big fat sigh of relief!

Jenni, you were right (rather, your Granny Spencer was) regarding the watched pot not boiling. Or the watched cell phone not ringing. The moment I let go, stopped obsessing (and you know I can obsess along with the best of 'em) and hopped in the shower, the mofo called me. I'm walking through the kitchen, hair in white towel-turban, other towel as strapless wraparound mini a-la the Go-Go's first album (minus the face masks) (what is it that I love so much about white towels? I still steal them from hotels and gyms; is that bad?) ANYWAY, I'm padding through the house to find me some clothes to put on, and BEEP! I hear my voicemail alert. I'm like, yeah, it's probably a wrong number, my mom, work, the dentist, anyone other than The Registrar. But guess what, it was her, and I called her back right away even though I had to move the towel to get my cell phone to my ear, and found out that 107.5 of my college credits will transfer!!! Add 5 to that from this biology class I'm taking this quarter, and I'm a mere 67.5 credits from my BA in Psychology...

Not that I've been accepted.

They probably won't let me in.

But IF I do decide to go for this, at least I know where I stand.

And can, quite possibly, get some sleep tonight......

cherry chapstick

Well! Now that I know I actually have at least one blog reader out there, maybe I'll be more inclined to post things. But the things that are on my mind right now are not at all appropriate for public consumption...

So how about I'll stick to the stuff I can share in print, since this is about as public as one can get.

10 hours till the offices at Current University of Choice open; I left a voicemail for the registrar today. And get this: her secretary called me back just to tell me she was out for the day.

Thanks.

More waiting.

So I just stare at my phone and my email, waiting.

Oh - and the mailbox.

I'm not at all in the now, except for these occasional run-ins where I am so focused it's scary, so there. Other than that, I'm not here. Like tonight: I got in my car, turned on my Blondie Live in Concert (1980) CD, and next thing I know, I'm pulling up in front of the house. (To quote David Byrne: How did I get here?). Now I'm sitting here watching my cursor blink, and replaying conversations in my head. My mind wanders......

Maybe I should just go to bed...daydream some more...but it's nighttime..."nightdream" isn't even a word -- maybe it's just so freakishly redundant, like "past history," that no one bothered make up a word for it. (I hope Miss Registrar from CUOC doesn't read this; she'll think I'm a nuthead. Do admissions offices google prospective students? I would. I totally would.)

People Magazine, you are amazing!

Have you seen the cover of this week's People? Clay Aiken: "Yes, I'm gay!"

How is this NEWS? Don't you have to be in, to come out?

What I want to find online and can't is the comedian who did the routine about George Michael's "coming out" --- "George Michael?? GAY??? No! Not the lead singer for Wham!" I guess you have to hear him do it; it's brilliant.

Also: Clay Aiken looks like a cross between Tea Leoni and David Duchovny, with the smallest bit of kd lang thrown in for good measure.

the latest

OK, so Miriam continues to delight me the most out of the four main characters. She is just so flippin' NUTS. We're on page 140; we have 10 completed chapters and bits and pieces of a few more. We have an end in mind but not on paper. We practiced writing a little synopsis and posted it on facebook just for kicks (no one has commented on it though, likely indicating it's as bad an idea as my inner critic tells me it is). The story seems at least moderately entertaining to me, but maybe that's just the flip side of hating your own writing more than anyone, is you also love it more than anyone. Anyway, here's the in-a-nutshell gist of the latest endeavor:

'Westport' is a tale of secrets kept, secrets spilled, things found out, and things never told. A tale of surprisingly intersecting lives as told by Abby, a pregnant teenage surfer girl; David, a seemingly average guy with a hidden penchant for various forms of escape; Veronica, turning 40 and falling fast down the rabbit hole of obsession and desperation (mental illness?) regarding her possible infertility; and Miriam, a pill-popping, chain-smoking nurse with a mean streak whose desire for peace and quiet lands her with a dead husband on page one. It's small-town living at its finest: you can only get away with so much for so long.

I don't know...maybe it's just me. But I'm enjoying it.

And then there's the school idea.

I decided it was long past time to finally complete the degree I left by the side of the road when I was but a wee lass...so I'm applying to {gulp} Universities, and have (as of Monday) officially gotten the science-requirement ball rolling and enrolled in an online class through the local comm coll: Bio125, AKA "The Survey of Human Diseases." It's spectacular so far. Who knew Memmler's The Human Body in Health and Disease 10th Edition could make such entertaining bedtime reading? Though I must say I've been having the strangest dreams this week, and am trying real hard to not self-diagnose.

My latest obsession: finding old pictures and posting them on facebook (1985 seems to be a year rife with snapshots from 10th grade lunchtime and I find myself weirdly sentimental -- mid-life crisis, anyone? Can I be pre-menopausal at 38? Or do I just need to up the St. John's Wort?)

All this while being a mom and a wife and working 40 hours a week at the best darn treatment center in the world, and my life is like, way super-full. The book might have to simmer away on the back-burner for a bit while I do the school thing. If I even get accepted to one (Will I? It's the question of the day, every day, and my sole reason for sprinting to the mailbox as soon as the mail jeep pulls away)...

So there's the skinny. I'm going to run out with this little one of mine and enjoy the last of this crisp autumnal Indian-Summer-with-a-hint-of-a-cold-front we're having up here in the Pacific NW.