Postcards from the Red -- Part II

One of the best parts of our trip was the shopping. We shopped till our kids were ready to abandon us and change their names to Wang. Whatever you could possibly want to buy, you can find in Shanghai. Well, except if you want a Chinese book on the Korean War like Mike did. Then you spend the better part of three days scouring the book shelves of dozens of bookstores throughout the city. It was but mere hours before our departure when he came to the conclusion that the Chinese just don't give a rat's ass about the Korean War, or as they like to call it, The American War in Korea. Much like most Americans, most Chinese haven't a clue where Seoul is or why the war was fought. I guess, it truly is the forgotten war.

Oh, but the haggling these people make you do just to pay a decent price is nuttier than a Peanut Buster Parfait from Dairy Queen. I'm telling ya. I bought a terra cotta soldier replica for $6 after haggling my way down from $60. Pearl necklaces I haggled down from $75 to $30. I just don't understand why they cannot give a fair and decent price from the get go. The whole song and dance, back and forth, offer counter offer is just exhausting. I probably would have bought more had I not been so fucking tired from the haggling (and sleeping on the chair, no doubt).

Plus, they, the vendors, targeted my 4 year old daughter. That pissed me off. I had been looking at something in the shop next to this one and when I turned around to count my children (fortunately, I have just the two so it is pretty easy math even for a blonde such as myself), Reilly Kate was standing with these two Asian beauts, or should I say "brutes," with that hideous flowery silk dress draped over her shoulders.

"Mommy! Look! It's my favorite color! I promise I will wear it. I will wear it to mass on Sunday. I looooooove this dress. Please Mama? Puhleeeeze?" begged the girl child that hasn't willingly worn a dress or skirt in her entire short little life.

"Tell Mama she give me one Chinese dollar," hollered one of the brutes, which didn't make sense to me. There are 8 RMB to a US dollar. So what did she want? One RMB or 8? Or more?

"Mama! I will wear this and show Grace V. [a classmate that attends the same mass as we do] how pretty it is. I promise. Please! Please! Please!" she whined. So I dug in and pulled out the smallest Chinese bill I had: 20 RMB, about 2.50 American. Reilly Kate handed it over to the brute holding her silk dress.

"No. Tell your mama 20 more. This dress is Korean. This dress is more money. You go and tell her." By the way, I'm standing right there. She could have told me herself, but instead chose to involve my kid in a way that would either break her heart or break my bank. In my book, that's pretty low.

Unfortunately for her, however, she doesn't know that I'm the Mother of All Bitches and breaking my wee lass' heart is one of my greatest delights. I leaned over and pulled the 20 out of her hand while telling RK that we'd buy her something else. The brute's grip was tight, though, and before I could give a final tug to free the bill, she yelped out, "Okay. Okay. 20 RMB," then she grumbled in Chinese and her fellow vendors laughed at her. I think she didn't get a very good deal on her part. But Reilly Kate, well, she's got herself a 2 dollar and 50 cent silk dress with dreadful purple flowers and a "Korean style" bow. It's hideous. But if she wears it once, she'll have gotten her money's worth.

The food, for the most part, was good. We had a rocky start, with a meal at the hotel that was just not so great. We later found out that it was tea time so we were served foods that go well with tea. Like whole shrimp, complete with heads and eyes. After all, what else would you like with your tea? The street food was bizarre. The dumplings weren't as good as I thought they would be. I prefer Korean dumplings (called mandoo). And this chicken on a stick? I wanted to take and bury the damn thing.

On our second night, we asked our concierge for a nearby Szechuan place. When we got there, the wait staff were all lined up and in some kind of restaurant employee formation. The manager was giving them a pep talk, it seemed. The rally of sorts concluded with all the staff reciting something enthusiastically. Since neither of us speaks a lick of Chinese, we weren't sure if it was something along the lines of "Good food, good service, great tips!" or more like "Death to the American Pigs!"

I studied the menu for a good long time. It was written in both Chinese and English, but it contained things like, "Braised fish heads in spicy jelly sauce," and "Fried pig's snout in fire sauce." I finally came upon a couple of decent looking dishes and ordered them along with 4 orders of rice and a large bottle of beer. The beer arrived. The main dishes arrived. See the chicken pictured above -- which was to die for except for the fact that the tiny chicken pieces were cut up with the bones included. I chewed well and figured it must be extra calcium. Right? Right? Someone tell me I'm right here. But no rice came. I asked again. And again. Finally, the manager came up to me and announced, "No rice!" I guess they don't serve rice. It's China. And they don't serve rice. Huh.

The biggest shock for me in the whole trip was the Chinese do not speak English as well as the Koreans. Being an arrogant American, I sure as hell expect no trouble communicating around the world. I speak English and so should everyone else. When in China, speak English. Why the hell not! Apparently, the Chinese have similar thoughts. I guess when there is 1.6 billion of them, they kind of figure, "Speak Chinese or fuck off." Right then. This guy here with the smoke hanging out of his mouth got very offended when selling us a bag of fresh picked cherries. He held out two fingers and said something to us in Chinese. Well, we handed him 2 RMB and grabbed the bag. I thought skanky farmer man was going to take a swing at Mike, he was so mad. After an English speaking good Samaritan stopped to interpret, we found that he wanted 20 RMB for his cherries. We were offering him 15 cents when he wanted 3 bucks. I guess he had a right to be pissed. At himself! For not speaking ENGLISH! I was assured by the travel agent that all of China is boning up for the Olympics, though. They will be English literate in no time.

That's about it for the trip. I'm going to post some more pictures tomorrow. I did get some cool ones, capturing my feel for Shanghai. It really was a pleasant trip.

Postcards from the Red -- Part I

We're back from Shanghai where we were, well, yeah, Shanghaied. Imagine that. All things considered, however, we had a really great time. Shanghai, if you haven't yet been, is a extraordinary place. It's like an old European city inside communist China, Asia's middle kingdom. There are so many similarities between Seoul and Shanghai, it all felt familiar. And yet, trying to deal with the people or surroundings in the same manner I would here, led to much discomfort.

For example, I wound up sleeping on a chair for the entire duration of the trip. You see, we booked our trip here, in Seoul, with a syrupy sweet, Korean travel agent who assured us that we were paying extra for a king sized bed and a twin bed. With a broad, pearly white smile, she proudly displayed for us our travel vouchers printed with the words, "King + extra bed." When we arrived at our hotel, the delightful Mayfair Hotel, and were shown to a room equipped with a less than king sized bed (the Chinese version, perhaps?) and an oversized chair with ottoman. When I went down to the front desk, voucher in hand, I was told by a snearing young woman of not quite 20-something that I got a king sized bed as I had booked. If I wanted the twin beds, I could switch to that. After climbing the hotel's managerial ladder, I am confident that not only does the Mayfair not offer what I had been promised, but that my travel agent knew full well they didn't.

The difference between the Koreans and the Chinese: A Korean will smile and tell you that they can, of course, solve your problem but without any intention of ever accomplishing said task. A Chinese will look at you with disdain and proclaim your problem is none but your own. When you are used to dealing with one, it makes dealing with the other that much more difficult. Especially given all the other surface similarities. So I attempted to sleep on the chair. It wasn't that bad, except my ass kept falling between the chair and the ottoman. Needless to say, I got my best sleep on the bus. Mike took this picture and entitled it, "Lady Madonna, Baby at your Breast." Clever guy, huh? Wonder how he came up with that one.

