"That's Not Our Department."

I go to a community college, and around here it's pretty notorious for adult women coming back to school to go to the nursing program. (We have a very good nursing program, and our X-Ray tech and sonography programs are similarly great.) That's a tale for another post though.

This semester we implemented a new idea; credit based registration. Previously, returning students had been able to register for classes before anyone else, and were able to do it online. Now it went by people with the most credits going first. I believe this so that people who have been here longer can get into the classes they need first.

I have logged about fifty three credits in the four semesters that I've been here (I had one particularly nutty venture where I took eighteen credits in one semester). The first day possible, I went ahead and registered for all my classes.

My financial aid was going to be able to cover everything, but it was going to take a few weeks to process my paper work, because that's just how they roll. I went to defer my payments, and skipped merrily away, glad all that was taken care of.

Sadly, today I went to go and check on my classes, and to my dismay--I HAD BEEN DROPPED FROM ALL OF THEM. No e-mail, no phone call, no nothing. I sure get handfuls of letters and phone calls if I owe them so much as a penny, or when they want me to donate to them, but not when it comes to anything important.

So I march myself down to Student Services and find out that my deferred payment had never gone through. I told the cashier I should have been notified. She gave me a deer in the headlights look and murmure; "That's not our department."

This is completely typical response here. Financial Aid down? Go to Student Services to Financial Aid, not their department. Records lost? Not Student Services department. They lose your paperwork (this happened to me twice)? Not their department. Need your ID? Not their department. Need your login fixed? Don't ask IT!

I hate it so much.

I did get registered for new classes, and I'm still only on campus two days a week, so I guess it's okay. :/

The Saga of Who The Hell Knows?

For the past seven months, I've been suffering from MagicRandom! illness. My symptoms include such fun things as searing joint pain! Random low grade fevers! Rashes! But wait, there's more! For no extra cost, the Universe threw in super fatigue and HAIR LOSS.

What a bargain, what a deal!

The hair loss is what bothers me the most. Even on days when I wake up and can't make a fist, or on afternoons where I'm laying with my face covered by a cool wash cloth to bring down my fever, I'm most bothered by the handfuls of hair that have been coming out in the shower, in my hair straightener and in my hair brush. I quit using the straightener and I refuse to cut or dye my hair for fear of anything else going wrong with it.

It's all just vanity; I will admit that.

My insurance is not only sucky, but in my town there aren't many doctors that accept it. (My mother, She Who Must Be Kept, works in a city about forty five minutes from town, and there are more doctors there that accept it for obvious reasons.) Until this year, we didn't really go to the doctor. We did have one through the low income care network, but she left and we didn't much care to go and find a new one. It wasn't a choice; by the time we needed medical attention it had reached emergency levels, and beyond colds and general winter misery, no one gets too sick in my family. I mean, I have asthma, but even that's pretty well controlled. My family would simply take ourselves up to the Doc in the Box, or Urgent Care clinic, get an order for antibiotics or get X-rays for the sprain or strain and carry on.

But this past fall when I began to get sick, we got back into the care network and found a new doctor. Part of the reason we didn't like the low income place was because it's all the way across town, and takes about an hour an fifteen minutes for me to get to on the bus. This isn't a trip I much like taking when I'm sick enough to go to the doctor.

I went to the doctor with my symptoms, and she, suspecting an auto immune disorder, ordered some blood work and gave me T-3s, a narcotic. Yes, there is prescription strength ibuprofen, and yes, that is what one is supposed to be started on. But anyway, my blood work came back clean, and so She Who Must Be Kept and I scheduled another appointment.

The doctor promptly said since the blood work was fine, it must be in my head, and that my weight was contributing to the issue (which may very well be, I am a chunky bitch, and I do admit that). But neither did she refer me to the care networks social worker for an evaluation, nor did she send me to the nutritionist, both of which are standard protocol. So we reported her to the administration of the care network and found ANOTHER doctor.

Doctor #2, whom She Who Must Be Kept and I like quite a bit, said she couldn't figure out the problem, but she didn't think it was in my head, but it could be fibromyalgia. Well, that was a bit of a stretch, huh?

So Dr. #2 wanted me to see a rheumatologist. Great, a specialist who can help! Oh wait, there's a wait list? A SIX MONTH LONG WAIT LIST? Fucking great. Fast forward to me having the winter from hell between the crutches I was on due to an accident and this joint pain.

