Em-Tee: A Bit About My Home State

When I was little I always wanted to be a writer. Be the one to hold the story in the palm of my imagination and marionette it to a literary victory. Then I discovered that perhaps the best way to learn to be a writer is to have an Interesting Life(TM). You know, have something to write about. So then I put writing aside and set out to have the very most earnestly interesting life as possible. I marched right up to Life, banged on its door, and brazenly announced my intention to have a keen look around. Would it be so kind as to show me the plumbing, please? I did so need a good understand of how to move fresh water in and the results of bowel movements out. And I have been so fortunate as to have many, many relationships that required a lot of flushing. If I hadn’t been so eager, at the age of eight, to have an Interesting Life so that I’d have something to write about, I probably would have been content to simply learn to, you know, actually write.

The Chinese have a curse about an interesting life. As in, may you have one because interesting lives aren’t all that comfortable to live in.

And then I walk around in my life, trying to interact with friends and acquaintances as though they are characters in my stories; trying to twine my fingers about their motivations. Doesn’t make for such a lovely lunch, let me tell you. People don’t like being under a microscope. I think it’s also that people don’t like being evaluated. I do mean evaluated; I think I evaluate my friends for their suitability as characters all the time. This evaluation is somewhat stressful for them, however. I suppose I must try harder to exude enthusiastic approval of them as persons if I am to keep up a below-the-covers analysis of their ability to play a plot piece. I am not subtle, however, so this is not an easy task!

Along the way

So interesting to remember Montana. Growing up there was both a lesson in loneliness and desolation as well as a close-up view of the brilliancy of what it is to be human. Compassionate, wonderful people, awful weather, and a culture that punished weakness harshly. I grew up in Montana in an in-between time, before the dot-com boom and California real estate money turned it into a trophy town, divided sharply between the haves and have-nots; and after the time of O’Toole, Rankin, and Mansfield, whose careers were carved out by populism, progressivism, and activism.

Activism has returned to Montana, in the form of nearly epidemic environmentalism. But populism and progressivism have, in large measure, given way to neo-conservatism. Progressivism in the community was such a brief, shining moment for Montana; rugged individualism drips like honey from the very word “Montana,” and around the corner was the bracing and yet unforgiving movement of neo-conservatism. (How many other states have an SUV named after them, trying to capitalize on that rugged, self-made feeling?) Progressivism had such a short time to thread itself into the culture; Montana could hardly be expected not to slingshot back to its roots. It was, after all, a state based on resource extraction and a nearly religious belief in property rights and fiefdoms.

But growing up then was certainly interesting. So much talent, with no place to use it up, pushed many a talented actor, musician, artist, even journalist out into the world with a huge sense of purpose. I suppose boredom might have been the cause, but I suspect it was simply the knowledge that somewhere else, someone else was doing something meaningful and transformative. Sitting at home watching the snow drift up was frustrating. Of course, a mere ten years later, a young man from a small town in Montana would publish a children’s story ("Eragon") that would become incredibly popular, and he and his homeschooled siblings would then live a life of dreams: money taken care of, they could fish and ski and hike and bake cookies, with the outside world dropping coins in their piggy banks for the pleasure of a few pages from his imagination. Brilliant. But, alas, many of us didn’t think of that, and thus ventured out into the world, mostly into upright colleges, bound and determined that we country bumpkins would show those city folks a thing or two about how smart we were. Funny thing was, the city people never said we weren’t. They just didn’t know much about us. A little group of well-educated kids from the middle of Montana with nothing to do but better ourselves was entirely welcome; it was we who made it a contest. There are law school graduates to this day who still get their chuckles out of describing how they bested some Ivy League stuffed shirt. But the only one thinking that’s funny is the law grad, who, deep down, is still afraid that being a Montanan requires proving something about competence.

To me, it’s never been about competence. Montanans are highly competent. What they lack is grace and humanity.

