BOOK RECOMMENDATION: A New Category

It occured to me that, as I read a wide variety of books, to starT a book recommendation section in my blog. People are aLways asking me about what I am reading, so here it is.

1. THE AQUARIUMS OF PYONGYANG by Kang Chol-Hwan and Pierre Rigoulot
This memoir is a harrowing account of a boy and his stint (with his family) in a North Korean prison camp. It has nto had much success among S. Koreans, but Americans have been reading the book quite frequently. I picked up a copy and, pro-Bush enthusiasm aside (trading one dictator for another, I guess), this book is pretty fair-handed. The man who went throguh it now works for Seoul's daily newspaper, so he has excellent journalistic eye for detail.

2. THE DEVIL IN THE WHITE CITY by Erik Larson
This book defies categorization, other than history. A very clever writer has taken two historical events and twined them together in one fascinating read. It is about the Chicago World Fair in 1893, and is also about a serial killer names Dr. Holmes who used the fair as his hunting ground.

3. STUPID WHITE MEN by Michael Moore
I have this one a try on a whim (and a cheap used book) and actually found the man had something to say. While I don't particularly agree with his answers, I do agree with the kinds of pointed questions he raises about the state of the union. He is vey humorous, if exasperating, about the political climate that gave us Bush, Jr.

NOTES: Fat Floats

"I have found that over time I slowly began to let go of some of the ideas about what constituted weightloss success, which led to letting go of unrealistic expectations, which led to less guilt and self loathing for never reaching those goals, which led to a happier state of being and then this all led to a healthier lifestyle and ultimately weightloss. Not weightloss in a can, bottle, or box but weightloss in the truest spiritual sense. Now that my excess weight is not the priority in my life I find that I enjoy life more and this in turn makes me a happier person. Cure the mind and the ass will follow."
Steve Vaught
http://www.thefatmanwalking.com

I was going to jump right into a three (?) part entry on the Korean education system tonight, but my thoughts quickly turned elsewhere. As this is my journal, I want to share some encouragement I got tonight.

First of all, it was weigh-in time at the gym. Althoguh I have not really seen any improvement, I have apparently lost 1.2 kilos (2.6 lbs) in one month. It does not sound like much, but I have also changed .8 kilos (1.8) of fat to muscle. Basically, I have lost one brick of Tilamrook Pepperjack Chesse (drool drool) of body fat. Of course, I still have "miles to go before I sleep," but it is encouraging.

While I was browsing the Yahoo News today (pathetic, but the only real English-language news I get here), I noted an article about a man who was walking across America to lose weight. When I tried the website, the site was down (due to heavy traffic, evidently), and made a mental note to try again this evening. I just spent about a half hour on his journal/blog, and I am quite encouraged.

Mr. Vaught speaks candidly and openly about the good, bad, and the ugly about weight loss and mental health (he has lost over 100 lbs on his journey so far). Of course, we should already know that there is a connection between weight gain and coping with life, but some people seem to have forgotten.

I was forced to admit that I stress eat sometimes. I am primarily overweight due to lack of exersise rather than food intake (I am in Asia after all!) but I am working on it. I will also admit that I suffer from chronic depression, and eating is sometimes the only thing that quells the inner hunger. Something about this man's story struck a chord in me, and, judging from the responses to his website, struck a chord with other people too. Are we a nation of seriously depressed individuals?

Think about it. In American society, at various times in history, alcohol has been banned, smoking has been banned, sex has been banned....now "fat" is being banned. What "vices" do we have left? No wonder we are depressed. It's a tough world out there, and, after fighting our way through our jobs, traffic, and relationships, is it any wonder that we feel the need to splurge on something?

Of course, in moderation, the above "vices," when taken/indulged in moderately, become relatively innocuous (except perhaps smoking). A drink or two on the weekend isn't going to kills anyone or GASP make them an alcoholic. Moreover, a little drink is useful in preventing heart disease. Sex releases useful endorphins and seratonin in the brain (regardless of prowess or technique) that help create a steady mental balance. Maybe lack of this type of activity is why many single people are so uptight and aggresive. A little body fat is also good; we should not get below 20% BFI or we start getting ill.

Although I have a long way to go, I feel a bit upbeat tonight. The mental and physical exhaustion from doing my "hamster in a wheel" routine did achieve some results, though progress is slow. Check out Steve Vaught's site at:
http://www.thefatmanwalking.com

NOTES: Emerald Lady's "Personal Ad"

The Kiss 


Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me
Elton John
(Elton John/Bernie Taupin)

I can't light no more of your darkness
All my pictures seem to fade to black and white
I'm growing tired and time stands still before me
Frozen here on the ladder of my life

Too late to save myself from falling
I took a chance and changed your way of life
But you misread my meaning when I met you
Closed the door and left me blinded by the light

Don't let the sun go down on me
Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see
I'd just allow a fragment of your life to wander free
But losing everything is like the sun going down on me

I can't find the right romantic line
But see me once and see the way I feel
Don't discard me just because you think I mean you harm
But these cuts I have they need love to help them heal

JOURNAL: The V Monologue (you know what I mean!)

I have reached a milestone.

Koreans: 2 (the boob thing...twice)
Emerald Lady: 3 (the boob thing twice, and tonight...score!)

Last night I was thoroughly discouraged when I went to my workout. Things had gone bad at work (dumb parent complaint that I got blamed for), I was tired and fractious from rowdy children all day, and I got thoroughly reamed in the stretch class. The trainer seems to think that by just screeching "back straight! back straight!" that I can do it while contorting in weird positions. You see, Koreans don't believe in disability or difficulty doing things; you get the way you are because you are lazy, or worse, a "baby" (highest Korean insult next to S.O.B.).

My body doesn't look any different, though the scale says I have lost a kilo (about 2 lbs in three weeks). This is pathetic. The trainer appears to think I am not working hard enough. The truth is I am screaming in my head at every thump of my shoe hitting the pedal "You are fat! You deserve this! Lazy ass! Get moving! That's it! Jiggle a little faster!" There is no "beautiful" left in me, so why am I even trying? Because I never give up without a fight, that's why. I will conquer this flabby piece of blubber that some call a body even if it kills me....and it just might.

You see, sometimes, it seems like a punishment to be there. My muscles ache, I get acne from the sweat (though the yellow dust storms from China aren't helping), and I look like a pregnant tomato in the gym uniform (remember that I said orange and grey are not my colors). I snap at everyone who tries to help me on the other hand. John is a nice guy, but very me-man you-woman you-listen. He gets annoyed when I try to argue. I don't think he likes me much, as he has been avoiding me lately. Not that I have been very pleasant lately either.

Tonight I made an effort to be pleasant, but I found myself being negative again so I clammed up. The mess at work is continuing, but will be cleared up by Monday...I hope. Stretch class went ok, and I took John aside. I politely requested to change from cross-trainer, which I hate, to treadmill, which is dull but reliable. Surprisingly he agreed, after expressing a little concern over my tricky knee. We are trying it out for awhile to see what happens. The treadmill also has a tv screen, best of all! It is cleverly angled so that to see it correctly you have to be aligned correctly! I did a total of 1:20 of cardio plus a 40 minute stretch class. I do this 4 times a week for 3 weeks, and all I get is 2 pounds off for good behavior? Ridiculous!

