Fudge It

One of the best things about coming home, the thing that actually makes it all worthwhile, is watching my children connect with the older generations of family. My children and my 82 year old, blind and wheelchair dependent grandfather love, absolutely love to go to Chuck E. Cheese's together. My kids run back and forth from the games and rides, carrying their hard won tickets for Papa's safe keeping, and refuel with more tokens and the occasional bite or two of shitty pizza. Papa sits and eats plate after plate of salad bar, dishing out tokens, and listening for the squeals of pure glee coming from a magical place he can only hear and smell and feel. It brings a light back into his eyes like nothing else can.

After our Chuck E. Cheese adventure today, we went for ice cream sundaes at the Buffalo. Reilly Kate insisted that she order some spaghetti before her ice cream and who was I to argue. She ate several bites and then asked for her ice cream. Papa said to her, "I haven't seen you eat any of that spaghetti yet!"

To which she replied, without missing a beat, "That's because you are blind, Papa."

I don't think my grandfather has laughed that hard in literally years. He laughed and laughed and laughed. Then he dug into an enormous banana split with double extra hot fudge and ate it down to the very last bite.

And that is why I brave a 15 hour flight with two small children and a cranky husband, a 14 hour time difference, inlaws who make me want to jump off the roof of the Sears Tower, and stay in my parents' cold ass basement for a month. It really is the simple things. Like hot fudge and cross generational connections.

Happy Sperm Donor's Day

This isn't the Father's Day post I had intended to write. But I'm hopping a plane tomorrow to fly back to Chicago for summer break and I needed to remind myself again why it is I have nothing to do with my biological father, AKA the sperm donor.

You see, he's a deadbeat dad. But not just any deadbeat. Oh, no. He was around for awhile. Then he just stopped coming around. Stopped caring about us. He stopped working and sending support. He instead chose to fart around at the VFW and the VA hospital. Charitable works for sure. But volunteering should come after you earn money to support yourself and those dependent on you. That didn't bother Larry. No, instead of worry about his children and what kind of education they were getting, he got himself elected to the school board (and president of it, no less) and began work on an as of yet unpublished text book on the history of Will County Illinois (don't everyone begin cheering at once, I can't think with that kind of racket!).

He didn't bother sending birthday cards or a letter at Christmas. Nothing for 8th grade or high school graduation. Nada for college graduation. I don't even think he realizes I sport a pricey Master's degree from a pseudo prestigious university. I don't think he cares, really. He's made half hearted attempts at being a grandfather, but when I say half hearted that's giving him almost half a heart. It's sad and pathetic.

But once upon a time, he promised my two and a half year old daughter a rain stick. You know, the kind that when you turn them they sound like rain. He promised he'd get her one for Christmas. My mom was on her way out for a visit, just before Christmas. Larry had already missed their birthdays (Roman's in November and Reilly Kate's in the beginning of December) and I was pretty pissed about that. Not that my kids noticed. They didn't. But that isn't the point, really, now is it? Anyway, my mom emailed him several times to ask if he wanted her to go out, shop around, pay for, then carry from Chicago to Hawaii the promised rainstick. He never responded.

He instead called me up to bitch about her. In fact, his words, and I quote since I have that conversation emblazoned upon my brain, "Tell your meddling mother to get out my face." He then proceeded to tell me, "I have no money. There will be no rainstick or anything else." Like my kids were some kind of undue burden on him. Well, I had had a bad day. I was actually bringing in groceries when he called to bitch about my mother. And I exploded. I let go a verbal beating across the phone lines that scared my daughter so bad she ran and hid in a corner crying. It was ugly and I felt ugly.

I resolved right then and there to NEVER deal with that man again. And since then, while I still am bitter (yes, oh so very, very bitter), I have never become enraged regarding him. Angry? Yes. Enraged? No. This is a much better solution and I highly suggest it to any in similar shoes.

Here is the letter I sent him severing all ties. I haven't heard from him since. I've let the kids see him once since then when Danny and my mom took them when Danny was home from Iraq on leave. But that wasn't for his benefit. Or theirs. It was for mine. I don't want the fucker to die and I feel like I owed him a thing. Nothing. So an afternoon at Chuckie Cheese paid for by my mother to let the poor bastard have a taste of what he is missing pretty much fullfills any debt I may remotely feel I owe.

If you are a deadbeat dad, please read this and know that your kids feel the same about you as I do Larry. Then, go stick your dick in a paper cutter. Happy Sperm Donor's Day, ya worthless ass.

P.S. I don't want anyone to confuse the sperm donor with the man I call my dad. My dad is my step dad and he is a wonderful man who has given me so much. He's the best grandfather I could ever even hope for for my children. And I love him. And I would hate for him to stick his dick in a paper cutter. Plus, if he did, my mom would pretty pissed at me.

If you have opened this email at all, you may be tempted to delete it prior to reading it in its entirety. I encourage you to refrain from doing so as this will be the last time I attempt communication with you or anyone in your family.

Allow me to explain why my “meddling” mother was “in your face,” unbeknownst to me. You see, I have your Christmas gifts wrapped and waiting to send. I was waiting until after the holidays to see if you bothered to send a card to my children. You had missed their birthdays entirely and I was fairly certain you were going to blow off Christmas as well. Mom, god love her, believed the opposite. Along with your gifts, I was including a nasty gram explaining to you the responsibilities that come along with grandparenting. I had told my “meddling” mother that depending on your reaction, or more likely lack of action, I would be severing the already flimsy ties between you and my children.

Apparently, she was trying to prod you into doing what you should need no prodding to do. I talked to her after you hung up on me and she told me she emailed you. I had no idea. She was trying to lead you to water. Hell, she even offered to do your damn shopping for you. So money can no longer be an excuse for you. “I’m broke,” “I have no money for gifts.” At the risk of sounding like one of you heartless Republicans, this is just hillbilly hick speak for, “I’m too damn lazy to be bothered to send something or to come up with a creative way of giving without spending what I do not have.”

