De puppy cursus

Zoe gaat sinds twee weken naar een “puppy class”, een cursus voor, jawel, puppies tot 5 maanden oud. Mevrouw heeft het hard nodig ook, want er is tegenwoordig geen schoen, plant, of hand meer veilig voor haar geknaag.

Toen manlief en ik bedachten dat het goed zou zijn om ons hondje op cursus te sturen zag ik het al helemaal voor me. Nu ben ik in Nederland nooit met een hond op cursus geweest, maar had genoeg meegekregen aan de zijlijn om er een beeld van te vormen. En dus zag ik mezelf al elke zaterdag ochtend om zeven uur ’s ochtends samenkomen met mensen wiens honden allemaal namen hadden als “Brutus” en “Wodan”. Het liefst zouden we elkaar dan treffen op zo’n afgelegen oud-voetbalveldje bedekt met bevroren dauw, onder begeleiding van een man met een half-juten pak aan en een hele harde stem. Onze honden zouden leren, nou ja LEREN!, hoe ze over muurtjes moesten springen, enge mannen moesten aanvallen (vandaar het juten pak), en ze zouden nuttige commandos herkennen als DOODLIGGEN!, STIL!, en PAK!. Juist. Misschien is het tegenwoordig helemaal veranderd in Nederland, maar ik kan me nog goed herinneren dat ik een keer op een verlaten zaterdag ochtend als negen-jarige scout gillend door het bos ben weggerend omdat er een, in mijn ogen, hele enge valse hond een man aanviel. Of die keer dat ik te paard langs een hondentraining reed, en het paard zo schrok van het BLIJVEN ZITTEN BRUTUS NU!, dat ik met moeite in het zadel kon blijven.

Hier in de Verenigde Staten gaat dat gelukkig allemaal heel anders. Sowieso zijn er in de wijde omgeving geen met bevroren dauw bedekte veldjes te vinden op dit moment, en heb ik zo’n vermoeden dat “Brutus” waarschijnlijk niet ‘de’ naam is voor de grote hond. En misschien zou dit eens niet een cursus zijn die om zeven uur ’s ochtends begon.

Nee hoor. Wij gaan tegenwoordig heel gezellig elke zaterdagochtend om elf uur met onze Zoe naar de lokale PetSmart voor de hondentraining. We zitten daar letterlijk midden in de winkel, in een cirkel van stoeltjes met wat attributen. De cirkel is begrenst met een knie-hoog ondoorzichtig scherm zodat de honden niet teveel worden afgeleid, maar verder krijgen ze alles mee wat er in de winkel gebeurd. Van de jankende Deense Dog die voorbij komt, tot de aankondigingen over de uitverkoop. Zo leren we onder begeleiding van een allerliefste en superenthousiaste Ruth hoe we onze hond het bijten afleren, hoe we haar zover krijgen dat ze “sit” op commando, en het hele belangrijk “relax” wordt ook niet vergeten. Er wordt niet geschreeuwd, het hardste geluid komt van de “clickers”, er zijn geen mannen in juten pakken, en afgelopen zaterdag week hebben we zelfs een prijs voor “beste relax/settle” gewonnen.

Nu kan het best zo zijn dat puppy cursussen in Nederland ondertussen helemaal veranderd zijn. Ook kan ik me voorstellen dat sommige mensen misschien vreemd opkijken bij het idee van les krijgen in een winkel. Maar ik ben erg blij dat we niet in de wind, regen, zon, en sneeuw met onze hond naar een enge man met een luide stem hoeven om te leren hoe we ons hondje moet omtoveren in de volgende Lassie.

Up where we belong

“Is this home?”
Belle ~ Beauty and The Beast

I haven’t been very good at feeling at home since we moved to Georgia. I know it’s blunt, but I’m not among southerners, so there you have it. Don’t get me wrong, I love our house. I love my job. But I don’t get a warm fuzzy feeling when I drive into town. Yet anyway. And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this. It’s a feeling I share with many other military spouses. At least the younger, more liberal ones. We may live in this community, but we’re not really a part of it. After all, the choice to come here wasn’t ours to make. It was made for us. And maybe if you end up at a cool base, like say Lackland AFB in San Antonio, or Bolling AFB near Washington DC, feeling a part of the community may not be so hard. But if you’re stuck where we’re at, it’s a whole different ballgame. Sure, as my husband always points out, it could be worse. We could be at McConnell in Kansas, the place where the only elevation comes from highway ramps. Or somewhere up in the Dakotas. But still our town is far from perfect. Or, as I say when I’m in a particular crabby mood, it’s a cultural vortex. I joke to out of town friends that our local residents seem to do nothing but shop for new cars, go to church, frequent gentlemen’s clubs, eat at chains with names that consist of days of the week, and buy stuff at Walmart. It’s depressing.

