The southern belle

If you've ever, unlike yours truly, who never quite made it past the burning of Atlanta, managed to sit through all three hours of "Gone with the wind", you will know exactly what is meant by a southern belle. It's a submissive, at times secretly strong-willed, but always well-behaved lady. Yes, lady. Not woman, lady. Women is far too common a term to use for southern belles. True southern belles are ladies who glow instead of perspire, who know how to color coordinate everything down to the bathroom sink, and who are never in pain, but possibly just a little uncomfortable.

Just in case you wondered, I am not even close to becoming a southern belle. Although I've become an expert at hiding critiques inside compliments, and making every statement sound like a question, I still fail to meet several main criteria:
1. I don't bake or cook, and even worse, I let my husband do most of the food preparation;
2. I work, and not only that, but I have an actual career that I, oh my stars, like;
3. I don't sew, quilt, or do any form of needlepoint, and ask my husband to sew on buttons for me;
4. I am currently not enrolled in a bible study class, which really just says it all, and;
5. I don't have any kids, and what's worse, I can't have any either, which means there is no point talking to me about baby gear, toddler issues, or pre-school selection procedures. And no, stepkids don't count, which is mainly because in the world of the southern belle there is no such thing as divorce. And when it does happen, said woman will move away, thus sparing herself and her friends the embarrassment of dealing with a divorcee, or even worse, a second marriage.

This is of course neglecting several other of my characteristics, such as my painful honesty, my tendency towards liberal political opinions, and my refusal to wear make up 24/7/365.

In short, I have not yet been embraced by the tight knit circle of southern belles that make up my home town. And usually, I'm really OK with that. In fact, half the time I don't even notice I'm missing something, simply because I'm obtuse. And busy. Or both.

Anyway, every once in a while, something will happen that will make (painfully) aware of the fact that no, I have not blended into this southern culture, and yes, it really is that bad. And this past Monday was one of those moments. On Monday, I had been invited to an afternoon of games at a friend's house (and by the way, help me out here - is that a southern thing? To be invited to an afternoon of games when you're an adult? You see, I'm so confused about what's what that I really have no idea if my non-southern readers do things like that too). Somehow, the conversation shifted to my commute, and if I didn't get tired of it. As I was around friends, I had forgotten to turn on my "southern filter", and responded, "Yes, it's gotten really old. I can't wait until we move and I can get away from this horrible town."
Most of my non-southern-belle friends nodded in understanding, but an older lady sitting next to me responded, "What? You don't like it here?"
Really people, if three years and six months in the south should have taught me something, it should have been that when someone questions your opinion, they are really offended, and you need to tone it down. Apparently, that hasn't clicked with me yet, because I said, "Oh no, I can't stand it here."
The older lady frowned and said, "Well, I think that's being very ungrateful. You should be happy to be able to be wherever your husband is living."

Yes, because obviously my personal happiness is entirely tied to my husband. Obviously. And if it's not, that means I must not truly love my husband, which, in turn, makes me a very, very bad wife. And that's probably why God won't let us have kids.

Am I the only one who thinks we need a reality check here? Yes, I love husband-dear. I do. Even when he's at his orniest. Even when he leaves his dirty socks all over the bathroom floor. Even when he's not there or on some wonky shift, I love the dude. Really, I do. But does that mean I should rely on him for all of my personal happiness? Be both subservient and codependent? I asked husband-dear what he thought of that later that night, and he politely but firmly asked me to please stay just the way I am, because that was whom he loved. And he was nice enough to note that this town does, indeed, have few redeeming features. Which raises another interesting question: If my husband and I agree that living here isn't the bomb, then doesn't proper southern culture require that I echo his opinion, regardless of how negative it is? So then doesn't that mean that last Monday I was actually being the perfect southern lady?

It's just a thought....

I really shouldn't be doing this...

...you know, run 13.1 miles.

After all, I'd trained for a half marathon once before, two years ago, with disastrous results. I think my left ITB refused to speak to me for months after that. Then, of course, I decided to break my toe, and that was enough to put me off long-distance running for a good year.

Instead, I decided to throw myself into triathlons and adventure racing, where any running is limited to at most 6 miles, which is, when compared to a half marathon, a positively breeze of a run. More importantly, these runs are always conveniently scheduled out after your body has received an invigorating work out in the shape of swimming, biking, canoeing, building tipis, shooting a bow and arrow, or navigating through an obstacle course. And, in my case, a warmed up body equals an injury free body (and before you all go stating the obvious, no, I will not ride my bike twenty miles before a half marathon training just so I don't get hurt. Because that's just really insane).

