A world where having a Headless Barbie is ok

I have a confession to make. One which is potentially more embarrassing than Noreabanging (yes, it is a verb) at 9am on a Monday or that I am currently writing this sitting in Starbucks wearing red knee-high gumboots (rainboots) and silently bopping away to the Pet Shop Boys classic 1987 hit "What Have I Done To Deserve This." (So good. Listen to it now and it will change your world for the better. Just like it did for me when I was at the Grade 5 end of year party, proudly wearing my handmade pink knitted jumper and tight acid wash blue jeans (somewhat surprising how my wardrobe has not changed a great deal in the intervening almost 30 years)).  Today's confession could be construed as a call for help but there is no need to be alarmed about my well-being. I think that the thing I will now confess to has come about because I am so very used to walking around the streets, shopping, sitting in Starbucks dancing to the Pet Shop Boys with no-one paying any attention to me. Not that I am saying that in my home country I am noticed walking down the street (or anywhere for that matter). It is more that because, where I live at home, the neighbourhood is relatively small so you are pretty much guaranteed to bump into someone you know somewhere along the way between home, school drop off, work, supermarket, school pick up and home. (You are pretty much guaranteed to see someone you know at home unless you walk around with a towel over your head pretending that you are not there (which I highly recommend doing for some of the time of the ludicrously long almost ten week school holidays). Here, however, I can easily spend my day seeing nobody that may know me. It seems that this fact has, apparently, caused me some distress.  Because I have taken to carrying around a companion in my backpack. Her name is Headless Barbie.

I am not entirely sure what started our friendship. It could have been because my (lovely) children can be quick to throw away their stuff when their stuff breaks. (This comment is  excluding the youngest one who is a hoarder, spending her (long) holiday collecting leaves, twigs, half eaten almonds and scraps of soap, storing them in specially marked boxes for when they might next come in handy. Best to not attempt to thrown any of this out. It will not end well.) The older two, however, seem to think that when things break - as in when you deliberately and methodically pull apart your Barbie - you should just throw it away. This bothers me. I feel sad for the Barbie, for the kids who don't have Barbies (not exactly sad about the lack of Barbies per se but about all the other toys that the Barbie represents) and for the amount of plastic rubbish that we are adding to (imagine an ocean full of headless, legless Barbies and you will also feel sad and slightly distressed). 

I don't really remember playing with Barbies before now. I certainly never spent hours with them as my middle child does. She will bring them out to play on her bed, making them talk, dance, visit a hairdresser (an activity which results in bits of Barbie's hair being found all over the house and then needs many chats about why it is that Barbie's hair does not grow back. Ever.). Youngest child will often join in with middle child and and there will be a few minutes of lovely, happy, TV advertisement worthy play. Until disaster strikes and one loses its dress, one dress becomes ripped, arm falls off and/or, in a disaster of epic proportions of disasters, the head gets ripped off! (I am not sure what game they were playing here but Ken might have some explaining to do or my children might need therapy earlier than expected). Point here is that Barbie's head became dislodged and, quite quickly after, I discovered newly Headless Barbie in the bathroom's trash can.

"Not so soon!",  I cried, coming to Headless Barbie's rescue. I was determined to convince my children that Headless Barbie, wearing a slightly ripped, blue biro scribbled, shoulderless pink ballgown, still had so much to give (that and there was no way I was going to be hit up for buying another). So, somehow, instead of the trash can, Headless Barbie ended up disappearing into my backpack. I am not sure how she got in there or who put her in but in there she went and maybe she would have stayed there until my six monthly backpack clean out occurred but for a really long and boring drive to Costco.

Thanks to a husband who has passed on his ridiculously fast metabolism to my children, I am forced to deal with three kids who eat all day long. This means frequent trips to Costco, much more than I would like  (which, btw, is never) and, therefore, being stuck in what seems like endless traffic, where I mostly imagine myself living a fabulous life alone in a loft apartment in Soho. On one such Costco occasion, as I was rifling through my backpack to find something to eat that had not become infested with salmonella, I found Headless Barbie. It turns out you can interact effectively without a head. You can also dance very well without a head, an important skill to have when sitting still for a very, very, very, very long time in Seoul traffic.

Headless Barbie soon started to, deliberately, accompany me to many places: chicken shopping; shoe shopping; noreabanging (watch out - she hogs the microphone); the beauty salon, bibimbap eating, elephant riding. 

Visits to the Chinese Embassy became our thing for a few weeks (not the least because it took me five attempts to secure a Chinese visa). Somehow, she made the experience that much more exciting.

Coffee dates became frequent. (Importantly, she liked having coffee.) I liked having coffee with her.

(Although sometimes she liked to be alone or just with her other Barbie friends. That was OK. I understood. It was nice for her, even if they all had heads).

But being a Headless Barbie in this world is not exactly easy. Yes, you can get squashed by ridiculously large watermelons.

But, more than that, it seems that this is a world where Headless Barbie(s) are all too quickly discarded. While she is at an obvious disadvantage when it comes to things like the Hello Smile Campaign, she has so many other attributes. 

Example? Yes, you can dance really well without a head. 

When Headless Barbie and I first became friends, I was slightly concerned about the lack of interest in her. Nobody noticed or stopped her entering a building site.

No-one thought it weird that she was making a phone call to a friend to tell them about Wall Man who had just proposed to her (she said no, but, very politely, thanked him for the offer)) and it seemed perfectly OK that she take an escalator at Seoul Station. 

Because of this, I thought it would be great idea to raise awareness, or, at the very least, ease potential awkwardness regarding all of the many things that any Headless Barbie has to offer. My campaign started with my middle child's classmates, who embraced the daily updates of Headless Barbie's activities; a few YouTube videos; and several (thousand) Instagram postings. Most recently, I took to the streets, literally, by randomly posting stickers of Headless Barbie around Seoul with statements such as: "She's still OK with no head" and "Heads are overrated anyway." I like to think that this has helped potentially hundreds, if not thousands of Headless Barbies out there from prematurely ending up in the trash (substitute Headless Barbie for ripped soft toy, broken wheel car, missing puzzle piece and you see my point). 

