Just when you thought you had seen it all when it came to Georgia bugs, something happens to prove that those pesky bugs always come up with new ways to freak you out. Personally, I really thought I had gotten my tendency to freak out whenever I see a bug larger than, oh, say my thumbnail under control. I really did. Last fall, for instance, when we had more than our share of roaches try to move into our house, I didn't flinch or squeal once. And, one memorable night, when husband-dear and I were lying on the couch, and a roach came floating down from the vent high over our heads, hovered right in front of us, and almost landed on Zoe's head, the conversation between husband-dear and I went something like this:
"Was that a roach?" (Me)
"I think so." (husband-dear)
"Huh. Is it dead?"
"No, but Zoe's got it."
"OK. Well, I'll call pest control on Monday."
"OK. Let me just make sure Zoe doesn't eat it."
"Sure. Just throw it in the trash."
People, if that's not poised, under control, and most of all, non-freaked-out, then I don't know what is. I was so proud of myself. I was finally bug-proof. And when pest-control came and told me that I'd have to leave any dead roaches I found lying around for a few days, as the little buggaboos are apparently cannibalistic and will eat their own friends and family, even if they are poison-ridden, I just said, "OK.", as though having dead roaches lying around your house is the most normal thing in the world. (I'm actually certain that in Georgia, it is).
Well.
That was a few months ago, and things change.
So I don't know if I've mentioned this, but working on a research grant comes with a lot of perks (How is this related to bugs, you ask? Don't worry, we'll get there). For one thing, it halved the number of class I have to teach, the number of office hours I have to hold, and the number of advisees I'm responsible for. Not that I don't genuinely love teaching and dealing with students, but every once in a while a break is not a bad thing. Then, of course, there is the fact that you get to work on something you really, really like, without having to squeeze it in between classes, appointments, bedtime and breakfast. And there are a whole host of other perks that no one really tells you about until you actually start. Office supplies, for instance. The foundation that pays for my grant gives you office supplies. There is no more begging for paper and toner, no more bringing staplers and holepunches from home. There is simply money to purchase those things. And manila folders. And pens. Have I ever mentioned the severe shortage of those two things on any given campus? The best perk, however, is the fact that you get a separate office. On a campus where space is so tight that some departments have to place two faculty members in one room, office space is the holiest of holies. So while my regular office is small, with a door placed in a very awkward place, the fact that it is my own and has a window makes it pretty close to heavenly. However, it is also the place where everyone and their brother knows to find me. It doesn't matter if my door is open or shut, whether I'm having office hours or meeting with the dean, eating lunch or on the phone, people will find me and demand to see me. And when you're only paid to teach and deal with students 2,5 days out of the week, this is a problem.
So it wasn't long before my program manager decided that the best way for me to remain productive while on this grant was to have a separate office for those days I work on the grant. In a different building. On the other side of campus. A few weeks ago, I first got the key, and this office is the bees' knees. It's square, with the door in a very logical place, and so large I could put a bed in it, and no one would probably even notice. It has a window that opens, new carpet, and will be stocked with brand new furniture in the near future. It's on the top floor of a building filled with researchers and non-teaching programs, and so the hallways are quiet and empty most of the time. To say I was excited was an understatement. In fact, I might have even done a very quiet little dance when I first stepped into the office.
But then my program manager, who is housed across the hallway, showed up with a spray bottle in his hand. You see, the office is housed in a very, very old building. One of those pretty buildings that Europeans always gush over when they visit American campuses. It's beautiful. But old. And old in the south means there are bugs everywhere. Especially roaches. And so my program manager keeps a bottle of industrial-strengh roach killer in his office, and loans it to every new occupant to spray their baseboards. In my case, he argued, it was especially important that I spray my office, since my neighbor had been struggling with a roach infestation for a while now. Lovely. But you know, you're in Georgia, you know all about roaches, you take the spray bottle, hose your office down, wash your hands, move on, and only keep a slightly squeamish eye on the floor while you get to work.
That first morning went very well. I settled in, worked, worked, and worked some more. But then I had to run an errand. And when I came back, and opened my office door, I saw something fly across the carpet. My first observation, it was not brown. That was good. It was also not round. That was also good. It was, however, something a little unexpected, namely green and long. Round and brown is gross but fairly normal, so I wasn't sure how to feel about green and long. The green and long thing stopped running around, and hid under one of my chairs. Whispering "eeuw, eeuw, eeuw!" under my breath, I kneeled down, gazed at the critter, and then squealed in all earnestness when I realized that I had a gecko in my office. A fully grown, green, and incredibly spooked gecko.
My squeal brought my program manager and his neighbor out of their offices, who looked at the gecko with all the curiosity one would expect from a couple of boys. Men, I mean. Apparently geckos eat flies, do all sorts of other useful things, and score very high on the "that's so cool!" men-scale. I was not impressed. However, the gecko had since hidden under my filing cabinet, and was not to be stirred from his or her spot. So I sighed a really big sigh, sat down, and figured that I would at least not be bothered by any flying insects any time soon.
The gecko has made his appearance every once in a while since. It flutters from the filing cabinet to the desk to the baseboard on the other side of the room, and like me, it can't wait until I get more furniture for it to hide under. Every time I see it scoot around, I jump a little, but as I'm definitely not going on a gecko-killing mission any time soon, I figure I'll get used to it. In the meantime, I've named the beast too: Greta. Greta the gecko.
Now excuse me, Greta and I have some work to do.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Puppy Post: De Shelster
Normaliter zijn er maar drie redenen waarom ik op zaterdag ochtend om
zes uur al achter mijn bureau zit. Een: Het is commencement day, ik word
over twee uur in vol ornaat in het theater verwacht, en moet nog even
controleren wat mijn plek in de "marching order" is. Twee: het is de
week voor commencement en er moeten gewoon twintig papers nagekeken
worden. En drie: Het is lenter/zomer/herfst, en ik wil een flink eind
hardlopen voordat het te warm is. Het is, zoals u wel weet, nog lang
geen commencement, of finals week, en aangezien het midden in winter is,
is er ook geen reden om op allerlei godsonmogelijke tijden te sporten.
