When creativity strikes - that dull, aching wont to put the pen to paper (or in some instances, the fingers to keyboard) immediately, if not sooner - what’s a writer to do but cave into its orgasmic demand? It’s the lover who takes you in the cramped hallway; it’s the thrill of spring’s first rain shower christening bare shoulders and bare souls. It’s that urgent, hungry need for self-expression that flashes like a fleeting ray of bright light through the darkest of clouds. If you stare directly at it, it blinds you; if you look away, it’s gone as soon as it came. If you let it shine beside you, however, it will guide you through your momentary minutes of linguistic fame and conjugational greatness.
Creativity strikes (sometimes, at 1 A.M.)
Apr 7th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
Chance; fate; or, perhaps, a lovely coincidence.
Mar 29th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
I am, admittedly, a person who admires the handiwork of etiquette guides. Call me old fashioned, but there’s something refreshing about good manners and people who acknowledge them (those who write etiquette books) and who exercise them (the few and far between who circulate somewhere out there). Aside from a long, mind-clearing run, nothing perks up my day as much as an exchange of pleasantries - pleases and thank you’s; doors held open, seats offered and respect given in general with nothing expected in return - to remind me that as brutal as life can be, we’re all in this together, and we might as well be nice.
While perusing the library for such inspiration, I came across a book small in both stature and length called Being Perfect, by Anna Quindlen. Though time was ticking - I had an appointment in less than half an hour and another five books on my list with call numbers scattered about - my inner perfectionist was instantly intrigued and pulled the book from the shelf, settling into an oversized chair near a window overlooking Boylston Street for a brief hiatus from my schedule. Instead of finding checklists of do’s and don’ts on my favorite form of masochism, I was pleasantly surprised to divulge in one woman’s tale of perfectionism deconstructed - and this selection, in particular:
“But nothing important, or meaningful, or beautiful, or interesting, or great, ever game out of imitations. What is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.”
It’s funny how we can find exactly what we’re looking for in the places we least expect them.
The rational side of irrational
Mar 27th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
As a creative person, I’ve always likened my emotional thought processes to being right-brained. Having been advised to give logic a try, I present a series of activities in which I can test the psychological waters of rationality.
For example, shopping:
Emotional: I need these Cole Haan pumps immediately, if not sooner.
Logical: These Cole Haan pumps are a great buy, and I will bust a cap in the ass of any bitch who dare tries to snake them away from the protection of my vise-like grip.
Eating:
Emotional: I deserve a one pound bag of animal crackers in one sitting because I’ve had a hard week.
Logical: Eating a pound of cookies is what fat jeans are made for.
Grooming:
Emotional: What does building management mean, ‘It might be a few days before we fix your shower’? How am I supposed to function? Will I lose my will to live?
Logical: Another day I don’t have to shave my legs, you say? Bring on the Veuve - it’s time to celebrate!
Commuting:
Emotional: I wish the guy sitting next to me on the subway wasn’t attempting to start down my shirt. It’s so rude!
Logical: This man appreciates a finely roasted rack of lamb. And I can respect that.
Tears on my pillow,
knp
Testing the waters.
Mar 23rd, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
My mentor once discussed with me the act of showing up for one’s own life - “to be present and not simply there,” as she explained it one April afternoon. I always assumed it had more to do with showing up on time for appointments and the like, a task which has never been my strong suit in my 27 years. Or, perhaps it meant active listening in conversation, showing the person with whom you’re speaking that you’re truly engaged in their words and thoughts. Whichever it was, I tucked her words neatly away into my subconscious, not really paying attention to how important to me such a delicate choice would be until two years later.
As pages of my life turn and the story continues to unfold, I increasingly find myself face-to-face with exciting - and downright scary - possibilities that could dramatically change the path I’ve set out on. I feel I’ve reached this point before: being on the verge of something miraculous yet entirely undefined at the same time, knowing that I must actively choose my next step instead of passively tiptoeing by. I think of the ocean. The current curves and curls, beckoning us for a swim in the sea. We dip our toes at the edge of the coast, startled by the cold. A wave will crash, its foamy aftermath swirling around our ankles. We can’t see our feet temporarily because of tihs, and peering further, we can’t see how deep the water is a mere five feet away. The longer we wait, the closer the tide rushes in: the time to act, it seems, is now. Do we turn back and wait for shallow waters; or, do we dive right in?
