Goede voornemens

En voor je het weet, is er al weer een jaar voorbij. Terwijl vroeger een jaar wel vijf jaar leek te duren, met een kerstvakantie van minstens drie maanden, een zomer van zeker twee jaar, en waarbij een regenachtige dag op school wel een week leek te duren, lijkt een jaar nu eerder slechts enkele maanden lang.

Hhmm..ik zie het nu al van mijlenver aankomen; ik word zo'n oud vrouwtje dat elk oud-en-nieuw gaat mijmeren over hoe snel de tijd toch wel niet gaat.

Aangezien ik nog geen oud vrouwtje ben, zal ik dat vandaag echter niet doen. In plaats daarvan leek het me wel een productief idee om eens wat goede voornemens op papier te zetten. Normaal doe ik niet aan goede voornemens, en al helemaal niet van die grote levenswijzigingen. Persoonlijk ben ik namelijk zo iemand die vind dat als ik iets moet gaan doen, dat dat net zo goed op 18 Februari, 12 Juni, of 28 December kan. Daarnaast kan ik ook helemaal niet tegen de druk van het met iets beginnen op 1 januari; iedereen weet dat je gaat trainen voor een halve marathon/op Italiaanse les gaat/ gezonder gaat eten, en alleen al de vragen over hoe dat gaat zijn genoeg om mij van het rechte pad af te helpen. En daarom ben ik dit jaar in September begonnen met trainen voor een halve marathon, heb ik ooit eens in Februari besloten op Italiaanse les te gaan, en hebben manlief en ik gisteren besloten om meer salades te gaan eten.

Maar goed, dit jaar dacht ik dat ik eigenlijk best wel aan wat kleine voornemetjes kon doen. Weet je wel, een soort mini-to-do lijstje voor 2011, a la Adrian Mole. Uiteindelijk zijn er best wat dingetjes die anders kunnen. Geen monumentale, fundamentele levensveranderingen, maar gewoon gezellige kleine ditjes en datjes. En omdat ik weet dat u natuurlijk niet kan wachten om mijn goede voornemens te lezen, krijgt u deze nu voor uw kiezen:

1. De panty's en "knee highs" in mijn la eens goed uitzoeken, en alle panty's met ladders en "knee highs" zonder maatjes wegdoen, en een systeem bedenken waardoor ik kan voorkomen dat die dingen door heel de la heen dwalen, en tussen mijn sportsokken belanden.
2. Mijn schoenen vaker poetsen. Of eigenlijk: mijn schoenen poetsen punt. En dan iets vaker dan een keer per jaar.
3. De driehonderd CDs in de kast eindelijk eens logisch organiseren zodat ik als ik om half zes 's ochtends bedenk dat ik die dag graag naar CD zus-of-zo wil luisteren, ik niet door honderdtwintig CDs heen hoef voordat de betreffende CD gevonden wordt (of ik opgeef).
4. Ophouden met het bewaren van nutteloze briefjes, i.e., briefjes met aantekeningen/telefoonnummers/afspraken die allang afgehandeld zijn.
5. En om daar op in te haken: mijn handtas vaker uitmesten, en al die "said" briefjes dus niet langer in mijn handtas laten rondslingeren
6. Mezelf aanleren om "snap" te zeggen in plaats van "crap", aangezien dat laatste tegenwoordig ook al "not done" is.
7. En het allerbelangrijkste (en dus moet ik hier eigenlijk niet op 1 januari mee beginnen): Vaker nee zeggen.

En natuurlijk wil ik hierbij ook al mijn lezers een gezond, gezellig, mooi, adembenemend nieuw jaar toewensen! Tot in 2011!

An American success story: Naming your church

Americans are good at a lot of things: writing a constitution from scratch, developing one of the most influential economies in the world, producing the vast majority of global popular culture, and, unbeknownst to most: coming up with the most entertaining church names in the world.

Granted, few American churches match the splendor and majesty of major European landmark churches such as the Notre Dame, St. Peter's Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, but as far as names go, American churches win hands down. I mean, imagine if the Notre Dame had been built in Georgia by a bunch of enthusiastic evangelicals. You know it would have been named something like "The Holy Church of Our Crucified Savior".

Of course, not all the church congregations in the United States are run by evangelicals and/or exhibit the type of creativity in naming their church that I'm talking about. In fact, after some exploratory field research in our little town (with thanks to my trusted roadbike) which is the proud host of over five hundred churches, I've come to the conclusion that there are several categories of church names.

First, there are the Catholics. Here in the south, we like to pretend they don't exist, but they. And our town has at least three Catholic churches that I know of. And like in Europe, there are really only three types of names: The saints, the holy hearts, and the our lady of the whatever. Very straightforward.

Second are the more conservative branches of protestanism. Before we got lost in a discussion about less and more conservative doctrine, please allow me to clarify that in this little study, conservative means "frozen chosen", while non-conservative refers to "the happy clappy". This category thus encompasses the Presbyterians, Methodists, Lutherans, Calvinists, and their only begrudgingly recognized cousins, the Episcopalians. This category tends to aim for the more conservative, or European, names as well, with an apparent preference for numbers (First Presbyterian, Second Methodist), or references to local landmarks (Lake Hope Methodist, Dawson (road) Lutheran).

Next we get to the baptists. And this is where the creativity starts to show. For although the more conservative baptists will utilize methods equivalent to those of their more frozen brethren (First Baptist, Central Baptist, Northside Baptist), the more modern offshoots like to evoke a whole array of imagery and symbolism when naming their churches. Take churches such as Green Acres Baptist, Hope International Baptist, or Joy Baptist, all names that make innocent bystanders think of beautiful rolling green pastures, happy people, and lots of other good things.

But the baptists have got absolutely nothing on my final category: the evangelicals. Now I'm sure that the churches I am about to name would throw a fit if they knew I am lumping them all together and calling them all evangelical to boot, but using the phrase "churches which believe in the presence of the holy spirit and celebrate this through the use of music and/or speaking in tongues and/or healing sessions" is just too cumbersome. So everyone please bear with me.

Anyway, these churches absolutely win the creativity prize. There are some churches who I think try to tease people into reading the bible by naming themselves after obscure old testament figures such "Rehoboth Church". I mean, when our kids first saw that church, they spent the next five miles trying to figure out how to pronounce it, and then trying to remember who on earth "REE-ho-both" or "ray-ho-BOTH" (opinions diverged on the exact pronounciation) was, and what he (or she, again, no consensus was reached) did to earn a church named after them.
And then there are those churches who try to make sure you know they are the one and only, like for real, such as the "The holy and sanctified church of Christ". This church, you see, isn't just holy. It's sanctified too. And apparently by Christ himself. Now if that isn't top endorsement, I don't know what is.
Another personal favorite are those churches who have really long names, such as "The church of the dove and the olive branch", or "The church of living water and the life", and who then add in, as a sort of subtitle "a church of Jesus Christ". I mean, not to get biblical here, but aren't all Christian churches "of Christ"? Isn't that the whole point of being Christian?
In cotrast to this almost painfully detailed descriptions, there are those churches which I think leave their names intentionally vague, such as "The Refuge Church" (is this a church for refugees? Or people who are seeking refuge? But from what? Their busy lives? The world and all its temptations? Churches with crazy names?), and "The Freedom Church" (freedom from what exactly? Freedom of speech? Press? Religion - although that one doesn't seem right).
Then of course we have churches that refer to important biblical locations, most of which prefer to call themselves "temple" or "chapel" as opposed to the far too plain "church". Take a church such as "The Temple of Zion", "The Mount of Olives" and, "The temple of the star at Bethlehem".
My absolutely favorite church name, however is a local church called "The Greater Word of Deliverance". There is no reference to "church" or "temple", just that. And note that it's not "The Great", no, it's the "Greater". With a capital "G". Greater than..well, we're not sure. But it's greater than something. Personally, I think it the congregation should just go the whole mile, and call their church "The Greatest Word of Deliverance", but I could see how that might be interpreted as boastful or proud.

Now although modern European churches have been trying to jazz up their names, with such inventive creations such as "Cornerstone Church" and "The Vine", you have to admit that these just don't live up to their American counterparts. I believe that based on this brief exploratory study, we can only come to one conclusion: America has done it again.

An almost-American

I know that I have alluded to my almost-Americanness several times throughout the history of this blog, and I'm sure that as far as my readers are concerned, this is probably a status that is never going to change. You know, me as an eternal permanent resident who claims they will file their citizenship application soon. Really. Promise. In time for the next election.

But you all will be very surprised/happy/disappointed/apalled/pick an adjective to match your mood/completely uncaring to hear that as of yesterday, my application is completely filled out, sitting in an envelope, ready to be sent off. And since it's only taken about 18 months since I first printed out my application, this can, as far as I'm concerned, really be seen as a Christmas miracle. Especially if you consider it took me less than 18 months to analyze all my data and write my entire 300-page dissertation.

So why did it take me so long in the first place? Well, in all honesty, my laziness (or, as my lovable husband-dear likes to say, "The fact that you have about a million other things going at during any normal year"). You should probably know that I absolutely abhor paperwork. I'm still not sure how husband-dear and I made it through my visa procedure at all, and in what could be considered record-time at that, as I absolutely rock at procrastinating when it comes to bureacracy. A feat which itself is amazing when you realize I can't stand procrastination. At all. I'd rather do something now than tomorrow, including nasty dentist visits, writing a book chapter, and making the grocery list. Except for filling out paperwork apparently. It's a good thing you are required to file taxes by law, otherwise I just know that I would never ever file them. Just because the thought of dealing with all those W2s, 1099s, receipts, property tax forms is enough to have me break out into hives.

And just to clarify; the N400 may not require a lot of paperwork, but the form itself is quite the nightmare. OK, I'll tone it down a little bit; compared to most visa forms you have to fill out, it's really not that bad. It doesn't ask for your mother's aunt's middle name, for one thing. But it does require you to look up lots and lots of pesky details. And that's where the second reason for my procrastination comes in: I am a perfectionist. And so I can't just take a stab at when I was out of the coutnry, and where I want. No, I will make myself go through old scrapbooks to find the -exact- dates. And oh my word, what to do if the date on a boarding pass is not the same as the date stamped into your passport?! That right there is a reason to debate the ethically correct date to fill outfor about three days.

