"Happy" Halloween!

Some things need no further explanation.

Quote of the day

"Well, you look like you're 8 and a half months pregnant. [pause pause pause] Ummm... no. No. I mean... It's just... Your abs are shot."

Mike trying to explain why all our friends keep staring at me in jaw dropping shock while repeatedly exclaiming, "You are so fat!"

He's gonna be a rock star!

Roman loves to sing... at top volume, ukulele in hand. He sings variations on the same song, dealing with the death of my grandma, his GG. The words vary, but basically involve "You had to die..." "...that because... the doctor can't fix you." "You wanted to play with me... but you had to die." It sounds morbid, but I assure you it is a happy song. This particular version involved some of his own medical maladies, namely mosquito bites.



I turned the recorder off just before he pumped his fist and hollered, "YAHOO!" I'm thinking a new genre here. A cross between country and punk.

Playdates, parties, and pedophilia

If you've read the last few posts, then you know that I just don't seem to fit in with the other moms. I actually had a couple of friends here in Seoul for a brief time. They all moved over the summer, though, and the kids and I have been basically on our own since. Sure, I have friends from when I lived here before, but most are single men with drinking problems ("Hey, there's no problem! I drink to get drunk. If I succeed, then no problem!") who really don't do playdate ("Oh, but I'd do playMATES!") and would rather I not talk about the yeast infection I have under my saggy boobs.

The sad result is that my kids have no friends, either. At this young age, a mother's social skills are directly responsible for her children's social circle and calendar. Our circle and calendar are woefully empty. In this I am an utter failure. At least my married housekeeper has recently taken an... ahem... interest in a guy who lives nearby with his children. According to Reilly Kate, they spent a whole day hanging out with him and his kids at their house. At first, I found this disturbing until I realized that this is the only playdate my kids have had since June. So what's a little bending of the 7th commandment if my kids make some friends in the deal and I still have every Tuesday afternoon free to get my weekly manicure and pedicure?

Actually, I lied. We have had one playdate since June. Another mom invited us to join a group of preschoolers at playground one afternoon. She said they always bring snacks and play for a few hours. I packed our snacks and set off to the playdate with two kids quite over the moon at the prospect of actually playing with kids that weren't siblings or otherwise blood related. We arrived ten minutes fashionably late to a completely empty playground where we stayed for 45 minutes in the hopes that they, that anyone actually, would show up. Finally, we walked over to another playground and found them all there. Ooops. Forgot to tell ya that we changed the meeting place. About a half hour after our arrival everyone left. But my kids did get that half hour! God dammit.

Don't suggest that I join the local MOMS club or what acts as that here anyway. There's an organized playgroup here that is similar to MOMS. They have a Yahoo group thingy to which one must apply for membership. Then you get to find out when they meet and what they're doing and all that jazz. So I applied. And was turned down. All decisions are final, said the email I was sent. Sight unseen I was rejected. Alas, the playgroup here is out.

Add all this to the fact that Roman's birthday is coming up in just one month and what I have is enough angst to cause a case of middle aged ulcers coupled with teenaged acne. Who the hell am I going to invite? I've thought about handing out invites at the playground on base, but I tried that a few years ago with limited success. Out of 50 flyers, we only got 4 families to show up. And the flyers specifically stated to please just show up with NO obligation of a gift so it wasn't frugality keeping the masses at bay. It's my stellar personality.

So 'round and 'round I've been going with the birthday dilemma. Honestly, though, I just couldn't think of any sure bets to invite. And then... a bit of manna floated down to me from heaven on Friday afternoon. I showed up to pick up Reilly Kate and the moms were all a-twitter with the news they read on page three of the Stars and Stripes. It seems we have a registered sex offender in our midst. Our very own preschool drop off dad, in fact. Hell, he and Mike struck up a conversation last Sunday before mass started as our kids played around in the grass in front of the chapel. ("I knew I got a creepy vibe off him," says Mike in hindsight. Uh huh. Yeah. Right.) His son is in Reilly Kate's class and attends Religious Education classes with many of the other preschoolers (RK is in the kindergarten class). His wife sings in the choir and is an active duty major. He's daddy daycare to their four kids.

And he's a sexual predator.

