Pajama day

If there is one thing American Christmas movies lie about, it's about Christmas Day itself. Most movies get the lead-up into Christmas right; lots of shopping, decorations and Christmas music abound, there are lots of Christmas parties to attend, and neighbors and friends exchange presents and baked goods. Most movies even manage to capture Christmas Eve quite accurately: when visiting family, this is usually when most people arrive, a lot of Americans do go to a candlelight service, and most families set out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa before going to bed. But then there's Christmas Day. For those of you not intimately familiar with a typical American Christmas Day, allow me to enlighten you.

First, Christmas in America tends to start a few hours before the crack of dawn.Honestly, I'm not sure which American came up with the idea of opening presents in the morning, as opposed to a more relaxed start time of sometime after dinner, but whoever this unfortunate soul is, they should obviously have their head checked. Even when you have children whom you would think are way too old to get up early for Christmas, they will surprise you. This year, I jokingly told Jimmie he could not wake us up before six am, but could not believe my eyes when the now positively bear-sized teenager came bounding into our room at 6:08am, hollering it was Christmas morning, time to open the presents, and we'd better not complain as he had waited until after six.
So all those movies you've seen where entire families are gathered the Christmas tree with light coming int through the windows, looking refreshed and awake? Yep, it's a lie. Most American Christmases start off with various older family members stumbling from their beds, pulling on robes or hoodies, trying to shield their eyes from the bright lights on the Christmas tree, and telling their children that, no, we definitely may not start opening anything until the grown-ups have had coffee, and yes, really.

Second, most Christmas movies I'm familiar with tend to skip straight from the opening of presents to the preparation of Christmas dinner. I'm guessing this is because the filmmakers don't want all y'all Europeans to know about the best part of the day. Or perhaps because they're slightly embarrassed by what Americans do during most of that holiest of holy days, namely, lounge around. In their pajams. Unlike European Christmasses, where people will, after a fancy candlelight-filled breakfast, run upstairs to take a shower and put on their Christmas best, and then sit around in that same Christmas best all day, most Americans (myself included) love nothing better than to play with their new toys, watch a host of Christmas movies, possibly take a nap or two, all whilst still in their pajamas. And you know what's even worse? A lot of Americans (again, myself included) buy or receive special Christmas pajamas. I kid you not.
Now, don't worry, as someone who used to be an outsider, I know this is quite a tough pill to swallow. No shiny patent leather shoes, no pretty skirts or ties, no cute dresses, just fleece pants and a sweatshirt. At first it seems nothing like Christmas, but let me tell you, it. Is. Awesome.

And finally, although most movies love to show you how all Americans get dressed up for their big Christmas dinner, which is usually attended by lots of well-dressed extended family members, this, once again, isn't entirely true either. You see, most Americans live way too far away from their family to just show up for dinner. If you visit family for Christmas, you've probably been there for Christmas morning as well, so the chances of you dressing up are, I would guess, 50/50. Take our family, for instance. Last year, when we visited my in-laws, we dressed up for dinner. This year, on the other hand, I believe only husband-dear and mother-in-law bothered to change out of their jammies. Once again: Awesome.
Oh, and on a side-note, do you remember how all those dinners are always held while it's dark outside? Yeah, not true either. For a reason that must only be revealed to Americans born in this country (as I'm still clueless), most Americans eat their Christmas dinner in the afternoon. Yes, the afternoon. No, I don't know why. Yes, it's very strange to call it dinner if it's held at around 2pm. Yes, it really messes up your eating pattern for the rest of the day. No, you don't ever get used to it. But yes, you can still use candles and render the whole occasion "gezellig".

So, there you have it, the three lies about Christmas Day Hollywood loves to share over and over again.
You're welcome!

Merry, merry, merry Christmas

"And so this is Christmas"
John Lennon & Yoko Ono

So, the day we've (or at least every single retailer in the western world) has been looking forward to since mid-October is finally upon us.
Christmas is here!
I have to admit that Christmas is possibly my most favorite holiday of the year. Yes, that makes me a dork, and yes, I'm totally OK with that. I'm the person who will play Christmas music in her car, turn the lights on anytime she's home, and insist certain traditions are kept in place, no matter how old I am, where we live, or what we're doing. I figure that my cynical attitude throughout the year allows me this level of geekiness where Christmas is concerned. Now I'm not sure I can say what it is about Christmas that I like so much, but I would guess it has something to do with all the lights everywhere, the music, the joy of giving, hanging out with family, and the endless baking of goodies.

Now I realize that not everyone might be as in love with Christmas as I am. Some of you may actually celebrate other holidays around this time, some may not think of Christmas as anything more than a great opportunity to buy more stuff and eat lots of food, and some might just despise anything related to the holidays in general (and I know at least one of my readers is nodding in wild agreement right now), in spite of all those things, I hope that you will take this day (or this very moment, or just a quick second, really, anything you can spare), to be happy. Just happy. Forget about that horrible Christmas sweater you just pulled out of its wrapping, forget about the fact that you may have a huge Christmas dinner to cook, forget about the fact that you just heard Mariah Carey's "All I want for Christmas" for the fifth time in an hour, forget that you have a family to pacify, and that you might have a few kids bouncing around, in the midst of the biggest sugar-high of the year. Forget about all of it. And just enjoy the moment. For today there are no deadlines, no bosses, no errands, no meetings, it's just and those you (hopefully) love and hold dear. And that doesn't happen very often. Enjoy it while you can.

So may your tree well-decorated, your stockings well-stuffed, your presents fill all your heart's desire (or at least some of it), your Christmas movies sappy and happy, your dinner scrumptious, your post-dinner nap refreshing, and your family well-behaved.
 
Merry Christmas, everyone!

Bankhangtijd-maximalisatie

Ik dacht altijd dat ik best wel goed in plannen was. Op mijn werk organiseer ik vergaderingen, colleges, papers nakijken, spreekuren altijd prima tot een goed-lopende dag, en komt het maar weinig voor dat ik niet langer werk dan gepland was. Dat de geplande werkdag soms 10 uur duurt, dat is dan misschien wel jammer, maar in negen van de tien keer dus wel volgens de planning.

Maar sinds ik kerstvakantie heb, en nu full-time als "homemaker" aan de slag ben, ben ik toch gaan twijfelen aan mijn eigen organisatiekunde. En dan vooral omtrent het inplannen van de beroemde "errands", d.w.z., de tripjes naar allerlei winkels en afspraken. Want mensenkinderen, wat kunnen die errands lang duren zeg. Jeetje mina. Neem afgelopen dinsdag bijvoorbeeld. De identiteitskaart van de kinderen zou verlopen, dus ik moest met manlief afspreken op de basis. Daarna zou ik wat spullen afgeven bij Goodwill, en de kinderen naar de kapper nemen. Ieder normaal denkend mens, zo lijkt mij, gaat er vanuit dat je als je om acht uur 's ochtends met manlief afspreekt, je ruim voor de koffie weer thuis bent. Nou niet dus. Half een dames en heren. Vier-en-een-half uur later.

En zo gaat het dus al de hele week. Je gaat "even" wat pumpkin breads bakken, en voor je het weet moet je ook nog naar de supermarkt, want je bent iets vergeten, belt manlief dat-ie later thuis komt, en of jij wilt koken, bedenk je dat helemaal geen ondergoed meer hebt, en dus echt -moet- wassen, en besef je, wanneer je door de strepen op de spiegel je eigen reflectie niet meer goed ziet, het ook nog eens echt tijd is om de badkamer te soppen.

Mijn "bankhang" tijd is dus ernstig ingekort de laatste dagen, en u begrijpt, daar word ik niet blij van. Want mijn bankhang tijd is heilig. Heilig.

Dus toen ik gisteren, tijdens weer een errand (gek! word ik er van), in een schroef reed, en manlief na een kleine inspectie vaststelde dat de band echt een lek had, maakte ik een plan. Een plan ter maximalisatie van mijn bankhangtijd vandaag. Ik ben vanochtend om zes uur opgestaan, stond om zeven uur bij de bandenspecialist, lag om acht uur in het zwembad, en stond om negen uur in de winkel. Het is nu tien uur, en ik zit op de bank. En daar blijf ik minstens tot de lunch zitten. Naar kerstverlichting staren.
Zo dan.

Pumpkin pie...bread..no, pie...bread?

So today I ventured outside of the cocoon that is my festively decorated home for something other than an errand for the first time since commencement and spent the day with my friend Jill (she of last year's videotaped scavenger hunt). Because I'm sure that any day now we're going to uncover that we really are related, she thought it would be a great idea to hang out, talk, and bake up a storm for all of our neighbors. I mean, God forbid we just hang out and eat cookies. We. Will. Be. Productive!

Our baked goods of choice this year were several pumpkin breads. Last year, while I was putting together a far too complicated "upside down snack cake bread" (the ingredients provided to me in a cute jar by a friend painfully unaware of my lack of culinary skills), and loaves and loaves of banana bread for my neighbors, Jill turned out the most delicious pumpkin bread I have ever tasted. So this year, I decided that the best way to make up for our loud dogs who occasionally have escaped into the neighbors' yards, was by giving them each a bunch of pumpkin bread. What's not to love about pumpkin bread?

Now I will gladly admit to you that cooking is not my forte. Cooking is one thing not tied to my fragile ego. I instead pride myself on my analytical skills, my memory, and other cognitive features. So you would think that buying the ingredients would be easy as pie for me (the pun is coming..). And I thought it was, until I put all the cans of pumpkin on Jill's counter, and realized I had not read two of three cans correctly and purchased "pumpkin pie mix" instead of regular canned pumpkin (and there's the pun..yes, intended). For someone who (to quote "Pretty Woman") "went all the way" in the college, you would think that reading would not be a problem. Right.

But, Jill came to the rescue. She had me read out the ingredients on the pie mix (pumpkin, sugar, water, spices), and then said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world, "OK, so we'll just not add any sugar to that batch, and add only a little water, and it will be fine."

And I'm not sure how it happened, which probably underlines my complete lack of culinary gifts, but the pie/bread actually tastes just fine. The consistency is a little off, but it tastes just like pumpkin bread. And if it looks like a duck, and tastes like a duck..? Right.

