Husband-dear says a lot of really funny things. Really, he does. And whenever he has gotten me to shoot tea out of my nose once again, I tell myself that I really need to post his comments on my blog. To then promptly forget them. But tonight we had a semi-funny conversation that I really wanted to share (and more importantly: remembered).
The scene is as follows; husband-dear, the kiddos, and I wanted to go out to dinner. We do this about once a week, and tonight was it. Husband-dear had been chomping at the bit for a night out all week, but because I was busy grading, grading, grading, and more grading, we hadn't gotten around to it. But tonight was going to be the night. Only it almost wasn't. You see, at every restaurant that we stopped at, there was at least a thirty minute wait. Admittedly, restaurants in our town do get busy on Friday nights, tonight was so busy, it seriously had me wonder if people were giving away food for free, which is a logical train of thought for me, but more on that later. After driving around, husband-dear was hungry, bordering on grumpy, and when he pulled into yet another parking lot that was filled to the brink, the following interaction ensued:
Husband-dear: What is wrong with this town? Don't these people have any hobbies? Places to go besides restaurants? Seriously, all these people do is go out to eat, and go out to eat again, and again, and again.
Me: Uhm, honey, we're going out to eat too you know
Husband-dear, increasingly agitated: Yes, but we go once a week! Once a week. I bet you those people over there (a random couple walking across the parking lot), I bet you they went out Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, yesterday, and tonight. And I bet you all of the people parked here did the same thing! Why can't they find something else to do?
Youngest child: Yeah, and it's not as though that guy (Points to a gentlemen who does seem to carry more than the usual weight around) needs it. Sheesh.
OK. Welcome to the DixieChick family after a long week. Anyway, fortunately for everyone in the car, we ended up at Longhorn's right after that little interlude, where there was only a ten minute wait, and we had a very enjoyable dinner.
But what's interesting about this whole episode is the fact that people in our town, and I think Americans in general, do eat out a whole lot. And I mean a lot. We have friends who will eat out about four, five times a week, and they are no exception. Most of my coworkers will go out for every lunch break. And not just to a Taco Bell or a McDonald's, no, they will go to an actual sit-down restaurant, and spend an enjoyable hour working their way through pasta, seafood, steak, and the salad bar. Most of my coworkers laugh at my little red lunchbox, and I'm pretty sure many friends have raised their eyebrows when we've told them we'd rather eat in because we've already gone out to eat once that week.
Now, admittedly, we are stingy people. Personally, I prefer it economically efficient, but the bottom line is, we love not wasting money. I have never met a man who keeps tracks of coupons the way my husband does, and I think he secretly gets really excited when I do things like pack a snackbag for our trip to Memphis so I won't have to buy that many lunches. Now, we will splurge on things like bikes, and shoes, and trips to Holland, but hell will freeze over before we exchange our travel mugs for a Starbucks coffee each morning, or go out to eat more than once a week. We even re-use ziplock bags (although, in all honesty, that is me trying to be environmentally friendly too). But let's just say we balk at having to turn the air on, because it means the days of teeny tiny electric bills are over. Just saying.
But even having said all of that, I do think eating out is a typical American thing. Dutch people might go out to have coffee, and if they're feeling particularly extravagant, some apple pie, but Americans will go out to eat. The main reason, I suspect, lies in the price. Today, the four of us shared two appetizers, had four main courses, three of which were steak, and four drinks, and our bill came to $65, and I thought it was. Absolutely. Ridiculously. Expensive. And-we-are-not-going-to-Longhorn's-in-a-long-while. Because usually the four of us can eat out for around $4o. Yes, my darling Dutch readers. Forty dollars. That equates maybe thirty Euros. For four people. That is about ten dollars per person. Now of course, we can cook for far less than that, but when you're extremely busy (like us), and don't mind spending a little more for some convenience (not like us), then you will probably be like most of our fellow Georgians, and eat out multiple times a week.
And that is why, when the DixieChick family finally decides to go out to eat, there is no room for us. Anywhere. And we're left with a restaurant that best resembles a barn. It's sad. Maybe next time we should follow the northern star, and that will take us to three kings who will feed us mirre and frankincense. (I heard there was gold in there too somewhere, that does sound like a plan!)
Friday, April 16, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Running in Memphis
Just in case you missed the memo, husband-dear and I love to run. And bike. And swim. And work out in general. And when we're not running, biking, swimming, or lifting weights in the living room, we're talking about our latest or upcoming work out routine, and plans for future races. Our cabinet is stocked with water bottles, pre-during-and post-work out drink mixes, and all sorts of nutrition supplements that husband-dear swears will help make us faster, stronger, better, and poorer. Although he has yet to mention the last one. Anyway, in short, we're endorphin junkies.
