Rommeldagje

Naast uitdrukkingen zoals “Als je het nu niet kent, ken je het morgen ook niet” en “We hebben een beller!” heb ik van mijn moeder ook het concept “een lekker rommeldagje” geerfd. En vandaag was precies zo’n rommeldag, alleen dan wel met Amerikaanse slag natuurlijk.

Zo is er als eerste de kwestie van wat het ideale rommeldag weer is. Terwijl in mijn herinnering rommeldagen in Nederland altijd plaatsvonden bij bewolkt en regenachtig weer, zouden we er hier niet aan denken om dan te gaan “rommelen”. Die dagen zijn hier zo bijzonder dat we ze “gezellig” noemen, en dan allemaal leuke familiedingen binnenshuis gaan doen. Nee, hier vinden mijn rommeldagen bijna altijd plaats als buiten de zon meedogenloos straalt en het kwik minstens boven de 35 graden komt. Er is niks beter dan binnenshuis allemaal klusjes doen terwijl het buiten niet uit te houden is, alhoewel dit natuurlijk helmeaal tegen het Nederlandse “mooi weer = terras” principe gaat. Maar goed, onder het mom van “If you can’t change your mind, are you sure you still have one” pas ik mij graag aan aan het lokale klimaat.

En uiteraard is de timing niet het enige dat anders is. Terwijl in Nederland een rommeldag voor mij vaak begon met enigzinds uitslapen (het is ten slotte een vrije dag!), beginnen hier de rommeldagen, net als alle andere dagen, toch echt voor dag en dauw. Dit is deels te wijten aan mijn arme manlief, en deels omdat ik als ik nog enige vorm van hardlopen wil uitvoeren zonder een zonnesteek op te lopen, ik voor acht uur weer binnen moet zijn. Naast dat hardlopen nou eenmaal een favoriete bezigheid is, is in mijn wereld een rommeldag nou eenmaal niet compleet zonder een of andere enerverende component. Nu kon ik dit in Nederland makkelijk realiseren met een tochtje op de fiets naar de Albert Heijn, of het flink poetsen van de ramen, hier moet dat toch echt door echt fysieke inspanning, temeer daar ik niet van plan was om minstens twee uur kwijt te zijn met alle horren van de ramen af te wrikken.

In Nederland was een rommeldag voor mij ook niet compleet zoder een flink aantal wasjes en het wegwerken van een onmenselijke berg strijkgoed. Op de momenten dat ik daaraan terug denk, ben ik altijd heel erg dankbaar dat ik in de VS woon, de “convenience society” ten top. Want wat doe ik hier als het tijd is om de werkkleding uit de kast te trekken? Juist. Ik laad de blousjes, blazers, broeken, en rokken in de auto, en rij naar de dichstbijzijnde stomerij. Waarom moeilijk dan als het makkelijk kan?

Andere klusjes blijven wel hetzelfde. Het organiseren van de werkkamer, het plegen van de verplichte telefoontjes naar o.a. de tandarts en de verzekering, en het doorlopen van de laatste verhuisdozen zodat ze van de garage naar de zolder kunnen. Het enige echte verschil is dat ik hier uberhuapt kan spreken over een garage en een zolder, en dat deze zich ook nog eens op redelijke loopafstand van elkaar bevinden. Toen ik in Nederland nog alleen woonde ben ik nooit verder gekomen dan een appartement. Alhoewel dat voor mij destijds ideal was (ik rolde zo uit de keuken de bank voor de TV op), besefte ik me vanochtend hoe gelukkig we zijn dat we in een gebied wonen waar we ons een echt huis kunnen veroorloven. Ja, je sjouwt je wat af, als je iets kwijt bent, ben je echt de pineut, en als ik een kwartje kreeg voor elke dat we “Stop yelling and go into his room if you want to talk to him” tegen de kinderen moeten roepen was ik een rijke vrouw, maar het hebben van een eigen huis is toch echt een zegening die ik me in Nederland niet had kunnen verlooven.

Een echte rommeldag is natuurlijk ook niet compleet zonder het “running errands”, en super-handige, alles-omvattende Amerikaanse uitdrukking die het beste vertaalt kan worden als “Ik stap in de auto en ga allerlei boodschappen en klusjes buitenshuis afhandelen”. Terwijl ik in Nederland voor errands altijd op de fiets sprong, gaat dat hier natuurlijk allemaal met de auto. De afstanden en de hitte laten hier helaas niets anders toe. Maar als ik soms terugdenk aan hoe ik vaak met drie volle boodschappentassen, een rugzak vol spullen en iets zoals een lamp of een tafeltje op de fiets stapte, dan kan dat “helaas” best weggelaten worden.

Bij het einde van een rommeldag hoort natuurlijk makkelijk eten. En alhoewel dit in Nederland vaak een tripje naar de locale friettent betekende, bestaat het avondeten hier vandaag uit een echt Amerikaans “breakfast dinner”. Het is de ideale oplossing als je geen inspiratie meer hebt voor het avondeten: je eet gewoon nog een keer ontbijt. En dan niet die gezonde hap, zoals brinta of cornflakes maar een echt Amerikaans ontbijt compleet met pankcakes, eieren, bacon, en hashbrowns. Het klinkt vast heel bizar, maar ik heb er enorm zin in.

Bon appétit!

Hang up and drive!

Just like probably everybody else, I don’t really like it when someone tells me what to do without adding a “please”. I don’t care if someone is a police officer, a security guard, or even my husband, my motto has always been manners don’t cost a thing, so use them. Although I understand that signs directing people or traffic aren’t always big enough to obey Miss Manners’ ground rules for interaction, I am pleasantly surprised when they do. And, fortunately for me, here in the US they seem to make a hobby out of making all signs, even traffic signs, as pleasant as possible.