However, now that I feel the campaign is coming to a close ("Yay" says Husband), on reflection (I am currently reading about mindfulness) I think that I have learnt a lot more than what I set out to teach. Saving Headless Barbie began with  the premise to teach my children to not be so hasty to throw out their Headless Barbies (or Headless Barbies equivalents), but, in what has been the most interesting outcome of my friendship with Headless Barbie, I have come to discover that I am living in a place where I am completely free to pursue my fascination. I have never been stopped. I have never been asked what I am doing. I have never had anyone surreptitiously take a picture of me taking a picture of Headless Barbie (not that I know of anyway). The tolerance and tacit acceptance for a woman pulling a Headless Barbie in and out of her backpack, setting her up for shots (achieving perfect arm postures has been the most challenging part of the picture in case you were wondering) and even, conspicuously, completing outfit changes (the outfits of Headless Barbie that is, not mine), has been nothing short of phenomenally bizarre. I love it. This is what we should be able to do anywhere! So the revised lesson for my kids is yes, do not unnecessarily discard, but also always, always strive to be a person in a place that lets others walk around with their Headless Barbies.  Take your Headless Barbie with you and let everyone else take theirs.  

Karaoke at 9am on a Monday? Why of course (although there are rules).

It is a little sad when you realise that you are not so good at what you would really like to be good at (this post may be tainted by the fact I am fast approaching 40 and so I am being forced to come to terms with the fact that there are quite a few things that I will most likely now never achieve like becoming a supermodel or representing Australia in netball). But some things are easier to understand and accept than others. Like I kind of realised when I stopped growing by age 13 that I was never going to be tall enough (or fast enough or, really, good enough) for leading life as a netballer. That was ok. I dealt with that and moved on (kind of, just don't ever ask me to be part of your casual weekday netball side as I do have a fiercely competitive side which is really not attractive). But not all such realisations can be as easily accepted. Me and singing is one such example.

I am acutely aware that I have no singing talent. To this day, I remain a little perplexed at how I managed to, just once, make it into the selective singing group at high school (the teacher clearly made a mistake and it was wrong because it gave me false hope for about three months that I could actually hold a tune). From then on, and particularly at home in the shower, I have managed to embrace the badness. The same cannot be said for husband and children - of my singing that is - because, disappointingly, husband and all three children can hold a tune (the middle child is especially good at singing and has some weird uncanny ability for being able to remember all the song lyrics almost instantaneously). If I was not living in Korea then it might have been ok. I might have managed to temper my jealously towards family members who can sing (we desperately need to add a howling dog to our family soon to even up the balance)  and I could have potentially lived out my days pretending that I was a totally awesome singer and could so totally  match it with Beyonce or, at the very least, Celine Dion.

But this is the land of the Noreabang, Korea's own special version of karaoke. Here, a visit to the Noreabang is as normal as going to the supermarket. So normal in fact that people will visit a Noreabang during lunchtimes and it will, without fail, be part of any evening out. It helps that a visit to a Noreabang is easily accessible, with bars on most corners (like coffee shops), inexpensive and usually open 24 hours (with free popcorn between 6am and 12pm). It probably also helps that all Koreans can sing (whilst I have not met every Korean but every Korean that I have ever met can sing. Like really sing). All this means that there was only so long that my secret  shame could remain secret.  

At first, I thought I could gleefully embrace my singing suckiness (I cannot think of an appropriate actual English word to describe my atrociousness so I have made up a word instead). Having, somewhat recently, come to terms with the fact that I will not be a supermodel anytime soon (although given I am not yet saying no to experiencing South Korea's plethora of plastic surgery options perhaps the door has not yet closed here) surely I would be able to deal, happily, with not being able to sing. Alas, the slightly competitive side hidden deep inside of me has proven very hard to contain especially when I enter the darkened, smokey rooms of a Noreabang establishment. It seems I can only cope with being ironically bad, not just ordinarily bad. This is not good, especially because my visits to Noreabangs are getting more and more frequent. So, short of unceremoniously ejecting my middle child from her singing lessons and taking her place, I have been forced to institute a set of rules that are to be followed when entering Noreabang land. In no particular order (although rule 1 and 10 are the most important) here they are. 

1. At all costs, keep the microphone

When I wrote about my first visit to a Noreabang (way back in April 2014) I was clear that I may have had a few issues with microphone hogging: "It is the combination of little singing ability mixed with an aggressive, over-bearing, determination to not give the microphone up. I would rather you take my firstborn child, in fact I would gladly hand her over, if it meant I could keep that microphone and the songs coming." I stand by that comment. It is annoying to have to listen to other people who will always be better than you so under no circumstances should you relinquish the microphone. You usually only have an hour in the Noreabang room. That hour will never be long enough, especially if you have to share. Suggest also avoiding eye contact with others because this  makes it harder for them to shame you into handing the mike over.

2. Enthusiasm will trump talent every time  

Do not sit on the couches and sing. The couches are reserved for people who can actually sing and don't need to distract others with their booty shaking. By jumping around, singing (yelling) excessively and ridiculously loudly and bashing that tambourine with all your might (point for novice Noreabang goers - too vigorous a tambourine season may leave your thighs rather sore) your fellow "Noreabangers" just might not notice your singing (or, more accurately, your lack thereof).  Really ridiculous 80s dance moves also help when you sing way off key and are so far off the beat (even with the words in front of you on the gigantic screen) that the the song becomes totally unrecognisable. That is all ok because eveyone will just be in awe of your energetic moves. (Again, however, as you get closer to 40 and are not as in shape as you were in your teenage netball playing days this becomes harder and harder to maintain, especially for one solid hour so I suggest using bathroom breaks as strategic breathers). 

