Most people, when moving from overseas, worry about the maximum weight allotted for their household goods. We did too. Most people, however, fret about the weight of that 17th century bedstead they purchased while visiting France, or the solid oak dining set they found for a steal while in Munich. We, on the other hand, worried about our books. To say we, well I, own a lot of books is an understatement. I don't know if there's an equivalent of an Immelda Marcos for books, but if there is, I am her. In our living room alone, we have about 30 feet of books, our upstairs office contains another 15 feet, there are six boxes of books up in the attic, and that's not counting the bookshelves in my office at work. We have mystery novels, historical dramas, biographies, 18th, 19th, and 20th century literature, plays, military books, books on running, cycling, marathoning, electronics, US history, European history, how to survive in the woods, and the behavioral sciences. We own books in four languages, our youngest book is about a month old, and the oldest book we own was printed in the 1950s. We. Love. To. Read.
But every once in a while, when we have to start putting books behind the rows of books, and when purchasing a new book means wondering if we have room for it, it's time to clean out some of our beloved tomes. And that time was last week. After about an hour of scavenging all of our bookshelves for books we had not touched in years, books we had bought or received and never opened, and books that we really didn't need anymore (the ancient copy of "a divorce manual for parents" or something being one prime example) , I had about twenty pounds worth of books in a laundry basket. Very pleased with myself, I loaded the books in my car and took off for the nearest second hand bookstore.
And that was where the normalcy of this tale ended. now I'm used to different bookstores having different policies. Some will pay you, others give you store credit, some don't take really old books, others don't take books if they're not in mint condition, while some will even take books in foreign languages. But never, ever in my entire life have I had a bookstore refuse my books because of their content. And that is what happened this past week.
I showed up to the bookstore with a wide variety of books; mystery novels, spy thrillers, cook books, a few books on the Dalai Lama, and a book of lesbian fiction. And the bookstore took all of them, except, can you guess? Indeed, the books on the Dalai Lama and the lesbian fiction. When I asked why, the lady would only tell me that "they would not take those". Let the record show that this was not a Christian book store, nor was it Jewish, Chinese, a member of the Pat Robertson coalition against gay people, or anything that might prevent it from taking books on aforementioned topics. It was just a normal bookstore in a normal town in the south. And apparently, "normal" people in this very "normal" part of the world don't need to have the ability to buy books on those topics.
Now I realize that one argument might be that the bookstore needs to make money, and they may not sell those books in this town. However, how will they know unless they start carrying them? And may the record also show that I know several gay people, as well as people who would really like to learn about the Dalai Lama and Tibet, who, well, I don't know, might like to be able to buy a book on that in their own town.
I am guessing that the policy to not take books that aren't written by white, heterosexual, Christian men (and possibly women, but not too many) springs from the same line of thinking that makes it OK to fire 90 teachers at the end of the school year, some of whom earned several "teacher of the year" awards, because of budget cuts. It's the same frame of mind that forces schools to teach our kids that condoms really aren't safe, that gay people are going to straight to hell, and you will too if you don't tithe, that you can't drink on Sundays, and that anyone who threatens to take your assault rifle away is anti-American.
OK, so maybe I like to take things to the extreme. Just a little. But believe me, I want to be able to joke about this. I really do. And I have tried to come up with a funny angle since this happened on Tuesday. But I can't. Some things are just too important, and exposure to ideas different than your own happens to be just that for me.
Fahrenheit 451 may not be that far away after all. And didn't George Orwell write "Ignorance is strength"?
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Cars
"Let's waste time chasing cars..."
Chasing cars ~ Snow Patrol
So I was going to write a scathing blog about the lack of respect for the first amendment in second hand bookstores in rural Georgia. However, a late night visit from some neighbors last night changed all that. Don't worry, my rant will be posted soon.
Anyway, as you all know I am the proud owner of a cute little Honda ("everyone knows somebody who loves a Honda" - it's true!). It has an NL sticker on the rear window, a "swim bike run" magnet on the back, a ridiculously large parking decal on its windshield, a pink John Deere tag, and enough bugs on the hood to keep a vegan alive for months. Wait. Do they eat meat that died a semi-natural death? Anyway, it's almost three years old, has over a 100 000 miles on the odometer, and more showtune CDs in its glove compartment than a student lounge reserved for musical theater majors. But it's the zippiest car on the interstate, and can pretty much outrace anyone at a stoplight.
So, yes, I love my car. And yesterday, we almost lost her.
First, one of us (I am fairly confident it was husband-dear, but for the sake of marital bliss, I will keep this under wraps), parked the car out on the driveway on Tuesday and then not only left it unlocked, but one of the back doors slightly ajar as well. And here is the really amazing thing; I didn't find out until yesterday morning. Which obviously meant that almost 48 hours later, my car was still in the driveway. And not only that, but we went out Tuesday night, we left the house several times on Wednesday, and I'm pretty sure it turned dark both nights my car was left unlocked. I don't think this could have happened any of the other places I have lived. So there's a point for rural Georgia.
And then secondly, late last night, my car had another "moment". Because we're still painting furniture, I had parked the car outside on our driveway again, this time making sure it was locked. Now you should know that our driveway is very slanted, and so all cars have to put on the emergency brake when parked. Which I did.
Yet at 10:30 last night, while husband-dear and I were enjoying sleeps fit for kings, Ozzie (the oldest) came into our room; "Dude, like there's someone ringing the doorbell."
Husband-dear, myself, and the dogs bolted out of bed, convinced something was on fire, or someone had died, or some sort of natural catastrophe was about to hit our subdivision.
But when we opened the door, we immediately saw what had our neighbors on our front porch so late; my car had rolled down the driveway, and was now sitting, innocently, right smack in the middle of the street. Apparently, one of our neighbor had tried to leave for his night shift, when he had found my pretty much blocking off our entire cul-de-sac. So we, once again, went out and saved our car from the big, bad world out there.
So that's two almost-the-end experiences for my little Honda. I wonder if it's trying to tell me something...
Chasing cars ~ Snow Patrol
So I was going to write a scathing blog about the lack of respect for the first amendment in second hand bookstores in rural Georgia. However, a late night visit from some neighbors last night changed all that. Don't worry, my rant will be posted soon.
Anyway, as you all know I am the proud owner of a cute little Honda ("everyone knows somebody who loves a Honda" - it's true!). It has an NL sticker on the rear window, a "swim bike run" magnet on the back, a ridiculously large parking decal on its windshield, a pink John Deere tag, and enough bugs on the hood to keep a vegan alive for months. Wait. Do they eat meat that died a semi-natural death? Anyway, it's almost three years old, has over a 100 000 miles on the odometer, and more showtune CDs in its glove compartment than a student lounge reserved for musical theater majors. But it's the zippiest car on the interstate, and can pretty much outrace anyone at a stoplight.
So, yes, I love my car. And yesterday, we almost lost her.
First, one of us (I am fairly confident it was husband-dear, but for the sake of marital bliss, I will keep this under wraps), parked the car out on the driveway on Tuesday and then not only left it unlocked, but one of the back doors slightly ajar as well. And here is the really amazing thing; I didn't find out until yesterday morning. Which obviously meant that almost 48 hours later, my car was still in the driveway. And not only that, but we went out Tuesday night, we left the house several times on Wednesday, and I'm pretty sure it turned dark both nights my car was left unlocked. I don't think this could have happened any of the other places I have lived. So there's a point for rural Georgia.
And then secondly, late last night, my car had another "moment". Because we're still painting furniture, I had parked the car outside on our driveway again, this time making sure it was locked. Now you should know that our driveway is very slanted, and so all cars have to put on the emergency brake when parked. Which I did.
Yet at 10:30 last night, while husband-dear and I were enjoying sleeps fit for kings, Ozzie (the oldest) came into our room; "Dude, like there's someone ringing the doorbell."
Husband-dear, myself, and the dogs bolted out of bed, convinced something was on fire, or someone had died, or some sort of natural catastrophe was about to hit our subdivision.
But when we opened the door, we immediately saw what had our neighbors on our front porch so late; my car had rolled down the driveway, and was now sitting, innocently, right smack in the middle of the street. Apparently, one of our neighbor had tried to leave for his night shift, when he had found my pretty much blocking off our entire cul-de-sac. So we, once again, went out and saved our car from the big, bad world out there.
So that's two almost-the-end experiences for my little Honda. I wonder if it's trying to tell me something...
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Online woes
Let me just give it to you straight: Teaching online is the best pedagogical move I have ever made. It's better than the disappearance of chalk, the introduction of blackboard, the use of turnitin software, using twitter to update my students, and virtual office hours. Put together.
Last summer was when I taught my first online class, and since then, I have added one more course to my online porfolio, and I will be adding a third, hopefully, this fall. And I don't just love it because I can work from just about anywhere, wearing just about anything. Although that does help. No, I love it because it really seems to work for my students. In general, when I ask any class about something they have learned in the previous semester, I will, in almost all cases, received glazed looks, groans, and the dramatic, "Oh my gosh Dr. D, that's like forever ago! We don't remember that far back!". But ever since I started to teach online, the students who took that particular course online will generally remember what I am talking about.
And it's all because of student engagement. You see, teaching online doesn't just mean you hand them a book and tell them to turn in a paper at the end of the semester. It means putting together modules, each with a content section, where the content is delivered through various media (audio, visual, and written), so that there's something there for every type of student (although it remains unsettling to have a student tell you they listen to you on their way to work). It means creating discussion groups for each module. It means creating quizzes, homework assignments, small group work, and so on. It basically means that each student, if they are interested in passing that is, is completely engrossed the material from the beginning of the quarter to the end.