The kicker for me, however, was the question that required you to list all the organizations you have ever been affiliated with. I am flabbergasted when people who have filled out this form tell me they could not think of anything to put there, because I have spent most of my life volunteering, taking classes, joining gyms, riding stables, and choirs. It took me about a year to think of every organization I had ever come into contact with, and the final list was - wait for it- one page long. Being a perfectionist, I couldn't, once again, just take a stab at this, and then tell myself that the USCIS sure wouldn't be interested in the exact name of thoir I sang with in 1995. No, it had to be perfect. Because that's what they asked for. As I told husband-dear whenever he would exclaim at my precision and worrying, "The form doesn't tell you, 'please take a stab at the organizations you were in that you think we want to know about'".

But all those hurdles have been taken. The form is filled out, I have had passport pictures taken, and all I need to do now is write the check. And send the envelope. Hmm...check back with me in another week or so. I should have it mailed by then. I think.

Christmas jitters

So I'm suffering from a slight case of the Christmas jitters. More specifically, from a case of "performing at the candlelight service" jitters.  Yes, I got roped into singing a duet during the Christmas eve service tonight. And while I seemed like so much fun last Sunday, right now I'm wondering once again, why I just can't say no. Seriously. I must have some really poorly resolved childhood issues to explain this complete lack of spine when it comes to bowing out of things.

Anyway, when it comes to childhood issues, this fear of singing during a church service can actually be explained by a minor childhood trauma. You see, the last time I performed during a Christmas eve service was probably around twenty years ago - I was supposed to play something on the piano, and messed up royally. And I do mean royally. As in, even I was cringing in my seat, but nothing I did came out right. And all of that in front of a packed church. Now that may be adorable when you're five, but not when you're a fully grown young adult, and you volunteered to perform yourself. So back then I vowed I would never do anything by myself again during a Christmas eve service. Ever.

Which of course explains why tonight Beth and I will be singing an a-capella version of a Christmas song that has the range of the American national anthem: "O Holy Night". It started off so innocently; last Sunday, our service ended with that same song. And as it truly does have an almost impossible range (it starts on a middle C, and one of the final notes is a high E), most of the twenty seven people who were in attendance, grew very nervous and started to sing lower and lower as the song went higher and higher.  Except Beth and me. She was sitting on the right side of church, her alto part carrying clear across the sanctuary, while I was, once again trying to imitate Mariah Carey/Celine Dion/Kiri te Kawana, by belting out the soprano part on the left side of the church. After all, a day not spent singing your lungs out is a day not lived. And that, of course, caught the attention of the chaplain. It also didn't help that after the service, we had an impromptu carolling session in the sanctuary, with Beth and I having more and more fun as we discovered that our the timbre of our voices was almost exactly the same. After completing a very exciting version of "Silent night", the chaplain asked us if we wanted to sing during the candlelight service. All the other congregation members were in favor almost immediately, as it's not often that our small service gets to contribute to a combined parish service, but we were a little more reluctant, finally agreeing providing we could sing the "Silent night" rendition we had just sung. Of course, not a problem, the chaplain promised. He would just check with the other songs on the program, and call us the next day.

The next day, our dear chaplain called with the request that we sing the mother of all Christmas songs, "Oh holy night". And I, as usual, said, "Of course!". Why I said that, I still don't know. Our chaplain is the nicest, most laid-back man you will ever meet in a uniform, and I'm pretty sure if I had asked if we could have sung a less challenging song, he would have been perfectly fine with that. But no. I went all southern, said that "sounded great", and we would be at church at 6pm on Friday.

Now Beth is a lot more confident about this than I am. We spent three hours yesterday practicing with various forms of harmony, and she thinks we're going to do great. Since I'm the one hitting that incredibly obnoxious high E, and don't have half the experience singing that Beth has, I'm a little more worried. Actually, a lot. I dreamed about the performance all night, with each dream ending progressively worse: I lost my voice, we showed up for the Catholic mass by accident, Beth changed the song selection, and I had no clue what I was doing. I woke myself up several times, humming the last part to this monster of a carol. Oh, and once I got over that, I dreamed about work. Night just doesn't get any better than that.

On the upside, husband-dear is very content. You see, at yesterday's rehearsal, Beth and I agreed to not sing until we got to the church today. And that means the poor man gets one entire day without having to listen to showtunes. If that's not an early Christmas present, I don't know what is.

Zomaar een dag

Er zijn ontzettend veel dingen die ik leuk vind aaan andere blogs. Sommige zijn ontzettend grappig, anderen zijn heel herkenbaar, en weer anderen geven stof tot nadenken. En dan zijn er de blogs die eigenlijk het leukst zijn: de blogs die gaan over de dagelijkse beslommeringen van de schrijfster. Stiekem voel ik me altijd een beetje een voyeur, maar misschien dat dat het ook zo leuk maakt. Je voelt je echt onderdeel van iemands leven, en leeft helemaal mee met nieuwe banen, kinderen naar college, verhuizingen, en alle andere kleine dingen die een mens meemaakt. En goh, vraagt u dan, waarom doe je dat zelf dan niet? Als het zo ontzettend leuk is? Nou, lieve lezer, voornamelijk omdat mijn dagen allemaal zo ontzettend hetzelfde zijn, en daarover bloggen zou echt verschrikkelijk saai worden. Ik bedoel, wilt u echt weten waarover ik elke dag les geef/vergader/ praat met manlief en kinderen? Nee, dat dacht ik al.

Maar voor een keer dacht ik, kom, doe eens gek. Het is kerstvakantie, mijn dagen zijn allemaal anders, en dus zal ik u voor een keer eens meenemen in mijn enorm saaie bestaan :)

Om te beginnen was vannacht al anders dan anders. Ik werd om kwart over twee wakker, en kon niet meer in slaap komen. Na een half uur woelen, bedacht ik me in een keer dat vannacht de "lunar eclipse" was. En ach, ik was toch wakker, dus waarom niet even naar buiten om de rode maan te bekijken? Zo gezegd, zo gedaan, en zo stond ik om kwart voor drie in de achtertuin al blauwbekkend de oranje maan te bekijken. Het blijft toch een bijzonder verschijnsel, zo'n roodachtige maan. Helaas hielp het niet met het in slaap komen, en viel ik pas twee uur later, met het afgaan van manliefs wekker, in slaap. Pas om kwart voor acht werd ik weer wakker, ingeklemd tussen twee honden, die zich ons bed prinsheerlijk eigen hadden gemaakt nadat manlief vertrokken was.

Als ik vrij heb, dan is de ochtend mijn favoriete gedeelte van de dag. Gezellig de kerstverlichting aan, en dan met een kopje thee op de bank het nieuws kijken. Het klinkt vast uberburgerlijk, maar na maandenlang al staande een gehaast ontbijt naar binnen werken, is zo wakker worden echt een genot. Na een half uurtje Early Show kijken, bedacht ik me dat het eigenlijk wel een mooie tijd was om te gaan hardlopen. Vorige week kreeg ik tijdens het hardlopen in eens weer last van mijn knie, en ik wilde, voordat ik donderdag 13 mijl ga lopen, eerst even uitproberen hoe mijn knie het doet op de korte afstand. Nou, beste lezer (waaronder speciaal mijn fysio-vriendin), u kunt gerust zijn, mijn knie maakte het na 6 kilometer nog prima.

Na een snelle douche was het tijd om het lekkers voor de buren in te pakken. Voor het eerst dit jaar heb ik besloten om deel te nemen aan het Amerikaanse kerst ritueel van koekjes en ander lekkers uitdelen aan je buren. Gisteren heb ik dus niet alleen weer een berg koekjes gebakken, maar ook een of andere ingewikkelde upside-down-oats-raisins-chocolate-snack-cake, welke wonder boven wonder nog gelukt is ook. Vanochtend was het dus tijd om alle lekkernijnen in folie en tissue papier te verpakken, van een strik te voorzien, en in verschillende gift bags te stoppen. Geinspireerd door Zoe en Shelby, die buiten tegen de honden van de buren aan het blaffen zijn, besluit ik ook wat hondensnoepjes in folie en paper te verpakken voor de buren met honden. Ik voelde me een ware Suzy Homemaker toen alle gift bags af waren, en op het aanrecht stonden te pronken. U moet weten, dat ik eigenlijk nooit van dit soort sociale/huishoudelijke neigingen heb, en dat dus eigenlijk een best wel bijzonder moment was.

Na een "lick and a promise" schoonmaak sessie van de vloeren in ons huis, was het tijd om te lunchen. Manlief heeft van het weekend ongeveer vier liter chili gemaakt, en dus bestond mijn lunch uit een bakje chili met frito chips en kaas. Nadat ik jarenlang Chili niet lekker gevonden heb, vind ik dus echt een heerlijke maaltijd.

Na de lunch was het tijd om mijn haren weer eens in model te laten brengen, en daar zit ik dus momenteel te bloggen. Het grote voordeel van een moderne kapper - iedere klant heeft en macbook tot haar beschikking. Als ik hier klaar ben wil ik langs de CVS voor pasfoto's. De aanvraag voor Amerikaans staatsburgerschap is na een jaar op mijn bureau gelegen te hebben eindelijk af, en ik heb alleen nog twee pasfoto's nodig. En wat is nou een beter moment om die te laten nemen dan wanneer je net bij de kapper vandaan komt?

Vanavond gaan we naar vrienden van ons, waar een vervroegd kerstdiner gaan houden. Daarna gaan we met hen en wat kennissen van de kerk carroling (= kerstliedjes zingen) bij hen in de buurt. Ik heb denk ik al tien jaar niet gecarroled, en heb er erg zin in. Zelf ben ik namelijk gek op zingen, maar helaas de rest van de familie niet zo. En door te carrolen heb ik eindelijk een excuus om en plein public te zingen. Al met al krijgt de rest van de dag dus een heerlijk kerstig tintje. Bring it on, zou ik zeggen.

Unwinding...

...is hard to do

Seriously, people. It is. At least it is if you're me.

Commencement ended eight days, two hours, and eleven minutes ago, and as of about ten minutes ago, I feel completely relaxed. I know, it's sad. It took me over a week to shake the feeling that OMG! I have stuff to do! Places to go! People to see! Presents to buy! And oh yeah! I! Must! Blog!

