Fifty ways to..

...no, not leave your lover, but drive your professor crazy when grading your paper.

It's midterms once again (do I sound really old when I say that the spring midterms feel like only yesterday?), which means it's time for oodles and oodles of written-three-am-before-the-paper-was-due creations.

OK, I exaggerate. Not oodles and oodles, but a fair sprinkling. A resounding amount. Maybe about half. Depending on the class. Either way, it's not pretty. Or enjoyable.

But Dr. D, I hear you say, you've been doing this for so long now, why aren't you used to this by now? Honestly, I don't know. I had high hopes for this year's sophomores, who have access to a state-of-the-art writing lab, three writing specialists, and more online assistance than you can imagine, but even that isn't it. I think it's years of correcting the same mistakes over. And over. And over. And over. Especially after you've told your students not to do that again. And again. And again. Some of these mistakes have just started to feel like nails on a chalkboard to me.

I'll share some with you, and you can let me know if you feel the same way, or if it truly is time for me to start doing something else.

Grievous Mistake (GM) #1: "Being that..."
OK, people, "Being that" is not correct English. I'm not even sure if it's English. I do know that it's an incredibly roundabout way of saying that something is, and that it gets on my nerves. "Being that the media industry became more..." hurts me. Almost personally. Stop doing that. Something is, or it isn't. We don't need to talk its existence anymore than that. Thank you.

GM #2: "Dictionary dot com defines * insert concept here* as..."
People. Let me say this One. More. Time. (and I'll leave the blatant disregard for APA rules of citation aside). You are in college. You are striving to receive a bachelor's degree. You spend countless hours in class. Learning about concepts. You read lots and lots of books. About these concepts. Yes, that's what you do. So why on God's green earth would you rely on dictionary dot com? Really, why? Please, tell me, because I see it so often, I fear I must be missing out on some enormously all-encompassing fountain of knowledge.

GM #3: "u"
Instead of "you". Look, I know my students spend more time text/tweeting than anything else during any given day, and that "u" has become a staple in their vocabulary. But, at the same time, last time I checked "u" was not recognized by any spellcheck. So when I find a "u" in someone's paper, I know they could not be bothered to run their spellchecker. And somehow, that makes me feel a whole lot less bothered about giving them a low grade. Just saying.

GM #4: Any sort of "their", "they're", and "there" confusion.
I know this one is a tough one. It seems so easy, "there" is location, "they're" is short for "they are" and "their" is possessive, but apparently, entire populations are confused by these three simple words. I'm not sure why, but it is. At the same time, any quick reading will catch mistakes like these. And again, whenever someone does not have the time for a quick read through...well, do I need to say anything more?

GM #5: "I guess"
I've started to see this one more often recently, and I'm not sure why it's on the rise. I realize my students are not in this to become doctor or nuclear physicists, or some other job whereby guessing can mean the difference between life as we know it and the end of the world, but really, you guess? Although I'll be the first to acknowledge that there is no truth, positivism is a farce, everything is relative, and yada yada yada, I can't say that seeing valley girl speak like "I guess" makes me feel very academic. If someone asks you if you want to come to the mall, I could see how an "I guess" might work. Or perhaps if your roommate asks you if you like Chinese food. Sure. But in an academic paper, an "I guess" signifies to me that you really don't know what you're talking about. And in that case, I'm really not sure I want to keep on reading.

Of course, I do. I always read my students' papers. And I write very constructive criticisms in the sections where they struggled. Because, secretly, I like my students, and I want them to do better. Just don't tell them I said that.

Pies, lunch, and bad wives

Blogging while eating lunch can only mean one thing in my world: lunch is gross. And it is. But it also reminds me of the fact that husband-dear likes pies. And how am I an incredibly, unbelievably, out-of-this-world lucky woman to have married him. And yes, all these things can be tied together. Watch this.

