Hairdressers and things

When I recently did the math, I discovered that I have moved give or take eleven times. That means I have cleared through all my clutter, packed up, lived out of a suitcase for at least a week, unpacked, and settled in at least eleven times. Granted, I was a child during some of those moves, but still, I think I was an active participant during at least seven of those moves. And I think I can conclude that some things do get easier. I have become an expert at deciding whether something should stay or go, and can pack an entire living room in about half a morning. I have also become quite adept at staying in touch with people halfway across the world, and at easing myself into the new community. But some things never cease to be annoying, and these are probably the things you don't immediately think about when you're going to move.

Whenever I have been faced with a move, the first thing that crosses my mind (after I have pondered weeks of planning, boxes, and other major life changes of course) is "what about my hairdresser?"I know it seems silly, when you're faced with a move that will (at times) take you into another country, or across an ocean, to worry about your 'do, but let me tell you, after three bad haircuts that left you debating whether to just get a buzz cut at your husband's barber, it's a real issue.
And it's not just the hairdresser really. It's finding that new great handyman that won't laugh when you ask him to come unclog your tub for the fourth time that month. It's knowing the great car place where they won't charge you an arm and a leg for changing your oil.

So how do you cope? Well, at first you figure you can do this by yourself, so you open a phone book, and call the nearest hairdresser, plumber, or car dealership. Or you drive through town, until you see a place that looks alright. Sometimes you get lucky, and are satisfied right away. For instance, I am more than thrilled with my car dealership. They've given me more complimentary car washes than I've ever gotten anywhere else, and they're just plain nice. But other times, you are not that lucky. It has taken me almost six months and three hairdresser appointments to find a place that I think won't turn my hair into a throw-back to the 1980s, 1990s, or whichever bygone era tickles the hairdresser's fancy.
But after while I figured out that there was actually an entire whisper-campaign (for lack of a better word) among the newly transplanted people in my community; advice about doctors, nail salons, handymen, yard care, and yes, hairdressers. So thanks to my advice, one of my friends is not thrilled about her new hairdo, while I actually found a dry cleaner that I really liked thanks to that same buzz.

But now that I'm finally satisfied with my 'do, I've come to the conclusion that the concerns about a hairdresser or a plumber, or a car repairman aren't so much a sign of vanity or a desire to micromanage as they are a sign of wanting to find your own niche. Feeling at home means knowing where to go when you need something. It means liking the places you frequent, and when it comes to hairdressers, feeling comfortable enough, to once the "new" has gone out of "home" to try something "really new" (for a change ;) )

Schapen en oy: Nederlandse les

I promised myself I would write one post in Dutch per week...so for my English-speakers, I'm sorry, I'll return to posting in English tomorrow.

En daar gaan we dan:) Ik kan niet beloven dat dit een hele vloeiende post gaat worden;
doordat ik als kind ook in het buitenland heb gewoond was mijn Nederlands al nooit zo denderend, en sinds mijn leven zich nu voornamelijk in het Engels afspeeld, merk ik dat mijn Nederlands minder wordt. Maar goed, we gaan het gewoon proberen.

Zoals ik net ook al een beetje aangaf, is de voertaal in ons huishouden voornamelijk Engels. Het grappige is dat je daardoor heel snel dagelijkse woorden kwijtraakt. Zo heb ik laatst heel lang na moeten denken over het Nederlandse woord voor een "screen" (een hor), en ook andere woorden haal ik door elkaar. "Hete thee" is in het Nederlands bijvoorbeeld overbodig, maar hier hoef je weer niet om "iced tea" te vragen. En waarom heet een "combo" bij de Nederlandse McDonald's een "menu"? En hoe noem je een "side order" in het Nederlands? Het is schandalig, ik weet het. Maar ja, als de hele dag door Engels praat en denkt, dan is het omschakelen soms erg lastig.

