The Office: Your home away from home

Last week I did something I should have probably done five years ago: I bought a coffeemaker and set it up in my office. No more begging secretaries for their coffee, no more trips across campus to the decadent and overpriced coffee shop. From last week on, I am able to brew my own fancy coffee in my very own office using my very own Keurig coffeemaker.

As far as bringing personal items to work, I’m somewhat of a strange one. While fellow faculty members regularly cart in lamps and tables and chairs, the only times I have to borrow our departmental dolly, it’s to carry in books. And more books. Or maybe some journals. So when a staff member saw me hauling a crate into the elevator, he joked, “Do you have any room left for more books?”
“I don’t know, but this is a coffee maker.” I said.
“Ah, you’ve finally caved in.”

And he’s right. I have caved in. Into the desire to have caffeine at my fingertips whenever my body is pleading for it I need it. And into the trend that appears so visible on this campus, and all other American campuses of which I have been a part, namely to bring own one’s things into one’s office. I don’t know what it is about American academics, but they just love to turn their office into their home away from home. Granted, they also don’t receive the ergonomically correctly adjusted chairs, desks, footstools, and mouse pads that Dutch academics get on their first day on the job, but still. I can’t think of any Dutch professors who bring in their own furniture. The most one might see a Dutch scholar carry into his or her office is a plant, or an electric kettle (in case the departmental kitchen is only outfitted with a coffeemaker), or, if the scholar is the lucky recipient of a couple of kids, some art.

Now let’s look at the offices in my “regular” building, the one I’ve been living in for the past five odd years. When Steve still occupied the office next to mine, I remember being completely surprised when he ordered and paid for some framed art to hang on the wall. Why anyone would want to pay to decorate a space they don’t own was beyond me. But he did. And while I taped my infamous collection of quotes over my printer, Steve called facilities to hand his pictures for him. And he liked it. Then when Steve left, his replacement not only brought in her own art, she also carried it on her own lamps, television, and bookcase. The professor across the hallway has brought in a sideboard, a filing cabinet, and a fridge, while another professor down the hall has adorned her office with an eclectic collection of rugs and inspirational posters. Yes, I said rugs.

It’s even worse in the building where I work on my grant. When I moved into my office two months ago, it had a desk, a small side table, a desk chair, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. I was told to order new furniture, and I did. With university machinery moving at the speed of lightning, as it always does, I am still waiting on said furniture. And as of today, my office contains a desk, a small side table, a desk chair, two chairs, a filing cabinet, a printer, some office supplies, an extra extension cord, a tub of Lysol wipes, a small candle, and one picture cut out from a Dutch calendar. It’s bare. I love it. My neighbor has the exact same office, with the exact same standard furniture. He, however, decided to make his place more homey, and has thus added: two rugs, three lamps of varying sizes, but all three match the rugs, a sideboard, a cozy reading chair, several framed paintings, four or five plants, a humidifier, a fridge, a coffeemaker, an electric kettle, and a portable AC unit. Another colleague decided he did not like to colors of his walls (academic white), so he painted them one summer. One is green, the others are beige, and he’s decorated the green wall with a framed collection of pictures of his favorite authors.

Don’t get me wrong, whenever I see these offices, I wish mine looked like that. They’re cozy, they make you feel at home, and they do a great job reflecting the personality of the person working there. But then I realize that getting my office to look like that would entail, a) purchasing all these things using my hard-earned money, b) getting it all into my car, across a parking lot, and up three flights of stairs, and c) taking time out from fun activities such as grading to decorate my office. And then I realize I don’t have the money, the desire, or the time, to do any of that. Plus, I don’t want to start liking my office too much. I mean, it’s one thing to spend a lot of time there because you have work to do, but I don’t need to fall in love with the place, you know? Before you know it, I’ll never come home again. Especially when you consider that my new building is outfitted with showers too. It’s just too risky.

So I’m guessing that the coffeemaker will remain my one concession to this American trend. Unless someone has always had a burning desire to decorate offices. Then you’re more than welcome to try your luck on my two little cells.

Stupid is...

Apparently having part of your work change into something that requires creative thinking and the coordination of lots of people does something to my ability to blog. Not only is there less time (I know! How is that even possible?), but there's also less "room" in my head. Instead of thinking about how this year we really will attend the annual grits festival if it kills us, I now spend my drive home wondering about whether I could get co-worker A and co-worker B to collaborate on grant project C. I mean, I almost feel grown-up when I think along those lines, you know.

Fortunately, Georgia wouldn't be Georgia if it didn't something phenomenally, well, let's just call it phenomenal to draw my attention away from health disparities, grants, and other grown-up concerns.  Thank heavens for little favors!

In the next week or so, the Georgia state legislature will be wrapping up its 2013 session. As opposed to the US Congress, our state congress only meets for forty days, at the beginning of each year. I'm sure they figure that if God can flood the earth in forty days, Georgia can figure out how to rule itself for the next year in that same amount of time as well. Well, anyway, whenever a session is about to wrap up, a flurry of bills try to make it through one of houses in time for the cut-off date. Any bill not passed by one of the houses before that date will not be considered by the other house in that year's session, and thus will not make it into law. Some of the wildest bills are created during these last few days, and most of them are, after gaining some state-wide outrage, immediate discarded. But not so for this bill.

