Back to school!

Our kids go to the local public schools. And I'm really fine with that. Our local school system is well-funded, serves diverse yet definitely middle class population, and has apparently been rated one of the top systems in the state, which is not bad really, especially if you for a moment ignore the fact that Georgia students score lower than students from 47 other states in math and English. However, there is one thing that makes me want to pull my hair out and send my kids to a private school (which I would if we had about $20k to spare each year, and did not mind our children learning that the world was created in seven days and females came from Adam's rib), and that would be their endless creative projects. Since we've moved here we've had to make three mobiles for various language courses, enormous stamps for history class, advertisements for math, flyers for social studies, calendars for another language course, a picture book for English, a bird house for agriculture, and we've had to plant various vegetables and flowers. Apart from the last two assignments, I really honestly fail to see how these assignments render our little darlings any more knowledgeable about the topic at hand. Sure, they learn a lot about their parents' lack of patience, dad's inability to draw, my inability to handle a saw, our short tempers with the school system, but I really don't think that having to identify a pronoun in a sentence about an animal and then drawing an animal, cutting out a piece of cardboard in the same shape as that animal, gluing the two together, pasting your sentence on the piece of cardboard, and then stringing it from a pimped coat hanger is going to teach them anything. I've raised this issue with their teachers, who claim that students like these projects. Right. Well, here's a newsflash, most boys do not care for anything related to school. Unless it involves a rock band, a computer game, or a really gross bug. And I would like to point out that contrary to all my other complaints, educating is something I know a little about.

And you know, I would be fine with all these projects, I could learn to accept the fact that every few weeks husband-dear and I are up to our elbows in glue, scissors, colored pencils and great ideas, if the rest of the school day was dedicated to learning about sensible things. You know, like arithmetics. Or French. Or learning about the constitution, or the capitals of the different states, or anything that could remotely aid them, if not in the rest of their lives, at least in getting into college. But sometimes, well actually a lot of the time, I doubt that schools here do a lot of that.

Take yesterday for example. I was driving home, and on the phone with husband-dear, who was quizzing one of our little darlings (let's call him George) on an upcoming social studies quiz. Now I've always liked their social studies curriculum. They've learned about Mesopotamia, the Roman empire, government types, and other generic topics everyone had in school at one point. This semester, they're doing Georgia history. Wonderful. I like history. So what is their test on, I wanted to know, the early colonization, the role of slavery, the civil war? No, it wasn't on any of them. We are, after all, in Georgia, so their test was on state trivia. Yes, apparently their teacher had felt that students learning about the state flower (the Cherokee Rose), the state vegetable (peanut), and the state gaming bird (the bob white Quail) would be so relevant to their future careers, she had spent the first two weeks of school talking about nothing else.

So just to make George enjoy the quizzing a little more enjoyable, husband-dear suggested I participate in the quiz, and we could make it a little competition. Since I had nothing better to do than make sure I got home in one piece, I agreed. And it went something like this:

Husband-dear: What is the state flower?
Me: The Dogwood..no wait, that's a tree
Husband-dear: That's Virginia's state flower
Me: Oh, then it's the crape myrtle!
Husband-dear: Tree
Me: How about the Cherry blossom?
Husband: That's also a tree dear.
Me: I give up
George: OK, yeah, so it's the Cherokee Rose.

Let's just say I did not do very well, although I did manage to come up with some interesting alternatives.

Husband-dear: What is the state possum?
Me: There is a state possum?
Husband-dear: Yes
Me: Wow. Well, it's gotta be Barney then. You know, the one that lives under your mother's porch, he's definitely got state possum character
George chuckles: Grandma lives in Florida! And it's the pogo possum.
Me: You mean there's different kinds of possums? Wow! Hey, since it's one possum, is it two possa?
Husband-dear: Ooh-kay, let's keep on moving.

Husband-dear: State motto?
Me: Oh! Oh! I know this one! It's ignorance is pride!
Husband-dear: That's way too difficult. You're in the south. It has to be something like proud and stupid
George: You guys are not helping. It's Wisdom, justice, and something else..
Husband-dear: Moderation.
Me: They wish. Hey George, I'll pay you ten bucks to put proud and stupid on the test.
George at this point snorts milk up his nose, or out, I'm never sure with these boys.
Husband-dear: That's a great way to raise children dear
Me: Thanks.

