Tussen acht en vijf

Amerika is het land van het gemak. Alles gaat bijna vanzelf; je bankzaken doe je vanuit de auto, eten kan in de auto, belasting en andere financieen kunnen allemaal online geregeld worden, je “dry cleaning” geef je af in een drive-through, en we hebben hier zelfs een quick-lube waar je gewoon in de auto kan blijven zitten. Het is soms net een beetje als de Nederlandse belastingdienst, “Leuker kunnen we het niet maken, makkelijker wel”.

Toen twee weken terug onze koelkast in een keer begon te lekken, verwachtte ik dan ook niet anders dan dat het met datzelfde gemak gemaakt zou worden. We hadden ten slotte nog garantie, dus ik zag een al flitsend mannetje langskomen op een vantevoren precies afgesproken tijd, die binnen een paar minuten onze lekkende “water dispenser” zou repareren. Het begon allemaal nog veelbelovend. Nadat wij om acht uur ’s ochtends de hele keukenvloer hadden gedweild, de doorweekte spullen uit de voorraadkast hadden weggegooid, en de verzopen rijst uit alle hoeken en gaten van de keuken (en Zoe’s poten) hadden gevist, kreeg ik tot mijn grote verbazing meteen iemand van het Sears repair center aan de telefoon. Ook kon ik meteen een afspaak maken. Geweldig. Ik verwachtte een systeem zoals onze kabelmaatschappij, onze pest control, en onze Airco-repareer-man allemaal hebben; ze noemen vier blokken van twee uur, en daar kan je dan uit kiezen. Niets van dat alles. Ze zouden tussen acht en vijf langskomen. Acht en vijf!? Ik probeerde het nog voorzichtig; “Dus dat betekent dat ik de dag van te voren een specifiekere tijd kan afspreken?”
“Nee mevrouw”
Ik werd wanhopig; “Op de dag zelf dan?”
Maar nee. De reparateur zou tussen acht en vijf langskomen. Meer wisten ze niet. En nee, ik kon ook geen telefoonnummer krijgen van het lokale bedrijf dat de route bepaalde.

Gelukkig stond op de betreffende vrijdag het mannetje van Sears al om half negen op de stoep, waardoor ik niet mijn hele rooster om hoefde te gooien. Alleen kon hij die dag niet de koelkast repareren omdat hij een onderdeel nodig had. En laat hij dat onderdeel nou juist niet bij zich hebben. Het onderdeel zou in de loop van de week aankomen, en dan zou hij de volgende vrijdag het installeren. Dan moest ik alleen wel even een nieuwe afspraak maken. Zo gezegd zo gedaan. Deze keer beloofde de mevrouw van Sears mij zelfs dat ze een verzoek zou indienen of ik vroeg op de route ingepland kon worden. Maar helaas. De reparateur kwam om half vier aanzetten. Dat werd dus niet zwemmen, niet fietsen, en ook niet douchen (want stel je toch eens voor dat die man voor de deur zou staan).

Ik ben me eens af gaan vragen hoe de wereld er volgens Sears uitziet, en het enige waarop ik uit kom is een soort mix tussen June Cleaver, “Toen was geluk heel gewoon” en “The Brady Bunch”. Een wereld waarin vrouwen met gebloemde schortjes en gepermanent haar braaf thuis wachten tot manlief thuiskomt van een dag op kantoor. Het huis is blinkend schoon, en ruikt heerlijk naar sudderlapjes, want ja, vrouwlief gaat toch het huis niet uit, en kan zich dus perfect aan de taak van huisvrouw kwijten.

Als dit in Nederland zou gebeuren, zou ik er niet op of om van kijken. Ten slotte staat Nederland nou niet echt bekend om zijn service. Maar dat dit hier in de VS gebeurd, daar kijk ik toch wel even van op. In het land van de glimach en het gemak lijkt dit toch echt achterhaald. Maar helaas, zolang manlief noch ik nog steeds geen koelkastenexperts zijn, hebben we ons er maar, heel Nederlands, bij neer te leggen.

