Fat

A while back, I posted a video of myself reading Jason Stefaniak and Siobhan O'Loughlin's monologue, This is My Body, to my YouTube channel. Today, I got my first comment:

Yes, troll. I'm fat.

FAT. Big. Heavy. Plus sized. WOMAN sized. Curvy. "Fabulous and Thick." However you want to put it, that's what I am. I have a poofy tummy, sturdy legs, big arms, and stretch marks that I've spent years trying to own. These are the facts.

What I don't understand, however, is how any of that relates to my political views. I don't see how it affects any other part of me, actually. My fat is not who I am. The things that define me are infinite, and how much I weigh is the least of these. My fat does not dictate the clothes I wear. It doesn't make me NOT love moving my body and exploring the world around me. It doesn't influence my religious or political choices, my health, or my sense of humor. It just is.

My resolution for 2013 was to learn how to accept myself for everything I am, and to stop saying things like, "When I'm thin I'll...". Searching the internet, I found and fell in love with several body-positive blogs that I now check on a regular basis. I am in awe of the men and women I've seen and met, who look so gorgeous in every inch of their confident skin. One of my new heroines is the amazing Rachel Wiley, slam poet extraordinaire.



Everything I have ever felt, and wanted to say, she has said with such beautiful eloquence. Her example, and the examples of all the people like her, who ring with confidence in spite of anything that people might say is "abnormal" about them,  have started to bring about a change in me. For the first time in a long time, I feel brilliant.

Feeling this way, after so many years of self-hatred, is like unlocking a part of myself that I barely even recognize. Her confidence terrifies me, but her beauty is stunning. She looks in the mirror and loves what she sees. She speaks her mind. She dances, laughs, and gets up on stage to sing karaoke in front of a bar of people that she's never even met. Right now, she's at the back of my mind wondering why I've always been afraid to write these things down.

I wish I could tell her. It seems kind of silly now.

So, internet troll, I applaud you for your efforts. It must have taken years for you to come up with "Well... you're fat." as a response to political opinions you disagree with. Unfortunately, it seems like I'm finally past being hurt by people like you.

Yes, I am fat. But, more than that, I am beautiful.

Lamb of God

This spring, the Minnesota Mormon Chorale & Orchestra will be performing Rob Gardner's Lamb of God. They did this piece last spring, but this is the first year I get to be a part of it, and guys...

I am so in love with this piece.




The more I practice and listen, the more I find myself in awe of the pure love that lives in the atonement of Christ. He lives!

And, even if you're not a believer in God or Jesus Christ, this music is a spiritual experience. There is so much power in this.

I want to encourage everyone who'll be in the Minneapolis area in March to come and hear this gorgeous music. We'll be performing in Lakeville on March 23, and in New Brighton on March 24. I'll probably be posting more details when we get closer to the concert date, for those of you who are interested in attending.

Sorry about the promotion, but I just can't contain myself. More new blogs are coming soon!

-- Kari

Workplace Stories Vol. 2: T-t-t-telephone

For someone who works in retail, I spend an awful lot of time on the telephone. A few months after I started, it was decided that we needed to connect with out customers more. Thus, the personal sales call was born.

No real relevance, I just love this picture.

We call you for your birthday. We call you about bras. We call you about clearance. We call about sales, events, and we even think to remind you about your card expiration. Every month, we make it our mission to blow up your phone and make ABSOLUTELY sure you don't forget we exist. As you might expect, there are mixed reactions to this.

In 2013, we've officially entered the email age, especially when it comes to sales relationships. People don't want to hear your voice unless they're looking at you. What they want are emails with coupons. Online deals. Exclusive text offers. Codes to scan with smartphones. For the most part, the messages they want on their answering machines are NOT the messages from our store. The telephone is becoming an obsolete form of communication.

Maybe that's why we use it. We like to keep you on your toes.

