Fucking ASU

So, the final verdict is: Three of four core history classes are required for Pete's degree. The history department's brilliant idea is to run them sequentially, with only one offered each semester. And he didn't know this at the beginning of the semester, so he dodged this semester's (he said something about knowing who was teaching it, and her politics, and deciding he'd rather not get involved). So he's stuck on campus for four semesters.

I find I am angry and occasionally teary-eyed, but not surprised. I find angry-at-ASU for continuing to dick around with my fiancee is far more therapeutic than tears. Which doesn't stop me from having them, occasionally, which annoys me. In the immortal words of Mark Feathers, "This does not meet my control needs at all." I confess, I had already argued myself into finding March far more sensible than January for an eventual wedding. It's not the additional two or three months that grate. It's the fact that you really can't have an outdoor wedding in May in Tucson. Certainly not if you expect your by-then 83-year-old, slightly fragile, grandmother to attend.

But surprised? Let's put it this way: Pete mentioned maybe he could argue the department into letting him do the last class as an intensive directed readings course. And I had to reply: "Even if they told you, today, that you could do it . . . I'm not sure it would be true six months from now." Fucking ASU. I'm really coming to hate that school, and I didn't even go there or play sports against them.