A Deer in Headlights

I was a helpless young lady. Stifled by the confusion of Korea Land, I was waiting desperately for a strong personality to swoop out from the shadows and guide me in the right direction. The utterances that spilled from my mouth, the words that flowed from my finger tips, the discreet slouch of my shoulders; collectively, they screamed out to the world: “Help me! I’m needy and dependent! Hold my hand, dammit!” All this time I’d foolishly considered myself to be strong. Independent. I see now I was just acting out in denial of the truth that lied beneath. I could have spent an entire lifetime not realizing that my entire being was a pretentious façade if not for the intervention of the President of Dyssemia Anonymous. Finally, my hand is being held.

Last week, for the first time in my life, somebody mistook me as dependent female looking for a pat on the back. I boarded a plane to Korea with less than 300 dollars to my name. I’m That Girl that spent half an hour wandering around a Quebec City parking garage by myself looking for an ATM at 2am, because when nobody volunteered to join I realized that my legs still had motion; the one that ate alone from time to time when living in university residence because I didn’t happen to be on the same hunger clock as everybody else; the one that traveled to New York City by herself three times; the one that has never seen the need to wait for others to fulfill her own needs. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I need money, I get the cash. If I need a washroom, I find a washroom. There is no shame in cherishing the company of others and knowing that you have people to lean on, but to use those people as hand holders to guide you through the walk of life is heavily dependent. Heavy dependence is weakness. I am not weak.

Cue another Friday Night.

The Plan had been to join The April and Shanna in Seomyeon for some coffee then jet off on the last subway. A lifetime of inability to budget had finally caught up to me in Korea. This meant that if I wished to eat through till payday Tuesday, a seriously hobo weekend was in store. As per usual, The Plan didn’t quite stick. I’m apparently a Yes Person; I’ll kick the hanging handles in subway cars for a dollar, and I’ll stay out past budget without needing to be asked twice. Coffee somehow turned into a trip to the Rock & Roll bar down the road. The Rock & Roll bar successfully combines a number of elements which I believe to be essential in considering where among the greatest places on earth a particular spot ranks: a sports package that carries hockey games, free mashed potatoes and gravy on Fridays, ginger ale, and playing cards. It was dropped from consideration on account of having an obscenely low Frat Boy to Barbie ratio, but remains high on my list of places to be. When presented with the option, The Plan died a swift death.

The April, myself and Shanna were having a discussion of inappropriate sorts when an acquaintance of theirs, Drunk Guy, joined us at the table. I’ve met Drunk Guy exactly two times, and each time he’s been boozed beyond belief. At 9pm. He was sharing with us his desire to get a website going which would provide a detailed database of how the male anatomy of foreigners in Korea measures up; this was his way of giving back to the women of the world, you see. This was terribly amusing, so his continued company was highly encouraged. Closely behind him followed Blonde Lady; her verbal dissertation detailing how her anatomy doesn’t allow for much girth was thoroughly entertaining, so we let her stick, too. Much to the dismay of anybody who was not a complete social retard, The President of Dyssemia Anonymous (Poda) followed shortly behind both. He rather sucked.

Every once in a while I am immediately weirded out by the mere presence of somebody that I’ve never before encountered. Within a split second, without them even having to utter a word, they are swiftly shifted from the ‘Nonexistent’ category to the ‘Note to self: sleep with one eye open” files. Something about Poda was so inherently creepy that I instantaneously felt the need to shower when he took a seat at our table. I hoped and prayed that if I failed to acknowledge him (beyond the base level of cordialness the situation called for) that he would think I sucked and not bother to engage me in conversation. This went about as well as the last time that I asked the universe for somebody who had similar tastes as me in beer and hockey teams.

Tragically, Poda apparently lacks the ability to read nonverbal cues. While one who is subject to this condition can receive formal training in order to improve the quality of their social relations, this man clearly had not. Being completely oblivious of his social shortcomings has made him not just creepy, but overbearingly arrogant. When Poda stopped creeping in the peripheral and leaned over to ask if he could take the chair beside me, I could hardly contain my excitement. My pants nearly hit the floor. My brain’s unfortunate habit of mistaking that potent combination of fear and disgust as sexual arousal has led to many a sticky situation. Thankfully, I caught myself just in time and curtly advised Poda that he could sit there if he wished.

As Poda shifted towards the chair, I immediately turned my attention to the person furthest away from him at the table. Speaking to Shanna meant that not only was I not speaking to Poda, but I was looking in the opposite direction of him. About a minute into the conversation I noticed that Poda had been lurking in my periphery, staring incessantly, totally engaged in a conversation that he was not a part of. I tired of this fairly quickly, halted my conversation with Shanna, and said: “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help but notice that you’re staring. It’s making me rather uncomfortable, so could you please stop?” Poda was completely taken aback. Didn’t I realize that he was people, too?

Now, I realize that in the off chance that my intuition was wrong here, and this guy was harmless, kind, and just a touch socially unaware, that I was being unnecessarily bitchy. My issue with him wasn’t that he was socially retarded; I only discovered that he completely lacked any clue whatsoever after my Creepdar had been activated. Given my propensity to refer to myself in writing as “Barbie”, I will be the last person to alienate another on account of questionable social skills. However, I will be the first to assert myself in a situation where I feel threatened in any way. Everything about Poda struck me as offensive and threatening. His demeanor, tone of voice, body language; all those elements of nonverbal communication that he failed to read in me, led to only one conclusion: This guy sucked. I wasn’t quite sure why he sucked, and I didn’t want to stick around him long enough to find out.

Understandably, Poda was offended with how I asserted myself towards him. Whether he was just trying to be friendly or blatantly hit on me mattered not; either way, I had just very publicly rejected whatever his interests in me were. Aghast, he looked towards The April and Shanna in disbelief. “Can you believe this? She’s accusing me of staring at her?” He was obviously clueless or hoping that they had somehow failed to pick up on his creep vibes. Shanna set him straight: “Well, then maybe you should quit staring at her”. Poda was in absolute disbelief. Whether he was shocked that other people noticed he was a creeper, or that he hadn’t won us over with his irresistible charm, is still in debate. I presume it was the former, as he spent the next minute trying to convince us of his good intentions.

Poda had been misunderstood, you see. I had stood out to him, from across the bar, as a “deer in headlights”. He saw me as a lost soul, new to the harsh world of Korea, looking for guidance that only he could provide. He swooped to our table, not to creep, but to show me the way. Couldn’t I see this? Did I think that I already “knew it all”? His ranting died fairly quickly, as I refused to respond to it in any way, not even batting an eye in his direction. Poda was pathetically looking for any sign of weakness that he could grab onto and pad his ego with. I’m not That Person. Realizing that I wasn’t biting, he took his coat and disappeared a few moments later; presumably so that he could go post over here about how the Western women in Korea are fat, bitchy, and not deserving of great men like him.

I received props from the remainder of the table for getting rid of Poda. We all agreed that while Barbie oozes Frat Boy Friendly Pheromones, that she leaves a waft of Creeper Mace in her trail. Not surprisingly, the quality of conversation picked up significantly after his departure.

Barbie Reflects; Deeps Thoughts Are Lacking

I’ve been in Korea Land for six months. It’s countdown time, contractually speaking. I was going to try to write a meaningful summary of my experiences here so far, the good, the bad and the unmentionables. Somewhere between then and now I got the distinct taste of bile in my mouth over the thought of doing so. I’d really much rather discuss how I’d like the Washington Ovechkin’s to spend the first round of the playoffs bending over, how my white comforter is looking a trifle grey since I washed it with a red sweater, how there is a fine film of dust building up as a result of my refusal to clean my apartment, or why my potatoes look green. Should I still eat them?

Korea Land was originally intended to be a one year break from the rather bleak reality that was my life in Canada Land. The purpose was to travel a bit, pay off some debt, and take a hiatus from Everything That Sucked. I somehow failed to consider the possibility that this much time away from home would merely fuel my lust for travel and experience; that it would be asinine to ever again tolerate Everything That Sucked when I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t have to be That Way.

My father has been calling me out for being self centred for as long as I can remember; probably not long after I learned how to speak, which led to many an hour spent verbalizing thoughts about myself. That I blog on end about myself, people I know, and what we do, does nothing to refute his claims. Bearing this mind, I came over here hoping that time in Canada Land would just sort of stop. That is, that nothing of note would happen when I was gone. Nobody would breed, marry, or die. In my mind, these were simple requests to ask of the universe. I certainly don’t plan on doing any of those things anytime in the foreseeable future; it confuses me when people have other ideas.

When you make the choice to move abroad for a period of time, you do so knowing that life will go on without you ; you just kind of hope that it does so with little fanfare. I like to hear that everybody back home is healthy, happy, and that no, nothing is really new. Same old, same old! While weddings themselves are a bit of a snore, the after parties tend to be worth the price of admission. Knowing that I missed one saddens me a touch. Other people’s babies are cute and lovable. The best part about them is knowing that they aren’t coming home with you. It saddened me a bit to learn that my life long friend would have hers in my absence; I would have liked to have been there for it. Both of these things only sadden me because I’m missing them; at the core I’m happy for both of my friends. When another friend passed away suddenly in January, there was no happiness to fall back on.

Sometimes, there is no silver lining; no upside to lean on or optimism to be found. Time doesn’t heal all wounds; it merely allows for the worst to become bearable. Time allows us to make sense of what we can’t control by focusing on what we can. The choice to make a life change following tragedy resets the control scales. My choice was to see myself as a whole, rather than individual pieces to dissect. This will not undo the damage that has been done and might not even make me a better person; it’s the perception of moving forward, that my choices still matter, which is important.

Separation anxiety aside, six months removed from Everything That Sucked has done me a world of good. The extended holiday has been so good to me that friends from home occasionally express concern that I might not return. No worries – or an abundance of them, depending on how much you like me – I’ll be returning to Canada Land when my contract comes to an end mid October. To stay here would be to run away from Everything That Sucked; everything doesn’t have to suck quite that badly, anymore. Nor is my only option whatever becomes of Everything That Sucked. My promise is to return to Canada Land – not to stay there.

The Golden Drunk’s Fishy Debacle

Rarely are drunken shenanigans of worthy of repetition. Being drunk and stupid in Korea is no more interesting than being drunk or stupid in Canada; in either case, few stories of any interest are likely to emerge. Every once in a while a mixture of one part stupid and two parts absurd blend and I feel compelled to share. Such was the case when I expressed befuddlement over the ingrate that was Random Frat Boy. Such is the case now. Months removed from first learning of The Golden Drunk’s predicament with Cain, tequila, and fifty dollars worth of fish, I’m no closer to understanding what in the Hell Cain was thinking.

