After months of frost, freezing rains, dying palm trees, and even snow, spring has finally come to our neck of the woods. With the utter lack of an Indian summer last year and a winter that on started October 1, I had almost forgotten what flowers and blooming plants looked like, and started to believe that our grass would never turn green again. But then, yesterday, as I was driving home, I finally noticed promising amounts of teeny tiny white-green blossoms on all of the peartrees in our neighborhood. A few other trees were also starting to show tiny red buds, but since I, a true arbor-ignoramus, don't know their names, we'll leave them out of this pastoral picture for now. All the other trees are still bare, but the blossoms really perked me up. It's really amazing it's taken so long, but this year, where the winter was almost arctic for our standards, spring is a little behind. Usually spring arrives sometime during the aptly named spring break, and I'll be driving through the blossoms on my first day back to work. This year that drive is probably still a week or two away.
On a side-note, I believe that we are the only part of the country where this actually applies, and was wondering why other other places don't rename their break "we wish it was spring break" as the words "spring break" seem outright cruel when you're still facing snow and frost.
But anyway, spring is now officially in the air, and with that, I could not stay indoors for long. And considering the week I've had, this is really a miracle. I won't bore you with the sleepless details of a week that started on Saturday, less than twelve hours after we got back from our break, that included two very late nights, and that culminated in a night of grading that didn't end until midnight, leaving me with four hours of sleep, but let's just say I've had better weeks. Any person in their right mind would taken last night off, parked themselves on the couch, and dedicated their night to eating their way through an entire chocolate Easter bunny while watching mindless shows on television, and trying to ignore the piles of papers that still needed grading on the kitchen table. But as we all know, at times I am less than lucid, so I decided to go for a run instead. I mean, honestly, chocolate on the couch versus a long and painful run...the choice seems clear, doesn't it? But the fact that husband-dear was telling me I really needed it, which is husband-code for "you're in a really grumpy mood, go and get it rid of it in a place where you can't pick on me", clinched the deal, and I slipped on my running shoes and walked out the door.
And am I glad I did. For about thirty minutes, I once again realized why I, at times anyway, really like living in the south. It started when I was walking down our cul-de-sac, and the ten year old daughter of one of our neighbors, who was skipping in the opposite direction with her younger sister said to me, "My sister thinks you're really pretty."
Well, that just made my night. And my day. And possibly the entire week.
The whole situation was made even more adorable by the fact that she said "prutty" instead of "pretty", a lovely southern twist that will in a couple of years probably morphe into "purty". Where else in the world will you walk down a street to have a little girl tell you you're "prutty"?
But it didn't stop there. I know I've written about the scents of spring in Georgia before, and I was delighted to discover that with the blossoming of the pear trees, the famous scent was back. It was very light, but combined with the crisp spring air, it was absolutely delicious. It was as though someone had light a thousand Glade candles along the road, in one of the best examples of nature imitating art. Add to that the fact that our neighborhood is, unbeknowst to me, awash in pear trees, and I could see the lusciously blooming trees around every corner, and you can imagine that I was elated. Or well, as happy as one can be when running up hills and down long winding roads with joints and muscles that had about four hours of sleep the night before, and were thusprotesting vehemently.
But what really cemented my love for Georgia springs? The amazing sunsets I was rewarded with as I was running home. Orange, red, and purple hues shot through the sky, and even when the sun had disappeared, all the houses and trees were still glowing in a soft red light.
So last night, I think I can honestly I was at peace with the world. And my students. And silly administrators. And piles of grading. Life was good, even if just for one brief half hour.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
And now for something completely different...
...windows.
Dutch windows to be exact.
Yes, I said Dutch windows. You see, they are fundamentally different from windows here in Georgia. And this has nothing to do with the fact a Dutch living room has more square feet of window pane than we have in our entire house, or with the fact Dutch windows lack screens, which means that creepy crawlers are able to find their way into your bedroom and bathroom, or the fact that a Dutch window does not just slide open and shut, no it can be cracked, slanted, set ajar, and opened in about a thousand other ingenious ways.
Dutch windows are different because they actually really work. I'm not sure what Georgia builders think when they put in windows, but I'm guessing it's something like "Well, they keep most of the heat/ cold out, that should be good enough". Although our house isn't as bad as some of the older Georgia homes, where you can actually feel a breeze when you stand in front of a closed window, our windows, or so I learned last week, have nothing on the hermetically sealing window panes they use in the Netherlands.
I generally like our less-than-perfect windows open. Especially in our bedroom, and especially at night. Between our two dogs and husband-dear, who is, after all, a man and thus comes with certain, well, manly scents, I think we really need it too. Husband-dear does not always see my way (I think it's a genetic thing - the same gene that gets men riled up about farting contests) , but I think that over the years he's learned that this is one battle he won't win, so he's given in. So, unless it's scorching or freezing outside, our windows in the bedroom are open.
