Small town America

"Well, I was born in a small town,
And I can breathe in a small town"
Small town ~ John Mellencamp

While I only just lamented about how Americans do not appear to know or care how to bake good bread, I do honestly have to give them kudos for something they are really good at: building quaint little towns. And after having biked hundreds and hundreds of miles through the Georgia countryside, and making my way through dozens of small towns, one cuter than the other, I can attest that the above statement is a fact.

I will in fact argue that your quintessential American small town is by far more quaint than any European town.
I know. I'm feeling ballsy today.
Interestingly, I also believe that what in my opinion is one of the worst American inventions is responsible for that: the strip mall. You see, while most European towns are truly the epitome of adorable, they also don't have strip malls. This means that the Prisunic, the Hema, the Kaufland, and the Boots (think K-Mart, Target, Walmart, and CVS, in that order), instead of being relegated to the outskirts of town (to, you know, a stripmall), are built right smack inside that pretty historic downtown. And while sometimes they do use the original buildings, they still strip most of the outside, insert over-sized windows and large gaudy signs, and generally do their very best to take away as much of the quaintness as possible.

On the other hand, large chain stores in the US tend to move to strip malls on the outskirts of the little town, where there's plenty of room to sprawl, lots of parking, and no historical/zoning committees to raise up a battle cry. Consequently, American historic districts are usually left alone, and small American towns still appear to look the way they did fifty years ago. The houses are set back from the street a good thirty, forty feet, have old-fashioned clapboard, and every single one is completely unique. Crape myrtles line the driveways, azeleas and wisteria spill over on to the ubiquitous front porch, and there's always a tire swing suspended from a large pecan tree somewhere. Every street has sidewalks, there's a single railroad track that cuts through town, and at least one of the little shop buildings sells bait and tackle, while another one is a pawnstore. A small town is never complete without a Methodist church with a white spire, a baptist church with a small brick elementary school in the back, and a gas station with a convenience store where all the daily laborers gather for their morning coffee.  The towns are never much more than a few miles across, and around here, they're always surrounded by pecan groves, rows and rows of peach trees, or now empty cotton fields.

I love the little small towns around here. I love seeing all the different houses from my bike. I love how people notice you and wave. And I still remember the one little girl on her brand new pink bike complete with pink streamers and pink training wheels, who pointed at me riding by, and exclaimed, "Oh wow, Daddy, look! She has only two wheels!"

Whenever husband-dear and I think about retiring, we talk about moving to a small town. One where people hold annual street parties and go Christmas caroling. One where your neighbors don't move every four or five years, one where directions involve convenience stores instead of silly subdivision names. One where people don't have time to be a bible-thumper or political zealot because they've got other, more important things to do, like harvesting pecans or volunteering at the local animal shelter. But most of all, one where people know one another, and you're not just "the people with the red car" or "the neighbors who run all the time".

Every once in a while, though, I'm reminded that maybe I don't need to wait until retirement for that small town feeling. This morning, right before I was about to jump into the base pool, I ran into the same girl I have been running into every Friday morning for the past month. We had finally introduced ourselves last week, and today we exchanged pleasantries, as she asked to share my lane. Then I saw Dee who works are our local running store through the window and waved.
"Hi Dee!" My swimming buddy called out as Dee entered the pool area.
"You know her?" I asked.
"Sure, I do." swimming buddy said, and asked Dee, "How's your shoulder?"
"It's much better." Dee turned to me, "And how about you? Are you ready for the racing season?"
She turned to my swimming buddy, "My husband is doing the same races they're doing. So I'm coming to cheer them all on. Are you going?"
Then as the girl in the next lane stopped to talk to my swimming buddy, and asked me if I was interested in joining our town's swim team, it hit me.

I already live in a small town. It may not look the part, there may not be any cute houses, or sidewalks, or a whiff of a historic district, but when you're with the right people, you are a part of a small-town community.

And I like it.

Spring break: Yay! Oh wait...

Spring break is this week, and since this was the first time since we've moved here that we had nothing going on this week, I had all these grand plans. No family was coming to town (2008), I wasn't traveling to Holland (2009), we weren't traveling to Holland together (2010), and we weren't cruise-bound either (2011). It was going to be awesome. Excuse me, AWESOME.

I was going to start by relaxing. A lot. Then I was going to take a lot of naps. Then I was going to spend a lot of time watching all those movies I'd meaning to watch on On Demand. Oh, and visit Starbucks a lot. Probably to wake me up from all those naps. And once I got all that done, I was going to do a whole host of useful things as well, such as finally clean our fridge (if anyone can tell me how the shelves get dirty when all you do is put closed stuff such as milk and containers of salad on them, I'd be ever so grateful, as this continues to boggle my mind). I was going to get my dry cleaning done, catch up on my ironing, my grading, and my reading. I was going to get my pictures from the past year (!) developed, get the dogs groomed, and master our new bread-machine. I was going to revise an article, weed the front yard, get some good exercise in, and spend plenty of time getting ready for Friday's conference, so that I would not be rushing my ironing and presentation prep at the last minute.

