Hair

I like blaming things on the South. In fact, one of the driving forces behind this blog is my tendency to blame things on the south. And sometimes, I like to think, my claims are not completely outlandish. Such as the fact that my students simply cannot handle open questions on a midterm, because their teachers are so focused on getting Georgia out of that #48 spot on competency tests, all they seem to do throughout the school year is work on perfecting their students' multiple choice taking skills. Or the fact that the road to our house is flooded once again, which can only blamed on the southern tendency to deluges as well as the southern inability to build sewage and drainage systems that work. But, in spite of all that sensibility, I do realize that sometimes I might go a teensy bit overboard. Just a tad. And I have a slight inkling that today could possibly be one of those days.

You see, my hairdo is just terrible today. It really is. And whose fault is that? Well, since I feel especially magnanimous today, I am going to extend the blame to the entire United States. Now please don't take this as a sign of anti-anything-ism. I love this country as much as the next person, really. But why on earth can't y'all just switch to 220V? And while we're at it, what's up with inches? Twelve to a foot? I mean, really?

But I digress. What I'm trying to say is that if this country ran on 220V like all the other sensible countries in the world, then my hair would not be in the state it is right now.

It started off very innocently, when I realized this morning that I simply had to wash my hair. Usually I was my hair at night, and let it dry overnight (for some reason, my hair is easiest to manage after having been tossed around a pillow all night), but last night I forgot. So this morning I shampood and conditioned my now uncontrollable mane of hair (I call it the price you pay for not getting it trimmed since March), and then decided I really should blowdry it. You see, I may have really straight and fine hair, I also have LOTS of it. And I mean LOTS and LOTS. Lots, as in if I don't blowdry it, it will still be wet come lunchtime. So I pulled out my old American hairdryer and went at it. Went is the right word here, because about thirty seconds after I turned it on, it went out. And would not come back on. Fortunately, Dixiechick is not one to be held down for long, because I quickly realized I still had a European hairdryer hidden under the bathroom sink somewhere. That coupled with the presence of a sturdy converter in the corner of our bedroom reassured me that I would not be dealing with wet, long hair for long. Although it did mean crouching down in between the TV and dog's crate, and fending off the inappropriate moves put on by the plant next to the converter, I happily plugged in my hairdryer, turned on the converter, and waited for the hot air to come on. And waited. And waited. And waited. And then realized that my dinky old Dutch hairdryer had blown the fuse on the converter, effectively ruining any opportunity in the next few days of watching my Dutch DVDs as well as decimating my chances at going anywhere with dry hair that day.

And no, this is not my fault. Is there any reason to think a goodness-how-high-amount-of-wattage converter could not handle my bitty Dutch hairdryer? Of course not! Sheesh. It's America's fault. Why do they have to be different once again? If they had 220V like the rest of us, I would not have had to struggle with an elastic band and bobby pins for ten minutes, trying to get my hair into a decent ponytail without scraggly bits of hair going every which way.

So I'm going to give you all a choice here. Either switch to 220V or buy me a new hairdryer. Thanks.

Notes..

As a teacher, and a (step)mom, I write more notes than I care to remember. Notes for the registrar's office, notes to an internship supervisor, notes to a homeroom teacher, notes about homework, notes about an early release. The list goes on. I have to admit though, I like writing notes. When I was an angsty pubescent drama queen-in-the-making, I used to write notes in my journal. Notes about how unfair the world was, and what I would do and say about it if I actually had a backbone.

Interestingly, she apparently had the same teenage experience. And when in yesterday's blog, she decided to write notes to annoying people in her life today, I thought that that might be a a more constructive manner of complaining than writing another rambling blog about the nuisances of life in the south.

So what kind of notes would I write now? What if I were still a teenage drama princess, and obsessed with committing my every thought to paper? Because I don't do that anymore. Obviously.
Anyway. For this once, I thought I would make an exception, and write all those notes I have been wanting to send for months, but haven't because I'm obviously not 14 anymore, am all grown up now, and have learned the true meaning of good manners. Well, sort of.

