Brainwashed?

When I first met the love of my life, I used to always laugh at the strict regulations regarding outward appearances in the military. Having grown up hearing stories from my dad, who served in the Dutch army, about soldiers with long hair wearing hairnets, I never quite understood the fixation the American military has with hairstyles, haircolor, facial hair, and jewelry. And when I say fixation, I guess I mean total obsession, for they have got their rules down to the tee. For instances, mustaches are permitted, as long they do not grow beyond the corner of one´s lips. And male hairdos are not allowed to exceed 1 ¼ inch in bulk on the top of their heads. I have always wanted to tell my husband to grow his hair out to 1 ½ inch, and see if his commander would pull out a tape measure, but, well, knowing my husband, there is really no point in asking. Although I still think it would be funny (and he doesn’t). And you know what, it’s not just a matter of obeying these rules, military members also have to know them by heart. So my husband is not only aware of the rules that apply to males in the air force, but was also able to inform me of the hair and jewelry rules that apply to women. Now I used to think that as long as you could completely obey your superiors without question, it did not matter what you look like, but I guess that in the American military, they don’t quite share that emotion.

Now up until Friday, I was convinced that all these rules were really, well, silly. In fact, when I got a haircut the other day I even joked with my husband about how before the haircut my hair would not have met military standards (it touched my collar), and that after the cut it did, and so now should he expect me to be a more obedient wife? Yes, I still thought I was the little rebel. That was until I went grocery shopping on base, and was absolutely appalled by the contractor at the gate who was checking IDs. Well, I wasn’t so much shocked by him, as I was by,well, his appearance. I hate to admit it, but I really think that maybe I have, well, become one of “them”. Before I proceed, please note that on our base ID checks are sometimes carried out by contractors, i.e., people who are not military, and who thus do not have to meet all the military standards. And that includes outward appearances. I never really thought I cared what gate guards looked like until the day before yesterday when I had my ID checked by someone with curly hair longer than mine, a scruffy black beard, and an untucked shirt. It felt like the hippy from "That 70s show" was checking my ID. Now I happen to really like the hippy from that show, and I generally don't care what someone looks like (to the point where I don't even blink an eye when my students come to class in their pyjamas), but the moment I laid eyes on this man, I was in shock. My first thought was "How can they let someone who looks like that work here?!". And my second thought was "How can I think that?!". And my third thought was "Yeah, but I really really think he shouldn't look like that!". I felt really torn, but in the end, my discomfort with someone looking like John Lennon wearing a gate guard uniform won out. It's terrible, and admittedly, slightly embarrassing, but there you have it. I guess, in spite of all my claims to the contrary, the little rebel in me is slowly disappearing. Hmph.

Martha-Margaret Mead Stewart part II: Flowers or straight lines?

When growing up, and visiting American homes, I remember being under the impression that all Americans loved chintz wallpaper, floral patterns on sofas and chairs, and curly oak semi-antique furniture. Dutch homes, on the other hand, seemed to prefer bright, primary colors, such as reds and blues, and even whites, straight lines, and ultra-modern furniture. When visiting American friends’ homes, it was like stepping into another world. One where every nook and cranny was filled with pictures, squashy chairs and sofas, and fancy dining room sets. Conversely, my American friends must have felt the same when they entered my parents’ home, which, at that time, was decorated in tones of white, gray, and an occasional splash of color.

Fortunately, this era I’m talking about is several decades ago. My parents have long abandoned their white furniture, and no American I know still has chintz wallpaper throughout their entire house, although, judging by the type of wallpaper we removed from our kitchen, some people just never give up. However, in spite of this apparent closing of the decoration-gap, I still see a real difference in taste between the two countries, a continental decorating divide if you will.