So can someone tell me WHY it's almost 8pm right now, and I JUST finished my presentation? And I still have to iron my shirt? And I feel positively frazzled?

Never mind, I can tell you why. The short answer would be that I'm a workaholic idiot, but a half-a$$ed one at that. An alternative short answer is that I started spring break by writing a ridiculously long to-do list in the first place. A third alternative answer is that there was no way I could have done all of those things in a week. The long answer is that I reversed the list in the previous paragraph. I didn't start by relaxing, watching movies, and catching up on my sleep, thus being fully prepared to tackle my insane list. Oh no, heavens forbid, of course not. The sky will fall and birds will obviously stop singing if I were to ever attempt that. No, I started by getting the dogs groomed, doing a 70-mile bike ride, baking three loaves of bread in two days, getting pictures developed, grading mounds and mounds of student papers, and cleaning the house. And then I swam some, ran some, took the car in for an oil change, did groceries, graded some more student work, and going to the physical therapist. And then I realized, crap, it's Thursday evening, and I just ran out of time.

Long story short; the fridge is still dirty, I still have not revised my article or read any of those articles I needed to, and the front yard still needs weeding. Oh and those movies and naps? Yeah, I never got around to those either. Not only did I not get my list completely done, I also did not get to unwind. In short, a  double-plus-failure. If you're going to be a workaholic, you need to be completely absolutely gung ho about it, and complete you freaking list. If you're going to be a sloth, be a total and complete bump on a log.
Note to self: You can't be both.

Next year we'll just have to fly across the world or take a cruise again. It apparently is the only way to get me to unwind.
Now excuse me while I go finish some last-minute things.

Let them eat cake!

If there is one thing I absolutely, wholeheartedly, unequivocally do not like about my newly adopted country, it's the bread. I'm sorry America, but compared to a French baguette, or a Dutch Tijgerbrood, or even a German Kaiserbrotchen, your bread just does not make the cut. You make great burgers, an awesome Caesar salad, and the best biscuits and gravy I ever had, but don't count on winning any prizes for your bread.
I'm sorry.

Luckily for me, husband-dear shares my dislike of American bread. And after trying every single brand of bread in our local commissary as well as our local Publix, we've had to come to the conclusion that American bread is just not for us. It's too heavy, too sweet, and the texture is just not right. Bread is supposed to be light, airy, chewy, and definitely not sweet. Oh, we'll always keep a loaf of something whole-wheaty and healthy in the freezer, just in case one of us gets a sudden craving for a PB&J sandwich, but let's be honest here, it's kept in the freezer because we know it will probably last us about two weeks if not more, by which point it would have gone moldy had it been kept anywhere else but in subzero temperatures.

But as we all know, bread is an excellent source of carbohydrates. And as we also all know, husband-dear and I are insane health-tri-freaks. So we need carbohydrates at least every once in a while. And if you don't like bread, the options you're left with (pasta, potatoes, rice), smack more of a major dinner than a quick after-exercise snack. And truth be told, we both missed having a good sandwich. Like the kaiserbrotchen with cream cheese and salmon we used to have for lunch in Germany. So when our tax return came in earlier this month, we decided to splurge and bought ourselves a bread-machine.

This bread-machine was going to be the end of all of our bread-related troubles. We were going to make healthy, airy, chewy, right-textured wheat bread that was going to knock your socks off. Our bread was going to be the envy of the neighborhood, and people were going to be begging us for more. Several of our friends make their own bread using a bread-machine, and they love it. Their bread is awesome. I also remembered several of my good friends back in Holland spending about five minutes each night pouring flour and water into their machine, only to produce the most delectable bread ever.

It was going to be a piece of cake.
Was.
Because it's not. Holy crap. Making bread is hard.
We're now on loaf number three, and we've yet to make one that looks AND tastes alright. We can apparently either make a bread that looks like a turd and tastes great, or a loaf that looks great but tastes like your regular Walmart Great Value whole wheat. And not to be a prima donna here, but don't you at least want your bread to resemble an actual loaf? And not some gnarly knots of baked wheat? I mean, call me picky, but my bread needs to look like bread, or at least somewhat resemble it.
Not only are the recipes horribly complicated, requiring gluten, yeast, sugar, salt, special flour, butter, and water, even if you follow them to a "t", your bread still does not come out right. And trust me, between husband-dear and I, there's enough anal retentiveness to make sure we REALLY follow the recipe.

So right now we're looking into alternative bread recipes. Ones involving oil. Or something odd called lecithin. Or perhaps asking our friends in Holland to send us that "all in one flour" where all you do is add water. Or possibly sending our bread-machine back to where it came from.
Either way, the bottom line is that we still haven't solved our bread problem.

