Hey guys! Hope everyone is having a great 2010. Mine is going pretty well already. Today, Darren sent me an inspired email suggesting that we start a Wonju chapter of 2S2. 2S2 stands for 2nd Saturday at 2pm and is pretty much Roboseyo's baby. I took Darren's idea and we came up with a plan for THIS COMING SATURDAY because it's the second Saturday in January. I know this is soon, but hey, that's how I roll. So, if you're in Wonju, or in Gangwondo and don't have anything going on this Saturday at 2pm, I cordially invite you to our get together!
And, a map!
Do you love it? I know you do! And in case you don't love the hand-drawn-with-love map, here's a boring Google one:
P.S. To all my lovelies who do not reside in Wonju and do not care about 2S2, I will have a normal Wonju Wife-ish post up soooon! Because I love you. And I'm awesome. But mostly, because I love you.
So, you guys remember our Bo Bear right? He's just not really full of joy. He poops on himself a lot, walks in it, doesn't clean himself, doesn't feed himself, and generally sneezes 100 times a day and has nosebleeds. Poor little guy. As you can see in his "before" picture, his chest hair gets a little greasy. Turns out, when you are a cat and your nose is stuffed, you don't smell dirty and you don't clean it. So, he was a little ragamuffin of a cat. And we were always like What the crap kind of cat are you, Bo? You don't play, you don't really get excited or open your eyes all the way EVER.
So, after we got back from our Jeju trip to find him at my mother-in-law's with dried poop on his shoulder (how, I ask you, how?), the hair on his chest greasy like my own hair that hasn't been washed for a month, and a fully clogged nose, I decided to take some action.
So, we came back to Wonju, and I decided with my days off that we'd take him to the vet and have him groomed. Because washing him at home is so traumatic. And yeah, we've given him haircuts before, mostly just cutting out the dried poo, but it looked ugly. I wanted things done the right way. And when they groom them at the vet, they put them to sleep. Which I'm not really a fan of, because maybe the end result is a little more traumatic. But the way he caterwauls and writhes to get away from us when we're painlessly, I reiterate, painlessly, trying to cut a chunk of matted hair off of him, I thought we'd give him a break and knock him out.
There is a cat who lives at the vet we go to. His name is Chop Chop. He looks like this:
How can you not love that face? Okay, minus the fact that the poor boy is wearing makeup. We're in Korea, so we don't really have to say What the Crap about the cat makeup anymore. But you may go ahead if you wish... Okay, so Chop Chop got a little trim. (After this picture was taken, obviously). He was still kind of fluffy, but most of his fur had been cut shorter, leaving his huge head and fat feet and the end of his tail alone. I figured that because my ultimate goal for Bo is for him to look exactly like and grow to the exact same size as Chop Chop, I'd just ask them to do the same thing to him.
So I left him at the vet and it was going to take them a while to do it. Kenny brought him home from work, and y'all, I laughed for 10 minutes straight.
And then when I was finished, I considered crying because he just looked so little and pitiful. And I know you're all reading this thinking that I'm about to go all What the Crap on the groomer. But you would be wrong. Because apparently, having your male cat shaved like this is like giving him a soul makeover.
First, I was taking pictures of Bo today and he crawled in my lap and sat down. What the crap? He never does that. He always just tries to get away from us whenever we try to pet him or hold him or anything. And he's a big fat baby, always whining about it. But no, he walked over to me, climbed up onto my leg, snuggled down into a comfortable position and laid there. I sat very still with my mouth hanging open in awe. Because like I say, this never happens.
Second, some of Kenny's high school students came over to bake cookies and watch a movie because they are on holiday. And guess what! Bo was the life of the party. One of the kids picked up one of Miso's cat toys and shook it. (Actually, we call all the cat toys Miso's because she's the only one who ever actually played. Like a cat.) And Bo RAN. He RAN to the toy and batted at it and chased it. He played for real. And not in his usual slow-motion, eyes-half-closed, please-stop-bothering-me way, either. He was enthusiastic. It was a miracle. What the crap?
