An old biddy

Today I feel old. Really old. Usually I go through life thinking I’m hip. I mean I have rap songs on my i-pod, know all about the latest shows on Nickelodeon, and steer away from “mom jeans” as far as I can. But today I feel anything by hip and young. And it’s not because I feel more than tired than usual this week. It’s also not because I discovered a new wrinkle. Nope. No, the fact that I feel old today is all my students’ fault.

Today in class we were talking about the civil rights movement, and one student mentioned that her grandparents were actively involved in that when they were younger. Her grandparents! When they were younger! In my world, your parents took an active role in the civil rights movement, and maybe some older siblings, while grandparents did little more than chant on the sidelines. They were, after all, older, settled in, and not as likely to get riled up. Moments like that happen far too often and are just plain depressing, simply because they make me feel old.

You know, I’m going to just stake my claim here and tell you that there should be a rule against students getting younger and younger every year. Do you realize that this year’s freshmen were born in or after 1990? That the upperclassmen (juniors and seniors) are maybe from 1987 or 1988? These are people who don’t remember there being a cold war. Kids who did not watch the Challenger explosion live on television. Actually, many of these bitty ones barely know what the Challenger is or was. Kids who know shows like “The facts of life” or “Diff’rent Strokes”, but from reruns only. And the most shocking part? When I ask my students questions like “Where were you when 9/11 happened”, do you know what they will reply? “In 7th grade language arts”. Seventh grade?! When I was in seventh grade, the Berlin Wall had already come down, an event that some of my students treat that as though it’s ancient history, on a par with the 1918 armistice.

And it’s the same with your own kids. I vividly remember babysitting for other people. It was really only yesterday. But now our oldest is old enough to start babysitting too. Not to mention the fact that they’re talking about driving, cute girls, and things that I think can wait another two decades or so. How and when did all this happen? We should still be looking for worms in the grass, and catching lightning bugs. Sure, every once in a while, they’ll bring in a frog or a cockroach, reminiscent of earlier days. And a feat which now actually excites me.

I guess that in my world, I’ve only just gotten out of high school, and all these new developments are telling me that that really is only in my world. But is this such a crazy feeling? Is there anyone else who feels like they’re stuck in, say, 1992? I’ve gotten better – whenever I read or heard that someone was born in 1983, I used to think they were six. I’ve now moved up in time; someone born in 1983 is now no older than 13. At least in my world. Scarily, I think that one of my highly-esteemed, knowledgeable, and pretty much indispensible colleagues was born in 1983. Wow.

I know there’s no stopping time. I know my students are going to get older and know less and less about moments that were defining to my life. The kids are going to grow up and move out. But can I then, at least in my head, still pretend that Madonna is in her True Blue phase, the Backstreet Boys are something of the future, “Who’s the Boss” is the hottest show around, and the kids still want to be a superhero like their dad?

Retro-expatriot

Denkend aan Holland besefte ik me vorige week in een keer dat ik geen idee meer had welke partijen er momenteel in de coalitie zitten. Ik kon met moeite nog net bedenken dat Balkenende de minister-president was (na enige twijfel of het toch niet Wouter Bos was), maar verder kwam ik niet. Ook heb ik eerlijk gezegd geen idee hoeveel medailles Nederland heeft gewonnen in de Olympische Spelen, en als ik op de website van de Volkskrant iets lees over Holleeder, moet ik heel goed nadenken wie dat ook al weer was. Voor iemand die het dagelijks nieuws op de voet volgt, is dit een schrikbarende ontwikkeling.

En het is niet alleen mijn kennis over het Nederlandse nieuws dat minder wordt. Ik merk ook dat ik steeds beter zonder typische Nederlandse dingen zoals lekkere jonge kaas, appelstroop, en drop kan. Ik heb al weken geen appelstroop meer op, terwijl het toch echt in de kast staat, en alhoewel mijn dropvoorraad al op is, loopt het water niet eens in mijn mond als ik er nu aan denk. Ook al weer zoiets vreemds

Nederlandse tijdschriften vind ik nog steeds erg leuk, maar ik merk steeds meer dat heel veel dingen me niet meer aanspreken. Soms omdat ik de mensen gewoon niet ken (het “wie is dat nou weer?!” gevoel), en soms omdat ik, met mijn vast al lichtelijk ver-Amerikaanse geest, de onderwerpen niet meer interessant vind. Ik bedoel, noem me conservatief, maar waarom zouden viva-lezeressen alles willen weten over de ins en outs van een scheiding? En Nederlandse televisie heb ik al maanden niet meer gekeken. Ik voel me soms net een buitenaards wezen als ik een satirisch programma kijk waar ik vroeger altijd gek op was, en er nu de helft niet meer van snap.

Aan de andere kant kan ik enorm genieten van programma’s die ik vroeger keek. Zo heb ik me van de zomer vermaakt met een DVD van “Thomas en Senior”, en zou ik ook echt heel graag “De Zevensprong” nog een keer zien. Ook Nederlandse muziek uit die tijd spreekt me opeens veel meer aan. Zo heb ik hele autoritten lang uit volle borst zitten meezingen met een CD van Willeke Alberti , en sinds kort wil ik ook nog een CD met allemaal Nederlandse eurosongfestival liedjes. Misschien is het gewoon een kwestie van slechte smaak, maar als ik me bedenk dat ik in Nederland moest ik niks van die muziek hebben, terwijl ik nu soms onbewust “waar blijft die tijd” aan het zingen ben, dan weet ik het niet hoor.

En het is ook niet alsof ik me niet meer verbonden voel met Nederland. Ik heb een “I love Holland” koe-kussentje (compleet met “boe” geluiden) in mijn auto hangen, op de koelkast hangen meerdere molen- en klomp-magneetjes, mijn theezakjes houder is Delfts blauw en de klok heeft een schildering van (alweer) Nederlandse koe in een Nederlandse landschap erop. Allemaal dingen waarmee ik in Nederland niet doodgevonden zou willen worden.