Perhaps we should take after Marie Antoinette, and just eschew the bread completely and eat cake.
Hrumph. 

Customer service...

...not so much.

I realize that the US is known for its customer service. And on the whole, Americans in restaurants, stores, and really anywhere else are incredibly friendly and service-oriented. But every once in a while, you run into the one American who would do better in a Dutch restaurant, than working at a, say, Burger King drive thru in the Georgia countryside. Just tonight, husband-dear and I had the most hilarious conversation with just such an employee, and I could not resist sharing it with you.

Employee: Welcome to Burger King, may I take your order?
Me: Yes, I'd like a small chocolate shake and a small banana smoothie.
Employee: What size would you like?
Me: uhm, small?
Employee:Ok. So that's one small caramel sundae...
Me: Uhm, no a small chocolate shake
Employee: Ok. One medium chcoloate shake.
Me: No. A small one please
Employee: Oh, ok. That will be $1.89. You can pull up to the first window.
I look on the screen and see just a small chocolate shake, so...
Me: What about my banana smoothie?
Employee: oh, we're out of those.
Me: Oh?
Employee: But we still have a mango smoothie.
Me: Well, I'll have that then.
Employee: What size?
Me: slaps forehead

Yeah. Really.

Over vrachtwagens, bumpers, en mannen

Als ik aan een ding wel een ontzettende hekel heb, dan zijn het retreads. En sinds gisteren mag er van mij een wet komen die dingen helemaal verbied.

Een re-wat, zegt u? Een retread. Dat is een soort kroon voor een autoband, waarbij er een nieuwe laag rubber om een oude band gelegd wordt. Ik heb geen idee of dit een Amerikaanse uitvinding is (volgens Wikipedia niet), maar ze zijn hier in de VS enorm populair onder vrachtwagens, want het bespaart geld. En dat is fijn. Voor de vrachtwagenchauffeurs dan. Niet voor de bestuurders van kleine autootjes, zoals ik.

Dankzij deze enorme populariteit ligt hier namelijk de halve interstate bedekt met stukken oud rubber die van de retreads zijn afgeschoten. Sommige stukken zijn niet groter dan je duim, terwijl anderen soms wel een meter lang zijn. Op goede dagen komt het dus regelmatig voor dat je via een soort geavanceerde slalom een enorm stuk rubber moet vermijden, terwijl je op slechte dagen moet uitwijken voor stukken rubber die van rijdende vrachtauto's afvliegen.
Mensen, ik kan niet anders zeggen dan dat het een waar feest is.

En gisteren was het helemaal bal. Gisteren was ik onderweg van mijn werk naar de fysiotherapeut in ons dorp. Op de interstate reed ik gezellig met het verkeer mee in de linkerbaan, toen er in een keer flinke stukken rubber van de vrachtwagen rechtsvoor mij afschoten. En niet kleine stukjes ook, hele lappen rubber schoten over de weg, onder de auto voor mij, en tegen mijn bumper aan. De vrachtwagen schoot meteen naar rechts, de afrit af, en ik riep heel hard, "Potverdrie!"

Nou ja, dat riep ik niet. Ik riep iets veel slechters en in het Engels.

Maar goed, met 75 mijl per uur in de linkerbaan op een snelle interstate scheur je niet even een vrachtwagen achterna, en dus reed ik maar, al duimend verder. Een paar minuten later was ik bij de fysiotherapeut, waar ik de schade kon opnemen.

Heel even dacht ik nog dat het wel mee zou vallen, ik had niks gehoord tijdens het rijden, en alles leek het nog te doen.
Nou mooi niet dus.
Een enorme deuk in de onderkant van mijn bumper, de plaat die van de bumper, onder de auto door, tot aan het motorblok loopt hing eraf, en ook mijn linker wheelcover (uhm, de rubberen plaat die over je wiel loopt) hing er scheef bij.
Potverdrie.

En wat een geemancipeerde vrouw in zo'n situatie?
Die belt haar man natuurlijk. Haar man die een kwartier later met touw en tape in de hand al hoofdschuddend naar de auto staat te kijken, en dingen mompelt als "nieuwe bumper", "out of alignment", en "zeker vijftienhonderd dollar schade". Dingen die je, als grote autogebruiker echt niet wilt horen. Al mopperend kunst-en-vliegwerkde manlief de plaat weer een beetje vast, zo dat hij de auto in ieder geval naar huis kon rijden, en daar verder kon gaan met zijn mopperen en hoofdschudden.

