van Georgia is officieel niet meer populair bij ons op de campus. Toegegeven, nu was de beste man dat waarschijnlijk toch al niet echt. Ik bedoel, met een naam als "Sonny", een accent dat het beste als "white southern" beschreven kan worden, en een Republikeins beleid was de beste man toch nooit echt ver gekomen op een HBCU. Maar goed, sinds vanochtend heeft hij het helemaal verprutst. Er zijn, voor het zuiden, harde woorden gevallen zoals "belachelijk", "volslagen onverantwoord", en zelfs het uiterst beledigende "niet over nagedacht". En dat allemaal omdat de budgetbesprekingen voor FY 2011 (aankomend academiejaar) in volle gang zijn, en vanochtend er berichten zijn uitgelekt over wat men allemaal van plan is. En dat die plannen minder dan ideaal zijn, dat is duidelijk.
Vanochtend heeft ons department in de maandelijkse vergadering mogen vernemen wat de opties zijn die gisteren in een grote vergadering zijn ontwikkeld. Ik zal ze aan u voorleggen.
Optie 1: De school gaat een 4-daagse week, en gaat voor de andere drie dagen op slot. Dat zou betekenen, geen football, geen track, geen sport in het algemeen meer. Want die wedstrijden zijn meestal in het weekend. Op zich zagen wij, als rasechte academici dat wel zitten. Football is leuk hoor, daar niet van, maar om een coach nou zes ton aan salaris te betalen, en honderd duizenden dollars te spenderen aan de reiskosten van het team, dat niet meer doet dan een balletje achter na zitten, nee, het nut daarvan ontgaat het overgrote deel van mijn collega's. Toegegeven, nu zijn de meeste van ons zover gekomen omdat we ronduit slecht waren in sport, daardoor nooit vriendjes hadden, en dus maar gingen lezen in onze vrije tijd. Dus de kans bestaat dat onze anitpathie tegen sport misschien niet geheel gebaseerd is op een goed gefundeerde redenering. Maar dan nog, een universiteit is om te le-ren. Niet om te spe-len. Wij waren dus al helemaal in onze nopjes. We zouden en geld besparen, en geen last meer hebben van studenten ziek, zwak, en misselijk zijn op de maandagochtenden na een belangrijke footballwedstrijd. Ideaal.
Maar, helaas. Want, zo had de chancellor in al zijn wijsheid bedacht, wie niet werkt, die wordt niet betaald. En dus zou dit plan ook in houden dat alle medewerkers nog maar voor vier dagen betaald worden. Omdat het bij mij even duurde voordat dit in nummertjes omgezet was, zal ik het u maar meteen vertellen, dat is een verlies in salaris van 20%. Twin-tig Pro-cent. Een-vijfde. Nu verdien ik niet zo schokkend veel hoor, maar twintig procent? Dat is toch wel heftig.
In een keer waren we bekomen van onze liefde voor optie 1, en wilde toch wel heel graag horen wat er achter deur twee zit. En dat was nog minder fraai.
Optie 2: Een andere manier om te bezuigingen is natuurlijk het niet meer doen van bepaalde dingen. Als je het niet doet, dan kost het ook niets. Is een hele simpele economische gedachtengang. En dat moet men gisteren ook gedacht hebben. En dus is optie 2 het afschaffen van verschillende academische programma's, zoals: alle vreemde talen, een groot deel van de bibliotheek, alle writing labs, een aantal van de master's programma's, een gedeelte van de campus politie, alle adjunct docenten, het global intiative office, bezuigingen op stookkosten en nog veel meer.
Nu bent u misschien geen academicus, maar u kunt zich voorstellen dat na deze uitspraak, er een ware revolutie dreigde uit te breken. Voor een academicus is een bibliotheek nog net niet zo belangrijk als ademhalen, maar het komt erg dicht in de buurt. En het afschaffen van alle writing labs? Nu zouden we de achterstand, veroorzaakt door het tekort van writing programs in high school, hetgeen weer voor een gedeelte veroorzaakt wordt door de budget problemen daar, nooit kunnen inhalen. Een geen vreemde talen meer? Een aantal collega's uit Zuid Amerika kregen zowaar een rolberoerte. Of de master's in nursing afschaffen, welke net bekroond was met allerlei prijzen en awards? Om dan nog maar niet te spreken over wat "bezuinigen op stookkosten" zou gaan inhouden. Zouden we nog maar twee uur per dag de airco aan mogen hebben? Of zouden de lichten op de WCs op een timer gezet worden ("de gemiddelde vrouw heeft twee minuten nodig op de badkamer, dus opschieten"). Kortom. Het was een drama.
Maar onze vakgroepsvoorzitter had een derde voorstel gedaan, gisteren. Hij had voorgesteld dat we 'slechts' 12% van ons salaris zouden verliezen, en dat we een aantal non-academische programma's zouden schrappen. Welke, dat was niet duidelijk, maar een collega riep heel assertief dat het consultancy bureau dat volgens een vorig agendapunt in dienst was genomen om de universiteit meer efficienter te maken als eerste er uit kon, "And then if we just fire all the stupid people, we'll be done!".
Dat is de oplossing natuurlijk. We ontslaan gewoon alle mensen die wel de tijd hebben om elke dag een uur te lunchen. Die niks beters te doen hebben dan een formulier acht keer terug te sturen omdat er elke keer iets net niet helemaal goed is. Die studenten van het kasje naar de muur sturen. En die maandenlang bezig zijn met allerlei budgetplannen te ontwikkelen die vergeten waar het bij een universiteit om draait. Als die mensen nou allemaal verdwijnen, dan kunnen we ons eindelijk gaan richten waar het werkelijk om draait hier, en dat is, allemaal tegelijk nu: on-der-wijs (eigenlijk is het natuurlijk het vergaren en verspreiden van academische kennis, maar ja, dat bekt niet zo lekker).
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Imprisoned minds, free bodies
It's midterms once again. Everyone's nerves are frayed, and the students are no different. Yesterday, however, proved especially difficult. The high, or low, point of the day was when students proved immune to my attempts to engage them in a critical discussion of Sartre, the number one atheist philosopher, and one student had the audacity to say, "Look, can we just learn the material, and stop talking about it, and move on to the next guy, because we're all Christians so this isn't going to work". I went home late, feeling frustrated and burnt out. What is the point of teaching, of pouring my soul into relaying knowledge, of trying to inspire critical thought when the majority of my students just don't seem to care? I was left wondering if perhaps I should follow my student's advice, and show up, run my lecture, and leave. But I quickly realized I couldn't. I still care too much about my students' success. But then how to deal with this total apathy?
When considering solutions, my mind almost always wanders to the reasons behind this behavior too. Is this something only my students do? Is it a southern thing? A result of our less-than-perfect secondary education? Or is it part of a wider social epidemic?
A co-worker pointed me to an interesting article in the Chronicle of Higher Education. It doesn't solve my problems, it doesn't even point to the reason, but it perfectly reflects my own experience, assuring me that this apathy is not my fault, not the result of my poor teaching methods, and maybe something that can't be fixed it all. But although the article made me feel better knowing that I'm not alone, it is also disheartening to discover that perhaps yesterday's class is not an isolated incident.
I would love to hear your thoughts on this issue.
This is the article my co-worker sent me:
"On Lecturing in a Prison, Where Minds Are Free
By Jefferson Cowie
On a sweltering afternoon last August, I had the professional thrill of giving one of the kickoff lectures of Cornell's New Student Reading Project, an annual effort to knit the entire campus together in the shared intellectual experience of reading a single book. The uncomfortably hot crowd of thousands of students and faculty members assembled in the field house was the largest gathering I had ever addressed, complete with big-screen projections of the lecturers, like academic rock stars, floating over the stage.
The topic was close to my heart: my favorite character, Tom Joad, grappling with the teachings of Preacher Casey, from one of my favorite books, John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. The issues of migration and family, environment and social crisis, economic calamity and occupational justice, it seemed to me, made the book extraordinarily relevant to the problems of today.
Then in October, I gave the talk again. I shivered more from nervousness than the cool autumn air as I entered another strangely cavernous space—an almost 200-year-old maximum-security prison, Auburn Correctional Facility. Behind fortresslike walls rising above the small, historic town of Auburn, the state of New York incarcerates its murderers, thieves, and gangsters; put the first electric chair to use; and still stamps out license plates. As I worked my way through security to the prison chapel, I couldn't help recalling that the central characters of my talk had done time for murder and spent much of the book in violent scrapes with the law, much like those people I was about to address.
On the Cornell campus, every time I'd attended the huge opening of the reading project, I was struck by the students' indifference and boredom. Whether the book was by Sophocles or Garry Wills, F. Scott Fitzgerald or Jared Diamond, the students seemed incapable of engaging with the lectures. A colleague blogged: "I saw students asleep, milling about, talking on their cellphones, texting, talking and laughing with others, and what seemed to be a precious few engaged by the presentations." The students' restlessness led him to ask them, "What are you doing here at Cornell?"
The inmates who filtered into the prison chapel, on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing at Auburn Correctional Facility: hard time, often for violent crimes they had committed when they were quite young. I arrived skeptical that my presentation would mean anything to them; I was motivated more by curiosity and civic obligation than grand pedagogic hopes. Clearly, these guys had bigger problems than literature and history.
The 60 inmates enrolled in the Cornell Prison Education Program were, in contrast to the Cornell students, hardly bored, restless, or indifferent. They were on fire. They sat attentively without PowerPoint photos to keep them entertained, autumn walks through the gorges to look forward to, or fancy careers to anticipate. They occasionally tossed questions to me during my talk, testing my mettle. Then, when I finished, their hands shot up. For the next hour, I got a vigorous intellectual workout—an exhausting barrage of questions any teacher would relish.
