After playing the siren on Friday, I was totally the opposite on saturday. I went to a bar with my friends and was painfully, hilariously, awkward about talking to a boy. The comment of the night?
"You can lead a horse to water, but we can't make him f*ck you."
Ha!
Sadly, I totally deserved it.
9.26.2010
9.25.2010
Whitening
I have discovered (fortunately, not the hard way) that all Korean beauty products have whitening in them. Virginia tipped me off - the lotion, the soap, sometimes even products at the spa - all contain bleach.
Bleach doesn't make me pretty. In makes me pink. Like, boiled shrimp pink.
So, I was more than a little distressed when I realized I've used up half of my supply of soap from home. I use bar soap instead of body wash, partially because most body washes dry my skin, and partially because I simply enjoy them more. I only brought 3 bars of cetaphil (for sensitive skin) thinking that I would branch out and try something new when I out.
Ha!
Bleach has nixed that little plan.
You can imagine, then, how I literally tripped over my chucks in joy when I saw a Lush store today in Seoul, where I happened to be wandering alone after a wild mis-communication with some new friends. I thought I had been stood up, so I took myself out to lunch to commiserate.
I stopped at an Italian restaurant, compelled indoors by the idea of bread and garlic. In the intimate restaurant, there was one other couple eating lunch, and only one waiter who promptly brought me a basket of (strangely black...) bread and olive oil. After I ordered, that is. Bread doesn't come free here.
Sigh.
Anyways.
I broke open the soft roll and pinched a small piece off with my fingers. I luxuriated in dipping it in the oil. Ah, bread, how I have missed you! I was nearly dizzy with the pleasure of eating it, away from the prying eyes and skinny bodies of my korean co-workers. I delicately dropped the bread onto my tongue, allowing it to melt slightly before slowly chewing.
That's when I noticed the waiter was watching me. Like, full out, stopped working and sat down, staring.
I was told, when I was 13, that I eat like a porn star. I was enjoying a bit of cake. Licking the frosting, nibbling the inside, chasing each crumb with the tip of tongue. I looked up to see one of my friends, completely flushed, avidly following each flick.
"stop eating like that!" she said.
And I did. I mean, it's a little embarrassing when you arouse your girlfriends over the table.
Normally, I don't eat like that unless I'm alone. But I forgot myself somewhere between dipping the bread and bringing to my mouth. After all, I wasn't actually with anyone.
Which also meant, I had no one to amuse me. No one but the waiter.
Suddenly, the desire to eat was matched by the desire to keep his attention. Did I, I wondered, still have the skill to flood someone's senses until their nerve endings hummed, just by eating?
I decided to find out.
I gave what is most likely the most convincing, and yet subtle, performance of enjoyment in my life. Nothing too over the top, mind you - no moaning or anything obvious. I just gave my food the minute attention that it deserved, tasting it slowly, savoring it, consuming it with delicate sensuality.
The waiter could NOT look away.
I sipped my water about every 30 seconds. Each time I put down the cup, I felt him tense a little more, until I (finally) finished it, when he burst over to my table, water jug at the ready.
I almost burst out laughing and ruined the whole thing at that point. I managed to subdue my laughter in a secret smile, which I flashed at him, with thanks.
He looked like he might just keel over.
I chuckled softly into my linguine.
Of course, it wasn't all about him. I was savoring the garlic in the sauce, the freshness of the shrimp, the subtle hint of lemon in the water. I allowed my tongue to puzzle over flavor and texture as I slowly - oh, so slowly - ate my meal.
The waiter had completely stopped working.
I nearly laughed again.
I played this way for about 30 minutes, until the urge to giggle nearly overwhelmed me. I was full anyways, so I went to pay.
After I handed my money over, he asked me, as if he couldn't help himself:
"Was it good?"
My answer came out a little breathy. Mostly, because I was trying not laugh again. "Oh, yes." I said. I smiled one last time, then left with his eyes still on me.
The meal actually wasn't that good, but he was an excellent audience, and a nice sop to my ego for having been abandoned. The giggly feeling last about ten minutes before I was bored and sulky again.
Then, I saw Lush.
In a further effort to boost my spirits, I indulged myself by purchasing a 200g bar of sea vegetable soap. The salesman looked hurt.