Noblesse oblige sort of missed Montana. The robber barons were at their best in that state, ripping resources from the earth and giving as little as possible in return. Even human capital was sacrificed, as poor Irish toiled away in the mines until their lungs filled with coal and their souls with unspoken bitterness of indentured servitude. Their too-proud, too-loud railing to the contrary, these families were in the grip of the robber barons as much as any Southern slave.

And yet, so many of us who were raised on a hybrid of strong self-determination and copper mine exploitation ended up with cases of terminal noblesse oblige. Many businessowners are now, I think, even more socially conscious than in other states, perhaps because for them the grief is still too near. They remember swimming in water that we later found out was dangerously contaminated with heavy metals, with no warning signs posted. You literally could die from ignorance. This seems to have given the population more of a sense of community, of responsibility to one another. Or at least the sense that no individual can escape culpability. If you can do something, shouldn't you? These big questions are thrust into focus in small, everyday ways it becomes hard to ignore. Should you tell the vacationers from out of state that the creek they are playing in has very dangerous levels of mercury, lead, and cadmium? That one isn't so hard. The next ones follow even more easily.

But in general, life is more laid-back there; you won't find many spike heels tripping around the malls.

The turmoil of an unhealthy social system rammed up against a harsh and achingly beautiful land came to the forefront quickly there. I like to think this is still bearing fruit.

I haven't been back in years, now. I was back for a few days a couple of years ago, but I haven't been there for any real length of time in a while. I still find the slow pace of life stifling, and find I prefer more urban communities. But there is a magnificence there. There are natural temples, far greater than any man-made, interacting with you nearly every time you step, or look, outside. Having mountains and rivers in front of you everywhere is something you can't help but internalize. Every once in a while I run into the enormity of its natural beauty. I often can't believe it was once Home... I do not remember that Home was ever that beautiful.

Stock Options: Father of Bridezilla

I was reading a Miss Manners column the other day in which a gentle reader wrote to tell Miss Manners that his fiancee’s brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law announced their engagement 18 months in advance. The bride-to-be turned the color of something red when told that her brother’s sister and fiancé also planned to be married within a few months, the summer before her own wedding. She stormed and informed them it was “her summer,” demanding they rescind the ceremony and, presumably, wait until her “perfect day” had had its 18 months in the sun. Miss Manners, appropriately, lit into the subject of modern weddings becoming a grand excuse for egomania and, unfortunately, the “perfect day”, turning the planners into control freaks as they attempt to create an old-fashioned fairy tale on the modern front lawn.

The frightening thing was that not only was I not surprised, but I chuckled and remembered just such an experience in orbiting the egomaniac on her “perfect day”. It had been absolute hell. Miss Manners claims that getting married is not an excuse to trod all over other people, but this trend seems to be rapidly changing. I attribute it to the increase of general egomania and the rise of the yuppie.

Now, it’s admittedly difficult to get on too big a high horse, being sorta close to being a yuppie myself. We just bought our first house and have a subscription to the opera. We do not, however, own an espresso machine. I pray to the Wedding Gift Gods not to give me one, so that I have one solid reason to plant me in the non-yuppie camp. (Our recent house purchase, however, netted me another one: I now own a freezer, complete with meat older than my Debbie Gibson cassettes.) Back to the point. The 90’s gave rise to a huge class of yuppies, fresh out of college/grad school and into high-paying jobs with stock options. Remember the VP of Juno, who dated (and allegedly punched in the stomach) a colleague, and then fired her? The 24-year-old VP was saddled with a sexual harassment lawsuit, and the business world collectively hung its well-educated heads.

The point here is that with an entire class of young professionals out there who were making big bucks straight out of school, the “upwardly mobile” part of yuppie began to take on frightening heights. Just how high could this go? We found out that Earth still does have a gravity policy, as many dot-coms crashed, nine eleven happened, and the barely post-pubescent crowd stopped skidding into executive offices at the speed of light. How did this all begin? Good question. Some believe that Bill Gates’ Geekiest Generation started it.