Dear guy sitting next to me on subway: mind yo’ biz(nass)
Mar 15th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
Dear sharply dressed fellow sitting to my right on the subway this morning:
Thanks for not-so-subtly reading over my shoulder on the trip in to Boston this morning. I trust your garlic bagel with smoked salmon cream cheese treated your esophagus kindly. Likewise, I’m sure you enjoyed the taste of Romain Gary, whom I myself was busy injesting as you hovered over me with the veracity of a cat in heat. Your “Who the f*&$ is this white girl?” glance towards my iPod - which unceremoniously flashed Mobb Deep’s ‘Got It Twisted’ on its miniature blue screen as I attempted to disentangle my foil-wrapped PBJ - was duly noted. I shall make a concerted effort to fill my Caucasian duties, such as allegiance to Ralph Lauren, Tahitian pearls and, eventually cheating on my future ex-husband with my personal trainer, moving forward. I sincerely apologize that my own musical tastes, akin to that of an MIT frat party circa 2004, are nowhere near the caliber of the Moby, Enya and other sensitive souls who flood your own personal music collection, presumably played during an underground supper club meeting as you sip Two Buck Chuck and wax intellectual with other enlightened folks who dig roasted root vegetables and emo chicks.
You’re so vain, you probably think this blog is about you,
Karyn
Pole… huh?
Mar 15th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
Face flushed, a stranger will excitedly point to whatever identification I present - be it driver’s license or blind carbon copied email - to my last name, the elephant in the room. On cue, I automatically spell my names - first and last - for virtual unknowns to not only save time, but also embarrassment for whichever poor soul thinks he/she (though is usually a he) can prononce Polish, also known as the most elusive Slavic language on the planet. The mastery of my own proported mother tongue is limited. Words like “milk” (mileko), “please” (prosze) and “dirty pig girl” (swinia) come naturally to me; other than that, I’m like kielbasa without the sauerkraut.
Palms are raised by my hunky dory American interpreter to signal silence as my mouth begins to utter the first of two K’s.
“Let me take a stab at it,” they’ll say, a wicked grin encompassing their sly mouth, as if my last name were a juicy sirloin steak, “I took Spanish in sixth grade. Languages are my thing.”
I’ll shrug and give a small smile in return, prepared to enjoy the show (Coke and popcorn optional). What invariably happens next is a complete and utter butchering of any semblance of a surname, along with a large, gulfing sigh that traditionally accompanies a case of gastrointestinal upset.
“Po… Po… Posero9uasdfkausdro9awer-ski!”
(Always the ’ski,’ mind you. Damn you, Kelly Kapowski.)
I give a sympathetic shake of my head that no, that’s not right, usually met with an accusatory glance that I’m some sort of smart ass for possessing such carnal knowledge. At this point I feel tempted to share a pierogie recipe for the sake of appearing authentic, but I refrain. Mostly because I don’t have one.
“Pul-eh-vah-chek” I’ll say (or type, if the inquiry comes electronically), enunciating each syllable and vowel with the precision ofa linguistic goddess. “The W is pronounced as a V,” I explain to my mystified guest, watching their eyes slowly grow to mammoth proportions when the top row of my teeth touches my bottom lip. “V.” I start to explan the roles of the C and the Z, when –
“Well!” they chuckle, slapping one Joe Six Pack hand on their right kneecap, cutting me short to express their disinterest in Slavic dialect. “That. Is. A. DOOZY!”
It’s as if I’m not acutely aware that it’s easier to recite the alphabet backwards and miserably drunk than pronounce the conglomerate of consonants and vowels that is my last name while dead sober. No, I need convincing that it is really that tough, and do I have a cold beer, preferably Budweiser, to cool their panicked ego?
The pursuit of imperfection
Mar 15th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
I called my mentor in a state of panic the other afternoon. I’d been procrastinating with my writing, allowing deadlines to draw dangerously close before a project was completed. This game of Russian roulette didn’t just puzzle me; it also exhausted my mental and physical capacities. And I couldn’t figure out why I’d hold a craft that fulfills me so close to open flame.
It was simple, she explained. I wasn’t enjoying myself anymore. I had replaced my creativity - my voice - with authoritative dictation that things must progress quickly, and now! The perfectionist that exists deep in my soul (the one I try to suppress) had reemerged and was shouting orders left and right. With every free minute of my spare time dedicated towards pushing myself to the next level, I’d neglected to live the life that exists out my window. My procrastination, in essence, was my hesitation to let my work product be less than perfect. I’d unconsciously overwhelmed my life with responsibilities, deadlines and little room to breathe, she continued; and without flexibility, I had no room for the errors and mistakes we all need to make in order to grow and thrive.
