The misery of quilts

When I first met husband-dear, the first thing I noticed about his house, besides the hideous blue couch that dominated his living room, was the number of handmade quilts that were haphazardly strewn around the place. They were not just on every bed, they were also found on the back of the aforementioned couch, on chairs, pretty much everywhere else. When I asked husband-dear about all his quilts, he told me his mother, his grandmothers, and his great grandmothers were all avid quilters. Some of the quilts had been made by his grandmother, some by his mother, and a few were multi-generational quilts, with great-grandmother providing the pieces, grandmother piecing them, and mother doing the actual quilting. I fell in love with all of those little works of art almost as fast as I fell for husband-dear. They made for great cuddling, looked awesome on any bed, and most importantly, hid the bare spots on that hideous blue couch.

As time went on, and I met husband-dear's mother, she continued to give us more and more quilts: baby quilts for the boys, a wedding quilt, quilts left in her attic from when husband-dear was a small boy, and quilts from her recently deceased mother. At one point, we had so many quilts lying around, the kids would use them to build fortresses, and there would still be enough left to give each guest their own handmade quilt to use. Looking back, it was a blissful, and especially warm time. A time that has since passed, unfortunately.

You see, since we moved to Georgia, my mother-in-law, who, may the record show, is an incredibly sweet and talented woman, has been over to visit a lot more than before, and has thus been a first-hand witness to the treatment given to her quilts. And unfortunately, that treatment was often less than respectful. There was the old blue-and-white quilt that grandma W. made at least sixty years ago, that our oldest loved dragging around. He would sleep with it, wrap himself in it eating breakfast, and drag it into the bathroom. As a result of all this loving, the pieces had started to come apart, and when my husband-dear's mom noticed this, she asked us to put that specific quilt up, as it was the only quilt made by grandma W. owned by our family. As a dutiful daughter-in-law, I obliged, and put the quilt in a pillowcase (apparently a plastic bag does not allow the quilt to breathe, which can cause the material to grow mildewy), in one of our closets.

If that had been it as far as putting quilts up, that would have been fine, but unfortunately, it was not. During her next visit, I made the mistake of asking my mother-in-law if she could fix a tear in the quilt on our bed.
"Well, I think so. But you know..." My heart sank, and indeed, there it was, "That is a quilt made by grandma Brown, and it really shouldn't be used. It's so old, it's really just for show."
So that quilt was put up to, and I had to head to Target that day to purchase a new blanket for our bed.

The next time that grandma came over, she noticed that grandma W.'s three-generational quilt was on the guest bed, and that, of course, was also a no-no. Even though I promised her it was taken off and put in a pillowcase after every guest left, and they were asked to use the blankets and comforters on the bed only, it was no good. And on it went. Husband-dear's baby quilts were really too precious, and wasn't it a shame to let the kids wear their own baby quilts out to pieces? So as of this summer, none of our quilts are "in use". They're either on one of several quilt racks, or tucked away in pillowcases throughout the house.

And as I was telling my mother-in-law this Christmas, I really do understand. I do. The quilts are part of our family history. It just sucks when it gets cold, because now the only thing we have to keep ourselves warm is one Ikea fleece blanket. One. Yet, we're drowning in quilts left and right. The other day when I wanted to put a pillow up in our closet, I had three quilts fall on my head, and I've run out of pillowcases because they're all in use keeping our quilts safe. But when we're cold and want to cuddle, we're forced to drag our comforters off our beds. It's sad. Now I suppose I could ask her to quilt another blanket for us to use, but I think I can see what's coming there in a month or two as well.

Afstanden

Amerika is een groot land. Dat weet u natuurlijk allemaal al jaren. Maar wist u bijvoorbeeld dat maar 30% van de Amerikaanse bevolking een paspoort bezit? Voor iemand uit een landje waar je in drie uur doorheen rijdt is dat natuurlijk schokkend. Want wat als je nou even in Duitsland wil gaan winkelen? Of in een gek moment op de trein springt naar London, of Parijs, of Praag? Maar ja, dat kan hier dus niet. Als wij in een spontaan moment in de auto willen springen om naar het buitenland te rijden, dan zijn we, zo gok ik, toch zeker wel een uurtje of 16 onderweg. Misschien wel langer zelfs. Dus daar is helemaal niks spontaans aan. Dat vereist planning, kaarten, de honden in een pension, en minstens een week vrij.

Natuurlijk is het erg stoer om te kunnen roepen dat je in een land woont dat zo groot is dat je eigenlijk geen paspoort nodig hebt om je te vermaken. Niet alleen omdat het leuk is om iets te hebben dat groter is dan die van iemand anders, maar ook omdat het gewoon heel erg koel is om en woestijnen, en palmbomen, en bergen, en watervallen, en zee, en maisvelden, en grote steden in een land te hebben.

Maar soms zijn die afstanden eigenlijk helemaal niet leuk. In vergelijking met andere Amerikanen waren manlief en ik altijd erg "gezegend"(om in de lokale cultuur te blijven), omdat zijn zus en zijn ouders op zo'n zes uur rijden van ons woonden. Maar sinds een maand of wat zijn manliefs ouders verhuisd. En nu wonen ze dus 14 uur rijden bij ons vandaan. Veertien uur! Voor de meeste van u betekent dat een tripje naar Zuid-Frankrijk, Italie, of ergens in Scandinavie, of een of ander exotisch oord. Hier betekent dat dus dat je ergens midden in Amish country in Ohio uitkomt. Juist. Niet sexy, en dus ook helemaal niet leuk. Want in plaats van dat we zo nu en dan een weekendje langs kunnn komen, moeten we nu hele vakanties naar de schoonouders plannen. Ze zijn met de kerst hier geweest, en toen ze gisteren vertrokken was het wel heel raar om te weten dat we pas in de zomer weer tijd hebben om ze te zien.

En dan zijn we eigenlijk nog best wel "gezegend", want ze wonen ten minste nog aan deze kant van de Mississippi. Ze hadden, zoals de ouders van vrienden van ons, ook in Alaska kunnen wonen, of in Maine, of in Utah. Maar dan nog. Soms dan wilde ik echt dat Amerika ook een landje was van drie uur lang en twee uur breed. Dan konden we lekker bij elkaar op de koffie. Gezellig.

A very merry Christmas...

...and to all a good night!

Even though Christmas is not yet over, so far it has been another smashing success. While last year, with my family in town, Christmas had more of a Dutch touch, this year husband-dear's family made the twelve-hour trek down to our little town, and so we had a traditional American Christmas. We had stockings stuffed to the brim with candy and showergel (it's a DixieChick family inside joke), enough presents to please everyone, enough boxes to keep all, including myself, occupied with fantasized canoe trips down Niagara Falls for hours, and enough movies to get everyone in the holiday spirit. There were cookies after dinner last night, followed by a trip to the candlelight service at the Chapel last night, followed by more cookies, and the baking of more pies and carrot cakes on my part. There were cinnamon rolls for breakfast, tapas for lunch, and another scrumptuous dinner, which included the traditional turkey, ham, stuffing, corn casserole, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, rolls, and goodness knows whatever else. The counter is groaning under the weight of all the deserts (apparently being a Martha Stewart in decorating means I am now also a baking fanatic), and we also have a walk planned past all the lit houses in our neighborhood. Our Christmas has been very merry indeed, and I hope yours is too.

Een soort compliment

Ik vind complimentjes krijgen erg leuk. (Dus als u zich verveelt...). Ik heb zelfs, na jaren oefenen, geleerd om complimentjes aan te nemen en niet te roepen dat je het niet zelf gemaakt heb, of je haar eigenlijk helemaal niet mooi zit, of je nog een enorme dikke kont verstopt hebt in die jurk.

Maar hier in "the south" kunnen complimenten erg ingewikkeld zijn. Want wat een compliment lijkt hoeft helemaal geen compliment te zijn. Het kan zelfs stiekeme kritiek zijn, mooi verpakt in een schijn-compliment. Zie, echte southern belles houden niet van kritiek uiten, want dat is onbeleefd. Maar ja, omdat ze toch ook mensen zijn, is kritiek voor zich houden net zo moeilijk voor hen als voor gewone stervelingen, en dus verpakken ze het dan maar in een compliment. Volgt u het nog? Dus als iemand zegt, "I love your hair, it's so creative!", dan kan dat betekenen dat ze je haar echt heel mooi vinden. Aan de andere kant, en dit geldt vooral als het met een ecthe southern drawl uitgesproken wordt, kan het ook betekenen dat ze je haar eigenlijk maar raar vinden zitten, en vinden dat ze er iets over moeten zeggen, maar niet onaardig willen zijn.
En dan zijn er natuurlijk ook de complimenten die meer een vorm van zelf-verheerlijking zijn dan iets anders. Bijvoorbeeld "That is so cute! I remember we owned something like that when we were stationed in Italy. It got lost on our way to Okinawa though". Vertaling: jouw ding is wel leuk hoor, maar het feit dat wij in Italie en in het verre Oosten hebben gewoond is vele mate interessanter. Waarom vraag je er niet wat meer over?

Ondertussen kan ik redelijk inschatten wanneer iets een echt compliment is, en wanneer niet. En weet u wat helemaal leuk is om te doen? Heel erg, echt ontzettend dankbaar zijn wanneer je er eentje krijgt. De meeste southern belles voelen zich dan namelijk erg ongemakkelijk, want zij verwachten dat jij aanvoelt wat ze werkelijk willen zeggen. Als je dat, volgens hen, niet doet, dan weten ze totaal niet wat ze met die rare Nederlander aanmoeten, en roepen iets totaal nietszegend als "You're so cute!" of "You're so funny!"

