nonsensical natterings

polite sex

2011-10-16T11:36:00.002+09:00

Yesterday, in the office, I could hear Bekah expressing frustration over the sound of the copy machine beeping. So I wandered out to help her.

"What's wrong?"

The machine cover was open, and Bekah was staring into it. "I don't know."

"Here, I think it goes like this . . ." I pulled a lever, and something slid out. "Oof."

"I think something's stuck."

"Hold on. Let's turn this thing this way."

"Careful."

"Oops, that's not it."

"Try this." I pulled another lever.

"Ah-HA! There it is." Bekah spotted the rogue piece of paper hiding in the bowels of the beast

"Be careful."

"Oops, I've lost it."

"Hold on, let's try again."

At this point, Seong called out from her desk. "What ARE you two doing out there?"

"Wrestling with the copy machine?" Bekah yelled back.

Seong dissolved into a fit of giggles. "It sounds like two very polite people trying to have sex."

augh get me out of here

2011-06-14T14:47:00.004+09:00

Two more days, and then we're on a plane to Spain.

Bill has final exams to grade, and I have a lot of random errands to run before we leave. It's been a pretty stressful last couple of weeks. And already work for when we get back is encroaching upon our thoughts. Gah.

I've been planning for this trip fairly meticulously, which Bill seems to find amusing. We are such opposites when it comes to travel - I love to flip through guidebooks and make notes of everything I want to see, and combing through TripAdvisor for the best restaurants and hotels. Bill tends to find planning tedious. I don't mind being left to my own devices - in fact it's a lot easier without a second opinion. Heh. Anyway, I'm a pretty good planner, if I do say so myself.

all things must come to an end

2011-05-17T17:10:00.002+09:00

So after three years working at the same academy in a variety of positions, I'm finally moving on to a new job.

I know C gets a lot of flack in Korea for its CCTVs and refusal to take most red days off, but for the most part I think my three years were pleasant enough. If nothing else, I've made a bunch of wonderful friends and was also introduced to a tall and handsome Irishman, so I'm more than willing to overlook its faults.

It's always a bit uncomfortable when teaching and business intersect. The competition among English academies in Seoul gets fiercer every year, so it's understandable when schools make it a priority to keep their students - their customers - happy and willing to renew their enrollment every term. But I find it disturbing when keeping your students/customers happy requires you to compromise your standards. They're still young - the last thing they want to do is sit at a desk for three hours and study. If you want them to actually learn anything, sometimes you're going to be forced to do things that aren't going to make them happy. If teaching starts taking a backseat to profit, teachers become little more than glorified babysitters.

Anyway. In a month, Bill and I will be in Spain, soaking up the sun and eating tapas until we burst. Something I'm definitely looking forward to.

the paradox of manly quiche

2010-12-23T11:32:00.003+09:00

The other day I decided to make quiche for dinner, even though a co-worker warned me that "real men don't eat quiche." I went ahead anyway, like the reckless person that I am, with the belief that Bill would be secure enough in his masculinity to be un-threatened by pie crust and eggs.

I used this recipe and substituted smoked salmon for ham. It turned out okay, but no thanks to the pie crust. It'd been so long since I'd made one that I must have blocked out the traumatic memory from my brain. I dumped the butter, flour, salt, and sugar into the bowl with confidence and started crumbling it all together by hand.

The recipe says, "If you pinch some of the crumbly dough and it holds together, it's ready." THIS IS A LIE. Either that or we have different definitions of "pinch" and "hold together" and possibly even the word "ready." When I pinched the crumbs together, they held, so even though the dough didn't look anywhere near ready to bond and form something presentable, I dutifully dumped it out on the counter and tried to coax it into forming a "disc" as per the recipe. I squeezed it, patted it, poked it, whispered to it, complimented it - I did everything short of selling sexual favors, but the stupid dough refused to cooperate, even after a stint in the freezer (hey, if the carrot doesn't work, try the whip).

In the end, I had to dump it in the pie pan and press it in and push it around until it more or less filled the bottom. (I can hear the horrified gasps of bakers everywhere.) I know that the #1 rule of pie crust is DON'T OVERKNEAD but that point I was like - you know what? fuck this shit. I'm making manly quiche, and real manly quiche can handle some overkneading, youknowwhatImean?

In the end the quiche actually turned out not too bad. It wasn't soggy anyway. The crust was intact and tasted like crust - although if it'd had been a more delicate dish, I suspect its shortcomings would have been more evident - it certainly wasn't the light and flaky ideal that bakers dream of. But my manly quiche was quite capable of standing on its own. Crust? We don't need no stinkin' crust!

stitch 'n' bitch

2010-12-21T09:47:00.003+09:00

When I first expressed an interest in starting knitting, Bill snorted and made some comment about women picking up knitting for a week and then never touching their needles again. Almost a year later, I've proven him wrong. Muahaha.

I'm not completely innocent. Years ago, in college, I went through a very short knitting phase that I quickly got bored of. Mostly because I sucked, and it was boring. My tension was all out of whack, and there is nothing more tedious than garter stitch. Endless rows of the same thing ad infinitum, and once a scarf reaches a certain length - that awkward length where you want to stop but when it isn't quite long enough to comfortably go around your neck - it seems to stop growing and develop into a black hole of yarn - no matter how furiously you knit, the damn thing doesn't grow any longer! And that's where many beginners quit, I think.

My first scarf this time around did end up being a little too short for perfection, but being able to hold up a finished product definitely helped spur me on. I'm still pretty much a beginner - I've knit three hats for Bill and none of them are quite the right fit - but just last week I managed to fix my first stitch without having to frog a bunch of rows. I'm feeling quite proud of myself.

There is something comfortingly Zen-like about knitting - like cooking, you kind of fall into this state where the world disappears and there is nothing but you and the yarn. You are the yarn, the yarn is you. But there is no yarn. :: cue mystical chimes tinkling in wind ::

a first time for everything

2010-11-02T15:07:00.005+09:00

Two weekends ago I ended up doing something that I never, ever thought I'd do willingly. Not only did I go willingly, I paid money out of my own pocket. I waded through fields of mud. I sat around for hours in the rain. And for what, you ask?

I went to go see an F1 race.

My friends all know that cars are pretty much at the bottom of the list of things I give a shit about. I like reading, playing video games, cooking, playing the guitar, watching fantasy movies, dressing up in costumes . . . I do NOT like things that go vroom vroom. Or, to be accurate, I'm only interested in them when I need them to take me somewhere in relative comfort. I don't care what they look like or what extra functions they have as long I can sit inside and fall asleep until I arrive at my destination.

But alas, the love of my life is infatuated with wheels and engines, and when he heard that the F1 was coming to Seoul we decided we were going to be there, come hell or high water. And while I felt like there were better ways to spend a weekend (like baking cookies or reading the latest Outlander book) I knew that watching cars race around in circles would make him very happy, so I went.

It could have been worse. Okay, so I ended up wading through mud and walking for miles and sitting in the rain with no sustenance other than potato chips and cookies. But once the race actually got started, it was pretty fun to watch. A lot better than watching it on a screen, which somehow always causes my eyes to glaze over, like some sort of allergic reaction. However, watching cars skid around in the rain and crash into walls is undeniably gripping. My reaction to the whole thing was probably similar to Bill's reaction after taking me to a Rufus Wainwright concert: "Ah, interesting. Not half as bad as I anticipated. I actually enjoyed myself. Can we go home now?"

I may even let myself be persuaded to go again next year. Definitely bringing the galoshes though. And some army rations.

it gets better

2010-10-17T11:51:00.002+09:00

Despite the fact I'm staring 30 in the face, I rarely feel like I'm an actual adult - a productive, contributing member to society who knows how to pay my taxes and unclog a toilet. But one thing I'm certain of having learned in the past 28 years is that "it gets better."

Of course, this is not a universal platitude. I am fully aware that whatever difficulties I've experienced, I never had to wonder where my next meal would come from or whether tomorrow would bring a violent death for me or my loved ones. But as Catriona likes to point out, the Holocaust may be worse than finding a half-eaten worm in your apple, but that doesn't mean you aren't perfectly justified in feeling perturbed about the fact you've just eaten half a worm.

Being a teenager is a difficult time for most right-thinking people, in my opinion. You start contemplating the universe, your mortality, the balance between good and evil, and whether you will ever be able to look at yourself in the mirror and not cringe with horror. And your peers harass you for all sorts of bullshit. You read too much. You dress funny. You get good grades. You have weird hair. You've lived abroad. Etc., etc. I look back on my teenage years and remember the angst I felt almost every day. No one understands me. I feel like a reincarnation of an enlightened monk surrounded by the blind. (What, me? Melodramatic?) What is the point of this existence? Is it really better to be a starving Socrates than to be a satisfied pig?

Now, over 10 years later, I can look back at myself and feel a mix of amusement and pity. But at the time, my angst was real, and my fantasies of killing myself to end my miserable existence were also real. As a Korean American teenager trying to survive in the Korean education system, I was convinced that no one in the world could ever know how shitty my life was, and that letting it all go would be a million times better than having to survive six years of torture. Six years! It's an eternity to a teenager with no perspective of time.

That's why my heart breaks when I read about these gay teenagers who kill themselves because they can no longer stand the torture of their very existence. They see no end to a kind of life where waking up every morning is merely a reminder of how much life sucks. And they have no idea that their life now will not necessarily be their life ten years later. They have never experienced their life getting better, so how can they know that it will? I cannot fathom how deep their pain must be, and that's why it's so important for them to hear from others that YES, IT DOES GET BETTER.

At the same time, I know that sadly, for some of them, it may never get better. The It Gets Better project is full of people who managed to leave their hateful narrowminded communities and do something with their lives. But leaving your community is not always an option. College is not always an option. Where does that leave these teenagers, who may be forced to come of age in a community that treats them with contempt and hatred? Can we sincerely tell these kids that it gets better, any more than we could say the same to a starving child in Somalia with a straight face?

I don't mean to negate the importance of this project. For many teens, it will get better, and making sure they know that could be the difference between life and death for many of them. But we must remember that the message "it gets better when you leave" is only a message of hope for those who CAN leave. Where does that leave the rest of them? I don't know.

a small dish

2010-10-11T22:50:00.002+09:00

Today I discovered that trying to unimpress (?) someone is almost as stressful as trying to accomplish the opposite.

I was contacted over the weekend and informed that I had a meeting with the CEO - not asked if I had time, not told wherefore he wanted to see me - it was a summons in every sense of the word. After working at the place for going on 4 years, I couldn't pick our CEO out of a lineup if you paid me, so this was all a bit mysterious. Of course there are always rumors, and one doesn't get to be the CEO of a company this size without being a bit eccentric - I'd heard of his legendary tempers and his enigmatic ways of speaking (which everyone attributed to his philosophy background) so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. But I was certain of one thing - he probably wanted something from me, and was probably going to wrap it up in the form of a promotion of some sort. And also that I did not want it.

He was nice enough, although I had to wonder if he kept his office temperature high on purpose so as to make all his guests sweat profusely while trying to sip coffee and nibble at cookies that insist on crumbling everywhere in a most undignified manner. I think his impression of me can be summed up in one phrase: "Your dish is too small." It's a Korean saying that means you lack ambition. Not just ambition, but a sort of potential as well as desire for "bigger things." I'm pretty sure he was trying to goad me into being more aggressive - I could see he was somewhat bewildered that someone who looked so good on paper was proving to be something of a wet blanket.