Now last week in Holland, it was cold. Really cold. It was so cold, it snowed, husband-dear almost borrowed some of my hose for under his jeans until he discovered he had brought his tight running pants, thus saving his masculinity, and I spent the whole week imitating either a Disney princess or a Muslim (opinions are still divided), by wrapping a pink scarf around my head. It was cold enough that I let husband-dear use me a heating pad and wrap himself all over me in bed, something that is usually a no-no, as most of the time, I am warm enough to heat a little village all on my own. But not last week. So opening the window was also just not an option. We figured it was just us, no dogs, and no carpet, so we should be fine.
Until we woke up in the morning, opened the curtains, and noticed that the entire window was covered in a thin layer of, well, wet. I think it's officially called condensation or fug, but the bottom line is that it's all the moisture you've breathed out over night, and so it's just really yucky wet stuff.
"I didn't know we were that gross." I said.
Husband-dear wondered why we never saw that at home, even if we slept with the windows open, and made a few choice remarks regarding sweat production (it's that same gene as the farting competitions, I'm telling you).
And then I came to the realization, "It's because these windows actually work."
"Oooh..yeah, like in Germany." Husband-dear agreed.
Yes, like in Germany, where our German landlords were so frightened of the possibility of those sweaty Americans leaving behind a mildewed house that they had posted a sign on the back of every door and the inside of every cabinet (OK, maybe it was every other cabinet), to please keep a window open at all times. We just about froze our butts off there in the winter, but left behind a beautifully ventilated home. I guess our forgiving Georgia windows had made us forget about that.
So, to make a long story short, we spent the rest of the week with the window on the "cracked" position, and an extra quilt on our bed. And loved waking up at home without any reminder of bodily functions on our windows. It's great to have malfunctioning windows.
Dutch windows to be exact.
Yes, I said Dutch windows. You see, they are fundamentally different from windows here in Georgia. And this has nothing to do with the fact a Dutch living room has more square feet of window pane than we have in our entire house, or with the fact Dutch windows lack screens, which means that creepy crawlers are able to find their way into your bedroom and bathroom, or the fact that a Dutch window does not just slide open and shut, no it can be cracked, slanted, set ajar, and opened in about a thousand other ingenious ways.
Dutch windows are different because they actually really work. I'm not sure what Georgia builders think when they put in windows, but I'm guessing it's something like "Well, they keep most of the heat/ cold out, that should be good enough". Although our house isn't as bad as some of the older Georgia homes, where you can actually feel a breeze when you stand in front of a closed window, our windows, or so I learned last week, have nothing on the hermetically sealing window panes they use in the Netherlands.
I generally like our less-than-perfect windows open. Especially in our bedroom, and especially at night. Between our two dogs and husband-dear, who is, after all, a man and thus comes with certain, well, manly scents, I think we really need it too. Husband-dear does not always see my way (I think it's a genetic thing - the same gene that gets men riled up about farting contests) , but I think that over the years he's learned that this is one battle he won't win, so he's given in. So, unless it's scorching or freezing outside, our windows in the bedroom are open.
Now last week in Holland, it was cold. Really cold. It was so cold, it snowed, husband-dear almost borrowed some of my hose for under his jeans until he discovered he had brought his tight running pants, thus saving his masculinity, and I spent the whole week imitating either a Disney princess or a Muslim (opinions are still divided), by wrapping a pink scarf around my head. It was cold enough that I let husband-dear use me a heating pad and wrap himself all over me in bed, something that is usually a no-no, as most of the time, I am warm enough to heat a little village all on my own. But not last week. So opening the window was also just not an option. We figured it was just us, no dogs, and no carpet, so we should be fine.
Until we woke up in the morning, opened the curtains, and noticed that the entire window was covered in a thin layer of, well, wet. I think it's officially called condensation or fug, but the bottom line is that it's all the moisture you've breathed out over night, and so it's just really yucky wet stuff.
"I didn't know we were that gross." I said.
Husband-dear wondered why we never saw that at home, even if we slept with the windows open, and made a few choice remarks regarding sweat production (it's that same gene as the farting competitions, I'm telling you).
And then I came to the realization, "It's because these windows actually work."
"Oooh..yeah, like in Germany." Husband-dear agreed.
Yes, like in Germany, where our German landlords were so frightened of the possibility of those sweaty Americans leaving behind a mildewed house that they had posted a sign on the back of every door and the inside of every cabinet (OK, maybe it was every other cabinet), to please keep a window open at all times. We just about froze our butts off there in the winter, but left behind a beautifully ventilated home. I guess our forgiving Georgia windows had made us forget about that.
So, to make a long story short, we spent the rest of the week with the window on the "cracked" position, and an extra quilt on our bed. And loved waking up at home without any reminder of bodily functions on our windows. It's great to have malfunctioning windows.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Doors and the Dutch
I want everyone reading this, if they're at home, to get up out of their chair, walk out the front door, and come back inside. Then count the number of doors you have to open (and close) to get to your computer. If you're not at home, close your eyes, and do it in your head.
