Stories From Korea

The End

2010-03-16T00:43:00.002+09:00

Well, here it is. The last post on Stories from Korea. I am pleased to announce the arrival of the new blog, 'The Woman with the Dead Cat in her Purse'. SFK will stay up for now, but I might take it down later. Thanks for reading and for all the great comments! I hope to see you the new blog.

News Roundup

2010-03-13T00:32:00.006+09:00

The winner of the mystery won is Janelle. I will be sending her fabulous prize out early next week. Congratulations, my friend! Don't spend it all in one place.

In blog news, I am looking for a new name for 'Stories from Korea', since my stories are no longer from Korea. If you have any ideas, let me know! As soon as I get a new name, I am going to have to figure out a way to get a new header. My clever brother-in-law made my existing one, which I love, but he is very fancy and important and most likely has better things to do than draw cartoons for me. Hard to believe, I know. Then, when that's done, I'm going to set up an email subscription form like Helen did. If you haven't signed up for notifications from 'Tips from the Trenches', you totally should right now, because it's awesome.

In some random Seattle-ish news, there are like a bazillion bald eagles flying around here all the time, a rousing Endangered Species Act success. Super cool. Also, I am very pleasantly surprised with the driving situation around here. There is a noticeable improvement in the traffic flow, even during the busiest times. Lloyd thinks it's because no one has a job anymore but WHATEVER; it gets me to the thrift store way faster than ever before!

And speaking of the thrift store, here's the weird news of the day: thrifting seems to have partially lost its luster. Maybe it's because all those people without jobs are can't afford to drive their cars to the donation center? That must be it. GET WITH THE PROGRAM, PEOPLE! GET BACK ON THE ROAD AND DROP OFF ALL YOUR OLD CRAP RIGHT NOW! There, that should do it.

And finally, here is the last boil report ever: the gaping hole has turned into a handsome little scab. Now it looks exactly like a half healed-up wound from a glancing blow from a paring knife. On my hipbone. Not that I would know.

Have a happy weekend! I'm off to the thrift store to get Janelle her treats from America. Okay, FINE. Maybe I'll go to Target, too.

The Woman with a Dead Cat in her Purse

2010-03-10T00:49:00.013+09:00

Isn't that the GREATEST title ever? It's the name of a story I have in my head. About a woman with a dead cat in her purse, duh. Doesn't it give you that delicious shiver of anticipation and make you wonder a million things? Like, does she know the cat is in her purse? Is it fresh, or has it been there for a while? And what kind of a whackjob would think up a story like that? Well, I had a dream. About a woman with a dead cat in her purse, duh. I think it was me, but I'm not sure. I rarely remember dreams, so when I woke up and recalled this one in vivid detail, I knew that the story was speaking to me.

I doubt I'll actually WRITE the story, of course, because that's a lot of work. The fun of a story for me is finding out what happens. And once I know, the motivation for the hard labor associated with continuing to write wanes significantly. But it's a good story. I don't mind telling you the point of it; I'm not THAT lazy. Plus it's easy because the details are still pretty fuzzy. Sort of like a dead cat, hyuk, hyuk. So here it is: We all have a dead cat in our purses, all the time. What's important is not how much it smells, or how it got there, but what you do with it.

And, while you're pondering that, don't forget to enter to win some mystery won and a surprise from America! Enter by commenting here. I'll choose a winner by the end of the week. For those of you who are concerned that I don't have enough souvenirs from South Korea, not to worry! I have a whole kimchi pot full of won for the boys in our stored household goods, so they won't be subjected to a miserable, won-free existence in their later years. Enter away; you know you're salivating just thinking about the yellow slip!

Giveaway: Win some won!

2010-03-09T03:19:00.003+09:00

I find myself in possession of some leftover won, which is South Korean currency, for those of you not on the ROK. Since the thrift store won't take it, I haven't been able to figure out what to do with it, and it's been mocking me every time I open my top drawer. It's not so much that I want to go to the effort of finding a place to exchange it, but it's more than I'm willing to let go to waste.

So, I decided to give it away. If you are on a military base in South Korea and win the won, I'll even toss in a treat from America and make sure the package is big enough that you get a yellow slip in your mailbox when it arrives. To enter, just leave a comment on this post and make sure you leave your contact information if I don't already know who you are.

All the news that's fit to post

2010-03-07T04:30:00.021+09:00

Fit to post, that is, if you use the terms 'news' and 'fit' VERY loosely, indeed. First and foremost in everyone's mind, I'm sure, is the boil. It's good as new! I showed it to Lloyd this morning:

Me: Doesn't this look GREAT?
Lloyd: Relatively speaking.
Me (stung): What??!! It looks fantastic!
Lloyd: It looks better than before, but it's still hideous.

So that's all I have to say about that.

Moving on, we have spent a lot of time shuffling our Toyota minivan around from shop to shop. After having it in Korea for 2.5 years with minimal maintenance, it needed a little work. We took it into the dealer first. I'm thinking they might be getting a little desperate what with the whole recall thing because the first thing they said after they had put her up in the stirrups and looked at her private parts was, 'Maybe you should buy a new Toyota.' Now, I know we have the Fred Flintstone version of the Sienna but telling us our 12-year old Toyota is ready for the scrap heap is probably not the best way to sell us a new one. But maybe that's just me? In the end, Lloyd took it down to the local Dirty Joe Mechanic shop and they fixed it up real nice for about a fifth of the dealer quote.

My own reintegration to American society is going, um, not exactly seamlessly. My driver's license from three bases ago expired while we were at Osan, and apparently I will be required to take both the written and practical tests to get a new one. Because I am both infuriated and lazy, and also an exceedingly poor parallel parker, I haven't done it yet. This forces me to be less cavalier about traffic laws than I have perhaps become accustomed, coming from Korea where stop signals are optional at best, so as to avoid having to give Officer Friendly a sob story about why I am driving around with no license. I COULD curtail my driving, I suppose, but I'm not about to cut out any thrift store trips. I'm barely making my quota as it is.

I am absurdly pleased with myself for having acquired a cell phone, courtesy of my mother, but I had a ridiculously difficult time programming it online. I could almost hear myself muttering about newfangled contraptions and kids these days.

Also befuddling are the nosy old ladies here. The problem is that I can understand them, leaving me completely strategy-less. I've complained about the Korean ajimas before, and deservedly so. One of my friends, a pediatrician, for Pete's sake, was once practically chased home from a walk with her baby in a front carrier by a nosy old Korean woman shouting, 'Baby cold! Baby cold! Go home! Bad mother!'. The busybodies here can't really compete with that, but blowing past them while saying 'Good morning' with a big bright smile doesn't deter them. Actually, maybe it would. Or I could pretend not to speak English! I'm totally going to try that next time. I was at the park the other day and Shane was running with a stick, and this ajima wannabe kept going on about how nervous she was to watch him and how dangerous it was, even if it wasn't as bad as running with scissors. It wasn't even a sharp stick. Does she even know any little boys? THEY RUN WITH STICKS. It's like their job. I can always think of tons of things to say afterwards, like, 'Better not watch, then', or the old standbys, 'Thanks for your concern', and 'I'll give that the consideration it deserves.' At the time, though, I just stood there, silently, until she went away. So that worked out well.

Lloyd has been working like crazy fixing things around here. He's fixed the floor and revamped the fish pond, and now he's working on the gutters and eying a few other projects. He's VERY handy and he can't sit still for for than a millisecond so I'm not sure how this retirement thing is going to work out for him. I'm thinking of hiring him out to the neighbors to keep myself in thrift store funds.

Weston and Shane have been having a great time playing outside now that they have a yard to run around in. They would be out there all day long if they didn't need to come in for snacks. They work in the garden with Grandma, look for bugs and worms, throw the ball for the dog, who may or may not run after it, and run around with sticks. Sometimes they even whack each other with them. Oh, the HORROR!!!! They jump in the mud and throw rocks. Take that, snoopy old cranks! And while I'm at it: ne ŝovu la nazon en fremdan vazon, plendaĉa sinjorino!

Aaaaaand, that's all the dirt for now. I do plan to be a little more blogular, but I have had a little trouble this week. I have been really wiped out, I think from the multiple boil medicines, and haven't had enough energy to get into the melee around the computer and jockey for my turn.

I know, I know, enough with the boil already, right?

2010-03-02T07:08:00.014+09:00

Believe me, I'm way more sick of the boil saga than you are. If I hear any complaints, I'm totally putting pictures up, I swear. As it turns out, Lloyd has a similar affliction. He had been working on the floor, and had chafed his left leg, which subsequently grew a nasty looking little boil. He had a fever and his whole leg was red. Mine, on the other hand, was much improved, if still ugly.

The other day, I went out for a leisurely 'run' and by 'run', I mean I panted and gasped around the block a few times, feeling virtuous and athletic. The second I walked in the door, I was practically assaulted with this:

Lloyd: I'm going down to the ER at the base. You should go too. Let's go together.
Me: What?! I'm not going down there! My boil is getting better, I already popped it. You go.
Lloyd: It will be a good chance to spend some time together.
Me: Get off my case. I'm not wasting a half a day down there for nothing.
Lloyd: Fine. Don't come crying to me when you die of sepsis. Goodbye.
Me: Well, don't be so pissy about it. What do you care?

You can see what happened, right? Between them, Lloyd and my mother bullied me into going down there to the ER at the closest base. All the way, I was fuming, hating myself for letting him push me into something I didn't want to do, sure that the trip was useful for him but pointless for me. Except for all that quality time together, of course.

So down we went, blowing an entire afternoon. I was SO SURE they were going to tell me my boil was healing fine and I should go home. And guess what? Lloyd and my mother were right, can you believe it? That almost NEVER happens!

They shot me full of crap and sliced a giant hole in me so they could scoop out this nasty old crinkly mass of goo, about the size of an apricot pit, leaving a depression the size of small plum. Then they hosed out the hole and shoved a bunch of shoelace-like packing in there, and told me I had to come back EVERY DAY to get it repacked until it heals from the inside out. Otherwise it will heal over the pocket and I'll have a big dimple there. Then they gave me some hard-core painkillers and some enormous blue-green antibiotics that I have to choke down for TEN DAYS. Lloyd got a similar treatment, only his boil was much more petite than mine and his wound is far less hideous. I know it sounds super freaky that we both got boils at the same time, but apparently they are super common, and can pop up out of nowhere, for no obvious reason, and get huge really fast, and it's actually no more than a mild coincidence that we had one at the same time. The medic said that they see about fifteen cases every day, frequently on soldiers where their backpack straps rub, or on belt lines.

The next day we dutifully trotted down there to get repacked and ~~blew another entire morning~~ enjoyed some more couple time. Luckily, the healing is going nicely and we were overjoyed to find out that now we can jam big wads of string into our brand new body cavities all by ourselves. This, as you might imagine, is vile beyond words, making me wonder if I should have gone with the sepsis. Or the souvenir divot. It's still not too late!

Beach

2010-02-28T09:17:00.013+09:00

You may or may not be pleased to know that I am, in fact, not dead. Yet. It makes me giggle to gross you guys out but I try my hardest to model my nicest manners whenever I can muster them up, especially now that Weston can read, so I will spare you the play-by-play of the boil-bursting episode. Let me just say, though, that cheesecake with strawberry sauce is probably ruined for me forever. Also I may be blind in one eye. It's too soon to tell.

Potentially more deadly than the giant suppurating carbuncles of doom, however, was the six day 'vacation' with Weston, Shane, my mother, my sister, her daughter and her ~~miniature Godzilla~~ charming twenty month old son. Seriously, I thought I would expire from exhaustion just watching my sister. She was constantly lunging after him, her face was haggard, and there were always raisins stuck to her pants. Not an especially good look, if you were wondering.

'What is wrong with this kid?' I asked myself from my comfortable vantage point as the mother of an oh-so-mature almost three year old. Until I went back and read about the times I was handily humiliated at the post office, the office party, the barbecue, the boss' house, and the sidewalk. Then I was a little bit more understanding, but I'm still pretty sure Shane never attacked a pack of other kids with a kite, or kicked them until they ran away, or pig-piled them while evilly chortling. It could be because I kept him tied up in the closet for about eight months, but I prefer to chalk it up to his inherently better nature, or perhaps to my superior parenting skills. The other kids, including Shane, were surprisingly tolerant of the tiny tyrant, and didn't once smack him back, despite what must have been a major temptation. Lucky for Teddy, he's a cute little monster.

We hit all the hot spots of the Northern Oregon Coast: the Tillamook cheese factory, Fort Clatsop and the pizza place on the corner. Okay, we went to the pizza place twice. Whatever. We went to the beach seventy zillion times and ate forty bucks worth of candy from Bruce's. On the way home we stopped overnight to visit Aunt Ina in Portland and visited the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry (OMSI).

And now we're back. The floor Lloyd did while we were gone is gorgeous; I have a vanload of wet filthy clothes; and Jennifer is probably crumpled up at home like a wrung-out rag, waiting for Monday when she gets a nanny day. And there are sure to be tons of new things at the thrift store! It's good to be home.

The best laid plans

2010-02-21T14:41:00.004+09:00

What is it again that paves the road to hell? Best laid plans? Good intentions? Whichever, because I have all of that stuff in SPADES. Tomorrow, my sister and I are taking four children, two minivans, one mother and 800 cubic yards of supplies (ramen noodles, bubbles, peanut butter, etch-a-sketches and wine, along with a few other, less important things) to the coast, where we will meet up with two aunts to enjoy the February weather and the sand and surf. While we are gone, Lloyd will be moving about a million pounds of furniture, ripping up carpet, tearing out the hideous asbestos-laden tile underneath it, and refinishing the fir floor that is the bottom layer. What could possibly go wrong?

Oh, AND I have two giant boils for which I cannot receive medical attention unless I waste a half a day at the emergency room because after four business-hour phone calls, multiple web attempts, three emails and an aborted 'live chat', we have so far been unable to change our medical benefits to the appropriate status so that I can go to a regular doctor. Or at least one that is desperate or altruistic enough to accept the poor substitute for health care coverage that is foisted on military families. This is called 'Tricare', if you are lucky enough to be unfamiliar with it. I could, of course, go to a military facility. The question is, do I want to die at the hands of a military quack, or would I rather keel over and have a stroke from the skyrocketing blood pressure associated with trying to even SEE a civilian quack? Or just wait and die from the untreated boils? It sure is great to have so many choices. I'm tempted to put up a poll so you guys can help me make up my mind but I think I better go to bed. I can't be sure but I think I might possibly be starting to get just the slightest bit irrational, and that's no good when you're trying to make such major decisions. Or when you're setting out on the highway to hell. There's plenty of time for that when we get there. See you in a week or so! If I'm not dead, I mean. Of course. But if I am I will be so totally pissed if you don't all come to my funeral. Now I'm starting to scare myself. You can't really die from boils, right? RIGHT? Okay, I'm going to bed for real this time. I mean it. Right now. Goodnight.

What, are you still here? I said I was going to bed, and I meant it. Seriously.

Progress

2010-02-18T07:58:00.008+09:00

Today I am pleased to announce that I am finally starting to really believe that I'm really back home: Bossed around by sister? Check. Thrift store clothes and hand-me-ups piling up faster than I can wear them? Check. Dad nitpicking my writing attempts? Check. Mom giving me the stinkeye for crumbs on the counter and naked children? Check! If I had a Magic Eight Ball it would totally be saying 'All signs point to yes'. We all know that a toy that exists solely in my imagination would never lie so it must be true.

Now that I have had a chance to catch my breath a little, I fear I might have left out some salient points in my previous post where I was comparing the relative merits of Korean Air and United Airlines. I know this because I have been laying awake at night thinking about it. It drives me crazy when I think I have left something out or used a badly constructed sentence or a less than optimal word. It's actually possibly slightly obsessive (see all those '-ly' words all in a row? Sure to elicit a comment- CHECK!) In fact, I know it is, because one time in about 1990 I used 'prescription' when I meant 'subscription', and I STILL THINK ABOUT IT.

Anyway, she typed, dragging her attention back to the matter at hand, now that I'm in a one computer/three addict house, the situation around the singularity can get a bit dicey and I might have been rushed off the computer at icepick point before my thoughts were fully unveiled. But after I've had a few nights to ruminate over the issue, I've come to the logical conclusion: A new reality show! You take any random KAL trans-pacific flight and a similar United flight (or any other airline if you're really feeling saucy) and give them some zany in-flight challenges to overcome while still fulfilling all the standard responsibilities. For the opener, the teams would have to design and then make a gown for an extravagant wedding and simultaneously deliver twin lambs. KAL would kick United ass, because I swear, those flight attendants keep springing fully formed out of the overhead compartments or something, each one more charming and accomplished than the last. They would have that mother sheep parked on a business class seat with their arms up inside before the beleaguered United crew could even adjust their trusses.

Sadly, the reality show idea is perhaps not an entirely practical one for security reasons. Most of my challenges involve sharp implements and/or fire, but wouldn't it make an outstanding series of commercials? I can picture it now: the smiling KAL crew is turning backflips down the aisle and building a go-kart in the galley while their rivals lumber around, banging into each other with stupid looks on their faces. If anyone from the KAL marketing department is reading this, my ad concepts are available at a low, low price and an advantageous exchange rate. Rest assured, there's plenty more where this one came from. Call me!

The Longest Birthday

2010-02-14T00:47:00.012+09:00

Geez, where to start? Not at the beginning, that's for sure. It bores me half to death just thinking about it. Maybe with the pictures. I tried to put them in chronological order but this stupid program rearranges them randomly, as far as I can tell. SO, the one of the truck is the first glimpse of our very own moving truck taken out of our former dining room window. It was a glorious sight, let me tell you. Then the boys sitting on a packed box in our former living room, then the boys in our former hotel room, then Shane in the snow on our former sidewalk on our last day at Osan.

Missing photos include our last meal at our former Chili's, our enormous pile of bags, our sumptuous feast at the McDonald's at the Tokyo Airport, and our luxurious United Airlines accommodations. I had intended to document all these important milestones, of course, but I lost my camera somewhere between the last trek in the snow and the enormous pile of bags and have just now unearthed it, so sadly, these few will have to suffice.

Our trip was long but relatively uneventful. It was my birthday, you know. It was my birthday when I got up at 4:45 a.m. (note: military time has been retired here at Stories from Korea). It was my birthday at 5:30 p.m. when we left Japan. It was my birthday after we flew for 8.5 hours and arrived on the west coast at approximately 9 a.m. It was my birthday when the boys crashed at 6 p.m. And when they woke up at 10:34 p.m. for about 4 hours? STILL MY BIRTHDAY. I milked it for all it was worth: 'Honey, Shane has to poop. Can you take him while I eat these fries? It's my birthday, you know'; 'Honey, you sit next to that guy with the typhoid because it's my birthday and I don't want to die today'; and 'Don't forget it's my birthday, can I have your drink? I dropped mine on the floor all over your backpack.' Not much, I know, but I have always been a take-what-I-can-get kind of girl.

It wouldn't have been quite such a long birthday had we been able to fly direct from Seoul and not change in Tokyo, but we had to fly United instead of Korean Air, and United doesn't go direct. Lloyd and I were both apprehensive and with good reason. Me because United Breaks Guitars, and Lloyd because he really likes the lithe Asian babes that are the flight attendants on Korean Air. There's like a million of them and they're there to help you out at the drop of a chopstick. United, not so much. The cabin crew consisted of a stooped old crank who closely resembled one of those grumpy old man Muppets, and a woman who had to have been Miss Dairy Maid of 1942. Instead of fetching us hot towels and cunning little toys for the boys, they strung up some kind of curtains over six rows of seats and closeted themselves for hours. But they did rally to give us the most vile breakfast I've ever seen, and I'm pretty old, and a product of public education. Lloyd's descriptions would be MUCH less flattering than mine, so don't even think about asking him.

But now we're done, and here we are. I still can't believe it. Happy Birthday to me!

Giddy

2010-02-13T11:11:00.002+09:00

I am giddy, my friends. Giddy with delight and sleep deprivation after the long, strange trip home. It was not without incident, of course, and I am just itching to tell you all about it. But alas, not tonight. I should have done it earlier, but I couldn't resist the siren song of the Goodwill and I blew all my writing time buying shirts without dryer holes and completely unnecessary toys.

So, that's all for tonight- I'll try to post the rest tomorrow, and if you don't like it, you can just shut it. You know who you are. Helen and Lauren, that's so everyone else knows who you are too.

Moving Day Photos (not for the squeamish)

2010-02-03T07:40:00.004+09:00

I found my camera and was moved to put up a few pictures after I dumped the toaster upside down to empty the crumbs. Note the telephone for scale.

The other picture was taken in the part of the house formerly known as the dining room, and is of the pile of stuff that the movers are NOT taking. We hope.

Okay, FINE

2010-02-02T10:59:00.003+09:00

Some of my most ardent fans have been asking, nay BEGGING, for me to do a new post. Okay, FINE. It was my sister and I'm pretty sure she mostly wants me to tell you about her new blog, The Way of the Woo. If you know my sister, you know she is VERY clever and talented, and perhaps, just the teensiest bit bossy. If you don't know her, you can check out her art here. There, Jennifer, are you happy NOW?

And, moving on, things around here are, well, moving on. The packers come tomorrow to gather all of our household goods. They pack like lightning and you have to move fast to keep them from packing your kitchen garbage, keys and passports. It's especially challenging here, because they don't understand when you say, 'No! Don't take the goldfish!' or, 'Ack! That's my dirty laundry, and put that pot roast down!' I wanted to take some pictures of the house and all our piled up junk for your viewing pleasure, but of course I can't find the camera.

We had our housing pre-inspection yesterday. If you haven't lived in military housing, this is where they come and look around and point out all the things you have to clean up before you can move: The scribbles on the wall, the dried slime on the rug, and the shaggy carpet of dust on the ceiling fan blades. Anyway, she came in and looked around and immediately assumed that we had already shipped our good furniture out and were using ratty loaner junk. Sadly, however, this is not the case. The ratty junk is, in fact, our actual belongings, and once I informed her of this, she slunk out quickly, probably good and embarrassed. So that worked out well. Sorry, Korean housing lady, better luck next time!

Let's see, what else? We will be computer and phone free after today so you might not hear from me for a while. We will also be television, book and toy free, so that's probably going to be super fun. Someone did loan us a car starting tomorrow so we can just go cruising Osan to entertain ourselves. If I don't shrivel up and die from having no computer, see you in America!

