Acuplaced.

I’m here at Mount Saint Mary’s University for my math/English placement exam. They have coined the term “acuplacer” to describe this exam, and it’s making me laugh. It’s kind of having the same effect upon me as “multi-pass.” Hopefully I perform better on this exam than I did at the one at LBCC, which "acu"-placed me in like, 8th grade algebra. That’s OK – I mean, my math skills probably only go up to 8th grade algebra, and my ego regarding that isn’t all that big, but it was a bit of a disappointment, especially since in 1991 I got a B in algebra at West Los Angeles College (only because my then-boyfriend, insisted on making me study).

By the way, the teacher of that algebra class alledged that Belinda Carlisle babysat for his kids, and I want to go on record right now and call that out as bullshit. Too bad I can’t remember his name.

Anyway, whatever information those two guys drilled into my head has apparently evaporated along with the name of my teacher, so here I am, waiting for another judgment on my non-existent skills. The English part I’m not all that worried about.

I got here super early – I didn’t read the email very well (not a good sign) and thought the exam begins at 9, however, the check-in and drop off of your personal items is what begins at 9 (according to the email; the woman in the office where I’m supposed to leave my stuff said it starts at 9:30). So I’m sitting on a bench outside the Weekend College office (which looks like a combination of craftsman and storybook; were these buildings more extravagantly painted, they would look right at home on Main Street at Disneyland) trying to remember the things that have been in my head for a little while.

On the drive here, a woman in a little Mini pulled up to me on the 110. I was alternating between NPR and the Kevin and Bean Show (like all 46-year old people tend to do), and she was listening to some kind of rap. I couldn’t hear her music clearly because Morning Edition was too loud. But she looked right at me, bobbed her head to the music she was listening to, and gave me the hugest, widest, sweetest smile I’ve ever gotten from a stranger on the freeway.

Considering that I have had some bad experiences on the 110 (I once saw a stray dog get hit by a car right next to me and I cried all the way to work), it was a nice way to start my day.

It’s hot in LA now, and instead of the dry heat we all prefer, incredibly muggy. My mother used to say muggy. Is it a word? Anyway, I’m sweating and I’m not even doing anything except typing and sitting here.

I had lots of things in my head to say, but since I couldn’t just pull over to jot them down and my iphone hasn’t been obeying my commands to “TAKE A NOTE,” apparently most of those things have gone the way of my algebra skills. It made me think of that scene from the West Wing, when CJ goes to check in on Danny Concannon, who is writing a piece about the White House’s decision to kill Omar Shariff (not the character’s real name; I just can’t remember it), and she asks him what he’s doing because he promised to wait three days before filing it, and he goes, “I’m filing in 3 days, I still gotta write it.” At least I remember that, though it's not exactly what's going on with me, which is more along the lines of good old-fashioned forgetfulness. 

So I wrote all the previous paragraphs before I went in to take the test. It turned out that I only had to take the math part, and while it wasn't as horribly hard for me as the test I took at LBCC last year (I swear to god that test was written by the aliens in the movie "Contact") my results still weren't good. I'll be taking Math 2X, which I think means "Math You Should've Learned 30 Years Ago, Dummy." It's OK though, because I don't want to be an engineer or a test pilot or a doctor, so whatever, let me pass whatever remedial math courses I need and get on with it.

It's official: I'm a bluesman now.

I really, really need to work on my time-management skills. Here it is, Friday, and I have a two page paper due tomorrow. I have about 40 pages of assigned reading to do, and who knows how much research + listening to get through so that I can intelligently discuss what it is I need to discuss... and here I am, at the library, blogging.

I came downtown to the LB Main Library. I haven't been here, I think, since we moved to Long Beach. This place is HUGE. There's a ton of construction happening in the area. I was disappointed when parking - the public lot had EV parking available, but since I'm not a member of the system they use (Blink), it turned out to be more complicated than it should have been. I downloaded their app and was all set to join but they're having issues with credit cards today (I called someone to find out what was going on), so no EV charging for me. 

Anyway. I need to read. At some point, I need to listen. And later, I will need to write. The hard part, I suspect. All week I've gotten in bed after getting Jules to sleep, and I've thought, I've got things to do. Instead, I played Candy Crush, texted my friends, did some online shopping, finished watching all 7 seasons of the West Wing (again), and didn't do anything I was actually supposed to. 

The point of this post, however, was to tell you that I got 50/50 points for my 12 bar blues, and received this comment, of which I am strangely proud:

"I can't hear your track very well. But it's a great recording. You nailed the form and timing. Great work!!"

So you know, maybe I'll give up this academic stuff I've embarked on, and instead become a bluesman. Hey. It could happen. 

I've got the blues, but only for 12 bars.

Last week was the first week of my online history of jazz class at LBCC. It's more fun and less cheesy than I expected. Not being the world's greatest time manager, I kind of waited until the last minute to do the assignments that were due by 11:59 PM on Saturday.

Mostly it was easy: a couple of quizzes you can retake (twice, I think), an introduction to the rest of the class in a forum, and...

A 12 bar blues song, which we had to write and perform ourselves.

I found some random dude playing a pretty standard blues lick (yeah, I know the lingo, shut up) in a key that I could sing, let it play a few times, then opened my mouth and sang something that had been on my mind all day. 