I did think a bit about it afterwards, because I used to have much bigger dreams than simply being a teacher. But I was honest with him when I said that the one thing grad school taught me was that there so many people out there in my field who are much smarter than I am and who are far better at what they do. And I'm not lying when I say that I sincerely enjoy teaching. I love being in a classroom and talking to students about a subject I care about. I get high on that feeling when you can feel a student's attention riveted on you, or when a student gets that "Ah, now I get it!" look in their eyes in your class. And I hate managing people. I hate thinking about what's marketable and profitable. I understand that sort of mindset is necessary, even in education, but I don't want to be the one who has to think about it.

Despite my convictions, I have to admit I felt a bit depressed afterwards, thinking about what kind of impression he must have had of me. Even though that's what I wanted him to think. The urge to please people is really strong (for me, anyway). But in the end I'm happy where I am, and the last thing I want is to be pushed into something I don't want just because others think I'd be good at it.

wishlist

2010-09-20T15:19:00.002+09:00

Is it alarming that lately the stuff I want to buy is mostly household related?

- Remote wireless headphones, so Bill/I can play the PS3 if the other one is working.

- A bookcase. We have books scattered in every possible corner of our apartment.

- A new dish rack. The one we have now is plastic and gets disgusting very quickly.

I can't wait till payday.

notes on visiting Tuscany

2010-07-28T01:17:00.003+09:00

- The stereotype about Italian drivers being batshit insane is frighteningly true. Make sure to get good insurance before venturing out on the roads, lest you get run over by a psychotic truck driver trying to overtake you.

- Eat as much gelato as you can get into you. No one does it like the Italians.

- You should be prepared to sweat like a rapist (Bill's words) if you want to visit the Uffizi. It's surprising the paintings haven't all melted into puddles yet; the inside is close to a sauna. Also, prepare yourself for more paintings of Jesus and the Virgin Mary than you could ever imagine. Look out for the ones where Jesus is grabbing Mary's boob.

- The Mona Lisa was disappointing; David is not. Gorgeous, awesome, breathtaking - you could sit there for ages and just stare at the perfection of his ass.

- Firenze is a beautiful city but disgustingly hot and full of tourists. Every annoyance gets magnified hundredfold. Try not to stab anyone while you're there.

- The countryside is lovely - if you're brave enough to drive on the twisty side roads, you will find yourself in the middle of rolling green fields and sunflower patches as far as the eye can see.

- Learn some Italian words for food before you go. For example, if I'd known that arrancia means orange, I wouldn't have ordered ravioli with arrancia sauce and be startled when served pasta with orange slices on top.

- Pisa is a huge tourist trap. Go see the Tower and then get out.

- Don't worry about trying to see everything. Meander around and save stuff for next time.

sweaty opera

2010-06-22T11:23:00.005+09:00

Norma, the nice lady who runs the B&B I'm staying in, invited me to go see a free opera performance today, held at a local church, of a woman named Angela Brown. The performance was called "Opera from a Sistah's Point of View" and was a mix of classical opera with some more contemporary stuff - it looked interesting enough, so I tagged along.

The place was PACKED. I have never been to see a proper opera, but I imagine the audience is usually not as diverse as the one there today - this is going to sound incredibly snobbish of me, but there was a lady with a mullet wearing a denim vest. I doubt you'd see such a sight at the Met.

Also, I assume the Met is airconditioned. This church was old and decidedly lacking in modern facilities. Everyone sat there fanning themselves furiously with a pamphlet. The sullen teenage boy sitting next to me - no doubt dragged there by his mom - slumped in his seat, baseball cap pulled over his eyes. The guy in front of me kept shouting bra-VO! bra-VO! whenever he had the opportunity. Quite the atmosphere.

But I have to say, Ms. Brown was absolutely fabulous. This is a woman who's performed in front of crowds in Europe, and she stood there in a tiny church sweating with the rest of us, but taking it all in stride. (Apparently she hadn't been told there wouldn't be any a/c. I would have thrown a hissy fit in her place.) When she sang, she was a goddess - her voice filled the church with more soul than any prayer would. But inbetween songs she talked about opera and music with a wonderful and down to earth sense of humor. She wiped her sweat on a brown towel and sang with a voice that held the audience spellbound. It's an incongruous experience, listening to the divine whilst sweating buckets of very earthy sweat, but I enjoyed every minute of it.

anticipation

2010-06-15T19:26:00.002+09:00

Just one more day, and I'll be on a plane out of here. I honestly don't know how people manage to go years without taking a vacation - if I didn't have my summers off, I'd go mad. It'll be nice to see friends again - seems like almost everyone I care about has been scattered over the globe these past few years.

I'm definitely NOT looking forward to spending what amounts to two freakin' days on a plane, but c'est la vie. I just hope I don't startle anyone once I finally land in Dallas - I'm pretty sure I'll look more zombie than human at that stage.

the skirt police

2010-05-25T16:27:00.003+09:00

So last week I was approaching the bus stop, on my way to work, when I spotted a white girl also waiting for the bus. There was nothing unusual about this girl other than the fact that the hem of the back of her skirt was caught in her underthings. Fortunately (or as fortunate as anyone can be in such a situation) her underthings consisted of black shorts, which were about as decent as underthings can be, I suppose. Still, it was pretty obvious that things were not as they should be.

I stood next to her, waiting for the bus, all the while wondering if I should say something or if I should mind my own business. On the one hand, I would sure as hell want someone to tell me if I were wandering around Seoul oblivious to my skirt tucked into my unmentionables. On the other hand, there was a real (though admittedly miniscule) chance that she was making some sort of fashion statement and/or a secret psychopath that would happily stab a stranger who dared to speak to her about such things.

So there I was, pondering my options, when out of nowhere a car pulls up to the bus stop, right in front of us. As I stared at it in confusion, the front window rolled down to reveal a middle-aged Korean womman -an ajumma - who leaned towards me and shouted in Korean, "Excuse me!"

I stepped closer, assuming she wanted directions somewhere. "Yes?"

She had to yell loudly to be heard over the traffic. "Could you please tell that white girl over there to arrange her skirt? It's all up in her underwear."

I reflexively glanced at the girl in question, who was looking on with interest. "Uh . . . okay."

And without further ado, the car zipped off.

"Uh . . . " I shrugged at the girl. "She says that your skirt is . . ." I gestured vaguely to my posterior. ". . . tucked up . . . inappropriately."

The girl stared for a second, then laughed as she reached around and tugged her hem down, covering the offending underthings. "Good thing I was wearing shorts. She stopped by just to tell you that?"

I laughed and kind of shrugged, indicating that we cannot know, nor should we try to understand, the ways of ajummas.

In the future I have decided to alert all girls with hem-tucked-in-underthings syndrome lest the wrath of a nearby ajumma descend upon them.

have passport, will travel

2010-03-20T15:27:00.004+09:00

Traveling nowadays is so complicated. I can't believe there was a time where you could just get on a train or a boat and go somewhere without any kind of documents, brazenly bearing liquids and sharp objects. Now you have to have a passport, and the name on the ticket has to match the name on your passport which also has to match the name on your credit card. Your photo has to be exactly a certain size and the background cannot have not blemishes and shadows and God forbid you accidently tilt your head or squint or wear a scarf or smile or forget to show your ears.

I went to go take my passport photo the other day - apparently you need a fancy electronic passport now if you want to take advantage of the visa waiver program, so I had to get one of those - and my first photo was rejected because of a very faint shadow behind me - so faint that I didn't even notice it until the lady pointed it out to me, and even then I was squinting skeptically. So I went to go get it taken again (wasted 8000 won, bastards) and the photographer kept fussing with the unevenness of my cardigan and the angle of my chin, and once he'd taken my photo he opened it in Photoshop and started PHOTOSHOPPING my passport photo. I watched him over his shoulder, curious to see what he thought my flaws were, but all he did was erase my . . . collarbones. My collarbones! I never knew I had offensive looking collarbones. And aren't passport photos supposed to, you know, look like you? What if they stop me at immigration and say, "CLEARLY this is not you because I CAN SEE YOU HAVE COLLARBONES while the girl in this photo HAS NONE."

Anyway. The logistics of trying to put together my flights for this summer are driving me a bit crazy, but I think I have it all in place now. Kayak.com is my new best friend.

your house burnt down? boo fucking hoo.

2010-03-17T23:36:00.003+09:00

So much for keeping up with my writing.

Lately I feel like a heroine in a crappy Victorian novel whose feelings are reflected in literary harmony by the weather. When she is happy, the sun shines; when she feels like crap, the weather is crap. It's been a particularly difficult month - although not for me, really, rather the people around me that I care about - and nature shows her sympathy by refusing to move her ass along to springtime.

My aunt's house was recently wrecked by a house fire started by an electric tea kettle. By some miracle no one was home when it happened. They contained the fire to one unit (she lives in an apartment) and managed to extinguish it before it did too much damage, but it will still take a month to make the place fit to live in again. Most of their belongings were destroyed - even the stuff that wasn't burned to a crisp took too much damage from the smoke to be of much use.

Apparently their neighbors are being complete assholes. Not a word of sympathy. In fact, they asked my aunt's family to APOLOGIZE for the "mental distress" the fire caused everyone else. One lady, whose window had been broken by the firefighters, told my aunt she expected my aunt to pay for the repairs. When my aunt agreed, she then demanded my aunt replace the window altogether with a sliding window (rather than a hinged one) - a more expensive one, of course.

It's depressing how petty some people can be. I can only hope karma comes back to bite them in the ass. HARD.

world knowledge forum

2009-10-15T10:10:00.003+09:00

So here I am at the World Knowledge Forum, in a skirt and heels, listening to people talk about the recession and social influence marketing and fundamental laws of business and other stuff that makes my eyes glaze over.

The most fun I had was actually in the social influence marketing forum, where the founder of Twitter, some hotshot from RIM (company that made BlackBerry), and the CEO of NCSoft (creators of Lineage and Aion) talked about new forms of marketing using social networks. It seemed like stuff that would seem pretty obvious if anyone took the time to sit down and think about the concept for a decent amount of time, but at least I could follow the discussion without falling asleep. Biz Stone, the Twitter guy, seemed pretty cool - I was expecting a douchebag like Mike Zuckerberg but Stone managed to come across as a pretty laidback guy with a sense of humor.

I had a moment of complete dorkiness when the moderator mentioned how NCSoft made "the famous 'morg' Lineage." I wanted to jump up and be like, it's not morg, you moron. It's MMORPG. Pronounced muh-mor-pug. Duh.

Anyway, it's interesting being surrounded by all these people that actually know stuff about the recession and finances and the economy and other stuff with a lot of numbers. Everything I know comes from This American Life.

summer's end

2009-08-27T18:43:00.007+09:00

It's been a whirlwind summer, involving beaches in Thailand, weddings in England, and drinking in Ireland. My first proper summer vacation in a good while. Bill and I managed to travel a month and a half together without killing each other, which I take as a good sign. And like with any trip, the things that really tend to be remembered are the odd little random happenings rather than the sights themselves. Like how we managed to lock ourselves out of our room at midnight and not a soul around to help us. Or my first attempt at riding a scooter, which ended with me crashing into a wall. Or the absolutely delicious roadside food stall we found that put to shame the overpriced restaurants along the beach.

