Today, one of my friends blogged about keeping it real. She reminded me that although blogging can be a lot of fun - in her case, you write about weddings and cupcakes, and in my case, you write cute letters to parents and the trials of being a runner - at the end of the day, blogging is all about keeping it real. About being yourself and writing about what bugs you.
So today I thought I would keep it real as well. Tomorrow I will probably go back to writing sarcastic little posts about southern ways, but for today, you're getting the real deal. And in all honesty, I think it's about time too.
You see, lately the whole baby-thing has come to the surface again. I know, again. It's been over a year, and no, I'm still not over it. I know, I know. But you see, this whole "accepting setbacks" is a lot easier when you know it can be fixed. Accepting something that won't ever be fixed it a whole different ballgame. And life hasn't exactly been helpful.
First, there was the family bible that resurfaced. Husband-dear owns a family bible, given to him by his mother, that contains his entire family tree. I believe it goes back to the early 1700s, and it painstakingly lists all family members, their names, where they came from, when they were born, when they died, and how many children they had. For years, husband-dear thought the bible was at his mom's house, while his mom vehemently claimed it was somewhere in one of the boxes she gave him when he left for his first assignment. Knowing husband-dear, I knew his mom was probably more than likely right, so this summer, I firmly told husband-dear to get his butt up our attic and go through ALL of his old boxes and FIND the bible ALREADY.
And he did (and I did not tell him "I told you so", but since he doesn't read my blog, I can now, ha!).
Now the family tree is impressive. It's amazing to see where husband-dear's roots lie, and what people were called, and how his family migrated across states. But then when I saw husband-dear's name and his sister's at the very end of the tree, I felt just a little sad. Because although his children will make it into the family bible, I never will. I will never make it onto any family tree. Instead of being one of those thick red lines that divides up into a myriad of other red lines, I am going to be a dead-end thin black line with just my first name. And that makes me just a little sad.
And secondly, there are my students. Yes, even when I'm getting real, my students are still there. And it's not all of my students. No. Just the pregnant ones. And there are a lot of them. You would think that in this era of easily accessible anti conception methods, as well as the infamous "health" classes, no one would get pregnant "by accident" anymore. Well, that may be true for the rest of the world, but here in the south, we march to our own drummer, thank you very much. This semester alone, there are four pregnant students in my classes. And two dads-to-be, who are, by the way, not the dad of any of those Comm babies. Last semester we had three students give birth to babies, and the semester before that we had two. Imagine walking a day in my shoes, and seeing students with protruding bellies, hearing them discuss baby names, cuss out the dad for not being in their life anymore, and complain about how this could have happened to them. It's like running your nails across a chalkboard.
The toughest part, though, is hearing about students who have had abortions. Some of them regret their actions, and then look to their adviser (i.e., me) for advice and support. Imagine sitting in my chair, and comforting someone who just got rid of something you would have gladly taken from them. Of course I show them grace. And understanding. And a kind ear. But when I drive home that day, I ask God why.
I don't know when it will get any better. I wish I could leave you all on an "up", but I really don't know if it will ever go away. And I'm sorry that my "keeping it real" always turns into this little pity-party, but there you have it. That's real for you.
I'm sure that by tomorrow, I will have thought of some hilarious little story about running or my students, or what have you. But for now, this is me.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Potty training
"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers"
Blanche DuBois ~ A streetcar named Desire
Running is not a pretty sport. It's not like some of those indoor activities like aerobics, yoga, or zumba, where you can dress in a flattering color-coordinated outfit, slap on same make up, and decide how much, or how little you want to sweat, thus determining how attractive you look once the activity is over. No, running is, I'm sorry to say it, just kind of ugly.
First and foremost, you sweat. A lot. Especially down here in Georgia. Running in Georgia gives new meaning to sweating in fact. For instance, did you know that the insides of your elbow can sweat? And the back of your knees? No? Well, they can, trust me. Second, because of this excessive sweat-production, any make up you may choose to wear (or forget to take off like I do), will end up in Johnny Depp-like-circles around your eyes, having you come home looking like racoon. And third, this same problem will also have your plastered onto your forehead, your neck in about a mile. And sure, one can try to color-coordinate running outfits, but because most runners go out more than once or twice a week, there will come that time when you realize your maroon running shorts haven't been washed yet, and thus you're stuck wearing your maroon top with your purple shorts. And it just really goes downhill from there. There's discomfort, panting, cramps, and so on. It's just not nice.
But there is one thing runners don't usually talk about. Maybe it's because it's just a little embarrassing. Maybe it's because they think they're the only ones. I don't know. Since I have never shied away from things yucky, I'll just come right out and say: bowel movements. Yes, running makes you want to do number 2. Honestly. Ask any runner, and after some prodding they will probably all admit, no matter how reluctantly, that they have all had to race home, pull their pants down while running through the house, tripping over their own shoes, only to make it to the bathroom just in time (or not).
I'm sure there's some logical explanation for it, something to do with the motion of your body setting off your intestines. But regardless of what causes it, this problem is a pain in the butt, to coin a phrase. Especially when you're a beginning runner. You see, once you've been running for a while, all you really have to do is put on your running outfit, and your body realizes, "Uh-oh, we're about to go shake up our intestines, let's go number two NOW". And you do. It's really quite ideal, because all I have to do nowadays is pull out my running shoes, and my body goes into total expulsion mode. I mean I'm in the bathroom two, sometimes even three times. It's perfect.
But every once in a while, things don't time out that well. And last Wednesday night was one of those times. I came home from work, had dinner, needed to run, and it was getting dark, so I got changed and off I went. Husband-dear decided to bike alongside me, and the first half all was merry. I ran, he biked, we talked, it hurt. It was great. Then during the second half, my stomach started to act up. And soon I realized I had to go. Go as in go really badly. As in, I don't know if I am going to make it home. And when you're two miles away from your house, running through suburbia with not a ditch or a clump of trees in sight, you know you're in trouble.
