St. Patrick's Day Sucked Part II

Second of a two part series. If you haven't read about St. Patrick's Day morning, start there. It's a doozy.

I know it's been a long time to get this thing posted. It sat half baked in my drafts box for awhile. My parents, god love them, are old and still adjusting to the time change. They will be fully adjusted by the time they leave here. But since my computer is in the room they sleep in and since they are in bed mere minutes after the kids, well, finishing this has been very slow going. As it is, I'm sure there a plenty of typos which I am not even going to look for right now. I'm publishing as is. Want to edit it? Have at it and send me a copy! Enjoy.


Every mother can tell you that there are those days when your children are the worst in the bunch. Well, maybe not every mother, but most. Well, maybe not most. Okay. Maybe just me. In that case, I am here to tell you that there are those days when MY children are the worst in the bunch. Days when they act like demonic angels ascended from hell to wreak havoc among the frolicking seraphic children of all the other mothers. Days when I am sure they were sent here in payback for cheating on my fifth grade math homework or for smoking in the bathroom in high school, or that one time in band camp... well, I was never at band camp, but you get the point. St. Patrick's Day was that day.

By the time we arrived at Think Town (a children's museum here in Seoul), it was lunch time. We found a little table and sat the children down to eat their packed lunches. Lunch, to my children, means run like greyhounds and scream like banshees while Mommy tries to get some form of nutrition ingested. I wolfed down my yogurt while watching the other children happily eat the lunch I'd packed and keeping Roman from losing an appendage in the escalator.

When we finally got into Think Town, I was already tired of talking to my kids about their piss poor behavior. That is never a good way to start out. The first stop was this sectioned area with wood floors and big blow up, rolling things, requiring shoe removal. When everyone was finished playing there and were ready to move on the next section, Reilly Kate absolutely positively refused to even consider the possibility of putting her shoes back on. It was a battle I wasn't going to win so I just shoved the shoes in my backpack and gave up trying.

Next stop was the great big rolling dice. Being a casino floozy myself, I'm all for introducing children to dice throwing at an early age. First the big foam dice, then a little Yazte, high school Bunko club, and then by legal age they're winning at the craps table. Throw the dice, baby! Yeah, I probably should have chosen my words more carefully. Roman, well, he took to actually throwing the dice... at the heads of the other children in that section. He even tried to throw one at a kid just walking by. As the other kids stacked them up high, he'd take them down and whip them. I grabbed both kids and we headed out for another part of the museum, Reilly Kate still barefoot, by the way.

A few sections down was a large science room with multiple stations. All the children scattered to check out the various activities. Some went to blow bubbles. Others made designs on the giant Lite Brite board. There was magnetic sand to play in and a Jacob's Ladder to watch. What did the spawn of Satan do? Roman threw himself on the floor in a fit of rage over my taking him from his beloved dice game. Reilly Kate performed the same trick she's been doing since she was 14 months old -- she ran around in a tight circle and wailed at a pitch that is just right for bursting fine crystal. I found myself a place to sit, far from either of them, hoping that perhaps no one would notice they were mine. Sadly, I really can't pawn them off here. In a room full of Koreans, do you think that anyone is going to believe they are not mine?


After a bit, a science show started in the room. All the other children sat quietly watching the scientist do different chemistry experiments and tricks of physics. I looked to see where my apes had gone and find them attempting to catch and swing off this twirling ribbon exhibit. First off, this was not something designed for that purpose. Those ribbons were not sturdy enough to hold a child's weight. Second, if they were sturdy enough, it sure as hell wouldn't be safe for them to do this. I looked around, waiting for one of the staff members to come up and say something like, "Simian pets puts caged or necklace pretty good." Which would mean, "Take your fucking brats and get the hell out of our museum!" They didn't say anything, though. They just watched and laughed. Damn teenagers!

I herded my crew over to the science show where they did actually sit for about 5 minutes. One of the girls in our group offered herself up as a volunteer for the scientist and was rewarded with a toy of some sort. Well, that of course does it for my greed monster. At the very next opportunity, she bullets up her hand and becomes the next lucky contestant. I knew it wasn't a good idea, but once she has something in her head (like not wearing her shoes through the museum), there is little I can do to convince her otherwise.

This is going to come as a surprise to most who know Reilly Kate, but since moving here she's become a little shy and clingy. To be expected when you are four and suddenly find yourself an expat living in Asia. So she got on stage and stood there, smiling and happy until the scientist asked her her name. For those who don't know, Koreans have extreme difficulty distinguishing the "r" and the "l" sounds. They mix them up, transpose them, or just use one or the other sounds. This is because those two sounds come from the same letter in Korean. Reilly Kate's name is extremely hard to pronounce for a Korean. We weren't thinking Korea when we named her obviously.

"What your name?" he asked in English.

"Reilly Kate."

"Myo?" which means "What?" in Korean.

"Reilly Kate."

"Lie-lie... myo?" was his first attempt.

"Reilly Kate." Gone was her big, I'm-gonna-get-me-a-toy smile.

"Lie-lie... Otikae?" His second attempt followed by an Korean expression of frustration akin to "What should I do now?"

"Reilly Kate." At this point her bottom lip was starting to jut out.

"Too difficult," he said in English to which everyone in the audience laughed. He played the whole thing off well, but not to a four year old.

What the scientist was going to do was show how it takes a lot more wind power to push a big ball than it does to push a small ball. He'd already balanced a ping pong ball in mid air with a blow dryer. Now he wanted to do the same with a soccer ball and a leaf blower. He took his leaf blower, pointed it at his face, and turned it on. It distorted his cheeks and mouth and was very funny. Now, he wanted to do it to Reilly Kate. As he brought the blower into position, he told her to open her mouth. She clamped her lips down tightly, and turned to look the other way. He asked her again. This time, her bottom lip started to quiver and her eyes welled up with tears. I ran up to rescue her. Poor baby had bitten off way more than she could chew.

Instead of just grabbing her and sitting back down, which is what I should have done, I squatted down next to her and tried to encourage her to open her mouth. It was no use and I really couldn't say as I blamed her. That thing looked intimidating. I don't even know how safe it is to point such a hardware power tool at the face of a four year old. Naturally, since baby won't do it, the crowd wants Mama to. Actually, it was the scientist's idea with a rousing endorsement from my fellow preschool moms sitting in the audience. Ah, yes, they got my back.

So, reluctantly, I leaned forward and opened my mouth. Just as the mad scientist was about to press the ON button, I said a quick prayer that the wind didn't get trapped in some kind of wrinkle pocket on my face and rip off my whole head. He turned that sucker on full blast and I could feel my face shift as he moved the blower's focus. My eyebrows swiggled, my chin lifted up, and my mouth filled with air making me look like a puffer fish with a sloped forehead and an underbite. It is a damn good thing I was squatting down because that scientist was moving that air all over the place. Had I been standing, my boobs wouldn't have been safely secured behind my knees, and the force of the wind would have dislodged them from their home in my bra. Most likely, the pair of 38 DDs would have gone flying wildly, smacking me upside the head and leaving me with two black eyes. It was bad enough the way it was.

All that. All that embarrassment. Stripped of my dignity. And for what? A cheap little toy? Do you think they even gave me the damn cheap little toy, the lure that got my greed monster to go up there in the first place? Hell no. I got shit. Thank you very much for letting us use your face as a big wrinkly, fleshy mass to demonstrate our BIG TOOL, Ms. Peet. And don't let the door hit you on your way out. Yeah.


Immediately after we got off the stage, our group dispensed with the sitting quietly at the science show and went off to blow giant bubbles. Fine by me. I'm good with that. I like bubbles. Until Roman decided to take a bath in the bubbles. I looked over and saw the bottom half of his arm just drenched, his hand swishing around in the soapy mess. I actually had to wring out the sleeve of his shirt.

While wringing out Roman's soapy sleeve, Reilly Kate wandered over to the giant Lite Brite board where everyone else was happily building hearts and circles and the like. She, instead of using creativity to, well, to create, chose to use her wits to collect the most pink pegs, lining them up on the shelf. Woe to anyone that tried to actually use one. I could hear the discussions she was having with the other kids all the way across this enormous room.

Once I was done cleaning up the little man, I had to go referee the Lite Brite Grinch, leaving the little man to go run amok. Literally. He ran around taunting the other children with, "Na na! No catch MEEEEE!" I went and grabbed him, and redirected him over the the Lite Brites. He loved it. Grabbed a bunch of pegs and started sticking them in the holes. Of course, he wasn't happy just sticking them in and leaving them in. He had to take them back and then shove them back in a little harder. It seems he thought the object of Lite Brite was to plow the buggers all the way through the board, letting them drop to the bottom, behind the lights and out of anyone's reach. I don't know if the people at the museum were ever able to retrieve the pegs that Roman so diligently worked to push through.


I turned to locate Grinchy girl and found her on this twirly handlebared thingy. Just look at the picture to see what it was since I cannot describe it well. Also, look at the picture to see how absolutely filthy my sweet baby girl had gotten. She was like Pig Pen in the Charlie Brown series. Just covered in all kinds of filth. I looked at the other kids, all of whom still had their shoes on, and none were dirty. Not a one. So my little Pig Pen was waiting in line for this thingy and mocking all the kids who were taking their turns.