If you didn't click the link to the story, let me briefly explain. It seems he was killing time online one day and came across a 15 year old girl. They started talking dirty and he asked to meet her at a local mall (coincidentally enough, a mall in suburban Chicago). Dumbass brings his three kids (they only had three at the time -- apparently the wife's still sleeping with him which just grosses me out) to meet her and is subsequently arrested by the dirty talking police who pretended to be a 15 year old girl. Guilty guilty guilty. For the rest of his life, he must notify his neighbors of his misdeeds. Unless he lives on a military installation overseas. Then we just read about it in the Stars and Stripes.

Anyway, you are probably wondering what the hell this has to do with Roman's birthday and how having a sexual deviant in our midst is somehow a blessing to me and my kids. I'm getting there.

The man has four kids. Do you think they're getting a lot of playdates now that this is splashed all over the news? How many moms do you think are inviting them over or meeting them at the playground? I'm betting that a posse, complete with torches and nooses and tools of castration, runs them out of the country by Christmas. And really, if my daughter were 14 instead of four I'd be more concerned. But she's just four and while I'm creeped out by the whole thing and would really like to tie his balls in a knot, dip them in Dave's Insanity Sauce, and hand him a blade, I don't think his kids should be punished for the actions of their father. And I don't think he's a danger to my kids. That isn't to say he is safe to have on base here. I'm just saying I'm not worried.

No, I'm going to sleep well tonight knowing that I've got four whole kids coming to Roman's birthday party and I haven't even invited them yet. Finally, I've found someone to hang out with. Even if he is a perv.

Going for Preschool Mom of the Year.

On Friday Reilly Kate's teacher asked us to bring pictures of "community helpers" cut from magazines to school on Monday. Without even making a note of it in my day planner, I committed the task to memory. This one I would not forget. After all, I was kind of excited about this project as I knew there'd be plenty of fire fighters, police officers, doctors, and soldiers brought in but I thought I could explain to RK some other types of people who help the community. As we don't have any magazines other than The Economist, Foreign Affairs, and The American Prospect laying about the house, I used Google and found images of whatever Reilly Kate and I discussed: yes, a fire fighter and a police officer, but also a midwife, a priest (huh, and I just by chance choose a picture of a female priest with the Eucharist), a volunteer at a soup kitchen, Steve Irwin (conservationist!), and Habitat for Humanity volunteers.

Despite running ten minutes late, I took the time to write down what each picture was just so it was clear then put them in a little folder. I dragged the children downstairs, threw them into their carseats, and sped through Seoul like a toothless hillbilly in a Nascar race. We arrived just in time.

As we walked through the door, Reilly Kate proudly presented her teacher with the folder of pictures. Miss Jenny opened the folder and excitedly told me that I was the only mom to remember the pictures. The only one!!! I shot my arms up like a football player at the goal line.

"Yes!" I cried. "Yes!! I never remember these things. I never remember anything. But I remembered this one. I was the only one who remembered? Really?"

Miss Jenny nodded, a huge smile on her face.

Again, a little quieter this time, "Yes!"

Then Miss Jenny started reading aloud all the pictures that we brought in.

"Habitat for Humanity? Yes. Good. Okay. What's this? Oh, yes, a soup kitchen. Uh, and a priest. Ummm... yes. Oh, these are good. Thank you. Thank you for remembering."

I turned around, beaming from ear to ear. One might even say I was glowing. Until. I realized all the other moms within earshot were glaring at me. I'd thrown the curve. By not fucking up, I'd fucked up. I really wanted to stick my tongue out at them and say, "Bite me." But I refrained. Instead I went out to my minivan and at Andrea's suggestion, cranked up Volvo Driving Soccer Mom.

I just can't win.

For Cristie

I am officially a soccer mom. I've been at home, waiting for politicians to now court me, but alas that ain't gonna happen. I really thought when I hit this major milestone, when I got the badge, when I gained access to the club, I'd be one of them -- the MOMS. I thought I'd suddenly get organized and crafty and confident in my parenting skills. I'd sport a sensible hair do and high waisted jeans and get invited to things like moms' night at the bowling alley's virgin daiquiris for a buck night.

It ain't happening.

But Reilly Kate did score the first goal of the first soccer game of the season. That was last Saturday. I couldn't have been prouder of my gal. She is just cut out for this game. She loves to run and kick and use her head and flash her boobies and all that other soccer kind of stuff. I'm tellin' ya, we've got another Mia Hamm here. So it was with enthusiasm and joy that we readied ourselves for another Saturday morning of practice and a game.

