My first meme

This is courtesy of frog, whose blog I can't link to, but you can. Until now, I've never been intrigued by the meme concept (and the tell-it-to-me-tuesdays or thursdays) and the like. This one, however, contains questions that interest me, though I'm not sure what they reveal.

[Spell your first name backwards] ycnan
[The story behind your user name] I live in Wonderland, a city most of the country cannot imagine, except to visit.
[How old are you?] over 40
[Date of birth] 10/08
[Where do you live?] white brick postwar apartment building
[Occupation] paying? financial planning. for love, writing.
[4 words that sum you up] devoted friend, sardonic eccentric

Describe your....
[Wallet] European red leather
[Key holder] Sterling silver with initials
[Jewelry worn daily] gold bracelet, lapis lazuli ring; gold wire ring, diamond earrings -- all gifts
[Pillow cover] high-thread count, white Egyptian cotton
[Coffee cup] travel mug with college logo
[Shoes] summer sandals, winter loafers
[School bag] I’m not in school
[Favorite dress] one I have yet to own
[Cologne/Perfume] Jean Patou's "Joy." If I can't feel it, at least I can wear it.
[Piercing] 2 in right ear, 1 in left ear
[What you are wearing now] cotton flowered dress bought on the street
[Hair] brown
[Makeup] none
[in my mouth] iced coffee
[In My Head] another sleepy day, another day I haven't worked
[Wish] that I will start publishing again
[Eating Habit] a nutritionist's nightmare
[Some of your favorite movies] Holiday; The Best of Everything; The Big Chill
[Do you believe in love at first sight] not so much
[The last thing you ate?] chocolate souffle
[Do you believe in love] yes
[Do you believe in soul mates] yes
[Do you believe in forgiveness] yes
[Three cities you wouldn't mind relocating to?] Paris, and that is only the most remote possibility. I travel; I don't relocate.
[What are some of your favorite foods?] smoked salmon, coffee ice cream, grilled mozzarella sandwiches

Yes or No...
[you keep a diary] had diary, now a blog
[you have a secret you have not shared with anyone] yes
[you fold your underwear] Actually, the housekeeper does it.

YesLast...
[movie you bought] I have no idea.
[song you listened to] James Taylor's "Mexico"
[song that was stuck in your head] "The First Cut is the Deepest"
[song you've downloaded] I’ve never downloaded a song.
[CD you bought] No idea--I haven't bought one in ages.
[CD you listened to] Woodstock
[person you've called] my neurologist
[person who called you] Clover's Companion
[TV show you've watched] Crossing Jordan
[Thing you said] “Where are my cigarettes?"
[Black or White?] black
[Cats or Dogs?] dogs
[Tea or Coffee?] both
[Achiever or Slacker?] slacker
[Leader or Follower?] neither
[Beer or Cider?] cider
[Drinks or Shots?] drinks
[Single or Taken?] single
[Matches or a Lighter?] lighter
[Letters or Emails?] email
[Short hair or Long hair?] long

I want to...
[Go] to sleep
[Kill] Big Brother
[Hear from] The Croquet Player
[Meet] the love of my life
[Look like] I'm as thin as I was in college
[Avoid] pain
[Hug] my niece, Kayanna
[Kiss] TCP
[Loved somebody so much it makes you cry?] yes
[Drank alcohol?] some
[Done drugs?] yes
[Broken the law?] depends on who's asking
[Ran away from home?] no
[Broken a bone?] no
[Cheated on a test?] yes
[Played Truth Or Dare?] yes
[Flashed someone?] yes
[Mooned Someone?] no
[Kissed someone you didn’t know?] yes
[Been on a game show/talk show] no
[Been in a fight?] not physical
[Ridden in a fire truck?] no
[Been on a plane?] yes, and flown one
[Come close to dying?] yes
[Gave someone a piggy back/shoulder ride?] no
[Swam in the ocean?] yes
[Had a nightmare/dream that made you wake up?] yes
[Kissed someone of the same sex] yes

