So I went to my second Dutch ladies club meeting last Monday. I was really looking forward to speaking Dutch again, you know, in full sentences that contain words longer than two syllables, and which are not interrupted by questions about tenses and participles. But it was not meant to be. Instead of only Dutch women, this time, two American ladies joined our ranks. One of them had lived in the Netherlands for a while, and spoke a little Dutch, but the other one spoke no Dutch at all, and was there by virtue of her mother, who is Dutch.
Now before I carry on about this meeting, please allow me to insert a little caveat. In case this blog will make you doubt, allow me to reiterate once more that I really like Americans. Not only did I marry one, and am I raising two of them, but I love all of my American friends, students, co-workers, and neighbors. Love them as much as all of my students, co-workers, neighbors, and friends from countries not lucky enough to be the US of A.
But, and I am very serious about this, if you are not Dutch, and you are going to a Dutch ladies club meeting, you had better speak Dutch. If you can't, or you won't, then you need to be quiet and listen. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is. I get one chance every month to speak Dutch to someone face to face, and I happen to truly enjoy those few hours.
And here's what you don't do. You don't pick up on a few words, start telling a whole story in English, and then request that people respond in English because you don't understand Dutch well enough. Especially not at a Dutch ladies club meeting in the south, because you well know that all those Dutch ladies will have integrated into the southern culture enough to deem interrupting you, or heaven forbid, speak Dutch around you, extremely rude.
Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened. So I spent over two hours talking to women I still don't know very well, in English, about topics that just were not that intersting. For me, there's something about talking in Dutch that makes it almost unimportant what the conversation is about. I mean, I love calling the Dutch consulate for instance, just because I get to talk in Nederlands. So the meeting was not just a waste of time, it was a actually a little bit of a disappointment. I wanted to relate to women in my own language, experience the cultural bond that comes from sharing similar expressions and phrases. But it was not meant to be.
As a result, I've been wanting to blog about the little nothings that make up my life, in Dutch, for days. Because I wasn't able to talk about them on Monday. But I realize that a) that would be very boring, and b) that would not be fair to my English reader.
But still. Ik vind het maar niks. En ik hoop stiekem dat die twee vrouwen de volgende keer niet kunnen. Als ik namelijk ongemakkelijk gesprekken over niks met relatieve vreemden wil houden dan hoef ik echt niet helemaal naar een Nederlandse club, dat kan met onze overburen ook wel. Dus ben je een Nederlander, woon je in de VS, en heb je behoefte om mijn geklets over mijn leven in het Nederlands aan te horen, doe effe een belletje. Dat vind ik namelijk gezellig.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
10 things....
... you never thought you would say
Back when I was an angsty teenager and knew just about everything, or at least thought that I did, I remember listening to my parents, and all other adults, and thinking that I would do things completely differently. I would dress differently, I would have different hobbies, and I would never ever repeat some of the things they said to me. Well, I was right on two out of three counts. I do dress differently from my mother, although that can mainly be blamed on the fact that the 1980s really are over. I also don't have the same hobbies as my mother or father do; I don't play tennis, don' t play bridge, and shopping for clothes is not really my thing. But when it comes to never saying the things my parents used to say to me, well, I was very wrong. In fact, ever since I started moving to weird places in different countries, I have accrued a whole slew of unusual expressions, from the banal to the funny, to the downright weird. And for your merriment, and mine, here is my top ten. Feel free to add your own:
10. Hey! Hey! The air! Close the door!
No, we do not have a shortage of air in Georgia, air is just the term used to refer to air conditioning (and not "airco" as the Dutch like to call it). It's the most expensive utility bill here in the south, and so we're very frugal about it.
9. No, you may not bring logs / boxes/ dirty wet toys / chewed up plants into the house
What can I say? We own a dog. The dog loves to mess with just about everything. But it's really funny when you find yourself saying that to a little puppy at 5:30 in the morning, and your husband overhears you and has no clue who you're talking to, "What did the kids do now?"
8. Can you please sit on your hiney, put your knee down, sit up straight and not shovel your food into your mouth like a caveman?
My parents raised me as though it was still the 19th century. We had to sit up straight, hold our silverware right, chew with our mouth closed, take small bites, and goodness knows whatever else. I used to think it was a load of nonsense, really. Of course, several decades down the line, I'm very grateful for this Ms. Manners approach, and am now applying it to my own somewhat reluctant boys. We've nicknamed it "SAB" (socially acceptable behavior), and when we're out, and they're once again attempting a sword fight with their knives, or leaning their face almost into their plates, all we have to do is hiss "Sab!" and they get it. Never thought I would hiss, either.
7. If you do that one more time, I will take your allowance away
I used to hate it, but you know what? It works. Every time.
6. Why do you always have to drag the whole backyard into the house after you're done mowing/ pruning/ trimming/ playing with Zoe / having a waterballoon fight / messing around in the pool
In my mother's case, it was the soccer field, or the hockey field, or the tennis court. However, the exasperation with which I say it now has not changed. And you know what? She was right, cause gosh dangit, some days I feel as though all I do is sweep and mop, sweep and mop, only to find that one of my little darlings, and that includes husband-dear has managed to get more clay, sand, and dirt on our floor the moment I put the mop away.
