All the news that's fit to post

Fit to post, that is, if you use the terms 'news' and 'fit' VERY loosely, indeed. First and foremost in everyone's mind, I'm sure, is the boil. It's good as new! I showed it to Lloyd this morning:

Me: Doesn't this look GREAT?
Lloyd: Relatively speaking.
Me (stung): What??!! It looks fantastic!
Lloyd: It looks better than before, but it's still hideous.

So that's all I have to say about that.

Moving on, we have spent a lot of time shuffling our Toyota minivan around from shop to shop. After having it in Korea for 2.5 years with minimal maintenance, it needed a little work. We took it into the dealer first. I'm thinking they might be getting a little desperate what with the whole recall thing because the first thing they said after they had put her up in the stirrups and looked at her private parts was, 'Maybe you should buy a new Toyota.' Now, I know we have the Fred Flintstone version of the Sienna but telling us our 12-year old Toyota is ready for the scrap heap is probably not the best way to sell us a new one. But maybe that's just me? In the end, Lloyd took it down to the local Dirty Joe Mechanic shop and they fixed it up real nice for about a fifth of the dealer quote.

My own reintegration to American society is going, um, not exactly seamlessly. My driver's license from three bases ago expired while we were at Osan, and apparently I will be required to take both the written and practical tests to get a new one. Because I am both infuriated and lazy, and also an exceedingly poor parallel parker, I haven't done it yet. This forces me to be less cavalier about traffic laws than I have perhaps become accustomed, coming from Korea where stop signals are optional at best, so as to avoid having to give Officer Friendly a sob story about why I am driving around with no license. I COULD curtail my driving, I suppose, but I'm not about to cut out any thrift store trips. I'm barely making my quota as it is.

I am absurdly pleased with myself for having acquired a cell phone, courtesy of my mother, but I had a ridiculously difficult time programming it online. I could almost hear myself muttering about newfangled contraptions and kids these days.

Also befuddling are the nosy old ladies here. The problem is that I can understand them, leaving me completely strategy-less. I've complained about the Korean ajimas before, and deservedly so. One of my friends, a pediatrician, for Pete's sake, was once practically chased home from a walk with her baby in a front carrier by a nosy old Korean woman shouting, 'Baby cold! Baby cold! Go home! Bad mother!'. The busybodies here can't really compete with that, but blowing past them while saying 'Good morning' with a big bright smile doesn't deter them. Actually, maybe it would. Or I could pretend not to speak English! I'm totally going to try that next time. I was at the park the other day and Shane was running with a stick, and this ajima wannabe kept going on about how nervous she was to watch him and how dangerous it was, even if it wasn't as bad as running with scissors. It wasn't even a sharp stick. Does she even know any little boys? THEY RUN WITH STICKS. It's like their job. I can always think of tons of things to say afterwards, like, 'Better not watch, then', or the old standbys, 'Thanks for your concern', and 'I'll give that the consideration it deserves.' At the time, though, I just stood there, silently, until she went away. So that worked out well.

Lloyd has been working like crazy fixing things around here. He's fixed the floor and revamped the fish pond, and now he's working on the gutters and eying a few other projects. He's VERY handy and he can't sit still for for than a millisecond so I'm not sure how this retirement thing is going to work out for him. I'm thinking of hiring him out to the neighbors to keep myself in thrift store funds.

Weston and Shane have been having a great time playing outside now that they have a yard to run around in. They would be out there all day long if they didn't need to come in for snacks. They work in the garden with Grandma, look for bugs and worms, throw the ball for the dog, who may or may not run after it, and run around with sticks. Sometimes they even whack each other with them. Oh, the HORROR!!!! They jump in the mud and throw rocks. Take that, snoopy old cranks! And while I'm at it: ne ŝovu la nazon en fremdan vazon, plendaĉa sinjorino!

Aaaaaand, that's all the dirt for now. I do plan to be a little more blogular, but I have had a little trouble this week. I have been really wiped out, I think from the multiple boil medicines, and haven't had enough energy to get into the melee around the computer and jockey for my turn.