Relationships...
[Girlfriend/Boyfriend] Yes/Yes
[When and who was your 1st crush?]
Sixth grade. A boy named Steven.
[Your idea of a perfect date] anything with someone I love
[Name a moment that you thought was really sweet] Meeting my niece for the first time. A classmate sending me a postcard thanking me for working as 25th reunion co-chair.
[Your first kiss] (real kiss) can't remember who. I was 17.
[Do you have a crush] not at the moment

Are you a...[Vegetarian?] no
[Good Student?] have been
[Good Singer?] fair
[A good Actor/Actress?] fair
[A deep sleeper?] Yes, but also an insomniac.
[A Good Dancer?] yes
[Shy?] no
[Outgoing?] yes

Pink feather boas everywhere!

Three nights, 18 hours of sleep. Was it worth it? After all the angst and agita, YES!

We threw one kick-ass reunion -- the best ever (Alice says modestly). My reunion co-chairs and I each played to our strength -- mine, writing/editing, taste-testing caterers, and commandeering on-campus transport; my two friends gathered great swag, put together astounding evenings of dinner and dancing, exquisitely timed our music, drinks, and overall partying. It was a year's work, some of it seemingly without thanks until the Saturday evening toasts, but the payoff was grand. Our class, as they say, rocked.

The class of 1982 paraded behind a banner complete with hot pink sequins, black studded leather, pink mylar fringe, and all manner of textured exotic print fabrics. We wore our hats, our T-shirts, our pink feather boas, our temporary tattoos. No one looked better or more festive than we did.

Twenty-five years down the road, and we're still here -- mostly better, kinder, and happier than when we were handed our diplomas. No one acted awkward, even after encountering blush-making acquaintanceships from decades ago. A few, sadly, had grown affected: one in particular had acquired a British accent within the past 10 years, while every other American who lived in London spoke in tones I recognized, even our class's most (in)famous representative.

It was wonderful to connect with people I didn't know in college, to exchange confidences, wish we had known one another sooner. What artifice we once hid behind has disappeared, and I spent time with people who were far more real, thoughtful, and substantive than I could have imagined (or been) 25 years ago. We danced to the same music, less inhibited (if that is possible) than we were at a younger age. I am exceedingly grateful to have the opportunity to know these people, to share my life story with those I would be proud to call my friends.

A good time was had by all and then some. Not until yesterday morning did my body announce its age: too much dancing, too little sleep, too much to drink, many intense conversations of a length we rarely have the luxury to indulge -- none of us knows how we managed four years of it; after two nights, we were exhausted. When recapturing our youth, chronological age didn't stand a chance, except to catch us unaware when we awoke on Sunday.

Eight of us sat on a blanket in the quad where we once sunbathed on Friday night, watching fireworks from afar, confessing various exploits: one friend reminisced about how she had to rearrange her class schedule so that she didn't take classes from the professor with whom she was having an affair; another classmate recalled having sex in a phone booth in the center of town.

Swilling wine from a bottle, we agreed that what was said on that blanket will stay on that blanket. Though everyone conceded I won the prize for outrageousness: when I was 36, I slept with a woman half my age -- in a dorm on campus.

The Croquet Player and I had the rendez-vous I had anticipated, and he seemed not to mind wearing my lipstick kiss for a day. We did realize one difference between our college years and present day: two people of a certain age cannot sleep well on a single bed, particularly one whose mattress is charitably described as "hospital quality."

We were together the night before the reunion officially began -- given how the dormitory hallways echo, our timing was perfect. Yes, we regressed, but not completely. After 27 years we know everything about each other, and time will never erase that. Yes, he kept trying to shut me up in public, but I borrowed his cell phone overnight to tease and confuse him, returning it in exchange for favors I have yet to call in.