Oh, and then I almost got arrested by what I believe to be Chinese government agents posing as ice cream scoops at the local Haagen Daaz on Nanjing Road. As you all know, I am quite fond of taking pictures of unusual and downright assnine signage displayed all over Korea. Well, I figured I'd do the same in China. So I'm sitting at Haagen Daz, which looks to me like any old Haagen Daz ice cream shop, and I noticed this sign. Nothing too unusual. Nothing to really post about, right? But when I snapped the picture, out came this ice cream girl from nowhere, swooping down on my foreign ass with my foreign digital camera and she got all hard ass with me. "No pictures!" she barked. She then called over the manager and a couple of other secret agents posing as ice cream scoops and they all animately discussed my picture taking, complete with pointing at me and the sign. I was a bit scared for a few seconds before realizing that if they did put me in a Chinese prison, I'd probably have a bed to sleep in. (an interesting side note: I had to upload that picture about 15 times before it finally appeared on my blog -- they're everywhere!)

I was pretty well convinced that I was a marked woman being followed by Chinese agents tracking my every move. I tried my hardest to blend in with the crowd, but my kids, they stuck out like sore thumbs. Every cotton pickin' place we went we drew a crowd. Now, we are somewhat used to this living in Korea. I mean, my kids can pull in a good 20-30 people at the mall here, all snapping pictures with their cell phones and vying for position to pose with them. But China... China is so much more. You'd think that my kids were celebrities. Everywhere we went, the people were sure to follow. The kids wanted to plunk money into these musical ride things and by the time we had put the money in and turned around, there was a crowd of people in this little alleyway, with video cameras and the whole bit.

Then we stopped for some ice cream outside a little snack shop. This is the spectacle that resulted. I was waiting for the shopkeeper to ask us to leave since we had caused a huge pedestrian traffic jam. The entire sidewalk was shoulder to shoulder people, spilling onto the street.

Reilly Kate got nabbed several times for photos by herself. This has happened in Korea as well. Once, while in the restroom of an aquarium, it took us 20 minutes to get out since every mother in the john had to have her darling child pose for a pic with RK. I will freely admit that my kids are cute. But they are not that cute. Not at all. I get that it is a novelty for these people to see white kids with blonde or curly hair. But really. Must it be to such an extreme? It freaks the kids out, actually. Roman has taken to spitting at any woman that comes up and says he's cute. I'm sure that'll change once his penis starts doing the thinking for him. But for now, he don't like the chicas who like him.

Okay, folks. That's all for tonight. This photo shit is driving me mad and I've been wrestling blogger for too many hours tonight. I suck at making cool blog entries. But anyway... it's here for you to READ. I'm off to bed. Tune in tomorrow for my report on shopping, haggling, eating and not eating, and general observations on Shanghai.

Tsai Chen.

Something to entertain you while I'm gone

We're off to Shanghai. I plan on eating and shopping and sleeping and dealing with the beastly offspring by threatening to sell them in a Chinese fish market.

I'll leave you all with this: A picture of my ta-tas, all dressed up in The Habiliments of a Fat Housewife.




Want one of your own? Order up!

I Heart Corea!

The very day that my beloved Mama Mobile got bashed, I was sitting in Roman's gymnastics class when I noticed that three of the mirrors on the wall were funky, like fun house mirrors.

"What gives with the mirrors?" I asked the coach.

"The originals were cracked so we contracted out to Koreans to replace them," she explained.

"And this is as good as they could come up with?"

"No," she replied, "This was what they left us with after coming back 4 times to fix what they had originally put in. After the fourth time, they said they would not come back anymore. They were done. This is what we are stuck with."

I went up to get a closer look. The mirrors were warped and cheap looking. Instead of being flush with one another, they way the other mirrors were, these were spaced apart with white caulking smeared in between. It looked like a child did it. It was horrible worksmanship. Some of the worst I'd ever seen. I was embarrassed for the men who did it for surely they lacked pride in their work.

And so it was with this experience fresh in my mind that I sent my minivan off to a Korean repair shop to be fixed. The automatic door, the rear fender, and the complete bumper all had to be replaced. I was damn near certain that my van would never look or work the same again. I was screwed.

Much to my complete shock and disbelief, the big red Mama Mobile is back and better than ever! Not only did these automotive geniuses repair the damage, replace the parts, paint the exterior, and make sure the mechanisms were all fully funcitonal, they touched up all the scratches and chips in the paint that I had put in prior.

Oh, but it doesn't stop there! They also cleaned the garbage out of my car. I don't know about other moms, but my vehicle, my purse, and my pockets are all receptacles for waste, trash, and general garbage. When my purse and pockets become overstuffed, I dump their contents into a large, overflowing wicker basket I keep near the driver's seat. Many times I open the sliding door to my van and empty water bottles just spill out onto the street with Reilly Kate's craft projects and work sheets fluttering in the wind above them. So this clean out was no small task.

And then these brave Korean souls took it a step further and DETAILED my baby! Yes, the whole interior has been scrubbed and polished so well that the only tell tale sign of previous ownership is the bright blue and yellow crayon design that Reilly Kate put on the back left arm rest just hours before the crash (it is her claim today that she knew the crash was going to happen before it did and that is the reason she was compelled to draw on the van). Hell, the dang thing even smells new again. I don't know how they got that new car smell into my diaper bin of a minivan, but god bless them, they did!

This is what I love about Korea. The unexpected. Just when you think you have it figured out, the unexpected happens. I think some hear me talk about Korea or read this blog and they get the wrong impression of what Korea is or what I think of her or her people. Let there be no doubt: I love Korea. I love Koreans. There are plenty of things that are fucked up here just as there are everywhere and those things are what endears this place to me. If it were just like home, why would I even leave home?

It's like this. If you tell all your friends about your kid dumping a box of cereal in the middle of the living room, does that imply you dislike your kid? No. It's a funny, yet frustrating story that will become a memory to keep you company when you are old and alone and your kids are too busy with their grandkids to come see you in the home. It's like that with me and Korea... only different. Like Korea won't come see me in the home, I'll be in a home in Korea. But whatever.

The next time you read me ranting on about Korea, don't think of it as a bad place or a place you thankfully will never have to live. Think of how lucky I am that I get to experience this place while you sit in the same neighborhood you've lived in for the last 10 years. Really. I am lucky.

PS If you are wondering about the spelling of Korea in the title, well, go here and read all about it. It's another one of those endearingly irritating things about Korea. Yes, K-K-K-K-Korea.

This is the kind of shit I'm talking about

Please check out the comment this guy makes in response to a negative comment he received on his post titled, Platform on Security.

So he says, "Really if anyone was a terrorist you would have to say President Clinton... Targeting innocent civilians in 1998 with the Iraq Airstrike" He actually calls President Clinton a terrorist!

And this winner, brought to you curtesy of the US military, is running for state senate in that beautiful red state of South Carolina. Am I the only one wishing the South had won the Civil War?

Okay. Now I'm done. I swear, I'm done. I'll go back to being my normal, self depricating, comedic mama self. Honest.

You don't believe me, do you?

Go buy the Dixie Chicks Album

Yes, go now. Leave this blog where it's at on your browser and go buy Taking the Long Way. I'll wait. Go on now. Go!

