Special

Americans are great about making you feel like you're special. Whenever I tell people down here I'm from Holland, the first thing they say is "Wow! That's amazing!", with a look on their face that can be best described as overawed. Now although I admit that coming from Holland and moving to this specific part of Georgia should be deemed a miracle, or at least an act of God, I personally had very little to do with it. I mean, it's not as though I personally swam across the Atlantic Ocean to get here. Then when they find out I live in the same state, or heaven help them, the same town, like the same bands as they do, get my hair cut at the same salon, or that we own the same color car, their enthusiasm knows no bounds. It's great. I finally feel really special.

And I especially love how this feeling of "specialness"has pretty much permeated all aspects of American life. This starts in elementary school, where there are not just awards for the smartest and fastest students, but also for those students who tried the hardest, showed the most improvement, and had the best school spirit. And it continues pretty much right through one's life down here. Not only does this whole award circus continue throughout college and even graduate school, but various adult-oriented organizations, such as karate schools and swim clubs have awards for just about every imaginable achievement ("best freestyle kick", "best attendance", and "best attitude").

What I personally find most enjoyable is how the whole notion of everybody being special has become integrated in the retail and service industry. Enter any restaurant in Holland, or France, or Germany, and you can count yourself lucky if your presence is acknowledged within ten minutes. Note, I said acknowledged. I'm not even going to go into how long it can take to get as much as a menu from a European waiter. Here in the US, on the other hand, the waiters will all act as though your appearance was the thing they had been waiting for to make this night just perfect. Go out and try to buy a semi-expensive appliance such as a vacuum cleaner or a laptop; before you know it, you're swapping life stories with the salesperson, offering to bring them coffee next time you're in that part of town. And the very best part? There are discounts for every imaginable age group. Of course, there is the senior citizen discount, but here in the US, there is much more. Are you a teacher? Discount! Are you in, or related to, the military? Discount! Do you have a certain store card? Discount! Oh, you don't have that card? No problem, I'll use the one I have right here at the register. Discount! I have earned free entry to museums, gotten up to 30% off on clothes, and earned goodness knows whatever else in freebies and or discount because of my job, my husband's job, or some card we happened to have.

Yes, we're cheap. Very much so. But we're also special. Very. Special.

Foto album

Ik vind mezelf best wel nieuwerwets. Ik hou een blog bij, zit op Facebook, verstuur SMSjes, heb een iPod, en zo'n stoere adaptor voor in de auto, en heb zelfs een digitale camera. Maar wat betreft een ding ben ik nog steeds heel erg ouderwets: foto's plakken. In de twintig jaar (is het al zo lang? Echt waar?) dat ik nu al foto's maak, is er heel veel veranderd aan de manier van fotograferen, maar het inplakken is niet veranderd. Nog steeds bewaar ik tickets, kaartjes, gidsjes, en folders, en creeer van elke belevenis een soort explosie van kleuren, foto's, informatie, en dus ouderwets afgedrukte foto's.

Nu wil ik een ding wel even duidelijk gemaakt hebben: ik doe niet aan "scrapbooking", en maak dus geen "scrapbooks". Ik krijg zelfs een beetje de kriebels van al die scrapbook materialen die je bij de lokale Hobby Lobby en Michael's kan kopen; al die voorbedachte stickertjes en plakkertjes en etiketjes, en voorgedrukte commentaren passen niet bij mijn "doe-het-zelf-en-simpel" inplak manie. Mijn mening over dat soort zaken is dat als je het niet bij het evenement zelf gekregen hebt, het ook niet in je plakboek thuishoort.

Maar ja, zoals ik al zei, ik ben ouderwets. Zo ouderwets zelfs dat manlief (die ondanks zijn sci-fi-achtige baan helemaal niet van gadgets en moderne techniek houdt) de laatste keer dat we bij de Walmart weer eens een stuk of honderd foto's afrekende opmerkte of het niet tijd werd een foto-album online te maken en die dan af te laten drukken. Hij had namelijk gehoord dat dat veel makkelijker, en vooral goedkoper was. Manlief was namelijk een zeeuw in een vorig leven, of een Schot, of misschien wel gewoon een echte Hollander.

