I'm going to have to be upfront here, and say that this semester has been one of the most difficult ones since I started working here. With six classes, one of which is in a field I am still reading up on, and all of which are over capacity, the vacancy left by Steve still not filled, more freshmen than we've ever had, and a program review coming up, life hasn't exactly been a barrel of laughs in our nook of campus. And that is exactly why yesterday, I found myself learning a cheer from a front-row student in front of a packed 10am class.
I've always wanted to be a cheerleader. The pompoms, the yelling, the stunts, the dancing, it all seemed like magic to me. But a busy schedule, a love for field hockey, track, as well as drama, and a complete and utter ineptness to perform something as simple as a cartwheel without a serious flailing of arms and legs stopped me from ever trying out. But, even though high school days are long gone, I, inspired by shows like Glee and I'm-not-feeling-well movie choices like "Bring it on", still dream about it.
And when I think about the antics it sometimes takes to motivate students, I like to think of myself as an academic cheerleader. I cajole, I preach, I joke, I sing (mainly Motown), I act out, I dance and prance, and generally make a spectacle of myself. But it seems to work. Students laugh, either at me, or with me, and their attitudes improve.
This semester, though, the whole cheerleading gig has been a rough one. For not only am I seriously overburdened, the students haven't had it easy either. They're packed into classrooms that are too small, their dorms are overcrowded, their production director (i.e., Steve) left, advisers are swamped, and the fact that a third of our campus is under construction doesn't help either. They're tired, irritable, and their professor are just plain unfair. And so, sometimes I find myself snapping a little more vehemently than might have been necessary. There seems to have been very little cheerleading, not in my classroom, or the classrooms of any of my coworkers.
Yesterday, though, I got a bee in my bonnet. It was 10 in the morning, my class had to turn in a paper, and subquently, at least six students were seriously late, on account of, they were still finishing their paper. The others were looking as close to death as humanly possible, and I myself wasn't quite feeling it either. So when two students in the front row asked me a question about homecoming, I thought I would, instead of bringing them back on topic, roll with it. For just a minute or so, I promised myself. Enough to get them awake and slightly motivated.
But then someone mentioned our cheerleaders. As it happened, one of the two students is on the football cheerleading squad, and when she told the class about her insane practices, I let slip that I always wanted to be a cheerleader too.
"Oh, well, I can teach you a cheer, you know!" My student looked at me, with that grin that any teacher immediately recognizes. It's the grin your kids give you when they just ate all the Halloween candy. Or your dog, when she got into the meat, again. It's an adorable, innocent, "please let me get away with this" grin. Usually, it's a sign for me it's time to reel the class in, but this time, I was so tired of being the bad cop, and done with not enjoying what I do that I said, "OK, why not."
The class started to giggle and whisper, which quickly turned to a serious roar when the student got up, came up front, and proceeded to teach me the, apparently very popular, "Go, let's go!" cheer.
What can I say? Had the president walked by at that time, I'm sure he would have been less than pleased. I'm also pretty sure it's considered pedagogically very unsound for a professor to do little dance steps while chanting, "Go, go, let's go" in front of her class. But I'm also very sure I had a blast. I messed up, forgot the steps, the words, and made everyone laugh, including myself. Every single class since then has brought it up, and I think I might have earned some serious brownie points, as I heard one of my radio students today call me "the cheering professor". So there you go. I'm mean. I'm tough. But I cheer. And that makes it all better.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Het regent
Het regent! Het regent! De pannetjes worden nat!
Nou ja, het is vandaag eigenlijk stiekem al weer droog, maar gisteren en zondag is de herfst eindeijk begonnen. Met temperaturen rondom de 25 graden en na een weekend met genoeg regen voor een paar weken, lijkt de zomer eindelijk voorbij. En na vijf maanden zon, hitte, op de meest onmogelijke tijden hebben moeten sporten, en dan nog genoeg zweet produceren om een heel zwembad te vullen, is het dan ook hoog tijd.
Nu moet u weten dat regen in het zuiden een bijzonder fenomeen is. En niet alleen omdat het niet zo heel vaak voorkomt, maar ook omdat wanneer het regent, het met bakken uit de hemel komt. "When it rains, it pours" is een bekende uitdrukking, en een waarheid als een koe hier in het zuidoosten. En dit weekend was het niet anders. Mijn wens voor een dagje regen is dan ook meer dan uitgekomen. De goten overstroomden, er ontstond een waar zwembad aan de voet van onze oprit, de honden zijn zeker tien keer zeiknat geworden, de rode klei veranderde in een rode brei, en ik was erg blij dat ik net een dag eerder het zwembad had opgeruimd.
En regen is niet alleen bijzonder vanwege het enorme geweld waarmee het uit de hemel stort, maar ook vanwege het effect dat het heeft op de locals. Ik heb al eerder geschreven op het desastreuze effect dat neerslag heeft op de rijvaardigheden van Georgians, maar het effect gaat veel verder dan dat. Zo heb ik bijvoorbeeld vast kunnen stellen dat als het regent, het aantal studenten dat naar college komt gehalveerd wordt. Het maakt niet uit dat de universiteit overal gratis paraplus heeft staan. Het maakt ook niet uit dat de meesten slechts 100 m van hun auto naar de ingang van het gebouw hoeven lopen. En het maakt ook niet uit dat het al meer dan vierentwintig uur regent, en studenten dus een hele dag de tijd hebben gehad om een rampenplan te maken. Ze komen gewoon niet.
Gisteren heb ik een kleine impromptu survey gehouden onder die studenten die wel op kwamen dagen, als poging een wetenschappelijk onderbouwde reden te vinden voor het wegblijven tijdens een regenbui. En het antwoord? "We houden niet van nat worden". Juist. Nu ben ik ook niet al te gek op doorweekte kleding, natte schoenen, en soppende sokken, maar hoe kan dat een probleem zijn als bij het minste drupje iedereen met regenlaarzen en regenjassen aan in het lokaal verschijnt? Ja, dat wisten ze ook niet precies, maar wat wel zeker een probleem was, waren hun kapsels. Als die nat worden, dan kunnen de meeste van mijn studenten namelijk meteen weer terug naar de kapper. Goed, maar waarom hebben ze dan allemaal een paraplu bij zich? En een capouchon op? Sja. Maar gelukkig kwamen ze toen eindelijk op het ware probleem met regen; "When it rains, we melt."
Dus hierbij de reden voor het wegblijven van mijn studenten en het slechte rijgedrag van Georgians. Als het regent, dan smelten ze. Net als de heks uit de Wizard of Oz.
Nou ja, het is vandaag eigenlijk stiekem al weer droog, maar gisteren en zondag is de herfst eindeijk begonnen. Met temperaturen rondom de 25 graden en na een weekend met genoeg regen voor een paar weken, lijkt de zomer eindelijk voorbij. En na vijf maanden zon, hitte, op de meest onmogelijke tijden hebben moeten sporten, en dan nog genoeg zweet produceren om een heel zwembad te vullen, is het dan ook hoog tijd.
Nu moet u weten dat regen in het zuiden een bijzonder fenomeen is. En niet alleen omdat het niet zo heel vaak voorkomt, maar ook omdat wanneer het regent, het met bakken uit de hemel komt. "When it rains, it pours" is een bekende uitdrukking, en een waarheid als een koe hier in het zuidoosten. En dit weekend was het niet anders. Mijn wens voor een dagje regen is dan ook meer dan uitgekomen. De goten overstroomden, er ontstond een waar zwembad aan de voet van onze oprit, de honden zijn zeker tien keer zeiknat geworden, de rode klei veranderde in een rode brei, en ik was erg blij dat ik net een dag eerder het zwembad had opgeruimd.
En regen is niet alleen bijzonder vanwege het enorme geweld waarmee het uit de hemel stort, maar ook vanwege het effect dat het heeft op de locals. Ik heb al eerder geschreven op het desastreuze effect dat neerslag heeft op de rijvaardigheden van Georgians, maar het effect gaat veel verder dan dat. Zo heb ik bijvoorbeeld vast kunnen stellen dat als het regent, het aantal studenten dat naar college komt gehalveerd wordt. Het maakt niet uit dat de universiteit overal gratis paraplus heeft staan. Het maakt ook niet uit dat de meesten slechts 100 m van hun auto naar de ingang van het gebouw hoeven lopen. En het maakt ook niet uit dat het al meer dan vierentwintig uur regent, en studenten dus een hele dag de tijd hebben gehad om een rampenplan te maken. Ze komen gewoon niet.