Having said that, I of course can't let my neighbors think I can't complete a task as basic as purchasing the correct ingredients, as thanks to Paula Deen baking has become -the- thing southern women use to prove their women-worthiness, so I will be giving them the real pumpkin bread. If I can figure out which one it is.

Will the real pumpkin bread please stand up?

Bah humbug

"DC is my wife.
and I love her...
and will for all my life"
Husband-dear's spontaneous warbling in the kitchen

So I know I've been a total slacker when it comes to blogging this week.
I have.
And every time I get in my car to gallivant around town, I realize how badly I need to write a blog about people's inability to use turn signals and turn lanes. But then I come home, turn on our Christmas lights, whip a batch of cookies, clean something, make myself some tea, and realize I really don't want to whine about what horrible drivers Georgians are. I would much rather sit on my couch, look at the lights on the mantle and on the tree, pet the dogs, and listen to husband-dear making up songs in the kitchen. Or decide we have way too much peanut butter, and venture into the previously unexplored world of online recipes and whip up a batch of peanut brittle (brittle = cookies left in the oven too long). Or reconfigure our picture wall. Or write Christmas cards. Or call friends.

So, from the bottom of my heart, I'm sorry. I know you all love to read about my bah-humbug attitude towards life, but right now, there's just very little humbug and lots of jolly old cheer.

Now please excuse me while I have my first glass of eggnog of the season. I promise that there will be more of the usual after the weekend. I think. Although if I hear that Beach Boys song with the lyrics "Christmas comes this time each year" one more time, you may get your usual vinegar-filled blogging a bit sooner.

The non-issue of non-race

"It's sad but true, everyone's a little bit racist - alright? Alright!"
Gary Coleman ~ Avenue Q

For the past few years, Steve and I have been working on and off on a fascinating research project involving focus groups, content analysis, and all sorts of all other techniques that make my little researcher's heart beat faster. Even after Steve left to become Dr. Steve, he and I kept on working on the project, and have since produced two conference papers (one of which I presented on at the last conference in New Orleans), and a manuscript we've submitted for publication (the one that got the r & r). The entire research and writing process has been fun, educational, and all that good Lifetime special stuff. However, ever since we've been publicizing our work outside of the south, we've gotten some, well, strange feedback.

In order to understand what I'm about to start harping on (and harp is what I will do), you should know that our study was carried out at my university. Which happens to be an HBCU. Subsequently, all of our respondents were African American. For the record, no other study in this specific field has ever included an all-Black sample. In fact, the vast majority of similar studies sampled scores and scores of white midwestern kids, and happily generalized their findings to "youth in general".

So what kind of feedback have we been getting? Well, several people have commented on how awesome it is to finally see a study that focuses on African American media users, and left it at that. Fine. They're happy, we're happy, everybody happy. But then we started to get written feedback from reviewers. And it did little to make me happy. In fact, every time I think about it, I want to bang my head against a wall and see if it's too early for a drink.

The feedback we've received can generally be grouped into three categories:

1. "What's really interesting about your study is that it focuses on African Americans."
2. "I'm concerned about the external validity of your study. With your sample make up, you really cannot make statements about "youth in general""
3. "Since your sample is made up of all African Americans, you should try to make statements comparing them to white users"

Let's start with the first category. Although it seems like a lovely compliment, it's really not, as it suggests that our -one- redeeming factor is that we focus on African American students. Not the fact that we started dissecting an important concept, or uncovered various interesting discrepancies. Instead of looking at our theoretical contributions, our one redeeming feature is that we focused on students at an HBCU, who all happen to be Black. It's as though the reviewers are telling us how "speshul" we are by virtue of the skin color of our respondents, not by our detailed analysis or interesting findings. There's little warm and fuzzy about that.

And regarding the second category, where do I start? I won't brandish the "r" word around, but really, people, really? Our study has little external validity because we use only Black respondents? (just for the record - we don't generalize our findings, so they can't accuse of that, thankfully, I suppose) But let's consider the fact that numerous similar studies, which all rely on WASP Midwestern students for their results, happily generalize all over the map, while when we, with our definitely non-white sample, dare to make minor, tentative statements about a "possible clue" to overall behavior, our external validity is at risk? Since when do white youngsters in the midwest represent all American youth? And since when do the responses provided Black participants in the south reveal nothing about that same youth? if our 18-24 year old respondents are not part of this "general youth", what are they? Geriatrics? Children? Aliens?
Oh wait, I'm sorry, I forgot! *facepalm*.  White culture and white younsters are culture and youth. And when you utilize only white respondents, race is a non-issue. But if you use anything else, it's "ethnic" and marginal. Obviously, that's it. I am so sorry.

Oh, yeah, and there was a third category too. Well, all I can say to that is, uhm, remember research methods 101? You can't make statements about a specific group unless you compare them to another group. And guess what, that is something we did not do in our study. So yeah, nice try, but once again, just because our study featured an African American sample does not mean that that should be the focal point of our findings.

I'm sorry this blog isn't funnier, or happier, or includes more references to rainbows, unicorns, and mermaids, but this kind of stuff really does make me wonder about the world as a whole. Because if academics, who are supposed to be tolerant, hippy-dippy, all-embracing, and as far away from prejudice as possible, are unable to realize what they're actually saying, what does that bode for the rest of mankind?

No no drama, no no no drama

I hinted at the relative lack of stress earlier in the week, and now that finals week is coming to a close, I have to come to the conclusion that, for the first time in over four years, there has been no student-drama. None. At all.

Although I would love to tell you that it's because this year's graduating seniors are all mature, poised, and collected young adults who understand the notion of action --> consequence, I'm afraid that's not it. I think this sudden drop in drama is related to the most brilliant scheduling change ever implemented by the registrar. And I mean "brilliant" in the most literal way possible.

While in previous years, grades for graduating seniors were due a week before everyone else's (so the registrar's office could determine whether a graduate could actually graduate, or would be gracing the campus with his or her presence for another semester or two), this year, the registrar's office decided that that was far too stressful for everyone else. So instead, senior grades are due with everyone else's, and although all graduating seniors are allowed to "walk" (i.e., participate in graduation), not all of them will receive their diploma in the mail the following week.

At first I didn't think much of this decision. Why not let graduating seniors know how they did on their last classes before commencement? It didn't seem fair to let them walk, but then leave them in the dark about whether or not that walk was "it", or not.

But then I regained my common sense, and came to several important realizations: 1) no need to administer senior finals a week early, which means that a) there is no need to develop finals early, b) no need to grade them while I'm in the middle of grading a million papers, and c) no need to design my final grading sheet while grading those same million papers. The second realization (yes I realize I owe you guys a 2), but that would have created the longest run-on in the world, which is just wrong), anyway, the second realization was that seniors would now no longer realize they were not graduating until -after- commencement and I had long gone home for the break. And this meant they wouldn't have a chance to have a full-on break down in my office. Well, technically, I suppose they still can, but I won't be there. Sure, they can send me nasty emails, leave me endless voicemails, but those have got nothing on a full-on, histrionics-filled implosion, complete with veiled threats, pleas to my humanity, and references to old semi-invalid grandparents who had just sold their last family heirloom to buy a plane ticket to see their only grandchild graduate.

So, and I never though I would say this, thank you Mrs. Registrar. This was a true stroke of brilliance (which probably means it will be revoked next semester, however, let's rejoice while we can).

Now, let the commencement commence!

Vijf dingen...

Deze uitdaging zag ik op Petra's blog, en vond het zo interessant om daar zelf eens over na te denken, dat ik besloten heb hem schaamteloos te kopieren. Sue me, zou ik zeggen. Oh wacht, Petra woont in de VS, dus misschien kan ik dat maar beter niet roepen..uhm..Petra, laat maar weten wat je royalties zijn!

Vijf dingen die jullie niet van mij weten (maar misschien ook wel)

1. Dit is het vierde land waarin ik woon. Ik heb al in Nederland, Frankrijk, en Duitsland gewoond. Frankrijk en de VS staan momenteel op een gedeelde eerste plaats, maar daar kan nog verandering in komen, natuurlijk. Al moet ik zeggen dat wonen in Georgia niet echt geholpen heeft.


2. Ik heel precies ben in hoe onze handdoeken opgevouwen moeten worden. Door midden, dan nog een keer door midden, en dan in drieen. Je krijgt dan de mooiste stapeltjes in de kast, maar ja, helaas wil manlief nog steeds met allerlei andere creaties op de proppen komen. Ik kan daar zo gek van worden, dat ik in staat ben om een hele stapel handdoeken opnieuw te vouwen.

3. Toen ik leerde autorijden, ik het doodeng vond om in te voegen op de autobaan. Jaren nadat ik mijn rijbewijs had vond ik het nog steeds helemaal niks. Het was zelfs zo erg dat toen ik aan parachutespringen deed, ik het rijden naar de dropzone toe enger vond dat het eigenlijke springen. Ik kan nu echter met alle eerlijkheid zeggen dat ik niks zo leuk vind als invoegen, hoe drukker, hoe groter de uitdaging, hoe leuker!

4. Ik vroeger in musicals zoals "Godspell", "Peace Child", en "Oklahoma!" gespeeld heb, en nog steeds een playlist met de naam "showtunes" op mijn ipod heb (en ook nog steeds alle liedjes uit die musicals zo kan zingen)

5. Als ik met mensen praat die een accent hebben in hun Engels, dan ga ik ze onbewust nadoen. Het is echt heel erg, en ik kan er niks aan doen, maar op een of andere manier begin ik vaak hun zinsopbouw en grammatica te kopieren, en produceer dus zinnen zoals, "You here at 11, yes?"

Vijf dingen waar ik iets vanaf weet:

1. Communicatiewetenschap. En dat mag ik hopen ook. Dat heb ik ten slotte gestudeerd. En laat me beginnen met te stellen dat "media" meervoudig is. Overigens hou ik er helemaal niet van om in mijn vrije tijd het over mijn werk te hebben, dus je zult me niet vaak horen praten over de media, onderzoek, ethiek, of daaraan gerelateerde zaken.


2. Engelse Grammatica en spelling. Na jarenlang als copy-writer gewerkt te hebben, ben ik een enorme "stickler" voor het juiste gebruik van woorden, zinsopbouw, grammatica, en spelling. In het Engels dan. Want in het Nederlands bak ik er niet veel van.

