I have never met a people who consume as much coffee in one sitting as Americans do. Honestly, I don't think there is any place in the world where purchasing close to a half a liter of coffee at Starbucks does not raise any eyebrows, and where gas stations frequently offer coffee sizes referred to as "The Big Gulp". In fact, one of this year's April Fool's jokes was the supposed introduction of a Starbucks "plenta", a mug so large it could hold 128 fluid ounces, or a little over three liters. I can almost guarantee you that a joke like that would have never worked anywhere else, as most people would have never ever fallen for the idea of a 3-liter mug of coffee. I mean, in the Netherlands, a country apparently in love with its teeny tiny cups of Senseo coffee, that would be enough to keep most people's Senseo running for a full week. But here in the US, that's really not too far from reality, as evidenced by some of coworkers who carry at least a liter of coffee to work with them in a thermos so large it could be used to bathe my guinneapig.
On the other hand, I have also never met so many people who are super-sensitive to caffeine. These are obviously not the same Americans who keep "The big gulp" as the number one sellers at our local gas station, but there are lots and lots of them around, husband-dear being the prime example. Although he is the most awesome, loving, caring, and understanding man in the world, if he as much as smells caffeine after 3pm, he will not be able to go to sleep that night. And he is not alone. I can't tell you how many friends I have who can't have coffee because "it makes them jittery", or who have cut caffeine from their diet entirely because it messes with their sleep. And we're not talking about Italian espresso here, no, we're talking plain American coffee, which by most European standards is little more than colored water with a whiff of coffee.
Needless to say, I do not fall under this last category. In fact, if you were to tell me I could no longer have any caffeinated drinks, I may have to hurt you, as I simply cannot function without my hot tea and milk in the morning and at night. Now in all honesty, the hot tea and milk is more of a comfort drink than a desperate, dying need for caffeine, but still. It is caffeine, and watching me drink it at night does freak out husband-dear as well as a smattering of my friends, who always exclaim something like, "How can you sleep after drinking that?!" and then add in a "I would be up for hours!". Honestly, I don't know. I must be special somehow, as I can have a cappuccino right before bed, and still sleep like a baby. Maybe it's those European genes.
However, yesterday I think I managed to freak out husband-dear beyond belief with caffeine consumption and subsequent lack of response. Just to provide you with some context; I was grading until 11:30 the night before, and thus only had about five hours of sleep before I needed to get up and go to work again. So when I packed my lunch yesterday morning, I took a Diet Mountain Dew because I knew that that would surely prevent me from wanting to nap. And just for safekeeping, I also took one of those Starbucks Frapuccino drinks. By the time I got to work, the effect of the tea had worn off, and as our break room was still locked, and there was thus no chance of coffee, I instead opened my bottle of Frapuccino. Happily buzzing, I went to grading, when thirty minutes later Steve showed up with hot Mochas. Now you don't ever turn down free fancy coffees, and so I spent the next hour nursing my hot coffee. I'm sure you understand that when lunch time rolled around, I really didn't need any more caffeine, but all I had with me was that Mountain Dew. And since my Dutch genes prevent me from splurging on anything I don't desperately need, I had that. And let me tell you, I had the most productive day in my life. Seriously. I graded all my finals, finished calculating my final grades, and dealt with hordes of student in need of advisement in a nice and patient manner. It was amazing.
When I came home, and I told husband-dear about my day, he was certain I was going to one (or all) of three things: a) get sick, b) crash, c) not be able to sleep. I was convinced I would be fine. And I was. I rehung our curtains, rode the trainer, made husband-dear watch ANTM, and fell asleep the moment my head hit my pillow. I'm not sure, but I think husband-dear might have just been a tad jealous. Just a tad.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
De voorjaarsmoeheid
Hier lijkt het alweer vollop zomer, maar in de rest van het Noorderlijk halfrond is het natuurlijk nog gewoon lente. En dus kan er weer gesproken gaan worden van een "voorjaarsschoonmaak" en een "voorjaarsmoeheid". Straks krijgen we natuurlijk ook nog de "voorjaarsvakantie" (alhoewel onze kinderen hier dan allang met zomer vakantie zijn), en de eventuele "voorjaarsdip". Zij schreef al over de voorjaarsmoeheid, en ik dacht dat ik daar wel gezellig aan kon haken.
En dan eigenlijk alleen maar om u te vertellen dat ik niet aan voorjaarsmoeheid doe. Ik ben meer van de herfstdip zeg maar. Als de blaadjes van de bomen vallen, het steeds vroeger donker wordt, en de jas weer uit de kast moet, dan bestaat er een kans dat ik een lichte mineur schiet. Als ik daar tijd voor heb natuurlijk.
