A southern approach to a roach

Even though I may have my doubts about it, I'm well aware of the fact that I'm showing the thousand-and-one little signs of becoming more southern, thank you. I realized very well that last week I told a new friend of mine (yes, from the "north") that her kids didn't have to call me "Mrs. Last name", but that they could call me "Ms. First name", because "that's how kids do it down here". And it only seems like yesterday that husband-dear and I did the "hmmm..interesting" head-nod when a neighbor told us that exact same thing. And just last night, the love of my life and I both looked up when we heard someone on television talk about "ice tea". Apparently, we've become so assimilated that we were both convinced that the entire country talks about "sweet tea", and only Europeans use the words "ice tea", that this came as a real surprise. You mean that not everyone talks about sweet and unsweet tea? Really?
But the absolute, total, complete, and utter proof that I am becoming more southern occurred a few mornings ago. And it involved a cockroach. One of those really big, long-legged, hard-shelled, brown cockroaches.

As you all know, cockroaches are far from my favorite insect. In fact, I used to think that if there is one animal that in my opinion could be wiped from the surface of the earth forever, it would have to be the cockroach. And I didn't put up with people telling me that would upset the food chain or the bio-ecological balance of the planet. People who said that had obviously never encountered a Georgia cockroach in their bathroom while wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Knowing all of that, you would think that a few days ago, when I encountered a cockroach in our office / guest room in the wee hours of the morning, I would have ran, screamed, reached for the nearest can of raid, and then jumped around yelling and hollering until of the boys in the house would have disposed of the body. But I didn't. And to this day, I'm not sure how to explain that, or what I did afterwards.

I should probably explain that the cockroach was on its back, with its legs up in the air, wriggling. It looked so helpless and sad. I could just hear it saying, "Please, please, please, help me up. Please! Help! Me! Up! Please! I have two hundred kids to feed, you don't understand..please!". I'm a sucker for helpless people and creatures, and so I couldn't bring myself to squash it. Although that may have also had something to do with the fact that I was in bare feet. Anyway, I let it live, and then pondered my options. Killing the thing with Raid was not an option as it was positioned right in between all of the electrical cords for our laptops, printer, router, and whatever else husband-dear has hooked up out there. Plus, I was worried that if I would let it out of my sight, it would miraculously hop up right, and crawl under a piece of furniture, only to give me a heart attack a few days later when it would venture out. And since it was still laying there, looking lost and scared, I still felt bad about killing it anyway. So what to do?

And then I remembered. Zoe and Shelby. Our dogs love playing with bugs. And I mean they love it. They will chase a bug around the back porch until they're worn out, and if the bug tries to scurry into the grass, they will simply dig a hole until they find it, or we catch them. Our entire backyard is testimony to their love for bugs. So while keeping my eye on roachy, I clapped my hands and called their names. The dogs immediately came scampering up the stairs, and eyeballed the little brown bug under the desk. Shelby didn't quite get it, but Zoe was intruiged by the roach, and after sniffing it cautiously, took the bug in her mouth, and without any prodding on my end, ran down the stairs and out the back door. Her sister followed hot in pursuit, and together they chased the cockroach around the backporch until it finally got away.

And me? I was relieved the stupid cockroach survived. Yes, you heard that correctly. Call me a sissy city girl with some southern country spunk or somethihg, but that's what it is. Sheesh.

A blogpost for me

While trying to find the motivation to build yet another online class, I was, as usual, bouncing blog ideas off Steve. Although Steve is a very busy man, I somehow have got it in my head that the guy has nothing better to do than listen to me discuss my blog. So, right before going off to teach, I told him, "Ooh, I should do something about my top ten catch phrases or something." But having about five minutes left before I needed to fly out the door, I left it at that.

And maybe Steve isn't as busy as he seems to be, or perhaps (and in all fairness, probably more likely), he is just an excellent multi-tasker, because upon returning from one of my classes today I found the blogpost you see below in my email inbox. So here you go. Read it and enjoy, another insight into Steve's possibly slightly warped perspective of Dr. D/ Mrs. R/Ms. J.
(Oh, and let the record show that I have never shown the guy my abs...sheesh..)