With something new to do at last, I began putting more effort into it. The treadmill is, of course, automatic, so I can't slack off. I really began to sweat this time. I was so sticky afterwards that I decided to conquer my fear of public showers. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

I must digress a little. Of course, no American woman likes to be naked in front of other women because we are hypercritical of each other. Anyone who has ever suffered through middle school gym class knows this. I used to get teased, get this, for being too thin! I got called "anorexic," "the wall," and "skinny" (hate that word more than fat). I always undressed under a towel, but inevitably, some body
parts poked out for criticism. And they did criticize.

Koreans are no different. The reason this doesn't matter as much to them is that they are raised by being endlessly criticized and pushed by their parents. "Do you want to be stupid?" parents often say. Or, "Don't you want to go to Harvard/Stanford/Princeton?" This applies to bodies also. I see quite a number of overweight children in the gym. I have some roly-polies in my classes as well. The Korean sense of humor, unfortunately for hapless foreigners, stems from things people do that are out of the norm. "Haha, you wear a headgear! Haha you have a big belly. Haha, you are not good in geometry!"

Unlike in America, where kids are psychoanalyzed (Why does he keep eating? He must be making up for some lack. Do his parents love him enough?), Koreans take a pragmatic approach. They send their children to the gym or taekwondo academy and cut down the children's eating habits. Kept on a traditional Asian diet, the kids stay thin (Asians appear to have a lightning-fast metabolism). The snack food craze is causing the problems in the other direction. Koreans aren't particularly candy-crazy (except for chocolate), but they do like their potato chips (and squid chips, and freezedried French fries).

To get back to my main point...I decided that, while I was down, I certainly couldn't fall any further. Sweaty, exhausted, smelly, and desperate for cleanliness, I entered the locker room. Fortunately, it was very empty. When I was certain no one was looking, I peeled my sticky clothes off, and, after a minute's hesitation, peeled them ALL off. Forcing myself to breath naturally, I padded over to the laundry bin, and dumped them in. I grabbed a tiny pink towel, and entered the communal shower.

The room was filled with busy ajumas. So that's where everyone was! I stood under a spigot, and tried to figure out the water works. It took a few tries, but I got the hang of it. I glanced around, and saw that what I took to be a towel was actually a particularly brutal fom of washcloth. The material was very rough and nappy, like the cheap, Kmart variety in the U.S. I observed a rather corpulent ajuma soaping up the pink towel, and SCRUBBING her body, like she was doing the laundry by the scrub and tub method. She began at the top and methodically worked her way down, presumably to slough off dead skin. I have, of course, HEARD of an "ajuma scrub" from the foreigners who frequent saunas, but I had never seen it done before. I have been told that sometimes they will begin doing it, unbidden, to other women, including foreigners.

I soon noticed that every one was doing this. I winced as I saw two women pass the towels THROUGH their legs and scrub very roughly (think flossing) in a very delicate area....well, I reasoned, probably no worse than drunk husbands with bad aim... or childbirth. But OUCH!

I stuck to my Western ways with a plain old bar of soap and a good rinse. No one bothered me and I didn't bother anyone. I think if someone had offered to scrub my back, I might have even taken it. They were saggier and baggier than me, after all.

NOTES: Random Quote of the Week

No explanation is needed for the following quote:

"Always remember that when the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window...It's the hallways that are a bitch...." Shirley Barr, Stephanie's (coworker) Grandmother

JOURNAL: Boobs

A note on the previous post - I was not imagining things when I said everyone in the locker room was staring at my boobs. They were.

I have befriended the yoga instructor at the gym, a warm, friendly, and beautiful Korean woman who I will call Esther. I ran into her on my way home from the gym on Thursday, and we began to chat. We warmed to each other immediately, and she felt no hesitation in holding onto my arm and hands even though we had just met. The Koreans have no difficulty in expressing same-sex physical affection.

Esther has a strong and warm "gi," a concept which is a very spiritual matter in the east. I have always known of and rather strongly perceived it's existence (INFJ personality that I am), but most Westerners do not recognize it. It is a person's inner spirit and emotional balance, plus something quite ineffable. This is how Koreans determine who they will be friends with and who they will not be friends with. Esther has a beautiful gi; this makes her a beautiful woman to me. Her external beauty is only enhanced by her internal beauty, and, though she is in her mid-thirties, I hope some man recognizes her for the gem that she is.

I ran into Esther at the gym tonight in the changing room. I have officially given up on modesty for practical reasons; without thinking much about it, I removed my sports bra and changed into my street bra. We struck up a conversation and continued our changing. As I threw my rather ratty sweater over my head, she suddenly said, "You look so glamorous!"
Confused, I asked her what she meant, and she pointed to my chest.
"Big!" she said. "I wish I have bigger."
"Too big!" I protested. "Backache."
She then pointed to my sports bra. Koreans do not wear them because they do not need them.
"Very small?"
"Yes. Tight. Strap 'em down."
"Ah....Excersise hurt, yes?" She mimicked jumping up and down.
"Yes."
An enlightened grin spread over her expressive face. I then regaled her with a story of a well-endowed college acquaintance of mine, who was a bit of a jokester. This person used to amuse us with placing a cup (or shot glass) in her ample bosom, then proceeding to drink it. She also used to balance plates. Esther hooted with laughter over this story.

On a personal note, I am finally getting used to Korean bluntness. Although it still manages to shock me on occasion, I no longer get annoyed. Every situation is humorous if you look at it in the right way.

JOURNAL: Korean Torture Device

"One of the nicer aspects of Koreans is that they are not raised to feel that displays of emotion are a weakness [. . .]they can be embarassingly earthy and blunt. If you have an ugly spot on your nose, the English and Japanese will politely pretend it's not there. The Korean will stick his finger in your face and inform you, 'Hey, you've got a spot.' As if he couldn't tell from the deep fingernail grooves around it that you already knew."
Michale Breen, British journalist in THE KOREANS: WHO THEY ARE, WHAT THEY WANT, WHERE THEIR FUTURE LIES (2004)


On Saturday, March 11, I will be turning the corner of "the age that dares not give its name." Yes, folks, I will be what is euphemistically called "still young" but not "young"; this strikes me as rather like receiving a consolation prize for coming in second, or even third place. I do not have much of a career to brag about, and I did not get married, so I guess I am not so much a success, superficially at least. In Korean (and some conservative American) terms, I will now be officially an "old maid." Like hell.

Although I certainly do not LOOK like my age (good anti-aging genes from my mother's side!), I have begun noticing some of the not-so-good parts of getting a little older- namely, gravity. Yes, things are beginning to sag ever so slightly, but enough to make me look in the mirror and go "Ugghhh, when did THAT happen? And when, pray tell, did I begin to get spots of cellulute?" Granted, I am a bit overweight, although I have lost quite a bit of it since moving to an Asian country. Still, there is much room for improvement. I began contemplating this miserable state of things a few weeks ago, and decided to do something about it with my "bonus" for teaching extra classes. I joined a Korean gym.

Before my knee-wrenching accident a few years ago, I worked out pretty regularly with a personal trainer. I "bulked out," but did not actually lose much body fat or weight, like a sumo-wrestler. Many doctor visits later, I found out my metabolism was sluggish but not slow enough for medication; furthermore, my Northern Eurpoean genes were predisposed to store fat (long, cold winters) rather than lose fat. It is a losing battle; the best I can hope for is stamina and strength. My accident prevented me from seriously working out, so I was pretty stuck.

