please say to me / you'll let me hold your hand / now let me hold your hand / I needa hold your hand

The problem with moving to a new country is the utter helplessness you experience as you adjust. It's not just culture shock in my case -- which is a factor for sure.

What is really getting to me is the inability to do anything on my own, and not because I don't want to be Miss Independent. I'd like to have my own cell phone and bank account and even Home Plus family card. The only reason I have internet is because my kind neighbors have unsecured networks.

I also need to stop bitching about not knowing Korean and get my ass in gear.

Korea has some seemingly strange laws regarding cell phones, their contracts, etc. I cannot buy a cell phone until I get my alien registration card (ARC) and upon getting my ARC, I am not likely to be lucky enough to score a year-long contract. What's worse, or just a pain, is that I am not likely to get a fancy, technologically-savvy Asian cell phone without the contract.

It might be easier to buy an iPhone from the States, ship it here, then jailbreak it, then visit a vendor rather than waiting the estimated four weeks remaining, then hoping I can even get a cell phone.

But - my saving grace has been having an old cell phone registered to an American back in America that can receive free calls or texts. As I've started to make friends, it's been a big help in arranging gatherings.

However, the only way I can initiate communication is by one of the following: borrowing another phone, Facebook messaging a new friend to text the other new friend to call me, staring at Facebook chat, or staring at the phone, willing it to ring. (Hey, it worked tonight!)

I have never spent so much time on Facebook chat -- or Facebook itself for that matter.

I know that it's horribly annoying, but all of my new friends have been wonderfully accommodating and understanding of the situation. Most people are just amazed that I have access to a phone! ("You already have a phone?" they ask. No, not quite.) One of these friends explained it as my being the younger sister who needs constant checking up on.

I wish it weren't true.

I need directions everywhere still, help telling a taxi where to take me, help hopping in the sauna with other naked ladies (for another day), help ordering in a restaurant, help playing darts in a bar.

But what really got me today, and nearly resulted in a total utter breakdown in the Daejeon metro, was the overbearing and unnecessary attention when simply going on my daily commute to work. It seems ridiculous and pointless, and possibly complete ingratitude on my part, but charging a metro card is one of the few things I can do without my hand held.

I know how subway systems work. Buses, I'll admit, I'm rubbish. MARTA's damn near useless, but I had no trouble in Seoul, I had no trouble in Prague, I had no trouble in Newcastle (other than making sure I never got caught without paying), and I certainly had no trouble in London. I admit to having trouble in Budapest, but I paid my fine, learned my lesson, and spent most of my time there walking instead. Daejeon's metro is a walk in the park: one line, no varying fees, signs and recharging machines in English. Cake.

So when I took my It's Daejeon T-Money card with me to the turnstile and it didn't greet me with "kamsahamnida," I only got confused when the red arrow turned to the blue circle. But as the guard just looked angry, not helpful, I walked back to the recharging machine. I put my card under the reader, and then the old station guard started helping me. But he started pressing buttons in Korean. I pressed the English button with an apologetic smile, as the old man called over the original guard. Who then took my card to the window, kept talking to me in Korean, and insisted that I charge my card at the window. I had everything under control myself. I just didn't realize I had only W300 left. He took my money, took way too long confirming that yes, I did want my entire manwon (W10,000 -- $10) on the card.

I missed my train by seconds.

Surprise! I've moved to Korea!

(South, of course. Neither KJI nor Billy C are in my close circle of friends yet, but we'll see how that goes.)

When?
A fortnight ago: 18 June

But, Sheila, why would you want to go there?
To teach English! It's one of the most practical applications of my degree, and Korea provides some of the best opportunities/compensation for teaching English abroad.

What about North Korea?
If the Koreans aren't worried about it, then I won't be either. However, there are gas masks and emergency kits in all of the subways. I've been told not to be alarmed when I hear the air raid drill sirens. They seem to be prepared.

Do you know Korean?
No. I've not made many strides to learn it yet, but, really, you gotta respect a language that gives its alphabet a national holiday. For now, my phrasebook and fingers are going to have to do.

Is it safe?
Yes! There's so little crime here. In fact, while trying to find data to prove this point, I found that I'm more likely to share a cell with an embezzler or (software) pirate than an axe murderer. Besides, back at home I've seen cars stolen from my backyard, been burgled on a Sunday afternoon by a man in a welding mask, fondled by a bum on North Ave while en route to class, chased a potential hit-and-run on the highway, and been robbed at gun point. And I actually fared better than many of my other friends. I'm sure Korea's just fine.

