My Less Than Perfect Self

     When did we (I)decide that the epitome of a woman with her shit together has a flat stomach,  toned arms,  and legs like Tina Turner?  Why am I so freaking hard on myself and full of self loathing about my body?  What the hell is wrong with it?! Sadly,  I can tell you more about what's wrong with it than right.  I constantly feel disgusted about some body part or other on a daily basis,  or my inability to survive-and enjoy-on a diet of nothing but clean,  healthy food and to work out -and enjoy it-for at least an hour a day. 
     Where did this come from?  When did I decide this was an acceptable way to think and feel about myself? Why do I struggle so much with accepting myself in all its glorious fabulousness?  And again,  where did this struggle come from?
     I suppose I could blame "society", ya know,  the nameless,  faceless entity that determines standards of beauty and success.  And sometimes,  I do. Despite my years of wisdom and experience, and all of the things I've accomplished,  I fall prey to the belief that after having only one child,  I too, at 41 years old,  should have the same body as Gwen Stefani,  a woman with 3 kids,  and older. A woman who makes her living in singing and dancing.  A woman with the time,  money, desire, and incentive to hire personal trainers,  nannies,  and chefs. She and I are world's apart,  yet I compare myself,  my body,  to hers, knowing as I do,  that it's counter productive,  with no basis for comparison except other than we grew up in Orange County,  we're in our 40s and are both working mommas. That's it.  Oh,  and we're natural brunettes.  I'm a successful woman in my own right,  with a handsome husband who never seems to want to stop touching the goodies-mine,  not his-and a beautiful 3 year old son who loves his momma and her less than perfect body. So if those 2 can love my less than perfect body and mind,  then why the hell can't I?

Giving Thanks

     This month is November, the historic time of giving thanks and seeing your friends post once a day something they're thankful for. Well, since I spent a whole year updating everyone on my activities while in Korea, I can't really talk too much $hit about that, now can I? Besides, that just comes with an awful lot of pressure. Seriously. What if I end up starting big, with the deep, emotionally healthy things to be thankful for- my son, my husband, our health, roof over our heads, food on the table, yada yada yada. Then what? Then I'm left with things like, today I'm thankful for my flat iron, for without it, I could not achieve the sleek, smooth hairstyle I feel has become my trademark. And while some out there would chuckle and agree, there's that ONE person out there who would judge me for being shallow and callous and tell me that there are people out there who wish they had the money for luxuries like flat irons, heat protection spray, combs, and food. I try not to only focus on the good things in life and what I'm grateful for only during the month of November. I think we should be cognizant of these things all year round. I know, it's easy to take for granted the things we have. We just always assume we will always have a home, food, health and happiness and love. I think that we've also gotten too judgemental of others, and truthfully, I blame that on the internet and social media. 
     But anyway, while I challenge everyone to count their blessings all year round, and not just at Thanksgiving, I have decided to give in to social media pressure and list the things I'm grateful for. But it won't be lovey dovey, deep, meaningful, and socially acceptable. No no. Cause, really, who isn't thankful for their health? Who isn't appreciative of a roof over their head and food on the table? Is there anyone out there saying, "Damn you house, with your walls and roof, and food, and heat in the cold and A/C in the heat! The hell with you, body of mine, with your healthiness!" So, in the spirit of the month of November, and the self-imposed pressure of social media, here is my list of 30 things I'm thankful for, in no particular order-

1.  The "eff word". Do I really need to say more? It's the perfect word to express exactly how you feel when you need it. And it can be used in just about every context. It can be a noun, a verb, and adjective, an adverb. It can be used alone or strung together with other colorful words to truly give one that much added "oomph" when expressing feelings.

2.  Diet Coke. I don't give a damn if new studies show it will give me heart disease and diabetes. I drink water, too. In fact, most of the time, I won't have one until I have water. So diet Coke is on here,because it has caffeine, no calories, and it's great for when I just don't want to drink water.

3.  Scotch. As in Dewar's and soda. It makes me feel warm inside, and a bit grown up since I can say, "I'll have a Dewar's and soda, please". 

