Skin Conditions

The kids and I have been accumulating various skin conditions so I finally decided to consult a dermatologist.  Now, I don't actually believe in dermatologists, and I shall point the finger in my mother's general direction on this one.  When I was a kid in rural Michigan, decent folks had a family doctor who did everything - the rash, the cough, the straw-in-the-eye injury, the annual lady-bits exam, broken toes, I cut-my-fingertip-off-again stitches, etc.  Only uppity folks went to specialists like pediatricians or ob/gyns. And only the rich, spoiled kids went to dermatologists for acne - except for that one poor kid who had mortal acne that reminded one that of hellfire.   We didn't go to the doctor much unless our situation involved significant screaming or unstoppable blood flow.  Zits involved neither, so tubes of Clearasil were good enough for us.

But I've learned a few things over the years.  Zits run in our family like stripes on zebras.  I shall never forget my very first one, thanks to a 5th grade social studies teacher who had long since forgotten what it was like to be a shy 11-year-old.   "Oh," she said to the entire class, "It looks like Sherri has her first pimple!"  (It's possible that my memory has magnified this incident, but when I need a good German swear, her last name comes all-too-quickly to mind.)  I still get the occasional pimple, even after 35+ years of skin despair.  Nick's family's puberty-skin was not much better.  So when David and Elisabeth both decided to join the puberty club this year, I was ready to swoop into action on behalf of their faces.

To be fair, I didn't actually swoop until we had other complaints to add to the Burgeoning Acne list. David had a seriously persistent wart on his knee (he does not shirk from OTC treatments or self-inflicted scissors action), Elisabeth had some itchy bumps, and I had some creeping growth on my eyelids that started distracting me from my horror show of a mid-life abdomen.  It was time to find a specialist.


After consulting various astrological planets and tea leaves for an auspicious moment (can you tell the Korean culture is rubbing off on me?), I finally found a time when the recommended clinic was open (thank you, OICA office!), I wasn't in class, the kids wouldn't miss too much school, and Nick's English-speaking TA (Sara) could join us for translation assistance.  I (still not having a GPS or smartphone or a Pohang road atlas because printed maps are not for sale here) studied the city maps on Google beforehand and knew which landmarks had to be passed to arrive at said office before closing time (remember - appointments not needed here): Yeongdeok bus station, Hwanho park, Bukbu beach, Jukdo market, 2nd bridge over river, and take a right to find a brick building with a small green tree on the door).  Let's just say that we did great until the "take a right" led us to a million brick buildings covered in signs and labels, but Sara's phone maps provided wonderful assistance and got us there.

Beautiful Skin Care (NE corner of o-goeri, if local folks are wondering), on the 2nd floor, was decorated in typical Korean waiting-room style (plushy couches, glass display cases, giant long reception desk) and the four women at the desk were also decorated in typical Korean medical-waiting-room style: mostly unflattering uniforms that took last place in a "Make-a-1980s-Flight-Attendant-Uniform-Look-Cute-Today Design Challenge." After selecting the least intimidating woman (I'm sure that one or more of the many signs indicated which person I was supposed to approach, but hey - I'm a way-gook and get away with a whole lot here), I handed over our alien registration cards.  One of the pitfalls of bringing along a translator is that no one even tries to talk to you.  So, Sara was asked to write out our names in Korean on a tiny scrap of paper. And then, as usual, I needed to provide my "hahn-deh po-neh" (mobile phone number) and, as usual, I gave them Nick's number as I STILL don't have a phone after living here nigh unto 16 months.  (And sensitive readers might correctly detect a tiny twinge of irritation.) The four of us crowded onto a couch, sneaking peeks at the other women waiting, one of whom was sneaking pictures of us on her "hahn-deh po-neh."  My children, characteristically American in their boundless energy and heedless of Korean public decorum, commenced to wiggling and teasing and making me terrifically benauwt (a great Dutch word for "a feeling of oppressive closeness that could result in some ugly butt-kicking"). Sara, already worth her weight in won, started taking group selfies on her phone to distract the kids so I could breathe.

Isn't Sara lovely?  I don't know why David was making that horrible face.
No wonder the other patients were sneaking pictures of us. 