Since moving to Korea, I have regained strength in my injured limb. I walk 40 minutes round trip to work and back everyday, and, except for occasional "Golden Arch" splurges, I eat a relatively Asian diet (except for the fish!). I have lost about 10 pounds and gone down one full size in clothes. Still it is not enough.

There is a gym about half a block from my apartment; my neighbor and co-worker works out there and took me to see it. It was very basic and small; just a smattering of machines and freeweights in the center of the room. Pounding pump-you-up music blared from the ceiling, and my coworker said the only annoying thing about this place was that they play the same CD over and over again. I was amused to note that old body building posters (circa 1980) were still plastered to the wall, and, more intriguingly, included several bulked-up Caucasian women. There were also some machines that I did not recognize, at least, not until I saw them in use. More on that later. The machines were in excellent working order, and the place was very clean. The on-duty manager spoke very limited English, but was reasonably polite, if a bit apathetic. I got the impression that he would have had a cigarette dangling from his lips had it been permitted (gyms are the only smoke-free zones in Korea, as far as I know). The lighting was a bit dim for my taste, but other than that, I liked the place. It had character. The price was very reasonable, and I indicated to the clerk on duty that I would consider it.

About halfway home from work (overlooking the McDonald's) is another gym, fairly new and modern. I am not really into fancy gyms, and had always assumed that this was one of the yuppie-expensive places. Even so, many of my coworkers go there and rave about it, so I made a visit there. I usually dread the fancier gyms because most people (coworkers included) don't NEED as much body work as I do. I learned that foreigners from our school get a good discount; for six months, we pay 300,000 Won ($295). I decided to make a visit.

Immediately upon entering, I was impressed. The girls at the desk spoke reasonable English, and were more than happy to help me. I removed my shoes (remember this is Asia) and was shown to a pair of slippers to wear while I made the tour. You can only wear gym shoes in the facility, and then only in certain areas. A young man named Shawn showed me around a bit; his English was also better than average. I noted that there were quite a variety of ages and body types in the room - fat ajumas and agashis (over 40 men and women), skinny teenagers, and young adults were all hard at work. There were quite a few Caucasian faces scattered among the clientele as well. I saw and greeted two of my coworkers, one of them with the perfect body type, the other more like me (also cursed with Northern European genes...but TALL!).

The gym was well-lit and relatively clutter-free. There were more choices of machines than at the first gym, some of which I had never seen before. I giggled as I saw a group of machines similar to the ones in the first gym. In the early 20th century, man invented a machine that more or less did excersise for the client. One put the fat-affected part in a loop of material, turned on a switch, and the belt vibrated hard and violently to shake the fat away. I had never seen one of these in person before. They were a popular item, and I immediately began to wonder about the integrity of the fitness instructors. Then, as I went closer, I observed, written in English, "body massager." Oh. Never people to waste an idea, the Koreans had simply adapted obsolete ideas to modern wholistic medicine.

An area had been set aside for floor work with a comfy but firm mat. I observed people doing stretches, yoga, pilates (they had the pilate ball available) and other types of strengthening excersises there. One of the more amusing "floor toys" in use was an oversized hula hoop. This is no ordinary hula hoop, oh no; this is a WEIGHTED hula hoop. I am guessing that the purpose of using this monster is to whittle away at one's sometimes well-buried waist, as I saw several plump matrons using it freely. ALthough I doubt it works for the intended purpose, it must strengthen SOME part of the body in that region. The old jump-rope standby was also a popular toy. A little bit later, they cleared the floor, and Shawn began a stretch class. In America, these sorts of classes are usually only attended by the older generations; here, all ages do these excersises.

Two days later I joined JNB Sports. The price was only $100 more than the first gym, and I figured I would have a better chance of staying motivated. One of the biggest selling points was that I would not have to do laundry (remember, I have no dryer). The gym provides a uniform for clients. Girls receive a grey and orange shirt with navy shorts; boys get turquiose blue and black shirts with black shorts. They are form-fitting but not skin-tight, and make everyone look good (except orange is not my color). They are laundered for you; you turn them into a clothes hamper after you work out. Towels, toiletries, and a footlocker are also provided.

On my first day, with some trepidation, I entered the locker room. About ten naked Korean women turned and glanced at me, then went back to their primping, much to my relief. Usually, when I walk into a room, everyone stares. One older woman did not stop staring however, so I gave her my most charming smile before proceeding to my locker. It amazed me how free and easy the women were about doing things in the nude. I saw women drying their hair, putting on makeup, or just sitting and talking, all without any sort of clothing. Now, I am used to working with theatre folks, so this is not too traumatic for me, but even theatre folk cover up to do their makeup! For myself, however, well, I am rather modest.

I chose a dark corner and began to undress. To my considerable annoyance, my bra strap got hung up somehow. I stepped into the central area where there was light and a mirror, and heroically fought with the hook. Suddenly, the hook gave way, but I was not touching it at the moment. The staring ajuma had come to my aid and unhooked me, then patted my on the shoulder. I was both startled and touched by her gesture. Her action was not unnnoticed, however, and the staring began. The staring was more out of curiosity than animosity, but I was feeling a bit unstrung. "Yes, I have BOOBS!" I wanted to shout, but refrained from doing so. Instead, I stared back.

All of those men who have Asian body-type fantasies out there, forget it! You are delusional. Just like Westerners, there are skinny women, plump women, mosquito bites and modestly proportioned saggy-udders. Korean women do not have curvy or defined hips either, but strangely enough, Korean men do. They women also do not have strongly-defined muscles. My curves are what attracted attention, rather than my weight, I discovered. Blue eyes and blonde hair didn't hurt either. The one common thing that all the women had was....CELLULITE! Lots and lots of cellulite, even on the skinny ones. I suspect this has to do with a high carb (noodles, rice, etc.)/ low protein diet. It also explains the "body massager" phenomenon!

I noted that there was a communal shower where you could use the conventional wall mounted unit, or you could choose to powerwash your neighbor with a green rubber hose. Women also will soap and scrub each other down. I have yet to use the shower there, as I know my, er, other parts, will be stared at freely and openly. I am not ready for that yet.

The uniform fit me nicely, and I emerged from the locker room. I went upstairs to the trainer's office, and was met by a tall, rather dark (Koreans are usually light-skinned) and handsome man. He opened his mouth, and I received a bit of a surprise. Now, some of my students have lived in America, New Zealand, the U.K., or Australia, so I am used to hearing different accents coming out of Korean schoolchildren's mouths. When a new student "How are y'all today"s, it is cute and funny. When a grown Korean man speaks to you in strongly accented Australian English, it is damn sexy! Alas, he is too young, and occupied territory (though not sold!). We hit it off immediately, and I decided I was going to like him.

"John" spoke excellent English, and took me right into the office. He put me on a machine to take my weight, height, body fat (sigh), and various other blah blah blah. After a few moments, it spit out a lengthy report, wherupon John began to explain the medically-termed data (it was in English, but a little dense). I have lost some weight, but am still dangerously close to being termed "obese," (38 BFI)although I do not look like it. I DO have the same bone structure and height as a Korean woman (I had noticed this before). My upper body is still well-toned and strong; my lower body is shot to perdition however. No surprises there. My body fat, he bluntly told me, was mainly belly fat and lower; this is a dangerous type of fat. I also have some swelling and I am retaining some water (I did not mention that I was on my period at the time; perhaps I should have said something). I also knew this, but again, it was not obvious externally, it was more a feeling.

