Faucets and Family

Sometimes it's hard to see how strong family ties are until three generations sit around a disassembled bathroom sink for twelve hours.

My dad and I are horribly similar in personality, as my mom frequently points out in frustration, and my grandmother is just another in the set.

My dad promised her he'd replace the sink hardware in the bathroom after we got back from our trip to New York City. He began attacking the thing with several wrenches and a pair of pliers at about 9:30 in the morning.

At 9:30 that night, he was still wedged under the sink, cussing the pipes and nuts and bolts while Grandma stood unhelpfully in his way, brimming with concern and guilt. I stood by and handed him wrenches.

My dad is a pretty smart guy. Straight A's throughout his Master's Degree, Teacher of the Year, plaques from the Air Force abound, etc. He is not, however, mechanically inclined and he is definitely not a plumber. But he is a good son and a determined individual and refused to give up on the sink.

My very, very cheap grandfather even told him that it was okay, to give up, he'd pay for a plumber. Dad had just emerged from the sink, his hands raw and covered in grease and filth and WD-40. His sides were almost completely absent of skin from squeezing into the cabinet. He'd just driven nine hours to New York City, spent three days navigating the streets in sweltering heat, and drove nine more hours; he was exhausted. The sink was still not installed. We were due back home at least six hours ago and Mom kept calling and telling Dad to give up. Grandma was on the verge of tears because she felt so guilty about putting her son through this.

But still, he would not quit. He started a job, and he was darn sure going to finish it. I didn't know whether to consider this stupid stubbornness, a kind of unnecessary plumbing martyrdom, or an admirable display of will and determination. All I knew for sure is that I longed to go home but a drain stopper and a hot water valve stood solidly in my way, and Dad was not going to quit.

Now, Grandma definitely considered this stupid stubbornness, but I know she's exactly where her son got it from. Just the in the preceding days, the woman had followed us all over the streets of New York City in ninety degree heat for miles and miles. Every time we turned around to check on her, she'd insist that she was just fine and kept plugging along. She's painted her entire house solo in recent years, and takes care of my whiny, self-centered, sickly, helpless, and thankless grandfather all by herself. Her 75th birthday is next week.

My dad is his mother's son and I'm my father's daughter. Even if they're determined to the point of stupidity sometimes, I can't help but hope I share in some of their strength. I have their eyes, their sense of humor, and their love of travel. I hope that, like Dad, I would also finish the sink.

Gossip and Underwear

A bad thing happened to me in second grade, which like the Sunday School incident, I have been unable to forget.

There was this very strange girl in our class named Briana. I was always nice to Briana, because, while strange, she wasn't mean or anything. She liked me well enough and we got along decently. We weren't best friends, but we'd say hi if we saw each other in Walmart.

Well, one day, Briana's strangeness must have overwhelmed her.

The class poured out onto the playground for what appeared to be a normal recess period. But then kids started accumulating under the bridge. The bridge was this typical playground structure, composed to where there were holes in it and you could see through it. By natural curiosity, I joined the ever-growing group.

They were all staring at Briana, who was standing innocently on the bridge. In a skirt. With no underwear on.

Being about seven years old, everybody had a good giggle, then ran off to tell their friends. I shall note here that I did not go off and tell anyone. I found it more embarrassing than hilarious, and just went off to swing or what have you and thought nothing more of it.

We came back to the classroom and quickly noticed that Briana was missing and the teacher was staring at us with those stern "you did something wrong" eyes. We all nervously awaited our punishment.

She began lecturing us on the hurtful nature of gossip, and slowly we pieced together that the news of Briana's bare butt had spread quickly throughout the playground and eventually made it to the teacher's bench. Briana was off somewhere crying, and being given proper undergarments.

The teacher then took it upon herself to locate the perpetrator of this vicious "rumor." (I put rumor in quotes because it most obviously and glaringly true.) She chose the child that she apparently heard it from and asked him where he'd heard it, tracing it back through the rows of desks, until somebody provided my name. This somebody was my best friend Erica.

