A few weeks ago, I threw open the doors of ILI Charm School. I promised that I would offer up some lovely links on a daily basis to enhance the educational experience here. I did not keep my promise. Sorry for that.

But I still love the idea of being a hunter and gatherer in the wild of the Web, of offering you some additional inspiration and ideas from time to time. So I will keep those charms coming. Not every day. But some days. And keep sending me charm suggestions!

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Press pause. Disappear. You are not as vital as you think you are. A thought that is at once very disconcerting and supremely liberating. {White Hot Truth: You’re Not That Important}

How would things have been different if Ted Kennedy had shared Eunice’s views on abortion? {New York Times Op-Ed: A Different Kind of Liberal}

“There is an opium-den quality to maternity leave. The high of a love that obliterates everything. A need so consuming that it is threatening to everything you are and care about.” {doubleX: My Newborn Is Like a Narcotic}

Does blogging harm the environment? Apparently so. {Economist.com: Computing Climate Change}

Is social media killing social skills? {WSJ.com: Why Gen-Y Johnny Can’t Read Nonverbal Cues}

The blessing and curse of sadness. “My mind and my heart are both empty and full at the same time. I feel half asleep and agonizingly aware.” {A Design So Vast; Sadness at Lake Champlain}

Can we buy happiness? {Boston.com: Happiness: A Buyer’s Guide}

More birthdays means more people surviving cancer. Bloggers across the nation are writing about birthdays today in honor of The American Cancer Society’s campaign for more birthdays. {NYC Moms Blog: Celebrating More Birthdays}

There is a fascinating post over at Zen Habits today called Education Needs to Be Turned on Its Head. This post resonated with me on one level and then enraged me on another. In this thoughtful and provocative piece, Leo Babauta argues that the system of education qua concept needs to be, yes, turned on its head. He says, “Schools fail not because they don’t impart knowledge or skills, but because they kill curiosity, smother excitement for learning, club down with a furious brutality our desires to be independent, to think for ourselves, to learn about things that actually interest us.”

Babauta argues that rather than forcing useless knowledge down students’ throats, our focus should be on teaching young citizens on how to think, on how to hone in on idiosyncratic interests and talents. I agree. Not all of us are destined for pinstripes and paradigmatic professional power. BUT. To advocate against formal education and for unschooling and homeschooling is plain irresponsible. (I do not pretend to know much of anything about unschooling and homeschooling. I am sure these are appropriate methods of learning some of the time.)

Are there myriad flaws in our nation’s school system that should be addressed? Absolutely. Am I well-acquainted with the nuances of these flaws? Not at all. Am I, the privileged recipient of a degree from Dalton and Yale and Columbia, really the best mouthpiece for an educational philosophy for the masses? It seems not. BUT.

Formal education can be wonderful. I learned many things on the soccer field and around the kitchen table with my family and in the world, but I also learned many things, many priceless things, in the four walls of the classroom. I learned to read critically. And to write concisely. I learned grammar and spelling and arithmetic. At my wonderful alma maters, brilliant and generous educators exposed me to literature and poetry and philosophy and science. At Dalton, I received an incomparable foundation for future learning. At Yale, I fell in love with philosophy. And at Columbia, I learned about our nation’s legal system, our admittedly flawed political machine, and I learned that I did not want to be a corporate lawyer. At all of these places, I learned how to interact with fellow students and teachers and authority figures. At all of these places, I learned how to ask questions. At each of these places, I began to learn how to think.

I have zero regrets about the vast time I spent sitting at a desk digesting the lessons of formal education. Zero.

I know. I know. I am more exception than rule. I am also a bit torn on this one because many of Babauta’s points are sharply compelling. I agree wholeheartedly that formal education does not necessarily foster uniqueness and creativity and self-awareness. But in my estimation, some of these things cannot be taught, but must be stumbled upon. That it is up to us, and an admittedly nebulous task, to find out who we are as people, where our interests lie, and how we can best contribute to this world. But, maybe just maybe, pointing fingers at the educational system (again, conspicuously broken in places) is just another example of us placing blame on an easy target. Maybe it is up to us to learn how to think. And to learn how to learn.

Did my formal education “prepare” me for adulthood? Of course not. How can school of any type prepare you for the vicissitudes of parenthood, for finding love and coping with loss, for raising good kids and surfing the waves of a rough economy? It can’t. But my formal education did shape who I am today. A person riddled with both deep insecurities and profound confidence. A creature who loves asking questions. A lover of learning wherever it takes place. A person who cherishes the opportunities she’s had, educational and other, but who also believes, and deeply, that no league prepares you for life.

Anyway, I’m rambling now. But I like rambling. I think it is underrated. I think it’s a good sign. For me, rambling is a sign of unbridled energy and untamed passion, of glorious confusion mixed with enlightenment. And guess what? I learned how to ramble in school.