5. Have you brushed your teeth / flossed/ combed your hair/ put clean socks on? Why not? Actually, never mind, just go do it. Now. Yes. Now. (usually followed by a variation of # 7)
Personal hygene and boys. I rest my case.
4. I've seen two roaches in our kitchen in the past week, but they're the big kind, so I don't think we have to call the pest guy
The word "pest guy" in the Netherlands always had me think of disgusting restaurants filled with mice and vermin and run-down tenements filled with homeless squatters and stray animals. I'm pretty sure that seeing just one cockroach put a feeler on our front stoop would have been enough to send me teetering on the brink of hysteria. Yet now, roaches are a fact of life; the big ones live around the house, and every once in a while, after I've had to kill a few that were a little too near the kitchen door, I'll get my knickers in a twist, and spray some Bengal around the back and front porch.
3. When you go to VBS, can you stop by the E-club and get pool passes? Yes, that's the one across from the NCO academy. I need to go TLF to drop something off for (insert random name) who is PCSing, and I will meet you at the BX at four.
Ah yes, military alphabet soup.
2. My next car simply has to have more cupholders, one of those stalks on the steering wheel that controls your radio, electronic seats, an armrest, and XM radio
I was the girl who drove the oldest car on the block, and did not care. I actually took pride in owning a beat up Suzuki without power steering, air conditioning, a radio, or proper seatbelts in the back. When we bought my current car, I got the simplest model, assuming I would be fine. Alas, commuting 180 miles almost every day made me change my mind on that one. My car is my home, and I am ready for an upgrade!
1. Y'all have a nice day now!
Yes, I say that. For real.
Back when I was an angsty teenager and knew just about everything, or at least thought that I did, I remember listening to my parents, and all other adults, and thinking that I would do things completely differently. I would dress differently, I would have different hobbies, and I would never ever repeat some of the things they said to me. Well, I was right on two out of three counts. I do dress differently from my mother, although that can mainly be blamed on the fact that the 1980s really are over. I also don't have the same hobbies as my mother or father do; I don't play tennis, don' t play bridge, and shopping for clothes is not really my thing. But when it comes to never saying the things my parents used to say to me, well, I was very wrong. In fact, ever since I started moving to weird places in different countries, I have accrued a whole slew of unusual expressions, from the banal to the funny, to the downright weird. And for your merriment, and mine, here is my top ten. Feel free to add your own:
10. Hey! Hey! The air! Close the door!
No, we do not have a shortage of air in Georgia, air is just the term used to refer to air conditioning (and not "airco" as the Dutch like to call it). It's the most expensive utility bill here in the south, and so we're very frugal about it.
9. No, you may not bring logs / boxes/ dirty wet toys / chewed up plants into the house
What can I say? We own a dog. The dog loves to mess with just about everything. But it's really funny when you find yourself saying that to a little puppy at 5:30 in the morning, and your husband overhears you and has no clue who you're talking to, "What did the kids do now?"
8. Can you please sit on your hiney, put your knee down, sit up straight and not shovel your food into your mouth like a caveman?
My parents raised me as though it was still the 19th century. We had to sit up straight, hold our silverware right, chew with our mouth closed, take small bites, and goodness knows whatever else. I used to think it was a load of nonsense, really. Of course, several decades down the line, I'm very grateful for this Ms. Manners approach, and am now applying it to my own somewhat reluctant boys. We've nicknamed it "SAB" (socially acceptable behavior), and when we're out, and they're once again attempting a sword fight with their knives, or leaning their face almost into their plates, all we have to do is hiss "Sab!" and they get it. Never thought I would hiss, either.
7. If you do that one more time, I will take your allowance away
I used to hate it, but you know what? It works. Every time.
6. Why do you always have to drag the whole backyard into the house after you're done mowing/ pruning/ trimming/ playing with Zoe / having a waterballoon fight / messing around in the pool
In my mother's case, it was the soccer field, or the hockey field, or the tennis court. However, the exasperation with which I say it now has not changed. And you know what? She was right, cause gosh dangit, some days I feel as though all I do is sweep and mop, sweep and mop, only to find that one of my little darlings, and that includes husband-dear has managed to get more clay, sand, and dirt on our floor the moment I put the mop away.
5. Have you brushed your teeth / flossed/ combed your hair/ put clean socks on? Why not? Actually, never mind, just go do it. Now. Yes. Now. (usually followed by a variation of # 7)
Personal hygene and boys. I rest my case.
4. I've seen two roaches in our kitchen in the past week, but they're the big kind, so I don't think we have to call the pest guy
The word "pest guy" in the Netherlands always had me think of disgusting restaurants filled with mice and vermin and run-down tenements filled with homeless squatters and stray animals. I'm pretty sure that seeing just one cockroach put a feeler on our front stoop would have been enough to send me teetering on the brink of hysteria. Yet now, roaches are a fact of life; the big ones live around the house, and every once in a while, after I've had to kill a few that were a little too near the kitchen door, I'll get my knickers in a twist, and spray some Bengal around the back and front porch.
