Waarheid

Dit wordt geen grappige stukje. Het wordt, denk ik, niet eens een echt vermakelijke stukje. Sorry. En ik zou beter moeten weten. Want als docent zeg ik altijd tegen mijn studenten dat als ze heel boos, of verdrietig, of blij van iets worden, ze daar van een afstandje over moeten schrijven. Want dat afstandje, dat maakt het interessant. Er is niks zo erg als een stukje vol met uitroeptekens! Van blijdschap! Of boosheid! Daar kan de lezer helemaal niks mee. Maar soms zijn er dingen waar je met geen mogelijkheid met een afstandje over kan schrijven. En dat krijg u vandaag met zijn allen voor uw kiezen. Dus, u bent gewaarschuwd.

Vanochtend keek ik naar het lokale nieuws. Dat doe ik eigenlijk nooit, omdat ik gedurende het jaar of aan het werk ben, of in de auto zit, of aan het hardlopen/ fietsen/ zwemmen ben. Maar het is eindelijk zomer, en dus heb ik weer tijd voor allerlei verdiepende activiteiten zoals bonbons eten, Oprah en Ellen kijken, en het lokale nieuws volgen. Maar goed, dat nieuws dus. Een specific item trok mijn aandacht, namelijk een kort stukje over de dood van een soldaat in een ver overzees gebied. Dit nieuws was op zich niet schokkend. Ik kan eigenlijk bijna niet geloven dat ik dat net getypt heb, maar helaas is het niet anders. Dit soort nieuws krijgen we hier namelijk wel vaker. Met een luchtmachtbasis in de stad, een national guard unit dat al een jaar uitgezonden is, en twee legerbases op redelijke afstand, zijn dit soort berichten niet vreemd.

Het bericht beschreef de soldaat (een 19-jarige jongen verbonden aan een unit van onze basis) die, volgens het nieuws dan, overleden was aan "non-combat related injuries". In negen van de tien keer is dit een eufemisme voor een auto ongeluk, want die gebeuren helaas ook in oorlogsgebieden. Alleen in dit geval was dat niet zo, en lag de waarheid heel ergens anders. De waarheid achter dit geval kende ik toevallig omdat ik onze kapelaan tegenkwam toen hij het nieuws net gehoord had. En in dit geval had het nieuws niet verder van de waarheid kunnen zitten.

De soldaat in kwestie had namelijk zelfmoord gepleegd.

Binnen enkele uren waren de kapelaans op onze basis en in de buurt van zijn ouders huis op de hoogte gebracht, en was het aan deze mannen zich om iedereen van het verschrikkelijke nieuws op de hoogte te brengen.

Er zijn geen worden voor om dit te beschrijven. Helaas komt het vaker voor dan het publiek zich waarschijnlijk beseft, maar elke keer komt het als een schok. Het geeft aan hoe zwaar oorlog voeren is, in een gebied ver van huis, tegen een vijand die men amper kent en niet begrijpt, en zonder dat er een einde in zicht is.

En wat ik niet snap is waarom het nieuws hier daar niet gewoon eerlijk over kan zijn. Het is geen mooi einde, nee. Maar het is dan ook allang geen mooie oorlog meer. Als we daar nou eens met zijn allen eerlijk over zijn, in plaats van ons zorgen te maken of er wel genoeg gele strikken aan de bomen in de straat hangen, dan zouden we dit soort leed misschien kunnen voorkomen. Om in de woorden van mijn studenten te spreken, "You gotta keep it real". Echt waar.

Saying goodbye...

"Saying Goodbye. Why is it sad?
Makes us remember the good times we had"

~Muppets take Manhattan


I've lost count of how many times I've moved a long time ago. I know it's somewhere in the double digits, but that's as close as I care to get. Until it's security clearance time again, it's just not that important either.

You would think that with all that moving around, I have become an expert at everything related to shipping out. And when it comes to all the nitty gritty details, I am. I know that it's not weird to take pictures of all your furniture before the movers come, it's called insurance. I have also learned that drawing diagrams of the insides of your kitchen cabinets has nothing to do with OCD, but is another way to prevent total insanity when you arrive at your new location. I mean, do you have any idea how annoying it is to completely "re-learn" your way around your new kitchen / bathroom / bookcase? Without thinking, you reach into the drawer next to the stove, and instead of finding the spatula, you're holding a stack of linen tablecloths that are now covered in red sauce. Not cool. Especially when you realize it can easily be avoided if you just arrange things they were in your old home. Had a kid at your old location? Pick up a few spare birth certificates just in case. Want to know what can and cannot be shipped? Well, if it can explode, melt, or catch fire, it's a no-no. Want to pass inspection? Make sure the first few rooms they look at look absolutely amazing, and then you can afford to fudge a little on the last parts of the house. It's almost become. second nature.