And of course it doesn’t help that I have a few additional barriers to overcome: I mean, I am definitely different. Not just different than the local women, no, I mean really different. Different to the point where even some military wives will raise their eyebrows. For not only am I a foreigner who talks about far-away places and drives a tiny European-style fuel-efficient car, but I work at a university, one of them scary liberal places. And I’m not something safe like a secretary or an assistant, no, I am a professor. One of those people who liked going to school, and who have a very stubborn mind of their own. Not only that, but I am a liberal who is pro-choice, against the death penalty, believes in universal health care, and who doesn’t believe in dressing up to go to church (although the fact that I do go is, I’m sure, a redeeming factor). And, get this, she speaks up about it too. Wow. The hard part is that at work it’s not much different. There I’m the military lady who uses odd acronyms and talks about her husband’s deployments. Having a military ID makes me as close to the Antichrist as possible in some people’s eyes. Teaching at an HBCU also means I’m one of the few white people around. It’s a great opportunity to learn and grow, but sometimes it’s just plain hard work. After all, I am someone who can’t relate to stories about racism or discrimination, no matter how empathic I may be.

So for the past year or so I have been struggling to fit in. And that brings me to what I really wanted to write about; because there have been three major breakthroughs in the past week. First, there was Zoe’s puppy class. I took our little doggy-dog to her first class this Saturday, and for the first time since I got here, no one asked me anything beyond my name. No one inquired about my job, my husband, or where I was from. They were far more interested in our little mutt and how to get her to stop chewing on everything in sight. We all simply enjoyed ourselves trying to get our dogs to recognize their own names, and "leave" their treats on command. In short, I was elated. I came home, exclaiming to my husband that I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. Even if it was a puppy class in the middle of the local PetSmart. And then on Monday a co-worker and I had a little coming out when we both realized (he is from the north), that we have a hard time feeling accepted down here. It was great to know I found a partner in crime. Now we can be miserable together. And then today, as I was waiting at a light, a semi from the town where I live pulled up next to me. The driver rolled down his window, and after asking if he could merge in front of me since he was in the wrong lane, he said; “I see you’re from *** county too, I figured you would let me, since we both come such a long way.” We exchanged opinions about some of the local news (an accident at a local school), and went on our merry ways. It was great. I had actually been treated as though I belonged somewhere!

So although I’m sure I’ll have lots more to complain about in the coming months, I do see an itty bitty light at the end of the tunnel now. It may take me a while, but I have the feeling I’ll find my niche sooner or later. Now excuse me while I go and celebrate .

AFSpeak

Being in the military has its odd moments. Suddenly you find blousing straps all over the house, wedged inside a book, or inside a crock pot, at times the amount of black shirts and socks in the laundry will make you feel like you married a goth, and you learn to think nothing of phone calls in the middle of the night. But the most intriguing aspect is probably the lingo. The military has a language all of its own, which mainly consists of acronyms. My husband likes to call it the alphabet soup, and that’s exactly what it is.

So a friend of mine and I may have a conversation that goes something like this:
“Hi, it’s Kay, any news on your friend’s PCS yet?”
“No. Her husband is still TDY, but she ran into his CO the other day, and he said no PCS date had been set yet.”
“Wow, that is weird. Maybe it’s different when you’re PCSing in CONUS? When we came back from overseas, our DEROS was pretty much carved in stone”
“Yeah, when Brandon finished OTS, we pretty much knew where we were headed.”

Translation: A friend, whose husband is deployed, is supposed to move, but she still doesn’t know when. Her move is within the US, and perhaps that makes the difference, because when you’re stationed overseas, you always know when you’re coming back, and the same applies to people who have just completed officer’s school.

