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...
Monday, October 31, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
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!).
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!).
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Pay it forward: Southern style
Some things never change, and the fact that life speeds up into a kaleidoscope of students, papers, grades, research, panel discussions and meetings after midterms is one of those things. Add to that the fact that I think I'm currently suffering from the accumulated fatigue of four years of working my butt off (if I'm not asleep at my desk, I will write more about that this week), and you can imagine that I'm not exactly dancing and singing my way through life right now. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy and generally content with life as a whole, I'm just about as sluggish as an entire sorority after rush. I forget to take the right binder to class, have still not been able to remember half my new students' names, and I'm pretty sure neglected to take care of several things I've simply forgotten about.
Believe me or not, however, there is no better place to live at a time like this than the south. If you're ever tired, overworked, or forgetful, I highly recommend you move to Georgia, as everyone here is always nice, but especially when you're obviously struggling with daily life, such as the need to stay awake and get your work done.
Take this week, for instance. It's only Tuesday, but I can already think of three occasions where people I barely (or in one case did not) know went out of their way to make my life easier.
Case #1: I needed to walk a form to an office all the way across campus, and halfway there realized I had filled out the form wrong. Grumbling about the fact that I was wearing high heels, and now needed to trot about a mile and a half back to my office, and was obviously an idiot for not checking the form properly before I left my office, I turned around. Five steps later, a lady who worked with us on our self-study last year pulled up in a golf cart and asked me if I needed a ride to my building. Delighted, I accepted. She dropped me off at my building, and then turned around.
"Don't you need to be here?" I asked
"Oh no, " She said, "I need to be on the south (read: completely other side of campus) side, but I thought I would give you a ride"
Now that's just nice.
Case #2: I've been "borrowing" a cup of coffee from the secretaries down the hall every once in a while. Their office is not in our department, but they're the closest office with a coffeemaker, and in return for my bringing in a bag of coffee once a semester, they let me drink their coffee. Yesterday, after I hadn't been in to get coffee for about a week (too busy to make the trek down the hallway), one of the secretaries emailed me, "Hey, haven't seen you in a while, but wanted to let you know that we brewed a pot of that gourmet coffee you brought in, and we're saving a cup for you."
People, that almost made me cry, that's just so nice.
Case #3: This morning, about ten minutes before class was about to start, I realized I had left something in my car. I rushed down the stairs, towards the front door, when I realized it was pouring down rain, and my umbrella was upstairs in my office. Well crap. I turned around, saw an open office door, and poked my head in:
"Hi. I know you don't know me, but I need to run out to my car, and it's raining, can I borrow someone's umbrella?"
"Of course!"
Not only did the lady behind the desk loan me her umbrella, when I came back in with a armload full of books, she held the door open for me, took the umbrella out of my clumsy hands, and waved my thanks away.
I'm telling you, that woman deserves a medal.
Now you'll have to excuse me while I try to go and catch up on my sleep.
Believe me or not, however, there is no better place to live at a time like this than the south. If you're ever tired, overworked, or forgetful, I highly recommend you move to Georgia, as everyone here is always nice, but especially when you're obviously struggling with daily life, such as the need to stay awake and get your work done.
Take this week, for instance. It's only Tuesday, but I can already think of three occasions where people I barely (or in one case did not) know went out of their way to make my life easier.
Case #1: I needed to walk a form to an office all the way across campus, and halfway there realized I had filled out the form wrong. Grumbling about the fact that I was wearing high heels, and now needed to trot about a mile and a half back to my office, and was obviously an idiot for not checking the form properly before I left my office, I turned around. Five steps later, a lady who worked with us on our self-study last year pulled up in a golf cart and asked me if I needed a ride to my building. Delighted, I accepted. She dropped me off at my building, and then turned around.
"Don't you need to be here?" I asked
"Oh no, " She said, "I need to be on the south (read: completely other side of campus) side, but I thought I would give you a ride"
Now that's just nice.