And one of the ways in which this addiction, or I suppose obsession and/or neurosis is expressed is through the fact that whenever we travel, we have to get at least one run in. It doesn't matter where we go, or for how long, we always pack a pair of running shoes. Always. And when we don't get to run, we're mad. Even if it's because we're oh, I don't know, fighting a war, or going to conference panels twelve hours a day. And because of husband-dear's crazy career, he's got to run in some pretty neat places, like South Africa, China, all over the middle east, and Moscow. He's also got plenty of interesting stories to tell, like that one time he got horribly lost and turned a thirty-minute run into a two-hour work out (Germany), or the time he was chased by feral dogs (Moscow), or that time he discovered that running in a bullet proof vest was really not the best idea (somewhere in the middle east). And together we've discovered that Paris before daybreak really smells like urine and garbage, that Tivoli looks like a really creepy backdrop for a horror movie right at dawn, and that wild dogs are especially rampant in southern Alabama. So you see, we don't just run to keep in shape, we also run for the anthropological experience.
So when my work took me to Memphis last week, there was no doubt in my mind I would run at least once. And I did. On Saturday morning I set my alarm for 6:30am, and in spite of a less-than-friendly encounter with partying sorority girls in the hallway outside my door only a few hours before, I put on my running shoes and took off for the Mississippi. And let me tell you, running along the river was breathtaking. The sun was just coming up, and when you ignored the panhandlers cussing each other out, it was just perfect.
But besides the awesome views, I also took one other thing away from that run: I'm turning into a southern country bumpkin. You see, where I run now (for those of you who forgot, rural, backwoods, cottonfield-dominated, peach-tree swamped Georgia), everyone says "hey" to each other. And I mean everyone. People on foot, on bike, running, walking, they all greet each other. It doesn't matter whether you're in the back of a pick up truck, riding along at 40mph, and you're passing a runner killing herself doing intervals, you will call out a "hey, how ya doin'?". Ignoring someone on the street is the equivalent of social suicide in my neck of the woods. And although I know I've complained about this before, it's like spring time pollen, apparently, without really realizing it, you just get used to it.
So as I was running along the Mississippi, I smiled and said "hey" to just about everyone I saw. And instead of saying "hi" back, people looked at me like I was out of my mind. Women eyed me funny or jumped aside, apparently somehow worried that all 115 pounds of me was going to jump them and demand their money. Men would either mumble something incoherently or eye me up and down as though I had just asked them on a first date, and all in all, it was a very unnerving experience. So after about two miles, I gave up, and took to staring at the pavement, even though that made me feel so incredibly rude. How on earth could I pass all these people and not say hello? Seriously? And then it dawned on me: I have now officially turned into the country girl who visits the big city for the first time, and doesn't understand why people aren't as nice as they are "back home".
So that's just peachy. Not only do I now sound like a southerner, I act like one too. Great. Next thing you know I'll be asking for grits for breakfast and wondering why all "them professors" complain about the confederate flag on the back of my pick up truck.
And one of the ways in which this addiction, or I suppose obsession and/or neurosis is expressed is through the fact that whenever we travel, we have to get at least one run in. It doesn't matter where we go, or for how long, we always pack a pair of running shoes. Always. And when we don't get to run, we're mad. Even if it's because we're oh, I don't know, fighting a war, or going to conference panels twelve hours a day. And because of husband-dear's crazy career, he's got to run in some pretty neat places, like South Africa, China, all over the middle east, and Moscow. He's also got plenty of interesting stories to tell, like that one time he got horribly lost and turned a thirty-minute run into a two-hour work out (Germany), or the time he was chased by feral dogs (Moscow), or that time he discovered that running in a bullet proof vest was really not the best idea (somewhere in the middle east). And together we've discovered that Paris before daybreak really smells like urine and garbage, that Tivoli looks like a really creepy backdrop for a horror movie right at dawn, and that wild dogs are especially rampant in southern Alabama. So you see, we don't just run to keep in shape, we also run for the anthropological experience.
So when my work took me to Memphis last week, there was no doubt in my mind I would run at least once. And I did. On Saturday morning I set my alarm for 6:30am, and in spite of a less-than-friendly encounter with partying sorority girls in the hallway outside my door only a few hours before, I put on my running shoes and took off for the Mississippi. And let me tell you, running along the river was breathtaking. The sun was just coming up, and when you ignored the panhandlers cussing each other out, it was just perfect.
But besides the awesome views, I also took one other thing away from that run: I'm turning into a southern country bumpkin. You see, where I run now (for those of you who forgot, rural, backwoods, cottonfield-dominated, peach-tree swamped Georgia), everyone says "hey" to each other. And I mean everyone. People on foot, on bike, running, walking, they all greet each other. It doesn't matter whether you're in the back of a pick up truck, riding along at 40mph, and you're passing a runner killing herself doing intervals, you will call out a "hey, how ya doin'?". Ignoring someone on the street is the equivalent of social suicide in my neck of the woods. And although I know I've complained about this before, it's like spring time pollen, apparently, without really realizing it, you just get used to it.