When leaving any store here, a sign will remind you, just in case it had slipped your mind in the frazzle of shopping, to have a great day. When you want to return your cart, a sign will tell you to “please return your carts here”. When leaving the post office parking lot, residents of my town are confronted with a little sign that reminds them to “please buckle up, it is the law". The fact that you are actually breaking a law if you don't and can get a hefty fine if you're caught is simply reduced to a "please, it would be really great if you could cooperate if at all possible". At the same time a sign by the gate on base tells drivers to “please have your IDs out and ready”. Obviously, you're not going to get anywhere on base without an ID, and hey, if the John Lennons at the gate don't like the looks of you you, they can take as long they want, but at least they make it sound pleasant and nice. Like you actually have a choice. But I digress. All these signs are a pleasant change from some of the traffic signs in Europe. Not only do Europeans prefer the odd symbols I wrote about earlier, their signs are also a whole lot more direct. Now I hate to point fingers, but when it comes to directness, German road signs probably take the cake. Their signs are usually very terse, leaving the driver wonder what on earth s/he is supposed to do. To this day, I am still not sure what sort of action I’m supposed to take when I see a red triangle with the word “rollspitz!”in it. I’m pretty sure they don’t want me to roll over, or get on point shoes, which are the only two things that come to mind right away. Or how about those random red triangles with exclamation marks they seem to put every 100ft? I realize they mean I’m supposed to watch out for something, but what? Grocery store parking lots don’t have signs reminding you to please put your cart here, they merely have a symbol of a cart and an arrow. Efficient? Definitely. Nice? Not so much.

What I absolutely love about traffic signs is when you can see that the makers tried to be creative. I love the slogans they post all over the Georgia interstate, with cute little rhymes like “clicket or ticket”, and “don’t drink and drive, arrive alive”. Or how about little signs of storks with babies in diapers in their mouth and the words “stork parking: Pregnant women and women with little children only”? Not only is the sign absolutely adorable, having traveled with very pregnant friends, the principle is really great. Although my liberated little soul can't help bu wonder where this leaves the stay-at-home dads. Anyway, my absolute favorite would have be the sign I saw in the maternity center’s parking lot the other day: “Buckle up! Somebody needs you!”. It’s a road sign and Oprah boost of confidence all in one!

Fortunately, European road sign producers have started to catch on to this trend as well. When I visited Holland a few months ago, I was absolutely delighted at a sign I saw at a highway ramp. It accompanied a traffic light that let drivers know when they could merge on to the highway and read “Groen: Een auto. Rood: Een foto” (Green: one car. Red: One photo). Although the rhyme is a little iffy, I thought the whole idea of reducing a ticket received because your picture was taken by a police camera to “a photo” was absolutely brilliant.

And you know what’s great about these little rhymes? They stick. Perhaps I’m a tad neurotic, but I can probably recite every odd slogan I have ever seen alongside the road. Maybe if we were to turn every road sign into a little rhyme, people would have less trouble sticking to the rules. How about "Hang up and drive" for cellphones? Or how about "There is never a need for speed" for sticking to the speed limit? And if these don't help increase traffic safety, they would at least make my day far more enjoyable, so what's the hold up?

Brainwashed?

When I first met the love of my life, I used to always laugh at the strict regulations regarding outward appearances in the military. Having grown up hearing stories from my dad, who served in the Dutch army, about soldiers with long hair wearing hairnets, I never quite understood the fixation the American military has with hairstyles, haircolor, facial hair, and jewelry. And when I say fixation, I guess I mean total obsession, for they have got their rules down to the tee. For instances, mustaches are permitted, as long they do not grow beyond the corner of one´s lips. And male hairdos are not allowed to exceed 1 ¼ inch in bulk on the top of their heads. I have always wanted to tell my husband to grow his hair out to 1 ½ inch, and see if his commander would pull out a tape measure, but, well, knowing my husband, there is really no point in asking. Although I still think it would be funny (and he doesn’t). And you know what, it’s not just a matter of obeying these rules, military members also have to know them by heart. So my husband is not only aware of the rules that apply to males in the air force, but was also able to inform me of the hair and jewelry rules that apply to women. Now I used to think that as long as you could completely obey your superiors without question, it did not matter what you look like, but I guess that in the American military, they don’t quite share that emotion.

Now up until Friday, I was convinced that all these rules were really, well, silly. In fact, when I got a haircut the other day I even joked with my husband about how before the haircut my hair would not have met military standards (it touched my collar), and that after the cut it did, and so now should he expect me to be a more obedient wife? Yes, I still thought I was the little rebel. That was until I went grocery shopping on base, and was absolutely appalled by the contractor at the gate who was checking IDs. Well, I wasn’t so much shocked by him, as I was by,well, his appearance. I hate to admit it, but I really think that maybe I have, well, become one of “them”. Before I proceed, please note that on our base ID checks are sometimes carried out by contractors, i.e., people who are not military, and who thus do not have to meet all the military standards. And that includes outward appearances. I never really thought I cared what gate guards looked like until the day before yesterday when I had my ID checked by someone with curly hair longer than mine, a scruffy black beard, and an untucked shirt. It felt like the hippy from "That 70s show" was checking my ID. Now I happen to really like the hippy from that show, and I generally don't care what someone looks like (to the point where I don't even blink an eye when my students come to class in their pyjamas), but the moment I laid eyes on this man, I was in shock. My first thought was "How can they let someone who looks like that work here?!". And my second thought was "How can I think that?!". And my third thought was "Yeah, but I really really think he shouldn't look like that!". I felt really torn, but in the end, my discomfort with someone looking like John Lennon wearing a gate guard uniform won out. It's terrible, and admittedly, slightly embarrassing, but there you have it. I guess, in spite of all my claims to the contrary, the little rebel in me is slowly disappearing. Hmph.

Martha-Margaret Mead Stewart part II: Flowers or straight lines?

When growing up, and visiting American homes, I remember being under the impression that all Americans loved chintz wallpaper, floral patterns on sofas and chairs, and curly oak semi-antique furniture. Dutch homes, on the other hand, seemed to prefer bright, primary colors, such as reds and blues, and even whites, straight lines, and ultra-modern furniture. When visiting American friends’ homes, it was like stepping into another world. One where every nook and cranny was filled with pictures, squashy chairs and sofas, and fancy dining room sets. Conversely, my American friends must have felt the same when they entered my parents’ home, which, at that time, was decorated in tones of white, gray, and an occasional splash of color.

Fortunately, this era I’m talking about is several decades ago. My parents have long abandoned their white furniture, and no American I know still has chintz wallpaper throughout their entire house, although, judging by the type of wallpaper we removed from our kitchen, some people just never give up. However, in spite of this apparent closing of the decoration-gap, I still see a real difference in taste between the two countries, a continental decorating divide if you will.