3. "Deciphering bureacracy". Hier kwam manlief net mee op de proppen. Met andere woorden, als er formulieren ingevuld moeten worden, een ingewikkelde procedure gevolgd moet worden, of er moet iets uitgezocht worden, dan zou hij mij bellen. Belastingen, immigratie, naturalisatie, pensioenen, verzekeringen, ik draai er, volgens hem dan, mijn hand niet voor om. Persoonlijk ben ik van mening dat iedereen die naar de VS geimmigreerd is, hier een expert in is, maar goed, volgens manlief moest deze erbij.

4. Interculturele "blended" families. Ik geloof dat ik ondertussen toch best wel een expert ben geworden in hoe cultuurverschillen de kop op kunnen steken in een huwelijk, en helemaal als je met het "ja-woord" er drie voor de prijs van een krijgt.

5. Onderwijs, en alles wat daarbij komt kijken. Ik geloof dat ik hier, gezien de aard van de vele posts op dit blog over onderwijs, hier niet echt meer over hoef te zeggen :)

Vijf dingen waar ik niks van begrijp of in geinteresserd ben:

1. Auto's. Ondanks dat ik een duidelijke mening heb over welke auto ik mooi vind en welke niet, weet ik niets, maar dan ook niets af over hoe ze eigenlijk werken. En als het aan mij zou liggen zou ik waarschijnlijk een keer per jaar mijn olie laten verversen. Misschien. Niet omdat ik niks om mijn auto geef, maar omdat ik me er gewoon echt niets voor interesseer, en dat soort dingen dus vergeet. Gelukkig heb ik manlief, die wel aardig wat van auto's weet, en dus niet alleen kleine dingen zelf repareert, maar mij er ook aan herinnert wanneer het weer tijd is voor een "oil change".


2. Football. Ik heb het jaren geprobeerd, en ondanks dat men mij al zeker tien keer de regels heeft uitgelegd, kan ik ze maar niet onthouden. Ik kijk misschien een halve wedstrijd (als je alle fragmenten bij elkaar optelt) per jaar, en snap werkelijk niet wat mensen bezielt om in de vrieskou naar een wedstijd te gaan die zeker wel drie uur kan duren.

3. Planten en tuinieren. Het is maar goed dat manlief een "green thumb" heeft, anders waren al onze planten allang doodgeweest. Het enige waarvoor ik echt interesse kan opbrengen is het groeien van kruiden en groenten, maar alhoewel ik niks zo geweldig vind als een mooie tuin, vind ik het onderhoud er van echt helemaal niks.

4. Koken. Deze hoort misschien niet helemaal in dit lijstje thuis, omdat ik het wel kan, maar ik er gewoon helemaal niks aan vind. Daarentegen vind ik bakken wel weer helemaal geweldig (go figure...). Gelukkig ben ik getrouwd met iemand die werkelijk gek is op koken, dus daarmee heb ik enorm gemazzeld.

5. Naaien, breien, borduren. Ik kan nog niet eens een knoop aan een blouse zetten. Nou ja, dat is niet helemaal waar. Ik kan me een glorieuze morgen herinneren toen ik alleen thuis was, en met veel pijn en moeite een knoop aan een blouse heb gezet. Verder bak ik er niks van. Ik kan geen sokken stoppen, geen broeken korter maken, niks. Maar, een van mijn voornemens voor het nieuwe jaar is om daar verandering in te brengen. De naaimachine staat al klaar. Dus wie weet wordt het nog wel eens wat.

Vijf dingen waarin ik geloof

1. God. Ik ben dan wel geen bible-belt-fundie, maar ook geen typische academische atheist. Ik vind het moeilijk voor te stellen hoe het zou zijn om niet te geloven, want voor mij krijgt het leven zoveel meer diepgang door het geloof in God. Ik begrijp dat dit in Nederland tegenwoordig helemaal geen gangbare levenshouding meer is, maar goed, there you have it.


2. "Grace". Ik heb hier nog nooit een goede Nederlandse vertaling voor gevonden, maar ik geloof dat "genade" dicht in de buurt komt. Het draait om het idee dat je van het beste uitgaat in de mens en het leven, mensen dingen vergeeft, zelf om vergeving vraagt als dat nodig is, en geen dingen vast blijft houden,

3. Onderwijs, of dan het belang er van. Ik geloof dat als ik de zin "the importance of education" nog een keer in de buurt van de jongens gebruik, ze allebei van huis weglopen, maar ik kan hier maar niet genoeg op blijven hameren. Zonder goed onderwijs ben je nergens. En het hoeft niet altijd tot een "marketable skill" te leiden, soms kan het ook puur gaan om het verbreden van je eigen begrip van de wereld om je heen. Er is geen grotere zwakte dan "ignorance", en dat is alleen te voorkomen door onderwijs.

4. Het bestaan van ware liefde. Het is nog lang geen Valentijn, en dit klinkt wel heel zoetsappig, maar ik geloof echt dat manlief en ik voor elkaar gemaakt zijn. Van onze sport-kick, tot onze nieuwsgierigheid, ons gevoel voor humor, onze koppigheid en onze ongenuanceerde manier van ruziemaken toe. Ik wist dat manlief "het" was op het moment dat we (misschien een kwartier nadat we elkaar hadden leren kennen), een geanimeerd gesprek hadden over bevroren neushaartjes. Wanneer zulke rare onderwerpen niet meteen leiden tot een "well, it was nice to meet you", dan weet je dat het bijzonder is.

5. Het belang van goede vriendschappen. Ik wist altijd al dat het hebben van goede vrienden en vriendinnen belangrijk was, maar totdat ik naar deze uithoek verhuisde, had ik geen idee hoe belangrijk dit wel niet was.

En dat was het lijst dan. Een prachtige "Dunglish" beschrijving van DixieChick in iets meer detail :)

Five days, 15 hours, and 45 minutes

until commencement.

And truth be told, for the first time in four years, I actually feel like I'm on top of things. I know, I know, I can't believe I just said that out loud myself either. I'm sure tomorrow morning I'm going to wake up and realize I forgot to grade some major assignment, and have a major article rewrite due, or something equally disastrous, but for now, I'm happily basking in the glow of feeling like I might make it out this semester relatively unscathed.

Granted, the semester didn't appear to look that way when it first started. First, there was the surprising and exciting, but less-than-perfectly-planned revise and resubmit that Steve and I had to complete in the first weeks of the semester. When I was only teaching a 1x1 (did I really at one point in my life only teach one class per semester? Really?), an r and r* was enough to send me spiraling into an "Ohmygod I don't have the time! I can't do this! Why me?" tailspin. But now, teaching 5x5, I just shrugged, put on my big girl pants and completed it within the set deadline. At night, and on weekends, but it got done.
Then there was the online class that needed developing, and the totally awesome (not!) news that our self-study report was so well done, we were going to be used in a pilot study and had to rewrite the whole 50-page document. So much for the age-old adage that you better things right the first time around. Then of course there were races to run, conferences to attend, and various student-centered issues to deal with. Oh, and did I mention my hard drive crashed about a month ago? No? Well, it did. And I lost all of this semester's grades and lesson plans. I know, it was bad. But then, after our IT department had given up on it, the magic hard-drive fairy (i.e., a guy in husband dear's unit) stepped up and fixed it.

So, was Fall 2011 a great semester? Well, no greater than any of the other semesters I've survived here in Georgia. But for some reason, it's the weekend before commencement, and I only had two papers left to grade. I had time to stop by the post office and pick up my parents' Christmas package, do some Christmas shopping, go for a run, a long bike ride, and go out to a nice dinner with husband-dear. I even managed to get two nights of about 10 hours worth of sleep.

I'm telling you, I simply HAVE to be forgetting something. This cannot possibly be right. Now if only I could remember...


* r and r = revise and resubmit: whenever a journal asks you to rewrite your article and then resubmit it - it sounds bad, but it's actually much less common than an outright rejection, and therefore considered something like a minor triumph

Postal woes

So for the past week, we've been trying to get a hold of a package my parents sent us for Christmas. This means that there is a box FULL of totally awesome presents sitting three miles from our house, and we have been unable to get at it. Anyone with children, or, like me, the heart of a child, knows how completely, utterly, and totally unbearable this is. And I'm hoping and praying and lighting candles that today we will FINALLY be able to put our hands on said package, however, I am not getting my hopes up just yet.

For some reason, having trouble getting overseas packages delivered to your house has become something of a Christmas tradition at our house. We've had issues with lost delivery notices, closed post offices, and a whole host of frustrations related to the fact that only the person ON THE BOX is allowed to sign for the parcel. Since that's usually me, and I am, as you all know, much never home (especially in the first week of December, when hey, it's finals week, and oh, that's when most of our packages come in too! Yay!), you can imagine the gnashing of teeth and renting of clothes that takes place every year when we try to get our packages deliver to us. Last year, my brother's package broke all records when it took almost two months, and a panicked call to the local post office when we received a sudden final notice in the mail in February, to actually receive his Christmas presents (which we merrily redubbed "Valentine's Day gifts").

After a long talk with the lovely lady at the post office about the irascibility of overseas mail delivery (apparently the combination of a strike and snow led to the 8-week delay), the fact that all Dutch parcel mail for some unknown reason requires a signature, and that therefore they best deliver our packages on Saturday, we thought our parcel woes had been resolved.

Ha.
Ha.
Ha.

No.

On Monday we received a peach-colored "Sorry! You weren't home!" notice in our mailbox. Apparently our mail lady had tried to deliver my parents' package, which, as usual, required a signature, and found us not at home. Hence the notice. Now this time we noticed a "sign here for redelivery" option, which we thought would be the end of all woes. So I signed the line, marked where I wanted them to leave the package ("front porch"), and put the slip back in our mailbox.

Well, our mail lady is either new, or just in a bad place, because on Tuesday, while she delivered our mail, she (for the third time in two weeks) did not actually pick up our outgoing mail. So we found our peach-colored noticed stuffed in between some magazines. Husband-dear, who is the usually the one to retrieve the mail, therefore decided to tape the notice to the mouth of the mailbox, so that when the mail lady opened our mailbox, she would not be able to put the mail in until she took the notice out. I thought it was brilliant.

