Besides being really kind of In-Your-Face, the weather here is also expensive. There is of course the ridiculous expenses of running your AC from about May to September, but there are also a multitude of hidden costs that I had never really considered before moving here. Take our siding for instance.
For those Dutch readers who just went "si-what?", siding is the stuff that goes on the side of your house. Very practical term, pretty much on a par with quarter rounds. Anyway. no matter what type of siding you have, it's a guarantee that its color will fade. At least on whichever part of your house gets hit by sunlight. And it will fade fast. I mean, we're talking a new coat of paint at least every five to ten years. That is if you have wood, like we do. If you're the (un) lucky owner (opinions are divided on this one) of a house with vinyl siding, the fading may take a little longer, but in the end, the sun will win, and you will be putting new siding on your house, unless, of course, you revel in being the neighborhood pariah with faded trim and discolored wood.
But if that was it, it wouldn't be too bad. I mean, I like painting, I can so do our house, I'm not worried about it. But you see, that's not it. Because next to being ridiculously sunny and bright pretty much all year round, Georgia is also really humid, and moist, and wet. And there is nothing sexy about it either. Because not only does this mean that hanging laundry outside to dry will do little to accomplish that feat, it also means that the sides of your house that get little or no sun grow moldy really quickly. And I mean really moldy. Moldy as in people who don't clean it off on a regular basis are bigger pariahs than people who don't paint their siding every so often. Nothing will bring a house value down faster than a nasty-looking house down the street.
Now how does one get rid of said mold? Well, you powerwash your house. That is really not the problem. The problem lies in how often do you have to do that. Because if you don't like your house looking like a showercurtain in a male dorm, about once a year. And guess when you have to do this? Not in the summer, when five minutes outdoors will give you a heat stroke, no you get to play with ice cold water in the winter! Life is fun! So this winter, we powerwashed our house for the first time. And it scored very low on Dixiechick's scale of fun activities. The water is freezing. The jet is so powerful, it will take the skin off your legs (accidental experimental testing confirmed this finding as significant), and cleaning all the nooks and crannies around your various dormers and porches means you spend about three hours practicing a wide array of yoga poses on a ten-foot ladder.
But as far as money goes, powerwashing isn't too bad. Just recently, I discovered the real kicker: our blinds. The blinds on the front of the house look as good as new. Granted, they're the twenty dollar kind from Walmart (I think), but, they could pass for the fifty dollar kind, if you know what I mean. However, the blinds in the back are a disgrace. The sun beats down on them every single day, and in the past eighteen months, they have just started to disintegrate. It starts with a small crack. Then a piece will break off, then another piece, and before you know it, your blinds aren't really blind as much as they are one-eyed freaks. The upside is that I've been wanting new blinds since we moved. I want those blinds with the really wide slats. But do I really want to spend hundreds of dollars on something that is going to be cracking (and fading) within a few years? And I know I could get wooden blinds. In fact, that would be a far more practical thing to do; they're easier to clean, they don't break and crack as easily, and they look nice. But you know, if we get those, we may have to tell one of our kids that they won't be getting a meal plan when they go to college. Seriously. Therefore, so far, I've been taping the slats back together. Yes. DixieChick spends considerable amounts of time cutting off tiny pieces of tape just big enough to tape the missing pieces back together so no one can see it.
I know. Who in their right spends all that time taping up fifteen dollar blinds? Apparently, only I do. It's silly, I know. But I just have a real problem spending money on new blinds if the old ones would have been fine if it weren't for the sun beating down on them all. day. long.
So, I'm telling you, hot weather is expensive. And dangerous too.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The second amendment
When you sit and think about it, it's amazing that I've managed to live in the US this long, and never once write about that much-contested second amendment: "The right to keep and bear arms". For those of you in Europe, that debate might seem to center on gun-toting anarchists in northern Montana and statements like "From my dead, cold hands" by has-been celebrities, but let me tell you, it's a lot more than that.
When living in Europe, it's really easy to take the stand that normal people really don't have a reason to keep guns in their home. And you know, for Europe, that makes a lot of sense. After all, Europe is not really known for its wild bear population, its rabid foxes, wild coyotes, poisonous snakes, snapping turtles, or any other wild animal that could possibly threaten your life. So when I first walked into my in-laws home, and was shown their impressive collection of shotguns, to say I was a little taken aback, would be an understatement. That soon changed, however, when a snapping turtle appeared in the family pond, the same pond where our boys fish, play around in their canoe, and build sandcastles. Since we like our children with all their hands, feet, and all other body parts intact, husband-dear and I ended up standing guard on the dock with a shotgun for about half a day, waiting for the beast to reappear. It did, and we are fairly certain that husband-dear sent it to the eternal marshlands in the sky. It sounds very cruel, but when it's between a wild animal and my kids, you know, the kids, even though they can be a huge pain, well, they win out.
