I registered for class last week. I matriculate at the local community college. Retention rate: 56%. Graduation rate: 13%.
It's a dream factory.
As I was standing in line to register Friday, the last day of registration because the only things that scare me more than bureaucracy are rats and aggressive birds (I'd tazer a goose in a second).
Side Note: I also had to wade through the P-Nut’s paper work to get her started in school. We’re both starting school. Like twins. Except my Dora backpack is huge. And filled with booze. No bottles or cans. Just backpack; booze.
It’s sloshy.
The paper work was crazy. Emergency contact cards had to be filled out in triplicate.
I am assuming this guarantees her triple the safety. I feel much better.
So, I was in line waiting to register myself. As I was standing in line there at the local CC, I thought, "If I were a con-man, I'd hang out at community colleges. You know most of the people here have likely made some pretty bad choices.”
It's about second chances.
Or third. Give or take.
I'm studying to be a nurse.
I'm studying to be a nurse for a lot of reasons:
I was inspired to do it during my wife's first pregnancy. There were some complications during the pregnancy and for the first month afterward, and the nurses were the ones who were there for us.
It’s an honorable position filled by people who are by and large known for their intelligence, compassion, and toughness.
I want to help.
Scrubs look so comfy.
I'm not squeamish.
I’ve always been good at making people feel better.
I want to have useful skills when the apocalypse comes.
I want it to mean something when I bolt into the other room and scream "stat!"
I love band-aids.
I have three of them on me right now.
I’m doing it for my wife. She’s the “employed one,” if you want to use that terminology. She’s a high school teacher. A great one. But it’s hard to remain great at that job year after year if you don’t have the option of walking away.
I'm doing it for my kids. I want to set an example.
Growing up, I was surrounded by musicians and comedians and various other potheads. Some were successful in their vocations to one degree or another, but not so much as people.
I want to be both for my kids. A successful person and a successful pothead.
I want them to know that Daddy kicks-ass. Compassionately.
I want them to see that at any moment, they can change the course of their lives. I want them to grow up and realize they’re in charge of their own destinies. I mean, after they leave home. As long as they’re here, mommy and I are squarely at the controls of the destiny starship. And their destiny is a time-out if they don’t pull it together soon
I want them to know I don’t want to hear any whining about homework because have you seen this chemistry crap I’m doing?
I want them to call me “Nurse Daddy.”
I want them to know they can’t fool me with a fake illness when they get older.
Also, the math I'm taking now will come in handy when they start bringing home more complicated homework. Imagine trying to help with an Algebra problem when you haven't seen one in thirty plus years.
So, I will improve at dealing with the bureaucracy. And I will get great grades. And I will be a fine nurse. And I will rub it in their adorable little grills every time they complain about almost anything.
It’s good to have a plan.
(Not really a pothead. Anymore. Weed free pee since 2003. Or 05. I couldn’t resist the rhyme.)
