Bike versus car: Reality check

Just a few moments ago, I decided to look over my bike and bike shoes for the first time after Sunday's accident. Since the only part of the car to actually hit me was the mirror, I wasn't expecting to find a whole lot. I mean, yes, I had tumbled off my bike afterwards, but a mere fall doesn't do a whole lot to your bike. Trust me, I have ample experience.

So I walked into the garage, looked at my bike, and the first thing I noticed was that the left handlebar was bent. Although I remember the nose of the car streaking right by me, I didn't remember it hitting my bike at all. Could it have really been that close? Really? Husband-dear appears in the garage, and I show him the bike too. He frowns, straightens it out (long live carbon fiber!), and the offers up that it could have happened when the police officer put the bike in his trunk to drop off at our house. Good point. We both like that.
Then I notice that the plastic little cover on top of the right gear shifter is cracked. OK, well, that can be explained by my falling into the grass. And although it can't be fixed, I will do just fine with a little crack to remind me of my guardian angel.
Just as I'm about to congratulate myself on the fact that it all really wasn't so bad, I pick up my bike shoes. And notice that the clip on the left shoe is completely bent forward. Bent at an angle that is obviously not the result of me falling into the grass. An angle that could have only been caused by something hitting it from behind. Something solid, like, oh, I don't know the nose of a car. The nose of the car that apparently hit the clip on my shoe a mere quarter of an inch away from my leg, but not my leg.

For the first time since Sunday my cavalier, "It wasn't a big deal at all, really, I will be fine, so what's the fuss." attitude has cracked just a little. A bent handlebar, fine. A cracked shifter cover, cool. But the car hit the clip on my shoe, not the shoe itself, not my foot, or my leg, and all I have is some mirror-shaped bruises?
Yeah.
Nothing better happen to me in the next ten years, because I obviously just used up all of my luck.

Bike versus car: No class today

There's a statement in my syllabus which goes something like this: "In the event of a class cancellation, an email will be sent out to the address you have on file in bannerweb. Make sure you check that email address regularly". Whenever we walk through the syllabus, on the first day of class, I always add, "But I don't think I've ever had to cancel class before, so don't worry about that," and all my students laugh half-heartedly, while I can read in their eyes that they wish the impossible-tough-as-nails Dr. D would cancel class. Just once. During major events such as homecoming, a general election, or major storms, some of them will even hopefully offer up the possibility of cancelling class, but it just never happens. Rain, high water, free food at the Student Union, landslide victories, and tornado watches, nothing has ever stopped my classes from happening.

If anything has ever proven that we all need to eat our words at times, that right there does, as today is the second day this week I've been unable to get up off the couch, and I do mean literally unable to get up off the couch. And it's not even my fault. Well, by earthly standards anyway.

This past Sunday, I went out for a short bike ride. I didn't want to go on the ride, but as I always do, I went anyway, because lately, if I go with my gut and only do what I want to do, I'd be doing very little indeed. As you might have surmised from my past few blogs, I have not been in the most loving, tolerant, go-with-the-flow kind of moods, which has extended from my work to pretty much everything else in my life. In fact, whenever I've been going on runs, swims, or bike rides, I have used that time to complain, either in my head, or out loud to God. I mean, what has He been thinking these past few months. Why has everything been so hard? Why can't I get a break? And, most importantly, why won't He answer me?

Well, the second lesson of this blog is that you gotta be careful what you wish for, because this past Sunday God not so much spoke to me as He gave me a big old smack on the ass. Literally. Only He used a car to do so. A white Honda, if I remember correctly.

While I was cycling down a parkway near our house, a beautiful straight four-lane highway with wide shoulders and kvetching about the crazy wind, my tired legs (unacceptable! I'd only ran nine miles the day before! C'mon!), the fact that it was Sunday which meant tomorrow was Monday, and goodness knows whatever else, life suddenly slowed down. At first there was the nose of a car that edged up to within an inch of leg. Then there was a deafening crack, and after a moment of utter silence an intense pain in my side told me that crack had been something hitting my body. I remember managing to unclip my feet from my paddles, and tumbling into the grass, where I lay wondering who was screaming. That would have been me. I looked over, and saw a white car screeching to a stop. A woman came running up to me, in tears, her cell phone in her hand, "I'm calling 911, are you OK? I'm a nurse, are you OK?"