I'll wait.
----
I assume you've just taken a real or imaginary trip through your house, and can now tell me exactly how many doors you've walked through. If you're American, or live in an American home, I'm going to guess your number is going to be around one, maybe two. There is the front door, and then possibly the door to your office. If you're Dutch, on the other hand, your number could peak as high as four.
I was never aware of the high density of doors in Dutch homes until last week, when I spent at least half my trips through people's houses doubling back to close the various doors I had opened to get to such mundane places as the bathroom, the coat closet, our bedroom, or even the outside. Some houses even had a door for the stairs. It was amazing. There were doors with wood paneling, doors with windows in them, doors with stained glass panes, white doors, brown doors, wooden doors...lots and lots doors.
Perhaps we live in a really cheap house, and our builder was just extremely stingy, but our house here in Georgia is very sparse on doors. Except for our bedrooms, bathrooms, various closets, and the laundry room, our house has no doors. You could walk into the front door and out the back door, passing through our dining room, living room, and kitchen, without ever touching a doorknob. Our pantry has a door too, come to think of it, but the kitchen itself doesn't. It has little walkways with trim, that the kids use as a jungle gym. But no doors. And the doors that we do have, are really only closed when the rooms are in use. Otherwise, we have no particular rules for closing or opening doors. You do what you want with doors in our house, for we have absolute door freedom.
So, to us, the Dutch door density was quite a revelation. In my brother's house alone, to get from the dining room to the powder room, you had to open the door to the kitchen, and the door to the hallway to get to the downstairs bathroom. I won't even describe the amount of doors it took to get to the upstairs bathroom. And what was even more mind-boggling? Every single one of those doors was closed. All the time.
At first I thought Dutch people are just extremely disciplined, and we here in Georgia are nothing but a bunch of wild door monkeys, until I realized that when any single one of these doors was left open, a cold draft would quickly permeate the room, which would have husband-dear or I jumping up, run to the door, and quickly close it before frostbite would set in. But can you imagine how this week progressed for us? We would go to our room to get a book, walk through about four doors to get there, walk back to close each one of them before opening the next, then turn around and repeat, only to sit down on the couch and realize we forgot our house shoes, and get up and do the whole song and dance routine again. At least it got better throughout the week, and our hosts were most gracious about us leaving random doors open, hiking their heating bill, I'm sure, but I can assure you that coming home to a house with nothing but open space was really, very nice.
I think that maybe I was born in a barn. Moo.
I'll wait.
----
I assume you've just taken a real or imaginary trip through your house, and can now tell me exactly how many doors you've walked through. If you're American, or live in an American home, I'm going to guess your number is going to be around one, maybe two. There is the front door, and then possibly the door to your office. If you're Dutch, on the other hand, your number could peak as high as four.
I was never aware of the high density of doors in Dutch homes until last week, when I spent at least half my trips through people's houses doubling back to close the various doors I had opened to get to such mundane places as the bathroom, the coat closet, our bedroom, or even the outside. Some houses even had a door for the stairs. It was amazing. There were doors with wood paneling, doors with windows in them, doors with stained glass panes, white doors, brown doors, wooden doors...lots and lots doors.
Perhaps we live in a really cheap house, and our builder was just extremely stingy, but our house here in Georgia is very sparse on doors. Except for our bedrooms, bathrooms, various closets, and the laundry room, our house has no doors. You could walk into the front door and out the back door, passing through our dining room, living room, and kitchen, without ever touching a doorknob. Our pantry has a door too, come to think of it, but the kitchen itself doesn't. It has little walkways with trim, that the kids use as a jungle gym. But no doors. And the doors that we do have, are really only closed when the rooms are in use. Otherwise, we have no particular rules for closing or opening doors. You do what you want with doors in our house, for we have absolute door freedom.
So, to us, the Dutch door density was quite a revelation. In my brother's house alone, to get from the dining room to the powder room, you had to open the door to the kitchen, and the door to the hallway to get to the downstairs bathroom. I won't even describe the amount of doors it took to get to the upstairs bathroom. And what was even more mind-boggling? Every single one of those doors was closed. All the time.
At first I thought Dutch people are just extremely disciplined, and we here in Georgia are nothing but a bunch of wild door monkeys, until I realized that when any single one of these doors was left open, a cold draft would quickly permeate the room, which would have husband-dear or I jumping up, run to the door, and quickly close it before frostbite would set in. But can you imagine how this week progressed for us? We would go to our room to get a book, walk through about four doors to get there, walk back to close each one of them before opening the next, then turn around and repeat, only to sit down on the couch and realize we forgot our house shoes, and get up and do the whole song and dance routine again. At least it got better throughout the week, and our hosts were most gracious about us leaving random doors open, hiking their heating bill, I'm sure, but I can assure you that coming home to a house with nothing but open space was really, very nice.
I think that maybe I was born in a barn. Moo.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
100% Dutch?