"I can go so much faster than you. I am the fastest. I am the fastest in the whole world. You go slow but I go fast. Get off so I can show you how to go fast." And so on and so forth.

I stood over by the thingy and told her to knock it off. Fortunately, most of the children in line couldn't even understand her since she was speaking English and they were Korean. But there were the kids, her friends, that we came with and she wasn't holding back for them, either. The more I told her it wasn't nice and that she shouldn't say that, the more emphatic she became that she was indeed faster and that she only wanted to show them how to be as fast as she.

When it finally came to be her turn, she climbed aboard and, well, she couldn't even get the damn thing to turn at all. She was tripping over her feet trying to push the thing, she leaned to and fro, she jerked the handlebars. She tried it all. Stifling a laugh, I leaned over and gave her a good push. Know what that smart ass did? She said, "HA!! See? I AM the fastest!" As an aside, Roman, too, got on the thingy not long after her, and without even a blink of an eye or the slightest wiff of a push from another, he had that thing twirling 'round and 'round so fast that getting a good picture of him on it proved impossible. He was just a blur. Please note how nice and clear Reilly Kate's picture is. She was standing still as she mocked the other children. Yes. She's a gem.


Roman, having grown bored with the Lite Brite board and having used his single turn on that twirly thingy allotted to him by his sister, went over to a bike on a track. He geared up with a helmet, climbed aboard, and fell in love with the bike while putting the the young Korean woman escorting the bike back and forth under his spell. Korean women just love Roman -- his blond hair and blue eyes, those chubby cheeks, and devilish grin. They look at him and whisper to one another, "Yapuna," which means beautiful. Well, this one was no different.

When the ride finished, he flashed that young woman a sweet smile and said, "Two!" "Two" translated from Roman into English is "more." Without hesitation Agashi (means "young woman" in Korean) pushed him forward for another turn, totally ignoring the three other children patiently waiting in line for their turn. When ride number two was finished, what do you suppose happened? "Two!" Roman demanded and so commenced ride number three. By this time the parents of the children waiting patiently were growing impatient and personally, I don't blame them.

Before ride number three was even halfway completed, I began preparing both Roman and his agashi for their final parting. "This is it. No more. Last time," I said. The agashi giggled and Roman smiled and when they completed ride number three, they didn't even stop, didn't even so much as pause before going right back for ride number four. I stood uncomfortably as I heard angry Korean from behind my back. I peeked over my shoulder and saw that the line had doubled and the Koreans moms huddled around casting the evil eye our direction. What am I saying, "our?" They were casting it MY direction. And I was guiltless. I was the one encouraging an end to the bike rides. No matter, I was their fall guy.

I walked up the steps of the platform to capture my bike pirate when they returned. Agashi turned to me and said, "Okay. One more time. Last time." Then off they went. But the way she said it would almost imply that I somehow wanted a fifth ride for my kid. No. No. No, indeed, I did not. Well, completely disgusted the Korean moms grabbed their childrens' hands and left the line in a fit, glaring at me the whole time. I apologized, for what I do not know. By the time Roman got done with his fifth and final ride, there was no line. I think, had I allowed it, Agashi would have put him right back on that damn bike.

The other preschool moms began shepherding the flock towards a little coffee shop inside the museum for smoothies, snacks and much needed Mommy lattes. Like herding cats, I would grab one of my offspring and the other would run away. I gave up and concentrated my efforts on collecting all of our belongings (including Reilly Kate's shoes) to demonstrate that we were leaving that room. When I turned around, coats and shoes and bags in hand, I looked over to where Roman and Reilly Kate had congregated around the bubble blowing station. Roman had grabbed one of the great big metal wands and was banging it with all his might against the side of the soapy basin. Reilly Kate stood next to him, watching, as she licked the palms of her hands from wrists to fingertips. Remember now, she is covered in filth of the blackest kind. Who knew what it was or where she picked it up or what organisms were lurking in the crevices of her palms. But this is the kid who thinks boogers and toe jam are haute cuisine so really, this hand licking should not surprise me. Nevertheless, it did. I exploded into a mommy tirade, grabbing them both by the collar and marching them off to a much needed coffee break.

By the time we'd gotten there, there was a line. We stood waiting to order for a few minutes with my kids begging cookies and other snacks off their friends. Just as it was our turn to order one of the museum workers came in to tell us that an astronomy show was about to begin. Personally, I would have skipped it. But all the other kids were marching off to the show and my kids would not be left out, even for the promise of strawberry smoothies and chocolate chip cookies. My latte wasn't to be. We joined the march into a dome shaped room and laid down on the floor.

As soon as the lights in the dome were turned off, a pretty cool light projection show began, showing all the constellations. The narrative was entirely in Korean, which is to be expected. The problem, of course, was that my kids don't understand Korean and were bored within about 20 seconds. Bored kids become talkative kids and in a dome shaped little room, talk echoes. Plus, Reilly Kate doesn't talk, she yells. I spent the entire 20 minutes trying to get my kids to be quiet. I really felt sorry for the Korean children in the room since they couldn't hear a word over my chatty children. I would have taken them out, but I couldn't see past my hand. It was pitch stinking black. I'm sure, had I tried to get them out, we would have tripped over the light machine and broken it.

Still, darkness and all, I was just about to grab the kids and drag them, belly crawling to the door, when Reilly Kate stood straight up and began shrieking, "I'm wet! I'm wet! My pants are all wet!" I still couldn't see a thing but I stuck my hand out to get her to sit back down and she pushed me away. "I didn't pee! I didn't pee. Mama! Don't! I didn't peeeeeeeeeeeeee!" The sound of her shrill hysterics pierced my ears and I'm sure everyone elses. The woman sitting at my feet groaned and her child of maybe 2 or 3 whimpered. I wanted to melt into the floor.

Finally, the longest 20 minutes of my life came to an end. The lights went back on and I looked over at Reilly Kate who was still complaining of her ass being wet. She was covered in smoothie. Somebody had brought in their drink and it had spilled. My child, who should have been laying still looking up at the "stars" on the ceiling, had instead been wiggling around all over the carpet, knocked the drink over and then proceeded to sit in it. Not only was she covered in dirt, grime, and other assorted filths, but now she had a green, sticky, wet bum.

We went back to the coffee shop were I got my much needed jolt of caffeine and a strawberry smoothie that each kid took a sip of and promptly forgot. Reilly Kate went off with her girlfriends to record a rock video and Roman sat down quietly at a magnetic building station. I drank my coffee and called Mike to tell him we would be leaving the museum shortly and on our way home. I went to check on Roman who was still playing nicely. I went to check on Reilly Kate who was singing like Gwen Stefani. It was a bit of heaven that wasn't to last.

On my way back to the coffee shop, I peaked in on Roman again and he was gone. He'd left his shoes on the chair he was sitting in and the magnetic balls and sticks all over the floor. He must have just swept a hand across the table and tossed them all. I raced around and found him back in the rolling blow up pit. He conned some nice Korean grandmother and her adorable little boy into rolling him around like he was the king on a palanquin. He'd roll here and there. Wherever he pointed, they would roll him. The roller would come to a stop, he sit up, point, yell something incomprehensible to me (Korean perhaps?), and these two would hop to it, rolling him around some more. They all seemed to be having a good time, although Herr Dictator seemed a bit much to me. But whatever. Who am I to judge, right? Besides, I've got magnets to clean up, which I did.

The magnet station was directly behind this hardwood floored rolling pit. I could hear and see what was going on, but I couldn't actually get to Roman because it was cordoned off. I was crouched down, picking up the magnets, when one of the magnetic balls wizzed by my head. I turned around and there stood Brat Boy the Evil One. He was actually laughing at me and reaching into his pockets for another ball. I leapt up and tried to grab him through the fencing, but he moved back, away from my reach. He tripped on his feet while walking backwards and out poured the balls he had stuffed into his pockets. The Korean grandmother came rushing up and collected the small metal balls. She looked, smiled at me and I thanked her in Korean as I held out my hand for her to give me the balls. She nodded again, still smiling, and handed the damn balls back to Roman!

Roman starting pelting the grandmother and her cute little boy with the balls and all they did was duck and laugh. I ran as fast as I could around the fencing of the rolling pit until I got the entrance. I collected the balls off the floor and frisked Roman for the remainder. I was livid and I'd had enough. We were definitely going now. I put the balls back in the magnet station, went off to collect a less than thrilled Reilly Kate, and then back to get Roman. It took me less than five minutes to get my unhappy, temper tantrum throwing offspring clothed, shoed, out the door with appropriate goodbyes to our friends, the grandmother, and half the staff at the museum. As I walked out, I had Roman under one arm, legs kicking and hands grasping at the doorjam, my other hand clutching Reilly Kate as she whined and cried.

I came. I saw. I had my ass kicked.

Post Script: I was so distracted with the kids and my frazzled nerves that when we left I took a total wrong turn and wound up lost. It took us about a 15 minutes to find our way out of the building and another 20 minutes to find a cab. Once we got into the cab and began our journey home, stuck in mild Seoul traffic, my driver admitted to me that he had no idea how to get me home. Through the miracle of cell phones and Mike's Korean, we managed to make it to our beloved homestead. As we were getting out of the cab, I smacked Roman with the door leaving a nice bruise on his temple. I carried him through our courtyard, wailing over his contusion. Just as our apartment came into view, Reilly Kate began a full sprint, tripped over her feet, and landed in a face plant. By the time we entered the sanctity of our home, I had developed a nervous twitch that only ceased after my third Guinness. Ah, yes. Twas a day. Twas a day. Twas a very, very, very fine day.