4.  Not eating clean. I can hear some of you now, "Whaaaaat? How is that possible? Don't you realize all of the crap in unclean food?! Shame on you!". Pffft. Whatever. For those of you who do it, good on ya. And congrats. I, on the other hand, prefer to eat exactly what I want. Just in moderation. So, if I want a damn piece of chocolate cake, with ooey, gooey frosting, then dammit, I will. I will not feel guilty about it. I will not starve myself the next day as a result of it (hell, I may just have a piece the next day too!). I will not deprive myself. I can be healthy and happy with how I look without depriving myself of the yummy, delicious "unclean" foods that I don't avoid.

5.  Sponge Bob Square Pants and Elmo. Because ya know what? They give me some momma time when my son is up and awake. I'm pretty sure he isn't going to grow up trying to smell the color 9 by me letting him watch Elmo, or Team Oomi Zoomi. So I am grateful to them and all of their friends who at times, entertain and teach my son.

6.  That my son can entertain himself. Yes, I play with him. But he can also entertain himself, and that is also a good skill for a child to posses. It also lets momma get housework done. 

7.  My loud, in your face, get the f$&k outta my way car. I like my cars loud. If given a choice between loud or fast, yes, it would be tough, but I would chose loud. Because dammit, you're gonna know when I pass you for driving under the damn speed limit. And you're gonna know when I'm around. 

8.  My flat iron, for giving me the smooth, sleek look that I like and has become my trademark hairstyle.

9. Victoria Beckham, for having the hairstyle that I now not only covet, but have. 

10. The month of November and December. Being in the military, we not only get federal holidays off, we also get training holidays in conjunction with the federal ones. So we have a 4 day work week, Mon-Thurs, leading up to the 4 day weekend for Veteran's Day. Then a 4 day work week upon our return (Tues-Fri). Then 3 days of work, 4 days off for Thanksgiving. Then the 2 weeks of Christmas and New Year's, we work half days, with 2 days off for Christmas and New Year's each.  Therefore, there's not a lot of working done, and I love it...Well, it's also a curse because, well, there's not a lot of work being done. 

11.  New magazines. I love new magazine day at the store. All of the latest issues of magazines. Love, love, love it! I find myself wanting to buy every single new issue of them all, even the ones I don't read, or even care to, like "Diabetic Living" (although given my love for diet Coke, I will apparently need to buy this one soon!) and, "Runner's World".

12.  My Bebe Jeans and my 2 pairs of Honey Booty Jeans (yes, that's the real name). Now my Honey Booty jeans may be too long, but that's okay. These jeans look fantastic on me (if I do say so myself!). And they force me to do what I always wanted to do-wear high heels more, cause flats just won't do with them! When I bought the Bebe jeans, they were $50. I felt okay about paying that much for them. The Honey Booty ones, were on sale, $75 instead of $99 (and that was the outlet price. They're normally $150). And I bought 2 pairs. So, I spent $200 on 3 pairs of jeans that I love. Now I just need to get the Honey Booty ones hemmed just a wee bit...

13.  The color red. Cause it's loud, in your face, says the "eff word" and refuses to be ignored. Kinda like me...is it any wonder it's my favorite color?

14.  Zumba; it's fun and I enjoy it. In my mind, I look like Shakira when I do Zumba, even though I'm pretty sure I look more like Raj from "What's Happenin'"

15.  Music.  I love music. I love singing along to my favorite songs. Although the jury's still out on if that includes Katy Perry. She's kind of annoying and I often want to rip my ears off and throw them out the window when her songs come on. Rhianna, too. 

16.  The smell of pine. It instantly puts me in a warm, cozy frame of mind, and makes me smile.

17.  Brazilian waxes. Yes, that's correct. Cause I consider it a feat worthy of a party when I shave my legs. And it hurts when you cut yourself shaving there. And it's terrible when it grows back in. And razor burn is not sexy. So I pay someone one to spread hot wax on my lady bits and then rip it off. I am also sober when this happens. And I don't have to worry about razor burn, cuts, or itchies. 

18.  Mootopia Lactose Free Milk from HEB. Cause it tastes just like milk, and it's not thin like skim milk. And my tummy thanks me for it.

19. Chocolate chip cookies. Need I say more?

20.  Making lists. This is the only way I can function at work- I make lists of things I need and want to do. Then I have the joy of crossing of each item as I do it! 

