I think I can safely say that I am the most horribly spoiled and decadent person in this part of town right now. I'm also slightly uncomfortable, and for the past hour have not been entirely sure of what to do with myself. You see, as I'm typing this, there is a lady named Satomi running my vacuum through our living room. And she's running it longer than I've ever heard anyone in my family use it. And this is after she dusted every little knick knack in our house, and before she is going to make true on her promise to also clean our bathrooms and get to the kitchen this morning. Yes, the DixieChick family finally has a cleaning lady.
I know I talked about getting a cleaning service months ago, but nothing ever happened. I didn't really know where to start, and had far too many questions for my already overheated brain to answer. I mean, do you just call someone listed in the yellow pages? How do you know they'll do a good job? And how do you know they won't rob you blind or break all your heirlooms? And how much do you pay such a person? And how often should they come over? And what could you expect in terms of standards? I didn't have the answers, and didn't know anyone who did, so in good old DixieChick fashion, I let it slide, and continued to do my own cleaning. And this after even husband-dear applauded my idea (it was actually more the equivalent of bringing out the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders for a half-time show actually), so you can imagine how overworked my brain is most of the time.
And then came the Dutch club. A club full of ladies who are not only Dutch, but who have also lived in this area longer than I have, and who all know all the ins and outs, including cleaning services. So when I brought up my desperate need for a cleaning service (trust me - after realizing I had not had time to clean the kitchen in a month, I was beyond despair), one of the ladies heartily recommended her cleaning lady: Satomi.
So today Satomi is cleaning our house for the first time. It's a very odd experience; there is someone in my house who does not need or want to talk, be fed, or entertained. Instead, she's using my cleaning supplies and is doing something that I'm usually in charge of without wanting any help. All she asked for was some water a while back. Just water and ice. I would have gladly brewed her coffee or tea, but no, just water. And she calls me "Miss" too. I guess this being the south I should be grateful it's not "ma'am", but still. It's not me.
I'm not sure where these Calvinist genes comes from. Well, I'm sure if I think really hard I can come up with a few places like my hard-working parents, grandfathers, and so on, but that's not the point. When talking to my mother the other day, I learned that I apparently come from a very long line of women who had cleaning ladies, or maids, or even private tutors. My mother has always had a cleaning lady, her mother had a cleaning lady, and someone to help out with the kids, and her mother had several young girls to help her out with anything from sewing to laundry to cleaning to child care. Besides concluding that I come from a long line of pampered women, you would think that I am naturally at ease with people working for me. Well, not really.
Now as Steve will gladly tell you, I have no problems bossing people around at work. I'd like to think I'm nice about it, but obviously I could be wrong, and the bottom line is that I do tell people what to do. And don't even think twice about it. I think that I may need to dress the part to make that work at home too. Maybe jeans and a t-shirt make me feel too laid back, and I need to start pulling out my dresspants and button-downs to bring out that managerial spirit. Or maybe it will all click into place when I write her my first check in a few hours. We'll see.
Wow, and she's running the vacuum again. I love her already.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Walmart blues
I've never really liked Walmart. I don't like how all stores look exactly the same on the inside. I don't care for the odd anti-septic smell that seems to linger in the aisles. And I don't really care for how most of its products seem to always be just a hair below par. But having said that, I never truly had a problem with Walmart. It's there, just like the ugly car your neighbors insist on parking in the street, and the superslow drivers that hog the left lane. So you know, you ignore the monstrously big, boxy buildings as much as you can, and only go there when you really have no choice, and life generally moves on without much further ado. Well, until yesterday that is. I hate to say this, Walmart, but we are now officially broken up. And this is not a nice break up, you know, one where you chose to move on and stay friends. Oh no, it's on. For real this time. For. Real.
To be fair, I had been expecting this breakup for a while now. It started when Walmart opened another store near my favorite mall in a nearby town, and a few months later, most of my favorite clothing stores in that mall closed down. Apparently, people would rather get the "rollback special dress pants for only $9.99" than shop at a real store where they have a choice beyond polyester, the 1980s, and pants that you make your butt look enormous. But you know, I'm a resilient person, and not one to carry grudges, so I simply discovered another mall, albeit a little further away, and forgave Walmart for its mishaps. We all make mistakes.
