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)