Or another friend of mine and I may complain in the following manner:
“I can’t believe you’re moving to this ritzy beach town”
“Yeah well, you should see the housing prices. Thank goodness for BAH”
“I know. Wait until you go overseas. Moving back here was such a shock; not only did our BAH pretty much disappear, but we lost our COLA too.”
“But at least you have Walmart here. Not just the crummy BX.”
“Well yeah, but you should have seen the BX at the KMC. It was enormous, and we had two to choose from. I mean, AAFES actually meant something over there.”

Translation: Without their housing allowance, military families would probably be living in boxes. Overseas, this allowance is augmented with additional funds to compensate for higher local prices. Each base has its own department store, but the one on base here isn't that impressive, while the military service provider constructed a much larger department store at an overseas base.

My first spouse’s club meeting included a long whining session about DEERS, the scary lady at MPF, and the IAACS system. These are all things you need to know about and do something with in order to get into “the system” and on base. At church we offer to take left-over food to the LES desk, not the police headquarters, and we call summer camp VBS. Your children, if they’re very little, attend the CDC, your spouse wears BDUs or ABUs if he’s more up to date, you know not to talk about too much because that would not be in line with OPSEC, and you may be elligeble to enter in the STAP program, and if you’re not, well, that would be a SNAFU.

Wow? Yes, wow! I have never quite understood the need for the enormous amount of acronyms the air force uses. Why we can’t just say “police” or “department store” is beyond me. Although I have to admit that it does help when you’re overseas and slightly lost in a foreign town, and you suddenly hear someone say “BX” or "AAFES"; you know you’ve just been saved.

In the end it all boils down to the fact that you say tomato, and I say MRE.

Running in America

Goggles or sunglasses, bugspray or sunscreen, claretin, and a reflective belt. These are not the tools for a night surviving out in the wild American woods. No, they’re what a runner needs to make it through a run in the Georgian summer.

I used to think running was an easy sport. All you had to do was bring shoes and semi-appropriate attire, and you were good to go. Well, this was when I still lived in a slightly civilized part of the world. One where your greatest concern was whether or not it might start drizzling while you were out on your run. And running in wintertime here is not much different; all you really have to wonder is whether you need to bring a jacket or not. It’s summertime (which incidentally runs from mid-April to the end of September down here) that makes running a few miles not much different from going on a “survival camping trip” in, say, the Ardennes.

The first and most obvious issue is, of course, the heat. Between June 1 and now you really shouldn’t be outside exercising after nine in the morning, and if you want to run at night, it’s best to wait until about 7:30pm. Any exercise in between those hours will inadvertently leave you not only severely dehydrated and very unhappy, it will probably also leave you with a nasty sunburn (yes, the sweat will make the sunscreen simply evaporate off your body), and a pounding headache at best. So during the dogdays of July and August, I would find myself getting up impossible hours on my days off just to get my run in. I would postpone running long distances until the end of summer, since there was simply no way I was willing to get up at 4:30 in the morning to put in an 8-mile run. But, fortunately, that has gotten better now. You’re still best to stay away from exercising in the middle of the day, but you can actually sleep in until, oh, seven, before you really should get out there and do your thing.

And when you're out running here in the dark, you immediately notice one huge difference between Georgia and the rest of world; the lack of streetlights. We have very few streetlights in our area. A feat I usually applaud, as it allows me to look at the stars, but when I trip over another loose piece of concrete for the third time during one run, I can't help but curse the county commissioner, or the city counselor, or whoever is in charge of lights. This doesn't only mean that you can't really see where you're going, it also means cars won't see you. Not even if you're dressed in all white with reflectors on your shoes. Nope. People here are so completely utterly not used to seeing another person on the road who is not in a car, you will scare the living daylights out of them when they see you. If they do. Hence the reflective belt. And if you're taking a dog, put one on her too.

So why the claretin, the bugspray, and the goggles? Well, one word: bugs. Nasty ones. Big musquitoes and yellow flies that leave welts the size of quarters. And gnats. Nasty little hard-shelled bugs that fly into your mouth, eyes, and nostrils. And do so especially whenever you’re near trees, or when running at night. So if you want shade, or want to run when it’s cool, you need to be prepared to run with the bugs. Now I don’t mind a few bugs here and there, but when it got to the point where I found myself swallowing more bugs than I could count, I decided it was time fors ome serious action. Claretin. Claretin (or Equate, since we like to use the cheaper version) will dry up your nostrils, and allow you to breathe through your nose even when the pollen is at its worst. And this means no more bugs down your throat. And trust me, bugs up your nostrils is not half as bad.

