OFP

So I recently conformed to society, and have a new boyfriend.  On a scale from 1-10, he falls between an 11-20 depending on the day.  And last night marks our first real fight...

For New Years, we both had to work all day and felt like doing nothing except snuggling and going to bed likely before the ball dropped.  So, we decided we would meet at my dad’s house, search for my phone (again) and then go to his house for the night.  I had talked about how I needed to do a few things around the house, laundry included, but I could tell he was antsy to get home.

“Lindsey, let me help you find your phone.”  “Absolutely not.  Sit and have Chinese with my dad, my room is a mess.” I say as I walked away, and didn’t hear his  “Fine”

……no phone was found, so I quickly packed a single bag. “Alright, I’m ready to go.” 

“Where’s your laundry?  We already discussed it.  We’re doing it at my house.”

“I changed my mind, I’ll do it Monday night when I get home from work.”

“Nope, we have lots of time tonight and tomorrow night, and it will make you feel so good to have it all done.”

“But…”  “Please go get it,” “NO!” “Please?”

…..a lindseyfern-bitch-fit ensues…..

I storm up to room, so absolutely peeved that I was following orders from a man.  Stomping my feet, throwing clothes; all out dramatic scene. I heard my dad say to my step mom,  “She’s on her OFP again…”  Dad made this up to mean: “Own Fucking Program.”  And you’re damn straight I am, have been since the minute I was born, and probably will be until the end of time, so why in the hell is this so shocking?  I want to do laundry when I want to.  I want to clean, or simply not clean my room and use excuses like “I’m busy,” “I’m too tired” or “I’m never home.” 

I have a boyfriend who works three jobs, just got into Grad school, has a family whom he makes dinner for or takes out to dinner frequently, helps out around his mom’s house, goes to a sporting events and concerts constantly, of which I now get to go along, and somehow still finds the time to genuinely make my life easier EVERYDAY. He finds time to play basketball at 530 am before work, and works out at his little gym at 930 pm when he’s all done.  Sometimes, he even goes for late night runs. If anyone has reason to make excuses, it’s him.  Nope, not Jared James Booker Bradbury.  Instead of seeing him for the helpful, compassionate, unselfish man he is, I ungratefully throw my clothes in a hamper and practically heave it in his arms and make him promise to not TOUCH my dirty clothes, that I will be doing it when we get there.  I’m such a self-destructive little bitch sometimes.  Knowing he wins, he asks me sweetly to put down all my bags, which I do immediately, defeated…and carries each one out to his car.  Yea, if he doesn’t scream “I’M A KEEPER” than I give up.

We made up in 7 minutes.  I cried and apologized for being an impatient brat; he chuckled, told me I’m beautiful, kissed my hand and apologized for causing stress at all to my life.

And I have NO idea what he sees in me.

It’s a “Full House.”

While I religiously watched this sitcom growing up, I would always change it when it got to the ending to avoid the anger it would stir up in me.  Stephanie or DJ would do something terrible like steal dad’s car and crash it or something age-inappropriate like make out with a boy, drink alcohol or other things we young ones eventually do. 

What makes me angry, is when my parents would come in my room at the end of a dramatic 23 minute (minus commercials) drama, no one calmly sat on my bed (tune into heartwarming, forgivey music) and explained the consequences of my “unwise decision.”  Then promptly hugged me and told me they loved me endlessly and then hold hands and decide to clean up whatever mess together.  NO. Wrong.  Wrong.  ALL WRONG.

My parents would be in my personal space so fast that I’d hardly have time to formulate my words, and they would treat my unwise decision (this time ironing a shirt with worlds hottest iron on a nice kitchen table) as the same as discovering drugs in my laundry or all of sudden uncovering I’m secretly a gambler, or the Wilton prostitute.  Seriously, guys.  Not cool.  Ikea tables never burn and I’m pretty sure that you’re world’s hottest iron would light an IRONING BOARD on fire. 

Either way, this is not how we handle these situations where I “act out.”  No, we yell.  In this case, Laura and I left hate mail on top of the burned remains of the table for each other to read on their way out of the house the next day, 5 or 6 am.  The sun hadn’t even risen and I’ve already considered how to really act out just to be a shit head.

But this time, the music of love and forgiveness came on when I walked in the house that night.  “Laura, I’m really sorry for ruining your table.  I won’t begin to make excuses.  And Im sorry for leaving mean words like a 5 year old.”  And then I told her that the reason I was defensive was not the table at all, but feelings of not fitting in since I can remember.  And here I was, desperately trying to blend into this house like I belonged. The woman was upset about her table.  I fit in just fine, if not perfectly.  The drama was not in burning the table, the drama was in my head.  I’m such a drama queen.  I’m sure you’re so surprised.

