With your sister's cousin's birthday!
The Dutch have a wide variety of odd quirks. From eating salty licorice, to loving nothing better than raw herring, to the inability to keep one's opinion to oneself, to the complete lack of shame or embarrassment when telling someone "we can't do that"; the list just goes on and on. But these are what I would like to call "manifest" quirks. Manifest as in, quirks that anyone who spends a decent amount of time in that little low lying nation in Western Europe, or among the natives of that little country, will eventually pick up on. The "latent" quirks are the ones that are harder to nice. These are those funky little habits that you really only notice if you're married to one of them Dutch folk, or you, like me, teach a class on culture and the media, and are faced with a class full of students from a completely different culture than your own. One of these odd, culturally determined behaviors, is the Dutch ritual surrounding birthday wishes.
Here in the US, if it's someone's birthday and if you remember, you might call out a "happy birthday!", and there's happiness all around. Seriously, unless I've been walking around completely oblivious, that's really all it takes over here. Now in the Netherlands, birthday wishing is taken a whole lot more seriously. Very seriously. It's such a detail-oriented business, in fact, that I'm surprised no one has ever taken the time to write a handy little manual for foreigners considering a move to the Netherlands. In lieu of that gap, I thus present you: DixieChick's rules to a happy Dutch birthday!
First of all, there is no "if you remember" in the Dutch world of birthdays. The fact that those cute "It was your birthday and I forgot!" cards that do so well over here, are few and far between in the country-half-under-the-sea should be a giveaway. Forgetting someone's birthday is simply not an option among the Dutch, and doing so will result in a level of social pariah-ship one will not soon forget (although exceptions are made for uninformed foreigners. Once). Fortunately, all Dutch homes are outfitted with a birthday calendar (a perennial calendar meant only to record people's birthdays and anniversaries), that is hung in a central location (the downstairs half bath), so no one will ever forget anyone's birthday. And let's say you don't particularly care for the whole "you must remember everyone's birthday and send them a card" ritual, and thus refuse to purchase a birthday calendar, your Dutch family will buy one for you, and present it to you, how appropriate, on your birthday. If you then proceed to not hang it in a place where everyone is able to double-check that they made it on the calendar, you will be reminded of that social gaffe every time you have Dutch company over. Trust me, it's true.
Second, there is a entire collection of social rules and codes about how to go about wishing someone a happy birthday. The correct terminology to use is "gefeliciteerd", which roughly translates to "congratulations". While in the US, "congratulations" is only used for a very impressive personal achievement, and birthdays are not viewed as such, the Dutch heartily disagree. And so every year, husband-dear manages to ask me, "So what am I congratulating you with? The fact that you managed to make it one more year? Good job, honey!"
But we're not done. If you know someone well (and how well is, unfortunately, never specified), you must give them the mandatory three "air" kisses (left cheek-right cheek-left cheek - don't mess up, or you'll be left in a really awkward situation). Funnily, although I know several Dutch people who hate this habit so much, they refuse to tell people the date of their birthday, this habit is paramount to a proper execution of a Dutch birthday wishing ritual. But, as husband-dear will confirm, you can figure this one out rather quickly. Or, in case you're completely lost, just let the other party make the first move, and follow along (although again, do note that anything other than a kiss on the cheek is really not acceptable).
The one thing about birthday wishes that still throws poor husband-dear, and most Americans I know, is the requirement to also bestow your heartfelt congratulations on the birthday boy/girl's parents, significant other, children, and other close relatives. So imagine your typical Dutch birthday party. Everyone is sitting in a circle, and you walk in. You first kiss the birthday boy/girl, and wish her/him "Gefeliciteerd!", then you move on to their partner, kiss them too (well, except if it's her husband, and you're a guy, as that's still a no-no in ever-tolerant Holland), and congratulate them with their partner's birthday. Then you rinse and repeat for their parents, brothers, and sisters, and other assorted family members. Interestingly, if you are a family member of the birthday boy/girl, at one point in the family hierarchy, family members (usually those further removed from the birthday boy/girl than you are) will start congratulating you in return. Protocol dictates that you shouldn't sit down until you've congratulated/accepted congratulations from everyone in the circle, so you can imagine that at parties where people don't all arrive at once, most of the guests spend the better part of the night standing up, then sitting down, then standing up, then sitting down, ad nauseam.
Third, leave your birthday cards at home. While Americans love their birthday cards, and some, like me, attach as much value to the card as they do to the present, Dutch people will only send cards if they cannot make it your birthday party. And in that case, let me just prepare you, the cards will be small (about the size of an index card), non-descript (they usually contain balloons, animals, or flowers), and will contain the briefest of messages ("Gefeliciteerd!"). There are no cards for husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, mothers, teachers, best friends, or neighbors, just like there no cards that sing, make music or allow you to record their voice, or cards that contain full-length poetry, declarations of love, double entendres, or funny statements about the age you've just attained. As the Dutch are not big on expressing their love for one another anyway (the three kisses-thing aside), it's no surprise that cards are just not a big deal.