The goggles are a recent discovery. Just last week, I was running along my merry old way when a bug flew into my eye. And this wasn´t your usually squishy little bitty fly. This was a tough little bugger, one that made me feel as though someone had just poured bleach into my eye, forcing me to run home with one eye closed, and left me with an eye infection I´m still on medication for. Lovely. So now I´ve taken to looking like a running fashion victim during the day when I wear sunglasses, while at night I, according to my boys, resemble a bug lady in my goggles.

But running in the summer is not all bad. I´ve been running, on and off, for several decades now, and I have to tell you that nowhere have I had this much response. I´ve had cars honk their horns at me, people yelling out windows, and people slowing down to wave. And to be honest, I´m not sure why. When I run, I look more like a hobo than anything else, and I´m usually red and sweaty; far from attractive. I’ve also noticed that people tend to honk at me more often when I’m running away from the car (so they see me from behind), than when I’m running towards them. However, this seems to have changed once I started wearing glasses. So either I’m what my students would call a “tip drill”, or we have some very odd bug-o-philes here in Georgia.

So if someone ever tells you running is boring, they’ve obviously never been down here. It’s running for rednecks!

Terpetine

Soms zijn er dagen dat ik me echt afvraag of het niet beter is als ik een baan zou zoeken op de basis, 8 mijl van huis. Of van mijn part bij de lokale Taco Bell. Niet omdat mijn werk zo erg is, maar omdat de afstand eigenlijk niet te doen is. Vorige week dinsdag was duidelijk zo'n moment. Een tornado die zich recht boven ons huis dreigt te vormen zet je namelijk toch wel aan het denken. En gisteren was ook zo’n dag.

Ik zat gisteren om zes uur in de auto naar huis, toen ik een lichtelijk bezorgd telefoontje van manlief kreeg. Hij wilde weten wat er in het potje zat dat op de grond van de garage stond waar de verfkwasten in stonden uit te lekken. Met diezelfde verfkwasten had ik van het weekend het kozijn van de nieuwe stormdeur geverfd, en deze moesten schoongemaakt worden voordat ze terug de kast in konden. Dus stonden ze al een paar dagen in een potje met terpetine. Manlief had me gevraagd het op te ruimen, maar ik was er niet aan toegekomen.

En dan sta je dus op de parkeerplaats van je college, en hoor je manlief ergens ver weg zeggen dat Zoe per ongeluk het halve potje terpetine heeft leeggedronken. Manlief was heel even omgedraaid om de sprinkler uit te zetten, en onze kleine ukkie-puppy was zo op het potje afgestapt. Manlief, die dacht dat het gewoon water was schrok enorm, en zou subiet de dierenarts bellen.

Ik had nog negentig mijl voor de boeg, en dacht, misschien uit een soort zelf-bescherming, dat het nog wel mee zou vallen. Maar bij afslag 9, met nog zo’n 45 mijl te gaan, ging mijn telefoon. Het was manlief, en hij was net terug van de dierenarts. Zoe was, na drie spuiten, eindelijk opgehouden met overgegeven, maar de dierenarts kon niet zeggen hoeveel schade de terpetine had aangericht. We moesten er ernstig rekening mee houden dat ze het wel eens niet zou kunnen halen.

Dan is 45 mijl heel erg ver van huis.

Ik heb volgens mij alle snelheidslimieten ruim verbroken terwijl ik tussen de semi’s door naar huis vloog. Thuis aangekomen lag Zoe als een hoopje hond in haar crate. Ze kon haar ogen bijna niet openhouden, en ze probeerde me te begroeten maar zakte steeds door haar pootjes. Manlief vertelde me dat hij haar al schuimbekkend en draai-ogend naar de dierenarts had gebracht, en dat we nu niks meer konden doen, behalve wachten.

En dan zit je daar, met zijn allen voor de crate. Met tranen in mijn ogen gaf ik mezelf de schuld van het terpetine incident, terwijl manlief hetzelfde aan het doen was. Zoe leek te slapen, maar elke paar minuten gingen we toch even kijken of ze nog ademde. We wilden niet gaan slapen, maar op een gegeven moment zijn we toch in slaap gevallen. Hopend en biddend dat ze het tot de volgende ochtend zou redden.