Well, the notice disappeared, and it's now Friday, and we still have yet to see our package. So I decided to risk a phone call to our tiny local post office. As I'm not even sure how to capture what was said there in a few, funny but terse sentences, allow me to transcribe the conversation for you.

POL (Post Office Lady): Post office, Julie speaking
Me: Hi, I'm calling about a package...(I explained the entire situation)
POL: Well, I can't get the package out to the mail carriers anymore, they've already left.
Me: Well, what I don't understand is why the package hasn't been dropped off yet. We checked the redelivery option
POL: Oh yeah, well, you can't do that for this type of package. You have to be home to sign it.
ME in my mind: Why not? Seriously, people, it's presents! 
Me: Oh.
POL: Yeah, the mail carrier should have crossed that off, but she didn't.
ME in my mind: What?!
Me: Oh
POL: But you can come pick it up today or tomorrow.
ME in my mind: Are you serious?
ME: OK

Now let's assume I had not called the Post Office, but assumed that by signing a form telling them to redeliver, they would actually redeliver? What do you suppose would have happened then?
I can tell you: We would have received another stern final notice in the mail. Or, more likely, the package would have just been sent back without any notice at all. I remember when I called about the final notice in my brother's package earlier this year, the same lady told me, "Yeah, I was wondering why you hadn't been by to pick it up, since you'd called about whether or not it had arrived a few times." That right there does not inspire a whole lot of confidence as far as I'm concerned. I mean, why would you consider sending something back if the customer has been calling about the package since before Christmas? We're in a small rinky-dink town, people, the post office people know us. They me by all the various incarnations of my last name. They know we order from LLBean and Amazon. They know I'm from Holland, and they even know that I naturalized. How can they not think that I might possibly really want my packages?

Sigh.

So I guess I will think of a way to get to the post office before it closes today.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Lifetime Lessons

Over the Thanksgiving break, as I watched (or to put it more accurately: caught glimpses of) about five Lifetime movies, I realized I had been missing out. For although I love watching trashy television programs, my choices (so far) have been between a wide variety of increasingly odd reality shows about wedding gowns, lots and lots of children, or polygamy. Watching Lifetime opened my eyes to a whole new world. A world filled with beautiful, happy, married, decidedly heterosexual people who all love pets, America, and God. A world where you can sit outside in the Indiana winter without gloves, where Christmas lasts from October until February, and where someone is always right. Next to watching a bride pick between one $10k dress and the other, I couldn't think of a better form of media content to help you take your nap.

Watching bits and pieces of various Lifetime movies quickly made me realize, however, that Lifetime is not so much a movie channel, as it is an instruction manual on how Life Should Be Lived. All of the Christmas movies we (partially) watched over Thanksgiving break shared similar narratives, problems, and resolutions. The characters were eerily alike (and all seemed to come from the 90s hit show Bevery Hills 90210), both in looks, issues, and problem solving skills (or lack thereof).

So what did I learn from the Lifetime channel in the past few days?

Well, first of all, small towns are awesome. There's nothing better than a little bitty town, loved by its inhabitants, ignored by everyone else, and filled with quirky people and traditions. Even though one might not appreciate the small town at first, it won't take long (give it about 40 minutes, a little bit into the second act) for minds to change and the small town to take a firm spot on one's heart. Big cities are only good for going to college, starting a career (and then leaving it, but more on that later), and possibly finding a wife (never a husband), who will, after some adjustment problems (because the big city does that to people), love the small town as much as her Andy-Griffith-like husband.

Second, Christianity is still the way to go. I'm sorry, but according to Lifetime, this is the truth. Or perhaps The Truth. No one ever mentions Hannukah, Kwanzaa, or heaven forbid, another non-Judeo-Christian religion. Well, let me take that back, one particularly interesting movie did feature a Jewish couple and their daughter. Their daughter came from the big city discussed above, and had taken her parents to her fiance's small town (see above) to meet his very much small-town parents. It quickly became clear that although the Jewish parents were not "really" Jewish (Daughter to mom, "Why do we call ourselves Jewish anyway? We never go to church." - for the record, Jewish people don't go to church, they go to temple. Or shul. Not church. Sorry Lifetime writers, you need to do your homework), their inability to share the small town's mom insane enthusiasm for Christmas was quickly pointed to as the foundation to the problems between the two sets of parents (and not the fact that, say, the small-town parents had a back-up generator in case their five thousand Christmas lights went out, just to keep their fridge and said Christmas lights up and running). The conflict wasn't resolved until the Jewish parents were finally able to embrace the spirit of Christmas and helped the small-town parents win the annual Christmas lights decoration contest.

Also - women have issues. Lots of them. First of all, if they're not busy being total career-driven hyenas, they're overboard Christmas fanatics, or uppity Westcoast non-Christians.
Second, women tend to be the Grinch when it comes to Christmas. They're the ones who need convincing that Christmas really is awesome, not the guys. The guys love eating the tons of good food their wives baked for them, hunting, while their wives keep the mansion clean, and enjoying their children after they've been bathed and fed (by, I'm guessing, said wife).
Third, women suck at situational awareness. They never, ever recognize their knight in shining armor when they first see him (in fact, they'll be more likely to yell at him for parking in their driveway or splashing mud all over their dress with his $100k car). They also always tend to put their careers first, and believe they will do fine without a man. They don't recognize when their children are in need, their pets are sick, or the small town they just moved to is really the bomb.

Now, I have to admit, Lifetime did present one redeeming feature: Christmas sweaters are really only worn by dorks. Thank God for that.

In short, I decided that the tagline "The source for women's entertainment" just really didn't cover the essence of the Lifetime channel. In fact, I would propose changing it to either, "Lifetime: The way life should be if you're a WASP male", or "Lifetime: keeping our non-male-WASPS in place for over a decade".

So, will I be watching anymore Lifetime movies in the future?
...uhm...probably, yes.

I know, I'm a walking contradiction.

Thanksgiving...and then some

This entire week I kept telling myself I really, really needed to blog about this. Or that. But then someone would offer me pie, I would discover another paper that needed grading, or it was Lifetime-movie-naptime, and so I would (squirrel! anyone?) forget about the this or that that seemed so completely fascinating moments earlier.

But now that my mini-Thanksgiving-break is about to come to an end (only four more papers to grade and a class to prep), I can assure you that the past few days have been a gigantic success. Being the lucky bug that I am, I got Wednesday off, while husband-dear slogged away at work. So while I was at home grading paper after paper after paper, and in between writing things like "What do you mean?" and "This is not an appropriate theory to use here", making beds, cleaning bathrooms, and making sure our house was guest-ready, husband-dear was busy protecting the country doing goodness knows what and taking PT time. OK, I exaggerate. He did actually work. I think. But let the record at least state that he did come home with a gigantic keylime cake. Made by a female coworker. And I didn't wonder about that at all. Does that make me weird?

Anyway, this Thanksgiving we had a full house. And when I say full house, I mean it. Every bed we had (plus one) was filled. My in-laws came in from Ohio, and brought my friend Anna (also known as The Amish Girl) as well as their dog Trixie with them. Add that to the four of us and our two dogs, and you can imagine we went through gallons of milk, boxes of cheweez, did about two loads of dishes per day, mopped the kitchen floor at least once every three hours, and had an absolutely marvelous time.

You see, no matter what people tell you, spending holidays with the family really is the best. Husband-dear and I have spent Thanksgiving by ourselves, or with friends, and it's just not the same. Don't get me wrong, it is fun, but it's not the same as eating a huge dinner together, and then sitting down to watch an incredibly dumb Lifetime movie, acknowledge that it's a really dumb movie, and then all take a collective post-turkey nap. You just can't do that with people you'll see at the office the next day.

So, Thanksgiving was a smashing success. There was turkey, corn and sweet potato casseroles, carrots, rolls, gravy, dressing, cranberry sauce, three kinds of pies as well as the afore-mentioned cake.

But the joy didn't end there. Because we also went on a cultural/historical field trip to Andersonville, where the children (who had been there on a field trip), took great pleasure as serving as our tour guide, caught up on each others' lives, had Anna explain why Amish dresses have the number of pleats that they do (it has to do with the number of apostles), and put up our Christmas decorations.

Now that last activity was not part of the plan. We usually don't put up our decorations this early, and especially not with three "other people" in the house. If you've been following my blog long enough, you'll probably know that the Christmas decorations at our house are somewhat of a Dayton Agreement, and are the perfect embodiment of the compromise it takes to make a multicultural blended family work. So the way in which we decorate our tree, the inside and the outside of our house might seem odd to non-family members (both European and American), but it works for us, and so we leave it alone, and commence each year's decorating activities with a brief overview of who gets to what, when, where and why, just to ensure everyone is still on the same page. Outsiders, as potential deviants from our carefully plotted compromise, are usually not permitted.

But this year was different. I think we missed the memo that was sent around, but apparently the entire subdivision agreed to start putting up Christmas decorations the day after Thanksgiving. House after house was covered in lights, trees were put up, ladders were pulled out, inflatable Santa Clauses made their way on to front lawns, and Christmas had pretty much arrived come Friday night. Well, all that yuletide happiness made the kids yearn for their tree and lights, and made mother-in-law reminisce about the hundreds of Christmas cookies she usually bakes.

So husband-dear (after a quick consultation with the other major player in the Agreement, i.e., me), said, "Why don't we all decorate the house tomorrow, and bake Grandma's cookies!". I don't know if we'd just been watching too many Lifetime movies, but that announcement was met with general joy and excitement, and so come Saturday morning, Jimmie and I took to dragging box after box down from the attic. And lo and behold, the Christmas cookies were baked and the Christmas decorations went up, all without a hitch and with lots of smiles and laughter.

So here we are, three days after Thanksgiving, and we are ready for Christmas. Bring on the holidays, because we've got the spirit!

House woes

Tonight is one of those evenings I really wish we'd just stuck to renting a home. Yeah, yeah, we wouldn't have the super-hip wooden floors we do now, or the uber-cool "monsoon" green kitchen, but still, we, or better yet, I wouldn't be suffering from total home-improve-itis right now either.

It all started when I sat down at the kitchen table to start correcting papers (and let's not even start on what's wrong with that sentence at 8:30pm), and noticed that the trim around the opening into the living room showed some small chips. A closer inspection of the entire trim, the trim around the opening from the front room into the kitchen, the trim around the door into the laundry room, and basically every other trim in the house revealed that almost all of them had fallen victim to tiny little chips and dents. Small, but enough to drive any perfectionist, or someone who really should be doing something way more important, like say, grading, absolutely insane.

