Large Maze, Small Cheese – or, Scholarships Shmolarships

And I thought the FAFSA was bad. Scholarships have got to be the greatest, most colossal waste of my time ever. Unless I’m some kind of brainiac (nope), the next Michael Jordan (way nope), or was born on an Indian Reservation (they may prefer to be called Native American), then there’s no way I’m getting anything. And I can hear your protests now: “But you’re going to nursing school. There has to be thousands of scholarships out there for nurses.” Oh, there is. There is.

But these people never intend to hand it out. That’s why they make the application process so hard. You name – easy. Address – no problem. Official transcripts – okay, that might take some time, but doable. Essay on who you would have lunch with, alive or dead – okay…I guess I could do that. Your picture – What? No, I’m serious. One scholarship program designed expressly for nurses asked for a picture. There was even a box to paste it in. What is that? They don’t give scholarships to ugly people now? Or maybe it’s the pretty ones they don’t like, maybe someone is trying to even out the cosmic forces that seem to favor beauty over non-beauty, as defined by a modern society. Who knows? Then they want aptitude testing scores. I don’t even know where that would be if I even knew whether or not I took it if I even knew what it was. Then I’m supposed to march into school and track down the director of the program and get them to sign the form. Then, and only then can I put my name in. Ridiculous. I don’t even have to exaggerate on this one. I’ve had it. I’m not writing twelve different essays about eating lunch with dead people, or what kind of a tree I would be if I were a tree, or whether or not I would shoot baby Hitler (actually, that’s a good one. I made that one up. It’s too good to be real).

People are always saying how hundreds of thousands of dollars in grant and scholarship money goes unclaimed every year, and how it’s so sad for these programs that just want to put money into the hands of worthy students. Well how ’bout this, bleeding hearts: how about you all get together and make one big application so that normal people with normal time schedules can have a shot? How about that? Like a FAFSA for scholarships. You put in all your dumb information, then you write one dumb essay on, oh I don’t know, maybe something about you. What you plan to do when you graduate. Just putting it out there. Then, all these scholarship people who are just dying to give money away can all go to the same place and choose the kids they like the best. It’s that simple. Think about it.

The Poor House vs. Debtor’s Prison

These are basically my two choices. Like a lot of people seeking to improve their station through education, I am put in a precarious position. I have to spend money to make money. I have to take money to give it back. I have to borrow money from the bank so that I can get a degree that will earn me just enough money to be able to pay my student loan debt. Well, okay, I’ll do a little better than that, but it’s the principle. It comes down to one of two situations: 1. borrow the money and don’t look back; 2. borrow just enough to put food in your mouth about half as often as you would like; or 3. don’t borrow any money at all in the hopes that everything will work itself out somehow. So that was three. There’s a bonus in there for you. And as to that bonus, it isn’t completely out of the question. Husband got a new job which pays a little more, the exorbitant amount of money I have been sending monthly to the credit cad people is about to be paid off, and I can do without a few things here and there, no problem. That just leaves the figuring out of how to pay for school. It’s not actually all that much. It’s a Junior College for goodness sake (oh, but a really good one – don’t think those thoughts when I say Junior College). The math almost works out, which means we really could try it without too much risk. I’m willing to live in the Poor House for a couple of years to avoid Debtor’s Prison for ten.

But what works out in theory, on paper, and especially with my meager math skills, isn’t always what happens in real life. Crap comes up, and you have to deal with it and pay for it when it happens, which usually means you end up paying for it long after that as well. So maybe Debtor’s Prison isn’t so bad in exchange for peace of mind while I’m in school. I’m going to have enough stress as it is (seriously, it’s a really tough program. You have to believe me. I should never have said Junior College). I could borrow enough to be comfortable, put it aside for just in case, and then pay it back when I start making some major RN cash! I know there’s nothing wrong with borrowing money for school, it’s probably the most noble of debts, really. But I just can’t help from conjuring up visions of Dickens-like incarcerations a la Masterpiece Theatre’s Little Dorit.

And I know what some of you are thinking (there is more than one person reading this, right? Okay, then mom, I know what you’re thinking): why don’t you get off your lazy seat cushions and apply for some scholarships! You can’t hear me laughing right now, but it is a terrible, almost cruel laugh and it is more at my expense than yours. Scholarships I will address in another episode, when I have more energy and a less Christian vocabulary.