The questions came from every direction. How could Tom Joad, asked one, be the quintessential American working-class hero (as I had suggested) if Steinbeck had ignored the Asian and Mexican workers who had done most of the agricultural labor in California? Another, responding to how land got used in Oklahoma and California, asked if the constitutional system functioned in a way that enforced inequality. When I showed how Okie iconography was used in advertising and television in the postwar era, another asked if advertising and consumption were designed to prevent popular revolts. An inmate even asked whether the dollar was grounded in human labor, and whether human labor can be considered a commodity like any other.
One prisoner asked a multipart question that I did not fully grasp. I dismissed part of it and moved on, but his hand went back up. Though it was rough around the edges, in academic parlance his question was this: Was the type of civil society that Preacher Casey struggled for ("Maybe all men got one big soul everybody's a part of") possible, given the social atomization brought about by computers and technology?
I turned my head to the program's director, Jim Schechter, with an incredulous look—was this for real?
Before the night was over, the inmates' questions had me delving into constitutional theory, Lockean property rights, spirituality, political dissent, the tensions between civil rights and economic rights, and the use of state power. Granted, there were a lot of grandstanding, polemics, and semiarticulated ideas floating around, but these guys were serious about what they were doing. At one point, carried away with the moment, I even delivered a spontaneous mini-lecture on Antonio Gramsci's Prison Notebooks, which had been scrawled on scraps of paper while he was imprisoned in Fascist Italy. Gramsci tried to figure out, I told the prisoners, how market culture creates a common sense that ensures the consent of the governed. They murmured. They nodded. They got it. Rarely had I felt so alive as a teacher.
After each of the big panels at Cornell, a small handful of the several thousand students would come up to ask the panelists follow-up questions. In fact, the open-mike question period of previous years had been eliminated because the bulk of students used the opportunity to make a quick exit. After the prison talk, in contrast, the men filed up to introduce themselves, thank me for coming, and ask if I'd teach a class in the program. Most simply looked me in the eye with affirmation, shook my hand, and headed back to their cells. Their humility was humbling.
I wondered if it was simply the boredom and constraint of prison life that had the prison students so motivated; the well-prepped Cornell kids, of course, had every media device and distraction imaginable to draw them away from us droning professors. Maybe the Cornell students had worked so hard to get in that they now felt complacent, having made the grade. Maybe the Cornell kids were indifferent because the reading project was not a graded assignment.
Yet the prisoners had also studied hard to get into the prison-education program. They were not simply looking for ways to pass time. They had other things to distract them if they chose, and they attended graded classes as well. My lecture had been purely voluntary for them.
The experience at Auburn got me thinking about entitlement, motivation, and the life of the mind. It forced me to ask troubling questions about status and reward in our academic system. It made me wonder what I was doing with my life and my career, now in midpassage. The contrast between the free minds of the imprisoned bodies at Auburn and the imprisoned minds of the free bodies among some of the nation's most gifted college students could not have been more stark.
Marcus Rediker, a visiting scholar at Cornell last year, also gave a lecture at Auburn, on slave ships. I heard that he rocked the house (the inmates do, after all, call Auburn the "slave ship"). Summing up his experience, he reported: "Most of all, I was impressed by the intelligence, the thoughtfulness, the engagement, the curiosity—in short, by the life of the mind—that I found among the people inside Auburn Prison. That mind, I am pleased to report, cannot be imprisoned."
I wondered what the bars were made of that seemed to imprison my Cornell students, and what it would take for them to begin emancipating themselves.
Jefferson Cowie is an associate professor of history at Cornell University. His latest book, Stayin' Alive: The 1970s and the Last Days of the Working Class, is due out from the New Press in September."
(source: Chronicle of Higher Education, February 21, 2010)
When considering solutions, my mind almost always wanders to the reasons behind this behavior too. Is this something only my students do? Is it a southern thing? A result of our less-than-perfect secondary education? Or is it part of a wider social epidemic?
A co-worker pointed me to an interesting article in the Chronicle of Higher Education. It doesn't solve my problems, it doesn't even point to the reason, but it perfectly reflects my own experience, assuring me that this apathy is not my fault, not the result of my poor teaching methods, and maybe something that can't be fixed it all. But although the article made me feel better knowing that I'm not alone, it is also disheartening to discover that perhaps yesterday's class is not an isolated incident.
I would love to hear your thoughts on this issue.
This is the article my co-worker sent me:
"On Lecturing in a Prison, Where Minds Are Free
By Jefferson Cowie
On a sweltering afternoon last August, I had the professional thrill of giving one of the kickoff lectures of Cornell's New Student Reading Project, an annual effort to knit the entire campus together in the shared intellectual experience of reading a single book. The uncomfortably hot crowd of thousands of students and faculty members assembled in the field house was the largest gathering I had ever addressed, complete with big-screen projections of the lecturers, like academic rock stars, floating over the stage.
The topic was close to my heart: my favorite character, Tom Joad, grappling with the teachings of Preacher Casey, from one of my favorite books, John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. The issues of migration and family, environment and social crisis, economic calamity and occupational justice, it seemed to me, made the book extraordinarily relevant to the problems of today.
Then in October, I gave the talk again. I shivered more from nervousness than the cool autumn air as I entered another strangely cavernous space—an almost 200-year-old maximum-security prison, Auburn Correctional Facility. Behind fortresslike walls rising above the small, historic town of Auburn, the state of New York incarcerates its murderers, thieves, and gangsters; put the first electric chair to use; and still stamps out license plates. As I worked my way through security to the prison chapel, I couldn't help recalling that the central characters of my talk had done time for murder and spent much of the book in violent scrapes with the law, much like those people I was about to address.
On the Cornell campus, every time I'd attended the huge opening of the reading project, I was struck by the students' indifference and boredom. Whether the book was by Sophocles or Garry Wills, F. Scott Fitzgerald or Jared Diamond, the students seemed incapable of engaging with the lectures. A colleague blogged: "I saw students asleep, milling about, talking on their cellphones, texting, talking and laughing with others, and what seemed to be a precious few engaged by the presentations." The students' restlessness led him to ask them, "What are you doing here at Cornell?"
The inmates who filtered into the prison chapel, on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing at Auburn Correctional Facility: hard time, often for violent crimes they had committed when they were quite young. I arrived skeptical that my presentation would mean anything to them; I was motivated more by curiosity and civic obligation than grand pedagogic hopes. Clearly, these guys had bigger problems than literature and history.
The 60 inmates enrolled in the Cornell Prison Education Program were, in contrast to the Cornell students, hardly bored, restless, or indifferent. They were on fire. They sat attentively without PowerPoint photos to keep them entertained, autumn walks through the gorges to look forward to, or fancy careers to anticipate. They occasionally tossed questions to me during my talk, testing my mettle. Then, when I finished, their hands shot up. For the next hour, I got a vigorous intellectual workout—an exhausting barrage of questions any teacher would relish.
The questions came from every direction. How could Tom Joad, asked one, be the quintessential American working-class hero (as I had suggested) if Steinbeck had ignored the Asian and Mexican workers who had done most of the agricultural labor in California? Another, responding to how land got used in Oklahoma and California, asked if the constitutional system functioned in a way that enforced inequality. When I showed how Okie iconography was used in advertising and television in the postwar era, another asked if advertising and consumption were designed to prevent popular revolts. An inmate even asked whether the dollar was grounded in human labor, and whether human labor can be considered a commodity like any other.
One prisoner asked a multipart question that I did not fully grasp. I dismissed part of it and moved on, but his hand went back up. Though it was rough around the edges, in academic parlance his question was this: Was the type of civil society that Preacher Casey struggled for ("Maybe all men got one big soul everybody's a part of") possible, given the social atomization brought about by computers and technology?
I turned my head to the program's director, Jim Schechter, with an incredulous look—was this for real?
Before the night was over, the inmates' questions had me delving into constitutional theory, Lockean property rights, spirituality, political dissent, the tensions between civil rights and economic rights, and the use of state power. Granted, there were a lot of grandstanding, polemics, and semiarticulated ideas floating around, but these guys were serious about what they were doing. At one point, carried away with the moment, I even delivered a spontaneous mini-lecture on Antonio Gramsci's Prison Notebooks, which had been scrawled on scraps of paper while he was imprisoned in Fascist Italy. Gramsci tried to figure out, I told the prisoners, how market culture creates a common sense that ensures the consent of the governed. They murmured. They nodded. They got it. Rarely had I felt so alive as a teacher.
After each of the big panels at Cornell, a small handful of the several thousand students would come up to ask the panelists follow-up questions. In fact, the open-mike question period of previous years had been eliminated because the bulk of students used the opportunity to make a quick exit. After the prison talk, in contrast, the men filed up to introduce themselves, thank me for coming, and ask if I'd teach a class in the program. Most simply looked me in the eye with affirmation, shook my hand, and headed back to their cells. Their humility was humbling.
I wondered if it was simply the boredom and constraint of prison life that had the prison students so motivated; the well-prepped Cornell kids, of course, had every media device and distraction imaginable to draw them away from us droning professors. Maybe the Cornell students had worked so hard to get in that they now felt complacent, having made the grade. Maybe the Cornell kids were indifferent because the reading project was not a graded assignment.
Yet the prisoners had also studied hard to get into the prison-education program. They were not simply looking for ways to pass time. They had other things to distract them if they chose, and they attended graded classes as well. My lecture had been purely voluntary for them.
