Application for 25 hour days

Good lord, I’ve been busy!  Of course, other bloggers who are just as busy as I, or even busier (although it’s hard to imagine that it’s physically possible, I commute by ferry boat, damn it, surely that counts for something!), still manage to write posts.  Even if the posts are really short!  Surely I can write a short post!!  I can be brief and succinct!!!

Bwahahahaha!  Oh, it hurts, it hurts! 

I really shouldn’t compare myself to them, obviously.  They didn’t spend two days last week living in a caravan and getting up at four in the morning, dressing in the cold and dark, sneaking out to the car without waking husband and child, all in order to milk cows and spread hay and stack tires for six and a half hours.

Why yes, that *is* a pity banjo you hear me playing!

Actually, I really enjoyed my hard labor.  I just wish there were a few more hours in the day so I could nap, get my own chores done AND write a blog post every now and again.  I’ve got so much to talk about and instead I need to write two reports on my past two practical assignments on farms, two days on one pig farm and two days on one dairy farm. *  In Danish.  Balls.

I suck at writing Danish.  I suck because I write Danish in the same way that I write English, but alas, you cannot directly translate English to Danish (professional translators are laughing at me right now and pointing out that this is why they earn the big bucks).

Shakespeare’s “’Tis better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all,” for example, does not directly translate because you cannot use the word “better” when comparing two bad things.  You can say one is “worser” than the other or one is “less bad,” but never can you use the word “better.”

So back when I was in Danish class, I wrote a rhetorical question in an essay, asking if it was better to have higher unemployment than fewer hospitals, and the response was “You cannot say this, these are the same things.”  Which led to a hilarious debate on the welfare state and Danish stupidity - possibly not the best when trying to argue for a higher grade, but THEY ARE NOT THE SAME THING AT ALL!  I finally got the Danish Boy to explain later that night.  It took him a while as well, because he didn’t know what was wrong with the sentence or why, just that it was fundamentally wrong, and we had a good debate going (if by “good debate” you mean one person crying and the other looking like his head is about to explode), because he could completely understand me IN ENGLISH, but NOT IN DANISH.  Then, I demanded, “WHICH OF THESE IS THE LESSER OF TWO EVILS FOR FUCK’S SAKE!?”  Because nothing solves an argument like yelling biblical quotations and swearing.  And suddenly he had an epiphany.  “It’s BETTER!” he cried.  “I BEG YOUR PARDON!!” I shouted, now ready to set fire to Copenhagen and declare Danish to be an outlawed language of a subservient peoples who would cater to my every whim, mostly by NOT SPEAKING DANISH IN MY PRESENCE.  “You can’t use the word ‘better’.  You have to say ‘worser’ or less bad,” he explained.  “THAT’S STUPID!”  I replied, calm as ever, envisioning the high energy explosive that I would set under the Little Mermaid’s ass.  THAT’LL TEACH ‘EM!  “I didn’t make up this language,” he pointed out.  Damn him, he’s right.  Maybe I’ll hunt that particular asshole down and give him a carbonic acid enema.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I got a 2 on the written Danish portion of my language exam.  A 2, by the way is just passing.  As in “we understand that you wrote a series of Danish words that by themselves are fine enough, it’s just that the arrangement is incomprehensible because we have rules that we made up on a whim and deviation creates chaos in our little brains and besides which, you made 7 basic grammar mistakes in your email to your Canadian friend who wouldn’t understand Danish anyway, but we’re sick bastards who make you write emails to foreigners in our damn language because, as we previously pointed out we’re sick bastards.”

By the way, that paragraph?  Probably doesn’t translate into Danish directly either.  Danish: a language as inflexible as the rye bread they want you eat for lunch, day after day after day.

So it’s a good thing that I didn’t want to go to university anyway.  Even if the program would be taught in English.  Because my Danish is just not good enough to get into the “upper level” Danish class to prepare me for taking the exam that would qualify me for college level classes.   That’s like not doing well enough in junior high and therefore not being allowed to take high school and therefore not allowed to go to college.  Denmark wants us to be “educated” but not to a high degree, apparently. 

Anyway, ranting aside and back on the farm….