But for those of you who know me (and if you've read three of my posts on my blog, you pretty much do), you know that I can't just let something as monumental as a half marathon go. In some respects, I'm really very much like a terrier, or, if you're feeling a little snippy today, a pit-bull, as once I get a hold of something, I have hard time letting go. Honestly, the only reason I have a PhD is not because I'm that smart (I'm not), or have these great original ideas (I don't), but just because I don't know how to quit.

So last October, I secretly started training for the same half marathon I was training for two years ago. And of course, once I hit the nine mile mark, my body started to show signs it was less than thrilled with this long-distance running. Fortunately, this time, I had a plan: A more flexible training schedule. And ice baths. Lots and lots of ice baths. Oh yes, and let's not forget the rolling pin. Had you stopped by our house on any regular night in the past two months, you might have had the opportunity to behold the interesting tableau of me squirming on the living room floor, while husband-dear rolled a rolling pin down my lower body, asking me if this was "Hard enough".

I'll admit, there's a slight possibility that my desire to finish this half marathon might have gotten a little out of hand. Just a little.

And although I ended up running with not one, but two ITB straps, and had to take two ibuprofen while racing, I did it. Finally. I ran 13.1 miles, beat my goal of finishing in 1:57 by four minutes, and am now the proud owner of a real half marathon medal. And two very unhappy knees.

So. Was it all worth it? Of course! (and, just so you know, cognitive dissonance is preventing me from saying anything else). Will I ever run a marathon? I don't think so. But hey, with me, hope springs eternal.

Now you have to excuse me as I need to go look for that rolling pin again.

De beamer

Wist u dat wat we in Nederlander een "beamer" noemen, in Amerika gewoon een "projector" genoemd wordt? Als je het hier over een "beamer" praat, dan zal men eerder aan een bepaald Duits automerk denken ("beemer") dan een camera om beeld mee te projecteren. Het blijft een raar verschijnsel. Net zoals "crate" versus "bench". Maar goed, ik wilde het juist vandaag alleen over die beamer hebben. Projector. Dat ding dus.

Hier kwam ik op omdat ik vanaag namelijk in een ander gebouw op de campus les moest geven. En als ik, en andere docenten met mij, ergens een hekel aan heb (naast zeurende studenten en finals natuurlijk), dan is het aan lesgeven in een ander gebouw.

Allereerst is daar het feit dat je naar buiten moet. Naar buiten?! In een land waar de meeste kantoorgebouwen geen enkel raam hebben dat open kan, is het hele concept van naar buiten lopen nou niet echt gewoon. En niet alleen moet je naar buiten, je moet ook nog eens een flink eind naar buiten, want volgens goed Amerikaans gebruik, is ook deze campus zeer ruim opgezet. En dus is "even naar dit of dat gebouw" al snel een wandelingetje van zo'n tien minuten. Op zich niks mis mee, natuurlijk. Een frisse neus op zijn tijd kan heel lekker zijn, vooral als je net de hele dag in een bijna vaccum-sealed gebouw zit. Maar goed, dan heb je ook nog eens hakken aan. Want ja, je werk heeft een dresscode. En tien minuten op hakken lopen is nou niet echt even een lekkere wandeling.

Maar het allerergste? Dat je nooit wat voor een klaslokalen je in dat andere gebouw aantreft. Hier in mijn gebouw zijn wij namelijk enorm verwend. We hebben productie lokalen compleet voor radio and televisie productie colleges compleet met mixing boards, cameras, sets, en editing suites, en volledige uitgeruste lecture halls met wireless internet, een podium met ingebouwde mac, en uiteraard een ingebouwde projector. Sorry, beamer. Het enige wat je hoeft te doen is je laptop aansluiten, en voila. Klaar is Kees. Klara.

Maar helaas weet je in een ander gebouw nooit wat te verwachten. Zo heeft het English department een serie klaslokalen die rechtstreeks uit de jaren vijftig lijken te komen, compleet met krijt bord en houten stoeltjes en tafeltjes. Bij de sciences weet je al helemaal nooit zeker of je niet per ongeluk in een lab vol met branders of opgezette dieren onderdelen terecht komt, en over de verpleegkunde lokalen zal ik het maar helemaal niet hebben. Gelukkig heb ik in de drie-en-een-half jaar dat ik hier nu werk altijd les gegeven in ons gebouw.

