The First

WARNING: The links in this post contain nasty things no one should ever say explicit language.

A long, long time ago, when Weston was a fetus, and I had an actual job where I got paid and everything, I used to occasionally sit in my Government-issued cube and peruse a now-defunct child-free rants page (link is to an archived sample of the rants that went up by the dozens every day). These charming folks are the ones who call parents 'breeders' and children all sorts of nasty names that would NEVER be repeated on Stories from Korea, not the regular nice child-free people, in case there is any confusion.

I'm not really sure why I read the page, or how I happened across it in the first place. The posters were bitter, angry people who could take a legitimate point and twist it beyond all recognition, alternately blaming babies, parents, pregnant people, infertility treatments, neonatal care and family-friendly policies for their poor financial situations, lousy parking spots and crappy jobs. Their demented ravings kept me coming back, though- I just couldn't wait to see what those zany wackaloons would come up with next. Often, one of them would post a link to something, and then all the rest of them would go check it out and gang up. Then they'd move on to something else like a pack of snarling hyenas.

One day, they were ranting about Julie at A Little Pregnant. She had the absolute gall to both require IVF to conceive, and to have the financial resources to fund it. Clearly, the hyenas thought, she was irredeemably selfish and it was typically unfair of the universe to waste money on her that they so richly deserved. I clicked over there, too, and read this post; the first one ever and the genesis of my current raging case of blogaholism.

What was your first?

Transform this

Transformers, ugh. I really do not understand exactly what these things are or the point of their existence. Because my intellect verges on brilliant, I have cleverly deduced that they are objects that turn themselves into something else. From what to what and why, I have no idea. Are they good or evil? Animal, vegetable or mineral? I dunno. What I do know is that they are completely loathsome, and Weston loves them.

At the risk of sounding smug (oops, too late!), we don't have transformers at OUR house. No, we have only hand-rubbed organic wooden toys lovingly crafted by rustic, raw-boned, overalls-clad artisans in America's beleaguered heartland. (yes, BIG FAT RIDICULOUS LIE, but still, no Transformers). Fortunately for poor Weston, his friend Jack has an ample supply of Transformers figures and cartoons. They put on outlandish costumes and fashion implements with which to vanquish their enemies, or smaller siblings, and shriek up and down the hallway.

Jack is a little older than Weston, and we are often the grateful recipients of Jack's hand-me-downs. One of our recent acquisitions is a Transformer t-shirt in excellent condition. I had it stashed away, because as you may have guessed, I do not love Transformers. This morning I brought the t-shirt out in a desperate attempt to get Weston dressed in time for Ella and her mom to pick him up for the dreaded swimming lessons. It was magic, my friends: Transformers can get dressed by themselves! Transformers can jump so high! Transformers can run so fast! Daringly, I suggested that perhaps Transformers can even swim. 'Yes!' he declared, enthusiastically, and off he went to the pool.

Alas, upon his return, I learned that Transformers only want to get their feet wet, play in the kiddie pool and consume the semi-weekly swimming lesson Doritos bribe.

On writing

Sometimes, I get the greatest compliments on my writing on here, which I LOVE. Not all that often, and mostly from my dad, but still. I find some satisfaction in writing, but it takes effort and the occasional accolade keeps me going. I used to write a lot more. All kinds of things: magazine article proposals, adult fiction, even some children's stories.

I liked writing fiction, sort of. It felt like the stories were just coming out of the ether, into my brain and out onto my computer screen. I always wanted to know what was going to happen next. Then, when I found out what was going to happen, the writing all of a sudden seemed like a lot more work, and I didn't always finish the stories.

But the coolest part was how the stories magically appeared. I can force words onto the page, too, but usually that leads to some sort of plot disaster I can't write my way out of. I really thought the stories were divine inspiration. This idea was reinforced when I heard a famous songwriter say almost the exact same thing about how the songs just came to him. Songwriting is a talent that really impresses me, by the way. I do not get how someone can write poetry and match it to music that doesn't exist yet.

When I was in college, I took a literature course and read a quote from Toni Morrison. I'm paraphrasing here because I can't remember the exact wording and I'm too lazy to look for it. She said something like: 'You have to finish your work all at once, or the seams start to show'. At the time, I thought it was very strange and I didn't get why you couldn't just drop a project and come back to it later, like a sewing project. But now, I totally understand it. So, here I am, with my magical gift and on the same page with the great Toni Morrison. I'm so special! Or so I thought.

Unfortunately, I was forced to change my mind about the divine origin of the stories a few years ago after I heard someone else say the same thing about the stories coming to her from out of nowhere. I read her stories and they were truly awful. I wanted to say, 'Sweetie, God did not give you these stories. I don't know who it was, but you need to give them right back.' I didn't say that, of course, because I'm a nice person. Instead, I said, 'Hmmm, those are something else all right!'. Not dissimilar to what I hear about some of my posts, now that I think about it.

Clearly, logic dictates that if her stories aren't God-given, mine probably aren't either. I guess I'm just a hack, after all. But a hack with a nice father.