Finally (FINALLY) I got to see the specialist this week. There was a problem with my appointment. They said on my paperwork nine o clock, and the first confirmation call I got said I should get there at eight thirty. Okay, that's fine. The second confirmation call said my appointment was at nine thirty, and to get there at nine. Uh... 'Kay. So She Who Must Be Kept and I get there at nine fifteen.

The nurse then says my appointment is at ten. When we show her the paperwork, she says they're much too busy to keep track of who is supposed to show up when. This does not inspire confidence, does it?

Anyway, I get in, and the doctor is lovely (and I adore her toe nail polish). She doesn't believe it's lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, or arthritis, or my weight. She does believe it could be Vitamin D deficiency, which I hadn't even considered. Food is a very poor source of that vitamin, your body makes it with sunshine. I have an allergy to the sun, and therefore do not go out in it, so this makes sense. She also scolded me and told me to get on calcium because I don't drink milk and don't eat enough dairy, but did praise me for the twenty pounds I've managed to shed in two months, AND for almost completely cutting out soda.

So I went and got a blood draw. A SEVEN VIAL blood draw. My thyroid has come back fine, but I have to wait a week for anything else.

I really, really, REALLY don't want it to be fibromyalgia. I do believe in the validity of this disease (I know people with it), but even my specialist said it's a garbage pail term. It basically means, in quite a few cases, that they can't figure out what's wrong, so here, take this diagnosis.

I'm not on prescription strength ibuprofen, which only makes me drowsy, but I'm not complaining too loud.

"But I'm a Moooooooom."

I went out to dinner last night. Going Out to Dinner is sort of an event for me. There's Grabbing Some Food, Running to Get Some Supper and Going Out to Dinner.

Grabbing Some Food means going to Little Cesar's and getting a five dollar pizza, or running to McDonald's and ordering off the dollar menu. This typically happens early in the afternoon when I have a lot of other thinsg to do that day.

Running to Get Some Supper involves any drive thru, but preferably Taco Bell, and getting a meal. I do not mean dollar menuing it up, I mean gettign a value meal, taking it home, and plopping down on the couch to watch a movie and eat.

Going Out To Dinner means puttign on real clothes and shoes, and going inside somewhere to sit down. You know, Bob Evans, some Chinese, Fazoli's, something like that. I don't do it often, and when I do, I want to have a good time.

So when I go out to eat, I don't typically enjoy it when there is a screaming toddler and a mother who is ignoring the child. I went out at about ten o clock at night to Steak and Shake (which is neither an appropriate time for a child, nor is typically a place where I would imagine a child being) to avoid that.

But no, sure enough, sitting in one of those half table/booth places, there was a very young mother with her best friend and her baby, and an adorable two year old, who refused to sit down, stop pushing her stroller, or even stop running around to other tables.

This child was so disruptive that the waitress wouldn't sit anyone else in that half of the restuarant. The mother steadfastly ignored her child until she looked over and noticed someone looking at her with a raised eyebrow or a frown.

The little girl almost tripped the waitress while she was carrying trays of hot food. When the mother denied her the right to push her stroller around, she began to howl so that my dining companion and I could not hear one another speaking.

And what got me was--who has their little kid out at ten at night to eat? This was not; "We're here because this is the only time we can come." This was; "We're here because I want time with my friend, and to hell with the rest of you."

The kid wasn't even wearing shoes. :/ That seems good and healthy, what if someone had dropped a glass and the girl stepped on it?

The mother repeatedly gae me dirty looks when she noticed me watching her child. It made me laugh because, well, it was funny. Sorry that you have a kid, I guess? But that doesn't mean that I have to enjoy that my patty melt is now tainted with your kid caterwauling.

I get really really tired when I see people go; "Being a parent is soooo haaard. Look at what a good job I'm doing. I do everything for my child. This sucks. BUT I NEVER COMPLAIN! Everything is for my child."

Here's the thing; you had a baby. I don't know the circumstances surrounding every birth, but there's a pretty good chance you made the choice to have a baby, or at the very least participate in the act that resulted in the baby. Now you take care of it, you don't get a medal for that. Everything is going to revolve around your child, because that's what a parent does. You don't get a pat on the back for doing what you are supposed to do.

This is why I don't have a child. (Even though little kids are cute as hell and I want to eat them up. I wasn't mad at the little girl, I was mad at the mother.)

Ridin' On the Buu-us.