Fourth, the same no-nonsense approach applies to the wrapping of your present. Most stores will giftwrap your presents for you, and that's what most people use. No need for giftbags, tissue paper, bows, glitters, ribbon, or any of the other accessories that Americans like to use to pimp their presents. If you went to the V&D and they put an orange and grey checkered paper around your gift, that will be perfectly acceptable.
So, to summarize, the main points of Dutch birthday celebrations: 1) Don't forget them; 2) Congratulate the birthday boy/girl and everyone on their family tree with three hearty but airy kisses (except if you're a guy); 3) No cards necessary, and 4) No fancy wrapping either. Oh, and 5) although my birthday is in less than two months, please note that as a bonafide Dutch-American, these rules no longer apply to me. Except #1.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Here's your sign..
...that you really, really need to think about turning in that driver's license.
It's when you're doing one of two things. You're either sitting a stop sign, waiting to turn left on a four-lane, divided highway. There's a woman in spandex and a bright red jacket on a road bike across the road, but she's gotten there after you, and so she waits. For you. But so do you. And you wait. And wait.
Or, in the second scenario, you're driving on said four-lane divided highway, pull into the left turn lane, since you want to, you know, make a left turn. You look to your right, only to find a bright red car there, waiting at a stop sign to turn left onto the highway you're about to leave. And on your left is a short woman, still in spandex and a bright red jacket, on a bike. She's also at a stop sign, and she's waiting. For you. But you don't know what to do, so you wait.
So there you both are. You're waiting, since you're not sure what to do. I mean, it was complicated enough to make a left turn with a second car also wanting to make a left turn, only, oh dear sweet Jesus, a different left turn from yours, but now there's a woman on a BIKE there too. A WOMAN on a BIKE, people. Dear sweet Jesus Mary mother of God, what shall you do?!
Obviously, you do what any self-respecting southern driver would do. Nothing.
And it's not until you see the cyclist open her mouth and say something that looks suspiciously like "Oh dear Lord!", that you realize she's waiting on you. But still you don't move. Because what if, what IF she decides to fly out in front you just as you're about to pull out too. Dear me, no.
But then the cyclists raises her hands. And you notice she's wearing bright blue gloves. Gloves which gesture to the driver at the stop sign to wait, and which then impatiently motion you, the driver in the left turn lane, to turn left. You hesitate. The motioning continues, and so you, very, very slowly, just like your momma taught you, when she taught you how to drive in Meemaw's Lincoln, turn left. And then the cyclists motions at the car at the stop sign. The car who has been waiting there for a good five minutes. A sharp flick of the hand motions it to get a move on too. Suddenly worried that this short, helmet-wearing cyclist might turn out to be an undercover cop, you finally locate the gas pedal, and turn left.
If that happens to you, that's your sign. You need to stop driving and purchase yourself a bike. Because if you need me to tell you when to pull out and when to stop, you really, really, have a problem.
It's when you're doing one of two things. You're either sitting a stop sign, waiting to turn left on a four-lane, divided highway. There's a woman in spandex and a bright red jacket on a road bike across the road, but she's gotten there after you, and so she waits. For you. But so do you. And you wait. And wait.
Or, in the second scenario, you're driving on said four-lane divided highway, pull into the left turn lane, since you want to, you know, make a left turn. You look to your right, only to find a bright red car there, waiting at a stop sign to turn left onto the highway you're about to leave. And on your left is a short woman, still in spandex and a bright red jacket, on a bike. She's also at a stop sign, and she's waiting. For you. But you don't know what to do, so you wait.
So there you both are. You're waiting, since you're not sure what to do. I mean, it was complicated enough to make a left turn with a second car also wanting to make a left turn, only, oh dear sweet Jesus, a different left turn from yours, but now there's a woman on a BIKE there too. A WOMAN on a BIKE, people. Dear sweet Jesus Mary mother of God, what shall you do?!
Obviously, you do what any self-respecting southern driver would do. Nothing.
And it's not until you see the cyclist open her mouth and say something that looks suspiciously like "Oh dear Lord!", that you realize she's waiting on you. But still you don't move. Because what if, what IF she decides to fly out in front you just as you're about to pull out too. Dear me, no.
But then the cyclists raises her hands. And you notice she's wearing bright blue gloves. Gloves which gesture to the driver at the stop sign to wait, and which then impatiently motion you, the driver in the left turn lane, to turn left. You hesitate. The motioning continues, and so you, very, very slowly, just like your momma taught you, when she taught you how to drive in Meemaw's Lincoln, turn left. And then the cyclists motions at the car at the stop sign. The car who has been waiting there for a good five minutes. A sharp flick of the hand motions it to get a move on too. Suddenly worried that this short, helmet-wearing cyclist might turn out to be an undercover cop, you finally locate the gas pedal, and turn left.
If that happens to you, that's your sign. You need to stop driving and purchase yourself a bike. Because if you need me to tell you when to pull out and when to stop, you really, really, have a problem.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Valentine Tales
Although husband-dear and I, practical beings that we are, celebrated Valentine's Day this weekend with a romantic dinner, candlelight, and some dancing, we couldn't let today go by unnoticed. So I spent a good five minutes last night using a dry erase marker to cover our bathroom mirror in about a hundred "I heart U"'s. When husband-dear came home, he did the manly grinning nod thing to show his approval, and said, "That is so sweet."