Gisteren heb ik een kleine impromptu survey gehouden onder die studenten die wel op kwamen dagen, als poging een wetenschappelijk onderbouwde reden te vinden voor het wegblijven tijdens een regenbui. En het antwoord? "We houden niet van nat worden". Juist. Nu ben ik ook niet al te gek op doorweekte kleding, natte schoenen, en soppende sokken, maar hoe kan dat een probleem zijn als bij het minste drupje iedereen met regenlaarzen en regenjassen aan in het lokaal verschijnt? Ja, dat wisten ze ook niet precies, maar wat wel zeker een probleem was, waren hun kapsels. Als die nat worden, dan kunnen de meeste van mijn studenten namelijk meteen weer terug naar de kapper. Goed, maar waarom hebben ze dan allemaal een paraplu bij zich? En een capouchon op? Sja. Maar gelukkig kwamen ze toen eindelijk op het ware probleem met regen; "When it rains, we melt."
Dus hierbij de reden voor het wegblijven van mijn studenten en het slechte rijgedrag van Georgians. Als het regent, dan smelten ze. Net als de heks uit de Wizard of Oz.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Give me your money?
I've done it again, I've gotten myself into something that I really shouldn't have. Don't worry, it's nothing bad, or dangerous (like the second adventure race I signed up for yesteday), no, it's actually a good thing. It just happens to be a good thing at which I completely and utter suck.
So what is this horrible, yet good thing that I I signed up for? It's the Susan Komen Race for the Cure. And, no, it's not the race I'm worried about, it's a 5K for crying out loud, I could run that in my sleep. No, it's the fact that I, well, we, as I am on a team, have to raise money to be allowed to run the race. And we have to raise a lot of money. As in a thousand dollars.
Now it's for a good cause. One of the better ones, in my personal opinion. I would more than happily train for a marathon if it could help cure breast cancer, and then pay to run it. In fact, if I could just -give- the foundation my share of the thousand dollars, I wouldn't be writing this post. But that's not what we're supposed to do. No. We're supposed to raise the thousand dollars, i.e., we have to ask people to donate money to our team. And that's where my struggle comes in.
You see, I really, absolutely, positively suck as asking people to do anything for me. Now I don't mind at all when people ask me for help. I have just found that I am pretty much allergic to asking people for help. I. Will. Do. It. On. My. Own. But thanks for asking! And it's not because I'm terribly stubborn or have an independent streak a mile wide. Because although I am the first and definitely have the latter, they're really unrelated to my complete inability to ask for help. The reason I don't like to ask people for help is because I don't want to bother them. In my opinion, there is nothing worse on this entire planet, than feeling like you're a nuisance to someone. The whole "Running-#2" incident is a case in point here. If it hadn't been for an imminent involuntarily bodily expulsion, I don't think I would have ever asked anyone anything. Because oh my lord in the heavens above, what I had somehow inconvenienced someone?
In fact, it's pretty much safe to say that if I ever fell down a mountain and got stuck in a canyon, I would sooner be like that man who gnawed his arm off to get out of that canyon than ask someone to pull me out, "Oh no, that's that's way too much trouble, you need to get home too, go on, I'll be fine. Yes, I'm sure! Thanks!"
That this tendency has led to some interesting situations goes without saying. Let's just say that the only reason my tetanus shots are up to date is because I absolutely refused any help when airing up my tires a few years ago. And have you ever wondered why I have a gray dot right in the middle of my forehead? Yep, it too can be traced back to my unwillingness to accept help when looking for something. And the list goes on. Pants covered in grease, clothes torn by bicycle chains. You'd think I would have learned by now, but no.
Now, whenever money comes into the picture, my allergy turns into a full-on break out the epi-len, I'm going into anaphylactic shock here. I mean I am Dutch, and thus the textbook example of frugality, and I don't like asking people for crap, and now you're asking me to ask people for -money-? Wow.
Let's just say I was the child who, whenever there was another fundraiser at school, would show up with the least amount of money/canned goods/orders for whatever. And not because neighbors and family members weren't willing to donate. And not because my mother didn't tell to go out there and just ring people' doorbells. But because I was too embarrassed to ask people for money. I mean, why would these cool grown-up adults give a scraggly looking kid like myself THEIR money? Really? And even though I would be just as embarrassed whenever every other child would return with huge orders for stamps /cookies/ laps around a track, and I didn't, it wasn't enough to inspire me to ask more.
As I said earlier, I don't mind helping people out, and I also don't mind giving money to good causes. It's just that when it comes to asking people for their dough, I'm a chicken.
Thank goodness, I'm running this race as part of a team. And husband-dear is on the team. And it so happens that he has no qualms asking people to donate money. So if you've emailed with husband-dear in the past, expect an email soon. If you haven't, and you just keep in touch with me - no worries, you're safe.
So what is this horrible, yet good thing that I I signed up for? It's the Susan Komen Race for the Cure. And, no, it's not the race I'm worried about, it's a 5K for crying out loud, I could run that in my sleep. No, it's the fact that I, well, we, as I am on a team, have to raise money to be allowed to run the race. And we have to raise a lot of money. As in a thousand dollars.
Now it's for a good cause. One of the better ones, in my personal opinion. I would more than happily train for a marathon if it could help cure breast cancer, and then pay to run it. In fact, if I could just -give- the foundation my share of the thousand dollars, I wouldn't be writing this post. But that's not what we're supposed to do. No. We're supposed to raise the thousand dollars, i.e., we have to ask people to donate money to our team. And that's where my struggle comes in.
You see, I really, absolutely, positively suck as asking people to do anything for me. Now I don't mind at all when people ask me for help. I have just found that I am pretty much allergic to asking people for help. I. Will. Do. It. On. My. Own. But thanks for asking! And it's not because I'm terribly stubborn or have an independent streak a mile wide. Because although I am the first and definitely have the latter, they're really unrelated to my complete inability to ask for help. The reason I don't like to ask people for help is because I don't want to bother them. In my opinion, there is nothing worse on this entire planet, than feeling like you're a nuisance to someone. The whole "Running-#2" incident is a case in point here. If it hadn't been for an imminent involuntarily bodily expulsion, I don't think I would have ever asked anyone anything. Because oh my lord in the heavens above, what I had somehow inconvenienced someone?
In fact, it's pretty much safe to say that if I ever fell down a mountain and got stuck in a canyon, I would sooner be like that man who gnawed his arm off to get out of that canyon than ask someone to pull me out, "Oh no, that's that's way too much trouble, you need to get home too, go on, I'll be fine. Yes, I'm sure! Thanks!"
That this tendency has led to some interesting situations goes without saying. Let's just say that the only reason my tetanus shots are up to date is because I absolutely refused any help when airing up my tires a few years ago. And have you ever wondered why I have a gray dot right in the middle of my forehead? Yep, it too can be traced back to my unwillingness to accept help when looking for something. And the list goes on. Pants covered in grease, clothes torn by bicycle chains. You'd think I would have learned by now, but no.
Now, whenever money comes into the picture, my allergy turns into a full-on break out the epi-len, I'm going into anaphylactic shock here. I mean I am Dutch, and thus the textbook example of frugality, and I don't like asking people for crap, and now you're asking me to ask people for -money-? Wow.
Let's just say I was the child who, whenever there was another fundraiser at school, would show up with the least amount of money/canned goods/orders for whatever. And not because neighbors and family members weren't willing to donate. And not because my mother didn't tell to go out there and just ring people' doorbells. But because I was too embarrassed to ask people for money. I mean, why would these cool grown-up adults give a scraggly looking kid like myself THEIR money? Really? And even though I would be just as embarrassed whenever every other child would return with huge orders for stamps /cookies/ laps around a track, and I didn't, it wasn't enough to inspire me to ask more.
As I said earlier, I don't mind helping people out, and I also don't mind giving money to good causes. It's just that when it comes to asking people for their dough, I'm a chicken.
Thank goodness, I'm running this race as part of a team. And husband-dear is on the team. And it so happens that he has no qualms asking people to donate money. So if you've emailed with husband-dear in the past, expect an email soon. If you haven't, and you just keep in touch with me - no worries, you're safe.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Liters and hogsheads
When you move, or even visit, the US, one of the first things that strikes most people after they've become accustomed to the ubiquitous friendliness and large cars, are the different measures used for just about everything. Water boils at 212 degrees as opposed to 100, the nearest exist isn't 500 meters away, but 1/2 mile, and you buy carpet per square foot. It all seems positively insane at first. A body temperature of 98.6 sounds like you should by all means be dead, while describing blind widths using terms such as 5/8 of an inch, makes you wish you'd paid more attention in 3rd grade math.
