Lost for about thousand words

I think we can all safely agree that it's a very rare occasion when I'm lost for words. Whether in writing or verbally, I usually always have something to say about, well, just about everything. I'm not claiming it's always sensible. But it's something. And if I don't say it, which thank heavens I have learned to do over the past few decades, I'll usually end up writing it down here. So yes, need a blurb for an admissions brochure? Ask me. Need someone to proofread your speech? Ask me. Need a sentence/paragraph/chapter on anything related to mass communication/psychology/psychometry/athletics/academics/stepmothering/anything else that comes up, just ask me. I can generally whip something together, even if I have no idea what I'm writing about. I love playing with words, rephrasing sentences, and finding just the right phrase to express something. Now, I can't promise that when you actually think about what I just wrote, it will make any sense, but I can guarantee you that it will look pretty. And use proper punctuation. And at the end of the day, punctuation does matter.

But for the past two days, I have absolutely, completely, utterly stuck. Stuck as in I cannot for the life of me think of what to write. Stuck as in I have to tell myself "you have to write 500 words by tonight", something I didn't even have to do when writing my dissertation. And this is a bad stuck. Because this stuck concerns our department's self study. And my section of it is due on Tuesday. And I'm guessing I still have at least two thousand words to go. This self study is part of our program review which determines the future of our program. If we write a bad self study, I'm guessing our review won't be going very well, and well, we all know where that will lead (I'm thinking, "would you like some fries with that?"). So, yes. This. Is. A. Big. Deal.

Now I have gotten a lot done already. Four thousand three hundred and sixty-two words to be exact. Nine pages. But I still have two very important parts to finish. The first one entails me detailing how our program fits into the university's mission statement and strategic plan, and the second one requires that I address how our program dealt with the revisions suggested in the last program review. I've laid out the paragraphs, created a list of points I need to address, but I just can't seem to write a flowing narrative. I just can't. I mean, I'm really good at BSing, but this goes even beyond my powers.

So here I am. Stuck. I've cleaned the house, done laundry, tidied up our filing cabinet, and had tea, and nothing helps. I have one thousand words to go before I can leave my desk. One. Thousand. Wish me luck.

Talking like a duck

Recently, I've become obsessed with the way I've been pronouncing words like "ground" and "found". As I mentioned last week, my darling semi-offspring have been relentless about pointing out when my "ground" sounds country. Just yesterday, when I couldn't decide whether I should tell my students "researchers found that", or "researchers find that", my "found" came out sounding like the lovechild of "found" and "find, making it seem as as though I was born and raised in the south, which sent my students whooping and hollering. So hello self-consciousness. I mean, I love to blend in, but to sound like a native? No, thank you.

Now I do realize that I'm possibly a little more obsessed with what I sound like to others than most people. I've always wondered: do I sound southern? Midwestern? Or, worst of all, Dutch? I was the angsty teenager who would tape her speeches before she gave them, so she could make sure she could correct anything that didn't sound just right. I am the neurotic adult who will record her work voicemail, and then redo it three times because the inflection wasn't right. Or I slurred my name. Or pronounced my last name like an overzealous German.

For years, I assumed that everyone was as neurotic as I was. Am. But then I moved here. And met Dutch ladies who, after having lived in the US for forty years, spoke with an accent so thick you could use it slice bread, while claiming they spoke perfect, accent-free English. And politicians whose southern accent was so thick, they sounded like they had just walked off the set for Gone With The Wind or The Hillbillies.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for being who you are, and if that means talking with a "tick duts eccent' or like Boomhauer from King of the Hill, then go for it. I will love you just the same. But a little self-awareness would be nice. Don't claim to speak perfect American when you pronounce 'pan' like 'pen', and 'much' like 'muts'.

Oh, and on that note, can the real southern politicians please stand up? You see, I refuse to believe that every single Georgia politician really talks as though they just got off harvesting pecans and picking peaches. I mean, these men and women sound more southern than Jimmy Carter, Andy Griffith, and Tammy Wynette put together, while most born and bred Georgians I hear around me every day have reduced their southern accent to a "y'all" and a slight flattening of their vowels. I realize the appeal of sounding like "the common man", but people, you sound ridiculous. Mainly because all real Georgians know no real Georgian would have a Savannah 'r' (the British-sounding r used in Gone with the Wind) and a mountain-based country twang.

So, yes, I might be a little obsessed. And if someone could tell me why everyone keeps thinking I'm from southern Ohio/Missouri when those are two states I have never lived in, that would be great. Thanks.