So as I was running along the Mississippi, I smiled and said "hey" to just about everyone I saw. And instead of saying "hi" back, people looked at me like I was out of my mind. Women eyed me funny or jumped aside, apparently somehow worried that all 115 pounds of me was going to jump them and demand their money. Men would either mumble something incoherently or eye me up and down as though I had just asked them on a first date, and all in all, it was a very unnerving experience. So after about two miles, I gave up, and took to staring at the pavement, even though that made me feel so incredibly rude. How on earth could I pass all these people and not say hello? Seriously? And then it dawned on me: I have now officially turned into the country girl who visits the big city for the first time, and doesn't understand why people aren't as nice as they are "back home".
So that's just peachy. Not only do I now sound like a southerner, I act like one too. Great. Next thing you know I'll be asking for grits for breakfast and wondering why all "them professors" complain about the confederate flag on the back of my pick up truck.
Monday, April 12, 2010
A serious to do list
I promise, I am going to write a very profound blog about the awesome, inspiring, intellectually challenging conference I went to this past week. I will also find time to write about running along the Mississippi river when the sun is peeping over the horizon. And I will also tell you about the incredibly rude host we encountered at the famous Rendez-Vous rib restaurant in Memphis in painful and extensive detail. I promise. But not right now. And why? Because right now, all I have time for is to do two things. One, share my to do list with you. And two, beg you to be patient, as my next few blogs will probably be more likely center to student antics, ornery secretaries, and idiotic university policies than flowers, bees, cotton, or even that awesome Memphis conference. And also, to let you know that support in the form of coffee and/or chocolate, (you are welcome to ship some if you don't happen to live in the wondrous world that is rural Georgia), is always welcome too.
With all that said, here is my to do list. With things that need to be completed before Thursday:
1. Grade thirty online homework assignments
2. Grade thirty online discussion threads
3. Download the next module's assignments (and preferably start grading them too, but I'm pretty sure that won't be happening before Thursday)
4. Grade Research Methods papers (about twenty)
5. Prepare Tuesday's annual evaluation (add in: freak out about Tuesday's evaluation)
6. Go to evaluation and do well.
7. Review five online classes and turn in written reviews
8. Grade Senior projects
9. Grade graduating senior portfolios
10. Sit in on senior portfolio defenses (note: Thursday from 2-4pm)
11. Write letter of recommendation for student seeking admission to Ed.D program
12. Turn in five textbook requisition forms for next semester
13. Teach normal class load
14. Ask Steve if I've forgotten anything
15. Not lose mind.
Can you tell I am just beyond thrilled? Because I am. Really.
And I just thought of a really cool closing sentence, and then I forgot. It's the to do list, I'm telling you.
Twenty days and 56 minutes until commencement.
With all that said, here is my to do list. With things that need to be completed before Thursday:
1. Grade thirty online homework assignments
2. Grade thirty online discussion threads
3. Download the next module's assignments (and preferably start grading them too, but I'm pretty sure that won't be happening before Thursday)
4. Grade Research Methods papers (about twenty)
5. Prepare Tuesday's annual evaluation (add in: freak out about Tuesday's evaluation)
6. Go to evaluation and do well.
7. Review five online classes and turn in written reviews
8. Grade Senior projects
9. Grade graduating senior portfolios
10. Sit in on senior portfolio defenses (note: Thursday from 2-4pm)
11. Write letter of recommendation for student seeking admission to Ed.D program
12. Turn in five textbook requisition forms for next semester
13. Teach normal class load
14. Ask Steve if I've forgotten anything
15. Not lose mind.
Can you tell I am just beyond thrilled? Because I am. Really.
And I just thought of a really cool closing sentence, and then I forgot. It's the to do list, I'm telling you.
Twenty days and 56 minutes until commencement.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
De Stem
Ik heb ooit eens een Editorial and Critical Writing klas gegeven. Niet omdat ik nou zo'n ervaren en begeestigd schrijver ben, nee joh, doe mijn een spreadsheet en ik ben in mijn sas, maar geef mij een artikel te schrijven en ik begin met veel gekreun door mijn haar te woelen. Nee, ik kreeg dat vak omdat er op dat moment niemand anders een gaatje vrij had, en men, wanneer je zolang op school hebt gezeten als ik, er vanuit gaat dat je alles wel een beetje kan, of in ieder geval genoeg om een stelletje undergraduates wat bij te brengen. En gelukkig weet ik nog net genoeg van schrijven af om me er met een beetje kennis en veel bravoure doorheen te slaan. Een van de dingen waar ik in dat vak op hamerde was "your writing voice", los vertaald als "je schrijfstem". Wie ben je, als je schrijft? Voor wie schrijf je? En hoe vallen die twee dingen samen? En dat is een vraag die ik me de laatste tijd nogal eens gesteld over mijn blog.