So when we moved to Georgia, my view on guns had softened a little bit. I still really don't like the idea of people keeping guns in their suburban home, but I am beginning to understand it a little better. Like when my friend Kay told me they kept a shotgun in their bedroom for when her husband deploys. They don't have any ammo, never have, and last time I checked, they're not ever sure what kind of bullets their gun takes, but Kay likes the idea of having something to scare off potential intruders while her husband is away and her kids are asleep in the next room. Since my brother and I used to both have a baseball bat under our beds for when our parents were out of town, I can see where she's coming from.
It's become a fact of life that when you walk into any Walmart, you will see rows upon rows of guns next to the camping gear and outdoor sporting equipment. I no longer raise an eyebrow when I help someone move and find a box of ammunition in their closet. Again, think about the baseball bats / hockey sticks Dutch people might hide under their beds. And signs by the side of the road upon entering campus, reminding people that this is a gun-free zone no longer send me into a tizz about gun laws in general, but merely make me realize that with our students' propensity to totally lose their cool, that is probably a great idea.
But sometimes gun laws lead to interesting dilemmas. This morning I heard about a specific story in GPB that had me laughing all the way down the interstate. You see, in Georgia, you are allowed to carry a gun on your person if you have a permit. However, the Atlanta airport has outlawed any guns on airport property. That makes sense to me, you know, keeping within the whole "let's keep our country safe" paradigm. But apparently it doesn't to everyone, because one of the state senators introduced a bill to lift this ban. And the reason I found this bill so interesting was because of the reasoning behind it. You see, according to Senator Shafer on GPB, this bill would "make clear that you can pick someone up from the airport without having to toss your gun onto I-285 as you exit". You can't beat that logic, now can you?
Well, of course you can. I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but don't most people plan to pick someone up from the airport? And when they do, they can plan to leave their gun at home? I personally can't think of too many "airport-pick-up-emergencies" that would warrant such a law. And even in that case, I'm sure that too can be fixed: "Honey, I totally forgot your mother is coming to town, I'm driving to the airport now to go get her. Can you meet me at the Exxon on I-75 to get my gun?". Or "Honey, I totally forgot your sister is coming to town, but I have my gun in my car, can you call her and tell her to walk down the ramp to I-85, and I will pick her up right by junction 22?"
Obviously, I've never faced this problem, and never will, so perhaps I'm underestimating the predicament millions of Georgians face every year. But all I really have to say about that is that legalizing guns might make sense, but it sure leads to some interesting dilemmas.
When living in Europe, it's really easy to take the stand that normal people really don't have a reason to keep guns in their home. And you know, for Europe, that makes a lot of sense. After all, Europe is not really known for its wild bear population, its rabid foxes, wild coyotes, poisonous snakes, snapping turtles, or any other wild animal that could possibly threaten your life. So when I first walked into my in-laws home, and was shown their impressive collection of shotguns, to say I was a little taken aback, would be an understatement. That soon changed, however, when a snapping turtle appeared in the family pond, the same pond where our boys fish, play around in their canoe, and build sandcastles. Since we like our children with all their hands, feet, and all other body parts intact, husband-dear and I ended up standing guard on the dock with a shotgun for about half a day, waiting for the beast to reappear. It did, and we are fairly certain that husband-dear sent it to the eternal marshlands in the sky. It sounds very cruel, but when it's between a wild animal and my kids, you know, the kids, even though they can be a huge pain, well, they win out.
So when we moved to Georgia, my view on guns had softened a little bit. I still really don't like the idea of people keeping guns in their suburban home, but I am beginning to understand it a little better. Like when my friend Kay told me they kept a shotgun in their bedroom for when her husband deploys. They don't have any ammo, never have, and last time I checked, they're not ever sure what kind of bullets their gun takes, but Kay likes the idea of having something to scare off potential intruders while her husband is away and her kids are asleep in the next room. Since my brother and I used to both have a baseball bat under our beds for when our parents were out of town, I can see where she's coming from.
It's become a fact of life that when you walk into any Walmart, you will see rows upon rows of guns next to the camping gear and outdoor sporting equipment. I no longer raise an eyebrow when I help someone move and find a box of ammunition in their closet. Again, think about the baseball bats / hockey sticks Dutch people might hide under their beds. And signs by the side of the road upon entering campus, reminding people that this is a gun-free zone no longer send me into a tizz about gun laws in general, but merely make me realize that with our students' propensity to totally lose their cool, that is probably a great idea.
But sometimes gun laws lead to interesting dilemmas. This morning I heard about a specific story in GPB that had me laughing all the way down the interstate. You see, in Georgia, you are allowed to carry a gun on your person if you have a permit. However, the Atlanta airport has outlawed any guns on airport property. That makes sense to me, you know, keeping within the whole "let's keep our country safe" paradigm. But apparently it doesn't to everyone, because one of the state senators introduced a bill to lift this ban. And the reason I found this bill so interesting was because of the reasoning behind it. You see, according to Senator Shafer on GPB, this bill would "make clear that you can pick someone up from the airport without having to toss your gun onto I-285 as you exit". You can't beat that logic, now can you?