This decorating divide became most obvious when my husband and I merged our two homes. I was the proud owner of several very bright pieces (a wooden chest painted burnt orange and six blue dining chairs to name two examples), as well as several extremely colorful paintings. My walls were painted white, and I had a light wooden floor, all to make the colors stand out even more. My husband, on the other hand, was absolutely in love with his “distressed” oak bedroom suit, black wooden entertainment center, and huge dark green recliner. To say I did not share the love would be an understatement, and to be honest, he did not exactly dig my penchant for anything bright and colorful either. I couldn’t imagine having his dark Norman Rockwell hanging anywhere but the garage, and he claimed that if he would wake up to a fuschia wall every morning, he would have a permanent headache. So, in the name of love, we compromised. The walls became soft beige, the Norman Rockwell was hung in the living room, but slightly out of sight, my colorful paintings were relegated to my office, while his bedroom suit was brightened up with some happy, yet less-colorful pictures, and the recliner was given away.

Although we have been capable of compromising, and finding our own Euro-American style, I can still see vast differences between how people in Holland and the US decorate their homes, differences which usually become apparent when either husband-dear or I go ape over something that the other one absolutely abhors. I, for one, can’t imagine many people in the Netherlands opting for a floral-patterned sofa. Yet, I know several people my age in this area, who are very proud of their rose-covered settee. At the same, my husband does not understand why I, and many of my fellow Nederlanders, love minimalism; very little on the walls, uncluttered living space, and small (although I would call it “just normal") furniture. And while he will love pictures in thick, wooden, and preferably ornate frames, I prefer them with a simple glass cover, and maybe (on a good day) a thin, thin silver or black frame. Whenever I get the love of my life to go to Ikea with me, I will drool over chairs with odd grass-like patterns, or bright stripes, while he will shudder and point at a deep-green pinstriped rocking recliner (yes, just like the one he gave away). I also don’t know of any of my friends here who have painted part of a wall a different color; e.g., painted a red band on an otherwise white wall. Conversely, this appears to be the rage among some of my friends back in the Netherlands. Chair rails and crown molding also don’t seem to be big in newer homes in Holland, while over here, I would have to say it is all the rage right now. Our house alone has crown molding in every room, a chair rail in the kitchen, and wainscoting in the library. And no, we don’t live in a two-hundred year old mansion either.

I could go on and on about quilt racks versus shoe racks (although recently my husband admitted to regretting getting rid of my very handy plain Ikea shoe rack), plants or no plants (fortunately, husband-dear has a real green thumb), and throws on every couch versus, well, I guess Dutch people nap in their bedrooms…but I won’t. It’s a shame my Corneille paintings won’t ever make it back in the living room, and I’m sure husband-dear is, as we speak, plotting a way to purchase another enormous green recliner, but in spite of all that, I think we’re managing our divide quite well.

Martha-Margaret Mead Stewart

Now that we’ve just (almost) finished moving into and redecorating our new home, I have to admit that I’ve become slightly obsessed with furniture, decorating styles, and other minute home-oriented details such as the shape of the porch pillars. We have found ourselves driving somewhere, and we will both be checking out the houses we pass for the color of their clapboard, the style of their shutters, and then discuss their quality in serious Martha Stewart discourse. Since our new home has some unexpected empty walls, we have been shopping for furniture. A lot. More than I really care for. However, besides leading to the purchase of a pretty rug, a nice end-table, and a very simple but lovely hallway table, it’s also once again given me the opportunity to play the furniture anthropologist. A sort of a combination between Margaret Mead and Martha Stewart if you will.

I hate to state the obvious, but, honestly, American furniture is big. Or at least bigger. For instance, did you know that although IKEA stores all over the world carry roughly the same products, the furniture sold in their American stores is on the whole a little bigger than it is in the rest of the world? I always knew that our American furniture is bigger than some of the European pieces we own, but it’s nice to see it confirmed like that.

We became painfully aware of the size of our American furniture when we lived in Germany. We always felt like the entire living room was dwarved by our entertainment center, and the bedroom set just about barely fit into the bedroom. We used to have to squeeze in between the two dressers to get to our hamper, and only one dresser could be opened at the time, while the bed only fit when pushed up against a wall, which meant I spent several years with my nose pressed against the most horrid floral-patterned wallpaper. When we moved to Georgia, we had been so conditioned into believing that our furniture was, apparently, huge, that when we first saw our rental home, we were convinced that our furniture would, once again, barely fit into the different rooms. So then when our shipment finally came in, and we saw our furniture for the first time in months, my husband couldn’t help but wonder if it had shrunk on the way over. Because when we put our different pieces into place, we found that not only did they fit, we had more than ample room left over on either side. It was a very exciting moment to realize that I would no longer have to crawl over husband-dear to get to the bathroom.

Now many people have told me that the reason that American furniture is big, is because Americans are bigger too. Not to make a point here, but I refuse to believe that. I don’t for a minute believe that if Europeans had the room they wouldn’t trade in their full-sized bed for a California King. I honestly think American furniture is larger because it can be. American homes tend to be larger than European homes, and so the age-old truth of “if you got it, flaunt it” applies. Why squeeze yourself into a 22” Ikea Stockholm chair if you can have a 36” La-Z-Boy recliner? I really enjoy our king-sized bed, especially right after my husband leaves in the morning, since I can go back to sleep pretty much diagonally. And even though I loved our home in Germany (nothing can compare to a mountain view from your living room window), I love being able to pick furniture and rugs without having to worry about whether it will fit or not. And the best part about our new home? Well, for the first time, we now have room for a second chair next to our couch, so momma is finally getting a big old American reclining chair of her own! Of course, I’ll make sure it’s got a European-style pattern, but more about that tomorrow.

Coming up next: Martha-Margaret: Flowers or straight lines?

Boven water

Na een paar dagen van flink sjouwen, schuiven met meubels, klooien met lampen, en vaststellen dat we toch echt een “iets” nodig hebben voor in de nu nog lege hal, ben ik dan eindelijk weer boven water. Nou ja, eigenlijk was ik dat gisteren al, toen ‘s ochtends het internet weer aangelegd was, maar ja, toen ging een geode vriendin bevallen, en dus werd het blog even opzij geschoven.

