Early College Visits Part Two

So we're visiting colleges a little early to ease into the process.  Not for the boys' sake but for mine.  If I think about it too much for too long, I end up sitting with my head between my knees, keening on, "they'regoingtoleaveandnevercallandAbbey'sgoingtodieandI'llbeleftinanemptyhousewithashittylittlewhitedogthatstillpeesonthebathroomrugaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh"

So UCLA...we didn't take an official tour but instead wondered around the campus which is beautiful, Interesting architecture, rolling hills, huge old growth trees and the kicker? They were setting up for an incoming freshman event so there was a whole Fair atmosphere. White tents, lots of signs pointing things out, party on the roof of the physics building, families wandering around, and lots of helpful students asking if we needed directions.  It was like a movie set.  Completely unlike my college campus.  I was fine.

UC Irving was different.  And more like my college.  Trees had clearly been cut down to accommodate the construct of ugly utilitarian buildings that all kinda centered around a fountain area.  Uh-oh, this is hitting close to home.  Worse? We were signed up for a tour so we ended up waiting with a couple hundred other folks.  The first groups were incoming freshman (again, really?) who were touring the various housing and food service options available.  Again, hitting close to home. Rather than ask for the car keys so I could sit in the parking garage and skip the tour, I found a spot in the shade to regroup.  John went in search of Starbucks and the boys joined me under a tree.

Sam, "Are you okay?"
Me, "Uh, okay, kinda."
Sam, "What's wrong?"
Me, "Oh, just, you know.."
Sam, "Is it because you're 50?"
Me, "What?! NO! Well, I mean, now it is!"

And I got up and stormed off to find John.

Our tour group consisted of 30-40 kids and parents.  I realize these tours are optional but they should really be mandatory.  One of the first things pointed out was a housing area named Middle Earth. No, the other housing areas were not named Hogwarts, or Star Fleet Academy. They were typical boring names.  Middle Earth was under construction. There were building new dorms, to be called, the Two Towers.  The four of us were the only ones in the group to react. Really?  Towards the end of the tour, the guide pointed out the emergency calls boxes that were all over campus. He explained their purpose then told the story of the last time the system was used for an actual emergency rather than to request an escort after dark. Here's the story.  A student was walking across campus. It was late enough that most of the lights were off but the few that were on, were reflecting off the disco ball key chain hanging off the back of her backpack.  This shiny, sparkly disco ball attracted the attention of a herd of raccoons (which is called a Gaze, my friend, Jessica, looked that up) a gaze of raccoons. She ends up being chased across campus by the gaze and finally calls for security from an emergency call box and they show up and have to Tase the raccoons.  or is it Taze? I don't know.  Anyway, I was rolling! But when I looked around no one else was laughing. I started wondering if they didn't know what raccoons were or if perhaps english was a second language.  I immediately judged all of them and decided that if you don't laugh at Middle Earth or the rabid raccoon story, your application for admittance should get shit-canned.

As the tour was ending, I was getting verklempt again.
Tom, "Are you okay?"
Me, "Oh...I don't know.."
Tom, "Don't worry. He's not going to get in."
Me, "wh..."
Tom, "I mean, neither of us. He won't get in here and I won't get into UCLA."
Me, "I don't kn..."
Tom, "No, we'll both end up in some alley with a needle hanging out of our arm..."
Me, "OH MY GOD! Get away from me! Go stay over there with your brother...jesus..."

See these tours are helping a lot.  The more we go on, the less and less I miss them. I mean, really....

Early College Visits Part One

So we were down in L.A. this weekend and ended up checking out a few colleges.  That was not the original purpose of the trip; John got tickets for a taping of Battle Bots so we thought we'd swing by UCLA and UC-Irvine while we were down there.  Those are Tom and Sam's first choice schools, respectively. At least for now.  FYI, the acceptance rate for UCLA is 17% and UCI is 40%.  Best of luck to ya.  Anyway.

I am not a fan of UCLA because I hate LA. For several reasons. Mainly, 1. The traffic fucking sucks. and 2. the closest airport is LAX.  LAX is The Worst Airport On The Planet. Nuh-uh-uh-uh, don't argue with me. It's the worst because it sucks and it's in LA which if full of crack houses, rent boys and broken dreams.  Or maybe I've read too much Harry Bosch. I've have connections through LAX that required me to leave not only security but the actual building to get to the other gate. WTF? After arriving, we followed the signs to baggage claim and ended up on a 12 ft sq. mezzanine with a escalator to the arrivals curb on one side and a pedestrian bridge to a parking garage on the other. Where the fuck is baggage claim? I already want to go home.

