I Hate Days Like This

Today I loaded my car with boxes of -- as my 87-year old grandmother would say -- crap. We've been having some of that East Coast-esque wind lately, so it's been brrrriffic here the last few days. I loaded everything up in the freezing cold, drove to my storage place, unloaded everything ... and realized I didn't have the key.

Ughhhh.

So, I loaded everything back into the car, drove back to where I came from, searched for the key, found the key (or rather someone found it for me), drove back, and unloaded it all again.

Annoying.

Also, earlier this week my ipod vanished into the abyss. It is gone. Gone, gone, gone. As someone who really despises most technology -- and thinks that things like, oh, iphones and flat screen TVs, are way beyond my comprehension level -- I must admit I'm dependent on my laptop, cell phone and ipod. So being without one of those key items has proved challenging.

Also, and I don't want to go into detail here, but I did spill cupcake frosting on my favorite pair of boots. Oh, the trauma.

But now I'm getting ready for a holiday party with some of my favorite ladies. Things are looking up ...

My Mom's Absurdly Large Snowman Collection

This article came out today in a special holiday section for CNI, but it wasn't posted online. So instead I'm posting it here.

My mom’s absurdly large snowman collection

By: Kristen Forbes

It didn’t happen all at once, I know that for sure. In my earliest memories, I can recall a snowman here, a snowman there – but they were background to the elementary craft projects my sister and I took on, Santa Clauses made out of string and felt and reindeer built around toilet paper rolls. The tree always contained a wide assortment of ornaments, some bought with special purpose and others painstakingly (or sometimes just painfully) handmade. We had nutcrackers and wreaths, poinsettias and stars. When it came to Christmas decorations, we were an equal opportunity family.

Slowly, over the years, the snowmen crept in. What was once a snowman here and a snowman there became an absurdly large collection. My first Christmas home from college, I knew something had to be done.

“Mom, we need to talk,” I said, joining her on the couch, where she sat wearing a snowman sweater punctuated by a snowman pin, humming along to Frosty the Snowman. “It’s about the snowmen.”

“They’re cute, aren’t they?” she asked, letting her gaze fall longingly on the collection.

“They are cute,” I agreed. “They’re just—” I looked at what had once been a living room and was now a snowman shrine. “You know, there’s a lot of them.”

Snowman ornaments, snowman trivets, snowman platters, snowman candles, hanging snowmen, standing snowmen, snowmen made of wood, snowmen made of clay, snowmen made of felt: They all stared back at me with their beady eyes. A snowman peeked out at me from the corner of a blanket; another flew off a snow mountain on a pair of wooden skis. Clay noses made to look like carrots, twigs made to look like arms and brooms: every detail was accounted for. And then there was the giant snowman, a practically life-sized snowman looming in the corner. Grandpa snowmen, cowboy snowmen, clown snowmen, pinecone snowmen, candy cane snowmen, snowball-throwing snowmen, teapot snowmen: the list goes on and on.

“It’s not like you could ever have too many snowmen,” my mom declared as she rose from the couch and made her way toward the kitchen to pour a cup of hot chocolate into a snowman mug. “Right?” she yelled from the other room.

“Right,” I said, back in the living room, surrounded by cotton ball snowmen and marshmallow snowmen and ceramic snowmen.

I thought it might be a passing phase, the way my family thought “I’m not going to eat meat anymore” might be a passing phase for me. Fourteen-and-a-half years later, my dad confronted me at the dinner table. “So, I guess you’re pretty serious about this vegetarian thing, huh?”

“Um, what is that?” I asked my sister as she wrapped a pile of presents, exhibiting no shame whatsoever as she blatantly allowed me to see what she’d purchased for me. (“Don’t show me! I want to be surprised!” I’d scream. “But it’s so cute, you have to see it now! What did you get me?” she’d reply.)

“This?” she asked casually, holding up a snowman ornament. “It’s a snowman ornament. For Mom.”

“Why would you do that?” I hissed. “Why would you encourage her? Have you seen our living room lately?”