Korea Prep 101

I'm almost done with St. Patrick's Day Sucked Part 2, but tomorrow my parents leave for two weeks here in Korea. I thought I'd gather a list of helpful info for them. Just things that may help ease the culture shock.

~ When you get off the plane, you may notice an unusual smell. Korea, just like any place, really, has it's own unique stink. Your olfactory system will get slammed with the pungent aroma of kimchi while subtle notes of soju and ancient sewer pipes tickle your nostrils. Don't worry. A couple of hours after you land, your sense of smell will have burned out only to reawaken for sledgehammer smells like chutgol (fermented fish guts), denjang chigae (bean paste stew), public toilets, and Roman's poopy diapers. You may also notice that we smell pretty raunchy, too. When I lived here before, I never noticed it. Probably because I lived here. But when Mike started traveling back and forth from Hawaii, I noticed it immediately. He would get off the plane and just stink up our whole house. Kissing him was like kissing Seoul. You'll probably stink for a couple of days after you're back home, too. Carry breath mints and some bath spray.

~ Seoul traffic is horrible and the driving is treacherous. It's a huge city with a lot of cars and many winding roads older than our twice our country. That alone would cause congestion and accidents. Add to it that laws in Korea are written in sand -- meaning red lights are merely a suggestion to stop and many decide not to, motorcycles can and do drive wherever they want, following only the laws of the driver's own direction, turn signals are meaningless, double and even triple parking is common, and drinking and driving is a common and accepted practice. Buckle up and clench hard. I'm driving through Seoul!

~ Not all Korean food is hot and spicy. There are plenty of things that are not hot in the least. Wonderful soups and grilled meats. Koreans really pride themselves in their food traditions and with good reason. I think Korean food is among the world's finest cuisines. Remember, though, that some foods taste good while smelling really quite awful. Denjang chigae is a prime example. While cooking, it smells like shit. Literally. Shit boiling on the stove. But it is so damn good. Served up boiling in a hot pot, loaded with veggies and tofu. Oh, yum. Another example is ojingo cooked on hot rocks. The street stands are all over the place and the smell of it cooking smells a lot like burning flesh. Ya know, that smell when you get a wart or a mole burned off. Like that. But they are my most favorite street food. Delish. Anyway, there are quite a few of those smell bad, taste great foods here in Korea.

~ You will get stares. It's not as bad as it was when I came the first time. It seems there has been a foreigner explosion in Seoul in the last five years. But still, you'll get stared at, openly. Koreans are very into faces. They read faces like some Westerners would read palms. So for someone to just blatantly stare at you while you are riding on the subway or waiting for a light at the crosswalk is perfectly acceptable in their culture. Also, Reilly Kate and Roman generate a lot of attention. A lot. As in semi celebrity status. That can be a little scary. Once at the mall we stopped to let the kids talk to a man dressed as a stingray to promote the aquarium and when we turned around there was a circle of probably about 30 people gathered around taking pictures of us. Freaky. Another time it took over 20 minutes to get out of a public bathroom because of the number of moms wanting to have their kids' pictures taken with Reilly Kate. Be forewarned and get used to it.

~ Don't blow your nose in public. It's considered rude and disgusting. Instead, snork it down your throat, hork it up, and spit it out. Perfectly acceptable here. Also, you can employ what is known as the country blow, where you just blow the snot out of your nose and onto the ground and/or passersby. On the upside, you can pick your teeth with a toothpick while sitting at the table in a restaurant. Just make sure to cover your mouth with your hand.

~ There's tons of culture and history here in Seoul. Korean history is hardly if ever touched upon in American schools so there's a steep learning curve while touring around. Koreans are very much into their history and culture. The government has even numbered all their historical treasures. Most exhibits have an English translation and even unfriendly Seoullites soften when asked about Korea. There's lots to see and do here. Lots. Sleep when you get back.

~ Americans are hated by just about everyone, everywhere. We're loud, fat, obnoxious cheapskates with too much cash and ego and not enough education and understanding. We dress sloppy, are hyper critical of differences, arrogant, and we've twice elected a retard to run our country and invade other countries without good cause or explanation (oh, and if you haven't seen this press conference, you really must -- he's such a gentleman and a scholar!) Trust me when I say, you'll soon realize how poorly the world thinks of the U.S. and will no longer hold your head up high when telling others you are American. I just hold my head up high and tell them I'm Canadian. If you don't already have maple leaves sewn on your backpack, let me know, I'll let you borrow mine.

Oh, there's so much more I'd like to tell you. But it is late and I have to retire. I've got a wicked long day tomorrow. Wicked long. I don't have the luxury of lazing around in First Class for 17 hours. Some of us have to work around here.

St. Patrick's Day Sucked Part I

Warning: This is going to get long. Put the kids in front of the telly, grab a snack, take the phone off the hook, and get comfy. You may want to take a break half way. Go ahead. I won't be offended. In fact, I'm going to break it up into two parts for ya. It was that long of a day. Really.


Yesterday sucked. It was the kind of day that Murphy must have had when he wrote his law. But it didn't start out that way. The very beginning of the day exhibited great potential. The children slept late (as in 7am) and lazed in bed with me till almost 7:30. I had a nice morning phone call from my friend Amy as I cleaned up the kitchen. But as soon as I got off the phone with her and officially started my day, things fell apart.

First, I had to walk Truman. To "walk" him, requires me to leave the children unattended in the apartment for about five minutes while he quickly relieves himself in the greenery right outside the apartment doors. I'm not really comfortable with this arrangement, but have grown to accept it. Reilly Kate and Roman watch t.v. while I'm gone and earn a quarter if they behave (meaning, there is no blood, sweat, or tears to greet me when I come back in). So far, so good. We've had some sweat and tears, but no blood.

Out we went, Truman and I, and stood in the same place we normally do for him to do his thing. As Truman was pooping, a security guard walked up, hands clasped behind his back, then stood, feet firmly planted almost as if he was at attention, and observed. I knew why he was there and it didn't have anything to do with a sick, canine defecation fetish.

You see, apparently there are some in the building who haven't deciphered one of the rules (see picture below for rules review). Pets walk clean up waste disposal means simply Pick up your damn dog's shit! I, however, am not one of them. I always have a bag and I always pick up after Truman. Always. Korea is also rife with feral cats. I've actually seen cats traisping around the area, getting into the food waste bins and then pooping. So, despite my efforts, there are poop landmines scattered all over the grassy grounds. I know the management as well as the cleaning staff blame me and Truman for the poop. I've been confronted about it before. But it isn't us and I'm not about to play poop martyr, picking up piles of pet poop in my off time.

After Truman completed his unloading, I bent down to pick up the feces and the security guard started thanking me in English. I told him that I always pick up after my dog and he thanked me again. In fact, he must have thanked me like five or six times, smiling broadly, and making little bowing gestures. Perhaps, thinks I, it will finally get through to them that we are not the culprits of the crap caper.

I started to walk away with the security guard walking in the opposite direction. Suddenly, he stopped and called after me, saying something in Korean and pointing to an enormous pile of dog shit laying in the grass about an inch from the sidewalk and five feet from where Truman just did his business. Gone was his smile, his polite bowing head, my hope of clearing our good names. It was obvious he was accusing Truman of laying it and me of not picking it up. Mind you, for those that don't know, Truman is about 12 pounds and wholly incapable of a shit much larger than a cocktail wiener.

"Not mine," I told him in English while shaking my head.

Again, he said something in Korean that I didn't understand but got the gist of anyway. He was emphatically pointing at the poop, a disgusted look drawn on his face, and, for added emphasis, the characteristic Korean foot stomp. He was insisting I pick up that poop.

Well, folks, I deal with a lot of poop on a daily basis, the least of which is my own. I deal with Roman poop, Reilly poop, Truman poop. I even have to deal with Michael poop since the world revolves around the bathroom habits of my beloved. I am NOT going to be picking up the poop of some animal (or person for all I know) that I am not responsible for. I just won't. I've sunk pretty low in this motherhood thing, dealing with secretions, fluids, and waste products of every texture, smell, and color. But I will not sink so low as to pick up all the dang poop in Seoul just because I have a troublesome, long haired dachshund. I won't do it. Uh-uh. Nope.

I turned my back toward him and continued to walk away. The once jovial security guard was telling me off in Korean while kicking the big pile of poop with the tip of his shoe. I turned back and offered him the use of my bag, speaking politely in Korean. He refused and continued to kick the poop as he scowled at me. I then told him, in Korean, that there were cats in the area, too, who were also responsible for the poop lying about.

"Really?" he asked me in Korean. "Cats?" he asked in English. He didn't believe me and with the size of the poop he was kicking around, I don't blame him. If that came from a cat, it's a man eater.

I smiled, nodded, and walked up to the front door of the apartment building with the guard's eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. I reached into my pocket for the key card to open the door and found it was gone. I reached into my other pocket. Not there, either. I was without a card to get back in. My kids were in the apartment by themselves, completely unattended, and I was locked outside with a pissed off security guard watching my every move. I fought the urge to panic and set down to sobbing.

