you CAN come home again

They say you can't go home again. And at least physically, that is not true.

Of course you can get in your car/plane/bus/tardis and travel back to where you grew up/where your family is/where you keep most of your stuff. But often times the place that you get to just isn't the same as you remember.  (that is what the saying means, of course, but, like my brother Ryan said last night "I'm just trying to break it down for you guys")

This always strikes me when I come home for winter break, especially this year.

My brother Daniel has taken over my room upon my absence. The only real change to the room is a lightsaber mounted on the wall and an x-box in the corner but it is enough to remind me that it's not my space anymore. 

And that makes me more than a little sad. And it reminds me that I have a future out there to be worrying about.
(but instead I ignore the scary thoughts about next year and the echos of concerned relatives "what are you going to do? what are you going to do? what are you gonna do?" and burrow myself into another knitting project)

The most radical change - the one that takes the most getting used to and always reminds me that I don't really live here anymore - is the refrigerator. 

this is not our fridge. this is a stranger's fridge, which is what I see every time I come home for the holidays

Every time I come home it's completely different, and it serves as a microcosm of the changes within my own house, my own family.  Sure, the cheese is still in the cheese drawer, the vegetables are still sitting (ignored and browning) in the vegetable "crisper" drawer, but the contents and configuration are constantly changing.

Sometimes completely new foods show up that I have never heard of or foods that should never have been bought (called over my shoulder: "Who eats blue cheese stuffed olives???" response from the living room: "Oh they're really good. Try one! Try- just try one. Just. Try it. Fine! Don't ever say I don't introduce you to new things").  Then again, there is still a bottle of sake in there that has been lurking at the back of the fridge for several years now. I'm not sure where we got it. Or why.  But it's still there.

I am almost always completely thrown off by the refrigerator.  I open it, seeking refuge for my gurgling hunger, and stop short as I glance around and remember I have no idea what is in there (or how long it's been in there).  It's just one more thing that's different. 
One more reminder that I don't live here anymore and I better get on with my life, because things are changing without me.

Wow. blogging therapy.

In the end, the refrigerator becomes normal again.
I learn not to eat that thing in the black tupperware that's been there since before I got home, that blue cheese stuffed olives are pretty delicious, after all, and that home will always be home. It's just waiting for me to normalize.

skank robbers

Stereotyping is bad. I hope no one is offended that I said that. If you are, I don't want to hear about it. Technically, stereotypes aren't necessarily negative. I know this because we had to learn the distinction between the words estereotipo and prejuicio (prejudice) in three of my last five years of Spanish. The fact of the matter is that stereotypes make generalizations about groups of people, be it by race or gender or age.

I introduced this concept because I have recently been revelling in beating stereotypes. I love it. I love being a girl who knows her Star Wars and being from the South without being an uneducated hick. I love when the old ladies see me at church or in adoration and think "wow. there's a good one. you don't see many like her. it's great to see young people so involved" (alright, I can't read thoughts, but trust me, they say it with their eyes and when they smile and go back to their rosaries). I love watching the shows on MTV and congratulating myself for turning 18 without getting pregnant or owning a stripper pole. These are all great things.

Unfortunately, it's not so great when that image I'm trying to avoid (the "damn teenagers!" image) does not get to be proven wrong. Such as traffic jams or stop signs or just about any occasion I am behind the wheel. I am a decent driver. I've never been in an accident (at lease not one with two moving cars) and my mom has stopped gripping the dashboard every time she rides with me. However, make one awkward maneuver on your way back from the grocery store and you get honked at by some balding golfer who can be seen screaming obscenities at you from the comfort of his air conditioned Lexus. He is clearly thinking "crazy teenagers!" or "damn woman" or maybe even "I knew Obama supporters can't drive! they should be banned from the streets!" or one of the many stereotypical excuses he could use to explain my driving.

Worse still, sometimes there is just too much distance to fully explain oneself. example: At the beginning of the summer, I nannied for my aunt after her back surgery. This included carrying her 3 month old daughter around the house, walking the 7 yr old home from school etc. I mentioned before being proud of myself for not being a teen mother as I'm sure any alien race or foreign body assumes is about a 50 50 chance among my generation. However, when people stare at you in Target, you don't get a chance to say "Hey! She's not mine! I swear! I am not a skank!" Hence, the stereotype goes unchecked.

I used to welcome stereotypes as a challenge. A bar to rise above, a way to surprise people older than me who assume I'm just like the girls on Gossip Girl or worse, Bret Michaels' Rock of Love.

Now I give up. I can't surprise everyone. I've decided I'll make everyone else do the work to find out about me instead of wearing a shirt that says "I swear I'm not a Myspace ho."