"Not 500?" He said. "Then you get a discount. Today's the last day."
Considering that the soap bar was as big as my fist, and cost about $15.00, there was no way I was going to buy DOUBLE just to get 10% off. No thanks, those numbers don't sound good to me.
I was 5 steps out the door when I doubled back.
"Does this have whitening in it?" I asked the only English speaking sales guy.
He shook his head, sadly. "No," he said.
THANK GOODNESS. Yep, I said that out loud. He laughed, and waved goodbye to me as I left.
Now, my whole bathroom smells like sea vegetable. And lime. And lavender.
In a word? Delicious.
Bleach doesn't make me pretty. In makes me pink. Like, boiled shrimp pink.
So, I was more than a little distressed when I realized I've used up half of my supply of soap from home. I use bar soap instead of body wash, partially because most body washes dry my skin, and partially because I simply enjoy them more. I only brought 3 bars of cetaphil (for sensitive skin) thinking that I would branch out and try something new when I out.
Ha!
Bleach has nixed that little plan.
You can imagine, then, how I literally tripped over my chucks in joy when I saw a Lush store today in Seoul, where I happened to be wandering alone after a wild mis-communication with some new friends. I thought I had been stood up, so I took myself out to lunch to commiserate.
I stopped at an Italian restaurant, compelled indoors by the idea of bread and garlic. In the intimate restaurant, there was one other couple eating lunch, and only one waiter who promptly brought me a basket of (strangely black...) bread and olive oil. After I ordered, that is. Bread doesn't come free here.
Sigh.
Anyways.
I broke open the soft roll and pinched a small piece off with my fingers. I luxuriated in dipping it in the oil. Ah, bread, how I have missed you! I was nearly dizzy with the pleasure of eating it, away from the prying eyes and skinny bodies of my korean co-workers. I delicately dropped the bread onto my tongue, allowing it to melt slightly before slowly chewing.
That's when I noticed the waiter was watching me. Like, full out, stopped working and sat down, staring.
I was told, when I was 13, that I eat like a porn star. I was enjoying a bit of cake. Licking the frosting, nibbling the inside, chasing each crumb with the tip of tongue. I looked up to see one of my friends, completely flushed, avidly following each flick.
"stop eating like that!" she said.
And I did. I mean, it's a little embarrassing when you arouse your girlfriends over the table.
Normally, I don't eat like that unless I'm alone. But I forgot myself somewhere between dipping the bread and bringing to my mouth. After all, I wasn't actually with anyone.
Which also meant, I had no one to amuse me. No one but the waiter.
Suddenly, the desire to eat was matched by the desire to keep his attention. Did I, I wondered, still have the skill to flood someone's senses until their nerve endings hummed, just by eating?
I decided to find out.
I gave what is most likely the most convincing, and yet subtle, performance of enjoyment in my life. Nothing too over the top, mind you - no moaning or anything obvious. I just gave my food the minute attention that it deserved, tasting it slowly, savoring it, consuming it with delicate sensuality.
The waiter could NOT look away.
I sipped my water about every 30 seconds. Each time I put down the cup, I felt him tense a little more, until I (finally) finished it, when he burst over to my table, water jug at the ready.
I almost burst out laughing and ruined the whole thing at that point. I managed to subdue my laughter in a secret smile, which I flashed at him, with thanks.
He looked like he might just keel over.
I chuckled softly into my linguine.
Of course, it wasn't all about him. I was savoring the garlic in the sauce, the freshness of the shrimp, the subtle hint of lemon in the water. I allowed my tongue to puzzle over flavor and texture as I slowly - oh, so slowly - ate my meal.
The waiter had completely stopped working.
I nearly laughed again.
I played this way for about 30 minutes, until the urge to giggle nearly overwhelmed me. I was full anyways, so I went to pay.
After I handed my money over, he asked me, as if he couldn't help himself:
"Was it good?"
My answer came out a little breathy. Mostly, because I was trying not laugh again. "Oh, yes." I said. I smiled one last time, then left with his eyes still on me.
The meal actually wasn't that good, but he was an excellent audience, and a nice sop to my ego for having been abandoned. The giggly feeling last about ten minutes before I was bored and sulky again.
