A lament (a bitty one)

It is summer, and thus PCS season is upon us once again. PCS is military lingo for Permanent Change of Station, and basically means that military members and their families move to a different base. Most people PCS, or move, in the summer, and as a result our town is once again full of out-of-state and even foreign license plates. For a tag-freak like myself, you can only imagine the fun I have figuring out the different license plates and their mottos. And the first time I saw car with a German ‘HK’ tag driving slowly around base, I was forcibly reminded of our family a year ago, in the exact same position.

Another result of impending PCS season is the fear that your friends will receive orders for another base. When you move as often as I have, making friends who are not from the local area is vital for your survival. You need someone to not only tell you about best stores, hairdressers, and dentists but also to listen and understand when you feel like you've moved to the capital of the boonies. Someone who´s been there and who can offer words of comfort when you feel completely lost and alone in a sea of southerners.

Now I have had the very good fortune of meeting two women who have helped me settle into my new home. One of them moved here at the same time I did, and so we both got to go through learning the bewildering layout of our town and figuring out where to go for carpet cleaning at the same time. My other friend, Summer, has lived in this area for a few years, and thus has been a perfect soundboard for all my questions and complaints. It's actually thanks to her that I now use southern words such as 'bitty' and other slightly less appropriate terms in my daily vocabulary. As Summer lives across the street, she is also my go-to girl when it comes to issues such as guinneapig-care and whom to call if you see a stray dog. Her li’l one gets along famously with our kids, and so the fours of us have spend many evenings sitting on our back porch, watching the kids play.

Unfortunately, the powers that be were not in my corner this time, as Summer and her husband recently told me they will be moving away. To say I was unhappy would be an understatement. Of course you always, somewhere, in the back of your mind, know that someday, someone is going to have to move, but on a daily basis, I think we all tend to ignore that voice. So when Summer’s husband told us his shop was moving, it came as a shock. Who am I going to talk to about life in the bible belt now? Who will share my fear of cockroaches, and the desire the instant you see one, to clean and bomb your entire house? Who will offer me chocolates and give me wine after a long day at work?

I know we will both find our way, and since they’re not moving to the other side of the world (which is, truth be told, a real possibility for most), we will be seeing them in the future. But it won’t be the same as walking across the street and saying hi.

Usually, I don’t mind military life. Usually, I cherish all its different facets; the opportunity to meet different people, to move halfway across the world, the security offered by the life we lead. But right now, I’m not really feeling it.

A "camp" getaway

My vacations used to include things like sailing on the Mekong river, climbing temples in Bangkok, building shelters in eastern Europe, riding horses on a dude ranch, and hiking in Wales. I used to be able to go on vacation and come back feeling educated, culturally uplifted and physically restored. Preparations for my vacations used to include learning phrases like “please” and “thank you” in a foreign language, reading up on a country’s history and culture, and buying odd supplies, such as impregnated mosquito nets, a supply of malaria medication, riding chaps, work gloves, and super-strong bug spray.

Now, a husband and two children later, just about everything about going on vacation has changed. Apart from purchasing bulk-size bottles of bug spray, of course. Right now, for instance, we are planning a vacation to, well, Tennessee. You may think, well, Tennessee is not so bad, is it? It’s got Memphis, Nashville, and let’s not forget the Great Smokey mountains. Well, yes. But we’re not going there, we’re going to Pigeon Forge. Yes, we are headed to what brochures describe as “The perfect family vacation”, but what to me, to be honest, sounds like the capital of “camp”, i.e., a place that can only be considered appealing if you revel in its perfect ability to commercialize and simplify any cultural, historical, or natural appeal it may have had. It apparently is the largest strip mall town in the US (“complete with countless factory outlet malls!”), and has unforgettable attractions such as the Ripley’s believe it or not museum, the Dixie Stampede dinner show, and of course, Dollywood. And yes, we will have planned on going to all those attractions.

