Sometimes, amidst the vast activity that’s consumed my life this summer - two writing classes; a full-time job plus a pleasantly welcomed bounty of freelance work; training (see below!), eating and sleeping; and, occasionally, breathing - I often forget that I have this website (or, blog, whatever). Actually, I can’t blame the summer, since the survey says I haven’t posted since, um, April.  But, hey, who’s counting when you’ve got exciting news to share?

And here it is:

I’m running a half marathon!

(Cue excited cheers, confetti, and jazz music.)

Because my schedule isn’t all-consuming as it is, I decided to start a supplemental blog to monitor my progress (and occasional setbacks, such as devouring a family-sized bag of blue corn tortilla chips on Day 16). For the record, the race I’m running is the B.A.A. Half Marathon (the same guys who host the Boston Marathon and Falmouth Road Race), and I’m running on behalf (and raising money for) Dana-Farber.

Don’t be shy. Check out To Laces, With Love (I also post my updates to Twitter) - and don’t forget to stash some cash into a very worthy cause.

Until October 10,

Karyn (With a Whine)

(Still interested?  Here’s a recap.)

So, please - come support Opium Magazine, the arts, and lest I forget, me!  Writing (and reading) is as writing does.

It was in the realm of this fantasy that my reality came into play:  I was just too damned busy.  Between a move to a new town (with new streets to explore), a crack at a new job (a shiny facet of my still-new career), and adjustment to business as usual (but when is it ever really that?), I hardly had time to sleep,  let alone train for the half marathon I was also hoping to attempt (keep reading, reader).

It was in the realm of this fantasy, too, that I learned my first lesson.

#27.  Don’t overcommit yourself.

To want to be everything to everyone, everywhere and at every time is simply not possible.  Your water glass will remain perpetually half-full; your thirst never quite quenched as you bound about town, with nary a moment for yourself.  Take a breath, and check yourself (before you wreck yo’self).

#26.  Just say ‘no.’

Sometimes, there will be things you don’t want to do, places you don’t want to go to, and people you don’t want to see.  If you trust yourself enough to know that the world won’t end, and to know that it’s okay to change your mind, just say ‘no.’

#25.  Despite popular belief, there are people who are worth your tears.

There aren’t many of them, though.

#24.  Don’t be catty to women who are younger than you.

You were in their shoes once.

#23.  Don’t be rude to women who are older than you.

You’ll be in their shoes at some point, if you’re lucky.

#22.  Sometimes, it really is about being in the right place at the right time.

But most of the time, it’s about grasping those tiny glimmers of opportunity and running with them as far, as fast and as long as they’ll take you for.

#21.  Tip well, and tip often.

To be frugal is sexy; to be cheap is tacky.

#20.  Well-made shoes are worth their weight in gold.

To be blister, bunion and backache free, today and tomorrow, is a blessing.  Trust me; spend the extra money.

#19.  … but barefoot is blissful.

The delicious sensation of slightly damp, fresh cut grass massaging between the crevices of your toes, padding and cushioning your naked soles as you stroll along, sandals in tow - ah, what a feeling.

#18.  Roll your eyes and look the other way -

- if someone has a problem with how much you spend on your clothing/your hair/yourself; if someone questions what, when, and how you eat; if someone harps in on your lifestyle, your love life, or your uncanny ability to be witty on a dime.  I’ll be damned if anyone thinks a gritty glare will take my spirit and livelihood away from me.

#17.  I am more than the shirt on my back and the gloss on my lips.

I am soft, scarred, brushed and bruised - all of me, beautiful.

#16.  Have an opinion.

No one else will take a stand for your beliefs but you.

#15.  Know when to be tactful.

‘Grace’ is quite possibly the most brilliant five-letter word in the English language.

#14.  I love San Francisco.

#13.  I love New York City.

#12.  I love my MacBook.

(They truly are superior machines.)

#11.  If you buy a stranger a drink at a bar -

- expect him to follow you around, posthaste, for the remainder of the evening.

#12.  Forgive.

People; unfortunate circumstances.

#11.  Forget.

People; unfortunate circumstances.

#10.  Baby, talk is cheap.

Besides, walking the walk in heels is oh-so-sexy, even if you do stumble and fall a few times.

#9.  You can’t take it back.

But you can move forward, starting right here, right now.

#8.  I look good in red.

How do you like them apples?

#7.  The higher the climb, the higher the fall.

And the more fierce the competition.  So, you’d better develop some thick skin.

#6.  You’re more resilient than you think you are.

Really.

