Cruisin' B

That is the nickname I gave our current house guest, Birgit: Cruisin' B. We've had lots of houseguests over the years, but never someone we'd met while swimming with the dolphins. In Mexico. While we were on a cruise with Royal Carribean. While she was on a 4.5 month contract as a nurse with another cruise line. Which happened to be docked in the same city that day.

The past few days she's regaled us with (completely anonymous of course - don't worry if you've ever pissed off a Carnival nurse, Birgit would never tell) tales of ornery passengers, interesting crew members, and even more interesting rules (did you know that officers on board cruise ships have to pay for the crew to clean their cabins? Or that the ship distinguishes between crew (people who clean rooms, wait tables, cook meals) and staff (people who directly interact with guests, such as the entertainment people), and that they're technically not supposed to eat together?

Besides being an absolutely perfect house guest, she's also been great in reminding of all those little things that make life down here in the south so interesting. Birgit is German/Australian, and as this is her first visit to the US (not counting those single port days in Miami or Cape Carnaveral), she raises lots of questions.

Butterfingers, for instance. In German, or Dutch for that matter, one might say one is clumsy. Or an idiot. Or not paying attention. But when I almost dropped something today and remarked how I really had "butterfingers" today, Birgit wasn't quite sure what to think, as I certainly didn't have butter on my fingers.

Or sweet tea. When we out to dinner last night, and husband-dear ordered "sweat tea", Birgit wanted to know what that was. When Dennis explained it was cold tea, Birgit asked, quite incredulously, "With a flavor, right?"
"No, just plain tea."
"And it's cold?"
"Yes."
"Oh..." As a lover of hot tea with milk (and thus a woman after my heart), Birgit didn't quite see the use of this at all. And really, people, why would -anyone- in their right mind drink -cold- tea? When you thin about it that way, it does sound kind of disgusting. Or cheap. Or perhaps both.

And then there is the matter of adjectives. When husband-dear asked Birgit how she liked her dinner, Birgit said, "Oh, it's no problem."
For those of you who speak German, or are familiar with German discourse, you know that means the meal is just fine. Delicious actually. But to my darling all-American, it sounded as though Birgit's food just plain sucked. He was about ready to call the waiter over, when Birgit explained that her food was really, very, very good. It was just like that one time my sister-in-law said that husband-dear's steaks were "pretty good", which to any American means they're only so-so, while any Dutch person knows that "pretty good" translates to "really pretty damn fingerlickin' good". It's like saying "sure", which in Dutch means, "yeah, let's go ahead and do that, awesome!", while in American-English it's saying, "Well, OK, if you want to".

And then there is the locals' inability to drive (although I've yet to forget that), the low price of gas (again, grateful for that every single day), and the way the heat wafts off the pavement (it's just something you really can't forget).

So yeah, sometimes having someone's else eyes to look at the world around you can be very helpful. Not to mention funny.

So here's to cruising houseguests!

De frequent flyer miles

Ik heb dan wel gestudeerd enzo, maar eigenlijk ben ik helemaal niet zo slim. Nee, echt waar. En ik heb het niet eens over het niet goed kunnen "fillen" van gaten in muren, of het vervangen van een "washer" in een kraan, of mijn duidelijke "inability" om normaal Nederlands te schrijven. Nee, ik heb het over iets waarvan jullie allemaal, maar dan ook echt allemaal gaan zeggen, joh, dat is toch wel heel erg stom hoor.

Ik heb geen frequent flyer kaart. Van geen enkele luchtvaartmaatshappij.

En wanneer je feitelijk alleen maar met een maatschappij vliegt (Delta), en ook nog eens hele lange afstanden (naar Europa), dan moet u toegeven, dat is eigenlijk best wel dom.

Voordat we naar Georgia verhuisden, had ik nog een excuus. We vlogen namelijk nooit vaak met dezelfde luchtvaartmaatschappij. Soms was het Continental, dan United, dan weer Lufthansa of British Airways. En, was mijn excuus destijds, dan heeft het weinig zin om tientallen frequent flyer passen aan te schaffen.

Maar nu we al weer bijna vier jaar in Georgia wonen, en vier jaar minstens een keer per jaar minstens een keer naar Europa vliegen, met dezelfde maatschappij, heb ik geen excuus meer. En het is dus gewoon een beetje dom van mij.