Om half vier werden we allebei wakker omdat Zoe aan het janken was. Eerst dachten we het ergste, maar toen ze bijna parmantig de kooi uit kwam lopen en naar de slaapkamer deur liep, waar ze ongeduldig naar ons keek wanneer we haar nu eindelijk eens uit zouden laten, wisten we dat het misschien nog wel eens goed zou komen. En ik ben nog nooit zo blij geweest als toen ze, terwijlik haar afdroogde, met de handdoek probeerde te worstelen.

En vanochtend leek Zoe weer helemaal de oude. Ze sprong in het rond, wilde op bed, en keek ons verontwaardigd aan toen duidelijk werd dat we, op dokter´s orders, haar geen eten zouden geven. Puppy was duidelijk moe, en afgevallen, maar ze heeft waarschijnlijk de crisis overleefd. Een feit dat ook door de dierenarts bevestigd werd. Helemaal zeker weten doen we het pas over een paar dagen, maar we hebben goede hoop.

En wat betreft die baan dichterbij….sja..dat weet ik nog niet zo net.

Maar nu moeten we naar bed; mevrouw ligt al een kwartier in haar mand in de slaapkamer terwijl ze zo nu en dan ongeduldig komt kijken waar we nu toch blijven.


Een teken dat het de goede kant op gaat met Zoe; stiekem kauwen op schoenen terwijl je denkt dat niemand het ziet.

Labor Day

Sometimes we all have to eat our words. I don’t think many people like it, at least I don’t. With “stubborn as a mule” as a middle name, admitting I’m wrong is painful. Fortunately, practice makes perfect, and this Labor Day offered me another perfect opportunity to practice eating humble pie. And it’s all our house’s fault.

In order to explain this, I need to go back several years to my my first year as a doctoral candidate in graduate school. I had just completed my master’s, and thought the worst was over. And there is yet another example of having to eat my own words. Because when I arrived at my Texan university, the workload didn’t just hit me in the face, it pretty much swept me off my feet. I was working nights, weekends, evenings, working while I was eating and showering , and still I was barely getting things done (you try reading three books at the same time, writing a critical essay on each of them, carrying out three independent research projects, preparing class presentations and working on your research proposal. All in one week). Anyway, I was so desperately looking forward to having Labor Day off, that when I realized I would have to work the whole weekend to meet a deadline, I almost cried. Well, actually, I did cry. And I promised myself that I would never ever again work during those few federal holidays that Americans get.

And you know what, I have kept that promise. I may have worked through summer breaks, winter breaks, spring breaks, birthdays and Christmas, but whenever we would have one of those single-day holidays, I would kick back and relax. Husband-dear and I would spend Labor Day shopping at the antiques bazaar on base, we have spent Memorial Day in Heidelberg, President’s Day in Trier, and have generally made an effort to make each of those Mondays off special.

Well, all that changed when we bought our current home. We did not kick back once this weekend, nope, we worked. On the house. And the funniest part is, we wanted to. We were actually looking forward to a few days of honey-do’s, and are already contemplating what to do on Columbus Day. I guess wanting to work while you have time off comes with the territority of being a home-owner. After all, it’s your home, and you want it to look the best it can. I remember my parents working on their home on Easter Monday and May 5th. So I guess this burning desire to spend your free time at work is a universal curse.

I think the difference between American and European home owners lie not so much in this ongoing urge to improve on one’s home, but in what exactly constitutes a honey-do. What do home owners across the Atlantic feel they need to do to their house when they have time off?

Well, window-washing appears to be huge in both the Netherlands and Germany. Especially Germans seem to be big on keeping their windows clean. You couldn’t turn your back in the street we lived on, or there would be another German hausfrau perched on a rickety ladder, running a shammy across the window in the freezing wind. We were the talk of the neighborhood because we never really cleaned our windows (apparently Windexing does not count). That and the fact that we never closed our Rolladen. Now maybe we currently live in a really unhygienic town, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone clean their windows. I know I haven’t since we moved here. But why bother when half your window is covered by a screen, and the other half is generally hidden from the elements by a porch or the eaves of the roof? Not to mention that getting the screen off is an exercise all by itself. Now my parents are coming for Christmas, so I know I'm going to have to give in sooner or later, but I'm OK waiting until later for now.

