I'll pray for you..

You pray for me
I love you, I need you to survive".

I need you ~ Hezekiah Walker

Today, while talking to a dear friend, I said the most ungraceful thing a person could probably say. No, really. I told her that if one more person told me they would be praying for me, I would scream. Most likely inside my own head, as I'm too well-assimilated to realize that screaming at someone would be the faux-pas of the year down here in Dixieland, but still. A good God-fearing southern woman does not scream when someone offers to pray, not even inside her own perfectly coiffed head.

You see, the past couple of days have been a challenge, and definitely prayer-worthy. This is true. On Friday, Ozzie was admitted to the hospital with a vague stomach-ache, which quickly turned into appendicitis, which quickly turned into a ruptured appendix, which turned into somewhat of a nightmare involving infections, white blood counts, NG tubes, antibiotics, and fevers. While things are looking up at the moment, we're still waiting on some pathology results, and until then, I'm not breathing easy.

So, as anyone can imagine, our lives have been a maelstrom of madness since Friday night. Not in the least because it was the end of the semester for me, with lots of grading, finals, and deadlines, as well as the end of the semester for husband-dear (who is working on his master's), a promotion and the start of a new job for him on Monday, and the fact that, oh hey, we have a second kid who picked this very week to take the concept of "struggling in school" to a whole new level. Oh, and Tricare was being difficult. Per usual. So. To say we have been stressed out would be the understatement of the year. We take shifts at the hospital to be with Ozzie, confer with one another via phone and text messaging, when we've had the time to cook, we've cooked three meals at a time, because who knows when we might be near a stove again, and don't ask us anything, because we probably won't remember the question. Now we're all in good spirits, everything is working out, and we're getting done what needs to be done, but we're just really freaking busy. So busy that the pool cleaner got left in the pool all weekend because I didn't have 15 minutes to take it out (first world problems, I know), there are tumbleweeds of dog hairs in the kitchen, and our Christmas decorations are half up and half still in the boxes. The logistics of having a child in the hospital are just something I wouldn't wish on anyone.

But what do people tell you when you relate how your weekend was?
"I'll pray for you".
That's it.
They will pray. Now don't get me wrong, I think that's fantastic. If everyone who says they'll be praying actually is praying, Ozzie is covered.  The fact that people in our church are praying is wonderful.
But.
And here is my evil 'but'. The one that makes me blush in shame, yet it's there.
But at the same time, you know, I have enough faith in God to know that Ozzie is good. I pray, my husband prays, God listens, we're cool.
But.
We could have so used some real, practical help. Like with food. Or stupid simple chores. Or driving around. Yes, prayers are great. But you know what was really wonderful? When my neighbor (who, let the record state, does not go to church) called to ask me what night she could bring dinner. Or when two old friends who now live across the country got together and emailed us a gift card to a local restaurant. Those simple acts of kindness made me cry.

Look, I'm not perfect. Yes, I've cooked plenty of meals for people, but I've also not signed in on numerous meal trains. I would just be too busy to cook for anyone. I've refused to cook meals for people with babies who had half their grown in-laws visiting. I've complained about people who needed meals and then insisted you bring the food in containers they could keep. So, yes, I'm not perfect. But I also don't offer up, "I will pray" instead. If I can't help, I will tell you, and I will tell you why.

I realize we're all imperfect. In an imperfect world. I know this. But in a part of the world where people are so hell-bent on being Christian, on serving the Lord, on reminding you that "Jesus is the reason for the season", I guess I feel that prayer is all find and good, but shouldn't you want to put your money where your mouth is?

So, there's my rant for the day. While writing this, I've been interrupted by two nurses checking on Ozzie, adjusting IV drips and giving the poor kid shots in his abdomen, and so I'm not sure how offensive I've actually been. I do know that I love praying people, I love God, and I love the fact that tonight we don't have to worry about dinner, because we have a gift card from Olive Garden. And yes, I love you too :)

Het emigranten-argument

Het moest er een keer van komen. En eerlijk gezegd was ik verbaasd dat het zo lang heeft geduurd. Maar gelukkig, afgelopen vrijdag was het dan eindelijk zo ver. Afgelopen vrijdag kreeg ik namelijk voor het eerst sinds ik deze keer uit Nederland vertrokken ben, te horen dat ik over een bepaald onderwerp weinig kon zeggen omdat ik "al zo lang niet meer in Nederland woon."

Het heeft zes jaar en vijf maanden geduurd, maar dan heb je hem eindelijk te pakken, het voor emigranten welbekende "jij mag eigenlijk niet meer meepraten" argument. Maakt u zich niet ongerust, ik ben niet beledigd. Eerder verbaasd dat het zo lang heeft geduurd. In mijn herinnering ging dat voorgaande keren veel sneller. En ik heb zelfs een paar keer in Nederland mogen meemaken dat men zich op het emigranten-argument beriep omdat ik "toch wel best wel lang uit Nederland weg was geweest." Sja, een mens moet wat, om een argument te winnen.


En weet u, ze hebben allemaal nog gelijk ook. Niet in de specifieke discussie van vrijdag avond uiteraard, want ik heb als Nederlandse vrouw natuurlijk altijd gelijk, maar met de opmerking dat ik sommige dingen niet weet omdat ik al zo lang weg ben. Dat is namelijk een waarheid als een koe. Zo zou ik tegenwoordig volgens mij geen idee meer hebben hoe te betalen in het Nederlands openbaar vervoer (zouden ze ook aan ruilhandel doen?), zegt "rtlXL" mij helemaal niks, de drie L-en of J's of wat dan ook, ook al niet, en heb ik geen idee wie er op dit moment in het Nederlands kabinet zit. Oh ja, en kan iemand mij in hemelsnaam vertellen wie Amira is?

En voor iemand die eigenlijk nog steeds helemaal niet past in de bible-belt-luchtmacht-conservatieve-culturele-woestijn waarin ze belandt is, begint zelfs dat eigenlijk best wel te wennen. Ik weet het, ik moet me diep schamen, maar weet u, op een gegeven moment wordt je afzetten tegen alles toch ook wel erg vermoeiend. En ontdek je dat sommige dingen toch ook best wel meevallen. Zo is de hitte prima te doen als je een zwembad hebt. De conservatieve buurman ook, zolang je hem maar van de politiek af weet te houden. En de oergelovige luchtmachtvrouwen die hun 28 kinderen allemaal homeschoolen ook, zolang je die maar gewoon niet meer spreekt.

Toen ik met deze blog begon heb ik ooit een label voor dit posts aangemaakt. Ik weet niet of u is het opgevallen, maar dit label heet "you will be assimilated". Voor de niet-Trekkies onder us, dit is een not-so-covert verwijzing naar de Borg, het buitenaardse volk uit Star Trek, dat als catch phrase "resistance is futile, you will be assimilated" heeft.  De vraag is nu natuurlijk, ben ik dan eindelijk echt assimilated? Soms, als ik weer eens in mijn auto zit, vraag ik me dat echt af. Ben ik nou echt helemaal ingeburgerd? Ben ik ook een "Too blessed to be stressed" southern conservative geworden?

Gelukkig hoef ik dan maar even een korte aanval van road rage te hebben, of een "you have got to be kidding me" moment met een mega-religieuze collega/student/buur, om te weten dat dit gelukkig niet zo is. Nog niet. Ik ben nog steeds een vrijheid-blijheid, don't-tread-on-me treehugging hippie. Aan de andere kant heeft deze hippie de laatste zes jaar wel geleerd om bijvoorbeeld gewoon niet en plein public te vloeken. En zich in te houden als iemand iets zegt waarmee ze het perinent oneens ben. Te genieten van de kleine dingen, zoals de kleine muziek en film festivals hier in de buurt, de mooie fietsroutes door de omgeving, en het feit dat de zon bijna altijd schijnt.

Hier in het zuiden hebben we een uitspraak, "It is what it is". Mooi in zijn eenvoud, maar ook tenenkrommend in de laissez-faire houding die er van uitstraalt. Die houding die zoveel zuiderlingen aannemen als het op een moeilijk onderwerp aankomt. Maar in deze situatie is "it is what it is" helaas wel echt waar. Ik woon hier nou eenmaal. En dit is niet de plek die ik zelf uitgekozen zou hebben. Maar het is nou eenmaal zo. En zolang mijn beste vriend, de liefde van mijn leven, mijn auto-wasser-boodschappen-doener-maaltijden-koker-laundry-meneer hier woont, is dit mijn thuis. It is what it is.

En dan gaat het emigranten-argument best wel op. Want alhoewel Nederland altijd een onderdeel van mij zal zijn, is het niet mijn thuis meer. Dus. Als jullie je met zijn allen wereldwijd belachelijk willen maken met God-weet-wat-nu-weer, mijn zegen heb je. Ik hoor er namelijk eigenlijk niet meer bij.


Oh ja, en Oma? Zoals u ziet gaat het prima met mij. Alleen ben ik de laatste tijd zo gewend aan alles dat ik eigenlijk niks meer om over te mopperen heb. Misschien moet ik dit mopper-blog maar gewoon eens omtoveren in een bakblog, wat vindt u daarvan?

Uhm, October?

Seriously, how can it already be the middle of October? What happened to September? Or August? Or summer in general for that matter? And even more importantly, how can it be Sunday already, and I have yet to have a moment of peace and quiet this weekend?