As I was standing on the retaining wall, waiting for the next load of tires to be delivered unto me (goddesses of modern agriculture demand offerings of tires), I was looking out over the rolling hills.  The some of the fields were golden with ripe corn, others the dark, earthy brown of freshly tilled soil, others still were bright green with clover.  On the clover covered fields were happy black and white dairy cows, munching away and lowing to one another.  Towering overhead were three very white modern windmills, powering away in the wind.  The sky was bright blue and punctuated with swiftly moving, puffy, white clouds that brought sudden downpours.  One particular cloud was busily pouring rain on what I suspect is Germany.  Because of the angle of the sun, a rainbow suddenly developed right then and there, arching across the sky, from one hilltop to another.  It was glorious.  I really could have used a camera.  But who the hell brings a camera when doing farm labor?  This is why I need a really awesome phone, just sayin’.

But it was one of those moments where you go, yup, this is what it’s all about and this is why this shit is awesome.

*Okay, I may not have to write some essays.  Some say I do, some say I don’t.  I’m going to have to figure this out before I spend an evening trying for subject-verb agreement.  Because otherwise, balls to THAT!

My Week in Review

Did you have a good week?  I had a good week.  I had an exhausting week.  I had a week that shows me that the next 15 weeks are going to be boring, exciting, easy, difficult, perplexing, clarifying, exhausting, but probably never ever restful.

On Monday I was thrown into it.  By the end of the day, we’d had a massive amount of information given to us (you know, the normal orientation things, like who wants a meal plan, here’s your pile of books, here’s your password to the internet) and several hours of lecture time.

I don’t think I’ve ever started a school where we began lectures the first DAY let alone the first WEEK.

Then again, most of my educations were going to be a hell of a lot longer than 16 weeks.

Also, none of my previous teachers/professors talked NEARLY as fast.  Swear to god, some of the sentences I heard this week went: brrrrrililililil brrrrrrrrilililil.  Then there will be one word that I understand and all is clear again.

Clear as mud.

Tuesday was more lecture and the Big Misunderstanding, i.e. gym class. 

Wednesday.  I learned to drive a tractor.  And plow a field.  Then I drove a tractor and plowed a bit of field.  Driving a tractor is almost not entirely unlike driving a car.  Double negation would leave you to believe that it is IN FACT just like driving a car.  No, it is unlike driving a car, but not entirely unlike driving a car.  There’s a clutch and a break and a gas pedal and a gearbox, which you use when you are driving on the road.  On the field you use a hand lever to increase gas to the engine and hand paddle to increase speed.  You can give the engine a huge amount of gas and just sit there, burning gas and not moving and you can also try to move and not give it any gas.  This, by the way, doesn’t work.  Trust me.  Then you have to lift and drop your plow, determine how deep you need to set the plow, watch it while you plow because you will need to change the depth the plow is set to based on soil conditions and angle you are driving at.  It’s a bit harder than you’d think, but not in the ways you would normally think.  Steering, for example, is a BREEZE!

Thursday we had 8 hours of health and safety regarding welding.  Eight hours.  HOURS.  EIGHT OF THEM.  I learned the following:

• Welding causes cancer
• Gases used in welding are highly flammable so don’t even THINK about kicking that canister

Anyone needing someone to help stage a large industrial “accident” may contact me via email.  Not that I’m saying I would… it’s just, well, I could.

Then we had a test.  I was understandably nervous.  I mean, after 8 hours, my brain is normally fried.  Eight hours of DANISH???  Are you kidding me???  Eight hours of listening to dead boring talk about ventilation, masks, glass, and five minutes of exciting talk about explosive gas… sure, bring it on!

It was open note, open book.  I asked if I could use Google Translate, I was allowed.  I Passed!

POINTS FOR MEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Friday was First Aid Day.  Now, if you take a Danish drivers’ license, you have to take a first aid course.  Unless you have another country's drivers’ license and you are taking the class to switch licenses.  Then you can skip that day.  Which I did, because it cost money to take and I was all “screw THAT!”  So today, the teacher was all “do you have a license?” and I was all “Yeah, but it’s been 18 years” and she was confused (maybe she though I said I was 18?) and asked, “when did you get your Danish drivers’ license” and I said “last year” and she was all “okay then.” And I was all “Er….” but in the end it didn’t matter, I think, because we still covered everything anyway.  And yes, first aid has changed in the last 18 years. 

