There’s a tear in my beer

. . . except I hate beer, and I almost never cry. But I want to. And this post will disappear soon.

ETA: False alarm. No one’s angry with me, like you all said. 

I fear I’ve gotten onto my chair’s shit list. How did I manage that? Well, gentle reader, I missed a reception at which I was one of the honorees. Instead of patting myself on the back while gorging on wine and cheese, I was finishing a final exam and posting it to Blackboard, which didn’t want to post it. But it had to go up, because I had promised my students it would be available this evening so that they could have 24 hours with it. I can’t attend to it tonight, because I have been pressed into service entertaining a senior job candidate, as I did last night, in fact. This morning was absorbed by meetings, just as my weekend was absorbed by grading (and procrastination therefrom).

Anyhow, by the time Blackboard had deigned to do my bidding, there were only five minutes left in the reception. Or so I thought. The reception had ended early. When I went to fetch some papers out of the printer, my chair was making coffee. Without looking at me, he pointed out that I had missed the reception, and that had he known I would do so he would have spoken on my behalf; however, everyone was expecting me to rushinatthelastminuteanduttersomeplatitudes. How was I to explain that I was holed up in my office, cursing at my computer on behalf of students who probably hate me for giving them an exam in the first place?

So the reception ended early, and my chair gave me the university’s token of how very much it appreciates my work. My prize is a clock, whose ticking is absolutely maddening. Like a bomb in a movie, it mocks my quickening pulse and makes me anxious about how little time I have to do so much: the heaps of grading next week, the massive reorientation my book needs over the short winter break, the cordial memos I have to write for a committee I’m on, and—let’s not forget—holiday shopping.

But, as the clock mocks, I’m off to the airport to pick up the next contestant who could be my senior colleague. When we have dinner, I’ll definitely order alcohol, since I won’t be driving home. On the way to the airport, I’ll probably contemplate driving off the bridge, as I do frustratingly often, come to think of it. Then I’ll rightly chide myself for thinking such melodramatic scenarios. I am so silly. Times like these call for something special. What about Barolo? I’m worth it, right?