Husband-dear: State prepared meal
Me: Excuse me? They have a prepared meal?
Husband-dear: They sure do.
George: I don't remember this one
Me: This is ridiculous. Wow. A state-prepared meal. Do I even know it?
Husband-dear: Yes. But you don't like it.
Me: Oh. Oh, I know! Grits?
Husband-dear: Well done honey, that's twelve for George and one for you.

So although I'm not sure what good all this trivia is ever going to serve me, or poor George, we are proud to tell you that we can name the state fruit (peach), the state marine mammal (a whale), the state insect (the honeybee). Well, if nothing else, I already have a job, and I suppose George can always join the Air Force.

Good morning to you!

I think I can venture where no non-self-complimenting Dutch person has gone before, and state with some amount of certainty that I am very happy, upbeat, optimistic, and mostly friendly person. I like smiling, as evidenced by the various wrinkles that have started to pop up around my eyes, I like talking to people, and I generally like helping people out, as long as you're not a student asking me to change your grade. However, the general tendency of Americans to greet each other in all locations and at all times, including really early in the morning is starting to drive me slightly batty.

Now for those Americans among my readers, who are once again wondering what I'm complaining about, allow me to explain how Europeans greet each other. And here's the catch: they don't. Unless they know you, the Dutch, Germans, British, French, and pretty much any other European nationality I can think of, will not even look at you when they happen to run into you. If you're very lucky, you may run into a particularly social specimen, who might grunt something unintelligible, or nod, but that is really the most you can expect. In fact, most Europeans I know are so not used to strangers wishing them a good day that they immediately suspect foul play if someone does greet them; are they trying to rob me? Is my hair askew? Do I have toiletpaper hanging off my shoe? Now it's nothing personal. Europeans probably don't like strangers any more or less than Americans do, but people living in the Old World simply have an incredible appreciation for their own and others' privacy.

Now imagine having lived in Germany for a considerable amount of time, the country where even people who are supposed to be nice, such as shopkeepers and salesmen, will treat you with contempt, and moving to the south, where everyone not only says hello and good morning, but immediately makes you feel like their very best friend by throwing in a "dear" or "honey". It was a shock to say the least.

But I've adapted well. I say hello to most everyone I see, I wave at complete strangers from my car, and spend most of my time outside my own office or house with a smile on my face. However, merely saying "hello" or "good morning" is not enough down here. You actually have to profess an interest in the other person by asking "how are you", and answering their inquiry as well. Again, I don't mind doing that at all. No matter how miserable I might be, I can squeeze out a "fine, thanks, and you?" any time of day. But why do people do this all day long, no matter how many times you see them, no matter how busy you may seem, or in how much of a rush you are?

Allow me to paint a picture for you. The building I work in is positively huge. If I need to be in the dean's office, and then drop something off at academic affairs I need to take out at least thirty minutes for the walk alone. I usually don't have time to do whatever it is I'll be doing, so it needs to be done fast. Being the little energizer bunny that I am, I pretty much speedwalk my way through the hallways. So if there is someone passing me, we will catch maybe just a glimpse of each other, enough to say "hi" or "morning", but that is it. Unfortunataly, a mere "hi" is never enough for a southerner. So even when I'm rushing by so fast there is breeze down the hallway, people will still ask the ubiquitous; "And how are you doing today?". Being the nice person that I am, I will then feel obligated to slow down, and rush a "great, thanks, how 'bout you" out of my mouth. And God forbid that a person is of a slightly older generation, because they will launch into a drawled, "Why, I feel so very blessed today, thank you dear. Now you have a great day", forcing me to come to almost a complete standstill to listen to their benediction. Or imagine that happening when you're on a run. You can't? Well, trust me, it has. It doesn't matter that you might be wearing an IPod, look as though you're about to pass out, or are right in the middle of a sprint interval; people will still want to make sure you know they've seen you.

