So near and yet so far...

Many of my lovely family and friends have followed my...shall we say...colorful progress toward securing my master's degree in history from the University of West Georgia. On the whole, the process has been a delight. I have loved every class, enjoyed every teacher, soaked up every experience, and performed every assignment required of me. My work has, apparently, been pretty decent. I don't like to brag, but I managed to pull off a perfect 4.0 GPA throughout my entire 36 hours (12 classes) of graduate coursework. The only thing standing between me and that coveted diploma is my thesis. It's just a paper. A 75+ page paper. A thoroughly researched, scholarly written, meticulously footnoted, professor-scrutinized, repeatedly revised, never ending PAIN IN THE ASS paper!

I am reminded of one of Randy's experiences in AOCS. When Gunny Buck wished to drive home a point to his hapless charges, he frequently did so with pushups. He would cheerfully announce that the squadron would be doing, say, 20 pushups. Heartened, the guys would drop down and get started. Just 20. No biggie. Gunny Buck would then begin the count: 1...2...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...4...5...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...well, you get the picture.

It also reminds me of giving birth to a first child. Somewhere in the 15th hour of labor, when your husband's loving encouragement just makes you want to run him over with the car, the thought begins to creep into the back of your consciousness....what if I'm the first woman to ever be in labor for a year? A decade? The rest of my life? Sure, it's never happened before, but what if it happens to ME?

This is the point I have reached with my thesis. This is the reason for the photo at the top of this blog (note the aspirin, kleenex, and CHOCOLATE). This is the reason for the particular song that's playing. This is the reason for the hammer in the "current pages of my thesis" graphic above. It somehow seems an appropriate symbol for this stage of the process. Imagine hitting your thumb with a hammer while driving a nail in place. Now imagine hitting it over and over and over and over and....well, you know what I mean. I've managed to cough up 60 pages of this interesting, little known story that I'm trying to tell. This is good. But it's not good enough. It needs revising. And revising. And revising. And revising....it's the process of turning this interesting, little known story into a valid addition to an already impressive body of historical knowledge that makes me want to slit my wrists with a spoon.

So, dear friends and family--keep all fingers and toes crossed that I'm up to the task. And if, by some miracle, I do manage to pull this thing out of my...head--and get it turned in in time for December graduation, be advised that I'm going to do something spectacular to pat myself on the back. This will NOT be a "dinner out and retail therapy" event--this is going to be a "check something off the bucket list" event.....Hawaii anyone???

and God bless the Haruches, Best Buy, and modern technology....

Okay, this is a post done quickly, but I am so anxious to share what I've spent the better part of two days and a sizeable chunk of my paycheck on. Please turn off the music player once you've gotten a taste of Lee Greenwood and then click on the video below. The scene: an LDS ward building somewhere in either Arizona or Utah, in the spring of 1991. The occasion: a guest speaker invited to discuss his experiences in Desert Storm. These are his closing remarks.

Enjoy....

...and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

This past Wednesday was an exceptionally good day at work. While I truly like my job on most days, Wednesday seemed to be a day when everything clicked. The all staff meeting that began the day included free MARTA passes with the promise of continued subsidies for those of us willing to try public transport--something I need to do since my commute time and costs are staggering. My co-workers, including my boss, were especially fun to be around. Our patrons were easy to please and generous in their comments about my knowledge and willingness to help. The last patrons of the day were a group of three elderly ladies that reminded me so much of my Mom--spry and cheerful and thrilled to have my help in finding information on their ancestors. I was riding high.


After closing up the library, I headed downstairs to return a call--one of my volunteers had left a message earlier saying that she wouldn't be coming in that day. I had a feeling she wasn't happy with us, but when I called her back, she let me have it--personally--with both barrels. It seems I had humiliated and embarassed her in front of a patron and my boss; I was always too busy to speak to her; she had an excellent relationship with my predecessor and all my coworkers, but there was something about my personality that she just couldn't stand and she did not think she ever wanted to work with me again.


Well, by the time she finished with me I was in tears and unable to hide it. I never contradicted anything she said, but apologized profusely and repeatedly and offered to put my apology in writing to her, my boss, and the AHC Director of Volunteers (which I did as soon as I hung up the phone). It didn't even faze her. She was every bit as angry with me when we hung up as she was when we started. Having dealt with angry people for decades in a number of customer service-type jobs, I have never failed to win folks over eventually. Not so this time. As far as she is concerned, I was scum, I am scum, and I will always be scum.


One pint of Ben & Jerry's and a Chevy Chase movie later, I was feeling somewhat better, but the very next day I put both my darling daughters on separate planes--one to England and the other to college in Idaho.


One pint of Haagen Das and a Bridget Jones' Diary movie later, I was still blubbering. Which leads me, oddly enough, to the point of this post.


I have, unfortunately, discovered the best kept secret of widowhood. It's what NOBODY ever tells you about being a widow. You can run around like the energizer bunny and have the most smashingly wonderful life imagineable and then you'll have one single, crummy, terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day and BAM--it's like you just lost him this morning. You can take trips to spectacular destinations, retail therapy your guts out, but go home to find the washer died and BAM--it's like the funeral was yesterday.


Now, if Randy were alive, would that woman have been able to upset me so? Sure. If he were still here, would the plumbing still explode? Would the car break down? Would I still be unable to finish my thesis or sell the house? Would I still hate AT&T? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and HELL yes! It's just that being alone is sort of like building a house of cards. No matter how impressive it looks on the outside, it doesn't take much to bring the whole thing crashing down.


SO--to compensate, you learn a few things. You learn that music, movies, food, and Excedrin Migraine are acceptable weapons. ZZTop got me through his funeral, "Scrooge" will get me through next Christmas, Ted's Montana Grill will get me through my next anniversary, and a couple of Excedrin Migraine will get me through the Volunteer Orientation meeting next week that my pissed off volunteer may or may not attend.


I'll be okay. I'm a tough old broad. But if you ever hear Jimmy Buffett blaring at the threshold of pain while the kitchen trash is stuffed with empty Sticky Toffee Pudding ice cream containers and I'm spouting lines from "Blazing Saddles," check the computer. It's a sure bet the desktop finally rolled over and died....better hide the Excedrin Migraine....