I didn't think asking him to open the door was a good idea at that point. At least, it wasn't my first choice. Besides he was busy digging a small hole in the grass and dirt with the heel of his shoe and kicking the big poop into said hole. Asking for a favor at that point would have been a bad idea. I decided to ring the bell and see if Reilly Kate remembered how to buzz people in. I'd showed her once, but we hadn't reviewed it at all. I pressed the button and waited.

Nothing. I stood there for the duration of the lovely song that plays while you wait for someone to buzz you in. Nothing. I tried again. Magically, wondrously, my clever little girl somehow remembered how to work the buzzer. The door opened before me and just as I stepped in, I looked over my shoulder to see the guard now wiping off his feet in the grass, his glare never once having left me.

When I arrived back in our apartment, there was much rejoicing. I handed out Korean coins to my well behaved children with RK getting a few extra won for pulling through for me. All was right with the world once again. I dialed up another preschool mom and made plans to meet for a fun filled St. Patty's Day at a children's museum. I made our lunches and hopped into the shower, leaving the kids to their own devices.

As I turned the shower off, Reilly Kate moved the shower curtain aside and said, "Look what Roman's got." She thrust him towards me and he pulled away, hiding something behind his back.

"No," he yelled and tore off running. "No, Mommy! No!"

I'm standing in the shower, dripping wet from head to toe, naked as the day I was born with my son running away from me, possessing something he does not want me to see. What do you suppose I did? Hell yeah, I ran after him.

"Come here, Roman. What do you have? Show Mama what you have, baby," I pleaded. He was hauling ass like a running back with the ball, dodging and weaving, and planning his next move.

"He's got a MARKER!" told my tattletale. "A black MARKER!"

Despite my flapping flesh dripping water all over the hardwood floors, I doubled my efforts to catch the bandit. Have I mentioned my entire apartment is open windows overlooking not just the Han River, but all the other apartments that also overlook the Han River? I'm quite certain about half of Seoul saw all my jiggly bits dancing and swaying. Remember fat, naked guy from Friends? Well, I'm now not so affectionately known as "Fat Naked Wife from Hyundai Hometown."

Just as I thought I had him cornered, my slippery feet skidded into the boudoir and I hit my funny bone on the vanity counter. Out came a barrage of expletives followed by a blood curdling, "ROOOOMAAAAAN!"

He sheepishly walked up, hand extended, turning over his trophy. "No, 'pank me, Mama. No, 'pank me," he said, his other hand covering his bum. (And I don't want to hear it from you nonspanking types. If you've got something to say, staple your mouth shut and talk out your nose.)

"You're not going to get spanked, Roman. But don't you run away from me like that again! And don't you go playing with markers, either." I told him and sent him to his room.

As I was walking back to the bathroom to dry off, I thanked Reilly Kate for letting me know what Roman was up to. I looked at the marker. A Sharpie. A black permanent Sharpie. The kind that never, ever wash out or even fade. As I was drying myself off, I thought of how I was going to go off on Mike for leaving it where Roman could get his grubby mitts on it. I was going to tell him how fortunate it was that the cap was still firmly on when I retrieved it and how much it would have sucked if Roman had... if he had...

And that's when I wondered why it was that Roman thought he was going to get spanked. Why would he think he was going to get spanked for just taking the marker off the computer desk? That isn't such a big violation. It wasn't as if he... Unless he... Oh, God. He didn't.

"ROMAN!!" I screamed out, running toward his room, Sharpie in one hand, towel in the other (my neighbors across the way, looking into my apartment with their binoculars, saying, "Eeew! There goes fat, naked wife running across the apartment again, still screaming. I wonder when she's going to seek professional help?"). "Roman, honey. Tell Mama. Did you use this marker? Tell Mommy the truth, baby. I won't spank you. Just tell me the truth."

"Uh-huh."

If you've ever watched King of the Hill, you probably remember a character named Boomhauer. I've only seen the show a handful of times, but Boomhauer sticks out because when he talks, you can only catch a handful of words. The rest just sounds like hillbilly jibberish. Well, that is how Roman talks when he tells stories. You get a few coherent words, just enough to know the gist of what he is trying to say. And so it was that morning, as he proudly told me of his artistic accomplishments with a simple black Sharpie.

"Eyes gabble bah burble dooo by ummm Mama Daddy's mmmmm 'puter. Got ummmm gurble meeee whoooo back marker. Tutu noooooooo! Me gurble back marker. Me draw. Tutu noooo! Purdle me hoo for Tutu Mama shawah. Hmmm brrr two go! No catch me. No catch me." He paused for a second, a huge smile painted upon his lips, and said, "Mama no 'pank me!" And then he cackled like a hyena on acid.

"So you did use the marker? Where? Show me, Roman."

"Come, Mama. Come. Come," and he grabbed my hand, dragging me back into the living room. "Here!" he exclaimed, sweeping his arm out as if escorting me into the grand entrance of his very own gallery. I followed his arm down to his finger, and past, to the goal of his gaze.

It was. My. White. Couch.

I sent Roman into his room for a time out which basically is the equivalent of sending a junkie into a crack house. That's where 90% of his toys are located. What punishment is that, really. I sent Reilly Kate in there, too. For good measure. Plus, I figured, if she was in there, he'd only be allowed to play with half the toys. That's a punishment of sorts. I bellowed my frustration and general pissed-off-edness, but it was merely for my own edification as I was the only one listening. Then I sat down to salvage my couch.

Just to save you the time, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, no amount of Oxyclean will take out black Sharpie from a white couch. I don't think anything can take out black sharpie. Someone suggested I put a frame around it. I might. It ain't going anywhere so I might as well make the most of it.

While we're on the subject of helpful hints from Heather, let me tell you, that black Sharpie does come off of hardwood floors with Magic Eraser. And it comes off quite easily. I don't know who that Mr. Clean dude is, or if slobby, fat housewives are his thing, but if I ever met him, I'd offer myself up in gratitude. His eraser has pulled my fat from the fire many a time. Mike's in total agreement. We owe that guy. Big. If you don't have any Magic Erasers in your house right this very minute, run, do not walk, to the nearest drugstore and pick yourself up some. They truly are magic.

After the screaming and yelling, scrubbing, rubbing, and crying (all done by yours truly whilst the kiddos frolicked happily, tossing about toys and tearing into their bookshelves), we all got dressed and left the house. We were only about 40 minutes late. Only.

Once we got into the taxi and were on our way, I let out a deep sigh, looked over my beautiful children and in a moment of happiness and contentment squeezed them both tight. "Mommy's had a rough morning, huh?" I said.

"Yeah. Maybe you shouldn't yell so much," suggested the elder with a smile.

Ah, yes. That must be the problem.

To be continued.... (even I need to take a break here)

I'm Not Like Other Moms

I'm not like other moms. This point hits home especially when my daughter points it out by mimicking me. I heard her singing this song the other day. It is my night time song, sung whilst putting on jammies. Of course, we pick out jammies to It's Jammertime (thank you MC Hammer). But then, I quickly change to this:

(sung to tune of that pleasant Christmas carol, It's the Most Wonderful time of The Year)

It's the most wonderful time of the day
When children are sleeping
and mommies are drinking their cares all away
It's the most wonderful time
Yes, the most wonderful time
It's the most wonderful time.... OF THE DAY!!!

And really, it is. My children are sleeping angelically and it is not quite 7 o'clock. Almin is on her way over. It is St. Patrick's Day. And it has been filled with really bad luck (stay tuned for a killer long blog entry on that coming up... perhaps tomorrow, depending on the severity of the post St. Patrick's Day hangover). Irish eyes ain't smiling. The luck of the Irish ain't visiting our crib. And, well, I'm outta here for three Guinness filled hours.

Happy St. Paddy's Day, folks.

Slice of Seoul

These are the rules for our apartment building. I hope we're following them.




The good news is that I've scoured the house and I'm fairly confident we don't even own an electronic gramophone.

Yes, We're Lepers

I believe in karma. Oh, I so believe in karma. If you don't know, according to Lama Surya Das over at Beliefnet (to which, if you don't mind, I'm gonna pause for a moment to give a shout out to mah boyz over at Beliefnet, "Rock on, Lenten fasters! Whoop! Whoop! You dawgz!") "karma is an ancient Sanskrit word that means causation, cause and effect, conditioning, or action and reaction."

In Heather words, karma is gonna come bite you in your ass for being a dumb ass bitch. I should know. I've been bit so many damn times, I ain't got an ass. Seriously. I have no ass. Why else would have I bought those over priced True Religion jeans? You ever priced those things? Way too much money. But they give the illusion of an ass and so I spend. Making me an ass. In more ways than one. If only karma could bite me on my big, old, post partum jiggle belly. I would be taut and tight and bikini ready without the aid of a surgeon. Ah, but then it wouldn't be karma then, would it?

Anyway, I know all about karma because I've spent a good portion of my life, both child- and adulthood being a dumb ass bitch. I've taken the bigger slice of pie and left the empty ice cube tray in the freezer. I've opened my mouth and allowed venom to spew forth, sometimes even when uncalled for. I once even blew off a friend who sat rotting in a Korean jail for almost a year (a long story for another day). But I have never, ever intentionally excluded a child or made another child feel bad about themselves -- even when I was a child myself. In my book, if you do that, you are lower than dog shit. And I love to see that karma come stick up the joint.

