Tir Na Nog

And now for something completely different (no pools, no toes, no hips), let's talk about Ireland.

Does anyone remember the show The Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog?  Or was I the only nerdy graduate student who wasted her time watching a show about battles for ancient Ireland? And who, on a side note, also wasted a lot of time with Mork & Mindy and Are You Being Served ("are you free, Captain Peacock?") reruns? Imagine if I had spent all that time studying! I could have actually gone somewhere and made something of myself!...oh..wait..well..)

Anyway, the Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog was my first encounter with Ireland. Well, that and the lovely mother from Titanic who, as the ship is sinking, puts her children to bed and reads them a story about, there you go again, Tir Na Nog. Growing up in Europe, I was, of course, more than familiar with the ongoing "troubles" in Northern Ireland (and possibly even more familiar with the music about that era), but the rest of Ireland was always little more than a haze of green fields, rain, druids, Celtic women in large dresses singing old songs, and stories of immigrants trying to get across the ocean to the US.

Fortunately, my ignorant little soul is going to get an opportunity to educate itself on Ireland, as next week I will be at a conference to Dublin. There are a lot of downsides to my job as a professor, the crappy pay, the long hours, the difficult students, the crappy pay, and well, you are all more than familiar with the long list of woes, but one of the major perks of working in academics is the opportunity to travel. Granted, you do need to conduct some research, turn it into a paper, and then get it accepted by said conference. And you also need to make sure your university is willing to pay for at least part of the cost, but once you've achieved all of that, this traveling gig is a real perk.

In my case, the paper that landed me at the major international conference to be held in Ireland focused on the study that involved research assistants and Steve, my former colleague who is busy finishing up his PhD at his Big Midwestern University. Much to our surprise, we found some pretty interesting things, and fortunately, the reviews at the major conference agreed, and so this Saturday I will be on my way to the airport. The conference doesn't start until Tuesday night, and since exploring a country by myself isn't half as much fun as exploring it with a friend, Mary, she of running awesomeness (who in a less awesome move, transferred to Italy) is flying up to meet me, and we will exploring this rainy, green, druid-filled country together. Not only has Mary been to Ireland before, she's an even better planner and tour guide than I am (as proven by the fact that she's already figured out which bus to take to the airport to pick me up), and she's pregnant and has already threatened to buy me every single drink she wants but can't have. This is what I would call a win-win situation, people.

To be honest, not all is well in Dixiechick-travel-adventure-land. Lately, I've become a little freaked out by my accommodations. Because my university is generous but not exactly in a Daddy Warbucks kind of way, I'm having to pay a considerable chunk of the expenses for this trip out of my own pocket. And back in February, when I booked everything, saving on accommodations seemed like a great way to go. So I booked a room on campus. A single person dorm-room. Back then it sounded great, it cost only 43 euros a night, included breakfast, I'd have access to a kitchen, the campus gym and pool, and did I mention it was only 43 euros a night? But now, as my departure date inches closer I'm starting to feel a little queasy. What if I'm surrounded by partying students? Or worse, man-sized roaches? Or a really, really nasty bed? According to husband-dear, this is a) slightly ridiculous, and b) probably still a remnant from the accommodations trauma I endured in China last year. In order to assuage my fears, he suggested I look at pictures online, as it really couldn't be that bad. And so I did. People, I am paying 43 euros for a monk's cell. Or, if you're from Holland, a prison cell. Cinder blocks, a bed, a desk, and a bathroom so small I have the feeling I'll be standing on the toilet to take my shower. Fortunately, reviews call it "clean", "modern", and make no mention of bugs or dirt (although some did complain about partying Italian students), but still, part of me wishes I had just splurged and checked into a nice hotel downtown (although, as husband-dear points out, I would still be freaking out about bedbugs, and he is so right).

But accommodation-fears aside, I am excited to finally see Tir Na Nog with my own eyes, meet up with a good friend, catch up with former colleagues at the conference, and, of course, present Steve and my work to the academic community at large. I will keep you posted.

And that's all I have to say about that

So 2013 will probably not go down in my personal history as the most athletic year ever. I know, I know, the year's not even half over yet, and it's possible I'm being slightly overly dramatic, but sheesh, people, sheesh!