Bij mij is het voorjaar, of nou ja, deze tijd van het jaar, namelijk de laatste jaren alleen maar reden tot een feest. Want wanneer de bloesem is uitgebloeid, de zon weer hoog aan de hemel klimt, maar we soms toch nog koude nachten hebben, dan is dat een teken voor mij dat het eindelijk zover is. Het semester is bijna voorbij. En dat is het. Het is namelijk nog drie dagen en pak en beet 23 uur tot de bekende afstudeer ceremonie, commencement. En dat is niet alleen voor de studenten reden tot een feestje.
Maar goed, daardoor heb ik dus helemaal geen tijd voor een voorjaarsdip, of moeheid. Eerlijk gezegd wilde ik soms dat ik dat wel had. Lekker een paar daagjes op de bank. Of in op de porch swing, lekker thee drinken en veel Glee en Scrubs kijken om bij te komen. Met natuurlijk de dropjes binnen handbereik. En dat allemaal vanwege het voorjaar. Dat klinkt echt super, weet u dat?
Maar ja, hier in Amerika doen ze niet aan dat soort onzin. Werken, dat zul je! En soms is dat wel jammer. Want wees nou eens eerlijk, zouden we niet allemaal een stuk leuker, vriendelijker, geduldiger zijn als we gewoon eens een paar dagen "voorjaarsmoeheidverlof" konden nemen?
Ik wel.
Dus. Volgend jaar toch maar eens inplannen. Dat voorjaarsvermoeidheidsverlof. Klinkt als een geweldig plan.
En dan eigenlijk alleen maar om u te vertellen dat ik niet aan voorjaarsmoeheid doe. Ik ben meer van de herfstdip zeg maar. Als de blaadjes van de bomen vallen, het steeds vroeger donker wordt, en de jas weer uit de kast moet, dan bestaat er een kans dat ik een lichte mineur schiet. Als ik daar tijd voor heb natuurlijk.
Bij mij is het voorjaar, of nou ja, deze tijd van het jaar, namelijk de laatste jaren alleen maar reden tot een feest. Want wanneer de bloesem is uitgebloeid, de zon weer hoog aan de hemel klimt, maar we soms toch nog koude nachten hebben, dan is dat een teken voor mij dat het eindelijk zover is. Het semester is bijna voorbij. En dat is het. Het is namelijk nog drie dagen en pak en beet 23 uur tot de bekende afstudeer ceremonie, commencement. En dat is niet alleen voor de studenten reden tot een feestje.
Maar goed, daardoor heb ik dus helemaal geen tijd voor een voorjaarsdip, of moeheid. Eerlijk gezegd wilde ik soms dat ik dat wel had. Lekker een paar daagjes op de bank. Of in op de porch swing, lekker thee drinken en veel Glee en Scrubs kijken om bij te komen. Met natuurlijk de dropjes binnen handbereik. En dat allemaal vanwege het voorjaar. Dat klinkt echt super, weet u dat?
Maar ja, hier in Amerika doen ze niet aan dat soort onzin. Werken, dat zul je! En soms is dat wel jammer. Want wees nou eens eerlijk, zouden we niet allemaal een stuk leuker, vriendelijker, geduldiger zijn als we gewoon eens een paar dagen "voorjaarsmoeheidverlof" konden nemen?
Ik wel.
Dus. Volgend jaar toch maar eens inplannen. Dat voorjaarsvermoeidheidsverlof. Klinkt als een geweldig plan.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
It's complicated
Sometimes I wonder if husband-dear and I unnecessarily complicate our lives. I really do. Take today for instance. All I really needed to do (besides grade oodles of papers, of course) was get the oil in my car changed and my tires rotated. Sounds simple enough. Only it wasn't.
If all my car needed was an oil change, it would have been easy. There is a quickie lube a few miles down the road, and whenever I pull up there, no matter how many cars are in front of me, I will be out in no more than half an hour. I'll sit in the little office, grade a few papers, and be golden. But ever since I got married, my cars have apparently also needed tire rotations. Husband-dear truly believes in the power of tire rotation, and I'm not sure why. Granted, I also did not know the difference between brake pads and shoes until yesterday (the former are used with disc brakes, the latter with drum brakes, in case you wondered), but that's not the point. The point is that for years and years my cars did just fine without tire rotations. Unfortunately, husband-dear's approach to cars is less laissez-faire than mine, and thus I now get my tires rotated every...uhm..every...well every something. He tells when that is. And it happened to be this oil change.
You can imagine the eye-rolling and sighing on my end when he told me that. It's the end of the semester, and I barely have time to do my hair or shave my legs, let alone drive my car to one of the two places that rotate tires. Both are all the way across town, and seem to take for.ever.regardless of how many customers there are. And unless a place has free wi-fi, I can't do more than thirty minutes anywhere these days. So yes, there was sighing and possibly even some grumbling. But husband-dear once again proved his total awesome-ness, when he suggested the following grand scheme that centered on the fact that he had to work today, and the tire rotation place is on the way to base (pay attention, it gets complicated):
1. He was going to put his bike in my car, drive my car to the tire rotation place, and then bike to work.
2. Since the tire rotation place closes before husband-dear gets off work, I would ride my bike to the tire rotation place whenever the car was done, put my bike in the car and drive the car home.