Fez

“You know, in my country…”
Fez ~ That 70s show

So after letting Steve take over my blog for a day (and yes he really does exist, does live in the office next to mine, and can be very annoying in a brotherly sort of way), I would like to point out several things. First, I don’t just wear skirts and boots on days I meet with the promotion and tenure committee, I wear them pretty much as often as possible. In a world of pumps with diamonds on the heels, I figure that if nothing else, my job is to prove that you don’t need polyester slacks to look professional. Second, I really don’t say “in Nederland” that often. Really, I don’t. I do say “at the other places I’ve worked at” or “anywhere but here” a lot though. And naturally that’s always as part of a sensible and well-reasoned comparison. Finally, the social science approach really is the only way. Don’t believe a word those bleeding heart post-structuralist semiotic qualitative analysis humanities people tell you. It’s all lies.

Today, however, I wanted to talk about something that has me hopping with excitement; my very own fez. For those of you unfamiliar with the That 70s Show, fez stands for Foreign Exchange Student, and I now have one of my own. It’s a she, and she is visiting from a school in the Netherlands where a former co-worker now runs the show. It’s extremely exciting to have someone here who speaks Dutch, knows what I mean when I say “Joh!”, and who brought a whole box of Dutch candy with her. It’s also very interesting to be on the other side of the fence for a change. I’m so used to being the one who is on the exchange that it’s very odd to be on the one my student turns to for help and advice, as well as the one who has the have the delicate “you are now in the south so you really shouldn’t....” discussions.

My student has done a great job making me feel smart. She, to the dismay of her American roommate, wanted a bike. It so happened that I have a spare bike in our garage, so I loaded it in my car, and drove it all the way down here. Or just yesterday the student wanted to know if she could drive here with her German driver’s license. And where she needed to go to find the microfilm in the library, where she could buy a bicycle lock, and what she needed to do if she wanted to call someone from the phone in her office. What’s so amazing to me is that I knew all the answers. I even remembered that the DMV changed its name to DDS. I felt like a kid in grade school. Here I am, always feeling like the complete alien (although I suppose that technically I am just that), yet I knew all about foreign driver’s licenses in Georgia, microfilm, locks and phones.

And having a “fez” around has also made me face up to the absolutely unacceptable fact that I have become more of a southerner than I would like to admit. I’ve found myself wondering why she would say something a certain way, only to realize that I would have done or said the exact same thing a few years ago. It’s uncomfortable and enlightening at the same time, as I get to see, firsthand, how much I’ve (shudder) conformed. Suddenly I’m made aware of how ridiculously nice I am to everyone. It’s not just “thanks”, but “thank you so very much, wow!”. And how absurdly concerned I have become about not offending people.

And of course having a research assistant means that suddenly you have someone doing research for you. It’s amazing. After years of academic exploitation, I’m the one making the decisions about the sample, the coding instrument and all other research concerns. So today Dr. D. is very happy. And for those of you who have been wondering if Steve’s comments about the hallway are true; happy means I have been singing a mixture of Carole King songs and bad hip hop for every one to hear. Except you. Count your blessings.

Steve Speaks out

DixieChick is a wonderful accident. After earning an "arts van filosofie" in Social Science with a minor in "konijn-tonijn" studies, she joined the American military and moved to Georgia. It was by relocating to the American South that she ended up being hired, two years ago, at the same small university I was. I say accident because it's purely geography that allows her to be here – she's a fierce advocate for our school and our most outstanding contributor, but we frankly don't deserve her, and are too myopic to realize it, too. She and I set up a little campaign with a political action committee last year in order to ensure that the school would be smart enough to rehire her as tenure track and give her an exorbitant raise. Fortunately that worked, and now she's working on her tenure portfolio and wearing boots and short skirts on days when she meets with the promotion & tenure committee. We still don't appreciate/understand her, though, because she has the misfortune of knowing how things should be done, properly.

Our workplace is very old fashioned and traditional. This tends to rub DixieChick the wrong way. She is quick to explain that, "in Nederland," various things are done like this or like that. This is fun for me, as my job is to play devil's advocate and tell our precious Dutch transplant why she's wrong. Trouble is, she's very stubborn and sticks to what she knows to be right (a true conservative :P). Honestly, we agree on most everything important (we originally bonded over being cultural and political misfits in rural Georgia), but I can't resist in trying to convince her that:
· Her students' excuses are valid
· Her supervisors know what they're doing
· The humanities and social science approach are equally valid
· Whitey is always to blame
· She's being unreasonable
· One should work six days a week

