Met als risico dat ik half Nederland over me heen krijg (nou ja, de dertien mensen die mijn blog lezen dan), maar ik ben er dit jaar echt uit: Zwarte Pieten kunnen niet meer. Blanke mensen omkleden in felgekleurde apepakkies, zwarte maillots, volsmeren met zwarte schoenpoets, en ze dan allerlei rare trucjes laten uithalen, dat kan in mijn wereld nu dus echt niet meer.
Sorry.
Ik weet dat voor de meeste Nederlanders de Zwarte Piet zo'n beetje heilig is deze tijd van het jaar, maar als rasechte NederAmerikaan kan ik er dus niet meer goed tegen, al die plaatjes van blanke mensen die lijken op een kruising tussen de tenenkrommende Sjimmie en gezellig racistische Sambo. Toen ik dit weekend Facebook opende, en een foto van mijn nichtje verkleed als Zwarte Piet zag, toen wist ik het, dit kan echt niet meer anno 2012. Sorry, geweldig nichtje van me.
Als ik eerlijk ben dan was Zwarte Piet al langer in een doorn in mijn oog. Dat krijg je, als je dankzij een Amerikaanse school bekend bent met het fenomeen "blackface", en het daarmee samenhangend racisme. Dan wordt het verdomd moeilijk, zelfs voor een jongere Dixiechick, om een grappende en grollende blanke man met zwarte make up en panties als een cultureel idiosyncrasie te zien. Want waarom moet de man perse zwart zijn? En waarom doet hij altijd alsof hij zo dom is? Maar ach, je verhuist weer eens terug naar Nederland, en je valt na een Sinterklaas feest of twee weer in de comfortabele gedachtengang dat dit "gewoon" een Nederlands fenomeen is. Eentje die natuurlijk niks te maken heeft met racisme, of blackface, or allerlei andere rare zaken. Zwarte Piet is gewoon een typisch Nederlands verschijnsel. Net zoiets als dijken, drop, en homosexuele paren die kinderen mogen adopteren.
Maar ja, een verhuizing naar het zuiden van de VS, waar de vrees voor racisme en alle daarmee samenhangende sociale verschijnselen nog steeds nadrukkelijk aanwezig is, en het hele fenomeen wordt in een keer minder makkelijk te verexcuseren. Je hoeft maar een keer les te geven over blackface aan een college zaal vol met African Americans, en je snapt meteen waarom. Want ondanks alle Nederlandse redeneringen over culturele eigenheid en relativiteit en weet-ik-veel-wat is the bottomline gewoon dat er hele groepen mensen zijn, zowel binnen als buiten Nederland die dit beledigend vinden.
Wil ik nu beweren dat ik vind dat Zwarte Piet afgeschaft moet worden? Jongens, ik zou niet durven. Ik heb nog steeds geen skinny jeans gekocht, draag nog steeds een muts als het koud is, zeg "sorry" als iemand tegen mij aan loopt, en ben dus ondertussen zo'n nep-Hollander geworden, dat ik al helemaal geen oordeel mag vellen over zo'n oer-Hollandse kwestie. Dus als jullie daar in Nederland blij worden van zwart-geschminkte blanke mannen en vrouwen die zich voordoen als de grootste lolbroeken ooit, gekleed in een bijpasselijk clown-achtig kostuum, dan ga vooral los, zou ik zeggen.
Maar voor mij hoeft het niet meer zo.
Wat natuurlijk niet wil zeggen dat ik hier de pepernoten, schuimdieren, en chocolade latters niet enorm mis.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
The happiest place on earth
The title is, for once, not a sarcastic reference to the place I call my hometown. In fact, I actually have nothing sarcastic or cynical to say in this post at all, which is probably why it took me so long to write it. I know, who are you and what did you to Dixiechick, right? But seriously, the reason for my title is the fact that I, husband-dear, our darling offspring, as well as my in-laws, spent Thanksgiving break at Disney World. And it was truly magical. The rides, the parades, the landscaping, the cone-shaped lampshades in our hotel room, the endless suspension of disbelief, it was all absolutely wonderful. I mean, all I really should be telling you is that although I brought all of the grading I usually complete over Thanksgiving break (about two days' worth), it stayed inside its bag, next to my suitcase in our room. Untouched. For four whole days. That right there says it all.
I had only been to a Disney park twice before: once to Disney world in the mid-80s, and once to Disneyland Paris in the early 2000s, so my expectations were based on little more than warm, fuzzy memories and the tendency to say "Mag-EEK KEENgdome". Revisiting a park when your memories are so picture-perfect, but either so long ago, or related to a park on another continent is always dangerous. What if your memory glossed over the less than enjoyable parts? What if you looked at your scrapbook so much you don't remember all the not-so-great stuff? What if the park in Paris really is the better version? Fortunately, I had so much grading to do in the weeks leading up to our trip that I had pretty much forgotten we were going had little time to consider things like this. Instead, on Wednesday night, I turned into a Tasmanian devil, threw some underwear and shirts into a suitcase, and pronounced myself ready to go.
Thinking back, I realize that there is one less-than-glowing thing I can tell you about our trip to Disney world.
Sorry.
It was, unfortunately, also the first thing we did on our trip: getting there. I'm not sure why, but for some reason unknown to mere mortals, Disney resorts are pretty much, like Hogwarts, unplottable. The hotel we were heading to had two different addresses listed on its own website, our GPS couldn't find it, and Mapquest wasn't too certain about the location either. After a not-too-reassuring phone call to Disney reservations, where an agent happily told me that "We hear this all the time!", we went on our slightly-less merry way.
