The car, part 3

Last week, my car hit the 200,000 mile mark. And today, I managed to roll into a truck. That was sitting behind me. On a slight hill. At a red light.

I know, I'm an idiot. A very tired and worn out idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. I mean, who manages to trip over the corner of the bed and hit her head against the bathroom door? Who accidentally backwashes her pool with the return valves set to 'off'? Who gets stuck in her own tri-top? Who adjusts her hair, lets her foot slip off the brake and does not realize she's rolling backwards until she hits the tow hooks on the front of the truck behind her? Yes, me. 

Fortunately, the man in the truck was grace himself. He was more concerned about the state of my bumper than his car, which, as he said, was "only" a truck. He peered at the mark left by the lamppost, and I don't even want to know what he was thinking when I told him that was the leftover from hitting a lamp post last month. He adjusted his tag, which my bumper had bent, told me all was fine, not to worry about the tag, and went on his merry way. I could have cried when he drove off, and I'm not sure if that was from relief, shock, or fatigue. 

Look, I know my job is busy, but lately it has been kicking my behind. I've cried for no reason at least once already this semester, and that usually doesn't happen until Thanksgiving. And in case you're wondering, yes, I eat well, I exercise a moderate amount (yes, really, i have cut back from Mega Insane to Slightly Insane), and I get an average of eight hours of sleep per day. It's just that when I'm awake, it just doesn't slow down. Ever. And American academe is nothing like its European counterpart, where you can take time off to recover, hand some of your responsibilities back to whoever assigned them to you. Or talk to your boss about how you have too much on your plate and need a break. Well, you can do all of that, but you may not have a job waiting for you after summer. Or, if you have tenure like I do, you'll be teaching your classes at seven in the morning. In the basement. And I think that's finally starting to catch up with me. Not the teaching in the basement, as I'm not there yet, but the never-ending list of things to do. Now if only I had a funny solution to all this, I might be able to salvage this post, but I don't have anything funny or solution-like. I have a job, it's 90 miles away, and right now, it's bat guano crazy busy. So yeah, no funny twist here. Sorry. If you have one, do share. I could use a laugh. And until then, well, I guess it's time to pull out that old military adage, and embrace the suck. 

On the side of the road

It was bound to happen someday. The question was just when. And even more important: where. Apparently last week my number was up, and it was my turn to finally break down on the side of the road. All things considered, I got really lucky. First, it happened on a Monday, and as we all know, Mondays suck anyway. Second, it happened right as I turned on to the interstate, which a) put me within fifteen miles of my house, and b) meant the next exit was a mile away. Third, it was only a sort of breakdown. Obviously, a breakdown is a breakdown since it always involves something that prevents you from driving, but in my case, it wasn't an engine, or a tire. It was a wheel well cover. Yeah. I know, I didn't even know my car had such a thing, but it does. And when it comes loose, it prevents your tire from properly turning, which means you're not really going anywhere, except to a place to stop really quickly. 

I am not quite sure how it happened. My car has been the victim of retreads on several momentous occasions, including one where half my fender liner was scraping along the interstate, but husband-dear always managed to fnagle it all back together with tie wraps and a hair dryer. So whether I ran into some retread and just never noticed it, or whether the two dozen tie wraps finally gave up, I really don't know. All I know is that I had just merged on to the interstate  when a loud screeching noise made me look over at the car beside me and think something ungracious about people who do not take care of their cars. But the car passed and the noise continued. When I noticed my car wasn't steering properly, I realized it was me. And that I better get off the road asap. 

So there I was, parked at a deserted gas station, at 6:45 in the morning, in my cute black and green dress and matching pumps, looking at this:

So what does any self-respecting, liberated, third-wave feminist do? 

Call her husband of course. 

Who turned out to not be at his desk. Nor answering his cell phone. Some digging into my early morning memory made me remember that husband-dear was at PT. And I'm sure my ever-patieny husband was just thrilled to hear his name broadcast over the PA system, and then to have the gym front desk clerk tell him his wife was stranded by the side of the road. Just thrilled. 

I was definitely not responding in my usual manner. I mean, one would expect me to be freaking out about the three classes and two meetings I needed to be getting ready for, the weird guys loitering about, none of whom stopped to ask if I needed help, and work, but I didn't. I did the math, figured that in an ideal world I would be fifteen minutes late to my first class, emailed my class and our department secretary, listened to NPR, and just chilled

Strange. I know. Well, I figured, at least I could count on husband-dear to be frustrated. Right?

