Adventures of the Educational Kind

The other day, after sending the nth job application and still not hearing anything back from anyone, it became clear to me that my field is not just dead, but decomposing and smelling pretty ripe. After two years of looking for work with the best result so far being an exciting career as a rent-a-cop in a construction zone, I decided that perhaps a change just might be a good idea.

This was doubly enforced when I considered that two people I worked with, who are far better educated and experienced than I am, can't find similar jobs either. If they're having a hard time, it is clear I am doomed.

So I've decided to get into social work. If there is one thing I've noticed during my months of job searching, it is that social workers will never be out of a job with the amount of positions posted. Insanity, clearly, is abundant.

I took the day off on Monday, thinking that getting the papers from University was going to be a hideous College-like task only the brave (read: stupid) and the courageous (read: insane) could tackle.

It took me fifteen minutes to get downtown by subway, go into the office (amazing I even remembered where it was, having been there only once what seems like a million years ago), snatch up a huge stack of papers to fill out, and leave. I was rather surprised by the speediness of the entire process as well as the friendliness of the staff.

Amongst a polite request for my soul, thirteen vials of blood, my firstborn (they'll have to wait a long time on that one) and one of my kidneys as down payment, they also wanted my high school and post-secondary transcripts.

Armed with good intentions, I went to my old high school, which looks even worse than when I went there a decade ago. Everyone appeared fresh out of diapers (no wonder nobody ever takes you seriously in high school) and with an attitude that simply begged for a beating. I would've offered, but I was busy.

After the school staff determined that (sadly) I wasn't there for a ritual killing of their students (I doubt, from their tone, that anyone would've stopped me), the nice lady gave me two official transcript copies and didn't charge me. I just raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Too easy. Last time I had to dish out something like $5 per sheet and swear an oath to the school board, blind folded, hopping on one leg to the tune of “Blue Moon.”

Fine, I don't care. I'm glad they gave me two copies, because with my experience at Centennial College, you make two copies of everything, so when they lose the first one (which they will) you hand in the second.

Oddly, she didn't even check my ID to see if I was allowed to get this stuff. I guess the fact that I can spell my nightmare of a last name is indication enough that I am me. Besides, looking at my marks, which clearly indicate I got plenty of sleep in high school, nobody would gain a thing from impersonating my personae.

She did call me Leonardo. I refrained from correcting her, though I did cry quietly on my way out.

Then I went to Centennial College and did the same, except there the process of getting your transcripts was significantly more painful. But considering I was expecting much worse, it went pretty smoothly, to my utter astonishment.

The hot babe who was behind the counter when I served my time at Centennial College was now gone, replaced by another hot babe behind the counter who was busy staring at her nails. Being a hot babe seems to be the sole qualification needed to work behind the counter at any Centennial College office, since any sign of intelligent life is nowhere to be found, Keptin'.

I told her what I needed, and with the biggest smile ever she told me I had to fill out a form just to get my transcripts. Sure, we all know that Centennial College is a synonym of bureaucratic bullshit, so the fact that it was just 'a' form and not a four-page questionnaire seemed like a good sign already.

"Where do I get such fine form?" I chirped, while trying--and failing--not to sound too sarcastic.

She points at a wall behind me. Phew, I thought I had to go to the Scarberia Campus for a second, which is only an hour away when you go there via helicopter.

You know those plastic containers for documents that you see on the doors of doctors’ offices while you stroll in a hospital? (I do a lot of strolling in hospitals.) They're this ugly semi-transparent brownish colour and hold paper straight up. I turn around and I see that the wall had thirty-six of these, in a six-by-six fashion, each containing a form. Each form is about something and I was in no mood to figure out which one I needed.

"There are thirty-six forms here. Which one?"

"The yellow one."

"Okay Einstein, so now we went from thirty-six to four. Which of the four yellow ones?"

"Uh, the second row," said in a 'you asshole!' kind of tone. But we all know that 'asshole' is short for 'Leo.' And to think, I used to be so nice.

I grabbed the form, which was divided into two parts.

The top part wanted my student number, my name, address, post code and the course I had been in.

Followed immediately by the second part, which wanted my student number, my name, address, post code, the course I had been in AND the number of copies I wanted of my transcript.

This made no sense, but fine, whatever. Don't question: accept it as the norm.

I fill in the empty spaces, hand it back to the woman and she tells me, with a smile so big I could have opened a bottle with her teeth, that she can't accept it.

"And why not?"

"You did not include your student number."

Jesus. Who the fuck remembers theirs anyway?

I gave her a certain look that must've said: "I will kill you. Right now," because all of a sudden she didn't seem too thrilled to have to deal with me.

I ask if it is possible for her to see information about students on her computer screen. She nodded and smiled in an I-know-how-to-do-that! kind of way. Thank God.

I tell her to look at her screen and type ASN and boom, guess who appears at the top of the list? "ASNAGHI-NICASTRO, LEAN."

Yeah, I know.

Though I was a little surprised to see that problem still lingered in their system, I had her fix it. Again. I guess having them correct it at the start of every semester was not good enough.

Fine, whatever. Besides, being called "Leanne" by my professors became, eventually, the norm and I think it reflects my feminine side perfectly.

Anyway, I get her to tell me my Centennial College convict number, which I promptly fill (in duplicate) on the form and hand it in.

In a parlance I reserve solely for idiots and four-year-olds, I asked: "Is it okay now?"

"Yes."

Whichever deity of choice that happened to look down upon me--probably Guru Nanuc, since him and I go way, way back--was thanked, because this, for Centennial College standards of efficiency, was too damn easy.

I whip out my wallet. "How many millions of dollars will this cost me?"

"Oh, this is a free service at Centennial College."

"Holy shit," I said, while she fired me this look of indignation towards my liberal use of profanity. They will even mail it to MY HOUSE via Priority Mail--in two weeks (figures). I nearly shat myself.

Centennial College charges you for EVERYTHING and you mean they're going to send me TWO copies of my transcripts, to my house, via priority mail, for FREE?! This is the same school that if they could've figured out a way to charge for our oxygen use, they would've.

Unable to contain myself, I picked up my jaw and left, leaving Einstein to return to her problems on hairstyles and lipstick colours.

As I'm driving in a snow storm during a clear and sunny sky--at one point in my life I would've found that very strange, but after this year, I thought it was very fitting--it later occurred to me that Einstein didn't check for ID either. I must have a face that emanates an aura of automatic trust. Or she's just not very bright.

By 13:30 hours I was done, sitting at home making lunch and it occurred to me that I got three important things done in relatively no time. Strange. I'm waiting for the catch.

As I'm holding food in my right hand and the application form in my right, I discover that the application form takes care of sending your post-secondary transcripts to the university you want to apply to. Ah. Oh well.

The list of things I need once my application is in, is pretty long. An essay (no problem), reference letters (good ones, that is) and a few other things. I even have a place I can start doing volunteer work once I get accepted at my new part-time job and I quit security, giving me more flexible hours.

Speaking to a couple of shrinks, I was pleased to discover that they think I'd make a bad social worker in a great way, with my charming way of handling things in a bullshit-free tone. Frankly, I can't wait to start school and drive everyone in my class insane.

My lowest mark for my post-secondary education is an A minus. If they look at that to decide whether or not to accept me, well, I'm set. Plus I'm male. For once it will work to my advantage, which is pretty funny.

I haven't figured out a way around the fact that I'm white, loud-mouthed, annoying and of fine Italian stock, but I guess I will have to live with that horrible, horrible stigma for now.

Surely you're joking, Doktor Leo?