And he was sociable! He hung out in the living room with everybody, cuddled in one girl's lap for a while, and generally was a great cat. It was like he was a real cat. What. The. Crap!
Also, he's become dependent on hand-feeding, because he can't look down without sneezing. So we have to hold his food up above his head and drop it in his mouth. Otherwise he doesn't eat, and then we can't feed him his stupid medicine because he'll just throw it all up, usually on the carpeted areas of our home. But today, he ate all by himself. For a long time. Just grubbing at his little bowl. What the crap?
Bo is like a new man. It's insane. I was all prepared when we brought him home looking like this to feel sorry for him until his fur grew out. (You wouldn't believe how soft he is, still.) But now, I don't have to feel sorry for him at all!
And Miso is pissed, y'all. She is not liking having any competition for attention. I feel bad for her. When we brought Bo home, she didn't recognize him. Not at all. She would hiss and growl at him. She has quit that, but she still gives him the stink eye whenever he comes around. She sniffs him a lot. And you would think she would know who he was by smelling him. But Bo smelled nasty. We were feeding him a lot of soft cat food, and as you know, he wasn't a washer. So his face always smelled funky, like tuna. And he didn't really clean his behind either, so sometimes he smelled a bit like poo. Basically, Bo smelled like crap. But when he came home from the vet, he smelled like a flower. And he looked like a completely different cat. So, I don't really blame her.
But I'll be giving her some extra attention over the next few days. See if I can even things out before I have to go back to work on Monday. Eeeeeew! Did I just talk about work before it was absolutely necessary?
So, to sum up: What the crap? Seems all our cat needed was a good cut and style. Who knew!
Hey, guys! Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas. I am working on a few posts because y'all, I had a half-crap/half-awesome time in Jeju over the holiday. In fact, I'm still on holiday! Until next Monday. But I'm busy. No nap for me today. Aren't you proud?
Anyway, today my first post is up at ZenKimchi Korean Food Journal. I'm incredibly giddy and excited about writing for them. Plus, Joe McPherson is one cool guy. Anyway, you can find my post here. Make sure you guys go leave lots of comments about how amazing and wonderfully written my article is, yeah? Okay, now go play with all your Christmas presents!
Y'all. It's MEEEEEEEEEEEE! Oh goodness. Talk about Guest Blog Extravaganza. Next time I promise not to overwhelm you with so many Wonju Wifeless days in a row. Because, let's face it, all these guest bloggers were freaking sweet and I loved reading their stories, but DANG I MISSED MY BLOG! I'd like to thank you all for reading, especially for all the kind and encouraging comments you left the HubbO. Anyway, let's wrap this party up, what do you say?
Incidentally, the Christmas that The Sisda found out that Santa was a big ruse orchestrated by the parents every year was the exact same Christmas I realized I had been deceived.
It was not, as my father suggested, the Year of the Barbie House. It had been his job to put together that blasted Barbie House. And what you must understand about The Bob is that in order for anything to work, for anything to come together as planned, that thing must be persuaded. It must be talked to, as we say in the Buckley house. Apparently that particular Christmas, The Barbie House was not cooperating and The Bob was unable to give it a proper cursing because it was in the middle of the night, he was squished in the hallway, and I refused to sleep with my door closed. So while my father is breaking a sweat over the stupidpieceofcrapdollhousewhomadethisjunk, my mother is shushing him. He might wake me! He might ruin Christmas for me FOREVER. So, he's laboring under the weight of ruining my life pretty much. For all the fuss he made and all the talking to he had to give that house under his breath, The Bob was victorious. The Barbie House was intact and I was still full of faith in the Fat Guy. Also, I wore adorable Christmas nightgowns with stupid hats: see evidence above.
