Just because I like the idea that people I know sometimes read this, and I sort of love the idea that people I don't know might also read this (maybe, a little, sometimes) I figure I should keep on going even if I don't happen to have a 10,000-word essay in me every day. So this is really just the blog equivalent of pulling slips of paper out of my pockets and sharing them.
Wow hey, now that I put it like that, I'm struck by two things: one, that's a pretty damn fine description of most of the blogs I read. Two, it's mind-boggling that anyone would actually want to read that kind of thing. I'm allegedly sort of intelligent, and I adore people's brain-lint if it's in blog form. But hey. It's the Internets. They's weird.
In honor of my young nephew, whom I am told has recently conquered the diaper barrier and become potty-trained, I find that I actually have something to say about poop. It occurred to me today, strolling across the pitted gravel that passes for a commuter lot here at good ol' Hampden College, that one of the ways I know I really feel at home in a place, one of the signals that I've become "of" a place, is when I can mentally catalog a short list of nearby restrooms, and come up with the best place to take an impending dump.
Hey, the more I study the whole human biology/ anatomy/ physiology thing, the more I appreciate the simple side of life, sometimes.
The restroom in the big common building is okay, but something about it makes it a far better stop for your basic quick micturition event, rather than what my housemate calls "dropping The Deuce." It's not a sit-and-stay sort of a room; it's narrow and long, and since it's a single-occupancy room despite its size, there's no stall. Yet it's more busy and crowded outside in the hallway than it would be in a typical private home. The Dung Shui is wrong, is what I'm saying.
So, full of big dreams, high hopes, and a double serving of pasta from lunch, I wound up hitting the default pooper in the science building. Which is okay, but upon further reflection I should have gone to the one upstairs by the lab, rather than the one on the first floor. The downstairs one has but one toilet, as does the upstairs, but the crucial difference is height. The downstairs one is in a quasi-handicapped stall, and it's just slightly higher off the floor than a normal one. It's not that my legs dangle or anything -- I'm middle-sized, dammit, not short -- but it's sub-optimal. Easy to imagine the whole apparatus is on stilts or pilings. Like you're poopin' off the dock of the bay.
Okay, cool, so now I've used my blog to talk about pooping. Excellent. That should clear the karmic debt (or Midwestern guilt, or whatever) that I've been feeling since M. Small's birthday, when I suggested that the kid from Dooce.com is less cute than he is. Moving on, then.
It's movie time again. I watched movies 2 & 3 over the last couple days, and it's really true: the third movie is so much better, the first two films (relatively speaking) suck like a wood tick on Ecstasy. Happily, the early word on the new one is that it continues and even deepens the additions that movie 3 made (things like darkness, humor that's funny, magic that's magical, and characters with character). So, y'know, yay.
If there were a midnight show tonight within 30 miles, I'd be there elbow-checking fifth-graders for a good seat, but sadly, the town cinema doesn't feel a need to have a preview. All is forgiven, though, because our beloved college is having a midnight movie night Saturday/Sunday, and this means I can see the new one with the mass of drunken nerd-balls I share classes with, sans tiny tots who maybe shouldn't see this one until their parents can get a reliable friend to tell them how freaky the scary parts are.
As an aside: in this town, people who want to get the hell out of the house so badly they'd bring a squalling toddler to the movies far outnumber the more cautious, judicious types. To be fair, and to the credit of obviously superior parenting abilities, I saw Serenity with an 8-month-old not 20 feet away, and we all survived quite well. I hear the kid is already writing fanfic.
Besides, it's not like someone is going to spoil the story for me; I can wait a couple days. In addition, I think I mentioned the drunken nerd-ball nature of my classmates.
Teslagrrl is coming for Thanksgiving. Thank Jeebus. All the "how to not totally detonate your long-distance relationship" books and well-intended phone calls in the world can't compare to just one afternoon actually being in the same place. I think she would think it's amusing (or maybe I already mentioned this, and she did think it was amusing) that I once referred to her trips out here as 'conjugal visits,' but beyond the obvious benefits, her proximity has an agreeably civilizing effect on me, and I could probably use some of that as well.
...just not until after the boozing and bowling scheduled for tomorrow night, and the boozing and movie happening the next night. Yes, it's true: I'm becoming an undergrad. Hey, if the work is done and the grades are good, I tell my inner child to go to bed and give my inner 7th-year senior the keys. Seems to be a decent system so far.