Let’s discuss how easy it would have been for you if you had only wanted to do something for my kids. Ummm… let’s see. You whittle. Whittle them something. Free wood in the backyard. Don’t have time? Have arthritic fingers? Give them something you’ve already done. You have tons of crap gathering dust around the house. Hells bells. You could have MADE a rainstick from a papertowel tube, a couple of balled up paper towels, some rice, and duct tape. That’s cheap enough. All you had to pay for was postage. Or go to the dollar store. Target now has a dollar section right when you walk in the door. A squeaky toy for Roman and a spiral pad for Reilly. A buck for each kid. That’s two bucks. Hand write a card. Stick it in the mail priority mail (4 bucks) and you have two gifts for them for about what it costs for a pack of smokes. You do have enough money for smokes, don’t ya?

Or BORROW some money. Call up your mom or your son or a buddy. Ask for ten bucks to get your grandkids a couple of cards. Would that injure your pride to do so? How much damn pride can you have at 60 years old and not having enough money to buy your grandkid a birthday card? Nope. None.

Nope. Money isn’t the reason. It isn’t even a plausible excuse. My god, Larry, it is the December 20th !!! And you are just NOW sending them cards? They won’t even get here on time. It’s not like you have a lot of grandkids or something. When Grandma and Grandpa Peet failed to send me a card for my birthday or for xmas, I always explained it away with the fact that they had a lot of grandkids and they just forgot. No big deal. But, you have TWO. How the fucking hell do I explain that one to them?

Back to my meddling mother for a minute, though. I want you to realize how stupid you are in getting angry with her. Let’s take a trip back in time and count the ways she has meddled… ON YOUR BEHALF.
1. Inviting you to my wedding – her idea. If it had been up to me, I doubt you would have even received an announcement.
2. Paying for your tux – if it had been up to me you could have come in your usual smelly clothes.
3. Inviting you to Reilly Kate’s christening – again, her idea.
4. Driving down to see you and Grandma during the summer of 2002 – she thought that one up.
5. Inviting you to Reilly Kate’s birthday party – again, her idea.
6. Inviting you to Roman’s christening – yep, you guessed it, her idea.
7. Driving down to you and Grandma this past fall – you don’t think that was MY idea, do you?

You dumbshit. She was on YOUR side. For whatever reason, she really wants you to be a part of our lives. Maybe she wants you to have a second chance. To get a little of what you missed out on when you went AWOL on us after your divorce from Wilda.

You probably have no clue, but the reason I have been so distant, so aloof from you isn’t anger at you for something you have done. It is for what you didn’t do. You fucking disappeared on us shortly after the divorce. No call. No card. No letter. No nothing. And DO NOT say it was because you didn’t hear from us. We were your children. If Reilly Kate ever even TRIED to sever ties with me, I wouldn’t stop knocking on her door. Not ever. I would try and try and try and try. Because she is my CHILD. I am her PARENT.

Ya know, on one of those rare occasions that we saw you (I think it was when Wilda took us to Grandma and Grandpa’s 50th ), you promised Danny that you would take him fishing. He was so excited when he told me. His face was lit up like a kid on Christmas Eve. I could only roll my eyes. “You’re such a bitch, Heather,” was his response. “Give him a chance. He’s trying to make up for not being there. He’d take you fishing, too, if you’d let him.”

“Let’s just see if he actually does take you fishing, Danny,” was all I said.

Did you ever take the damn kid fishing? Did you? No. No, Larry. You broke that kid’s fucking heart. And then you did it again. And again. You don’t call him. You don’t bother with him. You don’t bother with either of us. And it is a fucking painful thing, let me tell you. You don’t’ know what it is like to have a parent that is just plain absent. Allow me to tell you that it fucking sucks. More so for Danny than for me. I built up that wall of anger to keep you from hurting me any more. Today, it dawned on me that my wall had been crumbling. Time to rebuild, I guess.

I will NOT allow you to hurt my kids. No, sir. You did it to me. You did it to Danny. By GOD, you will NOT do it to my kids. You are either IN or you are OUT of their lives. And, by your inaction for their birthdays and this Christmas I take it you are OUT.

When you were gone all those years in my teens, sometimes I would wonder if when someone asked you if you had kids, what you would say. Did you say yes? How could you say yes but never bother to contact us? Never to see if we were alive or well or what? Allow me to suggest an answer now. If asked, just say you have one child. And if asked about grandkids, just say you used to have two, but you lost them. Stupidly. You lost them.

Merry fucking Christmas.
Heather

PS. I am cc-ing this to the meddling mother so that she can see first hand that she need NEVER try again with you. Should you, Mom, try to intervene on his behalf, you will deal with what is left of my rage. I am through with this matter.

Nothing much, just the normal shite

I had planned on writing a little something for Father's Day. I still will. Just not tonight. It is late and Roman just refused to go to sleep tonight. I'm pooped from the toddler wrangling.

But I'll give you a run down of my day, just for shits and gigs.

~On Truman's first walk of the morning, I stumbled upon three of my downstairs neighbors' movers sleeping off their drunk from the evening prior in the grass where Truman (and this lady) poops. The stink of soju at that ungodly hour of the morning (9am) made me gag and startled them awake. As they sat up, Truman began barking at them, scaring them half out of their wits.

~When I walked Truman for the second time this morning, he attacked another dog. A Hungarian Vizsla. Fortunately, he didn't get his face ripped off for it. But that dumb ass went after her again. And again. He's a shit. Just for that, he's going to the kennel without heart worm tablets (okay, so he'll only be a week late and that's not late enough to put him in any real danger anyway -- but he doesn't have to know that!).