Also, I have the lungs of a horse.  You need air?  I’m a gonna give you air!  In your lungs, bitch!  I may accidently give you a pneumothorax while I’m at it.  One free pneumothorax with every cardiac arrest.  What can I say, I’m just a giver by nature.

I have more first aid next week.  As well as my first “practical” in the cow sheds and another in the pig sty, biology, more health and safety, and something called the “month’s profile” which I’m not going to make any guesses on, because they’ll all be WRONG.  I’ll let you know next week. 

If I survive.  I’m kinda reeling with information here.

If this isn’t integration, I don’t know what is.

So can I just say HOLY COW?!?!

“Holy Cow” is the appropriately bad pun for any and all farming moments.  Just sayin’.

I was really really nervous before starting, mostly because, well, I gotta catch a ferry boat to and from school, I’m easily 15 years older than most, my Danish is shit… you know, the usual reasons kids are nervous about starting a new school.

The Danish Boy got it, sorta.  He decided to take archaeology classes at Hebrew University, in Israel.  He didn’t speak Hebrew and his English was abysmal.  (Obviously, it’s gotten better.)  So when he started classes, he was surrounded by people who didn’t speak his language and who knew how things worked but not always how to explain it all to a tall Dane.  So yeah, he knew why I was nervous.  But his “well, you just go in there and don’t be afraid to ask” approach, which UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES is right up my alley (hello, I’m an extrovert), was not going to work, as I pointed out, because WHAT IF I DON’T KNOW THAT I DON’T KNOW?

Currently, I am playing a game where I give myself points if I understand what’s been said 100% and answer CORRECTLY.  I deduct a point, not when I don’t understand (they don't make negative numbers that big), but when I so completely do not understand that it leads to hilarity.

I was up a point yesterday - I need to get me a pair of rubber boots because tomorrow I handle cows.

I had to take it away today, because “ID” on the lesson plan does NOT mean that you’ll be getting an ID card, it means what we in the USA call P.E. - that is, sports.

I was not the only one who didn’t bring proper clothes to change into, but you know, I’m an idiot for not having the slightest idea what was about to happen.  Minus one point.

But, I’m an idiot who is old enough to get over herself and I had a BLAST in gym class, jeans and t-shirts be DAMNED!

I also got hit by a lot of balls, trying to defend my team’s goal.  I really hope there are bruises.  It’s almost not worth getting hit if it won’t leave a mark.  Although, I’m glad the one I took directly to the face didn’t bust anything.  Pain, you ask?  I’ve birthed a human, my threshold for pain is astronomical.  Just please don’t poke me in the eye.  I hate that.

My classmates are a different bunch.  Most are older, but when I say “older” I mean, 19-22 instead of 16-18.  There’s one 27 year old and she was feeling a bit ancient until I got to whip out the I’ll-be-34-in-6-days card and win the oldest-person-in-class award.  The next eldest is a guy from Holland, who’s 30.  I WIN!!  WINNER!!  I think I’m also the only one who’s married and has a child.  I WIN AGAIN!!  ALL THE POINTS BELONG TO MEEEEEE!!!

Since it’s the “student track” we’ve all had a high school education, most of them did a biology/science track.  Two wanted to become nurses, but when that didn’t work out (no room in the nursing programs), they were at a loss as to what to do with themselves.  A few wanted to be veterinarians, but since EVERYONE and their SISTER wants to be a vet, you have to have the top grades to get in. 

A word on education here in DK - there are only so many spots in various educational programs and at university.  The more desirable the education, the more that apply, the higher your grades need to be to beat out the competition.  You apply for a whole lot and when you don’t get in, you flail around madly for a while and then often try something completely different.  We spent some time during break making fun of the kids who got into vet school who are completely unsuited to it, i.e. scared of blood, cats, etc.

Only one girl has a horse.  One girl has never seen a horse (in real life) before.  We’re pretty split, gender wise.  Almost as many girls as boys.  Not everyone grew up on a farm, many have no experience with animals.  Thus we all have our strengths and weaknesses. 