So ... Seoul, right?
Nope, an hour south in Daejeon. Just like England =/ London, Korea =/ Seoul.

Where will you live?! Do they even have running water?!
My school has put me up in an officetel, or a live-and-work studio apartment. They pay my housing; I pay utilities and maintenance.

But what will you do without a car?!
Left foot, right foot. The subway might be comparable to MARTA in that it doesn't take you everywhere, but since it was built only about four years ago, it takes you to the major attractions. There's only one line so far, and there are plans for four more. Taxis are ridiculously cheap here and sometimes, split among friends, cheaper than the subway.

How will you meet people?
I actually chose the school I did because it's actually quite large. I figured the school would come with built-in friends. I actually do have friends in various other parts of the country, and I met some cool people at my training in Seoul. I've already made a few!

What about your stuff back home?
My sister has my car, Marie has my cello, and PYT has Jimi. The stuff is in a climate-controlled storage unit.

You're going to be out of the country for Independence Day!
I know, and I'm actually really excited about it. :)

I am flawed if I'm not free

I love being single. Eventually I'll slip back into wanting a regular sleeping buddy and man to domesticate myself for, but I have enjoyed the past two (of the three) months of singledom.

For example, I can take my CHI straightener out of hiding under my bed and be proud that I own two fancy hair straighteners and actually prefer the one from the mall salesman.

I do not feel guilty for buying two purses (from Marshall's, mind you), nor do I feel guilty for the amazing yellow leather wallet, either. It was the third purse that made me guilty, and I decided it wasn't nearly as nice or necessary as the first two.

I also like listening to chick rock, singing loud to it, jumping about my apartment like a spastic dancer, and fully taking advantage of my half-deaf neighbor and fully revenging two years of that damn baby on the other side. You never would have guessed the only class I've ever failed was aural skills listening to my vocal abilities. Never.

I don't like that I never cook for one or that I fall asleep to Hulu more than anything.

But I am only just now turning on my library of Les Miserables soundtracks and relearning how much I love playing my darling communist cello named Mao and how Jenny Lewis's lyrics will always strike true and how great and how exciting I can be and how that yes, I can do what I want to in life and can do anything I want.

Except move. I honestly would rather burn everything than pack, donate, or sell anything.

Will, I am American.

I am such an American. I’m not sure if I have felt my American roots so much in the past two years since I saw my president speak in the center of Europe. (Of course, then his visit the natives of a time before the Velvet Revolution.)

Yes, I am talking about my current (re-)obsession with the British family. House of Windsor on my DVR, The Tudors and The Young Victoria both recently devoured through my Netflix queue, and just saw The King’s Speech.

As an American, I can’t help but have a fascination for the British Royal Family. I’ve come about long after our innate hatred of their imperial hold on us and the world, so I can fondly look across the pond to respect the historic lineage. Our presidents are great and all, but you can rig elections, and they’re always changing. Isn’t there comfort in knowing the monarch(y) is always there? Of course, like I said, I’m American; therefore, I love my democracy.

And I love knowing your princes’ love lives. I put them over Hollywood happenings.

I can’t help love the complete impracticality of the monarchy. I mean, really, Parliament does most everything, doesn’t it? While I know that there is strong opposition to the institution, I can’t help but insist that the British should embrace what they have and what the world, or just America, admires. What would happen to your church without its leader? I’ve read that my tourist dollars actually more than balance what their taxes provide. While I never fantasized of becoming a princess or dating a real prince (especially after attending an English university devoid of aristocracy), I can’t deny the fantastical desire to stand in the presence of someone with Divine Right.

As an American, I have been part of a culture that has fought against the notion for over two hundred years. And now I watch every period drama I possibly can.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Last night I took a flurry of pictures off my phone (which in turn had scores of photos from my last phone), so I submitted several pictures to some of my favorite blogs: Apostrophe Abuse, The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks, and lowercase L.

Overnight my photo of RMP's Policy's to Live (And Die) By was accepted! Yay! Check it out here.

How I Discovered the Impact of Beckham's Voice on Marriage

I've grown to love magazines in my post-education days. They're simple reading that requires no investment of my time, and half the time, I really only like looking at the 50 or so ads that precede the table of contents. It's perfect before-bed reading.

I have a subscription to Health; it was cheap, and I bought a copy for my Jackson Hole plane ride. I thought that I would be good at keeping up my health, but right now I'm enjoying cheesecake from Metrotainment Bakery's Sugar Shack and swearing that my reduced carbohydrate induction will reconvene tomorrow. (A weekend of posh wine tasting and drinking around a campfire gave way to a cold that could only be cured by carb-filled soups with grilled cheese.) However, Health can't fulfill all of my monthly needs.