A few weeks ago, Reilly Kate was sick with a stomach virus. I mean SICK. That poor child spent three full days laying in bed, not eating, hardly drinking, and talking in a barely audible whisper. By her fourth day, she was ready to leave the house if just to get some fresh air. She was so weak that she couldn't even walk. I was really against her going out, but she insisted. She just wanted to get out of the house. I put her in the stroller and we all went out to meet my brother Darrell for lunch. After lunch Darrell joined me and the kids for a quick trip to the commissary to pick up some Reilly Kate friendly sick foods (read: Jello and bananas).

As Darrell and I debated the convenience of ready made jello versus the economy of the powdered make your own kind, Reilly Kate perked up and squeaked, "Mommy! There is one of my friends from school!"

Before I go any further, allow me to explain something (this may be one of my self diagnosed ADD flare ups again, but I swear, it is pertinent to the story). The last couple of months have been rough on old RK. She had a lot of trouble fitting into her new school. It was an entirely new experience, with new faces, in a new country. Plus, all the kids had their cliques already established as she joined in the middle of the school year. We went through day after day of crying and fits starting when she woke up in the morning and culminating in all out screaming when I'd drop her off at school in the afternoon (school starts at 12:15pm). We had just finally gotten her comfortable with the teachers and the kids when she got sick. So for me to hear her perk up at the sight of a child from school not only assured me that she was indeed starting to recuperate, but made my heart sing that she actually had a FRIEND!

I turned to look where Reilly Kate was pointing and running towards us was a sweet faced, blonde little beauty in smart Gymboree-like fashions. Following closely behind was a smaller version of said friend (presumably a sibling), also smartly dressed and tressed. Reilly Kate sat up and leaned forward just as the little girls roared up to the stroller. In an instant, my mommy brain shifted from rejoicing over new found friend to warning mode: New found friendship will cause spread of severe stomach virus. Must stop spread of virus. Must run interference. Friendship must be saved from stomach plague.

I reached my hand out to stop the children from making physical contact and said, calmly, "Reilly Kate hasn't been feeling well so let's give her some space. That way you don't get her germs and she doesn't get yours. Okay?"

I thought I'd handled that well. The kids were about three feet apart. They could still talk and see each other and be friends without cross contamination. I was just about to pat myself on the back for being so considerate and quick thinking when up stormed the girls' mother. She shall remain nameless, not for her protection, but because I haven't a clue what her name is nor do I really give a good god damn. I will, however, change the girls' names. Karma. I'm trying to avoid any more ass bites.

"Daisy! Daffodil! Get over here by me. Do not go near her. She's sick! Her mother just said she's sick," said the pinchy faced matron as she gathered her children near her. You'd think I just said that we were radio active and expecting to blow up at any moment. Really. She herded them right out of the aisle, leaving me, Darrell, Reilly Kate and both her girls just stunned. Reilly Kate and the girls looked at one another as they were carted off to the safety of the canned vegetables and imported foods aisle.

I felt bad. For a moment, I considered that perhaps I shouldn't have said anything. I shrugged it off and leaned down and explained to Reilly Kate that she would soon be well enough to go to school and Daisy and she would be able to catch up then. Reilly Kate looked a bit deflated and slumped back in her stroller, but no worse for it. And off we went to continue our shopping.

A few minutes and two aisles later, I saw them coming up the opposite side of the same aisle. The mom hesitated when she saw us, but was too far into the aisle to double back. She was committed to the cereal and snacks. Reilly Kate saw them, too.

"Daisy! Hi Daisy! Hi!" She was all sitting up and happy faced again.

As our two groups neared each other, I saw the mom pull the cart all the way over to the other side, giving us wide berth as we passed. But that's not all. She also sped up. To a run. Really. No kidding. A run.

"Come on, girls. Let's go by fast. Run with me. Stay over on this side. Run. Run. Come on, girls," she said as they blurred on passed us.

Reilly Kate called after them, "Daisy! It's me! Reilly Kate! Daisy! Hi!" Then her voice just drifted, "I'm still your friend..." and she looked at me and asked, "Why'd they run away?"

I felt like crying. I explained it the best I could to the poor babe, but I know it didn't cool the sting. Four year olds don't understand contagions. They do understand being shafted, though. So I smartly added, "Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with your being sick. Maybe Daisy's mom just likes to play running games in the store."

The very next encounter would prove that theory all wrong. Even to a four year old.

We were half way down the bread aisle when the Daisy gang just started to pull in. The mom took one look at us, skewed her already pinched up face, and jerked the cart back out of the aisle. "Come on," she said. "We'll go down this way." The girls followed while looking over at us.

Reilly Kate just tilted her head up this time. "Daisy? See you at school. I'll see you at school, Daisy." I didn't say a word. I patted her on the head and gave her arm a squeeze.

Honestly, I was pissed. Really fucking pissed. Who the hell treats a kid like a fucking leper? In front of OTHER kids? Oh, and have I mentioned Reilly Kate's is a Christian preschool? A place where Christian parents can send their children to learn Christian values? What brand of Christianity did that bitch think she was practicing? I can tell you that my sick little girl was just plain hurt by the callous actions of one self righteous adult doo doo head. I regret ever having said a word. I should have just let the germs fly. Honestly, I will think twice about it next time. For sure.

But as I said, I believe in karma. And today was Karma Day at the old Mustard Seed Preschool.

We walked in a few minutes late for class so Reilly Kate and I were the only ones in the hallway. As I was bent down, taking off her coat, she said, "Hey Mom! Look! It's Daisy! Hi Daisy!"

The little girl walked up to us, right up to us, mind you and said, "I'm sick today."

Out of nowhere sprung the matron. "Oh, Daisy. You don't have to... uhhh..." A look of recognition and embarrassment swept over her pinchy, pained face. "Hi," she mumbled. "Let's go now, Daisy," and she grabbed the little girl's hand.

As I stood up, I came face to face with not one, not two, but many, many countless flyers plastered all over the classroom door, the walls, the bulletin boards, everywhere. I hadn't noticed them before. But they were big and bright and pink and beautiful. They read:

A child from our school has been diagnosed with conjunctivitis.

It then went on to talk about how highly contagious it is and how to stop the spread, etc, etc. I talked to Reilly Kate in a slightly louder than necessary voice about the importance of not touching one's eyes and washing one's hands. I just wanted the mother to know I knew, ya know? It was a nice big bite, I have to say. And I enjoyed it. Immensely.

Now, all that enjoyment from the pain of others is no good for my karma. And then I went and blogged the whole thing. Didn't play the good Christian and turn the other cheek. I didn't pray for her. Or her sick daughter. I should have. Maybe I still will. But the damage is done. The bad karma is out there. I'm fairly certain we'll be visited by the Pink Eye Fairy this week.

So much for being able to see my blog.

You Can Stop Squinting

Ah, yes. So much better. Why didn't any of you tell me that the black background sucked? I had no idea. Not until we bought a new and improved, high speed, flat screen monitor. I don't know what started it, but Mike got a bug up his arse about our two year old (and perfectly functional) computer and had to shop around till he shat the bug out and came home with boxes of high tech goodies. Now we've got a new monitor and new computer and a whole new set of problems. Not the least of which was the fact I couldn't read my own damn blog! Why? Why can't we just leave well enough alone and use the damn computer we have? Why an upgrade? Why? Hell, if it were up to me I'd have my old Olivetti electronic typewriter hooked up the internet with a corded phone and acoustic coupler. Remember when Matthew Broderick was the coolest cat you ever saw with all his techie geekware in War Games? I loved that movie.

So anyway, we got this new monitor like a week ago. Immediately, I saw something wrong. Actually, I couldn't see and that is what was wrong. I mean, one day things are fine and dandy, hunky dory. La la la la la. The next, blurry blog. I really thought that something had happened to my eye sight. Just like that. Cataracts or something. After all, I am getting older. I'm almost certain I'm going through menopause already so it is quite possible I have cataracts, too. I googled and, in addition to the possibility of cataracts, it could also be severe glaucoma. Huh. I could start smoking pot again! But I didn't have the pain they described. I do however, have a lingering sore throat. I added that to my google search. Up popped an eclectic array of ailments, stroke being one. Well, I have been putting on the pounds as of late. So I added that to my google search. By this time, all that was coming up were descriptions of side effects of some crazy ass drugs. Unless somebody is slipping me some of that HIV drug cocktail in my Diet Coke, it is doubtful I'm suffering from Rx side effects.

Tonight, I decided to change the blog background and see if that helped. Mike saw me working and asked what I was doing. When I told him, he said, "Oh, good. That black sucked. I could hardly read it with our new monitor."

Argh! The damn new monitor! I wanted to pick up the old, 30 pound monitor and throw it at him, but I thought I might stress my back out or something. I'm getting up there in years and need to take certain precautions. But if I had hurt myself, it would have been the fault of this stupid ass new computer and the accompanying inch and a half thick, feather weight monitor. Now I'm stuck with the granny panties of blogs -- plain old white. Blech. At least I can read it again. I hope you can, too.

And now, I'm off to go google ADD (attention deficit disorder) as I am convinced I must suffer from a severe form of it. It's either that or I'm deathly allergic to finishing things.