For one second, I stopped. Was I OK? Well, obviously, I wasn't dying, I was breathing, my limbs appeared to all be working, and aside from the stinging pain in my side, I was OK. My mind, the same one that talked me into running a half marathon with two injured knees, the one that keeps me going after an eighty hour work week and twenty hours of sleep, started to pipe up, and tell me I could just get up and get home. I mean, yeah, you just got hit by a car, but you're not bleeding, you're not dying, so seriously, man up, and get your ass up off the grass.

You will all be delighted to know that for the first time in a very, very long time, I told my mind to can it. My hip was killing me, I'd been hit by a car going 55 mph, I could tell my bike was bent up, and I was not OK. I was not going to pretend to be superwoman here, lying on the side of the road.

So I told the lady my hip was hurting really badly, and it needed to be checked out. The lady relayed this information to the 911 operator, and as my breathing finally settled down, she started to get more and more upset, "I didn't see you! I was talking to the kids in the car, and I didn't see you. But look at you, how could I have not seen you (I always ride in a neon yellow jersey). I am so sorry, oh God..."
What happened to me then is what happens to me a lot when I'm upset, but people around me are even more upset, I become this really calm person. Not sure where it comes from, or why I can't conjure that woman up more often, but there she was. Patting the woman's hand, I told her I was not dying, and was probably going to be OK. I told her stuff like this just happens, and it's not as though she did it on purpose.

The ambulance showed up at the same time as about four police cars, as well as a fire truck. Apparently, our county doesn't take chances with accidents involving cyclists, and pulls out all the stops. Well, that, and the fact that, according to the EMTs, it had been a slow Sunday afternoon, probably helped to bring everyone out too. Information was taken down, and one police officer was dispatched to notify husband-dear of my accident. And it wasn't until the EMTs pulled the stretcher up to push it into the back of ambulance, when I saw all the traffic backed up on the parkway, and the broken mirror lying on the side of the road, that it hit me, I have just been in a car accident. And I'm still conscious to talk about it. What a miracle.

Anyway, the next two hours were spent in the ER, talking to doctors, nurses, police officers, and assuring the boys (as well as husband-dear) that I really was going to be OK. And I am. Nothing was broken, I was diagnosed with a "severe contusion" (as well as a case of really stinking good luck), and sent home with some wicked pain killers.

So I've spent the past day on the couch, on my right side, occasionally shifting the pillows I use to prop myself up around, and requesting a fresh ice pack. The outline of the mirror that hit me is slowly starting to show up on my behind, and the bulge means I've only been able to wear shorts or sweatpants.

While I think my back will feel good enough to go back to work tomorrow, being forced into two days of bed rest has been somewhat nice. Painful, but nice. Just note that you really do need to be careful what you wish for

Three posts

Three posts in a month, when the month is already half-gone has got to be record. Not a good record, but a record nonetheless. And it's not as though there hasn't been a whole lot to write about, as there has been. There is the band booster club membership, Friday night football, bake sale woes, and of course the usual cotton gracing the side of my commute every day. Plenty of opportunities for cynicism and sarcasm to abound, one would think.

But then there are also fifty surveys that need analyzed, tests that need written, children's books that need purged, the usual mess that is academics that needs dealt with, and a brain that just can't stop running in fifty different directions. I know my motto used to be to just write through everything, but lately that just hasn't been working for me. There is just too much going on to find the space and the stillness needed to write about all the thoughts swirling through my head.

So I'm sorry for not being the faithful blogger I like to think I usually am. I hope I'll get back to being that same blogger soon. but for now, just bear with me.