As you may already know, I'm not your ideal Martha Stewart. I've blogged about this in the past, and it still is, however unfortunate this may be, true (I know, I know, I need to create an "about" tab, so I don't have to keep repeating myself. It's on my to-do-list. On page two. Right underneath "Reorganize filing cabinet"). Anyway. I don't really cook, unless you count throwing something together because I need to stay alive somehow, I don't knit, or quilt, or sew, make beautiful scrapbooks, create home-made gifts, home-made cards, or send cards for that matter all, I don't iron and starch clothes, and I definitely don't bake. Now, admittedly, I do clean. I clean like it's freaking going out of style people. But everything else, meh, not so much.

Of course, I have a really good excuse (and I know, this is where that "about" tab would be so handy-dandy), namely, my job. Which, as you all know, is 90 miles away, and entails about 120 hours of work per week. I love it, but it drives me insane most of the time. To be honest, I have no idea why I work this hard, because I love lounging around the house so much better. But I do.
Anyway, the bottom line is, I suck at all this homemaking stuff. My performance actually goes beyond sucking, as I don't really care. Which, we all know, is far worse. Especially in the south, the land of the Martha-Stewart-Paula-Deen women. I'm actually pretty sure some of our acquaintances consider me a *gasp* "bad wife".

And this is where the point about my most-awesome husband comes in. You see, he either a) doesn't care that I don't do any of the above, or b) does it himself. Husband-dear sews buttons on in a flash, he darns socks, irons shirts, remembers people's birthdays far better than I do, and his cooking skills are just amazing. He says he loves to take care of me, and I'm really not sure why. I mean, I come home late, leave my stuff all over the house, make him watch girly shows like Glee, as well as weird European movies, whine about just about everything, and when I'm not doing any of those things, I'm working.

But he does it all. And a few nights ago, when I had once again come home late, only to find the kitchen cleaned up, and my dinner in the microwave, I felt bad. I mean, husband-dear has a job of his own, he does most of the kids-things during the week, and he still keeps my dinner warm when I'm running late, or clean out the guinneapig cage when I have a million papers to grade.

So when husband-dear flopped down on the couch, stretched, and said, "Man, I would really like some pie right now", I felt even worse. Because not only had I totally forgotten he likes pie, I also didn't have any in the fridge, and wouldn't know how to make one if, well, if the world was about to come to an end, and this was his last wish. So I offered the next best thing, "I could drive to the store and get you one"
"No, don't be crazy, you've been in the car for like three hours today."
This from the man who did my laundry, cooked my dinner, and did a million other things I probably didn't even notice.
"Well, " (Guilt had really started to set in right then), "Can I get you something else? Some ice cream?" (Because at least I knew we had some of that)
"Oh yes, that sounds great".
So I brought him some ice cream, put some chocolate syrup on it, and husband-dear was over the moon. (Cue some more guilt)

And this lunch thing I was complaining about earlier? It's also due to husband-dear's total awesomeness. You see, we both like to take leftovers. Yesterday, there was only one container, and husband-dear let me take it (are you all seeing a pattern here?) However, had I known the container held, among other things, chicken on the bone and peas, I would have let husband-dear had it. But I was so grateful, I didn't And that's why I'm now eating a lunch I am really not happy with, but very grateful for, nonetheless.

I'm telling you. I'm a bad wife. And he is an awesome husband.

p.s. Yes, you may go and throw up now ;)

The Other or Why race is confusing

I was going to blog about pie, but that blog will have to wait. Instead I want to share a few nuggets from yesterday's Introduction to Mass Communication class with you.

Every semester, I try to introduce the idea of identity construction and "the other". In a nutshell, this entails the idea that how we view ourselves depend on the people we're surrounded with. So, you may not explicitly define yourself as a woman unless you're surrounded by all men. You may not think of yourself as Dutch/American/whatever nationality you have unless you're surrounded by people who are of a different nationality.

The way I explain this idea to my students is by explaining that I was never conscious of the fact that I am white until I came to this school (where 95% of the students are African American). And I really wasn't. I mean, sure, I knew I was white, but I never identified myself in that way. I was Dutch, blond, a woman, short, and so on. I would have never thought to call myself white. Until I came here, and I suddenly found myself saying things like, "Oh cool, there's another white person". As a white person, I don't think I was ever this aware of what it was like to be different from the majority of the people around me.

