Can I just say that I love coming home? I really do. I love pulling into our garage, knowing that husband-dear finally caved into my pleas to let me park in the garage which, although it is meant for two cars, is so full with his ten bikes and riding lawnmowers and golfclubs and tools and kids' bikes that it only holds one of our cars. I love opening the door to our house, and having two dogs completely lose it because I'm. Home. At. Last. There's nothing like two dogs wagging their entire bodies and jumping all over each other so they can be really close to mommy right now yay! I even love balancing my purse, my travelmug, my lunchbag, and my laptopbag, while trying not to trip over said dogs, and make my way into the kitchen to give husband-dear a hug. If I'm lucky, one of the kids is hiding behind the laundry room door, ready to scare me witless, and have me throw the cold contents of that same travel mug all over the floor, or a wall, or a dog, whichever is closer. And if I'm really lucky, dinner will ready in just enough time for me to pull off my 1950s hose and skirt, and get into some serious jammies. So yes. Coming home is fun.
So you would think that as it's now 5:18pm, and I've just finished my last class, I am dying to go home. And you know what, I am not entirely thrilled. And it's really because the moment I walk in the door, I know I have to leave again in less than twelve hours. So basically, coming home reminds of the fact that I'll have to leave again. And I guess I like home so much, I really don't want to. Every time I come home, I realize how badly I just want to stay home. Just for a day. Just so I can hang out in the afore-mentioned PJs, lay on our couch, hug the doggies, watch TV, and read books. And watch everyone else come home for a change. Because even though coming home is fun, welcoming someone else home is even more fun.
Who knows. Maybe tomorrow will be that day.
On second thought, probably not. I think I like coming home too much to miss that. So I better leave before the doggies forget all about me.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Cotton Fields
"Let me hear it for the cotton fields
The cotton fields back home"
Beach Boys
So I've begun to realize that my blog is started to resemble the conversations between the two main characters on Mad About You. All I ever seem to talk about is how I'm tired, and overworked, and my students are weird, and I work so hard, and I'm exhausted, and how Steve is a nuisance. Well, in all honesty, Steve is mainly a nuisance because he's considering leaving, but that's not the point. Not yet anyway.
Anyhoo, I wanted you all to know that I am sorry about whining. Really sorry. And I would tell you I'm going to try and quit whining, but we all know that I'm Dutch and so that's just not really going to happen. Instead I'm going to prove to you that I don't whine all the time, and write about something that has been catching my eye. And my sinuses.
Cotton.
Most people, when you mention cotton, start talking history. You know, plantations, the civil war, Scarlett O' Hara, the cotton gin, and other events from a long ago past. But when you live in the south, you know that cotton, unlike some of the other, less constructive, southern traditions, is still alive and well today. And let me tell you, it is amazing.
I remember the first time I saw cotton. It was Thanksgiving some years ago, when we went to visit my husband's family in northern Florida. We drove through southern Georgia, and upon seeing endless fields of white, I got incredibly excited, "Is that cotton?! That's cotton isn't it?"
When husband-dear confirmed my suspicions, I got even more excited, "Oh wow! Real cotton! I've never seen that before. And there's so much of it! Pull over!"
"Why?!" Husband-dear, you should probably know, spent part of his childhood in this part of the world, so the sight of cotton, like many other things other mortals find extremely exciting, does little for him.
"Because it's cotton! It's what I'm wearing!" I turned to the kids, "And the kids want to touch it too, right?!"
If you have ever had two boys, you know that anything will get them riled up, especially if it involves touching something that belongs to someone else, so it wasn't long before we had pulled over next to an endless cotton field, and I was admiring the little white fuzz. And you know what? It felt just like a sweater. Or a ball of yarn. Only it was on a stick with leaves on it. A sweater growing on a bush. Who would have known.
Now that we live here, cotton has become a way of life. I no longer scream or get all excited when fall comes around, and the cotton starts to come up. But I can marvel at its beauty. There is nothing quite like an endless undulating cotton field, with cotton so white it looks like it snowed. Or the sun coming up over a waving field of cotton. Or the way the cotton glows pink when the sun sets at night. It makes me smile and think poetic thoughts every time I see it, even if it is at 7 in the morning.
Now for those yankees among my readers, November tends to be harvesting season. This means big machines plowing through those poetic fields, big machines which somehow, in some weird, unknown way, turn all those little balls of fluff into gigantic big blocks of cotton. Huge white squares, at least eight feet tall and ten feet long, that sit on the side of the field for weeks. They sit there unmoving through the rain and winds, until a semi loads them up, completely intact, and then takes them for a ride down the interstate with nothing but a bitty tarp to hold all that cotton down. You would think all the little fluff would fly it away. But it never does. Not visibly anyway.
Of course, there is a down side. All that cotton produces enough pollen to keep the antihistamine industry viable for a whole year. And the fields do look very brown and depressing from December through to September. But those two months a year when the little white buds start peeping out are magical.