My lyrics were:

I'm just a little boy - what can I see

I'm just a little boy - what can I see

I see my mama, she's looking at me

Initially I was thinking about Jules, but then I started thinking about a story a friend had told me about something horrible he witnessed as a small boy, and now I'm thinking it's really about that. It's one of those stories, if true - no, even if it's not - that sticks with you. It sticks with me.

I didn't mean to imply that my friend is a liar, but he was a very young child when the event took place. I think it had an enormous effect on the rest of his life, but I'm not qualified to analyze him and he wouldn't want me to try. He's just a dude with a story. I was glad he told me. Maybe one day I'll tell you. 

Anyway, my little blues thing turned out better than I expected, but since I turned it in so late (11:20 or something), I didn't get any feedback from my classmates. My teacher hasn't submitted grades for that assignment yet, which is actually KILLING ME.  Since I needed some sort of confirmation that it didn't suck, I shared it on Facebook, where my friends were supportive and surprised ("That was YOU?" someone commented), but I'm not trying to be a singer. I'd like to have a story to tell, though. That would be cool, wouldn't it? 

Saturday I had my meeting with the academic adviser, and I think I have a path to get started on (boy, that's a clumsy sentence). Open the door, I'm coming in! My therapist once told me that in order to make big changes, you just have to do one thing at a time. Pretend you're in the dark, with a pretty shitty flashlight, and concentrate on the one small thing you can see. So that's what I'm going to do. The whole thing is not going to be easy, and it's not going to happen overnight, and I may fail or hate it or find another goal to chase but here we go, I'm starting.

By the way, the Doheny campus is amazingly beautiful. I arrived early for my appointment and had to use the restroom, so I walked up to a building marked "Administration," opened these huge, elegant, glass doors, and stepped into.... an empty room. I found a bathroom and used it, but it was a weird feeling, being in that big pretty building, with all the lights on, alone. I walked outside and stood on the huge porch and felt like I had gone back in time.

Then I had to go back in because I'd left my phone on the toilet paper dispenser. 

I meet with the financial adviser in two weeks to find out how I'm going to pay for all this.

The second week's big assignment in my jazz class involves writing a paper to compare and contrast Bix Beiderbecke and Louis Armstrong. I'm at the library now, catching up on the reading I was supposed to do, and looking for a couple more books about these dudes. The author of the book we're using in the course has a pretty style, but he kind of goes overboard sometimes. Take this sentence for example:

"At critical moments in the course of a solo, Hines's hands would nervously fly across the keyboard, letting loose with a jagged, off-balance phrase, a flurry of notes as agitated as a swarm of honeybees forced from their hive."  - The History of Jazz, Ted Gioia

That's some crazy writing. I mean, they had to be HONEY bees, right? 

What I really need to do more of is listening. I'm familiar with Louis Armstrong because everybody is familiar with Louis Armstrong (I like his "Hello Dolly") but I'm sure I've never heard the early stuff we're reading about now - when he was a young man, cheating on his piano-playing wife (her name was "Lil" and I think that's awesome), developing the style he'd be famous for later. The other guy, Beiderbecke, I've never even heard of, but he was there too, and he had a whole different kind of thing going on, and I need to familiarize myself with it so I can talk about it. I'm probably never going to write like ol' Ted up there, but that's okay, because this thing is due Saturday.

I should probably get back to work. 

Tears of a clown.

Tomorrow is my appointment with an academic advisor at Mount St. Mary. It's a 2 hour appointment, which is more time than I got from anybody at LBCC, but maybe I should stop talking shit about LBCC. It's starting to sound bitter. Anyway, I'm nervous. Why? Well, for one reason, I don't know where I'm supposed to park.

It's been a rough week. I decided to change my work schedule back to the 9/80 for the summer, and this was the first week of four 9-hour days. I'm actually really feeling that extra hour. It doesn't help that we are very busy at work, covering for absent/non-existent colleagues (all of us. There are five us, and then three missing). It seems that we take turns being miserable, being realistic, and being accepting. I think I'm in the accepting phase  (for now). It is so hard to be totally behind, work piling up and having unread emails and ignored voicemail messages, and then when you are at your breaking point (or near it), someone tells you to "do your best."

Dude, if I wasn't doing  my best, I wouldn't care at all. 

Anyway, luckily I work with a group of very fun people (having a nice work environment is a new one for me, and I am not taking it for granted). 

Here's an example, though I hope this story isn't somehow offensive. If it is, I am very sorry. It's possible I was having a bad reaction to my allergy medication.

My colleague, G. just inherited the case load of our departed colleague, D. (D. didn't die, she got a promotion). G. unfamiliar with D.'s cases, and since we tend to memorize and recognize the names of the people we work with, it was bugging her that she couldn't identify this one employee. The employee's last name is "Fu." 

Now. My colleague is a sophisticated woman who has the most beautiful jewelry I've ever seen. She's funny and smart and has this awesome Armenian/Russian accent. She speaks 4 languages. She's a smart cookie. 

After looking for this file for about 20 minutes, G. got frustrated and asked me to help.

"What am I going to do with this Fu," she asked, and for some reason that struck me as the funniest thing I had heard in a very long time. 

I was the only one who laughed. I laughed a lot. It took me quite a while just to stop giggling. I think the guy who sits on the other side of my cubicle was ready to call the Employee Assistance Program on my behalf.

Anyway, this week I have been tired, overwhelmed, achy, silly, and sad. Not all at once.

Please play "Tears of a Clown" (the cover version by the English Beat) now. You'll feel better. I do.