It's funny that a bike crushed my dreams of Santa for me. Because it wasn't the first bike that ruined everything. The first bike was also the Year of the Jeep. Yeah, one of those miniature motor-powered red Jeeps that my cousin Danny and I rode the crap out of up and down my grandmother's driveway. It wasn't just any Jeep either. It was like, Turbo Charged. Also, it was our police vehicle. We caught bad guys in that thing. Then, after we caught the bad guy, we decided what his punishment would be based on his crime. His options were: hanging, electrocution, and firing squad. Anyway, I think the fact that the Jeep overshadowed the bike probably kept my eyes off the wheels, which were white and would have hidden any gravel driveway dust quite well. So, the Year of the Jeep, my Belief in Santa Meter was 110% full. Because, how can you not love a guy who gives you a Jeep for Christmas? And a new Huffy bike. And a fabulous Minnie Mouse sleeping bag. Really, I ask you. (And yes, same nightgown, same bangs, shorter hair, bigger teeth.)
Also, my Santa Meter was full up because of the way Santa's Presents were never wrapped. Because, hello? Santa has to travel the entire planet and give everyone gifts. Who has time to wrap that many presents? That's how I always knew Santa was the real deal. He didn't mess with gift wrapping and handwriting. He set up all my gifts on the right side of the tree, Price is Right style so you could see a little bit of everything. And then Holly's presents would be arranged on the left side of the tree. Clearly, Santa knew us. And clearly he cared enough to construct a present mountain for each of us. But wrapping? Labelling? What a waste. Gifts from your parents and your family came in boxes, paper, and bags. Santa's gifts? They were awesome as is.
Because I had fallen asleep while Holly lurked, spying on the Mumsie and her bathrobed behind, I woke up Christmas morning full of joy, hope, and belief. But this year, my bike was the main attraction. It was a 10-speed. It was purple with hot pink accents. It was everything I dreamed of. Except the tires were black.
And ladies and gentlemen, there was driveway dust on the black tires. How? Is? This? Possible? I thought about it and thought about it and smiled for pictures with my new bike and my same ol' bedhead bangs. I was thrilled to have the bike, but this did not seem like Santa. It smelled a bit funny, if you know what I mean. Because Santa delivered this bike directly into my living room, just like he delivered everything else. And he came in through the chimney, obviously. (Which was always a miracle because we have a wood-burning stove instead of a real fireplace and we kept the door closed. But Santa was a freaking miracle anyway, so who needs to bother with tiny details like that?) However, driveway dust is NOT miraculous. In any way. It meant that my bike had been in the driveway, which defies flying sleighs. And that's when I knew. I knew that Santa wasn't real. This bike's delivery was not magic enough. It was all a hoax.
And it was a freaking awesome hoax that I would milk for years to come. Because, I had a younger sister, who unbeknownst to me had already found out the same truth I had. But neither of us told each other. And so the Santa ruse continued. Until we were like 20. Obviously, we knew it wasn't Santa. And my parents knew that we knew it wasn't Santa. But it was tradition. And Santa presents should not be wrapped. So every year, when we woke up and drug ourselves into the living room, there on either side of the Christmas tree were our Santa Presents. Beautifully arranged and set just so. The year my mom tried to do away with Santa altogether, there was an uprising, an enormous protest from my sister and me.
I'm not sure what's happening this year at the Homestead. Haven't been home for Christmas in a while. This year, I'm spending Christmas in Jeju with Kenny. But maybe next year, we'll be in the log cabin on Poplarwood. And maybe, just maybe, Santa will show up. Because sometimes, even after you don't believe, he just keeps on coming.
This is when Santa existed no longer! I loved Christmas. For all the wrong reasons. Christmas was nothing to me when I was little, other than presents and good food. Christmas was all about me and that is why I loved it. The meaning behind Christmas meant nothing to me. I sat through my mother's Bible reading every year and rolled my eyes to myself thinking "Jesus is cool...but Santa is better." Though my mom tried her hardest to make Christmas meaningful, I had nothing to do with all that.