The cotton fields back home"
Beach Boys
So I've begun to realize that my blog is started to resemble the conversations between the two main characters on Mad About You. All I ever seem to talk about is how I'm tired, and overworked, and my students are weird, and I work so hard, and I'm exhausted, and how Steve is a nuisance. Well, in all honesty, Steve is mainly a nuisance because he's considering leaving, but that's not the point. Not yet anyway.
Anyhoo, I wanted you all to know that I am sorry about whining. Really sorry. And I would tell you I'm going to try and quit whining, but we all know that I'm Dutch and so that's just not really going to happen. Instead I'm going to prove to you that I don't whine all the time, and write about something that has been catching my eye. And my sinuses.
Cotton.
Most people, when you mention cotton, start talking history. You know, plantations, the civil war, Scarlett O' Hara, the cotton gin, and other events from a long ago past. But when you live in the south, you know that cotton, unlike some of the other, less constructive, southern traditions, is still alive and well today. And let me tell you, it is amazing.
I remember the first time I saw cotton. It was Thanksgiving some years ago, when we went to visit my husband's family in northern Florida. We drove through southern Georgia, and upon seeing endless fields of white, I got incredibly excited, "Is that cotton?! That's cotton isn't it?"
When husband-dear confirmed my suspicions, I got even more excited, "Oh wow! Real cotton! I've never seen that before. And there's so much of it! Pull over!"
"Why?!" Husband-dear, you should probably know, spent part of his childhood in this part of the world, so the sight of cotton, like many other things other mortals find extremely exciting, does little for him.
"Because it's cotton! It's what I'm wearing!" I turned to the kids, "And the kids want to touch it too, right?!"
If you have ever had two boys, you know that anything will get them riled up, especially if it involves touching something that belongs to someone else, so it wasn't long before we had pulled over next to an endless cotton field, and I was admiring the little white fuzz. And you know what? It felt just like a sweater. Or a ball of yarn. Only it was on a stick with leaves on it. A sweater growing on a bush. Who would have known.
Now that we live here, cotton has become a way of life. I no longer scream or get all excited when fall comes around, and the cotton starts to come up. But I can marvel at its beauty. There is nothing quite like an endless undulating cotton field, with cotton so white it looks like it snowed. Or the sun coming up over a waving field of cotton. Or the way the cotton glows pink when the sun sets at night. It makes me smile and think poetic thoughts every time I see it, even if it is at 7 in the morning.
Now for those yankees among my readers, November tends to be harvesting season. This means big machines plowing through those poetic fields, big machines which somehow, in some weird, unknown way, turn all those little balls of fluff into gigantic big blocks of cotton. Huge white squares, at least eight feet tall and ten feet long, that sit on the side of the field for weeks. They sit there unmoving through the rain and winds, until a semi loads them up, completely intact, and then takes them for a ride down the interstate with nothing but a bitty tarp to hold all that cotton down. You would think all the little fluff would fly it away. But it never does. Not visibly anyway.
Of course, there is a down side. All that cotton produces enough pollen to keep the antihistamine industry viable for a whole year. And the fields do look very brown and depressing from December through to September. But those two months a year when the little white buds start peeping out are magical.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Ikea
Ik zal u eens wat vertellen: Ik wil naar de Ikea. Ja, de Ikea. En het liefst nu. Dus als u de auto pakt, dan zeg ik mijn colleges af, en gaan we naar de Ikea in Atlanta. Lekker de Bjorn en de Romby bekijken, en Zweedse gehaktballetjes eten.
Nou ja, eigenlijk wil ik helemaal niet naar de Ikea. Nee, eigenlijk wil ik gewoon een lang weekendje naar Nederland. Koffie drinken op de markt, en wandelen over een es of een dijk ofzo. Maar ja, omdat ik zo'n carrieremiepje ben die overal een vinger in de pap wil hebben en honderduizend extra colleges geeft, en die ook nog eens zwaar onderbetaald is, kan dat niet. In ieder geval niet de komende tijd. En dat is extra zielig als u bedenkt dat ik allemaal blogs lees van mensen die net in Nederland zijn geweest, er over een paar weken weer heen gaan, of die er wonen. Het is niet eerlijk. Want ik moet zeker nog tot volgend jaar wachten.
Dus dan gaan we maar voor the next best thing: De Ikea in Atlanta. Daar loop je naar binnen, en waan je je zo in Duiven, of Sliedrecht, of Borne, of Utrecht, of waar dan ook in Nederland. De namen zijn hetzelfde, het lettertype is het zelfde, de winkel heeft dezelfde spulletjes, allen de gehaktballen zijn anders. Je krijgt er namelijk veel meer. Maar ik ben dan al wel zo geintegreerd dat ik dat al niet meer erg vind. Als ik naar de Ikea hier ga (en dat heb ik al maar liefst een keer gedaan), dan koop ik nooit iets. Ik ga er alleen naar toe om te doen alsof ik weer in Nederland ben.