Cue another random Saturday evening. December something-or-other. The Golden Drunk and her boyfriend of the time, Cain, were somewhere stumbling around Busan, poisoning their livers in the hopes that one more drink would wash away that nagging feeling that they held in their hands their only commonality. I often humoured the thought of the two of them having a conversation of actual substance and concluded that each attempt probably ended in a tequila shot. If my suspicions were accurate, it would go a part way towards explaining what was about to unfold.

On the way back to The Golden Drunk’s apartment, the unlikely pair passed a seafood restaurant. This is hardly a remarkable event. On every corner in Busan there is a cell phone shop. Across the street is a kimbap restaurant. Diagonal to that is a seafood restaurant. A cosmetics shop or Paris Baguette is likely to fill out the remaining hole in the intersection. If you frequent my neighborhood, you may find a Love Motel or Massage Parlor in place of the seafood restaurant. The Golden Drunk and Cain were not in my neighborhood. They were near the beach, where seafood restaurants are so in abundance that they rarely warrant a second glance. Unless you’re Cain, you’re well past your limit on the tequila, and you feel compelled to be a hero. Of the Sea.

Cain, Hero of the Sea, was unable to stomach the idea that all of those beautiful, innocent fish being exploited in the seafood restaurant’s window aquarium would soon be reduced to fillet. He saw a much greater purpose for his finned friends: death by deoxygenation.

The Golden Drunk found Cain’s newfound kinship to his finned friends rather disconcerting. Had he never eaten seafood before? Since when did he care so much about killing animals? Cain loves steak! Are cows not people, too? Much arguing ensued and, if my imagination has it right, some serious hair pulling and possibly a bitch slap followed. Hopefully one of those classy full-armed white trash bitch smacks that I perfected on my friends in high school. Anything less would be seriously disappointing.

Cain wasn’t going to let a bruised cheek or even The Golden Drunk’s empty threats to withhold sex deter him: it was his purpose to save these fish from this cruel, cruel world. While the restaurant manager undoubtedly thought Cain was off his rocker, money talks: Cain walked out of there with 50 bucks worth of fish. Alive, bagged, swimmingly happy in anticipation of their new life with the Hero of the Sea.

As The Golden Drunk had pointed out, there was simply no way that they could keep half a dozen fish, each half a foot long, alive and well in her apartment. In spite of further bickering, Cain refused to accept that he was marching his new friends to an untimely death. With nowhere else to put them, The Golden Drunk and Cain filled every pot, pan, and large bowl in the apartment with tap water. Tap water.

Much to the shock of nobody, Cain’s finned friends were swimless by the time the two of them awoke.

In his efforts to save his finned friends from the cruel fate of somebody’s dinner plate, Cain, lover of all other kinds of carcass, spent fifty dollars so that these fish could die a painful death by drowning. And then be thrown into the dumpster behind The Golden Drunk’s apartment. Hero of the Sea, indeed.

The legs on The Golden Drunk and Cain’s relationship fell off not long after the fish incident. Next time, try a hooker. It’s cheaper, isn’t guaranteed to make your apartment smell foul in the morning, and requires minimal disposal. And, if you’re really lucky, she just might be in to that sort of thing. Nobody does dead fish; hookers are a definite maybe.

Nazis. Skin Cream. Oops?

A Korean cosmetics campaign has drawn the attention of the Simon Wiesenthal Center. The folks at SWC were less than impressed to find an abundance of "Nazi imagery" in Coreana Cosmetic's Co.'s recent commercial for skin cream. The 30 second spot featured some general military imagery, with a swastika thrown in for good measure. The original version of the same ad reportedly contained the slogan: "Even Hitler didn't have the East and West." Apparently somebody at Coreana Cosmetic Co. decided that subtly was a lost art form and nixed that part. Either way, the SWC wasn't particularly amused to find that the advertising department at Coreana Cosmetic's failed to receive the memo that giving Hitler a spot in your commercial might be considered just a tad insensitive.

Even after having a couple of days to sit on this, I'm shocked that this one snuck by the Korea Land censors. Stunned! It's not like there's a Hitler HOF in the same neighborhood as my school, or anything. There's simply no way that a civilized society would allow for something so potentially offensive to stand.

Right? Right.

In news completely unrelated to bigotry, last week I was informed by one of my coworkers that "Koreans aren't racist". None of them. "It's different than in Canada". It sure is! More on that later.

This Just In: Barbie Teacher Went Through Puberty, Once

I learned to embrace my shape at a very young age. Or at the very least, accept it for what it is. I first acknowledged that I had child bearing hips when I was 12 years old. It took another ten years to grow into them. Once in a blue moon somebody will attempt to insult me by pointing out that my physique is perfectly designed to fill out my evolutionary purpose. While they never articulate it quite in that manner, the underlying message is the same. Of course, those who think that “you could spit out three at a time with those hips!” qualifies as a passable insult are generally too stupid to see it this way.

Tuesdays and Thursdays at Barbie Hagwon begin with a quartet of overactive 9 year old boys. They like to eat paper, run circles around the table, and tattle on one another for speaking Korea. Often, they will accidentally slip in some Korean while tattling on their friend. They’re all kinds of special.

When I first took over the class from the Not So Native English Speaker who left at the beginning of January, I found them completely unbearable. Just a couple of months later, I’ve trained to the point that they’ve completely lost interest in seeing who can piss me off the fastest. They’re still overactive and mildly irritating, but in a much more controlled fashion. In other words, I can usually get through a lesson without any outburst, which results in the reward of playing some lame game that I don’t particularly enjoy for the last 5 minutes of class.

Last Thursday, for the first time in months, I felt compelled to remove my coat in the classroom. It’s usually so bloody cold at Barbie Hawgon that I leave my ski coat on all day long. On this day, I was wearing a loose blouse and dress pants. Appropriate, and conservative. I make a point of dressing more conservatively here than I would in Canada Land, in the hopes of not drawing any more attention to myself than necessary. This is all in vain, of course, but I respect myself more for doing it.

I removed the coat and walked around the table to make sure that nobody was cheating in this horrible, horrible game that really sucks. If one of them is caught cheating, somebody else will get upset, and fisticuffs will ensue. Gotta nip that in the bud! Blood is messy. As I’m wandering, Leo Student stops whatever it was he was doing in this dumb, dumb game and says, “Teacher! Teacher!” His voice is rather grating when he repeats himself in this manner. I inquire as to what it is he wants. Leo Student says, “Teacher! Teacher hip!”

Colour me confused.

This is an introductory class, so I figured that it was grossly unlikely that he knew either the anatomical or slang meanings of the word hip. I assumed that I must have heard him wrong and made it clear that I thought he was making no sense. Leo Student was annoyed at this and repeated himself while smacking his right hip. “Teacher! Hip! It big. Hip big!”. Apparently Leo Student felt it was appropriate to play the role of Captain Obvious for us that day. I laughed and told him that some day he’s going to have big hips, too. Leo Student was saddened by this lie. Then he remembered that he was playing a really stupid game, and forgot all about Barbie Teacher's big hips.

God bless that stupid game. Whatever it's called.

The Talk is so not included in my job description.

Barbie Teacher is Monkey!

I am a fairly compensated Talking Monkey. Even my students think so.

I’ll be the first to admit that my job entails very little in the way of skill. If my occasional peak at message boards frequented by other English teachers in Korea is anything to go by, one doesn’t even need a working knowledge of the English language. The check list of qualifications required to teach English at your typical hagwon in Korea is looks something like this:

1 - Are you from Korea? No? Fantastic.
2 - Are you whiter than white? No? Look into purchasing some whitening cream and you’re temporarily forgiven. Good news! In Korea, there is whitening cream in everything, from your facial moisturizer to the dye in your clothing.
3 - Can you speak something that at least sounds somewhat like English? Oui? Fabulous!
4 - Do you have a university degree, or at least a shiny piece of paper that kind of looks like it could be? Yes? Super!
5 - Do you have any interest in teaching? Not particularly, but you’re awfully fond of money? Sold!

Higher paying jobs and those which offer more vacation time tend to be a little pickier than your typical hagwon. They may actually be interested in knowing that you can spell, too. I’ve heard of some institutes that are interested in learning whether or not you’re a qualified educator, but they’re few and far between. The reality for most foreigners teaching English in Korea is that we really are Talking Monkeys. Our job is to provide a foreign presence. If one decides to go above and beyond that and actually take their role as an educator seriously, that’s fantastic. If one thinks that this is lame and would rather stumble into their 8am classes only two hours removed from a serious drinking binge, the sad reality is that they’re probably not going to get fired. As long as they show up on time, they may not even get criticized.

I know my place here. I know that while I chose to arrive at the hagwon half an hour before class, to not drink during the week, and to prepare each lesson, that the vast majority of the time my efforts will go unnoticed. I don’t take my job seriously because I’m vainly searching for praise; I do it because I wouldn’t respect myself otherwise.

Each Wednesday, I begin the day with eight screaming six year olds. They’re just darling. It’s an introductory class, so I spend a good deal of time miming as I speak. The Talking Monkey becomes the Dancing Monkey. It’s a good deal of fun, so I don’t really mind.

On this particular Wednesday, the children weren’t too keen on listening. The activity that we were working through required them to repeat what I said, and nothing more. They so weren’t feeling it, and blabbered at one another in Korean. Dancing Monkey time! I ordered the class to be quiet, and announced that it was time to listen, while grabbing at my ear. Body language excellence! Belle Student either misunderstood my message, or hates me a whole lot. Seeing me grab at my ear resulted in her breaking into a fit of hysterical giggles. The giggling subsided shortly after, because breathing is important. After taking a moment to get some air, she grabbed both of her ears, screwed up her face and said: “Teacher Monkey! Ooo! Woo!” For her efforts, Belle Student won herself a free date in the hallway with Captain Nobody.

While Belle Student wasn’t exactly incorrect in her mockery, Barbie Teacher really doesn’t need six year olds to put her in her place. Even though I found Belle Student’s mockery of my actions rather amusing, I had to put on an Angry Face and feign indignation.

Chase Student and The Assembly of Brats

In the midst of an otherwise breezy Friday schedule awaits The Assembly of Brats. These seven poorly disciplined, overactive seven year olds with a penchant for mischief are inexplicably charming. On the worst of days, they’re almost likable. Each class begins with an epic, one sided battle of hide-and-seek; they hide, nobody cares enough to go find them. Eventually short attention spans signal boredom, and the lesson begins five minutes later than scheduled. Should the teacher need to exit the classroom at any point, an impromptu game of hide-and-go-seek is sure to follow.

