Let me tell you something, I love me some peanuts. And I don't mean the cartoon (although Snoopy is the cutest Red Baron ever), or the food (because nothing is a stranger concoction that boiled peanuts), no I'm talking about the packing supply.
If you just scratched your head and asked how on earth peanuts can be used to pack things, you're probably from a country which actually cares about the environment and decided to outlaw peanuts years ago (i.e., Holland). The peanuts I'm referring to are pieces of Styrofoam shaped like peanuts, that you use to keep goods safe while shipping. And environmentally friendly or not, they are awesome.
Now to be honest with you, we were never a peanut-packing family. Not only are we far too cheap to splurge on purchasing peanuts when you can just easily keep goods safe using wadded up newspaper (which is not only recyclable, but free!), but we've always had such an ample supply of packing paper and inflatable bags from packages that people would send to us, there was never a need to purchase anything as far as shipping went (no, not even boxes).
But then, almost four years ago, Steve ordered five brand new HD cameras for our television production classes. As these cameras cost several thousand dollars a piece, I was half-expecting them to be delivered by an armored truck complete with guard and all. Instead, they each came in a medium-sized box that was filled to the brim with, you guessed, it peanuts.
I remember looking at the peanuts and asking one of the technicians if that was really enough to keep the camera from breaking or scratching, and he assured me that those green puppies would keep anything safe. Thinking of Christmas coming up, and all the shipping we would have to do to assorted friends and family, I asked Steve if I could take the five boxes of peanuts home with me. Although I'm sure Steve thought I had lost my mind (gone nuts, if you will), and was just really relieved to get those pesky little things out of his office, he said yes.
And ever since that Christmas, back in 2008, I have fallen in love with peanuts. I have to tell you, all that you've heard about them is true: they will keep everything secure and in one piece. They weigh next to nothing, fit into any corner, and don't require hours of ripping and balling up newspaper that leaves your hands and sleeves looking slightly grimy. And the even better part is that thanks to the nature of the goods coming into our department, I had an almost endless supply of free peanuts. Nobody wanted them, they sure weren't going to reuse them, so every once in a while, I would take a big box of them home with me, to store up in the attic until another birthday or holiday required some serious packing.
Then the budget crisis hit, and our ability to order cameras and other fragile equipment has dwindled pretty much down to zero. That in itself is sad enough, but what makes it even more unbearable is that this also means my supply of peanuts has pretty much dried up. So last week, when I used the very last of my peanuts to send a picture frame to Mary in Italy, I knew it was time to either bite the bullet and buy my own peanuts, or resign to using newspapers once again.
But just when I was about to resign myself to having to start tearing up old newspapers again, the Dutch store in Helen came to the rescue with a big box not just filled with the Dutch goodies, but also with at least a bushel of peanuts. Now the goodies were nice, yes, but they didn't make me squeal with excitement as much as the peanuts did. And the better news? Husband-dear just ordered some sort of gigantic helicopter (with 3D gyro-something capabilities), and I have the feeling it will come packed in oodles of peanuts too.
I can't wait!
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Centen, centen, centen
Ik ben, eerlijk gezegd, helemaal niet zo van het geld. Ja, het moet er zijn, en ja, ik hou van een spaarpotje hebben, maar ik ben dus niet zo iemand die zit te springen om een salarisverhoging. Nu is dat eigenlijk alleen maar harstikke handig, aangezien we hier op de universiteit de laatste vier jaar geen verhoging meer gehad vanwege "de crisis", maar goed, ik kan me er persoonlijk dus helemaal niet zo druk om maken. Ik verdien geld, ik kan sparen, en zo nu en dan op vakantie, klaar.
Maar helaas heb ik ook principes (alleen niet als het op parkeren aan komt). En op dit moment worden deze toch ernstig op de proef gesteld door de laatste geweldige "we moeten besparen" actie van de hoge bazen op de universiteit. Maar voordat ik op dit laatste morele dilemma in kan gaan, moet ik even iets uitleggen over "overload" en "overload pay".
"Overload" duidt op het geven van meer vakken dan waarvoor je bent aangenomen. In mijn geval is dat dus vier vakken per semester. Voor eenieder die mijn blog al een tijdje bijhoudt is dit niks nieuws. Sinds mijn tweede jaar hier geef ik ergens tussen de vijf en zeven vakken per semester. Ook dat komt door de budgetcrisis, want eigenlijk hebben we een nieuwe full-time professor nodig, maar ja, daar is dus even geen geld voor. Zegt men. Maar goed. Ik ben natuurlijk gekke henkie niet, en wordt voor die extra vakken gewoon betaald.
En zo komen we uit op het tweede woord "overload pay". Dat duidt, jawel, op het extra salaris dat je krijgt omdat je extra vakken geeft. Dit salaris is, en hier komt woord nummer drie, "pro-rated", hetgeen betekent dat de hoogte van het salaris afhangt van het aantal studenten in de vakken die je extra geeft. Helemaal precies weet ik het niet, maar ik meen dat je $150 per student per semester krijgt. Heeft een vak meer dan 15 studenten, dan krijg je "full pay", en dat is $2250 per vak (dit is allemaal publieke informatie, en na te lezen op de website van de University System of Georgia, voor de geinteresseerden onder us).
