For three incredible hours, Eva was enrolled in full IB.
And she just about crapped her pants, because the first thing she noticed when she went to pick up her schedule from her new high school was that she was enrolled in IB Math. And she was less than stellar in math last year. And then to her horror, she noticed that all her courses were IB, not just the English, Social Studies, and Visual Arts that she had been accepted to. They even gave her IB Phys Ed! And if you know Eva, you know that's just wrong wrong wrong!
IB, by the way, stands for International Baccalaureate, which is a world-wide program of advanced high school courses. At graduation from high school, the student should have credit for several university courses.
Now English, Social Studies, and Visual Arts I can certainly see Eva accelerating in, but Math? Science? not going to happen, my friend.
But after driving back and forth from the school 175 times very very slowly because 14th Street was closed down because somebody had plowed into the overpass and it was crumbling, so everybody took Elbow Drive instead, in addition to initially forgetting our fees forms and cheques at home which we didn't notice till we got to the school, and it was raining so we got wet when we ditched the car a few blocks from the school because traffic wasn't moving and we were late for the appointment we had to make with the guidance office that afternoon to get the schedule fixed and besides Eva was already late because the doctor kept us waiting for her doctor's appointment... where was I going with this?... oh yeah, everything worked out okay.
So yesterday, we treated ourselves very nicely and listened to the final edition of Sounds Like Canada in the summer, where the daily correspondents (or as Sabrina Jalees, the Monday youthish correspondant called them - correspondencers) received their Jianee awards, and then headed to the mall to pick up our tickets for the New Pornographers /Novillero and the Frank Black concerts, plus a new NME, and we listened to Neutral Milk Hotel in the car where we howled along with Jeff Mangum at the top of our lungs.
Feel free to howl along to Two-Headed Boy, if you feel like it. Nobody is listening.
(apologies for the stream of consciousness post; that's just what it is like inside my head some days)
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