3. Husband-dear would ride his bike home.
Do you see the ingeniousness of this scheme? We share the burden of driving my car clear across town, and both get our exercise in by riding our bikes.
But then we woke up this morning and it rained. And there was lightning. And thunder. And a stiff wind. And husband-dear was not happy, because that man LOVES to ride his bike. But we came up with an alternative:
1. I drive to the tire place right when they open, get the tires rotated and the oil changed, and drive home.
The idea behind this was that if I showed up there at 7am, the place would be deserted, and I would be in and out in half an hour, which would not cut into my grading too much.
Unfortunately, when I got to the tire rotation place, it looked like a parking lot, and the office worker told me that if I wanted to wait, I had to count on at least two hours.
Not. An. Option.
So I called husband-dear, and this is the plan we're on now:
1. I drive to the tire place
2. Husband-dear comes a little later to pick me up while I leave the car there
3. We both drive to base
4. I drive the truck home
5. I drive out to the tire rotation place before it closes (1pm) to pick up my car
6. I leave husband-dear's truck in the parking lot, and drive my car home
7. I pick husband-dear up from work in my car
8. I drop husband-dear off at the tire rotation place
9. Husband-dear drives his truck home.
So. Is this overly complicated, or is it just me?
If all my car needed was an oil change, it would have been easy. There is a quickie lube a few miles down the road, and whenever I pull up there, no matter how many cars are in front of me, I will be out in no more than half an hour. I'll sit in the little office, grade a few papers, and be golden. But ever since I got married, my cars have apparently also needed tire rotations. Husband-dear truly believes in the power of tire rotation, and I'm not sure why. Granted, I also did not know the difference between brake pads and shoes until yesterday (the former are used with disc brakes, the latter with drum brakes, in case you wondered), but that's not the point. The point is that for years and years my cars did just fine without tire rotations. Unfortunately, husband-dear's approach to cars is less laissez-faire than mine, and thus I now get my tires rotated every...uhm..every...well every something. He tells when that is. And it happened to be this oil change.
You can imagine the eye-rolling and sighing on my end when he told me that. It's the end of the semester, and I barely have time to do my hair or shave my legs, let alone drive my car to one of the two places that rotate tires. Both are all the way across town, and seem to take for.ever.regardless of how many customers there are. And unless a place has free wi-fi, I can't do more than thirty minutes anywhere these days. So yes, there was sighing and possibly even some grumbling. But husband-dear once again proved his total awesome-ness, when he suggested the following grand scheme that centered on the fact that he had to work today, and the tire rotation place is on the way to base (pay attention, it gets complicated):
1. He was going to put his bike in my car, drive my car to the tire rotation place, and then bike to work.
2. Since the tire rotation place closes before husband-dear gets off work, I would ride my bike to the tire rotation place whenever the car was done, put my bike in the car and drive the car home.
3. Husband-dear would ride his bike home.
Do you see the ingeniousness of this scheme? We share the burden of driving my car clear across town, and both get our exercise in by riding our bikes.
But then we woke up this morning and it rained. And there was lightning. And thunder. And a stiff wind. And husband-dear was not happy, because that man LOVES to ride his bike. But we came up with an alternative:
1. I drive to the tire place right when they open, get the tires rotated and the oil changed, and drive home.
The idea behind this was that if I showed up there at 7am, the place would be deserted, and I would be in and out in half an hour, which would not cut into my grading too much.
Unfortunately, when I got to the tire rotation place, it looked like a parking lot, and the office worker told me that if I wanted to wait, I had to count on at least two hours.
Not. An. Option.
So I called husband-dear, and this is the plan we're on now:
1. I drive to the tire place
2. Husband-dear comes a little later to pick me up while I leave the car there
3. We both drive to base
4. I drive the truck home
5. I drive out to the tire rotation place before it closes (1pm) to pick up my car
6. I leave husband-dear's truck in the parking lot, and drive my car home
7. I pick husband-dear up from work in my car
8. I drop husband-dear off at the tire rotation place
9. Husband-dear drives his truck home.
So. Is this overly complicated, or is it just me?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
How to make a blog...
..go from a really cute story about the south, to a rant.
Watch.
I don't know if it's a southern thing, or All-American, but down here, when children get into trouble, their parents like to refer to them with their full names. So, if one's little cherub has once again run off to play without first helping with the dishes, it's not completely uncommon to see a peeved parent appear on the front porch and holler, "Ashley Jane Johnson, you come right now!". Or if the child is truly southern, one might hear, "Jenna-Sue Lynn, git your little bee-hind back up heah right this instant, ya hear?".