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!

Flying

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.

Displacement

Let me just admit right up front here that I am only writing this post so that the poem won't be at the top. The photo of Lloyd on Air Force One during President Obama's recent visit to Osan is completely irrelevant to anything I'm typing right now, or anything that might or might not be residing in my head. I simply can't stand to have a terrible poem at the top of my blog. What if some fancy publisher is clicking through blogs, looking for someone to give a multi-million dollar advance to for a memoir? When I look at new blogs, I always leave immediately if there's any kind of poetry, because I hate poetry. Someone with the refined taste of a publishing house would no doubt have similar feelings.

If you are, in fact, such a reader, please be assured that there is much more than bad poetry in my repertoire. I invite you to peruse the posts listed on the upper right, or read 'My Life in Cats', which I especially like, but alas, is neglected up there on the right because it is neither particularly funny nor objectionable. Under no circumstances should you click on any of the 'Good Reads' or 'All the Latest' because all those blogs suck. Trust me, you wouldn't want to give your hard-earned cash to any of those clowns. Sure, they're funny, touching, wise, whatever. They can't hold a candle to Stories from Korea, and don't you forget it!

The rest of you might be pleased to hear that we're on the mend. Unless I just called you a clown. Sorry! Did I write that out loud? It's the sickness; I just can't control myself. Wankers. Dammit! I have to go; they're at the door with the nets again. They're always after the tortured, brilliant artists; it's so typical.

Lies

We all know there's a big long list of lying liars. I could write it out but it would take all my writing time and space and you still wouldn't know what the hell I was talking about. Plus, you might think some of my liars are telling the truth and get mad and not read my blog anymore, and then I would be sad. Which is not the point of this at all. The news media is definitely always near the top of my list (I'm looking at you, Jayson Blair and the New York Times; can't you just go away? You disgust me and we can never be friends again), but astronomers, if they make the list at all, are down at the bottom with the sneaky cats and my more reliable relatives.

It's cold here in Korea; have I mentioned that? Highs in the mid-30's with winds of 10-20 mph. I wouldn't say it's bitterly cold but it's getting unpalatable for sure. We've been housebound for a week because Shane refuses to wear anything but his Jay-Jay the Jet Plane t-shirt, jeans, and Crocs. No socks, no underwear, no hat, no coat. Don't even ask about mittens. I would let him go out like that until he decides he's good and ready to put his warmer clothes on, because a cold child is a compliant one, but Lloyd won't go for it. Right now you're probably thinking that he's a much better parent than I am, but the truth is he's just worried someone will rat us out to Family Advocacy (our Air Force version of Child Protective Services) if they see Shane shivering while the rest of us are all bundled up. I would just tell them he was being punished for spilling milk on the couch, because I think that's really funny, but Lloyd says that would make it worse.

Anyway, this morning we ventured out waaaaaaay before dawn to watch the fabulous meteor shower the news has been telling us about for days. The best view would be in Asia, the astronomers said. Hundreds or thousands every hour, they said. Find a dark place with an expansive view of the sky, they advised. So out we went into the cold night. Shane had his coat on, but I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say the tantrum included vomiting on the floor. We parked near the golf course, the darkest place we could find on Osan Air Base, which is lit up like Stalag 17.

And..... we saw ten meteorites in the hour that we were there. TEN. We should have gone to North Korea. It's plenty dark there. I bet they got the show of the century, but the astronomers and 'journalists' there probably told everyone that the shooting stars were coming our of Kim Jong Il's ears or some crazy shit like that. And guess what? That's no worse than the garbage our news media machine feeds us. In fact, I think I might prefer it.

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!

True

Here are two conversations from this morning, free of any embellishment or commentary whatsoever:

Lloyd (getting shirt out of drawer): This shirt is dirty!

Me: So?

Lloyd: I can't wear this! It smells like underarms!

Me: What are you complaining about? It's a miracle any shirts even get into your dresser. You should be grateful. And if you don't want your dirty clothes and your clean clothes mixed up, you should put your dirty clothes in the laundry room, instead of on the floor where the clean clothes are.

