Going Home, Going Crazy: Dogs, and other things that my mother loves more than me.

You know home isn't home anymore when your dogs are higher in the family totem than you are.

I sat down in the middle of the couch to watch some TV and talk with my mom, back home for the first time in a few months.

"Hey mom, how's it..."

"You know...that's Kobe's spot," My mom interrupted.

"What?"

"That is where Kobe sits." She said, with a dead-serious stare that could have pierced metal.

"Um...he's a DOG!?" I said.

"Sean, don't SAY that! He's right there!" She replied.

I looked over, and Kobe was licking his balls.

"He looks really offended," I said.

He stood up, and nudged me with his nose.

Mom made me move, Kobe sat next to me, and continued licking his balls, as if to say, "Check me out. I'm in your spot, licking my privates, and mom is talking about how gorgeous I am. When you lick your privates on the couch, she threatens to stop paying for your education. Sucks, dude. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to sitting here and looking adorable."

How the hell do I compete with that?

Being home from college is AWKWARD. There is no other way to describe it.

You're independent, convinced you know everything there is to know, but you're still probably partially dependent on your parents, because they give you this thing called MONEY which buys you things like AN EDUCATION, and FOOD.

These are important things, and your parents like to remind you of this, by hanging it over your head every second of every day, and it fuels them.

So...fellow 19-22 year olds, where do we turn? I'll tell you where we turn. To the place we ALWAYS turn when faced with adversity. Jon. Bon. Jovi.

Jon Bon Jovi politely says, "who says you can't go home?" To that, I say...well, Jon Bon...I say that. Everyone says that, actually. Home, for college students is not home at all, but rather, a subtle reminder that, while you DEARLY love your family, it's nice to be ALONE and do things on your own, where you can sit wherever you want on the couch, not get ridiculed for cleaning your "personal AREA" and poop with the door open and not get yelled at. Or is that just me? Just kidding. Seriously.

I tried my best to avoid this awkwardness, by being KIND and making my family breakfast. Apparently, I cannot do that right.

"Low heat works better," my mother said, breathing down my neck as I stood over the stainless steel pan.

I was making potato pancakes out of left-over mashed potatoes, and my every move was carefully critiqued.

"You shouldn't leave the handle out like that, it could catch on your shirt and make the pan fall over," my mother reiterated.

"A non-stick pan would be better."

"I do not want hot oil all over the floor."

"Okay. And I do not want to be told how to cook. I am 21. You will enjoy your breakfast, just give me, like, maybe a foot to breathe?" I replied.

"YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING!" My mother grunted, as she left the kitchen.

The potato-pancake turned out fine. My mother ate it with a look of disgust.

"A little burnt on the bottom."

(sigh.)

When I go home, it's not like I'm in high school again, it's more like I'm an infant. I need my mother at my beckoning call to do ANYTHING. This is not because I am incapable, but rather, it just feels like I need her by my side to make sure I'm not ruining everything.

"Mom!"

(silence)

"MOM!" (louder)

"What!?"

"C'mere!" I said, from the living room, feeling like a helpless grade-schooler.

"How do you work the TV?" I said, staring at the remote like it was a foriegn artifact. This is the house I grew up in. I watched Power Rangers on this television. I first saw BOBBY FLAY on this television. Now I was staring at this box with pictures in it, wondering how the hell to operate it. I felt like a caveman. A caveman baby.

"Just give it here," my mother said.

"No. I need to hold it. Just walk me through it," I protested.

"SEAN TIMOTHY" She said, in that way that mothers use your middle name to scold you.

A lot went through my head here:

1.) Why did my parents give me "Timothy" as a middle name? It is an atrocious name, and it makes my initials STD.

2.) Why does my mother always have to HOLD THINGS. I want to HOLD the remote. Is that SO BAD?

Anyway, pretty soon it was World War 2 in the living room, a heated debate about "Why you ALWAYS have to HOLD the remote. Why can't you just SHOW ME!? I WANT TO HOLD IT."

It was irrational, immature, dysfunctional, and silly...but I was operating as any cave-man/baby/college student home for the weekend would.

We went on to have a 20 minute argument about what to watch. We settled on Tennis. I am still bitter.

Then it was time to go to the Death Cab For Cutie concert, and I practially had to tackle my mother to get out of the house wearing "unsuitable attire."