Finally, we got to see the doctor in his cozy little office (not an exam room - no gowns, gloves, crinkly white paper or stainless steel).  The doctor (I don't know his name - I can't read Korean smock embroidery font yet) was in his 30s (?) and spoke surprisingly good English, making Sara momentarily purposeless.  The doctor looked first at David's giant knee wart, not seeming shocked or upset by its size or David's attempts to obliterate it (I gave myself points for bringing the OTC drops to show the doctor).  He recommended a stronger, prescription solution before moving to cryo-therapy (freezing).  Then he looked at David and Elisabeth's respective faces and recommended a few options for acne: (a) cleanser and medicated cream twice a day at home and some antibiotics; (b) a chemical peel (does it seem strange to you that he used his laser pointer to indicate the chemical peel treatment room on the closed circuit tv hanging over his office door?  As if that bit of visual info would affect our decision. "Oh - that decor is horrible!  We'd never stoop to a peel in that tacky room!"); and/or (c) having one of his staff ladies pop each pimple every week (a painful process at just $50 per kid per session).  It was hard enough for me to consult a specialist for zits, let alone pay a stranger to have someone else pop the kids' zits or wash their little faces in acid.  Home treatment option wins.

Then it was my turn.  About a year ago, I noticed an odd yellow spot above my left eye that has slowly gotten bigger; three months ago, one started growing above my right eye.  I had no idea if this was a dermatology issue or not, but what the heck, here we were.

Happily, Doctor Dermo knew immediately what it was, and again whipped out his laser pointer to indicate on a leaning-against-the-wall diagram of the skin's many layers and parts.  Apparently, normal clumps of lipids (fat) well beneath the skin can creep up to the surface and form these common benign tumors.  He looked up the condition in a big dusty Book of Weird Skin Stuff (resting right next to a Bible on his shelf).  After flipping through the index, he found a picture that looked just like my lipidy bumps, called xanthelasma palpebrarum (see here for more info). The good doctor considered doing laser surgery, poked at my eyelids some more, and then concluded that these were too big; plastic surgery would have better results.

So, ok, what I have looks weird, sounds exotic and scary, and needs a skilled scalpel.  Do you know how many plastic surgeons there are in Korea?  A LOT.  Like freckles on an Irish kid.  So I asked Ye Good Doctor who he would recommend for plastic surgery.  He playfully (!) pointed out his window: you could go there or there or there or (he pointed to the ceiling) to him.  What--upstairs?  Yes - he would be good.

Well, ok then.  Back to the waiting room, where an "operator" (the doctor's term for the ladies) took us to a virtual closet with stools and a bright red plastic tabletop to explain, in very rapid Korean, how the kids needed to care for their skin twice a day.  First a cleanser, then a light lotion, then the anti-acne medicine we'd get downstairs at the "medicine store," then a heavier moisturizer, and sunscreen in the mornings.  Sunscreen?  Ah, yes.  The Korean terror of freckles.  (Sara later mentioned that she had had laser treatments for some facial freckles just a few months ago. )

Ok, off to pay the be-uniformed ladies at the desk and collect our prescription (in unreadable Korean handwriting) and get a parking validation and pay for today's services.  I held my breath waiting for Sara to translate the charge: 3 of us seeing a dermatologist was not covered under the national health plan and I had never been to a derma...$13. Yup.  Korea is good.

No time like the present to visit the plastic surgeon.  Upstairs we trooped, with me threatening the kids' well-being if they continued being so touchy/feely/wiggly/noisy/weird.  Again with the alien registration card, translation of my name, mobile phone number, and waiting on (jarringly green velour) cushy couches.  After about 10 minutes of watching the large screen TV demonstrate bloodless, animated abdominal liposuctions, buttocks implants, calf reductions, and breast enhancements, Sara and I were waved back to the consultation room.  Apparently the desk ajummas didn't want the kids to feel neglected, so they ushered them in a few minutes later.  Into the crowded office with the doctor, me, and Sara.

This doctor was maybe in his 40s and spoke no English.  He, too, examined my eyelids at a personal distance normally reserved for my husband. To reduce the intimate closeness, I naturally closed my eyes, but he wanted them open. Yeah, that's awkward. He handed me a hand mirror and he took some tweezers to lightly pinch and pull at my bumps while talking to poor Sara who seemed torn between amusement and distress. Dr. Hong (I couldn't read his embroidery either, but I took his business card from the reception desk) explained and sketched how he could approach this surgery a few different ways and how the scars might look.  It finally occurred to me that he was giving me a choice, depending on my eyelid scarring hysteria level.  Um, I don't actually care much about whether the scar is more horizontal or vertical or whether it will change the line of my double-crease (only in Asia do you hear much about double creases or "crease surgery."  Have I mentioned seeing eyelid glue at the store for folks who aren't up for the surgery? Here's how to use it ).  So I picked the one-shot deal rather than the 2-3 session option.