Sporadic

2010-01-27T07:03:00.003+09:00

Hey everyone,

Just a little public service announcement: Stories from Korea will be kind of sketchy at best and non-existent at worst for the next few weeks as we get packed up and move, at which point they will become equally ridiculous stories from the USA. The blog name and URL will remain the same for now. I'll try to spare you all a future sob sister post about how much I will miss all my Osan friends but I can't make any promises. Smell you later, Osan!

Junk Mail

2010-01-26T07:01:00.003+09:00

Want to get rid of all that junk mail in your mailbox? The catalogs, the coupons, the 800 pieces of junk mail the average home receives every year? It's actually surprisingly easy. Contacting six or eight organizations will stop the vast majority of it. Heather at The Greenest Dollar has a great post up with directions on how to do it. Click here to read it, then spend a few minutes and save a lot of trees, emissions, and landfill space. And tell all your friends!

Pantry Scramble

2010-01-24T11:31:00.007+09:00

As we get ready to move, cooking gets more and more challenging. Some of you might be familiar with the game of pantry scramble. The goal is to make edible meals out of what's left in your house, leaving as little as possible to throw away at the end. I am not especially good at it but am trying very hard to win. On deck tonight: tuna fish and garbanzo beans in barbecue sauce, wrapped up in tortillas and dusted with allspice, served with brussels sprouts and barley.

In what surely must be a bizarre coincidence, we are sick again. I was so sick, in fact, that I had to default on a margarita night at Chili's, and that's bad. Lucky for you, there is no poem this time. You're welcome. Not because of any particular empathy for my readers, mind you, but because the poem would be exactly the same, and where's the fun in that? But there's always a silver lining, right? Sure, it's a teeny, tiny, barely glimmering silver-ish lining, but it's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, I always say. And here it is: extra pantry scramble points, because I got to drink the ginger ale that had been hanging around in the fridge from the last time we were sick. Otherwise, it would have been doomed to the dumpster for sure. Hooray!

In other moving related news, I have been to the library for the last time. Lloyd has to check out at the library, and after that's done I can't check out any more books. Out of the last batch, 'Open' by Andre Agassi was definitely the best. At first I thought I wouldn't bother getting it because I had already seen the good stuff on the internet: his hair weave, the drugs, and the marriage to Brooke Shields. But I picked it up anyway and was glad I did. It's a really good read and an excellent primer on how NOT to raise your kid. A definite do-read if you get a chance.

And, here's a link to an American cartoonist living in Korea that my Osan friends might like called Roketship. If you don't live in Korea, you probably won't get the jokes. But if you've ever lived here, they are sadly hilarious. And that's all for this Sunday. I hope you are having a great weekend, free of vomit and full of delicious meals!

Flying

2010-01-20T05:47:00.000+09:00

Last weekend Lloyd and I went flying. He has been going up occasionally but I hadn't been in ages. I don't really love flying; I get airsick easily and I don't like the ever-present thought of crashing. But he talked me into it, so we scattered some Cheerios on the floor for the boys in case we didn't make it home and soared into the wild ~~blue~~ yellow-gray yonder. We flew around the base and our little local town until I was pretty sure I had to vomit.

I tried to figure out how to put captions or mark on the pictures on my fancy Mac but had no luck at all, so here are a few notes:

1. Our apartment building is the tallest building in the top of the photo that also shows the airplane wheel.

2. The Korean man is the maintenance guy at the flying club.

3. Despite my professional-aviatrix-like appearance, I actually have absolutely no clue how to operate my own headphones, let alone any other airplane-related equipment. Including the seatbelt.

The Lamest Thing Ever

2010-01-17T16:55:00.023+09:00

You might remember a satirical little essay I wrote a while ago, called 'Tensions', about the ongoing battle between me and my jeans. At the time I found it quite clever and entertaining. Today, however, I am no longer amused. Today, I had to go to the BX and pay FULL CLEARANCE RACK PRICES for three pairs of new, next-size-up pants, mere weeks before I return to my Mecca, the land of plentiful Goodwills. I think this is the worst day of my life. I care not at all about needing bigger pants. In fact, I am surprisingly pleased with them. They're quite sassy. It's just that I had hoped to hold out until we got out of here, but the pants apparently did not get the memo.

I was down to four pairs: the ones that ripped at the library, a pair of baggy bleach-stained black sweatpants, and two pairs of five-year old Old Navy cords, of which one had paint stains. And, of course, the three pairs of jeans I can barely squeeze into and no longer want to wear because of the pinching. But those ones don't count. Well, okay, if I'm going to tell the WHOLE truth, the ratty cords were getting a little snug, too. Oh sure, I could take the pinching as a warning sign that something is seriously wrong and go on a ~~crash diet~~ sensible eating plan until the pants fit properly again. But I'm a practical girl, and that's really not gonna happen.

What really chaps my hide, besides pinchy pants, is that three new pairs of pants cost SIXTY DOLLARS! Outrageous! For sixty bucks I could get between eight and twenty pairs of pants at Goodwill, and some of them would still have the tags on. Then I wouldn't even care if I spilled paint or bleach on them, or if I busted out of them. In fact, I would welcome it, because then I COULD GO SHOPPING AGAIN. I know that an average of twenty dollars per pair of jeans/pants is cheap for a non-thrift store venue, and I have had good luck in general with finding clothes I like at reasonable-compared-to-other-new-stores-but-not-compared-to-thrift-store prices at the BX, so really I should just shut up and happily wear my sassy-larger-than-usual new pants. BUT I CAN'T.

I don't LIKE the BX, of course. Don't get me wrong here. I have plenty of complaints about AAFES: They run out of the most ordinary things like fluoride-free toddler toothpaste, number 10 envelopes or the crappy but only variety of water processed decaffeinated coffee available anywhere. Then it's weeks or months, or NEVER when they get restocked. AAFES is very weird and annoying, if you're not familiar with it. It's the retail service for the military (except for groceries, which is another freakish patron-screwing agency called DeCA) and it's part of the government with a General in charge and everything. They claim to return all their profits into base programs, but they'd just as soon hose you over as look at you. The local manager has little or no discretion about what to stock; they get a 'set' of goods that depends on how big the base population is and some little formula they use. So even though 95%+ of the Osan population lives in apartments, they have tons of space devoted to garden sheds, giant patio furniture, hoses and lawn mowers. And wait, I'm not done! There's WAY more!

Wow, I don't know how that happened. I started talking about my pants and all of a sudden I veered off onto a completely irrelevant rant about the BX. Hey, do you think maybe it's time for me to get out of here? Also, I DEFINITELY need some ice cream right now. So, anyway, I came home and put on one of my new pairs of jeans to go to the commissary. I used to wonder why people would go out and buy bigger clothes instead of just going on a diet so they could fit the ones they have, but now I know. Having new, slightly bigger clothes makes you feel nice and skinny, so you deserve that extra cookie and the third beer. Maybe even at the same time. AWESOME.

Let's see....

2010-01-15T08:03:00.016+09:00

Let's see, let's see, what's going on at Osan these days? Oh yeah, I know! We've had another one of those THINGS that we regularly despise. You can read about one here but basically the military is practicing in case the VC overrun us or something. I'm not really sure; I don't really pay that much attention except as it directly affects my life. And it does, believe you me. Lloyd is working long and hateful hours, from the early afternoon until sometime in the middle of the night, leaving me in sole charge of dinner and bedtime. Then he sleeps the morning away, leaving me alone and in charge of breakfast, lunch and all other daily activities. This gets a bit onerous, as you might imagine. Surprisingly, no one here cares AT ALL what I think.

Since he has to be all fresh and perky every afternoon, I have to get up when Shane wakes up, and he has been waking up a ton all week, probably because he's not used to me doing bedtime. I have these big huge circles under my eyes and I am exhausted. Yesterday, I was laying down, trying to get Shane to take a nap. He wasn't going for it and got up to play. I didn't want to get up, so I didn't. I just laid there, sort of dozing, sort of listening to what they were doing. I guess my dozing was a little better than my listening, because after a while, I heard them down the hall arguing about who had locked the door. Then the doorbell rang. I still didn't want to get up, and usually they run to answer the door, so I waited a minute. When they didn't dash to get it, I heaved myself up, grumbling under my breath about who would be ringing my doorbell. I looked out the peephole and saw some little kids. Figuring they would be easy to get rid of, I answered it and saw my own two children out there, one of them naked. Turns out they had decided to go next door to return a drawing the neighbor kids had left at our house, and if they hadn't locked themselves out I never would have known. Luckily they didn't see anyone but our next door neighbors and they're unlikely to rat me out, because I have the goods on them. Sometimes they feed their children store-bought bread instead of homemade, AND I heard the kids bicker once, can you believe that!?!?!?!? And that's all I have to say about that, capische?

In other non-negligent-parenting-related news, I just read possibly the worst book ever: 'Trial by Fire' by J.A. Jance. It was truly awful. Interestingly, J.A. Jance has a blog at Seattlepi.com and I recently read this post about how she gets nasty letters from readers telling her how much they hate certain books, and what a waste of their time that is. When I first read it, I totally agreed with her. But if I had spent my hard-earned money on a hardback copy of 'Trial by Fire' instead of checking it out of the library, I might have written her an angry letter, too. I also might have slashed her tires; that's how bad it was. I was going to do a whole review with all the things that are wrong with it, but it's so bad that I don't even have the energy to start. It's just horrible; DO.NOT.READ.

And, on the cape front, my ever-so-helpful sister sent me this link to capes for sale on Etsy. Over 1,200 capes! I'm sure one of them would suit me. But then she said that capes were really more for willowy people and someone like myself might want to consider another solution for flattering ripped-pants coverage. I'm not really sure what she meant by that, are you? Oh well; she says weird stuff sometimes. Check out the Etsy link and help me pick out a cape!

Cape Fear

2010-01-11T12:21:00.013+09:00

I really, really want a cape. That's not weird, right? Not a Dracula cape or some bogus magician's cape or a superhero cape, but a real George-Washington-Crossing-the-Delaware cape. Wouldn't that look AWESOME on me? Not in red and blue though; those totally aren't my colors. I was thinking more chocolate and cream, or chocolate and a soft apricot; what do you think? Ummm, chocolate and apricots, now I'm hungry. This isn't just some crazy whim, either. I have actually been coveting a cape for quite a while. I just happened to be reminded last night because I was watching the 'Seinfeld' where George's father is hanging around with a guy in a cape and Jerry and the gang all think wearing a cape is VERY strange. That's pretty rich coming from a guy that wears white sneakers with jeans every single day, now isn't it? But I'm a little nervous, because a cape IS a bit bold. I was thinking of having one made here. Right off base are a million tailors who will make anything you want. It's risky at best, though. This is the 'Land of the Not Quite Right' (I did not make that up, though I wish I had), and I have seen plenty of custom made garments that deserve the NQR label. I went to bed last night thinking about the cape.

And I woke up thinking about it. Then I got up and flipped on the TV so the kids would shut their gobs for twenty seconds and I could have some coffee and Facebook. To my dismay, there was a big warning not to drink the water. As it turns out, it was just a practice warning, and I felt a little sheepish for being worried about it. Baaaaaaaaah, baaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. But then I got to thinking: In a place where the water sometimes ISN'T safe to drink, where the elevators don't always work, where the washing machines have been known to catch on fire, and where the dryers eat holes in clothes, perhaps assuming the worst is a reasonable reaction. Oops, sorry! My short-timer's bitterness is showing again. I bet a generously cut cape would cover that nicely, though.

Once I found out that a shower probably wasn't going to poison me, I took one and went to get the mail and go to the library. The mail sucked: a crumpled up 'Redbook' magazine, which I barely even read anymore, and a reminder that I've been neglecting my Roth lately. So I don't get enough exercise, my hair has been out since 1989 and I'm going to die a bag lady, quite possibly soon. Blah blah blah, what else is new? Off to the library, where I returned 'Under the Dome' after reading about half of it. I still want to know what happens but not badly enough to slog through the last 500 pages. I'm sure I can find an outline of all the important spoilers online, and just for the record, I'm willing to bet there's cannibalism involved. I squatted down in front of the new book rack to pick up 'Bobby and Jackie: A Love Story' (every word true, no doubt) when I heard the terrifying and distinctive sound of my pants ripping right down the middle. Luckily, the book racks are always deserted so no one saw, but of course, I had to go home. Wearing pants with a rip down the crotch, in weather so cold that it turns snot into boogercicles. And me with no cape. I have never run so fast in my life.

Cold

2010-01-08T11:49:00.013+09:00

Okay, FINE. This post will contain no gratuitous Dick Cheney jokes, I promise. Especially not about his colon; that's just cruel and unusual punishment, and there are enough ugly things to think about without adding that, am I right? It's just that he's such an easy, beady-eyed, sanctimonious, icy-hearted, hypocritical target. Funny, I used to think George was the dumb one but at least he has the sense to keep his mouth shut. Either that or Laura has chopped him up with an ax and stuffed him in the basement bunker at the ranch. Either one is cool with me. Doh! There I go again. Sorry! No George jokes, either. And, I KNOW: Domestic violence jokes = not funny.

But I DO really want to tell you how cold it is here. HOW COLD IS IT? It's so cold that Dick Cheney has to.... oh, wait. Never mind. Sorry! I promised, and I mean to keep my word. It's so cold that I got boogercicles this morning when I walked to the BX. For real, and that's no joke. Can you believe that? Icy snot chunks right on the edges of my nostrils! I wonder when one of those dogs that pee outside by my deck will freeze itself to the ground with a stream of urine; now THAT would be something to see. I'm going to sit by the balcony door with a camera and a bucket of hot water; let me know if you want to get some beer and come hang out!

Sometimes

2010-01-06T21:49:00.008+09:00

Sometimes when people update their blog, they have exciting news to share. Sometimes they have a fun list of new blogs to for their friends and readers. Sometimes they have words of wisdom for those who might be considering a liver or colon cleanse. And sometimes, the same old post at the top of their blog is driving them insane and they have no good ideas so they have to post whatever ridiculous foolishness spews out of their fingertips. Not wanting to be one of THOSE people, I thought I would give the other ideas a shot.

Exciting News: Today I purchased a carton of half and half that has an expiration date that comes AFTER the day we leave here. I have been waiting for this day FOREVER! It's ultra-pasteurized, of course, but STILL.

New Blogs: We all know I am a blogaholic and I am ALWAYS looking for new blogs to read. If you have one I don't already read or know of some I might like, please share in the comments. And here are some new ones I've been reading lately:

Confessions from Household Six

Kimchi Mamas

Cliff Mass Weather Blog

Diary of a Sadman

Liver Cleanse: This is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard. And I live in Korea. With two small sons. And a pilot. How does this sound for funsies?Fast for a day or two, then drink a bunch of epsom salts in water and olive oil mixed with grapefruit juice, then check out your poop for green globules that are supposed to be cholesterol and/or toxins from your liver. Ummm, epsom salts! You can find out the whole truth here, but if you don't want to read all the gross details, I'll give away the secret. The excreted green globules are actually the result of ingesting large amounts of olive oil mixed with grapefruit juice! And, if you are really brave, check out the colon cleanse post. Here's a handy tip: unless you are Elvis Presley or Lindsay Lohan, your liver and colon do a very nice job of cleansing themselves and they will thank you for leaving them alone to do it in peace. Oooh, or Dick Cheney. I'm betting he could use some help with his colon because there is for sure something up there. I think it might be a giant stick, though. The cleanse would probable be overwhelmed when presented with Dick's colon, and my dad always says to take the time to find the right tool for the job. This one definitely calls for a chainsaw. Or a skidder.

Sprung

2010-01-03T19:03:00.011+09:00

So! I hope you are all having a fabulous new year. I am not a fan of resolutions, but I HAVE been trying to eat a little better and exercise more for several weeks now. The 'Osan 15' is a common phenomena here, so I am right in the thick of things. Well, let me rephrase that: I have heard rumors that perhaps I am not the only one carrying around a few extra margaritas, but I have seen no such evidence on any of my slim and statuesque friends, acquaintances or assorted Osan beauties. In any case, soon I will be in the land of Target and Goodwill and I will be ever so sad if I can't fit into the ratty cargo pants of my choice fifty-three times a week when I need to go shopping.

Tonight, Lloyd and I went to the BX and Chili's, which is the standard big night out on the town here at Osan. I sucked down my fair share of wings and a couple of margaritas, varying the position of the straw so as to cleverly avoid the tequila abrasion. When we got home, I virtuously pounded out some sit-ups, dips, push-ups, leg lifts and stretches. Don't I sound ATHLETIC? Hahahahaha, I totally have you fooled. You should see me, for real. Oh, how you would laugh. After that strenuosity, I didn't want to 'run' the stairs, so I jumped on the mini-trampoline for a while. And by 'a while', I mean about 2.5 minutes. But at least I wasn't smoking deep-fried twinkies, right? Hmmm, I wonder if anyone has tried that?

While I was jumping, Weston weighed in:

Weston: Mama, are you sure that trampoline is strong enough for you?

Me: Yes, I'm sure (pant, gasp)

Weston: Well, those springs have to work awfully hard. You're so HEAVY.

Me: It's fine.

Weston: But look how much they're moving! They go almost to the ground!

Me: Grrrrrrrrrr (pant, gasp)

Bring on the twinkies! I might as well load up; I'm going to die soon anyway. I didn't used to be so fatalistic but I recently had a VERY interesting conversation with Shane. He likes to rub my scars, scabs and rough skin with his grubby little paws. Yesterday he was trying to pick at a spot on my chin, and when I told him to stop, he replied, 'I'll pick your owies WHEN YOU'RE DEAD'. I'm not sure what he has planned but I might as well give up the jumping for the good of trampolinekind everywhere, since my days are numbered. I can see the headlines now: 'Police Baffled by Mysterious Scab Free Corpse; Trampolines Rejoice in Streets'. I just hope they don't try to pin it on the poor twinkies.

2010

2009-12-30T21:58:00.016+09:00

2010 is my year, baby! I can feel it. If you've been reading here for any length of time, you might have seen one or more of my escape attempts. They're sort of reminiscent of the castaways' efforts to leave Gilligan's Island. You might not be quite old enough to be a Gilligan's Island fan, so let me summarize, just in case: A small group of innocent victims volunteered for a short pleasant tour to an exotic location. Some of them HAD to go on the tour, because it was their job. The rest of them were just along for the ride. Alas, things did not go quite as they had expected: the weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed. Onto a deserted island, with a giant hole in the side. The boatmates, of varying attractiveness, intelligence, and temperament,made many, many, brilliant plans to get off the island, only to see them thwarted by ham-handed operator errors. Is any of this ringing a bell?

The similarities are striking, I think. All except the varying attractiveness intelligence and temperament part, of course. All the folks here in our little slice of paradise are exceptionally gorgeous and whip-smart, and super polite. Take my friend, Pam, for example. She just posted her Christmas pictures on Facebook, and she is a beaut, for sure. A right vision in her Christmas finery. All she needed was my festive Christmas ornament necklace and she could have been on the cover of Vogue. Hey, that reminds me! You guys are not going to believe this; I totally have to tell you! My Aunt Ina, who lives in the poshest part of Oregon, if such a thing can be said to exist, says that all the fancy gals in her town are wearing ornament jewelry! It's quite the trend among the smart set there. Can you believe how they ripped off my idea?!?!? They probably thought they would get away with it since I'm stuck on this ~~island~~ peninsula. Well, I'm onto them!

And I'm not done with Gilligan's Island, either. I just have to say here that they didn't have it so bad: there were plenty of coconut cream pies, stylish clean clothes and an efficient bicycle-powered dishwasher. The weather was beautiful, they had American radio and they were infectious disease free. Even the occasional visitor, some of whom looked exactly like one or more of them! I have none of those things here, people! And what I couldn't do with a body double, let me tell you. The possibilities are endless, and extremely intriguing. But you won't hear me complaining, no sir! Because this is the year I'm getting out of here. I know, I know, you're smart to be suspicious. I've been working on it for a while now, to no avail. You might remember the time I pretended I was crazy, or the time I tried to hitch a ride on Air Force One, or the time I seriously considered stowing away on our van as it headed out across the Pacific on a freighter, just to name a few zany episodes.

Hey, have you noticed how my thoughts are kind of wandering? That can be a sign of dementia, right? Maybe I should give that pretending to be crazy thing another go. I think I was really close to making that fly, don't you? It's my year, you know. And I'll try anything ~~once~~ twice.

Stories from Korea wishes you the very best 2010: May you have lots of pies, only good visitors and no midnight fire alarms.

Book Report

2009-12-30T09:38:00.005+09:00

Poor old Osan, I know I mostly write about the lousy things. But there are a few sweet bonuses here if you look hard. Really hard. One of them is the library- it annoys me that it doesn't open until 10 a.m., but it IS open every day, unlike many stateside public libraries. Our community is small and a lot of people just use the library for internet access. I go several times a week and I rarely see anyone else checking out books, but there are always a bunch of people on the computers. That's good for me, because I can often snap up brand new books I'd normally have to wait months to read. Some books I've recently read are Ted Kennedy's 'True Compass' and Patricia Cornwell's 'The Scarpetta Factor'.