De verhuizing was denk ik een van de meest aparte waarvan ik ooit deel heb gemaakt. Waar voorgaande verhuizingen of bestonden uit een dozijn sterke mannen met dezelfde t-shirts en een vrachtwagen vol met houten containers met onze naam erop gestencilled, of een mooie geel met blauwe, overdekte, boedelbak, voelde ik me zaterdag meer een lid van de Familie Flodder. De truck waar ik een paar weken geleden zo lovend over schreven was inderdaad een godsend (hoe zeg je dat?); de lift heeft meerdere mensen van een hernia gered, en omdat het een open bed was paste echt alles erin. Maar ja, een open bed betekent ook dat iedereen op straat al je spulletjes kan zien, en dat gecombineerd met het feit dat de vrachtwagen twee verschillende zijspiegels had, onder de roestplekken zat, en klonk als een tractor was het toch niet helemaal. Daarnaast hadden alle vrienden die meehielpen ook een pick-up truck of SUV mee, en om dingen makkelijker te maken, besloten we die ook maar vol te laden met dozen, planten, boekenkasten, de porch swing, en de grill. En zo reden we in een kolonne van auto’s vol met spullen duidelijk zichtbaar voor iedereen op straat van ons oude naar ons nieuwe huis. Laat ik voorop stellen dat ik heel dankbaar was dat het allemaal zo makkelijk ging, maar toch wel heel blij toen al onze spullen gewoon in ons huis stonden.

Verder zijn we nu dus vooral bezig met het regelen van de allerlaatste dingetjes. Zoals een router die niet sterk genoeg is voor het hele huis dat nu in een keer twee verdiepingen heeft (alle tips zijn welkom!), en het doorgeven van adreswijzigingen. Dat laatste is ook een heel ander verhaal hier in de VS dan in Nederland. Toen ik nog in Nederland woonde had de PTT (of de KPN) van die hele handige mapjes. Ze waren rood met wit, en je kon er niet alleen je post mee laten doorsturen, maar ook aan allerlei instanties je nieuwe adres laten doorgeven. Toen ik laatst in Nederland was zag ik dat de PTT nu de TNT heet (dat was toch een pakjesbedrijf?), en alles oranje met grijs is, dus ik weet niet of deze pakketjes nog bestaan, maar handig, dat waren ze zeker. Je kruiste gewoon je verzekering, je bank, je oude universiteit, je abbonnement aan, en klaar. Hier hebben ze deze superhandige mapjes niet. Wel sturen ze hier je post gratis een heel jaar door, maar dan moet je wel voor alle namen die je hanteert, een ander formulier invullen. Zo moesten wij dus drie keer een Change of Address invullen. Een keer voor onze familie naam, een keer voor de familie naam en mijn meisjesnaam, en een keer, omdat de meeste instanties in Nederland nog achterlopen (of eigenwijs zijn, de meningen zijn er nog over verdeeld), mijn meisjesnaam. Het is eventjes werk, maar het geeft je wel een jaartje de tijd om je adreswijzigingen te regelen.

Vandaag moet ik ook de laatste hand leggen aan onze termieten garantie. Dat is dus een garantie dat je huis geen termieten heeft, en niet andersom. Hier in het zuiden is dit bijna verplicht; als je geen garantie op je huis hebt dan heb je a) het risico dat je hele huis op een dag weg is, opgegeten door een termieten familie, en b) wil je niemand je huis kopen. Nu zat er garantie op ons huis toen we het kochten. Maar toen ik vorige week belde bleek dat deze dus dit jaar afliep. Dat is niet heel erg netjes, want dit betekent dus dat wij voor de kosten van de “booster” treatment moeten betalen, terwijl bij de koop gesuggereerd werd dat dat de komende jaren niet zou hoeven. Zo’n treatment betekent (volgens mij dan) dat ze je huis behandelen, en dan is het gegarandeerd termieten-vrij voor vijf of tien jaar (afhankelijk van voor welke booster je kiest). Het kost dan ook tussen de $500 en $1000. Juist. De termieten meneer komt zometeen op bezoek, en we zullen dus wel horen hoe of wat.

Verder is er natuurlijk ook de bekende "honey do" lijst; het lijstje met dingen die de honey (lees:manlief) "has to do". Zo moeten de muren her en der bijgewerkt worden, wat oude apparatuur die nog uit de attic tevoorschijn kwam moet naar de dump, er moet dus waarschijnlijk een nieuwe router gekocht en geinstalleerd worden, en deze honey moet ons oude huis nog schoon maken. Werk genoeg!

My husband on coffee

This morning was an early on; we have people coming in at an ungodly hour to help us get some of the heavier furniture over to the new house, and so we needed some time to get ready. However, this morning was also, for some reason, particularly tough on my husband, who really did not wake up until his first cup of coffee. His words as he was drinking his java were quite poetic, and made me laugh so hard (and all that before seven in the morning), that I really wanted to share them with you all.

So here we have DixieChick's husband on the subject of coffee. Please imagine a sleepy, slow voice for the special effects:

"Oh, yes, the elixir of life...I can just feel it running through my veins..like a young boy chasing a girl across a school playground. It bounces, it springs, it swings. It's warm, like a warm body up against yours on a cold, cold night. Hmmm-mmmm...."

Then he put on his "endorphine junkie" t-shirt and told me he was ready for the day to commence. Whatever it takes!

Feminism, the southern way

Well, after calling the foreman on the carpet, calling our cable-internet-phone provider about an erroneous bill, and convincing the paint supplier that I really refuse to believe that we have to repaint the whole living room, I feel like quite the assertive woman I was striving to be in my last post. And the part I’m really proud of? The fact that I managed to, at least I think so, remain the friendly southerner. I refrained from using the “Pentagon voice”; and I think managed to sugarcoat all of my criticism by phrasing everything as a question. If you’re unfamilliar with this phenomenon; it means saying “So yeah, I really hate to complain, but I’m hoping you’ll understand how we’re unhappy with where the wall got busted? Can I assume that that you will fix it?”as opposed to “Yeah, destroying the paint on that wall is really unacceptable, and you will need to fix that before we sign off on the work.”. It’s not just roundabout, it’s actually more of a covert assertiveness.

In fact, I think in the past few days I have figured out how southern women come to be known as sweet and submissive, while they, at the same time, rule over their families with a firm, but subtle hand. No southern woman I know (well, save one maybe) will ever admit to being a feminist (not in the least because feminism is still associated with the refusal to shave down here), but when a decision needs to be made regarding the family, the home, or even what kind of truck/riding lawn mower/four-wheeler hubby should buy, most of the time, the woman will have her say. She won’t tell her brood what to do, like Dutch women might. She won’t even directly offer her opinion in some cases. Nope, the true southern woman’s approach to taking charge consists of three facets: asking lots of seemingly innocuous questions (“So how are you going to pay for the gas for your second truck?”), giving the person in charge certain looks (my neighbor has perfected what she calls “the stink-eye”), and mere silence.

