Er zijn veel dingen uit Nederland die ik mis: drop, familie, brinta, vrienden, om er een paar te noemen. Maar als er een ding is waarvan ik echt dankbaar ben dat het uit mijn leven is verdwenen, dan is het wat ik vensterbankstereo-itis noem. Vensterbankstereo-itis, u kent het wel, de Nederlandse overtuiging dat alles dat in de vensterbank staat er a) in tweevoud moet staan, b) deze twee stukken absoluut, compleet identitiek moeten zijn, en c) dat deze twee stukken precies symmetrisch geplaatst moeten zijn.
Hier in het diepe zuiden hebben we namelijk heel veel dingen (boiled peanuts, katoen, perzikgaarden, pecanbomen, en echte racisten), maar we hebben a) geen diepe vensterbanken, en b) absoluut geen behoefte om als er al een vensterbank aanwezig is daar iets symmetrisch in te zetten.
Kijk, het is natuurlijk wel eeuwig zonde dat we hier in de VS totaal niet bekend zijn met de "doorzoncultuur", dat wil zeggen, het feit dat alle huizen uitgerust zijn met zo'n groot raam in hun woonkamer dat iedereen in de straat met gemakt bij de buren naar binnen kan kijken. Als je hier 's avonds een wandelingetje maakt dan is er helaas niet zo veel te zien naast pecanbomen, perzikgaarden, en katoenvelden. De meeste huizen hier hebben maar kleine ramen, en in 99% van de huizen zijn deze ook nog eens bedekt met luxaflex tegen de eeuwige zon. Tel daarbij op dat in veel huizen de huiskamer niet aan de voorkant van het huis zit, en in je het allerbeste geval in een inkijkje krijgt in een rommelige tienerslaapkamer, en u kunt zich voorstellen dat een avondwandelingetje hier lang zo interessant is als in een gemiddeld Nederlands dorp.
Vandaag, tijdens mijn fietstochtje, heb ik een kleine, doch totaal niet representatieve steekproef gehouden, en ben tot de conclusie gekomen dat zelfs wanneer huizen a) een huiskamer voor in het huis hebben, b) een groot raam in de huiskamer hebben, en c) daar geen luxaflex voor hebben hangen, er nooit sprake is van enige vorm van Vensterbankstereo-itis. In de meeste gevallen hebben mensen een lamp en een stoel voor het raam staan (en zelfs geen televisie, zodat je, zoals in Nederland, tot de conclusie kan komen dat echt iedereen om zeven uur naar Goede Tijden Slechte Tijden kijkt), en misschien, als je mazzel hebt, een kaars in de vensterbank, maar daar houdt de vensterbank decoratie toch echt op.
Kijk, iedereen moet natuurlijk met hun vensterbanken doen wat ze zelf willen. Maar ik word zelf altijd een beetje kriebelig als werkelijk iedereen in een straat precies dezelfde twee Xenos vazen in hun vensterbank heeft staan. Van die gezellige originele creaties die het zo leuk doen met de gordijnen. En dan zo'n leuke kaars in zo'n enige grote glazen kaarsenhouder precies in het midden. En waar ik, in zowel Duitsland als Nederland, altijd helemaal kriebelig van werd was wanneer jouw vensterbankdecoratie (of gebrek daaraan) een onderwerp van gesprek van je buren werd. Dat werd dan vaak gelijk genoemd met een opmerking over dat we toch zo weinig onze ramen lapten.
We hebben hier dan misschien mensen die nog echt een bank uit de jaren 80 hebben, compleet met bloemetjesgordijnen en behang met een printje (en dat is een onderwerp op zich), maar er zal hier niemand iets zeggen over je vensterbanken, je ramen, of het feit dat je pas gisteren je rood-wit-blauwe 4th of july krans op de deur vervangen hebt door je herfstkrans. Helemaal niemand. En dat, lieve mensen, is pas echt enig.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Why I'm here to stay (for now)
"Only for now! Your hair! Is only for now. Glenn Beck! Is only for now!
Don't stress, relax, let life roll off your back, 'cause everything in life is only for now"
For now ~ Avenue Q
If any one song has become my motto over the past four years, it's this one. Everything, including my students, the secretaries, my commute, our town, the crazy bible-beaters who surround us every day, is only for now.
So how long is this "for now"? Right now, we don't really know. It depends on a lot of factors, all of which are far too boring to share, but the ballpark year for departure from the south is 2015. Twenty Fifteen, people. That's four more years here. Four more years of commuting 3,5 hours to work. Four more years of dealing with students who have yet to grasp the difference between "no" and "know". Four more years of no cussing, no alcohol on Sunday, and way too many cockroaches.
And if we're lucky it might turn into five.
People often ask me what keeps me here. Aside from the obvious answer, such as, oh, love, marriage, "for better or worse", you know, little commitments like that, there are several surprising reasons for my staying around.
First, it's not Oklahoma. I'm sorry to all the Oklahomans out there, but Tinker AFB is a real possibility, and, again, my apologies, but unless I can land a job at OU, that's just not happening. I'm sure Oklahoma has a ton of redeeming features, but it is a) still part of the bible belt, but b) filled with Mennonites as well, and c) has no hills or trees, but yet d) has a kick-butt winter, and e) is even further away from any place interesting than middle Georgia. So, yes, major points for Georgia there
Second, I get to complain a lot without getting a lot of flak over it. It's great. Whenever I'm in a bad mood, I can just blame the inattentive drivers, the really large people in little electric chairs blocking the aisles, church-traffic, the bookstore that carries mainly bibles, or any other of the one thousand things that are typical to this region, without having to explain myself at all. It's great. No one ever tells me that I'm being ridiculous, or exaggerating, because the people I hang out with all agree. I would hate to move somewhere where I would actually need a reasonable excuse for being in a bad mood.
And finally, husband-dear's little incentives. I mean, I don't know if he plans these things, but it is a good thing he has taken me on cruises, various mini-vacations, says things like "Hey, let's turn our half marathon into a romantic weekend away!", and buys me diamonds. If we stay here long enough I will have seen not only most of the B & Bs in Georgia, but will also need to purchase a safe for all of my goodies. He's smart, that man, I'm telling you.