I'm about to get political on you guys so if you don't want to read, leave now. I don't pull out my politics often sans a few mean spirited jabs here and there. But I'm about to purge my system of a couple of things that are gnawing at my spirit.

As you probably have heard, the Dixie Chicks have been on the outs with many of their fans in the red states. The fallout of a simple statement made at a concert in London by lead singer, Natalie Maines. The quote: "Just so you know, we're ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas."

Fair enough. They are ashamed to share a home state with George Bush. They are ashamed of George Bush. They are ashamed. Fully within their right, if you ask me. To a be a patriotic American does not require you like the president, his government, or his policies. Americans have a duty to speak and act and participate in our democracy. It is the democratic process.

But that quote got Maines and the two other Chicks in a washtub of scalding water. She and her bandmates were called horrible names, their music was pulled off store shelves and radio stations held parties to burn their pictures, cds, concert tickets. etc. They even received death threats. Yes, death threats. Why? Because they don't like the president?

Ann Coulter, the slut who penned the trash entitled Treason (and yes, I did just call her a slut -- she is, look it up) refers to the Democratic Party as "functionally treasonable" and writes of the treason Presidents Roosevelt, Truman, Kennedy, Johnson, Carter, and Clinton are guilty of. Huh. Where is the outrage for this? If Maines cannot even express her shame of the president without getting death threats, one would think Coulter's head would be prominently displayed on a spike somewhere for calling the majority of the last century's presidents traitors.

Where's her head, then, because I wanna see?

I just don't get it and it drives me ape shit. You see, Mike and I live in the military community which is a very hostile place for those with our political views. Really, downright hostile. We see it and hear it and have to take it day in and day out. Swallowing that much bile is bound to make us sick.

A few weeks ago I was at a dinner party. An acquaintance of mine off handedly remarked that Marines assigned to the White House during President Clinton's tenure had refused to salute him. I was stunned to say the least. I was, and a part of me will always remain, a military wife. Saluting is part of the culture of honor held in high regard by those wearing the uniform. To salute the Commander in Chief is such a high honor for any service member that to do otherwise is to sully the very uniform they proudly display. Regardless of party affiliation or personal political beliefs. I was dumbstruck, honestly.

According to Snopes, it is just an untrue rumor. I'd like to believe that. But the woman that told me this is an officer in the Navy and someone I respect and admire and believe. Plus, it wasn't like she read it on a bathroom wall somewhere. She was told this by a man she knew from school, a Marine Corp helicopter pilot assigned to fly President Clinton on Marine One. Given that, I tend to believe it. Which is an utter disgrace. I am ashamed to be from the same country as that pilot.

In defiance of what is becoming a one sided discourse on patriotism, I am going out and buying several copies of the new Dixie Chicks album. Not because I like their music -- personally, I hate that hillbilly shite. But because they deserve a salute for being honest, forthright patriots.

God bless America -- and may the majority of her citizens wake the fuck up before it is too late. Amen.

Cat's Got my Heart

It was a shitty day. The weather sucked. It was cold and rainy and gray gray gray. Roman's modeling gig was stressful as neither he nor his three year old female coworker desired to model the pajamas (not underwear as previously told me) they were being paid to model. I tell ya, if you've done portraits with your kids before, you know how much it sucks. Now, times that by about 8 wardrobe changes, make up and hair curling (yes, they curled my boy's hair, too), plus photographers who consider themselves artists and what you've got is a gastly headache accompanied by gastrointestinal upset.

There's got to be an easier way for my kids to make money.

So, as Roman and I are trudging through the parking garage of our apartment, chilled, damp, road weary and completely spent, I spied a clump of something laying off to the side, near a parked car. It looked like a small animal. A small, not moving animal. I prayed, nay, I begged that it just be a lost scarf or an adrift sock. I was tired. I didn't want to deal with a hurt or sick animal. Not now. Tomorrow maybe. But today, just let it be something else.

It wasn't. It was a kitten. I could make out the distinct silhouette of a kitten long before we got close enough to see if it was alive or dead. It most certainly looked dead. Again, I begged it be dead. I was tired. And cold. And selfish. I just wanted to go in and have a cup of coffee, share a schnuggle with my husband and change glamour boy's dirty diaper before heading out to pick up Reilly Kate from preschool. Is that really so much to ask?

Of course, once we were upon it, I could tell it was very much alive. Breathing. And very, very hurt. It was bleeding from the neck and the mouth. It didn't move except to breathe. Nothing. No flicker of the eyes. No flinching when touched. Nothing. It definitely needed help, if nothing else to pass away and end the suffering. I had to do something.

Let me just tell you now, I am NOT a cat person. No, not at all. I dislike cats. No, that isn't true. I don't dislike them. I am afraid of them. No, that isn't true either. I'm not merely afraid of them. I am terrified of them. They are like wild beasts, set to pounce on you at any moment. Give me a pitbull over a cat any day of the week. I've never been bitten by a pitbull. But cats? Ugh. They're gastly creatures, really.

When Mike and I first met, his parents had a cat named Ludwig. Ludibeast, as I would refer to him, was just this side of a mountain lion, no kidding. His dad called him "bochka" which means "little barrel" in Ukrainian. That cat was so mean, he once tore up Mike's sister's legs as she sat on the toilet, defenseless. I was so damn scared of this cat that I would keep pieces of pizza in my pockets to throw to him when I visited. I think the angels of hell rejoiced at his coming when he finally died. I know I rejoiced. I no longer had to wear pizza to visit my inlaws.

The fact that I do not like, and am, in fact, terrified of cats insures that I will always attract cats in one way or another. I seem to repeatedly find myself in predicaments like this one today. The last time it happened was almost three years ago when I found a kitten on Fort Weaver Road in Ewa Beach. It died during the first night in my care. Not before I had invested 200 bucks into it, though. Fucker.

And so it was that I found myself racing upstairs, Roman in tow, to announce to Mike that we had to help this kitten. Mike, an animal lover like myself, and former cat enthusiast, got a box, some towels, loaded us all up into our rented Jeep Grand Cherokee (the Mama Mobile is still, and might forever be, in the shop) and raced off through the pouring rain to the vet on base.

Mike said the baby looked to have been attacked by another cat. Indeed, as we pulled away from the scene, an adult cat came skulking by, stopping at the pool of blood we had left behind. It didn't look good. We naturally assumed we were driving the baby to be humanely euthanized. It broke my heart. I could hardly even look at the wee little thing, struggling to breathe, hacking up blood, as it lay helpless in my lap. I would glance down every couple of minutes just to check if it was still breathing and say a prayer to St. Francis to bring the kitten comfort.

I dropped Mike and the cat off at the vet and I went on to pick up Reilly Kate. When I returned Mike was more chipper than I imagined he would be having just had to release a little soul into the universe. He said they whisked the baby out of his arms when he brought it in and explained what was going on. He said before he left, the receptionist told him they were bringing the baby into surgery.

So maybe, just maybe little baby had a chance.

I will call tomorrow to find out. Even if not, I just hope that by us reaching out and doing something, it eased that poor thing's passing. Since becoming a mother, my compassion for all of God's creatures has significantly increased. And I was an animal lover before. But something about motherhood has made me that much more nurturing and caring. My heart aches right now for a kitten I've never even made eye contact with.

Sleep well, little baby, wherever you are.

Things really aren't so different here

We went out and about in Seoul today. There is a mall here called COEX. I just love it there. It reminds me of home. With a few exceptions, of course.