Every single part of that airport seems like an afterthought.  Meeting a driver? They'll be standing in a 6x6 entry area at the bottom of an escalator. Looking for the security area? It's directly at the top of a flight of stairs  Need a bathroom? It's at the very end of the terminal up two flights of stairs (no escalator). And what's with all the fucking stairs? No other airport requires you to change floors as often as LAX. And it's all corners, you have to turn 7 corners before getting anyway you need to be and half the time you end up in a hallway. Think about those two things; hallways and corners. Anytime you end up in a hallway, in an airport, it's feels very wrong. And how many corners are there between your airport's security and the gate? Maybe 1. Probably 0. I fucking hate that airport. All that bullshit before you've even merged onto the freeway and, boom, UCLA is one of my least favorite colleges in the state. That and it's really big and really far away from home....

Side note, the couple seated in front of me had clearly never been to LAX because they kept looking out the little window and smiling.  They were blown away by the big A380 that seats more than 500 passengers! Wow! No, not wow. Over 500 passengers? Just look at the slice of Americana we're currently surrounded by and times it by 6.  That plane is nothing short of hell on earth.  That aircraft should be a flying penitentiary. White collar crime would disappear overnight.  Sure you could defraud your investors but if you're caught you could end up flying to New Zealand on an A380, with tourists, with a mother of 'very special' children who have never heard the term 'inside voice', with 97 people who've never used an overhead bin in their entire fucking lives. I'd rather been shot.

Anyway, turns out UCLA is a really nice college.

2 Hrs in the Madhouse

So I finished reading "Ten Days in the Mad-House" which is Nellie Bly's account of her time at a women's insane asylum at Blackwell's Island in New York.  It was written in the late 1800's so I was a little worried that it would be a hard read but it turns out Nellie Bly has a very modern voice.

I always thought that Nellie Bly had herself committed but she actually went as a request from her editor to find out the conditions in the institution.  Her main concern, as was mine, and my friend Carol's, was how she'd get out after the 10 days.  How do you explain to someone that you're not crazy? Especially when you're dressed in someone else's pajamas and sitting next to some chick who thinks they're Marie Antoinette?  "Oh, I agree, she's completely nuts. But I'm not. Trust me." Well, the editor, and the newspaper's lawyer, assure her that they'll get her out and she agrees to go which makes me question her sanity and now we're in a bit of a Catch-22 but anyway.

So here's what it took to get oneself committed in the late 1800's.  For the first 24 hours, all she did was wander into a boarding house claiming not to remember anything and that she lost her suitcases.  Well, there's me committed.  After 2 or 3 times of walking into a room and wondering why I came in or a 5 minute walking tour of a parking lot looking for my car, and Bob's your uncle, I'm clearly crazy.  After that, she never lied about anything. Oh, I take that back, when asked if she was from Cuba, she said, "uuuuh, sure." So 24 hours into her investigative journalism assignment and she's in front of a judge and sent to Bellevue Hospital for evaluation. Now, based on my extensive viewing of Law & Order, I know two things, 1, there's no way in hell you'd get in front of a judge within 24 hours in this day and age and 2, Bellevue is where they send the crazy people.

So far she's batting 1000. The ladies at the boarding house think she's crazy, the cops think she's crazy and a judge thinks she crazy.  She ends up at Bellevue where there are 5 other ladies being evaluated. One is recuperating from an illness, not crazy (been there), another isn't talking (been there too), a couple don't have a male guardian (so far so good) and the last doesn't speak English.  3 out of 4, and I'm still on my way to the Nut House.

Now the last one interests me, because I couldn't decide if it would be better to speak English and know what was going on or not speak English and have no clue.  Sure it would be terrifying to not know what the hell was going on but you would still have some hope that everything would be straightened out eventually.  If you spoke English, you'd know exactly how fucked you were. Po-ta-to, Po-tah-to, I really couldn't decide.....