Now wooden trim around door openings and windows is a typically American habit, one you will not usually find in most European homes, where windows an doors are just openings in a wall, and equally annoying as, say, having sheet rock walls everywhere. I mean, don't get me wrong, the trim is gorgeous, and practical, just like the walls, but all it takes is one loud sneeze, and you've got a dent, a ding, or a chip.

We must have had dents, dings, and chips in window and doorway trim before. Obviously. I mean, I live with three men, and since I'm not exactly the embodiment of grace myself, I can say with a fair amount of conviction that our previous homes suffered from the same problem as our current abode. But the thing is, I don't remember it. At all. Which, for an OCD perfectionist as myself is almost a miracle.

Personally, I think the explanation lies in the fact that this is our first own home. All my other homes have always been rentals. And no matter how much I loved every single one of those homes (and showed this through painting, decoration, and cleaning), it was never -my- home. I never realized the weight of home ownership until the house I lived in was my own, and every time someone would bang a chair against the (wooden) chair rail, I would cringe, as I realized there was no landlord to call, but I would be the one with the woodfiller and paint trying to restore the beautiful curve in said rail. Now, if the shower doesn't work right, we have to fix it ourselves. Our windows don't get cleaned automatically, if we want to repaint our shutters, we need to do it ourselves, and we also can't use the "Oh, it's just a rental" excuse for something less-than-perfect either (like the really ugly windows around the front door, or the chipped paint on the front porch).

And, honestly, I'm not sure I like it all that much. I know there are people who can go on and on and on about how renting is throwing money away each month, and how buying a home is an investment in your future, but people, our future does not lie in Georgia. It had better not, for it does, our future and I will have to have a serious heart to heart, and our future may need to go into time out. Anyway, I digress. My point is that I'm pretty sure we won't be here in 30 years when the house is paid off, and that I'm also pretty sure that in the current economy we'll be making a boatload of money off our house when we sell it. As I said to husband-dear just the other day, I don't think we should buy another house until we're both retired and truly ready to settle down. Because until then, buying a house just means lots of angst about chipped trim and dinged sheet rock. And we all know that more angst is the last thing I need.

Now where did I put the sandpaper and the trim paint?

Fifteen and the Big Easy

Zero: the amount of money it cost to listen to the best live blues-jazz bands in the country
One: really big conference badge (and I mean really big. Big as in, is that a poster, or a badge?)
Two: incredibly scrumptious Louisana dinners (red beans and rice, Shrimp and rabbit Jumbalaya, and Creole Shrimp).
Three: wedding parties that wound through the streets of the French quarter, waving white handkerchiefs, and dancing to a walking Delta blues band.
Four: days away from home, boys, and puppies.
Five: presenters per panel.
Six: panel presentations per day.
Seven: stops for gas on the way out and back
Eight: dollars for an O'Brien's hurricane
Nine: blocks to find a CVS (no, not related to number eight. Honestly).
Ten: minutes for a presentation on social media.
Eleven: trips across a busy intersection to get from one conference location to the other.
Twelve: hours until I'm expected in a meeting at work tomorrow.
Thirteen: the number missing on every floor, which really threw me for a loop whenever I was looking for my own room (wait, 15 comes after..11?)
Fourteen: loads of laundry when I got home (or at least it felt like it)
Fifteen: Amount of money it would have cost me per day to get online. And thus the explanation why I haven't blogged in almost a week.

SAV 13.1

For a country where you are not supposed to talk about religion or politics, people sure love to cover the back of their car in stickers and magnets on those two exact topics. From "Coexist" to "I work for a Jewish carpenter", to "W'04" to "Yes we can", Americans love to express their identities through their bumpers.

Now this automotive self-presentation isn't limited to religious and political expressions. There are stickers and magnets for every imaginable belief, lifestyle, hobby, or achievement. Do you have four kids, love Disney, and two of your children play soccer? There's a sticker for that. Have you just completed a marathon, an ironman, or something equally athletically impressive? There's stickers for that too. There's sticker and magnets for breast cancer ("save the tata's!"), adopted pets ("Save a life! Opt to adopt!"), the various branches of the military ("I love my airman"), your alma mater, and every other imaginable aspect of life.

A specific type of bumpersticker that seems to be on the rise is neither political, nor religious, nor athelitic in nature, but yet equally intriguing: the acronym. Also known as, let me show you all the cool and totally awesome places I've been in a way that will make you wonder where exactly I went long after after you first saw my car. It's the self-presentation sticker supreme: the acronym.

Just like European countries have their own acronyms (GB = Great Britain, NL = Netherlands, F = France), various American cities have taken it upon themselves to design their own acronym and place it on the same round black-and-white sticker used in Europe. So Hilton Head Island has become "HHI", the Outerbanks are "OBX", and St. Simons Island is "SSI".

Coming from Europe, my feelings towards those stickers are divided. On the one hand, they annoy the crap out of me. I'm sorry if you are the proud owner of such a sticker, but do you know how irksome it is to pull up to a car, get all excited because "Hey! They have a round European-looking acronym on their car! Maybe they're from Holland! Cool", and then to realize it's just an SUV-wielding soccer-mom who wants the world to know she spent the weekend in Savannah (SAV).

On the other hand, having such stickers adorn the backs of cars is very much like driving through Europe, and trying to guess what each sticker/acronym on German license plates stands for. And as you may recall from a post in 2008, that was one of my favorite pastimes back in Europe. When we moved here, I was slightly peeved that I would now have to give up figuring out that "NE" stood for "Neuss", and so part of me is elated that instead I get to think and think and think and feel incredibly proud of myself for figuring that OBX really does mean Outerbanks.

Having said all of this, though, let's look at my car. My car is, or was, I should say, very bare. Very, very bare. I had a "I love my adopted puppy" magnet on there for about three weeks, after a trip through the car wash took care of that. The NL sticker I purchased a few years ago has long since faded away, and all I have on the car now is an almost three-year old "swim bike run" magnet, that was bought in a moment of temporary brainfailure. And I really don't care enough about other people knowing which politician I support, that I ran a half marathon, whether or not I care for "tatas", or where I go to church to cover my car in brightly colored stickers. I also kind of like the paint on my car to stay the way it is. Call me a Scrooge, but there you have it.

But then we went to Savannah. And ran the Rock 'n Roll (half) marathon. In spite of its many flaws (a girlie t-shirt being one of them, according to husband-dear), it had one major upside: lots of freebees. Lots and lots of them. And one of those freebees was a bright green "SAV 13.1" sticker. Although it embodies three things I despise: 1. the color best described as Kermit-green; 2. a silly acronym that is not European, and 3. an announcement of a personal accomplishment (that really doesn't mean all that much in the world of runners), I couldn't just throw it away. The Savannah half was one of my toughest races, and finishing it was real achievement.

So, yes, I now too have a bright-green SAV 13.1 sticker on my back window.
I'm sorry.

Twenty kids and counting....

I'm not really up to date on my reality shows (apparently the Sister Wives just had baby #17 and Kate is re-starting her old reality show), but I'm currently watching "19 kids and counting" (for my Dutch readers: a show about an ultra-conservative family with, yes, 19 children), and apparently Michelle (the 1990s-hair-bearing 45-year old matriarch) is pregnant with child number 20.

Number twenty, people, twenty. And their names all start with a "J" too.

According to Michelle and Jim-Bob (her ever grinning husband - and which man wouldn't be grinning, twenty kids means he's not exactly being deprived of anything), each child is a gift of God, and they will keep on having children until God has decided it's enough.

Putting aside the fact that they homeschool so they can teach their children that the world is 6000 years old, man existed at the same time as dinosaurs, they argue that the fact that the world is overpopulated is a myth, and they don't believe in kissing before marriage, doesn't that strike you as just plain..well...odd? Especially if you consider Michelle suffered from pre-eclempsia during her last pregnancy and almost died giving birth to her 19th child at 25 weeks?

Look, I know I'm all about live and let live. You want four wives? Knock yourself out. You want to spend $10k on a wedding dress? Go for it! You want to force your husband out of his bedroom so you can stock up on the 500 bottles of ketchup while couponing? Be my guest. But getting pregnant for the twentieth time while your last child almost didn't make it seems just wrong. Especially when some of us can't even have one child*.

So someone tell me why I'm watching this show?

*Yes, I really am over that. No, I am not suffering from denial. It's just that ridiculous excesses like this drive me insane. Plus husband-dear and I would be way cooler parents than perma-grin Michelle and happy-dopey Jim-Bob. Seriously

Katoen en sneeuw

Na vier jaar in Georia dacht ik ondertussen dat ik alles wel zo'n beetje gezien had aangaande katoenvelden. Zonsopgangen waarbij de velden bedekt zijn met mist, zonsondergangen waarbij de witte velden roze lijken te worden, en dan het maaien waarbij de lucht rondom het katoenveld een grote donzen deken wordt. Maar van de week was er toch weer een "first"; katoenvelden bij het maanlicht.

Sinds afgelopen weekend hier de klok een uur terug is gezet, rij ik 's avonds vaak in het donker naar huis. Nu moet ik toegeven dat ik daar meestal niet echt gecharmeerd van ben. Amerikanen hebben een enorme voorliefde voor het groot licht, en als je daarbij optelt dat de meeste mensen hier in grote SUVs of pick-up trucks rijden met de lichten precies op de hoogte van mijn voorruit, dan is het geen wonder dat ik soms half-verblind, druk met de ogen knipperend er van overtuigd ben dat ik zo oog in oog met mijn maker sta. De mogelijkheid tot het ontmoeten van onze lieve heer word verder nog verhoogd door het feit dat ik door allemaal prachtige bossen en landerijen rijd, die overdag echt prachtig zijn, maar 's nachts fungeren als de speeltuin van enorme herten en wilde zwijnen, die niks liever doen dan vlak voor een auto de weg over sprinten. Dat dat niet altijd goed gaat wordt een paar keer per maand bewezen door het karkas van een enorm hert of wild zwijn dat achteloos, omgeven door losse lichaamsdelen, aan de kant van de weg ligt. Fris is het zeker niet, en als je bedenkt dat die beesten vaak het formaat van mijn auto zijn, dan snap je dat ik in de wintermaanden vaak mijn hart vast houdt. En dan heb ik het nog niet eens over de lokale opgeschoten jeugd die er een hobby van maakt om met pick-up trucks vol met vrienden, bier, honden, en geweren over de weg te scheren.