Fortunately, my phone did seem to know where it was going, although it completely disagreed with Mapquest. Now I have not navigated us/myself through most of Europe, the eastern part of the United States, and various parts of China to let a measly trip to Orlando get me down, so I went to work, pulling out the various maps we had stowed in our car, and tried to get a grip on the layout of the happiest, or most mysterious if you will, place on earth. And after some triangulation with a Florida map, our GPS, my phone app,and some serious anxiety-driven kvetching, I figured out that you could indeed get there from here, and plotted a route. All questions and queries about toll roads, short cuts, and alternative routes were quickly quelled with a stern, "I set up the route, and this is how we're driving", and away we went. Almost merrily.
And once we got there, it was all quickly forgotten. When we walked into Magic Kingdom that afternoon, we walked right into the "Make your dreams come true"/"Believe in your dreams"/ "Just dream already, dammit!" parade (OK, so I might have made the last one up, but I can't remember the name of the parade for the life of me), and the magic was born. We laughed at Stitch, yo-ho-ho-ed our way through the Pirates of the Carribean, made a mandatory nuisance call to my friend Shelly during the It's a Small World Ride, and loved the Thunder Mountain Railroad (which in my memory had real water spilling over it, which was either a figment of my imagination, or has since been turned into the wafting smoke they use now). We watched the Electric parade, listened to a group of southerners sitting behind us complain about the fact that ZOMG President Obama was now featured in the Hall of Presidents, and bought Disney jackets when the weather proved a little colder than we expected.
The magic continued throughout the next two days, with us mastering the fastpass system at Hollywood studios, Epcot, and the Animal Kingdom so that we got to ride some our favorite rides not once, but twice. I got to wow Jimmie with my knowledge of the Lights, Motor, Action! show, sing along with Aerosmith on the Rock n Roller Coaster, speak Italian at Epcot, hug a cast member, marvel at the fact that the Canadian pavilion still has the same 360 degrees film it did twenty-six years ago, have a glass of wine in Germany, and freak out at the "bugs" crawling under your legs in the "It's a bug life" show.
So, I'm sorry. I have nothing negative to say about my Disney experience. I suppose the one thing I could come up with was the fact that the cast members at our hotel would wish each guest a "colorful day" and tell them, "sketch ya later!", but you know, that's just cute.
Again, my apologies. Tomorrow, we will return to our normal programming.
I had only been to a Disney park twice before: once to Disney world in the mid-80s, and once to Disneyland Paris in the early 2000s, so my expectations were based on little more than warm, fuzzy memories and the tendency to say "Mag-EEK KEENgdome". Revisiting a park when your memories are so picture-perfect, but either so long ago, or related to a park on another continent is always dangerous. What if your memory glossed over the less than enjoyable parts? What if you looked at your scrapbook so much you don't remember all the not-so-great stuff? What if the park in Paris really is the better version? Fortunately, I had so much grading to do in the weeks leading up to our trip that I
Thinking back, I realize that there is one less-than-glowing thing I can tell you about our trip to Disney world.
Sorry.
It was, unfortunately, also the first thing we did on our trip: getting there. I'm not sure why, but for some reason unknown to mere mortals, Disney resorts are pretty much, like Hogwarts, unplottable. The hotel we were heading to had two different addresses listed on its own website, our GPS couldn't find it, and Mapquest wasn't too certain about the location either. After a not-too-reassuring phone call to Disney reservations, where an agent happily told me that "We hear this all the time!", we went on our slightly-less merry way.
Fortunately, my phone did seem to know where it was going, although it completely disagreed with Mapquest. Now I have not navigated us/myself through most of Europe, the eastern part of the United States, and various parts of China to let a measly trip to Orlando get me down, so I went to work, pulling out the various maps we had stowed in our car, and tried to get a grip on the layout of the happiest, or most mysterious if you will, place on earth. And after some triangulation with a Florida map, our GPS, my phone app,
And once we got there, it was all quickly forgotten. When we walked into Magic Kingdom that afternoon, we walked right into the "Make your dreams come true"/"Believe in your dreams"/ "Just dream already, dammit!" parade (OK, so I might have made the last one up, but I can't remember the name of the parade for the life of me), and the magic was born. We laughed at Stitch, yo-ho-ho-ed our way through the Pirates of the Carribean, made a mandatory nuisance call to my friend Shelly during the It's a Small World Ride, and loved the Thunder Mountain Railroad (which in my memory had real water spilling over it, which was either a figment of my imagination, or has since been turned into the wafting smoke they use now). We watched the Electric parade, listened to a group of southerners sitting behind us complain about the fact that ZOMG President Obama was now featured in the Hall of Presidents, and bought Disney jackets when the weather proved a little colder than we expected.
The magic continued throughout the next two days, with us mastering the fastpass system at Hollywood studios, Epcot, and the Animal Kingdom so that we got to ride some our favorite rides not once, but twice. I got to wow Jimmie with my knowledge of the Lights, Motor, Action! show, sing along with Aerosmith on the Rock n Roller Coaster, speak Italian at Epcot, hug a cast member, marvel at the fact that the Canadian pavilion still has the same 360 degrees film it did twenty-six years ago, have a glass of wine in Germany, and freak out at the "bugs" crawling under your legs in the "It's a bug life" show.
So, I'm sorry. I have nothing negative to say about my Disney experience. I suppose the one thing I could come up with was the fact that the cast members at our hotel would wish each guest a "colorful day" and tell them, "sketch ya later!", but you know, that's just cute.