Dus je zou denken, mens, ga lekker naar de Ikea dit weekend. Maar ja, ook dat gaat niet. We zijn namelijk weer eens ge"voluntold" voor iets op de basis. En ik zou natuurlijk mijn huwelijks geluk op het spel kunnen zetten, en manlief kunnen vertellen dat hij het alleen kan doen, ten slotte was hij degene die ons "aangeboden" heeft. Maar ja, alleen naar de Ikea is ook zo zielig. En mijn mede-Ikea-fan kan dit weekend ook al niet omdat haar man ergens aan de andere kant van de wereld onze vrijheid aan het bewaken is of zoiets, en zij dus met twee kleine kinderen zit. Dus het is echt heel erg zielig.
Ik denk dat ik dit weekend dus maar eens de Ikea website goed ga bekijken. Misschien dat dat een beetje helpt.
Nou ja, eigenlijk wil ik helemaal niet naar de Ikea. Nee, eigenlijk wil ik gewoon een lang weekendje naar Nederland. Koffie drinken op de markt, en wandelen over een es of een dijk ofzo. Maar ja, omdat ik zo'n carrieremiepje ben die overal een vinger in de pap wil hebben en honderduizend extra colleges geeft, en die ook nog eens zwaar onderbetaald is, kan dat niet. In ieder geval niet de komende tijd. En dat is extra zielig als u bedenkt dat ik allemaal blogs lees van mensen die net in Nederland zijn geweest, er over een paar weken weer heen gaan, of die er wonen. Het is niet eerlijk. Want ik moet zeker nog tot volgend jaar wachten.
Dus dan gaan we maar voor the next best thing: De Ikea in Atlanta. Daar loop je naar binnen, en waan je je zo in Duiven, of Sliedrecht, of Borne, of Utrecht, of waar dan ook in Nederland. De namen zijn hetzelfde, het lettertype is het zelfde, de winkel heeft dezelfde spulletjes, allen de gehaktballen zijn anders. Je krijgt er namelijk veel meer. Maar ik ben dan al wel zo geintegreerd dat ik dat al niet meer erg vind. Als ik naar de Ikea hier ga (en dat heb ik al maar liefst een keer gedaan), dan koop ik nooit iets. Ik ga er alleen naar toe om te doen alsof ik weer in Nederland ben.
Dus je zou denken, mens, ga lekker naar de Ikea dit weekend. Maar ja, ook dat gaat niet. We zijn namelijk weer eens ge"voluntold" voor iets op de basis. En ik zou natuurlijk mijn huwelijks geluk op het spel kunnen zetten, en manlief kunnen vertellen dat hij het alleen kan doen, ten slotte was hij degene die ons "aangeboden" heeft. Maar ja, alleen naar de Ikea is ook zo zielig. En mijn mede-Ikea-fan kan dit weekend ook al niet omdat haar man ergens aan de andere kant van de wereld onze vrijheid aan het bewaken is of zoiets, en zij dus met twee kleine kinderen zit. Dus het is echt heel erg zielig.
Ik denk dat ik dit weekend dus maar eens de Ikea website goed ga bekijken. Misschien dat dat een beetje helpt.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Student lingo
Ever since I was about 11 years old, I have been fascinated with the English language. And when I say fascinated, I mean really fascinated. Fascinated as in I used to read English books with a dictionary at my side. And although I no longer keep the "vocab journal" I used to carry around with me, I will still, whenever I think no one is looking, jot words I didn't know down on little post-its which I will then hide in my planner. In recent years, the post-its have dwindled though. I'd like to think that it's because I already know a boatload of fancy words, but I think the more likely explanation is that I've simply become too lazy to look up and write down the definition for every unfamiliar word. Plus I have Steve to tell me what stuff means. Who needs post-its if you have a walking dictionary right next door?
Thank goodness for my students though. Through our discussions in class, and even their papers, they keep me updated on the latest, trendiest vocabulary.
As in any subculture, there are a multitude of words one can use to express how awesome something is. Let me give you one hint: rad is out. As is cool, and hot. Just today, I read a paper where one of my students described the music used in Fahrenheit 9 /11 as "zany". Zany as in silly, ludicrous, clown-like. Zing is also a popular term nowadays, as in "The ad showed some real zing", which I'm guessing is on the same level as "fly", which means cool, hip, hot, rad, or however you express yourself when something is just really nice. And for those people who the "fl" sound is a little too much, fly can be replaced with "fi" which I have been told is short for "on fire"; "That music is so fi". And when one thinks a certain track is really fi, one doesn't just like it, no, one f***s with it. I have also learned that "shawty" is not a Brooklyn version of "shorty", but actually means "sweetie", and should really not be used by anyone over twenty-five and who has been raised knowing how to make the perfect "aw" sound in that word. In fact, if you're from the north, white, or both, you may just as well forget about it.
Then of course the words related to geography. There is the ubiquitous "ghetto" which can mean anything from "lower class" to "trashy" to "sexually promiscuous". Since we are in the south, there is the very Georgian "finna" as in "I'm finna go to the store", which is just a much easier way of saying, "I'm about to go to the store". Of course, no one here lives in Atlanta, everyone instead comes from "the a-t-l". They don't go to New Orleans either, no, they visit Narlens.