To be honest, I’m not sure I could ever adopt this approach. Sure, I maybe somewhat successful with outsiders, but inside the home, I think I’ll always need to be me. And that includes being direct, somewhat temperamentful, and annoyingly honest from time to time.

And because I can’t resist providing an update about our house: The floors are now completely done, and they’re awesome. They fixed the walls, thank goodness, and the only job left for me now is to paint tens and tens of feet of quarter round. I can’t wait.

Hear me roar!

I know I have mentioned the incredible friendliness of the locals before, and I may have, at times, touched upon the absurdity of their politeness, but I would have never believed that it would actually have me making frustrated faces at my phone.

Do you ever find yourself wanting to be assertive and slightly upset at someone, because they did not keep their appointment, or did not perform up to par, but then find yourself thwarted by their saccharine sweetness? When I lived in Europe, this happened so rarely, that I never gave any thought to it. When I hired someone to do something, and they messed up, I would tell them curtly and in one of those voices that I'm sure would work at the Pentagon that "This was completely unacceptable", and feel much better about the whole situation. However, today and yesterday I have been overwhelmed by people not keeping their appointments, showing up late, or simply making a big mess of things, and then being so incredibly evasive and non-confrontational about it, that I would end up making indistinct guttural sounds after hanging up.

Not that I like to get angry. I don't. I'm usually the kind of person who will avoid confrontation, and who thus, in general, fits in very well in the south. However, when someone makes a "boo-boo" (to stick with terms acceptable to the locals), I would like to be able to point that out to them. I don't even expect an excuse, I just want to be able to let them know how their tardiness, their chipping large parts off our walls while putting in a floor, and their missing appointments really affects me (and to be frank, although that's another no-no, just plain ticks me off). However, it would seem that this is not really an option here in the south. The moment you hint at something being not absolutely perfect, people go into possum mode. They may not literally play dead, but they will do everything in their power to shift blame, change the topic of the conversation, or question your initial agreement. This pretty much takes the wind out of your sails, leaving you feeling wonderfully frustrated, and the situation unsolved.

However, husband-dear and I have literally practiced the conversation I will be having with the floor-man in the morning (he of the chipped walls), and I think we're good. I honestly believe I am ready for whatever non-confrontational curve ball he throws at me. And no, I am not going to get mad, or mean. I'm just going to let him know how I feel, and then, wait for it, get him to fix the problem he created. And just in case none of that works, I have a back-up; husband-dear promised he would take over and pull some air force attitude. Whatever that may be. This is going to be interesting!

Moving on up

Well, the house is ours! After signing enough paperwork to have killed off an entire tropical rain forest, we are now the proud owners of our very own home. I love the thought of having a house that is truly our own. On the other hand, I'm also slightly apprehensive about the fact that when something breaks, we're actually going to have to fix it ourselves. Thank heavens for husbands I suppose:)

I've discovered, once again, that moving or redecorating really does not change when you move to another country. Somehow I had hoped that with the US being known for having the easy solution to everything (drive-thru banking and drive-thru goodwill drop-off being my two favorites), that certain irksome aspects of moving house would be less of a hassle. Well, I was wrong. The primer in my hair, the aches in my back and arms, and the wallpaper piece that just won't come off my knee are a living proof to that statement.

Sure, we don't use steamers here to remove wallpaper, but scraping it off using merely an odd blue gel and a razor isn't a whole lot better. Especially when you're dealing with vinyl fruit-patterned wallpaper that the previous owners were that attached to that they appeared to have used at least a bucket of glue per strip. At one point, when the blue gel is all over the wall and the trim, and the wallpaper is still coming off in pieces the size of your fingernails, you feel just as frustrated as when the whole room is filled with steam, and all that is happening is that your hair has begun to resemble something from the 1970s.
We had calculated one afternoon for taking care of the hideous wallpaper in the kitchen; after all, it was only only a section underneath a chair rail and a trim by the ceiling. We grossly underestimated the activity; it ended up taking over twelve hours, with gel on every imaginable surface, and tiny pieces of curled wallpaper covered the entire kitchen floor. However, I am proud to say that our marriage is still doing great, and the end result is absolutely worth it. We used a monsoon green glossy paint for the section above the white chair rail, and a gray summer white for the section underneath the rail. My husband describes it as Florida-style while I like to think of it as a Provencal-themed kitchen. Take your pick I would say; either way, after adding new knobs to the kitchen cabinets, and removing the floral patterned valences, we are now the proud owners of a truly pimped-up kitchen.

Just like every other move, we have also become regulars at our local home improvement store. In the past it may have been the local Kaufland, or the Gamma, this time it's Lowe's. And just like all the previous times, we still ended up going back at least three times a day, covered in paint, or wallpaper, or primer, or all three. I feel like I've gotten to know all the different people who work at the paint desk, and I even have my favorites. The one main advantage of working on your home here in the US are the store hours. I can't count the times I needed a few simple screws or some spackle, only to find the store had closed hours before. This time, when we realized a few of our new tarnished silver kitchen knobs needed screws that were just a hair longer at seven last night, Lowe's was still open, and bustling with activity.

For now, all of our painting and priming is done. Obviously, there are still projects left for after we're all moved in, but since two major ones include removing wallpaper (in the two bathrooms this time), we're perfectly fine with putting it off. Right now we're waiting on the floors to be done, and then it's just a matter of moving our stuff from one place to the next. I'm pretty sure that is going to be just as much hard work as it is anywhere else, but I'm hopeful, and will keep you posted. .

Trucks, boxes, and things

I would love to write a snazzy blog about some curious southern characteristic, but truth be told, my head is far too occupied with our upcoming move to come up with anything besides things like where to go and get boxes. Fortunately, I´ve discovered that there are plenty of interesting moving-related phenomena that are specific to this part of the world.