Husband-dear noticed it too, and kept telling me to slow down, take it easy, spend a day laying on the couch, but it just wasn't that easy for me. I mean there was stuff to do, people. Presents for teachers to buy. Christmas cards to send. Coffee to drink. But today, as I was on another grueling, long, and mainly cold ride (as apparently punishment is a part of my daily existence nowadays - do you think there's a problem for people addicted to exercise?), and started thinking about a funny topic for this blog (which you will all get to read about tomorrow, honestly), and then decided to, when I got home, bake cookies and clean the kitchen, I realized my break had just begun. You see, I only bake when I'm totally relaxed, and as cleaning is a sure fire way to get me feeling content with the world, I knew I was on the right track.  

And as usual, it worked like charm. I baked enough cookies to feed the entire neighborhood, and know that I'll probably have to run out and buy more supplies tomorrow. Seriously, I love to bake cookies around Christmas time. Seriously love it. Last year, when my in-laws spent Christmas at our house, I must have baked close to a hundred cookies in two days. So yes, anyone in the vicinity is more than welcome to stop by and get some, and there is no way I want to eat all of the (all it would do is have me exercise even more, and really people, the whole exercise thing is getting out hand as it is).

Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering why it took me a good week to unwind. I mean, most people leave work, and are ready to party the same evening, why am I so different? Well, I pondered that too during my ride (at least all this exercising saves me a lot of money on counseling), and I have an excuse/answer for you. You see, this past year has been absolutely positively insane. It's probably been the most insane year of my life ever. And that's saying something.

For those of you not completely up to date with my life, allow me to summarize:
- I taught fourteen classes (the norm is eight classes over two semesters)
- I wrote two conference papers
- I traveled to two conferences
- I wrote a book chapter
- I completed two triathlons
- I competed in two adventure races
- I ran at least one 5k race (probably more, but I can't remember)
- I read the entire bible (fifteen minutes, every day, for a year)
- I offended large numbers of people, including students and staff
- I traveled to Holland twice
- I dealt with the youngest being hospitalized for a week
- I ran and biked hundreds of miles, and swam enough laps to probably swim from here to Maine
- I wrote a little over a hundred blogposts
- And finally, I spent a lot of time pitying myself and my busy life (and people, let me tell you, that takes up a lot of energy).

Obviously, I have no intention of repeating all of this next year, especially the first and eleventh one. And the last one too I suppose. Because, seriously, at this point I only have two weeks left of my break, and wasted an entire week getting ready to relax, which is really just extremely ridiculous.

Now you'll have to excuse me while I go and lay on the couch some. Or maybe I'll hang out in the kitchen and annoy husband-dear by singing "Santa baby". Or bake some more cookies...

Southern sensitivities

So we all know about southern cooking, southern hospitality, and southern baptists. Today I would like to add another southern tradition to this list: southern sensitivity, or the southern definition of rude. If you're ever planning a visit down south, will be moving down here, or live here as a "northern transplant" (and yes, anyone not from the south is in fact northern), you may want to sit up and pay attention, lest you spend your time in the south inadvertently insulting the locals left and right.

I know I've talked about how southerners don't take "no" very well, but lately I've had to come to the conclusion that there more to the southern understanding of rudeness than that. Basically, proper southern behavior calls for a lot more politeness that non-southerners will ever think to use. A lot more. And I'm not just talking about saying "thank you" and "please". I'm talking about keeping one's opinion to oneself, knowing when to be quiet, when to defer to someone else, right down to when to adopt a certain facial expression or even posture, among other things. And just to get things straight - I don't get this. I try, for sure, but fail most of the time. As one of my friends told me the other day, with a sad but encouraging smile on her face, I'm just too much like a New Yorker. I tell it like it is, and that is definitely a no-go area as far as southerners are concerned. For the past three years I've tried to change, to blend in, but with very little success. And then just a few days ago, a "northern" (read: non-southern) friend of mine who lives down here too, told me a story that made me feel a whole lot better about my failed attempts at southern politeness.

This particular friend works at a sporting goods store, and knows just about everything there is to know about running. She can tell all you'll ever want to know about different gaits, foot types, shoes, injuries, remedies, training schedules, and anything else you can think of. So when you show up to her store, and ask for her a pair of shoes, she will take you through a few tests, watch you walk, and then tell you all about the type of shoe that will probably work best for your feet, gait, and mileage. It's fairly straightforward, and Mary, my friend, is very professional when she walks you through it. And by professional, I mean polite but to the point. There's no fluttering eyelashes, "oh my word"s, or silly girlie smiles. As far as I am concerned, that's just fine. You are, after all, asking a running expert for shoe advice, not trying to get a pageant contestant to talk about world peace. Apparently, however, true southerners disagree with me. You see, a few weeks ago, a southern gentleman came into the sister store in a large town to the north, and when told by the salesperson that he could have purchased the same shoes at Mary's store, which was much closer to his home, he shook his formidable head, and proclaimed he was never ever going to that store again. When asked why, the man told him that the skinny blonde at that store had been so horribly rude to him, he refused to set foot in his store.
"You mean Mary?" The sales associate had asked, "Mary? Tall, skinny, blond?"
"Yes, she was just horrible. Telling me what to buy and what to do."
"Really? Most people think she's super nice" the sales associate had said.
Well, apparently Mr. Southern gentleman didn't think so, and had sent several people from his church to Mary's store to check her out, and they all agreed.

Besides the fact that sending people from your church to check something out sounds like the south's answer to the mob to me; if you fail to obtain the southern baptist's social rules committee's standards, they will withdraw their approval of your store, I was just flabbergasted by the fact that acting like an expert, because, hey, that's what you are, can be construed as offensive. It feels almost the same as when my male students get upset when I tell them they're wrong. Or when our male technicians get upset when I, the younger, female professor, direct them to do something. It seems that pulling rank is only acceptable if you're high up in the community's social hierarchy, a position that, guess what, is out of reach for "northern" women. If you're an expert at anything here in the south, and you're a female, you seem to have two choices: 1) keep your mouth shut and look pretty, or 2) open that same mouth and be judged, albeit behind your back. 

And as Mary and I debated the intricacies of southern notions of rudeness over lunch, I realized I needed a refill on my water, just when the waitress walked up to our table.
"Oh great, there you are! " I said to the waitress who had been awol for a good fifteen minutes, "I was just thinking I needed a refill."
The waitress gave me a funny look, and walked off to get the water
I turned to Mary, "That was rude, wasn't it?"
"Just southern rude" She said.

So from now on when someone acts as though I'm rude (or God forbid, tells me, although that in itself is considered very impolite), I'm going to not start by doubting myself. I think from now on, I'm going to start by analyzing them. Because southern rudeness? I don't play that game. Southern baptists be...I guess I better not finish that sentence.  

Under construction

Once again, we all survived commencement. No one succumbed to boredom, the heat of the insanely warm auditorium, and everyone behaved in a very pompous and circumstantial manner. Personally, I say let's bring on Christmas break.

However, as always, unwinding is not something that comes naturally to me. I know people who will come home the evening of their break, and immediately switch to "chillax"mode, not even bothering to properly hang up their robes until the beginning of the new semester (or next commencement, as proven by the wrinkled robes in the chair next to me). Not me. And not my robes. Especially not after an insane semester such as this past one. I still have so much energy pumping through my veins, I've spent the past two days bouncing around the house. I ran twelve miles yesterday, did all the laundry, including the whites which are usually husband's dear's job, took time out to see a local company perform "The Nutcracker", cleaned out my computer, tidied my purse and work bag, developed a gazillion pictures, started on my scrapbook, managed to catch up with two friends, make two more appointments for the next few days, and decide to pimp up my blog just a little.

Yes, just because apparently my body thinks unwinding is for wimps, I am going to try and snazzy up my blog a little bit in the next few weeks. I have yet no idea what exactly it is I'll be doing it, so please don't expect any dancing poodles/dry ice/warm and fuzzy posts, but you know, I'll see what I can do to keep you all interested.

In the meantime, I am going to see about doing some groceries (and pray that I run out of energy soon..good grief this is getting out hand. Next thing you know I'll be polishing our silver..sheesh...)

Here's your sign..

...that commencement really is only three days away:

When you dream (note: dream, i.e., you are asleep) about driving home from work. It's a very vivid dream, and you can see everything you normally see while driving home: the gas stations, the exits, the different color lights as you cross county lines, and even the writing on the back of semis. You're listening to the radio, and are having a hard time staying awake because it's been such a long day. Then you somehow startle yourself semi-awake, and absolutely, positively freak out and try to slam on the brake because you are 100% convinced that you just fell asleep while driving. And it's not until you kick husband-dear in the shins that you realize that you're actually in bed, which means it OK to be asleep.

Only two days, fourteen hours, and thirty minutes left. Can we have an "Amen"?

Christmas etiquette

Yesterday a friend of mine surprised me with a Christmas gift. It was really very nice - a big mason jar filled with all the ingredients to make a "chocolate chip raisin oatmeal cake". And it would have been absolutely guitlessly lovely if she had given this to me, say, in September. But it's Christmas. And that means that whenever someone outside my immediate family, i.e., someone I have not purchased a gift for, buys me a present, guilt sets in. Guilt as well as social agony in the form of a chilling realization that I still don't know anything about proper Christmas etiquette, and really don't know if by not having a gift in return I have now made myself something of a social pariah. In short, receiving an unexpected gift is really on a par with designing one's wedding guest list.

For those of you who are now wondering why, allow me to present you a brief glimpse into my mind. Here are some of the questions racing through my head: If they've thought of me, shouldn't I have thought of them too? So does that make me a bad friend? Should I now reciprocate their gift? Or is it tacky if I do it after they've already given me their gift, and it's obvious that I purchased theirs only after receiving my gift? What should I get her? And then should I get all my friends a gift, as some of them might be around when I give her my gift?

Why can't people here be more Dutch? More frugal, more practical (and feel free to add in less social/giving)? You know, Dutch friends don't give each other Christmas gifts. They might give each other Sinterklaas gifts, but only if they celebrate Sinterklaas together. So if you haven't planned a Sinterklaas celebration with someone, and have thus previously agreed on a budget, style of present, and who will give what to whom, you pretty much don't have to worry about receiving presents from any one other than your immediate family. And if someone does step outside the bell curve of normal social behavior and gives you a present, they are considered such an outlier, you are hence excused from any need for reciprocation.