I don't know what is going on with life lately. Maybe it's just me, and I have once again managed to say "yes" to way too many things. Or maybe the world is slowly going by faster and faster. I don't know. All I know is that it's the middle of October, and at the rate work is going, I should probably be planning my Christmas shopping real soon, or it's never going to get done, and OMG, when I am going to find time to do that.

OK, deep breath.

So I'm sure that everyone knows about the mess that is the US government right now, right? (And no, I am not changing the topic, this is going somewhere, I promise). And we all know how because they can't seem to work it out like most normal people can, close to a million people have been sent home this past week. In fact, in our street, we have several working couples who got to make do without a paycheck this week. The same couples who just spent all their savings surviving the furloughs this summer. And in case you were wondering, husband-dear is still heading into work each day, and still getting paid. We think. But although we all know that is sad and bad and just not-good all around, is there anyone else out there who, like me, secretly wishes they too would get sent home? Am I the only one who wishes that they too could get furloughed? Anyone?

When I was younger, you know, not too long ago, I knew I was driven. And motivated. And possibly slightly neurotic about doing well. But I figured it would pass as I grew older and more mellow. Because that's what people do, right? They mellow out, slow down, and stop to smell the roses more? Well, the rosebushes in my front yard have literally become an unholy mess this summer, because I haven't taken the time to smell nor to trim them. For me, it would appear that aging means an even greater desire to prove that I am good enough. And nice enough. And smart enough. Which entails saying "Yes! Great idea!" to everything everyone proposes. Research project on the side? Sure! Chair of the IRB? I'd be honored! Another research project? Of course! Co-writing a grant with a local hospital? Absolutely! Chair the international fair on campus! Naturellement!
It just never ends.

Obviously, the solution is to just start saying "no". Or at least checking my calendar/my gut/my conscience (aka husband-dear) before enthusiastically galloping away with another time-sucking responsibility. But people, I am just like Ado Annie from Oklahoma! I can't say no. I just can't. I would, so it seems, rather spend a Sunday afternoon grading than mountainbiking with the husband because I spent so much time on side projects during the week, than tell someone no. Is the world going to come to an end when I say no? Obviously not. I know my students won't care if their midterm grade doesn't include this paper. Neither will my chair. Or the dean. No one will care. Except me.

So where does this pressure come from? Honestly, I have no idea, but I see women around me doing the exact same thing I do all the time. They might not do it in their career, but they might be killing themselves trying to be the best, coolest, most educated mom out there. Or they might be holding their bodies to some randomly set, impossible to maintain, pre-neanderthal standard. Or they might be pushing themselves through school to get that oh so coveted second degree. Or trying to be the most hip blogger the intertubes have ever seen.

People freak out because they're furloughed, but are they freaking out because they aren't getting paid, or because they now suddenly have to face themselves without the safety of their careers to hide behind? I'm sure losing a paycheck doesn't help, but let's be honest, how many of us say things like, "If I win the lottery, I'd have work at something or I'd lose my mind"? (and yes, I am one of those people).

I guess my point, if there is one, is that of all the things I like to think I'm good at, I suck at the most important thing: being OK with doing less. Or, gasp, nothing at all. And I think, looking around me, I may not be the only one. So how about we all just a day off next week and do absolutely nothing? We can call it a demonstration against postmodern cultural demands or something equally intelligent, but we'll all know it's really just an old-fashioned pajama day. I say we synchronize planners and find a day that works and make it happen. Only I can't do tomorrow. Or Tuesday, I have to chair a meeting that day. Oh, and Wednesday is midterms, and on Thursday I'm surveying a class. OK, so how's next week looking for everyone?

The car, part 3

Last week, my car hit the 200,000 mile mark. And today, I managed to roll into a truck. That was sitting behind me. On a slight hill. At a red light.

I know, I'm an idiot. A very tired and worn out idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. I mean, who manages to trip over the corner of the bed and hit her head against the bathroom door? Who accidentally backwashes her pool with the return valves set to 'off'? Who gets stuck in her own tri-top? Who adjusts her hair, lets her foot slip off the brake and does not realize she's rolling backwards until she hits the tow hooks on the front of the truck behind her? Yes, me. 

Fortunately, the man in the truck was grace himself. He was more concerned about the state of my bumper than his car, which, as he said, was "only" a truck. He peered at the mark left by the lamppost, and I don't even want to know what he was thinking when I told him that was the leftover from hitting a lamp post last month. He adjusted his tag, which my bumper had bent, told me all was fine, not to worry about the tag, and went on his merry way. I could have cried when he drove off, and I'm not sure if that was from relief, shock, or fatigue. 

Look, I know my job is busy, but lately it has been kicking my behind. I've cried for no reason at least once already this semester, and that usually doesn't happen until Thanksgiving. And in case you're wondering, yes, I eat well, I exercise a moderate amount (yes, really, i have cut back from Mega Insane to Slightly Insane), and I get an average of eight hours of sleep per day. It's just that when I'm awake, it just doesn't slow down. Ever. And American academe is nothing like its European counterpart, where you can take time off to recover, hand some of your responsibilities back to whoever assigned them to you. Or talk to your boss about how you have too much on your plate and need a break. Well, you can do all of that, but you may not have a job waiting for you after summer. Or, if you have tenure like I do, you'll be teaching your classes at seven in the morning. In the basement. And I think that's finally starting to catch up with me. Not the teaching in the basement, as I'm not there yet, but the never-ending list of things to do. Now if only I had a funny solution to all this, I might be able to salvage this post, but I don't have anything funny or solution-like. I have a job, it's 90 miles away, and right now, it's bat guano crazy busy. So yeah, no funny twist here. Sorry. If you have one, do share. I could use a laugh. And until then, well, I guess it's time to pull out that old military adage, and embrace the suck. 

On the side of the road

It was bound to happen someday. The question was just when. And even more important: where. Apparently last week my number was up, and it was my turn to finally break down on the side of the road. All things considered, I got really lucky. First, it happened on a Monday, and as we all know, Mondays suck anyway. Second, it happened right as I turned on to the interstate, which a) put me within fifteen miles of my house, and b) meant the next exit was a mile away. Third, it was only a sort of breakdown. Obviously, a breakdown is a breakdown since it always involves something that prevents you from driving, but in my case, it wasn't an engine, or a tire. It was a wheel well cover. Yeah. I know, I didn't even know my car had such a thing, but it does. And when it comes loose, it prevents your tire from properly turning, which means you're not really going anywhere, except to a place to stop really quickly. 

I am not quite sure how it happened. My car has been the victim of retreads on several momentous occasions, including one where half my fender liner was scraping along the interstate, but husband-dear always managed to fnagle it all back together with tie wraps and a hair dryer. So whether I ran into some retread and just never noticed it, or whether the two dozen tie wraps finally gave up, I really don't know. All I know is that I had just merged on to the interstate  when a loud screeching noise made me look over at the car beside me and think something ungracious about people who do not take care of their cars. But the car passed and the noise continued. When I noticed my car wasn't steering properly, I realized it was me. And that I better get off the road asap. 

So there I was, parked at a deserted gas station, at 6:45 in the morning, in my cute black and green dress and matching pumps, looking at this:

So what does any self-respecting, liberated, third-wave feminist do? 

Call her husband of course. 

Who turned out to not be at his desk. Nor answering his cell phone. Some digging into my early morning memory made me remember that husband-dear was at PT. And I'm sure my ever-patieny husband was just thrilled to hear his name broadcast over the PA system, and then to have the gym front desk clerk tell him his wife was stranded by the side of the road. Just thrilled. 

I was definitely not responding in my usual manner. I mean, one would expect me to be freaking out about the three classes and two meetings I needed to be getting ready for, the weird guys loitering about, none of whom stopped to ask if I needed help, and work, but I didn't. I did the math, figured that in an ideal world I would be fifteen minutes late to my first class, emailed my class and our department secretary, listened to NPR, and just chilled

Strange. I know. Well, I figured, at least I could count on husband-dear to be frustrated. Right?

Wrong. When husband-dear pulled up, he was grace personified. He drove right over, only stopping by the house to pick up his toolbox, and was his usual chipper 'we'll fix this in a jiffy' self. Only he couldn't. And after observing the numerous men pulling up to the gas station, loitering, and staring at me, he went all manly and told me to take the CRV while he took my poor little Fit into the shop. 

So there I was, an hour later than usual, driving down a now deserted interstate, in a still almost new CRV with leather seats, cruise control, and a whole host of other gadgets, and I realized that maybe breaking down wasn't such a bad thing after all...

Ik ben een meisje van negen jaar...

Of zestien dan. Of, als ik me bijzonder volwassen voel, eenentwintig. Maar dan heb je het ook wel gehad. Nooit, maar dan ook nooit voel ik mij mijn ware leeftijd (29. Al jaren. Echt). En ik voel me al helemaal nooit "Dr", of "professor". Laat staan "de vrouw van". En laten we het maar helemaal niet hebben over dat hele stiefmoeder gedoe. Ik ben negen. Of zestien (of 21), en als ik later groot ben wil ik brandweervrouw worden.

Ik heb zo eens rondgevraagd, en klaarblijkelijk hebben wel meer, voornamelijk vrouwelijke, collega's hier last van. Het geval dat je veel jonger, veel onervarener, en ook veel minder slim bent dan dat je bent. Of dat men denkt dat je bent. Of dan de indruk die jij hebt achtergelaten. Volgt u het allemaal nog? Stiekem zijn we allemaal 'frauds' die nog lang niet klaar zijn om een 'working professional' te zijn, en die hun PhD bij elkaar gespaard hebben met de zegeltjes van de Becel. Of, om cultureel-relevant te blijven, met de pakjes Cracker Jacks.

