Pajama day

If there is one thing American Christmas movies lie about, it's about Christmas Day itself. Most movies get the lead-up into Christmas right; lots of shopping, decorations and Christmas music abound, there are lots of Christmas parties to attend, and neighbors and friends exchange presents and baked goods. Most movies even manage to capture Christmas Eve quite accurately: when visiting family, this is usually when most people arrive, a lot of Americans do go to a candlelight service, and most families set out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa before going to bed. But then there's Christmas Day. For those of you not intimately familiar with a typical American Christmas Day, allow me to enlighten you.

First, Christmas in America tends to start a few hours before the crack of dawn.Honestly, I'm not sure which American came up with the idea of opening presents in the morning, as opposed to a more relaxed start time of sometime after dinner, but whoever this unfortunate soul is, they should obviously have their head checked. Even when you have children whom you would think are way too old to get up early for Christmas, they will surprise you. This year, I jokingly told Jimmie he could not wake us up before six am, but could not believe my eyes when the now positively bear-sized teenager came bounding into our room at 6:08am, hollering it was Christmas morning, time to open the presents, and we'd better not complain as he had waited until after six.
So all those movies you've seen where entire families are gathered the Christmas tree with light coming int through the windows, looking refreshed and awake? Yep, it's a lie. Most American Christmases start off with various older family members stumbling from their beds, pulling on robes or hoodies, trying to shield their eyes from the bright lights on the Christmas tree, and telling their children that, no, we definitely may not start opening anything until the grown-ups have had coffee, and yes, really.

Second, most Christmas movies I'm familiar with tend to skip straight from the opening of presents to the preparation of Christmas dinner. I'm guessing this is because the filmmakers don't want all y'all Europeans to know about the best part of the day. Or perhaps because they're slightly embarrassed by what Americans do during most of that holiest of holy days, namely, lounge around. In their pajams. Unlike European Christmasses, where people will, after a fancy candlelight-filled breakfast, run upstairs to take a shower and put on their Christmas best, and then sit around in that same Christmas best all day, most Americans (myself included) love nothing better than to play with their new toys, watch a host of Christmas movies, possibly take a nap or two, all whilst still in their pajamas. And you know what's even worse? A lot of Americans (again, myself included) buy or receive special Christmas pajamas. I kid you not.
Now, don't worry, as someone who used to be an outsider, I know this is quite a tough pill to swallow. No shiny patent leather shoes, no pretty skirts or ties, no cute dresses, just fleece pants and a sweatshirt. At first it seems nothing like Christmas, but let me tell you, it. Is. Awesome.

And finally, although most movies love to show you how all Americans get dressed up for their big Christmas dinner, which is usually attended by lots of well-dressed extended family members, this, once again, isn't entirely true either. You see, most Americans live way too far away from their family to just show up for dinner. If you visit family for Christmas, you've probably been there for Christmas morning as well, so the chances of you dressing up are, I would guess, 50/50. Take our family, for instance. Last year, when we visited my in-laws, we dressed up for dinner. This year, on the other hand, I believe only husband-dear and mother-in-law bothered to change out of their jammies. Once again: Awesome.
Oh, and on a side-note, do you remember how all those dinners are always held while it's dark outside? Yeah, not true either. For a reason that must only be revealed to Americans born in this country (as I'm still clueless), most Americans eat their Christmas dinner in the afternoon. Yes, the afternoon. No, I don't know why. Yes, it's very strange to call it dinner if it's held at around 2pm. Yes, it really messes up your eating pattern for the rest of the day. No, you don't ever get used to it. But yes, you can still use candles and render the whole occasion "gezellig".

So, there you have it, the three lies about Christmas Day Hollywood loves to share over and over again.
You're welcome!

Merry, merry, merry Christmas

"And so this is Christmas"
John Lennon & Yoko Ono

So, the day we've (or at least every single retailer in the western world) has been looking forward to since mid-October is finally upon us.
Christmas is here!
I have to admit that Christmas is possibly my most favorite holiday of the year. Yes, that makes me a dork, and yes, I'm totally OK with that. I'm the person who will play Christmas music in her car, turn the lights on anytime she's home, and insist certain traditions are kept in place, no matter how old I am, where we live, or what we're doing. I figure that my cynical attitude throughout the year allows me this level of geekiness where Christmas is concerned. Now I'm not sure I can say what it is about Christmas that I like so much, but I would guess it has something to do with all the lights everywhere, the music, the joy of giving, hanging out with family, and the endless baking of goodies.