While you guys at home have Orange Julius, we here have...
It doesn't taste like la crapeau, it's just spelled that way.

You have Sweet Tomatoes Salad Bar, we have...
Jug Jug is not just a salad bar, but a beer bar as well. Because what goes better with salad than beer?

We have fashion Don'ts, just like Glamour... We just post them on the humble blog of an overweight expat homemaker (moi), not humiliate them in a national magazine, thankyouverymuch.

Granted, we don't have Chicago style dogs on the street. But we do have street food! By the way, this vendor is located in Namdaemun, and the squid was very fishy. No good.

As you can see in the background of that last picture, we also have McDonald's. Mickey D's dominates the planet. Although, here we cannot inconspicuously blow our diets wide open...We just don't blend in so well (if you can't tell, that's Mike ordering up some more cellulite for his ass).

We've even got Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup...It's just that we have to buy it from Fancy Food shops.

You Chicagoans have the Field Museum. We have... ...the Kimchi Field Museum. A whole museum dedicated to, well, kimchi. 'Nuff said.

Also familiar to you Chicagoans, Giordano's. But don't come hungry......unless you're a goat. Goats like to eat jeans, right?

Some things here are really much better here. For example, manufacturers love to attach free stuff to merchandise at stores. Random stuff. Like......eye drops with a CD. I don't get the connection. Probably isn't one, in fact.

But one thing remains constant......'tards attract 'tards. This guy was so sweet, too. He put a big bumper sticker right on our stroller. He had some trouble with it, but was persistent. Freakish, but sweet. Very, very sweet.

Now, for news of the truly weird: Roman has a modeling gig tomorrow. Underwear. Yes, my two year old is an underwear model. I've stooped to a whole new low in whoring my kids out. I hope the pay is good.

Quote of the Day

"Mama, when I grow up will I have a big, hairy yoni like you?"

Reilly Kate inquiring about the future look of her reproductive parts while driving home in the car after a full day of birthday party hopping.

NEO Porn

Reilly Kate had her very first slumber party tonight. At four years old, I think she's a little young for it, but she really wanted to go and all her girlfriends were going, too. Hence I'm sitting up waiting for the phone call to come get her that won't come until I'm asleep. I might just stay up all night thereby ensuring her a good time and no call will come at all.

With Reilly Kate out of our hair and Roman at home with Almin, Mike and I were as free as ice in Canada. What to do? What to do? How 'bout we participate in the Noncombatant Evacuation Operation Exercise going on right now at Yongsan Army Garrison? 'Cause nothin' says Friday night, Date night like a NEO exercise! Besides, it's mandatory.

Hrrmpf!

Since I lived here for two years before, I've been through it. Nothing new. Go to this station, check the box. Review the gas mask instructions. Check. Medications? Check. This is where you drop off your dog to be made into soup. Check. Here's where you depart from your luggage and never see it again. Check. Household goods shipping. Check. Etc.

But they have added one new thing. I suppose as a result of 9-11. It is the inspection and security screening. I actually had to be wanded just to get through the evacuation tents. They have a briefing on what you can and cannot pack. It's all basic stuff. No bomb making material or knives or other weapons. No lighters or gerbers (what the hell's a gerber anyway?). No alcohol, which is a cryin' shame. But how's this one: No pornographic material.

Huh? No porn? To hell with it then. I ain't going. I'll stay and watch Seoul burn down before I'll part with my pornographic material.

Not really. But why the hell do they care if you are bringing pornographic material with you? Are they afraid that with impending doom we'll all succumb to sexual deviance? Honestly, the Army baffles me more and more.

If ever you turn on the telly and see Kim Jong Il marching his troops into Seoul, think of poor me parting with my Pam Anderson-Tommy Lee video and maybe make me a copy of yours.

The Day After

In light of yesterday's Mama Mobile mishap, I'm in a pretty pissed off mood. So pissed off, in fact, that I've eaten three chocolate flaxseed muffins, a huge mess of ricotta creme, the toppings off a pepperoni pizza, two cups of tea, and a Diet Rite. Just since ten o'clock. It is, by the way, only 10:20. When I publish this post I'm going back into the kitchen to cook up a whole family sized bag of broccoli with cheddar cheese. I'm trying to watch my weight, remember?

What really burns me is that it was NOT my fault. Now, given my crash record... errr... track record, I can understand you disbelievers out there. But it really wasn't my fault. So why did it have to happen while I was driving the bus? As the Germans would say, I am the dumb luck bird. There is a gray cloud that hovers over me at all times. Glad I wear waterproof mascara. If you stand close, you might want to bring an umbrella. And some rubbers. The kind that go on your feet, you gutter dweller.

If you've read the second comment on this post here, then you know that one my many nicknames in the family circle is "Crash." Let me just make the announcement now, to all those within and without of that circle, that there will be no rehashing of Seoul Crash Part I (yes, I am certain there will be sequels to come). It was not my fault and I will not allow it to taint family lore or tradition. If you defy my wishes, I promise I will send out a virus your way. Not any wimpy ass computer virus, either. No, no. I'm in Asia, the birthplace of the flu. I'll sneeze on a ten dollar bill, stick that sucker in a card, and mail it off to ya. So refrain! You've been warned.

The good news, if you want to call it that... Actually, it is more like the news that doesn't totally suck... Okay, okay. The news that doesn't make me want to fling myself off the top floor of our apartment building is it should only take a week or so to fix the van. They initially said 3-4 days, but that changed since they discovered the need to order parts from overseas (that would be the US of A for us here). That combined with the fact that I haven't been struck by lightening or eaten by a shark today makes it a pretty good day in my book.

Huh. Ya know, I'd give my left tit (the larger and more prolific of the two) for a bag of macadamia nuts right now. Any takers?

Don't Forget Your Shoes!

My good friend Dave once told me, "It's not a matter of IF one gets into an accident here in Seoul, it's just a matter of WHEN." He told me this while weaving in and out of traffic as I was clinging for dear life on the back of his motorcycle. It was understandable. We were severely hung over and extremely late for our friend Corey's wedding. And, just as an aside, I want it duly noted that I was wearing panties under my dress notwithstanding that cabbies enroute were honking, cheering, and giving Dave the big thumbs up.

I now know the WHEN. Whew! What a relief. Yeah. Right.

It was all so simple, so pure. I dropped the kids off at their respective preschool and playschool. I met Mike for lunch and had a scrumptious Mexican brisket salad. I headed over to the gym for a gluttony redeeming workout. I then realized that I had left my gym shoes at home. At first, I plopped my fat ass down and thought, "Well, I could just find a nice corner and read my book." But the jelly roll that once was my abdomen was all squished out over my too tight jeans and screamed at me "If I get any bigger, you can seek employment as a mall Santa." So with thoughts of donning a red suit and white beard with little booger eaters sitting on my lap aside my oversized belly, I got into my Mama Mobile to go home and retrieve my shoes.

Five minutes into the drive, and almost home, I went down a steep hill near a row of embassies including the Ukrainian, Danish, Iranian, and German embassies. Just as I got to the foot of the hill, I looked right to make sure no flipjob was failing to yield to my right of way as flipjobs are wont to do. With the road clear, I veered left.