Again, my apologies. Tomorrow, we will return to our normal programming.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
What's in a name?
I've never thought of my name as particularly strange, odd, or Dutch for that matter. In fact, I remember, at a very young age, being grateful for the fact that my name was not only internationally accepted, but also fairly common in various countries. This gratitude wasn't so much related to any sort of linguistic awareness on my part, oh no, it was directly correlated to the fact that I, unlike my less fortunate (but more creatively named) younger brother, never had any problems finding a necklace, bracelet, rock, or keychain with my name on it regardless of which country I was in.
Now since I am kind of weird about privacy and this blog (I sincerely hope no one has seriously entertained the thought that I have two boys named "Ozzie" and "Jimmie" respectively), let me just tell that my name is old, very Jewish, and one I share with both a woman described in the biblical apocrypha as seducing and then beheading the enemy, as well as a woman playing a somewhat overworked mother in one of the corniest sitcoms to come out of the 1980s. It's popular among Dutch girls born in the 1970s, as well as a large number of Jewish girls living on the east coast of the US, while its abbreviated version seems to have been quite the fad among women born during the 1930s and 1940s.
At any rate, I've never had any problems with my first name, spelling, pronunciation, nada. Well, that is, until I moved to Georgia. Ever since moving here, whenever I introduce myself, the conversation always ends up going something like this (and for the sake of privacy, I'll be ancient seductress, OK? I mean, I suppose I could have picked 1980s sitcom actress, but that's just ridiculously long),
"Hi, I'm husband-dear, and this is my wife, ancient seductress*"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Ancient seductress*"
"How do you spell that?"
"A-n-c.."(you get the idea)
"Ooooh, OK. Seducy!"
"Uhm, no, Seductress"
Yes, annoying. And also slightly confusing, since I've never had this problem before. Ever. The only issue I've ever had to battle is people abbreviating my name without asking first. Now, to be fair, the problem has really only been with truly native Georgians. Most military folk, academics, and people who have lived or traveled out of state get my name the first time around. But whenever I visit local events, churches, or restaurants, getting my name straight always turns into a ridiculously elaborate song and dance. I'm not sure if it's the fact that my name simply isn't very common in the south, or people are so used to hearing girls' names ending in "y" or "a", but it's a very strange experience to have to repeat your name two or three times before people realize what it is.
So this past Sunday, after another unsuccessful attempt to get a southern couple at a church we were visiting to grasp my name on the first try, I decided that this was just getting ridiculous.
"I think I'm going to change my name to something easy and simple." I told husband-dear
"Yeah, like your middle name."
I scowled, "My middle name is four syllables long. I don't think so. No, something simple."
"Simple. Because your first name isn't simple enough."
"Apparently not. I think I'm going to with Katie."
"Katie?"
"Yes, Katie. It's simple, short, and everyone gets it."
"Katie. Oh-kay."
Obviously, I wasn't entirely serious, as the thought of having to explain, after that first meeting, that my real first name wasn't Katie, but that that was just a name I had made up to ease the art of initial introductions, was too weird even for me. But as we headed out to brunch, I decided to give my little experiment a go anyway. After all, Georgian maitre d's' inability to understand my first name on the first attempt has always been a real source of frustration. I mean, why should anyone have to go through the trouble of spelling their name, or even worse, have to resort to giving their husband's name because "Ancient Seductress" is just not a name these lovely locals have ever heard before? We can't all be Madisons, Michelles, and Brittanys. So, I figured, if I couldn't introduce myself to people who might turn out to be new friends as Katie, I could at least ease the pain of getting my name put on a wait list.
"Hi, welcome to IHOP, how many in your party?"
"Six"
"Okay. And what's your name?"
The moment of truth, "Katie"
"OK. And how do you spell that?"
Oh.
My.
Stars.
Now since I am kind of weird about privacy and this blog (I sincerely hope no one has seriously entertained the thought that I have two boys named "Ozzie" and "Jimmie" respectively), let me just tell that my name is old, very Jewish, and one I share with both a woman described in the biblical apocrypha as seducing and then beheading the enemy, as well as a woman playing a somewhat overworked mother in one of the corniest sitcoms to come out of the 1980s. It's popular among Dutch girls born in the 1970s, as well as a large number of Jewish girls living on the east coast of the US, while its abbreviated version seems to have been quite the fad among women born during the 1930s and 1940s.
At any rate, I've never had any problems with my first name, spelling, pronunciation, nada. Well, that is, until I moved to Georgia. Ever since moving here, whenever I introduce myself, the conversation always ends up going something like this (and for the sake of privacy, I'll be ancient seductress, OK? I mean, I suppose I could have picked 1980s sitcom actress, but that's just ridiculously long),
"Hi, I'm husband-dear, and this is my wife, ancient seductress*"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Ancient seductress*"
"How do you spell that?"
"A-n-c.."(you get the idea)
"Ooooh, OK. Seducy!"
"Uhm, no, Seductress"
Yes, annoying. And also slightly confusing, since I've never had this problem before. Ever. The only issue I've ever had to battle is people abbreviating my name without asking first. Now, to be fair, the problem has really only been with truly native Georgians. Most military folk, academics, and people who have lived or traveled out of state get my name the first time around. But whenever I visit local events, churches, or restaurants, getting my name straight always turns into a ridiculously elaborate song and dance. I'm not sure if it's the fact that my name simply isn't very common in the south, or people are so used to hearing girls' names ending in "y" or "a", but it's a very strange experience to have to repeat your name two or three times before people realize what it is.