Writing "I heart U" (and the "heart" is obviously replaced with a drawing of an actual heart) to each other has somewhat of a history with husband-dear and I. When husband-dear and I had been dating for a while (give or take, oh, nine months), and I was starting to feel like I would be telling him I loved him while he was asleep forever, husband-dear finally overcame his "OMG if I say I love you it's forever and ever and ever" fear.
Well, somewhat.
We were lying around after a morning spent go-carting with the boys, when husband-dear ran his hand across my back. At first he just drew really big circles, and then I felt his hand write "I heart U". I popped my head up, stared at then still boyfriend-dear, and although I wanted to say something, anything (like, oh, I don't know "I love you too"), I was afraid I had somehow misread his hand, and so I kept quiet.
Later that day, I finally mustered up the courage to bring it up, and in my best imitation of a third grader, I said, "You wrote I love you on my back, today"
Husband-dear replied, "No, I wrote I heart you." He grinned.
"You wrote...what?" I made a face and punched him in the arm, "You're such a dork."
He grinned again, "OK, I wrote I love you. " He paused, "I love you."
"Well, I love you." It felt so great to finally say it aloud.
Now, years later, we still write "I heart U" to one another, in our best imitation of two love-struck teenagers. So last night, as husband-dear was admiring my handiwork, I said, "You know, I bet you we are the only married couple who uses that as shorthand."
"Uh-uh" Husband-dear has long learned that sometimes letting me ramble is the safest course of action.
And that's when the Valentine's spirit went kind of Alien-Predator-Star-Wars.
"So, you know, we could use "I heart U" as a code to recognize each other." I added.
"We sure could." husband-dear, I'm pretty sure, was not listening.
"Like, let's say that our country was overrun by body snatchers, and we were worried that one of us might have been taken over by the body snatchers, we could ask the other to write "I love you". If they write "I heart U", they're still them. If they write out "I love you", then they're really a body snatcher."
"Well, "Husband-dear nodded, "You know, if we're ever facing the body snatchers, that sounds like a swell idea. I vote in favor."
"Cool." I continued, "Ooh, I'm going to blog about this."
"You can't do that!" husband-dear protested.
"Why not?"
"Well, let's say that the body snatchers are already here? Then they'd know our secret code." Husband-dear nodded with the grin I swear he reserves especially for me.
"Oh whatever."
"No, really. Don't underestimate the body snatchers."
So, if you're a body snatcher: Go. Away. If you're not: Happy Valentine's Day!
Writing "I heart U" (and the "heart" is obviously replaced with a drawing of an actual heart) to each other has somewhat of a history with husband-dear and I. When husband-dear and I had been dating for a while (give or take, oh, nine months), and I was starting to feel like I would be telling him I loved him while he was asleep forever, husband-dear finally overcame his "OMG if I say I love you it's forever and ever and ever" fear.
Well, somewhat.
We were lying around after a morning spent go-carting with the boys, when husband-dear ran his hand across my back. At first he just drew really big circles, and then I felt his hand write "I heart U". I popped my head up, stared at then still boyfriend-dear, and although I wanted to say something, anything (like, oh, I don't know "I love you too"), I was afraid I had somehow misread his hand, and so I kept quiet.
Later that day, I finally mustered up the courage to bring it up, and in my best imitation of a third grader, I said, "You wrote I love you on my back, today"
Husband-dear replied, "No, I wrote I heart you." He grinned.
"You wrote...what?" I made a face and punched him in the arm, "You're such a dork."
He grinned again, "OK, I wrote I love you. " He paused, "I love you."
"Well, I love you." It felt so great to finally say it aloud.
Now, years later, we still write "I heart U" to one another, in our best imitation of two love-struck teenagers. So last night, as husband-dear was admiring my handiwork, I said, "You know, I bet you we are the only married couple who uses that as shorthand."
"Uh-uh" Husband-dear has long learned that sometimes letting me ramble is the safest course of action.
And that's when the Valentine's spirit went kind of Alien-Predator-Star-Wars.
"So, you know, we could use "I heart U" as a code to recognize each other." I added.
"We sure could." husband-dear, I'm pretty sure, was not listening.
"Like, let's say that our country was overrun by body snatchers, and we were worried that one of us might have been taken over by the body snatchers, we could ask the other to write "I love you". If they write "I heart U", they're still them. If they write out "I love you", then they're really a body snatcher."
"Well, "Husband-dear nodded, "You know, if we're ever facing the body snatchers, that sounds like a swell idea. I vote in favor."
"Cool." I continued, "Ooh, I'm going to blog about this."
"You can't do that!" husband-dear protested.
"Why not?"
"Well, let's say that the body snatchers are already here? Then they'd know our secret code." Husband-dear nodded with the grin I swear he reserves especially for me.
"Oh whatever."
"No, really. Don't underestimate the body snatchers."
So, if you're a body snatcher: Go. Away. If you're not: Happy Valentine's Day!