21.  Crossing off things on lists. It gives me such a great feeling of accomplishment. 

22.  Mine and Tony's feet. Weird, I know. But we both have decent looking feet. I like to keep mine looking pretty, and sandal ready with my pedicures. I have decent arches and they're little. Tony's feet have decent arches-not flat, not too high to look weird, and they aren't bad to see in his never-ending wear of flip flops. I have issues with feet. So in addition to not really wanting to see them (which means I'm not too thrilled when friends post pictures of their pedicures!), I really have issues with ugly feet. Combatives and UFC just upsets me. They have barefeet, they get dirty, and periodically touch each other with their feet. Blech. So I'm thankful Tony and I have decent looking feet, and that I'm okay if he touches me with his. Anyone else, though, and I'm very distressed. 

23.  Chicken nuggets. Because when my son just doesn't want to eat anything else I put in front of him, I know I can always turn to the old stand by, and he will eat those and make his momma happy. 

24.  Crayons and coloring books, for when you want to feel like a kid again. 

25.  Books, to get lost in and to open yourself up to magical, new worlds. To inspire you daydream and get lost in your thoughts.

26  Being able to raise my right eyebrow at will.

27. Being able to just look at a person, with no expression on my face and do nothing but blink.

28. Being able to drive a manual transmission. Cause it's just cool, especially in my loud as hell GTO . Except in stop and go traffic, with a racing clutch. Then it's just leg numbingly painful and a bit of an annoyance. 

29.  Johnson's Baby Bedtime Bath products. The smell so good, and will always remind me of my son. 

30.  My husband, my son, my family, my friends. Ours and their health. The roof over our heads, the food on the table, and the heat in the cold and the A/C in the heat. For having what we need, and being able to get the things we want.  For having the knowledge that we are lucky and grateful for all of the things we're fortunate to have, either through hard work, or in some case, just plain ole luck. 

And that's all she wrote, folks...

All I Have to Say Is...

Sometimes, I really despise the readily available means to publish our every thought, wish, desire, and opinion. Sometimes, the conspiracy theorists just come across as so ignorant, which has taken on a pejorative term, when really, all it means is "lacking in knowledge". So despite periodically despising our ability to post every thought, idea, feeling and emotion, I have something to say. And there will be some who will get pissed. And ya know what? They'll be alright. And if they want to unfriend me, that's quite alright. But I suggest that anyone who wants to comment on what I'm about to say, better be prepared to do so in a cogent and coherent manner.

Nidal Hasan was sentenced to the death penalty. Now that this is done, I hope all of those affected by his actions and beliefs can move on and get the closure they need and deserve. For those who will decide that there is or will be a conspiracy theory behind the President not "allowing" him to be put to death (which of course clearly shows he must therefore be Muslim and not a US citizen), I'd like to point out that all military death row inmates' deaths must be approved by the President-Republican, Democrat, Green, Independent, Libertarian, Whig, Federalist, whatever their party preference and leanings are. The military has not put anyone to death since 1961, and there are 5 others on military death row. There is an automatic appeal for a death row sentence, so no, this piece of garbage and waste of oxygen will not be put to death any time soon, despite being in Texas (God Bless it...).  Not because of the President, or Congress, or liberal pot smoking, tree hugging hippies. Not because of his religious beliefs, not because there are some who object to saying the Pledge of Allegiance in schools, not because of separation of church and state. Not because of differences in interpreting the 2nd Amendment, not because gays can openly serve in the military. Not because Miley Cyrus is trashy, not because Lindsey Lohan can't seem to stay sober. But because of the way the military justice system works. 

Be All You Can Be

 

17 years ago, I had just graduated from Military Police AIT and was home on leave. My first duty station was Germany.  I was scared, nervous, excited. I had no idea what the hell awaited me, nor how in the hell to do what I had just spent 4 months learning to do-be a Soldier and an MP. All I knew was that I wanted to be a Staff Sergeant and wear jungle boots! At the time, my experience with leadership was extremely limited to that of the Drill Sergeants. Sure they yelled, and cursed, but they took care of us and helped us. And they scared the hell out of us! So I really had no idea what I would get when I got out into the big bad world of the Army. What would the NCOs be like? Would they yell, curse, teach? Would they scare me? Would I like them and they me? And when can I get jungle boots?