But just like in every class, online class suffer from issues too. And these seem to especially surface at the beginning of the semester. Which would be, like, now. And they make me want to tear my hair out. Or at least yell at a few students. Only I can't. And not just because that would be pedagogically unsound, but also because we're, you know, all online.
Let me provide you with a few my major online instruction pet peeves:
1. Using a definition other than the one presented in the course module (notably one from wikipedia).
You should know that writing a the lecture notes for an online course is a female canine. Seriously. It has to be properly paragraphed, be in the right order without lines and arrows denoting what should be said first, and you have to cite all your work. If any of you have ever seen anyone's teaching notes, they tend to be anything but those three things. And try and remember where you found that great quote you've been using for ten years. Yeah. So when a student chooses to not only ignore your lecture notes, but uses the, mostly incorrect, definition presented in Wikipedia (which is the devil's child for academics anyway), and then gets the answer to the assignment completely wrong, well, let's just say that makes me less than thrilled.
2. Reducing a discussion response to "That's a great answer! Me too!"
This is also known as the AOL effect, where entire discussion threads consist of nothing but "me too's". You should know that my "class guidelines" resource and syllabus clearly specify what is expected of discussion responses (summarize, synthesize, analyze, criticize, just in case you care), and thus a simple-minded "Awesome response!" just does nothing for my mood. Or the student's, when they discover they did not get rated for that in-depth answer.
3. Sending an email that you can't upload your homework five minutes before the deadline (which is at midnight), without attaching said homework.
And I should add: and then complain when I will not accept the homework when it is turned in twelve hours late. Much to everyone's surprise, I do not sit behind my computer 24 hours a day, panting for student emails. As specific by my syllabus, I will respond to emails within 24 hours, which I think is pretty generous, when you consider I'm still waiting on a response from my former chair to an email I sent about six years ago.
4. Participating in the discussion thread using text lingo.
I realize that letting students loose in an online environment can pose this threat, but students should realize that their professor, who writes in full sentences with proper punctuation wishes to at least understand what they're talking about. I'm not going to be the grammar nazi in an online class, but when students write "mfin" and mean "I am going to", they should at least realize that their professor is not from their generation, and has NO CLUE what they're talking about.
5. Using inappropriate pictures as their profile pictures.
Posing with a do-rag, using certain hand gestures in one's picture, or showing off a certain body part may be the "in" thing to do on Facebook or Twitter, but it really does little for the image the professor will have of you. Let's take the following as a rule of thumb: if your picture makes me blush, it's no good. Got that? Kthanks.
Last summer was when I taught my first online class, and since then, I have added one more course to my online porfolio, and I will be adding a third, hopefully, this fall. And I don't just love it because I can work from just about anywhere, wearing just about anything. Although that does help. No, I love it because it really seems to work for my students. In general, when I ask any class about something they have learned in the previous semester, I will, in almost all cases, received glazed looks, groans, and the dramatic, "Oh my gosh Dr. D, that's like forever ago! We don't remember that far back!". But ever since I started to teach online, the students who took that particular course online will generally remember what I am talking about.
And it's all because of student engagement. You see, teaching online doesn't just mean you hand them a book and tell them to turn in a paper at the end of the semester. It means putting together modules, each with a content section, where the content is delivered through various media (audio, visual, and written), so that there's something there for every type of student (although it remains unsettling to have a student tell you they listen to you on their way to work). It means creating discussion groups for each module. It means creating quizzes, homework assignments, small group work, and so on. It basically means that each student, if they are interested in passing that is, is completely engrossed the material from the beginning of the quarter to the end.
But just like in every class, online class suffer from issues too. And these seem to especially surface at the beginning of the semester. Which would be, like, now. And they make me want to tear my hair out. Or at least yell at a few students. Only I can't. And not just because that would be pedagogically unsound, but also because we're, you know, all online.
Let me provide you with a few my major online instruction pet peeves:
1. Using a definition other than the one presented in the course module (notably one from wikipedia).
You should know that writing a the lecture notes for an online course is a female canine. Seriously. It has to be properly paragraphed, be in the right order without lines and arrows denoting what should be said first, and you have to cite all your work. If any of you have ever seen anyone's teaching notes, they tend to be anything but those three things. And try and remember where you found that great quote you've been using for ten years. Yeah. So when a student chooses to not only ignore your lecture notes, but uses the, mostly incorrect, definition presented in Wikipedia (which is the devil's child for academics anyway), and then gets the answer to the assignment completely wrong, well, let's just say that makes me less than thrilled.
2. Reducing a discussion response to "That's a great answer! Me too!"
This is also known as the AOL effect, where entire discussion threads consist of nothing but "me too's". You should know that my "class guidelines" resource and syllabus clearly specify what is expected of discussion responses (summarize, synthesize, analyze, criticize, just in case you care), and thus a simple-minded "Awesome response!" just does nothing for my mood. Or the student's, when they discover they did not get rated for that in-depth answer.
3. Sending an email that you can't upload your homework five minutes before the deadline (which is at midnight), without attaching said homework.
And I should add: and then complain when I will not accept the homework when it is turned in twelve hours late. Much to everyone's surprise, I do not sit behind my computer 24 hours a day, panting for student emails. As specific by my syllabus, I will respond to emails within 24 hours, which I think is pretty generous, when you consider I'm still waiting on a response from my former chair to an email I sent about six years ago.
4. Participating in the discussion thread using text lingo.
I realize that letting students loose in an online environment can pose this threat, but students should realize that their professor, who writes in full sentences with proper punctuation wishes to at least understand what they're talking about. I'm not going to be the grammar nazi in an online class, but when students write "mfin" and mean "I am going to", they should at least realize that their professor is not from their generation, and has NO CLUE what they're talking about.
5. Using inappropriate pictures as their profile pictures.
Posing with a do-rag, using certain hand gestures in one's picture, or showing off a certain body part may be the "in" thing to do on Facebook or Twitter, but it really does little for the image the professor will have of you. Let's take the following as a rule of thumb: if your picture makes me blush, it's no good. Got that? Kthanks.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tuesday's Ten Questions
I've noticed that some bloggers have theme-days. Some use the "Five for Friday" idea, where each Friday they identify five reasons why they love their significant others, some have "Wordless Wednesdays", where they post a picture on, guess what, Wednesday, and others have "Love Thursday", where they try to bring a little love to world on Thursdays. I think all these ideas are great. And sometimes I think to myself, "Oh, that's great, I should do that too!". But then before any sort of additional thought can even occur, such as which of these ideas, or how, or anything else, I have another "squirrel!" moment, and my attention is distracted by something far more pressing such as an iron left on too long, the dogs throwing up on the rug, or a child running off with superglue and a huge screwdriver, yelling something about me not to worry.
So no themes for me. If anything, a running theme should be "Moping Mondays", "Whining Wednesdays", and "Find Fault Fridays". But since that probably wouldn't draw in any readers, and I'm too lazy to even attach labels to my posts, this is probably not going to happen either.
Instead I decided that today I was going to create my own random theme, namely "Tuesday's Ten Questions" (note that truly amazing alliteration!). I don't know when it will reappear, if ever, but it works for now. So here are today's ten questions.
1. Why do I always overcommit myself? You would think that after years and years and years of burdening myself with far too many tasks, I would have figured out what is too much, what is too little, and what is just right. But judging by the fact that summer term has only just started, and I am already up to my ears in grading, I'm still no Goldilocks. And I'm not even talking about the four triathlons I'm planning on doing this season, the upstairs redecoration project husband-dear and I embarked on last weekend, and the week-long conference I will be attending. Why, I ask you. Why?
2. Are all Georgia birds suicidal, or do they love scaring the crap out of Georgia drivers? I don't know, but judging by the number of birds that miss my windshield by mere millimeters, we either have a severely depressed bird population here in the south, or our birds have some serious behavioral issues ("Well, barn swallow Jack just ran out of his last stolen glue stick, so why don't I fly in front of this truck for kicks?" )
3. Should I get a really short hair cut? Just to facilitate my triathlon/ running/ cycling events? I've tried teaching husband-dear how to french braid, but since that's not happening, a short chop seems to be the only answer to tangles, scalping by tight rubber swimcaps, and hair-induced heat strokes. Or this taking the whole exercise thing too far?
4. Why am I already receiving emails to the extent of, "why did I get an 83"? "Why did not get an A?", or emails that start with "This junk is unfair"? Seriously people, the semester is not even a week old.
5a. Who am I going to complain to once Steve leaves at the end of this semester?
5b. And who will keep me sane when Steve leaves?
6. When will American stores start carrying Brinta porridge, Lemon vla, schoolkrijtjes licorice, licorice tikkels, brown farmer's licorice, and frikandels speciaal?
7. Why aren't black vultures afraid of cars? Even if you're approaching at 65mph? I understand that the rotting carcass of a deer in the middle of the road must be extremely appealing, but you do realize that my car could possibly kill you?
8. What is up with the number of snakes that have been suntanning along our running/ cycling route? And why are they -at least- three feet long? And why are they -always- on -my- side of the road?
9. Why do so many people at my work drive into the parking lot, turn off their engine, but leave their radio on while they listen to loud gospel with their eyes closed and their hands up in the air? I mean, I'm all about the right to praise and worship (or not), but 7:30 in the main parking lot? Really?
