Sailor

The title of this post obviously makes no sense whatsoever. Not in the least because a) I'm nowhere near an ocean, and b) the navy has got nothing on the Air Force. But I digress. The reason I chose this title is because of a something that husband-dear has recently taken to doing. You see, I think he's been branding me. And by branding I'm not referring to anything that involves hot coals and a pair of metal tongs, no, I'm referring to the marketing principle. I believe that husband-dear has finally figured out that for all my griping, complaining, and whining, I'm really generally OK with my life, and hence he's slapped the following saying on my being; "A b***ing sailor is a happy sailor". (my apologies for the PG-13-style censorship of that remark, but y'all, we are in The South here).

Anyway, I think he's right. I'm not sure if it's just who I am, or if my seemingly less-than-pleased attitude is somehow related to my Dutchness, but either way, I complain regardless of whether I'm happy, so there you are.

So today, instead of finding something to whine about (and oh boy, there are plenty of things, like WHY do freshmen insist on wearing their IDs like they are at some inner city high school?), I thought I would tell you about one thing that has been making me very happy: husband-dear's new work location. And it's not so much his location (seriously, I don't even know what it looks like, as, you know, regulations have determined that normal mortals are not allowed in the building), but the fact that he now has access to his email on a regular basis. Call me an idiot. Or a hopeless romantic, but I like hearing from husband-dear during the day. It was hard enough to accept that, when we moved here, all cell phone usage on his part was absolutely banned, which put a screeching halt to our quick text exchanges. But for the past three years, his job has kept him away from a regular desk for most of the day. So that meant no phone calls unless something was on fire, and if I was lucky, one email per day. Compare that the hundreds of emails we would shoot back and forth prior to the move, and you can see how I felt just a little deprived.

But now all that has changed. Husband-dear is at his desk a lot, and so we email. A lot. And I like it. There's nothing more uplifting than returning from a class where your students seem to vie for the "who can be the most annoying today" prize, to find a brief, but sweet message from your man in your email. It's very practical as well. We have managed to hash out the practicalities of our life ("are you picking the kids up, or am I?") through email instead of quick, frantic phone calls or sleepy, confusing conversations early in the morning.

Obviously, his sudden ability to email during the day also has its drawbacks, such as him suddenly asking me to do things like think about meals for next week. Or look something up online. Or ask me to email someone. But hey, I promised I would be a happy non-b***ing sailor today, so I won't elaborate on that.

So, DixieChick is happy. She still has a lot to complain about, but she's happy. Honestly.

Romanes eunt domus

So while it was only a few months ago that I explained my slow acceptance of how Americans use the term "Nazi" in a much more liberal sense than I ever would, I now have to come to the interesting realization that I've started using it to describe myself. Yes, we've gone from a reluctant acceptance of others using the phrase to describe my less-than-laid-back attitude towards a variety of activities, to an active usage of the term when trying to make students understand exactly how strict I am when it comes to grammar, spelling, and punctuation. I have, in other words, started calling myself the English-language-Nazi.

I, of course, have numerous pet peeves when it comes to writing mistakes. The far-too-common they're, there, and their come to mind, as do the ever-confounding it's and its, as well as the apparent drug-inspired random usage of punctuation, including apostrophes. Or is it apostrophe's? Or a'postrophes?

Anyway, my biggest issue, however, seems to be with words that have Latin roots. You see, in this part of the world, there seems to be a complete and utter disregard for the ruthless logic that inspired the Latin, and thus the English language. Now call me a silver-spooned old-school nerd, but when I went to middle school (yes, I said middle school, and yes, this was an American middle school), my English teacher took the time to teach us the basics of Latin. We learned about prefixes, suffixes, and the rules for feminine/masculine, and rendering singular words plural. Very, very boring when you're thirteen. But really really useful when you're studying for your SATs and realize you don't have to memorize fifteen thousand words, you can use look at your list of prefixes and suffixes again.

It is, however, a royal pain in the derriere (and that is French) when you move to the south where no one seems to have ever heard of Latin.

