NORSE

Top 10 moments of Visiting My family:

1)  My dad asking me if I've ever met the "Me-off twins"...then errupting into laughter.  (email me for the rest of that joke...it's way offsides.  The fact that my dad told me it made me ill.)

2)  Upon being asked by my eldest brother to help him carry the grill onto the deck...I may have slowly dropped it, and then Josh turned into the hulk, threw it over his shoulder, and carried it up himself.  And in his momentary fit of anger and frustration, he broke the handle off...I found this entire encounter utterly hilarious.  You know what happens when you're laughing too hard to tell everyone what just happened?   You're brother blames it all on you...

3)  Making christmas cookies with my dad....and re-doing them when they weren't cut and shaped to cookie perfection.  Best part, we had to use a 2 liter of Diet coke to roll out the dough.  Since dad won't let a christmas go by without a 24 hour marathon of cookie making...next years gift: ROLLING PIN.

4)  Snuggling each night with whichever animal claimed their spot on the bed first, or the one night with my niece, Elle.  

5)  My nephew Luke asking if he could go "-nowmobiling" again....my heart may have dropped a little hearing his little voice...

6)  Going to work with my dad...retiling a floor...though I had to take an insane amount of painkillers due to my intense back pain after...I wouldn't have rathered be anywhere else then alongside my old man, listening to the same songs on the radio, singing offkey, horribly on purpose, telling bad jokes or being silent.  

7) "It's five o clock somewhere, Marc.."  and Sister Day.  New rule...one day dedicated to sisterhood every time I come home.  We have years to make up....

8)  My dad yelling at Luke to "GROW UP!"  He's two....somehow he still loves his grampy...

9)  Hearing step mom Laura tell a story that she found so funny she couldn't finish it...my dad and I were so confused.  But, watching people laugh that hard is somewhat endearing, and contagious...leading me to...

10)  My dad's absolutely horrendous and horrid, obnoxious, irritating, and absolutely psychotic laugh that seeks only attention from those around.  The only people that it still works on: Jessica and I.  By the end of our shrugging him off and telling him to stop, the three of us laugh so hard we can hardly breath.

Dad, Laura, Josh, Marcy, Elle, Luke, and Dennis and Jessica who weren't with us this year,  I love you all more than I can begin to tell you.  You guys are more than my look-a-likes.  You are my daily (even though I don't see you) source of hope, inspiration, encouragement, unconditional love and joy.  Thank you for a wonderful stay at home.  There are lots of differences between us.  But, one thing we all have in common, for which I brag...

So proud to be...Norse.

What I'm afraid of...

Someone asked me once what I was afraid of. I am not trying to be cocky...but I was completely speechless. I stuttered through answering, "I...have....no...idea." A few sleepless nights, and it hit me...I am afraid of a word and it's little, sneaky definition in the dictionary....

av·er·age:

noun, adjective, verb

typical; common; ordinary: The average secretary couldn'thandle such a workload. His grades were nothing special,only average.

READ THE DICTIONARIES EXAMPLE?!!? Did you shutter too?!!? I would absolutely die of complete embarrassment if someone said "yea, shes just an ordinary..."...what are you gonna tell me I have a great personality next? The word "average" describing anything about me makes me want to climb into a wooden box. Having an average job, average friends or boyfriend, being an average athlete or average looking is no where near acceptable.

Think about it, to be "below average" at something would be far better, because lets be real....we're all below average on lots of things. I mean, we can't be masters of everything. The short list of things I'm below average (by far) at: math, cooking, singing, exhibiting patience. Driving, my good friends would say dancing, anything to do with electronics, things requiring assembly, following directions....and while I try and it saddens me, guitar playing. You get my point....it's easier to admit that you're not that great at something than to say, "I'm pretty mediocre." The implications of this word is dissapointing at best. BLEH.