Christmas Eve would come and the clock would slow down, I swear. The Christmas Eve service lasted too long, and I would kick my leg constantly. Even when my mom put her hand on my leg and gave me the stink eye, I didnt stop. She would whisper, "Everyone on this pew can feel that!" Still didn't stop! How could you sit still when in mere hours Santa was going to come down your chimney? The service would FINALLY end and Mom would want to chat. I mean, how can you hold idle conversation when presents are coming? "Let's go Mom! If we aren't home, Santa will pass the log cabin on Poplarwood Road!"
When the garage door would rise and we were finally home, the anticipation grew. It was almost time. I would put my pajamas on and get on the couch and watch TV. Every year I would try and pretend to fall asleep on the couch so my mom would leave me there and I would catch a glimpse of the jolly man with the belly full of jelly. But every year, Deb would say to me, "Holly, you are not asleep. Get up and get in the bed." Reluctantly, I would rise from the couch cushion, give a dramatic little kick and sigh, and drag my feet to bed.
Each year, I NEVER slept. If I did, it was short and fitful. I would sit in the bed and listen very carefully to hear the sound of hooves and bells. Though I never heard these things, he never disappointed. I would get up around oh, 4 in the morning. I would go and wake up my parents in the back bedroom, jumping up the bed yelling, "It's Christmas! I think Santa came! It's Christmas!" My mom would groan and mumble, "Seriously?" Finally there was a rule made: if you can't see the sun, you can't wake anybody up.
The year of the bike, I went to bed with the dramatic kick and sigh and laid in waiting. But this year, I heard a noise. However, it was not hooves or bells, or the jolly laugh of the fat man. It was a low moan and a shake of the christmas tree. Excited, I rose. And then stopped. Should I really see Santa?? I mean, is it allowed? Will he be mad at me? I heard another noise and could not help myself. I swore to be very quiet and tiptoe and only see Santa with one eye, because the other would still be hidden behind the door frame. That way, Santa couldnt be mad, because he would never know I saw him. As I very quietly leaned ever so slightly around the door frame I gasped! What is this? This is no man with a red suit. This is my mother's behind covered in her pink bath robe as she bends over my brand new bike. Wait. BRAND NEW BIKE? OH YEAH!!! Wait, Wait, don't get side tracked....WHERE. IS. SANTA?? Why isn't he setting my bike under the tree?? Is it true? Could Kevin McCallisters brother Buzz be correct??? NO SANTA??? Does this mean Rudolph is a lie too?? And the elfs? How could this be? I'm so sad...but I still get presents, so does it matter who they come from? No. I guess it doesn't. As long as presents really exist, I'm cool. Okay, the panic has subsided!
So, as my mom continues to grab presents and I continue to duck my head inside my room when she is turned toward the hallway, I watch how hard she works to set things just so. And I am thankful she loves me and cares how the presents are set when my sister, with her bedhead, and me, with Grover in tow, walk down the hallway into the living room.
The dream of Santa was a sad one to lose. I felt I needed to keep this revelation to myself so next year I would still get presents from this ‘Santa’ And I carried on this charade for a long time. Even when my mother knew I didn't believe, I refused to let her wrap all the presents. Some still had to be unwrapped and presented as from Santa. Even at 19, Santa still came to the log cabin on Poplarwood Road.
Holly (aka The Sisda) lives in Tennessee with her husband Matt, and her three stinky fatty dogs, Billie Jean, Semper Fi, and Stella. She annoyed the crap out of her sister for about 18 years and then they kind of chilled and have been more like friends for close to 4 years. She is an excellent story teller and should probably start her own blog. Right?
Santa Dies in a Scooter Accident or My T.S. Eliot Christmas
“Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation […] And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.” --T.S. Eliot, “Journey of the Magi” (lines 21 & 22, 30-31)
The “satisfactory” feeling in the quote above reflects the mendacity the magi (wise men) felt when finding the inn where Baby Jesus lay. The moment changed them, but it was a silent moment on a silent night. Oddly, the events that change us are often inconspicuous. No bells. No whistles. No soulful guitar solos. Just the quiet acknowledgment of another spot in time.