So here I am, running my butt off, while trying to hold it all together at the same time too, while husband-dear is giving really helpful advice like, "Just go in your pants if you can't hold it", or while pointing at a seedling of a tree right in front of someone's house "You could go behind that little tree right there". Just for the record, husband-dear, during his marathon training, has had accidents in his pants, and so he thinks nothing of doing what you need to do. Especially if the cramps are making you growl guttural sounds through clenched teeth, which is what I was doing at the time.
But then I saw a lady standing outside her house, watering her yard. And suddenly I could not have been more grateful to be living in the south. Because when I ran up to hear, with my dark running glasses on, my hair all over my face, and sweat liberally covering, well, everything, and asked her if I could please use her bathroom, she said, "Why sure you can!"
Now I don't know about you, but I have a hard time imagining anyone in Holland being that inviting. I can just picture them glancing you over once, twice, perhaps three times, and then tell you something like, "Well, my daughter is in the shower right now, I'm sorry, no", at which point the lack of motion has fooled your body into thinking you're in the bathroom, and you've just had your accident on their driveway.
There were no accidents anywhere, this time. The lady led me to her bathroom, and then went outside to resume her watering. Once again, I'm sure any Dutch person worth their salt (including myself) would have at least stayed inside the house to make sure the runner wasn't trying to hide the family silver in their spandex shorts. But not this lady.
Needless to say that after hogging her bathroom for a good five minutes, thanking her profusely, I wrote her a thank you card and dropped it off at her house yesterday. After all, saving someone from a very embarrassing accident is probably the nicest thing anyone can do.
Blanche DuBois ~ A streetcar named Desire
Running is not a pretty sport. It's not like some of those indoor activities like aerobics, yoga, or zumba, where you can dress in a flattering color-coordinated outfit, slap on same make up, and decide how much, or how little you want to sweat, thus determining how attractive you look once the activity is over. No, running is, I'm sorry to say it, just kind of ugly.
First and foremost, you sweat. A lot. Especially down here in Georgia. Running in Georgia gives new meaning to sweating in fact. For instance, did you know that the insides of your elbow can sweat? And the back of your knees? No? Well, they can, trust me. Second, because of this excessive sweat-production, any make up you may choose to wear (or forget to take off like I do), will end up in Johnny Depp-like-circles around your eyes, having you come home looking like racoon. And third, this same problem will also have your plastered onto your forehead, your neck in about a mile. And sure, one can try to color-coordinate running outfits, but because most runners go out more than once or twice a week, there will come that time when you realize your maroon running shorts haven't been washed yet, and thus you're stuck wearing your maroon top with your purple shorts. And it just really goes downhill from there. There's discomfort, panting, cramps, and so on. It's just not nice.
But there is one thing runners don't usually talk about. Maybe it's because it's just a little embarrassing. Maybe it's because they think they're the only ones. I don't know. Since I have never shied away from things yucky, I'll just come right out and say: bowel movements. Yes, running makes you want to do number 2. Honestly. Ask any runner, and after some prodding they will probably all admit, no matter how reluctantly, that they have all had to race home, pull their pants down while running through the house, tripping over their own shoes, only to make it to the bathroom just in time (or not).
I'm sure there's some logical explanation for it, something to do with the motion of your body setting off your intestines. But regardless of what causes it, this problem is a pain in the butt, to coin a phrase. Especially when you're a beginning runner. You see, once you've been running for a while, all you really have to do is put on your running outfit, and your body realizes, "Uh-oh, we're about to go shake up our intestines, let's go number two NOW". And you do. It's really quite ideal, because all I have to do nowadays is pull out my running shoes, and my body goes into total expulsion mode. I mean I'm in the bathroom two, sometimes even three times. It's perfect.
But every once in a while, things don't time out that well. And last Wednesday night was one of those times. I came home from work, had dinner, needed to run, and it was getting dark, so I got changed and off I went. Husband-dear decided to bike alongside me, and the first half all was merry. I ran, he biked, we talked, it hurt. It was great. Then during the second half, my stomach started to act up. And soon I realized I had to go. Go as in go really badly. As in, I don't know if I am going to make it home. And when you're two miles away from your house, running through suburbia with not a ditch or a clump of trees in sight, you know you're in trouble.
So here I am, running my butt off, while trying to hold it all together at the same time too, while husband-dear is giving really helpful advice like, "Just go in your pants if you can't hold it", or while pointing at a seedling of a tree right in front of someone's house "You could go behind that little tree right there". Just for the record, husband-dear, during his marathon training, has had accidents in his pants, and so he thinks nothing of doing what you need to do. Especially if the cramps are making you growl guttural sounds through clenched teeth, which is what I was doing at the time.
But then I saw a lady standing outside her house, watering her yard. And suddenly I could not have been more grateful to be living in the south. Because when I ran up to hear, with my dark running glasses on, my hair all over my face, and sweat liberally covering, well, everything, and asked her if I could please use her bathroom, she said, "Why sure you can!"
Now I don't know about you, but I have a hard time imagining anyone in Holland being that inviting. I can just picture them glancing you over once, twice, perhaps three times, and then tell you something like, "Well, my daughter is in the shower right now, I'm sorry, no", at which point the lack of motion has fooled your body into thinking you're in the bathroom, and you've just had your accident on their driveway.
There were no accidents anywhere, this time. The lady led me to her bathroom, and then went outside to resume her watering. Once again, I'm sure any Dutch person worth their salt (including myself) would have at least stayed inside the house to make sure the runner wasn't trying to hide the family silver in their spandex shorts. But not this lady.