Then, I saw Lush.
In a further effort to boost my spirits, I indulged myself by purchasing a 200g bar of sea vegetable soap. The salesman looked hurt.
"Not 500?" He said. "Then you get a discount. Today's the last day."
Considering that the soap bar was as big as my fist, and cost about $15.00, there was no way I was going to buy DOUBLE just to get 10% off. No thanks, those numbers don't sound good to me.
I was 5 steps out the door when I doubled back.
"Does this have whitening in it?" I asked the only English speaking sales guy.
He shook his head, sadly. "No," he said.
THANK GOODNESS. Yep, I said that out loud. He laughed, and waved goodbye to me as I left.
Now, my whole bathroom smells like sea vegetable. And lime. And lavender.
In a word? Delicious.
9.24.2010
9.23.2010
Hilarious new vocabulary I have learned from other expats
Blasian - Black Asian. As in, "Wow, you have blasians at your school?" Or "why would anyone raise a blasian in this country?"
Kigga - Korean.... As in, "I wasn't really looking. I just saw that they were kiggas and walked on." Or "My computer is kigga-rigged. To open the cd-drive, I have use a paperclip."
Konglish - Korean English. As in, "If you don't know the word, just add "uh" end. Ask for "Size-uh, small-uh?" Or, "You really need to learn how to read. Then you'll see that a lot of things are written in Konglish. Like, cheese, is cheese-uh."
Kigga - Korean.... As in, "I wasn't really looking. I just saw that they were kiggas and walked on." Or "My computer is kigga-rigged. To open the cd-drive, I have use a paperclip."
Konglish - Korean English. As in, "If you don't know the word, just add "uh" end. Ask for "Size-uh, small-uh?" Or, "You really need to learn how to read. Then you'll see that a lot of things are written in Konglish. Like, cheese, is cheese-uh."
9.22.2010
Visit to Changgyeong-gung (a palace in Seoul)
graduated sidewalks for royals, advisers and servants.
The throne room (which felt...air conditioned? It was strange.)
And the ladies with parasols. All the women carry them here to prevent cancerous moles. These women look so happy, I could not resist taking their picture. Meanwhile, I was getting pleasant roasted, and noticeably darker every 5 minutes.
9.21.2010
Mexican food in Bucheon, Take 1
Shortly after I met Virginia, she invited me along to dinner with some of her friends. I accepted, assuming that we would be going to a korean restaurant where a full meal costs about $6.00 and you don't have to tip. However, it turns out that we were on the search for a Mexican restaurant that the friend of a friend had told Virginia's friend was right in our neighborhood, only a 5 minute walk from our apartment building.
Mexican food in Korea?
The idea sounded less than promising to me. After living in Boston with my friend, Miss Texas Optimism, my standards for Mexican food have graduated from 99 cent chalupas at Taco Bell. Not that I'm above a cheap chalupa - it's just that now, I know the difference between it a burrito with spicy black beans, lime cilantro rice, cheese and homemade guacalome, wrapped in fresh tortilla and offered up with equally fresh torilla chips and salsa.
Considering that the only thing remotely American that I have seen in my neighborhood is a chain fastfood place called Lotteria (which is like McDonalds before the lawsuit and the enormous quality reforms. Scratch that, Lotteria is worse than that), I was not really believing that good Mexican was just around the corner.
Whatever, I'm game, I went anyway.
The second our little group stepped out of the elevator and onto the first floor into a large waiting room decorate with marble floors and chinzy mozart, I felt a curl of dread in the bottom of my stomach.
What is this place?
Large family groups were shuffling around, staring at us. My feet, dressed only in flip flops, felt uncomfortably naked next to the parade of heels that clicked by us. We went in to what turned out to be a buffet.
A huge, high-school-cafeteria-on-world-diversity-day type of buffet, complete with over-fried general tao chicken, and colorful desserts that look amazing, but only from a distance.
I was, in a word, horrified.
Bravely, I went from station to station, sampling the food. I ate some bastard-child paella and general tao chicken that was pretty much just tough breading and spicy sauce. There was also bland potato soup, sweet and sour fried shrimp which made it onto my plate but not into my mouth, and sushi that would have been ashamed to sit next to the take home selection in Stop N' Shop.