So yes, it's (only) for now, and in spite of all the job openings out in California and Ohio that my friends keep emailing me, I'm here to stay.
For now.
Really.
Don't stress, relax, let life roll off your back, 'cause everything in life is only for now"
For now ~ Avenue Q
If any one song has become my motto over the past four years, it's this one. Everything, including my students, the secretaries, my commute, our town, the crazy bible-beaters who surround us every day, is only for now.
So how long is this "for now"? Right now, we don't really know. It depends on a lot of factors, all of which are far too boring to share, but the ballpark year for departure from the south is 2015. Twenty Fifteen, people. That's four more years here. Four more years of commuting 3,5 hours to work. Four more years of dealing with students who have yet to grasp the difference between "no" and "know". Four more years of no cussing, no alcohol on Sunday, and way too many cockroaches.
And if we're lucky it might turn into five.
People often ask me what keeps me here. Aside from the obvious answer, such as, oh, love, marriage, "for better or worse", you know, little commitments like that, there are several surprising reasons for my staying around.
First, it's not Oklahoma. I'm sorry to all the Oklahomans out there, but Tinker AFB is a real possibility, and, again, my apologies, but unless I can land a job at OU, that's just not happening. I'm sure Oklahoma has a ton of redeeming features, but it is a) still part of the bible belt, but b) filled with Mennonites as well, and c) has no hills or trees, but yet d) has a kick-butt winter, and e) is even further away from any place interesting than middle Georgia. So, yes, major points for Georgia there
Second, I get to complain a lot without getting a lot of flak over it. It's great. Whenever I'm in a bad mood, I can just blame the inattentive drivers, the really large people in little electric chairs blocking the aisles, church-traffic, the bookstore that carries mainly bibles, or any other of the one thousand things that are typical to this region, without having to explain myself at all. It's great. No one ever tells me that I'm being ridiculous, or exaggerating, because the people I hang out with all agree. I would hate to move somewhere where I would actually need a reasonable excuse for being in a bad mood.
And finally, husband-dear's little incentives. I mean, I don't know if he plans these things, but it is a good thing he has taken me on cruises, various mini-vacations, says things like "Hey, let's turn our half marathon into a romantic weekend away!", and buys me diamonds. If we stay here long enough I will have seen not only most of the B & Bs in Georgia, but will also need to purchase a safe for all of my goodies. He's smart, that man, I'm telling you.
So yes, it's (only) for now, and in spite of all the job openings out in California and Ohio that my friends keep emailing me, I'm here to stay.
For now.
Really.
Monday, October 3, 2011
The art of stepmothering
While it used to be that stepmothers really got the short end of the stick, with stories depicting them as psychopathic egomaniacs, treating their sweet innocent stepdaughters (they're always daughters, and they're always miss Universe material too) as personal servants, or sending them out to die in the woods, and committing various other deplorable deeds, today's media portrayals don't do a whole lot for our image either. Nowadays, we're either self-effacing, self-sacrificing, and possess a never-ending supply of patience and understanding (think Julia Roberts in "Stepmom") or young, beautiful, spoiled, and incredibly jealous (think Modern Family). Interestingly, neither portrayal comes even close to the reality of stepmothering.
I realize I hardly write about what it's like to be a stepmother. I think I spend more time writing about bugs and NPR than I have about what it's like to raise two boys who are not my own. I'd love to tell you it's because there's really nothing to write about, because as anyone with children, let alone stepchildren, knows, kids always provide more food for thought than anyone needs in about three lives.
So, today, here is is. My very first post on the art of stepmothering.
What inspired me to write this blog, today, is that on Saturday something happened that hasn't, literally, happened in years. Up until about four years ago, the boys had the habit of, every once in a while, dropping their bio-mom into a conversation, preferably whenever the conversation involved people we barely knew. And no matter how zen I try to be about the whole, "there is another, more real mother in the picture", it used to drive me crazy. Husband-dear and I would be talking to, for instance, a new couple at church about the service, and Ozzie or Jimmie would interject, "My mother is a nurse", or "My mom works here and here" or another statement completely irrelevant to the topic at hand. Now although I totally understood their need to reassure themselves as well as the people around them that a) I was not their real mother, and b) their real mother did some pretty cool stuff too, it would just make me feel somehow unaccepted. Especially since I make sure whenever meeting new people that they know that I am actually the kids' super-evil wicked stepmom. But they were little kids, we understood their need to reassure their position in the family, so we let it go. And then last Saturday, our now not-so-young Jimmie, did the exact same thing. Out of the blue, somewhere in the middle of a conversation with a person we'd just met about the local music scene, he mentioned where his mother worked. The statement made no sense, had no place in the conversation, and I was just flabbergasted. I let it go, but it's stung ever since, and made me realize that although you at one point cease to be a new mother, just like you cease to be the mother of a preschooler, or a newlywed, or the new kid in town, you never, ever cease to be the stepmother.
That realization has the tendency to come up at the most unexpected times. When you're talking to your sister in law about teaching your children not to talk back, and she tells you, "But you wouldn't be that strict with your own children", for instance. Or when you tell your students "your" children are your stepchildren, and they tell you, "that's really not the same". Or when your extended family doesn't send your stepchildren anything for their birthday because they're not really "your" children. Little things that make you realize that it doesn't matter that you have to try ten times harder than any "conventional" mom, and that any rejection comes on ten times stronger too (on account of, you've been trying so hard), you will never really join the club of "real mommies".