But yesterday took the cake. As I've mentioned before, I love making scrapbooks using real, developed pictures. I know I'm old-fashioned, but there is just something neat about seeing your pictures in print as opposed to on a screen. I suppose it's the same 1800s woman in me that loves the Pride and Prejudice series. Anyway, in the past, my experiences with the Walmart photo center has been mediocre at best, so I've chosen to instead take my pictures to one of the two Wolf Camera locations nearby. They may cost a little more, but at least my pictures don't come out looking as though I shot them with zero lighting and then ran a truck over my camera. But when I went to get my pictures developed, Wolf Camera was gone. And I mean really gone. The sign was gone, the windows were boarded up, and no matter how much I looked, there was no little piece of paper announcing they had moved somewhere else. Not to be deterred, I drove to the other location, but I saw the nightmare come to life from far away. This location had also been shut down. So I had no choice but to go to Walmart.
So yesterday, I headed to Walmart. And I was driving past all the strip malls that make up our town, I realized that the one upshot of this whole debacle was that at least no one at Walmart would look even twice at the running outfit I was still wearing. And when the ladies behind the photocenter counter assured me that they had switched photolabs, and that most customers had been much more satisfied with their pictures since then, I was a little less apprehensive at handing over my CD. As I walked around between the hunting equipment, the tire section, and the Miley Cirus "on sale today!" teens collections, I hoped I was just being a snob. Because you know, I can, well, be a walmart snob from time to time, and I realized that if I wanted this relationship to work, I had to get over my prejudices.
Well, there was no need to get over anything. The pictures were terrible. Absolutely terrible. Just to make sure, I printed one off at home, and it's not the camera, it's not my editing, it's Walmart. So yes, Walmart and I are through. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is going to be. It is threatening to mess up one of my favorite hobbies, and so we are done.
And the worst part? There is no other professional photography place to go within a fifty mile radius to get my pictures developed. Actually, I just looked online, make that eighty miles. It's a sad day for creativity.
To be fair, I had been expecting this breakup for a while now. It started when Walmart opened another store near my favorite mall in a nearby town, and a few months later, most of my favorite clothing stores in that mall closed down. Apparently, people would rather get the "rollback special dress pants for only $9.99" than shop at a real store where they have a choice beyond polyester, the 1980s, and pants that you make your butt look enormous. But you know, I'm a resilient person, and not one to carry grudges, so I simply discovered another mall, albeit a little further away, and forgave Walmart for its mishaps. We all make mistakes.
But yesterday took the cake. As I've mentioned before, I love making scrapbooks using real, developed pictures. I know I'm old-fashioned, but there is just something neat about seeing your pictures in print as opposed to on a screen. I suppose it's the same 1800s woman in me that loves the Pride and Prejudice series. Anyway, in the past, my experiences with the Walmart photo center has been mediocre at best, so I've chosen to instead take my pictures to one of the two Wolf Camera locations nearby. They may cost a little more, but at least my pictures don't come out looking as though I shot them with zero lighting and then ran a truck over my camera. But when I went to get my pictures developed, Wolf Camera was gone. And I mean really gone. The sign was gone, the windows were boarded up, and no matter how much I looked, there was no little piece of paper announcing they had moved somewhere else. Not to be deterred, I drove to the other location, but I saw the nightmare come to life from far away. This location had also been shut down. So I had no choice but to go to Walmart.
So yesterday, I headed to Walmart. And I was driving past all the strip malls that make up our town, I realized that the one upshot of this whole debacle was that at least no one at Walmart would look even twice at the running outfit I was still wearing. And when the ladies behind the photocenter counter assured me that they had switched photolabs, and that most customers had been much more satisfied with their pictures since then, I was a little less apprehensive at handing over my CD. As I walked around between the hunting equipment, the tire section, and the Miley Cirus "on sale today!" teens collections, I hoped I was just being a snob. Because you know, I can, well, be a walmart snob from time to time, and I realized that if I wanted this relationship to work, I had to get over my prejudices.
Well, there was no need to get over anything. The pictures were terrible. Absolutely terrible. Just to make sure, I printed one off at home, and it's not the camera, it's not my editing, it's Walmart. So yes, Walmart and I are through. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is going to be. It is threatening to mess up one of my favorite hobbies, and so we are done.