At first, this phenomenon used to have me in stitches. I couldn't imagine my mother ever using my full name, let alone her yelling it down the street. No, my mother had "The Look", and that was all it took for us to come cowering back. But you know, you live, you learn, you adjust, and it wasn't before long when I find myself addressing my kids with their full names too; "Ozzie Axl Van Halen! You stop picking on your brother!", or something like that. I even do it with our dogs, although their middle names may vary. Yesterday, Shelby was "Shelby Mathilda", but she has also been "Shelby Jade" while Zoe varies from "Zoe Elizabeth" to "Zoe Lynn". Anyway, let's just say I get a little carried away sometimes.
But you know what? It really works. Both kids and dogs desist whatever mischief they were engaged in, and give you the biggest puppy-eyed look in the world, usually (at least in the kids' case), followed by a "yes ma'am". And every time that happens, even though I'm delighted it worked, I also feel really old. I mean, when you're old enough to yell out kids' middle names, and be called "ma'am" to boot, you've got to be old. And I usually don't feel that way. Actually, I hardly ever do.
You see, in my head we're stuck in the mid-1990s. It used to be worse, we used to be stuck in the late 1980s, but as ALL of my darling students are now born in, at the earliest, 1989, my whole "Woohoo, it's 1987 and skinny pants are hip for the first time around" attitude really wasn't working, as in 1987, most of my students were nothing but a glint in someone's eye. So I quietly shifted my mental age just a few years, enough for my students to be toddlers or so. It still makes no sense, but I just can't bring myself to move much beyond, say, 1993.
Consequently, I usually don't see myself as educated, experienced, or anything but really young. And this in turn means that even though I think I can say that I clearly am the first two, and don't really qualify as the first one anymore, I still assume most people are older, more education, and thus more knowledgeable than I am. And as a result, I will generally defer to most professional adults. Not in a creepy Uriah Heep submissive way, but in a "well, you present your case so adamantly, and you are older and wiser than I am, so OK."
But yesterday, all that changed. It's no longer 1987 or 1993, and I am no longer a young kid who doesn't know anything. It's 2010, I have my PhD, am a Professor, and am old enough to have sales associates ask me if I'm interested in their anti-aging line, and hence I am turning a new leaf.
Why this sudden change? Well, yesterday I had the pleasure of testifying at a disciplinary hearing regarding one our students. I won't bore you with all the details, but the bottom line is that the department and the review board disagreed on the disciplinary actions that should be taken. And even though the presence of three senior Professors (as well as two students), would normally have had me nod my head and seriously ask myself why I would think any differently from these older, smarter, and more educated people, this time I would not, could not, give in. Instead, I sat up in my chair, and gave an impassioned, possibly even heated, speech about why I, and my department, was right, and they really needed to change their minds. I think I might have even told the board something to the extent of sometimes someone has to say "the buck stops here", and that this would be an opportune moment to do so. Amazing for someone who's in their teens, isn't it?
So, yes, we have turned a new leaf. I am not some young kid who doesn't know anything. Not anymore. I may listen to music from 1987, I might even possibly own some clothing from 1987, but we're not in 1987 anymore Toto. It's 2010 and Dorothy, excuse me, Dr. Dorothy, is all grown up. Ha!
Watch.
I don't know if it's a southern thing, or All-American, but down here, when children get into trouble, their parents like to refer to them with their full names. So, if one's little cherub has once again run off to play without first helping with the dishes, it's not completely uncommon to see a peeved parent appear on the front porch and holler, "Ashley Jane Johnson, you come right now!". Or if the child is truly southern, one might hear, "Jenna-Sue Lynn, git your little bee-hind back up heah right this instant, ya hear?".
At first, this phenomenon used to have me in stitches. I couldn't imagine my mother ever using my full name, let alone her yelling it down the street. No, my mother had "The Look", and that was all it took for us to come cowering back. But you know, you live, you learn, you adjust, and it wasn't before long when I find myself addressing my kids with their full names too; "Ozzie Axl Van Halen! You stop picking on your brother!", or something like that. I even do it with our dogs, although their middle names may vary. Yesterday, Shelby was "Shelby Mathilda", but she has also been "Shelby Jade" while Zoe varies from "Zoe Elizabeth" to "Zoe Lynn". Anyway, let's just say I get a little carried away sometimes.
But you know what? It really works. Both kids and dogs desist whatever mischief they were engaged in, and give you the biggest puppy-eyed look in the world, usually (at least in the kids' case), followed by a "yes ma'am". And every time that happens, even though I'm delighted it worked, I also feel really old. I mean, when you're old enough to yell out kids' middle names, and be called "ma'am" to boot, you've got to be old. And I usually don't feel that way. Actually, I hardly ever do.