Dit bedenk ik me niet net hoor. Elk jaar, als ik bezig ben tickets te boeken, dan bedenk ik me dat ik toch -echt- een frequent flyer pass moet aanschaffen. Misschien, bedenk ik me dan ook, zo'n echte Delta credit card, waar ik dan mee zou kunnen tanken, en zo ook miles zou kunnen sparen. Elk jaar denk ik dan, goh, da's een goed idee, dat moet ik doen. En het is dus nog nooit gebeurd.

Tot nog toe was mijn voornaamste reden altijd dat frequent flyer miles toch niet werken. Je spaart, en spaart, en spaart, en ondanks dat je prachtige kofferlabels krijgt, krijg je qua vliegen niet zo heel veel terug. Misschien dat je na twintig jaar sparen eens een gratis tripje Atlanta-Chattanooga mag maken, maar dan wel alleen op de vlucht die om vijf uur 's ochtends vertrekt, en daar, zo beredeerde ik, had ik natuurlijk niks aan. 

Maar toen ik bij het boeken van de tickets dit jaar (er is een nieuw nichtje bijgekomen, en die moet ik live zien, en dus is een trip noodzakelijk) bijna een hartverzakking kreeg, -en- bedacht dat het maar goed was dat geen van de kinderen een dure prive universiteit ambieren, kwam ik er niet meer onderuit. Ik moet echt, serieus, gewoon-doen, NU een frequent flyer card aanschaffen. Dan weet ik ten minste zeker dat ik over een jaar of dertig eens een keertje in Februari, of een andere onlogische maand, dag, en tijd, misschien naar het uiterste puntje van Europa mag vliegen. Maar op dit moment is zelfs dat de moeite waard.

Goed. Dus nu op naar de Delta site, die frequent flyer pas aan laten maken. Echt waar. Meteen nadat ik zometeen dat artikel uitgelezen heb. Echt waar.

One of those afternoons...

Sometimes I love being a stepmom. Really, I do. It doesn't happen very often, as being a stepmom usually means doing all the work a "real mom" does, only without the recognition and appreciation,  but today was one of those days.

It really all centered on Jimmie, husband-dear's youngest son, and his homework. Ever since we started dating, the kids' homework has been husband-dear's cup of tea. I may be in charge of chores, room cleaning, and what-to-wear, husband-dear handles the homework. So unless I'm specifically asked for help, I don't interfere when the kitchen table is covered in hand outs, books, balls of wadded up scrap paper and one (or two) very frustrated boys. I'm really not sure why we divided it up this way, but we did, and so this is how it is.

Now this also means that husband-dear calls the shots as far as making time for homework goes. Which in turn means that our kids don't homework on Friday afternoon, like I used to have to do, but are allowed to leave it until Sunday. I've mentioned the possible problems this might cause (such as, oh, I don't know, running out of time) to husband-dear, but he's decided the boys need a break more than they need to do their homework right away. And I'm OK with that. Really. Because I'm pretty sure husband-dear doesn't really care if the boys' rooms like a nuclear fall-out zone (as they frequently do), but he also doesn't mind that I make his sons pick up their rooms before going to bed. This whole division of responsibilities has worked well for us, so why mess with it.

However, today, I was left to wonder about the effectiveness of our scheme. When Jimmie, husband-dear's youngest son, told us on Friday he had "just a little homework" due on Monday, we believed him. Husband-dear didn't ask to look at it, and told me he was going to let Jimmie have his Sunday morning and start after lunch. As always, I was OK with that. This was husband-dear's cup of tea, after all.

But when Sunday afternoon rolled around, husband-dear, to his utter dismay, found out that the "little bit of homework" were two study guides with 100 questions each, one for math and one for history. Upon hearing that, I decided that now would be a really great time to catch up on my reading. In our bedroom. With the radio on. I was convinced there would tears, slammed doors (Jimmie is, unfortunately, slowly entering the "life's not fair" era), and general drama, and I wanted no part of that.

As I sat in our quiet bedroom, I couldn't help but wonder if Jimmie had been my flesh and blood, I wouldn't have been a lot more upset. Upset at Jimmie for not telling us about the size of the assignment. Upset at husband-dear for not at least asking Jimmie what his homework entailed. Upset because there was no way Jimmie would be getting an A now, as there would be no way he could finish it all.
And I also wondered if perhaps it was a good thing poor Jimmie isn't my own biological child, as my over-the-top focus on academics would have surely rendered him a lot more insecure, a lot less relaxed, and probably a lot less happy than he is now.
And then I wondered if husband-dear and I would be a lot more at each others' throats, because there was no way I would just step back from any school-related responsibilities. My child would be in gifted and talented programs, honors classes, ready to take AP classes once they stepped onto the high school bus, and geared to win at least two scholarships to college. My child would be in the school band, the drama club, and play sports. And not just because my child enjoyed it so much, no, because it would help them develop a "wide variety of skills", as well as prep them for snagging that scholarship.
After a while, I realized I was actually feeling bad for the children I never had. Man, they would be really messed up, and would probably need some serious therapy to get over their controlling mom.