So this past Sunday, after another unsuccessful attempt to get a southern couple at a church we were visiting to grasp my name on the first try, I decided that this was just getting ridiculous.
"I think I'm going to change my name to something easy and simple." I told husband-dear
"Yeah, like your middle name."
I scowled, "My middle name is four syllables long. I don't think so. No, something simple."
"Simple. Because your first name isn't simple enough."
"Apparently not. I think I'm going to with Katie."
"Katie?"
"Yes, Katie. It's simple, short, and everyone gets it."
"Katie. Oh-kay."
Obviously, I wasn't entirely serious, as the thought of having to explain, after that first meeting, that my real first name wasn't Katie, but that that was just a name I had made up to ease the art of initial introductions, was too weird even for me. But as we headed out to brunch, I decided to give my little experiment a go anyway. After all, Georgian maitre d's' inability to understand my first name on the first attempt has always been a real source of frustration. I mean, why should anyone have to go through the trouble of spelling their name, or even worse, have to resort to giving their husband's name because "Ancient Seductress" is just not a name these lovely locals have ever heard before? We can't all be Madisons, Michelles, and Brittanys. So, I figured, if I couldn't introduce myself to people who might turn out to be new friends as Katie, I could at least ease the pain of getting my name put on a wait list.
"Hi, welcome to IHOP, how many in your party?"
"Six"
"Okay. And what's your name?"
The moment of truth, "Katie"
"OK. And how do you spell that?"
Oh.
My.
Stars.
Monday, November 19, 2012
What (not) to wear
So I'm heading to Holland sometime in December, and the one thing I have been obsessing about over the past few weeks is what to wear. Not whom to see, where to stay, or what to buy in the form of Christmas presents. Oh no, most of those decisions have been pushed into November (ehm, the last two weeks of November, I guess). Instead I've spend a lot of time agonizing over whether my winter coat was warm and fashionable enough, whether my jeans could still pass muster, and whether I needed to go out and buy a couple of new pairs of shoes.
So, you may wonder, why this sudden insecurity about what to wear? Especially when heading back to a country that will most likely be colder than a witch's tit, and where most people will thus not care a whole lot about what you look like as long as you're warm? Well, that last statement, therein lies the problem. You see, that's what an American would say. Up in Ohio or New England, or any other place where it gets really cold, most people don't really give a small rodent's behind about whether or not their purple LL Bean winter coat is fashionable, or whether their lined boots meet the latest fashion standards. Up there, it's all about staying warm, and that's that. A Dutch person, unfortunately, does not think like that.
I've mentioned this before, but Dutch people are a lot more fashion-conscious than most Americans. There is no wandering through the house in your sweatpants, rushing to the grocery store in your husband's old sweatshirt, or heading out of the house in an outfit that's not carefully thought out. In fact, my basic summer attire of shorts and a t-shirt (usually one earned at a race of some sort) would be flat-out rejected by most Dutchies as either too plain, too trashy (especially if you have the courage to wear, shudder, sneakers with your shorts), or too unfashionable (I mean, really, who wears shorts and a t-shirt, when you can wear a lovely A-lined skirt with a sleeveless button-down and matching espadrilles!).
And as anyone familiar with Dutch people knows, they love to speak their mind. They love, love, love, love it. In fact, telling a Dutch person they've just insulted you will hardly ever lead to an apology, but almost always to a innocent, wide-eyed, "Well, but I was just telling you what I thought...". Being direct, my dear readers, is a virtue.
Now put those two together, and you could see how Dutch people might be quick to inform anyone not quite dressed to their standards of their heinously poor fashion choices. And that's where my worrying begins.
You see, during my last visits to Holland, I had already noticed that my sense of fashion and the Dutch idea of en-vogue were starting to drift apart somewhat. There was the infamous "leggings under skirts" phase I refused to partake in. But also the "leggings with long t-shirts and belts" fad that I steered clear from. Not to mention the funky habit of combining really hideous colors (think neon pink and bright orange) dubiously dubbed "colour blocking" by the Dutch trendwatchers.
It's not that I walk around stuck in mom-jeans from the 1980s, or lumberjack shirts from the 1990s even, it's just that here in the south, fashion is a little less, well, extreme. Sure, there are women in really tight pants hovering around the malls of the south, and I'm pretty sure I have seen several students in oversized, neon-colored sweaters with belts looped around their waist. But I've also seen plenty of women like myself in boot-cut pants with no-nonsense tops and jackets in earthy hues. Women who, at least down here, get away with not going along with every single latest trend, but just wearing things that are comfortable and somewhat timeless.
I worry because if I look at my friends and relatives back in Holland, they don't do timeless. They don't appear to do comfortable (OK, perhaps I'm wrong here, but when pants are that tight, are they really comfortable?). They just appear to do hip. And fashionable. And tight jeans in tall, clunky boots. And cool-looking coats. And a whole host of other things I don't own, and am probably not aware of. And I worry I am going to stand out like a sore thumb when I go back. Everyone is going to look at me, and not just think that I'm another American, no, they're going to think that I'm another American with no sense of style.
And I don't like that. So I gave in, and bought my first pair of tall, clunky boots last week (the fact that they were on sale at the BX, and really warm helped too). I also ordered a hat that should be both warm and hip (and not just warm). And my trusty LL Bean wintercoat? Did it pass? Well, although it definitely passed the "is it warm enough" verdict, it didn't even come close to meeting the "European fashionista" bar, and so it will be staying home. I will be taking my brand new, warm-but-trendy wintercoat to Holland with me. Now I just need to find a pair of jeans to go with those brand new boots...