I don't have a license. Even if I did, I wouldn't have a car to drive. My family isn't set up for two cars--we couldn't afford the gas, insurance, or even the purchasing of two cars. My city is pretty small, but I can't exactly walk everywhere. So when I can't get a ride from my Parental Unit or a friend, I have to take--

The Bus. Yes, I use a capital 'B' for that. I ride the city bus. Service starts at six fifteen Monday through Friday, and ends at five forty five. I know this sounds like a long time, but most of my friends start hanging out at about three, so we get about two hours to do whatever it is we're doing before having to ride the bus or hoof it home. The Buses do leave at fifteen after and fifteen 'til (kinda. I think about four times in my whole time riding the bus they've ever stuck to that schedule, and of course it was when MY Bus was running late so I missed my transfer) so you never really have to wait too long.

So you trek down to the nearest bus stop, which are sometimes in the *randomest* places, and wait. And you wait. And you wait. And then the glorious, glorious monstrosity arrives. You climb on, drop your fare in, get the tissue paper transfer...

Well, that actually takes a minute. See, even though about every third rider needs a transfer, they are never prepared. They have to fuss with the little booklet, slide it up, rip it off awkwardly so you either get a super long slip, or a tiny stub. Thankfully, all the drivers hate transfers and never even look at them.

So you go down to the transfer center downtown and duck and dodge past all the other people to get to your bus to get to your destination. Getting to your bus is probably the worst part of the adventure. There are people who slooooooo---oooooo----oooo-wly meander towards their bus. And they are typically dragging one of those wire carts of groceries, so you can't get past them. Or they are standing and chatting, ignoring you while blowing cigarette smoke in your face, or they are rushing like you.

But you find your bus, and you climb on, and give your transfer. And then you observe the old people falling asleep, the couple with the screaming baby (who is ALWAYS on the same bus as YOU) who sit three seats away from each other, screaming their marital issues for the whole bus to hear. They never get kicked off because the bus driver *also* enjoys the free entertainment.

But Meredith really needs to quit talking to Charlie behind Sam's back. Just sayin'.

There's the kid who is kicking seats and shouting and trying desperately to get Mom's attention. Finally--FINALLY you push the button to get off the bus and into the blinding sun or the blistering cold or the pouring rain.

I really hate riding on the bus sometimes. I hate that it runs late, and I hate the people on it, and I hate that the bus driver decided everyone under a certain age needs to start giving him their money so he can count it, which holds up the line, which makes everyone wonder why you don't have a student pass.

-.- I want a car.

"Shaddap and Take Your Shot. "

I really hated going to the doctor when I was young. Wanna know why? Because I didn't like shots. I still don't like shots. Also, I was pretty sick when I was growing up (asthma, chronic sinus infection, muffed up tonsils that resulted in surgery) and frequently needed a blood draw.

Being that I was such a dramatic little thing and had veins like a Spaulding ball, I would sob and freak out, and make everything worse. Finally FINALLY they would get a vein going, milk the vials, and set me free with bruises.

Know what kind of makes me mad? That there are a bunch of parents now that don't want their children to get vaccinated. There was a study that some how linked vaccines to autism. ...Okay.

I know I'm not a parent, and I know I don't have an autistic child (though I have had several play mates through out the years that had Aspberger's Syndrome, which is on the autism spectrum), but you know what? You can live through autism. You can go on to leave a full, normal, lovely life with that disorder. Especially with all the strides we're making in research and development and teaching and all that.

You might not live through whooping cough. Or measles. Yeah, I know back in the Dark Ages they were normal illnesses that everyone went through. Now they are not, and there is no reason we need to suffer. We are just baaaaarely clinging on to Herd Immunity right now. And every time someone decides not to have their child get that shot, that goes down a little bit.

I understand that some people won't do it for religious reasons. I understand some children are allergic (like, kill you kind of allergic not the itchy throat kind) to vaccinations. I don't understand that whole; "JENNY MCCARTHY SAID MY KID WOULD GET AUTISM!!!111!!!one"

But maybe I'm crazy.

A couple months back, at my Community College they had a free vaccine clinic set up in the dining room. As nasty as that sounds, it was sort of nice with neat little curtains set up. I went and I got my D-tap. Diptheria, tetanus, and pertussis, also known as whooping cough.

I'm twenty years old, I'm scared of shots, and I went on my own accord to get jabbed with a needle, holding tightly onto the hands of some of my friends. My shoulders were sore for days and days. But you know what?

I DID IT FOR THE CHILDREN!!! WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?!?