Perhaps it's better for everyone that I'm just a stepmom. At least it allows me to be the cool mom I would -want- to be if I were a bio mom.

And Jimmie's homework? He finished almost all of the questions. Almost. There was no drama, no tears, not even one angry word. He worked diligently until Dad decided he had worked enough, and he would just have to deal with not having completed the entire assignment. It was quiet, peaceful, and a great life lesson for Jimmie.

I'm telling you, I'm much better at this stepmothering-thing.

From the mouths of babes..

Especially my babes. Well, my step-babes, technically, but who's counting.

I've blogged about this before, and can't find the exact post right now (of course), but apparently my kids share my less than blissful view of the south. Now please don't roll your eyes and say "duh" (or if you must, do so quietly), because you have to believe that I am really careful around my kids. I realize that my views of the south are possibly slightly demented, so I try to make absolutely sure that the kids know that there are two sides to every story, and that there are good reasons for everything. Now the kids don't express their thoughts on this matter a whole lot, but when they, it's hilarious (and thus blogworthy).

The last time I dedicated a blog to them (and I will recoup this, since I can't seem to find this post), they were not only discussing how, since the south uses the word "y'all", they should really use "w'all" too, but also why there really is no reason for people to wear camo outfits to Walmart. They were talking about this when they thought husband-dear and I weren't listening, and it was hilarious. This time, it was just two small statements, but they had us in stitches (quietly, of course, as we really don't want to encourage this kind of behavior).

First, the eldest, Ozzie, while we were driving to town, noticed the sticker on a truck in front us. It was an image of Calvin urinating on the words "gun control". His exact words, if I'm not mistaken, were, "Dad? Is that really a picture of Calvin peeing on gun control?"
"Yes son, it is."
Silence.
Then, "Really? I mean, really? He's pulling out his...and...well...oh wow..wow. I mean, not that I'm all in favor of gun control. Or against it. Or whatever it is when you think people should own guns but not like really anything they want. I'm not, I mean. Whatever. You know what I mean. But sheesh. What will that guy's kids think? That you should just, well, pee on everything?"

What can I say, I love that kid.

Then the youngest, Jimmie, piped up during dinner. Completely out of the blue, and totally unrelated to anything we were talking about, he suddenly said, "Do you know that in the south you can say anything you want to anybody, you can even insult them, as long as you end it with 'Bless your heart'? Did you know that?"
And actually, I didn't know that. Never even thought about it, but realized immediately that he a had a point. As did Jimmie apparently, since he jumped in right away, "Yeah! Like you can tell people, 'your child is so wild and rambunctious, he's just insane. Oh, bless his heart."
Needless to say, the two boys spent the next few minutes coming up with the most terrible insults, and ending with "Bless his/her heart".

It was awesome. They're awesome. A little crazy, and they take after their stepmomma way too much, but bless their hearts, you know?

Itty bitty wings

When I was asked to participate in the USMC 2010 Educators' Workshop, I have to admit I felt slightly honored. OK, I'll admit, felt like a really cool academic. Sure, as I mentioned last year, I'm well aware this entire workshop is probably going to be a textbook case of white propaganda for the marine corps, but still, being asked to do anything just makes me feel all fuzzy on the inside (and yes, that includes things that I really shouldn't do, like edit the commencement program, write a student handbook, and help someone with their subtitles). Let's just say I really need to work on a) setting boundaries, and b) disconnecting my self-worth from my actions. But none of that is relevant in this case. The workshop entails no work for me, and in fact includes an all-expenses paid week in DC. So I've been feeling pretty hot there for a while. How many people get to fly to DC on someone else's dime to watch men in uniform all week? I mean, really?