So, you may wonder, why this sudden insecurity about what to wear? Especially when heading back to a country that will most likely be colder than a witch's tit, and where most people will thus not care a whole lot about what you look like as long as you're warm? Well, that last statement, therein lies the problem. You see, that's what an American would say. Up in Ohio or New England, or any other place where it gets really cold, most people don't really give a small rodent's behind about whether or not their purple LL Bean winter coat is fashionable, or whether their lined boots meet the latest fashion standards. Up there, it's all about staying warm, and that's that. A Dutch person, unfortunately, does not think like that.
I've mentioned this before, but Dutch people are a lot more fashion-conscious than most Americans. There is no wandering through the house in your sweatpants, rushing to the grocery store in your husband's old sweatshirt, or heading out of the house in an outfit that's not carefully thought out. In fact, my basic summer attire of shorts and a t-shirt (usually one earned at a race of some sort) would be flat-out rejected by most Dutchies as either too plain, too trashy (especially if you have the courage to wear, shudder, sneakers with your shorts), or too unfashionable (I mean, really, who wears shorts and a t-shirt, when you can wear a lovely A-lined skirt with a sleeveless button-down and matching espadrilles!).
And as anyone familiar with Dutch people knows, they love to speak their mind. They love, love, love, love it. In fact, telling a Dutch person they've just insulted you will hardly ever lead to an apology, but almost always to a innocent, wide-eyed, "Well, but I was just telling you what I thought...". Being direct, my dear readers, is a virtue.
Now put those two together, and you could see how Dutch people might be quick to inform anyone not quite dressed to their standards of their heinously poor fashion choices. And that's where my worrying begins.
You see, during my last visits to Holland, I had already noticed that my sense of fashion and the Dutch idea of en-vogue were starting to drift apart somewhat. There was the infamous "leggings under skirts" phase I refused to partake in. But also the "leggings with long t-shirts and belts" fad that I steered clear from. Not to mention the funky habit of combining really hideous colors (think neon pink and bright orange) dubiously dubbed "colour blocking" by the Dutch trendwatchers.
It's not that I walk around stuck in mom-jeans from the 1980s, or lumberjack shirts from the 1990s even, it's just that here in the south, fashion is a little less, well, extreme. Sure, there are women in really tight pants hovering around the malls of the south, and I'm pretty sure I have seen several students in oversized, neon-colored sweaters with belts looped around their waist. But I've also seen plenty of women like myself in boot-cut pants with no-nonsense tops and jackets in earthy hues. Women who, at least down here, get away with not going along with every single latest trend, but just wearing things that are comfortable and somewhat timeless.
I worry because if I look at my friends and relatives back in Holland, they don't do timeless. They don't appear to do comfortable (OK, perhaps I'm wrong here, but when pants are that tight, are they really comfortable?). They just appear to do hip. And fashionable. And tight jeans in tall, clunky boots. And cool-looking coats. And a whole host of other things I don't own, and am probably not aware of. And I worry I am going to stand out like a sore thumb when I go back. Everyone is going to look at me, and not just think that I'm another American, no, they're going to think that I'm another American with no sense of style.
And I don't like that. So I gave in, and bought my first pair of tall, clunky boots last week (the fact that they were on sale at the BX, and really warm helped too). I also ordered a hat that should be both warm and hip (and not just warm). And my trusty LL Bean wintercoat? Did it pass? Well, although it definitely passed the "is it warm enough" verdict, it didn't even come close to meeting the "European fashionista" bar, and so it will be staying home. I will be taking my brand new, warm-but-trendy wintercoat to Holland with me. Now I just need to find a pair of jeans to go with those brand new boots...
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
All's well that ends well
So apparently I wasn't just a little sick last week, nope, apparently I had the flu. I can't even remember the last time I had that, but there you have it. Just like everything else I attempt in life, I even have to achieve something impressive when I get sick. I can't just lie on the couch and be miserable for a few days, oh no. I need temperatures around 103, sleepless nights, hot flashes, freezing hands, a cough that sounds like a pack and a half per day, and a good old case of Influenza to feel like I matter.
Personally, however, I wouldn't have dragged myself to the doctor at all. I am the kind who prefers to wallow in her misery (OK, fine, snot) before seeing a health care professional. But when, after three days, my fever wasn't breaking, husband-dear convinced me to go. Was it his worries over my health that sent me driving halfway across town? Or perhaps did his reasoning about long-lasting fevers being unhealthy do the trick? Lord, no. The argument that finally convinced me was that if I didn't see a doctor, I wouldn't be going to back work in the near future. I know, I have issues.
So off to the doctor I went, expecting to be given the full-on Dutch treatment and sent home. For those of you fortunate enough to not know what a Dutch treatment is, allow me to digress. Dutch doctors, and Dutch health care in general, are founded on the concept of even aankijken, or "looking at something for a while", i.e., letting a flu/rash/sore throat/nose/chest congestion run its course for a few days to see if it gets worse or magically heals itself. This means that when you call to make an appointment, a chipper receptionist will ask you how long you've had said ailment, and, as every Dutch person knows, if it hasn't been for at least three days, she'll briskly tell you to call back in a few days for an appointment. Now let's say that you do meet the magical three-day requirement, and get in to see the dokter, that's no guarantee he or she will actually do anything about it. If you have the flu, they will in most cases send you home with the admonition to get back into bed and drink lots of fluids. If you have a cold, you will be told to use a neti pot (stomen), and so on. Basically, unless you're bleeding, suffering from a clear bacterial invasion, pregnant, very old or very young, Dutch dokters prefer to let nature run its course.