Meestal worden vakken als "overload" aangeboden omdat heel veel studenten dat vak nodig hebben, en dus heb ik nog nooit een overload vak gegeven waar minder dan 15 studenten in zaten. Ook dit semester heeft mijn vijfde vak bijna twintig studenten. Dus zou ik, volgens Bartjes dan, $2250 voor dat vak moeten ontvagen. Dat is geen vetpot als je bedenkt dat voor 1 vak 10 uur per week berekend wordt, en er 16 weken in een semester zijn, maar ach, "it is what it is" zoals ze hier zo mooi zeggen.
Maar goed, het probleem zit 'em dus in die "volgens Bartjes". Want wat heeft de leiding van de universiteit bedacht? Dat ze niet langer kijken naar hoeveel studenten er in het overload vak zitten, maar gewoon van alle vakken die jij geeft het vak nemen waarin het minste aantal studenten zitten, en op basis van dat aantal je overload pay berekenen.
Mijn minst volle klas is de "seminar", oftewel de afstudeerscriptie; daarin zitten momenteel 8 studenten. Als dit plan dus doorgaat, dan krijg ik dus $1200 betaald voor het overload vak waaraan twintig studenten deelnemen.
Ja, en dan gaan mijn principes dus wel opspelen, want volgens mij klopt dat ergens niet helemaal.
Natuurlijk kun je beredeneren, ja maar ja, dat vak is dus niet helemaal vol, en dus zou je, volgens Bartjes (daar is die kerel weer), minder dan tien uur per week aan dat vak besteden. En in een ideale troetelbeer wereld is dat ook helemaal waar. Maar ja, helaas leef ik niet in een troetelbeerwereld, en is het dus ook nog eens zo dat in de andere drie vakken die ik geeft, het maximum van twintig studenten met gemiddeld vijf overschreden wordt.
Dus.
Principes.
Daar heb ik nou een beetje last van. Want natuurlijk ga ik niet in een keer weigeren een vak te geven als studenten het nodig hebben om af te studeren. Maar ja, ik wil natuurlijk ook niet voor minder werken dan waar ik technisch gezien recht op heb.
En dat heet nou een dilemma.
Maar ja, maakt u zich niet druk hoor. Ik weet namelijk nu al hoe dit gaat aflopen, met die principes van mij. U ook?
Maar helaas heb ik ook principes (alleen niet als het op parkeren aan komt). En op dit moment worden deze toch ernstig op de proef gesteld door de laatste geweldige "we moeten besparen" actie van de hoge bazen op de universiteit. Maar voordat ik op dit laatste morele dilemma in kan gaan, moet ik even iets uitleggen over "overload" en "overload pay".
"Overload" duidt op het geven van meer vakken dan waarvoor je bent aangenomen. In mijn geval is dat dus vier vakken per semester. Voor eenieder die mijn blog al een tijdje bijhoudt is dit niks nieuws. Sinds mijn tweede jaar hier geef ik ergens tussen de vijf en zeven vakken per semester. Ook dat komt door de budgetcrisis, want eigenlijk hebben we een nieuwe full-time professor nodig, maar ja, daar is dus even geen geld voor. Zegt men. Maar goed. Ik ben natuurlijk gekke henkie niet, en wordt voor die extra vakken gewoon betaald.
En zo komen we uit op het tweede woord "overload pay". Dat duidt, jawel, op het extra salaris dat je krijgt omdat je extra vakken geeft. Dit salaris is, en hier komt woord nummer drie, "pro-rated", hetgeen betekent dat de hoogte van het salaris afhangt van het aantal studenten in de vakken die je extra geeft. Helemaal precies weet ik het niet, maar ik meen dat je $150 per student per semester krijgt. Heeft een vak meer dan 15 studenten, dan krijg je "full pay", en dat is $2250 per vak (dit is allemaal publieke informatie, en na te lezen op de website van de University System of Georgia, voor de geinteresseerden onder us).
Meestal worden vakken als "overload" aangeboden omdat heel veel studenten dat vak nodig hebben, en dus heb ik nog nooit een overload vak gegeven waar minder dan 15 studenten in zaten. Ook dit semester heeft mijn vijfde vak bijna twintig studenten. Dus zou ik, volgens Bartjes dan, $2250 voor dat vak moeten ontvagen. Dat is geen vetpot als je bedenkt dat voor 1 vak 10 uur per week berekend wordt, en er 16 weken in een semester zijn, maar ach, "it is what it is" zoals ze hier zo mooi zeggen.
Maar goed, het probleem zit 'em dus in die "volgens Bartjes". Want wat heeft de leiding van de universiteit bedacht? Dat ze niet langer kijken naar hoeveel studenten er in het overload vak zitten, maar gewoon van alle vakken die jij geeft het vak nemen waarin het minste aantal studenten zitten, en op basis van dat aantal je overload pay berekenen.
Mijn minst volle klas is de "seminar", oftewel de afstudeerscriptie; daarin zitten momenteel 8 studenten. Als dit plan dus doorgaat, dan krijg ik dus $1200 betaald voor het overload vak waaraan twintig studenten deelnemen.
Ja, en dan gaan mijn principes dus wel opspelen, want volgens mij klopt dat ergens niet helemaal.