The geeks took over, and I for one was not totally unhappy to see that day, being taunted by wealthier and somewhat snobby cousins about being a “nerd” in my younger days. However, the point remains that geeks are not well-known for their ties to society and willingess to lead in its well-being.

Still, how did we get from the rise of the geek to totally self-absorbed new money? It seems to me that we’re really just enduring the rise of a different sort of gentry. It happened in the South; plenty of carpetbagger wives with new money went nuts, and the old South shook its head in embarrassment. But this is a new sort of gentry; one that has the opportunity of education and the motivation to use same to go out and make boatloads of money, which become power and influence in this country. And of course, the main difference is that we really are getting closer and closer to a meritocracy. At least, a meritocracy culled from the privileged, educated elite who can take advantage of market forces ahead of time. Is that so bad? Not especially. But I don’t expect my friends to stop going Bridezilla anytime soon.

Intro to Some Fiction

I have decided that my virgin collection and emotional cauterization are all fodder for a book. If I can ever get enough sleep to have an imagination. I think mine left for the Bahamas. Along with my biceps. I think my imagination and my biceps are having a keen time poolside. They've ditched my thighs; left them here with me. Probably figured they’d be a drag at the swim-up bar. Assholes.

So here’s a go at some fiction………………

What is there about googling old schoolmates that makes a person feel semi-incompetent and yet highly motivated at the same time? One girl is a high-powered environmental lawyer in the Bay Area, after having gone to study law at the We Only Let Five People in Each Year and It Will Never Be Mere Mortals Like You University. Yet another won a Rhodes Scholarship to study Afghanistani parasites and spends her weekends counseling former garment workers on how to sue the pants off the evil corporations who drove them into sexual slavery. Yep. Somehow, I am motivated to totter off to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

Except that my tottering is a result of pregnancy, which means I can’t have any wine. Blast those overachievers anyway. I hope they have shallow relationships, bad sex lives, and… and… and have acne, all because they are so career-oriented.

What’s wrong with me? Why do I have any bitterness towards these people? It’s ridiculous. I shared classes with these people, earned similar grades and was (am?) of similar intellectual capability. So why do I begrudge them the choices they made? Does it have anything to do with the fact that they can now afford the car I want, can fit into pants I can’t, and can probably even eat Oreos without justifying it by scraping most of the mayo off the turkey sandwich preceding it? Well, not really, I guess. I mean, they could always eat what they wanted. The fact that they now wield so much buying power that seems out of reach for me might be hard, but really, I don’t think it’s that.

I think the fact that I took my first two years of college to bootstrap myself out of my parents’ divorce – all while denying it was affecting me, of course – and then spent my final year, while I was supposed to be working on my thesis, babysitting a dangerously depressed boyfriend really shot in the ass my chances of ever being named a Rhodes scholar. And I'm bitter at anyone who didn't fire a shotgut into their own behind, I suppose. (Snort. In their defense I suppose when your tush is that small, it's difficult to aim. Grunt.)

But let’s face it: I did it all to myself. Did I make my parents get divorced? No, of course not. But getting over it and (not) dealing with it, that was something I did (not do) all on my own.

I guess I wish I’d done better. Or wish I could go back and actually perform at the level I expected of myself, and that everyone else expected of me, too. Well, actually, had I done that, I wouldn’t have been in the right place at the right time to meet my husband. And I certainly wouldn’t ever take that back.

So I guess I’ll try not to be too bitter as these women conquer the outside world. I’ll be content with having conquered my inner world (for the time being). I’ll munch my Oreos, piously and piteously justifying it with mayo deprivation, and be thrilled about my beautiful family and wonderful, if dull, life.

Hey, and let's give that book a shot, shall we? I've always wanted to do it, ever since I was very, very small. At some point, someone I respected told me to go Have An Interesting Life, so that I'd have something to write about. Now that I can conceive of my life as dull, I see what a curse that person really laid on me. I'll see if I can remember the Interesting Times enough to share them.