En soms is dat best wel lastig. Want dan word je in een keer voor dingen gevraagd waar je als negen (of 16) jarige nog helemaal niet aan toe bent. Of denkt te zijn. Zo werd ik van de zomer gevraagd om "chair" van de IRB aan mijn universiteit te zijn. En uiteraard riep ik meteen ja, want naast dat ik klaarblijkelijk moeite heb met tellen, ben ik ook nog eens een ontzettende type-A persoonlijkheid, die altijd moet bewijzen dat ze toch echt slim is. En weet wat ze doet. En alles kan.
Maar ja, dan zit je daar dus. Als kersverse chair van de IRB. Dan in een keer word jij geacht leiding te geven aan het orgaan dat onderzoek goed- of afkeurt. En dat onderbouwd met bewijslast uit federale stukken. En meer van dat soort moeilijke dingen. En alhoewel je dat best kan, want sja, je bent al vier jaar lid van de IRB, roept je hoofd steeds dat dit natuurlijk helemaal geen taak is voor een meisje zoals jij. Je bent veel te jong, veel te onervaren, en die PhD, dat was natuurlijk gewoon puur toeval. Je had gewoon een paar jaar lang even niks anders te doen.

Vandaag moest ik er echter echt aangeloven. Mijn eerste vergadering. Met de secretaresse naast me, die me zo nu en dan dingen toefluisterde als "Vergeet de motie om goed te keuren niet", riep ik hele professionele dingen als "Do we have a second?" en "Can you design a policy for that?", en deed alsof ik precies wist waar ik het over had.
Pfft.


En toen bedacht ik me, wat als iedereen zich nou eens zo voelt? Wat als iedereen die leiding geeft stiekem een acht-jarig meisje of elf-jarig jongetje is, die er toevallig uitziet als een volwassen man of vrouw? Wat als iedereen nou het gevoel heeft dat ze maar "wat doen", maar dat gewoon leuk, of stoer, of streng verpakken? Wat als iedereen nog steeds droomt over hoe het zijn om politie agent te zijn, of boswachter, of brandweervrouw? Zijn we dan eigenlijk allemaal niet heel druk bezig om te doen alsof we weten waar we het over hebben, en is er eigenlijk niemand die -echt- weer hoe het moet? Does everyone just make it up as they go along?

Stiekem, he, stiekem denk ik dus dat dat het is. We doen allemaal maar wat. Alleen de slimme onder ons hebben geleerd om dat heel professioneel te verpakken. En daardoor denkt de rest van ons dat zij het wel weten, en wij niet. Maar dat is dus eigenlijk helemaal niet zo. Om in de woorden van Brigitte Kaandorp te blijven, "Het hoeft niks te zijn, als het maar wat lijkt."

Als ik er zo over nadenk, dan valt dat chair-schap eigenlijk nog best wel mee.
Bring it.

The more things change...

...the more they stay the same.

As you can see, the look of the blog has changed. Just a little, but hey after five years of the same old polkadots (which were supposed to resemble thumbtacks, and reflect the URL - did anyone catch that? Anyone?), I bet it made at least one person sit up and take notice (Hi Vic!). I would love to tell you that I changed it because I wanted to go with the times, better reflect my personality or the direction of my writing. But I can't. You see, I just got tired of seeing that blog archive on the right side of the page, telling me I had only posted three times in August. Three! So I moved the archive, and then one thing led to another, and before you know it, you have a REALLY orange blog. Let's see if I decided to keep it.

Anyway, in spite of the new look (and the now less conspicuous location of the blog archives), nothing else has really changed. I haven't blogged in almost two weeks because our fall semester started August 19, and even though I only teach two class now (thanks to the same awesome project I was on last semester), and this is my seventh time starting a new academic year, I still get caught up in the quagmire of late registration, students that need to be added and/or dropped, attendance verification, syllabi, book orders, and other drama that just won't go away no matter how much I plan. And so while three, four years ago I would still find the energy to blog, I must be getting old, because driving home and crashing on the couch/in the pool is about all I have the energy for these days. Plenty of ideas, and plenty of blogs written inside my head while driving to work, but once I get to said work, my creativity is poured into fixing schedules, explaining my attendance policy in ten different ways (to the same student), writing grant proposals, and preparing conference presentations. You know how people tell you things get easier with time? Well, they do, but why don't those same people tell you that as things get easier, people will notice and pile more work on you and so then while your work may still not be as hard as it was at first, there is not just so much MORE of it, you're about to lose your head anyway.

Ahem.

In spite of all of that, I have been able to come to one blogworthy conclusion this week: I am sick of driving. I know, it's a miracle it only took me six years of driving 180 miles per day to get sick of it, but there you have it.

It started when I backed into a lamppost two weeks ago. I was dropping a colleague off on the other side of campus, because I "was on my way home anyway, and it is way too hot to walk anywhere", and I can't say no. Eager to get myself home and into a pool, I backed up, ready to turn, when a lamppost decided to rudely impede my progress. The lamppost was fine, I was fine, my car has a small dent on the bottom of the bumper. And you know what? No one cared, including me. Campus police didn't care. Husband-dear said the car was old and he didn't care. And I, the winner of the type A personaly award four years in a row, didn't care either. Never backed into anything, never caused an accident, never dented or dinged my car through my own fault. Backing into a lamppost should have caused a major meltdown, but it didn't. I just didn't care. Car, schmar.

When I lived in the Netherlands, I used to get so sick of having to deal with transportation. Taking your care into town to shop would have been ideal, but really made no sense since the traffic would be horrendous, there would be no parking spots anywhere, and if there were, you'd have to do a 29-point turn to get in it, and pay a small fortune for an hour's worth of parking. So I would ride my bike, with its enormous bicycle bags piled full of stuff, bags hanging off my handlebars, or if it rained I would brave the ridiculous bus schedule to navigate my way into town that way. Getting anywhere outside of town meant carefully weighing the options between possible traffic delays, parking dramas, and public transportation scheduling nuisances. I remember yearning for a place where you could just get in your car, drive somewhere, and find a free parking space. I would fantasize about it while riding my bike home from the grocery store with twenty pounds of groceries dangling off my bike frame. I would imagine how wonderful it would be to just get in your car and drive off while waiting for a delayed train on a rain-soaked platform.

And then I moved to Georgia. At first, all was glorious. I loved being able to get in my car and go. My town, in spite of its shortcomings, does not really have any traffic issues (base traffic has nothing on a good old-fashioned German stau). I loved having free parking and having lots of it. I loved the empty interstates, the curving highways, the fact that a 90 mile drive really only took about 90 minutes. I loved not having to worry about rain messing up my hair or my nice clothes, and being able to come and go as I pleased.

But you know what? I am so over all of that. I am tired of people's inability to use a blinker or take a turn without crossing over into the other lane (or swinging out to the left to make a right turn - I mean, really, people?). I am done with people (I'm looking at you Florida!) who hog the middle lane on the interstate at 60 miles per hour, or those who pull out in front of you while you're going 55 miles per hour. I'm tired of people passing on the right, of semis driving way too fast, of the endless road construction. I'm over people on their cellphones staring off into space, people who forget their car came equipped with side and rear view mirrors, people who have no sense of distance or space, or when the use of hazard lights is appropriate (hint: a drizzle isn't it). And if I have to navigate one more parking lot where all of these problems appear to meld into a big giant accident-waiting-to-happen (and that only didn't happen because I look out for all those pulling out or in without looking, driving the wrong way, or randomly pulling out in front of you), I may just stop the car, get out, and throw a tantrum. 

Obviously, I can be over this as much as I want to be, there's really nothing I can do about it. The fact is, I live 90 miles from my job, and if I want a paycheck, I will need to get to work. Which means driving, which means navigating all of the above and more.

So, Americans, and Georgians in particular, I am begging you: LEARN HOW TO DRIVE. Watch some youtube videos. Check that old driver's instruction manual. Don't think of the stalks next to your steering wheel as things that get in between you and your coffeemug, or your mirrors as a friendly aid for your morning make up routine. Don't think that because you've been doing it this way for thirty years, it's fine. It's not. It only appears to be fine because those of us who do look out, know how to use our lights and mirrors properly look out for you. But we're about done with that. So put that phone away, turn the radio down, stop worrying about the size of your rims or the engine under the hood, and drive.

Thank you.

In the meantime, I will be riding my bicycle to our local grocery store, heat and bugs be damned.

The sick cow

I am happy to report that I have finally discovered two downsides to owning a pool: bugs and rain.

As we all know, bugs love Georgia. Big bugs, little bugs, bugs that crawl, fly, creep, or all three at the same time, bugs that sting and those that bite, green bugs, brown bugs, red bugs, they're all very much at home in Georgia. And unless you're a squeamish yankee (and anyone not born and raised in the shade of a Georgia pine- "and that's home ya know"- is obviously a yankee), you don't pay them any mind. Or as those uppity yankees would say, you don't care. 

Needless to say, I do care. I don't like anything crawling, creeping, or buzzing anywhere near me. Granted, the past six years (six?! Six?? How did that happen?) have seen me mellow out a little. Roaches no longer send me flying up onto kitchen counters, and spiders just have me reaching for my flip flop. In fact, last year, when we had a roach fall out of an air vent on to the couch I was sitting on, I just egged Zoe on to eat it because I really was not in the mood to get up and look for our can of roach spray. I know. I have come a long way. A looong way. 