We had a beautiful talk and the time went by and soon enough, dad drove in the driveway.  We hugged, “lets not fight anymore.  Lets love each other like no one in this family loves.”  When it comes to love, it’s ALWAYS just like that.  I may not have 3 dads like the Tanner family, but they were certainly on to something.  AND…my step-mother had already fixed the table.  She’s fuckin’ Macgyvor. 

10/18/11

“Hows Boston babe?”

What a pregnant question.  Or maybe the answer is pregnant; either way, this is multifacetingly complicated.  Yea I made that word up…So. What.

I work a good 9-10 hours a day, travel another three, and just recently stopped making excuses for not working out.  Yea, that was a real great idea. I’m left with just enough sleep to get me through the next day with the same to do list that is exhausting, will not show immediate results, and will take a well behaved and delightful Lindsey, and not a disgruntled, impatient Lindsey in order to accomplish with grace and high regard.  If you’re thinking, “Lindsey, you’re very very clearly setting yourself up for extreme failure” then you’re right.

Last night I layed in my bed, and just smiled.  I painted my walls a psychotic lime green.  Like, soda can Mellow yellow colored.  I’m sure if one approached my bedroom door they would be shocked to find a highly functioning and completely insightful 25 year old, and not a scraggly haired little girl with sticky hands and toys everywhere.  Oh well…sometimes I’m 7, and sometimes I’m colorblind to circumstance.  So I guess the analogy is perfect.  “They call me mellow yellow…”

I layed in bed, and could here the mice scuttling through the walls…sounds more like a stampede of mice…in fact, one night I was certain it was my cat in the wall.  Now tonight, it was just funny.  No judgment on this house or my family; just acknowledgement that this certainly wasn’t my room, that these mice in the walls lived here long before me.  I technically share this room.  With a family of mice…and lets just hope they don’t try to eat my wimpy little kitten-looking cat, who is afraid of everything and good for nothing.  But, she’s SO pretty.

I shut the light off, and try to smile my joint pain away.  Two days ago, after a very long day of dressing up like a Barbie doll and being “Dinner Party Skipper” to promote Boston Sports Clubs in my community, my boss and I went back to Boston Sports Club to close up and reconvene with the other managers.  Walking from my office on the way to the main lobby, down a HUGE flight of stairs, I take 3 steps, my knee gives out making me miss a step, and I then proceeded to fly headfirst down the staircase.   In a dress, and in 4 inch black patent leather Steve Maddens.  I swept my legs under me as quick as possible so as not to show my gym and employees my “lacey luluthong” (compliments of lululemon athletica, the most overpriced and underappreciated undergarment in this world), just in time for my managers to hand me my belongings, which went everywhere.  At LEAST 8 people witnessed this.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from the unreserved embarrassment.  So I did neither, and pretended like my bruised and bleeding knees didn’t hurt.  You can dress the girl up but you clearly can’t take her out….or she will trip up eventually.

New, intense job.  Ridiculous commute.  No personal life.  Lime green room and a mice infested habitat; and finally, biffing it down a staircase for the ENTIRE Leadership team plus a few innocent passerby’s to witness, causing me to consult an orthopedist about a third knee surgery, so not to put my dignity up for grabs in future events…AND, my life is absolutely chosen, joyful and PERFECT.

NYC Adventure, Part 1

I knew it was going to be a good trip to NYC when I was driving around downtown Boston searching for parking this weekend in the pouring rain.  And finally, I found the best deal, though I had to circle the block because the entrance was blocked by a big truck.  And circle 3 or 4, I noticed that this truck was emitting dead pigs.  Right on the doorstep of Asian cuisine.  Can’t make this shit up.  A scrawny man in clothes too big is throwing these dead pigs right at the door.  Gross, Boston.  Gross.

So I park, and I walk into South Station to await my Megabus.  Of course the midnight bus is late, and I’m pleased to say that my seat partner is a young athlete, and wears swishy pants, and is seemingly normal compared to the other clientele. She contorts herself into the tiniest ball and falls asleep almost immediately, as do I.  Unfortunately, the guy behind us has woken up everyone in a one hundred mile radius with his snoring…I somehow managed to sleep through it almost entirely.  Poor girl next to me was swishin’ all over…by the sound of her pants, she was not pleased with the man.