I have been devouring mysteries since the second grade when I read every single Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew novel even though they scared me so much I had to have my mom walk me down the hall to go pee even during the day. I actually don't read much fiction anymore, and I don't even know why I read Patricia Cornwell at all. Her Scarpetta books suck and each one is more outlandish and ridiculous than the last. And yet, I keep picking them up, I guess hoping she'll come up with one that's mediocre like the first couple of ones she did. I find that's true of many of the detective series I've read, and I'm pretty sure I know why. Writing is hard. Even this stupid blog. This post, for instance, I've had in a draft for five days, and I'm going to publish it as soon as I'm done, even though it's not very good. So I can really relate to what those overburdened popular novelists are going through with their big fat advances. I did recently read an exception: 'U is for Undertow' by Sue Grafton. I've read every one of her Kinsey Millhone mysteries since she started with 'A is for Alibi'. The early ones were pretty good, but they started to deteriorate around 'H' and get pretty lame around 'N'. But 'U', the latest one is the best of the bunch, really outstanding. For a mass market mystery series, I mean. Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I'm a lowbrow reader, you should know that by now. Here's a partial list of the detective series I have read, so you can offer me suggestions for new authors, if you're so inclined. I didn't love all of these but I did at least finish most of them:

Sue Grafton (Kinsey Millhone)

Faye Kellerman (Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus)

Jonathan Kellerman (Alex Delaware)

J.A. Jance (J.P. Beaumont/Joanna Brady)

Nevada Barr (Anna Pigeon)

Patricia Cornwell (Kay Scarpetta)

Robert Parker

Dick Francis

Michael Connelly

Carol O'Connell (Mallory)

Ruth Rendell (Inspector Wexford)

Elizabeth George (Thomas Lynley)

Janet Evanovich (Stephanie Plum)

Dennis Lehane

Ridley Pearson

John Grisham

P.J. Parrish

Peri O'Shaugnessy

Kathi Reichs

Douglas Preston/Lincoln Child

Sara Paretsky (V.I. Warshawski)

Right now I am also reading Stephen King's latest giant novel, 'Under the Dome', also snatched from the new book shelf at the library. I passed up the latest Kingsolver for it, that's exactly how lowbrow I am. I would have taken them both; I do like a nice big stack of books but those two piled together are taller than my laundry mountain and that's a bit daunting even for me. Plus I think Kingsolver is overrated, though I did like 'Animal, Vegetable or Mineral'. I have read a lot of Stephen King and I can sort his books roughly into three categories: The Good (The Stand, It, The Talisman, Black House, The Green Mile, Firestarter, The Dead Zone, Bag of Bones, Christine, Duma Key, Misery, Pet Semetary, The Tommyknockers) The Bad (Cujo, Salem's Lot, Carrie, The Shining, From A Buick 8, Lisey's Story) and The Ugly (Needful Things, Insomnia, Gerald's Game, The Darktower/Gunslinger series, Desperation, Dreamcatcher, Rose Madder). For the most part, I think the 'Ugly' ones are the ones he wrote while in his coke phase and they are totally unreadable. The 'Bad' ones I just didn't like, or I thought they were too yucky. 'Under the Dome' is similar to 'The Stand', as they both focus groups of people who have been isolated in one way or another. I do like it, but I'm about a third of the way through it and it's getting pretty creepy in a 'Lord of the Flies' kind of way. Since I think Stephen King has a certain prescience and I live on a teeny tiny military base on a peninsula next to an evil empire, I am finding it increasingly alarming. I'll keep you posted, IF YOU CAN STAND IT.

Merry

2009-12-23T22:24:00.013+09:00

This is our last Christmas in Korea, so hurray! The season has gotten off to a slow start because we've been sick and grumpy. And in Korea.

But last night we went to the squadron Christmas party and it was awesome: tons of inappropriate behavior (not by me, this time), free lousy beer, karaoke renditions of a lot of old country songs, and a meal of 'Honey Grazed Ham'. What more could you ask for? I'm not really sure that they fed those pigs ONLY honey, because the truth in labeling laws here are pretty weak, but I really like to picture a field full of fat happy hogs slurping up honey off the ground. It sort of reminds me of myself, blissfully ~~drinking tequila off the~~ cleaning the floor.

The night started off with a bang. I was getting ready, and I went all out: the festive Christmas ornament necklace, eyeliner, shadow AND mascara, the works. I came out the bathroom and Weston was stunned:

Weston: Mama, you look brand new!

Me: Thanks, Sweetie.

Weston: Way prettier than regular!

Me: Thank you.

Weston: I really like the way you look. You look a lot more like Miss Janelle now. You look really different.

Ummm, okay, I think I get the picture: usually I'm a haggard wretch and but once I slop on a little pleasant-smelling oppression I look GREAT. Or not great, maybe, but a little more similar to my more attractive friend and neighbor. Thanks! I GET IT NOW. PLEASE STOP WITH ALL THE COMPLIMENTS. I'M BLUSHING.

Then, I won a ton of stuff in the raffle. Lloyd tried to stinge me out of tickets, but I wasn't falling for it, and it was a good thing. I won three blankets, and this little ceremonial Korean sword. I hate the sword, but luckily one of my friends was fond of it and I swapped it for some way better stuff that I would describe except for it might crimp my re-gifting style.

Tonight is Christmas Eve and we will open a few presents, then tomorrow we'll open the rest, then attend our final Christmas party in Korea. Now, that's merry! Merry Christmas to all of you from Korea!

Tequila

2009-12-22T21:01:00.005+09:00

I think we call agree that tequila is an extremely useful substance. Versatile, too. There's nothing better if you're looking to land yourself in a filthy bathtub with abrasions around your waist from diving through a very small bathroom window after running down a dark alley after a guy in a bronco offered you some wine coolers while he was chopping coke on a box of bullets with a giant hunting knife. Not that I would know. His name was Lloyd, too, isn't that a freaky slash creepy coincidence?

Anyhoo, that was a long time ago, and after that I wasn't much of a tequila fan, not that I'm any too picky about filthy bathtubs. But here at Osan, the best drinking is at the Chili's, and the wine selection is weak to say the least. So margaritas it is, and with a lot of effort, I have overcome my tequila aversion. Last night, I sat there for several hours with one of my favorite friends, and sucked down quite some volume of frozen green happiness.

After a few, I noticed something funny: I had a stinging sensation right in the middle of my upper lip. Right there where teeny tiny babies get their nursing blisters. The parallels astound, but I won't go into that here. I got to thinking, and when that happens, you know a brilliant idea is soon to follow.

So, here it is, and it kind of matches up nicely with my latest cleaning scheme. The tequila abraded my lip because it's caustic, right? Especially when you mix it with lime juice and salt! And I'm always looking for a way to clean the grout, the burnt on crud on the stove top, and the disgusting ring in the washing machine. Well, okay, that's a lie. I really couldn't care less about any of that. But I MIGHT try to get it off now that I have this tequila idea. We could share: one shot for the floor, one shot for me. One shot for the floor, two shots for me. It's not THAT outlandish; people do use vodka to clean, you know. You can read about it here. That would never work for me, though. I've worked really hard but I still haven't managed to vanquish my longstanding vodka phobia. I'm definitely willing to give it a try, but someone better come check on me in a few days.

Fear

2009-12-18T07:30:00.016+09:00

I am so very relieved; there has been no apparent backlash against my anti-poetry tirade of the other day. I keep whirling around, trenchcoat flapping, to make sure there are no mad poets skulking around as I go about my daily business. So far, so good! I'm not THAT worried, I have an idea that any poet worth his or her salt would really stand out here. They're all dirty, with long scraggly hair and ugly little mustaches, right? And that's just the women. Hyuk, hyuk. There is definitely no one like that around here, so I'm moving on with my life free of a pervasive fear of deadly poets.

It's a good thing, too, because I don't have the energy to be afraid. Last night, Shane was awake in the night for hours. From approximately 01:22:17 to 03:34:22. We don't leave him alone to scream, though I can certainly understand the temptation, and so Lloyd was in there with him. Until Lloyd had to go to work at 02:45 in the icy snow, on foot, at the behest of a person I will call, ummm, 'Dick Schmucky'. It wasn't one of our Osan Schmuckys, of course, as they are all kindhearted souls who hand out fine chocolates and big fat cigars instead of late night assignments, but rather one of the Schmuckys from elsewhere. Lloyd couldn't drive to work because our van is on the slow boat to America (I would be dying of envy, or stowed away, but I get very seasick) and he couldn't bike because it was snowing and he has a road bike with skinny tires. The alarm blared, Lloyd had to get up, and Shane was still awake. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep while I lay frozen in position, terrified to move for fear the noise would start again.

We knew in advance that he was going to have to go in and also that Shane was likely to wake up, so we had a plan: Lloyd was going to sleep in the boys' room hoping to get Shane right back to sleep, because it seems to work better for him than for me, while I slept in our room with the alarm clock. It would go off, wake me, and I would go wake Lloyd up. All these complicated logistical arrangements are necessary because the last time Lloyd had to get up in the night to go to work, the alarm woke up everyone in the house except for him and I had to get up and shake him awake after I tried to flush the clock down the toilet to silence its hateful shrieking. Seriously, the sound is otherworldly. In fact, I call the thing 'the hateful clock' because it is so heinous. And, to make it better, we have two of them. They are atomic clocks, similar to this one, given to us several Christmases ago by my in-laws. Two of them, do you get it? One each, so that we can both get up on time, up and at 'em from our twin beds, located several rooms apart, right?

You can tell we need a lot of things here, but a new alarm clock is at the top of my list. Only not a regular, noise making alarm clock. I need something revolutionary: it should utilize some sort of pinching, poking or biting system designed to instantly wake Lloyd while simultaneously silencing his screams and dampening his thrashing so as not to wake me or the boys. I asked my Facebook friends for help, but they didn't really get what I was going for. One of my them did have a useful idea involving a stun gun and a gag. That might work, but I was thinking more of a timer-operated leg-trap type device. Oh, and he could sleep inside a soundproofed isolation pod. The in-laws would like that, and it would be easy to clean up the blood. I'm a little sleep deprived so my scheme could probably use a little work. As always, input is welcome here at Stories from Korea.

On Poetry

2009-12-16T08:29:00.006+09:00

Ever since I wrote the last post, I've been feeling a little guilty about my disdain for poetry. I realize I also insulted a large percentage of my friends and some wonderful bloggers that I don't even know, but funnily enough, that doesn't bother me a bit.

I was a little delirious, but I seem to recall expressing some full-on hatred for poetry, and that's probably not quite accurate. I would hate to be responsible for an entire genre jumping off a cliff, you know. I don't actually hate poetry. I just hate other people's poetry, just like everyone else does. There are a very few exceptions, of course. My favorite poem ever is 'Patterns' by Amy Lowell, and I can certainly appreciate a nice lowbrow limerick. Literary poetry is another story entirely; I'm far too obtuse. If you have something to say, just say it! Or don't, I don't care, but don't write some cryptic missive about it and expect me to enjoy puzzling over it or appreciate your use of some weird words that no one ever heard of, okay? Here, click on this. It's called 'Wonder' and it's a prize-winning poem. What the hell, right? Crazy. I wonder, all right. I wonder what the hell you're talking about. Only I don't care enough to figure it out. Why don't you just make it easy on all of us?

I like the idea of poetry, and I like the puzzle-like aspect of it, where you try to fit an idea into a certain format, like a sonnet: fourteen lines, ten syllables each and a certain rhyming scheme. But when I'm done, I certainly don't expect someone to READ it. Sheesh. I don't want to see your completed crossword puzzle, after all, no matter how big and complicated it is. I better shut up now; I don't want any angry poets to come beat me up.

Displacement

2009-12-14T10:07:00.006+09:00

Let me just admit right up front here that I am only writing this post so that the poem won't be at the top. The photo of Lloyd on Air Force One during President Obama's recent visit to Osan is completely irrelevant to anything I'm typing right now, or anything that might or might not be residing in my head. I simply can't stand to have a terrible poem at the top of my blog. What if some fancy publisher is clicking through blogs, looking for someone to give a multi-million dollar advance to for a memoir? When I look at new blogs, I always leave immediately if there's any kind of poetry, because I hate poetry. Someone with the refined taste of a publishing house would no doubt have similar feelings.

If you are, in fact, such a reader, please be assured that there is much more than bad poetry in my repertoire. I invite you to peruse the posts listed on the upper right, or read 'My Life in Cats', which I especially like, but alas, is neglected up there on the right because it is neither particularly funny nor objectionable. Under no circumstances should you click on any of the 'Good Reads' or 'All the Latest' because all those blogs suck. Trust me, you wouldn't want to give your hard-earned cash to any of those clowns. Sure, they're funny, touching, wise, whatever. They can't hold a candle to Stories from Korea, and don't you forget it!

The rest of you might be pleased to hear that we're on the mend. Unless I just called you a clown. Sorry! Did I write that out loud? It's the sickness; I just can't control myself. Wankers. Dammit! I have to go; they're at the door with the nets again. They're always after the tortured, brilliant artists; it's so typical.

Sick

2009-12-14T05:47:00.003+09:00

Don't say I didn't warn you! But at least it's short, right?

Woe to us, poor family

We've been sick an eternity

Coughing, choking, puking, more

Juice, tea, tissues galore

No wine, long sleepless nights

Grody meds and bitter fights

Hour upon hour of lousy shows

Day upon day of whiny no's

Meals are vile, drinks are worse

Why were we visited with this curse?

Alone, the laundry will kill me

What can it be, this vexing malady?

It's as bad as bad can be

It must be an Osan allergy!

Warning

2009-12-13T20:29:00.003+09:00

Just so you know, we've all been sick for about a million years. Fever, earaches, stomachaches, dizzy spells, and coughing. Even vomiting, and not the good kind. And here's the scary part: I have a strange compulsion to write a poem about it, so you might want to steer clear of Stories from Korea for a few days. I don't want you to get sick, after all.

Disorder

2009-12-08T06:21:00.013+09:00

I have decided I must have a syndrome. Everyone should have at least one, you know, and I've been looking for mine. Well, here it is: Order Aversion Syndrome (OAS). I'm pretty sure I've always had it, but new advances have allowed me to finally diagnose it. You might have it, too. In the hope that I can help others, I'll just tell you my story. I don't know how the disorder got started. My mother is tidy, my father is not untidy, my sister is ~~obsessively~~ extra-neat. My husband is ~~tidy~~ tidier than me, and so are my kids. For real, and that's bad.

My front closet floor is piled high with a mixture of shoes, boots, hats, coats, shopping bags and empty wine bottles. My pans are stored in three different places in the kitchen, intermixed with storage containers and mixing bowls. When I go to put one away, my disorder causes me to place it totally at random. I am unable to fold clothes or towels the same way twice. Sometimes I just shove things in drawers, of course, or just leave them in the laundry basket until Godzilla could hide in there, but sometimes I do fold. Usually when I'm trying to avoid something even more unpleasant. Because my disorder renders me unable to fold a series of items all the same way, my laundry stacks look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. This, as you might imagine, is very unsatisfying, thus reducing the probability that I will fold again anytime in the near future. See how insidious it is? My books are piled willy-nilly on bookshelves in four rooms. Amelia Bedelia might be next to 'Bowling Alone', or she might be next to 'Positive Discipline' or she might be next to 'Rocks and Minerals'. Who knows? The disorder makes it a crapshoot every time!

Oh, I've tried all sorts treatments for the disorder, believe you me. I've bought an organizer and scheduled tidy tasks: clean the bathrooms on Tuesday morning; mop the floors on Friday afternoon, and so on. I've tried the Flylady, and really, she just annoys me. I've borrowed a friend's labelmaker and labeled all the shelves and drawers. I swear, she made it sound like the thing had magical powers, but unfortunately, it didn't transform my home into a serene oasis of order and beauty, although I DID think I saw a golden unicorn dancing around behind the dusty blinds. I was going to link to her here but then I realized she might get mad at me for making fun of her labelmaker. To be fair, it's a LOVELY labelmaker and I'm sure that any less-than-optimal outcomes were solely the result of operator error. And, of course, I've devised all sorts of brilliant labor-saving cleaning schemes, for which I am STILL unrecognized by the Nobel or any other prize committee.

But now, I'm done. Done trying to fit in. Done trying to conform to your orderly world. I don't have to have neatly folded clothes or pans that can be located. It's just not for me. And if it takes too long to find Amelia Bedelia, maybe we'll find Mrs. Piggle Wiggle where it fell down behind Little House on the Prairie, and read that instead, and that's order enough for me.

Chores

2009-12-04T15:27:00.010+09:00

As you must surely be aware by now, Stories from Korea is an EXCELLENT place to get your handy household tips: parenting, cleaning, cooking, jewelry design and the like. I take this responsibility very seriously, indeed. Did I say 'responsibility'? I meant 'privilege', of course.

Our departure from Korea is getting ever closer. So close now that using months is meaningless, and a smallish number of days/weeks remain. Naturally, there are many, many things to do to get ready for our move, and I have been trying very hard to make sure that I am wasting my time doing jobs that will stay done rather than wasting my time doing work that will have to be done again tomorrow, or later today, such as dishes, laundry, cooking and bathing children.

This policy allows me to spend my time wisely, and gives me some unique opportunities. Think about it. Wouldn't you love to take that annoying ambulance with the ear-piercing siren that a so-called friend gave your kids and those holey sweatpants your husband insists on wearing every single day, and the book that will make you kill someone if you have to read it one more time (I'm talking to you, Toby's Alphabet Walk) and put them all in a giant trash bag, toss it in a dumpster and LEAVE THE COUNTRY? Oh, and the little pieces of toy sets that are scattered willy-nilly all over the house, the vase you've always loathed, the muffin pan with rust spots, and those pants that never fit right? Oh yeah, baby, buh-bye! And I have the perfect response if anyone starts asking nosy questions: 'Oh, no, Darling, it must have been lost in the move. Such a shame.' BWAHHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously, everyone should move away from Korea. I highly recommend it. And now, I must run. I'm out of trash bags and that simply will not do.

Festive

2009-12-01T16:36:00.017+09:00

I feel clever, oh so clever.....

It's Tuesday, so naturally I was at the Thrift Store bright and early this morning. I scored some nice goodies: a Michael Kors skirt for $3, a few books, some crafting stuff for Weston, and a pair of cap guns. As I was about to check out, a particularly entertaining customer was talking to the staff, so I pretended I was looking in the glass case by the register so I could keep eavesdropping. You would not believe the characters that hang out at the Thrift Store here. Oh. Well, maybe you would. Never mind. Anyway, as I casually looked over the jewelry, watches and little trinkets, I saw it. The most beautiful three-strand shell pink necklace the world has ever known. I waited ever so patiently for the clerk to come get it out of the case for me, and then quickly checked the price tag. How much would it be? Five bucks? Ten?! Would it fit in my holiday budget?? My quivering fingers turned over the tag. $1.50, my friends; can you believe it? I snapped it up so fast the crazy Thrift Store people thought I needed medication.

I tried it on as soon as I got it home. Perfection in pink, it was. But something was missing. Just the littlest thing. Something, something, what was it? And then my eye fell on some of my Christmas ornaments. The little flesh-toned orbs I bought last year for the nursing-themed Christmas tree that the Breastfeeding Support Group entered in the decorating contest at the Officer's Club. They are all different skin colors: bronze, tan, chocolate, peach and pink. The perfect matching shade of pink. Could it be? It's so crazy it just might work, I thought. Trembling, I affixed the ornament to the center of the bottom strand of the necklace. It was just right. I felt BRILLIANT. If you have ever met me, you know that I have no talent whatsoever and that this stunning success is something on the order of Scooby Doo proving Fermat's Last Theorem.

Of course, not everyone can pull off a Christmas ornament around her neck, but I'm just the girl to do it. And, there's not a lot of places you can wear something so fabulous, but I'm working up a list: The BX, the Commissary, the library, the playground.....

Four Eyes

2009-11-30T14:26:00.008+09:00

As you can clearly see, I've had glasses before. My mother was thoughtful enough to send me these pictures, and she practically DEMANDED that I put them up. Yes, I am aware that I am likely violating copyright law by doing so.

If you are reading this and you own the copyright to stacks of moldy class photos from Washington Elementary circa mid 1970's, MY MOTHER MADE ME DO IT! DON'T SUE ME! Now, don't get me wrong- I'm a big fan of copyright law but I think it might have gone a little too far lately.

I just read a post on Consumerist about some poor schmoe who went to the-store-who-must-not-be-named to get some photos printed for a relative's funeral. The photos included some school pictures, similar to mine above. Well, except for the glasses, probably. The store, despite all evidence to the contrary, apparently considers itself a beacon of justice in a cruel, dark world, and refused to print the school pictures, citing copyright law.

Also recently, I read about a woman who has been blogging as 'Frugalista' for some time, only to be sued by someone who just copyrighted the term. I didn't realize you could copyright words, but I definitely want to get some. I haven't decided which ones I want, because I especially like quite a few: 'cacophony', 'disingenuous' and 'martini' spring to mind. I don't want to be selfish and take more than my share, so I guess I should try to figure out how many words there are and then how many people might want some and divide to determine my personal quota. When I'm done, I'll let you know so you can get some for yourself, too. Not everyone will want some, so there should be plenty to go around.

Rats! Now I find myself in need of an ending, and nothing comes to mind. Oh! Someone else must have already taken the words I want. THAT'S the trouble. Greedy bastards.

Bad

2009-11-27T20:42:00.011+09:00

Well. Last night was a real winner, people. About twenty minutes after the boys went to bed, Shane came out saying, 'I hungwy'. So I gave him a piece of bread and sent him back to bed. Everything would have been fine, except:

Lloyd: Did you let him take that bread in there?

Me: Yeah, why?

Lloyd: What if he falls asleep with bread in his mouth?

Me: That's crazy! He's not going to fall asleep with bread in his mouth!

Lloyd: I've fallen asleep with food in my mouth lots of times.

Me: And you're not dead, right?

But, of course, because we are paranoid idiots, I had to go in and retrieve the bread. I had hoped he was asleep, but no such luck. He hadn't taken bite one of the bread, and was happily playing with it. I left, quiet reigned, and we waited a few minutes. Lloyd went in a little later and came out with the bread, now broken into pieces, and tossed it in the trash. The wailing started, and Shane came back out wanting his bread back. I gave him a new piece but that just made it worse, because the new piece was not properly broken. Right about now you might be wondering why we did not just make him go back to bed and go to sleep. This just proves you know nothing about small children. But we also live in fear that his high-pitched shrieks might wake Weston up, since they share a room. So it's 'Yessir, yessir, three bags full' and it's a small price to pay. Thank you for keeping your opinions to yourself.

You know what comes next, right? Yep, I fished the precious broken bread out of the garbage. Just then one of our more well-groomed neighbors knocked on the door, wishing to borrow an iron and ironing board. Standing there with bread crumbs and coffee grounds dripping from my hands, I had to confess the truth: We do not own an iron. There, I said it. And I'm not ashamed. Just don't tell anyone, okay? I'm not sure he believed me, but it's totally true. I can't even remember the last time we had one. And I have to say, I haven't missed it, not once. In fact, I'm thinking of getting rid of the vacuum cleaner, too.

As it turns out, Shane was unable to sleep because he was having bad dreams about the 'ghost train'. I believe this is his catchall phrase for anything scary, but I'm not entirely certain. The whole night was pretty bad. Luckily Weston was hopped up on Benadryl and didn't wake up at all. He had a huge ugly swollen upper arm from his shots a few days ago, but it seems to be improving now after a trip to the ER. Today we will be making dreamcatchers and 'No Bad Dreams Allowed' signs. Wish us luck!

