Just in time

It's a little odd to return to the world of blogging after two glorious weeks away on the last day of the year. I mean, what are you going to write about? Those two glorious weeks, which definitely deserve at least one smashing review? Or the entire previous year, which appears to be tradition among bloggers, obscure television shows, and Facebook pages?

Obviously, if I had my act together as a blogger, as so many of my favorite writers do, I would have been blogging while on vacation, and would be all caught up right now, ready to review the year. But unlike all you talented bloggers, I can't do that. Although I bring every single wireless device in my possession, and scout out wireless internet like a squirrel does his nuts, I just can't seem to sit down, empty my head, and write a poignant yet funny piece about what I've been up to. This appears to be mainly because, well, I'm still up to it, and I just don't want to step out of the moment to write about it. Moreover, as we all know, once I step out of the moment to write about it, I become this cynical, critical misanthrope, and how on earth can I enjoy my time away when I'm complaining about say, the aforementioned lack of wireless internet?

At any rate, I now owe you a discussion of a wide variety of things, from Dutch running attire, to navigating through Belgian cities using their many church spires, to German behavior in airports. Who knows, I might even throw some pictures your way. I know, crazy times.

Anyway, we came home on Thursday, and ever since we arrived back home, I've been telling my husband, the kids, and possibly even the dogs, that 2012 has definitely earned a place in the top-3 of best years of the past decade (and then possibly adding on that therefore we should be grateful, because you know, I do try to be pedagogical every once in a whole). Let's do a quick overview, shall we?

In 2012...... I am still married to my best friend; I crashed my bike on some railroad tracks, and all I have to show for it is a very dangerous looking scar; I rode along fields and fields of blossoming peach trees; I saw Jimmie practice and practice and practice, and get into the high school marching band; I got to watch my husband skimboard with his best friend from high school for the first time since husband-dear left for the Air Force; I completed my first half-ironman; I guided six students through their first successful undergraduate conference presentation; I finally beat the curse of the fourth place, and placed second, second, and first in all three triathlons I competed in; I walked along the Great Wall and wandered through the Forbidden City; I learned how to order breakfast in Chinese; I walked around a Chinese university's campus as though I belonged there; I looked at the Chinese coast from an old Taiwanese defense bunker; I developed a favorite among all the Japanese candy I ate; I completed my tenure and promotion portfolio; One of my articles got accepted for publication; I went to more high school football games to see the marching band than I ever imagined possible; I made new friends while volunteering at the concession stand; I learned that the promotion and tenture committee really, really, really liked my portfolio; I got hit by an inattentive driver while riding my bike, and got to experience my very first ambulance ride; I dressed up for international education week, and had all of my students laugh at me; I called campus police on a rowdy student, counseled a few more, and had one student go into labor in the middle of class, all in one semester; I got to take a picture with the Tow-Mater truck at the Disney resort we stayed at; I watched my tough husband and oldest son smile and laugh at the antics of a Disney parade; I took my vertigo-suffering father in law on the Tower of Terror; I ordered wine in Italy, and drank it in Germany, all in the same half hour; I turned my grades early; I grew my hair out longer than it has ever been; I baked hundreds of cookies, pies, and cakes, and shared very little outside my family; I went to see my family for the first time in 18 months; Husband-dear and I spent a few days meandering through Bruges; Not one piece of luggage was lost throughout all our travels; I drank enough coffee to fill a small lake; I drove about 32000 miles to and from work; I finally got an Iphone; I loved on my husband, the kids, and the puppies: I laughed, I cried, I spoke up when it was needed and when I probably should have kept quiet, and embarrassed myself and/or others in countless situations; I adjusted my catchphrase, "You can take my anywhere, but only once", to "You can take me anywhere. Twice. Once to introduce me, and once to apologize"; I learned how to change a flat tire on my bicycle and promptly forgot; I enjoyed all of husband-dear's martini's....

2012, I really can't complain.

I hope your year was as enjoyable as mine, and wish you all the very best for 2013!

Forty-seven points

My annual Christmas break is possibly my most favorite time of the year. It's the three (or four, depending on how Christmas falls, and how much time off the Board of Regents needs that year) when I feel truly free. Whenever I'm faced with three months of nothing, which happens every year in the first week of May, my OCD/overachiever neurosis will kick in, and I start saying things like, "Why don't I renovate the bonus room? I have so much time off!", or "Geez, three months is way too long to just sit around, I think I'll volunteer for a six-week study abroad to China." The bottom line is that free time just scares me to death.

So Christmas break, with its three (or four) weeks off, is much easier for ants-in-their-pants people like me to handle. It's too short to tackle any major projects, a feat aided by the fact that several days are "lost" to things like Christmas and New Year's (and so the painting of the quarter rounds will have to wait until summer), and too long to stay stuck in the work flow, which often happens during Spring Break. During that one week in March, I need to literally leave the country if I want to relax, because if I don't, I will end up writing conference papers and prepping classes, because "When I get back to work, do you know how much stuff I have to do?". In short, like Goldilocks' porridge, Christmas break is perfect.

Now the purpose of this lengthy introduction about the awesomeness that is Christmas break was to lead into a brief kvetch-fest about the 47-or-so-points to-do list that somehow popped into existence when my mind woke up from its finals-grading-induced haze, and realized, hey! We're going on a trip! And so we should really take care of all those things that have been left unfinished for the past months! Things like hemming that skirt, taking out the dry cleaning, dusting the light fixtures, getting pictures developed, upgrading various iDevices, and on and on and on. This means that after spending an hour each morning reveling in the fact that it's Christmas break, and I get to sit on the couch, sip my tea and watch CBS This Morning while around me the Christmas lights are twinkling, I turn to my multi-day, multi-page to-do list, and get to work. There are trips to CVS, to Kroger, to the BX, the base pool and/or gym, the bank, the tire rotation place, the dollar store, and back to CVS because the commissary doesn't carry Excedrin anymore.

This to-do list thing isn't a first either. Lately, whenever we travel anywhere, there are to-do lists days in advance. I remember when we used to just pack up the night before, double check if the stove was off and the door was locked, and leave. Now, leaving the house has turned into a near-military operation. There are checklists, pack lists, assigned responsibilities (you call the kennel to verify the dogs' shot records are in order, and I will get the oil in the car changed), reminder, and occasional pow-wows about who-what-where. In all fairness to us, though, we will be traveling on different days, almost a week apart, so some communication is necessary unless we want to get the tires rotated twice. But still. Sometimes I wonder how all those people who book last minute flights to exotic, faraway places do it and manage to enjoy their trip. I mean, with my luck, and lack of lists, I'd forget my bathing suit, or my ski suit, or something equally relevant to said last-minute adventure. And I'd spend the entire vacation worrying about whether the dogs' shots were up to date, and we'd remembered to turn the alarm on.

So yeah, last minute trips don't work for us. And we're probably slight over-organized. But heck, if you need help invading a small country or dealing with the aftermath of a natural disaster, we're your men! And woman, of course. 

Pumpkin bread revisited

You may remember that last year, when Jill invited me over to her house to bake pumpkin bread together, I accidentally purchased the wrong ingredients. Because I went to school for close to 22 years, reading short little labels, such as the ones used normal food products such as "pumpkin mix" has become quite the challenge for me, and so I showed up at her house with two cans of pumpkin pie mix. Fortunately, Jill does possess common sense, and she was able to rescue the pumpkin bread by reducing some of the other ingredients.

So this year, when I decided to make pumpkin bread to give to our co-workers and neighbors, I made doubly sure my husband knew he had to purchase "pumpkin mix", and not "pumpkin pie mix". I underlined it on the grocery list, I told him in person, and when he called while in the store, I reminded him again. Delegation, people, is a lot of work. But, he succeeded (naturally), and came home with two cans of pumpkin mix. Excellent.

That Saturday (this would be last week), when I decided that if I graded one more paper my brain was going to explode, and that baking would be the one thing to restore my sanity, husband-dear requested if I would mind baking an extra loaf for him to take to work. Absolutely not. I had, after all, two cans of pumpkin mix, and I would simply double the recipe.

So off I went. I pulled out my recipe book full of slightly stained index cards, and found the recipe that Jill had written out for me the previous year. Three-and-a-half cups of flour became seven cups, four cups of sugar became six-and-a-half cups sugar, and one-and-half teaspoons of cinnamon became five. Math is relative, when baking, obviously. As the ingredients filled up our mammoth 16-cup mixing bowl, a sliver of doubt started to creep into my blissfully Christmas-filled mind. Did we really use that many ingredients last year? Did it really take this much to make two loaves of pumpkin bread? Really? But, dedicated as I was, I kept going, pulled out a smaller bowl, and added a moat of water, four eggs, a ridiculous amount of oil, and two full cans of pumkin. And just as I was staring at the two completely full bowls, wondering how I was ever going to mix them, I decided to flip over the index card. And there were the final instructions, including the underlined statement: "Makes TWO loaves (and in case of smaller pans: THREE)".

Holy pumpkin mix, Batman. I had just made enough batter for six loaves of pumpkin bread. SIX. More importantly, however, I had also just made enough batter to where none of our bowls where big enough to hold the combined concoction.

Being the independent, well-educated woman that I am, I of course had a solution on hand. I called on husband-dear.
"Can you find a bucket and clean it for me?"
"Why?"
I showed him the two bowls of batter, "The recipe was enough for two loaves already. Or three, in our case, since our bread pans are smaller than Jill's."
"And?"
"And I doubled the recipe. This is six loaves of pumpkin bread. And that" I pointed at the huge red bowl, "is our biggest mixing bowl."

I would love to tell you that husband-dear didn't laugh, but he did. Once he was done laughing, we began the hunt for a "really, really big container". Since husband-dear's American standards for food hygiene precluded using a bucket that had ever come in contact with cleaning products, even if said bucket were to be washed out with water, he eventually decided on the pot we usually use for low country boil, Dutch mashed potatoes, and other dishes that require a ridiculously large pot. I then used a  four-cup measuring beaker to combine and the two bowls, while husband-dear hunted for baking pans that would work for pumpkin bread. We only have two bread pans, and so we had some interesting decisions to make for the other four loaves. A bundt-shaped pan? Or a casserole dish? Glass or china? We ended up settling on some old casserole dishes, at which point the two hour bakefest it took to get all six loaves done began. As did the extensive washing of bowls, pots, and other utensils.

