Zero: the amount of money it cost to listen to the best live blues-jazz bands in the country
One: really big conference badge (and I mean really big. Big as in, is that a poster, or a badge?)
Two: incredibly scrumptious Louisana dinners (red beans and rice, Shrimp and rabbit Jumbalaya, and Creole Shrimp).
Three: wedding parties that wound through the streets of the French quarter, waving white handkerchiefs, and dancing to a walking Delta blues band.
Four: days away from home, boys, and puppies.
Five: presenters per panel.
Six: panel presentations per day.
Seven: stops for gas on the way out and back
Eight: dollars for an O'Brien's hurricane
Nine: blocks to find a CVS (no, not related to number eight. Honestly).
Ten: minutes for a presentation on social media.
Eleven: trips across a busy intersection to get from one conference location to the other.
Twelve: hours until I'm expected in a meeting at work tomorrow.
Thirteen: the number missing on every floor, which really threw me for a loop whenever I was looking for my own room (wait, 15 comes after..11?)
Fourteen: loads of laundry when I got home (or at least it felt like it)
Fifteen: Amount of money it would have cost me per day to get online. And thus the explanation why I haven't blogged in almost a week.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
SAV 13.1
For a country where you are not supposed to talk about religion or politics, people sure love to cover the back of their car in stickers and magnets on those two exact topics. From "Coexist" to "I work for a Jewish carpenter", to "W'04" to "Yes we can", Americans love to express their identities through their bumpers.
Now this automotive self-presentation isn't limited to religious and political expressions. There are stickers and magnets for every imaginable belief, lifestyle, hobby, or achievement. Do you have four kids, love Disney, and two of your children play soccer? There's a sticker for that. Have you just completed a marathon, an ironman, or something equally athletically impressive? There's stickers for that too. There's sticker and magnets for breast cancer ("save the tata's!"), adopted pets ("Save a life! Opt to adopt!"), the various branches of the military ("I love my airman"), your alma mater, and every other imaginable aspect of life.
A specific type of bumpersticker that seems to be on the rise is neither political, nor religious, nor athelitic in nature, but yet equally intriguing: the acronym. Also known as, let me show you all the cool and totally awesome places I've been in a way that will make you wonder where exactly I went long after after you first saw my car. It's the self-presentation sticker supreme: the acronym.
Just like European countries have their own acronyms (GB = Great Britain, NL = Netherlands, F = France), various American cities have taken it upon themselves to design their own acronym and place it on the same round black-and-white sticker used in Europe. So Hilton Head Island has become "HHI", the Outerbanks are "OBX", and St. Simons Island is "SSI".
Coming from Europe, my feelings towards those stickers are divided. On the one hand, they annoy the crap out of me. I'm sorry if you are the proud owner of such a sticker, but do you know how irksome it is to pull up to a car, get all excited because "Hey! They have a round European-looking acronym on their car! Maybe they're from Holland! Cool", and then to realize it's just an SUV-wielding soccer-mom who wants the world to know she spent the weekend in Savannah (SAV).
On the other hand, having such stickers adorn the backs of cars is very much like driving through Europe, and trying to guess what each sticker/acronym on German license plates stands for. And as you may recall from a post in 2008, that was one of my favorite pastimes back in Europe. When we moved here, I was slightly peeved that I would now have to give up figuring out that "NE" stood for "Neuss", and so part of me is elated that instead I get to think and think and think and feel incredibly proud of myself for figuring that OBX really does mean Outerbanks.
Having said all of this, though, let's look at my car. My car is, or was, I should say, very bare. Very, very bare. I had a "I love my adopted puppy" magnet on there for about three weeks, after a trip through the car wash took care of that. The NL sticker I purchased a few years ago has long since faded away, and all I have on the car now is an almost three-year old "swim bike run" magnet, that was bought in a moment of temporary brainfailure. And I really don't care enough about other people knowing which politician I support, that I ran a half marathon, whether or not I care for "tatas", or where I go to church to cover my car in brightly colored stickers. I also kind of like the paint on my car to stay the way it is. Call me a Scrooge, but there you have it.
But then we went to Savannah. And ran the Rock 'n Roll (half) marathon. In spite of its many flaws (a girlie t-shirt being one of them, according to husband-dear), it had one major upside: lots of freebees. Lots and lots of them. And one of those freebees was a bright green "SAV 13.1" sticker. Although it embodies three things I despise: 1. the color best described as Kermit-green; 2. a silly acronym that is not European, and 3. an announcement of a personal accomplishment (that really doesn't mean all that much in the world of runners), I couldn't just throw it away. The Savannah half was one of my toughest races, and finishing it was real achievement.
So, yes, I now too have a bright-green SAV 13.1 sticker on my back window.