Well, of course you can. I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but don't most people plan to pick someone up from the airport? And when they do, they can plan to leave their gun at home? I personally can't think of too many "airport-pick-up-emergencies" that would warrant such a law. And even in that case, I'm sure that too can be fixed: "Honey, I totally forgot your mother is coming to town, I'm driving to the airport now to go get her. Can you meet me at the Exxon on I-75 to get my gun?". Or "Honey, I totally forgot your sister is coming to town, but I have my gun in my car, can you call her and tell her to walk down the ramp to I-85, and I will pick her up right by junction 22?"
Obviously, I've never faced this problem, and never will, so perhaps I'm underestimating the predicament millions of Georgians face every year. But all I really have to say about that is that legalizing guns might make sense, but it sure leads to some interesting dilemmas.
Monday, February 15, 2010
It's a kind of magic
Last year, when our town was blanketed with a pretty layer of white snowflakes, all the locals assured me that this was not normal. In fact, this was so rare, they assured me, that it had not happened in ten years, and this snowfall was enough to ensure another ten nice winters. Well, I hate to say this, but they were wrong. Really wrong. Wrong as in, on Friday we received about three inches of snow, and on Saturday morning I didn't drive to base as much as I slid there.
Now, look, I know that half of you have been buried in the white stuff up to your shoulders since about December 1. In fact, I'm pretty sure that many of you haven't been properly dry or warm since Christmas. And so our measly three inches pales in comparison to your arctic experience. I recognize and acknowledge all of that. I do. Really. I used to live in New England, I know snow and how much it can suck. However, having said all of that, I would like to point out that we live in a subtropical climate. We have 100 degree summers, and think nothing of it! We have palmtrees in our front yard! A special Georgia-summer-proof-type of grass that dies in the winter! We are used to spending Christmas Day on our back porch and Valentine's Day eating chocolate while laying on our porch swing! Snow simply does not fit into our idea of winter. So this past weekend was a real shocker. Stores closed early, and did not open until well into the afternoon on Saturday, which although it really affected my ability to run my errands on Saturday morning, and did have me wondering about the level of ballsiness of the locals, is perfectly understandable. I mean, these are people who have never seen snow like that before in their life.
And in light of all of that, I couldn't resist but take some pictures of the crazy winter wonderland that was our town. All the snow was gone by Sunday morning, the snowmen made by the neighborhood kids were reduced to tiny little lumps with scarves, buttons, and sticks laying on the ground, and our backyard has now truly turned into a mudpuddle, but we for a few short days, we felt part of the snowmagaddon too.
The front- and backyard. It started snowing about 2pm, and didn't stop until about ten at night. The dogs thought the snow was absolutely wonderful. The odd-looking round patch in the back corner is where the pool sat during the summer. We planted rye grass there which remains green all year round, thus leaving our backyard with something that can be best described as a crop circle.
Our new buckeye tree all covered in snow.
And a little video of the snow coming down at around four. It's amazing to think that in a few months I'll be floating around in my mini-pool, lamenting the heat!
Now, look, I know that half of you have been buried in the white stuff up to your shoulders since about December 1. In fact, I'm pretty sure that many of you haven't been properly dry or warm since Christmas. And so our measly three inches pales in comparison to your arctic experience. I recognize and acknowledge all of that. I do. Really. I used to live in New England, I know snow and how much it can suck. However, having said all of that, I would like to point out that we live in a subtropical climate. We have 100 degree summers, and think nothing of it! We have palmtrees in our front yard! A special Georgia-summer-proof-type of grass that dies in the winter! We are used to spending Christmas Day on our back porch and Valentine's Day eating chocolate while laying on our porch swing! Snow simply does not fit into our idea of winter. So this past weekend was a real shocker. Stores closed early, and did not open until well into the afternoon on Saturday, which although it really affected my ability to run my errands on Saturday morning, and did have me wondering about the level of ballsiness of the locals, is perfectly understandable. I mean, these are people who have never seen snow like that before in their life.
And in light of all of that, I couldn't resist but take some pictures of the crazy winter wonderland that was our town. All the snow was gone by Sunday morning, the snowmen made by the neighborhood kids were reduced to tiny little lumps with scarves, buttons, and sticks laying on the ground, and our backyard has now truly turned into a mudpuddle, but we for a few short days, we felt part of the snowmagaddon too.
The front- and backyard. It started snowing about 2pm, and didn't stop until about ten at night. The dogs thought the snow was absolutely wonderful. The odd-looking round patch in the back corner is where the pool sat during the summer. We planted rye grass there which remains green all year round, thus leaving our backyard with something that can be best described as a crop circle.
Our new buckeye tree all covered in snow.
And a little video of the snow coming down at around four. It's amazing to think that in a few months I'll be floating around in my mini-pool, lamenting the heat!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Electricity woes
You may remember my lament about the DMV and their odd rules and behavior. Just in case you don't, or can't read Dutch - I believe I accused them of possibly being the most unfriendly bureaucracy in this entire nation. If I remember correctly, my main problem with them was their demand for a marriage certificate every time I renew my license. For some reason, they refuse to believe that a) I am who I say I am, and b) I am a legal alien without seeing a worn piece of paper that not only contains nothing but my maiden name, but is also written in Danish. I'm still not sure how this works, since they also require about three other pieces of evidence, including my passport and my green card, but I've learned to shut up and smile.