So yes, I did finally make "normal" pumpkin bread this year. And I was able to make lots and lots and lots of people happy with a couple of slices. But if there is one lesson to be learned, it's that I really, really should start to do a better job reading instructions.

Grading, grading, grading, gra-done!

In previous semesters, I always made sure to not turn in my final grades until the day they were due. I'm not sure why I did this, because in all cases, I was done grading the day of the last final, and could have turned in my final grades the very next day. Instead, I would draw out the grading process, take long lunch breaks, long coffee breaks, go home on time, and do whatever it took to turn in my grades with all of my other, far-more-harried colleagues on Friday.

Why? You may ask. Well, I'm not entirely certain myself, but two reasons come to mind. First, I felt bad for turning in grades early and, not having a reason to be at work anymore, skipping out of work the days before commencement. Missing work are two words that just don't go together in the Dixiechick lexicon. Second, I didn't want people to think that the reason I was able to turn my work in early was because I'm one of those slacker professor who doesn't "do" final papers and whose finals are nothing more than twenty true/false questions. In case you were wondering, yes, I am aware that I am possibly crazy for thinking these things. Especially considering the fact that unlike my harried colleagues, I spent the weeks and weekends prior to finals furiously grading papers, senior theses, and final projects. While I don't know what my fellow professors do in the weekends leading up to finals, I do know that my family has dubbed the last two weekends before commencement my "hell weekends" (which, yes, always include either Thanksgiving or my birthday, thankyouverymuch), since I spend at least several hours each day up to my elbows in grading, creating finals, and calculating final grades.

So this semester I decided to change things up. And I started by turning in my grades when I was done grading, that is, on Wednesday right after lunch. When I triumphantly exited the department office, and ran into two fellow professors who sighed that they had yet to start grading, I realized that my fear of looking like a slacker all those years was completely unfounded. I'll refrain from passing judgment, but let's just say, I wasn't the one slacking. So instead of driving into work yesterday to work on my grading a little and look busy, I sat on the couch and watched the entire Today show. And today, there's no need to drive to work, make a great show of printing out my final grades and roll book, and turn them in, nope. My plans for today include printing out the pictures I took at Disney and going for a swim. And possibly doing some laundry. Maybe. And the lesson learned? Caring about what other people think is never worth as much as having two days to yourself. Ever.

While we're talking about change, I'd also like to talk about next semester. Next semester, people, is going to be different. Not just because I -finally- implemented the changes in deadlines I should have made five years ago, so that not all papers are due in the last week of class, but also because I got a grant and have received 50% release time. Fifty percent release time, for those of you wondering, equals two classes, which means that next spring I will only be teaching two classes. Two. Not four, or five, or even six, nope. Two. And the even better news is that I got to pick the two I wanted to teach. That, my dear readers, is the bees' knees of academics, the cat's pajamas of scholarly life. It's right up there with paid sabbaticals and book royalties. 
Now this doesn't mean I get to spend the other twenty hours of the week sitting around drinking coffee. No, instead of teaching and dealing with important questions such as "why do we have to write two papers?", and "why is this class so hard?", I get to develop a cross-disciplinary research initiative in the field of health communication. None of us on the grant are exactly sure what we'll be doing, but our first task (after I get to furnish my...wait for it...new office) is to developed measurable outcomes, so I'm sure we'll be fine.

So I am excited this semester is over? Yes, three times yes. I weather a tenure portfolio deadline, conducted a large scale quantitative survey, taught five classes, dealt with a child in marching band, two major meltdowns,  and one student going into early labor, so I am ready for a break. But I can also assure you that I am more than ready to come back in 2013.

Sinterklaas, wie kent hem niet?

Met als risico dat ik half Nederland over me heen krijg (nou ja, de dertien mensen die mijn blog lezen dan), maar ik ben er dit jaar echt uit: Zwarte Pieten kunnen niet meer. Blanke mensen omkleden in felgekleurde apepakkies, zwarte maillots, volsmeren met zwarte schoenpoets, en ze dan allerlei rare trucjes laten uithalen, dat kan in mijn wereld nu dus echt niet meer.

Sorry.

Ik weet dat voor de meeste Nederlanders de Zwarte Piet zo'n beetje heilig is deze tijd van het jaar, maar als rasechte NederAmerikaan kan ik er dus niet meer goed tegen, al die plaatjes van blanke mensen die lijken op een kruising tussen de tenenkrommende Sjimmie en gezellig racistische Sambo. Toen ik dit weekend Facebook opende, en een foto van mijn nichtje verkleed als Zwarte Piet zag, toen wist ik het, dit kan echt niet meer anno 2012. Sorry, geweldig nichtje van me.

Als ik eerlijk ben dan was Zwarte Piet al langer in een doorn in mijn oog. Dat krijg je, als je dankzij een Amerikaanse school bekend bent met het fenomeen "blackface", en het daarmee samenhangend racisme. Dan wordt het verdomd moeilijk, zelfs voor een jongere Dixiechick, om een grappende en grollende blanke man met zwarte make up en panties als een cultureel idiosyncrasie te zien. Want waarom moet de man perse zwart zijn? En waarom doet hij altijd alsof hij zo dom is? Maar ach, je verhuist weer eens terug naar Nederland, en je valt na een Sinterklaas feest of twee weer in de comfortabele gedachtengang dat dit "gewoon" een Nederlands fenomeen is. Eentje die natuurlijk niks te maken heeft met racisme, of blackface, or allerlei andere rare zaken. Zwarte Piet is gewoon een typisch Nederlands verschijnsel. Net zoiets als dijken, drop, en homosexuele paren die kinderen mogen adopteren.

Maar ja, een verhuizing naar het zuiden van de VS, waar de vrees voor racisme en alle daarmee samenhangende sociale verschijnselen nog steeds nadrukkelijk aanwezig is, en het hele fenomeen wordt in een keer minder makkelijk te verexcuseren. Je hoeft maar een keer les te geven over blackface aan een college zaal vol met African Americans, en je snapt meteen waarom. Want ondanks alle Nederlandse redeneringen over culturele eigenheid en relativiteit en weet-ik-veel-wat is the bottomline gewoon dat er hele groepen mensen zijn, zowel binnen als buiten Nederland die dit beledigend vinden.

Wil ik nu beweren dat ik vind dat Zwarte Piet afgeschaft moet worden? Jongens, ik zou niet durven. Ik heb nog steeds geen skinny jeans gekocht, draag nog steeds een muts als het koud is, zeg "sorry" als iemand tegen mij aan loopt, en ben dus ondertussen zo'n nep-Hollander geworden, dat ik al helemaal geen oordeel mag vellen over zo'n oer-Hollandse kwestie. Dus als jullie daar in Nederland blij worden van zwart-geschminkte blanke mannen en vrouwen die zich voordoen als de grootste lolbroeken ooit, gekleed in een bijpasselijk clown-achtig kostuum, dan ga vooral los, zou ik zeggen.

Maar voor mij hoeft het niet meer zo.
Wat natuurlijk niet wil zeggen dat ik hier de pepernoten, schuimdieren, en chocolade latters niet enorm mis.

The happiest place on earth

The title is, for once, not a sarcastic reference to the place I call my hometown. In fact, I actually have nothing sarcastic or cynical to say in this post at all, which is probably why it took me so long to write it. I know, who are you and what did you to Dixiechick, right? But seriously, the reason for my title is the fact that I, husband-dear, our darling offspring, as well as my in-laws, spent Thanksgiving break at Disney World. And it was truly magical. The rides, the parades, the landscaping, the cone-shaped lampshades in our hotel room, the endless suspension of disbelief, it was all absolutely wonderful. I mean, all I really should be telling you is that although I brought all of the grading I usually complete over Thanksgiving break (about two days' worth), it stayed inside its bag, next to my suitcase in our room. Untouched. For four whole days. That right there says it all.

I had only been to a Disney park twice before: once to Disney world in the mid-80s, and once to Disneyland Paris in the early 2000s, so my expectations were based on little more than warm, fuzzy memories and the tendency to say "Mag-EEK KEENgdome". Revisiting a park when your memories are so picture-perfect, but either so long ago, or related to a park on another continent is always dangerous. What if your memory glossed over the less than enjoyable parts? What if you looked at your scrapbook so much you don't remember all the not-so-great stuff? What if the park in Paris really is the better version? Fortunately, I had so much grading to do in the weeks leading up to our trip that I had pretty much forgotten we were going had little time to consider things like this. Instead, on Wednesday night, I turned into a Tasmanian devil, threw some underwear and shirts into a suitcase, and pronounced myself ready to go.

Thinking back, I realize that there is one less-than-glowing thing I can tell you about our trip to Disney world.
Sorry.
It was, unfortunately, also the first thing we did on our trip: getting there. I'm not sure why, but for some reason unknown to mere mortals, Disney resorts are pretty much, like Hogwarts, unplottable. The hotel we were heading to had two different addresses listed on its own website, our GPS couldn't find it, and Mapquest wasn't too certain about the location either. After a not-too-reassuring phone call to Disney reservations, where an agent happily told me that "We hear this all the time!", we went on our slightly-less merry way.
Fortunately, my phone did seem to know where it was going, although it completely disagreed with Mapquest. Now I have not navigated us/myself through most of Europe, the eastern part of the United States, and various parts of China to let a measly trip to Orlando get me down, so I went to work, pulling out the various maps we had stowed in our car, and tried to get a grip on the layout of the happiest, or most mysterious if you will, place on earth. And after some triangulation with a Florida map, our GPS, my phone app, and some serious anxiety-driven kvetching, I figured out that you could indeed get there from here, and plotted a route. All questions and queries about toll roads, short cuts, and alternative routes were quickly quelled with a stern, "I set up the route, and this is how we're driving", and away we went. Almost merrily.

And once we got there, it was all quickly forgotten. When we walked into Magic Kingdom that afternoon, we walked right into the "Make your dreams come true"/"Believe in your dreams"/ "Just dream already, dammit!" parade (OK, so I might have made the last one up, but I can't remember the name of the parade for the life of me), and the magic was born. We laughed at Stitch, yo-ho-ho-ed our way through the Pirates of the Carribean, made a mandatory nuisance call to my friend Shelly during the It's a Small World Ride, and loved the Thunder Mountain Railroad (which in my memory had real water spilling over it, which was either a figment of my imagination, or has since been turned into the wafting smoke they use now). We watched the Electric parade, listened to a group of southerners sitting behind us complain about the fact that ZOMG President Obama was now featured in the Hall of Presidents, and bought Disney jackets when the weather proved a little colder than we expected.