Afgelopen week was er de jaarlijkse Airmen Ministry Center Christmas Dinner, en daar waren de complimenten niet van de lucht. Bij dit soort dinners lopen enlisten en commissioned vrijwilligers door elkaar, waar vooral de oudere officer's spouses toch wat meer moeite mee hebben (en even voor de duidelijkheid, daar val ik dus niet onder). En hoe lossen echte southern belles dat op? Juist, met een echt southern compliment. Ik had de versiering van het center op mij genomen, en ik heb denk ik wel tien complimenten gekregen van meerdere, allemaal oudere, officiersvrouwen. Ik heb een aantal hieronder op een rijtje gezet:

"These decorations are amazing! I was an officer's spouse for 23 years, and we did a lot of events like this, but it never looked this good!"
"Wow, I love your decorations! Where did you find all the houses? It's not really my style, but I love them!"
"I love all the colorful decorations. My whole house is white, red, and green, but the colors really work here."
"I love the vases. Are those cones recycled from the Thanksgiving dinner? That is so creative!"

Nu mag u gaan bedenken welke gemeend zijn, en welke niet. Mij maakt het niet uit, ik voelde me die avond een echte Martha Stewart, en ben sinds kort beschikbaar als versierder voor al uw feesten en partijen.

Wrapping up

So although life in America is full of conveniences, there is one thing that salespeople don't do for you. They will not wrap your presents. They will let you use the restroom, use their phone, order parts, give you discounts, open the store earlier or stay open later, just for you, but if you tell them something you've bought is a present they will exclaim, "Oh cool! Who's it for?", but don't count on them reaching for a roll of wrapping paper and scissors.

I'm sure that most people here don't care. Husband-dear explained to me that wrapping presents together is just a typical American expression, and I guess that means that most Americans not only like wrapping gifts, they're good at it too. And therein lies the problem. I, you see, positively suck at wrapping gifts. I've really tried to get better at it, I have, honestly. But anytime I see wrapping paper and tape, my hands go into this nervous tango, and I end up with paper that's too small, tape that gets stuck in the wrong place, and paper that is wadded up around the corners. If I'm really lucky, I even get some wrapping paper stuck to my person. There's quite nothing like going out to dinner, and finding you have a long narrow strip of little Santas dangling from your skirt. One time, when I went to high school in New England, we were asked to volunteer at the mall wrapping center as part of a fund raising activity. I think the poor man in charge explained how to wrap a bow around a box at least three times, and I still did not get it. After truly mangling three people's packages, I was thus quickly relegated to sorting bows by color.

So, yes, wrapping gifts is not exactly my favorite thing in the world. I will actually put husband-dear's presents in plain boxes left over from something else, and then ask him to wrap his own presents. And in Europe, I would love taking advantage of the "we have no manners or care for service, but we will wrap your presents for you" policy, and I used to marvel at the tricks and ornaments some stores would pull out. Moving to the US, although enlightening in terms of free refills, free parking, and positively gushing customer service has thus been somewhat of a cold shower when it came to gift wrapping.

But America would not be America if some ingenious entrepreneur did not come up with a solution for the wrapping-challenged like me. You see, there is a whole market of gift bags and gift boxes that make even the most unable wrappers seem like true creative spirits. And I have wholeheartedly embraced it, buying and reusing boxes and bags like they are going out of style. And the coolest part? No one even cares, and in fact, especially my European friends and family love the bags and boxes I use, thus completely eliminating the need to wrapping anxiety altogether. So am I ready for Christmas? You betcha!

Driving home for Christmas

So you would think that with all this time off, I would have oodles of time for my blog. At least, that's what I thought. But I guess I was wrong, because the past few days have been very busy. There are television shows to watch, Christmas decorations to gawk at, books to read, people to go see, Starbucks to go visit, and a myriad of volunteering activities that have kept me away from my computer. Interestingly, I also thought I would not be doing any driving either, however, a quick gaze at my car tells me that since getting gas on Monday, I've driven a whopping 75 miles. Now we don't live miles outside of town, and I haven't made any trips outside of the area, so those 75 miles were spent on the roads of our humble little city. And let me tell you, every single mile was an exercise in patience and curbing frustration. Because I have had to come to the conclusion that once all these people get home for Christmas, they better stay there, 'cause they cannot drive.

I know I've complained about drivers from Florida not knowing how to navigate the interstate, hogging the middle lane, not letting people merge, and generally just not paying attention. But if they got their license with a box of CrackerJacks, then people in our town got their license with the K-Mart cheap rip-off version of CrackerJacks. Seriously.

For starters, can I please put in a request for everyone to start using their blinker? It's that little stalk on the side of your steering wheel, and it's really neat, because once you turn it on, and go around a curve, it will turn off on its own! I've always been amazed by that little feat, and I think more people need to experience that little miracle. Because, in all honesty, there is nothing more frustrating than waiting to make a left turn, only to find that the six cars you're waiting for are all turning too. Or how about those numerous occasions when I'm just happily trucking along, singing to the music on my radio, lost in Christmas thoughts, and am forced to SLAM my brakes because the enormous SUV in front of me decided that YES! THIS IS THE TURN RIGHT HERE! and goes from 45mph to zero in about ten feet, because we all know that a) the people behind us know exactly where we are going, and so there is no need to worry about using blinkers, and b) turns can only be taken after we have come to a complete stop.

Now in all honesty, the incident above can really be blamed as much on our city planners as our drivers. You see, our town is nothing more than a collection of strip malls. We have four major streets, and these are are lined with so-called "shopping plazas". This translates into little, poorly marked entries and exits every thirty feet, with people stopping and turning, or pulling out in front of you without any kind of warning. What we need is a real pedestrianized downtown. But in order to get that, we should have had an electorate smart enough to, this past November, vote for the mayoral candidate who was going to realize that. And apparently we don't. So for the next six years, I will be complaining about this. Be forewarned.

Oh, and may I also kindly request people stop riding my butt when I'm doing eight miles over the speed limit already? I mean, all of our major roads are four-lane highways, and here's a thought, that means you can PASS me. What a novel concept. And if you are going to pass me, please, please, don't slam on your brakes ten feet later, to turn into "Edward's Styling and Nail Salon", because that salon did not just pop up out of thin air. We may be fast builders in that town, but not that fast. I don't care what kind of hair emergency you have, it can wait for the two seconds it will take you longer to get there doing 48mph.

And yes, for all those crazy people on base who are apparently dying to lose their on-base driving privileges, I have one simple rule on base: I. Follow. All. The. Rules. And I'm serious. You want to know why I insist on coming to a complete stop at at a stop sign? Because for one thing, the law enforcement on base has nothing better to do than pursue traffic violations. We're a pretty well-behaved base, so that's what they do, they hide behind trees to catch people doing 2 miles over the speed limit or not coming to a COMPLETE and UTTER stop before turning right on red. And second, these people don't do warnings. You get pulled over, you know that a) you'll get a ticket, b) you'll get points docked on your license, and c) you have just committed a federal offense. Yes, indeed, speeding or running a stop sign, or doing any of a million other seemingly harmless traffic violations on base is a federal offense. And let me tell you, I can really do without that on my record. So thank you for backing the heck off.

And finally, can we all just get off our cellphones? Your driving is under par as is, and texting or talking to your BFF while navigating a left-hand turn in a school zone is not helping. The same goes for applying makeup, or mixing sweetener into your Eggnog latte. Just drive. Please.

Conceive, believe, achieve

Before you all start worrying that I have turned into some sort of feel-good guru, no worries, I haven't. I'm still the same cantankerous cynic I was before yesterday's commencement, in fact, it's possible that the commencement speaker who left us with th message in the title of the blog left me even a little more world-weary and sarcastic than before.

For those of you who have never had the wondrous privilege of attending a university commencement, let me enlighten you. First, it's very very very long. It's so long that faculty will sneak snacks into event, and eat them while pretending to read the commencement program. Second, except for that moment where they name your son or daughter, it's only slightly min-numbingly boring. Unless of course your darling offpsring attends a really fancy college, and your speaker is someone who actually knows how to entertain a crowd, like the current US president or a famous comedian. And third, it gets very hokey. Admittedly, that may just be my opinion because I've sat through so many at this point, and may not apply to those of you who may only attend one or two commencements in your lifetime, all of which feature yourself or your child, thus representing not only thousands of dollars you've invested over the years, but also the achievement of someone you really love. So for you, the singing of the school song, the playing of Pomp and Circumstance, the pledging of allegiance, the announcing of the graduates, the moving of the tassles, the well-meant words about "hope", "achievements", "pride", and "future" could actually hold some meaning beyond wondering how long it will be until you are dismissed. And finally, it's really warm. Well, actually, that may also only apply to those of us wearing thick doctoral robes, so once again, you may not suffer from that specific issue. Either way, commencements are long and possibly boring.

Now my first commencement at my current university was awesome. This can be attributed to two reasons: Kat and the speaker. Kat was an English professor at our school who happened to be sitting next to me, and who pretty much shared my outlook on just about everything going on at the commencement. We apprently laughed and giggled so much that the school camera operator, who was on a little podium a few feet away from us, told me later he could hardly get a good shot of the faculty, since we were always in stitches. The speaker, however, also helped a great deal. You should know that the school always tries to bring in someone who can bring a positive message to our graduates, but that because of our limited budget, that person is usually not as famous or as philanthropic as they would like him or her to be. That first year, the school brought in a gentleman who had done a great deal for children in impoverished neighborhoods through the finding of schools, or something equally wonderful. Although his message was not any more meaningful than the drivel in the title of this blog, he truly captured the entire faculty, and probably the entire audience's attention when he announced that he and his husband recently adopted a child. You could just hear the collective intake of breath, the frowning, and quiet prayers for the man's soul. As I've said before, we may be a public school, but we are as much part of the bible belt as anyone else living down here, and thus being gay is simply not considered possible. It's an imaginary condition made up by those yankees. Or something. So we thought his coming out like that was amazing, just the amount of kick needed to lift the commencement from alright to plain cool. Although he received only a meagre applause from the graduates and the visiting parents and family members, the majority of the faculty gave the man a thunderous standing ovation. So yes, that speaker was enough to keep the faculty buzzing for at least a year, with the majority of the speculation centering on whether the administration had known about his orientation prior to hiring him.