Unfortunately, or perhaps I should be fair here, and say, fortunately, Americans are more giving than that. During the Christmas season, people do give presents, cookies, baked goods, and ornaments to close friends, as well as family members. The problem with this generous nature is that there really is no rhyme or reason to it. One year friend A might buy you something, and the next year they may not. You would think this lack of organization is liberating, and for the person giving the present it is. One year I gave two friends presents, and the next year, I didn't, and everyone was OK with that. But how you deal with reciprocating this love, I really don't know. Since it's not something you can really ask ("Hey thanks for the gift, that's awesome! What would you like in return?"), I've been stuck figuring this out on my own, and thus feeling guilty. A lot.

Apparently, however, I'm not the only suffering from Christmas guilt. I remember watching Oprah one time many, many years ago, when she had an etiquette expert on her show who recommended buying some neutral gifts and keeping these in a few places such as your car, your office, and your home, just in case someone shows up unexpectedly, bearing unexpected gifts. Leaving the idea aside that you purchase gifts just so you don't have to feel guilty could be considered a little less than sincere, I also obviously haven't thought of or had the time to purchase said gifts, and so my desk drawers, back seat, and kitchen cabinets are devoid of anything I could conjure up at a moment such as yesterday's. Maybe the expert was on to something.

Anyway, how do "regular" Americans deal with this? Are they just much better at receiving gifts than I am? Or do they all stock their home, cars, and offices with wrapped up gifts color-coded for "type of friend", just so you don't give the running cap to your 80-year old neighbor?

All I know is that I'd much rather be the giver. So take heed everyone - if you want to give me a present, you're best off doing outside the December 10-December 26 time frame, and if you must give me something within those time lines, a little caveat along the lines of "don't get me anything in return!" or "I really like Yankee Candle!" would be very helpful.

Thanks.

Rhyming nuisances

There are several things you can say to me towards the end of the semester that will make steam come out of my ears. Or at least little tiny puffs of smoke. "We're out of coffee" would be one of them, as would, "Oh, yes, the final exam schedule has been changed again", while "I forgot to show up for advisement, could you help me now?" is a definite winner too. But the one statement that truly, honestly, completely sets my teeth on edge?
"I'm too blessed to be stressed."

This statement has to be a truly southern staple, because I hear it everywhere and all the time. At work, at a crowded grocery store, at church, at the gym, and even on the radio. And every time I hear it, I die a little on the inside. Seriously. There are so many things wrong with "too blessed to be stressed", that I frankly don't even know where to start.

First, the implicit, passive-aggressive reference to stress. Look, people, I know we're in the south, but if you're busy and stressed, just come out and say it. Stop beating around the bush. Please. You do realize that there is something between pouring out your gut and soul to someone, and pretending everything is OK, right? I mean, if you're stressed, I for one think it's absolutely acceptable to say, "Yeah, things are OK, but I'm just really busy.", or perhaps, "Well, I'm a little stressed out right now." I will say it once again: it's really fine to be honest. You don't have to be blunt or pour your entire life's sorrows, but telling people how you really feel will not automatically mean they will think you are a freak. Trust me. And if they, well, we're in the south, you will never know. Isn't that awesome?

Second, "too blessed to be stressed" somehow alludes to the firmly held southern belief that although you may be stressed out to the point where you are ready to get a divorce and turn your kids over to DFACS, complaining is just not done. It's the age old adage of you are always fine. Always. And if you're not, you will pretend as though you are. This really makes my skin crawl. Again, although I'm not arguing we all unburden our total selves on vague acquaintances, I see nothing wrong with complaining. Yes, we should be grateful that we have a roof over our head, food on the table, and clothes on our back, but does that mean that we automatically have no right to complain about all the other million and one things in life? Unless you're talking to someone in a homeless shelter, I think we can assume your conversation partner has a house too, so you're even there. No need to pretend everything is OK because you're not in a shelter. We know you're not. Well, except in the south, where Maslov's hierarchy of needs has apparently never quite caught on.

And finally, there is the incredible annoying religious reference. Welcome to the bible belt, where everything is God. And you know what, that's great. I like God, think He's a pretty neat dude myself. But I don't think that just because God (or whoever your deity of choice may or may not be) has blessed me, I am not allowed to be stressed, or better yet, talk about it. In fact, let's remain in the religious discourse for a moment, shall we? If we assume that there is a God, then we may also assume that God has created everyone in His image. And that means that God likes to whine, as far as I'm concerned. So then why should I feel the need to not be stressed because I'm blessed? Again, staying within a religious framework; God gave me a job 90 miles away, an immense overload, two kids, a husband with a crazy military job, two dogs, and a host of other responsibilities, so he knew he was causing stress. Even though all those things are blessings too. So why can't I be stressed and blessed at the same time? And from a thoroughly agnostic/atheist perspective, all there really is to say about "too blessed to be stressed" is that someone is in some serious denial there.

So, please, while I'm trying to stay afloat among six classes worth of papers, finals, portfolios, and prep next semester's classes, can we all please ixnay the "too blessed to be stressed" and make me some coffee instead? Thanks.

Een zielige man

Mijn man is eigenlijk best wel zielig. Soms dan. En dan vooral rond zijn verjaardag. Hij is namelijk tien dagen voor kerst jarig, en dat is naturlijk eigenlijk helemaal niet handig. Niet dat hij er wat aan kan doen, maar toch.

Zelf helpt hij ook niet echt mee door elk jaar alleen maar een semi-lang lijstje met kerstwensen te maken, met de mededeling dat ik zelf maar moet bedenken wat ik voor kerst en wat ik voor zijn verjaardag wil geven. Juist, super onhandig dus. En niet alleen omdat hij uberhaupt al nooit weet wat hij wil, en "lang" dus erg relatief is. Maar ook omdat we natuurlijk nog familie hebben die ideeen voor en de kerst en zijn verjaardag wil, en dat moet ook allemaal van datzelfde lijstje. Daarnaast wil ik er natuurlijk ook voor zorgen dat hij niet met drie pakjes op kerstochtend zit, en ik met een hele wasmand vol, of dat hij juist maar een cadeautje heeft op zijn verjaardag en een hele berg met Kerst, want dat is ook zielig. Dus. Dilemma na dilemma.

Voor het geval u nu denkt, joh, maar dan verzin je zelf toch iets? Dat feestje gaat helaas niet. Manlief is namelijk -enorm- precies met wat hij wil. Hij scheurt nog net geen pagina's uit fietsen en hardloop catalogi, zeg maar. Dit jaar kreeg ik zelfs een lijstje met dingen die hij -niet- wil. Dus zelf met een verrassing komen is niet bepaald makkelijk, en voornamelijk een kwestie van heel goed opletten wanneer we weer een samen door een fiets/hardloop/muziek winkel lopen.

Maar wat het dit jaar echt triest maakt? Dat toen manlief voorstelde zijn verjaardag op zondag de 12e te vieren, zijn vrouw in alle staten riep dat dat echt niet kon, omdat de 11e commencement was, en ze dan nog echt geen tijd had gehad om cadeaus te kopen. Dat is pas zielig. Harteloos mens.

Things your professor wants...

...to write on your paper, but doesn't*:

10. "Are you kidding me", or a more polite version, "So the fact that I told you not to do this at least once every class period on the past five weeks went -completely- over your head, did it?"

9. "Aaargh!", or the more introspective, "I am at this point seriously doubting my own capabilities as a teacher".

8. "Your paper was due on the 23rd at 8am. All your sources are a) online, and b) marked with "retrieved November 23". You do realize that you just destroyed your own chances of being taken seriously, right?"

7. "If you can't be bothered to use your spellchecker, I don't think I can be bothered to read the rest of your paper"

6. #Fail.

5. "Two pages and three words does not equal three pages. I'm not an idiot. But thanks for trying"

4. "Plagiarism. And I find the fact that you apparently think I'm so stupid that you really thought I would not notice you copying straight from wikipedia/the book/my notes incredibly insulting. That alone would have earned you an F."

3. "Can't get through your first page, due to lack of paragraphing, the constantly changing font, and the apparent random use of punctuation, so I gave up", or "You do realize a 3-page paper is not just a really long tweet, right?"

2. "This is utter BS", or "And were you thinking at all when you wrote this down, or did your brain just turn itself off?"

1. "WTF?", or the more culturally appropriate, "I am now going to tear my clothes and pour ashes on my head"



*But of course we professors, and especially this one, don't. We believe in providing constructive feedback that will nurture our students, and help them grow into knowledgeable, mature, well-rounded professionals. Or else drop out. It's all fair game to us.

Happy Thanksgiving

May your turkey be scrumptious, your ham be delicious, your dressing be savory, your cranberries sweet, your gravy creamy, and your casseroles be hearty.
May your gratitude be heartfelt, your laughter be real, and your happiness sincere.
May you remember to love your family regardless, to set your oven to the right temperature, take out the turkey at the right time, and wear potholders when you do.
May your nap after dinner be restful, and your left overs fill up your fridge.

And once this day is over, yes, you may start getting ready for Christmas ;)

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!

Scrooge in action

People, let's get this straight once and for all. Thanksgiving comes before Christmas. Thanksgiving is in November, Christmas is in December. That means that yes, Thanksgiving comes first. That means that although some of you with family overseas and an almost neurotic desire to ensure their gifts get to them on time, will shop for Christmas gifs before Thanksgiving, most of you will wait until Black Friday. Or Cyber Monday. Or Manic Tuesday. Or shop-till-you-drop Wednesday, or whatever other crazy invention the retail industry has come up with. The bottom line, however, is that Christmas does not start until -after- Thanksgiving. Give thanks first, then become a materialistic glutton obsessed with Christmas trees and smelly candles.

It seems like such a simple concept. You hang up your fall wreath in October, put out your pumpkins, your scarecrows, your bales of hay, and whatever else strikes your fancy, then take them down after the last Thursday in Thanksgiving, and go nuts with your Christmas decorations. Easy, right?