Fiction 2

My first story paid in the high two figures. At first I thought, sure, two figures plus a comma and some zeroes, and that starts to look really attractive. Heck, I could give up my day job for pay like that. Blink blink. Reality check: there were no commas involved. Nor were any enthusiastic zeros rushing to join the party. There were exactly two, and no more than two, digits. As in, less than one hundred dollars. Less than $100, viewed slightly differently. My spine slumped a little; I was suddenly depressed. I could purchase two shirts at the Gap, take-out for myself and my boyfriend for one night, and one of those bargain-basement sets of spoons at the Bon Marche. I could see them tinting a cheerful blue at the bottom of a dingy barrel in the basement of an active department store. I shuddered, thinking of myself pulling out that package of silverware as four hundred hosed and heeled women tripped along smartly above me, searching for $300 suits.

Why, exactly, had I bothered with a high-priced private education? I reminded myself that my degree had been in Economics, and I had escaped barely a semester from having a second degree in Foreign Lanugages. Ah, perhaps that was the ticket, then. One needed to major in English! But wait; they were all poor, too; living in small apartments and making their own craft furniture while hunting out jobs in the 2003-Tax-Cuts-But-No-Jobs recovery. I suppose that if you had a job, which many did not, then the tax cuts would come in handy. But it’s hard to see how tax cuts will help you when you’re not earning any of the money of which they’re designed to help you keep more.

Fiction 1

Cadence stretched her legs out in front of her. She liked to do that; remind herself of her nice legs, a clear characteristic of attractiveness to the opposite sex. It seemed to take care of a small but latent tendency toward fierce competition with every other woman in the immediate vicinity. Clarisse wondered what would happen if those legs ever became unattractive. She suspected it would be taken out on every other woman in the room. Visions of Cadence’s fingernails ripping through stylish, shiny girlskin as she sliced right through the competition at top speed danced in her head. Something about the girl was primal. Something stirred in Clarisse at that, too. Primal was sexy, even in another girl.

“So you wouldn’t want to date an older man?” Cadence was asking, gazing at her sexy gams for comfort. Clarisse bit a fingernail. She wasn’t totally oblivious to the fact that she was serving as audience for Cadence’s exhibitionism, but it wasn’t obvious enough… she was just vaguely uncomfortable.

“No,” she said slowly, “I’d rather love someone I could grow old with.”

Cadence’s laugh was tinny instead of tinkly in her ears; somehow irritating.

“But you could grow old with an older man,” she said merrily. “He would just grow old faster.”

Clarisse shifted in her seat, unsure of whether the two of them were watching the same movie in the same theater. She suspected the movie was similar enough, but the seating arrangement might make discussion of the plot too difficult. Still, she would try.

“No, I’d rather have a man I could grow old with,” she repeated steadily, “than one I have to follow into old age at the end of a leash.” Cadence’s tinny laugh rang on an increasingly toughening ear. Then she sat up, ceased her self-admiration, and looked Clarisse straight in the eye. When Cadence actually paid attention to you, it was like a laser suddenly turning on, her fierce eyes boring right in. Clarisse sat back, unnerved. Cadence’s eyes half closed.

“I suppose it would depend on which end of the leash you had,” Cadence mused. Clarisse chewed a grass stem.

“I don’t think so,” Clarisse said finally. “Wearing it or holding it, you’re still attached to a leash.”

“But what if you’re holding him back, telling him to heel, and not fall into old age?” Cadence asked with a half smile. Clarisse had the unnerving feeling she was being toyed with by a wolf - restrained, but bloodthirsty. She shrugged.

“Or he’s running ahead, yanking me along into geriatricland with him.” Clarisse said mildly. “The distance between us means that one of us is always disconnected from the other, and pulling us together is always pulling someone off balance.” She chewed absently. “I want a partner, not a pet.”

