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.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
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!
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!
Monday, November 21, 2011
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?
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?
Sunday, November 20, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
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
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
Friday, November 11, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, November 7, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
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.
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.
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