The magic continued throughout the next two days, with us mastering the fastpass system at Hollywood studios, Epcot, and the Animal Kingdom so that we got to ride some our favorite rides not once, but twice. I got to wow Jimmie with my knowledge of the Lights, Motor, Action! show, sing along with Aerosmith on the Rock n Roller Coaster, speak Italian at Epcot, hug a cast member, marvel at the fact that the Canadian pavilion still has the same 360 degrees film it did twenty-six years ago, have a glass of wine in Germany, and freak out at the "bugs" crawling under your legs in the "It's a bug life" show.

So, I'm sorry. I have nothing negative to say about my Disney experience. I suppose the one thing I could come up with was the fact that the cast members at our hotel would wish each guest a "colorful day" and tell them, "sketch ya later!", but you know, that's just cute.

Again, my apologies. Tomorrow, we will return to our normal programming.

What's in a name?

I've never thought of my name as particularly strange, odd, or Dutch for that matter. In fact, I remember, at a very young age, being grateful for the fact that my name was not only internationally accepted, but also fairly common in various countries. This gratitude wasn't so much related to any sort of linguistic awareness on my part, oh no, it was directly correlated to the fact that I, unlike my less fortunate (but more creatively named) younger brother, never had any problems finding a necklace, bracelet, rock, or keychain with my name on it regardless of which country I was in.

Now since I am kind of weird about privacy and this blog (I sincerely hope no one has seriously entertained the thought that I have two boys named "Ozzie" and "Jimmie" respectively), let me just tell that my name is old, very Jewish, and one I share with both a woman described in the biblical apocrypha as seducing and then beheading the enemy, as well as a woman playing a somewhat overworked mother in one of the corniest sitcoms to come out of the 1980s. It's popular among Dutch girls born in the 1970s, as well as a large number of Jewish girls living on the east coast of the US, while its abbreviated version seems to have been quite the fad among women born during the 1930s and 1940s.

At any rate, I've never had any problems with my first name, spelling, pronunciation, nada. Well, that is, until I moved to Georgia. Ever since moving here, whenever I introduce myself, the conversation always ends up going something like this (and for the sake of privacy, I'll be ancient seductress, OK? I mean, I suppose I could have picked 1980s sitcom actress, but that's just ridiculously long),
"Hi, I'm husband-dear, and this is my wife, ancient seductress*"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Ancient seductress*"
"How do you spell that?"
"A-n-c.."(you get the idea)
"Ooooh, OK. Seducy!"
"Uhm, no, Seductress"

Yes, annoying. And also slightly confusing, since I've never had this problem before. Ever. The only issue I've ever had to battle is people abbreviating my name without asking first. Now, to be fair, the problem has really only been with truly native Georgians. Most military folk, academics, and people who have lived or traveled out of state get my name the first time around. But whenever I visit local events, churches, or restaurants, getting my name straight always turns into a ridiculously elaborate song and dance. I'm not sure if it's the fact that my name simply isn't very common in the south, or people are so used to hearing girls' names ending in "y" or "a", but it's a very strange experience to have to repeat your name two or three times before people realize what it is.

So this past Sunday, after another unsuccessful attempt to get a southern couple at a church we were visiting to grasp my name on the first try, I decided that this was just getting ridiculous.
"I think I'm going to change my name to something easy and simple." I told husband-dear
"Yeah, like your middle name."
I scowled, "My middle name is four syllables long. I don't think so. No, something simple."
"Simple. Because your first name isn't simple enough."
"Apparently not. I think I'm going to with Katie."
"Katie?"
"Yes, Katie. It's simple, short, and everyone gets it."
"Katie. Oh-kay."

Obviously, I wasn't entirely serious, as the thought of having to explain, after that first meeting, that my real first name wasn't Katie, but that that was just a name I had made up to ease the art of initial introductions, was too weird even for me. But as we headed out to brunch, I decided to give my little experiment a go anyway. After all, Georgian maitre d's' inability to understand my first name on the first attempt has always been a real source of frustration. I mean, why should anyone have to go through the trouble of spelling their name, or even worse, have to resort to giving their husband's name because "Ancient Seductress" is just not a name these lovely locals have ever heard before? We can't all be Madisons, Michelles, and Brittanys. So, I figured, if  I couldn't introduce myself to people who might turn out to be new friends as Katie, I could at least ease the pain of getting my name put on a wait list.

"Hi, welcome to IHOP, how many in your party?"
"Six"
"Okay. And what's your name?"
The moment of truth, "Katie"
"OK. And how do you spell that?"



Oh.
My.
Stars.

What (not) to wear

So I'm heading to Holland sometime in December, and the one thing I have been obsessing about over the past few weeks is what to wear. Not whom to see, where to stay, or what to buy in the form of Christmas presents. Oh no, most of those decisions have been pushed into November (ehm, the last two weeks of November, I guess).  Instead I've spend a lot of time agonizing over whether my winter coat was warm and fashionable enough, whether my jeans could still pass muster, and whether I needed to go out and buy a couple of new pairs of shoes.

So, you may wonder, why this sudden insecurity about what to wear? Especially when heading back to a country that will most likely be colder than a witch's tit, and where most people will thus not care a whole lot about what you look like as long as you're warm? Well, that last statement, therein lies the problem. You see, that's what an American would say. Up in Ohio or New England, or any other place where it gets really cold, most people don't really give a small rodent's behind about whether or not their purple LL Bean winter coat is fashionable, or whether their lined boots meet the latest fashion standards. Up there, it's all about staying warm, and that's that. A Dutch person, unfortunately, does not think like that.

I've mentioned this before, but Dutch people are a lot more fashion-conscious than most Americans. There is no wandering through the house in your sweatpants, rushing to the grocery store in your husband's old sweatshirt, or heading out of the house in an outfit that's not carefully thought out. In fact, my basic summer attire of shorts and a t-shirt (usually one earned at a race of some sort) would be flat-out rejected by most Dutchies as either too plain, too trashy (especially if you have the courage to wear, shudder, sneakers with your shorts), or too unfashionable (I mean, really, who wears shorts and a t-shirt, when you can wear a lovely A-lined skirt with a sleeveless button-down and matching espadrilles!).

And as anyone familiar with Dutch people knows, they love to speak their mind. They love, love, love, love it. In fact, telling a Dutch person they've just insulted you will hardly ever lead to an apology, but almost always to a innocent, wide-eyed, "Well, but I was just telling you what I thought...". Being direct, my dear readers, is a virtue.

Now put those two together, and you could see how Dutch people might be quick to inform anyone not quite dressed to their standards of their heinously poor fashion choices. And that's where my worrying begins.
You see, during my last visits to Holland, I had already noticed that my sense of fashion and the Dutch idea of en-vogue were starting to drift apart somewhat. There was the infamous "leggings under skirts" phase I refused to partake in. But also the "leggings with long t-shirts and belts" fad that I steered clear from. Not to mention the funky habit of combining really hideous colors (think neon pink and bright orange) dubiously dubbed "colour blocking" by the Dutch trendwatchers.
It's not that I walk around stuck in mom-jeans from the 1980s, or lumberjack shirts from the 1990s even, it's just that here in the south, fashion is a little less, well, extreme. Sure, there are women in really tight pants hovering around the malls of the south, and I'm pretty sure I have seen several students in oversized, neon-colored sweaters with belts looped around their waist. But I've also seen plenty of women like myself in boot-cut pants with no-nonsense tops and jackets in earthy hues. Women who, at least down here, get away with not going along with every single latest trend, but just wearing things that are comfortable and somewhat timeless.

I worry because if I look at my friends and relatives back in Holland, they don't do timeless. They don't appear to do comfortable (OK, perhaps I'm wrong here, but when pants are that tight, are they really comfortable?). They just appear to do hip. And fashionable. And tight jeans in tall, clunky boots. And cool-looking coats. And a whole host of other things I don't own, and am probably not aware of. And I worry I am going to stand out like a sore thumb when I go back. Everyone is going to look at me, and not just think that I'm another American, no, they're going to think that I'm another American with no sense of style.

And I don't like that. So I gave in, and bought my first pair of tall, clunky boots last week (the fact that they were on sale at the BX, and really warm helped too). I also ordered a hat that should be both warm and hip (and not just warm).  And my trusty LL Bean wintercoat? Did it pass? Well, although it definitely passed the "is it warm enough" verdict, it didn't even come close to meeting the "European fashionista" bar, and so it will be staying home. I will be taking my brand new, warm-but-trendy wintercoat to Holland with me. Now I just need to find a pair of jeans to go with those brand new boots...

All's well that ends well

So apparently I wasn't just a little sick last week, nope, apparently I had the flu. I can't even remember the last time I had that, but there you have it. Just like everything else I attempt in life, I even have to achieve something impressive when I get sick. I can't just lie on the couch and be miserable for a few days, oh no. I need temperatures around 103, sleepless nights, hot flashes, freezing hands, a cough that sounds like a pack and a half per day, and a good old case of Influenza to feel like I matter.

Personally, however, I wouldn't have dragged myself to the doctor at all. I am the kind who prefers to wallow in her misery (OK, fine, snot) before seeing a health care professional. But when, after three days, my fever wasn't breaking, husband-dear convinced me to go. Was it his worries over my health that sent me driving halfway across town? Or perhaps did his reasoning about long-lasting fevers being unhealthy do the trick? Lord, no. The argument that finally convinced me was that if I didn't see a doctor, I wouldn't be going to back work in the near future. I know, I have issues.

So off to the doctor I went, expecting to be given the full-on Dutch treatment and sent home. For those of you fortunate enough to not know what a Dutch treatment is, allow me to digress. Dutch doctors, and Dutch health care in general, are founded on the concept of even aankijken, or "looking at something for a while", i.e., letting a flu/rash/sore throat/nose/chest congestion run its course for a few days to see if it gets worse or magically heals itself. This means that when you call to make an appointment, a chipper receptionist will ask you how long you've had said ailment, and, as every Dutch person knows, if it hasn't been for at least three days, she'll briskly tell you to call back in a few days for an appointment. Now let's say that you do meet the magical three-day requirement, and get in to see the dokter, that's no guarantee he or she will actually do anything about it. If you have the flu, they will in most cases send you home with the admonition to get back into bed and drink lots of fluids. If you have a cold, you will be told to use a neti pot (stomen), and so on. Basically, unless you're bleeding, suffering from a clear bacterial invasion, pregnant, very old or very young, Dutch dokters prefer to let nature run its course.