3. Use props

Use every and any prop that the Noreabang provides, inclduing thinsg that are perhaps not actually meant to be props! Don't feel weird about bringing in your own props either (ok, so that is slightly weird but you are in Korea and everyone here already thinks you are weird so just keep rolling with it). Again, distraction from your singing is what you are seeking to achieve here. 

4. The scores are always wrong unless they are 100 in which case they are right! 

Never believe in the scores that are posted at the end. Most machines are rigged. How can they not be when they give your four year old who cannot read the words and basically just yells into the microphone a score of 92 (or wait - was that me?). Also be aware that different Noreabangs score differently and change their criteria based on time of day. What other explanation can there be when you sing late at night after a vodka or two and get 100 yet try that same song two days later at 9am in the morning when you were pretending to husband that you were going to Costco you only score 50? 

5. The best time for karaoke is...

Anytime is a good time for dropping into a Noreabang. Although at 9am in the morning, having just dropped the kids off to school, having NOT had a coffee, visiting a private room of your local Noreabang  instead of fighting with the adjumas for the Australian beef at Costco, might not be ideal, particularly should one happen to be vulnerable to an attack of low self-esteem on such a morning. It won't end well (think hysterical woman crying into the arms of the Noreabang cleaner as to why it is she was cursed with the no singing voice gene. Best to not talk any further about this point). 

6. Outfit

A good Noreabang session can be the same as 45 minutes with Shawn T of Insanity fame. You can end up drenched in sweat (especially if you pay attention to rule number 2). This can make going to a ladies lunch straight afterwards a little challenging so I suggest bringing a change of clothes in your backpack. It also helps when you accidentally and awkwardly run into the dude you once mountain climbed with (although he was more like a gazelle and you, sadly, were not) at a restaurant you ran to after a particularly sweat filled hour long Noreabang session. Any and all explanations are embarrassing for everyone at that point. 

7. Keep it on the downlow

Husbands need not know when you Noreabang, or at least they need not be aware of all the times you Noreabang. Best for marriage harmony that he does not realise exactly why it is that you were unable to again make it to Costco today.

8. Never record your performance -  it is not a good idea at the time!

It is never a good idea to plug in a USB stick to record your performances. This point bears repeating. It is never a good idea to plus in a USB stick to record your performances. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. 

9. Choose your venue and your room wisely

Window fronted rooms are awesome. Fight for them. The owners won't give them up that easily as they seem to want to take them for themselves (or perhaps customers who can actually sing as, apparently that is good marketing and it encourages people walking down the street to enter the premises). I am not sure why it is that they think some crazed, middle aged woman singing solo at 9am in the morning would not attract the equal amount, if not more, customers to their establishment.

10. No children - at least not mine

Last rule of the Noreabang: Never go to karaoke with your four year old daughter. Never. It will not be good for the relationship, especially when said 4 year old takes over, refuses to microphone or tambourine share and is basically just too good and cute for you or anyone else to match!! 

Korean cannot be learned by osmosis (in case you were wondering)

So it turns out that I cannot actually speak Korean. For most, this would come as no surprise, particularly when you are also aware of the fact that I have never taken a Korean language lesson. But,  somehow to me, it is a surprise. It seems I have been living under what now appears to be a complete misapprehension: that simply be being in Korea I would pick up the language, in much the same way that a friend of mine was once convinced she would pick up Mandarin by watching Chinese TV. Well, that little delusion is over, with it becoming ridiculously apparent of late that I cannot speak Korean. At all. Like NOT ONE BIT OF KOREAN IS COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH.

I blame my hairdresser first and foremost for lulling me into a false sense of security re my Korean language skills. Last haircut, where I rather radically, went from longish hair and no bangs to rather shortish hair and big bangs) I was totally convinced that the hairdresser, who speaks no English, told me that I understood her Korean amazingly well. She told me this by pointing at her ear while pouring forth a number of Korean words very, very fast. However, when I recounted, proudly, this story to a Korean friend, she (who also wasted no time in telling me that the haircut would, hopefully, look better in a few months time)  suggested that it was more likely that hairdresser was saying something more like: "You have ugly ears. I need to cut your hair in such a way that your ears are not visible to the world at large. You also have a lot of wrinkles growing on your forehead. Bangs are cheaper than Botox so I will now cut your hair to look exactly like mine because I am one hot Korean mamma. And please stop bringing your three snotty-nosed children into my store for their haircuts. They smell."  Moving right along...

My coffee man. I also blame him for tricking me into thinking that I was getting somewhere with him (not in a romantic getting somewhere way (although he is quite cute) but in a language acquisition kind of way). This is the dude who, when I first started frequenting his shop two years ago for the most perfect of perfect espresso macchiatos, asked me why it was I had not bothered to learn his language. I thought we had overcome this initial frostiness and were in the process of taking our coffee relationship to a deeper level than just "Espresso macchiato ju se yo." (See I can say please in Korean). We have had conversations about the weather, kids (mine I think), how much we both like Australia, his girlfriend who is currently studying in Australia and why it is I don't need a takeaway lid on the takeaway cup (with three kids, I just slam that coffee down as fast as I can in the mornings).  But when I introduced some friends to his shop (who now go there every day for their daily hit, affectionally called "Julie's" (for the extra dash of milk and half a teaspoon of sugar) I found out that coffee maker man does not really care for the weather, definitely has no interest in kids, has never been to Australia, does not have a girlfriend and is perplexed as to why it is that I refuse to take the lid for the coffee. Basically, it seems that he finds most of our interactions, so cherished by me, to be  strange and just a little odd.

Ok, so perhaps I should have realised a little earlier that I could not speak Korean, a fact that has always been crystal clear when I have attempted to watch the highly, highly addictive Korean TV. Why are there advertisements that seem to be selling insurance and plastic surgery mixed together? What  does white teeth have to do with washing powder? What is the significance of the falling fake flowers on the really cute couple advertising a department store? And, seriously, what is with the lady with the crazy eyebrows and puffy, tight face who manically slices up a turnip after washing her apples in washing detergent?