My mother chased me around the living room trying to drape a dog-fir covered fleece on me, insisting "it will be below freezing tonight, Sean."

"No, it won't."

"YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING!"

I eventually escaped, and did not die of hypothermia that night.

The weirdest part about being home at this age, however, is not the experience of your home no longer feeling like HOME, but once you return to independence, how glorious it is.

As soon as I walked into my extremely ordinary apartment in Salem, Oregon, after a long weekend in Bend, I felt like I was returning to a palace.

You begin to notice, and love, extremely trivial things about your home.

"Dude, mom's dish-brush SUCKS. Ours is SO much better," I said to my brother.

"Our hand-towels are so much softer than moms." I continued.

"Look at how easy our remote is to operate. I know every single button. Do you want me to mute it? I could mute it. Or I could pause live TV, then change the channel. Do you want the Bachelorette to be recorded tonight? Why do I watch the Bachelorette? Oh wait...it doesn't MATTER. It's MY HOUSE. TAKE THAT MOM!"

Unpacking was a ceremony. I turned on my ipod to Death Cab, played it softly while not wearing a fleece. I practically danced around my room, unfolding shirts and shorts in a rhythmic pattern. Every placement of each individual sock was glorious.

"Do you see how SOFT my bedsheets are!? My bed is SO BIG. And SOFT!" I said, to nobody in particular.

"The carpet just FEELS like home!" I said, on all 4's, stroking the spot at the foot of my bed over and over again. It was at this point that I decided "It's my life," and I should really stop listening to Bon Jovi. For good. You CAN go home, I would just say sometimes it's better to not, or at least refrain from making potato-pancakes. But that's never a good idea, because they are DELICIOUS, duhhhh.

These are the People at the Gym That You Hate. (Warning: You are this person. And so am I.)

You know that Common song? "Drivin' Me Wild?", where he says "She was the type to watch Oprah and The Today Show / Be on the treadmill, uh, like Ok Go."

He was rapping about me.

Seriously.

Except the line should go more like, "He was that dude at the gym hoggin' the elliptical / Changin' the channel to any major sporting event and sweating an inordinate amount. People mostly hated him, uh."

Yep, I'm that girl. Or guy. WHATEVER. I have a horrible habit of feeling entitled to every cardio machine at the gym, and any television set near it.

If I see someone on said cardio machine, watching CNN or something else STUPID like that, I am immediately irrationally irritated. I will exhibit some awful passive-aggressive tendencies, like standing a few feet behind them for minutes at a time, clearing my throat repeatedly.

"AHEM..."

"AAAAAHEEEEMMMM"

Most times they have headphones on. FINE. I will usually go to a different machine and act extremely offended.

I think it has something to do with how much time I spend in the gym. If I'm there for hours on end, how dare YOU, random elliptical girl, steal MY spot in front of MY sporting event. I OWN THE NBA. AND THAT TV. Do you UNDERSTAND?

DOGS:

Okay, there are no ACTUAL dogs in the gym. Unless you go to a dog gym, in which case, who ARE you? Everyone in the gym is actually a Dog, though. Except less furry and probably not as adorable. The territorial nature of everyone at the gym never ceases to amaze me. It's not just me, you do it too.

If I am using a bench at the gym, get up to get water, come back and someone is using it, I almost lose my mind.

"I was on that."

"(Silence...which should probably not be put in quotation marks.)"

"I WAS ON THAT. I WAS USING THAT, NOW YOU ARE USING THAT. I WAS NOT DONE, WITH THAT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?"

If you're on a machine, bench, treadmill, etc. and you see someone eyeing it, you immediately get defensive. If you are like me, you will just pee on the machine that you are using.

Problem. Solved.

OLD PEOPLE:

Sometimes, people that are old people like to exercise. This is totally cool. I love seeing older people maintaining their physical fitness, it's nice, because they could totally be playing checkers or making a puzzle, but instead they like to walk on treadmills, barely pedal an exercise bike, or mimic a sloth on the elliptical.

This is TOTALLY fine, guys. Like, really, it is SO OKAY I can't even begin to say how okay it is.

