The Birds and the Bees

I've been suffering from horrible pregnancy insomnia. I'm up all night and exhausted all day. Sounds like I should have a spotless house and a blog filled with daily, perhaps even thrice daily posts. But, as anyone who's suffered insomnia can tell you, I'm awake all night, but hardly able to move from exhaustion. Same thing goes for the daytime, except I must move to care for the beasts. I even tried drinking a half a glass of red wine the other day to get sleep. Nada. Of course, I don't know what I thought I would accomplish with half a damn glass.

Anyway, that's what's been going on this week. That and Reilly Kate started her first week of her second year of 4 year old preschool. The poor kid. I feel so bad for her about this Kindergarten shit. But she's okay with it since she feels like she's getting the best of both worlds: homeschool Kindergarten in the morning, and preschool at the Mustard Seed in the afternoon. The first day her teacher dragged me aside to tell me that "she is very, very smart." Mmmm hmmm, was all I could muster. "She's very advanced for this class." At which point I wanted to drag her happy fucking ass from the preschool over to the dumbshit administrator at the elementary school who assured me that based solely on her birth date she was NOT ready to start Kindergarten.

I have to wonder, though, if it was Reilly Kate's sex education of her fellow classmates that got the her teacher's attention. You see, a few weeks back we were at home watching Animal Planet (a constant in our home) and there was a segment on about fish reproduction. Harmless, thinks I. Fish certainly don't hump. Besides, I am no prude. My kids can watch anything that depicts sex and reproduction in a natural, God glorifying manner. So there we sat, Reilly Kate, Roman, and I watching fish reproduce.

"Once the female has finished laying her eggs, the male moves in to release his sperm directly onto her eggs," explained the narrarator.

"Mama, what's sperm?"

Ah, and so it began. THE talk. The big one. The one all parents dread. Actually, I have always answered all of her questions openly and honestly. I never give her more than she asked for. So she doesn't fully understand the whole mechanics of human reproduction, but she gets the gist. Sperm meets egg creates baby. She did once ask me more than I really wanted to get into, but diverted herself away before I could answer.

"Mama, ummmm... I was thinking... Daddy's sperm is in his sac and his sperm met your egg. So did his sac go in your yoni (vagina)?"

I took a deep, long, cleansing breath while I tried to gather, sort, and order my thoughts all while navigating Seoul traffic in my way-too-big-for-urban-Asia American minivan.

"Hey, mom? Where's the bladder again?"

Filled with joy and elation at having avoided THAT discussion, I proceeded to delve into the finer points of the human bladder with all the enthusiasm of a horny cheerleader at a basketball game.

"Our bladders are located low in our bellies. The bladder holds our urine. Urine is the waste products filtered from our blood by our kidneys..."

So I shouldn't have been surprised when dropping Reilly Kate off for her first day at preschool, she ran up to a little girl and exclaimed, "Chelsea! Guess what! One of my dad's sperms came out of his sac and went up my mom's yoni to meet her egg and now she has a baby in her belly!"

Immediately I clamped my hand over her mouth. "We don't talk about that here. It's a private matter." Admittedly, I overreacted and I felt bad about that. I hurt her feelings. I rained on her parade. She was just excited to tell the other kids that we were going to have another baby in the house. I tried to back track a bit.

"I mean, some people just don't want to talk about that kind of thing, Reilly Kate. That's all."

"But mo-o-om," she whined, "Chelsea does. Don't you Chelsea?"

"Uh, huh." I looked over at Chelsea who sat with a half grin plastered on her face, eyes wide open and ears perked for all the juicy details she knew Reilly Kate would be divulging.

And so it is that my daughter is the sex expert of her preschool class. Have I mentioned that this is a Christian preschool? Yeah. I'm waiting for the phone calls. Christians, afterall, are notoriously prudish about reproduction, human or otherwise. I'm fairly convinced that the reason my fellow Catholics have such large families is because most don't really even know where it is that babies come from. It's probably a good thing we're homeschooling. If we sent her to Catholic school, as was our plan, we'd wind up excommunicated.