This surgery in the US starts at around $700 per eyelid.  At Hong's office the total cost for both eyes was $400 with a debit/credit card or $300 in cash.  Un. Be. Liev. Able. And for $10 toward that cost today, I could make a "reservation" for the surgery early next week.  What a wonderful world this is.

We then went to the drug store, which is on the first floor (is that a handy Korean practice or what)? While waiting in the tiny space for the kids' prescriptions to be filled, Elisabeth's curious eyes roved about and stopped suddenly.  "Mama," she asked, "what are cherry-flavored--" and I emphatically shushed her as I read the packaging she indicated.  This was no place to have The Birth Control Talk. She got the message, but she still did not stop talking, apparently not aware or not caring about all the other people in the tiny shop who might know English.  "Oh no... is this about sex?"  Ah, yes, my dear.  "Ewww!  But...why would they be flavored...?"  Nope.  Even with my loose filter, this conversation was not happening with a 12-year-old girl in a very full Korean drugstore.  If ever. Sara appeared to be deeply amused.

Whale Watching Tour (Ulsan, South Korea)

I could write an insightful, sensitive essay about the challenges and joys of going on a whale-watching boat tour in a foreign country.  Or I could just show you a whole bunch of pictures with snarky captions to let you know what happened.

Well THAT'S a no-brainer.  Here goes.

David finds a cozy spot to watch for whales.

Nick finds a windy spot to watch for whales (his allergic reactions are slightly decreased in the breeze).

Elisabeth finds a place to... well, get her picture taken.

And Nick's TA, Sara, also looks for whales.

And here they are!!!  Invisible whales.  Transparent whales.  Microscopic whales. And the very popular None Whale.  You might think the tour company would have mentioned not sighting  whales in THREE WEEKS when we bought the tickets..  But the show must go on.

But just in case you forget we're in Korea, Elisabeth pointed out the Cartoon Whale.

Woo hoo!

So as to not leave folks feeling they'd wasted 4 hours and a good chunk of money
 to look for non-existent marine mammals, the company broke out the entertainment: singing and kareoke (called nori-bang in Korea so as to avoid the Japanese term).

And, yes, he has a mullet. For which hairstyle I'd like to blame Canada or some other country not well known for fashion, but no, it comes from the US.  *sigh"

And again, working the crowd.

Elisabeth and Sara can hardly bear the entertainment.

We survived to tell the tale. and each got a free pass to the adjacent whaling museum - but not valid for today.  Of course.  If nothing else, Sara probably gained a lot of new insights into American family dynamics.  For which I shall check to see if she has her own blog....

Things that made me laugh this week...

Three things that made me laugh this week (so far!), in no particular order:

(1) I agreed to meet Tracey and Sandy (both ex-pat friends) for a one-hour weeding party at 8am on Tuesday (we were trying to beat the mosquitoes).  Tracey arrived about 15 minutes late, and I teasingly suggested her almost-habitually relaxed sense of punctuality may be due to her being Australian.  She chose to ignore this comment and launched into a story of her morning.  You should know that Tracey is the most deliberate, methodical, patient person I have ever met (including Nick's dad, which is saying something), and she does not tell stories quickly, so imagine her story unfolding over many minutes.

A few days ago, her husband Alex ad discovered an evil red-headed centipede in their shower.  They live on the 4th floor (Tracey's family, that is), so this poisonous monster and its family members don't just wander in on a regular basis.  Alex dutifully killed it, but apparently left a leg on the bathroom floor, which was a rather horrible shock for Tracey to find when she got up, but she bravely washed it down the floor drain with the shower hose.

