Caffeinated

I have never met a people who consume as much coffee in one sitting as Americans do. Honestly, I don't think there is any place in the world where purchasing close to a half a liter of coffee at Starbucks does not raise any eyebrows, and where gas stations frequently offer coffee sizes referred to as "The Big Gulp". In fact, one of this year's April Fool's jokes was the supposed introduction of a Starbucks "plenta", a mug so large it could hold 128 fluid ounces, or a little over three liters. I can almost guarantee you that a joke like that would have never worked anywhere else, as most people would have never ever fallen for the idea of a 3-liter mug of coffee. I mean, in the Netherlands, a country apparently in love with its teeny tiny cups of Senseo coffee, that would be enough to keep most people's Senseo running for a full week. But here in the US, that's really not too far from reality, as evidenced by some of coworkers who carry at least a liter of coffee to work with them in a thermos so large it could be used to bathe my guinneapig.

On the other hand, I have also never met so many people who are super-sensitive to caffeine. These are obviously not the same Americans who keep "The big gulp" as the number one sellers at our local gas station, but there are lots and lots of them around, husband-dear being the prime example. Although he is the most awesome, loving, caring, and understanding man in the world, if he as much as smells caffeine after 3pm, he will not be able to go to sleep that night. And he is not alone. I can't tell you how many friends I have who can't have coffee because "it makes them jittery", or who have cut caffeine from their diet entirely because it messes with their sleep. And we're not talking about Italian espresso here, no, we're talking plain American coffee, which by most European standards is little more than colored water with a whiff of coffee.

Needless to say, I do not fall under this last category. In fact, if you were to tell me I could no longer have any caffeinated drinks, I may have to hurt you, as I simply cannot function without my hot tea and milk in the morning and at night. Now in all honesty, the hot tea and milk is more of a comfort drink than a desperate, dying need for caffeine, but still. It is caffeine, and watching me drink it at night does freak out husband-dear as well as a smattering of my friends, who always exclaim something like, "How can you sleep after drinking that?!" and then add in a "I would be up for hours!". Honestly, I don't know. I must be special somehow, as I can have a cappuccino right before bed, and still sleep like a baby. Maybe it's those European genes.

However, yesterday I think I managed to freak out husband-dear beyond belief with caffeine consumption and subsequent lack of response. Just to provide you with some context; I was grading until 11:30 the night before, and thus only had about five hours of sleep before I needed to get up and go to work again. So when I packed my lunch yesterday morning, I took a Diet Mountain Dew because I knew that that would surely prevent me from wanting to nap. And just for safekeeping, I also took one of those Starbucks Frapuccino drinks. By the time I got to work, the effect of the tea had worn off, and as our break room was still locked, and there was thus no chance of coffee, I instead opened my bottle of Frapuccino. Happily buzzing, I went to grading, when thirty minutes later Steve showed up with hot Mochas. Now you don't ever turn down free fancy coffees, and so I spent the next hour nursing my hot coffee. I'm sure you understand that when lunch time rolled around, I really didn't need any more caffeine, but all I had with me was that Mountain Dew. And since my Dutch genes prevent me from splurging on anything I don't desperately need, I had that. And let me tell you, I had the most productive day in my life. Seriously. I graded all my finals, finished calculating my final grades, and dealt with hordes of student in need of advisement in a nice and patient manner. It was amazing.

When I came home, and I told husband-dear about my day, he was certain I was going to one (or all) of three things: a) get sick, b) crash, c) not be able to sleep. I was convinced I would be fine. And I was. I rehung our curtains, rode the trainer, made husband-dear watch ANTM, and fell asleep the moment my head hit my pillow. I'm not sure, but I think husband-dear might have just been a tad jealous. Just a tad.

De voorjaarsmoeheid

Hier lijkt het alweer vollop zomer, maar in de rest van het Noorderlijk halfrond is het natuurlijk nog gewoon lente. En dus kan er weer gesproken gaan worden van een "voorjaarsschoonmaak" en een "voorjaarsmoeheid". Straks krijgen we natuurlijk ook nog de "voorjaarsvakantie" (alhoewel onze kinderen hier dan allang met zomer vakantie zijn), en de eventuele "voorjaarsdip". Zij schreef al over de voorjaarsmoeheid, en ik dacht dat ik daar wel gezellig aan kon haken.

En dan eigenlijk alleen maar om u te vertellen dat ik niet aan voorjaarsmoeheid doe. Ik ben meer van de herfstdip zeg maar. Als de blaadjes van de bomen vallen, het steeds vroeger donker wordt, en de jas weer uit de kast moet, dan bestaat er een kans dat ik een lichte mineur schiet. Als ik daar tijd voor heb natuurlijk.