****

Dear Students,

Let me start off by saying that you guys are really cool. You make me laugh, think, and yes, sometimes want to pull my hair out, but I really like every single one of you. A lot. However, when I am going to show you a movie with subtitles, please don't groan and complain. I'm sorry the Nazi's didn't take over the world in English, but this is how it is. And for crying out loud, this is your major. If you cannot handle a non-English film, then perhaps you need to switch to accounting or biology. Or English. I don't care. I can't remember the number of foreign films I had to watch that didn't even have a storyline to begin with. This one does. Be grateful.
Also, please LISTEN TO ME when I tell you that you CANNOT plagiarize. Next time someone plagiarizes, I will burst into flame. And rise from the ashes. I promise.

Take care,
Dr. D.

**

Dear Florida drivers,

You may live one of the coolest states in the country, but when you drive in Georgia, can you please drop some of the surfer-dude-relax-tude, and start acting like you know what you're doing? It is simply not cool to a) drift into my lane, b) hog the middle lane, c) pull out in front of me when I'm doing 55 mph, or d) switch lanes without using your blinker. One of these days you will give me a heart attack, or an aneurysm, or maybe both. So please, re-read your driving manual, take a class, I don't care, but please, drive like you know what you're doing.

Thank you,

The small driver in the red Honda

***

Dear Shelby and Zoe,

My wonderful, awesome, sweet puppy-dogs. I have one thing to say to you: The landscaping sheet is not there for you to play with. We hid it under the lava rocks so you wouldn't play with it. We did not put it there as a sort of obstacle course for you guys (you know, dig up the plant, dig out the rocks, tear up the sheet). We love you very much, but do it again, and your daddy may have a seizure. And you know you'll never be let out in the backyard on your own again. And how much fun would that be?

Love,

Mommy

***

Dear little-boys-and-girls-who-ride-the-bus-with-youngest,

I'm sure you're all really sweet kids. And that maybe your problems stem from your parents pushing you too hard or harping too much on the fact that you are a smart, talented, and wonderful! child. I also realize that we moved into your neighborhood. And you were here before us. I'm sorry. I'm sorry our kids don't have the expensive clothes you do. I'm sorry they don't cuss. I'm sorry they're not jocks.
However. When my wonderfully sweet youngest boy walks on to the bus and asks if he can sit by you, you take your backpack off the empty seat and let him sit down. You do not ask him if he is stupid. You do not call him gay, you do not call him a private part, or ask if he wants to be kicked around.
In fact, if you do any of those things again, I will ignore my youngest's requests to stay out of it and report you to the school. Not only that, but I will personally make sure you are suspended from the bus for the rest of the school year. I may even see about getting you into in school suspension for the rest of the semester. I will do everything in my power to make sure you will learn manners. Is that clear?

Thank you,

M's evil stepmom

******

Dear work-computer,

If you shut down on me again without me telling you to, you will be going to the trash.

User1

The first signs of something

I was going to write about winter in Georgia. About how the cold weather somehow always just seems to appear out of the blue, without any kind of advanced warning. Sort of like your in-laws (although not mine, because they're really very nice). I was going to mention how I spent Sunday afternoon in my bathing suit, vacuuming our mini-pool, and how last night, the temperature suddenly dropped down the mid-50s. I was also going to respond to my Dutch readers' supposed exclamation of "But that's not cold at all!" with a very smart retort amounting to the idea that dropping from 100F to 50F is almost as bad as dropping from 20C to 0C, even though that mathematically did not make any sense at all.

But I'm not going to write about that today. Well, at least not any longer. Today I wanted to share with you what happened on this first very cold day in the fall.