Then someone please tell me why, when I went shopping for Thanksgiving napkins and a center piece this weekend, every single store I went to no longer carried Thanksgiving paraphernalia, and had since stocked their shelves with Singing Santas, replacement Christmas lights, and candy canes? One store employee even had the gall to tell me that I was doing that kind of shopping "kinda late". Now I don't mean to be a Sheldon here, but this past Saturday, Thanksgiving was five days away. Shopping for anything five days prior to the event does not qualify as a "kinda late". Trying to find a copy of the latest Twilight DVD on Christmas Even, that is "kinda late". And if we take America's general inability to look further the next elections as a standard, I was actually positively early.

People, it's thanksgiving. The season to give thanks and eat lots of turkey and casserole dishes. That means I don't want to see nativity scenes, Christmas trees, or reindeer in anyone's front yard, porch, store display, or shopping aisle until November 26. I'm serious.

Een klein stukje Nederland

Vorige week had ik er het al over, maar het is deze week dus officieel "International Education Week". Buitenlandse faculty wordt aangemoedigd om vooral in traditioneel kostuum naar het werk te gaan, en er worden de hele week allerlei activiteiten georganiseerd, van panels, tot luncheons met speakers, vertoningen van films, en zoals vandaag, de "Cultural explosion", oftwel, een internationale fair.

Maanden geleden was ik al gestrikt om als enige Nederlander op de campus op deze fair een stand te doen, en dus, stond ik afgelopen zondag een trifold over Nederland in elkaar te knutselen. En ik moet u zeggen, ik heb echt mijn roeping gemist. Want die trifold is nog best wel gelukt. Met een beetje hulp van een vriendin in het word processing center had ik foto's van tulpen, molens, landschappen, het koningshuis, een aantal steden, en enorme kaart en het wapen van Nederland geregeld, en dat tezamen met rood constructie papier, schaar, lijm, en wat geweldige interessant feiten over Nederland ("The Netherlands consists of 12 provinces", "The Netherlands is a constitutional monarchy") is het een best wel aardige productie geworden. Als ik niet dood en dood moe zou worden van gillende zeven-jarigen, zou ik best wel een leuke juf zijn. Of in ieder geval eentje met mooie posters aan de muur.

Maar goed, de afgelopen dagen heb ik tussen de bedrijven door het huis afgestruind op zoek naar allerlei "typische" Nederlandse dingen en zo vertrok ik vanochtend gewapend met klompen, een Delfts blauwe vaas, een Delfts blauw bordje, de Nederlandse vlag, een slinger met stoffen vlaggetjes, een paar blikken, een oud leesboekje, mijn Nederlandse kostuum, en de nieuwste Bosatlas naar mijn werk. Met een beetje kunst en vliegwerk stond mijn standje als eerste in een nog lege gymzaal in elkaar, en vertrok ik om les te geven. En toen ik terug kwam, stond ik natuurlijk tussen de twee koelste landen, India en Nigeria. Landen waar ze mooie sieraden en kleding aan hebben, prachtig beeldhouwwerk kunnen laten zien, en exotisch eten hebben waar mijn stroopwafels niet echt aan konden tippen. En dan nog vroegen twee prachtige dames in een sari waarom ik mijn kostuum niet aan had, maar aan de muur achter mij had hangen. Ik heb maar vriendelijk gelacht, en mijn mening dat ik met dat kostuum werkelijk al mijn geloofwaardigheid als professor kwijt zou zijn, voor me gehouden.

Maar goed, het was een daverend succes. Werkelijk waar. Ik ben door drie zakken stroopwafels heen gegaan, heb honderden mensen langs mijn tafeltje zien gaan, tientallen keren uitgelegd dat klompen niet echt meer gedragen worden, en ben geinterviewd door het lokale televisie station (en joh, wat was ik blij dat mijn kostuum niet aan had). Toen we moesten afbreken vond ik het bijna zonde om mijn kleine stukje Nederland op te moeten bergen.

En toen pas bedacht ik me; dit is net zoals vroeger. Toen we in het buitenland woonden, en op onze internationale school elk jaar een internationale fair hielden. Elk jaar stonden we daar met ons Nederlandse standje. We verkochten erwtensoep, of mosselen, of stroopwafels. En er stond altijd iemand in traditioneel kostuum. En het was elk jaar even leuk. Net zoals deze cultural explosion. Dus eerlijk gezegd denk ik dat ik dit volgend jaar gewoon weer doe. Voor old time's sake.

Rain, rain, rain, rain

Rain does funny things to people. Besides making them wet and notoriously late for everything, I mean. Here in the south it seems to mainly affect one's ability to drive in a normal, rational, and focused manner. I don't know what exactly people think when they realize it's raining and oh-my-god I am in my car, but I'm guessing it's either, "Oh dear Jesus and all the saints in heaven it's raining and that is so scaaaaaary, oh Sweet Jesus", or "What the !@#$^, where the !@#% is all this rain coming from? It's messing up my wax. Well, !@#$^, I better get the !@#$% where I need to be". In short, when in rains in Georgia, we have two kinds of drivers; the kind that slows down to at least twenty miles under the speed limit, or the kind that drives at least twenty miles over. Oh, and a third category that always forgets to turn their lights on. Honestly, I'm not sure what they're thinking, so I'm not even going to try, but I have the feeling these are the same people who don't use blinkers, pull out in front you doing 15mph, and have a phone glued to their ear every moment they're in their car.

Now it's raining today. Not anything terrible like a torrential downpour complete with thunder, lightening, and tornadoes, no, it's just a light to medium sprinkle, the kind that can last up to three weeks straight in Holland. But apparently that doesn't matter, because driving to work was fraught with numerous opportunities for serious accidents. I've had people stopped under overpasses on the interstate when the rain increased to a steady, but light, drip-drip-drip, people doing a comfortable 35mph on the interstate, people swerving into a ditch every time a semi approached, and people deciding that rain=drive faster!

Since I'm feeling slightly magnanimous today, though, I'm going to cut these poor Georgia drivers some slack. You see, the roads in this state are pretty terrible, and so even the slightest drop of rain can lead to possibly hazardous conditions. If you're an attentive, cautious driver, you will do fine, but I think we can firmly establish that most local drivers (the ones who can't take turns without ending up on the other side of the road) do not fall into that category. Not only do we not have the awesome water-absorbing blacktop that they use in most of Europe, here in Georgia, the interstate is constructed using large concrete slabs, the kind that make your car go "ka-dunk" every time you hit a seam between two of these babies. And guess where water likes to sit and rest when it rains? Right, in those seams. So this means that any minute amount of rain is going to cause lots of spray and the possibility of hydroplaning. And when you learned how to drive in your daddy's fully loaded SUV with automatic transmission on your granddaddy's farmland, spray and hydroplaning are simply not part of your driving vocabulary.

Interestingly, our county does have both the nifty water-absorbing asphalt and the smooth blacktop, although that doesn't stop people from driving like wet rags anyway. But whenever you venture out of the county, you can tell where the county line is based on the loud "ka-dunk!" and the sudden exponential increase in wetness. Now although I realize that our surrounding counties do not have the income that comes with having a base right smack in the middle of it, and that some of them struggle with their budgets so much that the school week was reduced to four days, I still can't help but gripe and complain whenever a passing sixteen-wheeler rains the Georgia version of the Niagara falls down on to my car.

So, yes, driving in the rain in Georgia is a pain. Fortunately, they've predicted sunshine for the rest of the week. Thank heavens for small favors.

A non-yelling award or customer service advisement-style

A few years ago, the university administration introduced the idea of "academic customer service" where the sole purpose of the faculty and staff would be to "serve our students by providing them with the very best we had to offer", or something equally non-academic. They were thrilled by the idea of faculty and staff doing everything in their power to keep the students happy, I'm guessing first and foremost because of what this would do to the alumni surveys and the school's endowment. Needless to say, the faculty were less than pleased. Mainly because we're always less than pleased at anything new, as that's our job, but also because we saw the main problem a mile off, namely students claiming their grade/classroom rules/getting caught for plagiarism was not "providing them with top-notch customer service".

To me, "a customer service-oriented university is an oxymoron"anyway. Seriously, people, "Would you like to take advanced statistics with that" just doesn't flow for me. And anyway, aren't professors supposed to be crusty old academics with little social skills and a complete inability to explain even the simplest concepts? Isn't that the golden ticket to getting students to really grasp the two truths they should take away from college: a) there is no right answer, ever, and b) you need to figure everything out on your own?

But I digress, This week is advisement, and as administration would put it, it's "An ideal time to put our excellent customer service skills to the test". Personally, I would say it's an excellent time for to test my patience, as I think I might have possibly explained the same thing 123 times. When you consider I only 70 advisees, that's 1.76 times per student, without adding in the number of students who heard me explaining it to others. I am dead serious when I say I am proud, truly, honestly, I-should-get a-badge-or-at-least-a-free-meal proud of myself for not having yelled at anyone this week. Not one. Well, at Steve. But he doesn't count. Plus it was through email, and he told me I could, so yeah, not counting that one.

Now I know you all are probably slightly smiling at the screen (or picking your nose, or pouring a drink, or yelling at the kids), but inside your head you're wondering, "Oh-kay, what kind of a short-tempered, unfriendly, anti-social semi-professional is she?" And if you've never been on the other end of an advising session, that is so true. But allow me to just share with you some of the things I've had to say over and over and over and over again in the past four days. Perhaps it will clarify things just a tad.

"Read the sign on the door."
"Have you read the sign on the door?"
"Look at the sign on the door"
"Read what's on the door"
One major problem with advisement seems to be the ability to read. You see, my classes don't stop, my grading doesn't come to a screeching halt, and my committee demands don't cease during advisement either. It all goes on while I'm supposed to help 70 kids pick out next semester's schedule in the cracks left between everything else. This means that I design a schedule which I then post on my door. A schedule that says (and I quote): "Advisement this week will be 8-10am on MTWR, 2-4pm MW, 10-2pm Friday" (and yes, Dutch readers, MTWR makes sense to college students). And still I get students barging into my office when I'm on the phone, obviously in the middle of grading, in a conference with another faculty member, of counseling a student. First time is doable, second time is OK, but by the third time I want to snap. But I didn't. Brownie point, no?
"Yes, I need to be advised"
(Walks into office while colleague and I are clearly in a meeting)
"Have you read the sign on the door?"
"Yes, I need to be advised."
"The sign on the door says advisement ended at 4 today"
"Oh. I didn't see that. But I still need advisement. Can you help me?"
"Not right now."
"Well, when?"
"Read the sign on the door"
"What does it say?"
Drink, anyone?