I realize the whole line between "your" children and "stepchildren" is a contentious one. They're not "my" children. They're bio-mom's and husband-dear's children, a fact I love to point out whenever one of them needs help with something and husband-dear and I are happily ensconced on the couch watching a movie. Usually, I'm OK with that. Life is complicated enough as it is, and having a stepmother and a stepfather thrown in the mix would be enough to confuse any kid. And "my" kids are awesome about it. There's never any "You're not my mother!", or "Well, at mom's house we don't have to..." around here. So, usually, I'm a happy camper of a stepmom. But there are days when it's a little harder. Days when bio-mom calls five times in an hour, or when the kids can't stop talking about something they did with bio-mom and the super-awesome new stepdad, or when, like Saturday, one of them has to remind me that, hey, lady, you are not my mother. It's days like that when I really think someone should write a fairytale about poor, misunderstood, and under-appreciated stepmothers who just want to go to the ball, be beautiful, marry Prince Charming and then sleep for one hundred years. Oh wait...
Did anyone say sleep?
I realize I hardly write about what it's like to be a stepmother. I think I spend more time writing about bugs and NPR than I have about what it's like to raise two boys who are not my own. I'd love to tell you it's because there's really nothing to write about, because as anyone with children, let alone stepchildren, knows, kids always provide more food for thought than anyone needs in about three lives.
So, today, here is is. My very first post on the art of stepmothering.
What inspired me to write this blog, today, is that on Saturday something happened that hasn't, literally, happened in years. Up until about four years ago, the boys had the habit of, every once in a while, dropping their bio-mom into a conversation, preferably whenever the conversation involved people we barely knew. And no matter how zen I try to be about the whole, "there is another, more real mother in the picture", it used to drive me crazy. Husband-dear and I would be talking to, for instance, a new couple at church about the service, and Ozzie or Jimmie would interject, "My mother is a nurse", or "My mom works here and here" or another statement completely irrelevant to the topic at hand. Now although I totally understood their need to reassure themselves as well as the people around them that a) I was not their real mother, and b) their real mother did some pretty cool stuff too, it would just make me feel somehow unaccepted. Especially since I make sure whenever meeting new people that they know that I am actually the kids' super-evil wicked stepmom. But they were little kids, we understood their need to reassure their position in the family, so we let it go. And then last Saturday, our now not-so-young Jimmie, did the exact same thing. Out of the blue, somewhere in the middle of a conversation with a person we'd just met about the local music scene, he mentioned where his mother worked. The statement made no sense, had no place in the conversation, and I was just flabbergasted. I let it go, but it's stung ever since, and made me realize that although you at one point cease to be a new mother, just like you cease to be the mother of a preschooler, or a newlywed, or the new kid in town, you never, ever cease to be the stepmother.
That realization has the tendency to come up at the most unexpected times. When you're talking to your sister in law about teaching your children not to talk back, and she tells you, "But you wouldn't be that strict with your own children", for instance. Or when you tell your students "your" children are your stepchildren, and they tell you, "that's really not the same". Or when your extended family doesn't send your stepchildren anything for their birthday because they're not really "your" children. Little things that make you realize that it doesn't matter that you have to try ten times harder than any "conventional" mom, and that any rejection comes on ten times stronger too (on account of, you've been trying so hard), you will never really join the club of "real mommies".
I realize the whole line between "your" children and "stepchildren" is a contentious one. They're not "my" children. They're bio-mom's and husband-dear's children, a fact I love to point out whenever one of them needs help with something and husband-dear and I are happily ensconced on the couch watching a movie. Usually, I'm OK with that. Life is complicated enough as it is, and having a stepmother and a stepfather thrown in the mix would be enough to confuse any kid. And "my" kids are awesome about it. There's never any "You're not my mother!", or "Well, at mom's house we don't have to..." around here. So, usually, I'm a happy camper of a stepmom. But there are days when it's a little harder. Days when bio-mom calls five times in an hour, or when the kids can't stop talking about something they did with bio-mom and the super-awesome new stepdad, or when, like Saturday, one of them has to remind me that, hey, lady, you are not my mother. It's days like that when I really think someone should write a fairytale about poor, misunderstood, and under-appreciated stepmothers who just want to go to the ball, be beautiful, marry Prince Charming and then sleep for one hundred years. Oh wait...
Did anyone say sleep?
Friday, September 30, 2011
Peanuts
Let me tell you something, I love me some peanuts. And I don't mean the cartoon (although Snoopy is the cutest Red Baron ever), or the food (because nothing is a stranger concoction that boiled peanuts), no I'm talking about the packing supply.
If you just scratched your head and asked how on earth peanuts can be used to pack things, you're probably from a country which actually cares about the environment and decided to outlaw peanuts years ago (i.e., Holland). The peanuts I'm referring to are pieces of Styrofoam shaped like peanuts, that you use to keep goods safe while shipping. And environmentally friendly or not, they are awesome.
Now to be honest with you, we were never a peanut-packing family. Not only are we far too cheap to splurge on purchasing peanuts when you can just easily keep goods safe using wadded up newspaper (which is not only recyclable, but free!), but we've always had such an ample supply of packing paper and inflatable bags from packages that people would send to us, there was never a need to purchase anything as far as shipping went (no, not even boxes).
But then, almost four years ago, Steve ordered five brand new HD cameras for our television production classes. As these cameras cost several thousand dollars a piece, I was half-expecting them to be delivered by an armored truck complete with guard and all. Instead, they each came in a medium-sized box that was filled to the brim with, you guessed, it peanuts.
I remember looking at the peanuts and asking one of the technicians if that was really enough to keep the camera from breaking or scratching, and he assured me that those green puppies would keep anything safe. Thinking of Christmas coming up, and all the shipping we would have to do to assorted friends and family, I asked Steve if I could take the five boxes of peanuts home with me. Although I'm sure Steve thought I had lost my mind (gone nuts, if you will), and was just really relieved to get those pesky little things out of his office, he said yes.
And ever since that Christmas, back in 2008, I have fallen in love with peanuts. I have to tell you, all that you've heard about them is true: they will keep everything secure and in one piece. They weigh next to nothing, fit into any corner, and don't require hours of ripping and balling up newspaper that leaves your hands and sleeves looking slightly grimy. And the even better part is that thanks to the nature of the goods coming into our department, I had an almost endless supply of free peanuts. Nobody wanted them, they sure weren't going to reuse them, so every once in a while, I would take a big box of them home with me, to store up in the attic until another birthday or holiday required some serious packing.