No progress, yet, but I'll keep y'all posted. I'm not just picking on DixieChick for fun, though. She is really sui generis. As I'm sure you're aware, she commutes 3 hours a day in her little car. She's at work every morning before nearly anyone else in our building. I usually arrive a little later than the bulk of our neighbors, but even if I come in at 8 o'clock sharp, she's already there. I think she's there at 7am. Only a few times have I ever made it in before her, usually because something catastrophic has happened, like she hit a flock of geese on the highway, or had to run a 5k before she got ready to come to work. As a consequence of coming in so early, and from so far away, she does end up being the first person to leave the office each day. After I come back from a lunchtime meeting or session, I'll look around and wonder, "where is Dr. D?" Gone! But her commute and hours are far from being the strangest things about this perfectly accentless professor. She is wonderfully quirky, and gets very excited about small things. She was hopping up and down just the other day in my office, excited over received a shipment of Dutch candy. Having someone goofy (but "normal" in the ways that matter) at work to talk with about the funny and odd details of life keeps me sane. She is an entertaining coworker/friend/weird foreign person. One that faithfully gives me full updates on how many kilometers miles she ran/biked/swam (it makes me tired!). She likes to shout down the shared and reverberant hallway at no one in particular, not caring who hears her acting out Family Guy lines, cursing out her Senior Project students, or threatening to poison the departmental secretary. The great thing about DC's quirks, though, is that I can pick on her ad nausuem, to the point where it would annoy or insult most people, and she doesn't care. She even thinks it's funny sometimes. I've found that she has a very thick skin and an absurd sense of humor. Try as I might, I haven't been able to make her cry. Apparently only bureaucrats, immigration officials, and our IT staff have the ability to produce DixieChick tears.

Students fear her for her challenging courses, but they also realize she's a damn good teacher. She pours her heart into the classroom, and when she's not in the classroom, she's poring over her notes, examples, assignments, and teaching strategies. Next year, she'll be eligible for a teaching award…

So now you've gotten the "Steve" perspective on your favorite blogger. Everything you've read in Southern Tales is true. About every morning over coffee, DixieChick will shout through the paper-thin walls: "BLOG'S UP!"

Independent Woman

“All the women who’re independent, throw your panties at me”
A friend’s version of “Independent Women”

So, husband-dear was away for almost five days this weekend, visiting his grandmother in Indiana. Grandma B, by the way, seems to be “holding her own” to use another age-old euphemism. As Wednesday and the following days progressed, she seemed to actually be making small recoveries each day. It was an extreme relief for everyone in the family.

Anyway, you would think that, once the news came that Grandma B was doing better, I reveled in four days of husband-free me-time, and that I did things like take long baths, blog endlessly, rent girl movies, and drink lots of tea with friends. That’s what I thought I was going to do too. The operational word here is “think”, because what did I do during those four days? I cleaned. Yes, you read that right. I cleaned and scrubbed and scoured, and generally just wore myself out. In fact, I told my husband that had he stayed away for another few days, I would have probably put a good dent in our plans to paint our bedroom, our living room, and our office.

What happened, you may ask. Well, I’m not sure myself. I remember how in years gone by I used to spend those weekends husband-dear was away, playing war in some frost-covered field with all of his GI Joe buddies, or practicing his sandbagging-laying skills, or doing whatever else it is men in uniform do when they’re away from home, and it did not involve anything near a mop or a broom. I used to sleep late, dance around the house to the music only I liked, go out and watch very odd indy films, and manage to eat not one healthy meal the whole weekend. There have been many occasions when I would think back to those wonderful refreshing weekends, and wish for just one more so I could truly unwind. But this past weekend, it was just not the same.

For one thing, I was just plain busy. Instead of having the luxury of having husband-dear do our groceries while I clean up around the house, and on Saturdays having one of us run the kids to their music lesson while the other one takes Zoe to her class at PetSmart, and sharing responsibilities such as the laundry and cooking, I now had to juggle all those things by myself. That’s when you just stop enjoying the business of your weekend, and it becomes all about efficiency and “getting ‘r done”. I have to admit that there were some moments in the DixieChick household this weekend when there was not a whole lot of love going around. On the upside, I don't think Zoe will ever again have the courage to go through our pile of firewood, chew up half a log and then it into our house.