The bathroom rhyme

As some of you may recall, I have a thing with bathrooms. I've written about the strange propensity of American public restroom stalls to have gaps so wide you can easily use them to hold your clutch while you're using your facilities. I've written about the lack of decent bathrooms in China, and I've waxed lyrical about the awesomeness of a bathroom visit at work. I have in fact, added a label specifically for this obsession of mine, since I have the feeling this won't be the last time I'll be posting about my various bathroom experiences.

Lately, however, my bathroom experience at work has been marred by a custom that I think might possibly be a truly American invention: the bathroom rhyme.

The bathroom rhyme is nothing more than an admonition to the various bathroom users to do or not do something, set to an iambic pentameter, and written so that it rhymes. They're usually printed on brightly colored paper with a smiley face, a bunch of flowers, or some other interesting graphics pulled from Microsoft Words' selection of symbols. A very popular one would be:

"If you sprinkle when you tinkle,
Please be neat and wipe the seat!"

While in Holland, one might find a brusque white piece of paper hung over the toilet stating something like, "(please) wipe the seat after usage!" , here in the US we like to make our toilet users smile. Or chuckle. Or at least have an enjoyable experience while wiping one's urine off the toilet seat. As I'm obviously not a fan of these little bursts of poetry, I'm not sure what the maker is trying to accomplish, other than annoy the heck out of people, but I'm sure they serve some sort of purpose really well, as I see them everywhere.

I've seen these admonitions at the kids' schools, in office buildings, and really any other place filled with the same type of female who will have those encouraging slogans hanging in her cubicle, say things like, "Oh my stars!", and wear hose regardless of the outside temperature. I have, however, never seen them in an academic environment. Well, except the College of Education, but they don't count. They are known to, in an effort to convey the power of teaching through visual aids and bulletin boards, use colorful bulletin boards complete with 3D symbols and slogans to explain everything down to how to apply for Financial Aid. But I digress.

I had never seen these things at work until last week. I was happy. I knew to keep the bathroom clean, and judging by its appearance, so did everyone else. But then one day,when I sat down to do my business, I noticed a new sign on our door. It was neon green, and in bold curly script told the user to "Please don't be in such a rush, when you're done make sure you flush!".

I was so appalled that this fourth grade level PSA style had now also made it into my bathroom, that when I stepped out (after making sure I had flushed, of course), and saw our new secretary coming down the hallway, I said, "Hey, did you see the new sign in the bathroom?"
"Yes!" She beamed, "I wrote that. People kept forgetting to flush. Do you like it?"
As a true southerner, I spoke up before I gave any further thought to the matter, "Yes, it's very cute."
"Good!" The woman warmed to her task, "I was thinking we could also use something to ask people to wipe the seat."
And before I knew it, I once again piped up, "How about 'if you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat'. They use that in the college of education."
"Oh, that is just a great idea! I think I'll use that!" I think the women might have been genuinely excited at my suggestions. I, on the other hand, am still not sure what on earth came over me at that moment.

Anyway, we now have two signs adorning our bathroom. One green, one yellow.  And I'm sure there are more to come now that someone has opened the floodgates. I'm thinking "Don't be dope, wash your hands with soap" might be next, but trust me, they won't get it from me.

Aaaand she's back!

(again).

It is with great joy, pride, and relief that I'm able to inform you that my four inch promotion and tenure portfolio was turned in yesterday at approximately 9:25am. Three weeks minutes six hours in the making, with every free hour spent on compiling all the work I've done in the past five years, lots of nightmares about lost letters, misplaced tabs, and random natural disasters destroying my binder, and I still managed to turn it in a day early. Take that, leaders who told me I wasn't up until 2013. You might make me cry, but that won't stop me from turning in a beautifully labeled, militarily organized, and narrated portfolio.
Yes, I'm a nerd.