Tornadoes and guano-bats

Weather in America is not something to be trifled with. Just like its cars, gun laws, and Vegas, American weather is A HUGE DEAL. It smacks you in the face, runs right over you, and leaves you half-frozen, melted into a puddle, or peddling on your bathroom door across what used to be a tranquil stream in a heartbeat. We have blizzards, hurricanes, droughts, deep freezes, heat waves, floods, tornadoes, and I just know someday we'll have locusts swarming the skies too.

Obviously, we don't get a whole lot of extremely cold weather in the south. I'm sure that all ya'll northerners think we have no right to explain seeing as how we're not buried in three feet of snow for 4/5/6 months out of the year, and I suppose you have a point. I mean, while you all are shoveling your driveways, scraping your car windows and dealing with black ice, we're deciding whether we can sip our sweet tea out on the front porch in a tee shirt or if we will need a cardigan. It is nice, and that is true. But that doesn't mean our weather can't get bat-guano crazy either. Because if there is one thing the south is known for, it's its extremely insane, over-the-edge, all-out-of-control storms. And hurricanes. And tornadoes. And rain storms. And thunder. And hail.

And yesterday, was one bat-guano-cat-lady crazy weather day. We had hail the size of golf balls, rain, winds, low-clouds, yellow, hazy skies, and the absolute darling of meteorologists: tornado watches.

Now if you just went, "WHAT?! You had a tornado?!", first of all, don't worry. We didn't. Secondly, you also need to stop being like me, and memorize your tornado terms. You see, after three years here, some time in Texas, and hordes of friends and family in the "tornado alley", you would think I would know the difference between a tornado warning and watch. But I don't.

So yesterday morning, when instead of waking up to Steve Innskeep and Renee Montagne we woke up to the hysterical beeping of the weather service, and a disembodied voice telling us, "A tornado watch is in effect until 10am this morning", I freaked out. I jumped out of bed, tripped over a dog, and looked out the window. Because you know, you want to definitely -see- the tornado before it annihilates your house. Anyway, husband-dear, who would be far more useful had there actually been a tornado in our backyard, got up, and said, "You do realize that a watch only means the conditions are right, right?"

Uhm.
No.

And this is why I have such a beef with the National Weather Service, or whatever they call themselves: The terms "tornado watch" and "tornado warning". A tornado watch means the conditions are right, which means it's humid, there's a low cloud ceiling, and hey, that's pretty much any storm in the south. Conversely, a tornado warning means a tornado has actually been spotted in your area, and you had better get your butt into shelter (definition: A small room on the inside of the house with no windows, which, if you live in the US, might be really hard to come by. In that case, prayer will work too. But only if you're southern baptist. I'm kidding. You can be a regular baptist too).

Why would anyone in their right mind pick two terms that are so dangerously similar? To me, I could just as easily argue that a watch means that a tornado has been spotted; you know, you're watching one go by, while a warning could mean that you have been warned that one might form. Not one of the memory aids that I've thought of ("a warning means you have to be really careful, it's right there", "a watch means you're on the lookout just in case", or my favorite, "R (waRning) comes before T (waTch), but it's worse, so it's like the opposite of the alphabet") works. I always freak out when I don't have to yet, and never understand why the sirens go off when they do.

So here is my suggestion. Let's change these terms. A tornado watch ( you know, when the conditions are right) will from now on be called a tornado advisory. Like a wind advisory. Or a snow advisory. There's no drama yet, but be careful. And a tornado warning will be known as a "OMG there's a tornado, you need to get your behind in the bunker NOW!".

Thank you. Now please excuse me while I call our insurance adjuster about the hail damage to our roof.

Calimero en een zelfstudie

Wist u dat eens in de vijf jaar elk studieprogramma in Georgia gereviewed moet worden? Nee? Nou ik ook niet. Nu weet ik wel meer dingen niet hoor. Helemaal omdat de universiteit hier wel meer dingen niet vertelt. Of half. En meestal vind ik dat wel best. Want als ik iets weet, dan betekent dat meestal meer werk voor mij. En dat heb ik al genoeg.

Nu ben ik gelukkig niet helemaal achterlijk, en heb ondertussen wel genoeg ervaring dat ik weet dat elk academisch programma -ooit- onder de loep genomen gaat worden. In Nederland heb ik er een paar mee mogen maken, en weet er dus genoeg van om te weten dat een bevalling er bij in het niets valt. Oh wacht. Dat weet ik niet. OK, dat het opvoeden van twee jongens er bij in het niets valt.