Gelukkig heb ik ondertussen heel goed door wat er aan de hand is. Ik ben geen buitenaards wezen, en ook lijd ik niet aan een of andere gecompliceerde vorm van Alzheimer. Ik ben gewoon een retro-expatriot aan het worden. Dat zijn mensen die niet meer in hun eigen land wonen, er ondertussen steeds minder vanaf weten (hoezo inburgeringscursus?), maar wiens liefde voor dat zelfde land alleen maar toeneemt. Vroeger associeerde ik dit altijd met de wat oudere mensen met permanentjes die ik altijd tegenkwam op konninginedag borrels op het consulaat. Ze droegen allemaal oranje strikjes in hun revers, luisterden naar de Wereldomroep, maar als je ze vroeg wie er nu in de Top 40 stond, of wie de meest populaire Nederlandse cabaretier was, dan begonnen ze over Heintje Davis en Toon Hermans. Maar nu heb ik door dat ook frisse vlotte mensen zoals ik hieraan ten prooi kunnen vallen. Ik heb dan wel geen permanentje, en ook ben ik niet echt bekent met Heintje Davis, maar ik lees wel de wereldexpat website, en ben dol op Royalty bladen. En ik zie mezelf echt over twintig jaar op 30 April op een of ander consulaat ergens staan, oranjebitter in de hand, kek oranje hoedje op, terwijl ik vrolijk het Wilhelmus meezing met een rollende “r” en “Lang leve de Koningin!” roep. Oh nee, want we hebben dan een koning. Maar ja, dat doet er eigenlijk niet toe. Liefde komt uit het hart, niet uit het verstand.

Tornado warning

I know I like to point out things that are different, odd, or just plain annoying about life in the south. I like to whine about scary bugs and plants, the way people talk, how long it takes to get anything done around here, and the crazy bumper stickers put on their cars. But on the whole I would argue that that was all there was to worry about down here: innocuous nuisances.

Until yesterday anyway. As I had just started on my 90 mile-drive home, both my husband and a friend called me at the same time to let me know there was a tornado warning in effect in our town. Not a watch, where the “conditions” are right, but an actual real-live warning. As in, someone somewhere has seen a tornado race around. And mind you, this was not in the big semi-city that includes the base, the mall, and endless subdivisions, no, it had been limited to the little bitty unincorporated hamlet that sits south of all of this. The one where we live. We’re talking an area of maybe ten square miles, where circular winds had been sighted, and all they were doing was waiting for the funnel cloud to hit the ground. Great.

Now slap me upside the head and call me an idiot, but as far as I know, we did not move to Kansas, and our dog is not called Toto. Our neck of the woods has a lot of bad things (poison ivy! Poisonous snakes! Confederate flag-waving rednecks!), but tornadoes are technically not one of them. Well, was I ever wrong. As I was on the phone with husband-dear who was also on his way home, he could see black circular clouds swirling around overhead. As he got closer to home, he told me they were converged right over our neighborhood, and were coming closer and closer to the ground. It was not pretty, and apparently he has never covered the eight miles from base to our home that fast.

While I’m hearing all of this, I’m driving down a sunny interstate, with not a cloud in sight, wondering if my house and family will still be there when I get home. The boys had hidden in our walk-in closet with Zoe, and closed and barricaded the door. They assured me over the phone that they “had it under control”, and knew exactly what to do. But when they said they had to hang up because they now had to put their hands over their heads as they had learned in school, momma felt anything but reassured.

I’ve often cursed my endless commute, but nothing like yesterday. I wanted to fly down the highway, but decided that the last thing anyone needed was a speeding ticket or worse. So all I could do was hope and pray things would be alright. And fortunately, the circular clouds decided to stay up above the ground. When my husband called me half an hour later, they were all standing on the back porch, admiring the second (!) circle of clouds and winds passing right next to our house.

That little experience took at least two years off my life, and makes me yearn for little nuisances like cockroaches and yellow flies, and people who can’t say “no”. Now excuse me while I go and enjoy a good luck at the truck with the confederate flag on it parked, I’m sure, not too far from here.

Southern what?

First of all, I would like to apologize to my dog. Because there is, as usual, something I need to get off my chest, her picture will no longer be at the top of the page. And that is something that warrants a heartfelt apology. So sorry doggy!

Anyway. I have a confession to make. I'm not big on pride. I don't mean that I can't be proud of people around me; husband, kids, students, because I can be. I also don't mean that I don't like where I live or where I'm from, just not in a "my child is an honor student" bumper sticker, Air Force tag or "God bless America" ribbon on my car sort of way. I show my pride in a subdued kind of way. If I'm proud of you, you'll know it, but please don't ask me to honor you on my car, on my clothes, or with flags waving in my yard on regular non-special days.

I realize that I'm definitely not the norm in this part of the world. Here people genuinely like to show their pride, and support for each cause, and person, they feel attached to. I think it's great. Sometimes I wish I could be more like that. I mean, it took me two days of agonizing before I decided to post pictures of the best puppy in the world on my blog. I love living in a state where a lot of people seem to think that an inch of visible paint on their car is wasted space. Honestly, I get a kick out driving behind people whose car allows me to figure out they're retired military (the tag), served in the Vietnam war (the "Proud to be a Vietnam vet!" bumper sticker), support the Democrats (an "Obama 08" magnet) and the troops (the famous yellow ribbon), and believe in God (although the "I am proud to serve a Jewish carpenter" sticker did throw me for a loop there for a moment).

But there are some forms of pride that I'm not too sure of. Like the two bumper stickers I saw just yesterday, both of which featured the confederate flag. One of them read: "Welcome to Dixie. If you don't like our flag, leave", and the other one said"No matter how hard they try, this flag will never die".

Now I realize that some southerners view the confederate flag as a way to show southern pride. And sure, there is no reason why someone shouldn't be proud of the place they come from. I mean, the south has produced some wonderful writers, politicians, artists, some of the tastiest food around, and heck, where would we be without front porches and sweet tea? Very stressed out probably. But I'm not sure I would express this pride using a symbol that, well, many people associate with, well, the losing side in the civil war. And now I know that there will be southerners who will tell me that they don't mean that when they wave their flag, and everyone just needs to understand that, but you know what, I'm not sure I agree with that anymore.

You see, I have another confession to make. I used to be very much a "live and let live" kind of person. And in some ways I still am. If you want to do something, and it doesn't hurt anyone else, go for it. I may think you're a freak, but by all means, go for it. I mean, what do I know.

But having taught at an HBCU for the past year has really opened my eyes, and made it clear that although some things are OK, others very clearly are not. And the confederate flag would be one of them. My students, who are all African American, tell me that that flag to them symbolizes everything that the south can not, and should not be proud of; its history of slavery, the civil war it started, and its attempts to halt the civil rights movement. I've had students tell me that when they have to interact with people who display the confederate flag, they are truly afraid of their lives. If a flag holds such negative connotations to a large group of people who have had enough wrong done to them, why keep flying it? Why keep claiming that they "just don't get it"? If something doesn't work to making a society a more cohesive unity, all it does it pull it further apart. And with all due respect to all the white southerners who are not racists, but I think that that is the last thing we need here in the deep south.