I'm sorry.
Now this automotive self-presentation isn't limited to religious and political expressions. There are stickers and magnets for every imaginable belief, lifestyle, hobby, or achievement. Do you have four kids, love Disney, and two of your children play soccer? There's a sticker for that. Have you just completed a marathon, an ironman, or something equally athletically impressive? There's stickers for that too. There's sticker and magnets for breast cancer ("save the tata's!"), adopted pets ("Save a life! Opt to adopt!"), the various branches of the military ("I love my airman"), your alma mater, and every other imaginable aspect of life.
A specific type of bumpersticker that seems to be on the rise is neither political, nor religious, nor athelitic in nature, but yet equally intriguing: the acronym. Also known as, let me show you all the cool and totally awesome places I've been in a way that will make you wonder where exactly I went long after after you first saw my car. It's the self-presentation sticker supreme: the acronym.
Just like European countries have their own acronyms (GB = Great Britain, NL = Netherlands, F = France), various American cities have taken it upon themselves to design their own acronym and place it on the same round black-and-white sticker used in Europe. So Hilton Head Island has become "HHI", the Outerbanks are "OBX", and St. Simons Island is "SSI".
Coming from Europe, my feelings towards those stickers are divided. On the one hand, they annoy the crap out of me. I'm sorry if you are the proud owner of such a sticker, but do you know how irksome it is to pull up to a car, get all excited because "Hey! They have a round European-looking acronym on their car! Maybe they're from Holland! Cool", and then to realize it's just an SUV-wielding soccer-mom who wants the world to know she spent the weekend in Savannah (SAV).
On the other hand, having such stickers adorn the backs of cars is very much like driving through Europe, and trying to guess what each sticker/acronym on German license plates stands for. And as you may recall from a post in 2008, that was one of my favorite pastimes back in Europe. When we moved here, I was slightly peeved that I would now have to give up figuring out that "NE" stood for "Neuss", and so part of me is elated that instead I get to think and think and think and feel incredibly proud of myself for figuring that OBX really does mean Outerbanks.
Having said all of this, though, let's look at my car. My car is, or was, I should say, very bare. Very, very bare. I had a "I love my adopted puppy" magnet on there for about three weeks, after a trip through the car wash took care of that. The NL sticker I purchased a few years ago has long since faded away, and all I have on the car now is an almost three-year old "swim bike run" magnet, that was bought in a moment of temporary brainfailure. And I really don't care enough about other people knowing which politician I support, that I ran a half marathon, whether or not I care for "tatas", or where I go to church to cover my car in brightly colored stickers. I also kind of like the paint on my car to stay the way it is. Call me a Scrooge, but there you have it.
But then we went to Savannah. And ran the Rock 'n Roll (half) marathon. In spite of its many flaws (a girlie t-shirt being one of them, according to husband-dear), it had one major upside: lots of freebees. Lots and lots of them. And one of those freebees was a bright green "SAV 13.1" sticker. Although it embodies three things I despise: 1. the color best described as Kermit-green; 2. a silly acronym that is not European, and 3. an announcement of a personal accomplishment (that really doesn't mean all that much in the world of runners), I couldn't just throw it away. The Savannah half was one of my toughest races, and finishing it was real achievement.
So, yes, I now too have a bright-green SAV 13.1 sticker on my back window.
I'm sorry.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Twenty kids and counting....
I'm not really up to date on my reality shows (apparently the Sister Wives just had baby #17 and Kate is re-starting her old reality show), but I'm currently watching "19 kids and counting" (for my Dutch readers: a show about an ultra-conservative family with, yes, 19 children), and apparently Michelle (the 1990s-hair-bearing 45-year old matriarch) is pregnant with child number 20.
Number twenty, people, twenty. And their names all start with a "J" too.
According to Michelle and Jim-Bob (her ever grinning husband - and which man wouldn't be grinning, twenty kids means he's not exactly being deprived of anything), each child is a gift of God, and they will keep on having children until God has decided it's enough.
Putting aside the fact that they homeschool so they can teach their children that the world is 6000 years old, man existed at the same time as dinosaurs, they argue that the fact that the world is overpopulated is a myth, and they don't believe in kissing before marriage, doesn't that strike you as just plain..well...odd? Especially if you consider Michelle suffered from pre-eclempsia during her last pregnancy and almost died giving birth to her 19th child at 25 weeks?
Look, I know I'm all about live and let live. You want four wives? Knock yourself out. You want to spend $10k on a wedding dress? Go for it! You want to force your husband out of his bedroom so you can stock up on the 500 bottles of ketchup while couponing? Be my guest. But getting pregnant for the twentieth time while your last child almost didn't make it seems just wrong. Especially when some of us can't even have one child*.