In the miscellaneous category, there is the ever-embarrassing "no homo!". For many of our male students, many of whom were born and raised in the southern bible belt, being mistaken for a gay man is the worst thing that could happen to them. So whenever my male students discuss hanging out with their friends, or liking some guy's outfits, they will always feel obliged to add a "no homo!" at the end. "Mr. Johnson's tie is really nice. No homo man!". Just to make sure you are not in any way mistaken about their sexual orientation. You will also be delighted to hear that our students don't get drunk or high, they get "zooted" instead. And in every class, there is always that moment when one or more students feel the need to call out a loud "toooh!". Yeah. Have no clue what that means. But it's loud and disruptive, so they like it.
So there you have it, DixieChick's very own mini-urban dictionary. Any additions will be greatly appreciated. My post-its are ready and waiting.
Thank goodness for my students though. Through our discussions in class, and even their papers, they keep me updated on the latest, trendiest vocabulary.
As in any subculture, there are a multitude of words one can use to express how awesome something is. Let me give you one hint: rad is out. As is cool, and hot. Just today, I read a paper where one of my students described the music used in Fahrenheit 9 /11 as "zany". Zany as in silly, ludicrous, clown-like. Zing is also a popular term nowadays, as in "The ad showed some real zing", which I'm guessing is on the same level as "fly", which means cool, hip, hot, rad, or however you express yourself when something is just really nice. And for those people who the "fl" sound is a little too much, fly can be replaced with "fi" which I have been told is short for "on fire"; "That music is so fi". And when one thinks a certain track is really fi, one doesn't just like it, no, one f***s with it. I have also learned that "shawty" is not a Brooklyn version of "shorty", but actually means "sweetie", and should really not be used by anyone over twenty-five and who has been raised knowing how to make the perfect "aw" sound in that word. In fact, if you're from the north, white, or both, you may just as well forget about it.
Then of course the words related to geography. There is the ubiquitous "ghetto" which can mean anything from "lower class" to "trashy" to "sexually promiscuous". Since we are in the south, there is the very Georgian "finna" as in "I'm finna go to the store", which is just a much easier way of saying, "I'm about to go to the store". Of course, no one here lives in Atlanta, everyone instead comes from "the a-t-l". They don't go to New Orleans either, no, they visit Narlens.
In the miscellaneous category, there is the ever-embarrassing "no homo!". For many of our male students, many of whom were born and raised in the southern bible belt, being mistaken for a gay man is the worst thing that could happen to them. So whenever my male students discuss hanging out with their friends, or liking some guy's outfits, they will always feel obliged to add a "no homo!" at the end. "Mr. Johnson's tie is really nice. No homo man!". Just to make sure you are not in any way mistaken about their sexual orientation. You will also be delighted to hear that our students don't get drunk or high, they get "zooted" instead. And in every class, there is always that moment when one or more students feel the need to call out a loud "toooh!". Yeah. Have no clue what that means. But it's loud and disruptive, so they like it.
So there you have it, DixieChick's very own mini-urban dictionary. Any additions will be greatly appreciated. My post-its are ready and waiting.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The early bird
is usually just really tired.
Can anyone tell me why I'm wide awake at 6 in the morning on a Saturday and have decided that the best thing to do is to grade some papers? Why am I not in bed asleep? Or watching television? Or reading a book? Seriously, why? I mean, I really don't get it. At all. In fact, I'm seriously beginning to consider the possibility that maybe I have become possessed by the long-lost spirit of a workaholic, or a thirteenth-century monk, or a Wall street broker in the 1980s. I mean, I like working hard as much as the next person, but six in the morning on a Saturday? And I'm grading papers? Just writing this down makes me feel like I am seriously out of my mind.
But what's even scarier is that husband-dear just woke up too, and didn't even raise his eyebrows when he saw me working at the kitchen table. In fact, he put on some coffee, and is now sitting beside me, taking care of some work-related stuff. And I just talked to a friend on Facebook who has also been up since 5:30. And I can think of at least five stores I could go to right now that are open for business. Yet I am pretty certain that if I were to call certain Dutch friends right now, they would be still be asleep, or at least less awake than I am right now. And, just in case someone missed it, they are six hours ahead of us. I know I wrote about this whole "America is up long before every one else" phenomenon a long time ago, but at this point, it's gotten ridiculous people. Do we ever take time off?
When you think about it, it's even scarier when you realize that this is a country who has a lot of fingers on a lot of potentially scary buttons. I bet you that most of those fingers did not get the recommended 8-9 hours of sleep last night. Or how about the American impact on the global economy? I bet you all those traders did not get their afternoon naps in either. Now I'm not saying that a good night's sleep could have prevented the current recession, but I think it's a point worth considering. Maybe if we all had a lot more sleep, we would understand why owning a car with a 1 in 3 gas mileage is not a good idea, why Walmart's ugliness beats out its convenience any day, and why fast food is really bad for you. I'm just saying. Sleep can make a huge difference.
