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Makeup Fail

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Confession: at the age of twenty-eight, I am a total doofus when it comes to makeup. Part of this is the luxury of good genetics; I’ve been able to coast by without having to cover up any acne scars or too many pimples. (Commence hating, y’all). Every now and then, I will get a zit due to stress, and sure it bothers me, but not enough to actually do anything about it (just stress some more).

The other part is that I just don’t know how to do it. I never watched my mom putting on makeup when I was growing up, because I was busy writing stories and plotting new and horrible deaths for my least favorite toys. I was what you would call a “total loser” in middle school and didn’t have many friends to ask for advice. I did wear eyeliner once; I think it was Halloween, and I was probably trying to be Courtney Love or something. I remember Lauren and Emily, the popular bitches in my French class, telling me, “oh, your makeup looks so good.” I was caught off guard, and actually felt – flattered! Then I went to the bathroom and saw that my eyeliner was all smudged; half of it had somehow smeared over one eyelid. They’d punked me again. (I’ll reiterate my earlier wish, that they are happy with their fourteen kids in their double-wide trailers now). General fear of looking a total fool has kept me from even experimenting with eyeliner, to the point where I don’t even understand the physics of it. You’re supposed to draw around your eyeball with a pencil? How do you do that without it hurting?

When I want to look like this:

I end up looking like this:

Can't sleep...clown'll eat me...

Because I don’t want to induce nightmares for the people who I encounter in every day life, I just go natural. This hadn’t bothered me a whit until I came to Korea. Appearance is of utmost importance here. Nobody dashes out to the grocery store in their PJs and flip-flops – well, except maybe the occasional foreign teacher who just got here. She’ll be properly shamed, soon enough. Plastic surgery is rampant; almost everybody gets the double eyelid procedure at some point. It’s pretty weird NOT to wear makeup here. My co-teacher panicked and made me put on some of her lipstick on Photo Day (which she had not, by the way, bothered to warn me about in advance). She did this in front of some of my students, and they were clamoring for me to put on eyeliner and eyeshadow as well. But there wasn’t any, so when the photo is published, my lips will probably be a bright red gash in a bland oval. Nice!

So anyway, today I felt like taking baby steps into the world of makeup. First milestone: BB cream. For those of you outside Korea (well, all of you who read this blog), here’s an explanation of BB cream by the wonderful folks at Eat Your Kimchi. Basically, it’s like a miracle serum that fixes everything wrong with your face. Even things you didn’t know were wrong with your face. I was a bit hesitant about buying makeup here, as I am several shades darker than the darkest shade ever showcased in advertisements (translucent gray), but I decided to go have a look around the many makeup stores in my area.

(Fun fact: the word for “restroom” in Korea literally translates to “makeup room.” This probably accounts for why there are mirrors everywhere in a Korean public restroom, including one positioned on the stall door, hanging at eye level. So you can check yourself for blemishes while you eliminate. I guess that is efficient multitasking).

I went into the first of the eleventy bajillion makeup stores in the area, and of course it took the sales reps awhile to find the shade of BB cream that is closest to my own, which is kind of nutmeg. (My skin still remembers the lovely beaches in Vietnam). When I checked out, they gave me free samples, as these stores always do – a benefit of shopping in Korea. You get free random shit whenever you buy anything! I got some powder and a few face masks, which are these creepy masks that make you look like Jason from Friday the 13th, but transform your skin into smooth silk. I put one on, and after a few minutes my eyes were kind of stinging, which is maybe a giveaway that hey, something ain’t right! abort! abandon ship!, but I was busy cooking while looking like an axe murderer, so I paid it no mind.

I eventually pulled it off, and washed off whatever noxious cancer chemicals were roiling around my skin cells, and looked at myself in the mirror. Alarmed, I double-checked the label on the packet, and sure enough, I had ripped right through the word in big, bold capitals: “WHITENING.” I am NOT going to take a picture of myself in this state, but trust me when I say that I can pass for an extra in the next Twilight movie*, if it stays like this: white face, contrasted with much darker neck and rest of skin. Not a good look. Thankfully, I have a turtleneck that I’m going to be wearing to school tomorrow.

I know I'm American and all, but this is a look for the birds, not for people.


* – even John Wayne Gacy looks better than these fools. The makeup in the last movie is better than it was in the very first installment, but it’s still distracting: “hey! your face is not the same color as your abs! What gives?!”