Bij mij is het voorjaar, of nou ja, deze tijd van het jaar, namelijk de laatste jaren alleen maar reden tot een feest. Want wanneer de bloesem is uitgebloeid, de zon weer hoog aan de hemel klimt, maar we soms toch nog koude nachten hebben, dan is dat een teken voor mij dat het eindelijk zover is. Het semester is bijna voorbij. En dat is het. Het is namelijk nog drie dagen en pak en beet 23 uur tot de bekende afstudeer ceremonie, commencement. En dat is niet alleen voor de studenten reden tot een feestje.

Maar goed, daardoor heb ik dus helemaal geen tijd voor een voorjaarsdip, of moeheid. Eerlijk gezegd wilde ik soms dat ik dat wel had. Lekker een paar daagjes op de bank. Of in op de porch swing, lekker thee drinken en veel Glee en Scrubs kijken om bij te komen. Met natuurlijk de dropjes binnen handbereik. En dat allemaal vanwege het voorjaar. Dat klinkt echt super, weet u dat?

Maar ja, hier in Amerika doen ze niet aan dat soort onzin. Werken, dat zul je! En soms is dat wel jammer. Want wees nou eens eerlijk, zouden we niet allemaal een stuk leuker, vriendelijker, geduldiger zijn als we gewoon eens een paar dagen "voorjaarsmoeheidverlof" konden nemen?
Ik wel.

Dus. Volgend jaar toch maar eens inplannen. Dat voorjaarsvermoeidheidsverlof. Klinkt als een geweldig plan.

It's complicated

Sometimes I wonder if husband-dear and I unnecessarily complicate our lives. I really do. Take today for instance. All I really needed to do (besides grade oodles of papers, of course) was get the oil in my car changed and my tires rotated. Sounds simple enough. Only it wasn't.

If all my car needed was an oil change, it would have been easy. There is a quickie lube a few miles down the road, and whenever I pull up there, no matter how many cars are in front of me, I will be out in no more than half an hour. I'll sit in the little office, grade a few papers, and be golden. But ever since I got married, my cars have apparently also needed tire rotations. Husband-dear truly believes in the power of tire rotation, and I'm not sure why. Granted, I also did not know the difference between brake pads and shoes until yesterday (the former are used with disc brakes, the latter with drum brakes, in case you wondered), but that's not the point. The point is that for years and years my cars did just fine without tire rotations. Unfortunately, husband-dear's approach to cars is less laissez-faire than mine, and thus I now get my tires rotated every...uhm..every...well every something. He tells when that is. And it happened to be this oil change.

You can imagine the eye-rolling and sighing on my end when he told me that. It's the end of the semester, and I barely have time to do my hair or shave my legs, let alone drive my car to one of the two places that rotate tires. Both are all the way across town, and seem to take for.ever.regardless of how many customers there are. And unless a place has free wi-fi, I can't do more than thirty minutes anywhere these days. So yes, there was sighing and possibly even some grumbling. But husband-dear once again proved his total awesome-ness, when he suggested the following grand scheme that centered on the fact that he had to work today, and the tire rotation place is on the way to base (pay attention, it gets complicated):

1. He was going to put his bike in my car, drive my car to the tire rotation place, and then bike to work.
2. Since the tire rotation place closes before husband-dear gets off work, I would ride my bike to the tire rotation place whenever the car was done, put my bike in the car and drive the car home.
3. Husband-dear would ride his bike home.

Do you see the ingeniousness of this scheme? We share the burden of driving my car clear across town, and both get our exercise in by riding our bikes.

But then we woke up this morning and it rained. And there was lightning. And thunder. And a stiff wind. And husband-dear was not happy, because that man LOVES to ride his bike. But we came up with an alternative:

1. I drive to the tire place right when they open, get the tires rotated and the oil changed, and drive home.

The idea behind this was that if I showed up there at 7am, the place would be deserted, and I would be in and out in half an hour, which would not cut into my grading too much.
Unfortunately, when I got to the tire rotation place, it looked like a parking lot, and the office worker told me that if I wanted to wait, I had to count on at least two hours.
Not. An. Option.
So I called husband-dear, and this is the plan we're on now:

1. I drive to the tire place
2. Husband-dear comes a little later to pick me up while I leave the car there
3. We both drive to base
4. I drive the truck home
5. I drive out to the tire rotation place before it closes (1pm) to pick up my car
6. I leave husband-dear's truck in the parking lot, and drive my car home
7. I pick husband-dear up from work in my car
8. I drop husband-dear off at the tire rotation place
9. Husband-dear drives his truck home.

So. Is this overly complicated, or is it just me?

How to make a blog...

..go from a really cute story about the south, to a rant.
Watch.