Nee, de reden waarom ik vandaag zo ontzettend vroeg wakker ben ligt
momenteel op mijn voeten te slapen: Shelby. Of "the shelster" zoals de jongens haar noemen
Shelby is een typisch geval. Zoe trouwens ook, maar daarover later meer. Shelby is aan de ene kant nergens bang voor, is vriendjes met alles en iedereen, en kan zichzelf prima vermaken. Waar haar zus een typische asielhond is in dat ze het liefst 24/7 geknuffeld wil worden, is Shelby het andere typische asiel geval omdat ze het eigenlijk allemaal prima zelf kan. Niet dat ze niet het liefst met aandacht omringd wordt, maar het hoeft niet. Maar aan de andere kant schrikt Shelby van de meest vreemde dingen. Dingen zoals mannen met petten op. Zaklantaarns (aan en uit). Gefluit. Dingen waardoor wij ons afvragen wat er in hemelsnaam met haar is gebeurd voordat ze bij ons kwam. En soms schrikt ze van dingen die ze eerder heel normaal vond, zoals haar Bob the Builder pop. Of haar eigen staart waarmee zichzelf slaat. Of mama die met luide stem tekeer gaat over de belachelijke (non-)acties van het Amerikaanse congres. Dat laatste, daar kan Zoe trouwens ook niet tegen. Stemverheffingen, verhitte discussies, luide gesprekken, de honden verdwijnen werkelijk onmiddelijk onder ons bed. Het maakt niet uit of manlief en ik elkaar het huis uitvechten, we het juist roerend eens zijn over de achterlijkheid van iets, of ik een Hamlet-achtige monoloog aan het uitvoeren ben over de Amerikaanse politiek, Zoe en Shelby vinden het maar doodeng.
En sinds vanochtend is Shelby dus ook bang van noodweer. Het stormt hier al weken af en aan, maar de laatste twee dagen heeft het ononophoudelijk geregend, gedonderd, gebliksemd, en gewaaid. Normaal trekt Shelby zich daar niks van aan, en dartelt met wapperende oren door alle modder die ze maar kan vinden in de achtertuin. Haar zus is degene die werkelijk niks van nattigheid moet hebben, en met opgetrokken neus heel snel door het natte gras huppelt, haar behoefte doet, en dan als een speer naar binnen wil. Nu. Nu! Maar goed, vanochtend, toen het weer eens aan het rommelen was, voelde ik het bed opeens trillen.
"Ben jij dat?" vroeg ik aan manlief.
"Nee, het is Shelby."
"Shelby?"Ik voeld op de vloer, en zeker, daar lag Shelby, tegen een van de poten van ons bed aan. Elke keer als er een donderslag door het huis galmde, begon ze te trillen.
Nu zijn wij hele slechte puppy ouders in dat wij 's ochtends de honden altijd eventjes op bed laten. En alhoewel het nog erg vroeg was, konden we het niet over ons hart verkrijgen om Shelby op de vloer bang te laten zijn. En dus deden we wat je vast nooit moet doen: we namen haar op bed. Voor de goede orde lieten we Zoe ook maar op ons voeteneinde klimmen, want sja, ook bij honden geldt gelijke monniken, gelijke kappen, niet waar? En toen hadden we een trillende hond op bed. Een hond die zo trilde dat ons hele matras, dat nota bene een tempurpedic is, en dus helemaal niet kan trillen, meedeinde.
Nu staat er vast in alle hondenboeken die we niet gelezen hebben dat als een hond bang, je haar moet negeren om het niet te stimuleren. Ook dat hebben we niet gedaan. We hebben Shelby zo goed en kwaad als het ging in een van onze dekens gezwachteld, en haar sussend toegesproken. En het trillen werd minder. Maar bij elke donderslag kromp het arme beestje in een. En dus, terwijl Zoe lekker lag te snurken aan het einde van het bed, bewogen manlief en ik ons tussen waken en slapen. En na een half uur trillend geprobeerd hebben weer in slaap te komen, heb ik het op gegeven.
En daarom zit ik om zes uur 's ochtends achter mijn bureau met een hele grote kop thee. Met een slapende hond op mijn voeten. Zij wel.
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| Shelby |
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| Zoe en Shelby in de voortuin |
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| Zoe |
Thursday, February 14, 2013
There is the love!
So there's still love plenty of love between my blog and me. The fact that we weren't on speaking terms for a few weeks has more to do with my own inability to get the thoughts swirling through my head on to the screen. And just to clear things up, it didn't help that blog posts usually come to me while I'm showering or driving my car. By the time I'd get out of the shower or my car there was usually either a day to begin or end, and little time or energy for writing down those thoughts, which seemed far less awesome and deep out in the real world anyway.
But, all of that is behind us now, and my blog and I are back to the way we've always been: sarcastic, cynical, but definitely in love. And there probably isn't a better day to rekindle that love than on Valentine's Day. Coincidence? Of course not.
Personally I'm still not entirely sure what I think about Valentine's Day. As the girl who never ever ever had a boyfriend around Valentine's Day, and so who never ever ever had anything to show her friends on that dreaded day, I grew up firmly believing that Valentine's Day was an absolutely ridiculous financial exploitation of human relationships. Yes, I had graduate school written all over at a very early age. Secretly, of course, I wanted nothing more than a card and some flowers, so everyone would know that although I too was definitely normal, and just like everyone else. My whole Valentine's complex wasn't helped by the fact that once I made it to college, and actually did have a semi-significant other who lasted through Christmas, I broke up right before Valentine's Day. Poor guy.