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Positivity vs. the Negatrons

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

A bunch of my 7th graders have started wearing these purple rubber bracelets, in the style of those “Live Strong” bracelets that totally cured cancer a few years back. I quizzed my pet Tom about this. The bracelets are part of this month-long campaign to curb complaints. If a student complains about something, she must remove the bracelet and put it around her other wrist. I looked it up and this rubber bracelet thing is part of a book / marketing scheme to sell purple rubber bracelets. I had to laugh. What a brilliant and roundabout way to tell the students to “just shut up and take it!” Accept your arduous, stressful lot in life, kids.

Now, I’ve talked at length about the enormous amounts of scholastic pressure applied to these kids. What I haven’t really talked about is what a load of Wendy Whiners these kids are. They’ll complain about everything! At least once or twice during every class I teach, I’ll hear a student moan, “jaemi opda!” which means “boring.” How frigging rude is that? I can’t imagine actively heckling a teacher mid-class like a comedian on open mic night. Not even Mr. Woody (yes, that was his real name. And yes, he had the misfortune of teaching middle schoolers with that name).

Purple rubber bands: highly useful for flinging at your classmates.


An 8th grader complained yesterday about one of the questions on the speaking test. At first, I thought he meant that the question was too difficult. Their test is about giving advice, and one of the sample problems is: “I like someone who doesn’t like me!” He understood the question, but apparently thought the subject matter was inappropriate for school. ! I’ll have to remember to avoid any potentially risque PG-rated material in my lesson plans for that class.

Then I had an entire 9th grade class who were stone-faced and sleepy all throughout my lesson plan on “Luck,” so since that lesson bombed with them, and we’re running out of time before finals anyways, I decided to skip it for my next 9th grade class. One of the few 9th graders who still pays attention complained about that — “but teacher! Lesson very funny!” Aww. (I do like complaints that are flattering to my teacher’s ego).

I have spoiled my students so much as far as rewards go, that they complain when they get candy. Yes, they bitch and moan about magical candy procured from thin air, a.k.a. the foreign teacher’s wallet. That’s how spoiled rotten they are. “TEACHA! I want BIG chocolate!” Listen, kids, in my country nobody gets candy in school these days. Why? Because they’ll get sued into oblivion! So go count your lucky little ABC chocolates, and please don’t choke on them.

My pets are actually the worst about this. They’ll complain about things I do, in class. “Teacher why are we doing this?” “I don’t like this activity!” ARGH THEN WHY DON’T YOU TEACH THE CLASS. Later on, I’ll find out from them that they actually ended up enjoying the activity, or just wanted to complain for the sake of complaining. I love my students but these days, my head is a bit sore from banging it against my desk.

Of course, when Tom was telling me about this bracelet thing, he was also complaining about how lame it was. I pointed out that he ought to switch his bracelet to his other hand. He complained about that too. Naturally.

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Nightmare

Sunday, November 13, 2011

The Rider Kipler on her Black Mare, by Alfred Dedreux. According to Wikipedia, apparently the etymology of "nightmare" has nothing to do with horses. It still makes a good visual pun, though!

It’s been a long time since I’ve remembered a dream. I used to have vivid dreams, and I would diligently record them in my dream journal upon waking. I even blogged the more memorable ones. (Tip to those who want to try this, but have difficulty remembering: write salient details as quickly as possible, preferably as soon as you’re conscious enough to find a pen and writing surface. Don’t wait to compose sentences or a coherent storyline, because then you’ll have lost it). Then — I don’t know what happened. I just got older, and maybe my subconscious became more boring, so I stopped having memorable dreams. I did have a dream earlier this year involving lesson planning, and the lesson plan didn’t even have an interesting twist, like shooting myself naked out of a cannon or anything. Bo-ring.

Last night, I dreamt that I was hosting a Halloween party. The party took place in this large, unfamiliar house out in the woods, back in America (probably Kansas). I remember seeing a bunch of my friends piled on the back of a truck for a night hay ride, and it was kind of foggy out. I was running around, doing hostess duties, and then I got tired and decided to take a nap. So I went back in the house and laid down on the couch for a little bit. (This is the first time, by the way, that I can recall actually going to sleep while I am already sleeping).

I was drifting off to sleep-sleep, when I heard voices outside the door. Someone pushed the door open and stepped inside. I recognized the voices as belonging to my friend Doug’s horrible ex-wife, Tiffany, and her stupid friends. The Four Blondes of the Apocalypse entered the room. A little groggy, I think I said something to the effect of “what are YOU doing here?” and I guess Tiffany took offense to that, so she was quite cold and bitchy for the rest of their visit. They kept making snarky comments about the party, and when – surprise – Leonardo DiCaprio just up and dropped by the party, they weren’t even impressed by that, because he had come so late. “It’s like this party is an afterthought.” BITCH.

