Excuses

I have a jillion and three entries in the pipeline: musings on social skills, ramblings about the future, all the latest from Korea, and a few little surprises. Fascinating stuff, I tell ya. But:

1. The swimming lessons are kicking my butt;

2. It is January 13th and it seems like the entire year has gotten away from me already; and

3. Lloyd is working a weird schedule this week, forcing me to do bedtime BY MYSELF. This pretty much ruins me for the entire evening and into the morning, when I have to do the swimming lessons, which, as I may have mentioned, are KICKING MY BUTT.

So, we have been watching tv and not blogging. Or cleaning, or cooking. Or getting dressed, if you must know all the dirty little details. Which leaves me with a question for you: When did Sesame Street stop ending with the 'Adventures of Trash Gordon' and start ending with those ridiculous 'Adventures of Gina the Veterinarian'?

Fire in the hole

I went to the grocery store this morning. I always go on Sunday because the commissary is closed on Monday, and the period from seven o'clock on Sunday night to ten a.m on Tuesday lasts approximately as long as Operation Iraqi Freedom when you have no coffee, chocolate or baby wipes. While I was paying for my goods, the fire alarm went off. Smoke started pouring out of the customer service area at the front of the store, and the sprinklers went off. Fortunately, I had already checked out so I got to take my groceries with me, but most people had to abandon theirs. On the way home, I started thinking.

The commissary blaze is the third fire in less than two weeks. First was the New Year's Eve fire, then came the kitchen fire the other day. I didn't mention it earlier because it is slightly embarrassing: I put some oil on to heat up so I could brown some beef cubes for stew and forgot about it. It was pretty impressive as far as kitchen fires go- the flames were at least two feet high and they left scorch marks on the hood and screen over the stovetop.

Pretty weird, huh? But then I figured it out. The fires are my hummingbirds! I'm not sure why Jennifer gets the actual beautiful birds while I get hot, smelly, dangerous smoke and flames but I guess mine is not to wonder why, mine is to... wait, I don't want to finish that in light of the whole fire thing.

So, I get it, Wilma! Enough with the fires already!

Dearest, I am writing to you with tears and sorrow from my heart

I got this in my email just now. Clearly, this poor girl needs some assistance. Please wire me much money and I will help her out right away. I am the only right one to aid her. Upon receipt of your transactions I will capitalize you with the proceeds. You will also help me get out of South Korea to your fine country where I will complete my studies.

Love to all my dearest,

Anna


Dearest,I am writing this mail to you with tears and sorrow from my heart. My name is Jena Justin Yac , 24yrs old, female and I held from South Sudan. I am writing this mail to you with tears and sorrow from my heart. My father Dr. Justin Yac Arop was the former Minister for SPLA Affairs and Special Adviser to President Salva Kiir of South Sudan for Decentralization. My father Dr. Justine Yac and my mother including other top Military officers and top government officials had been on board when the plane crashed on Friday May 02, 2008.You can read more about the crash through the below site http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7380412.stm After the burial of my father, my uncle conspired and sold my father's properties to one Chinease Expatriate and live nothing for me. One faithful morning, I opened my father's briefcase and found out the documents which he have deposited huge amount of money in one bank in Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin. I traveled to Burkina Faso to withdraw the money so that I can start a better life and take care of myself. On my arrival, the Branch manager of the Bank whom I met in person told me that my father's instruction to the bank was the money be release to me only when I am married or present a trustee who will help me and invest the money overseas.I am in search of an honest and reliable person who will help me and stand as my trustee so that I will present him to the Bank for transfer of the money to his bank account overseas. I have chosen to contact you after my prayers and I believe that you will not betray my trust. But rather take me as your own sister. Though you may wonder why I am so soon revealing myself to you without knowing you, well, I will say that my mind convinced me that you may be the true person to help me. More so, I will like to disclose much to you if you can help me to relocate to your country because my uncle have threaten to assassinate me. The amount is $14.9Million and I have confirmed from the bank in Burkina Faso. You will also help me to place the money in a more profitable business venture in your Country.However, you will help by recommending a nice University in your country so that I can complete my studies. It is my intention to compensate you with 10% of the total money for your services and the balance shall be my capital in your establishment. As soon as I receive your interest in helping me, I will put things into action immediately. In the light of the above, I shall appreciate an urgent message indicating your ability and willingness to handle this transaction sincerely. Please do keep this only to your self. I beg you not to disclose it till i come over because I am affraid of my weaked uncle who has threatened to kill me. Sincerely yours,Jena Justin Yac.