I actually remember seeing an SUV-Wannabe backing down a driveway, but just figured it would stop before slamming into me. I mean, you could see my big ass flaming red Caravan clomping down the hill even if legally blind. But the SUV-Wannabe didn't stop. It just kept coming. I laid on the horn, but the driver, far too accustomed to hearing horns blow (which, by the way, is illegal within Seoul) paid no heed and plowed right into my one year old minivan. My MAMA MOBILE for the love of Peet!

You know how your brain can compose about 20 blog posts in the span of a milisecond in times of crisis? Well, here's what went on in my ADD afflicted cerebrum immediately following the accident:

Maybe the bumper just got knicked. It was probably nothing. I don't need to pull over. Man, that brisket salad was good. We should eat there more often. And then go to the gym. I should have remembered my shoes. My shoes! I cannot believe my van got hit going home to get my shoes. I mean, it felt big. Maybe I better pull over and just check. I wonder how many calories were in that salad. I wonder how long I'll have to tread on that mill to burn them off. Doubt I'll get to the gym now. Hey, why are those men looking at me? Is something wrong with the van? Oh, that one there has a smoke. I'd love a smoke right about now. Why does smoking have to cause cancer? And why is there red glass all over the street behind me? Okay, I'm pulling over now. Oh, wait. I don't know how to parallel park. I'm from the 'burbs where one never parallel parks and honking your horn is completely legal and accepted. I wonder if I'm going to get a ticket for this. Maybe even worse. What if I violated a really big law by honking my horn and wind up in some Korean jail? I bet they don't have brisket in Korean jails. Ah, but I bet I can smoke in them. Maybe I'll ask that guy for a smoke. Right after I get out of this van and take a look.

When I got out of the van I was immediately surrounded by 7 or 8 ajoshis (older men) who had been drinking soju and smoking around a little cardboard box on the side of the road. They were looking at me and my van and speaking loudly to one another in very animated Korean. Honestly, I was scared. No. Terrified. Over the years, Americans living in the US military community in Korea have been... well... hung out to dry when it comes to car accidents. Honestly, I drive petrified that a kid is going to leap out in front of me with his hand raised (it's reported that 80 children are killed here every day in car accidents) and I'll get slapped with a negligent homicide rap and never hold my children again. Thousands will turn out in protest demanding my head on a platter. International negociations will ensue over my future. Yes. I'm serious. Google it and read for yourself.

Shaking uncontrollably now, I stumbled to the rear of my van while frantically dialing Mike who was at home napping. As I was explaining to Mike what had happened, an elderly American man I recognized from the Starbucks on base came up to me and said, "You'd better start taking pictures before she drives away." Meanwhile, Mike is telling me to look in the glovebox for instructions on what to do in case of an accident. I snatched the papers out of the box, grabbed my camera, continued talking to Mike, snapped pictures, and failed to find anything that gave me any clue as to what to do. All I could do was just beg Mike to come at once.

When I walked up to the SUV-Wannabe to take a picture of license plate at the urging of my American bystander, a woman in her late 20s came out of the driver's side, clutching a little toy breed dressed nicer than she, and said in very good English, "I'm sorry. My fault." I didn't know what to say. I just looked at her stupidly and snapped some more pictures. For minutes, many minutes, I wandered from my van to her SUV, aimlessly, trembling with my elderly American and 7 or 8 drunken ajoshis following my back and forth and back again.

It wasn't long before a squad car pulled up. As I mentioned this happened nearby several embassies so the police are never too far away from the area. When they pulled up they went straight to her and asked her what happened. I couldn't tell what they were saying. I just stood there with my camera, my stack of papers, my old men, both American and Korean. The officers took down the information and turned to me. "Moon jay obso. Moon jay obso," said the one to me in Korean. "No problem," said the other translating for her partner.

The police stayed just long enough to talk to Mike in Korean. They told him the woman that hit me had called her insurance company and we were to stay right where we were until the insurance reps showed up. So we stood. And waited. My elderly American friend upon seeing that my man had shown up, departed, his job clearly done. The drunk ajoshis went back to their cardboard table, never even offering me a much needed glass of soju. And we waited. The woman stood with us, still clutching her overdressed dog. I called my Korean friend, Suzie, who was so helpful in talking to the woman and making sure Mike and I understood everything that was going to happen once the insurance dudes showed up.

If they ever showed up. We stood. We waited some more. The woman and her dog went across the street and got us each a Melona. Ya know, I had just had the big brisket salad. I didn't get to work out because this flipjob whacked my wheels. And then she offered me more carbs in one ice cream bar than I eat in a whole damn day? Was she some kind of diet saboteur? A Santa maker? What? Mike and I looked at each other, I shrugged, and we both peeled the wrapper off and couldn't eat it fast enough. It was the best damn tasting artificially flavored, mass manufactured, powdered milk concoction, frozen on a stick that I've ever had.

The insurance blokes eventually did show up. Between Mike and Suzie, we have the insurance thing pretty well figured out. Mike's taking the van in tomorrow morning to a repair show across the river. I am hoping they replace the bumper, the fender, and the whole door. Otherwise, I don't think that door will ever work properly again. I'm sure it is going to cost big time. Poor woman. I bet she just about shit when she saw the big blonde Mama come out of her bad ass minivan import. Of all the people in Seoul to hit...

Oh, and I'm up five pounds. Big salad. No work out. Melona bar. I'd like to take her to small claims court over that one. Yeah. I would.

Shit.

You may recall the post in which I talked about being blamed for the poop landmines that clutter our apartment's pleasantly landscaped grassy areas. If not, it's at the beginning of this mega post here. Since that time, I've only been questioned about my possessing a poop pick up bag once. I've been watched several times. But not real confrontations.

Tonight, just minutes ago, in fact, I was out walking Truman. We left our building and went straight to the garbage dumpster as it was Almin's day to clean and she gathered up a week's worth of trash from all the various receptacles in our home and so nicely placed it in a bag. God I love that woman. Anyway, so I went over to the dumpster and looked over to where it was that I normally walk Truman. What I saw, my eyes registered, but my mind refused to believe.

It was a woman, an older woman, perhaps around 65 or 70 years old, squatting down in the grass. Her pants were down around her ankles, with her fleshy backside exposed.

Well, now, let me explain why this didn't really register with me at first. Koreans, like most Asians, are squatters. They squat down, feet flat, and do all kinds of tasks in that position. Once you've lived in Asia long enough, you begin doing this yourself. While waiting at the bus stop, or the post office, or in line at the bank, you just squat down and relax. It's actually pretty ingenious. Your legs get to take a break without having to walk around the rest of the day with dirt and smut all over your ass. Also, in the spring time, many older Koreans go out and pick certain plants we'd call weeds out of the grass for salads and the like.

So my brain, overriding my eyes, determined that that is what this old woman was doing. She must be squatting down, not to relieve herself, but to pick weeds in order to make her elderly husband a nice fresh salad for breakfast tomorrow morning. Yes. Yes, thought I, That is what she is doing. Certainly. But my eyes... they refused to look away until my brain agreed with them. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Even after she looked at me.

Now, one would think that if you were relieving yourself out in the public area of a very large apartment complex and were caught, you would immediately pull up your pants, wetness be damned, and hightail it out of view. Not this woman. She kept her eyes locked with mine and made no attempt to cover up or leave.

See? said my brain. See? It isn't what you thought. It is just an old lady gathering up edible shrubbery. Still my eyes refused to wander. Not even in an embarrassed, I-shouldn't-be-seeing-what-I'm-seeing, polite sort of way. Locked with the old woman and going no where.