Now I realize that not everyone might be as in love with Christmas as I am. Some of you may actually celebrate other holidays around this time, some may not think of Christmas as anything more than a great opportunity to buy more stuff and eat lots of food, and some might just despise anything related to the holidays in general (and I know at least one of my readers is nodding in wild agreement right now), in spite of all those things, I hope that you will take this day (or this very moment, or just a quick second, really, anything you can spare), to be happy. Just happy. Forget about that horrible Christmas sweater you just pulled out of its wrapping, forget about the fact that you may have a huge Christmas dinner to cook, forget about the fact that you just heard Mariah Carey's "All I want for Christmas" for the fifth time in an hour, forget that you have a family to pacify, and that you might have a few kids bouncing around, in the midst of the biggest sugar-high of the year. Forget about all of it. And just enjoy the moment. For today there are no deadlines, no bosses, no errands, no meetings, it's just and those you (hopefully) love and hold dear. And that doesn't happen very often. Enjoy it while you can.

So may your tree well-decorated, your stockings well-stuffed, your presents fill all your heart's desire (or at least some of it), your Christmas movies sappy and happy, your dinner scrumptious, your post-dinner nap refreshing, and your family well-behaved.
 
Merry Christmas, everyone!

Bankhangtijd-maximalisatie

Ik dacht altijd dat ik best wel goed in plannen was. Op mijn werk organiseer ik vergaderingen, colleges, papers nakijken, spreekuren altijd prima tot een goed-lopende dag, en komt het maar weinig voor dat ik niet langer werk dan gepland was. Dat de geplande werkdag soms 10 uur duurt, dat is dan misschien wel jammer, maar in negen van de tien keer dus wel volgens de planning.

Maar sinds ik kerstvakantie heb, en nu full-time als "homemaker" aan de slag ben, ben ik toch gaan twijfelen aan mijn eigen organisatiekunde. En dan vooral omtrent het inplannen van de beroemde "errands", d.w.z., de tripjes naar allerlei winkels en afspraken. Want mensenkinderen, wat kunnen die errands lang duren zeg. Jeetje mina. Neem afgelopen dinsdag bijvoorbeeld. De identiteitskaart van de kinderen zou verlopen, dus ik moest met manlief afspreken op de basis. Daarna zou ik wat spullen afgeven bij Goodwill, en de kinderen naar de kapper nemen. Ieder normaal denkend mens, zo lijkt mij, gaat er vanuit dat je als je om acht uur 's ochtends met manlief afspreekt, je ruim voor de koffie weer thuis bent. Nou niet dus. Half een dames en heren. Vier-en-een-half uur later.

En zo gaat het dus al de hele week. Je gaat "even" wat pumpkin breads bakken, en voor je het weet moet je ook nog naar de supermarkt, want je bent iets vergeten, belt manlief dat-ie later thuis komt, en of jij wilt koken, bedenk je dat helemaal geen ondergoed meer hebt, en dus echt -moet- wassen, en besef je, wanneer je door de strepen op de spiegel je eigen reflectie niet meer goed ziet, het ook nog eens echt tijd is om de badkamer te soppen.

Mijn "bankhang" tijd is dus ernstig ingekort de laatste dagen, en u begrijpt, daar word ik niet blij van. Want mijn bankhang tijd is heilig. Heilig.

Dus toen ik gisteren, tijdens weer een errand (gek! word ik er van), in een schroef reed, en manlief na een kleine inspectie vaststelde dat de band echt een lek had, maakte ik een plan. Een plan ter maximalisatie van mijn bankhangtijd vandaag. Ik ben vanochtend om zes uur opgestaan, stond om zeven uur bij de bandenspecialist, lag om acht uur in het zwembad, en stond om negen uur in de winkel. Het is nu tien uur, en ik zit op de bank. En daar blijf ik minstens tot de lunch zitten. Naar kerstverlichting staren.
Zo dan.

Pumpkin pie...bread..no, pie...bread?

So today I ventured outside of the cocoon that is my festively decorated home for something other than an errand for the first time since commencement and spent the day with my friend Jill (she of last year's videotaped scavenger hunt). Because I'm sure that any day now we're going to uncover that we really are related, she thought it would be a great idea to hang out, talk, and bake up a storm for all of our neighbors. I mean, God forbid we just hang out and eat cookies. We. Will. Be. Productive!