I soldiered through it, not for pleasure or politeness' sake, but because I, unfortunately, checked the price before I started eating: $20. Ok, I know it's not that much. But considering that I can go and stuff myself silly at a Korean barbecue restaurant with delicious meat cooked right at my table and accompanied by more side dishes than I know how to use for the previously mentioned $6.00, I felt obligated to eat my way through the sodium and sugar until I got my money's worth.
Not to worry - I didn't suffer silently. Every else was as I shocked as I was at how terrible - and terribly unmexican - the food was. In in the end, we all loaded up on chocolate frozen yogurt and coffee before leaving, because they were both mercifully inoffensive to the tongue. Nothing like ice cream to put a band aid on a wounded soul.
That night, I made up my mind to give up on American food entirely. Of course, I promptly tossed that resolution out the window the next time Virginia invited me out to dinner. But more on that later.
Mexican food in Korea?
The idea sounded less than promising to me. After living in Boston with my friend, Miss Texas Optimism, my standards for Mexican food have graduated from 99 cent chalupas at Taco Bell. Not that I'm above a cheap chalupa - it's just that now, I know the difference between it a burrito with spicy black beans, lime cilantro rice, cheese and homemade guacalome, wrapped in fresh tortilla and offered up with equally fresh torilla chips and salsa.
Considering that the only thing remotely American that I have seen in my neighborhood is a chain fastfood place called Lotteria (which is like McDonalds before the lawsuit and the enormous quality reforms. Scratch that, Lotteria is worse than that), I was not really believing that good Mexican was just around the corner.
Whatever, I'm game, I went anyway.
The second our little group stepped out of the elevator and onto the first floor into a large waiting room decorate with marble floors and chinzy mozart, I felt a curl of dread in the bottom of my stomach.
What is this place?
Large family groups were shuffling around, staring at us. My feet, dressed only in flip flops, felt uncomfortably naked next to the parade of heels that clicked by us. We went in to what turned out to be a buffet.
A huge, high-school-cafeteria-on-world-diversity-day type of buffet, complete with over-fried general tao chicken, and colorful desserts that look amazing, but only from a distance.
I was, in a word, horrified.
Bravely, I went from station to station, sampling the food. I ate some bastard-child paella and general tao chicken that was pretty much just tough breading and spicy sauce. There was also bland potato soup, sweet and sour fried shrimp which made it onto my plate but not into my mouth, and sushi that would have been ashamed to sit next to the take home selection in Stop N' Shop.
I soldiered through it, not for pleasure or politeness' sake, but because I, unfortunately, checked the price before I started eating: $20. Ok, I know it's not that much. But considering that I can go and stuff myself silly at a Korean barbecue restaurant with delicious meat cooked right at my table and accompanied by more side dishes than I know how to use for the previously mentioned $6.00, I felt obligated to eat my way through the sodium and sugar until I got my money's worth.
Not to worry - I didn't suffer silently. Every else was as I shocked as I was at how terrible - and terribly unmexican - the food was. In in the end, we all loaded up on chocolate frozen yogurt and coffee before leaving, because they were both mercifully inoffensive to the tongue. Nothing like ice cream to put a band aid on a wounded soul.
That night, I made up my mind to give up on American food entirely. Of course, I promptly tossed that resolution out the window the next time Virginia invited me out to dinner. But more on that later.
9.20.2010
Home, Sweet Bucheon
cheese gimbap, a new obsession
My apartment
Bucheon
Taken at a park, near my apartment
Random petrified wood statues, shaped like eggs. (in the park)
The street, near my apartment
The night lights of Bucheon.
9.19.2010
How I made my first black friend in Korea
My first week here, I didn't know anyone except my co-workers. I went to work, came home, and shopped for dinner groceries at Homeplus (the nearest catch-all department store) with Ghey, before going back to my 12th floor apartment and passing out. Jetlag, in combination with a shrinking fear of being invasively stared at, kept me close to home.
On my way home with a bag full of groceries, I turned the corner towards my apartment building and heard:
English.
I looked up and OMG OHTHANKGOODNESS there's a black girl!
I have not been so excited to see someone EVER. She saw me staring, ended her cell phone conversation and we started chatting.