Maar goed, hoe vaak dit gebeurt voor universiteiten in Georgia, en wat het allemaal inhoudt, dat wist ik natuurlijk ook niet allemaal precies. Ik zeg wist, omdat ik sinds tien dagen namelijk wel weet. Sinds tien dagen weten we in mijn sectie namelijk dat elk programma om de vijf jaar aan de zelfstudie moet, en dat, tata! die van ons dit jaar aan de beurt is. En niet alleen dat, maar dat het zelfstudie rapport over, let op, twee weken af moet zijn. Een zelfstudie rapport waarvan de eisen alleen al tien pagina's beslaan. En dat, hiep hiep hoera!, ik in de commissie zit die het zelfstudie rapport mag schrijven. En dat dankzij de geweldige Amerikaanse efficientie er geen tien mensen in die commissie zitten, standaard voor Europese universiteiten, maar drie.

Ik kan u niet vertellen hoe gelukkig ik ben. Want naast het geven van zes vakken (waarvan er niet -een- online is, bijdeweg), het organiseren van de internationale week, waarvoor ik laatst ook al gestrikt ben (ik moet echt leren veel minder op te vallen, jeetje mina), het volgen van workshops over quality enhancement in education, en het werken aan mijn eigen onderzoek, mag ik nu dus ook elke vrije minuut besteden aan het beantwoorden van vragen als, "Discuss the rationale and data supporting program relationship to societal needs, employment opportunities, and graduate school admissions", of "Discuss the program's specific centrality to the university mission and strategic plan".

En het probleem is niet alleen dat ik echt geen tijd heb voor dit soort fratsen, maar eigenlijk ook dat ik het antwoord niet weet. Want zit de maatschappij nou echt te wachten op een zooitje onderzoekers, journalisten, redacteuren, en andere eigenwijze media-personen? Kijk, als we nou de faculteit geneeskunde waren, of onderwijskunde, of zelfs psychologie, waarbij je levens redt, mensen leert te onderwijzen, en onderzoekt waarom sommige mensen kinderen mishandelen/misbruiken/gebouwen opblazen, dan snapte ik het wel. Maar eigenlijk vind ik onszelf helemaal niet zo relevant.

Maar ja, dat mag ik vast niet in dat rapport zetten. En dus zit ik hier op een zondag middag met zicht op een prachtige zonovergoten achtertuin waarin de jongens met de honden spelen, achter mijn bureau. Take it away, Calimero, zou ik zeggen..

"...en dat is niet eerlijk!"

Slow, slower, slowest

I really don't know who made up the notion that life in the south is somehow slower than the rest of the world, but he was obviously out of his mind. Yes, it's a he. There is no way any southern woman in her right mind would ever have the time to sit down and come up with something as ludicrous as that. Between all her cooking, peeling, baking, quilting, crocheting, reading the bible, killing flies and other unwanted bugs, raising the kids, skinning the dead animals and gutting the fish that her husband brings home, southern women barely had time to walk to the outhouse, let alone wax lyrical about the south. They were too busy being the south.

Anyway, quite obviously the point I'm trying to make here is that life in the south is anything but slow. In fact, I would go as far as to claim that my life has never been crazier since I moved down here. I know, not all southerners drive 90 miles to get to work, and the point could be made that I'm the exception. But in all honesty, I doubt that. In my time here, I haven't seen a whole lot of front-porch-rocking-sweet-tea-drinking-breeze-shooting. All I see are people doing yard work, driving their kids to and from cheerleading, football, gymnastics, aquaknots, French club, Spanish club, band, taking online classes, getting home from work late, and baking meals for sick people. Southerners make talk slowly, but their life is anything but.

And you know how some people will tell you that southerners are known for their tardiness? Or that they're always forgetting things and never seem in a rush to get anywhere? Well, I've figured that one out too. And it's not what you think.

You see, all of that is because they're all just busy. It's not that they don't care. Or can't bring themselves to stick to basic etiquette like punctuality and proper pronunciation. Take myself, for instance. I am, or used to be anyway, the human embodiment of punctuality. I abhor being late for anything. I hate it when other people are late. I give students zeroes when they're late, as well as the stink-eye. But lately, it seems as though I've been late for just about everything; from class, to appointments, to meeting for coffee with friends. It's what happens when you have fourteen hours of work to squeeze into an eight hour workday. There is just nothing like running into a class at three minutes after, to find the entire class staring at you reproachfully to make you feel incredibly on-top of things. And when you're constantly running from one event to the next, you end up forgetting things. Like graded papers, or assignment sheets, or your books. Or stopping at a gas station to get gas. Or putting on your hose while getting ready to leave the house in the morning. It's a whole new level of insanity. And then when you finally don't have anywhere to be five minutes ago, you know you better cherish that moment. So you will take your time making up your mind at the vending machine. Or in line at the convenience store. Because you know that the moment you're done, life will hit you in the behind at full speed once again.

