As summer winds down and us kids get back into the swing of school and independence (a.k.a. eating cereal for dinner), let us look forward to the emotional rollercoaster that is visiting home. Whether you’re from the valleys of Utah and are the 27th love child of a man named Josiah or the grad from Laguna High who never made it to the screen of MTV’s Laguna Beach (even though you totally hooked up with Jason—what gives?), going home is a real, well, special trip.
Picture it—you just spent what felt like a light year in the cubbies of College Library—mostly reading the graffiti—but that’s not the point. You’re on the bus on a pilgrimage to the holy land of carbohydrates, blankies and a bed that you could go commando for. Not even the guy behind you on the bus asking to borrow your tweezers can ruin this.
A couple hours later and, if you’re me, oh fer Christ sakes is your Mom happy to see you. ‘Scuse the accent, I’m from Jersey. At this point I throw my bags somewhere, push both my parents with arms outstretched aside, and head straight for my long lost lover. After having my private time with my bed, my Mom and I are in for four straight hours of a combination of House Hunters International (because really, who watches regular House Hunters anymore), The Golden Girls and Roseanne. Then, a meal of some delicious non-meat meat and hot potato slivers from the bombass-est drive-in in town is followed by my child-appropriate choice bedtime of ten pm.
After a night of slumber, I wake up to a pool of drool on my pillow—a highly scientific way to tell if your day is gonna be awesome—and obnoxiously jump into action, in full anticipation of the steamy cinnamon rolls that are surely awaiting me in the kitchen. Now, I don’t want to upset anyone—I know you don’t read these things to become sad about everything ever—but people, there were no cinnamon rolls. Only dry weird laminate countertops. Don’t think I didn’t lick them anyway.
This, my friends, is where the visit home becomes a whole other animal. Not a tiny bunny like you expected, but a slightly larger jackrabbit, which everyone knows are kind of scary and way less cute. One minute you and your mom are eatin’ chips and literally reciting word-by-word reruns of The Golden Girls, and the next you’re at your Grandma’s house trying to explain to her for the ninety-eighth time that college happens in several buildings, as opposed to just the one room schoolhouse.
Later you find yourself at a dimly to pitch-black lit tavern/supper club of sorts adorned with light up, wood-framed artwork of small deer and jumping bass. Over fried fish, your uncle keeps asking you who Audre Lorde is and “why ya gotta study women?” After you make your way out of the tavern like an angry bat being exposed to light, you’ll be asked if you could please wake up in the morning and shovel the snow—there’s supposed to be a record-breaking blizzard overnight. You’d love to do that as soon as you finish all of the homework you have due Monday.
This is the most heartbreaking façade that going home cruelly puts in front of you. You’ll go home, eat Cheetos, sleep for 13 hours, maybe cry a little bit (try it, it’s nice). But, no, the possessed academic train never seems to stop catching your coattails under its tracks, or something like that. And so, after a confusing weekend of anticipation, deep disappointment and light up bass, you get yourself back on that bus and yearn for the six-pack of Ramen that awaits you in your apartment cupboard. Home: can’t live with it, can’t live without it. Just like the crack dealer who lives under your bed.
