Special

Americans are great about making you feel like you're special. Whenever I tell people down here I'm from Holland, the first thing they say is "Wow! That's amazing!", with a look on their face that can be best described as overawed. Now although I admit that coming from Holland and moving to this specific part of Georgia should be deemed a miracle, or at least an act of God, I personally had very little to do with it. I mean, it's not as though I personally swam across the Atlantic Ocean to get here. Then when they find out I live in the same state, or heaven help them, the same town, like the same bands as they do, get my hair cut at the same salon, or that we own the same color car, their enthusiasm knows no bounds. It's great. I finally feel really special.

And I especially love how this feeling of "specialness"has pretty much permeated all aspects of American life. This starts in elementary school, where there are not just awards for the smartest and fastest students, but also for those students who tried the hardest, showed the most improvement, and had the best school spirit. And it continues pretty much right through one's life down here. Not only does this whole award circus continue throughout college and even graduate school, but various adult-oriented organizations, such as karate schools and swim clubs have awards for just about every imaginable achievement ("best freestyle kick", "best attendance", and "best attitude").

What I personally find most enjoyable is how the whole notion of everybody being special has become integrated in the retail and service industry. Enter any restaurant in Holland, or France, or Germany, and you can count yourself lucky if your presence is acknowledged within ten minutes. Note, I said acknowledged. I'm not even going to go into how long it can take to get as much as a menu from a European waiter. Here in the US, on the other hand, the waiters will all act as though your appearance was the thing they had been waiting for to make this night just perfect. Go out and try to buy a semi-expensive appliance such as a vacuum cleaner or a laptop; before you know it, you're swapping life stories with the salesperson, offering to bring them coffee next time you're in that part of town. And the very best part? There are discounts for every imaginable age group. Of course, there is the senior citizen discount, but here in the US, there is much more. Are you a teacher? Discount! Are you in, or related to, the military? Discount! Do you have a certain store card? Discount! Oh, you don't have that card? No problem, I'll use the one I have right here at the register. Discount! I have earned free entry to museums, gotten up to 30% off on clothes, and earned goodness knows whatever else in freebies and or discount because of my job, my husband's job, or some card we happened to have.

Yes, we're cheap. Very much so. But we're also special. Very. Special.

Foto album

Ik vind mezelf best wel nieuwerwets. Ik hou een blog bij, zit op Facebook, verstuur SMSjes, heb een iPod, en zo'n stoere adaptor voor in de auto, en heb zelfs een digitale camera. Maar wat betreft een ding ben ik nog steeds heel erg ouderwets: foto's plakken. In de twintig jaar (is het al zo lang? Echt waar?) dat ik nu al foto's maak, is er heel veel veranderd aan de manier van fotograferen, maar het inplakken is niet veranderd. Nog steeds bewaar ik tickets, kaartjes, gidsjes, en folders, en creeer van elke belevenis een soort explosie van kleuren, foto's, informatie, en dus ouderwets afgedrukte foto's.

Nu wil ik een ding wel even duidelijk gemaakt hebben: ik doe niet aan "scrapbooking", en maak dus geen "scrapbooks". Ik krijg zelfs een beetje de kriebels van al die scrapbook materialen die je bij de lokale Hobby Lobby en Michael's kan kopen; al die voorbedachte stickertjes en plakkertjes en etiketjes, en voorgedrukte commentaren passen niet bij mijn "doe-het-zelf-en-simpel" inplak manie. Mijn mening over dat soort zaken is dat als je het niet bij het evenement zelf gekregen hebt, het ook niet in je plakboek thuishoort.

Maar ja, zoals ik al zei, ik ben ouderwets. Zo ouderwets zelfs dat manlief (die ondanks zijn sci-fi-achtige baan helemaal niet van gadgets en moderne techniek houdt) de laatste keer dat we bij de Walmart weer eens een stuk of honderd foto's afrekende opmerkte of het niet tijd werd een foto-album online te maken en die dan af te laten drukken. Hij had namelijk gehoord dat dat veel makkelijker, en vooral goedkoper was. Manlief was namelijk een zeeuw in een vorig leven, of een Schot, of misschien wel gewoon een echte Hollander.