~I gave serious consideration to eating Truman for lunch. Instead I told my housekeeper to forget about cleaning and come to lunch with me instead. We gorged ourselves at the Navy Club. Then I came home to a house still dirty. Thankfully, we're leaving for Chicago so I just don't care.

~While piling up my groceries at the check out, I realized I had forgotten to get diapers (man, I hate disposable diapers!) and had to put all my stuff back in my cart. I must have been cursing under my breath while I did this because the rather sweet looking Korean check out lady seemed very concerned and asked if I was going to be alright. I barked "DIAPERS!" at her and stormed off.

~When I returned to check out, I was escorted to an awaiting checker in the 15 items or less line. I had more than 15 items, but I think the management thought I was about to blow some sort of mental gasket. I was so scared that someone with less than 15 items was going to come behind me and bitch me out, that I kept saying over and over again, in a rather loud voice, "They told me to come here. I don't know why. I have a cart full. But they told me to come here." I'm now waiting for someone to contact me from the psychiatric department of the hospital. I'm sure I've been reported.

~I nuked up fish sticks for my kids' dinner that made my whole house smell like an old, diseased pussy. And no, I don't mean a cat. I'm gonna have to burn some serious incense tomorrow.

And I think I will leave you on that note tonight. I'm off to go dream of geriatric lesbians. Good night.

Quote of the Day

"No, it doesn't. But I'm no expert."

Reilly Kate in response to my asking Roman if he thought screeching and hollering at me makes me want to spend time with him.

Ain't Lyin'

I don't know if it was my obvious picture taking as I grumbled about writing my senator or the number of times I spit at the Cunter book display, or maybe it was just the threatening looks I gave the sales clerk, but the Dixie Chicks new album, Taking the Long Way, is nicely stocked in our PX. For those of you reading this blog with access to the PX at Yongsan, grab thine ration card and get thee to thine store for your very own copy!!

Not only that, but they stocked some other albums of theirs. I picked up Fly and Wide Open Spaces today, too. I mean, what the hell. Ya know? It doesn't take much to make me a loyal fan. Just voice your embarrassment of our current president and you've got me till death do us part. These Chicks may just make a honky tonk out of me yet.

If I start blubbering about a pick up truck, though, someone throw some microbrew and sushi on me, okay. That should snap me out of it.

Mooo

I pay almost $9 for a gallon of milk. Yes, yes. Nine American dollars (and you thought my leaky apartment was expensive). We go through almost a gallon of milk a day, between my kids drinking habit and my yogurt addiction. I think crack cocaine might be a cheaper habit. I might look into it.

There is cheaper milk on base here. I think it comes out to maybe $4 a gallon. But it is ultra pasteurized and tastes horrible. My kids, particularly the milk guzzling Reilly Kate, won't touch the stuff. And honestly, I can't blame her. I don't think she should be drinking anything with an expiration date 3 months away. And you can't make yogurt out of the stuff, either. It's lacking essentials killed off in the intense pasteurization.

So we buy raw Korean milk. But not just any raw Korean milk. Oh, no. Mama has lived in Korea far too long to just buy any old milk off the shelf. We buy Einstein milk produced by the NamYang Dairy. The carton reads:

EINSTEIN Naturally Produced DHA Milk-Einstein A Precious and ExtraordinaryMilk Produced with Special Care Using advanced biotechnology, Einstein is a completely different non-fortified natural DHA milk produced directly from milk cows. Einstein is produced only in designated farms with exceptionally good natural surroundings where healthy milk cows are screened and cared for with special feed to maintain their top conditions. The stringent quality control system in every process that no others can imitate helps maintain the value only Einstein has. Milk for your precious family - choose the best, Einstein100% Natural Milk with no other ingredients.

How can I go wrong with this stuff? It's got DHA in it. Naturally occurring DHA. These poor cows must be brain dead by now. Really. I know. I was smart once. And then, I became a cow.

You see, DHA is a brain building compound. You need DHA to help your body replenish your brain cells, which, just like skin cells, die and become rebuilt. Happy Heather was skipping along in her intellectually superior life when all of a sudden -- WHAM -- she begins lactating. Okay, so it didn't actually happen with a WHAM. But, just follow along with my story.

Suddenly, Happy Heather cannot remember even simple things, like the word "suitcase" or the name of the asswipe who holds the seat in Illinois' 11th Congressional district. And forget about having a conversation any deeper than should Dora take the yellow path or the blue path or why is it that the Canadian frog-brat Caillou whines every damn thing he says and his mother doesn't slap his mouth for it? My brain had shriveled and gone to mush.

For the longest time I didn't know why. I had convinced myself it must be early Alzheimers disease when I saw an article on formula companies adding DHA to their...uh... formulas. The reason for this was that it was found that breastmilk is very rich in DHA. Hence the reason formula fed babies are, well, dumb and breastfed babies are, of course, brilliant. I, by the way, was formula fed. My brother Danny was breastfed. There's like a 100 point difference in our IQs, his being the higher. Thanks, Mom. When I'm home this summer, I'm going to spit in your coffee every day when you are not looking.

Anyway, despite my mommy fog, I focused on this article and that's when I had a crystal clear moment of realization. I am not taking in extra DHA and yet my body is pumping out a lot of DHA. Thus, my brain is suffering from a lack of building materials and is atrophying.

My children are making me stupid.

After I got over the initial shock and bitter resentment, I came to terms with it and accepted it as my lot in life. Besides, my kids will be so damn smart they'll be sure to get full ride scholarships and I can use their education funds for plastic surgery. Then, after they are educated and successful, they will send me off on lavish vacations and shower me with ridiculously expensive gifts. This $9 a gallon milk is just like furthering my initial, personal DHA investment, really. Plus, if I partake in it through my yogurt, maybe I can rebuild some of what I lost.

