Thesis Presentation Preparation Day - Time to Make the
Donuts! Actually, Time to Plan the
Presentation, which can clog up the mental system as readily as fried,
shortening-filled, dough ringlets can clog up the physical one.
The day starts out well enough. The car has enough gas to make the trip from
my house to Newburyport, I've already packed my paperwork, and the sun is
shining. I even manage to leave the
house on time. Everything seems to be
going well, too. I'm going the speed
limit when I pass the cop with the radar gun, and I manage to squeeze my car
between the truck that's going too slowly (I'm now ahead of it) and the truck
that's going along just fine (I'm still behind it, only closer).
Life is good until Hair-and-Make-Up Chick.
Hair-and-Make-Up Chick runs a red light and gets in front of
my car in Bradford by the fire station.
She screams out of a side street, tires squealing, hell-bent on getting
in front of me. Just Me. Nobody else behind nor in front. Just Me.
And as soon as she is ahead of Just Me, her car goes into slowpoke mode,
and she angles the rearview mirror toward herself.
I see her finger-brushing her hair. Brush brush brush - head swing hair toss -
brush brush brush - inspect self in mirror, and then she repeats the whole
thing. After the fourth head swing hair
toss thing, she starts inspecting and reapplying her make-up. I do not honk my horn until she has driven onto
the shoulder and nearly off the road for the fifth time.
I also notice that she has a sticker on her Acura that says
"NBPT." Pissah. I'm going to be stuck behind Hair-and-Make-Up
Chick all the way to Newburyport. She's
probably going to the same place I am, and I'll have to beat the crap out of
her and toss her off the nearest pier.
Not to worry because another Acura with another bimbo pulls
in between our cars and almost causes an accident. She promptly leans over, way over, as if she
is inspecting her center floor mat while driving, her head completely disappearing
way below dashboard level. Her Acura
starts careening toward the river, and, for a moment, I think this may be a
fitting end or her. Instead I honk, and
her head pops back up. If there were a
man in the car with her, I'd suspect that maybe she should've stayed in bed
rather than gotten into the car. I honestly
don't know WTF she is doing. Maybe she's
looking for the hair brush that finger-brushing Hair-and-Make-Up Chick seems to
have lost …. Brush brush brush…
Eventually Head-Up-Her-Own-Ass Woman turns, and I am left
following Hair-and-Make-Up Chick again.
My phone starts chirping, letting me know I have a text. I decide to pull over and read the text,
giving me a wider berth from Hair-and-Make-Up Chick, perhaps even saving her
life. The text is from one of the two
women I am going to meet. She's running
late and will be to the meeting place in about an hour. Not a problem, I'm still trying to out-run
Hair-and-Make-Up Chick to get to "NBPT" myself.
It is mid-morning on Friday, and I arrive at the coffee shop
for our meeting right about on time, but there are no parking spaces open. This could be because the ice has melted and
all of the spots normally taken by coffee drinkers are now occupied by their
rightful owners -- marina people. I see
my first boat of the season moving through the thawed waterway, making its way
out toward open water. It's the Coast
Guard. Behind it come a few more
boats. The illusion of summer moves
across the calm river like an unfulfilled promise. It was winter here a few short weeks ago, and
the lack of ice only presents the possibility that someday maybe it just might
possibly get warm enough to go without a down parka over everything.
I see my writer-friend Michaela pull in and park in a space
next to the handicapped space. I quickly
edge in next to her on the opposite side, hoping this is indeed a legal parking
spot. We go into the shop together, and
she does what she frequently does - takes out her wallet and pays for my tea
and banana bread. (Love her!) She orders an iced coffee and a scone. A few minutes later, we are getting down to
business and working on our presentation for next week.
Jessica (not my partner-in-crime pal Jessi, but equally
pretty and nice) arrives earlier than she anticipated, and we commiserate for a
few minutes about the state of our collective theses writing projects. By the time we get back on track, we have
decided that this entire odyssey, this production of pretentious papers, seems
less like an exercise in academic integrity and more like an exercise in
futility of Lucy and Ethel proportions.