Then we'd really be fucked.

Quote of the Day

"I want a big mouth same as you got."

Roman to me while sharing an apricot. The same boy, by the way, who instead of earning back any toys, had an additional 2 Eddies, a lawnmower, a Diego figure, and all his pacifiers taken away and put in the trash bags. My closet overfloweth.

Award Winning Moments

Congratulate me. I am officially THE Meanest Mommy in the World. Yes, yes, I am. If your kids have told you that you in fact are the meanest mommy, they were either misguided, naive, or flat out lying. The title belongs to me. Me and me alone. Meanest.

Sure there are other mothers are there that are cruel or abusive. I know there are more neglectful mothers out there, although given my internet addiction I think I might rival a few. I am by no means Mommy Dearest (I do, however, admire her work). Hell, I don't even smoke in front of my kids (or while pregnant for that matter).

But I am the meanest.

How did I accomplish such a feat, you ask. Well, I cleaned up my kids' toys. And put them in bags. Garbage bags. Four garbage bags to be exact. All the toys that were not put away. All toys that had been dumped from their bins throughout the day. All the toys cluttering the floor, the beds, strewn on my couch and under my dining room table. Thomas trains and dollar store dinos. Pretty Ponies of all shapes, sizes, and fragrances (yes, you read that right, fragrances). Including Roman's Eddie (one of many, I assure you) without whose hair placed lightly in Roman's ears or nose, my little boy just cannot fall asleep (that oddity, by the way, is a posting all its own for yet another day). Yes, even the ever so precious, Santa-given, newborn baby panda named Blint wound up in the trash bags. So did many books including Roman's current favorite Toy Story 2 (or as he calls it "Woody's Wound Up book") and Reilly Kate's Fairy book containing her world famous Fairy Cakes recipe. Most likely if you have given my kids a gift in the last three years, it is in one of those bags. Gone, gone, gone.

I had given them ample warning, if you consider 5 hours ample. Repeatedly, time and again, I told them to clean up their toys. I gave them specific instructions. "Roman, put the trains in the train bin. Reilly Kate, put the ponies in the pony bin." The bins, by the way, are all marked, complete with words and pictures so they know what goes where. A retarded Hawaiian nene bird could figure it out (although, it may have trouble with the actual picking up and putting away). This isn't a new system, either. They've just fallen into the whole Mommy is pregnant, tired, and lazy and so we can destroy the house and leave it that way mode. So far, it's been working for them.

But not tonight. I may be pregnant. I may be tired. I sure as hell am lazy. But I am a toy hating bitch with an ax to grind, empty trash bags to fill, and a house filled with toys that seem to multiply faster than pubescent rabbits on Viagra. Look out. Here she comes: The Meanest Mommy in the World.

I told them all day long that I was going to toss the stuff laying about in the trash. I finally gave them a countdown. Then the ten minute warning. Then the five minute warning. An additional five minutes. Then the time-to-scramble-and-do-something-because-here-she-comes-with-the-trash-bags alert. Nothing phased them. Until I actually started dumping things in the bags. Then, you should have heard the howling. In fact, if you were awakened at about 3:30 AM Chicago time by what you thought was either an air raid siren or howler monkeys on your back porch, that was them. If I'd been in the States, I surely would be getting a visit from CPS tomorrow. Without ever laying a hand on them.

This is a particularly harsh punishment falling on the heels of my collecting their L-Max Leapsters and putting them up for auction on Ebay last week. But this is what happens when you don't take care of very expensive toys that Grandma buys you. Mama puts them on Ebay to make a little pin money. Hey, I've got to get my slot machine coins somehow, right? What does a two year old need a $100 game thingy for anyway.

My problem is this. While surely I am the Meanest Mommy in the World tonight as they sleep, in reality I am the Softest Mommy in the World. I won't throw those toys out. Nor have I put those damn electronic gizmos up for sale. It's a ruse. That of it is just being stuffed into my closet where it will sit until I find a way to give them all back without, as the Koreans say, losing face. Most likely they'll have to earn the toys back, starting with Blint and Eddie. The sad part is my kids have so many toys that after earning back their Blint and Eddie, they probably will forget about the rest of the crap in the bags and it will no longer be a good bribery tool. Instead it'll just be junk in my closet.