I dug out her shin guards. Of course, they're not the fancy ones that all the other kids have because their mothers ordered them online before the start of the season. No, no. These are the standard issue ones that the league hands out. But she doesn't seem to mind. I searched high and low for a pair of soccer shorts and tube socks, but they didn't have those at the one store we have available to us here. Again, probably something I should have ordered months ago, like when I first signed her up for soccer. So I dressed her in a long pair of jean shorts and white knee highs. The thing is, though, RK doesn't mind. She's just so happy being in soccer.

It was with this happy enthusiasm that we left, on time, even, for her second day of soccer. It was to be short lived.

It took us longer than I thought it would to get to practice since half the streets on post were blocked off. I didn't think much of it. The weather has been nice and the powers that be on base are always doing some kind of 5k fun run to keep us all in shape. As you can see from my pictures, this has done wonders for me. HA! Anyway, we pulled up to the field a few minutes after 9am and there was nary a car in the lot. Not a soul on the grass. No being living or dead sans the Korean guard who was demanding I show him my ID as I stared in stunned silence at the fact that the soccer teams were all missing.

"Oh, no! We missed it! We missed my soccer! Mmmmmmooooooooommmm!!" my little Pele whined from the back. It cut like a razor to my heart. How could I have fucked this one up? One measly soccer practice. How could I have somehow caused her to miss it? How can I unfuck this?
I remembered that I had the coach's cell phone number in my day planner. By the grace of God and modern technology he answered and told me that instead of soccer today the kids were to march in the big Fall Festival parade. We were meeting in the commissary parking lot at 9:30. He had sent an email out with all the information attached last week.

I missed that email. Missed it because, well, I don't read my email. Yep. You read that right. People send me email and I just can't be bothered to open it. What do you want me to say? I'm a shit. There. No surprise, really. I look and see that there is email to open and think I'll open it later. Later never comes. It's the story of my life. And if you think that is bad, you should have seen my house before I got a housekeeper.

Anyway, I had 25 minutes to get us to the commissary which was about a mile away. No sweat, right? Wrong. Half the damn streets are blocked off. I spent the next 20 minutes driving in circles, doing U turns, 3 point turns, Austin Powers' turns, and blocking every intersection to talk to the traffic MPs working that day, just trying to figure out how the hell to get to the damn commissary. With just ten minutes left to get us there, the last MP I ask for help, offers me the simplest of solutions.

"Go home and park there. Then walk to the commissary," she says.

Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. And finally we know why you, Sarge, with your cake make up, big tits, and poorly bleached hair are a traffic cop and NOT a brain surgeon or a piano teacher, or even a waitress at Denny's. Thanks for clearing that up. I, of course, didn't say that. Not because I'm nice or sensitive. I'm most certainly confrontational and caustic. No, I didn't say that because I too have cake make up, big tits, poorly bleached hair, plus I can't even keep track of the one single activity my daughter is in. Yeah, those who live in glass houses and all that.

So now, with just five minutes left till we needed to be with our team, I pulled up to a woman walking down the street and begged her to help me. Like a latte sipping guardian angel, she not only gave me directions, she allowed me to follow her as she drove there. We pulled up to the parking lot and there a worker bee instructed me to drop my daughter off and leave because I can't park in the lot.

"I can't just drop her off. She's four."

"Yes, just drop her off. You can't park here. You have to park elsewhere," he explains again. He probably thinks he needs to given my make up, tits, and hair.

"Ummm... I can't drop her off. I have to stay with her. She's only four. Where can I park near here so that she can participate in the parade?"

"You can't park here."

"Yes, I realize that. But I also cannot just drop her off here. She is FOUR YEARS OLD."

A light bulb goes off in his head and he asks, "Are you walking with her in the parade?"

I nod.

"Oh, then just park right over there."

My head spun at the simplicity of the solution but I didn't dawdle because of it. I didn't want him to renege on his parking offer. I took off and just about ran over one of the little kids in Reilly Kate's preschool who was apparently marching with his boy scout troop. Either that or he was dressed up for Halloween early. I heard his mom yell at him.

"Watch out and get out of the way before Reilly Kate's mom runs you over as she parks!"

I just smiled and waved trying to look like any other easy going, fun loving mom with it all under control. Like I had planned all along to march in this parade, to park in this spot, to arrive with mere seconds to spare. Yes, it is all right here in the day planner, I wanted to yell out. Right here with the rest of my daily life detailed, where all is well planned and organized. Instead, I toss the kids out of the van, grabbed the stroller, and ran around the parking lot in search of the green shirted Lancers. Finding a team of 3 and 4 year olds in a crowd of hundreds of rugrats is NOT easy. I didn't see even a single one.

