Motherhussy

Too Long of a Post--Or--El Camino Community College Can Eat A Fat One

In an attempt to save myself from dying an uneducated woman, I’ve been trying to register at the local community college—Mecca for the poor and degree-less. Sounds simple enough, right? Apply, register, and voila—a cheap, but nonetheless, college education. I’m obviously not educated, or I would know that my community college plan was a joke. But, because I don’t have the holy paper that says, “The Worst Years of My Life Weren’t Spent in High School,” I’m obviously a retard that doesn’t know how hard it is to get into the local community college.

My experience began a couple weeks ago when I called to make an appointment with one of the school counselors to see how my credits from my previous school would transfer to their school. I thought it would be like making a hair appointment or something—I call, I get an appointment, I make the appointment, and three hours later I’m a natural blonde! I thought the appointment would go a little like that, sans the blonde. Unfortunately, some retarded college student with a degree in Ebonics answers the phone. (I can imagine she is at least 37 lbs overweight, wearing stretch jeans, and eating something, licking her fingers off in between bites.)

“Hi, I’m new to the area and would like to make an appointment with one of your counselors to see what classes I need to register for,” I say like I know what I’m talking about.
“Ya need ta be a student to get in with tha counsalar,” the retard on the other line says.
“Uhhhh…” I was a little caught off guard. “How am I supposed to become a student if I don’t know what I need to register for?”
“Ya make an appointment with the counsalar.”
“But you said I have to be a student to make an appointment with the counselor.”
“Yeh, ya do.”

After another few minutes of trying to figure out what in the hell the voice on the other line was trying to tell me—I figured it out. I had to apply first.

So, I apply, get my student ID, and call to make an appointment with one of the counselors. I give up trying to get someone on the phone after calling several times and waiting on hold over 30 FREAKING MINUTES and still getting NO ONE! I decide it’s time to get personal. By “personal” I mean driving to the counseling office and making the appointment in person. So I load the boys into the Jeep, equip them with their MP3 players and Gameboys and head off to the community college.

On my way there, I get a call from Nick who tells me that I’m in for a treat. A very annoying, verge of tears frustrating, waste of my time, treat. It’s the community college “treat”.

After maneuvering the campus maze like a mice after a cube of aged cheddar, and feeling like a total SUV-driving Mom dork, I find where I need to be. I stride across the campus my legs doing double time because I need to get there, take care of business, and get back in 40 minutes, while the little guys follow behind asking, “Mom, do you know where you’re going?”

We take a short pit stop at the “Manhattan” (a sad eatery containing shelves of overpriced, dusty commodities such as band aides and sanitary napkins) so the boys can empty their microscopic bladders (I wonder who they got those from?). From there we motor to the Student Services Building. It is there, I’m told, that the mystical counselors reign over all desperate-to-register students. Once inside, my stress level goes down a notch. I’m told by a gaunt Asian woman wearing a purple pantsuit and cheap pearls that I need to stand in line to make an appointment with the counselor. So I get in line. I’m surrounded by bulbous black girls with slick hair, HUGE earrings, and too-tight of clothing, mean looking Hispanic girls who are probably thinking about kicking my ass, and post-rehab 40-somethings. Yeah, I’m going to fit right in.

After waiting for about 20 minutes in line, all the while trying to keep Cody and Colton from breaking the transcript kiosk, a man who looks like he knows something approaches me and asks me, “What do you need?”

“I need to make an appointment with the counselor. Not for today, I just want to schedule it.”
“Well, this line is closed. It’s not going to be open again for another 45 minutes.”

My instant reaction it to claw the guys face off, clamber over the plexiglass protected counter, and sign my name on the appointment book that I KNOW IS SITTING ON THE OTHER SIDE. I don’t do that though. I ask, “There isn’t anybody here that I can just make an appointment with?”

“No,” the guy answers coldly like a Nazi prison guard.

And, like the inhibited pansy I am, I suppress my tears of rage and calmly walk out the door. Immediately after, I’m on the phone tattling to Anthony about how “crappy” and “ghetto” this school is and how I never wanted to go there anyway. I know that Anthony has the balls to call and chew someone out. Even if his call gets me nowhere with the school, at least I’ll know there was some minority with a superiority complex on the other line getting the wrath of Ant.

I don’t know, I guess Community College is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I would rather pay exorbitant amounts to be coddled and hand-held until I reach my goal. El Camino Community can eat a fat one because I’m going to take my money elsewhere!

posted by Anonymous @ 3:24 PM