     I PCSd to Germany, and quickly found myself gearing up to deploy to Bosnia, where my unit was at the time. Once again, the fear and excitement happened all over again. And still, no one to lead or mentor me. But hey, I'd get that in Bosnia. I'd get there and start being all I could be, right? My sponsor was just the guy in charge of getting us in-processed and ready to deploy. He wasn't really good for much of anything except a ride to the PX. He was PCSing, and had come back from Bosnia to do so. So the unit decided he would be our sponsor. Probably not the best idea since he was a bit of a dirtbag and definitely provided no leadership or guidance at all.
     When I got to Bosnia, I looked around for the leadership I was expecting-hoping-to find. And didn't really find it. Where were the females? Weren't there any female leaders? Oh, there they are. Bitter and pissed off at the world because they're not getting promoted, so they gave up all pretense of caring. Oh look, there's some female Soldiers. Hey girls, mind if I hang out with you? Oh, wow. So let me get this straight-you hate the Army and Bosnia and are doing everything in your power to get put out, to include telling the Commander you're a lesbian in the hopes of being chaptered out under Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Or you'll just get pregnant while here in country because everyone knows they'd have to send you back to Germany. Pay no attention to me, laying an arm's distance away from your love nest, trying to sleep as you do your damndest to conceive your love child (PS, for my pain and suffering, please name your child after me). Oh neither of those things are your style, you say? You're just going to sleep with whomever can get you out of here. I see. How's that working out for you? Needless to say, being faced with that was a bit overwhelming and left me very bewildered. Then there were the men. They looked at me as "fresh meat", as a pretty girl who wouldn't last a year in the Army before she too tried her damndest to get out of the Army. To them, I was just looking for a husband or for a way to prove myself and be one of the boys. Or I was instantly their female confidant about their problems with their wives back home. I wasn't taken seriously, because let's face it, I was just a female who would end up pregnant in a year. Female Soldiers who wore makeup to work, and cared about their appearance were too girly for the Army and not to be taken seriously. There's males and females. And God forbid if you're too feminine. That makes you a Female, a Girl, a slut and easy. And that had to be avoided at all costs. But wait, you can't be too masculine, either. Cause that would make you a ball busting, man hating lesbian. And you didn't really have female friends. There either weren't any females to have as friends, or you spent all of your time circling around each other, waiting to pounce because this wasn't your friend. You two were too busy cutting each other down and competing against each other for Christ knows what title, award, guy...
   So this was what I was introduced to in my first 9 months after basic training. I was clueless and miserable. But don't worry. I was a cool chick too. That was me, Larkin, the Cool Chick. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing but dammit, I was cool. Not too pretty and girly, not too "manly". Apparently "just right". And those female NCOs from Bosnia were worse upon redeployment. Only now there were that many more men to try to sleep their way to the top with. Everything I knew at that point in time about female shit in the Army was from looking it up myself. Which isn't a bad thing, but there was a lot of trial and error...
     When I did special duty as a vocalist in the USAREUR Soldier's Chorus, I encountered the same types of females, only more of them, and more feminine. So while the mentality hadn't seemed to change much, at least I had females I could look to and turn to for female questions. I also began wearing make up in uniform. Oh the horror of it! Apparently I really WAS trying to get a man and to not be taken seriously!
     When I PCSd to Ft Lewis, I was a brand new SGT.  Having been out of the MP Corps for over a year, I had a lot of catching up to do. And the first thing I learned was that I "couldn't" wear make up in uniform if I wanted to be taken seriously and respected. Oh. And I "couldn't" go out too often, for then I'd look like a party girl. And not too many dates/boyfriends-I'd be perceived as easy. And not too many nights doing nothing but hanging out reading or I'd be perceived as a lesbian. What the hell? So I couldn't win for losing. No make up, no nail polish/manicure, but not so little so as to be perceived as butch. Once again, I found myself at a loss. At a cross roads. Why did being respected as an NCO have to be tied in with how much eye shadow I wore? Once again, I was miserable. No true female friends, females who viewed me as competition, females who talked shit about me behind my back, men who didn't take me seriously (or male leaders who had the balls to ask me to let him know my cycle days so that he would be able to track and know why I was being bitchy. Seriously. He said he'd never worked with females before so to please forgive his jack assery.). Now that's not to say I didn't have 1SG April Staton. She was my 1SG and beautiful. She wore make up, and everyone took her seriously. So I wore make up. She was very successful and not at all masculine. So I could be like her, right? Not so much. Because it's totally different when you're the First Sergeant as opposed to just a Sergeant.