Want wie ben ik nou helemaal als ik schrijf? En bovenal, vinden mensen het niet raar dat ik en in het Engels, en in het Nederlands schrijf? En valt het ze, net als mij, op dat een blog in de ene taal totaal niet hetzelfde is als een blog in de andere taal? Aangezien het tweede belangrijke punt van dat college was "write what you know", of "schrijf over dat wat je bezighoudt", gaan we dat nu dus doen. Juist. Welkom in de spelonken van mijn hoofd.
Allereerst dacht ik dat het maar eens hoog tijd werd om uit te leggen waarom ik in hemelsnaam in twee talen schijf. Natuurlijk had dit mijn allereerste blog moeten zijn. Of in ieder geval mijn tweede. Maar ja. Beter laat dan nooit, zullen we maar zeggen.
Dus waarom een tweetalig blog? Er zijn tientallen blogs van mensen die al veel langer in de VS wonen dan ik, en die schrijven ook niet in het Engels. Dus waarom zou ik dat dan wel doen? Soms vraag ik me dat zelf ook af: waarom schrijf ik niet gewoon in een taal? Wat is daar nou zo moeilijk aan? Maar ja, als ik alleen in het Engels schrijf, dan vallen sommige lezers al meteen af (hallo oma!). En alleen in het Nederlands schrijven, dat zie ik ook niet echt zitten.
Gelukkig vind ik zelf dat ik een goed excuus heb: ik ben namelijk op jonge leeftijd naar het buitenland verhuisd, en heb vanaf dat moment jaren op een Amerikaanse school gezeten. Toen we weer terugkwamen in Nederland, heb ik met veel pijn en moeite (en heel veel "dt" fouten, en honderd vragen over het kofschip) twee jaar op een Nederlandse school gezeten, om toen weer naar de VS te vertrekken. En ondanks dat ik (voor het grootste deel) in Nederland gestudeerd heb, bleef Engels altijd op de voorgrond. Als ik boos werd, of emotioneel, of heel blij, dan kwam er vaak als eerste Engels uit, en dan pas Nederlands.
En sja, dan begin je een blog, en in welke taal doe je dat dan? In het Engels, want dat denk je de hele dag door? Of toch in het Nederlands, want ja, daar liggen je roots.
Sorry.
Wortels.
En daar komt ook meteen het tweede probleem om de hoek: ik vind zelf dat ik in het Engels heel anders schrijf dan in het Nederlands. Ik gebruik mijn Nederlandse blogs vaak om te mopperen. Of heel kortaf te schrijven. Of gewoon ouderwets te mekkeren. Nu kan ik in het Engels ook heel erg goed mopperen hoor. Ik bedoel, ik zou er eigenlijk een prijs voor moeten krijgen, zo goed kan ik het. Maar het is toch niet hetzelfde als in het Nederlands. Daar bestaat er zelfs een speciaal woord voor "zeiken". En dat kan alleen maar in het Nederlands. Niet dat alle Nederlandse bloggers zo zijn hoor, helemaal niet. Die zijn meestal heel opgeruimd en positief. Maar ik dus niet. Vraag mij om in het Nederlands te schrijven, en je krijgt een druilerige zondagmiddag. In het Engels zou ik er niet aan moeten denken om zo ongebreideld te chagrijnen, zonder er niet in ieder geval een puntje zelfspot aan toe te voegen. Alleen maar zeuren is in het Engels namelijk echt "not done". Dus vind ik mijn Engelse blogs vaak iets luchtiger, met iets meer spot, en soms met hele poetische verhandelingen over bloemen en bomen enzo waar vooral Steve dol op is (het verzoek "Can you write another country blog, about the flowers and your back porch" krijg ik minstens een keer per week).
En daar zit je dan. Met twee "writing voices". Eentje wat donkerder, en zeurderig, en de ander luchtig, maar analytischer. En welke is je "echte" stem? Ik wil echt geen zeurderige, mekkerende blogger zijn hoor. Of in ieder geval niet altijd. Maar soms ben ik het Engelse gebazel ook helemaal zat. En dus vandaar een tweetalig blog, en twee writing voices. En wie ben ik dan? Nou, om een geweldig cliche erin te gooien (wat eigenlijk helemaal niet mag, aldus mijn college, maar ja, ik zei toch dat er maar een beetje vanaf wist?), ik denk dat de waarheid ergens in het midden ligt. In ieder geval, dat hoop ik. Ik zal het eens navragen.