We don't have a garage. Maybe I'll have a closet sale. Wanna buy a slightly used Eddie? I hear putting his hair in your ear is really relaxing.

Is there a doctor in the house?

I will do just about anything to avoid going to a doctor. I'll self medicate, suffer prolonged periods of discomfort, even take prescriptions that don't belong to me (oh, my gasp gasp!). It isn't a fear of doctors or hospitals that I have. It is more of an utter disdain for the modern medical establishment. I find most doctors are pompous asses who truly believe their paper education on human anatomy qualifies them to better tell me what I am feeling in my own body. A complete disregard for the ignorant masses who live within these frail, inept machines of flesh pervades medicine. Nurses are not much better. Personally, you can have the lot. I have to be in a serious state of illness and/or confusion to see me face to face with a doctor.

So then, is it any surprise that I have yet to see a doctor this pregnancy. I'm 16 weeks along and the only reason I've seen anyone at all is because while in Chicago I had a bout of spotting that sent me into miscarriage flashback mode and I wouldn't rest until I saw via ultrasound a little bitty blob of a baby with a flickering heartbeat. Honestly, I could have done without the doctor and his dingbat nurse... and the damn Foley catheter they inserted into my urethra (oh, they just love their invasive procedures, don't they?)... and the fifteen blood tests they took... and don't get me started on the triage nurses and their complete lack of patient privacy, respect, or compassion. If they'd have just pointed me in the direction of the ultrasound machine, I would have done the damn ultrasound all myself. In fact, they had a student in there doing mine and I did help her. Look Ma! No classes!! I can do it all myself!

And I am.

It's not as if I'm not getting any prenatal care. I am just doing it all myself. I have a doppler and I listen to the baby's heart beat. I check my blood pressure using the monitor they have at the gym. I have a scale and weigh myself once a week. I am going to borrow (or buy) a glucose monitor and do my own 1 hour glucose test (using jelly bean instead of that god awful, nasty horrible orange gag it down concoction). I've thought about buying those urine test strips to check for sugar or protein in my urine, but honestly, I think if I have the glucose monitor and use that periodically and monitor my blood pressure and edema, there's no need. So, there it is. I am my own doctor.

Actually, truth be told, I think going to a doctor because you are pregnant is akin to going to a mechanic with a perfectly good, brand new car. You are only asking for trouble. Doctors (and mechanics for that matter) are trained to find out what is wrong with you and fix it. If you are pregnant, ain't nothing wrong, ain't nothing to fix. But, trust me, if you go to a doctor while pregnant (just like if you take your fresh off the lot car to a mechanic), he's gonna find something wrong and try to fix it. Usually, that ends up screwing up the perfectly functioning machine and throwing the whole damn process off kilter. My previous two pregnancies I stuck with midwives and learned from them that I'm making this baby all on my own. My body knows what it is doing. Sure, there may be a few bumps in the road, and if the need be, I'll have them checked. But otherwise, I'm absolutely able to do this completely alone. As have millions of women before me.

All this ranting aside, however, the fact that I have not seen a doctor or nurse or midwife this pregnancy has less to do with my own beliefs and more to do with the fact that the US military is farming me out to the Koreans. Allow me to explain. Mike is a Defense contractor. In the scheme of all things first come, first served, active duty members come first, followed by spouses and children, retirees and their families, DoD employees and their children, then the contractors themselves. After that come stray dogs and cats, North Korean women and children, wild birds, Canadian English teachers, enemy combatants, and then finally the lowliest of them all, the families of DoD contractors. Basically, what I'm saying is that you, whoever you are, reading this right now, YOU would come before me if seeking medical treatment at the Army hospital on base here.

When I was informed of this new policy (and yes, it is new -- we wouldn't have come here and gotten pregnant if we were told this up front), I asked where I could get a list of doctors that would take my insurance or that at least speak English. We don't have that, I was told. Call up a Korean hospital, was the suggestion.