10. When, oh when will we too be able to Move. Away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere where I won't see "sons of confederate veterans" tags, where people won't balk at having to pay an addition $5 in tag fees so the southern part of the state might also be able to afford a trauma level 1 hospital, where people think education is worth something, where our town will actually have a downtown worth mentioning, and where a top Broadway show actually draws in a full house. When?
So no themes for me. If anything, a running theme should be "Moping Mondays", "Whining Wednesdays", and "Find Fault Fridays". But since that probably wouldn't draw in any readers, and I'm too lazy to even attach labels to my posts, this is probably not going to happen either.
Instead I decided that today I was going to create my own random theme, namely "Tuesday's Ten Questions" (note that truly amazing alliteration!). I don't know when it will reappear, if ever, but it works for now. So here are today's ten questions.
1. Why do I always overcommit myself? You would think that after years and years and years of burdening myself with far too many tasks, I would have figured out what is too much, what is too little, and what is just right. But judging by the fact that summer term has only just started, and I am already up to my ears in grading, I'm still no Goldilocks. And I'm not even talking about the four triathlons I'm planning on doing this season, the upstairs redecoration project husband-dear and I embarked on last weekend, and the week-long conference I will be attending. Why, I ask you. Why?
2. Are all Georgia birds suicidal, or do they love scaring the crap out of Georgia drivers? I don't know, but judging by the number of birds that miss my windshield by mere millimeters, we either have a severely depressed bird population here in the south, or our birds have some serious behavioral issues ("Well, barn swallow Jack just ran out of his last stolen glue stick, so why don't I fly in front of this truck for kicks?" )
3. Should I get a really short hair cut? Just to facilitate my triathlon/ running/ cycling events? I've tried teaching husband-dear how to french braid, but since that's not happening, a short chop seems to be the only answer to tangles, scalping by tight rubber swimcaps, and hair-induced heat strokes. Or this taking the whole exercise thing too far?
4. Why am I already receiving emails to the extent of, "why did I get an 83"? "Why did not get an A?", or emails that start with "This junk is unfair"? Seriously people, the semester is not even a week old.
5a. Who am I going to complain to once Steve leaves at the end of this semester?
5b. And who will keep me sane when Steve leaves?
6. When will American stores start carrying Brinta porridge, Lemon vla, schoolkrijtjes licorice, licorice tikkels, brown farmer's licorice, and frikandels speciaal?
7. Why aren't black vultures afraid of cars? Even if you're approaching at 65mph? I understand that the rotting carcass of a deer in the middle of the road must be extremely appealing, but you do realize that my car could possibly kill you?
8. What is up with the number of snakes that have been suntanning along our running/ cycling route? And why are they -at least- three feet long? And why are they -always- on -my- side of the road?
9. Why do so many people at my work drive into the parking lot, turn off their engine, but leave their radio on while they listen to loud gospel with their eyes closed and their hands up in the air? I mean, I'm all about the right to praise and worship (or not), but 7:30 in the main parking lot? Really?
10. When, oh when will we too be able to Move. Away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere where I won't see "sons of confederate veterans" tags, where people won't balk at having to pay an addition $5 in tag fees so the southern part of the state might also be able to afford a trauma level 1 hospital, where people think education is worth something, where our town will actually have a downtown worth mentioning, and where a top Broadway show actually draws in a full house. When?
Saturday, May 22, 2010
All night long
Did you know that Steak and Shake has a happy hour? And that during this happy hour, everything is half price? No?
Well, I didn't either. As since I love a bargain, this is quite the embarrassment. I mean, I am the rollback lady, and to not know about a half-off deal is just not up to par.
In my defense, until a few years ago, I didn't even know what Steak and Shake was, as this seems to be a chain that never really quite made it up north. Or west of the Mississippi. But anyway, our little hamlet is lucky enough to be blessed with a Steak and Shake, and besides servind the best shoestring fries and milkshakes I have ever had, they also have a happy hour. And this happy hour is from 2-4pm and am. Yes. Steak and Shake has a happy hour from 2-4 AM. That would be at night. At. Night.
Now if we lived in a town like the million of college towns across America, where bars close anywhere between 2 and 4 in the morning, I could see the point of a happy hour in the middle of the night. After all, late night revellers love nothing better than to end the night with some nice, sticky greasiness, and since the concept of the "doner kebab" has yet to break through in my neck of the woods, a burger place is not such a bad idea. But we're not a college town. We're a God-fearing, troop-supporting, two-Walmart, one-Big-Lots town that is dry on Sundays. So why the Steak and Shake is open at night is beyond me.
And the same really applies to the Taco Bell, the Walmart, the Waffle House, the Kroger, and really any other large store in town. I mean, sure, extended hours are very practical, as proven right now by husband-dear's quick "I forgot to buy meat" trip to the grocery store. I mean, where in Holland, or Germany, or Belgium, or France, or Scandinavia, or even England can you go out and buy beef tips at 8:30 at night on a Saturday? Nowhere, if my memory serves me right. So, yes, stores not closing at 4pm sharp is nice. But why does a Walmart need to be open 24 hours a day? I mean, seriously, who, besides a few people with seriously poor planning skills, needs lightbulbs, flat sheets, digital cameras, fishing gear, and motor oil at three in the morning? Or tacoes? Or Waffles? Having the munchies at 4am is one thing, but getting into your car and driving to a Waffle House seems just really close to slightly deranged to me.
Honestly, I can think of one use of all this 24-hour business, and that is to help me go to sleep. You see, every once in a while, I will wake up in the middle of the night, and feel wide awake. It's extremely annoying, and only a week after moving here, and realizing that the two Walmarts never closed, I quickly discovered that the one thing that put me back to sleep was imaging I would get up and go to Walmart. I envisioned myself getting dressed, getting into my car, driving through a deserted town, and by the time I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, I would be dead asleep. Perfect.
But besides serving as a natural sleeping aide, I really wonder about the use of all of it. I mean, sure, it's practical to know that you can run to the store for beef tips at 9 on a Saturday night, but would we have really been worse off if we had to run out tomorrow morning to get them? Or maybe, and I'm really going out on a limb here, wait until Monday? Obviously, we would be cooking something else tomorrow, but would that have really been the end of the world?
I realize that to some of my Dutch friends, all of whom have complained about the restrictive opening hours of most Dutch stores, this probably sounds ridiculous. But the main problem I see with the 24-hour economy, is that it never ends. There is never an excuse to not do something. Do you need an oil-change on Sunday? The Walmart car service is open from ten to six. Need a haircut on a Monday night? Cuts r Us is open until nine. And it goes on and on. And the lights are never turned off, and the city never sleeps.
Maybe we do need to move to the country.
Well, I didn't either. As since I love a bargain, this is quite the embarrassment. I mean, I am the rollback lady, and to not know about a half-off deal is just not up to par.
In my defense, until a few years ago, I didn't even know what Steak and Shake was, as this seems to be a chain that never really quite made it up north. Or west of the Mississippi. But anyway, our little hamlet is lucky enough to be blessed with a Steak and Shake, and besides servind the best shoestring fries and milkshakes I have ever had, they also have a happy hour. And this happy hour is from 2-4pm and am. Yes. Steak and Shake has a happy hour from 2-4 AM. That would be at night. At. Night.
Now if we lived in a town like the million of college towns across America, where bars close anywhere between 2 and 4 in the morning, I could see the point of a happy hour in the middle of the night. After all, late night revellers love nothing better than to end the night with some nice, sticky greasiness, and since the concept of the "doner kebab" has yet to break through in my neck of the woods, a burger place is not such a bad idea. But we're not a college town. We're a God-fearing, troop-supporting, two-Walmart, one-Big-Lots town that is dry on Sundays. So why the Steak and Shake is open at night is beyond me.
And the same really applies to the Taco Bell, the Walmart, the Waffle House, the Kroger, and really any other large store in town. I mean, sure, extended hours are very practical, as proven right now by husband-dear's quick "I forgot to buy meat" trip to the grocery store. I mean, where in Holland, or Germany, or Belgium, or France, or Scandinavia, or even England can you go out and buy beef tips at 8:30 at night on a Saturday? Nowhere, if my memory serves me right. So, yes, stores not closing at 4pm sharp is nice. But why does a Walmart need to be open 24 hours a day? I mean, seriously, who, besides a few people with seriously poor planning skills, needs lightbulbs, flat sheets, digital cameras, fishing gear, and motor oil at three in the morning? Or tacoes? Or Waffles? Having the munchies at 4am is one thing, but getting into your car and driving to a Waffle House seems just really close to slightly deranged to me.
Honestly, I can think of one use of all this 24-hour business, and that is to help me go to sleep. You see, every once in a while, I will wake up in the middle of the night, and feel wide awake. It's extremely annoying, and only a week after moving here, and realizing that the two Walmarts never closed, I quickly discovered that the one thing that put me back to sleep was imaging I would get up and go to Walmart. I envisioned myself getting dressed, getting into my car, driving through a deserted town, and by the time I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, I would be dead asleep. Perfect.
But besides serving as a natural sleeping aide, I really wonder about the use of all of it. I mean, sure, it's practical to know that you can run to the store for beef tips at 9 on a Saturday night, but would we have really been worse off if we had to run out tomorrow morning to get them? Or maybe, and I'm really going out on a limb here, wait until Monday? Obviously, we would be cooking something else tomorrow, but would that have really been the end of the world?
I realize that to some of my Dutch friends, all of whom have complained about the restrictive opening hours of most Dutch stores, this probably sounds ridiculous. But the main problem I see with the 24-hour economy, is that it never ends. There is never an excuse to not do something. Do you need an oil-change on Sunday? The Walmart car service is open from ten to six. Need a haircut on a Monday night? Cuts r Us is open until nine. And it goes on and on. And the lights are never turned off, and the city never sleeps.
