Saying goodbye..

...why is it sad?
Makes us remember the good times we had..

Saying Goodbye ~ The Muppets

Does this look familiar to anyone? Well, it should, as I just now realized that back in 2010 I wrote a blog that started with the exact same title and lyrics. And interestingly, that blog pretty much covers the lament that was going to make up the beginning of this blog. You know, all about how although moving itself gets easier, saying goodbye to dear friends doesn't. But now that I've already written that down once, I guess I'm free to move on to the meat and potatoes (or pasta and salad if you prefer).

After saying goodbye to Mary in June, to Jess only on Wednesday, and knowing that I'll have to say goodbye to Shelly in about five weeks, I sat down and tried to figure out why saying goodbye gets harder when you get older. And, I'm sure you'll be delighted to know, I think I got it. At least for now.

You see,  as you get older, your life story lengthens and becomes more complicated. Stuff happens, and adds to who you are, and your outlook on life. But even though it plays an integral role in shaping who you are, it's simply too much and too long to have to share over and over again with people you just met. Yet without sharing the story of your life, these people will never know you as well as people who do know every little chapter. And that's what makes this whole, "Hey honey, guess what!? We're moving to Langley/Italy/Idaho" a lot harder with every move.

Normal people (and I'm not implying that military wives, or people who move a lot are somehow abnormal (although I could make a case if you want me to), but let's assume that "normal people" refers to people who don't pick up sticks and move ever few years), well, they have people in their lives who have been there through at least some of the significant chapters in their lives. People who know why you hate going to baby showers for instance, or can't stand hearing a certain song on the radio. People who understand your in-jokes, and know you don't like chocolate ice cream. When you move a lot, it's really difficult to find people like that, and let me tell you (in case my griping hasn't clarified this by now), that gets old, really fast.

With Shelly's departure, for instance, I will no longer have any friends who were there when I went through the "no-babies-for-us" drama. Kay and Shelly were front and center went all that went down over two years ago. Although I can honestly say that I'm pretty much over it (for now - you know, let's not count our chickens before they've hatched and all that, and wow, could I have picked a worse metaphor here?), it is an important part of who I am, and yet none of newer friends can really know how it shaped me, just because they weren't there. And that's just weird, for lack of a better word.

But this is where I'm completely inconsistent. Reading all of this, you would think that I want nothing more but live somewhere for a really long time. In reality, however, the answer to that option is a loud and heartfelt oh-dear-mother-of-mary-NO. As far as I'm concerned, actually, we've been here long enough already.  And this isn't just because of the location, but really because I can't stand the thought of living anywhere for more than a few years. Naturally, I blame my parents for this, who had me moving around every few years starting at a very young ways. When I got older, I just couldn't stop.

However, I'm sure you see my dilemma. I hate saying goodbye to friends, yet I hate living in the same place for an extended period of time. In scientific terms, this is called cognitive dissonance, and according to a variety of very learned scholars, I should not be able to live with this dissonance. If tens of studies are to be believed, I will, upon discovering the dissonance, change the belief that I like to move, or change my attitude towards saying goodbye. I'm not sure what the consequences will be if I don't, but the fact of the matter is that I've living with this dissonance in a semi-content state for several years now. This cannot be a good thing for my overall health.

Or I could just go for a nice long run and pretend none of this is real, and Shelly's orders will be canceled. Sounds like a great plan to me...

Roaches and the end of time

"You really need to write about roaches today" is what a little voice inside my head told me this morning. Since after what happened this morning, I wouldn't be surprised if the Last Days of the earth commenced tomorrow, I figured it might be a good idea to pay heed to that little voice.

You may remember that the last time I had a memorable encounter with a cockroach, I didn't scream or yell, but called the doggies to come take it outside. Although this was a vast improvement on my first encounter here in Georgia, where I, after seeing a gigantic cockroach in our truck, rode home with my feet on the dashboard, it definitely wasn't the laid back, carefree, whatever-it's-just-a-bug-did-you-pick-up-the-mail-today approach my husband, and all southerners with him, takes.
I mean, I was still living in a very much non-southern world, where cockroaches, although possibly inevitable, do not belong inside the house, and are to be eradicated upon sight.

Well, apparently, that too has changed. Next to my growing southern social skills, I can now apparently also claim a southern approach to bugs.

