Lazy Pig

I signed into my blogger account, and realized I hadn't posted anything since May. I'm lazy. I'm tired. I've been traveling. You know the excuses. But mainly, I wasn't inspired.

Thankfully, I just got some inspiration. From a pig.

See my new blog to see what I mean: http://adventurousappetite.blogspot.com/2010/08/pigs-in-heaven.html

I'll be using this site only, and will be updating weekly, so check it out :)

Some Things Never Change

I was already two drinks in when I broke the news to my girlfriends.

"I'm moving to Korea!" I blurted out.

Looks of shock and confusion filled my friends' faces. Then came the questions.

"When are you leaving?"

"Why Korea?"

"How long will you be gone?"

"What the hell are you going to do there?"

I took a deep breath. "Next month; Korea pays the most money of any foreign country; one year; I'll be teaching children English."

My friends bursted into laughter.

"Seriously, Jen?" said my friend Rita. "You're going to teach children? Do you even like children?"

I ordered another martini. What the hell am I getting myself into?

***

Seven months later, I'm happy to report that I'm doing just fine. Turns out, I actually like children. (And they like me too!)

I take my camera to work so I can post class photos on facebook. Colorful construction paper cards hang on my walls. I'm constantly telling stories about the funny things my kids say and do.

"Jen, I feel like I don't even know you anymore!" joked my friend April during a gchat conversation.

"Girl, I feel like I don't even know myself!" I joked back.

Then she asked if my biological clock was ticking.

"Fuck no!" I typed in bold letters.

"Now there's the Jen Stevens I know an love, LOL! So, any guys you wanna tell me about?"

Happy Easter!

Thinking back to the days before I left for my one-year contract, I was riddled with anxiety. I worried about the loneliness I would experience, the homesickness. I thought about the depression I suffered the last time I moved away from home--Thanksgiving spent crying on my bathroom floor; Easter in front of the fan, cooling down from a panic attack. Holidays were always the hardest.

But not here.

I spent Christmas with my roommate and a bunch of strangers in the Shenyang (China) airport, waiting for a plane that "got lost in bad weather" to arrive. Thanksgiving was spent with some fellow Americans, eating Turkey with chopsticks. I celebrated New Years in a reggae bar in Beijing with some friends I met in a hostel. And Easter was just another day on the couch.

Actually, I had no idea Sunday was even a holiday until I opened my mom's e-card. But, I guess living in Asia will do that to you.

Some Perspective

Five months after publication, I finally got my hands on the fall issue of blu, the luxury lifestyle magazine I used to work for in Tampa. Never one to do only one thing at a time, I was surfing the Internet while thumbing through the magazine's thick, glossy pages.

I had just come across a great ESL posting on how to teach unruly Korean kindergartners "Old MacDonald had a Farm" when I looked back at the magazine. I was at the society pages.

Pictures of Tampa Bay socialites in evening gowns, NFL players in swim trunks and DJs spinning records on rooftop terraces--a visual reminder of the life I used to lead.

I would complain about having to get dressed up on a Tuesday night to meet my

photographer at some gala. I got annoyed at the stream of emails from PR reps telling me about upcoming events I just had to attend. "I should really get paid for all this extra work I'm putting in," I'd complain to my editor. "This is not in my job description."

Yet, here I am, at 11 o'clock at night, printing out lyrics and trying to find images of donkeys and pigs.

To think I considered taking names while drinking champagne overtime.

A Painful Recovery

In a painkiller-induced fog, watching yet another movie, my phone rang. Unknown number.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Yoboseyo?" a husky voice responded.

"Eh, yoboseyo. Do you speak English?" I asked.

"Uh, a little," he answered. "This is police. Is this Jen-nee-pa?"

"Yes."

"Autobike accident…report…ugh…yoboseyo?"

"Um, yoboseyo. It's still me."

"Yoboseyo, do you speak Korean?" It was still the same husky voice.

"No, not really," I responded. "Give me your name and phone number and I'll have my wan jang nim (school director) call you back."

Two days later, still hopped up on medicine, I was in the backseat of Wan Jang Nim's car, on my way to the police station. Holding on to my broken ribs, and cringing at the sight of each passing motorcycle, the 10-minute car ride felt like an eternity.

"It's just up these steps," said Wan Jang Nim, as she climbed to the third floor.

You've got to be kidding me.

I stood at the bottom of the staircase, arm in a cast, bandaged nose, cracked ribs and a leg bearing a bruise the size of Texas. There was no elevator.

I've been homesick only a handful of times since I've been here, but this easily ranks as number one.

I'll spare you the hour-long conversation I had with the police officer--his questions translated in English, my answers translated to Korean, his follow-up questions translated to English. Basically, the officer didn't understand why, after suffering a concussion, I would have no recollection of what the man on the motorcycle looked like.

I cried on the way home.

