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Category Archives: College

And They’re Off to College (Not Really)

Saint Anselm College's Alumni Hall, built in 1...

My husband and I have had a few frightening conversations over the past few days. They were about college. Saving for college.

He and I both went to college, both have advanced degrees, and are aware that at least a Bachelor’s appears necessary to make a living for one’s self (and even that depends on the degree). Between the two of us, we could buy a small island nation with the amount of our student loans, and I often peek at our balances, hoping someone makes a clerical error and either a) cuts the amount owed in half, or b) deletes the account completely.  Neither has happened yet, and my husband assures me that “people don’t make mistakes with money.”

I was fine with the hypothetical drive to the dorm. I was fine with signing that first tuition check. And I was fine with the fact that they’d probably spend most of their time hunched uncomfortably over a toilet or sleeping until 3pm.

And then some apparently unrealized fantasies rose up through my body and trickled out my mouth.

“Well, what if they don’t go to college? What if they don’t want to? What if they don’t need to?” I asked, not pausing for answers in between.

He peeked up at me from under the table, picking up food, as usual, “Well, what do you mean, what if they don’t go to college?”

“Well, what if they’re naturally gifted and don’t need a college education in order to be successful in what they do? What if one of them’s a savant? What if they want to travel? What if they want to see the world?” I asked, feeling like I had a fairly legitimate point.

“I know a lot of people,” I persisted. “I  went to high school with a lot of people who decided to travel, or wait to go to college.”

Apparently, I rocked my husband’s world completely, and he continued to stare at me incredulously, as if I had just invited Lady Gaga over for Earl Grey and taquitos.

He continued to wipe the floor. “Well,” I continued, determined to make a point, “What if one of them is a singer or a dancer or a musician, and…” I trailed off, knowing that my line of thinking wasn’t going very far with him.

“I don’t really think it’s the safest thing for a young person to travel the world,” he said calmly, “and I think the money should not be for educational purposes, not to travel.”

This is a key difference between us. I am more, well, dreamy, and he’s definitely more pragmatic. I delight in seeing where the chips fall, where he doesn’t throw the chips in the air in the first place. A perfect amalgamation of art and science, we two. A perfect combination of tangible and intangible. A perfect mixture of sun and clouds.

So. We were at an impasse. We let the conversation lie, as most do in our toddler-flecked world, and forgot about it for a few days.

Last night, over a simmering pan of chicken chili, we revisited the issue.

“Why don’t you look up college saving plans?” he asked as he stirred the chili.

I found a few websites, and started to play with a few calculators.

“How much do you want to put away for each?” I asked naively.

“Whatever would cover an undergraduate degree,” he responded. And, oh, my dear, sweet Jehovah, were we in for a shock.

Three children, essentially entering college at the same time, with calculations adjusted for inflation and a 5% increase in college tuition per year, would cost us $900 per month. At the very least. 

Nine hundred dollars a month. For the next seventeen years.  And according to one calculator, they would still be short. By ninety thousand dollars. Each. I stared at the screen, desperately changing amounts, timetables, types of colleges, and still came up short.

I then started to mentally calculate what we could do without, what we could cancel, in order to make this happen.

And then I did what I always do when large expenses loom in our faces. I attempted to delay. “Uh, can we start this after the first of the year?”

I think he said no. I’m not sure, though. I’m holding out hope.

This is one of the first harsh realities of our family situation. We would have three children in college at the same time, that is, unless they follow my dreams and run off to Europe or off with the circus. Maggie would be very good with the circus, actually. And she’d get to see the world.

I try to see the best in our situation, given that we’ve moved into The Money Pit, and that beginning to provide for our children’s education is the responsible choice. But when you think about the things I’d rather delay, like planning retirement and college funds, stuff starts to get real. As in really expensive. And my not-yet-purchased purses and my imagined vacations and all of my moments-old fantasies begin to dry up. Because we’re saving for the future. And for me, that means we sacrifice our now.

It may not be rational, and it may not be the way things really are, but in my mind that’s what it is. Or in my heart. I suppose my husband’s thinking with his mind. Much to my dismay, people actually don’t get by on fairy dust and dreams.

Perhaps I should try out for his team instead. Because I don’t think my heart is going to pay anyone’s way through college, and it would surely be nice for them not to feel the lifelong burden of student loan debt the way we do.

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Oh, the Mistakes I’ve Made

I’ve made some mistakes in my life. Some bigger than others, but, luckily easily corrected with time or liquor (in the instances that liquor was not the issue). As I watch my children suck on plastic and try to jam their little fingers into drawers and up their siblings’ noses, or very closely examine the contents of the trashcan, I am reminded that I promised myself I’d make a list for them, you know, so they don’t have to suffer unnecessarily.

I have no choice but to start with my daughter. That womanly wisdom was something I didn’t have the luxury of experiencing (or didn’t listen to. I’m sure they’d say I didn’t listen to), so I’m going to start with my dear, dear, sweet little Magpie.