Although just yesterday I asked my husband what had happened that we had gone from visiting far-away places in Southeast Asia to deciding between Dollywood’s Splash Country and the Elvis museum, I have to admit that I’m actually looking forward to my “camp" getaway. And this is not only because I know the kids will love it, it’s also because a part of me loves vacations like this. That would be the part that also adores Lifetime movies, Abba, and that will shed a tear at sappy patriotic songs like “God Bless the USA”. How that works when you consider the critical person I am on a daily basis, I am not entirely sure. All I know is that when I looked at the Dixie Stampede website, I got all excited, and immediately announced I had to have a t-shirt. After a brief moment of introspection, I think that there are two things going on. First, I love all these things because they allow me a perfect opportunity to play anthropologist. To observe people I would have otherwise never met, in their natural habitat, so to speak (and write about it in my blog). And moreover, I have the uncanny ability to love something just because it’s horrible. I will buy Eurosong music because it’s horrible and great at the same time; I love sappy Hallmark movies because I know they’re unrealistic; I own t-shirts with air force signs on them that are really too much; I can love all these things because I know they’re really “not done” from an academic critical/cultural studies point of view. It’s as though I’m not expected to do these things, and therefore I love doing them. It’s like I’m a secret cultural rebel. Now that sounds more like me. I don’t have to go to demonstrations or sign petitions to be a rebel, that’s who I am. Apparently, in order to be a rebel, I need to go to Dollywood. So should anyone ask why I’m going to Pigeon Forge, I’ll just tell them it’s to be a rebel.

Ice, ice baby

Wednesday’s to-do list

Laundry
Call furniture store
Make sure sprinklers are off at eight
Buy fridge

Yes, tomorrow I have to buy a brand new refrigerator. It's not every day that I get to say something like that!

Appliances are an interesting facet of home life in the US. And not so much because you depend on them a whole lot (a day without ice is a day with air down in the south), but because some homes actually come with all appliances included. Some, however don’t, which can lead to interesting predicaments. In our case this meant selling our appliances a few years ago, because the house we moved into came fully equipped every appliance you could think of. From the washer and dryer to the stove and even the electric kettle. So out went my brand new washer and fridge. Regrettably, however, we had to buy a new washer/dryer for our current home, and for our new home, we will, yes indeed, have to buy a new fridge. Such is life when you’re always on the move; painful and, at times, expensive.

Now, usually, the love of my life and I usually make large purchases such as fridges and washer/dryers together. We are definitely the embodiment of the “poldermodel”; all decisions are made after long and sometimes arduous negotiations. However, yesterday, after spending several days shopping for a new floor, a paint color for the kitchen, and driving across town numerous times to sign a million forms, husband-dear literally told me to please go and buy us whatever fridge I thought would work. It’s not often that I get to spend that much money all by myself, so I was a little excited. However, this was before I actually started looking. I had no idea there were that many options out there. We knew we wanted a double-door refrigerator, but do we want smooth sides or textured? White or almond? An ice-maker in the door or in the freezer? Transparent crisp drawers or not? Separate cheese drawer or just a little shelf? And how tall did we want it? And did it have to have a separate dispenser for ice and water, or could we do with just one nozzle?

Also, we have, apparently been selling ourselves way short with our current refrigerator. I can’t begin to tell you how many salesmen told that there was no way a four-person family could live with a fridge that is a mere 35”wide. The average American family has to have at least 36”, and even that is cutting it close. Maybe it’s our Dutch blood, or perhaps we are some sort of miracle, since we seem to have been doing fine with our lovely 35”, 21 cubic ft fridge.

See, this is why I like having a house that comes with all the appliances. You don’t have a choice between a white light or a blue light in your ice dispenser, and so you take what you get. We have barely looked at the stove, dishwasher and microwave in our new house. We just made sure that it’s similar to what we have now, and that it works. I don’t think we really like the style of the stove, but who cares, it came with the house, if we end up not liking it, we’ll replace it. Easy enough. Honestly, I don’t like having all these choices, especially since I’m the one who will end up having to live with the choice that I alone made. I know that whatever fridge I will buy, I’ll probably find something wrong wit hit, and then blame myself for at least a considerable amount of time.

So could someone please do me a favor, and pick one out for me? Thanks.

Een huis kopen: American style

Naast dat een huis kopen een spannende gebeurtenis is, is het ook nog eens hele nieuwe linguistische uitdaging. Ik heb de laatste drie weken meer nieuwe termen geleerd dan in de drie maanden ervoor. Termen waarvan ik de Nederlandse variant niet eens ken. Omdat we nu een huis “under contract”hebben, en “closen” (daar begint het al) in minder dan drie weken, en ik vast nog heel veel ga bloggen over het hele process, leek het mij handig om eens een kleine greep te doen uit alle vreemde woorden en begrippen die voor mij ondertussen dagelijks taalgebruik zijn geworden.

