It tastes good, I swear...

So on some Sundays I buy myself McDonald's for breakfast. I like McDonald's for breakfast, I always have, and I likely always will (you Food Inc. people can stop your threatening to burn me at stake for crying out loud... I'm calling your bluff). After leaving the Mickey D's drive thru this morning, I embarked on a very spiritual train of thought for my drive to church: there are a lot of things that I like that other people think are gross. To illustrate, I've created the following list, cleverly titled:

Ten Things Karyn Likes That Normal People Think Are Gross

1) McDonald's Breakfast Burritos... the little ones, not the new weird ones. The ones that they often fail to microwave enough, resulting in semi-frozen eggy insides. Man, I love those things.

2) Puppy kisses. I'm totally not grossed out by dog kisses. It's unfortunate if no people will want to kiss me after reading this.

3) The fantastic flavor combination of cheese and banana. If you haven't tried it, shut up.

4) Watching surgery on television. Fascinating. Not at all gross.

5) Kraft Mac & Cheese with no butter in it. I still hold that I can't really taste the difference. Which is probably why my foody friends are often frustrated with me.

6) Babies in all their drooly, snotty glory. I'm not the least bit worried about baby goo. I dig babies at any level of gooeyness.

7) Diet Pepsi. Aspartame may kill me, but first it will make me stronger.

8) Food sharing... I have absolutely no cootie issues, and am often guilty of swiping sips from someone's beverage or food from their plate. I'm cool with double dipping, too, in case you were wondering.

9)Rodents, rats especially. I'm a huge advocate for the rats-as-pets-for-children movement. They don't bite! They're smart! They actually like people!

10) Hot Pockets. I'm fairly convinced they are the perfect food.

And because I'm all about achieving balance in life (?), here's a companion list:

Ten Things Normal People Like That Karyn Thinks Are Gross

1) Cheesecake. Have you had cheesecake? Ugh.

2) Slugs. I realize Normal People may think slugs are a little gross, but I think they're top of the top of the grossness scale. *shudder*

3) Flossing in public. Watching people fish bits of old food out of their teeth with a piece of string is soooo not my idea of a good time.

4) On a similar note, sharing toothbrushes. I still can't believe there are people who actually think this is ok.

5) Kraft Mac & Cheese with other stuff in it. Keep your veggies/tuna/hot dogs/creamed corn away, please and thanks.

6) Feet. Yours, mine, ours... just don't ask me to rub them, and we'll be fine.

7) Anything drenched in sauce or gravy or other unnecessary food-wetters. I'm not even that into soup.

8) Watching people get accidentally injured on television. Cue empathy pain issues.

9) Holding hands when it's more than 90 degrees outside. Ew.

10) Moths. Dude. Creepy.

I'm sure this blog has changed your life. What largely-considered-gross item do you enjoy, or what normal thing grosses you out big time? I'm dying to know.

love.

Live like you were dying...

My friend Dan is one of my favorite people, a title he has earned in part by being one of the most predictably unpredictable people I've ever met. When we met at Starbucks, I wasn't sure we'd get along - he was exactly the sort of cynical kid that I tend to annoy (in fact, I think I did annoy him quite a bit in the beginning). Unpredictably, Dan and I are the same in as many ways as we are different, and through a series of ice breaker questions, we forged a friendship that finally made me feel at home here in Oregon. A few years later, he's still surprising me. (She thinks my tractor's sexy? REAlly?)

Dan and his girlfriend Mel are probably the most frustratingly intelligent couple I've encountered - separately, they are both painfully smart, and together, they basically know everything. The trouble with smart people is the way they so often insist on making you think about your life and your reasons, and their constant need to know why you feel the way you do. It's what I love most about them, their insistence on unsettling me, and it's also annoying, because sometimes I get emails like this:

Blogger's prompt: When I was in high school, the columnist Rick Reilly (Sports Illustrated) wrote a column about what he would do given the the predicament of having one year left to live. I wrote my own version for my college entrance essay. I wonder what yours would look like.