But, sometimes, I want them to mostly leave ALWAYS. And by that, I mean, if you are on a machine that someone could be actually using, maybe use a different one? Or at least be mindful of the time you are spending sitting on the bench doing wrist-curls? Or maybe go knit? I'm sorry?

GIRLS, IN GENERAL:

Why are you wearing only underwear at the gym? Why do you think everyone is a pervert for looking? Why are you complaining about how bad everyone smells at the gym? Why do I smell so bad at the gym? Why are you lifting more weight than me?

GUYS, IN GENERAL:

Why have you been benchpressing for 45 minutes? Why does your 'rest period' consist of hitting your lifting partner and questioning his sexuality over and over? Why haven't you showered in 4 days? Why are you wearing a bicep band? Why are you hitting on the girl wearing underwear? Why are you lifting more weight than me?

ME:

I am sorry I am so sweaty. IF I KNEW HOW TO CONTROL IT, I WOULD.

YOUR FRIEND THAT YOU SAY YOU WILL WORK OUT WITH BUT YOU SECRETLY HATE IT BECAUSE THEY NEVER STOP TALKING:

"How hard are these pushups? Man, I hate these. Why do you do so MANY? Don't you stop when it hurts? It hurts now, I think I wanna go outside. What do you think about the Facebook case being taken to The Supreme Court? Why aren't you talking back to me? You do too many abs. That girl is wearing underwear. Seriously. That girl is WEARING UNDERWEAR."

You are an awesome friend, but an awful workout partner. You know who you are.

THAT PERSON THAT DOES THE SAME THINGS YOU DO BUT WITH MUCH MORE WEIGHT, BETTER TECHNIQUE, AND OVERALL JUST SEEMS TO BE BETTER AT EXERCISING THAN YOU ARE:

Jerk.

GROUP STRETCHES ON THE AB MAT:

Stop. There are too many of you.

MIDDLE AGED WOMAN GOING THROUGH A MID-LIFE CRISIS THAT SINGS ALONG AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS TO KE$HA SONGS ON THE ELLIPTICAL:

Seriously. This was really funny at first, and sort of inspiring to see how much you enjoyed endorphins. Now it is bothersome, and if you don't stop going "hard, hard hard hard hard hard," I am going to vomit vomit vomit vomit vomit.

Stairmaster: The End of my Masculinity

I recently did something I said I would never do. I always see it in the gym. Just hanging out, lonely. Sitting there, idle, chillin'. At times, it has taunted me. At times, it has mocked me. At times, 60 year olds stand on it and kind of shuffle their feet.

I walk past it, in my cut-off and basketball shorts, and I scoff at it while flexing my bicep. I like to imagine our dialogue going something like this:

"I just did 1700 sit ups, and benchpressed a building. What are you doing there, Stairmaster?"

"I am just sitting here, really. If you want to get good at walking up stairs, you can stand on me later."

Thanks, but no thanks, Stairmaster. I can master stairs on my own, or actually, you know, RUN.

Something changed, though. I was on the elliptical, and I was thinking, "You know, this is fine, but I'd like something MORE. You know? Something like...climbing a pretend staircase!!"

Then I realized the person next to me was staring because I was talking to myself. Now seemed like a good time to get off of the elliptical and try to become the master of stairs.

I was not even 2 flights in, by the time a girl I know came up to make small talk while I am on this OBVIOUSLY easy cardio-machine.

I am a big fan of casual-cardio-chatter. You know, the friend that comes up to you and punches you on the arm to say "what's up" while you are cooling down or warming up? Totally fine. I am that guy sometimes.

But the kind of cardio-chatter where you look like you just took a luke-warm bath with all of your clothes on as you breathlessly labor on this demon-child of a machine? That is the cardio-chatter that I am not okay with.

"Yeah, I'm just really glad this semester is over!" She said, as I was sinking into the immovable quicksand that is level 12 of the Stairmaster.

The steps were sinking to the ground like I was walking on water, and I was grasping onto the side-bars to try and keep myself from plummeting to the floor.

She looked on in either disbelief or embarrassment for me, but continued to speak, regardless.

"Yeah, I just had a really tough course-load, but it was worth it in the end."

(Silence)

(Sound of the steps sinking because I can't keep up)

"Uhhuh....aauughooohGOD!" I muttered through niagra falls that was spilling down my upper lip. It was a unique combination of sweat, snot, and a little bit of drool.