"Hi! I'm Virginia!"
I didn't actually cry when I met her, but to say I was weak with happiness would not have been an understatement.
This may all sound totally silly, but Korea is pretty much a homogenous country, with very few foreigners. Everyone looks like everyone else, except me who looks dark, and tall. Oh yeah, and I wear ugly shoes. So to see Virginia took a huge edge off of the loneliness of moving halfway across the world.
It gets better - Virginia was looking for a new place to live! I showed her my apartment, and one week later she moved into my building, one floor below mine.
On my way home with a bag full of groceries, I turned the corner towards my apartment building and heard:
English.
I looked up and OMG OHTHANKGOODNESS there's a black girl!
I have not been so excited to see someone EVER. She saw me staring, ended her cell phone conversation and we started chatting.
"Hi! I'm Virginia!"
I didn't actually cry when I met her, but to say I was weak with happiness would not have been an understatement.
This may all sound totally silly, but Korea is pretty much a homogenous country, with very few foreigners. Everyone looks like everyone else, except me who looks dark, and tall. Oh yeah, and I wear ugly shoes. So to see Virginia took a huge edge off of the loneliness of moving halfway across the world.
It gets better - Virginia was looking for a new place to live! I showed her my apartment, and one week later she moved into my building, one floor below mine.
9.18.2010
Teacher, I love you
Teaching is, without a doubt, the most hilarious job I have ever performed. I feel a nearly physical shock over how much fun it is to mess with kids. Four times a day, I clown in front of a captive audience that has to keep in line, or else, because I say so. I am older and bigger, and OH YEAH, I'm in charge.
My OCS frickin' LOVES teaching.
But before I discovered the love, I went through an unhealthy amount of fear. Let's rewind backwards a few months to when I first arrived in Korea.
After 17 brutal hours of flight, I was dropped off at my apartment building at 6:00 AM. I met my co-teacher Ghey at 8:00 AM, after a shower and just enough to work myself into a panic.
Why, OMG WHY did I do this?
In the few minutes before Ghey arrived, I was struck by my enormous under qualification to be a teacher. My first meetings with Ghey didn't do anything to make me feel better.
First bitter pill to swallow: There is NO TRAINING.
Of course, I asked about training in my interview, and was told there would be one. How was I to know that by "training" my interviewer meant "ow:rientation"? If you are thinking of coming to South Korea, let me tell you right now: they just throw you in the classroom, cold turkey.
Oh my holy lord.
Second pill: By some stroke of luck, a TEFL certification was slipped into my file. Let's be clear - I am not TEFL certified. But some girl with the same first name as me who lives in Chicago, is.
Fortunately, once the confusion was cleared away, Ghey threw me a bone. She gave me a day to observe the classes, before I had to teach them. That, along with the text book curriculum guide, made it easier to step in front of the class the next day.
I started with the 6th graders.
After my day of observation, I sat down with my curriculum guide and hashed out a lesson plan...in about 2.5 hours. The class itself only lasted for 40 minutes, but it took me all that time to work out exactly what I was going to say.
Yes, I wrote it out line for line, for that first class.
Can you blame me, with 6th graders? People between the ages of 12 and 18 can be brutal. I knew that if I didn't win them over with this first class, I would be that lame English teacher that everybody hates. So, to avoid that, I over prepared.
I prepared myself, too.
Do you remember that age? I was probably at the height of my judginess right around then. If a teacher didn't brush her hair, had on a stupid shirt, smelled fun, or had cabbage in her teeth, I lost all respect for her. So I dressed to kill in a little black wrap dress and funky jewelry. I wore perfume - a step I usually save for special nights out. I wore make up, heels, the works. When I strutted into class at 9:00 AM, there was only one sound:
Whoa.
That's right. Teacher has entered the classroom.
Then, class began. And the rest was gravy, baby. These kids were little smart alecs, but all it took was the threat of being called to the front of the room to be a volunteer/victim to shut down unwanted chatter. I took advantage of every blank face, every snicker, to call on my students. I keep them on their toes, and make lots of funny faces. Also, I am unable to be serious for more than 2 minutes at a time.