A giant red-headed centipede from my garden in April (pictured with my sunglasses for scale)

That is background.  Now this morning, Tracey's high-school-senior-son was wiping the kitchen table when out popped ANOTHER evil red-headed centipede from the dishrag.  It slipped to the floor (the centipede, dear reader, not the son nor the dishrag) and the son backed well away. Tracey's husband was already at work so she was forced to choose a course of action.  She pinned the armored creature with a chair leg to give her time for further consideration.  The horror show continued to writhe about as she finally settled on getting a hammer to deliver the death blow.  After fetching the tool and settling near the beast, about to swing, she hesitated at the thought of splattered centipedian brains in her kitchen. So she instead decided to use the hammer a different way.  To tap the centipede. On the head. Gently, but again and again and again, until it finally and quietly succumbed to the drumbeat. Just picturing her on the kitchen floor, hammer in hand, tapping the bug to death, made me cry with helpless laughter.

(2) We see many, many signs for English programs (private cram schools called "hagwon" in Korean), and some of them have unusual names or awkward English phrases that makes one wonder about the quality of said program.  This week we noticed a new school name that really stood out with its bright yellow banner and bold title: "Butter English."  What? WHAT?  Did they mean "Better" (suggesting a not-top-flight English training program)? Did they mean "butter" as in "cheerful and sunny" like the yellow of their sign?  Maybe - cute, but still kind of a weird name for a school.  Nick and I chuckled every time we drove past (Butter English!).

{P. S. Yesterday I asked Grace, a Korean-American friend who has lived here about 12 years, about the possible meaning of this ridiculous sign.  Oh, she said,  that's easy.  They mean "smooth as butter," so students will be able to speak English very well.  It's from Psalm 55: "His talk is smooth as butter...."  Oh. Yes. There is that.}

(3) I had minor surgery this week to remove some weird bumps from my upper eyelids (called xanthelasma; harmless lipid tumors, but ugly as blazes and fast-growing).  I may write more about the whole plastic-surgery-in-Korea experience in a separate blog, but here's the part that I just can't stop laughing about.  Of course, I couldn't understand what the nurses were saying to me or each other, and they couldn't understand English, so we used a whole lot of gesturing in the outpatient operating room (I had to leave my translator in the waiting room).  Now, I have received no informed consent, no statement of risks, and no explanation of the procedure (Google was strangely silent on this matter), so I really didn't know what to expect.  Well, I did expect to get shots of local anesthetic near my eyes (after all, it is eye surgery), but beyond that, I didn't know what would happen.  Right after entering the operating room, one nurse insisted that I lower my pants and lay face-down on the operating table. Um, well, THAT seemed pretty strange, but ok, what option do I have?. She proceeded to rub and then repeatedly spank my bare right hip before finally indicating that I could turn over and pull up my pants.  What was THAT about?  Some sort of traditional pre-surgery religious ritual?  A test of my pain tolerance?  A test of my gullibility?  Ah, no.  None of the above.  Apparently she'd given me a shot during the spanking; the shot would help with pain from the surgery, and the spanking was intended to distract me from the pain.  My intellectual side was satisfied with this tidy answer, but my emotional side was torn between being mortified at my over-sized bum rippling with each of her rhythmic slaps and being delighted at this apparently very normal Korean technique for giving shots.   In the end, I decided just to laugh and stop being surprised by this adventure.

The power of pretty nails

A local (gigantic) Korean church has a ministry to teach disadvantaged foreign women a skill and allow them to make a little money.  Joyful Church reaches out to women from China, Vietnam, and other eastern countries who are in Korea, often brought here as brides for farmers and other men at the manual labor end of the status pool.  Some of these women are neglected or abused; most struggle to learn the language (Korean or English), to find a source of income, etc.  One aspect of this ministry is nail polish.  What a cool idea.

Reneea, a beloved ex-pat from Alabama, invited me to get my nails done with her: for just $7 each, we could get our toes painted and some fancy bling-y things put on.  This sounded like a fun trip with a sweet woman for a very good cause.

By the time Friday arrived, Reneea had also asked several other women to come along, so off we went: Reneea, Susan (California), Jeanine (Wisconsin), Grace (Pennsylvania), me (Michigan) and a 5-month-old Korean baby that Susan was babysitting.  Amber met us there a little later.

First we had lunch in the church's cafeteria, which is apparently open to the public. The $3.50 buffet (buy a ticket in one line, then give it up a meter away in the buffet food line) offered a variety of Korean foods plus rice and bean sprout soup.  I took spoonfuls of items depending on how well I thought I could manage them with chopsticks (I ruled out the soup given my previous pathetic experiences). I did pretty well in eating the spicy veggies and rice and enjoyed the food more than I expected (Korean food always, always, always tastes better than it looks). About halfway to feeling full, though, I noticed something unusual about one veggie mix on my plate.  My reading glasses, which I casually donned during the table talk and cooing over the baby, confirmed what I had feared: there were feet in my food.  Specifically, baby octopus tentacles.  On my plate.   And.. that's a wrap. All done eating.