After Erica's accusation, the teacher was staring at me, asking where I'd heard it from. This was quite the predicament, considering I certainly hadn't told Erica, and nobody had told me. I just saw for myself, as most of the kids in the class had. It had been an incriminating line of lies. A line that I felt should stop, not being able to falsely accuse anybody. I simply sat there and received a lecture on why gossiping was bad. The teacher must've suspected what had happened a little because I received no further punishments.

I don't think Briana ever found out that I was pinned for the alleged crime, and I had many strange and sometimes regrettable encounters with her in the future, but she was wearing underwear throughout all of them, and I didn't tell a soul.

Something Nice

A really long time ago, I used to go to Sunday school and Wednesday night youth every week with the same rag tag bunch of preteens. I actually kind of liked going, but we never really talked about anything churchy. We did some community service, and that was about the closest thing to a religious experience.

But we did have long "discussions" and I guess the leader, Tammy, was under the impression she was making a difference because us kids didn't talk so candidly to anyone else. While this was totally false, at least in my case, it created a weird sort movie-esque environment that wasn't a horribly bad experience. We even spent a day decorating the room so it would be "cooler." Some of the stuff we did in there still exists today, and it's still just as lame as it was then. But it's kind of nice seeing my handywork survive.

Anyway, one day during Sunday School, Tammy started to say something like "speaking of good deeds, I heard Samantha did something really good the other day" or something like that. Obviously this got my attention, because I wasn't aware of preforming any miracles lately.

But something distracted her and she never finished the story. There was never a spare moment to ask what I'd done, and I felt it slightly rude to demand her to tell me why I'm a good person.

So I never found out. Every time I saw Tammy after that, I wondered what she had been about to say. Such a mystery. I racked my brain trying to think of something that could be construed as a good deed, but not a single thing came to mind.

This is my strongest memory of that year of youth group. I think perhaps not knowing what I did was more powerful than actually knowing. It made me think "hey I did something nice without intending to, without thinking 'hey my youth leader will congratulate me on this later.'" That's the kind of good I'd like to be, unconscious and automatic.

That lesson was never taught in the brightly colored, glossy teen bible study pamphlets that were forever opened in front of us but never really read.

Pomp and Circumstance

Graduations are weird. Even though I was partially participating in the event, I couldn't help but wonder why it was such a celebrated "accomplishment" to have attended school, a compulsory thing. You're pretty much expected to pass all the way through, and then you get to the end, and people act like it's some great feat. Almost everybody who started out finished. Woohoo? I guess I'm being too cynical.

The whole thing just seemed to really lack real sentiment. All five of the students who spoke said almost exactly the same thing, most of which I consider to be hardly true. They all used the over tired "just four years ago we walked into this gym as freshmen, and now we're here as graduates" device, and then said how the school had taught them all it's okay to be unique. (Nevermind the traditional practice of them all wearing identical graduation robes, which I understand, but find ironic.) I know most of those people in some capacity, and I'm in high school, and being unique is the last thing they cherish. They all listed the same accomplishments, and the people who got cheers from the audience members were hardly those who chose to "walk their own path." Again, with the cynicism, but it just seemed like one big show that didn't nearly reflect the experience that those people actually had.

The administrators sounded bored (one of them kind of angry), and a few even let the softness of preferential treatment and partiality taint their voice as they called each student across the stage. That was perhaps the most honest moment in the whole thing.

They promise great things for the class of 2010. In my head, I'm thinking half of them will hate college and drop out, some will stick with it even though they realize they picked the wrong major halfway through, and a select few may actually love their college experience and the subsequent job. The chances of any of them changing the world? Slim to none. It's just semantics that nobody believes but everybody has to say.

They'll all land somewhere and I hope the majority of them will be happy. I hope standing in that crowded gym wasn't the the happiest they'll ever be, and I hope holding that diploma isn't their highest accomplishment in life. That's what they should be wishing upon the robed masses at graduations--I hope this isn't it. I hope you do something beyond get through high school. Your track team's going to state your Senior year should not be what you're talking about in ten years as the best moment of your life. They should just hope that they go far beyond the "realizing that it's okay to be yourself" lie they kept repeating.