Laten we eens beginnen met de basistermen.
Waar draait het allemaal om bij het kopen van een huis? De deed natuurlijk. Nee, niet dat. Tssk. We wonen wel in de Bible Belt hoor. Dit is het stukje papier waarop staat dat het huis eigendom is van meneer en mevrouw zus-en-zo. Ik kijk erg uit naar het moment dat ik mijn eerste deed in handen heb (en ook dat klonk niet helemaal zoals ik het bedoelde).
Als je bod (of offer, zoals dat hier heet) dan geaccepteerd is, heb je het huis under contract, of is het contract pending. Zo heet de periode tussen de aanvaarding van het bod en de closing. Het “for sale” bordje word voorzien van een mooi “sale pending” bordje, en niemand kan er meer een bod op doen. Dit is de periode waarin de financiering geregeld moet worden, waarin een bouw inspectie moet plaatsvinden, en de beruchte termite inspection.
De termite inspection is een serieus moment in het hele proces. Termieten zijn een ware bedreiging hier in het zuiden van de VS, en elk huis heeft dus ook een jaarlijkse termieten inspectie. En nee, dit is geen controle om te kijken of alle termieten gelukkig zijn, zonder huwelijksproblemen of lastige tieners. Dit is heel serieus, en men maakt er geen grapjes over (zoals ik persoonlijk heb mogen ondervinden). Gelukkig is ons huis goedgekeurd, en zijn de termieten dus heel happy. Oeps. Sorry. Ons huis heeft dus geen termieten, en de kans dat het er over een paar maanden nog staat is dus exponentieel toegenomen.
Als dit allemaal in orde is, dan ben je klaar voor de closing. Dit is –het- moment supreme. Het moment waarop je officieel je handtekening onder het koopcontract zet, en je de sleutels van het huis overhandigd krijgt. Je moet een maand na de aanvaarding van het bod “closen”, en dus is onze closing date 11 juli. Tijdens de closing moeten er ook een hele serie kosten betaald worden. Dit zijn de closing costs (de kosten van de makelaar, de advocaat, belastingen, en weet ik veel wat meer), en de pre-paids (in feite de eerste hypotheek betaling). Deze kosten zijn vaak een onderhandelpunt in de VS, en hier wordt vaak het begrip haggling (afdingen) echt eer aangedaan.

Naast deze basisbegrippen zijn er natuurlijk ook een hele serie begrippen met betrekking tot het eigenijke huis. Zo heb ik van de week geleerd dat de meeste huizen in Georgia op een slab gebouwd zijn in tegenstelling tot op een crawl space. Dit betekent dat men in Georgia gewoon ergens een vierkant beton stort, en daar een huis opbouwt, en niet eerst een kelder of een kruipruimte gaat vragen.
De meeste huizen hier zijn voorzien van een vinyl siding. Huizen hebben aan de voorkant misschien wel een paar bakstenen, maar het merendeel van het huis is bedekt met platen van hardplastic in de vorm van houten planken. Voordat iedereen denkt dat onze huizen er uit zien als trailers, het valt gelukkig reuze mee. Het klinkt echt bizar goedkoop, maar als je ziet hoe vochtig het hier kan zijn, is dit wel begrijpelijk. Je kan hier nog net geen penicilline kweken tegen de muren van je huis zeg maar. Stiekem ben ik echter erg blij met het feit dat ons nieuwe huis een siding heeft hardy plank. Dat is, jawel, een hele harde houtsoort.
Ik ben er ook achter dat wij niet de enigen zijn met wall to wall carpeting. De meeste huizen hier hebben tapijt in alle kamers, en zo ook ons nieuwe huis. Ik kan hele boekwerken volschrijven over de nadelen van tapijt in de woonkamer (een hint: de woorden “kinderen” en “huisdieren” komen er vaak in voor). Vandaar dat wij er voor gekozen hebben om in de woonkamer een houten vloer te laten leggen. Als je een vloer laat leggen, dan moet je natuurlijk ook zorgen voor mooie plinten. Hier bestaat een plint uit een baseboard of een skirtboard (een recht stuk hout tegen de muur aangeplakt) en een zogenaamde quarter round (een ronding onderaan de baseboard die op de vloer ligt). En waarom heet dit een quarter round? Omdat als je het zijwaarts draait, het net lijkt op een kwart van een rondje. Juist ja. Waarom moeilijk doen als het makkelijk kan.

Als laatste hadden manlief en ik ook een hele serie uitdrukkingen speciaal voor onze zoekperiode. Het woord McMansion heb ik al een keer uitgelegd, maar ook de term goober kwam regelmatig voor. Onze makelaar was namelijk een beetje een goober; in huize DixieChick betekent dit iemand die heel snoezig en lief is, maar niet al te doortastend, en stiekem ook een beetje nerdy. En mijn man’s favoriete en veelgehoorde uitdrukking tijdens onze zoektocht, welke vast geen vertaling behoort: “What the heck was the builder thinking!”