Want wie ben ik nou helemaal als ik schrijf? En bovenal, vinden mensen het niet raar dat ik en in het Engels, en in het Nederlands schrijf? En valt het ze, net als mij, op dat een blog in de ene taal totaal niet hetzelfde is als een blog in de andere taal? Aangezien het tweede belangrijke punt van dat college was "write what you know", of "schrijf over dat wat je bezighoudt", gaan we dat nu dus doen. Juist. Welkom in de spelonken van mijn hoofd.
Allereerst dacht ik dat het maar eens hoog tijd werd om uit te leggen waarom ik in hemelsnaam in twee talen schijf. Natuurlijk had dit mijn allereerste blog moeten zijn. Of in ieder geval mijn tweede. Maar ja. Beter laat dan nooit, zullen we maar zeggen.
Dus waarom een tweetalig blog? Er zijn tientallen blogs van mensen die al veel langer in de VS wonen dan ik, en die schrijven ook niet in het Engels. Dus waarom zou ik dat dan wel doen? Soms vraag ik me dat zelf ook af: waarom schrijf ik niet gewoon in een taal? Wat is daar nou zo moeilijk aan? Maar ja, als ik alleen in het Engels schrijf, dan vallen sommige lezers al meteen af (hallo oma!). En alleen in het Nederlands schrijven, dat zie ik ook niet echt zitten.
Gelukkig vind ik zelf dat ik een goed excuus heb: ik ben namelijk op jonge leeftijd naar het buitenland verhuisd, en heb vanaf dat moment jaren op een Amerikaanse school gezeten. Toen we weer terugkwamen in Nederland, heb ik met veel pijn en moeite (en heel veel "dt" fouten, en honderd vragen over het kofschip) twee jaar op een Nederlandse school gezeten, om toen weer naar de VS te vertrekken. En ondanks dat ik (voor het grootste deel) in Nederland gestudeerd heb, bleef Engels altijd op de voorgrond. Als ik boos werd, of emotioneel, of heel blij, dan kwam er vaak als eerste Engels uit, en dan pas Nederlands.
En sja, dan begin je een blog, en in welke taal doe je dat dan? In het Engels, want dat denk je de hele dag door? Of toch in het Nederlands, want ja, daar liggen je roots.
Sorry.
Wortels.
En daar komt ook meteen het tweede probleem om de hoek: ik vind zelf dat ik in het Engels heel anders schrijf dan in het Nederlands. Ik gebruik mijn Nederlandse blogs vaak om te mopperen. Of heel kortaf te schrijven. Of gewoon ouderwets te mekkeren. Nu kan ik in het Engels ook heel erg goed mopperen hoor. Ik bedoel, ik zou er eigenlijk een prijs voor moeten krijgen, zo goed kan ik het. Maar het is toch niet hetzelfde als in het Nederlands. Daar bestaat er zelfs een speciaal woord voor "zeiken". En dat kan alleen maar in het Nederlands. Niet dat alle Nederlandse bloggers zo zijn hoor, helemaal niet. Die zijn meestal heel opgeruimd en positief. Maar ik dus niet. Vraag mij om in het Nederlands te schrijven, en je krijgt een druilerige zondagmiddag. In het Engels zou ik er niet aan moeten denken om zo ongebreideld te chagrijnen, zonder er niet in ieder geval een puntje zelfspot aan toe te voegen. Alleen maar zeuren is in het Engels namelijk echt "not done". Dus vind ik mijn Engelse blogs vaak iets luchtiger, met iets meer spot, en soms met hele poetische verhandelingen over bloemen en bomen enzo waar vooral Steve dol op is (het verzoek "Can you write another country blog, about the flowers and your back porch" krijg ik minstens een keer per week).
En daar zit je dan. Met twee "writing voices". Eentje wat donkerder, en zeurderig, en de ander luchtig, maar analytischer. En welke is je "echte" stem? Ik wil echt geen zeurderige, mekkerende blogger zijn hoor. Of in ieder geval niet altijd. Maar soms ben ik het Engelse gebazel ook helemaal zat. En dus vandaar een tweetalig blog, en twee writing voices. En wie ben ik dan? Nou, om een geweldig cliche erin te gooien (wat eigenlijk helemaal niet mag, aldus mijn college, maar ja, ik zei toch dat er maar een beetje vanaf wist?), ik denk dat de waarheid ergens in het midden ligt. In ieder geval, dat hoop ik. Ik zal het eens navragen.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Total distraction
I'm supposed to be grading a bunch of papers right now. I'm also supposed to evaluate senior portfolios, assess six senior theses, and prepare my presentation for a major conference this Friday. Technically, I should also be on my way home already. But right now, I just don't want to do any of that. Well, except the going home part, but I can't do that until I've completed at least some of the above. And I don't feel like doing that right now.
So there.