I was reminded that my ability to write is a gift that I need to use, and the stories I have to tell have a place not only on the blog but perhaps also in print for the world to see. I need to write a memoir of my family, revisit and reclaim the past so I can move beyond it. Thus far, I have the opening line:

"On the beach in Haiti during my senior year in high school, my rolling papers disappeared Christmas eve. I realized my father had appropriated them, but little did I know the harbinger that represented."

The campus set off alarms from decades past in my brain: I have not had a migraine so excruciating in more years than I can remember. (In college, I would awaken in the middle of the night, screaming in pain, then medicate myself and pace the halls, crying with pain. I was not every one's favorite neighbor.) Still and again, that seems to be the price I pay, not while I am anxious and stressed beforehand, but Saturday night, after dinner and dancing, when I had the chance to relax, when I realized how successful the reunion felt.

Then, it was too much for my synapses. Those neurotransmitters that had been most cooperative beforehand chose a moment to snap, and several rounds of narcotics were needed to restore my equilibrium.

Now I have returned to Wonderland, with a camera documenting my weekend, and new, happy and astonishing memories to carry with me. "Only connect," E.M. Forster wrote. That we did, with a flourish and pink feathers everywhere.

Primped and polished, partially panicked

Today is the day my reunion begins. In three more days, I will be finished with this event. Meanwhile, I am packed, (do I have the right clothes?), primped (two trips to dermatologist, one haircut), polished (manicure, pedicure, recent dental visit) prematurely pampered (one deep-tissue and one Swedish massage, plus reflexology), and yet, panicked.

This is a far cry from my my basic fluff-and-fold attitude toward my looks. Then again, I'm trying to focus other people's attention on what hasn't changed, in lieu of, say, the 20 pounds I've gained, or the smile/frown lines (as they are politely called) etched into my face. I will encounter people I've seen in the past year, and people I haven't seen or spoken to in the past 25 years.

I am one of the three alumna who is running this show. Most of the preparation is out of my hands now, but the curtain has yet to rise. The next 72 hours is the payoff -- already I can see errors I've not corrected in the reunion book (once printed, further proofreading is beside the point, not that that stopped me), so it's not so perfect as I would have preferred -- but whether everyone has a good time remains unknown.

I don't know what will be expected of me on-site. I'm hoping it won't be much. Next time someone asks me to help plan a weekend for 150 people, I know what my answer will be. Perhaps if I weren't attending, I wouldn't feel so anxious: logistics without presence would have taken a lot of pressure off of me. Or vice versa. Anti-anxiety meds, here I come.

I do know that the next time I sign up for volunteer work, it will be for a three-hour slot, not a year-long, 100-plus hours time frame (including the two solid months it took to produce the reunion book).

However, we only have one 25th reunion, off the isle of Wonderland, and, ready or not, here I come.

If 40 is the new 20, we're screwed

Clearly I've seen too many commercials and watched too much retro navel-gazing TV: the ads say 40 is the new 20, and I say, I wouldn't want to be 20 again for all the proverbial tea in China. Were I to rerun the movie of my life, I would scratch 1980, for numerous reasons. The most obvious is political: the first presidential election in which I voted got us Reagan. And that was a highlight.

Sure, I had a great, no-maintenance-necessary body. More brain cells than I could addle despite drugs. But the strum und drag? The illicit rendez-vous, the intrigues, the betrayals, even my first love -- all that energy expended, only to wind up lovesick and on antidepressants. No, not my year. 40 as the new 20? What that says about our collective emotional maturity, I hate to imagine.

I wouldn't mind having the body, still, but the rest of it? Thank you, I've handed in my homework, have a couple of degrees behind me, and already recovered from a run-in or two with the age of grief. In the 25th reunion book I edited, one of my friends answered the question, what would your 1982 self be most surprised about about your current self? She said, "menopause and retirement -- looking forward to both."