This decorating divide became most obvious when my husband and I merged our two homes. I was the proud owner of several very bright pieces (a wooden chest painted burnt orange and six blue dining chairs to name two examples), as well as several extremely colorful paintings. My walls were painted white, and I had a light wooden floor, all to make the colors stand out even more. My husband, on the other hand, was absolutely in love with his “distressed” oak bedroom suit, black wooden entertainment center, and huge dark green recliner. To say I did not share the love would be an understatement, and to be honest, he did not exactly dig my penchant for anything bright and colorful either. I couldn’t imagine having his dark Norman Rockwell hanging anywhere but the garage, and he claimed that if he would wake up to a fuschia wall every morning, he would have a permanent headache. So, in the name of love, we compromised. The walls became soft beige, the Norman Rockwell was hung in the living room, but slightly out of sight, my colorful paintings were relegated to my office, while his bedroom suit was brightened up with some happy, yet less-colorful pictures, and the recliner was given away.

Although we have been capable of compromising, and finding our own Euro-American style, I can still see vast differences between how people in Holland and the US decorate their homes, differences which usually become apparent when either husband-dear or I go ape over something that the other one absolutely abhors. I, for one, can’t imagine many people in the Netherlands opting for a floral-patterned sofa. Yet, I know several people my age in this area, who are very proud of their rose-covered settee. At the same, my husband does not understand why I, and many of my fellow Nederlanders, love minimalism; very little on the walls, uncluttered living space, and small (although I would call it “just normal") furniture. And while he will love pictures in thick, wooden, and preferably ornate frames, I prefer them with a simple glass cover, and maybe (on a good day) a thin, thin silver or black frame. Whenever I get the love of my life to go to Ikea with me, I will drool over chairs with odd grass-like patterns, or bright stripes, while he will shudder and point at a deep-green pinstriped rocking recliner (yes, just like the one he gave away). I also don’t know of any of my friends here who have painted part of a wall a different color; e.g., painted a red band on an otherwise white wall. Conversely, this appears to be the rage among some of my friends back in the Netherlands. Chair rails and crown molding also don’t seem to be big in newer homes in Holland, while over here, I would have to say it is all the rage right now. Our house alone has crown molding in every room, a chair rail in the kitchen, and wainscoting in the library. And no, we don’t live in a two-hundred year old mansion either.

I could go on and on about quilt racks versus shoe racks (although recently my husband admitted to regretting getting rid of my very handy plain Ikea shoe rack), plants or no plants (fortunately, husband-dear has a real green thumb), and throws on every couch versus, well, I guess Dutch people nap in their bedrooms…but I won’t. It’s a shame my Corneille paintings won’t ever make it back in the living room, and I’m sure husband-dear is, as we speak, plotting a way to purchase another enormous green recliner, but in spite of all that, I think we’re managing our divide quite well.

Martha-Margaret Mead Stewart

Now that we’ve just (almost) finished moving into and redecorating our new home, I have to admit that I’ve become slightly obsessed with furniture, decorating styles, and other minute home-oriented details such as the shape of the porch pillars. We have found ourselves driving somewhere, and we will both be checking out the houses we pass for the color of their clapboard, the style of their shutters, and then discuss their quality in serious Martha Stewart discourse. Since our new home has some unexpected empty walls, we have been shopping for furniture. A lot. More than I really care for. However, besides leading to the purchase of a pretty rug, a nice end-table, and a very simple but lovely hallway table, it’s also once again given me the opportunity to play the furniture anthropologist. A sort of a combination between Margaret Mead and Martha Stewart if you will.

I hate to state the obvious, but, honestly, American furniture is big. Or at least bigger. For instance, did you know that although IKEA stores all over the world carry roughly the same products, the furniture sold in their American stores is on the whole a little bigger than it is in the rest of the world? I always knew that our American furniture is bigger than some of the European pieces we own, but it’s nice to see it confirmed like that.