Wrong. When husband-dear pulled up, he was grace personified. He drove right over, only stopping by the house to pick up his toolbox, and was his usual chipper 'we'll fix this in a jiffy' self. Only he couldn't. And after observing the numerous men pulling up to the gas station, loitering, and staring at me, he went all manly and told me to take the CRV while he took my poor little Fit into the shop. 

So there I was, an hour later than usual, driving down a now deserted interstate, in a still almost new CRV with leather seats, cruise control, and a whole host of other gadgets, and I realized that maybe breaking down wasn't such a bad thing after all...

Ik ben een meisje van negen jaar...

Of zestien dan. Of, als ik me bijzonder volwassen voel, eenentwintig. Maar dan heb je het ook wel gehad. Nooit, maar dan ook nooit voel ik mij mijn ware leeftijd (29. Al jaren. Echt). En ik voel me al helemaal nooit "Dr", of "professor". Laat staan "de vrouw van". En laten we het maar helemaal niet hebben over dat hele stiefmoeder gedoe. Ik ben negen. Of zestien (of 21), en als ik later groot ben wil ik brandweervrouw worden.

Ik heb zo eens rondgevraagd, en klaarblijkelijk hebben wel meer, voornamelijk vrouwelijke, collega's hier last van. Het geval dat je veel jonger, veel onervarener, en ook veel minder slim bent dan dat je bent. Of dat men denkt dat je bent. Of dan de indruk die jij hebt achtergelaten. Volgt u het allemaal nog? Stiekem zijn we allemaal 'frauds' die nog lang niet klaar zijn om een 'working professional' te zijn, en die hun PhD bij elkaar gespaard hebben met de zegeltjes van de Becel. Of, om cultureel-relevant te blijven, met de pakjes Cracker Jacks.

En soms is dat best wel lastig. Want dan word je in een keer voor dingen gevraagd waar je als negen (of 16) jarige nog helemaal niet aan toe bent. Of denkt te zijn. Zo werd ik van de zomer gevraagd om "chair" van de IRB aan mijn universiteit te zijn. En uiteraard riep ik meteen ja, want naast dat ik klaarblijkelijk moeite heb met tellen, ben ik ook nog eens een ontzettende type-A persoonlijkheid, die altijd moet bewijzen dat ze toch echt slim is. En weet wat ze doet. En alles kan.
Maar ja, dan zit je daar dus. Als kersverse chair van de IRB. Dan in een keer word jij geacht leiding te geven aan het orgaan dat onderzoek goed- of afkeurt. En dat onderbouwd met bewijslast uit federale stukken. En meer van dat soort moeilijke dingen. En alhoewel je dat best kan, want sja, je bent al vier jaar lid van de IRB, roept je hoofd steeds dat dit natuurlijk helemaal geen taak is voor een meisje zoals jij. Je bent veel te jong, veel te onervaren, en die PhD, dat was natuurlijk gewoon puur toeval. Je had gewoon een paar jaar lang even niks anders te doen.

Vandaag moest ik er echter echt aangeloven. Mijn eerste vergadering. Met de secretaresse naast me, die me zo nu en dan dingen toefluisterde als "Vergeet de motie om goed te keuren niet", riep ik hele professionele dingen als "Do we have a second?" en "Can you design a policy for that?", en deed alsof ik precies wist waar ik het over had.
Pfft.


En toen bedacht ik me, wat als iedereen zich nou eens zo voelt? Wat als iedereen die leiding geeft stiekem een acht-jarig meisje of elf-jarig jongetje is, die er toevallig uitziet als een volwassen man of vrouw? Wat als iedereen nou het gevoel heeft dat ze maar "wat doen", maar dat gewoon leuk, of stoer, of streng verpakken? Wat als iedereen nog steeds droomt over hoe het zijn om politie agent te zijn, of boswachter, of brandweervrouw? Zijn we dan eigenlijk allemaal niet heel druk bezig om te doen alsof we weten waar we het over hebben, en is er eigenlijk niemand die -echt- weer hoe het moet? Does everyone just make it up as they go along?

Stiekem, he, stiekem denk ik dus dat dat het is. We doen allemaal maar wat. Alleen de slimme onder ons hebben geleerd om dat heel professioneel te verpakken. En daardoor denkt de rest van ons dat zij het wel weten, en wij niet. Maar dat is dus eigenlijk helemaal niet zo. Om in de woorden van Brigitte Kaandorp te blijven, "Het hoeft niks te zijn, als het maar wat lijkt."

