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.