We became painfully aware of the size of our American furniture when we lived in Germany. We always felt like the entire living room was dwarved by our entertainment center, and the bedroom set just about barely fit into the bedroom. We used to have to squeeze in between the two dressers to get to our hamper, and only one dresser could be opened at the time, while the bed only fit when pushed up against a wall, which meant I spent several years with my nose pressed against the most horrid floral-patterned wallpaper. When we moved to Georgia, we had been so conditioned into believing that our furniture was, apparently, huge, that when we first saw our rental home, we were convinced that our furniture would, once again, barely fit into the different rooms. So then when our shipment finally came in, and we saw our furniture for the first time in months, my husband couldn’t help but wonder if it had shrunk on the way over. Because when we put our different pieces into place, we found that not only did they fit, we had more than ample room left over on either side. It was a very exciting moment to realize that I would no longer have to crawl over husband-dear to get to the bathroom.

Now many people have told me that the reason that American furniture is big, is because Americans are bigger too. Not to make a point here, but I refuse to believe that. I don’t for a minute believe that if Europeans had the room they wouldn’t trade in their full-sized bed for a California King. I honestly think American furniture is larger because it can be. American homes tend to be larger than European homes, and so the age-old truth of “if you got it, flaunt it” applies. Why squeeze yourself into a 22” Ikea Stockholm chair if you can have a 36” La-Z-Boy recliner? I really enjoy our king-sized bed, especially right after my husband leaves in the morning, since I can go back to sleep pretty much diagonally. And even though I loved our home in Germany (nothing can compare to a mountain view from your living room window), I love being able to pick furniture and rugs without having to worry about whether it will fit or not. And the best part about our new home? Well, for the first time, we now have room for a second chair next to our couch, so momma is finally getting a big old American reclining chair of her own! Of course, I’ll make sure it’s got a European-style pattern, but more about that tomorrow.

Coming up next: Martha-Margaret: Flowers or straight lines?

Boven water

Na een paar dagen van flink sjouwen, schuiven met meubels, klooien met lampen, en vaststellen dat we toch echt een “iets” nodig hebben voor in de nu nog lege hal, ben ik dan eindelijk weer boven water. Nou ja, eigenlijk was ik dat gisteren al, toen ‘s ochtends het internet weer aangelegd was, maar ja, toen ging een geode vriendin bevallen, en dus werd het blog even opzij geschoven.

De verhuizing was denk ik een van de meest aparte waarvan ik ooit deel heb gemaakt. Waar voorgaande verhuizingen of bestonden uit een dozijn sterke mannen met dezelfde t-shirts en een vrachtwagen vol met houten containers met onze naam erop gestencilled, of een mooie geel met blauwe, overdekte, boedelbak, voelde ik me zaterdag meer een lid van de Familie Flodder. De truck waar ik een paar weken geleden zo lovend over schreven was inderdaad een godsend (hoe zeg je dat?); de lift heeft meerdere mensen van een hernia gered, en omdat het een open bed was paste echt alles erin. Maar ja, een open bed betekent ook dat iedereen op straat al je spulletjes kan zien, en dat gecombineerd met het feit dat de vrachtwagen twee verschillende zijspiegels had, onder de roestplekken zat, en klonk als een tractor was het toch niet helemaal. Daarnaast hadden alle vrienden die meehielpen ook een pick-up truck of SUV mee, en om dingen makkelijker te maken, besloten we die ook maar vol te laden met dozen, planten, boekenkasten, de porch swing, en de grill. En zo reden we in een kolonne van auto’s vol met spullen duidelijk zichtbaar voor iedereen op straat van ons oude naar ons nieuwe huis. Laat ik voorop stellen dat ik heel dankbaar was dat het allemaal zo makkelijk ging, maar toch wel heel blij toen al onze spullen gewoon in ons huis stonden.