What is generally a routine day at the office with The Assembly of Brats has been known to turn ugly on those rare occasions that Barbie Teacher is experiencing the unpleasantries of dysmenorrhea. On this particular Friday, Andy Student and Tony Student thought that it would be cute to giggle uncontrollably after Barbie Teacher returned from her brief date with the photocopier. They were wrong. While Barbie Teacher was perfectly aware that The Brat Pack had chased closely behind and kept detailed surveillance of her date, she preferred to ignore this fact of Hagwon Life and get on with the lesson. This incessant giggling interfered with her plans immensely.

Neither Andy Student nor Tony Student was interested in discussing their shenanigans with Barbie Teacher. Instead, they preferred to continue giggling. Barbie Teacher was grossly unimpressed. This meant that she had to pretend to care what it was they had done wrong by inviting them to a lecture in the hallway. Neither Andy Student nor Tony Student gave a lick what Barbie Teacher had to say. Fortunately for Barbie Teacher, Oldest Male Korean Teacher (OMKT) happened to be in the hallway scolding Chase Student. Its one thing to disrespect Barbie Teacher; she’s a silly foreigner who has been designed specifically for the student body’s amusement. OMKT actually has a place in Korean society which garners a certain degree of respect, if not fear from The Munchkins. After abruptly finishing with Chase Student, OMKY barked about 5 words at Andy Student and Tony Student before returning to his own classroom.

The previously mum Andy Student and Tony Student suddenly felt inspired to stop giggling like school children and respond to Barbie Teacher like adults. Chase Student, who had apparently been instructed to remain in the hallway with his hands in Kidstreet Overhead Clapping position, had no choice but to eavesdrop on the lecture. Tony Student, who struggles to string together sentences in English, nominated Andy Student to do the talking. Barbie Teacher, who was quite bored at this point, hoped that they stop hemming and hawing soon. She was quickly running out of the patience required to keep up this inane charade of Actually Giving a Damn.

When Andy Student finally began with, “Teacher, we was …” Chase Student saw his opening. Chase Student cleared his throat loudly enough that the Party of Three turned in unison to look his way. With all eyes on him, he declared: “We were! We were! We were!” Andy Student, clearly startled to discover that Chase Student is such a grammar stickler, corrected himself and continued with his boring explanation of how he and Tony Student thought it was hilarious that they followed Barbie Teacher to her photocopying date, but golly, they were really sorry! Barbie Teacher, holding back a yawn and the door to the classroom, advised them to return to their seats without a peep. Following closely behind, Barbie Teacher cast a glance over her shoulder to Chase Student, who hadn’t budged from his Kidstreet Overhead Clapping pose. “Thank you, Chase Student”.

While The Assembly of Brats would continue their shenanigans in the future, Barbie Teacher found consolation in having learned that Chase Student is a pedantic smart ass.

Barbie and the Dash for Cash

This past Friday, I decided just before midnight that I would make an appearance at a birthday bash down in Seomyeon. I was going to bail, on account of laziness, but after about half an hour of Lazy I was itching to do something. Anything. A birthday bash seemed like a slight upgrade from another two hours of ass scratching, tootsie pops and House. Only one problem with this plan: I had neglected to hit a bank machine on my way home from work. The subway stops running in that direction just before midnight. With only 6 bucks in hand, I was just short of what was required to take a taxi to Seomyeon. And most bank machines in Korea Land seem to close up shop before midnight; it’s really quite silly. Thankfully, some convenience stores have ATM’s that will take my card. Of course, there are also many that won’t. And that’s how my Friday night rolled into an impromptu Saturday morning stroll.

There is a 7/11 around the corner from my apartment that has an ATM which will accept my bank card. For some bizarre reason, none of the subway station Cash Stops will accept it. Sadness. The special bond that I have with 7/11 gets me through many a rough patch with Subway Station Land. Unfortunately, I seemed to have picked the one night this week that the 7/11 wasn’t up for some action. I arrived at the store, bank card in hand and found some Random Drunk pacing in front of the ATM. He looked nonplussed and occasionally would give the machine a brisk tap on the side. The man at the counter came over when he saw me waiting for the machine and started to babble at me in Korean. I didn’t understand a lick of this, but could deduce that the bank machine was currently down and that I was Shit Out of Luck.

Having taken all of 5 minutes to pin my hair up on my head a half hour earlier, I was determined to make it to Seomyeon that night. Ah, Vanity. The things I do for you! I flirted with the idea of Going Russian for one of the many Random Soju Men floating around the neighborhood but quickly dismissed the idea; not worth the itch. Instead, I walked in the general direction of Seomyeon under the assumption that there was a convenience store with a functional ATM to be found somewhere nearby. If by “nearby” I was simply aiming for “somewhere between my apartment and Seomyeon”, this estimate was bang on. By any other account, this plan was quite flawed.

One and a half hours after leaving my apartment, I finally found an ATM that didn’t Suck and put my ass in a cab. At this point I had walked so far that I was closer to Seomyeon than I was my apartment; another 30 minutes would probably have done it. To be honest, I’m somewhat disappointed that I found that ATM. It would have made a much better story upon showing up at the bar at 2am if I had actually walked the entire way there. Somehow, “I walked halfway between Yangjeon and Bujeon stations, then grabbed a taxi the rest of the way” just sounds stupid. “I walked to Seomyeon” is equally stupid, but a slightly more impressive feat.


I began at "Start" which, thanks to my less than awesome photo manipulation skills, is now only faintly visible. I stopped at "ATM". Seomyeon is the intersection of subway lines just below ATM on the map. So close, yet not quite. Sigh.

I refrained from sharing this story with my coworkers, as they will no doubt think that I’m nuts. Not sharing my random ridiculousness with them was not a simple feat given that I’m an Avid Trap Flapper. When I passed the story on to a friend back home he acted surprised that I would be foolish enough to “risk getting mugged”. Didn’t I know it wasn’t safe to wander around a big city by myself after midnight?! I advised him that this is the same country where I once found an 8 year old playing on a patch of ice outside of a bar at 2am and nobody batted an eye. The same country where I walked across the E-Mart (similar to Walmart) waving 300 dollars around in my hand and the only person who so much as did a double-take was my friend (who killed herself laughing and told me that I deserved to get my ass shot for being so nonchalant). It’s not perfect here, but comparably, Korea is laughably safe. That being said, I won’t make a habit of this. The Walk to Seomyeon That Just Fell Short really was a one time thing. Until next time I short change myself…

Barbie, Piece by Piece

I've been confused, lately. Something hasn't quite been right. I've been positive. I've been downright chipper. I've felt positively splendid. And what for? Around 4am yesterday morning, after hours of pacing back and forth and wringing my hands out, it hit me: I’m happy. I’m not happy about any particular thing, or for any particular reason. I’m just happy. For the first time in my life, I don’t desperately wish I was somewhere else, somebody else. I’m even happy while sober. And I’m not even on psychoactive medication. Who would have thought this day would ever come?

The reality of Being Barbie is that I have a fantastic memory, with few happy memories on record. Despite carrying the burden having a plethora of less than fantastic memories with which to piece together my life, I refuse to bury them. At the end, we’re reduced to memories. When my time is done I hope to be remembered for what I am; not for pieces of myself. Consequently, it’s necessary that I remember myself as what I was; not for what I’ve become, but for why I’ve become This.

As I incoherently announced in a previous, grief sticken post, I’ve been grappling with the death of a friend since late January. I haven’t really been able to bring myself to write anything about him. There are a number of outlets on facebook where mutual friends have expressed their grief and shared memories. While I respect that everybody has to grieve in their own way, I would hate to remember him in pieces. My complete picture of what I knew him as is not something that I can put into words that could be shared. And so, I focus inward and do what I can to take away something positive from one of the most difficult experiences of my life. Much like I refuse to remember my friend in pieces, I refuse to remember myself in pieces.

I remember Christmas 1989, the last that my original family spent together. I received a Zeddy Teddy Bear; basically a regular teddy bear branded by Zeller’s. I still sleep with it. I’m 25 and still sleep with a stuffed animal. This is either really cute or really pathetic. Either way, Zeddy is my security blanket; the only constant throughout 19 years of shuffling. He’s become rather decrepit in his old age but can still be recognized as the most fantastic teddy bear this world ever did see, matted face and all.

I remember the first time that I tried to make Kraft Dinner. I was probably in the third grade, though it doesn’t really matter. It was my turn to host Caroline for dinner before our gymnastics lesson at 6. Mom didn’t come home that night. Caroline and I made the most of this experience and proved to be expert water boilers. Sadly, we lost the plot a little bit when trying to make the cheese sauce. Who knew that you were meant to use all the cheese that came in the package? We caught on to this fact only after throwing the half that we didn’t use into the garbage bin. After my brother mocked us relentlessly, as he often did, my sister helped us mix something together with what we had and some grated cheese. It was edible. Barely. From that day forward, I always used the entire package of cheese mix. A culinary genius was born.

I remember the time that I tempted fate in the tree house at my original home. I was curious what would happen if I swallowed a very small twig, probably no larger than an inch in length. Given that we moved out of that house when I was 7 or 8, I was probably no older than 5 or 6. I just wanted to see what would happen. The result? Nothing of note. Apparently I needed to have swallowed a larger twig if I was looking for a life of serious digestion issues. The lack of negative side effects set me up for a life of continued idiocy. I regularly try things that I shouldn’t, simply to see what will happen. Like that time that I put my middle finger on the donut maker that my father had advised me not to touch. Ah, my first burn blisters! Or that time I decided to stick my finger on the prong of the plug from my lamp which I had gingerly set half way out of the socket. Ah, my first electrical shock! Or soju. Ah, soju.

I remember everything, really. If I take nothing else away from my friend’s death, let it be that I need to celebrate my own past. Not to dwell on it, but to love myself for what it’s created. Perhaps, then, I can someday attack my own life with the same zest that he did his. A lifetime spent trying to separate myself from my past has been one spent void of anything real. As such, in the midst of the monologue of self mockery that is This Space, there will be the occasional reminiscent interlude.