Even the way southerners drawl their words can be attributed to their busy lives. Seriously, ask your significant other to wake you up in the middle of the night, and ask you to say something. Chances are you will sound like someone out of King of the Hill or Designing Women. You know how a lot of non-native speakers get a thicker accent when they're tired? Well, not me. Recently, every single two-legged member of my household has poked fun at me for alternately saying "ground", "there", and "right" in what can only be described as a very southern country-bumpkin way.

So, all this nonsense about southerners being slow needs to stop. Really. 'Cause we're not

The miracle of grass.

You can always tell which of your new neighbors are not from the south. And it's not because they actually say "you guys" as opposed to "y'all", or because when you say "barbecue", they think of their grill. No, it's because they don't know when to stop watering their yard.

As you may know, the seasons here in the south are on their own schedule. Summer starts sometime in April and can run as late as Thanksgiving, winter is, well, pretty much non-existent, unless you count those four days in the year the temperature actually dips below freezing at night as winter, and fall and spring are squashed somewhere in between. If you're lucky, that is. This past year, we went straight from winter (which in this case was very real) to the heat of summer. And when you're banking on a few weeks of "normal" weather, i.e., temperatures that allow you to do things other people take for granted, such as sit outside without feeling faint, sleep with your windows open without the fear of hot flashes, and walk to the mailbox barefoot without burning your feet, missing a season like that is painful.

Anyway, this year, we're experiencing a truly beautiful fall. Temperatures have generally hovered in the low 80s for the past few weeks, which means we've been able to sleep with our windows open and the air turned off, let our dogs spend a few hours outside without worrying about trips to vet for heatstroke, and exercise without looking a wet, red-faced freak. Granted, getting used to morning temperatures in the low 40s has been pretty rough. Especially when you're used to running before 7 in the morning in nothing but shorts and a tank top. Let's just say I've rediscovered the joys of long-sleeved thermal shirts and long cycling leggings.

But I'm really not complaining, which in itself is pretty much a miracle. I think we can safely say, actually, that I'm pretty darn tootin' happy with this time of year. Now if only those pesky student papers would go away...but I digress.

Besides being a respite from the insane heat, the fall is also the time of year when everything in nature dies. And I mean everything. Not just your flowers, the blossoms on your crepe myrtles, or the roaches that have been trying to live inside your house months, but also your grass. Grass just doesn't stop growing here, like it does in other normal places, no, it dies. Or more specifically, it goes into a deep hibernation which causes it stop growing, and become brown and hard. Then when spring comes around, just like a miracle, your grass wakes up, and within a matter of a few days, you have a beautiful green yard. I guess you could say Georgia grass is extremely unhappy with cold weather. I'm pretty sure if it had wings, it would go hibernate in southern Florida, or maybe the Bahamas. But as it can't, it just turns dark and brittle.

Anyway, most people who have lived here long enough know that unless you want to be mowing well into the Christmas season, you can pretty much stop watering your yard sometime in mid-September. Grass will go into hibernation anywhere between early October and early November, depending on the temperatures, and if you stop turning your sprinklers on, you will "help" it along just a little bit. And after mowing your butt off for one very long, hot summer, most people are quite ready for their grass to start pushing up the daisies, metaphorically speaking.

So to make a long story short, it's a very exciting time for all husbands on the block. No one on our cul-de-sac has watered their yard in weeks. All the grass is slowly acquiring brown spots, and losing its color and softness, and I don't think I've seen any of our neighbors mow their yards in at least two weeks. Well, that is, except the people on the corner. And the people a few houses down. They still water their yards religiously. And mow them every weekend. And for those of you who were wondering; no, their grass will die anyway. Unless you've planted rye grass (which they haven't), your yard will be brown and dead. It's the way of the world around here. And yes, these are also the same neighbors who only moved in last summer.

Maybe one of us should go tell them their grass will die regardless of what they do. Or perhaps we should just enjoy the show a little longer. It is, after all, what our Georgia neighbors did to us when we first moved here. Just think of it as a rite of passage; learning about the miracle of Georgia grass.