Verder zijn we nu dus vooral bezig met het regelen van de allerlaatste dingetjes. Zoals een router die niet sterk genoeg is voor het hele huis dat nu in een keer twee verdiepingen heeft (alle tips zijn welkom!), en het doorgeven van adreswijzigingen. Dat laatste is ook een heel ander verhaal hier in de VS dan in Nederland. Toen ik nog in Nederland woonde had de PTT (of de KPN) van die hele handige mapjes. Ze waren rood met wit, en je kon er niet alleen je post mee laten doorsturen, maar ook aan allerlei instanties je nieuwe adres laten doorgeven. Toen ik laatst in Nederland was zag ik dat de PTT nu de TNT heet (dat was toch een pakjesbedrijf?), en alles oranje met grijs is, dus ik weet niet of deze pakketjes nog bestaan, maar handig, dat waren ze zeker. Je kruiste gewoon je verzekering, je bank, je oude universiteit, je abbonnement aan, en klaar. Hier hebben ze deze superhandige mapjes niet. Wel sturen ze hier je post gratis een heel jaar door, maar dan moet je wel voor alle namen die je hanteert, een ander formulier invullen. Zo moesten wij dus drie keer een Change of Address invullen. Een keer voor onze familie naam, een keer voor de familie naam en mijn meisjesnaam, en een keer, omdat de meeste instanties in Nederland nog achterlopen (of eigenwijs zijn, de meningen zijn er nog over verdeeld), mijn meisjesnaam. Het is eventjes werk, maar het geeft je wel een jaartje de tijd om je adreswijzigingen te regelen.

Vandaag moet ik ook de laatste hand leggen aan onze termieten garantie. Dat is dus een garantie dat je huis geen termieten heeft, en niet andersom. Hier in het zuiden is dit bijna verplicht; als je geen garantie op je huis hebt dan heb je a) het risico dat je hele huis op een dag weg is, opgegeten door een termieten familie, en b) wil je niemand je huis kopen. Nu zat er garantie op ons huis toen we het kochten. Maar toen ik vorige week belde bleek dat deze dus dit jaar afliep. Dat is niet heel erg netjes, want dit betekent dus dat wij voor de kosten van de “booster” treatment moeten betalen, terwijl bij de koop gesuggereerd werd dat dat de komende jaren niet zou hoeven. Zo’n treatment betekent (volgens mij dan) dat ze je huis behandelen, en dan is het gegarandeerd termieten-vrij voor vijf of tien jaar (afhankelijk van voor welke booster je kiest). Het kost dan ook tussen de $500 en $1000. Juist. De termieten meneer komt zometeen op bezoek, en we zullen dus wel horen hoe of wat.

Verder is er natuurlijk ook de bekende "honey do" lijst; het lijstje met dingen die de honey (lees:manlief) "has to do". Zo moeten de muren her en der bijgewerkt worden, wat oude apparatuur die nog uit de attic tevoorschijn kwam moet naar de dump, er moet dus waarschijnlijk een nieuwe router gekocht en geinstalleerd worden, en deze honey moet ons oude huis nog schoon maken. Werk genoeg!

My husband on coffee

This morning was an early on; we have people coming in at an ungodly hour to help us get some of the heavier furniture over to the new house, and so we needed some time to get ready. However, this morning was also, for some reason, particularly tough on my husband, who really did not wake up until his first cup of coffee. His words as he was drinking his java were quite poetic, and made me laugh so hard (and all that before seven in the morning), that I really wanted to share them with you all.

So here we have DixieChick's husband on the subject of coffee. Please imagine a sleepy, slow voice for the special effects:

"Oh, yes, the elixir of life...I can just feel it running through my veins..like a young boy chasing a girl across a school playground. It bounces, it springs, it swings. It's warm, like a warm body up against yours on a cold, cold night. Hmmm-mmmm...."

Then he put on his "endorphine junkie" t-shirt and told me he was ready for the day to commence. Whatever it takes!