So where are we....48 hours in and now a couple doctors and several nurses are all convinced she's insane. Keep in mind she's speaking and behaving rationally and not lying about anything. The evaluation of her mental status consisted of a handful of questions, a check of her pulse and eye dilation, and some bozo measured her head. I think it took three days for her to end up on Blackwell Island. Maybe four.  Either way it was Not.  Enough.  Days.

By now, her biggest problem was that she'd barely slept.  She forced herself to stay awake at the boarding house so that she would appear more convincing. After that, it was similar to today in that you're trying to sleep in the hospital but the damn nurses keep coming in a waking you up.  Add in the actually crazy people making crazy noises and anyone would be climbing the walls.  "WOULD SOMEONE SHUT HER UP! NO, I'M NOT CRAZY BUT SHE'S BEEN SINGING BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY FOR THREE HOURS. AND I CA..STOP IT...IT'S NOT ME..I'M NOT CRA...AAAAAHHHHHHH"  And they throw away the key.  Of course Nellie is still concerned that someone will 'discover' that she's not really nuts, bless her heart.

Needless to say the conditions were horrific, the staff was horrific and the 1800s in general were horrific.  I did see a light at the end of the tunnel when one lady was released because her husband showed up to take her out.  He didn't have paperwork or anything.  "Oh, you want her? Fine, take her. We've got plenty more where she came from."  How long before someone showed up to get me because they couldn't find the car keys? 2 hours? 3 hours? And I'd probably be pissed off and refuse to leave, "Why can't you just leave the keys in the dish? I don't know why this is so difficult? You walk right past it!" "What do you mean you don't know where the vacuum cleaner is? We've lived in that house for 4 years! Do you really want to stand there and tell me that you never vacuumed?  IN FOUR YEARS?"  "Have you fed the dogs even once?" "Forget it, I'm staying. I don't care how many people have worn these pajamas...jesus chri....." and I storm off, muttering and waving my arms.
Like a crazy person.

So, You're having a good day?

Don't worry, we can fix that.

So John arranged for me to come down to his office at 12:30 today.  Their insurance company was on site and if I came down for a quick cholesterol/blood sugar test, we could get free money added to our medical spending account. Or whatever that flex-account is called.  Fine, I'll be there.  I'll even set a reminder on my phone so I don't forget.  I'm that much of a team player. You're welcome.

When we got there, there was one woman ahead of us. Once she was checked in it was our turn.  While John was answering general questions and signing in on the i-pad, it slipped out of his hand and hit me in the foot.  I hollered, "Hey, You hit me!" And the woman behind us said, "I saw that!" Me, "That's spousal abuse! I don't feel safe at home!" And hahahaha, we're all having fun. I'm such a good sport. Then I heard the woman, who had been ahead of us, who had moved on to the first station, being told, 'okay, slip off your shoes and step on the scale."

Waaaaaaaaait a minute? I'm getting weighed? Nobody said anything about getting weighed.
To John, "We have to get weighed? You said it was a pin prick."
John, "I don't know, just do whatever."
Me, "WE JUST ATE."
John, "Jennifer...."
Oh, don't you 'Jennifer' me. I literally have an entire predigested Jimmy John's roast beef sub sitting in my gut.  Some of it's still in my teeth, for christ's sake.

And OCD-girl doesn't just weigh herself unless 1) it is first thing in the morning, 2) she has mentally prepared herself to be weighed and 3) and this is really the key, has mentally prepared herself to 'just move on' afterwards because there's nothing that OCD-girl likes to get hung up on more than numbers. Yeaaaa, numbers!!  Geez, John, are you NEW?!?

Now it's my turn.
Guy, with absolutely zero medical training, "Have you been fasting?"
Me, "Not even a little."
Then he makes small talk while the i-pad it updating...
Guy, "So you painting today?"
Me, wearing clothing spattered neck to ankle with 90 different paint colors, "Yup, sure am."

See, I'm wearing my painting clothes because I will be painting later today. Luckily my painting clothes are overalls. And whenever I have a medical evaluation that consists of nothing but arbitrary measurements that fit neatly onto a fill-in-the-blank form, I prefer to be wearing the heaviest and bulkiest article of clothing that I own. Not only do my overalls have the standard 2 pounds worth of hardware attached to them, they also have an additional 3 pounds worth of dried paint smeared all over them. And, bonus points here, should easily add 7 inches to my waist. This is just fantastic. Hey, John, are you having fun? I'm having a fucking FANTASTIC time!