What's even more insane, however, is that these measures have grown on me. I can pretty much tell you what temperature it is in my office right now, both in Fahrenheit and Celcius, or Centigrade for my die-hard American readers (and for those of you who wondered, I guessed it to be about 68F or 19C, which according to my online converter is pretty close). I know what to wear when the our Channel 9 weatherlady tells me it's going to be 92 degrees today. I've become pretty accurate at assessing how long something is in, both in feet, yards, and meters. I can handle inches pretty well as well, as their length does kind of seem logical, even though the fact that there are 12 of them in a foot does not. Interestingly, I've actually become better at measuring my runs in miles than I can in kilometers, and I can calculate how many gallons my car uses per miles in a jiffy (about thirty eight, thankyouverymuch).
The only aspect of this odd American measurement system that I just cannot seem to grasp is volume. We have a drawer full of different sized cups, little plastic teaspoons and tablespoons, a beaker with seemingly hundreds of different lines and measures, and still I struggle.
Actually, I think it's safe to say that I'm really totally ignorant. When I was emailing Steve this morning, discussing conversion measures (as that's what academic scholars email about when they're at work thousands of miles apart), and exclaimed in my most theatrical manner possible that I did not understand why there were fluid ounces and regular ounces, he asked me, "You do know that that goes for cups and teaspoons and tablespoons too, right? So you can't use the same cup for flour that you use for water."
Uhm.
No, I did not know that.
It does explain why some of my pies and cakes turn out a little wetter or dryer than I would like them to though.
Anyway, as I was saying, I truly do not get it. And I'm just going to go ahead and take a stand here, but I really think the whole volume measurement system is to blame. I mean, if you're raised with recipes stating things like this, "Take 250 ml of water (use one side of your universal measuring beaker) and 225 grams of flour (dry said beaker and use the other side, which has grams on it)", can one be blamed if "use 3/4 cups of oil (select the 3/4 cup from the pile meant for liquids), 4 cups of pecans (use a different cup, four times), 1/2 teaspoon of mint (slide the little measuring stick on your teaspoon measurement apparatus to 1/2)" confuse you just a little? I am going to answer that with a firm and resounding "no".
I mean, don't get me wrong, I do know how to bake (well, apparently only sort of, but I will be better now that I know that the two sets of cups we have actually serve different purposes), but it's really only doable whenever I can use nifty contraptions such as plastic cups, plastic little spoons and other childlike-minds-friendly tools. Whenever a recipe asks me to suddenly think in terms of ounces or quarts, I'm truly lost. And the mathematical process usually ends up going something like this: "OK, I have to add add 10 ounces of water. Honey! Honey! What's ten ounces of water? Honey?! Oh, crap, he went to the store. Hmm. *insert random rummaging through drawers* Great. Oh, let's look in the pantry. Ah. Here's a can of soda. It's 12 fluid ounces and 335 ml. OK, divide 335 by 12, that's uhm..uhm...OK, about 27, so there are 27 ml to an ounce, so 10 ounces of water equals 270 ml, OK, now let's find my European measuring cup"*
And now you know why my baked goods usually end up just a little off.
Anyway, as I was saying, I really think the whole measuring system is just plain wrong. I mean, who came up with the idea that 3 teaspoons equal one tablespoon? And that there are two tablespoons in 1/8 cup which, oh by the way, equals 1 ounce? And that 1 cup equals 1/2 pint which equals 8 ounces? Two cups, thank the Lord for some logic here, two cups equal 1 pint, while two pints fit into a quart, which equals, Hallelujah, about a liter. Now there are four quarts in a gallon, which is where it gets easy for me, on account of the word "quart" you know. And for those you of who think it ends there, oh no, it only gets better. Nine gallons apparently fit into a firkin, while 63 gallons make up a hogshead. In case you ever wondered how much fluid would fit into a hogshead, there you have it. *
So yes. Although I truly love this country, I vote we switch to metric now. Or even better, yesterday. Where cooking involves the same measurement; liters for fluids and grams for dry goods. Where there is 1000 ml in a liter and a 1000 grams in a kilo. Where all you need is one big measuring cup, and you don't have to freak out when your 2/3 cup disappeared into one of your kids' science projects, or the 1/4 cup melted in the dishwasher. Where a "teaspoon" means you can just eyeball it. Where men are men, and mililiters can't be converted into something smaller.
* Any mistakes in this blog post are entirely my fault, and were put in on purpose by the author to explain her total and utter confusion with the system. Honesty. Promise.
** And if you don't believe me, check out these two sources.
What's even more insane, however, is that these measures have grown on me. I can pretty much tell you what temperature it is in my office right now, both in Fahrenheit and Celcius, or Centigrade for my die-hard American readers (and for those of you who wondered, I guessed it to be about 68F or 19C, which according to my online converter is pretty close). I know what to wear when the our Channel 9 weatherlady tells me it's going to be 92 degrees today. I've become pretty accurate at assessing how long something is in, both in feet, yards, and meters. I can handle inches pretty well as well, as their length does kind of seem logical, even though the fact that there are 12 of them in a foot does not. Interestingly, I've actually become better at measuring my runs in miles than I can in kilometers, and I can calculate how many gallons my car uses per miles in a jiffy (about thirty eight, thankyouverymuch).
The only aspect of this odd American measurement system that I just cannot seem to grasp is volume. We have a drawer full of different sized cups, little plastic teaspoons and tablespoons, a beaker with seemingly hundreds of different lines and measures, and still I struggle.
Actually, I think it's safe to say that I'm really totally ignorant. When I was emailing Steve this morning, discussing conversion measures (as that's what academic scholars email about when they're at work thousands of miles apart), and exclaimed in my most theatrical manner possible that I did not understand why there were fluid ounces and regular ounces, he asked me, "You do know that that goes for cups and teaspoons and tablespoons too, right? So you can't use the same cup for flour that you use for water."
Uhm.
No, I did not know that.
It does explain why some of my pies and cakes turn out a little wetter or dryer than I would like them to though.
Anyway, as I was saying, I truly do not get it. And I'm just going to go ahead and take a stand here, but I really think the whole volume measurement system is to blame. I mean, if you're raised with recipes stating things like this, "Take 250 ml of water (use one side of your universal measuring beaker) and 225 grams of flour (dry said beaker and use the other side, which has grams on it)", can one be blamed if "use 3/4 cups of oil (select the 3/4 cup from the pile meant for liquids), 4 cups of pecans (use a different cup, four times), 1/2 teaspoon of mint (slide the little measuring stick on your teaspoon measurement apparatus to 1/2)" confuse you just a little? I am going to answer that with a firm and resounding "no".
I mean, don't get me wrong, I do know how to bake (well, apparently only sort of, but I will be better now that I know that the two sets of cups we have actually serve different purposes), but it's really only doable whenever I can use nifty contraptions such as plastic cups, plastic little spoons and other childlike-minds-friendly tools. Whenever a recipe asks me to suddenly think in terms of ounces or quarts, I'm truly lost. And the mathematical process usually ends up going something like this: "OK, I have to add add 10 ounces of water. Honey! Honey! What's ten ounces of water? Honey?! Oh, crap, he went to the store. Hmm. *insert random rummaging through drawers* Great. Oh, let's look in the pantry. Ah. Here's a can of soda. It's 12 fluid ounces and 335 ml. OK, divide 335 by 12, that's uhm..uhm...OK, about 27, so there are 27 ml to an ounce, so 10 ounces of water equals 270 ml, OK, now let's find my European measuring cup"*
And now you know why my baked goods usually end up just a little off.
Anyway, as I was saying, I really think the whole measuring system is just plain wrong. I mean, who came up with the idea that 3 teaspoons equal one tablespoon? And that there are two tablespoons in 1/8 cup which, oh by the way, equals 1 ounce? And that 1 cup equals 1/2 pint which equals 8 ounces? Two cups, thank the Lord for some logic here, two cups equal 1 pint, while two pints fit into a quart, which equals, Hallelujah, about a liter. Now there are four quarts in a gallon, which is where it gets easy for me, on account of the word "quart" you know. And for those you of who think it ends there, oh no, it only gets better. Nine gallons apparently fit into a firkin, while 63 gallons make up a hogshead. In case you ever wondered how much fluid would fit into a hogshead, there you have it. *
So yes. Although I truly love this country, I vote we switch to metric now. Or even better, yesterday. Where cooking involves the same measurement; liters for fluids and grams for dry goods. Where there is 1000 ml in a liter and a 1000 grams in a kilo. Where all you need is one big measuring cup, and you don't have to freak out when your 2/3 cup disappeared into one of your kids' science projects, or the 1/4 cup melted in the dishwasher. Where a "teaspoon" means you can just eyeball it. Where men are men, and mililiters can't be converted into something smaller.
* Any mistakes in this blog post are entirely my fault, and were put in on purpose by the author to explain her total and utter confusion with the system. Honesty. Promise.