"Got the number?" I asked.

"I'm not a phone book," was the more than helpful reply.

There it is. I don't know who to call, where to go, and who, if anyone, takes Aetna insurance. And quite frankly given my dislike for doctors, I'm just as happy to avoid the whole lot of them anyway. From what I've been told by my Korean friends, Korean doctors are even more arrogant and assnine than Americans. If you can believe it. So I'm just prick and pickled to have the perfect excuse to avoid the lot.

And yet, I do want to have my big 20 week ultrasound. Being 35 (I'll be 36 shortly after the baby is born), I want to see that my eggs haven't gone bad leaving me with a limbless child lacking ears or a nose. I look forward to it as a milestone in my pregnancy, a time to breath a small sigh of relief. But no doctor, no ultrasound. I finally went into the patient representative's office at the base hospital. There a friendly little Korean gal listened to my plight, picked up the phone and arranged for me to get an ultrasound. She handed me a slip of paper with the date (September 19th) written on it.

"Come to back of hospital before noon. There a van waiting, take you to ultrasound," she said in a whispered voice. Then, I swear, she looked around before continuing, "Bring $150 cash with you."

I thanked her, hid my face behind me dark shades, and slipped out of the office unnoticed, clutching the slip of paper and the promise of a back alley ultrasound.

I think I bought dime bags in college that were more on the up and up than this. Seriously. Okay. Not seriously. I never actually bought dime bags. I just smoked other people's weed. In college. When I was young. And I didn't inhale. Anyway. You get my point.

I'm bringing Mike just in case something fishy goes down. You can never be too careful with those international white slavery rings hanging around and all that. Being as fertile as I am and all. I'm sure I'd be in demand.

Quotes (and Picture) of the Day

"I'm the oldest daughter and you're the oldest mama."

Reilly Kate commenting on my antiquity.


Reilly Kate: What's that on your face?

Me: Beauty cream.

Reilly Kate: Well, it's not working. You don't look beautiful with that on.

Discussion with Reilly Kate as she watched me wax my moustache.


Upon seeing the picture I posted the other day, my friend, Justine, called today concerned about me. She figured I looked bad enough to warrant a doctor's appointment. So, to prove that I'm still just a bridge troll with really good make up, I decided to post a better, made up for public exposure picture.





See? No doctor appointment needed. I just need a hair and make up person at my disposal. I'm to damn tired for all that primping.

Tripping Up

I'm going to do some emotional purging here. I can. It is my blog and not only is it wildly entertaining, but saves me thousands that I would normally have to pay shrinks. Prepare yourself as I am about to relieve myself of some of the bile rumbling around in my soul.

For those of you who don't live far from "home" this post is going to hopefully enlighten you to the plight of those of us who do. For those of you who, like us, live far (particularly very far) from "home," you have my permission to cut and paste this into your Christmas cards this year. You needn't even give me credit for this one. If it can save you from the pain we've been going through these past four years, the plagiarism will be worth it.

Since Mike and I have been together, we've lived in Carbondale, Illinois; Alexandria, Virginia; Tampa, Florida; Seaside, California; Washington, DC; San Angelo, Texas; Seoul, Korea; Ft. Benning, Georgia; Ft. Huachuca, Arizona; Ewa Beach, Hawaii; and now, back in Seoul. Other than the 6 month stint I did back in Palatine in '98, neither of us have lived in Chicagoland (home) since leaving at 18. While I know our family and friends missed us, prior to having children there was never any issues with our visits home. Never was there consternation over how much time was spent where and with whom. We traveled around a lot, visiting various people and places, whenever we went home. We met up with siblings for dinner and drinks, spent drunken nights crashed on friends' couches, spent afternoons bouncing nephews on our knees while letting our nieces beat us at Candyland, and ate enormous piles of especially made for us overcooked, bland, and hard to swallow home cookin'. We went home as much as we could and enjoyed it.