Anyway, usually this leads to an interesting discussion about race and identity. But yesterday was different. Yesterday I could two responses that I really want to share with you.

Student 1: What do you mean you never realized you were white? Did you never look in a mirror or something?
Me: Uhm.....(Saved from the oddest of odd questions by a hand to the left of the room)
Student 2: But, but, you're not white are you? No! (this in response to her classmates' jeers) No, I mean, you're Dutch, not white.
Me: Uhm..well, I'm both, really.
Student 2: Yes, but isn't Dutch a race too?

And there you go. I could write a 7000-word paper on the confusion surrounding the definition of race, addressing whether it's a social construct, a biological given, or a sociobiologically acquired awareness. Or I could just quote my student, and claim that everything that sets us apart from everyone else is race. Or perhaps that it's our experience of our own race that sets us apart. Or, if you want to get truly philosophical, that others' perception of our race is what defines who we are. Hm. Perhaps I should just stick to writing that 7000-word paper after all.

A cheering professor

I'm going to have to be upfront here, and say that this semester has been one of the most difficult ones since I started working here. With six classes, one of which is in a field I am still reading up on, and all of which are over capacity, the vacancy left by Steve still not filled, more freshmen than we've ever had, and a program review coming up, life hasn't exactly been a barrel of laughs in our nook of campus. And that is exactly why yesterday, I found myself learning a cheer from a front-row student in front of a packed 10am class.

I've always wanted to be a cheerleader. The pompoms, the yelling, the stunts, the dancing, it all seemed like magic to me. But a busy schedule, a love for field hockey, track, as well as drama, and a complete and utter ineptness to perform something as simple as a cartwheel without a serious flailing of arms and legs stopped me from ever trying out. But, even though high school days are long gone, I, inspired by shows like Glee and I'm-not-feeling-well movie choices like "Bring it on", still dream about it.

And when I think about the antics it sometimes takes to motivate students, I like to think of myself as an academic cheerleader. I cajole, I preach, I joke, I sing (mainly Motown), I act out, I dance and prance, and generally make a spectacle of myself. But it seems to work. Students laugh, either at me, or with me, and their attitudes improve.

This semester, though, the whole cheerleading gig has been a rough one. For not only am I seriously overburdened, the students haven't had it easy either. They're packed into classrooms that are too small, their dorms are overcrowded, their production director (i.e., Steve) left, advisers are swamped, and the fact that a third of our campus is under construction doesn't help either. They're tired, irritable, and their professor are just plain unfair. And so, sometimes I find myself snapping a little more vehemently than might have been necessary. There seems to have been very little cheerleading, not in my classroom, or the classrooms of any of my coworkers.

Yesterday, though, I got a bee in my bonnet. It was 10 in the morning, my class had to turn in a paper, and subquently, at least six students were seriously late, on account of, they were still finishing their paper. The others were looking as close to death as humanly possible, and I myself wasn't quite feeling it either. So when two students in the front row asked me a question about homecoming, I thought I would, instead of bringing them back on topic, roll with it. For just a minute or so, I promised myself. Enough to get them awake and slightly motivated.

But then someone mentioned our cheerleaders. As it happened, one of the two students is on the football cheerleading squad, and when she told the class about her insane practices, I let slip that I always wanted to be a cheerleader too.
"Oh, well, I can teach you a cheer, you know!" My student looked at me, with that grin that any teacher immediately recognizes. It's the grin your kids give you when they just ate all the Halloween candy. Or your dog, when she got into the meat, again. It's an adorable, innocent, "please let me get away with this" grin. Usually, it's a sign for me it's time to reel the class in, but this time, I was so tired of being the bad cop, and done with not enjoying what I do that I said, "OK, why not."

The class started to giggle and whisper, which quickly turned to a serious roar when the student got up, came up front, and proceeded to teach me the, apparently very popular, "Go, let's go!" cheer.