And the worst part? There is no other professional photography place to go within a fifty mile radius to get my pictures developed. Actually, I just looked online, make that eighty miles. It's a sad day for creativity.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Love your bed
At the moment, the competition for my favorite place is a neck-and-neck race between the couch and the bed. Our couch is cushy and very comfortable, and placed ideally in front of the television. Our bed, on the other hand, although not placed in front of a television, is a haven of comfort with at least six pillows, a thick, cushy comforter, and at least two quilts hanging off the foot board. And what's even more amazing about our bed is not that all the above-mentioned components match, but that husband-dear was responsible for picking out the majority of them. Now although I don't intend to demean my husband's ability to pick out matching bed linens, it is quite amazing when you consider that this is the same person who protested vehemently when I informed him his worn-down green chair did not match our new tan and red living room set. So what is it with husband-dear and bed linens? Did he come with a special bedroom-color-matching gene? Did his mother punish him whenever he would put a non-matching toss pillow on his bed when he was a little boy? Does he secretly want to be a bedroom designer, but is afraid to tell me? I'm sure you will all breathe a sigh of relief when I, when lying in my color-coordinated bed last week, realized it was, once again, a cultural thing.
You see, after a brief and informal survey of friend's bedrooms, I realized that most Americans have the most beautifully made up beds. They will have a comforter on top of all their sheets and blankets, one that matches the heaps of toss pillows at the head of the bed, a bedskirt or dustruffle at the bottom of the bed to compliment the pillows and comforter, and sometimes, they will even have another matching blanket at the foot of the bed. In fact, even home-sewn quilts are usually made using colors that will blend in with all the other fluffiness on people's beds. And for those of you who have little knowledge of the "typical" American bedroom; all these different components are not just thrown on to the bed, oh my goodness no. Each toss pillow is usually carefully arranged so that the collection of pillows makes up a pleasing combination of colors and sizes, the comforter is tucked in so tight you could bounce a quarter of it (although, admittedly, that particular trait could be one reserved solely for our house), and on the whole the bed looks as though it could be on a showroom floor.
Now let's think about most Dutch bedrooms, well at least the ones I know, and the most that comes to mind is a simple bed with two pillows and a duvet. In most cases, the pillowcases will match the duvet, but that is, in my knowledge of Dutch beds, the extent of the color coordination of the Dutch bed. Although most Dutch beds are nicely made as well, there is no bedskirt hiding the bottom of the bed (or even better, what's underneath the bed), no pretty little toss pillows, no cute shams, and no home-sewn matching quilts. And yes, I can now hear all the Dutch people say, "And? It's a bed. You sleep in it. You don't sit there with your eyes open looking at your bed at night, now do you?" And you know, they are absolutely right, of course, But this only further underlines my proposal that we have uncovered yet another cultural difference between Americans and Dutch people.
And the luxury of American beds does not end with their linens, it extends all the way to the bed itself. While Dutch beds are usually simple beds, with little frou-frou, and very few having a head board or a foot board, most American beds are like the Cadillacs from the 1950s: An over-the-top extravaganza. They have headboards and foot boards, in many cases taller than I am, pillars, wrought-iron canopies, wrought-iron legs, carved woodwork, and are so high off the ground that some beds come with a little step to get into bed.
Why all this luxury you ask? You know, I don't know. But when you consider that at the moment most of time at home is spend in bed, you will understand that I fully appreciate every extravagant feature our American bedroom set has to offer.
You see, after a brief and informal survey of friend's bedrooms, I realized that most Americans have the most beautifully made up beds. They will have a comforter on top of all their sheets and blankets, one that matches the heaps of toss pillows at the head of the bed, a bedskirt or dustruffle at the bottom of the bed to compliment the pillows and comforter, and sometimes, they will even have another matching blanket at the foot of the bed. In fact, even home-sewn quilts are usually made using colors that will blend in with all the other fluffiness on people's beds. And for those of you who have little knowledge of the "typical" American bedroom; all these different components are not just thrown on to the bed, oh my goodness no. Each toss pillow is usually carefully arranged so that the collection of pillows makes up a pleasing combination of colors and sizes, the comforter is tucked in so tight you could bounce a quarter of it (although, admittedly, that particular trait could be one reserved solely for our house), and on the whole the bed looks as though it could be on a showroom floor.
Now let's think about most Dutch bedrooms, well at least the ones I know, and the most that comes to mind is a simple bed with two pillows and a duvet. In most cases, the pillowcases will match the duvet, but that is, in my knowledge of Dutch beds, the extent of the color coordination of the Dutch bed. Although most Dutch beds are nicely made as well, there is no bedskirt hiding the bottom of the bed (or even better, what's underneath the bed), no pretty little toss pillows, no cute shams, and no home-sewn matching quilts. And yes, I can now hear all the Dutch people say, "And? It's a bed. You sleep in it. You don't sit there with your eyes open looking at your bed at night, now do you?" And you know, they are absolutely right, of course, But this only further underlines my proposal that we have uncovered yet another cultural difference between Americans and Dutch people.