The experience at Auburn got me thinking about entitlement, motivation, and the life of the mind. It forced me to ask troubling questions about status and reward in our academic system. It made me wonder what I was doing with my life and my career, now in midpassage. The contrast between the free minds of the imprisoned bodies at Auburn and the imprisoned minds of the free bodies among some of the nation's most gifted college students could not have been more stark.
Marcus Rediker, a visiting scholar at Cornell last year, also gave a lecture at Auburn, on slave ships. I heard that he rocked the house (the inmates do, after all, call Auburn the "slave ship"). Summing up his experience, he reported: "Most of all, I was impressed by the intelligence, the thoughtfulness, the engagement, the curiosity—in short, by the life of the mind—that I found among the people inside Auburn Prison. That mind, I am pleased to report, cannot be imprisoned."
I wondered what the bars were made of that seemed to imprison my Cornell students, and what it would take for them to begin emancipating themselves.
Jefferson Cowie is an associate professor of history at Cornell University. His latest book, Stayin' Alive: The 1970s and the Last Days of the Working Class, is due out from the New Press in September."
(source: Chronicle of Higher Education, February 21, 2010)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
A little dictator
When I first started taking education classes, one of the main critiques my instructors always gave me was that I needed to allow for more student interaction. So throughout my years of teaching, I have always made it a point to open the floor up for class discussion. I have even gone as far as to put remarks like "ask class!" or "discuss!" in my lecture notes. And all in all, I like to think I've been doing OK.
Granted, when teaching graduate students, leading a class discussion is easy. These are students who know their material, who have completed the reading, and who really, and I mean, really, like the topic at hand. Why else would they be forking over thousands of dollars when they have already have one college degree gracing their walls?
Teaching an undergraduates can be much more of a challenge though. An instructor will generally face one of two problems. One, the students just don't care. They don't see the relevance of understanding the intricacies of measuring construct validity, it's ten in the morning, and the Alphas threw a rocking party the night before. Trying to start a class discussion with students like that is like pulling on taffy. Or, and this is the complete opposite, the students are dying to share their very personal opinion and accompanying anecdotes, in spite of not having read the assigned text, checking their Facebook status while you were lecturing, and whispering with their neighbor while you introduced the discussion topic.
So in recent years, having a class discussion has been painful. And today was no different. Even though I repeatedly told students they needed to "summarize, synthesize, and analyze", many of them felt that any comment that started with, "Well, I just think you're wrong.." was a valuable contribution.
It gets old.
Sometimes, I just let the class rant for a few minutes, and then reel them back in, closing the discussion. Other times, I try to steer their energy in a more academic discussion, and sometimes, I just tell them they need to think before they speak. A tactic that would probably have my old instructors frown. Frown very deeply. Today, however, I opted for a completely different tactic: I turned into a dictator.
You see, I'm all for class discussion. Positive, constructive, well-thought out class discussion. I don't care to hear people's opinions. And I especially don't care when people who have not read the text, did not pay attention in class, and whose current midterm grade hovers somewhere around a D, openly question whether the research I present is "true" using anecdotes from their personal life. Besides having obviously missed the discussion on "truth" and its non-existence in research, these students just get on my nerves. Especially when they proceed to interrupt me, and not listen to my counterarguments.
Today one student went to a whole new level when he accused me of not letting him finish an argument centered on his personal life that would undermine a specific, well-recognized theory, which he was now reiterating for the fourth time. It usually takes a lot to really tick me off, but this specific student managed to do it. And I wanted to really squash him, but you know, I can't. It's against the law and his parents would get upset. So instead I said:
"So, tell me, who gets paid for teaching here? Is that you, or me? Because I could have sworn I got a paycheck last month, but you know, I could be wrong."
Yeah. Not nice. Not good. Definitely not pedagogically sound. And definitely not what a mature professor should say. But you know what? I don't care. Not anymore. No more Dr. Nice. We are now no longer a democracy. My classroom is my kingdom, and I am the queen.
Although personally, I prefer "Dr. Dictator".
Do you think that means I get to collect 3000 pairs of shoes too?
Granted, when teaching graduate students, leading a class discussion is easy. These are students who know their material, who have completed the reading, and who really, and I mean, really, like the topic at hand. Why else would they be forking over thousands of dollars when they have already have one college degree gracing their walls?
Teaching an undergraduates can be much more of a challenge though. An instructor will generally face one of two problems. One, the students just don't care. They don't see the relevance of understanding the intricacies of measuring construct validity, it's ten in the morning, and the Alphas threw a rocking party the night before. Trying to start a class discussion with students like that is like pulling on taffy. Or, and this is the complete opposite, the students are dying to share their very personal opinion and accompanying anecdotes, in spite of not having read the assigned text, checking their Facebook status while you were lecturing, and whispering with their neighbor while you introduced the discussion topic.
So in recent years, having a class discussion has been painful. And today was no different. Even though I repeatedly told students they needed to "summarize, synthesize, and analyze", many of them felt that any comment that started with, "Well, I just think you're wrong.." was a valuable contribution.
It gets old.
Sometimes, I just let the class rant for a few minutes, and then reel them back in, closing the discussion. Other times, I try to steer their energy in a more academic discussion, and sometimes, I just tell them they need to think before they speak. A tactic that would probably have my old instructors frown. Frown very deeply. Today, however, I opted for a completely different tactic: I turned into a dictator.
You see, I'm all for class discussion. Positive, constructive, well-thought out class discussion. I don't care to hear people's opinions. And I especially don't care when people who have not read the text, did not pay attention in class, and whose current midterm grade hovers somewhere around a D, openly question whether the research I present is "true" using anecdotes from their personal life. Besides having obviously missed the discussion on "truth" and its non-existence in research, these students just get on my nerves. Especially when they proceed to interrupt me, and not listen to my counterarguments.
Today one student went to a whole new level when he accused me of not letting him finish an argument centered on his personal life that would undermine a specific, well-recognized theory, which he was now reiterating for the fourth time. It usually takes a lot to really tick me off, but this specific student managed to do it. And I wanted to really squash him, but you know, I can't. It's against the law and his parents would get upset. So instead I said:
"So, tell me, who gets paid for teaching here? Is that you, or me? Because I could have sworn I got a paycheck last month, but you know, I could be wrong."
Yeah. Not nice. Not good. Definitely not pedagogically sound. And definitely not what a mature professor should say. But you know what? I don't care. Not anymore. No more Dr. Nice. We are now no longer a democracy. My classroom is my kingdom, and I am the queen.
Although personally, I prefer "Dr. Dictator".
Do you think that means I get to collect 3000 pairs of shoes too?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
De Fietsende Llama
Vanochtend was het sinds December eindelijk zo ver: manlief en ik konden een lange fietstocht maken. Voor het eerst in weken lag er geen sneeuw, liep het kwik niet onder nul, en was er geen snijdende wind die koud genoeg was om de edele delen van een aap af te doen vriezen. Nee, vanochtend was het zo'n dertien graden, windstil, en het zonnetje scheen. Manlief en ik waren dus in onze nopjes.
Ik ben echter wel achter een groot nadeel van fietsen met lekker weer gekomen: alle honden langs onze route liggen ook weer buiten. Lagen deze harige viervoeters in de vrieskou van November en December nog binnen voor de open haard te ronken, nu was het blijkbaar warm genoeg voor hen om weer lekker buiten in de tuin rond te dartelen. Een tuin waar negen van de tien keer geen hek om heen zit. En een tuin die meestal aan de straat grenst. Waar manlief en ik op fietsen.
Uiteraard heb ik niks tegen honden. Ik vind het geweldige knuffelbeesten, en als het mij lag zouden we een huis vol hebben (nou ja, als het aan niet clean-freakige mij lag). Maar ik vind honden toch beduidend minder wanneer ik met zo'n twintig mijl per uur kom aanrijden, en de fiere viervoeters blij gelukkig bijna voor mijn fiets springen. Als ik met dertig mijl per uur een heuvel afsuis, en er komt dan zo'n klein monster uit een oprit gesuist, dan slaat mijn onvrede al snel om in een lichte vorm van hysterie. Er komt namelijk een keer een dag, dat beloof ik u, dat ik met fiets en al over de kop sla omdat een hijgende chihuaua niet doorheeft dat ik niet op een dubbeltje stil kan staan.
Nu moet u weten dan onze hele county een "leash law"heeft, wat zoveel inhoudt als dat mensen hun hond, jawel, aan de lijn moeten houden. Alleen moet u ook weten dat het overgrote deel van onze county uit backroads and boonies bestaat, en dat geen hond (sorry) daar iets zal eggen van een loslopende, ahum, hond. Veel mensen hebben zelfs meerdere honden (gezellig!), en laten die soms dag en nacht buiten rond struinen als een soort beveiliging slash ongediertebestrijding slash methode om hun huis schoon te houden. Dus als fietser heb je gewoon pech gehad.
Nu heeft onze lokale fietswinkel een geweldig product voor precies dit soort problemen. Het heet "dog off", of zoiets onschuldigs, en is een mengsel van citroenwater dat in een klein spuitbusje zit. De bedoeling is dat je het in de ogen van de hond spuit, die dan spontaan denkt dat-ie doodgaat, en dus subiet ophoudt met jou, en je fiets, te achtervolgen. Ik heb het vorig jaar, na een hartverlammend incident met de poedel van een paar straten verderop gekocht, maar eigenlijk nog nooit gebruikt. Weet u, ik vind het namelijk zielig. Nu is het dat helemaal niet (in ieder geval volgens onze lokale shelter-mevrouw), want de hond merkt het na een paar minuten al niet meer, maar toch. Ik vind het gewoon niet aardig. Daarbij komt het probleem dat je dat spul echt niet op je eigen gezicht wil krijgen, en sja, om nou eerst de windrichting te meten, en dan pas de hond te grazen te nemen, dat is ook zo wat. En daarbij, ik vergeet dat ding altijd.