Anyway, all of this to let you know that when you own a pool, you become much more intimately connected to the lives and cycles of the local bug population. Our pest guy (yes, we have a pest guy. No, we are not gross, we just live in bug heaven) pointed this out to me when we first opened our pool. I was wondering why we had oodles of ants in our pool, and he replied that they got hot just like us and liked water too. I might have responded with not in my pool, to which mr. Pestman just laughed and told me that after the ants left we'd see Junebugs (check. Big, round, and brown), wasps (check again, both big and small), cicada killers (not sure but I think these are the enormous black spiky insects that I've been finding in our skimmer lately), and then, once fall hits, kudzu bugs. After one  summer, I am now also able to add spiders (mid to late august), ants again (after a hot dry spell), and, yes, frogs (anytime it rains). Although not bugs, they are gross (seeing how most of them are still alive when I catch them), but also strangely helpful, since they do eat as many of the bugs in the pool as they can manage before the chlorine sends them to the big lilypad in the sky. It's been one big biological experiment in my skimmer, people. 

The second downside is rain. Not rain per se, of course, although that does definitely mar one's ability to fully enjoy the pool, but the things one needs to do when it 's been raining a lot. This past weekend, we've had about ten inches of rain, and one of the rules of thumb when owning a pool is that one should not let the water get above the skimmer. It has something to do with the overflow that is attached to the skimmer. Or perhaps the ability of the skimmer to return water through the pump. Or perhaps it was something else together. Or our pool builder just loves the idea that all his new pool owners are out in the rain tending to their pool. At any rate, when your pool level gets too high, you want to drain some of it out by via the pump. You don't want to drain too much as you don't want to lose all your salt, and so the bottomline is that you will be outside in the rain for a considerable amount of time watching your pool and pushing buttons. If it rains a lot for long periods of time, and you have a salt water generator (or SWG for those 'in the know'), you might even hit the pool jackpot and find your salt levels so low you have to add a bag of salt to the pool and brush it out. In the rain. 

So yesterday, after three days of biblical rains, and two runs out to the pump to drain the pool, I realized my salt levels were so low my SWG was no longer working. At this point, the rain is coming down in sheets, the ground is completely saturated and as a result sports deep puddles of water, two of your neighbors need to get their sceptic tank drained, and all of your shoes are soaked through.  And it's just your luck that you need to go out and maintain the pool that you insisted on. The pool that you promised you would take care of...

So what does any self-respecting Dutch woman do? She does what generations of farmers with sick and pregnant cattle have done before her: she dons her waterproof riding hat, her wooden shoes, her impermeable raincoat and gets it done. She first drains the pool a few inches, and then drags a forty-pound bag of salt across the wet grass, makes sure it's evenly distributed along the deep end, and then brushes the pool until the salt has dissipated. Rain is running off the brim of her hat, down her back, and everything is wet, but still she keeps on going. 

And this would have sounded incredibly cool had her two boys not been standing in the kitchen, watching the entire spectacle from the cooled, dry inside of the house, all the while laughing at my outfit and taking pictures. Revenge, my dear readers, will be very sweet:)

P.s the odd looking planks were part of the fence project that husband-dear has since finished

The race that almost wasn't, was, then was again

I'm not big on writing race reports, as the discussions of finished races are called in the world of athletics. I'm pretty sure none of my readers care about whether or not I use caffeinated or non-caffeinated gels during the bike portion, and that you all can also live without tales of painful chafing and how to get out of a tri-top. I keep a race journal I keep where I write about things like that, so I'll remember to wear lube, bring extra socks, and not wear my white, leaky goggles. But I keep race tales to a minimum on this blog. 

As a result of that, I completely forgot to tell you all about my last triathlon of the 2012 season. It was what you might call an unintentional race in that I had no intention of doing it. I had done the race twice before, in 2009 and 2010, and since I wasn't overtly impressed I didn't feel the need to do it again. I had also just come back from a five-week study abroad program in China, one you might remember as being particularly challenging (read bug-filled), and so doing a race was the last thing on my mind. But then husband-dear signed up to support a friend who was doing his first tri, and since I couldn't imagine just standing by the sidelines doing nothing (heaven forbid), I signed up too. 

Race morning started early (normal), dark (also normal), and with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder (not normal). But since none of the race officials said anything, and us athletes sure as heck weren't going to suggest shortening or, heaven forbid, canceling our race, we continued setting up. Keeping an eye on the flashes on the other side of the lake and using ample plastic bags as rain was threatening to join the party. We were all assembled on the beach, eyeing the wavy lake in fear, when the sherrif himself suddenly made an apprarance. The smokey-the-bear-hat-wearing, vastly overweight middle-aged man looked extremely uncomfortable walking in between the scantily clad triathletes, and I would have laughed had I not feared what was bound to come. And indeed, a few minutes later the race official announced that the sheriff's department had ordered the race delayed for thirty minutes due to the thunderstorm. And with that announcement came the rains. 

So there you are, dressed in a skimpy tri top, tri pants, and a swim cap while the thundering is roaring on the other side of the lake, the rain is beating down and there is no place to go but wait on that little beach. And wait. And get really cold. And grumble at the sheriff's department, as the thunder is obviously miles away and all they're accomplishing with the delay is to ensure everyone is really wet, cold, and at this point suffering from a seriously derailed race nutrition plan. 

But the thirty minutes passed, and although the thunder was still rumbling on the other side of the lake, and the rain was still beating down, the race was given the go ahead. And so off we went. Into the choppiest, wildest water I have ever had the pleasure of racing, only to be followed by the scariest bike portion ever. And that is not a hyperbole, people. The hairpin turns are enough to give you pause on a dry and sunny day, add a boatload of water to the mix and the resulting slick pavement and you have one hell of a ride, as evidenced by the numerous crashes I witnessed along the way. (And may the record state that all the crashees were young guys without shirts on, which leads me to conclude that exposing one's nipples to fresh morning air is a prelude to all kinds of craziness, as well as a less than thoughtful attitude as I don't think I need to describe the painful, bloody chafing that was clearly visible even when traveling at 19mph). 

So by the time I got to the run, I wasn't expecting much as far as time went. You can imagine my surprise when I realized I was minutes ahead of plan. Thanks to the rain, the run, usually a beast as it leads through open fields without a hint of shade, was truly exemplary, and I finished seven minutes faster than my previous finish at this race. And to top it all off, this was enough to land me first place in my age category. To say I was amazed was an understatement. And elated. And slightly smug: three races, two second places, one first. Who would have expected that from the clumsy girl who was always picked last in PE. 

Fast forward a year later, and humble pie had replaced the smugness. A strained adductor and a broken toe had brought my half iron training to a screeching halt, and when husband-dear signed up for this race to support another friend, I signed up because I knew that standing on the sidelines would send my eternally precarious mental equilibrium over the edge, even though I also knew I would have to steel myself for the fact that I was going to suck. At least compared to my 2012 result. But anything was better than not racing, or at least so I told myself. And kept telling myself over the next few weeks. As a perfectionist whose motto 'do it right or don't do it at all', this attitude flew directly into the face of everything I had always told myself. I have always wanted to do better, to be better, since as far as I'm concerned, standing still is the same as going backwards. Improvement is the only way forward- go team DC! (insert sarcastic remark here). But with physical therapy still in full swing, and a toe still in recovery, I knew that this time around I was just going to have to give myself participation credit. There was no way I was going to improve on last year's amazing time, and that had to be good enough. It's what I told myself on my runs, my long bike rides, my swims. It's what I told everyone who asked. Whatever I did was going to be good enough, and I didn't like it, but that's how it was going to be. 

The morning of the race, the hottest dat of the summer to date, I looked out at the smooth-as-glass lake and felt something I had not associated with triathlons for years: nerves. Nerves because I was going to do something I hadn't done in years: just race. Not for a time or a place, but just to finish. And it was a scary prospect. So I prayed that I would at least be an inspiration to those around me, many of whom were novices, and that I would just have fun. 

Now I don't know about the inspiration, but I sure had fun. I joked with the other ladies about the swim before the start, yelled encouragement at people on the bike, apologized for being a doofus in taking those hairpin turns, and giggled when one man told me 'aw, that's alright sugar.' I went into the run refusing to do the math on my pace in order to finish at a certain time, and instead called out to a girl I recognized from last year, and chatted with a man who knew both my dean and the university president. And finished. 

Ten seconds slower than last year. 

For the longest time I refused to check the results board. As I told husband- dear, I had given my all, and that was good enough. Finally, finally, after catching up with all the women I had spoken with during the race, and exchanging many sweaty, salty hugs, I made my way over to the board, and apparently whatever I did was also good enough for another first place. 

Sometimes life is not just good, but really good. 

Mellow yellow

I was going to start this post with a statement like, "And for the 7th year in a row, I present to you, the start of the academic year", when I realized I wasn't even sure if this was my 7th or 8th time starting yet another fall term. I'm certain I could do the math, had my brain not already been reduced to its usual middle-of-term state of muddledness. It took only a week this year, and that has got to be a record of some sort. 