Eventually, after a few more phone calls to the coach, we met up with the team. We all marched together. It was a happy event. Parents with cameras. Kids with their teammates. Coaches with megaphones. I even saw a friendly face in the crowd, a fellow preschool mom. She came over to say hi and I noticed that not only is she decked out in red, her daughter's team color, but so is her husband. Not only that, but she has created paper mache dragon hats for the team as their moniker is the Dragons.

"It's not really paper mache," she tells me. "It's like it, but without the paste. Then I just painted them. I've been working on them since last Friday."

Friday? Last Friday? I think. What the hell was I even doing last Friday? I reached to look in my day planner, but the pages were stuck together with an old piece of chewed gum.

And that's when it dawned on me. I need a Blueberry... or Blackberry... or Burberry... or whatever the hell those things are called. Some fuckin' berry. I need one of those. Then I would be sure to check my email and organize my life and have it all down in a something that I couldn't put my gum in.

I might even get invited to a moms' night out. What are the chances?

Kids 'n Cocks

We were walking down the street yesterday. Just window shopping and munching on street squid. You know, the typical Thursday afternoon type stuff. Suddenly, Reilly Kate stops dead in her tracks and yells out, "Mom! Get out your camera! You have to take my picture with these guys."


I mean, really, what girl in her right mind can resist getting her picture taken with a couple of cocks? Of course, Roman didn't want to miss out on the action, either.

The Revolution Starts Now

Nuclear Fallout & You know you're a dork when...

First, let me reassure you that we are still here, alive and well. Sure the kids are starting to glow a bit and my hair is falling out in clumps. The dachshund has grown to the size of a horse and Mike's teeth are blue. But I don't think it has anything to do with any nuclear testing. I think it has to do with our proximity to the Han River, to be honest with you.

So rest assured, we are in no danger here. Well, none from that leisure suited stud muffin up north anyway.

Now onto my You know you're a dork when...

Mike and I left the kids at home with Almin this weekend and went over to the National Museum of Korea. We've been there several times before but never without the kids. We wanted to get those headset thingies that explain each and every item on display in the museum.

We got our headsets and set off. I was a little panicky since we only had 4 hours to do it all. And it is a huge museum. We were going to have to pick and choose, for sure.

After about an hour and a half, Mike asked if I wanted to take a break and get a snack and something to drink. I'm thinking, "Hell fucking no! Let's push on!" But Mike can get very cranky if not kept well fed, so I agreed. Shortly after he finished his snack, he says, "Are you ready to go?"

Ummmm.... go where? Certainly he didn't mean leave the museum. Turn in our headsets without having gotten over the the archeological displays? No, no. He couldn't have meant that! Not Mike!! Not the geek that reads books on Korean history, Korean political strategy, Korean foreign policy for fun! Not the dork that could sit all day long engrossed in the driest reading known to man on the strategic military defense of the Korean peninsula from 1300AD - present. Surely not him! Not the Korea-phile who owns his own collection of heady Korean writing in KOREAN! NO, no, no!!!

Yes, indeed, he did mean that.

A compromise was met. We stayed another half hour then left. I felt like a teenage boy on a date with the easiest cheerleader in high school who stripped down to her panties and bra, got down on her knees, and then said, "Let's go for coffee!" I had the intellectual equivalent of blue balls.

And now I know, I am an even bigger dork than my husband.

Educational Cheju-do

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. At the Hyatt Regency Cheju with a love struck four year old, a simian like blond boy, an over worked, tired, and cranky daddy, one hugely pregnant and none too mobile mama, and our Dutch fan club. As our luck would have it, the weather had turned ugly, overcast, gray, and dreary, with a smidge of trickle here and there. It reminded me of the Reagan era that way.

Our first excursion Saturday morning, after breakfast, of course, was a stop marked on the free Avis rental car map as the 1100 meter scenic point. We parked and walked around trying to find the scenic look out so we could, ya know, take a look. But all we found was a little building up on a hill, where it would have been a good place to build a look out, filled with over priced Korean junk souvenirs. Oh, and these statues that I made the kids pose with. They are called harubang and they ward off evil spirits. Though, obviously, if my angels of Satan got this close, they aren't very good at warding off anything.