And funny enough, even though I love to gripe about life with a man from time to time (I mean, what is up with leaving socks everywhere?!), it was just no fun without husband-dear around. A painful confession for a semi-feminist who spent years living by herself and was fairly happy about it. I had a hard time thinking of things to do, especially in the evenings. Once you’re used to sharing most of the things you do, what fun is there in doing them by yourself? There was that, and of course the fact that this town I live in, is absolutely not set up for the single young urban professional. There are no independent film houses, no coffeeshops, not even a really good bookstore. So what is a women by herself, who has already gone to Walmart that day, to do? Go to Walmart again? Exactly. And hence the cleaning spree. Whenever I got antsy, I would find something else to clean. And judging by the fact that now even our garage is cobweb-free, I got antsy a lot. The love of my life was pondering if he had joined the army and would have had to go on those horrid 15-months deployments, I would actually resort to painting the outside of the house, or screening in the backporch, and I told him I probably would.

Fortunately, husband-dear returned on Sunday. It was wonderful. And I would love to tell you that it lasted for about a day, but it didn’t. I’m sorry. My days of semi-feminist weekends are apparently over.

When time stands still

"There's a personal phone call for you"
A co-worker was standing in the door of my classroom which was full of students taking notes and listening to my lecture on early philosophers. It's a moment you've planned for; you've given close family members the number to the department office in case there is ever an emergency and you're teaching and your co-workers know your schedule. It's a moment you dread and hope never happens. And it's a moment that somehow always sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

As I followed Steve down the hallway and up the stairs, he told me my mother-in-law was on the phone with the department office who had called him. Thoughts started racing through my head, was it my father-in-law? Or maybe his mother, who lives in an in-law home on their land? Or maybe I had forgotten to give the base my work number, and something had happened to husband-dear.
But it wasn't any of them. My mother-in-law told me her mother, grandma Barbara, as the kids know her, had had a stroke in her home in Indiana, and would probably not make it. Although grandma Barbara is in her eighties, it did not, and still does not seem right. We had even made plans to drive up and visit her this spring. It was probably not meant to be.
My mother-in-law told me that she and father-in-law, who live south of us, were going to drive up to Indiana via our house, where they would pick up husband-dear who would want to say goodbye to his grandmother. Of course. They would leave right away.
As I walked back down to my classroom, where I had told my students to stay put until I came back, I couldn't help but wonder about this weekend. We were going to drive down to my in-laws and celebrate our oldest's birthday there. He adored his grandma Barbara, and he loves to visit his grandparents. Funny how things can be turned upside down so quickly.
Then, as I stepped into my classroom, I decided I wasn't going to cancel class. What else could I do? Husband-dear would be at work until 5, my in-laws weren't arriving at our house until 6, and so the best thing for me to do would be to stick to what I know best: teach. And I did. With all of my heart. Life is too short to do things any other way.

Stenglish

Altho I love my students, st they drive me crazy to. There writing can be truely horrible, a combo bt college shorthand, txt msg lingo, and simple laziness. Oh w8, I frogot when their ina rush.

Although I have yet to receive a sentence as bad as the one I wrote above, it is a fact that a lot of the papers and assignments I receive are written as though the student has never met an English teacher in their life. I call their particular brand of English Stenglish, or Student English. Sentences run on and on and on and on, or stop in the middle of a thought. Paragraphs come and go without any logic, topic sentence, or apparent structure, sometimes leaving me to wonder if a student decided to insert a new paragraph when they did because it looked pretty. Students will use shorthand in serious research papers (“This is not an instance of hegemony bc of…”), forget to use proper punctuation (“There are two main views ritual and transmission”), sound just odd (“your first response is going to be come on be more picking”), or resort to very convoluted language (“Being that it may be that..”).

I realize that the complaint that “back in the day” students used to write better, work harder, and show more enthusiasm is as old as time itself. And I don’t necessarily believe that. My students are incredibly enthusiastic and some of them do try very hard, but at times they all just seem to suffer from proper-Englishitis.

Now I would love to argue that it’s content that matters, and not form, but I just can’t. I figure that just knowing about something isn’t enough; you need to know how to communicate about it too. And even in today’s multi-media environment, writing is still the main tool used for communication.