Ondertussen moest ik nog steeds naar fysiotherapie, waar ik, mijn dertig minuten van gewichttraining doorbracht aan de telefoon met onze verzekeraar.
En wat is verzekerd zijn dan leuk. Want ja, de verzekering dekt het. Maar ja, omdat je geen nummer van de vrachtwagen chauffeur hebt, gaat je premie waarschijnlijk wel omhoog. Maar hoeveel, ja, dat weten ze pas als de nieuwe premie bepaald wordt. Ja, niet eerder. Nee.

Mijn arme autootje. Arme ik. Arme manlief. Want hoe gingen we mijn auto nou naar de garage krijgen zonder dat een van ons vrij moest nemen of college moest afzeggen? En hoe kwam ik op mijn werk deze week? En hoeveel zou dit ons wel niet kosten?

Met een zwaar hoofd, hart, en twee zware benen, reed ik een paar uur later weer naar huis.

Alwaar ik een dolblije manlief aantrof, die de verlossende woorden sprak, "Ik heb het allemaal gerepareerd."
Pardon? Vijftienhonderd dollar schade, alignment problemen, ik ga even naar de fysio en het is opgelost?
Ja dus.

Manlief is namelijk een enorme techneut. En heeft een grote familie die allemaal auto fanaten zijn. Dit zijn mensen die eerst alles zelf repareren, en dan pas eens iemand bellen. Mensen met meer gereedschap dan dan de gemiddelde beunhaas, en mensen die een stukke auto als een uitdaging zien. Ik heb geen idee of dit een Amerikaans ding, of een familie ding is, maar voor mij is dit compleet nieuw. Ik ben meer van de "oh we bellen wel iemand" school, zeg maar.

Manlief niet. Gelukkig maar.
Dus manlief had, toen hij thuiskwam, meteen mijn schoonvader gebeld. Ach, had schoonvader gezegd, met die bumpers op die Japanse autootjes heb je alleen maar een "heatgun" nodig, je warmt de bumper op en duwt het allemaal zo weer op zijn plek. En die plaat zet je gewoon vast met die klemmen die ik je vorige keer gegeven heb. En die wheelcover, die buig je zo en zo. Zo doen ze dat in de garage ook. En het werkte dus gewoon.

Ik bedoel, nou ja! Daar ben ik dan 22 jaar voor naar school geweest, en ik had een sleepauto gebeld en mijn auto bij de eerste beste garage afgezet, om hem daar voor honderden dollars te laten repareren. Schoonpapa en manlief bellen even voor tien minuten, en tada, het is opgelost. Zo kan het ook natuurlijk.

Afgezien van wat krassen is mijn auto dus weer zo goed als nieuw. Als dat niet geweldig is, dan weet ik het ook niet meer.

Maar die retreads, daar ben ik dus nog steeds niet over te spreken.

Thinism

So we've been all children here, and we probably all remember our moms starting a sentence with something like, "I don't want you going out so late at night..." that somehow ended with us in a wreck, pregnant, destitute, or on drugs (or perhaps all four at the same time). Or perhaps it was just my mom's vivid imagination. At any rate, I think that everyone is familiar with the notion of sliding values, you know, the exact thing your mom was worrying about. If you start going out late, you will start running with the wrong crowd, doing what they're doing, and before you know it, you'll think earning your living by holding up a cardboard sign at the entrance to the railway station is perfectly acceptable.

Just last month, I realized that living in the south has somewhat been like that, at least as far as weight issues are concerned. And I know I'm probably going to offend scores of readers with this, so if you are not feeling your body today, please go here, here, or here. I love you and you're awesome no matter your size, but I am going to talk about weight today.
Sorry.
You see, over the past years, I have had to come to the conclusion that southerners appear to be far more likely to be overweight than any other part of the country. Thank goodness, my observations have been backed up various scientific studies, so please don't yell at me for being..uhm..I believe the word is "size-ist".

Anyway, the fact of the matter of is that besides our own town, which is populated mainly by military folk, who by virtue of their career, have to stay in shape, most other places are populated by people who could lose a pound or two. Or ten. Or fifty. And my point is not that they should, or shouldn't. Honestly, besides worrying about potential health issues, I am really fine with whatever weight you're OK with. I'm not going to tell you to lose weight, because I just don't care. My point is that it's so easy to take this as the norm, and forget what you once thought was "normal" body weight.

I remember when I first ventured out to my current job, I was taken aback by the number of large people. It appeared that the majority of people on and off campus had weight issues. But what's interesting is that I've stopped noticing. Freshmen with bellies hanging over their jeans don't make me take notice anymore. Young women who struggle to walk up stairs because it's almost impossible for them to bend their knees are just another coworker, and men who can use their stomachs to rest their arms while sitting down are just comfortable. It's normal to see students eat an egg biscuit for breakfast every morning. And chic-fil-a for lunch every day is nothing to make you sit up either. You clean your plate, and if it's fried it's good.