Case #2: I've been "borrowing" a cup of coffee from the secretaries down the hall every once in a while. Their office is not in our department, but they're the closest office with a coffeemaker, and in return for my bringing in a bag of coffee once a semester, they let me drink their coffee. Yesterday, after I hadn't been in to get coffee for about a week (too busy to make the trek down the hallway), one of the secretaries emailed me, "Hey, haven't seen you in a while, but wanted to let you know that we brewed a pot of that gourmet coffee you brought in, and we're saving a cup for you."
People, that almost made me cry, that's just so nice.
Case #3: This morning, about ten minutes before class was about to start, I realized I had left something in my car. I rushed down the stairs, towards the front door, when I realized it was pouring down rain, and my umbrella was upstairs in my office. Well crap. I turned around, saw an open office door, and poked my head in:
"Hi. I know you don't know me, but I need to run out to my car, and it's raining, can I borrow someone's umbrella?"
"Of course!"
Not only did the lady behind the desk loan me her umbrella, when I came back in with a armload full of books, she held the door open for me, took the umbrella out of my clumsy hands, and waved my thanks away.
I'm telling you, that woman deserves a medal.
Now you'll have to excuse me while I try to go and catch up on my sleep.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Vensterbankstereo-itis
Er zijn veel dingen uit Nederland die ik mis: drop, familie, brinta, vrienden, om er een paar te noemen. Maar als er een ding is waarvan ik echt dankbaar ben dat het uit mijn leven is verdwenen, dan is het wat ik vensterbankstereo-itis noem. Vensterbankstereo-itis, u kent het wel, de Nederlandse overtuiging dat alles dat in de vensterbank staat er a) in tweevoud moet staan, b) deze twee stukken absoluut, compleet identitiek moeten zijn, en c) dat deze twee stukken precies symmetrisch geplaatst moeten zijn.
Hier in het diepe zuiden hebben we namelijk heel veel dingen (boiled peanuts, katoen, perzikgaarden, pecanbomen, en echte racisten), maar we hebben a) geen diepe vensterbanken, en b) absoluut geen behoefte om als er al een vensterbank aanwezig is daar iets symmetrisch in te zetten.
Kijk, het is natuurlijk wel eeuwig zonde dat we hier in de VS totaal niet bekend zijn met de "doorzoncultuur", dat wil zeggen, het feit dat alle huizen uitgerust zijn met zo'n groot raam in hun woonkamer dat iedereen in de straat met gemakt bij de buren naar binnen kan kijken. Als je hier 's avonds een wandelingetje maakt dan is er helaas niet zo veel te zien naast pecanbomen, perzikgaarden, en katoenvelden. De meeste huizen hier hebben maar kleine ramen, en in 99% van de huizen zijn deze ook nog eens bedekt met luxaflex tegen de eeuwige zon. Tel daarbij op dat in veel huizen de huiskamer niet aan de voorkant van het huis zit, en in je het allerbeste geval in een inkijkje krijgt in een rommelige tienerslaapkamer, en u kunt zich voorstellen dat een avondwandelingetje hier lang zo interessant is als in een gemiddeld Nederlands dorp.
Vandaag, tijdens mijn fietstochtje, heb ik een kleine, doch totaal niet representatieve steekproef gehouden, en ben tot de conclusie gekomen dat zelfs wanneer huizen a) een huiskamer voor in het huis hebben, b) een groot raam in de huiskamer hebben, en c) daar geen luxaflex voor hebben hangen, er nooit sprake is van enige vorm van Vensterbankstereo-itis. In de meeste gevallen hebben mensen een lamp en een stoel voor het raam staan (en zelfs geen televisie, zodat je, zoals in Nederland, tot de conclusie kan komen dat echt iedereen om zeven uur naar Goede Tijden Slechte Tijden kijkt), en misschien, als je mazzel hebt, een kaars in de vensterbank, maar daar houdt de vensterbank decoratie toch echt op.