So someone tell me why I'm watching this show?
*Yes, I really am over that. No, I am not suffering from denial. It's just that ridiculous excesses like this drive me insane. Plus husband-dear and I would be way cooler parents than perma-grin Michelle and happy-dopey Jim-Bob. Seriously
Number twenty, people, twenty. And their names all start with a "J" too.
According to Michelle and Jim-Bob (her ever grinning husband - and which man wouldn't be grinning, twenty kids means he's not exactly being deprived of anything), each child is a gift of God, and they will keep on having children until God has decided it's enough.
Putting aside the fact that they homeschool so they can teach their children that the world is 6000 years old, man existed at the same time as dinosaurs, they argue that the fact that the world is overpopulated is a myth, and they don't believe in kissing before marriage, doesn't that strike you as just plain..well...odd? Especially if you consider Michelle suffered from pre-eclempsia during her last pregnancy and almost died giving birth to her 19th child at 25 weeks?
Look, I know I'm all about live and let live. You want four wives? Knock yourself out. You want to spend $10k on a wedding dress? Go for it! You want to force your husband out of his bedroom so you can stock up on the 500 bottles of ketchup while couponing? Be my guest. But getting pregnant for the twentieth time while your last child almost didn't make it seems just wrong. Especially when some of us can't even have one child*.
So someone tell me why I'm watching this show?
*Yes, I really am over that. No, I am not suffering from denial. It's just that ridiculous excesses like this drive me insane. Plus husband-dear and I would be way cooler parents than perma-grin Michelle and happy-dopey Jim-Bob. Seriously
Friday, November 11, 2011
Katoen en sneeuw
Na vier jaar in Georia dacht ik ondertussen dat ik alles wel zo'n beetje gezien had aangaande katoenvelden. Zonsopgangen waarbij de velden bedekt zijn met mist, zonsondergangen waarbij de witte velden roze lijken te worden, en dan het maaien waarbij de lucht rondom het katoenveld een grote donzen deken wordt. Maar van de week was er toch weer een "first"; katoenvelden bij het maanlicht.
Sinds afgelopen weekend hier de klok een uur terug is gezet, rij ik 's avonds vaak in het donker naar huis. Nu moet ik toegeven dat ik daar meestal niet echt gecharmeerd van ben. Amerikanen hebben een enorme voorliefde voor het groot licht, en als je daarbij optelt dat de meeste mensen hier in grote SUVs of pick-up trucks rijden met de lichten precies op de hoogte van mijn voorruit, dan is het geen wonder dat ik soms half-verblind, druk met de ogen knipperend er van overtuigd ben dat ik zo oog in oog met mijn maker sta. De mogelijkheid tot het ontmoeten van onze lieve heer word verder nog verhoogd door het feit dat ik door allemaal prachtige bossen en landerijen rijd, die overdag echt prachtig zijn, maar 's nachts fungeren als de speeltuin van enorme herten en wilde zwijnen, die niks liever doen dan vlak voor een auto de weg over sprinten. Dat dat niet altijd goed gaat wordt een paar keer per maand bewezen door het karkas van een enorm hert of wild zwijn dat achteloos, omgeven door losse lichaamsdelen, aan de kant van de weg ligt. Fris is het zeker niet, en als je bedenkt dat die beesten vaak het formaat van mijn auto zijn, dan snap je dat ik in de wintermaanden vaak mijn hart vast houdt. En dan heb ik het nog niet eens over de lokale opgeschoten jeugd die er een hobby van maakt om met pick-up trucks vol met vrienden, bier, honden, en geweren over de weg te scheren.
Dus nee, 's nachts rijden door de Georgia country is niet echt een van mijn favoriete bezigheden.
Maar goed, er is geen andere weg naar huis, dus het is nou eenmaal niet anders. En deze week zag ik dus iets dat het eventjes helemaal goed maakte.
Ik reed weer eens over de beruchte "country highway" met bossen aan weerszijden en resten van meerdere overleden Bambi's langs de weg, en mens, wat was het donker. Maar toen maakte de weg een bocht, en kwam de maan achter de wolken vandaan. En in een keer leek het alsof een kant van de weg helemaal wit verlicht was. De bomen er om heen zagen er lichter uit, en de grond leek wel bedekt met sneeuw. Goed, nu woon ik in Georgia, dus die optie werd al snel verworpen. Enkele seconden later had ik in een keer door wat het was: een kilometers groot katoenveld, dat oplichtte door het felle maanlicht.
Het was ongelooflijk. Het katoen was een grote witte deken, de huizen aan de rand van het veld leken verlicht, en zelfs de grote metalen bewateringsstellages zagen er in een keer mysterieus uit. Het was werkelijk adembenemend, en maakte de lange, saaie reis in een keer helemaal goed.