Monday, February 13, 2012
Tough love
This morning I found the following jewel in my email:
"I know I am going to get a zero, although I wanted to get my topic reviewed if possible. I will turn in a hard copy in class on Monday."
No signature, no reference to a specific class, this was it.
Fortunately for this particular student, I read a lot of Miss Marple mysteries when I was a kid, and that combined with my students' habits to assume I know every single one of them, their schedule, their life stories, as well as their personal idiosyncrasies ("you know I hate gmail!"), means that my power of induction are unsurpassed. Hence, based on his unique last name (which was actually part of his email address - excuse me while I pick myself off the floor), his reference to a class on Monday (which reduces the possible number of classes down to three), as well as his use of the phrase "my topic", made it very easy for me to determine that he was talking about the "write a paragraph about the topic you would like to research this semester" assignment that was due last week.
Admittedly, I admire this student's desire to receive feedback. He obviously realizes that without proper feedback, he'll have no idea whether the topic he's about to work with for the next thirteen weeks is any good or not. Although realistically he would have found out next week when he needed to turn in six peer-reviewed articles on said topic, and he might have received a terse, "don't think this topic is do-able in this time frame" or a "great topic!" note on his work, I can understand his desire to be on top of his stuff.
So that leaves me with the $64,000 question: Why did said student not turn in his work on time? I looked at his topic, and the one-sentence topic could not have taken more than about a second of his precious time. Unless he was in the hospital or in prison, there is no reason why he could have not sent this email a week earlier. Even if he was off campus remembering the death of his beloved guinnea pig Mr. Twinkles, or helping his best friend's cousin's girlfriend move across the state, WiFi is pretty much omnipresent, and thus the topic could have been sent, on time, with the click of a button.
Unless, of course, unless said student is not as academically inclined as he'd like me to believe.
Hm.
Now there's a thought.
So, after four-and-a-half-years of dealing with late work, dead guinneapigs, moving cousins, broken parole, tough judges, and mysterious illnesses, all of which have led to me losing sleep, losing time with my family, and spending way too much energy trying to fix students' problems or mistakes, this is my standard answer to such requests:
"Good morning (student name),
Thank you for your email. Although I appreciate you turning in a topic, I set deadlines so I have time to grade everyone's work. Work turned in after the deadline will thus not be graded.
Thank you,
Dr. D"
Yes, there's not a lot of carebear-stare-unicorns-rainbows-flowers-candy-land about that response, but you know what, it's midterms, I'm swamped, and you're a grown-up.
So just deal.
"I know I am going to get a zero, although I wanted to get my topic reviewed if possible. I will turn in a hard copy in class on Monday."
No signature, no reference to a specific class, this was it.
Fortunately for this particular student, I read a lot of Miss Marple mysteries when I was a kid, and that combined with my students' habits to assume I know every single one of them, their schedule, their life stories, as well as their personal idiosyncrasies ("you know I hate gmail!"), means that my power of induction are unsurpassed. Hence, based on his unique last name (which was actually part of his email address - excuse me while I pick myself off the floor), his reference to a class on Monday (which reduces the possible number of classes down to three), as well as his use of the phrase "my topic", made it very easy for me to determine that he was talking about the "write a paragraph about the topic you would like to research this semester" assignment that was due last week.
Admittedly, I admire this student's desire to receive feedback. He obviously realizes that without proper feedback, he'll have no idea whether the topic he's about to work with for the next thirteen weeks is any good or not. Although realistically he would have found out next week when he needed to turn in six peer-reviewed articles on said topic, and he might have received a terse, "don't think this topic is do-able in this time frame" or a "great topic!" note on his work, I can understand his desire to be on top of his stuff.
So that leaves me with the $64,000 question: Why did said student not turn in his work on time? I looked at his topic, and the one-sentence topic could not have taken more than about a second of his precious time. Unless he was in the hospital or in prison, there is no reason why he could have not sent this email a week earlier. Even if he was off campus remembering the death of his beloved guinnea pig Mr. Twinkles, or helping his best friend's cousin's girlfriend move across the state, WiFi is pretty much omnipresent, and thus the topic could have been sent, on time, with the click of a button.
Unless, of course, unless said student is not as academically inclined as he'd like me to believe.
Hm.
Now there's a thought.
So, after four-and-a-half-years of dealing with late work, dead guinneapigs, moving cousins, broken parole, tough judges, and mysterious illnesses, all of which have led to me losing sleep, losing time with my family, and spending way too much energy trying to fix students' problems or mistakes, this is my standard answer to such requests:
"Good morning (student name),
Thank you for your email. Although I appreciate you turning in a topic, I set deadlines so I have time to grade everyone's work. Work turned in after the deadline will thus not be graded.
Thank you,
Dr. D"
Yes, there's not a lot of carebear-stare-unicorns-rainbows-flowers-candy-land about that response, but you know what, it's midterms, I'm swamped, and you're a grown-up.