Please don't think I'm a grinch. I'm not. Really. But when I'm at work, and it's 8am, and I have a lot to do, could everyone just please stop trying to be so very nice? Or when I'm in the middle of a long painful run, could you just acknowledge my presence with a wave? I mean, I never thought I would say this, but I long for a little German contempt sometimes. Or a British nod. I would love that. Something quick, easy, and that will not take you out of your zone. Thanks.

Gym-tastic

I went to the gym this morning before work.
I went to the gym this morning before work.
No, I did not repeat that sentence by accident, I just wanted to write it twice to emphasize the seriousness of this statement. For those of you who know me in person, and those of you have been following this blog for a while now, you know that the going to the gym part is nothing special. After all, as husband-dear pointed out yesterday, my life, when I'm teaching, pretty much consists of working, sleeping, eating, running / biking/ swimming. It's what I do. No, what's possibly intriguing about this statement is that my visit to the gym occurred before work. Before I went to work. So before dawn breaks. At about six this morning. And I would have gone earlier had the gym been open before six.

So why this bizarre behavior? Well, I have a second triathlon this weekend, and I wanted to get a last swim in, and make sure all my gear is in working order. And because the base pool closes before I get home from work, my only option was to go before work. So that's what I did. I forced myself out of bed even earlier than usual, made the kids the fastest breakfast ever, and hauled butt to base. Now I expected a pretty much deserted gym, with half the lights off, the attendants still half asleep, and with only a few nutcases like myself running on a treadmill or lifting weights. I mean, gyms in Europe don't even open until 9am, and then will pretty much be deserted until around noon, so I didn't expect gyms in the US to be much different.

Well. Was I ever wrong. The gym was not so much busy as it was hopping. There were people running around on the track, yes, in the dark, all the lanes in the pool were full, there was an aerobics class in full swing, and people were already pumping weights as though it wasn't 6am, and the most normal place to be at that time was one's bed.

Now I know what you're thinking; this is a base gym, and we all know how crazy those military people get when it comes to getting up early and working out. But that's just it. The people at the gym weren't just airmen swish-swish-swishing around in their MC Hammer "you can't touch this" PT pants, there were probably just as many civilians there. It was amazing. These are people who, like me, have no possible punitive action hanging over their head if they don't stay in shape. These are people who won't face all sorts of life-altering consequences involving jailtime if they show up to work late. These are normal people. And yet they were at the gym at six in the morning. Voluntarily. So please don't ever tell me Americans don't care about staying in shape. Because they do. Trust me.

Verliefd

Ik ben verliefd. Echt helemaal hoteldebotel. En helaas niet op manlief. Ja, natuurlijk ben ik ook nog verliefd op manlief, maar hij heeft er sinds afgelopen weekend competitie bijgekregen. En eigenlijk is dat ook nog eens zijn eigen schuld. Ik ben namelijk verliefd geworden op Helen. En nee, nier op een of andere vrouw uit Georgia, maar op het plaatsje Helen, een werkelijk geweldig fout Disney-achtig Beiers oord in noord-Georgia.

Afgelopen weekend was, zoals wel vaker dit jaar, weer eens een weekend in het teken van het mountainbiken. De laatste race van de GSC series zou plaatsvinden in Unicoi state park. En omdat manlief een kans maakte op een podium plaats, en het vier uur rijden bij ons vandaan is, en naast Helen lag, besloot familie Dixiechick er maar weer eens weekendje uit van te maken. En toen we op vrijdag avond door Helen reden onderweg naar onze cabin in het state park, wist ik al meteen dat Helen misschien wel het leukste plaatsje in Georgia was. Alles, maar dan ook werkelijk alles, was in Beierse stijl opgetrokken. Van de plaatselijk bank (compleet met drive-through), tot de lokale Huddle House, tot de brandweerkazerne, tot het dorpsplein; alles wat uitgerust met luiken, puntige daken, vakwerk, muurschilderingen, en Duitse uitdrukkingen.

