Cha Cha Cheju-do

Sometime last week I got a call from Elizabeth -- the modeling agent formerly known as "Ajuma". As you may recall, Elizabeth is rivaled in stupidity only by her mumbling assistant who hasn't been declared brain dead yet solely based on her incessant, nonsensical rambling. Anyway, Elizabeth asked if we wanted to drop everything and fly down to Cheju-do for a days' worth of shooting. Being a complete and utter idiot, I agreed.

In my defense, Mike had never been down to Cheju and we'd been talking about doing a family trip. Elizabeth told me that the shoot was on Friday only. I figured Mike could fly down after work on Friday and meet up with us for the rest of the weekend. I asked Elizabeth if she could arrange for Reilly Kate, Roman, and I to fly back on Sunday evening instead of Friday evening. When she agreed, I asked Reilly Kate if she wanted to model. Of course, since it involved money my greedy little Republican was more than happy to comply. So it was all set. Mike got his airplane ticket and using his Hyatt Club points, booked us a room for two nights for free.

Then. She called back. SHE. That Elizabeth. The dumb one. Oh, she was confused. The shoot wasn't going to be on Friday. It was going to be on Sunday. But she'd still fly us down there on Friday. By the way, how old is my son?

But I'm okay. I'm cool. I'm laid back. I'm easy. We'd still have half the day on Friday and the whole day on Saturday. No problem.

And then. She called back. Again. Her royal dunce-ness. Tee hee... she made a mistake. They'd really be doing the shooting on Friday and flying back on Friday night. When did I want to fly back to Seoul again? Oh, and by the way, how old is my son?

Honestly, when I got up on Friday morning, at the ass crack of dawn, to lug bags and sleeping children downstairs, I really figured the bubble head wouldn't be down there at all. That'd she'd either completely forgotten or had messed the times up so badly that the shooting was really to take place next October. You could have blown me over with a whisper (no small feat at this weight, I assure you) when low and behold there she sat in all her obesity (have I not mentioned that in addition to be quite dumb, our dear international modeling agent from HELL is also plump and squishy?), chatting on the phone and blocking traffic in her black Kia.

And thus it began.

As soon as we were loaded up and seat belts were clicked, Elizabeth rattled off in broken English something about going to Apkujong -- an upscale, fashionable neighborhood in Seoul. Her English, as one might expect, sucks so understanding what it is that she is trying to communicate is somewhat akin to figuring out the dialog in The Passion of the Christ without the aid of subtitles. One knows the basic story and just has to fill in the rest. After a few minutes of seemingly nonsensical Konglish (a mixture of Korean and English), I figured out that she was taking us to Apkujong, not just to meet up with the rest of the team, but to do some studio work before leaving for Cheju-do.

Reilly Kate was not be happy.
The hair and make up people went straight to work on her within seconds of our arrival. True to her past, Reilly Kate sat, miserable, pouty, and in an all around bad humor.

"I don't like that!" she snapped as they put blush on her cheeks.

"You people are going to make me late for my plane to Cheju-do!"

"Ouch! Stop doing that!" she demanded as they curled her already curly hair.

"I want to be a boy. Let me wear boy clothes. I hate dresses."

And so it went. For about an hour as they dolled up my doll. The bitching. The whining. The howling and even tears.

Most of the little girls around here that model like to precisely for the dress up factor. They get their hair done up and they get to wear make up. The clothing is gorgeous and the dresses are that of royalty. You people in the States shell out hard coin for your daughters to get this treatment at that Libby Lou while we here actually make it in our pockets. And yet, my darling despises all this.

She does it for the money and for the money alone. When I explained this to Elizabeth, she immediately took out 1,000 won (about a buck) and handed to RK "as payment." Reilly Kate squirreled that puppy away in her pocket then said, "But I'll get more when I'm done, right?"

Again, however, true to her past, put my princess in front of a camera and she suddenly shines. All smiles and happy giggles. The director was giving her instructions and she followed them all perfectly. When he praised her with "Good boy!" she laughed and laughed, loving the fact that he was calling her a boy despite the girly getup. It didn't hurt, either, that she met the man of her life and was now hell bent on him being her boyfriend, having thrown away her dreams of marrying her ex-best friend, Grace A. Oy, the drama of a four year old super model.

Yes, my dear readers, my future son in law hails from Seattle, is a 21 year old model and musician, and already has a girlfriend who RK is no doubt currently dreaming up ways of disposing. Fortunately for his girlfriend, Brett didn't tell any of us her name or whereabouts. If he had, I'm sure kinderstalker would already be gathering up information to use in her diabolical plans. Poor Brett. He fortunately likes kids, but I don't think he was quite prepared for my Reilly Kate. Who really is?

Before they wrapped up, one of the assistants came up to me and asked me how old Roman was. I told her and she started going off on Elizabeth in Korean so fast and furious I could hardly make out the blunt and rude form she was using. Apparently, Elizabeth had told them that Roman was three MONTHS old, not three years old. When they called to make us airplane reservations, the ticketing agent told her that she didn't need to buy Roman a ticket. Mere hours before our flight was due to take off, Roman had no ticket. A big hub bub ensued with the click of the computer mouse and phone calls to Korean Airlines. Instead of stressing over it, I ate a half dozen donuts while teaching Reilly Kate how to stuff food into her mouth, over her lips, without smearing her lipstick -- a skill every girl should know.

After several hours at the studio in Apkujong, we were told to pack up and get ready to leave for the airport. Elizabeth bid me farewell (which is unusual as the agents normally accompany the models to the shoots) and I carted kids and bags downstairs. I loaded them all up in the awaiting car, and while buckling the kids in was told, "No seatbelt yet. We don't leave for a half hour."