So just deal.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Bij een gebrek aan winter
Gisteren onderweg naar huis zag ik de eerste narcissen in de berm opkomen. En ik zou zweren dat ik, terwijl ik achter mijn bureau zit, toch heel duidelijk grote rode knoppen aan de boom voor de bibliotheek zie. Nu wil ik niet lastig doen hoor, maar het is hier ook pas 8 Februari, net als in de rest van de wereld. En volgens mij bevind Georgia zich nog steeds op het noordelijk halfrond. En toch lijken we ongeveer twee weken van het begin van de lente verwijderd te zijn. En voordat alle arme Hollanders die al weken creperen van de kou nu gaan roepen dat dit ge-wel-dig is, dat is het dus niet.
Een paar jaar terug hadden we namelijk ook zo'n afwezige winter. Zo eentje waarbij het twee keer 's nachts vroor, en dat was het dan. Waarbij eind Maart alle bomen alweer vol met grote, groene bladeren zaten. Het was mooi hoor. En warm, dat ook. En het rook heerlijk, zeker. Maar twee maanden later kwamen we om in de kakkerlakken, muggen, rode mieren, wespen, en allerlei andere gemuteerde versies van vliegend ongedierte. Het was een gevecht zonder einde, waarbij de invallende winter uiteindelijk tot een staakt-het-vuren heeft geleid.
Ik zeg gevecht, maar het was eerder een complete nucleaire oorlog, want insecten in de VS zijn precies zoals de rest van het land: Groot. De kakkerlakken zijn het formaat van je duim, de muggen laten plekken achter de grootte van een poffertje, en een gemiddelde wesp ziet eruit als een vliegende hamster. Toen ik gisteren dus zag dat de "fire ant" hopen tegen de veranda aan, die we vorig jaar zo draconisch uitgeroeid hadden, alweer een langzame "comeback" aan het maken waren, voelde ik het al weer aankomen. Het wordt weer zo'n heerlijk "buggy summer". Zo eentje waarbij je maar beter niet kan ademhalen met je mond open als je buiten bent.
En toen het lokale nieuws aankondigde dat de kans op bosbranden vertienvoudigd was vanwege de overmatig snelle groei van klein gewas, en het enorme gebrek aan regen, kon ik mijn lol helemaal niet meer op. Een sigaret, een vonk van een vrachtwagen, en dan is de apocalypse echt daar.
Dus.
Ik wil graag nog een paar weken winter. Met wat nachtvorst, temperaturen rond het vriespunt, misschien zelfs wat neerslag. Genoeg om al die nare vliegende en kruipende mutanten naar de eeuwige mierenhopen te sturen, en er voor te zorgen dat het platteland hier niet in een soort zuid-Frankrijk-maar-dan-zonder-strand-en-lavendel veranderd.
Bij voorbaat hartelijk dank
Een paar jaar terug hadden we namelijk ook zo'n afwezige winter. Zo eentje waarbij het twee keer 's nachts vroor, en dat was het dan. Waarbij eind Maart alle bomen alweer vol met grote, groene bladeren zaten. Het was mooi hoor. En warm, dat ook. En het rook heerlijk, zeker. Maar twee maanden later kwamen we om in de kakkerlakken, muggen, rode mieren, wespen, en allerlei andere gemuteerde versies van vliegend ongedierte. Het was een gevecht zonder einde, waarbij de invallende winter uiteindelijk tot een staakt-het-vuren heeft geleid.
Ik zeg gevecht, maar het was eerder een complete nucleaire oorlog, want insecten in de VS zijn precies zoals de rest van het land: Groot. De kakkerlakken zijn het formaat van je duim, de muggen laten plekken achter de grootte van een poffertje, en een gemiddelde wesp ziet eruit als een vliegende hamster. Toen ik gisteren dus zag dat de "fire ant" hopen tegen de veranda aan, die we vorig jaar zo draconisch uitgeroeid hadden, alweer een langzame "comeback" aan het maken waren, voelde ik het al weer aankomen. Het wordt weer zo'n heerlijk "buggy summer". Zo eentje waarbij je maar beter niet kan ademhalen met je mond open als je buiten bent.
En toen het lokale nieuws aankondigde dat de kans op bosbranden vertienvoudigd was vanwege de overmatig snelle groei van klein gewas, en het enorme gebrek aan regen, kon ik mijn lol helemaal niet meer op. Een sigaret, een vonk van een vrachtwagen, en dan is de apocalypse echt daar.
Dus.
Ik wil graag nog een paar weken winter. Met wat nachtvorst, temperaturen rond het vriespunt, misschien zelfs wat neerslag. Genoeg om al die nare vliegende en kruipende mutanten naar de eeuwige mierenhopen te sturen, en er voor te zorgen dat het platteland hier niet in een soort zuid-Frankrijk-maar-dan-zonder-strand-en-lavendel veranderd.
Bij voorbaat hartelijk dank
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
The bear claw
Today I want to talk to you about stress relief. More specifically, the things you do to get rid of stress.
Back in the day, before I had a job that takes up 80 hours every week and all of my youth with it, I used to clean when I got stressed out. I know, it makes little sense, but there you have it. People could always tell when I was busy at work, because the entire house would shine "like the top of the Chrysler building" (to paraphrase Ms. Hannigan from "Annie"). When I was finishing up my dissertation, you could pretty much eat off my baseboards. Then, when I moved here and that didn't do the trick anymore, I added running. And bicycling. Nothing to clear your head like a long, sweat-filled, slightly painful workout session. And then, when I had ran and biked so much I was doing triathlons, adventure races, and half marathons as though they were little more than a trip to the mall, that too just wasn't enough anymore. And what did I do next?