Helen is eigenlijk natuurlijk helemaal niet Duits. Het is van origine een plaatsje dat puur gericht was op een aantal grote houtzagerijen. Maar toen het stadsbestuur in de jaren 60 zag dat de houtindustrie niet meer het benodigde geld binnenbracht, bedachten ze al snel dat ze een andere bron van inkomsten nodig had. Waar andere steden misschien een andere industrie zouden aanboren, pakte Helen het ludiek aan, en besloot het bestuur eind jaren 60 dat het hele dorp verbouwd zou worden in de Beierse stijl, compleet met Kerstmarkten in December, en een Oktoberfest in de herfst. En het was, en is, een groots succes.

En waar ik normaal mijn neusje ophaal voor "gemaakte" cultuur viel ik er afgelopen voor als een blok. Misschien is het de link met Europa, of misschien het totale gebrek aan cultuur in onze woonplaats; ik weet het niet. Maar ik heb genoten. We hebben gegeten in een biergarten, waar je schnitzel kon bestellen, met rode kool en van die typische Duitse aardappeltjes. En waar een man in een fout Oosterijks kostuum Duitse liedjes speelde op een accordeon. We konden buiten op een terrasje een kopje koffie drinken, terwijl de kinderen over het pleintje heen renden. We konden slenteren door alle kleine straatjes om het dorpsplein heen. En het allerbeste? Helen heeft een Nederlandse winkel. Een echte Nederlandse winkel. Met planken vol met Nederlandse producten: van bescuit tot conimex, tot drop, tot haring, tot kroketten, alles. Als je de enge Duitse dame die er werkt negeert waan je je bijna in een kleine supermarkt in Nederland. Na enkele momenten van stille verbijstering ben ik, zoals u begrijpt, helemaal los gegaan. Ik durf niet te zeggen hoeveel geld ik heb uitgegeven, maar laten we stellen dat de slechte economie in noord-Georgia sinds afgelopen weekend niet meer aan mij ligt.

Gisteren had ik nog het plan om alle Nederlanders die naar Georgia komen aan te raden bij Helen langs te gaan. Maar nu de roze bril een beetje af is, bedenk ik me dat voor jullie Helen waarschijnlijk een fout aftreksel is van de werkelijkheid die jullie dagelijks meemaken. Jullie mogen natuurlijk eerst drie weken naar huize DixieChick komen, om dan Helen net zo te waarderen als ik, maar ook dat lijkt me een beetje heftig. Dus laat het er maar bij met te zeggen dat het voor mij echt het weekend van mijn leven was.

Smelly

I'm really funny about smells. So while I remember what things, people, and places smell like, and can actually conjure up smells in my mind (or nose, I'm not sure how that works), I am completely oblivious to a few scents, and I absolutely love scented candles, crystals, oils, flowers and herbs. I think I would call myself selectively hyper-scentative. The latter underlined by the fact that one of my worst memories is having to spend an entire 10-hour transatlantic flight next to someone with incredibly stinky feet. I really don't know how normal this is, to be honest with you. Husband-dear only picks up on the really good or the really bad, while judging by the state of the boys' bathroom and bedrooms at the end of the week, they have simply lack any sense of smell entirely.

Sometimes I think I can be best compared to a dog; if something smells really nice, you can catch me standing in one place, taking deep and concentrated sniffs. In fact, if I hadn't received a proper upbringing that included entire chapters on proper behavior and postures, you could probably find me lying on the floor, soaking up the smell a little more. When I think about places, I think about their smells. France, for instance, smells like lavender, mimosa, smoke, and something incredibly sweet and light at the same time. My grandparents' house, although sold years ago when both passed away, smelled like my grandfather's haircream, Eau de Cologne 4711, apples, and the old-fashioned wax my grandmother used. I could go on like that endlessly. Georgia has an odd thick smell in the summer. It's as though the air is too humid to hold any delicate smells. But on days that the humidity drops, the outside smells sweet and musky. Our house usually smells like the apple-cinnamon candles we burn, although as of last weekend, it smells more like fresh paint, which really messes up my sense of smell.

Unfortunately, I can smell nasty things just as well. If someone hasn't cleaned their bathroom recently for instance, it's like death on a stick. And I'm sure that those of you who live in a hot place like Georgia can relate to the smell produced by someone who has dogs, shuts up their house because of the airconditioning, and then doesn't vacuum and clean regularly. It's terrible.

