KMF Takes On The Real World

Home ... Again.

2009-12-29T22:43:00.000-08:00

I've now been living out of a suitcase for 21 days. By the time I get "home," it will be 25.

When I do get "home," I'll be moving into a new place. (I don't know where, yet. Isn't life mysterious?) The process of moving may take several weeks.

So, it's going to be a long time before I'm "home." And even then -- What is home, anyway? I'm feeling more disconnected than ever. It's snowing in Portland and I'm sitting in 70-degree Phoenix and I'm missing LA, and I'm thinking of Boston, and I'm listening to all these voices in my head, the voices of well-meaning people at residency pulling me aside and asking, "Would you ... ?" "Will you ... ?"

I haven't felt settled this whole year. Happy, yes; settled, no. It's a financial thing, maybe -- it's tough to feel settled when you're freaking out about paying the rent each month. It's a wanderlust thing -- I'm used to changing every couple of years, but here I've been sitting in Portland, staying still, since 2006. And it's a thinking about the future thing, of wondering where I'll end up and if there's any point in getting too comfortable, of fearing decisions I'll inevitably have to face down the road, of not knowing if there really is such a thing as home or if it's wherever our bodies and minds happen to take us.

I've been living out of a suitcase for 21 days now and I'm not sure if I really know where or what my home is, anymore.

Running For Kristen: Weeks 37, 38, 39, & 40

2009-12-29T22:30:00.001-08:00

I'm coming to the end of my 40-plus-week project (it ended up being more than 40 weeks because I skipped some weeks for sickness, vacation, etc.) to log miles and set aside money for the Kristen Forbes EVE Foundation.

From the Web site (www.kristenEVE.org): "The Secretary of the State of Indiana has put his official seal on the creation of a foundation in Kristen's honor. It is the Kristen Forbes EVE Foundation. EVE stands for Educate, Vaccinate and Eradicate. Its mission will be to educate women about the HPV test and the HPV vaccines available to protect women. It will also help provide funding for those who cannot afford or have no insurance coverage. If we could vaccinate all women, cervical cancer would become rare in only 7-10 years. We will attempt to get Federal and individual State legislatures to support this program."

For 40 weeks, I set aside $1 for every mile I ran to donate to the foundation. (The foundation is named for another Kristen Forbes, who died of cervical cancer at the age of 23 -- you can again see more about her story by visiting www.kristenEVE.org).

In the past four weeks, I've been averaging only three miles a week, the result of being on vacation and away from home, being busy, losing my ipod, and a laundry list of other excuses. If there's one thing this endeavor has taught me, though, it's that every little bit counts; I'm certainly most proud of the weeks when I logged over 20 miles, but I know there were some weeks when I had to fight to eek out one mile, so I'm proud of those low numbers too.

Overall, I ran about 366 miles, bringing the total amount raised to $366. This doesn't seem like much, but again -- I've learned that every little bit counts.

www.kristenEVE.org.

Friends and Neighbors: Brendan Hutchins

2009-12-29T22:25:00.000-08:00

Meet the man behind Rockstar Remodel, Brendan Hutchins.

Tigard-Tualatin-Sherwood Times

Beaverton Valley Times

Friends and Neighbors: Mark Burgess

2009-12-29T22:19:00.000-08:00

Mark Burgess is a veterinarian for exotic pets; he wrote a novel based on his experiences in veterinary school.

Tigard-Tualatin-Sherwood Times

Beaverton Valley Times

Friends and Neighbors: Olivia Paulson

2009-12-29T22:16:00.000-08:00

Olivia Paulson is a middle school student who had the opportunity to go to Washington, D.C. to learn about leadership.