Then the budget crisis hit, and our ability to order cameras and other fragile equipment has dwindled pretty much down to zero. That in itself is sad enough, but what makes it even more unbearable is that this also means my supply of peanuts has pretty much dried up. So last week, when I used the very last of my peanuts to send a picture frame to Mary in Italy, I knew it was time to either bite the bullet and buy my own peanuts, or resign to using newspapers once again.
But just when I was about to resign myself to having to start tearing up old newspapers again, the Dutch store in Helen came to the rescue with a big box not just filled with the Dutch goodies, but also with at least a bushel of peanuts. Now the goodies were nice, yes, but they didn't make me squeal with excitement as much as the peanuts did. And the better news? Husband-dear just ordered some sort of gigantic helicopter (with 3D gyro-something capabilities), and I have the feeling it will come packed in oodles of peanuts too.
I can't wait!
If you just scratched your head and asked how on earth peanuts can be used to pack things, you're probably from a country which actually cares about the environment and decided to outlaw peanuts years ago (i.e., Holland). The peanuts I'm referring to are pieces of Styrofoam shaped like peanuts, that you use to keep goods safe while shipping. And environmentally friendly or not, they are awesome.
Now to be honest with you, we were never a peanut-packing family. Not only are we far too cheap to splurge on purchasing peanuts when you can just easily keep goods safe using wadded up newspaper (which is not only recyclable, but free!), but we've always had such an ample supply of packing paper and inflatable bags from packages that people would send to us, there was never a need to purchase anything as far as shipping went (no, not even boxes).
But then, almost four years ago, Steve ordered five brand new HD cameras for our television production classes. As these cameras cost several thousand dollars a piece, I was half-expecting them to be delivered by an armored truck complete with guard and all. Instead, they each came in a medium-sized box that was filled to the brim with, you guessed, it peanuts.
I remember looking at the peanuts and asking one of the technicians if that was really enough to keep the camera from breaking or scratching, and he assured me that those green puppies would keep anything safe. Thinking of Christmas coming up, and all the shipping we would have to do to assorted friends and family, I asked Steve if I could take the five boxes of peanuts home with me. Although I'm sure Steve thought I had lost my mind (gone nuts, if you will), and was just really relieved to get those pesky little things out of his office, he said yes.
And ever since that Christmas, back in 2008, I have fallen in love with peanuts. I have to tell you, all that you've heard about them is true: they will keep everything secure and in one piece. They weigh next to nothing, fit into any corner, and don't require hours of ripping and balling up newspaper that leaves your hands and sleeves looking slightly grimy. And the even better part is that thanks to the nature of the goods coming into our department, I had an almost endless supply of free peanuts. Nobody wanted them, they sure weren't going to reuse them, so every once in a while, I would take a big box of them home with me, to store up in the attic until another birthday or holiday required some serious packing.
Then the budget crisis hit, and our ability to order cameras and other fragile equipment has dwindled pretty much down to zero. That in itself is sad enough, but what makes it even more unbearable is that this also means my supply of peanuts has pretty much dried up. So last week, when I used the very last of my peanuts to send a picture frame to Mary in Italy, I knew it was time to either bite the bullet and buy my own peanuts, or resign to using newspapers once again.
But just when I was about to resign myself to having to start tearing up old newspapers again, the Dutch store in Helen came to the rescue with a big box not just filled with the Dutch goodies, but also with at least a bushel of peanuts. Now the goodies were nice, yes, but they didn't make me squeal with excitement as much as the peanuts did. And the better news? Husband-dear just ordered some sort of gigantic helicopter (with 3D gyro-something capabilities), and I have the feeling it will come packed in oodles of peanuts too.
I can't wait!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Centen, centen, centen
Ik ben, eerlijk gezegd, helemaal niet zo van het geld. Ja, het moet er zijn, en ja, ik hou van een spaarpotje hebben, maar ik ben dus niet zo iemand die zit te springen om een salarisverhoging. Nu is dat eigenlijk alleen maar harstikke handig, aangezien we hier op de universiteit de laatste vier jaar geen verhoging meer gehad vanwege "de crisis", maar goed, ik kan me er persoonlijk dus helemaal niet zo druk om maken. Ik verdien geld, ik kan sparen, en zo nu en dan op vakantie, klaar.
Maar helaas heb ik ook principes (alleen niet als het op parkeren aan komt). En op dit moment worden deze toch ernstig op de proef gesteld door de laatste geweldige "we moeten besparen" actie van de hoge bazen op de universiteit. Maar voordat ik op dit laatste morele dilemma in kan gaan, moet ik even iets uitleggen over "overload" en "overload pay".
"Overload" duidt op het geven van meer vakken dan waarvoor je bent aangenomen. In mijn geval is dat dus vier vakken per semester. Voor eenieder die mijn blog al een tijdje bijhoudt is dit niks nieuws. Sinds mijn tweede jaar hier geef ik ergens tussen de vijf en zeven vakken per semester. Ook dat komt door de budgetcrisis, want eigenlijk hebben we een nieuwe full-time professor nodig, maar ja, daar is dus even geen geld voor. Zegt men. Maar goed. Ik ben natuurlijk gekke henkie niet, en wordt voor die extra vakken gewoon betaald.
En zo komen we uit op het tweede woord "overload pay". Dat duidt, jawel, op het extra salaris dat je krijgt omdat je extra vakken geeft. Dit salaris is, en hier komt woord nummer drie, "pro-rated", hetgeen betekent dat de hoogte van het salaris afhangt van het aantal studenten in de vakken die je extra geeft. Helemaal precies weet ik het niet, maar ik meen dat je $150 per student per semester krijgt. Heeft een vak meer dan 15 studenten, dan krijg je "full pay", en dat is $2250 per vak (dit is allemaal publieke informatie, en na te lezen op de website van de University System of Georgia, voor de geinteresseerden onder us).