Barbie Gets Punk'd

As I was visiting with Sunny Teacher and her beautiful new baby boy Saturday evening, I received the following text message: HEARD THE ALIENS JUST LANDED. The natural response to this was to text back: Where? Unfortunately, my text didn’t go through. Apparently 010-010-1100 is a bogus number. Who would have thought? In the midst of my failure to respond, I received a second text message: IM IN ALBETRAZ. SAVE ME. In search of somebody to blame, I message the most likely culprit: Shanna.

Me: Did you give out my number?
Shanna: No. Why?
Shanna: Who would I give your number to?
Me: Somebody is sending me funny text messages
Shanna: Like what?
Me: Like I was going to send The Tall One

You see, I had decided earlier that day that it would be cute of me to send our friend, The Tall One, creepy, anonymous text messages. As I didn’t actually have The Tall One’s number, I messaged Shanna for it. Given that I didn’t have The Tall One’s number, I assumed that she didn’t have mine. In spite of my efforts, I failed to get passed the first hurdle on this splendid idea because I broke the first rule of prank texting: Don’t answer the phone when they call you! The Tall One called me almost immediately after the first message (which was actually pretty tame; I was planning on gradually working towards creepy). I saw her number on the display and thought that she was calling me because it turned out that she had my number and was confused as to what I was going on about. As it turns out, she didn’t actually have my number until she called me, I answered, and she deduced that this was my number. Sigh. I came up with a half-assed cover story as to why I was messaging her about the bus and left it at that. Somehow, “I thought it would be funny to anonymously text message you and then answer when you call” didn’t seem like it was something that worth boasting about.

In the meantime, I had more important things to concern myself with than past failures. The barrage of text messages continued, with each subsequent message seemingly trying to out-ridiculous the previous. They proceeded as follows:

Culprit: PSCHO YO!
Culprit: WHERES MY SANDWICH?
Culprit: DOGS ONLY SEE IN BLACK AND WHITE. SOME WATCH TV BUT ALL GO TO HEAVEN.
Culprit: KNOCK KNOCK. WHO IS THERE? DETECTIVE BARBIE!
Culprit: I ONCE HAD A HAMSTER NAMED SPAGHETTI MEATBALLS. HE WAS EATEN BY A CAT. SAD FACE.

The hamster message was the last of the evening. This is likely because the culprit was unable to come up with something more ridiculous with which to top it.

While I was suspicious of Shanna still, when I received the “Pscho (sic) yo” message, I decided that the culprit may well be The Golden Drunk. The Golden Drunk, myself, and others have an inside joke which revolves around spelling psycho without the “y”. If it’s a slow week, I may share it sometime. I decided to send The Golden Drunk a random text message in return to see how she’d respond. Her failure to respond entirely confirmed my suspicion that it was her. I felt quite pleased with myself for having solved the mystery.

Despite having already called The Golden Drunk out, her random text messaging continued throughout Sunday, as I receive three more messages:

Culprit: JACOB LIKES MAGIC AND WATER. NOT INTO AJUSHI PANTS THOUGH.
Culprit: METAL MEANS POTATO
Cultrip: BOOTS WITH THE FUR.

Highly amused by The Golden Drunk’s efforts to play dumb and keep the prank up, I discuss the matter with Shanna over dinner on Sunday night. I conclude that The Golden Drunk probably didn’t come up with all of those fabulous messages by herself and is probably in cohorts with her boyfriend. Shanna agrees with me on the matter. I went home that night feeling quite pleased with myself for having created a seamless conclusion to this matter. I was so confident in myself that I sent The Golden Drunk another random text message and a facebook message in reference to this ordeal. I wanted her to know that 1) I thought she was very clever and 2) she really should share with me how to message people from numbers like 010-010-1100. I was really hoping she would share her secret with me so that I could later use this trick on The Tall One.

By Monday evening, the random text messages had subsided. I was somewhat saddened by the sudden lack of attention, but concluded that The Golden Drunk must have bored of the idea soon after I advised her that the gig was up. Shanna and I were reiterating the entire story to The April, when Shanna decides to drop the following on me:

Shanna: Those messages have been coming from The Tall One
Me: Er… what?
Shanna: I explained to her why you randomly messaged her about the bus on Saturday, and she decided that she wanted to get even
Me: Shut up.
Shanna: How could you NOT have realized it was The Tall One?!
Me: I was so sure it was The Golden Drunk! This can’t be right.
Shanna: I personally wrote several of those messages!
Me: You mean the ones that you laughed at on the subway with me and declared as genius?!
Shanna: Yes, those ones.
Me: It’s terribly self centred and narcissistic to admire your own work in that manner.. how did I not think of this first?

In hindsight, it was fairly apparent the entire time that it was The Tall One behind this. Obviously Shanna was going to advise her of my original intentions to pull a similar prank on her, and the messages only started coming a few hours later when I knew the two of them were hanging out together. Furthermore, Shanna is one of about half a dozen people that would know to drop the “pscho (sic) yo!” line on me. Yet, in spite of the obvious, I spent the entire weekend with only a mild suspicion of Shanna, not a second though of The Tall One, discussing at length how this was clearly the work of The Golden Drunk. And the entire time, Shanna was reporting all of this back to The Tall One so that they could carry on such conversations as:

Shanna: She is blaming the entire thing on another friend of hers.
Shanna and The Tall One: Muhahaha!
The Tall One: Really? But… how? Could it be any more obvious?
Shanna: She has special problems.
The Tall One: She’s not actually that stupid.. is she?
Shanna: All signs point to yes.

In conclusion:

Shanna and The Tall One: 27
Big White Barbie: 0

I was completely duped.

I haven’t yet decided what my revenge will be. I admit that it will be difficult to match them on this. They took my utter failure of an idea and turned it around on me. While they get no points for creativity, their follow through was fantastic. Apparently I have about as much game with practical jokes as I do with the opposite sex. Back to the drawing board for me.

Chase Student Face Plants

At Barbie Hagwon last week, I needed some photocopies taken care of while I was in class with Chase Student and Friends (you may remember Chase Student from such special moments as: “Sometimes I create stupid nicknames for myself. Then, when people call me by said nicknames, I cry”). I like to nominate Chase Student to do anything that requires movement, whenever the opportunity arises. I’ve found that giving him the chance to expend some excess energy is really the only way that he’ll later be able to focus his attention on something (namely, me) for more than 30 seconds. As expected, Chase Student jumped at the chance to get off his ass. I advised him to be no longer than five minutes.

Ten minutes goes by.

Leo Student points out to me that Chase Student has been gone for a while. Given that I know how to keep track of time too, I had taken note of Chase Student’s tardiness five minutes earlier. I had been giving him the benefit of the doubt and wasn’t particularly concerned at that point. Ten minutes was pushing it, so I asked Leo Student to stick his head out the door and see if Chase Student had been eaten by wolves. Leo Student was very prompt in his search; less than a minute later he returns to inform me that Chase Student was very sad. Very, very sad! Just in case that didn't get the message across, Leo Student began wiping fake tears away from his cheeks. This warmed my heart (I like to think that he learned that from me).

After recovering from the awesomeness that was Leo Student parroting my condescending gesture, I was troubled to hear that Chase Student was having special problems. Then I remembered that last time Chase Student was very, very sad, it was because other people were calling him a stupid name that he had created for himself. Suspecting shenanigans, I excused myself from the class so that I could go clean up whatever mess it was that he had caused for himself.

I found Chase Student bawling in the main office. One of the other teachers and The Boss Man were attending to him. One look at the right side of Chase Student's face and it was clear why. Chase Student had apparently decided that scraping your knee isn’t particularly bad ass; face planting and scraping half of the skin off your cheek is clearly the more impressive battle scar.

I kid now, but I felt awful and largely responsible for Chase Student’s accident. If I hadn’t sent him to photocopy alone, he might not have fallen. I apologized profusely to my coworkers. In response, they assured me that this wasn’t my fault, not to worry, go back to class and they would patch him up. I returned to class not feeling even a bit relieved. Chase Student followed a few minutes later sporting a brand spanking new bandage and a serious case of the sniffles. The teacher who had helped patch him up followed shortly behind to inform me that Chase Student had completed the photocopying that I had asked him to do without any issue. Instead of coming back to class immediately afterwards as instructed, he decided to jump outside and run in circles with a friend of his. Somehow this led to him tripping over his own feet and landing splat on his face. “See? Not your fault”, my coworker advised me.

Chase Student’s face healed up quite nicely within the week, but he’s never again allowed to go photocopying alone. Next time, when he gets distracted by headlights and runs into traffic, he might not heal up quite as nicely. At that point, "See? Not your fault", really isn't going to cut it.

Barbie and the International Beer Menu That Wasn’t

I had just purchased 5 bottles of nail polish from 4 different stores; this was not one of my better moments. In spite of how silly this was, trying to purchase a bottle of nail polish from every cosmetics shop in Deokchun struck me as hilarious, so I gave it a serious go. Given that you will find one of these shops on every corner, this would actually have been an impressive feat. Alas, I fell just short of my frivolous goal. I blame this entirely on Shanna and Speedy. They had the audacity to actually show up on time for our impromptu Monday night out, preventing me from running in another circle and spotting the only cosmetics shop I had yet to hit! If I hadn’t desperately needed some company that evening, I would still be holding this against them.

During our meal, Speedy and Shanna tried to carry on real conversation. I frequently interrupted so that more pressing matters could be discussed, such as all of the free swag that I got for purchasing 57 bottles of nail polish! Surprisingly, neither of them was particularly interested in hearing about this. They were probably jealous. I got cotton balls and whitening cream!

Our next location had not yet been determined. We didn't bother discussing this matter while we were still in the restaurant. It made infinitely more sense to stand outside in the rain and share our thoughts on the matter. I’ve been told that I have many thoughts and would be best off keeping these to myself. Blasphemy! My thoughts are deep, carefully deliberated and frequently lead to fantastic things. That particular Monday a few weeks back was no exception.

I briefly humour Shanna and Speedy with the idea that what they want to do from here actually matters with the following: “So what are you two feeling? Which bar do you want to go to?” As it turns out, Shanna and Speedy are not sock puppets that I picked up at the market one morning. They’re Real Live People, with real thoughts and everything. I’ve been told that they also have feelings, though I remain unconvinced. Either way, the fact that I was being rather pretentious at this juncture was not lost on them. After briefly taking the moment to point out how transparent I am, they come to the conclusion that they like alcohol every bit as much as I do.

The three of us ended up at the Wa Bar; it was the closest venue that was undoubtedly a bar. I was in the midst of a beer drinking phase, so this suited me just fine. Shanna is not a beer drinker; she was completely unfazed by the unbelievable array of international beers offered on the drink menu. Two full pages of options, hitting up every continent that matters! It was beautiful. The beer drinkers among us required a couple of minutes to mull over the variety before committing to just one choice. I don’t even commit to brands of deodorant. Or toothpaste. This menu presented quite the challenge for me.

