Junk mail

Since the United States Postal Service has yet to invent the "nee-nee/ja-nee"sticker, I have spent the past eighteen months becoming once again reacquainted with the concept of junk mail. If you think Dutch junk mail (the cheap local newspapers, the flyers, the coupon booklets) are bad, you need to take care of my mail for about a month. Actually, you're welcome to come do that regardless of what you think, but that's beside the point. The point is that American junk mail is beyond unbelievable. It's not just flyers from shops and little local rags that do nothing but leave your hands black and your mind full of things you didn't need to know, like the date of the next lawnmower-riding competition. American junk mail goes far beyond that.

It includes endless appeals for your money from every possible organization you could think of, from the St. Jude fund for children's hospitals, to the fraternal order of police, to the local public broadcasting organization. I have no clue how they ever got our address, but they did, and, boy, are they ready to wear it out. Each letter is addressed to us personally, and one is even sadder than the other ("Dear Dixiechick, did you know that without your help, your quarter per day, five children will die this year?"). The envelopes look different every time, so you can't just sort them out based on appearance, and sometimes these organizations make the envelopes look like they come from serious federal or state government agencies. I can't count the number of times I almost had a heart attack right there at our mailbox because I thought we had received a letter from the IRS or some other scary government branch, only to find it was a plea for our money. And these organizations do more than just tug at your heartstrings, they also include little gifts and trinkets, pretty much obliging you to do something in return. We have hundreds of little stickers with husband-dear's name and our address on it, we have several refrigerator magnets, bookmarks, and goodness knows what other kinds of vain attempts to get our money. I say vain because usually they are. And that's my fault. You see, these organizations are pretty smart. Not only do they disguise their envelopes, and try to somehow bribe us into donating money, they also always address all their mail to my husband. Who is, admittedly, the biggest teddy bear on the planet, and would give his right arm away if it would help you out. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he's married to me, and although I would give very much away to help you out, I think I draw the line at my right arm. So we end up giving to a few select charities, and then throw all the other pleas away (although we do keep all their trinkets - if they're useful - of course).

The one other aspect of American junk mail that continues to surprise me is the credit card offer. In spite of the current credit crisis, American credit card companies are apparently not satisfied until everyone has at least fourteen credit cards. And even though husband-dear and I both have the same number of credit cards (and they're in both our names), these companies seem to find me an appealing target. I receive an average of three offers per week. Husband-dear gets none. It's really quite unfair, since I would love all the little trinkets, and I never get any of those. And although these companies try to disguise their envelopes too, by making them look like bills, or strangely enough, mail from charitable organizations, I've become quite adept at picking them out. Most credit card junk mail seems to come from a specific state, and use a certain font. And all of them use my middle initial. Very odd. Since I have no need for another credit card, I save the mail until I have a decent little pile and then spend a good ten minutes each month scaring the crap out of the dog as I shred them all.

As of recently we're on the national do-not-call list (and let me tell you, it works!), and I'm really beginning to wonder if maybe someone should start a do-not-mail list. Something you could sign up for when you're just plain satisfied with what you have, Or perhaps we should create a more generic just-leave-me-the-heck-alone list. I know I'd sign up. Or how about we just all start using the Dutch "no-no" stickers? I'm all for it!

Happy New Year!

"Happy new year, happy new year! May we all have our hopes, our will to try"
Abba ~ Happy New Year

To all of my readers, near and far, I hope you all have a wonderful, joyful, fulfilling, clean (cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all), relatively stress-free, and body-rocking 2009!

I usually don't have huge overwhelming new year's resolutions, instead I like to create a little ten-point list, much like the famous Adrian Mole. So below you will find, in no particular order, those things I intend to improve on:

1. Wash my car more often than twice a year, and remember to get it buffed and waxed on a regular basis too. It costs less than $10, and I could probably get husband-dear to do it, so I'm not quite sure why my car looks like it's been through hell and back. Since my car is essential to my job, and thus my life, I promise to definitely take better care of it in 2009.
2. Stop the annoying habit of keeping one knee-high when the other one has a run in it. I do this out of frugality (well, if one more knee-high gets a run, I'll have a spare to make a pair), but in practice this means I'm left with a drawer full of non-matching knee-highs, that I never end up wearing anyway.
3. Stop saying "like" so much. For some reason, when I learned English in the 1980s, everyone said "like", like all the time. And in spite of my years, my advanced education, and my bookworm-ishness, I still use it far too often, sounding more like a grown-up Valley Girl, or someone from "The Hills" or "Made" than, well, someone I would like to be, you know, say professional, educated, and with an expansive vocabulary. So "like" has got to go.
4. Leave work when I tell husband-dear I will. Although I love my students (and co-workers), I really need to learn to be less like that unfortunate Ado Annie and say "no" a little more often.
5. At my husband's desperate request, I have to remember that when I ask him "Did I tell you about the time that.." and he says "yes", there is no need for me to not continue the story. It's apparently very annoying.
6. Bring my cellphone when I run. The past year has proven that it is very easy to get lost in this part of the world, and that running can be quite a hazardous experience as well. And not just because some people just don't pay attention when driving, but also because some locals apparently take sport in running as many runners off the road as possible. I can't tell you how many times I ended up crouched in a ditch wishing I had a cellphone so I could call the cops on some redneck kid in an oversized pick-up truck
7. Stop being obsessive and accept six resolutions when I really wanted to have five. Or ten. Or some pretty number.

Happy 2009!

Insomnia

Sleeping is one of my favorite pastimes. And contrary to many other things I like to do (and trust me, the Dutch person hiding inside of me hates saying this), I’m actuall pretty good at it. I mean, I can’t shoot a good game of pool if my life depended on it, in spite of the fact that my parents had a pooltable in our basement for years. Deep in my heart I also know I will never appear on Broadway (I keep myself happy by claiming that sometimes dreams do come true), and the saying “dance like no one is watching” was obviously written for me. However, when it comes to sleeping, I’m a natural. In fact, if sleeping were an Olympic Sport, I would be a medalist for sure. I’ve slept through the whine of airplane engines warming up less than half a mile away, smoke alarms do absolutely nothing for me, and I’ve also been known to incorporate whatever pesky sound my alarm makes into my dreams, thus sleeping on blissfully. When I’m tired, nothing can stop me. And I mean, nothing, not even the possibility of public embarrassement. I’ve slept pretty much anywhere, from a bus terminal tarmac in Poland, to airport lounges all over the world, to several complicated indie films at international film festivals (I used to joke I have paid possibly hundreds of dollars to fall asleep at world renown movies), to a boring business lecture, to a friend’s birthday party. And although I’m not proud of especially the last two “achievements” (although on my behalf, they both occurred a long time ago), you have to admit that my track record is not bad at all.

However, every once in a blue moon, and much to my chagrin, I won’t be able to sleep through the night. I’ll wake up sometime after midnight, and find myself unable to fall back asleep. I’ll toss and turn, and envy husband-dear snoring away quietly. Usually, I’ll fall asleep after about an hour or so of staring at the ceiling fan, but sometimes even that doesn’t happen, and I know I’m in for one of those nights. A night when sleep isn’t going to come until thirty minutes before the alarm goes off.

Last night was one of those nights. And as I laid in bed, positively jealous of husband-dear out cold at my side, and Zoe curled up at our feet making funny little dog sounds, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat elated at the fact that of all the places I could be lying awake in the middle of the night, I was in the US, the country that truly never sleeps. For those of you who have ever been wide awake in the middle of the night in Europe, you may know what I’m talking about. In Europe, your range of middle-of-the-night activities are severely restricted. Of course, you could read a book, but anything more exciting than that, and you’re, well, up a creek without a paddle. The radio will play nothing but depressingly sappy love songs that will render your already unstable being even more emotional. If you were to turn on the TV, you’re stuck watching an endless loop of some indescribably boring program (think gardening shows for old people, a rerun of a late night talk show, or a ten minute news broadcast), and don’t even think about going anywhere.

