I am looking to book two round trip business class flights from the West Coast to South Korea for my elderly Korean in-laws in May/June 2024. They speak very little English, so having Korean-speaking flight attendants is almost a must to ensure they can enjoy their flight. I need to use Amex points (I have ~2M MR) and ideally have them fly nonstop to/from SFO.
Q: I'm concerned that flights stopping in Japan, Taiwan, etc. might not have Korean-speaking attendants, but are nonstop flights more or less guaranteed to have Korean-speaking attendants?
Assuming the answer is yes, then I would appreciate some advice on how to accomplish this. I've come across the following options to check, once June dates are available. (Again, I need to use Amex points.)

1. ANA roundtrip
2. Korean Air booked via Emirates

Since June flights aren't bookable yet, I've done a little backtesting for April/May and have found zero nonstop or reasonable options. This is not encouraging, so are there other good options I should check?
Thanks in advance!

Last Friday I found out that at 7w3d there is no growth/heartbeat after some light spotting. I’m in Ontario, Canada and at the time the hospital told me they would be referring me to an early pregnancy clinic at another local hospital. The clinic is only open Tuesday’s and Friday’s but I’m hopeful I’ll get a call tomorrow with an appointment time. Has anyone has an experience with these types of clinics and if yes, do they give you an option between medical abortion or D&C?

The House on Jackson Street

By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”

The House on Jackson Street

By John Westrick
I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.
She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.
And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.
A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.
I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.
The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.
As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.
And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.
I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.
Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Elise and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.
The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.
Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.
I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.
I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Elise is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.
And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.
I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.
Fur Elise climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.
Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.
I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.
To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”
Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.
Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.
I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won't let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”

Back when I was a kid my grandpa would get out and show me his old Swedish Mauser that had been sporterized back in the late 60s. He gave it to me in the mid 80s when I was 12. (No ammunition, but still probably a big felony now that I think back.)
Some years later when I was poor, in college, and not into a guns I ended up selling it on consignment at a local shop. I didn't think much about it at the time.
When we were cleaning out my grandparents house after they'd both had to go to a nursing home, I found a couple boxes of his handloads for that rifle. I kept them and started to regret selling it.
By that time I was kind of getting into guns again. One day while perusing a gun store's "used" aisle I stopped and did a double take. There was grandpa's rifle. It had a different scope but I knew that gun well enough to know that was it. Those were the pre-debit card days and I didn't have my checkbook with me, but I brought it up to the counter and explained to the lady that this was grandpa's and I wanted desperately to buy it and if they'd hold on to it til I came back tomorrow. "Sure! She said."
I went back the next evening and it had been sold. I let that damn thing slip out of my hands not once but twice.

Hey folks! Looking to get an opinion here :) I’m making a variation of this dress to fit some wonky body proportions and bust needs, and I’m planning on using a poly taffeta for the outer fabric, but I’ll be wearing this at the HEIGHT of summer and don’t necessarily want to be in full polyester.
Would it be crazy to use cotton for the lining? I need to bone the lining like crazy, so I need something sturdy, but I want to be somewhat breathable and (tmi) sweat wicking/absorbing as well. My thought would be a sturdy cotton shirting or even a sturdier linen fabric, but this is the first time I’m making a highly structured warm weather dress, so I’m a little nervous.
Thanks for any insight you have!

Hi! Im 31, smoked daily since i was 19. Been lurking here for a long time and deciced to quit 9 days ago. I don't have that many friends to talk about this, and feel pretty alone while trying to quit.
The first days went ok, having the ususal suspects - weird dreams and feeling a little under the weather. 4-5 days in I felt a lot better, not thinking about wanting to smoke so much, and having some good days.
But for some reason I feel very bad about everything today. Really bored, have a lot of anxiety, can't concentrate about any of my hobbies and just want to smoke to "shut everything off".
I know I'm supposed to have some of these kind of days. But not having any kind of support in my life it feels very lonely. I'm determined to quit, but man, I really want to buy weed at this point.
Just making a post to try to claify for myself that this is a struggle, but also something I really want to do. My motivation is to not smoke my feelings away, and I guess this day is one of these days that put that to test.
Anyways, hope everybody is having a good day and I wish you good luck in the same journey.