Nu ben ik wel van de gadgets, maar ik wil geen digitaal foto-album. En ik wil het al helemaal niet af laten drukken door een of ander semi-professioneel iemand. Natuurlijk is dat veel mooier dan mijn enorme boekwerken. En natuurlijk zou mij dat uren werk schelen. Maar daar gaat het juist om. Mijn foto albums zijn het namelijk altijd net niet. Vaak zit een foto scheef. Of is die nare doorzichtige plakbladzijde niet helemaal netjes erop gedrukt. Of is iets half los gegaan. Maar dat hoort zo. En daarnaast; de grootste lol in een foto album zit voor mij in het maken van het gevaarte. Het passen en meten met foto's en toegangskaartjes. Het handmatig versnijden van half-gelukte foto's. Het klooien met lijm, het doorspitten van tasjes met mementos, en het kijken of je toch niet een onderzetter ingeplakt kan krijgen.

Dus. Ik ben ouderwets, en ik vind dat eigenlijk wel prima. En troost je, ik doe ten minste geen dia avondjes.

Tan lines

Here in Georgia you don't have to make an effort to get a tan. Getting tanned, or burnt is such a part of daily life, that even the most simple activities, such as mowing the yard, walking the dogs, or going for a run, require sunblock. In fact, and I, and my husband, by whose neck alone you could truly call him a "redneck", can wholeheartedly attest to this, wearing sunscreen is no guarantee that you won't get some sort of a tan or sunburn anyway. So, living in Georgia means that unless you spent the entire summer indoors, and in case you were wondering, there are locals who manage to achieve this impressive feat, you will get some sort of tan. And this present the second problem of summer; tan lines. Now please don't mistake for some sort of valley girl who spends the entire summer carefully rotating on her lawn chair, making sure her entire body has achieved the same color, because I don't. But it would be nice if the tops of my arms aren't disfigured by a tan line from a t-shirt sleeve up until Christmas, because, yes, that is approximately how long it takes me to lose my Georgia tan.

Unfortunately, as far as tan lines go, this year is not going to be any better than previous summers. If anything, it will probably be worse, and this can entirely be blamed on my triathlon-preparation. Whereas in previous years I would stick to running only, this year I have been running, biking, and swimming, all of which take place outdoors, and all of which require different outfits. First, there is my bathing suit, which has the criss-crossed straps on the back. Then there are my three biking shirts. One has narrow straps which cross in the back, one is a cropped top that reveals part of my back, and has two broad straps going straight across my shoulder, and one is a sleeveless shirt. Then there are my running outfits, which consist of anything from a tri-top (something that most closely resembles a pimped-up running bra), several sleeveless shirts, and a variety of wide round-necked t-shirts. Then of course there is the bikini I wear when floating around in our mini-pool, and the variety of outfits I put on when I'm not working out. Let's just say my back looks like a map of the greater Atlanta area. There are several diagonal lines, four vertical lines that do not match up, and one very dark triangle, that apparently is not covered by several of my outfits. My upper legs, on the other hand, look like a sample that could be used in a spray tanning salon; "this color is the result of six sessions, while this next line is what your skin will look like after four sessions, and after only two sessions, your skin will look like the next line up from that". And my face best resembles an owl's; the wide sunglasses I wear when running and biking, as well as my swimming goggles have taken care of that.

I know this is truly a luxury problem; I mean, how many Dutch people complain about their tan lines? So yes, I am a little spoiled with all the sun I've been getting down here. But as a friend of mine used to say; luxury problems are problems too. And in all honestly, I can't wait to get back to work where my variety of tans will definitely elicit a wide variety of remarks from my students. So, for all those of you who are suffering from a rainy summer, please feel free to send some our way, you're more than welcome to some of our sunshine. And tan lines

Busy

As you have all probably noticed, I have been far from active on my blog this week. And the week before that too actually. That's because I have been busy. And yes, the semester did end July 3, and yes, the Facebook research project was wrapped sometime last week as well. I have just been busy living my life. It's no wonder I'm always tired throughout the school year - just living my life without my job is exhausting. There is just so much to do.