After brushing the server away the first time they came over, we were finally ready to guzzle some random brand of beer. Unless you were Shanna, in which case you had settled for some Ass In A Bottle, also known as Random Korean Cooler. I wasn’t feeling particularly experimental, so I settled on the good and familiar Stella Artois. Speedy had selected something-or-other. Upon requesting both from the server, we were informed that they didn’t actually have either. Assuming this was a coincidence, because the possibility that the entire menu existed as decoration and nothing more was simply too stupid to process, we tried two other beers. Again, we were told that neither was available.

The server was soon joined by another server, and the two of them chatted and giggled at one another uncomfortably as we continued picking through the menu. Speedy finally wizened up and asked what our options actually were, given that the menu was clearly Just Kidding. They pointed at the small list of Korean beers. Speedy decides to be difficult with them and select the only Korean beer on the menu that nobody has ever heard of. More uncomfortable giggles followed by an admission that they don’t actually have that beer either. At this point I cave and try to order Hite, which is my standard awful-but-cheap Korean beer. More uncomfortable giggles. They were totally just kidding about Hite, too!

The Wa Bar is broken.

At this point I’m starting to think that this is the only Wa Bar in Korea that doesn’t serve beer. A more satisfying explanation would be that they simply didn’t understand us. If reality, this would do well to ease my mind. Sadly, I think that they understood us perfectly well; they simply didn’t know how to convey to us that the only beer they could serve at that particular time was their house brew. A good start would have been to not provide us with one of the most impressive beer menus we’d seen in Korea.

For what it’s worth, the house brew did the trick.

Big White Barbie Is A Person You Approach For Directions

You know when you’re lost in a crowd and you’re looking for that one special person, who looks least likely to bite, so that you can ask for directions? Somebody who looks like they’re probably a local, probably not packing heat, and can probably point you in the right direction without asking for your left kidney in return? Look no further. I am that person! Even the occasional Korean thinks that I’m that person.

It was a Tuesday. It was raining. I adore the rain, so I was quite chipper. I secretly can’t wait until typhoon season. And by secretly, I mean that I regularly scream this at the top of my lungs so that everybody knows it. I. Love. Rain. Nothing in this world gives me the joy that listening to a rain storm does. I figure that a typhoon will have the same effect, ten fold. Instead of cute little rain drops falling, the entire cloud will drop. Boom! Fantastic. My pants are totally off! Sign me up. Insert other random displays of enthusiasm here.

I was probably returning to work from to the kimbap restaurant near my school. This was mid January, so the memory on this part is a little foggy. Yes, it was raining in mid January. I am yet to spot a snow flake in Busan Land. I once thought that I saw some hail; this matter is still being debated. Every now and then when I’m really feeling homesick, I remind myself that while I may have been freezing my ass off for the past 6 weeks, I still couldn’t see my breath when I was outside. It’s almost enough to make one never want to go back to Canada Land and her cruel, cruel winters. Then I remember soju. And Piss Alley. And the Soju Men. Suddenly, Canada Land doesn’t seem too bad! And then I remember White Trash. And call centers. And that time that I got shingles. This is usually where I stop this train of thought in the hopes of salvaging whatever part of my mind hasn't shattered.

As I was making my way back to school, some random on a scooter whirled towards me. They tend to do this a lot, and it never ceases to irritate me. Something about speeding objects, which weigh infinitely more than I do, accelerating towards me makes me extremely uncomfortable. The Scooter Man slowed down just beside me. This is where he should have flipped up his helmet to speak to me. Of course, this is Korea Land, where helmets are for the old and not-so-nifty. Naturally, Scooter Man was not wearing his helmet. Scooter Man, with his gloriously air blown locks, started rambling at me in Korean. It dawned on me that he was probably asking for directions, as I can surmise no other reason why he would have been waving his hands as he was. It also dawned on me that with my hood pulled over my head and minimal light, there was the distinct possibility that for once in my Korean Life, somebody failed to notice that I was a foreigner. I removed my hood, smiled, and shrugged my shoulders at him. He looked confused and quickly drove away.

Sadly, I have not been mistaken for a local since.

Barbie, Random Frat Boy, and the Bank Card Incident

I have a Frat Boy problem. Even when I’m not making the effort to seek them out, they end up right beside me. Usually at the bar. Sometimes on the train. It’s a bloody curse! This isn’t to mark all Frat Boys as necessarily bad. I have befriended many a Frat Boy who happen to be splendid individuals. And by many, I mean two. The rest seem to have this tendency to indulge in beer while seeking copious amounts of ass and boasting questionable morals. This toxic combination often results in a gross abundance of serious douche–baggery. The following scenarios have been known to occur to one too many Frat Boys:

1) Running out on the bill at a Korean restaurant. This is roughly equivalent to ordering a Happy Meal at McDonalds, snatching the bag from your server prior to paying them, and then running off in a fit of giggles. In fact, shenanigans of this nature are likely why McDonald’s makes you pay immediately after ordering.
2) Trying to pick up the “hot” bartender, who is hardly pushing a 4 to those lacking beer goggles. Failing miserably. Find yourself in disbelief that she was able to resist your telling her how ample her chest looked in that shirt. Drown your sorrows in tequila. Pass out in the washroom stall. Wake up in a pool of your own vomit.
3) Leaving your debit cards with other people and then wondering why on earth somebody else has their bank card. Proceed to engage in a physical scrap over the matter with somebody who has no idea who you or the person with your bank card is. When the person with your bank card offers to give it back, utilize your caveman-like vocabulary to harass them via text message.

While there are an infinite number of equally absurd possibilities here, today I shall focus on scenario number 3.

The Plan for this past weekend had been to stay home to relax, watch movies, clean, and a whole lot of nothing else. The Plan did not come to fruition. It never does, which is precisely why I should never plan anything. Much to my dismay, a friend is leaving Korea this week, so Saturday was planned as her Official Last Night Out. It would have been blasphemous to not attend. I compromised with The Plan by telling myself – and anybody willing to listen - that it would be an early night.

Just before 3am I found myself at this all-you-can-drink-for-15-dollars spot on the other side of town from where I live. Most of the people I had come with were getting ready to hop to midtown. One of my friends who wasn’t feeling terribly well had been pounding the water for about half an hour and decided that it would be best to get a cab with me back towards Western Busan. Just one more more cup of water first. I waited at the bar with her to see if I could also swing a plastic bag for her in the cab “just in case”. In the midst of waiting, I was approached by a Frat Boy. Who else approaches me? I apparently have Frat Boy Friendly Pheromones (if I ever release my own perfume, I’m totally calling it that). As a result of my Frat Boy Friendly Pheromones, I had to endure the following dialogue:

Random Frat Boy (RFB): Hiya. How’s your night going?
Me: It’s just about to end
RFB: Too bad. It’s early go-ins!
Me: Yeah
RFB: Hey, do you watch America’s Top Model?
Me: Uh… no?
RFB: You totally look like the girl on Top Model. Has anybody ever told you that before?
Me: Uh… no?
RFB: Oh, yeah, for sure. You totally do.
Me: Which season?
RFB: Huh?
Me: Which season of Top Model does this look alike of mine happen to be on? There have been something like 37 seasons of that program.
RFB: Uh, I’m not sure. Your long black hair is totally like hers
Me: My hair is brown.
RFB: … and your face… very similar features …
Me: Uh huh. So, I’m leaving now. My friend is sick.
RFB: Here, take down my number. When you see that you look JUST like the Top Model girl, you can call me.
Me: I’ll be sure to do that.
RFB: How about some shots?
Me: Dude, I’m leaving. My friend…
RFB: Take a shot to go!
Me: Ah, what the Hell.

RFB proceeds to try to pay for said shots with his bank card. In order to understand how incredibly stupid is, one needs to realize that this is not North America where people live and die by their debit card. Most places, especially bars, will only accept cash. Despite this, RFB is stunned to learn that his card won’t go through. He demands that the bar tender try again. Two more failed attempts and he advises me that he’ll be “right back”, and then disappears into the crowd. In his absence the bar tender passes me his bank card.

Five minutes pass. I bore of waiting for him, so I pay the tab. In the midst of searching for my friend who is taking the taxi with me, I forget that I have his bank card. Five minutes into the taxi ride home and I remember. Damn. Not only did I end up with some RFB’s phone number, but now I actually had to use it! I text him to let him know that I have his bank card and will arrange for him to get it back ASAP. A flurry of ridiculous texts from this himbo later and the following is established:

1) He has no recollection of stiffing me with the bar tab.
2) This is largely because he has no recollection whatsoever of having met me. That was soooo 25 minutes ago!
3) He either thinks that I’ve stolen his bank card or am one of his buddy’s messing with him.
4) Within the 25 minutes since I saw him last, he’s managed to get a black eye while fighting somebody over his “stolen” bank card. Presumably this other person is a moron, too.
5) Despite having no idea who I am and having made it very clear that he’s already gotten into fist cuffs over this very issue tonight, he’d like for me to meet him Right Now so that he can have his card back.

I advise him that I’m going to bed and he can have it back in the morning. As prompt as he is bright, I hear from him again around 3 in the afternoon. After establishing that I have a vagina and did not actually steal his bank card, he suggests that we met later that night. I inform him that I’m happy to give him his card back and ask where the best area of town to meet would be. I received no response and have not heard from him since.

Thank God.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s still welcome to have his card back. I’m not a bad person. I told him that I had the card immediately after noticing I had left the bar with it. I genuinely felt badly about the entire thing. I just think that it’s absolutely fantastic that I didn’t actually have to meet him again. God willing, he’s probably already replaced the card by now and forgotten about the entire thing.

Big White Barbie: 131231242343
Random Frat Boy: 0

Barbie, Mr Soju Man and the Super Ajumma

Ever since learning my first Korean curse word about 6 weeks ago, I’ve been very successful in warding off obnoxiously drunken Soju Men. That I know any Korean whatsoever seems to catch them off guard. That I know offensive Korean is even more blasphemous. The brief moment that they take to mend their mind, after hearing me curse at them in Korean has blown it to smithereens, is just time enough for me to brush passed them unscathed. No more sharing phone booths for you, Soju Man! Unfortunately, there are occasions when even I’m not crass enough to curse loudly in public. This is where I found myself last Saturday.

