Goat Roping at Olympic Park

Predictably, the day was a classic goat rope. From the start. I've heard from the circuit of modeling moms that Ajuma is sloppy and disorganized. I'd like to say I know enough to agree with that judgment, however, she never even showed up today. I, instead, had the extreme displeasure of enduring her assistant for three fun filled hours. And if the boss is sloppy and disorganized, how would you rate the flunky?

We were supposed to be picked up at 9:30am. You know me, I'm always late. I have two kids! It's their fault. I try to be on time. I do. But inevitably someone spills milk all over the floor that the other one slips and falls in and I have to do a complete wardrobe change before heading out the door. This is what happens to me. So Tuesday morning I was running around in nothing but a towel at 9:15 like a chicken sans head, packing snacks and a lunch and juice boxes, books, toys, and the like. The phone rang and it was the assistant. She's downstairs waiting at the entrance. Are we coming down, she wants to know. Something inside me snapped like a brittle twig in a linebackers hand.

"You are early. You weren't supposed to be here until 9:30! You'll have to wait another 15-20 minutes. We'll be down there when we can." Then I hung up.

At exactly 9:30, she called again.

"Uhhh... chigum... I uhhh waiting at entrance. Ummm... you come." This assistant has a horrible habit of starting every English sentence with one of two Korean words. "Chigum" means "now," and is her preferred way of starting an English sentence. "Kuh-ray" which means "really" starts about a quarter of her English sentences. I'd be paying her a compliment if I said she speaks a small amount of English. She really butchers the language, torturing all those who are within earshot. After spending a few hours with her, I am convinced that her Korean isn't much better.

"Yes. We'll be down there when we can," I replied before closing my phone.

We were downstairs by 9:35, standing at the entrance to our apartment, directly in front of the security office where visitors must check in. She was no where to be seen. I walked up the hill a ways, back down, looked around the corner, then called her. No answer, but I was entertained with a delightful song by the Carpenters. I called again. "Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near..." sang the brother and sister duo as I paced back and forth. "Just like me, they long to be, close to you..."

I growled into the phone, "Pick up the damn phone! Pick up! Pick up! Pick--"

"Yobosayo," which is the Korean way of answering the phone.

"Hello? We're out front. Where are you?"

"Yobosayo?" responded our dim bulb.

"Where are you?" I asked again.

"Chigum... uhhhhh... I in front uhhh... your apartuh [apartment]."

"We're out front, too. I'm standing in the street. Do you see me?"

"Street? Street? Kuh-ray... ummm... no street. Entrance. I uhhhh... chigum... entrance your apartuh [apartment]."

At this point it she began talking in Korean to someone else. At least I assumed it was someone else. Then, the phone disconnected. I was left standing in the street with two kids and dialing her up again. Fortunately, I had the Carpenters to look forward to. That Karen Carpenter sure knew how to calm the nerves, huh?

When I finally got through to her again, she immediately handed the phone over to some guy. I never did find out who since he wasn't in the car when she eventually picked us up. My guess is some dude off the street because his English was even worse than hers.

"You Hyundai Hometown. You Hyundai Hometown. You come," demanded the male voice.

"Yes. Very good. Thank you," I said and then I hung up. I was not going to get anywhere with either of them.

I went over to our security office and asked one of the rent-a-cops to talk to The Ditz and let her know where to go. He did, but even in Korean she seemed clueless. After what seemed like quite a long talk, filled with gesticulated directions which, of course, were worthless over the phone, he hung up, shook his head, handed the phone back to me and said, "She comes."

The kids and I went back outside to wait for her. I didn't know where she was. I didn't know where she thought I was. I just hoped she was on her way. The photo shoot was scheduled to begin at 10:30 at Olympic Park, on the other side of the river. It was now 9:50.

After several minutes, the security guard came out to stand with us. He walked up the hill, back down, looked around the corner and then asked for my phone to call her again. Again, this time with a bit of heat, the security guard gave her directions. I heard him say in Korean, "No, right. Right. Go right!" When he got off the phone, he handed it back to me and said, "Good luck," leaving us to go back to his guard post in the office.