Needless to say that after hogging her bathroom for a good five minutes, thanking her profusely, I wrote her a thank you card and dropped it off at her house yesterday. After all, saving someone from a very embarrassing accident is probably the nicest thing anyone can do.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
A letter to Freshmen parents
Dear Freshman Mom and Dad,
Congratulations! Your son/daughter has successfully enrolled in college, and is about to embark on the greatest journey of his or her life so far. You have probably inundated your offspring with advice on just about everything, from parties, to eating well, to doing laundry on time, to taking care of yourself, and oh yes, remembering to study. However, I would like to ask you if, next time you talk to your darling child, you could give them the following pieces of advice as well:
1. Bring a writing utensil and a notebook to class. A laptop is OK too. Tell them that although their phone, purse, umbrella, bag with personal styling products/gym bag/tote with dirty laundry are obviously imperative to their college success, so is the ability to take notes.
2. The ability to purchase textbooks definitely outweighs the importance of a data package on their phone. Additionally, if you could let them know that their professors will have little sympathy for your child if he or she claims they cannot afford the required reading material while playing with said iPhone/ Droid/any other type of 3G phone, that would be really great.
3. Know how to tell time and read a calendar. Explain to them that 12 noon is not the same 12:01pm, and definitely not the same as 2pm and a "I forgot the time". You may want to purchase a planner for them, and encourage them to write deadlines down, lest they forget.
4. Complaining /whining/ groaning/ rolling one's eyes when receiving the syllabus is an absolute no-no. Make sure they realize that college entails work. A lot of it. More than in high school in fact. Please have them understand that in order to obtain a degree of higher learning, they will need to demonstrate that they can in fact learn more. Explain that the only way to ensure this is by having them complete various assignments. You might also want to touch on the notion of "alienating one's professor and success in course"
5. Joining a sorority or fraternity is not an accomplishment. They should not expect leniency from their professors regarding deadlines or assignments because "it's rush" or "Greek week" or "pledge night". Instead, please encourage them to volunteer on campus and acquire positions in organizations that will further their future career.
And finally, please tell them that complaining to you and asking you to call the university will yield absolutely no results. And not because we're cold-hearted meanies who don't have time to talk to you (although this might be true in some cases), but because of some pesky little law known as the Buckley Amendment, which states that once your child is an adult, you are no longer automatically entitled to know everything about them. So even if we wanted to talk to you, we can't.
Now that we've been able to share these helpful guidelines with you, allow me to wish you and your child a wonderful freshman year!
Yours sincerely,
Dr. D.
Congratulations! Your son/daughter has successfully enrolled in college, and is about to embark on the greatest journey of his or her life so far. You have probably inundated your offspring with advice on just about everything, from parties, to eating well, to doing laundry on time, to taking care of yourself, and oh yes, remembering to study. However, I would like to ask you if, next time you talk to your darling child, you could give them the following pieces of advice as well:
1. Bring a writing utensil and a notebook to class. A laptop is OK too. Tell them that although their phone, purse, umbrella, bag with personal styling products/gym bag/tote with dirty laundry are obviously imperative to their college success, so is the ability to take notes.
2. The ability to purchase textbooks definitely outweighs the importance of a data package on their phone. Additionally, if you could let them know that their professors will have little sympathy for your child if he or she claims they cannot afford the required reading material while playing with said iPhone/ Droid/any other type of 3G phone, that would be really great.
3. Know how to tell time and read a calendar. Explain to them that 12 noon is not the same 12:01pm, and definitely not the same as 2pm and a "I forgot the time". You may want to purchase a planner for them, and encourage them to write deadlines down, lest they forget.
4. Complaining /whining/ groaning/ rolling one's eyes when receiving the syllabus is an absolute no-no. Make sure they realize that college entails work. A lot of it. More than in high school in fact. Please have them understand that in order to obtain a degree of higher learning, they will need to demonstrate that they can in fact learn more. Explain that the only way to ensure this is by having them complete various assignments. You might also want to touch on the notion of "alienating one's professor and success in course"
5. Joining a sorority or fraternity is not an accomplishment. They should not expect leniency from their professors regarding deadlines or assignments because "it's rush" or "Greek week" or "pledge night". Instead, please encourage them to volunteer on campus and acquire positions in organizations that will further their future career.
And finally, please tell them that complaining to you and asking you to call the university will yield absolutely no results. And not because we're cold-hearted meanies who don't have time to talk to you (although this might be true in some cases), but because of some pesky little law known as the Buckley Amendment, which states that once your child is an adult, you are no longer automatically entitled to know everything about them. So even if we wanted to talk to you, we can't.
Now that we've been able to share these helpful guidelines with you, allow me to wish you and your child a wonderful freshman year!
Yours sincerely,
Dr. D.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Op nog een konijn
Bij Noordwijk zwom een nat konijn
Temidden van een school tonijn
"Tja" sprak het beest, dat tomt ervan
als men de ta niet zeggen tan"
En vertaal dat maar eens drie jaar lang in het Engels. Moeilijk verhalen over tuna en rabbits en "the letter k". Maar ja, ik mag niet klagen. Want dat krijg je als je een Nederlandse poster met deze tekst op je kantoor hangt. En dat krijg je ook voorgeschoteld in een blog als de schrijfster weer eens geen "nee" heeft kunnen zeggen, en haar dinsdagen en donderdagen in een keer enorm veel lijken op die van twee jaar geleden. Maar daar ga ik later meer over schrijven. Echt waar. Nu eerst even lesgeven.
Vraagje: Zou het opvallen als ik mijn eigen lunch mee het college in neem?
Temidden van een school tonijn
"Tja" sprak het beest, dat tomt ervan
als men de ta niet zeggen tan"
En vertaal dat maar eens drie jaar lang in het Engels. Moeilijk verhalen over tuna en rabbits en "the letter k". Maar ja, ik mag niet klagen. Want dat krijg je als je een Nederlandse poster met deze tekst op je kantoor hangt. En dat krijg je ook voorgeschoteld in een blog als de schrijfster weer eens geen "nee" heeft kunnen zeggen, en haar dinsdagen en donderdagen in een keer enorm veel lijken op die van twee jaar geleden. Maar daar ga ik later meer over schrijven. Echt waar. Nu eerst even lesgeven.
Vraagje: Zou het opvallen als ik mijn eigen lunch mee het college in neem?