I don't know if it's a southern thing, or All-American, but down here, when children get into trouble, their parents like to refer to them with their full names. So, if one's little cherub has once again run off to play without first helping with the dishes, it's not completely uncommon to see a peeved parent appear on the front porch and holler, "Ashley Jane Johnson, you come right now!". Or if the child is truly southern, one might hear, "Jenna-Sue Lynn, git your little bee-hind back up heah right this instant, ya hear?".

At first, this phenomenon used to have me in stitches. I couldn't imagine my mother ever using my full name, let alone her yelling it down the street. No, my mother had "The Look", and that was all it took for us to come cowering back. But you know, you live, you learn, you adjust, and it wasn't before long when I find myself addressing my kids with their full names too; "Ozzie Axl Van Halen! You stop picking on your brother!", or something like that. I even do it with our dogs, although their middle names may vary. Yesterday, Shelby was "Shelby Mathilda", but she has also been "Shelby Jade" while Zoe varies from "Zoe Elizabeth" to "Zoe Lynn". Anyway, let's just say I get a little carried away sometimes.

But you know what? It really works. Both kids and dogs desist whatever mischief they were engaged in, and give you the biggest puppy-eyed look in the world, usually (at least in the kids' case), followed by a "yes ma'am". And every time that happens, even though I'm delighted it worked, I also feel really old. I mean, when you're old enough to yell out kids' middle names, and be called "ma'am" to boot, you've got to be old. And I usually don't feel that way. Actually, I hardly ever do.

You see, in my head we're stuck in the mid-1990s. It used to be worse, we used to be stuck in the late 1980s, but as ALL of my darling students are now born in, at the earliest, 1989, my whole "Woohoo, it's 1987 and skinny pants are hip for the first time around" attitude really wasn't working, as in 1987, most of my students were nothing but a glint in someone's eye. So I quietly shifted my mental age just a few years, enough for my students to be toddlers or so. It still makes no sense, but I just can't bring myself to move much beyond, say, 1993.

Consequently, I usually don't see myself as educated, experienced, or anything but really young. And this in turn means that even though I think I can say that I clearly am the first two, and don't really qualify as the first one anymore, I still assume most people are older, more education, and thus more knowledgeable than I am. And as a result, I will generally defer to most professional adults. Not in a creepy Uriah Heep submissive way, but in a "well, you present your case so adamantly, and you are older and wiser than I am, so OK."

But yesterday, all that changed. It's no longer 1987 or 1993, and I am no longer a young kid who doesn't know anything. It's 2010, I have my PhD, am a Professor, and am old enough to have sales associates ask me if I'm interested in their anti-aging line, and hence I am turning a new leaf.

Why this sudden change? Well, yesterday I had the pleasure of testifying at a disciplinary hearing regarding one our students. I won't bore you with all the details, but the bottom line is that the department and the review board disagreed on the disciplinary actions that should be taken. And even though the presence of three senior Professors (as well as two students), would normally have had me nod my head and seriously ask myself why I would think any differently from these older, smarter, and more educated people, this time I would not, could not, give in. Instead, I sat up in my chair, and gave an impassioned, possibly even heated, speech about why I, and my department, was right, and they really needed to change their minds. I think I might have even told the board something to the extent of sometimes someone has to say "the buck stops here", and that this would be an opportune moment to do so. Amazing for someone who's in their teens, isn't it?

So, yes, we have turned a new leaf. I am not some young kid who doesn't know anything. Not anymore. I may listen to music from 1987, I might even possibly own some clothing from 1987, but we're not in 1987 anymore Toto. It's 2010 and Dorothy, excuse me, Dr. Dorothy, is all grown up. Ha!

What do teachers make?

This semester, in their, once again more than, infinite wisdom, the university administration decided to "push back" advisement during the week of senior finals, and the week before general finals. That would this week. So while we're calculating senior grades, planning senior finals, grading final papers, dealing with senior portfolios, senior projects, failing software, and our own end of the year evaluations, we are supposed to make time (and patience) to provide our seventy or so advisees with sound, well thought-out, and sensible advice on which classes to take next semester.

I'm once again not sure what inspired this pure stroke of genius, but I'm going to out on a limb here, and guess it has something to do with "further streamlining professor-student interaction", or perhaps "contributing to the economization of the academic advisement processes", or maybe I'm totally off, and it's really all to do with the "increasing observed need for a more in-depth restructuring of scholastic standards". I don't know. All I know is that it makes me want to scream and throw things.

Yesterday, husband-dear was actually kind enough to let me wad up a piece of paper and throw it at him. Now that is love for you. Right there. Forget about flowers, and cards, and romantic declarations of love. Letting your spouse hit you with a balled up advisement sheet so their frustration levels might taper is true love ladies and gentlemen.