Sometimes, miracles do happen. Last week was an excellent example, mainly because husband-dear and I got to spend all of it together. In Holland. As planned. We had such a good time, I didn't even have time to blog, or update facebook, or do anything else online. Of course, we didn't find out he could come until Thursday night, but that is really a minor detail. Especially if you consider that we strive under stress. We love last-minute packing. And really, nothing makes us happier than not knowing what tomorrow will bring or where we will be.
But either way, we got to go Holland, and had an absolute blast. We reconnected with family and friends, tried to alienate as many people as possible by performing a singing-mime routine at a family party, relaxed, admired Dutch art, went to a bicycle museum, took lots of walks through a variety of Dutch landscapes that all imitated art admired earlier, and ate way too much cheese. Far too much cheese, seriously.
Now returning to any place after a year-long absence, especially if it's a place you used to call home is going to be an interesting experience. It did for me, the little budding Margaret Mead, anyway. And during this visit, the things that stuck out were vastly different from previous visits. The lack of refills no longer made me sit up and take notice, and the fact that, yes you do have to pay for every bathroom visit was nothing more than an interesting quirk, one that actually warranted a picture. No, this time, the things that made me wonder about my Dutchness, besides the snow and the ridiculously low temperatures, were much more mundane. Things like doors, accents, and transportation.
It started with the flight attendants. Usually, when you fly Delta out of Atlanta, you are blessed, to use a true southern expression, with a bubbly southern crew who will take every opportunity to let you know how much they absolutely love serving you. They adore it. And you. And simply everything else too. So when flying to Europe, one is usually not confronted with that typical European service style until landing. But not this time. Our flight to Dusseldorf was served by a mainly German crew, who took a different approach to service than we're used to at this point. Distinctly different. Very different.
It started when we commenced boarding. Instead of a southern drawl announcing that our "non-stop direct flight to Doo-sel-dorf" was about to "embark on almost immediate departure", and that we were all "kindly requested to have our boarding passes and picture IDs out, to facilitate boarding procedures", and reminded once again that "we are all so pleased to have y'all flying Delta today", we had a German-accented female voice inform the waiting passengers that "everyone must all haff their passports out. And you must haff them open to the picture page. If you do not, we vill not let you board."
OK.
And just in case you thought they were kidding, once we were allowed to board, people who did not have their passports open to the right page, were made to stand to the side until the gate agents felt like turning around and helping them. Fortunately, husband-dear and I are really good at following orders, so we got into the plane without any problems.
But the German service did not end there. Our next interesting encounter occured when husband-dear and I tried to put our carry-ons in the overhead bins. Now you should know that we have made it an art to travel as light as possible. While I used to drag half my closet on overseas trips, and at least half of that as my carry-on, I have now downsized to a small purse and a small backpack on wheels. I usually carry no more than a book, my IPod, some magazines, a pillow, and a pair of socks on the plane with me. After having lost my luggage more times than I care to remember, I've learned that no matter where I am on earth, there will be a store nearby where they sell things like toothbrushes and underwear, and so I refuse to drag a carry-on the size of a small refridgerator along with me. Interestingly, ever since I have taken that approach to travel, my luggage has not gotten lost once. I wonder if that's karma. Anyway, I digress.
So, yes, husband-dear and I were stowing our miniature carry-ons into a still empty overhead bin, when a flight attendant with a Heidi-like braid came upon us. We thought we were being extremely social by putting husband-dear's pack on top of my backpack, but apparently, this was not social enough.
"No," the flight attendant moved in front of the overhead bin, effectively pushing me to the side, "You must put them like so." she pushed and shoved at our luggage until it was positioned lengthwise, "That vay uzzer people haff room. Yes."
Yes. Ve vere vairy bad.
Now I understand that German discourse is different from American, and that when you translate all the things that made us raise our eyebrows, into German, they're really not that bad. In my opinion, German, and Dutch as well, are langagues that more commonly use orders and directions without being offensive. In fact, inhabitants of both nations will probably tell you (and me, as writer of this blog), that it's more efficient to be direct like that. Sure. But when you're in you're in Atlanta, on a Delta plane, all of that efficiency only comes across as, well, different.
As husband-dear and I debated this issue, another German-accented announcement came across the PA system, "Yes. Because zis is a full flight, everyone must put their coats on top of their luggage in the bins, not next to them, to make room for everyone."
We just about breathed a sigh of relief that we had put our coats in our checked luggage. Because I'm not sure there was room on top of our double-decker construction for a coat. And then what would we have done? Whispered to our neighbors if perhaps they could pretend that our coats belonged to them, and secretly stashed them on top of their luggage? It was a daunting idea.
But just in case there was any doubt left in our minds, we were now reassured, we were on our way to Europe!
Next blog: The story of Dutch doors and windows.