Lloyd: I don't even know what to say to that.

Then, after Lloyd went to work in a huff, I was took a leisurely 30 second shower and came out to this:

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Weston: Shhhhhh, you're okay. Want me to kiss it?

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Me (picking up Shane): He sounds like he's really hurt, Weston. What happened?

Weston: Ummmm, we were playing.

Me: I see that. How did Shane get hurt?

Weston: Welllllllll, I hit him with this ('this' is a hollow, hard plastic tube, about 18 inches long and 1 1/2 inches in diameter). On accident.

Me: Where did you hit him?

Weston: Ummmm, in the face. On accident. Twice.

Me: I see that this is too dangerous to have out; I'll have to put it away.

Weston: Why?

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

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.

FINALLY

Well, I finally did it! Lloyd has sworn off reading my blog forever. And not just my blog, but ALL blogs! Pretty good, huh? I'll just admit right here he is often annoyed by my writing. He didn't like this one, or this one. Oh, and he really hated this one. But this is the one that really sent him over the edge.

But now he's gone, so I can safely mock him, just a little bit, without having to sleep on the couch. So, check out the pictures; these are the fruits of Lloyd's most recent shopping trip: an enormous cooler and a pair of Spiderman shoes that flash.

The shoes just irritate me because I loathe character clothes and I think they make those flashing lights with mercury that will end up in a landfill. And soon, as soon as I can figure out a way to get rid of them without upsetting Weston. But the cooler, I'm not going to lie, the cooler scares me a little. It's definitely big enough to fit me in, if a couple of things are chopped off first.

My tasks for the day are clear: find some body armor so I can sleep easy, and then figure out a way to get Lloyd off my Facebook.

Weekend Pictures

Here are some pictures from Buraksan State Park. The park is very close to Osan and great for hiking with woods and hilly paths, both paved and dirt. You can see the rice paddy behind the boys and in the close-up. I'm not sure what the red flower is but I hadn't seen it before, and it has an unusual appearance in that it resembles a freaky looking brain.

In other weekend news, I have cured Lloyd of one of his bad habits with a single tapping session. He gnaws on the inside of his cheeks and calls it 'chewing his sides'. Other members of his family do it, too, and he has been afflicted since he was a small child.

Now he's clean and healed up, but he says he doesn't believe in tapping. He thinks it's all in his mind and I could have tapped him anywhere with the same effect. I say, it doesn't matter if you believe in the tapping or not, because the tapping believes in YOU.

And of course, the ever-thrilling dinner report: flank steak sliced and served over pan grilled peppers, onions and fresh garden cilantro and parsley and sweet potato fries.

Fins: Don't send Lloyd to the BX

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Fins to the left, Fins to the right, and I'm the only bait in town.... isn't that how it goes?

This is the newest member of our family, Neptune. As you may know, we have another fish, Mars. They are both Siamese Fighting Fish.

Lloyd went to the BX last night. We needed one of those booger-sucking bulb things (BX FAIL), Flinstones vitamins and a few other things. He came home with beer, two tabloids, and Neptune. Sadly, this did not surprise me. And I was not altogether disappointed, I must admit. Except for the fish; now THAT was disappointing.

Now, as you are probably aware, you cannot put two Siamese Fighting Fish in the same tank. They are called 'Fighting Fish' for a reason. This is why they are always in teeny-tiny individual bowls at the evil fish-selling store. Apparently, this was news to Lloyd because he had fully intended to just dump Neptune into Mars's tank, 'because he needed a friend'.

I hate to say it, but Lloyd's fish care skills leave a little to be desired. While I was scrounging a bowl for Neptune, Lloyd gave the plastic bag holding him to Shane. I'm sure he thought Shane would hold the bag gently and lovingly, and was beyond shocked when he started agitating poor Neptune like a human blender or a Korean washer. Then, he mocked me when I insisted on dechlorinating the water for Neptune.

Miraculously, Neptune did get safely into a tank and survive the night. It was touch and go for a while, though, because Weston really wanted to sleep with him.