So I suggest we all pull together to design a new way to express southern pride. Maybe a bumper sticker that reads "You may be a Yankee, but at least I'm nice", or "Sunny all year round!", or little cherry blossom magnets, or pictures of sweet tea with the words "Have y'all had your fix today?". You bet I won't be putting any of those on my car, but y' all will know I'm just secretly proud:)

It's a doggy dog world

Just because I think my puppy is the cutest dog in the world, I felt the burning desire to share some pictures with y'all.


Everybody, meet Zoe. Zoe, meet everybody. This was a few hours after we picked her up.




When Zoe gets tired, she will fall asleep pretty much anywhere. She particularly likes sitting on my laptop right after I turned it off. She may have also felt that there was no reason for mommy to work after she had just spent over twelve hours away from home. And she is right.


And sometimes when mommy gets home from work and is tired, she and Zoe will fall asleep together. The downside is that a seven pound puppy takes up a lot less room in the kitchen than a full-grown woman.


Have a barkin' weekend!

De eerste loodjes

De eerste week van colleges is bijna voorbij, en veel meer dan een zwak “joepie!”komt er op dit moment niet meer uit. Als ik morgen alvast meetel, dan heb ik 13 colleges gegegeven, zo’n pak en beet twintig studenten advies gegeven over hun “drop and add”, één vergadering bijgewoond, vijftien uur in de auto gezeten, en gemiddeld zes uur per nacht geslapen. Oh ja, en een de puppie getracht op te voeden. Maar afgezien van het feit dat de Red Bulls nu echt op zijn, en ik nog een dag moet werken, ga ik niet klagen. Ik heb volgens mij enorme wallen onder mijn ogen, en mijn haar heeft ook wel eens betere dagen gekend, maar het gevoel om weer helemaal terug te zijn is geweldig.

Zo heb ik weer ruim drie uur de tijd om naar (on)zinnige nieuws achtergronden te luisteren op NPR. Zo ben ik dus weer helemaal bij wat betreft de geschiedenis van de Praagse Lente, de grant die een medical college in Georgia binnen heeft gehaald, en Obama’s laatste uitspraken. Ook kan ik eindelijk weer zien hoe het katoen in de velden langs de weg gegroeid is. Ook zijn enkele schuurtjes nu echt veranderd in “shacks”, terwijl sommige shacks van vorig jaar echt helemaal ingestort of soms zelfs verdwenen zijn. Tot mijn grote vreugde staat Bryce’s BBQ shack er ook nog steeds, compleet met drie enorme grills voor de deur. En dit jaar ga ik echt een keer ribs op halen om mee naar huis te nemen.

Ook zijn de studenten nog voor geen steek veranderd. Gelukkig. Ze komen er nog steeds op het laatste moment achter dat ze zich nog “even” moeten inschrijven voor een bepaald vak, en vergeten het meteen wanneer ik een quiz ovr de syllabus aankondig. Ze mopperen nog steeds als ik uitleg dat ze echt twee papers voor mijn vak moeten schrijven, en spelen het in de eerste week al klaar om te laat te komen. Ook zijn er nog altijd de studenten die je komen vertellen over hun grote plannen; terwijl anderen je vol trots komen vertellen dat ze al een baan hebben terwijl ze nog niet afgestudeerd zijn. Ook zijn er weer freshmen die het allemaal maar heel erg eng vinden, en om de haverklap langskomen voor advies over computers, bijbaantjes, en wat te doen als een docent om een “personal essay” vraagt. En vandaag nam een student van mij onverwachts een vriendin mee naar een van mijn colleges. Achteraf vertelde ze dat het meisje op haar 16^e met school gestopt was, en nu helemaal geen zin meer had om ooit nog terug te gaan. Mijn student wilde haar overtuigen dat studeren toch ook heel leuk kon zijn, en had haar dus meegenomen om een van mijn lessen bij te wonen. Het meisje had het geweldig gevonden. Op zulk soort momenten, die altijd net plaatsvinden wanneer ik zo moe ben dat ik bijna de trap naar mijn kantoor niet meer op kom, herinner ik me altijd weer waarom ik lesgeef.

Kortom, ondanks de wallen, het huishouden dat nu echt achterloopt, en het feit dat ik van het weekend zeker twaalf uur wil slapen, is het goed om weer terug te zijn.

Princess Zoe

I know I dish out a lot of semi-important advice in my blog, but after two sleepless nights, please take it from me that if you're hesitant about acquiring a dog, make sure you avoid your local PetSmart on those infamous "adoption days". Because unless you have a true heart of stone, there is no way you can walk away without one of their cute and fluffy puppies. I thought I could, which is why I agreed to accompany my husband to just "look" at some of the animals the local shelters had brought in this time. However, the black furry proof that I was wrong is currently asleep in her crate in our bedroom.

Yes, we are now the proud owners of a 9 or 10 week old mutt named Zoe. We're not sure how old she is, or even what kind of dogs her parents were, because Zoe was abandoned. She and her brother were found in a box by an animal control officer and brought to one of our local shelters. It's a sad story, and it's even sadder when you realize that all the tens of animals that are at the adoption days have similar stories, as do the hundreds still in the shelters. Some dogs are brought in hurt, like the little chihuaha mix nicknamed "Gimpy". Gimpy couldn't walk properly because his owners had let his broken leg heal improperly before abandoning him. He was now waiting until enough money had been donated so he could have surgery to fix his leg. Others have been taken away from careless owners, while others are found in plastic bags alongside the road.