Maybe we do need to move to the country.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Een zeurpiet
Ik heb het hier al eens eerder gezegd, maar Nederlanders kunnen heel goed zeuren. En ik dus ook. Echt waar, u moet me eens horen. Over het vriendinnetje dat verhuisde, onze secretaresses die dingen vergeten door te sturen, studenten die lastig doen, en kinderen die hun tafelmanieren spontaan vergeten. Ik ben er echt een kampioen in. En ik doe het dan ook graag, met als excuus dat het nou eenmaal in de volksaard zit. Het is niet voor niks dat we in Nederland zoveel woorden hebben voor zeuren: klagen, zanniken, zeiken, mekkeren, mopperen, en ga zo maar door. En dat we liedjes hebben die zeuren over wat er allemaal mis is met de verschillende landen in de wereld. En dat het weer eigenlijk altijd te koud, te warm, te sneeuwig, of te nat is. En dat ik vriendinnen hebben die dingen tegen elkaar zeggen als, "Zullen we even lekker mopperen met een kopje thee erbij?". En je kan DixieChick wel uit Nederland halen, maar haal je Nederland ooit uit DixieChick?
Maar daar zit het probleem. Manlief snapt er namelijk werkelijk niks van. Als een echte, eerlijke, recht-door-zee Amerikaan denkt hij namelijk dat elke keer als ik zeur, ik het ook daadwerkelijk meen. En dus echt diep ongelukkig ben. Maar dat is dus helemaal niet zo.
Als rasechte Nederlanders weten wij natuurlijk wel beter. Zeuren is gewoon net zoiets als roddelen. Of samen koffie drinken. Of hardlopen. Of kantklossen. Of een huis schilderen. Het is een manier om een band te creeeren. En dat gaat ongeveer zo:
"Dit is zo ontzettend irritant, heb jij dat ook?"
"Ja! Ik vind dat ook zo frustrerend!"
"Ja! Precies!"
En zo is er genoeg conversatie materiaal ontdekt om het gesprek nog uren voort te zetten. Missie geslaagd.
Maar ja, manlief snapt dat dus helemaal niet. En elke keer als ik dus poog een band te scheppen door over iets te mopperen, komt hij, in plaats van mee te mekkeren over nare secretaresses en irritante airmen, met oplossingen aan. Ja, en dat defeats the purpose dus helemaal, zoals ze dat hier zo mooi zeggen. Als je zeurt, dan wil je geen oplossingen. Dan wil je zeuren. Punt. Maar ja, leg dat maar eens uit aan manlief. Of aan de meeste Amerikanen eigenlijk. De meeste zijn niet zo van het zeuren. En hier in het zuiden al helemaal niet. Want als je zannikt, dan geef je aan dat iets misschien niet helemaal perfect is, en Oh. My. Gosh. Dat kan dus niet.
En dus ben ik noodgedwongen mijn zeuren aan het minderen. En heeft u enig idee hoe graag ik daar nou eens een potje over zou willen mopperen?
Zucht.
Maar daar zit het probleem. Manlief snapt er namelijk werkelijk niks van. Als een echte, eerlijke, recht-door-zee Amerikaan denkt hij namelijk dat elke keer als ik zeur, ik het ook daadwerkelijk meen. En dus echt diep ongelukkig ben. Maar dat is dus helemaal niet zo.
Als rasechte Nederlanders weten wij natuurlijk wel beter. Zeuren is gewoon net zoiets als roddelen. Of samen koffie drinken. Of hardlopen. Of kantklossen. Of een huis schilderen. Het is een manier om een band te creeeren. En dat gaat ongeveer zo:
"Dit is zo ontzettend irritant, heb jij dat ook?"
"Ja! Ik vind dat ook zo frustrerend!"
"Ja! Precies!"
En zo is er genoeg conversatie materiaal ontdekt om het gesprek nog uren voort te zetten. Missie geslaagd.
Maar ja, manlief snapt dat dus helemaal niet. En elke keer als ik dus poog een band te scheppen door over iets te mopperen, komt hij, in plaats van mee te mekkeren over nare secretaresses en irritante airmen, met oplossingen aan. Ja, en dat defeats the purpose dus helemaal, zoals ze dat hier zo mooi zeggen. Als je zeurt, dan wil je geen oplossingen. Dan wil je zeuren. Punt. Maar ja, leg dat maar eens uit aan manlief. Of aan de meeste Amerikanen eigenlijk. De meeste zijn niet zo van het zeuren. En hier in het zuiden al helemaal niet. Want als je zannikt, dan geef je aan dat iets misschien niet helemaal perfect is, en Oh. My. Gosh. Dat kan dus niet.
En dus ben ik noodgedwongen mijn zeuren aan het minderen. En heeft u enig idee hoe graag ik daar nou eens een potje over zou willen mopperen?
Zucht.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
A letter to the makers of running shoes
Dear Nike, Asics, New Balance, Saucony, Adidas, Brooks, and all other running shoe manufacturers,
I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but now that I am once again forced to shop for a new brand of running shoe, I have no choice. It's time for me to unleash the fury of my keyboard.
Let me start off by saying that on the whole you guys do a great job. You have kept me and millions of other runners in properly supporting footwear for decades now, and you truly seem to be moving from strength to strength. While the generation of my father had the choice between cleats and the 1960s equivalent of Keds, I now have a cornucopia of running shoes to chose from. There are shoes with arch locks, decoupled heels, toe drops, solyte midsole material, impact guidance systems, and on the whole enough technology to make the space shuttle seem positively austere. And not only is the technology overwhelming, but there are shoes for every runner imaginable; from the lucky neutral runners like husband-dear, to the over-pronating, injury-prone, high-arched runner like myself. You can be proud of yourself, because you did good.
But lately, I have been getting the feeling that you really have been overdoing your innovations. I'm sorry, but it's true. Just to make sure I wasn't imagining things, I've pulled out the shoes I have gone through in the past three years. The oldest shoe is the Asics GT 2110, which was replaced by the New Balance 875, which then made way for the New Balance 1223, followed by the New Balance 1224. Shoes prior to 2007 have been thrown out, but I do remember owning several pairs of Nikes prior to my switch to Asics.
Now I know what you all non-shoe-manufacturers are thinking, what possesses her that she would (a) go through that many shoes, and (b) switch brands so often? Regarding (a), the average life of a running shoe is anywhere from 300 to 500 miles, which gives my shoes a shelf-life of about 6-9 months. And what about (b)? Well that, my darlings, is the point of this letter.
Let me make it clear that whenever I find a shoe that works for my apparently girly and sensitive joints and muscles, I am thrilled. I am beyond thrilled. I am excited, over the moon, and generally can't wait to beat the crap out of some pavement. And I would love nothing more than to run in that same brand of shoe for the rest of my life. I'm serious. Only, I can't. And that is the fault of the manufacturers of running shoes. And their fault alone. Why, you ask? Because every year or so, they get an itch, or a burr up their behind, or something somewhere, and decide to completely revamp their line so "it better matches the needs of today's runners" or "reflects today's innovations in running", or something equally pompous.
And what does this translate to for most runners like me, who do not have the neutral feet like husband-dear? It means another two hour session at the local running store trying to figure out which shoe works best. Don't get me wrong, I love my local running store. I would gladly spend two hours there, but not while uncertain if I will ever find a pair of shoes that will work as well for me as the ones that Nike, or Asics, or New Balance just decided to discontinue.
Interestingly, all runners, as well as the staff at the local running store agree that discontinuing popular shoes is ridiculous. But, most of them will argue, it's the shoe manufacturer's way of ensuring a steady income. Which doesn't make it OK, they will add, but it does make it understandable.
Well, let me be very frank here, because all it really does is make the running shoe people look really stupid. You see, as I was just explaining, I buy new shoes every 6-9 months, and so do all serious runners. We don't care about new technology, cute colors, or a pretty reflective stripe, no, our old shoes are so beaten up we feel like we're running on crocs, and we just need new ones. So regardless of whether companies introduce new gel cushioning, more wick, or a biomorphic fit upper, we need new shoes. And we will buy them. Do shoe companies not see the profit potential here? Throw out your R&D people, just recycle the same shoes year after year, and runners will still keep buying them! It's a win-win situation, as far as I'm concerned.
Then there are those of us who say, "Ah, yes! But they're banking on runners stocking up on shoes once they know they will be discontinued.". And although this is a very valid statement, and I have done this in the past, all this means is that if you've just stocked up on two pairs of shoes, you won't be buying new shoes for 12-18 months as opposed to the usual 6-9 months.
Now before you all bring up the people who do like innovations, and who will run out to buy the latest and greatest: as far as I'm concerned, they're either Olympic athletes, and thus completely irrelevant to this discussion, or not serious runners. I mean, I would like to remind you that most runners look like hobos, do things like pick up trash while running, and generally avoid anything that reeks of popular culture, including great new wonderful innovations that came straight from the NASA drawing board!
People who do fall for innovations in exercise are people who buy the Reebok Easytone because they believe if you walk 300 yards in those every day, your butt will look like Jennifer Lopez's, you will have Tina Turner legs, and a Madonna upper body. These are people who own the thighmaster, the AbCruncher, and every single Aerobics, Pilates, and Tae Bo video that every made it to the market. These are not people who will invest the time in understanding the difference between motion control and neutral shoes, but who want the easy fix instead. So the whole "let's reinvent our entire line every two years" is wasted on them too.