But either way, we got to go Holland, and had an absolute blast. We reconnected with family and friends, tried to alienate as many people as possible by performing a singing-mime routine at a family party, relaxed, admired Dutch art, went to a bicycle museum, took lots of walks through a variety of Dutch landscapes that all imitated art admired earlier, and ate way too much cheese. Far too much cheese, seriously.
Now returning to any place after a year-long absence, especially if it's a place you used to call home is going to be an interesting experience. It did for me, the little budding Margaret Mead, anyway. And during this visit, the things that stuck out were vastly different from previous visits. The lack of refills no longer made me sit up and take notice, and the fact that, yes you do have to pay for every bathroom visit was nothing more than an interesting quirk, one that actually warranted a picture. No, this time, the things that made me wonder about my Dutchness, besides the snow and the ridiculously low temperatures, were much more mundane. Things like doors, accents, and transportation.
It started with the flight attendants. Usually, when you fly Delta out of Atlanta, you are blessed, to use a true southern expression, with a bubbly southern crew who will take every opportunity to let you know how much they absolutely love serving you. They adore it. And you. And simply everything else too. So when flying to Europe, one is usually not confronted with that typical European service style until landing. But not this time. Our flight to Dusseldorf was served by a mainly German crew, who took a different approach to service than we're used to at this point. Distinctly different. Very different.
It started when we commenced boarding. Instead of a southern drawl announcing that our "non-stop direct flight to Doo-sel-dorf" was about to "embark on almost immediate departure", and that we were all "kindly requested to have our boarding passes and picture IDs out, to facilitate boarding procedures", and reminded once again that "we are all so pleased to have y'all flying Delta today", we had a German-accented female voice inform the waiting passengers that "everyone must all haff their passports out. And you must haff them open to the picture page. If you do not, we vill not let you board."
OK.
And just in case you thought they were kidding, once we were allowed to board, people who did not have their passports open to the right page, were made to stand to the side until the gate agents felt like turning around and helping them. Fortunately, husband-dear and I are really good at following orders, so we got into the plane without any problems.
But the German service did not end there. Our next interesting encounter occured when husband-dear and I tried to put our carry-ons in the overhead bins. Now you should know that we have made it an art to travel as light as possible. While I used to drag half my closet on overseas trips, and at least half of that as my carry-on, I have now downsized to a small purse and a small backpack on wheels. I usually carry no more than a book, my IPod, some magazines, a pillow, and a pair of socks on the plane with me. After having lost my luggage more times than I care to remember, I've learned that no matter where I am on earth, there will be a store nearby where they sell things like toothbrushes and underwear, and so I refuse to drag a carry-on the size of a small refridgerator along with me. Interestingly, ever since I have taken that approach to travel, my luggage has not gotten lost once. I wonder if that's karma. Anyway, I digress.
So, yes, husband-dear and I were stowing our miniature carry-ons into a still empty overhead bin, when a flight attendant with a Heidi-like braid came upon us. We thought we were being extremely social by putting husband-dear's pack on top of my backpack, but apparently, this was not social enough.
"No," the flight attendant moved in front of the overhead bin, effectively pushing me to the side, "You must put them like so." she pushed and shoved at our luggage until it was positioned lengthwise, "That vay uzzer people haff room. Yes."
Yes. Ve vere vairy bad.
Now I understand that German discourse is different from American, and that when you translate all the things that made us raise our eyebrows, into German, they're really not that bad. In my opinion, German, and Dutch as well, are langagues that more commonly use orders and directions without being offensive. In fact, inhabitants of both nations will probably tell you (and me, as writer of this blog), that it's more efficient to be direct like that. Sure. But when you're in you're in Atlanta, on a Delta plane, all of that efficiency only comes across as, well, different.
As husband-dear and I debated this issue, another German-accented announcement came across the PA system, "Yes. Because zis is a full flight, everyone must put their coats on top of their luggage in the bins, not next to them, to make room for everyone."
We just about breathed a sigh of relief that we had put our coats in our checked luggage. Because I'm not sure there was room on top of our double-decker construction for a coat. And then what would we have done? Whispered to our neighbors if perhaps they could pretend that our coats belonged to them, and secretly stashed them on top of their luggage? It was a daunting idea.
But just in case there was any doubt left in our minds, we were now reassured, we were on our way to Europe!
Next blog: The story of Dutch doors and windows.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
De reflecterende riem
Goed, goed, als meerdere mensen er om vragen, dan wil ik best even een blog schrijven over de reflecterende riem, hoor. Steve vroeg er ook al naar, maar aangezien hij al een mooie Engelse uitleg heeft gekregen, en al mijn andere vragenstellers Nederlanders waren, is het gewoon weer eens tijd voor een Nederlands blogje. Gezellig!
Maar goed, die riem dus. Jullie kennen ze waarschijnlijk allemaal, helemaal als je je als sporter wel eens in het verkeer begeeft. Het gaat hier om plastic riemen die oplichten wanneer ze geraakt worden door het licht. Ze zijn meestal geel, maar ook blauw, en Steve had vrijdag zelfs een mooie regenboogkleurige gevonden. Ik denk dat ik die maar cadeau doe aan manlief, onder het mom van "don't ask, don't tell". Maar goed. Die riem dus.