Our baked goods of choice this year were several pumpkin breads. Last year, while I was putting together a far too complicated "upside down snack cake bread" (the ingredients provided to me in a cute jar by a friend painfully unaware of my lack of culinary skills), and loaves and loaves of banana bread for my neighbors, Jill turned out the most delicious pumpkin bread I have ever tasted. So this year, I decided that the best way to make up for our loud dogs who occasionally have escaped into the neighbors' yards, was by giving them each a bunch of pumpkin bread. What's not to love about pumpkin bread?

Now I will gladly admit to you that cooking is not my forte. Cooking is one thing not tied to my fragile ego. I instead pride myself on my analytical skills, my memory, and other cognitive features. So you would think that buying the ingredients would be easy as pie for me (the pun is coming..). And I thought it was, until I put all the cans of pumpkin on Jill's counter, and realized I had not read two of three cans correctly and purchased "pumpkin pie mix" instead of regular canned pumpkin (and there's the pun..yes, intended). For someone who (to quote "Pretty Woman") "went all the way" in the college, you would think that reading would not be a problem. Right.

But, Jill came to the rescue. She had me read out the ingredients on the pie mix (pumpkin, sugar, water, spices), and then said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world, "OK, so we'll just not add any sugar to that batch, and add only a little water, and it will be fine."

And I'm not sure how it happened, which probably underlines my complete lack of culinary gifts, but the pie/bread actually tastes just fine. The consistency is a little off, but it tastes just like pumpkin bread. And if it looks like a duck, and tastes like a duck..? Right.

Having said that, I of course can't let my neighbors think I can't complete a task as basic as purchasing the correct ingredients, as thanks to Paula Deen baking has become -the- thing southern women use to prove their women-worthiness, so I will be giving them the real pumpkin bread. If I can figure out which one it is.

Will the real pumpkin bread please stand up?

Bah humbug

"DC is my wife.
and I love her...
and will for all my life"
Husband-dear's spontaneous warbling in the kitchen

So I know I've been a total slacker when it comes to blogging this week.
I have.
And every time I get in my car to gallivant around town, I realize how badly I need to write a blog about people's inability to use turn signals and turn lanes. But then I come home, turn on our Christmas lights, whip a batch of cookies, clean something, make myself some tea, and realize I really don't want to whine about what horrible drivers Georgians are. I would much rather sit on my couch, look at the lights on the mantle and on the tree, pet the dogs, and listen to husband-dear making up songs in the kitchen. Or decide we have way too much peanut butter, and venture into the previously unexplored world of online recipes and whip up a batch of peanut brittle (brittle = cookies left in the oven too long). Or reconfigure our picture wall. Or write Christmas cards. Or call friends.

So, from the bottom of my heart, I'm sorry. I know you all love to read about my bah-humbug attitude towards life, but right now, there's just very little humbug and lots of jolly old cheer.

Now please excuse me while I have my first glass of eggnog of the season. I promise that there will be more of the usual after the weekend. I think. Although if I hear that Beach Boys song with the lyrics "Christmas comes this time each year" one more time, you may get your usual vinegar-filled blogging a bit sooner.

The non-issue of non-race

"It's sad but true, everyone's a little bit racist - alright? Alright!"
Gary Coleman ~ Avenue Q

For the past few years, Steve and I have been working on and off on a fascinating research project involving focus groups, content analysis, and all sorts of all other techniques that make my little researcher's heart beat faster. Even after Steve left to become Dr. Steve, he and I kept on working on the project, and have since produced two conference papers (one of which I presented on at the last conference in New Orleans), and a manuscript we've submitted for publication (the one that got the r & r). The entire research and writing process has been fun, educational, and all that good Lifetime special stuff. However, ever since we've been publicizing our work outside of the south, we've gotten some, well, strange feedback.

In order to understand what I'm about to start harping on (and harp is what I will do), you should know that our study was carried out at my university. Which happens to be an HBCU. Subsequently, all of our respondents were African American. For the record, no other study in this specific field has ever included an all-Black sample. In fact, the vast majority of similar studies sampled scores and scores of white midwestern kids, and happily generalized their findings to "youth in general".

So what kind of feedback have we been getting? Well, several people have commented on how awesome it is to finally see a study that focuses on African American media users, and left it at that. Fine. They're happy, we're happy, everybody happy. But then we started to get written feedback from reviewers. And it did little to make me happy. In fact, every time I think about it, I want to bang my head against a wall and see if it's too early for a drink.