So there we stood. Me with my bag o'trash and her with her bare ass, waiting for the other to look away first. Finally, after what seemed like ages, but was more like 30 seconds or so, Truman caught on to her and let out a few barks. Many Koreans in Seoul are scared of dogs and I guess this old woman was one of them. As soon as Truman barked, she broke her stare, pulled up her pants, and walked away. But not quickly. And as she walked, she looked back several times to meet my eyes.

Being a Doubting Thomas, my brain still refused to believe. My feet took over the controls and, as ordered by my eyes, walked me right over to the place the old woman was squatting. There, not even a foot from the sidewalk, was a fresh pile of poop surrounded by a puddle of pee. The pee had actually flooded the arid earth that she chose as her spot and trickled down on the sidewalk. It was obvious, very obvious, even to my brain, that the woman had been using the area as a toilet.

The question now is, how the hell to do I say "A crazy old lady is pooping in the grass and not picking it up with a plastic bag" in Korean? 'Cause that is exactly what I'm going to say to the security guards next time they question me about my dog and his poop.

Muthah!

I don't like Mother's Day. Sure, the concept is good and the intentions noble. But really, who winds up doing the most work on Mother's Day? Good old Mom.

Before I had kids I loved Mother's Day. Went out and got Mom a corsage to wear to church. And while I was at it, I'd get myself one. Take her out to dinner and ate myself. Hell, my brother's and I would eat our weight in chocolate cheesecake at the breakfast buffet! Yay! What's not to like, right?

Then I had kids. That's when I realized that Mother's Day isn't about mothers. It is about children and grandmothers. Those are the only ones having any fun on Mother's Day. Really. I spent the two weeks leading up to today helping my kids make their grandmothers cards and some crafts. I shopped around for gifts I thought they'd like. I organized it all, boxed it, filled out customs forms, stood in a long line at the Post Office, and still the packages didn't get there on time. I'll hear about that. Oh, yeah, I will.

This Mother's Day for me was okay. I cannot say it sucked. And it sure as hell wasn't grand. Mike did his best. He let me sleep in. All the way till 8am I slept. Of course, since I sleep on the foot of the bed like a fucking dog due to my two children taking up most of our king sized bed, this only means that I can hardly move my head since my neck is stiff and my back has been screaming all day. One isn't meant to spend more than just a few hours curled up into a 14 inch ball. At least not at my age. By the way, if I ever see that pansy-ass Dr. Sears I'm punching him square in the chest! Fuck him and that attachment parenting shit. A rant for a later post.

When I was finally able to pull my decrepit body out of bed, Mike had a nice pot of coffee made and waiting for me. No breakfast, though. Mike cannot cook. No, not even scrambled eggs. I'm not sure he knows how to crack an egg. Not that he'd need to crack an egg given the advent of Egg Beaters. Regardless, crack or no crack, no breakfast. Huh. Now that I'm thinking about it, we even have already cooked bacon in the house. Nuke the bacon for a minute or two. Pour a carton of Egg Beaters into a pan. That's not even cooking. Great. I'm all worked up about breakfast now and it is almost 11pm.

Anyway, I then got my gift. It was very sweet. Reilly Kate was so excited about giving it to me. Roman, too, although he wanted to open it himself. It was a gorgeous amethyst tennis bracelet. Unfortunately, Mike already gave me one of those a few years back. It's a close enough match that RK never noticed the difference when I put the old one on. We'll take the new one back. It's too expensive to keep a double. Maybe I'll buy myself some pearls in Shanghai when we go at the end of the month. Or maybe I'll parlay it into a fortune at the slot machines on base and then set off for Thailand and a new set of boobs. Again, it is the thought that counts.

We went to mass today, too. Roman must have been briefed on the whole Mother's Day means Mom works harder concept because as soon as we were settled into our pew, he became demon possessed. Wailing, twisting, slapping, slurping, screeching, jumping, munching, and for his finale, throwing raisins at our fellow parishioners. At one point, as I was wrestling a writhing Roman, I heard, in chorus, several other young children belting out an unholy hymn of displeasure. I looked around and saw many, many other mothers doing just as I was. We were working. Working hard. As an extra special treat, our child-free priest (or at least I assume he is) bestowed upon us an extraordinarily long mass -- an hour and a half. I guess the additional 30 minutes was a little Mother's Day gift. Someone should tell him to bring Egg Beaters and microwave bacon next year instead.

From there we went shopping. Not the kind of shopping that we do in the States. Asian shopping Korean style. Namdaemun Market. Big, rude crowds shoving each other to and fro. Pushy sellers hawking their cheap crap in high pitched chants. Tiny alley ways overstuffed with humanity and all its consumer trappings. And stinky street food of several hundred different varieties. To me, nothing says Happy Mother's Day more than an afternoon in such surroundings with my husband and children on best behavior. I guess they forget what day it was because we weren't in the buyer's extravaganza five minutes before Reilly Kate demanded McDonalds and Mike had a teenage flashback, complete with telling me to "Shut the fuck up." Roman opted to sleep, which was good. He was already living on borrowed time.

All in all, I argued with my daughter, got the silent treatment from my husband, lost a bartering war with an old lady selling little girls shorts and wound up paying 10 bucks for a pair that were coming apart at the seams, bought three shirts for myself totaling $15 when the sign clearly said "3 for 10," ate undercooked street squid out of a newspaper bag, and had the realization that I should have just stayed curled up at the foot of the bed all day.

We did go out for a wonderful steak at our friend's pub. Believe it or not, the ribeye at the 3 Alley Pub is the same price as the restaurants on base and so much better. It was nice to have a beer in the sunlight with a cool breeze as Mike corralled the kids on the outdoor patio. Those few minutes alone with my steak and my beer made the whole stinkin' day.

Oh, and one other thing that really made my day. This card below from Reilly Kate. She made it all by herself. She went and stole a piece of printer paper (a big NO NO in my house), sat down with a ball point pen (yet another NO NO) and wrote this down all by herself. She asked me a few questions as I was making dinner one night last week. "What two letters make the [th] sound?" "How do you spell your first name?" I didn't know what she was up to. She makes all kinds of silly things for herself. That's what I figured this was. Nope. It was my first handmade, all by herself Mother's Day card.



Look at the first two letters. She sounded out "Happy" and came up with "H" and "B." If you make the "h" sound and follow it up with saying the word "bee" you get what kind of sounds like "Happy" or at least to a 4 year old. Then comes "Mother" missing the vowels and with the "th" flipped. The "R" and the "D" were merged into one she said because she was afraid of running out of room. Anyway, that was my proud Mama moment.

There there it is. A recap of Mother's Day 2006. I can't wait till Mother's Day 2030. I'm going to swing on a hammock all day long, sipping scotch and chain smoking Camels. I'll have my pockets filled with chocolate covered espresso beans which I'll hand out in generous handfuls to my grandchildren and then watch as those sugared up, caffeine junkies destroy their parents' tranquility. I ain't takin' my husband out of the nursing home that day either.

Hee hee!

Happy Mother's Day!

Should I notify Disney?

Something tells me that the shoes I bought my children are not authentic Disney merchandise. I could be wrong. I mean, they are numbered and everything. And still something's not right. I think they may be fakes. It's just a hunch. But... well... just take a look and let me know what you think.



Soooo...? Should I call 'em?

