This morning I dropped off my car at the car place. It's that crazy brake light again. Apparently the reason it keeps coming on is because all of the brake liquid keeps leaking out. Which explains why it takes such a long time for the car to stop. But don't worry, it's being handled. In fact, the car people have already called to tell me they've found the problem. Basically, the whatever in the car's back wheel is where the leak is located and brake liquid has been leaking out all over the springs or a part that begins with an "s" but is not a spring or a part that begins with an entirely different letter, but it's definitely a word that, when you hear it, makes you think of springs. So brake liquid is leaking out onto the springs and the something elses which are both located in the wheel area and I need a new all of those things. It sounded perfectly logical the way the car guy explained it to me, using the real names for car parts that actually exist. Well, presumably exist. I don't know. My car part knowledge is limited. As a result, my relationship with the car repair people is based entirely on trust.
I do understand money very well so I can tell you with absolute certainty that these repairs will cost about the same amount I just spent yesterday when I signed up for a writing class. Yes, a writing class. You're welcome. I think it's fair to say we'll all be better off for it.
In the most recent class I've taken, a straight up literature class, my professor made this comment on my final paper in which I examined the efficacy of Veronese's The Marriage of Cana as a quoted image in Henry James's The Wings of the Dove:
This paper is lively and interesting. You write very well, making many witty and sharp eyed observations along the way. You have a sensitive understanding of character and your descriptions of narrative effects sometimes rise to the level of James himself.
Which was followed by this:
As a general principle, each paragraph ought to begin with a clear statement of the logical point that the paragraph will make (sometimes called a "topic sentence").
Right. Topic sentence. I'll work on that.
As an aside, if anyone is interested in the conclusion I drew, regarding the efficacy of Veronese's The Marriage of Cana as a quoted image in Henry James's The Wings of the Dove, I concluded it was wicked effective.
The writing class starts in the fall. I had been sort of dragging my feet about signing up. While it was something I wanted to do and, in fact, had been encouraged to do by someone I respect enough to actually take advice from, I had gotten a little panicky about the whole thing. I was afraid of being the one elderly person in class. I was afraid my professor would be terrible. I was afraid I'd be terrible. I was afraid I'd be made to write poetry. And, this is the worst one, I was embarrassed to be taking a random class rather than being enrolled in a prestigious writing program. My ego is so out of control.
But I happened to run into Garrett's mom at the elementary school the other day. Without provocation, she started talking about a class she was taking and how much she loved it and about how she was going to take more in the fall. She was really happy. I don't think she'd mind me saying that the college she's attending isn't any place especially fancy. She's pretty much just doing what fits into her family/work life because she wants to complete her bachelor's degree. In other words, Garrett's mom, who is a lovely person and very well liked, is down to earth with sound priorities. Garrett's mom isn't paralyzed by an out of control ego. Garrett's mom set me straight.
I shouldn't get carried away. That conversation didn't leave me completely transformed, just transformed enough to spring back into action. My highly selective criteria was this: I looked for any writing class with an open seat at any school with ample parking. Additionally, the class should take place in a building that isn't so decrepit that being in it for three hours a week would make me want to kill myself. FYI- I'm very aesthetically oriented so run down facilities do, occasionally, make me want to kill myself.
Once I found something that fit my criteria, I went down to register. Signing up for this class was ridiculously complicated. For one thing, they insisted I couldn't enroll in a class without first applying to their school. That was hard for me. To understand why, you've got to keep in mind that I haven't yet gotten over the fact that I'm not applying to the MFA program at Bennington. And of course I won't be any time soon. I'm not falling for that Jesus Wants You to Apply to a Program that You're Obviously Not Qualified for trick again. (Although, good one, Big Guy, that was really hilarious.)
OK, so, having "applied" to this school, which pretty much involved nothing more than providing my name, address, and telephone number, I attempted to enroll in the writing class, but was faced with another roadblock. There was a prerequisite. No problem, I told the student worker, I'm confident I'm qualified to take this class. To prove it, I reached into my LL Bean Bag and pulled out Hemingway's, Men Without Women. He was not impressed or, who knows, maybe he was. Let's just say he was. But he was sticking to the rules. I'm sure you'll do real good, but you need English 101 to get into this class. Any English 101. At any school. I just needed to prove it with a transcript.
Fortunately, long before this fella was born, I did, in fact, take English 101. I just didn't happen to have the transcript with me. It never occurred to me that I'd need it. For one thing, I can't believe those credits haven't expired or something. I went to college approximately two hundred years ago and have little to no memory of ever having taken that class. Second of all, when I took graduate classes at our local university not too long ago (see above), I just called the department admin and she hooked me up. It was easy. It was easy the way life should be, but rarely is, which, in my mind, was further evidence I was being ushered along by the Son of God- or God himself. Whatever. Six of one...
I headed back home to pick up my transcript. When I got home, waiting for me on my laptop was an email from The College of Ample Parking. Congratulations! the email read We have processed your application and you have been accepted for admission to The College of Ample Parking.
I got the distinct feeling I was being mocked.
But after one more trip back to the school and visits to about three additional offices, I'm signed up for the class. I think I'm signed up for the class. There's a decent chance I'm signed up for the class. I guess I'll need some sort of confirmation through the mail before I know for sure.
No comments:
Post a Comment