Dus het was tijd voor een nieuwe oplossing. En laten we die vandaag nou eens ontdekt hebben. Spuug.
Ja, serieus, gewoon spugen. Naar de hond. Ze schrikken zich helemaal te pletter, en gaan daarna zoeken waar je spuug terecht is gekomen zodat ze dat fijn kunnen besnuffelen, terwijl jij als fietser lekker door kan peddelen. Ideaal.
Vandaag heb ik dus op alle honden gespuugd. Ik schat dat ik zo'n vijftien keer "getuft"heb, op een ritje van 25 mijl. Persoonlijk heb ik volgens mij in heel mijn leven bij elkaar nog niet eens vijftien keer gespuugd, maar goed. Dat record is nu dus wel verbroken. En zo ook mijn imago van net meisje. Ik ben in feite een llama op een fiets geworden. Trap, trap, trap, hond, spuug, trap, trap, trap, trap, hond, spuug, hond, spuug, spuug. Ranzig, maar het werkt. Misschien moet ik dat maar eens in een potje stoppen en op de markt brengen. Wie weet.
Ik ben echter wel achter een groot nadeel van fietsen met lekker weer gekomen: alle honden langs onze route liggen ook weer buiten. Lagen deze harige viervoeters in de vrieskou van November en December nog binnen voor de open haard te ronken, nu was het blijkbaar warm genoeg voor hen om weer lekker buiten in de tuin rond te dartelen. Een tuin waar negen van de tien keer geen hek om heen zit. En een tuin die meestal aan de straat grenst. Waar manlief en ik op fietsen.
Uiteraard heb ik niks tegen honden. Ik vind het geweldige knuffelbeesten, en als het mij lag zouden we een huis vol hebben (nou ja, als het aan niet clean-freakige mij lag). Maar ik vind honden toch beduidend minder wanneer ik met zo'n twintig mijl per uur kom aanrijden, en de fiere viervoeters blij gelukkig bijna voor mijn fiets springen. Als ik met dertig mijl per uur een heuvel afsuis, en er komt dan zo'n klein monster uit een oprit gesuist, dan slaat mijn onvrede al snel om in een lichte vorm van hysterie. Er komt namelijk een keer een dag, dat beloof ik u, dat ik met fiets en al over de kop sla omdat een hijgende chihuaua niet doorheeft dat ik niet op een dubbeltje stil kan staan.
Nu moet u weten dan onze hele county een "leash law"heeft, wat zoveel inhoudt als dat mensen hun hond, jawel, aan de lijn moeten houden. Alleen moet u ook weten dat het overgrote deel van onze county uit backroads and boonies bestaat, en dat geen hond (sorry) daar iets zal eggen van een loslopende, ahum, hond. Veel mensen hebben zelfs meerdere honden (gezellig!), en laten die soms dag en nacht buiten rond struinen als een soort beveiliging slash ongediertebestrijding slash methode om hun huis schoon te houden. Dus als fietser heb je gewoon pech gehad.
Nu heeft onze lokale fietswinkel een geweldig product voor precies dit soort problemen. Het heet "dog off", of zoiets onschuldigs, en is een mengsel van citroenwater dat in een klein spuitbusje zit. De bedoeling is dat je het in de ogen van de hond spuit, die dan spontaan denkt dat-ie doodgaat, en dus subiet ophoudt met jou, en je fiets, te achtervolgen. Ik heb het vorig jaar, na een hartverlammend incident met de poedel van een paar straten verderop gekocht, maar eigenlijk nog nooit gebruikt. Weet u, ik vind het namelijk zielig. Nu is het dat helemaal niet (in ieder geval volgens onze lokale shelter-mevrouw), want de hond merkt het na een paar minuten al niet meer, maar toch. Ik vind het gewoon niet aardig. Daarbij komt het probleem dat je dat spul echt niet op je eigen gezicht wil krijgen, en sja, om nou eerst de windrichting te meten, en dan pas de hond te grazen te nemen, dat is ook zo wat. En daarbij, ik vergeet dat ding altijd.
Dus het was tijd voor een nieuwe oplossing. En laten we die vandaag nou eens ontdekt hebben. Spuug.
Ja, serieus, gewoon spugen. Naar de hond. Ze schrikken zich helemaal te pletter, en gaan daarna zoeken waar je spuug terecht is gekomen zodat ze dat fijn kunnen besnuffelen, terwijl jij als fietser lekker door kan peddelen. Ideaal.
Vandaag heb ik dus op alle honden gespuugd. Ik schat dat ik zo'n vijftien keer "getuft"heb, op een ritje van 25 mijl. Persoonlijk heb ik volgens mij in heel mijn leven bij elkaar nog niet eens vijftien keer gespuugd, maar goed. Dat record is nu dus wel verbroken. En zo ook mijn imago van net meisje. Ik ben in feite een llama op een fiets geworden. Trap, trap, trap, hond, spuug, trap, trap, trap, trap, hond, spuug, hond, spuug, spuug. Ranzig, maar het werkt. Misschien moet ik dat maar eens in een potje stoppen en op de markt brengen. Wie weet.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Climatology
Besides being really kind of In-Your-Face, the weather here is also expensive. There is of course the ridiculous expenses of running your AC from about May to September, but there are also a multitude of hidden costs that I had never really considered before moving here. Take our siding for instance.
For those Dutch readers who just went "si-what?", siding is the stuff that goes on the side of your house. Very practical term, pretty much on a par with quarter rounds. Anyway. no matter what type of siding you have, it's a guarantee that its color will fade. At least on whichever part of your house gets hit by sunlight. And it will fade fast. I mean, we're talking a new coat of paint at least every five to ten years. That is if you have wood, like we do. If you're the (un) lucky owner (opinions are divided on this one) of a house with vinyl siding, the fading may take a little longer, but in the end, the sun will win, and you will be putting new siding on your house, unless, of course, you revel in being the neighborhood pariah with faded trim and discolored wood.
But if that was it, it wouldn't be too bad. I mean, I like painting, I can so do our house, I'm not worried about it. But you see, that's not it. Because next to being ridiculously sunny and bright pretty much all year round, Georgia is also really humid, and moist, and wet. And there is nothing sexy about it either. Because not only does this mean that hanging laundry outside to dry will do little to accomplish that feat, it also means that the sides of your house that get little or no sun grow moldy really quickly. And I mean really moldy. Moldy as in people who don't clean it off on a regular basis are bigger pariahs than people who don't paint their siding every so often. Nothing will bring a house value down faster than a nasty-looking house down the street.
Now how does one get rid of said mold? Well, you powerwash your house. That is really not the problem. The problem lies in how often do you have to do that. Because if you don't like your house looking like a showercurtain in a male dorm, about once a year. And guess when you have to do this? Not in the summer, when five minutes outdoors will give you a heat stroke, no you get to play with ice cold water in the winter! Life is fun! So this winter, we powerwashed our house for the first time. And it scored very low on Dixiechick's scale of fun activities. The water is freezing. The jet is so powerful, it will take the skin off your legs (accidental experimental testing confirmed this finding as significant), and cleaning all the nooks and crannies around your various dormers and porches means you spend about three hours practicing a wide array of yoga poses on a ten-foot ladder.
But as far as money goes, powerwashing isn't too bad. Just recently, I discovered the real kicker: our blinds. The blinds on the front of the house look as good as new. Granted, they're the twenty dollar kind from Walmart (I think), but, they could pass for the fifty dollar kind, if you know what I mean. However, the blinds in the back are a disgrace. The sun beats down on them every single day, and in the past eighteen months, they have just started to disintegrate. It starts with a small crack. Then a piece will break off, then another piece, and before you know it, your blinds aren't really blind as much as they are one-eyed freaks. The upside is that I've been wanting new blinds since we moved. I want those blinds with the really wide slats. But do I really want to spend hundreds of dollars on something that is going to be cracking (and fading) within a few years? And I know I could get wooden blinds. In fact, that would be a far more practical thing to do; they're easier to clean, they don't break and crack as easily, and they look nice. But you know, if we get those, we may have to tell one of our kids that they won't be getting a meal plan when they go to college. Seriously. Therefore, so far, I've been taping the slats back together. Yes. DixieChick spends considerable amounts of time cutting off tiny pieces of tape just big enough to tape the missing pieces back together so no one can see it.
I know. Who in their right spends all that time taping up fifteen dollar blinds? Apparently, only I do. It's silly, I know. But I just have a real problem spending money on new blinds if the old ones would have been fine if it weren't for the sun beating down on them all. day. long.
So, I'm telling you, hot weather is expensive. And dangerous too.
For those Dutch readers who just went "si-what?", siding is the stuff that goes on the side of your house. Very practical term, pretty much on a par with quarter rounds. Anyway. no matter what type of siding you have, it's a guarantee that its color will fade. At least on whichever part of your house gets hit by sunlight. And it will fade fast. I mean, we're talking a new coat of paint at least every five to ten years. That is if you have wood, like we do. If you're the (un) lucky owner (opinions are divided on this one) of a house with vinyl siding, the fading may take a little longer, but in the end, the sun will win, and you will be putting new siding on your house, unless, of course, you revel in being the neighborhood pariah with faded trim and discolored wood.
But if that was it, it wouldn't be too bad. I mean, I like painting, I can so do our house, I'm not worried about it. But you see, that's not it. Because next to being ridiculously sunny and bright pretty much all year round, Georgia is also really humid, and moist, and wet. And there is nothing sexy about it either. Because not only does this mean that hanging laundry outside to dry will do little to accomplish that feat, it also means that the sides of your house that get little or no sun grow moldy really quickly. And I mean really moldy. Moldy as in people who don't clean it off on a regular basis are bigger pariahs than people who don't paint their siding every so often. Nothing will bring a house value down faster than a nasty-looking house down the street.