Meestal worden vakken als "overload" aangeboden omdat heel veel studenten dat vak nodig hebben, en dus heb ik nog nooit een overload vak gegeven waar minder dan 15 studenten in zaten. Ook dit semester heeft mijn vijfde vak bijna twintig studenten. Dus zou ik, volgens Bartjes dan, $2250 voor dat vak moeten ontvagen. Dat is geen vetpot als je bedenkt dat voor 1 vak 10 uur per week berekend wordt, en er 16 weken in een semester zijn, maar ach, "it is what it is" zoals ze hier zo mooi zeggen.
Maar goed, het probleem zit 'em dus in die "volgens Bartjes". Want wat heeft de leiding van de universiteit bedacht? Dat ze niet langer kijken naar hoeveel studenten er in het overload vak zitten, maar gewoon van alle vakken die jij geeft het vak nemen waarin het minste aantal studenten zitten, en op basis van dat aantal je overload pay berekenen.
Mijn minst volle klas is de "seminar", oftewel de afstudeerscriptie; daarin zitten momenteel 8 studenten. Als dit plan dus doorgaat, dan krijg ik dus $1200 betaald voor het overload vak waaraan twintig studenten deelnemen.
Ja, en dan gaan mijn principes dus wel opspelen, want volgens mij klopt dat ergens niet helemaal.
Natuurlijk kun je beredeneren, ja maar ja, dat vak is dus niet helemaal vol, en dus zou je, volgens Bartjes (daar is die kerel weer), minder dan tien uur per week aan dat vak besteden. En in een ideale troetelbeer wereld is dat ook helemaal waar. Maar ja, helaas leef ik niet in een troetelbeerwereld, en is het dus ook nog eens zo dat in de andere drie vakken die ik geeft, het maximum van twintig studenten met gemiddeld vijf overschreden wordt.
Dus.
Principes.
Daar heb ik nou een beetje last van. Want natuurlijk ga ik niet in een keer weigeren een vak te geven als studenten het nodig hebben om af te studeren. Maar ja, ik wil natuurlijk ook niet voor minder werken dan waar ik technisch gezien recht op heb.
En dat heet nou een dilemma.
Maar ja, maakt u zich niet druk hoor. Ik weet namelijk nu al hoe dit gaat aflopen, met die principes van mij. U ook?
Maar helaas heb ik ook principes (alleen niet als het op parkeren aan komt). En op dit moment worden deze toch ernstig op de proef gesteld door de laatste geweldige "we moeten besparen" actie van de hoge bazen op de universiteit. Maar voordat ik op dit laatste morele dilemma in kan gaan, moet ik even iets uitleggen over "overload" en "overload pay".
"Overload" duidt op het geven van meer vakken dan waarvoor je bent aangenomen. In mijn geval is dat dus vier vakken per semester. Voor eenieder die mijn blog al een tijdje bijhoudt is dit niks nieuws. Sinds mijn tweede jaar hier geef ik ergens tussen de vijf en zeven vakken per semester. Ook dat komt door de budgetcrisis, want eigenlijk hebben we een nieuwe full-time professor nodig, maar ja, daar is dus even geen geld voor. Zegt men. Maar goed. Ik ben natuurlijk gekke henkie niet, en wordt voor die extra vakken gewoon betaald.
En zo komen we uit op het tweede woord "overload pay". Dat duidt, jawel, op het extra salaris dat je krijgt omdat je extra vakken geeft. Dit salaris is, en hier komt woord nummer drie, "pro-rated", hetgeen betekent dat de hoogte van het salaris afhangt van het aantal studenten in de vakken die je extra geeft. Helemaal precies weet ik het niet, maar ik meen dat je $150 per student per semester krijgt. Heeft een vak meer dan 15 studenten, dan krijg je "full pay", en dat is $2250 per vak (dit is allemaal publieke informatie, en na te lezen op de website van de University System of Georgia, voor de geinteresseerden onder us).
Meestal worden vakken als "overload" aangeboden omdat heel veel studenten dat vak nodig hebben, en dus heb ik nog nooit een overload vak gegeven waar minder dan 15 studenten in zaten. Ook dit semester heeft mijn vijfde vak bijna twintig studenten. Dus zou ik, volgens Bartjes dan, $2250 voor dat vak moeten ontvagen. Dat is geen vetpot als je bedenkt dat voor 1 vak 10 uur per week berekend wordt, en er 16 weken in een semester zijn, maar ach, "it is what it is" zoals ze hier zo mooi zeggen.
Maar goed, het probleem zit 'em dus in die "volgens Bartjes". Want wat heeft de leiding van de universiteit bedacht? Dat ze niet langer kijken naar hoeveel studenten er in het overload vak zitten, maar gewoon van alle vakken die jij geeft het vak nemen waarin het minste aantal studenten zitten, en op basis van dat aantal je overload pay berekenen.
Mijn minst volle klas is de "seminar", oftewel de afstudeerscriptie; daarin zitten momenteel 8 studenten. Als dit plan dus doorgaat, dan krijg ik dus $1200 betaald voor het overload vak waaraan twintig studenten deelnemen.
Ja, en dan gaan mijn principes dus wel opspelen, want volgens mij klopt dat ergens niet helemaal.
Natuurlijk kun je beredeneren, ja maar ja, dat vak is dus niet helemaal vol, en dus zou je, volgens Bartjes (daar is die kerel weer), minder dan tien uur per week aan dat vak besteden. En in een ideale troetelbeer wereld is dat ook helemaal waar. Maar ja, helaas leef ik niet in een troetelbeerwereld, en is het dus ook nog eens zo dat in de andere drie vakken die ik geeft, het maximum van twintig studenten met gemiddeld vijf overschreden wordt.
Dus.
Principes.
Daar heb ik nou een beetje last van. Want natuurlijk ga ik niet in een keer weigeren een vak te geven als studenten het nodig hebben om af te studeren. Maar ja, ik wil natuurlijk ook niet voor minder werken dan waar ik technisch gezien recht op heb.
En dat heet nou een dilemma.