This last bit of knowledge is what makes the difference to me.  I was worried that I was going to be surrounded with people who had at least 6 months of experience under their belts, grew up on farms, and/or had this as their life’s main plan.  But we’re all in this together.  We're all missing something and better at something else.  Those with the experience are great at explaining and I believe my job is to keep asking “what?  Can you say that again?” for myself and the other’s who might be scared to admit that they don’t know.  This has already led to more and more of them admitting they don’t know something.  United in ignorance!

That tree?  Yeah, I have no idea what species of tree that is.  It’s what?  Never heard of it.  Can I eat that berry?  No?  Good to know.

Our first class was on landscapes.  Ummm, not how you would think.  It was about how you develop natural areas around your fields or in areas of your field where you cannot or should not cultivate and why this is a good idea.  Since there was a time in the recent past where this was not done and fields were plowed right up to the edges, it’s now important for our generation to replant and recreate these natural areas.

We went on a walk, which included a lot of “name this plant,” and you would not believe the vocabulary list I’ve got for myself.  Not including species of tree and grass.  That’s for next week. 

Tomorrow we suit up for practical training.  Cows, pigs, and “technical” - I’m hoping that means tractors.  Or welding.  Ooooooh, let me weld!!!  Fire!!  Steel!!  Awesome helmets!!

Aiiiiiiieeee!

I start school on Monday.

I start school on Monday.

I start school on Monday!

Aiiiiiieeeeeeee!!!

On Eggs and Baskets

If you ask me, I’ll probably tell you that I always have a back-up plan.

I’ll say, “of course, if X doesn’t happen, we’ll do Y or even Z!”  I proudly walk around calling myself the Queen of Just In Case. *  I can switch gears so fast you’d think I was a racecar driver. **

You probably wouldn’t expect me to be as floored as I was two years ago when I realized that I wasn’t going to be completing that PhD after all.  I sure as hell wasn’t.  Expecting to be so floored, that is.

I mean, there was a PLAN, damnit.  I was going to get that PhD, then I was going to get a postdoc, or an adjunct position, or a research fellowship - see, BACK-UP PLANS - and eventually work my way up to tenured professor.  Or I was going to work in a museum or as a contract archaeologist.  I HAD BACK-UP PLANS!!!

Except they all hinged on my ability to produce a dissertation that would lead to a PhD and some articles or a book.

Can we say “eggs and baskets” kids?

Rather quickly, my avenues to other ventures dried up.  A woman with a baby isn’t really available to spend months in the desert away from civilization.  An archaeologist with a specialty in Romans and the Middle East is not really suited to the Danish archaeology job-search.  Sure, I can dig anything…. Identify what it is?  In a general sense, sure.  It’s a pot.  It’s a pit.  No, it’s SUPERMAN!  Wait, whut? Date it to a particular period?  Not so much.  Post-holes? Urgh.  Lithics? Double urgh.  Uh, how about monumental structures with stone foundations instead, with a coin or two to give a girl an edge?

And at first I didn’t really realize it.  I was pretty shell-shocked by my failure-to-dissertate.  Then I was pregnant, which is a big distraction, if you don’t mind me saying so.  I did have some rather severe meltdowns last year, when friends were graduating with their PhD’s and I wasn’t even able to go to the ceremony to pick up my MA.  I think a graduation ceremony might have given me some closure, but I’m not sure.  This year I was much better prepared for when friends announced on Facebook “Just call me Doctor [name]!”

My apologies, by the way, to anyone who felt that I wasn’t enthusiastic about their achievement.  I really am so proud of all of you, because I know how hard it was to do, I really do. 

As the dust settled around the ruins of my plans (you’d think I’d be used to it, my life has always been in ruins) (archaeology joke!) (ba-dum-dum!  I’ll be here all week!), it kinda dawned on me that I had NO PLAN.  And I was all, “is this what it’s like for other people?”  Because I’ve wanted to be an archaeologist since I was like, eight, so while other people were having discussions with guidance counselors or looking up various career options, I was trying to decide between Egyptology and Roman Empire.

So there we have it, despite always applying for three or more schools (the dream, the sure thing, and the middle ground) and having a plan for “in case none of these work out,” I had still put all my eggs in one basket and then SAT ON IT.

What was I going to do now?