Het is niet dat de goede voornemens er niet zijn hoor. Toen manlief en ik net daten (daar heb je het weer, hoe het dat nou weer?), hadden we ooit eens een Dr Phil-achtig gesprek over "dealbreakers", dus redenen waarom een relatie tussen ons absoluut afgelopen zou zijn. Tot over mijn oren verliefd kon ik zo snel niets bedenken, en dus riep ik dat hij wel Nederlands moest leren. De lieve schat heeft dit ter harte genomen, en begon meteen de volgende dag met vragen hoe alles in zijn huis heette in het Nederlands. Alle Nederlandse woordjes werden op aparte knalroze post-its geschreven, en op het bijbehorende meubel geplakt. Ze hingen werkelijk overal, met bijbehoren uitspraak; kast (cost), spiegel (spee-ghul). Maar toch, ondanks zijn pogingen om toch maar Nederlands te leren, bleven we met elkaar vooral Engels praten.
Maar zo nu en dan werd ik blij verrast. Zoals toen manlief mij ten huwelijk vroeg. Hij had, nadat hij officieel "toestemming"aan mijn ouders had gevraagd, ook geinformeerd hoe hij mij in het Nederlands ten huwelijk moest vragen. Dus was ik een paar weken later nietsvermoedend met toen-nog-vriendje in een restaurant, toen hij in een keer vroeg "wil je met me trouwen?". Totaal verbijsterd staarde ik hem aan, en mijn eerste gedachte was dat hij vast iets heel anders bedoelde, zoals waar het toilet was, of dat hij een grapje maakte. Dus mijn eerste reactie was "What?!". Manlief herhaalde zijn vraag nog een keer, en weer kon ik mijn oren niet geloven "Say it in English!" eiste ik. Maar nee, dat wilde manlief niet, en hij herhaalde zijn vraag nog een keer. Eindelijk kon ik het niet ontkennen, hij wilde echt met me trouwen. En eindelijk kreeg mijn man zijn langverwachte "ja". Het was niet het romantische aanzoek waar hij op gehoopt had, maar het is zeker veel leuker om aan vrienden te vertellen!
Mijn tweede verrassing kwam toen manlief een programma bestelde van Rosetta Stone, en serieus elke dag een uur Nederlands ging leren. In een keer kwamen er volledige zinnen uit zijn mond, die wel of niet relevant ("de hond springt op de jongen"), toch heel goed Nederlands waren. Sindsdien gaat het Nederlands iets beter. Als manlief een Nederlands gerecht wil maken is hij zelfs al zover dat hij Nederlandse recepten kan lezen, en ook krantenkoppen gaan goed. Maar het blijft een moeilijke taal; "schrapen" wordt "schapen" (wij schapen onze wortelen), en "ui" is "oy", een voorruit is een voorraam, en vroeger noemde hij "vlees" nog wel eens "vlies", tot groot vermaak van mijn familie.

Al met al gaat het met zijn nederlands steeds beter, en gaat dat van mij langzaam achteruit. Misschien dat we over een paar jaar op hetzelfde niveau zitten :)
En de post-itjes die we jaren later soms nog steeds vinden, die hou ik gewoon.

Bug Tales

I would have to admit that life in the south is generally pretty good. The weather, apart from the occasional tornado watch, is never truly horrible, people are genuinely nice, and there's enough history around for a European like me to soak up. But there is one aspect of life down here that I'm not sure I will ever get used to: the bugs.

My first encounter with the giant roaches that live in this part of the world was when I lived in Texas a few years ago. I was standing in our kitchen, when I suddenly felt something tickle my foot. I looked down, and saw a cockroach the size of my thumb scurrying along the sideboard. With a terrifying scream I launched myself on to our counter, where I spent a good few minutes making incoherent yelping sounds and wild gestures. The cockroach disappeared, but I was besides myself. For the Americans among us, do keep in mind that in Europe only the most disgusting homes host cockroaches. Convinced that our house was somehow unsanitary, I went on a cleaning rampage until a local friend told me that these bugs actually live in trees and fly into your house. How reassuring. Fortunately, I saw no more roaches after that one encounter, and when I moved back to Europe, I pretty much forgot about them.
Until this summer. We were hunting for some new furniture, and at one store, I decided to wait in the car. And once again, I felt that familiar tickling feeling. I looked down, and saw a cockroach trying to climb up my bare leg. I believe I almost fell out of the car trying to get out, and ran into the large furniture store, panting for my husband. He assured me that our truck was not infested with roaches, but that they had probably escaped from some boxes shipped from Europe, which we had taken home in our truck. In spite of his admonitions that I had probably scared the poor cockroach to death, I rode home with my legs pretty much up in my neck. When we got home, I made a beeline for the boxes, picked them up, and then dropped them when I saw another huge brown bug crawl away. Suddenly I had visions of a house full of these brown, hard-shelled pests, and too afraid to squash it, chase it out, or even move, I just stood there and said "There, there, there", much to my husband's amusement. That day I bombed our entire house and the truck, and except for one occasion (which I will save for a blog about "husbands and their quirks") I have not seen a cockroach in our house since. But I know they're out there...