Cadence raised an eyebrow. “What if you’re wearing the leash, then?” She asked in an amused voice.

“I don’t want to wear a leash.” Clarisse said simply. “Do you?”

Cadence seemed to think it over. Finally she started chewing grass, too, and silence reigned.

“It’s a matter of perspective,” she said slowly. “Suppose you’re standing in a beautiful park. You’ve got the finest ponds, beautiful scenery, a gorgeous place to live. No worries about enough to eat or cold weather.” She paused. “Now suppose that you can only be in that beautiful park if you’re older and accomplished, or with someone who is.” She chewed the grass thoughtfully. “The difference between total freedom and a long leash isn’t so bad, and when the alternative is finding a different park, it becomes obvious.”

Clarisse was halfway horrified. “So you’ll take a leash over freedom?”

“No,” said Cadence slowly. “I’m saying that perhaps I don’t mind a long leash. There are many things to be learned with a lot of free time and independence. It’s not just the park,” she said as Clarisse’s emotions crept through to her face, “it’s the kind of relationship. Perhaps I’d rather have my independence; a partner not tied too closely. And an older partner.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "One who is already refined, already civilized."

Clarisse considered. “So,” she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, “you enjoy the leash?”

Cadence laughed suddenly, too merrily. “Oh, what are we even talking about? Leashes and parks. As if we were dogs or something. Let’s get in the pond, shall we?” Cadence got to her feet and started toward the pond.

Hurricane Espresso

I was reading about Hurricane Ernesto and thought I saw Hurricane "Espresso." Somehow, this made me giggle.

I think it made me giggle because the reality of our modern life is that unless you are in the middle of Hurricane Ernesto yourself, you're probably in the middle of Hurricane Espresso. That's the one taking place at Starbuck's or Coffee People... about eight women in designer jeans and expensive haircuts, phones glued to their ears, chattering away about business -- or pleasure -- in near-total oblivion to what is going on around them.

Now, I've seen "The Devil Wears Prada," and you have to admit that the heroine of the story has a point: pretending you don't care about what other people think is self-delusional, because very often it really does matter in your life. And not in some insignificant way, but in job opportunities, at social functions, and in the many other ways that people slide together, or past each other, in the great game of Life.

Having grown up in Montana, I can tell you that in that time and place, wearing what the Devil's Personal Assistant wore in the movie would have not only made you a laughingstock, but you'd have frozen to death besides. It's really not a guffaw-worthy thing.. it may seem like most of us look at crunchy, out-of-touch Montanans on the one hand and call them backwards hicks, yet we are secretly glad to see those hangers-on who sport the very latest (if laughable) fashion trends get a come-uppance. Yes, we think, we are blissfully in the middle, purchasing reasonable yet mainstream items, fitting in (unlike those trail-stomping Montanans) yet not selling our souls to do it (like those lacquered Auschwitz victims in the Big Apple). No, Vogue magazine may projectile vomit the stuff into the grocery aisle we're standing in, but we make far more conservative choices. And that, my dears, is where both the New Yorkers and the Montanans have it all over us.

New Yorkers might lack warmth, and their veins might have been starved into nonaction so many years ago that blood doesn't actually flow through them anymore, but in general these folks are smart, hardworking, high-energy, and not afraid to look stupid to corn-chewers from Middle America. Truth to be told, most of 'em are corn-chewers, and prefer that you not remind them of it. In any case, their greatest collective strength seems to be a penchant for creativity and self-determination. If they are fashion disasters, at least they determined that on their own.

Montanans, too, might be a bit gee-whiz, and are certainly more thin-skinned than anybody I've ever met in the cities, but in general these folks are smart, hardworking, generous, and warm. Nor are they afraid to look stupid to city people who sail in with yachtfuls of money. Whatever they might say to their rich clients, most Montanans have found a way to creatively earn a living in a desolate economy, and have come to terms with life in their own way.