What bill is this, you ask? Well, the Georgia house of representatives, in all of its infinite wisdom, has passed a law that would allow people to carry weapons in places that previous did not allow people to carry guns, such as college campuses.
Yes, college campuses.
The twenty-six people killed at Sandy Hook Elementary are barely cold in the ground, and while the rest of the nation ponders ways in which to curtail the propensity of guns and the size of clips, the Georgia house overwhelmingly approves a bill that would have college campuses, oh, and churches, (We all know about how dangerous it is to walk from one's car to the church front door these days. People robbing churchgoers like crazy down here) allow people to bring weapons on to their grounds.

Obviously, the bill still needs to make it past the Georgia senate, but the fact that the house would even consider such a bill is beyond comprehension to me. Their reasoning, in case you're interested, is that in the case of a lone gunman (i.e., Sandy Hook, Virginia Tech, Columbine, etc.) people on campus would be able to defend themselves. Now although you can't deny that there is some kernel of truth to that line of reasoning, the Georgia representatives obviously have no idea what today's college life is like. As my students would tell you: It's stressful, man. Like, really. Stressful enough that tantrums dot a usual semester, and that finals week is usually punctuated by at least one, if not two, breakdowns/temper outbursts involving students and/or faculty. During my time here, I've definitely had more than my share of student-centered drama. Now imagine all of that while you're wondering if one of your little darlings is packing heat.
As one of my British colleagues said during the hastily-called faculty senate meeting last week, "That is a very silly proposal."
Silly indeed.

Fortunately, academics wouldn't be academics if they didn't come up with some interesting solutions. One chair, known for her peace-loving, smiling, befriend-everyone and hug-a-tree attitude announced that she'd just have to start carrying her pistol to college every day ("oh yeah, I have a carry permit, of course"), while a male colleague commented that he'd always wondered what it was like to work with an assault rifle strapped to his back.

All I can say is that I hope that the Georgia senate comes to its senses and repeals this craziness. I mean, I've heard bullet proof vests don't come cheap, and I'm not sure I can claim that on my taxes.

And about that saying that is the title of this blog? Well, I'll just let you finish that one for me...

At ease

You know all those lame sayings your mom your grandmother totally random old people who start talking to you as you're walking down the street always say to you? Phrases like "the more things change, the more the stay the same?", "a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush", "good fences make good neighbors", and "The way the clock ticks at home, it doesn't tick anywhere else"? OK, so that last one is actually not something a random American elderly lady would say to you, as it's Dutch. Or Dunglish, to be more specific. But you all get my drift, you know, "there's no place like home" or "you can pick your nose, you can pick your friends, but you can't stick a spatula up your butt and jump over an electronic fence". Sorry. That last one was also not something an elderly lady would randomly tell you. Unless she's secretly a teenager suffering from Asperger's and a wicked sense of humor.

Anyway.
Sayings like that, ones that are annoying because they are true.
Well, today I was able to disprove two of them. Yes, two. First, there's "the more things change, the more they stay the same". As you all know, I've been working on an NIH-funded project, and a result have only had to teach two classes this semester. It's been a wonderful experience. But in spite of that, today still looked like this:

8:30-9:15am-Faculty meeting
9:15--9:45am Student appointment to retake midterm
9:45-1pm - Classes
1-2pm Presentation run through with students attending undergrad conference
2-3pm Committee meeting
4-5pm Taping interview

And that's not including a 7:45-8:30 class prep, three five minute meetings with students regarding their need to re-prioritize their lives in lieu of their recent midterm grade, five IRB proposals to evaluate, a long phone call to plan a lunch meeting, a brief meeting with the chair regarding an upcoming conference, and two treks across campus to get to the various meetings and back.

It sounds a lot like my life before the grant. And it was. But it wasn't. It could not have been more different. Not only because several of the meetings included people asking me for my opinion or advice, but also because I was happier than I ever remember being at work. Busier too, but definitely happier. When I was walking across campus to yet another meeting, stopped for the third time by a student who had a quick question, waved to a faculty member who called out a "hi" across the quad, and realized it had taken me ten minutes to traverse maybe half a mile because of all the people I knew who wanted to call out a greeting or exchange a few ideas, I knew why. It was because I, for the first time in a long, lone time, felt at home. I was surrounded by people I knew and who knew me, people who appreciated me, and for whom I would gladly drive three plus hours every day. Faculty members who wanted to collaborate, share a coffee, and who asked me for advice. Students who, even though they complained and griped the whole way, never ceased to come back and visit me after graduation. Students whom I would gladly describe as royal pains in the behind, but who were, above all, MY royal pains in the behind, and whom I would gladly encourage, cajole, pester, push, and call out until the moment they walked across the stage at graduation.

I'm almost afraid to say, lest I jinx it, but for the first time in a long time, I felt at home. No, we still haven't found a church home, or friends who mean as much to us as the ones who left, or whom we left behind. I still don't like living in a subdivision, and I also still don't understand why this town does not have a proper book store, an independent movie theater, or a downtown. But this afternoon, on that sun-filled quad, with half a day full of meetings and students and faculty, it all suddenly came together. This place is home. It may not be like any home I've ever known or will know. It may be the most unlikely home I have ever had. But I like it.

The Office

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.

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. 

Shelby

Zoe en Shelby in de voortuin

Zoe

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.

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-wife craziness issues for some time to come, is definitely looking up. And especially if that normal include a pool.