Natuurlijk kun je beredeneren, ja maar ja, dat vak is dus niet helemaal vol, en dus zou je, volgens Bartjes (daar is die kerel weer), minder dan tien uur per week aan dat vak besteden. En in een ideale troetelbeer wereld is dat ook helemaal waar. Maar ja, helaas leef ik niet in een troetelbeerwereld, en is het dus ook nog eens zo dat in de andere drie vakken die ik geeft, het maximum van twintig studenten met gemiddeld vijf overschreden wordt.
Dus.
Principes.
Daar heb ik nou een beetje last van. Want natuurlijk ga ik niet in een keer weigeren een vak te geven als studenten het nodig hebben om af te studeren. Maar ja, ik wil natuurlijk ook niet voor minder werken dan waar ik technisch gezien recht op heb.
En dat heet nou een dilemma.
Maar ja, maakt u zich niet druk hoor. Ik weet namelijk nu al hoe dit gaat aflopen, met die principes van mij. U ook?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
If you can't beat them...
...join them.
You may remember my little rant from last summer, when I complained about having to pay extra to drive my husband's car to work and park in a faculty parking spot. I was less than thrilled to have to pay $35 each year to park at work to begin with, and thought it was pretty much a cardinal sin to ask employees to buy yet another parking permit if they wished to drive, say, their husband's brand new CR-V.
Well, you will be happy to know that as of this semester, all is well.
First, apparently my terse (i.e., pissed off) email to the dean, the chief of campus police, and the vice president of something or other apparently woke someone up, because as of this academic year, we can register for a second, free, parking permit. So no more hassle with a limited number of temporary permits, and having to drive to the police station to get said permit before you can drive to your office, park, and get to work. Your second car now has the same decal as your first car.
And DixieChick saw that it was good.
Second, I have also finally joined the ranks of the VIP cars on campus, which means I am now guaranteed a spot close to the building, no matter what time I come in to work. And all I had to do to earn that is forego every single one of my principles, which turned out to not be so difficult after all.
My university, like most institutions of higher learning in the US and Canada works with a complicated system of parking permits, each of which comes with a certain price tag. The lowest tiered drivers are the resident students. These are those students who live on campus. They receive a red parking permit, and get to park in the crappiest spots imaginable. It's not uncommon for a resident student to have to park a mile or more away from their dorm. The idea behind is, I'm guessing, that these students live on campus, and can therefore walk everywhere (and guess what, they would still rather walk to their car a mile away, drive two miles, park a mile away from class, and then walk into class. But I digress).
Then are the commuter students, who are the proud owners of an orange tag. As they don't live on campus, but have to drive in, the university figured they deserved a little more clemency, and awarded them about ten parking spots by each building. If you do the math, that still means that several hundred students will be parking goodness knows where (but not near any building), but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?
Then there is faculty/staff parking. They get the green permits, and the most spots by each building. And finally, there's reserved/VIP parking, which is, or well, used to be, for deans, provosts, presidents, and other figures far above the rest of us mere mortals. These people get the yellow decals, and have the spots right up against the curb next to the building they work in. They are, in short, the head honchos of parking.
This is how parking was arranged when I got here in 2007. And back then, it seemed fair enough. There were maybe two rows of yellow spots by my building, at least a hundred green spots, and no one ever had a problem finding a parking spot.
Well, in the 2008-09 academic year, the university realized that it was leaving a vast financial resource completely untapped, and opened up the VIP parking to any faculty or staff member willing to fork over almost three times as much as a faculty/staff permit. In the next two years, the VIP section grew slowly, from two to four to six rows.
Then last year, everything sort of went completely crazy. The university built a few new dorms, turned half the parking lot into a VIP section, gave the students more parking spots, and now the 100 + faculty members in my specific part of campus were fighting for maybe twenty five parking spots. Basically, if you arrived after 8am, you had to park with the resident students. And if you arrived after 9am, you were just plain s** out of luck, and you got to park in the "overflow" lot almost a mile away.
Now call me a wuss, but I couldn't stand it. Most days I would be able to nab a spot, but the pressure of having to get out of the house before 6:15 in order to get one was just crazy. And then on those days when I didn't get to work early enough, and would have to walk the mile to my office, I was just one extremely unhappy camper. Like I said, I probably need six weeks in basic training or something, but when I've gotten up at 5am, driven an hour and forty minutes, and then have to walk a mile while burdened with a laptop bag, lunch box, travel mug, and purse, I am pretty much ready to turn around and go home.
So this year I caved. I gave up on the idea that no one should have to pay to park at work, and signed up for a VIP spot. As these are handed out on a first come, first serve base, I figured I would be lucky if I got a spot in the far corner of the parking lot, but at least I would be in the lot next to my building, and not two fields and one football field down the road. Now I'm not sure what happened, to be honest with you, because when I happened to see the chief of police (he who was victim of my wrath this summer) and asked him about my spot, he told me, "Yeah, I gave you 195".
So I went looking for 195, starting at the far end of the lot. Nothing. I moved closer, nothing. That chief had better not be playing with me. I looked again, nothing. Then as I walked back to my building, I stepped up on the curb, looked at the spots next to the building where all the deans and vice presidents parked, and saw number 195. It was right next to the last dean's spot, within stone's throw of the building's front door.
Cue harp music, clouds opening, and angels descending.
I was, and have been, in heaven ever since. I can't tell you how much I absolutely love coming into work and there being a spot waiting just for me. One entire month later, it still fills me with joy. Seriously.
So, what's the moral of the story?