Then to the nail ministry room, where we chose colors and sat chatting together while the young women painted our nails.  Reneea's deep southern accent makes her Korean sound particularly funny to Koreans; when a man stopped by the room, her drawl drew out the polite term for hello so far that the young workers and the man burst out with delighted laughter.  I learned later that Reneea had been having a very hard week, with a loved one dying quickly in the US, so far away.  She later commented about the joy of our group's time together: the healing powers of  women's laughter, the roar of a baby's cry, and bright nail polish.  This is a great ministry indeed.

Reneea overseeing helping Jeanine choose polish colors;
the shy Chinese-Korean woman avoided the camera.

A Vietnamese woman (married to a Korean man) became impatient with my indecisive color selection and chose a vibrant blue for me.  Well, why not.

Nothing fancy about this place--our feet rested on vinyl, backless seats like you might find at an airport.

And the white toe-between-foam things?  They had 2.  So when your toes were done, the foam
thing was whisked away to the next person's food. I mean feet. I tried hard to trust my friends and all the women who'd been here before us to have clean feet. 

Susan keeping baby Selah happy while chatting with Grace.

 

Drinking tea and eating cookies (Susan, Reneea, Grace, Jeanine).

Isn't Reneea lovely?
You'd hardly believe how opinionated she is about nail colors - hers and others'.
Grace's bronze was too boring.  :)

Amber joined us later (and Reneea ever-so-nicely vetoed her selected colors).

Happy toes: Reneea, Sherri, Grace

New ministry coming soon to Joyful Church: foot massages.  Count me IN.  :)

Signs of This American Life (Michigan)

I'm finding that once you've lived in a new place for a year, what was once weird is now, if not quite normal, at least not surprising anymore.  We still see funny signs and strange behavior in Korea all the time, but it's more like quaint background now. Then we went to the US last month. And we got a fresh glimpse of "normal," a taste of what folks new to America might notice.  Some memorable examples follow.

In a ritzy little seasonal/tourist town along Lake Michigan, where we assumed the 97.2% Caucasian population (no kidding - I looked it up here) speaks English as a native language, we found an awkwardly punctuated sign at the public beach.  It is worth noting that "public" here means "approximately the size of a Snicker's bar," as it was wedged tightly between miles of adjoining private beaches duly warning against loitering.  And this in a town of 1200 people that has as its motto "The Village of Friendliness."

Ah, punctuation.  Let alone graphic design basics like font and alignment. 

At the top of the stairs descending to this selfsame Village of Friendliness beach, we found a frightening notice about ticks, which were apparently bigger than the beach itself.  Not until we got very close to read the fine print (and what self-respecting beachgoer wouldn't stop to learn more about a creepy-crawly the size of Nick's hand?) did we learn that the fearsome ticks are more like the size of, well, air molecules.  Tricksters.

Creepy sign suggest one may find Shelob and Aragog at the beach.
(see Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter for giant spider-y references) 

Oh, gosh, I should have brought my reading glasses to the beach.

Another sign caught my eye when we went to buy ammo for the shotgun.  (Um, yeah, ammo. Nick's brother had a clay pigeon set-up on the in-law's family farm and everyone 12 years and over tried it out.  We quickly tired of the tiny orange frisbees (they're not really pigeon-shaped) as they hurled themselves far away from where we were aiming, and so we set up ugly-Goodwill-clothes-scarecrows. True story.  If this is redneck fun, I want more).  ANYWAY.  We went to the ammo shop and saw this sign with local fishing news and promos for the store's fine wares.

"Meat rigs"??  Isn't that like zombie bait?
This was well beyond my understanding of hook + worm = fishing.
I was intrigued.

Then I kept reading.

Whoa there: WHAT kind of fly are they selling?
Aren't proctologists the doctors who..., well, enough said about THAT.
Fishing intrigue canceled.

In the very same Friendly Town, we noticed this painting on a family-owned grocery store. From a distance, this is a nice homey touch, illustrating three generations of hard-working folks who feed the local community.

Family grocery store.  Very nice.

 But then, upon closer examination, the painting was rather disturbing.