** And if you don't believe me, check out these two sources.
Monday, September 20, 2010
You are what you eat
I love to eat. Really, I do. Honestly. You may not believe me, but it's true. Why else do you think I get up in the five in the morning to submit myself to four-hour races in three-digit temperatures? Or plan on doing half-marathons, and half-iron men, and other activities that really should qualify as torture? So I can go home and gorge on all the bad food I want of course. Sure, OK, running is fun too. And cycling isn't too bad either. But if they didn't have the added benefit of being able to indulge in my love for chips and dip, licorice, popcorn, ice cream, and anything else that strikes my fancy, I'm not sure if I would be that gung-ho about them.
Let me tell you, by the way, that loving to eat is a real problem when you live where I do. Because everyone else loves to eat too, good food that is oh so bad for you, is available just about everywhere. Although you'd be hard-pressed to find a fresh produce stand, or a farmer's market in my neck of the woods, every street corner has a Burger King, Taco Bell, McDonald's, Popeye's Chicken, Church's chicken, Chick-Fil-A, Wendy's, and you need a will of STEEL to resist all those enticing smells around dinner time.
Fortunately, although I may lack some backbone, I do have an iron will, and so have been able to ignore fries, burgers, and all things fried for years now. But it's been hard. Really hard. And really, the only thing between me and morbid obesity is, well, besides all that exercise, the fact that husband-dear and I operate on an ironclad grocery shopping principle which entails we each get to buy one unhealthy thing each week. Just one. So this week, I got chips, and he got ice cream. And that's it. The rest of our shopping list has sickeningly healthy things on it like "raspberries", "granola bars", "salad stuff", "fresh basil", "lean beef", "eggs", "raisins", and a whole slew of things that would make Paula Deen cringe.
But you know what's been really impossible lately? My students. And I don't mean in a behavioral sense (well that too, but I'll get to that some other time), no, in an eating sense. You see, the vast majority of my students love food too. Just like I do. Only they indulge in their cravings. And apparently, they prefer to indulge in them during my classes. Which means that anywhere from two to four times a day I am faced with a classroom full of students snacking on chips, drinking sodas, munching on a chicken breakfast sandwich, fries, chicken nuggets, chocolate, donuts, or whatever else struck their fancy that day. And when you've just had your incredibly healthy and nutritious lunch where the only sinful foods where the chocolate chips in your granola bar, that just seems really unfair.
Fortunately, I've found a solution. It's the same tactic I use when I run past a fast food restaurant with a line of cars in the driveway. Or when I bicycle past someone whose body mass index is less than perfect, getting out of their car at 10am, carrying a large box of donuts (and yes, even though I'm wearing sunglasses, I see you. I see you looking at me, and then looking away furtively, but, yes I have seen you, and yes, I'm even going smile, wave, and keep going). I tell myself that even though all these people, including my students, are getting what they want now, if we were all ever chased by a bear or a lion, I would outrun every single one of them. And not even break a sweat. Thus saving my hair and make up. And as well all know, hair and make up is everything down here.
So, yeah. Bring on the lions and the bears. I got them covered. As long as I can have some fries afterwards.
Let me tell you, by the way, that loving to eat is a real problem when you live where I do. Because everyone else loves to eat too, good food that is oh so bad for you, is available just about everywhere. Although you'd be hard-pressed to find a fresh produce stand, or a farmer's market in my neck of the woods, every street corner has a Burger King, Taco Bell, McDonald's, Popeye's Chicken, Church's chicken, Chick-Fil-A, Wendy's, and you need a will of STEEL to resist all those enticing smells around dinner time.
Fortunately, although I may lack some backbone, I do have an iron will, and so have been able to ignore fries, burgers, and all things fried for years now. But it's been hard. Really hard. And really, the only thing between me and morbid obesity is, well, besides all that exercise, the fact that husband-dear and I operate on an ironclad grocery shopping principle which entails we each get to buy one unhealthy thing each week. Just one. So this week, I got chips, and he got ice cream. And that's it. The rest of our shopping list has sickeningly healthy things on it like "raspberries", "granola bars", "salad stuff", "fresh basil", "lean beef", "eggs", "raisins", and a whole slew of things that would make Paula Deen cringe.
But you know what's been really impossible lately? My students. And I don't mean in a behavioral sense (well that too, but I'll get to that some other time), no, in an eating sense. You see, the vast majority of my students love food too. Just like I do. Only they indulge in their cravings. And apparently, they prefer to indulge in them during my classes. Which means that anywhere from two to four times a day I am faced with a classroom full of students snacking on chips, drinking sodas, munching on a chicken breakfast sandwich, fries, chicken nuggets, chocolate, donuts, or whatever else struck their fancy that day. And when you've just had your incredibly healthy and nutritious lunch where the only sinful foods where the chocolate chips in your granola bar, that just seems really unfair.
Fortunately, I've found a solution. It's the same tactic I use when I run past a fast food restaurant with a line of cars in the driveway. Or when I bicycle past someone whose body mass index is less than perfect, getting out of their car at 10am, carrying a large box of donuts (and yes, even though I'm wearing sunglasses, I see you. I see you looking at me, and then looking away furtively, but, yes I have seen you, and yes, I'm even going smile, wave, and keep going). I tell myself that even though all these people, including my students, are getting what they want now, if we were all ever chased by a bear or a lion, I would outrun every single one of them. And not even break a sweat. Thus saving my hair and make up. And as well all know, hair and make up is everything down here.
So, yeah. Bring on the lions and the bears. I got them covered. As long as I can have some fries afterwards.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Spitter, spatter, spetter
De meeste Nederlanders houden niet van regen. Wat zeg ik, bijna geen enkele Nederlander houdt van regen. Dat weet ik eigenlijk wel zeker. Voornamelijk omdat elke keer als ik iemand uit Nederland spreek, en het regent daar, dat, onder veel gemopper wordt vermeld. Maar als rasechte Nederlander moet ik nu toch echt toegeven dat ik op dit moment niet kan wachten op zo'n lekkere regenachtige dag. Wat zegt u? Wacht maar tot het een week lang niet ophoudt met regenen? Ha! Dat zou te mooi voor woorden zijn.
En het is niet dat ik nou zo dol op nat worden hoor. Helemaal niet. Ik ben, net als u, erg gesteld op droge kleding, niet-uitgelopen make-up, en een kapsel dat nog redelijk in model zit. Maar het probleem dat ik heb met continue zonnenschijn, is dat je nooit eens een excuus hebt om een hele dag niks te doen.
Als echte Nederlander zit het er namelijk bij mij ingebrandt dat je niet binnen gaat zitten met mooi weer, en al helemaal niet voor de televisie gaat hangen. Als de zon schijnt, dan moet je de ramen lappen! Of je auto wassen! Of de stoep vegen! Of de tuin in! Of het spinnenrag onder de luiken vandaan vegen! Of eindelijk dat tafeltje schilderen! En hardlopen! Of fietsen! Of zwemmen!
En dat is natuurlijk een prima principe, als je in Nederland woont. Want daar regent het zo vaak en veel, dat als de zon eindelijk een keer schijnt, je ook meteen aan de bak moet. Het zou anders namelijk zo maar eens drie weken kunnen duren voordat je iets buiten kan doen.
Maar ja, aan dit soort ingebakken volkstradities heb je helemaal niks als je in een land woont waar de zon werkelijk elke dag schijnt. Ik bedoel, ik loop elke dag dat ik vrij heb als een soort Truus de Mier "tuut-tuut-tuut" in en rond mijn huis vanalles schoon te maken, want ja, de zon schijnt. Ik moet u eerlijk zeggen, ik word er gek van. Zelfs afgelopen zondag, toen manlief en ik wilden uitrusten na de meeste achterlijke race ooit, kon ik het felle zonlicht na een paar uur toch echt niet meer negeren. En dus ben ik toen maar de cavia kooi gaan verschonen, de was gaan doen, en meer van dat soort afgrijselijke taakjes. En eigenlijk wilde ik gewoon vrij.
Dus. Hierbij dien ik een verzoek in voor regen. Gaarna aankomende zondag, gedurende de dag (maar het liefst na tien uur 's ochtends, zodat ik nog wel kan gaan wielrennen). Mijn hartelijke dank hiervoor.
En het is niet dat ik nou zo dol op nat worden hoor. Helemaal niet. Ik ben, net als u, erg gesteld op droge kleding, niet-uitgelopen make-up, en een kapsel dat nog redelijk in model zit. Maar het probleem dat ik heb met continue zonnenschijn, is dat je nooit eens een excuus hebt om een hele dag niks te doen.
Als echte Nederlander zit het er namelijk bij mij ingebrandt dat je niet binnen gaat zitten met mooi weer, en al helemaal niet voor de televisie gaat hangen. Als de zon schijnt, dan moet je de ramen lappen! Of je auto wassen! Of de stoep vegen! Of de tuin in! Of het spinnenrag onder de luiken vandaan vegen! Of eindelijk dat tafeltje schilderen! En hardlopen! Of fietsen! Of zwemmen!