Nu ben ik wel van de gadgets, maar ik wil geen digitaal foto-album. En ik wil het al helemaal niet af laten drukken door een of ander semi-professioneel iemand. Natuurlijk is dat veel mooier dan mijn enorme boekwerken. En natuurlijk zou mij dat uren werk schelen. Maar daar gaat het juist om. Mijn foto albums zijn het namelijk altijd net niet. Vaak zit een foto scheef. Of is die nare doorzichtige plakbladzijde niet helemaal netjes erop gedrukt. Of is iets half los gegaan. Maar dat hoort zo. En daarnaast; de grootste lol in een foto album zit voor mij in het maken van het gevaarte. Het passen en meten met foto's en toegangskaartjes. Het handmatig versnijden van half-gelukte foto's. Het klooien met lijm, het doorspitten van tasjes met mementos, en het kijken of je toch niet een onderzetter ingeplakt kan krijgen.

Dus. Ik ben ouderwets, en ik vind dat eigenlijk wel prima. En troost je, ik doe ten minste geen dia avondjes.

Tan lines

Here in Georgia you don't have to make an effort to get a tan. Getting tanned, or burnt is such a part of daily life, that even the most simple activities, such as mowing the yard, walking the dogs, or going for a run, require sunblock. In fact, and I, and my husband, by whose neck alone you could truly call him a "redneck", can wholeheartedly attest to this, wearing sunscreen is no guarantee that you won't get some sort of a tan or sunburn anyway. So, living in Georgia means that unless you spent the entire summer indoors, and in case you were wondering, there are locals who manage to achieve this impressive feat, you will get some sort of tan. And this present the second problem of summer; tan lines. Now please don't mistake for some sort of valley girl who spends the entire summer carefully rotating on her lawn chair, making sure her entire body has achieved the same color, because I don't. But it would be nice if the tops of my arms aren't disfigured by a tan line from a t-shirt sleeve up until Christmas, because, yes, that is approximately how long it takes me to lose my Georgia tan.

Unfortunately, as far as tan lines go, this year is not going to be any better than previous summers. If anything, it will probably be worse, and this can entirely be blamed on my triathlon-preparation. Whereas in previous years I would stick to running only, this year I have been running, biking, and swimming, all of which take place outdoors, and all of which require different outfits. First, there is my bathing suit, which has the criss-crossed straps on the back. Then there are my three biking shirts. One has narrow straps which cross in the back, one is a cropped top that reveals part of my back, and has two broad straps going straight across my shoulder, and one is a sleeveless shirt. Then there are my running outfits, which consist of anything from a tri-top (something that most closely resembles a pimped-up running bra), several sleeveless shirts, and a variety of wide round-necked t-shirts. Then of course there is the bikini I wear when floating around in our mini-pool, and the variety of outfits I put on when I'm not working out. Let's just say my back looks like a map of the greater Atlanta area. There are several diagonal lines, four vertical lines that do not match up, and one very dark triangle, that apparently is not covered by several of my outfits. My upper legs, on the other hand, look like a sample that could be used in a spray tanning salon; "this color is the result of six sessions, while this next line is what your skin will look like after four sessions, and after only two sessions, your skin will look like the next line up from that". And my face best resembles an owl's; the wide sunglasses I wear when running and biking, as well as my swimming goggles have taken care of that.