In an attempt to start writing again I've decided to try and put down bits and pieces of our trip on my blog, but not all at once. First week back in Korea - also first week at a new job, which is another story altogether. It's weird being in a cubicle again and it's reminded me why I like the classroom so much.

insecurities

2009-06-07T14:50:00.003+09:00

Lately I've been reminded that there is a part of me that will always be a drama-seeking 16-year-old girl, forever looking for the high that comes from angst and tears. It always seems so stupid in retrospect, but when it hits I really can't help myself, and sometimes I even find myself fantasizing about things I did in my foolish teenager years that I swore I'd never go back to.

I'm hoping it's just my hormones or something. I think my problem is that I either don't give a fuck about what someone thinks of me, or I go to the other extreme and anything that sounds the slightest bit negative terrifies me. I really need to stop being so insecure.

[/whine]

crete

2009-04-24T02:19:00.002+09:00

So we've been in Greece for ... :: counts on fingers :: ... five days now. We managed to destroy the brakes on our rental car and encounter a dead goat within an hour of landing on Crete, but other than that our trip has been fantastic. Beautiful weather, delicious food, amazing scenery. Also, kudos to Becca for keeping us alive on these roads. First, the drivers here are insane. They will pass three cars at once by swerving into the oncoming lane regardless of the fact we are approaching a curve and God knows what's on the other side. Also, the intersections are a kind of free-for-all: the traffic lights are tiny and usually hidden behind a bush. Same goes for the road signs - today we were looking for a turn that would take us to Rethymno and it was placed in a way that made us go, "It looks like we should turn here but there's no sign oh wait shit it's there fuck it's too late." Finally, the roads that curve around the mountains are treacherous. We have a suspicion that they are a conspiracy in which to weed out the weak and unworthy. No railings, and they snake around at death-defying angles. But we have survived thus far and hopefully our luck will hold a few more days.

lesbian elephant seal porn

2009-04-01T22:51:00.004+09:00

On Monday I went in early to prep for the rest of the week, only to discover that the topic for my Bridge reading class was . . .

"The Mating Process of Elephant Seals?"

"What?" someone queried.

"Uh, nothing. That's the topic for Bridge reading this week."

Cue smirks and chuckles. I dutifully skimmed through the passage, circling the transitions, numbers, topic words with the robotic surety CDI tends to breed in you after a term or so of teaching, and read aloud some choice passages for the amusement of my colleagues.

"'The males lunge and thrust at each other, biting and tearing at each other's necks.'"

"The males?"

"That's a bit gay, isn't it?"

"They even have a picture." I held up the book for all to see. Two elephant seals, cheek to cheek, mouths wide open in either passion or rage, or perhaps even both.

One of the other teachers peered at the photo. "Those aren't even guys."

"What?" I stared at her in confusion.

"Look, they don't have the trunks that the males have. Those are females."

I looked at her in horror. "Are you telling me there is LESBIAN ELEPHANT SEAL PORN in my Bridge reading lesson this week?!" I demanded loudly, and thereby inadverdently discovering that shouting "lesbian elephant seal porn" at the top of one's lungs is the best way to get the undivided attention of an entire room with the least amount of effort.

Anyway, I am now officially fascinated by elephant seals. They are the ugliest motherfuckers I have ever seen in my life, and watching the males duke it out over the ladies is one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen on Youtube.

spring time and imaginary deer

2009-03-12T01:05:00.005+09:00

The weather has finally started to smell like spring. Bill and I took a meander around Seoul Forest - Christine had raved about it having deer you could feed. The park proved to be fairly big so we walked quite a bit and nearly concluded that Christine had simply imagined scenes from Bambi before we finally ran into the deer pen. Unfortunately we couldn't really be bothered to buy the feed from the dispensers so we just watched them for a bit before continuing on along the river.

I'm more of an autumn person than a spring person - probably because I hate the heat, so autumn always seems that much more refreshing - but it is nice to be able to walk around outside without being bundled up to your eyes. Although I have to say I never properly appreciated spring until after my first Chicago winter. After dealing with sub-zero temperatures it amuses me to see the Californians at work freak out when the the temperature drops a bit below freezing.

irish beef stew

2009-03-06T12:39:00.008+09:00

I've been experimenting with beef stew this week. Originally I'd planned to make Irish Lamb Stew, which I've already made before, but as I quickly discovered, lambs seem to be a bit thin on the ground here in the Hermit Kingdom. I even tried Lotte Dept. Store, which usually has fancy luxury food items which you can buy in exchange for your firstborn, but the lady gave me a blank look when I asked if she had any lamb. So I gave up and tried to explain to her that I was going to make a stew, and asked her what cut of beef I should buy. But apparently "stew" is a Western concept, and then I was faced with the task of trying to explain what a stew was.

"It's like . . . jjigae that you simmer for a really really long time," I said, wondering what the fuck my MA was good for if I couldn't even explain the fairly simple concept of stew. It wasn't exactly on the same level as Dasein. "Uh . . . without the kimchi."

She finally gave me a cut of beef that I exchanged for an arm, a leg, and bits of my soul. When I got home, I skimmed through Elise's blog and found that I hadn't all the ingredients for any of the beef stew recipes listed. I wasn't about to trudge the entire ten minutes back to the store at that point, though, so I decided the Irish Beef Stew was good enough for my purposes. I had to improvise a bit though.

Basically what I did was this: brown the beef with olive oil in the stew pot, then pour in Guinness, water, beef stock powder (dasida), canned diced tomatoes, a bit of sugar, and some basil. Bring to a boil, then leave to simmer for about an hour. Meanwhile, cut up potatoes, carrots, and an onion, then sautee in butter for about 20 minutes. Add to the stew pot after the hour has passed, then simmer for another 30 minutes. Add more water and beef stock powder as necessary. Salt and pepper right before serving - serve with a dash of parsley.

It turned out fine, so I tried it again yesterday when I had more guests over (Bill and Rebekah were my guinea pigs for the first trial run). This time I was more prepared - I browned the beef with garlic, added wine and bay leaves in addition to the beer, and mushrooms to the vegetables. The result was fine - the stew tasted more interesting, I guess, with the addition of the wine and bay leaves. I did use nicer beef for the first stew, and I could tell the difference - though not enough to merit the ridiculous difference in price.

One mistake I made both times was not making enough stew! It looked like enough to feed a small nation when it was in the pot, but by the end we were scraping the bottom. I hate it when I feel like I don't have enough food to feed my guests. I think next time I'm going to try doubling the recipe - I'd rather have leftovers than have guests desperately licking their bowls.

man on wire

2009-02-24T19:16:00.005+09:00

I watched Man on Wire the other day - the story of Philippe Petit and how he managed to string a wire between the two towers of the WTC and walk back and forth for the better part of an hour. I knew of him because he'd recently been on NPR's Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me! but for some reason I hadn't been very impressed when I'd heard of his accomplishment. Why anyone would want to risk their life by walking on a wire a quarter-mile from the ground was beyond me.

Watching Man on Wire changed my opinion a bit. For one, I hadn't realized how complicated it was for someone to rig a wire between two buildings in the middle of NYC. Apparently it took Petit and his gang six years to plan the whole thing. It was fascinating to listen to them describe all the little steps involved - the documentary presented it like a bank heist, especially since their biggest problem was sneaking all their equipment into the building. But far more interesting (to me, anyway) than the logistics of their undertaking was the interactions between the team members. One amusing thing I noted was how all of the Americans basically bailed before it was really over - I suppose they came to their senses at various stages and realized how ridiculous it all was. The French members didn't bother to hide their scorn when talking about them. But what really struck me was how the team basically fell apart after Petit succeeded in "conquering" the Towers, as he put it - he actually cheated on Annie, his girlfriend, with some random woman within hours of being released from custody, citing freedom and romance and magic. And his closest friend, Jean-Louis, who basically was the mastermind behind the whole thing - it seemed like that after it was all over he didn't know what to do with himself, and Philippe Petit just moved on and left his friend in the dust.

I wonder if Petit is a bit of a psychopath - seems a bit harsh, but he just seemed so blithely unaware at what those 6 years had cost those closest to him, and when he spoke he was always caught up in the grandeur of his vision and his experience. I suppose that in order to undertake something of that magnitude (not to mention level of insanity) you have to be a bit full of yourself. Yet despite it all, neither Jean-Louis nor Annie expressed regret. When they described the moment Philippe walked on the wire, their eyes filled with wonder and even triumph at the memory of seeing him suspended in mid-air. And I have to admit, even seeing the still pictures of him walking between the two towers made me hold my breath. I don't envy him his insane obsession, but I think I grudgingly admired him for it in the end.

living dangerously

2009-02-11T22:34:00.005+09:00

Today was my first experience going out of the city on the back of a motorcycle. I have to say it was a bit terrifying but not as bad as I'd expected. Mostly it was just too cold to be speeding down roads in the open air. Also I never realized how tiring just trying to stay on the back of a motorbike could be. Between worrying about falling off and/or distracting Bill from keeping us both alive (ie, not crashing into anything), it's a wonder I managed to enjoy the ride, but I did. There is something thrilling about racing down a road in the open air, not having to weave around fifty cars and being able to appreciate scenery other than bridges and apartment buildings. Of course, half the thrill comes from contemplating, "If I fall off this bike now, I'll either be killed by the impact of hitting the road at whatever ridiculous speed we are currently at, or the impact of an oncoming car rushing down the road at said same speed."

I'm exaggerating. It was a little scary, but what's life without a little fear to keep you on your toes? Anyway, despite the cold the scenery was lovely. And now I have another reason to look forward to warmer weather - life-threatening road trips!

No! I am not Prince Hamlet

2009-01-28T18:23:00.005+09:00

My life has been a blur these past couple months - teaching early morning classes, grading essays full of stupid, and dealing with personal drama. It's only been recently that I've realized I haven't read a new book in months (unless we're going to count Twilight, which we certainly are not). Not to mention my shameful neglect concerning my writing. Just last week an old friend of mine asked what I'd been writing lately, which forced me to admit that I haven't touched my blog in ages, let alone any of my random writing projects I've been working on, on and off, for the past year or so. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself.

While I haven't read anything new lately, I have been re-reading books I've been meaning to return to - you know those books that are kind of overwhelming upon first read and that you feel like you need to come back to at some point? Lighthousekeeping, by Jeanette Winterson, which made me want to read The Passion all over again, and What I Loved - there's a part in the book that talks about a certain painting, a painting of a woman posing, and there's a shadow of a man standing over her that falls across her body. The narrator talks about how the shadow reminds us of the space between the painting and the observer, and how the painting can only have meaning within the presence of an observer and the complicated relationship between the painting and the artist and the implied observer and the actual observer. It all reminded me of nights back in Chicago, where we would sit around for hours and argue about art and life - whether whale songs could be considered music or if there was a kind of freedom to be found in giving yourself over completely to someone else. Rebekah and I were chatting a few nights ago over dinner, about how both of us were uncertain about our graduate studies, and we came to the conclusion that despite our ambiguous feelings we most definitely miss that sort of conversation, the sort of conversation that leads nowhere but that meanders for hours - its very pointlessness is what makes it so pleasing.