Nu nog een fotografie cursus zodat ik de volgende keer al dat moois ook voor mijn geweldige lezers kan vastleggen.
Sinds afgelopen weekend hier de klok een uur terug is gezet, rij ik 's avonds vaak in het donker naar huis. Nu moet ik toegeven dat ik daar meestal niet echt gecharmeerd van ben. Amerikanen hebben een enorme voorliefde voor het groot licht, en als je daarbij optelt dat de meeste mensen hier in grote SUVs of pick-up trucks rijden met de lichten precies op de hoogte van mijn voorruit, dan is het geen wonder dat ik soms half-verblind, druk met de ogen knipperend er van overtuigd ben dat ik zo oog in oog met mijn maker sta. De mogelijkheid tot het ontmoeten van onze lieve heer word verder nog verhoogd door het feit dat ik door allemaal prachtige bossen en landerijen rijd, die overdag echt prachtig zijn, maar 's nachts fungeren als de speeltuin van enorme herten en wilde zwijnen, die niks liever doen dan vlak voor een auto de weg over sprinten. Dat dat niet altijd goed gaat wordt een paar keer per maand bewezen door het karkas van een enorm hert of wild zwijn dat achteloos, omgeven door losse lichaamsdelen, aan de kant van de weg ligt. Fris is het zeker niet, en als je bedenkt dat die beesten vaak het formaat van mijn auto zijn, dan snap je dat ik in de wintermaanden vaak mijn hart vast houdt. En dan heb ik het nog niet eens over de lokale opgeschoten jeugd die er een hobby van maakt om met pick-up trucks vol met vrienden, bier, honden, en geweren over de weg te scheren.
Dus nee, 's nachts rijden door de Georgia country is niet echt een van mijn favoriete bezigheden.
Maar goed, er is geen andere weg naar huis, dus het is nou eenmaal niet anders. En deze week zag ik dus iets dat het eventjes helemaal goed maakte.
Ik reed weer eens over de beruchte "country highway" met bossen aan weerszijden en resten van meerdere overleden Bambi's langs de weg, en mens, wat was het donker. Maar toen maakte de weg een bocht, en kwam de maan achter de wolken vandaan. En in een keer leek het alsof een kant van de weg helemaal wit verlicht was. De bomen er om heen zagen er lichter uit, en de grond leek wel bedekt met sneeuw. Goed, nu woon ik in Georgia, dus die optie werd al snel verworpen. Enkele seconden later had ik in een keer door wat het was: een kilometers groot katoenveld, dat oplichtte door het felle maanlicht.
Het was ongelooflijk. Het katoen was een grote witte deken, de huizen aan de rand van het veld leken verlicht, en zelfs de grote metalen bewateringsstellages zagen er in een keer mysterieus uit. Het was werkelijk adembenemend, en maakte de lange, saaie reis in een keer helemaal goed.
Nu nog een fotografie cursus zodat ik de volgende keer al dat moois ook voor mijn geweldige lezers kan vastleggen.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
A bad American
After years of gnashing my teeth every time there was an election and I couldn't vote; after numerous elections where I would exert all of my persuasive powers to convince husband-dear to vote my way; and after four Novembers of telling students they were squandering away their parents' and grandparents' heritage by not voting, what do you think I did yesterday, the very first election in which I was allowed to vote?
Did I postpone going to work so I could vote first thing at 7am? Did I skip dinner so I could vote after coming home from work? Did I ask for multiple "I'm a Georgia voter" stickers, so I could not only wear one, but I would also have a spare for my office door, my car, and my scrapbook? Did I walk around all day telling everyone how awesome it was that I got to vote, and hey, had they voted yet?
No. None of that.
I didn't vote.
I know. It's a disgrace. After spending a year (or more) filling out the application for naturalization, forking over close to $700, memorizing one hundred questions, and swearing to uphold and the defend the constitution at all times, I did not vote yesterday.
I am ashamed.
Well, actually, ashamed is a big word. I would say "torn" is a better description, or perhaps "slightly peeved". Or possibly "What?!" covers it best.
You see, yesterday's election was really not a big deal in our county. While in some states people were voting on whether life starts at conception, or the validity of legislation outlawing collective bargaining rights, and most Georgians got to vote on whether to allow Sunday alcohol sales, the only issue on our local ballot was whether or not to extend the SPLOST (special purpose local option sales tax). Because we don't live within city limits, there were no commissioners, mayors, or even dog catchers to vote for either, just a "yes" or "no" to the question "Do you wish to extend the splost?". So when I got home at 6:45pm last night, and had the choice between eating dinner and rushing out to our local high school to vote on whether or not an adjoining county should use our county's one penny sales tax to add on to their new middle school, I opted for dinner.