Hence, I expected my doctor here in Georgia to tell me to take it easy, drink lots of water, and take an ibuprofen if the fever got above 102.
Well, Dorothy, you're really not in Holland anymore. In fact, you've left the land of unlimited sick leave, bosses telling you to stay home and just rest up, and insurance companies rewarding doctors for prescribing as few drugs as possible, you've left that land far, far, far behind you. Because here in the US, doctors apparently run a little nose swab test to see if you have the flu, before they even come in and talk to you. And when you have the flu, as I did, they will not only prescribe something for your gut-wrenching cough and your stuffy nose, they will also prescribe the miracle drug of all drugs, the drug that in Holland is only prescribed in cases of flu strains referred to by numbers and letters, but that will make you feel better within 48 hours: Tamiflu.
So although I've been a little shaky, and have yet to pick up my running again, I've been feeling like a new person these past two days. I went back to work yesterday, and couldn't have been happier. No more freak temperatures, no more chills, hot flashes, and aches and pains. It's been awesome. And just in time for the final stretch too. What more could a person want?
Personally, however, I wouldn't have dragged myself to the doctor at all. I am the kind who prefers to wallow in her misery (OK, fine, snot) before seeing a health care professional. But when, after three days, my fever wasn't breaking, husband-dear convinced me to go. Was it his worries over my health that sent me driving halfway across town? Or perhaps did his reasoning about long-lasting fevers being unhealthy do the trick? Lord, no. The argument that finally convinced me was that if I didn't see a doctor, I wouldn't be going to back work in the near future. I know, I have issues.
So off to the doctor I went, expecting to be given the full-on Dutch treatment and sent home. For those of you fortunate enough to not know what a Dutch treatment is, allow me to digress. Dutch doctors, and Dutch health care in general, are founded on the concept of even aankijken, or "looking at something for a while", i.e., letting a flu/rash/sore throat/nose/chest congestion run its course for a few days to see if it gets worse or magically heals itself. This means that when you call to make an appointment, a chipper receptionist will ask you how long you've had said ailment, and, as every Dutch person knows, if it hasn't been for at least three days, she'll briskly tell you to call back in a few days for an appointment. Now let's say that you do meet the magical three-day requirement, and get in to see the dokter, that's no guarantee he or she will actually do anything about it. If you have the flu, they will in most cases send you home with the admonition to get back into bed and drink lots of fluids. If you have a cold, you will be told to use a neti pot (stomen), and so on. Basically, unless you're bleeding, suffering from a clear bacterial invasion, pregnant, very old or very young, Dutch dokters prefer to let nature run its course.
Hence, I expected my doctor here in Georgia to tell me to take it easy, drink lots of water, and take an ibuprofen if the fever got above 102.
Well, Dorothy, you're really not in Holland anymore. In fact, you've left the land of unlimited sick leave, bosses telling you to stay home and just rest up, and insurance companies rewarding doctors for prescribing as few drugs as possible, you've left that land far, far, far behind you. Because here in the US, doctors apparently run a little nose swab test to see if you have the flu, before they even come in and talk to you. And when you have the flu, as I did, they will not only prescribe something for your gut-wrenching cough and your stuffy nose, they will also prescribe the miracle drug of all drugs, the drug that in Holland is only prescribed in cases of flu strains referred to by numbers and letters, but that will make you feel better within 48 hours: Tamiflu.
So although I've been a little shaky, and have yet to pick up my running again, I've been feeling like a new person these past two days. I went back to work yesterday, and couldn't have been happier. No more freak temperatures, no more chills, hot flashes, and aches and pains. It's been awesome. And just in time for the final stretch too. What more could a person want?
Thursday, November 8, 2012
E-dag: Beetje laat en een griepje
Ik was dus helemaal van plan om dinsdag avond, of als het moest, vroeg op woensdag iets te schrijven over de overwinning van Obama. En uit te leggen hoe ik dit het beste in het Nederlands kon doen, omdat de kans bestaat dat mijn Amerikaanse lezers pro-Romney waren, en ik hen niet voor het hoofd wilde stoten. Ik zou zelfs een alineatje of twee wijden aan de mate waarin de VS werkelijk uit twee kampen bestaat, die zover mogelijk, in een complete andere wereld leven.
Maar toen werd ik ziek, en kwam er van al dat bloggen helemaal niks.
U moet weten dat ik, letterlijk, al zestien jaar niet ziek ben geweest. Ja, ik ben wel eens verkouden, en heb geloof ik ook ergens een keer bronchitis gehad in al die jaren, maar ik ben al zestien jaar lang koorts vrij. Niks geen dagen verplicht bankhangen, het afwisselend koud en warm hebben, en veel drinken. Ik, ondanks dat ik dankzij mijn studenten, waarschijnlijk met alle mogelijkheden vormen van het griepvirus in aanraking gekomen ben, ik werd nooit ziek.
Tot gisteren dan. Gisterochtend voelde ik al dat ik niet helemaal lekker in mijn vel zat. Dat ik moe was na slechts vier uur slaap, dat was te verwachten, maar een rare hoofdpijn en rare rillingen wezen op iets anders. Natuurlijk ging deze koppige held op sokken gewoon naar haar werk, waar ze dankzij twee Tylenol en wat Ibuprofen het op zich redelijk vol hiel. Tot een uur vier dan, toen het trillen van mijn vingers zo erg werd, dat ik amper mijn computer kon afsluiten.