Tot vanochtend dus. Toen moest ik in een keer naar een naburig gebouw. En wat dat allemaal inhield...een expeditie naar de noordpool is er niks bij. Jas aan, sjaal om, handschoenen aan, multomap onder de ene arm, boeken en syllabus onder de andere. Handtas over een schouder, laptop tas er boven op, projector in tas over andere schouder, en tas met verlengsnoeren en speakers aan een pink gehangen. En geen enkele deur had zo'n handige knop voor mensen in rolstoelen.

Nadat het college voorbij was, kon de expeditie weer in omgekeerde richting vertrekken. En zo kwam ik tein minuten later met uitgehangen armen en een verwaaid kapsel weer terug in mijn kantoor. En stuurde meteen een mailtje naar de mevrouw van de "room assignments". En kreeg ook nog eens meteen antwoord. Vanaf volgende week hoef ik alleen nog maar de trap af. Met mijn laptop. Niks geen beamer. Projector. Whatever.

En zo kwam ik erop dat we in Nederland eigenlijk maar hele rare woorden gebruiken. Beamer. Tss..

Snow day

"Snow day" - now there's a notion you don't immediately associate with a blog about Georgia. But last night, and this morning was very reminiscent of my time in New England: The phone call with the automated message about school closings, the "giant voice" suddenly coming on during the middle of our evening church service and announcing a 24 hour base closure, and, this morning, the endless lists of schools, businesses, and government buildings that would be closed for the day.

Of course, none of this pertained to my work, as the university I work at is a good 90 miles away from our quaint little town. And according to the fairly morbid weather forecasts, that part of the state was not going be hit as badly as where we live. So in spite of the warnings about ice, freezing rain, and sleet throughout the day, until early this morning, this Calamity Jane was planning on just driving to work, snow and ice be damned. Obviously, I didn't drive through some of the worst German blizzards to shy away from a little freezing rain. And I was pretty certain my pride would never recover if I would refuse to drive in a little snow. As I pointed out to the people at church last night,  I didn't get stuck in a 5-hour traffic jam on the autobahn while the snow piled up around me and I had to use the bathroom with a steadily increasing urgency to suddenly freak out, like the rest of the state, at the thought of a little snow.

It's amazing, really, how often I have to eat my words. And it's even more amazing how often I write about this on my blog too. Anyway, I think we all know what happened next.

As I got up this morning, observed the two-inch long icicles hanging off our back porch, the three inches of ice on our driveway, walkway, and road, noticed the freezing rain still coming down, and heard the Georgia Department of Transportation announce on the local news that they were advising against leaving the house today, I realized this ice storm might possibly be too much for even my ballsiness. After a quick trip down the driveway, where I realized that our mailbox was frozen shut with about three inches of ice, our driveway was slicker than an otter's back, and the road was not much better, I decided that even though the university had only announced a delayed opening, Dr. Dixiechick was canceling classes today.

Of course this counts as a total disgrace. I have never canceled classes in the past ten years. Ever. Deaths, funerals, moves, drama, I've always kept on teaching. But the thought of Georgia roads covered in two inches of ice combined with a painful awareness of the inability of Georgia drivers to handle something as complicated as merging, let alone Oh-sweet-Mary-mother-of-God-on-a-stick slippery roads, was enough to make me renege on my principles.

On the upside, I got to see one of our neighbors take out his old pick up truck, and give the neighborhood kids the ride of their life as he raced through our circle, slipping and sliding on all the ice. Only in Georgia.

Professor: Interrupted

You know, I've finally discovered why I get so upset when students barge into my office with irrelevant questions, remarks, and requests. It's not so much that they see me as their personal office supply close ("Can I borrow your stapler?", "Do you have a pen?"), their computer lab assistant, (" OMG, Dr. D., my printer died, can I use yours?"), or their general personal counselor ("You really need to help me to decide where I want to go to grad school"). It really isn't about that. I can handle a million requests like that, providing I have nothing to do. What's annoying about them is that they constitute an interruption. And when I'm trying to grade papers, write up a lesson plan, or get started on a content analysis, these constant interruptions feel like chickens pecking me to death.