This morning started off fairly normal. I say fairly because it wasn't entirely normal. As you all know, I usually jump out of bed at the first sound of the alarm, singing and dancing, and calling out to all my animal friends to help me clean the house. This morning, however, there was no singing. When the alarm went off, I just burrowed under the covers, groaning loudly. Apparently, the benadryl I had taken the night before had not yet worn off. Why did I take a Bendrayl you ask? Well, for the four wasp stings on my foot of course (let's just say that on Sunday I discovered that a colony of wasps had been squatting illegally under one of the steps ofour pool ladder). So I got to work at 8:20 as opposed to 8am. And I had just settled in to do really important things, like grade papers, prepare a class, check up on my blog friends, and update my Facebook status, when I heard a loud siren on the other side of the building.

For those of you who don't know, I work on a university campus. One that is filled with thousands of loud and boisterous students whose sole purpose in life seems to be to do something weird at least once a day. Hence, I've completely lost my inborn reflex to jump and be startled at loud noises. So I ignored the siren, thinking that if it was the fire alarm, it would have gone off on our side of the building too. Then I heard a voice over a loudspeaker. Again, not in our part of the building, but I could hear it was our "big voice" system. Well shoot. That meant our students could not be to blame. But I was going to be damned if I was going to get out of my cozy office for a drill at 8:20 in the morning, so I stayed put. That is, until a police officer came running down the hallway, yelling at everyone still in their office, well, let's be honest here, just me, that I needed to get out of the building pronto because there was a gas leak.

So I dragged myself, my laptop, and my purse out into the front parking lot. And that parking lot is in the shade at 8:30 in the morning. And it was freezing. It was so cold, that even the fact that within a few minutes, three fire trucks, the EMTs, and the local television station pulled up to the building, did nothing to deter my grumbling. My only hope was that they would take so long, that I would have to cancel class.

But of course that did not happen. An hour and something after we were all evacuated from the building, we were let back in. Just in time for my class. No fair.

But yes, fall has come to Georgia. That is what I have been trying to tell you.

Surprise, Surprise!

You know what I like about life? That just when you think you've got it all figured out, it somehow surprises you. At least that's how my life works, there is never a dull moment for Ms. D. Ever. So just when you think you need to give up on your students and go work at McDonald's or some place rewarding, your Monday 10 am class wakes up and has the most in-depth discussion about investigative journalism and neutrality. Or when you think your kids are finally have a good quarter school-wise, attitude-wise, and otherwise, you come home to have your husband give you a hug and whisper in your ear, "You're the good cop". Or when husband-dear has treated the entire yard for fire ants, and you think it's safe to do yard work in with just flip flips on, only to find the creepy crawlers all over your bare feet. Or when you've run out of Dutch porridge, and you find yourself actually not really caring anymore.

But over the weekend, I got the biggest surprise of all. From my town. Indeed, the town I live in actually did something out of the ordinary, something I never imagined would ever happen. I mean, my town is fairly predictable. If there is a pretty empty field somewhere, filled with purple and pink flowers and little furry critters, they will have it asphalted within a month for a parking lot, a Walmart and a fast food restaurant. Any roads around that you find particularly adorable? Perhaps you enjoy the pecan trees lining the narrow, winding road, or the beautifully kept lots on either side of the road, or the unending pecan groves and corn fields. Well, it enjoy it while you can, because our city council is on a mission to turn every little dirt road into a four-lane highway with at least six or seven lights for every mile.

Because of this continuous and optimistic drive for progress, our town is in a constant state of construction. In my car, I barely notice it anymore, but whenever husband-dear and I go cycling we do. Suddenly we realize how narrow the roads are, how haphazardly the cones have been placed along the road, and how confusing the myriad of temporary lines on the asphalt actually are.