3. When you go to VBS, can you stop by the E-club and get pool passes? Yes, that's the one across from the NCO academy. I need to go TLF to drop something off for (insert random name) who is PCSing, and I will meet you at the BX at four.
Ah yes, military alphabet soup.
2. My next car simply has to have more cupholders, one of those stalks on the steering wheel that controls your radio, electronic seats, an armrest, and XM radio
I was the girl who drove the oldest car on the block, and did not care. I actually took pride in owning a beat up Suzuki without power steering, air conditioning, a radio, or proper seatbelts in the back. When we bought my current car, I got the simplest model, assuming I would be fine. Alas, commuting 180 miles almost every day made me change my mind on that one. My car is my home, and I am ready for an upgrade!
1. Y'all have a nice day now!
Yes, I say that. For real.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Klei
"Die is uit de klei getrokken". Dat zeiden mijn ouders vroeger altijd over bepaalde mensen. Ondertussen weet ik allang niet meer wat deze uitdrukking betekent, maar ik denk er de laatste twee jaar maar al te vaak aan. Hier in Georgia hebben we misschien geen echte Hollands klei, dat het trotse resultaat is van een eeuwenlang gevecht met water, maar wat we hier hebben is denk ik wel honderdtachtig keer zo vervelend als zijn stoere Nederlandse broertje.
Allereerst, het is rood. Niet bruin. Niet een of andere onbestemmige modderkleur. En niet grijs. Nee, onze klei hier is rood. Knalrood. Het deed mij op het eerste gezicht denken aan het rode zand dat je ook wel in landen zoals Portugal ziet. Echt een kleur waar ze bij de tennisvelden van Roland Garros nog een puntje aan zouden kunnen zuigen. Nu zou de kleur op zich niet zo'n probleem zijn, ware het niet dat de klei hier het meeste weg heeft van kleuterlijm. Weet je wel, van die witte, stevige lijm, die je alleen met veel gepruts uit zo'n glazen pot krijgt, en waarvoor je een kwast nodig hebt om het ergens op aan te brengen. Daar lijkt onze knalrode klei op.
En daarnaast is het niet zoals in Nederland, waar de aanwezigheid van klei beperkt is tot een enkel weiland. Nee hoor, hier in Georgia zit deze knalrode lijmklei overal onder. Je hoeft maar even te graven in je tuin, en voila, rode klei.
Nu heb ik in principe niks tegen de elementen. Maar wel als deze bijna onuitwisbaar onderdeel uit gaan maken van je huis: je vloer, je meubilair, en zelfs je muren. Ik hoef denk ik niet op de details in te gaan; we hebben een hond, twee kinderen, een veranda met een witte vloer, een keuken met een veel te lichte vloer, we hebben net een mini-zwembadje, manlief is begonnen met sproeien, en het is zomer. Kortom: het is een groot feest van rode vegen, rode klodders, en rode pootafdrukken bij ons in en om het huis. Ik word er werkelijk gek van. En niet omdat mijn huis vies wordt, want ach, met ons gezin wordt het dat toch wel, nee, omdat als je die klei niet onmiddelijk verwijderd, het opdroogt, en er dan minstens een schuurpons, een sopje, en heel veel "elbow grease" aan te pas moet komen.
Dus deze week heb ik eens indringend met manlief gesproken. Want hij is een man, en dus ziet hij dat soort dingen niet. Verder is hij ideaal hoor, maar een pootafdruk meer of minder op ons kleed, daar zal hij niet wakker van liggen. En ik wel. Of nou ja, een beetje dan. En dus, omdat ik degene ben die met steeds vaker voorkomende regelmaat aan het boenen is, heb ik het eens aangekaart. En we zijn het over het volgende eens geworden (nou ja, ik heb het voorgesteld, en manlief heeft ja geknikt). Allereerst komt er, mits alles gaat zoals het er nu uitziet, een cleaning service. Noem me decadent, maar ik ben het beu om mijn kostbare vrije tijd te besteden aan het schoonhouden van mijn huis. Misschien maar voor eens in de twee weken, maar ik zie er nu al naar uit. En ten tweede wordt het grote project voor volgende zomer het vervangen van de vloer van de veranda. Voordat iedereen nou denkt dat wij wel heel hard van stapel lopen, en dat alleen maar om een beetje klei, we waren de wit betonnen vloer van de veranda al stiekem een beetje zat hoor; het wordt veel te snel vies, en als het een beetje nat is, breek je je nek van de gladheid. En nu hebben we gewoon een beter excuus om mooie robuste tegels te laten leggen. Of zoiets. Dus.
Ik kijk er nu al naar uit! En dat allemaal dankzij een beetje klei. Hebben we maar weer mooi geregeld!