See, I told you, all those stories combined with the big brown eyes, wagging tails, and fuzzy puppy scent is enough to melt anybody's "inner mother". So as of Monday, we are the proud parents of our own little lab/husky/something vague princess. While timid and shy at first, she has now completely taken over our house. No one's feet are safe from her nibbling, shoes are meant to sleep on, kibble definitely needs to be eaten (and left) all throughout the kitchen, balls are always meant to be thrown, and don't count on sleeping when little miss princess feels lonely. Our house training program is in full swing, but there's no need to carry out any effectivity studies yet, I'd rather you go out and replenish our stock of Lysol Wipes. And we're not sure if this is an effect of her being abandoned, but don't think you can have some quiet alone time; where you go, Zoe will go too. Whether it's the bathroom, the laundry room, or your car, Zoe has to be there. Oh yes, and please don't read magazines when you could just as well spend your time playing tug of war with her favorite purple ring. I mean, please. Yesterday, our new family addition discovered Gertie, our guinneapig who has had little peace since. We've thus decided that a "meet your fellow pets" orientation is probably in order this weekend. Fortunately little puppies need a lot of naps, and Zoe is no different. She will get tired, wobble on her skinny little legs, and lie down wherever and whenever she is tired. She's fallen asleep with her face inside a shoe, with her nose up against the stove, and in front of wherever we happen to be sitting.

She's great, she's funny, she's exhausting, she's sweet, she's stubborn, and we wouldn't trade our little princess for the world. Pictures will follow as soon as she leaves me enough time at the computer without threatening to either get tangled in all the cords or chew on them.

On mothers and dogs

Sooner or later, we all start acting, at least in part, like our mothers. Now I love my mother dearly, and would not trade her for anyone else, but there are some things that she would do, that I promised I would stay away from. Very, very far away. It included things like rhubarb, loafers, and certain phrases. Although I haven't eaten rhubarb in decades, and almost always wear heels, I can't say that I kept my promise regarding some of her beloved sayings. Don't you ever catch yourself saying something, and then hear your mother say the exact same thing decades earlier? It happens to me on a more than regular basis. I have found myself saying things like; "Do I look like your maid?" to my boys, while I vowed I would never resort to such passive aggressive responses, and instead voice my frustration straight out. Or I hear myself sighing deeply in the same way my mother used to that would not only drive me insane, but also have me exclaim at her that if there was a problem, she should just say so. And if I' m really angry, I will totally go into mother mode, and snap that there is absolutely nothing wrong. Although it may be normal, it´s not pretty.

But the past few weeks, I've found that I've turned into my mother in more ways than I could have ever imagined. You see, when my brother and I grew up, we wanted a dog. We wanted it so badly, we would create wish lists for Christmas and birthdays that started with a page of all the different kinds of dogs we wanted, and then the other presents, and a caveat that if we could have a dog, we would forego of our other wishes. But my mother wasn't exactly in favor of a dog. We had rabbits, guinneapigs, fish, and birds, but up until that magical day in 5th grade, we did not have a dog. My mother did eventually cave in, and loved our dog as much, if not more, than we did. And I vowed that once I moved out, I would always have a dog, and never worry about things like ruined carpets, long walks in the rain, and vet's visits.

However, things did not quite play out that way, and up until this summer, we were never allowed to own a dog. When we finally bought our own home, the opportunity was finally there, and husband-dear and the boys couldn't wait to go and get a puppy. But that's where the "mother" in me reared her head, and found herself saying things like "But we work all day", and "Who will walk the dog in the rain", and "we've just bought brand new rugs, what if she ruins them?". In short, I was a carbon copy of my mother years and years ago. I'm not quite sure how or where that happened, but suddenly, I understand my mother's hesitation.

My family has been begging me to go to adoption day at PetSmart with them, but, like my mother, I have refused. I know that when I see all those little puppies, I will want to take all of them home, and then where would we be. I know, stuck with twenty puppies for a decade and a half. I know I want a puppy, and I know we'll get one soon..but I need to reason with my inner mother first.

The first one: Welcome to reality

*This is a speech I give to the student starting their first class in the Mass Communication major: Comm 2001

For most of you this should be the first class you’re taking within your major, so allow me to say Welcome to Mass Communication, and congratulations. Congratulations on having made it this far; making it not only into college, but surviving your first few semesters. You are about to enter one of the most exciting, most dynamic, and most demanding fields that exist.

Working in a mass media related field means you need to constantly be ahead of your game, not only in terms of skills and knowledge; you also need to want to be the best if you want to succeed. Our program here reflects that culture. We will make sure you have the skills and knowledge you need, but we also expect our students to constantly improve and give their very best. Only then will you be able to pass and be successful.

Let’s cut to the chase, our classes are tough. If you picked mass communication hoping to fly through college, you need to sit down and re-think your plans. We expect our students to perform well in many different fields: writing papers, carrying out research, handling technical equipment, writing scripts, newspaper articles, and directing a television show or film. You are not only expected to be able to do all this with all your heart, you are also expected to be able to do all this at the same time. All of our classes have various theoretical and practical assignments, and yes, sometimes you will have to carry out several at the same time. We don’t get together and fine tune our schedules so you all will have as little stress as possible. Each class is an independent unit that is set up to prepare you in the best possible way for your future. And if that means that you have a research paper due in my class, a script for a public service announcement in Dr. J's class, and footage for Dr. A due all in the same week, you work with it. It is what is. We do not make exceptions, we will not accept late work, and sloppy work is simply unacceptable.

Now we don’t act this way because we don’t like you or because we want to make your life miserable. No, this is what the industry expects of you, and it is our job to prepare you for that in the best possible way. If you want to succeed in anything related to the media, be it television or radio broadcasting, journalism, or research, you need to not only have all the required skills, you also need to know what you’re doing, have a critical attitude, and be prepared to outrun, outwork, out-know, and out-skill all of your competition. So don’t ever think that our classes are too hard, or too demanding; what you do here is merely a mirror of what you will be asked to do in the outside world. Get used to it, ‘cause this is what it’s going to be like from now on.

Now the good news is that you are all capable of being successful. Every single one of you has the ability to pass this class with flying colors, and do well in all of your other courses here too. You proved that by making it this far. However, not all of you will be successful. Unfortunately, past experience has shown us that not all of you sitting here today will pass this class, or even walk across the stage and receive your degree. This is not because of our program. This is not because our classes are too tough. This is not because we’re not always nice and cuddly. This is because of your attitude.

Your attitude is what will make the difference between success and failure in this program. If you want to play, and party, and leave writing papers, scripts, articles, studying, or shooting footage until the last moment because your sorority had rush, or your roommate had a really great party, or you really wanted to go home, I can guarantee you, you will not succeed. If you want to coast through, doing the bare minimum, not reading your assignments, copying your work from the Internet, using other people’s work to write your pieces, complaining the whole way, you will not succeed.