The speakers during following commencements have all been less than memorable. Their messages are no more than cookie-cutter plattitudes, which are all supposed to help our graduates believe that no matter what they do, as long as they believe, they'll be fine, or something equally ridiculous. So when Kat left the university during the semester following that first commencement, and the next speaker was incredibly dull, I started to do what a lot of faculty do: I snuck a book into the event. I mean, why else would manufacturers create robes with such enormous sleeves complete with tight cuffs if not to hide and keep a pocketbook up one's sleeve?

But then last week, the entire faculty received an email about commencement. It containted the usual marching line, but also included the remark, "Please note that proper head attire is required, and reading materials are not permitted, as this is a solemn occasion." Now I'm a rebel, but when it comes to ignored a direct rule, I'm as chicken as the next person. So this year, I did not bring a book with me. And thus was forced to listen to the commencement speaker. And his message was so incredibly meaningful, so very true, I had to share it with you. Please make sure you're sitting down, as this is really too much to take in standing up.

If you want to do something, be someone, get somewhere, all you have to do is 1) conceive it, i.e., think of it, 2) believe in it, and 3) you'll achieve it. Yes. That's all it takes. Don't worry about planning, having back-up plans, or working your butt off. Just believe. Talk about seeing four years of expensive education go down the drain. You didn't need to read all those books! Just Conceive and Believe!
So here's my plan. I really want a pool, right? Well, I've conceived of that idea, obviously, so now all I need to do is really believe it, and then one day I'll wake up, and boom, my pool will be right there in the backyard.
I can't wait.

Tsja..

En daar zit je dan. Zoals mijn broer zou zeggen, met je goede gedrag. De tentamens zijn nagekeken, de cijfers zijn ingevoerd in banner en braaf ingeleverd op het secretariaat, en de lessen voor volgend semester zijn allemaal aangepast, veranderd, en staan uitgeprint in nette mappen in de kast. En dus zit je de dag voor commencement thuis. Tsja, en wat moet je dan doen. Je bent zo gewend aan het van hot naar her rennen dat je het nu even niet meer weet.

Satomi is er, dus een flinke poets-sessie is niet nodig. De kerstcadeaus zijn ook al gekocht en ingepakt. Iedereen is naar school, of op het werk, of ligt te slapen in hun crate. Alle Nederlandse kennissen, vrienden, en familie is ook nog aan het werk, dus even bellen met Nederland zit er ook niet in. En dus zit ik hier een beetje voor me uit te koekeloeren. En het is niet alsof dit iets nieuws is. Nee hoor, elk semester is er zo'n dag als deze. Een dag dat je in keer van de achterlijke drukte in het niets stort. En dan niet zo goed weet wat je met jezelf aanmoet. Je zou denken dat ik er ondertussen al een oplossing voor heb. Maar niet dus.

Misschien moet ik het hele niksdoen maar eens omarmen. "Embrace the nothingness". Juist. Dat kan ook. Of ik kan ons checkbook eens gaan balancen en de hele administratie op orde brengen. Dat zou kunnen. Of niet. Misschien moet ik daar maar eens over na gaan denken.

A touch of Christmas

Christmas has come to the DixieChick house at last.

This past weekend was spent in the merry spirit of the yuletide season, and as there was no treegate this year, no windowgate, and not even an ornamentgate (oh, for the blessings of a blended family), I can honestly say it went perfectly. Everyone picked their favorite ornaments, reminisced about when and how each one was acquired, and agreed that the red wooden ornaments recently acquired at Ikea were a wonderful addition to our tree.

Below are a few pictures of the spirit of Christmas that has overtaken our house. Since I absolutely love this season, I can pretty much guarantee you that more are on the way.

A close-up of our Christmas tree. The main color has always been red, but with the red hearts (courtesy of a recent trip to Ikea), everything came out even better. In this picture, you can see the ornament that husband-dear and I picked out this year ("have faith" seemed an appropriate theme for the past few months), as well as one of husband-dear's childhood ornaments.



Looking at pictures of last year, I decided that our mantle really needed a little "je ne sais quoi". That "je ne sais quoi" turned out to be a lit garland, and after several fruitless trips to Hobby Lobby, Michael's, Target, and Walmart, husband-dear, in another one of his truly practical and brilliant moments, suggested buying a plain garland, separate lights, and other ornaments, and creating my own garland. Although it took me two tries (see Sunday's blog), I'm very pleased with the finalr result.


And even our horribly hideous light fixtures, which would do well in a boudoir, and which our boys call the "hanging ta-tas-"( is that inappropriate?), and which we've been meaning to replace since the moment we first laid eyes on them, but simply haven't gotten around to (it probably helps that they're over our heads, and so we rarely see them, as we tend to look forward and not up), even those ugly golden things got into the Christmas spirit.

So yes, Christmas has come to middle Georgia. Let's break out the eggnog!

A not so good idea

Sometimes a not so good idea can lead husband-dear and I to look like this:



And these interesting outfits can be almost entirely be attributed to one of husband-dear's less than wonderful ideas.

Let me start off by saying that on the whole, husband-dear has far better ideas than I do. He is practical, and tends to think things through before he starts on something. So this afternoon, for instance, after I had spent twenty minutes twisting a string of lights around a lengthy piece of garland, only to discover I did not like the color of the lights, husband-dear suggested that perhaps I should have turned the lights on before I spent all that time working them into a garland. Great idea. Just like that one time I tried to hang our letter holder, found out it was crooked, tried again, ran into the same problem, and before I could even open my mouth to start a lament about the terrible letter holder and the horrible hooks, husband-dear handed me a level and a pencil, and suggested I try using that. My husband. Is. Smart. I mean, I'm telling you, I may have all those fancy degrees rolled up in a chest at the foot of our bed, but husband-dear is the real brain around the house.

But sometimes, just every once in a while, husband-dear's ideas are less than perfect. In fact, on a few rare occasions, his ideas just plain suck. This morning was just such an occasion. And for those of you who spend the better part of the year in the rain or the snow, this little tale should make you feel a little better about the weather in your neck of the woods. You see, this morning, it was cold. And I mean really cold. We're talking frost on roofs, grass, shrubs, and the hum of all the neighbors' AC units working overtime reverberating down the street. In spite of this, to us southerners, insane cold, husband-dear and I simply had to get our exercise in. Some people have their morning caffeine, others have to watch the news, or read the paper, we're those people who can't get going without a nice shot of endorphin. Now you should probably also know that we had a busy day today. And the only time available to exercise was prior to ten in the morning. And the key to this whole little story? The fact that our training schedule called for a long bike ride. Any normal person would, at this point, have looked at the thermometer, shaken their head, and decided to do something else. Anything else; push-ups, bowling, jazzercising in the living room, heck, staying in bed would have probably crossed any normal person's mind first, anything as long as it did not involve a bicycle and howling winds.

But none of these people have met my husband yet. And when husband-dear wants to exercise, he. Will. Exercise. End of story. And since I am on the same training schedule, and hate feeling like I wimped out, a feeling which can, in all honesty, be caused by doing one push up less than husband-dear, I too really wanted to ride.

So this morning I joined husband-dear at 8am. The sun was still coming up, the temperature was just above freezing, and a nasty wind was cutting across the fields. It. Was. Freezing. While we usually shed half of our clothes while riding, this morning, we kept all of it on. Although my hands had warmed up by mile 4, they were back to freezing again by mile 20. My toes numbed up, and as I had neglected to wear a pair of shorts underneath my leggings, my lower body was than thrilled with me. Our knees were creaking, our joints protesting, and we couldn't wait to get home. It was miserable. And, as it has taken us the better part of the day to warm up, it was miserable even after the ride was over.

So for those of you who think we spend our days here sipping margaritas around our pool, we don't. It does get cold down here too. Granted, we may not have snow, or sleet, or hail. But when you're used to 100F temperatures, and the weather drops down to 32F, trust me, you feel like you are going to die, and whoever said the earth is heating up, needs to be checked into a home for the mentally unstable.

In short, there will be no more early morning bike rides in the Dixiechick home until spring. And all future exercise ideas will be considered with the expected temperature in mind.

The missing years

I like to play review games with my students. I started this trend last year, when I really did not feel like spending 90 minutes rehashing an entire semester's worth of work to a classroom full of students whose eyes were either glued to their phone, or completely glazed over. So I came up with a game that the students have since dubbed "The Dr. R. review game". The game has apparently become so popular that upperclassmen will demand "the game" whenever exams get closer, and tell newcomers in excited tones about last year's version, when the floor got scuffed so bad, the custodians could not get the marks to come off.

The Dr. R review game can be best compared to a game show, where the class is divided up into different groups, and they have to try to answer as many questions correctly. It involves a bell at one end of the room, and students from each group racing each other across the room to be the first to ring the bell, and thus the ones to be allowed to answer the question. To add to the merriment, I try to come up with odd names for the different groups. This year in one class, the Desperate Housewives faced off against the Kate Plus Eights, while in another class, the Whoopis took on the Wandas. And yesterday, when I had a particularly full class, I decided to divide the students up into four groups, and name these groups after lame cars. Steve did this a few semesters ago in one of his radio classes, and the students loved it. But as I called out the group names and wrote them on the board, I stumbled across a problem. I came up with the Geo, the Lincoln Towncar, and the Impala, and then hit a blank. I could not, for the life of me, come up with more lame cars that were produced in the US. Fortunately, my students caught on quickly, and the Geos named their neighbors the Pintos, while the Towncars came up with the Chevettes for the last group.

You could argue that I just don't know enough about cars, but that's not entirely true either. I can come up with lame European cars in a heartbeat (the Opel Kadett, the Fiat Uno, the Suzuki Swift, the Daf, need I say more?), so I think that this again can be related to a phenomenon I call "the missing years".

