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.