Tigard-Tualatin-Sherwood Times

Beaverton Valley Times

Residency Recap

2009-12-22T21:02:00.000-08:00

"Audible high fives." Black coffee and muffins and the LA Times waiting for me as I exit the shower each morning. Cashing student loan checks: It never gets old. Dinner parties with pasta and wine and friends who make me want to stay up late. Exchanging Christmas presents with the one who could give me a smile and it would have been enough. Friends who write and writers who give friendship. Getting the mentor I wanted the most, then realizing I've never worked as hard as I'll have to work during these next six months. Honing in on what needs to be done and figuring out how I'm going to do it. Imagining revision as a sexy process I can't wait to start. Jamey in his car and knowing we won't make it to the winery and knowing it will be okay. Kindess from peers and mentors and writers and friends. Lost phones and newly purchased phones and found old phones. Mexican restaurant meetups to talk about writing and this crazy world we live in over margaritas and guacamole. Negotiating the rules of foreign territory and realizing how liberating the unknown is. Oh, these people -- these people who read stories aloud at parties and talk about authors over beer. Poets who talk poetry and make me want to be a better person. Quiet between storms, between readings, between seminars, between drunken conversations about the written word. Reading out loud to a roomful of people who want nothing more than for me to succeed in this world. "Staying in the room," a la Ron Carlson. Trader Joe's runs with roommates in lieu of class or sleep. Understanding myself better than I do in my "civilian" life, here with my people and my dreams and my goals. Venice beach house that maybe is nowhere near the beach, but makes me happy all the same. Waking up to an "Excuse me, but I'm a photographer..." after falling asleep on the couch in the lounge. Year's quota of wine wrapped into ten days. Zen and the art of residency maintenance.

But I Can ...

2009-12-11T22:06:00.000-08:00

I'm the girl who forgets to bring the schedule and sunglasses and a notebook and a pen and a belt and that lotion I really like and that thing to scrub my feet in the shower, but who really wants to be here, and it so happy to be here, and who loves my friends and mentors and word nerds and never feels better than when I'm here. So even though I can't tell you whether to turn left or right, and I don't know if the amount on that check is right or not, I do take copious notes. And I do feel my breath rushing inside of me, so lucky, so lucky, to be here. And I do think that these classes, and these worshops, and these readings and seminars and lectures, make me a much better person than I would have been otherwise. And these people -- these people -- they are my people, and I love them for it.

Waiting for my Ride and in a Cheesy Mood

2009-12-10T16:49:00.000-08:00

I used to dream about what I’d want him to be like. I’d meet him at a book store, or a reading, or in a lecture or discussion about literature, and he would talk about words and writing, how they shaped his life and guided his way, and I would nod and say, oh yes, me too, me too. The bookshelves at his place would be overstuffed and more loose books, stacks of books, would fill every surface. He would speak of poetry and politics and pensions and pizza with equal passion, a solid grasp of knowledge beneath him and a sincere interest in continually learning more always apparent.

He would take the time to get to know me, take mental notes on my life stories and ask thoughtful questions about what makes me who I am. And then he’d say, as if it were no big deal at all, “Let’s go to this restaurant, it’s vegan so I think you’ll like it.” And then he’d say, again like it was nothing, “That new Robert Downey Jr. movie is out soon – is he a great actor or what?” And then he’d say, when I sent him my writing, “I have to say, I'm impressed."

And he would hold my hand at every opportunity and want to show me things I’d never before seen. He would introduce me to his friends, who’d say, “Oh yes, we’ve heard about you,” and then he’d ask to meet mine, and they’d all yes, “Oh yes, we love him.”

He’d say, “I’ll call you tomorrow” and then we’d cut to the next day, a ringing phone and a fulfilled promise. He’d say, “Of course I’ll be there to pick you up,” and he’d fight the traffic at the worst part of the day, sandwich retrieving me between the two parts of his job he performs daily – a job laden with required responsibility and thoughtfulness, patience and kindness. A job not everyone could do, but he does it and he does it well.