Friday, August 20, 2010
A southern insult
I like to think that usually I'm a nice person. Unless you are the fourth student to interrupt me during lunch, the flight attendant who bumps my head a fifth time with your cart, or any local driver, you will find that on the whole, I try to be friendly. In fact, husband-dear, on one of our first dates, told me that one of the things he really liked about me was that I was "just nice" (yes, I melted).
Now in the past, I've written about how southerners are nice too. And how sometimes, they take this whole "niceness" to a whole new level, a level that some might even consider annoying. I mean, it's one thing to be nice and perky, it's another thing to be nice and perky when it's seven in the morning and I haven't had my coffee yet.
But as of this morning, I discovered that there is yet another, possible more irksome dimension to this southern niceness: Forcing niceness upon people. Allow me to explain.
This morning I had to stop to get gas. As I drive close to a thousand miles per week, and my car only holds about 11 gallons, this is not something novel. But whenever it times out that I have to get gas before I get on the interstate, I'm always a little less than thrilled. I mean, would you be if it was six in the morning, you've just settled into your car, taken your shoes off, tuned into a really interesting story on NPR, and you now have to stop for gas? I'm not. But I take it in stride. I put my shoes back on, slide my card through the machine and stare into space for five minutes before getting my receipt and leaving.
But this morning, things didn't go quite that smoothly. First, I'm really tired. It's the first week of teaching, second week of late registration, and I had had it. My eyes feel swollen, my head hurts, and I'm just not feeling it. So when the pump takes about two minutes to pump out a single gallon, you can imagine that I am less than thrilled. After waiting for about ten minutes, when my tank is finally full, I wait for the receipt. Only there is none. The machine is out of ink. That just made me jump for joy. Because now I couldn't just get in my car and leave, no, I had to go into the store to get my receipt. And no, I don't leave without a receipt. Not after one incident where I slid my card, got gas, didn't get a receipt, almost just wrote the amount down, then decided to go into the store anyway, only to find the machine had messed up and I had actually not paid yet.
So there was my second hurdle: I now had to go into the store. And this meant actually getting dressed. For those of you wondering I drive half-naked: I do. Sort of. When wearing really high heels, I will drive bare foot or in sneakers. And during summer, I usually drive in my (very decent, thankyouverymuch) camisole, hanging whatever dress shirt I will wear inside my freezing office in the back. So, sighing and muttering things about early mornings and long drives and hot summers, I realized I would have to put my complicated strappy sandals on entirely, instead of just sort of standing on top of the shoe as a way to protect my bare feet from the grubby pavement. It also entailed putting on the dress shirt I had carefully hung on the back of my chair, which involved way too many movements for six, well 6:15 now, in the morning.
But here I am. I'm dressed. I have my wallet, my keys, and am now making my way across a parking lot towards the store. Together with twenty-five other people who all need coffee/chew/a receipt/the bathroom. And we're all quiet. On account of, you know, it's 6:15 in the morning. When I came to the door, I realized that one of the store employees decided that morning rush hour would be the opportune moment to windex the store doors. Now I like clean windows as much as the next person, but I needed to get in the store, so I ask her, "Excuse me?", and open the door. The lady then turns to me, smiles, and says in the perkiest voice imaginable, "Well, good morning to you!"
For those of you not familiar with southern discourse; she just told me, between the lines, that I really should have wished her good morning, and not ignored her and just said excuse me because that was just really rude.
"Good morning to you!" - a southern insult.
So anyway, there are three ways one can respond to this.
Option 1: Stop, wish her a good morning, and then proceed to tell her all about your morning. Because if someone is that eager to wish you a good morning, they must be super-interested in knowing all there is to know about your morning as well. I could have told her about fixing lunch, and running out of yogurts. About Shelby not wanting to get into her crate. About getting my skirt all covered in dog hairs, and running around trying to find a lint roller. This approach is called, "Playing it their way"
Option 2: Stop, and tell her it's freaking 6:15 in the morning, we're all just really tired, and can she please just let me get my receipt so I can drive to work. One could have even added in something like, "Not all of us work around the corner", or "If your gas station had working pumps, I wouldn't be here", or "why on earth would anyone be windexing anything at this hour?". This is known as the "I'm not from around here, and I don't play it your way".
Option 3: Ignore her completely.
I selected the third option.
Although now I feel bad for not wishing her a good morning too. I'm telling you, if you're not careful, these southern ways get inside your head, and before you know it, you're one of them. The bodysnatchers ain't got nothing on these people....
Now in the past, I've written about how southerners are nice too. And how sometimes, they take this whole "niceness" to a whole new level, a level that some might even consider annoying. I mean, it's one thing to be nice and perky, it's another thing to be nice and perky when it's seven in the morning and I haven't had my coffee yet.
But as of this morning, I discovered that there is yet another, possible more irksome dimension to this southern niceness: Forcing niceness upon people. Allow me to explain.
This morning I had to stop to get gas. As I drive close to a thousand miles per week, and my car only holds about 11 gallons, this is not something novel. But whenever it times out that I have to get gas before I get on the interstate, I'm always a little less than thrilled. I mean, would you be if it was six in the morning, you've just settled into your car, taken your shoes off, tuned into a really interesting story on NPR, and you now have to stop for gas? I'm not. But I take it in stride. I put my shoes back on, slide my card through the machine and stare into space for five minutes before getting my receipt and leaving.
But this morning, things didn't go quite that smoothly. First, I'm really tired. It's the first week of teaching, second week of late registration, and I had had it. My eyes feel swollen, my head hurts, and I'm just not feeling it. So when the pump takes about two minutes to pump out a single gallon, you can imagine that I am less than thrilled. After waiting for about ten minutes, when my tank is finally full, I wait for the receipt. Only there is none. The machine is out of ink. That just made me jump for joy. Because now I couldn't just get in my car and leave, no, I had to go into the store to get my receipt. And no, I don't leave without a receipt. Not after one incident where I slid my card, got gas, didn't get a receipt, almost just wrote the amount down, then decided to go into the store anyway, only to find the machine had messed up and I had actually not paid yet.
