One historic week from the diary of a state legislator:

Monday

8 a.m.: I dropped by the governor’s office to remind him about our lunch appointment, and was startled to hear that he now insists on eating two days’ worth of lunches at one sitting to save travel time.

12:30 p.m. – After a flurry of messages back and forth, we canceled our plans. I’m flummoxed by the two-lunch demand. I’ve seen this attempted before, and can’t forget the tragedy of a slender senator trying to keep up with a portly governor. He might have been OK if the second dessert had been sorbet, but it was baklava, and his political career was over.

Tuesday

9:10 a.m. – I tried a new tack and asked the governor if he had time for coffee, and he graciously accepted. However, when I arrived at his office, there was a document for me to sign, vowing to link annual preschool education spending to the lieutenant governor’s time in the 110-meter high hurdles. Seeing little basis for a compromise, I spun on my heel and left.

Wednesday

10:11 a.m. – The governor came by as I was explaining to a TV reporter that you pay property taxes on the house you own, but not on pictures of houses that you cut out of magazines. He spun on his heel, not just once but three times, and left. It was impressive, but I heard later that he complained of dizziness at a conference on awarding tax credits to good whistlers.

4:55 p.m. – Called the governor’s secretary to ask about lunch tomorrow. I was informed that nothing had changed, and it would have to be two entrees in a row, with only two minutes in between to walk it off. I could go ahead and accept, then skip dinner tonight, but no – I’m scheduled to dine with a major lobbyist for the lasagna industry.

Thursday

9:01 a.m. – The news broke that the governor has slashed government spending on meals, and from now on cabinet members will be required to provide their own croutons at all official functions. Sensing a chance for negotiation, I gave his office a call. He again refused to back down on the two-meal demand, but seemed to be subtly hinting that he was open to compromise on the issue of doggie bags. At least, that’s how I interpreted the barking sounds.

11:24 a.m. – In the interest of good-faith bargaining, I called the governor and asked, “How about if we eat lunch and then go through the dinner menu together, write out our orders and promise to return no later than 6 p.m. to eat again?” He nixed the idea, then accused me of stuffing my jacket pockets with gnocchi at his wife’s birthday party. The conversation spiraled downhill and somehow ended in a shouting match about the best kind of mascara.

Friday

10:15 a.m. – A dull day, with few legislators on hand in the Capitol. A bipartisan attempt to start a game of Red Rover went nowhere. Meanwhile, party leaders urged me to press the case for a one-lunch policy, because reports indicated that the governor hasn’t eaten at noon all week and might be ready to cave.

11:47 a.m. – I popped into the governor’s office and said, “Lunch?” “Sounds good,” he replied, and we left the building together. His driver whisked us to a restaurant that suited his requirements for bare-bones expense reports. Plus, we each got a free cardboard crown.

12:21 p.m. – “Well, I think this proves that it’s always possible to reach an agreement,” I said as we returned our trays. “Glad to hear it,” said the governor as his bodyguards picked me up by the elbows and carried me back to the counter. “I think you’ll really like the fish sandwich.”

Jim Pollock is the editor of the Des Moines Business Record. He can be reached by email at jimpollock@bpcdm.com