Pleasantly Demented

September 6, 2010
Making Korean galbi and kimchi for my parents today reminded me of something.  Something you should probably know about me.

I have eaten gaegogi. 

Look it up.

It was made in a dish called bosintang by my landlady when we lived in Korea back in 2002-2003.  We happened to be living there when Korea hosted the FIFA World Cup back in 2002, which is sort of a huge deal over there.  It was kinda like when Atlanta hosted the Olympics.

We didn't live in an area of town where a lot of Americans lived.  We sort of didn't want to.  We chose to live like the Romans, so to speak, so most of our neighbors were Korean.  We got to know them pretty well.  We hung out with them; our kids played together; we had barbecues together and went to parties, all that stuff.

During one of the World Cup games, when Korea was playing somebody important (I don't remember), there was a HUGE block party in our neighborhood.  Sorta like the equivalent of tailgaiting at a football game.  Somebody pulled one of those big ass 52" big screen TVs out into the street.  They literally blocked off our whole street to have this party.  Kids out playing, soju flying, folks screamin' and hollerin' at the TV, ribs on the BBQ......and gaegogi in a big black pot simmering down on the street.  I knew exactly what it was.  You can't miss the legs stickin' out.

I hear the jokes all the time.  The jokes about Chinese food restaurants.  The jokes people like to tell when they've found out I've lived in Korea.  What most people don't understand is that gaegogi is a delicacy.  And it is EXPENSIVE.  You are not going to *accidentally* or *secretly* be fed this.....EVER.  Even in Korea, you have to know someone who knows someone to find a restaurant willing to serve this to a foreigner.  And to be invited to a party where this is being served and offered a plate?  You better be somebody special!

So, Ms. Ana, my landlady, gave me a little advance notice of what was going on so that I could make up my mind privately as to whether or not I wanted to try it.  She even brought a bowl to our house so that we could have an opportunity to try it without being stared at by 50 Koreans all waiting with bated breath for our reaction.  Needless to say, I felt incredibly honored.  Incredibly honored. 

Basically, it's nothing more than a stew with Korean seasonings and vegetables.  Sarge, the boys, and I all passed the bowl around.  All four of us ate it.  My kids were 5 and 7 at the time.  We told them exactly what it was and let them make up their own minds.

Ms. Ana's only request was if we didn't finish it or didn't like it, that we return the leftovers to her.  Like I said, it's not easily come by regardless of what ignorant foreigners like to think. 

So, we ate it.  We didn't just taste it like a kid touching a piece of Brussels sprout with the tip of his tongue.  We ATE it.  For real.  The kids just kinda shrugged their shoulders in a "big deal" kind of way and ran off to play some more.  Chris and I were really surprised at how NORMAL it tasted.  It was a bit greasy.  It's MUCH more tender than venison.  Actually, if I had the choice between the two, I'd take the gaegogi in a heartbeat. 

But here's the shameful part.  Being the twisted mother fuckers that we are, we couldn't resist the urge to see what our precious little Basset hound thought of the whole affair.  Yes.  We tried to feed it to our dog.  I mean, COME ON!  She sitting there salivating at our feet, whining like a rusty washing machine.  What were we supposed to do?  I am, however, pleased to say that Sammie retained her dignity.  She took one whiff of the big chunk of compadre dangling from the fork and bolted.

Good for you, Sammie.  Good for you.

September 2, 2010

- Dear Wal-Mart- Why must you always put the fat free Cool Whip on the top shelf?  You really think you've outsmarted me? I learned how to climb shelves at a very young age, my friend.

- Dear beefed up mantards-  Why must you wear those fugly super-tight shirts that show all your muscles?  I really hope you don't think it's attractive.  Whoever told you that needs to be sucker punched in the nads.  Sociology has a term for that.  It's called "peacocking."  And it makes you a tool.  TOOL.  You are a tool.  Stop it.

- Dear boys that came from my uterus-  There is a difference between messy and destructive.  I'm cool with messy.  I can handle that.  Destructive is NOT FUCKING COOL.  Seriously.  Do you think I enjoy giving you that "Me and your Dad work our asses off to pay the mortgage while you fucktards run around *accidentally* knocking holes in the wall" speech?  I don't.  It's not fun.  I hate being mean.  But I don't want holes or dirty hand prints on my walls, either.  You guys are just a blink away from being old enough to vote and drive.  Get your shit together.


-  Dear little neighborhood boy whom I will not name-  The same goes for you.  I understand your mother is a.....um....is pretty strict, but please stop coming over to my house just because you think it's okay to completely cut loose and run through the house like the Tasmanian devil.  Yeah, I will let you cut up and act a fool and all that, but you need to calm the fuck down.  Seriously.