Swimming Lessons

Weston started swimming lessons this week. He goes on Monday and Wednesday for a half-hour lesson. While he is having his lesson with Miss Cathy, Shane and I go to the baby pool. The pool is about a quarter of a mile away. It's a five-minute trip by either car or stroller. Sounds easy enough, right? Shouldn't take too long; maybe an hour or so? What are you, NUTS? Or maybe you're a non-mom and thus unfamiliar with the logistical issues associated with taking two small children, well, anywhere. I could plan an invasion of North Korea in the time it takes to get ready for the pool, go to the pool, get ready for the lesson, have the lesson, get ready to come home, and travel home. I am not exaggerating when I say that the swimming lessons are consuming the entirety of the first half of the week, starting with Sunday night.

There is the endless preparation: Toys! Clothes to wear to the pool! Clothes to change into! Snacks! Drinks! Swim Diaper! Clean diaper for after! Extra clothes in case the first clothes get wet! Breakfast, not too early and not too late!

The decisions: Car or stroller? If car, stroller or no stroller? How to corral Shane while helping Weston change his clothes? Allow the crappy vending machine snacks or endure the screamfest? Is it okay if I don't hose them off in the shower before we get in the pool, because HOW DRAINING!

Then, the aftermath: The back-arching to avoid going into the stroller; the gross and time-consuming fascination with the brightly colored community flip-flops lined up by the door; the shrill, ear piercing complaints (I'm coooolllld! I don't wanna waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallk! I'm hungry! I'm hungry aaaaannd thirsty!); the fatigue that requires me to lay on the couch all afternoon with a wet cloth on my head, drink in hand, while the kids torture each other unchecked and watch 'Strawberry Shortcake'. Then it starts all over on Tuesday night.

Today, we got out without too much trauma, because Monday's experience gave me some hard-earned lessons. I took Shane in his sleeper so we wouldn't have to mess around with his shoes. I strapped him into the stroller so he couldn't run off and get wet again while Weston was getting dressed and I gathered up the 16 cubic yards of crap we can't go anywhere without. Then, we came out of the pool and Weston saw the playground next door and remembered I had told him last time that he could play after his lesson next time if he wasn't screaming when we left. And he wasn't, so I had to let him play. I let Shane out of the stroller to play in his sleeper, because, really, what else was I going to do?

They were playing happily when a woman walked by, saw Shane in his sleeper, and turned and gave me a very unpleasant scowl. Obviously, she must be child-free. I could read her thoughts as clearly as if she'd had one of those cartoon thought bubbles over her head: 'God! Can't she put some clothes and shoes on that kid? It's 35 degrees out here! How much effort can it take? When I have kids I'll never be that lazy!' I hope, someday, if she does have some, she will remember this day and feel very sheepish.

As an aside, this sign was at the playground. Should I be concerned? I certainly don't want my children exposed to some lowlifes who might be doing an IVF cycle or taking interferon, epinephrine, insulin or some other illicit substance.

The mama is kind of crummy

Weston has been really interested in families lately. He plays mama and takes care of his baby, he pretends to be the baby and makes Shane be the big brother, he plays mama and daddy with the neighbor girl. The game where Shane is the big brother is the funniest, because the 'baby' spends all his time ratting out the 'big brother': 'The big brother let the baby play with something sharp! The big brother kicked the baby and he doesn't even feel bad inside!' The game with the neighbor girl is entertaining to watch, too- last time, they were going to have a baby, and it was going to be a girl they would name 'Llama'.

He also makes families out of toys and found objects. There is always a mama, a daddy, a big brother and a baby. Each family member is of the appropriate size: the daddy is the biggest, the mama is medium-sized, the big brother is a little smaller, and the baby is the littlest.

This morning we were walking back from church together and he wanted to collect pine cones in the grass out in front of the Turumi Lodge. I was enjoying my coffee while he bustled around, until I heard, 'Hey! The mama is kind of crummy!' CRUMMY?!?! Why, you ungrateful little....

Bristled up, I said, 'What do you mean, mama is crummy?!?!?! You'd be crummy, too, if you were up half the night and a baby was sucking the life out of you one drop at a time, and...' Then, I looked down. In his hands was a bent-up, medium-sized pinecone, and he said, 'The mama's crummy. Look, she's all mashed!'

All I can say is: I hear you, pinecone sister; it's tough to be a mama!

I love a good mystery

I think it's safe to say I have plenty of laundry experience. In fact, I was pretty sure I knew everything I needed to know about laundry, which is that I loathe it. Oh, I don't mind the washing and drying part. In fact, there is something supremely satisfying about decimating a huge pile of dirty clothes. No, it's the folding and putting away that I can't stand. But I never realized laundry could be mysterious.

Behold, the unknown objects of mystery retrieved from the dryer, with the pack of gross green apple gum for scale. There are four of them, and it looks like they might possibly fit together somehow.

