I can provide the pen, too

I try not to count my chickens, which I think has been proven time and time again. To wit: Although I bought a Wesleyan sweatshirt within the first two weeks of arriving on campus, I didn't take it out of my desk drawer and cut the tags off until 3 months later, when I finally decided once and for all that I was staying. I didn't make any official announcements about the Amherst job until I'd watched the FedEx man put that $22 envelope containing a piece of paper with my signature on it into the mail bin (yes, I watched him through the window), and then tracked the envelope online until it reached its destination. Only then did I throw my poorly-attended press conference.

And now, the only thing standing between me and a doctorate is one signature -- one lousy scribbled line on acid-free archival quality 100% cotton bonded paper with "This dissertation has been approved" written across the top. My dissertation advisor cheerily sent me an email the same day my kick-ass gown and Society for Creative Anachronism-style tam arrived in the mail saying she was ready to sign off -- and she did, a few days later. Even my outside reader, who doesn't recognize me on the street, and whom I've attempted in vain to keep in contact with, is taking me out to coffee on Friday, pen in hand, ready to sign on the dotted line.

And then there's Reader #2. Let's call him MIA. I know, I know, he has tenure. He's getting married. He pretty clearly hates walking through the halls of Dwinelle. It's entirely possible that he's driving a jeep through Baja California right now. He doesn't always look you in the eye when you run into him at the gym. But he's known this day would come for months! He knows I have a job awaiting me! I've invited him to tap a keg and eat cupcakes in Tilden with the SJB posse! And yet, where is he? So far, one email has gone unanswered. So has the rare -- rare -- and apologetic home phone call I made tonight. Certain of my colleagues think I should stake out his fiance's office -- but is that necessary?!? Doesn't he know he's giving me anxiety dreams starring key figures in the Berkeley Spanish Department? No one should have to suffer through anxiety dreams starring the Berkeley Spanish Department, trust me.

So that's it. The only thing between me and Dr. SJB is a signature.

Pray for me. Better yet, if you see MIA on the street -- and he could be anywhere! -- tell him SJB is dreaming about him, his pen, and a piece of acid-free archival quality 100% cotton bonded paper.