The Mammies

Ugh. All this hoopla over the Oscars.

"Can you believe that Crash pulled off one of the biggest upsets in Oscar history?"

"Was Reese Witherspoon's performance really worthy of an Oscar?"

"Do you think that Hollywood is out of touch with America?"

Oh, for the love of Peet! Who cares? Crash didn't pull off anything. A bunch of squirrelly, overbaked products of plastic surgeons watched several movies that no one else in America did and voted on which they liked best. This isn't carpool, people. Nobody's kid is hanging in the balance between after school schedules and carseat installation. It's just movies! The land of make believe!

Reese Witherspoon's performance? She's pretending to be someone she isn't! And she's getting paid handsomely for it. For her next project, she will be rewarded with $30 million. And what, you may ask, is she pretending to be this next time around? A mother wrestling a demon possessed child. Hells bells. How many of us don't even have to pretend that one? I do that every damn day for real and ain't nobody paying me. I'd be happy if someone bought me a latte and bummed me a smoke.

Of course, Hollywood is out of touch with America. Just look at the whole industry. We take people, beautiful people, and then make them even more beautiful with well groomed doctors and lasers, fancy lighting and digital enhancements. We give them crazy amounts of money so they're able to lead grandiose lifestyles we can covet through the tabloids. And all they have to do it entertain us.

Sure, they entertain us. We get mindless fun on the big screen. Big fancy effects. Lots of action. Little plot. Don't want to think too hard, now do we? They give it to us and charge us mightily for it. And then these same people delve into what they like to call "independent films." These are films that no one really watches except themselves. Then to celebrate how wonderful they are, how well they did their jobs, how well they pretended to be just another bloke, they throw themselves a big ass party complete with gilded awards and designer dresses. Oh, and what would be a party without a bag of party favors... to the tune of 100 grand a pop!

Blech. My four year old spends her days pretending to be a doctor or a dolphin trainer or a homeless cat lady (don't ask) and she is pretty convincing. This isn't a skill deserving of that much glory, if you ask me. But to get all gussied up and then pat each other on the back for not just being great make believers, but for their ever expanding intellect and sheer brilliance. Blech.

This is what I propose. I propose a motherhood awards. We'll call it "The Mammies." The award itself will be a gilded June Cleaver, complete with pearls and drink tray. Oh, think of it, will you? We can get those big name designers to make us all dresses and then give them to us for free. I'll be contacting Nigo to make me a purple camo hoodie number with BAPE across the front done all in crystals. Yes, yes! A red carpet with loads of paparazzi because everyone will want to know just who the best moms in the country are and what we are wearing and what kind of eye candy we are sporting on our fingers... and arms!

The whole thing will be the way it really should be. That bitch Joan Rivers will have to say nice things or get her damn mouth spanked and go straight home -- no after parties, Missy! Autographs will be granted, but must be shared. Sharing is nice. We share with our friends. There will be mandatory potty breaks so no one is caught in the loo when their big moment arrives. Oh, and little snack tables set up along the red carpet route so we can munch our way in. Everyone knows it's all about the food we didn't have to cook.

People will say things like, "Darling, you look simply amazing. You must have put on 20 lbs! It looks so good on you. Tell me your secret!"

"Well, I am 8 weeks pregnant and the only thing I can hold down are Cheezits and fruity snacks! It just packs those pounds right on" [giggle giggle laugh laugh kiss kiss] "And congratulations on your nomination for Best Pronunciation of a Tongue Twister. I have to tell you that the way you read Fox in Sox... it's just gripping. It... it... moves me."

"Awww... thank you. But you know, it is you that I admire. That line you gave from Snuffy the Goldfish's eulogy..."

"...'Better a flush than a fish stick'?"

"Yes! Yes! That's the one! 'Better a flush than a fish stick!' I was laughing through my tears. What a great send off it was. Then when you closed the lid for the final time and gave old Snuffy a salute... well... that just got me right here."

"Thank you. Oh! Look! Here comes Amy! I really hope she gets the Mammie for Cleanest Floor in a Large Dog Household. She so deserves it. With two Dobermans! And three kids? Ah. I so respect her work."

"Ahhh... yes. Me, too. And she makes a yummy mini bundt cake with peppermint glaze."

And it would go on like that. A total celebration of motherhood. Of us. Patting each other on the back. Telling us that we did good. That we are better than the rest of America. Those unmothers. The common folk, childless ones. Are we out of touch with them? We were the ones that birthed them. We came first. Before George Clooney was born, he was an embryo. And before that he was nothin' but an ovum. We were talking about chicken pox when he was just babbling. Civil rights? We were the ones who told him to be nice to everyone, no matter what they looked like. And before his beloved Academy gave Hattie McDaniel an Oscar, she was a Mammy.

Ech. Hollywood. In the words of Mike's long parted Uncle Jerry, "What do they do for humanity?"

**note: above question must be asked with a heavy Ukrainian accent and a violent swing of the right arm to get the full effect -- best to practice in a mirror.

I'm Going Bape

Last week I was reading another mom's blog and she was lamenting her lost hipness. She said before she had a baby she knew the trendiest places to see and be seen and all that jazz (if jazz is even hip, I don't know). It made my day. There was something positive to being a total geek.

You see, I've never been hip. I've never been cool. I've never been part of a trend until it was no longer trendy. I thought mullets were cool... in the '90s! That is how uncool I am. I really hardly had any friends in junior high or high school and those friends I did have, well, they too weren't cool. I had a cool boyfriend who had cool friends, but they all knew I wasn't cool. I was hot. That's the only reason I had a cool boyfriend.

But anyway, having children didn't take away my hip factor. And for that I can rejoice. Much like I cannot miss having a flat stomach or perky breasts because I didn't have them before kids, I don't miss being an IT girl, either. Sure there are plenty of things that having kids has stripped me of (a waist for starters, the ability to think clearly and finish sentences, privacy while defecating, things like that), but trendsetting is not one of them.

It would seem that Mike, too, is not a hip, trendy kind of guy. In fact, he actually sported the mullet I thought was so cool in the '90s. Yep. Permed. A permed mullet. And we really thought he was too cool for school. Oh, don't tell him this, though. He really does think he's cool and hip. He knows the names of all the current top 40s bands and he still professes a deep love for U2 (are they still cutting edge? I don't even know). It'll burst his bubble to know that he is just as uncool as I am.

But! I have PROOF!

You see, a few posts down from here was a quote Mike had seen on a tshirt worn by a woman on the subway. It said, "Bathing Ape said, "Go Bape." Oh, he laughed and laughed and laughed at that one. As did I. Here we thought those silly Koreans putting silly English sayings on their shirts (which in our defense, they really do do that). Yes, we laughed ourselves delirious for at least a week or more over that. I think I even lost a little bladder control once during an ongoing giggle giggle snort fest. We even would say goodbye on the phone to one another with, "Go Babe!" Oh, we just thought we were high comedians.

Until I stumbled upon this article all about the mega trend out of Japan -- Going Bape. It seems that Nigo is the Japanese mastermind behind Bape, which is actually pronounced BAY-PEE. Huh. Who'd a thunk. This Nigo fellow is like a Japanese Tommy Hilfiger, but much more underground. If I am correct, underground is like uber trendy -- as in so trendy only the trendiest of trendsetters know it's trendy and the rest of us pukes can just wear Kathy Lee Gifford or some such shite. And once the common pukes know about that which is underground, it is no longer underground and cool so the cool people don't wear it.

The genius that is Nigo is that he has kept his Bape underground for like ten years. Yep. That's some kind of hip hipster underground uber cool record. Get this. He kept the clothes a secret by hiding, yes, HIDING, his store! And the few that were cool enough to find his store were only allowed to purchase ONE monkey wear item. And it had to be in a size deemed appropriate by the store. Sounds like one hell of a marketing approach,there, Nigo. Even crazier than his marketing scheme, however, is the fact that it worked!

Oh, yes, yes, my fellow geeksters. Bape works. And has made our hero Nigo rich rich rich. Do an eBay search... No, wait. I'll do it for you. Here. Now, look at all Bape stuff and how much it is going for. Take a look at that purple hoodie monstrosity! 2,100 bucks for an ugly ass purple camouflage hoodie with a teeny weeny tag of a freakin' ape head? I swear, I should start selling stained Chinese prefolds stitched together to make long bohemian flowing skirts... for men! Slap an ape head on the ass and call it Bape! I too could be rich rich rich!

I don't know. Maybe I'm too old for this. I know I've never been cool enough to actually be trendy. But at one time, I wanted to be trendy and hip. Now I just find it kind of buffoonish. Really. I mean, I actually like Target. I think Isaac Mizrahi is a fashion king. Good looking clothes for under 20 bucks? Fucking brilliant! I don't need to be spending huge sums of my husband's hard earned money on stupid monkey gear. Okay. So I do own and love True Religion jeans. I'm quite sure just by my owning them, they are no longer cool and hip and trendy. Ah, but they do make my ass look... well... quite... ummm... fuckable. Yes. And for that, I will pay any price. Afterall, motherhood caused my ass to droop. I swear, it did.

Hmmmm...

I just went back and looked at that hoodie. You think that it might perk my boobs up a bit? I was just looking at that crazy pattern and thinking that it might make my boobs look lifted and maybe separated. Like a boob job in a hoodie. I'm going to watch that auction. Just to see. I'm not really going to go Bape. I'm just thinking. Really. I am.