Giving me tendency towards clowning, and the fact that I am the darkest face in school, I quickly became little miss popularity - everyone says "Hello, teacher!" as I walk by. After my first week, a girl walked right up to me and said, "Teacher, I love you."
Kiddo, I love you right back.
My OCS frickin' LOVES teaching.
But before I discovered the love, I went through an unhealthy amount of fear. Let's rewind backwards a few months to when I first arrived in Korea.
After 17 brutal hours of flight, I was dropped off at my apartment building at 6:00 AM. I met my co-teacher Ghey at 8:00 AM, after a shower and just enough to work myself into a panic.
Why, OMG WHY did I do this?
In the few minutes before Ghey arrived, I was struck by my enormous under qualification to be a teacher. My first meetings with Ghey didn't do anything to make me feel better.
First bitter pill to swallow: There is NO TRAINING.
Of course, I asked about training in my interview, and was told there would be one. How was I to know that by "training" my interviewer meant "ow:rientation"? If you are thinking of coming to South Korea, let me tell you right now: they just throw you in the classroom, cold turkey.
Oh my holy lord.
Second pill: By some stroke of luck, a TEFL certification was slipped into my file. Let's be clear - I am not TEFL certified. But some girl with the same first name as me who lives in Chicago, is.
Fortunately, once the confusion was cleared away, Ghey threw me a bone. She gave me a day to observe the classes, before I had to teach them. That, along with the text book curriculum guide, made it easier to step in front of the class the next day.
I started with the 6th graders.
After my day of observation, I sat down with my curriculum guide and hashed out a lesson plan...in about 2.5 hours. The class itself only lasted for 40 minutes, but it took me all that time to work out exactly what I was going to say.
Yes, I wrote it out line for line, for that first class.
Can you blame me, with 6th graders? People between the ages of 12 and 18 can be brutal. I knew that if I didn't win them over with this first class, I would be that lame English teacher that everybody hates. So, to avoid that, I over prepared.
I prepared myself, too.
Do you remember that age? I was probably at the height of my judginess right around then. If a teacher didn't brush her hair, had on a stupid shirt, smelled fun, or had cabbage in her teeth, I lost all respect for her. So I dressed to kill in a little black wrap dress and funky jewelry. I wore perfume - a step I usually save for special nights out. I wore make up, heels, the works. When I strutted into class at 9:00 AM, there was only one sound:
Whoa.
That's right. Teacher has entered the classroom.
Then, class began. And the rest was gravy, baby. These kids were little smart alecs, but all it took was the threat of being called to the front of the room to be a volunteer/victim to shut down unwanted chatter. I took advantage of every blank face, every snicker, to call on my students. I keep them on their toes, and make lots of funny faces. Also, I am unable to be serious for more than 2 minutes at a time.
Giving me tendency towards clowning, and the fact that I am the darkest face in school, I quickly became little miss popularity - everyone says "Hello, teacher!" as I walk by. After my first week, a girl walked right up to me and said, "Teacher, I love you."
Kiddo, I love you right back.
Hellooooo, internet!
Today I bought a computer! Woohoo! Yesterday was my first payday (I get paid monthly) and I celebrated it by buying myself a smartphone and a new laptop. Currently, I am sponging internet off some random source. I have internet access in my apartment, but it's on hold, and will be until after the week-long thanksgiving holiday when the Korean world starts turning again.
Hopefully, this connection is strong enough to carry me through the next week!
Hopefully, this connection is strong enough to carry me through the next week!
9.09.2010
Korean toilets: the don't ask don't tell policy
On my first day of school, in between observing second and third period 6th grade classes, I ran to the bathroom. I pushed back the door of one of the stalls and found...
a hole in the ground.
Oh Lordy, not again.
I had my fill of hole-in-the-ground style toilets 4 years ago, when I visited Morocco. I stared at the plumbing and tried to decide if I had to pee badly enough to squat in my dress and heels, and risk the humbling experience of squirting liquids on myself and the floor.
Gosh darn it! I had to pee so bad.
I'll spare you the details of that little venture. Let's just say, I resolved no to go to the bathroom at work anymore. In addition to the hole-in-the-ground, there was a toilet paper basket next to it, that I shuddered to use. In morocco, one had to use the toilet-paper basket for used papers, because the plumbing couldn't handle any extra sewage.