The missing years refer to these gaps that I have in my cultural knowledge, whether it be athletes, politicians, television shows, or cars, due to the fact that I have moved around so much. For instance, when my students started calling me "Dr. J", after my first name, or so I thought, my husband had to explain that Dr. J was also a famous basketballplayer who also happened to be incredibly tall (and thus the complete opposite of my 5'4"). On the other hand, many people are surprised when I know about quintessential American things such as the Cabbage patch kids and their nasty cousins the Garbage pail kids, or the sitcom The Torkelsons. But at the same, when some of the actors on Scrubs burst into the theme song from Charles in Charge, husband-dear again had to come to the rescue. Of course, the missing years also applies to the Netherlands. I have, for instance, missed several parliamentary crises, and have no clue who Clouseau is, or why they were so popular. Boer Zoekt Vrouw went right over my head, as did the (second?) comeback of Doe Maar.

Of course, for people close to me, such as husband-dear, and my friends, the concept of the missing years is well known. They no longer raise an eyebrow when in one sentence I can imitate the clown from In Living Color ("homey don't play that"!), and have to ask what people are talking about when they talk about Giligan's Island. But whenever I'm around people who don't know me that well, it's always a little awkward when I have to ask them to explain a, to them, obvious, cultural reference. You can just hear people silently wondering if they're dealing with someone who's been locked away for a decade or so, or if I'm just that out of it. I mean, if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, but doesn't know all the duck ways, what does that make me?

There's no solution for making up for the missing years, obviously. I can't go back in time and relieve the years that I wasn't in the Netherlands, or the US, or France, or Germany, or wherever. But I do thank the heavens for channels such as TV Land and its endless reruns, and the ubiquitous wikipedia. If I wasn't here, or there, at least I can now educate myself to the point where I can pretend I was. So if I'm watching a lot of TV this break, it's because I'm educating myself. Really. So please excuse me while I go find out when Charles in Charge is on.

Het huis met een deuk

Sinds gisteravond heeft ons huis er weer een deuk bij. En dat is deze keer eens niet de schuld vande kinderen, of de honden, maar van mij. Ik moest zonodig met een stoel uit de keuken door onze hal lopen, en zag niet dat ik wel heel dicht langs ons net bijgestipte muurtje kwam. Toen de hal een uiteraard totaal onverwachte bocht naar rechts maakte, ging de stoel dus rechtdoor, en knalde met een indrukwekkende "bonk" tegen de hoek van de muur aan. En jawel, er zit nu dus een deuk precies op de hoek van de muur. En normaal kan ik alle dutsen en strepen en deuken in onze muren zelf maken, maar hoekjes, dat lukt me niet zo mooi. En dus moest ik aan manlief gaan vertellen wat er gebeurd was. En wachten totdat hij eens tijd wil maken om dat stukje muur weer eens mooi recht te plamuren.

Ondanks alle verhuizingen, zijn er weining dingen veranderd tussen manlief en mij. Hij kookt nog steeds, en ik doe nog steeds de afwas. Ook doet hij nog steeds de boodschappen, en ga ik er op uit voor de kleine errands. Maar wat betreft reparaties aan het huis is er wel heel wat veranderd sinds we ons eigen huis hebben. Want discussies over het mooi plamuren van een hoekje, heb ik nog nooit met hem gehad. En eigenlijk met niemand in Europa. In Duitsland is ons hele huisraad twee keer door het hele huis geweest (een keer erin, en u raad het al, een keer eruit), en geloof me, dat was met de nodige ongelukken, en er was geen kras te zien. Hetzelfde geldt voor Nederland en Frankrijk. Een heel stuk leer zijn van ons bankstel afgeschraapt door de lompe verhuizers, maar op de muur was geen krasje te zien. En voordat u nou allemaal "oh wat erg!" gaat roepen, ik was allang blij dat er eindelijk een excuus was om dat oerlelijke bankstel bij het oud vuil te zetten. Maar goed, feit is wel dat hier de muur het verliest van je bankstel, en niet andersom. Maar, het helpt natuurlijk dat alle huizen in Europa van baksteen zijn. Daar kan geen houten stoel tegenop natuurlijk. En zelfs als je geen baksteen binnen in je huis hebt, dan heb je nog stucwerk. En soms zit daar zelfs nog behang op. En alhoewel dat natuurlijk net zo onderhevig is aan creatieve kindercreaties, zijn deuken en dutsen toch echt een veel minder groot probleem.

Voor het geval u het nog niet wist, Amerikaanse huizen zijn van hout. Er wordt een "frame" neergezet; een soort raamwerk van hout, en daar wordt isolatie materiaal ingestopt, en dan worden er aan de binnenkant platen tegen aangezet. Die platen ("drywall" of "sheetrock" genaamd) worden dan geverfd, en klaar. Afgezien van de deuken is dat natuurlijk ideaal. Nooit meer lelijk donker banksteen in je huis. Vind je de kleur van je muur niet mooi? Dan hoef je alleen maar een nieuwe pot verf erop te smijten, en klaar. Niks stucwerker bellen, gewoon zelfs naar de Gamma. Nou ja, de Lowe's dan. Heeft je jongste hond last van haar inkomende tanden en heeft ze een flink stuk van de onderkant van de trim om de doorgang naar de keuken kapot geknaagt? Dan is er geen reden om je kwaad te maken, door het huis te stampvoeten, en berekeningen te maken over hoeveel het gaat kosten om de hele trim en de daaraan vastzittende chair rail te repareren. Nee joh. Je vraagt manlief om met een potje woodfiller de weggeknaagte stukjes weer op te vullen, je laat het drogen, doet er een likje verf over heen, en voila. Je trim is weer als nieuw.

Amerikaanse huizen zijn dus misschien wel wat kwetsbaarder voor kinderen, honden, en dixiechicks die niet opletten, maar ze zijn ook weer lekker snel te repareren. Ik zou echt niet weten hoe ik een scheur in het stucwerk moet maken, maar geef me een potje woodfiller, en ik repareer alle deukjes, knaagacties, en andere oneffenheden. Behalve het plamuren van rechte hoeken dus. Daar vervalt de emancipatie, en heb ik manlief toch echt nodig. Nou ja. Je kan niet alles hebben.

Post-Thanksgiving

This year, for the first time in about four years, we celebrated Thanksgiving without any of the extended family. Although Thanksgiving is not really my holiday (seeing as how the Pilgrims were dying to get out of Holland and to the new colonies, this shouldn't come as much of a surprise), I have, thanks to my better half, learned to see it as a true family occasion. And, as I should point out, a truly American family occasion, which involves paintball, fishing, canoeing, the possibility of hunting, roasting marshmallows, and talking to people whose family relations to you are simply far too complicated to describe ("so you're my husband's second cousin's son's wife, right?). However, this year, due to moving family members, crazy work schedules, and other general snafus, the DixieChick family stayed in Georgia. All by itself.

It actually wasn't so bad. Husband-dear and I had it all thought out, and believe that we now have the perfect recipe for a successful Thanksgiving at home without any extended family. It requires the following:

1. Lots of unhealthy food, but no turkey. Turkey without family is like, to coin another American phrase, Smith without Wesson, Mason without Dixie, or to stay in my field a little more, Woodward without Bernstein. It's just not right. So instead we had tappas for lunch and a good hearty Dutch Stamppot for dinner. I know, potatoes, onions, carrots, and sausage for Thanksgiving may seem like sacrilege, but it may my family very happy, and at the end of the day, that's what matters.

2. Lots and lots of movies. From Coraline, to Funny People, to whatever was on TBS, we watched it.

3. Lots of sleeping in and laying around. Although I did take a shower on Thursday and put on sweatpants, husband-dear and the boys argued that that showed way too much initiative, and they would sit around and not shower. And if that meant they would be stinky, then God help them, but so be it. Well, thank goodness they weren't stinky, but they did lay around. All. Day. Long. It was amazing.

Can you tell it was an awesome Thanksgiving? It gave us enough energy to go for a run and take the kids to the Museum of Aviation on Friday morning, complete our Christmas shopping on Friday afternoon, pressure wash the house, clean the windows, and trim the bushes on Saturday, and go for a long bike ride on Sunday.

And in case you're worried I'm hitting a post-Thanksgiving slump, no worries. Review week and finals are upon us at last, so no time for a slump. Happy last day of November!

Tags and Awards

When I started blogging, I thought I would just get on this website every once in a while and inform the world (or at least my mother: hai mam!) about my life. But now that I've been around for a while, I realize that there is so much more to it. There are awards, tags, games, gift-giving, and a myriad of other activities to keep the modern-day blogger occupied. And today's post will be dedicated to two of the activities: an award, and a game of tag.

First, Petra gave me the Creative Blogger award




Thank you!

Apparently, like all other good things in life, this award doesn't come for free either. I now have to tell you all seven things about me that you don't yet know, and give this award to seven other people. Wow.

To make things even better, my friend Wonder Woman tagged me in a game where I am supposed to answer five questions and tag two other people.

Wow. This blogging thing is getting complicated.

But, first things first. Seven things about me you don't know. I don't think there's a lot about me my readers don't know yet, I mean, really, I think I've even mentioned my weight on here at one point. But, I'll give it a try.

1. I was born on Easter Sunday. My mother was a nurse, and joked with the staff at the hospital where she worked that she was going to be the patient they would remember, and deliver on Easter Sunday. And she kept her promise. The fact that she had placenta previa and was in the hospital for four weeks probably helped the "remember me" part just as much though.

2. When I was in school, I always wanted to be a cheerleader. I thought it would be the coolest thing in the world to do. But since I couldn't even get down into a split or do a toe-touch, it was always out of the question.

3. With the exception of green beans (and I'm talking haricots verts, not the disgusting canned green beans they have here), I don't like beans. I do like Mexican food though, only without the beans. Imagine the fun I have ordering in a Mexican restaurant.