And with that, I pledge to myself and to my life to take it in and let it be. To find enjoyment, once more, in the spontaneous - occasionally, the capricious. To believe, as I always have, that the universe has a funny way of working itself out.
Window shopping
Mar 15th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
Coping with stress well is not my strong suit. I binge on “piece” food - raisins, animal crackers, cookies, chocolate chips - or don’t eat at all, sucking down one caffeinated beverage after another in an attempt to fuel my body. Oversleeping is never a problem; but working until 2, 3 and 4 in the morning and then unceremoniously passing out on a pile of paperwork often is. I worry, frown and fret, allowing tension in my parental lobe and upper back to become equally tight. I think of countless unimaginable “What ifs?” and allow my mind to wander down paths that are so far from where it should be, a search party is almost warranted.
My chaotic afternoon was interrupted with a bang - literally. A giant heap of snow fell off the roof to my office building and shattered to the bricks below like an avalanche. It was then, after eight hours with my eyes focused sharply on the monitor in front of me, that I looked outside to see what had caused the commotion. It was then, too, that I noticed one of the most gorgeous sunsets I’d seen in recent memory, with clouds of lavender and pink swirled between the gauzy blue cumulus, hinting at the spring that awaits just around the corner. It was then, lastly, that I was reminded that I need not wait for a shining, perfect day to enjoy a shining, perfect moment.
What’s outside your window?
Confessions of an eyebrow addict
Mar 15th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
I waltzed into my eyebrow wax appointment this afternoon in a particularly chipper mood - not only because I was early and would be able to enjoy a dizzying selection of European fashion magazines at my leisure; but because there’s nothing quite like the feeling of hot wax sizzling against the delicate eye area to get a girl fired up on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
Trouble in paradise appeared around 5:41 P.M., when my waxer (who shall remain anonymous, as shall the spa) - noticed my eyelashes were coated in navy blue mascara.
“Ooh, love your mascara, hun,” she commented, Tweezerman in her left hand and magnifying mirror in her right hand. “What kind is it?”
(FYI: aestheticians and certain elderly types are the only people allowed to call me “hun.”)
“Well,” I began, delving into an explanation of my gig as a beauty provocateur and the ensuing deviation from my standard DiorShow in Black Out towards the lash path less traveled as research, of sorts, for an upcoming product review.
“Oh, I could totally do that,” she replied. “I’m all about makeup.”
I nodded and told her I appreciated the support, then closed my eyes, determined to enjoy five minutes of peace and quiet in the darkened room before heading back into the chaos of Newbury Street.
My waxer was inquisitive. ”So, like, how do you do that?” she asked as I squinted my eyes open. “Like, how do they know to send products to, like, you, and not, like, me?”
“Uh, well,” I answered sheepishly, “they Google me. I guess.” I tightly closed my eyes and began to faintly hum the soundtrack to the Sound of Music to signal that it was time to get on with the show. Salon chit chat, while occasionally appreciated and often a good source of local gossip, was beginning to grate on my nerves.
My waxer, with apparent intent to destroy my solace, continued her babble about how much she “just loves” makeup and stopped mid-wax to pull out a tube of generic mascara she got “two-for-one” at Rite-Aid the way a grandmother would show off photos of her grandchildren stuffed into her wallet. Since a good eyebrow waxer is especially hard to come by - need I remind anyone of the Dellaria Massacre of 2001? - I kept my mouth closed and prayed she would finish already. Kind of like getting stuck with a guy who ‘just wants to hold you,’ when all you want is to practice bedroom acrobatics.
“So, seriously, Kristin. Next time they need someone to review stuff, I’m your girl!”
Kristin? Kristin?! I had just slapped my Visa on the counter to pay for $30 plus tip worth of perfection, but felt like slapping this “girl” - whom I’ve been seeing exclusively for brow services over the past two years - silly.
If all’s fair in love and war, what are the rules for a perfect arch?
Inspiration on the Red Line, 9:02 A.M.
Mar 10th, 2009 by Karyn Polewaczyk
The loud clump grabbed me first. I, in “How is the weekend already over?” mode, peered over the top of my book at the well-groomed woman sitting across from me in the subway car. We uncomfortably made eye contact. The trolley screeched to a halt as it approached the Harvard Square stop. My neighbor rose; my attention shifted from Kerouac down the floor, where, clad in a New Balance hiking boot, wool sock and air cast, was her left foot.
On her right foot? A Christian Louboutin patent leather pump.