The PBS two-hour celebratory "documentary" called The Baby Boomer Century made me want to hurl sharp inanimate objects at its host, narrators, writers, editors, and producers. Do we still believe we're going to change the world? Yeah, we're going to outlive our resources, drain Social Security, and live in a anti-smoking, anti-drinking, follow-your-bliss-off-a-cliff society. Sounds like a plan to me.

Women, incidentally, aren't necessarily in the work force by choice. Since 1973, it has been considered impossible to support a middle-class household on one salary. According to the documentary, we have had a "civilizing effect," on the work place. Seems a dose of Emily Post followed by a chaser of Miss Manners could have done the job for us.

Joyce Carol Oates wrote of a character in a short story, "The Dead," in 1980: "...Ilena thought it wisest to avoid complete mental alertness. That it was an overrated American virtue." I couldn't agree more. That baby boomer in the White House, lousy poster boy for cocaine rehab and a highly suspicious return to God, has demonstrated that this is not the time to pay attention. What we see, we would prefer not to. What we know, he refuses to admit. Iraq is this century's Vietnam, but no one is talking. If we were really the 20 of the baby boom years as portrayed on TV, we'd be shouting.

Or so I'd like to think. The much-touted longevity we can apparently anticipate is not something I'm looking forward to. 25 years out of college, the physical damage is done. I've already buried several of my friends, and at least one is terminal, another so close to a psych ward it terrifies me. I think it's the Gen Xers who took to the gym with a vengeance.

My generation (or at least I) went kicking and screaming. (That's about as much exercise as seems dignified.) My mother walks to keep her bones from crumbling, bored by every minute of it. I take calcium and Fosomex. The part of my generation that isn't "in recovery" does, after all, believe in "better living through chemistry."

Telling us smoking is bad is not new information. It may have been new to our parents in 1964, but now? Not so much. Yet now, in Wonderland, cigarettes must be fireproof, meaning if you don't puff in a timely fashion, the cigarette will extinguish itself. Evidently we are too old or stupid to remember Smoky the Bear's warning: "Only you can prevent forest fires." In Wonderland, I can scarcely see a tree for the 30-story condo. I wouldn't worry about the forest and me. Nature and I simply are not on such close terms.

Give me the tropics in winter, the mountains in summer, but give me the hotel, not the canvas tent; maid service, not roll-your-own-sleeping-bag; room service, not freeze-dried ice cream to be reconstituted over the campfire -- if indeed campfires are acceptable and not considered eco-terrorism.

I haven't been camping since I was old enough for "no, thanks," to become a complete sentence. (Besides, as last reported, I talk in my sleep, loud enough for an entire campground to hear me yell "fuck!") Three years ago our tents in Africa had carpets on the floor, 24-hour electricity, full mosquito netting, and complete indoor plumbing. That's as much of the outdoors as I have grown to prefer without a guide taking me to tour the wide open spaces.

Don't get me wrong: I loved our safari, adored swimming with sea lions in the Galapagos Islands. My safari companion was 80; my Galapagos companion, 70; both are healthier than I ever will be.

However, I want to leave wild life in the wild. Wonderland's idea of wildlife is cockroaches, the invincible creatures of our era who dwell in our walls. Thank you, I'll take an exterminator's visit over scurrying roaches or the mouse who has taken up residence in my apartment. This would be Minnie, who searches here in vain for food. She (or he, could be transgendered) doesn't know where to find the menu drawer, my primary source for nutrition.

I'm hoping that Hannah Arendt's observation is correct: "Wisdom is a virtue of old age, and it seems to come to those who, when young, were never wise."

I have it on good authority that I was never wise.

A quarter century in the "real world," II

The 25th reunion book is at the printer's, out of Alice's hands. 21 days and counting to the Big Weekend. Alice would like to look 10 years younger and 10 pounds lighter, and have forgone the past 10 years of angst, remembering instead only what was fun and interesting. It is a pleasant idea, but Alice lives in Wonderland, home of 9/11, and knows too many Republicans, so she does not trust that she can pull it off.