Then there are the day to day interactions where I completely fail to understand conversations happening around me when on trains or buses, buying groceries at the supermarket or drinking coffee at a coffeeshop, like I am right now. This confronting realisation - that I actually have no idea what is going on around me - brings me to despair (and perhaps slightly embarrasses me) when I think of my interactions with the local supermarket staff. I thought that we had jointly reached an understanding that I will never take a plastic bag and that I will always want the ten percent discount (mostly because I have no idea what happens if I say no I don't want it - do I get a prize instead at some point?). The same thing happens at the bread shop, where the staff continually ask for my phone number and I always give it to them though I have no idea why. I believe it is something again to do with reward points (and I am thankful for that loaf of sour dough bread that they gave to me for free once - $45 on average per week on bread (the three children really love their carbs) seems to be significant). It would also be really, really nice to understand why today, in an empty restaurant, the staff at the $7.00 bibimbap lunch place, forcefully recommended that my friend and I eat downstairs instead (downstairs would be at a totally different restaurant). After begrudgingly letting my friend and I in, (my friend was very persuasive) the staff stood, not so patiently, by our table, making sure we ate and did not talk. Bowls were cleared before we had even really finished them (although they were right to take away the bamboo basket with the gigantic green chillies on it (they must have sensed that we were just not tough enough) and we were ushered out in record time.

Yes, I should blame myself for this predicament and not the hairdresser, the coffee man and certainly not my Korean friends for failing to pass on their Korean language skills to me simply by hanging around with me. Yes, I could (and maybe should) take lessons like so many other admirable people are doing or have done. It might be nice just a day, or even an hour, to not be the confused, largely silent, freakishly smiling one (when in doubt, smile). But then maybe I don't really need to know what the couple wearing matching sneakers are fighting over, what the man in the dark blue suit on the mobile phone in the bus is saying, exactly what the mandu (korean dumplings) makers are yelling about or what the TV ad with the crazed turnip slicer is about. It does wonders for my imagination to make up the stories of their lives: the love-matchers are about to chose matching jackets to complete their ensemble. She wants navy blue. He wants purple leopard print with a faux fur hood lining; the man in the dark blue suit on the bus is explaining to his tango teacher that he will be late again today as he is taking some time off from his demanding job to record his first solo hip hop album; the male mandu maker wants to stop making mandu all day, every day and instead wants to turn his hand to hand cut noodles but the female mandu maker thinks that is a ludicrous idea and instead they should burn the joint down, take the insurance payout and head to Spain to continue practicing their newly acquired life drawing skills; and as for the crazed turnip slicing woman? OK, so I actually do really want to know the answer to this one. The biggest bonus of not understanding though is that, in my bubble, everything is happy and good. The coffee man, the local supermarket and the bread shop staff all love me. I don't think I really want to know otherwise so I shall just continue on as is (but perhaps with a change of hairdresser). 

True Love - South Korea style: Part 9 - love-matching must be pre-planned because you don't just find your true love on the street even when wearing matching puffer jackets (of course, it could just be that the guy was not interested but that would make for a rather boring story)

There is no doubt that Incheon airport, Seoul's international airport, is the best place in Korea to spot love match couples (although Busan comes close). Couples heading off on holidays, perhaps even honeymoons, wander happily hand in hand through the airport wearing matching sneakers, sweat pants, sweaters, jackets, beanies or, if you are extra lucky, all of those items altogether. And because they are getting away and, presumably, are even happier to be heading away together (husband and I even managed to be happy at the airport although our happiness did not last long when we were told that, no, we could not check our kids in with the luggage and that, yes, we do actually have to sit with them on the plane) they are super happy to be photographed together. Christmas time makes for even better pictures too because love is expressed so accurately by matching reindeer/snowflake red sweaters. A lot of those sweater wearing couples in love came through security and immigration with us and some even boarded the same flight which was awesome for my growing photo collection. Sadly though, due to some technical difficulties, the photos no longer exist (although I do have a new iPhone 6 plus now). What was even sadder though was that the love matching seemed to end when we got off the plane. This meant that I was forced to survive three weeks without love match encounters. I felt a little lost without it. The only thing that helped my forced detoxification was that friends at home were very eager to quiz me about the trend: some thought that I had been making the whole thing up; some thought I was a little obsessed; some had their own very definite views on the pros and cons of wearing the same thing as your partner; and there was a lot of questions as to how far I was going to take this pre-occupation (a picture book is coming and I am available to discuss the matter on a YouTube channel, television and/or any radio program). Most pressing of all though, was the need to know just how couples agree on the particular item of clothing that they decide to love match with. So, because I like my friends back home, I have returned to Seoul (coming back through Incheon airport, observing couples putting on their matching sweaters and jackets before leaving the terminal) determined to find answers.

This morning,  I watched this couple find each other.

I found the man first because he got on the same bus as me. We got off at the same stop too but we were clearly not destined for bus love as he speedily exited the bus, ran across the road and into the arms of his "special friend" without even a second glance back at me. I think this is why: I was wearing cheetah print jeans, red converse and a black puffer jacket (a particularly special look that I am rolling with at the moment). I was not wearing black pants, red puffer or black nikes with a yellow swoosh. Question is, if I was wearing this particular outfit would he have run to me instead? Do you automatically fall in love with someone who is wearing the 
the same clothes as you? 

In this case, it did look like he might have already known his mate - that the meeting was not serendipitous - but the familiarity they expressed could have just been overwhelming joy at their realisation that they had found their soulmate, in clothes at least. I continued to watch them for a little bit, seeing her  willingly walking beside him to wherever it was they were going. I did not find that where it was they were going though as I thought it best to stop stalking at that point (it was getting weird, even for me). Nor did I interrupt their encounter to ask about their love - i.e. was it spontaneous and instantaneous (it was cold and I needed coffee). I like to imagine it was love simply because of their outfits. But, if that really was the case, then why did love not happen for me last Sunday when I met my matching puffer man? (For the sake of the story here I am conveniently forgetting that I am married.)

