Slice of Seoul

Bathing Ape said, "Go Bape!"

A phrase on a tshirt worn by a woman on the Seoul Subway as seen by Mike (who sadly didn't have a camera on him to capture it on film).

Heavy Heathey

It has been brought to my attention by several readers that the name of this blog, "The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife" is a misnomer. Not the "histrionics" part. Oh, no. There will always be plenty of that as long as I'm around. Everybody knows that. It's the term "fat" that is causing the disturbance in readerland. So, in the interest of full disclosure and exposure, I will tell you all that I am no longer FAT.

Yep. You read that right. I lost over 50 lbs during the last year and not only do I not fit into the obese category on the doctors' charts, I fit into a size 6 pants. Before you men out there get excited and you women out there feel duped, let me also tell ya that I do NOT look anywhere near good, nor would I dare even look into the mirror scantily clothed. Having babies, at least with my body, permanently puts me in the very jiggly category. I have at least ten, if not another twenty extra pounds on me that I may or may not ever lose.

To those of you who can have their prebaby body back, well, all I have to say to you is phooey. I don't know how you got your Motherhood Club card, but it should be revoked. I know it is written somewhere that you need at least two sagging body parts and just one stretch mark to carry the card. If you cannot come up with the minimum requirements, then forget about it. Your mothering skills just cannot be all that. Not if you are looking that good. So sayeth the Great Heather! Oh, and that includes you Hollywood types. Nothing but a bunch of skinny ass bitches naming their kids jacked up names like Apple and Roman... ummm... no... uh... Coco. Anyway, again I digress. An ADD flare up.

So. Back to the former fatty. No, I didn't diet. People ask all the time how I did it. Well, I'm here to tell you that that crazy fuck Dr. Atkins was really onto something big. He was to low fat/low calorie diets what Christopher Columbus was to flat earth theories. And I firmly believed I was going to fall off the face of the diet. But I didn't. This damn way of eating is like a miracle to me.

WARNING! WARNING! SERMON AHEAD! GRAB YOUR RICE CAKES AND BAKED POTATOES AND HEAD FOR THE HILLS IF YOU FIRMLY BELIEVE THAT EATING LOW FAT IS GOING TO MAKE YOU THIN. And then give me a call because I think there are some WMDs in Iraq that the Bush's would like to sell you.

I eat all kinds of really good food with reckless abandon and I lose weight. Sure, I have to cut some things out of my life. Bread, potatoes, most pasta and rice, sugary desserts (some are replaceable with Splenda, however). But what do I make it up with? Ribeyes with garlic butter and bleu cheese. Caesar salad (minus the croutons). Deviled eggs. Brussel sprouts with bacon. Broccoli with butter. Cucumbers with real ranch dressing. Oh, I could go on and on. My food choices are as endless as they are delicious.

Oh, and have I mentioned I'm a size SIX? Of course, this fantastic phenomenon of sizes getting smaller in number but actually increasing in girth has helped me tremendously, too. In fact, I believe if I stay the exact same weight I am now, in five years time I will be a size 0. Those out there who are truly thin need to brace themselves for the negative numbers. I can see it now. Mary Kate diets to be a size -12. Nice. Very nice.

To me, though, it doesn't matter what size I am. I am not going to change the name of my blog. No, I will eternally stay "The Fat Housewife." Why? Well, the answer is simple. I've heard many a fat person claim to have a thin person inside them. "I joined Weight Watchers so that thin person inside of my will show through." Or, "I lost 88 pounds on Jenny Craig and now people see the real me."

I am not one of them. I am a fat person. Inside of me, there is a fat person. Whether you can see that person on the outside or not. Perhaps she's hidden. In the attic. With crazy Aunt Eunice who thinks she's a Japanese geisha. That fat me is always there. I will be a fat person regardless of my weight or size. It is simply who I am. I am fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. And I like it that way. Fat people are a wicked riot, with infectious, uncontrollable laughter. Fat people are a fucking blast. Fat people can drink thin people under the table. Fat people have hearts as big as their waists. I prefer fat people. So there it is.

To those of you who take exception to my use of the label, let me assure you that I will again one day be technically obese. I assure you of it. Now, please, let me be. I am off to go finish my second tub of Ben and Jerry's for the day.

[Post Script: I wrote this post several weeks ago, but never posted it. Yes, I do this all the time. My blog is overrun with posts that I've written but never posted. This one, however, needed to be posted. For several reasons. The first being, I needed to explain to those that knew I had lost weight why I was keeping the name. Secondly, I needed to tell those that might not already know that I am no longer technically fat.