First, Alice's final words in her capacity as reunion co-chair (i.e., for public consumption), pre-Weekend:

Editor’s note:
“Only connect,” wrote E. M. Forster in Howards End. That is, in essence, what has brought us together this June, a quarter-century post-[college], for Reunion. For once, we are face to face.

If we choose, here we can ignore the huge technological and telecommunications innovations that have, for better or worse, revolutionized our lives. (Pharmaceutical discoveries, however, never take a holiday.)

The class autobiographies that form the center of this book show classmates both surprised and blasé about where we are and what we’ve become. Almost everyone has expressed the feeling that it is only after leaving [our college] that we truly appreciate the experiences and opportunities our sojourn there afforded us, whether academic or otherwise.

I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to this narrative, offering us a glimpse into his or her life. As Joan Didion wrote: “we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be…”

Most of us cherish our [college] connections, however sporadic. We are linked by a landscape that includes the Pub, tea at the Main Living Room, daffodils by the Lake, and Art 105, not to mention the days of free beer and sudden romantic interludes.

That was then; this is now. It’s time to celebrate who we are.

Enjoy.

Alice

Now, the text Alice couldn't provide for public consumption:

Alice is tired. She has put in more than 60 hours gratis on this reunion book alone, and if the alumnae/i organization remains consistent, she will receive thanks equal to her payment for services. In other words, none. She would like to kick in the ass every classmate who signed up to help with Reunion, then vanished when a specific request was made.

She is not sure she even wants to go. The planning and preparation have been absurdly complicated, in no small part because the alum office reunion coordinator just got promoted into her job this year, and Alice and her co-chairs have born the brunt of her learning curve. One more conference call, and Alice would pretend she lacked a telephone.

Clover's Companion, Alice's once-upon-a-time lover and current best friend, graduated a class behind Alice and will not be in attendence. The Croquet Player has RSVP'd, and Alice is nervous about their meeting at the scene of their initial encounter. They both behaved badly there, and Alice is hoping they won't regress to their teenage selves.

As for the daffodils, Alice does not ever remember seeing any bulbs in bloom.

Alice spent the latter three years of college stone-cold sober, and kept a nightly journal. She knows where the bodies are, if not buried, have encountered one another horizontally. She can't remember what she ate for dinner last night, but who slept with whom 25+ years ago? She's right on it. She has been known to have inconvenient recollections pop out of her mouth.

She has also been known not to alter her language or behavior due to the appearance of small children, for she remembers when you were trying your damnedest to avoid procreation, not to dwell on it.

As for her "career," Alice just laughs. What an overrated concept. Her college sends out its fair share of coffee-achievers, but, honestly, Alice turned in that assignment before graduation. She has worked with enough idiots to change jobs and find that regardless of her occupation, she flunked or never took the course in the patience required for real life.

She is hoping to cheer up in a very short period of time and that a good haircut, much-moisturized and pampered skin, and a decent bra will draw attention to the parts of her that have remain closest to her 21-year-old self. Her penchant for sarcasm has not changed.

Alice can only do so much to stop aging, not that she's complaining publicly about waistlines, wrinkles, and grey hair. She's just thinking it. That, and the fact her eyesight is shot; she has orthopedic problems and a crumbling bone structure. Fortunately, gravity is an equal-opportunity leveler.

Everyone who answered the questionnaires thought the Internet was the best thing since sliced bread -- the technological orgasm of our time. Alice, not so much. When it's good, it's very, very good. When it's bad, it really, really sucks. It operates at a much faster speed than Alice, who fears some connection got lost in the cyber translation, and she's never going to find it.

Oddly enough, even the gay couples didn't consider the fact that they are happily and publicly partnered to be one of the most significant changes in the last quarter century. Alice would put that way before the Internet in her list.