And that mute “satisfaction” mirrors my realization of Santa’s non-existence. I can’t remember the exact age, but I remember being in a friend’s garage the day after Christmas.
“All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again” (lines 32-3)
Josh: “Nick, do you believe in Santa because I have something to show you that will change that.” Me: No!...Well, I dunno. Maybe. Josh: Okay, so do you remember that scooter we were using as a sled yesterday? The one Santa gave me? Well, look what I found!
My friend pulls out an empty cardboard box. The box has a picture of our scooter-turned-sled on it, a clear indication it was store bought. The receipt was even stapled to it. I’d already begun doubting Santa’s life; he was teetering on the verge of existence. But in that moment, Santa died. He died quietly and satisfactorily. Josh and I glanced at the box, looked back at each other, shrugged, turned around, and left the garage.
We, like the magi, “returned to our places” (line 40).
“Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence no doubt. I had seen birth and death” (lines 36-7)
Santa dies for everyone. We all have that “spot in time.” But that’s okay. For he is always alive for someone somewhere, reborn in children from the ashes of parental myths. That is why when discussing Santa—as when discussing poetry—you always use the present tense.
Nick blogs about his teaching experiences at nickxsavestheday. Nick met Danielle the summer of 2006 over Nabokov's Pale Fire, invited her to a book club, and the nerdfest has continued ever since.
Thanks to Rob, we now have Day 8 And a Half of the Christmas Blog Party! So, two birds, yeah?
First, I must say that I am shocked, shocked, at Danielle's gang-murder of Santa: it's like Kenny in South Park. Bring him back post after post, just so we can slay him again, lose innocence all over again. Way to go, Dani. What're you killing next year? Baby seals? Unicorns? The other day I overheard her telling the devil that she next year she might do a series on first dead pets. But I'm here to talk about Santa, not Danielle in all her evilness.
Now, the funny thing about Santa in my family is that right from the get-go, my dad, a Pastor, never really let us believe that Santa was real. We made good and sure that the Santa Myth was fully undermined, by opening presents on Christmas Eve, before Santa had made his rounds. We were reminded that "Jesus is the reason for the season," and each December there was "Real Christmas" and then there was "secular Christmas." Real Christmas was the holiness of the advent candle, the deep yearning of "O come, O come Emmanuel" and the transcendent satisfaction of longing, in "Silent Night" leading into the elation of "Joy To The World" - one of my first bliss-outs.
Santa was part of the "other" christmas -- the one with lights and bells and colors and drippy fun songs like "Jingle Bells" and "Winter Wonderland," and the climax of Santa's Christmas was not the nativity, but an orgiastic celebration of materialism: the opening of presents.
So when I was little, Santa was never much more than a tack-on that allowed the irreligious masses to celebrate Christmas, even without recognizing what Christmas is really about, or acknowledging that it mostly, really, belonged to us Christians, who hadn't missed the point. These days, I see things a bit differently. So instead of telling the story of when and how I stopped believing in Santa, I'll tell you the story of how I started.
My coming to believe in Santa is a slow, complex recipe with tons of ingredients and years of simmering, so here we go:
Step 1: Some time in university, a really tiresome crew of cynics seemed to follow me from class to class, poking holes in every assertion anybody made. In response to that cynical readiness to dress-down anything they came across, and reading some philosophers whose ideas amounted to the same: that arrogant prick poking holes in everything, destabilizing everything, to the point that nobody dared to speak up, lest they too be shot down (Jaques Derrida, I'm looking at you), I decided, basically, to go against that, because screw you, Derrida, and screw you, you arrogant smirks in the back row. It takes courage to make an assertion. Eventually this attitude led me to realize that, in a similar way, "yes" is simply a more fun default answer than "no." So I was ready to believe in stuff, rather than disbelieve, because disbelieving might be more "grown up," but believing is more fun.