My mom's nagging over the holidays about what the fuck I plan to do with my life notwithstanding, I'm still feeling rather Prufrock-ish about it all, but it's nice to be reminded of the pleasure to be had in grappling with things beyond what one's next meal is going to be.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"

The great teacher inspires.

2008-11-25T21:50:00.003+09:00

I was reading an article in the Atlantic about some new educational reformer in DC named Michelle Rhee - the Korean American name caught my eye. I always like reading about Korean Americans doing important stuff, and this was the first Korean American involved in American education that I'd heard of, so I clicked on the article and had an interesting read. Apparently Rhee plans to revamp the education system in DC so teachers get paid on a merit-based system. Of course, most teachers are vehemently against this - the main argument being that Rhee has no idea what teachers in the DC ghettos have to deal with, and paying them based solely on quantitative results (i.e., student test scores) is ignoring the real difficulties a lot of urban schools have to face. Rhee seems to think that such obstacles shouldn't matter - that a teacher is a teacher, no matter where they teach, and should be held to an absolute standard.

After reading the article, I don't doubt her sincerity, but it did get me thinking a bit. The school I work at right now also has a merit-based pay system, although probably less stringent than what Rhee is proposing - our pay is decided based on our credentials/previous experience, and then we get bonuses at the end of every term based on student/head instructor evals. I really don't know what I think about this. I do think it's important to encourage teachers to do their best, but I don't know if monetary bonuses are the ideal way to go about it, particularly when so much of it depends on what your students say about you. The most popular teachers are not necessarily the best, although your students do have to have some kind of respect for you if they're going to learn anything. The problem for me is the age of our students - they're mostly elementary school, and kids that age are not known for their objectivity. My students have confessed that they find the teacher surveys a drag and sometimes just click all 1s to get the damn thing over with.

If the sign of a great teacher is that they inspire, one would think that the best way to encourage teachers is to inspire them in turn. Which is what I think Michelle Rhee is trying to do, even though she seems to be going about it the wrong way. As for our school, it's probably asking too much for what essentially is a soulless corporation to inspire anything, expect perhaps fantasies of setting stuff on fire.

whinewhinewhine

2008-11-13T00:26:00.003+09:00

So I've decided to put off applications for another year. To be perfectly honest half of it is sheer laziness. Not really laziness as in "I can't be bothered" but laziness as in "I don't want this badly enough," I think. I still remember my eagerness for my first round of applications - I was absolutely certain that this was what I wanted. Now, I'm not so sure. I think my main feeling right now is frustration - what I really want is to live in the US, and grad school is really the only way I can do that at this point. I think, given the chance, I would further put off grad school if there were some other way I could go back. But there isn't, and here I am. I'm a huge believer in accepting what can't be change and moving on with life, but for some reason I keep dwelling on this. Maybe I just need to fucking go to grad school - perhaps being back in academia would rekindle my old ambitions.

My mom has been pressing me with questions about my future. At first I felt my aggravation was justified, because her questions struck me as a sign that she still treats me like a child (and not a very bright one at that) but I think the real reason for my aggravation is that she's asking me questions I've been asking myself - and so far have been unable to answer. Her undertone of warning - the idea that settling down in Korea as an ESL teacher is somehow a sign of giving up on life - also echoes my own concerns, which just makes everything worse.

Okay, I'm going to stop whining now. Seriously, there really is no point in sniveling about something I can't change at the moment. For now I'm trying to get myself out of my rut - the rut that consists of my life being composed entirely of eating, sleeping, and going to work - and concentrating on summer plans for Europe, if all goes well.

interlude

2008-10-21T00:44:00.003+09:00

I haven't written anything in weeks, on my blog or otherwise. I was thinking about it today, and I think that I avoid writing when my life is in emotional turmoil. I like to have the advantage of some perspective before I put my thoughts down on paper. Woolf was right when she said anger gets in the way of genius. Not that my writing is anything close to genius, but I feel like writing when my mood is darkest simply encourages me to wallow in my melancholy, rather than exorcise my demons. Despite the ability to laugh at myself that I've gained somewhere in the past decade or so, at times the darkness I wrestled with during my more angsty years manages to rear its ugly head and remind me that it still exists.

And of course, I'm being overly melodramatic, as usual. For the most part life goes on, and even manages to be good. My darkness is really little more than an occasional passing thundercloud in an otherwise clear sky.

heal for the honey

2008-09-14T14:54:00.003+09:00

I've been going through a music phase lately. Usually when I'm on the subway I prefer to occupy myself with a book, but nowadays I can't seem to concentrate on anything outside of work. So more often than not I end up listening to my iPod while staring blankly off into space. Sometimes I'll listen to podcasts - Wait Wait Don't Tell Me! is a hilarious way to catch up on the news, although I always end up laughing out loud and earning funny looks from my fellow passengers. Even so, it's less embarrassing than when I start crying during This American Life. A couple weeks ago the theme was "Breakups" and they had a little girl talking about her parents' divorce - seriously, I almost started bawling.

Anyway. I'm usually pretty lazy when it comes to exploring new music, but the last month I was in Chicago I went to a Bellx1 concert and discovered Brooke Waggoner, who opened for them. "Very Regina Spektor," someone next to me commented. I thought so as well at first, but the only thing they really have in common is being female and a bit quirky. Brooke isn't quirky in the same way Regina is - she doesn't sound like a cracked-out musician too destitute to buy a keyboard and therefore must produce her own sound effects (and I mean this affectionately; I adore Regina). For me her quirkiness lies in her simplicity. Brooke's voice is pretty but also fairly conventional, and her music is much less experimental that Regina's. Lots of piano interludes, easy minor key melodies. Something about her songs also seem a bit old-fashioned, although I can't quite put my finger on what it is exactly. Maybe the heavy use of piano?

He helped me unload
my piano
And then I played him oh a favorite concerto
He yelled profundo
while I played allegro
And then he tip-tap-toed through my accelerandos

Her music, to me, brings to mind old-fashioned gilded wallpaper and frilly vintage blouses that manage to be quaint and pretty all at once. But probably best in small doses. Heal for the Honey is her second album (her first one was a free download on her website) and it does seem a bit more polished than Fresh Pair of Eyes - Regina Spektor meets Tori Amos with a dash of Imogen Heap thrown in somewhere. I'm just wondering if she plans to stick to the indie/vintage image she's cultivated thus far. I do like her second album, but already I see the potential for her songs becoming repetitive.

teaching in the tropics

2008-09-07T23:57:00.006+09:00

A few years ago, I'd idly toyed with the idea of taking a year to work as a volunteer ESL instructor in some wildly random place - like Namibia, or the Marshall Islands.

(Look at that picture and ask yourself why the hell you are not living there right now.)

While I've been lucky enough to have traveled more than many other people my age, I've never really left my comfort zone. Also, I've never done any volunteer work more serious that a random orphanage day visit or tutoring after school. I've had many experiences in my short life that have left me feeling very grateful about having been born to two educated and sane parents in a more-or-less peaceful country fortunate enough to have electricity and running water, but I've never quite gotten around to acting on said gratefulness quite yet.

I know twenty-six is still pretty young in the grand scheme of things. I've always promised myself that I'd do whatever the fuck struck my fancy before I even thought about settling down . . . but lately I find myself a bit terrified that I'm going to wake up one day to discover I'm thirty-five and still teaching English to spoiled brats in Seoul. Not that there's anything wrong with that per se, but for me it would be the ultimate sign that I'd settled for something less than I'd aimed for. I wouldn't have done it because I'd had some kind of revelation that teaching kids is what ultimately makes me happy, or that I actually love living in the country that made my childhood the seventh circle of hell. That's not going to happen. I'd be doing it because I'd be stuck in a rut and too lazy to get my ass out. And the scary thing for me is that perhaps I wouldn't even care by that point. Nothing terrifies me more than the idea that I may one day become complacent. Complacency is evil and soul-killing.

Anyway, the application deadlines aren't until next spring for a lot of the ESL positions, so maybe I'll give it some more thought. (I can just see my parents now. "Yeah, Mom, I decided to ditch the PhD and go teach ESL on some island where I get paid for my wisdom in bananas. Aren't you glad you paid $35,000 for my MA?")

1984

2008-09-03T15:19:00.003+09:00

Work lately has been a real pain in the ass. Beginning of term + higher mucky-mucks going through a phase of we-know-what's-best-even-though-we-couldn't-teach-our-way-out-of-a-paper-bag.

Despite my gripings, I love teaching. And even with all this bullshit my current school throws at its teachers, I'd rather be working here than at a desk job. But I have to say it's been really aggravating having to deal with people who think they know better than me breathing down my neck all the time. It's made me desperately miss my days teaching community college, the ridiculous difference in pay notwithstanding. At the moment I'm feeling rather ambivalent about staying for a full year. Like I said, I like teaching, the pay is decent, and a lot of my co-workers are pretty cool people. On the other hand, the subject matter is mind-numbingly boring and the stupidly draconian policies - the innane ideas being implemented - the petty pleasure the higher-ups take in slapping down us lowly grunts that do but teach - the sheer bloody ignorance of education being displayed by the administration really chaps my ass. No wonder I've been drinking so much lately.

cousins

2008-08-23T23:36:00.005+09:00

Today we had dinner with my uncle's family - my mom's younger brother, the literature professor. I'm still not used to our smaller, quieter family get-togethers. There used to be six of us kids - I was the oldest, and Yukyung (in the photo) the youngest by ten years. Today there were just three of us - Yukyung and her older brother Seungwoo, and me. Seungwoo had just gotten back from a language course in the Philippines and I went straight from work so both of us were too exhausted to do much more than eat and make minimal conversation.

It's sad, because we used to be ridiculous whenever we got together. I remember once we were at a board game cafe, playing some card game, and we were shuffling the cards by moving them around, face down, in a pile on the table. Suddenly my brother announced, "I know a faster way!" then proceeded to stretch out his arms, plant his hands on the table, put his head down, and kind of sway and writhe from side to side, moving his hands around to shuffle the cards, all the while chanting, "Squiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid. Squiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid!" Immediately, everyone's response was to do exactly the same thing. All of us, heads down, arms extended, chanting, "Squiiiiiiiiiiiid!" I looked up a few moments later to see the server standing next to our table with the drinks we'd ordered, staring down at us with something between confusion and terror in his eyes. Maybe he thought we were trying to summon Cthulhu and he was going to get eaten first.

It's been a few years since we've all been able to see each other. There are four of us here in Seoul right now, but one is busy prepping for college entrance exams. I've been here in Seoul for two months now and still haven't seen her. Another will probably go off for his mandatory army service in a few months. My brother is in Chicago, and another cousin is in Boston. Who knows when we'll next be able to get together and embarrass ourselves in public. Not soon enough.

battleship down

2008-08-17T21:30:00.002+09:00

I've been listening to Travis's The Boy With No Name album recently, and it's pretty good. Easy melodies, decent lyrics. Kind of Wilco-ish, I guess - maybe a bit more on the pop side of alternative than them, though. Anyway, their song "Battleships" got me thinking about the game of my childhood - the one of the plastic red and white pegs and the dinky little ships and the ocean consisting of a grid made of holes. Even though the lyrics aren't referencing the game. At least, not as far as I can tell.