The Stairmaster made me lose control of all of my bodily functions. That is how difficult it was. I was peeing down my leg, crapping my pants, and blowing my nose all over the handlebars while I drooled like a teething baby.

A teething baby with very poor cardio-vascular fitness, and the inability to climb fake-stairs at an efficient rate.

"Are you okay?" She finally asked, even though she was thinking it the whole time.

"S'really hard," I gasped inbetween breaths.

"Yeah. I don't know, I just can't wait for the summer," she said, completely oblivious to the fact that I was nearing the end of my life.

"M'ne'ther!" I replied.

"Okay, well I'll let you go. See you around," she said, visibly trying to hold in the laughter at my overall inadequacy.

"Bleh," I replied.

I figured this conversation took at least 10 minutes, because it felt like an eternity. I looked down at the time screen, and I saw a little caricature of the trainers from "The Biggest Loser", hopping around the block numbers that read "4:26, you WUSS, mocking me, chanting "fatty, fatty, fatty" over and over again.

It was sixth grade all over again.

I managed to conjure some focus, and keep a solid pace for another 6 minutes, when the older gentlemen I always see on the Stairmaster decided this would be a good time to try and talk about basketball with me.

"So how's the team lookin' for next year?"

I love talking about basketball, really, I do. And he is a very nice man.

I also love being able to breathe. These two things could not occur simultaneously at this moment in time. Master of the Stairs was taking over my social-gym-life.

"I actually can't talk right now," I managed, a pretty eloquent sentence.

And by can't talk, I mean I physically cannot speak right now. I cannot form words.

"Ahahaha...what, are ya busy?" He said, essentially mocking the fact that I couldn't keep up with this STUPID MACHINE.

"A'ctlly, I am. This'real hard," I said.

"Yeah, don't worry about it, ya won't be running full court sprints this year, or anything. I'm sure conference play will be much easier than walking up stairs," he said.

Then, he made the biggest mistake of his life.

He playfully slapped me on the butt, only to realize his right hand just took a full body dip into Lake Sean, where all the fish die, and nobody swims because salt and horrendous odor are not fun to swim in, DUH.

"Oh, my! You sure are working hard, ha ha ha!" He said, in that jolly old man voice that reminds you of Santa Claus, but you still kind of want to punch them. You know, that voice.

"Tr'y'n" I exhaled.

Lebron James, and the "R-Word."

Alright, I usually don't do this. And when I say "usually" I mean, I NEVER do this. I haven't written about anything serious on this blog, literally, ever.

However, there was a recent event that took place that really "got my blood boiling," and "grinded my gears." This is not because I am a grumpy old man, which I undoubtedly am, but rather, it's an indication of what we deem acceptable and unacceptable in society, and frankly, it makes me want to vomit.


About a month ago, Kobe Bryant used a homophobic slur to express his distaste with an official's call. He called the referee "The F-Word," and I watched on my couch in disgust, as I witnessed my favorite basketball player of all time absolutely lose his mind and offend probably everyone in America simultaneously.

This guy has been hanging from my wall since I was 8. I drew free-hand sketches of him and sent them in to Sports Illustrated For Kids. I named my DOG after him. I grew an AFRO and changed my name to KOBE because of him. Okay I made that last part up.

About three days passed, and he kind of apologized. Then he got fined $100,000, and his kind-of apology turned to a real apology.

Kobe went on to film a public service announcement about how "gay" is not synonymous with "stupid" or "inadequate." Yes, it took him about a week. Yes, he was extremely out of line. But, in the end, he apologized and took a proactive step towards righting his wrong. He cannot be forgiven, but some positive outcome can emerge from his insensitive remarks.

Two weeks ago, Lebron James used the word "retarded" in a press conference. A press conference. You know, the place where there are microphones that pick up everything you say? That place where you are asked idiotic questions over and over again, and you say things like "we gave 100 percent tonight," and "we executed the gameplan, I just have to give all the credit to my teammates."

Yeah, those press conferences.

A reporter asked a STUPID question to Dwyane Wade, postulating that maybe Wade is a dirty player because he committed a foul that lead to Rajon Rondo dislocating his elbow.

To which, Lebron gave his least impressive assist of the season, interjecting, and providing his own idiotic comment:

"That's retarted," he said, under his breath, his mouth covered by his hand.

