Moving on up

Well, the house is ours! After signing enough paperwork to have killed off an entire tropical rain forest, we are now the proud owners of our very own home. I love the thought of having a house that is truly our own. On the other hand, I'm also slightly apprehensive about the fact that when something breaks, we're actually going to have to fix it ourselves. Thank heavens for husbands I suppose:)

I've discovered, once again, that moving or redecorating really does not change when you move to another country. Somehow I had hoped that with the US being known for having the easy solution to everything (drive-thru banking and drive-thru goodwill drop-off being my two favorites), that certain irksome aspects of moving house would be less of a hassle. Well, I was wrong. The primer in my hair, the aches in my back and arms, and the wallpaper piece that just won't come off my knee are a living proof to that statement.

Sure, we don't use steamers here to remove wallpaper, but scraping it off using merely an odd blue gel and a razor isn't a whole lot better. Especially when you're dealing with vinyl fruit-patterned wallpaper that the previous owners were that attached to that they appeared to have used at least a bucket of glue per strip. At one point, when the blue gel is all over the wall and the trim, and the wallpaper is still coming off in pieces the size of your fingernails, you feel just as frustrated as when the whole room is filled with steam, and all that is happening is that your hair has begun to resemble something from the 1970s.
We had calculated one afternoon for taking care of the hideous wallpaper in the kitchen; after all, it was only only a section underneath a chair rail and a trim by the ceiling. We grossly underestimated the activity; it ended up taking over twelve hours, with gel on every imaginable surface, and tiny pieces of curled wallpaper covered the entire kitchen floor. However, I am proud to say that our marriage is still doing great, and the end result is absolutely worth it. We used a monsoon green glossy paint for the section above the white chair rail, and a gray summer white for the section underneath the rail. My husband describes it as Florida-style while I like to think of it as a Provencal-themed kitchen. Take your pick I would say; either way, after adding new knobs to the kitchen cabinets, and removing the floral patterned valences, we are now the proud owners of a truly pimped-up kitchen.

Just like every other move, we have also become regulars at our local home improvement store. In the past it may have been the local Kaufland, or the Gamma, this time it's Lowe's. And just like all the previous times, we still ended up going back at least three times a day, covered in paint, or wallpaper, or primer, or all three. I feel like I've gotten to know all the different people who work at the paint desk, and I even have my favorites. The one main advantage of working on your home here in the US are the store hours. I can't count the times I needed a few simple screws or some spackle, only to find the store had closed hours before. This time, when we realized a few of our new tarnished silver kitchen knobs needed screws that were just a hair longer at seven last night, Lowe's was still open, and bustling with activity.

For now, all of our painting and priming is done. Obviously, there are still projects left for after we're all moved in, but since two major ones include removing wallpaper (in the two bathrooms this time), we're perfectly fine with putting it off. Right now we're waiting on the floors to be done, and then it's just a matter of moving our stuff from one place to the next. I'm pretty sure that is going to be just as much hard work as it is anywhere else, but I'm hopeful, and will keep you posted. .

Trucks, boxes, and things

I would love to write a snazzy blog about some curious southern characteristic, but truth be told, my head is far too occupied with our upcoming move to come up with anything besides things like where to go and get boxes. Fortunately, I´ve discovered that there are plenty of interesting moving-related phenomena that are specific to this part of the world.