An artist told me once that the most offensive thing that one can do is to walk by their work, and not stop to look, even if in disgust...to be unaltered, to remain ambiguous, or just not even notice it. Whats my point? I'm a piece of art, damn it. Go ahead, stop and stare. Talk to me if you're brave. If not at first, my response is far "above average" and you won't regret the time you spent. (HINT: Asking intelligent questions and then exhibiting basic listening skills will get me to stop and listen to you.) God help me with the things that I'm just average at...

Backpack.

Ever since I was a kid, I've loathed backpacks. My grandmother would try to entice me with the fun patterns and threaded initials of the infamous New England company LL Bean came up with. Such a useful tool has always been associated as something terrible, out of place, unnecessary. To be frank, I have concluded that it's utterly ridiculous. I've finally pondered my inner backpack anxiety, and while it seems trivial, there is a deeper reason for my dislike of backpacks.

Friday afternoons after practicing whatever sport was in season, my mom would rid my backpack with everything school, (except for the books I couldn't part with) and helped me pack for my dads house. Two outfits, two undies, mismatched socks (that hasn't changed either) a pair of athletic shoes and flip flops, 2-3 books meant for my entertainment while the boys watched movies or football, and my journal. I didn't have time to care about accessories or girly things, as my tomboy nature left out all things pink and pretty. I learned early on how to pack light. This packing wasn't that of a getaway, or a vacation. It represented even then something of dread. I was taught to pack everything meaningful and neccessary in a small bag with a million pockets, as if my whole life were containable within it. Though I always looked forward to weekends with my dad, packing reminded that I had two half-homes; I couldn't reside both places at once, thus leaving me with the feeling that I didn't belong anywhere.

A few years later, my mother married a conservative Christian man who thought it best my brother and I go away to a private Christian school...8 hours away. We had left Vermont only a few times on school trips. A chance to go school in another stateand live with your friends? This was a dream come true, and we began our packing expeditions yet again. This time, our home base was a small dorm room, and mom no longer was around to help me pack. My roomate and soon best friend became my source of not only giggles and gossip, but love, deep respect, and a sisterly friendship. We went home a few times a year, and I can remember us checking the things off our packing list so we wouldn't forget anything. As high school brought more than just homework assignments, I had all sorts of high tech equipment for my curly thick hair, multiple outfits for every possible occasion; just in case. All sorts of make-up, though I have yet to figure out what the hell to do with it. After all, I wasn't ever sure where it was I would end up, or with which parent, when I embarked on my "homeward" journey each time.

College came soon, recruited for multiples sports, I moved to Washington DC to pursue a psychology degree. Though my "college years" are through, I can't get enough of school. I am not sure if I'm done packing though. Moving here made me realize what a wanderer I've become. While there was never a dull moment, and I definately filled my adventure quota, I was sick and tired of backpacks, which are nothing more than compartmentalized overnight homes. I love traveling, but no longer because its culturally a social requirement to visit family on holidays or because I should. For a few years, I felt physically and emotionally drainied of packing..going anywhere...unpacking the endless bag just to end up somewhere that was not really my home at all. College brought many messenger bags, totes, even reusable grocery bags but NEVER a backpack. Backpacks are a reminder that I don't have a home, at least one where I can stop by on the way to my other engagements...it reminds me I'm still a wanderer.

I'd like to think that everyday I belong right where I am, and that even though I have enough resources in my outer bags to to last a few days without a stop at home, each night I come back to this place because its where I belong. Praise to lululemon athletica for creating the cutest girly backpack in existence, because when I finally caved, at least I'm still cute with my heavy, jimmy-jammed pack of magic. :-)

REALLY BOYS?? Top ten hate-to-hear list:

Top 10 things girls are SICK and DISGUSTINGLY TIRED of hearing from guys, in no particular order:

• “I think you're too deep for me..”

• “Were you gonna finish that?”

• “shhh, GAME'S ON...” accompanied with a hand wave, severely close to my face...

• “i'll do it tomorrow,” Lies. Or, next, my ultimate favorite...

• “i'll do it someday...” someday NEVER comes, douche bag.