Leave the hair on your face alone. I’m sorry about the unibrow. I really am. I wasn’t able to isolate the DNA. I am betting on a pair of loaded dice you don’t end up with the mustache as well. Don’t touch it. Until someone comes up with reliable, legitimate, permanent hair removal. Just don’t touch it. Otherwise, you’re fixing for a Hundred Years’ War with your follicles that you’re not going to win. Trust me.

Do not wear white bottoms between the ages of eleven and eighteen. Because kids can be cruel. And it might take a little while to find your brand.

Don’t pierce your ears past the second hole. You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. When you pierce them, oh, say, six times in each ear, after a while you won’t want to clean or wear all the earrings or you might get a job upon which being a human colander’s not regarded favorably. And you’ll be left with ten holes in your head that do nothing but collect conditioner and need to be ‘drained’ every so often. Disgusting, right? Don’t do it.

And some general advice for all my cherubs…

Listen. Like I didn’t, when your grandfather and uncle were yelling, at the top of their lungs, that summer when I was about ten, urging me not to drink out of that soda can they were smoking cigarettes around. Or when I insisted the car window was down, as I wound up to pitch a Hostess Pudding Pie your grandfather bought me because I didn’t like it.

Don’t lie to your parents. Like when I stumbled in, at seventeen, all liquored up and in three-inch heels, at 2am, covered in hickies, swearing I wasn’t drunk. Or when I returned from the club, downtown, where they begged me not to take the car, with a missing driver’s side window and no glass in sight.  Don’t bother. We’ve seen too much.

Don’t spend your entire school vacation trying to beat Super Mario Brothers. Your ass will hurt and you will only get to World Eight.

Don’t drink ANYTHING that is served from a vial. It may look interesting at the time, everyone else may be doing it, but resist the urge. Unless you’re okay with puking up Fukushima Green all night. Your call.

Discuss your decisions with SOMEONE. We don’t care who. It may keep you from making costly mistakes like arbitrarily picking a Catholic liberal-arts college based on the inches of snow the area averages each year. Or cheating on all of your AP European History exams because your teacher was fabled to have no peripheral vision. Or giving yourself a hip-hop nickname.

Don’t take a part-time job at a fast food place. Ever. The uniforms are really uncomfortable, you’ll consistently burn the trademark ‘golden’ fries, and you might, just might, send an entire tray of food careening down a flight of stairs while a truck driver is trying to deliver food and supplies to the store. Listen, we weren’t blessed with grace, and in such a situation, it’s probably best to avoid vats of boiling oil and machines with moving parts.

Never hang around with anyone named Vinny, whose opening line is, “Do you like to party?” Under any circumstance. Because we’ll kill all of you and confiscate the liquor.

Pay attention. Your father and I sometimes get lost in our own thoughts. Or books. Or other types of compelling media. Please, please, please, pay attention to what’s around you, so you don’t walk straight into the ass of a police horse on your way to catch the city bus. Yes, really.

Taco Bell

If anyone utters the words ‘karaoke’, ‘body shots’, ‘Taco Bell’, or ‘line dancing’, or any combination thereof, steer clear. Really. There’ll be so much less to regret later on.

Of course, this list is not exhaustive. And we’ve got years to come up with new ones. Hopefully none of you will be as thickheaded as I was, but since you’re my kids, chances are you will. So, good luck, and Godspeed. And, don’t worry. We’ll be right here to say, “I told you so.” In fact, we might just be looking forward to it…

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Prestige

I got into one of those conversations the other day. You know, the one where you’re backed into a corner, forced to sputter through all your earthly accomplishments at the behest of a stranger, acquaintance, or someone you will most likely never see or speak to again?

The conversation where you reluctantly end up explaining how your student loans were approaching the size of Kilimanjaro and you had no choice but to transfer to the state school?

Yeah, that one.

I grew up, well, economically challenged. My family lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the city, with no shower and no cable. Our downstairs neighbors were an endless parade of what appeared to be failed social experiments – roommates who were sleeping with the same guy, a petite woman who wore a curly brown wig, and her wiry husband who drank Red, White, and Blue beer in his van every night until he passed out, a tiny Dominican man, his very large wife, and their four children, and a couple from the South who I’m pretty sure had cockroaches.

For all intents and purposes, life was okay. I very rarely had brand-name clothes unless I lodged a hunger strike for them, and when I got my license, I drove a red Tercel with a bent frame.

Despite all this glamour, I was lucky enough to attend magnet schools with the most diverse, intelligent, and grounded individuals I have ever known or will again. This is what saved me, fed my brain, exposed me to the beauty of this world, and gave me the foundation I needed to move forward.

Now back to that conversation. There’s nothing less poetic than running down a list of accolades, abbreviations, and affiliations. You see, as banal and pretentious as it sounds, it’s also self-aggrandizing. Such declarations are important to people dazzled by names and reputations, sequins and glitter, and have little cognitive space for anything else.