I was minding my own business as I waited out the subway ride from Deokcheon to Sasang, on my way to meet some friends for some fantastic Indian Food at this bloody fantastic Indian Restaurant beside the E-Mart. One stop prior to Sasang, a very drunken Mr Soju Man boarded my subway car. Oh, goody! Being the drunken Mr Soju Man that he was, he immediately started getting in the face of the first person that he stumbled upon. As there were only about 6 people on my car, it didn’t take him long to notice me sitting a few meters up the car from his current conquest. Mr Soju Man makes a bee-line for me and immediately starts getting right in my face, trying to put his hands on my shoulders, etc. I respond to this by shoving him backwards and kindly suggesting that I wasn’t interested in becoming his friend. Mr Soju Man didn’t quite understand that I really didn’t want to be his friend, so this shoving match continued for a short while. I finally tired of this and ran up the subway car in hopes of switching cars.

The other 5 people on the car consisted of an elderly woman (from here on out known as Super Ajumma), two middle aged women, and two men that were probably in their 20’s. While I’ve never felt particularly comfortable cursing in front of seniors in the first place, I would consider it even more inappropriate to do so in Korea. Here, seniors are actually awarded with the utmost respect, unlike the complete disdain that seems to be considered acceptable back in Canada Land. Hence, despite there having never been an opportunity more fitting to showcase my growing Korean vocabulary, my audience prohibited me from doing so. This is one of the few times in life when having been raised well does not necessarily come in handy.

As I raced up the length of the car in the hopes of switching to the next one, I found myself unable to move the door between cars. Fantastic. I was either on the one subway line that doesn’t allow you to switch cars, or I was simply on the one car in all of Busan that had a fixed door. Or perhaps I just can't open doors anymore? Either way, I was buggered. Mr Soju Man had followed closely behind me and was now flailing his arms around and rambling nonsensically. I shoved him out of the way again and started to walk the length of the car again. At this point I had concluded that I was going to have to hit Mr Soju Man in order to prevent continued harassment. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of hitting a man in front of somebody’s grandmother, nor was I keen on being arrested or deported. Thankfully it didn’t come to this, as Super Ajumma was there to save the day.

As I passed by Super Ajumma, she took my arm and guided me to sit down across from her, with the two other women on the train. She then swiftly whirled around, grabbed Mr Soju Man by the arm, and started chewing him out. Mr Soju Man failed to appreciate that he was dealing with a Super Ajumma, and actually had the audacity to yap back! Unacceptable! Super Ajumma raised her voice another notch, continued to chew him out, and then promptly shoved him towards the other set of seats. He sat down meekly, put his head down, and finally shut up. Super Ajumma took the seat beside me, patted me on the knee, and told me that she was sorry for his behaviour. I thanked her 100 times before getting off at Sasang.

Super Ajumma is a true hero.

I hoped dearly that Mr Soju Man would stay on the train and rushed upstairs, where I found my friends waiting. I immediately explained to them what had just happened. I was a little bit shaken up, but thanks to Super Ajumma I wasn’t fairing too badly. Before I could complete the story, Jack looks behind me and says: “you mean that drunken Korean, the skinny guy taking his shirt off over there?” Sure enough, there was Mr Soju Man, taking off his clothing in the middle of the subway station. He went for the pants but thankfully thought better of it. Upon seeing even more foreigners, he made a beeline for us. I presume that even in his drunken state he realized how difficult it would be to play Chase After Foreigners with his pants around his ankles. We scattered, which seemed to irritate him. Didn’t we understand that he was our new friend?!?!

Eventually we made it out of the subway station unscathed. The last we saw of Mr Soju Man he was headed into the bathroom. Probably for a nap; I hear that public bathrooms are a fantastic place to put your head down for a few.

Barbie Teacher Is Schooled on the "Sea of Japan”

Every Monday and Wednesday I have the challenge of starting my day with screaming 6 year olds and ending it with a small group of men and women in their 30’s. I actually prefer the 6 year olds; they require significantly less work. The students look bored? Easy. Put on a stupid face or make them repeat some random English word three times fast. Laughter ensues. Problem solved. In my adult class, I actually have to put together handouts and what not so that we have extra material to fall back on if the Topic of the Day is a flop. In other words, I have to do work. Work! Totally not what I came here for! As a result, I like my younger classes best because they require the least work. That said, when I can overlook the fact that I’m a lazy twerp, I realize than I learn more about Korea during my discussions with the adult class. All that work creating vocabulary lists and discussion questions (*cough* ten minutes *cough*) is not for naught!

I arrive to each of my adult classes with a Topic of the Day prepared for discussion. The accompanying handout, which is hastily throw together between sessions of facebook and ass scratching during break, is comprised of an introduction to the Topic of the Day, relevant vocabulary, discussion questions, and related articles. When I first started leading these classes I didn’t actually bother to prepare anything whatsoever, because I had no bloody clue what the heck I was doing. Four months later and I’ve smartened up. Barbie Teacher learns quickly! Or possibly just overlooks the obvious for an inexcusably long time before finally acting like Normal People.

The Topic of the Day for the first Monday back from the Chinese New Year was “Natural Disasters”. The previous Monday I had been totally lacking in inspiration and actually selected “Weather” as the Topic of the Day. To me, discussing the weather for an hour is incredibly painful. Surprisingly, they were actually interested. On one hand, this was fantastic. On the other, it was Total Balls since it meant that I couldn’t just change the topic in the middle of class to something that sucked slightly less.

At some point during the “Natural Disaster” discussion, I was talking to my students about how being on the Sea of Japan rather than right on the ocean makes a difference in regards to some weather-hooey. Whatever the Hell point it was that I was trying to make totally died when I uttered: “the Sea of Japan”. One of the men turned his nose up, glanced my way with more than just a touch of disdain, and advised me that the correct name is “the Sea. Just ‘the Sea’” (I looked this up later and determined that South Korea has fought to have it internationally known as “The East Sea”, not “Just ‘the Sea’”… but whatever, we’ll give him a pass). It was at this point that I remembered reading something, months ago, about how Koreans absolutely abhor that anybody refers to this body of water as “the Sea of Japan”. I presume that the underlying issue here is that after hundreds of years of bloody, bloody battles and some outright ass kickings from their not-always-so-friendly neighbor, some Koreans are a little displeased that the body of water which the entire east side of their country borders bears the name of their former bully. Understandable.

I apologized profusely for my blunder, and then proceeded to blame the entire thing on the United States. They nodded and took this as an acceptable passing-of-the-buck. Thankfully, nobody sought further explanation as to why this was the fault of the United States, as I had none to offer.

Barbie Teacher Makes Elephant Student Cry

Children.

Do they make sense to anybody but themselves? Do they even make sense to themselves? Do they actually differ from us so-called-grownups in this regard?

I have a student in one of my intermediate courses who almost certainly has undiagnosed ADHD. Despite being a massive pain in the ass, he’s actually one of my favourite students. Chase Student is smart as Hell and has never been directly rude to me; he just can’t sit still and STFU when his work is finished. Over the past few months I’ve developed strategies that help keep him busy, and thus quiet. Yet sometimes, in spite of my efforts, he still manages to get himself into trouble.

On Friday, Chase Student decided that it would be a fantastic idea to adorn his workbook with a ridiculous moniker; he proudly wrote “Chase(lephant)” on the cover at the beginning of class. As you might expect, the other students began referring to him as “Chase elephant”. After about 5 minutes of this atrociously inaccurate reading of what was clearly meant to be a one-word moniker, I advised the children that they were going about it all wrong! He hadn’t written “Chase elephant”; he had written “Chaselephant”! One word! Not two! This created a very slight, yet distinct change in pronunciation. It would have been irresponsible of Barbie Teacher not to teach this.

After enduring five minutes of the students stressing the correct syllables in “Chaselephant”, Chase Student started to get a little bit upset. He pouted. He refused to do his work when Barbie Teacher asked him to do so. Something had to be done! I took Chase Student’s book and calmly asked him to join me in the hallway. I advised the other children to work on their assignment and stop calling him “Chaselephant”. In the hallway, out of the eyes of the other children, Chase Student leaned against the wall and sobbed. “Teacher, I’m just so angry!”

I hate it when people cry. Especially children. Even children who are crying because other people are calling them by a moniker which only exists because they wrote it o their own workbook. This kid was actually expressing sorrow over the fact that a moniker, which he had created for himself and purposefully drawn attention to, had caught on. Who does that? I'm not even sure that "but Rebecca, he's 10!" passes as an an adequate explanation here. Regardless, as I'm still a human being with empathy and a job to do, I patted Chase Student on the back (because you’re totally allowed to do that in this country), promised him that I’d make sure the other children would cease calling him “Chaselephant”, and told him that he could have 5 minutes to go get some water and settle down.

Chase Student returned to class as chipper as can be, showing no signs of having broken down earlier. He promptly erased the “(lephant)” from his workbook, so that just “Chase” remained. Mercifully, the other children actually listened to Barbie Teacher and did not once utter “Chaselephant” for the rest of the period. This was perhaps in part because Barbie Teacher had warned them that the second somebody let the moniker slip, Game Time was over.

Chase Student, putting the S back in Special.

Barbie Teacher, the consummate professional.

Barbie Declares Barbie Broken.

There’s a point at which that one has to drop all their defenses and just fucking own up to the fact that they’re not okay. I almost did that on New Year’s. I’m fully doing it right now. I’m not okay. I will be okay, but I’m currently not okay. Not even a little bit.

There is a reason that I occasionally refer to Korea as LaLa Land. Canada Land is this far off place that I intermittently refer to as The Real World. In my mind, it’s a place that was supposed to remain frozen in time. Prior to my departure, I carefully distributed “Nothing of Note is to Happen until October 2008” flyers. Sadly, I didn’t do this nearly thoroughly enough. As it turns out, sometimes three and a half months is a long time. Sometimes, some things do change.

My residency in La La Land gives me the option of whether or not I want to deal with those things that are changing back home. Since my arrival in Korea three and a half months ago, some things back home have…. apparently… changed. The memos, people! Why didn’t you all get the fucking memo? Christ.

A life long friend of mine found out that she was pregnant about a month after I left. In case you hadn’t noticed by now that the sun rises in the east, I am grossly self centred. Hence, my initial reaction to this was: “Dude! I’m going to miss the whole thing!” I later dealt with this by getting inappropriately drunk in Daegu and making what should probably be considered as regrettable decisions. I mean, I still have a kidney infection to show for it! Months later! Damn you, bacteria. Damn you.

