Don't Forget Your Shoes!

My good friend Dave once told me, "It's not a matter of IF one gets into an accident here in Seoul, it's just a matter of WHEN." He told me this while weaving in and out of traffic as I was clinging for dear life on the back of his motorcycle. It was understandable. We were severely hung over and extremely late for our friend Corey's wedding. And, just as an aside, I want it duly noted that I was wearing panties under my dress notwithstanding that cabbies enroute were honking, cheering, and giving Dave the big thumbs up.

I now know the WHEN. Whew! What a relief. Yeah. Right.

It was all so simple, so pure. I dropped the kids off at their respective preschool and playschool. I met Mike for lunch and had a scrumptious Mexican brisket salad. I headed over to the gym for a gluttony redeeming workout. I then realized that I had left my gym shoes at home. At first, I plopped my fat ass down and thought, "Well, I could just find a nice corner and read my book." But the jelly roll that once was my abdomen was all squished out over my too tight jeans and screamed at me "If I get any bigger, you can seek employment as a mall Santa." So with thoughts of donning a red suit and white beard with little booger eaters sitting on my lap aside my oversized belly, I got into my Mama Mobile to go home and retrieve my shoes.

Five minutes into the drive, and almost home, I went down a steep hill near a row of embassies including the Ukrainian, Danish, Iranian, and German embassies. Just as I got to the foot of the hill, I looked right to make sure no flipjob was failing to yield to my right of way as flipjobs are wont to do. With the road clear, I veered left.

I actually remember seeing an SUV-Wannabe backing down a driveway, but just figured it would stop before slamming into me. I mean, you could see my big ass flaming red Caravan clomping down the hill even if legally blind. But the SUV-Wannabe didn't stop. It just kept coming. I laid on the horn, but the driver, far too accustomed to hearing horns blow (which, by the way, is illegal within Seoul) paid no heed and plowed right into my one year old minivan. My MAMA MOBILE for the love of Peet!

You know how your brain can compose about 20 blog posts in the span of a milisecond in times of crisis? Well, here's what went on in my ADD afflicted cerebrum immediately following the accident:

Maybe the bumper just got knicked. It was probably nothing. I don't need to pull over. Man, that brisket salad was good. We should eat there more often. And then go to the gym. I should have remembered my shoes. My shoes! I cannot believe my van got hit going home to get my shoes. I mean, it felt big. Maybe I better pull over and just check. I wonder how many calories were in that salad. I wonder how long I'll have to tread on that mill to burn them off. Doubt I'll get to the gym now. Hey, why are those men looking at me? Is something wrong with the van? Oh, that one there has a smoke. I'd love a smoke right about now. Why does smoking have to cause cancer? And why is there red glass all over the street behind me? Okay, I'm pulling over now. Oh, wait. I don't know how to parallel park. I'm from the 'burbs where one never parallel parks and honking your horn is completely legal and accepted. I wonder if I'm going to get a ticket for this. Maybe even worse. What if I violated a really big law by honking my horn and wind up in some Korean jail? I bet they don't have brisket in Korean jails. Ah, but I bet I can smoke in them. Maybe I'll ask that guy for a smoke. Right after I get out of this van and take a look.

When I got out of the van I was immediately surrounded by 7 or 8 ajoshis (older men) who had been drinking soju and smoking around a little cardboard box on the side of the road. They were looking at me and my van and speaking loudly to one another in very animated Korean. Honestly, I was scared. No. Terrified. Over the years, Americans living in the US military community in Korea have been... well... hung out to dry when it comes to car accidents. Honestly, I drive petrified that a kid is going to leap out in front of me with his hand raised (it's reported that 80 children are killed here every day in car accidents) and I'll get slapped with a negligent homicide rap and never hold my children again. Thousands will turn out in protest demanding my head on a platter. International negociations will ensue over my future. Yes. I'm serious. Google it and read for yourself.

Shaking uncontrollably now, I stumbled to the rear of my van while frantically dialing Mike who was at home napping. As I was explaining to Mike what had happened, an elderly American man I recognized from the Starbucks on base came up to me and said, "You'd better start taking pictures before she drives away." Meanwhile, Mike is telling me to look in the glovebox for instructions on what to do in case of an accident. I snatched the papers out of the box, grabbed my camera, continued talking to Mike, snapped pictures, and failed to find anything that gave me any clue as to what to do. All I could do was just beg Mike to come at once.

When I walked up to the SUV-Wannabe to take a picture of license plate at the urging of my American bystander, a woman in her late 20s came out of the driver's side, clutching a little toy breed dressed nicer than she, and said in very good English, "I'm sorry. My fault." I didn't know what to say. I just looked at her stupidly and snapped some more pictures. For minutes, many minutes, I wandered from my van to her SUV, aimlessly, trembling with my elderly American and 7 or 8 drunken ajoshis following my back and forth and back again.

It wasn't long before a squad car pulled up. As I mentioned this happened nearby several embassies so the police are never too far away from the area. When they pulled up they went straight to her and asked her what happened. I couldn't tell what they were saying. I just stood there with my camera, my stack of papers, my old men, both American and Korean. The officers took down the information and turned to me. "Moon jay obso. Moon jay obso," said the one to me in Korean. "No problem," said the other translating for her partner.

The police stayed just long enough to talk to Mike in Korean. They told him the woman that hit me had called her insurance company and we were to stay right where we were until the insurance reps showed up. So we stood. And waited. My elderly American friend upon seeing that my man had shown up, departed, his job clearly done. The drunk ajoshis went back to their cardboard table, never even offering me a much needed glass of soju. And we waited. The woman stood with us, still clutching her overdressed dog. I called my Korean friend, Suzie, who was so helpful in talking to the woman and making sure Mike and I understood everything that was going to happen once the insurance dudes showed up.

If they ever showed up. We stood. We waited some more. The woman and her dog went across the street and got us each a Melona. Ya know, I had just had the big brisket salad. I didn't get to work out because this flipjob whacked my wheels. And then she offered me more carbs in one ice cream bar than I eat in a whole damn day? Was she some kind of diet saboteur? A Santa maker? What? Mike and I looked at each other, I shrugged, and we both peeled the wrapper off and couldn't eat it fast enough. It was the best damn tasting artificially flavored, mass manufactured, powdered milk concoction, frozen on a stick that I've ever had.

The insurance blokes eventually did show up. Between Mike and Suzie, we have the insurance thing pretty well figured out. Mike's taking the van in tomorrow morning to a repair show across the river. I am hoping they replace the bumper, the fender, and the whole door. Otherwise, I don't think that door will ever work properly again. I'm sure it is going to cost big time. Poor woman. I bet she just about shit when she saw the big blonde Mama come out of her bad ass minivan import. Of all the people in Seoul to hit...

Oh, and I'm up five pounds. Big salad. No work out. Melona bar. I'd like to take her to small claims court over that one. Yeah. I would.