Het emigranten-argument

Het moest er een keer van komen. En eerlijk gezegd was ik verbaasd dat het zo lang heeft geduurd. Maar gelukkig, afgelopen vrijdag was het dan eindelijk zo ver. Afgelopen vrijdag kreeg ik namelijk voor het eerst sinds ik deze keer uit Nederland vertrokken ben, te horen dat ik over een bepaald onderwerp weinig kon zeggen omdat ik "al zo lang niet meer in Nederland woon."

Het heeft zes jaar en vijf maanden geduurd, maar dan heb je hem eindelijk te pakken, het voor emigranten welbekende "jij mag eigenlijk niet meer meepraten" argument. Maakt u zich niet ongerust, ik ben niet beledigd. Eerder verbaasd dat het zo lang heeft geduurd. In mijn herinnering ging dat voorgaande keren veel sneller. En ik heb zelfs een paar keer in Nederland mogen meemaken dat men zich op het emigranten-argument beriep omdat ik "toch wel best wel lang uit Nederland weg was geweest." Sja, een mens moet wat, om een argument te winnen.


En weet u, ze hebben allemaal nog gelijk ook. Niet in de specifieke discussie van vrijdag avond uiteraard, want ik heb als Nederlandse vrouw natuurlijk altijd gelijk, maar met de opmerking dat ik sommige dingen niet weet omdat ik al zo lang weg ben. Dat is namelijk een waarheid als een koe. Zo zou ik tegenwoordig volgens mij geen idee meer hebben hoe te betalen in het Nederlands openbaar vervoer (zouden ze ook aan ruilhandel doen?), zegt "rtlXL" mij helemaal niks, de drie L-en of J's of wat dan ook, ook al niet, en heb ik geen idee wie er op dit moment in het Nederlands kabinet zit. Oh ja, en kan iemand mij in hemelsnaam vertellen wie Amira is?

En voor iemand die eigenlijk nog steeds helemaal niet past in de bible-belt-luchtmacht-conservatieve-culturele-woestijn waarin ze belandt is, begint zelfs dat eigenlijk best wel te wennen. Ik weet het, ik moet me diep schamen, maar weet u, op een gegeven moment wordt je afzetten tegen alles toch ook wel erg vermoeiend. En ontdek je dat sommige dingen toch ook best wel meevallen. Zo is de hitte prima te doen als je een zwembad hebt. De conservatieve buurman ook, zolang je hem maar van de politiek af weet te houden. En de oergelovige luchtmachtvrouwen die hun 28 kinderen allemaal homeschoolen ook, zolang je die maar gewoon niet meer spreekt.

Toen ik met deze blog begon heb ik ooit een label voor dit posts aangemaakt. Ik weet niet of u is het opgevallen, maar dit label heet "you will be assimilated". Voor de niet-Trekkies onder us, dit is een not-so-covert verwijzing naar de Borg, het buitenaardse volk uit Star Trek, dat als catch phrase "resistance is futile, you will be assimilated" heeft.  De vraag is nu natuurlijk, ben ik dan eindelijk echt assimilated? Soms, als ik weer eens in mijn auto zit, vraag ik me dat echt af. Ben ik nou echt helemaal ingeburgerd? Ben ik ook een "Too blessed to be stressed" southern conservative geworden?

Gelukkig hoef ik dan maar even een korte aanval van road rage te hebben, of een "you have got to be kidding me" moment met een mega-religieuze collega/student/buur, om te weten dat dit gelukkig niet zo is. Nog niet. Ik ben nog steeds een vrijheid-blijheid, don't-tread-on-me treehugging hippie. Aan de andere kant heeft deze hippie de laatste zes jaar wel geleerd om bijvoorbeeld gewoon niet en plein public te vloeken. En zich in te houden als iemand iets zegt waarmee ze het perinent oneens ben. Te genieten van de kleine dingen, zoals de kleine muziek en film festivals hier in de buurt, de mooie fietsroutes door de omgeving, en het feit dat de zon bijna altijd schijnt.

Hier in het zuiden hebben we een uitspraak, "It is what it is". Mooi in zijn eenvoud, maar ook tenenkrommend in de laissez-faire houding die er van uitstraalt. Die houding die zoveel zuiderlingen aannemen als het op een moeilijk onderwerp aankomt. Maar in deze situatie is "it is what it is" helaas wel echt waar. Ik woon hier nou eenmaal. En dit is niet de plek die ik zelf uitgekozen zou hebben. Maar het is nou eenmaal zo. En zolang mijn beste vriend, de liefde van mijn leven, mijn auto-wasser-boodschappen-doener-maaltijden-koker-laundry-meneer hier woont, is dit mijn thuis. It is what it is.