Lloyd is already working on a plan to smuggle the fish back to the states come PCS time. Thank God he has found an adoptive home for his turtle, that's all I have to say. Oh, and now she feels like a remora......

Messy

I had been planning on taking this picture of Lloyd in his mess dress for a long time. He had a ceremony to go to tonight and we have been scrounging up the bits and pieces of the uniform for WEEKS: the buttons, the cuff links, the bow tie; it's all very complicated. The clip-on bow tie, in particular, is surprisingly vexing.

And while he is very handsome in his mess dress, that is not why I wanted the picture. No, I wanted the picture because, unless something goes dreadfully awry, it is the very last time he will wear it. Ever. Never again. I took the picture because I relish every indication that our Air Force time is drawing to a close. He looks a little grumpy because he felt I was not taking the primping and polishing quite seriously enough, but he did consent to pose.

And that was going to be the end of this post. Oh, I might have gone on a bit about how I'm going to dance naked around a uniform bonfire when we get out of here, or how I'm counting down the coffee filters (187), but that was basically it. But then....

But then, as Lloyd was walking out the door in his fancy outfit, Shane fell, jumped or was pushed off the back of the couch, smashing the back of his head into one of the 45,873,912 toys laying on the floor behind it. And there was Lloyd, all dressed up with no place to go. Except the ER. And so we did, and instead of attending a fancy dinner party, Lloyd spent the evening in a dingy hospital basement and eating takeout pizza after Shane was cleared to go home and continue throwing himself around with reckless abandon.

So there you have it, the story of Lloyd's last dress-up party. Sniff. Now pass the matches.

Moving on out

Do you know what this picture is? Do you? This is Lloyd hauling some stuff out of our storage room in extremely early preparation for our move. We didn't really plan to start moving today; it just seemed like a good idea. Here's how it happened:

Lloyd: Hey, we haven't grilled at all this year.
Me: Yeah, I was just thinking maybe we should move the grill off the deck so we have more room out there; it's pretty cramped.
Lloyd: Should we put it in the storage room? I'll have to move some stuff around in there.
We investigate storage room.
Me: A lot of that stuff goes to the thrift store. You could take it right now.
Lloyd: Yeah, okay. Hey, we don't need that Christmas tree, do we? And what about that car seat? Let's get rid of all of it! We're moving soon anyway.
We fill up the hallway with piles of crap.
Lloyd: Can I take those broken cabinet doors?
Me: No! I need those. For a project.
Lloyd rolls his eyes, then hauls junk out of the hallway for a very long time.

So all of this might make you think we are moving soon. And we are, if by soon, you mean long, interminable months from now. How many months, you might wonder. The answer is: So many that to write it will just depress me beyond words. Where are you moving to, you might wonder. The answer is: We have no idea! Does this make the time pass even more slowly? The answer is: Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. But at least we have a roomy deck and a clean storage room. And the thrift store has another pile of crap. All's well that ends well, I always say.

You're going where, now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His and Hers

The house we lived in before we moved here had separate closets, and I was in heaven, if such a thing can exist in Shreveport, Louisiana. My closet was relatively tidy, believe it or not, but only because it was big and I didn't have all that much junk. I have a strict one-in, one-out policy. If I haul home a bag (or two, if I'm being honest, and I AM) from the thrift store, I pack up an equal amount to pack out. Since I don't always want to get rid of my own stuff, this sometimes necessitates raiding stuff from other household members. Shhhhh!

Lloyd's closet, on the other hand, had his valuable goods oozing out the door. The floor was piled three feet high, no lie: walkie-talkies, stuffed birds, stacks of khaki and olive colored button-up shirts still in the packages, and a huge cardboard box filled with boots. He could not possibly live without any of these things. Not even the shorts from high school. The teeny-tiny polyester ones in the school green with the white piping.

Unsurprisingly, he often could not find his coveted items when he needed them. If I had a nickel for every time I heard some variation of, 'Hey, have you seen my postcard from the Cabelas in Nebraska? It has a deer wearing a tie on it,' I could buy Pringles and 'Jon and Kate Plus 8' on dvd for the entire population of North Korea. That would solve THAT problem, now wouldn't it?

