Peak Big Meeting.

Let me first concede: other people have jobs that are just as hard, or harder, than mine. More tedious, onerous, meeting-filled, snackless, and so on. My incipient whining, therefore, allows for all of this, which to say that this is, perhaps, recreational whining. Whining to while the time away. I'm in a long meeting, I'm saying, and I'm blogging. Weight this whine, therefore, as you see fit.

However:

We are here in a big room, at round tables, talking about a thing called 'meta-majors.' Which may or may not be a thing that helps our students in realizing their educational goals. But we're going to do them, and what that means--doing them--is both the text and the subtext of what we're talking about.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I'm telling you that this conversation is simultaneously prickly, spark-y, flammable, Babel-like in its tendency to have people speaking different languages at each other. I'm telling you that I am simultaneously engaged and also checking all my social media in a somewhat irritable manner. I'm telling you that the ideas of what education is for are various, are multitudinous, can be divided into Same and Other and are also etcetera.

Also, the snacks are all the way across the room.

BIG MEETING. 

I'm saying, it's week 4 and it is already meeting meeting meeting meeting.

I'm saying I'm already four weeks behind.

SIGH, is all I'm saying.

This meeting will last exactly nine more minutes, nine more minutes in which I will finish and publish this blog post, contemplate how I have been rejected, poetry-wise, a healthy and robust number of times as of late, think about how I am hungry about a billion times, and, in a related matter, how I am going to make baked pasta for dinner and how delicious that is no doubt going to be. Will these thoughts take up the remaining nine minutes, where a practically infinite number of people will say what they think about 'completion' and 'meta-majors' and 'the purpose of an education'? Probably not. Thoughts about dinner and hunger and rejection are both eternal and fleeting, when the big meeting is still in progress.

Today in famishment.

Today was another long day at work. A good day, but a long day. Eleven and a half hours from when I left home to when I returned.

I changed into comfortable clothes lickety split.

Me (proactively): have you given any thought to dinner?

The historian: No. No, I haven't, except that we should probably go grab something. How about you? Have you given any thought to dinner?

Me: [minutes passed, as I was simultaneously filled with being famished and also despair...o! lord, give me strength in this the hour of my need to figure out where to get something to eat!]...how about if we go get pizza? A pepperoni one for Walker and a cheese one for us?

The historian: does that sound good to you? (possible mild incredulity)

Me: I will pile a lot of arugula on it. (decisive factor.)

So we chose the closest of two not-all-that-close Little Caesars (Pizza of the Lowest Common Denominator) and drove to it.

Me (getting into the car, proactively): do we have any ice? [please say yes please say yes]

The historian: No. No we don't. We'll have to go get some.

We picked up two pizzas. We planned the logistics of the way home, given our need for ice. We figured that if we turned right then turned left, we could pull into the Seven Eleven and pick up ice.

Me:...and we can get a drink.

Here's what I saw at the Seven Eleven in the one minute we were in the joint:

1. At seven p.m., the fountain drink situation is kind of sticky.
2. At the counter area, there are many new tobacco products that I am unfamiliar with.
3. Hella lotta tattoo magazines.

But the checkout guy was cheery and friendly, and I had a Diet Dr. Pepper/Regular Dr. Pepper mix to fortify me until we got home with our pizza, which I heaped arugula on.  And ate three pieces of, and was restored.

That is all.