Sometimes, for a tiny moment, I miss "home."

One of my most vivid memories is of coming back from San Diego to visit old friends in late September and October. We would return from various colleges and meet up to go to the Kern County Fair. I remember the heat, dry and stifling despite the Fall season, and the sun bronzing the skin of those of us in shorts and spaghetti straps. Fried food and copious amounts of butter filled the area with a doughy smell. Someone would be missing- they couldn't make it this year- girlfriends and boyfriends, jobs, new lives interfered. We'd reminisce on times when we lived closer and our lives were interconnected.

When my car drops over the peak of the mountain affectionately called the Grapevine and the farmlands appear as sprawling green and brown patchworks, the calm that comes with being "home" settles in. I can take my car out of low gear; the almond trees and alfalfa fields fade and become the city I ran away from. That's my Bakersfield; not rednecks and bad air and meth but Tule fog that delayed school buses for an extra couple of hours sleep, feeding blue-jays and picking persimmons from my Grandma's yard, and Basque food most people will never hear of. 

I see now that I've spent the greater part of the last decade trying to escape my hometown, I was looking at it as though it was deficient in some way and therefore less superior to San Diego. But, despite trying to ingratiate myself into San Diego culture and project myself as a San Diego transplant, I remain a Bakersfield woman at heart. What I miss about home is everything I find lacking in San Diego: a cohesive character, intimacy, the memories of my youth. People ask me where I'm from all the time; I don't appear to fit in as a San Diegan. I even talk like I'm from Bakersfield- the long drawn out A sound- I know comes from my father's side of the family. I didn't realize I talk "funny" until I left the place where everyone talks like me. 

Even when San Diego excited me most, even though there are parts I've still yet to see, even when going home to visit makes me hate that place because the Grapevine is closed due to snow, San Diego still doesn't feel like my new home or even second home. San Diego is still radiant- a paradise for which I pay premiums in real estate- but neighborhoods function in cliques and it is fragmented. I feel far away from those I wish to be close to. It seems to me that there is a potential place here for everyone; everyone but me, it seems. 

No More Room for Error

It is 9:30 PM and my husband and I have just finished watching Black Swan at the theatre. We don't go to the movies often but when we do, we generally have nothing to worry about. Until recently, we were responsible only to ourselves. Our pets don't mind if we head to the movies and turn our phones on silent. The garden can hang while I'll power through a box of junior mints before the previews are over so I don't have to share with Jerry. Nothing of serious consequence would happen before if I disconnected from my phone for a few hours.

No more.

Recently, my husband and I have become parents. Not in the traditional sense: we skipped pregnancy, diapers, the first day of school, and even the first day of high school. We just got right into the trenches, I guess.

I am a Mommy-friend (never Mom) to a seventeen-year girl whom I am proud to call my daughter because I love her like one, even if it confuses the hell out of people because I'm clearly not old enough to biologically be so and even if she maintains (we encourage this) a relationship with her birth-mother. The circumstances of our relationship are irrelevant; V. fits into our family as though she was born to be here.

How do parents deal with screwing-up?

V. spent the weekend away from us for the first time since Thanksgiving. Jerry and I saw this as a chance to go to a bar downtown and then to the movies, as bars haven't been a place where we have gone for dinner since V. moved in with us.  I have a hard time winding-down and being fully focused on anything; but this time I sat in the theatre focused wholly on the delicious combination of choclate and mint.

This was my first parental error, surely not my last.

V. needed us, badly, while we were in the theatre. With our phones on silent, we missed her attempts to get ahold of us while the movie was playing. When the lights came on, I checked my phone right away, only to see that V. had tried to get in touch with us nearly two hours ago. My heart sank.

The situation has been resolved, but the guilt I feel over not being there for her when she needed it has not. The downside to skipping the baby aspect to parenting is that we've also skipped all the baby-steps that prepare us for these kinds of situations. I doubt a "real" new mom would go to the movies and forget to check their phones during the movie to make sure everything is well with her child. Given the circumstances of bringing V. into our lives, her age, and where she was this weekend, I didn't have a gut instinct to check my phone.

I really need to find that instinct.

Jerry and I have been very lucky in our transition from DINKS to parental-figures (for the record, Jerry doesn't have the title "daddy-friend" because that's really, really creepy...). Being a super-planner and over-thinker has helped, for once. I think that's why I'm so angry with myself for making such a boneheaded and (albeit accidently) selfish mistake. I should have just known to check in.

There have been too many errors caused by others in V.'s life already. Maybe I'm underqualified in terms of life-experience to be the support she needs. How do I know I'm not one of the problems?

