Oh my. I guess one might say my blogging commitment has been "on the fritz;" but I assure you, you are not my rebound, lest you fall under the assumption I've been blogging on the sly with that tramp "Tumblr" or the gypsy "Jewlicious."
Finals are over, summer has begun, and I'm ready to devote myself once again for the embrace of your social stratosphere . (Wow, I'm beginning to sound like the guy in the movie Her, aren't I?)
Being home for summer break is like eating a salad someone else prepared for you: its good overall especially those rock'in avocado chunks, but you have to deal with the tomatoes. You eat them to be nice- just barley tolerating them- while consciously signaling your taste-buds and texture receptors to go on temporary auto-pilot.
Picnicking with hometown friends is the fake bacon bits, access to home cooking night and day is the perfect amount of dressing, and pushing my niece and nephew on the swings is ripe avocado. Every late night studying, every terrible meal at Hillel, every time there was a family gathering I couldn't attend, made this summer salad all the sweeter.
But oh those rotten tomatoes.
The salad "c'"s as I call them:
The curfews: "Mom, I'm an adult now, you don't need to wait up for me."
The censorship: "Dad, legally 17 year-olds watch rated R movies."
The clothing: "Oh, I'm sure Jannet can take the hem of your dress down. You know, 'cause it's so short."
So it's great being home- as long as I can hit auto-pilot every now and then, inhale, rip the dress right off, stomp on it a few times, pick it up, dust it off, swallow, and smile. As long as there are more avocados then tomatoes in this guaca-home-le, it's worth the effort.
She waited up for me anyways