Times like these is when I have to dig really deep to remember why I went into this field. It takes a lot of work and effort. Fortunately, I have good friends who will point me in the right direction. And one of those friends pointed me towards this video, which is probably what is going to keep me sane in these next two weeks. It's funny. It's inspirational. It's true. What more could a tired, overworked, and overwhelmed professor want?

You dine in, you dine out, you shake it all about

Husband-dear says a lot of really funny things. Really, he does. And whenever he has gotten me to shoot tea out of my nose once again, I tell myself that I really need to post his comments on my blog. To then promptly forget them. But tonight we had a semi-funny conversation that I really wanted to share (and more importantly: remembered).

The scene is as follows; husband-dear, the kiddos, and I wanted to go out to dinner. We do this about once a week, and tonight was it. Husband-dear had been chomping at the bit for a night out all week, but because I was busy grading, grading, grading, and more grading, we hadn't gotten around to it. But tonight was going to be the night. Only it almost wasn't. You see, at every restaurant that we stopped at, there was at least a thirty minute wait. Admittedly, restaurants in our town do get busy on Friday nights, tonight was so busy, it seriously had me wonder if people were giving away food for free, which is a logical train of thought for me, but more on that later. After driving around, husband-dear was hungry, bordering on grumpy, and when he pulled into yet another parking lot that was filled to the brink, the following interaction ensued:

Husband-dear: What is wrong with this town? Don't these people have any hobbies? Places to go besides restaurants? Seriously, all these people do is go out to eat, and go out to eat again, and again, and again.
Me: Uhm, honey, we're going out to eat too you know
Husband-dear, increasingly agitated: Yes, but we go once a week! Once a week. I bet you those people over there (a random couple walking across the parking lot), I bet you they went out Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, yesterday, and tonight. And I bet you all of the people parked here did the same thing! Why can't they find something else to do?
Youngest child: Yeah, and it's not as though that guy (Points to a gentlemen who does seem to carry more than the usual weight around) needs it. Sheesh.

OK. Welcome to the DixieChick family after a long week. Anyway, fortunately for everyone in the car, we ended up at Longhorn's right after that little interlude, where there was only a ten minute wait, and we had a very enjoyable dinner.

But what's interesting about this whole episode is the fact that people in our town, and I think Americans in general, do eat out a whole lot. And I mean a lot. We have friends who will eat out about four, five times a week, and they are no exception. Most of my coworkers will go out for every lunch break. And not just to a Taco Bell or a McDonald's, no, they will go to an actual sit-down restaurant, and spend an enjoyable hour working their way through pasta, seafood, steak, and the salad bar. Most of my coworkers laugh at my little red lunchbox, and I'm pretty sure many friends have raised their eyebrows when we've told them we'd rather eat in because we've already gone out to eat once that week.

Now, admittedly, we are stingy people. Personally, I prefer it economically efficient, but the bottom line is, we love not wasting money. I have never met a man who keeps tracks of coupons the way my husband does, and I think he secretly gets really excited when I do things like pack a snackbag for our trip to Memphis so I won't have to buy that many lunches. Now, we will splurge on things like bikes, and shoes, and trips to Holland, but hell will freeze over before we exchange our travel mugs for a Starbucks coffee each morning, or go out to eat more than once a week. We even re-use ziplock bags (although, in all honesty, that is me trying to be environmentally friendly too). But let's just say we balk at having to turn the air on, because it means the days of teeny tiny electric bills are over. Just saying.

But even having said all of that, I do think eating out is a typical American thing. Dutch people might go out to have coffee, and if they're feeling particularly extravagant, some apple pie, but Americans will go out to eat. The main reason, I suspect, lies in the price. Today, the four of us shared two appetizers, had four main courses, three of which were steak, and four drinks, and our bill came to $65, and I thought it was. Absolutely. Ridiculously. Expensive. And-we-are-not-going-to-Longhorn's-in-a-long-while. Because usually the four of us can eat out for around $4o. Yes, my darling Dutch readers. Forty dollars. That equates maybe thirty Euros. For four people. That is about ten dollars per person. Now of course, we can cook for far less than that, but when you're extremely busy (like us), and don't mind spending a little more for some convenience (not like us), then you will probably be like most of our fellow Georgians, and eat out multiple times a week.

And that is why, when the DixieChick family finally decides to go out to eat, there is no room for us. Anywhere. And we're left with a restaurant that best resembles a barn. It's sad. Maybe next time we should follow the northern star, and that will take us to three kings who will feed us mirre and frankincense. (I heard there was gold in there too somewhere, that does sound like a plan!)