This is your job now. We need to be your first priority when you get up in the morning, and the last thing you think about before you go to bed. If you’re not having nightmares about my classes, or hearing Dr. A's voice in your heads, you’re not doing things right. I know that it’s cool to not study, and write papers 4am before they’re due. I know the hip thing to do is to complain and whine, but you know what, that kind of attitude needs to go now. You’re not longer in high school, where you can brush things off as unimportant, or your parents can help you out. You are in college now, where everything matters. You are all adults, and you need to realize that from this moment on, you are the only one responsible for your life, your success, your future. You hold sole accountability for what happens from this moment on. If you mess up, don’t blame anyone but yourself. If you do well, don’t thank anyone but yourself. If you get an A in my class, you have earned it yourself. If you fail, you have deserved that yourself. It’s all your call now.

You can be very successful. I have seen students blossom, in just one year. I've seen a student go from someone whose writing was shaky and attitude less than perfect, to someone who did so well at their newspaper internship they were offered a job while still in college. I have seen students put in hours and hours into their research projects, and get into graduate school, to hopefully, one day, teach young people like you. It is all possible. It’s all in you. It’s all up to you.

With each class, I hope that they will make me proud to be their teacher. It’s no different today – make me proud of you guys.

Adviser's woes

This week I have had to come to the conclusion that there is something that everyone at an American university dreads more than finals, midterms, or grading: Advising and registration. Some people may dread it because computer systems will have glitches or go down. Others may despise the fact that the people you need to talk to about overrides and exceptions are always unavailable. That's not what gets me, those are all bureaucratic nuisances I can handle (albeit with steam coming out my ears). No, it's the complete and overwhelmingly insane complexity of trying to assess which classes students need to take when. It's no wonder that freshmen are encouraged to bring their parents during their July orientation. I argue that all students should be allowed to bring their parents to advisement and registration - sometimes when I get especially tangled in a student's schedule, I wish my parents could be there.

Now I know all of my Dutch readers are going to think, well sheesh, how hard is it to figure out what classes students need to take when? And all I can say is: I know! In Holland, you receive a "student handbook" that perfectly delineates which class you're supposed to take when for each of the four years (or however long you chose to stretch it into) it would take you to graduate
Unless you failed, say Statistics A, and weren't able to take it successor Statistics B, it was all very easy and clear-cut. Although we do have a student handbook, and a class-checksheet, and a course catalog, and various online resources, I still long back for the simplicity of scheduling in Holland.

The main issue with American colleges and universities is that when students come in, they don't start taking classes for their major right away. Freshmen (or first year students for the Europeans among us), unlike their undoubtedly much luckier European counterparts, don't come in, and start with mind-numbingly dull classes like "Introduction into Mass Communication", "Basics of Communication research", and "Statistics A". No, American freshmen still have to take a litany of so-called core classes; i.e, classes in English, math, foreign languages, humanities, and sciences. They are not even allowed to start on their major classes until they have completed a sizable chunk of these core classes. And this is where the confusion commences.

For freshmen it's actually not so bad. They receive their first advisement during their orientation, where the university signs them up for all the core classes according to the classes and exams they have taking in high school. So your basic freshman might take the following five classes: Engl 1101, College Algebra 1111, Chem 1151, Fren 2001 and Hist 1111. Every single core class offers several sections, so getting a conflict-free schedule is a cinch.
It's at the sophomore level that the craziness starts. In order to stay on track, they may need to take three Mass Communication (Comm) classes in their first semester, but because they failed Engl 1102, they're not allowed into Comm 2001. This class is a prerequisite for all their other Comm classes, and not allowing them to register for it would put them a year behind, since Comm 2001 is only offered in the fall. You can see how well that would go down with everyone. So then you, as the adviser, have to consider, will you allow them into that class, and go through all the tedious paperwork of filing an override, or do you let them pay for their mistakes? Or maybe they need to take a PE class (I kid you not), didn't realize this until a day before the end of registration, and the only section that is not full is the one that collides with Comm 3349, another class they have to take if they want to get into any of the higher level production classes. And on and on it goes.

Sometimes the university doesn't help either; upper level courses are only offered once a year, so if a student forgets to register for one class, they will need to wait a year to take it again. A small mistake, but which can have disastrous consequences if you're looking at graduating. One of my students, for instance, saw her graduation get postponed from December to June next year because she didn't realize that Comm 3310, a major requirement, is only offered in the Spring. Another issue we face is that the university in all their wisdom decided that advisement is no longer mandatory. Before last semester, students had to come in to see their advisers once per semester, and determine which classes they needed to take. This would help them figure out what, when, where, and why, and would make sure they stayed on track for graduation. Now that students can register for classes without talking to their adviser, many lose sight of what they need to take and when, and so we have people like another one of my students who can't graduate in December because he failed to take the required number of foreign language courses. And that's when students suddenly do come and talk to their adviser, and I'm stuck explaining that, no, you can't graduate while missing three credits, and no, we can't offer Comm 3310 in the fall, our schedules our full. It's the pits.

Besides going to an entirely European situation where to get into a four-year program you have to have passed a national exam, and so no core classes are needed, I'm not quite sure what to do. For now, I just have the perfect Euro-American solution: drink lots of tea to keep you calm, and lots of Mt. Dew to keep you focused.

Just don't do it

"I’m just a girl who cain’t say no”
Ado Annie ~ Oklahoma!

Saying no is a hard thing to do. Yes siree. And it’s not just me. It’s possibly thousands, if not millions of southern women (and men incidentally!) who just can’t say no, sometimes literally. Take our youngest son for instance. I love the little kid to death and think he’s so cute I could just hug him forever, but when I ask him if he wants a snack, and he says “I’m fine”, instead of “No, thank you.”, well, it makes my hair stand on end. We teach our kids to be honest yet polite, and this display of round-about-interaction makes both of us wonder, more so since we have no clue where he picked it up.

Now I hate to say this, but I am slowly beginning to get the feeling this inability to say no may be one of them dang southern habits. I mean, I never knew there were this many different ways of saying no. I used to joke with my mom that her “maybe” was “no” in five letters, and that when she said “I’ll think about it” you might as well pack up your plans, but here, that’s just the tip of the ice berg. There are a million and one ways to say no without saying no. Of course, there’s the commonplace “maybe”, but people will also say “I don’t know” as opposed to “no”. So when you call our department secretary to find out if there are any three ring binders left, she would rather say she does not know than give you a flat-out no. Sounding ill-informed is apparently more appreciated than not being able to help someone out. And when someone close to you asks for something, a certain inflection in the way you say “Oh HONey” can also indicate a “no”, while a “hmm” can have at least three meanings, depending on its pronunciation, one of which is “no”, and one of which is “I’m trying to be polite but I really couldn’t care less about you right now.” Then of course there is the ubiquitous subject-change. When a southerner changes the subject when asked a question, there is no need to ask the question again. They have heard you, they just don’t want to hurt your feelings by saying “no”. And finally, my all-time favorite: the uninterested “sure”. When I ask a student to do something, and they say “sure” in a long, drawn-out way, I know immediately that it will not happen. It’s simply another way of expressing disinterest, while sparing the other’s feelings.

