I Wish I Could Go Back To College (Blogisode Eight)

If you are new to Sharon Wheatley’s blog, welcome!  I write stories in “blogisodes”, and to start at the beginning of this story, go here:  http://wp.me/p1zRyr-j6

Happy Tuesday!  Here we are, on the all new My Own Space.  Can you even tell?  I think it looks exactly the same.  The function on my end is pretty different though.  It’s kind of like moving into a new house with all of your familiar clothes and furniture, but not knowing how to run the new dishwasher or turn on any lights.  That’s me.  Stumbling around in the dark.  Welcome to my beautiful new house.  Please find the light switch.

View from my "soothing" diner

Speaking of dark,  I am not writing in the dark today in Beatrix’s room, I am writing from a restaurant that is kinda sorta near my apartment and it’s very cute in that “I drink organic tea and breast feed my kids until they are four” kind of way.  I just ate a vegan panini.  You get the idea.  I figured a soothing cafe free of chemicals was a good antidote to spending the last 72 hours on the phone frustrated with some version of tech support.  Deep cleansing breathes.  Tea.  Be the Yogi of  your creation space. Can’t you just feel your shoulders dropping?  Release the tension. Why is there a child standing next to me?  Who is screaming.  And now crying.  And a having full out meltdown.

Houston, there seems to be a problem with my stress free space.

It’s full of stress. It seems every parent in a 5 mile radius brought their child to my soothing space, which

Not soothing.

feels entirely unfair because I left my people at home with a fine, fine babysitter (such a good idea).  I just counted, there are 9 adults and 7 children in this restaurant right now, so we are practically outnumbered.  Somehow, I managed to find some organic version of Chuck E. Cheese with parents who interpret “Free to be You and Me” to mean “You are free be as loud as possible and stand by the lady typing on a computer.” It’s best if I just….back away…and smile like I think the kid is cute…and pretend to be sympathetic….while packing my bag to….GET OUTTA HERE.

Two hours later.  I am now at home and my children are quiet. Bliss.

Newsflash.  My mother–who likes to comment on every post–has banned me from mentioning Beatrix’s potty training anymore (see the comments section).  If you’d like to file a complaint, please send it to her.  By the way, Mom, she’s doing great today, no accidents, but if she had one, you can bet I would blog about it because the only thing that prevents my head from blowing off when I am peeling off wet clothes in a parking lot or playground or zoo or church  is thinking, “At least I can blog about it later and someone will laugh.”  You understand.

My mother beaming at my high school graduation. Me looking deliriously relieved because I wasn't sure I'd actually get my diploma.

Shall we leave all this behind and get back to school?  Mother likes this topic better.  She can read it while nodding  her head and saying, “I told you, you should’ve gone to classes!”   Once my mother paid for a semester long typing class for me, I went exactly two times and then faked going and hung out at the mall.  I was a joy to raise. We left off with me registering for classes at Pace, while sending *2,000 emails a day to UC (*possible exaggeration) to see what would transfer in from Pace and what would not.  I had every class roster and schedule planner available from Pace bookmarked on my computer, and next to me was the list of classes needed.  Next to that was the computer needed for the complicated semester-quarter equation.  Next to that was my phone.  Never far from reach?  A cup of coffee.  Tools for going back to college. It seemed every day I found out something new.  Like.  Sharon, we just discovered you never finished a quarter of Freshman English.  We need you to take a semester of an English class to make up for it.  Seriously?  I just stopped going?  What was I doing during

Not where I was

college?  I’m not a drinker, so I wasn’t out partying.  I didn’t have a boyfriend (are you kidding? At CCM “Musical Theater” school?  I’d sooner get a date on Project Runway.) so it wasn’t a boy.  I didn’t even have a job.  WHAT was I doing and how was I not considered a part time student?  I remember doing a lot of shows.  I think I’d register for classes with the best of intentions and as rehearsals heated up I would stop going to class and eventually drop it when I’d missed so many that I was going to get an “F”.  Good news about that pesky quarter of English, I had a someone make a call and after a submission of a certain book I allegedly published by a major (enough) publishing house, supposedly, allegedly, some really wonderful person  high up in the English Department at UC accepted it as “professional training” and qualified it as that one little lonesome quarter I needed.  Somewhere I owe someone a drink. But it wasn’t all that easy.

(Another hour later.I am now back at my usual desk, and by desk I mean the foot of Beatrix’s bed in the dark while she falls asleep.)

After sifting through everything,  I needed to take 36 hours to complete my degree.  That’s a lot to get done in one year, and by year I mean two semesters.  I knew two semesters of this craziness was just about all I could put my family through.  One school year carrying 18 hours per semester.  Nuts. Speaking of my family, I haven’t talked much about their reaction to all of this, have I? Let’s start with what it meant for Beatrix who–although to young to understand it, was greatly impacted.  She was 2 1/2 at the time, and we needed a good (economical) solution for her.  It wasn’t like I was off making money, so there wasn’t suddenly funding to work from a new job for a nanny.  Capice?  Solution?  We signed her up for a local daycare for the days I took classes.

Cultural reference for younger readers

Twelve-year-old Charlotte, who was very aware of what was going on, was hilarious.  She was jumping all over the place and calling her friends–something about me going back to school delighted her.  “Do I get to help you with your homework???”  “Do we get to go shopping for school supplies????”  You’ve seen the movie Freaky Friday?  You get the picture.  I’m Barbara Harris/Jamie Lee Curtis and she’s Jodie Foster/Lindsay Lohan (that should cover all generations of readers.)

Cultural reference for older viewers

Rob was understandably a little nervous about suddenly being married to a co-ed.  He had a full schedule of teaching and working 22 other jobs to pay for this whole circus, so the idea that I was pulling myself out of “earning” to go back to school was a little hard.  I promised him that if I got a big paying gig it would take precedence over school and then I reminded that I had a good history of this; quitting school for a big gig is what got me into this mess in the first place.  Capice?  Capice.  Besides, it would be like old times!  I’d get to see him all the time (and by see him all the time I meant I would take over his office to do homework and interrupt his classes.)  OF COURSE he was excited!

So, I did it.  I pulled the trigger and registered for classes!   But then a whole mess happened and suddenly my co-ed dreams were shattered.

(To read the next blogisode in this series, go here: http://wp.me/p1Uqfn-mk)

P.S.  Please keep me posted about how this is running for all of you.  If the site is slow to load, or not e-mailing correctly, or anything, tell me and I will get it fixed.  Thanks!  Computer technician Wheatley, signing out.

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