Once the Four Blondes of the Apocalypse had left, I stormed outside in the woods, looking for Doug so that I could chew him out about leaving me there alone to deal with his ex. Most of the revelers had disappeared, though, leaving behind just a dying bonfire and some beer cans. I walked, barefoot, deeper in the forest, yelling his name at first, but then stopped as it became apparent that nobody else was out there.

I kept going, my feet crunching the leaves and sticks of the forest floor. Then I decided I’d had enough and turned back, and that’s when I saw them – through the arch of a ruined stone door – the two men wearing white face masks. One had long, stringy blonde hair. They both just turned and looked at me. Oh, shit. I turned and ran, my feet bleeding from the sticks, the men in masks gaining ground on me.

When they caught me, cold hands clutching my limbs and dragging me down, I woke up. Good morning!

I’m happy to be dreaming again, grim contents notwithstanding, but I wish my subconscious were a little bit more creative, instead of following a paint-by-numbers cliche horror plot (right down to the non sequitur celebrity cameo). You get 2 1/2 stars this time, subconscious.

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Corporate Cookie Day

Friday, November 11, 2011

Today is “Pepero Day” in Korea – a holiday essentially sponsored and propagated by Lotte Corp., the manufacturers of Pepero Cookies. The cookies themselves are long, slender sticks dipped in chocolate; they’re not bad but not anything to get worked up over on the other 364 days of the year. Some apocryphal girl supposedly started this holiday by giving Pepero sticks to her friends, in the hopes that they would grow tall and slender (by stuffing their faces with chocolate cookies? Someone didn’t pay attention in health class). The makers of Pepero amass loads of profits on this day, as students are motivated to buy the cookies for their friends and for their teachers. Today is a particularly special Pepero Day, it being the year 2011 – “Millenium Pepero Day.” Too bad Lotte Corp. wasn’t around back in the Koryo Dynasty days.

Nothing says "I love you" like the dead old dudes that we scrawl upon our fiat money.*

I’m usually quite resistant to holidays that are not Halloween or Mardi Gras. Particularly the more blatantly corporate ones such as Valentine’s Day – Eli and I make it a point to do nothing on VD, and instead go out for President’s Day, declaring our love for each other and for dead old white men. And Pepero Day is just so unabashed in its capitalistic origins. Here’s a list of other purely manufactured holidays, including “Hug Day,” “Silver Day” (that must get expensive) and a couple of obvious “We’re Running Out of Ideas Days” such as “Movie and Orange Day” (what an intuitive and logical combination. Oh well, at least it’s healther than pigging out on cookies or Chinese takeaway).

This past year, however, I’ve become much less of a sourpuss when it comes to playing along. Even though I think the kids shouldn’t be spending money on sweets, it’s not like I’m going to refuse any that are given to me as a token of their affection. Plus, I’ve got to admit, it is a little flattering to a teacher’s ego.

My loot. A box is missing due to redistribution. Teachers apparently have to give out Pepero too!

It is a bit eerie to witness a generation of kids so easily influenced by a handful of marketing executives in a backroom. There’s things like Pepero Day, in which not everyone really participates, but even innocuous childhood rhymes are affected. For instance, indecisive children in America sing this:

“Eenie, Meenie, Miney Moe,
Catch a tiger by his toe.
If he hollers, let him go,
Eenie, Meenie, Miney Moe!”

And then regional variants go off into their own thing. In my version, instead of “let him go” I “make him pay, eighty dollars every day.” Finish it off with “my mom said to pick the very best and you are it.” (Or not it, if I’m feeling contrary. I’m curious about how other people learned this rhyme. What version did you grow up singing?)

Korean kids use the exact same song (well, it’s not really a song so much as a song-y rhythm), but instead of Eenie and his cohort, they sing about this:

Which bottle should I drink from? Oh, if only there were a little handy decision-making tool at my disposal...

My girls taught me this one day in class, but I’ve forgotten most of it, and anyway this blog can’t render Hangeul for some reason. It goes something like, “Coca Cola is so delicious, I just can’t stop drinking it, even though I’ll get a stomachache! Ding dong dang dong!” No, I don’t know what’s up with the “ding dong dang dong” business, and it doesn’t even fit with the rhythm! Anyway. One of my girls said she thought that our “Eenie Meenie Miney Moe” rhyme was better, because it wasn’t made just to “make money.” The students are indeed aware of the aggressive marketing towards their demographic. Most of the students I’ve talked to don’t seem to mind, though. How else will they be able to choose between the Samsung Galaxy S II or the iPhone 4GS, if not powered by the delicious decision-making attributes of Coca-Cola?



I have to give props to this woman’s method of settling disputes. Nice-uh.

*Zombie presidents image yoinked from here.

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