Wednesday, January 25, 2006

"DAY ... n. - A PERIOD OF 24 HOURS, MOSTLY MISSPENT." ~ Ambrose Pierce

!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I am just RAGING this morning. I’m calling to set up these stupid effing showings and Jane’s taking the client out TOMORROW and this mothereffer doesn't call me back. Hello this is real estate. Do you want to make money, or not? Honestly. And their stupid phone system.... ugh! I had to call like four times already this morning (and have wasted about 20 minutes of my life) trying to get a hold of SOMEONE in this office and nobody's there. Fine. Truck 'em.

Raging? I know. Such an interesting adjectival phrase to describe my sentiments so very early in the morn.

I hauled my ass out of bed at like 7:15am and somehow got downtown to DePaul to meet with my counselor by 8. In fact, I was even there early at 7:58am. *sfx: applause* ::bows:: thank you thank you, I’d like to thank my hair for the fact that I didn't even really have to bother doing it this morning in attempts to get there on time. Anyway.

So, yeah I’m looking at the office and the whole thing is frigin dark. And I’m like are you KIDDING me? I pay $30K in tuition a year for these people to stroll in at the last minute when I’m risking the potential of being late.....blah. Okay fine no big deal. I checked my fury at this point. So I’m staring at the door and I see this sign "please use other door" well where the eff is the arrow indicative of this said other "door"?!

Inquiring minds would like to know.

Okay fine. No other goddamn door. FINE. I start peering in and I notice a woman in the middle of the office sitting at a computer in the dark. (Can we say, short bus special?) so, using a combination of the sign language I learned off the back of the frosted flakes box in 5th grade and my interpretive dance skills I picked up when I was living with the Okalokakeeqoo tribe in south Africa last summer, I choreographed an inquiry as to where this other door is. She then attempted to sign something back but I think she had learned her skills from that of the Lowanayas tribe and somehow there was a glitch in her communicatory transmission. apparently my face spoke above and beyond that of my signing skills so she finally walks over and opens the door (just a crack, though...god knows lots of students in french blue dress shirts with blue pinstripe pants and Farah Faucet flipped hair could be nothing other than deleterious)

"The office opens at 8am"


"It's 7:58 and I have an 8am appointment"

"Well, the doors will unlock in a couple minutes."

Oh phew. I thought those tuition dollars were actually going towards something USEFUL. Well. clearly this new enlightenment that teachers are a head and shoulders ABOVE utilizing a key to grant them access to their offices just sent me into a mode of mollification that no words could do justice.

Tick tock. Tick effing tock. *CLICK* oooh. I guess the great doors of oz have opened. What a party. In my pants. Hooray.

"Hi I have an 8 o'clock appointment with Freidman Whitney?"
"Oh yes. He should be in any minute. I’ll let him know you're here. When he gets here."

Just like that. Pause. 'When he gets here.' ::face assumes another distorted figure insinuating my level of disappointment with the services I’ve received thus far...::

"And when do you *pause* EXpect him?" "Oh any minute now."

Oh good. How reassured I felt. So I sit and fill out my little form that must I guess serve as liability protection to these idiots since we never had to file them before. Basically just a summation of what you discuss. Okay. blah blah name id # whatever. Ooooh. 10 after Mr. Whitney decides to stroll in.

Oooh good. I almost thought he would make me wait a few more minutes while the dark-dwelling troglodyte rolled out the red carpet.

Luckily I did not have to. Fine. So I sit down blah blah. "So what brings you here?"
Hmmm. Me = student. You = guidance thoughts?

"well I just haven't gotten an opportunity to wake up really reeeeally early for a meeting aaaall the way downtown only to be stood up and forced to wait for 15 minutes in oh, gee, I don't know forEVER so I thought perhaps it was time I set one up to do so. I mean, my week just isn't the same without something rubbing me just the wrong way so that I’m a blustering BITCH for at least one day."

My real reaction:

"To find how much longer I have to be in this hell hole."