With all this experience, you would think I rock at saying goodbye to friends. You would think I know exactly what to do to make the transition easy for everyone, whether or not throw goodbye parties, how to best stay in touch with old friends, and how to not melt into a blubbering mess every time I see someone for the last time. You would think I know how to do all that. But besides having a cornucopia of ideas for goodbye presents, I don't know anything. In fact, as time goes on, I get worse and worse at saying goodbye to people. Whereas say ten years ago I saw every move as an exciting opportunity to meet more cool! nice! intriguing! people, I have now not only come to the realization that some people are just irreplaceable, but have also learned that not all the natives in the new locations think I am the fun, bubbly, nice person I like to think I am. In fact, I'm pretty sure that our landlords in Germany were absolutely thrilled to see us leave. And so having to make new friends is now quite a daunting activity, one without any guarantee of success.

For the past three years, husband-dear and I have been fairly spared when it comes to the heartache of losing friends or having to move. Last year, Summer and her family moved away, but those were the only friends we've lost since we moved here. Fortunately, and I say this with the most amount of sarcasm possible, fortunately, karma did not forget about us, and this year we have been struck with a quadruple whammy. Numerous very dear friends are leaving, either through orders or their own free will. And honestly, I don't know if the holes left by their departures will ever be filled. I could go on and on about the people leaving, but since most of you don't know them, that would just be really, incredibly dull. But you have had the pleasure of hearing about one of them. My fellow triathlete / tri-sufferer, Kay. Kay's husband received orders for Idaho, and the moment I heard about that, I, besides dissolving into a puddle of tears, told husband-dear he better get orders for Mountain Home AFB too. I don't care that it's another two thousand miles away from my family, and a good thousand from his. I don't care that the people who live there spent most of the year digging themselves out of the snow. I don't care that husband-dear's career field doesn't really exist there, he can shovel snow or something. I don't care that it probably has less universities than Georgia, and I will probably end up working at McDonald's. I don't care that I call the people from there Mr. and Mrs. Potatoheads. I don't care. I just want my running buddy, fellow Stabucks-addict, Gilmore Girls loving friend, the girl who saw us through more drama than we could have ever imagined, I just want her around the corner.

But I can't. And so instead I've poured my energy into making her a goodbye present. And pouting. A lot of pouting. And crying.

And you know, I think this is one of those situations where my mom was right all those years ago. Whenever we had to move again, my mom would give me the standard spiel all parents give their kids: It will be fun, there will lots of friendly children to play with, we'll get a swing / pool/ playset in the backyard, all of which I knew was not true (although we did get that pool eventually). But she would also tell me, "Partir, c'est mourir un peu". And she was right. Leaving is like dying a little.

Caffeinated

I have never met a people who consume as much coffee in one sitting as Americans do. Honestly, I don't think there is any place in the world where purchasing close to a half a liter of coffee at Starbucks does not raise any eyebrows, and where gas stations frequently offer coffee sizes referred to as "The Big Gulp". In fact, one of this year's April Fool's jokes was the supposed introduction of a Starbucks "plenta", a mug so large it could hold 128 fluid ounces, or a little over three liters. I can almost guarantee you that a joke like that would have never worked anywhere else, as most people would have never ever fallen for the idea of a 3-liter mug of coffee. I mean, in the Netherlands, a country apparently in love with its teeny tiny cups of Senseo coffee, that would be enough to keep most people's Senseo running for a full week. But here in the US, that's really not too far from reality, as evidenced by some of coworkers who carry at least a liter of coffee to work with them in a thermos so large it could be used to bathe my guinneapig.

On the other hand, I have also never met so many people who are super-sensitive to caffeine. These are obviously not the same Americans who keep "The big gulp" as the number one sellers at our local gas station, but there are lots and lots of them around, husband-dear being the prime example. Although he is the most awesome, loving, caring, and understanding man in the world, if he as much as smells caffeine after 3pm, he will not be able to go to sleep that night. And he is not alone. I can't tell you how many friends I have who can't have coffee because "it makes them jittery", or who have cut caffeine from their diet entirely because it messes with their sleep. And we're not talking about Italian espresso here, no, we're talking plain American coffee, which by most European standards is little more than colored water with a whiff of coffee.