The feedback we've received can generally be grouped into three categories:

1. "What's really interesting about your study is that it focuses on African Americans."
2. "I'm concerned about the external validity of your study. With your sample make up, you really cannot make statements about "youth in general""
3. "Since your sample is made up of all African Americans, you should try to make statements comparing them to white users"

Let's start with the first category. Although it seems like a lovely compliment, it's really not, as it suggests that our -one- redeeming factor is that we focus on African American students. Not the fact that we started dissecting an important concept, or uncovered various interesting discrepancies. Instead of looking at our theoretical contributions, our one redeeming feature is that we focused on students at an HBCU, who all happen to be Black. It's as though the reviewers are telling us how "speshul" we are by virtue of the skin color of our respondents, not by our detailed analysis or interesting findings. There's little warm and fuzzy about that.

And regarding the second category, where do I start? I won't brandish the "r" word around, but really, people, really? Our study has little external validity because we use only Black respondents? (just for the record - we don't generalize our findings, so they can't accuse of that, thankfully, I suppose) But let's consider the fact that numerous similar studies, which all rely on WASP Midwestern students for their results, happily generalize all over the map, while when we, with our definitely non-white sample, dare to make minor, tentative statements about a "possible clue" to overall behavior, our external validity is at risk? Since when do white youngsters in the midwest represent all American youth? And since when do the responses provided Black participants in the south reveal nothing about that same youth? if our 18-24 year old respondents are not part of this "general youth", what are they? Geriatrics? Children? Aliens?
Oh wait, I'm sorry, I forgot! *facepalm*.  White culture and white younsters are culture and youth. And when you utilize only white respondents, race is a non-issue. But if you use anything else, it's "ethnic" and marginal. Obviously, that's it. I am so sorry.

Oh, yeah, and there was a third category too. Well, all I can say to that is, uhm, remember research methods 101? You can't make statements about a specific group unless you compare them to another group. And guess what, that is something we did not do in our study. So yeah, nice try, but once again, just because our study featured an African American sample does not mean that that should be the focal point of our findings.

I'm sorry this blog isn't funnier, or happier, or includes more references to rainbows, unicorns, and mermaids, but this kind of stuff really does make me wonder about the world as a whole. Because if academics, who are supposed to be tolerant, hippy-dippy, all-embracing, and as far away from prejudice as possible, are unable to realize what they're actually saying, what does that bode for the rest of mankind?

No no drama, no no no drama

I hinted at the relative lack of stress earlier in the week, and now that finals week is coming to a close, I have to come to the conclusion that, for the first time in over four years, there has been no student-drama. None. At all.

Although I would love to tell you that it's because this year's graduating seniors are all mature, poised, and collected young adults who understand the notion of action --> consequence, I'm afraid that's not it. I think this sudden drop in drama is related to the most brilliant scheduling change ever implemented by the registrar. And I mean "brilliant" in the most literal way possible.

While in previous years, grades for graduating seniors were due a week before everyone else's (so the registrar's office could determine whether a graduate could actually graduate, or would be gracing the campus with his or her presence for another semester or two), this year, the registrar's office decided that that was far too stressful for everyone else. So instead, senior grades are due with everyone else's, and although all graduating seniors are allowed to "walk" (i.e., participate in graduation), not all of them will receive their diploma in the mail the following week.

At first I didn't think much of this decision. Why not let graduating seniors know how they did on their last classes before commencement? It didn't seem fair to let them walk, but then leave them in the dark about whether or not that walk was "it", or not.

But then I regained my common sense, and came to several important realizations: 1) no need to administer senior finals a week early, which means that a) there is no need to develop finals early, b) no need to grade them while I'm in the middle of grading a million papers, and c) no need to design my final grading sheet while grading those same million papers. The second realization (yes I realize I owe you guys a 2), but that would have created the longest run-on in the world, which is just wrong), anyway, the second realization was that seniors would now no longer realize they were not graduating until -after- commencement and I had long gone home for the break. And this meant they wouldn't have a chance to have a full-on break down in my office. Well, technically, I suppose they still can, but I won't be there. Sure, they can send me nasty emails, leave me endless voicemails, but those have got nothing on a full-on, histrionics-filled implosion, complete with veiled threats, pleas to my humanity, and references to old semi-invalid grandparents who had just sold their last family heirloom to buy a plane ticket to see their only grandchild graduate.

So, and I never though I would say this, thank you Mrs. Registrar. This was a true stroke of brilliance (which probably means it will be revoked next semester, however, let's rejoice while we can).

Now, let the commencement commence!