De reden waarom ik daar over begon is dat op alle luchtmachtbasissen het dragen van een reflecterende riem verplicht voor alle sporters en mensen in uniform als deze zich in alles behalve dan fel licht buiten begeven. Lijkt heel simpel, nietwaar? Je doet je jas aan, kijkt naar buiten, ziet dat het schemert, en doet je riem om. Klaar. De meeste mensen hebben hun riemen dan ook aan de kapstok hangen, of in de auto liggen, of op het nachtkastje, of onder de stoel naast het bed, of in de badkamer, of manliefs geval, gewoon in al die plekken tegelijkertijd. Maar op zich geen reden tot een blog.
De reden zit er in dat de laatste tijd de luchtmacht klaarblijkelijk niet heel veel meer te doen heeft, want een aantal regels, waaronder die van de reflecterende riemen, zijn bijna tot op het komische aangescherpt. Tegenwoordig moeten mensen in uniform namelijk -altijd- een riem om, ook in het midden van de dag. Nu is dat bij ons op de basis geen probleem. Want als je in burger rondloopt, dan hoeft het niet, dus hoeven de meeste mensen er buiten hun werk niet aan te denken.
Maar in oorlogsgebieden kan deze regel echt tot hele vreemde situaties lijden. Stel je eens voor, je bent piloot, en hebt net een nachtvlucht van pak en beet zo'n veertien uur uitgevoerd. Je trekt je vliegerspak uit, en je PT uniform aan en duikt je bed in. Nu vraagt u zich waarschijnlijk af, PT uniform? En dat is een hele goede vraag. Sinds een jaar of wat mogen mensen die op uitzending zijn namelijk helemaal geen burgerkleding meer aan. Ze moeten of in uniform rondlopen, of in hun PT uniform (sportbroek en t-shirt). En dat betekent dus ook dat je in je sportkleding slaapt. Laten we stellen dat sinds die regel is ingevoerd, de uniform winkel op de basis een permanent terkort heeft aan shirtjes en shorts.
Maar goed, je bent dus nog steeds piloot, of navigator, of kok, of in ieder geval iets dat je 's nachts kan doen, maakt niet uit, je hebt je broekje en je shirtje aangedaan, en je gaat eindelijk slapen. Om een uur tien word je wakker, en moet je naar de WC. Je tent, of container, of trailer, heeft geen WC, daarvoor moet je naar buiten, naar de latrines. En dus worstel je je zelf uit bed, denkt er met je duffe hoofd nog net aan dat je toch echt sokken en sportschoenen aan moet doen, en je stopt je shirt in je broek, want dat allemaal is allemaal ook een verplicht onderdeel van de PT uniform dresscode. Dan stap je naar buiten, en de hitte, de felle zon, en het allersoverheersende felle licht slaat tegen je hoofd. Je waggelt met je ogen half dicht naar de WC, en net als je de deur wilt open maken, wordt je tegengehouden. Het is een overijverige sergeant, en je hebt je riem niet om. Je moet subiet terug naar je slaapruimte, om de riem op te halen. En dus draai je je om met je volle blaas, je duffe hoofd, en het idee dat je hier volgens jou toch echt was om een oorlog te voeren, en dat je niet helemaal snapt wat de reflecterende riem daar mee te maken hebt, en zo strompel je terug naar je kamer. Alwaar je besluit dat een leeg waterflesje eigenlijk ook prima is.
Dit hele lange verhaal is dus reden waarom het dragen van een reflecterende riem in een van de regels waarom ik de luchtmacht soms niet helemaal zie zitten.
En mocht u dit nou een interessant verhaal vinden, iemand die veel beter kan schrijven dan ik heeft er een prachtig boek over geschreven: Catch 22. Een aanrader.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Blues
Husband-dear and I thought we had it made. Our first vacation together that would last longer than a long weekend, did not involve a bike race, without children and endless lists of family obligations was finally going to become a reality. It was still a trip to Holland, and not a week-long sojourn to, say the Bahamas or Aruba, but it was better than nothing. We had some family obligations planned, but lots of us-time too. It was going to be fantastic. I was even looking forward to the ten hour flight with just the two of us.
But then the air force happened. And I don't like them at all right now. And even though I generally like them a lot (you know, all in the spirit of the hand that feeds you and gives you opportunities, and pays for your health care), I have to say that lately there have been some issues in our relationship.
For one thing, the insane bureaucracy and minutely detailed rules. Why is it so hard to get a name change to happen in Deers? And why, oh why does -everyone- have to stop their cars when retreat is played at 5pm? And what is up with the reflective belt rule that entails people not receiving their food in the chow hall unless they're wearing one? And who honestly cares about the color of your socks?