I know this is truly a luxury problem; I mean, how many Dutch people complain about their tan lines? So yes, I am a little spoiled with all the sun I've been getting down here. But as a friend of mine used to say; luxury problems are problems too. And in all honestly, I can't wait to get back to work where my variety of tans will definitely elicit a wide variety of remarks from my students. So, for all those of you who are suffering from a rainy summer, please feel free to send some our way, you're more than welcome to some of our sunshine. And tan lines

Busy

As you have all probably noticed, I have been far from active on my blog this week. And the week before that too actually. That's because I have been busy. And yes, the semester did end July 3, and yes, the Facebook research project was wrapped sometime last week as well. I have just been busy living my life. It's no wonder I'm always tired throughout the school year - just living my life without my job is exhausting. There is just so much to do.

For instance, as I'm writing this, I'm also putting away this week's groceries. And yesterday, as the youngest had his guitar lessons, I simply had to go to Pier 1 imports. I mean, I had not been there since Christmas, so it was high time for another visit. However, I only had half an hour, and I saw two simply adorable Asian tea sets. Now you and try and decide between two tea sets in less than thirty minutes; let me tell you, that is stressful. Not to mention all the books I still have to read. There's an entire basket in my bedroom just calling out my name, and many more on Amazon, waiting to be ordered.
And then of course there are the more serious manners. There's our pool that requires maintenance. I can't tell you how much work it is each day to put on my bathing suit and sunscreen, and make sure the pool is in tip-top shape. You have to skim the whole pool, then you have to measure the chlorine levels, the PH level, maybe add a little salt to the water, figure out how long you should run the pump that day, and make sure all of our inflatables are usable. It's stressful. Not to mention having coffee with friends, talking on the phone, and watching a lot of TV. It's just disgusting to see how behind I am on my reality shows. I mean, if you want to stay on top of televised popular culture, that requires a good few hours each day right there. And of course there's all the pampering; nail appointments, massages, haircuts. It's a lot of upkeep, let me tell you that.

So yes, that is why my blog has been less than active. I will try and do better though, I promise. And if nothing else; I go back to work August 3, and I will have plenty of time left over for blogging.

Tour de France

I was never one of those kids who couldn't wait to move out of her parents' house. But when I went off to college and moved into my own apartment, I did rejoice at the fact that there were certain things I would never have to do again. And one of those things was watching the Tour de France. For as long as I can remember, the month of July was dominated by men in tight clothing riding along the French countryside for hours, days, and in fact, weeks on end. Besides the occasional spectacular crash, nothing ever happened; they rode along endlessly, wore green, yellow, or polka dot jerseys, the meaning of which I never quite grasped, and the winner was not determined through an exciting final sprint but using a complicated points-and-time scheme that I wasn't sure anyone in my family completely understood. So when I moved out at eighteen, I silently praised myself lucky for the fact that I would never ever again have to watch four weeks of men on bikes.

And I was a very lucky woman until about two weeks ago, when on an unassuming Saturday in early July, husband-dear turned on the TV, and muttered; "I wondered which channel shows the Tour de France."
I argued and pleaded, but nothing was to deter the love of my life. He said it would be fun to watch, since we both roadbike, and that was that.
"You don't understand, " I said through gritted teeth, "I watched the Tour de France every single year until I went to college. Every year, that stupid TV would be set to the Tour for the whole month of July, and I hated every minute of it. I used to have to hear endless discussions about yellow shirts, green shirts, dotted shirts, and whatever other color shirts they have. It was almost traumatic."
"It's jersey. Not shirt." My husband installed himself on our couch, "And hey, now that you mention it, you can probably explain the difference between the three to me. Oh, and how many times did Indurain win?"

After that conversation, husband-dear has been watching the Tour every single day. It's like living at home again, only a little worse, as husband-dear has been calling me from work, where the military has blocked access to all non-essential websites, to turn on the TV and inform him of the latest developments.