One of these things would be, yes, the hunt for suitable moving boxes. Of course, we should have kept all out boxes from our last move, but we didn’t. I mean, who does, really? We have enough to move maybe all of my books. Now, although my books are an essential part of my life, so are things like towels and dishes, so this wasn’t going to suffice. So then the question arises, where do you get boxes? In Europe, I would generally go to any grocery store, and ask them to save their banana boxes for me. Yes, banana boxes. I first heard about the wonderful qualities of banana boxes when I was in college, and, for the first time, did not have a platoon of professional movers come in to help me move. Apparently, because bananas are so heavy, these boxes are as sturdy as the best professional moving boxes, and hold about as much junk too. But to be honest, I’ve never heard anyone in the US wax lyrical about banana boxes, so I didn’t feel comfortable walking into my commissary and asking them to save their banana boxes for me. Recently I’ve discovered that I’m really done with making a fool of myself here, so I’ve become more careful with what I do and say. However, that didn’t exactly help me locate boxes for our move. And that’s when a friend came to the rescue. She had just moved her own family too, and had borrowed boxes from a friend who was smart enough to keep all of her professional moving boxes. So after one phone call to the friend of my friend, I was the proud borrower of enough boxes to my our entire family twice.

So with one problem out of the way, the next issue arose: how to move ourselves. Again, in Europe I would know what to do. I would rent a trailer, hook it up to my car, and then start worrying about how to fit everything into the covered trailer so I would only have to make one trip. Here, however, it’s not exactly like that. First, neither mine nor my husband’s car has a ball-hitch, so renting a trailer is somewhat out of the question. Second, husband-dear owns a truck, which led me to believe that we perhaps did not need to rent anything at all. However, we quickly realized if we were try and lift some of our heavier furniture into the bed, we would probably both be hospitalized with herniated discs. But then, and this is what got me, instead of renting a truck with a lift, we discovered that one of our friends actually owns a fancy truck complete with electric lift gate. No, he’s not a mover, or a construction worker, or works in any field that would require the ownership of such a truck, he just likes to own something that closely resembles a sixteen-wheeler. Coming from Europe, where gas prices and annual taxes keep most people from owning anything larger than a sedan, I have to say I found this a little odd, but that I was very grateful for his offer to let us use the truck.

And that brings me to the third interesting finding. In Europe, I would never have any problems finding people who were willing to help me paint, but few people would volunteer to help on the actual moving day. And yes, I’m equally obsessive compulsive about both activities:) Here, however, we have more than enough people to help us move, but no one has volunteered to help paint. Not that I mind, but it’s still interesting that people apparently prefer to schlep boxes and heavy bookcases around in 100-degree weather, to painting inside an air-conditioned house. I’ve tried to think of a reason for this cultural difference, but I’m not sure what it is. Perhaps Dutch people are more likely to channel Van Gogh or Vermeer, while Americans prefer to identify with people like Hulk Hogan? OK, I just made that up, and it seems highly unlikely. Maybe Dutch people like getting dirty, while Americans like to get sweaty? That doesn’t sound quite right either. So, I really don’t know. What I do know is that it works out perfectly for us though, so, really, I’m not complaining.

In fact, I would say I’m very happy right now, after all, in about 24 hours, we’ll be real home-owners!

Een huis kopen: American style deel 2

We zijn nu, als het goed is, 48 uur verwijderd van de “closing” (de overdracht) van ons huis. Ik heb, sinds de vorige post over het kopen van een huis, alweer een heleboel bijgeleerd. Ondertussen ben ik ook wel een toe een dagje spa ofzo, maar helaas zit dat er de komende weken niet in, dus wat kan je dan beter doen, dan erover te bloggen? Gedeelde smart is tenslotte halve smart.

Zo heb ik onder andere mogen ervaren dat Amerikaanse hypothekers enorme pietjes precies zijn. Zo wilden ze vorige week een brief van mij dat ik toch echt wel naar mijn werk zou rijden elke dag, en daar niet nog een huis zou kopen. Juist. Ook wilde ze een verklaring dat ik toch echt wel de professor was wiens contract ze hadden ontvangen. Het feit dat mijn contract in mijn meisjesnaam-getrouwde naam is, net als mijn paspoort, maar de rest allemaal in mijn getrouwde naam was blijkbaaar nogal verwarrend. Ook goed. Daarnaast wilden ze ook een kopie van de achterkant van mijn groene kaart. De voorkant hadden ze al, maar blijkbaar was dat niet genoeg. Nu bestaat de achterkant van een groene kaart uit een grote zwarte magneetstrip, en toen ik de kopie faxte voelde ik de volgende communicatie al aankomen. En jawel, een paar uur later kreeg ik een telefoontje of het inderdaad klopte dat de achterkant van mijn groene kaart bijna helemaal zwart was. Jawel. En dit allemaal tijdens onze vakantie. Gelukkig is het allemaal prima gelukt, maar ik vind het krijgen van zo’n telefoontje terwijl ik met een zooi kinderen in een bloedhete dierentuin sta nou niet echt een geslaagde actie.