     So I spent the next 9 years in turmoil. Why did it seem like in order to be taken seriously I had to sacrifice some of my femininity? So I decided that I wasn't a female NCO. I was an NCO. There's no need to differentiate. I was an NCO, dammit. And I wore make up because it was professional (it made sense in my mind). And anything the boys can do, I can do too. I can curse, spit, drink, swagger and carry my own weight, thank you very much. Respect was because I was like them. I could hang and I was an NCO. NOT a female NCO. That was a designator to be avoided at all costs. To be called a female NCO was akin to being called a dirty word. I learned to look down on female Soldiers who felt they had to sleep their way to the top and to get what they wanted. I didn't do that shit, so why should they? Oh those poor, misguided Soldiers. And parade pretty? Get the fuck out of here with that shit. So I guess I became a bit harder on female Soldiers. They didn't need to exemplify and personify the stereotype of female Soldiers, and dammit, I was going to teach them that. You're not Female Soldiers. You're Soldiers.
     In 2009, I was deployed to Iraq. My boss, CSM French, was (and still is) an Infantryman. By this time, I was a Sergeant First Class and had been in for 13 years. I wasn't an MP anymore, but a Career Counselor. And yes, I was still an NCO, dammit. NOT a Female NCO. I wore make-up, but very little. I now had a short, cute stacked bob for a hair cut (ok it was a hair style). I took extra time with my appearance in the morning so that I looked professional. Not too much makeup, no lipstick-oh God no! What am I, trying to get a date?! Lip balm only, and then it was only to avoid chapped lips. Nail polish was clear, not some girly ass color that the regulation said I could wear. I'm a Sr NCO, and I want to be taken seriously. Well, CSM French told me that it's okay to be feminine. That I didn't have to sacrifice my femininity or identification as a female in order to be respected and taken seriously. I didn't have to be like one of the guys in order for them to respect me. And whether I liked it or not, I was a female NCO. What the hell was he talking about? Whaaaat? No no, CSM.  You don't understand, if I act like a girl then no one will take me seriously. I am not a female NCO. I'm an NCO. "Jenn," he said, "I don't know how to tell you this, but you're a female. A woman. A lady. And an NCO. An outstanding NCO. Stop trying to be one of the guys, because you're not a guy. Being called a lady isn't a bad thing. They still respect you. They respect you not only because they have to, but because of who you are. And Jenn, you're a woman. You're not a man and there's no need for you to act like one.  Be yourself. And between you and me, I know that one of the things you are, is kinda girly." All of this was said in an informal, friendly manner, but also in a mentoring way. But this was crazy talk. You mean to tell me that I can stop acting like one of the guys? I can wear lipstick and nail polish and still be respected? You mean to tell me that I can stop being so hard on myself and feeling like a failure every time I feel like a girl? Huh. Ain't that some shit. Apparently, I can be strong, confident, respected, and successful in the Army while wearing lipstick. And suddenly, it all made sense to me. I wasn't just a leader or Sr NCO. I was a Female NCO. And it was ok to identify myself as such. There were countless female Soldiers out there who felt as I did. Who felt they had to sacrifice their femininity-at least during the duty day-in order to be accepted and respected. That day had a profound affect on me. It changed my world, and way of thinking. I found myself standing even taller, and while I still swaggered, I did so with a new found confidence. I am woman hear me roar! And get the fuck out of my way (hey, some things just don't change...)
     As a Career Counselor, I have a different type of impact on Soldiers. Sometimes, it's direct. Sometimes it's indirect. But either way, I have an impact. Just like those bitter, angry female NCOs did on me, even though I never interacted with them. Here I am, 17 years later. And I revel in my femininity. I take pride in it. And I know that it doesn't have to be one or the other-lipstick or respect. I can have both. And if I can give that to other Soldiers, young, old, male or female, then I've accomplished something. My promotion isn't just for me or my family. It's for all of the Soldiers out there who are looking for guidance, for their identity. It's for those who said I would be out within the year, pregnant. It's for those who thought they had to lie, cheat, steal, or sleep their way to a promotion. I never did any of those things. I used to say that I was very lucky for never encountering sexual harassment or a hostile workplace. But as I reflect, ponder and marvel, I realize that yes, I did. Some of it was by men, some by women. And I just adapted to it. I rucked up and moved out, not realizing that I had the power to change it. So here I am. A Master Sergeant in the United States Army. A Soldier. A Senior Female NCO. A Woman. A Lady. A Wife. A Mother. I am all of these things. And not a single one of them takes away from my credibility. To all those who doubted me, Fuck you. Yeah, I still curse, but not to be accepted. And to the Soldiers who try to pull parade pretty on me, get the fuck out of here (figuratively). Walk with me and let me tell you about life and how to succeed without pulling that shit. Cause you can and I promise, you'll still be able to look in the mirror as when you put your lipstick on.