Bij thuiskomst bleek dat ik de maar liefst 103 graden koorts had (voor onze Celcius-liefhebbers, dat is dus 39.5). Dus, daar ging ik, op de bank, veel drinken, bergen dekens, en proberen te eten. En toen ik gisteravond stelde ik dat morgen (vandaag dus) echt naar mijn werk moest, dreigde manlief met het onklaar maken van mijn auto, "En je weet dat ik weet hoe dat moet.".
"Nou dan neem ik de truck"
"Nou, dan maak ik die ook onklaar. En dan bel ik Dan (mijn technisch aangelegde schoonvader) dat hij je niet mag vertellen hoe het te maken."
Belachelijk, snotterde en proestte ik.
Nu is er gelukkig een ding waar ze in de VS wel heel goed in zijn: over-the-counter medication. Dingen die je in Nederland alleen op recept kan krijgen, zijn hier vrij verkrijgbaar. En, dames en heren, wat is dat geweldig. Ik heb iets voor het hoesten, iets voor mijn hoofdpijn, iets voor de pijn op de borst, en een soort mega-zinc-vitamine pil. En natuurlijk alle geweldige pijnstillers die we hier kennen. Dingen waarvan ik ga slapen, en dingen waarvan ik wakker word. Niks zeuren met stomen, en uren in een dokter's wachtkamer zitten. Je gaat naar je lokale CVS of Kroger of Publix, en voila.
Maar ja, ziek in de VS is helaas wel gewoon hetzelfde als ziek in Nederland. Aangezien ik me ondertussen toch aardig belabberd voelde, gaf ik toe aan manlief. Momenteel is de koorts, dankzij twee Tylenol en wat ibuprofen, redelijk normaal (nou ja, 100.3 graden, oftewel 38 zoveel), maar persoonlijk vrees ik dat het morgen ook niks word.
Jongens, dit kan niet hoor. Ik heb things to do, places to go, en thuis zitten terwijl ik me niet lekker voel, en dus ook niet behoorlijk kan bloggen, TV kijken, of ander vermakelijke dingen doen, is echt helemaal niks voor mij. En dan hebben we het nog niet eens over alle gemiste hardloop-, fiets-, en zwemkansen. Duimen jullie mee dat het snel weer beter gaat?
Maar toen werd ik ziek, en kwam er van al dat bloggen helemaal niks.
U moet weten dat ik, letterlijk, al zestien jaar niet ziek ben geweest. Ja, ik ben wel eens verkouden, en heb geloof ik ook ergens een keer bronchitis gehad in al die jaren, maar ik ben al zestien jaar lang koorts vrij. Niks geen dagen verplicht bankhangen, het afwisselend koud en warm hebben, en veel drinken. Ik, ondanks dat ik dankzij mijn studenten, waarschijnlijk met alle mogelijkheden vormen van het griepvirus in aanraking gekomen ben, ik werd nooit ziek.
Tot gisteren dan. Gisterochtend voelde ik al dat ik niet helemaal lekker in mijn vel zat. Dat ik moe was na slechts vier uur slaap, dat was te verwachten, maar een rare hoofdpijn en rare rillingen wezen op iets anders. Natuurlijk ging deze koppige held op sokken gewoon naar haar werk, waar ze dankzij twee Tylenol en wat Ibuprofen het op zich redelijk vol hiel. Tot een uur vier dan, toen het trillen van mijn vingers zo erg werd, dat ik amper mijn computer kon afsluiten.
Bij thuiskomst bleek dat ik de maar liefst 103 graden koorts had (voor onze Celcius-liefhebbers, dat is dus 39.5). Dus, daar ging ik, op de bank, veel drinken, bergen dekens, en proberen te eten. En toen ik gisteravond stelde ik dat morgen (vandaag dus) echt naar mijn werk moest, dreigde manlief met het onklaar maken van mijn auto, "En je weet dat ik weet hoe dat moet.".
"Nou dan neem ik de truck"
"Nou, dan maak ik die ook onklaar. En dan bel ik Dan (mijn technisch aangelegde schoonvader) dat hij je niet mag vertellen hoe het te maken."
Belachelijk, snotterde en proestte ik.
Nu is er gelukkig een ding waar ze in de VS wel heel goed in zijn: over-the-counter medication. Dingen die je in Nederland alleen op recept kan krijgen, zijn hier vrij verkrijgbaar. En, dames en heren, wat is dat geweldig. Ik heb iets voor het hoesten, iets voor mijn hoofdpijn, iets voor de pijn op de borst, en een soort mega-zinc-vitamine pil. En natuurlijk alle geweldige pijnstillers die we hier kennen. Dingen waarvan ik ga slapen, en dingen waarvan ik wakker word. Niks zeuren met stomen, en uren in een dokter's wachtkamer zitten. Je gaat naar je lokale CVS of Kroger of Publix, en voila.
Maar ja, ziek in de VS is helaas wel gewoon hetzelfde als ziek in Nederland. Aangezien ik me ondertussen toch aardig belabberd voelde, gaf ik toe aan manlief. Momenteel is de koorts, dankzij twee Tylenol en wat ibuprofen, redelijk normaal (nou ja, 100.3 graden, oftewel 38 zoveel), maar persoonlijk vrees ik dat het morgen ook niks word.