Did I start taking yoga? Or perhaps took a meditation class? Or did I, lord-have-mercy, address the cause of my stress head on instead of finding yet another way around that?
Well, of course I didn't. I live in the south, what do you expect? We don't do yoga, and we definitely do not meditate. The bible doesn't mention those things, which means God sure didn't put His stamp of approval on it, and so unless you live in that worldly, heathen-filled, Philistine town also known as Atlanta, you will not find anything like that down here thankyouverymuch. Of course, I don't need to mention that "addressing something head on" is a phrase invented by those lesser-mannered Yankees, and thus an absolute no-no in the south, where we prefer to simmer and stew, while pretending everything is JUST FINE!
So what is a semi-southern gal to do? Well, she can start on a whole host of activities to distract her, including forming a new bible study (I think my status as a non-fundamentalist pretty much preempts that one), homeschooling her children (someone would die, y'all), cooking (that's husband dear's Area of Responsibility), quilting (uhm..did I mention I don't know how to sew on a button?), or baking.
Hm. Baking.
I'm not sure how this happened, but I'm finally beginning to understand why southern women love to bake. It's probably as soothing as an intensive yoga class, as relaxing as addressing the cause of the stress (but without any sort of confrontation), and tasty to boot. As you all know, I started baking when we moved down here, so I could meet the annual "bake something for your neighbors at Christmas" standard, but no more than that. Then two weeks ago, I decided to make chocolate chip cookies from scratch (from! scratch!), and last Sunday, when I was feeling particularly overwhelmed, I caught myself saying, "I am so stressed out, I think I need to bake something." To top it all off, last night, after meeting some friends at Panera Bead and having one of their almond-filled bear claws, I decided that that was going to be my next baking project: the bear claw.
I believe I have found my next set of stress relieving activities: baking. After all, why talk about stuff if you can just bake it all away? *
*No worries, I will still be cleaning AND running AND biking AND swimming...there will not be a "how I became obese like all those other Georgians" blog anytime soon. Although I suppose then I could join Weight Watchers, another incredibly popular stress-relieving activity here in the south. And start dieting and exercising, which I'm sure will do wonders for my stress. Oh. Wait.....
Back in the day, before I had a job that takes up 80 hours every week and all of my youth with it, I used to clean when I got stressed out. I know, it makes little sense, but there you have it. People could always tell when I was busy at work, because the entire house would shine "like the top of the Chrysler building" (to paraphrase Ms. Hannigan from "Annie"). When I was finishing up my dissertation, you could pretty much eat off my baseboards. Then, when I moved here and that didn't do the trick anymore, I added running. And bicycling. Nothing to clear your head like a long, sweat-filled, slightly painful workout session. And then, when I had ran and biked so much I was doing triathlons, adventure races, and half marathons as though they were little more than a trip to the mall, that too just wasn't enough anymore. And what did I do next?
Did I start taking yoga? Or perhaps took a meditation class? Or did I, lord-have-mercy, address the cause of my stress head on instead of finding yet another way around that?
Well, of course I didn't. I live in the south, what do you expect? We don't do yoga, and we definitely do not meditate. The bible doesn't mention those things, which means God sure didn't put His stamp of approval on it, and so unless you live in that worldly, heathen-filled, Philistine town also known as Atlanta, you will not find anything like that down here thankyouverymuch. Of course, I don't need to mention that "addressing something head on" is a phrase invented by those lesser-mannered Yankees, and thus an absolute no-no in the south, where we prefer to simmer and stew, while pretending everything is JUST FINE!
So what is a semi-southern gal to do? Well, she can start on a whole host of activities to distract her, including forming a new bible study (I think my status as a non-fundamentalist pretty much preempts that one), homeschooling her children (someone would die, y'all), cooking (that's husband dear's Area of Responsibility), quilting (uhm..did I mention I don't know how to sew on a button?), or baking.
Hm. Baking.
I'm not sure how this happened, but I'm finally beginning to understand why southern women love to bake. It's probably as soothing as an intensive yoga class, as relaxing as addressing the cause of the stress (but without any sort of confrontation), and tasty to boot. As you all know, I started baking when we moved down here, so I could meet the annual "bake something for your neighbors at Christmas" standard, but no more than that. Then two weeks ago, I decided to make chocolate chip cookies from scratch (from! scratch!), and last Sunday, when I was feeling particularly overwhelmed, I caught myself saying, "I am so stressed out, I think I need to bake something." To top it all off, last night, after meeting some friends at Panera Bead and having one of their almond-filled bear claws, I decided that that was going to be my next baking project: the bear claw.
I believe I have found my next set of stress relieving activities: baking. After all, why talk about stuff if you can just bake it all away? *
*No worries, I will still be cleaning AND running AND biking AND swimming...there will not be a "how I became obese like all those other Georgians" blog anytime soon. Although I suppose then I could join Weight Watchers, another incredibly popular stress-relieving activity here in the south. And start dieting and exercising, which I'm sure will do wonders for my stress. Oh. Wait.....