Running in Memphis

Just in case you missed the memo, husband-dear and I love to run. And bike. And swim. And work out in general. And when we're not running, biking, swimming, or lifting weights in the living room, we're talking about our latest or upcoming work out routine, and plans for future races. Our cabinet is stocked with water bottles, pre-during-and post-work out drink mixes, and all sorts of nutrition supplements that husband-dear swears will help make us faster, stronger, better, and poorer. Although he has yet to mention the last one. Anyway, in short, we're endorphin junkies.

And one of the ways in which this addiction, or I suppose obsession and/or neurosis is expressed is through the fact that whenever we travel, we have to get at least one run in. It doesn't matter where we go, or for how long, we always pack a pair of running shoes. Always. And when we don't get to run, we're mad. Even if it's because we're oh, I don't know, fighting a war, or going to conference panels twelve hours a day. And because of husband-dear's crazy career, he's got to run in some pretty neat places, like South Africa, China, all over the middle east, and Moscow. He's also got plenty of interesting stories to tell, like that one time he got horribly lost and turned a thirty-minute run into a two-hour work out (Germany), or the time he was chased by feral dogs (Moscow), or that time he discovered that running in a bullet proof vest was really not the best idea (somewhere in the middle east). And together we've discovered that Paris before daybreak really smells like urine and garbage, that Tivoli looks like a really creepy backdrop for a horror movie right at dawn, and that wild dogs are especially rampant in southern Alabama. So you see, we don't just run to keep in shape, we also run for the anthropological experience.

So when my work took me to Memphis last week, there was no doubt in my mind I would run at least once. And I did. On Saturday morning I set my alarm for 6:30am, and in spite of a less-than-friendly encounter with partying sorority girls in the hallway outside my door only a few hours before, I put on my running shoes and took off for the Mississippi. And let me tell you, running along the river was breathtaking. The sun was just coming up, and when you ignored the panhandlers cussing each other out, it was just perfect.

But besides the awesome views, I also took one other thing away from that run: I'm turning into a southern country bumpkin. You see, where I run now (for those of you who forgot, rural, backwoods, cottonfield-dominated, peach-tree swamped Georgia), everyone says "hey" to each other. And I mean everyone. People on foot, on bike, running, walking, they all greet each other. It doesn't matter whether you're in the back of a pick up truck, riding along at 40mph, and you're passing a runner killing herself doing intervals, you will call out a "hey, how ya doin'?". Ignoring someone on the street is the equivalent of social suicide in my neck of the woods. And although I know I've complained about this before, it's like spring time pollen, apparently, without really realizing it, you just get used to it.

So as I was running along the Mississippi, I smiled and said "hey" to just about everyone I saw. And instead of saying "hi" back, people looked at me like I was out of my mind. Women eyed me funny or jumped aside, apparently somehow worried that all 115 pounds of me was going to jump them and demand their money. Men would either mumble something incoherently or eye me up and down as though I had just asked them on a first date, and all in all, it was a very unnerving experience. So after about two miles, I gave up, and took to staring at the pavement, even though that made me feel so incredibly rude. How on earth could I pass all these people and not say hello? Seriously? And then it dawned on me: I have now officially turned into the country girl who visits the big city for the first time, and doesn't understand why people aren't as nice as they are "back home".

So that's just peachy. Not only do I now sound like a southerner, I act like one too. Great. Next thing you know I'll be asking for grits for breakfast and wondering why all "them professors" complain about the confederate flag on the back of my pick up truck.

A serious to do list

I promise, I am going to write a very profound blog about the awesome, inspiring, intellectually challenging conference I went to this past week. I will also find time to write about running along the Mississippi river when the sun is peeping over the horizon. And I will also tell you about the incredibly rude host we encountered at the famous Rendez-Vous rib restaurant in Memphis in painful and extensive detail. I promise. But not right now. And why? Because right now, all I have time for is to do two things. One, share my to do list with you. And two, beg you to be patient, as my next few blogs will probably be more likely center to student antics, ornery secretaries, and idiotic university policies than flowers, bees, cotton, or even that awesome Memphis conference. And also, to let you know that support in the form of coffee and/or chocolate, (you are welcome to ship some if you don't happen to live in the wondrous world that is rural Georgia), is always welcome too.

With all that said, here is my to do list. With things that need to be completed before Thursday:

1. Grade thirty online homework assignments
2. Grade thirty online discussion threads
3. Download the next module's assignments (and preferably start grading them too, but I'm pretty sure that won't be happening before Thursday)
4. Grade Research Methods papers (about twenty)
5. Prepare Tuesday's annual evaluation (add in: freak out about Tuesday's evaluation)
6. Go to evaluation and do well.
7. Review five online classes and turn in written reviews
8. Grade Senior projects
9. Grade graduating senior portfolios
10. Sit in on senior portfolio defenses (note: Thursday from 2-4pm)
11. Write letter of recommendation for student seeking admission to Ed.D program
12. Turn in five textbook requisition forms for next semester
13. Teach normal class load
14. Ask Steve if I've forgotten anything
15. Not lose mind.

