The Lamest Thing Ever

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.

Hallowhat?

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.

Irrational

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.

FINALLY

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.

More

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.

Fins: Don't send Lloyd to the BX

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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......