4. Until the whole baby-thing fell apart on us, husband-dear and I were really hoping for a girl. We were going to name her Elisabeth Sue, after both our mothers, and call her Elli.

5. I was a field hockey girl for years and years and years. I can't play soccer, can't play volleyball, and generally suck at any sports that involves my bodyparts and a ball. But hand me a long narrow stick and a tiny, hard ball, and suddenly I get it. Still have not figured out how that works.

6. When husband-dear and I first met, we bonded over the fact that we had both lived in really cold places and knew what it feels like when your nostril hair freezes. This was about five minutes after we met. Go figure.

7. I am secretly waiting for a school reunion (of really any of the schools I went to), so I can show the kids who always bullied me that I did turn out pretty OK

Now, the next step would to pass the award on to seven people. The problem with that is, like Annemiek already noted, that most of the bloggers I follow on a regular basis have already received this award, and so there is no way I can come up with seven.

There are a few people I would like to single out, however:

My friend, Wonder Woman. Not only do I love reading about her pregnant musing, she's also the lady who introduced me to the man who introduced me to the woman who ended up introducing me to my husband. So not only does she keep a pretty cool blog, I owe her a lot. With all the men in your home, you deserve this pink girlie award more than anyone.

The mysterious FB+. He writes a pretty interesting blog, and leaves the funniest comments. I hope this award will inspire him (or her) to write on a more regular basis. Fortunately, I get to talk to him (or her) on a far more regular basis, but I think it's about time he (or she) shares some of those musings with the world!

The wonderful Bibi. I love reading her blogs about her life in rural Pennsylvania, the life she is creating for herself, all her wonderful herbal concoctions she makes, and everything else she gets up to.

Now for the game of tag. Apparently, this game of tag involves answering five personal questions, and then tagging two other people. Since I'm sure you can't wait for more personal revelations, here we go.

1. What were you doing ten years ago?
Finishing up my Master's degree and getting ready to go to the University of Texas at Austin. It's funny, I remember that ten years ago I was really debating whether I wanted to pursue an academic career or not (let's just say that a boy was involved). But if I hadn't left for UT (and left said boy behind) I would have never met husband-dear. Or worked at my beloved school. Serendipity. It's all I have to say about that.

2. What are five things on your to-do list?
I have two, one for work, and one for home, so I'll just name the top three from each:
a. Grade Comm 2001 papers
b. Grade Comm 3310 research proposals
c. Prep spreadsheets for final grades
d. Buy Christmas presents husband-dear
e. Take Jimmie to doctor at 1pm
f. Do laundry

3. What snacks do you enjoy?
Chocolate, dropjes, baked barbeque chips, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, cheese (I know, it's weird), and crackers (possibly even weirder).

4. What are the places you have lived?
I'll just provide a selection of five here: Germany, France, Nijmegen (The Netherlands), Texas, and Georgia.

5. What would you do if you became a billionaire?
a. I know this sounds hokey, but husband-dear and I have always talked about starting our own homeless shelter. We once ran into a homeless couple here in town, and they just broke our heart. They were living in their car, were trying to sell us their dog, and seemed so helpless. Husband-dear and I spent the whole rest of the day talking about what we could do to help out people like that, and we came up with a shelter where people could live and learn a trade, get the help they needed, and slowly transition into project housing. We even came up with a name, "Street to Feet". So yes, hokey. But true.
b. Get an in-ground pool. Or a house with an in-ground pool. I'm not picky. I just really want a pool. And since I'll have money to burn, I'll make it heated
c. Get a private chauffeur to drive me to work. No, I wouldn't quit my job. Do you know how bored I would get? I might provide funding for our department to get their own building and administrative staff, but I would not quit.
d. Get husband-dear his waverunner and the kids that four-wheeler they have been begging for.
e. Give lots of it away - would you like a new laptop? We'll get it for you! A new car? Sure! There is no way we could spend it all anyway

Now, the last step in this game involves tagging two other people. Yay! I love passing work on to other people. I think the first person I am going to tag is Cisca, since she recently admitted to liking lists. Sorry girl, you're it! The next person I am going to tag, is going to have to be Bibi again, just because I would love to find out what she would do with a billion dollars.

Well, now that I have fulfilled all of my blogging obligations, I would like to take this opportunity to wish everyone a very happy turkey day! May your cranberry sauce be sweet and your giblets disgusting!

DixieChick's Rules of Life

I realize you all must be getting tired of my little lists at this point, but this morning I received an email that I simply had to share with all of you. You see, over the past week, my kids and my students have been locked in a competition over who can be the most demanding, ornery, irresponsible and otherwise generally annoying. There have been tantrums, crying spells, lost tempers, and the usual drama, both at home and at work, and as an academic, the only solution I can think of for that is to organize it all into a neat little list. So. For anyone who has children or works with children, or works with people who act like children, this is dedicated to you. May the Force be with you.

Rule 1. Life is not fair - get used to it!

Rule 2. The world doesn't care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something before you feel good about yourself.

Rule 3. You will NOT make $60 000 a year right out of high school. Or college for that matter.

Rule 4. If you think your teacher is though, wait until you get a boss.

Rule 5. Flipping burgers in not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burgerflipping. They called it opportunity.

Rule 6. If you mess up, it's not your parents' fault. So don't whine about your mistakes, learn from them.

Rule 7. Before you were born, your parents were not as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes, and listening to you talk about how much your life sucks. So before you save the rainforest from the parasites of your parents' generation, try delousing the closet in your own room first.

Rule 8. Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life has not. In some schools, they have abolished failing grades, and they'll give you as many times as you want to get the right answer. This doesn't have even the slightest resemblance to real life.

Rule 9. Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you find yourself. You can do that on your own time.

Rule 10. Television is not real life. In real life, people actually have to leave coffee shops and go to work.

Rule 11. Be nice to nerds, chances are you'll end up working for one.

And in case you're worried, I still love my kids, I still love my students, and my job, but right now I just want everyone to go away. Or learn these rules and live by them. It's their pick.

American runs on...

Volunteering.

If you thought "Dunkin'", then you're obviously not from my neck of the woods. If that statement makes you scratch your head, you're obviously from the other side of the pond, and should just carry on reading. Anyway, our world down in the south would not exist if weren't for people helping out. For free. In their own time. Without reimbursement.

You can say a lot of things about Americans - they're loud, overweight, poor drivers, could use a clothing make-over, and really need to learn that "done did that" is not correct English, but there is one thing you cannot say about them, and that is that they're not willing to help. Because they are. Are you carrying a box into a building? Someone will hold the door open for you. Did you just trip carrying that big box up the stairs? People will actually stop and help you up and ask you if you are OK, and then despite all your protests, carry the box to your office for you. Compare that to Holland, where I have had people step over me and my box and complaining they're late for class. Are you sick? People will bring over more than enough food to feed your entire family for a week. Without asking first. Are you down in the dumps? People will send a card or drop off cookies, or both. Do you want to plan a dinner for the city's homeless people? Vague acquintances will gladly offer to make their grandma's stuffed turkey recipe, or offer use of their truck, or sacrifice their weekend to help you serve.

Now I like helping out. The reason I like helping out is probably also the reason why I'm up to my ears in work right now. I just can't stand leaving students out in the cold when they need a class and no one is stepping up the plate. I like to say I'm on a fast track to tenure, although husband-dear argues I'm on a fast track to insanity. I say we get to tenure first, and then let the chips fall as they may. But having said that, I have tried to cut back on my volunteering. Because tenure will take another few years, and losing my sanity this semester would not look good in my portfolio.

So, I'm not sure how it happened, or why for that matter, but this week I was semi-in-charge of the non-edible portion of the Airmen's Center Thanksgiving Dinner. I don't know why husband-dear, myself, and our dear friend Jan were the only ones from the chapel to respond to the email from our, by the way very cool and totally awesome new chaplain from Idaho, and I'm not sure what inspired us to give up our free Thursday night last week for a planning meeting either. I also really don't know while at said meeting, Jan and I volunteered to take care of the decorations, while husband-dear magnamimously offered to help with setting up hundreds of chairs and tables. I really don't, especially if you consider that I have enough work to keep at least five people occupied until the end of the year. But considering that I still find time to write this blog, I must have, in some foggy part of my brain, decided that I should thus also have time to make a bare building like a Thanksgiving Extravanganza. So after giving up our Thursday night last week, we then also sacrificed a few consecutive evenings and afternoons after that, because once you commit, you do it right. Right? Anyway, we're not done yet either. After helping the airmen eat the enormous helpings of turkey and sweet potato and pulled pork and mounds of desert last night, we will be going over tonight to help clean up the enormous amounts of fall decorations that Jan and I borrowed from every single protocol closet on base on Friday.

What is a protocol closet, you ask? I'm so glad you asked, because until last Friday, I didn't know either. A protocol closet is a place, usually a room, where a unit's protcol officer keeps all the decorations used for special events such as promotions, dinners, 4th of July celebrations, Christmast parties, and so on. They're basically the equivalent of a Hobby Lobby without the price tag. So anyway, the command center let Jan and I browse through these walhallas of decorations, and we went nuts. Unfortunately, we now also need to take all the garlands and leaves and pumpkins and ribbons and candles and flowers back. And then get ready for Christmas. Because our new chaplain, efficient as he could have possibly been, also assigned the same positions for the Airmen Christmas dinner.

But although I obviously don't have time for any of this, it's fun. And not just because you're helping people out, but also because whenever you volunteer on base, and call out, "Are there any men who can help me carry this box/ hang this up / move this cabinet" there are at least six strapping young men ready to help you out. What can I say? Volunteering comes with its perks.


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Life is Good

You would think that a new blog after a week of deadly, ringing, earth-shattering silence, means that the craziness is over. What can I say? HA! Would seem to cover it pretty well. Craziness ends with commencement on December 12 at 10am, which is about 24 days, one hour, twenty-three minutes and ten seconds from now.