Hi all,
We bought a house in the Midwest November of 2022 and moved in on January 1st, 2023. About a month ago, we've noticed a putrid, mildew smell in our bedroom as our days get warmer, meaning we had only lived here 4-5 months at the time. Absolutely unnoticeable prior to the first few days of warm days in Spring.
I wrote it off as a few people, one being a toddler, sleeping in a closed room in our new humid environment that is the Midwest. It got so bad one day, I had to investigate. I go in our half finished basement (the unfinished other side has a sealed slab and exposed but waterproofed cinder walls) and I peek into a vent on our only false basement wall covered in painted and trimmed beadboard. I assumed it was a circulation vent that linked our basement to our bedroom directly upstairs but what I found instead was a very dark, very damp, very unfinished basement spanning the lenght of the front of our home by maybe 2' in. I stick my hand in and take pictures with my phones flash in all directions. I see a hole on the bottom of the wall I could crawl into and a horizontal crack maybe 6 feet wide - the gap between maybe half an inch. It wasn't until yesterday I found out it's not just separating up and down but also forward about a half and inch to an inch.
I had someone come out from a very reputable company to give me a quote yesterday and though he was kind and educational, after his hour long powerpoint and inspection, gave me an estimate of $32,000 which is discounted down from around $45,000, but I'd have to commit before this Monday. I'm not going to do that.
As per our inspection prior to home purchase, the basement seemed structurally sound. Other than average moisture in our exposed basement walls and minute cracks on the exterior which we were told were fine and to just caulk eventually, all looked good. Looking yesterday, our inspection does list in the foundation section, it was a "visible-only" inspection, we weren't given any other options. A more thorough inspection was never brought up to be something we could purchase. Might I add, it's two wood screws to peek through our false wall into the flawed basement but it's 8 screws to remove the face plates from our two electrical panels, which were inspected thoroughly. I've put a humidity reader on the vent that leads to our flawed basement partition and it easily reads 20% higher than the rest of the basement, this wasn't caught. On their website it says a full inspection is expected. When the more serious findings were brought up to our realtor then, (i.e. a powerline had slack and was slightly sitting on our deck), he told us, "consider this just a manual to your house" and that nothing seemed too serious. Additional note, we did this inspection while I was across the country where we moved from.
So, we agreed to our inspection as they said all looked good. Moisture is average, we can call the electrical company and get the wire slack fixed, probably for free. Why not accept? We were then sent a few more forms including one that stated the prior owners of two years had no knowledge of foundation issues. I personally find hard to believe as the smell in theiour bedroom is almost unbarable in weather warmer than 70°+. I'm not an engineer but I don't think a home can shift two axis, to that extent in 6 months. This has also been one of the most dry and warm winters our city has had in years so to say ground water surrounding our foundation caused that much damage in such a short time is also fairly unrealistic in my mind.
I haven't sent this information and quote to our home insurance company, and though I will, I can't imagine it being covered.
All being said, I feel like there was a lot of information withheld from us to make this sell. The prior sellers were supposed to stay until we moved in, it was talked about with our realtor via both parties up until we received a signable form later in the purchasing process that claimed this was no longer the situation. They had a few days old baby and we agreed they could stay to take their time as we couldn't make it there any earlier than the date we verbally agreed to prior. I'm sure this happens a lot in home purchase agreements but it does certainly add to my suspision. We too have a child of 19 months and I now feel insecure living in our new home of less than half a year as all was said to be fine.
Am i being too emotional in this situation? Is anyone BUT me liable in this situation? We're in the state of Ohio and I know laws differ from state to state. Any questions will be answered!
TLDR: We've been in a house for less than 6 months and found out our house has major foundation issues via strong mildew smell in our bedroom above, not found in our inspection. Previous owners claimed they had no knowledge of foundation issues, but it's unlikely these issues happened in the last 6 months, let alone a years time. We weren't aware of any in-depth inspection as it wasn't offered to us. Our basement walls were considered of safe moisture but all four walls read 95%+ per our foundation consultation yesterday, May 27th, 2023. We were quoted just over $32,000 to fix our situation - about a 1/5th what we paid for this move-in ready house.

Went a few months without drinking, started to finally feel good. A few weeks ago, went out with old friends and fell into those old habits. A couple with them, a couple on the next weekend. Nothing that I wouldn't consider "normal drinking". Then the thoughts creep in of "I can have a few by myself, the SO is out of town this week".
Cut to yesterday. Went to a casino, had one drink there and then switched to coffee. On the ride back I thought "oh this cocktail I havent made in a while sounds great". Stopped and grabbed a bottle of vodka. Had one sitting on the porch in the warm weather. "Why not have another one? It's nice out". That should have been the flag to stop listening to that voice, but I listened.
Ended up drinking half the bottle. Why not just have it straight, who needs to make cocktails, right? "Should probably start messaging people you haven't talked to in years, that's always a good idea". Deleted the messages that I could, just embarrassed that I reverted to juvenile shit at my age. Got sick, passed out early and woke up feeling awful.
Dumped the rest of the vodka this morning. Want to recommit myself to actually feeling good about everything, not just giving myself the false feeling of "fun". I have the tools I need, I just need to remember to use them and be more vigilant.
IWNDWYT

So I am honestly struggling down here. Not sure what exactly I am doing wrong but I am working on myself every day and have played with my wife many times on this main account.