As of now, I am on a strict regime of 70 minute of cardio each day for about two months. I hate it with a passion (hampster on a wheel) but I need to drop some body fat (roughly about 6 pounds) before I can begin weight traning again. I will "bulk up" and look worse if I start too soon. I also take a stretch class every night for 40 minutes. I like that part, even though it is conducted in Korean. The trainers are very "hands on." If they don't think you are working hard enough, they will physically correct you.

Last week, I got a little lazy on the bike. John came by to check on me. He began questioning me a bit and chit-chatting. I was very polite and slowed down a bit to answer him (as I was breathing hard). After a few minutes of this, he quietly informed me that if I was really working hard, I wouldn't be able to carry on much of a conversation. My fury and my embarassment fueled me pretty quickly through THAT workout, but I knew I deserved it.

The stretch class is not for wimps either. I struggled at first because I couldn't understand the instructions. I know my numbers, but that is about it. I watched people carefully, but sometimes missed the "in between" instructions. The trainers walk around on the mat, and physically correct those who are doing it wrong; I seemed to be a good target for the first few days. If my knee popped up during a stretch, for example, someone would come by and gently but firmly press it into place...and hold it there. When stretching forward, Shawn grabbed my hands, pulled me like taffy, and told me to breathe into it. To my surprise, I went further than I thought I could without too much discomfort. It is very odd to be touched by a stranger, but I like this approach to fitness. I can FEEL the difference between the wrong and the right way now. I am getting the hang of things, though my balance is still horrible. You are not allowed to NOT do an excersise; you have to do them all. Now, when we get to that part of the routine, one of the trainers automatically extends his arm for me to grab onto. It is humiliating, but I am trying my best. I hope it gets better.

John is turning out to be a decent human being. He is definately Australian in his outlook, which is a refreshing change. I do not have to censor what I say too much; he is used to Aussie women! He is intelligent and is still in university (I think); in other words, not a dumb jock. I can't stand jock attitudes! The other clientele are polite, though they do still stare sometimes. The "regulars" do not stare anymore, which helps.

In Memorium: Eulogy for My Grandmother (1910-2005)

Below I have posted the eulogy for my Grandmother; today, March 7, is the one year anniversary of her passing. She was a much loved lady, and lived a full and rich life.

Eulogy for Rose Chipps
March 12, 2005
by Rebecca Eagleson
Rose Christina Hansen Chipps was born December 11, 1910 in Wallbach (WAHL-BACK), Nebraska to Peter and Johanna Marie Hansen. Rose was the middle daughter; she had an older sister, Seena, and a younger sister, Ella. Her parents were members of a Danish community, and she spoke Danish until she began formal schooling at age five. She spent the majority of her childhood and girlhood on a farm, and, even in her advanced years, retained memories of some of the major and minor events of the decade. Grandma once told me a story about herself and her sister Seena staying up one New Year’s Eve, breathlessly anticipating the arrival of the year 1919. My brother, Andrew, was absolutely delighted to hear that Grandma remembered Kaiser Wilhelm. She also spoke of the troops coming home from WWI by train through St. Louis.
Sadly, Rose and her sisters lost both of their parents while young teenagers. Rose graduated from high school as Valedictorian, and at age seventeen, began to teach at a small country school. She taught for two years before beginning college at Kearny State Teacher’s college in Kearny, NE. In 1932, she met her future husband Larry Chipps. In 1933, they were married in the Methodist pastor‘s house, attended only by the cleaning maid and the pastor’s wife.
I once asked Grandma about how she met grandfather, and it is worth noting her response. She told me rather vaguely that they met in teacher’s college, but, as I later found out, there was more to the story than that. Apparently, Larry Chipps was what was known back then as “diffident,” or shy, and Sister Ella’s beau decided to set them up on a blind date. At this time, Rose was a very beautiful woman, but also very tall. Larry was so flustered when he saw her that Ella’s beau had to give Larry a push up the stairs as Rose was coming down the stairs.
I asked Grandma later why she married Larry, as he was so shy and quiet.
With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she responded, “Well, he just kept on coming, and I sorta got used to him!”
The Depression was on in their early married life, and as a result, Rose never finished college. Larry and Rose both began teaching school. One particularly desperate summer, the newlyweds lived in a tent, while Larry worked for the W.P.A . For dinner, he shot pheasants, geese, and possums. The Chipps’s began their family in 1939, and in 1940, they purchased a farm in Ewing, NE. They had two sons and two daughters. First came Ron, then Lyle, then Linda (my mother), and finally, Macrayla. Rose was always a hard worker, active in both the community and on the farm. She held a position with the Ladies Aide Society and also as a Sunday School teacher. In 1956, the Chipps’s sold the farm, and headed West to California.
Life became rather lively for the Chipps family in California, as the children were now in their teen years. Rose managed to hold down a job as a duplex manager as well as assist Larry with his maintenance business. Time passed, and her children grew into young adulthood. In the 1960s, her children began to leave the nest and acquire spouses. Rose then found a new job that she loved. At Alum Rock Covenant Church, where she attended up until her death, Rose began to teach the two and three year old children their Sunday School lessons. This position gave her great delight and much pleasure; she dearly loved the children that she taught. She held this position until she was well into her seventies, when she reluctantly gave it up.
In the 1970s, the grandchildren began to come, all within six years. They are, in chronological order, Dendra, Rebecca, Chris, Carlos, and Andrew. It was, once again, a lively house when the grandchildren came to visit as we were so close in age. Of course, this also meant that we collectively found mischief, and grandma was always there to patch us up and sooth our bruises. I recall that one night, I was sleeping in the “bouncy bed,” which was popular with the grandkids because it was spring-loaded, and there was a rather strong earthquake. I was a very tiny child, so I was easily tossed off the bed and smashed face first into the hard-wood floor. I cut my chin pretty badly, and grandma rather stoically cleaned me up and put me back to bed. Grandma always had a way of soothing the unquiet minds of little children; I expect it was because of her long experience teaching. There was always a generous supply of cookies, and let’s not forget her famous apple pie. She was always a “hostess by stealth,” preferring to sit back and let other people talk while she beamed quietly in the corner.
One of Grandma’s most favorite days was on a fine August day in 1983. As the Chipps’s had never had a formal wedding reception, the family got together a large 50th wedding anniversary celebration. There were friends and family attending from years back, and there was even a large wedding cake. Grandma always cherished this event, and kept a picture of her and her husband on her mantelpiece, taken on this momentous day. Three years later, Larry passed away, and Rose began the next epoch of her life.
In these last years, Rose lived alone in the family house on Golf Drive, taking much pleasure in working in the garden, attending church, and keeping house. A stub-tailed cat named Katie adopted Rose, and became her resident lap-warmer and entertainer. She received regular visits from children, grandchildren, and church members. Her daughter, Macrayla Evans, visited her daily on her lunch breaks from work to make sure she was doing well and eating properly. She also lived with Rose for a short time. Over the years, Rose became increasingly forgetful and absent-minded, but never forgot those grandkids! In February of 2004, Rose’s first great-grandchild, Alyssa Chipps, was born to Chris and Shannon Chipps.
In the 1990s, Linda moved out of state. Macrayla and Ron began to care for Mom, helping her with yardwork and other duties around the house. Macrayla took her grocery shopping, and later on, when Rose’s strength began to fail, did the shopping for her. Ron left for New Mexico, and Macrayla took over all of Rose’s care. She commuted from Modesto to San Jose for her job and checked daily on Rose. It would be a stressful time for both Mac and Grandma, as Grandma was increasingly unaware of how much help she needed. Mac tried all methods known to mankind to make sure that Grandma took her medications on schedule, but grandma would miss whole days because she was so forgetful. Mac would set up doctor’s appointments only to find out later that Rose had cancelled them when the office called to remind her of her appointments; Mac often took off time from work to take her to appointments. Mac bought her new clothes, but Mom would refuse to wear them and hide them away. Rose would wear things until they were beyond worn out, so Mac learned to throw things out or hide the old things in the garbage so that Rose would not find them. One day, Grandma fell in front of her house, and the neighbors called the paramedics. Grandma had a bruised face and a black eye, but did not remember the fall. Linda would make visits from Wisconsin to give Mac some relief, but this at times confused Rose even more and made her more fractious after Linda had left.
In late 1999, the family determined that Rose could use permanent live-in assistance, and Linda, her daughter, and Jim, her son-in-law, sold their house in Wisconsin and moved in to care for her. I soon joined them. I truly enjoyed hearing all her old stories and the process of getting to know the quiet hostess who had cared for us all as children. It was only fitting that we should do the same for her.
In the autumn of 2004, Rose suffered a bad fall which left her hospitalized. When she came home, a series of wonderful homecare workers came into her life, doing all the little things for her and providing daily and nightly assistance in matters beyond the scope of the family’s expertise. In December, she suffered a stroke, and was placed in a rehabilitation facility. At Plum Tree, she was the resident trivia champion. She was then transferred to Crescent Villa, where she spent her final days.
Rose thrived at Crescent Villa; her last two months were filled with a miraculous rejuvenation of sorts. She enjoyed all the people and health care workers there, and they enjoyed her every bit as much. Her sense of humor reemerged, even though she was wheelchair-bound now, and unable to get around without assistance. The night before her final stroke, she was eating dinner, and one of the C.N.A.s noticed that she was touching her mouth frequently. When Priti, the C.N.A., went over to investigate, she found out that Rose was wiggling a loose tooth. Rose looked up at Priti from her wheelchair, and said, “If I put it under my pillow, do you think I’ll get some money?” The two of them then began to hoot with laughter.
Grandma’s last days were spent with family members and friends surrounding her bedside. Although bed-ridden and unable to speak, Rose intently listened to those around her. Pastor Jon, his wife Pat, and I entertained her by singing the old hymns that she loved so well, as well as some of the old Irish ballads that Grandpa used to sing. Grandma always loved music and having people around her. She most enjoyed the times when family and friends would chatter back and forth.
One night, after everyone had left, Dendra and I stayed with her to keep vigil, knowing that her life on earth would soon come to a close. We were laughing and chatting softly, or so I thought, when suddenly we realized that she was awake and alert. We told her funny stories, and, although she couldn’t speak, she smiled often and watched us whenever we moved around the room. She even took a few spoonfuls of food. This was the last time we saw her conscious.
On Monday, March 7, 2005, Rose passed away quietly and peacefully at 3:10 in the afternoon. It was the first fine spring day after weeks of rain, a fitting day for the passing of a woman who loved to be outside so much.