Hence, I expected my doctor here in Georgia to tell me to take it easy, drink lots of water, and take an ibuprofen if the fever got above 102.

Well, Dorothy, you're really not in Holland anymore. In fact, you've left the land of unlimited sick leave, bosses telling you to stay home and just rest up, and insurance companies rewarding doctors for prescribing as few drugs as possible, you've left that land far, far, far behind you. Because here in the US, doctors apparently run a little nose swab test to see if you have the flu, before they even come in and talk to you. And when you have the flu, as I did, they will not only prescribe something for your gut-wrenching cough and your stuffy nose, they will also prescribe the miracle drug of all drugs, the drug that in Holland is only prescribed in cases of flu strains referred to by numbers and letters, but that will make you feel better within 48 hours: Tamiflu.

So although I've been a little shaky, and have yet to pick up my running again, I've been feeling like a new person these past two days. I went back to work yesterday, and couldn't have been happier. No more freak temperatures, no more chills, hot flashes, and aches and pains. It's been awesome. And just in time for the final stretch too. What more could a person want?

E-dag: Beetje laat en een griepje

Ik was dus helemaal van plan om dinsdag avond, of als het moest, vroeg op woensdag iets te schrijven over de overwinning van Obama. En uit te leggen hoe ik dit het beste in het Nederlands kon doen, omdat de kans bestaat dat mijn Amerikaanse lezers pro-Romney waren, en ik hen niet voor het hoofd wilde stoten. Ik zou zelfs een alineatje of twee wijden aan de mate waarin de VS werkelijk uit twee kampen bestaat, die zover mogelijk, in een complete andere wereld leven.

Maar toen werd ik ziek, en kwam er van al dat bloggen helemaal niks.

U moet weten dat ik, letterlijk, al zestien jaar niet ziek ben geweest. Ja, ik ben wel eens verkouden, en heb geloof ik ook ergens een keer  bronchitis gehad in al die jaren, maar ik ben al zestien jaar lang koorts vrij. Niks geen dagen verplicht bankhangen, het afwisselend koud en warm hebben, en veel drinken. Ik, ondanks dat ik dankzij mijn studenten, waarschijnlijk met alle mogelijkheden vormen van het griepvirus in aanraking gekomen ben, ik werd nooit ziek.

Tot gisteren dan. Gisterochtend voelde ik al dat ik niet helemaal lekker in mijn vel zat. Dat ik moe was na slechts vier uur slaap, dat was te verwachten, maar een rare hoofdpijn en rare rillingen wezen op iets anders. Natuurlijk ging deze koppige held op sokken gewoon naar haar werk, waar ze dankzij twee Tylenol en wat Ibuprofen het op zich redelijk vol hiel. Tot een uur vier dan, toen het trillen van mijn vingers zo erg werd, dat ik amper mijn computer kon afsluiten.

Bij thuiskomst bleek dat ik de maar liefst 103 graden koorts had (voor onze Celcius-liefhebbers, dat is dus 39.5). Dus, daar ging ik, op de bank, veel drinken, bergen dekens, en proberen te eten. En toen ik gisteravond stelde ik dat morgen (vandaag dus) echt naar mijn werk moest, dreigde manlief met het onklaar maken van mijn auto, "En je weet dat ik weet hoe dat moet.".
"Nou dan neem ik de truck"
"Nou, dan maak ik die ook onklaar. En dan bel ik Dan (mijn technisch aangelegde schoonvader) dat hij je niet mag vertellen hoe het te maken."

Belachelijk, snotterde en proestte ik.

Nu is er gelukkig een ding waar ze in de VS wel heel goed in zijn: over-the-counter medication. Dingen die je in Nederland alleen op recept kan krijgen, zijn hier vrij verkrijgbaar. En, dames en heren, wat is dat geweldig. Ik heb iets voor het hoesten, iets voor mijn hoofdpijn, iets voor de pijn op de borst, en een soort mega-zinc-vitamine pil. En natuurlijk alle geweldige pijnstillers die we hier kennen. Dingen waarvan ik ga slapen, en dingen waarvan ik wakker word. Niks zeuren met stomen, en uren in een dokter's wachtkamer zitten. Je gaat naar je lokale CVS of Kroger of Publix, en voila. 

Maar ja, ziek in de VS is helaas wel gewoon hetzelfde als ziek in Nederland. Aangezien ik me ondertussen toch aardig belabberd voelde, gaf ik toe aan manlief. Momenteel is de koorts, dankzij twee Tylenol en wat ibuprofen, redelijk normaal (nou ja, 100.3 graden, oftewel 38 zoveel), maar persoonlijk vrees ik dat het morgen ook niks word.

Jongens, dit kan niet hoor. Ik heb things to do, places to go, en thuis zitten terwijl ik me niet lekker voel, en dus ook niet behoorlijk kan bloggen, TV kijken, of ander vermakelijke dingen doen, is echt helemaal niks voor mij. En dan hebben we het nog niet eens over alle gemiste hardloop-, fiets-, en zwemkansen. Duimen jullie mee dat het snel weer beter gaat?

E-dag: Wachtend op de uitslag

Eindelijk is het zover: mijn eerst echte Amerikaanse presidentsverkiezing. De eerste waarin ik mee mocht stemmen, en dus de eerste waarbij ik echt het gevoel heb iets te verliezen heb. En lieve mensen, wat een nagelbijter. Al weken, wat zeg ik, maanden is het feest met reclames, nieuws uitzendingen, en rijen van nutteloze statistieken over alle mogelijk denkbare stemgroepen. En dan vandaag is het eindelijk zover. D-day. Of, nou ja, E-day. De dag der alle dagen. De dag waarop iedereen mag stemmen, en dan zeker weet dat ze de komende drie-en-een-half jaar van eindeloze telefoontjes, smakeloze reclames, en bergen post verlost zijn.

En in tegenstelling tot vorige keer is het op het moment dat ik dit schrijf, nog helemaal niet zeker wie er gaat winnen. Er wordt gesproken over een gelijkspel, of een situatie waarbij de winnaar van de kiesmannen niet de meerderheid van de stemmen heeft, of zelfs een herhaling van de verkiezing van 2000, waarbij het Hoge Gerechtshof uiteindelijk het doorslaggevende woord moest geven. Er zijn hele ramp scenario's uit de doeken gedaan, inclusief eentje waarbij het congres uiteindelijk voor president en vice-president moest stemmen, en we met President Romney en Vice-President Biden opgescheept zouden zitten.

En ik kan u zeggen: dat is allemaal veel minder vermakelijk wanneer je zelf gestemd hebt. In 2000, toen ik tijdens de verkiezing en de ellenlange nasleep in Texas zat, was het hele circus eerder ongelooflijk dan zorgwekkend. En toen in 2004, de hele verkiezing af leek te hangen van vijf counties in Ohio, was ik veel meer bezig met de moord op Theo van Gogh, dan dat maffe circus waar ik toch niet aan mee mocht doen. In 2008, met honderden studenten die maar niet op konden houden over het feit dat we misschien wel eens een zwarte president zouden kunnen hebben, werd het al iets echter, maar toch was het meer een interessant antropologisch verschijnschel, dan een toekomst-bepalende ontwikkeling.

Nu, anno 2012, is het allemaal anders. Niet alleen mag ik stemmen (en heb ik dat ook met gepaste trots gedaan), maar ook heb ik, door Amerikaan te worden, me toch wel onlosmakelijk aan dit land, haar politici, en haar toekomst vast gelegd. En dan zijn verkiezingen in een keer veel minder grappig, of apart, of circus-achtig. Het is in een keer serious business, people.

En dus loop ik nu al een uur door het huis te ijsberen, op zoek naar afleiding, terwijl ik eigenlijk mijn ogen niet van de televisie af kan houden. Zenuwslopend is het, zeg ik u. Wie had ooit kunnen weten dat Amerikaan worden zo slecht voor mijn hart zou zijn.

Happy something

If you're one of my Dutch or Belgian readers, you might have woken up this morning and thought about the cold you'll have to bike through, or the meal you're going to be cooking tonight before you even realized that today is Halloween. You might have decided to decorate your home with pumpkins galore, or thought of it as yet another ridiculous American holiday trying to make it on the other side of the ocean. If you're an American living overseas, you might have woken up this morning and realized that although you bought bags and bags of candy, you won't be having any trick or treaters coming to your door,and so you'll be left fighting the urge to eat all those fun-size Snickers and Milikyways yourself all night long.

In case you were expecting the next sentence to start with "If you're an American living stateside" and then state something generalized about the American Halloween experience, I'm sorry to let you down. Because last Monday I realized more than ever that there is no such thing as "The" American, just as there is no such thing as the typical American Halloween experience. In fact, if you live in the south, it is very well possible that you grew up believing Halloween is as evil as, oh, telling someone to shut up.

I always knew that there were Southern Baptists who objected to the celebration of Halloween. The fact that the celebration centers on kids in costumes who spend most of the night and the following days on a sugar high as a result of all the candy consumed on October 31st is irrelevant to them. In their opinion, Halloween has clear pagan roots, celebrates a spirit world unrelated to Jesus and God, and therefore reeks of idol-or in some more fundamentalist cases- devil-worshipping. Yes ma'am. Not to be persuaded by the argument that Halloween could be based on the Catholic "All Hallows' Eve" as much as it could be related to the Pagan feast of Samhain, they forbid their children from dressing up and going trick or treating. In their never-ending quest to save as many souls as possible, they usually refuse to hand out candy to other children as well. Instead, parents of little children dressed as princesses, Spidermen, or a milk carton are left to explain the signs posted on the doors of these unbelievers in Halloween, which usually sport supportive texts like "No candy here! God Bless You!", or "Halloween is not a Godly celebration!".

Instead of celebrating Halloween, then, many of these Southern Baptists attend "Harvest festivals" at their local churches, where bouncy castles, pony rides,  best costume contests, and the oddly named "trunk or treat" are available to entertain their children. It looks like Halloween, it talks like Halloween, it walks like Halloween, but since we're not calling it Halloween, the God of the southern baptists approves.

