Zoë Stagg

Not just that Sandra Bullock movie, it’s a crisis kids, a full-blown, hyphenate-the-adjective crisis:

THERE IS NO INTERNET ANYWHERE.

Not at the barracks, not at the DFAC, nowhere. I keep wandering up to people and asking if Bill Clinton is going to win a second term, that’s how 1996 it feels. Now how will the world see the neato picture of a butterfly I took? Or know about the very serious campaign I’m waging to be Foursquare Mayor of Chow?

HOW?!

Oh.

(Though honestly, can we get Sandy on this? Woman can not blog by phone alone…)

My undergrad school is #1!

Or rather, it’s apparently the #1 college not worth the tuition. This slideshow pegs Willamette University at a cost of $197,100 with a 30-year return on the investment of $153,000.

Did we know Camp WU was expensive as all get out when we were there? Yes. Did Scotty stand next to the graduation stage handing us receipts he’d written up to go with our diplomas, figuring they told a more accurate story? Yes. (I still have it, tucked behind the diploma in its frame)

But hey guess what they taught at WU, in between shredding $1,000 bills? Use original sources. If you click through the slideshow, a gimmick created by the internet to tell a sensational listicle story in the most impressions possible, you find the article the ranking is based on, which begins thusly:

Caveat Emptor [Look! Big Latin! Bet It Means Something!]

In education, as in just about everything else, high price is considered a hallmark of quality, and in many ways it is: If you pay more, you get smaller classes, better teachers, a more prestigious pedigree, and fancier digs. But does high price translate into a lifetime of earning power for college graduates? Not always.

So. I guess in a world where how much you make is more important than what or who or how much you know, sure. Not worth it. But in a world where the contents of your brain are worth more than the contents of your wallet? Well, I’m sure Aristotle could have hit the nearest Phoenix University, put the idea of writing On Rhetoric on hold to make a zillion dollars selling togas on eBay and we’d all somehow be better off.

Look. A liberal arts education is not a vocational school. It’s based on the idea that the more your mind is stretched to learn a variety of things, the better your toolbag is to do anything. Does that always translate into a very specific high-paying niche-gig? No. Does it mean that you’ve been exposed to the world enough to see value in “going into social work, education, environmental activism,” (from a fiery facebook thread about this story yesterday, a list to which I would add, the military) Heck yes.

I paid for Willamette in late 90s dollars, but I would buy it all over again today. Because it’s worth it.

And oh yeah. The big Latin does mean something: Buyer Beware. Apply it to an Internet near you.

Sorry, but in the contest “More Before Oh-Early a.m.,” Army vs. Farm, Farm wins.

More. Way more.

(As such, the flag went up late today — though! I did hum Reveille while I put it up, just to make it legit.)

Perhaps it’s weird, but I sort of associate people who pass on close together to be in the same “graduating class.” Though maybe no weirder than being told that we “store our grief in our large intestines.” Huh. Because I was pretty sure we store other stuff there already.

But if there’s good news to be told about this week at all, it’s that I finally found an acceptable application for Comic Sans.

Retirement home menu. See? Monte Cristo Sandwich and Carrot Raisin Salad would just look funny rendered any other way.

Though the circumstances that led me to have this conversation are…ones I wish didn’t exist, it’s a story he would get a kick out of more than anyone. Anyone.

Scene. Plane. Back. Me and two kids who don’t belong to me, all in a row.

She: (Nine. Looking at the in-flight menu. To her brother.) I want to ask her what Bloody Mary mix is.
Me: (Bored, eaves dropping, hobbies also include Badly Influencing* America’s Youth.) It’s spicy tomato juice. You put vodka in it and naughty adults drink it for breakfast.
She: What’s vodka?
Me: Alcohol.
She: Why is Bloody Mary mix in the Non-Alcoholic drink section?
Me: Because you have to mix it together. Celery works well for that.
She: Oh. Weird. I don’t really like tomatoes.
Me: Yeah. It’s not really about the tomatoes so much.
She: Where do you live?
Me: Right now I live at Ft. Meade. I’m in the Army.
She: (Pause, huge disbelieving scrunchy face.) Are you a nurse?
Me: Nope. I’m a journalist. (I hand her the dog tags out of my purse to inspect.) So. Are you into Miley Cyrus?
She: Yeah, but more when she’s Hannah Montana.
Me: So there IS a difference. What is it?
She: When she’s a rock star, it’s like she’s an avatar for a normal girl.
Me: Oh wow. That makes SO much sense. Well then. I think we’ve all taught each other some very important lessons today.

*Not it.

**The TEST to see if you’re parenting material or profesh bad influence? Imagine going to Sea World, dumping a bucket of food-fishie-chunks on the ground and telling the kids, “OH NO! Shamu exploded! Quick, if we put all the pieces back together fast enough, he might live!” Answered Mostly: Smirking a tiny bit? Baaaad Influence.

Because when you think about it, it’s really the little things you remember most…

The beginning of every single phone call ever:
Frank Thomsen here.
Frank Thomsen, this is Zoë Stagg.
Well, Zoë! How the heck are you?
How are YOU?
OUTstanding.

He taught me to ride a bike, a process that took almost the entire summer. Training wheels off, then on, then off until finally I could ride the lavender banana-seater with rainbow accents and streamers up and down the sidewalk in front of the house.

Meeting him for lunch at the club after he’d played 18 holes, and sitting at the table perched on the dividing line between the lounge and the dining room so I could skirt the “no shorts” rule while having my Shirley Temple and Rainbow Sherbet fruit plate.

My Grandpa Had Cognac With Eisenhower. from Zoe Stagg on Vimeo.

The only time he ever, ever expressed the slightest annoyance at me? When I spilled an entire bottle of calamine lotion on his white carpet and he had to get the stain-treatment wheel of magic out to fix it. (Even then, I suspect the annoyance was more that he was going to catch hell if he didn’t get it fixed, than that I’d actually done it.)

He showed me how to make snap dragons “talk.”

He never, ever asked why, no matter the request. “I need six pieces of doweling cut so I can make a baton twirling group.” “I need to paint all your decorative rocks so I can sell them to your neighbors.” “I need my name written on the back of the director’s chair on the patio so I can feel like a star.” He just did it. Happily.

He has forever ruined any man’s chances of being considered “patient” or a “good shopper.” He stood at the mall for hours, no book, no means of occupying himself, not a word in complaint. When we’d reappear he’d take our bags and say, “Now where to?”

The smell of pipe tobacco.

Hours and hours spent playing Aggravation, gin rummy, and cribbage. I bet I was the only nine-year-old girl who could count “15 one, 15 two, and a pair…”

The response to someone stepping on his foot?
“That’s okay, I walk on ‘em too. Just the other side.”

Outstanding.

While we’re addressing Complex Philosophical Questions of the Day™, um, are we quite sure that as a populace we’ve come to terms with, and understand the truth that THESE ARE THE SAME PERSON. One of whom, is a MADE UP CHARACTER. 

I worry for us.