Somehow the candy-packing scene from "I Love Lucy" worms its
way into our presentation, and, ridiculously enough, it makes perfect sense.
We decide that coffee and tea will no longer sustain us as
it is noontime, so we decide to go to a nearby Mexican restaurant. It is only a few streets away, but Michaela
offers to drive us. I know, I know, we
should walk, but I exercised the day before, and my legs are cramping. Besides, it's only a dollar or less to
park. I'll pay that to avoid walking
like stiff-legged Frankenstein across historic Newburyport where everyone will
be thinking, "Oh, look at that those two beautiful women, and how nice
that they've taken their homely, crippled friend out for a walk."
It's still a little windy out, so we decide to sit
inside. At the bar. At a tall table. Near the wall. Jessica notices that there is one area on the
wall that isn't bricked and looks all smooth and cemented like -- we all say in
unison -- "Cask of Amontillado."
Yes, we are English Geeks. Ten
minutes later there are chips, salsa, guacamole, and three drinks on the
table: Jessica and Michaela have
raspberry margaritas, and I have a pomegranate margarita.
Life is good.
We chatter some more, plan some more, eat some more, and
drink some more. Eventually the word thesis becomes nonsensical to me:
"Thesis? What thesis? What is a thesis? Who's got a thesis. Thee.
Sis. These is. Theeze iz.
Thsssuhssss…"
Okay, so life may be good, but sometimes tequila is better.
After paying the bill, we spill into the afternoon sun and
walk straight over to my favorite store in Newburyport, which turns out to be a
regular haunt of Michaela's, as well. We
drag Jessica in with us, look at funky clothes, oooh and aaahhh over the jewelry,
and bask in the heady stench of patchouli.
We decide to get semi-matching earrings for our
presentations: each set contains a combination of silver and gold. I also buy a small ring, Jessica gets more
jewelry, and Michaela buys miniature Worry Dolls in pouches for us to hand out
to our audience, should we have one for our presentation next week. We're betting against it, and bet that the
audience will be just ourselves and our moderator, but the Worry Dolls, tiny as
they are, aren't too expensive. It's a
worthwhile investment. We also plan to
take selfies with our audience … of no one.
It's going to be fun! And now we
all have new earrings. It's so worth it!
We agree to meet one more time before the presentation, and
then we'll just damn the torpedoes and jump into the whole thing with all six
of our feet. Who cares if we crash and
burn (which we won't because we are spectacular women and English Geeks
Extraordinaire) since we probably won't have an audience, anyway.
As I drive back toward home, remembering where the cop with
the radar gun had been hiding, I start trying to plan my portion of the
presentation. I don't want to suck too
badly. I can't wait to get home and
start working on details. I mean,
really, I can't wait to get home and start … I can't wait … I … home … Damnit,
why am I sitting at this stupid traffic light behind ten cars when I'm in the
middle of west Bumfrick?
There seems to be something wrong with the bridge that
separates Groveland from Haverhill. Our
line of traffic is stuck for about twelve minutes just waiting waiting
waiting. I could turn left instead of
right over the bridge, but I recall other construction going on and the other
bridge has been closed for a while. If I
turn left and away from the traffic, I'll end up too far south. Nope.
I'm waiting this one out (and making a mental note to find an alternate
route for next time).
Traffic finally starts moving, and I am pleased that no
hair-finger-brushing, make-up applying, carpet-sniffing Acura drivers are in
front of me. I have spent my entire
April break week working on university stuff to get the last two classes
finished up so I can graduate in May.
I'm not walking, but I still want the paperwork to go through, paperwork
that never would be filed, never would be finished, without the support of my
two thesis mates, Jessica and Michaela.
Here's to us, and here's to our Friday presentation --
complete with Lucy and Ethel working the candy conveyor belt. Screw the audience if they can't take a joke. After all, life is like a box of chocolates,
right? Or is it more like what John
Wayne says: "Life is hard. It's harder if you're stupid."
Either way, we'll get through this, and I suspect there will
be margaritas (or something cool and refreshing) waiting for us on the other
side.
