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.