Principles are nice, but a parking spot close to work is much, much nicer.
You may remember my little rant from last summer, when I complained about having to pay extra to drive my husband's car to work and park in a faculty parking spot. I was less than thrilled to have to pay $35 each year to park at work to begin with, and thought it was pretty much a cardinal sin to ask employees to buy yet another parking permit if they wished to drive, say, their husband's brand new CR-V.
Well, you will be happy to know that as of this semester, all is well.
First, apparently my terse (i.e., pissed off) email to the dean, the chief of campus police, and the vice president of something or other apparently woke someone up, because as of this academic year, we can register for a second, free, parking permit. So no more hassle with a limited number of temporary permits, and having to drive to the police station to get said permit before you can drive to your office, park, and get to work. Your second car now has the same decal as your first car.
And DixieChick saw that it was good.
Second, I have also finally joined the ranks of the VIP cars on campus, which means I am now guaranteed a spot close to the building, no matter what time I come in to work. And all I had to do to earn that is forego every single one of my principles, which turned out to not be so difficult after all.
My university, like most institutions of higher learning in the US and Canada works with a complicated system of parking permits, each of which comes with a certain price tag. The lowest tiered drivers are the resident students. These are those students who live on campus. They receive a red parking permit, and get to park in the crappiest spots imaginable. It's not uncommon for a resident student to have to park a mile or more away from their dorm. The idea behind is, I'm guessing, that these students live on campus, and can therefore walk everywhere (and guess what, they would still rather walk to their car a mile away, drive two miles, park a mile away from class, and then walk into class. But I digress).
Then are the commuter students, who are the proud owners of an orange tag. As they don't live on campus, but have to drive in, the university figured they deserved a little more clemency, and awarded them about ten parking spots by each building. If you do the math, that still means that several hundred students will be parking goodness knows where (but not near any building), but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?
Then there is faculty/staff parking. They get the green permits, and the most spots by each building. And finally, there's reserved/VIP parking, which is, or well, used to be, for deans, provosts, presidents, and other figures far above the rest of us mere mortals. These people get the yellow decals, and have the spots right up against the curb next to the building they work in. They are, in short, the head honchos of parking.
This is how parking was arranged when I got here in 2007. And back then, it seemed fair enough. There were maybe two rows of yellow spots by my building, at least a hundred green spots, and no one ever had a problem finding a parking spot.
Well, in the 2008-09 academic year, the university realized that it was leaving a vast financial resource completely untapped, and opened up the VIP parking to any faculty or staff member willing to fork over almost three times as much as a faculty/staff permit. In the next two years, the VIP section grew slowly, from two to four to six rows.
Then last year, everything sort of went completely crazy. The university built a few new dorms, turned half the parking lot into a VIP section, gave the students more parking spots, and now the 100 + faculty members in my specific part of campus were fighting for maybe twenty five parking spots. Basically, if you arrived after 8am, you had to park with the resident students. And if you arrived after 9am, you were just plain s** out of luck, and you got to park in the "overflow" lot almost a mile away.
Now call me a wuss, but I couldn't stand it. Most days I would be able to nab a spot, but the pressure of having to get out of the house before 6:15 in order to get one was just crazy. And then on those days when I didn't get to work early enough, and would have to walk the mile to my office, I was just one extremely unhappy camper. Like I said, I probably need six weeks in basic training or something, but when I've gotten up at 5am, driven an hour and forty minutes, and then have to walk a mile while burdened with a laptop bag, lunch box, travel mug, and purse, I am pretty much ready to turn around and go home.
So this year I caved. I gave up on the idea that no one should have to pay to park at work, and signed up for a VIP spot. As these are handed out on a first come, first serve base, I figured I would be lucky if I got a spot in the far corner of the parking lot, but at least I would be in the lot next to my building, and not two fields and one football field down the road. Now I'm not sure what happened, to be honest with you, because when I happened to see the chief of police (he who was victim of my wrath this summer) and asked him about my spot, he told me, "Yeah, I gave you 195".
So I went looking for 195, starting at the far end of the lot. Nothing. I moved closer, nothing. That chief had better not be playing with me. I looked again, nothing. Then as I walked back to my building, I stepped up on the curb, looked at the spots next to the building where all the deans and vice presidents parked, and saw number 195. It was right next to the last dean's spot, within stone's throw of the building's front door.
Cue harp music, clouds opening, and angels descending.
I was, and have been, in heaven ever since. I can't tell you how much I absolutely love coming into work and there being a spot waiting just for me. One entire month later, it still fills me with joy. Seriously.
So, what's the moral of the story?
Principles are nice, but a parking spot close to work is much, much nicer.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
An ode to my travel mug
The one utensil that, in my opinion, is almost as American as hot dogs and crackerjacks (and yes, apple pie I suppose), is the travel mug. Not only do most people in my world own one of these nifty inventions, all cars are outfitted for two, if not three of these mugs, every institution who thinks at least a little of herself will have a travel mug with its logo, and you can't go to any conference without departing with a be-logo-ed travel mug.