A Small Triumph

From this point on to graduation, each small victory must be duly noted. Here is my first of what I hope will be many tiny triumphs, and this one is pretty substantial. A perfect school bag, who can find? It sounds trivial, but given some serious thought it is almost impossible to expediently settle on one as opposed to another. What could be more defining of you in those first few moment’s interaction with your classmates than that huge, book lugging apparatus attached almost permanently to your shoulder? Two years lay ahead of me, and in those two years one of the only constants will be that glorious bag, for glorious it must be. I searched everywhere, every website (and by that I mean a few hours on Amazon), every store (namely Target, Old Navy – what did I think I would find there?), thought through every option presented to me. I’m not the girl pulling her books along in a wheeled device better suited for airports, and I’m not the one giving myself a huge backpack hunchback, not even for the newer one-shoulder inventions. No, I want a bag. I want a nice, fashionable but functional, cool and sophisticated, modern but classic, expensive but cheap, fit for all seasons school bag. How hard is that? Well, it was hard, but I did it. I found it. It is everything I need. Pretty but industrial, Sleek but compartmentalized, Steve Madden, but under $30. Thank you Marshalls:

 

Yes, you are seeing four pocket compartments right in the front. It's okay. You can be impressed.

WTF (What The FAFSA)?

Seriously, have you ever tried filling one of these things out. Things I never knew about myself that now the government wants to be made privy to. Like how much money I paid in taxes last year. I don’t want to know that! Are they just trying to make me angry? My mother’s social security number. I’m 26 years old people, what’s my mom got to do with it? What’s your mom’s social security number? See how that feels? You don’t want to give that to me. What a question. More examples, as clearly as I can remember them from three days ago:

 Are you a retired veteran of the United States Military? What? A veteran? Two pages ago I explained in great detail that I was born in 1982, gave you my social security number, ever single numerical value from my W2, and you can’t gather from that information the fact that I might not have been present to storm the beaches of Normandy? Are you serious?

What amount, if any, of your parent’s income was received through non-traditional workforce means, as in contributions to their personal finances by way of private donations, government programs, and food stamps? Huh? I’m not asking my parents that. What a question. What does it even mean? I gave my parents a ham for Thanksgiving last year, is that what they’re talking about? A Thanksgiving ham? Is there a numerical amount on that, above and beyond the actually price paid? Is  there some kind of sentimental value attained by a Thanksgiving ham that would somehow prevent me from getting the full dollar amount from the government so that I can go to RN school? What about Birthday presents? What about when everyone in the office pools money together to get lunch, but maybe my dad put his money in last, and the guy collecting the money was like “don’t worry, man, there’s enough here already,” is that the kind of thing we’re talking about here?

On your tax return, what, if any, amount was allocated for the purchasing of non-traditional food items, including but not limited to cheese that may or may not be sold in it’s natural form, in a can or other alternate device, and which may or may not retain its original and natural color? Okay, so that’s not, perhaps, the exact wording of the question as far as I can remember, but that’s just about the gist of it.

Then they take all this information, all this crazy weirdo information, and somehow come up with a magical number that they feel they can spare from the US government so that small, insignificant you can go and learn how to do nursing real good. Then they give you another number that you can borrow from a bank, and then pay it back at about three times its original value. This last number is usually a lot larger than that first number. I don’t know, but if I were the US government I’d maybe start giving less of its hard-earned money to future business analysts, and more to the people that may potentially save your life someday. Or how about this: take all that money that I paid the government last year, and give it back so that I can go to school this year. What better use can they possibly think of for it but to put someone like me through RN school. Come on.   

 

 

Freaking Out

Yesterday was orientation, and I’ve barely enough brain power left to record it. Of course they want to scare you, alarm you, panic you with all that talk about signing away your life for the next two years, the whole “you belong to us now” bit. Thing is, I believe them. I do belong to them, starting August 17. I’ve never belonged to anyone before. Well, maybe Sean (the husband), but nothing like an institution for learning. But really, if you’re going to be owned by someone, isn’t a college the best owner to have? I think so. Oh man though, I have no idea what’s going to happen. Getting in was hard enough. They’re pretty clear about the fact that this is the #1 nursing program in the Nation. Number one! How did I get here? There’s a big cosmic crack somewhere, and I slipped right through it, and that’s why I am absolutely freaking out. I can’t let on. They can never know, and so I have to bust my hump to make sure I post numbers just as good, no even better, than my classmates, who are now the only family I have, according to my owner. I must rely on my classmates, because they will be the only living breathing thing I will be able to interact with for four semesters. It sounds so ridiculously overblown, and yet, again, I believe them. They own me.