Maar ja, maakt u zich niet druk hoor. Ik weet namelijk nu al hoe dit gaat aflopen, met die principes van mij. U ook?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
If you can't beat them...
...join them.
You may remember my little rant from last summer, when I complained about having to pay extra to drive my husband's car to work and park in a faculty parking spot. I was less than thrilled to have to pay $35 each year to park at work to begin with, and thought it was pretty much a cardinal sin to ask employees to buy yet another parking permit if they wished to drive, say, their husband's brand new CR-V.
Well, you will be happy to know that as of this semester, all is well.
First, apparently my terse (i.e., pissed off) email to the dean, the chief of campus police, and the vice president of something or other apparently woke someone up, because as of this academic year, we can register for a second, free, parking permit. So no more hassle with a limited number of temporary permits, and having to drive to the police station to get said permit before you can drive to your office, park, and get to work. Your second car now has the same decal as your first car.
And DixieChick saw that it was good.
Second, I have also finally joined the ranks of the VIP cars on campus, which means I am now guaranteed a spot close to the building, no matter what time I come in to work. And all I had to do to earn that is forego every single one of my principles, which turned out to not be so difficult after all.
My university, like most institutions of higher learning in the US and Canada works with a complicated system of parking permits, each of which comes with a certain price tag. The lowest tiered drivers are the resident students. These are those students who live on campus. They receive a red parking permit, and get to park in the crappiest spots imaginable. It's not uncommon for a resident student to have to park a mile or more away from their dorm. The idea behind is, I'm guessing, that these students live on campus, and can therefore walk everywhere (and guess what, they would still rather walk to their car a mile away, drive two miles, park a mile away from class, and then walk into class. But I digress).
Then are the commuter students, who are the proud owners of an orange tag. As they don't live on campus, but have to drive in, the university figured they deserved a little more clemency, and awarded them about ten parking spots by each building. If you do the math, that still means that several hundred students will be parking goodness knows where (but not near any building), but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?
Then there is faculty/staff parking. They get the green permits, and the most spots by each building. And finally, there's reserved/VIP parking, which is, or well, used to be, for deans, provosts, presidents, and other figures far above the rest of us mere mortals. These people get the yellow decals, and have the spots right up against the curb next to the building they work in. They are, in short, the head honchos of parking.
This is how parking was arranged when I got here in 2007. And back then, it seemed fair enough. There were maybe two rows of yellow spots by my building, at least a hundred green spots, and no one ever had a problem finding a parking spot.
Well, in the 2008-09 academic year, the university realized that it was leaving a vast financial resource completely untapped, and opened up the VIP parking to any faculty or staff member willing to fork over almost three times as much as a faculty/staff permit. In the next two years, the VIP section grew slowly, from two to four to six rows.
Then last year, everything sort of went completely crazy. The university built a few new dorms, turned half the parking lot into a VIP section, gave the students more parking spots, and now the 100 + faculty members in my specific part of campus were fighting for maybe twenty five parking spots. Basically, if you arrived after 8am, you had to park with the resident students. And if you arrived after 9am, you were just plain s** out of luck, and you got to park in the "overflow" lot almost a mile away.
Now call me a wuss, but I couldn't stand it. Most days I would be able to nab a spot, but the pressure of having to get out of the house before 6:15 in order to get one was just crazy. And then on those days when I didn't get to work early enough, and would have to walk the mile to my office, I was just one extremely unhappy camper. Like I said, I probably need six weeks in basic training or something, but when I've gotten up at 5am, driven an hour and forty minutes, and then have to walk a mile while burdened with a laptop bag, lunch box, travel mug, and purse, I am pretty much ready to turn around and go home.
So this year I caved. I gave up on the idea that no one should have to pay to park at work, and signed up for a VIP spot. As these are handed out on a first come, first serve base, I figured I would be lucky if I got a spot in the far corner of the parking lot, but at least I would be in the lot next to my building, and not two fields and one football field down the road. Now I'm not sure what happened, to be honest with you, because when I happened to see the chief of police (he who was victim of my wrath this summer) and asked him about my spot, he told me, "Yeah, I gave you 195".
So I went looking for 195, starting at the far end of the lot. Nothing. I moved closer, nothing. That chief had better not be playing with me. I looked again, nothing. Then as I walked back to my building, I stepped up on the curb, looked at the spots next to the building where all the deans and vice presidents parked, and saw number 195. It was right next to the last dean's spot, within stone's throw of the building's front door.
Cue harp music, clouds opening, and angels descending.
I was, and have been, in heaven ever since. I can't tell you how much I absolutely love coming into work and there being a spot waiting just for me. One entire month later, it still fills me with joy. Seriously.
So, what's the moral of the story?
Principles are nice, but a parking spot close to work is much, much nicer.
You may remember my little rant from last summer, when I complained about having to pay extra to drive my husband's car to work and park in a faculty parking spot. I was less than thrilled to have to pay $35 each year to park at work to begin with, and thought it was pretty much a cardinal sin to ask employees to buy yet another parking permit if they wished to drive, say, their husband's brand new CR-V.
Well, you will be happy to know that as of this semester, all is well.
First, apparently my terse (i.e., pissed off) email to the dean, the chief of campus police, and the vice president of something or other apparently woke someone up, because as of this academic year, we can register for a second, free, parking permit. So no more hassle with a limited number of temporary permits, and having to drive to the police station to get said permit before you can drive to your office, park, and get to work. Your second car now has the same decal as your first car.
And DixieChick saw that it was good.
Second, I have also finally joined the ranks of the VIP cars on campus, which means I am now guaranteed a spot close to the building, no matter what time I come in to work. And all I had to do to earn that is forego every single one of my principles, which turned out to not be so difficult after all.
My university, like most institutions of higher learning in the US and Canada works with a complicated system of parking permits, each of which comes with a certain price tag. The lowest tiered drivers are the resident students. These are those students who live on campus. They receive a red parking permit, and get to park in the crappiest spots imaginable. It's not uncommon for a resident student to have to park a mile or more away from their dorm. The idea behind is, I'm guessing, that these students live on campus, and can therefore walk everywhere (and guess what, they would still rather walk to their car a mile away, drive two miles, park a mile away from class, and then walk into class. But I digress).