• “I don't know what I want,” Yes you do.

• “I don't care.” Yes, you do.

• “you don't look fat.” Yes I do!

• “It's not you, it's me.” Really??

• “while you're up...” are you fucking kidding me?

fear of change...

Change is the sour patch kids of the world. It makes you cringe at first...you wonder what the hell you were thinking...and then you get through that outer layer and get to the good part, a chewy, sweet delight that makes you want 20 more.

I'm especially a freak when it comes to changing...I'm SUCH a creature of habit. I run for exactly 45 minutes, almost every day. (yep, even when I trained for my marathon...stupidity at its finest.) I even run on the same EXACT trail for the better part of 7 years.

It became apparent that I was "old and set in my ways" as early as eighteen years of age. My first real job out of high school, I was the pool director at a summer camp in ohio. Since I went to a boarding school in PA, I packed up my few belongings into my only suitcase immediately after graduating and flew to ohio to spend my summer working on my tan line and teaching wee ones how to swim. Sounds perfect, and for the most part it was. But what stands out in my mind though are the first seven nights, that I cried myself to sleep. I was alone and scared and starting all over again, and I simply hated the change. I still don't know if I own a matching pair of socks. I havn't tried mayonaise in ten years....I am convinced it will make me vomit like it did the last time my mom snuck it on my sandwich. I have a hate on for the color purple, I've hated it since I was little...pink is my girl color of choice. I don't know if my tv has ever been plugged in...it's just not something I do. I do the same things, eat the same things, have many of the same friends, and have stayed at the same jobs. I can count on one hand the amount of boyfriends I have had, but the common denominator between the four...I dated all of them for over a year. You get my drift. I. Hate. Change. I hate it with all of me. There are only a few things where change is inevitable and delightful: changing my clothes, my hair color, my mind, and the radio station. Otherwise, what you see is what you get, and if you want me to deviate from my comfortable world of habit then shoot me an email and give me a few months to stew it over and come up with an action plan.

I'd like to think I'm adventurous, but that's a crock of shit, really. I don't like trying new things. Not one bit..I do love meeting new people, but I like it most when it happens in my world on my terms, where no one belittles or mocks me or tells me I cant, or even better...that I “shouldn't”, as if they knew what's better for me. I want to feel the newness in a space where there is no fear of falling flat on your face. As we are all well aware, the real world is full of concrete...

Stay tuned for OVERCOMING fear of change...promise, it's far more inspirational than my humble admittance of me being just as scared if not more than scared as the rest of the world is.

inner voice.

I realized lately that Im addicted to self torture. Mentally, definitely physically, undeniably emotionally. I am meaner to myself than anyone I've ever met. We all have an inner voice that is on repeat and tells us subconsciously the same thing...except my inner voice is a straight up bitch. She's heartless, unforgiving, judgmental, and rude...all the time. She hardly ever gives me credit for anything. Voice has told me my whole life that I am unworthy, undeserving, not pretty enough to stand next to my friends, not as smart as my class mates, not as athletically gifted as my counterparts. At best, I've considered myself average. Yea, really inspiring...get a grip, Linds. Wonder woman doesn't look in the mirror and wish her uniform weren't as snug. Fuck. I've got some work to do...

feelings...this is a deep one.

I have a developing theory that in order to fully love, you can’t ever stop loving everyone you’ve ever loved in your whole life.  No I wasn't high when I came up with this...just hear me out.

That person you broke up with six monthes ago, lets face it, you just weren’t right for eachother.  But you never really stopped loving them, but you probably told yourself until you forgot about them that you didn't.  Sometimes we treat love like a light switch…"on" when we’re in that room, but when we move on to another room, we shut it off.  Telling your heart to love no longer is lying to it.  If you tell your heart not to love enough times, then it won't just turn on.  You can't "clap on, clap off" it like that terrible infomercial from the 90's.  Love doesn't work that way!