So, yes, the era of no-to-do lists and no solid commitments has once again come to a screeching halt, and last week Monday, I pulled on long slacks and a dress shirt, prepared my lunch, and lamented that I couldn't believe summer was over already, only to drive off on my 90-mile drive one more time. The attic will not be cleaned until Christmas, my pictures won't get sorted until Thanksgiving, and I will just have to bribe one of the boys to get fridge cleaned. 

The last three weeks of summer were absolutely awesome. My decision to not do anything I didn't feel like worked out so well, I may make that attitude a staple of all of my breaks. Our skirtboards may never get repainted, and I doubt that I would ever wash our windows again, but who needs a clean, painted house when you can have peace of mind instead? (Yes, and we all know that that is not quite how it works for me, but the thought is so nice, people, really, it is). I did miss blogging (yes, really), but I was just too busy swimming, reading, and sleeping, to get around to it. I do think my spontaneous, unannounced, and unilateral decision to unplug scared some of my overseas family members (Hi mom!), but man, it was awesome. I may really need to rethink this working stepmom thing I got going here. Who needs fulfillment from a career when you can have entire days to yourself?

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that life has been pretty good down south. I think I may have finally figured out how to keep myself happy and sane out here in dixieland. If I had known that all it would have taken was a pool and a stern email from husband-dear telling me I had earned the right to do nothing, I would have arranged for that to happen years ago. 

As the students are trickling back in, and I start teaching next week, I know you all expect me start a wordy lament about teaching schedules and course content, but with my 50% grant-based release time still firmly in place, I can't even produce the tiniest of rants. I'm actually pretty happy about all the stuff going on this semester. 

I know. I'm sorry. 

On an upnote, however, advisement starts tomorrow, and I'm confident that will quickly undermine my mellowed-out state of happiness. So no worries, Dr. Gripe-and-Complain will probably be back soon. 

Until then, I'll be over there in the corner, smiling at everyone. 

The to-do list

While in past summers, it was safe to say I was pretty much married to my to-do list, this summer had been different. It's not that I don't have a to do list, because I do. I have an entire spiral notebook dedicated to my to-do lists, with separate sections for daily and long-term to-do lists. It has checkboxes, different shapes and colors mini-post-its, a place to keep my pen, and is basically a geek walhalla in between two covers. 

But even though it's full of things I decided I must do before heading back to work (paint Ozziez's room! Sort through pictures! Clean out attic!), I have not touched it since I came back from Ireland, three weeks ago. I've carried it around with me, and it's currently sitting on the coffeetable, staring at me in reproach, but I have simply refused to open it and look at all the things I should have done, should be doing right now, and need to do in the next three weeks. 

This has created an interesting situation. For one thing, I keep forgetting to do things. Like run to the bank to get my hard drives from our lock box, schedule the pool guys to come and paint our deck, and cleaning out the fridge. It also means that when I get around to doing things that I remember from my to-do list, such as sorting through my pictures from Christmas, I do it when I feel like it, and quit when that feeling goes away. I feel like the main character from Office Space, when he's just come out of a hypnosis, doesn't go into work for four days, and when he does, and his boss tells him he's been missing a lot work, he replies with, "Well, I haven't actually been missing it."  Yes, I am definitely less organized (for instance, because I have yet to finish moving certain teaching materials to another computer, on account of I quit when I didn't feel like doing it anymore, my desk is covered in a jumbled combination of used and empty CDs), but I also find that I just don't care. Whatever I'm forgetting is, and this is a shocking revelation to me, really not that important. The fridge, for one, is just not disgusting enough for me to get worked up about it. And if something is important enough (such as scheduling our termite inspection), I am more than capable of remembering. Even over a long weekend. 

So yeah, I'm not sure what to make of this new situation yet. You see, it really means I, like the guy from Office Space, only do what I feel like, unencumbered by to-do lists. So I haven't checked my email as regularly as I should have, not responded to emails from dear friends, not updated my Facebook page in weeks, and we all know how much my blogging skills have fallen to the wayside. Yet I know that those are things I usually like to do. Apparently just not right now. 

However, in line with my current laissez-faire attitude I'm going to cut myself some slack. The 2012-2013 academic year was quite the doozy, with promotion and tenure, a grant, conferences, publications, and it would seem that I just need a break. Between you and me, I honestly kind of like the relaxed me. And I'm sure that once August 5 rolls around, I will be wound tighter than a slinky on espresso. So for now, if I don't respond to your emails, phone calls, or messages, it's not because I don't want to. I just don't right now.

Driemaal..

..is scheesprecht.

Na het verrassende succes van de gevulde koeken van vorige maand was ik overtuigd dat alle Nederlandse lekkernijen vanaf nu binnen handbereik waren. Brinta, roze koeken, spekkoek, erwtensoep, de Amerikaanse recepten zijn allemaal te vinden The Dutch Table, en dus was het een kwestie van tijd maken en de juiste ingedrienten kopen, voordat al die versnaperingen ook in mijn pantry te vinden waren. 

Mijn eerste, of nou ja tweede, success story zou eierkoeken worden. Hoe moeilijk kon een koek die voornamelijk uit eieren bestaat nou zijn? 

Nou, erg moeilijk. 

Het begon met het recept van The Dutch Table. De eierkoeken, die tot mijn grote verbazing corn starch bevatten ( een middel waarmee je sauzen dikker maakt), waren groot en dik, mooi goudkleurig, maar ook hard en redelijk smakeloos. Manlief en de jongens vonden ze heerlijk met jam of honing, maar laten we wel wezen, een eierkoek behoort men met honing noch met jam te eten. 

En dus werd het tijd voor het zwaarder geschut: mijn oom Jan (die voor de verandering ook eens echt Jan heet). Jan is namelijk professioneel brood en banketbakker. Zo iemand die om middernacht naar zijn werk gaat zodat wij allemaal vers tijgerbrood, sesambolletjes, en slagroompunten kunnen kopen. Die na bijna veertig jaar dienst de favoriete patient van zijn tandarts is, en niet omdat hij zoveel snoept, maar omdat suiker in een bakkerij letterlijk in de lucht zit, en hij dat decennia lang al aan het inademen is.  Iemand wiens baan een duidelijk nuttige bijdrage aan de samenleving levert (terwijl dat bij mijn baan nog maar te zien valt). Na een recept dat maar liefst 75 eierkoeken zou produceren afgewezen te hebben als ietwat onrealistisch, kwam Jan met een simpel, klein recept aan. Eieren, bloem ('dat is flour voor jou'), suiker, citroenschil en bakpoeder ('en dat is baking soda voor jou'). Het leek reuze makkelijk. En dat was het ook. En de koeken zagen er prachtig uit. Alleen smaakten ze werkelijk voor geen meter. Niet zoet genoeg, en met een vreemde vissige bijsmaak. 

U begrijpt, dit was het. Het teken dat opegeven geen optie was. It was on. Challenge accepted. In it to win it. 

En zo ging ik op zoek naar een Amerikaans recept. Van een Amerikaanse kok. En kwam na veel wikken en wegen bij een recept uit dat wel wat leek. Zo was er geen corn starch nodig. Maar wel baking soda. En baking powder. En als semi-wannabe-bakker weet ik dat je die combinatie nodig hebt als je enige fluffiness wil krijgen. Wel moest er corn syrup aangeschaft worden, en de oven op een onfatsoenlijke temperatuur voorverwarmd worden, maar mensen, dan heb je ook wat. Want deze derde keer zijn ze dus mooi gelukt. Perfect, goudbruine, luchtige, plakkerige eierkoeken. Van Amerikaans mega-formaat, maar dat nemen we voor lief. 

En ik heb maar meteen besloten dat mijn volgende poging boterkoek gaat worden...en dan? De moeder van alle banket: spekkoek.

Queen of tarts

Many people have asked me about my favorite part of my recent trip to Ireland. Because I live in the Bible belt, where, to borrow from Ms. Austen, sensibilities are many and sense is hard to come by, I have yet to share the absolute best part of the trip with anyone. Instead, I talk about other parts of my trip, such as seeing the Book of Kells, touring Dublin with Mary, exploring County Wicklow, or the inspirational nature of the conference, or perhaps even the success of my presentation. All truly exciting and wonderful experiences, but none can hold a candle to the high tea Mary and I shared on my first day in the country. A first day that was marked by rains, winds, and temperatures in the high 40s. A day so full of new impressions and freezing ankles that when Mary suggested finding a tea place she had read about on TripAdvisor that was known for its pies, cakes, scones, and tarts, saying yes was the only logical thing to do. So, using her ever-useful city app, Mary guided us across Temple bar, through crooked streest, past bars, boutiques, and lots of Carroll's tourist shops. And just when we were about to guve up, we both looked up, and saw the bright red sign with the infamous name 'Queen of Tarts'. Yes, Queen of Tarts. And now you know why I have yet to share this with anyone down here. In a part of the world where talking about armpit hair by innocent first graders at summer camp is seen as the worst kind of inappropriate (yes, this did indeed happen. Back in 2008 in fact), just  mentioning the name of this particular establishment is enough to give most people a fit of the vapors. So I have refrained from sharing this particular tidbit. (And that expression would be a no-no as well..just so you know). 

But I digress. 

The Queen of Tarts was easiest the smallest eatery in all of Dublin: six tables were squeezed together in front of the most scrumptuous display of tarts, pies, and pastries, and patrons had to watch their elbows and knees lest one of them ended up in their neighbor's scone or pot of tea. The decorations in the shape of lots of red hearts, and references to various species of womanhood one might describe as 'tarts', did an amazing job walking the fine line between cute and camp, and gave the place an uncanny resemblance to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shoppe in the Harry Potter series. In one word, it was awesome. 