Until then, though, I'll just hold on to my fantasy of whimsically packing my.... uhhh.... box thing for transporting clothes and jetting off to... ummmm... you know, that place with the tower... the one with good food... in Europe... the Mona Lisa's there... help me out here...

You're never fully dressed without a smile

It's not a secret that my son is an aspiring cross dresser. I don't know that he will grow up to be one, but, I'm quite certain, that is what he seeks to attain at this juncture in his life. My daughter has bins filled with dress clothes that she simply never shows the slightest interest in. But Roman, he's all about some fru fru wear.

I was on the phone with my friend Amy when I turned around and saw this picture. Well, not exactly this picture. Because we are trying to do a little potty training, Roman was diaperless and grinning like a Cheshire cat. I slapped a diaper on him, grabbed the camera, and couldn't get him to smile again. "Me no want diapah! Me no want it! Diapah off!"

Please note, however, the Hot Wheel in his hand. He's still boy. He's just Fru Fru Boy!



Or is that Spiderman in Heels?

Roman learned a very important lesson this day. Biking in heels is cumbersome. Ballet flats would have been a much better choice. But a boy's gotta make his own fashion faux pas. He'll learn. Oh, yeah. He'll learn.

Making me wet

It's been raining here all damn day. All. Day. God awful. Gray. Dreary. I'm exhausted from it. And this isn't even the rainy season yet. Just wait. It'll get worse. It always does.

Which brings me to my bitch of the day.

You'd think that a $4,000 a month apartment wouldn't leak when it rained. You'd think that you could expect, from paying $4,000 a month in rent, a safe haven from the rain. That you could sit in your 1800 square foot urban paradise in complete arid happiness while it pissed down from the heavens and flooded the streets. You'd think you could look down from your $4,000 a month concrete tower and see the peasants scrambling to build their ark whilst you sipped hot tea with warm fuzzy slippers on your tootsies. You'd think you'd at least be frickin' dry for that kind of greenbacks. Wouldn't you?

My apartment is flooding. It's hardly even raining in comparison to what lay ahead with the monsoons season just weeks away and this place is flooding. I'd got puddles in my apartment where in places that obviously lack window seals. I really can't believe it.

I'm convinced that there must be some kind of self drying button. Just hit it and a big fan comes down from the ceiling and blows scorching air onto the puddles instantly evaporating them. Has to be. With the kind of money we're spending on this place -- oh, and that would be the collective we, my fellow Americans -- this here is paid for with taxpayers' dollars.

I'm off to go look for that button. Just in case I cannot find it, someone please start composing a refund letter. I think we're getting screwed on this one.

Now that's using your head!

I started my Christmas shopping today. Now, before you get into a panic and look at the calendar all frantic like, let me assure you that we are more than six months away from the blessed holiday. But I'm going home to Chicago for a visit in a couple of weeks and I want to have all the gifts for everyone back home bought, wrapped, and stored in a rubber maid bin in my mother's house. That way, come next Christmas my mother won't be able to find said bin and she'll have to go out and do my Christmas shopping all over again -- only she'll buy much better gifts than I bought. Unless my family really does want GO COREA World Cup soccer shirts.

While I was out and about I saw this and thought this would be a cool, only in Korea (or is that Corea?) kind of thing to share.



That tray on the woman's head is a full Korean meal. If you've ever eaten Korean food you know that there are at least 4 or 5 side dishes that go along with your main meal of (usually) soup and rice. You can order delivery and this is how it comes. The bring real dishes and silver and when you are done eating them come back and pick it all up. This woman was delivering to one of the many street vendors along the road. You can have your meal delivered anywhere. Go to the park along the Han River and you'll see people eating their delivered lunches there, too. It's amazing.

Even more amazing is these women carrying all this stuff on their heads! They bob and weave in and out of the most crowded streets in Seoul and I have to tell you I have NEVER seen a tray fall. Not once. Never.

Now that I've said that, I'm sure to not just see a tray fall but have that boiling hot soup in a heavy-as-a-bowling-ball stone pot fall right on my head causing third degree burns and a concussion requiring hospitalization thus rendering me unable to finish my Christmas shopping. Merry fucking Christmas everybody. Don't expect squat this year.

I'm off to go post a comment on my Religion and Politics post which just seems weird to me. I just don't know that bloggers should be posting comments on their own blogs. It just seems... weird. But ya know, I'm just trying to fit in.

Bubba's Backdoor Homerun

I am so proud, I'm bursting. My little girl is a veteran tee ball player. She played out her first season and while they never really played a game, they did learn a few basics like touch the base with your foot before proceeding to the next base; don't skip bases; go potty before practice; catch the ball in the hand with the mitt and throw the ball with the ungloved hand; if you want to pick dandelions, left field is the best place; put the bat down before running to first; and the best part of tee ball is the snacks after practice.

Reilly Kate had so much fun and her coach, Coach John, must be one of the best human beings on earth. He was so excited and peppy and genuinely happy to be there every Saturday morning. He listened to Reilly Kate's numerous complaints, everything from her shoes don't fit to the sun was too bright and her brother was distracting. He'd listen, nod, and redirect. All with a ray of sunshine on his face and happiness in his voice. Okay, granted I don't know him off the field. He could be a prick. But I know his wife and she is sweet and says he is just like that at home, too. No wonder they have four kids. I honestly would have put good money on him not having any children. I personally find it hard to believe that anyone who spends much time with small children can maintain that level of pep. But apparently he does.

He even arranged for the kids to meet professional baseball players. He had two American guys pitching for the Doosan Bears come out and mingle and pose with the kids. It was amazing. Now, the three and four year olds are still too young to be all that impressed, but I know for Reilly Kate it made her realize that some people are good enough at this game to make it their full time job. She still wants to be a runner, a dolphin trainer, and a mommy. But you never know when baseball player may make the list. This guy's name is Matt and he's actually a friend of my friend Dave's. A very friendly guy, good with kids, and nice enough to let Dave think he could someday hit off him without laughing hysterically at him. At least not to his face.