So as a community, I say we need to lay off the Dunkin', stay away from the Starbucks, start implementing the French, "demain, demain" policy, drink more Malibu, as it claims to be "seriously easy going", and take at least one siesta per day. At least. And then sit back and watch the world become a better place. I promise.
Can anyone tell me why I'm wide awake at 6 in the morning on a Saturday and have decided that the best thing to do is to grade some papers? Why am I not in bed asleep? Or watching television? Or reading a book? Seriously, why? I mean, I really don't get it. At all. In fact, I'm seriously beginning to consider the possibility that maybe I have become possessed by the long-lost spirit of a workaholic, or a thirteenth-century monk, or a Wall street broker in the 1980s. I mean, I like working hard as much as the next person, but six in the morning on a Saturday? And I'm grading papers? Just writing this down makes me feel like I am seriously out of my mind.
But what's even scarier is that husband-dear just woke up too, and didn't even raise his eyebrows when he saw me working at the kitchen table. In fact, he put on some coffee, and is now sitting beside me, taking care of some work-related stuff. And I just talked to a friend on Facebook who has also been up since 5:30. And I can think of at least five stores I could go to right now that are open for business. Yet I am pretty certain that if I were to call certain Dutch friends right now, they would be still be asleep, or at least less awake than I am right now. And, just in case someone missed it, they are six hours ahead of us. I know I wrote about this whole "America is up long before every one else" phenomenon a long time ago, but at this point, it's gotten ridiculous people. Do we ever take time off?
When you think about it, it's even scarier when you realize that this is a country who has a lot of fingers on a lot of potentially scary buttons. I bet you that most of those fingers did not get the recommended 8-9 hours of sleep last night. Or how about the American impact on the global economy? I bet you all those traders did not get their afternoon naps in either. Now I'm not saying that a good night's sleep could have prevented the current recession, but I think it's a point worth considering. Maybe if we all had a lot more sleep, we would understand why owning a car with a 1 in 3 gas mileage is not a good idea, why Walmart's ugliness beats out its convenience any day, and why fast food is really bad for you. I'm just saying. Sleep can make a huge difference.
So as a community, I say we need to lay off the Dunkin', stay away from the Starbucks, start implementing the French, "demain, demain" policy, drink more Malibu, as it claims to be "seriously easy going", and take at least one siesta per day. At least. And then sit back and watch the world become a better place. I promise.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Apres moi de catalogus
Ik hoor er sinds een paar maanden helemaal bij hier. Naast de verplichte junkmail over aanbiedingen, credit cards, en gratis leningen, krijg ik namelijk sinds een paar maanden ook minstens twee catalogi per week. Ik krijg bladen van LL Bean, van Land's End, van the Vermont Country Store, RoadRunners, Cold Water Creek, en weet ik veel wat voor een andere kledingmerken. Het zijn er in ieder geval meer dan genoeg om elke week de bodem Gertie's kooi mee te bedekken, en dan is er nog genoeg over om te bewaren als "stuffing" in pakketjes naar Nederland. Dus. Het heeft een paar jaar geduurd, maar de Amerikaanse catalogus industrie heeft Dixiechick ontdekt.
Nu zou het leuk zijn als ik zou kunnen zeggen dat ik niet weet waar deze zondvloed in een keer vandaan komt. Maar helaas. Dat is niet waar. Dankzij mijn lichtelijk neurotische instelling, weet ik dat namelijk wel. Ik ben namelijk zo'n vreemd iemand die aan bijna elk bedrijf waarbij ze iets koopt een net andere naam door geeft. Dat heb ik ooit eens geleerd van een mede-student. Als student heb je nou eenmaal niks beters te doen dan te traceren welk bedrijf jou naam en adres aan wie doorverkoopt. Naast hard studeren natuurlijk.
Maar goed, ik geef dus aan sommige bedrijven mijn meisjes naam door, aan andere mijn getrouwde naam, soms met initialen, soms niet, en heel soms gebruik ik zelfs mijn titel. Dat laatste is natuurlijk totaal overbodig. Maar ja, ik moet dat ding ergens voor gebruiken natuurlijk. Anders is al dat werk voor niks. En de schuldige aan al dit postordercatalogus geweld? Allereerst: LL Bean. Maar de grootste boosdoener lijkt en een Nederlandse producten verkoop punt in de VS. Namens mijn cavia en Nederlandse ontvangers van mijn pakketjes: Bedankt!
Vorige week kreeg ik echt een catalogus die ik jullie niet wil onthouden. Deze kwam van de Vermont Country Store. Ik weet niet zo goed wat ik er van moet denken, behalve dan dat iemand ergens bedacht heeft dat DixieChick een emigrant is van ergens in de zeventig. En even for the record, dat ben ik dus niet. Nog niet.