It’s easy to blame the Internet or cell phones for this development, but I’m not too sure about that. I text, blog, email, and use Facebook as much as my students, and yet I generally know where to put my commas. I’m not sure what’s going on. Some of my co-workers lament about the sorry state of the Georgia public school system. They argue that the No Child Left Behind Act has made schools dedicate more and more time to preparing their students for the annual standardized tests. Time they used to spend teaching students the art of writing. And maybe they’re right. I remember learning about the different forms of essay writing as early as 8^th grade. Yet last semester, when I talked to my Editorial and Critical Writing students about how the basic intro-body-conclusion outline of an essay applies to an editorial too, I got a whole class full of blank stares. And is it true that my students are absolutely wizzes when it comes to answering multiple choice questions.

Whatever the reason may be (and in all honesty, I don’t really care), I’m stuck with dozens of students who struggle to write flowing, grammatically correct, and properly punctuated prose. So last year I decided I could ignore this Stenglish (Student English) problem no more and broke out my old writing manuals. So now, next to comments about significance levels, myth development, and ethics, my students can now also find remarks such as “needs comma”, or “insert topic sentence” in the margins of their paper. Right. I think I definitely care too much.

Case of the Mondays

“Ooh..sounds like someboday has a bad case of the Mondays!”
Nina ~ Office Space

Some things just never change, regardless of where you live. Bad Mondays would be one of them. I knew it was going to be a bad day today when I woke up. The clue was the fact that I almost didn’t have the energy to do just that. I had spent half the night working as a flight attendant while the pilot elected to do loops during take-off, when thankfully my husband had to go to the bathroom and rescued me from a possible promotion into first class. The second half was spent looking for something in my purse, and then in my car, and in my desk at work, only to find that my fellow passengers (for once again I appeared to be on a plane) had taken the book I was looking for and would not give it back. So you understand why, after a night of serving coffee and attempting high levels of diplomacy, I did not wake rested and bouncy.

But rough nights happen to anyone, anywhere in the world. I’m sure you can all tell me about nights spent running marathons, trying to get the other side of the lake, talking to hamster, and hordes of other ornery activities. But there some things that are just very specific to my life right here in Georgia that only add to the frustration.

Having your husband call you from work at 6am, right before you are about to leave, for instance. I don’t know many people who can make that claim. Don’t misunderstand me, I love it when my husband calls, but when he calls right after getting to work, something is wrong. And indeed, for husband-dear had lost classified (think something very very small) and wanted me to go through all the pockets of his workpants to see if I could find it. Now I’m sure you’re all familiar with some variant of that routine, so you know the tiny amount of frustration I was experiencing as I’m rushing around the house getting things ready and trying to find out what husband-dear needs. While he is trying to tell me what to do, the clock on base strikes six, which means the national anthem is played as reveille, and he has to stop what he’s doing and stand at attention. Anyone? Ever? Now I’m cool with most base routines, but in this case, this one means I’m stuck at the other end, wishing for the goshdang anthem to hurry up so I can hear what the love of my life would like me to do so I can hurry up and get back into our routine here at the house.
Once we have come to the conclusion that classified a.k.a small annoying thing is not to be found anywhere at the house, I get to leave. I’ve got my laptop, my bookbag, my purse, my lunchbag, my hot tea, and NPR, so just maybe I can still salvage this morning. Wrong again. This time it was my fault; I had put too much milk in my tea. Usually this is no big deal at all, but when you can’t start drinking it until about 45 minutes into your drive, lest you start to get that infamous urge before you get to your destination, the amount of milk can make the difference between a lovely cup of warm tea or cold brown yucky stuff. This morning it was the latter. And because I live, and work, in the boonies, there are no Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, or anything drive-thrus which might serve a splash of caffeine to the driver in a rush anywhere on my 90-mile commute. My only options are various trucker stops, and I think I’ll pass on that experience. In short, I had no caffeine before I came to work.

And at work some people seemed to be vying for the “most annoying” award (No Steve, not you). We had a phone line put in that didn’t work, another new phone line whose number we don’t know, a plagiarism case that just won’t get resolved, a bunch of forms that should have been filled out last year and nobody told us about until today, and oh yeah, they don’t come with an extension, and, to top it all off, someone literally said; “Well, mistakes are made, and this is just one of them, so there is nothing we can about it”. Thank goodness the students were just amazing today though. I think they secretly figured out that crossing Dr. R. today meant a sudden death, so they kept it quiet.

Fortunately, the solutions to bad Mondays are universal. You go home on time, sit down, have some tea, cookies, ice cream, and run a nice hot bath. And that’s just what I’m going to do. Like Annie said, the sun will come out tomorrow!