Step 2: A Christmas Story. I didn't come across some of the best Christmas movies until after I left home, for some reason. I discovered Ralphie and his Red Ryder bb-gun in my first year of university, and not having watched it 24 hours a day on whatever channel it is that does that, the movie's sharp, intense shot of Christmas nostalgia and loveliness still gets to me. Somehow this story set in the '50s - way before I was born - feels exactly like my childhood Christmases, in the same way that Bill Cosby's early stuff feels like he's describing my childhood, even though I grew up about as demographically far from Philadelphia's projects as possible. The joy, angst, and innocence of childhood, and the charming affection the family members have for each other, are the roots of this Christmas film.
Step 3: It's a Wonderful Life. This is another film that I came to late. I can't remember exactly when, but it was also somewhere in my early twenties, and maybe because I didn't grow up on it, it absolutely made me cry the first time I saw it. And the second time. And the third time. And it has one of the great screen kisses, and one of the funniest love scenes (the bathrobe and the bush), and one of the most joyful endings out there. Sometimes a certain song or movie is like ripping a band-aid off all kinds of pent-up emotions, and this movie is that, for me, every Christmas. And the whole movie ends off in George Bailey’s house, and he’s with his family.
Step 4: coming to South Korea. I managed to miss Korean Christmas my first two years here, my first year because I was packing to go home, and my second year because mom had gotten sick, and we gathered the whole family in Canada for a final Christmas together. It was precious... but I still hadn't seen a Christmas in Korea. My first Christmas in Korea was marred by grief over my recently dead mother, and the dull realization that things were not going to work out between me and the lady I'd promised to come back to Korea for, while I nursed my sick mother in Canada. Christmas in Korea is not the most important holiday of the year. Not by a longshot. It's not even really a family day: a lot of people hang out with friends. It's mostly a couple holiday -- kind of like Valentine's day on steroids, with cheesy music and fake snow instead of chocolate and flowers. Being around that, it began to dawn on me, how important it is for me, on Christmas, tobe around family.
Step 5: And then I started to miss Turkey dinner -- one of the greatest North American traditions out there -- and next time somebody tells you "We're Canadian. We don't have a culture." ask them how they'd feel eating microwave dinners on Christmas Day. And the thing about turkey dinner, too, though, is the people: you eat turkey dinner, sure, but you eat it with all the favorite people who live near you: family if possible, or the friends who stand by you. Once again: the people who care about each other get together.
And that's the thread that ties it together for me. Family. Hence my choice of song. See, Santa IS part of the family Christmas. We can’t disown him. Heck, one of his names is "Father Christmas" -- the thing about opening presents is that yeah, we can be cynical and snarktastic about how Christmas is a corporate holiday or whatever, but it's still a family sitting together, around a tree, exchanging one of the oldest symbols of love: gifts. Santa is a powerful enough symbol to enable that exchange. And even though the modern, fat Santa first found his image as a tawdry shill for Coca-Cola, he's grown beyond that, and become a symbol powerful enough to inspire a ton of Christmas giving, not just to family members, but to the poor and needy. We shouldn't be so quick to dismiss Santa, when a lot of altruism is inspired by his image. It's a salvation army Santa next to the donation bucket, isn't it? If we were still pantheists, Santa would be thegod of giving and maybe also of family and celebration. Plus, he's miles cooler than that lame also-ran Easter-bunny.
Santa's part of that jumbled, Christmassy mess of signs and symbols that can be noisy and frustrating but which, ideally, ends up with everybody being a little more generous than usual, and spending a little time focused on the people they love. That's why, even though I didn't used to believe in Santa, now that Christmas has been completely unfettered from it's original meaning -- now that scholars have assured us that there's no way we could know if Jesus was actually born on December 25th, now that the X-mas backlash has led to the anti-X-mas "Let's-just-call-it-Christmas-again" double-backlash, now that it's gotten politically correct and twelve-year-olds can sing Adam Sandler's "Hannukah Song" but might not know the whole first verse of "O Come O Come Emmanuel" and "Last Christmas" is on the radio more often than "Silent Night" and it's all hyper-commercial and people can pick and choose which symbols represent Christmas to THEM, now that Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo cackles maniacally over all the Christmas confusion, my mind turns to my family, and to me, Christmas is about being around your family, and the people you love. Whether a family is gathered around a Children's bible, reading the Christmas story, or a tree, opening presents, or a box, sorting items for a food drive, it's that family togetherness that underpins it all, to me.