For the most part, the people I call are in a rush. They don't want to hear everything I have to say, and will hang up after the bare minimum. Another portion of the calls I make are answered by husbands, who have NO problem saying exactly what they think of me and the fact that I'm calling their wives (sometimes I wish I could record them, so their wives can know the kinds of things they say to young girls just doing their jobs). I get berated, cussed at, and ripped a new one every time I make calls. Then, in my happiest voice, I tell them that I hope they have a great day.

Then I hang up and say, "Jerk".

In spite of all this, though, making calls is still one of my favorite parts of the job. That might sound crazy after everything I just said, but the good calls make all the difference. The calls where people actually want to hear what I have to say. The calls where we can get excited about sales together, where they feel special that I care enough to call them personally. It's fun to share that feeling with them.

My absolute favorites, though, are the women I call who just want to talk for a minute. These are the older women, who haven't caught up to the digital age. They live alone, and when the phone rings, it makes their day. They can't wait to talk about their grandkids, their church meetings, their pets -- to anyone who's willing to listen. And I am. For five minutes, I let these people be incredibly important to me. I know how it feels to want someone to listen, and how much you just need to be loved sometimes.

So I love. I congratulate, commiserate, and listen. I have a great time doing it, too.

And this is why I love the personal sales call. I hope we never stop annoying everyone else, just for the sake of these fabulous moments.

What makes your job more special to you? Let me know.

Culinary Adventures: Candy Cane Syrup

I tried my hand at Candy Cane Syrup today, and it kind of makes me feel like a kitchen boss. This is kind of weird, since it's actually pretty easy to do.

Start with some broken candy canes

Then make some simple syrup (2 parts sugar, 1 part water)

Throw the candy in.

Melt it.

Boil it up. (about 3 minutes)

BOOM. Syrup.

I think it's pretty rad.

See? Not too hard.

I'm feeling a little nervous, still, that it will harden too much to be usable... candy has a way of screwing me over at the last second (My mom could tell you some interesting stories about the time I tried to make Divinity). I'm still pretty happy with the results, though.

What are you cooking this Christmas?

Terror Time

I was talking to my friend Tabitha last night, and at one point we started sharing stories that we love from our favorite blogs. After I shared this post from Books of Adam (one of the funniest blogs out there - you should all read and love it immediately), we needed to start talking about Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, because one must. Every kid who went to Elementary School in the early/mid 90s has a passionate love/hate relationship with this book. It was an awesomely disgusting landmark of our childhood, and it needs to be discussed as often as possible.

Recently, there's been news buzzing around the internet saying that there are plans to add new illustrations to the book, toning it down to make the pictures a little more kid-friendly. I say that this is total crap. If an overly nervous eight-year-old me can handle a picture of this girl's spider-munched face, kids today certainly can.

When I hear about stuff like this happening, I can't help but wonder when people could have forgotten that WE ALL LOVE TO BE TERRIFIED. Scaring yourself silly is a universal pleasure - an adrenaline high for those of us who have no desire to jump out of airplanes or be chased by angry bovines through the streets of Spain. It's the reason why stories about ghosts and monsters are present in every culture, and why they've been passed down from generation to generation. It's why zombies are such a huge deal right now, and why people who make horror films continue to make a living. Deep down, we are all afraid of things that go bump in the night.

I have always been a bit of a terror junkie, though I couldn't tell you why. I scare easily, and I love to be scared (on my own terms, that's important), but it does tend to get the better of me sometimes. I remember one particular incident from my childhood, when I couldn't sleep for weeks after reading a Goosebumps book about a haunted amusement park. I was having nightmares about zombies with knives coming up through my bedroom floor, and while I can't say how much it actually had to do with the book, my parents wouldn't let me read them for the longest time after that.

Now that I am older and supposedly wiser, the only things that honestly frighten me are the real-life things that I can't control. Luckily, fear is a broad spectrum, and I can still enjoy having a little scare from time to time. I like to think it keeps me young.

I'm an adult, and I'm not afraid of the monsters under my bed.

Usually.

What are the things you love to be scared by?