For those of you who missed the drama: I was always under the impression I wasn't up for promotion and tenure until 2013. Until I, in all of my anal-retentive-type-A awesomeness, decided to attend the p&t prep meeting a year early, and found out, that, guess what! Not only was I up in 2012, but the application, i.e., a portfolio with all my work from the past five years organized into the four categories of teaching, achievement, research, and service, was due three weeks from that day. Today. In case you were wondering why I was absent for three weeks, that's why.

What was most amazing about putting together my portfolio (aside from the fact that I was able to get it done at all) is that I had no idea I had done this much stuff since 2007. No idea at all. Every time I couldn't immediately think of something to fit a specific category (such as "Service: National and International"), it would take just one dive into my filing cabinet for me to realize that hey! I've actually served as a consultant for a Dutch university on the formation of their IRB...cool! Or, oh yeah! I did go to that workshop in DC, I remember now. I had to grade online homework on the breaks. You get the idea.
At any rate, it does finally explain why I'm so tired all the time.

The second amazing finding is that I've finally realized that being a triple-type-A personality with a slight case of OCD is actually really, freaking awesome. From now on, I'm going to no longer mock myself for creating to-do lists for everything, organizing the children's closets based on color, season, and usage, or any of the other things that most people find slightly peculiar. I might even declare September 7 national-love-your-quirks day, in fact. And why? Well, because without my tendency to worry about things years in advance, and organize everything I can get my hands on, I would have not already had a folder labeled "promotion and tenure stuff". A folder in which, for the past two years, I have been tossing everything that might, someday (like, oh, in 2013) be relevant for my portfolio. A folder which, on Thursday night, after I used all of my self-control to not break down during the promotion and tenure prep meeting (known in the DixieChick house as The Meeting), I picked up out of my drawer, took home, and which became the backbone for all the work I did over the next three weeks. I had certificates in there for things I had forgotten all about ("oh, wow, the Air Force gave me this volunteer appreciation certificate. Oh yeah, for working with the airmen. I got a certificate. Honey! Did I ever tell you I got a certificate from the base?").

So now that the blessed thing is out of my hands, the waiting game begins. Officially, we won't hear anything until early January. Unless we're denied, in which case I'll hear something in either September (if the Chair denies me), October (if the Promotion and Tenure committee denies me), or November (if the Dean or Provost denies me). But unofficially, the grapevine around our college works very well, and I should know something within the next month or two.

With the type-A/anal retentive/OCD personality outlined in the previous paragraph, you would think I am on pins and needles to find out the results of the process. Heck, I  would expect me to be on pins and needles. But strangely enough, I'm not. (well, not yet, anyway). I actually feel pretty confident right now. Not only was my confidence boosted by the fact that apparently a lot of people on campus really like me, if judged by the ease and speed with which everyone I asked wrote these glowing letters of recommendation for me, and by the sheer volume of the stuff I was able to put in the portfolio, but also by the fact that if the committee sticks to the rubric they give to candidates, I should get somewhere around a 108%.

I'm sure that within the next few weeks and days (heck, even hours, knowing me), I'll change my mind, and convince myself that there is NO way any one is ever going to give me tenure, let alone promotion. But for now, I'm feeling pretty OK.

So with that thought (and the promise of lots of stories about bathroom rhymes to come this week), I'll wish you all a very awesome weekend!

Pie en Tie

Pie en Tie - dat is sinds afgelopen donderdag het centrum van mijn leven. De reden van mijn bestaan. Daar sta ik mee op, en ga ik mee naar bed. En soms droom ik er zelfs over.

Pie en Tie staat natuurlijk voor "promotion and tenure", het gevreesde "maken of breken" moment van elke Amerikaanse academicus. Waar je in Nederland na een jaar een vast contract krijgt, mits je niemand vermoord hebt, de secretaresse te vriend hebt gehouden, en je studenten ook niet gillend weggelopen zijn, is het hier in Amerika een heel ander verhaal. Hier mag je na zes vijf jaar bewijzen, door middel van een enorme portfolio, dat je een mega-geweldige onderzoeker-slash-onderwijzer-slash-community-activist bent. Kan je dat, dan krijg je promotie (naar Associate Professor) en "tenure", oftewel, het felbegeerde vaste contract.