So no, the craziness has not yet ended. Instead of advisement, it's now registration, which means endless lines of students with forms to sign, questions about classes, overrides, overloads, and grade changes. It's senior portfolio presentation time as well, which means high drama in the hallways as students hear whether they're "walking", the euphemism used to describe graduation, or not. And it's also general end-of-semester blues, which entails the usual temper tantrums, late nights, and tears and lots of chocolate and coffee.

But sometimes there is a little haven of peace. A few moments when you realize that the clothing line may have a point after all. One of those moments happened yesterday. I should probably tell you that Steve and I have been harassing each other, beyond what we normally do, about the other person bringing in a) fancy coffee, or b) a hot breakfast. You see, I did Steve a few favors a while back, and so I figured he owed me a Starbucks pumpkin-spiced latte. For those of you unfamiliar with that beverage, let me just say w-o-w. I think I would gladly donate one of the kids for charity for a medium pumpkin latte. So anyway, I would send Steve random little messages a few times each day reminding him about the coffee I felt he owed me. You can probably see how that added to my merriment, while doing very little for his.

But then last week, during advisement, Steve saved my butt a couple of times too. For some reason only known to the Gods and our department secretary, Steve has no advisees and I have 70. Let me repeat that. Steve has no advisees and I have 70. Yes. 70. I don't know why or why, as the secretary likes him even less than she likes me, and Steve is an atheist, so I know God has nothing to do with it either. So anyway, last week, as I'm dealing with the long line of students at my door, and would run out of manilla files, or registration permits, or the batteries in my mouse would die, all it would take was a quick message to Steve, and he would show up with the necessary office supplies. So then Steve figured, I owed him a hot breakfast. So now my little emails about coffee received responses that involved hot biscuits and donuts. And of course, neither really happened, as we were either too busy working, or too busy complaining about work to step out of the office.

And then yesterday we received an email that our paper got accepted by a major conference. After doing a little "We're going to Memphis" dance in my office, I called Steve, and he finally did the right thing. He instructed one of his interns to drive to Starbucks and pick up two tall pumpkin-spiced lattes. Let me tell you, I was so excited, I almost cried. I nursed that cup the whole day (yes, I microwaved it too), and realized that Life is indeed Good. Sometimes anyway.

Ik word gek

Ik zou vandaag een Engelstalig blog schrijven over state's rights and waarom manlief wel vrij heeft en ik niet. En dat komt er echt aan. Alleen niet vandaag. En misschien ook niet morgen. En dat komt omdat ik namelijk gek word. Net als dat liedje van Brigitte Kaandorp word ik "gek, harstikke gek, helemaal gek". Sorry, ik kon even geen leuke Youtube link vinden, dus u moet het maar doen met het feit dat ze in dat liedje helemaal gestoord wordt van allerlei mensen die vanalles van haar willen.

Zo voel ik mij dus ook vandaag. Of nou ja, de hele week. Naast dat het namelijk weer eens advisement week is, en ik dus vijftig studenten in vier dagen van zinnige advies moet voorzien, moet ik namelijk ook dertig proefwerken, veertig onderzoeksvoorstellen, en tien online opdrachten nakijken. Ik moet een aantal online discussies modereren, en ik moet mijn eigen opdrachten maken voor een verplicht online college voor online instructeurs. Daarnaast word ik voor diezelfde cursus vanavond geacht om van half zeven tot half acht een "wimba classroom session" bij te wonen, en moet ik, ook voor die cursus, met een subgroepje een voorstel voor een college opzet schrijven. Raad eens wie aangewezen is om de eerste versie te produceren? Juist. Gekke Henkie. Sorry. Ik dus. Daarnaast moet ik ook nog, om aan de "publish or perish criteria" te voldoen, deze week mijn meest recente onderzoeksvoorstel indienen bij de ethiek commissie van de universiteit. Oh ja, en had ik al vermeld dat ik ook nog twaalf keer deze week college moet geven? En dat het al twee dagen regent?

Dus vandaag geen gezellig blog over het leven in het zuiden. Want DixieChick wordt gek. Harstikke gek.

Dan zeg ik lekker bil!

Weet u waar ik niet tegen kan? Naast mandarijntjes die met het openmaken hun sap over je net gestreken blouse morsen, en mensen uit Florida die 60 rijden in de middelste baan? Ik kan dus absoluut niet tegen mensen die mij vertellen wat ik moet doen. In mijn vrije tijd dan wel te verstaan. Op mijn werk kun je me vanalles vertellen, en ik doe het met liefde. Of ik doe in ieder geval alsof ik het met liefde doe. Soms dan zal ik je zelfs vragen wat je wil dat ik doe. Maak ik totaal geen punt van zelfs. Maar in mijn vrije tijd wil ik graag zelf de touwtjes in handen hebben. Heel raar, maar ja. Er is nou eenmaal niks aan te doen.

Dus toen ik vorige week van een van de dames van de Nederlandse koffie te horen kreeg dat "Ja, omdat je er vorige keer niet bij kon zijn, bel ik je maar even. Want we hebben vorige keer besloten dat het de volgende keer bij jou is. En oh ja, het is op 16 November", begrijpt u dat ik niet echt een gat in de lucht sprong. Naast mensen die me vertellen wat ik moet doen, kan ik er namelijk al helemaal niet tegen als mensen mijn tijd voor me indelen. En dan doet het er nog niet eens toe 16 November voor ons het begin van de laatste weken voor commencement is, en dus het begin van "hell's weeks". Nee, het gaat erom dat het mijn tijd is. En daar ben ik heel zuinig op. Wederom erg vervelend, maar ja. Ik ben nou eenmaal een mini-scrooge.

Maar goed, ik ben ook de minste niet, en was bereid om dit gewoon maar zonder zeuren te doen, of in ieder geval alleen met zeuren tegen manlief. Want die is wel wat gewend. Alleen toen ging vrijdag weer de telefoon, en het was weer een van de Nederlandse dames. Ik wil u het daaropvolgende gesprek niet onthouden, en dat ging ongeveer zo:
"Ja, ik wil niet vervelend zijn, maar heb je al gedacht wanneer je mensen ging bellen over de volgende Nederlandse koffie?"
"Uhm. Nou, ik dacht.."
"Ja, want dat is 16 November al, en dat is al heel erg snel, en dus dacht ik, je moet toch wel morgen gaan bellen, want anders hebben mensen al andere plannen."
"Nou ja, ik dacht dat ik komende week kon gaan bellen"
"Nee joh, dat moet veel eerder. Anders hebben mensen al andere afspraken. Heb je alle nummers al?"
"Ja, die heb ik. Maar ik wilde het eigenlijk verzetten naar de 23e. Dan hebben de kinderen namelijk vrij."
"Oh maar dan mag je wel helemaal opschieten. Zal ik anders nu gaan bellen? Anders heeft iedereen al andere dingen. Het kan anders ook wel bij mij hoor, de 16e."
"Nou... ja..."
"Weet je, bel jij iedereen vanavond op, en dan laat mij maar weten of ze wel of niet op de 23e kunnen. Anders doen we het bij me. Dan bel je ze gewoon terug dat het veranderd is."
"Oh."

U begrijpt, dit streek recht tegen de haren van de innerlijke rebel en de innerlijke southern lady in. Het is ongeloolijk, maar het is deze vrouw maar liefst gelukt om deze twee tegenpolen tegelijkertijd te beledigen. En wat deed ik, als volwassen, goed opgevoede vrouw nadat dit telefoongesprek was beeindigd? Juist, ik stak mijn tong uit, riep in goede oude Annie M.G. stijl, "Ik wil niet meer, ik wil niet meer!", en heb nog geen enkele Nederlandse vrouw gebeld. Dat doe ik lekker wanneer ik daar zin in heb. Lekker puh.

The bully and the bus part II

Although I wish it were different, I have the sinking suspicion that there are going to be many more parts to the "bully and the bus" saga. Ours seems to have abated for now, but I'm keeping my fingers and toes crossed for tomorrow, which is, like all other Mondays, going to be come much too soon.

Making Jimmie take the bus on Thursday did not make any difference. If nothing else, it made it worse, as Bully decided to tell Jimmie, both on the bus and at school, that "something bad" was going to happen if he took the bus again. Fortunately for Jimmie, both evil stepmom and Dad do not take to threats lightly, and five minutes after Jimmie walked in the door with that story, Dad was on the phone with the same assistant principal I had spoken to on Wednesday. Much to our dismay, the man had not yet talked to the bully. Yes, you read that right. Even though I had personally received his assurances that he would resolve this issue just a day earlier, he had not called the bully into his office. I thought husband-dear would burst a vein when he heard that.

Mind you, this is the same school system where first graders have been put in suspension for having their shirt tails untucked. The same school system that has five pages on appropriate dress code, rules about which hair styles are acceptable and which are not, and the same place that forbids high school students from engaging in, and I am literally quoting this off the school board website, "The innocent little practice of holding hands". This is also the same school system where abstinence is taught as the main way to avoid any kind of "nastiness", and where in the past children who have defended themselves from a taunting bully with a slap or a kick, have been expelled for "grossly violent behavior". And to top it all off, the school has dedicated three pages of its handbook to "anti bullying policies".

So, tell me again why the assistant principal did not call the bully into his office the moment he stepped off the bus on Wednesday? I mean, I try not to be judgmental (and trust me, that takes a lot of effort on my part), but it looks to me as though that school has its priorities slightly confused. Fortunately, husband-dear did not need me jumping up and down and making faces to get that, and he told the principal how he felt about that call. He also took his air force attitude a step further and threatened to involve the school board and the police (I'm surprised he didn't include the governor's office and the military too) if no steps were taken immediately.