First there was that pesky hip/ groin problem I told you all about. You know, it hurt, I rested, it still hurt. I rested some more, but no cigar. Not only did that nix my chances of participating in the half ironman I had been training for, it also pretty much made it impossible to swim or bike. I could still run, thank the Lord, but long training rides or swimming using my legs was out of the question. Hello pathetically short rides and floaties! You can imagine I have just been an absolute bundle of joy these past weeks. 

But, as the problem-solving, type A, oh-my-god-I-have-to-train endorphine junkie that I am, I of course wasn't about to just let this run its course. While well-meaning friends said things like, why don't you just take it easy and float around in your pool, and, you know, rest will make it all better eventually, I was in my PCM's office at three weeks. And when her admonitions to just rest and ice did nothing for the next two weeks, I got a referral to see an office specialize in orthopedics and sports medicine. Yes, I may cry when I've had too little sleep and I can't find my favorite pumps, but when I put my game face on, I get things done. Even things involving the notorious government-run health benefits plan, Tricare. 

So last week, I went to see said orthopedic surgeon. After filling out an 11-page questionnaire that not only covered my medical history but those of my parents and siblings as well, and three x-rays, I had my diagnosis. And something else. But I'll get to that in a secod. As expected, I had a strained adductor, as well as tendonitis of the iliopsoas. Say what? Or as the Dutch would say: Broodje kammewattes? I have basically messed up the thing that connects my muscle to the bone as well as a tendon that runs in that same area. Fun! Fortunately, this is America, and there are solutions for everything, which in this case was physical therapy. Great. 

But there was another small issue. Minor, really. You see, when the doctor looked at my x-rays, he noticed a funny lump on the ball of my hip. This is, apparently, not normal. It even has a fancy-pants name: femoral acetabular imingement. For those of you into Googling (or Bing-ing), my particular kind is known as a cam lesion. And what, you may wonder, is the prognosis? Well, fortunately for you, I wondered the same thing, and asked. So according to this doctor, and every single website I have read since then, it could lead to early onset arthritis, surgery, and hip replacement. Good-y. The first sign of the lump on the hip becoming a genuine problem is a clicking noise, so I was to keep my ears out for that. 

So after that strange news (hi! I know you're here for a groin injury but let me tell you about something unrelated but pretty major that is wrong with you! You're welcome!), I went off to physical therapy. And one would think the story ended there.

Alas! There is a third thing. Yes, really. And this can really only be blamed on my own complete klutzy-ness. Last Friday, as I was playing with Shelby, I ran past one of our bookcases. Well, that was my intention. I made it past, my leg made it past, and the majority of my foot did too. Only my little toe decided to stay behind. The same little toe I broke back in 2009. You can imagine what happened next: A very blue, very swollen, and very broken toe (on an upnote, I did not cuss or cry, which is, if you know me, truly worth mentioning. The dogs just seemed really surprised at the very long and loud primordial scream I produced instead). So instead of running, biking, or swimming this weekend, I have instead been hobbling around in a pair of flip flops, grimacing at every movement, and googling questions about the duration and size of swelling and bruising. 

And that is why this morning, I sat at the physical therapist's looking like this:

Electrodes for my hip, a sneaker on one foot, and a flip flop for its bruised and swollen sister. 

And when I did my leg-lifting exercises this morning, guess what I heard? Yep, an onimous clicking sound. Bright orange walker with tassles and a bicycle bell, here I come!

I am, to use a good old southern phrase, such a mess. Thank goodness for pool-tinis. 

It's alive

Yes it is. Really. But just far too busy enjoying the new pool to write about anything. Not there isn't enough to write about (I'm debating the following post themes: Southerners and time; (Non) communication and construction folk; Why cookies make it all alright), but we'll have to wait until I get my pool-kick on before I even want to think about sitting at my laptop. Unless someone knows about a waterproof laptop, of course. 

In the meantime, I leave you with the following images...

Bing, de bakprinses, en de gevulde koek

Ik heb geen idee of Bing in Nederland ook in opkomst is, maar hier in de VS worden de laatste maanden overspoelt door de 'bing it on' campagne. Bring it on Bing-style zeg maar. 