It really was an all peaches and cream kind of experience with the exception of one bad, rotten to the core, worm infested, gonna-make-you-vomit-all-night-and-wish-you-were-dead apple. We'll call him Bubba here, not because I want to maintain his anonymity but because I didn't bother to find out what his name was. I couldn't care less. And he looks like a Bubba: Fat, arrogant, ignorant, obviously from a red state with a penchant for fucking is blood relatives. Okay. So I'm not entirely sure of the last one. But given what I do know about him, I'm pretty certain.

Every Saturday morning he'd be out there with his boys (only one of whom was on the Dodgers), warming them up. His idea of warming them up was to ridicule their every move. "What kind of a throw was that? A toss? A sissy throw? You're throwing like a girl." "Keep your eye on the ball. That's why you can't catch." "Go and get that ball. You should have caught that. Go! Run! Hustle!" The worst part was that he'd throw a shitty ball to the kids and then go off on these kids for being unable to catch it. Once I saw his older son throw a really good, fast ball to him and he couldn't catch it in time. It was kind of high and it hit him in the face. I'm sure if I hadn't been standing a few feet away from his kid, he would have come after him. He was that furious.

By the way, Bubba's boys are, I'd say four and maybe seven.

When the other kids would come and they'd start pairing up to play catch, he'd keep his boys off to the side to continue playing catch. Or, if his four year old got paired with a fellow Dodger, Bubba would stand there to do some more ridiculing. Oh, and batting practice! He'd stand right behind Coach John and if his kid tipped the ball (as most of these really little kids do), he'd grab the ball and put it back on the tee with a "Hey now. You can do better than that. Keep your eye on the ball and put some meat behind that swing."

I think it is his lack of any meat between his legs that forces him to be such a frigging arse to his kids. And in public, too. Can you imagine what this Daddy Dearest must be like at home? He reminded me of the jock's dad in Breakfast Club. I really thought tyrant dads died off or were castrated by some covert government program. Isn't that on the feminist agenda? I'm a feminist and I thought I saw it somewhere.

The final day of the season, he almost got hit right in his miniature gonads and hard by a kid (not his) batting. It was this kid's turn to bat and he was in the batting box, getting prepared to swing. Bubba, being the misunderstood genius that he is, walked straight through the batting box and when he felt the wind from this little kid's swing, he turned around with a fury to berate this kid. Old Bubba, though, he's quick and caught himself before he backhanded the kid. "Hey! Watch it!" Then softening, "You always need to look around you before you swing a bat. You need to be much more careful."

Yeah, Dicklick, and you should not be walking in a batting box with a runner at first and third and a batter up. Even I, the unjock, the gym class flunky, the fat fucking housewife know that. Go fuck your sister.

Ahhhh.... better. I just needed to get that off my chest. A whole little league season of him and if I bottled it up one more day, I'd probably take aim at him with my mamamobile the next time I saw him on post.

The highlight of the season was the awards at the end. Coach John, the amazing coach that he is (should I start a fan club?), had ordered trophies for all the kids and had their names engraved on them. Not just that, though. Oh, no. He ordered them from Jersey because this small little company in Jersey is the only one he found that had girls on the statue and he wanted to make sure that the girls had girls on theirs. How sweet is that? I was so excited, I got a bit misty. I'm 35 years old and have never been given a trophy for anything. I have gotten two awards in my life. One for a literary contest I won when I was 5 (it was a book) and one for completing a 5K in the Seoul Women's Marathon (it was a cheesy gold medal on a ribbon).

Reilly Kate is also proud of her statue. So much so that she takes it everywhere she goes. Everywhere. I had a rather in depth but cockroach quick discussion with her as she was about to take it up to the altar for communion at mass on Sunday. She's sleeping with it next to her right now. She loves her trophy.

Good thing, too. If she didn't, I think I'd take it and shove it straight up old Bubba's ass.

Religion and Politics -- Blend well and serve over ice

(Yeah, I'm diving in once more. I'm sorry. I cannot help myself. If I don't release these pent up thoughts, if I just bottle them up, I could explode and stop blogging all together to instead pen some unpublishable book full of the rantings and ravings of a bound and gagged liberal. It's better this way. Trust me. And if religion and politics aren't your bag, baby, take a walk and come back tomorrow when I post pictures of Reilly Kate and her treasured tee ball trophy along with a scathing dig on overzealous armchair coach dads.)



This morning the kids and I arrived at church about ten minutes before the start of mass. We normally walk in just as the choir begins belting out, but today I just wanted that quiet, solitude of an almost empty church. I needed a few moments of prayer and reflection in light of what I thought was a bad news week.

On Tuesday of last week, Ann Coulter released a book entitled, Godless: The Church of Liberalism in which she claims that liberals are... Godless, among many other things. She falsely states that evolutionary theory is our gospel and abortion our sacrament. She obviously knows nothing of me or any of the liberals I know, have worked with, have worshipped along side.

She once said, in reference to terrorists, "We should invade their countries, kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity."

I'm going to use this quote of hers, in reference to conservatives, "We should invade their party, impeach their leaders, and convert them to Christianity." Because the God I worship, the Bible I read, the man on my cross have led me down this path of liberalism. She knows nothing of God.

On that pathetic excuse for a news channel for feeble minded conservatives (you know the one of which I speak), she said, "God gave us the earth. We have dominion over the plants, the animals, the trees. God said, 'Earth is yours. Take it. Rape it. It's yours.'" She must have missed that whole part where God says the earth and everything on it and all that dwell within it, are his (Psalm 24:1).

