I find myself in possession of some leftover won, which is South Korean currency, for those of you not on the ROK. Since the thrift store won't take it, I haven't been able to figure out what to do with it, and it's been mocking me every time I open my top drawer. It's not so much that I want to go to the effort of finding a place to exchange it, but it's more than I'm willing to let go to waste.
So, I decided to give it away. If you are on a military base in South Korea and win the won, I'll even toss in a treat from America and make sure the package is big enough that you get a yellow slip in your mailbox when it arrives. To enter, just leave a comment on this post and make sure you leave your contact information if I don't already know who you are.
Fit to post, that is, if you use the terms 'news' and 'fit' VERY loosely, indeed. First and foremost in everyone's mind, I'm sure, is the boil. It's good as new! I showed it to Lloyd this morning:
Me: Doesn't this look GREAT?
Lloyd: Relatively speaking.
Me (stung): What??!! It looks fantastic!
Lloyd: It looks better than before, but it's still hideous.
So that's all I have to say about that.
Moving on, we have spent a lot of time shuffling our Toyota minivan around from shop to shop. After having it in Korea for 2.5 years with minimal maintenance, it needed a little work. We took it into the dealer first. I'm thinking they might be getting a little desperate what with the whole recall thing because the first thing they said after they had put her up in the stirrups and looked at her private parts was, 'Maybe you should buy a new Toyota.' Now, I know we have the Fred Flintstone version of the Sienna but telling us our 12-year old Toyota is ready for the scrap heap is probably not the best way to sell us a new one. But maybe that's just me? In the end, Lloyd took it down to the local Dirty Joe Mechanic shop and they fixed it up real nice for about a fifth of the dealer quote.
My own reintegration to American society is going, um, not exactly seamlessly. My driver's license from three bases ago expired while we were at Osan, and apparently I will be required to take both the written and practical tests to get a new one. Because I am both infuriated and lazy, and also an exceedingly poor parallel parker, I haven't done it yet. This forces me to be less cavalier about traffic laws than I have perhaps become accustomed, coming from Korea where stop signals are optional at best, so as to avoid having to give Officer Friendly a sob story about why I am driving around with no license. I COULD curtail my driving, I suppose, but I'm not about to cut out any thrift store trips. I'm barely making my quota as it is.
I am absurdly pleased with myself for having acquired a cell phone, courtesy of my mother, but I had a ridiculously difficult time programming it online. I could almost hear myself muttering about newfangled contraptions and kids these days.
Also befuddling are the nosy old ladies here. The problem is that I can understand them, leaving me completely strategy-less. I've complained about the Korean ajimas before, and deservedly so. One of my friends, a pediatrician, for Pete's sake, was once practically chased home from a walk with her baby in a front carrier by a nosy old Korean woman shouting, 'Baby cold! Baby cold! Go home! Bad mother!'. The busybodies here can't really compete with that, but blowing past them while saying 'Good morning' with a big bright smile doesn't deter them. Actually, maybe it would. Or I could pretend not to speak English! I'm totally going to try that next time. I was at the park the other day and Shane was running with a stick, and this ajima wannabe kept going on about how nervous she was to watch him and how dangerous it was, even if it wasn't as bad as running with scissors. It wasn't even a sharp stick. Does she even know any little boys? THEY RUN WITH STICKS. It's like their job. I can always think of tons of things to say afterwards, like, 'Better not watch, then', or the old standbys, 'Thanks for your concern', and 'I'll give that the consideration it deserves.' At the time, though, I just stood there, silently, until she went away. So that worked out well.
Lloyd has been working like crazy fixing things around here. He's fixed the floor and revamped the fish pond, and now he's working on the gutters and eying a few other projects. He's VERY handy and he can't sit still for for than a millisecond so I'm not sure how this retirement thing is going to work out for him. I'm thinking of hiring him out to the neighbors to keep myself in thrift store funds.