So there was my second hurdle: I now had to go into the store. And this meant actually getting dressed. For those of you wondering I drive half-naked: I do. Sort of. When wearing really high heels, I will drive bare foot or in sneakers. And during summer, I usually drive in my (very decent, thankyouverymuch) camisole, hanging whatever dress shirt I will wear inside my freezing office in the back. So, sighing and muttering things about early mornings and long drives and hot summers, I realized I would have to put my complicated strappy sandals on entirely, instead of just sort of standing on top of the shoe as a way to protect my bare feet from the grubby pavement. It also entailed putting on the dress shirt I had carefully hung on the back of my chair, which involved way too many movements for six, well 6:15 now, in the morning.
But here I am. I'm dressed. I have my wallet, my keys, and am now making my way across a parking lot towards the store. Together with twenty-five other people who all need coffee/chew/a receipt/the bathroom. And we're all quiet. On account of, you know, it's 6:15 in the morning. When I came to the door, I realized that one of the store employees decided that morning rush hour would be the opportune moment to windex the store doors. Now I like clean windows as much as the next person, but I needed to get in the store, so I ask her, "Excuse me?", and open the door. The lady then turns to me, smiles, and says in the perkiest voice imaginable, "Well, good morning to you!"
For those of you not familiar with southern discourse; she just told me, between the lines, that I really should have wished her good morning, and not ignored her and just said excuse me because that was just really rude.
"Good morning to you!" - a southern insult.
So anyway, there are three ways one can respond to this.
Option 1: Stop, wish her a good morning, and then proceed to tell her all about your morning. Because if someone is that eager to wish you a good morning, they must be super-interested in knowing all there is to know about your morning as well. I could have told her about fixing lunch, and running out of yogurts. About Shelby not wanting to get into her crate. About getting my skirt all covered in dog hairs, and running around trying to find a lint roller. This approach is called, "Playing it their way"
Option 2: Stop, and tell her it's freaking 6:15 in the morning, we're all just really tired, and can she please just let me get my receipt so I can drive to work. One could have even added in something like, "Not all of us work around the corner", or "If your gas station had working pumps, I wouldn't be here", or "why on earth would anyone be windexing anything at this hour?". This is known as the "I'm not from around here, and I don't play it your way".
Option 3: Ignore her completely.
I selected the third option.
Although now I feel bad for not wishing her a good morning too. I'm telling you, if you're not careful, these southern ways get inside your head, and before you know it, you're one of them. The bodysnatchers ain't got nothing on these people....
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Het verkeerstribunaal
Ik ben er heilig van overtuigd dat je alles in ieder geval een keer moet proberen. Parachutespringen, op een olifant door de jungle rijden, en aardbeien vinaigrette dressing op je salade doen - het zijn allemaal ervaringen die de moeite waard zijn. En sinds maandag kan ik nog een ervaring aan mijn lijstje toevoegen: Traffic court. Of in goed Dunglish: de verkeersrechtbank.
Zoals jullie je vast nog wel kunnen herinneren, kreeg ik vorige maand mijn allereerste verkeersboete. En dat alleen al gold als een ervaring. Vind ik zelf. De zwaailichten, het balen, het gele papiertje, het was allemaal echt. En na alle commentaren op mijn blog, van vrienden, en manlief zelf, die allemaal door naar court te gaan hun boete verlaagd kregen, besloot ik zelf toch maar naar de rechtbank te gaan. In het ergste geval, bedacht ik, zou ik de boete moeten betalen die ik nu ook al had, en het was weer iets aan mijn "been there done that" lijstje toe te voegen.
En zo begaf DixieChick zich op maandagochtend richting de city court. En heeft daar twee uur tussen de meest uiteenlopende figuren haar ogen uitgekeken. Ik kan het niet anders beschrijven dan een ware antropologische veldstudie.
Zo begon de court met het invullen van een formulier of je je schuldig, niet schuldig, of nolo contendere verklaart, hoe oud je was, en hoeveel jaar je naar school was geweest. Nadat ik ingevuld had dat ik toch echt schuldig was aan een prachtige Hollywood Stop, en dat ik bijna langer op school had gezeten dan dat ik in leven was, was het wachten geblazen. Allereerst op die mensen die vonden dat ze niet schuldig waren. In dat geval werd je namelijk vriendelijk uitgenodigd een nieuwe court date af te spreken, zodat de agent die bij het geval betrokken was, er ook bij kon zijn. Alle mythes over dismissals door niet-aanwezige agenten gingen meteen in rook op.
En na een ruim half uur kwam de rechter zelf binnen. Compleet een wapperend zwart gewaad, een "all rise", en een oath dat we allemaal toch echt de waarheid zouden spreken. Ik durf het bijna niet te zeggen als communicatiewetenschapper, maar het was toch echt net als op televisie.
De rechter, we zullen hem maar rechter Bill noemen, nam meteen de koe bij de horens en begon met de underage drinkers. Twee tieners die betrapt waren op het consumer van alcohol voor hun 21e. Ze hadden een essay moeten schrijven waarom die slecht was, naar een cursus moeten gaan, en mochten nu voor een volle rechtzaal vertellen wat ze gedaan hadden ("ik had gedronken en begon te vechten met een andere meid over mijn nu ex-vriendje) en waarom dit slecht was ("And no, you may not read out your essay"). Na een "alright everyone, give them a hand!", en een waarschuwing dat de rechter ze nooit meer wilde zien, mochten de twee weer vertrekken.
