Shaken, stirred...or a pack rat?

What is it about going home that sparks such deep, inquisitive introspection? People write entire novels about it. Direct movies. These books and movies make you laugh, cry, want to book a flight home to see your mother, revert back to your own childhood. Or drink heavily. I’ll start with a blog…and I make no promises (I say as I sip my martini).

When I was home recently my mother roped me into her spring cleaning frenzy (at least I know I come by it honestly) and in an effort to downsize, had me go through what seemed like 183 Rubbermaid containers full of every possible possession from my childhood. We’re talking love letters, dried flowers, candy hearts from 1992 (which I dared my younger brother to eat and he did and they did not kill him or even give him a stomach ache. Good for you, Brachs!). I think my mother felt bad about forcing me to go through all of these things on my vacation, but what I did not want to tell her was that I secretly loved it. There is nothing like reading through 10+ year old love letters that makes you all warm and fuzzy inside. What I did not realize was that I might possibly be considered a hoarder. I mean, really, who saves 18 year-old candy? I couldn’t even tell you whom I was so thrilled to have received a candy heart by that said “Be Mine” that I decided to cryogenically freeze it for all eternity, but I definitely ascribed meaning to it at some point in my life.

Perhaps equally as great a revelation was that middle and high-schoolers, and even college students as my more recent treasures proved, are capable of such desperate, intense emotions it’s almost laughable. Sure, I remember break-ups being dramatic and gut-wrenching, but nothing else captures that moment when you discover the typed lyrics of “Semi-charmed life” by Third Eye Blind tucked underneath the windshield wiper of your car as that very same saved piece of paper nestled inside your tear-stained journal. It was my ex-boyfriend’s attempt to prove to me that he was officially accepting the fact that I broke up with him. I had to call my mom and have her excuse me from the rest of school that fateful 11th grade day. I could hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line when I called her from the main office to convince her that I absolutely could not remain in school the rest of the day without embarrassing myself due to the amount of tears I was going to shed when I read and reread the lyrics for the 52nd time. “I took the hit that I was given, then I bumped again…I want something else to get me through this…” We loved torturing ourselves. (Apparently this particular ex-boyfriend now tortures himself with cocaine, among other more hard-care substances, as I have heard through the high school grapevine, but I do not take any ownership of Prince 90s-alternative-band-lyrics-and-cocaine-make-me-charming’s recent addictions.)

Either I really had something when I was younger that drew men (ok, let’s be real, boys) to me and I have lost whatever it was as an adult or we were all just hormonal messes. I am hoping it was the latter. I have not received such intensely ‘honest’ love letters since my early 20s. Maybe I should go back to refusing to go on dates with boys until they write me a poem. In sonnet form. And make it iambic pentameter. (Yep, I said that. And yep, I got one in return. It’s part of the reason I ended up relocating my life to the west coast. Maybe I need more stringent criteria other than one’s ability to more than likely google “love sonnet in iambic pentameter” for moving in with someone.)

Yes, the drama is fun, but if a UPS package can incite hives (see "Mirror, Mirror"), what the hell would happen to me if I stumbled upon a letter attached to the windshield of my rabbit at this point in my life? I can only imagine the 911 call I would be placing, followed by the frantic call to one of my inner circle and then my mother to say that I am officially giving up and moving home. So I am going to assume that the trade-off for that kind of intensity is a certified, grown-up, hive-free relationship full of love and support, and not candy hearted affirmations, and real dialogue instead of one-hit wonders who can seemingly explain what we’re feeling so much better than ourselves.


**Disclaimer: Before you get any ideas, about two sips in, I remembered that I absolutely detest martinis and proceeded to dump it down the drain. I guess there's hope for me yet...