Volgens mijn planning de planning van mijn vakgroepsvoorzitter zou ik in 2013 opgaan voor "p & t". En mijn planning hield dus in dat ik de hele zomer voor de deadline mezelf bezig zou houden met het in elkaar zetten van een prachtige portfolio. Ik zou een mooie, zakelijke-maar-simpele map uitzoeken. Er zouden bijpassende tabbladen bijkomen, met mooie geprinte labels. Ik zou de tijd uittrekken om elk stuk bewijs, elk certificaat, elke inhoudsopgave, elke studentenevaluatie te scannen en van pagina nummer te voorzien, zodat alles makkelijk te vinden was. Ik zou een wel-doordachte afweging maken over welke zwaarte ik aan welke categorie zou toekennen (onderwijs, onderzoek, academische ontwikkeling, service). En ik zou mooi de tijd er voor nemen. Ik zou, met andere woorden, niet alles tot het laatste moment laten liggen en moeten stressen.

Juist.
Toen ik afgelopen donderdag dus vernam dat mijn vakgroepsvoorzitter een cruciale berekeningsfout had gemaakt, en mijn portfolio op 7 september af moest zijn, vielen al die mooie plannen in een keer in duigen. In plaats van een mooie, zakelijke maar simpele multomap, heb ik een zwarte three-ring-binder bij Staples gekocht. Mijn tabbladen vond ik in de keukenla die we normaal gebruiken voor de schoolspullen van de jongens, en de nummering doe ik gewoon met de hand. Ik hoop en bid dat ik met mijn gekozen percentages mezelf niet al teveel in mijn vingers snij, en probeer ondertussen vooral te blijven lachen. Want dit is natuurlijk, voor een triple-A-persoonlijkheid als mijzelf de allerergste nachtmerrie.

Maar als ik eerlijk ben is dit eigenlijk heel erg goed nieuws. Want of ik weet dit jaar of ik tenure heb, en me dus niet meer met onbeschofte studenten hoef bezig te houden, of ik hoor dat ik volgend jaar op zoek mag naar een nieuwe baan, en dan hoef ik me dus ook niet meer onbeschofte studenten bezig te houden.

Eigenlijk is het dus gewoon een win-win situatie.

Nou ja, een beetje dan.

One heck of a start indeed...

So when I wrote last week's post I honestly did not intend to just go AWOL on everyone for a whole week. I'm sorry if I made you all wonder if I had just quit my job, the south, and my blog in utter frustration. Just to let you know, no, I haven't. I'm still here. I'm like those southern roaches I'm always blogging about, no matter how hard you try, I just keep sneaking back into your garage.

No, the reason I have been away is because last week was one heck of a week. It was a week with a star. Or a sticker. A week that, if there were such things, would win the prize for suckiest week of the year.

For starters, there was the whole invitation to kiss someone's backside. Then, there was that same student throwing a major temper tantrum in my office later that same day. A temper tantrum of such epic proportions, police had to be called, classes had to be cancelled, and reports had to be filed. Oh, and let's not forget the fact that I, after 2,5 months of let's say, being without any sign of womanhood (OK, fine, after ten weeks of not having a period, happy now?), thought that maybe I had somehow, miraculously, through nothing less than act from God had gotten pregnant, was once again proven wrong. Not only was I not pregnant, but the lack of periods as well as some other great symptoms could possibly be the sign of something else. You know, something not-pregnant, physically not quite right with me. And as if that wasn't enough, Jimmie started to exhibit the same symptoms that landed him in the hospital two years ago, and on Thursday, I found out, by accident that not only was I up for promotion and tenure this year (as opposed to next, as I had been told repeatedly for the past few years), my portfolio is due in three weeks. Well, two and a half now.

So, we're kind of in DefCon 5 over here in the Dixiechick house. We'll make and will do just fine, but for now, just bear with me.