Perspective is a funny thing. I would have been just fucking dandy if my life-long friend getting pregnant was going to the biggest change to happen back home while I was in Korea. But, again: the memos! They weren’t evenly distributed! The memo distribution system is broken!

I found out Sunday morning that another friend of mine has passed away.

Passed. A. Fucking. Way.

Are you kidding me? That only happens to other people! Like, people I know sometimes know other people who died. I don’t know people who die. This has sort of been a rule of mine for, well, life. And frankly, it’s worked out fantastically for me. Not having to deal with death has been wonderful!

I don’t mean to minimize the deaths within the family that have occurred during my lifetime; I was just too young to have the privilege to have built any serious rapport with my uncle, aunt or grandmother. So, while their deaths were deeply moving events that touched many of those who are close to me, they were relatively easy for me to deal with; as far as these things can be, that is. I also don’t mean to minimize past deaths of a couple acquaintances, whom happened to be very close to friends of mine. I was certainly affected by both of those events. It’s just that I didn’t truly appreciate what it’s like to lose a friend whom you have some sort of history or rapport with until it happened to me.

And now it’s happened to me.

I’m not going to eulogize or act as if I was any closer to the deceased than is reality. While it’s come to my attention throughout the years that many people do this, that’s just not how I roll. That’s not my grieving style. Or something. Frankly, I’m not sure what my grieving style is.

I first received news after returning to Busan from a 12-hour Daegu party night. It was 10:30 in the morning. I napped. I tried to get really into a tennis match when I woke up later. It was the Australian Open Final. Novak bloody Djokovic, my second favourite player (behind the mighty Nadal, of course), was on the brink of his first Grand Slam title. And I didn’t care. I tried to care. I really did. This is generally the sort of thing that has me sitting directly in front of the television screen and fist-pumping over amazing points. Those of you haven’t been exposed to Tennis Fan Barbie maybe grossly confused to learn that she occasionally embraces her inner jock in this manner, but it totally happens! I followed up the match with some coffee with a friend. I had to get out of the apartment. I felt tears and didn’t want them to flow. The next day was my first day of the work week. I decided that there was no time like Monday night to go drinking until 4am. Prior to meeting a couple of my Busan friends, both of whom have somehow avoided a tacky Barbie nickname, I purchased nail polish from 4 different stores. Within 15 minutes. I don’t even like painting my nails.

And now it’s Tuesday. Okay, it's actually Wednesday at this point. Whatever. I went out drinking. Again. With the same friends, plus two. Among other things, they put up with my whipping out the obituary over drinks. Who does that? Apparently I do. I received an email at work today with the obituary attached. I printed it off, put it in my purse, and glanced at it over drinks at the bar. Who does that? I’m not really sure what else to do with it at this point. Do I leave it in my purse? Throw it out? Put it with my other important papers at my apartment? Somehow, it’s easiest to just leave it in my purse.

Given my lack of experience when it comes to dealing with death, I’m unsure as to where exactly I’m supposed to go from here. Do I reevaluate? Didn’t I just fucking do that at New Year’s? Do I reevaluate again? I chatted with the friend who passed away just one week ago, and we both concluded that what I was currently doing was awesome. I am living my life to the fullest, more or less. I should probably take better care of my health and not lean on the bottle for support so much. Aside from that, I’m not sure which way to lean.

I will find a way. Somewhere, there is Direction just waiting for me to find it. Right? Of course.

Big White Barbie Doesn't Do Sick; Only Denial

I followed up another weekend trip to Daegu with another visit to the hospital. For once, these two things were unrelated. Well, this particular trip to Daegu was not the root cause of the hospital visit. I hadn’t felt like my usual fantastic self for at least a couple of weeks, what with the nagging chest pains and all, but decided that rest was for quitters and went to Daegu anyways. No! I wasn’t sick! Everything was A-OK! Yes, I’m a little bit of thick. “25 Wise Choices for a Healthier Lifestyle” is not a title that I’m likely to author; possibly because that would be a terrible title, and I refuse to associate myself with anything less than awesome. Self Help books tend to have awful titles and be significantly less than awesome. More on how I hate Self Help books another day.

This past weekend’s excuse for going to Daegu was a birthday party for a friend of mine. She was actually more of a friend’s friend, but I happen to consider every other whitey in Korea my new best friend for life. Hence, my not attending would have been grossly inappropriate. I had decided that I would make an appearance sometime after dinner and then disappear sometime after 3am. Unless “taking a nap at 9am on somebody’s couch” can pass for “sometime after 3am”, I deviated from The Plan.

The Plan had been to make Friday a relatively early night so that I’d be fresh for the ice skating plans which had been arranged for Saturday, after which I was to return to Busan for dinner and a trip to the hospital. I had accepted that I needed to go to the hospital; I just didn’t consider it to be an urgent matter. Surely that surging pain on the upper left side would take care of itself after a few beers, right? So, as per usual, The Plan and I did not see eye to eye. Something had to give. I never lose, so The Plan had to go.

I was woken up around 11am by a new Daegu friend, who was calling to see if I was interested in grabbing some lunch. I most certainly would have been up for lunch if I hadn’t already made plans to go ice skating at that time. I am always up for lunch! I’m rarely up for ice skating. I certainly wasn’t up for ice skating when The Hoover called me at 11:30am to see if I was still coming. So, I ignored the vibrations of my cell and continued my pathetic slumber. The Hoover had suggested the night before that I might end up being too hung over to join. While she was probably right, I wasn’t in the mood to be That Drunk this weekend. So, when the clock struck 12 I rolled over, glared at it for a moment, and then rolled off the couch. Then I moved three feet over to a chair and sent The Hoover a text to indicate that I was So! Totally! Up! For! Skating! A hobo-shower later and this slumber eventually made its way into a cab downtown to meet The Hoover.

Ice skating! It was going to happen! And it totally did! Somehow it slipped my mind until I was standing on the ice that I had really never bothered to learn how to skate during my youth. I stood there gingerly for a moment before remembering that I will always have my remarkable athletic talents to fall back on. These “remarkable athletic talents” which I refer to are also known by fans of hockey and figure skating as “the boards”.

Somehow my folly ice skating venture became coffee, which in turn became dinner. By the time I returned to the core of Daegu it was almost 7:30pm. My options at this point were to catch the train home and just see a bloody doctor already, or wait until 9:30 to have coffee with SGTF then see how the rest of the night played out. Given that the former would have been the wise choice, I decided that continuing to ignore my ailing chest pains would be the best course of action. Going to the hospital is for sick people! I wasn’t sick!

When I finally left Daegu at 6am Sunday morning, I wished that I had accepted something was wrong and simply gone to the hospital a week earlier. Even then, I still wasn’t quite ready to find out what was eating me. Upon returning to my apartment in Busan I did the next best thing to going to the hospital: I slept. All day. It was fantastic. And how was that nagging chest pain after a solid 8 hour nap? Still there, now working its way around to the back. Fantastic!

Multiple posts on my multiple hospital visits this week will follow, whenever it is that I’m not too tired to write them.

Big White Barbie, The Boss Man, and the Heating Incident

The Boss Man decided that a highly effective means of boosting employee morale would be to announce that all staff meals are to be eaten in the only room in the building without a functioning heater. We had abandoned this classroom in early November for this very reason.

My school, also known as “Barbie Hagwon”, stretches between two buildings. The first building is where the office and abandoned classroom are. The second building houses the remaining classrooms and a common room, all of which have semi-functioning heaters. Now, moving us to the common room would have made a good deal of sense. To me. And only me, apparently. Despite there being no more than 2-3 classes going on simultaneously after 6pm, The Boss Man decided that instead of using one of other 4 classrooms or the common room, that it’s about damn time we start using that other classroom again! You know, the one with the broken heater! While I understand his desire to not let an entire freezing room go to waste, I don’t quite follow how this led him to conclude that there is no time like the present to start spending more time in there. I was thinking that it might be a nice spot to start keeping my drinks. But no! The heater will fix itself! Right?

Due to the monumental stupidity of this idea, I decided that I would start going to the kimbap restaurant down the street for dinner. Unfortunately, this will only fly Monday and Wednesday when I have a two hour break between my evening classes. I advised the secretary to tell The Boss Man that I would no longer be coming in to work 45 minutes before class on the other days. Given that I spend the first half hour of that eating my lunch, scratching my ass, and posing as the Requisite White Face, it now makes more sense to pass on the take-out and just eat my meal in the restaurant before work. It’s been my observation that restaurants tend to have heated rooms. The secretary giggled and advised me that he was working on the heating issue. Colour me unconvinced.

The first Monday that we were ordered to eat in The Cold Room I went down the street to eat as planned. Upon my return, I found that the office smelled suspiciously like kimchi. I asked one of my coworkers how eating in The Cold Room went; this was my passive-aggressive way of asking why they weren’t eating in The Cold Room. It’s been my finding that this is far more effective than the more direct approach that I’m accustomed to. My coworker advised me that they had started their meal in The Cold Room, but in the midst of enjoying a delicious meal of whatever-they-were-eating, the heater apparently fell off the wall and nearly took one of them out on the way down. Imagine my surprise! I did my best to conceal that I was dying laughing on the inside and ensured that nobody had been knocked out or lit on fire. My coworker assured me that everybody was just dandy and that the heating issue had since been resolved.

Colour me unconvinced.

Big White Barbie: 2
The Boss Man: -1

Unfortunately, even though I was entirely correct that eating in The Cold Room was an absolutely ridiculous plan, it's The Boss Man's hagwon. Hence, he gets the final say on these matters, so the ridiculous plan will continue to be implemented. Until the building goes up in flames or somebody is fatally wounded, that is. His inability to admit he was mistaken and come up with a better plan has resulted in him being deducted a point on the Big White Barbie Scoreboard.

Barbie Doesn't Actually Do Busan

Yet.

To add to my growing collection of atrocious habits, I’ve more or less stopped spending my weekends in Busan. In addition to drinking excessively, spending impulsively, and regularly referring to myself in the third person, I seem to have developed a serious Daegu problem. I can’t actually recall the last week that didn’t somehow involve my ending up there. I believe that it was early December. It’s getting to the point that a couple members of my diminishing pool of friends in Busan have actually asked to join me in Daegu for the weekend; as if really awesome things actually go down there or something. If only it were that simple.