Als ik er zo over nadenk, dan valt dat chair-schap eigenlijk nog best wel mee.
Bring it.

The more things change...

...the more they stay the same.

As you can see, the look of the blog has changed. Just a little, but hey after five years of the same old polkadots (which were supposed to resemble thumbtacks, and reflect the URL - did anyone catch that? Anyone?), I bet it made at least one person sit up and take notice (Hi Vic!). I would love to tell you that I changed it because I wanted to go with the times, better reflect my personality or the direction of my writing. But I can't. You see, I just got tired of seeing that blog archive on the right side of the page, telling me I had only posted three times in August. Three! So I moved the archive, and then one thing led to another, and before you know it, you have a REALLY orange blog. Let's see if I decided to keep it.

Anyway, in spite of the new look (and the now less conspicuous location of the blog archives), nothing else has really changed. I haven't blogged in almost two weeks because our fall semester started August 19, and even though I only teach two class now (thanks to the same awesome project I was on last semester), and this is my seventh time starting a new academic year, I still get caught up in the quagmire of late registration, students that need to be added and/or dropped, attendance verification, syllabi, book orders, and other drama that just won't go away no matter how much I plan. And so while three, four years ago I would still find the energy to blog, I must be getting old, because driving home and crashing on the couch/in the pool is about all I have the energy for these days. Plenty of ideas, and plenty of blogs written inside my head while driving to work, but once I get to said work, my creativity is poured into fixing schedules, explaining my attendance policy in ten different ways (to the same student), writing grant proposals, and preparing conference presentations. You know how people tell you things get easier with time? Well, they do, but why don't those same people tell you that as things get easier, people will notice and pile more work on you and so then while your work may still not be as hard as it was at first, there is not just so much MORE of it, you're about to lose your head anyway.

Ahem.

In spite of all of that, I have been able to come to one blogworthy conclusion this week: I am sick of driving. I know, it's a miracle it only took me six years of driving 180 miles per day to get sick of it, but there you have it.

It started when I backed into a lamppost two weeks ago. I was dropping a colleague off on the other side of campus, because I "was on my way home anyway, and it is way too hot to walk anywhere", and I can't say no. Eager to get myself home and into a pool, I backed up, ready to turn, when a lamppost decided to rudely impede my progress. The lamppost was fine, I was fine, my car has a small dent on the bottom of the bumper. And you know what? No one cared, including me. Campus police didn't care. Husband-dear said the car was old and he didn't care. And I, the winner of the type A personaly award four years in a row, didn't care either. Never backed into anything, never caused an accident, never dented or dinged my car through my own fault. Backing into a lamppost should have caused a major meltdown, but it didn't. I just didn't care. Car, schmar.

When I lived in the Netherlands, I used to get so sick of having to deal with transportation. Taking your care into town to shop would have been ideal, but really made no sense since the traffic would be horrendous, there would be no parking spots anywhere, and if there were, you'd have to do a 29-point turn to get in it, and pay a small fortune for an hour's worth of parking. So I would ride my bike, with its enormous bicycle bags piled full of stuff, bags hanging off my handlebars, or if it rained I would brave the ridiculous bus schedule to navigate my way into town that way. Getting anywhere outside of town meant carefully weighing the options between possible traffic delays, parking dramas, and public transportation scheduling nuisances. I remember yearning for a place where you could just get in your car, drive somewhere, and find a free parking space. I would fantasize about it while riding my bike home from the grocery store with twenty pounds of groceries dangling off my bike frame. I would imagine how wonderful it would be to just get in your car and drive off while waiting for a delayed train on a rain-soaked platform.

And then I moved to Georgia. At first, all was glorious. I loved being able to get in my car and go. My town, in spite of its shortcomings, does not really have any traffic issues (base traffic has nothing on a good old-fashioned German stau). I loved having free parking and having lots of it. I loved the empty interstates, the curving highways, the fact that a 90 mile drive really only took about 90 minutes. I loved not having to worry about rain messing up my hair or my nice clothes, and being able to come and go as I pleased.

But you know what? I am so over all of that. I am tired of people's inability to use a blinker or take a turn without crossing over into the other lane (or swinging out to the left to make a right turn - I mean, really, people?). I am done with people (I'm looking at you Florida!) who hog the middle lane on the interstate at 60 miles per hour, or those who pull out in front of you while you're going 55 miles per hour. I'm tired of people passing on the right, of semis driving way too fast, of the endless road construction. I'm over people on their cellphones staring off into space, people who forget their car came equipped with side and rear view mirrors, people who have no sense of distance or space, or when the use of hazard lights is appropriate (hint: a drizzle isn't it). And if I have to navigate one more parking lot where all of these problems appear to meld into a big giant accident-waiting-to-happen (and that only didn't happen because I look out for all those pulling out or in without looking, driving the wrong way, or randomly pulling out in front of you), I may just stop the car, get out, and throw a tantrum. 