And the luxury of American beds does not end with their linens, it extends all the way to the bed itself. While Dutch beds are usually simple beds, with little frou-frou, and very few having a head board or a foot board, most American beds are like the Cadillacs from the 1950s: An over-the-top extravaganza. They have headboards and foot boards, in many cases taller than I am, pillars, wrought-iron canopies, wrought-iron legs, carved woodwork, and are so high off the ground that some beds come with a little step to get into bed.
Why all this luxury you ask? You know, I don't know. But when you consider that at the moment most of time at home is spend in bed, you will understand that I fully appreciate every extravagant feature our American bedroom set has to offer.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Een workaholic met excuses
Het is officieel: Ik ben workaholic.
Ik heb net even zitten tellen, en ik heb vandaag officieel 26 dagen achtereen gewerkt. Zesentwintig dagen. Zonder pauze. Het moet natuurlijk niet gekker worden. Maar dit weekend neem ik een pauze, echt. Ik heb denk ik zowaar zelfs niks te doen dit weekend. Het moet natuurlijk nog niet gekker worden, maar het is waar. De midterms zijn dan voorbij, mijn artikel is af, en mijn online cursus is in elkaar gezet. De schoonmaakmevrouw komt volgende week voor het eerst, dus ook daar hoef ik me niet druk om te maken. Het is ongelooflijk.
En weet u wat nog ongelooflijker is? Ik vind het niet eens erg, zo zesentwintig dagen achtereen werken. Ik zou eigenlijk nog best wel door kunnen dit weekend. Maar ja, getrouwd, kinderen, en dat wil ook allemaal aandacht, dus ik niet dat dat gaat gebeuren.
Wat ik wel erg vind zijn alle dingen (en mensen) die ik hierdoor heb laten liggen. Beloftes die ik uit heb moeten stellen, afspraken die ik af heb moeten zeggen. En vandaar dit excuus-blog.
Allereerst mijn welgemeende excuses aan Bibi (en dus ook Cisca maar haar geweldige idee om al haar bloglezers elkaar een cadeautje te laten sturen). Ik moet het cadeautje nog steeds regelen. Het is schandalig, ik weet het. Misschien doet het je goed te weten dat je al een maand op de "to do" lijst op de koelkast staat, met naam en al? En vanwege je aparte naam is nu heel de familie en de vrienden die ondertussen langs zijn geweest op de hoogte van Cisca's idee, mijn cadeau-idee voor Bibi, en wie Bibi is (een koele kruidenvrouw uit PA natuurlijk!).
Daarnaast mijn oprechte "sorry" aan mijn moeder. Je mag me hierbij officieel onterven. Ik weet het, je hebt me al een maand geleden gevraagd te kijken voor die fliptops of topflips of weet ik veel wat, en ik ben nog steeds niet op pad geweest. Sorry. Is het minder erg als ik je vertel dat ik al drie weken nieuwe pantykousjes nodig heb, en bij gebrek aan tijd om nieuwe te kopen nu maar twee verschillende, met elk een andere kleur, draag?
Ook een enorme sorry aan Vic, Marieke, Margot, en al die andere mensen die ik al weken moet emailen. Excuses. Ik kan het leuk verpakken, en zeggen dat ik eigenlijk toch niks nieuws te vertellen had ("ik werk nog steeds hard"), maar ja, dat maakt het niet helemaal goed natuurlijk.
En natuurlijk mijn oprechte exuses aan het zwembad, dat allang opgeruimd had moeten worden, maar nog steeds moedeloos in de achtertuin staat. En nu ik toch huishoudelijk bezig ben; sorry veranda, ik ga die enorme spin echt van het weekend compleet met web en al verwijderen. En ramen, ook jullie ben ik niet vergeten hoor. Ik zal van het weekend manlief opdracht geven jullie allemaal eens goed te soppen.
Familie, vanaf nu af aan ben ik weer normaal. Beloof. Geen sprintjes meer de trap op omdat ik in een keer een geweldig idee heb voor het artikel. Geen verbod meer op boven spelen. Geen werk-gerelateerde discussies met mezelf onder het eten ("En wat als ik nou eens die alinea daar heen verplaats..wat zei je schat? Je wil meer mais? Ja hoor..")