"Did you bring your registration permits/checksheet?"
"Did you fill out your permit?"
"No, you need to plan your own classes, and put them on your permit"
"Yes, you need come up with your own proposal for a schedule and write it on your permit"
"No, I do not design the schedule for you, you need to do that yourself, and put in your permit"
Again, reading is the problem here. Not only are students told when they first come in how advisement works, they are reminded at the beginning of every advisement cycle by an email from the registrar's office, and I myself send them an email explaining how they're supposed to go about this. And not only that, but it's on that same sign on my door. In spite of all that, I still have at least 30% of my student huff and puff when they find out that they have to design their own schedule, and my job is to advise them on their choices.
"There's no need to sigh, you can do this"
"No I can't."
"It's really easy. You know what you have to take, look at your checksheet, you know the schedule, look in banner, and you add the two together."
"But I don't know..I can't..sheesh! I mean, jeez, can't you do this?"
"No, you can do this."
Insert huge heaving sigh
"Don't pout, it's not going to work with me. I have two kids, trust me."
And, O-M-G, they stopped.

"They're in the cubbies behind you"
"The permits are right there"
"The checksheets are right there, in those cubbies."
"They're right behind you"
"See, right there? What do you mean you don't see them, there (pointing at shelf). There (pointing again). Right there (getting up and pulling permit off shelf).
I'm telling you - reading. The students are told, through the sign on my and my colleagues' doors, my email, and a HUGE sign over the cubbies where all the forms are. And still they ask. They walk right past the desk, into my office, with empty hands, and then have NO clue where these cubbies I speak of are.
"They're the shelves you're nut supposed to sit on, but you do anyway"
"Ooooh...you mean those!"
Yes, those.

My absolute favorite, though, was when a student interrupted a meeting by opening a closed door, walking in, and demanding to speak to Dr. something-berg. I believe she may have even sat down. Now although my name is definitely Dr. something, it doesn't end on "berg". So I told her, straight faced, that there was no Dr. something-berg here. She got confused, ask where Dr. something-berg was, and then after a moment of confusion exclaimed, "But you're her! I know you're her!".
"Yes, but my name is not Dr. something-berg."
"Does it matter?"
"Well, if you want to see me for advisement, it would be nice if you knew my name."
"Well, what is it?"
"Look around you, and see if you can figure it out."
(there was a name plate on the door, a schedule with my name on it next to her, and an award sitting right in front her)
"I don't see it."
"Look again."
"Oh yeah, yeah, there it is. See, it does say Dr. something-berg!"
"No it does not, trust me."
"Yes it does, right there, some-thing-berg"
"Where on earth do you see the 'g' in there?"
"Uhm, oh yeah. So now can I be advised?"
And still I didn't lose my temper. It's seriously a miracle, I tell you.

And I could go on and on, about students following me to the bathroom, asking me for pens, pencils, advisement even when I'm not their adviser ("But I'm here now!"), and trying to take classes they're not supposed to. But I won't. Because I might get too wound up and yell at those last few stragglers who are bound to trickle in later today. And it would be a shame to break my perfect record.

Yahweh, God, and nothing at all

Separation of church and state is a serious matter in this country. Very serious. It almost eclipses the firing of the Dallas Cowboys coach earlier this week. Almost. Both proponents and opponents have spend millions of dollars on websites, court cases, and generally trying to convince the other side that they're wrong, and the constitution really implies that God should/should not be a part of this country's government. Poor Ben Franklin has been quoted by both sides, and if either side is to be believed George Washington was either a die-hard baptist or avant-la-lettre postmodern atheist. I've heard about court cases about placing the ten commandments in a courthouse, crosses on federal land, and whether or not the placement of a nativity scene/Christmas tree/Menorah on the lawn of a police station/public school/city hall/court house is legal.

The entire debate on what to teach in public schools is equally interesting. Especially the debate centered on science classes. Apparently, various states have been dealing with the debate whether or not it's legal to put "evolution is a theory not a fact" stickers on science books that teach evolution. Although a federal judge in Georgia outlawed this practice in 2005, several other states are still toting the sticker. Opponents of the sticker will argue it's an attempt by the religious right to introduce the teaching of creationism in schools, and thus bring religion into the public school system, while proponents will tell you that evolution is not a proven fact, therefore putting it on a par with creationism/intelligent design, which should thus also be taught to our young innocent children. As a scientist, however, all I can do is giggle and tell you to bring on the stickers, and while we're at it, engage our children in an ethical debate on what constitutes "truth", "fact", and introduce the notion of falsificationism just for the fun of it.

You see, those stickers are right: evolution really is nothing more than a theory. It's not a fact. It's what we think happened, but it's not the truth. Science is not out to uncover the truth. The purpose of science to find out whichever solution is most likely, which we then accept until we can disprove it. So nothing we consider "fact" is really a fact. Gravity is nothing more than a theory either. It's very well possible that we're held down to earth by large, pink, invisible octopuses whose suckers on the ends of their invisible tentacles keep us from floating away. It's unlikely, indeed, but a possibility. So although evolution is very likely, it's by no means The Truth. Having said that, however, I would like to once and for all squash the idea that that puts it on the same level as creationism, i.e., the belief that a deity created the earth in six days and rested on the seventh. That's a belief, not a tested theory. And although you are free to believe whatever you wish, I'm not sure if we want to center our teachings on our personal beliefs (as personally I believe that life would be so much better if we all took naps in the afternoon and drank more green tea).

Anyway, I digress. The point is that in the United States, the idea that any government agency or organization touts a specific religious belief is considered unacceptable by most people. The military is a prime example of how this works. For although they have chaplains, these people have to represent all religions, which can very well mean that a southern baptist chaplain will defend a Jewish member's right to wear a yarmulke one moment, and reserve the chapel for the base's wiccan group next. And whenever a chaplain is asked to offer a convocation (non-religious term used to replace the term "prayer"), they get incredibly creative. One specific chaplain presiding over a unit holiday party managed to use "yahweh", "Jesus", "Allah" all in one "convocation". while also paying service to the atheists by addressing the importance of listening to the self and working on personal growth and responsibility.

So when you send your kids to the local public school, you know not to expect any reference to religion. No prayers, no reference to religious holidays (and if they do mention, say Christmas, they have to discuss all other religious feasts as well), and no teachers touting God, Jesus, Yahweh, or Allah as the solution to all problems.

When we moved to the south, however, I expected the worst. I mean, this is the part of the world where people will gladly give 10% of their income to a mega-church run by a pastor driving a Lexus, but balk at paying $10 more in tag fees to the state can built a much-needed level 1 trauma center. But, until last week all was well. No zealot teachers, no iffy statements, no hint of creationism. All was well.

And then a few days ago, Ozzie, the oldest, came home with the statement that his substitute teacher was, in his words "a religious idiot". Now you should know that although his father and I are Christian, Ozzie is currently (or possibly forever) in an atheist phase. He doesn't know what to believe, so he opts to believe in nothing. And we accept that, although that doesn't preclude us from dragging him to church every Sunday. So anyway, when Mr. Substitute embarked on teaching science, and started telling the students that evolution scientists were morons and had it all wrong Ozzie perked up. And bless his heart, he spoke up, and told Mr. Substitute he wasn't quite sure that was right. Well, Mr. Substitute ignored Ozzie, but told the class that anyone who didn't believe that God created the earth was going to H-E-double-hockey sticks (real southern baptists can't say "hell").

Now I beg your pardon, but no one besides myself, Ozzie's dad, and his bio-mom are allowed to tell him he's going anywhere. No $70 a day substitute whose sole job is to keep the kids from tearing up the room is going to tell my son that he is going to hell. No. Way. Let alone tell him what's right and what's wrong, and who's a moron and who isn't. We can do that at home thank you very much. If you just teach science, we'll do the rest. Thanks.

So now I'm working on a pointy email to the school. I'm so incoherently overwhelmed by Mr. Substitute's stupidity however, that I'm really not sure what to write. I want to write about how we will yank Ozzie out of public school and put in him in a far better private school, if all the private schools in the area weren't baptist or methodist, and that would kind of defeat the purpose. I have also considered relaying the story and then putting "What the $%^@?", but that doesn't quite seem to capture my message either. I could of course just do the American thing and sue the school. At any rate, I don't know yet. But I did tell Ozzie that next time that substitute teacher says anything, he should quote that verse from the bible about casting the first stone. You know, fight fire with fire.

Turn on the snark

Sometimes I really truly wonder how American academics do this. How they live this life of publish or perish, endless advisement, antiquated pay structures, 100-hour weeks, mandatory committee membership, and underprepared students? Seriously, people, how?

And on a side note, yes, I am making the very bold statement that the average American college student is -not- as well prepared for college as your average Dutch VWO graduate. After reading too many papers that start sentences with "being that", and eschew any form of proper citation, I am done being nice. There.

Anyway, about American academics. How do they live this life without completely and totally losing their mind? Are they all closeted alcoholics? Are they, like nuns married to their God (i.e., scholarly research)? Do they live on energy drinks and vitamin tablets? Do they secretly have an army of oompa-loompas doing all their work for them?

I mean, I'm all for hard work. You know, idle hands do the devil's work, early bird gets the worm, hard work never killed anyone, and all that good stuff, but this is just really getting out of hand.
We finally finished the self-study last week. Forty-one pages, 16,000 words, and three all-nighters, but it went out on Friday. Hallelujah. But guess what this week is? Indeed, it's advisement! Yay! Eighty students, eighty registration permits, five days, twelve lectures. And guess what next week is? International Education Week! And guess who serves on that committee? Yes, I do! And guess what the week after that is? Senior portfolio week! Ten portfolio and ten defenses to sit through! Yay! And the week after that? Senior finals! And hence lots of "OMG what do you mean I can't graduate?" drama! Woohoo! And the week after that? General finals? And the week after that? The week I will probably lose my mind. If I don't lose it in the next few days.

