To anyone who reads this blog, it's no secret that I am in
the last phase of another degree. I will
soon have enough useless diplomas to wallpaper an entire room. Some people collect coins or figurines or art
work. Apparently I collect college
majors. It's an expensive addiction, but
judging from others like me in the program, I am not alone in this quest.
One thing I am not, however, is techno-savvy. I know more about computers than some people,
but a helluva lot less than I need to should I ever want to change fields of
employment. Of course, the other day
when I fixed something the tech guy in the next room hadn't yet figured out, I
almost peed my pants with excitement. Yes,
apparently I am the piddling puppy of the computer world.
Here's the thing, though.
When I click on something, such as a link or a start button or the word
"send," I truly hope and expect that the computer will do exactly
what I tell it to do. If it doesn't, I
just get sad.
Take Friday night, for example. I know that I must have some work produced
for my Saturday thesis session, so I start spitting out some drafts and doing
some editing. I mean, I am busting my
chops getting this shit done. All I have
to do is send it to my advisor as an attachment.
I said, all I have to do is send it to my advisor as an
attachment.
All I have … all … I … do … send. Send.
Sendsendsendsendsendsend. SEND.
Motherfucker.
I am wasting valuable time trying to send three more
completed pieces to my advisor. What I
really need to be doing is prepping more material for the thesis writing
marathon session at the café. An
hour. My god, I've wasted a damn hour
fighting with this email. I check my
email. Nope, everything works fine on my
end. I check the university's email
because often times the server is down for maintenance. Nope, all systems are go.
Frustrated and totally pissed off (there's that peeing and
piddling reference again), I save my work to the computer and to a flash drive
and to Dropbox and call it a wash. I
prep my drafts for Saturday and vow not to even remotely consider trying to
attach these drafts to an email until I am in a calm state.
Finally, Sunday morning after mainlining a strong cup of
caffeine-laced tea, I am ready. I have
two computers -- the old one where all the original files are stored, and a
newer one that is equipped with the latest and greatest track changes
capabilities. I need to make sure
everything goes out through the upstairs computer as it will surely come back
with track changes in Office 2010. The
downstairs computer has Office 1852, or some such, so I have to make this work
no matter the emotional, psychological, or physical cost.
I sit at the computer, stare at the screen, and start
typing. First I call up the university
website. So far, so good. Then I enter into the email system. Still working. I open a new mail document and type in some
minor banter that basically means, "Here are some more drafts. Please be merciful as I am one step away from
having myself committed." I click
on the "attach" icon and … and … and … it opens. Holymotherofgod, it opens.
Stealthily, oh so craftily I attach file number one. Bingo.
Equally stealthily and equally craftily I attach file number two. Bingo.
Could it really be this painless?
Please, oh, please let document number three attach. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. Honestly, I am praying to the Microsoft gods
at this very moment, willing everything to work exactly as it is designed
to. I click the last item and … and …
and …
It attaches.
Light brightly shines through the sheer curtain. Trumpets blare. I swear I can hear angels singing.
Before I hit send, there are three small repeated words in
the corner by each document that read "preview." Should I?
Should I really dare? Oh, what
the hell. Like Peter Griffith staring at
the red button that claims "Do NOT press," I simply must preview the attachments. I check all three drafts. Except for some lazy formatting on one, which
I can fix later, everything looks good, I haven't lost anything nor accidentally
deleted the files, and my email banter sounds almost rational.
SEND.
I wait. Surely
something will go awry. Surely this will
all bounce back and smack me right between the eyes.
Nope. At least not as
of this moment. It appears as if all of
the files have traveled to their ultimate destination, to my advisor, without a
single hitch. Of course I thought the
same about paper #1, but that never arrived in her office, but papers #2 and #3
did. These are papers #4, #5, and
#6. I decide to re-edit #1 and will send
it off later this week so the professor doesn't feel bombarded and run away
screaming.
If all goes well, and with luck it will, I shall be able to
take my thesis when this is all done and wallpaper my entire townhouse with
it. After all, it will have about as
much value as the degree I'll be handed in May if I survive this thesis
process, and it will probably all go into the same pile as the rest. The good news is I can send it to my junk pile by hand.
It's easy, it's painless, and it's a guaranteed dunk.