Most of all, graduation made me grateful I chose my school and grateful that all the tearful accomplishments we name at our graduation won't be lies, and that I will sit among people I admire instead of tolerate. I found where I'd be in the line-up and smiled at my preferred seat in the bleachers. A good decision can never be reinforced too many times.

I also just realized that they didn't throw their hats. In what kind of graduation do they not throw their hats?

Goodbye

There have only been a few times in my life where I felt the unique sadness that comes with the thought that you will never see some one again.

Even if it's not even someone you're incredibly close to, just some one that fills up your days, it's sad to let them go. You lose the security of knowing that if you ever did want to talk to them, they would be there. The familiar faces you've come to know will soon be replaced by strange ones, ones that do not know you or your past. Most of the time, I consider this an exciting idea, but today, as I did many things that I've done for the past four years for the very last time, I couldn't help but feel fond of a sea of familiar faces.

I think I often under-appreciate the simple feeling of sitting in a room full of people that know you. They understand your quirks and your mannerisms, they know where you came from, and they know where you want to go. A room full of people bonded from similar experiences is truly a great thing.

And when you're about to leave it, it's so sad.

The first time I felt this, I was about eight, and I came home from school and sat down on the couch beside of my mom. She told me we were moving to Texas. I remember just crying and crying. By the time my tears had dried, Mom was on the phone in the kitchen. I got up and wrote lengthy notes to my two best friends, begging them not to move on and forget me. Of course we've long since forgotten each other; it was but first or second grade. While I only have a few vague memories of them, the sadness I felt while writing those notes remains sharp in my memory.

The next time, I was leaving the place I'd so dreaded moving to--Texas. Leaving was the hardest thing I'd ever done, and now (seven years later), it still ranks pretty high. I loved all those people so much and I still remember a lot of my time there, but again, the strongest memory is of writing a note. I was sitting in a classroom in my new town, fuming. I missed my old school and friends terribly, and hated the new one with a passion. We had some random free time, and I yanked a piece of notebook paper out and scribbled a furious note about how much I hated everything in Virginia to my Texas best friend. I remember the smell of the black pen's ink, all the strength it took to hold back my tears, and the relief I felt after I mailed it. I don't talk to her anymore, but the kind reply I received to that angry, angry letter carried me through the next few months in a place I hated.

More and more of these are coming to me as I type, and I just keep getting sadder and sadder, but still I write.

I remember the last time I saw another Texas best friend. This time, it was he who was moving. I ran to his house, the grass where I'd run so many times before worn into an oft-beaten path. He was sitting in the back of his moving truck, possessions piled high behind him. He threw a gift at me--a beanie baby cat that I still have. I don't remember the conversation we had, but I remember the realization that I would never see him again as that truck pulled out of view.

The most recent time I remember (excluding today) was the last day of middle school. While I wasn't truly going anywhere this time, I knew I'd be at a different high school than most of my classmates. It was kind of surreal walking to the bus after that final day. I remember looking around, walking alone, at all the people around me saying goodbye. Even though I didn't really love middle school, I was grieving for the familiarity of it all. The sea of familiar faces. There was nothing left to fear there, nothing unknown. While this a great comfort, it also means you have to get on that bus for the last time and pull away.

Now it's time for what is the greatest goodbye yet. While I know there's next year, I also know it won't be the same, and it's the loss of the familiarity and safety of my high school class that I grieve for. I hate counting life in "lasts" but it's simply unavoidable. I'll never be in that place again, and for that I'm horribly sad.

I may really suck at being sentimental, but I'm great at feeling sad.

Freshmen

"Please tell me we weren't like that when we were freshmen!"

I hear that sentence a lot. And what's scary is, we probably were. I choose not to think about it too hard for fear of remembering too vividly.

I do remember various parts of my first day of freshman year quite well. It was a pretty important day in relation to the rest of my life, looking back. I finally got the perfect reassurance that I'd made the right choice regarding my secondary education. What reassurance that was!

I remember what I wore and I remember walking sheepishly into the auditorium for the first time. I remember scanning around for a familiar face and making a beeline towards it, and even though those faces weren't entirely familiar, they accepted me without question. The auditorium clumped into middle school groups.