De catalogus begint heel veelbelovend met "European Chocolate Bottles Filled with Top-Shelf Liqueurs", "Traditional German Stollen Sweetened Up With Plump Cranberries and Creamy Marzipan", "Sugar and Spice Windmill Cookies" en ""Licorice Caramels from Holland - Soft, Chewy, and Loaded with Flavor". Zo gaat het een paar bladzijdes door, met allerlei soorten soepen en koekjes, en andere "typisch europese" kerstversnaperingen. Tot zover vond ik dit wel een prima catalogus, en was zelfs aan het overwegen of de "Dutch pick and mix" de $15 waard was.
Op pagina 27 begint men echter met de kerstversieringen. En meteen wordt het minder. Ik weet dat mijn smaak misschien niet de typisch Amerikaanse smaak is, maar deze kerstversieringen deden mij denken aan het huis van mijn Oma anno 1978: "Old-Fashioned Glass Ornament Adds Genuine Sparkle" en "Colorful Bubble Lights, A Magical 1950s Tree Favorite". En laten we ook de "1940s Style Steel Ornament Hooks Won't Bend Like Flimsy Wire" niet vergeten. Ik kan u niet vaak genoeg vertellen hoe gefrustreerd ik ben met de ballen-haakjes van anno 2009. Ze zijn zeker niet meer wat het geweest is. In 1940, toen wisten we hoe ten minste echt hoe het moest! Juist.
Maar het werd nog erger. Veel erger. Wat dacht u van de volgende pyjama set, "Hot Flashes or Night Sweats? Our Feel Good Sleepwear Wicks the Wetness Away So You Finally Get a Good, Comfortable Night's Sleep". En dat staat bij een pyjama die mij nog het meest doet denken aan de pyjama's uit Enid Blyton boeken anno 1946. Met alle respect voor mensen met opvliegers, maar het enige dat tussen mij en een goede nachtrust staat is mijn wekker. Een pagina verderop wordt een "Vintage-Looking Rose Chenille Bedspread" geadverteerd die een exacte kopie is van de sprei die mijn oma in de jaren 60 en 70 op haar logeerbed had liggen. En die toen eigenlijk al niet meer kon. De catelogus adverteert verder met "Terry-Lined Waterproof Showercaps", de "Elegant Lace Table Linens designed for Mamie Eisenhour", en een haardroger in de vorm van een zachte kap die men over het hoofd plaatst, en waar een stofzuigerslang naar een handige draagbare droger leidt, waardoor "Best of all! Your hands stay free!". En als klap op de vuurpijl is er het European Toning System, waarbij de combinatie van een lotion en een strak verband in een paar dagen tijd men kan helpen bij het "tonen" van mens "jiggly arms", "Chin and Neck", en "Tummy".
Er is natuurlijk niks mis met geen van deze producten. Ik bedoel, ik ben al jaren op zoek naar een systeem waardoor ik terwijl ik mijn haar droog ontbijt kan maken voor de kinderen. En het is fijn om te weten dat ik als ooit last krijg van "jiggly arms" er nu een oplossing is. Maar ik vind het toch redelijk alarmerend dat mijn koopgedrag fabrikanten blijkbaar doet denken dat ik oud genoeg ben om dingen uit de jaren 40 te missen. Schijnbaar doe ik ergens iets niet goed. Misschien moet ik toch maar meer Apple Bottom Jeans en Coach Bags gaan bestellen. Dan komen de hippe catalogi vanzelf.
Nu zou het leuk zijn als ik zou kunnen zeggen dat ik niet weet waar deze zondvloed in een keer vandaan komt. Maar helaas. Dat is niet waar. Dankzij mijn lichtelijk neurotische instelling, weet ik dat namelijk wel. Ik ben namelijk zo'n vreemd iemand die aan bijna elk bedrijf waarbij ze iets koopt een net andere naam door geeft. Dat heb ik ooit eens geleerd van een mede-student. Als student heb je nou eenmaal niks beters te doen dan te traceren welk bedrijf jou naam en adres aan wie doorverkoopt. Naast hard studeren natuurlijk.
Maar goed, ik geef dus aan sommige bedrijven mijn meisjes naam door, aan andere mijn getrouwde naam, soms met initialen, soms niet, en heel soms gebruik ik zelfs mijn titel. Dat laatste is natuurlijk totaal overbodig. Maar ja, ik moet dat ding ergens voor gebruiken natuurlijk. Anders is al dat werk voor niks. En de schuldige aan al dit postordercatalogus geweld? Allereerst: LL Bean. Maar de grootste boosdoener lijkt en een Nederlandse producten verkoop punt in de VS. Namens mijn cavia en Nederlandse ontvangers van mijn pakketjes: Bedankt!
Vorige week kreeg ik echt een catalogus die ik jullie niet wil onthouden. Deze kwam van de Vermont Country Store. Ik weet niet zo goed wat ik er van moet denken, behalve dan dat iemand ergens bedacht heeft dat DixieChick een emigrant is van ergens in de zeventig. En even for the record, dat ben ik dus niet. Nog niet.