Rechter Bill kwam in eens meer over als een maatschappelijk werker dan een strenge judge, en gedurende de twee uur werd dat idee alleen maar versterkt. Een vrouw die onder invloed een ongeluk had veroorzaakt (zonder gewonden), haar high school niet had afgemaakt, en nu bij de lokale supermarkt werkte, en die vertelde dat als ze naar de gevangenis moest, ze haar baan kwijt zou raken, kreeg te horen dat ze niet nu naar de gevangenis hoefde, maar haar veertien dagen op haar vrije dagen mocht uitzitten. Een tiener die haar boete niet op tijd had kunnen betalen omdat de vader van haar kind haar had laten zitten, en ze wilde sparen om naar school te gaan kreeg te horen dat als ze vandaag terug zou komen met het bewijs dat ze zich op school had ingeschreven, hij haar niet verder zou straffen. Maar een vrouw die beweerde dat een ongeluk waar zij bij betrokken was geweest niet haar schuld was omdat de andere vrouw bij haar de oprit op was gereden kreeg geen genade, en moest gewoon haar boete betalen. En zo ging het maar door. Rijden onder de invloed, vechten, achterstallige boetes, drugsgebruik, het passeerde allemaal de revu. En bij iedereen vroeg rechter Bill hoeveel school ze hadden gehad, waar ze werkte, en waarom dit zo kon gebeuren.
Toen het eindelijk mijn beurt was, liep ik met knikkende knietjes naar voren. Mijn plan was om de rechter mijn perfecte driving records te laten zien, en te vragen of ik een defensive driving class mocht doen in plaats van de boete. Maar zover kwam ik helemaal niet. Toen de rechter zag dat ik maar liefst achthonderd jaar op school gezeten had, wilde hij allereerst weten wat voor een diploma ik had. En toen of stopborden negeren een gewoonte voor mij was. Ik kon niet snel genoeg stamelen dat dat natuurlijk niet zo was, en ik het verschrikkelijk vond, en ik echt een perfect driving record had, en deze allemaal bij me had.
Toen begon rechter Bill te lachen, "Het is jammer dat het de eerste keer is; als het nou de tiende keer was geweest, en dan had ik je laten gaan, maar nu zal ik je toch moeten opsluiten. Welke dag wil je naar de gevangenis?"
Een rechter die eigenlijk maatschappelijk werker is, en ook nog een gevoel voor humor heeft.
Nadat het gevoel in mijn benen terugkwam, verzon ik ter plekke dat ik dan wel de eerste dag van colleges wilde, donderdag dus.
"Oh je werkt op de universiteit? Oh dat is mooi. Nou weet je wat...case dismissed."
Vijfentwintig dollar armer (want ja, de court costs moeten wel betaald worden), twee-en-een-half uur later, en vier kilo zweet lichter stond ik weer buiten. En ik beloof u: DixieChick stopt tegenwoordig voor elk stopbord. Zelfs die aan het einde van onze cul-de-sac om vijf uur 's ochtends.
Zoals jullie je vast nog wel kunnen herinneren, kreeg ik vorige maand mijn allereerste verkeersboete. En dat alleen al gold als een ervaring. Vind ik zelf. De zwaailichten, het balen, het gele papiertje, het was allemaal echt. En na alle commentaren op mijn blog, van vrienden, en manlief zelf, die allemaal door naar court te gaan hun boete verlaagd kregen, besloot ik zelf toch maar naar de rechtbank te gaan. In het ergste geval, bedacht ik, zou ik de boete moeten betalen die ik nu ook al had, en het was weer iets aan mijn "been there done that" lijstje toe te voegen.
En zo begaf DixieChick zich op maandagochtend richting de city court. En heeft daar twee uur tussen de meest uiteenlopende figuren haar ogen uitgekeken. Ik kan het niet anders beschrijven dan een ware antropologische veldstudie.
Zo begon de court met het invullen van een formulier of je je schuldig, niet schuldig, of nolo contendere verklaart, hoe oud je was, en hoeveel jaar je naar school was geweest. Nadat ik ingevuld had dat ik toch echt schuldig was aan een prachtige Hollywood Stop, en dat ik bijna langer op school had gezeten dan dat ik in leven was, was het wachten geblazen. Allereerst op die mensen die vonden dat ze niet schuldig waren. In dat geval werd je namelijk vriendelijk uitgenodigd een nieuwe court date af te spreken, zodat de agent die bij het geval betrokken was, er ook bij kon zijn. Alle mythes over dismissals door niet-aanwezige agenten gingen meteen in rook op.
En na een ruim half uur kwam de rechter zelf binnen. Compleet een wapperend zwart gewaad, een "all rise", en een oath dat we allemaal toch echt de waarheid zouden spreken. Ik durf het bijna niet te zeggen als communicatiewetenschapper, maar het was toch echt net als op televisie.
De rechter, we zullen hem maar rechter Bill noemen, nam meteen de koe bij de horens en begon met de underage drinkers. Twee tieners die betrapt waren op het consumer van alcohol voor hun 21e. Ze hadden een essay moeten schrijven waarom die slecht was, naar een cursus moeten gaan, en mochten nu voor een volle rechtzaal vertellen wat ze gedaan hadden ("ik had gedronken en begon te vechten met een andere meid over mijn nu ex-vriendje) en waarom dit slecht was ("And no, you may not read out your essay"). Na een "alright everyone, give them a hand!", en een waarschuwing dat de rechter ze nooit meer wilde zien, mochten de twee weer vertrekken.
Rechter Bill kwam in eens meer over als een maatschappelijk werker dan een strenge judge, en gedurende de twee uur werd dat idee alleen maar versterkt. Een vrouw die onder invloed een ongeluk had veroorzaakt (zonder gewonden), haar high school niet had afgemaakt, en nu bij de lokale supermarkt werkte, en die vertelde dat als ze naar de gevangenis moest, ze haar baan kwijt zou raken, kreeg te horen dat ze niet nu naar de gevangenis hoefde, maar haar veertien dagen op haar vrije dagen mocht uitzitten. Een tiener die haar boete niet op tijd had kunnen betalen omdat de vader van haar kind haar had laten zitten, en ze wilde sparen om naar school te gaan kreeg te horen dat als ze vandaag terug zou komen met het bewijs dat ze zich op school had ingeschreven, hij haar niet verder zou straffen. Maar een vrouw die beweerde dat een ongeluk waar zij bij betrokken was geweest niet haar schuld was omdat de andere vrouw bij haar de oprit op was gereden kreeg geen genade, en moest gewoon haar boete betalen. En zo ging het maar door. Rijden onder de invloed, vechten, achterstallige boetes, drugsgebruik, het passeerde allemaal de revu. En bij iedereen vroeg rechter Bill hoeveel school ze hadden gehad, waar ze werkte, en waarom dit zo kon gebeuren.