Friday, February 3, 2012
Our mailbox or how to listen
You may remember me talking about the mailbox at our new house a few years ago. Although it's just a plain white mailbox, it sits inside a fancy brick column at the end of our driveway, with a palm tree on one side, and a pretty purple-flowered bush on the other. The whole contraption looks so beautiful, that I at times have forgotten we even own a mailbox ("oh, look at that little set-up by the street, the tree, the flowers, the bricks, so beautiful). Well, lately we've been having suspected mailbox issues.
It started about two weeks ago, when one evening I happened to look out the front window, and noticed a pick-up truck, lights off, sitting by our mailbox. As I love to narrate my life, I turned to husband-dear, and said, "There's a pick-up truck sitting by our mailbox."
"What?"
"There's a truck sitting out by our mailbox."
"Oh."Husband-dear was obviously not as intrigued as I was by this entire phenomenon.
A few moments later I peeked out again, "It's still sitting there. That's it. I'm going out there."
Now I did have husband-dear's attention, "You're going to do what?"
But I'd already opened the front door, and just as I stepped out on the front porch, the truck, lights still off, drove away.
"They drove away" I reported to my husband, who was shaking his head, "Let's say they were up to no good, what would you have done?"
"I don't know, asked them to go do it somewhere else."
"Because that would have worked, how?" husband-dear was still shaking his head, "You can't just go outside and talk to possible criminals, dear."
"Sure you can, I mean, they drove off, didn't they?"
"You need a gun."
"No I don't. I need a gun like I need a hole on my head."
"If you're going to go outside in the dark and address a possibly dangerous situation, you need a gun."
"No, I don't. I am very much of capable of scaring people off without a gun."
Anyway, needless to say, there are still no guns in our house, and we didn't see the truck again. But the idea of someone messing with our mailbox kept nagging at the back of my mind. After all, that's OUR stuff, thankyouverymuch. US mailboxes, unlike their Dutch counterparts, can't be locked, and so anyone could technically take your mail. Although American mailboxes are considered federal property, as indicated by oh-so-scary"property of the US government" stamp on the front of the box, and mail theft is treated on a par with an armed robbery, I'm fairly certain that that does little to scare away potential postal thieves. In my opinion, all it does it scare your neighbors into leaving notices about parties on your front porch, make you too freaked out to close a neighbor's box if the mail carrier accidentally left it hanging open, and very little else.
But I digress.
Now I don't know what it is about our mailbox, but this morning it was once again the center of someone's attention. It was barely 7am, I had just gotten up, and was reveling in the fact that I would not have to drive to work today, when the dogs just about lost their heads barking at something outside. I turned towards the front window, where I thought I saw someone on our driveway. When I opened the front door, the person was flying down our street, into a neighbor's yard.
My first thought was, I should chase after him. My second thought was, I'm in my house shoes, jammies, and wearing a robe, and that's probably not happening. My third thought was, it's probably one of the high school kids who needs to catch the bus and just realized he left something at home. And I went and made myself some tea.
Once caffeinated, I realized that the high school bus had left half an hour earlier, and that that kid looked way too old to ride the elementary school bus which was leaving in ten minutes. Hm. Maybe I'm not American enough yet, but even the thought of him possibly stealing our mail could not really get me worked up. I know most Americans have a coronary at the thought of someone stealing their mail, and the best I could do was get irritated at the thought of having to call our mortgage company and our water company and asking them to please send their bills again. Other than that, my main thought was something like, hey good luck reading those Dutch letters, have fun with our birthday cards, oh, and while you're at it, would you mind paying our electric bill? Thanks.
Husband-dear, however, disagreed. When I told him what had happened, and asked him if he'd left any outgoing mail in the mailbox, he told me I should probably call the sheriff's department.
"Why? I was thinking we should just install a webcam upstairs and keep tabs of what's going on that way, if anything."
"Well, because what if someone was robbed or raped down the street this morning?"
"Then we would move RIGHT NOW."
"Yes, but before we'd move, you'd call the sheriff's office."
"And get a webcam."
"Sure, dear."
So I did. And that's where the second part of this blog's title come in. You know how I complain about how my students don't listen? Well, apparently it's part of a wider epidemic, as my conversation with the Sheriff's office front desk went something like this:
"Hi, I'd like to report some suspicious person hovering around my mailbox earlier this morning."
"Ma'am, you need to hang up right now and call 911."
"No, the person isn't there anymore, it happened earlier this morning. At around seven."
"Oh, OK. Well, let me transfer you."
"Sheriff's office investigations."
"Hi, I'd like to report a suspicious person hanging around our mailbox earlier this morning around seven."
"I can't transfer you to 911, but you need to call them right now."
"No, he's left, it happened earlier this morning."
Really, people?