Can you tell I am just beyond thrilled? Because I am. Really.

And I just thought of a really cool closing sentence, and then I forgot. It's the to do list, I'm telling you.

Twenty days and 56 minutes until commencement.

De Stem

Ik heb ooit eens een Editorial and Critical Writing klas gegeven. Niet omdat ik nou zo'n ervaren en begeestigd schrijver ben, nee joh, doe mijn een spreadsheet en ik ben in mijn sas, maar geef mij een artikel te schrijven en ik begin met veel gekreun door mijn haar te woelen. Nee, ik kreeg dat vak omdat er op dat moment niemand anders een gaatje vrij had, en men, wanneer je zolang op school hebt gezeten als ik, er vanuit gaat dat je alles wel een beetje kan, of in ieder geval genoeg om een stelletje undergraduates wat bij te brengen. En gelukkig weet ik nog net genoeg van schrijven af om me er met een beetje kennis en veel bravoure doorheen te slaan. Een van de dingen waar ik in dat vak op hamerde was "your writing voice", los vertaald als "je schrijfstem". Wie ben je, als je schrijft? Voor wie schrijf je? En hoe vallen die twee dingen samen? En dat is een vraag die ik me de laatste tijd nogal eens gesteld over mijn blog.

Want wie ben ik nou helemaal als ik schrijf? En bovenal, vinden mensen het niet raar dat ik en in het Engels, en in het Nederlands schrijf? En valt het ze, net als mij, op dat een blog in de ene taal totaal niet hetzelfde is als een blog in de andere taal? Aangezien het tweede belangrijke punt van dat college was "write what you know", of "schrijf over dat wat je bezighoudt", gaan we dat nu dus doen. Juist. Welkom in de spelonken van mijn hoofd.

Allereerst dacht ik dat het maar eens hoog tijd werd om uit te leggen waarom ik in hemelsnaam in twee talen schijf. Natuurlijk had dit mijn allereerste blog moeten zijn. Of in ieder geval mijn tweede. Maar ja. Beter laat dan nooit, zullen we maar zeggen.
Dus waarom een tweetalig blog? Er zijn tientallen blogs van mensen die al veel langer in de VS wonen dan ik, en die schrijven ook niet in het Engels. Dus waarom zou ik dat dan wel doen? Soms vraag ik me dat zelf ook af: waarom schrijf ik niet gewoon in een taal? Wat is daar nou zo moeilijk aan? Maar ja, als ik alleen in het Engels schrijf, dan vallen sommige lezers al meteen af (hallo oma!). En alleen in het Nederlands schrijven, dat zie ik ook niet echt zitten.

Gelukkig vind ik zelf dat ik een goed excuus heb: ik ben namelijk op jonge leeftijd naar het buitenland verhuisd, en heb vanaf dat moment jaren op een Amerikaanse school gezeten. Toen we weer terugkwamen in Nederland, heb ik met veel pijn en moeite (en heel veel "dt" fouten, en honderd vragen over het kofschip) twee jaar op een Nederlandse school gezeten, om toen weer naar de VS te vertrekken. En ondanks dat ik (voor het grootste deel) in Nederland gestudeerd heb, bleef Engels altijd op de voorgrond. Als ik boos werd, of emotioneel, of heel blij, dan kwam er vaak als eerste Engels uit, en dan pas Nederlands.

En sja, dan begin je een blog, en in welke taal doe je dat dan? In het Engels, want dat denk je de hele dag door? Of toch in het Nederlands, want ja, daar liggen je roots.
Sorry.
Wortels.
En daar komt ook meteen het tweede probleem om de hoek: ik vind zelf dat ik in het Engels heel anders schrijf dan in het Nederlands. Ik gebruik mijn Nederlandse blogs vaak om te mopperen. Of heel kortaf te schrijven. Of gewoon ouderwets te mekkeren. Nu kan ik in het Engels ook heel erg goed mopperen hoor. Ik bedoel, ik zou er eigenlijk een prijs voor moeten krijgen, zo goed kan ik het. Maar het is toch niet hetzelfde als in het Nederlands. Daar bestaat er zelfs een speciaal woord voor "zeiken". En dat kan alleen maar in het Nederlands. Niet dat alle Nederlandse bloggers zo zijn hoor, helemaal niet. Die zijn meestal heel opgeruimd en positief. Maar ik dus niet. Vraag mij om in het Nederlands te schrijven, en je krijgt een druilerige zondagmiddag. In het Engels zou ik er niet aan moeten denken om zo ongebreideld te chagrijnen, zonder er niet in ieder geval een puntje zelfspot aan toe te voegen. Alleen maar zeuren is in het Engels namelijk echt "not done". Dus vind ik mijn Engelse blogs vaak iets luchtiger, met iets meer spot, en soms met hele poetische verhandelingen over bloemen en bomen enzo waar vooral Steve dol op is (het verzoek "Can you write another country blog, about the flowers and your back porch" krijg ik minstens een keer per week).