A Strep Back

We made it back. And, not surprising to many of you, it was a much better time than I predicted. Although, my pessimism again saves me from disappointment. The other mothers on the trip seemed much more frustrated and unhappy than I. I came out the most on top of them all.

They even got Reilly Kate in on the gig. They just couldn't resist, I guess. And, I have to hand it to that strong willed girl, she did exactly what they asked, when they asked. Of course she did. It involved payment, cash payment. That little Republican just kept her eyes on the prize. Money money money. I thank God I seemed to have rubbed off on her somewhat. I told her that she and her brother could each take a small amount (ten dollars) to the toy store on base and buy themselves a toy. After the initial excitement of getting a new toy waned, she very seriously asked if then she could take the rest and donate it to the boy she saw in the National Geographic magazine (Dec. 05 pg. 16). A money grubber with a heart. Is that a Libertarian? Anyway, we're looking into one of those sponsor a child programs so she can see something tangible for her money. I think it would have a greater impact and meaning. I'm just so weepy and mushy... and fucking turned on! I just love giving and charity and was a bit worried about my eldest's love of the green stuff in her own wallet.

So back to the trip. Roman did well, too. He didn't break a thing. But he almost sent a high priced fancy Korean cell phone (complete with television and internet) into the pool for a swim. I don't know who the genius was that decided it would be a good idea to give the two year old the phone near the pool, but they did have the forethought to secure it around his wrist, at least. He tried to throw it (have I mentioned the kid's got an arm?), but it was hooked. He then took it off, me screaming at them to stop him from across the pool and being ignored. Finally, someone caught him right before that baby was going to sail into the drink. That would have probably cost just as much as a fancy lamp and camera with a big lens combined.

But Roman loved it. All those Korean ladies doting on him. He was surrounded by beautiful Korean woman, primping and preening him. His any wish came true, if at all possible. Candy, gum, games, piggy backs. You name it. Oh, and you should have heard the grown woman squeals emitting from them every time he did anything. He'd take off his diaper and grab is baby schwanz and they'd squeal with delight. He'd throw the candy at them and they'd dive for it like a drunk dives for beads at Mardi Gras. Not even his stinky Roman poop could chase those girls away. Like any man in this situation would, he believes he is the king. Mike says he has been struck with the Asian fever, and I think he might be right. If he can find a big breasted Korean woman, she will be my daughter in law.

There was a downside, a major, major downside to the whole trip. I got sick. Now, if you know me, you know I do not get sick often and when I do, my recovery is quick. This time, though, I thought I might die. It started as a small scratchy throat followed by the chills but no real fever. By noon on Thursday I was in full blown hell, unable to eat, unable to sleep, just moaning and groaning in between sessions. I could hardly even drink water. By Friday morning, I was in tears. Janice, the international modeling agent's assistant, wanted to take me to the hospital, but I just couldn't bear the thought of it. Koreans like to admit people to the hospital for not much reason at all. What would I do with my kids? No, I insisted we wait till we got back to Seoul. So while I went to almost all the kids' photo shoots, I couldn't carry them and could hardly muster a smile.

This morning I went to the ER here at 121 and was diagnosed with dehydration and the dreaded strep. The doctor was a little shocked I wasn't having any trouble breathing as he said it looked like my throat was swollen shut. The nurse came in and lectured me about the dangers of letting strep go and how it can turn into rheumatic fever and blah blah blah. Then I was hooked up to an IV for two hours, given a shot of steroids (look out Arnold! Maybe I come and run for guv-nuh!), a giant bottle of antibiotics, some tylenol, and chloroseptic spray. I'm on the mend now. I feel much better. I can actually eat soft, bland foods and small sips of water now. Such progress in just a day.

So all and all, the adventure wasn't that bad. Strep and all. If I hadn't had to fight the urge to throw myself off a cliff and end my pain and suffering each time I ventured out of the hotel, I would have had a really good time. See? Pessimism does pay off. So screw you doubters.

And now, for your viewing pleasure, I give you a sneak peak at the Korean summer catalog of Tartine et Chocolat. Remember, to see a larger size of the image, just click on it.




Reilly Kate hamming it with a traditional Cheju statue in the Hyatt Hotel (a very nice posh place if you are even in the area)





A picture of the boy being doted on by his many fans. If you can even see him, he's the white kid in the middle.




RK modeling her first outfit. This is the infants and toddlers catalog. The biggest clothing hardly fit Roman and they had RK modeling 12-18 mos sized clothes. So she did just chest up shots. But she's small enough to fit in them. This outfit even had shorts that fit her but they decided to stick with the top up.




More doting for Roman. They are covering him with their coats. It was cold, probably about 40 degrees or so (they use that blasted Celsius shit that means absolutely NOTHING!! What is wrong with everyone? Can't they just do things MY way?), but the sun was warm. And the kids were wearing summer clothes. So while the shot was set up, the Korean women would run over and wrap their coats around the kids. I'm sure Roman was thoroughly enjoying himself.




RK got her share of doting as well. During this shot, it was damn fucking cold, but the sun was so bright the poor white girl couldn't open her eyes (I've said it once, I'll say it again, those Spiwaks are VAMPIRES!!). The shoot didn't last long, though, thankfully. But it did attract Korean tourists. I turned around, after we wrapped, and there was a crowd of about 15 or so tourists all taking their own pictures. I don't know what they thought was going on, but it seemed to make their whole trip to Cheju worthwhile. Ah, yes, our work there is done.




This is the best picture of all. We were on the bus headed back to the airport. I was so close to death (or at least wishing that I was) that my kids were being watched by the other moms and Janice. I woke up to peek my head around to see what my kids were up to and I noticed a police car with its lights on tailing right behind us. I looked for a moment, we made a turn, I looked again, it was still there. So I mentioned to the mom in the picture that I thought we were being pulled over. She looked back and agreed. Then I looked closer. They were waiving. Waiving at whom, you ask. My son. He was standing in the back of the bus (do NOT talk to me about carseat safety while I live in this country because if you do, I'll bitch slap you and call you stupid) hamming it up for the cops. They were having a big old blast in their cruiser. As I said, our work there is done.

That's all for now. I'm off to take my meds and get my tired old ass in bed.

And He Shakes His Little Tush on the Catwalk

I have to confess. The Burger King incident wasn't the end of the story. But I was trying to show you all how similar my life is here and the more I wrote, well, the more it became clear that it is not. The reality is my life only appears on the surface to the be same. It's like living in a parallel universe. Things really are a bit whack around here.

A few days after the Burger King incident, I was shopping in the PX with Roman while Reilly Kate was at school. We were wandering the aisles like any toddler and fat mama would be: munching on chocolate covered Oreos, leaving a trail of crumbs and smears in our wake. I stopped to look at hemorrhoid creams (hey, I heard they reduce the appearance of wrinkles under the eyes!) and who comes charging up to me? Sue. Ajuma the Second.

"Hello," she said, card in hand. "I am international modeling agent."

"Yes, I know," I mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate ecstasy. "We met at Burger King the other day. You called to have my daughter, Reilly Kate, do some work but she had school that day."

"Oh, yes," she almost whimpered. "Her school." I thought about offering her a cookie to lighten her mood, but seeing as she was about a size O in a pair of very low cut, trendy jeans, I thought better of it. In fact, suddenly I became very self conscious about the cookie crumbs that had collected on the shelf my enormous mammaries create. I brushed vigorously at my boobs, dumping the pile of Oreo crumbs on the clean, white tile floor.

"I didn't know you had another daughter. How many babies do you have?" she asked, her eyes never really leaving Roman who danced around with his cookies, one in each chocolatey hand, and growled at her.

"Just two. One girl. And one boy," I motioned toward the growling beast.

"Him? Oh, him. Him's so... so... pretty boy," she bent down to his level as she spoke. "You pretty boy," she said and proceeded to say something about how pretty he was to him in Korean. Koreans always speak Korean to children, regardless of whether they understand or not. I've noticed I speak English to Korean children, too, so I guess it is universal. It's kind of logical, too. Children really don't listen or even care what adults are saying. It's all just mumbo jumbo to disregard unless key words like "ice cream," "McDonalds," "Disney," or "Toys R Us" pop up on their radar. So, hey, Korean, English, it don't make a bit of difference. And Sue didn't say any of the key words. She just yammered away at how pretty Roman was.

She quickly reached into her bag to retrieve her camera and started snapping away. As she talked and cooed to him, Roman shoved both hands into his mouth to deposit the remainder of his Oreos. Sue was trying to get him to pose for the pictures, but he would have none of it. He then did what any self respecting boy of two with dangerous, chocolate covered hands would do. He puts them up like claws, growled again, and came at her, I'm sure with intent to share his chocolate with her pretty blouse. She jumped back and returned to the safety of her conversation with me.

"Gorgeous. All your baby gorgeous. Wow. So pretty," she said, with just a sniff of surprise. I think it was the little sniff that set me off. Maybe that combined with feeling old, fat, and frumpy in a big bulky sweater with cookie crumbs all over me while talking to an hipper, thinner, more glamorous "international modeling agent."

"Yes. Of course they are. Look at their mama," I said.