Well, Denmark has its perks from time to time.  One of them is, it assumes you are some uneducated buffoon when you get here (‘cause duh, you’re FOREIGN which means STUPID in Danish) and therefore gives you three years of free education (with stipend) so you can join the Danes in their 37.5 hour work-week, 6 paid weeks of holiday a year, and the 50% tax rate.

Wait, assuming you're stupid?  That’s a PERK?  Yes.  Denmark: lowering expectations of the immigrant class since 965 CE.

And I am so not kidding about the taxes, y’all.

One of the things they stress in Danish language classes is getting into the work force.  “It’ll help with your Danish,” they say.  “It will help you find friends and be better integrated!”  BULLSHIT.  Let's be honest here, it will help you pay the damn bills and will fill the state coffers.

When I was at school in Aarhus, with the other desirable (white, educated) students, we were encouraged to get our degrees approved by the Danish state (because, you know, that Anthropology degree from the University of California, Berkeley might not be up to Danish standards) and start applying to various multi-national companies as secretaries or something.  Obviously I wasn’t paying attention to this portion of the schooling, I was an archaeologist, damnit, *I* had a PLAN. 

Down here on the island, where many of my fellow immigrants are not educated (or white) we were encouraged to take a social-health degree.  So we could work in old-people care. 

Never mind that none of us wanted to do it, it was pushed again and again and again.  “But there are jobs available in elder-care!” we were told.  Do you know why there are jobs available?  Because no Dane wants to do it.  Working with the elderly and infirm is a thankless, dirty, backbreaking job.  “But you are so nice and friendly!” they told me, I shit you not, when I said I’d rather slit my wrists than work in eldercare.  Several of the women from my school are going to go for it.  They’d rather do just about anything else, but the promise of steady work is a siren song.

Anyway, back in March, when we were supposed to be looking up the requirements for taking a social-health degree (are you breathing?  GREAT!  YOU’RE IN!), I was looking up all kinds of other things, which may have included LOLcats, and chatting with the German woman, C., next to me.

I had contemplated going to a technical school and getting a degree in engineering, because I’m good at 3D visualization and math, and jobs are well-paid and I could be employed in just about every country…. But…  Well…

I hate offices.  I hate group projects.  I hate pretty much everything that has to do with corporate culture.  I would go crazy in a week and start attacking people with my stapler.  I’ve been there, done that. ***

The Danish Boy was emphatic.  “Don’t be an engineer!” he said.  “You’d hate it.  Do something with animals.  You like animals.”

Point.

If I had to do it all again, in which I would still end up with the same husband and child and cat at the end of it, and if I couldn’t be an archaeologist, I probably would be a veterinarian. 

So I looked up the education for veterinarian and was all WHOA! How about veterinary nurse?  Veterinary tech?  Veterinary shit-shoveler?  Because, damn, that’s a lot of years of education you gotta have.  And I had none of it.  A serious lack of life sciences, that’s me.  Also required: university level Danish.  Guess who had a snowballs chance in hell of doing that?  Me. ****

But I could, possibly, get into the veterinary nursing assistant program.  And that was my plan as I sat there, talking to C. and playing with the educations-you-can-take-in-Denmark website (and possibly, one with LOLcats, because you know what makes a boring day in school better?  LOLcats.).  C. asked me what I was going to do with myself and I told her, listlessly pulling the school website up again to show her.  Try as I might, I just could NOT be excited about this change in careers.  I asked her what she did, because she often missed school because of work, so she was obviously doing something right.

“Inseminøren” she replied.  At first I heard “seminary” and thought, “priest?” because, well, how often do you hear “inseminator” as a job?  There was some hilarious confusion before we got that straightened out (she’s not, in fact, a priest for cows) and then I was all questions.  Everyone else was grossed out, but I just thought this was the most interesting thing I’d ever heard of.  C. had a degree in farming from East Germany and had gotten an inseminator certificate when she got a job at a company that inseminates cows.

I had to stop her, “what do you mean a degree in farming?”  Like that’s a thing?  You would think that growing up in California, I would know this.  But I thought farmers became farmers because they grew up on farms, not because they went to school to become farmers.  Although this sort of explained UC Davis.

C. only laughed a little bit at my vast ignorance. “It’s also a thing in Denmark.”  “No way!” I said.  “Yes, way!” She replied.  And so I HAD to look it up. 