As of yesterday, however, the local DMV will be happy to know that they are no longer the sole winners of my "Nuttier than squierrel poo" award, but that they are now forced to share it with our local electricity company. The DMV still hols the "most unfriendly service" trophee, but as far as odd demands, the electric company is right up there with them.
Allow me to bracktrack for a moment here. The reason all this started in the first place is because the electric bill is in my husband's name only. It's nothing personal, but really the result of practicality more than anyting else. He was at work when I took care of the water company, hence the water bill is in my name, and I believe I was on the phone with TMO about our shipment when husband-dear called the cable company, so our cable bill is in his name. And I'm pretty sure something similar happened with our electric company. For most of our utilities, this poses no problem at all because they have actually thought about their company from the customer's perspective, and provide you with a pin. So if our internet is down and husband-dear is away, I can just call Cox and give them our pin number. It works the same with the water company too - all they want is some of personal information, and they're good to go. Unfortunately, our local electric company ("a co-op for the people, by the people, of the people!") has apparently not gotten that far yet. Unless you are the person on the bill, there is no point in calling. It does not matter where that person is, or what he is doing, or that you can give them every piece of personal information about that person that they could ever want ("Hat size? Got it!") or that your electricity has been out for hours and you're about to boil, they will not speak to you. It's a pain.
So instead of me berating the electric company every time I have to call them, or trying to con them into believing that yes, I am a male, we decided to tackle the system from within, and have me added to the bill. Husband-dear called the company, and was told all he had to do was show up, with me, at their office downtown between 8am and 5pm.
Although I could go on and on about why companies serving people insist on only doing that while said people are at work too, I won't. And although we called in the first week of January, it wasn't until yesterday that both husband-dear and I managed to leave work early, and show up at their office a little before five. And this is where the fun begins.
Husband-dear: "We're here to add my wife to our electricity bill."
Lady: "OK, can I see your ID"
Lady: "I'm also going to need to see your marriage license"
Husband-dear: "Really?"
Lady: "Yes."
Me: "Why?"
Lady: "To see if you are married"
Me: "Yes, I see that. But what if we weren't married?"
Lady: "Then he wouldn't be able to add you to his bill."
Me: "Wow" (while biting back entire diatribe about antiquated laws and normative government)
Lady: "So, your marriage certificate"
Husband-dear: "When I called about this, no one told us we had to bring that with us, so I don' thave that with me."
Lady: "Well, I'm sorry, I can't process your request."
Now for those who have met husband-dear personally, you know that that is absolutely the wrong thing to say to him. He may be a government employee, technically speaking, but this man is. all. about. customer. service. So at this point he adopts the voice he uses for stubborn airmen and children, and says, "Yes, and I understand that, however, I was not informed of that requirement. Had I been, I would have been able to comply. But I was not, and therefore I recommend we look into fixing this in a way that this company's mistake does not become my problem."
He went on, "My wife has a military dependent ID and a green card, both of which prove that she in fact married to me. We have driver's licenses that carry the same address. Could you work with those instead of making us take more time off to come into your office again?"
Can I just say that it's moments like these that make me like him even more?
Of course, this company would not have earned first place in the "Kafkaesque bureacracy" category if the lady would have accepted my military ID. Because she didn't. But I believe that she might have been just a touch intimidated by husband-dear, as she agreed to accept a faxed copy of our marriage certificate.
If all went well, as of 8am this morning, I have been added to our electric bill. I think. I hope.
As of yesterday, however, the local DMV will be happy to know that they are no longer the sole winners of my "Nuttier than squierrel poo" award, but that they are now forced to share it with our local electricity company. The DMV still hols the "most unfriendly service" trophee, but as far as odd demands, the electric company is right up there with them.
Allow me to bracktrack for a moment here. The reason all this started in the first place is because the electric bill is in my husband's name only. It's nothing personal, but really the result of practicality more than anyting else. He was at work when I took care of the water company, hence the water bill is in my name, and I believe I was on the phone with TMO about our shipment when husband-dear called the cable company, so our cable bill is in his name. And I'm pretty sure something similar happened with our electric company. For most of our utilities, this poses no problem at all because they have actually thought about their company from the customer's perspective, and provide you with a pin. So if our internet is down and husband-dear is away, I can just call Cox and give them our pin number. It works the same with the water company too - all they want is some of personal information, and they're good to go. Unfortunately, our local electric company ("a co-op for the people, by the people, of the people!") has apparently not gotten that far yet. Unless you are the person on the bill, there is no point in calling. It does not matter where that person is, or what he is doing, or that you can give them every piece of personal information about that person that they could ever want ("Hat size? Got it!") or that your electricity has been out for hours and you're about to boil, they will not speak to you. It's a pain.