And third, and this is the part that cracks me up the most, I have gained just over 10 pounds in the two months I have been here. Who the fuck was the genius that decided to send me, a devout low carber, to the land of white rice and all things starchy? Huh? Who the hell... oh... yeah... my overweight husband. Now I remember. It is starting to sound a little suspect to me. Conspiracy!!!

So there it is. I had to lay down this morning to zip up my jeans. And then I spent the rest of the day panting, little breaths in and out, to keep from passing out from lack of oxygen. And I threw out all my fat jeans. None left. Check out the big brains on the big butt, eh? Didn't stop me from feeding my face, either. I ate. But I did stick to low carb. Didn't even have a piece of Mike's birthday cake.

Yeah, but that inner fat me, she's fighting it. She's trying. We'll see. She just might make a comeback!]

Just a Little Bit Different

Everyone keeps asking me what it is like over here. I know you're all curious and quite disappointed when I tell you that my life here is not much different than my life back in Hawaii. Well, other than the cold, cold weather and the hell that all brings to my existence (see post below). But truth be told, my life really hasn't changed all that much.

Okay, I'll grant you that there are some radically different sights here. Like, for example, pigs' heads proudly displayed in front of new businesses. "Hey! Welcome to the grand opening of our new flower shop! Please step over the pig's head." That's always a little weird. So is the fact that motorcycles drive on the sidewalks and people walk on the streets. That's kind of crazy (and also attributes to the fact that Seoul has one of the highest vehicular death rates in the world). Or seeing well dressed businessmen stumbling around drunk in the middle of the afternoon. Better yet, disheveled businessmen leaving soju tents** at 7 o'clock in the morning to return to the office after a hard night of "corporate bonding." (soju tents are little orange tents set up on the sidewalk -- out of the way of the motorcycles, mind you -- where Korean rot gut booze is slurped in copious quantities) Or the smell of bundaegi -- simmered silk worm pupae eaten like we would corn nuts (well, I eat corn nuts) -- wafting on the cold Korean air... er... smog.

So, yeah, there are some differences. But basically, my life here is quite the same as ever, with just little twists. The Burger King on post here even has an indoor playground. It's fun for the kids to have something so familiar and a great place to have a little playdate. We were there the other day for lunch prior to dropping Reilly Kate off at preschool. As I was distributing the chicken tenders and french fries, a fashionably dressed, plump middle aged woman sporting a smile bigger than my King sized Diet Coke came up to me.

"Excuse me," she said in heavily accented English (which means it sounded like, "Eggs-uh Cue-suh me"). "Are these your babies?"

Now, my initial reaction was to look and see what havoc my demon spawn had wreaked. I'm thinking that this lady just had ketchup smeared all over her $700 Manolo Blahnik leopard print mules by my shoe obsessed son and she's looking for some reparations. But before terror could get a firm grip on me, she shoved a card in my hand and said, "I am international modeling agent. Do your baby model for picture?"

"No. I mean... We've had their pictures taken at Sears," I told her as if Sears Portrait Studio was just down the street.

"Can I take your baby picture?" she asked while turning on her digital camera and motioning towards the kids. "I can take? I can take?"

"Ummm... Sure. If they will let you." I really don't care if people take pictures of my kids. Even while living in Hawaii, there were plenty of Japanese tourists who would take pictures of my kids. So we're kind of used to it. Just here in Korea the picture taking thing is like ten fold. But whatever. Pictures, if my kids are willing to pose for them, are harmless.

She began happily snapping away. Roman, of course, refused to play her game, hiding underneath the table as soon as he saw the camera. Not easily thwarted, Ajuma (Korean word for older and/or married woman) ducked under the table to snap his picture. When she came back up, she pointed at Reilly Kate who was sitting at the table playing with her new Sponge Bob toy (by the way, the only reason Reilly Kate likes going to fast food joints is for the cheap, plastic toy).

"It's okay? It's okay I take picture?" Ajuma asked.

I nodded, grabbed my King sized Diet Coke and headed up for a refill leaving my children in the hands of a total stranger with a camera. Crazy by American standards, but quite the norm in these parts. So I filled up my half gallon drum of pop and turned around to find, Reilly Kate now standing on top of her chair with Ajuma taking her measurements. No kidding. This woman must have had a tape measure in her pocket. Height. Waist. Head. Shoulders. Arm length. Inseam. Writing it all down in a small little notebook.