Bing wil mensen zoals ik die al jaren verslaafd zijn aan de concurrent wegkrijgen door ze op de bingiton website de concurrent, of als we heel eerlijk zijn, de marktleider, met Bing te laten vergelijken. Het idee is dat je vijf keer een zoekterm invult, vijf keer de keuze krijgt tussen twee resultaten schermen zonder dat je weet welke van wie is. Uiteraard kiest iedereen, zonder het te weten voor de uiteraard betere, visueler ingestelde, veel vriendelijke Bing versie, wat ze na vijf keer kiezen in een mooie resultatentabel te zien krijgen. Marketing-technisch een geweldig idee. 

Aangezien het zomervakantie is, en ik dus ontzettend druk ben met het supervisen van de constructie van ons zwembad, me druk maken over een rare vlek in de vloerbedekking in de slaapkamer, en beslissingen zoals of het meer zin heeft om nu of morgen de donkere was te doen, kon ik gelukkig ergens een gaatje vinden om aan deze belangrijke campagne deel te nemen. 

Naast het feit dat mijn resultaten een perfecte 'draw' aangaven (ik prefereer Bing voor entertainment en de concurrent voor serieuzer zoek werk. Who knew?!)  was het ook opmerkelijk hoe ontzettend moeilijk het is om vijf keer op rij met een zinnige zoekterm op de proppen te komen. Mijn halve promotie tijd deed ik niks anders, maar als het erop aankomt weet ik echt niet waarop ik moet zoeken. En dus kwam ik met allerlei ontzettende vreemde dingen op de proppen zoals How I Met Your Mother Season 9 spoilers, de situatie in Eritrea (zorgwekkend mensen, echt waar), als ook een Engelstalig recept voor gevulde koeken. 

En weet u dat die dus gewoon bestaan? Amerikaanse recepten voor gevulde koeken? Ik had ze in het Nederlands al eens gezien, maar met mijn Amerikaanse maatbekers, Amerikaanse ingredienten, en Amerikaanse oven had ik daar niet zoveel aan. Tuurlijk kan ik omrekenen, maar als ik dan op dingen als 5/7 cup uikom, of 2.78 ounces, dan zakt me de moed in de teenslippers. 

Maar goed, ik sloeg het recept op, en vergat het prompt, want sja, de was moest gevouwen worden, een co-auteur was het niet eens met mijn factor analyse, en er moest ook The price Is Right gekeken worden. 

Nu bak ik de laatste dagen heel wat af: manlief wil wat mee naar zijn werk nemen, Jimmie zegt dat hij zeker weet dat als ik marble poundcake maak dat veel lekkerder is dan bij Starbucks (awww.. En ook: challenge accepted!), en ik wil de zwembadmannen blij houden. En dus bak ik pecan sandies, peanut butter cookies, banana bread, kitchen sweeps, en die pound cake. Maar zelf heb ik eigenlijk nooit echt zin in in gebakken spul. Ik doe niks liever dan de beslag kom schoon likken ( met mijn vingers! Ik heb wel een beetje stijl), maar als het spul eenmaal gebakken is ben ik er wel klaar mee. Behalve gisteren, toen had ik gisteren in een keer ontzettend zin in gevulde koeken. Een ouderwetse Hollandse gevulde koek. Maar ja, de dichtsbijzijnde Nederlandse winkel is vier uur rijden, en dat zit er niet echt in om zes uur 's avonds. En toen bedacht ik me, hallo, ik kan ze natuurlijk ook gewoon zelf maken. Ben ik nou een bakprinses of niet? En, eureka!, ik heb dat recept van Bing ook nog ergens. 

En zo maakte ik, dankzij de bingiton campagne, mijn allereerste zelf gebakken gevulde koeken. Het waren er maar acht, maar ze waren verrukkelijk.

Bing it on, zou ik dus zeggen

To race or not to race...

This time of year is usually characterized by long rides, equally long runs, hours in the pool, and endless agonizing over tri-tops, fuel belts, caffeinated v non-caffeinated gels, and stress-inducing countdowns until the first race of the season. 