Station 1 guy, 'kick off your shoes and whatever else you don't want to be weighed with.'  I kick off my keds and take my phone out of my pocket. I really don't know what because at this point what's a few more pounds between friends. I step on the scale, I stand against the tape measure (well, at least I haven't shrunk) then came the body mass index.  I'm told to hold the little xbox driving controller device out in front of me, arms straight for 1 minutes.  What the fuck is this supposed to do?  It is totally bullshit. What could it possibly measure? Other then my pulse? It's too far away to even measure if I've been drinking which I totally would have if I'd know this was going to be happening after lunch. And the device changes every year because someone with a bogus phys-ed degree comes up with a new and improved device and 'oh those old calibers didn't take into account, blahblahblah and this magic wand will blahblahblah.' Ohh, just shuuuuuuut uuuuuuupp.

Moving on to next table,
Me <making controller motions with my hands to John> "That thing is totally bullshit! I mean wh..." John, "Ssshh!"
Hey, don't get snippy with me, this wasn't my idea.

And it's finally time for the promised pin prick. I sit at a table while a nice lady draws a few drops of blood.  Blood sugar is fine, blood pressure is fine, cholesterol fine. See now this is what I was expecting. Me sitting in a chair and someone measure things on the inside. Where the real mess is.
Lady, "Would you like to discuss your results with a medical specialist?"
Me, "Absolutely not. But thank you."
And she hands me my paperwork, in a beautifully printed folder with several colorful, informational sheets inside; the cost of which most likely offsets the cost-benefits of these pre-screenings.  But, hey, no one  asked me.

I waited until I got in my car to look over the numbers.  I had John's too, he had handed them off to me when we left the room, so I could compare the two. "hm.....waaait...how can my chols....but his bmi is....."
Then I start texting, "It says my body fat is 35.6% WTF???" That can't be right. Is 5% of that body hair that is not properly maintained? I knew I should have gotten my legs waxed last week. goddamn it....acceptable range for 'mature'....Mature??what the fuck is that supposed to mean??
John texts back, "That's not right. You know that."

Right. Sure, I know that. You know what else I know? I know we're not having Beef Stroganoff for dinner tonight. Hope y'all like salad.....35.6% my ass....

Mother of the Year, Again

So Sam was searching colleges online, looking for ones with good history departments.  He found one in Vermont or New Hampshire, one of the two.  It doesn't matter.

Me, "So Sam found a college in <which ever state>. Apparently it has a good history department. I don't like it."
John, "It's not a problem. We can work it out for whatever college he chooses."
Me, "No, that's not what I mean. It's too far away. So I explained that if he picks a school in California or at least on the west coast, then he can come home whenever he wants because he'll be a car-ride or train-ride away.  If he picks a school on the east coast, or really even the midwest, then we're talking plane rides so he probably would only be able to come home at Christmas."
John, "What? You told him that?"
Me, "I was just being realist..."
John, "Oh my g...I'll go talk to him."
Me, "What???"

Oh, sure. I'm the bad guy. I waited 16 years before intentionally dismantling one of his dreams.  16 years! I deserve a medal.

When good games go bad

In the car,
Me, "Slug Bug!" <punching Sam and point towards the VW> "Black one."
Sam, "Lexus Lick!"
Me, "NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Overhead Projectors

So John sent a text with a couple of pieces of office equipment that they were getting rid of because they had become obsolete.  One was an overhead projector, and I really wanted it.  Sam saw the picture and asked what it was.

Me, "It's an overhead projector. You don't even know what that is, do you?"
Sam, "That's not an overhead projector. We have overhead projectors in our classrooms."
Me, "Those aren't overhead projectors. THIS is an overhead projector. You put a transparency on the light box and the mirrors above it reflect the writing onto the screen."
Sam, "No, an overhead projector is a projector that is bolted to the ceiling over your head."
Me, <wrapped in confusion> "                            "

Why in the hell were these things called overhead projectors?

Anyway, John was convinced it would never get used and he was probably right so it didn't come home to live with us.  Fast forward a few weeks and suddenly I have a desperate need for an overhead projector.