After shelling out thousands of won for a few toys for the kids to keep them happy on our drive, we headed back to the car. While in the parking lot, we were accosted by a tour group of visiting Chinese who just had to have their pictures taken with the kids. I'm really not sure what they do with these pictures. I mean, do they show them to their friends? "And look. Here is us with this white kid we forced to take a picture with us. Look at how white she is. And we found her in Korea!" And if it had been just one person, one picture, I really wouldn't have minded. But after several with a crowd of others waiting their turn, I just picked her up and put in her in the car. Really, she gets PAID for this kind of thing, people!

It wasn't till we were pulling out, and driving away that we actually spotted the 1100 meter scenic... ummm... well... this. It's a sign. That's all. A sign. A parking lot filled with snap happy Chinese tourists. A couple of harubangs. An over priced souvenir stand. And a 1100 meter sign. A true to form, real life tourist trap. Cheju was starting to remind me a lot of South Carolina. How many of you have been suckered into stopping at that South of the Border money pit? Admit it. Come on. Well, just so you know, if you've been to South Carolina, then you've basically been to Cheju-do. Although, there are a lot more museums in Cheju.

From there we went off to visit our first of several museums. It seems that Cheju, despite being beautiful and having a moderate climate, felt the need to draw visitors for other reasons besides scenery, beach bumming, and golf. Their answer was museums. There are museums for everything there. I mean, what better place than Korea to have an Africa Museum? Or how 'bout the Sex and Health Museum? Lots of honeymooners get a education there, I'll bet. But we decided to start out with something not only distinctly Korean, but particular only to Cheju-do: The Haenyeo Museum.

Haenyeo are the island's traditional diving women. The women dive down to collect the seafood so popular in Cheju and throughout Korea. It was an exclusively female job starting in the 1600s. Nowadays, things have changed with commercial fishing and all that. But there are still some who continue to dive. These women handed the profession down through the generations, diving while pregnant, bringing their newborns with them to the beach, and teaching their young daughters to dive. They'd actually leave their babies in little moses baskets near the fires to keep warm and then would come out of the water to nurse them. Then they'd go straight back to diving in water, down 8-10 feet on a single breath.


There was also a children's museum that the kids enjoyed even though it was entirely in Korean. They were the only kids in there so that was cool for them to be able to play with all the hands on activities without having to wait or take turns. In fact, we were the only guests in the entire museum. Coming from Seoul, a city of 13 million, it was almost heaven, really.The thing that really drew Mike and I to want to go to this particular museum was that these women were the only organized group of all female patriots who actively resisted the Japanese oppression. There were patriotic women of all sorts throughout Korea who acted heroically, don't get me wrong. But the haenyeo were the only actual organization of women who fought. There is a rather impressive memorial to them right outside the museum. I liked it, but for the fact that only the woman on the right side looks Korean. The other two look like they could be my cousins. Ech. Always something just not quite right.

Our next museum was The Teddy Bear Museum. We really thought the kids were going to love this museum. It cost an arm and a leg to get in, but since they behaved fairly well at the Haenyeo museum, we thought we'd reward them. The reality was they weren't so interested in the vast array of teddy bears from eras goneby or by the teddies dressed up and posed like famous people or moments in history. They wanted to play with teddy bears and buy themselves a teddy bear. Roman wandered around by himself, whining and begging to be carried around by almost anyone that would pay him notice. Reilly Kate, though, poor Reilly Kate. She became my poseable prop. I made her stand with all kinds of teddy bears and imitate their poses. Here's she's doing Michael Jordan. Don't ya just love it!?!

As weird as it sounded, it was actually probably more fun for Mike and I than the kids. We really liked this display. On the left is King Sejong, a great Korean king. On the right is Yi Soon Shin, a famous Korean admiral. In the middle... he needs no introduction. What does Gandhi have in common with the other two? Now that is an interesting question, one that kept us guessing for hours.

But nothing at the Teddy Bear Museum really compared to the cerebral challenge that awaited us at the Chocolate Museum. We'd picked up a brochure for the place at the hotel. It looked awesome. Lots of hand dipped chocolates. A whole museum dedicated to the art of chocolate. Chocolate. Chocolate. How could we possibly go wrong?

Let me tell you, there was hardly any chocolate in the whole place. In fact, the museum was actually dedicated to the junk thrift stores in the states below the Mason Dixon line could not sell. Glass cases, dozens of them, filled with McDonalds Happy Meal toys. And not the old, collectible toys, either. Recent ones. What was the connection to chocolate? That's a riveting question? Here's another brain teaser. Why the hell does Buzz Lightyear have a rubber chicken in his hand? And what is Princess Jasmine doing between his legs? And why the hell is he so big compared to the other toys? And what the hell does this have to do with chocolate?