Allereerst, het is rood. Niet bruin. Niet een of andere onbestemmige modderkleur. En niet grijs. Nee, onze klei hier is rood. Knalrood. Het deed mij op het eerste gezicht denken aan het rode zand dat je ook wel in landen zoals Portugal ziet. Echt een kleur waar ze bij de tennisvelden van Roland Garros nog een puntje aan zouden kunnen zuigen. Nu zou de kleur op zich niet zo'n probleem zijn, ware het niet dat de klei hier het meeste weg heeft van kleuterlijm. Weet je wel, van die witte, stevige lijm, die je alleen met veel gepruts uit zo'n glazen pot krijgt, en waarvoor je een kwast nodig hebt om het ergens op aan te brengen. Daar lijkt onze knalrode klei op.
En daarnaast is het niet zoals in Nederland, waar de aanwezigheid van klei beperkt is tot een enkel weiland. Nee hoor, hier in Georgia zit deze knalrode lijmklei overal onder. Je hoeft maar even te graven in je tuin, en voila, rode klei.
Nu heb ik in principe niks tegen de elementen. Maar wel als deze bijna onuitwisbaar onderdeel uit gaan maken van je huis: je vloer, je meubilair, en zelfs je muren. Ik hoef denk ik niet op de details in te gaan; we hebben een hond, twee kinderen, een veranda met een witte vloer, een keuken met een veel te lichte vloer, we hebben net een mini-zwembadje, manlief is begonnen met sproeien, en het is zomer. Kortom: het is een groot feest van rode vegen, rode klodders, en rode pootafdrukken bij ons in en om het huis. Ik word er werkelijk gek van. En niet omdat mijn huis vies wordt, want ach, met ons gezin wordt het dat toch wel, nee, omdat als je die klei niet onmiddelijk verwijderd, het opdroogt, en er dan minstens een schuurpons, een sopje, en heel veel "elbow grease" aan te pas moet komen.
Dus deze week heb ik eens indringend met manlief gesproken. Want hij is een man, en dus ziet hij dat soort dingen niet. Verder is hij ideaal hoor, maar een pootafdruk meer of minder op ons kleed, daar zal hij niet wakker van liggen. En ik wel. Of nou ja, een beetje dan. En dus, omdat ik degene ben die met steeds vaker voorkomende regelmaat aan het boenen is, heb ik het eens aangekaart. En we zijn het over het volgende eens geworden (nou ja, ik heb het voorgesteld, en manlief heeft ja geknikt). Allereerst komt er, mits alles gaat zoals het er nu uitziet, een cleaning service. Noem me decadent, maar ik ben het beu om mijn kostbare vrije tijd te besteden aan het schoonhouden van mijn huis. Misschien maar voor eens in de twee weken, maar ik zie er nu al naar uit. En ten tweede wordt het grote project voor volgende zomer het vervangen van de vloer van de veranda. Voordat iedereen nou denkt dat wij wel heel hard van stapel lopen, en dat alleen maar om een beetje klei, we waren de wit betonnen vloer van de veranda al stiekem een beetje zat hoor; het wordt veel te snel vies, en als het een beetje nat is, breek je je nek van de gladheid. En nu hebben we gewoon een beter excuus om mooie robuste tegels te laten leggen. Of zoiets. Dus.
Ik kijk er nu al naar uit! En dat allemaal dankzij een beetje klei. Hebben we maar weer mooi geregeld!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Horizontally challenged
Let's just get this straight once and for all. For all you non-Americans, half-Americans or wannabe-Americans, Americans are not fat. They are not. There. Let's just bury that prejudice once and for all. Or at least after I'm done blogging about it.
I can't begin to tell you how often I hear someone tell me that "Americans are fat", "Americans eat too much", "Obesity is a typical American disease", and how frustrating it is to never really have a good reply. Especially since these things are often said to me by foreign visitors right after they witness a 400 pond American whizz by at the local grocery store, squeezed into one of those electrical shopping carts with far too much flesh hanging over either side of the seat. But I've had some time to think about it, and you're about to read the response I have come up with. Good luck.
First, please let's not generalize. Husband-dear is an American. And he is the type of man who, besides not being a pound overweight, can probably outrun half of you lazy foreigners, and says things like, "Since we have nothing planned tomorrow, how about we do some serious tri-training and do a 20 mile bike ride followed by a 5 mile run?". Kay and Shelly are both American, and they are my only triathlete friends. Summer, another true red-white-and-blue friend looks pretty hot in a bikini, and I can think of countless Americans or half-Americans who spent a lot of their free time exercising and eating well. On top of that, I have never lived in a place where there are so many races, triathlons, and fun runs, all of which are so popular. So don't assume all Americans simply love to sit around and eat. They don't.
Second, and I hate to do this, but it's not as though Dutch people are all that skinny either. The last time I went back to Holland, I was surprised at the amount of big people in that little country. I remembered Dutch people as being a lot more athletic anyway. I can't ever find pants there that won't fall off my behind, and I can't say that they have as many athletic events to chose from as I do here in my little corner of Georgia. I remember having to struggle to find one 5k and one 10k run in my area, while down here, in our little podunk town, there are various 5k runs, several 10k races, two half-marathons, a marathons, and two triathlons from which one can chose. And that's not even counting all the road races, the XTerra races, the mountainbiking, the skeetshooting competitions, and the Texas Hold 'Em tournaments. Although I'm not sure if the latter two count as an athletic activities per se.