Now I realize that this possibly makes me a callous, uncaring, a-political, poor excuse for a citizen. I realize that American democracy has functioned less than perfectly because I opted to sit down to some orange glazed chicken and stir fry instead of exercising my right to vote. You are welcome to berate me through your comments, email, or even in person (if you opt for the latter, though, please bring some coffee - thanks). However, I would like to point out that, if past experience is any prediction of future behavior, I will from now on vote in every single silly election my county holds.
You see, I have only missed one election in my life prior to this one. It was in the mid-1990s, and it was one of those elections for the European parliament that you never really knew about until the day before. No one in Europe really knows what the European parliament does, except squander money, so whenever there are elections for this mysterious representative body, it's very much a deer-in-the-headlights ("What? Who? Huh?") experience. Anyway, on that day, I had early morning classes, I had to work in the afternoon, and when I drove home, I realized I had ten minutes left to vote. Or I could go home and eat dinner. I opted for dinner instead. (Pattern, anyone?).
Anyway, I felt so guilty for missing that one election, that I have made sure to vote in every single teeny-tiny election and referendum since. Did they want my opinion on whether or not rebuild a historic site on the river front? I gave my opinion. Did a European subcomittee need representatives? I voted on it. Did the Dutch government fall for the second time in a year? I went out and voted again. I have even gone through the trouble of giving the power of attorney to a friend to vote for me when I was out of the country (the Dutch version of an absentee ballot), just so I wouldn't miss the election.
So, you can bet your American behind I will vote next year. And the year after that. And after that. In fact, I am bookmarking the county board of election's website right now. I'm telling you. It's on.
Did I postpone going to work so I could vote first thing at 7am? Did I skip dinner so I could vote after coming home from work? Did I ask for multiple "I'm a Georgia voter" stickers, so I could not only wear one, but I would also have a spare for my office door, my car, and my scrapbook? Did I walk around all day telling everyone how awesome it was that I got to vote, and hey, had they voted yet?
No. None of that.
I didn't vote.
I know. It's a disgrace. After spending a year (or more) filling out the application for naturalization, forking over close to $700, memorizing one hundred questions, and swearing to uphold and the defend the constitution at all times, I did not vote yesterday.
I am ashamed.
Well, actually, ashamed is a big word. I would say "torn" is a better description, or perhaps "slightly peeved". Or possibly "What?!" covers it best.
You see, yesterday's election was really not a big deal in our county. While in some states people were voting on whether life starts at conception, or the validity of legislation outlawing collective bargaining rights, and most Georgians got to vote on whether to allow Sunday alcohol sales, the only issue on our local ballot was whether or not to extend the SPLOST (special purpose local option sales tax). Because we don't live within city limits, there were no commissioners, mayors, or even dog catchers to vote for either, just a "yes" or "no" to the question "Do you wish to extend the splost?". So when I got home at 6:45pm last night, and had the choice between eating dinner and rushing out to our local high school to vote on whether or not an adjoining county should use our county's one penny sales tax to add on to their new middle school, I opted for dinner.
Now I realize that this possibly makes me a callous, uncaring, a-political, poor excuse for a citizen. I realize that American democracy has functioned less than perfectly because I opted to sit down to some orange glazed chicken and stir fry instead of exercising my right to vote. You are welcome to berate me through your comments, email, or even in person (if you opt for the latter, though, please bring some coffee - thanks). However, I would like to point out that, if past experience is any prediction of future behavior, I will from now on vote in every single silly election my county holds.
You see, I have only missed one election in my life prior to this one. It was in the mid-1990s, and it was one of those elections for the European parliament that you never really knew about until the day before. No one in Europe really knows what the European parliament does, except squander money, so whenever there are elections for this mysterious representative body, it's very much a deer-in-the-headlights ("What? Who? Huh?") experience. Anyway, on that day, I had early morning classes, I had to work in the afternoon, and when I drove home, I realized I had ten minutes left to vote. Or I could go home and eat dinner. I opted for dinner instead. (Pattern, anyone?).
Anyway, I felt so guilty for missing that one election, that I have made sure to vote in every single teeny-tiny election and referendum since. Did they want my opinion on whether or not rebuild a historic site on the river front? I gave my opinion. Did a European subcomittee need representatives? I voted on it. Did the Dutch government fall for the second time in a year? I went out and voted again. I have even gone through the trouble of giving the power of attorney to a friend to vote for me when I was out of the country (the Dutch version of an absentee ballot), just so I wouldn't miss the election.