While we're at it, what does this salt and pepper shaker have to do with chocolate? What does salt and pepper have to do with boobs or South Beach or Cheju or chocolate? And why, oh, why for the love of all that is sweet and hand dipped is this in the chocolate museum but not an ounce of chocolate?

Before we left the museum, we found the chocolate. One, tiny glass case filled with over priced boxes of chocolates. We bought one box and a chocolate lollipop to the tune of over 30 bucks. As you can see from the picture, Roman assumed ownership and control of said box of chocolates. I think I had two, just enough to keep me nourished for the long, sleepless night I spent thinking of the answers to the questions our museum excursions had posed.

We returned to the hotel to take the kids for a quick swim and then out to dinner. We fell into our beds, asleep even before the kids. It was a very taxing day, as you well can imagine.

Cha Cha Cheju-do

Sometime last week I got a call from Elizabeth -- the modeling agent formerly known as "Ajuma". As you may recall, Elizabeth is rivaled in stupidity only by her mumbling assistant who hasn't been declared brain dead yet solely based on her incessant, nonsensical rambling. Anyway, Elizabeth asked if we wanted to drop everything and fly down to Cheju-do for a days' worth of shooting. Being a complete and utter idiot, I agreed.

In my defense, Mike had never been down to Cheju and we'd been talking about doing a family trip. Elizabeth told me that the shoot was on Friday only. I figured Mike could fly down after work on Friday and meet up with us for the rest of the weekend. I asked Elizabeth if she could arrange for Reilly Kate, Roman, and I to fly back on Sunday evening instead of Friday evening. When she agreed, I asked Reilly Kate if she wanted to model. Of course, since it involved money my greedy little Republican was more than happy to comply. So it was all set. Mike got his airplane ticket and using his Hyatt Club points, booked us a room for two nights for free.

Then. She called back. SHE. That Elizabeth. The dumb one. Oh, she was confused. The shoot wasn't going to be on Friday. It was going to be on Sunday. But she'd still fly us down there on Friday. By the way, how old is my son?

But I'm okay. I'm cool. I'm laid back. I'm easy. We'd still have half the day on Friday and the whole day on Saturday. No problem.

And then. She called back. Again. Her royal dunce-ness. Tee hee... she made a mistake. They'd really be doing the shooting on Friday and flying back on Friday night. When did I want to fly back to Seoul again? Oh, and by the way, how old is my son?

Honestly, when I got up on Friday morning, at the ass crack of dawn, to lug bags and sleeping children downstairs, I really figured the bubble head wouldn't be down there at all. That'd she'd either completely forgotten or had messed the times up so badly that the shooting was really to take place next October. You could have blown me over with a whisper (no small feat at this weight, I assure you) when low and behold there she sat in all her obesity (have I not mentioned that in addition to be quite dumb, our dear international modeling agent from HELL is also plump and squishy?), chatting on the phone and blocking traffic in her black Kia.

And thus it began.

As soon as we were loaded up and seat belts were clicked, Elizabeth rattled off in broken English something about going to Apkujong -- an upscale, fashionable neighborhood in Seoul. Her English, as one might expect, sucks so understanding what it is that she is trying to communicate is somewhat akin to figuring out the dialog in The Passion of the Christ without the aid of subtitles. One knows the basic story and just has to fill in the rest. After a few minutes of seemingly nonsensical Konglish (a mixture of Korean and English), I figured out that she was taking us to Apkujong, not just to meet up with the rest of the team, but to do some studio work before leaving for Cheju-do.

Reilly Kate was not be happy.
The hair and make up people went straight to work on her within seconds of our arrival. True to her past, Reilly Kate sat, miserable, pouty, and in an all around bad humor.

"I don't like that!" she snapped as they put blush on her cheeks.

"You people are going to make me late for my plane to Cheju-do!"

"Ouch! Stop doing that!" she demanded as they curled her already curly hair.

"I want to be a boy. Let me wear boy clothes. I hate dresses."

And so it went. For about an hour as they dolled up my doll. The bitching. The whining. The howling and even tears.

Most of the little girls around here that model like to precisely for the dress up factor. They get their hair done up and they get to wear make up. The clothing is gorgeous and the dresses are that of royalty. You people in the States shell out hard coin for your daughters to get this treatment at that Libby Lou while we here actually make it in our pockets. And yet, my darling despises all this.