And finally, the comparison is just not fair. I mean, come on people, in Holland you get to ride your bike everywhere. I remember riding my bike up a 3 mile hill every day just to get to work, loading a week's worth of groceries on my bike and not blinking twice about getting on, and riding in the rain, snow, hail, sleet, and high winds. So it's fair to say that you people pretty much have exercise built into your daily routine. Living in a town where a) there are no bicycle lanes, b) people don't really look out their windows when they're driving, c) everything is at least ten miles apart, and d) it's over a 100F for about four months out of the year, biking is not really an option.
And then, and this is really true; American food is just nothing like Dutch food. Have you ever been hungry and driven past any restaurant that serves fried food? I bet it made you want to jump out of your car (or off your bike) and get some. Well, now imagine living in a part of the world where fried food is not only a staple and considered acceptable for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but where it's just about everywhere. Just for the sake of this blog, I did a little survey the other day, and we have three restaurants that serve fried food within three miles of our house. The nearest grocery store is five miles away, just for comparison's sake. I'm pretty sure that not a lot of Dutch people can say that. So here we have a people who a) don't have exercise built into their daily activities, and c) are surrounding by tantalizingly unhealthy food. I mean, seriously people, if Americans are just a hint bigger than Dutch people, they deserve some slack.
I think I have made my point. And any foreign guest who, during future visits, comments on the size of "the American" will be forced to sign up for the next available triathlon with me.
I can't begin to tell you how often I hear someone tell me that "Americans are fat", "Americans eat too much", "Obesity is a typical American disease", and how frustrating it is to never really have a good reply. Especially since these things are often said to me by foreign visitors right after they witness a 400 pond American whizz by at the local grocery store, squeezed into one of those electrical shopping carts with far too much flesh hanging over either side of the seat. But I've had some time to think about it, and you're about to read the response I have come up with. Good luck.
First, please let's not generalize. Husband-dear is an American. And he is the type of man who, besides not being a pound overweight, can probably outrun half of you lazy foreigners, and says things like, "Since we have nothing planned tomorrow, how about we do some serious tri-training and do a 20 mile bike ride followed by a 5 mile run?". Kay and Shelly are both American, and they are my only triathlete friends. Summer, another true red-white-and-blue friend looks pretty hot in a bikini, and I can think of countless Americans or half-Americans who spent a lot of their free time exercising and eating well. On top of that, I have never lived in a place where there are so many races, triathlons, and fun runs, all of which are so popular. So don't assume all Americans simply love to sit around and eat. They don't.
Second, and I hate to do this, but it's not as though Dutch people are all that skinny either. The last time I went back to Holland, I was surprised at the amount of big people in that little country. I remembered Dutch people as being a lot more athletic anyway. I can't ever find pants there that won't fall off my behind, and I can't say that they have as many athletic events to chose from as I do here in my little corner of Georgia. I remember having to struggle to find one 5k and one 10k run in my area, while down here, in our little podunk town, there are various 5k runs, several 10k races, two half-marathons, a marathons, and two triathlons from which one can chose. And that's not even counting all the road races, the XTerra races, the mountainbiking, the skeetshooting competitions, and the Texas Hold 'Em tournaments. Although I'm not sure if the latter two count as an athletic activities per se.
And finally, the comparison is just not fair. I mean, come on people, in Holland you get to ride your bike everywhere. I remember riding my bike up a 3 mile hill every day just to get to work, loading a week's worth of groceries on my bike and not blinking twice about getting on, and riding in the rain, snow, hail, sleet, and high winds. So it's fair to say that you people pretty much have exercise built into your daily routine. Living in a town where a) there are no bicycle lanes, b) people don't really look out their windows when they're driving, c) everything is at least ten miles apart, and d) it's over a 100F for about four months out of the year, biking is not really an option.
And then, and this is really true; American food is just nothing like Dutch food. Have you ever been hungry and driven past any restaurant that serves fried food? I bet it made you want to jump out of your car (or off your bike) and get some. Well, now imagine living in a part of the world where fried food is not only a staple and considered acceptable for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but where it's just about everywhere. Just for the sake of this blog, I did a little survey the other day, and we have three restaurants that serve fried food within three miles of our house. The nearest grocery store is five miles away, just for comparison's sake. I'm pretty sure that not a lot of Dutch people can say that. So here we have a people who a) don't have exercise built into their daily activities, and c) are surrounding by tantalizingly unhealthy food. I mean, seriously people, if Americans are just a hint bigger than Dutch people, they deserve some slack.
I think I have made my point. And any foreign guest who, during future visits, comments on the size of "the American" will be forced to sign up for the next available triathlon with me.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Procrastination
- Procrastination
- Pronunciation:
- \prə-ˈkras-tə-ˌnāt, prō-\
- Function:
- verb
I am not a procrastinator. Never have been. In fact, if there is a reward for being on time all the time, I would win it with my eyes closed. Several years at a Montessori elementary school took care of that. I mean, there is no way you can complete 40 fractions assignments, 40 math assignments, 20 grammar assignments, 30 writing assignments, and goodness how many other writing, history, geography, and foreign language assignments in the last two weeks of school. You have to learn to plan or you will drown at that type of school. So when I was ten, I knew how long to the minute it would take me to complete twenty math problems, I knew how much time I need to schedule to do my research for the next history project, I knew how to write an outline, and I was, in general, just a pretty big freak. But a freak that probably had more planning and time management skills than many of my students do at the age of twenty-four. But I'm not going to complain about my students. Not today anyway. No, my students are doing great. They all completed their second online module on time, and are now busy chipping away at the third module. The problem, this time, is me.