Anyway, the important-sounding man in "investigations" told me he would "notify patrol", which I take to mean that some poor officer in a car is going to get a call that goes something like, "Yeah, some lady called about someone hanging around her mailbox. Just FYI.", and patrol saying, "Oh crap, like I have nothing better to do", and then asking, "What's the address?" and the man having to admit that he forgot to ask (as he did).
So my plan was to go out and buy a webcam. No guns, no police, just a webcam to see what's going on. If nothing else, we can use it to keep an eye on our puppies while we're at work.
It started about two weeks ago, when one evening I happened to look out the front window, and noticed a pick-up truck, lights off, sitting by our mailbox. As I love to narrate my life, I turned to husband-dear, and said, "There's a pick-up truck sitting by our mailbox."
"What?"
"There's a truck sitting out by our mailbox."
"Oh."Husband-dear was obviously not as intrigued as I was by this entire phenomenon.
A few moments later I peeked out again, "It's still sitting there. That's it. I'm going out there."
Now I did have husband-dear's attention, "You're going to do what?"
But I'd already opened the front door, and just as I stepped out on the front porch, the truck, lights still off, drove away.
"They drove away" I reported to my husband, who was shaking his head, "Let's say they were up to no good, what would you have done?"
"I don't know, asked them to go do it somewhere else."
"Because that would have worked, how?" husband-dear was still shaking his head, "You can't just go outside and talk to possible criminals, dear."
"Sure you can, I mean, they drove off, didn't they?"
"You need a gun."
"No I don't. I need a gun like I need a hole on my head."
"If you're going to go outside in the dark and address a possibly dangerous situation, you need a gun."
"No, I don't. I am very much of capable of scaring people off without a gun."
Anyway, needless to say, there are still no guns in our house, and we didn't see the truck again. But the idea of someone messing with our mailbox kept nagging at the back of my mind. After all, that's OUR stuff, thankyouverymuch. US mailboxes, unlike their Dutch counterparts, can't be locked, and so anyone could technically take your mail. Although American mailboxes are considered federal property, as indicated by oh-so-scary"property of the US government" stamp on the front of the box, and mail theft is treated on a par with an armed robbery, I'm fairly certain that that does little to scare away potential postal thieves. In my opinion, all it does it scare your neighbors into leaving notices about parties on your front porch, make you too freaked out to close a neighbor's box if the mail carrier accidentally left it hanging open, and very little else.
But I digress.
Now I don't know what it is about our mailbox, but this morning it was once again the center of someone's attention. It was barely 7am, I had just gotten up, and was reveling in the fact that I would not have to drive to work today, when the dogs just about lost their heads barking at something outside. I turned towards the front window, where I thought I saw someone on our driveway. When I opened the front door, the person was flying down our street, into a neighbor's yard.
My first thought was, I should chase after him. My second thought was, I'm in my house shoes, jammies, and wearing a robe, and that's probably not happening. My third thought was, it's probably one of the high school kids who needs to catch the bus and just realized he left something at home. And I went and made myself some tea.
Once caffeinated, I realized that the high school bus had left half an hour earlier, and that that kid looked way too old to ride the elementary school bus which was leaving in ten minutes. Hm. Maybe I'm not American enough yet, but even the thought of him possibly stealing our mail could not really get me worked up. I know most Americans have a coronary at the thought of someone stealing their mail, and the best I could do was get irritated at the thought of having to call our mortgage company and our water company and asking them to please send their bills again. Other than that, my main thought was something like, hey good luck reading those Dutch letters, have fun with our birthday cards, oh, and while you're at it, would you mind paying our electric bill? Thanks.
Husband-dear, however, disagreed. When I told him what had happened, and asked him if he'd left any outgoing mail in the mailbox, he told me I should probably call the sheriff's department.
"Why? I was thinking we should just install a webcam upstairs and keep tabs of what's going on that way, if anything."
"Well, because what if someone was robbed or raped down the street this morning?"
"Then we would move RIGHT NOW."
"Yes, but before we'd move, you'd call the sheriff's office."
"And get a webcam."
"Sure, dear."
So I did. And that's where the second part of this blog's title come in. You know how I complain about how my students don't listen? Well, apparently it's part of a wider epidemic, as my conversation with the Sheriff's office front desk went something like this:
"Hi, I'd like to report some suspicious person hovering around my mailbox earlier this morning."
"Ma'am, you need to hang up right now and call 911."
"No, the person isn't there anymore, it happened earlier this morning. At around seven."
"Oh, OK. Well, let me transfer you."
"Sheriff's office investigations."
"Hi, I'd like to report a suspicious person hanging around our mailbox earlier this morning around seven."
"I can't transfer you to 911, but you need to call them right now."
"No, he's left, it happened earlier this morning."
Really, people?
Anyway, the important-sounding man in "investigations" told me he would "notify patrol", which I take to mean that some poor officer in a car is going to get a call that goes something like, "Yeah, some lady called about someone hanging around her mailbox. Just FYI.", and patrol saying, "Oh crap, like I have nothing better to do", and then asking, "What's the address?" and the man having to admit that he forgot to ask (as he did).
So my plan was to go out and buy a webcam. No guns, no police, just a webcam to see what's going on. If nothing else, we can use it to keep an eye on our puppies while we're at work.
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