Oops, I did it again

2009-11-25T11:57:00.011+09:00

Ta-da! Here it is: Turkey 2.0. My turkey roasting skills are obviously in high demand, because I got to do another one, this time for Lloyd's squadron Thanksgiving party. It was quite tender and delicious, because I roasted it upside down like my father told me to. He was quite cross because he didn't get any credit in the original turkey post, but here he gets his rightful due. The innards were thoughtfully removed for me this time, so there was no chance of a repeat of the giblet bag fiasco. And we can all be grateful for that on Thanksgiving, because those things are NASTY.

I know it doesn't look too good, but I had to carve it up and put it in a serving pan anyway, so nobody but you lucky Stories from Korea readers got to see it. Although, really, why are looks so important? Can't a turkey be good enough with what it has on the inside? I just think it's so unfair that the most attractive birds get the best parties, while the more homely ones get stuck with the second rate affairs. The pretty ones get all the perks: gracing the corner office instead of the dingy cubicle, going to the fancy Ivy League school instead of the broken down public university in Podunktown. And let's not even talk about the accessories. Why do they even make those frilly leg bloomers? Only about 2% of the turkey population could even hope to wear those. Why can't they make something an average bird can wear? I blame the media, like usual.

But not me! It's the insides that count, as long as the innards are gone, of course. I looked beyond the superficial appearance. I dug deeper and truly appreciated the gorgeous and Rubenesque inner beauty. And then I took the rest to the party.

Guilt

2009-11-24T14:31:00.005+09:00

Well, sorry, I don't have much to say today, but I always feel guilty for not posting in a timely manner. Why, I have no idea. It's not as if it's an assignment that I have to complete or else my GPA will go down or something equally horrifying. It's not even as if anyone cares. BUT, there you have it. So today I am posting a somewhat goofy picture of me in my reading glasses; I'm sure you have all been dying to see them. Have you ever noticed how ridiculously hard it is to take a picture of yourself? This was definitely the best of the bunch. I like one other one quite a lot but some evil camera plot made it appear as if I had a double chin in that shot, and of course I most assuredly do not. As far as you know. Can't you tell from the picture that my chin is extremely svelte?!?!?!

And, just for funsies, here are a few strange Osan sightings over the last few days:

1. Man and woman (IN FRONT OF ME) at the thrift store, purchasing every single children's book there- a couple hundred books, plus some Christmas decorations. They told the cashier they were from the library (?!?!?), and then, after they were rung up (which took a LONG time, and did I mention they were IN FRONT OF ME?), they asked if they could come back and pay later. Ummm, okay? Off they went, leaving their bags of books at the checkout. In front of me.

2. Cabbie peeing in his taxi in front of the commissary. He was standing by the open driver's side door, facing into the car, and I can only assume he was holding a bottle or some other receptacle. This is a common sight on the streets or highways; Koreans don't mind peeing freely. And yay for them, right? Who cares? But there is a bathroom just inside the front door of the commissary, not 50 feet away from where he was parked. This is a strange, strange place, my friends.

Obama Visit

2009-11-19T15:25:00.009+09:00

President Barack Obama paid a visit to Osan this week, that lucky bastard. Some of my friends who have views of the flightline from their balconies got excellent views of Air Force One, out on the tarmac. Alas, my view is of the dog-walking area, so I didn't get to see it, but if your dog poops on the grass and you don't pick it up, I WILL NOT MISS IT. Also, I get a high quality snapshot of everyone coming home from the commissary, so if you walk up the sidewalk with your stash you might want to put all those Little Debbies in a brown paper sack. Otherwise I might judge you, then show up at your door looking for snacks.

It was really interesting to see the effort that goes into security for his travels. The Secret Service was here far, far in advance of his visit, securing everything they could find. A lot of coordination and work goes into making it look as if he moves about freely, without fear of an attack.

The President addressed a group right here on base, a couple hundred yards from my house. Lloyd was there but I had to watch it on AFN, as seats were at a premium and I am VERY unimportant. But you knew that. Oh, and also? They locked me in my apartment. I think they might think I'm crazy.

The event opened with the Wing Chaplain saying a very long prayer to a non-denominational God. Then the music played. And played some more. And then stopped. Still no Obama. The wait went on and on, and the military 'newscasters' were clearly unprepared for a delay because they had few facts at their fingertips to fill the dead air. They did know one thing: that Obama has now visited twenty countries in his first year in office, more than any other president. George H. W. Bush (1989) and Gerald Ford (1974) both visited fifteen during their first year in office. Fascinating, yes? They thought so; I heard it like ten times. The crowd was getting a little unruly when someone finally took the podium to introduce him, but when he did show up they went wild. His speech was good, if not especially memorable; it was about what you'd expect from a President addressing the troops. Only he's a good speaker.

Then, he got to get on his big blue airplane and LEAVE. 'Take me with you,' I cried, 'I'll even leave my precious cat behind!' But no, off he zoomed without me, leaving nothing in his wake except for a restraining order fluttering in the wind. Ah, well, back to the drawing board, my friends. Got any Little Debbie snackcakes? I always think better with snacks.

Lies

2009-11-18T07:08:00.010+09:00

We all know there's a big long list of lying liars. I could write it out but it would take all my writing time and space and you still wouldn't know what the hell I was talking about. Plus, you might think some of my liars are telling the truth and get mad and not read my blog anymore, and then I would be sad. Which is not the point of this at all. The news media is definitely always near the top of my list (I'm looking at you, Jayson Blair and the New York Times; can't you just go away? You disgust me and we can never be friends again), but astronomers, if they make the list at all, are down at the bottom with the sneaky cats and my more reliable relatives.

It's cold here in Korea; have I mentioned that? Highs in the mid-30's with winds of 10-20 mph. I wouldn't say it's bitterly cold but it's getting unpalatable for sure. We've been housebound for a week because Shane refuses to wear anything but his Jay-Jay the Jet Plane t-shirt, jeans, and Crocs. No socks, no underwear, no hat, no coat. Don't even ask about mittens. I would let him go out like that until he decides he's good and ready to put his warmer clothes on, because a cold child is a compliant one, but Lloyd won't go for it. Right now you're probably thinking that he's a much better parent than I am, but the truth is he's just worried someone will rat us out to Family Advocacy (our Air Force version of Child Protective Services) if they see Shane shivering while the rest of us are all bundled up. I would just tell them he was being punished for spilling milk on the couch, because I think that's really funny, but Lloyd says that would make it worse.

Anyway, this morning we ventured out waaaaaaay before dawn to watch the fabulous meteor shower the news has been telling us about for days. The best view would be in Asia, the astronomers said. Hundreds or thousands every hour, they said. Find a dark place with an expansive view of the sky, they advised. So out we went into the cold night. Shane had his coat on, but I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say the tantrum included vomiting on the floor. We parked near the golf course, the darkest place we could find on Osan Air Base, which is lit up like Stalag 17.

And..... we saw ten meteorites in the hour that we were there. TEN. We should have gone to North Korea. It's plenty dark there. I bet they got the show of the century, but the astronomers and 'journalists' there probably told everyone that the shooting stars were coming our of Kim Jong Il's ears or some crazy shit like that. And guess what? That's no worse than the garbage our news media machine feeds us. In fact, I think I might prefer it.

Eye can read!

2009-11-12T15:16:00.016+09:00

Today I had to haul myself out into the windy cold, all the way across the street to the clinic to see the eye doctor. I have been having to zoom the computer screen in two times lately to do my required daily blog reading and annoy my friends on Facebook.

While I was waiting for Lloyd to come home from work so I could go, I noticed a creepily lifelike stuffed cat lying on the floor. This is not unusual at all, of course; there are many, many things of every shape and kind on the floor all the time. But instead of kicking it aside like I normally would have, I looked down at it and had an intriguing thought.

Would people think I was crazy if I took it to the eye doctor with me? Regular people that don't read my blog, I mean. If I carried it and talked to it? Exactly how nutty would I have to act around here to make people think I was truly crazy? This is a small base; it wouldn't take long for word to get around that I finally lost it. And then what? Well, you've all heard of Corporal Max Klinger, right? You might remember the ridiculous lengths he went to to try to prove to the Army that he was crazy so they would send him home from Korea. I should have thought of this AGES ago!

Off I went to the eye doctor with my brain churning. The doc was a perky little guy, probably not even old enough to remember M*A*S*H, or to remember when only Big Bird could see Snuffy. I'm sure he's plenty smart; he can probably spot a glaucoma a mile away, but he looks young and naive. Just what I'm looking for. He says that I need reading glasses. I say, 'HAVE YOU MET MY CAT, DOC?'

Turkey

2009-11-12T10:33:00.005+09:00

You probably haven't been thinking too much about turkey yet, but here in Korea, things are a little.... different.

This morning, I roasted the tenderest, juiciest turkey ever for a USO function. Not that I would know, of course, because it was for CHARITY and eating some would be like STEALING. That's what Lloyd says, anyway. I consider it more of a TAX, and a super reasonable one, not like those stupid vice taxes that are breaking my budget. After all, I am the one who had to ~~get up in the middle of the night and slave over a hot oven~~ push SEVERAL extra buttons on my oven control panel before I went to bed. To be totally fair, it's not as if we bought the turkey with the intent of donating 90% of it to the USO. Someone else bought it and Lloyd volunteered to cook it, but I still think a small fee, payable in delectable turkey bits, was in order.

Of course, the juicy goodness of the turkey was complete dumb luck, but I am fully prepared to modestly take credit for it: 'Oh, this old thing? It's just an secret old family recipe. I'm glad you like it.' But because Stories from Korea, like Fox News, is fair and balanced and 100% reliable all the time, here and here only, I'll spill the unvarnished truth. The turkey was wedged upside down in an undersized rusty thrift store roasting pan. I didn't cover it so the top was all crispy while the breast marinated in the juices in the bottom of the pan. We probably don't need to discuss the overlooked bag of innards. I even made my traditional holiday gravy. Or as my mother-in-law calls it, 'gravy-with-lumps'. That IS a secret family recipe, so don't even think about asking! I was feeling especially domestic and all festive-y and it would have been nice if Lloyd hadn't been so suspicious of me:

Me: Look, there's tons of juice. Do you think I should make some gravy?

Lloyd: For the USO, RIGHT?

Me: Ummm, yeah. Of course. Right, for the USO. Dammit!

So, as it turns out, I didn't get the first nibble of turkey or teeniest spoon of gravy. The USO even took the carcass! I wonder if Lloyd told them I wasn't to be trusted. That would be just like him. What is it they say? It's a foolish bird who fouls his own nest, or something like that?

Gobble, gobble, Lloyd!

Hodge Podge, plus pictures!

2009-11-10T05:53:00.001+09:00

We had some pictures taken recently by our fabulously talented friend and neighbor, Christa. She did a great job and we were really pleased. I am not so photogenic myself, and she actually got a few nice ones of me, so hurray! Shane was in a real mood, too, and you would never know it from the pictures.

And, I am considering submitting one of my 2009 posts to a blog anthology effort, but I have no idea which one to send in. If you liked one in particular, please let me know. Don't worry, I wasn't thinking of sending in the booger one, even though it WAS especially satisfying.

Weston made me a peanut butter cookie dough sandwich for lunch, and it was every bit as delicious as it sounds. He must have been in an especially creative mood today, because he also installed weather instruments on the deck: pipe cleaners, straws, paint brushes, crayons and a coaxial cable, all stuck into the bottom of our hanging planter boxes. Now, he can determine the weather conditions: if the wind is blowing just a little, the smaller instruments like the pipe cleaners will move. If the wind is stronger, the coaxial cable will move. Believe me when I say he will be at least as accurate as any weather forecast I've ever seen around here. Take that, AFN and Yahoo! You've been outmaneuvered by a five year old boy wielding toys and art supplies. If you want some weather forecasting advice you can email me at storiesfromkorea@gmail.com; I'll see if he can pencil you in. On the other hand, if you're here from the Food Network, you might want to check back in a few years.

Facebitch

2009-11-08T16:43:00.012+09:00

I am a reluctant Facebook user. If you've been around for a while you might remember when I became assimilated, virtually against my will. At first, it was great. I felt oh-so-cool and in the know. Then, I started knowing just a little too much, if you get my drift. I've read tons of 'What not to post on Facebook' posts, and probably all of them are way better than mine. Products from Asian sweatshops are always inferior, but it's my blog and I have to post SOMETHING, now don't I? Oh, the humanity!

I don't mind the cute kid stories, and I'm a big fan of pictures. I am not even going to complain about the 'I had pancakes for breakfast and now I'm going to the movies' posts. On my DO NOT LIKE list are all the usual:

The I won another cooking contest/my kid got another A++++/my husband got another promotion and all the other 'WE'RE SO SWELL; AREN'T YOU JEALOUS' updates that used to be saved up for the Christmas letter that could be crumpled up ONCE and recycled immediately instead of spent tormenting people throughout the entire year;

The TMI posts. I don't want to know many, many things. In fact, I don't even want to list the things I don't want to know, because it might give someone an idea;

Imaginary presents. If I can't even give them to the thrift store, they are totally useless; and

Cryptic crap. If you have something to say, come out and say it, dammit!

But I have a bigger problem; one I'm loathe to admit, but once again, I have to post SOMETHING, now don't I? Sometimes, the things my friends post make me like them a little bit less. Which I DO NOT LIKE. All my friends are 'real' friends, too, not 'friends' like the girl that sat next to me in sophomore English. Because she was a real bitch. And even worse are the friends of friends; some of them are real wackos and it makes me wonder what the hell my friends are thinking, being friends with such freaks.

I have a solution, though. I'll tell you what it is but it will have to be our little secret, okay? Okay, here it is: I hide my friends when they annoy me. Like a little time-out that only I know about. After I deem them sufficiently punished, I unhide them. It's very satisfying, you should try it. Only not to me, because that would be rude, after I told you my secret and all. And I have another strategy: friend rotation. Facebook has done me the favor of listing them alphabetically, so I'm going to hide them in groups of ten or so and rotate them to keep them fresh and interesting, like I do for my kids' toys. That way, it takes the edge off the NOT LIKING, and we can stay friends. And that, I LIKE.

Ummm, chocolate!

2009-11-01T17:31:00.007+09:00

Now, you guys might not believe this, but I cleaned the laundry room yesterday. Well, okay, 'cleaned' might be a little pretentious; what I did was shove the washer and dryer back against the wall where they belong, prop up the unbalanced washer leg with a bar of soap, move all the junk that was all over the counters and shelves into corners and cupboards, and sweep the floor.

You've probably read my occasional complaints about the laundry facilities here, but the laundry room is brightly lit and roomy, with lots of shelves for storage and a nice counter. Some of my friends use them for sewing or hobby rooms, and I even heard of a family that took all the shelves down and turned it into an extra bedroom. Let me just say right now that I have NO idea how any of that is possible: you can see a picture of the typical state of our laundry room here.

As I was sweeping up a pile of debris that you could hide a rat in, Shane came in and closely surveyed it. Then he said, 'No chocolate chips', and meandered off to simultaneously throw all the books off the bookshelf and smear peanut butter on the wall while I stood there, puzzled. Chocolate chips? Then it hit me: at some point, he must have successfully mined chocolate chips from the sweep-pile, and now considers it a food source. Ummmmm, chocolate.

I hear you knocking, but you can't come in

2009-11-01T15:43:00.004+09:00

Happy Halloween, everyone! We had a successful party: plenty of witch's brew, sugar peaks and valleys, toy battles, and banged noggins. The only thing that prevented it from being absolute perfection was those blasted trick or treaters that kept ringing the bell. I swear, someone had to get up every five seconds to hand out candy. We did try the bowl by the door, but that cut down on the volume only a little. Some kids still knocked or rang, and others took way more than a little candy, requiring someone to get up every ten seconds and refill the bowl.

Unfortunately none of us will be together next year for a Halloween hall party, but that didn't stop us from devising a plan to solve this serious problem. I have to give total credit for this idea to Lauren, so don't come crying to me when you try it out and someone gets hurt. Here it is: the treat-dispensing funnelator! The idea needs a little work; currently any sort of funnelator requires three people to operate it: one on each end to hold the tubing, and one in the middle to fire. I'll get back to you as soon as I figure out how to automate it. I'm pretty sure it will be way before next Halloween because I can already see some outstanding year-round applications for it. Oh, and if you're coming to visit me anytime soon, you might want to call first.

Oh, Boy

2009-10-29T06:43:00.008+09:00

I try to honor all the important boycotts: I hate greedy, soul-sucking corporations just as much as the next guy. Maybe even more! But I'm starting to have trouble keeping up with which evil behemoths torture animals, which ones fund terrorists, which ones hate gay people, which ones are chopping down the rainforest with reckless abandon, and which ones enslave their workers and use sneaky tricks to make it look like their prices are the lowest (cough cough, Wal-Mart, cough cough).

I looked at the list of products that Nestle, that baby-killing exploiter of the poor, makes money from, and Cheerios are on the list, people! Cheerios! Most of the items on the list present me no trouble: I can easily buy Hershey's chocolate chips instead of Tollhouse, for example. And while I'm talking about chocolate, you simply must know that I just read a fascinating book called The Emperors of Chocolate, about the Hershey and Mars companies. Just so you know, you can feel reasonably good about buying Hershey: at least at the writing of the book, the stock was controlled by the Hershey Foundation, which does fabulous things for thousands of orphans, including giving them outstanding prep school educations. So most of the profits gained by hosing chocolate farmers in poor countries and spewing out toxins go to orphans in New England so they can grow up to proudly carry on the corporate tradition, despite their unfortunate beginnings. Mars, on the other hand, is family-owned, and those people are just nuts. Oh yeah, sorry about the Amazon link to the book. They discriminate against gay people, you know. And as soon as I move away from this place where yellow slips in my mail box tell me I have a box of the retail joy that makes my life tolerable, I'll never shop there again. Sorry, gay people; catch you on the flip side.

But back to the Cheerios. I'm not sure I can live without Cheerios. Not for us, so much; we go through some serious quantities, but they are not necessary to our survival, say. But they are my sole successful technique for placating our little 11-month old neighbor. She comes over every week with her sister and brother because I swap childcare with her mom, and she LOVES me. Never before have I been any too popular with babies that aren't mine, so I'm pretty sure it's because I'm her Cheerio connection. I just sort of dump some around her and she's happy for HOURS. She doesn't eat a lot of other things yet, so it's not like I can just replace them with something else. She does eat bananas, but even I can see the folly of placing piles of bananas around a baby sitting on the carpet.

So, see? This is a real dilemma. What's more important: personal comfort or the greater good? I swear, the only place I can shop in good conscience these days is Etsy. Oh, and the thrift store, of course. Sure, it sells Spiderman watches that don't work, and never has a deinonychus colored shirt when I need one, but it's a small price to pay, don't you think?

Hallowhat?

2009-10-27T07:49:00.008+09:00

Sometimes I really don't know what to write on here. Some days my thoughts are super boring, even to me, and it's exhausting to even imagine the drudgery involved in typing them out. But today, you lucky bastards, I woke up and thought, 'Hey! Everyone really needs to know what I think about Halloween!'

I don't really get Halloween. When I was little we didn't dress up or go trick-or-treating, so I don't have any 'Oooh, Halloween is super fun and my kids will shrivel up and die if they don't have the perfect costume and get a huge bag of candy!' angst that I project on them. One year when I was almost too old for trick or treating, I went out with my cousins, just because I had never done it. It really wasn't that fun. An old lady answered the door at one house with a notebook and took down everyone's name; maybe she thought she was Santa's henchwoman. Or maybe she actually was. In any event, that was my first experience with developing a false identity on the fly, although, sadly, not the last.

It sure seems like a lot of effort just to end up with a bag of candy. If you really want the candy, you could just buy the candy you want, sparing yourself the disappointment of having to paw through those crappy Laffy Taffies and Tootsie Rolls so you can get to the small handful of Hershey's Dark mini-bars and Smarties. Then what do you do with the lousy candy? Throw it away? There's starving children in Africa, man! Your leftover Tootsie Rolls could feed a family of seventeen for a week; if only they could have your cast-off sugar high and tooth decay. So, see? Wasteful.

We live in an apartment building with somewhere around a hundred apartments and at least twelve thousand kids, so trick or treating is a huge deal. The BX shovels the big bags of fun-size candy onto the sales floor with a dump truck, for real. Okay, fine, not really, but they totally should because it would save them a ton of work. This year, we are having a 'neighborhood' party with some of our hall-mates. Shane will be either Spiderman or Buzz Lightyear, and Weston is going to be a Deinonychus in a costume fashioned from a 12-24 month dragon Old Navy dragon costume and a thrift store Juicy Couture sweat suit. I had hoped to incorporate my growing supply of dryer lint, but Weston isn't as easy to fool as he once was. Fortunately, I have found a great use for the lint, you can check it out here. Don't worry, though, if you are coming to our Halloween party, you won't HAVE to donate your candy to starving children or play with lint from my dryer. But you totally can.

Old

2009-10-25T10:33:00.005+09:00

So! The Stories from Korea are weak and boring this week, so I am stealing a clever idea from Swistle: Three Old Posts. The idea is to post links to three of your own old posts, so below are three of mine from days gone by. These are not necessarily my favorites; those are listed up on the upper right sidebar. These three just struck me today for one reason or another:

1. This morning, we went to the Ye Olde Korean Fishing Hole and came home by our old apartment, so here is one from shortly after we first got here. Back then, my blog was just a way to update family and friends instead of the literary brilliance it is today.

2. The pinecone one.

3. The one with the paint. This one has an update: we did eventually restore the walls to their original color. Today, the walls are are in exactly the same condition as they were before we undertook the whole painting fiasco. Maybe a little worse. Let that be a lesson to you.

True

2009-10-22T08:15:00.002+09:00

Here are two conversations from this morning, free of any embellishment or commentary whatsoever:

Lloyd (getting shirt out of drawer): This shirt is dirty!

Me: So?

Lloyd: I can't wear this! It smells like underarms!

Me: What are you complaining about? It's a miracle any shirts even get into your dresser. You should be grateful. And if you don't want your dirty clothes and your clean clothes mixed up, you should put your dirty clothes in the laundry room, instead of on the floor where the clean clothes are.

Lloyd: I don't even know what to say to that.

Then, after Lloyd went to work in a huff, I was took a leisurely 30 second shower and came out to this:

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Weston: Shhhhhh, you're okay. Want me to kiss it?

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Me (picking up Shane): He sounds like he's really hurt, Weston. What happened?

Weston: Ummmm, we were playing.

Me: I see that. How did Shane get hurt?