My Own Weather System

     The Korean culture seems to be more cash based than the states. It's not uncommon to pay for things, such as rent, in cash.  Now, I won't say how much my rent is over here, but I will say it's more than my mortgage back in Texas. Every month, I call USAA and get an ATM withdrawal increase, take out my rent, go to the Money Exchange, then pay my rent to my realtor, who also takes care of any issues I have. Well, apartment wise. Cause she's just not licensed to help me out with the other things!
      So last week I told her my A/C wasn't blowing cool air, despite getting a block of instruction on how to set and use it (yes, you read that correctly, I don't know how to set it, and the buttons being in Hangul don't help much. But in my defense, I don't even really know how the thermostat in my house in Texas works). I even took pictures of the buttons and showed them to Korean Soldiers and they just looked at me, blinked, talked amongst themselves in Korean, and then told me, "I don't know" . I finally got my block of instruction from my co worker, who probably asked a Korean person. Anyway, Sora told me she'd "call the guy". Well, I waited for her to let me know when "the guy" would come out. In the meantime, my rent is due between the 1st and 5th of the month, and yeah, I'm That Girl who pays 10 minutes before they close on the 5th. But when I took out my rent, I emptied the ATM (now how often is it that you can say you did that?). Aaaaaand I had locked my car keys in the trunk of my car, and I had no idea where the neighbor with the spare key works. Don't ask how they got locked in the trunk, please. So I figured I'd just walk somewhere later to get the rest. That never happened. A few things contributed to it, namely needing to get back to work for a meeting, so the offer of a ride to another ATM had to be declined.  I also didn't really feel like walking all over post in the hot, humid weather when my ev-er-ee-thing hurt beyond measure. I also didn't want to walk home, even though it would have taken me about 10 minutes to do so. So I asked for a ride home from a co-worker. And by the time he was done with work, it was after 1800.  I also could have been home about 30 minutes sooner, but waiting for a ride made sense in my mind (hence, the giant irony and contradiction present in my line of thinking.) So when I told Sora I had to work late, I was kinda being truthful. It's just that I had to work late in order to get said ride home.  Well, the next day was Korean Memorial Day, so the Realtor's office was closed, which meant my rent wouldn't get paid until the 7th, i.e., it would be late. That also meant I couldn't really call up Sora and complain about the A/C.  And let me just say, in the mornings, I really need the cold air. I have the shower, which despite my best efforts, produces humidity, then I have the hair dryer and flat iron to stand under.  Which results in copious amounts of sweating, crying from sweating so much, cursing, frustration induced temper tantrums, and frizzy hair. Which is the already the bane of my curly/wavy haired existence. So while I don't need to run the A/C 24/7, I would like to have it for the mornings when I need it. Or while doing Zumba.
     Now, since I knew I had emptied the ATM prior to getting all of my rent money, I should have realized that and completed my withdrawal on Thursday. And I think I meant to. Hell, I was even by the ATM. But apparently I forgot. No worries, though.  I'll just go to the money exchange and then the realtor Friday morning before work. Well this idea went horribly awry when, after counting out my rent money, I realized I'd short changed myself. Because I hadn't hit up the ATM one last time. Dammit....which meant I would have to get more money, exchange it, and pay it after getting my hair done for the Ball. Which meant I risked "hat hair" since I was doing this straight from work. Double dammit...Now, it's humid as hell here in Korea. And being from Texas doesn't mean I like it any more than the average person. In fact, show me someone who actually likes the humidity and I'll show you a crazy person.  And my kick ass chariot of choice, 1995 Daewoo Prince with green glitter scattered about the trunk (no idea...I probably don't want to know, either) doesn't have A/C (there seems to be a theme here...). Actually, there's a lot of things my sweet ride doesn't have, now that I think about it. So I get my hair cut and done, and perch my headgear on my head in such a way that it's only claim is that it's on my head. Now, it's on my head wrong, I will freely admit it. And it was intentional. But dammit, I wasn't going to ruin my hair! And hey, at least I had headgear on. There are a lot of females here who wouldn't even have bothered to put it on at all. So I get money, and then head out to the Money Exchange. And I manage to get stopped at every single stop light. Now, no forward momentum, such as that created by actual moving, means, yes, you guessed it, none of Mother Nature's own version of air conditioning, aka, breeze through the windows. I did manage to park illegally in front of the church across from the Money Exchange (whaaaaat...everyone else does it...). I get in there, and start pulling twenties out of my pockets, bag, you name it. And then stand in front of the fan, trying to dry the sweat at my hair line since moisture equals frizz and curl in my case. And I just had my hair flat ironed to perfection, dammit. And oddishi (that'd be the older guy who runs it) gives me my rent in 10,000 won bills.  That's like paying for something that's $1000 in fives...Wonderful. But away I go to pay my rent, where I then tell them that next month will be late since I won't be back until the 10th. Nice life, right?
     So now that my rent is paid, I hit up Sora about the A/C. And she tells me "the guy" will be by Saturday at 1010. Not 1000, not 1015. Or even 1030. But 1010. Okaaay... Now in Korean culture, it's apparently acceptable to be a bit late. But something told me to change out of the hideous fluorescent green tank top I was wearing (it was sold in a pack of 3, and I wanted the other 2 colors, so I was kinda stuck with it) and yoga pants at 0930. And thankfully I did since Mr. I'll Be There at 1010 was downstairs at 0948. Now, I don't know what the hell he did, but it involved a lot of discussion in Korean on his cell phone, a trip back downstairs, a blow torch, and what looks like a propane tank. But so far, the place has gone from being 26 degrees Celsius to 23. So whatever he did apparently worked.  I guess I should go close the windows I opened in an attempt to get a cross breeze in here earlier.
     But my hair did manage to remain sleek, shiny, and straight. Despite the hat, the humidity, and the nap I ended up taking, and the 7 minute walk to catch a cab. Now I'm kinda cold...I just can't win for losing.

