Stupid Rules And Stupid People = Bad Bad Things

You know what I absolutely hate? Stupid rules, that's what. Stupid rules that stupid people believe they have no choice but to abide by, and then transfer their idiocy so that it greatly impinges upon your life and makes things that much more difficult for you.

Like going back to college at my age isn't hard enough. Like knowing I might be the absolute oldest person in all my classes isn't making me want to vomit. As if knowing that the next two-and-a-half years may be some of the hardest years of my life isn't.bad.enough.

More about idiots in a moment...

So, I did it. I registered for college, for both the paramedic and the practical nursing programs. I should know in a month whether or not I've been accepted into either. In the meantime, I needed transcripts from university and high school to go with my registration, and as luck may have it, I could do it all online, with only a few phone calls to get my student numbers, and a few hundred thousand bajillion minutes being put on hold. I don't mind the hold so much. It's the Barry Manilow musak I can't handle.

Now, for the idiots.

I called the continuing education program through our local school board so that I could sign up for two high school courses I apparently need in order to get into the practical nursing program. However, you can't actually speak to a live person when you phone the number on their site. Oh no, that would be too simple, too easy, too freakin' straightforward. No, instead, you have to leave your message, and they call you back whenever.

This happened last week, and of course, I wasn't home when they called. So, I called them again on Monday, and left yet another message. Well, this time, they actually called me back when I wasn't either sitting on the toilet, using my neti pot, or lying in the fetal position on the couch wrapped up in blankets and ignoring the world. The girl (and I call her 'girl' because she sounded like she couldn't have been older than three) asked me which courses I was interested in taking.

'Interested' is probably too strong a word for what I was. The word I'd use is perhaps 'coerced into taking' or maybe 'screwed over', but whatever.

"Grade 11 Biology and Grade 12 Chemistry," I told her.

"Okay, so, like, you have to make, like, an appointment to, like, see one of our counsellors and go through your application. I can give you Feb. 17."

I sighed heavily, tapped my foot impatiently on the dirty carpet, and tried not to sound as aggravated as I was. "Well, that's fine, but isn't there anything earlier than Feb. 17? I'd like to register right away so that I'm sure to get into the courses."

"No. There's no other way," Girl replied. "Is Feb. 17 good for you?"

No, I felt like saying, what would be good for me is for you to get away from the phone and let me speak to someone else. Instead, I said, "Ummm, yeah, it's fine. Isn't that the last day to register for courses though?"

She didn't answer me.

"Umm, do I have to see someone? I mean, I know which courses I need to take and everything. Can't I just go down to the school and --"

"No, you have no choice. And, we have to get your payment anyway," Girl spewed, cutting me off.

Heavy sigh.

So, now I have to wait until Feb. 17 to meet some counsellor who probably knows less than I do about the courses I need in order to get into the college program, just so that I can talk to him for a few minutes, show him the money, and sign papers saying I will not draw pictures of throbbing penises in their text books. And hope that there's still room in the courses, because if the counsellor tells me there isn't, I might knee him in the groin, pencil poke him in the eye, and spit on his shoes.

And that is why I hate stupid people.

Then, yesterday, I had to go to my old high school to get an actual paper copy of my high school transcript. I walk into main hallway, and come face-to-face with a skinny girl in painted-on jeans who spits out as she walks by, "Yeah, I'm a bitch, and that's all there is to it." Yeah, she went there. Scary shit, high school is.

I make my way to the guidance office, and it's chock full of pubescent boys and girls who think they're waaay cooler than they really are, and I'm trying not to feel out of place and think that maybe I'm not really that out of place because I actually have a tiny zit on my right jowl. Finally, the secretary comes up to me, and I tell her what I'm there for. And she says, "What year did you graduate?"

So, I tell her, "1981." And I say it pretty softly, because I'm surrounded by youngsters and, if they hear that, they'll all try and touch me because I'm, like, an antique to them.

And the secretary screams out, "Did you say 1981?? Wow. Don't think they even have transcripts going that far back! Hmmmm...."

Well, isn't that just dandy. And I look at Em, who was with me because she wasn't feeling well and was coming home with me (yes, she goes to my alma mater, how exciting is that?!), and she's smiling, trying hard to stifle a huge laugh.

Anyway.

Today, Mr. Handsome, who no longer reads this blog because it's inappropriate and disgusting, has gone to Toronto to give a speech at some big association luncheon, so he thinks he's all special and stuff. I drove him to the airport early this morning, before the sun was even really up.And now I'm going to the dentist to get my teeth cleaned and listen to my dental hygienist ream me out because apparently flossing once a day isn't good enough for Patty Perfectionist. Yeah, another awesome day in the neighbourhood.