So, you can bet your American behind I will vote next year. And the year after that. And after that. In fact, I am bookmarking the county board of election's website right now. I'm telling you. It's on.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Lessons learned...
...from the Savannah Rock 'n roll 1/2 marathon:
1. If in doubt (or pain), race anyway. Whether it's your hips, your back, your knees, just go. You may not PR like you did on the training run three weeks earlier, but you will still run a respectable time (1:57:35), assuming you get a massage earlier in the week and take plenty of ibuprofen.
2. Getting anywhere early is a really good thing. Especially if there are approximately 17000 runners who all need to get from the Savannah mall to the start line in about 100 buses, there are no signs pointing you to said buses, and the mall parking lot is about the size of a small country.
3. Always bring a map. Even if you're taking said bus to the start line. Your busdriver may be from Jacksonville, Florida, have arrived just a few hours earlier, and have no clue where she's going, thus taking you on an interesting, yet nerve-wracking, hour-long tour of downtown Savannah. A map could have solved a lot of people a lot of heartache.
4. A line in front of a port-a-pottie always takes longer than you think. So don't pick a port-a-pottie at corral 20 when you need to start from corral 5. You may have time to "go" one last time, but this will also entail a mile-long warm-up run during which you will need to remove your warm-up pants, warm-up shirt, and get your ITB straps on, in order to make it into your corral on time.
5. In spite of all the logistical headaches involved in a huge race, the adrenaline rush you get from tens of thousands of spectators lining the streets is totally worth it.
6. Railroad tracks are The Devil.
7. In spite of what everyone said, 60F and 12mph winds are cold. Very cold. Wearing your thermoshirt under your bright-pink running jersey was possibly the best decision of your life. Or at least on a par with marrying husband-dear.
7. Middle school cheerleading squads rock. The. World. Yes, you might be running 13.1/26.2 miles, but they're out there before you are, in the cold, in tiny skirts and tops, cheering for people they don't even know. And they don't get a medal at the end either.
8. Mile 10, 11, and 12 suck. Always. Be prepared.
9. Running the last mile to Eminem's "lose yourself" is the Best Thing Ever. Nothing like someone telling you you get one shot, and you better not miss that chance, to push your mile pace up to a 6:53.
10. When you finish, you raise your hands in the air and you thank your respective God(s) for helping you survive without gut-wrenching pain
11. Always, always, always pack a lot more after-race clothes in your drop bag than you think you will need. Those rocking-awesome "space blankets" that they tie around you at the end of the race do nothing for your hands, legs, neck, and face. You may look awesome, but you will be cold.
12. Whenever there's an hour-long line, curling around the entire park and the famous Savannah fountain, for the shuttles to get back to the mall parking lot, totally believe your friend when he calls you to tell you there is another set of buses waiting two blocks over. Walk over there in complete innocence, join the people standing by the buses, get on the next bus that pulls around the corner, all the while wondering why on earth not more people from that hellishly-long line know about this. Then, as you drive down the street, and you see the same hellishly long line feeding on to the street you just walked over to, don't feel bad when you realize you just cut in line. You did just run a really long way, after all.
13. Eats lots of greasy food afterwards. You earned it.
14. Plan your next race.
1. If in doubt (or pain), race anyway. Whether it's your hips, your back, your knees, just go. You may not PR like you did on the training run three weeks earlier, but you will still run a respectable time (1:57:35), assuming you get a massage earlier in the week and take plenty of ibuprofen.
2. Getting anywhere early is a really good thing. Especially if there are approximately 17000 runners who all need to get from the Savannah mall to the start line in about 100 buses, there are no signs pointing you to said buses, and the mall parking lot is about the size of a small country.
3. Always bring a map. Even if you're taking said bus to the start line. Your busdriver may be from Jacksonville, Florida, have arrived just a few hours earlier, and have no clue where she's going, thus taking you on an interesting, yet nerve-wracking, hour-long tour of downtown Savannah. A map could have solved a lot of people a lot of heartache.
4. A line in front of a port-a-pottie always takes longer than you think. So don't pick a port-a-pottie at corral 20 when you need to start from corral 5. You may have time to "go" one last time, but this will also entail a mile-long warm-up run during which you will need to remove your warm-up pants, warm-up shirt, and get your ITB straps on, in order to make it into your corral on time.
5. In spite of all the logistical headaches involved in a huge race, the adrenaline rush you get from tens of thousands of spectators lining the streets is totally worth it.
6. Railroad tracks are The Devil.
7. In spite of what everyone said, 60F and 12mph winds are cold. Very cold. Wearing your thermoshirt under your bright-pink running jersey was possibly the best decision of your life. Or at least on a par with marrying husband-dear.