Not in My Right Mind...Of Course Not!

110 squats...done. Yay me! Now, perhaps I'm not in my right mind, well, aside from the usual moments, but would someone please explain the point in all of the videos of horrific events happening, in real time? Such as the explosion in West, TX as it happened. Or the constant repeat and reposting of the Boston Marathon bombs. Why? What purpose does reliving those events, repeatedly, serve? Is it because we're all a bit morbid and want to see what that looks like? Really, why would we want to continually view images of people who have been mortally injured, or lost limbs? Or children? And do we really need to hear 911 calls? Seriously?? Why do I need to hear what someone is going through who has to call 911? The same goes for interviewing people who've been injured in an incident of some sort, or lost a family member/friend? Can't we let people grieve in private, if that's how they chose to grieve? I just can't help but wonder maybe we're becoming TOO technologically advanced for our own good. Maybe the advent of instant knowledge and sharing isn't necessarily a good thing. Are we becoming desensitized? Or are we doing it in some odd way of reassuring ourselves that someone else has it worse? Do we really need to damn near fully experience what the man on ground has experienced in order to grieve the loss of humanity, innocence, life?  Or is it so that we never lose our own ability to grieve and be thankful?

This is what happens when I oversleep, miss running for the morning, and am on Facebook.  And when I finish 110 squats and am amped up on coffee and Shakeology. And anyone who thinks my ponderings and musings are directed at you, no no. They're not.  It's not directed at anyone.  Peace out dearies...

Calgon Take Me Away

     Let me start by saying I love my son with every ounce of my entire being.  He's all I could ask for in a son, and since he's the only child I'll have, I am eternally grateful for him and the joy he has brought to my and DH's lives.  With that being said....my son has been nothing short of a holy terror today.  I know what you're all thinking, "Whaaaat? How is that possible? He's such an angel and could never be less than a source of joy, love, happiness and inner peace".  Well, I have to beg to differ. Does anyone know exactly what it's like to have a hard headed, independent, cranky 10 month old who is also teething?? It is trying, frustrating and enough to make you want to hide in the closet and then wonder when it's time to go back to work...