What makes all this worse is that as I'm suffering through this, is that I know others are going through this too. Again, there is nothing wrong with suffering, I was raised in a proper Catholic/Calvinist home, and so I know that the only way to get anywhere is through lots of suffering and guilt. And trust me, there is enough of that going around. Calvin himself would be proud of me. But I don't see anyone else writing snarky blog posts and walking around like zombies. Most of my fellow academics seem to adhere to the "Wear your bags like a badge of honor" code you learn when you get your degree.

So I wonder, do all academics feel like me, but just don't show it? (come to think of it, like me?) Do they all want to go home and spend time with their spouses/kids/pets too? Do they worry their spouses will take on concubines in their prolonged absence as well? That their kids will sign themselves up for adoption and that in spite of all their best efforts, their work still won't get published? And that if they don't publish, they won't get tenure, and all their hard work will have been for nothing?

But that's the south for you - even if they do, you will never know. These southern academics would rather lose tenure than admit that they too might feel a tad stressed. They're "Blessed", "Really inspired", or "Overwhelmed but feeling really good about it".

So here's my request to all you American academics, can we please have a bitching session? Please? Just a small one. Just once. Just to let it all out, realize we're not alone in this, and that we will be OK? I promise, you will feel better. And who knows, you might even get some research collaboration out of it too. But most of all, you'll feel like a new person. Seriously.

Van katoen

Dit jaar zijn de boeren vroeg met het katoen oogsten.

Kijk, dat is nou zo'n zin waarvan ik nooit, maar dan ook nooit, gedacht had ik die ooit op zou schrijven. Als stadsmens, of liever gezegd, veredelde buitenwijkmens, had ik niks met het platteland. Begrijp me niet verkeerd, ik vond het mooi hoor, en kon enorm genieten van lange wandelingen-slash- fietstochten door polders, weilanden vol met koeien, en maisvelden. Maar ik kon er werkelijk geen zinnig woord over zeggen. Vaak wist ik de juiste woorden niet eens, laat staan dat ik ze tot een zinnige zin kon rijgen.

Maar nu ik al voor mijn vierde herfst op rij door de katoenvelden van Georgia rijd, begin ik toch echt enige patronen te ontdekken. Mijn eerste herfst hier werd het katoen pas vlak voor de eerste vorst, na Thanksgiving, geoogst, en kon ik me dus wekenlang vergapen aan het eindeloze wit aan weerszijden van de weg. Die zomer, toen wij verhuisden, was het volgens de locals nooit echt warm geworden. Met de herinnering aan zwaar bezweet tot onder mijn teennagels en oververhit verhuisdozen sorteren nog vers in mijn geheugen, kon ik daar maar moeilijk bijkomen. Maar nu, ruim drie jaar laten, begin ik die locals door te krijgen. Deze zomer was het namelijk wel "lekker" warm, met temperaturen ruim boven de veertig graden. En het meeste katoen is deze week al binnengehaald. Toevallig ook net de week waarin de temperaturen zijn gaan dalen Dus nu heb ik een theorie. Als stadsmeid. Hoe warmer de zomer, hoe vroeger het katoen rijp is voor de oogst. En als het eenmaal echt koud wordt, kun je maar beter zo snel mogelijk je katoen van het veld halen.

Goed he? Ik vond het zelf wel redelijk indrukwekkend. Voor iemand die het verschil tussen boekweit en rogge nog steeds niet weet dan, he?

Ik vind eigenlijk best wel dat ik het verdiend heb om elke ochtend voor dag en dauw samen met de andere oude boeren uit de omgeving in een schommelstoel voor de lokale convenience store te zitten. Samen uitkijken over diezelfde katoenvelden, mopperen over de prijs van perzikken en pecans, en vooral heel veel koffie drinken. Om dan om tien uur eens zuchtend en steunend weg te rijden in mijn oude pick up truck om dat er nog zoveel te doen is, en anders moeder de vrouw gaat zeuren. En om dan voor de "afternoon pick-me-up" weer terug in mijn schommelstoel te kruipen. En dan alle stadse lui te bekijken die gehaast uit hun werk terugrijden, en hen elk van luid commentaar te voorzien. Dat lijkt me nou eens een goed plan.

En als ik nou volgend jaar eens eraan denk een fototoestel mee te nemen -voordat- het katoen geoogst wordt, dan kan ik jullie eindelijk ook eens beeld geven van hoe het hier utiziet. Dat lijkt me helemaal een geweldig idee.

Sister Wives

There are not a lot of shows on TLC that husband-dear will watch with me. In fact, up until a few weeks ago, there were none. He has absolutely no desire to watch brides-to-be spend an entire year's worth of mortgage payments on a wedding gown, or to watch a mother punch out child number 22. Or 23. Now I may lose my degree over this, but I love nothing more than watching women deal with a hundred children or the decision between satin or silk. I can feel braincells dying off as I watch these shows, but watching them is so relaxing, it's almost addictive.

Anyway, since a week or so, and actually as I'm typing this, my strong, tall, and manly man is watching TLC with me. And this is not a "O-M-G I am going to die but I'll watch it because I love you" watching. No, this is a "Oh good, we get to see the season finale after all, I wonder how it turned out with her walking away". And the show in question? Sister Wives.

For those of unfamilar with this show, Sister Wives is about a polygamous Mormon family; Kody the husband, three wives, a fourth on the way, and approximately sixteen children. It's indescribable. And that is really why husband-dear watches it. Sure, if you ask him he will give you some spiel about every man's dream, but in reality, he is as fascinated as I am. I mean, we just sat through a scene where husband, wife #1-#3 and fiancee (wife to be #4) tried wedding cake together and took a vote on which one to use for wedding #4. How often do you see that on national television?

I'm not sure what the result of bringing polygamy into mainstream American consciousnes will be. A general acceptance that perhaps the Fundamentalist Mormons are on to something, and the bible does command men to marry multiple wives, followed by an exponential increase in polygamy in the bible belt? Or will that same bible belt decide that Utah has really lost touch with Christian values, and start sending Christian missionaries out west? In all honesty, I'm not even sure -why- TLC would air such a show. Did the production assistant who came up with this concept decide it was high time to shed a positive light on polygamy after all the bad press it had been receiving since the fiasco in Texas?

Whatever the reason or the consequences, it is fascinating. And I honestly still don't understand why any man, or woman, would opt for the euphemistically named "multiple marriage". One is enough for me.

Lost for about thousand words

I think we can all safely agree that it's a very rare occasion when I'm lost for words. Whether in writing or verbally, I usually always have something to say about, well, just about everything. I'm not claiming it's always sensible. But it's something. And if I don't say it, which thank heavens I have learned to do over the past few decades, I'll usually end up writing it down here. So yes, need a blurb for an admissions brochure? Ask me. Need someone to proofread your speech? Ask me. Need a sentence/paragraph/chapter on anything related to mass communication/psychology/psychometry/athletics/academics/stepmothering/anything else that comes up, just ask me. I can generally whip something together, even if I have no idea what I'm writing about. I love playing with words, rephrasing sentences, and finding just the right phrase to express something. Now, I can't promise that when you actually think about what I just wrote, it will make any sense, but I can guarantee you that it will look pretty. And use proper punctuation. And at the end of the day, punctuation does matter.

But for the past two days, I have absolutely, completely, utterly stuck. Stuck as in I cannot for the life of me think of what to write. Stuck as in I have to tell myself "you have to write 500 words by tonight", something I didn't even have to do when writing my dissertation. And this is a bad stuck. Because this stuck concerns our department's self study. And my section of it is due on Tuesday. And I'm guessing I still have at least two thousand words to go. This self study is part of our program review which determines the future of our program. If we write a bad self study, I'm guessing our review won't be going very well, and well, we all know where that will lead (I'm thinking, "would you like some fries with that?"). So, yes. This. Is. A. Big. Deal.

Now I have gotten a lot done already. Four thousand three hundred and sixty-two words to be exact. Nine pages. But I still have two very important parts to finish. The first one entails me detailing how our program fits into the university's mission statement and strategic plan, and the second one requires that I address how our program dealt with the revisions suggested in the last program review. I've laid out the paragraphs, created a list of points I need to address, but I just can't seem to write a flowing narrative. I just can't. I mean, I'm really good at BSing, but this goes even beyond my powers.

So here I am. Stuck. I've cleaned the house, done laundry, tidied up our filing cabinet, and had tea, and nothing helps. I have one thousand words to go before I can leave my desk. One. Thousand. Wish me luck.

Talking like a duck

Recently, I've become obsessed with the way I've been pronouncing words like "ground" and "found". As I mentioned last week, my darling semi-offspring have been relentless about pointing out when my "ground" sounds country. Just yesterday, when I couldn't decide whether I should tell my students "researchers found that", or "researchers find that", my "found" came out sounding like the lovechild of "found" and "find, making it seem as as though I was born and raised in the south, which sent my students whooping and hollering. So hello self-consciousness. I mean, I love to blend in, but to sound like a native? No, thank you.

Now I do realize that I'm possibly a little more obsessed with what I sound like to others than most people. I've always wondered: do I sound southern? Midwestern? Or, worst of all, Dutch? I was the angsty teenager who would tape her speeches before she gave them, so she could make sure she could correct anything that didn't sound just right. I am the neurotic adult who will record her work voicemail, and then redo it three times because the inflection wasn't right. Or I slurred my name. Or pronounced my last name like an overzealous German.

For years, I assumed that everyone was as neurotic as I was. Am. But then I moved here. And met Dutch ladies who, after having lived in the US for forty years, spoke with an accent so thick you could use it slice bread, while claiming they spoke perfect, accent-free English. And politicians whose southern accent was so thick, they sounded like they had just walked off the set for Gone With The Wind or The Hillbillies.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for being who you are, and if that means talking with a "tick duts eccent' or like Boomhauer from King of the Hill, then go for it. I will love you just the same. But a little self-awareness would be nice. Don't claim to speak perfect American when you pronounce 'pan' like 'pen', and 'much' like 'muts'.