7. Middle school cheerleading squads rock. The. World. Yes, you might be running 13.1/26.2 miles, but they're out there before you are, in the cold, in tiny skirts and tops, cheering for people they don't even know. And they don't get a medal at the end either.
8. Mile 10, 11, and 12 suck. Always. Be prepared.
9. Running the last mile to Eminem's "lose yourself" is the Best Thing Ever. Nothing like someone telling you you get one shot, and you better not miss that chance, to push your mile pace up to a 6:53.
10. When you finish, you raise your hands in the air and you thank your respective God(s) for helping you survive without gut-wrenching pain
11. Always, always, always pack a lot more after-race clothes in your drop bag than you think you will need. Those rocking-awesome "space blankets" that they tie around you at the end of the race do nothing for your hands, legs, neck, and face. You may look awesome, but you will be cold.
12. Whenever there's an hour-long line, curling around the entire park and the famous Savannah fountain, for the shuttles to get back to the mall parking lot, totally believe your friend when he calls you to tell you there is another set of buses waiting two blocks over. Walk over there in complete innocence, join the people standing by the buses, get on the next bus that pulls around the corner, all the while wondering why on earth not more people from that hellishly-long line know about this. Then, as you drive down the street, and you see the same hellishly long line feeding on to the street you just walked over to, don't feel bad when you realize you just cut in line. You did just run a really long way, after all.
13. Eats lots of greasy food afterwards. You earned it.
14. Plan your next race.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Bizarro world: I want rain
"Rainy days and Mondays always get me down..."
The Carpenters ~ (insert drivel of a title here)
You know what I wish this part of the world had more of? Well, besides Dutch stores and non-bible-beating people, of course. And well-prepared students. And let's not forget paid leave and people who use their blinkers. OK, so besides all of that, do you know what I wish Georgia had more?
Rainy days.
Yes, I'm serious, I wish we had more rainy days. And not because it would mean we'd use our sprinklers less, the farmers would be happier, and we wouldn't be on water restriction nine months out of the year, although all of that would be nice. No, because it would mean that I would finally have an excuse to lay around the house and do absolutely nothing. I know, it makes absolutely no sense, especially since I'm from a country where it does nothing but rain all the time, but there you have it. I need clouds and rain in order to relax.
In the Netherlands, and Germany for that matter, it used to be the total opposite. Whenever it would rain, and the clouds would threaten to completely envelop your day, I used to argue that those were perfect days to remain locked up in your office and get some serious work done. As dreary as the weather could get, there was no point in being outside, or even thinking about going outside, so one might as well stay in and work. Nothing like the incessant patter of rain on your windows to make you realize God really, really wants you to stay in your office and write that damn paper (although He probably wouldn't say "damn". Sorry God).
Now whenever the sun comes out, every single Dutch (and German and British) person I know loses their mind. Completely. After the second day of temperatures over 80 degrees, weather people talk about the possibility of a heatwave and the importance of staying hydrated in high-pitched, excited voices, while after the third day, there is a rush on portable AC units, and people start using words like "tropical" and "unprecedented". Seriously, all my Dutch readers know that as soon as the sun fills the sky, people take half-days off, spend hours drinking cool drinks at a "terrasje*", waste away time lying in the park, and will try to take their work outside as much as possible. In fact, I dare to posit that the outside temperature is negatively correlated with the Dutch productivity levels.
Well, in Georgia, it's quite the reverse. At least for me. Here, the sun shines all the time. I'm not kidding. Always. So sunshine is no longer associated with half-days, terrasjes, parks, and a general laziness. No, instead when you think of sunshine you think of AC bills of several hundred dollars, siding that needs painted and/or replaced every few years, sunshades that become brittle and fall apart, and melting pavement. In fact, most people around here can't wait to get into their offices when the sun's out, as their office is the only place that can afford to keep temperatures at around 68F.
So for me, nowadays, sun=rain in Holland. When I see it's sunny outside, I realize it's just another day like all the others, and I have lots to do, so I better hop to it. Even in the wintertime, when we can step outside, sunshine means there's lots to do. Because now you can finally paint that siding/wash those windows/prune the bushes without dying of a heatstroke.
On the other hand, whenever it low pressure hits, and it does start to rain, relaxation sets in. Running errands in the rain is a pain, so we don't. You can't do any outside chores in the rain either, and although you could definitely do some inside chores, it's raining, so you can't utilize any of your outside spaces, you can't clean any floors as someone will definitely get them muddy, and well, there is always tomorrow, when the sun will definitely be out again. In short, if it's raining, why do anything at all?
You can thus imagine my frustration when the weather predicted rain for today. How can I work when it's raining? We all know you should be asleep on the couch when that happens! It's not fair. Thankfully, the clouds disappeared, and I'm now looking out into a very sunny world once again. Phew.