     DS has been up since 0721 this morning. Now, I'm not complaining about that-are you kidding me? Hell no. He's always been a terrific sleeper. Except for nap times. Nap times, he will fight you like Lex Luthor does Superman, but bedtime, and he's a dream.  So much so that I have been walking around in a smug stupor of  "My son sleeps through the night like a dream...." (Insert pretentious British accent here).  Meanwhile, what I'm not letting on is that when it comes to naps, he's incorrigible.  Anyway, within about 25 minutes of him being up and awake, it happened.  I don't know who did it, or when, much less where the hell I was when it happened, but someone snuck into my house and kidnapped my child and replaced him with the crankiest baby of them all, one who's Cheerios had obviously been pissed in.  So by 0800, one can imagine, I was pretty frazzled, worn out, and in general wondering if Hubs would believe me when I said I had to go to work. So all day, I have dealt with the crabbiest of babies.  One minute he's crying, the next minute he's laughing and giggling and melting my heart. Then he's screaming, then he's quiet and playing. Then he's crying, and so on and so on... Meanwhile, Hubs is moaning and groaning about still being tired and considering going back to bed. WTF.  Everything I did was damned if I did, damned if I didn't.  I get DS breakfast, he doesn't want it. I put it up, he wants it.  And hubs is talking about going back to bed.  Over my dead body.  So instead he zones out into a movie.  And then a video game, leaving me to handle and trouble shoot my son (now, he is OUR son, but at that point in my life, he was MINE), but getting frustrated all the same with DS's indecisiveness about what he wants.  

     Eventually, after 3 attempts to put DS down for a nap, only to have him climb out of his bed and show no signs of closing his eyes even to blink, I tapped out and said, "Fuck it. I'm done.  If he doesn't want a nap, he doesn't want a nap." Cause I'm too tired to argue with a 10 month old.  I take a shower, and even bring him in with me.  I do my hair, and change his clothes.  I make lunch for all of us.  And still DS is happy, then he's sad, etc etc.  All the while doing the "I'm tired" eye rub when he thinks I'm not looking.  And Hubs is still playing his video game. And blissfully ignoring what's going on.  And it makes me want to throttle him. And scream at him to stop what he's doing and pay attention to me and DS.  But I don't.  Because I know that once they go back to Texas, Hubs won't have the ability to zone out and let someone else worry about our son. So I know he cherishes the moments I take care of our son, and I do try not to begrudge him those moments.  Just because I understand doesn't mean it doesn't frustrate me.  I really try to give him breaks since he doesn't get many when I'm not around, and being over here with me for a bit, he definitely doesn't when I'm at work!  Now our son's room is on the side of the apartment where the sun shines it's lovely rays of light and warmth in, right about the time we try to give DS a nap.  So we got to thinking that perhaps one of the reasons it's been such a struggle to get him down for a nap here is because there's too much light in his room.  Since we don't have any curtains, we decided to improvise with blankets.  Naturally, we'll take them down when our apartment is featured on MTV cribs.  We finally get them hung across the windows and I put him down, kicking and screaming, by the way, for a nap. The first time, he fusses and cries.  I go back in when the cries are louder, like they would be if he had gotten out of his bed and was now sitting behind the door; which he had and was.  I put him back into bed, he lays down, inserts thumb in mouth, and stays down. Victory is mine! I close the door. I make coffee, I settle in for some "ahhh" time. And it lasts for all of 25 minutes. And he's up again. So being an advocate of the Cry it Out method, I wait about 5 minutes. He's still crying. I go in there, prepared to be as boring as possible. And he's sitting up, crying his little heart out.  But kind of still asleep.  So I rub his back. Still crying.  I get him a bottle. He doesn't want it (and yes, Hubs, I will get you my phone so you can make a phone call in a minute...bit busy here).  I go back in and lay him down.  And tell him mommy loves him, and realize he is indeed still asleep, yet crying frantically at the same time (which is common when he's sleep deprived, which does happen, despite our attempts to not let it happen).  So I back out of the room, close the door, and then listen for the crying to stop. And it has. And I have to stop myself from going in there to check on him, to make sure he's still breathing, alive, not stuck somehow from doing his Harry Houdini impression by escaping from his bed. But I know me, I'll do my damndest to creep in and check on him, only to find him sitting up, chewing on his bear's nose.  And ruin the "ahhh" time I've been trying to get.