"Dixiechick is very humble on this matter, but her English is better than anyone else’s. She has no accent, and speaks incredibly well. Sometimes she doesn’t know GRE-level words that she should, but her ability to speak and write “American” (a.k.a. “ ‘Murkun” in select circles) is superb. She shrugs it off, say “well, if I’m going to learn a language, I’m going to learn it all the way.”

All that being said, she has some choice phrases that she relies on. We all do, of course, but working with Dixiechick everyday means that I have become very familiar with her conversational crutches. The following is the Top Ten List of Dixiechick’s favorite sayings:

1.“Does this make any sense? [proceeds to read student paper]
2.Can you open Room number *** for me?
3.I have too much to do. I need a vacation.
4.I’m bored. I need a hobby.
5.Waaaaassssssuuuuuupppp!?!?
6. I know, right?
7. Ooooooooklahoma! [begins singing]
8. So I ran 6 miles last night. I seriously feel so lazy for not running nine.
9. So I biked 20 miles over the weekend. Seriously, look at these abs.
10.In Holland "

Tellen

Ik kan niet meer tellen. Nou ja, ik kan het nog wel hoor, van 1 tot 10, en zelfs wel tot 1000. Maar alleen maar op volgorde. Zo maar lukraak nummers in het Nederlands opnoemen, dat is blijkbaar moeilijk geworden. Mijn Nederlandse banknummer, dat gaat nog wel (ik heb het even geprobeerd net achter mijn bureau), maar sinds het weekend ben ik erachter dat ik dingen zoals mijn telefoonnummer, mijn huisnummer, en onze postcode niet meer behoorlijk in het Nederlands kan zeggen. Het is schandalig, ik weet het. Voor je het weet, zit ik hier als een of andere Jan de Bont of hoe heet dat Nederlandse fotomodel ook al weer met een loei van een Amerikaans accent dingen te zeggen als, "Hoe noem je dat ook al weer, de mail box? De postbus? Nee?". En dat kan natuurlijk niet.

Ik had al zo'n vermoeden dat dit er aan zat te komen hoor. Tijdens de maandelijkse Nederlandse koffie was het me namelijk al opgevallen dat als ik mijn telefoonnummer aan een van de dames door wilde geven, dat met verschrikkelijk veel pijn en moeite ging. Gelukkig was ik daar niet de enige in , maar toch, raar was het wel. Maar ik kon het nog (kijk, daar heb je het al weer, ik denk nu dus "But I could blame it on", maar ja, nu zit ik dus vast..want die zinsconstructie werkt niet in het Nederlands. Dus nog maar een keer). Maar tijdens die Nederlandse koffie-avondjes kon ik nog de schuld geven (da's beter) aan het feit dat we daar allemaal met halve Nederlanders zaten. En toen ik gisteren met een Nederlandse vriendin aan de telefoon zat, kon ik dat natuurlijk niet.

Ik moet toegeven, toen ze belde was ik aan het fietsen. Met manlief. En we waren heel hard en heel lang aan het fietsen, en ik was stiekem ook een beetje vergeten dat de vriendin dit weekend in Atlanta zou zijn en misschien langs zou komen. Dus het telefoontje kwam een beetje als een verrassing. Maar dan nog. Ik schaamde me dood toen ik haar mijn postcode voor haar Tom-Tom wilde geven, en er gewoon niet uit kwam. Veel verder dan de eerste '3' wilde mijn mond echt niet. Alle nummers tussen tien en nul passeerde de revue, maar niet de juiste. Dus toen moest, met het schaamrood op mijn kaken, het maar in het Engels zeggen.