My roommates were waiting for me at the apartment when I arrived. They helped me to bed and asked if there was anything I wanted--anything they could do to make me feel better. I said just hearing them speak English was enough. Then I asked them to hand me my pills.

A Night of Panic in the Land of the Morning Calm

"Can I buy ye a green beer, or perhaps dance a jig with you on the dance floor, lovely lady?" asked a man dressed from head to toe in green.

"No thanks," I politely responded.

"Oh, come on, darlin'," the man continued in hist best Irish accent.

I looked into his bloodshot eyes. "It's just us girls tonight," I said.

He stared back at me, drool seeping from the sides of his mouth, sweat dripping down his overgrown sideburns--his feet planted into the ground.

I was disgusted. This was the third time I'd had this conversation in the past hour; someone had spilt whisky and Coke onto my dry-clean-only dress; and I was getting dirty looks from the girls across the bar wearing jeans and giant green beads.

So much for the highly anticipated "single and fabulous" night out I'd planned.

A week earlier, forgetting all about St. Patrick's Day, I had sent a facebook message to a handful of girlfriends, inviting them to a night of tapas and martinis, to help my sister mend her newly broken heart. "While some might see this breakup as a negative, I think we should see it as a celebration--an opportunity to experience new and different things--a chance to grab life by the balls," I had written. The note ended with a reminder: "Dresses and lipstick required." And a declaration, "Here's to being single and fabulous!"

So here we were, in our frocks and pantyhose, surrounded by drunken, overgrown leprechauns--pink lipstick stains on our beer mugs.

It was time to leave.

"I'm gonna catch us a cab," I told everyone. "We need to go somewhere fancy…somewhere fabulous!"

In a hurry to turn the night around, I left the bar and ran across the street to catch a cab. Determined to beat the couple heading for the same taxi, I did my best to sprint in 4-inch heels.

But I didn't make it.

A few feet away from the cab, I lied face-down on the asphalt, crowded by people, blood streaming from my nose.

***

"You hit by autobike," said the doctor in broken English. "Remember?"

"No, not really," I muttered, trying to make sense of where I was, what had happened.

My sister came running to my hospital bed, tears flooding her face. She stood over me, too afraid to touch any part of my body. Her eyes were red, face full of worry. No more fancy lipstick.

"Everyone's here, and your roommates are on their way," she said. "Are you ok? I love you so much. I'm so sorry this happened. I just love you so much."

She stood by me through the night, making sure I was ok--holding my hand as I walked to the bathroom, offering to wipe after I peed. My roommates and girlfriends fell asleep on the cold plastic chairs in the lobby.

This was definitely not the night I had in mind for my baby sister.

"Breakups are so hard," I had told Carley a few days before. "I'm so sorry you have to go through this. Just know you're not alone…I'm always here for you."

***

It's been a week since my accident, and Carley's called and emailed me every day. She's come over to cook me dinner; she's done my dishes; she's fed me medicine. She's been my support system in a country 8,000 miles away from home.

Yesterday when we were watching movies, I asked her how she was doing with the breakup. "I don't even want to talk about that, Jen," she said. "The only thing I care about is that you're okay." Her blue-green eyes were filled with tears.

As I looked at her I thought, Carley didn't need a night out to remind her to grab life by the balls. She's a warrior.

And she made me believe that I'm one too.

A Taste of Home

I never imagined biting into a Thomas' whole wheat bagel, topped with egg whites and Smart Balance, would elicit such joy. I was literally purring like a cat in heat at my kitchen table this morning.

Yesterday, I took the high-speed train down to the Air Force base to visit my friend Bryan. Well, actually, to pick up my MacBook I've been eagerly awaiting for nearly two months. When certain Internet shopping websites won't ship my goods to Korea, I'm lucky enough to ship it to his AP address.

I've never seen such a thing of beauty: shiny, porcelain white, keypads begging to be touched.

But, surprisingly, the laptop wasn't the highlight of my day.

Bryan wanted to make me a steak dinner; and not just any steak dinner--filet mignon with corn on the cob, ceasar salad, a baked potato with real sour cream and cheese. So we took a trip to the market. Aisles filled with peanut butter, cereal, California wines, coffee (and not the instant stuff), an entire section dedicated to dairy!

I was squealing like one of my kindergarten girls, right after I taught them the ever-popular grade school song, "Lucy and Bryan sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…"

I felt like a love-struck teenager. Or maybe a teenager with a serious eating disorder. Regardless, I was happy as a clam.

Ninety dollars (they use American money on base), four fashion magazines, three tubes of Jergens sunless tanner, Pam cooking spray and various other food items later, I was carrying two giant bags back to Bryan's dorm. And he was carrying the ingredients to our impending steak dinner.

It was quite possibly the best meal I've ever eaten. But then, this is coming from someone who's been living off rice and kimchi for the past five months.