Then are the commuter students, who are the proud owners of an orange tag. As they don't live on campus, but have to drive in, the university figured they deserved a little more clemency, and awarded them about ten parking spots by each building. If you do the math, that still means that several hundred students will be parking goodness knows where (but not near any building), but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?
Then there is faculty/staff parking. They get the green permits, and the most spots by each building. And finally, there's reserved/VIP parking, which is, or well, used to be, for deans, provosts, presidents, and other figures far above the rest of us mere mortals. These people get the yellow decals, and have the spots right up against the curb next to the building they work in. They are, in short, the head honchos of parking.
This is how parking was arranged when I got here in 2007. And back then, it seemed fair enough. There were maybe two rows of yellow spots by my building, at least a hundred green spots, and no one ever had a problem finding a parking spot.
Well, in the 2008-09 academic year, the university realized that it was leaving a vast financial resource completely untapped, and opened up the VIP parking to any faculty or staff member willing to fork over almost three times as much as a faculty/staff permit. In the next two years, the VIP section grew slowly, from two to four to six rows.
Then last year, everything sort of went completely crazy. The university built a few new dorms, turned half the parking lot into a VIP section, gave the students more parking spots, and now the 100 + faculty members in my specific part of campus were fighting for maybe twenty five parking spots. Basically, if you arrived after 8am, you had to park with the resident students. And if you arrived after 9am, you were just plain s** out of luck, and you got to park in the "overflow" lot almost a mile away.
Now call me a wuss, but I couldn't stand it. Most days I would be able to nab a spot, but the pressure of having to get out of the house before 6:15 in order to get one was just crazy. And then on those days when I didn't get to work early enough, and would have to walk the mile to my office, I was just one extremely unhappy camper. Like I said, I probably need six weeks in basic training or something, but when I've gotten up at 5am, driven an hour and forty minutes, and then have to walk a mile while burdened with a laptop bag, lunch box, travel mug, and purse, I am pretty much ready to turn around and go home.
So this year I caved. I gave up on the idea that no one should have to pay to park at work, and signed up for a VIP spot. As these are handed out on a first come, first serve base, I figured I would be lucky if I got a spot in the far corner of the parking lot, but at least I would be in the lot next to my building, and not two fields and one football field down the road. Now I'm not sure what happened, to be honest with you, because when I happened to see the chief of police (he who was victim of my wrath this summer) and asked him about my spot, he told me, "Yeah, I gave you 195".
So I went looking for 195, starting at the far end of the lot. Nothing. I moved closer, nothing. That chief had better not be playing with me. I looked again, nothing. Then as I walked back to my building, I stepped up on the curb, looked at the spots next to the building where all the deans and vice presidents parked, and saw number 195. It was right next to the last dean's spot, within stone's throw of the building's front door.
Cue harp music, clouds opening, and angels descending.
I was, and have been, in heaven ever since. I can't tell you how much I absolutely love coming into work and there being a spot waiting just for me. One entire month later, it still fills me with joy. Seriously.
So, what's the moral of the story?
Principles are nice, but a parking spot close to work is much, much nicer.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
An ode to my travel mug
The one utensil that, in my opinion, is almost as American as hot dogs and crackerjacks (and yes, apple pie I suppose), is the travel mug. Not only do most people in my world own one of these nifty inventions, all cars are outfitted for two, if not three of these mugs, every institution who thinks at least a little of herself will have a travel mug with its logo, and you can't go to any conference without departing with a be-logo-ed travel mug.
What makes the travel mug even more American, in my opinion, is the fact that of all the countries I have lived in, worked in, or traveled to, the US is the only one that has a mug solely for the purpose of carrying hot, caffeinated drinks to be consumed during one's drive. Sure, if you're Dutch, you might argue that the thermos serves the same purpose. In fact, you might love your thermos as much as I love my travel mug. However, while you have a slight point there, the thermos is completely unsuitable for car use. As anyone who has ever tried to pour a drink in a driving vehicle knows, it's nearly impossible to do so without serious spillage, even if you're just the passenger. Imagine the mess that would ensue if you were actually trying to drive and pour some of that hot cocoa from your thermos into the nice, round lid you have perched between your knees.
But in spite of the serious drawbacks of the thermos, Europeans have never really taken to the travel mug. That sturdy, tall cup with a lid that opens and closes and a nifty handle or conveniently ergonomically shaped body. I wondered why this was, for a while, as Dutch people drink as much coffee as their American counterparts, and should therefore, technically, vow by their travel mug.
After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that it all has to do with the length of the average European drive (or lack thereof), the fact that everyone there wants to be a race car driver, and thus drives stick, and the odd truth that all your fellow commuters' sole purpose in life appears to be to try and put a dent in your hood or fender. I think we can all agree that none of these are conducive to driving while handling a travel mug, no matter how convenient the non-slip surface is.
When I first started commuting in the US, I realized, however, that there was no stick, no crazy cyclists on a suicide mission, and no nine-lane roundabouts, and subsequently, no need to gulp my hot tea down before I left home. The ease of getting to work and school meant I could easily consume my morning caffeine while getting there. So I purchased my very first travel mug. Do you remember buying your first travel mug? Because I do. It was a momentous occasion. Walking down the street with my brand new travel mug, I truly felt like a real American. Because, as we all know, no American goes without their travel mug.
I remember it as though it was only yesterday. It was a decade ago, and I was at an Einstein Bagels, ordering my morning tea. I spotted a tan mug with a handle and a nifty slide that allowed you to open the lid with the same hand that was holding the mug. It looked extremely convenient. But what really sold me on it was the text on the mug: "No coffee, no peace. Know coffee, know peace." I was sold. And so was the mug.