Well, you'll all be thrilled to know my bubble burst quite violently about twenty minutes ago when I received my travel confirmation. Convinced as I was that they would have me fly out of Atlanta, I was appalled to see that instead I'll be flying out of the rinky dink local airport. Now I have nothing against local airports. They're great incentives for the local economy, I'm sure. My problem is with the teeny tiny airplanes that fly out of those little bitty airports. We're not talking outdated DC10s here, or those smaller versions of the 767 that they'll fly between Dusseldorf and Amsterdam. No, people, we're talking the kinds of planes dropzones use for their skydivers. Planes that hold maybe ten people at best, and where the cockpit is separated from the rest of the plane by a curtain. If you're lucky. Planes where they have to put your carry-ons in the cargo hold because there are no overhead bins. Planes where you don't have to worry about whom you'll be sitting next to, as these planes have one row of seats on either side of the aisle. Planes, people, that go down on such a regular basis, the news barely mentions these accidents.

I'm usually not afraid of flying. As I've mentioned before, husband-dear and I used to both skydive (out of those same little planes), so it's not as though I don't have a nice set of cojones when it comes to flying. But, dear Lord, these planes are small.  And accident-prone. I used to fly on them on a fairly regular basis when I lived up in New England, and without a parachute on my back, they just freak me out.

First, it's the whole turbulence thing. If you think turbulence is a large aircraft is bad, well, think again.There's bouncing, jostling, and pummeling. There's panels rattling so bad, you start worrying whether the plane will hold up or not. There's deathly silence as everyone wonders whether now would be a good time to start calling their loved ones and telling them goodbye. And while you're trying to keep yourself from repeatedly banging into the seat in front of you and soiling yourself in fear at the same time, you can see the pilots leaning back, positively unconcerned that behind them all ten passengers are trying to keep themselves from getting concussions. And worst of all, because these excuses of airplanes are so small, they don't make it up much higher than 15000 feet, which means that you can be guaranteed that if there's a storm in the area, you will be flying right through it.

Then, whenever I've flown on one of these little coffeemakers, the pilots seem to lose all abandon whenever they climb into the cockpit. They take off as though they just realized they left their stove on, bank like they're trying to make it into the Thunderbirds, and the landing is hard enough to make anyone's dentures come out. Perhaps it's the fact that these planes don't cost a whole lot more than my car, or the fact that the airline has so many of them, I don't know, but the pilots just don't seem to care about their passenger's comfort a whole lot. I mean, I've been on jump runs where the pilot had to dump thirty skydivers in about five minutes (quite a feat, let me tell you), and those runs were more comfortable than some of those trips up into Maine.

Finally, there's the lack of all the little amenities such as flight attendants (these planes usually only have one, and that is just to comply with FAA security regulations), food (not gonna happen), drinks (would happen if it weren't for the neverending turbulence), pilot's announcements (there's just nothing to see when you're flying through clouds), and the SkyMall magazine. Somehow all those little things on other planes make me feel as though flying is really just secondary, you know, like, oh yeah, and while you're consuming that meal and watching your favorite movie, we'll also fly you across the country, but don't you worry your pretty little head about that. None of that in these little planes. They're all about business. Which always has me wonder if flying them is so difficult/dangerous that there's no time for other diversions, that is, the pilots would love to tell you all about the cornfield you're flying over, but they're busy trying to keep you in the air. 

So, yeah, the fuzzy, warm, "they like me! They really like me!" feeling is gone. Instead I think I'm going to keep an eye out on small-plane-accident statistics in the next few months. And make sure I tell everyone I love them.

Six full water bottles

...do not necessarily mean there's something for you to drink.

That is just one of the lessons I learned today. Another one would be that using the bathroom before you struggle into your wetsuit is a really good idea.

For those of you who have been reading my blog for at least a year, I'm sure you know what I'm about to tell you.  Classes have ended, spring is in the air, I've been running, biking, and swimming like there's no tomorrow; yes, it's time for the first triathlon of the season.

This year, since I really didn't have enough on my plate already with a 7/6 teaching load, I decided to sign up for an Olympic distance event. Just in case you're really don't feel like clicking on the link, and to further underline the insanity of this event, an Olympic (or international) triathlon entails a 0.93 mi swim, a 25 mi bike, and a 6.2 mi run. Carried out consecutively, by the same person, on the same day, and within four hours.

To further complicate things, this event was not only held two hours away from our home, which meant we had to drive up the night before and get a hotel, but the location was also north of us, entailing cold lake water and the necessity of wetsuits. And I learned lots of new things.

One of them was the fact that when you know you're about to exercise for at least three hours, you have a carefully thought out hydration plan. Your bottles contain heed, recoverite, water, perpetuem, and are all mixed to your preferred ratio. So when it's forty minutes before race time, and you're thirsty, you know better than to mess with those carefully prepared bottles, and you suddenly become very grateful for the half-full week-old zephyrhills bottle in your husband's car.