Now how does one get rid of said mold? Well, you powerwash your house. That is really not the problem. The problem lies in how often do you have to do that. Because if you don't like your house looking like a showercurtain in a male dorm, about once a year. And guess when you have to do this? Not in the summer, when five minutes outdoors will give you a heat stroke, no you get to play with ice cold water in the winter! Life is fun! So this winter, we powerwashed our house for the first time. And it scored very low on Dixiechick's scale of fun activities. The water is freezing. The jet is so powerful, it will take the skin off your legs (accidental experimental testing confirmed this finding as significant), and cleaning all the nooks and crannies around your various dormers and porches means you spend about three hours practicing a wide array of yoga poses on a ten-foot ladder.
But as far as money goes, powerwashing isn't too bad. Just recently, I discovered the real kicker: our blinds. The blinds on the front of the house look as good as new. Granted, they're the twenty dollar kind from Walmart (I think), but, they could pass for the fifty dollar kind, if you know what I mean. However, the blinds in the back are a disgrace. The sun beats down on them every single day, and in the past eighteen months, they have just started to disintegrate. It starts with a small crack. Then a piece will break off, then another piece, and before you know it, your blinds aren't really blind as much as they are one-eyed freaks. The upside is that I've been wanting new blinds since we moved. I want those blinds with the really wide slats. But do I really want to spend hundreds of dollars on something that is going to be cracking (and fading) within a few years? And I know I could get wooden blinds. In fact, that would be a far more practical thing to do; they're easier to clean, they don't break and crack as easily, and they look nice. But you know, if we get those, we may have to tell one of our kids that they won't be getting a meal plan when they go to college. Seriously. Therefore, so far, I've been taping the slats back together. Yes. DixieChick spends considerable amounts of time cutting off tiny pieces of tape just big enough to tape the missing pieces back together so no one can see it.
I know. Who in their right spends all that time taping up fifteen dollar blinds? Apparently, only I do. It's silly, I know. But I just have a real problem spending money on new blinds if the old ones would have been fine if it weren't for the sun beating down on them all. day. long.
So, I'm telling you, hot weather is expensive. And dangerous too.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The second amendment
When you sit and think about it, it's amazing that I've managed to live in the US this long, and never once write about that much-contested second amendment: "The right to keep and bear arms". For those of you in Europe, that debate might seem to center on gun-toting anarchists in northern Montana and statements like "From my dead, cold hands" by has-been celebrities, but let me tell you, it's a lot more than that.
When living in Europe, it's really easy to take the stand that normal people really don't have a reason to keep guns in their home. And you know, for Europe, that makes a lot of sense. After all, Europe is not really known for its wild bear population, its rabid foxes, wild coyotes, poisonous snakes, snapping turtles, or any other wild animal that could possibly threaten your life. So when I first walked into my in-laws home, and was shown their impressive collection of shotguns, to say I was a little taken aback, would be an understatement. That soon changed, however, when a snapping turtle appeared in the family pond, the same pond where our boys fish, play around in their canoe, and build sandcastles. Since we like our children with all their hands, feet, and all other body parts intact, husband-dear and I ended up standing guard on the dock with a shotgun for about half a day, waiting for the beast to reappear. It did, and we are fairly certain that husband-dear sent it to the eternal marshlands in the sky. It sounds very cruel, but when it's between a wild animal and my kids, you know, the kids, even though they can be a huge pain, well, they win out.
So when we moved to Georgia, my view on guns had softened a little bit. I still really don't like the idea of people keeping guns in their suburban home, but I am beginning to understand it a little better. Like when my friend Kay told me they kept a shotgun in their bedroom for when her husband deploys. They don't have any ammo, never have, and last time I checked, they're not ever sure what kind of bullets their gun takes, but Kay likes the idea of having something to scare off potential intruders while her husband is away and her kids are asleep in the next room. Since my brother and I used to both have a baseball bat under our beds for when our parents were out of town, I can see where she's coming from.
It's become a fact of life that when you walk into any Walmart, you will see rows upon rows of guns next to the camping gear and outdoor sporting equipment. I no longer raise an eyebrow when I help someone move and find a box of ammunition in their closet. Again, think about the baseball bats / hockey sticks Dutch people might hide under their beds. And signs by the side of the road upon entering campus, reminding people that this is a gun-free zone no longer send me into a tizz about gun laws in general, but merely make me realize that with our students' propensity to totally lose their cool, that is probably a great idea.
But sometimes gun laws lead to interesting dilemmas. This morning I heard about a specific story in GPB that had me laughing all the way down the interstate. You see, in Georgia, you are allowed to carry a gun on your person if you have a permit. However, the Atlanta airport has outlawed any guns on airport property. That makes sense to me, you know, keeping within the whole "let's keep our country safe" paradigm. But apparently it doesn't to everyone, because one of the state senators introduced a bill to lift this ban. And the reason I found this bill so interesting was because of the reasoning behind it. You see, according to Senator Shafer on GPB, this bill would "make clear that you can pick someone up from the airport without having to toss your gun onto I-285 as you exit". You can't beat that logic, now can you?
Well, of course you can. I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but don't most people plan to pick someone up from the airport? And when they do, they can plan to leave their gun at home? I personally can't think of too many "airport-pick-up-emergencies" that would warrant such a law. And even in that case, I'm sure that too can be fixed: "Honey, I totally forgot your mother is coming to town, I'm driving to the airport now to go get her. Can you meet me at the Exxon on I-75 to get my gun?". Or "Honey, I totally forgot your sister is coming to town, but I have my gun in my car, can you call her and tell her to walk down the ramp to I-85, and I will pick her up right by junction 22?"
Obviously, I've never faced this problem, and never will, so perhaps I'm underestimating the predicament millions of Georgians face every year. But all I really have to say about that is that legalizing guns might make sense, but it sure leads to some interesting dilemmas.
When living in Europe, it's really easy to take the stand that normal people really don't have a reason to keep guns in their home. And you know, for Europe, that makes a lot of sense. After all, Europe is not really known for its wild bear population, its rabid foxes, wild coyotes, poisonous snakes, snapping turtles, or any other wild animal that could possibly threaten your life. So when I first walked into my in-laws home, and was shown their impressive collection of shotguns, to say I was a little taken aback, would be an understatement. That soon changed, however, when a snapping turtle appeared in the family pond, the same pond where our boys fish, play around in their canoe, and build sandcastles. Since we like our children with all their hands, feet, and all other body parts intact, husband-dear and I ended up standing guard on the dock with a shotgun for about half a day, waiting for the beast to reappear. It did, and we are fairly certain that husband-dear sent it to the eternal marshlands in the sky. It sounds very cruel, but when it's between a wild animal and my kids, you know, the kids, even though they can be a huge pain, well, they win out.
So when we moved to Georgia, my view on guns had softened a little bit. I still really don't like the idea of people keeping guns in their suburban home, but I am beginning to understand it a little better. Like when my friend Kay told me they kept a shotgun in their bedroom for when her husband deploys. They don't have any ammo, never have, and last time I checked, they're not ever sure what kind of bullets their gun takes, but Kay likes the idea of having something to scare off potential intruders while her husband is away and her kids are asleep in the next room. Since my brother and I used to both have a baseball bat under our beds for when our parents were out of town, I can see where she's coming from.
It's become a fact of life that when you walk into any Walmart, you will see rows upon rows of guns next to the camping gear and outdoor sporting equipment. I no longer raise an eyebrow when I help someone move and find a box of ammunition in their closet. Again, think about the baseball bats / hockey sticks Dutch people might hide under their beds. And signs by the side of the road upon entering campus, reminding people that this is a gun-free zone no longer send me into a tizz about gun laws in general, but merely make me realize that with our students' propensity to totally lose their cool, that is probably a great idea.
But sometimes gun laws lead to interesting dilemmas. This morning I heard about a specific story in GPB that had me laughing all the way down the interstate. You see, in Georgia, you are allowed to carry a gun on your person if you have a permit. However, the Atlanta airport has outlawed any guns on airport property. That makes sense to me, you know, keeping within the whole "let's keep our country safe" paradigm. But apparently it doesn't to everyone, because one of the state senators introduced a bill to lift this ban. And the reason I found this bill so interesting was because of the reasoning behind it. You see, according to Senator Shafer on GPB, this bill would "make clear that you can pick someone up from the airport without having to toss your gun onto I-285 as you exit". You can't beat that logic, now can you?
Well, of course you can. I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but don't most people plan to pick someone up from the airport? And when they do, they can plan to leave their gun at home? I personally can't think of too many "airport-pick-up-emergencies" that would warrant such a law. And even in that case, I'm sure that too can be fixed: "Honey, I totally forgot your mother is coming to town, I'm driving to the airport now to go get her. Can you meet me at the Exxon on I-75 to get my gun?". Or "Honey, I totally forgot your sister is coming to town, but I have my gun in my car, can you call her and tell her to walk down the ramp to I-85, and I will pick her up right by junction 22?"
Obviously, I've never faced this problem, and never will, so perhaps I'm underestimating the predicament millions of Georgians face every year. But all I really have to say about that is that legalizing guns might make sense, but it sure leads to some interesting dilemmas.