I never was a huge fan - I mean, in the end, it's little more than a guessing game. "D 10!" "Miss. A 6!" "Miss. E 2!" "Miss." etc., etc. The main thing I remember about it is how easy it was to cheat. All you had to do was mark your opponent's hits on your own board with your extra white pegs. There were a lot of those. Then you could surreptitiously move your boats around the hits your opponent already called, stalling for time, hoping your opponent is a ~~sucker~~ more honest player than you, you dirty cheating bitch. (I remember trying to peg my ships in diagonally once. Didn't work. Bullshit, I say. What kind of ocean doesn't allow boats to go diagonally? The kind made up of a plastic grid of holes, I suppose. Of course, I don't know what I was expecting from a $20 Milton-Bradley board game.)

Anyway, I came to the conclusion that Battleship is less a guessing game than it is a game of trust. You are trusting the other person to keep their ships anchored and nobly take the hits as they're called, since the game falls apart if everyone's allowed to move their targets around. I feel like there is some deep life-related metaphor buried in here somewhere, but I can't be bothered to find it.

The song, isolated from the melody, seems a bit silly, but what the hell. I still like it.

We’re battleships
Driftin’ in our wee river
Takin’ hits
Sinking it’s now or never
Overboard
Drownin’ in a sea
Of love and hate
But it’s too late
Battleship down

beautiful life

2008-08-12T23:53:00.000+09:00

I was enjoying a solitary cigarette in our smoking room the other day, and I ended up idly studying the trash can (as one does).

I suppose a trash can does arguably contribute towards a beautiful life, in its own small way, but what the fuck is a "silk ring waste box"?

It's slightly amusing to note that even one of the most expensive private English academies in Seoul cannot escape the ubiquitous Korean products emblazoned with random and incomprehensible Engrish.

in vino, dolor

2008-08-10T23:51:00.000+09:00

Last night, five of us went through four bottles of wine. I had a headache for most of the night. Red wine always gives me the most terrible headaches. Out of curiosity I googled "red wine hangover" and have discovered that red wine headaches are actually a medical condition. Huh. Who would have thought?

To be honest, I've never been a huge fan of red wine anyway. My favorite wines are the sweet white wines, like moscato d'asti or some rieslings. (Apparently this is uncultured, but I think I'll find a way to live with myself.) I can appreciate a nice glass of dry red sometimes, but usually it's not worth the head-splitting migraine that inevitably follows. My headache was so bad I didn't even smoke for most of the night. Yay?

death is on sale today!

2008-08-08T01:39:00.000+09:00

My lessons this week have included a short clip from Bowling for Columbine, which shows an interview with Marilyn Manson. Since I've already had to watch the damn thing six times in the past four days, I've had ample time to muse on Manson, his music, and the idea that the genre of music he represents is somehow responsible for teenage violence like the Columbine tragedy.

I had a friend in high school who was a huge fan of his stuff. She'd bring me lyrics and beg me to translate them for her. A representative sample, from "The Fight Song":

you'll never grow up to be a big rock star
celebrated victim of your fame
We'll just cut our wrists like cheap coupons
and say that death is on sale today
and when we were good, you just close your eyes
so now we are bad
we'll scar your mind

and I'm not a slave
to a god
that doesn't exist

and I'm not a slave
to a world
that doesn't give a shit

And from "Antichrist Superstar":

Repent, thats what I'm talking about
I shed the skin to feed the fake
Repent, thats what I'm talking about
Whose mistake am I anyway?
Cut the head off
Grows back hard
I am the hydra
Now you'll see your star
Prick your finger it is done
The moon has now eclipsed the sun
The angel has spread its wings
The time has come for bitter things

While I was a fairly angsty teenager, Manson's music never really appealed to me. I was more a hippie pagan then a goth pagan. (I listened to Enya, to my utter and eternal shame.) I always had the vague impression that his music was just loud and incoherent for the sake of being loud and incoherent, and if pressed to give an opinion I probably would have said that he seemed like a bit of an idiot. But in the Columbine interview he seemed surprisingly coherent and even intelligent, black leather and white makeup notwithstanding. So when I got home tonight I decided to look up some of his songs on Youtube.

I have to say: his songs are pretty insipid. I mean, look at those lyrics. They remind me of the godawful poetry I wrote when I was fifteen. And not even my better works. And his music videos are just plain weird. Not even interestingly weird, but WTF? weird. Halfway through "Sweet Dreams" he's covered in black paint and riding a pig. I spent a few seconds wondering if it was some kind of Biblical reference to the story of Legion entering the swine (Luke 8:31) and then decided I was giving Manson way too much credit. (As an aside, I remember reading an article about how if Madonna dances with a snake it becomes a symbol of the Fall and human sexuality, but if Britney Spears does it it's just Britney dancing with a snake.)

In the end, I came to the conclusion that a) he is either one of those guys who consider themselves all cynical and nihilistic when really what's happened is that they never got over being angsty and sixteen and take themselves way too seriously, or b) he is a brilliant artist whose art is not the music he sings, but the performance of it. It's like he asked, hey, what kind of band would appeal to dark teenage angst and rebellion in the most stereotypical way possible, while pissing off tight-assed right-wing religious nuts to the nth degree? I know, we'll wear make-up and black leather and scream into the mike about how the world sucks and God sucks and nothing is worth anything - oh yeah, and don't forget the black body paint and the pig.

aging gracefully

2008-08-04T00:11:00.000+09:00

A week or so ago, one of my lessons included a newsclip on "super centenarians"; basically people who live beyond the age of 100 and are still able to function on their own (as opposed to those who have reverted back to their infancy in their later years). I asked my kids how long they wanted to live, and a surprising number of them said seventy. Seventy? I thought to myself. Jesus Christ. I've already lived almost half my life. And I still don't feel like I've grown up. I'm starting to wonder if I ever will.

I've been thinking about it, and I've realized I've always been somewhat skeptical about the future. And by skeptical, I don't mean pessimistic. I mean that there's always a part of me that is aware how ephemeral the future is. I remember the month before my first trip to Europe, I caught myself thinking, "I hope the world doesn't end before I get to see London." See how ridiculous I am? I wasn't worried about cancelled flights, or messed up hostel reservations, or even plane crashes. I was worried that the apocalypse might happen before I landed in London. Or perhaps worried is a strong word. It was more of an idle musing, I suppose. Idle musings on the end of the world. I hope it doesn't happen before payday. I'd like at least to be able to enjoy my first substantial paycheck before I get trampled by a Horseman (...and I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him...).

I have to admit, there is a part of me that savors such uncertainty. For most of my life I've never been allowed to stay in a comfort zone for any extended period of time; the minute I feel settled, life comes along and boots my ass elsewhere. If you'd had asked me a few years ago whether I enjoyed this life, I probably would have said yes. Now, though, I'm not so sure. The idea of putting roots down somewhere is not as appallingly boring as it once seemed. It seems more comforting than anything else, to be honest.

Still, some voice inside me continues to express horror at the idea of settling down, in whatever shape or form. In my more angsty teenage years, I swore I'd rather pull a Sylvia Plath than become complacent. I suppose that angsty teenage self still persists somewhere in my pysche, muttering to herself angrily whenever I take pleasure in flipping through a Pottery Barn catalogue instead of dousing it in tequila and setting it on fire.

charity for kitties

2008-07-27T21:52:00.000+09:00

My life these days consists of work, late nights, vague mornings, crowded subways, and taxis. I get up at around 10; shower, eat a breakfast of buttered rolls and coffee; dutifully drink the vegetable juice my mom insists will grant me longevity; make myself coffee while browsing the SD boards; spend an hour or so reading, playing the guitar, and generally doing nothing very productive; get myself an early lunch; dress for work and leave at around 2; get to work, teach the brats, and leave at around 10. Most days I'll go home on the subway, which is always full of people just as cranky and tired as I am; sometimes I'll go out with my co-workers for dinner and drinks, which usually ends up in my having to take a cab back home in the wee hours of the morning.

A few weeks ago I helped a new friend adopt a kitten. I was skeptical as to the existence of a cat shelter here in Seoul, but we managed to find one in Itaewon, run out of a private residence and the pockets of one well-meaning cat lady:

Is it terrible that I felt more compelled to donate to this place, when I rarely contribute to causes of my own species? I just feel bad for the cats in Korea; Koreans don't really like cats, and the ones that do are always looking for purebred Persians or the like. I was a bit surprised that there was someone willing to dig into her own pockets to provide for all these stray darlings, but I suppose that if I'd stayed here I might have ended up doing the same thing. Eek.

ooh shiny

2008-07-11T14:58:00.000+09:00

I went to get a pedicure today, and was disappointed somewhat - I wanted to have my feet dunked in hot water and scrubbed and scraped until at least a pound of flesh was produced (sorry; gross, I know) - but instead the lady covered my big toes with rhinestones. "This is IN this summer!" she informed me, at once cheerful and condescending, her eyes bright and vapid behind a stiff curtain of mascara. Okay, lady, whatever. I'll walk around with my big toes weighed down by shiny things for the next few weeks. In the meantime, I'm also going to look for another nail salon.

old habits

2008-07-06T21:30:00.000+09:00

I don't know what it is about this place, but in the past few weeks my lifestyle has shifted back into the familiar pattern of my pre-Chicago days; i.e., going to work and teaching on autopilot, spending money on things with prices that would have made me recoil with horror back in Chicago, reading nothing other than books I've already worn to tatters, being completely apathetic as to movies, exhibitions, and any other form of culture that would require me to get off my ass, eating food that requires as little effort as possible (in terms of cooking), staring blankly at a blinking cursor before switching off my laptop without having written a single word.

I can't quite pinpoint what the problem is. I mean, I'm sure I can blame most of it on my job, which is basically me whoring out my academic degrees and English skills in return for ridiculous amounts of money. The only saving grace is the teaching per se, so that for the actual three hours of each class I run on the same high I experienced teaching my gender studies class back in Chicago. But then I get off work and I'm tired from being on my feet blabbering for six hours straight about absolutely nothing, so by the time I get home all I want to do is have a glass of wine and a cigarette and space out until it's time for bed.

I also think the general atmosphere of the city has a lot to do with it as well, though. Everywhere you turn, there are people, all bustling around oblivious to anyone outside of their personal sphere, convinced that to yield an inch is a sign of weakness. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but when I'm in the Kangnam or Apgujong area I swear all the people there dress and walk and brandish their cellphones and designer bags for the sole purpose of trying to make everyone else feel inferior to them. And 90% of them are FOBs. Seriously, I cannot begin to express how much Korean FOB culture exasperates me - it's like the worst parts of Korean rudeness and American arrogance have bred some hideous bastard offspring - and here it's impossible to get away from. Especially now that it's summer break - they're here in droves. Good Lord deliver us.