You see, in my head we're stuck in the mid-1990s. It used to be worse, we used to be stuck in the late 1980s, but as ALL of my darling students are now born in, at the earliest, 1989, my whole "Woohoo, it's 1987 and skinny pants are hip for the first time around" attitude really wasn't working, as in 1987, most of my students were nothing but a glint in someone's eye. So I quietly shifted my mental age just a few years, enough for my students to be toddlers or so. It still makes no sense, but I just can't bring myself to move much beyond, say, 1993.
Consequently, I usually don't see myself as educated, experienced, or anything but really young. And this in turn means that even though I think I can say that I clearly am the first two, and don't really qualify as the first one anymore, I still assume most people are older, more education, and thus more knowledgeable than I am. And as a result, I will generally defer to most professional adults. Not in a creepy Uriah Heep submissive way, but in a "well, you present your case so adamantly, and you are older and wiser than I am, so OK."
But yesterday, all that changed. It's no longer 1987 or 1993, and I am no longer a young kid who doesn't know anything. It's 2010, I have my PhD, am a Professor, and am old enough to have sales associates ask me if I'm interested in their anti-aging line, and hence I am turning a new leaf.
Why this sudden change? Well, yesterday I had the pleasure of testifying at a disciplinary hearing regarding one our students. I won't bore you with all the details, but the bottom line is that the department and the review board disagreed on the disciplinary actions that should be taken. And even though the presence of three senior Professors (as well as two students), would normally have had me nod my head and seriously ask myself why I would think any differently from these older, smarter, and more educated people, this time I would not, could not, give in. Instead, I sat up in my chair, and gave an impassioned, possibly even heated, speech about why I, and my department, was right, and they really needed to change their minds. I think I might have even told the board something to the extent of sometimes someone has to say "the buck stops here", and that this would be an opportune moment to do so. Amazing for someone who's in their teens, isn't it?
So, yes, we have turned a new leaf. I am not some young kid who doesn't know anything. Not anymore. I may listen to music from 1987, I might even possibly own some clothing from 1987, but we're not in 1987 anymore Toto. It's 2010 and Dorothy, excuse me, Dr. Dorothy, is all grown up. Ha!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
What do teachers make?
This semester, in their, once again more than, infinite wisdom, the university administration decided to "push back" advisement during the week of senior finals, and the week before general finals. That would this week. So while we're calculating senior grades, planning senior finals, grading final papers, dealing with senior portfolios, senior projects, failing software, and our own end of the year evaluations, we are supposed to make time (and patience) to provide our seventy or so advisees with sound, well thought-out, and sensible advice on which classes to take next semester.
I'm once again not sure what inspired this pure stroke of genius, but I'm going to out on a limb here, and guess it has something to do with "further streamlining professor-student interaction", or perhaps "contributing to the economization of the academic advisement processes", or maybe I'm totally off, and it's really all to do with the "increasing observed need for a more in-depth restructuring of scholastic standards". I don't know. All I know is that it makes me want to scream and throw things.
Yesterday, husband-dear was actually kind enough to let me wad up a piece of paper and throw it at him. Now that is love for you. Right there. Forget about flowers, and cards, and romantic declarations of love. Letting your spouse hit you with a balled up advisement sheet so their frustration levels might taper is true love ladies and gentlemen.
Times like these is when I have to dig really deep to remember why I went into this field. It takes a lot of work and effort. Fortunately, I have good friends who will point me in the right direction. And one of those friends pointed me towards this video, which is probably what is going to keep me sane in these next two weeks. It's funny. It's inspirational. It's true. What more could a tired, overworked, and overwhelmed professor want?
I'm once again not sure what inspired this pure stroke of genius, but I'm going to out on a limb here, and guess it has something to do with "further streamlining professor-student interaction", or perhaps "contributing to the economization of the academic advisement processes", or maybe I'm totally off, and it's really all to do with the "increasing observed need for a more in-depth restructuring of scholastic standards". I don't know. All I know is that it makes me want to scream and throw things.
Yesterday, husband-dear was actually kind enough to let me wad up a piece of paper and throw it at him. Now that is love for you. Right there. Forget about flowers, and cards, and romantic declarations of love. Letting your spouse hit you with a balled up advisement sheet so their frustration levels might taper is true love ladies and gentlemen.
Times like these is when I have to dig really deep to remember why I went into this field. It takes a lot of work and effort. Fortunately, I have good friends who will point me in the right direction. And one of those friends pointed me towards this video, which is probably what is going to keep me sane in these next two weeks. It's funny. It's inspirational. It's true. What more could a tired, overworked, and overwhelmed professor want?
Friday, April 16, 2010
You dine in, you dine out, you shake it all about
Husband-dear says a lot of really funny things. Really, he does. And whenever he has gotten me to shoot tea out of my nose once again, I tell myself that I really need to post his comments on my blog. To then promptly forget them. But tonight we had a semi-funny conversation that I really wanted to share (and more importantly: remembered).