Het moet niet gekker worden. Echt niet. Ik ben nu al zeker een half uur al mijn nummers aan het oefenen; telefoonnummer, huisnummer, postcode, garagedeur-open-nummer, kantoornummer, in het Nederlands. En het komt helemaal goed. Dat beloof ik u. Maar misschien is het wel handig als u, wanneer u belt, mij van te voren even een seintje geeft dat ik mijn Nederlandse tel-knop om moet zetten. Dat helpt.

A chick with (no) brains

Once again my life has forced to come to the painful realization that I'm really not that smart. Really, y'all, I'm not. Sure, I did finish that article on time, and yeah, I did get all these fancy-pants degrees, but you know, that really does not mean I'm smart. Nope. All that shows you is that I'm a glutton for punishment. And have no life. But today, I don't want to talk about how I have no life, today, I want to talk about how it's a miracle that I remember to breathe.

You all, I am sure, know how much I've been complaining about the town that I currently call home. In fact, my constant stream of cynicism and sarcasm is probably part of what draws you to my blog in the first place. But anyway, I'm sure you all remember my calling this town backwards, redneck, lacking in cultural events, nice stores, and most importantly, cool people. I think that more than anything I have written about the mind-boggling bundle of weirdness that is a southerner. I believe I've described them as conservative, hypocritical, religion-obsessed, in love with 80s fashion, unable to comprehend irony, and ignorant. And that's just naming a few. I know that more than once I have lamented the lack of hip open-minded, educated people for whom a night out does not involve the words "races", "cow tipping", "beer chugging" or "church pasta dinner".

So all this time I have felt like a little lonely island of semi-normalcy. And then yesterday, I realized I had it all wrong. I mean really wrong.

Yesterday, as I was driving home from work, I did my usual, 'let's do some calls while I'm not doing anything' (driving in the south doesn't count as doing anything). As I opened my phone, I saw a message from Janet, who wanted all "her girls" to come out for dinner for her birthday. After talking to Janet, and making sure she knew she was invited to our house for dinner on Saturday, I called Shelly. And as I was talking to her about that same dinner party, she asked me about Janet's birthday, and if we should do something. She had not talked to Kay yet, so I promised I would. While talking to Kay, and getting advice from her on how to seat thirteen people around our dining room table, it suddenly hit me. And it hit me so hard, I'm turning it into a new paragraph.

I have a circle of friends.
I have friends. They're cool, they're hip, they're not into racing or beer chugging or cow tipping. They call me when they feel like it, and I call them. We complain to each other about weird southern people, we gossip, we support each other when things just plain suck, we make baskets for wives with deployed husbands, we make things for each other just because we know someone likes jell-o, or chocolate, or stroopwafels, we run together, have dinner together, and sing karaoke together. And I never realized that until yesterday.
I'm not a lonely island anymore. If anything, I'm a chick with no brains, but with a few really good friends. Can I have a yay, y'all?

A hint of green

One of my early morning routines is to read up on all of my blogfriends' lives. Of all the early morning routines I have (feed children, feed dogs, remember to take shoes to work, check work email), this has to be one of my favorite ones. This morning though, my little tour through blog-world was enough to make me turn just a hint of green. OK. I'm lying. My friends' weekends made me jealous. There. Now go and tar and feather me. But honestly, if you would read what they had been up to, and you were me, you would be jealous too.

There's Bibi who did a whole bunch of really cool things with her herbs and has all these really cool plans for her yard that I can only dream of. There's Dennis who went to an awesome concert, Annemiek who got to meet up with a friend, and clean the outside of her house, something we really need to do as well, of course there's Petra who got to take a cool bike ride, eat out at these great little restaurants, and go to a friend's party, and I don't even want to talk about what the other Petra has been up to. And that's just a mere selection of everyone's Labor Day weekend.

Now I know that everyone in the blogosphere, as well as all my Facebook friends, and my real-life friends know that I worked my butt off this weekend. After all, I'm not one to keep it quiet when I feel as though life is treating me unfairly. While everyone else was cooking out, swimming, and doing goodness whatever else, I sat at my desk, behind my computer, near a window where I could see everyone frolicking around outside, and feeling like a true martyr. But you know, that's not really why I'm jealous. I mean, I got a lot done, the paper is looking really good, and I actually feel as though I may have retained some of the braincells that got me through school.