Eleven years later, you can barely read the words on the mug, and the color on the mug has faded too. Apparently, one of my lip glosses is seriously toxic, as the lid has some red stains on it (even after approximately hundred washes), and the mug isn't entirely spill proof either, as evidenced by the occasional tea stain on my work shirts. Over the past few months, I've had to come to the realization that, yes, it is indeed time for a new travel mug.
But here's the thing. I love my travel mug. That travel mug has been there for me through thick and thin, PhD defenses, new jobs, traffic and cop-shooting-deer, rain, sleet, and hail. I've tried other mugs, ones with no handle, ones with a top you pop open, ones with logos you can actually read, but none of them work as well as my ancient travel mug. There is just something incredibly convenient about having a handle that allows you to use your thumb to open the top, something that no contemporary travel mug has. So for the longest time, I was able to ward off husband-dear's warnings about germs, diseases, and general malaise with the argument that no other mug would work as well.
Until this weekend. This weekend, our chaplain gave me a new shiny travel mug. It's blue, doesn't have a handle, but it does have a readable logo (although "AF SARC "Sexual assault is never OK" is obviously not half as cool as the now invisible "know coffee, know peace"), and a nice rubber pad on the bottom. Faithful as I am to my old travel mug, I told husband-dear that there was no way I was going to like that mug, so I wasn't going to use it. But then, on Monday morning, something strange happened. When I reached into the cupboard for my travel mug, my hand bypassed my old travel mug, and reached for my brand new travel mug instead. I'm still not sure why, but I did. Perhaps it was the idea of wandering around campus carrying a mug with a statement about violence against women that did it. Or maybe the bright shiny color drew my eyes. I don't know. But the bad part was that I liked the mug. Liked it as in I used it again this morning.
So now my good old travel mug sits all alone by itself in our cupboard, ousted by its politically correct younger cousin. Perhaps it's time for it to retire, but we've been through so much together, it just doesn't seem right. Does anyone know of a good retirement home for old, used travel mugs?
What makes the travel mug even more American, in my opinion, is the fact that of all the countries I have lived in, worked in, or traveled to, the US is the only one that has a mug solely for the purpose of carrying hot, caffeinated drinks to be consumed during one's drive. Sure, if you're Dutch, you might argue that the thermos serves the same purpose. In fact, you might love your thermos as much as I love my travel mug. However, while you have a slight point there, the thermos is completely unsuitable for car use. As anyone who has ever tried to pour a drink in a driving vehicle knows, it's nearly impossible to do so without serious spillage, even if you're just the passenger. Imagine the mess that would ensue if you were actually trying to drive and pour some of that hot cocoa from your thermos into the nice, round lid you have perched between your knees.
But in spite of the serious drawbacks of the thermos, Europeans have never really taken to the travel mug. That sturdy, tall cup with a lid that opens and closes and a nifty handle or conveniently ergonomically shaped body. I wondered why this was, for a while, as Dutch people drink as much coffee as their American counterparts, and should therefore, technically, vow by their travel mug.
After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that it all has to do with the length of the average European drive (or lack thereof), the fact that everyone there wants to be a race car driver, and thus drives stick, and the odd truth that all your fellow commuters' sole purpose in life appears to be to try and put a dent in your hood or fender. I think we can all agree that none of these are conducive to driving while handling a travel mug, no matter how convenient the non-slip surface is.
When I first started commuting in the US, I realized, however, that there was no stick, no crazy cyclists on a suicide mission, and no nine-lane roundabouts, and subsequently, no need to gulp my hot tea down before I left home. The ease of getting to work and school meant I could easily consume my morning caffeine while getting there. So I purchased my very first travel mug. Do you remember buying your first travel mug? Because I do. It was a momentous occasion. Walking down the street with my brand new travel mug, I truly felt like a real American. Because, as we all know, no American goes without their travel mug.
I remember it as though it was only yesterday. It was a decade ago, and I was at an Einstein Bagels, ordering my morning tea. I spotted a tan mug with a handle and a nifty slide that allowed you to open the lid with the same hand that was holding the mug. It looked extremely convenient. But what really sold me on it was the text on the mug: "No coffee, no peace. Know coffee, know peace." I was sold. And so was the mug.
Eleven years later, you can barely read the words on the mug, and the color on the mug has faded too. Apparently, one of my lip glosses is seriously toxic, as the lid has some red stains on it (even after approximately hundred washes), and the mug isn't entirely spill proof either, as evidenced by the occasional tea stain on my work shirts. Over the past few months, I've had to come to the realization that, yes, it is indeed time for a new travel mug.
But here's the thing. I love my travel mug. That travel mug has been there for me through thick and thin, PhD defenses, new jobs, traffic and cop-shooting-deer, rain, sleet, and hail. I've tried other mugs, ones with no handle, ones with a top you pop open, ones with logos you can actually read, but none of them work as well as my ancient travel mug. There is just something incredibly convenient about having a handle that allows you to use your thumb to open the top, something that no contemporary travel mug has. So for the longest time, I was able to ward off husband-dear's warnings about germs, diseases, and general malaise with the argument that no other mug would work as well.
Until this weekend. This weekend, our chaplain gave me a new shiny travel mug. It's blue, doesn't have a handle, but it does have a readable logo (although "AF SARC "Sexual assault is never OK" is obviously not half as cool as the now invisible "know coffee, know peace"), and a nice rubber pad on the bottom. Faithful as I am to my old travel mug, I told husband-dear that there was no way I was going to like that mug, so I wasn't going to use it. But then, on Monday morning, something strange happened. When I reached into the cupboard for my travel mug, my hand bypassed my old travel mug, and reached for my brand new travel mug instead. I'm still not sure why, but I did. Perhaps it was the idea of wandering around campus carrying a mug with a statement about violence against women that did it. Or maybe the bright shiny color drew my eyes. I don't know. But the bad part was that I liked the mug. Liked it as in I used it again this morning.
So now my good old travel mug sits all alone by itself in our cupboard, ousted by its politically correct younger cousin. Perhaps it's time for it to retire, but we've been through so much together, it just doesn't seem right. Does anyone know of a good retirement home for old, used travel mugs?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)