Monday, April 30, 2012

An Anecdote

Today I woke up early, which is usually the case due to my son, but in this case, I got up to go to my Alma Matter, St. John’s University.  You see recently I applied to a job that asked me to produce my college transcripts. A few years back, I had ordered a few of them in the anticipation that such a request was unavoidable, however I never counted on how often said request would actually occur.  As a result, hoping to avoid the hassle of the inevitable traffic and irritating horn-blowing that a trip to this part of Queens would ensue, my wife and I spent the better part of last night (again, our son allowing) searching for a copy that I said was, “definitely in the house, I even remember seeing it by the desk recently.” Our desk is usually hidden underneath a mountain of letters and post-its, and after a quick search, I figured that I wouldn't have put something so important in that paper wormhole.

Sadly, we had no luck finding it, even after we searched those hidden areas leading to the fourth dimension which are usually located underneath sofas and/or behind that cabinet you brought with you from your mom’s place. I came to the conclusion that I had sent out the last copy and hadn't bothered to re-order another.  Knowing that our considerate, nearly-3-year-old would have us up in a few hours, we decided to call it a night and I would go to St. John’s the next day to request a cop of my transcript.

After getting past the usual 5:30 am wake up call which my son seems to extract a seemingly Bond-villain like laugh from (no cat though), I found myself rather zombie-esque-like, driving towards St. John’s.  Following the security guard’s instructions, I parked five miles away from where I needed to go and when I finally got to the Registrar’s office, I was told that I needed to fill out a short form, travel through Dante’s Inferno (fitting, seeing as how I was at a Catholic university), promise my next born to the Student’s Financial Office and was then instructed to make the trip back up through Hades and present my receipt to the Registrar’s office.  After they managed to re-re-confirm that I was in fact, the official, corresponding person who had requested to obtain a copy of my transcripts - thus thwarting any nefarious terrorist-camp attempt to obtain any knowledge of my undergraduate Liberal Arts degree information that might seem relevant to their cause – I finally received confirmation that my transcripts would be mailed home.  I asked if I could get them right then and there and was told that the best they could do was overnight them to me and that I would get them by noon the next day.  I foolishly queried, “Well if you can get the transcripts to me by noon tomorrow, and it’s already past noon now, can’t you just print and hand them to me while I’m here?”

And so I found out, this is how self-flagellation was born.   

In any case, I had to leave empty-handed and so I’m expecting my transcripts by noon tomorrow.  The funny part?  After I got home (no small task if you’re looking for parking in Astoria these days), I laid down in bed to relax for a few minutes and forget about everyone and everything that I had come across or dealt with that morning, and my wife walked over to me, holding an envelope in her hand. “What’s that?” I asked.
“Your transcripts,” she said. “I just found them on the floor under our desk.” 

I think they made sitcoms like this back in the 70’s.

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