#5.  “Never, never, never give up.”  (Winston Churchill)

#4.  Leave the tattoos, piercings and groupies to rockstars.

The cost of correcting impulse is damn expensive.

#3.  Laughter - tear-inducing, doubled-over, abdominal-pulsing laughter - happens when you least expect it.

And, sometimes, in places that are least appropriate.

#2.  This is not a perfect list.

Nor is it all-encompassing, or titillating, or groundbreaking.  But I wrote it, the way I wanted to write it, and I like it.  And I’m okay with that.

#1.  Today,

in this very moment, is the best day of the rest of my life.

Second, and since I’ve been horrible about making all of those promised changes to the site layout, I’ll continue to update the site with my standup schedule - which, to date, includes:

• Tuesday, January 19th at The Middle East (10 P.M.ish)
• Friday, January 22nd at Great Scott (7:30 P.M.)

I’ve also got some magazine stuff in the works, and will post about that when all is said and published.

Rock on,

Karyn (With a Whine)

P.S. - “Mas chistosas,” I think, means “More funniness” in Spanish.  Even my foreign language skills are un-PC (and grammatically incorrect, likely).

Oh, and if you’re interested in seeing me perform my (still very green) stand up comedy, I’ll be at:

• December 11th at Great Scott, 7 P.M.
• December 15th at The Middle East, 10 P.M.
• January 15th at Great Scott, 7 P.M.

While friends and family may forgive my rampant lateness, my behavior didn’t fly - no pun intended - with Logan Airport security last week. Despite being dressed appropriately (my mother would call it “sensible”; I call it “wearing my fat jeans”), I had packed lightly, and had arrived not only on time, but early.  Yet somehow, I proffered suspicion to a latex glove-wearing auxiliary.

“Ma’am?” a voice called out. (I base it on principle to never respond to ‘Ma’am’ unless there’s a gun in my face.) Still, I turned with a wide, obligatory smile.

“Yes?” I croaked, spying a Starbucks just beyond the metal detector, my esophagus wheedling for an overpriced soy latte.  I waited patiently, as if good manners would grant salvation and prevent me from missing my flight.

“There’s no outside food allowed past this point.”  Confused, I looked around for flagrant pizza crusts and sultry bonbons that frequent the landscape of my apartment, when I noticed the gleam of plastic heralding from my purse.  I’d forgotten that I’d packed enough Tampax for the weekend to last me through menopause.  My homemade tampon variety pack blossomed from my bag like a bouquet of feminine hygiene; and to be honest, it looked stunning under the glare of those harsh lights, like a movie star on cue for a passionate kiss.

“This?” I asked, nudging my forefinger into the bag to indicate that I was merely packing period protection and not a Beretta.  “This is nothing.”

“Ma’am,” the guard continued sternly, “I’ll need to search your bag.”

I sighed and him my purse. The crowd behind us started to whisper.  I slinked back into my hooded sweatshirt as far as I could, certain that the curse of menses was scrawled across my forehead like a scarlet letter.  I promised God that if he could just let my digital camera make it through this ordeal unscathed, my ass would be back in church every Sunday, Girl Scout dropout’s honor.

This, however, is a soliloquy of another color.  Or, one of another layout, I suppose.  After a summer that consisted of chronic unexpectedness - some of which admittedly threw me off course for awhile - I’ve regained my footing along the muddy shores, now that the storm has passed.  (Hey, the least I can do is wax poetic after my creative hiatus.)  And, so, I’m going to induce a shakeup of another kind, and morph what is presently my public journal into an even more public portfolio in which I may showcase my linguistic mastery.  I don’t expect changes to come overnight - but then again, technology seems to move at that pace - and so, at times, the site may be down.  Eventually, the section you see now, which is really the pulse and artery of my site, will be secondary to my work.  And so it goes.

I have to say, though, I’m very pleasantly surprised at how much traffic my site has received:  almost 60,000 visits in a mere 6 months of being “live.”  My analytics software have indicated that the following Google searches have lead the herds to Karyn With a Whine:  ‘Karyn Polewaczyk,’ ‘Karyn With a Whine blog,’ and ‘What happened to Blackstreet,’ to name a few.

(Though, if I had to answer the last question, I’d merely offer a shrug of my shoulders and a quizzical eyebrow raise.  And so it goes.)

