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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The best laid plans

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

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

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

The Longest Birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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!

Cape Fear

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

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

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

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.

Obama Visit

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

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

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

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

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

Eye can read!

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

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

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

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

Turkey

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

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

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

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

Lloyd: For the USO, RIGHT?

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

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

Gobble, gobble, Lloyd!

Airshow

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

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

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

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

Irrational

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

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

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

Indoctrination

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.

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.

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.....

Ivan and Weston

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

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

Salami sandwiches

One extremely large pregnant woman

One lovely aunt who despises hurricanes and dogs

Two large dogs

Directions to hospitals with NICU facilities in three states

Emergency Baby Delivery Kit

Infant car seat

Dog food

Cocoa butter

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

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

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

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

Hard

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

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

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

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

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

North

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

New

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.