He would order samplers of wine he thought I might like, and when I said, “This one,” he’d buy a bottle and say, “I like that one, too.” We’d go to the movies and I’d use the restroom, come back to find him standing in the hallway, waiting for me with a bottle of water I didn’t have to ask him to get for me.

I’d get intimidated in situations, say, “I don’t know if I can do this,” and he’d tell me “Of course you can do this, you have this,” and then I’d go out and do things, like reading before an audience of 300, and afterward I’d think – Could I have possibly done this if he hadn’t said that to me?

I would tell him about my day, a bad day, the worst day, and instead of trying to be a guy and tell me what to do to fix things, or tell me why this actually wasn’t such a bad day, certainly not the worst day, he would say only the four words I wanted to hear: “That sucks. I’m sorry,” and just him saying those words would make me realize it wasn’t a bad day, the worst day.

He’d throw out grand gestures like there was nothing to them, like of course I am worth it so why wouldn’t he, Silly? He’d buy plane tickets and book dinner reservations and take me out in the sunlight and kiss me fiercely before anyone and everyone who happened to be walking by. And he’d talk me up to people, telling them about that story I wrote or that nice thing I did for him, such a small thing but isn’t it always the little things?

I’d go to his place and it would feel like home, and I’d talk to him about everything and more often about nothing and he would seem like he was my family. He’d call me on the phone, “Hello, I was thinking of you,” and I’d feel like I had a friend on the other end of the line, and I’d close my eyes and smile as I let his voice fill my room, a state away but as if I were right there.

I used to dream about what he’d be like, this ideal man of mine. I certainly didn’t think he actually existed and I never thought I’d meet him if he did. And then there he was, and he walked right in, carrying his books and talking his poetry and taking my hand and buying me dinner and kissing me forehead and saying, “Yes, yes, of course I believe you can do this.”

And what happens from here is irrelevant because the point is that he changed me, made me believe in something I didn’t think possible – dreams coming true and wishes fulfilled. I’d stopped believing in mine a long time ago but now I think that maybe, just maybe, anything is possible.

Hiatus

2009-12-08T10:26:00.000-08:00

I'll be mostly absent for the next few weeks as I attend my grad school residency. Trying to do too much on top of everything I have for school can prove to be quite tricky, so it's best to take a minor leave of absence from blogging. I'll catch up with you when I get back.

Happy Holidays.

Shhh.

2009-12-07T23:19:00.000-08:00

I'm a very secretive person. It's not that I really have anything worth keeping secret, but more that I enjoy the act of keeping secrets. I can keep my lips sealed and my documents password-coded with the best of them. And Christmastime is like the holy grail for secret keepers.

Problem is, no one else in my family is secretive. My dad comes close, but even he lets things slip from time to time. My sister and mom don't even pretend, which really takes all of my fun away, when they say things like, "You know that book you wanted? Should I wrap it or just give it to you now?"

Every time a package for me arrives, my mom, without fail, asks, "What's that?" To which I respond, like I'm sixteen all over again, "Mo-om! Stop being so no--osy!" To which she'll respond, "Fine, who's it for?" to which I'll respond, "Mo-om! Maybe it's for you!" to which she'll respond, "Is it?" to which I'll respond, "Mo-om!"

Can't a girl keep a secret in peace? Geesh.

I Hate Days Like This

2009-12-06T13:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-03T22:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-03T11:34:00.000-08:00

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

Tigard-Tualatin-Sherwood Times

Beaverton Valley Times

Running for Kristen: Week 36

2009-12-02T16:51:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-01T19:08:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-11-30T20:06:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-29T12:49:00.000-08:00

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.

Friends and Neighbors: Ginny Maffitt

2009-11-28T18:07:00.000-08:00

Read about Ginny Maffitt, a volunteer botanist at the Tualatin River National Wildlife Refuge -- a very neat lady!

Tigard-Tualatin-Sherwood Times

Beaverton Valley Times

Running For Kristen: Week 35

2009-11-27T12:22:00.001-08:00

We're getting closer to the end goal. For 40 weeks, I'm setting aside $1 for every mile I run to donate 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.