I remember the Bon Jovi song "Welcome to Wherever You Are" blaring, and the line "that right here, right now, you're exactly where you're supposed to be" sticking out to me. I sat there, pulling at my already-annoying nametag, and hoping with all my heart that Bon Jovi was correct. He was.

I remember my teacher (who would later become one of my favorite people in the world) telling me to write on the poster cause I looked like I'd have good hand writing, and panicking inwardly cause my look is deceiving. I remember being scared of a large, gothic kid, who would later become a good friend and the most unscary person I know.

I remember the cheesiness of getting little pieces of metal with words of inspiration on them. A level of cheesiness that was to permeate my high school experience.

But what I remember most of all was sitting there with my pencil poised above the first fresh sheet of notebook paper of the year, trying to figure out where I was from for my poem. I don't really remember what I said, but I'm pretty sure I'd write a totally different version now. I'm from this weird school and these exceptional classmates and this strange ride I embarked on what feels like so long ago.

This week, I've been standing in front of groups of freshmen with four years of experience behind me. They couldn't even fathom what the next four years hold in store for them. Knowing what I know now, I would want freshman me to jump at the chance to talk to an ECHS Senior, though I know I was just as naive as those are, and wouldn't see the value. There are just some things you have to learn on your own.

I never really appreciated how much maturing occurs during those years until I was staring it right in the face. I'm both glad it's over for me and jealous of their unfolding opportunity. I feel so old.

My "I Am From" poem may change many more times as I meander through life, but I'm pretty sure "I Am From ECHS" will be a permanent fixture.

Huddy

Why do people get so emotionally invested in television couples? I am the world's worst for this and it's particularly weird considering my lack of investment in real life couplings.

I just repressed uncharacteristic squeals (but couldn't stop the grin) as I watched Cuddy FINALLY admit she loves House and them finally share a kiss that wasn't a hallucination induced by Vicodan! I've been waiting for that ALL SEASON. But why??

I'm sooo invested in their fictional relationship that I was mentally willing them to have scenes together. It's imperative to my well-being that those two are firmly together. And they're not even real!

They aren't the only tv couple I've given a little piece of my heart to. I can count many. Most notably Tommy and Jude of Instant Star, who I felt were eternally gipped. I was completely depressed for a week after the botched series finale in which Jude breaks off their engagement and goes off to live in London. I still get sad w hen I listen to the show's soundtrack, especially their duet.

And nobody can forget Ross and Rachel. Oh the agony when he steps off that plane with another chick and Rachel's left there by herself! The sadness!

And Eric and Donna on That 70's Show. Even in a wholly comedic setting, you can't help but be completely and utterly sad every time they break up. Though the show ends with them finally kissing again, you can't help be a little dissatisfied.

And oh, Buffy and Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She freakin has to KILL HIM! I can't watch it without tearing up a little! When I was little, I even wrote their names on my Jenga blocks (yeah, I don't understand that either) and always made sure they were beside each other when we played. That episode just breaks my pathetic little heart.

But by far the very worst is Luke and Lorelai from Gilmore Girls. I was already far too invested in that tv show, but when they broke up the really bad time and didn't get back together for the whole season, I thought I might die. It's a really good thing that I watched them mostly in rapid, box-set-dvd succession so that I didn't have to suffer the agony of waiting week to week. Though it's also hinted that they end up together, I wanted to see them married so bad I still get mad when I think about it.

It's absolutely irrational. But the writers of the shows set it up so that fans feel inclined to set up entire websites dedicated to tv couples and come up with cutesy little combined names for them. You think the general public would get tired of this formula of touch and go couples, but they don't. I obviously don't, considering they appear to pull me in every single time.

Am I trying to make up for something lacking in my own life? Wouldn't that mean that everyone is also trying to fill this gap, evenly the happily married? Is it a human desire to see "true love" prevail? Is it a need to feel a craving for drama? Why, oh why? It causes me such stupid agony.

Now it's time for me to watch Big Bang Theory, where my heart can bleed for Penny and Leonard. Lord have mercy, what's wrong with our culture??

Also, did I mention how excited I am that House and Cuddy are finally together? Cause I am.