Monday, February 15, 2010
It's a kind of magic
Last year, when our town was blanketed with a pretty layer of white snowflakes, all the locals assured me that this was not normal. In fact, this was so rare, they assured me, that it had not happened in ten years, and this snowfall was enough to ensure another ten nice winters. Well, I hate to say this, but they were wrong. Really wrong. Wrong as in, on Friday we received about three inches of snow, and on Saturday morning I didn't drive to base as much as I slid there.
Now, look, I know that half of you have been buried in the white stuff up to your shoulders since about December 1. In fact, I'm pretty sure that many of you haven't been properly dry or warm since Christmas. And so our measly three inches pales in comparison to your arctic experience. I recognize and acknowledge all of that. I do. Really. I used to live in New England, I know snow and how much it can suck. However, having said all of that, I would like to point out that we live in a subtropical climate. We have 100 degree summers, and think nothing of it! We have palmtrees in our front yard! A special Georgia-summer-proof-type of grass that dies in the winter! We are used to spending Christmas Day on our back porch and Valentine's Day eating chocolate while laying on our porch swing! Snow simply does not fit into our idea of winter. So this past weekend was a real shocker. Stores closed early, and did not open until well into the afternoon on Saturday, which although it really affected my ability to run my errands on Saturday morning, and did have me wondering about the level of ballsiness of the locals, is perfectly understandable. I mean, these are people who have never seen snow like that before in their life.
And in light of all of that, I couldn't resist but take some pictures of the crazy winter wonderland that was our town. All the snow was gone by Sunday morning, the snowmen made by the neighborhood kids were reduced to tiny little lumps with scarves, buttons, and sticks laying on the ground, and our backyard has now truly turned into a mudpuddle, but we for a few short days, we felt part of the snowmagaddon too.
The front- and backyard. It started snowing about 2pm, and didn't stop until about ten at night. The dogs thought the snow was absolutely wonderful. The odd-looking round patch in the back corner is where the pool sat during the summer. We planted rye grass there which remains green all year round, thus leaving our backyard with something that can be best described as a crop circle.
Our new buckeye tree all covered in snow.
And a little video of the snow coming down at around four. It's amazing to think that in a few months I'll be floating around in my mini-pool, lamenting the heat!
Now, look, I know that half of you have been buried in the white stuff up to your shoulders since about December 1. In fact, I'm pretty sure that many of you haven't been properly dry or warm since Christmas. And so our measly three inches pales in comparison to your arctic experience. I recognize and acknowledge all of that. I do. Really. I used to live in New England, I know snow and how much it can suck. However, having said all of that, I would like to point out that we live in a subtropical climate. We have 100 degree summers, and think nothing of it! We have palmtrees in our front yard! A special Georgia-summer-proof-type of grass that dies in the winter! We are used to spending Christmas Day on our back porch and Valentine's Day eating chocolate while laying on our porch swing! Snow simply does not fit into our idea of winter. So this past weekend was a real shocker. Stores closed early, and did not open until well into the afternoon on Saturday, which although it really affected my ability to run my errands on Saturday morning, and did have me wondering about the level of ballsiness of the locals, is perfectly understandable. I mean, these are people who have never seen snow like that before in their life.
And in light of all of that, I couldn't resist but take some pictures of the crazy winter wonderland that was our town. All the snow was gone by Sunday morning, the snowmen made by the neighborhood kids were reduced to tiny little lumps with scarves, buttons, and sticks laying on the ground, and our backyard has now truly turned into a mudpuddle, but we for a few short days, we felt part of the snowmagaddon too.
The front- and backyard. It started snowing about 2pm, and didn't stop until about ten at night. The dogs thought the snow was absolutely wonderful. The odd-looking round patch in the back corner is where the pool sat during the summer. We planted rye grass there which remains green all year round, thus leaving our backyard with something that can be best described as a crop circle.
Our new buckeye tree all covered in snow.
And a little video of the snow coming down at around four. It's amazing to think that in a few months I'll be floating around in my mini-pool, lamenting the heat!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Electricity woes
You may remember my lament about the DMV and their odd rules and behavior. Just in case you don't, or can't read Dutch - I believe I accused them of possibly being the most unfriendly bureaucracy in this entire nation. If I remember correctly, my main problem with them was their demand for a marriage certificate every time I renew my license. For some reason, they refuse to believe that a) I am who I say I am, and b) I am a legal alien without seeing a worn piece of paper that not only contains nothing but my maiden name, but is also written in Danish. I'm still not sure how this works, since they also require about three other pieces of evidence, including my passport and my green card, but I've learned to shut up and smile.
As of yesterday, however, the local DMV will be happy to know that they are no longer the sole winners of my "Nuttier than squierrel poo" award, but that they are now forced to share it with our local electricity company. The DMV still hols the "most unfriendly service" trophee, but as far as odd demands, the electric company is right up there with them.
Allow me to bracktrack for a moment here. The reason all this started in the first place is because the electric bill is in my husband's name only. It's nothing personal, but really the result of practicality more than anyting else. He was at work when I took care of the water company, hence the water bill is in my name, and I believe I was on the phone with TMO about our shipment when husband-dear called the cable company, so our cable bill is in his name. And I'm pretty sure something similar happened with our electric company. For most of our utilities, this poses no problem at all because they have actually thought about their company from the customer's perspective, and provide you with a pin. So if our internet is down and husband-dear is away, I can just call Cox and give them our pin number. It works the same with the water company too - all they want is some of personal information, and they're good to go. Unfortunately, our local electric company ("a co-op for the people, by the people, of the people!") has apparently not gotten that far yet. Unless you are the person on the bill, there is no point in calling. It does not matter where that person is, or what he is doing, or that you can give them every piece of personal information about that person that they could ever want ("Hat size? Got it!") or that your electricity has been out for hours and you're about to boil, they will not speak to you. It's a pain.
So instead of me berating the electric company every time I have to call them, or trying to con them into believing that yes, I am a male, we decided to tackle the system from within, and have me added to the bill. Husband-dear called the company, and was told all he had to do was show up, with me, at their office downtown between 8am and 5pm.
Although I could go on and on about why companies serving people insist on only doing that while said people are at work too, I won't. And although we called in the first week of January, it wasn't until yesterday that both husband-dear and I managed to leave work early, and show up at their office a little before five. And this is where the fun begins.
Husband-dear: "We're here to add my wife to our electricity bill."
Lady: "OK, can I see your ID"
Lady: "I'm also going to need to see your marriage license"
Husband-dear: "Really?"
Lady: "Yes."
Me: "Why?"
Lady: "To see if you are married"
Me: "Yes, I see that. But what if we weren't married?"
Lady: "Then he wouldn't be able to add you to his bill."
Me: "Wow" (while biting back entire diatribe about antiquated laws and normative government)
Lady: "So, your marriage certificate"
Husband-dear: "When I called about this, no one told us we had to bring that with us, so I don' thave that with me."
Lady: "Well, I'm sorry, I can't process your request."
Now for those who have met husband-dear personally, you know that that is absolutely the wrong thing to say to him. He may be a government employee, technically speaking, but this man is. all. about. customer. service. So at this point he adopts the voice he uses for stubborn airmen and children, and says, "Yes, and I understand that, however, I was not informed of that requirement. Had I been, I would have been able to comply. But I was not, and therefore I recommend we look into fixing this in a way that this company's mistake does not become my problem."
He went on, "My wife has a military dependent ID and a green card, both of which prove that she in fact married to me. We have driver's licenses that carry the same address. Could you work with those instead of making us take more time off to come into your office again?"
Can I just say that it's moments like these that make me like him even more?
Of course, this company would not have earned first place in the "Kafkaesque bureacracy" category if the lady would have accepted my military ID. Because she didn't. But I believe that she might have been just a touch intimidated by husband-dear, as she agreed to accept a faxed copy of our marriage certificate.
If all went well, as of 8am this morning, I have been added to our electric bill. I think. I hope.
As of yesterday, however, the local DMV will be happy to know that they are no longer the sole winners of my "Nuttier than squierrel poo" award, but that they are now forced to share it with our local electricity company. The DMV still hols the "most unfriendly service" trophee, but as far as odd demands, the electric company is right up there with them.
Allow me to bracktrack for a moment here. The reason all this started in the first place is because the electric bill is in my husband's name only. It's nothing personal, but really the result of practicality more than anyting else. He was at work when I took care of the water company, hence the water bill is in my name, and I believe I was on the phone with TMO about our shipment when husband-dear called the cable company, so our cable bill is in his name. And I'm pretty sure something similar happened with our electric company. For most of our utilities, this poses no problem at all because they have actually thought about their company from the customer's perspective, and provide you with a pin. So if our internet is down and husband-dear is away, I can just call Cox and give them our pin number. It works the same with the water company too - all they want is some of personal information, and they're good to go. Unfortunately, our local electric company ("a co-op for the people, by the people, of the people!") has apparently not gotten that far yet. Unless you are the person on the bill, there is no point in calling. It does not matter where that person is, or what he is doing, or that you can give them every piece of personal information about that person that they could ever want ("Hat size? Got it!") or that your electricity has been out for hours and you're about to boil, they will not speak to you. It's a pain.
So instead of me berating the electric company every time I have to call them, or trying to con them into believing that yes, I am a male, we decided to tackle the system from within, and have me added to the bill. Husband-dear called the company, and was told all he had to do was show up, with me, at their office downtown between 8am and 5pm.
Although I could go on and on about why companies serving people insist on only doing that while said people are at work too, I won't. And although we called in the first week of January, it wasn't until yesterday that both husband-dear and I managed to leave work early, and show up at their office a little before five. And this is where the fun begins.
Husband-dear: "We're here to add my wife to our electricity bill."
Lady: "OK, can I see your ID"
Lady: "I'm also going to need to see your marriage license"
Husband-dear: "Really?"
Lady: "Yes."