No wonder break ups are traumatizing.  It's like wear and tear on a knee for a runner. Except, the heart shows wear and tear by feeling less and less over time.  It’s working different, because you’re different.  You act differently, you subconsciously think differently, you probably even look different (or maybe that’s just me; after breakups I usually lose 5 lb’s and drastically color my hair).  You slowly limit your loving ability with every “failed” relationship...you know how "there's no crying in baseball!!"  Well, in my best Tom Hanks voice..."there's no failing in loving!!"  You lose a little of yourself everytime you say goodbye to someone.  We all do this, but after making sense of our emotional reactions, why do we keep doing it?

Stop losing out and make every relationship count.  See the time you spend with people as investments, whether it a love interest, your parent, your sibling, or a complete stranger.  When something goes wrong, you didn’t fail, it just wasn’t the right time, for you or for them.  There is no guilt or shame in playing a game and it not ending with rainbows and butterflies.  Secondly, genuinely continue to feel the love you’ve always felt for them.  Don’t let your pride get in the way and tell you you don't need them, love them, respect them, or miss them.  Give it your all, and every single time.  It's not your fault if their too emotionally immature to handle the way they feel towards you.  Know that you can love someone and not talk to them, date them, agree with them, or validate them.  There is no right or wrong when it comes to the feelings of the heart, sometimes it just “is”, and that is ok.  Stop lying to yourself, and lying to your heart, because it has never lied to you.

I think I belong in the 70's with my hippie love theories...I guess I just don't need the weed. :-)

The Folk Harpist.

I have this friend, and she’s absolutely insane in the membrane.  Some instances that proves she’s fruit loops: she once held me down (NOT kidding) and glued semi permanent eye lashes to my face, and oops, forgot to buy the remover.  “You must be beautiful on your birthday, Norsey!!!” Don’t worry, she went back after the fact, only to find the remover was discontinued.  It’s fine.  She once decided to smuggle a 50 lb pit bull into a cats only apartment building, furthermore, in a COUNTY that banned pit bulls altogether.  Yea, that too worked out great.  Otis now lives with her parents in New Jersey.  It’s also fine. 

Needless to say, either due to my boredom or love for drama, she currently lives with me.  Much to my sad surprise, I rarely see her.  She has an internship for some branch of the government and she works from 9-9...like, 6 days a week.  Ok, it’s fine.  But first of all, what kind of internship is this that she doesn’t usually make it home before 10?!!  The district is practically empty after 7.  But no, she still sits at her desk.  Hell, I don’t even know if she has a desk.  Does she have a cubicle?  Are her cubicle friends getting raped by the government, too? A little sketch if you ask me.  I may need to turn Harriet the Spy and crack this mystery.  But I’m not gonna lie, I’m legitimately afraid to uncover that she’s secretly selling crack or answers to a pimp in southeast.  Guess who has huge cash bills on her all the time? Erika does, but it’s fine.

She’s got six million ideas in any given minute….to learn 3 more languages, to pack up right now and go on a mission trip, literally, I’ve watched the lightbulb go on and the suitcase come out.  She decided she wanted to learn to play the keyboard, but instead used this keyboard to throw her clean clothes on top off...it's fine.

I come home the other day and next to her bed (yes we share a bed, and yes, we’re straight...it's a long story)  anyways, by our bed is a harp.  A fucking HARP.  It totally blew my mind.  I thought, “it can’t be,” but then I saw it….a spiral bound book entitled “Teach yourself the folk harp.”  FOLK HARP?!?!  Is this really happening?  What distinguishes a folk harp from a regular harp anyways?  By the picture on the book, (a hippie looking women playing said "folk" harp in a lush field, looking rather nymph-like…) I would assume that the folk harp requires a bit of dressing up like a fairy and taking yourself to such fields, and in between playing these "folk" pieces, I imagine the "folk" harpist picks dandelions and then makes herself a necklace.  I can’t make this shit up, this is really happening to me.  I suddenly feel lightheaded.  Erika now plays the "folk" harp.  In our room.  And It’s fine.