Take those pesky alumni license plate frames for instance. You may have seen them, they have the name of the university on the top, and then on the bottom it will say "alumni". Alumni, people. I cannot begin to tell you how much that makes me want to pull over and scream. Because unless there are two former students in that car at all times, or the owner suffers from a case of pluralis majestatis, that plate makes no sense whatsoever. You see, alumni is plural. The correct term for a single former student is alumnus. And that really only applies to males. Female former students are known as almumna, and when speaking of a group of alumna, one calls them "alumnae". Now I don't mean to be a Latin freak, but don't you think that of all places, institutions of higher learning should get this right? I mean, we have positions with medieval titles like "provost" and "registrar", don't you think we could get our freaking license plates in order?

And don't even get me started on media and mediums. Working in the field of mass communication means I get to deal with this one a lot, and it's always a pleasure. In case you're wondering, no, it's not just the students. Just a few weeks ago, we received an application for an open position, where the candidate (who, for the record, had just obtained a master's) spoke of his experience with various "mediums". Yes, medium. It's one thing to write "the media has", as opposed to "the media have", but mediums? Really?

Mediums, dear reader, is what you see when you put a whole bunch of people who can talk to the dead in room. Media refers to two or more channels for mass communication. I can't repeat this often enough.

Now, in all fairness, the English language does not use Latin plurals the way Dutch does. I remember learning that it was one stadium, two stadia, one aquarium, two aquaria, one gymnasium, two gymnasia, while I've yet to hear any American talk about "aquaria". Even NPR anchors say "stadiums". So perhaps it's a simple lack of familiarity that explains my students' tendency to speak of "mediums" when discussing radio and television. But still. Mediums? Alumni?

So yes, the English-Language Nazi it is. Although I wonder if it's really not supposed to be naza.

Oh, and to those of you who have no idea what the title of this blog refers to, please check out this classic scene.

Gezegende vrachtwagenchauffeurs

Na alle dramatiek van maandag, vond ik dat het weer eens hoog tijd werd voor een gezellig blogje. En ik zit al dagen op een moment te wachten dat ik iemand kan vertellen over een aantal geweldige bumperstickers die ik gezien heb. U voelt hem al aankomen: dat moment is nu.

Ik heb wel eens eerder geschreven over de maffe verzameling bumperstickers die sommige Amerikanen op hun auto's hebben. Ik kan het blogje zo even niet vinden, dus u moet me maar op mijn woord geloven. Maar de laatste weken heb ik een aantal nieuwe gespot, die ik u echt niet wil onthouden.

Zo zag ik eerder deze week het geweldige "Don't believe the liberal media". Natuurlijk deed het mijn hart goed dat de makers van deze sticker wel het onderscheid kenden tussen "media" en "mediums"(maar daarover in een ander blog meer), maar verder kon ik er niet zo heel veel mee. Mijn eerste tegenvraag was dan ook meteen, "En wie moeten we dan wel geloven? De conservative media?". Deze simpele vraag werd gevolgd door allerlei sociaal-wetenschappelijk verantwoorde vragen zoals, "En wie zijn de liberale media dan? Wie bepaalt dat? En wat is liberaal eigenlijk? En waarom moeten we niet naar hen luisteren?"U begrijpt, deze bumpersticker is duidelijk niet voor mij bedoelt. Ik maak het veel te ingewikkeld, in plaats van dat ik gewoon luister en die liberale media uitzet! Potverdrie!

Maar dan nog. Ik stel mij zo voor dat de eigenaar van deze winkel in een of andere conservatieve bumpersticker winkel rondliep, deze zag, en meteen dacht..uhm..tjsa...iets van, "Eureka! Dit gaat alle problemen van de Amerikaanse samenleving oplossen!"(?). Ik weet het niet hoor, maar ik kan me a) niet voorstellen dat een bumpersticker zoveel sociale invloed heeft, en b) dat de "liberale media" (wie dat dan ook mogen zijn) schuld hebben aan alle misere die dit land klaarblijkelijk rijk is.