When I was little, one of the three elementary schools I attended (I told you I moved a lot) was a Montessori school. I loved that school. I loved how you got to learn through doing (fractions made a lot more sense when I got to use red plastic pie pieces), how each student set their own weekly schedule, and kept track of their progress themselves, and how students had to interact with each other through a strictly enforced honor code. There was no name calling at that school. And after having suffered as a victim of bullying since kindergarten, that was such a relief. Bullying was almost non-existent at this school. Teachers had eyes in the back of their heads, and if they saw anything out of the ordinary, they would call a class meeting. One other thing that that school required, was that students not interrupt their peers while they were working. If you wanted to approach someone during class, you were supposed to ask, "Am I interrupting you?", and if they said yes, you were expected to leave. And if someone did actually start talking to you while you were busy, all you had to say was "You're interrupting me". Years after we had moved away, my brother and I would still tell each other "You're interrupting me". No yelling, no hurt feelings, no apologies, just, "you're interrupting me".


As a teacher, I'm obviously supposed to say that I wish my all of my students had gone to a Montessori school too, so they would know how to plan and motivate themselves. So that a 17-week syllabus makes them reach for their planner instead of their hair. And I do wish that. But in all honesty, I wish even more that they too learned how to properly interrupt someone, and take their leave when they're obviously coming in at a bad time.

That last part, you know, the part about knowing when is a good time to come in and talk, that seems to be the hardest for some of my students. It doesn't matter if my desk is covered in papers, books, and I'm obviously grading, the students will still walk in and start talking. It doesn't matter if I'm on the phone, they'll come in anyway. It doesn't even matter if I'm eating lunch, they'll come in, sit down, and start talking. It doesn't even matter whether or not  my door is shut. They'll just knock and knock and knock and knock and knock as I've obviously forgotten to open my door and welcome them and their endless queries into my life.In fact, even when I tell them I'm busy, some of them will just keep going, albeit prefaced with a "But I promise this will only take a minute".

Yes, but in a minute, my lunch will be cold.

People, you must believe me when I tell you I'm a really social person. I love talking to people. I even love interruptions from time to time. But right now, what I really want, is for everyone to take the hint and please. Leave. Me. Alone.

Thanks.

A letter of unrecommendation

As classes start today, I've been getting a lot of emails about overrides, prerequisites, GPAs, and lovely little notices from IT telling me that "Banner (the system we use for everything related to registration) will be down for emergency maintenance until 3pm/7pm/midnight today". I've had to crank up my caffeine intake, and relearn to not respond in the maternal fashion I'd re-adopted over Christmas break and solve every little issue for my students, but so far, I'm not doing too bad. Translation: I haven't gotten annoyed at anyone yet.

Unfortunately, among the usual student requests, faculty reminders, and announcements from the chair/dean/provost, there has also been an increasing amount of requests for letter of recommendations. Well, I shouldn't call them requests really, as most emails are worded, and laid out, something like this:

"Dear Dr. DixieChick, how are you? I have decided to apply to two schools for grad school. I need a letter of recommendation for both. I am applying to Whatever College to get my Master's in BS and to the University of Who Cares for a MBS. I need the letters mailed to me. My address is below. Thanks!!!!!!"

Don't you just love the overenthusiastic use of exclamation marks? The total lack of paragraphing? I know I do. And what I like most is the fact that most of these students not only assume that I think they are graduate school material, but also that I will sit down and spend a good hour crafting them a worthy letter of recommendation pretty much on demand.

Letters of recommendation are, as far as I know, pretty much an American invention. I've seen them in the UK on occasion, and then mainly in lieu of prestigious graduate school applications, but I don't really remember running across them much in continental Europe. An employer might ask you to supply references, and schools and internships might ask you to write a personal letter of intent, but that's about it. Here in the US, however, all graduate schools, internships, and many, many job openings require at least three letters of recommendation. And popular sources for such letters are, you guessed right, college professors.

Now I can write a letter of recommendation like nobody's business. If I think you're recommendable, that is. And that's where the moral wrangling comes in that inspired this blog post.

You see, most of my students are nice. And most of them do try really hard. Unfortunately, nice and trying hard doesn't always equal graduate school material. I firmly believe that only those students whose GPA is at least a 3.5, and who have displayed superior thinking and writing skills should move on to graduate school. So whenever a students needs a letter of recommendation, those are the only two things I take into consideration when deciding whether or not to comply with their request.