Toen het eindelijk mijn beurt was, liep ik met knikkende knietjes naar voren. Mijn plan was om de rechter mijn perfecte driving records te laten zien, en te vragen of ik een defensive driving class mocht doen in plaats van de boete. Maar zover kwam ik helemaal niet. Toen de rechter zag dat ik maar liefst achthonderd jaar op school gezeten had, wilde hij allereerst weten wat voor een diploma ik had. En toen of stopborden negeren een gewoonte voor mij was. Ik kon niet snel genoeg stamelen dat dat natuurlijk niet zo was, en ik het verschrikkelijk vond, en ik echt een perfect driving record had, en deze allemaal bij me had.
Toen begon rechter Bill te lachen, "Het is jammer dat het de eerste keer is; als het nou de tiende keer was geweest, en dan had ik je laten gaan, maar nu zal ik je toch moeten opsluiten. Welke dag wil je naar de gevangenis?"
Een rechter die eigenlijk maatschappelijk werker is, en ook nog een gevoel voor humor heeft.
Nadat het gevoel in mijn benen terugkwam, verzon ik ter plekke dat ik dan wel de eerste dag van colleges wilde, donderdag dus.
"Oh je werkt op de universiteit? Oh dat is mooi. Nou weet je wat...case dismissed."
Vijfentwintig dollar armer (want ja, de court costs moeten wel betaald worden), twee-en-een-half uur later, en vier kilo zweet lichter stond ik weer buiten. En ik beloof u: DixieChick stopt tegenwoordig voor elk stopbord. Zelfs die aan het einde van onze cul-de-sac om vijf uur 's ochtends.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Serial triathlete
Here's a question for you: How do you know if you've become a serial triathlete?
Hint: It's not the number of triathlons you complete. In fact, it's completely unrelated to how often you compete. Today, as I was participating in my fourth triathlon, I realized that I too had become a serial triathlete when, while riding my bike, I no longer felt almost giddy with excitement, repeating the words "I am in a triathlon! WOW!" over and over again. Instead, I found myself distracting myself from the discomfort in my legs and behind by thinking about what to write in this blog.
So what did I come up with while trying to maintain a speed a little above my comfort zone just to make sure the girl in the Gator Tri outfit didn't pass me again? Well, I came to the conclusion that a triathlon is really very much like kindergarten: Everything you need to know about life, you can learn while in it. And while once again passing Gator Girl, I managed to came up with several interesting "learning opportunities".
Take the swim for instance. This particular triathlon is known for its absolutely terrible swim. Not only are the waves enormous (for those non-triathletes, that would not be the waves in the lake, but the groups of participants who start the swim at the same time), but they start extremely close to another, which means that for the better part of the swim, you are literally on top of other women trying to find that one piece of lake not filled with kicking swimmers. And as I was getting kicked, punched, and pushed, and in turn smacked several women in various body parts as well, I realized that this potentially getting-your-face-kicked-in situation could be easily avoided if I stayed towards the back end of the wave. But then I immediately noted that I am *clears throat* just slightly competitive, and so that would have not been an option. And there was my first lesson of the day: If you don't like the heat stay out of the kitchen.
My second lesson of the day came to me when I had finally found my own piece of quiet aquatic real estate. I had fought to the front of the pack, and was finally able to crawl through the water without tapping someone on their behind/head/arms. Now just because I was no longer in danger of being stomped on, does not mean that suddenly the sky opened up, my body became weightless, and I won the triathlon. That really only happens in the movies. No, the swim remained tough, albeit punch-free. The water was positively lukewarm, the weeds were everywhere, and everytime I got some water in my mouth, I tasted gasoline from the marina a few hundred yards down the beach. But complaining is something I really only do in my blog (well, and to husband-dear), and so instead I started singing a song in my head. Humming to myself, I forgot about the nasty water, the bike and the run that were still waiting for me, and instead was just happy. And there was my second lesson: If you have a good attitude, most things turn out to be pretty enjoyable.
So then you're done with the swim, you've managed to run into the transition area without tripping and breaking your neck, you've pulled on socks, shoes, glasses, gloves, and helmet, and you are now on your bike. And as you're peddling for dear life, a man comes up behind you and yells, "You need to stay on the right unless you're passing!". Slightly taken aback, as the acceptable cycling warning is "On your left!", you move over and eye the man with the slightest disapproval. Then you hear him yell at the next person, and the next one after that, and you decide this man is nothing less than a tri-nazi. But then you get to thinking. What is a man doing here? All the men have their own waves, which start a good five minutes before your own all-female wave. So the fact that this guy is riding all the way in the back must mean that he really bombed on the swim, and is probably seriously ticked off at himself. And although you can't resist yelling, "The polite thing to say is "on your left"" when you pass him a few miles down the road , you realize that here is your third lesson: Although people may act seemingly inappropriate towards you, it's usually an expression of something completely unrelated to you, and you should really not take it personally.