This week, I ran 8 miles, bringing the total amount raised to date to $350.

Gratitude

2009-11-25T22:36:00.001-08:00

Things I'm Thankful For Right Now:

Alicia Silverstone, Antioch, bearded poets, Biggest Loser, Book Club that should actually be called We-Don't-Read-We-Just-Hang-Out Club, books, cancer research, cookbooks, cupcakes, dreams that keep me going when I feel burnt out, employment, family, friends that go above and beyond the call of duty, goals, Greta the Grand Am (still holding strong after all she's been through), hiking, hilarity and the hilarious people who cause hilarity, interviews with people who make me smile, laugh, think or stretch, Jillian Michaels, kickboxing classes taught by Kendall, Los Angeles, mentors who inspire me to believe in myself as much as they believe in me, MFA programs, naps, Oregon, poets, Portland, quiet time, reading incredible books that remind me why I want to write, running (even when it sounds awful), sisters, suncreen, sunshine, talented people who inspire me, talented poets, the other Kristen Forbes, underdogs, vegan cupcakes, views,waterfalls, writers, writing, writing, writing.

The Countdown is On

2009-11-24T17:09:00.000-08:00

"Uh, I just had to call and say that I'm like a little kid before Christmas, I'm so excited," my friend Natasha said when she called me today.

"Dude, tell me about it."

So, grad school residency is 16 days away. I'm leaving in 15 days. To say I'm excited for that and completely unfocused on everything else would be quite the understatement. Residency is my favorite time of year -- come June and December, I'm one happy camper.

Reading and writing and wining and dining and reading and writing and beaching and sunning (okay, I know it'll be December, but believe you me it will beat this weather) and reading and writing and talking shop with people who give a crap about reading and writing, workshops and lectures and dinners and late night conversations and coffee conversations and mid-day conversations about reading and writing ... Bliss. Geeked out bliss.

15 days ...

Double Trouble

2009-11-23T22:38:00.001-08:00

"A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves - a special kind of double."
--Toni Morrison

I think I'd be a much less nervous person if my sister would stop having so many surgeries. Then again, I was a nervous child, so maybe it's just in me. But still, I wish she'd stop having so many surgeries.

You know, as a personal favor to me. (It's all about me.)

Lately I've been feeling like my memories are harder to access, like enough has happened between childhood and now that the moments don't stand out anymore. I think of my sister and I think of the look on her face when she accidentally shoved me a little too hard and my hip bone landed on the corner of a desk and immediately drenched itself in black and blue. I think of her making chocolate chip cookies and setting aside a small portion to bake with chips omitted, knowing that's how I preferred them. I think of the buttons she pushed so hard, the crying and screaming in public that ensued. I think of the time I gave her a bloody nose because I thought she wouldn't feel it when I put a pillow over her face and punched as hard as I could (no really, I thought she wouldn't feel it). I think about her whining when her steak wasn't cooked enough and starting a family war when she stole one of my grandpa's fries. And I think about how she was the only person who could make me feel better when everything was going wrong.

She's still one of the only people who can make me feel better when everything goes wrong. And she's still the first person I call with news good or bad. And I wish she'd stop having so many surgeries.

Burnout Central

2009-11-22T21:59:00.001-08:00

The work load never ends, the paychecks never show, the responsibilities never stop, the to-do lists never diminish, and the heavy lifting never gets any lighter. This is Burnout Central. There are times when one foot in front of the other doesn't seem like enough because the paper pile is so insurmountably high and the demands are so unwavering. Burnout Central.