Anyway, then came husband-dear. As you may have surmised from last year's Valentine's Day's post, husband-dear was a little skittish when we met. OK, he was a lot skittish. And you know what, most of the time, it didn't bother me too much. He had a life, I had a life (well, I was busy running surveys and coming up with even more complicated methods of analysis), and I figured he would come around eventually. Except on our first Valentine's Day together. Suddenly, him being my boyfriend really mattered. Really mattered. However, being the complete newbies at this whole intercultural, blended family thing that we were, neither one of us said a word about that day. And this turned out to be a big. Deal. Especially if one of you expects a card with some sort of declaration of at least serious liking on there, and the other believes that any show of love on Valentine's Day would indicate a desire to get married the next week and start making babies (or something. I'm not sure what husband-dear was thinking, but that's my closest guess).
You can guess what happened: I got husband-dear a card, while he, in return, got me nothing. I would love to tell you that the fallout was not pretty, but there really was little fallout. Sure, I cried on friends' shoulders about how this my first Valentine's Day with a boyfriend, and I still hadn't gotten anything, but that was about it. I believe the only thing I said to him was something about how it would have been nice if he had gotten me a card, and that was it. I figured, in a ruthlessly logical way, that since I hadn't communicated my expectations to him, I shouldn't have had any to begin with. I'm telling you, running analyses for months on end does things to your mind.
I never told husband-dear about how hurt I had been by that first Valentine's Day until the next year, right before our second Valentine's Day, and right after we'd gotten married*. I'm not sure what I said, but something about how that had been the first Valentine's Day on which I had a boyfriend, and how I had so been hoping to finally get something. I remember I said it in passing, in the checkout line at the commissary, without really meaning anything by it (I'm still up to my eyeballs in data analysis and write-ups at this point). Husband-dear, however, almost cried. In the checkout line. While wearing his uniform**. He had had no idea, and felt horrible.
But he made up for that lost Valentine that year, and all the year's after. I have come into my office to find my desk covered with chocolate kisses. I have gotten stuffed animals, jewelry, flowers, candies, coloring books and crayons when it's been a stressful year (I like to color when I need to unwind - don't judge), and the sweetest cards you can imagine. I've come home to a house filled with candles and the song we danced to at our wedding (the "real" one) playing on the stereo, to a three-course meal complete with a fully decorated table and a chocolate martini, and tiramisu in the oven. We may not have had a "first" Valentine, but the ones since have been the best.
Happy Valentine's Day everyone - show everyone where the love is!
*Technically, we got married twice. Our legal wedding was months before our "real" wedding, to ensure some military stuff would be taken care of. The one in January is our legal wedding, and the one husband-dear claims we shouldn't celebrate. But every year, he asks me if we are, just be on the safe side. Yes, that first Valentine's still haunts him today.
**And he is going to kill me for telling you this.
But, all of that is behind us now, and my blog and I are back to the way we've always been: sarcastic, cynical, but definitely in love. And there probably isn't a better day to rekindle that love than on Valentine's Day. Coincidence? Of course not.
Personally I'm still not entirely sure what I think about Valentine's Day. As the girl who never ever ever had a boyfriend around Valentine's Day, and so who never ever ever had anything to show her friends on that dreaded day, I grew up firmly believing that Valentine's Day was an absolutely ridiculous financial exploitation of human relationships. Yes, I had graduate school written all over at a very early age. Secretly, of course, I wanted nothing more than a card and some flowers, so everyone would know that although I too was definitely normal, and just like everyone else. My whole Valentine's complex wasn't helped by the fact that once I made it to college, and actually did have a semi-significant other who lasted through Christmas, I broke up right before Valentine's Day. Poor guy.
Anyway, then came husband-dear. As you may have surmised from last year's Valentine's Day's post, husband-dear was a little skittish when we met. OK, he was a lot skittish. And you know what, most of the time, it didn't bother me too much. He had a life, I had a life (well, I was busy running surveys and coming up with even more complicated methods of analysis), and I figured he would come around eventually. Except on our first Valentine's Day together. Suddenly, him being my boyfriend really mattered. Really mattered. However, being the complete newbies at this whole intercultural, blended family thing that we were, neither one of us said a word about that day. And this turned out to be a big. Deal. Especially if one of you expects a card with some sort of declaration of at least serious liking on there, and the other believes that any show of love on Valentine's Day would indicate a desire to get married the next week and start making babies (or something. I'm not sure what husband-dear was thinking, but that's my closest guess).
You can guess what happened: I got husband-dear a card, while he, in return, got me nothing. I would love to tell you that the fallout was not pretty, but there really was little fallout. Sure, I cried on friends' shoulders about how this my first Valentine's Day with a boyfriend, and I still hadn't gotten anything, but that was about it. I believe the only thing I said to him was something about how it would have been nice if he had gotten me a card, and that was it. I figured, in a ruthlessly logical way, that since I hadn't communicated my expectations to him, I shouldn't have had any to begin with. I'm telling you, running analyses for months on end does things to your mind.
I never told husband-dear about how hurt I had been by that first Valentine's Day until the next year, right before our second Valentine's Day, and right after we'd gotten married*. I'm not sure what I said, but something about how that had been the first Valentine's Day on which I had a boyfriend, and how I had so been hoping to finally get something. I remember I said it in passing, in the checkout line at the commissary, without really meaning anything by it (I'm still up to my eyeballs in data analysis and write-ups at this point). Husband-dear, however, almost cried. In the checkout line. While wearing his uniform**. He had had no idea, and felt horrible.
But he made up for that lost Valentine that year, and all the year's after. I have come into my office to find my desk covered with chocolate kisses. I have gotten stuffed animals, jewelry, flowers, candies, coloring books and crayons when it's been a stressful year (I like to color when I need to unwind - don't judge), and the sweetest cards you can imagine. I've come home to a house filled with candles and the song we danced to at our wedding (the "real" one) playing on the stereo, to a three-course meal complete with a fully decorated table and a chocolate martini, and tiramisu in the oven. We may not have had a "first" Valentine, but the ones since have been the best.
Happy Valentine's Day everyone - show everyone where the love is!