Last Sunday we went our on another one of our weekly spins. We took the road that is usually taken by cyclists in our town as it leads to the beautifully hilly and quiet countryside south of town. The road has been under construction since January, and so we've become used to following a different set of lines down the road every week. But this past weekend, we noticed something was off. Suddenly, instead of one, there were two thick white lines about three feet apart, on the side of the road. We rode along the road for a mile or so, wondering what they were going to do now, and which line was the temporary one. When we came to the top of a hill, and I could see the two lines extended all the way down the entire road, it hit me:
"Oh my God, honey, it's a bicycle lane!"

A bicycle lane. In middle Georgia. Created by our city council. Who would have thought. Ever. Never! The same town that would happily sacrifice all of its trees for new subdivisions actually put in a bicycle lane. This is not just a surprise, this is a miracle.
As Henny Huisman used to sing, "Surprise, surprise! Het onverwachte is de mooiste prijs!"

De vrouwendokter

Het is alweer een jaar geleden sinds mijn laatste "vrouwenonderzoek", en aangezien men hier in de VS elk jaar zo'n "vrouwenonderzoek" doet, mag ik vandaag dus weer. En ik heb helemaal geen zin. In dat "vrouwenonderzoek" dus. En excuses voor het rare woordgebruik. U weet, normaal neem ik niet zo'n blad voor mijn mond, maar aangezien ik mij voor kan stellen dat niet al mijn lezers zitten te wachten op een plastische beschrijving van wat er allemaal tijdens zo'n "vrouwenonderzoek" gebeurt, hou ik het maar even wat euphemistischer.

Maar goed, ik heb dus geen zin. En dat heeft niks te maken met dat onderzoek hoor. Dat zal me allemaal een worst wezen (om nog maar eens een rare uitdrukking uit te gooien), maar meer met allerlei andere kleine dingetjes.

Allereerst het feit dat ik eigenlijk helemaal geen tijd heb dit soort dingen. Ik moet een college voorbereiden, een midterm, vier online colleges in elkaar zetten, de was moet nodig gedaan worden, ik wil hardlopen, de keuken is een bende, onze badkamer moet nodig gepoetst worden, en het zwembadje moet winterklaar gemaakt worden. En dat moet eigenlijk allemaal voor maandag. Ik heb uitgerekend dat als ik niet slaap, ik misschien zondag middag een paar uurtjes vrij kan hebben. Maar dan moet ik wel mijn laptop meenemen als ik ga sporten vandaag. Hm.

En natuurlijk het papierwerk. Waar in Nederland je geboorte- en huwelijkscertificaten na zes maanden niet meer geldig zijn ("ja u kunt hier nou wel zo staan, maar u geboortebewijs is meer dan zes maanden oud, en dus heeft u geen bewijs van geboorte meer"), is hier al je patienteninformatie maar een jaar geldig. Dat betekent dus dat ik elk jaar de hele papierwinkel opnieuw mag invullen. Ze zouden natuurlijk gewoon alles kunnen uitprinten, en jou laten veranderen wat anders is. Maar ja, dat doen ze dus niet. En dus zit ik hier nu met een hele stapel papieren die ik nu voor, naar ik meen, de derde keer ga invullen. En ze willen echt alles weten. Je naam, je hele medische geschiedenis, alle informatie van mijn man die mijn "sponsor" is,en de rest van de familie, en contact gegevens van iemand die je wel kent, maar niet bij jou in huis woont. En of ik ook nog even een "patient contract", een bladzijde hele kleine lettertjes, waarin vast staat dat ik als te laat kom ze een van de kinderen zullen komen ophalen, wil ondertekenen. Het is om een lamme hand van te krijgen. En die heb ik nu dus ook.

En natuurlijk het feit dat mijn vrouwenarts niet alleen een GYN is, maar ook een OB. En dus aan bevallingen doet. En dus hele muren vol met baby foto's heeft hangen. En allemaal posters en tijdschriften over zwangerschap. En u weet, ik heb het niet zo op baby's. Nou ja, eigenlijk dus wel, maar dan alleen als ze van mij zouden kunnen zijn. En het allergerste? Er zitten ook alitjd allemaal zwangere vrouwen in de wachtruimte. Die allemaal klagen over de hitte, hun enkels, en ochtendmisselijkheid. En dat de zwangerschap zo lang duurt. En dat ze al zoveel pond zijn aangekomen. En dat ze jaloers zijn op mijn taille.