Weston: Welllllllll, I hit him with this ('this' is a hollow, hard plastic tube, about 18 inches long and 1 1/2 inches in diameter). On accident.

Me: Where did you hit him?

Weston: Ummmm, in the face. On accident. Twice.

Me: I see that this is too dangerous to have out; I'll have to put it away.

Weston: Why?

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

Airshow

2009-10-21T20:07:00.008+09:00

Today was Air Power Day here at Osan, and the big attraction was the Thunderbirds. It was a beautiful day, and a good time was had by all. Even the protestors for peace, who camped out by the front gate and had lunch while watching the show.

The Thunderbirds are a pretty big whoop a lot of places, but if you're reading this from Seattle or Pensacola, you might be a little too Blue Angel-centric to appreciate them. No matter, they don't care what you think. They really do put on a spectacular show, but I have to giggle a little about the autograph signing and meet and greets. I mean, seriously, you can't blow your nose around here without spattering boogers on a fancy pilot. Or at least a pilot who THINKS he or she is fancy. But I can assure you, pilots-who-think-they're-fancy leave their dirty tighty-whities in a crumpled pile on the floor, just like the teller at the bank and the mail carrier. Not that I would know, of course.

I apologize for the poor quality and short duration of my video; the show was a little late, it was past naptime, and Shane and Weston were obsessed with the bouncy castle. It was Shane's first experience with standing in line and waiting his turn, and it was more than slightly traumatic, causing my videography to suffer. If only the fancy pilot could operate the 'video' button on a Sony Cybershot as adroitly as he can execute a split S......

And, if flying isn't your thing, there was plenty of other stuff; Korean dancing, bands, and souvenir stands. The boys love their new inflatable T-bird jets. Interestingly, Burton Snowboards even had a pretty nice setup. The second video is a pretty standard example of traditional Korean entertainment, at least the Americanized version that we often see. Enjoy!

Irrational

2009-10-19T14:21:00.005+09:00

Here in Korea, we are constantly threatened by a cruel dictatorship. You probably know what I'm talking about: the ration control system. If you're lucky enough to live in the land of Target and drive-throughs, you will probably not have encountered such a thing. Here on an American oasis in the not-quite-right desert, ration control is the law of the land. Everyone gets a ration card, and when you buy something at the BX (general purpose store, similar to a lousy Wal-Mart), commissary (grocery store) or shopette (convenience store, liquor store and video rental store), your ID card gets scanned. Every tub of oxi-clean, every roll of duct tape, every bottle of wine, every copy of 'Subversion for Dummies', and every pair of ever-bigger pants goes on your report. A person COULD shop off-base to avoid this, but the options are limited, and there are many normal American things we can't get off base, so most everyone hits one store or another multiple times a week. The cards have social security numbers on them, too, just for a little extra invasion of privacy.

Why on earth would they do this, you ask? What possibly could be the reason for such oppression? The BLACK MARKET! Ooh, sounds scary, doesn't it?? Yes, freedom and democracy depends on keeping an accurate account of my Dove Bar purchases. Apparently, goods bought on base are sometimes resold in town, throwing a wrench into the entire world economy. Oh, except the human trafficking trade, because that seems to be going strong; I don't see any ration cards being issued to juicy bar patrons. You know.... oh wait, where was I? Oh yeah, my ration card. I'm going to try to stick to the subject because I've decided my outrage, no matter how justified, doesn't get me anywhere, and it's just too, too exhausting.

So, the military tries to keep rationed goods off the local economy by tracking everything we buy. Well, except for goodies from the thrift store, and we can all be grateful for that. If you go over your dollar limit, buy too much beer, or make a suspicious purchase such as 40 pounds of beef, the bossman gets a notification and you have to go explain yourself. Fine, whatever. While I DEEPLY resent having the big blue machine looking at what I buy every month, I recognize that the military is rife with similar indignities and I have been beaten into submission. I can no longer whip myself up into a froth of indignation, because I only have a few more months to suffer. Soon, I will be able to buy an entire cart full of lentils and no one will bat an eyelash. Not that I would; those things are disgusting! Ration away, people, if it makes you feel powerful and efficient. But maybe you should take a closer look at your system. Today, I was looking at my card and guess what? It's been expired for weeks.

Indoctrination

2009-10-15T12:16:00.008+09:00

The doctors here come, and then they go, in pretty rapid succession. There have been three different pediatricians here in the time we've been here. There's only one at a time, just in case you live in a regular place where you can still take your kid to the doctor if the pediatrician is sick, on vacation, in training or at a conference and don't get my drift. You know, it's the military; they move around, that's how it works. That's what I used to think, anyway. Today Weston had an appointment and I had to take Shane with us, and now I know they are just churning through the doctors until they can find one that can hang.

We have a nice little clinic: you walk in through two sets of automatic double doors, and the entryway opens up into a large common waiting room for all the clinics. There is the pediatrician, the family practice clinic, the dental office, the immunization room, a pharmacy and a couple of administrative offices. The waiting room probably holds about 50 people normally, but several hundred can fit in a pinch, like during the great New Year's Eve fire. This morning, there was a normal crowd- maybe a couple dozen people in varying states of distress. Until we arrived, of course. Then the distress level was elevated across the board.

We had to come a little early so I could fill out some forms. The boys played and chatted quietly while I filled out the forms and I felt pretty smug as our appointment time approached. As our appointment time faded into the past, I started to get a little antsy. I'm an experienced parent; I had some healthy snacks and little toys in my bag, but by ten minutes past appointment time, the sunflower seeds were flung all over the floor and the toy interest was exhausted. That's when it got ugly. Shane started running in circles around a pillar right in the center of the check-in desks. As if that wasn't bad enough, he was hollering, 'BUTTON! BUTTON! BUTTON!' in sort of a sing-songy voice. It was a toss-up as to which would be worse: let him continue, or stop him and listen to the screaming instead. I elected to stop him and sure enough, screaming ensued. It didn't last long, though. Just long enough for a loud and heated argument to brew:

Shane: I Spiderman!

Weston: But I'm Spiderman!

Shane: NO! I not Underdog! I Spiderman!

Me: You can both be Spiderman; please use your inside voices.

Both: NO!

Clerk: Does anyone mind if we move these kids to the head of the line?

All: NO!

Okay, okay, I made the last part up, but jeez, what a nightmare. Then, once we got into the doctor's office, it was even worse. The room with the elephant table was being cleaned, so we had to go into one without an elephant. CAN YOU IMAGINE? The horror! And the instruments, garbage can, sink and floor were irresistible. Finally, the doctor poked his head in, looked Weston up and down, said, 'He's fine!', threw some papers at me and slammed the door. I don't think he'll be here long.

Naive

2009-10-14T17:30:00.006+09:00

I am very naive; maybe you didn't know that about me. I'm very suspicious of some things, such as politicians, pharmaceutical companies and military brass, to name just a few. But oddly, I am often shocked, simply shocked, by events that would probably be considered pretty ordinary by most people. Like the whole juicy bar thing. If you're not familiar with 'juicies', they are local bar girls. Patrons pay for the privilege of their time, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. If you're curious, and you know you are, they're called 'juicies' because they look for clients to buy them overpriced 'juice'. Or so I hear. I'm just not sure I believe it. Who would do that? It just doesn't make any sense! Now, we live in a military town, and every single military town all over the world has seedy establishments right out the front gate, right? And surely the world's oldest profession must be thriving. I know all these things, and yet, I am still surprised that this might actually occur.

And, here's another one: apparently two-year olds commonly have tantrums and insist upon the most ridiculous things. I KNOW! I mean, sure, I've read that in a book or two, and heard ~~dozens~~ ~~scores~~ at least twenty jillion parents say something along those lines. And, I've even had a two-year old before, so you'd think I might have been prepared for my charming curly-haired little cherub to turn into a red-faced, snarling, venom-laden (but still cute) rodent when something doesn't suit him. But NOPE, I am still surprised. Maybe if he'd eased into rodenthood, I could be a little more accepting, but it was pretty sudden. For a few days now, he's been favoring certain things: a fleece blanket, a t-shirt, this toothbrush instead of that one, nothing too hard-core. But today was one constant scream-fest. Why? Oh, let me count just a few the whys:

1. Could not eat giant spoons full of butter instead of lunch and dinner;

2. Had to wear an alternate shirt because Jay-Jay the Jet Plane shirt was in the washer (see photo above);

3. Mean mother tried to help operate drinking fountain; and

4. Hateful brother did not want to watch spider episode of Magic School Bus all day.

OH, THE AGONY! But I'm pretty sure he'll be back to normal tomorrow, right? Surely this can't go on. I mean, who would do that? It just doesn't make any sense!

Another One Bites the Dust

2009-10-13T03:58:00.007+09:00

Lloyd and I often sit out on our deck at night, drinking wine and watching people go by. We have a prime location, overlooking the sidewalk on the main drag and the dog walking area, and if we sit out there long enough, all of Osan will walk by.

Last night, one of my lovely friends walked by and said she was flying out today. I knew she was leaving soon, but around here it doesn't pay to keep track of exactly who is leaving when, because it is just too, too depressing. See, everyone wants to leave themselves, but no one wants to see their friends go. The one thing everyone misses about this place is our wonderful and close community. Most of us will never again live in a place where dozens of friends will happily and without notice swap childcare, loan you eggs, share dinners, stop by for a chat, or go for a walk.

Now it's almost my turn, ladies. I'm packing up boxes and getting ready for the last Halloween in Korea, the last Thanksgiving in Korea, and the last Christmas in Korea. The coffee filter countdown is under 100. But I don't want to say goodbye to any of you; I'll just see you on Facebook.

Neverending

2009-10-12T06:54:00.006+09:00

Jeez. It never ends, people. I was just minding my own beeswax last night, reading a 'The Secret Life of Germs', a book by Dr. Philip Tierno Jr. about germs that my good friend Helen sent me after I begged all my friends to send me reading material. Weston is interested in germs and is always asking questions about them, so I thought it would be good to brush up. It's a fascinating book, all about how we normally live in balance with microbes, which are everywhere, in huge quantities. Parts of your body have trillions of microbes per gram; that's a little scary, huh? Especially for us higher gram girls.

If you are old enough, you might remember the Toxic Shock Syndrome (TSS) scare of the mid-80's. The syndrome wasn't new but there was a new epidemic occurring in women using tampons. It turns out manufacturers had begun using cost-saving materials to make tampons instead of cotton, as had been done in the past, and the new materials were fostering bacterial growth, leading to the disease, which is often lethal. So they figured it out quickly, a few brands were pulled off the market, a few changes were made, and no one ever heard about it again. But guess what? People are still dying from TSS related to tampon use. Manufacturers are still using the alternative materials to make tampons. Want to know what they use? Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyway: ground-up sawdust mixed with a few other things for absorbency, and dioxin to make them nice and white.

Dioxin, in particular, is nasty. It's a by-product of the chlorine bleaching process that causes cancer and is suspected of causing or contributing to immune system and hormonal system disturbances, and fertility and other issues.So what, right? Surely studies have been done showing it's safe to use these things month after month for years and years, right? We're talking about half the population here! But nope, not a single study. In fact, Representative Carolyn B. Maloney has repeatedly introduced a bill that would require a study on the safety of tampons and related products, and it has been continually defeated. Can I just say, though, I LOVE Rep. Maloney! I almost want to move to her district. Anyway, there's no incentive for manufacturers to make safer products. Why should they? They are making money hand over fist and they aren't held accountable for the collateral human damage. It's much cheaper for them to settle an occasional lawsuit than spend the money to develop and produce a safer product. And the lack of studies makes it easy for them. Their expensive lawyers, lobbyists and PR staff that they pay with all the money they make off of us consumers say, 'Don't blame us! There's no proof that tampons cause TSS!' And they're right, there's not legal proof, because no studies have been done, because the manufacturers spend a lot of money to suppress bills that would require studies. But here's a novel idea: make the manufacturers prove their products are safe, instead of requiring dead people to prove that they were killed by dangerous products.

Here's what we can do: Contact your legislators in support of the Robin Danielson Act. Click here to find your representatives. And once again, talking with our money is the only way to make change in the consumer market. Luckily, there are lots of great alternatives to sawdust and dioxin tampons. Try the unbleached, all-cotton varieties, a Diva Cup, Mooncup, or reusable pads.

And also, just a general tip? Wash your hands a lot more than you're doing. It could save your life. For real. Do it before you eat, after you use any publicly used facilities or items (bathroom, telephone, elevator, movie seat, taxi, grocery cart), after you shake hands, after you shop, and when you come home. Use plenty of soap, and when your hands are clean, don't touch the faucet or bathroom door on the way out. As for me, I'm going to stop reading. But first, I'm going to go sanitize my door handles.

Hell

2009-10-09T20:35:00.013+09:00

You might think you know what hell is, but you would be wrong. Vomit in the grocery store? Child's play. Poopy infant + sleeping toddler + airplane window seat + fat snooty business person in aisle seat? Pfffft, who hasn't been there? I know all my Osan pals will readily understand true military hell, but I'm going to try really hard to write it so our civilian sisters get it too. I'm not sure I have the proper skills but I'll give it my best shot. So, the military is weird. Especially on a teeny-tiny base like we have here. Imagine a person that is like your boss, your father, the president of the only bank in town and your kid's principal all rolled up into one. In our own little hellish version of Pleasantville, that guy is your husband's boss, aka 'The Corner'.

Lloyd's squadron regularly has events at their squadron hangout, and we never, ever go. EVER. Only today, we went. Not going to squadron events gets you a major frowny-face on your paper, your allowance docked, your loan denied, no promotion, and gossip behind your back; get the picture? Taking kids is a disaster waiting to happen; the drinking, the swearing... and that's just me! But the thing to do is show your face once in a while, and today was the day. It was carefully planned to the second to minimize the potential catastrophes. The speeches were scheduled to run 1630-1700 (that's 4:30-5:00 p.m. for those of you not in the know), followed promptly by a spaghetti dinner. I even made deviled eggs. New post coming soon: Bedeviled by eggs (but that's a story for another, not-so-depressing day).

I wiped faces, I packed snacks and toys, I made sure bladders were emptied. As I loaded up the stroller, Lloyd called to tell me the power was out and they were moving the event. He gave me these long, detailed instructions to the new location that included the phrase 'Go through the gate with the razor wire and into the door that says 'No admittance''. I'm sure that would have worked out really well but I was deterred by the machine guns and made a detour that resulted in us entering through a fancy security clearance office that opened up right behind the podium where the big boss man was giving his speech. We got there right at 1700 but what's this? The location change delayed the dinner so the speeches will continue? And we're trapped behind the podium in full view of the entire squadron? And the stroller has stopped so what's that, Shane? THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE WILL EXPLODE RIGHT THIS SECOND IF YOU DON'T EXIT THE STROLLER AND START SHRIEKING AND RUNNING AROUND LIKE A MONKEY ON CRACK?!??!?!!?

So yeah, tres embarrassing. And it went on for long, excruciating minutes and included a toy thrown in my face, a screaming-laden time-out, a loudly popped balloon, and a penis joke. If there had only been a little puke or poop, it would have been an unholy trifecta for sure. And oh yeah, NOT DONE! At 1725, there was still no food, so we decided to leave. We're not gluttons for punishment, after all. We gathered our 56,629 tons of goods and made tracks. As we left the building, it started to rain, and Weston, still traumatized from the toy throwing/time out incident, started wailing. Right that second, the 1730 music started, and we ground to a halt. Right behind a large group of uniformed people that work in Lloyd's office. If there is anything worse than being humiliated in front of the boss man, it's being humiliated in front of the staff, right? Usually when the music starts, Lloyd is either still at work or is at home in civilian clothes, and so Weston was very confused about why the uniformed service members stood at parade rest during the South Korean anthem and saluted for the 'Star Spangled Banner'. We generally encourage questions, and he loudly asked me about the details: 'Why doesn't he have his hand over his heart? Why are they standing like that?' Shane, on the other hand, couldn't have cared less, and started running in circles and hooting wildly into the solemn reverence, capping it off by banging into one of the airperson's legs while he stood stock-still, ignoring us to the best of his ability (ed. note: airman is the generic term for an Air Force service member, similar to soldier, sailor or marine. I refuse to use it on the grounds that many of these service members are female, and use airperson instead. Lloyd most definitely does not approve, just in case you were wondering. Lucky for me he doesn't read my blog anymore).

Stoically (we're good at that now), we stood there until, mercifully, the music stopped and we could slink away like beaten puppies to await our inevitable pink slip/F grade/ foreclosure/grounding. I just hope we don't lose our internet access, because that would really be bad.....

Progress

2009-10-09T08:07:00.003+09:00

As you may know, I have a finely honed sense of civic duty, and I have been diligently working to perfect my effort-free cleaning/feeding scheme from yesterday. I LIVE for public service, y'all.

In an effort to spare you some... ummm, missteps, here's a handy list of tips I've compiled over the last day:

1. Flour and water paste is quite nutritious, especially if you use the whole wheat flour and filtered water, but the cats won't eat it and it dries quickly into a substance closely resembling cement, only not nearly as attractive.

2. Tuna fish isn't the greatest cleaning product either; the cats love it but it sort of soaks into the walls and the mercury probably isn't good for the paint.

3. Frosting is really a better match for the wall color in the tower apartments here on base than pudding is, but it may give your child (or cat) a rash (or vicious hairball).

4. Toothpaste is surprisingly effective at removing earwax, blood, chocolate and boogers, plus it leaves shiny clean teeth and fingernails, but apparently fluoride is poisonous in fairly small doses. On a related note, home stomach-pumping equipment is pretty easy to devise with a little creativity.

Add your lessons in the comments; there's nothing like cooperativism to lick a problem, unless it's a cat! Loredana recommends using guacamole and salsa, which sounds fabulous, and it gave me another labor-saving idea: MATCH YOUR WALLS TO YOUR FAVORITE FOODS! It doesn't get any better than that, people. I'm painting mine deep brown and maroon immediately, so if you have any chocolate-loving, wine-swilling cats, please send me ~~two~~ three right away. Oh, and if you have a way to get peanut butter and moon sand out of the drain on my deck, please let me know. Quick.

Cleanliness is next to impossible

2009-10-08T10:17:00.012+09:00

I've tried lots of techniques for keeping my house clean over the years: The Flylady, the plan-a-big-party-and-invite-snooty-people method (no, I'm not talking about you), a daily schedule, and many more. Until today what has worked best for me is ignoring the growing mold, laundry piles, broken toys and crushed cheerios until my head is about to explode, and then screaming at the kids that if they don't get all their junk picked up in the next five seconds I'm going to light it on fire and toast their favorite toys for supper and there will be no cookies for the next five years. That won't scar them for life, right?

But now I have a better way. I've been tinkering with better ways for a long time, but everything I come up with seems to have a flaw or two. Click here and here to see what I mean. If you're here from that stupid Nobel Prize committee that's been ignoring me for so long, pay close attention. This is your last chance, people-who-think-you're-so-smart-but-can't-recognize-a-revolutionary-idea-when-it-smacks-you-in-the-face! You're not going to have me to kick around anymore! I'm going to start my own committee and not even invite you! Okay, so all you need is a few kids, the more the better, some shaving cream and some semi-clean rags. Clean rags would be fine, too, but semi-clean is all I have. Let them smear the shaving cream all over the house and themselves, and then simply withhold food until they wipe it all up. With any luck, every single filthy item in your house will be covered in shaving cream and you will be relieved of cooking duty for hours. Brilliant! Check out the 'before' photos and then the video to see how it works.

But wait! It gets better, thanks to one of my clever friends. I posted one of these pictures on Facebook this morning and was asked if that was shaving cream or whipped cream, which gave me an even more brilliant plan: give them whipped cream, pudding, or organic yogurt, if you're a nutrition-nazi type, instead of shaving cream. That way, they occupy themselves while you read your latest issue of 'Star', the house gets cleaned and they get fed, ALL AT THE SAME TIME! Plus it might smell better; that cheap shaving cream I buy kind of reeks. But all that food is expensive and I'm not going to lie; this process does result in some wastage. I'm definitely onto something here; I'll let you know when I think of the perfect pleasant-smelling, cheap and nutritious cleaning product. Ooh, I know! CATS! Cats are the answer! Get whatever food you like the smell of, then get a few cats to lick the extra off! It won't cost extra because you won't have to buy cat food! What could possibly go wrong, I ask you?

Ivan and Weston

2009-10-05T09:44:00.015+09:00

It's almost Weston's birthday, and I've been thinking about the time just before he was born. We were living in Pensacola and Lloyd was gone. Usually when I tell this story I'm all vague about where he was so everyone will feel sorry for the poor hugely pregnant military wife who was abandoned and left to fend for herself in the face of a hurricane while her husband was off fighting for freedom and democracy or some BS like that. But you know I never lie on here, so the truth is that he was elk hunting in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, where there is no phone service of any kind. Also, as it turns out, no elk, but that's Lloyd's story to tell, if you can stand the swearing. Luckily for me, my lovely Aunt Ina came to stay with me while he was gone.

When you evacuate in advance of a hurricane, there are many items you should take with you in your hurricane evacuation kit. Some of the commonly recommended essentials are cash, a battery operated radio, non-perishable food and water, prescription medication, and blankets. We were a little tight on space and had to prioritize our supplies, so we couldn't be bothered with a lot of that crap. Here's the more important stuff we had instead:

Salami sandwiches

One extremely large pregnant woman

One lovely aunt who despises hurricanes and dogs

Two large dogs

Directions to hospitals with NICU facilities in three states

Emergency Baby Delivery Kit

Infant car seat

Dog food

Cocoa butter

Alas, we didn't have room for some other vital items, such as Georgie and Sandy, our two little rabbits, and Bella the cat, who you may recall from yesterday's post. We put Georgie and Sissy in the bathroom with tarps on the floor and loaded it up with hay, rabbit pellets and water, and left Bella to roam the house with bowls of food and water in every room and the laundry room filled with boxes of litter.