No, the reason I'm just slightly jealous is that I'm tired. I wanted a weekend where I could clean the house, ride my bike, go to a concert and mess around in the yard. But having to work meant I couldn't rest. And so I'm tired. And not just I-had-to-get-up-at-five tired, no, I'm possibly-brain-dead-tired. I stumble over words, shake my head a lot to stay awake, and am praying for Steve to get here so I can have some coffee. But Steve is smart, and decided to come in late today. Either that, or he's solving a problem at the radio station, and then when he hears about what everyone else did this weekend, he'll be even more evnvious than I am. You see, Steve may be a pain, but he is in fact the other half of this paper, the brainy half so to speak, and so he suffered this weekend as well, just like me.

So I really can't wait for Steve to get here. We can be tired and greenish together. And drinks lots of coffee. Sounds swell!

Calvinistisch

U kent de uitdrukking vast wel: Nederlanders zijn Calvinistisch. Schijnbaar betekent dat dat Nederlanders zuinig, sober en hardwerkend zijn. En de meeste Nederlanders die ik ken, zijn toch wel een beetje van dat alles (sommige maar een heel klein beetje, maar goed, dat doet er niet toe). Wat u misschien ook wel gehoord hebt (ik in ieder geval wel) is dat de productiviteit in Nederland en andere Europese landen gemiddeld veel hoger ligt dan in een land als Amerika, terwijl de gemiddelde Amerikaan minder vakantie krijgt, en ook langere dagen maakt. Vaak wordt daar dan, in ieder geval door mensen die ik ken, de conclusie uit getrokken dat Amerikanen dus minder productief zouden zijn. En dat zou dan komen omdat ze teveel zouden werken. En van teveel werken word je moe. Nu is dat laatste een waarheid als een koe. Maar ik wil hierbij voor eens en altijd kortemetten maken met het idee dat Amerikanen minder productief zouden zijn dan Nederlanders. En dat doe ik natuurlijk aan de hand van mijn eigen leven.

En hoe komt deze plotselinge obsessie met wat Nederlanders vinden van de Amerikaanse arbeidsethos? Nou, ik moet dit weekend namelijk alweer werken. Net als vorig weekend, en het weekend daarvoor. En misschien zelfs het weekend daarvoor, maar dat weet ik al niet eens meer. Daar werk ik al te veel voor. Maar goed, u begrijpt, ik vind mezelf best wel zielig dat ik alweer moet werken (deze keer is een conferentie deadline op vrijdag die absoluut gehaald moet worden), dus vandaar.

Maar afgezien van het feit dat ik dus te veel te doen heb, wil ik echt een lans breken voor het beeld dat men heeft van de Amerikaan Aan Het Werk. Want er wordt hier hard gewerkt. Echt hard. Nu weet ik, universiteiten staan over algemeen niet echt bekend om de harde werkers. Vaker zal men bij "academici" denken aan slungelige onderzoekers die in een met krijt bedekte oude trui eens om drie uur 's middags achter hun computer kruipen, en die dan onder vele gezucht en gesteun een college eruit persen. Nou, ik kan u zeggen; niet hier. Hier zit iedereen tussen acht en negen uur achter zijn of computer. En nee, er wordt niet eerst gezellig bijgekletst bij het koffiezetapparaat, zoals ik me van Nederland kan herinneren. Ook wordt er niet rustig een half uur bij een collega in de kamer gekletst over de nieuwste vakgroeproddels, en er wordt al helemaal niet een half uur gelunched. Er wordt gewerkt. Men moet tien uur "studenten contact" per week hebben, tussen de 12 en de 15 uur per week lesgeven, en publiceren, publiceren, publiceren. Er zijn geen ATV-urden, ADV-dagen, of andere Nederlandse verzinsels. Als een artikel af moet, dan ga je gewoon tot middernacht door, of in het weekend, of 's avonds. "Whatever it takes".