Feminism, the southern way

Well, after calling the foreman on the carpet, calling our cable-internet-phone provider about an erroneous bill, and convincing the paint supplier that I really refuse to believe that we have to repaint the whole living room, I feel like quite the assertive woman I was striving to be in my last post. And the part I’m really proud of? The fact that I managed to, at least I think so, remain the friendly southerner. I refrained from using the “Pentagon voice”; and I think managed to sugarcoat all of my criticism by phrasing everything as a question. If you’re unfamilliar with this phenomenon; it means saying “So yeah, I really hate to complain, but I’m hoping you’ll understand how we’re unhappy with where the wall got busted? Can I assume that that you will fix it?”as opposed to “Yeah, destroying the paint on that wall is really unacceptable, and you will need to fix that before we sign off on the work.”. It’s not just roundabout, it’s actually more of a covert assertiveness.

In fact, I think in the past few days I have figured out how southern women come to be known as sweet and submissive, while they, at the same time, rule over their families with a firm, but subtle hand. No southern woman I know (well, save one maybe) will ever admit to being a feminist (not in the least because feminism is still associated with the refusal to shave down here), but when a decision needs to be made regarding the family, the home, or even what kind of truck/riding lawn mower/four-wheeler hubby should buy, most of the time, the woman will have her say. She won’t tell her brood what to do, like Dutch women might. She won’t even directly offer her opinion in some cases. Nope, the true southern woman’s approach to taking charge consists of three facets: asking lots of seemingly innocuous questions (“So how are you going to pay for the gas for your second truck?”), giving the person in charge certain looks (my neighbor has perfected what she calls “the stink-eye”), and mere silence.

To be honest, I’m not sure I could ever adopt this approach. Sure, I maybe somewhat successful with outsiders, but inside the home, I think I’ll always need to be me. And that includes being direct, somewhat temperamentful, and annoyingly honest from time to time.

And because I can’t resist providing an update about our house: The floors are now completely done, and they’re awesome. They fixed the walls, thank goodness, and the only job left for me now is to paint tens and tens of feet of quarter round. I can’t wait.

Hear me roar!

I know I have mentioned the incredible friendliness of the locals before, and I may have, at times, touched upon the absurdity of their politeness, but I would have never believed that it would actually have me making frustrated faces at my phone.

Do you ever find yourself wanting to be assertive and slightly upset at someone, because they did not keep their appointment, or did not perform up to par, but then find yourself thwarted by their saccharine sweetness? When I lived in Europe, this happened so rarely, that I never gave any thought to it. When I hired someone to do something, and they messed up, I would tell them curtly and in one of those voices that I'm sure would work at the Pentagon that "This was completely unacceptable", and feel much better about the whole situation. However, today and yesterday I have been overwhelmed by people not keeping their appointments, showing up late, or simply making a big mess of things, and then being so incredibly evasive and non-confrontational about it, that I would end up making indistinct guttural sounds after hanging up.

Not that I like to get angry. I don't. I'm usually the kind of person who will avoid confrontation, and who thus, in general, fits in very well in the south. However, when someone makes a "boo-boo" (to stick with terms acceptable to the locals), I would like to be able to point that out to them. I don't even expect an excuse, I just want to be able to let them know how their tardiness, their chipping large parts off our walls while putting in a floor, and their missing appointments really affects me (and to be frank, although that's another no-no, just plain ticks me off). However, it would seem that this is not really an option here in the south. The moment you hint at something being not absolutely perfect, people go into possum mode. They may not literally play dead, but they will do everything in their power to shift blame, change the topic of the conversation, or question your initial agreement. This pretty much takes the wind out of your sails, leaving you feeling wonderfully frustrated, and the situation unsolved.

However, husband-dear and I have literally practiced the conversation I will be having with the floor-man in the morning (he of the chipped walls), and I think we're good. I honestly believe I am ready for whatever non-confrontational curve ball he throws at me. And no, I am not going to get mad, or mean. I'm just going to let him know how I feel, and then, wait for it, get him to fix the problem he created. And just in case none of that works, I have a back-up; husband-dear promised he would take over and pull some air force attitude. Whatever that may be. This is going to be interesting!