Weston and Shane have been having a great time playing outside now that they have a yard to run around in. They would be out there all day long if they didn't need to come in for snacks. They work in the garden with Grandma, look for bugs and worms, throw the ball for the dog, who may or may not run after it, and run around with sticks. Sometimes they even whack each other with them. Oh, the HORROR!!!! They jump in the mud and throw rocks. Take that, snoopy old cranks! And while I'm at it: ne ŝovu la nazon en fremdan vazon, plendaĉa sinjorino!
Aaaaaand, that's all the dirt for now. I do plan to be a little more blogular, but I have had a little trouble this week. I have been really wiped out, I think from the multiple boil medicines, and haven't had enough energy to get into the melee around the computer and jockey for my turn.
Some of my most ardent fans have been asking, nay BEGGING, for me to do a new post. Okay, FINE. It was my sister and I'm pretty sure she mostly wants me to tell you about her new blog, The Way of the Woo. If you know my sister, you know she is VERY clever and talented, and perhaps, just the teensiest bit bossy. If you don't know her, you can check out her art here. There, Jennifer, are you happy NOW?
And, moving on, things around here are, well, moving on. The packers come tomorrow to gather all of our household goods. They pack like lightning and you have to move fast to keep them from packing your kitchen garbage, keys and passports. It's especially challenging here, because they don't understand when you say, 'No! Don't take the goldfish!' or, 'Ack! That's my dirty laundry, and put that pot roast down!' I wanted to take some pictures of the house and all our piled up junk for your viewing pleasure, but of course I can't find the camera.
We had our housing pre-inspection yesterday. If you haven't lived in military housing, this is where they come and look around and point out all the things you have to clean up before you can move: The scribbles on the wall, the dried slime on the rug, and the shaggy carpet of dust on the ceiling fan blades. Anyway, she came in and looked around and immediately assumed that we had already shipped our good furniture out and were using ratty loaner junk. Sadly, however, this is not the case. The ratty junk is, in fact, our actual belongings, and once I informed her of this, she slunk out quickly, probably good and embarrassed. So that worked out well. Sorry, Korean housing lady, better luck next time!
Let's see, what else? We will be computer and phone free after today so you might not hear from me for a while. We will also be television, book and toy free, so that's probably going to be super fun. Someone did loan us a car starting tomorrow so we can just go cruising Osan to entertain ourselves. If I don't shrivel up and die from having no computer, see you in America!
Last weekend Lloyd and I went flying. He has been going up occasionally but I hadn't been in ages. I don't really love flying; I get airsick easily and I don't like the ever-present thought of crashing. But he talked me into it, so we scattered some Cheerios on the floor for the boys in case we didn't make it home and soared into the wild blue yellow-gray yonder. We flew around the base and our little local town until I was pretty sure I had to vomit.
I tried to figure out how to put captions or mark on the pictures on my fancy Mac but had no luck at all, so here are a few notes:
1. Our apartment building is the tallest building in the top of the photo that also shows the airplane wheel.
2. The Korean man is the maintenance guy at the flying club.
3. Despite my professional-aviatrix-like appearance, I actually have absolutely no clue how to operate my own headphones, let alone any other airplane-related equipment. Including the seatbelt.
You might remember a satirical little essay I wrote a while ago, called 'Tensions', about the ongoing battle between me and my jeans. At the time I found it quite clever and entertaining. Today, however, I am no longer amused. Today, I had to go to the BX and pay FULL CLEARANCE RACK PRICES for three pairs of new, next-size-up pants, mere weeks before I return to my Mecca, the land of plentiful Goodwills. I think this is the worst day of my life. I care not at all about needing bigger pants. In fact, I am surprisingly pleased with them. They're quite sassy. It's just that I had hoped to hold out until we got out of here, but the pants apparently did not get the memo.
I was down to four pairs: the ones that ripped at the library, a pair of baggy bleach-stained black sweatpants, and two pairs of five-year old Old Navy cords, of which one had paint stains. And, of course, the three pairs of jeans I can barely squeeze into and no longer want to wear because of the pinching. But those ones don't count. Well, okay, if I'm going to tell the WHOLE truth, the ratty cords were getting a little snug, too. Oh sure, I could take the pinching as a warning sign that something is seriously wrong and go on a crash diet sensible eating plan until the pants fit properly again. But I'm a practical girl, and that's really not gonna happen.