Dus ik weet niet waar al die prachtige studies hun cijfers over productiviteit vandaan halen, maar het is niet uit mijn wereld. En ik wil, kortom, dus niks meer horen over hoe Nederlanders veel harder, efficienter, of wat dan ook werken. En hoor ik dat toch, dan moet die persoon in kwestie mij verplicht dit weekend helpen met analyses draaien (en dat kan op afstand, dus wees gewaarschuwd).

Oily needs

I don't care about cars. Sure, I don't mind driving a cool-looking convertible, or a neat vintage car, but on the whole I really don't care what I drive, as long as it runs. This lack of care extends beyond a car preference though, and includes such basic things as washing one's car, vacuuming the interior, checking tire pressure, and even changing the oil. When it comes to my car, I guess I'm like most men when it comes to anything emotional: if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

And you know, this approach really used to work for me. Up until about two years ago, all the cars I owned saw little usage. Sure, I racked up a few miles when we lived in Germany and I would drive to Holland every so often, but it was never really enough for my car to warrant constant care. I would wash whenever the windshield got so dirty I would have to look between the dead bugs to see anything; I would have my oil changed whenever the mood struck me, and things were merry. But no more. With a daily 180 mile commute, my car suddenly needs constant, and I mean, constant care. To stay with the relationship angle; my car has suddenly become a very needy girlfriend.

Now I don't care much for needy, or high-maintenance antyhings. Be it students, husbands, children, dogs, computers, or cars, I'd much prefer it if things and people generally took care of themselves. As a result of that, my car gets the short end of the stick. If it weren't for my darling husband taking it to the carwash and vacuuming it out every once in a while, it would have enough protein on the outside of the car, and crumbs and other lost morsels of food (I blame the kids for that one) on the inside to cook a full meal.

But the cleanliness is not really the problem here. Sure a clean car is a happy car, but what's much more important is maintenance. See, I don't care about these things at all, but I've owned the car for two years now, and already put 75000 miles on it. According to husband-dear, that's almost phenomenal, and means that if we want to keep the car for another, oh 100 000 miles, we need to take extra good care of the engine. Which, apparently, I don't. I don't think about changing the oil until the maintenance light comes on. Of course, this light always comes on on a Wednesday morning, when I don't have time to go to the shop until Saturday, at which point I will have already added another 800 miles to the poor oil's already depleted life. So what I need to do is schedule oil changes in advance. I need to sit down, calculate when I've driven another 5000 miles, and plan an oil change weeks in advance. Only I don't do that. It's not that I don't care about my car, because I do, but I just don't care about miniscule details such as oil changes.

Unfortunately, husband-dear does. So every time I tell him, "Oops, the maintenance light came in, and I don't have time to go in until next week", he loses another year off his life. However, yesterday, I finally came up with the solution. The dreaded light had come on in the morning, and I had my plan ready. When I came home last night, I told husband-dear, "Remember how you always tell me I'm a good thing in your life?"
"Yes" came the somewhat cautious reply
"So I'm a good thing, right?"
"Well, yes." A slight suspicious pause, "Did you hit another piece of tire on the highway again?"
"Oh no, no, no. Of course not. No. You see, my maintenance light came on this morning."
"Oh God. I told you to do it last weekend."
"I know, but I worked last weekend, remember. Because I'm dedicated and hard-working, and all those things you like."
"Hmmm.."
"So here's my plan. But just remember how much you like me. If I take your truck to work tomorrow, you can take my car, and then run it by the quick lube after you get off work. That way we don't have put another three hundred miles on it."
"So you would take my truck, and I would do this for you?"
"Yep."

Needless to say, I drove the truck to work today, and husband-dear sighed at the tought of having to face the gate guards with my pink-tagged red little Honda once again. Life is good.