Jongens, dit kan niet hoor. Ik heb things to do, places to go, en thuis zitten terwijl ik me niet lekker voel, en dus ook niet behoorlijk kan bloggen, TV kijken, of ander vermakelijke dingen doen, is echt helemaal niks voor mij. En dan hebben we het nog niet eens over alle gemiste hardloop-, fiets-, en zwemkansen. Duimen jullie mee dat het snel weer beter gaat?
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
E-dag: Wachtend op de uitslag
Eindelijk is het zover: mijn eerst echte Amerikaanse presidentsverkiezing. De eerste waarin ik mee mocht stemmen, en dus de eerste waarbij ik echt het gevoel heb iets te verliezen heb. En lieve mensen, wat een nagelbijter. Al weken, wat zeg ik, maanden is het feest met reclames, nieuws uitzendingen, en rijen van nutteloze statistieken over alle mogelijk denkbare stemgroepen. En dan vandaag is het eindelijk zover. D-day. Of, nou ja, E-day. De dag der alle dagen. De dag waarop iedereen mag stemmen, en dan zeker weet dat ze de komende drie-en-een-half jaar van eindeloze telefoontjes, smakeloze reclames, en bergen post verlost zijn.
En in tegenstelling tot vorige keer is het op het moment dat ik dit schrijf, nog helemaal niet zeker wie er gaat winnen. Er wordt gesproken over een gelijkspel, of een situatie waarbij de winnaar van de kiesmannen niet de meerderheid van de stemmen heeft, of zelfs een herhaling van de verkiezing van 2000, waarbij het Hoge Gerechtshof uiteindelijk het doorslaggevende woord moest geven. Er zijn hele ramp scenario's uit de doeken gedaan, inclusief eentje waarbij het congres uiteindelijk voor president en vice-president moest stemmen, en we met President Romney en Vice-President Biden opgescheept zouden zitten.
En ik kan u zeggen: dat is allemaal veel minder vermakelijk wanneer je zelf gestemd hebt. In 2000, toen ik tijdens de verkiezing en de ellenlange nasleep in Texas zat, was het hele circus eerder ongelooflijk dan zorgwekkend. En toen in 2004, de hele verkiezing af leek te hangen van vijf counties in Ohio, was ik veel meer bezig met de moord op Theo van Gogh, dan dat maffe circus waar ik toch niet aan mee mocht doen. In 2008, met honderden studenten die maar niet op konden houden over het feit dat we misschien wel eens een zwarte president zouden kunnen hebben, werd het al iets echter, maar toch was het meer een interessant antropologisch verschijnschel, dan een toekomst-bepalende ontwikkeling.
Nu, anno 2012, is het allemaal anders. Niet alleen mag ik stemmen (en heb ik dat ook met gepaste trots gedaan), maar ook heb ik, door Amerikaan te worden, me toch wel onlosmakelijk aan dit land, haar politici, en haar toekomst vast gelegd. En dan zijn verkiezingen in een keer veel minder grappig, of apart, of circus-achtig. Het is in een keer serious business, people.
En dus loop ik nu al een uur door het huis te ijsberen, op zoek naar afleiding, terwijl ik eigenlijk mijn ogen niet van de televisie af kan houden. Zenuwslopend is het, zeg ik u. Wie had ooit kunnen weten dat Amerikaan worden zo slecht voor mijn hart zou zijn.
En in tegenstelling tot vorige keer is het op het moment dat ik dit schrijf, nog helemaal niet zeker wie er gaat winnen. Er wordt gesproken over een gelijkspel, of een situatie waarbij de winnaar van de kiesmannen niet de meerderheid van de stemmen heeft, of zelfs een herhaling van de verkiezing van 2000, waarbij het Hoge Gerechtshof uiteindelijk het doorslaggevende woord moest geven. Er zijn hele ramp scenario's uit de doeken gedaan, inclusief eentje waarbij het congres uiteindelijk voor president en vice-president moest stemmen, en we met President Romney en Vice-President Biden opgescheept zouden zitten.
En ik kan u zeggen: dat is allemaal veel minder vermakelijk wanneer je zelf gestemd hebt. In 2000, toen ik tijdens de verkiezing en de ellenlange nasleep in Texas zat, was het hele circus eerder ongelooflijk dan zorgwekkend. En toen in 2004, de hele verkiezing af leek te hangen van vijf counties in Ohio, was ik veel meer bezig met de moord op Theo van Gogh, dan dat maffe circus waar ik toch niet aan mee mocht doen. In 2008, met honderden studenten die maar niet op konden houden over het feit dat we misschien wel eens een zwarte president zouden kunnen hebben, werd het al iets echter, maar toch was het meer een interessant antropologisch verschijnschel, dan een toekomst-bepalende ontwikkeling.
Nu, anno 2012, is het allemaal anders. Niet alleen mag ik stemmen (en heb ik dat ook met gepaste trots gedaan), maar ook heb ik, door Amerikaan te worden, me toch wel onlosmakelijk aan dit land, haar politici, en haar toekomst vast gelegd. En dan zijn verkiezingen in een keer veel minder grappig, of apart, of circus-achtig. Het is in een keer serious business, people.
En dus loop ik nu al een uur door het huis te ijsberen, op zoek naar afleiding, terwijl ik eigenlijk mijn ogen niet van de televisie af kan houden. Zenuwslopend is het, zeg ik u. Wie had ooit kunnen weten dat Amerikaan worden zo slecht voor mijn hart zou zijn.
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