Me: "Why?"
Lady: "To see if you are married"
Me: "Yes, I see that. But what if we weren't married?"
Lady: "Then he wouldn't be able to add you to his bill."
Me: "Wow" (while biting back entire diatribe about antiquated laws and normative government)
Lady: "So, your marriage certificate"
Husband-dear: "When I called about this, no one told us we had to bring that with us, so I don' thave that with me."
Lady: "Well, I'm sorry, I can't process your request."
Now for those who have met husband-dear personally, you know that that is absolutely the wrong thing to say to him. He may be a government employee, technically speaking, but this man is. all. about. customer. service. So at this point he adopts the voice he uses for stubborn airmen and children, and says, "Yes, and I understand that, however, I was not informed of that requirement. Had I been, I would have been able to comply. But I was not, and therefore I recommend we look into fixing this in a way that this company's mistake does not become my problem."
He went on, "My wife has a military dependent ID and a green card, both of which prove that she in fact married to me. We have driver's licenses that carry the same address. Could you work with those instead of making us take more time off to come into your office again?"
Can I just say that it's moments like these that make me like him even more?
Of course, this company would not have earned first place in the "Kafkaesque bureacracy" category if the lady would have accepted my military ID. Because she didn't. But I believe that she might have been just a touch intimidated by husband-dear, as she agreed to accept a faxed copy of our marriage certificate.
If all went well, as of 8am this morning, I have been added to our electric bill. I think. I hope.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Shoes galore!
I know, I know, I know. This whole "the blogging week starts on Wednesday" needs to stop. I know. Trust me, I do. But you see, and yes, here comes the whining, I've just been so busy! And so tired! And (to stay in the tween-girl-whining-mode) I barely have time to think, let alone blog! My life is so crazy, you just don't understand! There's so much to do!
Besides having obviously spent way too much time among my adorable, but queens-of-whining- students, I do think I have taken fatigue to a whole new level. The past few mornings I have been unable to stir when my alarm goes off, and this morning, not even husband-dear's cold wet hand shoved under my shirt unto my warm back was enough to get me up. In fact, this morning it took him prancing around the bedroom imitating a one-man marching band, and flickering the lights on and off for me to slide myself out of bed. Hey, it may sound ridiculous, but he thought it was hilarious, the dogs were excited, and it woke me up.
As I dragged myself into our walk-in closet, lamenting once again that I did not know what to wear! And that it was unfair that I had to dress up every day! And that I really needed to iron my shirts! And that it was unfair that I had to dress up in uncomfortable hose and blazers -and- spend hours ironing! And that one day I will honestly show up in jeans! Well, while I was doing all that, I happened to look at my shoeboxes. And just looking at them made me happy to be here.
You should probably know that I don't like messy closets. Well, I don't really like messy anythings, but my clothes are on a special level. Trust me, if you had to get dressed up the way I do every morning at five, you would feel the same way. Now when I lived in Holland and had to make do with a tiny narrow standalone closet, there was little I could do. I had my turtlenecks rolled up into little piles, my shirts were bunched together so tightly I had to pull at least ten out to get to the one I wanted, and my pants were stacked three deep. But once I acquired a roomy American walk-in closet, all that came to and end. There is no more digging through full drying racks for me anymore. Everything is either folded or hung up where I can see it. I even have all my blazers hanging together, all my dress shirts are in the same corner, and I have three shelves for pants: one for dresspants, one for jeans and less formal pants, and one for capris and shorts. Now the same sort of organizational skill (or freakiness, if you will) has been applied to my shoes. I got so tired of having shoes sit on top of either shoes, scuffing and denting each other, that once I acquired said American walk-in closet, I started to organize my shoes using the shoeboxes they came in. It's practical, it looks nice, and I can usually always find what I want, providing I remember to not put my pumps in the box that usually houses my sandals.
So this morning, as I was griping and complaining about the early hour, the lack of ironed shirts, and life in general, I noticed the price tags on some of my shoeboxes. Did you know that I own a pair of black pumps, purchased in Europe, which cost me 99 euros?! Yes, 99 euros! (Steve, that's about $150, give or take a few dollars). I'm sure all of my Dutch readers are shrugging at this point, saying, "And your point is...?", and they may even be wondering what sale I got them at, or how long ago I purchased them. But you see, right next to that box, was a box from DSW, which holds very similar black pumps, only its pricetag read $34. The only two shoeboxes that were remotely similar in price were those containing my running shoes, and now that I think about it, the only reason they looked similar is because one said 129.99 euro, and the other box read $119.99. Hmm..I'm telling you, it feels really good to live in a country where I can buy a pair of shoes, have them last for years and years and years, and still have enough money left over for groceries. Long live shoes!
Besides having obviously spent way too much time among my adorable, but queens-of-whining- students, I do think I have taken fatigue to a whole new level. The past few mornings I have been unable to stir when my alarm goes off, and this morning, not even husband-dear's cold wet hand shoved under my shirt unto my warm back was enough to get me up. In fact, this morning it took him prancing around the bedroom imitating a one-man marching band, and flickering the lights on and off for me to slide myself out of bed. Hey, it may sound ridiculous, but he thought it was hilarious, the dogs were excited, and it woke me up.
As I dragged myself into our walk-in closet, lamenting once again that I did not know what to wear! And that it was unfair that I had to dress up every day! And that I really needed to iron my shirts! And that it was unfair that I had to dress up in uncomfortable hose and blazers -and- spend hours ironing! And that one day I will honestly show up in jeans! Well, while I was doing all that, I happened to look at my shoeboxes. And just looking at them made me happy to be here.
You should probably know that I don't like messy closets. Well, I don't really like messy anythings, but my clothes are on a special level. Trust me, if you had to get dressed up the way I do every morning at five, you would feel the same way. Now when I lived in Holland and had to make do with a tiny narrow standalone closet, there was little I could do. I had my turtlenecks rolled up into little piles, my shirts were bunched together so tightly I had to pull at least ten out to get to the one I wanted, and my pants were stacked three deep. But once I acquired a roomy American walk-in closet, all that came to and end. There is no more digging through full drying racks for me anymore. Everything is either folded or hung up where I can see it. I even have all my blazers hanging together, all my dress shirts are in the same corner, and I have three shelves for pants: one for dresspants, one for jeans and less formal pants, and one for capris and shorts. Now the same sort of organizational skill (or freakiness, if you will) has been applied to my shoes. I got so tired of having shoes sit on top of either shoes, scuffing and denting each other, that once I acquired said American walk-in closet, I started to organize my shoes using the shoeboxes they came in. It's practical, it looks nice, and I can usually always find what I want, providing I remember to not put my pumps in the box that usually houses my sandals.
So this morning, as I was griping and complaining about the early hour, the lack of ironed shirts, and life in general, I noticed the price tags on some of my shoeboxes. Did you know that I own a pair of black pumps, purchased in Europe, which cost me 99 euros?! Yes, 99 euros! (Steve, that's about $150, give or take a few dollars). I'm sure all of my Dutch readers are shrugging at this point, saying, "And your point is...?", and they may even be wondering what sale I got them at, or how long ago I purchased them. But you see, right next to that box, was a box from DSW, which holds very similar black pumps, only its pricetag read $34. The only two shoeboxes that were remotely similar in price were those containing my running shoes, and now that I think about it, the only reason they looked similar is because one said 129.99 euro, and the other box read $119.99. Hmm..I'm telling you, it feels really good to live in a country where I can buy a pair of shoes, have them last for years and years and years, and still have enough money left over for groceries. Long live shoes!
Friday, February 5, 2010
On automatic transmissions and the key fairy
So while on Wednesday I was blogging about how I thought I was starting to assimilate beyond the point of no return, today I was reminded once again how maybe it's not that bad. And how, if nothing else fails, I always manage to at least crack myself up.
As you may know, most American drive cars with automatic transmission. True, not all Americans do, but the vast majority haven't shifted a stick in years, and some of them aren't even sure what to do with that third pedal. Now although I don't mind driving an automatic, I really do prefer speeding around in a stick shift. There is just something incredibly cool about playing with the gears in your car, racing away at stoplights, and freaking out the people behind you by slowing down from 50mph to 35mph without hitting your brakes once. So when we sold my Volkswagen (a standard, mind you) right before we left Germany, I reminded my husband that I wanted nothing other than a stick shift when we got to Georgia. And that is exactly what I got. The fact that they had to drive the car in from Savannah and I thus had to wait a whole day for my car did not matter to me. In the same vein, having been asked from time to time by our local quickie lube to drive my own car into the bay, as the one guy who knows how to drive a stick is out to lunch, does nothing to deter me.
Now, every once in a while, I will drive in husband-dear's truck, which is an automatic. For an absent-minded person such as myself, it usually takes about one attempt to hit a non-existing clutch for me to figure out that, oh yeah, this is the car where you get to be lazy. Today, however, I believe I took my absent-mindedness to a whole new level. Today, you see, I had to take the dogs to the vet.
When we take our dogs to the vet, we take husband-dear's truck. And that's not because the dogs have already violently expelled various forms of bodily content in the backseat at least twice, and also not because the truck has black upholstery, while mine is beige (which, by the way, was not a smart choice), no, it's because the truck has a center console that flips up, thus keeping the puppies from climbing into the front seat.
So this morning, I climbed into husband-dear's truck, and drove through the rain to our vet. When I parked on top of the very muddy hill, and turned off the engine, I realized I could not get the keys out of the ignition. I jiggled, I twisted them, I turned the steering wheel, nothing. Well hot dang. As I was about to lose my temper, I figured I would, for a change, stay calm. So I decied I would a) not yell at my keys, since they would most probably be unaffected anyway, b) leave the car unlocked as I went into the vet), c) call husband-dear once I got out, and d) if he couldn't fix it over the phone, I would simply stop by his office on base on my way to the base pool. I was very proud of myself for approaching this seemingly terrible disaster in such a level-headed manner.