You see, even though I claim to not be a procrastinator, I just cannot seem to get through grading all of my students' assignments. I was going to have two lessons completely graded by the end of the day, and you'll be very disappointed to know that I have barely made it through one. In fact, I've spent all day doing everything but grading their work. You will all be happy to know that I am now up to date on every single blog in my list (Bibi: cool beds! Petra: Congrats on the race! Annemiek: The BBQ sounds great! Cisca: It is truly the end of an era, Elmosplace: more music fragments!, Fb+: I need a new post dude!, Tink: I love bookstores like that!, and since I could go on in this vein for about two more paragraphs, I will just end by saying that I really feel updated on all of my online buddies' lives). I've also made my presence known on several fora, sent countless pointless emails to overworked coworkers, and am completely updated on the news. But I still have not finished graded all of the assignments for module 2.
Now, in all honesty, the numbers here are a little daunting. Please allow me to do the math for you. My online class consists of four modules. Module 2 was due last Friday, and consisted of seven lessons. Each lesson included one written assignment, and one discussion assignment. I have sixteen students. That means that I have seven times two times sixteen equals two hundred and twenty-four assignments to read and grade. And after the first three students have told me that "we are under they're control of what we are allowed to see in the media", I am not only done, I am ready for a drink. In my newly purchased inflatable floating chair in our newly set up pool.
See, and there is distraction numero dos: we now really do have a pool. It's inflatable, and not quite the oval in-ground pool with hot tub that I have been dreaming of, but it's close. It's round, about sixteen feet in diameter, and 42 inches high. It's taken the better part of the day to fill, but it is now honestly, truly, completely done. We are still waiting on our saltwater pump, but as far as I'm concerned, that's a minor detail. But you understand that I had to go outside at least twice every hour to check on the water level, skim any bugs off the surface, and make sure the filter was operational. I've put the pool ladder together, and measured the water temperature twice.
But in the meantime, my assignments are waiting. At the moment I'm working on an "internal procrastinator" theory. It claims that everyone is a procrastinator at heart. But some people, in fact, most of us, get this all out when we're in school, and then turn into responsible, deadline-minded adults. Because I suppressed it all through school, maybe my internal procrastinator has simply been waiting for a moment like this one to come out and make my life impossible. Great!
Hang on, I think Zoe is whining and needs a walk. Yay!
Friday, June 5, 2009
Swimming lessons
As I'm typing this, thunder and lighting is raging around the house. Again. The dog is cowering and whimpering. Again. It's pouring down rain so hard we can barely hear each other speak. Again. It's been raining on and off for about four weeks now, and so all of this is very familiar. But what's scary is that during the past two days, things really seem to have taken a turn for the worse. The ditches on the sides of the roads have started to flood, the sewers decided they didn't want to stay behind either, and we have a little river running down our yard on the side of the house. Coincidentally, our kids started their second set of swimming lessons two days ago as well. Now I'm not saying these two are connected, but it is very suspicious that neither one of them wanted to go, and so far, all of their lessons have been canceled because of the rain.
Today actually started off pretty well. It was cloudy, but the little cherubs were actually able to make it into the outdoor pool for the first time without rain or thunder. The instructors actually got to hand out kickboards, and issue their first instructions when we all heard the first mild rumble of thunder. Base weather guidelines dictate that all pool activities have to be halted when thunder is heard within five miles, and although I'm not sure how lifeguards can hear the difference between thunder at say seven miles and four miles, they ushered all the kids out of the pool anyway. At first, husband-dear and I were slightly peeved, for lack of a better term. We grumbled that a little thunder on the other side of town never killed anyone, and that at this rate our kids would always look like little puppies in the pool; cute, but not very efficient. Our grumbling came to a quick halt, though, when the skies opened in true Georgia style, and the rain came pouring down on everything. Our car was parked as close to the pool as possible, and yet we were all soaked by the time we made it into the truck.
Now, at first we all thought it was funny. Sure, it was raining, again, but husband-dear and I had gotten our bike ride in earlier, and we figured that with any luck, we might even be able to set the pool up and let the rain fill it up at least half of the 4000 gallons the pool requires. The kids seem to embrace rain as an opportunity to huddle on the couch together and eat popcorn, so none of us thought of the rain as necessarily a bad thing. Until we got closer to our house, and realized how bad this downpour actually was. At one point, we couldn't see out the windows for the water that was splashing up from the road. When a thick current of water coming down a hill almost pushed us into a ditch, the fun was very clearly over. And the worst part came when we turned into our neighborhood and noticed that the water in the frontyards of three homes had gotten so high, it was flooding into people's houses.