In spite of the rain, cold, and the fact that it was Sunday at tea time, one small table next to the display case was empty. Mary and I quickly made it our own, and proceeded to have a very warm, delicious, and much-appreciated tea. 

And seriously, can anything trump sharing a pot of tea, a slice of pound cake with an old friend on a cold day in a teashop called Queen of Tarts?

No, I didn't think so either...

Tir Na Nog

And now for something completely different (no pools, no toes, no hips), let's talk about Ireland.

Does anyone remember the show The Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog?  Or was I the only nerdy graduate student who wasted her time watching a show about battles for ancient Ireland? And who, on a side note, also wasted a lot of time with Mork & Mindy and Are You Being Served ("are you free, Captain Peacock?") reruns? Imagine if I had spent all that time studying! I could have actually gone somewhere and made something of myself!...oh..wait..well..)

Anyway, the Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog was my first encounter with Ireland. Well, that and the lovely mother from Titanic who, as the ship is sinking, puts her children to bed and reads them a story about, there you go again, Tir Na Nog. Growing up in Europe, I was, of course, more than familiar with the ongoing "troubles" in Northern Ireland (and possibly even more familiar with the music about that era), but the rest of Ireland was always little more than a haze of green fields, rain, druids, Celtic women in large dresses singing old songs, and stories of immigrants trying to get across the ocean to the US.

Fortunately, my ignorant little soul is going to get an opportunity to educate itself on Ireland, as next week I will be at a conference to Dublin. There are a lot of downsides to my job as a professor, the crappy pay, the long hours, the difficult students, the crappy pay, and well, you are all more than familiar with the long list of woes, but one of the major perks of working in academics is the opportunity to travel. Granted, you do need to conduct some research, turn it into a paper, and then get it accepted by said conference. And you also need to make sure your university is willing to pay for at least part of the cost, but once you've achieved all of that, this traveling gig is a real perk.

In my case, the paper that landed me at the major international conference to be held in Ireland focused on the study that involved research assistants and Steve, my former colleague who is busy finishing up his PhD at his Big Midwestern University. Much to our surprise, we found some pretty interesting things, and fortunately, the reviews at the major conference agreed, and so this Saturday I will be on my way to the airport. The conference doesn't start until Tuesday night, and since exploring a country by myself isn't half as much fun as exploring it with a friend, Mary, she of running awesomeness (who in a less awesome move, transferred to Italy) is flying up to meet me, and we will exploring this rainy, green, druid-filled country together. Not only has Mary been to Ireland before, she's an even better planner and tour guide than I am (as proven by the fact that she's already figured out which bus to take to the airport to pick me up), and she's pregnant and has already threatened to buy me every single drink she wants but can't have. This is what I would call a win-win situation, people.

To be honest, not all is well in Dixiechick-travel-adventure-land. Lately, I've become a little freaked out by my accommodations. Because my university is generous but not exactly in a Daddy Warbucks kind of way, I'm having to pay a considerable chunk of the expenses for this trip out of my own pocket. And back in February, when I booked everything, saving on accommodations seemed like a great way to go. So I booked a room on campus. A single person dorm-room. Back then it sounded great, it cost only 43 euros a night, included breakfast, I'd have access to a kitchen, the campus gym and pool, and did I mention it was only 43 euros a night? But now, as my departure date inches closer I'm starting to feel a little queasy. What if I'm surrounded by partying students? Or worse, man-sized roaches? Or a really, really nasty bed? According to husband-dear, this is a) slightly ridiculous, and b) probably still a remnant from the accommodations trauma I endured in China last year. In order to assuage my fears, he suggested I look at pictures online, as it really couldn't be that bad. And so I did. People, I am paying 43 euros for a monk's cell. Or, if you're from Holland, a prison cell. Cinder blocks, a bed, a desk, and a bathroom so small I have the feeling I'll be standing on the toilet to take my shower. Fortunately, reviews call it "clean", "modern", and make no mention of bugs or dirt (although some did complain about partying Italian students), but still, part of me wishes I had just splurged and checked into a nice hotel downtown (although, as husband-dear points out, I would still be freaking out about bedbugs, and he is so right).

But accommodation-fears aside, I am excited to finally see Tir Na Nog with my own eyes, meet up with a good friend, catch up with former colleagues at the conference, and, of course, present Steve and my work to the academic community at large. I will keep you posted.

And that's all I have to say about that

So 2013 will probably not go down in my personal history as the most athletic year ever. I know, I know, the year's not even half over yet, and it's possible I'm being slightly overly dramatic, but sheesh, people, sheesh!

First there was that pesky hip/ groin problem I told you all about. You know, it hurt, I rested, it still hurt. I rested some more, but no cigar. Not only did that nix my chances of participating in the half ironman I had been training for, it also pretty much made it impossible to swim or bike. I could still run, thank the Lord, but long training rides or swimming using my legs was out of the question. Hello pathetically short rides and floaties! You can imagine I have just been an absolute bundle of joy these past weeks. 

But, as the problem-solving, type A, oh-my-god-I-have-to-train endorphine junkie that I am, I of course wasn't about to just let this run its course. While well-meaning friends said things like, why don't you just take it easy and float around in your pool, and, you know, rest will make it all better eventually, I was in my PCM's office at three weeks. And when her admonitions to just rest and ice did nothing for the next two weeks, I got a referral to see an office specialize in orthopedics and sports medicine. Yes, I may cry when I've had too little sleep and I can't find my favorite pumps, but when I put my game face on, I get things done. Even things involving the notorious government-run health benefits plan, Tricare. 

So last week, I went to see said orthopedic surgeon. After filling out an 11-page questionnaire that not only covered my medical history but those of my parents and siblings as well, and three x-rays, I had my diagnosis. And something else. But I'll get to that in a secod. As expected, I had a strained adductor, as well as tendonitis of the iliopsoas. Say what? Or as the Dutch would say: Broodje kammewattes? I have basically messed up the thing that connects my muscle to the bone as well as a tendon that runs in that same area. Fun! Fortunately, this is America, and there are solutions for everything, which in this case was physical therapy. Great. 

But there was another small issue. Minor, really. You see, when the doctor looked at my x-rays, he noticed a funny lump on the ball of my hip. This is, apparently, not normal. It even has a fancy-pants name: femoral acetabular imingement. For those of you into Googling (or Bing-ing), my particular kind is known as a cam lesion. And what, you may wonder, is the prognosis? Well, fortunately for you, I wondered the same thing, and asked. So according to this doctor, and every single website I have read since then, it could lead to early onset arthritis, surgery, and hip replacement. Good-y. The first sign of the lump on the hip becoming a genuine problem is a clicking noise, so I was to keep my ears out for that. 

So after that strange news (hi! I know you're here for a groin injury but let me tell you about something unrelated but pretty major that is wrong with you! You're welcome!), I went off to physical therapy. And one would think the story ended there.

Alas! There is a third thing. Yes, really. And this can really only be blamed on my own complete klutzy-ness. Last Friday, as I was playing with Shelby, I ran past one of our bookcases. Well, that was my intention. I made it past, my leg made it past, and the majority of my foot did too. Only my little toe decided to stay behind. The same little toe I broke back in 2009. You can imagine what happened next: A very blue, very swollen, and very broken toe (on an upnote, I did not cuss or cry, which is, if you know me, truly worth mentioning. The dogs just seemed really surprised at the very long and loud primordial scream I produced instead). So instead of running, biking, or swimming this weekend, I have instead been hobbling around in a pair of flip flops, grimacing at every movement, and googling questions about the duration and size of swelling and bruising. 

And that is why this morning, I sat at the physical therapist's looking like this:

Electrodes for my hip, a sneaker on one foot, and a flip flop for its bruised and swollen sister. 

And when I did my leg-lifting exercises this morning, guess what I heard? Yep, an onimous clicking sound. Bright orange walker with tassles and a bicycle bell, here I come!

I am, to use a good old southern phrase, such a mess. Thank goodness for pool-tinis. 

It's alive

Yes it is. Really. But just far too busy enjoying the new pool to write about anything. Not there isn't enough to write about (I'm debating the following post themes: Southerners and time; (Non) communication and construction folk; Why cookies make it all alright), but we'll have to wait until I get my pool-kick on before I even want to think about sitting at my laptop. Unless someone knows about a waterproof laptop, of course. 

In the meantime, I leave you with the following images...

Bing, de bakprinses, en de gevulde koek

Ik heb geen idee of Bing in Nederland ook in opkomst is, maar hier in de VS worden de laatste maanden overspoelt door de 'bing it on' campagne. Bring it on Bing-style zeg maar. 

Bing wil mensen zoals ik die al jaren verslaafd zijn aan de concurrent wegkrijgen door ze op de bingiton website de concurrent, of als we heel eerlijk zijn, de marktleider, met Bing te laten vergelijken. Het idee is dat je vijf keer een zoekterm invult, vijf keer de keuze krijgt tussen twee resultaten schermen zonder dat je weet welke van wie is. Uiteraard kiest iedereen, zonder het te weten voor de uiteraard betere, visueler ingestelde, veel vriendelijke Bing versie, wat ze na vijf keer kiezen in een mooie resultatentabel te zien krijgen. Marketing-technisch een geweldig idee. 