I am motivated to protect the environment because it is the greatest gift we have: the earth, the mountains, the rivers, the ocean, the air we breathe, the water we bath our children in, nourish our bodies with, irrigate our crops with. The world is a treasure to be held dear. Anyone who thinks otherwise is not just Godless but, to put it plainly, stupid. Don't piss where you eat. Even my dimwitted dachshund knows that and he thinks cat shit is haute cuisine.

What really got under my skin, though, was her calloused attack on four 9-11 widows. I'm sure you have read what she said, but in case you haven't, here. She hasn't any clue what it is like to have her heart and her very soul melded with another's and then have that person ripped from you. For that matter, neither do I and I fervently pray I never will. Only a person who could imagine herself exploiting such a tragedy for her own joy would ever imagine another doing such a thing. Hence why she's never had a relationship worth more than a few condoms.

The very day after her trash was released to poison the general public, there was the death of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. Upon hearing the news, the first words out of my mouth were, "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." I wasn't elated, but I surely wasn't sad to see him go. Until. I read how Michael Berg, father of Nicholas Berg who was beheaded by the very hands of Zarqawi, reacted. He said, "I will not take joy in the death of a fellow human, even the human being who killed my son." I am ashamed of myself for having thought anything but this. This is the very essence of Christianity.

You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect. [Matthew 5:43-48]

But as sure as I am gaining weight, that Godless wonder Cunter (as she will now be affectionately referred to 'round these parts) will turn Mr. Berg's statements into a treasonable offense rife with references to Satanism and pedophilia. Oh, and since Mr. Berg is running for Congress, I'll bet she accuses him of exuberant celebrations upon the death of his son so he could proceed in his Communist agenda to take over our government. Her columnist cheerleaders are already announcing her prophetic brilliance on the subject.

So there I was, kneeling in church, praying, asking why I'm being accused of Godlessness when I feel like sometimes I'm the only one listening, why I couldn't have prayed for the soul of Zarqawi instead of cold indifference to his death, why I'm a pariah in a hostile, military culture that proclaims Christianity while defying Christ. And then I found myself repeating this over and over again. "I am the way, and the truth, and the life."

I knew, instantly, I knew that this is the way. Greed, selfishness, materialism, consumerism, gluttony, bigotry, prejudice, aggression, revenge, even "mere" defense -- these pave the way to hell. And Ann Coulter is running an escort service to take you straight there.

As an interesting aside, I went to the PX to find out about the Dixie Chicks new CD. As you may recall, they didn't have any in stock when it was released. Still nary a single Dixie Chicks CD in the whole joint, new or otherwise. Nada. Nothing. I was told to come back next week. They've ordered ONE copy. ONE. Just for me. I told her if she ordered two, I'd buy them both. But she just laughed and said, "No, no. Just one. For you."


They did, however, have not just one, but TWO displays of Godless. I am sure there are cartons of her books in the back, too. Plenty to distribute to the ignorant masses. A ticket to hell for less than twenty bucks. Just remember, it's one-way.

Sing, Sing a Song

Sometimes you just gotta sing. You just gotta pack up your collection of drums, some big ass speakers, a karaoke machine, don an all red outfit, set up in the middle of the city sidewalk, and sing.


I think maybe tomorrow I'll join in with my kazoo. I play a mean ass kazoo.

AssPeets Foot

I have man feet. Big, ugly man feet with thick, heavy calluses that crack, peel, and bleed. It's really gross. As a result of this... condition, I get pedicures quite frequently. Honestly, I think it should be covered by my health insurance as preventive medicine. I'm sure it would be cheaper for them than if I stopped going all together and wound up with a raging case of cellulitis like my sperm donor did (he is the genetic mutant, by the way, that passed this lovely pedial trait on to me).

I know it is time to go in and have the bottom of my feet scraped with a straight razor when the actual weight of my foot has increased. It is like having my feet encased in cement. Trust me when I say no wimpy little pumice in the shower is going to help my situation, either. This shit is serious. I could probably get a job as a circus freak, not just walking on hot coals, but standing around on them and eating a Chicago style pizza pie followed by several cannoli and a cappuccino all while nursing a baby and singing Christmas caroles to the toddler strapped to my back. Yes, I know I have undiscovered talent.

And since I actually have been having daydreams of putting together aforementioned act and pitching it to Ringling Brothers, I figured I had better go in and get the pedicure.

When I walked in today, they must have seen me coming. There was a scattering of nail girls to the far reaches of the salon, each one busying themselves with menial tasks like lining up the foot stools and dusting off the fluorescent pink polishes. There was some discussion in the back and I could have sworn I heard two of them playing kai bai bo (rock paper scissors). I was shown to my seat and minutes later out came the losers to work on my tootsies.

I don't blame the poor women. I appreciate them. They scraped and scraped and soaked and scraped for the better part of an hour. A third woman usually has to come midway through to sweep up the huge pile of dead skin that accumulates underneath my feet. Today, they sent two women as clean up crew. As one of the woman was buffing my feet with a sandpaper block, she got a cramp and had to have the other woman massage it away. I'm thinking of maybe investing in an electronic sander and bringing that with next time.

But for me, it was all worth their pain. My feet are soft now. Okay. Not really soft. But smooth. Well, smooth enough that I won't snag my overpriced sheets when I crawl into bed in about ten minutes. That's as smooth as any fat woman with man feet can really ask for.

Total cost was 11 bucks and some change. I gave them each a good tip, too: Next time you see me coming, run like hell to the john and pretend to have food poisoning. I thought it was more useful than the two bucks I was gonna give them.

What I intended to write last night

There are some readers here that either don't know my brother Danny was in Iraq or don't know that he is now home. A friend recently asked me how he was doing over there and I was shocked that she didn't know he was back. I realized I had never written a thing about him coming home on here.