I also love Real Simple, as all white chicks should cherish. I can't help it! I finally outgrew my legendary Cosmo collection when I decided to donate my 2000s-era US and UK editions via Craigslist. The Czech one from my time in Prague remains along with the stored and still-in-plastic-wrap 60s-era issue. One day I'll open it up for cultural exploration. That was the original point of a trunkful of magazines. But until then, I'm more interested in building a home than a why we love mama's boys. (Mamas'?)

My need for magazines currently came from recently finishing the magnificent Suite Francaise and refusing to read another novel or otherwise committing piece of literature until I finish sorting my life out.

(Sorting my life out = updating a blog or two for portfolio purposes and/or finishing editing the debut novel by this guy while he's out of the country.)

So when PYT went with his brother and girlfriend-in-law to Cleveland, Georgia, on my first camping expedition this weekend, I knew I needed new, mind-numbing reading material. I learned that when looking for quality monthly publications in Wal-Mart, you should go to the front checkouts, not the back for selections. (I'll be matronly enough for Good Housekeeping when I reach my self-deemed child-rearing age.) I picked up this month's Vanity Fair for when I wanted to read thought-provoking essays and Marie Claire for the cover story: Victoria Beckham. It was mere coincidence that I recently bought her book and revealed my love on the WWW upon the premiere of her cover story.

I can't help but love her. You can read the first part of the cover story and access the photo shoot and side interview here: http://www.marieclaire.com/celebrity-lifestyle/celebrities/exclusives/victoria-beckham-interview

My favorite part of the interview is not in the web copy. Please read below and note the bold:

There's just one more question about the marriage that I'm dying to ask. "Did you have to get used to his voice when you first met him?" I ask. "It is a bit disconcerting when you first hear it, coming, as it does, out of the mouth of such a strapping athlete. It's a bit pip-squeaky."

Beckham knowingly smiles. This time no smirk needs to be disguised. "I don't really notice that he's got a high-pitched voice. I just think he's so goddamn perfect that people have to find something wrong with him. We were about to go out somewhere the next day, and he was sending an e-mail. He was sitting at the end of the bed, and he had no clothes on whatsoever. I was getting out of the shower, and I just stood there looking at him. He was all tan. Has all those tattoos -- which I love. Hadn't done his hair. He just naturally looks good all the time. He never looks like shit in the morning. Never. So he's sitting there sending his e-mails, all ripped. Not an ounce of fat on him. And I thought, You done good, girl. I sure wasn't thinking of his high-pitched voice."

I am so glad to have read an article expressing what I have always found fault with Mr. Becks, aside from his questionable fidelity, and knowing how the Mrs. reacts and prioritizes her man.

Hell, she probably just tells him to shut up so that she can just look at him. Tell me you can't blame her.

Guilty Pleasures: Posh and Becks

I have a confession: I love the Beckhams.

Yes, he might possibly have been caught cheating on his wife (again) and has the worst English accent I have ever heard, and she was the most boring Spice Girl, but I don't care. I have her two first perfumes and now, the newest addition to my library, That Extra Half an Inch. I wanted to buy that book back when I first thought it was a diet guide but couldn't bring myself to spend $20 when I knew I could never actually look like Mrs. Beckham. (You say that you don't want to be that skinny, but really, given the choice, yes, you really do like it. And I don't discount Kate Winslet one bit for no longer being plus-sized.) You can imagine my surprise to have found it for less than $2 at Goodwill this past Saturday.

Actually I was surprised to find that That Extra Half an Inch is a fashion guide (where the extra length corresponds to the confidence from taller heels). It even credits the ghost writer! (You know Posh was too busy with children and travels to write the whole thing.) I haven't had the opportunity to learn anything except that the famous Gucci dress was actually Miss Selfridge (and even now, I have my doubts that she didn't just buy a fancier dress once the label picked up the Spice Girls). I look forward to learning exactly what pants or skirts look best to flatter my wide thighs and butt. She might not have the experience or claim to be an expert, but the rest of my life lies in the pages of her book.

Say she fails at flattering my booty -- I will at least smell delicious and . . . Intimately Beckham (both Day and Night).

I do also want to note that any female reading this should not purchase any of the colognes for her man; while Mrs. Beckham has fabulous scents, the Mr. most certainly lacks that sense. He is someone for visual pleasure, not someone to please your ears or nose. (He was blessed with a set of $150 million legs, if you will remember.)

Yes, I can't help but love Victoria Beckham so much that, had I the spare change, I would own this t-shirt as well.