Then of course there is the whole "we'll move you around when we want to, and we're going to find the most destitute places in the world just for you." I dream of living near a city someday, but unless I'm willing to battle the insane DC traffic, that is just not an option. And right now, I'm more likely to end up in the dustbowl of Oklahoma or the colder-than-heck mountains of Utah. It makes Georgia seem positively wonderful, doesn't it?
But you know, I can live with all that. I can, and I have. Part of all these issues fuel this blog, so I'm not complaining. But what kills me, what really really gets me right now is the air force's ability to mess up our vacation together. You know, they can mess up my name, make everyone wear bright yellow belts, and make me get out of my car at retreat if they want to, and I won't care. But. Don't. Touch. Our. Vacation. Yet they did. Because as of right now, it seems that husband-dear will not be going with me.
We got an inkling of this possibility last week, and have been holding out for news for seven entire days now. And as of this morning, there is no change. Sure, there is still tomorrow morning which might bring different news, but I'm not holding my breath. Because all I really want to do is stomp my foot and pout that "it's not fair!". Because it's not. Sure, the kids are excited dad will be home, and I'm sure the dogs will love it too, but we will still not have ever had a vacation together. With just the two of us. And since husband-dear's ticket was the lovely non-refundable cheap kind, we probably won't anytime soon either. It's not fair. I'm just saying.
So should you feel the need to to accelerate your life, be army strong, or rise above all, by all means go for it. Just please make sure you know what you're signing up for.
But then the air force happened. And I don't like them at all right now. And even though I generally like them a lot (you know, all in the spirit of the hand that feeds you and gives you opportunities, and pays for your health care), I have to say that lately there have been some issues in our relationship.
For one thing, the insane bureaucracy and minutely detailed rules. Why is it so hard to get a name change to happen in Deers? And why, oh why does -everyone- have to stop their cars when retreat is played at 5pm? And what is up with the reflective belt rule that entails people not receiving their food in the chow hall unless they're wearing one? And who honestly cares about the color of your socks?
Then of course there is the whole "we'll move you around when we want to, and we're going to find the most destitute places in the world just for you." I dream of living near a city someday, but unless I'm willing to battle the insane DC traffic, that is just not an option. And right now, I'm more likely to end up in the dustbowl of Oklahoma or the colder-than-heck mountains of Utah. It makes Georgia seem positively wonderful, doesn't it?
But you know, I can live with all that. I can, and I have. Part of all these issues fuel this blog, so I'm not complaining. But what kills me, what really really gets me right now is the air force's ability to mess up our vacation together. You know, they can mess up my name, make everyone wear bright yellow belts, and make me get out of my car at retreat if they want to, and I won't care. But. Don't. Touch. Our. Vacation. Yet they did. Because as of right now, it seems that husband-dear will not be going with me.
We got an inkling of this possibility last week, and have been holding out for news for seven entire days now. And as of this morning, there is no change. Sure, there is still tomorrow morning which might bring different news, but I'm not holding my breath. Because all I really want to do is stomp my foot and pout that "it's not fair!". Because it's not. Sure, the kids are excited dad will be home, and I'm sure the dogs will love it too, but we will still not have ever had a vacation together. With just the two of us. And since husband-dear's ticket was the lovely non-refundable cheap kind, we probably won't anytime soon either. It's not fair. I'm just saying.
So should you feel the need to to accelerate your life, be army strong, or rise above all, by all means go for it. Just please make sure you know what you're signing up for.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
W'all
As you all know, I love writing about the south and its little, let's call them, 'idiosyncrasies'. The south is just a wonderful place to live for a closeted anthropologist as myself. Just think about the fact that we drink sweet tea, eat fried green tomatoes, and pronounce Cairo as K-ro. Exactly, the fun just never ends. But in spite of all my academic posturing, I do have to admit that I too am slowly becoming more southern. The other day, when a co-worker suggested I check university policy for something, and I told him not to worry about that, as this was how it has always been done, it took a long hard stare on his part for me to realize that this was not how business is handled are written in the rest of the world. Or this weekend, when a friend asked me if I spoke French, and my "Yeah" apparently had such a southern intonation, husband-dear almost chocked on his pizza. But in spite of all that, most everything about the south still amazes me, including my own scary ability to assimilate.
Now I always thought it was different for my family members. For one thing, they don't write blogs. Seriously, husband-dear doesn't even have a Facebook page, so for those of you who have been holding your breath waiting on a blog from him, start breathing, because it's not happening. Anyway, my point is that my family thus does not take out all this time to consider the world they live in. They just live and shut up about it. So one would think that their assimilation occurs a lot more smoothly. One in this case referring to me. And me was wrong.
You see, yesterday, as we were on our way to get some ice cream (because that's what Georgians do when it's cold), our two boys had the most interesting conversation.
Jimmie (our youngest, the guitar-prodigy) asked his older brother Ozzie (named so due to his uncanny ability to seem completely out of touch with just about everything) why southerners say "y'all" and not "w'all".