Ik denk dat ik na dit onderzoek maar een grote Mocha ga halen bij Starbucks ofzo. Als beloning.

What not to wear

Yesterday, I was once again forced to come out of my mono-manic cave, (read, write, analyze, talk about theories in a very confusing manner), and teach another way too practical workshop to my internship class. Honestly, I'm really still not sure why I, of all the professors around here, got stuck with the interns this semester. Of all the faculty in our department, I am seriously the only one whose experience is limited to academia. The guy across the hallway used to do something cool with film production until he got bitten by the PhD bug, and started teaching. The guy next to him, used to work for a newspaper before he too felt the desperate need to spend the rest of his life in school. My neighbor has all sorts of practical experience running radio and television stations. Yet when the internship class was without an instructor, whom did they assign it to? That's right: me. The person who is so academic that all of her part-time jobs as an undergraduate (with the exception of my famous tenure at the local McDonald's) were on campus too.

But you know, I'm not one to complain. Well, I am, but that's not the point. If you ask me to do something, I'll say yes, and figure it out later. So when they asked me to supervise the interns, I said yes, and started looking at previous years' syllabi. And I quickly figured out that the internship class receives a practical workshop each week; an hour-long class that focuses on the practicalities of finding (and keeping) a job. Now although I've spent my whole little life so far in academics, this does not mean I that a) I haven't switched jobs, and b) I have not tried to venture down other paths. So I quickly decided that this was not going to be too hard to do. That's what I thought anyway.

So yesterday I thought I would use my experience coupled with advice taken from handbooks to introduce the concept of the "job interview" to my students. They will be conducting mock interviews next week, and this week I talked to them about what questions to expect, how to prepare, how to deal with some of the questions, how to research a company prior to a job interview, and how to dress. And that's really what I wanted to talk about today: interview attire. Sorry it took me so long to get there.

Let me just come out here and tell you that I am conservative dresser. Sure, occassionally I'll go nuts and wear a skirt and boots (oh my!), but that's really about it. I don't like wearing see-through shirts, low-cut tops, or super-short skirts, and I don't really think that flaunting what you got is the best way to ace a job interview. Now I realize that perhaps I'm a little biased in that respect, but you know, until yesterday, I couldn't really imagine anyone disagreeing with me. As I was expanding on the importance of a clean and neat appearance, a student raised her hand, and the following conversation ensued (pardon me for the literal transcription, but this was just so odd, I can't even begin to summarize it):

Student: You know, I disagree with that.
Me: With what
Student: With the whole dressing conservatively thing, not showing your cleavage, or your booty, or accentuating your good points. I mean, it's worked for me, so what's the problem?
Me: Well, because you should get your job based on your merits, your achievements, not what you look like
Student: So what if you do?
Me: Well, you don't want to lead people on, giving them the wrong impression about your intentions
Student: So who cares if they think I'm going to sleep my way to the top? As long as I get hired, I'll show them the real me the next day
Me: Yes, and then you'll get fired the next day when your boss finds out you won't actually put out
Other student: Or groped
Student: No
Me: Yes! You need to get hired on what you can do, not on what you look like! Plus, what if there's women on the hiring committee? You know you're just going to turn them off..
Student: Look, Dr. R, with all due respect, you're not from the south, but that's just how things work down here. If you're a girl, and you want a job, you need to look cute. You need to work it, you know. That's just how things are down here in the south, people think it's OK, it's normal
Me: Yeah well, fifty years ago, people down here used to also think segregation was OK and normal, yet we changed our mind about that now, didn't we?