You can watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91JlOqzxp_w

Okay.

I get it.

That was an imbicilic remark. I do not think that he hates people with developmental disabilities. I do not think Lebron James is an advocate of discrimination. I do not think Lebron James is a bad person, and I know he is really good at dunking and putting that round orange thing through a rim.

It is not the comment itself that is so insensitive--even though it is--it is the fact that he, and most people, fail to understand how offensive it is.

When first offered the opportunity to apologize for his use of "The R-Word," Lebron took it as an opportunity to further criticize the reporter's question.

"I didn’t understand the question," he said.

James went on to add, "It’s definitely blown out of proportion. I don’t think Dwyane is a dirty player."

He went on to justify the use of "The R-Word."

"So it’s the same as me saying, ‘I don’t think that’s a great question,’ or, ‘I think it’s a stupid question.’ Dwyane has never been a dirty player, so I don’t know why someone would even ask him that question.”

Clearly, this is an oversight by Lebron. You cannot justify using the "R-Word" by insisting that "it's just the same as me saying I think it's a stupid question."

That is the problem. Retarted and stupid are not the same thing. And if you operate under this assumption, you are compartmentalizing and offending all people with disabilities.

Evidently, he had a moment of clarity that night, as the next time he faced the press, he opened his conference with an apology.

“First of all, before I answer your questions, I want to apologize for using the ‘R-word’ after Game 3, if I offended anyone, I sincerely apologize.” James said.

Good. Progress. He's shown remorse, and we can follow suit. If it's not okay for Lebron to use that word, it's not okay for anyone to use it.

The problem is, though he apologized, the public response, or lackthereof, shows we have a long way to go.

I really hate to compare discrimination. To say homophobic slurs are more or less offensive than slurs that are insesnsitive to people with disabilities is to make one seem acceptable, while the other is not. I want to be clear--both are unacceptable.

This raises the question, however, if both are unacceptable, shouldn't both be punished? And in the same way?

Kobe Bryant got fined $100,000 for his comments, and rightfully so.

Lebron James didn't get fined.

I'm not asking for Lebron's head. I'm not asking for an extended apology. I'm not asking for a time machine, or a politically-correct sensor to make sure nobody says things to piss people off.

What I'm asking for is awareness, and acceptance. Awareness that the "R-Word" is deeply hurtful, and offensive. Acceptance that it's just as bad as "Insert Slur Here."

Also, I'm looking for some pro-activity. Maybe Lebron doesn't film a public service ad. Maybe he doesn't donate $100,000 to disability awareness programs.

But at the very least, maybe we can all learn from this. Maybe we, as people, can see through this word, see through Lebron's mistake, and take a proactive approach ourself. Lebron need not be scolded. Lebron is not the problem.

If we can admit and acknowledge that the "R-Word" is offensive, and use King James's slip-up as an opportunity to eliminate it from our own vocabulary, we can all take the proactive step. If not, we'll be stuck in the same rut, and people will continue to feel isolated, discriminated, and not accepted by others.

Let's learn from this, you and I, and anyone else who cares to listen. Let's be proactive, let's make a change. If anything, this is a start. Erase the R-word. Thanks for reading.

Things to do in Salem when there's Nothing to do in Salem.

This is that time of year when school ends, you say goodbye to people you really care about, you eat copious amounts of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, sit on your bed and cry while listening to Jimmy Eat World, swearing each song's lyrics were written EXACTLY for you.

This is also the time of year when Salem, Oregon has atrocious weather, all of your friends went back home, and you do things like watch "Hungry Girl" on Food Network, where the host says things like "You can save 35 calories by dabbing your pizza with a napkin! Who needs all that EXTRA OIL!?" And advocates turkey pepperoni by saying things like "Pepperoni is awful. You don't need it. Eliminate it from your life."

This is the time of year for change. New routines, no school, and way too much time to do that thing that you do when your mind works. Think? Yeah. You think too much this time of year. And by "you" I mean "me." Unless you do too, in which case, keep reading.

To combat this unfortunate inevitability of "thinking," I've decided to start thinking like an 8-year-old. This is really hard for me, because I haven't been 8 for 13 years now, but now that I've stopped hanging out with 21-year-olds and started hanging out in the classroom I work in, at Richmond Elementary, the transition has been pretty smooth.