PHOTO: Where I Spend Most of My Time...

Uh Oh! 


Yes, you read that right. This joint is directly behind Cafe Pacucci in Gangnam, a well-to-do district of Seoul known for its night life. The "face" on the Man-in-the-Moon is not really a face, but the Korean word "ddong" (shit). I am not sure how that got by the censors.

JOURNAL: Lunar Month

LUNAR MONTH
On Sunday, I got a unique experience to participate in a Korean tradition. The oldest member of our church invited a select few of us to her house for dinner. I felt truly blessed by this, as I much admire Miss K, and had been forced to back out of another one of her dinner parties at an earlier time. The back out was last minute, and I had truly felt awful, even considering that the circumstances had been beyond my control. This time, I made a point to clear my day so I could keep my engagement.

Miss K is a truly remarkable human being, and I would love to sit down and interview her sometime. She is probably in her seventies or eighties, but she is still as sharp as a tack. Her conversation is witty and bright, with occasional flashes of light sarcasm. She is a retired Art Professor from Seoul National University, one of the most prestigious universities in Korea. She was born in Japan, but I believe she said her family was from North Korea. Therein lies a story I am certain, seeing as the relations between Korea and Japan around the time of her probable childhood and girlhood were not particularly good, to say the least. She then moved to the United States for a time, where her children were born, and still live. She goes to visit them every chance she gets.

Miss K's apartment has a beautiful view, through picture windows, over Olympic Park. Her unframed artwork occupies every possible wall space; her work focuses mostly on flowers and still lifes, with an occasional touch of folk"ish" art. Her palatte tends towards cooler colors. I enjoyed looking around. The apartment was rather spacious, for Seoul, especially; I think she probably had a whole floor to herself. The decor and spacing made the place feel "arty," but not "hippy." Everything was beautifully laid and tastefully displayed. I also scanned her bookcase, which was chock full of artbooks in English and other languages. This was not a monument to Miss K, but a comfortable place for her to live in. I hope that I have a place like this someday.

Miss K had actually skipped church to make dinner for us, a fact which was not lost on any of us coming from there. The way Korean Christians are raised is roughly equivalent to the way the Puritans raised their children. It is not faith unless you sacrifice your comfort, your desires, and your sleep; this is the Will of God, and nothing in your life will happen if God doesn't will it. Calvinism at its finest, and most exasperating. Fortunately, not everyone follows this, or I would never stay at that church.

Miss K had laid out a delectable selection of appetizers. The most recognizeable were the sterotypical nut mix, but there were others I had to ask about. There was a pale white lacy vegetable, which I at first took to be some kind of sliced and dried tomato. Avoiding it at first (I am allergic to tomatoes), I finally asked about it. It was lotus root, dried and sliced; very tasty and enjoyable. The other item which I finally tried were glazed mushrooms coated with sesame. To my surprise, the mushrooms were glazed with honey. Oddly, it worked, as many unusual combinations seem to do in Asia. The best items, however, were the cream cheese and crab(?) filled biscuits.

Miss K worked away in the kitchen, Korean-style, while her guests enjoyed the good food. Finally, she called us into a small room where there were many dishes laid out. Miss K explained to us that the dishes fell into two categories, old and new. It is Korean tradition to eat these dishes on the first full moon after the New Year. There were vegetable dishes, grain dishes, a chicken breast dish, and a pork and radish dish. The "old" dishes tended towards dark in color, and were heavily pickled or cooked. The "new" dishes were lighter in color, and more "raw" than cooked. The old dishes represent the year that has ended, and the "new" dishes represent the new year. The grain dishes have a particular significance, but Miss K dismissed it as "superstition" without really gonig into too much detail.

The "old" vegetable dish consisted of a stringy, and as I later found out, tough, pickled vegetables vaguely related to collard greens in flavor. I tried to chew them, but discovered they could only be swallowed whole. Pity I didn't figure this out until I took a sizeable bite...I almost choked, as this vegetable had rather sharp angles to it; I suspect it is related to nettles. The "new" dish was much more palatable, and had quite a bit of sweet and sour flavor. The grain dishes were, well, grainy, especially the lightly cooked rice (still a bit dry and raw). The pork and Asian (yellow)radish dish was the most delicious confection; again, sweet and sour. There was not one over-spicy dish.

As we were feasting, Miss K disappeared into the kitchen again. She emerged later with the ubiquitous bean curd and soft tofu soup. This is one of my favorite dishes in all Korea, and hers was homemade. It was a little spicy, but the flavors of the vegetables were not overpowered. It was wonderful.