Obviously, I can be over this as much as I want to be, there's really nothing I can do about it. The fact is, I live 90 miles from my job, and if I want a paycheck, I will need to get to work. Which means driving, which means navigating all of the above and more.

So, Americans, and Georgians in particular, I am begging you: LEARN HOW TO DRIVE. Watch some youtube videos. Check that old driver's instruction manual. Don't think of the stalks next to your steering wheel as things that get in between you and your coffeemug, or your mirrors as a friendly aid for your morning make up routine. Don't think that because you've been doing it this way for thirty years, it's fine. It's not. It only appears to be fine because those of us who do look out, know how to use our lights and mirrors properly look out for you. But we're about done with that. So put that phone away, turn the radio down, stop worrying about the size of your rims or the engine under the hood, and drive.

Thank you.

In the meantime, I will be riding my bicycle to our local grocery store, heat and bugs be damned.

The sick cow

I am happy to report that I have finally discovered two downsides to owning a pool: bugs and rain.

As we all know, bugs love Georgia. Big bugs, little bugs, bugs that crawl, fly, creep, or all three at the same time, bugs that sting and those that bite, green bugs, brown bugs, red bugs, they're all very much at home in Georgia. And unless you're a squeamish yankee (and anyone not born and raised in the shade of a Georgia pine- "and that's home ya know"- is obviously a yankee), you don't pay them any mind. Or as those uppity yankees would say, you don't care. 

Needless to say, I do care. I don't like anything crawling, creeping, or buzzing anywhere near me. Granted, the past six years (six?! Six?? How did that happen?) have seen me mellow out a little. Roaches no longer send me flying up onto kitchen counters, and spiders just have me reaching for my flip flop. In fact, last year, when we had a roach fall out of an air vent on to the couch I was sitting on, I just egged Zoe on to eat it because I really was not in the mood to get up and look for our can of roach spray. I know. I have come a long way. A looong way. 

Anyway, all of this to let you know that when you own a pool, you become much more intimately connected to the lives and cycles of the local bug population. Our pest guy (yes, we have a pest guy. No, we are not gross, we just live in bug heaven) pointed this out to me when we first opened our pool. I was wondering why we had oodles of ants in our pool, and he replied that they got hot just like us and liked water too. I might have responded with not in my pool, to which mr. Pestman just laughed and told me that after the ants left we'd see Junebugs (check. Big, round, and brown), wasps (check again, both big and small), cicada killers (not sure but I think these are the enormous black spiky insects that I've been finding in our skimmer lately), and then, once fall hits, kudzu bugs. After one  summer, I am now also able to add spiders (mid to late august), ants again (after a hot dry spell), and, yes, frogs (anytime it rains). Although not bugs, they are gross (seeing how most of them are still alive when I catch them), but also strangely helpful, since they do eat as many of the bugs in the pool as they can manage before the chlorine sends them to the big lilypad in the sky. It's been one big biological experiment in my skimmer, people. 

The second downside is rain. Not rain per se, of course, although that does definitely mar one's ability to fully enjoy the pool, but the things one needs to do when it 's been raining a lot. This past weekend, we've had about ten inches of rain, and one of the rules of thumb when owning a pool is that one should not let the water get above the skimmer. It has something to do with the overflow that is attached to the skimmer. Or perhaps the ability of the skimmer to return water through the pump. Or perhaps it was something else together. Or our pool builder just loves the idea that all his new pool owners are out in the rain tending to their pool. At any rate, when your pool level gets too high, you want to drain some of it out by via the pump. You don't want to drain too much as you don't want to lose all your salt, and so the bottomline is that you will be outside in the rain for a considerable amount of time watching your pool and pushing buttons. If it rains a lot for long periods of time, and you have a salt water generator (or SWG for those 'in the know'), you might even hit the pool jackpot and find your salt levels so low you have to add a bag of salt to the pool and brush it out. In the rain. 