En dat is natuurlijk een prima principe, als je in Nederland woont. Want daar regent het zo vaak en veel, dat als de zon eindelijk een keer schijnt, je ook meteen aan de bak moet. Het zou anders namelijk zo maar eens drie weken kunnen duren voordat je iets buiten kan doen.
Maar ja, aan dit soort ingebakken volkstradities heb je helemaal niks als je in een land woont waar de zon werkelijk elke dag schijnt. Ik bedoel, ik loop elke dag dat ik vrij heb als een soort Truus de Mier "tuut-tuut-tuut" in en rond mijn huis vanalles schoon te maken, want ja, de zon schijnt. Ik moet u eerlijk zeggen, ik word er gek van. Zelfs afgelopen zondag, toen manlief en ik wilden uitrusten na de meeste achterlijke race ooit, kon ik het felle zonlicht na een paar uur toch echt niet meer negeren. En dus ben ik toen maar de cavia kooi gaan verschonen, de was gaan doen, en meer van dat soort afgrijselijke taakjes. En eigenlijk wilde ik gewoon vrij.
Dus. Hierbij dien ik een verzoek in voor regen. Gaarna aankomende zondag, gedurende de dag (maar het liefst na tien uur 's ochtends, zodat ik nog wel kan gaan wielrennen). Mijn hartelijke dank hiervoor.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Jamming at the dam
I really don't know why we do these things, but this weekend, husband-dear, a friend of husband-dear's, and myself participated in something called an "Adventure Race". It sounds like fun, until you see the subtitle of this particular race, "An Xtreme Sports Challenge!", and you realize you may have just bitten off more than you can chew.
Now all of this can really be blamed on my desire to always be the best at everything, and extraordinary ability to really not think things through. You see, once I discover there is something out there that I haven't done (like, oh, an adventure race), some little voice in my head starts saying things like, "You can so do that, you know you can. What's holding you back? Are you a wimp or something?". And so when husband-dear and his friend needed a female teammate to enter the coed division, and asked me, I said yes, and then asked what it was. At that point, all they knew was that it entailed running, biking, and canoeing.
So it was going to be a piece of cake.
Wrong.
As last week progressed, we received more and more details about what the race actually entailed, and subsequently, I really started to consider what I had gotten myself into now. You see, an adventure is not simply an off-road triathlon. Those are called Xterras, and they seem positively cute compared to this. One of the main differences is that adventure race organizers will never tell you exactly what the race will entail. They will simply give you helpful hints, like "You will get wet", and "Someone will have to swim, or maybe not", and "You will need a steady hand"
When we arrived at the race site, yesterday, the organizers finally revealed the entire race to us. They explained that when they designed the race, they had kept in mind that the park where the race was held used to be owned by Native Americans, and so tried to come up with events that Native Americans would have done too.
I don't believe it.
The race is held right near a college town, and so here's how I think the race was designed.
SCENE - INT - dimly lit apartment filled with second-hand furniture, piles of books and dirty clothes. The apartment is thick with smoke, and the dining room table is covered in bottles of beer and other alcoholic beverages. Two male and one female college student sit around the table. (Let's call them John, Harry, and Sam)
JOHN: Dude, we should so put on a triathlon or something.
HARRY: Triathlons are, like, so lame. Everyone's putting them on, or doing them. Man, my sixty-year old grandma did a triathlon the other day. Seriously. Geriatric sport.
SAM: Well, why don't we make it a lot rougher? Off-road and sh**?
JOHN: Yeah! Like all muddy and dirty and nasty!
HARRY: You're such a moron John, seriously. Anyway, those are called Xterras, and everyone and their dog does those. Like overweight fifty-year old mountainbikers with big, fat bellies.
SAM: Alright, Mr. I'm so drunk I'm mad, how about we make it harder than both those things combined? Present it like an off-road tri, but then make it like super challenging.
JOHN: Yeah, and weird! Like, like, they have to navigate part of the way themselves!
SAM: Yeah! And we can have them do a run through the woods, and not tell them how long it is, and then make them do a super long obstacle course with those balancing beams and things you crawl under like in the army!
HARRY: Alright, that's cool. I like it...but it will still be like a tri then, with a swim, a run, a bike, and an obstacle course. It needs to be like totally more far out
JOHN: OK, OK, how about..how about..
SAM: Canoeing! Yeah!
JOHN: Yeah! I hate canoeing....you get hot, sunburned, and it always takes forever. Awesome!
HARRY: Yeah, that's it. Although anyone can canoe guys. I mean, if John here has done it...
SAM: Alright, how about we have them canoe to an island in the middle of the lake, then CARRY their canoe across the island, and then have to do some sort of challenge there!
HARRY: Oh yeah, I like it. We could have them build a campfire from scratch...
SAM: Nah, they would set the island on fire. How about archery?
JOHN: Yeah! Archery rocks, dude.
HARRY: Oh that's awesome. And how about we determine the length of the next leg of their canoeing based on the points they got during the archery?
SAM and JOHN: Awesome!
SAM: You know what we could do? Didn't that park used to belong to some Native American tribe? Why don't we present it as some sort of Native American challenge - we have them canoe, shoot a bow and arrow, canoe some more..
JOHN: Yeah, and we could have them build a tipi!
HARRY: A tipi? You're so weird, dude, that's not a sport.
SAM: It is if we have them run to different places in the woods to get the equipment, then build the tipi, and then go a gruelling run!
HARRY: OK, OK, I can see that. And how about some land navigation?
SAM: Yeah, we could do that before the canoe.
JOHN: Oh, I got it! We have one person swim some course in the lake, and they can't stop until their team mates have come back with some sort of proof that they made it to three separate points in the woods.
HARRY: Awesome idea!
SAM: OK, so what do we have?
HARRY: Let's start with the tipi building, then the run, the obstacle course, mountainbiking, then the swim slash land nav part, then the canoeing, the archery, the portage. More canoeing...and then....ooh yeah, then we make them think they're done, and they can just ride the fire trail to the finish, but instead we'll add in that super technical four mile loop!
SAM: Hacky yack?
HARRY: Yeah
SAM and JOHN: Awesome!
HARRY: OK, now all we need is a name.
SAM: Well, we need to draw in a large crowd, so something cool.
JOHN: How about "The Trail of Tears"?
HARRY: What?!
JOHN: Well, it refers to Native Americans, and these participants will end up in tears, you know
HARRY: No, no, no, no
SAM: How about something like all those rock and roll series? Like the rock and roll marathon series? The rock and roll triathlons?
HARRY: Oooh..I got something that will draw in both the young fast crowd, and the older, but wealthier crowd that wants to seem hip: The Jam at the Dam
ALL: Yeeeah...awesome
And that is how the Adventure Race really came about. And although it took us 3:30, we made it to the finish line, and came in second, thankyouverymuch. I will be posting more about the actual race (including, hopefully, pictures), later. For now, my arms need a break, as they're still sore from the biking/canoeing/swimming I did on Saturday.
Now all of this can really be blamed on my desire to always be the best at everything, and extraordinary ability to really not think things through. You see, once I discover there is something out there that I haven't done (like, oh, an adventure race), some little voice in my head starts saying things like, "You can so do that, you know you can. What's holding you back? Are you a wimp or something?". And so when husband-dear and his friend needed a female teammate to enter the coed division, and asked me, I said yes, and then asked what it was. At that point, all they knew was that it entailed running, biking, and canoeing.
So it was going to be a piece of cake.
Wrong.
As last week progressed, we received more and more details about what the race actually entailed, and subsequently, I really started to consider what I had gotten myself into now. You see, an adventure is not simply an off-road triathlon. Those are called Xterras, and they seem positively cute compared to this. One of the main differences is that adventure race organizers will never tell you exactly what the race will entail. They will simply give you helpful hints, like "You will get wet", and "Someone will have to swim, or maybe not", and "You will need a steady hand"
When we arrived at the race site, yesterday, the organizers finally revealed the entire race to us. They explained that when they designed the race, they had kept in mind that the park where the race was held used to be owned by Native Americans, and so tried to come up with events that Native Americans would have done too.
I don't believe it.
The race is held right near a college town, and so here's how I think the race was designed.
SCENE - INT - dimly lit apartment filled with second-hand furniture, piles of books and dirty clothes. The apartment is thick with smoke, and the dining room table is covered in bottles of beer and other alcoholic beverages. Two male and one female college student sit around the table. (Let's call them John, Harry, and Sam)
JOHN: Dude, we should so put on a triathlon or something.