Then we had children and what should have enhanced our trips home apparently only turned some people back there into selfish louts. Yep. You read that right. There is more jockying for time and position on our calendar than horses on the track at Arlington. It has brought out the ugly. And if you are reading this and think that I'm talking about you, you're probably right. I'm sure you know who you are. I doubt you honestly feel good about it, either.

Allow me to clear the air, then, if I might. Let me lay down the facts. In the last 4 years, we've come home a total of 8 times, the shortest flight of which was 9 hours long. If those flights were all direct, which I can assure you that most were NOT, that would give us a total of 150+ hours of in flight time. Tacking on 2 hours before the flight and an hour for baggage claim, Department of Agriculture, Immigration, and/or Customs (which I think is a very conservative estimate), you're looking at over 175 hours. Now, let's talk travel to and from the airport at being a minimum of an hour each way and we're up to over 205 hours of travel time. And this is not including lay over times, delays, and cancelled flights. I think I'd be well within the realm of reason to say that we've spent over 250 hours traveling home in the last four years.

That's a lot to ask of small children. And the parents of small children.
I haven't even taken into account the expense in terms of money spent on airfare, car rentals, clothing (yes, when people from the tropics go home for a Chicago Christmas, they must BUY winter clothes, coats, hats, etc), travel incidentals (like dining out, hotels, day trips here and there), and dog kennels. Then we have the ever so very, very precious VACATION TIME! During those 4 years and 8 trips home, we've spent a grand total of 30 weeks, or 7 and a half months, in Chicagoland. That would be like you going on an almost month long Hawaiian vacation twice a year. With your kids. We've easily spent over $20,000 and ALL of our vacation time on going home to visit.

This means we don't get to go on Caribbean vacations like you. My kids haven't done the Disney World cruise and most likely never will. Hell, Mike and I haven't been on a vacation, just the two of us... well... we went once to Thailand for four days, and no, it was NOT our honeymoon (for our honeymoon we had my mom, dad, two brothers, my grandma, grandpa, and aunt). We've never been to Vegas or the Dells or Cancun. Our trip to Shanghai was our very first trip anywhere as a family. And again, it was just a long weekend. We didn't have any extra time off since we were saving it up for our trip home in June/July.

In essence, we sacrifice a lot to come home.


Now, why would anyone in their right mind do such a thing? Because I think it is important for my children to know the people that love them. Living so far from home, my kids are sometimes closer to the neighbors than their aunties and to their playmates than their cousins. I don't want my kids to wonder who their grandparents are. It is important to us to come home. We want to come home for christenings and weddings and birthdays. While we may not make it to everything, we certainly try.

In return all we ask is just a few things.

Don't ask us to drive to you. I've just put my kids through a long ass flight (Seoul to Chicago is 15 hours -- do that with a 4 year old and a 2 year old, I dare ya). Do not expect me to then strap them into their carseats for an hour, hour and a half, or two hour car ride to see your happy ass. Come to us. While I was happy to drive around all of Chicagoland before we had kids, I ain't doing it now. We're either at my parents' house in Palatine or Mike's parents' condo in Schaumburg. We're easy to find. Wanna see us? Drive on out.

Don't expect to see us only on weekends or weekday evenings. There aren't that many weekend days in a three week visit. We are usually booked up with birthday parties, barbecues, special events, and the like. Showing up after work isn't a good plan, either. My kids go to bed between 7 and 8 at night. Don't show up at 6pm expecting a nice visit. It ain't happening. We're getting jammies on, teeth brushed, books read, and prayers said. If you want a nice visit, take a day or two, or ::oh, my gosh, I couldn't!:: THREE days off of work and hang out with us. We take vacation time to spend in Chicago with you. You could do the same.

Don't expect one on one, exclusive, alone time visits. Particularly if you are trying to see us only on the weekends. We have a lot of people to squeeze in and in order to get them all in, we do a lot of group things. If every year on the third Tuesday after autumnal equinox you spend the day at the arboretum with your cousin's wife's sister in law's dog groomer's friend, then fine. But you could invite us to go along with. We wouldn't mind and it would be a chance for you to keep your plans and yet squeeze in a visit with us. Again, if you don't like that idea, take some time off of work, pull the kids out of school, and hang out with us.