If students can sit and let their minds wander in my class because they "just don't feel like doing anything", I should be able to daydream behind my desk right?
Fortunately, I can completely and wholeheartedly shift the blame for this lack of work ethic on something-not-me, namely the weather. You see, in a period of five days, we have gone from dog-awful winter temperatures to the sunny, breezy, pollen-filled days of summer. And this shift in temperature is accompanied by radiant blue skies, sudden bursts of bright green leaves on every tree, and one awesome spring scent that makes me wander around outside snorting like a horse. And so here I am, sitting behind my desk, gazing out the enormous window in front of me, and daydreaming about laying in my backyard. I got to lay in our backyard last night, and although that was more of a "drop dead after doing thirty push ups at the end of my fitness routine" laying down, it was still nice. There were birds, and crickets, and blossoms, and two dogs trying to climb all over me, and it was really nice. And you know what? I should have been grading then too, but I didn't.
And I know I could tell you all about the horrendous pollen we get here in Georgia. You know, the yellow stuff that mysteriously coats EVERY SINGLE surface in the state within a few hours at one point in the spring. The tiny little particles that make people sneeze, makes my windshield look like something big and yellow died on it, that can be swept up in such large quantities it looks like snow, and that you will still find in your house around Christmas time. I could tell you all about that and how bad it can get. But I'm enjoying my little summer reverie too much. One where I get to lay in the backyard all the time. Where my redneck-pool is set up again, and I get to float around in nice cool water with a book in my hands. One without any grading, or students, or papers, or evaluations. One with just peace and quiet. And lots of bike rides, and runs, and sweet tea, and shady pines, and crepe myrtles in full bloom.
It's one more month until commencement. Three weeks, three days, and twenty something hours until peace, quiet, and summer. I can't wait.
For now, I may just need to get some coffee. Because those papers still need grading, and I guess I really do want to go home at one point today.
So there.
If students can sit and let their minds wander in my class because they "just don't feel like doing anything", I should be able to daydream behind my desk right?
Fortunately, I can completely and wholeheartedly shift the blame for this lack of work ethic on something-not-me, namely the weather. You see, in a period of five days, we have gone from dog-awful winter temperatures to the sunny, breezy, pollen-filled days of summer. And this shift in temperature is accompanied by radiant blue skies, sudden bursts of bright green leaves on every tree, and one awesome spring scent that makes me wander around outside snorting like a horse. And so here I am, sitting behind my desk, gazing out the enormous window in front of me, and daydreaming about laying in my backyard. I got to lay in our backyard last night, and although that was more of a "drop dead after doing thirty push ups at the end of my fitness routine" laying down, it was still nice. There were birds, and crickets, and blossoms, and two dogs trying to climb all over me, and it was really nice. And you know what? I should have been grading then too, but I didn't.
And I know I could tell you all about the horrendous pollen we get here in Georgia. You know, the yellow stuff that mysteriously coats EVERY SINGLE surface in the state within a few hours at one point in the spring. The tiny little particles that make people sneeze, makes my windshield look like something big and yellow died on it, that can be swept up in such large quantities it looks like snow, and that you will still find in your house around Christmas time. I could tell you all about that and how bad it can get. But I'm enjoying my little summer reverie too much. One where I get to lay in the backyard all the time. Where my redneck-pool is set up again, and I get to float around in nice cool water with a book in my hands. One without any grading, or students, or papers, or evaluations. One with just peace and quiet. And lots of bike rides, and runs, and sweet tea, and shady pines, and crepe myrtles in full bloom.
It's one more month until commencement. Three weeks, three days, and twenty something hours until peace, quiet, and summer. I can't wait.
For now, I may just need to get some coffee. Because those papers still need grading, and I guess I really do want to go home at one point today.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Fingers, toes....shoes?
Some kids will not take showers (that would be the youngest), other kids simply refuse to comb their hair (that would be the youngest too), and again others will not brush their teeth, or conveniently "forget" to (and there is the oldest). As a girl, hygiene was not something I really struggled with throughout childhood, but I did, on the other hand, spent at least four years of my life trying to not wear shoes. I remember going to school barefoot one day, and not even realizing it until I got on the school bus. I'm pretty sure I even took one of my finals in bare feet, by accident of course, but without shoes nonetheless. My mother would entice me to at least wear "something" into town using all sorts of really cool flip flops, but as soon as our gates came into view, off they came. We lived in the south of France at the time, and since I only went through my barefoot phase during the summers, I never suffered any real permanent damage, unless you count developing really thick, probably unsightly callouses on my feet as somehow a scarring experience. I think I stepped on a thumbtack one time, and I'm pretty sure I brushed up against some stingweed every once in a while, but that was about it.