For instance, as I'm writing this, I'm also putting away this week's groceries. And yesterday, as the youngest had his guitar lessons, I simply had to go to Pier 1 imports. I mean, I had not been there since Christmas, so it was high time for another visit. However, I only had half an hour, and I saw two simply adorable Asian tea sets. Now you and try and decide between two tea sets in less than thirty minutes; let me tell you, that is stressful. Not to mention all the books I still have to read. There's an entire basket in my bedroom just calling out my name, and many more on Amazon, waiting to be ordered.
And then of course there are the more serious manners. There's our pool that requires maintenance. I can't tell you how much work it is each day to put on my bathing suit and sunscreen, and make sure the pool is in tip-top shape. You have to skim the whole pool, then you have to measure the chlorine levels, the PH level, maybe add a little salt to the water, figure out how long you should run the pump that day, and make sure all of our inflatables are usable. It's stressful. Not to mention having coffee with friends, talking on the phone, and watching a lot of TV. It's just disgusting to see how behind I am on my reality shows. I mean, if you want to stay on top of televised popular culture, that requires a good few hours each day right there. And of course there's all the pampering; nail appointments, massages, haircuts. It's a lot of upkeep, let me tell you that.

So yes, that is why my blog has been less than active. I will try and do better though, I promise. And if nothing else; I go back to work August 3, and I will have plenty of time left over for blogging.

Tour de France

I was never one of those kids who couldn't wait to move out of her parents' house. But when I went off to college and moved into my own apartment, I did rejoice at the fact that there were certain things I would never have to do again. And one of those things was watching the Tour de France. For as long as I can remember, the month of July was dominated by men in tight clothing riding along the French countryside for hours, days, and in fact, weeks on end. Besides the occasional spectacular crash, nothing ever happened; they rode along endlessly, wore green, yellow, or polka dot jerseys, the meaning of which I never quite grasped, and the winner was not determined through an exciting final sprint but using a complicated points-and-time scheme that I wasn't sure anyone in my family completely understood. So when I moved out at eighteen, I silently praised myself lucky for the fact that I would never ever again have to watch four weeks of men on bikes.

And I was a very lucky woman until about two weeks ago, when on an unassuming Saturday in early July, husband-dear turned on the TV, and muttered; "I wondered which channel shows the Tour de France."
I argued and pleaded, but nothing was to deter the love of my life. He said it would be fun to watch, since we both roadbike, and that was that.
"You don't understand, " I said through gritted teeth, "I watched the Tour de France every single year until I went to college. Every year, that stupid TV would be set to the Tour for the whole month of July, and I hated every minute of it. I used to have to hear endless discussions about yellow shirts, green shirts, dotted shirts, and whatever other color shirts they have. It was almost traumatic."
"It's jersey. Not shirt." My husband installed himself on our couch, "And hey, now that you mention it, you can probably explain the difference between the three to me. Oh, and how many times did Indurain win?"

After that conversation, husband-dear has been watching the Tour every single day. It's like living at home again, only a little worse, as husband-dear has been calling me from work, where the military has blocked access to all non-essential websites, to turn on the TV and inform him of the latest developments.

Funnily enough, and I hate to admit this, the Tour has actually grown on me a little this time around. I'm sure that this is not in the least because, as opposed to almost all other interests husband and I share, this is one I know more about than he does. Apparently eighteen years of watching the Tour and listening to my dad argue with my uncles about who stood a better chance of winning, has left a wide variety of facts hidden away in my brain. Husband-dear, who is completely new to both cycling and the Tour, is amazed that I know things like which shirt, or jersey I suppose, means what, how many stages there are, and who past winners were.
In addition, there is something incredibly soothing and familiar about hearing the British commentator again. His voice, coupled with all the familiar European sights is really almost enough to keep me hooked. I mean, just yesterday I got a real kick out of looking at all the French road signs, and pointing out all the crazy hairpins that make up a normal French road. An the day before I almost drooled when I saw all the pretty little castles and villages nestled away in the French - Swiss Alps.
And then of course, there is the language. I'm used to using Dutch or French words when talking about the Tour; words like 'knecht', 'trui', and 'peleton'. Learning that the 'knecht', the guy who helps the leader get through the difficult parts is ' lieutenant' in English is fascinating, as is the fact that an 'etappe' is called a 'stage', although I personally think the word 'stage' sounds far too theatrical for something as grueling as the Tour. The peleton is still called the peleton, although instead of using the pretty French pronunciation, which makes one think of drinking wine with a view of the lavender-covered mountains, the Americans make it sound like something military.
Of course, it also doesn't hurt that I've taken up cycling myself, and actually know what the commentators are talking about. Whereas previously, comments such as; "And he's got his rear gear in the big ring, that is truly a display of power" would have me roll my eyes, now I actually understand what the commentator is talking about, and why this is such an amazing feat.