But this past Monday, when attending another life group session at a local church, I realized that there is yet an entirely different group of believers out there. People who reject Halloween as much as these southern baptists do, but for a completely different reason. These Christians, you see, use October 31 to celebrate Reformation Day.

Reformation Day, for those of you unfortunate enough to be Roman Catholic, Jewish, or heavens forbid, atheist, marks the day that Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the door of the church in Heidelberg. It thus marks the birth of today's protestant movement, and apparently there is an entire subculture of Christians who choose to celebrate this in lieu of Halloween or the Harvest Festival.

When responding to my question about what they would be doing on Wednesday, one of the husbands responded that he always used that day to hand out copies of the 95 theses to his Catholic friends and colleagues. Not understanding why he would do that, I asked why.
"Why, it's Reformation Day, of course!" The pastor's wife explained, and after a few moments, it clicked for me. Reformation Day. Of course.
The pastor's wife went on to wax lyrical about the little Martin Luther costumes they had made for their children. Since a day without sarcasm is a day not lived, and really, who needs friends?, I joined in with the very cynical and not-to-be-taken serious comment, "Oh, you should totally re-enact the nailing of the 95 theses on Wednesday night, that would be so cool".
Husband-dear, who senses the sarcasm, shot me a slightly warning look, but fortunately, the mom whom the comment was addressed to, didn't notice, "Oh wow, that's such a great idea! I think we'll totally do that!"
I smiled a Cheshire cat smile, and added I was always happy to come up with interesting ideas.

So, happy Reformation Day everyone, and make sure you check out the 95 theses today.

To all my Catholic, Jewish, Mormon, Atheist, Agnostic, or people with a sense of humor, rest assured, we will be lighting our pumpkins and handing out candy tonight. We'll just keep some copies of those theses on hand in case the pastor stops by.

Not that kind of doctor

"You need to breathe through the contractions, breathe, sweetie, you need to breathe."

I can assure you that in none of my wildest dreams, I would be the one to utter those words. Yet last Wednesday, I got to do just that. It started off innocent enough. One of my Intro students, let's call her Lea, came into my office five minutes before class started, "I was just wondering if I could have an excused absence today."

"What for?"

"Well, I've been having contractions.."

"You...what? You're pregnant?" (That, children, is why you go to school for 22 years, so you can ask if someone is pregnant when they claim they're having contractions).

"Yes, seven months." Lea grimaced, "Oooh, and there's another one."

Not quite sure what social protocol called for in this situation, does one look away? Pretend nothing is going on? Rush to aid the lady in question? I decided that the best course of action would be to just keep asking questions (again, kids, that is why you go to school).

"When did they start?"

"I've been having them since midnight."

"Midnight?! Why aren't you in the hospital?!"

At this point, Lea was distracted for a few minutes by more, eh, pressing matters, but her answer spoke volumes about my doubt that I had been becoming too lenient on my students, "Well, I didn't know if I would be allowed to miss class."

"Well, I would argue that having contractions, and possibly going into labor is a valid excuse if there ever was one."

"I also didn't want to miss anything, you know, with the paper due and all."

After telling Lea she was absolutely not going to class in this condition, I picked up the phone to call campus police. While Lea groaned and moaned through another contraction, I requested that the police call an ambulance. When that was done, I asked Lea if she wanted to stay with me in my office. 

"No, let's go to class, I can wait there until the EMTs show up. Whether I sit there or here, makes no difference. I might as well learn something"

Quiet Lea was turning out to be quite the dedicated student

As we waddled to class (how could I not have noticed she was pregnant?! Again, you can have had too much schooling, honestly), I asked a passing student to get the cushy chair out of the waiting area and place it in my classroom. Although I assumed the EMTs would be there any second, I figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

And sorry I was. Ten minutes later, Lea had had one contraction, and was wailing through the second. And when I say wailing, I mean wailing. Abandoning all efforts at taking roll, or normalcy, or cool cucumberness for that matter, I instructed the students slowly trickling into class, "She's having contractions. Yes, Mike, she's pregnant. You, get some wet paper towels. You, get some cold water, you two, find the nearest cop, and figure out why the ambulance isn't here yet."

My students rose to the occasion as one, while I (with one lamaze class under my belt as the buddy to a pregnant friend with a deployed husband) and another student who had a baby, sat with Lea, and tried to get her to breeeeaaaaaathe.
"I haven't taken Lamaze yet, " Lea explained after one contraction abated, "I thought I had time."
"Well, you're getting a crash course now."

Finally, finally, the EMTs showed up. I have never been happier to see the men in the logoed t-shirts, not even when I was the one in need of help. They took Lea to the labor and delivery unit, while I continued my class as though dealing with pre-term labor was just another course objective.

And Lea? She showed up two days later, explaining she was on bedrest and some serious medication.
"So why are you here?"
"Well, I didn't want to miss class. And I wanted to make sure you had my excuse for Wednesday."

I'm telling you this baby's middle name is going to be dedication.

Why Dutch books make me cry: code-switching and husband-dear

I have a confession to make. Well, three actually: 1) my husband barely speaks Dutch, 2) this is my fault, and 3) I don't care all that much.

Having said that, I do envy Dutch women whose American husbands can speak Dutch. Who can join in on conversations, watch Dutch movies with them, and who, subsequently, have no problem holding a conversation with various elderly relatives who may not speak English. Who, when you try to discuss something about the kids in front of the kids, can switch back and forth between English and Dutch as though it's a piece of cake, and who understand why "Shall we but" truly is very funny. To me, it just seems to add another layer of ease to one's daily life.

Interestingly, I know of people who believe that being fluent in a spouse's native tongue is a lot more than just an added bonus to daily life. The other day, in fact, I read a blog that posited  that unless you speak someone's native language, you don't truly know them. A fact that would imply that, since husband-dear's Dutch doesn't go beyond "Een kopje koffie klinkt erg lekker, ja.", he has yet to meet the real Dixiechick. In general, this idea appears to ring true. After all, if you were raised speaking one language, grew up immersed in its culture and discourse, then that language (and its subsequent cultural, social, and ideological implications) has defined who you are. And although expressing yourself in your spouse's language might become second nature after a while, it is still that: second nature. You can be as fluent as humanly possible, unless your significant other speaks your language, there will be a cultural gap between the two of you, no matter how minor.

Now, although there (I'm sure) plenty of gaps between husband-dear and myself (I mean, if someone can tell me why he thinks it's acceptable to get up at 6:30 on a weekend, that would be great), a cultural-language gap isn't one of them. Although my parents raised me speaking Dutch, I grew up in countries other than The Netherlands, and not only quickly became fluent in English, but also became an expert at code-switching. I learned that there was a language used for school, for home, and for the outside world. The Netherlands, its cultural values, social beliefs, and popular culture became something restricted to vacations and care packages filled with drop and the latest gossip magazine. And when we moved back, I never felt at home the way I did before we left, and in fact spent the better part of the next few years trying to get away again (and mostly succeeding at it too).

So when I met husband-dear, speaking English was something I never even thought about. I had always thought of English as my second native language (as evidenced my mounds of drama-filled, woe-is-me-teen-angst-riddled, English-language journals), husband-dear didn't speak Dutch, and so I just spoke the language that had always come easiest to me anyway: English. When we argued, we argued in English. When I cried, I cried in English. When I had nightmares, they were in English. There were no "this comes easier to me in Dutch" moments for me, ever.

In spite of all of that, though, I really did want husband-dear to learn Dutch. I'm not sure why, but I did. Perhaps I really wanted him to be able to talk my 90-year old grandfather. Or perhaps I was worried about getting  dementia, and, like so many others, reverting to the language I learned first. Or, and this is just a teeny, tiny possibility, but perhaps I figured that since I had moved halfway around the world for him, the least thing he could was learn to speak Dutch. Whatever the reason was, husband-dear threw himself into it with his usual vigor. He purchased Rosetta Stone, and for weeks harassed me with questions about prepositions, conjugations, and other things I, due to my own lack of education in the Dutch language, didn't know. He would pick up the phone with "Het paard eet een wortel", and "De man staat op het dak", and we would instate "only Dutch" afternoons at our house. We really tried. We did. But at the end of the day, I would always switch back to English. Not him, nope, me. It was just easier than trying to speak Dutch with someone who is just learning. Especially when there was no dire need to speak Dutch fluently yet (my grandmother is still able to translate for him, and I have yet to show a sign of dementia).

So once he picked up the basics, and I stopped showing a real interest, husband-dear put his considerable energy into other endeavors. And I was OK with that. Still am, really. I can express myself in English just fine, and don't really see a need for my poor overworked husband to spend hours per week studying a language his wife doesn't even care to speak.

But then last night I suddenly uncovered a reason why I maybe should have pushed the matter more. I was organizing some of my old Dutch children's books. Books that are destined for other Dutch-Americans with children who do speak Dutch. And with each book that passed through my hands, I remembered reading it. I remembered twirling my hair and losing myself in each novel, whether it was about crusades, world war II, boarding schools, horse farms, or an imaginary place called Thule. I remembered how lonely I used to be as a child, and how these books became my friends, and helped me create my own fantasy-world where I would retreat to when things were not as easy as they could have been. And then I realized: because my husband cannot read Dutch, that is a part of me he would never know. In spite of all of my language skills, the immersion in cultures other than the Dutch one, there was one part of me that was undeniably Dutch. It was a sad thought.

Of course, when I told husband-dear, he said three things: 1) You can tell me about each and every book, 2) If there are movies made about these books, we can watch them together, even if they're in Dutch, and 3) I will start learning Dutch again, if you'd like me to.

And that is why he rocks, both in Dutch and in English.

Bike versus car: bills, bills, bills

Whenever most Europeans hear the words "America" and "health care" in one sentence, they'll most likely add "trouble" in their heads. Funnily enough, although we spend a lot of time talking about health care, no one in my circle of friends and family has experienced those three things simultaneously. In fact, most of us are happily (if not expensively) insured, and in those few cases where people aren't, one usually doesn't hear a whole lot about it.