HARRY: Triathlons are, like, so lame. Everyone's putting them on, or doing them. Man, my sixty-year old grandma did a triathlon the other day. Seriously. Geriatric sport.
SAM: Well, why don't we make it a lot rougher? Off-road and sh**?
JOHN: Yeah! Like all muddy and dirty and nasty!
HARRY: You're such a moron John, seriously. Anyway, those are called Xterras, and everyone and their dog does those. Like overweight fifty-year old mountainbikers with big, fat bellies.
SAM: Alright, Mr. I'm so drunk I'm mad, how about we make it harder than both those things combined? Present it like an off-road tri, but then make it like super challenging.
JOHN: Yeah, and weird! Like, like, they have to navigate part of the way themselves!
SAM: Yeah! And we can have them do a run through the woods, and not tell them how long it is, and then make them do a super long obstacle course with those balancing beams and things you crawl under like in the army!
HARRY: Alright, that's cool. I like it...but it will still be like a tri then, with a swim, a run, a bike, and an obstacle course. It needs to be like totally more far out
JOHN: OK, OK, how about..how about..
SAM: Canoeing! Yeah!
JOHN: Yeah! I hate canoeing....you get hot, sunburned, and it always takes forever. Awesome!
HARRY: Yeah, that's it. Although anyone can canoe guys. I mean, if John here has done it...
SAM: Alright, how about we have them canoe to an island in the middle of the lake, then CARRY their canoe across the island, and then have to do some sort of challenge there!
HARRY: Oh yeah, I like it. We could have them build a campfire from scratch...
SAM: Nah, they would set the island on fire. How about archery?
JOHN: Yeah! Archery rocks, dude.
HARRY: Oh that's awesome. And how about we determine the length of the next leg of their canoeing based on the points they got during the archery?
SAM and JOHN: Awesome!
SAM: You know what we could do? Didn't that park used to belong to some Native American tribe? Why don't we present it as some sort of Native American challenge - we have them canoe, shoot a bow and arrow, canoe some more..
JOHN: Yeah, and we could have them build a tipi!
HARRY: A tipi? You're so weird, dude, that's not a sport.
SAM: It is if we have them run to different places in the woods to get the equipment, then build the tipi, and then go a gruelling run!
HARRY: OK, OK, I can see that. And how about some land navigation?
SAM: Yeah, we could do that before the canoe.
JOHN: Oh, I got it! We have one person swim some course in the lake, and they can't stop until their team mates have come back with some sort of proof that they made it to three separate points in the woods.
HARRY: Awesome idea!
SAM: OK, so what do we have?
HARRY: Let's start with the tipi building, then the run, the obstacle course, mountainbiking, then the swim slash land nav part, then the canoeing, the archery, the portage. More canoeing...and then....ooh yeah, then we make them think they're done, and they can just ride the fire trail to the finish, but instead we'll add in that super technical four mile loop!
SAM: Hacky yack?
HARRY: Yeah
SAM and JOHN: Awesome!
HARRY: OK, now all we need is a name.
SAM: Well, we need to draw in a large crowd, so something cool.
JOHN: How about "The Trail of Tears"?
HARRY: What?!
JOHN: Well, it refers to Native Americans, and these participants will end up in tears, you know
HARRY: No, no, no, no
SAM: How about something like all those rock and roll series? Like the rock and roll marathon series? The rock and roll triathlons?
HARRY: Oooh..I got something that will draw in both the young fast crowd, and the older, but wealthier crowd that wants to seem hip: The Jam at the Dam
ALL: Yeeeah...awesome
And that is how the Adventure Race really came about. And although it took us 3:30, we made it to the finish line, and came in second, thankyouverymuch. I will be posting more about the actual race (including, hopefully, pictures), later. For now, my arms need a break, as they're still sore from the biking/canoeing/swimming I did on Saturday.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Reality check
I am not a particularly creative person. My scholarly interests lie in measurements, tests, interviews, and other qualitative and quantitative investigations into why people do what they do. Having joined a department that offers both this social science approach (as it's commonly called in the world of mass communication), as well as a more creative, cultural studies track, I have had to educate myself on the basics of script writing, video production, and radio broadcasting. And much to my amazement, I actually kind of like it. Granted, I will never be the next Steve Innskeep or Quentin Tarantino, but I have learned to distinguish the good from the bad and the worthy from the unworthy. After all, if you've gone to school for a good 22 years, you have, if nothing else, learned to learn quickly.
But I never cease to be amazed by students who choose to focus their senior project on a video piece, or a radio production. Obviously, only a few show budding Tarantino-potential, but their creative explorations do allow me a sneak peak into their personal lives. Because no matter how much you tell students to think outside the box, outside the world they call their own, pieces of them will always reappear in their work. Having said that, I think I can safely conclude that our students are obsessed with relationships, friendships, unwanted pregnancies, substance abuse, race issues, and your usual early twenties-angst. Oh yeah, and talking animals.
And today I got a genuine reality check when a student came in to present her idea for a video production piece. Her piece is to focus on a girl struggling with the death of her father, which is a theme that does reoccur on a regular basis. But completely new to me was how the father died. The student told me the man was a soldier, and he was going to die in one of the wars.
Before I could say or ask anything else, the student told me she had it all thought out too. She was going to ask some ROTC members to pose as the army chaplains, and have them bring the bad news early in the morning.
Let's just say I sat there for one second, before I was able to formulate a response that made some sort of sense. That was not so much because it hits close to home, and hearing an idea like this gives me those chills that turn into a constant, nagging worry about all those people I know out there. What really took me by surprise is that war and death are now a part of this generation's reality. There was no reason for the fictional dad to die in any of the wars. His military career does not feature in the story at all. Yet that seemed like a more logical cause of death to my student than say a car accident.
Since the Vietnam era, this country has not been in a conflict that lasted this long, and it's starting to show. My students, the student with whom I met earlier today, they were maybe 12 or 13 when the first war broke out. Subsequently, they are truly a cohort who does not know any better than that our, your, country is at war.
If nothing else, to me that is a sign that it is high time to somehow end these conflicts. I know that we can't just do that. I realize that there is a lot at stake. I understand that we have a plan. But when a twenty-one year old needs to come up with a cause of death in her script, and decides that the war is the best option, something needs to change.
But I never cease to be amazed by students who choose to focus their senior project on a video piece, or a radio production. Obviously, only a few show budding Tarantino-potential, but their creative explorations do allow me a sneak peak into their personal lives. Because no matter how much you tell students to think outside the box, outside the world they call their own, pieces of them will always reappear in their work. Having said that, I think I can safely conclude that our students are obsessed with relationships, friendships, unwanted pregnancies, substance abuse, race issues, and your usual early twenties-angst. Oh yeah, and talking animals.
And today I got a genuine reality check when a student came in to present her idea for a video production piece. Her piece is to focus on a girl struggling with the death of her father, which is a theme that does reoccur on a regular basis. But completely new to me was how the father died. The student told me the man was a soldier, and he was going to die in one of the wars.
Before I could say or ask anything else, the student told me she had it all thought out too. She was going to ask some ROTC members to pose as the army chaplains, and have them bring the bad news early in the morning.
Let's just say I sat there for one second, before I was able to formulate a response that made some sort of sense. That was not so much because it hits close to home, and hearing an idea like this gives me those chills that turn into a constant, nagging worry about all those people I know out there. What really took me by surprise is that war and death are now a part of this generation's reality. There was no reason for the fictional dad to die in any of the wars. His military career does not feature in the story at all. Yet that seemed like a more logical cause of death to my student than say a car accident.
Since the Vietnam era, this country has not been in a conflict that lasted this long, and it's starting to show. My students, the student with whom I met earlier today, they were maybe 12 or 13 when the first war broke out. Subsequently, they are truly a cohort who does not know any better than that our, your, country is at war.
If nothing else, to me that is a sign that it is high time to somehow end these conflicts. I know that we can't just do that. I realize that there is a lot at stake. I understand that we have a plan. But when a twenty-one year old needs to come up with a cause of death in her script, and decides that the war is the best option, something needs to change.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Sailor
The title of this post obviously makes no sense whatsoever. Not in the least because a) I'm nowhere near an ocean, and b) the navy has got nothing on the Air Force. But I digress. The reason I chose this title is because of a something that husband-dear has recently taken to doing. You see, I think he's been branding me. And by branding I'm not referring to anything that involves hot coals and a pair of metal tongs, no, I'm referring to the marketing principle. I believe that husband-dear has finally figured out that for all my griping, complaining, and whining, I'm really generally OK with my life, and hence he's slapped the following saying on my being; "A b***ing sailor is a happy sailor". (my apologies for the PG-13-style censorship of that remark, but y'all, we are in The South here).