Needless to say, I do not fall under this last category. In fact, if you were to tell me I could no longer have any caffeinated drinks, I may have to hurt you, as I simply cannot function without my hot tea and milk in the morning and at night. Now in all honesty, the hot tea and milk is more of a comfort drink than a desperate, dying need for caffeine, but still. It is caffeine, and watching me drink it at night does freak out husband-dear as well as a smattering of my friends, who always exclaim something like, "How can you sleep after drinking that?!" and then add in a "I would be up for hours!". Honestly, I don't know. I must be special somehow, as I can have a cappuccino right before bed, and still sleep like a baby. Maybe it's those European genes.

However, yesterday I think I managed to freak out husband-dear beyond belief with caffeine consumption and subsequent lack of response. Just to provide you with some context; I was grading until 11:30 the night before, and thus only had about five hours of sleep before I needed to get up and go to work again. So when I packed my lunch yesterday morning, I took a Diet Mountain Dew because I knew that that would surely prevent me from wanting to nap. And just for safekeeping, I also took one of those Starbucks Frapuccino drinks. By the time I got to work, the effect of the tea had worn off, and as our break room was still locked, and there was thus no chance of coffee, I instead opened my bottle of Frapuccino. Happily buzzing, I went to grading, when thirty minutes later Steve showed up with hot Mochas. Now you don't ever turn down free fancy coffees, and so I spent the next hour nursing my hot coffee. I'm sure you understand that when lunch time rolled around, I really didn't need any more caffeine, but all I had with me was that Mountain Dew. And since my Dutch genes prevent me from splurging on anything I don't desperately need, I had that. And let me tell you, I had the most productive day in my life. Seriously. I graded all my finals, finished calculating my final grades, and dealt with hordes of student in need of advisement in a nice and patient manner. It was amazing.

When I came home, and I told husband-dear about my day, he was certain I was going to one (or all) of three things: a) get sick, b) crash, c) not be able to sleep. I was convinced I would be fine. And I was. I rehung our curtains, rode the trainer, made husband-dear watch ANTM, and fell asleep the moment my head hit my pillow. I'm not sure, but I think husband-dear might have just been a tad jealous. Just a tad.

De voorjaarsmoeheid

Hier lijkt het alweer vollop zomer, maar in de rest van het Noorderlijk halfrond is het natuurlijk nog gewoon lente. En dus kan er weer gesproken gaan worden van een "voorjaarsschoonmaak" en een "voorjaarsmoeheid". Straks krijgen we natuurlijk ook nog de "voorjaarsvakantie" (alhoewel onze kinderen hier dan allang met zomer vakantie zijn), en de eventuele "voorjaarsdip". Zij schreef al over de voorjaarsmoeheid, en ik dacht dat ik daar wel gezellig aan kon haken.

En dan eigenlijk alleen maar om u te vertellen dat ik niet aan voorjaarsmoeheid doe. Ik ben meer van de herfstdip zeg maar. Als de blaadjes van de bomen vallen, het steeds vroeger donker wordt, en de jas weer uit de kast moet, dan bestaat er een kans dat ik een lichte mineur schiet. Als ik daar tijd voor heb natuurlijk.

Bij mij is het voorjaar, of nou ja, deze tijd van het jaar, namelijk de laatste jaren alleen maar reden tot een feest. Want wanneer de bloesem is uitgebloeid, de zon weer hoog aan de hemel klimt, maar we soms toch nog koude nachten hebben, dan is dat een teken voor mij dat het eindelijk zover is. Het semester is bijna voorbij. En dat is het. Het is namelijk nog drie dagen en pak en beet 23 uur tot de bekende afstudeer ceremonie, commencement. En dat is niet alleen voor de studenten reden tot een feestje.

Maar goed, daardoor heb ik dus helemaal geen tijd voor een voorjaarsdip, of moeheid. Eerlijk gezegd wilde ik soms dat ik dat wel had. Lekker een paar daagjes op de bank. Of in op de porch swing, lekker thee drinken en veel Glee en Scrubs kijken om bij te komen. Met natuurlijk de dropjes binnen handbereik. En dat allemaal vanwege het voorjaar. Dat klinkt echt super, weet u dat?