Maar goed, dat was de eerste bumpersticker die mij deed gniffelen (en dat is heel wat, om zeven uur 's ochtends). Toen zag ik op dinsdag het helemaal geweldige, "God bless the truckers" op een of andere kleine 4-deurs auto zitten. En natuurlijk heeft de sticker helemaal gelijk. Ik bedoel, laat God inderdaad alsjeblieft alle vrachtwagenchauffeurs zegenen, vooral als ze met weet-ik-veel-hoeveel-ton vracht en zestien wielen mij met negentig mijl per uur inhalen. Maar ja, wat moet er nou met al die andere beroepen die ook op de weg zitten? Waarom niet "God bless the ambulance drivers?", of "God bless the rural mail carriers?", of "God bless the drivers of the vans carrying prison workers to a construction site"? Die mensen doen ook allemaal bijzonder belangrijk werk (ik zou niet graag zien dat aan busje met psychotische moordenaars een ongeluk krijgt, en al die moordenaars in het bos verdwijnen, bijvoorbeeld), waarom verdienen zij geen "God bless"? Waarom dan gewoon geen "God bless everyone!" sticker?

Natuurlijk, ik snap het ook wel, de eigenaar van die auto is zelf vrachtwagenchauffeur, of kent een vrachtwagencheuffeur, en die wil een blessing. Wat ik frappanter vind is dat daar dus stickers voor zijn. Zouden er ook "God bless my Professor" stickers zijn? Of "God bless gas station employees", of "God bless nurse's aids", of "God bless geophysicists"? om maar eens een paar ondergewaardeerde beroepen te noemen. Ik vraag het me af.

Ik zou bijna voorstellen om alle bumperstickers dan maar van auto's af te halen, aangezien de meesten zo vreemd zijn. Maar toen bedacht ik me, dat dat een groot deel van mijn dagelijks vermaak is. En dus is mijn conclusie: bring it on met die bumperstickers!

Keeping it real

Today, one of my friends blogged about keeping it real. She reminded me that although blogging can be a lot of fun - in her case, you write about weddings and cupcakes, and in my case, you write cute letters to parents and the trials of being a runner - at the end of the day, blogging is all about keeping it real. About being yourself and writing about what bugs you.

So today I thought I would keep it real as well. Tomorrow I will probably go back to writing sarcastic little posts about southern ways, but for today, you're getting the real deal. And in all honesty, I think it's about time too.

You see, lately the whole baby-thing has come to the surface again. I know, again. It's been over a year, and no, I'm still not over it. I know, I know. But you see, this whole "accepting setbacks" is a lot easier when you know it can be fixed. Accepting something that won't ever be fixed it a whole different ballgame. And life hasn't exactly been helpful.

First, there was the family bible that resurfaced. Husband-dear owns a family bible, given to him by his mother, that contains his entire family tree. I believe it goes back to the early 1700s, and it painstakingly lists all family members, their names, where they came from, when they were born, when they died, and how many children they had. For years, husband-dear thought the bible was at his mom's house, while his mom vehemently claimed it was somewhere in one of the boxes she gave him when he left for his first assignment. Knowing husband-dear, I knew his mom was probably more than likely right, so this summer, I firmly told husband-dear to get his butt up our attic and go through ALL of his old boxes and FIND the bible ALREADY.
And he did (and I did not tell him "I told you so", but since he doesn't read my blog, I can now, ha!).

Now the family tree is impressive. It's amazing to see where husband-dear's roots lie, and what people were called, and how his family migrated across states. But then when I saw husband-dear's name and his sister's at the very end of the tree, I felt just a little sad. Because although his children will make it into the family bible, I never will. I will never make it onto any family tree. Instead of being one of those thick red lines that divides up into a myriad of other red lines, I am going to be a dead-end thin black line with just my first name. And that makes me just a little sad.

And secondly, there are my students. Yes, even when I'm getting real, my students are still there. And it's not all of my students. No. Just the pregnant ones. And there are a lot of them. You would think that in this era of easily accessible anti conception methods, as well as the infamous "health" classes, no one would get pregnant "by accident" anymore. Well, that may be true for the rest of the world, but here in the south, we march to our own drummer, thank you very much. This semester alone, there are four pregnant students in my classes. And two dads-to-be, who are, by the way, not the dad of any of those Comm babies. Last semester we had three students give birth to babies, and the semester before that we had two. Imagine walking a day in my shoes, and seeing students with protruding bellies, hearing them discuss baby names, cuss out the dad for not being in their life anymore, and complain about how this could have happened to them. It's like running your nails across a chalkboard.