And the worst part is, it's not just cockroaches. Here in the south we also have a lovely variant of fly, the yellow fly. These are enormous, yellow-tinted flies that sting humans and leave round, red and very itchy welts the size of a quarter. They love water, and so are especially populous at my in-laws' home, who own a large piece of land with a pond. Their stings are incredibly painful, so, whenever I see one of these flying pains around, I can't help but start jumping. I can tell you that learning how to shoot a rifle while jumping away from yellow flies is not a good idea. No crazy shots were fired, and one got hurt, but I did decide to restrict my shooting lessons to cooler days:)

And although they're not exactly bugs, I was also delighted to discover the existence of poisonous snakes. A theme in my life seems to be that I never learn about these creatures beforehand, I always somehow discover them through a chance-encounter. I saw my first real life, 2-ft long snake while mountain biking. The black snake had been sitting off the side of the trail, where my husband had seen it. He, however, decided it would be best not tell me, as that could startle me. Although his intentions were sweet, I just about launched myself off the trail when the creature suddenly slithered in front of my bike.

So, life down here is not all fun and games....
That said, I am now going to get me some sweet tea, sit on our porch swing, and watch the world go by :)

Remember the air!

When I stepped outside this morning, and took a deep breath, I realized that it was that time of the year again. The air felt heavy, and the sun was suddenly a lot warmer than a week ago, a clear sign that winter is over, and summer is just around the corner.

Before I lived in Georgia, just the word summer brought on wonderfully bucolic images of green grass, blue skies, billowing skirts, fresh breezes, and opening the windows to the nice warm air. Well, Dorothy isn't in Kansas anymore Toto, and after my first summer in Georgia, these pastoral images went right out the window (which stayed closed, all summer long). Summers in Georgia are unbearably, unbelievably hot and humid. The kind that makes you pray for winter. The kind of heat where if you stand out on old asphalt long enough (providing you make it that long) your feet will have left a dent in the ground, and you are suddenly grateful your living room has one window, and less happy with that lovely bay window in your kitchen. The kind of weather where you can hang your clothes outside to dry for days and they will simply not get any dryer.
This is also the time when you hear interesting expressions such as "Remember the air!", "Close the door, you know the air is on!", "Can I turn the air on?", "Wow, our bill must be so high because of the air". I sometimes wonder if there are non-native English speakers who wonder if southerners have a strange obsession with oxygen. For those not familiar with the term, "air" is short for air conditioning. In the Netherlands, air conditioning is generally abbreviated to "airco" which always leads to interesting misunderstandings whenever relatives visit me.
I have to admit that I never appreciated air conditioning until I moved to Georgia, and experienced the "switch and save" program. This is a mandatory program whereby the electric company automatically shuts off all air conditioning units in one area when demand gets too high (read: when it's really blazing out there). The first time our unit got shut off, the indoor temperature went up to 82F within thirty minutes, and humidity was over 80%. I spent an hour frantically calling companies that could come out and fix our unit pronto, and then pondered spending the night at a hotel. The second time, I shrugged, got in my car, turned the air up, and drove to one of our wonderful shopping plazas. You live, you learn!

But we're not quite there yet. Fortunately. Right now we're in for a month of lovely spring weather, which matches the dreamy images described above perfectly. The cherry blossom is out in full force, the grass (which mysteriously goes into hibernation in winter time) is green again, and trees are either in full bloom, or cautiously displaying their first leaves. But this is also a time of limbo when it comes to temperature regulation. During the day it's -almost- too warm indoors, and you spend twenty minutes debating whether to open a window, turn the fan on, or switch the HVAC to "air", unless you're in an office, where you are victim to the mysterious gods who control your office temperature. In the evenings, it's beautiful, but then at night you find yourself shivering and fighting for covers with the person you usually love so much :)

Today, however, looks like a perfect day, so if you'll excuse me, I am going to take my cup of tea outside and enjoy it while it lasts.

Early bird gets the worm?