Now that didn't mean that when I lost my bike v. car battle, I didn't worry just a little. After all, although Tricare has been incredibly fair and helpful over the years, this was America, and who knows what kind of fine print Tricare had hidden away somewhere that would preclude health care for people dumb enough to ride their bikes on Georgia roads. And even though husband-dear told me that I would be fine, and Tricare would cover the ambulance ride, the care I got in the ER, and pretty much everything else, I wasn't so sure. I asked around about other people's experiences, and heard all sorts of horror stories. From insurance companies refusing to pay because the expenses were the result of an accident, leaving the person to battle with the other party's auto insurance, to insurance companies promising they would pay, not following through and not telling their customer about this, leaving them to deal with charming collection agencies, to auto insurance companies refusing to reimburse the victim's health insurance, which led to all levels of bureaucratic hell.

But after having followed the required "call your PCM within 24 hours after having received emergency care", I decided there was little I could do about anything, and let it go. No, really, I did. I was too busy pondering the future of my tri-career to worry about pesky little things such as medical bills. I know, I know, thousands of people go bankrupt over medical expenses every year, and I'm more concerned about whether or not I'll be able to beat my 6:26 half-iron record next year.

Anyway, until the EMS bill came in, that is. A grand total of $500 for a ten-minute ride. Since I was expecting an amount closer to a thousand, the amount itself didn't do much for me (except lead to a whole lot of speculation about why Georgia ambulance rides are so cheap). The fact that I was receiving a bill in the first place was, however, a lot more alarming. Although I don't know about other, possibly fancier, health insurance companies, I do know that when you're with Tricare, you don't usually see a bill. Unless someone screwed up, in which case you're in for a lot of lengthy and potentially blood-pressure increasing phone calls. And that was the last thing I was looking forward to. Since the bill had the ominous "You are responsible for making sure your insurance company pays this bill, and will be responsible for any late payments" warning on it, you can imagine that I had immediately determined that Tricare would forget to pay, and I would end up owing the EMS company thousands and thousands of dollars in fees and interest, and would end up going bankrupt.

What can I say? I have a very creative mind.

Anyway, the bill came in on Thursday night, and that week was a particularly busy one for me. So busy, in fact, that I forgot to call the EMS company or Tricare, and when I remembered the bill on Sunday night, I was so worn out, the prospect of bankruptcy and financial ruin just didn't do it for me anymore. Of course, how these things work is that the Tricare notification of payment came in the next day. They had in fact, in a burst of efficiency, paid all of my bills: the EMS, the ER, the pharmacy, everything. It was awesome.

But not as awesome as seeing what Tricare actually paid. For those of you not familiar with Tricare, it's basically a government-run program (which makes the notion of military members opposing universal government-regulated health care a contradiction to say the least, but I digress), which means that if you go to an off-base facility where the patients will be charged, they like to control what something costs. Although they cover almost everything (well, except IVF...yeah, I know, very ironic), that doesn't mean they'll pay full price for it. Your doctor may charge you $100 for a test, but if Tricare will not pay more than $50 for that test (they like to call this the "approved amount"), then that is what the doctor will get. And to prevent doctors from rolling the remaining amount over onto the patient, Tricare also lets the doctor know what they're allowed to charge the patient. So even though I thought that the $500 for my ambulance ride was reasonable, Tricare apparently didn't think so. The amount they paid? $114. Yes, that would be a little over a hundred dollars. Call me strange, but I almost feel bad for the EMS company. With all the military folk and their dependents around here, there's no way they're even close to breaking even with amounts like that.

After about five minutes, however, that sense of guilt disappeared, as I realized that my bills had been paid, and the fight about who would pay for what was off my plate. People have been telling me I should call the driver's auto insurance company and demand a settlement for pain and suffering, but you know what, I'm not going to. Personally, I'm just happy to know that all this has been taken care of. And for all those times during baby-gate that I cussed out Tricare for not paying a single dime? I'm sorry about that Yeah, nope, still not cool with that. Sorry.

Chintz and curves: The doctor will see you now

Paintings of flowers, plants, or open windows overlooking something natur-y (a pond, the ocean, woods, or an English garden). Chintz wallpaper, or if you're in a particularly hip one, striped wallpaper. A chair rail. Plush carpets, or possibly a shiny hard wood floor covered in fake Persian rugs. Winged chairs with curly feet. Or if the room is a little smaller, high-backed curvy chairs covered in chintzy fabric. Fake plants. A television set, and stacks of outdated magazines about horses, golf, and if you're in the hip one with the striped wallpaper, a few People magazines.

No, this is not your grandmother's living room (or my grandmother's living room for that matter). Nor is it the waiting room in a nursing room. None of all that. This would be what your average southern doctor's office looks like.

After spending most of Friday in either my own dentist's office, the kids' orthodontist's office, and a variety of other waiting rooms, I couldn't help but marvel at how completely Miss-Marplified all these waiting rooms were. Perhaps I'm just signed up with all the wrong doctors, and all other southerners get to sit in sleek, modern waiting rooms outfitted with wifi and free espressos. However,  considering the variety of doctors we have had the pleasure of seeing in the past few years (orthodontists, pediatricians, a variety of baby-related doctors), I am going to go out on a limb and argue that I have a vague notion of what your average non-metro southern waiting room looks like. And they all pretty much look like the description above.

Granted, I'm used to the no-nonsense waiting rooms more commonly found in Europe and New England. Waiting rooms that contain lots of stone and, if you're in a particularly hip practice, marble. Waiting rooms where rugs are an absolute no-no, and patients instead get highly polished floors, faux design chairs (that admittedly are anything but comfortable), and lots of glass all around, including on the tables. Rooms that definitely do not have a flat screen TV tuned to Dr. Phil or The View, or if you're very unlucky, The O'Reilly Factor. Waiting rooms that, to me anyway, spell, "I'm busy, professional, and am here to get the job done". A thought with which, for some reason, I'm a lot more comfortable than something that makes me think of the set from "Who's the Boss" or "Family Ties"

And here's my question: Why? I mean, really, why? Why do southern non-metro doctors of a wide variety of backgrounds feel that their patients would feel most at ease when they're kept waiting in a room that resembles something their grandmother might have appreciated? I suppose one could argue that this type of decor is what southerners are familiar with, you know, that southern homes are crammed with chintz, curved chairs, and pictures of dogs, ponds, and forests. But after having visited a large number of genuine (versus transplanted) southern homes, none of whom look as though they came straight out of the Andy Griffith show, I'm going to go with a blunt "no" on that idea. So familiarity isn't it. I briefly entertained the idea that perhaps every single doctor in rural Georgia employs the same, ancient, born in the 1930s interior designer, but then rejected that since I remember several doctors proudly telling me they designed their own offices. So then the only reason that is left (aside from a severe shortage of marble, faux-designer chairs, and glass) is expectation management. You see, whenever I see an office decorated in a way my great-grandmother would approve of, my expectations for the doctor's abilities dwindle a little as well. Call me superficial, but there you have it. So whatever state the doctor's office is in really doesn't matter after having been exposed to chintz, curves, and The View for half an hour or more, it's all good. Very, very smart, when you think about it. Perhaps Dutch doctors should consider throwing out their marble and designer chair for a few winged chairs and a fake Persian as well. If nothing else, it would be more comfortable for the patients.

Mijn wingman

Vandaag was het eindelijk zo ver: mijn eerste fietsrit na mijn ongeluk. En na twee weken waarin ik niet veel meer kon dan zitten, lopen, en liggen, en ontzettend goed klagen over mijn rug, werd het hoog tijd dat ik weer iets aan sport ging doen. Het was niet dat ik niet wilde hoor. Integendeel. Ik was drie dagen na het ongeval alweer klaar om op mijn fiets te springen. Alleen was was mijn rug het daar niet zo mee eens. Begrijpelijk. Maar ja, toen ik na een week nog steeds na de minste beweging plat op de vloer kon gaan liggen, was ik het ergens wel een heel klein beetje beu. En toen dat tien dagen duurde, was ik het toch wel een heel klein beetje heel erg beu. Mijn 'heating pad' draaide overuren, en in de auto werd het aanklikken van de 'bun warmers' net zo standaard als het aanzetten van de airco. Na twee weken, vandaag dus, was ik er echt helemaal klaar mee. En met mij, de rest van de familie, tot aan de honden toe, dus ook. Gelukkig werkte mijn rug vanochtend mee, en na een kwartier op mijn trouwe kameraad 'mr. Heating pad' gelegen te hebben, sprong ik samen met manlief op de fiets.

Het was geweldig. De wind op mijn gezicht, de zon op mijn armen, het ruisende geluid van de wielen, het was fantastisch. Totdat we de grote weg opdraaide, en de eerste auto me inhaalde. Lichtelijk in paniek wijkte ik uit naar rechts, bijna tegen manlief aan, "Hon, die auto kwam niet eens bij je in de buurt"
"Ja maar, hij ging wel mooi niet naar de linkerbaan." we stapten weer op de fiets, en toen een tweede auto naar de linkerbaan uitweek alvorens langs ons te razen, dook ik weer in een, "Dit is best wel eng."
De derde auto, die er voor koos om niet geheel naar de linkerbaan uit te wijken, kreeg een, "Are you out of your freaking mind?! Really?!" naar zijn hoofd. En toen moest ik toch echt tot de conclusie komen dat ik best wel eens een klein traumaatje aan het ongeluk overgehouden kon hebben. Een kleintje, maar een trauma nonetheless.
Gelukkig had ik manlief niet voor niks meegenomen. Na de tweede of derde auto ging hij schuin achter me rijden, zodat hij iets verder op de weg reed dan ik. Zijn redenering? Zo zouden ze hem eerder zien dan ik. En deden ze dat niet, dat zouden ze hem eerst aanrijden. Zo'n jongen wil je op zo'n moment toch gewon zoenen? Hij noemde zichzelf mijn wingman, en dankzij mijn wingman verliep het uurtje op de fiets perfect.

Nou alleen allemaal even duimen dat mijn rug dat ook vindt.

The S- word

Just a precaution before I begin: if you don't like cuss words, or if you are someone who actually uses the term "cuss words", you may want to skip this post. Not that I'm about to start bandying the f-bomb around, but there will be repeated use of the d-word. And possibly also the s-word. So considered yourselves warned.

For the past few weeks, husband-dear have been church-hunting. We have, among other things, joined a "life group" (i.e., an adult bible study) at a church right around the corner from our house. We're not committing that church just yet, and we're also not entirely sure about the life group itself, especially after last night, but we figured we'd give it a try. Today, as I walked in with my heating pad and extension cord, one of the other life group attendees asked the obvious question ("why?") followed up by a less obvious question, "So your back is still not OK?", to which I responded with a heartfelt, "No. I mean, damn, it hurts."