I just stood there and watched. It was really quite the sight. A crowded American Burger King at lunch time. Children running wildly, playing in the playground. GIs munching burgers. Old timers sipping coffee. Nothing out of the norm sans one crazy Korean lady taking my kid's measurements as she stands atop a chair. Roman, at this point, had come out of his hiding spot under the table and was now rifling through Ajuma's purse. She turned and caught him just as he was about to pull her wallet out. I think he was a little embarrassed because he just stood there, like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar... or an older woman's purse, and let her take his picture. Then he got the whole measurement treatment, too. This time, she put him on top of the table, I guess so he couldn't run and hide from her.

The whole ordeal took less than five minutes. She was pretty efficient. She then asked for some information from me like their names, ages, our phone number, that kind of thing. As I'm writing this stuff down, she started taking pictures of ME! And that's where I draw the line. Let me tell you, I'll put my kids out there. Sure. They're young and don't know any better. But I am NOT going to get myself into some measly $300 contract to model along side a kimchi fridge or hawk some ginseng magic potion on SkyLife home shopping channels. No way. Not this fat foreigner.

Of course, I didn't say that to her. I just put my hand up, squinted as hard as I could creating wrinkles I hope don't naturally appear for another 15 years, and tucked my chin back quadrupling my already double chin. That, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, is the international signal for "Don't take my fucking picture!"

So Ajuma went merrily on her way, click clacking in her overpriced shoes, to get herself a Whopper with Cheese. I myself sat there eating the kids' meals (which is the only reason I go to fast food joints) while they played. Everything seemed back to normal. Children playing. Moms gossiping. Employees stealing french fries. Normal America. Until. Seoul struck again.

Not five minutes after Ajuma sat down and started feasting on her #1 with cheese, another fashionably dressed Ajuma came up to me. This one had much better English, really great hair, and a hot little bod for someone I imagine has ten years on me.

"Excuse me. Is she your baby?" Ajuma the Second asked. Deja vu was hitting me like pounds to my derriere. Again, I immediately scanned the play area to find Reilly Kate assuming that she had just smacked this woman's granddaughter upside the head with her Sponge Bob plastic toy.

"I am international modeling agent," she said as she thrust her card into my hand. I could only laugh and nod. It was ridiculous, honestly. I was sitting in Burger King being recruited by "international modeling agents." How insane is this?

Again, we went through the picture taking and the measurements and the name, age, and phone numbers. She only took note of Reilly Kate, though, since Roman, wise to this modeling game now, was hiding under the slide. Just as she was finishing up, Ajuma the First came storming into the play area, cell phone in hand. She confronted the Second and the two of them started yammering in rapid fire Korean. I haven't a clue what they were saying to one another, but I can tell you this: it wasn't a friendly exchange of professional curtesies. The other American moms within earshot were all looking on in horrified confusion and the children, all oblivious to it (except Roman who stayed well hidden), played like this was simply another day in paradise. And I... well, I just sat there munching my kids' chicken tenders enjoying the drama.

They were still in deep discussion (or negociations) when it was time for us to leave. Both Ajumas independently had to tell me that they would be calling me soon. But it seemed that they were parting amicably. Too bad. I was kind of hoping they would throw down on the mat in the play area and give us all a demonstration of Korean wrestling.

So see? My life isn't that much different than yours. I'm just a little more entertained while doing my daily tasks than you are. Boredom is not a problem I will have while living here. Oh, and as an aside, Ajuma the Second called later that night to have Reilly Kate do a catalog photo shoot the following afternoon. I told her to piss off. I don't whore my kids out to just anybody afterall. At least not on a school day.

Well, I'll be...

Looks like Reilly Kate was half right afterall. Finders ARE actually keepers. But they are losers, too.

And Candadians.

Read here for a story that'll make ya go "Argh!"

Winter Schminter Blech

It's been five blissful years without a winter. Five sun a'blazin', sunscreen slathering, must go to the beach to cool off kind of winters. This year the dream has ended; the fun in the sun screeching to a final halt atop a five foot snow drift complete with temperatures dipping below zero. My gorgeous brown tan has faded into a ghastly freckled white and I'm trying to reacquaint myself with terms such as "wind chill factor" and "black ice."

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate winter. Any season that allows me to run right out and buy three different pairs of kick ass black boots rocks in my book. Especially when I can justify them all with the need for keeping my little tootsies warm. It is the actual cold that I despise. If I could just have winter, with the threat of cold thereby requiring the purchase and wearing of aforementioned kick ass boots, without the actual cold and snow and sleet and ice and all that other shit... well, then I would be one very, very happy mama.

It is not just me acclimatizing to this weather. My Hawaii born children are going through major acclimation. At least I grew up in the southern Artic (more commonly referred to as Chicago) and can recall certain vital aspects of winter survival such as glove wearing (or at the very least, sticking one's hands into pockets), the importance of socks, avoiding the yellow snow, and always put your hood up before attempting a snow angel. These seemingly simple concepts are completely lost on my equator monkeys.