I'm not a surgeon, though. My job could certainly be more stressful. I'm not unemployed. The paychecks could certainly be slimmer. I'm not the president. My responsibilities could certainly be bigger. I'm not in charge of children or patients or customers or callers. My to-list could certainly be longer. And I'm not a weakling, so the the heavy lifting could be much more difficult. Perspective Central.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love it for its simplicity, for its lack of pressure. You don't need to buy crap, or impress anyone, or wait in any lines, or listen to awful music. It's just about food and family. Wholesome, home-cooked food (I don't eat turkey of course, but whatever -- I love sides), family, and gratitude. Has there ever been a purer, better day?

I'm thankful I'm not a surgeon, or unemployed, or the president, or in charge of people. I'm thankful I'm healthy, and safe, and sheltered and happy. I'm thankful I have friends who will stop their own lives to put the pieces of mine back together anytime something gets off-kilter. I'm thankful I have family who loves me and parents who say sure, store your crap in our garage for two months while you're in between moves.

The thing about long distance is that I'm not afforded the luxury of taking someone for granted; I'm thankful for that. The thing about a steady workload is that I'm not afforded the luxury of stopping to think too much; I'm grateful for that. The thing about putting the free into freelance is that I'm not afforded the luxury of getting attached to things, or losing sight of reality, or thinking for a second that money's more important than friendships; I'm thankful for that.

So, lately, I've been been feeling like I'm headed toward Burnout Central -- or maybe I'm already halfway there. The day in, day out demands and disappointments stack against the measly rewards and gratifications and I do get this sense, often, of "What am I doing this for again?"

But I'm living; that's what I'm doing it for. The pursuit of my happiness requires the pursuit of my dreams and the pursuit of my dreams requires a lot of hard work. A lot of stretching. A lot of doubling, tripling, quadrupling my workload, taking on more than I really thought possible, in an attempt to make ends meet and to spread my range and to try.

Could I be taking on more, doing more? Yes. And until I get to the point where the answer to that question is no, I don't have a lot to complain about.

But I do have a lot to be thankful for.

With Friends Like These ...

2009-11-21T23:34:00.000-08:00

Today I confirmed what I've known for a long time, which is that my friends are extremely above average. On a scale of one to awesome, they are so awesome-plus, it's ridiculous. I was thinking about all the things they've done for me over the years and I realized that everyone needs friends who ...

volunteer their muscles to help you move big pieces of furniture you could never move on your own.

say it's okay, I know how busy you are now, we'll hang out after you beat all these deadlines.

say nope, I don't care how busy you are, you're coming out tonight.

listen to the story of your sucky day and follow it up with a story so funny, it makes you forget the story of your sucky day.

listen to the story of your sucky day and say, "Wow, that sucks."

ask to read your writing -- then read it and say, "That was great."

ask to read your writing -- then read it and say, "Good, but needs some work."

say, "What?!" when you tell them about the negative feedback you received.

let you call at 4am and already know you'll never need to. But if you ever did ...

let you trade clothes, shoes, recipes and stories.

tell you when you deserve better.

tell you when you'd be an idiot to let this one go.

compliment your cupcakes.

motivate you to run yourself silly/ sweaty.

tell you it's okay to take today off.

understand that there is probably nothing in life as important as Girls Night.

New Stand Up To Cancer Article

2009-11-19T20:50:00.001-08:00

A lot of what I've been writing lately has left me somewhat unfulfilled, but every once in awhile I have the opportunity to write something that really means a lot to me. Today I was pleased to see my story came out in the Stand Up To Cancer Mag. This story is about the Martinez family, one of the most incredible families I've ever met. It focuses on Vananh, a wife and mom with ovarian cancer. If her name sounds familiar, you may remember some of the older articles I wrote about Alec, who passed away at three after battling an ependymoma brain tumor.

To me, this article is a great reminder of the importance of being an advocate for your own health. It's so important that we take care of ourselves and so important that we ask our doctors questions when something is wrong -- and we keep asking until we get the answers.

An incredible family who has touched my life in so many ways, the Martinezes are the epitome of bravery and resilience. Read about them here:

The Martinez Family