Dus nee, 's nachts rijden door de Georgia country is niet echt een van mijn favoriete bezigheden.
Maar goed, er is geen andere weg naar huis, dus het is nou eenmaal niet anders. En deze week zag ik dus iets dat het eventjes helemaal goed maakte.

Ik reed weer eens over de beruchte "country highway" met bossen aan weerszijden en resten van meerdere overleden Bambi's langs de weg, en mens, wat was het donker. Maar toen maakte de weg een bocht, en kwam de maan achter de wolken vandaan. En in een keer leek het alsof een kant van de weg helemaal wit verlicht was. De bomen er om heen zagen er lichter uit, en de grond leek wel bedekt met sneeuw. Goed, nu woon ik in Georgia, dus die optie werd al snel verworpen. Enkele seconden later had ik in een keer door wat het was: een kilometers groot katoenveld, dat oplichtte door het felle maanlicht.
Het was ongelooflijk. Het katoen was een grote witte deken, de huizen aan de rand van het veld leken verlicht, en zelfs de grote metalen bewateringsstellages zagen er in een keer mysterieus uit. Het was werkelijk adembenemend, en maakte de lange, saaie reis in een keer helemaal goed.

Nu nog een fotografie cursus zodat ik de volgende keer al dat moois ook voor mijn geweldige lezers kan vastleggen.

A bad American

After years of gnashing my teeth every time there was an election and I couldn't vote; after numerous elections where I would exert all of my persuasive powers to convince husband-dear to vote my way; and after four Novembers of telling students they were squandering away their parents' and grandparents' heritage by not voting, what do you think I did yesterday, the very first election in which I was allowed to vote?

Did I postpone going to work so I could vote first thing at 7am? Did I skip dinner so I could vote after coming home from work? Did I ask for multiple "I'm a Georgia voter" stickers, so I could not only wear one, but I would also have a spare for my office door, my car, and my scrapbook? Did I walk around all day telling everyone how awesome it was that I got to vote, and hey, had they voted yet?

No. None of that.

I didn't vote.

I know. It's a disgrace. After spending a year (or more) filling out the application for naturalization, forking over close to $700, memorizing one hundred questions, and swearing to uphold and the defend the constitution at all times, I did not vote yesterday.

I am ashamed.

Well, actually, ashamed is a big word. I would say "torn" is a better description, or perhaps "slightly peeved". Or possibly "What?!" covers it best.

You see, yesterday's election was really not a big deal in our county. While in some states people were voting on whether life starts at conception, or the validity of legislation outlawing collective bargaining rights, and most Georgians got to vote on whether to allow Sunday alcohol sales, the only issue on our local ballot was whether or not to extend the SPLOST (special purpose local option sales tax). Because we don't live within city limits, there were no commissioners, mayors, or even dog catchers to vote for either, just a "yes" or "no" to the question "Do you wish to extend the splost?". So when I got home at 6:45pm last night, and had the choice between eating dinner and rushing out to our local high school to vote on whether or not an adjoining county should use our county's one penny sales tax to add on to their new middle school, I opted for dinner.

Now I realize that this possibly makes me a callous, uncaring, a-political, poor excuse for a citizen. I realize that American democracy has functioned less than perfectly because I opted to sit down to some orange glazed chicken and stir fry instead of exercising my right to vote. You are welcome to berate me through your comments, email, or even in person (if you opt for the latter, though, please bring some coffee - thanks). However, I would like to point out that, if past experience is any prediction of future behavior, I will from now on vote in every single silly election my county holds.

You see, I have only missed one election in my life prior to this one. It was in the mid-1990s, and it was one of those elections for the European parliament that you never really knew about until the day before. No one in Europe really knows what the European parliament does, except squander money, so whenever there are elections for this mysterious representative body, it's very much a deer-in-the-headlights ("What? Who? Huh?") experience. Anyway, on that day, I had early morning classes, I had to work in the afternoon, and when I drove home, I realized I had ten minutes left to vote. Or I could go home and eat dinner. I opted for dinner instead. (Pattern, anyone?).

Anyway, I felt so guilty for missing that one election, that I have made sure to vote in every single teeny-tiny election and referendum since. Did they want my opinion on whether or not rebuild a historic site on the river front? I gave my opinion. Did a European subcomittee need representatives? I voted on it. Did the Dutch government fall for the second time in a year? I went out and voted again. I have even gone through the trouble of giving the power of attorney to a friend to vote for me when I was out of the country (the Dutch version of an absentee ballot), just so I wouldn't miss the election.

So, you can bet your American behind I will vote next year. And the year after that. And after that. In fact, I am bookmarking the county board of election's website right now. I'm telling you. It's on.

Lessons learned...

...from the Savannah Rock 'n roll 1/2 marathon:

1. If in doubt (or pain), race anyway. Whether it's your hips, your back, your knees, just go. You may not PR like you did on the training run three weeks earlier, but you will still run a respectable time (1:57:35), assuming you get a massage earlier in the week and take plenty of ibuprofen.

2. Getting anywhere early is a really good thing. Especially if there are approximately 17000 runners who all need to get from the Savannah mall to the start line in about 100 buses, there are no signs pointing you to said buses, and the mall parking lot is about the size of a small country.

3. Always bring a map. Even if you're taking said bus to the start line. Your busdriver may be from Jacksonville, Florida, have arrived just a few hours earlier, and have no clue where she's going, thus taking you on an interesting, yet nerve-wracking, hour-long tour of downtown Savannah. A map could have solved a lot of people a lot of heartache.

4. A line in front of a port-a-pottie always takes longer than you think. So don't pick a port-a-pottie at corral 20 when you need to start from corral 5. You may have time to "go" one last time, but this will also entail a mile-long warm-up run during which you will need to remove your warm-up pants, warm-up shirt, and get your ITB straps on, in order to make it into your corral on time.

5. In spite of all the logistical headaches involved in a huge race, the adrenaline rush you get from tens of thousands of spectators lining the streets is totally worth it.

6. Railroad tracks are The Devil.

7. In spite of what everyone said, 60F and 12mph winds are cold. Very cold. Wearing your thermoshirt under your bright-pink running jersey was possibly the best decision of your life. Or at least on a par with marrying husband-dear. 

7. Middle school cheerleading squads rock. The. World. Yes, you might be running 13.1/26.2 miles, but they're out there before you are, in the cold, in tiny skirts and tops, cheering for people they don't even know. And they don't get a medal at the end either.

8. Mile 10, 11, and 12 suck. Always. Be prepared.

9. Running the last mile to Eminem's "lose yourself" is the Best Thing Ever. Nothing like someone telling you you get one shot, and you better not miss that chance, to push your mile pace up to a 6:53.

10. When you finish, you raise your hands in the air and you thank your respective God(s) for helping you survive without gut-wrenching pain

11. Always, always, always pack a lot more after-race clothes in your drop bag than you think you will need. Those rocking-awesome "space blankets" that they tie around you at the end of the race do nothing for your hands, legs, neck, and face. You may look awesome, but you will be cold.

12. Whenever there's an hour-long line, curling around the entire park and the famous Savannah fountain, for the shuttles to get back to the mall parking lot, totally believe your friend when he calls you to tell you there is another set of buses waiting two blocks over. Walk over there in complete innocence, join the people standing by the buses, get on the next bus that pulls around the corner, all the while wondering why on earth not more people from that hellishly-long line know about this. Then, as you drive down the street, and you see the same hellishly long line feeding on to the street you just walked over to, don't feel bad when you realize you just cut in line. You did just run a really long way, after all.

13. Eats lots of greasy food afterwards. You earned it.

14. Plan your next race.

Bizarro world: I want rain

"Rainy days and Mondays always get me down..."
The Carpenters ~ (insert drivel of a title here)

You know what I wish this part of the world had more of? Well, besides Dutch stores and  non-bible-beating people, of course. And well-prepared students. And let's not forget paid leave and people who use their blinkers. OK, so besides all of that, do you know what I wish Georgia had more?

Rainy days.

Yes, I'm serious, I wish we had more rainy days. And not because it would mean we'd use our sprinklers less, the farmers would be happier, and we wouldn't be on water restriction nine months out of the year, although all of that would be nice. No, because it would mean that I would finally have an excuse to lay around the house and do absolutely nothing. I know, it makes absolutely no sense, especially since I'm from a country where it does nothing but rain all the time, but there you have it. I need clouds and rain in order to relax.

In the Netherlands, and Germany for that matter, it used to be the total opposite. Whenever it would rain, and the clouds would threaten to completely envelop your day, I used to argue that those were perfect days to remain locked up in your office and get some serious work done. As dreary as the weather could get, there was no point in being outside, or even thinking about going outside, so one might as well stay in and work. Nothing like the incessant patter of rain on your windows to make you realize God really, really wants you to stay in your office and write that damn paper (although He probably wouldn't say "damn". Sorry God).

Now whenever the sun comes out, every single Dutch (and German and British) person I know loses their mind. Completely. After the second day of temperatures over 80 degrees, weather people talk about the possibility of a heatwave and the importance of staying hydrated in high-pitched, excited voices, while after the third day, there is a rush on portable AC units, and people start using words like "tropical" and "unprecedented". Seriously, all my Dutch readers know that as soon as the sun fills the sky, people take half-days off, spend hours drinking cool drinks at a "terrasje*", waste away time lying in the park, and will try to take their work outside as much as possible. In fact, I dare to posit that the outside temperature is negatively correlated with the Dutch productivity levels.

Well, in Georgia, it's quite the reverse. At least for me. Here, the sun shines all the time. I'm not kidding. Always. So sunshine is no longer associated with half-days, terrasjes, parks, and a general laziness. No, instead when you think of sunshine you think of AC bills of several hundred dollars, siding that needs painted and/or replaced every few years, sunshades that become brittle and fall apart, and melting pavement. In fact, most people around here can't wait to get into their offices when the sun's out, as their office is the only place that can afford to keep temperatures at around 68F.