What really chaps my hide, besides pinchy pants, is that three new pairs of pants cost SIXTY DOLLARS! Outrageous! For sixty bucks I could get between eight and twenty pairs of pants at Goodwill, and some of them would still have the tags on. Then I wouldn't even care if I spilled paint or bleach on them, or if I busted out of them. In fact, I would welcome it, because then I COULD GO SHOPPING AGAIN. I know that an average of twenty dollars per pair of jeans/pants is cheap for a non-thrift store venue, and I have had good luck in general with finding clothes I like at reasonable-compared-to-other-new-stores-but-not-compared-to-thrift-store prices at the BX, so really I should just shut up and happily wear my sassy-larger-than-usual new pants. BUT I CAN'T.
I don't LIKE the BX, of course. Don't get me wrong here. I have plenty of complaints about AAFES: They run out of the most ordinary things like fluoride-free toddler toothpaste, number 10 envelopes or the crappy but only variety of water processed decaffeinated coffee available anywhere. Then it's weeks or months, or NEVER when they get restocked. AAFES is very weird and annoying, if you're not familiar with it. It's the retail service for the military (except for groceries, which is another freakish patron-screwing agency called DeCA) and it's part of the government with a General in charge and everything. They claim to return all their profits into base programs, but they'd just as soon hose you over as look at you. The local manager has little or no discretion about what to stock; they get a 'set' of goods that depends on how big the base population is and some little formula they use. So even though 95%+ of the Osan population lives in apartments, they have tons of space devoted to garden sheds, giant patio furniture, hoses and lawn mowers. And wait, I'm not done! There's WAY more!
Wow, I don't know how that happened. I started talking about my pants and all of a sudden I veered off onto a completely irrelevant rant about the BX. Hey, do you think maybe it's time for me to get out of here? Also, I DEFINITELY need some ice cream right now. So, anyway, I came home and put on one of my new pairs of jeans to go to the commissary. I used to wonder why people would go out and buy bigger clothes instead of just going on a diet so they could fit the ones they have, but now I know. Having new, slightly bigger clothes makes you feel nice and skinny, so you deserve that extra cookie and the third beer. Maybe even at the same time. AWESOME.
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!
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.
Okay, FINE. This post will contain no gratuitous Dick Cheney jokes, I promise. Especially not about his colon; that's just cruel and unusual punishment, and there are enough ugly things to think about without adding that, am I right? It's just that he's such an easy, beady-eyed, sanctimonious, icy-hearted, hypocritical target. Funny, I used to think George was the dumb one but at least he has the sense to keep his mouth shut. Either that or Laura has chopped him up with an ax and stuffed him in the basement bunker at the ranch. Either one is cool with me. Doh! There I go again. Sorry! No George jokes, either. And, I KNOW: Domestic violence jokes = not funny.
But I DO really want to tell you how cold it is here. HOW COLD IS IT? It's so cold that Dick Cheney has to.... oh, wait. Never mind. Sorry! I promised, and I mean to keep my word. It's so cold that I got boogercicles this morning when I walked to the BX. For real, and that's no joke. Can you believe that? Icy snot chunks right on the edges of my nostrils! I wonder when one of those dogs that pee outside by my deck will freeze itself to the ground with a stream of urine; now THAT would be something to see. I'm going to sit by the balcony door with a camera and a bucket of hot water; let me know if you want to get some beer and come hang out!
So! I hope you are all having a fabulous new year. I am not a fan of resolutions, but I HAVE been trying to eat a little better and exercise more for several weeks now. The 'Osan 15' is a common phenomena here, so I am right in the thick of things. Well, let me rephrase that: I have heard rumors that perhaps I am not the only one carrying around a few extra margaritas, but I have seen no such evidence on any of my slim and statuesque friends, acquaintances or assorted Osan beauties. In any case, soon I will be in the land of Target and Goodwill and I will be ever so sad if I can't fit into the ratty cargo pants of my choice fifty-three times a week when I need to go shopping.