I miss cooking dinner with friends, getting drunk on cheap beer, arguing about unanswerable questions, picking apart books and movies, singing along to my mediocre guitar playing, and other mundane things. Although I will say that going out to nice restaurants and bars - where the lighting is subtle, the ambience tasteful, and the food and drink a wonder to behold and a joy to consume - does hold a certain decadent pleasure all its own. I suppose, though, like most decadent things, the pleasure it provides is temporary, shallow, and best enjoyed in small doses.

vertigo

2008-06-16T11:28:00.000+09:00

It's strange, being back at my parents' house after being away for so long. Well, technically I suppose it hasn't even been two years, but for some reason it seems much longer than that. Maybe because so much has happened in the meantime. Everything here is comfortingly familiar but at the same time I feel like a visitor - mostly because my old room has been turned into my mom's personal storage space. I've dumped all my stuff in my brother's room for now. I am still contemplating the idea of getting my own place. Rent in Seoul is ridiculous, but I'm not certain how long I can live with my parents without going mad. (Also, my mom makes me drink kale for breakfast - she's become even more of a health nut these past few years. My idea of breakfast is coffee, toast, and maybe eggs and bacon. Not a drinkable form of kale.)

Olive seems a lot more at home than I feel, actually. I was paranoid something was going to happen to her during the flight but she emerged in one piece. There was kibble all over the floor of her kennel but she hadn't had any accidents - she was just cranky and confused as to why she'd been confined in a hideous pink box for the past 14 hours. As I was waiting for my parents to arrive she kept meowing piteously, attracting the attention of every child within hearing range. "She doesn't bite," I told them in English as they stared at her, getting a funny look before remembering I was no longer in the US. Everyday phrases are the most difficult to adjust to, I think - I kept having to stop myself from saying "excuse me" and "thank you" after I landed.

Anyway, my mom loves Olive. She cooes over her like I brought her a grandchild instead of a cat. Olive is fascinated by this new place, with about a hundred new places to hide, and she is her usual curious and adorable self. Even my dad thinks she's cute. It's actually really comforting having her here - I mean, I love her for herself and all, but I feel like she's the only piece of Chicago I was able to bring back with me.

As for my smoking habit that I still hide from my parents - thankfully I was too exhausted yesterday to really be craving a cigarette. I had one this morning after both my parents left for work. I think the most difficult part will be not being to smoke after dinner anymore, but I'll live. It's probably good for me.

cleaning house

2008-06-14T14:48:00.000+09:00

It's 1 in the morning and I am taking a break from frantically cleaning the apartment and packing all my stuff. Someone please tell me how it's possible to collect so much shit over a year and a half? It's not like I've been living a life of luxurious consumerism these past couple years. And yet I have so much STUFF. Stuff is a good word to use here - odd yet mundane objects that have no impact on my daily existence, yet somehow manage to gather and possibly even breed and multiply.

Even so, throwing so much stuff away is hard. If I end up holding an object and wondering whether I should keep it or toss it, 99% of the time my impulse is to keep it. This time around I've forced myself to do the opposite. You'd think it's a simple matter of chucking junk in the garbage, but all I do is end up sitting there and wondering about said objects even longer, trying to convince myself that THIS one is an exception, that I'll regret throwing it out a month from now. I did that with a roll of scotch tape today. I'm not even kidding.

I don't know why I'm so attached to STUFF. I would make a terrible Buddhist.

ugh

2008-06-09T12:12:00.000+09:00

I've forgotten how much I hate summer. Especially the humidity. You get sticky just by staying still. Everything is just clammy and moist and gross. At least when it's cold you can bundle up and hug your cat. In the summer you can walk around stark naked and still feel like you're losing half your body weight in sweat. No wonder the crime rate climbs with the temperature. If I thought stabbing someone would make me feel better in the summer, I might be tempted to try it myself.

At least my parents have a/c. When I get back, for a solid week all I'm going to do is sit at home and play computer games. Mwahaha.

life is like a musical

2008-06-05T12:53:00.000+09:00

A while ago, someone posted on the SD an interesting game that apparently has been circulating some of the geekier music forums - put your iTunes on shuffle, and then match the songs played to a list entitled "The Soundtrack of Your Life." Like so:

Opening Credits:
Waking up:
First Day At School:
Falling In Love:
Fight Song:
Breaking Up:
Life:
Mental Breakdown:
Driving:
Flashback:
Getting back together:
Wedding:
Birth of Child:
Final Battle:
Death Scene:
Funeral Song:
End Credits:

Having nothing better to do as of late (except for packing, and that can wait) I decided to give it a go and see what the wisdom that is iTunes has to say about my past, present, and future.

Opening Credits: "All You Need Is Love," The Beatles
Ugh, so cheesy. Please don't tell me this is going to end up being a romantic comedy.

Waking up: "One Tin Soldier," Coven
Apparently, I am awakening in the 70s. I always did want to be a flower child.

First Day At School: "Baby Jesus," Regina Spektor
Yes, on my first day of school, I pissed off my mom and impressed the bearded scholars pontificating amidst my fellow kindergarteners.

Falling In Love: "Linger," Cranberries
Yes! Emo pain and angst. Definitely my teenage years.

Fight Song: "If It Wasnae For Your Wellies," Billy Connolly
Ah, the importance of wellies. "'Cause they keep out the water, and they keep in the smell." If I'd only learned this truth sooner in life.

Breaking Up: "The Magic Position," Patrick Wolf
"It's you who puts me in the magic position, darling." I think iTunes is mocking me.

Life: "Sweet Child O' Mine," Guns 'n' Roses
Offspring with blue eyes = genetic impossibility.

Mental Breakdown: "Blue," Joni Mitchell
"Acid, booze, and ass / Needles, guns, and grass." Yup, sounds about right.

Driving: "In a Future Age," Wilco
Perfect driving song.

Flashback: "There is a Light that Never Goes Out," The Smiths
Well. I won't deny I was an emo teenager. But I'd like to think it was more black eyeliner and pagan sacrifices - not this sappy sentimental shit.

Getting back together: "My Legionnaire," Brooke Waggoner
Okay, I like this song. "And I would breathe the harsh night air to get to him, my legionnaire."

Wedding: "Hold On, Hold On," Neko Case
"With a valium from the bride / It's the devil I love." Ominous, yet probably accurate.

Birth of Child: "Walken," Wilco
"Honey, I think you're just right." Aww. (Probably not what Wilco had in mind, though.)

Final Battle: "Shake It Off," Wilco
"When I'm awake enough / I'm gonna shake it off." Hm.

Death Scene: "Sailor Song," Regina Spektor
"She will kiss until your lip bleeds / But she will not take her dress off." I was thinking this one was a bit of a non sequitur, but if my death bed fits this song it would be awesome.

Funeral Song: "Better," Regina Spektor
Please play this song at my funeral. It won't make any sense, but I don't care.

End Credits: "All These Things That I've Done," The Killers
"I got soul, but I'm not a soldier." Eh, I'll take it. Even if this is song is one of the most overplayed songs in history.

the way to a man's heart

2008-06-02T03:56:00.000+09:00

When I was younger, I thought baking was the coolest thing in the world, and cooking was the most boring. I even remember worrying at one point that my future family would have to live on cakes and cookies alone, because while I delighted in baking brownies and gingerbread, the thought of cooking anything more complicated than ramen terrified me. Sometimes my mom would leave behind instructions for dinner, for me to have ready and waiting on the table by the time she got home from work - more often than not, it ended badly. Burned rice was the least of it. I discovered it was very possible to both burn and undercook meat at the same time. And my mother still reminds me of the time I served my brother boiled water and leftovers from a pot my mom had left out to soak, thinking it was soup. (Hey, he didn't complain.) Oh, and that time I served my dad raw corn-on-the-cob, thinking it had already been cooked. (He didn't complain either.)

It's only been in the past couple years that I've started to cook in earnest. Probably out of sheer necessity - it was either that or live off of frozen dinners and ramen for the rest of my adult life. And somewhere along the way I've discovered that I actually like cooking stuff and feeding people. I don't particularly enjoy cooking for myself - it's a universal truth that most cooks derive more pleasure from watching others eat their food than eating it themselves, I think. But it's very satisfying - not only observing others enjoying my efforts, but the process itself: slicing, measuring, adding, tasting . . . it's a very good way to just lose yourself for awhile; very zen-like.

Last night I tried two new recipes: Irish Lamb Stew With A Twist from Elise's blog, and Pots de Creme from Ree's.

I do like Elise's site. Most of her recipes are quite simple, and the quantities are more reasonable than Ree's blog. Ree's recipes produce enough to feed armies. I usually have to halve them, and even then I'm confronted with leftovers. Of course, her recipes are simple as well; the ingredients are always very easy to find. I would say Elise's recipes tend to be a bit more elegant in their simplicity; Ree's stuff would give any normal person clogged arteries unless they ran around chasing cows 24/7 (which her family does).

The Irish stew was wonderful. I followed the advice given in the comments and trimmed the excess fat off the meat, and dusted them with flour before browning them. The recipe says it feeds six, but that's a generous estimate. There were five of us last night and I had two spoonfuls left over in the end. Don't omit any of the ingredients. I'm usually not a fan of carrots, turnips, or onions, but it all worked beautifully in the stew.

As for the pots de creme, I tried it with vanilla and blackberry liquor and it was a big hit. Easy to make, yet looks and tastes quite decadent. Serving suggestion - garnish with berries of choice. Raspberries are a perfect match. Also, use STRONG coffee. The dessert is extremely chocolate-y, and I've been contemplating on how I could cut down on it just a little bit. Maybe use more coffee. Or mix in some bittersweet chocolate as well. Or just serve in smaller portions with more fruit and whipped cream. (I used vanilla ice cream because my whipped cream had gone bad - it was fine.) Oh, and please use good chocolate. For cooking purposes I've found that Ghirardelli chocolate works the best.

like bringing home a B

2008-05-18T15:22:00.001+09:00

I just had the worst argument with my mom and now I have a headache.

Cause of blowup - me mentioning that I was thinking of not pursuing a PhD.

You'd think I'd announced my intention to become a Mormon. I explained to her that I've found teaching per se to be a pleasant enough occupation, and that while I enjoyed studying literature I wasn't so hot on the heavily theory-based literature studies that dominate American academia these days. I honestly think I would be perfectly happy teaching advanced high school/community college literature classes. She told me I should give grad school another try - at least for a year - before I make up my mind. A YEAR? A year + tens of thousands of dollars on something I'm not even sure about? Um, no.

Seriously, what is it with my parents? They're such an Asian stereotype it's actually kind of ridiculous.

My mom's fit notwithstanding, I'm still on the fence about the whole thing. The more I remember about my classes during my MA year the more skeptical I become. My background in theory is severely lacking due to my undergrad education in Korea, and while I still love studying literature, if my MA year taught me anything it's that you need a lot more than simple love of your field in order to survive grad school. I really believe I lack the discipline and tenacity necessary for a PhD. But on the other hand, I still love learning and being a student, and my thesis actually raised a lot of questions for me that I would be very interested in pursuing further. . . sigh.

I already know how this is going to play out at home. My dad is going to bellow at me about being lazy and cowardly, and my mom is going to appeal to my uncle (a literature professor) to make me come to my senses. Blech. I know for a fact that neither of them would care about my giving up my plans for a PhD if it meant I was staying in Korea.