So for me, nowadays, sun=rain in Holland. When I see it's sunny outside, I realize it's just another day like all the others, and I have lots to do, so I better hop to it. Even in the wintertime, when we can step outside, sunshine means there's lots to do. Because now you can finally paint that siding/wash those windows/prune the bushes without dying of a heatstroke.

On the other hand, whenever it low pressure hits, and it does start to rain, relaxation sets in. Running errands in the rain is a pain, so we don't. You can't do any outside chores in the rain either, and although you could definitely do some inside chores, it's raining, so you can't utilize any of your outside spaces, you can't clean any floors as someone will definitely get them muddy, and well, there is always tomorrow, when the sun will definitely be out again. In short, if it's raining, why do anything at all?


You can thus imagine my frustration when the weather predicted rain for today. How can I work when it's raining? We all know you should be asleep on the couch when that happens! It's not fair. Thankfully, the clouds disappeared, and I'm now looking out into a very sunny world once again. Phew.

But some rain in the near future would be nice. Thanks.



* A "terrasje" encompasses so many non-American things, it's almost impossible to describe. Imagine, first of all, all your town's stores located side by side along small streets in about a square mile. Then imagine that this entire square mile is a no-car zone. Then imagine squares with fountains and steps on a few corners. Then imagine that these squares hold shops as well as restaurants and bars. But let's make them nice, upscale bars without television screens and ESPN. And then imagine that all of these restaurants and bars have put small tables with chairs around them on the square. And that those chairs are placed so close together, people need to get up to let you through, and you can eavesdrop on every single conversation on the square. And that people can sit there, order drinks and food, and watch the world go by. That's a terrasje.

Hallowe...oh never mind

I was going to get all excited about Halloween this year, and then I realized it was going to fall on a Monday. A Monday people! I don't care what people say, nothing is as much fun as it could be when it falls on a Monday. Even Christmas is marred by that "oh jeez, we need to get back to work again" cloud of darkness, whenever it happens to fall on a Monday. Therefore I propose that we a) make Halloween a federal holiday, allowing poor workerbees like myself an entire day to carve pumpkins, drink pumpkin spiced lattes, and engage in other pumpkin-related activities, before we have to deal with hordes and hordes of polyester-clad children who are high on sugar, and b) always hold in the last Friday in October.

Why my scrooge-like attitude towards Halloween, you ask? It really has nothing to do with Halloween, really. This weekend, while on my last pre-half-marathon run, my body decided it was having no! more! of! this! running! thing! and hence I was forced to walk home after five miles. I wish I could tell you what is wrong with me, but I can't. I'm sure it has something to do with my ever-irritable ITB, but since the pain now includes my hip, and radiates all the way up into my lower back, who knows.

I would also love to tell you I dealt with it in a graceful manner. But, alas, I didn't. Instead of realizing I would not be PRing in next week's race and moving on, I came home in tears, cried on husband-dears shoulder, and whilst sitting in my ice bath, threw all the rubber duckies on the side of tub across the bathroom.

(On a side note; true love is when your better half walks in, sees the duckies lying across the floor, and asks you, "Would you like me to pick those up so you can throw them again?")

So do I want to hand out candy to a bunch of kids tonight? Of course not. I'd much rather sit on the couch, pout, and think of ways to convince the physical therapist tomorrow that I really need lots of high-end painkillers. I want to call Mary (she of the running store, who since moved to Italy), who went through the same thing with a marathon last year, and commiserate. I want to whine and complain about how totally unfair this is, and eat all the Halloween candy we bought myself.

But since the girls next door already stopped by yesterday to tell me they were going to dress up as cheerleaders (lest we don't recognize them), and the neighbor on the other side dropped off a bag of candy for us to give to hear younger son who is deathly allergic to anything peanutty, I guess I'll participate in this year's Halloween anyway. Perhaps I'll find an old overcoat, top-hat, and cane,  pretend to be Ebenezier Scrooge, and nag at all the children.

Huh.
That's actually not a bad idea at all.

Now excuse me while I go do some stretches...

Super-intelligent

I wanted to write something uplifting, happy, and somewhat intelligent today. I really did. I considered writing about the weather, how it reminds me of the fall in the south of France. I considered writing about Halloween, and how I am actually considering giving into the whole decorating-insanity that our entire neighborhood has apparently fallen victim to. But instead, I started to grade student papers, and once again my spirits have plummeted into the depths of all creations.

The phrase that set me off this time was "Some of the major symbolic symbols".
Yes, "symbolic symbols". I'm not sure what else symbols can be, other than symbolic, but apparently this student really wanted to make sure I understood the symbols were, like, symbolic, yeah, like a whole lot, dude.

The papers I'm grading today were assigned for a course on persuasive communication. Personally, I like to think of this course as one of my less stringent ones. There are no scary statistical calculations, no extremely complicated theories, and no long-dead and possibly slightly insane philosophers to consider. Instead, we discuss all the facets of persuasion, use lots and lots of examples, analyze a few famous propaganda movies, and then focus on the effectiveness of persuasive communication. I would in fact go so far as to claim that it's one of the most interesting courses I teach.

One of the major assignments the students have to complete is watch several propaganda movies, and discuss them in terms of the techniques and definitions presented in class. Which do they use, what are they trying to achieve, etc. In my book, that's as easy an assignment as I can create.

Wrong.

Although some students jump ahead, writing lucid, unpretentious, well-researched papers, covering every angle I could possibly think of, others appear to drown in the material, flailing for the shore, holding on to poorly defined terms for dear life, and generally make a mess of it.

Take one of the movies, for instance. It's from the second world war, and features the dictator of all dictators. Students have to watch an excerpt, and are provided with a link to re-watch it at home if they have to. In spite of all of that, one of my students managed to claim that Hitler called unfaithful Germans "Un-American". Of course he would. Someone else happily took the theory that the director of the film (Leni Riefenstahl) had an affair with Hitler and ran with it, making, among other head-turners, the unforgettable statement that she thus "wasn't so much working for him as she was under him". And yet another student made the claim that this movie was propaganda for it "presented Hitler as a family-oriented man". Hmm. Never married, no children, yet family-oriented. Excellent. There was also a student who decided that using formal writing language is a waste of everyone's time, and who decided to call a failed attempt at persuasion a "snafu".

Then, of course, there is the random use of Capitalization, the complete misuse, of, commas, the all-too common "you're missing a", the fragmented sentences that I for the life of me can't imitate, the use of then instead of than, or maybe it was then after all, and those sentences that just seem to run on and on and on without an end in sight as though the student is afraid to just put that period down and be done with it.

You will, however, be happy to know that I have found one pinprick of light in the darkness: No plagiarism thus far. My reign as the Terrible Queen of Anti-Plagiarism is finally paying off. Can we have a hooray?

Het-moet-niet-gekker-worden

Soms moet ik toegeven dat ik toch best wel jaloers ben op mijn Nederlandse collega's. Naast het ontbreken van een drie-uur durende afstudeer ceremonie aan het einde van elk semester, en het recht op vrije dagen, hebben zij ook een aantal andere zaken veel beter op orde dan wij hier in de VS.

Neem nou bijvoorbeeld midterms. "Midterm" duidt op, jawel, het midden van het semester, waar studenten een "midterm" cijfer krijgen, dat in een ideale situatie, aanduidt wat ze ongeveer als eindcijfer kunnen verwachten. Wat betreft studie voortgang is dit natuurlijk ideaal. Waar op Nederlandse universiteiten je eindcijfer vaak afhangt van een tentamen (en als je mazzel hebt, een werkstuk), wordt in de VS je cijfer bepaalt door proefwerken, papers, presentaties, een midterm tentamen, en een eindtentamen. Niet alleen heb je dus meer kansen om goed te scoren, maar je krijgt ook halverwege het semester een kleine "reminder" over dat er naast football games, homecoming, ontgroening, en duizend-en-een feestjes, ook nog zoiets als colleges bestaan. De meeste studenten scoren dus niet zo heel geweldig met midterms, en door die waarschuwing gaan ze dan in de tweede helft van het semester als een razende aan het werk om alsnog die felbegeerde "B" te halen.

Maar voor de docenten betekenen midterms gewoon enorm veel werk. Niet alleen moet je er voor zorgen dat je werk eerlijk over het semester verdeeld is, je moet ook, midden in het semester, tussen het geven van colleges door, een pak tentamens nakijken, en cijfers berekenen en invoeren. En dat is iets waar elke docent echt een broertje dood aan heeft. Maar goed, we zijn de beroerdsten niet, we snappen het belang van de "midterm reminder", en dus berekenen we rond week 8 elk semester heel braaf de midterm cijfers, en tellen achteraf de extra grijze haren die dit ons bezorgt heeft.

Omdat midterms an sich nog niet erg genoeg was, heeft mijn universiteit, in al haar wijsheid, besloten om midterms nog meer "student oriented" te maken (lees: om nog meer bureacratie voor de docenten). Wat moeten we namelijk sinds dit semester doen? Niet alleen moeten we nu bij elke student die een onvoldoende heeft aangeven wanneer ze voor het laatst naar college zijn geweest, we behoren nu ook aan te geven wanneer en hoe we met deze studenten contact hebben opgenomen over hun slechte cijfers. Vorige week kregen alle docenten dus voor het eerst een geweldig spreadsheet, waarin we per zakkende student kunnen aangeven of we ze via email, telefoon, of in persoon gesproken hebben, en wanneer dit was.