We're redecorating the library and one of the things we're going to do is put literary quotes on the walls.  As we were debating how best to do this and the librarians weren't jumping on board with my idea of making the art classes do it.  I really don't understand why people work at schools when you're not allowed to force the kids do shit. Then Niki says, can't we use an old overhead projector and trace the letters; and I smacked her in the arm and said, "SHIIIIITTT. I almost had an overhead projector!!!" I checked with John and the overhead projector was gone.  I checked a few more times to make sure that it really was truly gone and not just that he didn't want to bring it home. Yes, it. was. gone. but it turned out that the school had one in the equipment graveyard.  yippee.

The next stumbling block came after I found a bunch of awesome quotes to use and brought them into the library.
Me, "I decided to use only quotes from women."
Librarian, "I think it needs to be fair and let everyone have a voice."
Me, "So, you're thinking that men haven't had an equal voice?"
Librarian, "I'm just saying it needs to be equal."
Me, "Fine, I'll paint the female quotes and one of the men <waving my arm to indicate the entire campus> can come and paint the male ones. Besides it'll take years for anyone to even figure it out."

So that was settled and now I needed to find transparency paper.  Which is impossible. It no longer exists in stores and only a few clerk will understand what you're talking about.  You can, however, find vellum paper with is semi-transparent. How much of a difference could that make? Semi-transparent/transparent? I just needed enough of a reflection to trace. Right? Wrong.  You can't use vellum paper as transparency paper and honestly I don't understand why. The more I thought about it the more I began to doubt whether transparency paper actually worked.  Was this some rosy colored memory from my childhood? Was it like the Easter bunny? No, no they really did use transparencies and they'd even write on it and we could see it all on the screen.  I just know we did.

Transparency paper can be found online, but for whatever reason, ordering it seemed like a bridge too far. I mean, every office on the planet probably has a box of transparency paper sitting in the back of the supply closet with 23 years of dust on it. Right? And I have a husband who works in an office.  This prompted more texts to the poor guy who thought he was in the clear after convincing me that yes, the overhead projector was really gone. Choosing the path of least resistance, he came home with a stack of transparency paper and backed out of the room.

Now here's another interesting fact about vellum vs. transparencies. You can print on vellum just like any other kind of paper but transparencies, not so much.  The first one worked fine because it evidently did not touch anything.  The second one rubbed up against the first and smeared the printing.  "whaaaat the fuck?" Nope, printing on transparency paper isn't a thing anymore. What were they doing back in the day? Typing on it? When they rubbed off their writing with the side of their fist, the entire document didn't wipe off too. Why is this causing so many problems?  Little Miss Perfect Online didn't mention this when she told us all how she painted beautiful, inspiring quotes above the crib in her nursery. Neither did the rest of her internet coven. Interestingly enough, if you read the 1 star reviews on Amazon, they ALL tell you that sure the box says you can print on it but, and this is important, YOU CAN'T.  Fine, whatever, I don't need these things to last for ever, just long enough to trace the damn thing.

Oh, one similarity, whether you use vellum or a transparency sheet, you have to stand there and feed each sheet into the printer one at a time so it doesn't jam but it may jam anyway and you'd have to feed the transparency sheets one at a time anyway because of the smearing issue. 30 minutes of my life was: open document, feed in sheet, press print, wait, remove sheet, place it on the dining room table two inches from anything else so it doesn't smear, remind the kids not to put anything on the dining room table. And repeat. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Now do the easy Do-It-Yourselve overhead projector. This is so easy to do at home and all you need is a box and a lamp. Flip the box upside down, put the lamp under the box, place transparency on one end and voila, overhead projector.  This made perfect sense to me because if you can use a cardboard box to safely look at an eclipse, then this should totally work. Cardboard is truly a wonder. Nope. This doesn't work either. FUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKK. Who are these women? This is why we have internet trolls.  You post these bullshit projects that don't work and you think we're not going to drive you to tears?  Payback's a bitch, darling.

I'm a week into this project and nowhere near ready to start tracing but it has taught me two things:
1) I'm pretty sure these inspirational quotes are not supposed to leave you standing in front of your printer, muttering, "fuck you, Maya."
2) 90% of all craft posts on the Internet are there just to fuck with you.