So.
Shoe manufacturers. Listen up.
I should think my point is clear.
(a) Runners will always buy shoes every 6-9 months
(b) Runners like their shoes. A lot.
(c) Runners' feet don't change all that much. A high arch is a high arch and once you pronate, you generally don't stop.
So.
Let's stop all the mad innovations and keep it simple.
And while you're at it, please reintroduce the New Balance 1224 just the way it was.
Thanks.
D.C. Runner
I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but now that I am once again forced to shop for a new brand of running shoe, I have no choice. It's time for me to unleash the fury of my keyboard.
Let me start off by saying that on the whole you guys do a great job. You have kept me and millions of other runners in properly supporting footwear for decades now, and you truly seem to be moving from strength to strength. While the generation of my father had the choice between cleats and the 1960s equivalent of Keds, I now have a cornucopia of running shoes to chose from. There are shoes with arch locks, decoupled heels, toe drops, solyte midsole material, impact guidance systems, and on the whole enough technology to make the space shuttle seem positively austere. And not only is the technology overwhelming, but there are shoes for every runner imaginable; from the lucky neutral runners like husband-dear, to the over-pronating, injury-prone, high-arched runner like myself. You can be proud of yourself, because you did good.
But lately, I have been getting the feeling that you really have been overdoing your innovations. I'm sorry, but it's true. Just to make sure I wasn't imagining things, I've pulled out the shoes I have gone through in the past three years. The oldest shoe is the Asics GT 2110, which was replaced by the New Balance 875, which then made way for the New Balance 1223, followed by the New Balance 1224. Shoes prior to 2007 have been thrown out, but I do remember owning several pairs of Nikes prior to my switch to Asics.
Now I know what you all non-shoe-manufacturers are thinking, what possesses her that she would (a) go through that many shoes, and (b) switch brands so often? Regarding (a), the average life of a running shoe is anywhere from 300 to 500 miles, which gives my shoes a shelf-life of about 6-9 months. And what about (b)? Well that, my darlings, is the point of this letter.
Let me make it clear that whenever I find a shoe that works for my apparently girly and sensitive joints and muscles, I am thrilled. I am beyond thrilled. I am excited, over the moon, and generally can't wait to beat the crap out of some pavement. And I would love nothing more than to run in that same brand of shoe for the rest of my life. I'm serious. Only, I can't. And that is the fault of the manufacturers of running shoes. And their fault alone. Why, you ask? Because every year or so, they get an itch, or a burr up their behind, or something somewhere, and decide to completely revamp their line so "it better matches the needs of today's runners" or "reflects today's innovations in running", or something equally pompous.
And what does this translate to for most runners like me, who do not have the neutral feet like husband-dear? It means another two hour session at the local running store trying to figure out which shoe works best. Don't get me wrong, I love my local running store. I would gladly spend two hours there, but not while uncertain if I will ever find a pair of shoes that will work as well for me as the ones that Nike, or Asics, or New Balance just decided to discontinue.
Interestingly, all runners, as well as the staff at the local running store agree that discontinuing popular shoes is ridiculous. But, most of them will argue, it's the shoe manufacturer's way of ensuring a steady income. Which doesn't make it OK, they will add, but it does make it understandable.
Well, let me be very frank here, because all it really does is make the running shoe people look really stupid. You see, as I was just explaining, I buy new shoes every 6-9 months, and so do all serious runners. We don't care about new technology, cute colors, or a pretty reflective stripe, no, our old shoes are so beaten up we feel like we're running on crocs, and we just need new ones. So regardless of whether companies introduce new gel cushioning, more wick, or a biomorphic fit upper, we need new shoes. And we will buy them. Do shoe companies not see the profit potential here? Throw out your R&D people, just recycle the same shoes year after year, and runners will still keep buying them! It's a win-win situation, as far as I'm concerned.
Then there are those of us who say, "Ah, yes! But they're banking on runners stocking up on shoes once they know they will be discontinued.". And although this is a very valid statement, and I have done this in the past, all this means is that if you've just stocked up on two pairs of shoes, you won't be buying new shoes for 12-18 months as opposed to the usual 6-9 months.
Now before you all bring up the people who do like innovations, and who will run out to buy the latest and greatest: as far as I'm concerned, they're either Olympic athletes, and thus completely irrelevant to this discussion, or not serious runners. I mean, I would like to remind you that most runners look like hobos, do things like pick up trash while running, and generally avoid anything that reeks of popular culture, including great new wonderful innovations that came straight from the NASA drawing board!
People who do fall for innovations in exercise are people who buy the Reebok Easytone because they believe if you walk 300 yards in those every day, your butt will look like Jennifer Lopez's, you will have Tina Turner legs, and a Madonna upper body. These are people who own the thighmaster, the AbCruncher, and every single Aerobics, Pilates, and Tae Bo video that every made it to the market. These are not people who will invest the time in understanding the difference between motion control and neutral shoes, but who want the easy fix instead. So the whole "let's reinvent our entire line every two years" is wasted on them too.
So.
Shoe manufacturers. Listen up.
I should think my point is clear.
(a) Runners will always buy shoes every 6-9 months
(b) Runners like their shoes. A lot.
(c) Runners' feet don't change all that much. A high arch is a high arch and once you pronate, you generally don't stop.
So.
Let's stop all the mad innovations and keep it simple.
And while you're at it, please reintroduce the New Balance 1224 just the way it was.
Thanks.
D.C. Runner
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Cleaning Nazi
Yesterday, I added another nickname to my already impressive list: The cleaning Nazi. Besides the chap stick Nazi and the FemiNazi, I have now apparently also earned the impressive title of "cleaning Nazi".
If you just shuddered, frowned, cried out "what?!", spewed your coffee all over your computer screen, or all of the above, you're probably a) not American, b) not familiar with Seinfeld, and c) very much like me until recently, except when I don't expect it, and still finding myself spewing my beverage all over Steve everywhere
Coming from Europe, with grandparents who lived through the hunger winter of 1944, fought in the resistance, lost their homes, and had to hide from the Germans, as well as the constant reminder of world war two all around in the form of ugly post-war reconstruction and memorials, I would have never thought I would use the term "nazi" in anything but a historical sense. After all, anyone born in post-1945 Europe was raised with the notion that the nazis were / are pretty much the epitome of all evil. I mean, come on people, there is a reason the bad guys in Star Wars IV: A New Hope talk and look like Germans. So calling someone a Nazi in Europe is calling them a Nazi in the most literal sense possible. You're basically telling them they're shiny-black-boot-wearing, blindly-obedient, genocidal-maniacal, racist fascists. So let's just say that that word is not bandied about lightly.
But here in the US, the term "Nazi" never quite carried that negative a connotation. Even far before Seinfeld came along. And it does make sense. For although the Americans did fight the Nazis (and did so quite convincingly and successfully, I might add), they never suffered through an occupation, endless bombings, and the constant disappearance of near and dear ones. So it's not really a surprise when the term "Nazi" was slowly watered down to refer to anyone really strict, who is a stickler for rules, regulations, and order, and not very nice about it. The understanding of this term was perfectly captured in the famous Seinfeld Soup Nazi episode.
Ever since that episode aired in the mid-1990s, the term "Nazi" has been used freely, and at times almost endearingly, to describe anyone who is very gung-ho about just about anything. I remember when husband-dear first used the term with me very early on in our relationship, and called me a "chap stick Nazi". You see, husband-dear has very sensitive lips that are always getting sunburned and extremely chapped, and all he has to do to prevent that is wear chap stick. Only he constantly forgets that. And so I remind him. A lot. Or perhaps all the time. And hence husband-dear jokingly called me "chap stick Nazi".
And. I. Freaked. Out.
I mean, I really lost it. I cited my grandparents' suffering, the Nijmegen orphanage that got bombed, the people who never came home, and on the whole just made a bit of a fool of myself. And husband-dear understood. And has, much to his credit, never used the term again.
But that still leaves 299 million Americans who are not familiar with my feelings towards this term. And so Steve has jokingly called me a "FemiNazi" for hyphenating my last name, and last night, my friends dubbed me the "Cleaning Nazi".
I earned this title, because when Kay asked for help in cleaning her house after the movers were done, and indicated she was a little worried about passing final inspection, I stated in no uncertain terms that if I was there to help her clean, her house would be spotless by the time we were done. And while cleaning last night, whenever someone claimed to be done with something, I would threaten to come check it out to make sure it passed my inspection, before we could declare it "done". Hence the "cleaning Nazi". And although from a European perspective that could be construed as insulting, as a semi-American, I can say it's a true badge of honor.
And now excuse me while I call Kay to find out if her house did in fact pass that final inspection.
If you just shuddered, frowned, cried out "what?!", spewed your coffee all over your computer screen, or all of the above, you're probably a) not American, b) not familiar with Seinfeld, and c) very much like me until recently, except when I don't expect it, and still finding myself spewing my beverage
Coming from Europe, with grandparents who lived through the hunger winter of 1944, fought in the resistance, lost their homes, and had to hide from the Germans, as well as the constant reminder of world war two all around in the form of ugly post-war reconstruction and memorials, I would have never thought I would use the term "nazi" in anything but a historical sense. After all, anyone born in post-1945 Europe was raised with the notion that the nazis were / are pretty much the epitome of all evil. I mean, come on people, there is a reason the bad guys in Star Wars IV: A New Hope talk and look like Germans. So calling someone a Nazi in Europe is calling them a Nazi in the most literal sense possible. You're basically telling them they're shiny-black-boot-wearing, blindly-obedient, genocidal-maniacal, racist fascists. So let's just say that that word is not bandied about lightly.