Reilly Kate absolutely refuses to wear turtle necks (she complains they choke her), sweaters of any kind (even the softest cotton is deemed itchy), scarves (an impediment to breathing), hats (muffle sound so she cannot hear), and socks (also deemed itchy). Through suave negociations, I can normally get her to wear her hood up over her head, but she refuses to zipper unless physically coerced. She also has no snow etiquette what so ever. Going up to her classmates and smashing handfuls of snow in their face is, to her, the ultimate act of friendship. In her four year old Hawaiian mind, the world is covered in free shave ice. Hence the reason I must reiterate several times a day to both my children that yellow snow is NOT lilikoi flavored shave ice from heaven.

Roman is younger and therefore a bit more adaptable, but he still has his issues. He takes off his shoes and socks whenever indoors. That means inside the car, inside Burger King, the grocery store, even inside church. His toes just have to be free, no matter the temperature outside. Mittens just do not stay on his hands. I don't know if the problem lies with him, me, or the mittens themselves, but I just cannot get those suckers to stay. When I threaten him with his hands freezing off if they do not stay on, he carries his hands straight up in the air like a doctor just finished scrubbing in for surgery. As soon has he forgets and puts them down, off fall the mittens. He'll wear a scarf and hat, but somehow has managed to lose several of each. Last time I made him wear Reilly Kate's gear, which he loved because they were frilly and purple with flowers.

But really, if you've been a mother in the cold, cold winter then you know there are several layers necessary, each with its own tricks, to getting the family out of the house in the blistery winds. And if you know me and failed to mention any of these little tricks that have created huge stumbling blocks if not absolute dead ends for me and my mothering, well, then all I have to say to you is "Shame, shame, shame on your mammary glands. May your ovaries shrivel like raisins and may your belly resemble a turkey's wattle."

All the clothing that goes on the kids. The coats and the this and the that and the whole shebang. Then we get into the car and I have to disrobe them. After all that arguing about putting the dang stuff on, now off come the coats and the hats and scarves, the mittens, so I can put them safely in their carseats. Oh, but now they are cold, so I must bundle them up with fleece blankets, tucking them carefully so as not to interfere with the safety features of the carseats. Bloody fucking hell.

Then, no sooner have I pulled out of the parking garage, I look back and see little pink toes wiggling freely in the cold car air. Boots and socks have been tossed about, the carefully tucked fleece blankets stripped off. And we drive. Driving past crazy Koreans you'd think should be well educated in snow and ice given their geographic location, but every year tell me that it never snows in Seoul and then feign shock and awe by the site of 6 inches dumped on the city. In fact, I've actually seen Koreans shovel out trees, throwing the snow straight into the street, right onto the path of traffic. But the streets and sidewalks go completely unplowed. Ah, but I digress.

Anyway, by the time we've reached our destination, the air has warmed up and the snow and ice that they tracked in is melted leaving the socks that are strewn about wet. I put on their wet socks, their boots, and hats and scarves and mittens and coats just so we can run from the parking lot to inside where they proceed to once again strip and throw. I have gotten a little bit faster and more proficient. Where it once would take me about 20 minutes to get us dressed and out of the store (yes, you should have seen me near the exit of the PX as mother after mother goes past with her warmly dressed offspring, desperately trying to perform), it now takes a mere ten, provided there are no potty surprises.

But we did enjoy our first snow day, complete with a miniature snowman and some hot cocoa. I had to muster up the courage to bundle them all up and take them out. The mustering actually took me about 3 hours, the prep 40 minutes, the bundling a half hour, and time spent out outside totaled just under 20 minutes. Since Reilly Kate only goes to school for three hours a day, I think I'm entitled to an hour and a half in change. Do I apply to the school board for that?



Heading out into the snowy streets of our very own Hyundai Hometown Apartments.






Building a mini Frosty, sans hat or corncob pipe, or button nose, or two eyes made out of coal. Okay. Maybe it wasn't Frosty. In fact, it probably doesn't even qualify as a snowman as it had no head. It was really a big... well, a small mound of snow. But cut my kids a break here. They can make really cool sand castles!






Roman fell down while walking on the street in front of our apartment. That little path you see wasn't shoveled, by the way. It was squeegied. One of the security guards here took a squeegy and kind of pushed the snow out of the way, creating this little godsend of a path. Ingenious? Or daftly inefficient? Depends on how you look at it, I guess.






Even Truman got himself a little snow. Poor little Aussie dog.