Tonight, Lloyd and I went to the BX and Chili's, which is the standard big night out on the town here at Osan. I sucked down my fair share of wings and a couple of margaritas, varying the position of the straw so as to cleverly avoid the tequila abrasion. When we got home, I virtuously pounded out some sit-ups, dips, push-ups, leg lifts and stretches. Don't I sound ATHLETIC? Hahahahaha, I totally have you fooled. You should see me, for real. Oh, how you would laugh. After that strenuosity, I didn't want to 'run' the stairs, so I jumped on the mini-trampoline for a while. And by 'a while', I mean about 2.5 minutes. But at least I wasn't smoking deep-fried twinkies, right? Hmmm, I wonder if anyone has tried that?
While I was jumping, Weston weighed in:
Weston: Mama, are you sure that trampoline is strong enough for you?
Me: Yes, I'm sure (pant, gasp)
Weston: Well, those springs have to work awfully hard. You're so HEAVY.
Me: It's fine.
Weston: But look how much they're moving! They go almost to the ground!
Me: Grrrrrrrrrr (pant, gasp)
Bring on the twinkies! I might as well load up; I'm going to die soon anyway. I didn't used to be so fatalistic but I recently had a VERY interesting conversation with Shane. He likes to rub my scars, scabs and rough skin with his grubby little paws. Yesterday he was trying to pick at a spot on my chin, and when I told him to stop, he replied, 'I'll pick your owies WHEN YOU'RE DEAD'. I'm not sure what he has planned but I might as well give up the jumping for the good of trampolinekind everywhere, since my days are numbered. I can see the headlines now: 'Police Baffled by Mysterious Scab Free Corpse; Trampolines Rejoice in Streets'. I just hope they don't try to pin it on the poor twinkies.
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.
Poor old Osan, I know I mostly write about the lousy things. But there are a few sweet bonuses here if you look hard. Really hard. One of them is the library- it annoys me that it doesn't open until 10 a.m., but it IS open every day, unlike many stateside public libraries. Our community is small and a lot of people just use the library for internet access. I go several times a week and I rarely see anyone else checking out books, but there are always a bunch of people on the computers. That's good for me, because I can often snap up brand new books I'd normally have to wait months to read. Some books I've recently read are Ted Kennedy's 'True Compass' and Patricia Cornwell's 'The Scarpetta Factor'.
I have been devouring mysteries since the second grade when I read every single Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew novel even though they scared me so much I had to have my mom walk me down the hall to go pee even during the day. I actually don't read much fiction anymore, and I don't even know why I read Patricia Cornwell at all. Her Scarpetta books suck and each one is more outlandish and ridiculous than the last. And yet, I keep picking them up, I guess hoping she'll come up with one that's mediocre like the first couple of ones she did. I find that's true of many of the detective series I've read, and I'm pretty sure I know why. Writing is hard. Even this stupid blog. This post, for instance, I've had in a draft for five days, and I'm going to publish it as soon as I'm done, even though it's not very good. So I can really relate to what those overburdened popular novelists are going through with their big fat advances. I did recently read an exception: 'U is for Undertow' by Sue Grafton. I've read every one of her Kinsey Millhone mysteries since she started with 'A is for Alibi'. The early ones were pretty good, but they started to deteriorate around 'H' and get pretty lame around 'N'. But 'U', the latest one is the best of the bunch, really outstanding. For a mass market mystery series, I mean. Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I'm a lowbrow reader, you should know that by now. Here's a partial list of the detective series I have read, so you can offer me suggestions for new authors, if you're so inclined. I didn't love all of these but I did at least finish most of them:
Sue Grafton (Kinsey Millhone)
Faye Kellerman (Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus)
Jonathan Kellerman (Alex Delaware)
J.A. Jance (J.P. Beaumont/Joanna Brady)
Nevada Barr (Anna Pigeon)
Patricia Cornwell (Kay Scarpetta)
Robert Parker
Dick Francis
Michael Connelly
Carol O'Connell (Mallory)
Ruth Rendell (Inspector Wexford)
Elizabeth George (Thomas Lynley)
Janet Evanovich (Stephanie Plum)
Dennis Lehane
Ridley Pearson
John Grisham
P.J. Parrish
Peri O'Shaugnessy
Kathi Reichs
Douglas Preston/Lincoln Child
Sara Paretsky (V.I. Warshawski)
Right now I am also reading Stephen King's latest giant novel, 'Under the Dome', also snatched from the new book shelf at the library. I passed up the latest Kingsolver for it, that's exactly how lowbrow I am. I would have taken them both; I do like a nice big stack of books but those two piled together are taller than my laundry mountain and that's a bit daunting even for me. Plus I think Kingsolver is overrated, though I did like 'Animal, Vegetable or Mineral'. I have read a lot of Stephen King and I can sort his books roughly into three categories: The Good (The Stand, It, The Talisman, Black House, The Green Mile, Firestarter, The Dead Zone, Bag of Bones, Christine, Duma Key, Misery, Pet Semetary, The Tommyknockers) The Bad (Cujo, Salem's Lot, Carrie, The Shining, From A Buick 8, Lisey's Story) and The Ugly (Needful Things, Insomnia, Gerald's Game, The Darktower/Gunslinger series, Desperation, Dreamcatcher, Rose Madder). For the most part, I think the 'Ugly' ones are the ones he wrote while in his coke phase and they are totally unreadable. The 'Bad' ones I just didn't like, or I thought they were too yucky. 'Under the Dome' is similar to 'The Stand', as they both focus groups of people who have been isolated in one way or another. I do like it, but I'm about a third of the way through it and it's getting pretty creepy in a 'Lord of the Flies' kind of way. Since I think Stephen King has a certain prescience and I live on a teeny tiny military base on a peninsula next to an evil empire, I am finding it increasingly alarming. I'll keep you posted, IF YOU CAN STAND IT.
This is our last Christmas in Korea, so hurray! The season has gotten off to a slow start because we've been sick and grumpy. And in Korea.
But last night we went to the squadron Christmas party and it was awesome: tons of inappropriate behavior (not by me, this time), free lousy beer, karaoke renditions of a lot of old country songs, and a meal of 'Honey Grazed Ham'. What more could you ask for? I'm not really sure that they fed those pigs ONLY honey, because the truth in labeling laws here are pretty weak, but I really like to picture a field full of fat happy hogs slurping up honey off the ground. It sort of reminds me of myself, blissfully drinking tequila off the cleaning the floor.
The night started off with a bang. I was getting ready, and I went all out: the festive Christmas ornament necklace, eyeliner, shadow AND mascara, the works. I came out the bathroom and Weston was stunned:
Weston: Mama, you look brand new!
Me: Thanks, Sweetie.
Weston: Way prettier than regular!
Me: Thank you.
Weston: I really like the way you look. You look a lot more like Miss Janelle now. You look really different.
Ummm, okay, I think I get the picture: usually I'm a haggard wretch and but once I slop on a little pleasant-smelling oppression I look GREAT. Or not great, maybe, but a little more similar to my more attractive friend and neighbor. Thanks! I GET IT NOW. PLEASE STOP WITH ALL THE COMPLIMENTS. I'M BLUSHING.
Then, I won a ton of stuff in the raffle. Lloyd tried to stinge me out of tickets, but I wasn't falling for it, and it was a good thing. I won three blankets, and this little ceremonial Korean sword. I hate the sword, but luckily one of my friends was fond of it and I swapped it for some way better stuff that I would describe except for it might crimp my re-gifting style.
Tonight is Christmas Eve and we will open a few presents, then tomorrow we'll open the rest, then attend our final Christmas party in Korea. Now, that's merry! Merry Christmas to all of you from Korea!