But here in the US, the term "Nazi" never quite carried that negative a connotation. Even far before Seinfeld came along. And it does make sense. For although the Americans did fight the Nazis (and did so quite convincingly and successfully, I might add), they never suffered through an occupation, endless bombings, and the constant disappearance of near and dear ones. So it's not really a surprise when the term "Nazi" was slowly watered down to refer to anyone really strict, who is a stickler for rules, regulations, and order, and not very nice about it. The understanding of this term was perfectly captured in the famous Seinfeld Soup Nazi episode.
Ever since that episode aired in the mid-1990s, the term "Nazi" has been used freely, and at times almost endearingly, to describe anyone who is very gung-ho about just about anything. I remember when husband-dear first used the term with me very early on in our relationship, and called me a "chap stick Nazi". You see, husband-dear has very sensitive lips that are always getting sunburned and extremely chapped, and all he has to do to prevent that is wear chap stick. Only he constantly forgets that. And so I remind him. A lot. Or perhaps all the time. And hence husband-dear jokingly called me "chap stick Nazi".
And. I. Freaked. Out.
I mean, I really lost it. I cited my grandparents' suffering, the Nijmegen orphanage that got bombed, the people who never came home, and on the whole just made a bit of a fool of myself. And husband-dear understood. And has, much to his credit, never used the term again.
But that still leaves 299 million Americans who are not familiar with my feelings towards this term. And so Steve has jokingly called me a "FemiNazi" for hyphenating my last name, and last night, my friends dubbed me the "Cleaning Nazi".
I earned this title, because when Kay asked for help in cleaning her house after the movers were done, and indicated she was a little worried about passing final inspection, I stated in no uncertain terms that if I was there to help her clean, her house would be spotless by the time we were done. And while cleaning last night, whenever someone claimed to be done with something, I would threaten to come check it out to make sure it passed my inspection, before we could declare it "done". Hence the "cleaning Nazi". And although from a European perspective that could be construed as insulting, as a semi-American, I can say it's a true badge of honor.
And now excuse me while I call Kay to find out if her house did in fact pass that final inspection.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Schizophrenic
Yesterday, as I was bicycling down a winding road with trees on one side and a field on the other, I was lost in one of those soothing reveries I get when I'm in my zone. This one had something to do with planting honeysuckle in our backyard, as the honeysuckle that was draped all over the trees made me feel as though I was riding through a Bath and Body works store. And seriously, who wouldn't want their backyard to smell like a Bath and Body works store? And perhaps when I got husband-dear to plant that honeysuckle, I could also get him to consider putting in a patio. And maybe some flowerbeds. And thus my mind wandered on, creating an endless honey-do list, like it does on any normal ride or run. But when this reverie was rudely interrupted by a gigantic truck toting what looked like a part of a jet engine roaring by me and on to the flight line, I realized that perhaps this wasn't an entirely normal ride. After all, how many people regularly bicycle along a flight line filled with planes, control towers, and important looking equipment? Honestly, when you stop and think about it, having access to any military installation definitely falls under the "quirky" category of things in life.
For me, the base is mainly associated with groceries, church, but most importantly, working out. The gym as well as the indoor pool are free, and as an ID holder I have free access to most roads on base for running, cycling, rollerblading, hula-hooping, singing and dancing a la Gene Kelly, or whatever else strikes my fancy. But now think about it. How many of you, before you go grocery shopping, to the gym, or to church, have to pass through a gate manned by people carrying REALLY BIG guns? For those of you who have been military dependents longer than you care to remember, let me just point out to you that this is really not the norm. Because unless you frequent the lesser echelons of urban America on a regular basis, being greeted by big burly people with weapons is really not the norm. And snooty doormen are really not the same thing, no matter how many times they ask you for the name of the tenant you're visiting.
It's easy to forget about the oddness of life on base. Sticking to the traffic rules might be the hardest one to remember, but all the other things just become part of "normal life". But when you stop and think about them, how sensible are they, really? I mean, why do we stop when retreat is played? I've got frozen goods in the back of my car, the kids are waiting for me, and I really need to cook dinner, but when I hear that tune, I stop. Even though it means it's time to go home, which, technically, I was trying to do until that song came on. Seriously. Or how about the whole "people driving around in camo cars pretending they're in the desert" concept? We're in the south, there's not a desert in sight, but I barely notice them anymore. Or all the "do not enter, firing range" signs? Actually, I need to take that one back. Anyone who's lived in rural America has come across those, although they may be more along the lines of "Michigan militia training area", or "We shoot all intruders", or "deer hunting season in progress". Either way, visiting a base on a regular basis just really messes with your head. It makes you think that wearing camo is the norm, school buses are all blue, and America is made up of really young and fit people.
And yesterday, as husband-dear and I embarked on a mini-training triathlon on base (750m swim, 10 mile bike, 3 mile run), I was really made aware of this for probably the first time. You see, we don't usually bicycle on base. We have tons of beautiful roads around our house, and can easily ride 50 miles without doubling back once, while the longest loop on base is only about 10 miles. Having said that, our house offers nothing better than a little round redneck pool, so we were stuck carrying out our little training session on base. And when I ride my bike, I'm used to seeing woods, cotton fields, barley fields, soy fields, houses, and tons of dogs. But yesterday could not have been more different. I saw planes, fire trucks, control towers, engine parts the size of our house, lots of people in flight suits doing all sorts of all important things, and more planes. It was interesting, not in the least, because none of these people had apparently ever seen a bicycle before, and thus we had some interesting encounters, one especially remarkable one involving a little maintenance truck swerving all over the road because it wasn't sure on which side it should let us pass (hint: the right).
But then our run took us to the other side of base. And there we got to run along the horse fields and stables, in between two huge sparkling lakes, through the woods, past a beautiful collection of houses, the elementary school, and the child development center. It was almost schizophrenic. And I would have said something about it to husband-dear, had my tongue not been hanging down to my knees, and I not been dying a slow death. Hence today's blog.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. At all. After all, it's free, and so who am I to say anything at all. but it was just, well, schizophrenic. Dichotomous. An unexpected contrast. Discrepant. Incongruous. Disparate. And above all, like really, really weird. Dude.
For me, the base is mainly associated with groceries, church, but most importantly, working out. The gym as well as the indoor pool are free, and as an ID holder I have free access to most roads on base for running, cycling, rollerblading, hula-hooping, singing and dancing a la Gene Kelly, or whatever else strikes my fancy. But now think about it. How many of you, before you go grocery shopping, to the gym, or to church, have to pass through a gate manned by people carrying REALLY BIG guns? For those of you who have been military dependents longer than you care to remember, let me just point out to you that this is really not the norm. Because unless you frequent the lesser echelons of urban America on a regular basis, being greeted by big burly people with weapons is really not the norm. And snooty doormen are really not the same thing, no matter how many times they ask you for the name of the tenant you're visiting.
It's easy to forget about the oddness of life on base. Sticking to the traffic rules might be the hardest one to remember, but all the other things just become part of "normal life". But when you stop and think about them, how sensible are they, really? I mean, why do we stop when retreat is played? I've got frozen goods in the back of my car, the kids are waiting for me, and I really need to cook dinner, but when I hear that tune, I stop. Even though it means it's time to go home, which, technically, I was trying to do until that song came on. Seriously. Or how about the whole "people driving around in camo cars pretending they're in the desert" concept? We're in the south, there's not a desert in sight, but I barely notice them anymore. Or all the "do not enter, firing range" signs? Actually, I need to take that one back. Anyone who's lived in rural America has come across those, although they may be more along the lines of "Michigan militia training area", or "We shoot all intruders", or "deer hunting season in progress". Either way, visiting a base on a regular basis just really messes with your head. It makes you think that wearing camo is the norm, school buses are all blue, and America is made up of really young and fit people.
And yesterday, as husband-dear and I embarked on a mini-training triathlon on base (750m swim, 10 mile bike, 3 mile run), I was really made aware of this for probably the first time. You see, we don't usually bicycle on base. We have tons of beautiful roads around our house, and can easily ride 50 miles without doubling back once, while the longest loop on base is only about 10 miles. Having said that, our house offers nothing better than a little round redneck pool, so we were stuck carrying out our little training session on base. And when I ride my bike, I'm used to seeing woods, cotton fields, barley fields, soy fields, houses, and tons of dogs. But yesterday could not have been more different. I saw planes, fire trucks, control towers, engine parts the size of our house, lots of people in flight suits doing all sorts of all important things, and more planes. It was interesting, not in the least, because none of these people had apparently ever seen a bicycle before, and thus we had some interesting encounters, one especially remarkable one involving a little maintenance truck swerving all over the road because it wasn't sure on which side it should let us pass (hint: the right).
But then our run took us to the other side of base. And there we got to run along the horse fields and stables, in between two huge sparkling lakes, through the woods, past a beautiful collection of houses, the elementary school, and the child development center. It was almost schizophrenic. And I would have said something about it to husband-dear, had my tongue not been hanging down to my knees, and I not been dying a slow death. Hence today's blog.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. At all. After all, it's free, and so who am I to say anything at all. but it was just, well, schizophrenic. Dichotomous. An unexpected contrast. Discrepant. Incongruous. Disparate. And above all, like really, really weird. Dude.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Keeping up appearances
"Abstain from all appearance of evil"
1 Thessalonians 5:22 (KJV)
So appearances are a relatively big thing in the south. Although we may not have snooty old ladies in floral patterned dresses picking up the phone saying "Bouquet residence, lady of the house speaking", we do have multiple other expressions of the same principle. Think of women who go for a run in full make up and hair, or people who sneer at those of us who don't get weekly manicures/pedicures/full body waxes, or the fact that the rudest thing any southerner can say to another southerner is something like "Well, now, that was not very nice now, was it?".