Jackets are a big thing here in Korea. Mainly because it is cold so jackets are a necessity rather than an optional fashion extra. I have never been great with jacket wearing and/or jacket owning. Before coming to Korea, I owned one black trench coat that was forced to also work as a warm jacket when husband refused to let me steal his for the day. My Dad is well aware of my jacket stealing tendencies. I spent the winters of my university years wearing Dad's duffle coat (affectionally called Bluey) that he wore to building sites around town. Admittedly, this was perhaps not the most stylish of jacket choices as pointed out to me by my love interest at the time at a fancy nightclub in Melbourne. I am pretty sure that when boy said to me that my fashion choice was rather "novel" he did not mean it as a compliment.  

The first thing we purchased when we arrived in Seoul were puffer jackets (jackets that have loads of down inside of them) from UNIQLO. Both have been wonderful discoveries. UNIQLO because it is just awesome. Puffers because who does not want to dress, or at least feel, like a marshmallow in winter? UNIQLO (and other places) sell puffer jackets in all shapes, sizes and colours and they are incredibly affordable and just so warming to wear. I started my Korean adventure with a simple black puffer and have added to it with a bright green, a sleeveless grey number and am currently on the hunt for a brown one with faux fur lining. I am also considering rolling a mum at school who is wears a hot pink puffer with matching hot pink faux fur (I think) lining. Amazing. Anyway, a while ago I needed a lighter jacket for the not so cold days and a shorter version then the long one (it is a need, not a want). So I went to UNIQLO (obviously) and purchased a perfect navy blue jacket (I was at UNIQLO so, of course, everything was perfect (apart from the cream and  light pink puffers which were so very clearly not perfect on me as noted by the helpful sales staff who stifled giggles of horror behind me). I left with my navy blue puffer (and maybe a few other things as well) and this, finally, brings me to the pointy end of my story: last Sunday morning.

It was early for a Sunday (generally anytime before 9am is early so on Sundays, 830am  is really, really early). It was also a little chilly and the sky was rather dark because the sun was still not sure whether or not she felt like making an appearance. There was, therefore, an aura of romance in the misty conclave of Yonhui-dong. Dressed in my navy blue puffer, I was walking purposefully down the road to the bus, heading to my local cafe for some much needed rest from my (lovely) family. In my head I was thinking about: what to cook for dinner; what to pick up from the supermarket on my way back home (which was dependent on what I had decided to cook for dinner); whether it was time to admit to the inevitable and write a job application; or if it was time to advertise my services around town as a professional stylist (red canvas sneakers, cheetah print jeans and stealing Dad's work jacket obviously being glamour looks worth replicating), dance instructor or a karaoke tutor (the fact that I cannot do either should not impede my ability to inspire others). As I continued to walk, daydream and rummage through my bag to find my headphones, there was a perceptible change in the atmosphere. 

I looked up and there he was, walking towards me, headphone also on, carrying a Paris Baguette bag and wearing the exact same navy blue puffer jacket. Exactly the same. Involuntarily, I smiled up at him and paused, waiting for love to strike me/him/us.  It didn't. Definitely not for him. He just kept on walking and did not even look at me twice, perhaps not even once. And on my part, well I stopped but that was really only because I wanted some sort of acknowledgement between us that we were the only two people out this early in the morning and we were wearing the same thing! To be honest, there were no sparks flying and no instant attraction between us. We did not magically run towards each other, share the contents of his Paris Baguette bag and then skip away together, laughing inanely at some private inner joke that only lovers would understand. No, it was not like that at all. I was left standing still on the street corner, feeling utterly deflated by the encounter that never was. So does love automatically follow when you find someone else in a matching jacket? No. Well, not for me anyway. 

it's best to not multi-task in a subway and other things I have learned this week

I finally feel that 2015 is beginning this week (it is only the second week of February after all): holidays in the lovely land of endless summer are so far behind us now that they are almost forgotten; there is some sort of school routine going on; I am valiantly attempting to exercise (more accurately, have a shower) pre school drop off and I have, finally, made it back to my favourite cafe (where my aim is to write but I mostly just drink endless cups of coffee (bonus: I have just discovered that they get progressively cheaper after the first one) and dream the day away). I am claiming that the reason for such a sluggish start to the new year is because I am in the land of the lunar new year so officially the new year does not begin until February 19. In addition to buying pre-prepared boxes of SPAM, I have also decided to compile a list of New Year's resolutions. (I encouraged husband to start writing a list of his new years resolutions last night (mostly about how he can improve as a husband. Needless to say the night did not turn out so well for either of us)). I thought writing up my list of resolutions would be rather straightforward, particularly given that I have been hanging out with myself for a few years now and thought that I knew all about me but, this week, I discovered some rather painful home truths that have affected my ability to prepare (quickly or, let's be honest here, even at all) such a list. 

I cannot multi-task: I have read the recent articles popping up on my Facebook and Twitter feeds about how no-one can but I thought I could (much like how I was convinced I could do a phD simultaneously while giving birth).  My attempt at multi-tasking involved listening to music on headphones through my phone while scribbling notes for a potential story while walking in a very crowded Itaewon subway station on a Friday night. I walked into a pole. Not sure who was more embarrassed: me, the pole or the hundreds of people around me who tried desperately not to laugh.

Listening to music through oversized headphones does not mean that no-one else can hear you! They most certainly will hear you when: you interrupt your best Taylor Swift impersonation to yell at the doors that are about to close you (when you belatedly emerge from your Taylor Swift stupor and realise that is actually your stop); you yell at your bag as you desperately throw stuff back into the abyss; and you yell at your headphones as you manage to get the headphones cord caught up your coat, your umbrella, your notebook and your chocolate bar as you, inconspicuously, exit. 