It was only when I turned to a family member this morning and told them that "oh my gosh, it's 6:20 and I'm running late" that I realized that my daily schedule is another one of those hidden changes in my life. The odd thing is that it's just not just me who makes statements like that, or who thinks nothing of calling a friend at 7:30 in the morning, and not making it through American Idol because it lasted until 10pm; it's pretty much everyone around me. It appears that people here in the south, even though many would know them for their more laid back approach to life, start the day at an abnormally early hour.
In all honesty, I do have to add in a caveat here, and that is that I do live in a military community. So perhaps this early morning thing is not so much a southern thing as it is an armed forces thing. Either way though, it's a night-and-day change from my life in Europe (pre-marital life, that is).
Just yesterday I was reading a book that took place in London, where the main character does not get up until 8:30. On a weekday. Depressing, isn't it? I had forgotten that most of my friends in England don't start work until 9:30am, a luxury that seems way out of reach now. Even though this British work ethic may seem frivolous, friends and family in continental Europe usually don't start work until 8:30, or 9 either. Of course, starting later involves getting up sometime between 6:45 and 7:30, and I can't even begin to describe how positively wonderful that sounds.
My weekdays start at 5:20am, when I'm immediately confronted by the fact that the love of my life is already up, showered, and usually incredibly cheerful. I have yet to find a non-American friend who can make that exact same statement :) Because of my ridiculous commute, I am out the door by 6:15 (another one of those facts of life that when I stop and think about it, it amazes me), and in my office by 7:45.
This is when my day begins to resemble my pre-marital life; I have always been an early bird, even in Europe, where academics are notorious for starting their days at 10am, 1pm, 3pm, or not at all. But the mind-boggling part is that most all of my co-workers are at their desks too! And not only that; they're awake, smiling, and almost positively happy to be there. And it's not just my place of work. It still amazes me that I can call other places of work at 8am, to find that they're open and happy to serve you. And schools too - the buses for the elementary, middle, and high school all pull into our cul-de-sac, the last stop on their route, somewhere between 6:40 and 7:15.
The downside of all this early morning happiness is that the evenings are fairly short as well. Although it's perfectly alright to call someone at 7:30 in the morning, it's equally not alright to call anyone after 9pm. And last night, when we saw that American Idol started at 9pm, we were all very disappointed that we probably wouldn't make it through to the end. Now I am very proud to say that we did, but our eyes barely stayed open.
Another downside is that this sleeping pattern carries over into the weekend. Sleeping in means not waking up until 8:30, and watching a complicated indie movie after 8:30 at night means I'll fall asleep halfway. Actually, I stand corrected; the other day I fell asleep during Kill Bill, so watching any movie after 8:30 is risky. This from the person who used to go to late night movie specials at the local indie movie theater, and who once sat through a six-hour Italian film which lasted until 1am. How life changes!
So although the early bird may get the worm, it sure misses out on all those night critters!

Go the distance!

When I named this blog "southern tales" I imagined I would write things about life in the south. So after pondering all the different subjects I could address (fried food, y'all, tornadoes, water shortages), I came upon the perfect subject this morning as I was driving to work: the distances covered by normal people on a daily basis.

Unlike Europe, there is no "getting on your bike", or "catching a bus" to go downtown and complete all your shopping in one easy trip. Here in Georgia, getting any kind of errand done means getting in your car and driving to various stores which are usually several miles apart. And even if they're not, American shopping plazas are set up in such a way that walking from one end to the other is nothing less than a survival trek involving culverts, missing sidewalks, and inattentive drivers. Just last weekend, I drove 9 miles and visited three different stores looking for a new lunch box, which I, unfortunately, did not find. I did, however, come home with several other products that I really did not need, like a new bracket for our flag pole and an easter bunny for a friend's daughter. But whenever I have to drive that far, I feel I had better come home with something, or else my trip was nothing but a waste of gas.
When I first moved here, I had the great intention of riding my bike everywhere. The first time I rode my bike to the nearest grocery store (a mere four miles away), however, I realized that there were really three categories of bikers in this part of the world: 1) the spandex-clad helmet-wearing sports-fanatic racers, 2) children with multi-colored helmets, streamers and little flags, and 3) homeless people, and that riding your bicycle in jeans, boots, and with a backpack was most likely to lead to a #3 categorization. Needless to say, since I refuse to wear spandex and a helmet, and nothing I can do can make me look like I'm twelve again, I have taken my car to the store since.
But, in a country where driving everywhere is the norm, and where nothing seems too extreme, I believe I have managed to break the mold when it comes to commuting. Even car-happy Americans are aghast to hear about my 90 mile-commute. In Europe, I would have opted to take the train, which would have enabled me to work (or sleep) on the way to the office, however, public transportation is simply non-existent in this part of the world. So I drive 1 hour and 40 mins each way, every day. I drive along beautiful pecan groves, cotton fields, "rib shacks", some gorgeous lakes and woods, and of course, an endless supply of roadkill. Thanks to NPR, I am always completely updated on the world's news, and thanks to the fierce storms we have been having, I have also become an expert on what to do when aquaplaning.
This dependency on my car is completely different from what I'm used to (suddenly, I find myself caring about getting it serviced), but as we say in Dutch "alles went!".

The birth of a blog

So here it is - my very own blog page. Welcome! And, yes: Finally!
Of course, the first question I faced was what would its primary language be. Being a first-class flipflopper (It took me almost an hour to come up with the title and url of this blog), I have not yet made up my mind. So although today's post in English, tomorrow's could be in Dutch, and who knows, the next could be in French.
Deciding on the language for the blog also meant considering my audience. Who would I be writing this blog for? My friends here, people back in Europe, complete strangers? And what would I be writing about? And how often? Is my life really that interesting? Decisions, decisions. I have a hard time deciding what to wear in the morning, let alone thinking about when to write about my life. So, again, I still haven't made up mind. I'll get back to you when I have :)