Grandpa looks a little creepy.

The son is not right, either.

And the scary gene was passed onto the next generation, too.
I think I'd rather face those enormous beach ticks than meet this family in the dairy aisle.

Thank you, Google.

And lest you think that strangeness is limited to small towns in Michigan, here's one from the Dallas airport. Waiting at the gate with hordes of Koreans for our 13.5 hour flight back to Seoul, a middle-aged, Caucasian woman's t-shirt caught my eye. A large camel was silhouetted against her grey shirt, centered beneath the large word HUMP. My mind refused to accept this, as advertising camel parts has no apparent market value and this woman did not appear to be the sort interested in soliciting what I had learned about in giggled middle-school whispers.  I did not have the nerve to ask for her picture as I could not think of a reasonable cover story ("Um, hi, I really like your hump"?). Only later, thanks to Google, did I realize her shirt probably had another word at the bottom.  Which did clarify the shirt's message but still did not explain why she chose this shirt in which to welcome Korea. And, no, we were not traveling on a Wednesday.

Ah, America.  Home of the free.

Education at the Korean Dentist

Now, not all Korean dental offices may be as educational, service-oriented, or reasonably priced as what we experienced recently, but if this is the standard, count me IN.
We've already grown to really enjoy and trust our orthodontist (see previous post): Dr. Kim's smile, twinkly eyes, timid (but capable) English, and prominent "Maximum Emotional Service" signs about the office are quite endearing. Elisabeth's earlier x-rays had shown a couple of permanent teeth ready to move in, but the baby teeth's (tooth's? toothes?) roots were not giving way. So after a recent office visit, Dr. Kim the orthodontist sent us upstairs to the dentist for a tooth extraction.

When we arrived at the brand-new dental clinic, it was nigh unto bursting with bouncing, shouting little people rolling down brightly-colored vinyl bleachers, quite ignoring the shiny new board books and the giant TV.  A veritable herd of women also occupied the reception/waiting area: some were mothers, occasionally shouting at the kids; some were dental nurses/hygienists in lavender uniforms; and some seemed to be dental students, dressed identically in tacky uniforms that may have been worn by low-budget airline attendants 30+ years ago. 

As we approached the reception desk, every adult turned to stare. There is something about being a rare white person, turning heads whenever we're in public, of which one could grow fond. I confidently strode to the counter, smiled brightly, bowed slightly, and said, "Ay-leesh-ah-bay-tah Lahn-teen-gah?" in Korean-accented English while pointing to Elisabeth.  The woman nodded, smiled back, and handed me two forms to complete, both in Korean. I pointed at them and shrugged helplessly, again with a big smile; she pointed to a line on one form and asked me something, but in response to my blank look (and dumb smile) she took back the forms and just waved us to the cushy vinyl seats. It occurred to me that I was acting just like the stereotypical Asians on TV from 30+ years ago: bowing, smiling, blank looks.  Oh. 

Sitting now, trying to tune out the noisy kids ricocheting off the walls and each other on the cushy playground area, I watched the mighty-sized Samsung TV. We couldn't understand the show's young man, dressed for fishing, or his life-sized plush orange friend (a tele-tubby knock-off?), but we could follow the basic idea: showing a group of adorable Korean kids the varied creatures in the low-tide zone.  After delightedly catching some crabs in their (of course) gloved hands, the kids and the host/fisherman laughingly dabbed each others' faces with the gooey gray silt (the plushie must have been contractually exempted from dirty play). I was impressed with their self-restraint: my own kids would have definitely engaged in muddy stomping and smooshing and hurling.

Then, amid all this near-dainty play, the plushie turned its sizable bum to the camera and...farted. Many times. Accompanied by canned children's laughter. And cloud graphics that visually depicted the gaseous fumes--sometimes white, sometimes green, sometimes turning into butterflies.  I fear that my mouth hung open, perhaps indicating that sudden agony within needed urgent dental attention. I was stunned; none of the Koreans even seemed to notice. The show blessedly cut to a commercial, and my mouth closed as I began processing what I had just seen.  And then, in the ad, other cartoon-ish characters farted.  To more canned laughter.