I think we call agree that tequila is an extremely useful substance. Versatile, too. There's nothing better if you're looking to land yourself in a filthy bathtub with abrasions around your waist from diving through a very small bathroom window after running down a dark alley after a guy in a bronco offered you some wine coolers while he was chopping coke on a box of bullets with a giant hunting knife. Not that I would know. His name was Lloyd, too, isn't that a freaky slash creepy coincidence?
Anyhoo, that was a long time ago, and after that I wasn't much of a tequila fan, not that I'm any too picky about filthy bathtubs. But here at Osan, the best drinking is at the Chili's, and the wine selection is weak to say the least. So margaritas it is, and with a lot of effort, I have overcome my tequila aversion. Last night, I sat there for several hours with one of my favorite friends, and sucked down quite some volume of frozen green happiness.
After a few, I noticed something funny: I had a stinging sensation right in the middle of my upper lip. Right there where teeny tiny babies get their nursing blisters. The parallels astound, but I won't go into that here. I got to thinking, and when that happens, you know a brilliant idea is soon to follow.
So, here it is, and it kind of matches up nicely with my latest cleaning scheme. The tequila abraded my lip because it's caustic, right? Especially when you mix it with lime juice and salt! And I'm always looking for a way to clean the grout, the burnt on crud on the stove top, and the disgusting ring in the washing machine. Well, okay, that's a lie. I really couldn't care less about any of that. But I MIGHT try to get it off now that I have this tequila idea. We could share: one shot for the floor, one shot for me. One shot for the floor, two shots for me. It's not THAT outlandish; people do use vodka to clean, you know. You can read about it here. That would never work for me, though. I've worked really hard but I still haven't managed to vanquish my longstanding vodka phobia. I'm definitely willing to give it a try, but someone better come check on me in a few days.
As you must surely be aware by now, Stories from Korea is an EXCELLENT place to get your handy household tips: parenting, cleaning, cooking, jewelry design and the like. I take this responsibility very seriously, indeed. Did I say 'responsibility'? I meant 'privilege', of course.
Our departure from Korea is getting ever closer. So close now that using months is meaningless, and a smallish number of days/weeks remain. Naturally, there are many, many things to do to get ready for our move, and I have been trying very hard to make sure that I am wasting my time doing jobs that will stay done rather than wasting my time doing work that will have to be done again tomorrow, or later today, such as dishes, laundry, cooking and bathing children.
This policy allows me to spend my time wisely, and gives me some unique opportunities. Think about it. Wouldn't you love to take that annoying ambulance with the ear-piercing siren that a so-called friend gave your kids and those holey sweatpants your husband insists on wearing every single day, and the book that will make you kill someone if you have to read it one more time (I'm talking to you, Toby's Alphabet Walk) and put them all in a giant trash bag, toss it in a dumpster and LEAVE THE COUNTRY? Oh, and the little pieces of toy sets that are scattered willy-nilly all over the house, the vase you've always loathed, the muffin pan with rust spots, and those pants that never fit right? Oh yeah, baby, buh-bye! And I have the perfect response if anyone starts asking nosy questions: 'Oh, no, Darling, it must have been lost in the move. Such a shame.' BWAHHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!
Seriously, everyone should move away from Korea. I highly recommend it. And now, I must run. I'm out of trash bags and that simply will not do.
Well, sorry, I don't have much to say today, but I always feel guilty for not posting in a timely manner. Why, I have no idea. It's not as if it's an assignment that I have to complete or else my GPA will go down or something equally horrifying. It's not even as if anyone cares. BUT, there you have it. So today I am posting a somewhat goofy picture of me in my reading glasses; I'm sure you have all been dying to see them. Have you ever noticed how ridiculously hard it is to take a picture of yourself? This was definitely the best of the bunch. I like one other one quite a lot but some evil camera plot made it appear as if I had a double chin in that shot, and of course I most assuredly do not. As far as you know. Can't you tell from the picture that my chin is extremely svelte?!?!?!
