After the hassle for the tassel that was graduating from college, I gave my family a big hug and set off on a new life in my old hometown. Following a midsummer nightmare that I would have to move home for want of food and shelter, I made a point of securing a glam gig at PH Design Shop and renewing my lease in SoMo, even if that meant surviving off rice and beans from Fiesta.
It’s not that I don’t like my family – I love my family – but I had deep-set memories of catastrophic days and nights living at my parents’ during college breaks. Rightfully, they expressed displeasure towards some of my antics, and never seemed entertained by my retorts: “Honestly, the Beemer looks better without that bumper,” “I used that Grey Goose for vodka pasta sauce,” or “But he slept beside my bed, I swear!”
Relics of my revelry while they were out of town are scattered throughout the premises, from scrapes of dismounted side-view mirrors in the garage, to singed bricks from a barbecue and dozens of champagne corks clogging the pool filter. With these incidents in mind, mom and dad realized that “mi casa es su casa” doesn’t necessarily translate so well in the post-college world.
With myself firmly planted in the ‘trose and my parents tucked away in Meyerland, I thought that maybe I’d meet up with mom for museums or pass my dad biking as I bladed down Braes Bayou every once in a while. We enjoyed a fairly peaceful summer, which involved a steady stream of intimate Friday dinners that preceded riotous nights with my peers. Then, like the onslaught of a late hurricane season Category 4 storm, arrived the slew of autumnal holidays.
It would be non-stop quality time, from the first runway fashion show that is the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah (“did you catch who Erica Levit’s wearing this year?”), down to the very last dumpling eaten on Christmas Day. Sure, spending time with family has its perks, like a welcome break from Fiesta-brand legumes and being showered with attention, but there’s also pressure to make nice and appear put together as I indulge in a third bagel and lox at brunch.
Despite what seemed like a blitz of familial obligations, a few weeks ago it seemed that I would be flying solo for the first night of Hanukkah, as my parents left that day for a Vancouver vacay, and my two older sisters were marooned in third world countries on business (Thailand and New Orleans, respectively). Rather than allow my family’s two precious spaniels, Madeline and Jackson, to be locked up in a kennel for days, I decided to be a mensch and whisk the pups off to the SoMo toho. Any pick-up artist knows that dogs are the ultimate make-‘em-swoon standby. I had images in my head of debuting the dogs at Barnaby’s and exchanging numbers at the dog park.
This was not the case. After they gave Sasquatch a bunny heart-attack, the dogs settled into their first night steadily howling at the door in hopes of finding their prey. They clearly found something, as I awoke at 4 a.m. to Maddie and Jack vomiting all over my bedroom. Stunned, I drove straight to the veterinarian’s office and waited three hours for the door to be unlocked. I thought that my foray at the college '80s party would be my last visit to Vomtown, USA in 2009, but apparently not.
With the dogs off my hands and my family still away, I settled into my regular work-day pattern, vaguely proud of myself for averting the temptation to throw a hot mess hot tub party. Before I knew it, mom and dad were back in town and ready to celebrate the last night of Hanukkah. After an afternoon wiling away at Brazos Bookstore, selecting the perfect gifts, I showed up for the classic brisket feast and pile of presents. I’m past the age where I expect a monumental gift (nobody picked up on my Vespa hints), and I was pleasantly surprised to unwrap boxes of perfectly presentable Banana Republic sweaters. Alongside the new threads was a small gift bag, enclosing a scone baking kit.
Wait - Banana Republic apparel and scones? My parents were basically saying, “You’re gay. PS, Happy Hanukkah.” I’d say scones are pretty high up there on the homocentric baked goods chart, just below quiche. With a childhood that consisted of my parents playing R.E.M., Streisand duets and the Miss Saigon cassette in the minivan, and a strict Monday night viewing of The Nanny, I don’t really know what my parents expected, but at least they’ve risen to the occasion. Regardless of material goods, I felt loved.
This past weekend, I donned one of these new tops on a date at Bridgewater Tavern in an attempt to fake having realized my yuppie dreams. As the guy was in the middle of telling a story (probably something about scones), he interrupted himself midsentence.
“That sweater – was it shoplifted?”
Were I still 17 and were I still allowed in Urban Outfitters, it might have been. But no, this was my merino wool – a tangible expression of my deep, spiritual heritage. I looked myself over and realized that dangling off my shoulder was a fairly large security tag. It was hard to concentrate the rest of the night, knowing that I had a supposed badge of thievery on my person. Needless to say, that sweater stayed on for the entire night.
The next day, I made the bold venture to the Galleria to make my exchange. Trying to whiz through the hordes of shoppers, I tried to slip through a teenaged couple, and accidentally knocked shoulders with both of them. My terrible luck and the predictable forces of gravity caused the couple’s strawberry ICEE's to tumble into the shopping bag that contained my supposedly stolen loot. The sales associate at Banana was legitimately disgusted with what I presented, and what began as a simple lecture on store procedures erupted into a screaming match that could only happen the week before Christmas. Defeated, I shuffled to the parking lot only to find two gangstas breaking into my car. Although they curiously respected my request to “please stop stealing my car,” they snatched my iTouch. I encountered further difficulty when reporting the matter to the mall cops: as I recounted the criminals’ stats, my shopping bag became so saturated with melted red high fructose corn syrup that the bottom gave out, dropping the soaked sweater (security tag still attached) onto the boot of a policeman.
It took a lot of stuttered explaining to resolve the situation, and by the time I settled into the driver’s seat of my vandalized car, I felt utterly broken. I drove straight home – not to the toho, but to my parents’ home – and the only two people I know who would really listen. I spilt the story to my parents, because at the end of the day, nobody else will listen to my problems, offer expert advice, and feed me organic gluten/dairy/flavor-free ice cream. And after all that, they still have the energy to analyze the past week’s NPR stories, gossip about small-time Meyerland scandals, and be sent away with choice articles from the Sunday Styles that they’d put away. So, despite the inherent neurosis, enjoying family time might just be one of the most rewarding aspects of post-college life. After a tumultuous year of grody faces, wardrobe malfunctions and canine calamities, I take solace in knowing that, yes - you can go home again.