My bag (which perhaps I should forget on trains) is a ridiculous, disgusting, bottomless pit that eats purple crayons, mixes the purple crayon that it chooses not to eat with half-eaten biscuits and then magically smears that mess with some melted chocolate into a cheese stick wrapper to create some rather special revolting grossness inside which clings onto your hand like a Northern Clingfish (this super weird fish that has a suction cap attached to its belly) as you desperately scrounge around looking for a tissue, your phone, some lip gloss or, even, a half-eaten biscuit. 

When attempting to make a grown-up impression at places like a bank or husband's work, it is best to not search for a pen in said bag when at the bank because it is gross for everyone when you pile up the mess on the until then pristine bank bench. Just accept the pen that is offered (it will also most likely work unlike the one you finally discover in your bag that reeks of smelly cheese, is sticky and will inevitably also leak all over your hand when you triumphantly pull it out).

Running 10km one day is cancelled out rather quickly when you go off an drink champagne all the next day. Buying clothes after drinking champagne is not a good idea (none of this is to be interpreted that drinking champagne is also not a good idea because that would be just silly). Returning clothes that you buy after drinking champagne will mean nothing if you then decide to dress like Sporty Spice, Fluorescent Girl or some other random superhero you invent in your mind to justify your need to purchase clothes that make you look like you are twelve (although any of this is probably better than the "cougar mother" look that you apparently succeeded with (husband is always so flattering) when you initially bought clothes after drinking champagne).

It is almost impossible to dress kids up in winter clothes and still be on time for school. All you parents who do this are heroes. For me, it is an unattainable reality. Just as I think I have successfully dressed them in beanies, gloves, scarfs and boots on top of two fuzzies, tights, leggings and pants, the following will inevitably occur. One will rip everything off because they need to go to the toilet, one will pass out from insane intense body heat and the third will be lying on the floor (looking like a big pink sumo wrestler) crying about not being pink enough! Eventually, you will leave the house, with no jacket required for yourself because your internal body temperature will have reached boiling point (and you will be wishing it was already time for champagne). 

Helping your eight year old with her math homework will be embarrassing for you, her and her teacher when you have to ring the teacher to ask for help. 

That to be involved in any sort for a TV show in Korean you have to wear an orange beanie. I am buying one this week in the hope that it will aid me in my quest to be "discovered" (I am only 39 so am not giving up hope just yet).

Meatballs from the recently opened Ikea in Seoul are really good. This from a former vegetarian. 

In a similar vein to the fact that I cannot competitively do karaoke (despite the fact that I cannot sing - it is because I am super competitive and someone else (LINDA BROWN) top scores), I cannot watch my children at soccer practice. I kind of knew already that I might have issues when it came to watching my children participate in team sports but, just in case I had any doubts, it really came out on the weekend when I might have, slightly too aggressively, started screaming at my child (in only her second game ever) to steal the ball and kick that goal. Husband has politely suggested that it is best for everyone if I stay away in future. 

Last lesson (although I do feel I have known this all along): when in doubt, turn to a 1980's power ballad. Yazz and the Plastic Population: The Only Way Is Up is my current choice (mainly because I have finally realised who my dance muse is!).

life begins after...you finally give in and stir your bibimbap

I quite like food. This is not really a secret given that I look like I like my food, which is great because, as I just said, I like my food. Over the past two years I have developed a great liking for Korean food, probably a good thing given I live in Korea (and because, just to reiterate again, I like food). If I had to name a favourite dish, amongst the many great dishes that tempt the tastebuds here, I would have to say it is the humble bibimbap, a dish that translates literally as mixed rice (bibim = mixed and bap = rice). 

To the uninitiated, bibimbap may just look like a bowl of rice and thinly sliced vegetables. But to those who have experienced bibimbap, it is much more complex. It is the subject of its own musical (Nanta), it is a dish that was worthy of being served to royals, it is served as plane food and it even gets to go on spaceships ((Jeonju bibimbap (Jeonju is the capital city of South Korea's North Jeolla Province), famous because it is considered the home of bibimbap (its secret to success is the cooking of the rice in beef broth, its use of regional ingredients and the fact that around thirty different ingredients are contained in one bowl of deliciousness, is an authorised food provider for astronauts, including Mars explorers)! I suspect it is also a dish worthy of many a grand love story. Is there a Korean drama that does not contain at least one scene of an angsty love-ridden couple (driven apart by parents/work/life circumstances only to have found each other years later thanks to Naver and a chance meeting at one of the thousand coffee shops next to the subway station that they both get on at) staring into each others eyes as they methodically mix their bibimbap? I think not. Who could not help but fall in love with another over a dish of thinly sliced vegetables, in a pleasing array of colours, perfectly placed on top of generously sesame oiled up rice? Proof is provided by an American-Korean friend who confessed to me (and a carload of other Korean-Americans as we sped down the Gangnam Expressway on our way, conveniently, to eat bibimbap) that her husband fell in love with her because of how she ate her bibimbap - apparently very quickly (the eating that is, not the love, which has continued).

My own flirtation with bibimbap has developed (matured could be a more appropriate word but that would be admitting that I may have been immature in the first place) in the two years I have been here. At first, I didn't appreciate the subtlety and the complexity of the dish. I saw only carrots and cucumbers, some stringy mushrooms, a raw egg and rice. And I saw them separately. Oh, how wrong was I. Bibimbap is a dish that comes with a need - to be stirred with chopsticks prior to eating (I am told that direction does not matter but you must jumble up and around without squishing the rice). The mixture is crucial because the whole point of this seemingly simple dish is to blend the yin and the yang - to achieve a perfect harmony of five colours (red, green, yellow, white and black which represent the five elements (tree, earth, fire, water and gold)) and five flavours (sweet, salt, savoury, spicy and bitter). Achieving this harmony can only be done when you mix.

