Intro to Naked Dance or Origins of Oompa Loompa's ? Decisions, Decisions.

Tomorrow I venture 60 miles south to the land of higher education and attempt to look only half as stupid as I am.

It's time to register for my fall classes at the University of Illinois and I am clueless.
Less than clueless.
In fact, I at this moment have less clues than our current president.

Now THAT is clueless.

I have completed all the on-line "homework" and created the endless passwords needed to access the endless websites in regards to financial aide, payment options (like paying for university is optional), housing (no, thank you...I already have a bed...and a roommate) and language placement tests.

Speaking of which, my French is very rusty being, EVEN THOUGH I HAD 6 YEARS  as I last took a class with Mr. Pinot G. back in 1976, so it's unlikely I'll place any higher than my 9 year old granddaughter in that arena. Well, I do remember that psycho French song about the boy cutting up a chicken piece by piece but I bet that won't help my case.

I have also planned to leave at least two hours too early so I don't get lost or show up late but mostly so I can find a coffee shop and inhale my usual pot of java before I have to again admit I am two and in some cases, three times as old as the other undergrads.

But still I am clueless about what classes I need to take since I've not yet had a clear answer about which of my former classes taken back in prehistoric times, will actually equate to a similar class at U of I. So, there is a good possibility my general education requirements will be met...or they will not and I'll have 60 credits (thank you Black Hills State College, Spearfish, South Dakota)  to use towards "electives."

If that happens I'll be stripped of the joy of choosing between classes like Intro to Naked Dance, generally what happens when I get out of the shower, lose my balance pulling on my grandma underwear and struggle not to hit my head on the toilet...again, or Origins of The Oompa Loompas which would only be fun if Gene Wilder himself taught the class. Yeah, I know, I miss Gilda too.

Regardless, I am placing myself at the mercy of my academic advisor. I am sure she will only advise me to take classes that will meet the requirements of my Creative Writing major while providing me with a most well rounded education. I am equally sure all my classes will fit in perfectly with my personal life of full time farmwife, mother, grandmother, free-lance writer and struggling novelist and crappy horsewoman.  I am even more sure all my classes will be located closely to each other so I won't huff and puff and lie down for a nap as I enter each lecture hall.

If not, at least she can point me back to that coffee shop I was in. I think I left all my registration paperwork on the counter between the eclairs and the croissants. Hey, look at that...I remembered more French!