Kijk, iedereen moet natuurlijk met hun vensterbanken doen wat ze zelf willen. Maar ik word zelf altijd een beetje kriebelig als werkelijk iedereen in een straat precies dezelfde twee Xenos vazen in hun vensterbank heeft staan. Van die gezellige originele creaties die het zo leuk doen met de gordijnen. En dan zo'n leuke kaars in zo'n enige grote glazen kaarsenhouder precies in het midden. En waar ik, in zowel Duitsland als Nederland, altijd helemaal kriebelig van werd was wanneer jouw vensterbankdecoratie (of gebrek daaraan) een onderwerp van gesprek van je buren werd. Dat werd dan vaak gelijk genoemd met een opmerking over dat we toch zo weinig onze ramen lapten.
We hebben hier dan misschien mensen die nog echt een bank uit de jaren 80 hebben, compleet met bloemetjesgordijnen en behang met een printje (en dat is een onderwerp op zich), maar er zal hier niemand iets zeggen over je vensterbanken, je ramen, of het feit dat je pas gisteren je rood-wit-blauwe 4th of july krans op de deur vervangen hebt door je herfstkrans. Helemaal niemand. En dat, lieve mensen, is pas echt enig.
Hier in het diepe zuiden hebben we namelijk heel veel dingen (boiled peanuts, katoen, perzikgaarden, pecanbomen, en echte racisten), maar we hebben a) geen diepe vensterbanken, en b) absoluut geen behoefte om als er al een vensterbank aanwezig is daar iets symmetrisch in te zetten.
Kijk, het is natuurlijk wel eeuwig zonde dat we hier in de VS totaal niet bekend zijn met de "doorzoncultuur", dat wil zeggen, het feit dat alle huizen uitgerust zijn met zo'n groot raam in hun woonkamer dat iedereen in de straat met gemakt bij de buren naar binnen kan kijken. Als je hier 's avonds een wandelingetje maakt dan is er helaas niet zo veel te zien naast pecanbomen, perzikgaarden, en katoenvelden. De meeste huizen hier hebben maar kleine ramen, en in 99% van de huizen zijn deze ook nog eens bedekt met luxaflex tegen de eeuwige zon. Tel daarbij op dat in veel huizen de huiskamer niet aan de voorkant van het huis zit, en in je het allerbeste geval in een inkijkje krijgt in een rommelige tienerslaapkamer, en u kunt zich voorstellen dat een avondwandelingetje hier lang zo interessant is als in een gemiddeld Nederlands dorp.
Vandaag, tijdens mijn fietstochtje, heb ik een kleine, doch totaal niet representatieve steekproef gehouden, en ben tot de conclusie gekomen dat zelfs wanneer huizen a) een huiskamer voor in het huis hebben, b) een groot raam in de huiskamer hebben, en c) daar geen luxaflex voor hebben hangen, er nooit sprake is van enige vorm van Vensterbankstereo-itis. In de meeste gevallen hebben mensen een lamp en een stoel voor het raam staan (en zelfs geen televisie, zodat je, zoals in Nederland, tot de conclusie kan komen dat echt iedereen om zeven uur naar Goede Tijden Slechte Tijden kijkt), en misschien, als je mazzel hebt, een kaars in de vensterbank, maar daar houdt de vensterbank decoratie toch echt op.
Kijk, iedereen moet natuurlijk met hun vensterbanken doen wat ze zelf willen. Maar ik word zelf altijd een beetje kriebelig als werkelijk iedereen in een straat precies dezelfde twee Xenos vazen in hun vensterbank heeft staan. Van die gezellige originele creaties die het zo leuk doen met de gordijnen. En dan zo'n leuke kaars in zo'n enige grote glazen kaarsenhouder precies in het midden. En waar ik, in zowel Duitsland als Nederland, altijd helemaal kriebelig van werd was wanneer jouw vensterbankdecoratie (of gebrek daaraan) een onderwerp van gesprek van je buren werd. Dat werd dan vaak gelijk genoemd met een opmerking over dat we toch zo weinig onze ramen lapten.
We hebben hier dan misschien mensen die nog echt een bank uit de jaren 80 hebben, compleet met bloemetjesgordijnen en behang met een printje (en dat is een onderwerp op zich), maar er zal hier niemand iets zeggen over je vensterbanken, je ramen, of het feit dat je pas gisteren je rood-wit-blauwe 4th of july krans op de deur vervangen hebt door je herfstkrans. Helemaal niemand. En dat, lieve mensen, is pas echt enig.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Why I'm here to stay (for now)
"Only for now! Your hair! Is only for now. Glenn Beck! Is only for now!