Aangezien het zomervakantie is, en ik dus ontzettend druk ben met het supervisen van de constructie van ons zwembad, me druk maken over een rare vlek in de vloerbedekking in de slaapkamer, en beslissingen zoals of het meer zin heeft om nu of morgen de donkere was te doen, kon ik gelukkig ergens een gaatje vinden om aan deze belangrijke campagne deel te nemen. 

Naast het feit dat mijn resultaten een perfecte 'draw' aangaven (ik prefereer Bing voor entertainment en de concurrent voor serieuzer zoek werk. Who knew?!)  was het ook opmerkelijk hoe ontzettend moeilijk het is om vijf keer op rij met een zinnige zoekterm op de proppen te komen. Mijn halve promotie tijd deed ik niks anders, maar als het erop aankomt weet ik echt niet waarop ik moet zoeken. En dus kwam ik met allerlei ontzettende vreemde dingen op de proppen zoals How I Met Your Mother Season 9 spoilers, de situatie in Eritrea (zorgwekkend mensen, echt waar), als ook een Engelstalig recept voor gevulde koeken. 

En weet u dat die dus gewoon bestaan? Amerikaanse recepten voor gevulde koeken? Ik had ze in het Nederlands al eens gezien, maar met mijn Amerikaanse maatbekers, Amerikaanse ingredienten, en Amerikaanse oven had ik daar niet zoveel aan. Tuurlijk kan ik omrekenen, maar als ik dan op dingen als 5/7 cup uikom, of 2.78 ounces, dan zakt me de moed in de teenslippers. 

Maar goed, ik sloeg het recept op, en vergat het prompt, want sja, de was moest gevouwen worden, een co-auteur was het niet eens met mijn factor analyse, en er moest ook The price Is Right gekeken worden. 

Nu bak ik de laatste dagen heel wat af: manlief wil wat mee naar zijn werk nemen, Jimmie zegt dat hij zeker weet dat als ik marble poundcake maak dat veel lekkerder is dan bij Starbucks (awww.. En ook: challenge accepted!), en ik wil de zwembadmannen blij houden. En dus bak ik pecan sandies, peanut butter cookies, banana bread, kitchen sweeps, en die pound cake. Maar zelf heb ik eigenlijk nooit echt zin in in gebakken spul. Ik doe niks liever dan de beslag kom schoon likken ( met mijn vingers! Ik heb wel een beetje stijl), maar als het spul eenmaal gebakken is ben ik er wel klaar mee. Behalve gisteren, toen had ik gisteren in een keer ontzettend zin in gevulde koeken. Een ouderwetse Hollandse gevulde koek. Maar ja, de dichtsbijzijnde Nederlandse winkel is vier uur rijden, en dat zit er niet echt in om zes uur 's avonds. En toen bedacht ik me, hallo, ik kan ze natuurlijk ook gewoon zelf maken. Ben ik nou een bakprinses of niet? En, eureka!, ik heb dat recept van Bing ook nog ergens. 

En zo maakte ik, dankzij de bingiton campagne, mijn allereerste zelf gebakken gevulde koeken. Het waren er maar acht, maar ze waren verrukkelijk.

Bing it on, zou ik dus zeggen

To race or not to race...

This time of year is usually characterized by long rides, equally long runs, hours in the pool, and endless agonizing over tri-tops, fuel belts, caffeinated v non-caffeinated gels, and stress-inducing countdowns until the first race of the season. 

Although you may not have noticed, this year is different. I don't think I've written a single post about triathlons since the new year, and even more unlike me: I have yet to sign up for a race. For someone who completed nine triathlons, three adventure races, and two half marathons in three years, this appears abnormal. And it is. But I'm OK with it. 

I think. 

It started in January, when I was planning on running a local half marathon I ran two years prior. I was just about to sign up for it, when I realized it fell right in my only three-day weekend in the semester. The three-day weekend husband-dear and I were going to spend visiting his family in Florida. And without any prodding from husband-dear or the in-laws I decided that I'd rather visit family than stay home for a race I had already done before. And one that was run on base too (I realize that for some this would have been a selling point, but once you've seen one flight line you've seen them all. Really). So instead of paying $50 to run with hundreds of other people, I set my GPS watch, filled up my camelback, packed some gels, and ran 13.1 miles on my own. In 1:50:03, a personal record. 

I think that's when I first realized that I didn't need to do an oficial race to feel like I accomplished something. And that just the thought of doing a tri, with all the registration-transportation-spotting buoys-transition mess was enough to make me feel tired. Very tired. And so although I kept training as though I was getting ready for another half ironman (after all, the first one could have been a fluke), I wasn't signing up, or even planning, for any races. I just felt race-tired. 

But you know me, and I know me, and as the months wore on, and my mileage increased, I started to increasingly feel as though not doing a race was just wrong. Not me. So, even though the thought of packing my transition bag made me want to take a nap and rest, I started to think about a local half iron. A half iron that is accompanied by a sprint, one that I have done for the past three years. How cool would it be if I finally did the same half iron that seemed lightyears out of reach four years ago? Well, my brain responded, sure, but it also just sounds exhausting. Wouldn't you rather take a nap and then bake some cookies? But brain, I said, the weather has been exceptionally cool, and for a race where the run takes place on a sunny road in temperatures that easily soar into the low 100s, doesn't an 90 degree run sound great? Sure, my brain said. And then might have mumbled something incomprensible about stubborn women and mules. 

Of course, karma is a snarky little turd, and so three weeks ago, five weeks before the race I had not yet signed up for, in the middle of the so-called pre-race peak, (and so at the worst possible time) I strained a muscle. Well, the insertion of a muscle in fact. In my groin, since you asked. I wasn't doing anything special, just swimming, and naturally I didn't stop. And so when I came home, I was not happy. Any sensible person would have taken a break. And I did. For about three days, at which point I had a 70-mile ride scheduled. Which I, naturally, completed. 

I won't need to tell you what a four hour bike ride does to an inflamed insertion. Yes, it makes it worse! What a surprise. And it has not gotten better since. At all. A trip to the doctor revealed a sprain and the knowledge that when someone pushes on an inflamed insertion, it hurts even more. For days. 

I also don't need to tell you what this does to my racing plans.. I can't speak for the entire season yet, but this half ironman I did and did not want to so at the same time is obviously not happening. My brain is relieved, the rest of me not so much... If nothing else, how can I keep eating like a pig without putting on a single pound? 

So if you're looking for me, I will be over there in the corner, trying to resist the urge to eat an entire container of ice cream. 

The pool that almost is

In lieu of a proper post, which is long overdue, I instead present you with a few pictures of our pool. No, it's not done yet. Yes, it should have been completely done tomorrow, even accounting for rain delay. But it's not and that's because we're apparently nicer than the average home builder, and therefore easier to convince that a delay is inevitable. I have tried plying them with cookies and cake, and I believe that husband-dear has a militarily inspired chewing out session scheduled for tomorrow. I don't think the pool builder knows yet.

At any rate, it should all be done by next week Wednesay. But don't start showing up with your floaties just yet...

Over koningen, stilzitten, en klompen

Natuurlijk ging ik iets diepzinnigs zeggen over de inhuldiging van Willem Alexander. Ik had zelfs het geweldige plan om dat op 30 April zelf te doen. Maar ja, net als mijn verjaardag valt Konningedag de laatste jaren tijdens de drukste periode van het jaar en dus kwam het er niet van.

Vandaag is het commencement, de voornamelijk lange afstudeer ceremonie, en dus de eerste keer in pak en beet drie weken dat ik niks anders doe dan zitten. Drie uur lang. En aangezien ik eindelijk ontdekt heb dat er een app is voor bloggen, heb ik nu eindelijk iets te doen. In plaats van zenuwachtig wiebelen en elke vijf minuten mijn 'hood' rechttrekken, kan ik nu gewoon bloggen. Wat een ontdekking. Straks ga ik commencement nog leuk vinden.

Dus. Koninginnedag. Of heette het deze keer al Koningsdag? Ik heb eigenlijk geen idee. En daarmee ben ik meteen aangekomen op wat ik eigenlijk wilde zeggen: Zo'n nieuwe koning is natuurlijk helemaal geweldig, maar nu hoor ik er weer een beetje minder bij daar in Nederland.

De inhuldiging was geweldig, de prinsesjes uber-schattig, Beatrix waardig maar ook lief, de voorstellingen tijdens de boottocht hadden me soms in tranen, en ik kan zelfs prima leven met "De dag die je wist dat zou komen". Desondanks weet ik nu al dat ik een van die irritante mensen ga zijn die maar niet kan wennen aan het woord Koningsdag, en die het over tien jaar nog steeds heeft over Koninging Beatrix, in plaats van prinses. Net als mijn oma dat vroeger deed met Juliana. Alleen doe ik het dan niet uit ouderdom en gewoontje, maar omdat in mijn dagelijks leven Nederland alleen maar in mijn hoofd aanwezig is, en mijn hoofd ondertussen een aantal jaren achterloopt. Ik hou de Nederlandse samenleving gewoon te weinig bij (en ben dus elke keer als ik hoor dat Rutte premier is verbaasd, ik bedoel, ik was net gewend aan Balkenende) om aan dit hele nieuwe koningsgebeuren net zo snel te wennen als alle andere Nederlanders. En dat is gewoon een beetje vreemd. Want if it walks like a duck, dan zou je verwachten dat het ook talks als een duck, en sja, dat wordt dus steeds minder. Ik tel de jaren af totdat ik een wereld-, of in ieder geval Nederland-vreemde expat ben. Of een halve duck zo u wilt.

