Giddy

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.

Bad

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!

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.

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

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

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?

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.

Cold

One of the perks of being at Osan is the Chili's on base. It's the only one in South Korea, and it's a regular full-on Chili's. It has the pepper on the building and everything. Every time we walk by it, which is approximately 18 times per day, Shane points at the pepper and yells, 'Apple!' He gets very angry when I say approximately 18 times per day, 'That's a chili. It looks like an apple, though, doesn't it?'

'NOOOOOOOO!!!!! APPLE! APPLE! APPLE!' Okay, fine. It's an apple. Never argue with a two-year old.

Chili's has always left me cold. It always SEEMS like a good idea to go there, but there is never anything I really want. Everything is just a little bit wrong, from the deep-fried corn appetizers to the bleu cheese burger that inexplicably has chipotle sauce on it. Really, who would do that, and why? And, you cannot sit in there for more than ten minutes before some birthday boy thinks it's a good idea to inform the staff that it's his special day so he can get his 'BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY!' chant. The chanting wouldn't be so bad; it's the tambourines that kill you.

Unfortunately there are few options around here for knocking back a few margaritas. The downtown scene doesn't appeal to me, and I'm not really an O'Club kind of girl. I might give the O'Club a chance, but the few times I've had a drink there I have had the most horrible headache the next day and all I trust is the beer tap. And I'm definitely not one to sit in the O'Club swilling beer (shut up, Lisajoy). So, off I go to Chili's every time I want to hang out with a friend.

Last night, after attending an absolutely shocking birthday party, my friend Helen and I scurried down there to bathe our wounds in tequila. No salt, please! We made a solemn, margarita-driven vow that after we leave this place, we will never, ever set foot in another Chili's as long as we live. We're going to meet there later to hammer out the details.

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.

Parenting Contest at Helen's!

Everyone is invited! Helen has a clever Parenting Word of the Day contest up at 'Tips From the Trenches'. Each day for a week, she will have a new parenting word up and she is looking for the most interesting story, post, poem, joke or other submission. Heck, she might even accept art work; she's not picky. The first word, posted yesterday, is 'antagonize'. So get your creative juices flowing and win a fabulous prize!

Conversations with Weston: Peer Pressure

Today I was talking to Weston about the words 'Jack' and 'Weston' written on our dining room wall in fat blue marker.

Me: Why did you write on the wall?
Weston: Jack said it was okay.
Me: You know better than that. You make your own decisions. Don't listen to Jack.
Weston: But Jack makes me think I want to do what he wants.

Think it would work for me? I'm going to see if I can make him think he wants to fold laundry.

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.