Does this drive me crazy? Well, at first it did. I didn’t understand how people could not know if they had handed something in, how many printer cartridges they had left, or whether or not they had registered for a class. I would assume people would do things (based on a “sure”), and would then be surprised if they didn’t happen. But slowly I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve learned that when dealing with people from the south it’s better to, instead of saying “no” outright, address it in a more indirect fashion, such as; “That’s a great idea, but I really don’t know if it’s feasible..”. I’ve also learned that unless people give me an unequivocal “yes”, nothing is certain.

Now, the real reason for writing about the inability to say “no” was really not to digress into a long rant about southern behaviors. No, it wasn’t. It was to let you all know that because of my inability to say “no” from time to time, and my fervent desire to do the best, be the best, ad nauseam (see the blog I wrote about a week ago), I have managed to really royally paint myself into a corner. You see, we have been unable to find a professor to teach certain classes, and so now yours truly, instead of teaching the standard four classes this semester, will be educating students in six different subjects. It’s insane. It’s crazy. I should have said no. Or maybe. Or even made a very long “hmmmm” sound, but I didn’t. My desire to do right by my students won out, and so now I’m stuck with two extra classes. So say “no”! As often as you can! Practice it a lot, because before you know it, it’s too late….

Six degrees of separation

How close are you to the Queen of the Netherlands? Or the current President of the US? Now I don’t mean when you last had coffee with them, because we all know that’s only for you and them to know, but I mean do you know anyone who knows them? Or maybe you know someone who knows someone who knows them? According to idea of six degrees of separation, there are actually only six people between you and them. In fact, there are only six people, or degrees, between you and every other person on earth. Interesting concept isn’t it? To think that you are six people away from famous people like Meryl Streep, or Joan Collins. I’ve been doing the math, and have begun to realize that perhaps this idea isn’t as ludicrous as it sounds.

Let’s take Joan Collins for instance. One of my friends from college is now a screenwriter in Hollywood, and worked on a show for Nickelodeon that starred Blair Underwood. He, in turn, acted alongside Heather Locklear in the show “LAX”, and Heather Locklear and Joan Collins worked together on the 1980s soap hit “Dynasty". That meanst that Joan Collins is four degrees away from me, and thus five degrees away from you, the reader. Right, you may think, but that’s just because you happened to get a degree in a college that also produced a lot of screenwriters. You have a point there. And I’m almost as reasonable as the next gal, so let’s take someone a little further out of our reach. Let’s take Beatrix, the Queen of the Netherlands. Alright. We discovered that the person who managed the location where we got married also organized a large part of Maxima and Prince Willem Alexander’s wedding. Willem Alexander is Beatrix’s son, so that puts her three degrees away from me. Isn’t that a cool thought? I also calculated that I am merely one degree away from former President Clinton (thanks to husband-dear), and thus two degrees from all the people he met. So who all do you know?

What got me started on this somewhat odd and definitely irrelevant theory is the fact that today I had lunch with my oldest friend. She and I met in 7^th grade, when we were both 12 years old, living in France, and attending an American school. Although we both proceeded to spend most of the next six years moving to various locations, we somehow matriculated at the same university in Texas within a year of each other. She then moved to London, and presumably out of sight. Yet within two years of her moving to the UK, I started a research project in collaboration with, yes, a university in England. Then when she moved to Atlanta, we figured we’d had run out of luck. Yet as you all know, as of last year, we now live only several hours driving from one another. It’s things like this that have me convinced that it is a small world, and that even if, like myself and many others, you spend most of your life moving around, you will always somehow end up meeting someone who knew you, or your brother, or your best friend. So even though I’ve always lamented not growing up in a small village like so many others, in a way I have just created my own, portable, little hamlet. And that's a very nice thought.

And yes, my friend is moving to Boston. However, I am now absolutely convinced that we will somehow end up there sometime too. History speaks for itself.

Dag huis, dag tuin,

Dag opbergschuur.

Ook al waren we eigenlijk te oud voor het ruim dertig jaar oude programma waar dit de titel van was, toch werd deze uitspraak de afscheidsslogan voor mijn broer en mij. Elke keer als we verhuisden, of na een lang, maar tijdelijk, verblijf uit een huisje weggingen, werd deze uitspraak door een van ons twee gdaan. Ik weet niet of mijn broer hem nog gebruikt, maar voor mij is deze bijna eeuwen-oude uitspraak nog steeds in vogue. En toen we gisteren ons huurhuis opleverde, betrapte ik mezelf er op dat toen ik voor het laatst de deur achter ons dicthtrok, weer “Dag huis, dag tuin, dag opbergschuur”prevelde. Want ondanks dat we maar een jaar in het huis gewoond hebben, was het toch heel even stiekem slikken toen we de sleutels moesten inleveren.

Je zou denken dat iemand die zo vaak verhuisd is, zich niet meer zo snel aan plekken hecht, maar in mijn geval is dat absoluut niet waar. Ik raak bij wijze van spreke al gehecht aan een hotelkamer waar we een paar nachten in verblijven. Vroeger had ik dat ook al. Als we in een nieuw huis kwamen, dan was ik de eerste dag bezig met het inrichten van mijn kamer, en daarna was voor mij de kous af. Dit was “thuis” en klaar. Het “thuisgevoel” is altijd wel direct verbonden geweest met omringd zijn door mijn eigen spulletjes. Maar het hoeft niet veel te zijn; toen we in Duitsland een maand in ons huis woonden terwijl de meubels nog onderweg waren, was ik al tevreden met wat foto’s, een paar kaarsten, en wat andere snuisterijen in de vensterbank. Op vakantie ben ik ook altijd diegene die heel haar tas uitpakt en alles inricht, en allerlei rare dingetjes meesleept zoals theezakjes, en soms zelfs een eigen kussentje. Maar zodra alles zijn plekje heeft, ben ik helemaal senang, en kunen we wat mij betreft zo lang van huis blijven als we willen. Gelukkig deelt manlief mijn “eigen spulletjes” syndroom, en als we verhuizen dan verbazen we vriend en vijand elke keer weer met het feit dat we binnen twee, maximaal drie, dagen alles helemaal uitgepakt en op zijn plek hebben staan. Natuurlijk is dat ook een kwestie van gewoon hard werken, maar voor ons is het ook echt een overlevingsmechanisme. Zodra de huiskamer, keuken, en slaapkamers redelijk ingericht zijn, dan hebben we pas rust.