It's ironic, really. When we first saw our house, husband-dear jokingly proclaimed this house would never work because the small hill that the house was built on meant he could not play basketball on the driveway. After his ever-practical wife pointed out that a) he never played basketball, and b) the house was perfect otherwise, husband-dear relented. But still, having a house situated on a little hill is not very practical. Balls will roll down the driveway into the street, and as we know kids and dogs will follow balls regardless of where they roll, not all of my friends like parking on a hill, and unloading can be a pain. But let me tell you something; as of today, I love our hill. True, the bottom of the driveway is a whirlpool of rain, ditchwater, and whatever pours out of the sewers, but at least we know that unless the rules of the universe are somehow reversed and gravity ceases to exist, it will all stay there, and not come near our front door. Cause dang it, call me selfish, but we just spend a heap of money on new wooden floors, and I will seriously pitch a fit if anything happens to those babies. So thank heavens for out hill.
But with all that said, I say it's high time the rain stops. I did not move to Georgia for the rain. Not that I moved to Georgia for any reason other than husband-dear's job, but that's beside the point. Holland equals rain. Georgia does not. Enough already! We have plants that do great without rain, our grass is made for the heat and sun, and I'm running out of dry shoes. So let's all please help out Dixiechick and do a little sundance around our keyboards.
Thank you.
Today actually started off pretty well. It was cloudy, but the little cherubs were actually able to make it into the outdoor pool for the first time without rain or thunder. The instructors actually got to hand out kickboards, and issue their first instructions when we all heard the first mild rumble of thunder. Base weather guidelines dictate that all pool activities have to be halted when thunder is heard within five miles, and although I'm not sure how lifeguards can hear the difference between thunder at say seven miles and four miles, they ushered all the kids out of the pool anyway. At first, husband-dear and I were slightly peeved, for lack of a better term. We grumbled that a little thunder on the other side of town never killed anyone, and that at this rate our kids would always look like little puppies in the pool; cute, but not very efficient. Our grumbling came to a quick halt, though, when the skies opened in true Georgia style, and the rain came pouring down on everything. Our car was parked as close to the pool as possible, and yet we were all soaked by the time we made it into the truck.
Now, at first we all thought it was funny. Sure, it was raining, again, but husband-dear and I had gotten our bike ride in earlier, and we figured that with any luck, we might even be able to set the pool up and let the rain fill it up at least half of the 4000 gallons the pool requires. The kids seem to embrace rain as an opportunity to huddle on the couch together and eat popcorn, so none of us thought of the rain as necessarily a bad thing. Until we got closer to our house, and realized how bad this downpour actually was. At one point, we couldn't see out the windows for the water that was splashing up from the road. When a thick current of water coming down a hill almost pushed us into a ditch, the fun was very clearly over. And the worst part came when we turned into our neighborhood and noticed that the water in the frontyards of three homes had gotten so high, it was flooding into people's houses.
It's ironic, really. When we first saw our house, husband-dear jokingly proclaimed this house would never work because the small hill that the house was built on meant he could not play basketball on the driveway. After his ever-practical wife pointed out that a) he never played basketball, and b) the house was perfect otherwise, husband-dear relented. But still, having a house situated on a little hill is not very practical. Balls will roll down the driveway into the street, and as we know kids and dogs will follow balls regardless of where they roll, not all of my friends like parking on a hill, and unloading can be a pain. But let me tell you something; as of today, I love our hill. True, the bottom of the driveway is a whirlpool of rain, ditchwater, and whatever pours out of the sewers, but at least we know that unless the rules of the universe are somehow reversed and gravity ceases to exist, it will all stay there, and not come near our front door. Cause dang it, call me selfish, but we just spend a heap of money on new wooden floors, and I will seriously pitch a fit if anything happens to those babies. So thank heavens for out hill.
But with all that said, I say it's high time the rain stops. I did not move to Georgia for the rain. Not that I moved to Georgia for any reason other than husband-dear's job, but that's beside the point. Holland equals rain. Georgia does not. Enough already! We have plants that do great without rain, our grass is made for the heat and sun, and I'm running out of dry shoes. So let's all please help out Dixiechick and do a little sundance around our keyboards.
Thank you.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Hoog tijd
Het is weer eens hoog tijd voor een blog. Ik voel het kriebelen in mijn vingers, en elke keer als ik iets af heb, dan denk ik, maar ik moest nog iets, wat was dat ook al weer? Mijn blog dus. Het probleem is alleen dat ik niet zo heel veel te vertellen heb deze keer. Ik ben denk ik nog steeds een beetje high van mijn triathlon van afgelopen weekend. Ik kan aan niks anders meer denken dan dat ik nog een triathlon moet doen. Het liefst volgend weekend al. Alleen is die al vol. En ja, er is er echt een, en ja die is echt vol, en ja, ik heb echt gekeken. Volgens mij ben ik gewoon verslaafd. Als u hoort dat ik me gisteren opgegeven heb voor een triathlon in Augustus, bent u dat vast met mij eens. Maar het was zo leuk! Ik raad het iedereen echt van harte aan. Het is net vakantie, zoals een van mijn lezeressen opmerkte. Alleen dat eentje met veel zweet, pijn, oefening, en stress.