Huh? What? You want me to sit in a parked car with my small children all cooped up for a half hour before we drive for another half hour to the airport to put them on an hour long flight so we can spend the day doing hours and hours of photographs on a small island in the south of Korea? Who the fuck gave these people license to breathe? Does stupidity run through the fashion business in Korea like drugs do in the west?

All I could manage without losing my cool was, "We'll wait inside. By the way, does Roman have a ticket?"

I never did get the answer to the ticket question. Back up to the fifth floor studio we went with our bags. Back up to the breakfast station where instead of stressing, I started in on the other half dozen donuts while watching my four year old flirt like a horny playmate at the House that Heff Built. But within minutes of our return ascent, we were told to once again pack it up and head back downstairs. We were going to leave now, ahead of time, taking a cab with one of the assistants, so as to get the Roman-lacking-ticket situation straightened out.

Once at the airport, the kids and I were parked in seats and the assistant went off to talk to the ticketing agent. About an hour later, she came back, handed me the tickets, and said we were all to meet upstairs at the Starbucks. Before the kids and I arrived at said meeting point, I checked the tickets. There was one for Roman leaving at 11:05, one for me also leaving at 11:05, and one for Reilly Kate leaving at 11:15. I looked at the clock on my cell phone. It was 10:45. I had 20 minutes to figure out why they had put my four year old daughter on an entirely different flight than Roman and I.

I raced into the Starbucks to find everyone relaxing and leisurely sipping their lattes on the outdoor terrace. When I tried to show them the tickets and the mistake, I was put off.

"No, it's fine. Roman has a ticket," I was told in between slurps. "We fixed the flights. No problem."

"Reilly Kate is on a different flight. Please. Just look at the tickets," I implored.

"Yes, Reilly Kate is on a different flight... huh? What? No."

I showed them, clearly in black and white, that Reilly Kate was indeed on a different flight. The shoot director jumped up, grabbed my tickets and sprinted down the escalator to the ticketing desk. Instead of eating, this time I stressed out while inhaling deeply the aroma of dark roasted coffee beans and peering wistfully at the baked goods, longing for a scone. It was that or I was going to start chewing my hair. I'd had about all the stress a woman of my age, size, and gestational condition can handle in a three hour period.

About ten minutes later he came sauntering back up, handed me a new set of tickets, and, as he past the Starbucks' counter, asked if I wanted anything. I looked at the tickets which all now said departure time was 11:05, looked at the clock on the wall that read 10:55 and politely declined as I gathered us up and headed toward security. Personally, I didn't care if the rest of the team made it to Cheju or not. I didn't care if the photographer, the clothing, the hair and make up people, or even if Reilly Kate's beloved Brett made it to Cheju-do. All I cared about was getting US there so we could enjoy our family trip that someone else had paid for.

They all did meet up with us, however, while the kids and I clogged up the security check. That happens every time I travel. And I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all the asshole terrorists who've given their lives to make my travel experiences suck big donkey balls. May your 72 virgins be cum belching whores and your paradise smell like a public toilet in Seoul. Regardless, we made through, made it on, and were all seated together on our way to the subtropics.

Well, when I say "were seated together" I meant the kids and I. The rest of the team wisely sat themselves far from us, in an entirely different section. I mean, really, who wants to sit near small children on even the shortest of flights. Certainly not these two Dutch alternative lifestyle, metrosexual prissies. The kids were actually behaving quite well, I thought. They weren't crying, screaming, kicking, fighting, biting, or spitting. Roman was, however, playing with a toy rather forcefully on the tray table. I'd tried to get him to stop, but figured it might be more irritating to hear me constantly nagging him and him screeching out in protest when I took his toy away.

I guess I was wrong. The dude closest to the window turned around and looking straight at my two and a half year old son asked, "Do you mind?" Ummm... yeah, buddy. That works. He's younger than that hairstyle your sporting and you expect him to behave just because you asked if he minded? Instead of saying a word to him, I took out my camera and snapped a few shots of the two of them. If you recognize them, please out them here on my blog. Interestingly, these two dorks were staying at the Hyatt and just about pissed their pants when they got a look at Mike. I cannot tell you how friendly and nice they were after getting an eye full of the 260 lb daddy of the toddler they bravely told off.

When we got off the plane, Reilly Kate once again met up with her love, Brett. As we marched off to the awaiting bus, she turned to him and in a hushed tone said, "Hey, Brett. How 'bout after my mom goes to sleep tonight, you and me go on an adventure together." Yeah, she's only FOUR! Good God, do I need to invest in a chastity belt already? Ya know, it's not the boys I'm afraid of when she hits her teens. It's HER. I'm going to be getting phone calls from the mothers of boys she's sexually harassing. Oh, man. That fruit sure didn't fall far from the tree, now did it?

Her obsession was aided by the white dress she was put in for a bridal spread. The romantic background provided just the right touch. She squealed with delight as he tossed her in the air and didn't once complain about the dress, the make up, or the hair. Love was in everywhere.

Meanwhile, back on the bus, Roman did what every mother dreams of her child doing: he fell into a deep, sound sleep. Dare I even say, the sleep of the drunk. If it wasn't for his light blond hair and the pacifier firmly cemented in his mouth, I'd have mistaken him for a soju sloshed ajoshi [Korean man]. He slept like that for well over an hour which freed me up to keep a watchful eye on Lolita. Oh, she was so smitten.


The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. That is if you consider getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, being photographed with diseased, malnourished, and neglected ponies, teaching urban children to poop in the grass, eating cookies and beef jerky for lunch, and getting ripped off to the tune of 20 bucks on cab fare uneventful. Which I actually do. We were checked into our room at the Hyatt by 5:30, the kids totally surprised to see Daddy, and ready to start a fun filled Cheju-do weekend.

This modeling thing is really starting to pay off. Anyone want Elizabeth's number?