As I got older, I realized that walking around barefoot was not only somewhat socially unacceptable, but was also just not very safe. So I fell in step with everyone else, and started wearing sandals, teevas, and flip flops during summers. My callouses started to disappear, and although it was nice to be able to fit into my pumps come fall without an hour long pedicure, I missed the barefoot experience. The feel of hot pavement on my feet, running down the driveway in nothing but shorts and a tank top, and cool grass tickling between your toes. Wearing flip flops that pretty much flop every which way when you speed up beyond a slow amble is just not the same.
So you can imagine my excitement when I discovered the fivefinger running shoes. These shoes are supposed to imitate the barefoot experience. The shoes offer nothing but protection from the road, and are supposed to train the runner's body to correct for any "deficiencies" (such as pronating) on its own, without the use of corrective footwear. The idea behind this is that these shoes don't force one's body into an unnatural running gait, but instead let the body work out a way to run without getting injured. According to my personal running expert (i.e., the lady at the local running store), these shoes imitate the training techniques used by top runners who spend most of their early years running, you got it, barefoot.
Personally, all these theories about running and natural gaits and training previously unused muscles was not half as appealing as the fact that these shoes could possibly have me running as close to barefeet as I would ever get in over twenty years. Running barefeet sounded like a childhood dream, one I would love to relive.
So when the local running store started to carry these five finger shoes, I was there as soon as my heavy corrective shoes would carry me. I put on my FiveFinger sprints, and was sold. Immediately. It was like being barefeet, but with a thin layer of protective rubber on your soles. Although I was told that the shoes were a lot of hard work, when I went for my little practice run outside the store, I felt transported back in time. I was flying on nothing but my bare feet, the wind was making my hair dance, and suddenly I was thirteen years old again and I was going to pick some lavender for my room. If the shoes hadn't needed payment, I would have just kept on going.
Needless to say, I am now the proud owner of a pair of FiveFingers, and took them for a run earlier today. I love them, and I think they love me too. I can tell this is the start of one awesome relationship.
As I got older, I realized that walking around barefoot was not only somewhat socially unacceptable, but was also just not very safe. So I fell in step with everyone else, and started wearing sandals, teevas, and flip flops during summers. My callouses started to disappear, and although it was nice to be able to fit into my pumps come fall without an hour long pedicure, I missed the barefoot experience. The feel of hot pavement on my feet, running down the driveway in nothing but shorts and a tank top, and cool grass tickling between your toes. Wearing flip flops that pretty much flop every which way when you speed up beyond a slow amble is just not the same.
So you can imagine my excitement when I discovered the fivefinger running shoes. These shoes are supposed to imitate the barefoot experience. The shoes offer nothing but protection from the road, and are supposed to train the runner's body to correct for any "deficiencies" (such as pronating) on its own, without the use of corrective footwear. The idea behind this is that these shoes don't force one's body into an unnatural running gait, but instead let the body work out a way to run without getting injured. According to my personal running expert (i.e., the lady at the local running store), these shoes imitate the training techniques used by top runners who spend most of their early years running, you got it, barefoot.
Personally, all these theories about running and natural gaits and training previously unused muscles was not half as appealing as the fact that these shoes could possibly have me running as close to barefeet as I would ever get in over twenty years. Running barefeet sounded like a childhood dream, one I would love to relive.
So when the local running store started to carry these five finger shoes, I was there as soon as my heavy corrective shoes would carry me. I put on my FiveFinger sprints, and was sold. Immediately. It was like being barefeet, but with a thin layer of protective rubber on your soles. Although I was told that the shoes were a lot of hard work, when I went for my little practice run outside the store, I felt transported back in time. I was flying on nothing but my bare feet, the wind was making my hair dance, and suddenly I was thirteen years old again and I was going to pick some lavender for my room. If the shoes hadn't needed payment, I would have just kept on going.
Needless to say, I am now the proud owner of a pair of FiveFingers, and took them for a run earlier today. I love them, and I think they love me too. I can tell this is the start of one awesome relationship.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Bathroom breaks
Since apparently this is the week of "revelations you could have done without", I wanted to spend today's blog talking about how much I love going to the bathroom when I'm at work. I really do, honestly. Before you all start asking, no, I was not potty-trained at an abnormally early age, and I also never had any Freudian issues with going to the bathroom either. Going to the bathroom at work for me just equals peace, serenity, and warmth.
Now I do need clarify what I'm talking about when I say "bathroom". On our campus we have two types of bathrooms, one mainly for students, and one mostly used by faculty. The student bathrooms are the quintessential American public bathrooms with stalls. For those Dutch readers who have never laid eyes on this creature, allow me to enlighten you.