Although I don't think I will ever be a die-hard Tour fan, I do think I like it enough to maintain peace in the DixieChick residence. And, just for the record, I'm rooting for Lance.

Babies

I seriously never realized how many babies there were in this town. At least, until I heard we couldn't have any of their own. There are babies at the commissary, gurgling while their mother decides which diapers to get; they're at Walmart crying big fat tears because they're done shopping; they're at the base pool, floating around in their mothers' arms; there are little kids picking out puppies at PetSmart; there are adorable little girls at church, running through the aisles while their mothers hiss at them to sit down and be quiet. The only place I'm really safe from babies is at home, and that is only providing I leave the TV and radio off, because good grief every other commercial is for babies, about babies, or features a baby. And then I'm not even talking about all those baby-centered shows such as The Duggars: Eighteen and Counting, A Baby Story, and Jon and Kate Plus Eight (although I suppose that that show should be renamed to Jon or Kate Plus Eight).

It could be that my memory is playing tricks on me, and considering my recent bout of forgetfulness this is in fact very likely, but I don't remember ever living anywhere where there was such a focus on kids. The only thing we have more of, is Kudzu. Seriously. In a way, it makes sense though. As I tell my husband a lot, in a military town like ours, there is not a whole lot to do. As I have lamented over and over again, our town seems to consist mainly of car dealerships, chain restaurants, and Walmarts. Add to that the fact that most military spouses find it nearly impossible to have a career of their own, and you have people who really have nowhere else to tun but make babies. And I'm not blaming them. Because if you have kids, this town suddenly makes a lot more sense. Then every McDonald's is not an eyesore, but a place for your kids to play. The Target is not a really ugly big building, it's a place where you can buy affordable children's clothing. And churches are a great place for your kids to engage in free sports, crafts, and field trips.

However, it doesn't exactly do much for me right now. Apart from wearing a blindfold everywhere I go, there is very little I can do to avoid seeing these little bundles of joy. What we need is an assignment in a big city. One with lots of yuppies, and singles, and independent movie theaters, and little boutiques, and a ton of theaters, and no children. It sounds wonderful.

Now excuse me while I brace myself for yet another trip to Walmart. The toy section, to be more specific.

Housewives of Middle Georgia

Vanochtend werd ik te laat wakker voor mijn geplande training. En voordat iedereen denkt ik dat wel heel erg lui ben; hier betekent op tijd staan om te kunnen trainen dus dat je om kwart voor zes naast je bed staat. Het is hier ondertussen zo warm dat als je niet om half zeven met de schoentjes aan de voeten op de oprit staat het niet meer verantwoord is om veel buiten te doen. En aangezien ik vandaag een "brick" training wilde doen (bike-run), was het dus nog belangrijker dat ik op tijd vertrok. Maar goed, toen ik om kwart voor acht wakker werd, was het al meteen duidelijk dat een "baksteen-training" er dus niet meer in zou zitten. Jammer. Nou ja, een beetje dan. Want fietsen en dan hardlopen is, in mijn beperkte mening, de ergste marteling die er bestaat. En stiekem heb ik best wel een hekel aan trainen in mijn vakantie. Het liefst lig ik namelijk de hele dag op de bank naar Real Housewives of Maakt Niet Uit te kijken. Of Ellen. Of een of andere vage documentaire over toekomstige rampen op de History Channel. Maar ja, als ik mijn tweede triathlon succesvol wil afronden, en er niet uit wil zien als de gemiddelde Real HouseWife of Middle Georgia, dan is dat natuurlijk niet de meest slimme actie. En eerlijk gezegd heb ik een nog grotere hekel aan niet kunnen trainen wanneer ik dat wel gepland had.

Dus, met al dat in mijn achterhoofd bedacht ik me dat ik toch maar beter iets moest doen. En dus berekende ik, aan de hand van mijn vorige triathlon, hoe snel ik het fiets-gedeelte van mijn volgende triathlon wilde doen, hees me in mijn meest luchtige fietsoutfit, en sprong op de fiets. Zevenveertig minuten, dertien mijl, tien blije state prisoners-wegwerkers, zes heuvels, en een bijna-ongeluk met een telefonerende housewife in een SUV later, stond ik bezweet weer op onze oprit.