So instead of me berating the electric company every time I have to call them, or trying to con them into believing that yes, I am a male, we decided to tackle the system from within, and have me added to the bill. Husband-dear called the company, and was told all he had to do was show up, with me, at their office downtown between 8am and 5pm.
Although I could go on and on about why companies serving people insist on only doing that while said people are at work too, I won't. And although we called in the first week of January, it wasn't until yesterday that both husband-dear and I managed to leave work early, and show up at their office a little before five. And this is where the fun begins.
Husband-dear: "We're here to add my wife to our electricity bill."
Lady: "OK, can I see your ID"
Lady: "I'm also going to need to see your marriage license"
Husband-dear: "Really?"
Lady: "Yes."
Me: "Why?"
Lady: "To see if you are married"
Me: "Yes, I see that. But what if we weren't married?"
Lady: "Then he wouldn't be able to add you to his bill."
Me: "Wow" (while biting back entire diatribe about antiquated laws and normative government)
Lady: "So, your marriage certificate"
Husband-dear: "When I called about this, no one told us we had to bring that with us, so I don' thave that with me."
Lady: "Well, I'm sorry, I can't process your request."
Now for those who have met husband-dear personally, you know that that is absolutely the wrong thing to say to him. He may be a government employee, technically speaking, but this man is. all. about. customer. service. So at this point he adopts the voice he uses for stubborn airmen and children, and says, "Yes, and I understand that, however, I was not informed of that requirement. Had I been, I would have been able to comply. But I was not, and therefore I recommend we look into fixing this in a way that this company's mistake does not become my problem."
He went on, "My wife has a military dependent ID and a green card, both of which prove that she in fact married to me. We have driver's licenses that carry the same address. Could you work with those instead of making us take more time off to come into your office again?"
Can I just say that it's moments like these that make me like him even more?
Of course, this company would not have earned first place in the "Kafkaesque bureacracy" category if the lady would have accepted my military ID. Because she didn't. But I believe that she might have been just a touch intimidated by husband-dear, as she agreed to accept a faxed copy of our marriage certificate.
If all went well, as of 8am this morning, I have been added to our electric bill. I think. I hope.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Shoes galore!
I know, I know, I know. This whole "the blogging week starts on Wednesday" needs to stop. I know. Trust me, I do. But you see, and yes, here comes the whining, I've just been so busy! And so tired! And (to stay in the tween-girl-whining-mode) I barely have time to think, let alone blog! My life is so crazy, you just don't understand! There's so much to do!
Besides having obviously spent way too much time among my adorable, but queens-of-whining- students, I do think I have taken fatigue to a whole new level. The past few mornings I have been unable to stir when my alarm goes off, and this morning, not even husband-dear's cold wet hand shoved under my shirt unto my warm back was enough to get me up. In fact, this morning it took him prancing around the bedroom imitating a one-man marching band, and flickering the lights on and off for me to slide myself out of bed. Hey, it may sound ridiculous, but he thought it was hilarious, the dogs were excited, and it woke me up.
As I dragged myself into our walk-in closet, lamenting once again that I did not know what to wear! And that it was unfair that I had to dress up every day! And that I really needed to iron my shirts! And that it was unfair that I had to dress up in uncomfortable hose and blazers -and- spend hours ironing! And that one day I will honestly show up in jeans! Well, while I was doing all that, I happened to look at my shoeboxes. And just looking at them made me happy to be here.
You should probably know that I don't like messy closets. Well, I don't really like messy anythings, but my clothes are on a special level. Trust me, if you had to get dressed up the way I do every morning at five, you would feel the same way. Now when I lived in Holland and had to make do with a tiny narrow standalone closet, there was little I could do. I had my turtlenecks rolled up into little piles, my shirts were bunched together so tightly I had to pull at least ten out to get to the one I wanted, and my pants were stacked three deep. But once I acquired a roomy American walk-in closet, all that came to and end. There is no more digging through full drying racks for me anymore. Everything is either folded or hung up where I can see it. I even have all my blazers hanging together, all my dress shirts are in the same corner, and I have three shelves for pants: one for dresspants, one for jeans and less formal pants, and one for capris and shorts. Now the same sort of organizational skill (or freakiness, if you will) has been applied to my shoes. I got so tired of having shoes sit on top of either shoes, scuffing and denting each other, that once I acquired said American walk-in closet, I started to organize my shoes using the shoeboxes they came in. It's practical, it looks nice, and I can usually always find what I want, providing I remember to not put my pumps in the box that usually houses my sandals.
So this morning, as I was griping and complaining about the early hour, the lack of ironed shirts, and life in general, I noticed the price tags on some of my shoeboxes. Did you know that I own a pair of black pumps, purchased in Europe, which cost me 99 euros?! Yes, 99 euros! (Steve, that's about $150, give or take a few dollars). I'm sure all of my Dutch readers are shrugging at this point, saying, "And your point is...?", and they may even be wondering what sale I got them at, or how long ago I purchased them. But you see, right next to that box, was a box from DSW, which holds very similar black pumps, only its pricetag read $34. The only two shoeboxes that were remotely similar in price were those containing my running shoes, and now that I think about it, the only reason they looked similar is because one said 129.99 euro, and the other box read $119.99. Hmm..I'm telling you, it feels really good to live in a country where I can buy a pair of shoes, have them last for years and years and years, and still have enough money left over for groceries. Long live shoes!