Of course, the problem with me is that I can't walk away from an assignment. So, I've been wandering Portland for the last week or so pondering my impending doom. Cheery, no? I've come up with all kinds of wild plans - world tours, massive Disneyland excursions, skydiving and rocky mountain climbing and 2.7 seconds on Fu Manchu... and I've concluded that I hate this question. I hate it because it serves no real purpose but to raise another question: If these are the things I would do if I knew I was going to die, and I could die at any moment, why am I not already doing these things?

There are obvious answers, most of them financial - I have to work, I can't afford the airfare for a world tour, and Disneyland is getting more expensive by the minute. Yet I keep coming back to a less obvious truth: if I really wanted to be on a world tour, I'd be out there, touring the world. If that was the desire of my heart, I wouldn't hold back... I wouldn't be able to stop myself. The truth is, seeing the world isn't really what I'd want to do with one more year. It's only what I think I should want to do. Because what I want to do, what I'd truly want to do, doesn't sound grand enough. But here it is anyhow.

I'd stay up nights. Every night, I'd commission a different friend or relative to sit up with me, to walk with me, and make them tell me their stories. Stories are so very much improved by wee small hours... people open up when it's dark and you can't quite see them. I'd ask them to tell me all their thoughts on God ( :) ), and I'd share mine. I'd sleep in mornings, but only after staying out late enough to catch a sunrise. I'd eat breakfast for lunch, and I wouldn't care about calories or my health when I'm in my fifties... I'd have pancakes every day.

I'd quit my job and guilt my friends into housing me - split my time evenly between Portland, Creswell, and Morro Bay (my SJ relatives can make the drive). I'd take walks and sing songs with my father and listen, really listen, to everything he told me. I'd play cards with my mother and my sister as long as they wanted me to, and laugh with them, and sit in silence on the swing in the backyard with them, and watch Katelyn hide from bats. I'd watch silly TV with my mom until one or two in the morning. I'd spend hours just holding my grandmother's hand and letting her love me.

I'd write letters, man, I'd write hundreds of letters full of things I've probably already said but want people to remember. I'd try to tell you all how beautiful you are, how I'm so stupidly lucky, and blessed, and grateful, and I wish you understood the sort of magic you have. I'd talk so much less and let you talk so much more. I'd drive over the speed limit. I'd get one heck of a crazy, career-limiting tattoo. If the opportunity arose, I'd fall recklessly in love and not worry about being rejected. Who says no to a dying girl? ;)

I'd call everyone, the scattered so many of you I love, and make you come hang out with me. I'd wave that pity card high and wear it proudly if it meant face time with those of you I never get to see. I'd try to make sure you're going to be awesome, because being the tragic, dying friend gives me sudden power and profound wisdom, and you're all going to listen to what I say. I'd warn you to brace yourselves for the pep talk.

Is it wrong that that's all? I'd have late night conversations and pancakes and time with all of you. It sounds like such a Hallmark commercial, but it's true. I hope you aren't too dissatisfied with my answer, Dan. It's all I can come up with.

Well, that isn't entirely true. I might do all of those things, but I'd also blatantly refuse to have only one year to live. I'm not sure who decided my fate in our hypothetical, but I can't imagine myself managing to be realistic about the whole thing - I'm never realistic about anything. So I guess, DMoe, my real answer is that I would wave my magic wand and refuse to die. So there. Now come talk to me until two in the morning. Bring that cute girl.

love.

When you're working and no one else is, make lists.

Mildly interesting things I've learned this week:

- The moving crew of Leisha, Aaron, Janae, and Karyn is force to be reckoned with. That and Kevin and Rachelle are a perfectly balanced comedy team. Olive oil is messy stuff.

- Screens on windows are not, repeat, not over-rated.

- Jennifer Nettles and I have twin tattoos. Who knew.

- Cupcakes from Southern California are awesome. Also, I miss Katherine Peterson tons when she goes away.

- My brother-in-law is going to be my new Harry Potter buddy. I love that.

- In the case of Leisha and Karyn versus a pancake, the pancake doesn't stand a chance.

- I'm too mean to Taylor Swift. I'm not sure I'm ready to change.