Although you may not have noticed, this year is different. I don't think I've written a single post about triathlons since the new year, and even more unlike me: I have yet to sign up for a race. For someone who completed nine triathlons, three adventure races, and two half marathons in three years, this appears abnormal. And it is. But I'm OK with it. 

I think. 

It started in January, when I was planning on running a local half marathon I ran two years prior. I was just about to sign up for it, when I realized it fell right in my only three-day weekend in the semester. The three-day weekend husband-dear and I were going to spend visiting his family in Florida. And without any prodding from husband-dear or the in-laws I decided that I'd rather visit family than stay home for a race I had already done before. And one that was run on base too (I realize that for some this would have been a selling point, but once you've seen one flight line you've seen them all. Really). So instead of paying $50 to run with hundreds of other people, I set my GPS watch, filled up my camelback, packed some gels, and ran 13.1 miles on my own. In 1:50:03, a personal record. 

I think that's when I first realized that I didn't need to do an oficial race to feel like I accomplished something. And that just the thought of doing a tri, with all the registration-transportation-spotting buoys-transition mess was enough to make me feel tired. Very tired. And so although I kept training as though I was getting ready for another half ironman (after all, the first one could have been a fluke), I wasn't signing up, or even planning, for any races. I just felt race-tired. 

But you know me, and I know me, and as the months wore on, and my mileage increased, I started to increasingly feel as though not doing a race was just wrong. Not me. So, even though the thought of packing my transition bag made me want to take a nap and rest, I started to think about a local half iron. A half iron that is accompanied by a sprint, one that I have done for the past three years. How cool would it be if I finally did the same half iron that seemed lightyears out of reach four years ago? Well, my brain responded, sure, but it also just sounds exhausting. Wouldn't you rather take a nap and then bake some cookies? But brain, I said, the weather has been exceptionally cool, and for a race where the run takes place on a sunny road in temperatures that easily soar into the low 100s, doesn't an 90 degree run sound great? Sure, my brain said. And then might have mumbled something incomprensible about stubborn women and mules. 

Of course, karma is a snarky little turd, and so three weeks ago, five weeks before the race I had not yet signed up for, in the middle of the so-called pre-race peak, (and so at the worst possible time) I strained a muscle. Well, the insertion of a muscle in fact. In my groin, since you asked. I wasn't doing anything special, just swimming, and naturally I didn't stop. And so when I came home, I was not happy. Any sensible person would have taken a break. And I did. For about three days, at which point I had a 70-mile ride scheduled. Which I, naturally, completed. 

I won't need to tell you what a four hour bike ride does to an inflamed insertion. Yes, it makes it worse! What a surprise. And it has not gotten better since. At all. A trip to the doctor revealed a sprain and the knowledge that when someone pushes on an inflamed insertion, it hurts even more. For days. 

I also don't need to tell you what this does to my racing plans.. I can't speak for the entire season yet, but this half ironman I did and did not want to so at the same time is obviously not happening. My brain is relieved, the rest of me not so much... If nothing else, how can I keep eating like a pig without putting on a single pound? 

So if you're looking for me, I will be over there in the corner, trying to resist the urge to eat an entire container of ice cream. 

The pool that almost is

In lieu of a proper post, which is long overdue, I instead present you with a few pictures of our pool. No, it's not done yet. Yes, it should have been completely done tomorrow, even accounting for rain delay. But it's not and that's because we're apparently nicer than the average home builder, and therefore easier to convince that a delay is inevitable. I have tried plying them with cookies and cake, and I believe that husband-dear has a militarily inspired chewing out session scheduled for tomorrow. I don't think the pool builder knows yet.

At any rate, it should all be done by next week Wednesay. But don't start showing up with your floaties just yet...

Over koningen, stilzitten, en klompen

Natuurlijk ging ik iets diepzinnigs zeggen over de inhuldiging van Willem Alexander. Ik had zelfs het geweldige plan om dat op 30 April zelf te doen. Maar ja, net als mijn verjaardag valt Konningedag de laatste jaren tijdens de drukste periode van het jaar en dus kwam het er niet van.