ATOMIC BOMB HITS A DESERT THUS METAMORPHOSIZING ALL GRANULES OF SAND INTO TINY SHARDS OF GLASS THAT ARE CATAPULTED THROUGHOUT THE AIR AND FALL LIKE RAIN ON THE HEADS OF INNOCENT BYSTANDERS. (Oh was that one a little PC? And by PC I do not mean politically correct but instead MD as in melodramatic....) [it was such an easy shot to take]

And so our conclave commenced. We discussed the automatic "F" I got for my one class where the teacher failed to submit my grades on time (which I finished in due time on my part; however if the teacher doesn't submit anything, the incomplete grade automatically gets converted to an "F" for "fucking idiot teacher" I purport.) And basically he could have handed me a glass of sand and small mallet for "may as well pound this" because there's nobody other than this teacher that I can talk to about the grade. And I have been trying to get a hold of him for over a year now but to no avail; myriads of emails and phone calls have been sent in his direction to of which he responded to ZERO.

Just my luck
As usual
Getting nothing
Out of
Freaking teachers at this
Freaking school.

So my only recourse, apparently is to take off work and to go down to Lincoln Park and find out when his office hours are and stalk him out. because apparently he is a volunteer teacher and odes this out of the goodness of his own heart and because of that he isn't required to make any effort whatsoever to communicate via modern day technologies with his students. [Note: clearly that was facetious; this eff is getting paid just like I won't be when I have to take off work. Take off work to listen to him tell me that he WON’T change the grade. Watch, you'll see in the next episode.]

Oooh good.. Well THAT went so successfully that I was just LEAPING out of my chair to get to the crux of the conversation: when I can graduate.

He starts counting the classes ... "1, 2, 3, ...6,....12....13, oh well just assume you have to take this one over again (::me - tempestuously writhing in my seat::) ... + okay we'll assume 7 classes for your major and .... 21."

Tears #1-8 fall onto his faux wood desktop.

In a quivering voice I inquire "so what's the damage on THAT figure? How long?" "....mmmm well, *mentally calculates* spring summer fall winter fall ... oooh 'bout two years."

Tears #9-153259 fall from my face. Good thing I don't wear foundation or I would have had little lines all over my face from the salty water that sluiced (word of the day! .. On the most positive note of this email) from my ocular ducts.

yadda yadda the rest of this story; nothing worth mentioning after that.

So of course I am absolutely broken hearted. I have worked so hard for the last four years working my ass off at least full time to support myself and my family and trying to play guidance counselor, mom, college girl (which I suck at real bad), student, secretary (yeah that's right I said; admin professional whatever) and oh p.s. that cure for Parkinson’s disease and THIS is what I’m left with:

Running out of scholarships with one to two effing years left. SIX CLASSES I have that they won't count towards ANYTHING. They were communication classes from my old major but c'mon throw me an effing BONE here. Can’t we put ONE of those under the G.D. arts category? Or SOMETHING. But no.

After calling my dad and reporting my findings to him all I got was a "Well, HOW could it be taking so long?" I explain ... "Well, let's be honest here, Jen. School hasn't really been your main focus."

Don't even go there. I won't even dignifiy that comment with the retort it so openly presents.

I need to start researching the market for selling your eggs or kidneys or something else I have two [or more] of. ...I hear the CTA pays big bucks too....

And my date for tomorrow cancelled crab legs on me. P&Ls are taking a turn for the latter.:'(

"The ways of fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the world is a cruel jest." ~ Sherlock Holmes

If this sounds like a pity party parade and you're thinking "God. What's the big deal. Just do it and get it over with." Well, then go fuck yourself. Allow me to repeat: well, then go fuck yourself. Because this is my blog and I'm very pissed off. Am I aware that things will all sort themselves out eventually? Yes. Am I familiar with the expression "Everything happens for a reason"? Yes. Am I aware that it was I that took off a quarter and then decided to change major and blahblahblah painted my own picture of misery as I presently perceive it (damn, talk about alliteration..)? YES. So please spare me comments pointing out the obvious. Just rub my back tell me that everything will be fine (and I'm pretty. That comment never fails to help either.)

>: (


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