Maar goed, na die triathlon is alles dus een beetje blah. Zelfs het weer, dat na drie weken regen eindelijk weer eens echte Georgiaanse trekken vertoonde met zon en blauwe lucht is vandaag na vijf dagen proberen toch maar weer overgeschakeld op bewolking en nattigheid. Mijn studenten komen nog steeds niet opdagen voor hun afspraken, en hebben nog steeds de meest geweldige excuses voor het niet werken aan hun afstudeer scriptie. Zo had een student ruzie gehad met een mannelijke collega op haar werk. De mannelijke collega was namelijk iets te handtastelijk geworden. Ze had toen in haar woede wat vrienden opgebeld met het verzoek de mannelijke collega onderhanden te nemen. En die hadden dat dus gedaan. Toen daarop mijn student ontslagen werd, was ze daar zo van overstuur, dat ze helemaal niks had kunnen schrijven. Juist. Dat heb ik in Nederland, of eigenlijk overal waar ik geweest ben, nog nooit meegemaakt.
Ook probeer ik samen een collega een onderzoeksproject op te zetten, maar ja, ook dat gaat maar zo-zo. In tegenstelling tot mijn oude werkgever hebben we hier geen data-invoer-miepjes, geen speciale onderzoeks ruimtes, geen geld voor compensatie, of zelfs maar hapjes en drankjes, en we hebben al helemaal geen enthousiaste studenten die graag meedoen met al het rare onderzoek dat hun docenten uitdenken. Dus hebben we vandaag met pijn en moeite zeven studenten kunnen vinden die misschien wel mee willen doen met ons project, dat we gaan uitvoeren in ons mac lab onder het genot van door ons betaalde snacks en fris. Blah, zeg ik je.
Maar, er is een klein lichtpuntje. Er komt misschien een zwembad. Misschien? Heel mischien. Manlief is eindelijk overstag, en we gaan aan "pool pricing" doen. Als ik de prijzen om me heen hoor, dan vrees ik het ergste, aangezien wij, in tegenstelling tot onze buren blijkbaar, onze kinderen wel graag naar college willen sturen, maar goed, er is hoop. En tot die tijd, en dit is nog veel beter, heb ik manlief bereid gevonden akkoord te gaan met zo'n tijdelijk opblaaszwembad in de achtertuin. In vergelijking met een echt zwembad is dat natuurlijk eigenlijk ook een beetje blah, maar ja. Iets is beter dan niks. Nou alleen het weer nog.
Maar goed, na die triathlon is alles dus een beetje blah. Zelfs het weer, dat na drie weken regen eindelijk weer eens echte Georgiaanse trekken vertoonde met zon en blauwe lucht is vandaag na vijf dagen proberen toch maar weer overgeschakeld op bewolking en nattigheid. Mijn studenten komen nog steeds niet opdagen voor hun afspraken, en hebben nog steeds de meest geweldige excuses voor het niet werken aan hun afstudeer scriptie. Zo had een student ruzie gehad met een mannelijke collega op haar werk. De mannelijke collega was namelijk iets te handtastelijk geworden. Ze had toen in haar woede wat vrienden opgebeld met het verzoek de mannelijke collega onderhanden te nemen. En die hadden dat dus gedaan. Toen daarop mijn student ontslagen werd, was ze daar zo van overstuur, dat ze helemaal niks had kunnen schrijven. Juist. Dat heb ik in Nederland, of eigenlijk overal waar ik geweest ben, nog nooit meegemaakt.
Ook probeer ik samen een collega een onderzoeksproject op te zetten, maar ja, ook dat gaat maar zo-zo. In tegenstelling tot mijn oude werkgever hebben we hier geen data-invoer-miepjes, geen speciale onderzoeks ruimtes, geen geld voor compensatie, of zelfs maar hapjes en drankjes, en we hebben al helemaal geen enthousiaste studenten die graag meedoen met al het rare onderzoek dat hun docenten uitdenken. Dus hebben we vandaag met pijn en moeite zeven studenten kunnen vinden die misschien wel mee willen doen met ons project, dat we gaan uitvoeren in ons mac lab onder het genot van door ons betaalde snacks en fris. Blah, zeg ik je.
Maar, er is een klein lichtpuntje. Er komt misschien een zwembad. Misschien? Heel mischien. Manlief is eindelijk overstag, en we gaan aan "pool pricing" doen. Als ik de prijzen om me heen hoor, dan vrees ik het ergste, aangezien wij, in tegenstelling tot onze buren blijkbaar, onze kinderen wel graag naar college willen sturen, maar goed, er is hoop. En tot die tijd, en dit is nog veel beter, heb ik manlief bereid gevonden akkoord te gaan met zo'n tijdelijk opblaaszwembad in de achtertuin. In vergelijking met een echt zwembad is dat natuurlijk eigenlijk ook een beetje blah, maar ja. Iets is beter dan niks. Nou alleen het weer nog.
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