*Technically, we got married twice. Our legal wedding was months before our "real" wedding, to ensure some military stuff would be taken care of. The one in January is our legal wedding, and the one husband-dear claims we shouldn't celebrate. But every year, he asks me if we are, just be on the safe side. Yes, that first Valentine's still haunts him today.
**And he is going to kill me for telling you this.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Little rays of sunshine
After last week's little diatribe, I received a lot of love via email and Facebook, and to that I can only say "thank you". It means a lot to me to know that I'm not the only one whose life is far from perfect, whose kids do things that leave you stare in wonder and flabbergasted silence, and whose house would never ever be featured on any HGTV show. Thank you for making me aware that what's "normal" is really only relative.
My normal, this past week, seems to have settled down. I'm not holding my breath just yet, but we've gotten some good grades (Hallelujah, amen, and Praise Jesus), haven't had any drama, and things seem to be OK. I only had to bake one batch of cupcakes this past weekend, and that was because Ozzie's birthday is next week, and I wanted to make sure I knew what I was going.
Well, that, and because the thought of not having picked out a major race for this season is freaking me out. But I may need to do some more baking before I figure that one out. I mean, do I want to do the half ironman close by, but that's known for being held in 100F weather? Or do I want to travel our of state for one? And am I ok with swimming 1.2 miles in the ocean (waves! salt! tides!)? Or do I want to train for a marathon? Or should I just give up on all this halfsies stuff and start training for the real deal (a.k.a a full ironman) instead?
Yeah, I'm thinking it will take more than a batch of cupcakes to figure that out.
In the meantime, work has been, well, pretty glorious. I'm sure bringing in left-over pear cake, pear pie, and cupcakes has helped ingratiate me with various co-workers, administrators, and secretaries, but on the whole, things have just been good. Only teaching two classes has just been freaking awesome. Don't get me wrong, I love my students, I do. But dealing with them for only two days a week makes the whole process so much more enjoyable. I can handle their shenanigans, their silly excuses, their blank stares when I ask a question so much better when I know I only have to deal with that four times a week. And working on the research community has meant I get to work with academics. People who like research. People who love research. People who could talk research all day long. People who agree to meet over lunch so we can talk about new research ideas. Oh, and because I'm not teaching, I get to wear jeans. To work. Ha! It's been fabulous. Best semester so far, hands down.
In the meantime, husband-dear and I are planning a variety of projects for our house. Some of these projects I have never had to tackle before because I've never lived anywhere this long before, but they sound vaguely interesting, like "paint the door frames", and "re-paint the kids' rooms". Others are things we've been wanting to do for years, "paint the living room", and "put tile down in the kitchen", and I think we're finally coming to terms with the idea that we just need to bite down and get them over and done with. And then there are those projects which we've been dreaming about for years, such as a shed (that would be husband-dear's dream, not mine), and a pool (yep! me!) which we may be able to realize as well. Now, when I say pool, I mean above-ground pool with an impressively layered deck so we don't look like hillbillies, but still, a pool. We'll see.
So our normal, even though it will most likely be fraught with step-child/ex-wifecraziness issues for some time to come, is definitely looking up. And especially if that normal include a pool.
My normal, this past week, seems to have settled down. I'm not holding my breath just yet, but we've gotten some good grades (Hallelujah, amen, and Praise Jesus), haven't had any drama, and things seem to be OK. I only had to bake one batch of cupcakes this past weekend, and that was because Ozzie's birthday is next week, and I wanted to make sure I knew what I was going.
Well, that, and because the thought of not having picked out a major race for this season is freaking me out. But I may need to do some more baking before I figure that one out. I mean, do I want to do the half ironman close by, but that's known for being held in 100F weather? Or do I want to travel our of state for one? And am I ok with swimming 1.2 miles in the ocean (waves! salt! tides!)? Or do I want to train for a marathon? Or should I just give up on all this halfsies stuff and start training for the real deal (a.k.a a full ironman) instead?
Yeah, I'm thinking it will take more than a batch of cupcakes to figure that out.
In the meantime, work has been, well, pretty glorious. I'm sure bringing in left-over pear cake, pear pie, and cupcakes has helped ingratiate me with various co-workers, administrators, and secretaries, but on the whole, things have just been good. Only teaching two classes has just been freaking awesome. Don't get me wrong, I love my students, I do. But dealing with them for only two days a week makes the whole process so much more enjoyable. I can handle their shenanigans, their silly excuses, their blank stares when I ask a question so much better when I know I only have to deal with that four times a week. And working on the research community has meant I get to work with academics. People who like research. People who love research. People who could talk research all day long. People who agree to meet over lunch so we can talk about new research ideas. Oh, and because I'm not teaching, I get to wear jeans. To work. Ha! It's been fabulous. Best semester so far, hands down.
In the meantime, husband-dear and I are planning a variety of projects for our house. Some of these projects I have never had to tackle before because I've never lived anywhere this long before, but they sound vaguely interesting, like "paint the door frames", and "re-paint the kids' rooms". Others are things we've been wanting to do for years, "paint the living room", and "put tile down in the kitchen", and I think we're finally coming to terms with the idea that we just need to bite down and get them over and done with. And then there are those projects which we've been dreaming about for years, such as a shed (that would be husband-dear's dream, not mine), and a pool (yep! me!) which we may be able to realize as well. Now, when I say pool, I mean above-ground pool with an impressively layered deck so we don't look like hillbillies, but still, a pool. We'll see.
So our normal, even though it will most likely be fraught with step-child/ex-wife
Monday, January 28, 2013
Not my story
When you write, write what you know. Or feel. Or think. It's what I tell all my students, and it's an adage that I too live by religiously. If you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll know it's true. No matter how badly I try to create a theme ("life in the south!", "life as an academic!", "the life of a triathlete"), there's always that awkward moment when I simply have to write about something completely different (say, our misbehaving puppies, trips overseas, and the importance of bathrooms), for no other reason than that it's been on my mind.