If you haven't bothered to come out to visit us, you are lower on the priority list of people to see, regardless of how close in blood relation you are. I have friends that have come out multiple times. My cousin and aunt have come out twice. Friends of my parents have come out for a visit. In my book, those people who place such a premium on seeing my children that they spend their time and money to come to us for a visit are first in line. Those who, in lieu of a visit to us, spend their resources on sunning their leathered skin on the deck of a luxury liner as their children frolic in a cartoon character run on-board daycare, can step to the back with the other handbags. We'll see you when and if we can.

Don't get angry with us if plans go awry and we don't have a chance to catch up with one another. No, we don't expect you to drop everything and race to accommodate us. And we also don't get angry or even hurt if our times just don't jive and we completely miss one another. It happens. It sucks. But it happens. Pointing fingers, blaming us, spreading vicious lies, and causing great family schisms over it won't fix the problem. Ya know what might, though? Come out and spend two weeks with us! You're always welcome.

I had no intention of naming names. But I will. Here. In this one instance. My brother Chris and his wife Missy are a shining beacon of the way it can be done. They live over 5 hours away by car from my parents' home. For whatever reason, money, resources, time, desire, they have not come out to see us. Yet, every single time that we come home, they make that 5 hour trip, (that's 1 way, by the way) to see us without question or complaint. Never once have they missed a trip. Never once have they whined that we don't come down to see them. Because they live far away, too, when they do come up, there is usually a fairly large crowd gathered around to visit with them as well as with us. Never once have they complained that they don't get one on one time. Every single Christmas we've been home, they've cut their Christmas morning short to pack up their kids and make the long trek up to spend a late Christmas dinner with us. Every time. Never complaining. Always glad to spend even just a short weekend with us. We're so blessed to have them. And if either of you are reading this, thank you. You probably have no clue how much it means to know that while others are bickering, whining, guilt tripping, and throwing tantrums, we can count on a pleasant, hassle free visit with you guys.

In closing I'd like to say that we'll continue coming out as often as we always have. I'd like to say that we so enjoy our visits home and will keep spending our time and money doing so. Sadly, this is not the case. Over the course of the last four years, we have reached our fill of what I'd consider abuse of our willingness to give. Every trip home has been wrought with pain and arguments. We've done our last trip home for quite a long time to come. Our doors are always open. Come and visit us where we are. But we won't be coming home. Not again. Not for a very long time.

So who like's kimchi?

I feel pretty, oh so pretty

Is this the pregnant glow on which everyone is complimenting me? (hair by Reilly Kate, make up by Roman, zits and triple chin courtesy of ThreePeet Spi)

Little Jim Buffett sat on a tuffet

We went to a farewell barbecue today. The weather was hot and sticky, the food fabulous and plentiful, the conversation lively and interesting. But the best part, by far, was the live music entertainment. There were four guitar players in all, playing a variety of songs, taking turns singing, having a blast. I'm about as musical as I am athletic and Mike, while he owns a guitar and plucks on it now and then, isn't much of a musician either. Just being able to watch these four was a treat for me.

But then the inevitable happened. And really, I should have expected it. I mean, what else would four guitar players do whilst munching grilled meats and slurping down margaritas but play... Jimmy Buffett.

Oh, god, do I hate me some Jimmy Buffett. Now, don't get me wrong here. He's a fine musician. His voice doesn't grate on me like I know it does some. Even the music he writes has a certain appeal if you like that twangy, redneck, high school drop out, cousins marrying cousins kind of melody. For me, it is those god awful lyrics that make me want to gouge out my eardrums with a spork (thanks, Seth).

Really, Jimmy Buffett is like Raffi for adults who still liked kindergarten a little too much. Come on. Cheeseburger in Paradise? You are gonna walk around singing that one all day? Why not Raffi's Peanut Butter Sandwich? What's the difference between humming "Cheeseburger in paradise, medium rare with mustard 'be nice" and "Peanut butter sandwich made with jam?" No difference, really. And really, "Why don't we get drunk and screw" is just the adult version of "The more we get together the happier we'll be."