Destination New York, and while I don’t really know where I am, I gather my bags and my sleepy brain and head towards Grand Central Station.  I walked about 20 blocks, and would have much preferred a better option on this fine Saturday morning than “Everyday Gourmet” where a little cat is randomly roaming the floors.  It doesn’t quite look like it belongs, but no one seems to care.  I normally like cats, but this one is creeping all over.  Creepy.  And kind of gross.  I’d much preferred Luci, who always looks afraid thus endearing, rather than this cat who though tiny, looked like it would scratch your face off.  This NYC kitty is a G…no doubt.  Also, the signs advertise this place as an “internet café.”  Perfect.  Except they don’t have internet, and when I asked about it, they looked at me like I had “dumbass” stamped to my forehead.  And this was how I knew my weekend of life coaching was off to a great start.

Next stop….STARBUCKS, where I will seek out their internet and an Americano.  And then, New York Sports Club, where I will work out and shower.  Oh hell, I’ll probably just take a shower.  Who am I kidding.  And then off to the Hyatt to get my ass kicked into life coaching shape.   What have I signed myself up for?

The Housesitter...

So, I tried to tell Cinnamon about how I am pretty sure I roofied myself in her own apartment, and she encouraged me to write it out..  Fine, you’re a genius, Cinn.  This one is for you.

Just another day like every other.  I’m living out of a tiny suitcase awaiting my move to New England; and SOMEHOW this 2 X 1 suitcase is supposed to hold my dearest of items.  REALLY?  It holds my exploding outfits from wrinkled dresses and heels to workout gear to baggy t shirts; meant to help me turn career spice to workout spice in 6 seconds, though looking at the state of my suitcase makes me want to go naked spice.  I can’t find my brush.  That is evident from the fro I’ve sported for a week.  

Here I am in Cinn’s apartment, nursing my knee post-surgery, trying not to lose my mind with this move, and happily caring for Cinnamon’s kitties while she is away.  And just like my common sense, I have misplaced everything valuable, including my pain killers.  The do-it-herselfer in me doesn’t bother trifling through my bags, but goes straight to Cinn’s medicine cabinet to see what I can find.  And there it sits: a full, untouched bottle of vicoden.

Yea, try to explain this incident to one of your friends: "I swear, I took one of Cinnamon’s vicoden; no she wasn’t there.  She doesn’t know, yet…well, it said vicoden on the bottle...”  Not only do few believe me, but everyone thinks that maybe it was the “wine” or that I unintentionally mixed it.  Ok guys, pleased to say, I don’t do drugs for leisure and this time, I hadn’t drank any of the beer that I did excitedly grab with dinner.  The simple truth is I was sober, thought I was taking a vicoden, knowing full well that I would tell Cinnamon and thank her for her contribution to my knee pain.  I instead get to write her a fantastic story about my rendition of how her cat Peahead roofied me.

And I am sure; peahead the cat did this.  I have in fact and sadly been roofied before, so this was a familiar feeling.  Round 1: I land myself in the ER after an innocent girls night out went bad on the wrong side of town.  My girlfriends had the sense and concern knowing I’d drank no more than them, that something was not right.  While everything turned out ok and there was no harm done, I would prefer to never spend the night in the ER again.  My alcohol level was dangerously high, and now lives a creepy story of a creepy guy who was around me all night, whom I don't remember.  My girl friends later found me outside, on the side of the street, apparently passed out.  Also, I was a wearing a short jean skirt…and I’d been robbed.  Thankfully, I not only live to tell the story, but that appears to be the extent of it.

Round 2, mid “Project Date DC”…I’m on a random date with a random guy whom I hadn’t previously met.  (Yea, I now realize that signing up for the sketchiest online dating website to meet people then write about it was NOT a good idea…but, who knew.)  This dude ordered me a drink before I got there (hint….RED FLAG) and only had a few sips before I realized that I couldn’t finish my sentences, and was simply stuttering all over the place.  All of a sudden, it came together…I was at the W Hotel rooftop bar…(only the best place to go in DC)….but nonetheless, I was in a fucking hotel, and I was getting drugged, and I was supposed to end up in a room the next day, who even knows if I was supposed to still be alive.  I feigned illness and got the hell out of there, then dealt with the phone calls from a slew of people who just yelled at me.  I did not eat my wheaties this day.  Deserved.  No more dating projects for me...

Here I was now, house sitting with an entire bowl of delicious macaroni and cheese that I could hardly wait to eat..and I suddenly was too sleepy.  I was so tired, that I woke up a few minutes later, still holding my bowl of dinner; beer in hand, drool coming out of my wide open mouth.  True story.  I woke up just long enough to put the food down and climb in bed.  Did not plug in my phone OR set an alarm…did not brush my teeth….did not pass go and collect 200 dollars.  I didn't even put my bud light lime back in the fridge.  And I stayed asleep for 12 hours.