And just like "y'all", a like for sweet tea, and a dislike for keeping to the right lane, this too is contagious. Although you will never ever see me run wearing make up, and I will probably never learn how to not cuss when I drop something heavy on my foot, I have become much more aware of how other people see me. And that is why, as I'm writing this, my top half looks extremely professional and put together, while my bottom half looks like it just rolled out of a Goodwill donation container.
You see, summer semester is due to start in about ten days, and as I am teaching two online classes, I needed to tape two video introductions. At first I was just going to point the camera at the backyard with our little redneck pool and porch swing front and center, while talking about the class. I thought it would be a nice reminder of how online classes enable you to hang out in the backyard, play in the pool, and lay in the porch swing, while still acquiring extremely useful and important knowledge. But the lighting wasn't working out, and so I was left with no choice but to videotape myself.
Now you should know that when summer rolls around, I am notorious for wandering around in my pajamas for most of the day, especially during the first weeks of summer, when I'm still loving the thought of not having to wear skirts, hose, and suits. Although my pajamas are usually very decent; a pair of flannel boxer shorts left over from college, and an old t-shirt, I immediately felt that these would not be appropriate for a video introduction. Not appropriate at all. I mean, I couldn't have my students see me in a crew-necked dark green t-shirt with a "senior NCO academy" logo on it now, could I? It would be unprofessional, it would undermine my expertise, my students would never take me seriously again, and who knows, they might never register for my classes again, and then I would get fired.
So, even though I laugh at women who put on eyeliner and lip gloss before a run, and I would never consider wasting money on a weekly manicure, I, too, have fallen for the belief that if you don't look the part, you can't possible be the part. Fortunately, I don't think I've fallen completely yet, as I, when considering what to wear, discarded the idea of wearing dress pants, since the camera would only capture my face and the upper part of my body. I also decided I didn't need to completely "do" my hair, as long as it looked nice enough from the front, a feat which was accomplished by a simple elastic band and a little hair spray.
And that is why I am currently wearing plaid boxer shots, pink and purple flip flops, as well as full make up, a dark brown dress shirt, a ratty old elastic band, and diamond stud earrings. After all, it's all about appearances, not about reality. And I think I may have pulled it off too.
1 Thessalonians 5:22 (KJV)
So appearances are a relatively big thing in the south. Although we may not have snooty old ladies in floral patterned dresses picking up the phone saying "Bouquet residence, lady of the house speaking", we do have multiple other expressions of the same principle. Think of women who go for a run in full make up and hair, or people who sneer at those of us who don't get weekly manicures/pedicures/full body waxes, or the fact that the rudest thing any southerner can say to another southerner is something like "Well, now, that was not very nice now, was it?".
And just like "y'all", a like for sweet tea, and a dislike for keeping to the right lane, this too is contagious. Although you will never ever see me run wearing make up, and I will probably never learn how to not cuss when I drop something heavy on my foot, I have become much more aware of how other people see me. And that is why, as I'm writing this, my top half looks extremely professional and put together, while my bottom half looks like it just rolled out of a Goodwill donation container.
You see, summer semester is due to start in about ten days, and as I am teaching two online classes, I needed to tape two video introductions. At first I was just going to point the camera at the backyard with our little redneck pool and porch swing front and center, while talking about the class. I thought it would be a nice reminder of how online classes enable you to hang out in the backyard, play in the pool, and lay in the porch swing, while still acquiring extremely useful and important knowledge. But the lighting wasn't working out, and so I was left with no choice but to videotape myself.
Now you should know that when summer rolls around, I am notorious for wandering around in my pajamas for most of the day, especially during the first weeks of summer, when I'm still loving the thought of not having to wear skirts, hose, and suits. Although my pajamas are usually very decent; a pair of flannel boxer shorts left over from college, and an old t-shirt, I immediately felt that these would not be appropriate for a video introduction. Not appropriate at all. I mean, I couldn't have my students see me in a crew-necked dark green t-shirt with a "senior NCO academy" logo on it now, could I? It would be unprofessional, it would undermine my expertise, my students would never take me seriously again, and who knows, they might never register for my classes again, and then I would get fired.
So, even though I laugh at women who put on eyeliner and lip gloss before a run, and I would never consider wasting money on a weekly manicure, I, too, have fallen for the belief that if you don't look the part, you can't possible be the part. Fortunately, I don't think I've fallen completely yet, as I, when considering what to wear, discarded the idea of wearing dress pants, since the camera would only capture my face and the upper part of my body. I also decided I didn't need to completely "do" my hair, as long as it looked nice enough from the front, a feat which was accomplished by a simple elastic band and a little hair spray.
And that is why I am currently wearing plaid boxer shots, pink and purple flip flops, as well as full make up, a dark brown dress shirt, a ratty old elastic band, and diamond stud earrings. After all, it's all about appearances, not about reality. And I think I may have pulled it off too.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Waarheid
Dit wordt geen grappige stukje. Het wordt, denk ik, niet eens een echt vermakelijke stukje. Sorry. En ik zou beter moeten weten. Want als docent zeg ik altijd tegen mijn studenten dat als ze heel boos, of verdrietig, of blij van iets worden, ze daar van een afstandje over moeten schrijven. Want dat afstandje, dat maakt het interessant. Er is niks zo erg als een stukje vol met uitroeptekens! Van blijdschap! Of boosheid! Daar kan de lezer helemaal niks mee. Maar soms zijn er dingen waar je met geen mogelijkheid met een afstandje over kan schrijven. En dat krijg u vandaag met zijn allen voor uw kiezen. Dus, u bent gewaarschuwd.
Vanochtend keek ik naar het lokale nieuws. Dat doe ik eigenlijk nooit, omdat ik gedurende het jaar of aan het werk ben, of in de auto zit, of aan het hardlopen/ fietsen/ zwemmen ben. Maar het is eindelijk zomer, en dus heb ik weer tijd voor allerlei verdiepende activiteiten zoals bonbons eten, Oprah en Ellen kijken, en het lokale nieuws volgen. Maar goed, dat nieuws dus. Een specific item trok mijn aandacht, namelijk een kort stukje over de dood van een soldaat in een ver overzees gebied. Dit nieuws was op zich niet schokkend. Ik kan eigenlijk bijna niet geloven dat ik dat net getypt heb, maar helaas is het niet anders. Dit soort nieuws krijgen we hier namelijk wel vaker. Met een luchtmachtbasis in de stad, een national guard unit dat al een jaar uitgezonden is, en twee legerbases op redelijke afstand, zijn dit soort berichten niet vreemd.
Het bericht beschreef de soldaat (een 19-jarige jongen verbonden aan een unit van onze basis) die, volgens het nieuws dan, overleden was aan "non-combat related injuries". In negen van de tien keer is dit een eufemisme voor een auto ongeluk, want die gebeuren helaas ook in oorlogsgebieden. Alleen in dit geval was dat niet zo, en lag de waarheid heel ergens anders. De waarheid achter dit geval kende ik toevallig omdat ik onze kapelaan tegenkwam toen hij het nieuws net gehoord had. En in dit geval had het nieuws niet verder van de waarheid kunnen zitten.
De soldaat in kwestie had namelijk zelfmoord gepleegd.
Binnen enkele uren waren de kapelaans op onze basis en in de buurt van zijn ouders huis op de hoogte gebracht, en was het aan deze mannen zich om iedereen van het verschrikkelijke nieuws op de hoogte te brengen.
Er zijn geen worden voor om dit te beschrijven. Helaas komt het vaker voor dan het publiek zich waarschijnlijk beseft, maar elke keer komt het als een schok. Het geeft aan hoe zwaar oorlog voeren is, in een gebied ver van huis, tegen een vijand die men amper kent en niet begrijpt, en zonder dat er een einde in zicht is.
En wat ik niet snap is waarom het nieuws hier daar niet gewoon eerlijk over kan zijn. Het is geen mooi einde, nee. Maar het is dan ook allang geen mooie oorlog meer. Als we daar nou eens met zijn allen eerlijk over zijn, in plaats van ons zorgen te maken of er wel genoeg gele strikken aan de bomen in de straat hangen, dan zouden we dit soort leed misschien kunnen voorkomen. Om in de woorden van mijn studenten te spreken, "You gotta keep it real". Echt waar.
Vanochtend keek ik naar het lokale nieuws. Dat doe ik eigenlijk nooit, omdat ik gedurende het jaar of aan het werk ben, of in de auto zit, of aan het hardlopen/ fietsen/ zwemmen ben. Maar het is eindelijk zomer, en dus heb ik weer tijd voor allerlei verdiepende activiteiten zoals bonbons eten, Oprah en Ellen kijken, en het lokale nieuws volgen. Maar goed, dat nieuws dus. Een specific item trok mijn aandacht, namelijk een kort stukje over de dood van een soldaat in een ver overzees gebied. Dit nieuws was op zich niet schokkend. Ik kan eigenlijk bijna niet geloven dat ik dat net getypt heb, maar helaas is het niet anders. Dit soort nieuws krijgen we hier namelijk wel vaker. Met een luchtmachtbasis in de stad, een national guard unit dat al een jaar uitgezonden is, en twee legerbases op redelijke afstand, zijn dit soort berichten niet vreemd.