I'm definitely going to have to find my own place once I get there.

omg shoes

2008-05-18T00:59:00.000+09:00

I think I'm pretty moderate when it comes to buying shoes. It's hard for me to find shoes I like that are both comfortable and affordable - usually when I find I a pair I feel I MUST HAVE they end up being worth enough money to feed a starving family in Somalia for a year. But in the past month I've bought not one, but two pairs of shoes - Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.

Such extravagance! I don't know how I live with myself.

I adore the heels, but I can't walk around for more than a few hours before I am reminded of the trials of Andersen's poor mermaid. The wedges are much more comfortable, but the edges of the canvas are irritating. It's really stupid, upon reflection, the way girls pay substatantial amounts of money for what are essentially pretty-looking torture devices for their feet. (Okay, so not all girls do this. I have failed my feminist studies miserably and let patriarchal foot fetishes get the better of me. Please don't take my degree away.)

better the devil you know

2008-05-14T04:02:00.000+09:00

When I flew into Atlanta, I realized I was running low on cigarettes. Knowing I probably wouldn't have a chance to buy any more over the weekend, I stopped by a cornerstore in the airport, only to find that they didn't have any Camels. The only stuff they had on display were Nat Shermans, which advertised themselves as being 100% natural, so I bought a pack of those, and am now regretting it. They taste like crap. I'm usually not too picky about my cigs, but these make my stomach twist. It's weird, because I like American Spirits okay, and those are all natural too. It seems funny to complain that one's poison of choice tastes like crap, but if I must poison myself I'd rather not my tastebuds recoil while I do so.

plant rights

2008-05-09T01:28:00.000+09:00

I have a weird relationship with flowers. On the one hand, I am not a fan of those fancy bouquets that are ubiquitous when it comes to graduation ceremonies and school recitals - those concoctions that are 60% baby's breath, 30% tacky colored ribbons and tissue paper, and 10% actual flowers. I remember after high school graduation - my friends and I were standing in the middle of the street, each of us laden with mountains of flora and prettily dyed dead tree pulp, wondering if anyone would notice if we just dumped it all in the gutter so we could go get a goddamn drink. They're awkward to hold once the number exceeds one, and their average lifespan is about an hour after they leave the hands of the florist, since you're rarely in a position to rush home and put the poor things in some much-needed water. Considering that the fate of such bouquets is having to endure the stale, dry air of an auditorium for several hours on end, in the clutches of sweaty, frustrated hands trying to juggle their bags and programs and jackets while not poking out their eye of their neighbor, it's no wonder their days are numbered. Nothing short of a cactus would be able to survive that ordeal unscathed.

On the other hand, I love buying those dollar-a-bunch daffodils they sell at Jewel and arranging them in glass jars (the kimchii having been replaced with fresh tap water) around the apartment. Olive, who is convinced that anything lying around unattended for more than five seconds is fair game for chewing on, pawing at, and otherwise destroying, has an odd respect for flowers, and while she'll sniff at them with some interest she otherwise leaves them alone.

My favorite kinds of flowers, though, are the ones that are still in pots. With cut flowers, there's only so much you can do before they start wilting; it's not your fault, the poor things were already dying before they passed on into your care. Potted flowers, however, can last for quite awhile depending on how good you are at taking care of them.

My parents always refused me a cat when I was little, saying that it would be too big a responsibility for me to handle. They let me keep fish though. There is a definite pet hierarchy when it comes to persuading your parents to let you keep one - at the top you have dogs and cats, and at the bottom you have rocks. Chia pets, hamsters, fish, and plants all fall somewhere inbetween. Having kept all sorts of pets at various stages in my life, I have to question the rationale behind this, though. I give Olive a cup of food a day, make sure her water bowl is filled, scoop out her litter box, and behold, she doeth wax fat. In return, she eats my students' papers and hides my earrings under the sofa. With fish, I have to make sure I don't overfeed them, I have to clean out their tank every few weeks, and depending on the breed I have to check the water acidity and temperature and chakra colors, and the stupid things end up contracting fin rot or TB for no apparent reason.

And plants? Don't get me started on how difficult it is to keep a green thing alive. There's a reason why plenty of people who have five cats are still unable to keep a houseplant alive for more than a week. The damn things are always complaining about something. More water, less water, dry air, damp air, direct light, indirect light, partial shade, impartial shade, subjective shade, the loud neighbors, the color of the wallpaper, the war in Iraq, the cost of tea in China. The only reason that they're but a step above rocks on the pet hierarchy scale isn't that they're almost as easy to take care of, because they fucking aren't. It's because parents feel only slightly more guilty over a dead fern than a dead rock. A dead puppy, though - that presents problems. See? It's not a hierarchy based on reason. It's elitism at its worst! A dead fern is just as dead as a dead puppy, but because it doesn't have big eyes and fur and can't yap adoringly when you give it food, we unfeeling humans don't give a shit.

But I digress. A few days ago I decided to get some flowers for my front window . . . area (sill? porch? something inbetween) despite the fact I'll be abandoning the apartment in a month. It's silly, but after I got rid of the rotting pumpkin (see previous post) and transplanted the flowers from their cheap plastic containers to their new home on my window . . . area, I felt this huge sense of accomplishment that justified my laziness for the rest of the day.

I even transplanted those little plastic things that tell you how to take care of your new plant companions, in the hope that the new tenants, whoever they may be, will keep the poor things alive after I leave. Yes, the spirit of spring has made me wildly optimistic.

the pumpkin, after midnight

2008-04-19T09:10:00.000+09:00

So today I was cleaning out my apartment (for some reason I decided that my birthday was the best time to do this) and was musing that I really should take the Christmas decorations down. Yesterday, preferably. And then I looked out the window and was reminded of this:

All that remains of our jack o'lantern from last Halloween. It had earrings as well; I can't remember if I removed them at some point. Perhaps they have been absorbed into the pumpkin and become one. I really should throw it out but now I'm afraid to go near it. I'm afraid it's developed a rudimentary intelligence and perhaps tentacles to boot. I imagine it to be an alien womb, slowly sucking the life out of everything around it in the attempt to foster within itself the Antichrist, or possibly Cthulhu. Eek.

Anyway, if I keep it out there I feel better about not taking down the Christmas stuff.

life in paints

2008-04-16T08:47:00.000+09:00

So today I finally convinced my lazy ass to go to the Art Institute for the Edward Hopper exhibit. I'm not a huge art person - particularly when it comes to contemporary art; my feelings for contemporary art are well summed up by various incidents where the work was swept up by street cleaners - but I've found that I appreciate it more than I used to (either because I know more about it now or because I'm getting old and that's what old people do - go to art museums). One of the textbooks I use for class uses Hopper's The House by the Railroad and Edward Hirsch's poem "Edward Hopper and The House by the Railroad" in their chapter "Coming to Terms with Place":

[excerpt from poem]

This house is ashamed of itself, ashamed
Of its fantastic mansard rooftop
And its pseudo-Gothic porch, ashamed
of its shoulders and large, awkward hands.

But the man behind the easel is relentless.
He is as brutal as sunlight, and believes
The house must have done something horrible
To the people who once lived here

I think my students think I'm a touch insane when I start talking about literature. For this particular class I tried to get them to see how the poem is about art as a mirror - how our interpretation of art might say more about us than the actual object, or even the artist - and the complex relationship between the artist, the house, the painting, the poem, and the poet. Anyway, when I saw that the Art Institute was having an exhibit of his works I made a mental note to go, but what with the sea of papers to grade and the crappy weather it wasn't until today that I felt any kind of motivation to actually put my plans into action. "The thought is parent to the deed," as Mercedes Lackey is so fond of saying, even if in this case the deed's gestation period was closer to that of an elephant.

It turned out they were also exhibiting the works of Winslow Homer. His name was vaguely familiar to me, but didn't ring any particular bells. But both exhibits were included in the admission price, so I figured I might as well take a peek at his stuff too.

I actually ended up liking it more than Hopper's stuff. Homer's thing was watercolors, apparently, and I especially liked the paintings he did during his time in Cuba and the Bahamas:

I just like the way he portrays the water, and the reflections, and the little ripples around the boat, and how the white clothing of the fisherman and the pink piece of coral contrast with the blue and gray of the rest of the painting. It's just all very simplistic, and you can imagine the fisherman perhaps savoring the solitude of his work, away from the everyday bustle of the harbor village he lives in.

Not that Hopper's stuff was disappointing. Although he seems to have had a weird thing for lonely women living in the city:

There's something about the second painting that really gets me. The minute I saw it I thought, yes, I've been there. Like, every Monday morning.

It was nice wandering around a museum for the first time in a while. There's definitely a sense of being somewhere else, of losing track of time and falling into a kind of trance where you immerse yourself in lives other than yours, constructed from paper and paints and ideas with a touch of insanity, neatly hanging next to each other in their elegant frames.

I can see!

2008-04-15T11:09:00.000+09:00

So months after my old glasses died an unfortunate death, I finally have new ones:

These things were more trouble than they should have been - I got the frames and the prescription here, then sent them over to Korea so my mom could get the lenses, since it's way cheaper there. Then they discovered the prescription was illegible so I had to go back and double check what they'd actually written. I like these a lot better than my old ones, although I'm afraid the prescription might be a tad too strong for my left eye. Fortunately I don't wear my glasses that often anyway. I usually only need them when I'm straining away in front of a computer screen for extended periods of time, and I haven't had to do that since my thesis.

I had to go to the post office to pick up the package, and as I was walking back home, package in hand, I smelled something that reminded me of Korean curry. I craned my head, looking around, trying to figure out where the hell such a smell would come from. I felt like it was following me all the way home. Then I get home, open the package, and discover two packages of curry ramen sitting neatly on top of everything else. I hope no one else noticed. I suppose it could've been worse - they could've sent me kimchi.

things fall apart

2008-04-14T11:06:00.000+09:00

I discovered this weekend that my ceiling leaks in places. Shouldn't have surprised me really; this building is ancient and not exactly well kept. I made a mental note to tell the landlord about it later this week. But the ceiling, apparently vexed at being ignored, decided that no, it couldn't wait, and starting falling apart:

I suppose I should be grateful I wasn't passing by at the moment. Olive was also safely seated on the other side of the apartment, taking the scene in with no more than her usual googly-eyed curiosity:

Ugh. And I have people coming in to see the apartment tomorrow as well. I hope I can convince them this is all a temporary setback. Thankfully it's stopped raining, so hopefully the ceiling will hold in its current state for the time being.

life is a writer's block

2008-04-08T10:50:00.001+09:00

I've realized that the more stuff there is going on in my life, the less I'm likely to record it anywhere. On my first trip to Europe, I recorded pages and pages of ramblings for the first half of my journey - which was nice enough, but rather dull in hindsight. The point where my writing tapers off is right when things started to get interesting. I got drunk with two wonderful girls in Galway, spent four nights in Doolin with a bunch of strapping Irish lads, took a boat over to France, hooked up with an adorable Norweigian guy in Paris, wandered over Rome with the craziest American girl in the world, and had lunch with an ever so dashing English gentleman near the Vatican. And I didn't write a single word about any of this in my journal.

My old blog is the same way. I wrote a couple of entries when I first arrived in Chicago, but it breaks off around the end of September, which is when I started to make friends and take classes. You know, actually have a life.