Miss K finally joined us. We ate American style with individual plates and Western silverware. One of the dinner guest was talking about her family in Nova Scotia. She said she was one of nine children, and that her father was one of EIGHTEEN children. Miss K said she supposed they didn't know about birth control. She did not mean it to be witty; she was just stating a fact. I was the only "single" present at the table; usually this means Koreans censor what they say to avoid offending my modesty. Not Miss K!

We were served persimmon gelato for dessert, as well as strawberries and cream. The last item she called "fusion food"! She also served a mildly alcoholic punch and a sweetened tea. I had to leave a bit early for a previous engagement, but I wished I could have stayed longer. She clasped my hand in both of hers, and beamed warmly up at me. I could feel her life energy flowing through her warm hands into my cold palm, and I was very reluctant to go. She is truly a gem, a jeweltone.

Some people have asked about my email address, "jeweltone," and what it means. It is the word I use to describe what I hope to be someday. People who live their lives in bright, neon colors flare brightly and burn quickly. The dazzle, shimmer, and scream for people to notice them, but hurt the eyes when gazed upon for too great a time.

People who live their life in pastels fade into obscurity and quiet despair. They are the wallflowers, the quiet workers. They hide in the light for fear of the the dark. No one notices them.

The jeweltones, however, are not too brilliant, and not too quiet; they live rich, full, and eventful lives. The shine, but not to show off their accomplishements. They shine to lend warmth to the neons, and compassion to the pastels. They embrace all aspects of life, both the beautiful and the putrid. It takes both dark and light to make a jeweltone shine. Remember that all jewels began life in the bowels of the earth! They are raised out of the ground, culled and shaped by a craftsman, and faceted by their experiences. What is a facet but a dent or a cutting away? Remember, even impurities can lend a special beauty to a diamond or a ruby.

RAMDOM QUOTE OF THE DAY:
(on teenagers)

"Cal's trying to find himself," said Lee. "I guess this personal hide-and-seek is not unusual. And some people are 'it' all their lives - hopelessly 'it.'"
John Steinbeck, EAST OF EDEN

PHOTO: Snowy Olympic Park

Snowy Olympic Park 

Olympic Park Close-Up 

PHOTO: Poor Puppy!

Cold Dog 


This is a photo of Huindong (. The dog was pretty cold, but taking it like a sport...He was not being very cooperative about looking at the camera however; these were the best shots I could get. He just wanted lots of attention and warmth...he was shivering because of the cutting wind.

Huindong 

NOTE: Cyber - weirdness

Due to something in my blogging program I do not understand, my new post was moved to 1/26/06. It was a "continued/saved" post that I just finished. You can view it at that date.

Aphra Behn 

NOTES: From the Poetess

I was going to comment on the war of the sexes tonight, seeing as I have had some disappointments in the past couple of months in this regard. I have found what I want, but it has been taken from me. Instead of bemoaning my own fate, however, I will let the 17th century Restoration-era poetess express it for me.

Aphra Behn, for those of you who are not up on your "dorky lit. major" knowledge, was a vibrant, talented, and outspoken playwright, poet, and novelist. She was also, in her spare time, a spy for England, and for her efforts landed in debtor's prison when the king decided he didn't need to pay her. Mrs. Behn used her witty pen to raise her bail money, and in doing so, upset the flagrantly misogynist male authors of her time by offering a female perspective on the war of the sexes. So, I will let her speak for me, and all women who have been blighted by love:

ON DESIRE

by: Aphra Behn

HAT art thou, oh! thou new-found pain?
From what infection dost thou spring?
Tell me -- oh! tell me, thou enchanting thing,
Thy nature, and thy name;
Inform me by what subtle art,
What powerful influence,
You got such vast dominion in a part
Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart,
That fame and honour cannot drive ye thence.

Oh! mischievous usurper of my peace;
Oh! soft intruder on my solitude,
Charming disturber of my ease,
That hast my nobler fate pursued,
And all the glories of my life subdued.

Thou haunt'st my inconvenient hours;
The business of the day, nor silence of the night,
That should to cares and sleep invite,
Can bid defiance to thy conquering powers.

Where hast thou been this live-long age
That from my birth till now,
Thou never cloudst one thought engage,
Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage
That made it all its humble feebles know?

Where wert thou, oh, malicious sprite,
When shining honour did invite?
When interest called, then thou wert shy,
Nor to my aid one kind propension brought,
Nor wouldst inspire one tender thought,
When Princes at my feet did lie.

When thou couldst mix ambition with my joy,
Thou peevish phantom thou wert nice and coy,
Not beauty could invite thee then
Nor all the hearts of lavish men!
Not all the powerful rhetoric of the tongue
Not sacred wit could charm thee on;
Not the soft play that lovers make,
Nor sigh could fan thee to a fire,
Not pleading tears, nor vows could thee awake,
Or warm the unformed something -- to desire.

Oft I've conjured thee to appear
By youth, by love, by all their powers,
Have searched and sought thee everywhere,
In silent groves, in lonely bowers:
On flowery beds where lovers wishing lie,
In sheltering woods where sighing maids
To their assigning shepherds hie,
And hide their bushes in the gloom of shades.
Yet there, even there, though youth assailed,
Where beauty prostrate lay and fortune wooed,
My heart insensible to neither bowed:
Thy lucky aid was wanting to prevail.

In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphere
But thou in crowds were stifled there,
Interest did all the loving business do,
Invites the youths and wins the virgins too.
Or if by chance some heart the empire own
(Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone.

Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate
Thy mighty force through every part,
What god, or human power did thee create
In me, till now, unfacile heart?
Art thou some welcome plague sent from above
In this dear form, this kind disguise?
Or the false offspring of mistaken love,
Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove,
With the bright piercing beauties of Lysander's eyes?

Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now;
And found to whom thou dost thy being owe,
'Tis thou the blushes dost impart,
For thee this languishment I wear,
'Tis thou that tremblest in my heart
When the dear shepherd does appear,
I faint, I die with pleasing pain,
My words intruding sighing break
When e'er I touch the charming swain
When e'er I gaze, when e'er I speak.
Thy conscious fire is mingled with my love,
As in the sanctified abodes
Misguided worshippers approve
The mixing idol with their gods.
In vain, alas! in vain I strive
With errors, which my soul do please and vex,
For superstitions will survive,
Purer religion to perplex.

Oh! tell me you, philosophers, in love,
That can its burning feverish fits control,
By what strange arts you cure the soul,
And the fierce calenture remove?

Tell me, ye fair ones, that exchange desire,
How 'tis you hid the kindling fire.
Oh! would you but confess the truth,
It is not real virtue makes you nice:
But when you do resist the pressing youth,
'Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the virgin ice.
And while your young adorers lie
All languishing and hopeless at your feet,
Raising new trophies to your chastity,
Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet?
How you suppress the rising sighs,
And the soft yielding soul that wishes in your eyes?
While to th' admiring crowd you nice are found;
Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound
Informs you, all your virtue's but a cheat
And honour but a false disguise,
Your modesty a necessary bait
To gain the dull repute of being wise.

Deceive the foolish world -- deceive it on,
And veil your passions in your pride;
But now I've found your feebles on my own,
From me the needful fraud you cannot hide.
Though 'tis a mighty power must move
The soul to this degree of love,
And though with virtue I the world perplex,
Lysander finds the weakness of my sex,
So Helen while from Theseus' arms she fled,
To charming Paris yields her heart and bed.