Voor diegene onder u die nu denken, "En wat is daar nou mis mee?", laat ik ingaan op het principe achter deze kwestie. De discussie omtrent de tijd die het kost om met elke zakkende student (en rond midterms zijn er dat altijd veel) om tafel te gaan zitten over zijn of haar cijfer laten we voor het gemak maar even achterwege.
Persoonlijk heb ik namelijk veel meer problemen met principe. En principes, die heb ik. Best wel veel ook nog. Ik vind namelijk dat wanneer je gaat studeren, je niet meer aan het handje gehouden hoeft te worden. Als freshman, in je eerste jaar, goed, daar kan zelfs ik nog een beetje inkomen. Alles is nieuw, en eng, en oh jee, hoe werkt een wasmachine. Prima. Maar ik geef geen les aan freshmen. Ik geef alleen les "in the major", dus in de studierichting zelf, waar studenten pas in hun tweede jaar aan beginnen. Tegen die tijd ga ik er vanuit dat ze het basisprincipe van oorzaak-en-gevolg, van niet-studeren = slecht cijfer toch echt wel begrijpen. En dat ze dus geen gezellige gesprekjes met hun professor nodig hebben over dingen zoals "Goh, je hebt een onvoldoende, hoe zou dat komen denk je?" en, "Wat kun je er aan doen?", en nog erger, "En wat kan ik doen om je slaagkans te verhogen?". En als ze dat op hun 20e nog niet snappen, sorry voor mijn vast onbegrijpelijke botheid, maar dan vind ik het toch echt een kwestie van Helaas Pindakaas. Niemand hield mijn hand vast toen ik studeerde, en ik weiger te geloven dat mijn huidige studenten echt zoveel meer moeite hebben met het leven dan ik dat ze een soort permanente life coach nodig hebben.

En als het midterm cijfer na college even ter sprake komt, en dat doet het bij 95% van de zakkende studenten, dan wil ik het er daar best over hebben. Maar dan in de trant van, "Nou, je had een vier op die toets, je paper was ook onvoldoende, en de dag dat je moest presenten was je niet op college", en niet a la Oprah, "Goh, wat naar, wat kunnen -we- hier aan doen". En zo kan ik dat spreadsheet dus ook met een goed geweten invullen. Maar ik ga pertinent geen midterm conferences houden. Ik bedoel, het moet natuurlijk niet gekker worden.

Zeg.

Twenty questions - the DxieChick way

I'm pretty sure that at this point we all know that I can be an idiot at times. And, honestly, "at times" might even be an understatement, as it doesn't take much for me to show that earning a PhD doesn't mean I actually know anything, y'know? Like just yesterday, when a friend suggested I use "rice" for an old knee injury that's playing up again, I said, "Hm. Rice. Can't say I've ever tried that, but OK.", to which my friend could only grin and reply, "Sweetie, Rice stands for Rest Icing Compression and Elevation." Oh.

So anyway, my lack of common knowledge (such as which jumper cable goes on which side of the battery, even if they're color coded) tends to especially come to the fore during board games. Playing Apples to Apples with me makes most people feel as though they've ended up in a post-structuralist French play, and I have managed to turn a game of Monopoly into an in-depth discussion of the pros and cons of the Western capitalist economy.

And then sometimes I surprise everyone by not even understanding the most basic principles of very, very simple game.

Two nights ago, husband-dear and I were watching a re-run of the show The Big Bang Theory (note: if anyone of you has ever wondered what's it like to live with a child who has Asperger's, Sheldon is for real). On this show, for whatever reason, the characters referenced the game 20 questions. This game used to be quite popular in our family, when the kids were younger, and since we hadn't played in a while, and I was pretty much delirious with fatigue, I said to husband-dear, "We should so play that game"
"Really?"
(I am usually not known for my love of games).
"Yeah, it'll be fun."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, come on, let's play twenty questions. I pick something, you guess."
"OK".

For your merriment, right after we finished the game, I transcribed part of our conversation. Read it, enjoy, and understand why it's a good thing I have a degree to prove that I'm not a complete idiot.

Husband-dear: Is it an object?
Me: Yes
Husband- dear: Is it bigger than a breadbox?
Me: Hmm. Well it can be.
Husband-dear (pauses): Wait. What? No, that's not an option!
Me: Yes it is.
Husband-dear: (glares)
Me: Well, are we talking about one specific object, or a category of objects?
Husband-dear: (raises his eyebrows)
Me: OK, OK, fine, a specific object. How big is your breadbox?
Husband-dear: Oh God. A shoebox. A New Balance size 12 shoebox. Is it bigger than that?
Me: Well, are talking cumulative size, you know, length plus depth plus height, or exact dimensions?
Husband-dear: O. M. G. It's a kids' game!

I think he was just mad 'cause he couldn't guess I was thinking of my purse. Really.

Battle fatigue, obesity, and customer service

I know I've talked about sleep, or lack thereof on this blog before, but lately, the whole lack-of-sleep thing is becoming less of a red badge of courage and more like an albatross around my neck. I mean, we're at the point where I'm wondering if  plastic surgery to remove wrinkles that were clearly caused by sleep deprivation which is clearly the result of an insane work schedule counts as a tax deduction, and if coffee can be taken intravenously. On the upside, I have also finally found the cure for adult obesity and terrible customer service.

For those readers just joining me, allow me to elaborate ever so briefly (all other readers, feel free to let your mind wander for a few sentences). As you have probably surmised, husband-dear and the Air Force have a close, working relationship.  And in spite of its many flaws, the Air Force is very efficient in some things, such as changing TDYs at the last moment, canceling one's orders, and making sure everyone gets to work as quickly as possible. Because our current base is so large, the Air Force, in all its wisdom, has staggered the times at which different units start their work days. As a result, husband-dear is expected to be at work no later than 6am. Yes, people, that would be six in the morning. So to make sure we actually see each other at night before going to bed at yet another ungodly hour, I have adjusted my schedule to his.

So I get up at 5 in the morning.
Every morning.

And as of this semester, my body has apparently decided it's really done with that, thankyouverymuch. It doesn't even matter what time I go to bed anymore, my body has had enough with the getting up early thing. 

So the past few weeks, all I've managed to do is drive to work, teach, collapse at my desk, and half-heartedly try to grade some papers, or perhaps take a stab at  a research project, but the vigor from earlier years is definitely missing. Instead, when I step out to go to the bathroom, I look in the mirror, and realize that the bags under my eyes so lovingly placed there by family genetics have decided to pack two bags of their own this morning.

I also finally understand why so many Americans are overweight. It's their lack of sleep. Yes, seriously. You see, ever since I've started to feel as though every day is a marathon, I've also been eating like a pig. If my body can't get its energy from sleep, it will dang-it-you-got-that-right get it from food. And so I eat. Thankfully, I also exercise, so I have yet to start resembling a beached whale, but I can see why so many people here do. It's not because they don't exercise, but because they don't get enough sleep. Well-rested people are just not as hungry. American doesn't need a "60 minutes of play!" program, it needs a "let's cut the workday back to seven hours!" movement.

Moreover, I am also beginning to grasp why American customer service is the best in the world. It's because tired people have zero patience. I mean, I'm pretty sure there are two women in our human resources department who will never ever again tell a faculty member that there really only is one person who can fix a certain glitch and that that person is on leave for the entire week. The best way to avoid a tired person's wrath is to a) know what you're doing and talking about, and b) be really, really nice about it.

I'm telling you people, sleep is what makes the world go round.

Gertie the guinneapig: 2007-2011

My mother used to always say that in order to truly feel at home somewhere, you need to spend a full year there and go through all the different seasons and holidays in your new location. She was right, you know. In order to really "know" a house, a neighborhood, and a town, you need to experience it on a bright sunny day as well as a week of endless rain, a freezing morning, and when everything seems to be in bloom. You need to celebrate your birthday there, open Christmas presents, and hunt for Easter eggs. Only when you've done all of that, will you truly be able to remember that place as a real "home".

As of yesterday, however, I think I can add one more milestone that will cement any location as a place to remember: the death of a pet. Although I never quite thought about it that way, I can still to this day, tell you where all of my childhood pets are buried, which town, which house, and which spot in the backyard. I may not remember the house number, or where my best friend used to live, but I can tell you that Snoopy the rabbit is buried under a half-dead bush in the backyard by the hedge, and that Sigi the guinneapig was buried next to the shed with a pretty rock marking the spot. And, unfortunately, I can now also add our awesome pig with a 'tude, Gertie to that list. Gertie, you see, was buried under my mother's day rosebush in the front yard yesterday (since burying her in the backyard would mean that the dogs would definitely dig her up, and that's one experience I can do without).

Although I've been the proud owner of lots of guinneapigs, Gertie was special. We bought Gertie when the reality of "this is your home now" hit me about four years ago on a Tuesday night in September. We had moved into our house a little over a month before, I had been working at my then new, now current, job for about two weeks, and our life was beginning to look pretty settled. After two months of living like nomads, saying goodbye to dear friends, and, more importantly, giving away my guinneapig Cali (they don't do well on ten-hour plane rides), this should have felt like a big sigh of relief. But instead, knowing that "this was it", the place where I was to feel at home for at least a number of years, freaked me out beyond belief. Here? The bible belt? The place where you can't cuss in public or buy alcohol on Sunday? Really?

So husband-dear, once again displaying the main reason I love that man so much, he understood. And listened. And when I, between possibly overly dramatic sobs, hiccuped, "And I had to give Cali away!", he asked, "Well, we can go and buy a new guinneapig, you know?"
The tears ceased immediately, "We can?'"
"Sure. Why not. The kids would love it."
And so off we went to PetSmart, on a Tuesday evening. And picked the guinneapig that someone had returned, because I have a soft spot for animals no one else wants.

Thus began our life with Gertie the guinneapig. She lived in a large cage in the corner of our kitchen, ate lots and lots of vegetables, and became best friends with Shelby. She loved running outside along the fence, and had the most obnoxious, tangled hair ever.

And yesterday morning, it came to an end.
I'm not sure why, Gertie wasn't sick, she'd been eating like it was going out of style, and I'd played with her only the day before. But when I came into the kitchen, remembered I had to feed her before I left, and then noticed that she didn't move when I rattled her box of food, I knew something wasn't right. And it wasn't. Gertie, as they like to say down here, had passed on.

I'd love to tell you I was very pragmatic about it, realized she'd lived a good, full, four years, and gave her a decent burial, but, unfortunately, I can't. I wanted to do all those things, but first of all, I started to cry. And then I realized I simply couldn't touch my dead guinneapig. But then I also realized I couldn't just leave her in her cage, dead, as I wouldn't be home until at least 10 that night, and it would hardly be fair to just let husband-dear find when he got home. And then when I couldn't reach husband-dear because he was in a meeting, I really didn't know what to do.
So much for being a liberated woman.

Thank goodness, I got a hold of husband-dear, cried on his shoulder, and he told me he would be fine burying Gertie when he got home from work. And he did.

So there it is, the end of the Gertie era. The first four years have passed..now let's go for the second four?! (oh, dear mother of Mary and all her angels, no!).