- Janae and I have identical parallel parking strategies. You're better off not knowing.

- The California Raisins are far more popular than I thought. I mean, I never actually had a costume... :)

- Tamara Leeper is a fantastic anti-shopping buddy. She made my week.

- The nervous chattersarcasm thing that I do has got to stop. Just tell me to shut up already.

- Kyle doesn't like mayonnaise on his sushi. Which sounds perfectly reasonable until you realize how much sushi involves mayonnaise.

-Every now and then, Internet Aaron makes an appearance in the real world. And it stings. :)

- Looking forward to a weekend with Dan, Mel, Katherine, and my family makes the week take forever, but is totally, totally worth it.

- Twitter: eh. I'm trying.

I love your faces.

Did you really expect me to go cold turkey?

I know that the following truth makes me a walking stereotype, but few things are as unexpectedly delightful as not buying a sweater last year at Anthropologie for $136 dollars and finding it this year at Buffalo for $20. In the correct size, no less. That's just happy. Damn the man, save the Empire.

I've decided to try an experiment in the name of recycling, living simply, and polar bears. I vow not to purchase any new clothing for the next 2 years. No Forever 21, no Target, no Anthropologie. According to the rules I've drafted for myself, I can purchase second hand, used, or vintage clothing, or items that are handmade by individuals (not companies) within the US. Exceptions are: one pair of jeans a year (I know, but you try being me and buying jeans. If I can find them long enough, I swear I'll go second hand), underwear (for obvious reasons), and socks. I will also allow myself two pairs of practical new shoes each year, but only if a pair I own dies somehow and I can't find a suitable second-hand replacement. Please keep in mind that practical does not mean ugly. So lay off.

I can make my own clothing, but only from mill end or thrifted fabric. If I receive a gift card, I may use it, but I may not ask for said gift card (so no crying to mommy). If asked, I will encourage people to gift me Etsy dollars or something instead.

And here's the one that really hurts: Books. This rule also applies to books. Eek. That was even hard for me to type. Thank God for Powells.

The goals are to reduce the impact my purchasing has on the bleeding fingers of small children in third world sweat shops, to reduce the impact my impulses have on my wallet, to detox from the high I get buying stuff I don't need, and to challenge myself to be creative and resourceful (and maybe use my sewing machine for once).

Yup. Challenge ends 7/1/11. Anyone in?

PS Though I feel it's a bit jinxy, I have to add another exception: should I need a bridal gown, I'm gonna buy one. Not seeming too likely, but here's to praying big and not limiting God and the plan and the future and all. Same story if I'm asked to be a bridesmaid again. ;)

A broken bottle top, and a-one man's soul...

I've never been shy about my affection for Michael Jackson. In the face of countless rumors, mishaps, and accusations, I found him truly fascinating - a walking representation of the short-comings of this world, the damage we can do to our children, to each other, to our heroes. He was truly one of the most gifted entertainers we've been blessed with, and also one of the most tragic. How lonely it must have been to be MJ, and how difficult to be lonely with all of us watching. I hope he's at peace. Maybe he and God had worked out something good in the midst of all the chaos... I hope so.

He will continue to be the soundtrack of my insecurity... any time I'm nervous about meeting new people, or going to a party, or playing entertainer myself, his songs will still be the ones I choose to play to psych myself up and dance it out. I'm thankful to him for that.

Also, those of you who have heard about the Man in the Mirror Project, it's on... sort of has to be, don't you think? I'm thinking about two years from now, probably on the anniversary of today... I'll be needing about 200 of you. People get ready. ;)

love.

Errt Errt... Woah oh woah oh woah oh...

Runaround Sue was the malapropos anthem of my childhood. I'm not sure why my father thought a song about a cheerful promiscuous woman would be the right thing to play for a two year old, but play it he did. All of his other song choices made perfect sense: The House at Pooh Corner, I've Got My Pajamas On, All of Me... all sweet, child friendly songs with positive messages. A quarter of a century later, however, and the one I remember best is the song about the girl who runs around with every single guy in town. My father would bring out his beat up guitar and I would dance, dance, dance.