She does it for the money and for the money alone. When I explained this to Elizabeth, she immediately took out 1,000 won (about a buck) and handed to RK "as payment." Reilly Kate squirreled that puppy away in her pocket then said, "But I'll get more when I'm done, right?"

Again, however, true to her past, put my princess in front of a camera and she suddenly shines. All smiles and happy giggles. The director was giving her instructions and she followed them all perfectly. When he praised her with "Good boy!" she laughed and laughed, loving the fact that he was calling her a boy despite the girly getup. It didn't hurt, either, that she met the man of her life and was now hell bent on him being her boyfriend, having thrown away her dreams of marrying her ex-best friend, Grace A. Oy, the drama of a four year old super model.

Yes, my dear readers, my future son in law hails from Seattle, is a 21 year old model and musician, and already has a girlfriend who RK is no doubt currently dreaming up ways of disposing. Fortunately for his girlfriend, Brett didn't tell any of us her name or whereabouts. If he had, I'm sure kinderstalker would already be gathering up information to use in her diabolical plans. Poor Brett. He fortunately likes kids, but I don't think he was quite prepared for my Reilly Kate. Who really is?

Before they wrapped up, one of the assistants came up to me and asked me how old Roman was. I told her and she started going off on Elizabeth in Korean so fast and furious I could hardly make out the blunt and rude form she was using. Apparently, Elizabeth had told them that Roman was three MONTHS old, not three years old. When they called to make us airplane reservations, the ticketing agent told her that she didn't need to buy Roman a ticket. Mere hours before our flight was due to take off, Roman had no ticket. A big hub bub ensued with the click of the computer mouse and phone calls to Korean Airlines. Instead of stressing over it, I ate a half dozen donuts while teaching Reilly Kate how to stuff food into her mouth, over her lips, without smearing her lipstick -- a skill every girl should know.

After several hours at the studio in Apkujong, we were told to pack up and get ready to leave for the airport. Elizabeth bid me farewell (which is unusual as the agents normally accompany the models to the shoots) and I carted kids and bags downstairs. I loaded them all up in the awaiting car, and while buckling the kids in was told, "No seatbelt yet. We don't leave for a half hour."

Huh? What? You want me to sit in a parked car with my small children all cooped up for a half hour before we drive for another half hour to the airport to put them on an hour long flight so we can spend the day doing hours and hours of photographs on a small island in the south of Korea? Who the fuck gave these people license to breathe? Does stupidity run through the fashion business in Korea like drugs do in the west?

All I could manage without losing my cool was, "We'll wait inside. By the way, does Roman have a ticket?"

I never did get the answer to the ticket question. Back up to the fifth floor studio we went with our bags. Back up to the breakfast station where instead of stressing, I started in on the other half dozen donuts while watching my four year old flirt like a horny playmate at the House that Heff Built. But within minutes of our return ascent, we were told to once again pack it up and head back downstairs. We were going to leave now, ahead of time, taking a cab with one of the assistants, so as to get the Roman-lacking-ticket situation straightened out.

Once at the airport, the kids and I were parked in seats and the assistant went off to talk to the ticketing agent. About an hour later, she came back, handed me the tickets, and said we were all to meet upstairs at the Starbucks. Before the kids and I arrived at said meeting point, I checked the tickets. There was one for Roman leaving at 11:05, one for me also leaving at 11:05, and one for Reilly Kate leaving at 11:15. I looked at the clock on my cell phone. It was 10:45. I had 20 minutes to figure out why they had put my four year old daughter on an entirely different flight than Roman and I.

I raced into the Starbucks to find everyone relaxing and leisurely sipping their lattes on the outdoor terrace. When I tried to show them the tickets and the mistake, I was put off.

"No, it's fine. Roman has a ticket," I was told in between slurps. "We fixed the flights. No problem."

"Reilly Kate is on a different flight. Please. Just look at the tickets," I implored.

"Yes, Reilly Kate is on a different flight... huh? What? No."

I showed them, clearly in black and white, that Reilly Kate was indeed on a different flight. The shoot director jumped up, grabbed my tickets and sprinted down the escalator to the ticketing desk. Instead of eating, this time I stressed out while inhaling deeply the aroma of dark roasted coffee beans and peering wistfully at the baked goods, longing for a scone. It was that or I was going to start chewing my hair. I'd had about all the stress a woman of my age, size, and gestational condition can handle in a three hour period.

