2010

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.

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.

Facebitch

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.

Another One Bites the Dust

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.

Cleanliness is next to impossible

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?

Unfriends

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.

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.

Shopping for friends

Am I the only one who thinks that adding friends on Facebook is kind of like online shopping? Say I'm looking for my cousin. Her name is Jill X. I type in what I'm shopping for, 'Jill X', and up comes a list of Jill X's. I look at each picture, choose the one I want, and click 'Add Friend' to put her in my basket. It's a little creepy, like a mail order bride catalog, don't you think?

Friend shopping makes me feel a little inadequate, too. Who's to say I'm getting the right friends? Before Facebook (BF), I had no idea there were so many options. I mean, my friends are great and I like them and all, but maybe the other Jill X's are cooler, funnier, more interesting. And they can be mine, as long as they accept my currency. Sure, they might be a little more expensive. I would have to expend my limited capital explaining to them how great I am and why they want to be MY friend. But I deserve the best, right?

BF it never occurred to me that my friends weren't totally top of the line. But now I might want to upgrade. Why, the Jill X right under my cousin is a model! My Jill is pretty cool, but she's just a regular teacher. More of an economy model, say, and maybe I want a luxury one. It's the American way and I have an image to uphold, you know.

Of course, I've always been an avid bargain hunter, so I might need to wait for a sale. Jill, you're safe. For now.

Blame by numbers

It has been five days since I have posted. In that time, two children have had three infections, requiring two ointments and one liquid, three times daily for seven days each, as well as three cleansing baths and/or warm compresses daily. After each bath, the tub has to be rinsed with 16 squirts of Clorox. I thought of asking the doctor more about the unfamiliar things of which she spoke: 'disinfect' and 'sanitary' but she already thinks I'm a dirty hippie, so I came home and googled them instead.

All together, this has resulted in approximately 67,000 tantrums, 1,003 thrown items (three by me), 38 night wakings and zero blog posts. I was a little concerned that my blogging might suffer after I was absorbed by the collective but Facebook is innocent, this time.

Assimilated

It's true what they say: resistance is futile. I've always been a late adapter. Sometimes even a non-adapter. My cell phone only makes phone calls. No pictures, no texting, no video, no gps, no internet, no voicemail, no precisely calibrated death ray. Hell, we don't even have a microwave. This usually works out really well for me, because I get to act all smug and superior. Plus I save a lot of money that can then be blown at the thrift store. Or the liquor store.

But sometimes, refusing to adapt to what's become standard in society just makes you a giant pain in the ass. Like when answering machines and call waiting came out and some people wouldn't get either one and you just got an annoying busy signal when you tried to call. Or when plumbing was invented and some stubborn clowns just kept insisting that their outhouses were just as good. That's fine for a while, but eventually people will stop calling because your phone is irritating and stop coming to visit because your backyard stinks.

Until today, I have been resisting Facebook. I have lots of great reasons: privacy issues, their outrageous terms of service, the ridiculousness of 'friending' people you haven't seen since third grade and don't really care about at all and the bizarro pseudo-world that is online social networking.

Like the Dukes of Hazzard and all other good things, my resistance has come to an end. It's a fact of life as a military accessory that friends depart at dizzying speed. PCS season is here and every day there is another friend being packed out by a kimchi-swilling, sidewalk-hogging moving crew. And snail mail, telephones, even email are part of a lost world; a civilization gone with the wind. But they are all on Facebook, and now I am too.

Somewhere, the Queen is pleased.