What makes the travel mug even more American, in my opinion, is the fact that of all the countries I have lived in, worked in, or traveled to, the US is the only one that has a mug solely for the purpose of carrying hot, caffeinated drinks to be consumed during one's drive. Sure, if you're Dutch, you might argue that the thermos serves the same purpose. In fact, you might love your thermos as much as I love my travel mug. However, while you have a slight point there, the thermos is completely unsuitable for car use. As anyone who has ever tried to pour a drink in a driving vehicle knows, it's nearly impossible to do so without serious spillage, even if you're just the passenger. Imagine the mess that would ensue if you were actually trying to drive and pour some of that hot cocoa from your thermos into the nice, round lid you have perched between your knees.
But in spite of the serious drawbacks of the thermos, Europeans have never really taken to the travel mug. That sturdy, tall cup with a lid that opens and closes and a nifty handle or conveniently ergonomically shaped body. I wondered why this was, for a while, as Dutch people drink as much coffee as their American counterparts, and should therefore, technically, vow by their travel mug.
After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that it all has to do with the length of the average European drive (or lack thereof), the fact that everyone there wants to be a race car driver, and thus drives stick, and the odd truth that all your fellow commuters' sole purpose in life appears to be to try and put a dent in your hood or fender. I think we can all agree that none of these are conducive to driving while handling a travel mug, no matter how convenient the non-slip surface is.
When I first started commuting in the US, I realized, however, that there was no stick, no crazy cyclists on a suicide mission, and no nine-lane roundabouts, and subsequently, no need to gulp my hot tea down before I left home. The ease of getting to work and school meant I could easily consume my morning caffeine while getting there. So I purchased my very first travel mug. Do you remember buying your first travel mug? Because I do. It was a momentous occasion. Walking down the street with my brand new travel mug, I truly felt like a real American. Because, as we all know, no American goes without their travel mug.
I remember it as though it was only yesterday. It was a decade ago, and I was at an Einstein Bagels, ordering my morning tea. I spotted a tan mug with a handle and a nifty slide that allowed you to open the lid with the same hand that was holding the mug. It looked extremely convenient. But what really sold me on it was the text on the mug: "No coffee, no peace. Know coffee, know peace." I was sold. And so was the mug.
Eleven years later, you can barely read the words on the mug, and the color on the mug has faded too. Apparently, one of my lip glosses is seriously toxic, as the lid has some red stains on it (even after approximately hundred washes), and the mug isn't entirely spill proof either, as evidenced by the occasional tea stain on my work shirts. Over the past few months, I've had to come to the realization that, yes, it is indeed time for a new travel mug.
But here's the thing. I love my travel mug. That travel mug has been there for me through thick and thin, PhD defenses, new jobs, traffic and cop-shooting-deer, rain, sleet, and hail. I've tried other mugs, ones with no handle, ones with a top you pop open, ones with logos you can actually read, but none of them work as well as my ancient travel mug. There is just something incredibly convenient about having a handle that allows you to use your thumb to open the top, something that no contemporary travel mug has. So for the longest time, I was able to ward off husband-dear's warnings about germs, diseases, and general malaise with the argument that no other mug would work as well.
Until this weekend. This weekend, our chaplain gave me a new shiny travel mug. It's blue, doesn't have a handle, but it does have a readable logo (although "AF SARC "Sexual assault is never OK" is obviously not half as cool as the now invisible "know coffee, know peace"), and a nice rubber pad on the bottom. Faithful as I am to my old travel mug, I told husband-dear that there was no way I was going to like that mug, so I wasn't going to use it. But then, on Monday morning, something strange happened. When I reached into the cupboard for my travel mug, my hand bypassed my old travel mug, and reached for my brand new travel mug instead. I'm still not sure why, but I did. Perhaps it was the idea of wandering around campus carrying a mug with a statement about violence against women that did it. Or maybe the bright shiny color drew my eyes. I don't know. But the bad part was that I liked the mug. Liked it as in I used it again this morning.
So now my good old travel mug sits all alone by itself in our cupboard, ousted by its politically correct younger cousin. Perhaps it's time for it to retire, but we've been through so much together, it just doesn't seem right. Does anyone know of a good retirement home for old, used travel mugs?
What makes the travel mug even more American, in my opinion, is the fact that of all the countries I have lived in, worked in, or traveled to, the US is the only one that has a mug solely for the purpose of carrying hot, caffeinated drinks to be consumed during one's drive. Sure, if you're Dutch, you might argue that the thermos serves the same purpose. In fact, you might love your thermos as much as I love my travel mug. However, while you have a slight point there, the thermos is completely unsuitable for car use. As anyone who has ever tried to pour a drink in a driving vehicle knows, it's nearly impossible to do so without serious spillage, even if you're just the passenger. Imagine the mess that would ensue if you were actually trying to drive and pour some of that hot cocoa from your thermos into the nice, round lid you have perched between your knees.
But in spite of the serious drawbacks of the thermos, Europeans have never really taken to the travel mug. That sturdy, tall cup with a lid that opens and closes and a nifty handle or conveniently ergonomically shaped body. I wondered why this was, for a while, as Dutch people drink as much coffee as their American counterparts, and should therefore, technically, vow by their travel mug.
After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that it all has to do with the length of the average European drive (or lack thereof), the fact that everyone there wants to be a race car driver, and thus drives stick, and the odd truth that all your fellow commuters' sole purpose in life appears to be to try and put a dent in your hood or fender. I think we can all agree that none of these are conducive to driving while handling a travel mug, no matter how convenient the non-slip surface is.