But, and this is the funny thing, my nose is completely unable to smell a few select scents. Scents that could be potentially embarrassing. Such as my own body odor. Or my two dogs. In fact, I love the smell of my little puppies. The whole inspiration from this blog came a few moments ago when I hugged Shelby and realized how much I loved her little doggie-smell. Husband-dear suffers from the same affliction, but since neither one of us is sure whether other people share our appreciation, we vacuum our house, use "pet odor removal" powder, and wash our dogs on a regular basis anyway.
But the body-odor business is a little more difficult. I realize that talking about body odor is perhaps a delicate subject, one not appropriate to a blog, and I am sure that this was mentioned as part of my proper upbringing, but people, this is a real problem. When you live in a hot, humid climate like I do, an awareness of your own scent is vital. And I mean extremely vital. No one wants to talk, or even stand close to someone who smells like a compost heap in August. Now I'm not saying I'm that bad. God, I sure hope I'm not, but the fact of the matter is that there are many days when I will come home from work, husband-dear will give me a hug, and then pull away with a frown and a "Honey, you're kind of stinky."
Now I do have to admit that husband-dear is one critical man. Especially considering that he is a man. I mean, who has heard of a man who will clean under the stove without you asking? Right, exactly. So perhaps it's him. Because when I perform the "sniff yourself" test, I do realize I may not smell like the fresh lemon scent promised by my anti-perspirant, but I don't think I'm "stinky". But perhaps he is right. And you see, I will never know. It's a scary prospect, one that I try to alleviate by using a lot of deodorant, washing my shirts more than regularly, and, yes, having husband-dear smell me when I'm not entirely sure of my "scent-status". I would hate to think that my lack of friends in this town is in any way related to my level of stinkyness.

So. Now that you all have real pretty pictures in your heads of a stinky DixieChick, it's time for me to replace some of our air freshening crystals. If nothing else, at least our house can smell like a fresh waterfall.

It's the Win a Tag! Competition

Welcome to the very first Southern Tales Reader Competition! If you enter today, you stand the chance to win a used, but beautiful pink John Deere tag!

So what's the story behind this next harebrained idea? As some of you already know, the front of my little red car sports a lovely pink John Deere tag. Here in Georgia, cars don't have license plates on the front, so people can adorn the front tag bracket with whatever tickles their fancy. In all honesty, I had not planned on putting anything on the front of my car, let alone a John Deere tag, but because this tag is the result of such a ridiculous story, I couldn't resist.

A little over two years ago, when husband-dear and I had just returned from Germany, we visited my in-laws. Well, we actually moved in with them for about three weeks while we were waiting for our household goods to make it across the Atlantic. My in-laws love racing. No, not formula 500 (or as they call it Indycar) racing, or motorbike racing, but dirt-track racing. My father-in-law has been racing "modifieds" and "vintage" cars for most of his life, and so he and my mother-in-law spend almost every Saturday night in the summer at one of the many dirt tracks in their area. Now dirt track racing is not really our thing. But we're nice people, and so we accompany my in-laws whenever we visit them. We wear earplugs, eat way too many boiled peanuts and nachoes, cheer when "Big Dan" races, and scream and yell when there's a nasty crash. This specific Saturday night happened to also be my mother-in-law's birthday, and being surrounded by all men, I had the most difficult time convincing them to sing Happy Birthday to her. That is, until we arrived at the track.
Now you should probably know that the people who visit dirt tracks are the most patriotic and religious people in the country, maybe even on the entire planet. They sing the national anthem, pledge allegiance to the flag, and pray for the safety of the drivers, the troops, the president, and whoever else comes to mind. This time around, they were trying to recruit volunteers to sing the national anthem. My husbad immediately turned to me, and told me that was my call. Some incredibly quick thinking made me answer that I wouldn't do that until I became a citizen, which, surprisingly, my husband accepted as an acceptable compromise. In spite of my success that day, that move may not have been the smartest as my mother in law remembers me saying that, and now reminds me of that promise every time I see her. Anyway, no one else in the audience felt the urge to sing the national anthem, so the MC went on to find people who would sing "Happy Birthday" . Much to my surprise, the love of my life raised his hand, and got the MC's attention. Unfortunately, he then pointed at me, "She really wants to sing".
So there I was, everyone was looking at me, my family was telling me to sing to my mother in law, and the MC was calling for me to come down. And so down the stairs I went. And I sang Happy Birthday to my mother-in-law in front of probably a thousand people, died just as many deaths, and shot just as many dirty looks at husband-dear. But when I was finally done embarrasing myself, I got my reward; the MC handed me the pink John Deere tag that now adorns my car.

