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Boola Boola

I told my husband I wanted to go back to college. “Why?” he asked. “You already have two college degrees. You have me, two kids, two dogs, and three cats–this house. Why on earth do you want to go back to college?”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Exactly, what?  What the hell are you talking about?”

“I want to go to a party school, too,” I said. “And I want to live in the dorm–like one of those dorms where maids clean the toilets and showers, and do the vacuuming, and stuff. I have great eye-hand coordination, I bet I’d be great at beer pong.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Oh thank goodness,  you found it!  Where is it?  I’ve been looking every–”

“I’m starved,”  he said. “What’s for dinner?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I definitely want to be on the meal plan. No cooking. No meal planning.” I swooned. “And no grocery shopping.” He buried his face in his newspaper. “I’m thinking about this school in Hawaii,” I continued. “It looks like they have some great programs I could really get into.”

“We’ve already been to Hawaii, dear,” he said. “I was thinking that this year we could take a week or two camping and fishing in Canada. The kids would love it.”

“I’ll try to get back for Christmas break, if I can.”

“You know, honey,” he said, “if you think you want to take a couple of classes on line, I don’t see why not. I don’t see why, either, but whatever.”

“They have a campus on Oahu. I wouldn’t be gone all that long. Four years, maybe.  An arts degree in Hawaiian basket-making. Maybe even a Masters. I’d be back before you knew it.”

“Well,” he said, as he turned another page of the newspaper, “that’s great. What did you say we were having for dinner?”

“Spam casserole with poi,” I sighed.