When I first started commuting in the US, I realized, however, that there was no stick, no crazy cyclists on a suicide mission, and no nine-lane roundabouts, and subsequently, no need to gulp my hot tea down before I left home. The ease of getting to work and school meant I could easily consume my morning caffeine while getting there. So I purchased my very first travel mug. Do you remember buying your first travel mug? Because I do. It was a momentous occasion. Walking down the street with my brand new travel mug, I truly felt like a real American. Because, as we all know, no American goes without their travel mug.
I remember it as though it was only yesterday. It was a decade ago, and I was at an Einstein Bagels, ordering my morning tea. I spotted a tan mug with a handle and a nifty slide that allowed you to open the lid with the same hand that was holding the mug. It looked extremely convenient. But what really sold me on it was the text on the mug: "No coffee, no peace. Know coffee, know peace." I was sold. And so was the mug.
Eleven years later, you can barely read the words on the mug, and the color on the mug has faded too. Apparently, one of my lip glosses is seriously toxic, as the lid has some red stains on it (even after approximately hundred washes), and the mug isn't entirely spill proof either, as evidenced by the occasional tea stain on my work shirts. Over the past few months, I've had to come to the realization that, yes, it is indeed time for a new travel mug.
But here's the thing. I love my travel mug. That travel mug has been there for me through thick and thin, PhD defenses, new jobs, traffic and cop-shooting-deer, rain, sleet, and hail. I've tried other mugs, ones with no handle, ones with a top you pop open, ones with logos you can actually read, but none of them work as well as my ancient travel mug. There is just something incredibly convenient about having a handle that allows you to use your thumb to open the top, something that no contemporary travel mug has. So for the longest time, I was able to ward off husband-dear's warnings about germs, diseases, and general malaise with the argument that no other mug would work as well.
Until this weekend. This weekend, our chaplain gave me a new shiny travel mug. It's blue, doesn't have a handle, but it does have a readable logo (although "AF SARC "Sexual assault is never OK" is obviously not half as cool as the now invisible "know coffee, know peace"), and a nice rubber pad on the bottom. Faithful as I am to my old travel mug, I told husband-dear that there was no way I was going to like that mug, so I wasn't going to use it. But then, on Monday morning, something strange happened. When I reached into the cupboard for my travel mug, my hand bypassed my old travel mug, and reached for my brand new travel mug instead. I'm still not sure why, but I did. Perhaps it was the idea of wandering around campus carrying a mug with a statement about violence against women that did it. Or maybe the bright shiny color drew my eyes. I don't know. But the bad part was that I liked the mug. Liked it as in I used it again this morning.
So now my good old travel mug sits all alone by itself in our cupboard, ousted by its politically correct younger cousin. Perhaps it's time for it to retire, but we've been through so much together, it just doesn't seem right. Does anyone know of a good retirement home for old, used travel mugs?
Friday, September 16, 2011
Saying goodbye..
...why is it sad?
Makes us remember the good times we had..
Saying Goodbye ~ The Muppets
Does this look familiar to anyone? Well, it should, as I just now realized that back in 2010 I wrote a blog that started with the exact same title and lyrics. And interestingly, that blog pretty much covers the lament that was going to make up the beginning of this blog. You know, all about how although moving itself gets easier, saying goodbye to dear friends doesn't. But now that I've already written that down once, I guess I'm free to move on to the meat and potatoes (or pasta and salad if you prefer).
After saying goodbye to Mary in June, to Jess only on Wednesday, and knowing that I'll have to say goodbye to Shelly in about five weeks, I sat down and tried to figure out why saying goodbye gets harder when you get older. And, I'm sure you'll be delighted to know, I think I got it. At least for now.
You see, as you get older, your life story lengthens and becomes more complicated. Stuff happens, and adds to who you are, and your outlook on life. But even though it plays an integral role in shaping who you are, it's simply too much and too long to have to share over and over again with people you just met. Yet without sharing the story of your life, these people will never know you as well as people who do know every little chapter. And that's what makes this whole, "Hey honey, guess what!? We're moving to Langley/Italy/Idaho" a lot harder with every move.
Normal people (and I'm not implying that military wives, or people who move a lot are somehow abnormal (although I could make a case if you want me to), but let's assume that "normal people" refers to people who don't pick up sticks and move ever few years), well, they have people in their lives who have been there through at least some of the significant chapters in their lives. People who know why you hate going to baby showers for instance, or can't stand hearing a certain song on the radio. People who understand your in-jokes, and know you don't like chocolate ice cream. When you move a lot, it's really difficult to find people like that, and let me tell you (in case my griping hasn't clarified this by now), that gets old, really fast.
With Shelly's departure, for instance, I will no longer have any friends who were there when I went through the "no-babies-for-us" drama. Kay and Shelly were front and center went all that went down over two years ago. Although I can honestly say that I'm pretty much over it (for now - you know, let's not count our chickens before they've hatched and all that, and wow, could I have picked a worse metaphor here?), it is an important part of who I am, and yet none of newer friends can really know how it shaped me, just because they weren't there. And that's just weird, for lack of a better word.
But this is where I'm completely inconsistent. Reading all of this, you would think that I want nothing more but live somewhere for a really long time. In reality, however, the answer to that option is a loud and heartfelt oh-dear-mother-of-mary-NO. As far as I'm concerned, actually, we've been here long enough already. And this isn't just because of the location, but really because I can't stand the thought of living anywhere for more than a few years. Naturally, I blame my parents for this, who had me moving around every few years starting at a very young ways. When I got older, I just couldn't stop.