In short, smart, hardworking, creative individuals exist in these two extremes in ways those of us who live relatively safer lives can't quite put our suburban fingers on. New Yorkers, for instance, take a big gamble that hard work will eventually allow them to live in something larger than a postage stamp. Montanans, by a strikingly similar design, must usually rely heavily on themselves in order to earn a decent living, because competition for high-paying jobs is fierce. So if you can't be the very best lawyer in town, you have to be creative.

I'm going through all this because I think these two sorts of people end up butting heads in much the same way as two matriarchs do: two Alpha females fighting to establish dominance. The only difference is the territory involved.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. Hurricane Espresso. So, I stand in line at Starbuck's, in the midst of five other women. Several have on designer jeans. One has steel-tipped high heels. And, this being Portland, Oregon, one has biking gear on. Three have phones strapped to their ears, one other is scoping her iPod for the latest episode of "Lost," and the last one is gazing out the window. I find myself wondering why it is that 20% of the world's business, 25% of its leisure, and at least 35% of its stress is experienced in the middle of this, the hippest coffee shop in the world. Businessmen have meetings here. Women escape from their offices here. And yes, some people actually do simply come in for the coffee. But at $4 a cup, I think there is definitely some serious signalling behavior going on here. As in, I signal to you that I am cool because I'm going to Starbuck's.

In fact, so very much of our modern life seems to be about signalling to others how cool, interesting, skinny, or suave we are. In a state of near-isolation, however. And I think creative, interesting people do it as much or more than anyone else. Like we're movie stars, caught up in our own movies. Just make sure a director catches us on the good side, and we're all good. That's the danger of being forward-thinking, creative, and individual: you can drive yourself right off the Cliffs of Idiocy all by yourself.

Spring Up?

I had a great conversation with a fellow economics major the other night. We were at the going-away party for my husband (and me, and our baby, but it being mostly his friends... well, you know), and this lady was another female econ matched with a male computer science grad. We talked for a bit about babies and time off and meetings and so on, because that's where we are in our lives. Kerry was very nice, very self-effacing. She's pretty accomplished; having earned her Master's in her field and then rising to a management role within her economic analysis firm.

We talked for quite a while about the dearth of people who graduate with degrees in econ who cannot write, cannot express themselves clearly, and above all, who cannot analyze. Yes, ANALYZE. That, as an economist, is your JOB. We talked about needing to break down an argument, needing to pick into details, and needing to structure an argument so that it makes sense. Now this may sound lofty, but this includes things like, "If you have a column of numbers that is supposed to add up to 100%, then let's make sure it actually adds up to that, okay?" She lamented the lack of analytical ability amongst some of her more junior colleagues, and I lamented my own circle of friends' total lack of interest in economics in general.

All that done, we both tore off to our respective husbands, sweet, gentle, loving computer nerds who would not even speak the word "statistics" in front of us. We hung off them, soaking up the kindness vibes for all we were worth. (Why are women who are susceptible to hard-charging careers also susceptible to extremely teddy-bearish men?) This works well, and explains a great deal about econ-computer science matches. (I know of three in my class alone, out of twelve, who married computer science grads. Go figure.)

In any case, I ended up thinking that my education in econ was a wonderful, delightful thing... and I'm actually rather glad I don't work in the field. Kerry spent some time encouraging me to go back to work in it if it interested me, and I found myself glazing over like so many donuts.

I'm glad I studied econ, and I'm glad I learned to tear apart and analyze the World In Which We Live. I mean, let's face it: you may not be interested in the business cycle, or in the bond market, but Economics folk can tell you that it impacts your daily life. Yes, your daily life. Why? Well, I better keep this short, but essentially, raising interest rates affects the job market (usually). The job market affects how much money you can ask for, whether you can work from home, etc. Tain't sexy, but paying attention to the bond market is a good idea if you're deciding how hard to push for that next raise.