Semper Fi

And the halls of Montezuma, and the shores of Tripoli. You know, the Marines. That branch of the military that likes to refer to themselves as the "men's department" of the Navy, and whom other branches tend to call "Jarheads", "Leathernecks", or another one of the many less-than-charming terms that I won't repeat here.

Personally, I can't say that I have an opinion on the Marine Corps. I probably should, seeing as how I have an opinion on everything. But I don't. The only thing I know about them is that their basic training is definitely out of my league.

So when a fellow professor approached me about the educator's program run by the Marine Corps Office of Officer Selection (or perhaps it was Officer Selection Office. Or maybe the Selection of Officers Office), my interest was piqued. Apparently, the Marine Corps runs a program whereby a group of "select educators" are invited to spend a week at the Officer Selection Training School (or some title to that effect), to observe the "opportunities offered by the United States Marine Corps". Educators get to observe the "tough combination of academics and physical challenges first hand", and get to do all sorts of cool things, like ride in a helicopter, do an obstacle course, and shoot really big guns.

Look, I'm not a complete idiot. I know this will be a textbook case of white propaganda, you know, where they will do everything in their power to show how awesome and wonderful and uplifting the corps is, all in the hope that you will recommend your best and brightest students to consider the USMC Officer Selection Training School. But even knowing all of that, I have to admit, it sounded very interesting. I mean, when does anyone get a chance to observe Marine Corps training from that close up without commissioning? Besides people invited to the educator's week, obviously. It's just like that one time I almost went to a revival just because Steve told me it would be a month's worth of blogging. I still regret not going. If nothing else, this week in Quantico will give me something to write about.

But, and here's the problem. When you agree to go to this week, that means the recruitment officer for your area knows you. And not only does he know you. He has your email address and your phone number. And recruiters love those things. So he will call and email you, asking if he can come talk to your students. You can't blame the guy obviously. If I had to fly, feed, and entertain someone for a week, I would definitely expect something in return. Like, hey, actually allowing me to see if your students are interested in the Corps. Which is really not completely illogical, since that was the point of this whole exercise from the get-go. And that in itself isn't the problem. The problem is that I am not sure I -want- to encourage my students to join the Marine Corps. Or any branch of the military for that matter.

Please don't get me wrong. I think the military is an excellent choice of career. I mean, look at husband-dear. Look at most of my friends. But, this isn't about my students. Or their future careers. This is about me, and what I, as an academic, stand for. As an academic, my whole purpose in life to is to question everything. And to teach others to do the same. To always stay curious, wonder, test, and then know. If I then suddenly bring in a Marine Corps officer to tell them the Corps is an excellent future career for them, a future which will involve lots of learning, lots of opportunities, lots of stuff I know I will never be able to do, but which will also entail little to no real questioning, wondering, or time for philosophical reflection, aren't I selling myself out?

Now, obviously, I'm opening several cans of worms here. I can just hear the comments now, from "you're biting the hand that feeds you", "my husband is a great critical thinker, and he's in the military", to the "You just don't support the troops". Well, let me just beat everyone to the punch, and say, no, I'm not, yes, I know that's possible, and what the...!?

But, this isn't about my husband, or my friends, or my students' futures, this about what I think I, as both a professional and an academic, should teach my students. When I tell them, on the one hand, that they need to question everything, including me or any other authority, that they need to give it their all to make it in the industry, that they need to push themselves and their GPA to make it into graduate school, and then I show up with a man in blue-and-red pants and a khaki shirt who will probably tell them that the Marine Corps is the answer, am I doing my job right?

And on a more practical side, I do teach at a public university, which means we're not allowed to favor anyone. So does that mean that when I bring in a Marine Corps officer, I will also have to invite a recruiter from the Air Force, Army, Navy, and the Coast Guard? Because that would seriously cut into the time left to actually teach my students what they need to know to be critical and all that jazz.

So yes, I'm still completely undecided about what to do. Maybe I'll just have to put my own motto into practice then, "If you don't know what the right thing to do is, then don't do anything at all." I like it. Maybe if I just keep grading midterms, the answer will come.

Edit: And it did. Because sometimes you're saved by an email. Husband-dear, who has infinitely more managerial knowledge than I do recommended I check with my "chain of command" (aka chair/dean/provost/president) first. I did, and the chair replied with (and I quote) "Absolutely NOT". Well, that clears thing up, doesn't it?