And, just for funsies, here are a few strange Osan sightings over the last few days:
1. Man and woman (IN FRONT OF ME) at the thrift store, purchasing every single children's book there- a couple hundred books, plus some Christmas decorations. They told the cashier they were from the library (?!?!?), and then, after they were rung up (which took a LONG time, and did I mention they were IN FRONT OF ME?), they asked if they could come back and pay later. Ummm, okay? Off they went, leaving their bags of books at the checkout. In front of me.
2. Cabbie peeing in his taxi in front of the commissary. He was standing by the open driver's side door, facing into the car, and I can only assume he was holding a bottle or some other receptacle. This is a common sight on the streets or highways; Koreans don't mind peeing freely. And yay for them, right? Who cares? But there is a bathroom just inside the front door of the commissary, not 50 feet away from where he was parked. This is a strange, strange place, my friends.
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.
We all know there's a big long list of lying liars. I could write it out but it would take all my writing time and space and you still wouldn't know what the hell I was talking about. Plus, you might think some of my liars are telling the truth and get mad and not read my blog anymore, and then I would be sad. Which is not the point of this at all. The news media is definitely always near the top of my list (I'm looking at you, Jayson Blair and the New York Times; can't you just go away? You disgust me and we can never be friends again), but astronomers, if they make the list at all, are down at the bottom with the sneaky cats and my more reliable relatives.
It's cold here in Korea; have I mentioned that? Highs in the mid-30's with winds of 10-20 mph. I wouldn't say it's bitterly cold but it's getting unpalatable for sure. We've been housebound for a week because Shane refuses to wear anything but his Jay-Jay the Jet Plane t-shirt, jeans, and Crocs. No socks, no underwear, no hat, no coat. Don't even ask about mittens. I would let him go out like that until he decides he's good and ready to put his warmer clothes on, because a cold child is a compliant one, but Lloyd won't go for it. Right now you're probably thinking that he's a much better parent than I am, but the truth is he's just worried someone will rat us out to Family Advocacy (our Air Force version of Child Protective Services) if they see Shane shivering while the rest of us are all bundled up. I would just tell them he was being punished for spilling milk on the couch, because I think that's really funny, but Lloyd says that would make it worse.
Anyway, this morning we ventured out waaaaaaay before dawn to watch the fabulous meteor shower the news has been telling us about for days. The best view would be in Asia, the astronomers said. Hundreds or thousands every hour, they said. Find a dark place with an expansive view of the sky, they advised. So out we went into the cold night. Shane had his coat on, but I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say the tantrum included vomiting on the floor. We parked near the golf course, the darkest place we could find on Osan Air Base, which is lit up like Stalag 17.
And..... we saw ten meteorites in the hour that we were there. TEN. We should have gone to North Korea. It's plenty dark there. I bet they got the show of the century, but the astronomers and 'journalists' there probably told everyone that the shooting stars were coming our of Kim Jong Il's ears or some crazy shit like that. And guess what? That's no worse than the garbage our news media machine feeds us. In fact, I think I might prefer it.
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?'
Now, you guys might not believe this, but I cleaned the laundry room yesterday. Well, okay, 'cleaned' might be a little pretentious; what I did was shove the washer and dryer back against the wall where they belong, prop up the unbalanced washer leg with a bar of soap, move all the junk that was all over the counters and shelves into corners and cupboards, and sweep the floor.
You've probably read my occasional complaints about the laundry facilities here, but the laundry room is brightly lit and roomy, with lots of shelves for storage and a nice counter. Some of my friends use them for sewing or hobby rooms, and I even heard of a family that took all the shelves down and turned it into an extra bedroom. Let me just say right now that I have NO idea how any of that is possible: you can see a picture of the typical state of our laundry room here.
As I was sweeping up a pile of debris that you could hide a rat in, Shane came in and closely surveyed it. Then he said, 'No chocolate chips', and meandered off to simultaneously throw all the books off the bookshelf and smear peanut butter on the wall while I stood there, puzzled. Chocolate chips? Then it hit me: at some point, he must have successfully mined chocolate chips from the sweep-pile, and now considers it a food source. Ummmmm, chocolate.
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