Dick and Jane

Reilly Kate has been learning to read. We've had a recent language explosion with her reading and writing and grasping the whole concept of words and their uses (besides verbal uses which she grasped before her first birthday). As a result of this new found literary interest, we've been reading some of the Dick and Jane books my mom sent.

I don't know who the hell wrote this shite, but he's either dead by now, rotting in Sing Sing, or is stalking virgins in internet chat rooms. Allow me, if you will, to "read" you just a small excerpt:

Oh, oh, oh. Come. Come, Sally. Come, come. Oh, Sally. Come, come. Come, Sally, come.

A few pages later, it reads:

Oh, Sally. See Jane go down. Down, down, down. See Jane go down.

And if that isn't enough, apparently, the whole thing is a family affair:

Jane said, "Oh, Dick. See Sally and Tim. Oh, oh, oh. See Baby Sally go. Go, Dick, go."
Sally said, "Oh, Mother. See Dick go down. See Jane go down. Funny, funny Dick and Jane."

Dick and Jane. Perverts. I know what dick is. And now I guess I know what jane is. Really. Why not just give the kid a subscription to Hustler and be done with it.

Whatever happened to Dr. Seuss and Hop on Pop?

Quote of the Day

"My belly talkin'. Sayin' eat popcorn."

Roman explaining to me why I was waking up with a box of Pop Secret atop my face (which by the way is part of a complete breakfast when served with a sippy cup of Ovaltine and a box of raisins).

Just two more and then I'll quit

I was out and about today with my friend and fellow blogger, Dave, when I saw two more Engrishy oops that could have been easily avoided with my five dollar proof reading program.

Both come from the heart of the "special tourism district" known more commonly as Itaewon. The first appears prominently in the Hamilton Hotel.



Perhaps the person that did up that sign once dated an American from the south. "Halth" almost sounds like it has a drawl to it, doesn't it? But it looks dumb and could have been fixed with a fiver.

The next item up for mocking comes from a popular burger and steak joint actually owned by an American. Obviously, he is has lived in Korea too long. I'm certain he doesn't look over a damn thing other than the books. If he actually looked at the menus in his own place, I doubt he'd let this one slide.



Yes. Secrete sauce. I don't think it is actually made with secretions. There are some, not many, but some food and restaurant standards here. It's actually Mike's favorite item on their menu. I haven't tried it. I can't. The menu would have to be corrected first.

So as you can see, there is plenty of work for me here. I'll keep you posted on how the business takes off. If at all.

Pibe Dorrah Engrishy

For those that don't know, I used to teach English here in Korea. Once upon a time. Long, long ago. Before I had kids. Back when my breasts were tits, not teats and I actually earned a wage for my labor. Back in the day...

So it is with great understanding of the difficulties Korean students face when learning English that I write this post. I know that students here are dedicated and hard working. I know that they are forced to study far too many hours in a day. I have sweated out the exams with them. I've tried to help them understand an admittedly very difficult language. I get it. I do.

What I do not understand is why Koreans refuse to seek proof readers and editors. I am baffled. I should start a business here and charge just $5 a pop. I'd be rich. If they would come. But they won't. And even if they did, they wouldn't take my corrections kindly.

I once edited an entire study guide written by several Korean professors of English. After the editing, Mike and I along with another teacher were to record some of the dialogue for the accompanying audio. What I kept noticing was that many places I'd made corrections, my corrections weren't made permanent in the text. Mostly, they were small errors that I would make note of and we would record it in proper English.

Then came the shin splints. There was a conversation about a woman having shin splints from running. The text read "shin splinters." I had corrected it. The text was printed without my corrections. I made note of it and we read it correctly as "shin splints." Well, well, well. Miss English PhD stopped the recording to correct us. No, no, says she. She looked up the word "splint" and that is not what she meant. She meant "splinters." Yeah, except there is not such thing. We went 'round and 'round about this. She was absolutely convinced that her PhD in English would trump my ability to actually use the damn language and she would be proved right.

Dumb broad. I wonder how many Koreans out there are walking around complaining about their shin splinters.

And so it goes. Is it any wonder then that I find so much English gone wrong here in Seoul. Gone horribly, horribly wrong?



Now this one is the fault of English just being a screwy language. It is. But really, if someone would have come to me, 5 bucks in hand, and said, "Hey, take a quick look at the wording we're going to have printed on thousands of horses and let me know if it is right," I would have gladly taken their money and told them to drop the damn "g." Simple. And then they wouldn't have these damn stupid signs up all over Seoul making them look like jackass ninnies. But instead, they still have that fiver in the pocket and little to show for it.

Or how 'bout a little Konglish. This is a lingerie store in Itaewon -- the "special tourism district."



Koreans mess up the "r" and "l" sounds. That is because they are one letter, pronounced differently depending on the placement in the word. So mixing these letters up is excusable. But not when you are putting up a sign, for the love of Peet! Give me five stinking dollars and I'll fix it for ya!



This is on the door to our garage. Yeah, I can understand the point here. They want the door shut. But for five bucks they could have saved face and looked a hell of a lot brighter. Just five bucks!

But then there are those signs when they most certainly would have gotten their money's worth. Signs that, well, would have taken a lot more work on my part. But it still would have been worth it to me. Like this one...



These are the instructions to guests on how to get into my building. I cannot make sense of it at all. And I live here! Thankfully, it is written in Korean as well. The Korean makes more sense. A lot more sense. Go figure.

Or this one, which was left on a motorcycle parked next to our van.



The bike was leaking oil and I assume they wanted it gone. But really, what the hell is this supposed to be saying exactly? For five bucks, I could have written down, "Remove your filthy fucking bike. It's puking oil all over the damn place!"

But it is especially frustrating when you just want to know what the hell it is that you are about to eat.



I'll have you know that for five bucks and just one free munchie I'd straighten that sign out. Of course, the free sample would be required to determine whether the toast thingie was really bread or chrysanthemum. And whether or not it was sweet or really Swedish. All in the name of research. And a better English speaking Korea.

'tarded, more 'tarded, and the most 'tarded yet!

Yes, "'tarded" as in REtarded. If you are offended by the nomenclature, then tell me about it in the comments section and bugger right off my blog. Quite frankly, my opinion of the humorless Thought Police is just about as low as the maggots holding the White House hostage. Both are just embarrassing those of us overseas who actually have to 'fess up to being American. Of the same ilk, I say.

So, tard, tard, tard, tard, tard.

Whew. Glad that little PMS missive is over. Now on with the post...

I've never been athletic. Or graceful. Or coordinated. Chewing gum and walking at the same time took me years to master. Don't laugh. I'm not in the mood. Bad PMS. Read the above missive if you don't believe me.

Seriously, though, I was very young when I had to deal with the cold, hard reality of this...uhhh... inability. As hard as I tried, I was never even able to master the monkey bars. I tried. The good Lord knoweth how very hard I tried. I couldn't even do just one. I could hang for a second, maybe two. That was about it. My mom would carry me down the line, holding the bulk of my weight, so I could make attempt after feeble attempt. When I failed, she would say, "It's okay. You are just not athletic."