Anyway, I think he's right. I'm not sure if it's just who I am, or if my seemingly less-than-pleased attitude is somehow related to my Dutchness, but either way, I complain regardless of whether I'm happy, so there you are.
So today, instead of finding something to whine about (and oh boy, there are plenty of things, like WHY do freshmen insist on wearing their IDs like they are at some inner city high school?), I thought I would tell you about one thing that has been making me very happy: husband-dear's new work location. And it's not so much his location (seriously, I don't even know what it looks like, as, you know, regulations have determined that normal mortals are not allowed in the building), but the fact that he now has access to his email on a regular basis. Call me an idiot. Or a hopeless romantic, but I like hearing from husband-dear during the day. It was hard enough to accept that, when we moved here, all cell phone usage on his part was absolutely banned, which put a screeching halt to our quick text exchanges. But for the past three years, his job has kept him away from a regular desk for most of the day. So that meant no phone calls unless something was on fire, and if I was lucky, one email per day. Compare that the hundreds of emails we would shoot back and forth prior to the move, and you can see how I felt just a little deprived.
But now all that has changed. Husband-dear is at his desk a lot, and so we email. A lot. And I like it. There's nothing more uplifting than returning from a class where your students seem to vie for the "who can be the most annoying today" prize, to find a brief, but sweet message from your man in your email. It's very practical as well. We have managed to hash out the practicalities of our life ("are you picking the kids up, or am I?") through email instead of quick, frantic phone calls or sleepy, confusing conversations early in the morning.
Obviously, his sudden ability to email during the day also has its drawbacks, such as him suddenly asking me to do things like think about meals for next week. Or look something up online. Or ask me to email someone. But hey, I promised I would be a happy non-b***ing sailor today, so I won't elaborate on that.
So, DixieChick is happy. She still has a lot to complain about, but she's happy. Honestly.
Anyway, I think he's right. I'm not sure if it's just who I am, or if my seemingly less-than-pleased attitude is somehow related to my Dutchness, but either way, I complain regardless of whether I'm happy, so there you are.
So today, instead of finding something to whine about (and oh boy, there are plenty of things, like WHY do freshmen insist on wearing their IDs like they are at some inner city high school?), I thought I would tell you about one thing that has been making me very happy: husband-dear's new work location. And it's not so much his location (seriously, I don't even know what it looks like, as, you know, regulations have determined that normal mortals are not allowed in the building), but the fact that he now has access to his email on a regular basis. Call me an idiot. Or a hopeless romantic, but I like hearing from husband-dear during the day. It was hard enough to accept that, when we moved here, all cell phone usage on his part was absolutely banned, which put a screeching halt to our quick text exchanges. But for the past three years, his job has kept him away from a regular desk for most of the day. So that meant no phone calls unless something was on fire, and if I was lucky, one email per day. Compare that the hundreds of emails we would shoot back and forth prior to the move, and you can see how I felt just a little deprived.
But now all that has changed. Husband-dear is at his desk a lot, and so we email. A lot. And I like it. There's nothing more uplifting than returning from a class where your students seem to vie for the "who can be the most annoying today" prize, to find a brief, but sweet message from your man in your email. It's very practical as well. We have managed to hash out the practicalities of our life ("are you picking the kids up, or am I?") through email instead of quick, frantic phone calls or sleepy, confusing conversations early in the morning.
Obviously, his sudden ability to email during the day also has its drawbacks, such as him suddenly asking me to do things like think about meals for next week. Or look something up online. Or ask me to email someone. But hey, I promised I would be a happy non-b***ing sailor today, so I won't elaborate on that.
So, DixieChick is happy. She still has a lot to complain about, but she's happy. Honestly.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Romanes eunt domus
So while it was only a few months ago that I explained my slow acceptance of how Americans use the term "Nazi" in a much more liberal sense than I ever would, I now have to come to the interesting realization that I've started using it to describe myself. Yes, we've gone from a reluctant acceptance of others using the phrase to describe my less-than-laid-back attitude towards a variety of activities, to an active usage of the term when trying to make students understand exactly how strict I am when it comes to grammar, spelling, and punctuation. I have, in other words, started calling myself the English-language-Nazi.
I, of course, have numerous pet peeves when it comes to writing mistakes. The far-too-common they're, there, and their come to mind, as do the ever-confounding it's and its, as well as the apparent drug-inspired random usage of punctuation, including apostrophes. Or is it apostrophe's? Or a'postrophes?
Anyway, my biggest issue, however, seems to be with words that have Latin roots. You see, in this part of the world, there seems to be a complete and utter disregard for the ruthless logic that inspired the Latin, and thus the English language. Now call me a silver-spooned old-school nerd, but when I went to middle school (yes, I said middle school, and yes, this was an American middle school), my English teacher took the time to teach us the basics of Latin. We learned about prefixes, suffixes, and the rules for feminine/masculine, and rendering singular words plural. Very, very boring when you're thirteen. But really really useful when you're studying for your SATs and realize you don't have to memorize fifteen thousand words, you can use look at your list of prefixes and suffixes again.
It is, however, a royal pain in the derriere (and that is French) when you move to the south where no one seems to have ever heard of Latin.
Take those pesky alumni license plate frames for instance. You may have seen them, they have the name of the university on the top, and then on the bottom it will say "alumni". Alumni, people. I cannot begin to tell you how much that makes me want to pull over and scream. Because unless there are two former students in that car at all times, or the owner suffers from a case of pluralis majestatis, that plate makes no sense whatsoever. You see, alumni is plural. The correct term for a single former student is alumnus. And that really only applies to males. Female former students are known as almumna, and when speaking of a group of alumna, one calls them "alumnae". Now I don't mean to be a Latin freak, but don't you think that of all places, institutions of higher learning should get this right? I mean, we have positions with medieval titles like "provost" and "registrar", don't you think we could get our freaking license plates in order?
And don't even get me started on media and mediums. Working in the field of mass communication means I get to deal with this one a lot, and it's always a pleasure. In case you're wondering, no, it's not just the students. Just a few weeks ago, we received an application for an open position, where the candidate (who, for the record, had just obtained a master's) spoke of his experience with various "mediums". Yes, medium. It's one thing to write "the media has", as opposed to "the media have", but mediums? Really?
Mediums, dear reader, is what you see when you put a whole bunch of people who can talk to the dead in room. Media refers to two or more channels for mass communication. I can't repeat this often enough.
Now, in all fairness, the English language does not use Latin plurals the way Dutch does. I remember learning that it was one stadium, two stadia, one aquarium, two aquaria, one gymnasium, two gymnasia, while I've yet to hear any American talk about "aquaria". Even NPR anchors say "stadiums". So perhaps it's a simple lack of familiarity that explains my students' tendency to speak of "mediums" when discussing radio and television. But still. Mediums? Alumni?
So yes, the English-Language Nazi it is. Although I wonder if it's really not supposed to be naza.
Oh, and to those of you who have no idea what the title of this blog refers to, please check out this classic scene.
I, of course, have numerous pet peeves when it comes to writing mistakes. The far-too-common they're, there, and their come to mind, as do the ever-confounding it's and its, as well as the apparent drug-inspired random usage of punctuation, including apostrophes. Or is it apostrophe's? Or a'postrophes?
Anyway, my biggest issue, however, seems to be with words that have Latin roots. You see, in this part of the world, there seems to be a complete and utter disregard for the ruthless logic that inspired the Latin, and thus the English language. Now call me a silver-spooned old-school nerd, but when I went to middle school (yes, I said middle school, and yes, this was an American middle school), my English teacher took the time to teach us the basics of Latin. We learned about prefixes, suffixes, and the rules for feminine/masculine, and rendering singular words plural. Very, very boring when you're thirteen. But really really useful when you're studying for your SATs and realize you don't have to memorize fifteen thousand words, you can use look at your list of prefixes and suffixes again.
It is, however, a royal pain in the derriere (and that is French) when you move to the south where no one seems to have ever heard of Latin.
Take those pesky alumni license plate frames for instance. You may have seen them, they have the name of the university on the top, and then on the bottom it will say "alumni". Alumni, people. I cannot begin to tell you how much that makes me want to pull over and scream. Because unless there are two former students in that car at all times, or the owner suffers from a case of pluralis majestatis, that plate makes no sense whatsoever. You see, alumni is plural. The correct term for a single former student is alumnus. And that really only applies to males. Female former students are known as almumna, and when speaking of a group of alumna, one calls them "alumnae". Now I don't mean to be a Latin freak, but don't you think that of all places, institutions of higher learning should get this right? I mean, we have positions with medieval titles like "provost" and "registrar", don't you think we could get our freaking license plates in order?