About ten minutes later he came sauntering back up, handed me a new set of tickets, and, as he past the Starbucks' counter, asked if I wanted anything. I looked at the tickets which all now said departure time was 11:05, looked at the clock on the wall that read 10:55 and politely declined as I gathered us up and headed toward security. Personally, I didn't care if the rest of the team made it to Cheju or not. I didn't care if the photographer, the clothing, the hair and make up people, or even if Reilly Kate's beloved Brett made it to Cheju-do. All I cared about was getting US there so we could enjoy our family trip that someone else had paid for.

They all did meet up with us, however, while the kids and I clogged up the security check. That happens every time I travel. And I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all the asshole terrorists who've given their lives to make my travel experiences suck big donkey balls. May your 72 virgins be cum belching whores and your paradise smell like a public toilet in Seoul. Regardless, we made through, made it on, and were all seated together on our way to the subtropics.

Well, when I say "were seated together" I meant the kids and I. The rest of the team wisely sat themselves far from us, in an entirely different section. I mean, really, who wants to sit near small children on even the shortest of flights. Certainly not these two Dutch alternative lifestyle, metrosexual prissies. The kids were actually behaving quite well, I thought. They weren't crying, screaming, kicking, fighting, biting, or spitting. Roman was, however, playing with a toy rather forcefully on the tray table. I'd tried to get him to stop, but figured it might be more irritating to hear me constantly nagging him and him screeching out in protest when I took his toy away.

I guess I was wrong. The dude closest to the window turned around and looking straight at my two and a half year old son asked, "Do you mind?" Ummm... yeah, buddy. That works. He's younger than that hairstyle your sporting and you expect him to behave just because you asked if he minded? Instead of saying a word to him, I took out my camera and snapped a few shots of the two of them. If you recognize them, please out them here on my blog. Interestingly, these two dorks were staying at the Hyatt and just about pissed their pants when they got a look at Mike. I cannot tell you how friendly and nice they were after getting an eye full of the 260 lb daddy of the toddler they bravely told off.

When we got off the plane, Reilly Kate once again met up with her love, Brett. As we marched off to the awaiting bus, she turned to him and in a hushed tone said, "Hey, Brett. How 'bout after my mom goes to sleep tonight, you and me go on an adventure together." Yeah, she's only FOUR! Good God, do I need to invest in a chastity belt already? Ya know, it's not the boys I'm afraid of when she hits her teens. It's HER. I'm going to be getting phone calls from the mothers of boys she's sexually harassing. Oh, man. That fruit sure didn't fall far from the tree, now did it?

Her obsession was aided by the white dress she was put in for a bridal spread. The romantic background provided just the right touch. She squealed with delight as he tossed her in the air and didn't once complain about the dress, the make up, or the hair. Love was in everywhere.

Meanwhile, back on the bus, Roman did what every mother dreams of her child doing: he fell into a deep, sound sleep. Dare I even say, the sleep of the drunk. If it wasn't for his light blond hair and the pacifier firmly cemented in his mouth, I'd have mistaken him for a soju sloshed ajoshi [Korean man]. He slept like that for well over an hour which freed me up to keep a watchful eye on Lolita. Oh, she was so smitten.


The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. That is if you consider getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, being photographed with diseased, malnourished, and neglected ponies, teaching urban children to poop in the grass, eating cookies and beef jerky for lunch, and getting ripped off to the tune of 20 bucks on cab fare uneventful. Which I actually do. We were checked into our room at the Hyatt by 5:30, the kids totally surprised to see Daddy, and ready to start a fun filled Cheju-do weekend.

This modeling thing is really starting to pay off. Anyone want Elizabeth's number?

Blogger Bugs

I'm not sure if you noticed, but I was gone over the weekend. Reilly Kate had a modelling gig down in Cheju-do, a little island in the south of Korea. It was a spur of the moment, last minute throw together. And while I was gone, it seems my blog disappeared, too. Without even so much as a goodbye.

Well, thanks to my very best blogging buddy EVER, Ms. Bitch of the infamous The Blair Bitch Project, it seems everything is back to normal. Okay. Not everything. And not normal. But you know what I mean. My life is still utter chaos, but my blog is now readable.

And that little ray of sunshine is all due to the hard work and dilligence of my dear friend. So go on over and give her blog a read. She's as funny as hell and has a mouth on her than rivals mine, if you can believe that.