the funny thing about san francisco is how quickly you fall into your own utopia of city living.
Whether I choose to work till 10 p.m., then stay out until 5 a.m. riding bikes, or start the day drinking at noon at Zeitgeist, moving on to exploring art shows and falling asleep by 7 p.m., I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and savor every nugget of San Francisco.
If you played back my last seven years of living in SF, it would look like a high-speed cartoon with a circus music soundtrack. After juggling my businesses, cancer run-ins, dating, and a busy social life, I got to the point of being burned out. My liver felt broken, my wallet more broken. I wanted to sleep for a month. Like many friends in this transient city of ours, I needed to pack up and get the heck out.
When I told people I was leaving, they had their ideas about where I was headed. They asked if I was going to rehab, or if Urban Outfitters HQ swooped me up. Neither one was right.
I took a drastic jump and went to a place I never thought I’d return to. I moved home with my parents.
I had a couple reasons for moving back to the Philly suburbs. I wanted to walk away from booze, get healthy, and come up with new ideas of what I want to accomplish next. I also needed to help out my parents, who are sick from strokes and Parkinson’s. It was time for me to play parent to my parents.
Bed, cats, and beyond
When I booked my plane ticket in March, I was prepared to make some changes in my life. But I wasn’t ready for the extreme culture shock, which started the moment my parents picked me up from the Philadelphia airport. As I looked out at a sea of SUVs, miles of shopping centers, and rows of commercial food chains, it was instantly clear that I wasn’t in Kansas — I mean, San Francisco — anymore.
When we arrived home, there was the little issue of my old bedroom. I thought my parents would have kept a shrine to me, destroyed by the void that I was no longer filling in their lives. Like a bad Lifetime movie, they might have shed tears on my bed while looking at my old yearbooks and volleyball trophies. The reality? There was no shrine. There wasn’t even my twin bed with Laura Ashley sheets on it anymore. My old room was now equal parts gym, coupon-cutting den, and cat room filled with my mom’s shopaholic QVC purchases. It was like I was renting a room from strangers who would offer to do my laundry.
In order to move in, I had to start over. I spent a week redecorating, which involved removing all 100+ pairs of my mom’s shoes, taking my Duran Duran posters out of the closet, and buying a new bed.
karaoke with dad
Next step was to get connected. I needed my Facebook
and blog lifelines to make sure I wasn’t missing out on life
back in San Francisco. Once I left my bubble of free Wi-Fi
at the SF coffee shops, I saw that the rest of the country
is a different place when it comes to technology. It took
three days for my parents to figure out the Wi-Fi password.
It also took me about a week to learn how to operate my
parents’ 12 remote controls, and to avoid going into
seizures while channel surfing through 982 options on the
various TVs spread throughout the house. Back in SF, I
was used to re-watching the same 19 Netflix movies on
my laptop in bed.
The more cable TV quickly rotted my brain, the more I
missed being out and about. My Fridays used to mean
catching new art, music, and pop-ups and grabbing late
night drinks. My new suburban world means having dinner
at Applebee’s or Texas Roadhouse with my folks and then
using our coupons at Target. Later, if I’m not using my
AMC Movie Watcher card (for the first time since 1994) at
a theater, we’ll then head home for an hour-long battle
over what to watch on family movie night. Art shows are a
45-minute drive away in Philadelphia — unless you count
admiring the local Ikea displays. At least my parents’ vinyl
collection isn’t too shabby. I found the Eddie Murphy Raw
record I used to listen to when I roller-skated in the
basement. For dinner music we rotate turns for who gets to
pick the soundtrack from the Music Choice cable station.
Live music used to be super accessible — I’d walk a few
blocks to see shows. That luxury has been replaced by me
listening to headphones so I can drown out my stepdad
singing along with Three Dog Night at the top of his lungs.
tastes like chicken
Living at home has convinced me to never complain about a lack of restaurants in my San Francisco neighborhood again. Though I am overwhelmed with options in the ’burbs, I am underwhelmed with the lack of any individuality to them. The place I grew up houses over 30 chain restaurants within five miles of each other. My family’s favorite menu item, no matter the place, is always some form of chicken tenders: Crispy Critters, Chicken Littles, or Chicken Crispers. For my first week this was amazing. I had all the fried food I had missed in San Francisco. The next week, my arteries were screaming. I was craving herbivore and vegan eats.
I also quickly began to miss the small, overpriced cappuccinos I had grown weary of in San Francisco. I’ve tried seven different Starbucks, with no luck finding a good replacement, although I have grown pretty fond of Dunkin’ Donuts’ coffees, which I order “light and sweet.” I’ve also been trying to French press the Sightglass coffee someone sent — but sometimes I cheat and use the family coffeemaker for French vanilla coffees on the down low.
becoming the mom
Once I set aside the lifestyle adjustments, though, I’m
left with the heart of moving home — getting used to the
tables being turned between my folks and me. The
biggest challenge of moving back is learning to be the
adult when you’re used to being the kid. I can’t just run
off when my parents annoy me and slam the door,
blast the Cure, and get emo.
I’ve realized it isn’t easy for sick parents to ask for help;
they want to take care of you still. But it’s hard to care
for them when I am used to doing without the peanut
gallery of mom comments: Should you have that extra
slice of cake? Do you really need to buy those jeans?
Do you know how to comb your hair? Maybe you should
wear a sweater and some khakis?
The gap of understanding between my parents and me
has grown bigger. I get angry that my mom still tries to
clean my room, lectures me about how I look white trash
with all my tattoos, or asks why I can’t settle down with a
“good” man. But as much as it makes me want to throw
mama from the train, it reminds me that someone cares
about me, which is nice.
After not spending much time with them outside of quick
holiday visits, I also had to admit that my parents had
grown visibly older. They were not the same people I
remembered. They had lost their energy and pizzazz.
That was hard to see.
But I take time every day to do little things that make them
feel good, and things that give me quality time with them.
I can’t repay them for the years of hell I put them through
as a teenager, or for all the help they gave me, but I’m trying.
I make dinner. I clean my mom’s closet. I make fresh green
juices with my folks. We also make sushi together — even if it
means I have to make it with chicken tenders.
time and traveling
I try and leave aside all the crap that makes me want to take the first flight back to city life, because this move isn’t about me, or San Francisco, or the suburbs. It’s about getting some time with my parents before we regret not making the time.
I make fun of the experiences I’ve had back in the Philly ‘burbs, but in the end it’s worth it to know that I have these moments with my family. They may be older, but underneath it all they’re the same mom and dad I’ve always known.
It’s been a humbling experience to leave my urban utopia, where I only had to worry about myself. Taking time to press the reset button and be with the folks has made my family stronger, refocused what’s important, and given me motivation to create more of a family for myself, even if it’s not a traditional one with kids of my own.
As for my parents, I’ll savor every last nugget of the nagging, bad jokes, and them pretending I’m still the kid (when really I’m more of the parent), because the moments won’t be here forever and I love the bejesus out of them.