However, I'm sure you see my dilemma. I hate saying goodbye to friends, yet I hate living in the same place for an extended period of time. In scientific terms, this is called cognitive dissonance, and according to a variety of very learned scholars, I should not be able to live with this dissonance. If tens of studies are to be believed, I will, upon discovering the dissonance, change the belief that I like to move, or change my attitude towards saying goodbye. I'm not sure what the consequences will be if I don't, but the fact of the matter is that I've living with this dissonance in a semi-content state for several years now. This cannot be a good thing for my overall health.
Or I could just go for a nice long run and pretend none of this is real, and Shelly's orders will be canceled. Sounds like a great plan to me...
Makes us remember the good times we had..
Saying Goodbye ~ The Muppets
Does this look familiar to anyone? Well, it should, as I just now realized that back in 2010 I wrote a blog that started with the exact same title and lyrics. And interestingly, that blog pretty much covers the lament that was going to make up the beginning of this blog. You know, all about how although moving itself gets easier, saying goodbye to dear friends doesn't. But now that I've already written that down once, I guess I'm free to move on to the meat and potatoes (or pasta and salad if you prefer).
After saying goodbye to Mary in June, to Jess only on Wednesday, and knowing that I'll have to say goodbye to Shelly in about five weeks, I sat down and tried to figure out why saying goodbye gets harder when you get older. And, I'm sure you'll be delighted to know, I think I got it. At least for now.
You see, as you get older, your life story lengthens and becomes more complicated. Stuff happens, and adds to who you are, and your outlook on life. But even though it plays an integral role in shaping who you are, it's simply too much and too long to have to share over and over again with people you just met. Yet without sharing the story of your life, these people will never know you as well as people who do know every little chapter. And that's what makes this whole, "Hey honey, guess what!? We're moving to Langley/Italy/Idaho" a lot harder with every move.
Normal people (and I'm not implying that military wives, or people who move a lot are somehow abnormal (although I could make a case if you want me to), but let's assume that "normal people" refers to people who don't pick up sticks and move ever few years), well, they have people in their lives who have been there through at least some of the significant chapters in their lives. People who know why you hate going to baby showers for instance, or can't stand hearing a certain song on the radio. People who understand your in-jokes, and know you don't like chocolate ice cream. When you move a lot, it's really difficult to find people like that, and let me tell you (in case my griping hasn't clarified this by now), that gets old, really fast.
With Shelly's departure, for instance, I will no longer have any friends who were there when I went through the "no-babies-for-us" drama. Kay and Shelly were front and center went all that went down over two years ago. Although I can honestly say that I'm pretty much over it (for now - you know, let's not count our chickens before they've hatched and all that, and wow, could I have picked a worse metaphor here?), it is an important part of who I am, and yet none of newer friends can really know how it shaped me, just because they weren't there. And that's just weird, for lack of a better word.
But this is where I'm completely inconsistent. Reading all of this, you would think that I want nothing more but live somewhere for a really long time. In reality, however, the answer to that option is a loud and heartfelt oh-dear-mother-of-mary-NO. As far as I'm concerned, actually, we've been here long enough already. And this isn't just because of the location, but really because I can't stand the thought of living anywhere for more than a few years. Naturally, I blame my parents for this, who had me moving around every few years starting at a very young ways. When I got older, I just couldn't stop.
However, I'm sure you see my dilemma. I hate saying goodbye to friends, yet I hate living in the same place for an extended period of time. In scientific terms, this is called cognitive dissonance, and according to a variety of very learned scholars, I should not be able to live with this dissonance. If tens of studies are to be believed, I will, upon discovering the dissonance, change the belief that I like to move, or change my attitude towards saying goodbye. I'm not sure what the consequences will be if I don't, but the fact of the matter is that I've living with this dissonance in a semi-content state for several years now. This cannot be a good thing for my overall health.
Or I could just go for a nice long run and pretend none of this is real, and Shelly's orders will be canceled. Sounds like a great plan to me...
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Roaches and the end of time
"You really need to write about roaches today" is what a little voice inside my head told me this morning. Since after what happened this morning, I wouldn't be surprised if the Last Days of the earth commenced tomorrow, I figured it might be a good idea to pay heed to that little voice.
You may remember that the last time I had a memorable encounter with a cockroach, I didn't scream or yell, but called the doggies to come take it outside. Although this was a vast improvement on my first encounter here in Georgia, where I, after seeing a gigantic cockroach in our truck, rode home with my feet on the dashboard, it definitely wasn't the laid back, carefree, whatever-it's-just-a-bug-did-you-pick-up-the-mail-today approach my husband, and all southerners with him, takes.
I mean, I was still living in a very much non-southern world, where cockroaches, although possibly inevitable, do not belong inside the house, and are to be eradicated upon sight.
Well, apparently, that too has changed. Next to my growing southern social skills, I can now apparently also claim a southern approach to bugs.
This morning, you see, I saw a cockroach and shrugged. Actually, I did more than that. I told it to get out of my way so I wouldn't accidentally step on it.
I TALKED to a cockroach y'all...that has got to be the sign of the end of time. Or the sign of something at any rate.