And that's where it gets tough. Because I want the best for all of my students. And graduate school could be a great opportunity. Not only that, but in this less-than-perfect economy, graduate school is a great way to delay the need to find a job. And I know that most of my students are crushed when they don't get into graduate school, a feat which could hinge on the lack of a letter of recommendation from one of their professors. But at the same time, a less than perfect GPA and only hesitant writing skills pretty much spell disaster for any graduate school career. In addition, when I put my name and signature on a piece of paper, I feel like I'm giving someone my stamp of approval. And that every graduate school will not only judge the student on his or her performance, but me as well. And do I really want to send every bright-eyed student who gets the idea that graduate school is the solution to their every problem on to something I know they can't handle?

Honestly, people, I know the answer. It's no. No, I shouldn't write letters of recommendation for people I don't think are ready for graduate school. I may not know how to sew on a button, but I'm not an idiot. But how do you break that to someone who believes that everything is within their reach as long as they try hard enough? Someone whose self esteem hinges on their acceptance into graduate school? That's a lot of pressure.

So I've come up with a few friendly turns of phrase that I've been using. My favorite at the moment is, "I don't think I can write the letter of recommendation you need to get into graduate school right now", although I've also used, "I really think you need more practical experience before you're ready for such an endeavor", and the incredibly passive aggressive, "I'm sorry, but I really don't have time to write such a letter for you at this moment, have you tried Dr. Next Door?". Interestingly, every time I write such a response, I feel really bad, but at the same time I despise myself for not being honest and simply writing something like, "You're a great person, and you were fun to have in class, but I don't think you're graduate school material". Brutal honesty just would not go over well. I don't think. Or would it? (And hello new moral dilemma!)

Cold weather woes

After spending the week between Christmas and New Year's with our in-laws in Ohio, I have had to come to the realization that the DixieChick family has pretty much outgrown the cold. Apparently, all it takes is a little over three years for people to forget the permeating, in-your-face, icyness of winter. To forget that a hoodie is really not a suitable outergarment in wintertime, or that sneakers do not keep out the snow, or that sun does not necessarily equal warmth. Granted, we did adapt as the week went on, but it just didn't come as natural as it used to. And seriously, people who live in cold temperatures, how do you manage? I mean, really?

It started when we stopped for gas somewhere in Tennessee. Even though I had my thick fleece-lined coat lying right next to me, I opened the door, and was planning on just quickly running out to use the rest room. Because that's what you do in Georgia. You wear a hooded sweatshirt indoors, and then just step out for a few moments and come right back in. There is no need for gloves, hats, or even jackets. Now, notice that I said "planning". Obviously, the minute the door opened and the outside air managed to get under my hoodie and t-shirt, swirling into single warm bodypart in an instant, I couldn't hop back into the car fast enough. That and driving through about six hours of flurries was quite the wake up call. We seriously weren't in Georgia anymore.

And speaking of the need for coats - how do you Northerners get anywhere fast? Is there anyone who can get out of the house in under five minutes? I had seriously forgotten how much effort it is to get properly dressed to go anywhere when it's cold. You can't just pull on shoes and maybe a fashionable scarf and/or cardigan, like we do here in the south. Oh no. Leaving the house involves putting on warm socks, boots, a lined coat (and how does anyone put one of those on without having the sleeves of their sweater all the way up in their armpits?), a hat, scarf, and a pair of gloves. Add to that the need to convince your kids that "no, no you may not go outside in your hoodie because you will get frostbitten" and the subsequent hunt for their gloves/hats/coats which all keep miraculously disappearing, and you know the DixieChick family never got anywhere fast during this past week.

Not to mention the fact that when one dons such garments, there is no way, and I mean no way to look good. A bulky coat, gloves, scarf, and a hat just do absolutely nothing for one's looks. And when you take said garments off, it just doesn't get much better. While up in Ohio, I suddenly remembered when I lived up north, how people did very little with their hair or make up in winter months, and also immediately remembered why. There just doesn't seem to be any way to prevent your hair from either becoming so static you look like an unwilling science experiment, or just losing all of its body and laying flat on your head like a dead animal. Oh, and forget about make up. Seriously. Unless you're smart and you remember to bring sunglasses to keep the wind out of your eyes and thus your make up off your cheeks.

So yes, life in the cold was definitely interesting. What was most interesting, however, was that although it had taken us a good year to adapt to the southern heat, within three days, we were truly fine with the cold (albeit not with the ongoing hunt for lost gloves and my battle with my hair). I think it might be the fact that deep down inside none of us are truly southerners. We just like to pretend. And in spite of all of that, coming back to a balmy 60 degrees was honestly nice. Very nice.