Er zullen de komende weken vast nog tientallen woorden bijkomen. I will keep you posted. Dat betekent....ach dat weten jullie zelf ook wel:)

Flashing lights

There is a first time for everything, whether good or bad. And yesterday was my first time to be pulled over by the police. In all my years of driving, I have never been pulled over, or received a ticket (I’m still waiting for that award :)), so this was completely new to me. And as my husband was driving, and I was merely his passenger, it was an interesting as opposed to a harrowing experience. The fact that we were returning from a Hawaiian party, and were both sporting Hawaiian shirts and leis only added to the merriment as far as I was concerned (although I’m not sure my husband concurred).

So what happened to the people who believe that “rules make the game more fun!”? Well, we were driving along a dark and deserted country road, and husband-dear accidentally forgot to turn his high-beams off as a car came from the opposite direction. This would have not been a problem at all, had that car not turned out to belong to a Georgia State trooper. I have seen plenty of other cars pulled over since my arrival here in Georgia, so I was somewhat aware of the circus that accompanied a police intervention, but to be at “the receiving end” was a whole new experience. The blue lights appeared to be everywhere, and as we were waiting for the trooper to get out of his car, the light blue glare made it seem as though we were about to experience an encounter of the third kind.

If you have never seen an American police car in action, it is a completely different ballgame from anything the Dutch, German, or French highway patrol will do to you. First of all, most people in Europe don’t even realize they’ve actually been caught speeding or running a light until they receive a hefty bill in the mail, accompanied by a picture of themselves committing the offense. In the Netherlands they will take the picture from the back, which can lead to interesting discussions between couples regarding who actually drove that day. In Germany they've solved that problem; they take your picture from the front, although they will blot out the faces of any passengers. This was implemented, I believe, after a man successfully sued the German police after his wife had found out about his affair when she opened his mail and found a picture of him and his mistress speeding down the autobahn. Looking out for the much-hated cameras has become a national sport in many countries, complete with websites that indicate the different locations and news stories about people spray painting or otherwise dismantling the cameras. Second, if you get pulled over, which only occurs very rarely, you usually don’t even notice you’re being followed until a nondescript car in front of you suddenly pops up a sign in its rear window that tells you they are the police and you have to follow them. No lights, no sirens, and no cool troopers with ten gallon hats and nightsticks three feet long.

The American traffic police experience could not be any different. I can’t count the number of times I almost got a heart attack because a police car would suddenly come flying by with its lights flashing and siren blaring. They also don’t lead the offender to a parking spot or rest area like in Europe. No, they stay behind the offender who is expected to pull over immediately, even if that means coming to a standstill on a muddy shoulder right by an intersection. The police car then leaves its lights on, to warn other traffic. In Georgia, you are then, according to the, yes indeed “move over law”, expected to move over one lane, or slow down. It’s quite the experience.

So when we were pulled over yesterday, I couldn’t help but wonder how fierce the police officer would be. After all, with all that show of force, they should have a reputation to uphold. But I could not have been more wrong. The first thing the trooper said when he came up the window was; “Wow, did y’all just come from Hawaii or something?”. The second thing he said was; “And does your car come with a dimmer?”. In the end, he just gave us a warning, and wished us a pleasant night. My husband was very relieved, and I was excited to be able to add another experience to my last. Who knows, maybe bungee jumping will be next!

Soccer and anniversaries

Twenty years ago, when Holland won the European Championship for the last time, I would have never guessed that I would be watching the 2008 Quarterfinal from my home in Middle Georgia, but here I am. It’s another fifteen minutes before “oranje” (orange) starts playing, but I’m ready. I’ve warned husband-dear about possible eruptions of cheering and yelling, and have told family members I will not be answering the phone or engaging in any serious discussions until the game is over. In other words, short of a total emergency, I am staying put on the couch.

To be honest, I was never really a big soccer fan when I lived in Europe. Sure, whenever Holland made it really far, say to the semi-finals, I would watch the game, but otherwise I tended to think of the whole brouhaha that surrounded every European and World Championship as slightly over the top. I never quite related to the people who decorated their entire house with orange streamers, banners, balloons, and flags, and thought that the public outpouring of rage or grief (or both) that would follow a loss was always a little startling. I was the kind of person who would turn on the TV, and then walk away to do something, only to become aware of the national team scoring by the raucous cheers that would erupt from the apartments in my building. But, as explained when talking about Queen’s Day, when you live overseas, most people suddenly develop an orange streak. Unable to watch any of the previous matches because of other obligations, I have now marked the upcoming games in my planner, and should Holland make it, I will be there, watching them. If it means going to a local Hooters to watch the game, I will, trust me. Heck, Hooter’s colors are orange, so hey, why not, right?