In fact, weight issues are apparently so commonly accepted down here, that I have had some really interesting conversations in the past few years. I've had students ask me if I've "always been this skinny", I've had people at meals tell me I need to eat more as I obviously need to fatten up, and people have asked husband-dear, after he lost about three pounds (of unnecessary belly weight), if he was doing OK, or if he needed to talk, since he'd lost some weight, which can obviously only be a sign of something baahaahaad. But last week I had a  conversation with someone in the athletics department no less, that took the cake.

We were talking about a university-wide blood drive, and I asked if I could donate blood, as I have lived in Europe for more than 6 months.
"Sure, you're fine. "The man looked me up and down, "I just don't know if they'll let you donate because you're so thin."
"I'm sorry?"
"You have to weigh at least 108 lbs to be allowed to donate."
"Uhm, well, trust me, I do."
"Well, they may not let you anyway, because you just don't look like you could handle it."
"What?! Are you serious? I could outrun all of them."
"Yeah, " at least he started to laugh, "I know. But still, they want to make sure you're healthy."

Healthy?
Look, people, let's do the numbers here. My BMI is 19. According to the Department of Health and Human Services, that is considered a normal body weight.  My cholesterol is in the normal range. My blood pressure is something like 110 over 70. I am allowed to consume 1600 calories a day to maintain my normal body weight. If I burn more by exercising, I eat more. On a long bike day, I can consume up to 3000 calories a day, and I do. Trust me. I run, I bike, I swim. I eat. Lots and lots. Really. But because I exercise, it doesn't go anywhere. I get my daily vitamins, and if I don't, I take a supplement. I eat proteins, fat, and carbohydrates. I probably don't drink enough water, but I try to stay away from regular sodas. I may not have any belly to rest my arms on, but let's talk about that caboose I'm carrying around with me. You may not like me, but you may not call me unhealthy. Or skinny. As I am neither. I am healthy.

So I've made a pact - I'm not going to take it anymore. From now on, if anyone tells me I need to eat more because I'm skinny, I'm going to tell them that I am exactly where I need to be for my height and weight. If anyone asks me if I've always been this skinny, I'm going to tell that I'm not skinny, I am normal. And if they keep on pestering me, I'm going to tell them they're a bunch of thinists.

Take that.

Now excuse me while I help myself to a chocolate martini.

Collegiate anthropology

It's been far too quiet on the my-job-drives-me-to-the-brink-of-something front lately. For those of you who have been wondering whether my endearingly dramatic students have suddenly seen the light and started behaving well, turning in work on time, and participating in class: no, I'm sorry, but they haven't. I just figured there's only so many times I can write about terrible spelling, perpetual tardiness, and the other misery that plagues college professors all around before it gets old.

There has, however, been a new type of behavior that's been on the rise this semester. One that woke up the budding anthropologist inside of me, and definitely warrants closer attention. For lack of a better word, I'm going to call it the "eye-sigh".

The eye-sigh. A complicated physical expression, which holds a plethora of social meaning. For those of you wondering what on earth I'm talking about: the eye-sigh usually starts with a roll of the eye, which is coupled to a head thrust back, and ends with a loud and forceful sigh or snort. From my, however limited, observations it is mainly used by students of the female gender, although the males do have an equivalent behavior. The male version eschews the head thrust and exchanges the sigh for a grimace or a short hiss. The meaning, however, is the same and can best be translated as "Are you freaking kidding me?!"

Whereas previous student cohorts would express their dissatisfaction with a new assignment, the announcement of a test, or my request to turn off a cellphone in a most verbal manner, this year, non-verbal has been the way to go. Although eye-rolling has always been a part of a standard student response, I've never had students replace verbal protesting with such elaborate posturing. In fact, one of the reasons this semester as well as the previous one has been so much less drama-filled is because I've received almost zero spoken in-class feedback.

You would think that as the person in front of the class, I love the fact that my students have stopped trying to argue deadlines, assignments, and other rules and regulations. And three years ago, I probably would have agreed with you. But in all honesty, the eye-sigh has been driving me batty. It's not the fact that students aren't happy with the latest project, grade, or enforced rule, since they very rarely are, it's the fact that it's so incredibly passive aggressive.

See, for all my dishing out, I can take it pretty well too. I will tell students how it is ("if you have a hard time getting up for class at 9:50, how do you think that morning-drive-DJ-gig you're vying for is going to work out?"), but I have no qualms dealing with their comebacks either. It opens up a dialogue, allows me to explain myself, understand their point of view, and most of the time we all end up with a good laugh. I think I can actually state with confidence I enjoy the banter. I mean, just last week I had the following gem of a conversation with a student:

"Katie, please don't play with your phone."
"I don't have my phone! See it's not on my desk."
"No, it's in your lap."
(Student surreptitiously takes phone into hand), "No it's not, see! My lap is empty."
"That's excellent. In that case, please stop staring at your lap. Call me silly, but that's really distracting."