One of these things would be, yes, the hunt for suitable moving boxes. Of course, we should have kept all out boxes from our last move, but we didn’t. I mean, who does, really? We have enough to move maybe all of my books. Now, although my books are an essential part of my life, so are things like towels and dishes, so this wasn’t going to suffice. So then the question arises, where do you get boxes? In Europe, I would generally go to any grocery store, and ask them to save their banana boxes for me. Yes, banana boxes. I first heard about the wonderful qualities of banana boxes when I was in college, and, for the first time, did not have a platoon of professional movers come in to help me move. Apparently, because bananas are so heavy, these boxes are as sturdy as the best professional moving boxes, and hold about as much junk too. But to be honest, I’ve never heard anyone in the US wax lyrical about banana boxes, so I didn’t feel comfortable walking into my commissary and asking them to save their banana boxes for me. Recently I’ve discovered that I’m really done with making a fool of myself here, so I’ve become more careful with what I do and say. However, that didn’t exactly help me locate boxes for our move. And that’s when a friend came to the rescue. She had just moved her own family too, and had borrowed boxes from a friend who was smart enough to keep all of her professional moving boxes. So after one phone call to the friend of my friend, I was the proud borrower of enough boxes to my our entire family twice.

So with one problem out of the way, the next issue arose: how to move ourselves. Again, in Europe I would know what to do. I would rent a trailer, hook it up to my car, and then start worrying about how to fit everything into the covered trailer so I would only have to make one trip. Here, however, it’s not exactly like that. First, neither mine nor my husband’s car has a ball-hitch, so renting a trailer is somewhat out of the question. Second, husband-dear owns a truck, which led me to believe that we perhaps did not need to rent anything at all. However, we quickly realized if we were try and lift some of our heavier furniture into the bed, we would probably both be hospitalized with herniated discs. But then, and this is what got me, instead of renting a truck with a lift, we discovered that one of our friends actually owns a fancy truck complete with electric lift gate. No, he’s not a mover, or a construction worker, or works in any field that would require the ownership of such a truck, he just likes to own something that closely resembles a sixteen-wheeler. Coming from Europe, where gas prices and annual taxes keep most people from owning anything larger than a sedan, I have to say I found this a little odd, but that I was very grateful for his offer to let us use the truck.

And that brings me to the third interesting finding. In Europe, I would never have any problems finding people who were willing to help me paint, but few people would volunteer to help on the actual moving day. And yes, I’m equally obsessive compulsive about both activities:) Here, however, we have more than enough people to help us move, but no one has volunteered to help paint. Not that I mind, but it’s still interesting that people apparently prefer to schlep boxes and heavy bookcases around in 100-degree weather, to painting inside an air-conditioned house. I’ve tried to think of a reason for this cultural difference, but I’m not sure what it is. Perhaps Dutch people are more likely to channel Van Gogh or Vermeer, while Americans prefer to identify with people like Hulk Hogan? OK, I just made that up, and it seems highly unlikely. Maybe Dutch people like getting dirty, while Americans like to get sweaty? That doesn’t sound quite right either. So, I really don’t know. What I do know is that it works out perfectly for us though, so, really, I’m not complaining.

In fact, I would say I’m very happy right now, after all, in about 24 hours, we’ll be real home-owners!

Een huis kopen: American style deel 2

We zijn nu, als het goed is, 48 uur verwijderd van de “closing” (de overdracht) van ons huis. Ik heb, sinds de vorige post over het kopen van een huis, alweer een heleboel bijgeleerd. Ondertussen ben ik ook wel een toe een dagje spa ofzo, maar helaas zit dat er de komende weken niet in, dus wat kan je dan beter doen, dan erover te bloggen? Gedeelde smart is tenslotte halve smart.

Zo heb ik onder andere mogen ervaren dat Amerikaanse hypothekers enorme pietjes precies zijn. Zo wilden ze vorige week een brief van mij dat ik toch echt wel naar mijn werk zou rijden elke dag, en daar niet nog een huis zou kopen. Juist. Ook wilde ze een verklaring dat ik toch echt wel de professor was wiens contract ze hadden ontvangen. Het feit dat mijn contract in mijn meisjesnaam-getrouwde naam is, net als mijn paspoort, maar de rest allemaal in mijn getrouwde naam was blijkbaaar nogal verwarrend. Ook goed. Daarnaast wilden ze ook een kopie van de achterkant van mijn groene kaart. De voorkant hadden ze al, maar blijkbaar was dat niet genoeg. Nu bestaat de achterkant van een groene kaart uit een grote zwarte magneetstrip, en toen ik de kopie faxte voelde ik de volgende communicatie al aankomen. En jawel, een paar uur later kreeg ik een telefoontje of het inderdaad klopte dat de achterkant van mijn groene kaart bijna helemaal zwart was. Jawel. En dit allemaal tijdens onze vakantie. Gelukkig is het allemaal prima gelukt, maar ik vind het krijgen van zo’n telefoontje terwijl ik met een zooi kinderen in een bloedhete dierentuin sta nou niet echt een geslaagde actie.

Gelukkig zijn we deze week weer thus, en hebben we ons dus met de kleinere dingen bezig kunnen houden. Ik ben deze week begonnen met een 17-punts to-do lijstje, en ik kan met enige trots vermelden dat er al 12 punten zijn afgewerkt. En ook daar zaten weer de nodige leermomenten in verwerkt.

Zo zijn bijvoorbeeld de schilderspullen al geregeld. Had ik verteld dat de keuken van een afgrijselijk behang is voorzien, en dat een van de kinderslaapkamers knalpaars is? We zijn dus maandag meteen naar Lowe’s (een doe het zelf zaak) geweest, om voor bijna 300 dollar aan schilderspullen in te slaan. Ik heb in Nederland heel wat afgesaust, en het was erg leuk om te zien hoe sommige dingen net iets anders zijn. Zo hebben we hier aluminium verfbakken gekocht, en dan hele dunne plastic wegwerkbakken van een paar cent die daar precies inpassen. Ik kon (vroegah!) in Nederland altijd alleen maar gewone plastig bakken vinden, die je dan of helemaal moest afwassen achteraf, of die je gewoon weg kon gooien. Wat dat betreft is dit dus echt de gulden middenweg. Ook kwam ik er achter dat de VS echt het mecca is wat betreft behang-afhaal-middelen. Deze winkel had hele planken vol met verschillende chemicalien en apparatuur. In Nederland kan ik me altijd hele drama’s herinneren met stoommachines en plamuurmessen, en hier heb je kennelijk (manlief heeft ervaring) niet meer nodig dan een of ander flesje met vloeistof, en een krabber, en klaar. Ik ben benieuwd!