The toughest part, though, is hearing about students who have had abortions. Some of them regret their actions, and then look to their adviser (i.e., me) for advice and support. Imagine sitting in my chair, and comforting someone who just got rid of something you would have gladly taken from them. Of course I show them grace. And understanding. And a kind ear. But when I drive home that day, I ask God why.

I don't know when it will get any better. I wish I could leave you all on an "up", but I really don't know if it will ever go away. And I'm sorry that my "keeping it real" always turns into this little pity-party, but there you have it. That's real for you.

I'm sure that by tomorrow, I will have thought of some hilarious little story about running or my students, or what have you. But for now, this is me.

Potty training

"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers"
Blanche DuBois ~ A streetcar named Desire

Running is not a pretty sport. It's not like some of those indoor activities like aerobics, yoga, or zumba, where you can dress in a flattering color-coordinated outfit, slap on same make up, and decide how much, or how little you want to sweat, thus determining how attractive you look once the activity is over. No, running is, I'm sorry to say it, just kind of ugly.

First and foremost, you sweat. A lot. Especially down here in Georgia. Running in Georgia gives new meaning to sweating in fact. For instance, did you know that the insides of your elbow can sweat? And the back of your knees? No? Well, they can, trust me. Second, because of this excessive sweat-production, any make up you may choose to wear (or forget to take off like I do), will end up in Johnny Depp-like-circles around your eyes, having you come home looking like racoon. And third, this same problem will also have your plastered onto your forehead, your neck in about a mile. And sure, one can try to color-coordinate running outfits, but because most runners go out more than once or twice a week, there will come that time when you realize your maroon running shorts haven't been washed yet, and thus you're stuck wearing your maroon top with your purple shorts. And it just really goes downhill from there. There's discomfort, panting, cramps, and so on. It's just not nice.

But there is one thing runners don't usually talk about. Maybe it's because it's just a little embarrassing. Maybe it's because they think they're the only ones. I don't know. Since I have never shied away from things yucky, I'll just come right out and say: bowel movements. Yes, running makes you want to do number 2. Honestly. Ask any runner, and after some prodding they will probably all admit, no matter how reluctantly, that they have all had to race home, pull their pants down while running through the house, tripping over their own shoes, only to make it to the bathroom just in time (or not).

I'm sure there's some logical explanation for it, something to do with the motion of your body setting off your intestines. But regardless of what causes it, this problem is a pain in the butt, to coin a phrase. Especially when you're a beginning runner. You see, once you've been running for a while, all you really have to do is put on your running outfit, and your body realizes, "Uh-oh, we're about to go shake up our intestines, let's go number two NOW". And you do. It's really quite ideal, because all I have to do nowadays is pull out my running shoes, and my body goes into total expulsion mode. I mean I'm in the bathroom two, sometimes even three times. It's perfect.

But every once in a while, things don't time out that well. And last Wednesday night was one of those times. I came home from work, had dinner, needed to run, and it was getting dark, so I got changed and off I went. Husband-dear decided to bike alongside me, and the first half all was merry. I ran, he biked, we talked, it hurt. It was great. Then during the second half, my stomach started to act up. And soon I realized I had to go. Go as in go really badly. As in, I don't know if I am going to make it home. And when you're two miles away from your house, running through suburbia with not a ditch or a clump of trees in sight, you know you're in trouble.

So here I am, running my butt off, while trying to hold it all together at the same time too, while husband-dear is giving really helpful advice like, "Just go in your pants if you can't hold it", or while pointing at a seedling of a tree right in front of someone's house "You could go behind that little tree right there". Just for the record, husband-dear, during his marathon training, has had accidents in his pants, and so he thinks nothing of doing what you need to do. Especially if the cramps are making you growl guttural sounds through clenched teeth, which is what I was doing at the time.