And don't even get me started on media and mediums. Working in the field of mass communication means I get to deal with this one a lot, and it's always a pleasure. In case you're wondering, no, it's not just the students. Just a few weeks ago, we received an application for an open position, where the candidate (who, for the record, had just obtained a master's) spoke of his experience with various "mediums". Yes, medium. It's one thing to write "the media has", as opposed to "the media have", but mediums? Really?
Mediums, dear reader, is what you see when you put a whole bunch of people who can talk to the dead in room. Media refers to two or more channels for mass communication. I can't repeat this often enough.
Now, in all fairness, the English language does not use Latin plurals the way Dutch does. I remember learning that it was one stadium, two stadia, one aquarium, two aquaria, one gymnasium, two gymnasia, while I've yet to hear any American talk about "aquaria". Even NPR anchors say "stadiums". So perhaps it's a simple lack of familiarity that explains my students' tendency to speak of "mediums" when discussing radio and television. But still. Mediums? Alumni?
So yes, the English-Language Nazi it is. Although I wonder if it's really not supposed to be naza.
Oh, and to those of you who have no idea what the title of this blog refers to, please check out this classic scene.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Gezegende vrachtwagenchauffeurs
Na alle dramatiek van maandag, vond ik dat het weer eens hoog tijd werd voor een gezellig blogje. En ik zit al dagen op een moment te wachten dat ik iemand kan vertellen over een aantal geweldige bumperstickers die ik gezien heb. U voelt hem al aankomen: dat moment is nu.
Ik heb wel eens eerder geschreven over de maffe verzameling bumperstickers die sommige Amerikanen op hun auto's hebben. Ik kan het blogje zo even niet vinden, dus u moet me maar op mijn woord geloven. Maar de laatste weken heb ik een aantal nieuwe gespot, die ik u echt niet wil onthouden.
Zo zag ik eerder deze week het geweldige "Don't believe the liberal media". Natuurlijk deed het mijn hart goed dat de makers van deze sticker wel het onderscheid kenden tussen "media" en "mediums"(maar daarover in een ander blog meer), maar verder kon ik er niet zo heel veel mee. Mijn eerste tegenvraag was dan ook meteen, "En wie moeten we dan wel geloven? De conservative media?". Deze simpele vraag werd gevolgd door allerlei sociaal-wetenschappelijk verantwoorde vragen zoals, "En wie zijn de liberale media dan? Wie bepaalt dat? En wat is liberaal eigenlijk? En waarom moeten we niet naar hen luisteren?"U begrijpt, deze bumpersticker is duidelijk niet voor mij bedoelt. Ik maak het veel te ingewikkeld, in plaats van dat ik gewoon luister en die liberale media uitzet! Potverdrie!
Maar dan nog. Ik stel mij zo voor dat de eigenaar van deze winkel in een of andere conservatieve bumpersticker winkel rondliep, deze zag, en meteen dacht..uhm..tjsa...iets van, "Eureka! Dit gaat alle problemen van de Amerikaanse samenleving oplossen!"(?). Ik weet het niet hoor, maar ik kan me a) niet voorstellen dat een bumpersticker zoveel sociale invloed heeft, en b) dat de "liberale media" (wie dat dan ook mogen zijn) schuld hebben aan alle misere die dit land klaarblijkelijk rijk is.
Maar goed, dat was de eerste bumpersticker die mij deed gniffelen (en dat is heel wat, om zeven uur 's ochtends). Toen zag ik op dinsdag het helemaal geweldige, "God bless the truckers" op een of andere kleine 4-deurs auto zitten. En natuurlijk heeft de sticker helemaal gelijk. Ik bedoel, laat God inderdaad alsjeblieft alle vrachtwagenchauffeurs zegenen, vooral als ze met weet-ik-veel-hoeveel-ton vracht en zestien wielen mij met negentig mijl per uur inhalen. Maar ja, wat moet er nou met al die andere beroepen die ook op de weg zitten? Waarom niet "God bless the ambulance drivers?", of "God bless the rural mail carriers?", of "God bless the drivers of the vans carrying prison workers to a construction site"? Die mensen doen ook allemaal bijzonder belangrijk werk (ik zou niet graag zien dat aan busje met psychotische moordenaars een ongeluk krijgt, en al die moordenaars in het bos verdwijnen, bijvoorbeeld), waarom verdienen zij geen "God bless"? Waarom dan gewoon geen "God bless everyone!" sticker?
Natuurlijk, ik snap het ook wel, de eigenaar van die auto is zelf vrachtwagenchauffeur, of kent een vrachtwagencheuffeur, en die wil een blessing. Wat ik frappanter vind is dat daar dus stickers voor zijn. Zouden er ook "God bless my Professor" stickers zijn? Of "God bless gas station employees", of "God bless nurse's aids", of "God bless geophysicists"? om maar eens een paar ondergewaardeerde beroepen te noemen. Ik vraag het me af.
Ik zou bijna voorstellen om alle bumperstickers dan maar van auto's af te halen, aangezien de meesten zo vreemd zijn. Maar toen bedacht ik me, dat dat een groot deel van mijn dagelijks vermaak is. En dus is mijn conclusie: bring it on met die bumperstickers!
Ik heb wel eens eerder geschreven over de maffe verzameling bumperstickers die sommige Amerikanen op hun auto's hebben. Ik kan het blogje zo even niet vinden, dus u moet me maar op mijn woord geloven. Maar de laatste weken heb ik een aantal nieuwe gespot, die ik u echt niet wil onthouden.
Zo zag ik eerder deze week het geweldige "Don't believe the liberal media". Natuurlijk deed het mijn hart goed dat de makers van deze sticker wel het onderscheid kenden tussen "media" en "mediums"(maar daarover in een ander blog meer), maar verder kon ik er niet zo heel veel mee. Mijn eerste tegenvraag was dan ook meteen, "En wie moeten we dan wel geloven? De conservative media?". Deze simpele vraag werd gevolgd door allerlei sociaal-wetenschappelijk verantwoorde vragen zoals, "En wie zijn de liberale media dan? Wie bepaalt dat? En wat is liberaal eigenlijk? En waarom moeten we niet naar hen luisteren?"U begrijpt, deze bumpersticker is duidelijk niet voor mij bedoelt. Ik maak het veel te ingewikkeld, in plaats van dat ik gewoon luister en die liberale media uitzet! Potverdrie!
Maar dan nog. Ik stel mij zo voor dat de eigenaar van deze winkel in een of andere conservatieve bumpersticker winkel rondliep, deze zag, en meteen dacht..uhm..tjsa...iets van, "Eureka! Dit gaat alle problemen van de Amerikaanse samenleving oplossen!"(?). Ik weet het niet hoor, maar ik kan me a) niet voorstellen dat een bumpersticker zoveel sociale invloed heeft, en b) dat de "liberale media" (wie dat dan ook mogen zijn) schuld hebben aan alle misere die dit land klaarblijkelijk rijk is.
Maar goed, dat was de eerste bumpersticker die mij deed gniffelen (en dat is heel wat, om zeven uur 's ochtends). Toen zag ik op dinsdag het helemaal geweldige, "God bless the truckers" op een of andere kleine 4-deurs auto zitten. En natuurlijk heeft de sticker helemaal gelijk. Ik bedoel, laat God inderdaad alsjeblieft alle vrachtwagenchauffeurs zegenen, vooral als ze met weet-ik-veel-hoeveel-ton vracht en zestien wielen mij met negentig mijl per uur inhalen. Maar ja, wat moet er nou met al die andere beroepen die ook op de weg zitten? Waarom niet "God bless the ambulance drivers?", of "God bless the rural mail carriers?", of "God bless the drivers of the vans carrying prison workers to a construction site"? Die mensen doen ook allemaal bijzonder belangrijk werk (ik zou niet graag zien dat aan busje met psychotische moordenaars een ongeluk krijgt, en al die moordenaars in het bos verdwijnen, bijvoorbeeld), waarom verdienen zij geen "God bless"? Waarom dan gewoon geen "God bless everyone!" sticker?
Natuurlijk, ik snap het ook wel, de eigenaar van die auto is zelf vrachtwagenchauffeur, of kent een vrachtwagencheuffeur, en die wil een blessing. Wat ik frappanter vind is dat daar dus stickers voor zijn. Zouden er ook "God bless my Professor" stickers zijn? Of "God bless gas station employees", of "God bless nurse's aids", of "God bless geophysicists"? om maar eens een paar ondergewaardeerde beroepen te noemen. Ik vraag het me af.
Ik zou bijna voorstellen om alle bumperstickers dan maar van auto's af te halen, aangezien de meesten zo vreemd zijn. Maar toen bedacht ik me, dat dat een groot deel van mijn dagelijks vermaak is. En dus is mijn conclusie: bring it on met die bumperstickers!
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