Well, I did! So get your kids jabbed in the arm, okay?

Pajama Hate-What the Hell?

I really like my pajamas. I have a bunch of soft, fuzzy bottoms, any number of huge, loose t-shirts, and even a couple silky, old fashioned nighties that are lined with flannel on the inside for those really cold winter nights.

Of course, some nights I'm sleeping in a tank top and undies. And some nights I collapse into my bed wearing dirty jeans and a t-shirt, because I was out and about too late, or I'm sick, or I'm not even at home and I don't carry a set of pajamas with me.

(Although that seems like a neat little product, doesn't it? Pajamas in a Ziploc. I could make it out of cheapie scrub material, one size fits no one, really. If I could manufacture this for five dollars, I'd sell it, buy a billion, and keep one in my purse at all times, as well as leaving a few at the places I'm likely to turn up randomly.... I digress.)

What strikes me as weird is hearing people say it's rude to wear pajamas out. What, really? Do you honestly think so? I don't understand why this is.

I wear my pajamas in public. If it's eleven thirty and I went to Meijer's because I HAD to have some toilet paper, or some medicine, or more likely because I really needed a pint of ice cream, you better believe I'm not getting out of my pajamas for that. If it's nine AM on a Sunday and I'm coming right back home to veg out on the couch with some Bam Margera DVDs, I'm not getting dressed just to go and snag the essential groceries.

I even wear my pajamas to class sometimes. Normally it's on the days when I've run a low grade fever, been exhausted and had no business being in class, but I needed to get some notes or take an exam. I wore them on the bus home too, leaning wearily against the window because I was tired. Or it's been on the days when I've had an early class and I'm taking a thirty minute exam and then I can beat it.

I've had people glare and roll their eyes. It's honestly perplexing to me. Does it really bother you to have to look at me in my pajamas for twenty minutes. They're not filthy, I've just been wearing them over night. What are you hating on? I'm coming in, grabbing my Hershey's bar and iced tea, and then I'm going home.

Why is it rude? I mean, I wouldn't wear them to say, a fancy restuarant or when I'm giving a presentation in class. But does it honestly matter if I'm wearing them any other time?

I think it's way worse when I see those girls in those crop tops with their boobs hanging out, and those short shorts that are showing me almost their ass crack. Or when I see boys with their pants hanging around their knees so I know the size, color, and brand of their boxers. (Hanes and Joe Boxer are particularly popular.) But somehow, this is more acceptable than pajamas?

What the hell?

And I'm Heeeeere to Save the Daaaaaaay

There are a lot of things that bother me about people as a whole. I don't like it when people chew with their mouths open. I don't like it when someone steals a chair, a pencil, a piece of paper. I don't like it when people are so close minded, they refuse to even hear another side of the argument. I don't like it when someone slams down their side of the story and then proclaims the conversation to be over before another party can even BEGIN to speak.

But what really, really, REALLY gets on my nerves is what I like to call The Fearless Leader Complex. This complex can be observed in such cartoon characters as Superman, and Leonardo the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

The Fearless Leader Complex is best described as having the feeling that no one can ever do anything better than you--ever. People suffering from (or inflicting this condition on other people) suffer from the delusion that everyone loves and adores them, the world is resting on their shoulders, and nothing would ever get done if they didn't do it.

Oh, and naturally, the people that don't love and adore them aren't angry because maybe the FLs (fearless leaders) did something that hurt their feelings, or because they did something wrong... They are mad because they are JEALOUS PEOPLE. Yes, of course! That MUST be it!

FLs have the habit of sulking, whining, and pouting when someone else does something, and often and joy picking whatever was done apart. I mean, after all, they could do it better, right?!!? They have the rather nasty habit of muscling people out of the way to get things done, and then sighing and whimpering about how they are the only ones to get it done. (They are not to be confused with Martyrs, by the way.)

FLs also don't apologize. They will even go so far as to say that yes, they know what they did was wrong, but they can't apologize. More often than not, they will spout off about the greater good, they will wax poetic about how they did what they had to do, and they didn't mean to hurt you, so you should just get over it.

What I find most fascinating, most hilarious about those inflicted with this ailment--is how insecure they really are. Deep down on the inside, they are really just scared children. They don't WANT to be Fearless Leaders. They want to curl into balls and cry. They want to press their face into your lap so that you might chase away everything that they are afraid of.

They want someone else to take care of them.

And it breaks my heart.