It was an anthem repeated often throughout my childhood. I started out in gymnastics, but I couldn't do the forward roll properly. The teacher wanted us to roll onto our feet, but I could never get myself there. I always rolled forward, and stayed, on my butt. The rest of the class progressed to backward rolls and I was still plugging away at the forward roll. Eventually, the teacher let me try the backward roll with disastrous results. I was like a damn Weeble, man. I just couldn't get myself to roll over. I'd roll backwards, get stuck on my shoulders with my legs straight up in the air, kicking wildly trying to get some momentum, and then roll forward back to the starting position. Okay. So I was like a weeble with legs, standing on my head. Maybe I wasn't Weeble like at all. But I think you get the picture.

By this point in the class, the rest of the kids had mastered the cartwheel and were doing round offs. The teacher decided to forget about the rolls and set me apart to do donkey kicks. I did donkey kicks twice a week for an hour. That's all I would do was donkey kicks. I would daydream of becoming the Nadia Comaneci of donkey kicks. Bringing home a hard won gold medal in the newly introduced Donkey Kick event. I can still do a mean ass donkey kick (but, even if a million bucks were on the line, I couldn't muster a forward roll -- and I've never really attempted a cartwheel).

As the class came to a close, and all the other children were progressing to the next level, my teacher suggested my mom enroll me in ballet class. Out of gymnastics and into ballet, complete with pink itchy tutu. My stint with ballet left no lingering memories with me (except for the aforementioned itchy tutu) as it was brief. That teacher soon suggested my mom enroll me in tap dance lessons. This I loved. Those shoes were just the shiznit! And the shuffle step of tap dance became my new donkey kick. I was shuffle stepping like a champ. Sadly, the rest of the class was doing a routine that required a riff, ripple and the cramp roll, none of which I could do.

From tap I went to ice skating. And then to tennis. Oh, and swimming lessons. How could I forget spending three summers as a Minnow at the Portage Park swimming camp? How I longed to be a Bluegill, but to do that one had to pass the test. The test! Most of the kids passed the test within the first couple of days. It wasn't that hard, and I had no real fear of water. In fact, I loved the water. But to pass the test, you had to hold on to the wall, put your whole face in the water, blow bubbles AND kick your legs all at the same time. Yeah. About three too many things to be doing at once, if you ask me.

Over the years I tried my hand at biking, bowling, rollerskating, skiing, cheerleading, jazz dance, tennis one more time to make sure I really did suck at it (I did), darts (is that even a sport?), golf, and skee ball (at Chuckie Cheese, primarily). At the ripe old age of 35, I can confidently and without a shred of doubt tell you that I am indeed NOT athletic. Mom was right.

And yet, I have hope for my children. I don't want to put undo pressure on them. But I so hope they take after their varsity letterman father in the athletics department. In that spirit, I enrolled Roman in gymnastics and Reilly Kate in Tball. They're doing... ummm... okay.

I mean, Reilly Kate loves Tball. She's even attempting to hit the ball. And she runs. Damn, that girl can run. She flew to first and rounded to second and then ran right passed second, half way through the outfield. We were all calling for her to come back, but she thought we were all just cheering her on. Oh, and she's got the cutest little stance. Look at it! If nothing else, she looks good on the field. That cap. The jersey. Even the glove that is two sizes too big (borrowed from a friend because Mommy is such a 'tard I didn't even think to buy her a glove). The whole outfit just works. As a feminist, I am proud my daughter is taking advantage of the opportunity to even play Tball. It's the one sport I didn't fail at because I never had the chance. As a walking fashion faux pas, I'm proud my daughter can pull off a baseball outfit and look together. Is that wrong?

But Roman. Gymnastics. Honestly, he does really well. He does. Part of my problem with the class is that it is "Mommy & Me" which means that Mommy does half the work. I have flashbacks to my own tumbling history and it isn't pretty. It's hard for him to focus on the skills being taught if Mommy is following the coach around trying to grasp the concept of a straddle roll or regaling her with the glories of my own donkey kicks. Yes, the coach even commented on my very nice donkey kicks, thankyouverymuch. So he doesn't focus. Instead he takes volleyballs out of the ball bin and aims them at the little girls in the class. He throws himself on the mats while other kids are doing forward rolls. He shoves his way onto the trampoline and won't let the other kids on. He puts himself in time outs just so he can sit and look at himself in the mirrored walls. Roman does as Roman wants in gymnastics.

Today, in fact, he decided he'd had enough and asked to leave shortly after the class began. So, I put our shoes on, packed us up, and marched us out the door. I'm not going to stay in a gymnastics class longer than I have to. Not at my age and athletic ability. No sooner had we walked out the door than Roman took off at break neck speed racing toward the street. I thought, "Lord, just stop him before he gets run over by a car." And then. He tripped. And fell. Face first. Head bouncing off the pavement. Not exactly what I would have done to stop him, but then again, I'm not God. And it worked. Who am I to question?

We went back into the building and spent the rest of gymnastics class sitting with ice on his head. I'm not sure if he is going to go back to gymnastics or not. Perhaps I'll sign him up for ballet. He would probably like the tutu more than I did.

But it was the bike ride this afternoon that really was the inspiration for the title to this blog post. To fully appreciate the situation, we have to go back two and a half years, to Reilly Kate's second birthday. Mama and Daddy gave her a shiny red tricycle. She loved that trike and I was excited to get her on it and outside riding down the street, enjoying the fresh Hawaiian air. And then I discovered she couldn't steer. No, my dear, darling two year old could NOT steer. Not at all. We worked feverishly on the steering, day after day, sweaty, sweltering, blistering hot Hawaiian afternoon after horrid Hawaiian afternoon. It sucked. We'd see the other moms and kids traversing the neighborhood without a care in the world as we just went round and round (verbally as well as literally) with the steering.

She's never quite mastered it. Four years old and she still just cannot do the steering. Forget steering and pedalling at the same time. That is an impossibility. It's me all over again, only worse. Much, much worse. I was good at the trike. Or at least my memory of me on my trike is good. Last year my mom bought her a big girl bike. I'm not sure why we did such a thing since a bigger bike only means bigger problems. But we did. Besides, Roman needed to get himself on that trike. And, let me tell you, that kid is good at it. He can steer that baby left and right and backwards and forwards and all over town. He's hot on those wheels, baby.

And so, it was with Reilly Kate on her big girl bike and Roman on the tricycle that we ventured out to the playground in our apartment complex. Oh, and to complicate matters, we brought Truman -- the incredibly unlikeable wiener dog. Of course, Reilly Kate cannot actually ride her bike to the playground so she was walking it. Which was also impossible because, well, she'd have to walk and push her bike at the same time and that cannot happen. We're still working on walking and talking here. So we aren't even out the elevator when she is in hysterics, tripping all over herself, and dropping the bike. Roman, is happily riding down the ramp backwards, way ahead of us. Truman is weaving in and out of my legs so that I either trip over him or stomp on him and break his back. I tripped over him. I didn't want that vet bill.

And there we were. The cute little family. Me trying not to squash the dog while helping Reilly Kate steer her bike as she attempted to walk and push at the same time with Roman riding the trike backwards. It was as some Korean middle school students were gawking and giggling at us that I heard a voice in my head say, "'tarded, more 'tarded, and the most 'tarded yet!"

It was probably God talking to me. I'm sure he's mad at me for being ungrateful after he prevented Roman from getting hit by a car by bouncing his head off the pavement. As penance I'm going to go do 100 donkey kicks and give Reilly Kate's bike to charity. Then I'm giving up on all things athletic. We'll turn our attention toward music. Have I ever told you how unmusically inclined I am? I went from piano, to recorder, to flute, to guitar, to handbells...