So yesterday, after three days of biblical rains, and two runs out to the pump to drain the pool, I realized my salt levels were so low my SWG was no longer working. At this point, the rain is coming down in sheets, the ground is completely saturated and as a result sports deep puddles of water, two of your neighbors need to get their sceptic tank drained, and all of your shoes are soaked through.  And it's just your luck that you need to go out and maintain the pool that you insisted on. The pool that you promised you would take care of...

So what does any self-respecting Dutch woman do? She does what generations of farmers with sick and pregnant cattle have done before her: she dons her waterproof riding hat, her wooden shoes, her impermeable raincoat and gets it done. She first drains the pool a few inches, and then drags a forty-pound bag of salt across the wet grass, makes sure it's evenly distributed along the deep end, and then brushes the pool until the salt has dissipated. Rain is running off the brim of her hat, down her back, and everything is wet, but still she keeps on going. 

And this would have sounded incredibly cool had her two boys not been standing in the kitchen, watching the entire spectacle from the cooled, dry inside of the house, all the while laughing at my outfit and taking pictures. Revenge, my dear readers, will be very sweet:)

P.s the odd looking planks were part of the fence project that husband-dear has since finished

The race that almost wasn't, was, then was again

I'm not big on writing race reports, as the discussions of finished races are called in the world of athletics. I'm pretty sure none of my readers care about whether or not I use caffeinated or non-caffeinated gels during the bike portion, and that you all can also live without tales of painful chafing and how to get out of a tri-top. I keep a race journal I keep where I write about things like that, so I'll remember to wear lube, bring extra socks, and not wear my white, leaky goggles. But I keep race tales to a minimum on this blog. 

As a result of that, I completely forgot to tell you all about my last triathlon of the 2012 season. It was what you might call an unintentional race in that I had no intention of doing it. I had done the race twice before, in 2009 and 2010, and since I wasn't overtly impressed I didn't feel the need to do it again. I had also just come back from a five-week study abroad program in China, one you might remember as being particularly challenging (read bug-filled), and so doing a race was the last thing on my mind. But then husband-dear signed up to support a friend who was doing his first tri, and since I couldn't imagine just standing by the sidelines doing nothing (heaven forbid), I signed up too. 

Race morning started early (normal), dark (also normal), and with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder (not normal). But since none of the race officials said anything, and us athletes sure as heck weren't going to suggest shortening or, heaven forbid, canceling our race, we continued setting up. Keeping an eye on the flashes on the other side of the lake and using ample plastic bags as rain was threatening to join the party. We were all assembled on the beach, eyeing the wavy lake in fear, when the sherrif himself suddenly made an apprarance. The smokey-the-bear-hat-wearing, vastly overweight middle-aged man looked extremely uncomfortable walking in between the scantily clad triathletes, and I would have laughed had I not feared what was bound to come. And indeed, a few minutes later the race official announced that the sheriff's department had ordered the race delayed for thirty minutes due to the thunderstorm. And with that announcement came the rains. 

So there you are, dressed in a skimpy tri top, tri pants, and a swim cap while the thundering is roaring on the other side of the lake, the rain is beating down and there is no place to go but wait on that little beach. And wait. And get really cold. And grumble at the sheriff's department, as the thunder is obviously miles away and all they're accomplishing with the delay is to ensure everyone is really wet, cold, and at this point suffering from a seriously derailed race nutrition plan. 

But the thirty minutes passed, and although the thunder was still rumbling on the other side of the lake, and the rain was still beating down, the race was given the go ahead. And so off we went. Into the choppiest, wildest water I have ever had the pleasure of racing, only to be followed by the scariest bike portion ever. And that is not a hyperbole, people. The hairpin turns are enough to give you pause on a dry and sunny day, add a boatload of water to the mix and the resulting slick pavement and you have one hell of a ride, as evidenced by the numerous crashes I witnessed along the way. (And may the record state that all the crashees were young guys without shirts on, which leads me to conclude that exposing one's nipples to fresh morning air is a prelude to all kinds of craziness, as well as a less than thoughtful attitude as I don't think I need to describe the painful, bloody chafing that was clearly visible even when traveling at 19mph). 

So by the time I got to the run, I wasn't expecting much as far as time went. You can imagine my surprise when I realized I was minutes ahead of plan. Thanks to the rain, the run, usually a beast as it leads through open fields without a hint of shade, was truly exemplary, and I finished seven minutes faster than my previous finish at this race. And to top it all off, this was enough to land me first place in my age category. To say I was amazed was an understatement. And elated. And slightly smug: three races, two second places, one first. Who would have expected that from the clumsy girl who was always picked last in PE. 