I awake with the realization that I had one hour to be work, my phone was dead, and I fell asleep without letting my girlfriend in.  Yep, it was bestie date night.  And she had to go to our other friends…what an ass I am.  So; I either rapied myself for no good reason by innocently taking said vicoden for knee pain; when really, it is something else entirely; or my tolerance for prescription drugs is embarrassingly weak.  It was that easy…and far less scary when you do it to yourself.  The only thing that took advantage of me was Peahead the cat….he snuggled all night long. 

If you’re never feared being taken advantage of, or are a dude, then you have not a clue what I’m talking about.  Let me explain for you; 2 in 3 women are abused physically.  Why so high?  Because more often than not, repeat offenders get away with it.  We’re afraid of what will happen if we push back.  Well, not afraid.  EPICLY DEVESTATED.  We sometimes feel the power of “no” in our soul but we can’t express it with the emphasis that we are worth so much more because we sadly don’t see or believe it.  We wear the victim cape until it gets old.  For some of us it’s a week, and others a lifetime.  Often times, we are so out of touch with this awareness; that that is what landed us with this giant doucher in the first place.  We question, even worse, when we let go of those who hurt us, would anyone believe me?  Would anyone support me and love me in spite of my poor decision?  No.  No.  Definitely NOT.  We put up with it, and pretend like life goes quietly on, meanwhile the suffering is settling in for the long haul.  Everyday this happens, and statistically, it’s happened to most of the women in your life.

Was it Vicoden?  Probably.  But only peahead knows.

House Surgery

Today I went and looked at a new house with dad and laura.  They’re looking for that old fixer upper…that house that kids “these days” can’t possibly appreciate.  And in that 2 and a half hour long process of talking with the owners (while wishing I’d brought the rollerskate I’d rented to drive myself home) I was supremely happy that I’d come along and listened to their every word.

You see, my parents have a unique gift.  Much like I do with people, they know and understand houses better than the house itself.  They can look at it, know exactly the work that goes into it, know what flooring, color paint, style of curtains, theme of guest bedroom, or what year of antique fits the room.  They know where you find such art, and then go on a mad hunt for the perfect piece or cloth or couch or cushion.  They have already decided where the addition in a few years will go.  You name the house and location, and they’ll show up and make it spectacular.  They’ll add gardens.  They’ll put in a patio.  They’ll even fit their animals into the space, and within a week the neighbors are stopping to pet the dogs and call them by name, as if the particular house has been in our family for years.  My parent’s are the perfect neighbors, the most gracious of hosts.  My dad will shovel the old ladies driveway next door, probably at the same time my step mother is baking her some delicious treat.  And, the old lady is still sleeping because it’s 7 in the morning, and doesn’t yet know about the many ways in which the Norses have risen to the occasion.  Also, if you’re pet gets sick…no worries.  My step mother will know what dosage of human meds to give it and how to nurse it back to health.  She grew up in California, but she’s a bonafide farmers daughter.  All those years in Vermont has taught her a thing or two.

Don’t even get me STARTED about the holidays.  Soon enough, the neighbors will think we have an uncle that may or may not be a pilgrim due to the shrine of corn and hay and pumpkins and other festive features that will sit on the old fashioned wagon that my dad will build.  I wish I could tell you this were an  exaggeration, or that this is at all funny.  But in all actuality, at the old farmhouse, people offered MONEY to dad for this landmark on our yard.  When it snowed, don’t you worry…Laura turned it into a sleigh in no time.  I’m certain neighborhood kids believed that native North-Poler’s had a time share with us, or that we secretly were elves.  I mean who else would allow the amount of Christmas lights and maple syrup in one place?  Only Santa.  Also, we compete for biggest decorated tree in the whole world, and lose only to Rockafeller Center…but it’s always a close call.  Damn ceiling…

This is their third home together, and as far as I’m concerned, their third round of “Renter’s face-lift.”  This cottage is about to be Norse-ified. That’s right…my parents are surgeons…of houses.  And it costs way more, they make way less, and also they will lose years on it.  One day, their young looking houses will pay off, and they will choose to make it their own and stay there until they die.  Until then, the rest of the world will benefit from their gift. 

Elizabeth Gilbert Brilliance...

My favorite author, who wrote "Eat, pray, love." Also, this book her extremely wealthy, later turned into a mediocre movie.  She says this in her second book, "Committed."

 "People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.


A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.


A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master..."


Couldn't have said it better myself.