En dan gaat het emigranten-argument best wel op. Want alhoewel Nederland altijd een onderdeel van mij zal zijn, is het niet mijn thuis meer. Dus. Als jullie je met zijn allen wereldwijd belachelijk willen maken met God-weet-wat-nu-weer, mijn zegen heb je. Ik hoor er namelijk eigenlijk niet meer bij.


Oh ja, en Oma? Zoals u ziet gaat het prima met mij. Alleen ben ik de laatste tijd zo gewend aan alles dat ik eigenlijk niks meer om over te mopperen heb. Misschien moet ik dit mopper-blog maar gewoon eens omtoveren in een bakblog, wat vindt u daarvan?

Uhm, October?

Seriously, how can it already be the middle of October? What happened to September? Or August? Or summer in general for that matter? And even more importantly, how can it be Sunday already, and I have yet to have a moment of peace and quiet this weekend?

I don't know what is going on with life lately. Maybe it's just me, and I have once again managed to say "yes" to way too many things. Or maybe the world is slowly going by faster and faster. I don't know. All I know is that it's the middle of October, and at the rate work is going, I should probably be planning my Christmas shopping real soon, or it's never going to get done, and OMG, when I am going to find time to do that.

OK, deep breath.

So I'm sure that everyone knows about the mess that is the US government right now, right? (And no, I am not changing the topic, this is going somewhere, I promise). And we all know how because they can't seem to work it out like most normal people can, close to a million people have been sent home this past week. In fact, in our street, we have several working couples who got to make do without a paycheck this week. The same couples who just spent all their savings surviving the furloughs this summer. And in case you were wondering, husband-dear is still heading into work each day, and still getting paid. We think. But although we all know that is sad and bad and just not-good all around, is there anyone else out there who, like me, secretly wishes they too would get sent home? Am I the only one who wishes that they too could get furloughed? Anyone?

When I was younger, you know, not too long ago, I knew I was driven. And motivated. And possibly slightly neurotic about doing well. But I figured it would pass as I grew older and more mellow. Because that's what people do, right? They mellow out, slow down, and stop to smell the roses more? Well, the rosebushes in my front yard have literally become an unholy mess this summer, because I haven't taken the time to smell nor to trim them. For me, it would appear that aging means an even greater desire to prove that I am good enough. And nice enough. And smart enough. Which entails saying "Yes! Great idea!" to everything everyone proposes. Research project on the side? Sure! Chair of the IRB? I'd be honored! Another research project? Of course! Co-writing a grant with a local hospital? Absolutely! Chair the international fair on campus! Naturellement!
It just never ends.

Obviously, the solution is to just start saying "no". Or at least checking my calendar/my gut/my conscience (aka husband-dear) before enthusiastically galloping away with another time-sucking responsibility. But people, I am just like Ado Annie from Oklahoma! I can't say no. I just can't. I would, so it seems, rather spend a Sunday afternoon grading than mountainbiking with the husband because I spent so much time on side projects during the week, than tell someone no. Is the world going to come to an end when I say no? Obviously not. I know my students won't care if their midterm grade doesn't include this paper. Neither will my chair. Or the dean. No one will care. Except me.

So where does this pressure come from? Honestly, I have no idea, but I see women around me doing the exact same thing I do all the time. They might not do it in their career, but they might be killing themselves trying to be the best, coolest, most educated mom out there. Or they might be holding their bodies to some randomly set, impossible to maintain, pre-neanderthal standard. Or they might be pushing themselves through school to get that oh so coveted second degree. Or trying to be the most hip blogger the intertubes have ever seen.

People freak out because they're furloughed, but are they freaking out because they aren't getting paid, or because they now suddenly have to face themselves without the safety of their careers to hide behind? I'm sure losing a paycheck doesn't help, but let's be honest, how many of us say things like, "If I win the lottery, I'd have work at something or I'd lose my mind"? (and yes, I am one of those people).

I guess my point, if there is one, is that of all the things I like to think I'm good at, I suck at the most important thing: being OK with doing less. Or, gasp, nothing at all. And I think, looking around me, I may not be the only one. So how about we all just a day off next week and do absolutely nothing? We can call it a demonstration against postmodern cultural demands or something equally intelligent, but we'll all know it's really just an old-fashioned pajama day. I say we synchronize planners and find a day that works and make it happen. Only I can't do tomorrow. Or Tuesday, I have to chair a meeting that day. Oh, and Wednesday is midterms, and on Thursday I'm surveying a class. OK, so how's next week looking for everyone?

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