Fast forward a year later, and humble pie had replaced the smugness. A strained adductor and a broken toe had brought my half iron training to a screeching halt, and when husband-dear signed up for this race to support another friend, I signed up because I knew that standing on the sidelines would send my eternally precarious mental equilibrium over the edge, even though I also knew I would have to steel myself for the fact that I was going to suck. At least compared to my 2012 result. But anything was better than not racing, or at least so I told myself. And kept telling myself over the next few weeks. As a perfectionist whose motto 'do it right or don't do it at all', this attitude flew directly into the face of everything I had always told myself. I have always wanted to do better, to be better, since as far as I'm concerned, standing still is the same as going backwards. Improvement is the only way forward- go team DC! (insert sarcastic remark here). But with physical therapy still in full swing, and a toe still in recovery, I knew that this time around I was just going to have to give myself participation credit. There was no way I was going to improve on last year's amazing time, and that had to be good enough. It's what I told myself on my runs, my long bike rides, my swims. It's what I told everyone who asked. Whatever I did was going to be good enough, and I didn't like it, but that's how it was going to be. 

The morning of the race, the hottest dat of the summer to date, I looked out at the smooth-as-glass lake and felt something I had not associated with triathlons for years: nerves. Nerves because I was going to do something I hadn't done in years: just race. Not for a time or a place, but just to finish. And it was a scary prospect. So I prayed that I would at least be an inspiration to those around me, many of whom were novices, and that I would just have fun. 

Now I don't know about the inspiration, but I sure had fun. I joked with the other ladies about the swim before the start, yelled encouragement at people on the bike, apologized for being a doofus in taking those hairpin turns, and giggled when one man told me 'aw, that's alright sugar.' I went into the run refusing to do the math on my pace in order to finish at a certain time, and instead called out to a girl I recognized from last year, and chatted with a man who knew both my dean and the university president. And finished. 

Ten seconds slower than last year. 

For the longest time I refused to check the results board. As I told husband- dear, I had given my all, and that was good enough. Finally, finally, after catching up with all the women I had spoken with during the race, and exchanging many sweaty, salty hugs, I made my way over to the board, and apparently whatever I did was also good enough for another first place. 

Sometimes life is not just good, but really good. 

Mellow yellow

I was going to start this post with a statement like, "And for the 7th year in a row, I present to you, the start of the academic year", when I realized I wasn't even sure if this was my 7th or 8th time starting yet another fall term. I'm certain I could do the math, had my brain not already been reduced to its usual middle-of-term state of muddledness. It took only a week this year, and that has got to be a record of some sort. 

So, yes, the era of no-to-do lists and no solid commitments has once again come to a screeching halt, and last week Monday, I pulled on long slacks and a dress shirt, prepared my lunch, and lamented that I couldn't believe summer was over already, only to drive off on my 90-mile drive one more time. The attic will not be cleaned until Christmas, my pictures won't get sorted until Thanksgiving, and I will just have to bribe one of the boys to get fridge cleaned. 

The last three weeks of summer were absolutely awesome. My decision to not do anything I didn't feel like worked out so well, I may make that attitude a staple of all of my breaks. Our skirtboards may never get repainted, and I doubt that I would ever wash our windows again, but who needs a clean, painted house when you can have peace of mind instead? (Yes, and we all know that that is not quite how it works for me, but the thought is so nice, people, really, it is). I did miss blogging (yes, really), but I was just too busy swimming, reading, and sleeping, to get around to it. I do think my spontaneous, unannounced, and unilateral decision to unplug scared some of my overseas family members (Hi mom!), but man, it was awesome. I may really need to rethink this working stepmom thing I got going here. Who needs fulfillment from a career when you can have entire days to yourself?

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that life has been pretty good down south. I think I may have finally figured out how to keep myself happy and sane out here in dixieland. If I had known that all it would have taken was a pool and a stern email from husband-dear telling me I had earned the right to do nothing, I would have arranged for that to happen years ago. 

As the students are trickling back in, and I start teaching next week, I know you all expect me start a wordy lament about teaching schedules and course content, but with my 50% grant-based release time still firmly in place, I can't even produce the tiniest of rants. I'm actually pretty happy about all the stuff going on this semester. 

I know. I'm sorry. 

On an upnote, however, advisement starts tomorrow, and I'm confident that will quickly undermine my mellowed-out state of happiness. So no worries, Dr. Gripe-and-Complain will probably be back soon. 

Until then, I'll be over there in the corner, smiling at everyone.