This is also the reason I have not blogged in two weeks. And why blogging prior to my last post was sporadic to say the least. It's not because I don't have anything to say, because heavens knows that moment won't come until I'm six feet under the ground, but because what is on my heart and mind is not something I feel comfortable sharing. It's not my story. It's someone else's. And although I don't mind talking about other people ad nauseum, albeit under a fake name, it has always been under the guise of their lives being part of my story. And this story isn't just part of my life, it's part of lots of other people's lives too.
And the story that's been on my mind, heart, and soul is about Ozzie and Jimmie. Who, of course, aren't really called Ozzie and Jimmie at all. But that's part of my blogging deal. I know there are bloggers who have no qualms about sharing their children's names, pictures, funny, sad, and happy stories, but I'm not one of them. Maybe it's because they're a little bigger and older than the average, oh, toddler or pre-teen, or maybe it's because they're never really mine. I don't know. But apart from some minor tales about Jimmie's bullying problems and Ozzie's likeness to Sheldon Cooper, I've written very little about them on this blog. And as they are possibly the easiest stepchildren any stepmom could wish for, that hasn't been difficult at all.
Lately, however, their stories have become more complicated. More rife with questions, worries, and strife. Although fundamentally, most of their issues are no harder or worse than what any mother with teenagers would face, in my case, they feel very different. There's more people in the picture, such as their biological dad (you know, the long-suffering, always patient man known as husband-dear), but also people who have begun to play a much more important role in the recent years; their biological mother, their relatively new stepdad and stepbrother. And it's exactly this presence of multiple people, roles, and influences that has rendered every situation more complex, more fraught with questions and doubt, and harder to write about. I want to write about Ozzie's struggles and Jimmie's quest to grow up as quickly as possible (or maybe not), but I can't. Because then I would have to write about their mother too. And their stepdad. And my very own husband-dear, of course. And they never asked to be on this blog, let alone be an object of analysis. As I said, as much as this is part of my life story, my future, my dreams, it's also not my story alone.
In addition, having problems such as these in the first place, makes me feel broken. Incomplete. Even failed. I always joke about how I don't like the term "broken family" and prefer "blended" or "julienne", but in reality, that is what we are, a broken family. Our kids have two homes, four parents, and different expectations everywhere they go. Making our family work in all of its complicated dimensions takes a lot of effort, patience, and good will. And sometimes it seems that we all just run out of everything at the same time, leaving nothing but a feeling of falling short. Of guilt for not trying harder, being better, showing more grace.
It doesn't help that everyone whose blog I seem to read lately has the seemingly perfect family. And I know that that's just a facade, that everyone has problems, just like I hide our fights behind funny stories about dirty kitchen floors and cleaning ladies. But everyone I know is on their first marriage, with kids that only belong to them and their spouse. Many of them are pregnant, dealing with questions such as whether or not to paint the nursery, reveal the gender, and feeling the pressure to defend the preference for a home birth. Important matters? Yes. Definitely. Matters I would love to have be my problems? Oh, yes. No one I know seems to deal with complicated pick up and drop off schedules, phonecalls about whether someone's band shoes got left at the other house, and why one house seems to hog all the new jeans, and more problematic issues such as the definition of acceptable grades. Not to mention the worry about whether or not you're doing a good job, if maybe the other parent is handling things smarter or not, how that will affect your children, and whether or not you should/could/must address this. It's both scary and lonely.
So in lieu of writing, I've been baking. A lot. It helps me whenever I'm stressed, or just blah, and have already ran/biked/swam that day. This past weekend, just to give you an idea, I baked three fresh pear cakes, twelve honey-blueberry muffins, one pear-apple pie, and one loaf of bread. I would have kept going, had I not run out of counter space and containers. The kids loved it, the neighbors loved it, and so will my co-workers once I start sharing. It may not be the story that it's in my head, but it's sharing something of me. And that's better than nothing at all.
I wanted to end with a flippant final sentence here, drawing a parallel between baking and life. Perhaps something like "when the ingredients are in the bowl, they don't look like much, but when the final product is amazing", or "just like baking, life requires patience and a vision of how things will turn out". But instead I will end with what husband-dear wrote after proofreading my blog (as this is, after all, his story too): "Someone, somewhere else may read it and know they are not the only ones baking with an ever changing recipe".
This is also the reason I have not blogged in two weeks. And why blogging prior to my last post was sporadic to say the least. It's not because I don't have anything to say, because heavens knows that moment won't come until I'm six feet under the ground, but because what is on my heart and mind is not something I feel comfortable sharing. It's not my story. It's someone else's. And although I don't mind talking about other people ad nauseum, albeit under a fake name, it has always been under the guise of their lives being part of my story. And this story isn't just part of my life, it's part of lots of other people's lives too.
And the story that's been on my mind, heart, and soul is about Ozzie and Jimmie. Who, of course, aren't really called Ozzie and Jimmie at all. But that's part of my blogging deal. I know there are bloggers who have no qualms about sharing their children's names, pictures, funny, sad, and happy stories, but I'm not one of them. Maybe it's because they're a little bigger and older than the average, oh, toddler or pre-teen, or maybe it's because they're never really mine. I don't know. But apart from some minor tales about Jimmie's bullying problems and Ozzie's likeness to Sheldon Cooper, I've written very little about them on this blog. And as they are possibly the easiest stepchildren any stepmom could wish for, that hasn't been difficult at all.
Lately, however, their stories have become more complicated. More rife with questions, worries, and strife. Although fundamentally, most of their issues are no harder or worse than what any mother with teenagers would face, in my case, they feel very different. There's more people in the picture, such as their biological dad (you know, the long-suffering, always patient man known as husband-dear), but also people who have begun to play a much more important role in the recent years; their biological mother, their relatively new stepdad and stepbrother. And it's exactly this presence of multiple people, roles, and influences that has rendered every situation more complex, more fraught with questions and doubt, and harder to write about. I want to write about Ozzie's struggles and Jimmie's quest to grow up as quickly as possible (or maybe not), but I can't. Because then I would have to write about their mother too. And their stepdad. And my very own husband-dear, of course. And they never asked to be on this blog, let alone be an object of analysis. As I said, as much as this is part of my life story, my future, my dreams, it's also not my story alone.