What can I say? Had the president walked by at that time, I'm sure he would have been less than pleased. I'm also pretty sure it's considered pedagogically very unsound for a professor to do little dance steps while chanting, "Go, go, let's go" in front of her class. But I'm also very sure I had a blast. I messed up, forgot the steps, the words, and made everyone laugh, including myself. Every single class since then has brought it up, and I think I might have earned some serious brownie points, as I heard one of my radio students today call me "the cheering professor". So there you go. I'm mean. I'm tough. But I cheer. And that makes it all better.

Het regent

Het regent! Het regent! De pannetjes worden nat!

Nou ja, het is vandaag eigenlijk stiekem al weer droog, maar gisteren en zondag is de herfst eindeijk begonnen. Met temperaturen rondom de 25 graden en na een weekend met genoeg regen voor een paar weken, lijkt de zomer eindelijk voorbij. En na vijf maanden zon, hitte, op de meest onmogelijke tijden hebben moeten sporten, en dan nog genoeg zweet produceren om een heel zwembad te vullen, is het dan ook hoog tijd.

Nu moet u weten dat regen in het zuiden een bijzonder fenomeen is. En niet alleen omdat het niet zo heel vaak voorkomt, maar ook omdat wanneer het regent, het met bakken uit de hemel komt. "When it rains, it pours" is een bekende uitdrukking, en een waarheid als een koe hier in het zuidoosten. En dit weekend was het niet anders. Mijn wens voor een dagje regen is dan ook meer dan uitgekomen. De goten overstroomden, er ontstond een waar zwembad aan de voet van onze oprit, de honden zijn zeker tien keer zeiknat geworden, de rode klei veranderde in een rode brei, en ik was erg blij dat ik net een dag eerder het zwembad had opgeruimd.

En regen is niet alleen bijzonder vanwege het enorme geweld waarmee het uit de hemel stort, maar ook vanwege het effect dat het heeft op de locals. Ik heb al eerder geschreven op het desastreuze effect dat neerslag heeft op de rijvaardigheden van Georgians, maar het effect gaat veel verder dan dat. Zo heb ik bijvoorbeeld vast kunnen stellen dat als het regent, het aantal studenten dat naar college komt gehalveerd wordt. Het maakt niet uit dat de universiteit overal gratis paraplus heeft staan. Het maakt ook niet uit dat de meesten slechts 100 m van hun auto naar de ingang van het gebouw hoeven lopen. En het maakt ook niet uit dat het al meer dan vierentwintig uur regent, en studenten dus een hele dag de tijd hebben gehad om een rampenplan te maken. Ze komen gewoon niet.

Gisteren heb ik een kleine impromptu survey gehouden onder die studenten die wel op kwamen dagen, als poging een wetenschappelijk onderbouwde reden te vinden voor het wegblijven tijdens een regenbui. En het antwoord? "We houden niet van nat worden". Juist. Nu ben ik ook niet al te gek op doorweekte kleding, natte schoenen, en soppende sokken, maar hoe kan dat een probleem zijn als bij het minste drupje iedereen met regenlaarzen en regenjassen aan in het lokaal verschijnt? Ja, dat wisten ze ook niet precies, maar wat wel zeker een probleem was, waren hun kapsels. Als die nat worden, dan kunnen de meeste van mijn studenten namelijk meteen weer terug naar de kapper. Goed, maar waarom hebben ze dan allemaal een paraplu bij zich? En een capouchon op? Sja. Maar gelukkig kwamen ze toen eindelijk op het ware probleem met regen; "When it rains, we melt."

Dus hierbij de reden voor het wegblijven van mijn studenten en het slechte rijgedrag van Georgians. Als het regent, dan smelten ze. Net als de heks uit de Wizard of Oz.

Give me your money?

I've done it again, I've gotten myself into something that I really shouldn't have. Don't worry, it's nothing bad, or dangerous (like the second adventure race I signed up for yesteday), no, it's actually a good thing. It just happens to be a good thing at which I completely and utter suck.

So what is this horrible, yet good thing that I I signed up for? It's the Susan Komen Race for the Cure. And, no, it's not the race I'm worried about, it's a 5K for crying out loud, I could run that in my sleep. No, it's the fact that I, well, we, as I am on a team, have to raise money to be allowed to run the race. And we have to raise a lot of money. As in a thousand dollars.