But then I saw a lady standing outside her house, watering her yard. And suddenly I could not have been more grateful to be living in the south. Because when I ran up to hear, with my dark running glasses on, my hair all over my face, and sweat liberally covering, well, everything, and asked her if I could please use her bathroom, she said, "Why sure you can!"

Now I don't know about you, but I have a hard time imagining anyone in Holland being that inviting. I can just picture them glancing you over once, twice, perhaps three times, and then tell you something like, "Well, my daughter is in the shower right now, I'm sorry, no", at which point the lack of motion has fooled your body into thinking you're in the bathroom, and you've just had your accident on their driveway.

There were no accidents anywhere, this time. The lady led me to her bathroom, and then went outside to resume her watering. Once again, I'm sure any Dutch person worth their salt (including myself) would have at least stayed inside the house to make sure the runner wasn't trying to hide the family silver in their spandex shorts. But not this lady.

Needless to say that after hogging her bathroom for a good five minutes, thanking her profusely, I wrote her a thank you card and dropped it off at her house yesterday. After all, saving someone from a very embarrassing accident is probably the nicest thing anyone can do.

A letter to Freshmen parents

Dear Freshman Mom and Dad,

Congratulations! Your son/daughter has successfully enrolled in college, and is about to embark on the greatest journey of his or her life so far. You have probably inundated your offspring with advice on just about everything, from parties, to eating well, to doing laundry on time, to taking care of yourself, and oh yes, remembering to study. However, I would like to ask you if, next time you talk to your darling child, you could give them the following pieces of advice as well:

1. Bring a writing utensil and a notebook to class. A laptop is OK too. Tell them that although their phone, purse, umbrella, bag with personal styling products/gym bag/tote with dirty laundry are obviously imperative to their college success, so is the ability to take notes.

2. The ability to purchase textbooks definitely outweighs the importance of a data package on their phone. Additionally, if you could let them know that their professors will have little sympathy for your child if he or she claims they cannot afford the required reading material while playing with said iPhone/ Droid/any other type of 3G phone, that would be really great.

3. Know how to tell time and read a calendar. Explain to them that 12 noon is not the same 12:01pm, and definitely not the same as 2pm and a "I forgot the time". You may want to purchase a planner for them, and encourage them to write deadlines down, lest they forget.

4. Complaining /whining/ groaning/ rolling one's eyes when receiving the syllabus is an absolute no-no. Make sure they realize that college entails work. A lot of it. More than in high school in fact. Please have them understand that in order to obtain a degree of higher learning, they will need to demonstrate that they can in fact learn more. Explain that the only way to ensure this is by having them complete various assignments. You might also want to touch on the notion of "alienating one's professor and success in course"

5. Joining a sorority or fraternity is not an accomplishment. They should not expect leniency from their professors regarding deadlines or assignments because "it's rush" or "Greek week" or "pledge night". Instead, please encourage them to volunteer on campus and acquire positions in organizations that will further their future career.

And finally, please tell them that complaining to you and asking you to call the university will yield absolutely no results. And not because we're cold-hearted meanies who don't have time to talk to you (although this might be true in some cases), but because of some pesky little law known as the Buckley Amendment, which states that once your child is an adult, you are no longer automatically entitled to know everything about them. So even if we wanted to talk to you, we can't.

Now that we've been able to share these helpful guidelines with you, allow me to wish you and your child a wonderful freshman year!

Yours sincerely,

Dr. D.

Op nog een konijn

Bij Noordwijk zwom een nat konijn
Temidden van een school tonijn
"Tja" sprak het beest, dat tomt ervan
als men de ta niet zeggen tan"

En vertaal dat maar eens drie jaar lang in het Engels. Moeilijk verhalen over tuna en rabbits en "the letter k". Maar ja, ik mag niet klagen. Want dat krijg je als je een Nederlandse poster met deze tekst op je kantoor hangt. En dat krijg je ook voorgeschoteld in een blog als de schrijfster weer eens geen "nee" heeft kunnen zeggen, en haar dinsdagen en donderdagen in een keer enorm veel lijken op die van twee jaar geleden. Maar daar ga ik later meer over schrijven. Echt waar. Nu eerst even lesgeven.

Vraagje: Zou het opvallen als ik mijn eigen lunch mee het college in neem?