The kids and I, we stood. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Waited.

Waited.

Waited.

Then, at 10:02 (according to the clock in her car) she pulled up and we piled in. Her car was a nice, neatly kept, luxury sedan that stunk of kimchi so strongly, I looked under the seat for the kimchi pot. I don't know what Ding-a-ling is doing in that car to make it smell that bad. I've been in plenty of Korean cars, cabs for that matter, and have never smelled anything like it. Maybe she's making her kimchi as she drives around lost in Seoul or as she waits forever at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Either way, it was horrendous. It shocked me that the kids didn't flatly refuse to get in. Or at least tell her that her car was a stink bomb.

Our nostrils were hardly adjusted and our seatbelts barely clicked when she started speeding down hill on our narrow little street.

"Too fast, Mama," said the wise Roman. "She too fast."

"Uhhhh... chigum... uhhhh... We late. You late. We late. I wait for you uhhhh entrance Hyundai Hometown. We late," explained El Stupido.

The ride to Olympic Park was uneventful thanks to my ceaseless prayers to God and Saints Christopher and Raphael. That crazed bitch was bound and determined to get us to the park on time. And she muttered to herself the whole while she was doing her best Danica Patrick impression.

"Kanmanyo, kanmanyo [wait a sec, wait a sec]," she muttered, then rambled something I didn't understand. "Odi? Odi? [where? where?]" She'd also slip into a mantra of what sounded like memorized directions (to the park perhaps).

As if the crazy driving and the grumbling weren't enough, her phone started ringing fifteen minutes into the journey. Then she was juggling the phone, weaving in and out of traffic, muttering to herself, and blaming the fact that we were late on us. I understood enough of the conversation to get that much. Oh, and she was lost. And frustrated with whoever it was on the other end of the phone. After the third call, she yelled "Kago iso! [we're coming! using a very blunt form of Korean], hung up, and didn't answer her phone again.

She drove around in circles, made illegal U turns, stopped and asked random passersby for directions, parked on busy streets with her blinkers on, and muttered to herself. Until. Finally. We arrived.

Almost immediately Reilly Kate was whisked away from me, much to her displeasure, for hair and makeup. She sat there looking for all the world a spoiled, bitchy diva. The women fluttering around her would tell her she was beautiful and she responded with a huff. When asked what her toy elephant's name was, she responded with a puff. When asked to tilt her head one way or another so they could put some make up on her, she responded by grabbing her Dick and Jane book and putting it in front of her face. But when I asked her if she wanted to go home and told her that she did not have to do this, she responded with, "I don't want to go home. I want to have my picture taken. I want the money!"

Ah, yes. My future Republican. Fortunately, we do make her donate a good portion of her earnings to a poverty relief fund for children. I'll fix her yet. Don't worry. This is just a temporary throw back to her genetic Republican background.

They got her dressed without much fuss on her part, although they were quite shocked that she was without panties and refused to wear socks. But otherwise, she dressed without incident. And, true to her diva act, as soon as the pictures began snapping, she perked up, smiled brilliantly, and loved the camera.

When I saw the woman they hired to pose as the mother figure, I was grateful they had found someone else before I had the chance to email my pictures. For starters, I am not a size 2. Plus, I was too old. That girl couldn't have been older than 20. It would have been a killer blow to my middle aged ego to have The Ditz try to explain to me, in her blunt, butchered English, that I didn't fit the bill... or the clothes. Can you imagine?

"Uhhh... chigum... Clothing small. You fatty. Too fatty. Uhhh... face lined. Too lined. Many lines. You face."

No. It was best that I wasn't home and couldn't email.