So I went into the vet's, figuring that anyone who was willing to brave the torrential rains, the slippery hill, and the possibility of being attacked by anyone of the dogs coming in and out of the office, to break into our truck, could have whatever was in it(I believe some gloves, an ice scraper, and a first aid kit). When I came back out, the key-fairy had not magically fixed my problem, so I called husband-dear and informed him of my predicament.
"Uhm, honey?" He said in a tone of voice I imagine him using with the infirm, "Is the car in Park?"
Me: "Uhm..no.." I stare at my keys, and then I realize what I'm sure all of you automatic transmission drivers have realized all along: You have to put the car in park before you can take your keys out. I think I may have literally smacked myself on the forehead.
After explaining to husband-dear that I had apparently temporarily lost my mind, or at least forgotten all about that, he asked, "So did you at least use the emergency brake?"
Oops. Yes, really, oops. Because, you know, without that brake on, and your car still in "drive" it could have moved somewhere. Say down that slippery hill I had just gunned up to get to the office.
But the car hadn't moved, I had gotten my keys back, and realized that perhaps I'm not as Americanized as I think. Yay for happy endings!
As you may know, most American drive cars with automatic transmission. True, not all Americans do, but the vast majority haven't shifted a stick in years, and some of them aren't even sure what to do with that third pedal. Now although I don't mind driving an automatic, I really do prefer speeding around in a stick shift. There is just something incredibly cool about playing with the gears in your car, racing away at stoplights, and freaking out the people behind you by slowing down from 50mph to 35mph without hitting your brakes once. So when we sold my Volkswagen (a standard, mind you) right before we left Germany, I reminded my husband that I wanted nothing other than a stick shift when we got to Georgia. And that is exactly what I got. The fact that they had to drive the car in from Savannah and I thus had to wait a whole day for my car did not matter to me. In the same vein, having been asked from time to time by our local quickie lube to drive my own car into the bay, as the one guy who knows how to drive a stick is out to lunch, does nothing to deter me.
Now, every once in a while, I will drive in husband-dear's truck, which is an automatic. For an absent-minded person such as myself, it usually takes about one attempt to hit a non-existing clutch for me to figure out that, oh yeah, this is the car where you get to be lazy. Today, however, I believe I took my absent-mindedness to a whole new level. Today, you see, I had to take the dogs to the vet.
When we take our dogs to the vet, we take husband-dear's truck. And that's not because the dogs have already violently expelled various forms of bodily content in the backseat at least twice, and also not because the truck has black upholstery, while mine is beige (which, by the way, was not a smart choice), no, it's because the truck has a center console that flips up, thus keeping the puppies from climbing into the front seat.
So this morning, I climbed into husband-dear's truck, and drove through the rain to our vet. When I parked on top of the very muddy hill, and turned off the engine, I realized I could not get the keys out of the ignition. I jiggled, I twisted them, I turned the steering wheel, nothing. Well hot dang. As I was about to lose my temper, I figured I would, for a change, stay calm. So I decied I would a) not yell at my keys, since they would most probably be unaffected anyway, b) leave the car unlocked as I went into the vet), c) call husband-dear once I got out, and d) if he couldn't fix it over the phone, I would simply stop by his office on base on my way to the base pool. I was very proud of myself for approaching this seemingly terrible disaster in such a level-headed manner.
So I went into the vet's, figuring that anyone who was willing to brave the torrential rains, the slippery hill, and the possibility of being attacked by anyone of the dogs coming in and out of the office, to break into our truck, could have whatever was in it(I believe some gloves, an ice scraper, and a first aid kit). When I came back out, the key-fairy had not magically fixed my problem, so I called husband-dear and informed him of my predicament.
"Uhm, honey?" He said in a tone of voice I imagine him using with the infirm, "Is the car in Park?"
Me: "Uhm..no.." I stare at my keys, and then I realize what I'm sure all of you automatic transmission drivers have realized all along: You have to put the car in park before you can take your keys out. I think I may have literally smacked myself on the forehead.
After explaining to husband-dear that I had apparently temporarily lost my mind, or at least forgotten all about that, he asked, "So did you at least use the emergency brake?"
Oops. Yes, really, oops. Because, you know, without that brake on, and your car still in "drive" it could have moved somewhere. Say down that slippery hill I had just gunned up to get to the office.
But the car hadn't moved, I had gotten my keys back, and realized that perhaps I'm not as Americanized as I think. Yay for happy endings!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Een blog over niets
Ik wilde eigenlijk schrijven over hoe beu ik de winter hier ben. De achterlijke kou waardoor we al weken niet normaal kunnen hardlopen, en waardoor we het fietsen hebben moeten beperken tot korte trainingssessies op de trainer in de woonkamer. Maar dan besef ik me dat het merendeel van mijn lezers al maanden begraven is onder vele centimeters sneeuw, en mijn klaagzang misschien niet echt kan waarderen.
Toen bedacht ik me dat ik een heel educatief blog kon gaan schrijven over de wetten omtrent persvrijheid, de toepasbaarheid daarvan op studentenbladen op een universiteit, en de onmerkbare druk die soms op een advisor uitgeoefend kan worden. Maar ja, het is een lange week geweest, mijn halve hoofd is nog verdoofd na een bezoek aan de tandarts, en dus leek me dat niet zo'n goed idee. Die houdt u nog van mij tegoed.
En dan zit je hier, als Nederlander in Amerika, met je goede gedrag. En je kan werkelijk niks bedenken waarover je op een puntige manier een gezellig kletsverhaaltje over kan schrijven. Alles is zo gewoon, zo normaal, zo, zo, ja, zoals het hoort. Toen ik vandaag een vrouw om vier uur 's middags in pyjama uit haar auto zag stappen moest ik echt hard nadenken voordat ik me uberhaupt bedacht dat dat misschien niet helemaal de norm was. En toen ik een serie foto's uit Nederland bekeek was ik me hardop aan het afvragen wat er mis was met alle mannen dat ze allemaal in polo's met met lichtelijk onzinnige opdrukken liepen.
Soms vraag ik me wel eens af in hoeverre ik ongemerkt assimileer. Is het feit dat ik een oud Nederlands kinderboek uit de jaren vijftig ("Moes ver-telt") in ons nieuwe kastje heb gezet een teken? Van het weekend heb ik op de plank er onder een aantal oude Nederlandse sprookjes en mijn oude kinderbijbel gezet. Toegeven, de reden waarom juist die boeken er belanden is vooral omdat de kaften mooi kleurden met de rest van ons interieur, en ik de laatste tijd op een soort "Eigen Huis en Tuin" kick ben. Maar dan nog. Ben ik nu ook zo'n Nederlander die haar Nederlanderschap vooral viert door uiterlijk vertoon van typische Nederlandse dingen, maar verder zo on-Nederlands is als de girl-next-door? Ik drink nog steeds veel melk, en heb op eens -ontieglijk- zin in yogidrink, maar zijn dat misschien de laatste stuiptrekkingen? Ik hoop het toch van niet zeg. Gelukkig gaan we over een maand of wat even naar Nederland. Weer even cultuur snuiven. Ik hoop dat het dan alsnog goed komt.
Toen bedacht ik me dat ik een heel educatief blog kon gaan schrijven over de wetten omtrent persvrijheid, de toepasbaarheid daarvan op studentenbladen op een universiteit, en de onmerkbare druk die soms op een advisor uitgeoefend kan worden. Maar ja, het is een lange week geweest, mijn halve hoofd is nog verdoofd na een bezoek aan de tandarts, en dus leek me dat niet zo'n goed idee. Die houdt u nog van mij tegoed.
En dan zit je hier, als Nederlander in Amerika, met je goede gedrag. En je kan werkelijk niks bedenken waarover je op een puntige manier een gezellig kletsverhaaltje over kan schrijven. Alles is zo gewoon, zo normaal, zo, zo, ja, zoals het hoort. Toen ik vandaag een vrouw om vier uur 's middags in pyjama uit haar auto zag stappen moest ik echt hard nadenken voordat ik me uberhaupt bedacht dat dat misschien niet helemaal de norm was. En toen ik een serie foto's uit Nederland bekeek was ik me hardop aan het afvragen wat er mis was met alle mannen dat ze allemaal in polo's met met lichtelijk onzinnige opdrukken liepen.
Soms vraag ik me wel eens af in hoeverre ik ongemerkt assimileer. Is het feit dat ik een oud Nederlands kinderboek uit de jaren vijftig ("Moes ver-telt") in ons nieuwe kastje heb gezet een teken? Van het weekend heb ik op de plank er onder een aantal oude Nederlandse sprookjes en mijn oude kinderbijbel gezet. Toegeven, de reden waarom juist die boeken er belanden is vooral omdat de kaften mooi kleurden met de rest van ons interieur, en ik de laatste tijd op een soort "Eigen Huis en Tuin" kick ben. Maar dan nog. Ben ik nu ook zo'n Nederlander die haar Nederlanderschap vooral viert door uiterlijk vertoon van typische Nederlandse dingen, maar verder zo on-Nederlands is als de girl-next-door? Ik drink nog steeds veel melk, en heb op eens -ontieglijk- zin in yogidrink, maar zijn dat misschien de laatste stuiptrekkingen? Ik hoop het toch van niet zeg. Gelukkig gaan we over een maand of wat even naar Nederland. Weer even cultuur snuiven. Ik hoop dat het dan alsnog goed komt.
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