In addition, having problems such as these in the first place, makes me feel broken. Incomplete. Even failed. I always joke about how I don't like the term "broken family" and prefer "blended" or "julienne", but in reality, that is what we are, a broken family. Our kids have two homes, four parents, and different expectations everywhere they go. Making our family work in all of its complicated dimensions takes a lot of effort, patience, and good will. And sometimes it seems that we all just run out of everything at the same time, leaving nothing but a feeling of falling short. Of guilt for not trying harder, being better, showing more grace.
It doesn't help that everyone whose blog I seem to read lately has the seemingly perfect family. And I know that that's just a facade, that everyone has problems, just like I hide our fights behind funny stories about dirty kitchen floors and cleaning ladies. But everyone I know is on their first marriage, with kids that only belong to them and their spouse. Many of them are pregnant, dealing with questions such as whether or not to paint the nursery, reveal the gender, and feeling the pressure to defend the preference for a home birth. Important matters? Yes. Definitely. Matters I would love to have be my problems? Oh, yes. No one I know seems to deal with complicated pick up and drop off schedules, phonecalls about whether someone's band shoes got left at the other house, and why one house seems to hog all the new jeans, and more problematic issues such as the definition of acceptable grades. Not to mention the worry about whether or not you're doing a good job, if maybe the other parent is handling things smarter or not, how that will affect your children, and whether or not you should/could/must address this. It's both scary and lonely.
So in lieu of writing, I've been baking. A lot. It helps me whenever I'm stressed, or just blah, and have already ran/biked/swam that day. This past weekend, just to give you an idea, I baked three fresh pear cakes, twelve honey-blueberry muffins, one pear-apple pie, and one loaf of bread. I would have kept going, had I not run out of counter space and containers. The kids loved it, the neighbors loved it, and so will my co-workers once I start sharing. It may not be the story that it's in my head, but it's sharing something of me. And that's better than nothing at all.
I wanted to end with a flippant final sentence here, drawing a parallel between baking and life. Perhaps something like "when the ingredients are in the bowl, they don't look like much, but when the final product is amazing", or "just like baking, life requires patience and a vision of how things will turn out". But instead I will end with what husband-dear wrote after proofreading my blog (as this is, after all, his story too): "Someone, somewhere else may read it and know they are not the only ones baking with an ever changing recipe".
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
4, 3, 6, 5: On the importance of research assistants
I'm not dead, haven't sunk into a depression, and I haven't given up on blogging either. I promise. I've just been a little overwhelmed. Oh, and busy giving myself road rash while running. But anyway, whenever I get overwhelmed, I do what has worked so well in the past decade of academia, I man the hatches, hunker down, get 'r done, and pretty much fall off the face of the earth. Ask husband-dear, he's barely seen me in the past ten days. And if he hasn't seen me, you know it's bad.
In case you're expecting the standard "classes started and life got busy" spiel I give you guys twice a year, I can triumphantly tell you that that is not the case. Nope. Well, sure, having 70% of my advisees realize that, oh, hey, classes have started, and I'm not registered yet! didn't help, but it wasn't the crux of my absence. Nope. That can be blamed on the baby-drama, my new project, and Steve*.
First of all, everyone around me is pregnant. Honestly. If you're reading this, and you're not pregnant, you better be sure, because everyone else is. In fact, if you want to become pregnant, just make friends with me, and I guarantee you a pregnancy within six months to a year. Promise. Although after three-plus years after no-baby-gate, I'm really sort of OK with the no-baby thing most of the time, being surrounded by nothing but glowing, pregnant women has not been easy. So over Christmas break, when my period was on a three-month hiatus, and I was sick, sicker, and sickest, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, maybe-maybe-maybe, a miracle had occurred. Well, obviously (as otherwise I would have probably been so excited I would have called each and everyone of you in person), there was no miracle. And although one would think one would get used to this sort of disappointment, this particular time was rough. It didn't help that even though husband-dear and I had not said a word about this to each other at all, when I asked him to add tampons to the grocery list because my period had started, he started to cry. In spite of knowing better, he had been hoping for the miracle too.
So to say that put me in a bad mood would be an understatement. Add to that the fact that my entire reader seemed to be overflowing with pregnancy/baby tales, and the fact that I believe in writing what you know while not wanting to write about this again, and you might see why my brief blogging break turned into a somewhat lengthy hiatus.
Then there is the new project. I mentioned this before Christmas break, and people, it's awesome. I'm only teaching two classes, and have been able to spend the rest of my time working on this new health communication initiative, designing outcomes, trying to understand NIH requirements, and talking to as many experts and interested parties as possible. As your classic type-A, overachiever personality, you can see how I can make this really big, really quick, and I did. The thing has got so much momentum, there are times when I'm not sure where to begin. People love the initiative, want to help, give feedback, collaborate, and OMG this could be huge if I just get everything done right now.
Right.
So lots of hours poring over ideas, spreadsheets, schedules, and research proposals, and a head filled with things to do, people to talk to, concepts to consider.
And finally, there's Steve. Or more accurately, there's a project Steve and I have been working on. We started it last semester, and because I apparently had a brainwave of awesome proportions before the summer, I commissioned a few research assistants. While Steve and I played with the questionnaire design, concept mapping, and data analysis, they collected and entered all the data for hundreds of respondents. It was awesome. Then the semester ended, the research assistants graduated, and Steve send me much-dreaded email, "The results are not clear enough. We need more data."
Steve, you see, works for a research institution. A place where people teach two classes per semester, if that. A place where there's an army of graduate assistants dying to help you with your projects. But the data collection is taking place at my institution, where everyone teaches at least four classes, and graduate assistants are hard to come by.