It was the most amazing half hour of research I’ve ever had.  Oh my god, you all, YOU CAN TOTALLY GO TO SCHOOL AND BECOME A FARMER!!

Everything about the education and the schools that taught it were 100% more interesting than veterinary nurse assistant.  Driving a tractor?  Oh hell yeah! 

So on my way home, I carefully constructed my argument for the Danish Boy on why I was going to become a farmer.

1) It’s not in an office. *****

2) It involves animals - and if I go into dairy-production: milk and cheese, which are my favorites.

3) Sustainability.  We are not going to run out of a need for farmers any time soon, people gotta eat.  Yeah, the economy is shit for farmers (nothing new there), but seriously, people gotta eat.  If worse comes to worse, we can start our own farm and become self-sustaining.  We'd be ready for any climate or world meltdown AND the zombie apocalypse.  Win-win, really.

4) It’s an education I could use anywhere in the world.  

5) It’s a job I respect, even if I know whole swaths of the population (certain in-laws, for example) do not.

I got home and said, “Honey, I want to become a farmer!” and the DB replied,

“AWESOME!!”

and got really excited and started planning our lives, where I would be a farmer and where we’d buy a farm and then he’d also become a farmer and we’d be farmers together on our farm and I had to stop him and say “hey, I came up with some very good arguments on why I should become a farmer and you need to shut-up and listen to them, OKAY??”  Because there is nothing worse than putting together an argument and then not getting to use it.

I did eventually get to try out these points on my family, who were a little stunned, my best-friend who totally took it in stride (seriously, if I told her I was going to be a burlesque dancer, she'd be all, "ooooh, with red tassels?  Red tassels are cool!"), and my in-laws who think that we’re insane for not wanting to live in Copenhagen and work in offices as consultants or sales-people (*GAG*) anyway.

Since then

• we’ve visited two agricultural schools (who were all, “of course a +30 year old woman wants to go into farming!  Let us show you our facilities!!”),
• chosen the one that best fits me (and the ferry boat schedule),
• talked to half a dozen farmers, trying to get an internship (PAID) before deciding
• to get some school done first (the education is split up into theoretical and practical, you can do some school [i.e. the theoretical] first or some of the practical [i.e. the internship] first, whatever floats your boat).  

I’m signed up to start in September. 

And you guys?  I AM SO EXCITED!!!

---

Here be shit ton of footnotes.  Because you can take the girl out of academia, but you can't take the academia out of the girl.

* Although not out loud, because I’ve already noticed that people stare at you when you talk out loud to yourself and I’ve been trying to cut back on looking like a crazy person.  Really I should just get myself one of those Bluetooth ear-pieces and wear it all the time and when people start looking at me funny I could point angrily to my ear and say loudly “I’m sorry, could you repeat that, I was distracted from this very important phone call by eavesdroppers.”

** Except when I’m driving.  But not because I’m a bad driver, I just forget that there are other gears and that I should be in them.  This is why people invented the automatic, for people like me.  I’ve heard people say that manual transmission gives you more control over the car, but I call bullshit.  If I had control over the car, it wouldn’t be telling me “you need to change me into another gear now” it would be all “oh, you want to go that fast, pardon me while I change that gear for you then.”  Manual transmission is where the car has control of YOU.

*** Only not the bit about attacking people with a stapler.  Probably because my job involved working with animals (for teaching, not research purposes), so when the going got tough (or the people got stupid), I could go cuddle a bunny.  Or if I was feeling particularly vicious, I could feed a rat to a snake. ^

^ Feeding the snakes was part of my job.  I wasn’t just going around feeding rats to snakes all willy-nilly.   Because that would be irresponsible.

**** And I was right, too.  I did not do so hot at the written portion of my exam.  (Hot?  I barely passed!) But that’s a WHOLE OTHER POST, lemme tell ya.

***** Damn, that’s a lot of asterisks.  Anyway, if you’re thinking, “but what about your allergies?”  Can I just point out that I’m also allergic to the mold that grows inside heating and cooling ducts, so every time someone turns on the central air in an office building, I die?  I’m allergic to something EVERYWHERE, so I might as well be hopped up on meds doing something I like rather than being hopped up on meds doing something I hate.