Now it's for a good cause. One of the better ones, in my personal opinion. I would more than happily train for a marathon if it could help cure breast cancer, and then pay to run it. In fact, if I could just -give- the foundation my share of the thousand dollars, I wouldn't be writing this post. But that's not what we're supposed to do. No. We're supposed to raise the thousand dollars, i.e., we have to ask people to donate money to our team. And that's where my struggle comes in.

You see, I really, absolutely, positively suck as asking people to do anything for me. Now I don't mind at all when people ask me for help. I have just found that I am pretty much allergic to asking people for help. I. Will. Do. It. On. My. Own. But thanks for asking! And it's not because I'm terribly stubborn or have an independent streak a mile wide. Because although I am the first and definitely have the latter, they're really unrelated to my complete inability to ask for help. The reason I don't like to ask people for help is because I don't want to bother them. In my opinion, there is nothing worse on this entire planet, than feeling like you're a nuisance to someone. The whole "Running-#2" incident is a case in point here. If it hadn't been for an imminent involuntarily bodily expulsion, I don't think I would have ever asked anyone anything. Because oh my lord in the heavens above, what I had somehow inconvenienced someone?

In fact, it's pretty much safe to say that if I ever fell down a mountain and got stuck in a canyon, I would sooner be like that man who gnawed his arm off to get out of that canyon than ask someone to pull me out, "Oh no, that's that's way too much trouble, you need to get home too, go on, I'll be fine. Yes, I'm sure! Thanks!"

That this tendency has led to some interesting situations goes without saying. Let's just say that the only reason my tetanus shots are up to date is because I absolutely refused any help when airing up my tires a few years ago. And have you ever wondered why I have a gray dot right in the middle of my forehead? Yep, it too can be traced back to my unwillingness to accept help when looking for something. And the list goes on. Pants covered in grease, clothes torn by bicycle chains. You'd think I would have learned by now, but no.

Now, whenever money comes into the picture, my allergy turns into a full-on break out the epi-len, I'm going into anaphylactic shock here. I mean I am Dutch, and thus the textbook example of frugality, and I don't like asking people for crap, and now you're asking me to ask people for -money-? Wow.

Let's just say I was the child who, whenever there was another fundraiser at school, would show up with the least amount of money/canned goods/orders for whatever. And not because neighbors and family members weren't willing to donate. And not because my mother didn't tell to go out there and just ring people' doorbells. But because I was too embarrassed to ask people for money. I mean, why would these cool grown-up adults give a scraggly looking kid like myself THEIR money? Really? And even though I would be just as embarrassed whenever every other child would return with huge orders for stamps /cookies/ laps around a track, and I didn't, it wasn't enough to inspire me to ask more.

As I said earlier, I don't mind helping people out, and I also don't mind giving money to good causes. It's just that when it comes to asking people for their dough, I'm a chicken.

Thank goodness, I'm running this race as part of a team. And husband-dear is on the team. And it so happens that he has no qualms asking people to donate money. So if you've emailed with husband-dear in the past, expect an email soon. If you haven't, and you just keep in touch with me - no worries, you're safe.

Liters and hogsheads

When you move, or even visit, the US, one of the first things that strikes most people after they've become accustomed to the ubiquitous friendliness and large cars, are the different measures used for just about everything. Water boils at 212 degrees as opposed to 100, the nearest exist isn't 500 meters away, but 1/2 mile, and you buy carpet per square foot. It all seems positively insane at first. A body temperature of 98.6 sounds like you should by all means be dead, while describing blind widths using terms such as 5/8 of an inch, makes you wish you'd paid more attention in 3rd grade math.

What's even more insane, however, is that these measures have grown on me. I can pretty much tell you what temperature it is in my office right now, both in Fahrenheit and Celcius, or Centigrade for my die-hard American readers (and for those of you who wondered, I guessed it to be about 68F or 19C, which according to my online converter is pretty close). I know what to wear when the our Channel 9 weatherlady tells me it's going to be 92 degrees today. I've become pretty accurate at assessing how long something is in, both in feet, yards, and meters. I can handle inches pretty well as well, as their length does kind of seem logical, even though the fact that there are 12 of them in a foot does not. Interestingly, I've actually become better at measuring my runs in miles than I can in kilometers, and I can calculate how many gallons my car uses per miles in a jiffy (about thirty eight, thankyouverymuch).