The principal promised to do better, and we were once again faced with the arduous task of comforting Jimmie and getting him to take that bus the next day. Fortunately, on Friday, husband-dear went into work a little later, so he had the honors of dealing with a freaked out kid, who once again expressed his fear and frustration in our driveway at 6:30 in the morning. It's a miracle the neighbors haven't called DFACS yet. We followed Jimmie to the busstop, and parked behind a big SUV, to make sure that if Bully acted up again, we were there to see it. Nothing untoward seemed to happen, which was probably aided by the fact that Jimmie stood about 200 ft away from the actual pick up location.

And that afternoon, we received a call from the assistant principal, that he had talked to Bully after his fellow busmates had "ratted him out". Bully admitted to his behavior, broke down and cried, and was "severely punished", although the assistant principal could not tell us what the punishment was. I'm imaging two years of scraping gum off desks, or perhaps fifty whacks with a paddle, or maybe even twenty years of detention.

So we'll see what happens tomorrow morning.

But right now - thank you for all the signs of support. We've been telling Jimmie to be courageous, and it helps when he knows that there are so many people out there rooting for him.

Hopefully tomorrow, we all, this blog included, will be able to return to the order of the day.

The bully and the bus

Life is full of funny little surprises. Surprises like having your dog chew up your crepe myrtle while you were cooking dinner. Or having your oldest come home with a sheepish look on his face and the statement that he forgot all about this family heritage project that is due real soon. Like tomorrow. Sometimes a surprise can take the form of unwashed PT stuff that has been sitting in someone's bag in a car for over a week. And sometimes a surprise can entail your youngest having a breakdown in the front yard at 6:30 in the morning, while all your neighbors are leaving for work. And when I say breakdown, I mean, full-out bring-it-on breakdown. One with tears and yelling and stomping, that made me want to lay down in the grass and close my eyes until it had all gone away.

Our youngest, let's call him Jimmie (after the greatest guitar player of all time - Jimmie Hendrix. Look I know, Santana is pretty close, but I can't call a boy Santana now, can I?), has been having problems on the bus. One of the kids on the bus, let's call him Bully, has been picking on him like it's going out of style. He's not let Jimmie sit down, he's called him private parts, questioned his sexual orientation, and threatened to beat him up. In short, not cool. Not cool at all. We've talked to the school, we've talked to Jimmie about standing up for himself, and it seemed to have abated. Until a few days ago.

Now you have to know that Jimmie is the sweetest kid to ever walk the face of the earth. He's forgetful, he loves leaving things until the last minute, and he doesn't see the point in maintaining any kind of organization in his room at all, but God love him, he's sweet. This is the kind of kid who will play a song for you on his guitar when you're stressed out. Or who will try to give you a foot rub when you've been running. I don't think I've ever heard one mean word between him and his brother too. But Jimmie's niceness is his problem. Because he won't hurt a fly. And really, he won't. When he finds a cockroach, he'll just stare at it, and then ask me if he can keep it in a terrarium in his room. He's the kid who will walk away from problem kids, stay away from fights, and make a joke out of everything.

So when Bully started to act out again a few days ago, not letting Jimmie sit down on the bus, Jimmie had a solution. He was going to walk a few extra minutes and get on an earlier bus stop, so there would be plenty of seats for him to chose from. Husband-dear and I applauded this, as it was the first time we'd ever seen Jimmie do anything pro-actively. So we figured out where this stop was, when he would have to leave, and at what time.

Yesterday morning, the first morning that Jimmie was going to put his plan into action, he was all bubbly and excited. Evil stepmother (=me) was a little more apprehensive, as she was fully aware of his ability to get distracted by a bug or a butterfly and not end up at the right place on time. Add to that the fact that Jimmie's older brother (let's call him Ozzie, after yet another great rocker, and one of the oldest's heroes), that Ozzie would now have to leave after Jimmie, and that Ozzie, like his namesake, does not have the best memory in the world, and you might see why I was a little concerned. I mean God and I love Ozzie, but it would be not completely unlike him to leave all the lights, windows, and doors open when he leaves. So when I drove off, I was not entirely reassured. But I was telling myself they were getting older, and needed coddling as much as they needed a hole in the head, so I was going to not turn back and check on them. I was not.

And then at the gas station a few miles from our house, I got that weird momma-buzz. Don't know why, but I knew I had to go home. So I turned around, and drove home. And lo and behold, when I saw Jimmie's bus pull up to the kerb, no Jimmie. In fact, Jimmie was nowhere to be seen. I drove down our street, and saw him, walking towards, well, goodness knows where. Being the great evil stepmom that I am, I pulled up beside him and asked the age-old, "What happened?"
"Bully told me to get my *** **ss back to my own stop."
Well, excuse me, but wtf?
"Get in the car. What happened?"
I turned out that Bully had cussed out Jimmie and threatened him with bodily harm with he would get on the bus at Bully's stop. I was fuming. On fire. Mad. I had steam coming out of my ears.
"Here, I'll take you to school, and I'm going to go talk to the principal. What's this kid's name?"

And of course, being the protective lionesque evil stepmother that I am, I raised cain at school. I wasn't mean, or rude, or loud, but I made it very clear that this was "unacceptable". For those who don't interact with me on a daily basis, that is a word that I only use when I'm really really mad. I just love how you can clip it into knife-like syllables: un-aX-epT-able. Anyway. Fortunately, the principal agreed. He looked the type of man that could scare the devil himself, so I was comforted that it was going to be taken care of. Now we just had to worry about Jimmie.

So last night, husband-dear and I sat down and talked to Jimmie. He was perfectly fine with this morning's set up, and would have been content if I were to drive him to school the rest of his educational career. Right. No. Even if it weren't for the fact that that would make me late to work almost every day, husband-dear and I believe in teaching children how to face their fears, so that was not going work. We told him the principal had talked to Bully, and so Jimmie would be riding the bus again the next morning. We assured him nothing would probably happen again. But if it did, he would simply have to stand up to Bully. Jimmie did not like that at all. We explained that if Jimmie wouldn't, Bully would only continue to pick on him, and it would even get worse. Jimmie didn't like that either. We told him what he could do and say, and honestly, Jimmie, the non-confrontational boy that he is, did not like that any more either. When we told him he could cuss without repercussions, he seemed to perk up a little though, and when Ozzie, who is two years older, and rides another bus, offered to come beat up Bully, Jimmie even smiled. We thought it was going to be OK.

Fast forward to this morning, 6:30am, DixieChick's frontyard. After walking him out the door, Jimmie balked, "I'm not going"
He was not getting on that bus. Was. Not. He might not ever again get on that bus. Ever. And he did not care what that would mean. I pleaded, I reminded him of having to stand up for himself, I encouraged, I told him he needed to be David and the bully was Goliath. We called his dad who tried to talk to him. It was to no avail. And then I had to do what every (step) mother has to do, I told him he had to walk to that busstop and get on the bus. Or there was going to be trouble.
"But I am not going! I don't want to deal with this. It's not fair!" Jimmie was red in the face and sobbing, "I am not going to do this!"
"You have no choice buddy."
I can't tell you how much I hated myself right then. I wanted to take Jimmie inside, and tell him we would both stay home today and watch Discovery all day long. But I knew that wouldn't help.
Eventually, I had to yell at Jimmie to get in the car, now! I had to haul butt to the busstop, and when he wouldn't get out when the bus pulled up but merely whimpered, I had to yell at him to get out and go. He plunged out of the car, and without looking back, jumped on to the bus.

I know it will get better, and Jimmie will be bringing in cockroaches and lizards for pets again soon, but for now, I feel like the worst stepmom in the world. The worst.

Home

Can I just say that I love coming home? I really do. I love pulling into our garage, knowing that husband-dear finally caved into my pleas to let me park in the garage which, although it is meant for two cars, is so full with his ten bikes and riding lawnmowers and golfclubs and tools and kids' bikes that it only holds one of our cars. I love opening the door to our house, and having two dogs completely lose it because I'm. Home. At. Last. There's nothing like two dogs wagging their entire bodies and jumping all over each other so they can be really close to mommy right now yay! I even love balancing my purse, my travelmug, my lunchbag, and my laptopbag, while trying not to trip over said dogs, and make my way into the kitchen to give husband-dear a hug. If I'm lucky, one of the kids is hiding behind the laundry room door, ready to scare me witless, and have me throw the cold contents of that same travel mug all over the floor, or a wall, or a dog, whichever is closer. And if I'm really lucky, dinner will ready in just enough time for me to pull off my 1950s hose and skirt, and get into some serious jammies. So yes. Coming home is fun.

So you would think that as it's now 5:18pm, and I've just finished my last class, I am dying to go home. And you know what, I am not entirely thrilled. And it's really because the moment I walk in the door, I know I have to leave again in less than twelve hours. So basically, coming home reminds of the fact that I'll have to leave again. And I guess I like home so much, I really don't want to. Every time I come home, I realize how badly I just want to stay home. Just for a day. Just so I can hang out in the afore-mentioned PJs, lay on our couch, hug the doggies, watch TV, and read books. And watch everyone else come home for a change. Because even though coming home is fun, welcoming someone else home is even more fun.

Who knows. Maybe tomorrow will be that day.

On second thought, probably not. I think I like coming home too much to miss that. So I better leave before the doggies forget all about me.

Cotton Fields

"Let me hear it for the cotton fields
The cotton fields back home"
Beach Boys

So I've begun to realize that my blog is started to resemble the conversations between the two main characters on Mad About You. All I ever seem to talk about is how I'm tired, and overworked, and my students are weird, and I work so hard, and I'm exhausted, and how Steve is a nuisance. Well, in all honesty, Steve is mainly a nuisance because he's considering leaving, but that's not the point. Not yet anyway.

Anyhoo, I wanted you all to know that I am sorry about whining. Really sorry. And I would tell you I'm going to try and quit whining, but we all know that I'm Dutch and so that's just not really going to happen. Instead I'm going to prove to you that I don't whine all the time, and write about something that has been catching my eye. And my sinuses.

Cotton.