The trip was about exactly what you'd expect. The first day it took us all day to travel from Pensacola to Birmingham, Alabama, a distance of about 250 miles. The next day, we went to Memphis, where we stayed in a ratty dogs-allowed motel on the bad side of town for a few days. We had a nice visit to Graceland, where the photo of me above was taken. If you look carefully behind my enormously swollen body, you can catch a glimpse of the dead cat tote. After we spent a few days there, we decided we might as well keep going, since we had nothing better to do. So we went to Branson, Missouri, dogs and all. We took in a few shows and saw the sights while we waited for news of how Pensacola had fared after an almost direct strike from Hurricane Ivan, and for Lloyd to come out of the woods. After about a week, Lloyd flew in, sans elk, and Ina could not leave fast enough, shaking off the dog drool and coarse brown hairs as she went. You would think she would have learned her lesson, but I guess not, because several years later she came to stay with me again when Lloyd was gone and I was hugely pregnant with Shane. That time Lloyd really was in the sandbox, though. Before she came, she made me promise no hurricanes, no babies, and no snakes that time. Two out of three isn't bad, right? Because Shane was born in the early morning the day she was leaving and Lloyd was coming home. Sucker!

Anyway, we loaded up the now-filthy Honda with supplies from WalMart and headed back home. Seriously, it looked like the whole place had been carpet bombed once we got within 100 miles of Pensacola. We even had a hard time finding our way home because the street signs and landmarks had all been destroyed and it looked entirely different. We only had minor damage at our house, but a major mess. The cats and rabbits were fine, and the power came on shortly after we got back after having been gone a little over a week. Weston was born two weeks later.

Happy Birthday, Weston! And Ivan, may you rot in hell.

My life in cats

2009-10-04T09:44:00.009+09:00

It's Chusok weekend here in Korea. If you're interested in Korean holidays, you can read a little about it here. It's kind of like a Korean Thanksgiving, only I doubt there are any apocryphal stories about ill-prepared immigrants and naively friendly natives. Even if there are, they are all written in Hangul, so I wouldn't know the difference, now would I?

Despite my complete ignorance of Korean culture, I'm game for participation in the local holidays, and today I am thankful for cats. Starting today, we are lucky enough to be cat-sitting the beautiful Mishka, who is one of our upstairs neighbors. Her family, who has not been here very long, has embarked on a two-week multi-destination trip back to the states, and I cannot decide if I should envy them or feel sorry for them, or both. But either way, today I have been thinking about all the cats I have loved and lost. Here they are, in roughly chronological order:

Charlie- I got Charlie when he or she was a kitten and I was a small child. The mother cat lived in my Aunt Luella and Uncle Butch's barn and I had my choice of kittens. Unfortunately, Charlie and I did not have long together; the cat had some sort of seizure and dropped dead in my arms shortly after. It's a wonder I wasn't scarred for life, don't you think?

Smoky- My dad found Smoky tied up in some trees in the woods near where we lived, and cut him down and brought him home. He was a beautiful big gray cat who liked to yowl and car surf. One morning he rode off on my dad's car and never returned.

SillyBilly- My dad found SillyBilly, a beautiful calico cat, when she was a kitten. He's always been a little vague about the details of this late night acquisition, but my sister and I were thrilled the next day when we got up and found our new pet. You know, I'm getting a little suspicious of these mysterious cat-finding trips of his, now that I think about it. Anyway, she lived with us for quite a while until she got hit by a car down the street and was returned to us in a cardboard box by one of the neighbors.

Fluffer- Fluffer was the son of SillyBilly and was a fluffy black cat. He was very mellow and would let us dress him up, but I don't remember what happened to him. I think he just disappeared.

Chebosco- Chebosco was a male orange and white cat, and I don't know where he came from or where he went. That's funny, because I really liked him. You know, now I'm getting a little suspicious of these unexplained cat disappearances and might need to have a little chat with my dad.

Katie and Kelly- When I got out of high school, I worked in a pet store for a year or so before I went to college. I should totally write a post about that place because it had everything: flashers, larceny, pathological liars, and mud puppies. One day, a kid brought in these two teeny tiny siamese kittens and said his male cat had dragged them home. They were only two or three weeks old, and I took them home and we bottle-fed them until they were strong and healthy enough to eat cat food. Katie, the boy cat, was always glossy and a little wild- he moved around my parents' neighborhood for years until finally they didn't see him anymore. Okay, now I'm definitely going to talk to my dad about this. I just hope he doesn't have some cat-fur quilt hidden in his closet or something. Kelly, the girl cat, had an obsession with pushing her paws into things and was a big licker. She was always sickly, probably because she was bottle-fed formula instead of breastfed, and died fairly young.

Lewis and Clark- After Lloyd and I got married and moved to Pensacola, the first thing we did was adopt Lewis and Clark. Their original names were Tyler and Cassie, and they were not related but had bonded deeply in their foster home. Clark (formerly known as Tyler) was an old male orange and white cat, and Lewis (formerly Cassie) was a sweet, younger, long-haired gray and white female cat. We had a pleasant, but short-lived relationship with both of them. Well, I did anyway. Clark didn't care for Lloyd, and the feeling was mutual. He moved in with the neighbors, much to Lewis' dismay, and soon died of feline leukemia. Lewis liked to follow us on walks through the neighborhood, and one day she followed us down the street, then peeled off to investigate something. When we returned, she was laying dead on the street. I was very traumatized by this and embarked on some immediate retail therapy. One of my purchases was a bright red leather tote bag by Kenneth Cole. I carried it for months and called it my 'dead cat tote'. People looked at me strangely, but that's never bothered me, and it made me feel lots better. After Hurricane Katrina, I donated the dead cat tote, along with my entire work wardrobe, to hurricane victims who were trying to relocate and start new jobs. I hope it helped somebody else as much as it helped me. I got some additional cheer out of it, because it was a splendid tax deduction. Thanks, Lewis!

Bella (pictured, above)- I got Bella as a kitten from someone at work shortly after Lewis died. An email message was going around about kittens available for adoption and one of them was a calico, like SillyBilly. I wanted that one, but it was already taken. I decided to get one anyway, and picked out Bella. Her name is Bella because I wanted something derived from SillyBilly and chose a girlish version of Billy. She is kind of a strange cat, not super friendly, and she hated Lloyd on sight. One day, when she wasn't very old, she didn't come home and we started looking around the neighborhood. We didn't have any luck, but a day or two later she hobbled home. We took her to the vet and found that she had two broken legs. Apparently this is a common cat injury when they get hit by a car. The car strikes them, breaking the leg on the car side, then they get tossed down the street, breaking bones on the other side. After several very expensive surgeries, with pins and everything, Bella was almost good as new. When we left Shreveport for Korea, we decided to leave her with some Catholic friends there. They immediately took her to family pet night at their local parish and had her blessed with the special water, and she still lives there happily in holy catrimony.

And that's the last of the cats. For now. As soon as we get to a place where we can have cats again, we are loading up. Don't worry, I plan to keep a VERY close eye on my dad.

FINALLY

2009-10-01T06:03:00.001+09:00

Well, I finally did it! Lloyd has sworn off reading my blog forever. And not just my blog, but ALL blogs! Pretty good, huh? I'll just admit right here he is often annoyed by my writing. He didn't like this one, or this one. Oh, and he really hated this one. But this is the one that really sent him over the edge.

But now he's gone, so I can safely mock him, just a little bit, without having to sleep on the couch. So, check out the pictures; these are the fruits of Lloyd's most recent shopping trip: an enormous cooler and a pair of Spiderman shoes that flash.

The shoes just irritate me because I loathe character clothes and I think they make those flashing lights with mercury that will end up in a landfill. And soon, as soon as I can figure out a way to get rid of them without upsetting Weston. But the cooler, I'm not going to lie, the cooler scares me a little. It's definitely big enough to fit me in, if a couple of things are chopped off first.

My tasks for the day are clear: find some body armor so I can sleep easy, and then figure out a way to get Lloyd off my Facebook.

Poll: Come and Vote!

2009-09-29T13:09:00.005+09:00

Sometimes I have a hard time deciding what to write about on here, and I'm interested in what everyone likes to read about. So please check out the poll on the upper right and check all the boxes that apply. The poll will be up for the next week, and please feel free to put additional thoughts in the comments (anonymously, if you feel it's necessary). Thanks!

Hard

2009-09-28T09:20:00.004+09:00

I've been to Chili's. Again. Chili's is super annoying, as I think I might have mentioned once or twice, but it's also home to flashes of incandescent brilliance. Of course, much of it doesn't survive the harsh light of the new dawn after the margaritas have worn off, but once in a while something really sticks with me. The other night, one of my fabulous Osan pals and I were enjoying child-free time and lamenting various facts of life as an Air Force accessory. It is very hard to get toted around from base to base every few years, losing your home, your job, your friends and everything else you're familiar with all at once only to have to start over someplace new and possibly entirely unfamiliar, sometimes with your active duty spouse gone. Military spouses routinely have babies alone, move their households halfway across the world by themselves and endure months or years as single parents while their active duty spouses endanger their lives. It is a ridiculous way to live, really. But that isn't what this post is about.

No, this post is about how hard it is to be a man in our society. We all know it's hard to be a woman: You're always supposed to be smooth, cellulite-free, and well-dressed with brilliant home-schooled children, a high-powered career and a gourmet kitchen that's constantly in use. And it's ridiculously hard to be a military spouse, because you're supposed to do all that stuff plus shut up about how hard you're getting reamed every damn day, all while under the constant scrutiny of those who have a vested interest in your silence, but what about the poor guys? I've always considered myself a feminist, but I don't even think there's a word for an advocate for all things masculine. Except maybe 'man'. And they're not mutually exclusive, either. I care about everybody, dammit! I would call myself a peoplist or a humanist but those both sound totally gay. Oh, don't get your panties in a wad, I mean gay-as-an-insult-in-an-ironic-sense-because-I-grew-up-in-the-70's-in-south-King-County, not gay-as-an-appropriate-adjective-for-all-things-lame, okay? So, I'll just be a person with many important viewpoints. There's no catchy slogan to go with it, but at least it's accurate. To me. To you, maybe not so much....

Maybe you think I'm crazy. And maybe I am, but I can still be right. Two more things that aren't mutually exclusive. How is it so hard to be a man, right? Well, it starts early. A girl that plays with trucks is cute, but a boy who wants to play with Barbie is ridiculed or shamed. Studies show that parents and teachers regularly give positive reinforcement to girls who show their emotions and negative or neutral reinforcement to boys who express emotions. Boys learn early that they're supposed to be tough and suck up whatever is bothering them and it's to their detriment, and ours. If they make it to adulthood with minimal permanent damage from this, it gets harder still. They're supposed to be the provider and take care of everything with no assistance, because to need help or express doubt is weak. Society expects, and demands, a high-paying career and an obsessive interest in sports, or they're suspect, not quite right. Maybe even gay! The result is a group of people who have severely limited personal and professional options because of their gender. Sound familiar?

To make matters worse, men are increasingly being affected by the same 'social diseases' as women: anorexia and body dysmorphic disorder, to name just two. I blame the magazines. Check out GQ, Maxim, or Men's Health sometime if you don't believe me; they're just as bad as Glamour and Cosmo, if not worse. But I guess blaming the magazines isn't fair, is it? They only exist because our society provides a demand for them. They're selling slick and glossy brightly packaged messages that none of us are good enough and we keep paying, and paying and paying. And guess what, we will never be good enough, and it will get harder and harder to be anyone.

So here's what we do: let's stop using our hard-earned dollars to fund this insidious multi-front war on ourselves. Don't buy the magazines. Let our kids play with whatever they want. Let our boys cry, give them the same attention we would give a crying girl. Encourage our sons and our daughters to be nurses or fighter pilots, or butchers or candlestick makers, whatever they're interested in. If our husbands (or wives) want to quit their high-paying, society-approved jobs and do something they really love, hooray! Find a way to help them do it. Dump the unreasonable and burdensome one-size-fits-all demands we put on every single one of us every day. Pretty soon we'll all be free to be you and me; I can see the rainbows and smell the unicorn poop now!

Back

2009-09-27T14:36:00.006+09:00

Well, I'm back. I didn't really mean to take a blogging vacation. I guess I just... did. So here's the latest.

The picture is of Weston playing with some new and dangerous dinosaurs. We were walking to church this morning and saw this set of pewter dinosaurs. There are four of them and they were approximately $17. I know I am a total sucker, because I am completely unable to bargain and Lloyd wasn't there, but I had some won burning a hole in my pocket and couldn't resist. After church we had lunch at a little Korean restaurant off the beaten path, followed by an ice cream cone at the Baskin-Robbins on the 'strip'. The lunch was 11,000 won; the cones were 12,000 won. Funny, huh?

I have some posts in the works; my favorite one is all about how hard it is to be a man. Really, it's true! This is a subject that troubles me deeply and I have some VERY important thoughts about it that I positively need to share with everyone. And, you probably haven't noticed, but I took my counter down. I found that I was entirely too concerned about how many hits there were. It was very freeing to do away with it, kind of like when you toss the scale in the closet and cover it up with broken toys, dirty winter coats, shopping bags and shoes. Or when you switch to the wine in a box so you don't have to watch the level drop and ruin all your fun. At the same time, I am quite interested in knowing what kinds of posts people like the best, so I'm thinking of putting up a poll later this week. I often have vicious internal debates about what to post, and I think a little bloggy input would be most welcome.

Other than that, it's all quiet on the northern front, my friends, and we all know how that ends, right?

Shavings

2009-09-22T06:47:00.004+09:00

My thriftiness knows no bounds, my friends! Look what I've done now! Shane has needed a haircut for AGES, and last night I decided to take matters into my own hands, saving approximately $8. I didn't really WANT to do it; his little curls are so cute and I would have totally just let them grow until Lloyd squealed about him looking like a girl, but he doesn't always like having it combed and he gets these little matted proto-dreds. Those, too, were cute, but I was worried he might get fruit flies, and the Pig-pen look is not the greatest.

Some of you might think I'm not capable of a reasonable hair-cutting job, all because of some ridiculous, greatly exaggerated dog trimming incident that may or may not have occurred MANY years ago. For the record, she SAID I could do it; it's not my fault her dog doesn't trim well. I'm not going to let The Man keep me down anymore! If I want to cut hair, I will! Wanna come over? I'll snip you up reaaaaaalllll nice.

And all this hair cutting has another benefit: now I have a ziploc baggie full of matted dirty blond curls to add to my Christmas list. Also, one of my more brilliant readers pointed out that I also have a bunch of unused and expensive coffee filters. So, now I have dried beans, lint, fingernail clippings, hair trimmings and coffee filters. Crafty paradise awaits!

Savings

2009-09-21T08:40:00.000+09:00

As you might recall, lately we've been living the frugal life, practicing for when we might need to eat dandelions and dried up worms off the sidewalk instead of the delicious recipes I've been making with goods purchased from the commissary. Of course, the savings come in handy; someday I might really need that extra $3 I made by depriving myself of the Kettle's Salt and Pepper potato chips that make my life tolerable, but mostly we have nothing better to do.

We have been trying new money-saving techniques every week. This week, I dumped the small bits of shampoo left in six different bottles together and shook it up into a homogenous mixture. Then I bought the conditioner that was on sale at the commissary for $0.69, saving me between $8 and $20, depending on which shampoo and conditioner I would have otherwise purchased. I have also been using cheap soap instead of facial wash, and frankly, my skin and hair are just as beautiful as they've ever been. I also use the cheap soap for Weston and Shane instead of the $4 bottles of baby wash and shampoo that they just dump out into the tub. They're just as clean, and when they throw hard soap at each other in the tub the bruises are free, because no soap is lost in the process. That saves about a quarter for each bathtub fight, which adds up to about a million dollars so far.

Even my morning coffee is not exempt from our ruthless cost-cutting measures. This morning, I switched to the french press instead of the coffee maker. The french press is smaller so it takes less coffee, and we don't need a filter. Those filters cost several cents apiece, you know. The only flaw I see so far is that right now is that it's not even 9 a.m. and I'm already making my third batch. But the potential extra coffee cost is more than offset by all the cost-saving ideas that are swirling around in my head. I swear, there are more with every sip! For example, one of the best ways to save money is to use the things you already have, instead of buying new things. Weston's birthday and the holidays are coming up, so I'm trying to think of great presents that are generated from items we don't have to buy. The things we have in ample supply are beans, dryer lint and fingernail clippings; ever since I cured my nail-biting habit with tapping, those those sharp little cuttings are coming out of my ears. At first I thought we could use them for toothpicks, but they're not quite long enough, so it was back to the drawing board on that one. I haven't quite worked all the kinks out of my gift-giving plan, but I'm pretty sure I just need a little more coffee; I'll keep you posted.

North

2009-09-19T19:40:00.014+09:00

Woo hoo! Time to go, an entire day all to myself! I hope I have enough food, a whole day is a long time if you don't have enough snacks.

Boy, this bus sure is filling up quick. Maybe I should get off and do something else instead, all by myself for an entire day. But what? Dammit, I guess I'm trapped on this bus. I hope I don't have to pee, why do none of these Korean buses have toilets?! I REALLY hope I like the ONE book I brought. Yay! Time to go, no one sitting by me. NO! don't sit by me... no, no, no. Especially not you, Vin Diesel.

Sweet! I have the only empty seat on the bus next to me, SUCKERS!

Hmm, this History Channel DMZ program on the bus television screen is interesting. I had no idea they were such nasty bastards up there. I don't think a lot of people realize how evil they really are. Fifty-nine years of failed diplomacy, dead soldiers and civilians, terrorist attacks, kidnappings, torture, drug running, counterfeiting, threats and oppression. I'm definitely a boobs not bombs kind of girl but those kitten-munching Dick Cheney types might be on to something when it comes to Kim Jong Il and his buddies.

Boy, this sure is a long bus ride. It's a good thing I like this book. I knew I was going to have to pee! Are we ever going to get there? Rice paddy, rice paddy, rice paddy..... Hungry, hungry, hungry... this bus ride is FOREVER. Mmmmm, jerky and chocolate, much better!

Oooh, here we are at Imjingak Resort Park. Right, great, where's the bathroom? Carefully check the door sign, and.... success! Ah.... Let's see, peace bell, Bridge of No Return, Prayer Wall, war memorials. This memorial for Japanese American Korean war dead is interesting; Koreans hate Japan after centuries of occupation and oppression. Boy, Korean history sure is depressing. Hey! Where did that guy get that coffee from?? Ahhh, much better. This stuff isn't half bad for Korean tourist park coffee. The stones of peace wall; that's pretty cool. I'd like to have a better look if those stupid Homers with their cameras would get out of my way. Cool, some rusty found object art. Back on the bus, Gus.

Dude! Look at these ugly-ass North Korean shoes and underwear. If that doesn't ruin communisn for you, nothing will! What the hell is this reunification propoganda? The path to reunification wall takes up the entire building and they are exactly nowhere. Good luck with that one, optimistic suckers. Oh look, a lady with a baby. That's weird; I miss the boys. That wasn't supposed to happen. Hey, lunchtime! I definitely have to learn to make that kimchi stew. I'll pass on those crinkle cut fries and white dinner rolls, thanks. Time to head out of here, where is that stupid bus? Driver's not back yet. Rats, left my book on the bus and I'm so tired of looking at North Korea. It's so boring; they don't DO anything. No roads, no cars, nothing going on. Maybe I should meditate! Really take advantage of my kid-free day. Ommmmmm.... oh, wait! Maybe this border town parking lot isn't the best place to close my eyes and zone out.

This train to nowhere sure is strange, and they're really proud of their visit from George Bush in 2002 (note: George is in the background of the photo, NOT the foreground).

Jeez, this tour guide/armed guard talks fast. What? What? I can barely understand you! Oooh, now I'm in South Korea, now I'm in North Korea. South Korea, North Korea. Cool, heh heh.

What? A tunnel? Oh, hell no; there is no way you're getting me in there. It's a good thing I'm not in charge in keeping South Korea free of tunnel-bound invaders, because I'd just let them have it. Is it time to go yet?

Phew, home again, home again, my fat hen. I wonder if the boys missed me. What? You kind of forgot about me all day? Huh.

Envy

2009-09-17T13:18:00.010+09:00

It's a dang good thing I think I look good in green, because I'm jealous of lots of things: blogs that are cuter than mine, people whose jeans aren't constantly on the verge of revolt, and people who don't have ziploc baggies of molding bread in their laundry rooms. Mostly I can stand it, barely, but today, I left drool marks all over my 'dining room' window.

Behold: here's the scene from a lucky someone's moving day. It's a little hazy, between the saliva and the ever-present small particle pollution, but you can still clearly see those big brown boxes of kimchi pots and knockoff purses eagerly awaiting their trip out of Korea, never to return. We started moving in our hearts and minds, and out of our storage room months ago, but things aren't progressing quite fast enough for me. It's sort of like being pregnant with an elephant. Not that I would know, no matter what it looked like.

We have made a list of all the last things we want to do in Korea, and we have been faithfully checking them off. Purchase Kimchi pots, check! Purchase Korean kitchen sink (this one was totally Lloyd, I'm sure you realize), check! Next on the list is the DMZ tour. Now, I'm extra-specially careful not to broadcast my movements in advance or share information that would come in handy for North Korean terrorists, so details later. And you can rest assured, your dirty little Osan secrets are safe with me!

Right

2009-09-15T08:47:00.003+09:00

Weston LOVES learning about the planets and outer space. As a result, we have read tons of books about the discovery of the planets and their orbits and scientific discoveries. Interestingly, a lot of the things that we think of as 17th and 18th century advances, such as Kepler's laws of planetary motion, were actually previously discovered by the Greeks and Romans. For example, the Antikythera Mechanism is accurate solar model and eclipse predictor, constructed in approximately 80 B.C. It contains differential gears that prior to its discovery were thought to have first been used in 18th century clocks. Similar advances in medicine, math, and other fields were also made. If progress had continued unabated after the 5th century, humans would be in Star Trek city right now, baby. Either that or we would have blown ourselves to smithereens already, whichever.

What happened? Oooh, I'm glad you asked. After the fall of Rome, early Christians went on the warpath against anything that they decided, in their infinite arrogance, was contrary to God's word. One of their targets was science that suggested that perhaps Earth was not the center of the universe. After all, they knew what God said, and they knew what God meant, and clearly, anyone who hypothesized otherwise was a heretic who deserved to die. Angry Christian mobs burned entire libraries of hard-won knowledge and murdered scientists, plunging much of the world into the dark ages. The world will never know what all was lost because of these early extremists who drove the western world into darkness, chaos and fear.