Maar ja, hier in Amerika doen ze niet aan dat soort onzin. Werken, dat zul je! En soms is dat wel jammer. Want wees nou eens eerlijk, zouden we niet allemaal een stuk leuker, vriendelijker, geduldiger zijn als we gewoon eens een paar dagen "voorjaarsmoeheidverlof" konden nemen?
Ik wel.

Dus. Volgend jaar toch maar eens inplannen. Dat voorjaarsvermoeidheidsverlof. Klinkt als een geweldig plan.

It's complicated

Sometimes I wonder if husband-dear and I unnecessarily complicate our lives. I really do. Take today for instance. All I really needed to do (besides grade oodles of papers, of course) was get the oil in my car changed and my tires rotated. Sounds simple enough. Only it wasn't.

If all my car needed was an oil change, it would have been easy. There is a quickie lube a few miles down the road, and whenever I pull up there, no matter how many cars are in front of me, I will be out in no more than half an hour. I'll sit in the little office, grade a few papers, and be golden. But ever since I got married, my cars have apparently also needed tire rotations. Husband-dear truly believes in the power of tire rotation, and I'm not sure why. Granted, I also did not know the difference between brake pads and shoes until yesterday (the former are used with disc brakes, the latter with drum brakes, in case you wondered), but that's not the point. The point is that for years and years my cars did just fine without tire rotations. Unfortunately, husband-dear's approach to cars is less laissez-faire than mine, and thus I now get my tires rotated every...uhm..every...well every something. He tells when that is. And it happened to be this oil change.

You can imagine the eye-rolling and sighing on my end when he told me that. It's the end of the semester, and I barely have time to do my hair or shave my legs, let alone drive my car to one of the two places that rotate tires. Both are all the way across town, and seem to take for.ever.regardless of how many customers there are. And unless a place has free wi-fi, I can't do more than thirty minutes anywhere these days. So yes, there was sighing and possibly even some grumbling. But husband-dear once again proved his total awesome-ness, when he suggested the following grand scheme that centered on the fact that he had to work today, and the tire rotation place is on the way to base (pay attention, it gets complicated):

1. He was going to put his bike in my car, drive my car to the tire rotation place, and then bike to work.
2. Since the tire rotation place closes before husband-dear gets off work, I would ride my bike to the tire rotation place whenever the car was done, put my bike in the car and drive the car home.
3. Husband-dear would ride his bike home.

Do you see the ingeniousness of this scheme? We share the burden of driving my car clear across town, and both get our exercise in by riding our bikes.

But then we woke up this morning and it rained. And there was lightning. And thunder. And a stiff wind. And husband-dear was not happy, because that man LOVES to ride his bike. But we came up with an alternative:

1. I drive to the tire place right when they open, get the tires rotated and the oil changed, and drive home.

The idea behind this was that if I showed up there at 7am, the place would be deserted, and I would be in and out in half an hour, which would not cut into my grading too much.
Unfortunately, when I got to the tire rotation place, it looked like a parking lot, and the office worker told me that if I wanted to wait, I had to count on at least two hours.
Not. An. Option.
So I called husband-dear, and this is the plan we're on now:

1. I drive to the tire place
2. Husband-dear comes a little later to pick me up while I leave the car there
3. We both drive to base
4. I drive the truck home
5. I drive out to the tire rotation place before it closes (1pm) to pick up my car
6. I leave husband-dear's truck in the parking lot, and drive my car home
7. I pick husband-dear up from work in my car
8. I drop husband-dear off at the tire rotation place
9. Husband-dear drives his truck home.

So. Is this overly complicated, or is it just me?

How to make a blog...

..go from a really cute story about the south, to a rant.
Watch.

I don't know if it's a southern thing, or All-American, but down here, when children get into trouble, their parents like to refer to them with their full names. So, if one's little cherub has once again run off to play without first helping with the dishes, it's not completely uncommon to see a peeved parent appear on the front porch and holler, "Ashley Jane Johnson, you come right now!". Or if the child is truly southern, one might hear, "Jenna-Sue Lynn, git your little bee-hind back up heah right this instant, ya hear?".