Vandaag is het commencement, de voornamelijk lange afstudeer ceremonie, en dus de eerste keer in pak en beet drie weken dat ik niks anders doe dan zitten. Drie uur lang. En aangezien ik eindelijk ontdekt heb dat er een app is voor bloggen, heb ik nu eindelijk iets te doen. In plaats van zenuwachtig wiebelen en elke vijf minuten mijn 'hood' rechttrekken, kan ik nu gewoon bloggen. Wat een ontdekking. Straks ga ik commencement nog leuk vinden.

Dus. Koninginnedag. Of heette het deze keer al Koningsdag? Ik heb eigenlijk geen idee. En daarmee ben ik meteen aangekomen op wat ik eigenlijk wilde zeggen: Zo'n nieuwe koning is natuurlijk helemaal geweldig, maar nu hoor ik er weer een beetje minder bij daar in Nederland.

De inhuldiging was geweldig, de prinsesjes uber-schattig, Beatrix waardig maar ook lief, de voorstellingen tijdens de boottocht hadden me soms in tranen, en ik kan zelfs prima leven met "De dag die je wist dat zou komen". Desondanks weet ik nu al dat ik een van die irritante mensen ga zijn die maar niet kan wennen aan het woord Koningsdag, en die het over tien jaar nog steeds heeft over Koninging Beatrix, in plaats van prinses. Net als mijn oma dat vroeger deed met Juliana. Alleen doe ik het dan niet uit ouderdom en gewoontje, maar omdat in mijn dagelijks leven Nederland alleen maar in mijn hoofd aanwezig is, en mijn hoofd ondertussen een aantal jaren achterloopt. Ik hou de Nederlandse samenleving gewoon te weinig bij (en ben dus elke keer als ik hoor dat Rutte premier is verbaasd, ik bedoel, ik was net gewend aan Balkenende) om aan dit hele nieuwe koningsgebeuren net zo snel te wennen als alle andere Nederlanders. En dat is gewoon een beetje vreemd. Want if it walks like a duck, dan zou je verwachten dat het ook talks als een duck, en sja, dat wordt dus steeds minder. Ik tel de jaren af totdat ik een wereld-, of in ieder geval Nederland-vreemde expat ben. Of een halve duck zo u wilt.

Nu we het toch over watervogels hebben, laten we het eens over ons zwembad hebben. Dat echt steeds minder op een grote kuil lijkt, en steeds meer op een zwembad. Het beton is gestort, de leidingen zijn gelegd, en afgezien van het feit dat de leidingen voor ons sproei systeem geheel tegen de planning in zijn meebegraven, en dus weer opgegraven moeten worden, liggen we goed op schema. Klein nadeel is alleen dat onze tuin nu echt een grote rode klei rommel is, en je dus met geen mogelijkheid de tuin in kan zonder ontzettend vies te worden. De honden, en voornamelijk Shelby, zijn absoluut niet gecharmeerd van deze ontwikkeling. Niet alleen is de voortuin lang niet zo spannend als de achteruin met al haar puppy vrienden in aangrenzende tuinen, als ze een keer de achtertuin in mag, moet ze zich daarna onderwerpen aan een genante wasbeurt waar mevrouw niet van gediend is.

Gisteren wilde ik zelf de vooruitgang zelf eens van dichtbij zien, en stond ook voor de vraag wat ik in hemelsnaam aan kon dat niet een kilo klei mee naar binnen zou slepen. Alles met zolen is in feite uit den
boze, en om nou op blote voeten door de kletsnatte klei te struinen vond ik een beetje ver gaan. Wat dragen mensen die naar buiten moeten in de modder zoal? In een keer had ik het: klompen! Natuurlijk!

En zo kwam het dat mijn oude klompen, die al jaren ter decoratie in de woonlamer staan, in een keer weer aan het werk moesten. Ik zal u vertellen: ze werken perfect. Ik zakte niet weg, en er bleef geen spikkel klei aan de onderkant hangen. Die oude Nederlanders waren zo gek nog niet. Maar goed, ik heb ons 'zwembad in wording' dus goed kunnen inspecteren, en het wordt echt geweldig. Nou moet het alleen even ophouden met regenen.


Als u zich trouwens afvraagt waarom het merendeel van de foto's van mij op dit blog mij laten zien in pyjama, in mijn achtertuin, dat weet ik ook niet.