Funnily enough, and I hate to admit this, the Tour has actually grown on me a little this time around. I'm sure that this is not in the least because, as opposed to almost all other interests husband and I share, this is one I know more about than he does. Apparently eighteen years of watching the Tour and listening to my dad argue with my uncles about who stood a better chance of winning, has left a wide variety of facts hidden away in my brain. Husband-dear, who is completely new to both cycling and the Tour, is amazed that I know things like which shirt, or jersey I suppose, means what, how many stages there are, and who past winners were.
In addition, there is something incredibly soothing and familiar about hearing the British commentator again. His voice, coupled with all the familiar European sights is really almost enough to keep me hooked. I mean, just yesterday I got a real kick out of looking at all the French road signs, and pointing out all the crazy hairpins that make up a normal French road. An the day before I almost drooled when I saw all the pretty little castles and villages nestled away in the French - Swiss Alps.
And then of course, there is the language. I'm used to using Dutch or French words when talking about the Tour; words like 'knecht', 'trui', and 'peleton'. Learning that the 'knecht', the guy who helps the leader get through the difficult parts is ' lieutenant' in English is fascinating, as is the fact that an 'etappe' is called a 'stage', although I personally think the word 'stage' sounds far too theatrical for something as grueling as the Tour. The peleton is still called the peleton, although instead of using the pretty French pronunciation, which makes one think of drinking wine with a view of the lavender-covered mountains, the Americans make it sound like something military.
Of course, it also doesn't hurt that I've taken up cycling myself, and actually know what the commentators are talking about. Whereas previously, comments such as; "And he's got his rear gear in the big ring, that is truly a display of power" would have me roll my eyes, now I actually understand what the commentator is talking about, and why this is such an amazing feat.

Although I don't think I will ever be a die-hard Tour fan, I do think I like it enough to maintain peace in the DixieChick residence. And, just for the record, I'm rooting for Lance.

Babies

I seriously never realized how many babies there were in this town. At least, until I heard we couldn't have any of their own. There are babies at the commissary, gurgling while their mother decides which diapers to get; they're at Walmart crying big fat tears because they're done shopping; they're at the base pool, floating around in their mothers' arms; there are little kids picking out puppies at PetSmart; there are adorable little girls at church, running through the aisles while their mothers hiss at them to sit down and be quiet. The only place I'm really safe from babies is at home, and that is only providing I leave the TV and radio off, because good grief every other commercial is for babies, about babies, or features a baby. And then I'm not even talking about all those baby-centered shows such as The Duggars: Eighteen and Counting, A Baby Story, and Jon and Kate Plus Eight (although I suppose that that show should be renamed to Jon or Kate Plus Eight).

It could be that my memory is playing tricks on me, and considering my recent bout of forgetfulness this is in fact very likely, but I don't remember ever living anywhere where there was such a focus on kids. The only thing we have more of, is Kudzu. Seriously. In a way, it makes sense though. As I tell my husband a lot, in a military town like ours, there is not a whole lot to do. As I have lamented over and over again, our town seems to consist mainly of car dealerships, chain restaurants, and Walmarts. Add to that the fact that most military spouses find it nearly impossible to have a career of their own, and you have people who really have nowhere else to tun but make babies. And I'm not blaming them. Because if you have kids, this town suddenly makes a lot more sense. Then every McDonald's is not an eyesore, but a place for your kids to play. The Target is not a really ugly big building, it's a place where you can buy affordable children's clothing. And churches are a great place for your kids to engage in free sports, crafts, and field trips.

However, it doesn't exactly do much for me right now. Apart from wearing a blindfold everywhere I go, there is very little I can do to avoid seeing these little bundles of joy. What we need is an assignment in a big city. One with lots of yuppies, and singles, and independent movie theaters, and little boutiques, and a ton of theaters, and no children. It sounds wonderful.

Now excuse me while I brace myself for yet another trip to Walmart. The toy section, to be more specific.