Besides having obviously spent way too much time among my adorable, but queens-of-whining- students, I do think I have taken fatigue to a whole new level. The past few mornings I have been unable to stir when my alarm goes off, and this morning, not even husband-dear's cold wet hand shoved under my shirt unto my warm back was enough to get me up. In fact, this morning it took him prancing around the bedroom imitating a one-man marching band, and flickering the lights on and off for me to slide myself out of bed. Hey, it may sound ridiculous, but he thought it was hilarious, the dogs were excited, and it woke me up.
As I dragged myself into our walk-in closet, lamenting once again that I did not know what to wear! And that it was unfair that I had to dress up every day! And that I really needed to iron my shirts! And that it was unfair that I had to dress up in uncomfortable hose and blazers -and- spend hours ironing! And that one day I will honestly show up in jeans! Well, while I was doing all that, I happened to look at my shoeboxes. And just looking at them made me happy to be here.
You should probably know that I don't like messy closets. Well, I don't really like messy anythings, but my clothes are on a special level. Trust me, if you had to get dressed up the way I do every morning at five, you would feel the same way. Now when I lived in Holland and had to make do with a tiny narrow standalone closet, there was little I could do. I had my turtlenecks rolled up into little piles, my shirts were bunched together so tightly I had to pull at least ten out to get to the one I wanted, and my pants were stacked three deep. But once I acquired a roomy American walk-in closet, all that came to and end. There is no more digging through full drying racks for me anymore. Everything is either folded or hung up where I can see it. I even have all my blazers hanging together, all my dress shirts are in the same corner, and I have three shelves for pants: one for dresspants, one for jeans and less formal pants, and one for capris and shorts. Now the same sort of organizational skill (or freakiness, if you will) has been applied to my shoes. I got so tired of having shoes sit on top of either shoes, scuffing and denting each other, that once I acquired said American walk-in closet, I started to organize my shoes using the shoeboxes they came in. It's practical, it looks nice, and I can usually always find what I want, providing I remember to not put my pumps in the box that usually houses my sandals.
So this morning, as I was griping and complaining about the early hour, the lack of ironed shirts, and life in general, I noticed the price tags on some of my shoeboxes. Did you know that I own a pair of black pumps, purchased in Europe, which cost me 99 euros?! Yes, 99 euros! (Steve, that's about $150, give or take a few dollars). I'm sure all of my Dutch readers are shrugging at this point, saying, "And your point is...?", and they may even be wondering what sale I got them at, or how long ago I purchased them. But you see, right next to that box, was a box from DSW, which holds very similar black pumps, only its pricetag read $34. The only two shoeboxes that were remotely similar in price were those containing my running shoes, and now that I think about it, the only reason they looked similar is because one said 129.99 euro, and the other box read $119.99. Hmm..I'm telling you, it feels really good to live in a country where I can buy a pair of shoes, have them last for years and years and years, and still have enough money left over for groceries. Long live shoes!
Friday, February 5, 2010
On automatic transmissions and the key fairy
So while on Wednesday I was blogging about how I thought I was starting to assimilate beyond the point of no return, today I was reminded once again how maybe it's not that bad. And how, if nothing else fails, I always manage to at least crack myself up.
As you may know, most American drive cars with automatic transmission. True, not all Americans do, but the vast majority haven't shifted a stick in years, and some of them aren't even sure what to do with that third pedal. Now although I don't mind driving an automatic, I really do prefer speeding around in a stick shift. There is just something incredibly cool about playing with the gears in your car, racing away at stoplights, and freaking out the people behind you by slowing down from 50mph to 35mph without hitting your brakes once. So when we sold my Volkswagen (a standard, mind you) right before we left Germany, I reminded my husband that I wanted nothing other than a stick shift when we got to Georgia. And that is exactly what I got. The fact that they had to drive the car in from Savannah and I thus had to wait a whole day for my car did not matter to me. In the same vein, having been asked from time to time by our local quickie lube to drive my own car into the bay, as the one guy who knows how to drive a stick is out to lunch, does nothing to deter me.
Now, every once in a while, I will drive in husband-dear's truck, which is an automatic. For an absent-minded person such as myself, it usually takes about one attempt to hit a non-existing clutch for me to figure out that, oh yeah, this is the car where you get to be lazy. Today, however, I believe I took my absent-mindedness to a whole new level. Today, you see, I had to take the dogs to the vet.
When we take our dogs to the vet, we take husband-dear's truck. And that's not because the dogs have already violently expelled various forms of bodily content in the backseat at least twice, and also not because the truck has black upholstery, while mine is beige (which, by the way, was not a smart choice), no, it's because the truck has a center console that flips up, thus keeping the puppies from climbing into the front seat.