Don't stress, relax, let life roll off your back, 'cause everything in life is only for now"
For now ~ Avenue Q
If any one song has become my motto over the past four years, it's this one. Everything, including my students, the secretaries, my commute, our town, the crazy bible-beaters who surround us every day, is only for now.
So how long is this "for now"? Right now, we don't really know. It depends on a lot of factors, all of which are far too boring to share, but the ballpark year for departure from the south is 2015. Twenty Fifteen, people. That's four more years here. Four more years of commuting 3,5 hours to work. Four more years of dealing with students who have yet to grasp the difference between "no" and "know". Four more years of no cussing, no alcohol on Sunday, and way too many cockroaches.
And if we're lucky it might turn into five.
People often ask me what keeps me here. Aside from the obvious answer, such as, oh, love, marriage, "for better or worse", you know, little commitments like that, there are several surprising reasons for my staying around.
First, it's not Oklahoma. I'm sorry to all the Oklahomans out there, but Tinker AFB is a real possibility, and, again, my apologies, but unless I can land a job at OU, that's just not happening. I'm sure Oklahoma has a ton of redeeming features, but it is a) still part of the bible belt, but b) filled with Mennonites as well, and c) has no hills or trees, but yet d) has a kick-butt winter, and e) is even further away from any place interesting than middle Georgia. So, yes, major points for Georgia there
Second, I get to complain a lot without getting a lot of flak over it. It's great. Whenever I'm in a bad mood, I can just blame the inattentive drivers, the really large people in little electric chairs blocking the aisles, church-traffic, the bookstore that carries mainly bibles, or any other of the one thousand things that are typical to this region, without having to explain myself at all. It's great. No one ever tells me that I'm being ridiculous, or exaggerating, because the people I hang out with all agree. I would hate to move somewhere where I would actually need a reasonable excuse for being in a bad mood.
And finally, husband-dear's little incentives. I mean, I don't know if he plans these things, but it is a good thing he has taken me on cruises, various mini-vacations, says things like "Hey, let's turn our half marathon into a romantic weekend away!", and buys me diamonds. If we stay here long enough I will have seen not only most of the B & Bs in Georgia, but will also need to purchase a safe for all of my goodies. He's smart, that man, I'm telling you.
So yes, it's (only) for now, and in spite of all the job openings out in California and Ohio that my friends keep emailing me, I'm here to stay.
For now.
Really.
Don't stress, relax, let life roll off your back, 'cause everything in life is only for now"
For now ~ Avenue Q
If any one song has become my motto over the past four years, it's this one. Everything, including my students, the secretaries, my commute, our town, the crazy bible-beaters who surround us every day, is only for now.
So how long is this "for now"? Right now, we don't really know. It depends on a lot of factors, all of which are far too boring to share, but the ballpark year for departure from the south is 2015. Twenty Fifteen, people. That's four more years here. Four more years of commuting 3,5 hours to work. Four more years of dealing with students who have yet to grasp the difference between "no" and "know". Four more years of no cussing, no alcohol on Sunday, and way too many cockroaches.
And if we're lucky it might turn into five.
People often ask me what keeps me here. Aside from the obvious answer, such as, oh, love, marriage, "for better or worse", you know, little commitments like that, there are several surprising reasons for my staying around.
First, it's not Oklahoma. I'm sorry to all the Oklahomans out there, but Tinker AFB is a real possibility, and, again, my apologies, but unless I can land a job at OU, that's just not happening. I'm sure Oklahoma has a ton of redeeming features, but it is a) still part of the bible belt, but b) filled with Mennonites as well, and c) has no hills or trees, but yet d) has a kick-butt winter, and e) is even further away from any place interesting than middle Georgia. So, yes, major points for Georgia there
Second, I get to complain a lot without getting a lot of flak over it. It's great. Whenever I'm in a bad mood, I can just blame the inattentive drivers, the really large people in little electric chairs blocking the aisles, church-traffic, the bookstore that carries mainly bibles, or any other of the one thousand things that are typical to this region, without having to explain myself at all. It's great. No one ever tells me that I'm being ridiculous, or exaggerating, because the people I hang out with all agree. I would hate to move somewhere where I would actually need a reasonable excuse for being in a bad mood.