From the very first hours, my father has wrapped my life in music. It began with theme songs: Airwolf, Greatest American Hero, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. There were songs he loved (Sweet Baby James, Fire and Rain, Carolina in My Mind) and the ones we made up as we went along (Goodnight to Freckles...you'll always be my friend...). When he discovered the Vineyard church, it was Awesome God and The Victory Chant. Whenever there has been a campfire in my life, my father has been there to serenade it. Whenever I've had a song stuck in my head, he's been around to play it out for me. If I want to sing, my father is there to back me up.

If the music had been the only thing my father gave me, it would have been enough. But he is not a man of few words or few talents, and he wanted me to have all my bases covered. He made sure I could identify superheros, pro-wrestlers, and the crew of the Starship Enterprise. He read me chapters of the Bible interspersed with chapters of Tarzan. He taught me to play Pooh Sticks, to ride a bike, to follow instead of lead when I dance... he coached soccer, softball, and whatever else was my hobby of the week. My early education was peppered with talk of quantum physics and computer science, and he helped me build a laser at age eight.

If the lessons were the only thing my father gave me, they would have been enough. But he is not a man to teach from a distance, and he jumped in. He donned a white top hat and tails to become Charlie the Cherub in our kids choir and an electric bow tie for my elementary recital. In middle school, he took the stage with me for my very first solo number - rocking a wicked Irish accent and watching patiently as I sang. He made sure he knew what I was doing in class, helped me finish my homework, and fixed everything I broke.

If participation in my activities was the only thing my father gave me, it would have been enough. But he is not a man to settle for activities - my father participates in me. He knows the names and habits of every friend I make, becomes their facebook buddy, and comments on their lives. He asks my opinion when he doesn't need to and genuinely considers my viewpoint. He engages me in debate, challenging my ideas and pushing me to consider new angles. He defends me unconditionally, and believes that I'm somehow stronger and smarter and better than I am. He makes sure that I know it.

I am lucky. I am lucky because from the beginning, my father has taught me, participated with me, been my friend, and provided the soundtrack. I'm lucky because he played Runaround Sue over and over again, inappropriate lyrics and all, simply because I loved dancing to it. He's exactly the sort of parent I hope to someday be.

If I'd been given the chance to choose, Daddy, you'd have been my pick. Thank you. Happy Father's Day.

Confession.

I love being Pollyanna. It's a strange thing to be prideful about, sure, but I am. I love being able to identify myself as the most optimistic person you know, the one who can see the good, accentuate the positive, bring in da noise and da funk. I even somewhat enjoy the downsides, like the shameful smiling I did at the nice-smelling, well-dressed man on the corner of 20th and Burnside until Dan and Mel gently informed me that he was the neighborhood pimp. I'm used to my rosy-colored glasses, and they suit me fine.

The problem with becoming too proud (problems? with pride? never. ;) ) of being Pollyanna is how difficult it is to 'fess up to the bad days. When you are saddled with sunshine as your very identity, the idea of being sad for an hour or two can rock you to your core and make you doubt yourself. As for me, I'm terrible at not being "ok." Better than ok, really: I'm terrible at not being awesome. I want to be awesome all of the time. I want to be the person doing, not needing, the cheering. I want to be the helper, not the helpee.

But sometimes I'm just tired. Sometimes I just want someone braver than me, and stronger than me, and smarter than me, and more hopeful and wiser and bigger than me to pick me up and remind me, assure me, that everything is going to be amazing. Sometimes grace feels heavy - forgiveness I can't ever earn, a debt I can never repay. I wish I didn't struggle with that. I wish I could take God at His word and look Him in the eye and say thank you instead of getting caught up in my own failure. How do you wish you were better at not wishing you were better? Sometimes I just want to sit up all night and talk to someone, anyone, who will speak to me like they're sure about something.

I wish I wasn't so aware that I have nothing worth complaining about in my life, just so I could complain and feel justified. Sometimes it sucks to be level-headed. There. That made me feel better. :)

I'm blessed. And I'm loved. And my God is mighty to save. And tonight I'm just tired... and joy will come in the morning.