I could go on, but I think you get my point. Jimmy Buffett is singing kiddy songs to adults. Oh, deep man. So deep. I just don't understand.

Normally, I don't say a word about this. It's my secret. There are a lot of very loyal Buffett fans in the world and I don't need a schoolyard ass whooping over a song entitled, "Last mango in Paris." But tonight I met another Buffett hater (he'd fall under that "his voice grates on my nerves" category). And where there is one, there must be more. I'm thinking of starting a club. If interested, send me a cryptic message such as, "What if the hokey pokey is all it really is about" or containing "Life is just a tire swing."

Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Mama needs a new pair of shoes

Roman playing gamble. See yesterday's post for details.

The Dude Abides

Tonight we rolled. If I haven't already written about it, my bowling skills suck ass. And it isn't for a lack of trying. I started bowling young, maybe 7 or 8 years old. I bowled every other weekend on a league all winter long for years and years. I had my own ball and everything. Oh, yes, I was a bowler. A really shitty bowler. Even sadder still is that as an adult I roll about the same as I did as a child. My scores are almost identical.

So tonight we bowled. It is still god awful hot and humid outside which is no place to be when pregnant hence we have been looking for some indoor fun with the kids lately. Mike and I, the kids, and my friend Dave (a Canadian, but we still like him anyway) headed over and got ourselves a lane, some foul smelling rental shoes, and house balls covered in scratches, pits, and craters.

It wasn't until I was just about to throw my first ball that I realized I could actually fall off balance and roll my whole pregnant self down the shiny lane. I had to pause for a moment before actually winding up for the release. I was terrified of crashing face first or worse. If you could see how top heavy I am, you'd understand my concern. I had visions of me sliding half way down the lane, ass over tits, clinging desperately to the neon green ball I was using.

Fortunately, it didn't happen. I was able to put the thought out of my head by rationalizing that if Fred Flintstone with his big ass belly can bowl, well, then so can I. And I can proudly say that I beat both my four year old daughter and my two year old son. The night wasn't a total loss.

I am, however, waiting for an attack of Ajuma's (older, married woman in Korean) Revenge. You see, I did what any hungry pregnant woman would do at a bowling alley: I ordered up a giant plate of "Gourmet Nachos." Thinking I was getting some ooey gooey, cheesy yum loaded with salsa and hot peppers and the whole works, I was pretty disappointed when what arrived was chips with cold shredded cheese sprinkled atop some cold chicken and black beans, sour cream, salsa, and guacamole dollopped on the sides. The whole thing was ice cold. Forget ooey gooey. This wasn't even nachos in my book.

I took the plate up to the snack stand and expressed my... displeasure. Ajuma assured me that nachos were indeed supposed to be cold. I asked her if there was any way to say, heat it up, "melt the cheese." She, a Korean woman, then informed me, a Midwestern white girl, that cheddar cheese does not melt. Huh. Now, I'm from Chicago. It's a rather large city (by American standards anyway). We haven't had a fucking cow in that town since that crazy Mrs. O'Leary allowed her dumbass milking beast to kick over a lantern and burn the whole fucking place down in 1871. Yet, we're only a couple hours from Wisconsin which has more cows than people and cheese is held as almost as holy as the host. I personally know quite a few "cheese heads" and have it on their good authority that cheddar cheese does in fact melt.

After pulling a fellow bowling mama into the debate, Ajuma finally conceded that cheddar cheese does melts, but then added, "We eat nachos like this. Cold."

"Koreans?" I asked.

"Oh, no," she laughed. "This American food. Koreans don't eat."

"Well, ma'am, this-" I pointed to my plate of cold shredded cheese, chicken, and beans, "is NOT American food, either."

With utter contempt she took my plate back and redid the whole order. I am quite certain she spit on my food. No, I am absolutely certain. And this is why I am always having some kind of gastro-intestinal distress. People are spitting on my food.