En daar zit je dan. Met twee "writing voices". Eentje wat donkerder, en zeurderig, en de ander luchtig, maar analytischer. En welke is je "echte" stem? Ik wil echt geen zeurderige, mekkerende blogger zijn hoor. Of in ieder geval niet altijd. Maar soms ben ik het Engelse gebazel ook helemaal zat. En dus vandaar een tweetalig blog, en twee writing voices. En wie ben ik dan? Nou, om een geweldig cliche erin te gooien (wat eigenlijk helemaal niet mag, aldus mijn college, maar ja, ik zei toch dat er maar een beetje vanaf wist?), ik denk dat de waarheid ergens in het midden ligt. In ieder geval, dat hoop ik. Ik zal het eens navragen.

Total distraction

I'm supposed to be grading a bunch of papers right now. I'm also supposed to evaluate senior portfolios, assess six senior theses, and prepare my presentation for a major conference this Friday. Technically, I should also be on my way home already. But right now, I just don't want to do any of that. Well, except the going home part, but I can't do that until I've completed at least some of the above. And I don't feel like doing that right now.
So there.
If students can sit and let their minds wander in my class because they "just don't feel like doing anything", I should be able to daydream behind my desk right?

Fortunately, I can completely and wholeheartedly shift the blame for this lack of work ethic on something-not-me, namely the weather. You see, in a period of five days, we have gone from dog-awful winter temperatures to the sunny, breezy, pollen-filled days of summer. And this shift in temperature is accompanied by radiant blue skies, sudden bursts of bright green leaves on every tree, and one awesome spring scent that makes me wander around outside snorting like a horse. And so here I am, sitting behind my desk, gazing out the enormous window in front of me, and daydreaming about laying in my backyard. I got to lay in our backyard last night, and although that was more of a "drop dead after doing thirty push ups at the end of my fitness routine" laying down, it was still nice. There were birds, and crickets, and blossoms, and two dogs trying to climb all over me, and it was really nice. And you know what? I should have been grading then too, but I didn't.

And I know I could tell you all about the horrendous pollen we get here in Georgia. You know, the yellow stuff that mysteriously coats EVERY SINGLE surface in the state within a few hours at one point in the spring. The tiny little particles that make people sneeze, makes my windshield look like something big and yellow died on it, that can be swept up in such large quantities it looks like snow, and that you will still find in your house around Christmas time. I could tell you all about that and how bad it can get. But I'm enjoying my little summer reverie too much. One where I get to lay in the backyard all the time. Where my redneck-pool is set up again, and I get to float around in nice cool water with a book in my hands. One without any grading, or students, or papers, or evaluations. One with just peace and quiet. And lots of bike rides, and runs, and sweet tea, and shady pines, and crepe myrtles in full bloom.

It's one more month until commencement. Three weeks, three days, and twenty something hours until peace, quiet, and summer. I can't wait.

For now, I may just need to get some coffee. Because those papers still need grading, and I guess I really do want to go home at one point today.

Fingers, toes....shoes?

Some kids will not take showers (that would be the youngest), other kids simply refuse to comb their hair (that would be the youngest too), and again others will not brush their teeth, or conveniently "forget" to (and there is the oldest). As a girl, hygiene was not something I really struggled with throughout childhood, but I did, on the other hand, spent at least four years of my life trying to not wear shoes. I remember going to school barefoot one day, and not even realizing it until I got on the school bus. I'm pretty sure I even took one of my finals in bare feet, by accident of course, but without shoes nonetheless. My mother would entice me to at least wear "something" into town using all sorts of really cool flip flops, but as soon as our gates came into view, off they came. We lived in the south of France at the time, and since I only went through my barefoot phase during the summers, I never suffered any real permanent damage, unless you count developing really thick, probably unsightly callouses on my feet as somehow a scarring experience. I think I stepped on a thumbtack one time, and I'm pretty sure I brushed up against some stingweed every once in a while, but that was about it.

As I got older, I realized that walking around barefoot was not only somewhat socially unacceptable, but was also just not very safe. So I fell in step with everyone else, and started wearing sandals, teevas, and flip flops during summers. My callouses started to disappear, and although it was nice to be able to fit into my pumps come fall without an hour long pedicure, I missed the barefoot experience. The feel of hot pavement on my feet, running down the driveway in nothing but shorts and a tank top, and cool grass tickling between your toes. Wearing flip flops that pretty much flop every which way when you speed up beyond a slow amble is just not the same.