Ik ben dan ook altijd helemaal verbaasd als er mensen zijn die die behoeftte niet hebben. Zo leeft een collega van mij al een jaar in een appartement dat op een bank, een koffietafel, en een opblaasmatras na, verder helemaal leeg is. Hij en zijn vrouw hebben hun spullen in opslag gedaan hun huis verhuurd, en vinden dit zo wel prima. Een andere collega heeft twee jaar lang in een stacaravan van iemand anders gezeten terwijl hij in Oxford werkte, en al zijn spullen nog in de VS stonden. Ik vind het knap dat ze het kunnen, maar mij zou je na drie weken wel kunnen wegdragen vermoed ik.

Maar goed, om mijn moeder te citeren, wat anderen doen moeten zij weten. Het enige dat voor mij telt is dat ons huis helemaal ingericht is met al onze eigen spulletjes, en dus helemaal “thuis” is. Wat mij betreft mag het nog wel even duren voordat ik “Dag huis, dag tuin, dag opbergschuur” weer uit de kast moet halen.

Bible belting

“Gonna let it rock. Let it roll. Let the Bible belt come down and save my soul”
John Mellencamp ~ Jack and Diane

Although I really don’t want to get into soul-saving, the purpose of religion or anything too complicated, I would like to get on my soapbox for a little bit and talk about life in the Bible belt. It’s been over a year since we moved here, and to be honest, I am still amazed at some of the aspects of life down in the southern Bible belt. Before I go on though, please let me add a caveat, and that is that I’m not trying to criticize any aspect of Christian living, merely question the way it’s being expressed here in the south.

For starters, size really does matter in the US. For not only do we have a church on every street corner and at least two in between, most of these churches are absolutely gigantic. And I mean truly enormous. Maybe they’re not quite on a scale with St. Peter’s cathedral, but some of them could give the Notre Dame in Paris a run for its money. Some churches have their own streets, traffic lights, and I’m betting their own power stations too. Why do we need this many and this many enormous churches? I’ve been doing the math, and if every church in my neck of the woods is full during each service, then we either have about 5000 residents hidden away somewhere, or people go to church at least four times on a Sunday. And it seems that each day I see new signs popping up announcing that a plot of land is “the new location for the First Mount Zion United Baptist Church!”, or I discover another little bitty church hidden in between various strip malls and Walmarts.

And then there’s your language. Now I know you shouldn’t use foul language. And I don’t. Or at least not very often. But down here they take the concept of “foul language” to a whole new level. For one thing, you’re not supposed to say “swear”. Saying something like “I don’t ever swear” is absolutely verboten. You’re supposed to say “cuss”, because “curse” is also an absolute no-no. Apparently the Bible says so. Now I’m not one to challenge that, so I’ve merely made the note that there is to be no cussing whatsoever.
One constant problem is that the lines of acceptable and unacceptable language seem to be in constant motion. While last year, it seemed alright to say “crap”, most of my acquaintances have ousted that word, and are now using the synonym “crud”. I’ve tried, but you know what, I like the “p” at the end of “crap” way more than the “d” at the end of “crud”. Try it. Stub your toe, and try saying “crud”. It doesn’t feel as good, does it? Maybe I should introduce a word of my own, like “crup”. Yeah, “crup”. I like it.
But, and this is where it gets tricky, you’re also not supposed to say things like “oh my God”. Now for someone who harbors a valley girl deep inside of her, this is a tough one. It took me years to get rid of saying “like” all the time, and erasing “oh my God” from my vocabulary has been quite the challenge. I’ve tried to replace it with “Oh my gosh”, but it just does not have the same ring to it. And then the other day someone told me that “oh my gosh” is really unacceptable too since it’s too close to the original. This person suggested replacing the whole phrase with something even less offensive, like, sorry, I mean, such as “oh my stars”. Now you may call me a hard-headed, toe-stomping liberal, but that is where I draw the line. I would rather revert to using the definitely outdated “Oh my word” before I start saying that, or leave off the noun entirely and merely say “Oh my!”. Maybe I’ll buy some ruby slippers, start looking for the yellow brick road too then, and worry about lions and tigers and bears. Oh my.

And there are other small oddities about living in the Bible belt. For one thing, sometimes it seems that it’s easier to find a radio station that will go on and on about “living in sin” and “the devil’s grip on this country” than a station that will play classic rock. And I can’t even begin to describe the fun we sometimes have with the various signs that churches post on their front lawns or alongside the highway (For people into Allstate commercials: “Are you in God’s hands?”). Another oddity is the incredible obsession with marriage. In this part of the world, marriage isn’t so much a question of “Should I?”, but “When will I?”. People seem to get married as soon as it’s legal, and then, in some cases anyway, don’t shy away from trying it over and over again. Now I am in favor of marriage. I honestly like being married. And if you’ve found the one for you, I can highly recommend it. But I’m not too sure about the whole “marriage culture” that seems to revolve around the notion that marriage is the highest attainable thing in life, and something must be wrong with you if you’re not married. I mean, people here still shy away when they hear that husband-dear and I actually lived together before we got married. I didn’t realize how exhausting this gets until we were in Atlanta the other day, and someone actually asked us if we were married, as opposed to just assuming that we were, and I felt a strange sense of relief and familiarity. At last I had met someone like me!

And this last sentiment leads me to what got me started on this Bible belt critique in the first place: a news item on NPR this morning. The news item didn’t just stimulate me into thinking about life in the Bible belt, no, it actually sent me into a loud five minute rant about the craziness of some people around here. Imagine that it was around 7 o’clock this morning, that I was in the car by myself, had not yet finished all of my morning short of caffeine, and you can imagine how seriously I took this news event.