En last but not least: mijn bloglezers. In plaats van semi-diepgaande verhandelingen over leven in het zuiden hebben jullie de laatste weken allemaal neuzelstukjes op jullie bord gekregen; lijstjes, verhalen over de vrouwendokter, en weet ik veel wat voor een onzinnige dingen. Welgemeende excuses hiervoor. Vanaf nu ga ik mijn best doen er weer een cultureel-verantwoord blog van te maken. En het volgende onderwerp heb ik al:
De Amerikaanse liefdesrelatie met het bed.
Ik heb net even zitten tellen, en ik heb vandaag officieel 26 dagen achtereen gewerkt. Zesentwintig dagen. Zonder pauze. Het moet natuurlijk niet gekker worden. Maar dit weekend neem ik een pauze, echt. Ik heb denk ik zowaar zelfs niks te doen dit weekend. Het moet natuurlijk nog niet gekker worden, maar het is waar. De midterms zijn dan voorbij, mijn artikel is af, en mijn online cursus is in elkaar gezet. De schoonmaakmevrouw komt volgende week voor het eerst, dus ook daar hoef ik me niet druk om te maken. Het is ongelooflijk.
En weet u wat nog ongelooflijker is? Ik vind het niet eens erg, zo zesentwintig dagen achtereen werken. Ik zou eigenlijk nog best wel door kunnen dit weekend. Maar ja, getrouwd, kinderen, en dat wil ook allemaal aandacht, dus ik niet dat dat gaat gebeuren.
Wat ik wel erg vind zijn alle dingen (en mensen) die ik hierdoor heb laten liggen. Beloftes die ik uit heb moeten stellen, afspraken die ik af heb moeten zeggen. En vandaar dit excuus-blog.
Allereerst mijn welgemeende excuses aan Bibi (en dus ook Cisca maar haar geweldige idee om al haar bloglezers elkaar een cadeautje te laten sturen). Ik moet het cadeautje nog steeds regelen. Het is schandalig, ik weet het. Misschien doet het je goed te weten dat je al een maand op de "to do" lijst op de koelkast staat, met naam en al? En vanwege je aparte naam is nu heel de familie en de vrienden die ondertussen langs zijn geweest op de hoogte van Cisca's idee, mijn cadeau-idee voor Bibi, en wie Bibi is (een koele kruidenvrouw uit PA natuurlijk!).
Daarnaast mijn oprechte "sorry" aan mijn moeder. Je mag me hierbij officieel onterven. Ik weet het, je hebt me al een maand geleden gevraagd te kijken voor die fliptops of topflips of weet ik veel wat, en ik ben nog steeds niet op pad geweest. Sorry. Is het minder erg als ik je vertel dat ik al drie weken nieuwe pantykousjes nodig heb, en bij gebrek aan tijd om nieuwe te kopen nu maar twee verschillende, met elk een andere kleur, draag?
Ook een enorme sorry aan Vic, Marieke, Margot, en al die andere mensen die ik al weken moet emailen. Excuses. Ik kan het leuk verpakken, en zeggen dat ik eigenlijk toch niks nieuws te vertellen had ("ik werk nog steeds hard"), maar ja, dat maakt het niet helemaal goed natuurlijk.
En natuurlijk mijn oprechte exuses aan het zwembad, dat allang opgeruimd had moeten worden, maar nog steeds moedeloos in de achtertuin staat. En nu ik toch huishoudelijk bezig ben; sorry veranda, ik ga die enorme spin echt van het weekend compleet met web en al verwijderen. En ramen, ook jullie ben ik niet vergeten hoor. Ik zal van het weekend manlief opdracht geven jullie allemaal eens goed te soppen.
Familie, vanaf nu af aan ben ik weer normaal. Beloof. Geen sprintjes meer de trap op omdat ik in een keer een geweldig idee heb voor het artikel. Geen verbod meer op boven spelen. Geen werk-gerelateerde discussies met mezelf onder het eten ("En wat als ik nou eens die alinea daar heen verplaats..wat zei je schat? Je wil meer mais? Ja hoor..")
En last but not least: mijn bloglezers. In plaats van semi-diepgaande verhandelingen over leven in het zuiden hebben jullie de laatste weken allemaal neuzelstukjes op jullie bord gekregen; lijstjes, verhalen over de vrouwendokter, en weet ik veel wat voor een onzinnige dingen. Welgemeende excuses hiervoor. Vanaf nu ga ik mijn best doen er weer een cultureel-verantwoord blog van te maken. En het volgende onderwerp heb ik al:
De Amerikaanse liefdesrelatie met het bed.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Ten things..