Het bericht beschreef de soldaat (een 19-jarige jongen verbonden aan een unit van onze basis) die, volgens het nieuws dan, overleden was aan "non-combat related injuries". In negen van de tien keer is dit een eufemisme voor een auto ongeluk, want die gebeuren helaas ook in oorlogsgebieden. Alleen in dit geval was dat niet zo, en lag de waarheid heel ergens anders. De waarheid achter dit geval kende ik toevallig omdat ik onze kapelaan tegenkwam toen hij het nieuws net gehoord had. En in dit geval had het nieuws niet verder van de waarheid kunnen zitten.
De soldaat in kwestie had namelijk zelfmoord gepleegd.
Binnen enkele uren waren de kapelaans op onze basis en in de buurt van zijn ouders huis op de hoogte gebracht, en was het aan deze mannen zich om iedereen van het verschrikkelijke nieuws op de hoogte te brengen.
Er zijn geen worden voor om dit te beschrijven. Helaas komt het vaker voor dan het publiek zich waarschijnlijk beseft, maar elke keer komt het als een schok. Het geeft aan hoe zwaar oorlog voeren is, in een gebied ver van huis, tegen een vijand die men amper kent en niet begrijpt, en zonder dat er een einde in zicht is.
En wat ik niet snap is waarom het nieuws hier daar niet gewoon eerlijk over kan zijn. Het is geen mooi einde, nee. Maar het is dan ook allang geen mooie oorlog meer. Als we daar nou eens met zijn allen eerlijk over zijn, in plaats van ons zorgen te maken of er wel genoeg gele strikken aan de bomen in de straat hangen, dan zouden we dit soort leed misschien kunnen voorkomen. Om in de woorden van mijn studenten te spreken, "You gotta keep it real". Echt waar.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Saying goodbye...
"Saying Goodbye. Why is it sad?
Makes us remember the good times we had"
~Muppets take Manhattan
I've lost count of how many times I've moved a long time ago. I know it's somewhere in the double digits, but that's as close as I care to get. Until it's security clearance time again, it's just not that important either.
You would think that with all that moving around, I have become an expert at everything related to shipping out. And when it comes to all the nitty gritty details, I am. I know that it's not weird to take pictures of all your furniture before the movers come, it's called insurance. I have also learned that drawing diagrams of the insides of your kitchen cabinets has nothing to do with OCD, but is another way to prevent total insanity when you arrive at your new location. I mean, do you have any idea how annoying it is to completely "re-learn" your way around your new kitchen / bathroom / bookcase? Without thinking, you reach into the drawer next to the stove, and instead of finding the spatula, you're holding a stack of linen tablecloths that are now covered in red sauce. Not cool. Especially when you realize it can easily be avoided if you just arrange things they were in your old home. Had a kid at your old location? Pick up a few spare birth certificates just in case. Want to know what can and cannot be shipped? Well, if it can explode, melt, or catch fire, it's a no-no. Want to pass inspection? Make sure the first few rooms they look at look absolutely amazing, and then you can afford to fudge a little on the last parts of the house. It's almost become. second nature.
With all this experience, you would think I rock at saying goodbye to friends. You would think I know exactly what to do to make the transition easy for everyone, whether or not throw goodbye parties, how to best stay in touch with old friends, and how to not melt into a blubbering mess every time I see someone for the last time. You would think I know how to do all that. But besides having a cornucopia of ideas for goodbye presents, I don't know anything. In fact, as time goes on, I get worse and worse at saying goodbye to people. Whereas say ten years ago I saw every move as an exciting opportunity to meet more cool! nice! intriguing! people, I have now not only come to the realization that some people are just irreplaceable, but have also learned that not all the natives in the new locations think I am the fun, bubbly, nice person I like to think I am. In fact, I'm pretty sure that our landlords in Germany were absolutely thrilled to see us leave. And so having to make new friends is now quite a daunting activity, one without any guarantee of success.
For the past three years, husband-dear and I have been fairly spared when it comes to the heartache of losing friends or having to move. Last year, Summer and her family moved away, but those were the only friends we've lost since we moved here. Fortunately, and I say this with the most amount of sarcasm possible, fortunately, karma did not forget about us, and this year we have been struck with a quadruple whammy. Numerous very dear friends are leaving, either through orders or their own free will. And honestly, I don't know if the holes left by their departures will ever be filled. I could go on and on about the people leaving, but since most of you don't know them, that would just be really, incredibly dull. But you have had the pleasure of hearing about one of them. My fellow triathlete / tri-sufferer, Kay. Kay's husband received orders for Idaho, and the moment I heard about that, I, besides dissolving into a puddle of tears, told husband-dear he better get orders for Mountain Home AFB too. I don't care that it's another two thousand miles away from my family, and a good thousand from his. I don't care that the people who live there spent most of the year digging themselves out of the snow. I don't care that husband-dear's career field doesn't really exist there, he can shovel snow or something. I don't care that it probably has less universities than Georgia, and I will probably end up working at McDonald's. I don't care that I call the people from there Mr. and Mrs. Potatoheads. I don't care. I just want my running buddy, fellow Stabucks-addict, Gilmore Girls loving friend, the girl who saw us through more drama than we could have ever imagined, I just want her around the corner.
But I can't. And so instead I've poured my energy into making her a goodbye present. And pouting. A lot of pouting. And crying.
And you know, I think this is one of those situations where my mom was right all those years ago. Whenever we had to move again, my mom would give me the standard spiel all parents give their kids: It will be fun, there will lots of friendly children to play with, we'll get a swing / pool/ playset in the backyard, all of which I knew was not true (although we did get that pool eventually). But she would also tell me, "Partir, c'est mourir un peu". And she was right. Leaving is like dying a little.
Makes us remember the good times we had"
~Muppets take Manhattan
I've lost count of how many times I've moved a long time ago. I know it's somewhere in the double digits, but that's as close as I care to get. Until it's security clearance time again, it's just not that important either.
You would think that with all that moving around, I have become an expert at everything related to shipping out. And when it comes to all the nitty gritty details, I am. I know that it's not weird to take pictures of all your furniture before the movers come, it's called insurance. I have also learned that drawing diagrams of the insides of your kitchen cabinets has nothing to do with OCD, but is another way to prevent total insanity when you arrive at your new location. I mean, do you have any idea how annoying it is to completely "re-learn" your way around your new kitchen / bathroom / bookcase? Without thinking, you reach into the drawer next to the stove, and instead of finding the spatula, you're holding a stack of linen tablecloths that are now covered in red sauce. Not cool. Especially when you realize it can easily be avoided if you just arrange things they were in your old home. Had a kid at your old location? Pick up a few spare birth certificates just in case. Want to know what can and cannot be shipped? Well, if it can explode, melt, or catch fire, it's a no-no. Want to pass inspection? Make sure the first few rooms they look at look absolutely amazing, and then you can afford to fudge a little on the last parts of the house. It's almost become. second nature.
With all this experience, you would think I rock at saying goodbye to friends. You would think I know exactly what to do to make the transition easy for everyone, whether or not throw goodbye parties, how to best stay in touch with old friends, and how to not melt into a blubbering mess every time I see someone for the last time. You would think I know how to do all that. But besides having a cornucopia of ideas for goodbye presents, I don't know anything. In fact, as time goes on, I get worse and worse at saying goodbye to people. Whereas say ten years ago I saw every move as an exciting opportunity to meet more cool! nice! intriguing! people, I have now not only come to the realization that some people are just irreplaceable, but have also learned that not all the natives in the new locations think I am the fun, bubbly, nice person I like to think I am. In fact, I'm pretty sure that our landlords in Germany were absolutely thrilled to see us leave. And so having to make new friends is now quite a daunting activity, one without any guarantee of success.
For the past three years, husband-dear and I have been fairly spared when it comes to the heartache of losing friends or having to move. Last year, Summer and her family moved away, but those were the only friends we've lost since we moved here. Fortunately, and I say this with the most amount of sarcasm possible, fortunately, karma did not forget about us, and this year we have been struck with a quadruple whammy. Numerous very dear friends are leaving, either through orders or their own free will. And honestly, I don't know if the holes left by their departures will ever be filled. I could go on and on about the people leaving, but since most of you don't know them, that would just be really, incredibly dull. But you have had the pleasure of hearing about one of them. My fellow triathlete / tri-sufferer, Kay. Kay's husband received orders for Idaho, and the moment I heard about that, I, besides dissolving into a puddle of tears, told husband-dear he better get orders for Mountain Home AFB too. I don't care that it's another two thousand miles away from my family, and a good thousand from his. I don't care that the people who live there spent most of the year digging themselves out of the snow. I don't care that husband-dear's career field doesn't really exist there, he can shovel snow or something. I don't care that it probably has less universities than Georgia, and I will probably end up working at McDonald's. I don't care that I call the people from there Mr. and Mrs. Potatoheads. I don't care. I just want my running buddy, fellow Stabucks-addict, Gilmore Girls loving friend, the girl who saw us through more drama than we could have ever imagined, I just want her around the corner.
But I can't. And so instead I've poured my energy into making her a goodbye present. And pouting. A lot of pouting. And crying.
And you know, I think this is one of those situations where my mom was right all those years ago. Whenever we had to move again, my mom would give me the standard spiel all parents give their kids: It will be fun, there will lots of friendly children to play with, we'll get a swing / pool/ playset in the backyard, all of which I knew was not true (although we did get that pool eventually). But she would also tell me, "Partir, c'est mourir un peu". And she was right. Leaving is like dying a little.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)