Most people, when you mention cotton, start talking history. You know, plantations, the civil war, Scarlett O' Hara, the cotton gin, and other events from a long ago past. But when you live in the south, you know that cotton, unlike some of the other, less constructive, southern traditions, is still alive and well today. And let me tell you, it is amazing.

I remember the first time I saw cotton. It was Thanksgiving some years ago, when we went to visit my husband's family in northern Florida. We drove through southern Georgia, and upon seeing endless fields of white, I got incredibly excited, "Is that cotton?! That's cotton isn't it?"
When husband-dear confirmed my suspicions, I got even more excited, "Oh wow! Real cotton! I've never seen that before. And there's so much of it! Pull over!"
"Why?!" Husband-dear, you should probably know, spent part of his childhood in this part of the world, so the sight of cotton, like many other things other mortals find extremely exciting, does little for him.
"Because it's cotton! It's what I'm wearing!" I turned to the kids, "And the kids want to touch it too, right?!"
If you have ever had two boys, you know that anything will get them riled up, especially if it involves touching something that belongs to someone else, so it wasn't long before we had pulled over next to an endless cotton field, and I was admiring the little white fuzz. And you know what? It felt just like a sweater. Or a ball of yarn. Only it was on a stick with leaves on it. A sweater growing on a bush. Who would have known.

Now that we live here, cotton has become a way of life. I no longer scream or get all excited when fall comes around, and the cotton starts to come up. But I can marvel at its beauty. There is nothing quite like an endless undulating cotton field, with cotton so white it looks like it snowed. Or the sun coming up over a waving field of cotton. Or the way the cotton glows pink when the sun sets at night. It makes me smile and think poetic thoughts every time I see it, even if it is at 7 in the morning.

Now for those yankees among my readers, November tends to be harvesting season. This means big machines plowing through those poetic fields, big machines which somehow, in some weird, unknown way, turn all those little balls of fluff into gigantic big blocks of cotton. Huge white squares, at least eight feet tall and ten feet long, that sit on the side of the field for weeks. They sit there unmoving through the rain and winds, until a semi loads them up, completely intact, and then takes them for a ride down the interstate with nothing but a bitty tarp to hold all that cotton down. You would think all the little fluff would fly it away. But it never does. Not visibly anyway.

Of course, there is a down side. All that cotton produces enough pollen to keep the antihistamine industry viable for a whole year. And the fields do look very brown and depressing from December through to September. But those two months a year when the little white buds start peeping out are magical.

Ikea

Ik zal u eens wat vertellen: Ik wil naar de Ikea. Ja, de Ikea. En het liefst nu. Dus als u de auto pakt, dan zeg ik mijn colleges af, en gaan we naar de Ikea in Atlanta. Lekker de Bjorn en de Romby bekijken, en Zweedse gehaktballetjes eten.

Nou ja, eigenlijk wil ik helemaal niet naar de Ikea. Nee, eigenlijk wil ik gewoon een lang weekendje naar Nederland. Koffie drinken op de markt, en wandelen over een es of een dijk ofzo. Maar ja, omdat ik zo'n carrieremiepje ben die overal een vinger in de pap wil hebben en honderduizend extra colleges geeft, en die ook nog eens zwaar onderbetaald is, kan dat niet. In ieder geval niet de komende tijd. En dat is extra zielig als u bedenkt dat ik allemaal blogs lees van mensen die net in Nederland zijn geweest, er over een paar weken weer heen gaan, of die er wonen. Het is niet eerlijk. Want ik moet zeker nog tot volgend jaar wachten.

Dus dan gaan we maar voor the next best thing: De Ikea in Atlanta. Daar loop je naar binnen, en waan je je zo in Duiven, of Sliedrecht, of Borne, of Utrecht, of waar dan ook in Nederland. De namen zijn hetzelfde, het lettertype is het zelfde, de winkel heeft dezelfde spulletjes, allen de gehaktballen zijn anders. Je krijgt er namelijk veel meer. Maar ik ben dan al wel zo geintegreerd dat ik dat al niet meer erg vind. Als ik naar de Ikea hier ga (en dat heb ik al maar liefst een keer gedaan), dan koop ik nooit iets. Ik ga er alleen naar toe om te doen alsof ik weer in Nederland ben.

Dus je zou denken, mens, ga lekker naar de Ikea dit weekend. Maar ja, ook dat gaat niet. We zijn namelijk weer eens ge"voluntold" voor iets op de basis. En ik zou natuurlijk mijn huwelijks geluk op het spel kunnen zetten, en manlief kunnen vertellen dat hij het alleen kan doen, ten slotte was hij degene die ons "aangeboden" heeft. Maar ja, alleen naar de Ikea is ook zo zielig. En mijn mede-Ikea-fan kan dit weekend ook al niet omdat haar man ergens aan de andere kant van de wereld onze vrijheid aan het bewaken is of zoiets, en zij dus met twee kleine kinderen zit. Dus het is echt heel erg zielig.

Ik denk dat ik dit weekend dus maar eens de Ikea website goed ga bekijken. Misschien dat dat een beetje helpt.

Student lingo

Ever since I was about 11 years old, I have been fascinated with the English language. And when I say fascinated, I mean really fascinated. Fascinated as in I used to read English books with a dictionary at my side. And although I no longer keep the "vocab journal" I used to carry around with me, I will still, whenever I think no one is looking, jot words I didn't know down on little post-its which I will then hide in my planner. In recent years, the post-its have dwindled though. I'd like to think that it's because I already know a boatload of fancy words, but I think the more likely explanation is that I've simply become too lazy to look up and write down the definition for every unfamiliar word. Plus I have Steve to tell me what stuff means. Who needs post-its if you have a walking dictionary right next door?

Thank goodness for my students though. Through our discussions in class, and even their papers, they keep me updated on the latest, trendiest vocabulary.
As in any subculture, there are a multitude of words one can use to express how awesome something is. Let me give you one hint: rad is out. As is cool, and hot. Just today, I read a paper where one of my students described the music used in Fahrenheit 9 /11 as "zany". Zany as in silly, ludicrous, clown-like. Zing is also a popular term nowadays, as in "The ad showed some real zing", which I'm guessing is on the same level as "fly", which means cool, hip, hot, rad, or however you express yourself when something is just really nice. And for those people who the "fl" sound is a little too much, fly can be replaced with "fi" which I have been told is short for "on fire"; "That music is so fi". And when one thinks a certain track is really fi, one doesn't just like it, no, one f***s with it. I have also learned that "shawty" is not a Brooklyn version of "shorty", but actually means "sweetie", and should really not be used by anyone over twenty-five and who has been raised knowing how to make the perfect "aw" sound in that word. In fact, if you're from the north, white, or both, you may just as well forget about it.
Then of course the words related to geography. There is the ubiquitous "ghetto" which can mean anything from "lower class" to "trashy" to "sexually promiscuous". Since we are in the south, there is the very Georgian "finna" as in "I'm finna go to the store", which is just a much easier way of saying, "I'm about to go to the store". Of course, no one here lives in Atlanta, everyone instead comes from "the a-t-l". They don't go to New Orleans either, no, they visit Narlens.
In the miscellaneous category, there is the ever-embarrassing "no homo!". For many of our male students, many of whom were born and raised in the southern bible belt, being mistaken for a gay man is the worst thing that could happen to them. So whenever my male students discuss hanging out with their friends, or liking some guy's outfits, they will always feel obliged to add a "no homo!" at the end. "Mr. Johnson's tie is really nice. No homo man!". Just to make sure you are not in any way mistaken about their sexual orientation. You will also be delighted to hear that our students don't get drunk or high, they get "zooted" instead. And in every class, there is always that moment when one or more students feel the need to call out a loud "toooh!". Yeah. Have no clue what that means. But it's loud and disruptive, so they like it.

So there you have it, DixieChick's very own mini-urban dictionary. Any additions will be greatly appreciated. My post-its are ready and waiting.

The early bird

is usually just really tired.

Can anyone tell me why I'm wide awake at 6 in the morning on a Saturday and have decided that the best thing to do is to grade some papers? Why am I not in bed asleep? Or watching television? Or reading a book? Seriously, why? I mean, I really don't get it. At all. In fact, I'm seriously beginning to consider the possibility that maybe I have become possessed by the long-lost spirit of a workaholic, or a thirteenth-century monk, or a Wall street broker in the 1980s. I mean, I like working hard as much as the next person, but six in the morning on a Saturday? And I'm grading papers? Just writing this down makes me feel like I am seriously out of my mind.

But what's even scarier is that husband-dear just woke up too, and didn't even raise his eyebrows when he saw me working at the kitchen table. In fact, he put on some coffee, and is now sitting beside me, taking care of some work-related stuff. And I just talked to a friend on Facebook who has also been up since 5:30. And I can think of at least five stores I could go to right now that are open for business. Yet I am pretty certain that if I were to call certain Dutch friends right now, they would be still be asleep, or at least less awake than I am right now. And, just in case someone missed it, they are six hours ahead of us. I know I wrote about this whole "America is up long before every one else" phenomenon a long time ago, but at this point, it's gotten ridiculous people. Do we ever take time off?

When you think about it, it's even scarier when you realize that this is a country who has a lot of fingers on a lot of potentially scary buttons. I bet you that most of those fingers did not get the recommended 8-9 hours of sleep last night. Or how about the American impact on the global economy? I bet you all those traders did not get their afternoon naps in either. Now I'm not saying that a good night's sleep could have prevented the current recession, but I think it's a point worth considering. Maybe if we all had a lot more sleep, we would understand why owning a car with a 1 in 3 gas mileage is not a good idea, why Walmart's ugliness beats out its convenience any day, and why fast food is really bad for you. I'm just saying. Sleep can make a huge difference.

So as a community, I say we need to lay off the Dunkin', stay away from the Starbucks, start implementing the French, "demain, demain" policy, drink more Malibu, as it claims to be "seriously easy going", and take at least one siesta per day. At least. And then sit back and watch the world become a better place. I promise.