The scene is as follows; husband-dear, the kiddos, and I wanted to go out to dinner. We do this about once a week, and tonight was it. Husband-dear had been chomping at the bit for a night out all week, but because I was busy grading, grading, grading, and more grading, we hadn't gotten around to it. But tonight was going to be the night. Only it almost wasn't. You see, at every restaurant that we stopped at, there was at least a thirty minute wait. Admittedly, restaurants in our town do get busy on Friday nights, tonight was so busy, it seriously had me wonder if people were giving away food for free, which is a logical train of thought for me, but more on that later. After driving around, husband-dear was hungry, bordering on grumpy, and when he pulled into yet another parking lot that was filled to the brink, the following interaction ensued:
Husband-dear: What is wrong with this town? Don't these people have any hobbies? Places to go besides restaurants? Seriously, all these people do is go out to eat, and go out to eat again, and again, and again.
Me: Uhm, honey, we're going out to eat too you know
Husband-dear, increasingly agitated: Yes, but we go once a week! Once a week. I bet you those people over there (a random couple walking across the parking lot), I bet you they went out Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, yesterday, and tonight. And I bet you all of the people parked here did the same thing! Why can't they find something else to do?
Youngest child: Yeah, and it's not as though that guy (Points to a gentlemen who does seem to carry more than the usual weight around) needs it. Sheesh.
OK. Welcome to the DixieChick family after a long week. Anyway, fortunately for everyone in the car, we ended up at Longhorn's right after that little interlude, where there was only a ten minute wait, and we had a very enjoyable dinner.
But what's interesting about this whole episode is the fact that people in our town, and I think Americans in general, do eat out a whole lot. And I mean a lot. We have friends who will eat out about four, five times a week, and they are no exception. Most of my coworkers will go out for every lunch break. And not just to a Taco Bell or a McDonald's, no, they will go to an actual sit-down restaurant, and spend an enjoyable hour working their way through pasta, seafood, steak, and the salad bar. Most of my coworkers laugh at my little red lunchbox, and I'm pretty sure many friends have raised their eyebrows when we've told them we'd rather eat in because we've already gone out to eat once that week.
Now, admittedly, we are stingy people. Personally, I prefer it economically efficient, but the bottom line is, we love not wasting money. I have never met a man who keeps tracks of coupons the way my husband does, and I think he secretly gets really excited when I do things like pack a snackbag for our trip to Memphis so I won't have to buy that many lunches. Now, we will splurge on things like bikes, and shoes, and trips to Holland, but hell will freeze over before we exchange our travel mugs for a Starbucks coffee each morning, or go out to eat more than once a week. We even re-use ziplock bags (although, in all honesty, that is me trying to be environmentally friendly too). But let's just say we balk at having to turn the air on, because it means the days of teeny tiny electric bills are over. Just saying.
But even having said all of that, I do think eating out is a typical American thing. Dutch people might go out to have coffee, and if they're feeling particularly extravagant, some apple pie, but Americans will go out to eat. The main reason, I suspect, lies in the price. Today, the four of us shared two appetizers, had four main courses, three of which were steak, and four drinks, and our bill came to $65, and I thought it was. Absolutely. Ridiculously. Expensive. And-we-are-not-going-to-Longhorn's-in-a-long-while. Because usually the four of us can eat out for around $4o. Yes, my darling Dutch readers. Forty dollars. That equates maybe thirty Euros. For four people. That is about ten dollars per person. Now of course, we can cook for far less than that, but when you're extremely busy (like us), and don't mind spending a little more for some convenience (not like us), then you will probably be like most of our fellow Georgians, and eat out multiple times a week.
And that is why, when the DixieChick family finally decides to go out to eat, there is no room for us. Anywhere. And we're left with a restaurant that best resembles a barn. It's sad. Maybe next time we should follow the northern star, and that will take us to three kings who will feed us mirre and frankincense. (I heard there was gold in there too somewhere, that does sound like a plan!)
The scene is as follows; husband-dear, the kiddos, and I wanted to go out to dinner. We do this about once a week, and tonight was it. Husband-dear had been chomping at the bit for a night out all week, but because I was busy grading, grading, grading, and more grading, we hadn't gotten around to it. But tonight was going to be the night. Only it almost wasn't. You see, at every restaurant that we stopped at, there was at least a thirty minute wait. Admittedly, restaurants in our town do get busy on Friday nights, tonight was so busy, it seriously had me wonder if people were giving away food for free, which is a logical train of thought for me, but more on that later. After driving around, husband-dear was hungry, bordering on grumpy, and when he pulled into yet another parking lot that was filled to the brink, the following interaction ensued:
Husband-dear: What is wrong with this town? Don't these people have any hobbies? Places to go besides restaurants? Seriously, all these people do is go out to eat, and go out to eat again, and again, and again.