Today, these misguided and evil people are back with a vengeance. Extremists in any form are dangerous- a great example is Al Qaeda, but they're not alone. Christian extremists are just as scary, and maybe even more dangerous because many of us buy their self-righteous 'Army for God' crap. There is no difference between them and the Taliban or devil worshippers; they're just more familiar and so they seem innocuous. And, they can be hard to disagree with, because they try to make it seem like it you're not with them, you're against God. But the bottom line is, they're still a bunch of bullies that are killing doctors and trying to halt scientific progress, all because they think, in their infinite arrogance, that they know the mind of God. Now, I'm not too bright, but I'm thinking a God that created humans would know that their God-given curiosity would drive them to explore their surroundings. Perhaps that's even what he intended, hmmm? He knew what he was doing, right?

'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' has never been more true and 'their' evil, hate-filled bigots are no worse than 'our' evil, hate-filled bigots. Unfortunately they have a common target: all the rest of us. They should just set up training camps together to save money, since their targets are the same. Al Qaeda and similar groups are just a little more blatant about their intent, making similar 'Christian' groups even more insidious. They're doing it for your own good, after all; surely none of the rest of us can be trusted to make our own decisions or figure things out for ourselves. I don't claim to know for sure, but I bet neither Jesus nor Mohammed would so much as let any of these clowns be their friends on Facebook, and the rest of us should follow their good examples.

Salute

2009-09-11T21:11:00.006+09:00

Every weeknight at 5:30, the giant speakers play the Korean national anthem, followed by 'The Star-Spangled banner'. At 5:29, people all over the base scurry indoors so they won't be forced to stand still, facing the flag for the interminable 4 minutes and 33 seconds it takes to play the songs.

When the warning horns sound, cars on the road stop, joggers halt in their tracks, and Weston and Shane run out onto the deck.

Weston takes protocol VERY seriously, and stands solemnly with his hand over his heart for both anthems. Shane is, how shall we say, a touch more cavalier about the whole thing. He points at the cars parked in the road: Taxi! Dat taxi!' He shrieks at the people stopped on the sidewalk: 'Hey, who dat? Hey! HEY!' Oh, and he usually has no pants on. At our house, everyone salutes the flag in their own way. And that's okay. God bless America, land of the free and home of the brave.

Korean Pots

2009-09-07T21:21:00.006+09:00

So! Let's talk pots! Now that the weather is changing and feeling a little fallish, it FINALLY seems like we'll be moving soon. One of the things I have been wanting to do before we move is buy some kimchi pots, but I wanted to wait until just before we move so we don't have them sitting around taking up room in our apartment. Fall is coming and I wasn't sure if the kimchi pot store has winter hours, so we decided to spend labor day shopping for fair trade, locally made, environmentally friendly goods. The pots are big brown crocks with lids that Koreans use to make kimchi, a fermented cabbage dish. The pots are in every yard, and Koreans eat kimchi for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I don't think I'll be making much kimchi but the pots make nice planters or garden art. Sorry about the picture, it is right side up in the photo library and I have no idea how to fix it.

Then, we went to Emart to buy Weston a piggy bank. On the way, we saw a new Home Plus/Tesco store and decided to check it out. The store wasn't that great so we didn't stay long, and on the way out, I stopped to go to the restroom. It was a quiet morning at Home Plus and there was no one in the bathroom when I went in. I walked in, passed a row of urinals, and went into a stall. I sat down, and thought, hmmm, that was strange; why would there be urinals in here? I looked around and realized that the things you always see in a stall in the ladies room were missing. Hmm, stranger still; this here Korea sure is a weird place, I thought. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a man in the bathroom and I realized I was trapped in a stall in the mens room in a Korean discount store. Yep. There was nothing to do but march right out to where I left Lloyd, scream 'RUN!' and bolt for the car. So that's what we did and we will never discuss it again. We went to Emart and found no piggy banks that meet our exacting specifications, so we came home and Lloyd made one out of a juice bottle. It's just the right size to double as a pee receptacle, if you're someone who likes to go shopping but has vowed never to use a public restroom again.

Cheap Labor

2009-09-06T08:58:00.009+09:00

In honor of Labor Day, I read a new book called 'Cheap: The High Cost of Discount Culture' by Ellen Ruppel Shell. It's a good read, a little dry in places, but very interesting. The main point is that our obsession with cheap goods reaps all sorts of ill effects on culture, the world economy and the environment. Cheap initial costs hide the multitude of true costs. When consumers care about the lowest price to the exclusion of all other factors, retailers are forced to cut costs as much as possible in order to compete with one another. They cut wages for clerks, stockpersons and other employees. They force manufacturers to lower their wholesale costs, which forces manufacturers to seek cheaper and cheaper labor and supplies. This, of course, is what causes human rights violations in sweatshops and factories and environmental catastrophes. Manufacturers believe they can't afford to pay decent wages and comply with environmental regulations and still produce goods cheap enough to appeal to our insatiable desire for piles of inferior goods and therefore enrich themselves. Smaller producers are driven out of business, resulting in most of the world's goods being made by a handful of behemoth conglomerates. Let's face it: the unassailable fact is that it costs a lot more to make a table out of legally and sustainably harvested timber and fair wage labor than from an illegal clear cut in a third world country. A dress made out of clean harvest cotton by a reasonably-paid and a reasonably-treated labor force has to be more expensive than one made out of pesticide-contaminated fabric by abused and exploited sweatshop workers.

These giant corporations have the deep pockets necessary to spend lots of cash lobbying governments in order to keep environmental, consumer protection and workplace laws suppressed in their favor so their production costs are even lower, so the small number of executives at the top of the food chain can make even more money at the expense of the consumer and the workforce. Every day, companies fight efforts to require fair wages and benefits, fair labeling laws and regulations that require them to clean up their own hazardous waste and control dangerous emissions. And a lot of times, they win. Why? Because they have the money to pay the lawyers and lobbyists; money they get from you and me. There's no money in consumer and environmental protection, and therefore no one to fight them except for us.

Ruppel Shell uses a great example with milk: If a marketplace has two kinds of clearly labeled milk for sale, say pure milk for a dollar and watered down milk for fifty cents, consumers can purchase whichever they choose and both buyer and seller are happy. If the milk producers start watering down the milk and not labeling it, the sellers of pure milk will be screwed, because consumers will buy the watered down milk thinking it's pure and won't pay the additional cost for the real stuff. Sellers of real milk will sell less and less because consumers will think they're being cheated by the higher price. Pretty soon the sellers of real milk will either be forced to go along with the program and water down their milk, too, so they can compete or be driven out of business, The end result is that consumers will no longer have a choice; they can only buy crappy milk because that's all that's available. This is what has happened in every single industry on earth. Each and every television is made by one of three companies. Dozens of automobile manufacturers have been reduced to a handful, and all new cars look alike. Consumers have no real choice and goods are limitless but of low quality.

So, pretty depressing, huh? But there are things we can do. We're like the ants in The Bug's Life and we need to stand up to those dirty rat-finking grasshoppers. There's a lot more of us than them and if we band together we can mow them right over. Know the real cost of your consumer goods and be willing to pay the true price in cash up front, instead of in pain and suffering for people all over the world for years to come. Look for locally made goods and locally grown foods. Patronize your neighborhood stores instead of the big boxes. Pay attention to where things come from and ask the hard questions about how goods in America can have such a low initial cost, and where the true cost is being hidden. Shop at your local thrift store. Keep track of how your representatives vote on the important consumer and environmental issues, and let them know what you think. Go hiking on Labor Day instead of shopping the sale at the mall. Ants unite! Power to the people!

Happy Labor Day weekend!

Weekend Pictures

2009-09-05T16:18:00.006+09:00

Here are some pictures from Buraksan State Park. The park is very close to Osan and great for hiking with woods and hilly paths, both paved and dirt. You can see the rice paddy behind the boys and in the close-up. I'm not sure what the red flower is but I hadn't seen it before, and it has an unusual appearance in that it resembles a freaky looking brain.

In other weekend news, I have cured Lloyd of one of his bad habits with a single tapping session. He gnaws on the inside of his cheeks and calls it 'chewing his sides'. Other members of his family do it, too, and he has been afflicted since he was a small child.

Now he's clean and healed up, but he says he doesn't believe in tapping. He thinks it's all in his mind and I could have tapped him anywhere with the same effect. I say, it doesn't matter if you believe in the tapping or not, because the tapping believes in YOU.

And of course, the ever-thrilling dinner report: flank steak sliced and served over pan grilled peppers, onions and fresh garden cilantro and parsley and sweet potato fries.

Food

2009-09-04T13:39:00.000+09:00

I have been VERY diligent with my planned meals, my friends. I consult my planner every single day to see what is for dinner, but not everything is turning out quite like I pictured. This meal, for example, was supposed to be the grand-prize winning lime cilantro chicken.

The cilantro met a slimy and untimely demise in the refrigerator and I was only able to salvage a few leaves, so I chopped up some tomatoes and onions too and made more of a salsa-ish topping. I marinated the chicken in lime juice, olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper, then pan fried it and served it over rice with corn on the side. It was really quite delish, one of my better attempts so far.

The hardest part was finding a clean surface to take a picture on, and I have to say, it's a pretty sad day when the cleanest part of my kitchen is the floor. I see I could possibly have tried to find a plate with no chips in it, but the queen wasn't coming so I didn't bother. Tonight: turkey meatball soup in a rusty bowl.

Again with the milk

2009-09-03T08:29:00.005+09:00

Breastfeeding, as you may know, is a subject near and dear to my heart. You can read how it all began with Lactating Superfriends, or read a more recent rant about the evils of formula companies here.

Everyone in the universe should read Motherhood Uncensored's outstanding post Breastfeeding is a privilege, not a right. It's about a woman in Ohio who was fired from her factory job for taking 'unauthorized' breaks to pump milk for her baby, while co-workers received no censure for taking similar breaks to smoke. The facility was a Totes/Isotoner factory, if you need any more reasons not to buy any ugly small umbrellas or stretchy gloves.

And thanks to Stefanie for the title idea. I did little to no real work, you have plenty to read, and I didn't even have to think of my own title. Now, that's what I call optimization!

New

2009-09-02T06:21:00.002+09:00

After a long and distinguished career as an Air Force spouse, I will be retiring in the spring with the ~~treadmarks from Uncle Sam's boots still on my ass~~ everlasting gratitude of my country and a ~~miniscule~~ ~~small~~ ~~barely adequate if I was a German Sheperd~~ pension. We will be moving to the Puget Sound area, and Lloyd will have to find a job so we have food. Let's face it: no one ever got rich off the military. Except Dick Cheney, of course, and he only eats elderly nuns, crippled children and wide-eyed kittens. I hear he likes the kittens best because he loves to suck the juice out of their eyeballs and spit the skins at the crippled children just before he crunches their bones between his teeth. It's probably just one of those internet rumors, though. Like the one about my stripper pole. Sheesh, don't people have better things to do than make up ridiculous stories and spread them around the internet?

Anyway, Lloyd would like to work as a pilot, but we recently read a stories about these guys, so I'm not sure how well that's going to work out. I mean, only so many pilots can work the street corners in one town before they start having turf wars, right? I can just see them strutting down the sidewalks in their most enticing uniforms, pushing and shoving each other to get to the best prospective employers: 'Hey, Mister! Over here! I'll take you around the world! Satisfaction guaranteed!'

Major economic indicators at Osan (knockoff bag and pirated video sales) are strong and unchanged from the time of our arrival here. Back in Seattle, where the intellectual property theft that drives the economy is lost to the annals of history instead of parading itself on every street corner, apparently the conditions are not quite so rosy, and it might be a while before Lloyd finds a job. Before you get all huffy, yes, I could work and leave Lloyd home with the boys. We did talk about that but we agree that it's better if he works for money instead of me. Plus my main skills these days are tapping and producing milk, and there's not much of a market for those. But there totally SHOULD be. I have an awesome idea for building a human milk factory but I can't seem to find any investors.

In light of our upcoming reality, we are doing some things differently now. We're practicing for the days to come when we have to make Christmas presents out of empty beer cans and tape and play with boogers instead those spendy thrift store toys. We have stopped throwing away diapers after only one use, and for dessert we make the boys lick the old popsicle juice and applesauce spatters off the walls. And I only go to the thrift store on bag sale day. Oh, okay, that one's a lie. I would NEVER skip the thrift store just to save a little money.

But the big exciting change is meal planning. For every day in September, I have plans for both lunch and dinner. Some days I have complete meals figured out but I still have some holes to fill. People claim you can save tons of money on groceries by doing this because you buy just what you need to make your pre-planned meals instead of throwing things willy-nilly into the cart. I'm not sure who these 'people' are but maybe they're on to something here.

I'll keep you posted as September progresses. Tonight is lime cilantro chicken. I have no recipe, but I figure I'll just make one up and enter it in the Pillsbury bake-off contest and win the million dollars. Who knew meal planning could be so lucrative? I just need to incorporate some refrigerated dough of the appropriate brand and come up with a snazzy name. I think 'Island Chicken' has a nice ring to it. I could put it on sticks and bake it with the biscuit dough, sort of like a Cuban corn dog.

That's the news from the kitchen in Korea! And, Lloyd's your man if you're looking for a pilot to take you on a wild trip. In an airplane, I mean.

Fourteen Dollars

2009-09-01T11:05:00.009+09:00

Fourteen dollars. For fourteen dollars you can buy a tub of lower-end night cream. You could buy a new sports bra on sale, a diet book, two brow waxes plus tip at the BX, or an iron.

Fortunately, I don't need any of those stupid and useless things. Instead, I took my fourteen dollars to the thrift store on bag sale day and came home with a hot pink purse by Matt and Nat (or a Korean facsimile, natch), an elephant print scarf, two pairs of new looking shoes for Weston for next year (one pair are Keens), space pajamas for Shane, three books for the boys, four nice shirts for me and a pair of flannel lined pants that will fit Weston this (cold, Korean) winter.

I know I promised something new and exciting today; I do realize that most people do not consider my thrift store purchases very fascinating, and almost no one is interested in lengthy discussions about thrifting philosophy. I am a very poor dinner guest, as you have probably long suspected. I really do have something different, coming soon, but you probably still don't want to invite me to dinner.

2009-08-31T17:41:00.009+09:00

Tomorrow, something new and exciting. Today, more of the same:

I found out what the 'Gender Report' is and it's even worse than I thought. It was posted at the BX today with a note from the school nurse, bless her heart. It's a nasty note about how the children on the list, reported by age, gender and classroom, have not received their 'required shots' and will not be allowed to attend school until they do. So now, in addition to blatantly threatening the safety of the elementary school children, they are publicly displaying their private medical information.

I could call someone, but I know what they would say: the nurse is the only one we have for all three schools since our school budget got cut. She doesn't have time to write, call or email people about the shots, and besides, we're on a military base; it's perfectly safe. One of those excuses is irrelevant, and one is laughable, but it doesn't matter. So.... I have nothing more to say about that. I tried to have something to say several times but I couldn't write anything that wasn't bitter and angry. And, I recently read Kristen's excellent post about how you don't really HAVE to post everything you think of. Or at least you should carefully consider it first. I try really hard not to be a pain in the ass around here and it's EXHAUSTING. But now I'm done.

And on a completely unrelated note, I have mentioned before that sometimes there might be a little tiny fib or two on here. So, no, I do not have a stripper pole or road rash from vomiting on the sidewalk. That you know of.

Oh yeah, on another completely unrelated note, if you are interested in dog-eating in Korea (and come on, who's not?), check out this fascinating post from Ask A Korean.

Sort of

2009-08-30T17:45:00.007+09:00

It's Sunday night. Sort of. Sunday night in Korea is late Saturday night/early Sunday morning in the states, and is thus very boring. Everything is closed, no one is on the computer to talk to. And to make matters worse, tomorrow is Monday, sort of. Monday morning here is Sunday afternoon there, and there is a total blackout all day. No new blog entries + quiet Facebook + no emails= AGONY.

I used a recipe for dinner. Sort of. I read this book, 'The Ungarnished Truth', by Ellie Mathews. She is a Seattle hippiegeek (new word; do you like it? I'm aware that individual people have already used it, but I'm using it to sterotype an entire group of people. I'm still toying with the capitalization issue; I'll keep you posted), who won the Pillsbury Bake-off for her recipe for salsa couscous chicken a few years ago. I had to make a few substitutions, of course. There is no way on God's green earth you would find currants at the commissary, so I had to use chopped up apricots instead. There is, however, plenty of soy sauce, Crisco and Count Chocula, should you want to whip up something scrumptious with those.

On the topic of the commissary, which we were, sort of, I found the commissary more appalling than usual today. Right in the front where you walk in, where you would expect to find the ads posted in a normal store, was a display titled 'Gender Report'. It was exactly what it sounds like- a report listing elementary school students by classroom and gender. Also a perfect pedophile's shopping list but no one asked me. I am reminded every single day that no one has any privacy here: you can't even have a few beers too many and throw up on the sidewalk without someone making a big deal about it; you have to have your ID scanned at the BX to buy Oxi-clean and Maalox; and when your new stripper pole comes in the mail everyone knows about it. I can live with those things, sort of, but if my kid's name was on the 'Gender Report' posted at the commissary I would be beyond furious. Not that anyone cares.

I'm ready to start a new week. Sort of. We are leaving here soon, sort of, and the weeks are going slowly now and my energy and enthusiasm are waning. There are never enough books, enough time, but always too much laundry, too many eggs mashed into the carpet and too much noise. I want to write, sort of. There are lots of ideas, but never enough time and always too much noise. I can ignore the laundry, sort of, so here you go: I updated my blog. Sort of.

Conundrums

2009-08-27T10:52:00.004+09:00

Lately I've been thinking about things I'm pretty sure I should know but don't. These are real, actual questions with answers I just don't know, not rhetorical un-answerable questions like why can Lloyd fly an airplane to a tiny spot in the dark halfway around the world but can't find the ketchup standing right in front of him in the refrigerator:

1. What is wiki mean, and how does Wikipedia work? They claim anyone in the whole world can edit the entries, right, and they don't do any oversight. How is that even possible and what keeps it from descending into constant chaos?

2. Scientific notation; do you count the zero in the 10 as an extra one, or do you just use the number in the superscript? This one I might actually need to figure out soon, because Weston is supremely interested in really big numbers. We told him googol was the biggest number with a name, and he wrote it out, a one followed by a hundred zeroes. Then he said, 'Nine with a million zeroes is the biggest number with a name. I named it!' I asked him what he named it, and he said, as if I were stupid (and maybe he's onto something here) 'Nine with a million zeroes!'

3. Is it better to buy organic produce that had to get a passport to get to your supermarket, or local produce that's conventionally grown?

4. What does 'preternatural' mean?

5. How do I cut and paste lickety-split with my new Mac, without using the edit menu? And does it need virus protection that I don't have? And why can't I watch Helen's videos?

Boy, I better stop now or you all will think I'm a total moron. Oops, too late!

Updates

2009-08-26T22:19:00.003+09:00

It was ever-so-gently brought to my attention recently that I had neglected to tie up a few loose ends around here, so I have a few updates:

1. Mrs. Osan Pageant: We have many lovely ladies here, and I did receive some additional entries, but it is just so hard to choose! I will make an effort to crown a winner in the not-too-distant future, so don't give up hope, Osan beauties!

2. Normal or not (military spouse poll): The poll closed and the result are striking. I do, indeed, have a theory and hope to share it soon.

3. Tapping: I was a little hesitant to share this earlier, but I have been a nail biter since I was a wee lass. I tapped on it, and I have had no urge to nibble my nails or chew on my cuticles since. They are growing nicely and I may need a manicure soon. Coincidence? I think not. I'm not a fan of coincidences, which is interestingly the subject of post I have in the works. What a strange and fortuitous occurrence!

Nighty-night from Korea!

Tensions

2009-08-25T06:47:00.000+09:00

PRESS RELEASE

DATELINE OSAN

Here in South Korea, two traditional enemies are considering high level talks to resolve their long-term conflict, despite repeated failure of diplomatic efforts.

Stories From Korea and her Jeans have had a tense and stressful relationship since the early 80's when a simmering dispute over a split seam erupted into all-out war.

A tentative peace was reached after months of battle, only to end in the ugly and notorious 'Judas Priest Concert/Duct Tape' dispute, which was closely followed by the drawn-out 'Freshman 15' struggle. Since then, relations have been strained, consisting of a cold war marked with occasional skirmishes and border disputes, usually sparked by special events such as reunions and homecoming queen sightings. The steadily worsening relationship deteriorated further during 2001-2007 with SFK's marriage and the birth of her two children. Good faith efforts to negotiate a deal were made by SFK in 2008, but the Jeans maintained a hard line stance, despite impassioned pleas from Spandex, a special envoy dispatched in desperation.

The ongoing tense relationship has taken a severe toll on the entire region. Representatives for the other parties in the Wardrobe Coalition expressed cautious optimism today over the prospect of reunification of the warring parties. One official, speaking on the condition of anonymity, stated that a peace treaty would be well received by the Bikini community, as well as by their close allies, the Articles of Underclothing.

However, there are several potentially insurmountable obstacles to a successful negotiation. SFK would be forced to give up late night cheese snacks and regular second glasses of wine and hand over her breakfast chocolate; concessions she has so far been unwilling to make. Her longstanding position has been that in order to even consider such drastic moves, the Jeans would have to immediately provide several inches of accomodation. To date, requests of this nature have been met with outright refusal by the Jeans.

Interested parties watch from around the region, while the Foundation Garment Party sits poised to swoop in and seize power, a move that would be disastrous for all concerned.

Tap

2009-08-23T09:40:00.010+09:00

You guys know how I'm always looking for a book that will change my life, right? Well, I found another one! Pretty soon I won't even recognize myself. This one might work out for you, too, not like that last one. It's called 'The Tapping Cure', by Roberta Temes. I heard about the tapping from my sister, but I thought it was a little woo-woo for me. She nagged me until I bought it, so I tried it out.

The basic idea is that there are acupressure spots on your face, hands and chest that can be used to release negative feelings. You can see the face and collarbone spots in the picture, and there is also one running down the pinkie side of each hand, on each finger (except the ring fingers) on the bottom corner of the nail on the thumb side, one on the left side of the chest under the collarbone, and one on each side under your arm where your bra gush is. Where mine is, I mean. Only on you. I certainly don't mean to imply that you might have bra gush. Moving on, I had intended to mark each spot with a tidy circle, but I couldn't find a single one of the 736321 washable crayola markers I have purchased. Instead, I used some goopy face paints my generous friend Helen left me when she escaped Korea. Wasn't that sweet of her?

There are a variety of techniques you can try, but they all instruct you to tap, rub or press these spots while talking to yourself aloud. I know, it sounds crazy, right? So crazy it just might work! And I've always been one to embrace my crazy, so I'm just the girl to test it out.

