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The College Try

Posted by marnie on June 28, 2014 littleblackraincloud

Though I’ve been through several nor’easters, a named hurricane or four, too many Passover Seders to count (78), I am not sure if even Moses can hit the stone hard enough to save me (or, fiiine, my son) from HIS junior year of high school, and all the sides with which it comes.  Though, yes, seemingly, it’s coming to an end. Ish.

Where to begin?

I guess I’ll start where it all started for me  – LATE.

Late, late, late last summer, I had dinner with a friend of mine (shut up, I have one).  In fact, she’s the only person that I’ve stayed in touch with from the 8 years I served in Fairfield County. Back then, not only did she clap for my TV dream, laugh at most of my mean-spirited jokes, but, she even tolerated my truck driver mouth when she has NEVER, no shit, EVER, cursed a day in her life (and, you soooo know, I asked around).  And, as it always is with tribe mates, even though we hadn’t seen each other in a bit, we caught up easily and quickly.  And, as usual, I found out, what may be of no surprise to all two of you reading, that I was indeed failing as a mother.

Fine. Again.

Have a seat if you’re the easy to queasy.  Seems, I had not put my then soon-to-be-Junior in high school in A-N-Y  P/SAT prep classes, had no idea where to even find a good one, didn’t know WTF the ACT was really, hadn’t hired a college advisor; um, a what?  And, admittedly, (now) I was still confused by the 2400 scoring system. Though, possibly, I just may have, allegedly, feigned (good SAT word), that I wasn’t miffed.

Once again, as this friend had done many, many, many times before (from applying to nursery schools to having an extra diaper in her bag for my spawn) saved ‘n schooled me. She emailed me names of the best of the best.  And, I signed up, as I always do, with the perfect people for me – the available ones. I threw my 16-year old puppy’s unknowing ass into an 8-week, 3-hour PSAT prep class that not only did he not want to go to, BUT to which he needed to commute 30 minutes.  Oh, did I mention it was on the weekend…

Note to self for next blog: clearing up the miffs as to why your teen no longer considers you a friend.

The course, though he moaned and groaned about and through it, was very helpful. Thank goodness, as it cost a pretty penny. Turns out, we also love our college advisor.  And, had she not told me to go visit schools over President’s weekend, well, I wouldn’t have. She made us a list of potential schools, where she felt my puppy (now resembling more of a pug with his concerned bug eyes) could go, should he heed her advice and work his tail off this year. She helped him pick classes he should take, and truth also is, had she not nailed him, he would have gotten away with signing up for a bullshit science class, that I had no idea was hooey (see note re 2400 above).

So, on President’s weekend, right before yet another blizzard, we got the eff out of Westchester County and hit the west coast.  We toured the likes of USC, Occidental, Pitzer and UC Berkeley.  We weren’t positive how we’d know where he’d belong.  We felt a bit like Goldilocks trying some seats.  This one was too big. This one, too smog, this one beautiful, but so not he.  Truth is, none of which besides Pitzer felt like a fit for my pug and though, Pitzer would certainly make my environmentally conscious pug happy, it just might make him too happy.

Miff #2 as to why your teen no longer considers you a friend.  Allegedly, you sorta stifle his fun.

On our way home, we hit our last stop – Portland. And, in our minds and the mind of our advisor, the one we thought we/he’d like most.

And, she was right.

Damn it.  The farthest.  But, shit if we didn’t have the best biscuit of our life there, served by the grooviest and most gorgeous waitress, playing our very own favorite music in the backdrop.

Uh oh.

And we dropped him in a class. And it was eerily home.  Dark. Comfy.  Groovy. Smart.  Pierced pugs in beanies everywhere.  Brooders. Musicians.

Kombucha in the cafeteria…

Though it was clearly a dark rainy day in Portland, gotta say, for at least a little bit, for the moment, we saw the light at the end of Junior’s tunnel…






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