One day, I got a little fed up by the constant not-finding and generously offered to re-organize the closet. I went in with a headlamp, some emergency provisions and a box of trash bags. Five bags, one bottle and two batteries later, I emerged, triumphant. As I trotted to the car with the bags, he looked a little suspicious, so I reassured him with, 'Just moving some things around, Honey!' None the wiser, he admired the newly organized closet and asked my secret. Of course, I told him all it took was a little effort and gave him a lecture on keeping his things neat. If you are chortling at my foolishness now, you are a smart cookie.

Here in Korea, we are forced to share closets. And now that we have kids, the linen closets see a lot more action than any other place in the whole house. The other day was laundry day, one of about 23 we have each week. Lloyd was folding towels, washcloths and diaper wipes and putting them away in neat stacks, in direct violation of my much faster method of wadding them up and shoving them in willy-nilly. Some of those things had probably never been folded before; I hope it wasn't a shock.

I'm pretty sure Lloyd's way gives the closet a slightly more, I don't know, sophisticated look, but I put the pictures up so you can decide for yourself. Today the towels, tomorrow the silverware! Then the moldy boots! My ambition is bounded only by my finely honed manipulation skills.

Conversations With My 97.5 Year Old Grandfather (Gramp): Guest Post!

From Lloyd:

I called my grandfather today to see what he was up to. He lives in Maine where he was born and raised. In fact he has never lived outside of a 6 mile radius of the town of Thomaston. Anyway when I asked him what was new, he said “Well, I’ve been eye-balling the big birch tree that I planted next to the house 70 years ago and decided that if a strong enough west wind ever blew it could push that old buzzard into my house”. I pretty much expected to hear what came out next knowing that old coot as well as I do. He went on to say “So I grabbed my ladder and a rope and climbed up the side of the tree and tied off the rope about 2/3 of the way up and then tied the other end of the rope to a spruce tree about 50’ away. Then I grabbed my come-along and got some pretty good tension on that rope. Then I grabbed my chainsaw and after cutting about half way through I went back over to the spruce tree and gave that come-along a couple more cranks. Finally I finished cutting and that tree landed exactly where I wanted it to. I cut it up into 16” pieces for firewood and tried to split it with a maul but the darn stuff was too damn gnarly so I had to use a hydraulic splitter.”

With that I asked him what else was new and he said “The grackles are getting pretty thick and I may have to declare war on them again,” which means picking them off with his .22 rifle out the window. Finally, it was time to end this short conversation so I asked him, “What are you doing tomorrow” he said “Well, I thought I would drive the truck over to Wes’s house (his 72 year old son) and give him a hand splitting the 10 cord of fire wood sitting in his back yard”.

Before we hung up he told me to “keep my powder dry” and to “hang in there boy” and “I love you and Anna, Weston , Shane, and Tori”. With that I hung up the phone realizing that this guy has seriously skewed the life-cycle “Bell Curve” and hoped to see him in 9 months.

Condimentality

These are all open jars and bottles that came out of our refrigerator this morning. Two mayos, two molasses (molassi?), four ketchups and three salsas. I'm not even sure I got them all because the fridge is a little bit messy today. Okay, fine, it's always a total catastrophe and I could lose the Titanic in there. Whatever. I would like to point out that perhaps if there was not such a huge volume of nearly empty condiment containers, I would be able to swipe the sticky shelves with a dirty dishcloth once every six months or so. That would be MUCH better.

I am not a picky girl, but this drives me insane. Lloyd claims he gets out a new one because he can't find the one that's already open. I don't buy it, though. If he can't find the old one in the fridge, how come he's so Johnny-on-the-spot with the new one in the cupboard? Let's face it, the cabinets aren't any tidier than the refrigerator, despite my brief flirtation with organization back in 2008. He also claims that the preposterous number of duplicates is not all his doing, and he further states that after I took this picture, I left the bottles and jars on the counter until he put them away. Did I say WHATEVER yet? No? Good, because that is SO overused.