And finally, husband-dear's little incentives. I mean, I don't know if he plans these things, but it is a good thing he has taken me on cruises, various mini-vacations, says things like "Hey, let's turn our half marathon into a romantic weekend away!", and buys me diamonds. If we stay here long enough I will have seen not only most of the B & Bs in Georgia, but will also need to purchase a safe for all of my goodies. He's smart, that man, I'm telling you.
So yes, it's (only) for now, and in spite of all the job openings out in California and Ohio that my friends keep emailing me, I'm here to stay.
For now.
Really.
Monday, October 3, 2011
The art of stepmothering
While it used to be that stepmothers really got the short end of the stick, with stories depicting them as psychopathic egomaniacs, treating their sweet innocent stepdaughters (they're always daughters, and they're always miss Universe material too) as personal servants, or sending them out to die in the woods, and committing various other deplorable deeds, today's media portrayals don't do a whole lot for our image either. Nowadays, we're either self-effacing, self-sacrificing, and possess a never-ending supply of patience and understanding (think Julia Roberts in "Stepmom") or young, beautiful, spoiled, and incredibly jealous (think Modern Family). Interestingly, neither portrayal comes even close to the reality of stepmothering.
I realize I hardly write about what it's like to be a stepmother. I think I spend more time writing about bugs and NPR than I have about what it's like to raise two boys who are not my own. I'd love to tell you it's because there's really nothing to write about, because as anyone with children, let alone stepchildren, knows, kids always provide more food for thought than anyone needs in about three lives.
So, today, here is is. My very first post on the art of stepmothering.
What inspired me to write this blog, today, is that on Saturday something happened that hasn't, literally, happened in years. Up until about four years ago, the boys had the habit of, every once in a while, dropping their bio-mom into a conversation, preferably whenever the conversation involved people we barely knew. And no matter how zen I try to be about the whole, "there is another, more real mother in the picture", it used to drive me crazy. Husband-dear and I would be talking to, for instance, a new couple at church about the service, and Ozzie or Jimmie would interject, "My mother is a nurse", or "My mom works here and here" or another statement completely irrelevant to the topic at hand. Now although I totally understood their need to reassure themselves as well as the people around them that a) I was not their real mother, and b) their real mother did some pretty cool stuff too, it would just make me feel somehow unaccepted. Especially since I make sure whenever meeting new people that they know that I am actually the kids' super-evil wicked stepmom. But they were little kids, we understood their need to reassure their position in the family, so we let it go. And then last Saturday, our now not-so-young Jimmie, did the exact same thing. Out of the blue, somewhere in the middle of a conversation with a person we'd just met about the local music scene, he mentioned where his mother worked. The statement made no sense, had no place in the conversation, and I was just flabbergasted. I let it go, but it's stung ever since, and made me realize that although you at one point cease to be a new mother, just like you cease to be the mother of a preschooler, or a newlywed, or the new kid in town, you never, ever cease to be the stepmother.
That realization has the tendency to come up at the most unexpected times. When you're talking to your sister in law about teaching your children not to talk back, and she tells you, "But you wouldn't be that strict with your own children", for instance. Or when you tell your students "your" children are your stepchildren, and they tell you, "that's really not the same". Or when your extended family doesn't send your stepchildren anything for their birthday because they're not really "your" children. Little things that make you realize that it doesn't matter that you have to try ten times harder than any "conventional" mom, and that any rejection comes on ten times stronger too (on account of, you've been trying so hard), you will never really join the club of "real mommies".