Now, you don't actually have to pay attention to the bond market on a daily basis. But if you know what general trends are and how they work, you can think ahead. You can decide not to buy a house for about five months or so because certain super-spendy markets are actually sliding sideways and might actually fall... so you can get more house for less money, and spend that money on shoes. Or purses, or iPods, or whatever. You get the idea: these things matter to YOUR life. If you don't get the whole general trend thing, you can ask someone who does. This is why economists have jobs!

So I'm very pleased I studied this stuff... I feel quite empowered to take on just about anything, moneywise.. I might not know, but I can find out. (Granted, my relatives don't actually listen to what I say, and have occasionally lost boatloads -- well, perhaps small raftfuls -- of money because of it, but when I actually have the opportunity to influence decision-making, it goes well.) It's given me the ability to run my husband's business, understand tax consequences of purchasing, and do all the bookkeeping for about three years. And I now know that I hate it! Actually, I just hate all the tedious recordkeeping that is necessary in order to do the job well -- such as bookkeeping. Actual accounting is really quite interesting. Just as soon as I can afford a good, anal retentive clerk, I'll be in good shape.

What rocks: ah ha! I remember we bought two laptops last year. And those are dee-DUCK-tible! What sucks: now if I can just find those receipts. I know they're here somewhere. Darn it, here's Thomas the Tank Engine, and some blocks, but --- oh good. The receipt is covered in crayon.

And let's see, there was that horrible SUV we had to rent in order to move all those servers last year. Again, dee-DUCK-tible. But it was really awful... the backseat was about a mile from the front seat, which made it impossible to hand a bottle back to an unhappy 6-month old, and the center of gravity was higher than Indonesian inflation, which made every last gust wind a potential flipping hazard. Oh well, dee-DUCK-tible... now where is that blasted receipt? Oh, right, I forgot: after a half an hour of screaming at the top of his surprisingly well-developed lungs, my 6-month old got fed up with his lack of milk and vomited all over the place. That receipt has gone to the Great Paper Mill in the Sky. (I wonder if they smell as bad up there as they do down here?)

What this really all comes down to is a simple realization: having the knowledge and ability to treat some portion of the world in a scientific sense gives one the stability to leap off the infrastructure of the world and reach up into its more fulfilling places.

You could say, I suppose, that understanding how the bridge is put together better enables one to jump off it, but that's not really what is meant. It seems to me that once you 'get' How Things Work in some meaningful sense, in some field, over some period of time, the more likely you are to throw the whole thing in one morning, accept that there are some things you don't need to know, and just enjoy life. You could do it or make it or build it if you wanted to, but sometimes it's nice just to float in a relaxing bubble bath and let the world move on. Sometimes, the greater the depth of understanding, the lighter one can float.

Now, I know many people who don't do this.. they don't give it all up and just be a person for a while -- they just haven't made any effort to understand or think deeply. It's sometimes hard to tell the difference between people who've made the effort to understand their world, think critically, and make conscious choices about what they allow to fill their time and consciousness, and people who've never bothered. Easiest way to tell: take a movie that depicts the Civil War in all its incivility. People who nod knowingly and look slightly pained have already heard the stories, and know the reality. They just decide not to be weighed down by it. Then there are people who are genuinely surprised at the brutality their ancestors visited on one another.

After some thought, I have decided that I'd rather know, and have to let go of it to enjoy life, than not know. I might never be pained by it, but I don't think a full life is defined by lack of pain. If you're willing to let painful things pass through you, you can know without having knowledge weigh you down. It's when pain gets stuck in you that you can become.. broken, somehow.

So, I am glad I have the tools to deeply understand some things. And equally glad that I don't feel an addict-like compulsion to do it regularly.

Pruning the Neurons

Did you ever wonder if perhaps the whole neuron-pruning concept, intended to help parents figure out how to stimulate the heck out of little brains whilst their neurons were still winding their way to genius, was really a way of telling us parents that our lives were bloody well over?