It's a terrible habit for a writer - being inspired to write only when there's nothing going on in your life to write about. I really should try to apply myself a bit more seriously - sometimes I feel like a fraud, teaching writing to my students when I haven't written anything worth reading in quite a while (unless you count my thesis; although whether it's worth reading is a question I'd rather not have to ask). Perhaps I'll catch up this summer once I move back. Lord knows I'll be frustrated and discontented enough - I may as well try to channel it into something productive.

how I wasted a morning

2008-02-04T06:36:00.000+09:00

Tuesday night, as I was watching House, FOX News kept popping up during each commercial break to gleefully inform us that the weather currently sucks and is only going to get worse. "Details at 9! The weather's gonna come first, we promise! None of our usual coy teasing, where we give you little hints but save the real stuff for AFTER the stories about the dead puppies and kidnapped white chicks. Really! Cross our hearts! We're gonna put out!" And, as an aside, only FOX could turn the weather forecast into this huge deal, where they say "Will the seven plagues revisit us tomorrow? We'll find out, but first, look! A kitteh! A mime with no hands! A picture of Jesus in a jelly doughnut!" and then when they finally get to the weather it's all, "Well, maybe the plague analogy was a little over the top, but it's still going to rain a little. But there is a 0.0000000137% chance that it'll turn into the second Flood. So we recommend you make your peace with Jesus tonight. Because YOU NEVER KNOW."

Anyway, I usually don't bother waiting for the weather forecast, because I don't think it's worth listening to all the local news that comes before it, unless I feel particularly masochistic that night. But if they were going to tell me the weather first, I might as well stick around, so I did, and FOX amazingly kept their word. The extreme temperature drop and pending snowstorm made the forecaster very happy, as she grinned at us evily and predicted that the world would end in ice.

Well, I got up Wednesday morning, left the house at 6am to trek all the way out to my morning classes in the 'burbs, and dissapointingly enough the world was still pretty much intact. But it was fucking COLD. Like "OhmygodIcantfeelmyface" cold. You'd think the cold would wake me up in the mornings, but there's a point where it simply becomes numbing, and then when you get somewhere warm you are filled with stupifying gratitude, and are reduced to the animalistic desire of wanting to find a warm hole to curl up and go to sleep in until spring.

Per the usual, I took a bus, took the train, and then took another bus and got to school at the usual hour, about 40 minutes before class - only to be greeted by a security guard. "School's closed until noon," said he briefly. My first reaction was to laugh. Hah! Good one. Colleges don't have snow days.

Apparently they do.

Oh, you are kidding me. You're kidding me, right? I didn't just get up at 5:30am and drag my sorry self all the way out here for nothing, did I? And ... WHY? Why is the school closed? Yeah, it's fucking cold outside, but hey, it's Chicago. It's nothing new. It's not even snowing - there are no visibility issues - the roads look clear as day - so again, why is the school closed, other than to MOCK MY FUTILE EXISTENCE?!?!

The irony of all this is: 1) I had a vague suspicion that this might happen, so I checked the webpage before I left and there were no announcements, no emails, nothing, and 2) I was really, really tempted to call in sick today, just because I was so tired and it was so cold.
When I got home two hours later, I dicovered an email sent at 6:45am, about the time I would've been boarding the Metra, informing us that classes were canceled because of the "extreme weather." Gee, thanks.

I have never ever understood the need for a portable device that alerts you whenever you get an email ... until now. If I'd received that email right when it was sent, I probably would've been able to turn around and go back home before I got on the Metra.

tell me it's Friday

2008-01-18T13:53:00.000+09:00

Oh my God. I never thought teaching six classes would be this exhausting. I suppose it doesn't help that four of them are in the Loop, while the other two are all the way out in fucking Des Plaines. It probably wouldn't be as bad if I didn't have to go to both schools in the course of one day. Twice a week. Without a car. Yeah, I'm playing the world's smallest violin. Hey, you try spending half your day on public transit.

If that wasn't bad enough, my transfer times are so close together that one late bus or train completely screws me over. A three-minute-late Metra train means I have to wait half an hour for the next PACE bus. Which in turn means I get to work with only ten minutes to spare before class. Which does not make for a happy nor very organized teacher. I'm pretty sure my students have already concluded I am insane.

In the course of my hectic week of madly dashing from one class to the next, I had a spare moment to read Stanley Fish's article in the NY Times: Will the Humanities Save Us? It was an interesting article and very relevant to a lot of my friends - and me as well, of course - especially at this point in our lives, when we are fresh out of grad school and still scrambling about as to what we're going to do with the rest of our lives. Those of us who are teaching are constantly being confronted with our students demanding: What good is learning all this artsy-fartsy stuff gonna do us? Ironically, as both teachers and students of the humanities ourselves, we find this question incredibly difficult to answer because for us it's always been obvious: why wouldn't anyone want to learn about the beauty and meaning that is to be found in the humanities? How can you read the words of people like T. S. Eliot or Jacques Lacan and not want to ponder the bold statements they make about human nature and existence? When you are confronted by the realization of your sheer ignorance, don't you want to read more, learn more, understand more? Doesn't it give you a thrill when you can sit with your peers and argue over the nature of identity formation and how it has driven humanity to both produce works of utter beauty and slaughter uncountable numbers of their own kind?

Well, obviously not. The fact that we actually do enjoy discussing this stuff over cheap beer is probably why our students think we're crazy. (This is not to say this is all we ever talk about, of course - we play stupid drinking games and make stupid jokes about blowjobs as well.) But the hardest about teaching is not necessarily getting your students to learn anything, but getting your students to want to learn anything. And really, there's no good way to do this except by example. This is half of why teaching is so exhausting for those of us who really enjoy it - it's just so much energy. Not only are you on your feet and talking for over an hour at a time, but you're also striving to convey to your students the intensity you feel over words such as: "I should have been a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across the floors of silent seas." It's funny - during the actual class, I forget how tired I am and fall into an altered state that's something like what I imagine being on coke would be like. But inevitably when I come home, it all catches up to me, and then I'm so exhausted I can barely be bothered to eat.

Anyway, I am eternally grateful that we have a long weekend. I really need to catch a second wind here.

opportunity knocks

2007-12-28T04:21:00.000+09:00

So this morning I got a call from O College, out in the 'burbs, asking me if I was interested in teaching two literature classes next semester. My initial response was HELL YES but then I had to think about visa sponsorship and the fact that M College, where I'm currently teaching, is much more likely to sponsor my visa if I make myself indispensable, which would entail NOT cancelling classes I've already signed up to teach. If I'm lucky I won't have to cancel anything, since O is offering me two morning classes on Monday/Wednesdays and M doesn't have me signed up for anything then, but if the classes are being offered on their main campus (which is an hour from the city) I'd probably have to cancel my M/W afternoon classes at M since there's no way I could get to M in time.

I never realized how frustrating it is to live as an immigrant. I thought it wouldn't matter since culturally I identify much more strongly with the US than Korea, but the fact that I have to worry about getting permission to do anything more than breathe in this country is really aggravating. Americans are always going on about how immigrants would be much more welcome if they made the effort to integrate themselves into the culture and learn the language and really become "American" - but here I am, as whitewashed as they come, with an MA in humanities from a prestigious school and impeccable English to boot, and it's no easier for me to get a visa than it is for a non-English speaking FOB working at Walmart. And let us not forget the delicious irony in the classrooms of illiterate Americans being taught English by me, an immigrant from some tiny country in East Asia. Screw multi-cultural experience. Sometimes I wish my parents had just stayed in Korea all their lives. I'd probably be married by now to a nice Korean boy, keeping house while he worked for our bread, supremely disinterested in going to the US except for maybe a visit to Disneyland when I have kids that are old enough. Ignorance can be bliss.

oh my stars and garters

2007-12-26T08:09:00.000+09:00

So maybe it was the recent thread about stockings and garters on the SD, but yesterday I was moping around the house when I suddenly though to myself - hm, maybe I'll go out and buy some stockings and garters with the money my grandmother sent me. I've never worn garters in my life - they always seemed liked they'd be fidgety, and most of my underwear is largely utilitarian - but I've never been a fan of pantyhose. They're not very comfortable and I'm always worried the waistband is peeking above my skirt. So not sexy. Plus when I'm down to my undies they make me look fat on the best of days. I wasn't sure if the night was going to end with me stripping for someone, but it's best to be prepared, eh? So I made myself look presentable and braved the cruel Chicago wind in search of stockings and garters.

It always amuses me to walk into Victoria's Secret on a busy shopping day and watch guys skulking about, trying to pick out lingerie for their girlfriends. I think half of the stuff at VS is marketed towards these hapless fellows, because it sure isn't marketed towards most women. I mean, I appreciate sexy lingerie, even if I don't buy it often, but a lot of the stuff there is just ... ew. If a boyfriend bought it for me, I might wear it to make him happy, but only if he offered to model it for me first.

I asked the first salesperson I ran into where they kept their garters. She clucked her tongue at me. "We're practically out," she replied. "Those things disappear really quickly around Christmastime. Real popular, you know." No, I didn't know. I wondered how many of those garters were going to be in the hands of disgruntled women waiting in the "return/exchanges" line come Dec. 26th. I mean, what are the chances that the flurry of garter purchases near Christmastime is a result of numerous women suddenly becoming sick of pantyhose? Pretty slim, I'm sure.

So basically I was down to two options - a red satin garter belt that was pretty minimal - no lace, no ribbons - just a slender belt with four suspenders, and a green and black panty thing with suspenders attached. I wasn't really sure what to think of the latter. It looked hideous upon first glance - like the demented fantasy of a man with a tartan and lace fetish - but I could see how it might be one of those things that might possibly look better once on a real person. But they only had a medium, so I was stuck with the red one. Red always runs the risk of making one look like a whore but the belt wouldn't be visible in public anyway. I don't mind being thought of as a whore in private. (Hm. Did I just say that out loud?) Besides, garters are inherently classy. Not like peek-a-boo bras or whatever those things are called. Honestly, who on God's green earth thinks those things are hot? It makes me think of nursing mothers. Not. Hot.

I bought a pair of black lace panties and lacy thigh highs with a seam running up the back to complete my sinful purchase. Then I went home and tried the whole ensemble on, looking at myself in the mirror with a critical eye. I really liked the thigh highs and the panties. Wasn't too sure about the garters. Numerous sources advised wearing them under the panties, which I did, so they weren't really visible. I preferred it that way. One of my concerns was that they'd create lines under my skirt, but the skirt I decided to wear was one of those twirly ones with an A-line so it wasn't a problem.

The one thing I hadn't anticipated - and didn't realize until I was out and about - was the fact that wearing a garter belt makes it very hard to forget the fact that you're wearing a garter belt. Not having that layer of fabric between my skin and my skirt that pantyhose provides was ... distracting, to say the least. So was the feel of the suspender fabric on my thighs. For some reason it made me feel like I'd forgotten to put on panties. Which I hadn't.

Anyway, I think I might be converted for good. They're a lot more comfortable than I'd anticipated and they make you feel sexy as hell - a rare combination. So maybe the night did end with me stripping for no one but myself, but I still appreciated them.