So I cussed Steve out, told him to get creative, but it was to no avail. He was right. We needed more data. With my research assistants out in the real world, and no new candidates, you can guess who has spent the better part of last week visiting lectures, administering surveys and entering lots and lots of numbers. Exactly. Me. The deadline we're trying to make is in two weeks, so we have some time, but still, the pressure is on.
So there you have it, three reasons why I've been somewhat absent. I will be back, I promise. But right now, I need to go print out my latest and greatest project outcomes for a meeting I have in ten minutes, after which I need to haul butt to administer surveys to three back to back classes.
*Steve, for new readers, is a former colleague who decided to head for greener pastures and get his PhD at a Big Midwestern University. After three years of talking to each other through our paper thin office walls, we continue our conversation through gmail chat and Facebook, and continue to produce mind-boggling important research. Sort of.
In case you're expecting the standard "classes started and life got busy" spiel I give you guys twice a year, I can triumphantly tell you that that is not the case. Nope. Well, sure, having 70% of my advisees realize that, oh, hey, classes have started, and I'm not registered yet! didn't help, but it wasn't the crux of my absence. Nope. That can be blamed on the baby-drama, my new project, and Steve*.
First of all, everyone around me is pregnant. Honestly. If you're reading this, and you're not pregnant, you better be sure, because everyone else is. In fact, if you want to become pregnant, just make friends with me, and I guarantee you a pregnancy within six months to a year. Promise. Although after three-plus years after no-baby-gate, I'm really sort of OK with the no-baby thing most of the time, being surrounded by nothing but glowing, pregnant women has not been easy. So over Christmas break, when my period was on a three-month hiatus, and I was sick, sicker, and sickest, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, maybe-maybe-maybe, a miracle had occurred. Well, obviously (as otherwise I would have probably been so excited I would have called each and everyone of you in person), there was no miracle. And although one would think one would get used to this sort of disappointment, this particular time was rough. It didn't help that even though husband-dear and I had not said a word about this to each other at all, when I asked him to add tampons to the grocery list because my period had started, he started to cry. In spite of knowing better, he had been hoping for the miracle too.
So to say that put me in a bad mood would be an understatement. Add to that the fact that my entire reader seemed to be overflowing with pregnancy/baby tales, and the fact that I believe in writing what you know while not wanting to write about this again, and you might see why my brief blogging break turned into a somewhat lengthy hiatus.
Then there is the new project. I mentioned this before Christmas break, and people, it's awesome. I'm only teaching two classes, and have been able to spend the rest of my time working on this new health communication initiative, designing outcomes, trying to understand NIH requirements, and talking to as many experts and interested parties as possible. As your classic type-A, overachiever personality, you can see how I can make this really big, really quick, and I did. The thing has got so much momentum, there are times when I'm not sure where to begin. People love the initiative, want to help, give feedback, collaborate, and OMG this could be huge if I just get everything done right now.
Right.
So lots of hours poring over ideas, spreadsheets, schedules, and research proposals, and a head filled with things to do, people to talk to, concepts to consider.
And finally, there's Steve. Or more accurately, there's a project Steve and I have been working on. We started it last semester, and because I apparently had a brainwave of awesome proportions before the summer, I commissioned a few research assistants. While Steve and I played with the questionnaire design, concept mapping, and data analysis, they collected and entered all the data for hundreds of respondents. It was awesome. Then the semester ended, the research assistants graduated, and Steve send me much-dreaded email, "The results are not clear enough. We need more data."
Steve, you see, works for a research institution. A place where people teach two classes per semester, if that. A place where there's an army of graduate assistants dying to help you with your projects. But the data collection is taking place at my institution, where everyone teaches at least four classes, and graduate assistants are hard to come by.
So I cussed Steve out, told him to get creative, but it was to no avail. He was right. We needed more data. With my research assistants out in the real world, and no new candidates, you can guess who has spent the better part of last week visiting lectures, administering surveys and entering lots and lots of numbers. Exactly. Me. The deadline we're trying to make is in two weeks, so we have some time, but still, the pressure is on.
So there you have it, three reasons why I've been somewhat absent. I will be back, I promise. But right now, I need to go print out my latest and greatest project outcomes for a meeting I have in ten minutes, after which I need to haul butt to administer surveys to three back to back classes.
*Steve, for new readers, is a former colleague who decided to head for greener pastures and get his PhD at a Big Midwestern University. After three years of talking to each other through our paper thin office walls, we continue our conversation through gmail chat and Facebook, and continue to produce mind-boggling important research. Sort of.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
In Bruges...
"And I realized, f**, maybe that's what hell is, the entire rest of eternity spent in f*** Bruges. And I really really hoped I wouldn't die"
Ray ~ In Bruges
Although "In Bruges" is Belgium's answer to Quentin Tarantino and the Cohen Brothers combined, and definitely worth watching, assuming you're OK with 126 f-bombs dropped in a little over an hour and a half, a plot centered around three hitmen, a neo nazi, a dwarf, and a prostitute, and lots of useless violence, although the movie is awesome in spite of, or because of, all of that, I can firmly claim that Bruges is not hell. It is, in fact, the closest to the most perfectly historical, preserved, pretty, quaint, and quintessential European city there is. And I know this because when traveling to Holland for Christmas this year, husband-dear and I selected Bruges from a large selection of European cities (Paris, Brussels, Aachen. Venice, Trier, among others) as the destination of our four-day pre-Christmas getaway.
When planning this year's Christmas vacation, we knew from the start that we wanted to incorporate some DixieChick-Husband-dear alone time. We try to do this every year, and since the last time we had some husband-wife time that did not involve a marathon, a triathlon, or a mountainbike race, was in the spring of 2011, when we went on the cruise of a lifetime, we figured we were long overdue. We had several, fairly random criteria: It had to be cute and quaint (obviously. I mean, we live in a town made up of stripmalls, we need to be reminded that not the entire world is this ugly every once in a while); it had to not be in Germany (since husband-dear vowed he could not handle yet another German Christmas market after years of seeing nothing else in the month of December), and we had to be able to get there by train (husband-dear, who does not have the Dutch-student-life-public-transportation trauma I do, loves traveling by train).