Uiteraard zijn we ook druk met de laatste dingen voor de closing. Naast dat we nog meer papieren moesten tekenen, moeten we nu ook wachten op het precieze bedrag dat we met de closing moeten betalen. Dat kan dus niet betaald worden met een spoedoverboeking, zoals je dat in Nederland vast zal doen, maar dat moet met een “cashier’s check”. Dat is een check die de bank voor je opmaakt, en die al in de naam staat van de persoon voor wie die is. Dus zodra we weten hoeveel we moeten betalen mag ik (de vloek van de lange vakantie!) naar de bank om zo’n ding op te halen. Nu hebben manlief noch ik geen ervaring met cashier’s checks, dus het is nog even afwachten of we het ook daadwerkelijk meteen meekrijgen, of dat er weer een dag overheen gaat. Het zal zeker nog even spannend zijn,

En naast het regelen van dozen (op dit soort momenten vraag je je altijd weer af waarom je bijna al je dozen van je laatste verhuizing hebt weggedaan), het verzetten van het afleveren van de koelkast (want sja, de keuken moet natuurlijk wel eerst geschilderd zijn), en het zorgen dat de vloerenman komt nadat de koelkast is geleverd, en voordat je mensen inhuurt om de grote meubels te verhuizen, moet ik deze week ook nog een change of address regelen bij het postkantoor. Het fijne hieraan is dat ik dus drie formulieren mag invullen; eentje voor onze familienaam, eentje voor mijn meisjesnaam, en eentje voor de combinatie meisjesnaam-familienaam. Gelukkig heb ik ondertussen een engelengeduld, een enorm doorzettingsvermogen, en een niet te stuiten werktempo ontwikkeld, dus het zal allemaal wel goedkomen. Nou alleen niet vergeten om te blijven ademen.

Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede

Although I wouldn’t argue that Pigeon Forge revolves around Dolly Parton, I would say that she is a ubiquitous presence. Not only does she have a major parkway is named after her, there is also a Dollywood Lane, named after, indeed, Dollywood the amusement park. Then there is Dollywood´s Splash ´n´ Country, Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede, and countless signs and stores bearing her name.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike Dolly Parton at all. Some of her songs are definitely up there, and she was hilarious in the movie “Nine to five”. True, her wigs freak me out a little bit, as does the fact that she probably has a waist that would make Scarlett O’Hara jealous. And when I found out she was born in 1946, I was confronted with the fact that I have, at least for the last twenty years, assumed she was forty. But other than that, she has always struck me as a nice, good-hearted person.

So when we got ready to go to the Dixie Stampede, I wasn’t quite sure which direction the evening was going to go; was it going to be fun and light-hearted, or were we going to be confronted with Dolly Parton in full-country mode, complete with banjo, 4-ft high wig, and a sequiny dress?

Fortunately, it turned out to be somewhere in the middle. For those of you who are not familiar with the Dixie Stampede, it’s a dinner show. You are seated around a riding arena in a bleacher-like seats with a narrow table in front of you, and are served a typical southern dinner while you’re entertained by songs, dance, pig races, and people on horseback, in covered wagons, and on ostriches. Your typical southern dinner includes a drink (preferably sweet tea of course), served in a mason jar, a bowl of soup with a biscuit, rotisserie chicken, pork loin barbecue, corn on the cob, and an apple turnover. The best part? You did not get any silverware. Just imagine the look on my face, when I realized I had to slurp soup out of the bowl, and pull a chicken apart with my hands. I guess I just never realized that being southern meant you didn’t have any table manners, but I’m willing to learn. And before I let out the critic in me, let me just say that I did have fun. The food was good, the show was amazing, and I really had a great evening.

But DixieChick wouldn't be DixieChick if she didn't have something to complain about. The theme of the night is north versus south. Each act is presented as a battle between the north and the south. The seating is divided up in half, with one half of the place rooting for the south, and the other for the north. Now it sounds like an innocuous theme, and although it is on the surface, there were some things that made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Like when they described the founding of America, and explained that the civil war was the result of “not seeing eye to eye about certain values”. Now perhaps working at an HBCU (Historically Black College and University) has made me extra sensitive to these issues, but to describe the discord regarding the morality and legality of slavery as “not seeing eye to eye” about “certain values” is a bit of an understatement. I also wasn’t exactly comfortable with the fact that the waiters on the other (the south) side, as well as the actors competing for that side, were dressed in confederate uniforms. Nobody really seemed to be concerned with what those uniforms stood for back in the mid-19^th century. Sure, the civil war ended, and slavery was abolished, but I think that the issues that are a direct result of slavery, such as racism are still too much of a presence in the south to be dealt with in such a light manner. When there are still people who think it’s alright to pick up the phone, dial my work number and call me the “n-word”, I think we need to consider everything related to the divide between the north and the south very seriously. To me this became even more true when I noticed that out of the probably thousand guests, maybe a handful were not white. I understand the need to create some sort of competition, and the distinction between the north and south is definitely a great way to do it, but can’t they do so without mentioning the civil war?

Fortunately, the show, and Dolly Parton redeemed herself a little, by ending the show with the comment that “We have to remember that above all, we are all Americans”. It’s very true. But I wonder if that’s really enough to heal the problems we still experience in the south in a daily basis.

Een "country" 4th of july

Het is niet echt moeilijk om een echte country variant van de Amerikaanse Independence Day te maken.
Je hebt, om te beginnen, een heleboel vuurwerk nodig. En dan heb ik het niet over gillende keukenmeiden, maar over vuurwerkstellages die uit drie pijpen de grootte van een droger afvoer bestaan, en ongeveer tot mijn middel komen. Dit vuurwerk moet je het liefst al vroeg op de dag beginnen af te steken, en het liefst met als doel om mensen te laten schrikken. Het gebruik van vuuwerk moet ook niet worden geremd door de vraag of het afsteken van vuurwerk uberhaupt legaal is in de staat waarin je je op dat moment bevindt.
Daarnaast heb je een enorme hoeveelheid barbecue vlees nodig; het liefst iets in de trant van pork chops, maar fried chicken is ook goed. Dit vlees wordt minstens een dag van te voren in een smoker gelegd, en dan op de dag zelf van een flinke scheut barbecue saus voorzien. Ook moeten er tonnen homemade coleslaw en potato salad zijn, alsmede de benodigde coolers vol met frisdranken en bier.
Ook moeten minstens twee mensen hun geweren mee gebracht hebben. Het liefst een dubbelloops geweer, maar een gewoon pistool mag ook. Het idee is dat je deze gaat gebruiken voor wat target practice met de bomen, of als het aanwezig is, de blaadjes die in het meer drijven. Ook dienen ze voor het inwijden van de vreemde buitenlandse in de kunst van het schieten. Daarnaast moeten ze natuurlijk ook gebruikt worden als een soort meting van mannelijkheid welke geuit wordt in uitspraken zoals; "My pistol can shoot nine bullets in x seconds" "My shotgun is a twenty gage", en "I have shot thre bucks last hunting season" .
Daarnaast moeten er ook de nodige spelletjes aanwezig zijn: horseshoes, chuck-o and badminton being the preferred choices. Ook is het ideaal als er een meer of een zwembad aanwezig is. Deze kan voor zowel afkoeling als een soort mini-variant van mud-wrestling bieden.
Uiteraard wappert er minstens een Amerikaanse vlag bij het huis, en zijn er meerdere rood-wit-blauwe versieringen aanwezig. Ook hebben de verschillende gasten, met uitzondering van die rare buitenlander, allemaal een per toeval hetzelfde shirt aan van de Walmart met een Amerikaanse vlag in de vorm van de VS erop.

