Finito

It was five degrees and windy today, so I splurged and paid for a meter across from my office rather than hiking a mile from the student lot. Best dollar I ever spent. But the doors of my building were locked. I knocked furiously and wailed and kicked and shook the handle and yelled "Please, No!" until a confused-looking student finally cracked the door open and glared at me with one eye. "You need something?" she said.

"I'm freezing," I said. "And the door's locked. And I don't have a key. And why are the doors locked at 6 pm? It's freezing out here."

I really didn't want her to answer, and she didn't. She returned to her texting and I mumbled my way past her toward my office.

I was told a year-and-a-half ago that there's a building key waiting for me "down stairs," but I don't really know what that means. The only thing downstairs is a scary bathroom and some exposed duct work.

My concern tonight wasn't that I couldn't get into my building, it was that my students couldn't get in either. I had arranged for them to drop off their final projects between 6 and 7 in my office. But unlike last semester where I ended class two weeks too early, I had ended this semester a few hours too late. Finals were over, the dorms were closed, and the buildings were locked up. I should really start consulting the school's calendar when I write my syllabus. I'm also starting to wonder who the student was that let me in and what she was doing inside the empty, locked building.

To prevent the onslaught of frantic "The building was locked!" emails, I decided to wait by the front door until every last frozen student stopped by. When I would hear a knock (or frantic wailing and kicking) I would open the door a crack, snatch their folder, yell "Merry Christmas," and slam the door shut. But even that brief exchange would leave my knuckles frozen.

And now here I sit, ten hours later, finally thawed out, and I'm done: papers have been read, grades submitted to the registrar's office, next-semester's syllabus revised and printed, and nothing left to do but write this blog entry and contemplate how utterly bored I am. I miss school.

Giving Thanks

It is Thanksgiving, so I have written a Haiku to express my gratitude.

"The Office" on HULU:
Twenty-two minutes
Unless you count commercials
Then it's twenty-six

Since it's a holiday, I offer you a bonus Haiku (not so much in thanks as in frustration).

The Receptionist:Snap to it Nard Dog
I don't want this dragging out
for three more seasons

Three Elliot Moments this Week

Elliot to mom, while coughing: “My body’s not working today.”
Elliot a few hours later when the cough was gone: “My body is working again!”

Elliot to me while watching Dora: “Daddy, will you turn the toilet on for me?” (My mind immediately went to a weird place as I wondered what would turn a toilet on).

Elliot to me while I sang "Defying Gravity" from Wicked: “Daddy, stop! You’re making my ears sick.”

My New Late-Night Hobby

I spent the better part of last night reading through old newspaper articles (kind of for school, but not really).

I found this funny little article from 1920 which claims that the slang word "movie" will soon die.

The term is a vulgar remnant of the days when theaters were cheap, filthy, and uncomfortable. Now, theaters are luxurious, "no longer cheap themselves," and no longer meriting a "cheap terminology." Instead, American's are adopting a terminology befitting the theaters beauty, dignity, and wealth.

We aren't movie fans watching a movie in a theater, we are motion picture patrons watching a photoplay in a picture theater.

The last theater I went to was cheap, filthy, and uncomfortable, so I'll stick with "movie."

Say Hello to My Little Friend...

Peterson Law dictates
that since I just
bought a new snow-blower,
it won't snow more than a
couple of inches this year.
So to all the residents
of New Hampshire:
You're Welcome.

Dream Job

I'm grading resumes right now for my technical writing class, and one of my students put that he was a “Part-Time Tooter” at a youth center.

I don't know how to respond to that.

Flower Girl

Today, I stood at the top of a steep hill in front of the elementary school and watched my kids run down it. I wished I had my camera, because I knew it was only a matter of seconds before they would crash and burn.

Surprisingly, Elliot was the only one to fall.

She was wearing pink slippers and as she gained speed, she yelled, “Ooh, a flower.” Her attempt to bend over and pluck the flower despite her velocity proved problematic. “I’m Okay!” she yelled as she rolled and tumbled down the hill. “I’m Okay!”

She crawled back up to the flower, which turned out to be a wilted dandelion. “Oooh,” she said, and plucked it. She got to her feet and began running down the hill again. She only made it ten feet before face planting. As she tumbled, she held her dandelion up so it wouldn’t get smooshed. “I’m Okay!” she yelled. “I’m Okay!”