What happened was that the Medical College of Georgia decided to appeal to the Board of Regents to extend health insurance benefits to domestic partners. So how does that relate to the Bible belt? Well, the news broadcast also mentioned that two other state schools had, in the past, made similar requests, but had been turned down. And that’s when I got confused. Well, no, I shouldn’t lie. I wasn’t confused, I got mad. The state of Georgia thus appears to refuse to give the same rights to domestic partnerships as it does to marriage. Even if you’re been living with the same person for twenty years and have six children together, you apparently still don’t have as many rights as people who got married two weeks ago. For the third time. Whatever reason people have for this, it’s just not nice. And sometimes, when I’m at my most cynical, I secretly wonder if people here have forgotten that Jesus himself said that loving God isn’t all you need to do be a good Christian; loving your neighbor as you love yourself is just as much a part of it. It seems that people down have gotten the loving God part down without a problem, now how about we start implementing the rest?

Enough is enough is enough is...

Enough? When is enough really enough?
Today, I once again discovered that as far as I'm concerned, it's never enough. Well,wait. Before you all think I'm one of those whining women who is never really satisfied, I am a pretty content person. I don't need hundreds of pairs of shoes, or a brand new car, or a boatload of attention (well, at least not all the time). I'm generally very grateful for all I have and feel happy with my life. However, as far as my own performance goes; it is never enough. As far as I am concerned, I have never worked enough, exercised enough, given enough time to others, or done a good enough job at pretty much anything. There is always more to do, and there is apparently not really a reason to not do that one extra chore, make that phone call, write that e-mail, or set up that lesson plan right now. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it all depends on your perspective, my husband doesn't really help; he and I really are two peas in a pod. We're both hard-working, always out to do our very best and nothing less, detail-oriented and over-organized overachievers. Yes, we're lovable too, but above all, we are on top of it. Hoo-ah! But to be honest, sometimes, it drives us crazy.

Whenever we go on vacation, we bring our running shoes, because we feel guilty and flabby if we don't run at least once every other day. No matter how long husband-dear's days (or nights) have been, I have yet to see the day he will sleep in and not feel the need to study or run or do something otherwise constructive. When I go on vacation, I will not only bring my laptop, but will also tote various books, journals and essays along in case I want to work on my latest article or correct some student work.

Our desire to work, and work hard, has really been ingrained into our daily lives. Today was yet another perfect example. Because I had a faculty conference which started at 8am, I needed to get up at the same time as my husband and leave the house at 6. If we would have both just come home and had dinner and relaxed, like normal people do (or at least I think they do), it would have been fine. But you see, the fact that we both had a twelve hour day was not enough. Nope. After dinner my husband went out to mow our now considerable yard, while I simply had to dust and sweep. And no, we're not getting company, and we also hadn't been neglecting our home. These were just things that had to be done, and in our world, they had to be done now. So right now, it's 8:30pm, and since I have to get up at 5 again tomorrow morning, we'll probably be in bed in about 45 minutes. Sound slightly depressing? It is. And we could have so easily prevented it by simply kicking back and doing nothing. But we simply can't. And now that I think of it, I actually have to make lunch for tomorrow. So I guess I need to get up and do that. Right now.

Can someone help us out please? :)

Last rose of summer

Although the heat is still wafting off the pavement, Congress has just gone on its five-week summer recess, and television commercials are still talking about "the sale of the summer", summer has pretty much ended for people in Georgia and many other southern states. You see, for unfathomable reasons, only known to someone deep within the woodwork of the Georgia state government, children go back to school on Monday, and university employees like myself start working again today.

Now, to be very frank, after nine weeks of entertaining the little darlings, and catering to calls such as "Can we go swimming?", "When is dad coming home?", "Why are we having that for dinner?" "Why can't we go to the mall/the park/to see best friend/set the yard on fire?"(alright, I made that last one up), and three months of playing a combination between Suzy Homemaker, Martha Stewart and Myrtle the Mover, I'm not too queasy about life returning back to normal. I have been looking forward to having only one thing to focus on during the day, work, as opposed to sixteen, or seventeen, or maybe thirty things. Not to sound too much like an episode of the Dr. Phil show, but I have to admit that over the past few months I have further extended my respect for stay-at-home moms.

Having had a stay-at-home mom for a mom, I have always appreciated having someone at home all the time. Coming home and having someone to talk to and drink tea with was wonderful. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, the path I choose has always left me far removed from the realm of the homemaker. Running errands was something I did after work, groceries were ordered online (or purchased by husband-dear), and appointments were made while driving, and then scribbled on one of many post-its stuck on my dash. However, this summer, when I finally got to try out the full-time version, I finally understood, and I mean, truly felt, how being a homemaker is considered a full time job. Sure, they may not have the threat of annual evaluations, or even job loss hanging over their heads if they're having a bad day, but I have really learned that having a tween in a funk is probably equally stressful. If not worse. Especially when they're boys and the word "videogame" is involved. And sure, you may only have two or three children, and at work most people are responsible for a lot more people than there are in their family, but three family members really is equal to a few hundred employees. And once your family members hit their teens, you can double that number. When I'm at work I'm responsible for making sure that close to a hundred students learn what they're supposed to, while at home, I only have to make sure that two people take their showers, clean their rooms, and eat their lunches. You would think that I would prefer the latter to teaching forty unwilling students about the importance of statistical significance in surveys. Well, no. After having struggled through hour-long deliberations between the two boys about what to have for lunch, having to, day after day, enforce our "yes you have to take a shower every day" policy with our youngest, explaining over and over again why there is no reason that their rooms should look like a war zone, and sitting through more Nickelodeon than I ever thought possible, I would much rather face a lecture hall full of unwilling students any day. You see, as a professor, you can walk away, close your office door and turn off your ringer, but as a homemaker you can't. You sit down in your own room, tell your kids you need some quiet time, but then you hear a loud bang in the living room. Or one of them needs a hug. Or the phone rings. Or the washer is done. It just really never ends. It's a wonderful, exhausting, funny, loving, and stressful experience, all rolled into one.

I'm looking forward to Christmas break, when we get to do it all again, but in the meantime, I'm secretly very excited that I now get to play the working woman again. I'm looking forward to exchanging my shorts and t-shirts for skirts, blazers, and suits again. I can't wait to be in charge of a hundred students as opposed to two kids, and I'm also happy that I get to be Dr. Dixiechick as opposed to Mrs. Dixiechicks-husband again.

So even though the summer really doesn't feel like it's over yet (candles put in the trunk on the way home from the store still melt), it's time for me to trade in one persona for another, and get this show on the road!