De catalogus begint heel veelbelovend met "European Chocolate Bottles Filled with Top-Shelf Liqueurs", "Traditional German Stollen Sweetened Up With Plump Cranberries and Creamy Marzipan", "Sugar and Spice Windmill Cookies" en ""Licorice Caramels from Holland - Soft, Chewy, and Loaded with Flavor". Zo gaat het een paar bladzijdes door, met allerlei soorten soepen en koekjes, en andere "typisch europese" kerstversnaperingen. Tot zover vond ik dit wel een prima catalogus, en was zelfs aan het overwegen of de "Dutch pick and mix" de $15 waard was.
Op pagina 27 begint men echter met de kerstversieringen. En meteen wordt het minder. Ik weet dat mijn smaak misschien niet de typisch Amerikaanse smaak is, maar deze kerstversieringen deden mij denken aan het huis van mijn Oma anno 1978: "Old-Fashioned Glass Ornament Adds Genuine Sparkle" en "Colorful Bubble Lights, A Magical 1950s Tree Favorite". En laten we ook de "1940s Style Steel Ornament Hooks Won't Bend Like Flimsy Wire" niet vergeten. Ik kan u niet vaak genoeg vertellen hoe gefrustreerd ik ben met de ballen-haakjes van anno 2009. Ze zijn zeker niet meer wat het geweest is. In 1940, toen wisten we hoe ten minste echt hoe het moest! Juist.
Maar het werd nog erger. Veel erger. Wat dacht u van de volgende pyjama set, "Hot Flashes or Night Sweats? Our Feel Good Sleepwear Wicks the Wetness Away So You Finally Get a Good, Comfortable Night's Sleep". En dat staat bij een pyjama die mij nog het meest doet denken aan de pyjama's uit Enid Blyton boeken anno 1946. Met alle respect voor mensen met opvliegers, maar het enige dat tussen mij en een goede nachtrust staat is mijn wekker. Een pagina verderop wordt een "Vintage-Looking Rose Chenille Bedspread" geadverteerd die een exacte kopie is van de sprei die mijn oma in de jaren 60 en 70 op haar logeerbed had liggen. En die toen eigenlijk al niet meer kon. De catelogus adverteert verder met "Terry-Lined Waterproof Showercaps", de "Elegant Lace Table Linens designed for Mamie Eisenhour", en een haardroger in de vorm van een zachte kap die men over het hoofd plaatst, en waar een stofzuigerslang naar een handige draagbare droger leidt, waardoor "Best of all! Your hands stay free!". En als klap op de vuurpijl is er het European Toning System, waarbij de combinatie van een lotion en een strak verband in een paar dagen tijd men kan helpen bij het "tonen" van mens "jiggly arms", "Chin and Neck", en "Tummy".
Er is natuurlijk niks mis met geen van deze producten. Ik bedoel, ik ben al jaren op zoek naar een systeem waardoor ik terwijl ik mijn haar droog ontbijt kan maken voor de kinderen. En het is fijn om te weten dat ik als ooit last krijg van "jiggly arms" er nu een oplossing is. Maar ik vind het toch redelijk alarmerend dat mijn koopgedrag fabrikanten blijkbaar doet denken dat ik oud genoeg ben om dingen uit de jaren 40 te missen. Schijnbaar doe ik ergens iets niet goed. Misschien moet ik toch maar meer Apple Bottom Jeans en Coach Bags gaan bestellen. Dan komen de hippe catalogi vanzelf.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The emigrant's farewell
"I think on its valleys with fond admiration
though never again its bright hills I will see
I'm bind for to cross the wide swelling ocean
in search of fame and fortune and of sweet liberty"
Cara Dillon
Up until maybe twenty years ago, moving to another country meant you really left. And generally, for good. You would say goodbye to all your friends and family, fully aware that your means of staying in touch would be limited to writing letters and maybe a phone call at Christmas and on your birthday, and get on a boat or a plane, without knowing if you would ever have the money to "go home". Even though I'm obviously not as old as some of the immigrants who left Ireland after the potato famine, or as the Europeans who left for the new world after the second world war, I distinctly remember moving overseas before the advent of the Internet, when an airplane ticket anywhere would involve selling a newborn, and a phone call was so expensive, you would set your egg timer for three minutes before dialinghome, and still have an aneurysm when the phone bill came in.
Nowadays, with the ease of the Internet, it's so easy to think that emigrating to another country is nothing more than moving to the next town, or a few hundred miles away at most. Calling home has become so cheap, your relatives will frown and wonder about you when you don't call home on a regular basis. There is no getting away with odd hairdoes or intense assimilation into your local culture either, as you can actually talk to and see your relatives through your webcam. Since you can now fly home for almost a nickel and a dime, there is no getting out of Christmas either, just as there is also no excuse for not staying up to speed with the Dutch news, or letting your native tongue slide just a hair, as there are millions of Dutch websites you can visit every day.
But somehow, none of that has made moving overseas any easier, at least for me. If nothing else, it has almost made it harder. When you think about it, there is the true emigrant's experience does not really exist anymore.