For the past two years I have fought against the mixing. If you are my husband you would most likely link my aversion to stirring to some obsessive, controlling personality trait and you would also throw in something about me having severe subjugation issues but I say he reads too much into it (we are talking about bibimbap here, not marriage). However, I do now acknowledge that I have not been doing myself any favours by, sometimes aggressively, refusing to stir, particularly because not stirring can cause great angst to the people who deliver the bibimbap. Here is an interaction I have had several times now with Bibimbap Man at Namdaemun Market:

Me: Order bibimbap in very bad Korean (which basically exists of pointing at the picture of bibimbap on the menu and adding a very feeble please in Korean).

Bibimbap Man: Yells order back at me, walks off and returns a few minutes later to laden the table with Korean condiments and, a few minutes after that, brings me a most excellent bowl of super goodness, aka bibimbap.

Me: Start prodding at the bowl with chopsticks (my chopstick proficiency is just slightly higher than my Korean language level).

Bibimbap Man: After watching me from afar, sighs very loudly, hastily heads towards me, grabs my chopsticks and starts to mix.

Me: Decisively but not quite aggressively (more like the zeal of a random adjuma energetically and emphatically zipping up an undone jacket on one of my children), grab chopsticks back off him and say "It's OK" (this is one of my few and very well used phrase in Korean) but Bibimbap Man either does not understand my stab at the impossibly hard Korean language or chooses not to hear me and keeps stirring, looking at me like I am offending the entire restaurant by not doing so. "Why no stir?" he asks me with his eyes.

Me: "I like having the ability to choose when to stir and what to stir", I say back (although, because I have to say this in English it is not understood and I am getting nowhere).

Bibimbap Man: Throws chopsticks back at me in disgust and orders me out of shop to never return again. "If you do not stir your bibimbap, you will eat no bibimbap", I hear him say (although given I can't speak Korean he could have also said to me "Thanks for coming and you look lovely today" but somehow I think not).

But that was before, in a life I now refer to as "Life: Pre-Bibimbap."

Life: Pre-Bibimpap was a time when I did not eat kim (seaweed), rice was an after thought to the meal and consumed maybe once a fortnight, I would not drink lukewarm green tea as an accompaniment to the meal and I was utterly useless when it came to sharing dishes (you might call it selfish but if I ordered one dish off the menu than that was the one, and only, dish that I wanted to eat). And I would never have brought gochujang (fermented, red chile paste) to add to my dishes.

We went home to Australia for Christmas and three weeks without any Korean food proved to be a real challenge (although we travelled home to Australia with kim. I ate it all (yes, ALL) the day we arrived). The day after we arrived back to Korea I dropped the kids off at school and went straight to our local orange fronted store (kind of like your local bakery) and ate a steaming hot bowl of Kimchi jjigae (kimchi stew) and that night I added gochujang to my pesto pasta (what is a bowl of pesto pasta without gochujang? It is nothing I tell you - nothing!). The next day, friends from Australia came to visit, (super lovely people and I would highly recommend them to anyone as house guests, especially because on day three they bought a karaoke machine so we had norebang at our house every night. Word of warning - they slightly rigged the machine as there is no way Linda Brown (not her real name (ok so it might be) top scored with a 95 for a Billy Joel song!!! I played tour guide and, because I was so excited about being back in the land of fermented bean paste and red pepper sauce and because they love eating, their two week visit basically became a food lovers guide to Seoul. 

Here is a sample of the food we consumed.

Kimchi, mandu, kimchi, pickled daikon, kimchi, pork chop chey noodles, hoddeok (korean doughnut filled with sweet cinnamon sauce and crushed peanuts), fried chicken, udon noodles, donkatsu (fried pork), korean bbq, more korean bbq, mexican (pulled pork kimchi fries were a favourite), margaritas, Cass beer, kimbap,  tacos, the whole desert bar at Top Cloud restaurant, breakfast burgers from the school cafeteria, pancakes and hash browns, liquid nitrogen ice-cream, spun honey, corn in a cup, on the cob, from a can (our friends are corn addicts), frozen yoghurt, salted caramel pecan popcorn, hot chocolate, mint hot chocolate, caramel hot chocolate, vanilla hot chocolate (any variety of hot chocolate), honey bread, chocolate bread, pomegranates, boxes, boxes, boxes and boxes of Jeju mandarines, grapes, grapes and more grapes. And bibimbap. 

Of course, I took them to eat the very Korean meal of bibimbap. Pretending to be totally all over life in South Korea, I explained that the dish must be mixed. Because I was on a high (most likely because of all the food we were consuming during our two week orgy of Korean goodness) I decided I was also ready to mix (and also because I did not wanting to appear hypocritical). My chopsticks clumsily jumbled all the ingredients up together, the gooey egg dissipating yellowness throughout the bowl, the carrots mixing with the mushrooms, mixing with the cucumbers, the gochujang, lavishly heaped on top, staining the white rice red as I mixed.  The result? As has been my experience with most Korean dishes I have eaten (with the exception of live octopus), there can be no turning back. While this does not translate to me ceding any control or authority (to husband anyway - let's not get catrried away with ourselves just yet), it does mean that I can go back to Bibimbap Man and agree to let him vigorously mix my bowl of goodness because life post-bibimbap (stirred) is a happy, happy place. Shame for my friends that they had to leave. I'm not sure I ever can.

Heading home (just for a bit)

After two years in Korea, I am heading home for a few weeks. Rather excited about it, particularly because it is freezing here in Seoul now (minus 8 in the morning makes for a very difficult beginning to the day, especially when one of your children refuses to put on a jacket and insists on walking outside in her underwear) and in the other hemisphere that I call home it is currently Summer.  