Lastly, I have to tell you about Roman. He's only two and therefore he's good for about one game. After that, he's all about running amok in the bowling alley. Until. Today. When he discovered... the slot machines. For those that don't know, your hard earned American tax dollars put slot machines on overseas military bases so that underpaid, barely making ends meet, subsisting on food stamps and WIC military men and women can parlay their meager pittance into a fortune. You see? That Iraq war really is paying for itself. We just need more slot machines over there.

Anyway, Roman found them and instantly fell in love. There is sat for the better part of our second game. Just playing around with the buttons. No, we didn't give him any money to put in. But I was tempted. Oh, lord, I was tempted.

I was gonna post a picture of it, but blogger is just not going to allow that tonight and I'm too tired to fight it. The nacho war took all the fight right out of me. Instead I will close by giving you a great bowling tip. If you haven't seen The Big Lebowski go now and get it and watch it. If you don't get it or think it's quite possibly one of the funniest movies ever, suffice it to say that you will never get me and can quit reading this old blog now because I'm sure you don't find it that funny. And from henceforth you may just call me "Dude."

DaVinci Envy

I just got done watch the DaVinci Code. It is late here and I'm completely exhausted. In case you've never made somebody before, let me tell you that this business of people production is hard ass fucking work. You'd never know it from looking at me lounging on the couch, munching popcorn while staring blankly at the telly, but trust me, I'm working harder than you. I think I must have made some major internal organ today because I'm just wiped.

Anyway, though, the Code. Though I heard it sucked, I was not disappointed in the movie. I was far more disappointed in the book. Perhaps because I had heard that the book was so good and, well, sadly, it sucked. But when I heard the movie sucked and it was mediocre, then I was delighted.

And now, at 11:30pm, my son has awoken, ready to start his day. This is his new routine. Lovely, eh? So I will cut this short and allow you to talk amongst yourselves. Dan Brown is a suck ass author. Jealously? Perhaps.

Back from Isolation

Having the internet down is like being in an isolation chamber. I had no contact with the outside world. Well, at least none that was worth a damn. Sure, I had the occassional run ins with my fellow housewives on base and there's always the joy filled exchange with random old men who pee on the street near my apartment. But nothing really meaningful touches my life without the aid of the internet.

How sad is that?

Ah, but my Vonage box is back, blinking properly as I type and the outside world is once again at my finger tips. All is right with the world.

So wanna know what was wrong with my internet connection? Even if you don't, I'm gonna tell you. Apparently, my ISP is trying to prevent customers from using routers. Allow me to explain something. We don't pay for internet service. It is included with our rent. Hyundai Hometown was plugged as the internet home of the future when it was built. We don't have a modem or anything like that. We just plug straight into the internet jack in the wall. So why exactly are they trying to prevent routers?

I'm not using a router box to connect more than one computer. I'm just using the box to allow my phone access to the internet. I'm not cheating anyone of anything. I pay my bills. I pay for the services I receive. I'm as honest as you'll find here in Asia.

And yet, they block my box.

Here, in the land of fake Gucci and knock off Prada, where no one rents movies when you can buy them off the street for less than that, and Microsoft is so pirated that I doubt you can even buy a legal, copyrighted version of Windows anywhere on the pennisula. Yes, here, they block my box so this little, old fat housewife cannot call her Mama.

I do not like my box blocked. Do not fuck with my box. Do not.

Not one to be outdone, I rented another box to sit next to my Vonage box that overrides those sneaky ISP bastards. HA!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go buy myself a Louis Vuitton diaper bag... for twenty bucks.

Something's amiss

My internet is down. Well, it sporadically comes up for a few minutes at a time, then crashes again (it's taken me three hours to post this -- trying to find that sporadic window of opportunity).

We had a very brief power outtage yesterday that I believe fried out the Vonage box. Hence, also, we have no phone. Really no way to contact us at all till we fix this. Hopefully, before the weekend's out. I'm off to go over to the Vonage office now (can't call them when the dang box ain't working).

More when I can!