JOURNAL: A Night at the Movies

THE CINEMA
Over the holidays, in search of novelty, I decided that I would go to see a Chinese musical (subtitled in Korean). The muscial, oddly enough, was phonetically spelled, in Korean, as "Perhaps Love," and had been heavliy advertised on Korean television. My curiosity was piqued, so I made my first foray into solo movie going.

I entered the theatre and discovered that the lobby was packed. Not only that, but there were many, many lines to choose from. There was an autoticket machine (all in Korean), a line to the pick-up window, and a "take a number" system pertaining to one of the numerous line-choices. There were electronic marquees with movie times listed, as well as a number flashing next ot the time in green. When the number got below ten, it turned red. I finally figured out that this number corresponded to the number of tickets left. Very clever; they should adopt this in the United States to save a lot of headache.

With some trepidation, I approached the "Information" counter. The "Information" counters in most businesses has the title spelled out in English, however most of the time all of the written material is in Korean. It is also the luck of the draw as to whether the clerk will speak or understand English. This one did, and was able to point me to the right, and as it turned out, shortest, line.

I got my ticket quickly and cheaply. My seat row and number were clearly printed on my ticket, and the auditorium number was boldly marked so as not to leave any doubt. Apparently in Korea, they use the European system of cinema seating. I wandered around aimlessly in my attempt to find the auditorium; there were no obvious signs, and it was only fifteen minutes until showtime. I found a "you are here" map, but it was, of course, in Korean. I saw the numbers corresponding to the auditoriums, and went down a narrow hallway where people were seated, apparently waiting for their movies. The doors were not marked, but I could hear movie sounds from behind the doors. I counted off seven doors from the front, and sat down, waiting.

As I waited, one movie let out, and the crowd spilled into the hallway. Something seemed a little weird, so I tentatively asked an intellectual-looking woman in English where my movie was. She looked at my ticket, then pointed me down the hall and back where I came from. I followed her directions; in the lobby, I then noticed a group of people waiting on a "pretentious modern art" staircase built for no apparent purpose other than sitting. There was a woman taking tickets at the top, but strangely, no line. Now feeling like a complete idiot, I cautiously approached the ticket lady. She politely turned me away, and pointed to the electronic sign above her head. The sign finally flashed my movie five minutes before it began, and in an orderly fashion, we filed in.

The seats were wonderfully cushioned and large, with just one minor flaw - they were spaced like airline seats. Yes, I am talking knee-cap smacking, leg room crunching, airline seats. There was even the half an inch reclining room!

After the movie, in orderly fashion, we filed out. The seats by the window in the outer hallway offered a breathtaking view of the Olympic Bridge and the Han River. The movie had been beautiful and romantic, even if I had to go by myself.

NOTES: The SOS Kitchen

I was going to blog about going to the movies in Korea, but I will save that for the next time.I have just had a very close call and I am pretty shaky. You see, Emerald Lady has discovered that she really cannot cook. The fresh burn marks and soot around the stove can heartily attest to this. Actually, I think it is God's sense of humor; I think the Sign was a little excessive, but it drove home the point. It all started with dead chickens.

On Monday, I left work at about 9:05 p.m., and hailed a taxi to get to E-mart before it closed at 10:00p.m. E-mart is Korea's answer to K-mart, but with a reasonably large supermarket in the basement. I don't like going there, as it is always crowded and a little messy, but it is cheap and close by. The supermarket is divided much like American supermarkets - dairy, meat, etc, but a little more pigeon-holed. Added to this are oversolicitous salespeople at each station, hawking their goods. They tend to be a little aggressive, so I have to shop by stealth to avoid notice; this is not easy, as I glow-in-the-dark. I just wait until they are busy with someone else, and take quick sneak peaks to find my item. But I digress.

I had to go get some other necessities, so I started on the fifth floor to get camera batteries. No one would wait on me. I moved on to the coffeemakers, and found one I really liked, but there were no more for sale. The "We are closing" message began blaring, so I quickly marched down to the market. I looked over towards the meat department and saw an opening. With elbows akimbo and eyes peeled, I bowled over to the poultry section. I saw ONE package of chicken breasts left, grabbed it, and then got in line. As I stood in line, I had second thoughts about my chickens. There was no noticeable date on the package, and in Korea they do not keep meat very cold in the markets. It looked ok, and didn't smell "off," but I was still a little nervous...I bought the meat anyway (for 5500 Won) and put it immediately in the freezer when I got home.

Tonight, I decided to cook it. I took the meat out, thawed it most of the way, and cubed it. The meat was two days old when I got it (marked Jan 14, 2006 under the wrapper) and, although there were some blood spots, I decided it was probably all right. I let the meat thaw some more in some water as I chopped up some garlic, ginger root, carrots and broccoli. I turned the gas burner on what I presumed to be medium because my recipe said to make the oil hot. I had used the recipe before, but it had taken forever to cook the chicken because the oil had not been hot enough. I tested the oil frequently until it was hot but not boiling. I should explain that my gas range is always a mystery, and has no markings for low, medium, or high. I usually cook things that BOIL, so it is generally not a problem. I stupidly assumed that the middle of the nob was medium. Therein was my mistake.

When the oil was reasonably hot, I tossed the chicken/garlic/ginger combo in the pan, and KABLAAMMM!!!!! Well, it wasn't quite kablaam, because I stepped back when a small flame suddenly appeared in the pan. I turned the heat off, and as I stepped away and went for the cupboard, hoping I had some salt, I heard a popping noise and then KABLAAMMMMM! Two foot..three foot..four foot tall flames shot out of the pan and up into the air in a volatile, but fortunately narrow, column. Oil was spattering everywhere, even landing on some utility bills lying three feet away on my little kitchen sideboard. Fortunately, they did not ignite. As I stared in horror at what I had done, a strange mixture of several thoughts went through my mind in that instant:

A) Will John (the office manager) dock my paycheck for setting my kitchen on fire?
B) What a stupid way to die.
C) Should I wake up Scott (my coworker/neighbor) and get help?
D) What a lousy wife I would make.
E) At least my hair is not on fire.

The fire extinguished itself very quickly without my help, which was quite fortunate, as I did not have salt or baking soda on hand. On reflection, it was probably the water from the not-quite-thawed out chicken that caused the fire. I stupidly though that since oil and water didn't mix, it wouldn't be a problem. Guess I was wrong.

I took the pan off the burner when I thought it was safe. Being Teflon, it is, of course, not damaged at all. There are soot stains on my walls, ceiling, and cupboards, but I think they will come off easily. The oil spatter, however, is going to be a bit of a headache to scape down. I considered trying to cook the meat again (which had never even made it to the pan, just the water), but decided that this was God's way of telling me the chicken was bad. Accordingly, I threw the whole mess in a recycling bag and put it out on the street.

So, the moral of the story? I don't know exactly what it is. Here are my NOTES:

I am a twenty-nine year old woman who cannot, for the life of her, master range-top cooking. Everything I make is overcooked or undercooked. All the cooking I know well requires an oven or a microwave, neither of which I have. Korea is a modern country in many ways, but the ajumas hold to their own ways of doing things, and I cannot discover the mysterious ways of coping with tempermental ranges. I have NEVER had to cook with oil; I always used PAM or margarine, neither of which are easily obtainable here.