While I am a little concerned that my fashion sense might  need some readjusting when I get to Melbourne (friends, please don't be shy about telling me that I am not supposed to wear anything other than black and that I really should take off the leopard prints that I have mixed with tiger print that is mixed with some fluorescent colour that is topped off with a good bit of bling and an oversized sun visor and that when I go for a walk in the park that may have a small hill I do not need to wear my hiking pants or boots or to bring my poles) I am totally excited to:

• buy some shoes for my ridiculous gigantic feet that apparently no Korean women have;

• eat a sausage (sorry Korea but the sausages here just don't compare to the Sausage King in Ringwood); 

• drive a car on a road where drivers (mostly) know how to use a roundabout. I almost died yesterday because I have always been under the impression (well, once I passed my driving test and realised that you are not meant to drive up onto roundabouts) that you have right of way when you enter a roundabout. Apparently bus drivers do not know that rule; and

• stand on an escalator and listen to the conversations around me and actually understand what people are  saying (although I suspect that novelty will wear off rather quickly as maybe I don't want to hear other people's conversations. It has been kind of nice to exist in my little bubble).

But, as I am starting to pack, it is becoming apparent that there are things that I don't want to leave behind. Some of it just won't fit into five suitcases, four day packs and one ridiculously huge handbag. Some of it might not actually be allowed in by Customs and some of it can't be packed at all. 

This is my top ten list:

1. Bags of frozen dumplings: "Mandu, Mandu, Mandu" has become a very constant (and sometimes annoying) cry from the children at least once a week, one child would probably live off dumplings if she could. We have tried every frozen packet variety out there, encouraged by the local supermarket that always has mandu taste testings on offer (nothing better than free mandu),  and they are all delicious!  

2. Kim, kim and more kim. No, this is not a person that I am attempting to smuggle in (although I have met many, many very nice Mr and Mrs Kim's). Kim in this case refers to dried, salted seaweed and we love it almost as much as (or, if you are my middle child, then even more than) mandu. 

3. Hot packs and cold packs that you simply rip open and pop into your pocket for instant heat or cold. It is like walking around with your own hot water bottle only it fits in your pocket like a square bean bag. A secret pouch of happiness that is just awesome. 

4. Instant shaved ice from a shaved ice machine. I want a shaved ice machine. And I want it with red bean and coffee powder. And I want it all the time. 

5. Watermelon sacks. Imagine if these had been around when they were filming Dirty Dancing. It would have totally altered the classic "I carried a watermelon" line to something like "I carried an orange and yellow recycled plastic bag sack that snugly and firmly held a watermelon which made it a lot easier to climb up all of the steps to get to this forbidden dancing den." This may not have the same ring to it as the original line but at least, because of the watermelon carrying sack, Jennifer wouldn't have been so out of breath when she locked eyes with Patrick.

6. Mosquito electrified tennis racquets. Oh my goodness people. I never knew that killing a mosquito could be made enjoyable, so incredibly enjoyable, when you get to fry that little sucker with a battery operated electrified tennis racquet. Husband lays claim to what was an inspired shot across the bed one night, zapping the mosquito with a powerful forehand and a leap vertical to the bed (we won't talk about the shoulder injury he suffered upon landing). I have a bit more of the John McEnroe/Lleyton Hewitt in me and have been known to shout "Come on!" in rather angry tones as I search for those elusive wing buzzing insects. But when I smack one down and hear the satisfying zap of the racquet (and, if it is the middle of the night you even get to see a spark of blue electricity) I go to sleep just that little bit happier. (Word of warning: racquet does not work so well on husband's head)

7. A wonderfully efficient public transport system and  fantastically cheap taxis that are easy to catch when you have had enough of wresting with your kids on the public transport system.

8. Car parking attendants. I am now very used to men (it is always men) instructing me on where and how to park. I don't think the car park men feel the same way about me however. While I have got so much better, it still does take me a little while to park precisely (why the Shinsegae (fancy Korean department store) car park men force me to repeatedly drive my car in and out until I am as close as physically possible to the pole without hitting it I don't know but I do it. And there is no need to take offence when I don't go into the first park you point me to (especially if that parking space is between a Porsche and a Ferrari - I feel I can only push my parking luck so far). 

8. All Korean BBQ restaurants. For my children, this is now their second favourite meal (after mandu that is). I fear for them, and for me, as to how we will cope with possible withdrawals from this amazingly scrumptious meal. In the altogether too scary an idea that we may not be able to partake in nn. for the next three weeks, I will be packing a few boxes of the special red pepper paste to get us through the break from bbq. 

10. The smell of slightly burnt rice in the morning accompanied by roasting coffee and sesame seeds. My nose tells me that this is what I can smell around my local neighbourhood every morning. I quite like it.

But wait, there is one more - because every top ten list needs a number eleven. (This is the sappy part - we all knew that I was going to get here eventually.) My number eleven is the one that I want most of all to pack but, sadly, just cannot: My new friends and the friends of my children. At the thought of going away again, even just for a holiday our family broke down: middle child cried and cried (and is still crying) at the thought of not being able to play with her friends for three weeks (she is the well-adjusted middle child); oldest child is sad about leaving her secret diary club behind and not doing any homework with her friends (the conscientious one); youngest one is worried that her teacher might forget about her and the school might close down without her (the one with the rather healthy self-esteem); and Husband - well, he  not worried about anything. (But then he doesn't really have any friends unless you believe that i-pads and i-phones have actual personalities. I don't.) As for me, I find it ironic that the worst part about travelling is meeting new people (I get it that me saying don't talk to me until I have had my first coffee can come across as rather rude) and the best part about travelling is meeting new people (when you do try to talk before that first cup and they don't care that you are making no sense at all and then they bring the coffee to you!). Two years in and my little family has kind of hit our groove.  But, because I am rather desperate to see old friends and family, have run out of vegemite and, having now come to terms with the fact that I don't have a Korean shaped body and most likely never will, I would really like to buy some new jeans (and I think the rest of the world would probably also like to see me in jeans that actually stay up, especially when the rest of me sits down), home I shall come, red pepper paste, kim, dumplings, mosquito tennis racquets, ice shaving machines, watermelon sacks and all!! (I agree to leave the men, the buses, trains and taxis behind for now.)