There are times, many times in the course of my life, that I do inexplicable things at bizarre moments. Things I don't intend to do. Things that don't even make sense at the time. Things done on a level of idiocy few have ever visited. This, my friends, would be one of those things. As I type this, my head is still shaking at my dorkdom. I stood there in my frumpy mom sweater, wearing baggy mom jeans, in the middle of the hemorrhoid section of the PX, and... I started... to... vogue. No kidding. Stop laughing. It's true. I was hamming it up for Sue's camera like she was paparazza and I was Tara Reid. Thank God I stopped before I let one of my saggy tits drop out of my shirt.

"I take Mama picture, too!" she snickered. "Yes, yes. Mama very pretty, too," she laughed. She did, too. She took pictures. Out of pity, I'm sure. The whole thing was rather ridiculous and that dawned on me a millisecond after she started actually taking the pictures.

I sobered up and stood still and said, "I can't model. My nose is crooked." As if that was the clincher there. With that, I gathered up my still growling cookie monster and moseyed on down the aisle. Just as I turned to go up the candy aisle (because I was in dire need of some sugar salve to soothe my raging dork infection), I looked back at Sue who was smiling broadly.

"I call you! I call you, gorgeous Mama!" she yelled after me.

I smiled weakly and haven't heard from her since.

But that isn't the end of my Korean modeling adventure. No, no my dear readers. That, it seems, is merely the beginning. It promises to get even more bizarre.

This past Tuesday the kids and I were having lunch at the little Mexican restaurant on base. They have a lunch buffet and you know the passion I have for lunch buffets is only matched by my love for tweezers, underwire, and stain stick. As I forked deeply into an enormous plate of taco salad, yet another Ajuma approached me. This one was even prettier, more fashionable, thinner, and had even better hair than Sue. Plus, she was wealthier. I know. I saw her rock from across the room -- 2.5+ carats in a yellow gold high cathedral setting, not that I was looking that hard or anything.

"Hi. My name is Gina. I'm an..."

I interrupted her before she had the chance to finish. "...an international modeling agent." She nodded and handed me her card.

"Did I meet you before?" she asked looking back and forth between Roman, who was jumping up and down on his chair like an angry monkey, and me.

I looked down at her card and realized that while I hadn't met her before, I did know who she was. A friend of mine had recommended that I call her if I was really interested in getting the kids modeling. I told him about the Burger King incident shortly after it had happened because his daughter does a lot of modeling. He gave me her card and told me that she was the most honest agent he'd come across.

"No. No we haven't met," I told her, "but I think we have a mutual acquaintance." I shouldn't have used such big words as "mutual" and "acquaintance." It threw her completely off her game. She stared at me blankly, cocking her head to once side and making a slurping noise that Koreans often do when confused or unsure of what to say.

"Ron B***," (name abbreviated to protect the innocent) I said.

"Ron B***?" she asked, followed by another slurping sound.

"Yes. Ron B*** is a friend of mine. He said he knows you quite well and told me I should call you if I was interested in getting my kids to model," I explained.

"Ron B***?" again she cocked her head as if the name were in her head somewhere and if she just tilted it enough, the name would fall right into place on her tongue.

"Yes, Ron B***." I enunciated as clearly as I could, but really, the name is not that hard. It is a one syllable first name and a one syllable last name with sounds all easily made by native Korean speakers.

"Ron B***," she looked up at the heavens while saying the name to herself. "Ron B***... Ron..." and then it hit her. I think I actually saw a light come down from the ceiling and strike her square in the forehead. "Oh, Ron B***! Yes, yes! Ron B***! Yes, I know Ron B***." The stress she put on the name indicated that for whatever reason she just couldn't understand what I was saying. Perhaps the reason was the mouthful of refried beans I had wedged in with my tongue and teeth. That may just have afflicted my ability to speak clearly. But hells bells. I was eating, right? Can't waste time on silly talk while there's a buffet to be had!

She goes on to explain that she has a big client doing some big time catalog and they are shooting the pictures down in Cheju Do.
Would I be interested in Roman modeling for the catalog. Sure, I can bring along Reilly Kate. Yes, the company will pay for all of our airfare and hotel. Yes, he would get paid.

"Are you interesting in that one?" she asked.

I am not a good decision maker. I always seem to make the wrong choice. I can't do off the cuff serious talk. I can do improv. I can do funny. I can make people piss themselves in a split second. My brain moves like lightening in that capacity. But when asked to make some serious decision in an instant, I lock up like an engine low on oil in a dust storm. When she asked me if I was "interesting" in Roman doing this gig, my brain was not with her. Instead I was thinking, "It is 'interested!' 'Interested.' E-D. You can't do 'ing.' Did she say, 'Cheju?' They'd fly us to 'Cheju?' 'Interesting' is a different word with a different meaning. InterestED. Cheju, huh. Never been to Cheju. Could be fun. Could be interestING! See? There's an example of the proper use of the word. E-D, babe. E-D!"

What came out of my mouth, though was, "Sure! We're interesting!"

I gave her my number and our names and all that and she said she'd call me later. As she turned to leave, she reached out and tossled Monkey Boy's hair.

"So cute. Pretty blue eyes like Mama," she said.

Roman responded with a screech so loud it would have made a Howler Monkey blush. Really.

After she had left (and not left the restaurant, mind you, just left to go sit down at her own table not five feet from ours), I got so stressed about the whole ordeal that I ate three more plates of lukewarm, mediocre, Mexican lunch buffet. Have you read recently that my pants don't fit?

A few hours later, I got a phone call from Gina's assistant, Janice. She wanted to know at what time tomorrow could I meet them at Starbucks.

"The photographer is looking at four other babies to decide which is best for pictures," she explained. "Can you be there at 3 o'clock?"

"No, Roman gets out of school at 3 o'clock. It'll have to be a little later than that. It takes me about ten minutes to drive from..."

"Great. See you at 3:10!" and she hung up.

I stared at the phone and thought, "Misery loves company and there is safety in numbers."

Immediately my downstairs neighbor Jen sprang to mind. She's got three absolutely to die for gorgeous girls (the two year old with ringlets of gold you'd think were spun on a loom in heaven!). Plus, she's bubbly and friendly with a positive outlook. A great antidote to my caustic, pessimistic, abrasive self. I sent off an email asking her to meet me at Starbucks.

The next afternoon, as I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot, my phone rang. It was Janice.

"It is 3:10! Where are you? You said you can meet me at 3:10!" She sounded exceedingly panicked so I looked at my clock. It was exactly, EXACTLY 3:10.

"I'm pulling into the parking lot right now. I'll be inside in a minute." And before I could put the van in park, she was sprinting up to help me quickly unload the kids.

"We can go into Quiznos? It's okay for you?" she asked.

"Um, yeah sure."

We walked into the tiny little eating area. At one table were some high school kids playing huggy poo kissy face and whatever else kids these days do. At the other three were sprawled out some boutique type kids clothes, Gina, and a photographer with a really big lens. Janice handed me a powder blue jumper and instructed me to put it on Roman.

Would you know it, the kid adored the costume! He put that baby on, stuck his chest out, pounded upon the logo and garbled through his pacifier, "See? See me?" This is the same kid that hides whenever a camera is near. The same kid that growled at Sue and tried to smear chocolate on her hands as she took his picture. This kid was now acting like a professional model. Wouldn't you know it?

The Koreans went crazy! The teenagers rolled their eyes. And I swept over to the Starbucks next door to get Jen. I really thought they'd go ga ga for her two year old since she's about the same size as Roman. But as soon as Jen and I walked in, they swooped up her baby (a sweet faced cherub with eyes the color of washed denim) and planted a powder pink dress on her.

We're all crowded in this tiny little sub shop with a fashion photographer snapping up pictures of our kids. Roman walking the catwalk up and down the itty bitty aisle between the tables and the baby sitting atop a table. In addition to the photographer, Gina and Janice were walking around with digitals snapping pictures of all the kids. They even took pictures of a very sick Reilly Kate who was sitting in the stroller (let me tell you just how sick this little girl was -- she didn't talk! Not a word). I'm telling you, it was one of the strangest things. Had I been a customer in the place I wouldn't have been able to keep my composure. It was that funny.

After the show was over and the children were back in their street clothes, Gina told me that there were four other children being considered. If they did choose Roman, she would call me. I really breathed a sigh of relief, figuring that they probably saw through his little act. Besides, they don't want a kid who models with a pacifer cemented in his teeth.

Gina called me the next day. They're flying me, Roman, and Reilly Kate down to Cheju Island for a Thursday and Friday shoot. We leave tomorrow. Early. And we go it alone. Jen's baby didn't have enough hair for the Koreans (which is kind of funny since they routinely shave their babies' heads bald). I really cannot adequately express how much I am dreading this trip. It wouldn't have been bad if there was safety in numbers or misery loving company. But it is just the three of us. Mike cannot even go as he has to work (damn that work shit).

Wish me luck. I assume when we get down there Roman will have a meltdown, refuse to perform, throw down in a fit and knock one of those expensive lighting lamps down which will hit the photographer squarely on the head causing him to drop his fancy schmancy camera which Gina will dive for in an attempt to save but will fail and instead will land on her ring finger, breaking both her finger and that enormous rock she sports. If all goes as planned, we will end up owing these people thousands.

Should be a fucking blast.