Gelukkig zijn we deze week weer thus, en hebben we ons dus met de kleinere dingen bezig kunnen houden. Ik ben deze week begonnen met een 17-punts to-do lijstje, en ik kan met enige trots vermelden dat er al 12 punten zijn afgewerkt. En ook daar zaten weer de nodige leermomenten in verwerkt.

Zo zijn bijvoorbeeld de schilderspullen al geregeld. Had ik verteld dat de keuken van een afgrijselijk behang is voorzien, en dat een van de kinderslaapkamers knalpaars is? We zijn dus maandag meteen naar Lowe’s (een doe het zelf zaak) geweest, om voor bijna 300 dollar aan schilderspullen in te slaan. Ik heb in Nederland heel wat afgesaust, en het was erg leuk om te zien hoe sommige dingen net iets anders zijn. Zo hebben we hier aluminium verfbakken gekocht, en dan hele dunne plastic wegwerkbakken van een paar cent die daar precies inpassen. Ik kon (vroegah!) in Nederland altijd alleen maar gewone plastig bakken vinden, die je dan of helemaal moest afwassen achteraf, of die je gewoon weg kon gooien. Wat dat betreft is dit dus echt de gulden middenweg. Ook kwam ik er achter dat de VS echt het mecca is wat betreft behang-afhaal-middelen. Deze winkel had hele planken vol met verschillende chemicalien en apparatuur. In Nederland kan ik me altijd hele drama’s herinneren met stoommachines en plamuurmessen, en hier heb je kennelijk (manlief heeft ervaring) niet meer nodig dan een of ander flesje met vloeistof, en een krabber, en klaar. Ik ben benieuwd!

Uiteraard zijn we ook druk met de laatste dingen voor de closing. Naast dat we nog meer papieren moesten tekenen, moeten we nu ook wachten op het precieze bedrag dat we met de closing moeten betalen. Dat kan dus niet betaald worden met een spoedoverboeking, zoals je dat in Nederland vast zal doen, maar dat moet met een “cashier’s check”. Dat is een check die de bank voor je opmaakt, en die al in de naam staat van de persoon voor wie die is. Dus zodra we weten hoeveel we moeten betalen mag ik (de vloek van de lange vakantie!) naar de bank om zo’n ding op te halen. Nu hebben manlief noch ik geen ervaring met cashier’s checks, dus het is nog even afwachten of we het ook daadwerkelijk meteen meekrijgen, of dat er weer een dag overheen gaat. Het zal zeker nog even spannend zijn,

En naast het regelen van dozen (op dit soort momenten vraag je je altijd weer af waarom je bijna al je dozen van je laatste verhuizing hebt weggedaan), het verzetten van het afleveren van de koelkast (want sja, de keuken moet natuurlijk wel eerst geschilderd zijn), en het zorgen dat de vloerenman komt nadat de koelkast is geleverd, en voordat je mensen inhuurt om de grote meubels te verhuizen, moet ik deze week ook nog een change of address regelen bij het postkantoor. Het fijne hieraan is dat ik dus drie formulieren mag invullen; eentje voor onze familienaam, eentje voor mijn meisjesnaam, en eentje voor de combinatie meisjesnaam-familienaam. Gelukkig heb ik ondertussen een engelengeduld, een enorm doorzettingsvermogen, en een niet te stuiten werktempo ontwikkeld, dus het zal allemaal wel goedkomen. Nou alleen niet vergeten om te blijven ademen.

Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede

Although I wouldn’t argue that Pigeon Forge revolves around Dolly Parton, I would say that she is a ubiquitous presence. Not only does she have a major parkway is named after her, there is also a Dollywood Lane, named after, indeed, Dollywood the amusement park. Then there is Dollywood´s Splash ´n´ Country, Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede, and countless signs and stores bearing her name.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike Dolly Parton at all. Some of her songs are definitely up there, and she was hilarious in the movie “Nine to five”. True, her wigs freak me out a little bit, as does the fact that she probably has a waist that would make Scarlett O’Hara jealous. And when I found out she was born in 1946, I was confronted with the fact that I have, at least for the last twenty years, assumed she was forty. But other than that, she has always struck me as a nice, good-hearted person.

So when we got ready to go to the Dixie Stampede, I wasn’t quite sure which direction the evening was going to go; was it going to be fun and light-hearted, or were we going to be confronted with Dolly Parton in full-country mode, complete with banjo, 4-ft high wig, and a sequiny dress?

Fortunately, it turned out to be somewhere in the middle. For those of you who are not familiar with the Dixie Stampede, it’s a dinner show. You are seated around a riding arena in a bleacher-like seats with a narrow table in front of you, and are served a typical southern dinner while you’re entertained by songs, dance, pig races, and people on horseback, in covered wagons, and on ostriches. Your typical southern dinner includes a drink (preferably sweet tea of course), served in a mason jar, a bowl of soup with a biscuit, rotisserie chicken, pork loin barbecue, corn on the cob, and an apple turnover. The best part? You did not get any silverware. Just imagine the look on my face, when I realized I had to slurp soup out of the bowl, and pull a chicken apart with my hands. I guess I just never realized that being southern meant you didn’t have any table manners, but I’m willing to learn. And before I let out the critic in me, let me just say that I did have fun. The food was good, the show was amazing, and I really had a great evening.

But DixieChick wouldn't be DixieChick if she didn't have something to complain about. The theme of the night is north versus south. Each act is presented as a battle between the north and the south. The seating is divided up in half, with one half of the place rooting for the south, and the other for the north. Now it sounds like an innocuous theme, and although it is on the surface, there were some things that made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Like when they described the founding of America, and explained that the civil war was the result of “not seeing eye to eye about certain values”. Now perhaps working at an HBCU (Historically Black College and University) has made me extra sensitive to these issues, but to describe the discord regarding the morality and legality of slavery as “not seeing eye to eye” about “certain values” is a bit of an understatement. I also wasn’t exactly comfortable with the fact that the waiters on the other (the south) side, as well as the actors competing for that side, were dressed in confederate uniforms. Nobody really seemed to be concerned with what those uniforms stood for back in the mid-19^th century. Sure, the civil war ended, and slavery was abolished, but I think that the issues that are a direct result of slavery, such as racism are still too much of a presence in the south to be dealt with in such a light manner. When there are still people who think it’s alright to pick up the phone, dial my work number and call me the “n-word”, I think we need to consider everything related to the divide between the north and the south very seriously. To me this became even more true when I noticed that out of the probably thousand guests, maybe a handful were not white. I understand the need to create some sort of competition, and the distinction between the north and south is definitely a great way to do it, but can’t they do so without mentioning the civil war?

Fortunately, the show, and Dolly Parton redeemed herself a little, by ending the show with the comment that “We have to remember that above all, we are all Americans”. It’s very true. But I wonder if that’s really enough to heal the problems we still experience in the south in a daily basis.