En terwijl ik al na-zwetend mijn post-training chocolademelk mix maakte, zette ik Bravo aan; wie weet was er een of andere housewife special. Er is namelijk niks zo lekker als bezweet op de bank hangen en te kijken hoe vrouwen zich druk maken om het plannen van hun manicure, of de kleur van hun nieuwe gordijen. Maar in plaats van een special kreeg ik een serie reclames over gewicht en afvallen. De ene barbie pop na de andere vertelde over hoe zij dertig, veertig, tachtig pond waren kwijtgeraakt. En ging het over hard trainen? Zweten? Midden in de nacht op staan om te kunnen hardlopen? Spierpijn? Natuurlijk niet. De oplossing om af te vallen was volgens deze dames niet sporten, niet gezonder eten, niet eens minder eten. Nee, de oplossing lag in dingen zoals een pilletje nemen voor het eten. Of alleen eten kopen van een bepaald systeem. Of een drankje dat al je maaltijden zou vervangen. En terwijl ik daar al zwetend aan het bijkomen was van mijn inspanning, vroeg ik me af of hoe het toch kan dat mensen daarin geloven. Want geloven, dat doen ze. De reclames vliegen je om de oren, en in de supermarkt is er een heel gangpad alleen maar bestemd voor de nutrasystems, de boost producten, en de special K-bars. Maar als ik, zoals vandaag, midden in de dag op de fiets spring, dan ben ik, naast de state prisoners, de enige persoon op straat. In onze cirkel kennen onze buren ons als de mensen die altijd hardlopen en fietsen, omdat wij de enige zijn die dat doen. En zelfs in de gym op de basis zijn er altijd machines beschikbaar.

Soms denk ik wel eens dat mensen hier te hard geloven in een makkelijke oplossing. Alles gaat makkelijk; er zijn drive-through apotheken, je kan online pizza bestellen, en je hoeft nergens voor je auto uit. Dus, als je dan logisch doorredeneerd, dan geldt dat ook voor gewicht verliezen. Alleen bereik je dat echt alleen maar door hard werken, bloed, zweet, tranen, en nog meer zweet. Maar ja, wie gaat dat aan de Housewives of Middle Georgia duidelijk maken?

A dog's life

As promised, some pictures of our newest little princess, Shelby. She seems to be getting along just fine; she and Zoe will play endlessly, fall asleep together, and then engage in some musical chairs with their food bowls. And although Shelby seems to pick up on the house rules a lot quicker than Zoe did, today Zoe also introduced her to the joys of digging in the Georgia clay. And oh boy, Shelby is a natural at that too. They managed to demolish daddy's favorite flowerbed, completely annihilate one of our plants, and kick dirt all over the recently scrubbed back porch, and all this in the time it took me to mop the kitchen floor, at which point they decided it was high time to come into the house. I'm sure you can imagine my joy upon seeing dark red pawprints all across our kitchen floor, our living room floor, and the bedroom carpet. However, one minor temper tantrum, and a good thirty minutes of scrubbing and mopping later, I decided that one good dig is no reason to dislike anyone, and since they both looked so genuinely contrite, we moved on. After all, they both are still very adorable.

So here is Shelby the day after we got her. We nicknamed her the little Gremlin a few hours after we had adopted her.




Shelby loves to gnaw on Zoe. She'll nibble on her ears, her paws, her tail, and good old Zoe doesn't really seem to care. When she does, one good snarl takes care of it. For about ten minutes.


Naps are vital. Of course.


Ehm, are we supposed to tear this thing apart? I know Mommy gave it to us, but still, she really is looking at us in a funny way. Are you sure this is OK? Because I don't know.



Napping together is even more fun than napping alone!

And you know the best part of adopting another dog? There are finally as many females in the house as there are males. Hah!

Bored - finally: A note from husband-dear

As instructed by my wife, I am to introduce myself as "husband-dear" as I have finally decided to tred into the blogging world and share a lesson I have re-learned.

So, I'm finally close to being bored. An important feat from time to time, and the actual purpose for this mini vacation. In all honesty, I love wandering around, I love piddling around the house, I love sitting until something comes to me that I want to do. Yet somehow, I still feel like I'm cheating my wife out of something. Even though I think this down time is the best thing for us, seeing as we go, and go, and go, and go, I know it is distinctly contrary to our normal ways. However, to my pleaseant surprise, I sense she's embracing this "boredom". When I have the chance to slow down, I remember that a job isn't something that I go to habitually, but something that allows me to contribute to my household, provide for my kids, and fund my rather expensive hobby. So what is my point? Note to myself....Don't be afraid to slow down and start a day without an agenda.