So you can imagine my excitement when I discovered the fivefinger running shoes. These shoes are supposed to imitate the barefoot experience. The shoes offer nothing but protection from the road, and are supposed to train the runner's body to correct for any "deficiencies" (such as pronating) on its own, without the use of corrective footwear. The idea behind this is that these shoes don't force one's body into an unnatural running gait, but instead let the body work out a way to run without getting injured. According to my personal running expert (i.e., the lady at the local running store), these shoes imitate the training techniques used by top runners who spend most of their early years running, you got it, barefoot.

Personally, all these theories about running and natural gaits and training previously unused muscles was not half as appealing as the fact that these shoes could possibly have me running as close to barefeet as I would ever get in over twenty years. Running barefeet sounded like a childhood dream, one I would love to relive.

So when the local running store started to carry these five finger shoes, I was there as soon as my heavy corrective shoes would carry me. I put on my FiveFinger sprints, and was sold. Immediately. It was like being barefeet, but with a thin layer of protective rubber on your soles. Although I was told that the shoes were a lot of hard work, when I went for my little practice run outside the store, I felt transported back in time. I was flying on nothing but my bare feet, the wind was making my hair dance, and suddenly I was thirteen years old again and I was going to pick some lavender for my room. If the shoes hadn't needed payment, I would have just kept on going.

Needless to say, I am now the proud owner of a pair of FiveFingers, and took them for a run earlier today. I love them, and I think they love me too. I can tell this is the start of one awesome relationship.

Bathroom breaks

Since apparently this is the week of "revelations you could have done without", I wanted to spend today's blog talking about how much I love going to the bathroom when I'm at work. I really do, honestly. Before you all start asking, no, I was not potty-trained at an abnormally early age, and I also never had any Freudian issues with going to the bathroom either. Going to the bathroom at work for me just equals peace, serenity, and warmth.

Now I do need clarify what I'm talking about when I say "bathroom". On our campus we have two types of bathrooms, one mainly for students, and one mostly used by faculty. The student bathrooms are the quintessential American public bathrooms with stalls. For those Dutch readers who have never laid eyes on this creature, allow me to enlighten you.

A typical American bathroom has, like any European bathroom, anywhere between four and ten toilets. But unlike its European counterparts, where each toilet is in its separate room with walls that go all the way from the ceiling to the ground, American toilets are separated by thin metal walls that start about two feet off the ground and end a little ways above your head. Each individual stall comes with a rickety door that never closes just right, leaving a tiny little gap through which all bathroom users could technically keep an eye on the goings-on on the other side of the wall. Although, rest assured, most Americans are far too polite to do so. However, what this does translate to is that everyone in the bathroom can hear what you're up to, and admire your shoes and socks while you're doing it. They can hear what you're doing, how long it's taking you, and how much toilet paper you're using. Now call me overly critical, but for a country that freaks out when little six-year old girls don't wear a bikini top at the pool, or that finds discussions about armpit hair completely inappropriate, this seems really, well, odd. We don't talk about leg hair, and we dress our little girls like they're four going on eighteen, but it's really OK to hear whether other people or not remembered to eat their prunes the night before? Let the record state that I'm not a prude, but I do struggle with that contradiction just a hair.

Admittedly, when I'm in a bathroom full of strangers, I don't really care all that much. I don't know them and won't ever see them again. But when I'm at work, I find it very disturbing to have a student recognize my shoes and holler out "Hi Doc!" while I'm, well, doing my business. And actually, just the thought that students can hear me freaks me out beyond belief.

So I've taken up the habit of walking a little bit further and using the faculty bathroom instead. This is a set of bathrooms which are their own separate rooms. Each bathroom has its own toilet, sink, and little table with fake floral setting. And let me tell you, I like going there. In fact, just thinking about having to make the considerable trek to that bathroom makes me happy. So as I was enjoying myself the other day, I asked myself why? I mean, for God's sake, why do I like going to the bathroom?

And thankfully for you, dear reader, and my own peace of mind, I figured it out. It's because it's the only place I can go where I am left alone. There are no students waiting outside my door. No computer with its annoying pop-ups to constantly remind me that people want to get in touch with me. No phone. Nothing. It's quiet. And even better, as these bathrooms are a few hallways down from our department and its arctic climate, the temperature is actually really nice too. And what a better way to spend a few minutes, than in a quiet, serene, and warm little room you have all to yourself? All I would need is a book and I would never leave.

So if you lead a crazy life, just find a bathroom and take a break. It works miracles.