It's Not Me, It's You: Subjective Recollections From a Terminally Optomistic, Chronically Sarcastic and Occasionally Inebriated Woman by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor

flooded my system.
    “Aunt Lucy!” I felt the tears burning my eyes immediately the way you always do when you’re hurt and although you try to stay strong as soon as you hear your mom’s voice you break down. But I tried to keep it together—I knew she didn’t need a basket case on her hands. “Aunt Lucy, Mom kicked me out of the house and I have nowhere to go. Please can I come stay with you? She says I can never come back. She says I’m no longer her daughter. I don’t know what to do.”
    “Stefanie, you have to calm down. There is no way that your mom would just leave you out in the street. Just call her and talk to her. I’m absolutely positive that this is a misunderstanding. But I can’t get into the middle of it. Call her. It’ll work out.” And with that sage advice, she hung up.
    I briefly entertained the idea of calling my biologicalfather in Los Angeles, but I knew he was newly on his fourth marriage to a woman in her early twenties and they’d just had a baby. It just wasn’t an option. There was no one else to call. Like I said, it was a short list. I sat down on the curb in front of the pay phone and sobbed. This wasn’t supposed to happen to people like me; people who wore clothes from Fred Segal, dammit. I didn’t look homeless. I probably looked like any kid in any town on her way home from summer camp or singing lessons, but I felt like the Russian nesting dolls my mother collected. Every time something happened, another outer protective layer was taken off and I was left a little smaller than before. I just hoped that things would turn around before there was nothing left.
    All of a sudden, like in a movie, a Volkswagen bug pulled into the parking lot and out of a city of strangers, I saw a face I recognized. It was the lifeguard from the Jewish Community Center pool where I’d been dropped off while my parents unloaded the car, earlier in the week. The girl hopped out of the passenger door and came to my side. Thank God Jews love nothing more than to get involved with other people’s problems. When she found out what was going on, she went right into busybody mode. “Okay, I know a girl whose parents are out of town for the night. She lives pretty close by, and I’m sure she’d let you stay with her and then tomorrow we can figure something else out.”
    I was in no position to say no. So off to a complete stranger’s house I went. The girl was kind enough to make me a little dinner and let me sleep on her couch. Although humiliated, I must say the frozen pizza was delicious. Shame has never really put a damper on my taste buds. But the next day, the girl told me I’d have to go because her dad was coming home. I really couldn’t understand why I couldn’t just move in with her. They had a huge house in a nice section of town, which was a lesson I took with me. When I later moved out to California and didn’t have a place to stay one night, I slept in my car. But not before driving to Beverly Hills and parking in front of the most expensive house I could find. Much like having a home, being homeless is all about location.
    I was completely out of ideas. So, after wandering around most of the day, I called my mother. To say she wasn’t excited to hear from me would be a gross understatement. But, to my great relief, she didn’t sound surprised, either. For some ridiculous reason, I half expected her to say something like, “Thank God you’re all right. I made a huge mistake and I want you to come home right now. We can work this out. I love you, Sweetie.” What I didn’t expect was what she did say: “You are not welcome to stay here. But I have found a shelter where you can go. They can’t take you in until tomorrow, so for tonight you can sleep in the car and I’ll drive you there in the morning.”
    I walked back the few miles to Connie-Sue’s. Without entering her house, I climbed into the back of our gray Jeep Wagoneer and fell asleep in the doggy odor that