Christmas Tree Memories

My family Christmas tree has always been a source of true pleasure in my life. The colored lights and the ornaments -- mismatched and lovingly gifted -- make our tree a representation of everything I love about our family and all of the holidays we've shared. It's dripping in Americana, and always beautiful to behold.

In the past few years we've been downsizing quite a bit, and that includes the size of our Christmas tree. The poor little thing is almost listing under the weight of all our memories, enough to make my mother suggest that we should pack up some of our ornaments next year.

That seems like a tragedy to me.

Now, the adult part of me knows that you can;t hold on to everything, and that it would probably be okay to leave some ornaments in the box (or even get rid of a few) just to clear up the clutter. The sentimental baby in me, however, looks at that tree and can't imagine it being without all the beautiful things I've known since my childhood. I can look at that tree and tell you why each thing on it is special and loved. Some favorites are...

Baby Mouse was made by my mother and has been my favorite ornament for my entire life.

We have two cherubs like this, and I think they are just gorgeous. This is my favorite of the two - I love how he's painted. I think they were gifts from my grandmother to my mother.

This is made of paper, and very delicate.

One of the many little bears my mother loves.

Bert, my Brother's heirloom ornament.

Chimney-sweep from Germany

One of the four angel bears that we hang near the top.

Emily's little goose girl.

A nod to our roots, made my one of my aunts. I'm not sure what makes the beaver particularly German, but that's part of the charm.

And there's eight thousand more dear little things on our tree. I'd post pictures of them all, including the butt-ugly tree-topper that my parents have had since they were married (that none of us can imagine being without, at this point), but I think that would get a little too sappy. Even for me.

Christmas trees that are perfectly coordinated are beautiful, and the huge ones in the mall could almost bring you to tears, but I don't think I could love any of them as much as I love this dorky little hodgepodge of my past. It's been a constant in my life, and as reliable as the fact that the Christmas box in our house is always going to smell beautiful when you open it for the first time (like cranberries, candles, and spicy dust. If I could bottle it, I would).

What makes your Christmas tree special to you? Let me know!

-- Kari

Welcome to the new blog, plus Workplace Stories Vol. 1

Hey kids!

After much deliberation, I have decided to begin my blogging life anew with just ONE blog. This is something of an oddity for me, as I have had three or more blogs at a time for most of my online life. Usually one for the public to read, one with happy life stuff for my friends to read, and one really sad/angry/dark one for my really good friends to read. It was easier to compartmentalize my life, for some reason, and I did well with that for a while.

Now, however, I just don't care. Life is too short to be that complex, and now that I'm not a bitter teenager ashamed of who I am, I feel like it's time for me to simplify.

And I'm going to start by telling a delightful vignette from the workplace, because one must.

I work in retail, and most of what I do is pretty standard: sell clothes, hang clothes, tell people they look pretty in things, and convince them that they need yet another store credit card. Occasionally, though, one is required to clean the bathroom. Not too hard, right? Under normal circumstances, no, but friends... I have seen things.

Things that I cannot unsee.

This last Wednesday, I was working with my manager T. I volunteered to clean the bathroom while she finished the audit, and it started out pretty normally: scrubbed the toilets, cleaned the mirror, etc. I thought I was nearly done, when I noticed a small spot on the door of one of the stalls. Thinking nothing of it, I sprayed it with surface cleaner and wiped it away.

Suddenly, the door was three shades lighter than it had been in that spot. I looked at my paper towel - it was entirely yellow. If one could have seen my face at that moment, it would have looked something like this:

I promptly started spraying the crap out of everything and scrubbing like a madman. T came back to check on me about 15 minutes later.

"It's taking you a long time back here. Is everything okay?"

I looked at her with the expression of a woman who has seen the horrors of war.

"Oh, T, you have NO idea..."

I spent a good 30 minutes extra on the bathroom that day, and I'm still toying with the idea of asking to come in, unpaid, just to sanitize the crap out of that thing again. I have honestly never been more horrified by a place where I take my pants off.

And on that note, I'm out of things to say. Until next time, dearies.

-- Kari