Danny and I have a very volatile relationship. It wasn't always like that. When he was a little baby, before he could talk or walk, we got along fine. Well, with the exception of that one time I almost killed him by shoving cheese and raisins down his throat before he even had teeth. But, I assure you, it was innocent. I just thought he was hungry.

As we grew and got older, we took completely different world views. His ideas and values differ greatly from mine. We are both strong willed, bullheaded people, with big mouths, strong opinions, and a tendency to shout. Just add alcohol and what you have is instant combustion.

We've never resolved the issues we had. We probably never will. As soon as I learned he would be heading to Iraq, I buried the hatchet in a place that no one knows but me. That's not to say all is forgiven and forgotten. It's just gone missing. Like Jimmy Hoffa, it won't be found.

He's a different person now than the one that left for Iraq. I think we're both different. I don't think we'll ever get into it like we used to. Having to say goodbye with the notion that you may never see that person again somehow changes things. I'm just happy he is home.

It is no secret that I hate this war. I hate the lies that led us there. I hate those that lied to us to get us there. I hate the fact that so many people, Iraqis and foreigners, have died as a result. I hate that so much money is being spent to make the elite even richer from this horrific bloodletting. But I am proud of Danny. Very proud.

I'm proud that he went to a hostile land and befriended strangers rather than built up walls of distrust and suspicion. He adapted to their culture and learned a bit of their language. He treated the Iraqis with humanity and extended himself out to them. And he discovered the rich rewards of doing so. He counts many Iraqis amongst his closest friends. He's introduced me to one that has in turn become my friend. I'm proud of that.

So as abhorrent as this war is to me personally, I have gained directly from it. I have my baby brother back in my life. We are family once again. If it weren't for Iraq, that never would have happened.

Danny's girlfriend Amanda created an enormous scrapboook for him while he was gone. Before his return, she asked that we each compose a letter to him to include in it. Here is mine. And if you are tired of reading here, instead go to my cousin Melissa's blog and read hers. Get a box of tissues, though. Tears cometh.

I just found out from Mom that you have landed in Jersey. You are safe. Well, safer, anyway. You are home. Back to those that love you and that you love. For now, at least.

Having been the one gone, the soldier in harm’s way, the one in the trenches, you probably cannot even imagine the huge burden that has been lifted off those left behind who love you. It may even surprise you to know that the pain of having you there, to those of us here, was so intense it might as well have been physical. We, the women in your life – your mother, your sister, your aunts, your cousins, your true love – clung to one another, like life preservers, like sanity preservers, like soul sisters. We formed a bond that could only be created through war. You know that bond well, I’m sure. So, in essence, there is always good with the bad. It is the good that we must treasure.

And you done good. You know that. You feel it. Iraq is a part of you. It is where you became a man among men. You did a lot of growing there. You did a lot of good there. You rose above your peers and made friends with the enemy. They touched your soul, and you theirs. I have little doubt of your desire to return. Maybe not now. Maybe not again during this war. But you will. There are plenty of people who talk about a part of them dying in places like Iraq. I hope you see that it really isn’t a piece of you having died, but a part of you left behind. You left a piece of who you are there, a piece of your heart. You left friendships and brothers. You left their families and loved ones. You are now tied to Iraq and her people. Forever.

Colonel James, Sergeant Tuliau. You’ll carry around them around with you, too. Make sure you toast a drink to them now and again. I will do the same. It is the best anyone can ever hope for in this life: to be remembered. I will remember them for what they were to you, how they were there for you. Their sacrifice was great, but greater was the loss to those that loved them. I am truly sorry for your loss. Time dulls the pain, but you can never fully heal. Honor them with a smoke and a shot. That too dulls the pain.

Now it is time for you to be your focus. It is time for you to create your life, your future. The direction of your journey is determined by you. Seize it now while you are on top. You have long sought and finally found a mate, a match, a friend, a love. I have never been so happy for you. Or so scared. When I saw how happy you were, yet so fragile as you walked on that plane to return to Iraq, I trembled. And I prayed. Oh, Lord, how hard I prayed. My greatest fear, that once you had found the happiness you longed for, it would be stripped away from you, dwelt within me and made my heart pound. Prayer was the only thing to quell it.

I finally know what it means to exhale. I’ve been waiting to exhale since that day in Ko’olina, lazing on the beach with Mom and the kids, when her phone rang out to tell us you were boarding a plane to war. I held my breath, held it so tightly, as if holding it tightly meant that somehow I was keeping you safe. My brother, my baby brother. Who would take care of him? Who would make sure he was doing what he was supposed to do? You did. You took care of yourself and others. No longer a baby, but a man. Welcome home. And thank you. Thank you for bringing yourself back to us. I love you more than you will ever know.

My writing even puts me to sleep

I sat down to blog something this evening and wound up falling asleep instead. I woke up ten minutes... twenty minutes... who knows... later and this is what I had written. Enjoy.

Therrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrresssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssdddddddddddddddddd

If I can put myself to sleep writing this drivel, I can only imagine that most of you read this as a means to cure your insomnia.

And on that note, goodnight.

A picture can say... 5 words

There is hardly any graffiti in Seoul. That's not to say the city is clean. A city this old with this many people in it isn't going to be clean. But the busses are and the subway is and there isn't graffiti on the walls or buildings or parks. Well, none that I saw until the other day.





Chaos class explodes angry fists. Despite the fact that I'm not entirely sure what it means, I think it well sums up my mood. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go dig up some of my kids' old Easter chocolate and raise my serotonin levels.

Lions and Tigers and Bitches! OH MY!