After some fairly random internet searches ("I think Lara once told me Aachen is really cute. Let's look at Aachen..oh no, that looks way too German. No, we can't do that.") and equally random decision processes ("I'd like Paris, but you know we have been there before, and then if we were to go, I'd feel all this pressure to see all the right things and eat at all the right places. I mean, what if there's this awesome bistro everyone knows about, and we miss it? That would be horrible"), we decided on Bruges. Neither one of us had ever been there before, and our knowledge about the town was restricted to what I was able to recall from reading a single children's book about the middle ages, whose first chapter takes place in Bruges (yes, Dutch readers, that would be this book). After glancing at a few pictures of a beautiful town square decorated for Christmas with hundreds of lights and a real ice skating rink in the middle, our decision was made. We were going to Bruges.
For the next few weeks, TripAdvisor became my best friend, and after weighing the pros and cons of various hotels ("this one looks pretty from the outside, but the rooms look horrible", and "I am not staying in anything that's a chain. I don't care of it's a Belgian chain. I refuse to do anything chain-ish outside of here"), as well as the sanity of some of the reviewers ("Well, they claim the rooms are not up to par, but they also claim that the front desk clerk was 'merely formal' and 'seemed automated', so I'm not too sure about them"), we decided to spend all the kids' college money (OK I lie, all of Jimmie's college money) on a fairly nice hotel a few minutes away from the main square. Once that was done, we booked traintickets on the much-disparaged Fyra, and started to count down the days.
And Bruges delivered. Our four days there were absolutely magical. We had absolutely wonderful meals, sampled lots and lots of wine, spent days meandering through the gorgeous "egg" (the medieval town center), randomly stopping at the various churches liberally sprinkled throughout the town, climbed the belfry, went to a brewery, climbed one of the old city gates, got lost and used the many church spires to find our way back, saw Michaelangelo's sculpture of Mary and baby Jesus, walked all the way around the old city walls, ate far too much chocolate, drank more really good cappuccinos than I can count, and took lots of baths in the hot tub in our room. If you are ever in the position that you can only go to one city in Europe, I say forget Paris and go to Bruges. It has it all, but more, and all within walking distance.
For your benefit, I have enclosed some of my hundred or so pictures below.
Ray ~ In Bruges
Although "In Bruges" is Belgium's answer to Quentin Tarantino and the Cohen Brothers combined, and definitely worth watching, assuming you're OK with 126 f-bombs dropped in a little over an hour and a half, a plot centered around three hitmen, a neo nazi, a dwarf, and a prostitute, and lots of useless violence, although the movie is awesome in spite of, or because of, all of that, I can firmly claim that Bruges is not hell. It is, in fact, the closest to the most perfectly historical, preserved, pretty, quaint, and quintessential European city there is. And I know this because when traveling to Holland for Christmas this year, husband-dear and I selected Bruges from a large selection of European cities (Paris, Brussels, Aachen. Venice, Trier, among others) as the destination of our four-day pre-Christmas getaway.
When planning this year's Christmas vacation, we knew from the start that we wanted to incorporate some DixieChick-Husband-dear alone time. We try to do this every year, and since the last time we had some husband-wife time that did not involve a marathon, a triathlon, or a mountainbike race, was in the spring of 2011, when we went on the cruise of a lifetime, we figured we were long overdue. We had several, fairly random criteria: It had to be cute and quaint (obviously. I mean, we live in a town made up of stripmalls, we need to be reminded that not the entire world is this ugly every once in a while); it had to not be in Germany (since husband-dear vowed he could not handle yet another German Christmas market after years of seeing nothing else in the month of December), and we had to be able to get there by train (husband-dear, who does not have the Dutch-student-life-public-transportation trauma I do, loves traveling by train).
After some fairly random internet searches ("I think Lara once told me Aachen is really cute. Let's look at Aachen..oh no, that looks way too German. No, we can't do that.") and equally random decision processes ("I'd like Paris, but you know we have been there before, and then if we were to go, I'd feel all this pressure to see all the right things and eat at all the right places. I mean, what if there's this awesome bistro everyone knows about, and we miss it? That would be horrible"), we decided on Bruges. Neither one of us had ever been there before, and our knowledge about the town was restricted to what I was able to recall from reading a single children's book about the middle ages, whose first chapter takes place in Bruges (yes, Dutch readers, that would be this book). After glancing at a few pictures of a beautiful town square decorated for Christmas with hundreds of lights and a real ice skating rink in the middle, our decision was made. We were going to Bruges.
For the next few weeks, TripAdvisor became my best friend, and after weighing the pros and cons of various hotels ("this one looks pretty from the outside, but the rooms look horrible", and "I am not staying in anything that's a chain. I don't care of it's a Belgian chain. I refuse to do anything chain-ish outside of here"), as well as the sanity of some of the reviewers ("Well, they claim the rooms are not up to par, but they also claim that the front desk clerk was 'merely formal' and 'seemed automated', so I'm not too sure about them"), we decided to spend all the kids' college money (OK I lie, all of Jimmie's college money) on a fairly nice hotel a few minutes away from the main square. Once that was done, we booked traintickets on the much-disparaged Fyra, and started to count down the days.
And Bruges delivered. Our four days there were absolutely magical. We had absolutely wonderful meals, sampled lots and lots of wine, spent days meandering through the gorgeous "egg" (the medieval town center), randomly stopping at the various churches liberally sprinkled throughout the town, climbed the belfry, went to a brewery, climbed one of the old city gates, got lost and used the many church spires to find our way back, saw Michaelangelo's sculpture of Mary and baby Jesus, walked all the way around the old city walls, ate far too much chocolate, drank more really good cappuccinos than I can count, and took lots of baths in the hot tub in our room. If you are ever in the position that you can only go to one city in Europe, I say forget Paris and go to Bruges. It has it all, but more, and all within walking distance.
For your benefit, I have enclosed some of my hundred or so pictures below.
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