Traveling to triathlons is possibly the most complicated thing one can do. Husband-dear and I had almost as much luggage as a friend who traveled with four kids including two newborns. You not only need your bikes, you need your wetsuits, your transition bags, your PJs, your clothes for after the race, your breakfast, your post-race snacks, your toolbox, bicycle pump, and whatever back up material your lovely wife feels you simply must take.

Another lesson I learned is that whenever the water is wetsuit legal (tri-speak for Really Cold), I better race with husband-dear or have him with me, as I there is no way I can get into the suit properly without his "caboose lift", aka a tri-sanctified wedgie. And that no matter how hard you try to remain standing when you're pulling off your wetsuit, it's just not going to happen, and you will end up on your butt in the grass.

Possible the most important lesson, however, was that it's really not very smart to schedule a major race such as this one a week after commencement. My swim was slightly erratic (although this could be attributed to low visibility and the optimist decision on my part to wear my shaded goggles); 8 miles in to the bike my behind felt as though it was on fire, and the only reason I PR-ed on the run was because Shelly ran it with me.

But I made it. And well within my personally imposed time limit. In spite of that, though, I know I could have done better. So you all know what that means...yes, I'm going to have to do it again.
Well, dang. I really should take up crocheting instead.

Ontstressen

Het mini-zwembadje moest opgezet worden.
Er moest een vervanging gevonden voor voor een ontbrekend stukje van een van de aansluitingen.
Het internet hield er mee op.
Ik kreeg een aantal mails van werk met allerlei opdrachten.
De oudste bedacht zich zomaar opeens dat hij een groot project moest doen deze week, waarvoor hij allerlei materialen nodig had.
De router bleek het probleem te zijn, en deze was absoluut niet meer te repareren.
Ik werd gevraagd een review te schrijven voor een tijdschrift.
De filter van ons mini-zwembadje begon dusdanig te lekken dat we de besproeing achterin de tuin niet eens meer aan hoefde te zetten.
Er moest gekookt worden voor een zieke kennis.

U heeft hem al door: de laatste drie dagen zijn niet zo relaxt geweest als ik graag gezien had. Mijn werktempo lag eigenlijk net zo hoog als op mijn werk; van winkel naar winkel, tripjes naar mensen met pannen vol eten, om dan thuis te komen, en niet online te kunnen, of te ontdekken dat het zwembad weer lekt, niemand online kon, of de honden weer eens een gat in de achtertuin gegraven hadden. "If it rains, it pours", zoals ze hier zo mooi uitdrukken.

En wat nog erger is; mijn dagen van "flying under the radar" op het werk zijn ook voorbij. Kon ik voorgaande zomers nog wegkomen met alleen maar lesgeven, en een beetje onderzoek doen, de verschillende committees hebben mij het afgelopen jaar ontdekt, en nu heb ik zelfs gedurende zomer allerlei verantwoordelijkheden. Zo moet ik voor volgende week een verslag schrijven voor de board of regents over writing literacies. Niet dat ik dat niet kan hoor, want dat is het niet. Ik heb er gewoon heel ouderwets geen zin in. Helemaal omdat we gedurende de zomer helemaal niet betaald worden voor dit soort taken. En ja, ik hoor alle Nederlanders nu roepen, "Ja maar als je niet betaald wordt, dan doe je dat toch niet?!", maar zo werkt dat hier helaas niet. Zolang ik nog geen tenure heb in ieder geval. Dus zucht ik, en steun ik, en klaag ik (veel), maar dat rapport komt er.

Ik was dan ook, om eerlijk te zijn "less than pleased" (lees: niet te genieten). Want wat is de zin van keihard werken als je je zomer ook nog eens uit allerlei nare klusjes bestaat?

Gelukkig geloof ik dat nu alles wat meer onder controle heb. Er is een nieuwe router gekocht en geinstalleerd (en hij doet het nog steeds!), de filter is via een "doo-hickey" (lees: met veel kunst en vliegwerk) gemaakt, de maaltijd is bezorgd, de oudste is tijdens een van mijn vele errands bij Michael's afgezet om zelf zijn project materiaal te kopen, en het schrijven van mijn rapport en review heb ik gewoon lekker uitgesteld tot volgende week.

En zo zit ik vandag al de hele ochtend op de bank. En eindelijk voel ik mijn bloeddruk zakken. Natuurlijk zijn er een miljoen dingen die ik moet doen, maar voor nu doe ik gewoon even lekker niks.
Zo dan.