Who wouldn't prefer that over the eye-sigh? It reinforces my rules, makes the point, and entertains Katie's peers. What more could an instructor want? We laugh, we learn, we move on. It's great.

But when all students do is the eye-sigh, you've got nothing. Nothing to respond to, nothing to explain, nothing, except the feeling that perhaps you're not entirely appreciated right then. I've tried addressing it both seriously ("please don't roll your eyes at me") and in a pathetic attempt at humor ("What was that (insert awkward imitation here)?"), and the best I've gotten is either a second eye-sigh or a "I wasn't rolling my eyes. My contacts were bothering me/There's something in my eyes/My eyes are really dry."
People, does it get any more passive aggressive than that?

I've been thinking. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm too scary, too intimidating. Maybe I have too many rules, and need to my students be the free spirits that they are.
And then I think some more. And decide that maybe, well, maybe not. 

NPR: The new social lubricant

First, let me start off by saying that I love, just absolutely love the American expression "social lubricant". It has possesses the brilliant ability to make me think of something nasty and physical (like a chaffing wetsuit, get your mind out of the gutter), and a drink with friends all with two simple words. Hence, it's awesome.
But I digress.

Second, you should probably also know that husband-dear and I are total NPR aficionados. We love everything about the quirky public radio network, from its never-ending morning news reports, to its odd choice of music shows (who doesn't want to listen to Irish music presented by a host with an Irish accent so thick he sounds like he just rolled off the boat), its strange choice of topics (Flies: What makes them tick?), and its odd puzzlers ("take the first three letters of a fruit, the last three letters of a vegetable, combine them in a different order, add a "Z', and you will get the name of a famous song writer").

And third, do note that here in the bible-thumping south, liking NPR is a sure fire way to land yourself in the most awkward social position ever.  You see, southerners do not like NPR. It's boring, it plays strange music, it has long interviews with people who are neither country singers nor Nascar drivers, and it just doesn't breathe the right home-grown, good ole boys, homegrown feel, you know? Admitting to liking NPR is just not done, as people suddenly realize you are not only not one of them, but you're so different, they have no idea how to relate to you anymore.

In short, bringing up NPR to people you've only just met takes courage. You never know how your admission will fall. People whom you thought were nice, cool, and potential friends might turn up their noses, make a face, and denounce the station (usually either for being boring or being too liberal), and suddenly you're left wondering what they now think of you, and if you should just beg out of the conversation altogether while you still can.

Husband-dear and I have discovered that "liking NPR" in Georgia is a litmus test and secret handshake rolled into one. If you think someone might be a potential friend, bringing up NPR might be a good way to find out if you want to start talking more seriously than the latest race you completed. If someone doesn't like NPR, we can definitely be close, but we know that there are certain things we'll never share (like telling someone to not drive like my brother), and there is, as you will, a part of us that is holding back. If, on the other hand, you admit to listening to NPR, it's as though you've just completed the second part of the secret handshake, and we know we're on the same level.

In fact, whenever NPR is brought up in a conversation, and both parties admit to liking it (and yes, I use "admit" quite deliberately here, as it does feel very much like I would imagine coming out to feel like), the conversation, no matter how poorly it might have gone before, suddenly takes a leap and a jump. There's something about the type of people who like NPR that makes them our closest friends almost immediately. In fact, most conversations that I've been in, where one person brings up NPR, and the other person replies they really like NPR, it's almost as though people want to start passing out hugs. Here is someone who likes NPR! Who knows who Steve Innskeep is! Who laughs at Click and Clack! Someone who is critical, cynical, and probably has an odd sense of humor too! Someone who probably doesn't get the south either! Life is great!

Now, remember Mr. House? The less-than-jovial physical therapist I met last week? The one whose demeanor was so like his namesake on the famous TV show, it was almost uncanny? Well, I had another appointment with him on Tuesday. You can imagine I was just tickled pick to spend another hour in there, so as a line of defense, I brought my IPad. When Mr. House had me set up doing my first exercise, he asked me what books I was reading on my IPad. I told him I was reading an old Agatha Christie, to which he, much to my surprise, responded a lot more positively than I had been expecting. He loved old English novels. I'm not sure how or why, but at one point I brought up Prairie Home Companion (a famous weekly NPR radio play), extending my half of the secret handshake if you will, and Mr. House's face just lit up, "Oh, yes, I love NPR. Just love it."
The secret handshake had just been returned.

Within five minutes, Mr. House and I were talking a mile a minute, swapping stories about the odd segments we'd caught on This American Life, Car Talk, the different books we'd read, how we both liked The Archers (a British radio play), and on and on. Who knew that a man so indifferent could be so animated and interested. We talked books, radio, education, immigration, and it was all equally entertaining. I have to admit that I spent the most pleasant hour and a half of a long time, and that I'm almost looking forward to my appointment this afternoon.