This morning, you see, I saw a cockroach and shrugged. Actually, I did more than that. I told it to get out of my way so I wouldn't accidentally step on it.
I TALKED to a cockroach y'all...that has got to be the sign of the end of time. Or the sign of something at any rate.

Here's what happened. As I'm sure you're delighted to hear, our night time temperatures have been dipping into the mid-60s, while our daytime temperatures have moved comfortably into the low 90s. For all you who feel like you've seen nothing but rain for the past three months: I'm sorry. Anyway, I digress. So although these temperatures mean that humans are very happy, the roaches living in our neighborhood aren't, as heir nights have suddenly gotten incredibly cold. And apparently cockroaches don't like cold. I'm not sure what they do once winter (i.e., temperatures in the low 50s to mid 40s ) really kicks in, whether they migrate, hibernate, or just die, but I do know that in the fall, when nights get colder, cockroaches would like nothing better than to move into your home, with you, thankyouverymuch.

So this morning, as I turned on the light in the garage to start loading up my car, one giant cockroach scurried out from under my bike, toward the door into the house. Even though the cockroach was probably the size of a small hamster, I said absolutely nothing, but merely looked at it, and shrugged. Then when I came out of the house again, the cockroach ran out from behind a set of shelves, right in front of me. After stepping out of its erratic path, I didn't just open my mouth, but I actually put on the voice I reserve for puppies and little kids, and said, "You be careful now Mr. Roach, or I will step on you!"
Yes I did.

And, yes, it gets worse.

When I came out of the house for the last time (I have a lot of stuff I drag back and forth with me, seriously), I saw two cockroaches run across the length of the garage, and disappear underneath the riding lawn mower.
And did I scream? Pull out the Raid? Bring the dogs out to eat them?
No.
I put on my puppy-and-babies-voice and said, "Oh, you've got a friend!"

A friend? Really?!

I have really no explanation for my thinking that things as absolutely revolting as cockroaches have friends, other than the end of time is near. There will be beasts, and angels, and endless floods and earthquakes (oh wait..), and people talking to cockroaches. I'm just saying. And don't say I didn't warn you!

Guest post: The ugly cry

Today I'm over at Jessica Lynn Writes with a guest post on moving and "The ugly cry".
Being the little hermit blogger that I am, the recluse who seems to write more for herself than her (ten? fifteen?) faithful followers, I was both honored and stoked to get asked to write this guest post (Think Sally Field's, "You like me! You really, really like me!"Oscar moment). So if you've ever moved (even if it was only once), go and check out the post. You will relate. I promise.

Ten years...

It's been ten years.
Ten years since September 11, 2001.

Ten years since a co-worker came running into the hallway, telling us "New York is on fire"
Ten years since we huddled around around a radio, trying to piece together what had happened
Ten years since I rode public transportation home in absolute silence.

For the past ten years, my generation has known what it's like to live under a constant threat.
For the past ten years, we know what it's like to live during a time of war.
For the past ten years, we've wondered if something like this could happen again. 

It's been ten years since the sun dawned on the World Trade Center.
It's been ten years since any of us really felt safe.

It's been ten years since our world lost its innocence.

Ten years since I knew things would never be the same again.

Niceties and nuisances revisited

A little over three years ago I wrote about how the intricacies and length of southern conversations drove me absolutely up the wall. I believe I compared southern social etiquette to that of a Jane Austen novel, and argued that the lack of efficiency in conversations were not conducive to an effective working environment, to say the least.

Well, what can I say? Probably something to the effect of "if you can't change your mind are you sure you still have one", or "successful species adapt to their environment", or perhaps I should just claim that Southerners really are the Borg, as this was the conversation I just had with my vet's office:

Secretary: Good morning, Westmoreland Animal Hospital, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, this is DC, how are you today?
Secretary: Good, how may I help you?
Note: At this point, I'm thinking, oh, she's not a southerner. A southerner would have asked me how I was doing. How rude! Wait. Is that rude? Maybe she's wondering why the heck someone would call right when they open at 8am and then ask how she's doing.
Me: Yes, I have two dogs, and they're out of heartworm medication, but before I order some new ones, my husband said that they need an annual check up, and so I was calling to see when they were due
Secretary and I then proceed to discuss the medicine, and the fact that both dogs are due for a check up in November.
Secretary: But I see they're on the same medication now, Shelby is 50 pounds and Zoe is...
Me: Yeah, Zoe is 70 pounds. She's a big girl. We're putting her on a diet, but sheesh, it's not easy
Note: While I was having this conversation, this remark didn't strike me as odd at all. After all, it's just making conversation, and that's what we all do. Please note that scary use of the word "we" here. In hindsight, I'm thinking, uhm, yeah, who cares about your pooch's diet?
Secretary: Uh-uh. Well, I'll set you up to pick up two boxes of Sentinel then.
Me: OK. But I'll be by to pick them up tomorrow. I don't get off from work until late today, and I won't be able to make it by your office on time
Note: At this point, I do hear a tiny rumbling in the back of my brain about all the detail in this remark, but I ignore it
Secretary: OK. That's fine
Me: And I'll have my husband call to make an appointment for November. He's the one who will take them, so it's easier if he calls you instead of me
Note: Now I'm definitely aware of the fact that I'm oversharing.
Secretary: OK, that' s great.

Thankfully, I manage to end the conversation without any further social diarrhea on my part.

People! People! What is wrong with me?! Really, what has come over me? I am calling my vet at eight in the morning to ask about heart worm meds, and I am this close to sharing my freaking life story with this woman I don't even know. I mean, a very easy question, "Can I order some heart worm meds and ask when the dogs are due for their check up" turned into a ten minute conversation, and on top of that, I think nothing of it! Whatever happened to efficiency? To getting the job done and moving on?

And you know what's worse? When I re-read that blog from three years ago, I cringe just a little at the harshness of my judgments. What is up with that? Am I becoming soft and southern at the same time? What's next? Putting a "The south will rise again" bumpersticker on my car? Marching against allowing alcohol sales on a Sunday? Saying "By Golly" and meaning it?

I think I need to sit in a quiet corner and reconsider my life. Please excuse me

Compleet

De Bevalling, zo wilde ik dit blog eigenlijk noemen. Maar ja, bedacht ik me toen, dan gaat u allemaal denken dat ik zwanger ben, en dat is nou ook weer niet de bedoeling. En ik vond dat "compleet" de lading ook wel goed dekte, ondanks dat het ook een hele bevalling geweest is, not in the least omdat het hele process precies negen maanden heeft geduurd.

Het zit namelijk zo, dames en heren; sinds afgelopen vrijdag (nou ja, afgelopen dinsdag eigenlijk maar vrijdag kwam het met de post aan) ben ik officieel een Nederlandse Amerikaan. Of een Amerikaanse Nederlander, zoals u wil.

En daar mogen wel wat beschuit met muisjes op gegeten worden vond ik zelf.

U heeft, als trouwe lezer, het hele process al vanaf December vorig jaar mogen volgen. Eerst was er natuurlijk de aanvraag voor Amerikaans staatsburgerschap. Dat had nogal wat voeten in aarde, met veel uitstellen, veel wachten, en toen natuurlijk het geweldige interview. Het duurt even, maar dan heb je ook wat: een prachtig naturalisatie certificaat en een mooi blauw paspoort.

Maar ja, daar zit je dan als nieuwbakken Amerikaan. Je mag stemmen, in een jury zitten, en meedoen aan de verkiezingen voor hondenvanger en county clerk. Je bent geen "gast" meer in je eigen land, mag in de rij voor "US citizens" gaan staan in het vliegveld, en hoort er eindelijk echt bij. Maar ja. Maar ja, ergens ben je je er toch wel van bewust dat je, ondanks je eed het land te dienen, je paspoort, en het feit dat je nooit meer je adreswijziging aan de Amerikaans imigratie dienst hoeft door te geven, toch ergens gewoon nog steeds een beetje Nederlands bent. Je bewaart nog steeds je kleingeld (alhoewel in een beker in de auto, en niet meer in je portomonnee), je juicht voor het Nederlandse voetbalteam, en bij een gedicht als "Denkend aan Holland, zie ik..." krijg je toch een beetje kippenvel.

En dus werp je je, ondanks je enorme bloedhekel aan bureaucratie, in het proces om een "verklaring van behoud van Nederlanderschap" te krijgen. Want nou kan het nog, Nederlander blijven als je een andere nationaliteit aangenomen hebt. Straks, wanneer Nederland helemaal het gezonde verstand is verloren, en alle grenzen dichtgooit voor iedereen die niet kan aantonen dat allevier de grootouders uit echte Hollands klei zijn opgetrokken, dan kan het misschien niet meer. Dus begin je aan de enorme papierwinkel, met alle problemen van bijna verlopen geboortecertificaten, tot bijna kwijtgeraakte huwelijkscertificaten, tot apostilles waar je twee maanden op moet wachten.

