Since I have waaayyy too much to share about the Nicaragua trip, I’m going to do what I do best: multi-task and write this quick, interim post before I start blogging about that.
I’m back. Malaria-free – which was questionable for the last 2 days. I’m feeling 90% at 5:30pm on Wednesday, so I’ve already messaged my trainer and will be there promptly at 6am tomorrow to get this rice and bean butt back in shape.
When I picked Liv up from Bball at 4:45pm after speeding home from Toledo meetings, I found my final paper from my final class in the mailbox. Graded. I’m sure most of you know the class was on Esther. Almost too good of a setup to be true for, well, you know.
I may have a few feminist tendencies and opinions, but I assure you I kept most of them to myself in an effort to go out with a bang. Straight A’s thus far (and by “A’s,” I mean two have some marking after them – clearly due to those profs battling Parkinson’s causing a slip of the pen). Much like my customers do when I hand them a proposal, I flipped to the last page.
Woman-hating, arrogant, multi-lingual know-it-all. Would it kill the guy to give a solid A?
10 classes. 7 regular A’s and 3 A’s given by diseased-stricken professors. 3.895 in a Master’s program. On a 4.0 scale.
Seriously? What is my problem? Especially after being where I was recently? I’ll tell you.
Subjectivity. He gave me an A- sheerly because he could. There were no tests, no multiple choice answers. There was no black and white anything except the text within those little ten chapters about a woman who outsmarted all the men around her. And although I used the 15 required references, I “focused on Fox’s commentary too much,” – Fox being not only brilliant, but outlining the antithesis of my Parkinson Prof’s dissertation.
Oh, and I used “trenchant” in place of his preferred “sarcastic.” No comment.
But guess what? I AM DONE! Woo-hoo! First call tomorrow? Registrar’s Office so I can get the real diploma mailed to me. I’ll love it when “You’ve Got Mail” enters my mind. Speaking of…Nora Ephron died. Not that I am happy about that, however I am encouraged by her writing. It wasn’t that great – all very conversational in style and the only thing she said of any interest was with regard to her divorce and some interesting men she dated afterwards…which means…
Someday, while wearing a Boston Marathon jacket, I will be writing that book after all. Maybe I’ll call it “4.0.”
Glad it’s only Sleepless in Seattle these days.