I'm telling you, NPR is social gold. Well, at least for misfits like myself.

Safely over the mountains

If you've kept with the weather in this part of the world at all, you know that this weekend has been wild to say the least. Tornadoes, storms, thunder, we've seen it all. Fortunately for husband-dear and I, this weekend was a "recovery weekend", i.e., a weekend where training is reduced just a little to give one's body time to rest. So this meant that when scheduling our bike ride, we only had to find a two-hour window with limited rain and winds, as opposed to a four or even five-hours window. And we had it all figured out. Saturday morning from 8-10am was going to be ideal. A thirty percent chance of rain, some cloud cover, and 70F. Ideal for cycling. It was going to be great. Just like that one time we were convinced that 35F was a fine temperature to ride if only you dressed warmly enough. Or that one time we were sure we knew where we were running to in a strange city. Whenever we use the word ideal, you all need to start worrying. But, as usual, we were completely oblivious.

So off we went. And the first eight or nine miles were promising. Light wind, nice temperature, a little sprinkle, but all in all, we were happy. Well, as happy as one can be when trying to push one's average speed up over 17mph, but happy nonetheless. Then, for a mile or two, the sprinkle turned into a brief, but torrential downpour. Glasses were put into pockets, feet were unclipped to shake water out of shoes, and then the rain stopped. We cruised along, and conquered the infamous four-minute-straight-climb hill about thirteen miles south of our house.

If there's one interesting climatological feat about our town it's that we've never been hit by a tornado. It came very close about three years ago, when clouds were funneling right over our subdivision, but nothing ever touched down. And as any tornado-alley resident will tell you, it ain't a tornado until it's touched down. Anyway, although a major tornado devastated a town south of us a few years ago and several tornadoes have ravaged several state parks not too far north of here, our town has always been spared. It could have something to do with the fact that it's on a plateau. Or perhaps it's because there's a lot of water around, I'm not sure. But the bottom line is, I have never really had to worry about tornadoes down here.

Well, until today.
As we were whipping down the four-minute hill, the wind suddenly picked up. And then it changed direction. And then it changed direction again (nothing like riding a bike with tires as wide as your thumb to make you aware of the wind). Folks, that is not a good sign. When the sky suddenly turned to lead, the fuzzies on the back of my neck woke up hard. I looked to my right, and noticed thick clouds sinking low to the ground, swirling and swirling around. If a change in wind direction is bad, people, swirling clouds are double plus bad. So I sped up, caught up with husband-dear and said, "Do you remember what to do when you're caught outside in a tornado?"
"Sure. Lie down in a ditch, right?"
"Yes. Good." I pointed to the right.
"Oh. That's not good."
"No, it's not."

But, you know, you're on a bike, thirteen miles from home, out in the country, and there's not a house in sight. So what can you do but cycle home? Nothing, obviously, so that's what we did.

We took a right, and the cloud cover lifted a little, as did our fears. The wind died down too, and we turned on our afterburners. But then we came upon an intersection, and suddenly the sky opened. Rain came pouring down, drenching us in seconds. Even worse, husband-dear pointed to the sky across the road, where the clouds had dropped to just above the trees. You didn't need to be a storm chaser to recognize the funnel clearly forming among the dark grey clouds.

"Oh $%^&" I said.
"Yeah." Husband-dear nodded his agreement, "Let's get out of here."
Peddling as though our lives depended on it, we took off down the road. The wind picked up again, and buffeted us left, right, left, and pretty much all over the road. Husband-dear kept looking behind him, and at one point shouted over the road of the wind, "Make sure you keep listening for the siren!"
The tornado siren, people. That's one piece of advice I really didn't want to hear.
"OK." I was wet, cold, and so worried the wind was going to blow me off the road, I held on to my bike for dear life, "I'm kind of scared."
"Me too." That's also not the kind of response you want from your fearless better half.

So I did what any other person would do when trying to ride as fast as they could, while fighting the wind, rain, and running from a possible tornado, I recited Habakkuk 3:19.  Shelly once taught me this verse on a very intense 5k, and explained how that was "her" PT verse when she was at the academy. The parts referring to the "speed of a deer" seemed especially applicable, as I really just wanted to be home right then and there. Now you may not be religious, but let me tell you, there's nothing like feeling as though you're riding for your life to have you consider your celestial options. I might have also sung a little, anything to keep me focused on just riding home.

Well, as I am currently comfortably seated behind my laptop, you can all surmise there was no tornado. And there wasn't. It never formed. The rain did turn to hail for a few miles, which was just lovely, but I will take hail over a tornado any day.

Should we have gone out to ride today? Probably not. Will this stop us from going out during bad weather again? Probably. Does that make us slightly insane? Definitely.