Nu we het toch over watervogels hebben, laten we het eens over ons zwembad hebben. Dat echt steeds minder op een grote kuil lijkt, en steeds meer op een zwembad. Het beton is gestort, de leidingen zijn gelegd, en afgezien van het feit dat de leidingen voor ons sproei systeem geheel tegen de planning in zijn meebegraven, en dus weer opgegraven moeten worden, liggen we goed op schema. Klein nadeel is alleen dat onze tuin nu echt een grote rode klei rommel is, en je dus met geen mogelijkheid de tuin in kan zonder ontzettend vies te worden. De honden, en voornamelijk Shelby, zijn absoluut niet gecharmeerd van deze ontwikkeling. Niet alleen is de voortuin lang niet zo spannend als de achteruin met al haar puppy vrienden in aangrenzende tuinen, als ze een keer de achtertuin in mag, moet ze zich daarna onderwerpen aan een genante wasbeurt waar mevrouw niet van gediend is.

Gisteren wilde ik zelf de vooruitgang zelf eens van dichtbij zien, en stond ook voor de vraag wat ik in hemelsnaam aan kon dat niet een kilo klei mee naar binnen zou slepen. Alles met zolen is in feite uit den
boze, en om nou op blote voeten door de kletsnatte klei te struinen vond ik een beetje ver gaan. Wat dragen mensen die naar buiten moeten in de modder zoal? In een keer had ik het: klompen! Natuurlijk!

En zo kwam het dat mijn oude klompen, die al jaren ter decoratie in de woonlamer staan, in een keer weer aan het werk moesten. Ik zal u vertellen: ze werken perfect. Ik zakte niet weg, en er bleef geen spikkel klei aan de onderkant hangen. Die oude Nederlanders waren zo gek nog niet. Maar goed, ik heb ons 'zwembad in wording' dus goed kunnen inspecteren, en het wordt echt geweldig. Nou moet het alleen even ophouden met regenen.


Als u zich trouwens afvraagt waarom het merendeel van de foto's van mij op dit blog mij laten zien in pyjama, in mijn achtertuin, dat weet ik ook niet.

Here's your sign...

...that you spend too much time in your car (courtesy of husband-dear):

10.  You can hum the theme song to almost every single NPR show, and imitate the "you are listening to.." call perfectly, intonation and all.

9. You exceed the manufacturer's warranty in the first year.

8. You realize that on M-F, you spend more time in your care than you do with your husband (while awake anyway).

7. You jokingly call your car your mobile office, but when you're not sure where your laptop, latest batch of ungraded papers, or your thumb drive is, you know the best place to look is your car.

6. Scheduling car maintenance takes precedence over scheduling your dental cleanings.

5. You've noticed that you buy new tires at the same interval that you get your hair cut.

4. You schedule conference calls on your drive home.

3. You select your weekly meals based on what you can eat while driving (hint: black bean quesadillas are the bomb, anything on a bun with lettuce is a no-go).
And a related 3a. You ask your husband to make the quesadilla a little thinner so the cheese won't leak out

2. Your right calf is significantly larger than your left calf.

And your most obvious sign that you spend way too much commuting to and from work:

1. When your husband composes lists like these while waiting for you to come home!

Reduce pee

When you drive about 4,000 miles each month, 1,000 miles per week, and spend well over three hours in your car every day, you get bored. Really bored. You also quickly become really creative in alleviating that boredom. You not only know the frequency for every single NPR station between your house and your office, you have the programming memorized too ("Ooh, I'm in time to catch 'On the media!'"). You have an iPod full of songs, a list of friends and family on speed dial, and you have no qualms about practicing for Sunday's worship team by singing into you iPhone's voice memo app and then critically reviewing your performance. Out loud.

But at the end of the day, it is just you in your car. By yourself. Surrounded by lots of semis and drivers from Florida who obviously got their licenses from a box of Crackerjacks. And some days are good, and some are not so good.

If there is one thing that rains on my commuting parade, it's road construction. I have a thing with road construction ever since we lived in Germany, and the 61 (one of the major interstates in our neck of the woods) was under construction the entire time we were there. We'retalking years people, years. It wasn't a few miles of construction either, oh no, it went on and on and on, past Konlenz, Cologne, and God only knows where it ended. If it ever did. As someone who used on the 61 on a regular basis, it was close to traumatizing. Seriously. Imagine a three-lane interstate reduced to two tiny lanes, walls on either side, semis and vehicles with seriously poorly balanced RVs trailing behind them rumbling by, the speed limit set to 60km/h (a whopping 35 mph), and German speed cameras lurking everywhere. As my southern friends would say: It was a mess.

So moving to Georgia was a relief. No road construction, no ridiculous speed limits, and speed cameras are, at least in all the counties I drive through, illegal. Life was good.

And then last year, GDoT decided that things had been quiet long enough, and it was high time to repave a large section of the interstate. Having, at that point, become a veritable expert at hydroplaning and driving without any sort of visibility thanks to all the spray engulfing my apparently ridiculously small vehicle, I couldn't agree more. Bring on the Dutch 'super open asphalt'! But for a reason I have yet to understand, the Georgia Department of Transportation decided to start with 27 miles. Not three, not five, no, 27. Oh wait, they haven't actually repaved more than six miles since they started last summer. Oh no. But they did reduce 27 miles of interstate (and yes, it is 27 miles, I counted. Several times) to two teeny tiny lanes with a wall on one side and a vey soft shoulder on the other. Add the sixteen wheelers and the inattentive Florida drivers in the mix, and you can imagine I have witnessed some pretty devastating accidents in the past year. Thanks to the ensuing roadblocks, I have also finally been able to tour all the small towns whose names I used to only know from the signposts I would fly by. And although there are no speed cameras, I swear that the main reason Georgia's revenue has gone up this year is thanks to the State Patrol troopers who are on that road like crows on roadkill. I suppose I should be grateful that at least the speed limit is a fairly decent 60mph.

Anyway, to say I'm done with the construction is an understatement. It's hard to focus on Steve Innskeep, that high C I need to hit, or finding the right playlist when you're trying to not get squashed into the wall by a semi flying by, or hit that uneven ledge where the pavement meets the old shoulder (which is now roadway) which will most definitely send your car (or at least my travel-size one) flying, probably into the muddy shoulder. There's a speed limit to maintain, lane shifts to pay attention to, and more importantly, other drivers, who might not have noticed that lane shift, to look out for.

So every morning and evening when I see the orange cones, the large signs indicating an upcoming construction zone, and the overhead jumbotron signs warning you to ahift right and reduce your speed, I sigh. Except this morning. I'm not sure if the sign was broken, or if a joker had gotten a hold of the remote control, but instead of its usual "Reduced speed ahead!", the sign read: "Reduce pee ahead!"

And I giggled. And life was good.

Welcome to the desert

So I totally did not mean to leave you all hanging after my last wordless post.

Well, in all reality, I'm sure that none of you actually felt left hanging. I mean, between a very traumatizing attack on the world's most famous marathon, and a crazy, seemingly never-ending manhunt, I'm sure we all had other things on our mind than DC's challenge to figure out the meaning behind her three pictures. And, well, even if this had been the most normal of normal weeks, I highly doubt whether anyone was sitting around thinking to themselves that O Em Gee, DC better get her act together.

Let's just say that I don't like to leave people hanging.

So, to respond to all the comments: Yes! We are getting a pool. And not just any old above-ground pool, no, a bona fide in-ground, concrete vinyl-lined Grecian shaped pool. Yes, it's crazy, and we are possibly completely insane, but there you have it. A pool.

Now when we sat down with the pool designers, we considered every option possible: how much deck, what kind of deck, what kind of lights, how many, a diving board or a jumping rock, what kind of coping, what color, and a whole host of other things I never even thought about when I first thought a pool would be a good idea. I mean, did you know there are three kinds of cleaning robots? And at least four types of pumps? And twenty types of liners? And you have to make decisions about every. Single. One. Of. Them.
Remind me to never build my own home.

Anyway, one thing we definitely did not consider was the incredible mess our yard would turn in to. Obviously, we realized building a pool would involve digging, but somehow, we imagined the dirt would magically disappear. And the dumptrucks and backhoes would just fall from the heavens into our backyard every morning and disappear at the end of each workday. Instead, this past Monday a dumptruck and a backhoe appeared in our backyard and proceeded to not only dig a ridiculously large hole, but also leave mountains of red clay piled several feet high, and create yards and yards of deep, muddy trenches throughout what remains of our backyard, down the yard beside our house, and all the way to the street.

Personally, I don't mind. Every extra mound of clay signifies one step closer to a beautifully finished pool, and thinking about that makes it all OK. Husband-dear, on the other hand, takes a less light view of matters. With each pile of dirt hauled away, he sighs about sprinkler systems, sod, the fence, and a host of other matters that I, in my pool-induced euhoria have completely brushed aside. I mean, who needs sod when you have a pool deck? Or a sprinkler system when you have a pool full of crystal clear water? Clearly, husband-dear is a kill joy. Or, considering the fact that I have never seen a piece of sod or sprinkler pipe up close, while husband-dear turned that into a career prior to joining the military, he is possibly just a realist. I'll let you be the judge and share our current view from our back porch: Is it like the New Mexican desert I keep talking about? Or maybe not?