• Replay Colosseo: 0X19CG (10 Minute game, thought I did well but struggled to push at all)
• Replay Route 66: T3AGE6 (Long game where I was on Soj and others, tried my best but still lost)

I feel like I have to literally get 60 elims with 20-27k damage every game to stand a chance of winning, or 3-4 picks a teamfight.
Like in the recent 10 games, 5 have had some level 1 account boosting somebody like a mercy or ana. Heck even a few unranked to GM's in most of my games. AND It's proof because for example, the one posted their twitch, went and had a look and yup, some unranked to GM player.
Extra: When I play on an alt account the games are much easier and haven't had trouble getting to Master 1 on them.
Characters: Widow, Soldier, Sojourn and Torb.
Player: ghostR
Any advice would be greatly appricated.

MotoGP started in 1949 on the Isle of Man, where the 2023 TT starts tomorrow... So, what’s the attraction of the TT? Are the riders crazy or what? What makes them take the risks? Here’s the inside/outside view from MotoGP journalist and TT winner Mat Oxley and MotoGP engineer Peter Bom
https://www.buzzsprout.com/2181509/12929881-the-isle-of-man-tt-where-motogp-started

We are headed on 7 day cruise in September. Princess cruise. My first cruise. What to expect weather wise in Juno and Skagway mid Sept?

So back in my first attempt at recovery which just became BED (2010) an acquaintance of mine on Facebook (like, my now-husband’s best friend’s then-girlfriend) shared a T-shirt on her page and her post showed up on my feed. It said “Camp Ana Wanna”. Now. Something to know about me is that I have been Extremely Online forever. Most on my online activity pre-2014 was in proana forums. So, being me, I obviously interpreted this as “wannarexic” (an outdated term that meant someone who hangs out in proana forums wishing they were anorexic). I DMed her right away, offering support and encouraging her to stay away from that content online. She DMed me back immediately and was like “ummmm this is a shirt from the 90s Nickelodeon show Salute Your Shorts??????” and blocked me. Special thanks to Old Navy for showing me an ad in Instagram of a shirt just like it to remind me of this cringe memory.

I don't hate kids. Infact I'm one of those adults that kids get along with pretty well. But sometimes parents raise goblins and those goblins and I really can't work together.
There's a kid in my apartment building that I've known since he was five. Always hyper, always fiddling with my things. But the thing is he is now fifteen and still doing that. He comes to my flat to hang out on a work night and won't leave until I forcibly escort him back home. While he's in my room he meddles with everything i own. I have ocd and I don't like my things being fiddled with. And I honestly don't understand what kind of parents just push their kids off to someone else's flat at TEN THIRTY ON A SUNDAY NIGHT when people have to wake up tomorrow!

A week ago, my parents made the decision that they want to renovate the house before selling it. We have been moving our stuff to the basement to stay there during renovation, but we got a call this morning that the brick renovation outside the house will be starting tomorrow. The notice is very last minute, and I was wondering if I should give our neighbors a gift (a bottle of wine) today or if I should wait until after we are done the renovation. I don't want to seem like we are bribing them. I also don't know if I should write it in a card and leave the gift outside their door, or if I should knock on their door and talk to them in person. We're not close with our neighbors, we sometimes would say hi but that's all. If you were the neighbor what would you prefer? Any advice is appreciated.

Hello!! Im an incoming freshman for this fall and I wanted to know about the weather in the area :,) I’m from mexico and I currently live in one of the hottest cities of the country lol…so its an almost daily 90 degrees and up; im sure im not gonna be used to santa cruz weather at all so i really wanted some tips from ppl over there !! like what clothes to bring any other specifics such as rain-boots or umbrella (i saw it recommended on the sc website) or anything else !! Thanks in advance :)

A week ago, my parents made the decision that they want to renovate the house before selling it. We have been moving our stuff to the basement to stay there during renovation, but we got a call this morning that the brick renovation outside the house will be starting tomorrow. The notice is very last minute, and I was wondering if I should give our neighbors a gift (a bottle of wine) today or if I should wait until after we are done the renovation. I don't want to seem like we are bribing them. I also don't know if I should write it in a card and leave the gift outside their door, or if I should knock on their door and talk to them in person. We're not close with our neighbors, we sometimes would say hi but that's all. If you were the neighbor what would you prefer? Any advice is appreciated.