The southern Mr. House

So after months, possibly years, of dealing with a knee that was less than cooperative anytime I decided to run more than 10 miles, I decided it was high time to find myself a physical therapist. Well, actually husband-dear told me in clear as day terms that if I wanted to keep running the way I do now I needed to stop messing around with ice baths, ITB straps, and expensive and painful massages. So for once, and only after about six weeks of having him repeat this refrain, I listened, and got myself a referral to a physical therapist. We'll leave the interesting process of acquiring said referral aside for now (except for me to note that if I were to address this, the words "Tricare" and "kafka-esque" would be sprinkled liberally throughout said blog), and focus on my first visit to the physical therapist. For his sake, and mine, we shall call him Mr. House.

Now  if there ever was a sign that I am fully, totally, and completely adjusted to life in the south, it would have to be this memorable first visit.

Granted, the visit didn't start off very well, and that was really my fault. I showed up to his office at 4:20pm, fully convinced that with a 4:30 appointment, I would have more than enough time to fill out the paperwork so typical to an American doctor's office, only to find that I was actually twenty minutes late for my 4pm appointment. Oops. Fortunately, the receptionist was a lovely southern woman, who waved my profuse apologies away, firmly told me not to worry, and then even added that things like this happen all the time. I was almost feeling better, when Mr. House walked into the reception area.
"Mrs. Husband-dear?" Mr. House had a crisp British accent.
"Yes."
"I'm Richard House."
"Nice to meet you. Look I am so sorry I am late, I really didn't..."
"Please follow me, "Mr. House interrupted.

We walked into a a curtained off cubicle, where Mr. House pointed to a chair, "Sit."
I sat, and tried again, "I really am sorry that I kept you..."
"Yes, so tell me what you're here for."
Apparently, Mr. House wasn't having any of it. So instead I told him what was wrong with me, or rather my knees.
"OK, "Mr. House said after a while, "let's do a strength test. Sit" He tapped on the bed behind me.
So we did the stress test, after which Mr. House proceeded to tell me, and I am seriously literally quoting him, "Right, well, your leg strength is absolutely rubbish."
Alrighty then.
Now he was right. I'm supposed to be somewhere in the 90s (at this point I was too intimidated to ask what the units were), and instead I scored in the high 60s. Definitely "rubbish", I suppose.

He then asked me about my race goals and my training schedule, and proceeded to tell me that with my current schedule, there was no way I was going to be able to meet this year's race goals (for the record: I run twice a week (between 8-15 miles total), bicycle at least twice a week (five hours total), swim for an hour, and do an hour of strength training each week - anyone will tell you that is a fine training schedule). But Mr. House disagreed, and proceeded to add on, "And I think that if you're honest with yourself, you know that that is the truth."
Well, at that point all he was getting from me was a raised eyebrow, which seemed to placate him into silence.

At this point, he informed me of his treatment plan, and explained the importance of the home exercises as follows, "You need to do them at least 3-4 times per day. If you do any less, you coming here is really wasting your money. Or, well, in your case, wasting someone's money."
Ah! The curse of military health care. It's almost free, and thus we're nothing more than beggars and dregs. Obviously.

You may wonder why I at that point I wasn't telling him to shove his treatment plan, well, somewhere, and vacating the building as fast as my poorly developed legs could take me. Well, you see, the large treatment room was filled with patients. They were on machines, doing exercises, and getting massaged. And so I figured, he's either the only one in town, in which case there's nowhere else to go, or he's really good at what he's doing, which means I better stick around.

I was, however, very much offended by the man's demeanor. And if there ever was a sign that living in the south is like living among the Borg, that had to be it. And the sign wasn't the fact that  Mr. House was the crabbiest, curtest, and most diffident health professional I ever met, as life in Europe should have left me amply prepared for such individuals, but it was the fact that I was positively offended by the man's attitude, and had no clue how to handle him. It took me almost thirty minutes to remember how to I used to act around people like that back in Europe, and even then, I wasn't comfortable enough to at least smile at the man while I answered his questions as curtly as possible.

I have to admit that my attitude towards Mr. House did soften a bit when he, halfway through my massage came in to tell me he was wrong about my training schedule. He had asked his staff, and had learned that apparently my training schedule is ideal for triathlons. No sh**, Sherlock. But I nodded, smiled tightly, and said, "That's OK." Nothing more, nothing less. I have to tell you that not gushing over the man and telling him it was fiiiine, really, was the hardest thing ever, but once I imagined I was on a crowded Dutch bus, and Mr. House was the man who just stepped on my toes for the second time in two minutes, I was fine.

In short, of all the physical therapists in all of Tricare-approved physical therapy land, I end up with the one who's British, acts Dutch, and believes my leg strength is rubbish. I have another appointment on Tuesday, and I'll have to remember to bring my Dutch chip (you know, the one on my shoulder), or else I may just cry.