"I mean, seriously, "Jimmie said, "y'all is dumb to begin with, but then if you're going to say it, you should at least be consistent about it, and say w'all instead of we all."
"That's cause they're stupid." The oldest said, "I don't ever want to talk like a southerner." (which was made more endearing by the fact that he pronounced it as "suthahner")
Jimmie replied, "Me either. I ALWAYS say you guys. Never y'all. Y'all is lame."
Just for the record, husband-dear, myself, and assorted friends and family say "y'all" on an extremely regular basis, so I have NO idea where this came from. I am guessing that some of it has something to do with Ozzie's Aspergian tendencies, and his related ability to observe the oddest things ("did you know that the word blues was developed..." is not an uncommon statement at our dinner table), which may have rubbed off on his younger brother.
However, the two boys were not done yet. Apparently, the way southerners talk is not all that is wrong with them, as Jimmie continued,
"And what is UP with people wearing woodland camouflage? I mean, seriously."
At this point, husband-dear decides to slowly start introducing the idea of tolerance, and says, "well, some people wear it for hunting, bud"
Ozzie chimed in, "Yeah, and that makes like no sense either! Grandpa said that deer can't see, but that they can tell there's humans there based on their smell. And that's why deerhunters cover themselves with deer and fox urine." (for those of who always wondered why Walmart sells cans of animal urine, that's why).
Jimmie was not be discouraged, "Yeah, and still doesn't explain why people wear camouflage to walmart. I mean, it's WALMART. There are no deer there. All they do is look dumb."
Ozzie: "And southern."
Jimmie: "Yeah, and southern."
Of course, husband-dear and I stepped in at this point and had a long pedagogical discussion about tolerance and not judging people by their looks ("Ozzie, some people think you're satanic because you wear shirts with skulls and bones on them, is that right?",), but part of me wishes we could have just let them rant on. I mean, this was intriguing! Here were our two kids, raised by two (or three, I suppose) people for whom "nothing is stupid everything is different" is their life motto, and yet they come up with "w'all". Do they read our minds when we're asleep at night? Or are they just right? I don't know, but I may just tell them to start writing a blog about it.
Now I always thought it was different for my family members. For one thing, they don't write blogs. Seriously, husband-dear doesn't even have a Facebook page, so for those of you who have been holding your breath waiting on a blog from him, start breathing, because it's not happening. Anyway, my point is that my family thus does not take out all this time to consider the world they live in. They just live and shut up about it. So one would think that their assimilation occurs a lot more smoothly. One in this case referring to me. And me was wrong.
You see, yesterday, as we were on our way to get some ice cream (because that's what Georgians do when it's cold), our two boys had the most interesting conversation.
Jimmie (our youngest, the guitar-prodigy) asked his older brother Ozzie (named so due to his uncanny ability to seem completely out of touch with just about everything) why southerners say "y'all" and not "w'all".
"I mean, seriously, "Jimmie said, "y'all is dumb to begin with, but then if you're going to say it, you should at least be consistent about it, and say w'all instead of we all."
"That's cause they're stupid." The oldest said, "I don't ever want to talk like a southerner." (which was made more endearing by the fact that he pronounced it as "suthahner")
Jimmie replied, "Me either. I ALWAYS say you guys. Never y'all. Y'all is lame."
Just for the record, husband-dear, myself, and assorted friends and family say "y'all" on an extremely regular basis, so I have NO idea where this came from. I am guessing that some of it has something to do with Ozzie's Aspergian tendencies, and his related ability to observe the oddest things ("did you know that the word blues was developed..." is not an uncommon statement at our dinner table), which may have rubbed off on his younger brother.
However, the two boys were not done yet. Apparently, the way southerners talk is not all that is wrong with them, as Jimmie continued,
"And what is UP with people wearing woodland camouflage? I mean, seriously."
At this point, husband-dear decides to slowly start introducing the idea of tolerance, and says, "well, some people wear it for hunting, bud"
Ozzie chimed in, "Yeah, and that makes like no sense either! Grandpa said that deer can't see, but that they can tell there's humans there based on their smell. And that's why deerhunters cover themselves with deer and fox urine." (for those of who always wondered why Walmart sells cans of animal urine, that's why).
Jimmie was not be discouraged, "Yeah, and still doesn't explain why people wear camouflage to walmart. I mean, it's WALMART. There are no deer there. All they do is look dumb."
Ozzie: "And southern."
Jimmie: "Yeah, and southern."
Of course, husband-dear and I stepped in at this point and had a long pedagogical discussion about tolerance and not judging people by their looks ("Ozzie, some people think you're satanic because you wear shirts with skulls and bones on them, is that right?",), but part of me wishes we could have just let them rant on. I mean, this was intriguing! Here were our two kids, raised by two (or three, I suppose) people for whom "nothing is stupid everything is different" is their life motto, and yet they come up with "w'all". Do they read our minds when we're asleep at night? Or are they just right? I don't know, but I may just tell them to start writing a blog about it.
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