Let me elaborate.

Certain research shows that the number of years of post-secondary education correlates directly with IQ and the decline of mental functioning. So if you can afford it, and your family won't abandon you for your incredible selfishness, just go to school for years! You'll stave off Alzheimer's, get a permanent email address, and be able to access reasonably affordable health insurance. Not a bad way to live, frankly.

However, supposing you can't afford to be a perpetual student, the fact remains that at some point, our brains stop being able to form new connections. So if you never took an art class, or a boxing class, at some point it will just be embarrassing for you to start. For instance, when I am trying to discuss money with baby boomers who have decided not to like discussing money, I find myself wondering if these otherwise intelligent, well-educated, and competent people simply can't grow that branch anymore. Their eyes glass up. They look like they'd rather be anywhere but here. (I really can't understand this perspective *at all*, I must say.. if you're interested in your life, why wouldn't you care that a simple decision can make the difference between working forever and retiring comfortably? I just don't understand why someone would willingly remain ignorant of the ability to control the direction of one's own life. But then I was an economics major and am a slave to decorators because I can't envision space usage to save my life.)

In any case, it is becoming more and more evident that part of the point of having children is to inculcate humility in parents at knifepoint. Yes, knifepoint. The same two-year-old child who says, "knife too sharp!" as he reaches for it; wants to look at his poop; and has trouble saying "bye-bye" to strangers because it is a tad scary will also put together blocks in ways I had never envisioned. He sees only what is delightful in other people... he points at some difficult people and says, "He go for nice walk!" These difficult people immediately become putty in his hands and will cheerfully go across town to pick him up a popsicle, while I seriously doubt I could convince them to pull me out of a burning car, even if I offered stock options. The two-year-old can do somersaults, hold his legs in positions my insurance will not let me even consider, and manages to find dirt a fascinating part of life. Which it is. Which brings me to my follow-up point...

I think perhaps a secondary point to having children is to prevent us from having pruned all but the most efficient and necessary branches from our brains. I no longer stride past the rosebushes, talking intently into my cellphone and forgetting they exist. Now we stop and smell them. I sometimes forget that dirt is cool, poop is kinda neat to look at, and there really is not anything more exciting than a big pool full of cold water on a hot day.

Possibly, their presence in our lives is intended to remind us that Life is most important. After all, when I consider what I want for him, it generally boils down to Getting the Most Out of Life. I am not sure at what point we all decide that Getting the Most involves meetings, performance reviews, and the Best Private School(TM), but I think little ones remind us that Getting the Most starts with Getting the Most Out of Yourself. And that it should be *fun*. Not awful, not always work. Fun is good.

Still, it is hard sometimes not to equate Getting the Most with Having the Most. Or even Doing the Most. My husband likes to say "You are not a human doing, you are a human being." But it is just so, so easy to forget that.

At what point did my value as a person become associated with my direct impact on GDP? I'm not sure. It seems to correlate in some messy, spaghetti-like fashion with my introduction to feminism, my early lessons in social responsibility and history, and of course the ever-present correlation between one's career and one's ability to buy better and better shoes.

Spanky New Bloggy Blog

Welcome! Golly gee, here's my new blog. I started it mostly because my husband thinks that my cellular requirement to put words together would be best used this way. Sigh. Perhaps he's tired of hearing my chatter. He's really attempting to help me actually get back to writing, which I've been meaning to do for a while, because that's the kind of loving and supportive husband I have.

In any case, welcome to my first entry. I must now run off and eat something before my fetus demands something hormonally ridiculous. (Oh, yes, I am seven months pregnant, and counting.) This pregnancy should be much easier than the last, which was one big exercise in expansion and contraction of the severest sort. I gained 60 pounds, lost 70, and then became pregnant again. But we're managing much better this time, the fetus and I. Not having a desk job certainly helps keep the fat away. Although the real reason, I am quite sure, is my lightening fast two-year-old. A marathon a day. :)