My sister waved me off. “It’s harmless,” she said. “We’re talking about a couple of snowmen.”

My dad was no help. The ultimate enabler, he was guilty of supplying my mom with more than a few snowmen to feed her habit. He started shopping at those stores that specialize in Christmastime year round, stocking up on discounted snowmen in July so they’d be ready to give as presents in December.

“A snowman!” my mom would say as she opened each one, giving it the same adoring look a child would give a new doll.

“Isn’t it great?” my dad would say. “I don’t think it’s like any of the others.”

That’s another thing about this absurdly large snowman collection: No two snowmen are alike. While there may be a few related models branching off into sub-snowmen families, there are no twins. They are often categorized by size or material, by color scheme or texture. Each snowman has a story and my mom could probably tell you every one.

Typical first words out of the mouths of visitors when they come to my parents’ home during the holidays? “Wow, that’s a lot of snowmen.” I used to roll my eyes (“I know, right?”), quickly directing them to the kitchen.

Now, I nod my head. “I know,” I say. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

And it is cute. My mom has found something that makes her so happy during the holiday season. It may be an absurdly large snowman collection, but it is her absurdly large snowman collection, and one that took years to build. She takes pride in this, and she should. Because as much as we make fun of it, we all know: That absurdly large snowman collection is a great source of holiday joy at our house. And when the time comes to pack it away at the end of the season, I can’t help but feel a little twinge of sadness for my mom, as I watch her carefully pack away her snowman creatures.

“You gonna be okay without your little snowmen friends?” I’ll ask.

And she’ll nod yes, and the living room will go back to being a living room, and winter will melt into spring, and life will go on until the next year, when she unpacks them again, when she sashays around the room, humming her Christmas carols and arranging her snowmen. This is when she is in her element. This is when I laugh at her the most, and this is when I love her the most.

Friends and Neighbors: Sean Haley

Sean owns a martial arts studio in Tigard. Read about him here:

Tigard-Tualatin-Sherwood Times

Beaverton Valley Times

Running for Kristen: Week 36

It was a slow running week, mainly due to the fact that I can't find my ipod. Running without music? Um, I don't know if I can handle that ...

So, this week I ran 4 miles, bringing the total amount raised to date to $354.

For 40 weeks, I'm setting aside $1 for every mile I run and donating it to a cancer foundation in honor of the other Kristen Forbes, who died of cervical cancer at the age of 23. For more on her story, visit www.kristenEVE.org.

December

"Now the seasons are closing their files
on each of us, the heavy drawers
full of certificates rolling back
into the tree trunks, a few old papers
flocking away. Someone we loved
has fallen from our thoughts,
making a little, glittering splash
like a bicycle pushed by a breeze.
Otherwise, not much has happened;
we fell in love again, finding
that one red reather on the wind."
- Ted Kooser, Year's End

Here we are, officially into the final month of the year. Maybe these thoughts are best saved for the end of the month, but who knows if I'll be taking the time to sit down at a computer and write it out by then. So here it is, now: my recap of 2009.

January: Reconnected with a friend I hadn't seen in maybe fifteen years. Fondly remembered my childhood and excitedly looked toward the future, thinking this long-lost friend and I would remain close forever.

February: Spent an evening co-crying with N., commiserating over shared failures. "I wish I could cry, too!" said T. "Somebody needs to play Edelweiss!" At which point N. and I stopped crying and started laughing ...

March: "27, by the way: it's an awesome time. That's when I think I truly grew up. I crossed the bridge from bullshit to actual life," said Cheryl Strayed. And it's true; every moment of my 27th year has proved this to be true.

April: Work. So much work.

May: Portland's first 2009 day of sunshine and oh, it felt so good. You could definitely find me on the grass in the park, reading and forgetting all my worries and stresses.

June: Went to residency and fell in love with my school, a place that offers me guidance and support and camaraderie and inspiration and motivation and happiness.