Een "country" 4th of july

Het is niet echt moeilijk om een echte country variant van de Amerikaanse Independence Day te maken.
Je hebt, om te beginnen, een heleboel vuurwerk nodig. En dan heb ik het niet over gillende keukenmeiden, maar over vuurwerkstellages die uit drie pijpen de grootte van een droger afvoer bestaan, en ongeveer tot mijn middel komen. Dit vuurwerk moet je het liefst al vroeg op de dag beginnen af te steken, en het liefst met als doel om mensen te laten schrikken. Het gebruik van vuuwerk moet ook niet worden geremd door de vraag of het afsteken van vuurwerk uberhaupt legaal is in de staat waarin je je op dat moment bevindt.
Daarnaast heb je een enorme hoeveelheid barbecue vlees nodig; het liefst iets in de trant van pork chops, maar fried chicken is ook goed. Dit vlees wordt minstens een dag van te voren in een smoker gelegd, en dan op de dag zelf van een flinke scheut barbecue saus voorzien. Ook moeten er tonnen homemade coleslaw en potato salad zijn, alsmede de benodigde coolers vol met frisdranken en bier.
Ook moeten minstens twee mensen hun geweren mee gebracht hebben. Het liefst een dubbelloops geweer, maar een gewoon pistool mag ook. Het idee is dat je deze gaat gebruiken voor wat target practice met de bomen, of als het aanwezig is, de blaadjes die in het meer drijven. Ook dienen ze voor het inwijden van de vreemde buitenlandse in de kunst van het schieten. Daarnaast moeten ze natuurlijk ook gebruikt worden als een soort meting van mannelijkheid welke geuit wordt in uitspraken zoals; "My pistol can shoot nine bullets in x seconds" "My shotgun is a twenty gage", en "I have shot thre bucks last hunting season" .
Daarnaast moeten er ook de nodige spelletjes aanwezig zijn: horseshoes, chuck-o and badminton being the preferred choices. Ook is het ideaal als er een meer of een zwembad aanwezig is. Deze kan voor zowel afkoeling als een soort mini-variant van mud-wrestling bieden.
Uiteraard wappert er minstens een Amerikaanse vlag bij het huis, en zijn er meerdere rood-wit-blauwe versieringen aanwezig. Ook hebben de verschillende gasten, met uitzondering van die rare buitenlander, allemaal een per toeval hetzelfde shirt aan van de Walmart met een Amerikaanse vlag in de vorm van de VS erop.

Ben ik nu aan het generaliseren? Is dit een veel te overdreven beschrijving? Misschien wel; ik heb nog wel eens een handje van het creatief beschrijven van de waarheid. Maar in dit geval weet ik zeker dat het niet zo is: als je volgend jaar met mij meekomt naar de 4th of july viering van mijn mans familie, dan zul je zien waarom:)

The town with two faces

In an earlier post, I predicted Pigeon Forge would be the capital of camp. After having spent several days there, I think I'm going to have to revise that statement. Pigeon Forge is not so much camp as it has a split personality. On the one hand, it is just as gaudy as you would expect, but on the other hand it has a quiet mountain mystique to it, one that makes you want to start saying things like "yew" as opposed to "you" and learn how to play the banjo.

When we first drove down Pigeon Forge's main strip, after briefly noticing the tall and imposing mountains that formed the backdrop to the town, we were immediately assaulted by an explosion of colors and sounds. There were brightly colored signs everywhere, advertising everything from "Fastest go-karts in town", and "Pure family fun! Tennessee Shindig dinner show" and "Tony Gore's Smokey BBQ and grill" to "The sexy store! We have it all!". Bungee-jumping contraptions alternated with a NASCAR museum, Elvis museums and souvenir stores advertising their wares in bright neon pink vied for your attention with several enormous Charles Dickens-esque Christmas stores. Besides wondering why people would want to stay in a Christmas Inn in July, I couldn't help but ask myself if people really drive from all over the eastern part of the US (and even further, if license plates were any indication) to spend a week in a town that could be best described as Panama City on speed. But people do, and judging by the fact that traffic is always backed up on the strip, many of them never venture far off that four-lane parkway.