Now it is time to find my wife and join together doing as little as possible.

GSC

I've always said I would never be one of those parents who would push their child into a sport or hobby, and then cart them from competition to competition, from practice to practice, spending hours on the road, eating while trying to find the local track, gym, or skating rink. Not that I don't want my children to be successful, but just because I did not want to be one of those moms who could only talk about Johnny's success at the latest football clinic, or Missy's endeavors at the Boston Ballet summer school, while neglecting basic things like housecleaning, laundry, and the other family members.

And I have stuck to that promise. Sort of anyway. May God bless our children, but neither one has shown any kind of interest (or ability, actually) in becoming the next Lance Armstrong or Eli Manning. Since they are more likely to become the next Gene Simmons or random tormented artiste, there are really no worries there. No, what's interesting, is that as of about a year, I am the official sponsor to my husband's endeavors in the Georgia State Mountainbike Championship. And when I say official, I mean official. When he filled out his paperwork, he had to put down a sponsor, and since he's yet to find a local Krispy Kreme or Starbucks to give him money for his attempts, he put down little old me. It's very cute since it means that every time he wins, I'm just waiting for them to call out his name, and add; "Sponsored by...uhm..his wife."

But in reality, it means that I have become the mom, or well, wife, I did not want to be. I travel to almost every single competition, to keep my husband company, and help him out with directions, to provide moral support, the necessary nutritional supplies, and medical assistance. We have extensive discussions about energy bars versus gel packs, recovery methods, and training schedules. We spend inordinate amounts of time at the local bike store, and I am proud to say that I can now tell you, in detail, about the pros and cons of both hardtails and full-suspension bikes. We have spent the past months travelling to every corner of the state, sometimes turning the races into little weekends away, and at almost all occasions, leaving before the crack of dawn. I'm starting to recognize the other athletes and their spouses, and after our loved ones are done racing through the woods, we sit together and discuss their achievements, training schedules, and compare their chances at a medal. It's just like those moms I used to see at the hockey rink, discussing their sons' chances of making a college team, or those moms at the ballet school, who would debate which girl was most like to make Clara this year.

And you know what, it's really not as bad as I thought it would be. We've travelled to some of the prettiest parts of the state, and much to my delight, the mountainbiking crowd probably consist of the most liberal, live-and-let-live, let's go hug a tree people I have yet met in Georgia. We're actually heading out to another one tomorrow. It's only a ninety-minute drive, but because husband-dear is in the first wave, we will, once again, be leaving at a ridiculously early hour. It will be hot, insect-ridden, and I just know that the organizers will once again take two hours to get the results out, but I'm sort of looking forward to it.It will be a shame when the season ends. Maybe it's not too late to get the kids into soccer yet.

Summer!

While the rest of the south sank into the annual stupor otherwise known as summer about a month ago, my summer officially started ten minutes ago. It's a miracle, and one I thought would never come, but after aging years dealing with this online class (and apologizing to my students for piling that much work on them), I am now free as a bird. And as usual, this makes me a little nervous. It's one thing to steal a few hours off while you're supposed to be grading, or taking a day off on a weekend, but it's a whole different ballgame when you're suddenly faced with a month of nothing. No appointments, no deadlines, just days of emptiness. I suppose I should be grateful, since at least it's not three months like last year. After about a week, I really don't know what to do with myself, I've watched all the TV there is to watch, cleaned the house, finished reading the Internet, and am left completely understanding why bored teens get into so much trouble. And just look at what we got ourselves into during my 12-week summer vacation: We not only bought a house, we also adopted a dog! It's scary to know that a month off was enough to inspire us to get another dog, imagine what we would have done with an additional eight weeks.

Honestly, I may pretend to be one of those people who can't wait to go home and be done with work, but I think I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that I really am a closeted Puritan. Husband-dear will even joke about that, when he tells friends that my idea of relaxing is sitting in front of the TV, or on the backporch for five minutes, and then saying, "Oh, I can fold laundry while I sit here. Or maybe I can read that 500-page tome on the latest developments in psychometric research now."