Interestingly, today, the day that I have installed myself on my American couch in my American home to support my “other home”, is also the first-year anniversary of our move to Georgia. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been in this neck of the woods for that long already. Most of the time, it feels much shorter. I still struggle to find certain roads in our town, and still don’t know all the ins and outs on base yet. I also still talk about Georgia as an outsider, which although being a great source of inspiration for this blog, doesn’t help when it comes to trying to feel at home here.

I think a lot of this has to do with moving here because of the military. Part of being a military spouse means never really putting down roots anywhere. You don’t have a much of a say in where you end up living, so perhaps that is why I don’t feel really attached to my home. Yet. For I sure hope that one day, I will feel that connection with my hometown.

For now though, you’ll have to excuse me, I want to go and sing along with the anthem of that other home.

Sugarpie honeybunch

“My lovey-dovey baby..I used to be your tootsie-wootsie”
Medda ~ Newsies

Please answer the following questions.

When I walked into a gas station to use their ATM, who was the person who said; “Oh baby, I’m sorry, but it looks like the machine is out of order”. Was it:
a) My mother
b) The gas station attendant
c) My husband

When walking across campus with a co-worker, how did the Vice-President greet us?
a) Hello Dr. J…, How are you Mr. B….?
b) Hello Mr. B….., Hi honey!
c) Hello Dr. J....., Hey bud!

What does my husband say to me when I worry too much?
a) Oh honey, please don’t worry so much, it will be fine
b) Oh, you’re so cute when you worry, you’re like my own Mrs. Monk
c) Oh baby, please don’t worry so much, it will be fine

The correct answers? All b’s. Does that strike you as disturbing? Well, aside from the last one (I call my husband ‘sailor’, he calls me ‘Mrs. Monk’, what can I say, we’re just not into the saccharine-like nicknames), it sure does to me.

Here in the south we love to show you how much we love you. You are special, and we just want you to know that all the time! And besides, in addition to spreading the love, using the ubiquitous “honey” or “sweetie” is also a perfect way to hide the fact that we really can’t remember your name anymore.

I have to admit that I, too, tend to resort to the lovey-dovey trap once in a while. I try to steer away from calling students by anything but their given name, but everyone else is fair game. I call my kids “honey” or “sweetie”, even when they’re not. Don’t think it’s possible to do that? You obviously have not heard the fifty different ways in which a southern woman can inflect the word “honey”. Just keep this mind, when the stress is on the first syllable (HON-ey), you’re in trouble. I call friends honey, and I will even call other people’s children “sweetie” or “darling”.

I have noticed, however, that is some sort of unspoken barrier regarding whom you can address in such a lovable fashion. Apparently anyone who looks young enough to be in school can be called “honey”, regardless of their gender. Also, you are free to call your children “sweetie” regardless of their age. In addition, all women appear to be fair game too. However, I don’t think I have ever heard anyone call a man “sweetie”. The exception is of course a man’s wife, but that too appears to be limited to the newlyweds and the extremely ticked off ("SWEET-ie, you forgot the collared greens again?"). And you know what, I’m pretty sure that southern men wouldn’t stand being called “sweetie” by another person besides their mother or their wife either. Remember, these are those “real men” I talked about a few weeks ago, who shoot guns, ride pick up trucks and chew tobacco.

But I have to say that I do become slightly uncomfortable when a perfectly strange person, such as the gas station attendant calls me “baby”. Granted, the lady in question was old enough to be my mother, but see, even my mother has never ever called me “baby”. Now we can argue whether or not that was a mistake, but the bottom line is, when unknown women over seventy with nothing on but a smock and a pair of hotpants and who chew tobacco call me “baby”, I’m not sure what to do with myself. I think I merely smiled and said “thank you”, while slowly backing out of the grimy store.

However, when I’m addressed as “honey” or “baby” or “sweetie”, or anything other than my given name in a professional setting, that’s when discomfort turns into outright annoyance. Every time this has happened to me, however, I have been so flabbergasted that I was unable to say anything to the person in question. And what amazes me is that men are never called “honey” or even “dude”, no, it’s always the female. I’m not quite sure how I am going to solve this cultural dilemma either. You see, I am quite sure that if I were to address this issue people simply would not understand my point. After all, all other women seem to be OK with this. So instead of fixing this problem head-on, I have come up with a much more roundabout, and possibly, southern solution; every time someone calls me “honey”, “sweetie”, “babe”, or anything that does not sound professional, I am going to call them “honey” right back. And if that means calling our college President “babe”, then so be it. Right, Now where do I go and buy some guts?