So that's how I came to believe in Santa: by coming to a country where it's common not to spend Christmas with your family, and by realizing that that childhood Christmas, even the parts my parents taught me weren't "REAL" Christmas, is a precious and wonderful thing about growing up, and I miss it, and I miss Santa Claus, the way I used to know him back in Canada. I still get the most homesick at Christmas.
This year, my Christmas homesickness has been more acute than usual, because this summer I went to Canada to see my family. We had a great old time, and I got to meet my adorable niece and nephew for the first time. I also saw my grandmother and grandfather (from my mother's side) and visited my mother's grave for the first time since the week after her funeral, and saw my grandfather for the last time before he passed away this fall.
The experiences I had with my family? Nothing epic or outrageous, just driving around running errands with my sister-in-law, while her kid's in the backseat, my brother and I getting our hands on the best beer in the store, and then cracking a cold one and making bum jokes, like when we were twelve and fourteen, but with beer. Getting my niece to dance to "Bad" by Michael Jackson, by pumping her knees and bobbing her top-heavy baby body up and down... and suddenly it's really sad that I can't eat some turkey dinner with them, and my best friend since 2005 is leaving Korea the Monday before Christmas, and I’ll miss him like hell: he’s my family too. But then, I’ve got girlfriendoseyo ready to celebrate with me our third Christmas as a couple, and a swack of friends (more than I’d anticipated) all signed up to have turkey dinner with me at my buddy’s place... and maybe this Christmas won’t be so bad after all. It’ll sure be different thanany I’ve had before, but I’m figuring it out, and if I can be around some people I care about, cool.
Rob blathers on about most anything and everything, sometimes Korea, but always with humor and videos at Roboseyo. He's been making Danielle feel a part of the expat community in Korea for over a year now and she truly appreciates it.
It was not, as my father suggested, the Year of the Barbie House. It had been his job to put together that blasted Barbie House. And what you must understand about The Bob is that in order for anything to work, for anything to come together as planned, that thing must be persuaded. It must be talked to, as we say in the Buckley house. Apparently that particular Christmas, The Barbie House was not cooperating and The Bob was unable to give it a proper cursing because it was in the middle of the night, he was squished in the hallway, and I refused to sleep with my door closed. So while my father is breaking a sweat over the stupidpieceofcrapdollhousewhomadethisjunk, my mother is shushing him. He might wake me! He might ruin Christmas for me FOREVER. So, he's laboring under the weight of ruining my life pretty much. For all the fuss he made and all the talking to he had to give that house under his breath, The Bob was victorious. The Barbie House was intact and I was still full of faith in the Fat Guy. Also, I wore adorable Christmas nightgowns with stupid hats: see evidence above. 
It's funny that a bike crushed my dreams of Santa for me. Because it wasn't the first bike that ruined everything. The first bike was also the Year of the Jeep. Yeah, one of those miniature motor-powered red Jeeps that my cousin Danny and I rode the crap out of up and down my grandmother's driveway. It wasn't just any Jeep either. It was like, Turbo Charged. Also, it was our police vehicle. We caught bad guys in that thing. Then, after we caught the bad guy, we decided what his punishment would be based on his crime. His options were: hanging, electrocution, and firing squad. Anyway, I think the fact that the Jeep overshadowed the bike probably kept my eyes off the wheels, which were white and would have hidden any gravel driveway dust quite well. So, the Year of the Jeep, my Belief in Santa Meter was 110% full. Because, how can you not love a guy who gives you a Jeep for Christmas? And a new Huffy bike. And a fabulous Minnie Mouse sleeping bag. Really, I ask you. (And yes, same nightgown, same bangs, shorter hair, bigger teeth.)