Why can I not cook? Why did I never learn homestyle cooking? There is very little in the way of processed food here, so it is back to basics. But what exactly are the basics? Even in Home Ec. classes we took "shortcuts." This is a failing of my generation. I found myself silently resenting the time it took to cut up garlic, carrots, and ginger, then laughed at myself for being so lazy. Well, maybe lazy isn't the word - I had worked a full and difficult day (looking after other people's kids) and just want something to be "easy." How do soccer moms do it?

Items B and D really rankle with me, because it is true that, for better or worse, women have to cook. I hate cooking, hate cleaning, and hate doing housework. I would rather be out in the world among people. I have never lived with a man, but those who have tell me they do all of these things and more...without even a ring sometimes for their efforts. Even with a ring, the thought is still distasteful. I guess it is necessary though. I don't know...

I do try to improve my cooking skills in fits and starts, but this one could have killed me! Trooper that I am (some would call it obstinate), I was all ready to try again...until I saw all the oil splatter, and decided oil and natural gas from my range probably were not a very good combo either. So, I am sitting here, eating an orange, a few pieces of candy from my "visitor" jar, and contemplating getting up to make a PBJ...How pathetic, I sound like a bachelor!

I still have the untouched broccoli and carrots in my refrigerator, so tomorrow, I plan to go and get some FRESH chicken to try again (after I degrease the range). I think I will buy a microwave this weekend, expensive though it may be.

So, any of you church ladies (or gentlemen?) out there reading my blog know how to cook with oil without setting the kitchen on fire? I could use some good advice or basic recipes that can be made (without margarine or PAM) on a glorified hotplate...

JOURNAL: New Year's Eve Part II

The next day was December 31st, and I decided to show my brother some of the sights around town. Even though it is against my principles to cater to tourist traps,
I took him to Itaewon to get his custom-tailored suit made. He first bought a nice leather jacket, which he believed made him look like a 1970s mobster (it did, especially with his black beanie!). The lady at the shop got it altered for him, and gave him a good deal because she thought he was cute.

At the tailor shop we chose, the tailor turned out to be exceptionally good. He broguht out a beatiful grey wool-cashmere blend fabric from deep within a pile of lengths; the fact that he did this told me that he really liked us, because true artists are picky as to who they will sell their services to. The quality of fabric was truly remarkable. He then called in the ladies, who had great fun measuring my brother's broad shoulders and large girth. One of the ladies playfully lay her head against his back, saying, "Oooo, so strong!" My brother is completely oblivious to this sort of thing, but I was highly amused at the flutter he made with the ladies. If he had played his cards right, I later thought, he might have gotten an even better discount.

We then went to the U.S. Army Base to check out the comissary. We bought Cheerios and that was about it. We then headed towards Seoul Tower, which had just re-opened. We hiked up a long hill from the subway, and stood at the foot of the cable car lift. The line was very long and slow-moving, and we fast grew impatient. I saw some paved stairs cut into the mountain (Mt. Namsan), and as they appeared to lead straight to the Tower, foolishly suggested we take them up the mountain. What the brush and trees hid was hundreds and hundreds of stairs, switch-backs, and steep inclines. It took about an hour to reach the top, and by that time, my knee was in bad shape. The wait to go up the elevator turned out to be an hour and a half, so we wearily resolved to come back another day.

We stopped at a small hof with a lovely view on our way down. The food was a rather interesting blend of East meets West. The "pork cutlet" was heavily breaded with a ketchup sauce carelessly sprinkled over it. The salad was drowning in an interesting blend of mustard and thousand island dressing, and included lettuce, cherries, and some sort of cabbage. There was also the ubiquitous kimchi.

We then saw that the line for returning by cable car was shorter. We took it down the mountain side, even though it was dark and we couldn't see much. We returned to my apartment and rested before the big shindig downtown...

At 9:15 p.m., we took the subway to Jongguk where the festivities were being held. It is Seoul tradition for certain citizens, elected by the city, to ring the Jonggak bell. It is a large heavy bell that has been restored and replaced where it was before the Japanese tried to blow it up. The bell is hit from the side by an enormous battering ram; the ram is suspended by ropes from teh ceiling of the pagoda and guided by thirteen people to hit the bell. The bell is rung 33 times on the New Year because 33 is a lucky number. This is, for Seoul, Time Square and the drop of the ball.

As we walked through the underground, we saw to our dismay that there were police guarding all of the exits and not letting people pass. We walked and walked, and as we neared the last few exits, a noticeable smell of gunpowder permeated the hallways. I nervously wondered if someone had gotten "creative" with the firecrackers in the underground. Finally, they let us go out exit 12, and as we emerged, all hell broke loose.

As I peered through the heavy smoke and covered my nose, I saw shooting stars of fire exploding noisily in the air. I had never seen this type of firework before, and the imp that lives in the back of my head began singing "And the rocket's red glare/The bombs bursting in air." As soon as I could see clearly, I noticed that the shooting fire was coming from long sticks held in peoples' hands. There were thousands of people holding these noisy and dangerous toys, and I found myself dodging more than once. So what were these fire sticks? Well, they are items that have been banned in most places of the United States for many years (hence why I had never seen them). These, I learned, were Roman candles.

As I contemplated my new knowledge, I noticed that there were men hurriedly unloading boxes of these scary torches. No money appeared to be changing hands; I later learned that most of them were compliments of the Seoul Metropolitan Government! That shows an incredible trust in the public I think. Can you imagine that happening in New York, a smaller city? I began to relax when I realized that most people knew how to handle these things. No one got hurt that night, which, given the crush of people, is amazing. Then, a random stranger pressed one into my brother's hand and lit it! My brother hurriedly stuck it up in the air like he was the Statue of Liberty ,whereupon it began to emit fireballs at the sky. The man tried to give me one, but I absolutely refused to take it. He shrugged and handed it to his next victim ... a little kid.

There were large screens showing events near the bell itself, and, like an idiot, I joined the crowd watching the screen. I noted the police barricade, and drew closer. I got transfixed by the screen, then suddenly realized the crowd was moving and I was moving with it. My hands were, once again, pinned to my sides, and people began to press me in from all directions. I took a deep breath, girding myself for a battle to get out, and a disembodied arm slammed right into my belly. I exhaled in shock, and then panicked when I could't take anouther deep breath. I felt an increasingly intense pressure on my back, my sides, and my front as I battled for air and space. I couldn't see my feet or lower torso, as I am about average height for a Korean. I could only see ahead. I let the crowd carry me for awhile as my much taller brother battled to get me out of there. We came to the sidewalk, and I found the curb with my toe. I took a leap of faith and a blind guess as to how high the curb was, and only stumbled a little. Finally, I was free.

The fireworks were still going on over my head; even more people came as midnight approached. Some traditional drummers wove in and out of the less crowded areas, festively frolicking and banging their native drums. They were in street clothes, but the crowd enjoyed their antics. I recognized some of the drum beats and movements of the dance as being related to the Chinese New Year Dragon customs and wondered what the connection, if any, was.

At midnight, as expected, a great yell went up. The bell boomed loudly as REAL fireworks went off in the sky. Of course, the good citizens of Seoul had been saving the best for last, as millions of Roman candles reappeared and shot off their glory at the same time. The air was very thick and smoky; it was raining ash but it was as light as day. My brother shot excellent video footage of some of these incredible events (my camera batteries were dead, so the photos I have posted are from his camera).

We had surprisingly little trouble getting home, and collapsed the minute we entered the apartment.