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Thoughts on this?

Change. Evolution. Growth. Are these things possible? Inevitable? Desirable? Are these things within our control? I’m sorry that I am calling these things “things,” that I don’t have a better or fancier word to throw at you. But who cares really? This is a blog, not a historical masterpiece. This is me, not a ideological heavyweight. Like Thoreau. And anyway, it seems Thoreau was absolutely fine with the word “things” anyway.

Yes, true. Thoreau said “Things do not change; we change.” And if I were the dutiful student of life and quotes, I would go study the context in which he said this. But it is Sunday night and I am tired, so I won’t. Criminal, I know. Call me presumptuous, call me pompous, but I will hazard a guess at what this wise man meant. (And no doubt get it wrong.) Maybe he meant that we should stop pointing out the flaws in the world, in our lives, in the people whom we surround ourselves with. We should stop wishing “things” (purposefully ambiguous in my estimation) would change. Rather, we must change who we are, and how we act, within the context of that world, that life, that group of people. Or maybe he meant that we cannot effect change in external things, but we can in fact institute change in ourselves.

Whether or not I have any clue what this quote means and I’m relatively confident I do not (sorry, Thoreau for the flippant hijack of your gem), I like it. And I buy it. We can spend our lives complaining about how miserable our jobs are, how disrespectful people are, how our homes are too small or too messy. There are infinite things out there that we might want to change. And it’s far easier and far safer to point fingers and talk about changing other people and other things than changing ourselves. Ultimately, I think many of us look at other people and think they are who they are and will not change. And I think many of us look at ourselves this way too. That we’re stuck with what we’ve got.

This wimpy embrace of the status quo in others and in self is as tragic as it is predictable. I think, or very much want to believe, that change is possible even if it’s not easy or intuitive. And I am going to (try to) stop wasting time diagramming the world outside me and locating its endless imperfections. I am going to (try to) stop wishing that things would magically evolve to make my reality more of a utopia. I am going to (try to) be bold and look inward. I am going to try to change some things about myself and see what happens. I’m not sure what these “things” are yet. I haven’t made a list. (I abhor lists.) But I have a hunch. And, for now, I will keep this evolutionary mission of mine sufficiently vague and tell you that I am going to change “things.” But maybe, just maybe, I will have the courage to elaborate down the line. We’ll see.

For now, I just want to thank Mr. Thoreau for his words. Words that fly gracefully over my Sunday night head. Words that are at once so simple they are profound and so profound they are simple.

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Thoughts on change? What exactly do you think Thoreau meant? Are there things you would like to change about yourself?

Ah, the promised PPP (post-party post). Indeed I am a girl of my word. Too bad I wasn’t a girl of my word last night when I told myself on the walk to the party that I would have two drinks max. I guess I am better about keeping promises to other people (like a bevy of strangers on the Internet) than I am to myself. Fodder for another time.

The night was full of sizzle and drizzle and a huge success. The night was full of food and laughter and revelry. And Patron. Yes, tequila. T’s genius friend decided that the open bar provided was not quite sufficient and ordered a round of shots for everyone. Thanks, man. Anyway, I am not going to get all whiny about my as-predicted headache because I took care of that on the car ride home. Instead I will paint you a portrait of T’s momentous night.

To kick things off, we gathered in Mom’s hotel room at the New Haven Hotel which was a bit of a dusty and musty establishment. But because I am not at all spoiled, the hotel was fine with me. Totally. We gathered and sipped champagne while T opened her gifts. C and I bought T an amazing pair of shoe/heel/bootie things which strike me as perfect for prancing around a college campus. Sizzle all the way for our baby sis. After presents, we braved the ominous drizzle and made our way to the restaurant where we were shown to an amazing private room with a very long table and lots of yummy things to consume.

The night was off to a promising start. I ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio from the very nice (and tolerant) waiter and he carded me! This made my night. I might not be twenty-one, but apparently I look it! Younger even. So, I handed over my ID and said Thank you. I’m thirty and I have two babies! And the nice and tolerant waiter humored me and then fetched my wine. I guess the whole carding thing made me feel so young and invincible that I decided to roll with it and act like a college kid. When in Rome. I channeled my latter day self, chatting with T’s friends, snapping silly and incriminating pics, and gulped with gusto. Things got wild and fast. I will spare you the details. Because these kids have bright futures ahead of them and I don’t want to compromise anything by talking about vomit and beer showers. That wouldn’t be nice.

By far, the best part of the evening was seeing the actual twenty-one-year-old, T, so happy. First of all, she looked stunning and sophisticated in her funky dress, chignon, and colorful earrings. But aside from her knockout status, she smiled all night, flitting back and forth between friends and family. I wish I could post a picture of this happy girl on her happy night.