A typical American bathroom has, like any European bathroom, anywhere between four and ten toilets. But unlike its European counterparts, where each toilet is in its separate room with walls that go all the way from the ceiling to the ground, American toilets are separated by thin metal walls that start about two feet off the ground and end a little ways above your head. Each individual stall comes with a rickety door that never closes just right, leaving a tiny little gap through which all bathroom users could technically keep an eye on the goings-on on the other side of the wall. Although, rest assured, most Americans are far too polite to do so. However, what this does translate to is that everyone in the bathroom can hear what you're up to, and admire your shoes and socks while you're doing it. They can hear what you're doing, how long it's taking you, and how much toilet paper you're using. Now call me overly critical, but for a country that freaks out when little six-year old girls don't wear a bikini top at the pool, or that finds discussions about armpit hair completely inappropriate, this seems really, well, odd. We don't talk about leg hair, and we dress our little girls like they're four going on eighteen, but it's really OK to hear whether other people or not remembered to eat their prunes the night before? Let the record state that I'm not a prude, but I do struggle with that contradiction just a hair.
Admittedly, when I'm in a bathroom full of strangers, I don't really care all that much. I don't know them and won't ever see them again. But when I'm at work, I find it very disturbing to have a student recognize my shoes and holler out "Hi Doc!" while I'm, well, doing my business. And actually, just the thought that students can hear me freaks me out beyond belief.
So I've taken up the habit of walking a little bit further and using the faculty bathroom instead. This is a set of bathrooms which are their own separate rooms. Each bathroom has its own toilet, sink, and little table with fake floral setting. And let me tell you, I like going there. In fact, just thinking about having to make the considerable trek to that bathroom makes me happy. So as I was enjoying myself the other day, I asked myself why? I mean, for God's sake, why do I like going to the bathroom?
And thankfully for you, dear reader, and my own peace of mind, I figured it out. It's because it's the only place I can go where I am left alone. There are no students waiting outside my door. No computer with its annoying pop-ups to constantly remind me that people want to get in touch with me. No phone. Nothing. It's quiet. And even better, as these bathrooms are a few hallways down from our department and its arctic climate, the temperature is actually really nice too. And what a better way to spend a few minutes, than in a quiet, serene, and warm little room you have all to yourself? All I would need is a book and I would never leave.
So if you lead a crazy life, just find a bathroom and take a break. It works miracles.
Now I do need clarify what I'm talking about when I say "bathroom". On our campus we have two types of bathrooms, one mainly for students, and one mostly used by faculty. The student bathrooms are the quintessential American public bathrooms with stalls. For those Dutch readers who have never laid eyes on this creature, allow me to enlighten you.
A typical American bathroom has, like any European bathroom, anywhere between four and ten toilets. But unlike its European counterparts, where each toilet is in its separate room with walls that go all the way from the ceiling to the ground, American toilets are separated by thin metal walls that start about two feet off the ground and end a little ways above your head. Each individual stall comes with a rickety door that never closes just right, leaving a tiny little gap through which all bathroom users could technically keep an eye on the goings-on on the other side of the wall. Although, rest assured, most Americans are far too polite to do so. However, what this does translate to is that everyone in the bathroom can hear what you're up to, and admire your shoes and socks while you're doing it. They can hear what you're doing, how long it's taking you, and how much toilet paper you're using. Now call me overly critical, but for a country that freaks out when little six-year old girls don't wear a bikini top at the pool, or that finds discussions about armpit hair completely inappropriate, this seems really, well, odd. We don't talk about leg hair, and we dress our little girls like they're four going on eighteen, but it's really OK to hear whether other people or not remembered to eat their prunes the night before? Let the record state that I'm not a prude, but I do struggle with that contradiction just a hair.
Admittedly, when I'm in a bathroom full of strangers, I don't really care all that much. I don't know them and won't ever see them again. But when I'm at work, I find it very disturbing to have a student recognize my shoes and holler out "Hi Doc!" while I'm, well, doing my business. And actually, just the thought that students can hear me freaks me out beyond belief.
So I've taken up the habit of walking a little bit further and using the faculty bathroom instead. This is a set of bathrooms which are their own separate rooms. Each bathroom has its own toilet, sink, and little table with fake floral setting. And let me tell you, I like going there. In fact, just thinking about having to make the considerable trek to that bathroom makes me happy. So as I was enjoying myself the other day, I asked myself why? I mean, for God's sake, why do I like going to the bathroom?
And thankfully for you, dear reader, and my own peace of mind, I figured it out. It's because it's the only place I can go where I am left alone. There are no students waiting outside my door. No computer with its annoying pop-ups to constantly remind me that people want to get in touch with me. No phone. Nothing. It's quiet. And even better, as these bathrooms are a few hallways down from our department and its arctic climate, the temperature is actually really nice too. And what a better way to spend a few minutes, than in a quiet, serene, and warm little room you have all to yourself? All I would need is a book and I would never leave.
So if you lead a crazy life, just find a bathroom and take a break. It works miracles.
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