Ben ik nu aan het generaliseren? Is dit een veel te overdreven beschrijving? Misschien wel; ik heb nog wel eens een handje van het creatief beschrijven van de waarheid. Maar in dit geval weet ik zeker dat het niet zo is: als je volgend jaar met mij meekomt naar de 4th of july viering van mijn mans familie, dan zul je zien waarom:)

The town with two faces

In an earlier post, I predicted Pigeon Forge would be the capital of camp. After having spent several days there, I think I'm going to have to revise that statement. Pigeon Forge is not so much camp as it has a split personality. On the one hand, it is just as gaudy as you would expect, but on the other hand it has a quiet mountain mystique to it, one that makes you want to start saying things like "yew" as opposed to "you" and learn how to play the banjo.

When we first drove down Pigeon Forge's main strip, after briefly noticing the tall and imposing mountains that formed the backdrop to the town, we were immediately assaulted by an explosion of colors and sounds. There were brightly colored signs everywhere, advertising everything from "Fastest go-karts in town", and "Pure family fun! Tennessee Shindig dinner show" and "Tony Gore's Smokey BBQ and grill" to "The sexy store! We have it all!". Bungee-jumping contraptions alternated with a NASCAR museum, Elvis museums and souvenir stores advertising their wares in bright neon pink vied for your attention with several enormous Charles Dickens-esque Christmas stores. Besides wondering why people would want to stay in a Christmas Inn in July, I couldn't help but ask myself if people really drive from all over the eastern part of the US (and even further, if license plates were any indication) to spend a week in a town that could be best described as Panama City on speed. But people do, and judging by the fact that traffic is always backed up on the strip, many of them never venture far off that four-lane parkway.

But, and here's the crazy thing, all you need to do is take a turn off the main strip, and you're right in the middle of one of the most beautiful national parks of the US: The Great Smokey Mountains. Sure, you'll be driving along Dollywood Lane or the Dolly Parton Parkway, but you can't deny the fact that suddenly you see nothing but sloping hills, winding roads, and wooden cabins with the tall imposing smokies in the background. People all drive pick-up trucks, wave at strangers, and there are general stores selling everything from fish bait to chew tobacco on every intersection. You can tube down gentle rivers, walk on real swinging bridges and explore endless trails that lead into the mountains. At night the sky is full of fireflies, and when you sit in your rocking chair on your front porch, all you hear are the crickets and the wings of the bats flying overhead.

The contradiction between these two parts is absolutely mind-boggling. What's even more amazing is that many people never venture into what I would consider the "real" Smokey Mountains. But, for those of you who know me and my critical little soul, I am actually not going to bash the crass commercialization that is the strip in Pigeon Forge. Sure, I wish it looked a little nicer. Well, actually, I wish someone would tear down the existing strip and then rebuild it so it actually blends in with the original very picturesque town, forbid any signs with lights, outlaw the presence of more than one Ripley's believe it or not! attraction, and then punish the person who allowed such ugliness to occur. But other than that, I'm sort of OK with there being go-kart tracks and fairground attractions in the middle of so much beauty. Having two children will do that to your principles. I mean, they can only take so much silence, trees, and beautiful countryside, and will only spend so much time catching fireflies. So I was actually grateful that we could alternate "adult" stuff like sitting on the front porch of our cabin with "kid-friendly" stuff such as riding go-karts. I think because Pigeon Forge is so two-faced, every single family member actually managed to enjoy every single day there, which, as far as I, or any mom, is concerned, is a blessing.

Coming up next: Dolly Parton - the phenomenon or why she has always looked forty!

Dixiechick's road rules

I have to admit, the title of this blog is not entirely correct. However, Dixiechick's husband's road rules seemed a little over the top, hence the current title. But my husband is due all credit for today's rambling.

In all honesty, after a very long day on the road, I didn't think I would have the energy to come up with a cute blog. However, thanks to my husband, I do. As we drove through four different states, surrounded by drivers from all over the US, he started to get every so slightly annoyed by the different, and often times, irksome behaviors exhibited by residents from different states. He then proceeded to have me and the kids crack up by naming the different rules that each state seemed to adhere to, and told me I really should write a blog about them. So here are the state-by-state traffic laws that my husband feels y'all should be aware of:

Florida: You must, at all times, hog the middle lane, and preferably at a speed lower than that of the traffic in the far right lane. Never, ever, relinguish that middle lane position.

Georgia: Maintaining your lane is a sign of weakness. You must change lanes as often as you can, thus engagging in a game of highway leapfrog. This game entails such rules as: pass on the right, slow down in the middle lane, and wait to be passed when in the left lane.

Tennessee: The locals of this state are never in a hurry to get anywhere. In fact, many of them haven't really decided where they're going yet.

Alabama: You must also never be in a hurry to get anywhere, but you do have to know where you're going. Well, sort of.

Kentucky: I may put the ten commandments on my truck, but I sure as heck ain't gonna let you merge in front of me.

After thus insulting almost every state in our area, I think my husband felt a little guilty, especially considering driving in Europe is so much worse. Hence, he also came up with a list of rules for some of the European countries we have driven in:

The Netherlands: Do your best to control the flow of traffic by manouvring and positioning your car so others, who are not driving according to your standards, cannot bypass you

Germany: All rules must be obeyed at all times. We will gladly post every single one of these on the side of the road using tiny and complicated signs.

France: Rules are for Germans. We just like to express ourselves freely.

Any additions to this list are very welcome!