Here's what happened. As I'm sure you're delighted to hear, our night time temperatures have been dipping into the mid-60s, while our daytime temperatures have moved comfortably into the low 90s. For all you who feel like you've seen nothing but rain for the past three months: I'm sorry. Anyway, I digress. So although these temperatures mean that humans are very happy, the roaches living in our neighborhood aren't, as heir nights have suddenly gotten incredibly cold. And apparently cockroaches don't like cold. I'm not sure what they do once winter (i.e., temperatures in the low 50s to mid 40s ) really kicks in, whether they migrate, hibernate, or just die, but I do know that in the fall, when nights get colder, cockroaches would like nothing better than to move into your home, with you, thankyouverymuch.
So this morning, as I turned on the light in the garage to start loading up my car, one giant cockroach scurried out from under my bike, toward the door into the house. Even though the cockroach was probably the size of a small hamster, I said absolutely nothing, but merely looked at it, and shrugged. Then when I came out of the house again, the cockroach ran out from behind a set of shelves, right in front of me. After stepping out of its erratic path, I didn't just open my mouth, but I actually put on the voice I reserve for puppies and little kids, and said, "You be careful now Mr. Roach, or I will step on you!"
Yes I did.
And, yes, it gets worse.
When I came out of the house for the last time (I have a lot of stuff I drag back and forth with me, seriously), I saw two cockroaches run across the length of the garage, and disappear underneath the riding lawn mower.
And did I scream? Pull out the Raid? Bring the dogs out to eat them?
No.
I put on my puppy-and-babies-voice and said, "Oh, you've got a friend!"
A friend? Really?!
I have really no explanation for my thinking that things as absolutely revolting as cockroaches have friends, other than the end of time is near. There will be beasts, and angels, and endless floods and earthquakes (oh wait..), and people talking to cockroaches. I'm just saying. And don't say I didn't warn you!
You may remember that the last time I had a memorable encounter with a cockroach, I didn't scream or yell, but called the doggies to come take it outside. Although this was a vast improvement on my first encounter here in Georgia, where I, after seeing a gigantic cockroach in our truck, rode home with my feet on the dashboard, it definitely wasn't the laid back, carefree, whatever-it's-just-a-bug-did-you-pick-up-the-mail-today approach my husband, and all southerners with him, takes.
I mean, I was still living in a very much non-southern world, where cockroaches, although possibly inevitable, do not belong inside the house, and are to be eradicated upon sight.
Well, apparently, that too has changed. Next to my growing southern social skills, I can now apparently also claim a southern approach to bugs.
This morning, you see, I saw a cockroach and shrugged. Actually, I did more than that. I told it to get out of my way so I wouldn't accidentally step on it.
I TALKED to a cockroach y'all...that has got to be the sign of the end of time. Or the sign of something at any rate.
Here's what happened. As I'm sure you're delighted to hear, our night time temperatures have been dipping into the mid-60s, while our daytime temperatures have moved comfortably into the low 90s. For all you who feel like you've seen nothing but rain for the past three months: I'm sorry. Anyway, I digress. So although these temperatures mean that humans are very happy, the roaches living in our neighborhood aren't, as heir nights have suddenly gotten incredibly cold. And apparently cockroaches don't like cold. I'm not sure what they do once winter (i.e., temperatures in the low 50s to mid 40s ) really kicks in, whether they migrate, hibernate, or just die, but I do know that in the fall, when nights get colder, cockroaches would like nothing better than to move into your home, with you, thankyouverymuch.
So this morning, as I turned on the light in the garage to start loading up my car, one giant cockroach scurried out from under my bike, toward the door into the house. Even though the cockroach was probably the size of a small hamster, I said absolutely nothing, but merely looked at it, and shrugged. Then when I came out of the house again, the cockroach ran out from behind a set of shelves, right in front of me. After stepping out of its erratic path, I didn't just open my mouth, but I actually put on the voice I reserve for puppies and little kids, and said, "You be careful now Mr. Roach, or I will step on you!"
Yes I did.
And, yes, it gets worse.
When I came out of the house for the last time (I have a lot of stuff I drag back and forth with me, seriously), I saw two cockroaches run across the length of the garage, and disappear underneath the riding lawn mower.
And did I scream? Pull out the Raid? Bring the dogs out to eat them?
No.
I put on my puppy-and-babies-voice and said, "Oh, you've got a friend!"
A friend? Really?!
I have really no explanation for my thinking that things as absolutely revolting as cockroaches have friends, other than the end of time is near. There will be beasts, and angels, and endless floods and earthquakes (oh wait..), and people talking to cockroaches. I'm just saying. And don't say I didn't warn you!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Guest post: The ugly cry
Today I'm over at Jessica Lynn Writes with a guest post on moving and "The ugly cry".
Being the little hermit blogger that I am, the recluse who seems to write more for herself than her (ten? fifteen?) faithful followers, I was both honored and stoked to get asked to write this guest post (Think Sally Field's, "You like me! You really, really like me!"Oscar moment). So if you've ever moved (even if it was only once), go and check out the post. You will relate. I promise.
Being the little hermit blogger that I am, the recluse who seems to write more for herself than her (ten? fifteen?) faithful followers, I was both honored and stoked to get asked to write this guest post (Think Sally Field's, "You like me! You really, really like me!"Oscar moment). So if you've ever moved (even if it was only once), go and check out the post. You will relate. I promise.
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