Another huge honey-do in Europe appears to be sweeping one’s front stoop. I can remember my parents spending countless hours sweeping the driveway, the stoop, the patio. And of course all the men on our German street would, after they had washed their cars, sweep out the driveway on Saturday. Again, maybe we have a severe shortage of leaves, or very little wind, or maybe we all just don't care, but the only time I see people sweep here is after they’ve mowed the yard, and a really big storm. There was no sweeping on Labor Day.

Now we did see a lot of yard work though. In fact, most of our, and our neighbors’, honey-do’s consisted of yard work. And not like in Holland, where you will spend days weeding the endless flowerbeds. No, none of that. Although we may have beds here, there are no flowers to be seen anywhere, and we use this nifty little thing called landscaping sheets, mulch, and/or lava rocks to keep the weed out. So weeding is not an issue. Thank Goodness. No, we spent two days planting a wide variety of shrubs and trees I had never heard of before moving here: crepe myrtles, Indian Hawthorns, some plant called Pizzaz, and have a Blazing Maple and a Leland something bush on hold at the nursery. And just because that wasn’t enough, we also installed a storm door, and in a touch of Dutchness, my husband set up a laundry line for me in the backyard.

And in spite of having to eat my words, it was a good Labor Day. Maybe we can screen in our back porch next time we have Monday off.

Proud momma

I know I like to drop little hints now and then about how much work goes into teaching college students. And even though it is hard work, and I am, as I write this, in the middle of a day that started at 6 this morning and will end sometime after 7 tonight, there are times when you are made very aware of why you go through it all.

Last semester, I taught a class on philosophy and ethics; a tough feat in a school where the majority of the students are Christians. Besides trying to explain the concept of statistical significance to a 9am class, it was probably the hardest course I have ever had to teach. At times I wasn’t even sure I would ever get them to grasp the basics of all philosophy, the idea that all beliefs are relative, and wondered if “public school” meant the same thing in the bible belt as it did everywhere else. But even then, there were moments when I realized that all my struggles were not for naught. One of my students wrote an absolutely brilliant essay on the concept of religion, and with his permission, I am copying an excerpt from to share with you:

“Now everyone knows that religion is a very controversial topic. There have been debates about religion for many years. The controversy still exists today and has even been recognized in the current presidential debate. Hypothetically, existentialist, John Paul Sartre, would have been one to probably lead a debate regarding the existence of God. He would have most likely protested that there is no real truth and we all are responsible for our own actions and choices. On the other end of the debate would have stood Benedict Spinoza, a philosopher who believed in pantheism; i.e., everything is one and the same as God.
Although neither might have agreed with one another, several topics might have raised eyebrows of those listening to the debate. Satre might have argued that, "The world is not systematic, not organized, and there is no predetermined role. There is no reality in truth. If so, where is proof of it?"
Spinoza would have responded, "You need to go through my developmental phase. It would help if you gained some knowledge about Life. You are stuck in this inadequate stage, unaware that proof is shown through reason. Get yourself some adequate knowledge and then we can talk..."
Sartre might have replied, "Ha, reason does not help in determining "truths" about the world. Everyone has to live with there own choices and rules. Let me teach you a thing or two about individualism and radical subjectivism. There are no binding values. There is no God!"
Spinoza might have concluded, "Man, your an atheist, what do you know?! True enough as humans we have freedom to choose our actions, but we are subjected only to our desires. Reason is master of our passions. Everything is one and the same as God, Bottom Line!"

For a student who has grown up in the bible belt, who doesn’t just feel, but knows that the bible is true, this is an amazing achievement. When I read his essay last semester, I knew that all my sweat, my complaining to various coworkers and family members, and hours of wondering how I would ever get them to understand were worth it. Maybe he was the only one out of thirty students who “got it”, but it was well worth it.

When you pay attention to things, moments like that happen every day. The student who wrote the perfect column in my editorial and critical writing class just yesterday. Overhearing one student tell another that, no, you can’t do statistical research when you’re merely exploring a topic. Having a student ask you if it’s OK if they use MLA referencing as opposed to APA, but adding that if not, they will happily learn a whole new referencing system because they really don’t want to plagiarize. It’s awesome.

Sometimes I feel like the proud momma of over eighty students.