...you should know before you go to college. It's midterms once again, and after a rousting inspirational discussion with one of my upper-level courses, I decided it was high time to post the ten things all students really should know before they venture on to "the yard".
10. Smile! You made it! Don't be down because you have to go through another four years of school. No one made you come here, so all of this is your own doing, and we do expect you to enjoy the ride.
9. College is not easy, no. In fact, we like to make it as hard as possible for you. It's called "challenging you", and it is what will give you the knowledge you need to succeed. Kicking and screaming will not help.
8. You are now 18. That means you can vote, enlist in the military, and engage in a whole slew of adult-like activities. Including taking responsibilities for your actions. Whatever excuse you may have, unless it involves the words" doctor", "jury duty", or "death", they're only going to aggrvate your professor. Noblesse oblige. Or, I suppose I should say, adulte oblige.
7. Don't use the weather as an excuse. We know that it's raining. We know it's hot. We know it's freezing. We fought our way through these dire elements too, and we made it. Do not expect symathy because you had to walk half a mile from your dorm to our classroom in the rain.
6. Wear normal clothes when you come to class. We bother to change after we get up out of bed. So should you. Sweatpants, flipflops, and white tennis socks are simply not appropriate attire in college. Unless you're actually in bed that is.
5. Talk to your professors. We may not want to hear your entire life story, or what all you did last night at the club, but we do like to know what is going on your life, especially if it is going to somehow impact your academic performance. We're not going to get mad, or think you're silly when you cry, we've been there and done that (and still do), in fact, we may be whole lot more understanding than you think. On the other hand, please don't expect sympathy if you're failing the class and then come to us the day that grades are due to inform us about the real reason why you didn't perform up to par.
4. Be gracious when defeated. Know that when you want to be the big jock on campus, the favorite soror or brudder, the A-student, and the student volunteer of the year, something is going to give. And I'm going to warn you right now, it will probably be academics. If this happens, don't blame anyone but yourself, be gracious about your mistake, and do better.
3. Dream little. Act big. Don't waste time dreaming about where you want to go, or what you are going to do. Work at it.
2. Be nice to everyone, but especially your teachers. They work hard (for little pay, even though that is, admittedly, their problem), and have the power to defer your graduation until eternity.
And finally:
1. Bad things happen to those who procrastinate.
10. Smile! You made it! Don't be down because you have to go through another four years of school. No one made you come here, so all of this is your own doing, and we do expect you to enjoy the ride.
9. College is not easy, no. In fact, we like to make it as hard as possible for you. It's called "challenging you", and it is what will give you the knowledge you need to succeed. Kicking and screaming will not help.
8. You are now 18. That means you can vote, enlist in the military, and engage in a whole slew of adult-like activities. Including taking responsibilities for your actions. Whatever excuse you may have, unless it involves the words" doctor", "jury duty", or "death", they're only going to aggrvate your professor. Noblesse oblige. Or, I suppose I should say, adulte oblige.
7. Don't use the weather as an excuse. We know that it's raining. We know it's hot. We know it's freezing. We fought our way through these dire elements too, and we made it. Do not expect symathy because you had to walk half a mile from your dorm to our classroom in the rain.
6. Wear normal clothes when you come to class. We bother to change after we get up out of bed. So should you. Sweatpants, flipflops, and white tennis socks are simply not appropriate attire in college. Unless you're actually in bed that is.
5. Talk to your professors. We may not want to hear your entire life story, or what all you did last night at the club, but we do like to know what is going on your life, especially if it is going to somehow impact your academic performance. We're not going to get mad, or think you're silly when you cry, we've been there and done that (and still do), in fact, we may be whole lot more understanding than you think. On the other hand, please don't expect sympathy if you're failing the class and then come to us the day that grades are due to inform us about the real reason why you didn't perform up to par.
4. Be gracious when defeated. Know that when you want to be the big jock on campus, the favorite soror or brudder, the A-student, and the student volunteer of the year, something is going to give. And I'm going to warn you right now, it will probably be academics. If this happens, don't blame anyone but yourself, be gracious about your mistake, and do better.
3. Dream little. Act big. Don't waste time dreaming about where you want to go, or what you are going to do. Work at it.
2. Be nice to everyone, but especially your teachers. They work hard (for little pay, even though that is, admittedly, their problem), and have the power to defer your graduation until eternity.
And finally:
1. Bad things happen to those who procrastinate.
Monday, October 5, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
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
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
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