Me: Uhm, honey, we're going out to eat too you know
Husband-dear, increasingly agitated: Yes, but we go once a week! Once a week. I bet you those people over there (a random couple walking across the parking lot), I bet you they went out Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, yesterday, and tonight. And I bet you all of the people parked here did the same thing! Why can't they find something else to do?
Youngest child: Yeah, and it's not as though that guy (Points to a gentlemen who does seem to carry more than the usual weight around) needs it. Sheesh.
OK. Welcome to the DixieChick family after a long week. Anyway, fortunately for everyone in the car, we ended up at Longhorn's right after that little interlude, where there was only a ten minute wait, and we had a very enjoyable dinner.
But what's interesting about this whole episode is the fact that people in our town, and I think Americans in general, do eat out a whole lot. And I mean a lot. We have friends who will eat out about four, five times a week, and they are no exception. Most of my coworkers will go out for every lunch break. And not just to a Taco Bell or a McDonald's, no, they will go to an actual sit-down restaurant, and spend an enjoyable hour working their way through pasta, seafood, steak, and the salad bar. Most of my coworkers laugh at my little red lunchbox, and I'm pretty sure many friends have raised their eyebrows when we've told them we'd rather eat in because we've already gone out to eat once that week.
Now, admittedly, we are stingy people. Personally, I prefer it economically efficient, but the bottom line is, we love not wasting money. I have never met a man who keeps tracks of coupons the way my husband does, and I think he secretly gets really excited when I do things like pack a snackbag for our trip to Memphis so I won't have to buy that many lunches. Now, we will splurge on things like bikes, and shoes, and trips to Holland, but hell will freeze over before we exchange our travel mugs for a Starbucks coffee each morning, or go out to eat more than once a week. We even re-use ziplock bags (although, in all honesty, that is me trying to be environmentally friendly too). But let's just say we balk at having to turn the air on, because it means the days of teeny tiny electric bills are over. Just saying.
But even having said all of that, I do think eating out is a typical American thing. Dutch people might go out to have coffee, and if they're feeling particularly extravagant, some apple pie, but Americans will go out to eat. The main reason, I suspect, lies in the price. Today, the four of us shared two appetizers, had four main courses, three of which were steak, and four drinks, and our bill came to $65, and I thought it was. Absolutely. Ridiculously. Expensive. And-we-are-not-going-to-Longhorn's-in-a-long-while. Because usually the four of us can eat out for around $4o. Yes, my darling Dutch readers. Forty dollars. That equates maybe thirty Euros. For four people. That is about ten dollars per person. Now of course, we can cook for far less than that, but when you're extremely busy (like us), and don't mind spending a little more for some convenience (not like us), then you will probably be like most of our fellow Georgians, and eat out multiple times a week.
And that is why, when the DixieChick family finally decides to go out to eat, there is no room for us. Anywhere. And we're left with a restaurant that best resembles a barn. It's sad. Maybe next time we should follow the northern star, and that will take us to three kings who will feed us mirre and frankincense. (I heard there was gold in there too somewhere, that does sound like a plan!)
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Running in Memphis
Just in case you missed the memo, husband-dear and I love to run. And bike. And swim. And work out in general. And when we're not running, biking, swimming, or lifting weights in the living room, we're talking about our latest or upcoming work out routine, and plans for future races. Our cabinet is stocked with water bottles, pre-during-and post-work out drink mixes, and all sorts of nutrition supplements that husband-dear swears will help make us faster, stronger, better, and poorer. Although he has yet to mention the last one. Anyway, in short, we're endorphin junkies.
And one of the ways in which this addiction, or I suppose obsession and/or neurosis is expressed is through the fact that whenever we travel, we have to get at least one run in. It doesn't matter where we go, or for how long, we always pack a pair of running shoes. Always. And when we don't get to run, we're mad. Even if it's because we're oh, I don't know, fighting a war, or going to conference panels twelve hours a day. And because of husband-dear's crazy career, he's got to run in some pretty neat places, like South Africa, China, all over the middle east, and Moscow. He's also got plenty of interesting stories to tell, like that one time he got horribly lost and turned a thirty-minute run into a two-hour work out (Germany), or the time he was chased by feral dogs (Moscow), or that time he discovered that running in a bullet proof vest was really not the best idea (somewhere in the middle east). And together we've discovered that Paris before daybreak really smells like urine and garbage, that Tivoli looks like a really creepy backdrop for a horror movie right at dawn, and that wild dogs are especially rampant in southern Alabama. So you see, we don't just run to keep in shape, we also run for the anthropological experience.