Maar na een week of tien heb je alles bij elkaar. En sta je dus met licht knikkende knietjes op het consulaat in Atlanta. Je hebt er bijna vier uur voor in de auto gezeten, vijfentwintig dollar uitgegeven voor een setje lelijke pasfoto's, en alles in drievoud meegenomen.

En dan gaat het allemaal heel erg makkelijk. Alles is in orde, je papieren worden in een mapje gestopt, en na een gezellig praatje over Atlanta, sta je weer buiten. En dan, tot je grote verbazing, staat er drie weken later een meneer van de FedEx voor de deur met je felbegeerde rode paspoort en De Verklaring. Die op een knullig A4tje is getikt, en daarna is doormidden gevouwen.
Maar dat mag de pret niet drukken. Want je bent weer compleet. Je bent Amerikaan. En je bent Nederlander. En dat is precies zoals je je voelt.

The tooth fairy (part I?)

So my latest thing has been a full-on tooth crisis. And by tooth-crisis, I mean a "OMG, my teeth have shifted and I totally look like a rabbit on crack now who desperately needs braces". Obviously, knowing me, there's someone to blame, and in this case, it's my work. Or better yet, my students. Yes. Honestly.

I've always had a thing with my teeth. I've had the dubious pleasure of having braces three times (the last time was in my early twenties), and ever since my braces came off the last time, to say I have been slightly obsessed with the look of my smile has been an understatement. I mean, who wouldn't be if they had gone from a 9mm overbite, then braces followed by a retainer, to a gap between their front teeth, followed by more braces, headgear, and a plastic retainer, to really big front teeth, to be followed by braces and then a bonded retainer? Any normal person would be slightly traumatized, and we all know that my neurosis beats that of a normal person by a mile. In the dark. With its eyes closed.

Seriously, my teeth were bad growing up. And so were all the different orthodontic treatments I got to try out. Let's just say that when I look at my childhood pictures, I can immediately tell when they were taken just by looking at the position of my teeth and/or type of braces I was wearing. As a highly self-conscious, geeky little kid with not a whole lot going for her as far as looks went, my teeth seemed to be the only thing I was able to fix, and so that became the focal point of my life. And, judging by my current teeth-inspired identity crisis, they still are.

After my braces came off the last time, I was tickled pink by how good my teeth looked. I even had the dentist glue a bonded retainer behind my front teeth, so I would never have to have braces again.  Well, fast forward a decade and a half later, and my teeth have shifted (and yes, the retainer is still bonded to my teeth, go figure). A little. And just two teeth really. But it's enough for me to notice, and too insignificant for anyone other than my one Dutch tooth-obsessed friend, to have any idea what I'm talking about.

But you know what? I usually don't care. I look in the mirror, realize one of my teeth has moved back just a hair, my front teeth have shifted just a little, and tell myself, oh well. That's how it's going to be, and if people don't like it, well, then it just sucks to be them.

For some reason, however, this attitude goes completely out the window whenever I'm back to teaching. And if you took a good luck at my students, I think you will understand why. My students are not only the product of some awesome orthodontic treatments, and thus have picture-perfect teeth, but they're also incredibly obsessed with the way they look. They can do their hair in ways I can only dream of, they own more clothes/shoes/purses in college than I have ever owned in my entire life, and they will use everything around them to check their reflection and make sure every strand of hair and brush of eye shadow is still in place, right down to spoons and iphones.

Surrounded by people who not only look like they walked off the fashion spread in Teen, Vogue, or Ebony, but who genuinely care about making sure they look that way, does little for the geeky teenager hiding inside of me.

So now I have a tooth crisis. I told my dentist, who laughed at me and told me I have awesome teeth. I told my parents who said my teeth were great, and I better not diss the tens of thousands of dollars they spent on them. And of course husband-dear just rolled his eyes. But still, people, a tooth crisis is difficult to get over. Especially when you love to smile and show all those pearly whites (like I do), only to realize you probably just looked like an overgrown rabbit. Now I've considered invisalign, but you know what? That would mean giving into the trend that looks are all that matter, and I'm not quite ready to that either (or part with several thousand dollars). I mean, I should be better than that, right?

Right?