Housewives of Middle Georgia

Vanochtend werd ik te laat wakker voor mijn geplande training. En voordat iedereen denkt ik dat wel heel erg lui ben; hier betekent op tijd staan om te kunnen trainen dus dat je om kwart voor zes naast je bed staat. Het is hier ondertussen zo warm dat als je niet om half zeven met de schoentjes aan de voeten op de oprit staat het niet meer verantwoord is om veel buiten te doen. En aangezien ik vandaag een "brick" training wilde doen (bike-run), was het dus nog belangrijker dat ik op tijd vertrok. Maar goed, toen ik om kwart voor acht wakker werd, was het al meteen duidelijk dat een "baksteen-training" er dus niet meer in zou zitten. Jammer. Nou ja, een beetje dan. Want fietsen en dan hardlopen is, in mijn beperkte mening, de ergste marteling die er bestaat. En stiekem heb ik best wel een hekel aan trainen in mijn vakantie. Het liefst lig ik namelijk de hele dag op de bank naar Real Housewives of Maakt Niet Uit te kijken. Of Ellen. Of een of andere vage documentaire over toekomstige rampen op de History Channel. Maar ja, als ik mijn tweede triathlon succesvol wil afronden, en er niet uit wil zien als de gemiddelde Real HouseWife of Middle Georgia, dan is dat natuurlijk niet de meest slimme actie. En eerlijk gezegd heb ik een nog grotere hekel aan niet kunnen trainen wanneer ik dat wel gepland had.

Dus, met al dat in mijn achterhoofd bedacht ik me dat ik toch maar beter iets moest doen. En dus berekende ik, aan de hand van mijn vorige triathlon, hoe snel ik het fiets-gedeelte van mijn volgende triathlon wilde doen, hees me in mijn meest luchtige fietsoutfit, en sprong op de fiets. Zevenveertig minuten, dertien mijl, tien blije state prisoners-wegwerkers, zes heuvels, en een bijna-ongeluk met een telefonerende housewife in een SUV later, stond ik bezweet weer op onze oprit.

En terwijl ik al na-zwetend mijn post-training chocolademelk mix maakte, zette ik Bravo aan; wie weet was er een of andere housewife special. Er is namelijk niks zo lekker als bezweet op de bank hangen en te kijken hoe vrouwen zich druk maken om het plannen van hun manicure, of de kleur van hun nieuwe gordijen. Maar in plaats van een special kreeg ik een serie reclames over gewicht en afvallen. De ene barbie pop na de andere vertelde over hoe zij dertig, veertig, tachtig pond waren kwijtgeraakt. En ging het over hard trainen? Zweten? Midden in de nacht op staan om te kunnen hardlopen? Spierpijn? Natuurlijk niet. De oplossing om af te vallen was volgens deze dames niet sporten, niet gezonder eten, niet eens minder eten. Nee, de oplossing lag in dingen zoals een pilletje nemen voor het eten. Of alleen eten kopen van een bepaald systeem. Of een drankje dat al je maaltijden zou vervangen. En terwijl ik daar al zwetend aan het bijkomen was van mijn inspanning, vroeg ik me af of hoe het toch kan dat mensen daarin geloven. Want geloven, dat doen ze. De reclames vliegen je om de oren, en in de supermarkt is er een heel gangpad alleen maar bestemd voor de nutrasystems, de boost producten, en de special K-bars. Maar als ik, zoals vandaag, midden in de dag op de fiets spring, dan ben ik, naast de state prisoners, de enige persoon op straat. In onze cirkel kennen onze buren ons als de mensen die altijd hardlopen en fietsen, omdat wij de enige zijn die dat doen. En zelfs in de gym op de basis zijn er altijd machines beschikbaar.

Soms denk ik wel eens dat mensen hier te hard geloven in een makkelijke oplossing. Alles gaat makkelijk; er zijn drive-through apotheken, je kan online pizza bestellen, en je hoeft nergens voor je auto uit. Dus, als je dan logisch doorredeneerd, dan geldt dat ook voor gewicht verliezen. Alleen bereik je dat echt alleen maar door hard werken, bloed, zweet, tranen, en nog meer zweet. Maar ja, wie gaat dat aan de Housewives of Middle Georgia duidelijk maken?