But you see, he shouldn't talk either. He's just as bad. Husband-dear will come home tired as a dog, and instead of relaxing, he will merely reduce his planned 11 mile run to a "mere" 6 miles. Or, and this is the worst part, he will involve me. We'll be lying in bed at say 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday, and he will say something like, "This is such a nice relaxing way to get up, you want to go for a long bike ride?", or, "This is such a nice relaxing morning, wouldn't today be a great day to paint the laundry room, or clean out the attic? Or you can paint and I can do the attic?" And while any normal human being would laugh at such ideas at the crack of dawn (or more likely, snore, since normal people don't ever seem to be up as early as we are), I usually ponder his ideas for a moment, and then realize that I would very much like to subject myself to some tedious task or painful physical exercise. Not only are we puritans, we are puritans with some serious guilt issues apparently, you know, "idle hands do the devil's work", "hard work never killed anyone", and all that good stuff.

Fortunately, I didn't go to school for all those years for nothing, and I have figured out what our problem is. You see, we may not be able to sit around for days on end, but we do really enjoy stolen, or secret pleasures. Like going out on a night when we both need to do things for work. Or watching a movie while we should be working on our tax return. Keeping that in mind, here's my solution to my month off. I am going to take a bunch of things home with me that I really do need to do. I have to develop another online class, work on the new student handbook, and transcribe and analyze interview data. I will take all of that with me, put it upstairs, and then whenever I feel bored, or don't know what to do, all I'll have to do is remind myself that I can always go and work, and suddenly, I know I will have host of bright ideas for other, far more entertaining activities.

Alright, now that we've got that sorted out, let the summer begin!

Princess Shelby

We are the biggest suckers in the world. Show us a puppy, a crying baby, or a commercial with abused kittens, and we will coo, get a treat, or reach for our checkbook, whichever is applicable. See, here's the thing. We were not going to get a dog, we had agreed on that a long, long time ago. We traveled too much, moved too often, and our lives were too crazy to accommodate a pet. But you all know how long that lasted; until we walked into PetSmart on adoption day, and saw Zoe.

Now although our little darling has slowed down considerably, we can tell she gets bored being all by herself. She's torn up plants, dug holes, chewed up clothes hanging on the now defunct clothesline, and in her wilder days, even managed to claw a hole in the wall behind her crate. But, whenever she meets other dogs, she is as happy and as well-behaved as can be. She will play with them, love on them, and fall into an exhausted, but happy sleep without having even so much as looked at our newly planted bushes.

So with us being the big softies that we are, we talked about getting a second dog. But then decided, quite rationally we thought, to not do that to ourselves. Until last Sunday. Obviously, I was not in the most rational mood all weekend, and when I saw a bunch of puppies from the local shelter up for adoption at PetSmart, my heart just melted. There was Lissy, a rambunctious 8-week old lab, and an unnamed 6-month old Spitz-mix that had been dropped off at the shelter the previous day by people who "really did not feel like dealing with a dog anymore now that their baby was on the way". Of course, that did not sit well with me, for various reasons. First, once you get a dog, barring any sort of totally unacceptable canine misconduct, you keep it. Second, if you can't handle a dog, how can you handle a baby? And thirdly, although slightly unrelated, how dare other people be pregnant. So we looked at both dogs, held them, played with them, and told them how pretty they were, and then turned our brains on, and went home, with just one dog.

Husband-dear and I talked, and debated, and slept on it, and came to the conclusion that we really should not get another dog. But then, for a reason I'm still not sure of, yesterday we decided to ask the shelter-volunteer to bring both Lissy and the unnamed pup over for a trial-play with Zoe. We figured it wouldn't hurt to see if it would work out. Because we probably weren't going to get one anyway. Because well, we were smarter than that. And really, when Lissy first came out, and started to like an 8-week old Zoe on speed, we knew that adopting her was not an option. But then the unnamed pup came out, a dog who had spent all the three months with her first family living in their backyard and who did not even recognize her own name.

Zoe loved her. They ran, played, and drank water out of the same bowl. The unnamed pup was quiet, gentle, and learned how to sit in about five minutes, putting our own little princess, who took about a month to grasp that concept, to shame. Needless to say, we now have two crates in our bedroom, and named our new family addition Shelby. Princess Shelby is really not a princess at all. She seems surprised when we pet her, never walks in your way when you've got your hans full, and has yet to have an accident inside the house. Shelby has also figured out that when she sits, she gets rewards, so she spent most of yesterday following me around, sitting down whenever I caught her gaze. And princess Zoe? She's definitely the boss, but cannot get enough of running around with her new playmate.

I know, we're insane for getting another dog, and I promise you, there will be no more new family additions. I think.