But, and here's the crazy thing, all you need to do is take a turn off the main strip, and you're right in the middle of one of the most beautiful national parks of the US: The Great Smokey Mountains. Sure, you'll be driving along Dollywood Lane or the Dolly Parton Parkway, but you can't deny the fact that suddenly you see nothing but sloping hills, winding roads, and wooden cabins with the tall imposing smokies in the background. People all drive pick-up trucks, wave at strangers, and there are general stores selling everything from fish bait to chew tobacco on every intersection. You can tube down gentle rivers, walk on real swinging bridges and explore endless trails that lead into the mountains. At night the sky is full of fireflies, and when you sit in your rocking chair on your front porch, all you hear are the crickets and the wings of the bats flying overhead.

The contradiction between these two parts is absolutely mind-boggling. What's even more amazing is that many people never venture into what I would consider the "real" Smokey Mountains. But, for those of you who know me and my critical little soul, I am actually not going to bash the crass commercialization that is the strip in Pigeon Forge. Sure, I wish it looked a little nicer. Well, actually, I wish someone would tear down the existing strip and then rebuild it so it actually blends in with the original very picturesque town, forbid any signs with lights, outlaw the presence of more than one Ripley's believe it or not! attraction, and then punish the person who allowed such ugliness to occur. But other than that, I'm sort of OK with there being go-kart tracks and fairground attractions in the middle of so much beauty. Having two children will do that to your principles. I mean, they can only take so much silence, trees, and beautiful countryside, and will only spend so much time catching fireflies. So I was actually grateful that we could alternate "adult" stuff like sitting on the front porch of our cabin with "kid-friendly" stuff such as riding go-karts. I think because Pigeon Forge is so two-faced, every single family member actually managed to enjoy every single day there, which, as far as I, or any mom, is concerned, is a blessing.

Coming up next: Dolly Parton - the phenomenon or why she has always looked forty!

Dixiechick's road rules

I have to admit, the title of this blog is not entirely correct. However, Dixiechick's husband's road rules seemed a little over the top, hence the current title. But my husband is due all credit for today's rambling.

In all honesty, after a very long day on the road, I didn't think I would have the energy to come up with a cute blog. However, thanks to my husband, I do. As we drove through four different states, surrounded by drivers from all over the US, he started to get every so slightly annoyed by the different, and often times, irksome behaviors exhibited by residents from different states. He then proceeded to have me and the kids crack up by naming the different rules that each state seemed to adhere to, and told me I really should write a blog about them. So here are the state-by-state traffic laws that my husband feels y'all should be aware of:

Florida: You must, at all times, hog the middle lane, and preferably at a speed lower than that of the traffic in the far right lane. Never, ever, relinguish that middle lane position.

Georgia: Maintaining your lane is a sign of weakness. You must change lanes as often as you can, thus engagging in a game of highway leapfrog. This game entails such rules as: pass on the right, slow down in the middle lane, and wait to be passed when in the left lane.

Tennessee: The locals of this state are never in a hurry to get anywhere. In fact, many of them haven't really decided where they're going yet.

Alabama: You must also never be in a hurry to get anywhere, but you do have to know where you're going. Well, sort of.

Kentucky: I may put the ten commandments on my truck, but I sure as heck ain't gonna let you merge in front of me.

After thus insulting almost every state in our area, I think my husband felt a little guilty, especially considering driving in Europe is so much worse. Hence, he also came up with a list of rules for some of the European countries we have driven in:

The Netherlands: Do your best to control the flow of traffic by manouvring and positioning your car so others, who are not driving according to your standards, cannot bypass you

Germany: All rules must be obeyed at all times. We will gladly post every single one of these on the side of the road using tiny and complicated signs.

France: Rules are for Germans. We just like to express ourselves freely.

Any additions to this list are very welcome!