I had no idea Korean culture was so open (celebratory?) about this bodily function that Americans (exempting males aged 2-25) go to great pains to conceal.  Who would have predicted that I would gain this distressing cultural knowledge while sitting in a shiny-new dentist's office?  Not able to let it rest, when I got home, I consulted my research assistants (ok, Google and Youtube), who informed me that Korean culture not only thinks farting is funny, but Korea sells farting dolls. I kid you not: see the ad here, (the dolly comes complete with smiling poop in her port-a-potty).  I know that Americans have peeing and pooping dolls, but that's weird, too.

Well, to my great relief, Elisabeth was motioned back to the patient room (picture it: nurse/hygienist prances into waiting room, extends arm at near-shoulder height, flaps limp hand at us while smiling a small, nervous smile). We quickly discovered that the dental nurses knew even less English that show at the orthodontist, and we hadn't brought a translator. After trying to communicate a few times, one nurse got a book apparently written for just such a situation (the title might or might not have been "Speaking Dentist to Stupid Foreigners Who Won't or Can't Speak Korean").  She looked up key dental phrases and read the English translation out loud for me: "You have an x-ray?" (no - it's on the computer from the orthodontist; she quickly pulls it up on this amazing system). "We will pull tooth now. We will give to her, ah, on..onesh..onesh thesha?"  She pointed to the word and I slowly pronounced "anesthesia" a few times to help her learn it. I don't think that bit of education was on her to-do list for the day, but there you have it.

I then tried to explain (ok, pantomime) Elisabeth's great fear of needles (years ago, an ER doctor didn't wait for the local anesthesia to kick in before putting stitches in her chin).  I gestured hopefully to the nitrous oxide system in the corner.  No, no, she motioned, making the classic "X" sign with her index fingers. Two shots, no gas.  Darn.  Elisabeth was shaking with fear, so I was pleased that the nurse applied a liberal amount of numbing cream around the tooth and waited several long minutes for it to take effect.  Then she rolled a small machine over by Elisabeth head; she attached a narrow, flexible tube to the machine and the other end to a small needle.  She gently slid the needle into Elisabeth's gum and held it still for two minutes while the machine delivered the anesthetic; she repeated this on the other side of the tooth.  To our great surprise, Elisabeth didn't feel a thing.  She watched the needle go in, knew it was in her jaw for a few minutes, and it didn't hurt.  And just like that, she lost her fear of needles. It was a wonderful moment.

People began gathering in the small room: another nurse came in; at least four students shyly distributed themselves around the walls, peeking at me and staring at Elisabeth; then the dentist strode in.  He was apparently the only male on staff, and it appeared that he was so important he didn't even need to speak to anyone.  He sat on the rolling stool by Elisabeth's head, grabbed a pair of shiny pliers, pulled the tooth and popped it into a tiny plastic case that a nurse handed me, and then left the room.  One minute. Hardly long enough for the poor students to crane their necks or for me to practice my Korean greeting and American smile.

So our half hour adventure included learning an important aspect of Korean culture, educating a nurse about a key dental word in English, overcoming a needle phobia and getting a tooth pull.  Just how much do you think we paid?  Come on, guess. Nope, you're wrong. We paid 7200 won ($7.05). Less than you'd pay for a movie (or a bucket of popcorn).  Now that's a good deal.  :)

Making fun: Korea & the US

We spent 4 weeks in the US for our summer vacation, and it was filled with surprises. One surprise was learning that FAR more folks read this blog than I thought (you lurkers out there!). Oh. And to think that I was writing it for my mother. Well, I am so pleased that most folks appear to enjoy the posts, finding humor or new ideas that brighten their day. But a few honest folks mentioned that I seem to be making fun of Koreans, such as when I post signs with incomprehensible English. I felt a little defensive at that feedback, but it got me to thinking. After being away from the US for a year, I was glimpsing my home culture almost as a foreigner and was already noticing all kinds of crazy stuff. Thus, I offer a pair of stories, separated by half a world but just a few days, that suggest funny isn't limited to Korea.  :)


Ok, here's story #1.  The night before we left for the US, we hadn't the energy to create anything edible from the refrigerator's sad offerings. Thus, we went to eat at VIPS (pronounced "beeps" -- Koreans have no "v" sound; see a fantastic ex-pat photo/review here), which is a steakhouse known also for its extravagant western/Asian buffet. We waited awhile to be seated then edged into a table just off the reserved section that was loudly hosting a traditional Korean birthday party for an adorable little boy.