- Dear doctors-  You are paying for this service.  If you continue to eat while dictating, you will continue to get blanks on your reports.  I cannot make it any more clear.  If you continue to say "apparently" in every single sentence, I will type "apparently" in every single sentence.  You will look like a fucking idiot, not me.  If you accidentally switch from English to Spanish halfway through your dictation, you will have a huge, gigantic blank.  Three years of high school Spanish did nothing for me.  Sorry.  


-  Dear mouse who has set up residence in my fireplace-  I'm giving you fair warning.  If you don't leave now, you will die.  I tried to intervene on your behalf, but Sarge will have none of it.  He insists you might carry diseases or have babies.  You have approximately 45 minutes, give or take, until he comes home from work.  Run now!  (psssstt....PLEASE don't fall for the old "cheese on the mouse trap" bit.  IT'S A TRAP!!)

September 1, 2010
You and your husband have been hashing it out now for a good 6 months.  Seriously, 6 months?  Why don't you just say your sorry, have makeup sex, and get over it for cryin' out loud!

I just can't see how you would expect me not to look when you're having your little "conversations" on your back porch....and you live right behind me.  C'mon now.  You think I'm not going to constantly find reasons to walk into the kitchen and sneak a look?  I understand you probably don't want your daughter to hear mommy and daddy having a knock-down/drag-out, and you're probably smart in that respect.  But, as the mother of one of your daughter's friends, I'm here to tell you that precious little Keelie ain't dumb...and she ain't too secretive about it, either.  While I'm getting the visual out of my kitchen window, I'm getting the details from my kid.

As much fun as I'm having peeking out my kitchen window every time one of you jumps up and flails your arms around, or stomps off back into the house, or slams your hand down on the table, or gets loud enough where I can hear you say "I REFUSE to deal with this shit anymore!" from inside my house, it's really getting old.  If you guys aren't going to bust out with some choke holds or round kicks to the gut, then at least do something worth peeking at!  You know, ravenous makeup sex on the picnic table would be a good start.  I swear I won't run and grab my video camera.  Cross my heart and hope to die. 

August 4, 2010

Since I know you're all just chomping at the bit to know exactly what it is I do all day, I've decided to humor your creepy curiosity and let you be a fly on my wall.  Either that, or I'm having delusions of grandeur.

9:00 am-  Mama wakes up.  Wash face.  Brush teeth.  Take vitamins.  Eat cereal.  Special K Fruit and Yogurt with skim Lactaid milk.  EVERY.SINGLE.MORNING for at least 5 or 6 years.  What can I say, I'm nothing if not a creature of habit.  I go through 4 boxes a week.....at least.

9:30-  Out in the garage pumping my guns and gettin' my sweat on.  Because when you're 4'6" and eat like a football player, somethin's gotta give.

11:00-  Tiptoe quickly through the house so as not to drip sweat anywhere and jump in the shower.  Depending on my shaving requirements, that's anywhere from 15-30 minutes.  I like being clean.

11:30-  Start a load of laundry and get the boys started on their school work.

11:35-  Remind the boys that "Call of Duty" does not qualify as social studies or PE.

11:40-  Remind the boys that texting their girlfriends does not qualify as creative writing.

11:45-  Flip on the TV to any show that has to do with somebody gettin' chopped up.  Usually, the ID channel or SyFy.  However, for the past week or so, the TV hasn't been flipped on until 5 or 6 in the evening.  Not sure what's up with that.


11:50-  Wire myself for sound with the Ipod-shoved-in-the-bra maneuver and start frantically cleaning the house and figuring out what's for dinner.  All this depends, of course, on exactly what I did in the 9:30 to 11:00 time frame.  Sometimes I get a hankering for some road marchin.  That includes throwing a 20-pound backpack on my back and walking the 4 miles up to Food Lion and back in grass/sand/softly packed dirt.  On those days, the house cleaning sort of takes a back seat.


12:00 pm-  Listen to one of the kids completely freak out with excitement about something like pyroclastic flows, event horizons, or whatever obscene comic book they wrote/drew and want to tell me all about.  Listen intently.  Try to bring up things they don't know about so they will go learn more and I can clean more.

12:45-  Chase the dog around the living room with the vacuum cleaner.  Because it's fucking hilarious watching a 12-year-old Basset hound hop around the living room like a rabbit with seizures.