The only aspect of this odd American measurement system that I just cannot seem to grasp is volume. We have a drawer full of different sized cups, little plastic teaspoons and tablespoons, a beaker with seemingly hundreds of different lines and measures, and still I struggle.

Actually, I think it's safe to say that I'm really totally ignorant. When I was emailing Steve this morning, discussing conversion measures (as that's what academic scholars email about when they're at work thousands of miles apart), and exclaimed in my most theatrical manner possible that I did not understand why there were fluid ounces and regular ounces, he asked me, "You do know that that goes for cups and teaspoons and tablespoons too, right? So you can't use the same cup for flour that you use for water."
Uhm.
No, I did not know that.
It does explain why some of my pies and cakes turn out a little wetter or dryer than I would like them to though.

Anyway, as I was saying, I truly do not get it. And I'm just going to go ahead and take a stand here, but I really think the whole volume measurement system is to blame. I mean, if you're raised with recipes stating things like this, "Take 250 ml of water (use one side of your universal measuring beaker) and 225 grams of flour (dry said beaker and use the other side, which has grams on it)", can one be blamed if "use 3/4 cups of oil (select the 3/4 cup from the pile meant for liquids), 4 cups of pecans (use a different cup, four times), 1/2 teaspoon of mint (slide the little measuring stick on your teaspoon measurement apparatus to 1/2)" confuse you just a little? I am going to answer that with a firm and resounding "no".

I mean, don't get me wrong, I do know how to bake (well, apparently only sort of, but I will be better now that I know that the two sets of cups we have actually serve different purposes), but it's really only doable whenever I can use nifty contraptions such as plastic cups, plastic little spoons and other childlike-minds-friendly tools. Whenever a recipe asks me to suddenly think in terms of ounces or quarts, I'm truly lost. And the mathematical process usually ends up going something like this: "OK, I have to add add 10 ounces of water. Honey! Honey! What's ten ounces of water? Honey?! Oh, crap, he went to the store. Hmm. *insert random rummaging through drawers* Great. Oh, let's look in the pantry. Ah. Here's a can of soda. It's 12 fluid ounces and 335 ml. OK, divide 335 by 12, that's uhm..uhm...OK, about 27, so there are 27 ml to an ounce, so 10 ounces of water equals 270 ml, OK, now let's find my European measuring cup"*

And now you know why my baked goods usually end up just a little off.

Anyway, as I was saying, I really think the whole measuring system is just plain wrong. I mean, who came up with the idea that 3 teaspoons equal one tablespoon? And that there are two tablespoons in 1/8 cup which, oh by the way, equals 1 ounce? And that 1 cup equals 1/2 pint which equals 8 ounces? Two cups, thank the Lord for some logic here, two cups equal 1 pint, while two pints fit into a quart, which equals, Hallelujah, about a liter. Now there are four quarts in a gallon, which is where it gets easy for me, on account of the word "quart" you know. And for those you of who think it ends there, oh no, it only gets better. Nine gallons apparently fit into a firkin, while 63 gallons make up a hogshead. In case you ever wondered how much fluid would fit into a hogshead, there you have it. *

So yes. Although I truly love this country, I vote we switch to metric now. Or even better, yesterday. Where cooking involves the same measurement; liters for fluids and grams for dry goods. Where there is 1000 ml in a liter and a 1000 grams in a kilo. Where all you need is one big measuring cup, and you don't have to freak out when your 2/3 cup disappeared into one of your kids' science projects, or the 1/4 cup melted in the dishwasher. Where a "teaspoon" means you can just eyeball it. Where men are men, and mililiters can't be converted into something smaller.


* Any mistakes in this blog post are entirely my fault, and were put in on purpose by the author to explain her total and utter confusion with the system. Honesty. Promise.
** And if you don't believe me, check out these two sources.