All the news that's fit to post

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.

Beach

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.

Let's see....

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!

Fear

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.

Lies

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.

Hodge Podge, plus pictures!

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.

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.

True

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!

Indoctrination

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.

Hell

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.....

Salute

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.

On Vices

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.

You're going where, now?

The other day, Lloyd put on his gas mask and his battle gear for some training at work. Inspired by his bizarre appearance, or suffering from a lack of oxygen, he told the boys that he was going to Venus to meet with the Planet Heroes and needed the get-up so he could breathe there.

Weston, not an easy sell, peppered him with questions about how he was going to withstand the heat, fire and lava on Venus. Lloyd convinced him that his outfit was suitable for visiting the hottest planet in the solar system, whereupon Weston requested some Venus rocks. Lloyd headed off to work and I had to field the questions all day:

Will Dazzle be there? Will Daddy bring me some pink Venus rocks? Is he going to all the planets, or just Venus?

Now, the whole time, I was clenching my jaw to keep my mouth shut because I have a major aversion to lying to my children. I guess I can live with Lloyd doing it for 'fun', because I can tolerate our parenting differences, but I am unwilling to be an accomplice. This stance of mine has gotten me soundly mocked for years. You would think I would learn my lesson and just shut up about it, but I've never been shy about sharing all my ridiculous ideas and hare-brained schemes. I got to thinking about it after I got an extra helping of ridicule from my old nemesis, Facebook, when I posted about it.

I got all the same responses I normally get when I mention my discomfort with lying. The most common one is, 'But what about Santa?' Because Lloyd does not share my unease with filling our childrens' head with falsehoods, my Santa policy is one of compromise. I don't mind Santa 'stories', and my answer to all the questions is, 'What do you think?' Then, whatever the answer is, I say, 'You might be right,' 'Maybe so', or 'Hmmmm'. So far this has worked well, so you don't need to worry about Weston telling your kid on the playground that Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are evil-minded inventions perpetrated by a society bent on controlling and manipulating the vulnerable minds of children for its own benefit not real.

Now, just let me reiterate up front that I said I do not believe in lying to MY children. You mess up your kids your way, I'll mess up mine my way, m'kay? I could post some links to sites that discuss the disadvantages to lying to your kids, even about Santa and the Easter Bunny, but that's not really my point.

My point is this: I post things all the time about my less than stellar parenting skills. I talk about how they eat butter and coffee for breakfast, snack on flour, wear the same clothes for days, and bathe with dishes. Not once has anyone criticized me in any way for any of those things, but as soon as I take on betrayal disguised as a fictional fat man in a red suit Santa, I'm Satan in capri pants and sensible sandals. And while we're talking about Satan, have you ever noticed that Satan and Santa are anagrams of one another? Coincidence? I think not. I'm not very smart so maybe that's why I can't figure out why feeding a kid caffeine and animal fat (they were both organic, I swear!) in place of the most important meal of the day is okay, but telling him the truth is not. I'm open to enlightenment, so fill me in, if you please. And maybe next time Lloyd feels like taking a long journey, he can head up to the North Pole and kick some jolly red ass.

And, if you haven't voted in the poll in the upper right, please read this post, then vote. I'm formulating a theory and I need a few more data points, not that I'm opposed to making up my theory out of nothing at all. I don't mind lying exaggerating to YOU, after all.

Easter Video

The Easter Bunny made a visit to the garden and deposited and enormous number of eggs, after leaving giant bunny tracks in the garden (naughty bunny!)

And here is a link to Helen's much longer and nicer video.

Transform this

Transformers, ugh. I really do not understand exactly what these things are or the point of their existence. Because my intellect verges on brilliant, I have cleverly deduced that they are objects that turn themselves into something else. From what to what and why, I have no idea. Are they good or evil? Animal, vegetable or mineral? I dunno. What I do know is that they are completely loathsome, and Weston loves them.

At the risk of sounding smug (oops, too late!), we don't have transformers at OUR house. No, we have only hand-rubbed organic wooden toys lovingly crafted by rustic, raw-boned, overalls-clad artisans in America's beleaguered heartland. (yes, BIG FAT RIDICULOUS LIE, but still, no Transformers). Fortunately for poor Weston, his friend Jack has an ample supply of Transformers figures and cartoons. They put on outlandish costumes and fashion implements with which to vanquish their enemies, or smaller siblings, and shriek up and down the hallway.

Jack is a little older than Weston, and we are often the grateful recipients of Jack's hand-me-downs. One of our recent acquisitions is a Transformer t-shirt in excellent condition. I had it stashed away, because as you may have guessed, I do not love Transformers. This morning I brought the t-shirt out in a desperate attempt to get Weston dressed in time for Ella and her mom to pick him up for the dreaded swimming lessons. It was magic, my friends: Transformers can get dressed by themselves! Transformers can jump so high! Transformers can run so fast! Daringly, I suggested that perhaps Transformers can even swim. 'Yes!' he declared, enthusiastically, and off he went to the pool.

Alas, upon his return, I learned that Transformers only want to get their feet wet, play in the kiddie pool and consume the semi-weekly swimming lesson Doritos bribe.