Reflecting on the class of 2010's first college semester

I miss the class of 2010. I really love my students this year, too, but each class has a unique personality. The class of 2010 sometimes called me mom, put up with me when I had swine flu and was so medicated I was basically stoned while lecturing on the Oedipus complex (fun!), convinced me to dance with them at their Prom, and rallied behind each other through all the good and the bad that year. The class of 2010 wrote me notes, discussed LOST at length with me, knew about secret socks, and taught me the balance between being a teacher and a human being. As many of last year's seniors wrap up their first semesters of college, I wonder what new life experiences they have now that they have been out of their element for half a high school year. I've written about being 18 before, but being a freshmen in college is such an amazing time. The only time that was better was being a senior in college. I'd never want to go back to high school but I'd absolutely go back to college.

Living in the dorms was a strange experience. I had never shared a room with anyone before and I liked the company a lot. I loved how the dorms were constantly alive with activity. Someone was always awake; you were never alone.

Then, I got sick my freshmen year. Really, really sick. I was violently ill all night before an 8 A.M final; I spent the night puking into a trash can (On a side-note: Remember when 8 was just so early?). I know I kept my poor roommate up all night, too, because I really call the dinosaurs when I dry-heave. When I dragged myself to the shower the next morning, my reflection revealed two solid black eyes; nearly every capillary in my eye-sockets had burst. I was a hot-mess, minus the hot. By the afternoon, I couldn't lift myself out of bed and the resident advisor called 911. Twelve EMTs came to help. "Help" consisted of telling me my lungs were tight and my breathing was shallow, as if I was unaware of my asthma. Then they drove me .25 miles with no lights nor sirens and charged me 700 dollars. So helpful.

The rumors about my hospital trip were hilarious. When I returned, people looked at me sideways. They heard I had alcohol poisoning, that I had an eating disorder and -so awesome- that I had some sort of psychotic break and collapsed in the stairwell.

None of this was true, obviously. At least, I don't feel like I had a psychotic break. It was fun to be known as the girl who went away in an ambulance. Once  I clarified that I just had had the flu, it seemed anti-climactic. Sorry being on the brink of death with the flu went out style in the middle ages. I always was a step behind.

I did meet a lot of new people this way. Who knew nearly dying would help me make so many connections in my new city?

I really hope that the class of 2010 enjoyed their first semester and that they have some great stories to tell. My only hope is that their stories don't involve near death experiences, 700 dollar uninsured ambulance rides, or pretending to be cacti on Campanile Drive.

Dogs in the Street

If you know me, you will know right away that my Achilles' Heel involves anything related to animals getting hurt. I would do anything to help an animal. My friend Michelle and I once tried to wrangle two scary pit bulls that were lost. Even though that ended up with Michelle using me as a human shield with me nearly getting eaten while screaming, "Make yourself look big!" I would definitely do that again. Maybe because I'm a glutton for punishment, but that's a different post. 

I wrote this in my writing-journal after a typical experience with one of my wacky neighbors: 

People should have to get a license to own animals.

Upon arriving home from happy hour yesterday, a neighborhood dog was standing in the middle of the street, eating something that might have been Taco Bell, but nonetheless unidentifiable. I know where this dog lives because I’ve returned the poor guy no less than three other times. I assumed that the dog was some sort of ninja, scaling fences and digging secret tunnels to freedom. Yesterday, however, I pulled my car over and called to the dog. He was doing that weird tail-wagging, barking, "maybe I’ll lick you or maybe I’ll bite you" thing so I kept my distance. As I was coaxing the potentially vicious mutt out of the middle of the street, a young teenage girl drove wildly down the street, swerving her car around, tires screeching. We made eye contact; I know she saw me standing there doing the Stray Mutt Shuffle. 

Slowing down would have been much too inconvenient, I agree.

Meanwhile, the dog has decided NOT to eat my arm but still won’t move out of the street. I turn and face the direction of the house I know belongs to the dog. I see a shadow lurking in the front window. Most of you know eyesight isn't really my thing, so I wasn't sure if I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Then I realize I was not mistaken: The owner is watching me! Just standing there, watching me try to keep her dog from getting run over! I call to her –hey! Isn’t this your dog?- Even though I know full well it IS her dog because I’ve done this several times before. She hollers back, “yeah, he’s nice. Don’t worry” To which I said “Yes, but he is IN THE STREET lady! Do you want to get him?” To which she nonchalantly replies, “I suppose that’s not the best place for him, but he was happy there so…” as she burdened herself with her pet’s retrieval I got back into my car and thought to myself “Please, please lady…don’t procreate!”