For example, saying goodbye to friends can be looked at it two different ways. First, it can be really sad. Like, I'm not going to see you for a really long time. But, it can also be looked at like "I can play with your toys while you're gone, and I hope ABC's schedule for Saturday Morning Cartoons doesn't change over the summer!"

I've adopted the latter method, and so far, it's working alright.

Working with 3rd graders has also reminded me that many cliches that we use in everyday language aren't accurate.

For example, I helped a student with his multiplication tables last week, and he figured out 5x3.

In the most adorable event that has ever occured, he stood up, palms toward the ceiling, and screamed at the top of his lungs:

"Math is FUN!" He said.

"Yeah, buddy!" I replied,

"I am SMART! I DID IT!" He said.

"Of course you are. You know, you can do ANYTHING you put your mind to," I said, sounding like every teacher I've had in my entire life.

"That's not true though," he quickly rebuttled.

"I can't fly," he added.

"And I probably never will be able to," he said, almost like this was the first time in his life that he really sat down and realized this.

I tried to pick up his spirits.

"You could be a pilot, though. Or an ASTRONAUT if you put your mind to it!" I said.

"Maybe. But another thing I can't do is a backflip. I tried 3 times yesterday and landed on my head!" He said.

To which, I said nothing, because I immediately got up to get a post-it note to record this precious moment, and never ever forget it.

However, being an 8-year-old has it's complications, too. I am a lot taller than all of my classmates, and sitting criss-cross presents a great deal of pain.

Simple things like using the electric pencil sharpener, and going to the bathroom cannot be accomplished unless accompanied by an adult.

"Sean, will you sharpen this pencil for me?"

"Um...do you not know how to use a pencil sharpener?"

"No, we can't use the electric one. It's unsafe and our fingers could bleed."

"Right."

Last week, I also had bathroom duty. Which is basically code for "Stand in the hallway and make sure nobody kills anyone or pisses on the walls duty."

Bathroom duty made it very clear to me that in a group of 8-year-old boys, their bodily functions remain a very prevalent area of concern and interest for them. A topic for converstaion, really.

"Hey, how long did you pee today?"

"I went for like a minute, read "diary of a whimpy kid, came back, and peed again. For like ten minutes."

"NO WAY!?"

The more you pee, the cooler you are, and the longer you do it, the more impressive it is.

"EEEW! Hey, James, come look at THIS!" I hear from the hallway.

I really did not want to turn the corner and see what was going on, but I thought, for safety's sake, I had to.

"Doug's been peeing for, like, EVER, Sean!"

"hahahahah...it's COOL! I'm STILL going! Check it out!" Said Doug, in a state of sheer joy, cascading his urine all over the urinal, like a proud dog who just marked his favorite fire hydrant. "CHECK IT OUT!!!!"

"Whoa!" His classmates uttered in amazement.

"Okay, but we need to let Doug do what he needs to do, alright? Worry about yourself. Wash your hands, use soap, come back to class, okay?" I tried to neutralize the situation because I felt extremely uncomfortable.

"No, seriously! There's no WAY he's STILL GOING!" James said.

There were now six 8-year-olds gathered around the urinal, marveling at the duration of time in which their classmate was able to urinate for.

I have to admit, it was impressive, but I also had the teachers waiting for the kids to finish, and it was my job to make sure they were on task and not goofing off.

I am pretty sure that watching your classmate pee, and shouting words of encouragement like "Keep going!" and "It's like a WATERFALL!" would fall under the category of "goofing off."

Eventually, I got all the kids back to the classroom, but once we all got back, not even 10 minuts had passed before Doug, of all people, raises his hand and asks to go to the bathroom.

His classmates looked on in amazement and envy.

I looked at him in disbelief, and he sauntered off to the bathroom, ready for another leisurely 10 minute urination. I followed him to the hallway to make sure he wasn't just wadding up toilet paper and throwing it at the stalls.

"Sean...I AM STILL GOING!"

"Great."

On my way out of the classroom, the student I helped with math earlier, said, "I know you said I could do anything...but I don't think there's any way I could ever pee like him."

"Me neither, James. Me neither."

"Or backflips. I don't think I can do those either," James added.