Oh, and on that note, can the real southern politicians please stand up? You see, I refuse to believe that every single Georgia politician really talks as though they just got off harvesting pecans and picking peaches. I mean, these men and women sound more southern than Jimmy Carter, Andy Griffith, and Tammy Wynette put together, while most born and bred Georgians I hear around me every day have reduced their southern accent to a "y'all" and a slight flattening of their vowels. I realize the appeal of sounding like "the common man", but people, you sound ridiculous. Mainly because all real Georgians know no real Georgian would have a Savannah 'r' (the British-sounding r used in Gone with the Wind) and a mountain-based country twang.

So, yes, I might be a little obsessed. And if someone could tell me why everyone keeps thinking I'm from southern Ohio/Missouri when those are two states I have never lived in, that would be great. Thanks.

Tornadoes and guano-bats

Weather in America is not something to be trifled with. Just like its cars, gun laws, and Vegas, American weather is A HUGE DEAL. It smacks you in the face, runs right over you, and leaves you half-frozen, melted into a puddle, or peddling on your bathroom door across what used to be a tranquil stream in a heartbeat. We have blizzards, hurricanes, droughts, deep freezes, heat waves, floods, tornadoes, and I just know someday we'll have locusts swarming the skies too.

Obviously, we don't get a whole lot of extremely cold weather in the south. I'm sure that all ya'll northerners think we have no right to explain seeing as how we're not buried in three feet of snow for 4/5/6 months out of the year, and I suppose you have a point. I mean, while you all are shoveling your driveways, scraping your car windows and dealing with black ice, we're deciding whether we can sip our sweet tea out on the front porch in a tee shirt or if we will need a cardigan. It is nice, and that is true. But that doesn't mean our weather can't get bat-guano crazy either. Because if there is one thing the south is known for, it's its extremely insane, over-the-edge, all-out-of-control storms. And hurricanes. And tornadoes. And rain storms. And thunder. And hail.

And yesterday, was one bat-guano-cat-lady crazy weather day. We had hail the size of golf balls, rain, winds, low-clouds, yellow, hazy skies, and the absolute darling of meteorologists: tornado watches.

Now if you just went, "WHAT?! You had a tornado?!", first of all, don't worry. We didn't. Secondly, you also need to stop being like me, and memorize your tornado terms. You see, after three years here, some time in Texas, and hordes of friends and family in the "tornado alley", you would think I would know the difference between a tornado warning and watch. But I don't.

So yesterday morning, when instead of waking up to Steve Innskeep and Renee Montagne we woke up to the hysterical beeping of the weather service, and a disembodied voice telling us, "A tornado watch is in effect until 10am this morning", I freaked out. I jumped out of bed, tripped over a dog, and looked out the window. Because you know, you want to definitely -see- the tornado before it annihilates your house. Anyway, husband-dear, who would be far more useful had there actually been a tornado in our backyard, got up, and said, "You do realize that a watch only means the conditions are right, right?"

Uhm.
No.

And this is why I have such a beef with the National Weather Service, or whatever they call themselves: The terms "tornado watch" and "tornado warning". A tornado watch means the conditions are right, which means it's humid, there's a low cloud ceiling, and hey, that's pretty much any storm in the south. Conversely, a tornado warning means a tornado has actually been spotted in your area, and you had better get your butt into shelter (definition: A small room on the inside of the house with no windows, which, if you live in the US, might be really hard to come by. In that case, prayer will work too. But only if you're southern baptist. I'm kidding. You can be a regular baptist too).

Why would anyone in their right mind pick two terms that are so dangerously similar? To me, I could just as easily argue that a watch means that a tornado has been spotted; you know, you're watching one go by, while a warning could mean that you have been warned that one might form. Not one of the memory aids that I've thought of ("a warning means you have to be really careful, it's right there", "a watch means you're on the lookout just in case", or my favorite, "R (waRning) comes before T (waTch), but it's worse, so it's like the opposite of the alphabet") works. I always freak out when I don't have to yet, and never understand why the sirens go off when they do.

So here is my suggestion. Let's change these terms. A tornado watch ( you know, when the conditions are right) will from now on be called a tornado advisory. Like a wind advisory. Or a snow advisory. There's no drama yet, but be careful. And a tornado warning will be known as a "OMG there's a tornado, you need to get your behind in the bunker NOW!".

Thank you. Now please excuse me while I call our insurance adjuster about the hail damage to our roof.

Calimero en een zelfstudie

Wist u dat eens in de vijf jaar elk studieprogramma in Georgia gereviewed moet worden? Nee? Nou ik ook niet. Nu weet ik wel meer dingen niet hoor. Helemaal omdat de universiteit hier wel meer dingen niet vertelt. Of half. En meestal vind ik dat wel best. Want als ik iets weet, dan betekent dat meestal meer werk voor mij. En dat heb ik al genoeg.

Nu ben ik gelukkig niet helemaal achterlijk, en heb ondertussen wel genoeg ervaring dat ik weet dat elk academisch programma -ooit- onder de loep genomen gaat worden. In Nederland heb ik er een paar mee mogen maken, en weet er dus genoeg van om te weten dat een bevalling er bij in het niets valt. Oh wacht. Dat weet ik niet. OK, dat het opvoeden van twee jongens er bij in het niets valt.

Maar goed, hoe vaak dit gebeurt voor universiteiten in Georgia, en wat het allemaal inhoudt, dat wist ik natuurlijk ook niet allemaal precies. Ik zeg wist, omdat ik sinds tien dagen namelijk wel weet. Sinds tien dagen weten we in mijn sectie namelijk dat elk programma om de vijf jaar aan de zelfstudie moet, en dat, tata! die van ons dit jaar aan de beurt is. En niet alleen dat, maar dat het zelfstudie rapport over, let op, twee weken af moet zijn. Een zelfstudie rapport waarvan de eisen alleen al tien pagina's beslaan. En dat, hiep hiep hoera!, ik in de commissie zit die het zelfstudie rapport mag schrijven. En dat dankzij de geweldige Amerikaanse efficientie er geen tien mensen in die commissie zitten, standaard voor Europese universiteiten, maar drie.

Ik kan u niet vertellen hoe gelukkig ik ben. Want naast het geven van zes vakken (waarvan er niet -een- online is, bijdeweg), het organiseren van de internationale week, waarvoor ik laatst ook al gestrikt ben (ik moet echt leren veel minder op te vallen, jeetje mina), het volgen van workshops over quality enhancement in education, en het werken aan mijn eigen onderzoek, mag ik nu dus ook elke vrije minuut besteden aan het beantwoorden van vragen als, "Discuss the rationale and data supporting program relationship to societal needs, employment opportunities, and graduate school admissions", of "Discuss the program's specific centrality to the university mission and strategic plan".

En het probleem is niet alleen dat ik echt geen tijd heb voor dit soort fratsen, maar eigenlijk ook dat ik het antwoord niet weet. Want zit de maatschappij nou echt te wachten op een zooitje onderzoekers, journalisten, redacteuren, en andere eigenwijze media-personen? Kijk, als we nou de faculteit geneeskunde waren, of onderwijskunde, of zelfs psychologie, waarbij je levens redt, mensen leert te onderwijzen, en onderzoekt waarom sommige mensen kinderen mishandelen/misbruiken/gebouwen opblazen, dan snapte ik het wel. Maar eigenlijk vind ik onszelf helemaal niet zo relevant.

Maar ja, dat mag ik vast niet in dat rapport zetten. En dus zit ik hier op een zondag middag met zicht op een prachtige zonovergoten achtertuin waarin de jongens met de honden spelen, achter mijn bureau. Take it away, Calimero, zou ik zeggen..

"...en dat is niet eerlijk!"

Slow, slower, slowest

I really don't know who made up the notion that life in the south is somehow slower than the rest of the world, but he was obviously out of his mind. Yes, it's a he. There is no way any southern woman in her right mind would ever have the time to sit down and come up with something as ludicrous as that. Between all her cooking, peeling, baking, quilting, crocheting, reading the bible, killing flies and other unwanted bugs, raising the kids, skinning the dead animals and gutting the fish that her husband brings home, southern women barely had time to walk to the outhouse, let alone wax lyrical about the south. They were too busy being the south.

Anyway, quite obviously the point I'm trying to make here is that life in the south is anything but slow. In fact, I would go as far as to claim that my life has never been crazier since I moved down here. I know, not all southerners drive 90 miles to get to work, and the point could be made that I'm the exception. But in all honesty, I doubt that. In my time here, I haven't seen a whole lot of front-porch-rocking-sweet-tea-drinking-breeze-shooting. All I see are people doing yard work, driving their kids to and from cheerleading, football, gymnastics, aquaknots, French club, Spanish club, band, taking online classes, getting home from work late, and baking meals for sick people. Southerners make talk slowly, but their life is anything but.

And you know how some people will tell you that southerners are known for their tardiness? Or that they're always forgetting things and never seem in a rush to get anywhere? Well, I've figured that one out too. And it's not what you think.

You see, all of that is because they're all just busy. It's not that they don't care. Or can't bring themselves to stick to basic etiquette like punctuality and proper pronunciation. Take myself, for instance. I am, or used to be anyway, the human embodiment of punctuality. I abhor being late for anything. I hate it when other people are late. I give students zeroes when they're late, as well as the stink-eye. But lately, it seems as though I've been late for just about everything; from class, to appointments, to meeting for coffee with friends. It's what happens when you have fourteen hours of work to squeeze into an eight hour workday. There is just nothing like running into a class at three minutes after, to find the entire class staring at you reproachfully to make you feel incredibly on-top of things. And when you're constantly running from one event to the next, you end up forgetting things. Like graded papers, or assignment sheets, or your books. Or stopping at a gas station to get gas. Or putting on your hose while getting ready to leave the house in the morning. It's a whole new level of insanity. And then when you finally don't have anywhere to be five minutes ago, you know you better cherish that moment. So you will take your time making up your mind at the vending machine. Or in line at the convenience store. Because you know that the moment you're done, life will hit you in the behind at full speed once again.

Even the way southerners drawl their words can be attributed to their busy lives. Seriously, ask your significant other to wake you up in the middle of the night, and ask you to say something. Chances are you will sound like someone out of King of the Hill or Designing Women. You know how a lot of non-native speakers get a thicker accent when they're tired? Well, not me. Recently, every single two-legged member of my household has poked fun at me for alternately saying "ground", "there", and "right" in what can only be described as a very southern country-bumpkin way.

So, all this nonsense about southerners being slow needs to stop. Really. 'Cause we're not