I have never seen them before, and have no idea what they could be part of, or where they came from. I suppose it could be bits of the innards of our low-bid Government issue laundry equipment. The rounded yellow piece looks a little like a helmet; maybe one of the sweat shop rodents that turn our state of the art Mouse-a-Tronic 5000 dryer drum has lost his protective gear. And the orange piece looks suspiciously like a mouse-sized ray gun, which concerns me more than a little. Workplace violence is a serious problem, especially if it might spatter blood, hair or entrails on my off-whites. But at least we don't have arsonists in our laundry room. I have recently learned that the great New Year's Eve fire was started in a washing machine, which makes me think there might be more going on here than meets the eye. Perhaps the laundry work force is trying to unionize and the big laundry bosses are trying to keep them in line, the rat bastards. That's so typical, The Man trying to keep the workers down. Workers Unite! Power to the rodents! On the other hand, I haven't seen any furry bits, making the whole mouse scenario seem a bit far-fetched.

I showed the pieces to Weston and asked if he knew where they came from. He has a pretty good handle on our toy supply, but he didn't recognize them either. Then, he started speculating about where they might have come from. Someone could have come in and put them in our laundry! Who would do such a thing, I asked. A baby would! How would a baby be able to reach the washer? The baby used a stool! A stool? Very clever, this ninja baby. But how would the baby get in the house while we were gone? The baby brought the stool to the door, climbed up and opened the door!

So, there you have it. If you see a sneaky-looking baby cruising around with a stool and a bag of little plastic toys, lock your doors! I don't think the baby can pick locks just yet. And invest in some teeny-tiny picket signs and a full-sized fire extinguisher, just in case.

Last night, thinking about last night....

Did your mother ever tell you to wear clean underwear in case you're in an accident, and make sure your house is clean in case the Fire Department has to break in? Turns out, that might actually be good advice.

Last night started inauspiciously enough. Ella and Bennett came over to play while their parents and baby sister went to a party. Weston and Ella took all the sheets, blankets and pillows in the house and piled them on the deck chairs in the living room to build a fort. Shane and Bennett pushed cars, trucks and trains up and down the hallway. At bedtime, Ella and Bennett went home and Weston and Shane reluctantly brushed their teeth and went to sleep. The blankets, sheets, pillows, cars, trucks, trains, toothbrushes and other assorted detritus from the festivities were scattered willy-nilly all over the house.

Lloyd and I had a glass of wine and were getting ready for bed about 11:30 after having messily scattered more stuff around when the fire alarm went off. Now, this is not just any fire alarm. It's a very loud woman's voice coming through a speaker in the ceiling. The voice firmly repeats: 'May I have your attention please. May I have your attention please. A fire has been reported in the building. Please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building.' Then there are three piercing shrieks, and it starts over.

We've been through several of these alarms in the past, all thankfully during the day, and we had talked about having clothes and things ready to go in case there was one in the middle of the night. But as you probably know, talking doesn't really get you squat, in terms of being able to put warm clothes on yourselves and you children in the middle of the night. So, out we went into the frigid windy night, dragging blankets and dangling children. Lloyd was relatively well-dressed, but I had on summer pajama bottoms, an inside-out sweatshirt, mismatched socks, and clogs. The hallway outside our door had the acrid smell of burning chemicals, so it probably wasn't just the neighborhood hoodlums out playing with roman candles. After we got outside, the Fire Department herded us into the hospital lobby to wait it out with all our friends and neighbors.

So, there we were, just minding our own business, when the Fire Department came looking for us, because they needed to CHECK OUT OUR APARTMENT. 'Su-ure,' I stammered, 'Go ahead, it's open, and don't worry, there's nothing to find there, I stashed my weed and my grenades here in my purse.' No, no, I didn't really say the last part, but I was thinking it. One of my character flaws is making jokes when I should just keep my mouth shut, so I figure I did good. Or better than usual, anyway.

Off they went to check out the apartment and I was left sitting there, thinking 'At least we weren't in an accident.' We made a mad dash for the hotel on base and camped out for the night, enjoying the sounds of a loud party next door until after 3, when Lloyd went over and asked them to quiet down. The Fire Department let everyone back in sometime after we went to the hotel, so I guess everything is hunky-dory now. Everything looked normal when we came back this morning, and the smell was gone. Lloyd looked around and said, 'This place sure is a disaster!' I replied, 'Maybe the Fire Department tossed it,' and he said, 'If they did, we'd never be able to tell.'

As I type this, Lloyd is frantically cleaning the living room, getting together a 'midnight fire alarm' kit, and running a load of unmentionables.

Happy New Year!