Paris and Nicole. No longer the best of friends. It seems they prefer to stab each other in the... front. How many women have this experience in their history? I'd venture a guess at damn close to statistically all of us. I see it already with my four year old daughter. Her best friend and she are no longer friends. According to Reilly Kate, former best friend just one day up and said, "I am no longer your friend. I don't want to play with you." Whether or not it's true, I do not know. I made Reilly Kate write her a letter trying to repair the damage done, but said friend wouldn't even look at the letter. This happened to me as a kid and I know it happened to you as a kid, too (if you are the owner of a vagina, that is).

I was always on the outside growing up. It got worse when we moved to an affluent suburb from a crap neighborhood in Chicago. I was the fat, city girl. I had very few friends. And the ones I did have liked to play those, "I'm not your friend today" kind of games. Finally, in my sophomore year of college, after a brief stint with living in an all catty bitches dorm situation, I realized I got along better with dicks than chicks. I completely resigned from seeking female companionship and was so much happier that way. Sure, some of my friends were just trying to fuck me, but that I could handle. I could read guys and deal with them and they accepted me. Life was good for about 12 years.

Then I had kids.

Having kids and becoming a stay at home mom forced me to once again socialize with women. Once again, I was sitting on the outside of the group. I tried La Leche League. I went to Moms Club. My kids and I did Kidsport and Mommy and Me. This time, not only was I shunned, but my kids, too. I haven't felt like this much of a dork, this much of an outcast (in Korean they say "wanta") since I was in junior high school. It is the biggest downfall of motherhood, being surrounded by so many fucking women.

That isn't to say I haven't met some great ladies along the way. I have. Sadly, in the military, we move around so much that they either move or I move and I then have to start all over again. I'm that fat, city girl every couple of years (this year it's actually been every couple of months).

My solution was to connect with some women over the internet. If you haven't been a part of an online community, you have no clue what it's like or the bond that can develop over years of posting your innermost thoughts, heartaches, joys, aspirations and disappointments. My group and I formed a sisterhood through motherhood four and a half years ago. We call ourselves the Friends Forum which is quite the misnomer. We really aren't friends. We are more like sisters. Some in our group dislike others. Some quarrel, others quell the flames. A few have drifted away and many are attached by the apron strings. I have little doubt that there will be some semblance of our group twenty years down the road. It may or may not include me. I don't know.

Still, even in our online circle, there is the catty back stabbing, taking of sides, the Paris-Nicole rehashing and name calling, low blows and general emotional warfare women are so well known for. Why we do it, I do not know. As a feminist, I've said time and time again, women are our own worst enemies. We do more deconstruction, more tearing down one another, than the man ever has... or has had need to. Even those, perhaps especially those that promote women and women's rights. Lesbians, too. Yes, I tried hanging out with lesbians for a couple of years. They too are catty bitches, only in addition, they are fighting over sleeping with other catty bitches.

Anyway, at least with my online group, I don't suffer the same physical humiliation of being ostracized from the group... along with my children. I can close the browser or surf internet porn. And that's just what I'm gonna do.

Party Hearty

We went to a birthday party today. One of those really good birthday parties, complete with food, games, Korean chicken and pork, prizes, lots of fruit, songs, noodles and kimbob, goody bags, cake, a balloon man making balloon animals, and, did I mention the food? Anyway, it was quite the shindig.

The parents went all out with the games. The jovial father played MC with his delightful wife as the playful assistant. Their adorable son was gracious and well mannered. The whole thing was perfect.

Naturally, my kids didn't play along. Well, actually, Reilly Kate was fine except that she needed to go potty and flatly refused. So she danced around, crossed her legs, and did the girl squat with her heel shoved up her vagina (which, if you didn't know, is called the Vincent's Curtsey in the Urology field). Her face was red and her eyes crossed for the better part of the party simply because she didn't want to use the toilet. But, hey. She didn't piss herself or the floor. So that was good.

But Roman spent the majority of that magical party trying to run away from home. I'm not sure who or what the source of his displeasure is, exactly. I suspect it might be me. You see, he was once again attempting to run away and when I saw him sneaking off I said, "You run away and you'll have to get a new mommy. You won't see me again." This trick always worked on Reilly Kate. Perhaps because she knew finding a new mommy willing to take her back talk would be more difficult than living with me.

This trick did not work with Roman. He just put his head down and continued on his way. Finally, when he'd gone far enough, I ran after him.

"What's up, bub?" I asked. "You don't want to get a new mommy, do you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, you do?" I refused to believe it.

"Yes," he told me as I picked him up, curling my arms around his tiny little body.

"Well, what kind of mommy will you get?" I can play a two year old game as well as they can. Or so I thought.

"Nice mommy," was his reply.

"You want a nice mommy? Well what am I?"

"You big mommy," he told me, he head buried in my shoulder as I carried him back to the party.

"I'm a big mommy?" I couldn't believe it. I sucked in my jelly belly just a bit more.

"You big and dirty mommy," he said with a nod.

I am a big and dirty mommy. Well, fuck me.

Postcards from the Red -- Photos

That one child policy of China's was looking pretty good at this point. Where the hell would I have put a third, fourth, or fifth kid?


Is this what Mao had in mind? Perhaps, if what he had in mind was restoring China to greatness. Afterall, who can be great without lots of caffeine and corn syrup?




The disgruntled youth of China. He was just turned down for a job at this McDonalds. Because of bad hair?




Just a pretty picture. Isn't it pretty? Truth told, I wouldn't mind living in Shanghai. It was really, really clean and pretty.





Two friendly guys who insisted on being in my picture. I really only wanted the lion, but they were determined to be in my shot. I found the people of China to be much friendlier than those here in Korea. I'm sure it's a cultural thing.




I took this picture and immediately the woman started haggling me. I didn't want to buy the damn thing. I wanted a picture of it. I have her a buck to leave me alone.


That's it now. I promise. No more on Shanghai. We'll return to our regularly schedule histrionics.