The silence punctured by a few uneasy giggles that followed that statement made me realize I had once again committed a serious faux pas. You see, proper southern Christians do not swear. Or excuse me, cuss. Jesus doesn't like it.

So I quickly made up an excuse, and muttered something about having to give a come to Jesus talk to one of my students right before I left. Now this did actually happen. A fellow professor had complained to me about one my advisees running his mouth in class, and so when I saw said student, let's call him Jack, I called Jack into my office. Jack's excuse was that the professor had "crossed the line" a week prior, and Jack wasn't having any of it. What line had the professor crossed? Well, he had had the audacity to cuss Jack out. More specifically, he had told Jack to "stop messing around in class, dammit." So I asked the student what the professor had meant by "messing around", to which Jack responded he might have possibly been chatting and napping during class. Well, I argued, you probably needed a good wake up call then, didn't you?
"But, professor, he cussed. Like, OMG, you don't cuss." Jack sounded very sincere. Unfortunately, for Jack anyway, I know him a little too well.
"You cuss yourself, Jack, you know that."
"No I don't. Honestly, professor."
"Dammit Jack, have you read own tweets lately? They're not exactly G-rated either, are they?"I shook my head, "How can you play all high and mighty offended Christian when your own tweets use more cusswords than your average hip hop song? Seriously?"
At this point, Jack got the idea.

Unfortunately, my fellow life group members didn't.
"Oh no, " on of them exclaimed, "And here I was, feeling bad that today, when my second graders were really pushing my buttons, I no longer had the energy to tell them "shush", but instead told them to shut up. Wow."
A collective "oooh" indicated that this was, apparently, very bad, a thought further underlined by a second member's response, "Yeah, I always have my kindergartners tell on each other when that happens, 'Hey, Mrs. C., so and so just said the s-word', 'what did they say honey? It's OK you can tell me', 'well, they told me to shut up'. It's so cute"

So besides not discussing armpit hair, apparently telling someone to shut up is also unacceptable now. And the funny thing is, none of this is in the bible. Yes, there is the commandment that tells you to not use the Lord's name in vain, one which would lead my Jewish friend to edit that last sentence to spell "L-d". But unless one tells someone to shut up in God's (or G-d's) name, I'm not seeing it. And then of course there is Ephesians 4, where Paul tells his readers to let nothing but wholesome talk come from their mouths. When "damn" is used to reflect a "wow!" or "man!", is that unwholesome? When you tell a bunch of rowdy kids to shut up, is that not wholesome? Is learning to be quiet not wholesome? Apparently, I'm missing something here.

On the other hand, it does explain why my student was so upset. Not only was he cussed at, he was told in no uncertain terms to stop doing something. And that's not wholesome, apparently.
But seriously though, and I'm quoting The Princess Diaries here (an overall wholesome movie)
Shut. Up.

Bike versus car: Reality check

Just a few moments ago, I decided to look over my bike and bike shoes for the first time after Sunday's accident. Since the only part of the car to actually hit me was the mirror, I wasn't expecting to find a whole lot. I mean, yes, I had tumbled off my bike afterwards, but a mere fall doesn't do a whole lot to your bike. Trust me, I have ample experience.

So I walked into the garage, looked at my bike, and the first thing I noticed was that the left handlebar was bent. Although I remember the nose of the car streaking right by me, I didn't remember it hitting my bike at all. Could it have really been that close? Really? Husband-dear appears in the garage, and I show him the bike too. He frowns, straightens it out (long live carbon fiber!), and the offers up that it could have happened when the police officer put the bike in his trunk to drop off at our house. Good point. We both like that.
Then I notice that the plastic little cover on top of the right gear shifter is cracked. OK, well, that can be explained by my falling into the grass. And although it can't be fixed, I will do just fine with a little crack to remind me of my guardian angel.
Just as I'm about to congratulate myself on the fact that it all really wasn't so bad, I pick up my bike shoes. And notice that the clip on the left shoe is completely bent forward. Bent at an angle that is obviously not the result of me falling into the grass. An angle that could have only been caused by something hitting it from behind. Something solid, like, oh, I don't know the nose of a car. The nose of the car that apparently hit the clip on my shoe a mere quarter of an inch away from my leg, but not my leg.

For the first time since Sunday my cavalier, "It wasn't a big deal at all, really, I will be fine, so what's the fuss." attitude has cracked just a little. A bent handlebar, fine. A cracked shifter cover, cool. But the car hit the clip on my shoe, not the shoe itself, not my foot, or my leg, and all I have is some mirror-shaped bruises?
Yeah.
Nothing better happen to me in the next ten years, because I obviously just used up all of my luck.

Bike versus car: No class today

There's a statement in my syllabus which goes something like this: "In the event of a class cancellation, an email will be sent out to the address you have on file in bannerweb. Make sure you check that email address regularly". Whenever we walk through the syllabus, on the first day of class, I always add, "But I don't think I've ever had to cancel class before, so don't worry about that," and all my students laugh half-heartedly, while I can read in their eyes that they wish the impossible-tough-as-nails Dr. D would cancel class. Just once. During major events such as homecoming, a general election, or major storms, some of them will even hopefully offer up the possibility of cancelling class, but it just never happens. Rain, high water, free food at the Student Union, landslide victories, and tornado watches, nothing has ever stopped my classes from happening.

If anything has ever proven that we all need to eat our words at times, that right there does, as today is the second day this week I've been unable to get up off the couch, and I do mean literally unable to get up off the couch. And it's not even my fault. Well, by earthly standards anyway.

This past Sunday, I went out for a short bike ride. I didn't want to go on the ride, but as I always do, I went anyway, because lately, if I go with my gut and only do what I want to do, I'd be doing very little indeed. As you might have surmised from my past few blogs, I have not been in the most loving, tolerant, go-with-the-flow kind of moods, which has extended from my work to pretty much everything else in my life. In fact, whenever I've been going on runs, swims, or bike rides, I have used that time to complain, either in my head, or out loud to God. I mean, what has He been thinking these past few months. Why has everything been so hard? Why can't I get a break? And, most importantly, why won't He answer me?

Well, the second lesson of this blog is that you gotta be careful what you wish for, because this past Sunday God not so much spoke to me as He gave me a big old smack on the ass. Literally. Only He used a car to do so. A white Honda, if I remember correctly.

While I was cycling down a parkway near our house, a beautiful straight four-lane highway with wide shoulders and kvetching about the crazy wind, my tired legs (unacceptable! I'd only ran nine miles the day before! C'mon!), the fact that it was Sunday which meant tomorrow was Monday, and goodness knows whatever else, life suddenly slowed down. At first there was the nose of a car that edged up to within an inch of leg. Then there was a deafening crack, and after a moment of utter silence an intense pain in my side told me that crack had been something hitting my body. I remember managing to unclip my feet from my paddles, and tumbling into the grass, where I lay wondering who was screaming. That would have been me. I looked over, and saw a white car screeching to a stop. A woman came running up to me, in tears, her cell phone in her hand, "I'm calling 911, are you OK? I'm a nurse, are you OK?"

For one second, I stopped. Was I OK? Well, obviously, I wasn't dying, I was breathing, my limbs appeared to all be working, and aside from the stinging pain in my side, I was OK. My mind, the same one that talked me into running a half marathon with two injured knees, the one that keeps me going after an eighty hour work week and twenty hours of sleep, started to pipe up, and tell me I could just get up and get home. I mean, yeah, you just got hit by a car, but you're not bleeding, you're not dying, so seriously, man up, and get your ass up off the grass.

You will all be delighted to know that for the first time in a very, very long time, I told my mind to can it. My hip was killing me, I'd been hit by a car going 55 mph, I could tell my bike was bent up, and I was not OK. I was not going to pretend to be superwoman here, lying on the side of the road.

So I told the lady my hip was hurting really badly, and it needed to be checked out. The lady relayed this information to the 911 operator, and as my breathing finally settled down, she started to get more and more upset, "I didn't see you! I was talking to the kids in the car, and I didn't see you. But look at you, how could I have not seen you (I always ride in a neon yellow jersey). I am so sorry, oh God..."
What happened to me then is what happens to me a lot when I'm upset, but people around me are even more upset, I become this really calm person. Not sure where it comes from, or why I can't conjure that woman up more often, but there she was. Patting the woman's hand, I told her I was not dying, and was probably going to be OK. I told her stuff like this just happens, and it's not as though she did it on purpose.

The ambulance showed up at the same time as about four police cars, as well as a fire truck. Apparently, our county doesn't take chances with accidents involving cyclists, and pulls out all the stops. Well, that, and the fact that, according to the EMTs, it had been a slow Sunday afternoon, probably helped to bring everyone out too. Information was taken down, and one police officer was dispatched to notify husband-dear of my accident. And it wasn't until the EMTs pulled the stretcher up to push it into the back of ambulance, when I saw all the traffic backed up on the parkway, and the broken mirror lying on the side of the road, that it hit me, I have just been in a car accident. And I'm still conscious to talk about it. What a miracle.

Anyway, the next two hours were spent in the ER, talking to doctors, nurses, police officers, and assuring the boys (as well as husband-dear) that I really was going to be OK. And I am. Nothing was broken, I was diagnosed with a "severe contusion" (as well as a case of really stinking good luck), and sent home with some wicked pain killers.

So I've spent the past day on the couch, on my right side, occasionally shifting the pillows I use to prop myself up around, and requesting a fresh ice pack. The outline of the mirror that hit me is slowly starting to show up on my behind, and the bulge means I've only been able to wear shorts or sweatpants.

While I think my back will feel good enough to go back to work tomorrow, being forced into two days of bed rest has been somewhat nice. Painful, but nice. Just note that you really do need to be careful what you wish for

Three posts

Three posts in a month, when the month is already half-gone has got to be record. Not a good record, but a record nonetheless. And it's not as though there hasn't been a whole lot to write about, as there has been. There is the band booster club membership, Friday night football, bake sale woes, and of course the usual cotton gracing the side of my commute every day. Plenty of opportunities for cynicism and sarcasm to abound, one would think.

But then there are also fifty surveys that need analyzed, tests that need written, children's books that need purged, the usual mess that is academics that needs dealt with, and a brain that just can't stop running in fifty different directions. I know my motto used to be to just write through everything, but lately that just hasn't been working for me. There is just too much going on to find the space and the stillness needed to write about all the thoughts swirling through my head.