Pained and frustrated, I answered the questions anyway. I am often inspired to talk about my three semesters abroad, how I read Chaucer on the banks of the Seine, or my biannual trips to Vail. I am tempted to wistfully recall Holly, my Palomino, and all the sun-drenched mornings we spent brushing her mane in preparation for our riding exhibitions. I resist the urge to playfully recount the time Ursula, our well-meaning but butterfingered maid, spilled Beluga caviar all over my Dior dress.

Instead, I tell the truth.

The response?

“Oh. You got your Bachelor’s and your Master’s there?”

Yes, sir. I surely did. And if I eat all my porridge, they’re gonna let me have seconds!

I live in a place where old money, new money, and no money occupy the same 1214 square miles, where the opulence of gilded-age mansions rolls smoothly into subsidized housing, where historic homes intersect the church that feeds the homeless at five every night.

I went to school in the city and graduated from a state college, not once, but *gasp* twice. And I’m literate to boot.

So I learned and grew, in that apartment with the screaming, mint green radiators. And I took baths instead of showers. And I transferred out of the college with the stellar reputation, despite my 3.67 GPA, because my student loans were approaching the cost of a three-bedroom house. And I traveled between school and part-time jobs in cars with no heat, in cars that leaked oil, in whatever would run. And I worked really hard. And I succeeded.

And that’s all you need to know.

So put that in your pipe and smoke it. I’ll even call Jeeves over to light it for you.

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A Few Reasons I Don’t Really Miss College

As I was driving my children to my parents’ house yesterday, I noticed on the highway a compact car, five deep with Brown freshmen. It was obvious because he had a giant “BROWN” sticker on the back window, out-of-state plates, and each of the occupants had fresh pimples. Plus, the driver had no idea where he was going.

For a split second, I thought, “Oh, wow! To be back in college…”

And then I thought about it a little further…

I don’t know about you, but this is how college went for me:

Oldsmobile Delta 88 photographed in Montreal, ...

This wasn't THE Ghetto Glider. But very close.

I drove a jalopy. Or a hooptie. Ah, hell, does it matter? Actually, a few. The first was a 1986 Toyota Supra with retractable headlights (that refused to retract), a black body with a gray (primer) hood, no heat, and a passenger side door that only opened from the inside. I upgraded, my third year, to an 1987 Oldsmobile Delta 88. The Ghetto Glider, an old boyfriend coined it. When your car has a name (or title, as it were), you know you’ve got a winner.

This car was huge, steel, had rear-wheel drive (which meant that if the road was slippery, you weren’t going to be able to stop, so you should probably just start praying), and it got precisely 5 miles to the gallon. Good thing, though, was that you could take all of your friends out at once.

I had NO MONEY. None of us did. I remember one evening (and by evening I mean 2:30am), my suitemates and I wanted pizza. We called for delivery, and paid completely in change. Coins. In baggies. This was after we spent an hour sitting on the floor counting up all the change to make sure we even had enough.

I did stupid, stupid things. Rather, WE did stupid, stupid things. Like handcuffing my friend’s girlfriend to the railing outside the dorm and leaving her there to stew for a bit. And wrapping my suitemate completely up in toilet paper, like a mummy, and sending her down the elevator. And putting masks on and running around, banging on the ground floor windows, scaring the bejesus out of people. And ‘borrowing’ lunch trays from the dining hall to use them as sleds. And launching pumpkins out third floor windows. And this all happened sober.

It was also my genius to put up a Titanic poster in our bathroom, right above the toilet. Clever, right?

I did EVERYTHING at odd times. Showering, eating, studying, sleeping, socializing. I remember sleeping solidly until eleven or noon every day. Why? Because my earliest class was 2pm. That’s how you do it. And why were we always compelled to go out at 1 or 2 in the morning? The only places we could go were the 24-hour supermarket and the 24-hour pharmacy. And that’s exactly what we did. But we couldn’t buy anything, of course, because we didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

The food SUCKED. You know what I ate for dinner for about a year? Mashed potatoes and baklava. So nutritious!

And speaking of the food, Illness. One of the many joys of community living. I’m pretty sure I had the Plague twice.

Fire Alarms. Because there was always some clown who thought pulling the fire alarm at 3:30am in below freezing weather would be a riot. And subsequently sitting in someone’s car (you know, one with heat) for the next hour while the building was being cleared.

Roommates. What can I say that hasn’t been said before? And what can I say that won’t get back to them, really? And I was no picnic, either. How ’bout we just leave this one be?

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Lots of characters. Like the guy who sat on the grassy knoll, broodingly strumming his guitar, trying to get some female attention with his silky smooth lyrics and his cocked brow. Or the guy who was always drunk. Or Mayor McCheese, who wanted YOUR vote for student council. Or the bunch of people always compelled to belt show tunes in common areas. I’m good. Really.

By the time I’d arrived at my parents’ house, I decided that, no, in fact, I wasn’t feeling so reminiscent after all. My car passes inspection, I sleep, snugly, in my own bed at night (yeah, even though I’m still up at 3 am. It’s not by choice), and I’ve garnered enough cooking skill not to have to subsist on ramen and granola bars.

Plus, at home, I don’t have to wear flip-flops in the shower. Think I’d rather just stay put.

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