So this morning, I climbed into husband-dear's truck, and drove through the rain to our vet. When I parked on top of the very muddy hill, and turned off the engine, I realized I could not get the keys out of the ignition. I jiggled, I twisted them, I turned the steering wheel, nothing. Well hot dang. As I was about to lose my temper, I figured I would, for a change, stay calm. So I decied I would a) not yell at my keys, since they would most probably be unaffected anyway, b) leave the car unlocked as I went into the vet), c) call husband-dear once I got out, and d) if he couldn't fix it over the phone, I would simply stop by his office on base on my way to the base pool. I was very proud of myself for approaching this seemingly terrible disaster in such a level-headed manner.
So I went into the vet's, figuring that anyone who was willing to brave the torrential rains, the slippery hill, and the possibility of being attacked by anyone of the dogs coming in and out of the office, to break into our truck, could have whatever was in it(I believe some gloves, an ice scraper, and a first aid kit). When I came back out, the key-fairy had not magically fixed my problem, so I called husband-dear and informed him of my predicament.
"Uhm, honey?" He said in a tone of voice I imagine him using with the infirm, "Is the car in Park?"
Me: "Uhm..no.." I stare at my keys, and then I realize what I'm sure all of you automatic transmission drivers have realized all along: You have to put the car in park before you can take your keys out. I think I may have literally smacked myself on the forehead.
After explaining to husband-dear that I had apparently temporarily lost my mind, or at least forgotten all about that, he asked, "So did you at least use the emergency brake?"
Oops. Yes, really, oops. Because, you know, without that brake on, and your car still in "drive" it could have moved somewhere. Say down that slippery hill I had just gunned up to get to the office.
But the car hadn't moved, I had gotten my keys back, and realized that perhaps I'm not as Americanized as I think. Yay for happy endings!
As you may know, most American drive cars with automatic transmission. True, not all Americans do, but the vast majority haven't shifted a stick in years, and some of them aren't even sure what to do with that third pedal. Now although I don't mind driving an automatic, I really do prefer speeding around in a stick shift. There is just something incredibly cool about playing with the gears in your car, racing away at stoplights, and freaking out the people behind you by slowing down from 50mph to 35mph without hitting your brakes once. So when we sold my Volkswagen (a standard, mind you) right before we left Germany, I reminded my husband that I wanted nothing other than a stick shift when we got to Georgia. And that is exactly what I got. The fact that they had to drive the car in from Savannah and I thus had to wait a whole day for my car did not matter to me. In the same vein, having been asked from time to time by our local quickie lube to drive my own car into the bay, as the one guy who knows how to drive a stick is out to lunch, does nothing to deter me.
Now, every once in a while, I will drive in husband-dear's truck, which is an automatic. For an absent-minded person such as myself, it usually takes about one attempt to hit a non-existing clutch for me to figure out that, oh yeah, this is the car where you get to be lazy. Today, however, I believe I took my absent-mindedness to a whole new level. Today, you see, I had to take the dogs to the vet.
When we take our dogs to the vet, we take husband-dear's truck. And that's not because the dogs have already violently expelled various forms of bodily content in the backseat at least twice, and also not because the truck has black upholstery, while mine is beige (which, by the way, was not a smart choice), no, it's because the truck has a center console that flips up, thus keeping the puppies from climbing into the front seat.
So this morning, I climbed into husband-dear's truck, and drove through the rain to our vet. When I parked on top of the very muddy hill, and turned off the engine, I realized I could not get the keys out of the ignition. I jiggled, I twisted them, I turned the steering wheel, nothing. Well hot dang. As I was about to lose my temper, I figured I would, for a change, stay calm. So I decied I would a) not yell at my keys, since they would most probably be unaffected anyway, b) leave the car unlocked as I went into the vet), c) call husband-dear once I got out, and d) if he couldn't fix it over the phone, I would simply stop by his office on base on my way to the base pool. I was very proud of myself for approaching this seemingly terrible disaster in such a level-headed manner.
So I went into the vet's, figuring that anyone who was willing to brave the torrential rains, the slippery hill, and the possibility of being attacked by anyone of the dogs coming in and out of the office, to break into our truck, could have whatever was in it(I believe some gloves, an ice scraper, and a first aid kit). When I came back out, the key-fairy had not magically fixed my problem, so I called husband-dear and informed him of my predicament.
"Uhm, honey?" He said in a tone of voice I imagine him using with the infirm, "Is the car in Park?"
Me: "Uhm..no.." I stare at my keys, and then I realize what I'm sure all of you automatic transmission drivers have realized all along: You have to put the car in park before you can take your keys out. I think I may have literally smacked myself on the forehead.
After explaining to husband-dear that I had apparently temporarily lost my mind, or at least forgotten all about that, he asked, "So did you at least use the emergency brake?"
Oops. Yes, really, oops. Because, you know, without that brake on, and your car still in "drive" it could have moved somewhere. Say down that slippery hill I had just gunned up to get to the office.