So I'm sorry for not being the faithful blogger I like to think I usually am. I hope I'll get back to being that same blogger soon. but for now, just bear with me.

The bathroom rhyme

As some of you may recall, I have a thing with bathrooms. I've written about the strange propensity of American public restroom stalls to have gaps so wide you can easily use them to hold your clutch while you're using your facilities. I've written about the lack of decent bathrooms in China, and I've waxed lyrical about the awesomeness of a bathroom visit at work. I have in fact, added a label specifically for this obsession of mine, since I have the feeling this won't be the last time I'll be posting about my various bathroom experiences.

Lately, however, my bathroom experience at work has been marred by a custom that I think might possibly be a truly American invention: the bathroom rhyme.

The bathroom rhyme is nothing more than an admonition to the various bathroom users to do or not do something, set to an iambic pentameter, and written so that it rhymes. They're usually printed on brightly colored paper with a smiley face, a bunch of flowers, or some other interesting graphics pulled from Microsoft Words' selection of symbols. A very popular one would be:

"If you sprinkle when you tinkle,
Please be neat and wipe the seat!"

While in Holland, one might find a brusque white piece of paper hung over the toilet stating something like, "(please) wipe the seat after usage!" , here in the US we like to make our toilet users smile. Or chuckle. Or at least have an enjoyable experience while wiping one's urine off the toilet seat. As I'm obviously not a fan of these little bursts of poetry, I'm not sure what the maker is trying to accomplish, other than annoy the heck out of people, but I'm sure they serve some sort of purpose really well, as I see them everywhere.

I've seen these admonitions at the kids' schools, in office buildings, and really any other place filled with the same type of female who will have those encouraging slogans hanging in her cubicle, say things like, "Oh my stars!", and wear hose regardless of the outside temperature. I have, however, never seen them in an academic environment. Well, except the College of Education, but they don't count. They are known to, in an effort to convey the power of teaching through visual aids and bulletin boards, use colorful bulletin boards complete with 3D symbols and slogans to explain everything down to how to apply for Financial Aid. But I digress.

I had never seen these things at work until last week. I was happy. I knew to keep the bathroom clean, and judging by its appearance, so did everyone else. But then one day,when I sat down to do my business, I noticed a new sign on our door. It was neon green, and in bold curly script told the user to "Please don't be in such a rush, when you're done make sure you flush!".

I was so appalled that this fourth grade level PSA style had now also made it into my bathroom, that when I stepped out (after making sure I had flushed, of course), and saw our new secretary coming down the hallway, I said, "Hey, did you see the new sign in the bathroom?"
"Yes!" She beamed, "I wrote that. People kept forgetting to flush. Do you like it?"
As a true southerner, I spoke up before I gave any further thought to the matter, "Yes, it's very cute."
"Good!" The woman warmed to her task, "I was thinking we could also use something to ask people to wipe the seat."
And before I knew it, I once again piped up, "How about 'if you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat'. They use that in the college of education."
"Oh, that is just a great idea! I think I'll use that!" I think the women might have been genuinely excited at my suggestions. I, on the other hand, am still not sure what on earth came over me at that moment.

Anyway, we now have two signs adorning our bathroom. One green, one yellow.  And I'm sure there are more to come now that someone has opened the floodgates. I'm thinking "Don't be dope, wash your hands with soap" might be next, but trust me, they won't get it from me.

Aaaand she's back!

(again).

It is with great joy, pride, and relief that I'm able to inform you that my four inch promotion and tenure portfolio was turned in yesterday at approximately 9:25am. Three weeks minutes six hours in the making, with every free hour spent on compiling all the work I've done in the past five years, lots of nightmares about lost letters, misplaced tabs, and random natural disasters destroying my binder, and I still managed to turn it in a day early. Take that, leaders who told me I wasn't up until 2013. You might make me cry, but that won't stop me from turning in a beautifully labeled, militarily organized, and narrated portfolio.
Yes, I'm a nerd.

For those of you who missed the drama: I was always under the impression I wasn't up for promotion and tenure until 2013. Until I, in all of my anal-retentive-type-A awesomeness, decided to attend the p&t prep meeting a year early, and found out, that, guess what! Not only was I up in 2012, but the application, i.e., a portfolio with all my work from the past five years organized into the four categories of teaching, achievement, research, and service, was due three weeks from that day. Today. In case you were wondering why I was absent for three weeks, that's why.

What was most amazing about putting together my portfolio (aside from the fact that I was able to get it done at all) is that I had no idea I had done this much stuff since 2007. No idea at all. Every time I couldn't immediately think of something to fit a specific category (such as "Service: National and International"), it would take just one dive into my filing cabinet for me to realize that hey! I've actually served as a consultant for a Dutch university on the formation of their IRB...cool! Or, oh yeah! I did go to that workshop in DC, I remember now. I had to grade online homework on the breaks. You get the idea.
At any rate, it does finally explain why I'm so tired all the time.

The second amazing finding is that I've finally realized that being a triple-type-A personality with a slight case of OCD is actually really, freaking awesome. From now on, I'm going to no longer mock myself for creating to-do lists for everything, organizing the children's closets based on color, season, and usage, or any of the other things that most people find slightly peculiar. I might even declare September 7 national-love-your-quirks day, in fact. And why? Well, because without my tendency to worry about things years in advance, and organize everything I can get my hands on, I would have not already had a folder labeled "promotion and tenure stuff". A folder in which, for the past two years, I have been tossing everything that might, someday (like, oh, in 2013) be relevant for my portfolio. A folder which, on Thursday night, after I used all of my self-control to not break down during the promotion and tenure prep meeting (known in the DixieChick house as The Meeting), I picked up out of my drawer, took home, and which became the backbone for all the work I did over the next three weeks. I had certificates in there for things I had forgotten all about ("oh, wow, the Air Force gave me this volunteer appreciation certificate. Oh yeah, for working with the airmen. I got a certificate. Honey! Did I ever tell you I got a certificate from the base?").

So now that the blessed thing is out of my hands, the waiting game begins. Officially, we won't hear anything until early January. Unless we're denied, in which case I'll hear something in either September (if the Chair denies me), October (if the Promotion and Tenure committee denies me), or November (if the Dean or Provost denies me). But unofficially, the grapevine around our college works very well, and I should know something within the next month or two.

With the type-A/anal retentive/OCD personality outlined in the previous paragraph, you would think I am on pins and needles to find out the results of the process. Heck, I  would expect me to be on pins and needles. But strangely enough, I'm not. (well, not yet, anyway). I actually feel pretty confident right now. Not only was my confidence boosted by the fact that apparently a lot of people on campus really like me, if judged by the ease and speed with which everyone I asked wrote these glowing letters of recommendation for me, and by the sheer volume of the stuff I was able to put in the portfolio, but also by the fact that if the committee sticks to the rubric they give to candidates, I should get somewhere around a 108%.

I'm sure that within the next few weeks and days (heck, even hours, knowing me), I'll change my mind, and convince myself that there is NO way any one is ever going to give me tenure, let alone promotion. But for now, I'm feeling pretty OK.

So with that thought (and the promise of lots of stories about bathroom rhymes to come this week), I'll wish you all a very awesome weekend!

Pie en Tie

Pie en Tie - dat is sinds afgelopen donderdag het centrum van mijn leven. De reden van mijn bestaan. Daar sta ik mee op, en ga ik mee naar bed. En soms droom ik er zelfs over.

Pie en Tie staat natuurlijk voor "promotion and tenure", het gevreesde "maken of breken" moment van elke Amerikaanse academicus. Waar je in Nederland na een jaar een vast contract krijgt, mits je niemand vermoord hebt, de secretaresse te vriend hebt gehouden, en je studenten ook niet gillend weggelopen zijn, is het hier in Amerika een heel ander verhaal. Hier mag je na zes vijf jaar bewijzen, door middel van een enorme portfolio, dat je een mega-geweldige onderzoeker-slash-onderwijzer-slash-community-activist bent. Kan je dat, dan krijg je promotie (naar Associate Professor) en "tenure", oftewel, het felbegeerde vaste contract.

Volgens mijn planning de planning van mijn vakgroepsvoorzitter zou ik in 2013 opgaan voor "p & t". En mijn planning hield dus in dat ik de hele zomer voor de deadline mezelf bezig zou houden met het in elkaar zetten van een prachtige portfolio. Ik zou een mooie, zakelijke-maar-simpele map uitzoeken. Er zouden bijpassende tabbladen bijkomen, met mooie geprinte labels. Ik zou de tijd uittrekken om elk stuk bewijs, elk certificaat, elke inhoudsopgave, elke studentenevaluatie te scannen en van pagina nummer te voorzien, zodat alles makkelijk te vinden was. Ik zou een wel-doordachte afweging maken over welke zwaarte ik aan welke categorie zou toekennen (onderwijs, onderzoek, academische ontwikkeling, service). En ik zou mooi de tijd er voor nemen. Ik zou, met andere woorden, niet alles tot het laatste moment laten liggen en moeten stressen.

Juist.
Toen ik afgelopen donderdag dus vernam dat mijn vakgroepsvoorzitter een cruciale berekeningsfout had gemaakt, en mijn portfolio op 7 september af moest zijn, vielen al die mooie plannen in een keer in duigen. In plaats van een mooie, zakelijke maar simpele multomap, heb ik een zwarte three-ring-binder bij Staples gekocht. Mijn tabbladen vond ik in de keukenla die we normaal gebruiken voor de schoolspullen van de jongens, en de nummering doe ik gewoon met de hand. Ik hoop en bid dat ik met mijn gekozen percentages mezelf niet al teveel in mijn vingers snij, en probeer ondertussen vooral te blijven lachen. Want dit is natuurlijk, voor een triple-A-persoonlijkheid als mijzelf de allerergste nachtmerrie.

Maar als ik eerlijk ben is dit eigenlijk heel erg goed nieuws. Want of ik weet dit jaar of ik tenure heb, en me dus niet meer met onbeschofte studenten hoef bezig te houden, of ik hoor dat ik volgend jaar op zoek mag naar een nieuwe baan, en dan hoef ik me dus ook niet meer onbeschofte studenten bezig te houden.

Eigenlijk is het dus gewoon een win-win situatie.

Nou ja, een beetje dan.