But then. This morning. I woke up with a headache. Shocker of the century. And my entirely unpredictable headache reminded me of cliched things, but one thing stood out: I am not twenty-one. I am not a college kid and as much as I revere sizzle, I like safe sometimes too. As much as that campus conjures magical memories, I was happy to head home. I literally couldn’t wait to see my girls. And we all celebrated our return by having a wonderful macaroni and cheese party with Grammy and Dad-Dad. It was Toddler’s idea and it was a fantastic one at that. All six of us wore bibs and sat around the table and ate the mac Toddler helped Husband make.

I sat there and looked around me, at the scattered trappings of adult life and family chaos, at those simple little noodles in my Dora bowl and I thought, Now this is my kind of party. Because as much fun as last night was, I’m no longer there. I’m here. A mother. A wife. A thirty-year-old. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now I am going to settle in for a rocking movie night on the couch with Husband where I will knock back glass after glass of water.

This is a recurrent dilemma in life. In my life at least. And in yours too. You just might not know it yet.

Friday again. Time is zooming by and our future home is taking shape. But to be perfectly honest (and I am all about perfect honesty even though I believe perfection and pure honesty are both myths), I feel as if I am running out of things to talk about vis-a-vis the Happy Headache (i.e. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place). Yes, things are happening, but nothing earth-shattering or super interesting. Yesterday, we spent a good ten minutes debating whether to install a circle or square drain in the master shower and whether to center the chandelier in the room or across from the fireplace. These are important decisions on some level, but not very interesting to talk about. And here I am talking about them. Go me.

So the pressure was on, is on, to dig deeper and excavate those symbolic and philosophic layers of our home renovation. Because I know they are there. I know that this transformation is not all about sheetrock and lighting. I know that this transformation is as much about me and who I am and what I want and what I don’t. And, for better or worse, because I am an infinitely complicated creature I knew something would come to me. Something a pinch more interesting than square versus circle and debates about chandelier locale. Something would come.

And it did! I was getting a manicure. Yes, indulgent. (Something I should not talk about on a blog like, say, slipping a stranger a twenty for air.) Yes. But in case you missed the memo, I have a party tonight. A very important party with very important and very cool kids. And I am more than happy to shop in my own closet for this party (not really, but I’m being a good sport about it), but I figured, hey, I should at least have some good nails. Because if I remember anything about college kids, it’s that they are obsessed with cuticles. Right. So I walked into Pinky and instead of grabbing for my old standby #162 Ballet Slippers, I took a moment and surveyed my options. And then I chuckled a rebellious chuckle and went for a different pink. Fluorescent pink. I think it was called Short Shorts or something equally alarming. I held the little bright bottle up and I said “this is it!”

The nice lady humored me. Together, we sat. She went to work on my ragged mommy nails. And I studied that little bottle awaiting its fate, that bold and bodacious Barbie pink. And as time passed and my nails grew more beautiful, I had a minor change of heart. In a soft, apologetic voice, I said to the nice lady, “I changed my mind. Ballet Slippers, please.” And she looked at me and nodded and then laughed. At me. Or with me, I don’t know. “It’s fun, but I’m not fourteen.” She laughed some more. Because I’m very funny. Very.

Fast forward twenty minutes. My nails were beautiful. And boring. Yay. As I left the Pinky, I looked back at that ferocious fuschia and wondered if I had chosen the wrong pinky? Who knows. Who cares? Honestly, this is an embarrassingly indulgent quandary I probably shouldn’t publish. That would be the safe thing to do. BUT.

But I am sick of safe. I want color and boldness and risk. So, yes, there is a point. That point? Hmmm. In life, there will invariably be at least two choices – bold or bland. Sizzling or safe. And sometimes safe is the way to go. We shouldn’t pick the most fun looking car seat or the man who thinks jobs are for losers or the home with poor structure. There are times when the safe choice is the right choice. BUT.

When the safe choice is not the obvious right choice, I think we should go sizzling. Live a little. In our new home, we are going to blanket one wall in jungle wallpaper and another in enormous pineapples. We are going to paint our living room marigold and hang a feather ball fixture. We are in the process of picking a dining table. Will it be the more prudent black lacquer or an oval slab of glass balanced on two vintage horse heads? I’m thinking horse heads (as long as they are safe for the kiddos!)

Oh and because I know you would lose sleep over the aforementioned dilemma, we opted for a square drain. At first we floated around in our Yuppie pool of banal indecision. But then the contractor said in a whisper, “Round is predictable. Square is cooler.” A no-brainer indeed!

We each have one life. So let’s live it. Let’s make it sizzle.

(Coming from the daredevil chick who lives one block from her childhood home, went to law school because it seemed prudent, and is scared of flying and skiing and taking the subway.)

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Is your life more sizzling or safe? Would you add more sizzle if you could?