No lesbian considered it that significant that she could, on her own, have a baby, without being consigned to be a social pariah. Now, the lesbian mom gets points for diversity if she's looking to place her kid in private school.

After reading through her classmates' replies, Alice is confounded by their lack of creativity. She and her cohorts are baby boomers, albeit on the young side, but they did love sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, and now all their talk is of money and technology.

While the class of 1982 was never out to save the world, Alice thought it had more of a social conscience and interest than it has demonstrated in the reunion book. She has also been surprised that in 25 years, no one has learned to meet a deadline.

Maybe she shouldn't be. Maybe at this point in our lives, it all does come down to whatever-gets-you-through-the-night, and that "you" is very personal. Alice understands that, really. Her favorite innovation/invention over the past 25 years the first S.S.R.I. to roll off the assembly line in the late 1980s.

A quarter century in the "real world"

In three months, I go to my college class's 25th reunion. Since I am one of the co-chairs, it fell to me to create a reunion book. Herewith, the Q&A I (as editor of said book) helped create.

Name in college: alice, uptown
Current name: same
Address: Wonderland

Home phone: yes, several -- in New York City
Email: alice DOT uptown AT gmail DOT com
Family details: I am a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend.

How do you occupy your days?
I sleep late, work as an independent financial planner, read, nap, blog, email, travel, and, occasionally, cook dinner from scratch.

What would your classmates find immediately recognizable about you since graduation?
My height, hair color, and penchant for sarcasm.

What would your classmates find the most surprising thing about you since graduation?
That I ended up in a profession so far removed from what I allegedly studied and what I wanted to be (a novelist).

What would your 1982 self find most shocking about your current life/self? Why?
That I have retained the same phone number for 25 years, and moved only once, to an apartment building adjacent to the original one. And the two people I cared for most in 1982 remain in the category of people for whom my door is always open.

What was a typical Friday night for you in college What about now?
Then? Always the Pub. (On campus.) Closing the Pub. Closing the off-campus bar. Thursday nights, when the weekend started, we’d head across the river to dance at the county's only disco, or our other favorite club where we wouldn't see everyone we knew. Now? Dinner at home and reading, watching DVDs or staying up talking. Or traveling. Spare me the plane, but give me a great hotel any night.

What are your favorite memories of your time at in college?
Cartwheeling on the Pub dance floor; tea in the Rose Parlor; Halloween costumes; late night tête-à-têtes. Doing my homework in the “work corner” of the Pub. Hours of pinball and dancing. Writing essays for the college newspaper. Liquid lunches with faculty at a campus-related hotel. The surprise party for my 20th birthday. Off-campus dinners with friends. Convincingly participating in class when I hadn’t read the first page of the book under discussion.

What are your three favorite inventions/innovations over the past 25 years?
Prozac.
Caller ID.
Private email discussion lists.

Where do you imagine yourself to be in 25 years?
Retired, content, (I hope) healthy, with a place in the mountains and a place in the Caribbean, with my friends around me.

If you live by someone else’s words of wisdom, what are they?
“To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love, and to remain indifferent.” – Joan Didion

"To be content with what one has is to be rich." -- Tao Te Ching

Sig: T tab po prn

If you were to be next year’s graduation speaker, what would you say in light of your college experience and subsequent life choices?
Life is more maintenance than you could have guessed. Be prepared. Sleep when you have the chance. You’re capable of more than you can imagine, and, if you must start again or choose to, don’t be afraid of yourself in the dark. One of our school's gifts is permission to be a nonconformist, to question authority. Hold onto that perspective – you’ll need it.

Nostalgia ain't what it used to be

Yesterday I went up to my college campus, invited for an annual luncheon. What I really went to see is what has happened to my once-beautiful Seven Sisters campus 75 miles up the Hudson River, since I am co-chairing my class's 25th reunion next June.