Let me tell you, after that conversation, I felt like my grandmother. Or worse, a sunday school teacher. Am I so out of touch that I don't realize it's normal to "flaunt your stuff" now to get a job? I like to think I'm not. But that leaves the scary question of what happened to girl power and the notion that you should get a job because you're good at what you do.

Our students do dress provocatively. They will wear dresses that are so little, that I won't know where to look when I'm talking to them. They will show cleavage down to their belly button, wear shorts that show their underwear, and don those Victoria Secret sweatpants that say "Pink!" on their behinds. I always figured that was just a college phase. Just like when I was in college, everyone was either wearing turned-up collars or flanel shirts. But maybe they think that that is normal attire. I don't know. But I worry for them.

Stormy weather

Part I

As you all know, I have created a life that's pretty crazy. And on the whole, I like it. I really do. The main problem I have is that I have so little time left over, I rarely, if ever, realize how much I like it. And so there is very little to balance out my complaining, griping, and cynicism. However, last night, I was granted one of those rare moments; one where you're totally at peace with yourself and the world around you.
I was driving home from my monthly Dutch coffee, and the weather was absolutely insane. The wind was howling, rain was dotting my windows, and lighting flashed continuously. Now it nothing really scares me anymore when I'm on the road, so as I turned on to one of our town's main road, I turned on my car stereo, and was immediately immersed in what sounded like the high point of a classical concerto. One of those sweeping romantic overtures full of violins and loud drums. And as I drove along this dark road, dipping and rising, with nothing but dark woods on either side, and flashing of lightning to illuminate the inside of my car, it all came together in total perfection. The music crescendoed perfectly with the weather, the road, and I was, at that very moment, just happy to be driving in my car, seeing my hands lit up by the never-ending lightning, and letting the music just sweep me up and down the hills. It was absolutely amazing, and I was almost disappointed when I reached the turn off for our street, and was once again bathing in streetlights.
Not just I, but we all should have more moments like that. Where we're just in tune with our surroundings, and are content just being there. I, and many people I know, spend so much time running around, chasing appointments, work, friends, that we forget to stop and just be. So spend a few minutes today just being. Just living in the moment. It's great.

Part II

Last night, as I pulled into our driveway, I decided that the above sentence was going to be the ending phrase for my blog. But that was before I went to sleep. Or at least, tried to go to sleep. You see, I think I can safely say that last night was the worst night's sleep I have ever had, and that is counting a few nights I've spent in transit. Right after husband-dear and I went to sleep, the incessant lightning that had been going on for about an hour turned into a full-blown thunderstorm. And I mean a fully mature, mean, and loud thunderstorm. One bang would follow another immediately, and the lightning lit up our entire bedroom. Add this to a sore throat and a persistent cough, and you can imagine I did not fall into a blissful sleep as husband-dear did. Well, at least until a timid knock on our door indicated that at least one of our two cubs couldn't sleep either. The youngest absolutely hates thunderstorms, so after one particularly vicious rumble, he had come running to our bedroom. Moments after he had picked up his bedding and installed himself next to our bed, the door opened once again. This time it was the oldest who was "concerned about lightning striking our neighborhood". After some dithering, he decided that it would probably be best to sleep in our room as well.
So there we were, two boys, two dogs, and a major thunderstorm. It was great. It really was. We all felt very cosy and secure, and the dogs loved having everyone together. When the thunderstorm finally died down, everyone went to sleep. That is, everyone except me. The dogs had decided to lick our oldest's comforter, and that kept me awake. Then the youngest started to snore every so slightly, and that kept me awake. Then my throat started to itch, and I spend the longest time trying not to cough. And then the storm picked up again. It was one rough night.
This morning we woke up to news about flood watches, evacuations, road closures, and more rain. As husband-dear put it, "It's one of those really cool nights that you hope don't happen very often". And he is right.
Now excuse me while I go hunt up some serious coffee.