Prior to my days as Big White Barbie, I lived a rather meager existence in a rather meager small town. It was your typical Southern Ontario hockey town (it probably still is, but as far as I’m concerned nothing actually happens or exists when I’m not a part of it). For every beer-league hockey player trying to grope you at the bar, there was a glorious mullet eyeing you up on the city bus. The only demographic more represented than white trash were the elderly. Every other corner sported an old age home. Right around the corner from that one could usually find a group home of some sort. The most exciting thing that happened to the city in my lifetime was probably the flood of 2004; that or hosting the Memorial Cup in 1996. In other words, Barbie’s hometown is pretty fucking vanilla.

I am positively Small Town. One of my friends in Busan scoffs at me when I say this, rolls her eyes and says: “Upper Canadians”. Apparently a population of 75 000 can only be classified as a small town in Canada if you live in Southern Ontario. Well, excuse me. I can’t help it if the rest of Canada is broken. On the flip side, Busan is a very large city. Variety is plentiful here; just about anything I could want to eat or buy can be found. Should I wish to make more foreign friends, Busan boasts several different areas where I can easily find other Talking Monkeys. Several. Different. Areas. There lies the problem. You mean that I have to go to different areas of town?! And that some parts of town are dead on certain nights of the week? And… and… there are actually people that refuse to leave their part of town, because they happen to think that Haeundae/ Kyungsung University/ Pusan National University/ Seomyeon is such a Big Deal that it’s the only part of Busan worth spending any time in? Lame. Count me out.

Enter Daegu.

Boasting a population of nearly 2.5 million, Daegu is not by any stretch of the imagination a small town. Yet, unlike Busan, Daegu actually has one well defined central commercial core. As a result of this, the foreigner community in Daegu is far more tightly knit than Busan’s. The second time that I went to Daegu I recognized numerous people that I had met the last time I was there. I can socialize in Busan for weeks and not have this happen, should I so desire. While it’s occasionally beneficial to duck people, it’s not something that I’m really accustomed to doing. Being Small Town Girl and all, I’m used to running into every undesirable personality that I’ve ever come across, each and every time I leave the house. There is comfort in familiarity; even if that familiarity is occasionally unsavory.

Essentially, my Daegu Problem began with the comfort I found from the small-town feel that I get from Daegu. Combine this with the fact that I’ve now established a really good group of female friends there, and The Daegu Problem doesn’t appear to have an end in sight.

Until the Summer, that is. And by Summer, I mean Spring. Busan has 23423 beaches. As soon as it's hot enough to dress inappropriately and jump in, I'm there. At that point I’m going to have to get used to the idea of my friends sleeping on my floor. It’s the least I can do after months of crashing with them in Daegu. I might even be nice and get them a floor mat thingy! Maybe. Hospitality has never been one of my strong points, years of employment in customer service be damned.

So, until the weather gets hot, the title of my blog is a total farce. Aside from my moniker, of course. So long as I'm in Korea, I will always be Big White Barbie.

Barbie Receives January Hours; Has a Conniption

Every month I receive a new class schedule from The Boss Man. More often than not it looks eerily similar to the last. Until this month, that is. Public schools in Korea are closed for holidays until after the Lunar New Year in February. Yet, enrollment at my hagwon is down slightly from the past two months. The other “native English speaker” at my school is no longer working for us. The result? My hours for the month of January are total balls.

I have previously boasted about how awesome it is to get paid full-time for a part-time gig. I used to spend 25-30 hours per week at my school, thanks largely to my classes falling back-to-back-to-back rather than slipping between numerous breaks. This month, The Boss Man decided that it would be awesome to give me two breaks on Mondays and Wednesdays, with two hours falling between my second to last and last classes on each of these days. Rather than spending 5-7 hours per day at work, I now have to spend 8-9 hours. Except on Fridays, where I get off an hour earlier in exchange for showing up to teach yet another room of 5 year old Munchkins. Needless to say, I am less than thrilled with this arrangement. 8-9 hour work days? Are you fucking kidding me? Who works these kinds of hours?! Shut up, Canada. This is exactly why we broke up. If I wanted a real job with real hours I wouldn’t have degraded myself to the level of Talking Monkey and come to Korea in the first place.

Fortunately, other people associated with my hagwon are far more screwed than I am. Because it’s perfectly natural and healthy to find comfort in knowing that other people’s lives suck considerably more than yours! The other “native English speaker” at my school is, as it was initially explained to me, “no longer with us”. After about five minutes of digging I determined that she was actually fired, apparently as a result of low enrollment. One of these days I may point out that “she is no longer with us” is a grossly inappropriate way of delivering this news. Regardless, she was probably fired at least in part for being confrontational and taking a week off to go to Seoul in December. The reality of Korea is that she’s not White, so it’s much harder for her to pull that stuff off; especially when she’s only part time, and not the only “native English speaker”. That and this was just one of several jobs that she was floating. Probably illegally. A pity that she’s gone, as I was planning on using that as collateral should The Boss man ever try to pull anything shifty my way. The Boss Man has his reasons for not being amused at the thought of his Big White Barbie going to the Ministry of Labour. Now, one of those reasons is gone. Sniff.

While this had nothing to do with her firing, her credentials as a “native English speaker” are highly doubtful to anybody that actually has an ear for the language. In other words, I’m the only one in the building that could possibly have picked up on this. Apparently I’m the only one in several buildings that noticed, or she wouldn’t have been floating three different jobs. Let’s just say that there is no where in the English speaking world that one develops an accent like hers. When I first met her, she informed me that she was from Oregon, just outside of Portland. I immediately wanted to call bullshit on this, but thought better of it. It was my first week and it was probably not best to stir the pot with the only other “native English speaker” in the building. I have it stuck in my head that she speaks English with a faint Russian accent, but the truth is that I haven’t a clue what the origins of her accent are. I just know that it sure as fuck isn’t the USA. Or Canada. Or anywhere else that English is the predominant language.

As if Native English Speaker getting fired wasn’t enough to make me feel better about my craptacular hours this month, it turns out that all of the teachers whom haven’t been fire yet are totally screwed too! Isn’t that fantastic? They’re even more fucked than I am! My Korean co-teachers, who already work 5 times harder than I do, have to pick up the slack that is left from Native English Teacher’s departure. I generally teach far more classes than they do. This month, they’re teaching the same number of classes. So while I sit around on break and between classes, marveling at the ease of being a Talking Monkey for Hire, they are busy prepping, calling parents, and grading. Despite my being a total dick at the moment and taking comfort in their misery, I do feel badly for them. I sincerely hope that The Boss Man hires another teacher for next month so that my poor coworkers and friends don’t get burnt out.

The long and the short of this is that my January is going to be total balls. I have to get up earlier, stay at the school longer, and even pull the occasional Saturday. The good news is that the Lunar New Year is right around the corner, at which point I will have a full 5 days off to act like a complete moron again. I didn’t do that nearly enough during my first winter vacation! Big White Barbie Spends Winter Vacation on an Embarrassing Drunken Rampage: The Sequel. Then, I will be able to recover from my Lunar New Year holiday hang over with later start times and shorter working hours, as my hagwon will be back on it’s regular timetable. Ah. Relief.

Before Big White Barbie There Was… Well, Not Much

Big White Barbie is Bad Decision Bear. My 2007 is most aptly summed up as the Year of Regrettable Decisions. My first ill advised attempt to turn my year around was to quit The Job From Hell in April without bothering to secure further employment. Naturally this was followed up with another 3 craptacular jobs between May and September. At some point I actually attempted dating a guy who had no idea who Anne Frank was. How does that even happen? I tried to rectify this by later sleeping with a second guy whose sole purpose of being in Korea is seemingly to nail as many women as possible. Welcome to my reality. Numerous so-called friendships that really should never have been in the first place completely fell apart. I contracted shingles in March, because apparently I’m 75 years old. Friendships that I believed were true were abruptly ended without explanation. I completely lost the plot.

A review of The Year of Regrettable Decisions reveals only one good choice that stands out. After years of dreaming followed by months of planning my escape, I hopped on a plane to South Korea with 300 bucks in my pocket and not a penny further to my name. Somehow in the midst of a year littered with stupidity I managed to pull of the most ridiculous, yet awesome stunt of my life.

In a world where every other foreigner you meet has an equally awesome story to tell, it’s very easy to lose sight of the courage and head strong ambition that we all required to get us here in the fist place. Or a sense of desperation and the flare for insanity, I suppose. We’re all motivated by different things. Some of us have massive debts back home which our not-so-fancy degrees have done little to help us pay off. Others just want to travel and experience a new culture. Some are in flux and hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time! Others still weren’t happy at home and are trying to run far far away from the one thing that they can’t escape in this life: themselves. Most of the people whom I’ve encountered here have come for a combination of reasons, some of which I have failed to even touch upon here. As for me, the day that I learned I could each overseas once I had a university degree was the day that I decided I would eventually do something like this. I chose Korea as my location because I was dirt poor and have mounds of debt weighing me down in Canada Land. I decided to come when I did because I felt that I had absolutely nothing left to lose. There was simply no time like the present to try to turn my life around and become The Big Deal that I’ve always imagined myself to be.

I naively expected that I could come to Korea and instantaneously become The Awesome Force that my Ideal Self happens to be. Sadly, it never quite works out that way. The Atlantic Ocean isn’t quite the vacuum of negativity, insecurity, and unfortunate memories that I had hoped. Much to my disappointment, I arrived in Korea every bit the tragically flawed, quirky character that I was when I left home. I still drank like a sieve. I spent impulsively. I chased men whom had as much respect for me as I had for myself. I befriended anybody who would smile my way. I pitifully pandered for acceptance at every given opportunity. The result is that rather than become closer to my Ideal Self, I’ve morphed into some sort of exaggerated, cartoon version of myself. While this undoubtedly makes me wildly entertaining to others, it does little for self improvement.

I rarely make serious New Year’s resolutions. For one thing, if I happen to remember my resolution in the first place, I rarely follow through with it. For another, I find it rather meaningless to make a promise to myself for no better reason than it being a particular date on the calendar. This year I will make an exception and not only make a resolution, but share it with those you unfortunate enough to have waded through my tripe long enough to make it to this point in the post. Somewhere between my Ideal Self and the cartoon that is Big White Barbie there is a realistic, attainable compromise. To reach this, I’ll face my biggest challenge yet. Not just anybody will hop on a plane to Nowhere with a few hundred bucks in hand; fewer of us still will ever know what it is to truly love oneself. I’ve demonstrated to myself that I’m clearly capable of the former. In a world where so many of us are swimming in a sea of self loathing, learning to love myself will undoubtedly do little to cure the insomnia. Yet, I'm willing to give anything a try. That's how I roll. Wish me luck and I'll buy the next round.