I discovered that I have an architectural aesthetic, to be grandiose, properly described as predating women's suffrage. The post-WW II period has not been kind to the campus. Most of the new buildings have all the charm of my 1960s baby-boom-built elementary school, and that wasn't exactly a heyday for institutional architecture.

If the reunion fundraising committee is trying to evoke nostalgia of place, I think they are too late. There's no landmarks commission up the Hudson, and the college is knocking down my past faster than I can drive a car into a tree. (My driving skills are renowned for what they lack.)

The "renovation" that made me weep was that the former riding academy turned English department building (where I spent more time in teacher's offices than in classrooms) has been torn down. The front facade was saved -- but it is the only brick and mortar evidence I have of the building where my professor fed me Valium in the teacher's lounge, where there was evidence I was connected to the campus as a student.

That same professor made me a reading list on a cocktail napkin in the inn connected to the campus, where she drank grasshoppers for lunch and we discussed my sex life, all under the guise of independent study.

Behind the 19th-century facade is a new "Center for Film and Drama." To me, it looked like a multiplex in a shopping mall; some of the students say it reminds them of Costco/Sam's Club. I don't think I'd let the brand-name architect responsible for that monstrosity design closet space for me.

The interior of an early 20th-century dorm -- once the highest (at 9 stories) building in Dutchess County -- has been completely gutted. The wood floor and carpeting has been replaced by the ever-endurable stone, and the furnishings consist of those usually found in an upscale airport waiting lounge. The building exudes all the charm and comfort associated with your average modern airport. Previously, it may not have been in great shape, but at least you could sit on the sofas without sliding off or sticking to fake-leather upholstery.

So much for historic preservation. I was shocked to read the outgoing college president is, by training, an architectural historian. Good thing she went into administration, because her imprimatur on the campus has me questioning her academic credentials.

Granted, I didn't put up the money for any of this, and the fund-raising president doubled the college's endowment, as well as putting up these post-modern horrors, but I'm rethinking my future gifts to the college, if that's how they spend the money.

I'm no architect, but I know what looks like crap when I see it. The renovation of the reference room in the library is also completely out of context with the building's architecture, and I wasn't fooled by the mud in front of one dorm that is spray-painted green in lieu of having actual grass in its place.

(The library bathrooms, however, haven't been touched. The ladies' room sinks still have separate faucets for hot and cold water.)

The most (and only) attractive renovation I saw was of the room where my luncheon was held -- they preserved and recreated its pastel wedding-cake ceiling.

For this, parents pay $40,000 a year? An English major without a calculator can't do math to save her life, but I managed the nuances of mine:

Tuition in 1980 was $4,500; in 2005, it was $33,000. On an annual basis, that's an increase of 8.3%. That is, 7.3 times the number of dollar amount in 1980 is the cost of entry in 2005. Manhattan apartments, by comparison, have increased 6.65% annually, or 5 times the number of dollars (or more, depending on the building and the apartment size) in the same time frame. The inflation figure has held steady at 3% to 4%.

My salary at my first job in publishing was $11,500; current starting salaries are about $29,000. $29,000 today goes about as far as $11,500 did in 1982 -- and that's to say, not very. It has barely kept up with inflation.

Then I looked on line at the English department offerings and noticed how many of the professors are "adjunct," meaning there's not a chance in hell they are tenure track, and that the department doesn't have to pay them nearly as well, nor offer them the same benefits and opportunities as assistant professors got in our day.

It also doesn't bode well for the students, to know how many of their professors are so itinerant and have such term-limited gigs. It certainly wouldn't persuade me that I could have a future in academia, if I'd ever wanted one.

I can't imagine where all the money went -- for the computers that you can stub your toe on everywhere you turn? the flowers in front of the main building? the little tags on every tree that identify them by species? (The great outdoors and I do not have a lot in common. I know evergreens from deciduous trees, and grass from concrete, but don't ask me to get horticultural.)

I guess you can see why I'm on the reunion committee not the fundraising one...