Here in the US, on the other hand, I have such a plethora of opportunities available to me in the middle of the night, just thinking about all of them made me tired. For starters, of course, there are the 100+ TV channels, with the syndication channels such as TVLand always playing cool old shows at two in the morning. Then there is the ever-reliable Walmart. What better time to shop for embarrassing feminine products, or buy that DVD you’ve been thinking about, or get those 300 pictures developed, than 3:30am? And if you don’t feel like perusing through the end-of-the-year sales, you can always opt for an early breakfast at Waffle House, or do some grocery shopping.

Now obviously, I have yet to do any of those things. The most exciting thing I have ever done when I couldn’t sleep was get up and put together a midterm exam. But usually I stay in bed, and happily consider all the things I could be doing, and then decide that they are all really too much trouble. Most of the time, when I think about putting on some clothes, getting my purse, and driving to Walmart, I’m asleep by the time I pull into the parking lot. But one of these days, I promise, I will go there. Just to tell you all what it’s like. And stock up on pantyliners of course.

Cold Turkey

“Saying goodbye, going away, seems like goodbye’s such a hard thing to say”
Scooter ~ The Muppets

After two weeks filled with family, quirky Dutch traditions, and endless conversations (in Dutch!) it was finally time to say goodbye to my parents, brother, and sister-in-law this Saturday. Now I am no good at saying goodbye. Absolutely no good. I always get upset, my stomach gets all queasy, and I cry. And when I cry, it’s not a pretty movie-cry, no, it involves a red face, red eyes, a mouth pulled into a funny-looking grimace, and lots of snot. It’s ugly. I always admire husband-dear who can just give someone a big bear hug, a pat on the back, and move on swiftly, simply reminiscing on the good times he just had.

I have always been horrific at saying goodbye. I’m not sure when my ability to say goodbye and move on disappeared, but one of my earliest memories includes a tearful car ride home from spending a few days at my grandparents. I remember being unable to stop (who wouldn’t after days of walking into the park and feeding the ducks, and being allowed to build forts up in the attic), and not calming down until I got to talk to grandma over the phone and she promised me I could come back anytime. I cried when I was eight and my first summer camp was over, I cried every time my cousin and I had spent a weekend together and it was time to go home, and I even cried when my parents, after years of bullying, moved me to a different elementary school, and I had to say goodbye to my classmates on the last day of school. Moving fourteen times or so, both across country and abroad didn’t really help either. Not only did I probably have to say goodbye a lot more than most people, I also ended up making friends from all over the world, who would all eventually move away as well, which inevitably led to more crying.

Last Saturday, it was no different. While the love of my life hugged everyone, smiling and joking, I desperately tried not to cry. It’s funny how the excitement of seeing your family for the first time fades every time you visit, but how the heartache of saying goodbye lingers. This time, though, I managed to hold most of it in until I got home and saw the eggnog I kept forgetting to offer to them.

But I’m much better now. There’s no more crying, just a slight “cold turkey” sensation. I went from tour guide, daughter, sister, sister-in-law, and obvious foreigner, to plain old me. No one can tell I’m a foreigner anymore, there are lists of chores to be done, no one to entertain the dog while I shower, and SpongeBob once again rules our living room. And the worst part? I ate almost all of the “dropjes” , and read most of the magazines they brought me. I guess it’s almost time for another trip to Holland!

D'r kan nog meer bij!

Er kan inderdaad nog meer bij. Naast mijn ouders hebben gisteren namelijk ook mijn broer en schoonzus de gelederen in huize Dixiechick versterkt. Het is een beetje passen en meten, maar er passen ook veel niet-makke schapen in een hok. Zoe heeft de tijd van haar leven met al die nieuwe mensen, de kinderen zijn zo opgewonden dat het lijkt alsof we er honderd hebben in plaats van twee, er is een minivan gehuurd, en ik heb mijn "touguide"hoedje maar weer eens opgezet.

Mensen die bij ons op bezoek zijn geweest concluderen altijd dat er hier "niet zo heel veel te doen is". En alhoewel ik het daar in grote lijnen mee eens moet zijn, kon ik het toch niet over mij hart verkrijgen om deze streek zo makkelijk af te schrijven, en dus ben ik de laatste maanden naarstig op zoek gegaan naar cultureel verantwoorde uitjes. En tot mijn grote plezier valt het nog best wel mee met het "dooie boel" gehalte van onze omgeving. Meerdere steden hebben een oud (pre-1860) centrum, compleet met oude huizen, restaurantjes, en oude treindepots. Er zijn een aantal mooie oude plantage huizen in de buurt, en we hebben zelfs een aantal theaters en alternatieve filmhuizen ontdekt (ok, het is er 1, maar toch).

