Try to Be Something True; Dog Poop in My Field of Expertise

I’ve got to go to school.
Er, I’ve got to take a class, thirty CEUs, to maintain my certification with ASHA.
ASHA stands for tight-a** militant, career-obsessed sycophants who’d prostitute themselves if it fluffed a resume.

They hold the keys to jobs within my field.

Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate regulations. I know there’d be Aunt Archie without ‘em. Anyone could ink a tatt, teach school, or craft fake nails with poisons from Hanoi if we didn’t have Rules.

I’m ready to jump through the proverbial hoops. If my jumping involves the absolute minimum of work at the absolute last possible moment, I’m all for it.

This is my Yikes! Holy Crap! Hail Mary play, so things gotta sync.

I don’t know which is worse, calling ASHA or dealing with John A. Logan College.

JALC is [rightly] proud to be a non-trad friendly institution, but their online application fails to flesh out their claim.
It won’t let me enter anything under “Collegiate Record.”
Seeing as I’ve never been arrested, and I barely put a toe into the workforce, my college record’s all I’ve got. (Unless they’re keeping track of tanning time. Who's keeping track of tanning time?)

Why won’t JALC’s website let me enter “Completed Graduate School”? It won't let me indicate "Master's Degree."

“HellooooO… “ I said to my computer monitor. Nada.

I checked my Bubbster’s Hictionary for “post-graduate.” It’s defined as “sixteenth grade” in the south.
Now all’s well for my app.

Except for the fact they need proof of residency from residents, and high school transcripts from peeps who came of age before high school was invented.
They want a note from my dead mother.
And I have to pass a prostate screening.

I tell myself it’s cuz I’ve got all my teeth and I speak coherent English. I’m a stranger in a land that’s stranger.



Then I call ASHA and get their “WTH?” treatment from a TAMCOS.

It’s ridiculievable:

The Tight-A** Militant Career-Obsessed Sycophant asks me about my “emphasis in the field.”
Me: “I’m a stay-home mom.”
Her: “Is that rehab or acute?”
Me: (Honey it’s terminal, but that’s neither here nor there.) “Pardon me?”
Her: “Are you working in medical?”
Me: “No. I’m at home.”
Her: “Oh, you work in the school system, got it.”
Me: “No, I’m not doing speech therapy. I’m a Stay Home Mom. Listen; steɪ hoʊm mɒm. ( bɪtʃ .)”
(I signed that very last part too. Wish we had Jetsons' TV phones.)



Going to class will mean having to leave my desk chair.

I’ll be outside my house.
Not on the patio.
And not in the yard.

I’ll be in class amidst the unwashed masses. In the throng.

It’s not optional.
I’m kind of a big deal in the art of quitting.
But this time I have to Go. And I have to Do. Without excuse and without fail.

Classmates will see my Uncool Ways and know right off that I Don’t Fit.
They’ll know I’m too big for my body. I’m a self-conscious boor.

They’ll see the Real Kel, without the skilled wordsmithery.
There’ll be no hiding my chipped teeth and sideburns behind a well-tooled euphemism.

Real Life Kel isn’t able to make puke, poop, and peepees into Good Fun.

No one will wanna hear about My Cats at the Community College.

Classmates will see Kel, without proofing or spellcheck.

They’ll call me Kelly, (cuz why would I bother?) and they’ll see the crepe paper skin on my hands.
I’ll have to commit to manicure excellence, cuz nobody wants to see hooker nails.

Speaking of over-the-top hygiene standards; I’ll have to shower practically every day. And no matter what the locals think - PJs are not acceptable attire for leaving the house. I'll have to Dress Accordingly, which for me means Fashion Frustration.

I’ll have to stay ahead of the unibrow, the bleaching, waxing, shaving, and hair coloring. (I hate hair coloring, but I love those first precious hours before gray hairs re-emerge. WTH?)

On top of all this I’ll have homework. No worries though, cuz I’ve said it before; nothing keeps me from blogging.

I wonder if they’ll let me take pictures in class.