gross.

All in favor, say aye!

My mother thanks you.

Maybe I have obsessive compulsive disorder [read: I do have obsessive compulsive disorder], but I read multiple books at once. I look at it like a meal: some protein, some carbs, and some sugar [because really, Sugar Busters was the in diet of the 90s, but who besides Jillian Michaels eats like that?].

My current meal:

• Protein: Rumors of God, Tyson and Whitehead. Brad Lomenick sent me this book and I love/hate him for it. I’d let you borrow it, but considering I highlighted and underlined personal notes of all my deficiencies on almost every page, you’ll have to get your own copy. There is nothing particularly new in content or luxurious in prose, but the layout is convicting and the narrative is honest, poignant, and real. Every chapter I finish I want to chuck the book at the wall and stick my fingers in my ears while screaming Lalalalalalalala, I can’t hear you God! [I have issues.]
• Carbohydrates: Making Ideas Happen, Belsky. If you are creative and have a hard time executing vision, this book is made for you. Scott basically obliterates the Creatives excuse to lollygag and dream rather than execute and perform. Brilliant. If I was Siskel&Ebert, I’d give it two thumbs up. [RIP Ebert]
• Sugar: Bossypants, Tina Fey. The book is a random collection of her personal stories that pretty much make me feel we could be friends. We would be friends… if I was funny, lived in New York, and worked for Saturday Night Live. It was too fast of a read. I finished it in about two days and wish it lasted for two weeks.

I’m 90% with my meat and potatoes reading list. Any suggestions? Furthermore, are you consuming a well-balanced reading diet?

After a year of marriage, I think I understand how marriage works.

• A month ago: I received an amazing present after a long trip
• Two weeks ago: I received a thoughtful gift
• One week ago: I received a something I asked for a while back

Yesterday it allllllll made sense.

Matt: Remember when I gave you your gift when you came home from Dallas? And the yoga stretch pants you wanted? And the board game you asked for? Just so you know, I’d realllllllllly like FIFA 2012. And a new 3D television. With surround sound.

And that my friends, is how marriage works. Butter up your spouce, then ask for something you want.

Just kidding. Well… half kidding.