Now I'm not a country girl. Not really anyway. I can't tell one Nascar driver from another, guns tend to frighten me, and I would much rather face rush hour in an unknown subway system than have to take a fish off its hook. But I felt I had really earned the tag, so I put it on the front of my small, fuel-efficient, Japanese car. I saw the combination of the two as a sign of my rebellion against all things country.

But two years down the road, it's time to move on. However, I really do not want to drive around with an empty bracket on the front of my car, and taking it off is not an option. So I need a new tag. And this is where you, dear reader, come in. Suggest a new tag for me to put on my car, preferably with a link to where I could find it, and if I pick your suggestion, I will send you my old John Deere tag.

May the best reader win! :)

Country Roads

"The radio reminds me of my home far away
And driving down the road I get a feeling
That I should have been home yesterday
Take me home, country roads,
to the place, where I belong..."
John Denver ~ Take me home, country roads

Last Sunday, as I was scanning the 500 something channels we have, I came across a John Denver special on GPB. Although I'm not a huge John Denver fan, I found myself watching the documentary for at least half an hour, and the next thing I knew, I was digging through our CD collection for our one John Denver album. Yes, we own one of his albums. We also own various Van Halen CDs, Mozart concertos, the entire Led Zeppelin discography, ABBA Gold albums, some country music, far too many 80s albums, and various Disney soundtracks. Let's just say we have a wildly eclectic taste in music.

So yesterday morning, as I was on my first drive to work of the semester, I listened to the entire John Denver album. From "Leaving on a Jet Plane" to "Calypso" to "Montana" to "Thank God I'm a country a boy", to of course "Country roads". Last night, I returned the CD to its place in our cabinet, after all, there is only so much John Denver one can take in a year, but one song has stuck in my head, and that would be the song quoted above.

Whenever I listen to "Country Roads", I always find myself thinking of driving home, and the feeling that comes with returning after a long absence. I imagine most people envision one road, and when I asked some people around me, they confirmed that belief. Steve, for instance, when I warbled a most memorable rendition of the song to him this morning, told me it made him think of the roads around his parents' house; narrow lanes that wind through endless cornfields, as well as a set of earplugs. Husband-dear, although he grew up in a house a few miles from the beach, thinks about bouncing down the red-dirt road, under the tunnel of trees, and turning into the long driveway to his parents' current home. For me, it's not that simple.

"Country roads" for me always brings up an interesting kaleidoscope of roads and landscapes. I think of driving through the Dutch polder, with its endless views of fields, rows of trees, and cows. I think of driving through broad lanes with trees on either side. I think of mountain roads, lavender spilling on to the pavement. I think of driving past a deep blue sea, with people wandering along the boardwalk. I think of walking past "sorority row", with all the intriguing Greek symbols on the enormous mansions. I think of bicycling up an endless hill to an old monastery. I think of driving through snow-covered mountains. I think of of a wide variety of highway exits, sorties, Ausfarts, and afritten. And much to my surprise, I've recently also started thinking of Tempre road; a road in our town that leads from our house to base. It's nothing special; there are probably ten roads like it in our town, and hundreds across our state, but somehow, it got added to my mind's collection of "country roads". Tempre road starts as a curving road that runs between residential areas and woods, and then becomes a four-lane highway that runs along a gigantic church, several bodyshops, a lighting store with a perpetual EDIMGIAFAD sign out front, two pizza places, a Honda dealer, and a Goodwill store. I'm guessing this is a good sign. For although the words "kicking and screaming" come to mind when thinking of my integration in this town, it has now become a part of my "country roads". And that's a good sign. I think.