The final week for my Masters class arrived. I made it
through! And there are a few people I wish to thank. First, I would like to
thank the University for making sure that the semester was only 15 weeks. One more week and I would have flown to Costa
Rica to set up a stall selling bags. (I can’t make bags or anything but I seem
to have accumulated enough. And if I run out, I figure I can always bedazzle
the one million grocery bags that live under our sink. Who wouldn’t want a
bedazzled grocery bag? I wouldn’t sell them for much; just enough so I could
live in a tent on the beach and shower in a real shower… like at the hotel down
the beach or something… I realize this seems overly thought out. This is
because there were many moments that I thought this may be my only option. And
even though I should have used the time I wasted on this to improve my essay,
it is important to have a well thought out back-up plan.)
Next, I would like to
thank my professor for trying to teach me even though I never had any idea what
she was saying. Third, I would like to thank a different professor for
introducing me to the magical study room. I must be very cryptic here, because
the room is not just for me; so if a fellow student reads this and takes it for
themselves, the magic will be sucked out of it - never to return. So don’t
expect very much description of the room. I realize description is important
(because I learned this in my undergraduate courses) but not when a loss of
magic will ensue. One day, a meeting with my professor about my essay (this is
in addition to the meeting that inspired this post) did not go well. Basically,
she read the short portion that I thought was my best work and said, “This is
really good, you should just rewrite it all…” So, I was wondering if I should
head home or hunker down in the library. I wondered this out loud (as I have
been extremely prone to do over the last six weeks). A different professor said,
“Here, how about you work in this room.” Then she produced a magical key and I
entered the Magical Fairy Study Room. I logged on to the provided computer and
began working. It was good but then the magic started. First, it had a window so I could look out over other graduate students; I couldn’t really hear but
they started doing some sort of acrobatics. Like my own private show! Then
(and this is the most magical part) professors came and checked on my progress.
If I said it was not going well, they offered suggestions like, “Subjects
should always go at the front of your sentence” and “Yes, that is how you spell
anti-Semitism” and “No, that paragraph does not make you sound like an
anti-Semite." If they didn’t offer advice on my essay, they just stood there
telling me how amazing I was and if I kept going (and didn’t move to Costa
Rica) I would make it. It was a magical room; it even had a dictionary of literary
terms so I could look up words my actual professor had said in our meeting like:
“naratee” and “ecumenical” which really I should have known because she said
this is the system of beliefs I seem to hold… Not naratee, which is just a character,
but ecumenical. (Although by the time I looked it up, it was too late to tell
her I do not subscribe to many ecumenical beliefs. But on second thought, it was
probably for the best because it was 100% likely that I would have started
raving about religion, standing to my feet in her small office, raging
against the establishment and all the ways it pisses me off. Being that she is
not ecumenical, this would have been a waste of BOTH of our time…) Also, (back
to the magical room) the above mentioned postgraduate acrobats (one in
particular, who I don’t have permission to mention here, but you know who you
are) would suddenly show up and valiantly fight against the computer dragon
(computer dragons are real in magical rooms) that kept messing with my format and Bibliography. So thanks to them as well.
Anyway, it was magic and I am pretty sure it sprinkled magic dust on my essay
too.
Next, I would like to thank associated friends who I ignored,
or did not ignore but stayed only long enough for them to caffeinate me while I
complained about how this essay was trying to kill me. Or those I did not ignore,
but showed up a half an hour late for most interactions - barely apologizing
because I hadn’t even managed to shower; so getting there a half-hour late
seemed like I had achieved something amazing. Also sometimes it wasn’t even my
fault. One time, I was only running five minutes late, when I raced out to my car
only to see a bit of bird fluff on the ground. I recoiled, afraid the cat had
become a homicidal maniac and then realized the rest of the bird was sticking out of the
grill of my car. I was tempted to leave it. However, it was a very cold day and
I planned on using the heater on full blast and not knowing (or even caring to
know) how cars work, I assumed I would be breathing in dead bird for 40 minutes
of my drive. So I summoned my inner warrior goddess and found a stick. Thinking
I could just scoop it out, I stuck the stick in behind the pile of feathers
(and one yellow leg dangling in a very sad, dead way) and pulled. It squished a little, I almost threw up,
and it did not budge. I tried again. Squish, gag, nothing. Then I realized its
wing was caught so I tried to push that down. Poke, gag, poke, gag. Pull,
squish, gag - nothing. I was now a half an hour late. I called Al at work, who
was “busy”. (I do not believe he was busy but because I had so frantically
asked for him, he could hear it and probably said to say he was “busy”.) So, as punishment, I
made his colleague tell me if I could drive with a dead bird in my grill. (Which come to think of it, is punishing her not him... dang it.) Once
she could understand the words I was squealing and sort of crying, (not really…
it was a sort of moan that was helping me keep the vomit down…) she said it was
fine. She also seemed to know enough things about cars that I could trust her.
She said things like “radiator” which I know is in a car, I just have no idea
what it does and possibly something about “intake” but I can’t be sure. So off I drove. I tried not to use the heater (because Al's colleague had thought I was worried about the car, not the breathing in of bird fluff so she didn't say if it was bad to turn on the heater)
but my hands were starting to go numb so I turned it on low. All I could think
of was the little bits of dead bird fluff filling my lungs. So I tried to
breathe with my head turned sideways and cough every few breaths or so. I arrived
to meet my two friends thirty five minutes late now and told them my story.
They promised to rescue me before I went to hot Yoga and after picking up some
gloves from the science department at the university. Unfortunately, because I
was late, we had to head straight to the car with no gloves and my friend who
has already found her inner warrior got down on her knees and began her fight
with the bird. All the while I was gagging.
And apologizing because my gagging was impeding her ability to picture
herself on a lovely island somewhere or whatever she was doing to avoid
throwing up too. Eventually the bird was freed. The evidence is below. So, thank
you friends who rescue you from dead birds! I am sure I have forgotten someone.
You know who you are. Thanks again! (As I read this back, for editing purposes
which I rock at now (sort of), I am aware that my level of excitement, poor
syntax, and Academy-Award-style of thanks may indicate that I have finished my
master’s degree. This is untrue; it was just one class. But it felt like
completing a Masters… this does not bode well since I haven’t even started my
thesis…)