I threw the papers in anyway. Also, I resolved to keep throwing in papers until I 1) clogged a toilet and had to run away and pretend a student had done it or 2) someone somehow discovered my delinquency, and told me to stop.
I have no idea how scenario 2 would come about, but still.
As it turns out, there is a western style toilet in each bathroom and thank goodness, because I simply cannot be expected to go without a bathroom for 8 hours. Yikes!
The western style toilet is the handicapped stall. My handicap is that I don't want to squat on the ground in work clothes. Or, you know, ever.
There is a small toilet paper basket in the handicap stall too, which I refuse to ask about. However, I think it might be for throwing away extra papers, if you grab too much. Because, oh yeah, I almost forgot, there is no toilet paper in the stalls.
Chew on that one for a minute.
The toilet paper, if you can believe this, is in a dispenser (yes, ONE dispenser) hanging on the wall outside of the stalls.
Le sigh.
One thing that's nifty about the bathrooms is the soap. A soap bar is suspended from a small handle, and you rub it down (which to mind is a little too sexual for grade school students, but whatevs). This prevents having gross soap gunk everywhere, which is pretty neat.
Oh wait, one more thing. The door.
The bathroom door is always open. No, not unlocked. Open. Which is a little awkward for the girls' bathroom, but even MORE awkward for the boys bathroom.
I have seen several young men handling their business at the urinals. The tinkling catches my eye, and my head turn catches theirs. We have a moment of eye contact in which I try to pretend that I'm not utterly mortified to catch them peeing.
YIKES.
a hole in the ground.
Oh Lordy, not again.
I had my fill of hole-in-the-ground style toilets 4 years ago, when I visited Morocco. I stared at the plumbing and tried to decide if I had to pee badly enough to squat in my dress and heels, and risk the humbling experience of squirting liquids on myself and the floor.
Gosh darn it! I had to pee so bad.
I'll spare you the details of that little venture. Let's just say, I resolved no to go to the bathroom at work anymore. In addition to the hole-in-the-ground, there was a toilet paper basket next to it, that I shuddered to use. In morocco, one had to use the toilet-paper basket for used papers, because the plumbing couldn't handle any extra sewage.
I threw the papers in anyway. Also, I resolved to keep throwing in papers until I 1) clogged a toilet and had to run away and pretend a student had done it or 2) someone somehow discovered my delinquency, and told me to stop.
I have no idea how scenario 2 would come about, but still.
As it turns out, there is a western style toilet in each bathroom and thank goodness, because I simply cannot be expected to go without a bathroom for 8 hours. Yikes!
The western style toilet is the handicapped stall. My handicap is that I don't want to squat on the ground in work clothes. Or, you know, ever.
There is a small toilet paper basket in the handicap stall too, which I refuse to ask about. However, I think it might be for throwing away extra papers, if you grab too much. Because, oh yeah, I almost forgot, there is no toilet paper in the stalls.
Chew on that one for a minute.
The toilet paper, if you can believe this, is in a dispenser (yes, ONE dispenser) hanging on the wall outside of the stalls.
Le sigh.
One thing that's nifty about the bathrooms is the soap. A soap bar is suspended from a small handle, and you rub it down (which to mind is a little too sexual for grade school students, but whatevs). This prevents having gross soap gunk everywhere, which is pretty neat.
Oh wait, one more thing. The door.
The bathroom door is always open. No, not unlocked. Open. Which is a little awkward for the girls' bathroom, but even MORE awkward for the boys bathroom.
I have seen several young men handling their business at the urinals. The tinkling catches my eye, and my head turn catches theirs. We have a moment of eye contact in which I try to pretend that I'm not utterly mortified to catch them peeing.
YIKES.
9.06.2010
Sorry for the lack of posts!
I'm sorry that I haven't been updating lately. I have lots to tell you! But I am still computer-less at home. So yeah...I've been using my work computer (no surprises there). Unfortunately, I actually have work to do! gasp! I know - I can't believe it either. But I have been trying to be a good little teacher, and focus on getting my lesson plans done during school hours.
This week, I will get some posts up! Come back again soon!
Mishi
This week, I will get some posts up! Come back again soon!
Mishi
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