See, years ago - before many of you knew me; before I allowed another craft to take main stage and steal the limelight; before so many other ever afters that have come and gone - I drew. I painted. I sketched. I drafted. And, truth be told, I was quite good. My artwork continually won prizes while growing up: some school-wide blue ribbons; a few state-wide accolades; and I even placed as a finalist in a national contest once upon a time. Unfortunately, as I grew older - and things like having the right clothes, the right haircut and the right length between my perpetually bushy eyebrows started to matter more - my passion and my talent started to matter less, and eventually grew to become a figment of my adolescent imagination.

Though my memory is hazy, I think I purchased this sketch pad on a whim on some ordinary Saturday afternoon, as if to ignite the passion that lay dormant beneath my Maybelline-colored epidermis. The sketchpad, no doubt, remained a stationary figure through a tumultuous time of my life - to college dorms and back again; amidst few family moves and to each of the three apartments I’ve lived in independently as an adult. Perhaps I’ve torn a sheet or two to jot down my ‘To Do’ lists (manicures and pedicures; dry cleaning and laundry; scheduled times to meet a friend for a drink and maybe meet the Man Of My Dreams), and I’m sure that a charcoal outline of a city scene with my name on it lay in a dumpster somewhere. I’m sure, too, that a proper set of colored pencils - finely sharpened and never used - exists somewhere in my tiny studio beneath a box of old letters and photographs.

We all have sketchpads - some literal, some proverbial - stored on shelves - some in our hallways, some in our subconscious - that are pining for liberation. Pages that crave the caress of lilac-colored watercolor and the depiction of a never ending sunrise. The spirit of the artist in us that yearns to be freed - as Sylvia Plath would say, “To shoot off in all directions, like a Fourth of July rocket” - but is dampened and dimmed by the could haves, would haves and should haves that we pack into schedules that often leave us less than satisfied. Our plates are full, but our stomachs are empty.

I eventually gave up on locating my iPod, finding a certain relaxation through the gentle pounding of my sneakers on the city pavement. But more importantly, I found a part of my wholly creative, unabridged and unapologetic past that can’t wait to introduce herself to 2009.

I turned ever-so-slowly, as to not disrupt the delicate work of my chiropractor as well as to not drop, in haste, the two-months of dry cleaning that lay bundled in my arms. There he stood: one of the eager beaver, Greenpeace volunteers that raid Davis Square like a pack of liberal rats. Forget Starbucks, forget The Burren, and don’t even try to make it to the Somerville Theatre - these Greenpeace follies will brigade across Elm Street to block your every move, arms and clipboards smugly linked as you attempt, but fail, to huff past to your desired destination.

Other superbly original lines chanted by Greenpeace volunteers include: “Hey, do you care about the planet and the fact that we’re all going to DIE?”, “I bet you wouldn’t be drinking out of that disposable cup if you knew it was going to give you ovarian cancer in 20 years,” and my personal favorite, “Hey, gorgeous - what’s an environmentalist like me gotta do to persuade a catch like you to sign my clipboard?”

(The answer to the last question, if you’re curious, is to get the hell out of my way. There’s a meatball sub and 16 ounce Sam Adams waiting for me at Mike’s.)

I gave a once-over to the Greenpeace gringo, who now looked legitimately scared that he had stopped me. Understandably so. My glare of steel met his quivering lower lip; my mind churned to elicit a comeback that would send him back to his patchouli-scented watering hole.

“Oh, I look like an ‘environmental crusader,’ do I?” I shifted the 50 pounds of plastic bags from one arm to the other, shook my iced soy latte in it’s disposable plastic container and scuffed my PVC sneaker to the sidewalk like an over-consumptive American cowgirl in a country western with a capitalistic theme. “Really? Little ol’ me, with my big ol’ plastic bags, full of chemically-treated, imported clothing, my coffee from corporate America and my sudden urge to start a smoking habit because I’m repeatedly harassed by you and every other do-gooder this side of the Charles River?”

My counterpart’s face fell suddenly and turned ashen. He knew I didn’t look like an environmental crusader: I looked like a woman on a PMS-induced bender. And now, he looked like an asshole. I live in Cambridge, home of the hippie and land of the ladies who don’t shave their underarms on purpose. Wasn’t that enough?

For me, it was enough. I stalked away after shooting a second dirty look for reinforcement, impressed with my ability to spit out a coherent sentence with decent anecdotal properties and syntax, as well as my ability to balance a shitload of dry cleaning while slurping on a slippery caffeinated beverage. Truth be told, I do care about the environment; and, okay, maybe I have donated to Greenpeace before. But no one puts Baby in a corner, especially when Danny Zuko’s got Grease Lightning revving around the corner at the dollar store.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my gas-guzzling chariot awaits.