At first, this phenomenon used to have me in stitches. I couldn't imagine my mother ever using my full name, let alone her yelling it down the street. No, my mother had "The Look", and that was all it took for us to come cowering back. But you know, you live, you learn, you adjust, and it wasn't before long when I find myself addressing my kids with their full names too; "Ozzie Axl Van Halen! You stop picking on your brother!", or something like that. I even do it with our dogs, although their middle names may vary. Yesterday, Shelby was "Shelby Mathilda", but she has also been "Shelby Jade" while Zoe varies from "Zoe Elizabeth" to "Zoe Lynn". Anyway, let's just say I get a little carried away sometimes.

But you know what? It really works. Both kids and dogs desist whatever mischief they were engaged in, and give you the biggest puppy-eyed look in the world, usually (at least in the kids' case), followed by a "yes ma'am". And every time that happens, even though I'm delighted it worked, I also feel really old. I mean, when you're old enough to yell out kids' middle names, and be called "ma'am" to boot, you've got to be old. And I usually don't feel that way. Actually, I hardly ever do.

You see, in my head we're stuck in the mid-1990s. It used to be worse, we used to be stuck in the late 1980s, but as ALL of my darling students are now born in, at the earliest, 1989, my whole "Woohoo, it's 1987 and skinny pants are hip for the first time around" attitude really wasn't working, as in 1987, most of my students were nothing but a glint in someone's eye. So I quietly shifted my mental age just a few years, enough for my students to be toddlers or so. It still makes no sense, but I just can't bring myself to move much beyond, say, 1993.

Consequently, I usually don't see myself as educated, experienced, or anything but really young. And this in turn means that even though I think I can say that I clearly am the first two, and don't really qualify as the first one anymore, I still assume most people are older, more education, and thus more knowledgeable than I am. And as a result, I will generally defer to most professional adults. Not in a creepy Uriah Heep submissive way, but in a "well, you present your case so adamantly, and you are older and wiser than I am, so OK."

But yesterday, all that changed. It's no longer 1987 or 1993, and I am no longer a young kid who doesn't know anything. It's 2010, I have my PhD, am a Professor, and am old enough to have sales associates ask me if I'm interested in their anti-aging line, and hence I am turning a new leaf.

Why this sudden change? Well, yesterday I had the pleasure of testifying at a disciplinary hearing regarding one our students. I won't bore you with all the details, but the bottom line is that the department and the review board disagreed on the disciplinary actions that should be taken. And even though the presence of three senior Professors (as well as two students), would normally have had me nod my head and seriously ask myself why I would think any differently from these older, smarter, and more educated people, this time I would not, could not, give in. Instead, I sat up in my chair, and gave an impassioned, possibly even heated, speech about why I, and my department, was right, and they really needed to change their minds. I think I might have even told the board something to the extent of sometimes someone has to say "the buck stops here", and that this would be an opportune moment to do so. Amazing for someone who's in their teens, isn't it?

So, yes, we have turned a new leaf. I am not some young kid who doesn't know anything. Not anymore. I may listen to music from 1987, I might even possibly own some clothing from 1987, but we're not in 1987 anymore Toto. It's 2010 and Dorothy, excuse me, Dr. Dorothy, is all grown up. Ha!

What do teachers make?

This semester, in their, once again more than, infinite wisdom, the university administration decided to "push back" advisement during the week of senior finals, and the week before general finals. That would this week. So while we're calculating senior grades, planning senior finals, grading final papers, dealing with senior portfolios, senior projects, failing software, and our own end of the year evaluations, we are supposed to make time (and patience) to provide our seventy or so advisees with sound, well thought-out, and sensible advice on which classes to take next semester.

I'm once again not sure what inspired this pure stroke of genius, but I'm going to out on a limb here, and guess it has something to do with "further streamlining professor-student interaction", or perhaps "contributing to the economization of the academic advisement processes", or maybe I'm totally off, and it's really all to do with the "increasing observed need for a more in-depth restructuring of scholastic standards". I don't know. All I know is that it makes me want to scream and throw things.

Yesterday, husband-dear was actually kind enough to let me wad up a piece of paper and throw it at him. Now that is love for you. Right there. Forget about flowers, and cards, and romantic declarations of love. Letting your spouse hit you with a balled up advisement sheet so their frustration levels might taper is true love ladies and gentlemen.

Times like these is when I have to dig really deep to remember why I went into this field. It takes a lot of work and effort. Fortunately, I have good friends who will point me in the right direction. And one of those friends pointed me towards this video, which is probably what is going to keep me sane in these next two weeks. It's funny. It's inspirational. It's true. What more could a tired, overworked, and overwhelmed professor want?