We selected an array of foods (Nick being adventurous; the kids and I going for the Italian, Mexican, and American comfort foods) and returned to our table, where we noticed a green, rubber "coaster." It wasn't one of the call buttons that some restaurants have to summon a waitress. It was probably not a drink coaster as (a) it's rubber and (b) every table we could see only had one each.  We weren't in a Brazilian steakhouse where colored disks signal "more meat please" and "no more right now."  Well, I do love puzzles, and this mystery was bugging me.  We pieced together the few English words on the coaster and the few Korean words we could figure out: "VIPS," "please give"; and "together loving green.” Oh.  This little language analysis made the coaster even more mysterious. Well, because we couldn't communicate with the waitress to ask the meaning of the coaster, I resigned myself to not solving this mystery.

Happily, as we were finishing, some Korean-speaking friends arrived and I couldn't pass up the coaster question.  They obligingly examined their coaster and despite their fluency, the words made no sense to them, either: "Please put your clean plate here to help us save the environment." What?  How can putting plates on a green coaster save the environment? Now their curiosity was aroused, too, and we proposed various hypotheses.  Maybe the green-coaster-plate-stack saves waitress energy? No, that's silly and doesn't explain the "clean" concept.  Or, maybe, we're supposed to stack unused dishes separately from used ones to save energy in washing already-clean plates? No, that can't be it - why would someone bring an empty plate from the buffet? We were all stumped, and our friends vowed to ask their waitress about the meaning of this.

As it turns out, their waitress had also puzzled over the coaster's message and was quite pleased to finally have a reason to broach her manager for an explanation. I felt much better - this wasn't just a language barrier or a cultural ignorance problem.  Are you ready for the coaster's real meaning?  Here it is: "Please eat all your food (give only cleaned plates) so nothing is wasted and we together help the environment."  Ah, Koreans, I thought.  Their communication style is so indirect that not even Koreans always get the message.  Insert head shake and bemused smile here.

Now for story #2, which takes place just a few days later in the US. When my sister-in-law asked if I'd like to get groceries with her, I jumped at the chance although I rarely buy our family's groceries (Nick has done the shopping and cooking for roughly 98.92% of our marriage). As I walked the aisles of the local Family Fare, I swooned over the vast array of choices and the English written on every single package. My jaw dropped at the rows of shelves devoted just to chips: potato and corn; regular and baked; wavy and ruffled; sour cream and vinegar and BBQ.  Ah, the joyous agony of choice made me drool.

My Korean store's wine section.

Then my eyes welled with tears as I discovered the aisle devoted just to wine.  My beloved grocery store in Korea has a shelf with five varieties, of which we like one.  Finally, I gasped and froze in place as I entered the holy of holies: an entire wall of cheeses from every civilized country of the world.  Oh, oh... I had forgotten such luxuries, such abundance.

A US store's wine section.

As I wandered, alone now as Melissa had actual shopping to do, I also noticed a number of perplexing signs. Many shelves had signs like “$6.99 (or $5.50 with yes!)” What?? What was this magical yes?  A discount password to be softly whispered to the waiting cashier?  No, that can't be; "yes" is surely no secret given its abundant signage in every aisle. Maybe I need to perform a rousing Family Fare cheer, saying "yes!" to affirm their smart retailing and thus access the promised lower prices?  A peek at the registers showed no one cheering (or whispering sweet "yeses" to the cashiers).  Aha! Maybe "yes" is a smartphone app that promotes bargains?  Surely not--what a stupid name for an app, after all.

I was completely baffled.  (You, dear reader, are probably a savvy shopper and are way, way ahead of me.) By the end of my very satisfactory store tour, I resigned myself to asking about yes, fearing that I would be thought very stupid.  After all, asking dumb questions in Korea just marks me as a "way-gook" (foreigner), which I am.  To ask dumb questions in the US, where I sound and look like an American, marks me as, well, dumb.  Bravely, I asked anyway.  Oh, Melissa said breezily, completely unaware of my compulsive curiosity and bright fear of shame, "Yes is just the store's loyalty card--you swipe it at the checkout for automatic discounts."   Oh. Duh. Yes.  (But to my credit, the wording of this yes marketing gimmick is just bad. Say "yes CARD" or something understandable.  Really.)

So. Do I make fun of Koreans? Yes, I have to admit that I do enjoy bringing foibles to light. But I'm an equal-opportunity fun-maker, just as happy to point out Korean quirks as American ones. After all, people everywhere are funny.  And fallible. Myself included.