But the car hadn't moved, I had gotten my keys back, and realized that perhaps I'm not as Americanized as I think. Yay for happy endings!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Een blog over niets
Ik wilde eigenlijk schrijven over hoe beu ik de winter hier ben. De achterlijke kou waardoor we al weken niet normaal kunnen hardlopen, en waardoor we het fietsen hebben moeten beperken tot korte trainingssessies op de trainer in de woonkamer. Maar dan besef ik me dat het merendeel van mijn lezers al maanden begraven is onder vele centimeters sneeuw, en mijn klaagzang misschien niet echt kan waarderen.
Toen bedacht ik me dat ik een heel educatief blog kon gaan schrijven over de wetten omtrent persvrijheid, de toepasbaarheid daarvan op studentenbladen op een universiteit, en de onmerkbare druk die soms op een advisor uitgeoefend kan worden. Maar ja, het is een lange week geweest, mijn halve hoofd is nog verdoofd na een bezoek aan de tandarts, en dus leek me dat niet zo'n goed idee. Die houdt u nog van mij tegoed.
En dan zit je hier, als Nederlander in Amerika, met je goede gedrag. En je kan werkelijk niks bedenken waarover je op een puntige manier een gezellig kletsverhaaltje over kan schrijven. Alles is zo gewoon, zo normaal, zo, zo, ja, zoals het hoort. Toen ik vandaag een vrouw om vier uur 's middags in pyjama uit haar auto zag stappen moest ik echt hard nadenken voordat ik me uberhaupt bedacht dat dat misschien niet helemaal de norm was. En toen ik een serie foto's uit Nederland bekeek was ik me hardop aan het afvragen wat er mis was met alle mannen dat ze allemaal in polo's met met lichtelijk onzinnige opdrukken liepen.
Soms vraag ik me wel eens af in hoeverre ik ongemerkt assimileer. Is het feit dat ik een oud Nederlands kinderboek uit de jaren vijftig ("Moes ver-telt") in ons nieuwe kastje heb gezet een teken? Van het weekend heb ik op de plank er onder een aantal oude Nederlandse sprookjes en mijn oude kinderbijbel gezet. Toegeven, de reden waarom juist die boeken er belanden is vooral omdat de kaften mooi kleurden met de rest van ons interieur, en ik de laatste tijd op een soort "Eigen Huis en Tuin" kick ben. Maar dan nog. Ben ik nu ook zo'n Nederlander die haar Nederlanderschap vooral viert door uiterlijk vertoon van typische Nederlandse dingen, maar verder zo on-Nederlands is als de girl-next-door? Ik drink nog steeds veel melk, en heb op eens -ontieglijk- zin in yogidrink, maar zijn dat misschien de laatste stuiptrekkingen? Ik hoop het toch van niet zeg. Gelukkig gaan we over een maand of wat even naar Nederland. Weer even cultuur snuiven. Ik hoop dat het dan alsnog goed komt.
Toen bedacht ik me dat ik een heel educatief blog kon gaan schrijven over de wetten omtrent persvrijheid, de toepasbaarheid daarvan op studentenbladen op een universiteit, en de onmerkbare druk die soms op een advisor uitgeoefend kan worden. Maar ja, het is een lange week geweest, mijn halve hoofd is nog verdoofd na een bezoek aan de tandarts, en dus leek me dat niet zo'n goed idee. Die houdt u nog van mij tegoed.
En dan zit je hier, als Nederlander in Amerika, met je goede gedrag. En je kan werkelijk niks bedenken waarover je op een puntige manier een gezellig kletsverhaaltje over kan schrijven. Alles is zo gewoon, zo normaal, zo, zo, ja, zoals het hoort. Toen ik vandaag een vrouw om vier uur 's middags in pyjama uit haar auto zag stappen moest ik echt hard nadenken voordat ik me uberhaupt bedacht dat dat misschien niet helemaal de norm was. En toen ik een serie foto's uit Nederland bekeek was ik me hardop aan het afvragen wat er mis was met alle mannen dat ze allemaal in polo's met met lichtelijk onzinnige opdrukken liepen.
Soms vraag ik me wel eens af in hoeverre ik ongemerkt assimileer. Is het feit dat ik een oud Nederlands kinderboek uit de jaren vijftig ("Moes ver-telt") in ons nieuwe kastje heb gezet een teken? Van het weekend heb ik op de plank er onder een aantal oude Nederlandse sprookjes en mijn oude kinderbijbel gezet. Toegeven, de reden waarom juist die boeken er belanden is vooral omdat de kaften mooi kleurden met de rest van ons interieur, en ik de laatste tijd op een soort "Eigen Huis en Tuin" kick ben. Maar dan nog. Ben ik nu ook zo'n Nederlander die haar Nederlanderschap vooral viert door uiterlijk vertoon van typische Nederlandse dingen, maar verder zo on-Nederlands is als de girl-next-door? Ik drink nog steeds veel melk, en heb op eens -ontieglijk- zin in yogidrink, maar zijn dat misschien de laatste stuiptrekkingen? Ik hoop het toch van niet zeg. Gelukkig gaan we over een maand of wat even naar Nederland. Weer even cultuur snuiven. Ik hoop dat het dan alsnog goed komt.
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