Of course, Roman was none too happy about being out of the spotlight. He ran around, chasing the golf balls, getting into the picture, declaring war. When asked to move by the photographer, he throw a golf ball at him. Which would have been funny, a little bit funny anyway, had the photographer laughed. He didn't. Instead he assigned a girl to entertain Roman. Naturally, the two fell in love despite the language barrier. She understood him and he her. Quite the match. Roman was happy. Until the prima donna stepped in. She wasn't happy to share even a mere glimmer of the limelight. Sibling rivalry. Ain't it grand?

Reilly Kate had one more change of wardrobe during which I discovered that a rather sizable chunk of her hair and been yanked out by one of the hair people. It was just dangling there and was so big that I thought they must have been some fake hair on her. I looked closely, though, and saw roots. Pulled right from my baby's head. I went straight over to the hair and makeup group, shoving the hair in their hands and demanding, "What the hell did you do to my kid?"

A flurry of Korean ensued as I went back to Reilly Kate to talk to her about it. I figured this was why she was so pissy when they were doing her up. This kid screams like I'm killing her whenever I go near her hair with a brush. I swear, if I weren't in Korea, the neighbors would have called Child Protective Services by now from all her hollering. As I was telling her that she should have told me when they were hurting her, the hair girls came up and apologized to me. I pointed to Reilly Kate and said, "Don't apologize to me. Apologize to her. It was her hair you yanked out of her head."

They leaned down apologized to Reilly Kate. She smiled up at them and said, "It's okay. It didn't hurt."

Huh? Now how's that again?

I tell ya, this kid, this tender headed, red haired, princess and the pea, swears to me that it didn't hurt at all when they pulled a clump of hair out. The next time I have to brush that tangled mane of rats' nests and she so much as whines, I'm calling LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE. You watch. I will.

The last set of pictures were done in less than fifteen minutes. All told, with hair and makeup and wardrobe changes, she "worked" just about an hour. The hardest part of it all, besides, of course, losing a good portion of her hair, was holding that flag up. The wind was awful that day as a dust storm from China blew in and my poor 30 lb. lightweight could hardly keep her feet on the ground let alone hold up an enormous golf flag. They had to call in reinforcements.

As we were walking back to the car, Dumbass tells me that she isn't going to pay me, but instead old Ajuma is coming to my house tonight and will give me the money then. Yeah, that ain't working for me. I told her I wasn't going to be home and that I needed the money now.

"Errr... kuh-ray... I no money. [Ajuma] come your house. Give you money." Then she laughed and laughed.

I insisted that she must give me the money before taking us home. She just kept laughing. I don't know what kind of hokey pokey these batty bitches were playing, but when we got into the car, Dingbat started driving around looking for a bank. Here we went again: U turns, parking in busy streets with the flashers on, asking anyone, including little kids, where the nearest bank was. All while grumbling to herself about the money. At this point, I really didn't care just so long as Reilly Kate got her money. Besides, it was lunch time and I was cracking open Easter eggs in the backseat of her car. The smell of kimchi was still strong, but now we were hungry and the kimchi stench just acted as a condiment for our eggs. Plus, I was getting some evil pleasure from leaving a lunch time with toddler mess in her car. God forgive me.

She did eventually find a bank and gave us the money. Then she drove around lost for another hour. I asked her to take us to the Army base instead of back home so Reilly Kate could get to school. From my house to the base is about ten minutes on the over crowded, every jackass in Seoul puttering along, side streets. We were on the expressway when we passed our apartment. A half hour, two U turns, and a detour through the Han River Park later, we arrived at the gate to the base. Instead of listening to me when I told her to pull over and let us out, she attempted to drive through the gate. She has no ID, no sticker on her car, no base privileges. How she thought she was going to get through is beyond my guessing. How she got herself out of the barricade is not of any concern to me. I grabbed my kids, opened the door, and hopped out with nary a fond farewell to our nutty poor fish.

I've already committed to a shoot in May with Ajuma II. If she's the gold standard and anywhere near as assed up as this group, I'm writing off the whole modeling thing and forcing my kids into manual labor at the factory up the street. I think it'd be easier on me. Afterall, if I ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.