I realize the whole line between "your" children and "stepchildren" is a contentious one. They're not "my" children. They're bio-mom's and husband-dear's children, a fact I love to point out whenever one of them needs help with something and husband-dear and I are happily ensconced on the couch watching a movie. Usually, I'm OK with that. Life is complicated enough as it is, and having a stepmother and a stepfather thrown in the mix would be enough to confuse any kid. And "my" kids are awesome about it. There's never any "You're not my mother!", or "Well, at mom's house we don't have to..." around here. So, usually, I'm a happy camper of a stepmom. But there are days when it's a little harder. Days when bio-mom calls five times in an hour, or when the kids can't stop talking about something they did with bio-mom and the super-awesome new stepdad, or when, like Saturday, one of them has to remind me that, hey, lady, you are not my mother. It's days like that when I really think someone should write a fairytale about poor, misunderstood, and under-appreciated stepmothers who just want to go to the ball, be beautiful, marry Prince Charming and then sleep for one hundred years. Oh wait...
Did anyone say sleep?
I realize I hardly write about what it's like to be a stepmother. I think I spend more time writing about bugs and NPR than I have about what it's like to raise two boys who are not my own. I'd love to tell you it's because there's really nothing to write about, because as anyone with children, let alone stepchildren, knows, kids always provide more food for thought than anyone needs in about three lives.
So, today, here is is. My very first post on the art of stepmothering.
What inspired me to write this blog, today, is that on Saturday something happened that hasn't, literally, happened in years. Up until about four years ago, the boys had the habit of, every once in a while, dropping their bio-mom into a conversation, preferably whenever the conversation involved people we barely knew. And no matter how zen I try to be about the whole, "there is another, more real mother in the picture", it used to drive me crazy. Husband-dear and I would be talking to, for instance, a new couple at church about the service, and Ozzie or Jimmie would interject, "My mother is a nurse", or "My mom works here and here" or another statement completely irrelevant to the topic at hand. Now although I totally understood their need to reassure themselves as well as the people around them that a) I was not their real mother, and b) their real mother did some pretty cool stuff too, it would just make me feel somehow unaccepted. Especially since I make sure whenever meeting new people that they know that I am actually the kids' super-evil wicked stepmom. But they were little kids, we understood their need to reassure their position in the family, so we let it go. And then last Saturday, our now not-so-young Jimmie, did the exact same thing. Out of the blue, somewhere in the middle of a conversation with a person we'd just met about the local music scene, he mentioned where his mother worked. The statement made no sense, had no place in the conversation, and I was just flabbergasted. I let it go, but it's stung ever since, and made me realize that although you at one point cease to be a new mother, just like you cease to be the mother of a preschooler, or a newlywed, or the new kid in town, you never, ever cease to be the stepmother.
That realization has the tendency to come up at the most unexpected times. When you're talking to your sister in law about teaching your children not to talk back, and she tells you, "But you wouldn't be that strict with your own children", for instance. Or when you tell your students "your" children are your stepchildren, and they tell you, "that's really not the same". Or when your extended family doesn't send your stepchildren anything for their birthday because they're not really "your" children. Little things that make you realize that it doesn't matter that you have to try ten times harder than any "conventional" mom, and that any rejection comes on ten times stronger too (on account of, you've been trying so hard), you will never really join the club of "real mommies".
I realize the whole line between "your" children and "stepchildren" is a contentious one. They're not "my" children. They're bio-mom's and husband-dear's children, a fact I love to point out whenever one of them needs help with something and husband-dear and I are happily ensconced on the couch watching a movie. Usually, I'm OK with that. Life is complicated enough as it is, and having a stepmother and a stepfather thrown in the mix would be enough to confuse any kid. And "my" kids are awesome about it. There's never any "You're not my mother!", or "Well, at mom's house we don't have to..." around here. So, usually, I'm a happy camper of a stepmom. But there are days when it's a little harder. Days when bio-mom calls five times in an hour, or when the kids can't stop talking about something they did with bio-mom and the super-awesome new stepdad, or when, like Saturday, one of them has to remind me that, hey, lady, you are not my mother. It's days like that when I really think someone should write a fairytale about poor, misunderstood, and under-appreciated stepmothers who just want to go to the ball, be beautiful, marry Prince Charming and then sleep for one hundred years. Oh wait...
Did anyone say sleep?
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