Cue the Spooky Music

Well, my friends, the day has come. The paintings are back from the shop, propped up in the bedroom, awaiting the unwrapping. They don't look so bad with that pretty paper covering them up, do they? If only the paper could remain... But no, I mustn't give myself false hope. Fear not, I do have options: I can always throw myself to the badgers.

If you are not familiar with the sad saga of the paintings, you can read about it here, here,
here and here. Then you can send your condolences to storiesfromkorea@gmail.com.

Weekend update

Happy Saturday! Here's a hodgepodge of updates, some with matching pictures:

I went to the flower market with a friend this morning, scouting for things we might want for the kids community garden we're building this spring. It was wonderful, warm and moist and lush-smelling. I got some herbs and a gorgeous red planter, and now I'm all ready to get some seeds started. I have some basil seeds I saved from last year and a few other things. The picture of the roses is from a bin at a flower stall- they were stacked up in piles, sorted by color.

Shane dumped a hot chocolate into the bottom of the stroller, so I was forced to take the basket and foot rest off the bottom so I could give it a desperately needed scrubbing. You would think it might unsnap easily, but no. It takes ten screws. I sort of like the way it looks without it, though- kind of like a stripped down hog, don't you think? Now I just need to get the kids some gnarly tatoos. 'Born to Whine', maybe.

Weston had a hard time going to sleep last night. He was 'frightened'. I asked him what he was frightened of, and the answer was, 'Monster dreams'. I asked him if he knew monsters weren't real, and he pointedly informed me that it was monsters he was frightened of, but monster dreams. I put up the 'No Monster Dreams Allowed' sign and it seemed to solve the problem. He closed his eyes and started mumbling, 'Now I'm dreaming about moon flowers and animals'.

The waiting is the hardest part

After I wrote yesterday about perhaps not posting 'The waiting is the hardest part', I got lots of comments like 'Oh, please, post it! You write so beautifully, we desperately want to read anything you write; please don't torture us with this deprivation one second longer!' Well, okay, that's a total lie but I did hear from a few people that I was pretty much a nutbasket if I didn't mind posting the booger piece or the communist bit but was worried about this one. Also, the idea that this place sometimes feels like the bowels of hell occasionally leaves something to be desired? Apparently not news to anyone. So, here is the post with a little disclaimer, just in case. If Osan delights your every sense and/or you are easily swayed by booger-laden subversives, proceed at your own peril:


Osan is a waiting place, a parking spot on the way to somewhere else. We are always waiting, all of us:

Waiting for yellow slips that tell us a package has arrived.

Waiting for the window to open so we can retrieve the package.

Waiting for Monday to be over so the commissary is open and we can buy the milk or toilet paper we desperately need.

Waiting for it to warm up so we can go outside.

Waiting for the yellow sand readings to go down so we can go outside.

Waiting for the exercise to be over so we can go to the doctor.

But most of all, we are waiting to hear what the next assignment is. PCS season is coming up soon. PCS stands for Permanent Change of Station, for those of you non-military readers. 'Permanent' being used rather loosely, of course, and only serving to distinguish the type of move from a temporary one, as in TDY, or Temporary Duty. Most military moves take place in the summer. Assignments are short here, a year or two mostly, and so each summer at least half of the folks here PCS.

Unfortunately, the military, in my experience, has not been super great about timely notification on upcoming moves. When we came to Osan, Lloyd had to be here on October 1st. He didn't have his orders until August 15th. Is six weeks enough time to plan a move, particularly an overseas one? I don't really think so. We thought we knew where we were going before the orders arrived, but you don't dare make a move without orders, because they can and do change up to and including the very last second.

And so, we wait. And our perspective changes. I used to think Altus AFB in Altus, Oklahoma was my worst nightmare. But oh, how I wish I was in Altus, Oklahoma right now. The available assignments look better and better. Minot, ND? Outstanding! Del Rio, Texas? Yee Haw, baby! It's like beer goggles, only Osan goggles! If you are unfamiliar with beer goggles, you can click the link for the Wikpedia page. Also, you might want to reconsider reading this blog. I think there is a direct correlation: each month at Osan is equivalent to one beer, so by the time your twelve or twenty-four month assignment is up you've had so much that you'll go home to anywhere.

We wait.

It's hard to be me

Yesterday, I wrote a post called 'The Waiting is the Hardest Part,' and it presents a fairly dreary look at Osan. I like it, though, and I was going to put it right up, but then I thought, 'What if someone gets up in a cheery mood here at Osan, gets her morning coffee and sits down to read Stories from Korea and is reminded how much it sucks here? It might ruin her whole day.' That's not something I want on my conscience! THEN I thought, 'But it's my blog, I can write what I want!' And then I thought I should make a secret blog and I can write whatever I want and no one will be the wiser. But it's no fun to write a blog if no one reads it. See how hard it is to be me?

Anyone else have a problem like this? I think I have a solution. This is not my original idea; I saw it somewhere and thought it was brilliant. If you have something you want to post but can't do it on your own blog, send it to me, anonymously if you want, and I'll post it for you! As long as it's not nasty; Stories from Korea does have some standards. It can be about anything: Mother-in-law driving you crazy? Hate the Air Force? Is your neighbor too noisy late at night? Share it here and get it off your chest!