But some rain in the near future would be nice. Thanks.
* A "terrasje" encompasses so many non-American things, it's almost impossible to describe. Imagine, first of all, all your town's stores located side by side along small streets in about a square mile. Then imagine that this entire square mile is a no-car zone. Then imagine squares with fountains and steps on a few corners. Then imagine that these squares hold shops as well as restaurants and bars. But let's make them nice, upscale bars without television screens and ESPN. And then imagine that all of these restaurants and bars have put small tables with chairs around them on the square. And that those chairs are placed so close together, people need to get up to let you through, and you can eavesdrop on every single conversation on the square. And that people can sit there, order drinks and food, and watch the world go by. That's a terrasje.
The Carpenters ~ (insert drivel of a title here)
You know what I wish this part of the world had more of? Well, besides Dutch stores and non-bible-beating people, of course. And well-prepared students. And let's not forget paid leave and people who use their blinkers. OK, so besides all of that, do you know what I wish Georgia had more?
Rainy days.
Yes, I'm serious, I wish we had more rainy days. And not because it would mean we'd use our sprinklers less, the farmers would be happier, and we wouldn't be on water restriction nine months out of the year, although all of that would be nice. No, because it would mean that I would finally have an excuse to lay around the house and do absolutely nothing. I know, it makes absolutely no sense, especially since I'm from a country where it does nothing but rain all the time, but there you have it. I need clouds and rain in order to relax.
In the Netherlands, and Germany for that matter, it used to be the total opposite. Whenever it would rain, and the clouds would threaten to completely envelop your day, I used to argue that those were perfect days to remain locked up in your office and get some serious work done. As dreary as the weather could get, there was no point in being outside, or even thinking about going outside, so one might as well stay in and work. Nothing like the incessant patter of rain on your windows to make you realize God really, really wants you to stay in your office and write that damn paper (although He probably wouldn't say "damn". Sorry God).
Now whenever the sun comes out, every single Dutch (and German and British) person I know loses their mind. Completely. After the second day of temperatures over 80 degrees, weather people talk about the possibility of a heatwave and the importance of staying hydrated in high-pitched, excited voices, while after the third day, there is a rush on portable AC units, and people start using words like "tropical" and "unprecedented". Seriously, all my Dutch readers know that as soon as the sun fills the sky, people take half-days off, spend hours drinking cool drinks at a "terrasje*", waste away time lying in the park, and will try to take their work outside as much as possible. In fact, I dare to posit that the outside temperature is negatively correlated with the Dutch productivity levels.
Well, in Georgia, it's quite the reverse. At least for me. Here, the sun shines all the time. I'm not kidding. Always. So sunshine is no longer associated with half-days, terrasjes, parks, and a general laziness. No, instead when you think of sunshine you think of AC bills of several hundred dollars, siding that needs painted and/or replaced every few years, sunshades that become brittle and fall apart, and melting pavement. In fact, most people around here can't wait to get into their offices when the sun's out, as their office is the only place that can afford to keep temperatures at around 68F.
So for me, nowadays, sun=rain in Holland. When I see it's sunny outside, I realize it's just another day like all the others, and I have lots to do, so I better hop to it. Even in the wintertime, when we can step outside, sunshine means there's lots to do. Because now you can finally paint that siding/wash those windows/prune the bushes without dying of a heatstroke.
On the other hand, whenever it low pressure hits, and it does start to rain, relaxation sets in. Running errands in the rain is a pain, so we don't. You can't do any outside chores in the rain either, and although you could definitely do some inside chores, it's raining, so you can't utilize any of your outside spaces, you can't clean any floors as someone will definitely get them muddy, and well, there is always tomorrow, when the sun will definitely be out again. In short, if it's raining, why do anything at all?
You can thus imagine my frustration when the weather predicted rain for today. How can I work when it's raining? We all know you should be asleep on the couch when that happens! It's not fair. Thankfully, the clouds disappeared, and I'm now looking out into a very sunny world once again. Phew.
But some rain in the near future would be nice. Thanks.
* A "terrasje" encompasses so many non-American things, it's almost impossible to describe. Imagine, first of all, all your town's stores located side by side along small streets in about a square mile. Then imagine that this entire square mile is a no-car zone. Then imagine squares with fountains and steps on a few corners. Then imagine that these squares hold shops as well as restaurants and bars. But let's make them nice, upscale bars without television screens and ESPN. And then imagine that all of these restaurants and bars have put small tables with chairs around them on the square. And that those chairs are placed so close together, people need to get up to let you through, and you can eavesdrop on every single conversation on the square. And that people can sit there, order drinks and food, and watch the world go by. That's a terrasje.
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