So when my work took me to Memphis last week, there was no doubt in my mind I would run at least once. And I did. On Saturday morning I set my alarm for 6:30am, and in spite of a less-than-friendly encounter with partying sorority girls in the hallway outside my door only a few hours before, I put on my running shoes and took off for the Mississippi. And let me tell you, running along the river was breathtaking. The sun was just coming up, and when you ignored the panhandlers cussing each other out, it was just perfect.
But besides the awesome views, I also took one other thing away from that run: I'm turning into a southern country bumpkin. You see, where I run now (for those of you who forgot, rural, backwoods, cottonfield-dominated, peach-tree swamped Georgia), everyone says "hey" to each other. And I mean everyone. People on foot, on bike, running, walking, they all greet each other. It doesn't matter whether you're in the back of a pick up truck, riding along at 40mph, and you're passing a runner killing herself doing intervals, you will call out a "hey, how ya doin'?". Ignoring someone on the street is the equivalent of social suicide in my neck of the woods. And although I know I've complained about this before, it's like spring time pollen, apparently, without really realizing it, you just get used to it.
So as I was running along the Mississippi, I smiled and said "hey" to just about everyone I saw. And instead of saying "hi" back, people looked at me like I was out of my mind. Women eyed me funny or jumped aside, apparently somehow worried that all 115 pounds of me was going to jump them and demand their money. Men would either mumble something incoherently or eye me up and down as though I had just asked them on a first date, and all in all, it was a very unnerving experience. So after about two miles, I gave up, and took to staring at the pavement, even though that made me feel so incredibly rude. How on earth could I pass all these people and not say hello? Seriously? And then it dawned on me: I have now officially turned into the country girl who visits the big city for the first time, and doesn't understand why people aren't as nice as they are "back home".
So that's just peachy. Not only do I now sound like a southerner, I act like one too. Great. Next thing you know I'll be asking for grits for breakfast and wondering why all "them professors" complain about the confederate flag on the back of my pick up truck.
And one of the ways in which this addiction, or I suppose obsession and/or neurosis is expressed is through the fact that whenever we travel, we have to get at least one run in. It doesn't matter where we go, or for how long, we always pack a pair of running shoes. Always. And when we don't get to run, we're mad. Even if it's because we're oh, I don't know, fighting a war, or going to conference panels twelve hours a day. And because of husband-dear's crazy career, he's got to run in some pretty neat places, like South Africa, China, all over the middle east, and Moscow. He's also got plenty of interesting stories to tell, like that one time he got horribly lost and turned a thirty-minute run into a two-hour work out (Germany), or the time he was chased by feral dogs (Moscow), or that time he discovered that running in a bullet proof vest was really not the best idea (somewhere in the middle east). And together we've discovered that Paris before daybreak really smells like urine and garbage, that Tivoli looks like a really creepy backdrop for a horror movie right at dawn, and that wild dogs are especially rampant in southern Alabama. So you see, we don't just run to keep in shape, we also run for the anthropological experience.
So when my work took me to Memphis last week, there was no doubt in my mind I would run at least once. And I did. On Saturday morning I set my alarm for 6:30am, and in spite of a less-than-friendly encounter with partying sorority girls in the hallway outside my door only a few hours before, I put on my running shoes and took off for the Mississippi. And let me tell you, running along the river was breathtaking. The sun was just coming up, and when you ignored the panhandlers cussing each other out, it was just perfect.
But besides the awesome views, I also took one other thing away from that run: I'm turning into a southern country bumpkin. You see, where I run now (for those of you who forgot, rural, backwoods, cottonfield-dominated, peach-tree swamped Georgia), everyone says "hey" to each other. And I mean everyone. People on foot, on bike, running, walking, they all greet each other. It doesn't matter whether you're in the back of a pick up truck, riding along at 40mph, and you're passing a runner killing herself doing intervals, you will call out a "hey, how ya doin'?". Ignoring someone on the street is the equivalent of social suicide in my neck of the woods. And although I know I've complained about this before, it's like spring time pollen, apparently, without really realizing it, you just get used to it.
So as I was running along the Mississippi, I smiled and said "hey" to just about everyone I saw. And instead of saying "hi" back, people looked at me like I was out of my mind. Women eyed me funny or jumped aside, apparently somehow worried that all 115 pounds of me was going to jump them and demand their money. Men would either mumble something incoherently or eye me up and down as though I had just asked them on a first date, and all in all, it was a very unnerving experience. So after about two miles, I gave up, and took to staring at the pavement, even though that made me feel so incredibly rude. How on earth could I pass all these people and not say hello? Seriously? And then it dawned on me: I have now officially turned into the country girl who visits the big city for the first time, and doesn't understand why people aren't as nice as they are "back home".
So that's just peachy. Not only do I now sound like a southerner, I act like one too. Great. Next thing you know I'll be asking for grits for breakfast and wondering why all "them professors" complain about the confederate flag on the back of my pick up truck.
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