I started out by tapping away some general stress. I usually post about how great Lloyd is, so it might shock you to hear that he can occasionally vex me. Last night, instead of scowling, I just started tapping and it worked great! He was a little extra-vexacious, so I just kept tapping until the cranky feelings were gone. Now I just have to figure out a way to fill those bloody holes on my face; the blue paint doesn't really do it for me. Hahahaha, that's a good one, huh? See, he was so maddening I just had to keep tapping until I had worn holes in my skin. Oh, never mind. But for real, it worked; I tapped for 30 seconds or so while concentrating on my irritation, and I immediately felt much more peaceful!

The book is full of uses for tapping; you can get rid of bad habits, fears, chronic anxieties and more. I almost wish I had a phobia, like say, an irrational fear of washing dishes, so I could tap it away in minutes! Or not. You can even use it to shut your kids up! The spot on the side of the hand between the pinkie and wrist is a good one to use for little kids, and bigger kids can be taught to tap themselves. Plus it makes a great threat: 'Stop that howling or I'll tap you into next week!' Only instead of calling CPS, people will be in awe of your parenting skills! I tried it on Weston when he was upset over a yogurt dispute, then asked him how it felt. He reports that he prefers rubbing to tapping and it makes him feel all purplish and salty. So there you have it.

Of course, there are some catches. You have to know what your problem is to concentrate on or talk about while you're tapping. If you're trying to tap away rage when you're really sad and don't know it, it won't work at all. You also can't change what someone else is doing, only how it makes you feel. So, for example, I can tap on 'Even though Lloyd is irritating me, I am okay', but not 'I wish Lloyd would be quiet about his stupid boat'.

There are all sorts of sequences you can use to solve a variety of problems, but to start, you can just tap on the spots in the picture or check out www.emofree.com for tons of good free instructions. Try it out, 10 seconds or so on each spot, and tell me how it works for you!

Reality is King

2009-08-20T10:10:00.007+09:00

I just watched the worst tv show ever. I don't watch a lot of tv and now I know why. Here at Osan, all we get is AFN (Armed Forces Network), unless you go through all kinds of complicated and expensive machinations to get more channels.

Since I don't watch much tv and I have a special loathing for reality tv, it is entirely possible that 'Rock of Love' is not, in fact, the worst show ever, but it is surely in the top ten. If you are not familiar with it, it stars Bret Michaels, a washed-up rock star trying to hang onto his glory days. He is looking for his one true love, that splendid and devoted lass that won't mind him sleeping with groupies on the road. The show is in season 11, so he doesn't seem to be having much luck.

Twenty-seven years ago, Stephen King published a story called 'The Running Man'. You can read the plot synopsis if you click on the link, but it's a story about a network that runs 'game shows' in which people die, for entertainment. The contestants are forced into appearing, either for punishment, or because they are desperate for one reason or another. In 1982, the year the story was published, MTV's 'The Real World' was still ten years away. 'The Real World' was the first American foray into what we now call reality tv, though there had already been some similar European and Japanese efforts.

I'm paraphrasing King's thoughts here, because I can't recall the source for his words; it could have been the preface to the book, or it could have been his book on writing, or perhaps an interview. He was addressing the idea that the game shows in the story were outrageous and ridiculously far-fetched, and pointed out that humans have been entertaining themselves by torturing and killing each other since humanity began, and used the excellent and appropriate example of the Romans 'gaming' with Christians and others in the Coliseum. He said that game shows like the ones he described were in our future.

Is 'Rock of Love' in the same category as 'The Running Man' game? Well, probably not. Yet. But a society in which thousands of women will audition to be on a show where they will demean themselves and one another while viciously competing to be the future ex-girlfriend of a stringy-haired, makeup-wearing guitar player is but a few steps away. Maybe next season the ratings will go down, so instead of putting the contestants in bikinis and hooker heels, they'll give them whips. Then, the pool of volunteers might go down, because now it's dangerous. So, the network works a deal with the LA court system: The show will provide employment and oversight of the most attractive minor offenders to save the taxpayers the cost of trying and punishing them. Everyone wins!

See what a slippery slope it is? And when Stephen King is accurately predicting the future, it's time to wake up and smell the offal.

Disconnected

2009-08-18T07:45:00.000+09:00

I have been to hell and back, my friends, and I have lived to tell the tale. Yesterday morning started just like any other morning: I awoke to the sound of a slamming door as Shane ran into the bedroom, vigorously shut the door behind him, and pig-piled me for his morning nursies. I stumbled into the kitchen and made some coffee, went into the computer room to check my email, Facebook and SFK for blog updates.

The computer was frozen, a not uncommon occurrence, and we decided it was time to part with the hard-earned fifty bucks and have the thing cleaned up at the BX. So, we reluctantly disconnected it and Lloyd took it down there. He had called ahead to see how long it would take and was told we would have to suffer approximately 24 hours with no computer. Lloyd's plan was to drop it off, then cajole, threaten or bribe the computer guy into fixing it immediately because we would SHRIVEL UP AND DIE with no computer for an entire day. All was going well with the plan, until Lloyd called after we couldn't stand it anymore (approximately 20 minutes) and was told that the computer was not fixable; something something, BIOS motherboard, blah blah blah, no fixee, no fixee.

Facing the prospect of the whole, boring-ass Korean day in front of me, I tried to make the best of it. It will be good for me, I thought. I spend too much time on the computer anyway, I told myself. But deep inside, a glimmer of hope was growing. I have been wanting a new Mac for quite a while; maybe now was the time! Lloyd tried to convince me to hook the 10 year old Compaq that's gathering dust in the laundry room back up, but I wasn't going for it. He finally caved in and came home from work early so I could go down to the BX and see what they had. I walked, because there are never parking spots at the BX, and planned to take a cab home if I needed to. Lloyd, as desperate as me but perhaps hiding it a little better, feverishly instructed me not to come home without a computer.

I hiked down to the Mustang Mall (oh, yes, that's really what it's called) in the broiling late afternoon heat and inspected the meager computer selection: four desktops (two Macs and two PC's) and approximately 27 laptops that all looked the same. I snapped up the Mac I wanted and the Office for Mac suite and handed over my credit card. Which was declined. Twice. Now, having your credit card declined ALWAYS sucks, but at the BX, it is ultra-embarrassing, because the person in line behind you is probably either your husband's boss or that snooty mom who always sneers at you when your kids run by her apartment naked. Not that I would know.

Furious at the stupid bank who issued the card, I stalked home to get another card and call up USAA to yell at them. To save time, I threw the card at Lloyd and told him to call and yell at them while I took the other card to get the computer. This time, I managed to get all the way home and get the computer up on the desk, at which time I noticed a crack across the corner of the screen. Because it was a Mac and not a Windows-running machine, we were pretty sure that the crack was not, in fact, a standard feature, and we took it back and exchanged it. Then I discovered that the credit card was an old one that had been replaced and not shredded- oops! Sorry, USAA, my bad. I take back all the nasty thoughts I had about you. Well, not ALL. You still suck, but thanks for replacing a perfectly good credit card with a new one with a different account number because you misplaced our personal information.

Now it's hooked up and working fine, if a little slow, and I have learned two things:

1. I spend WAY too much time on the computer. Seriously, I was totally jonesing for email ALL DAY, like every five minutes. Someday, I might actually try to do something about it, but probably not today.

2. My messy house and unkempt children cannot be blamed on my computer addiction; after an entire day offline, conditions are not improved. I am not sure what this says about me, but I think I like it!

Milestone

2009-08-16T17:33:00.011+09:00

Know what's weird? Blogging about blogging is weird. There are actually blogs about blogging. Hell, for all I know there are blogs about blogging about blogging. Personally, I think blog posts about blogging are usually boooooring: blog or do not blog; take the goodie bags or don't; have ads or don't have ads; blah, blah, blah- it's all the same to me. Or maybe it's mildly interesting sometimes, but definitely not worth all the angst and drama.

But today, I had a blogging milestone, so I had to blog about it: someone recognized me from my blog! I felt like Dooce! As an aside, I am not a huge Dooce fan. Going to Dooce is kind of like going to Macy's instead of the thrift store, or to WalMart instead of that cute little handcrafted toy store down the street. You know how I love bargains and things that are a little off the beaten path, so I go to Cecily for my crazy, even though Heather cornered the market on PPD long ago. But she is totally getting a bad rap in the press these days for no reason that I can discern. Although I see from her post today that she is going on Dr. Phil, so maybe she DOES deserve it. Anyway, that's neither here nor there.

What's important here is my Q rating. I'm not too savvy about this popularity thing; I thought it was a Q factor, which turned out to be WAY more complicated. Phew, good thing I'm a ~~out of work geologist~~ ~~mom~~ ~~domestic engineer~~ ~~hopped up lush~~blog writer, instead of a physicist!

I know you're dying to hear how it happened, so here it is: I was at church, chatting with my friend MeLissa and killing time when a new family came in. They were a little late, so they were the only game in town, and the church ladies pounced on them. After the parents got all greeted up and delivered their kids to vacation bible school, they came back by me with the deer in the headlights looks wiped off their faces, and the mom said, 'Do you have a blog?' She recognized me from here before she even got to Osan! Probably from this post, because that's my most common look. And,she actually likes it!

Of course, I acted all cool, like that happens to me all the time, but I thought I had died and gone to heaven, right there in the foyer of the Mission Baptist Church. Thanks, J!

Now, let's get down to the nitty gritty; the really important part of this post: which is my best side? I really need to know; I have an image to uphold, you know.

On Vices

2009-08-14T06:34:00.001+09:00

I'm a fan of vices. Really, I'm not sure what I'd do without them. Especially here at Osan. You NEED your vices here, there's no question about it. But unfortunately, the vice options are limited. Your choices are: alcohol, coffee, OTC drugs, and online shopping. Oh, I guess I could smoke, chew or devour online po.rn, but I do have SOME standards. So anyway, leaving out the more odious choices, I'm batting about .500 here, which is working out okay for me, but I really need to up my average a little bit or I might get cut from the team. Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, we were discussing what a hopped-up drunk I am.

This place is BORING, people. If I was clever, crafty, or perhaps even just smart, I could produce something with my free time: sloppy sewing projects, hideous scrapbooks or appalling art. Maybe even a crappy book! Or I could embark on a no-holds-barred self-improvement plan. A motivated person could really whip herself into shape here: stair climbing every day, kimchi for three meals a day... This place would definitely make a high quality fat camp. I could even keep my house ~~clean~~ cleaner.

But nope, none of those things for me! Part of the problem, of course, is that my 'free time' is after the boys go to bed, and I am a mere husk of a woman; the deflated remains of a slightly overripe fruit, innards sucked dry. But that's not why, if the truth be known.

The truth is, I don't WANT to do any of those things. I don't need improvement or ugly crafts. I'm good enough.

Unfortunately, though, I do have a little issue: vices are quite costly, I'm finding. I just spent almost $100 to have a couple of months' worth of coffee shipped here, and let's not even talk about the wine bills. I was thinking of whipping up some home brew but that would be venturing perilously close to producing something useful with my free time (see above). So, I welcome suggestions from all my clever friends in the computer! I also welcome coffee and wine. And chocolate.

Fins: Don't send Lloyd to the BX

2009-08-13T19:29:00.008+09:00

.
Fins to the left, Fins to the right, and I'm the only bait in town.... isn't that how it goes?

This is the newest member of our family, Neptune. As you may know, we have another fish, Mars. They are both Siamese Fighting Fish.

Lloyd went to the BX last night. We needed one of those booger-sucking bulb things (BX FAIL), Flinstones vitamins and a few other things. He came home with beer, two tabloids, and Neptune. Sadly, this did not surprise me. And I was not altogether disappointed, I must admit. Except for the fish; now THAT was disappointing.

Now, as you are probably aware, you cannot put two Siamese Fighting Fish in the same tank. They are called 'Fighting Fish' for a reason. This is why they are always in teeny-tiny individual bowls at the evil fish-selling store. Apparently, this was news to Lloyd because he had fully intended to just dump Neptune into Mars's tank, 'because he needed a friend'.

I hate to say it, but Lloyd's fish care skills leave a little to be desired. While I was scrounging a bowl for Neptune, Lloyd gave the plastic bag holding him to Shane. I'm sure he thought Shane would hold the bag gently and lovingly, and was beyond shocked when he started agitating poor Neptune like a human blender or a Korean washer. Then, he mocked me when I insisted on dechlorinating the water for Neptune.

Miraculously, Neptune did get safely into a tank and survive the night. It was touch and go for a while, though, because Weston really wanted to sleep with him.

Lloyd is already working on a plan to smuggle the fish back to the states come PCS time. Thank God he has found an adoptive home for his turtle, that's all I have to say. Oh, and now she feels like a remora......

Unfriends

2009-08-09T08:48:00.000+09:00

Well, it happened. I got unfriended. I suppose it was inevitable; the circle of life and all that. It's true; I say a lot of ridiculous things. I swear, just a smidge. But still, I was a little surprised. It was a friendly acquaintance, not just someone I knew a long time ago. I mean, what did I do wrong? Was it my goofy status updates or my smart-ass comments?

Surely, she didn't really mean to unfriend me. It must be a Facebook mistake. Maybe some sort of computer glitch; I'll just refriend her. She just has to confirm me. Any time now; I'm sure it will be fine.

Who the hell does she think she is? This really pisses me off. What did I ever do to her? So my posts are kind of ridiculous; screw her if she can't take a joke! Whatever, I don't need her anyway; I wouldn't friend her if she was the last person on earth!

Well, maybe we could be friends. If she would just be friends with me again, I would write nicer things. I would even make those little hearts and smiley faces, if only she would come back and confirm me.

Oh, I can't stand it! I don't deserve this; it's such a burden on my soul. I know, I can have other friends, but it's just not the same; will I ever feel whole?

Hey, you got any wine? Yeah, I'd love some. What? Oh, her? Yeah, we used to be friends, but it's over now. It's all good.

Messy

2009-08-08T18:58:00.006+09:00

I had been planning on taking this picture of Lloyd in his mess dress for a long time. He had a ceremony to go to tonight and we have been scrounging up the bits and pieces of the uniform for WEEKS: the buttons, the cuff links, the bow tie; it's all very complicated. The clip-on bow tie, in particular, is surprisingly vexing.

And while he is very handsome in his mess dress, that is not why I wanted the picture. No, I wanted the picture because, unless something goes dreadfully awry, it is the very last time he will wear it. Ever. Never again. I took the picture because I relish every indication that our Air Force time is drawing to a close. He looks a little grumpy because he felt I was not taking the primping and polishing quite seriously enough, but he did consent to pose.

And that was going to be the end of this post. Oh, I might have gone on a bit about how I'm going to dance naked around a uniform bonfire when we get out of here, or how I'm counting down the coffee filters (187), but that was basically it. But then....

But then, as Lloyd was walking out the door in his fancy outfit, Shane fell, jumped or was pushed off the back of the couch, smashing the back of his head into one of the 45,873,912 toys laying on the floor behind it. And there was Lloyd, all dressed up with no place to go. Except the ER. And so we did, and instead of attending a fancy dinner party, Lloyd spent the evening in a dingy hospital basement and eating takeout pizza after Shane was cleared to go home and continue throwing himself around with reckless abandon.

So there you have it, the story of Lloyd's last dress-up party. Sniff. Now pass the matches.

Mrs. Osan Entry 2

2009-08-08T07:57:00.002+09:00

For your viewing pleasure, here is a recent pageant entry in the 'Shiniest' category. This Osan lovely glows with the best of them, don't you think?

Mrs. Osan Pageant update and Entry 1

2009-08-06T12:38:00.003+09:00

The 'Queen of the Kitchen' category has been changed to the Talent Competition.

This was so the pageant doesn't discriminate against cooking-challenged entrants, such as our lovely Mrs.Osan number 1, who submitted the 'before' and 'after' photos showcasing her housekeeping skills.

Send in your entry today, and don't forget that frozen ground beef recipe! I mean, come on, people! Help me out here.

Here She Comes

2009-08-05T16:38:00.007+09:00

Osan in August is pretty dull. And humid. And bug-ridden. Other than that it's a really great place, but it could use a little livening up. Fortunately, I got a brilliant idea at the playground this afternoon. No, really, it's true this time; not like that ridiculous poetry idea at all.

Okay, here it is. Are you ready for it? It's the Mrs. Osan Pageant! Something like the better known (but not for long) Miss American pageant, only better. Of course, I had to make some changes to the concept and categories because our pageant will be in a venue quite different than an air-conditioned casino in Atlantic City. Also because the Miss America pageant is stupid beyond words.

First, the competition isn't restricted by age or gender. Stories from Korea, the pageant sponsor, has a strict 'don't ask, don't tell' policy about both of those things, so gentleman of Osan, get your applications ready!

Here are the categories, a brief description, and instructions about how to enter:

Shiniest: We all glisten around here, but some of you ladies (and you know who you are!) really have that golden glow. Send in a photo of yourself at your moistest, and/or measure and submit your sweat volume over a 24-hour period.

Scabbiest: Mosquitoes around here really leave their mark. If you bump up nicely, then claw at yourself until you bleed, this is your category! Check out the picture; I'm the walking scab to beat, so don't get your hopes up. Enter with a photo. Please, no scabs shoved under my door.

Queen of the Kitchen: The recipe that gets a meal based on frozen ground beef to the table the fastest wins. Send me the recipe. Before dinnertime, if possible.

The Rain Boot competition: The most stylish monsoon boots take the prize. Send a photo or drop the boots off. Entries become the property of the sponsor. Extra credit for size 9's.

Miss Schizophrenic: This goes to the craziest summer story. Have you taken two or more kids on a trip halfway around the world, by yourself, maybe even space-A*? Done something else that is totally nuts? Send in your story to win the prize.

Ex-Osanites and other members of society are permitted, nay, encouraged, to participate. I'm waiting for those entries, so go ahead and send them in right away. Especially the frozen ground beef recipe. Right now would be great. Seriously, right now. I'm waiting. Go ahead. Someone? Anyone? Dammit.

*Space-A stands for space available and refers to almost free travel on military aircraft. As you might expect, there are a million catches. You can read some hilarious accounts of such ill-conceived trips here and here.

Compulsion

2009-08-05T12:44:00.003+09:00

***************FREAK ALERT**********

Okay, I am the first one to admit that I'm a little bit crazy but even I think this is a little extra nuts: Ever since I posted my poem, 'Vision: Ode to my new yellow purse' yesterday I have felt COMPELLED to explain to everyone that yes, I know the poem is TERRIBLE. I revel in its awfulness; that is the whole POINT, and yet I feel like I have to tell everyone I KNOW it is horrible, lest anyone think I think it is a real poem.

**Thank you for your attention. Real post coming soon; freak level to be determined.**

Vision: Ode to my new yellow purse

2009-08-04T18:59:00.004+09:00

I woke up this morning and said,
Korea again? Still? Oh, the despair!
Don't fret, they all said,
Go for a shop!
This is the land of fake purses aplenty;
it will cheer you right up!
Hmmmm, I thought, no fan of full price
It's Tuesday again, I'll hit the thrift!
And there it was,
my muse, my delight
Just the right size,
yellow, black and white
My heart sings with joy,
my wallet brims!
Shhhh, just don't tell Kate!

Thrift Store Kate Spade knockoff: $3
Composing appalling poetry and drinking wine on a balmy Korean night: Priceless

Chaos Family Rules

2009-08-02T09:14:00.003+09:00

I decided to password protect Chaos Family Rules. If you'd like access to it and don't yet have it, please let me know and I will add you to the reader list.

Moving on out

2009-08-01T19:02:00.004+09:00

Do you know what this picture is? Do you? This is Lloyd hauling some stuff out of our storage room in extremely early preparation for our move. We didn't really plan to start moving today; it just seemed like a good idea. Here's how it happened:

Lloyd: Hey, we haven't grilled at all this year.
Me: Yeah, I was just thinking maybe we should move the grill off the deck so we have more room out there; it's pretty cramped.
Lloyd: Should we put it in the storage room? I'll have to move some stuff around in there.
We investigate storage room.
Me: A lot of that stuff goes to the thrift store. You could take it right now.
Lloyd: Yeah, okay. Hey, we don't need that Christmas tree, do we? And what about that car seat? Let's get rid of all of it! We're moving soon anyway.
We fill up the hallway with piles of crap.
Lloyd: Can I take those broken cabinet doors?
Me: No! I need those. For a project.
Lloyd rolls his eyes, then hauls junk out of the hallway for a very long time.

So all of this might make you think we are moving soon. And we are, if by soon, you mean long, interminable months from now. How many months, you might wonder. The answer is: So many that to write it will just depress me beyond words. Where are you moving to, you might wonder. The answer is: We have no idea! Does this make the time pass even more slowly? The answer is: Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. But at least we have a roomy deck and a clean storage room. And the thrift store has another pile of crap. All's well that ends well, I always say.

Bounty

2009-07-28T13:56:00.010+09:00

Tuesday is a beautiful day in the neighborhood; it's the day the Thrift Store is open. I haven't had a babysitter since we returned from our trip so I haven't been able to go until today. Today, I swapped childcare with one of my friends and toodled off to seek my destiny.

As luck would have it, it was a bag sale day: all the clothes that fit in a bag for $7. My bag of joy was filled with a pair of Columbia capri pants, the diamond checked coat, three shirts, and a skirt, plus the stunning orange satin gown in the picture.

For an additional $11, I got the giant stack of books, a pair of ugly but strangely comfortable garden clogs, the tin roaster, some silverware and a viewmaster/binocular toy. The books were an excellent score for $0.25 each, and can we talk about the dress for just a minute?

Isn't it gorgeous?!!? I mean, if you ignore the glazed look, the scabby shins and the crew socks. It's deliciously silky and very Cinderella-ish. And if anyone can channel Cinderella, I can: Cinderella, Cinderella, do the dishes; sweep the floor; feed the fishes; make the beds; cook the supper; find my toy; fold the laundry; all I ever hear is ~~Mommy~~ Cinderella. Whew, it makes me want to curl up in the fireplace ashes with the rats just thinking about it.

I have a question, though: does it make me look more like Cinderella, or more like the pumpkin? I can't decide which one is more appealing: Cinderella slaves away for years doing menial chores for a bunch of ingrates that hate her, only to have to marry some clown that only likes her for her shoe size; while the pumpkin gets chopped up and made into pie after its outlived its usefulness as a magic carriage. Where's the happy ending, dammit?