Dus toen ik er achter kwam dat mijn schoonzus nog nooit in de VS was geweest, ben ik meteen druk aan het plannen gegaan. Een dagje naar dat oude centrum, een lunch in het oude en nostalgische "Grits Cafe", een tripje naar een lokale plantage, en natuurlijk een dagje Savannah. Wat schetst mijn verbazing vanochtend, toen ik vroeg wat de groep wilde doen? De Nederlanders in het gezelschap wilden naar Wal*mart. En Target. Naar Wal*mart?! Wie gaat er nou vrijwillig naar de Wal*mart? De kinderen die helemaal dol zijn op Wally's World (van wie ze het hebben, ik heb geen idee), vlogen zowat tegen het plafond op van blijdschap, maar ik kan niet zeggen dat ik nou stond te springen. Wal*mart is een winkel die ik vooral gebruik voor de praktische inkopen (kerstlichtjes, sokken, lampen), en daarnaast zoveel mogelijk probeer te vermijden. Maar nee, ze willen naar Wal*mart. En dan maar klagen dat hier zo weinig cultuur is.
En dat Amerikanen zulke cultuurbararen zijn....tssss....

Maar goed, ik moet weg, naar Wal*mart.....

Christmas Cheer

Christmas has definitely arrived at Dixiechick's home. The tree is up, the lights are on, and the stockings (including opa's and oma's) have been hung from the mantle. We are all ready for some holiday cheer, and I thought I would share some impressions with all of you.

The living room (complete with the new loveseat).



Our library area where my chair has had to make way for the Christmas tree. Zoe has already staked out her favorite spot.



Carnival de Noel!

Love Actually

Although husband dear and I could never seem to agree on whether or not the movie with the same title as this post was actually worthwhile, there was one aspect that we both really enjoyed equally: the airport greeting scenes that ran under the credits. Anyone with ample travel experience knows that intense feeling of anticipation and joy when you're waiting at the airport to meet a loved one, a feeling that is only further augmented as the time spent apart increases.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to create a very personal "Love Actually"moment. My parents flew into Atlanta just yesterday, and after seven months of separation, I had spent days, and possibly even weeks, living up to this moment. The Atlanta airport is renown for its crowds, and the incredible amount of time it can take people to make it from the actual airplane to the arrival terminal. The latter is not just due to the fact that Atlanta is, I believe, the busiest airport in the US at this time, but also because the airport consists of a bewildering terminal system, which forces international travelers to check their bags again right after pick up, then ride a tiny little train for a good twenty minutes, and then work their way through a most confusing arrivals area, to spend another twenty minutes waiting for their luggage to arrive.

So when picking people up, I always allow myself ample time. The first time my family flew into Georgia (last March), I arrived at the same time as their plane, and then spent close to ninety minutes looking for familiar faces among the hordes of people swarming into the tiny arrival terminal. So yesterday I decided to arrive a little late. And five minutes after I had taken up post a few feet away from the actual entry point, and only twenty minutes after their plane had landed, I noticed two people waving at me. I looked, and decided it could not possible be my parents. Then I realized the lady was wearing the same turquoise sweatshirt my mother has. And that the man had gray bushy hair just like my dad. So I squinted, and my heart jumped as I realized that these people were indeed my parents. And there was my Love Actually moment. I scooted under the little rope, probably ran over at least two unassuming travelers, managed to barely mumble "excuse me" before I hugged my mom.

Seeing someone that close to you after such a long period of separation is interesting. It's familiar yet strange, and it seems like you were never apart and as though you've been gone for years at the same time. It's always amazing to find that people still look, smell, and talk the same, yet it always seems to take a few moments to truly realize they are really there looking at you.

We've spent today catching up, running errands, celebrating husband-dear's birthday. It's been great, wonderful, strange, exhilarating all at once. Long live air travel!