July: What a pain in the back. But that visit from my sister and her family sure was nice.

August: The month of visitors. Wonderful visitors who mean the world to me.

September: Work. So, so, so much work.

October: Words and wine and roses and happiness.

November: A month of gratitude as I realized that even when some things don't work out, my friends will always, always rally around me.

December: A return to residency and all the things I love. So thankful for Antioch.

My Loves

Sometimes people tell you they'll do something, and then they don't, and all you can do is brush it off. Sometimes people say they will be there, and then they're not, and all you can do is brush it off. Sometimes people write you personal checks on accounts that no longer exist, so that when you try to cash said checks at the bank, the tellers shake their heads and say, "Sorry." And then the people who wrote you personal checks on accounts that no longer exist say they'll mail new checks as soon as possible, and then another check-less week goes by, and all you can do is brush it off. Sometimes employers don't pay you for months and months ... and months at a time, and all you can do is brush it off. Sometimes people say, "I'm a resource that's available to you 24/7," then completely shut themselves off from you and ignore all messages from you, and all you can do is brush it off. Sometimes people very explicitly tell you it's going to be one way, and you allow yourself to get into a situation based on that statement, and then once you're in the situation you realize it's actually going to be nothing like that ... not even a little bit ... and all you can do is brush it off. Sometimes people straight-up fail you, and all you do is brush it off.

Here's the thing about my world, the little world I live in. There are screw-ups and let-downs and people who fail me on a monumental scale -- yes. But I have to say, no matter what happens, I have a core group of friends -- girl friends, lady friends, strong, wonderful, female friends -- who stay by my side through everything. They make me laugh, they tell me I'm more capable than I personally think I am, they gather around me and dust me off, pat me on the back, pour healing potions down my throat, and they always, always make me feel okay.

So, how do I brush off the insanity? I throw it in a pile with all the other crap and I put in a dusty corner of the room, and I leave it there to erode. Trust me, there is a pile so big of false words and missed paychecks and broken promises.

But I never go in that corner of the room. I gravitate to the center, where all these wonderful women gather. And I spend five minutes in their presence (or virtual email presences on particularly busy days) and everything else just melts away.

Thanksgiving never ends for me because I have friends so above, so beyond, so much more, they simply leave me no choice but to brush it off and smile.

Busy Hands

My hands have been busy. Pause and stop, record and listen, pressing buttons to play back moments and cast them down in writing. Scrawling in chunky handwriting recognizable only to me, flying against the keyboard, letting individual letters press against the pads of my fingertips too quickly for me to even realize what has happened. Letters become words become sentences become paragraphs become pages become hundreds of pages -- all in a good week's work.

My mind has been busy. Ideas and lists and tasks checked off, projects that have been looming over me like the repulsive Portland sky finally broken down into manageable pieces, allowing me to navigate and conquer. There is too much to do, I tried to say, but I was shut up by a voice that said, simply, Shut up and do it. And so I did.

My body has been busy, stifled as it is, mourning the loss of sunshine and outdoor runs and feeling trapped in the box that is that sweat and germ-infested gym. Hating the moments that click by on the treadmill, longer than any moment in the open air ever pretended to last. Hating the proximity of others as they gather around, occupying pieces of equipment on either side. Hating being on this side of the window, not that one. Hating, hating, hating it, but doing it anyway because that's what we do. That's what I do.

I have been busy, brushing off invites and turning my nose at anything beyond a must-do or a have-to. No time for frivolities, I tell them --play will come later. And so I sit in my box, staring at another box, typing up boxed-up sentences and piling my belongings in boxes along the bed, taking respite only to visit that box of a gym or that box of buildings that house the errands I simply must attend to.

It has seemed like torture, some days. This business, this boxed-in-ness. But now that I'm standing on top of that pile, that mountain, that weight, and now that I'm looking down and seeing what all I've done, what's behind me, what's over -- I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I have been busy. I have been productive. And now when I leave for school, I can rest easy, knowing there's nothing else for me to do here.