Yep, you read that right. ALL. DAY.
Do you know why, dear readers? No, why Danielle, and where the heck have you been??
Oh, thanks for asking. Well, I was sick and then I was lazy, and then I hiked in the mountains to a waterfall, and then I was lazy some more. Anyway, so rage. My absence here sadly does not signify the absence of my daily rage. (Although, my Seoul Metro-specific rage was reduced incredibly as I read Leslie Marmon Silko's novel Ceremony. I almost missed my transfers and stops the week I read it. It was amazing. I was oblivious to the uninhibited squishing and toe-stomping and elbow-boobing taking place during my morning commute. I'm now copying the book by hand in order to know what it feels like to write the perfect sentence, string a bunch of those together into a perfect paragraph, culminating in the most wonderful and moving novel I've read to date. And people, I've read a lot of good novels.)
No, no, rage is here and rampant. Yeah, you said that before, Chubster, get to the point.
Yes, the point: Air conditioner.
Oh, we have them. However, we're not supposed to be using them. I'm sorry, what? Why? What is the point of an air conditioner that you can't use? Hello? "But it's not good for the kids." That's the largest load of crap I've ever heard in a Korean accent before. I'm sure the kids are sweatin' out the summer months in their penthouse apartments in Gangnam with no air con. Sure. I believe that. And: THE A.C. IN THE OFFICE DOESN'T REALLY WORK. It comes on. The vents open and it makes this comforting whirring that assures you cool air will soon be circulating in our tiny square foot of office space. But no. Lies. All deception and deceit. The cool air never makes an appearance. The humidity rises and rises until I have those greasy strands of hair falling across my forehead that are so oily from my sweat it makes me want to vomit every time I catch one out of the corner of my eye. Also, then I smell like deodorant. Which is better than smelling like B.O. but it's still not pleasant. Especially when you're inhabiting a country where the women refuse to perspire and when the do squirt a few beads, it smells like... nothing. Yeah, medical phenomenon. They. Don't. Smell. Well, sometimes the old people smell like kimchi, but that's more their breath and clothing than their armpits. Anyway, I'm hot. All day.
Keun Ha calls me a baby sometimes. And I'm never offended because he doesn't mean it like I'm immature or can't take a joke. He means it like I'm one of the most simple people walking on this earth. When I'm hungry, I'm grumpy. Feed me, I'm happy. End of story. When I'm hot, I'm grumpy. Air condition me, I'm happy. End of story.
Oh, and the kids. My poor kids. They are sweating like we're in a sauna. Want your kids to learn English while they sweat like boxers steaming in trash bags before the weigh-in? Send 'em on over to Haba. We'll roast 'em for no extra charge. And in fact, we'll throw in a heavily perspiring teacher with large round pit stains and oily hair to get them to understand the difference between pot and pots. ("The s is magic, see! It makes MORE!" Blank stares abound.) We'll get them to stand up and sing that stupid rainbow song (pink is NOT in the rainbow people) to keep their rather large and round heads from hitting the small desks in front of them. We'll say "Yes you may," every time a child summons enough energy to creep out of the dense fog that rises from melting kindergartners to whisper, "CanIhavesomewater, please?" Got a chubbo on your hands, parents? One of those weird medical miracles of a Korean whose body fat registers above 1%? Forget Richard Simmons and those Jazzercise For Toddlers videos! Send them to Haba! Sweating profusely throughout the day is sure to banish that childish pudge forever. (We'll stop before they lose the cheeks though. Until I came to Korea, I never understood people pinching cheeks. Oh. My. Gosh. I am a Korean-kid-cheek-pincher.)
Okay, end facetious ranting. To sum up, a lovely list for your reading enjoyment:
Recent Rage Inducers:
Lack of air con at school ALL DAY.
Oily piece of hair touching my face.
Being hot. Walking by manager's office to see his little personal desk fan keeping him cool.
My penchant for Ice White Mocha, the most calorific drink in the joint.
Not having enough stuff to teach with and fumbling for materials constantly.
When 5 people get in the elevator with me and they all live below floor 9.
Everyone on the Metro the same time as me this afternoon.
Recent Rage Reducers:
The teacher who hunts the A.C. remote and turns it on high for me.
Really tacky hair clips from Kenny's mom that are gold and sparkle, clash with my jogging pants, and keep oily pieces of hair out of my face for most of the day.
Ice White Mocha.
Food.
Food.
Food.
Boyfriend.
Food.
Air conditioning.