1:00-  Start folding a load of clothes while singing as loud as I can to "Tainted Love."  Usually a kid will tap me on the shoulder with a disapproving look.  I flip him off and go back to singing.

1:30-  Quickly close the kids' bedroom doors so I can conveniently forget the toxicity that lies therein.  Glance into their bathroom to make sure nothing is growing in there.  Realize there is no toilet paper and they haven't told me they need any.  Wonder how long that's been going on.  Replace the toilet paper.  Wipe down particularly disgusting surfaces.

2:00-  Depending on what's for dinner and whether or not the boys need papers graded, I'm either starting dinner, sneaking a quick CSI episode, or grading papers.  Now, grading papers is an event.  Imagine 2 brothers, fistful of papers, and reputations to uphold.  They're both glaring over my shoulder and giving each other "In Yo Face!" looks every time one gets a better grade than the other.  If it's a CSI episode I'm diggin, that's usually interrupted at least 6 times by the phone, a hungry dog, Big Sarge calling to say "Have I told you how wicked hot you are today?" (which I am absolutely NOT complaining about), a kid asking for help on something they really don't need help on (you'd be surprised how often that happens), or some weird deadbeat-looking motherfucker ringing my doorbell asking if I want to buy meat out of the back of his truck.

3:00- Definitely getting dinner started by now or it just ain't happening.  Tying up loose ends with whatever the kids need my attention for, making sure school work is done and nobody's bleedin', fightin', cryin', or hasn't properly checked in if they're out with friends.  Maybe another load of laundry and an ear-splitting rendition of "Die Motherfucker Die."

4:00- Fabulous! I'm totally still alive.  Now, I get to sit behind my computer for 8 hours and type about dislodged G tubes, teenage suicide attempts, open reduction and internal fixation of spiral fractured femurs, and some guy faking appendicitis just so he can get out of jail for a few hours and have a hot meal and some morphine.  This will continue until midnight.  And it's actually what I'm supposed to be doing right now.  Dr. Lemme-Fixya-Right-Up is waiting on me to bang out some pointless verbosity about some guy's horribly calcified profunda femoral artery.


Every 30 minutes for the next 8 hours-  "Hey mom, come listen to me play the new song I'm learning."......"Hey, mom, Paul wants to know if I can go to his place tomorrow afternoon."......"Hey, mom, can I do some chores?  I need some money."....."Hey Aimee, I need some clothes washed for work tomorrow."......"Hey Sugarbear, wanna go do it real quick?"....."Hey mom, there are no towels in my bathroom!"......"Hey Sugarbritches, where's my cream cheese frosting I was hiding?"......and on and on it goes.....OR....they are all being absolutely quiet, happily doing their own thing, and I'm wasting my time typing shit on my blog.


12:00 am- It's freakin' happy hour, bitches!  Now, I get to clean up the kitchen, do my whole 15-minute obsessive face-washing/teeth brushing/pill-popping routine, fix me up a huge bowl of strawberries, frozen grapes, and an apple, and read the news for the next hour and a half until I get tired.

12:30-  Remind Jake that it was time for bed an hour and a half ago.  He doesn't need his guitar from upstairs in order to go to bed.


12:35-  Remind Andrew it was bedtime an hour and a half ago.  There is no way in hell I'm letting him sneak that soda into his bedroom.


12:45-  Go break up the impromptu jam session going on in one or the other kids' bedroom.  Listen as one kid tries to explain "But Mom, I was trying to go to sleep, but So-and-So won't get out of my room!" Nice try.

12:50-  Hear the dog whining and go check every room in the house to figure out which one she got stuck in when the door shut behind her.  Dogs can't open doors, they just whine like a bad set of car brakes.


12:55-  Really REALLY try to finish reading the news as my eyes begin to close on their own.


1:00-  Finally give in and go fall in the bed, forgetting to take my contacts out, trying not to wake up Sarge because he will roll over and drape his gigantic, muscle-bound arm on top of me and then I can't breathe. 


1:05-  Delicately try to remove a 15-pound arm off my rib cage.

1:07- Fail miserably and wind up getting pulled up against his sweaty chest while he buries his face in the back of my head and starts sniffing my hair really, really loudly.  (no really, this happens).

1:09-  Dog barks at the back door to go potty.  I attempt to escape the sweaty clutches of the hair-sniffer.

1:11-  Open back door and let the dog out.  Fall asleep on the couch until dog barks again.  Finally remember to take my contacts out.

1:15-  Fall back into bed and succumb to the fact that I will be sleeping up against the sweatiest, nakedest, leg-and-arm draping, hair-sniffing Geico caveman ever.  EVER. 


The End.