For one thing, there is no more real farewell. Sure, you say goodbye, but you know full well that once you get off the plane, you can get on Facebook, or Twitter, or Skype, and talk to the people back home as though you never left. And there exactly is my problem; you have left. You are now living in a new country, with new rules and customs, a new language, and a whole host of things you have to learn and adjust to. But how can you adjust to your new life when you have the ability to act as though never left your old one? When you can still chat with your old friends, and order Dutch goodies, and read Dutch newspapers every day? When you can fly home on a whim?
And on the flipside, how are you going to deal with that sense of homesickness that is inevitably going to come? A homesickness that few people will understand because well, there is the Internet. And you can talk to your friends, parents, and old neighbors through Skype, and so there should be no reason to miss them, right? Exactly. Only there is, but you won't be able to really put your finger on it. And more importantly, how can you get over missing the polder, or the dykes, or the canals, or the Dutch cows, or the bicycles, when you can look them up online?
I'm not saying we should go back to the days of the steamtrunk, the big boats, and the dramatic farewells on the docks of Rotterdam, and Cherbourg, and Derry. But sometimes I think our lives could be a lot less complicated.
though never again its bright hills I will see
I'm bind for to cross the wide swelling ocean
in search of fame and fortune and of sweet liberty"
Cara Dillon
Up until maybe twenty years ago, moving to another country meant you really left. And generally, for good. You would say goodbye to all your friends and family, fully aware that your means of staying in touch would be limited to writing letters and maybe a phone call at Christmas and on your birthday, and get on a boat or a plane, without knowing if you would ever have the money to "go home". Even though I'm obviously not as old as some of the immigrants who left Ireland after the potato famine, or as the Europeans who left for the new world after the second world war, I distinctly remember moving overseas before the advent of the Internet, when an airplane ticket anywhere would involve selling a newborn, and a phone call was so expensive, you would set your egg timer for three minutes before dialinghome, and still have an aneurysm when the phone bill came in.
Nowadays, with the ease of the Internet, it's so easy to think that emigrating to another country is nothing more than moving to the next town, or a few hundred miles away at most. Calling home has become so cheap, your relatives will frown and wonder about you when you don't call home on a regular basis. There is no getting away with odd hairdoes or intense assimilation into your local culture either, as you can actually talk to and see your relatives through your webcam. Since you can now fly home for almost a nickel and a dime, there is no getting out of Christmas either, just as there is also no excuse for not staying up to speed with the Dutch news, or letting your native tongue slide just a hair, as there are millions of Dutch websites you can visit every day.
But somehow, none of that has made moving overseas any easier, at least for me. If nothing else, it has almost made it harder. When you think about it, there is the true emigrant's experience does not really exist anymore.
For one thing, there is no more real farewell. Sure, you say goodbye, but you know full well that once you get off the plane, you can get on Facebook, or Twitter, or Skype, and talk to the people back home as though you never left. And there exactly is my problem; you have left. You are now living in a new country, with new rules and customs, a new language, and a whole host of things you have to learn and adjust to. But how can you adjust to your new life when you have the ability to act as though never left your old one? When you can still chat with your old friends, and order Dutch goodies, and read Dutch newspapers every day? When you can fly home on a whim?
And on the flipside, how are you going to deal with that sense of homesickness that is inevitably going to come? A homesickness that few people will understand because well, there is the Internet. And you can talk to your friends, parents, and old neighbors through Skype, and so there should be no reason to miss them, right? Exactly. Only there is, but you won't be able to really put your finger on it. And more importantly, how can you get over missing the polder, or the dykes, or the canals, or the Dutch cows, or the bicycles, when you can look them up online?
I'm not saying we should go back to the days of the steamtrunk, the big boats, and the dramatic farewells on the docks of Rotterdam, and Cherbourg, and Derry. But sometimes I think our lives could be a lot less complicated.
Days turning from red to green
It's hard to believe that spring
Is here so soon and I've been gone so long
Keep sending your letters on
Memories of home are still
Haunting my days and I am losing my way
High tide, changing moods
Familiar faces I know
High tide, changing light
Familiar places I'll go
Keep playing out my favorite song
Cause sometimes I sing it so loud
I'm praying that you might hear
And sing along
Days turning from sweet to dry
Memories of home are still
Haunting my days and I'll wait for your reply
High tide, changing moods
Familiar faces I know
High tide, changing light
Familiar places I'll go
High tide ~ Cara Dillon
It's hard to believe that spring
Is here so soon and I've been gone so long
Keep sending your letters on
Memories of home are still
Haunting my days and I am losing my way
High tide, changing moods
Familiar faces I know
High tide, changing light
Familiar places I'll go
Keep playing out my favorite song
Cause sometimes I sing it so loud
I'm praying that you might hear
And sing along
Days turning from sweet to dry
Memories of home are still
Haunting my days and I'll wait for your reply
High tide, changing moods
Familiar faces I know
High tide, changing light
Familiar places I'll go
High tide ~ Cara Dillon
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