And then there was Gator Girl. Gator Girl earned her name because she was wearing what could best be described as the tiniest tri-outfit known to man, entirely in the colors of the Florida Gators. Beside her tiny outfit, the only reason that I noticed her was the fact that starting at about mile 2, she and I kept passing each other. She would pass me, and after letting her get the mandated 15 feet ahead of me, I would catch up, pass her, and then try to stay ahead. At one point, our speed was up to 24 mph, and we were egging each other one every time one would pass the other, "Finally!", "Well, it's about time!", "We need to train together!" (we did, after the race, exchange email addresses) "Dang, are you this good at running too?", "Are you going to pass, or do I need to kick it some more?". Although it was all in good humor, it did have me pushing myself to speeds I did not think I could reach. And there was my next lesson: If you surround yourself with quality people, you will rise to new levels as well. (And may the record show that I beat her on the bike and the run..heehee).
Finally, there is the ever-returning question that plagues every triathlete: How hard should I push myself? When you're swimming, you know you have two more events to go. While on your bike, you know you will still need to push yourself through a run. So at every turn, you ask yourself, should I go faster? Can I go faster? How will it affect my run? At one point, I stopped the endless merry-go-round, and told myself that, hey, the run was going to suck regardless, so I might as well give it my all now. And I did. And there was my final lesson of the race: You can prepare for the future all you want, but at the end of the day, all you have is now. And you need to live each moment to the fullest.
So there you have it, my five triathlon-lessons.
In a few weeks, husband-dear and I will be doing an "adventure jam" (mountain biking, running, and canoeing). I wonder what I will come up with then.
Hint: It's not the number of triathlons you complete. In fact, it's completely unrelated to how often you compete. Today, as I was participating in my fourth triathlon, I realized that I too had become a serial triathlete when, while riding my bike, I no longer felt almost giddy with excitement, repeating the words "I am in a triathlon! WOW!" over and over again. Instead, I found myself distracting myself from the discomfort in my legs and behind by thinking about what to write in this blog.
So what did I come up with while trying to maintain a speed a little above my comfort zone just to make sure the girl in the Gator Tri outfit didn't pass me again? Well, I came to the conclusion that a triathlon is really very much like kindergarten: Everything you need to know about life, you can learn while in it. And while once again passing Gator Girl, I managed to came up with several interesting "learning opportunities".
Take the swim for instance. This particular triathlon is known for its absolutely terrible swim. Not only are the waves enormous (for those non-triathletes, that would not be the waves in the lake, but the groups of participants who start the swim at the same time), but they start extremely close to another, which means that for the better part of the swim, you are literally on top of other women trying to find that one piece of lake not filled with kicking swimmers. And as I was getting kicked, punched, and pushed, and in turn smacked several women in various body parts as well, I realized that this potentially getting-your-face-kicked-in situation could be easily avoided if I stayed towards the back end of the wave. But then I immediately noted that I am *clears throat* just slightly competitive, and so that would have not been an option. And there was my first lesson of the day: If you don't like the heat stay out of the kitchen.
My second lesson of the day came to me when I had finally found my own piece of quiet aquatic real estate. I had fought to the front of the pack, and was finally able to crawl through the water without tapping someone on their behind/head/arms. Now just because I was no longer in danger of being stomped on, does not mean that suddenly the sky opened up, my body became weightless, and I won the triathlon. That really only happens in the movies. No, the swim remained tough, albeit punch-free. The water was positively lukewarm, the weeds were everywhere, and everytime I got some water in my mouth, I tasted gasoline from the marina a few hundred yards down the beach. But complaining is something I really only do in my blog (well, and to husband-dear), and so instead I started singing a song in my head. Humming to myself, I forgot about the nasty water, the bike and the run that were still waiting for me, and instead was just happy. And there was my second lesson: If you have a good attitude, most things turn out to be pretty enjoyable.
So then you're done with the swim, you've managed to run into the transition area without tripping and breaking your neck, you've pulled on socks, shoes, glasses, gloves, and helmet, and you are now on your bike. And as you're peddling for dear life, a man comes up behind you and yells, "You need to stay on the right unless you're passing!". Slightly taken aback, as the acceptable cycling warning is "On your left!", you move over and eye the man with the slightest disapproval. Then you hear him yell at the next person, and the next one after that, and you decide this man is nothing less than a tri-nazi. But then you get to thinking. What is a man doing here? All the men have their own waves, which start a good five minutes before your own all-female wave. So the fact that this guy is riding all the way in the back must mean that he really bombed on the swim, and is probably seriously ticked off at himself. And although you can't resist yelling, "The polite thing to say is "on your left"" when you pass him a few miles down the road , you realize that here is your third lesson: Although people may act seemingly inappropriate towards you, it's usually an expression of something completely unrelated to you, and you should really not take it personally.
And then there was Gator Girl. Gator Girl earned her name because she was wearing what could best be described as the tiniest tri-outfit known to man, entirely in the colors of the Florida Gators. Beside her tiny outfit, the only reason that I noticed her was the fact that starting at about mile 2, she and I kept passing each other. She would pass me, and after letting her get the mandated 15 feet ahead of me, I would catch up, pass her, and then try to stay ahead. At one point, our speed was up to 24 mph, and we were egging each other one every time one would pass the other, "Finally!", "Well, it's about time!", "We need to train together!" (we did, after the race, exchange email addresses) "Dang, are you this good at running too?", "Are you going to pass, or do I need to kick it some more?". Although it was all in good humor, it did have me pushing myself to speeds I did not think I could reach. And there was my next lesson: If you surround yourself with quality people, you will rise to new levels as well. (And may the record show that I beat her on the bike and the run..heehee).
Finally, there is the ever-returning question that plagues every triathlete: How hard should I push myself? When you're swimming, you know you have two more events to go. While on your bike, you know you will still need to push yourself through a run. So at every turn, you ask yourself, should I go faster? Can I go faster? How will it affect my run? At one point, I stopped the endless merry-go-round, and told myself that, hey, the run was going to suck regardless, so I might as well give it my all now. And I did. And there was my final lesson of the race: You can prepare for the future all you want, but at the end of the day, all you have is now. And you need to live each moment to the fullest.
So there you have it, my five triathlon-lessons.
In a few weeks, husband-dear and I will be doing an "adventure jam" (mountain biking, running, and canoeing). I wonder what I will come up with then.
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