The beginning of a (culturally different) beautiful friendship

While I was in Grad School, I became friends with a really nice South Korean student who liked to tell me the differences between South Korean and U.S. customs (this was seriously a daily lecture). I knew where the conversation would be headed because she made it a point to start with the key words “In Korea…”  I knew that I was going to get some pretty interesting lessons about her home country, as well as some grating generalizations about America that she was hell-bent on believing based on her handful of years in the States. However, there were some nuggets of information that I found absolutely fascinating. Some of the things she explained to me included:

Generational Etiquette:
-younger South Koreans usually pay for the drinks if they are out drinking with their older co-workers.  She was older than me by ten years, which meant that I would have been on the hook for large amounts of beer purchases.  Luckily, being a poor graduate student got me off the hook more often than not.  Drinking would play a big part in our bonding experience, as I will explain a little later.

Workplace Etiquette:
-it is completely normal to have a "work husband" (oddly, my "at-home" husband is not on board with this idea).  From what I gather, a “work husband” is just someone that you’re closer to in the workplace than anyone else.  You talk often, go to lunch together, and possibly give each other back rubs.  But that’s where the physical intimacy ends.  There’s nothing romantic about having a “work husband”: it’s just an overly platonic workplace relationship.  She had a “grad school husband”, a tall, dark and handsome fellow grad student from Saudi Arabia who was generally a hit with all the ladies.  So it was just a natural fit, I suppose.

Drinking Etiquette:
-when South Koreans go out drinking, it is typical to completely down the first beer as quickly as possible as a means of setting the tone for the evening/outing.  And this usually set the tone to 11 because when you down your beer in a handful of seconds, you’re not there to take it easy.  You’re there to have a good time and a good time will be had, dammit.  And it was embarrassing for me, because I could not keep up with this tiny Korean lady who had ten years on me.  

Touching Etiquette:
-being touchy was par for the course.  We held hands often. We’d be walking to class and she'd either lock arms or grab my hand. Or we’d be sitting in the library and if she was telling me a story she'd grab the seat closest to me and reach out for my hand or leg.  Here in middle America, a lot of people have been taught/conditioned to be weary of a person who you don’t know well touching you in what could be described as an intimate manner.  But it was the most natural thing in the world to her to be comfortable with a person she'd only known for a few months.  And because I’m not a blazing reactionary, I understood and accepted her friendship.  It was comforting.

Enjoyment Etiquette:

-she also had a very LOUD laugh and explained that that's how you show respect to a person and show them that you are enjoying their company: by being as animated as possible.  When you made her laugh, the entire room knew that she was having a good time.  And it in turn affected the rest of us and made us feel giddy and happy.  This was amplified when beer was involved (see above).  

In addition to learning about our cultural differences, she also presented me with delicious Korean cuisine that I’ve yet to be able to replicate or find anywhere else.  I’m sure there are Korean restaurants nearby, but there’s just something about the smells of her apartment when I would visit that would make my heart flutter. She’d serve up Korean sushi, kimchi, rice noodles, beer, more kimchi, and did I mention the kimchi?  I’m very happy that my first kimchi experience came from a home kitchen.

After graduation we lost touch, as she went back to Korea with her husband and children and I stayed behind in Kansas.  I miss our friendship.  Also, going out just isn’t the same without someone leading the charge with that first beer.

*bonus: she knew how to open a beer bottle on the edge of a table without fucking it up.  she’s my hero.

My Un-Sophisticated Pitch

May 15, 2014

NASCAR

PO Box 2875

Daytona, FL 32120

NASCAR Executives,

Every year, the Christmas season brings about a plethora of holiday movies.  Some are classics, some are remakes of the classics and some are contemporary tales that the whole family can watch and enjoy.  One thing that seems to be missing from much of the holiday movie cornucopia is the niche movie.  I know there are some out there, but for the most part, many of the movies are made to appeal to a wide variety of viewers, and as such feature very conventional storylines and relatable people.  However, I think that it is possible to make a niche movie while also appealing to the demographic who might not normally enjoy this particular niche.

Allow me to explain.

I recently came across the Harlequin collection of NASCAR-themed romance novels and was completely floored by the idea.  I know there are many different subgenres of romance novels, but the female NASCAR fanbase is rather large, so combining NASCAR with romance was absolutely genius.  But then I got to thinking: wouldn’t that combination make for a great Christmas movie?  Most contemporary Christmas movies involve an element of romance, so people who might not be fans of NASCAR would still be interested in a Christmas romance.  And two out of three ain’t bad.  It’s a formula that stands out from the normal crop of movies and sounds like a winning combination to me.

Now, this is my story idea: Growing up in a family full of race car drivers, Tracee knew that she was destined for the track.  She spent most of her free time learning the trade with her father and brother, leaving little room for romance.  But when a new hot shot driver rolls into town, Tracee realizes that perhaps the thrill of the sport isn’t the only thing that gets her engine going.  The two meet and begin a fast-tracked physical relationship, as Tracee isn’t willing to share her heart with Rusty and her love of the sport.  But when a freak accident threatens to take Rusty out of the sport- and her life- for good, Tracee decides to take care of Rusty.  It’s then that she begins to feel it: that slow burn- as her feelings for Rusty begin to overtake her love for the sport.  Can they finally share her heart?

It’s not the most sophisticated story, but as I mentioned before, most Christmas movies have a relatable theme on the surface and this one has romance, tragedy and conflict.

I hope you will take the time to consider my proposal, as I am sure a number of NASCAR fans and Christmas movie fans in general will fall in love with Tracee and Rusty and their story of love and survival.  And at some point we can work Christmas in there.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

T.E. Grace

That awful roommate I've been telling you about...

I’ve been hinting at writing a blog about my trials with my first college roommate.  Though we only lasted five weeks together, we managed to pack in enough drama to continue coming up in drunken conversations twelve years later.  The problems mainly stemmed from the fact that she didn’t care for my friends, who mutually didn’t care for her.  For some reason, although my actual friends never made me do this, my roommate gave me an ultimatum to choose sides; obviously, as that is a pretty dick move considering that I didn’t even count her as a friend, I chose the opposite of her- and was then rewarded with having to move out of the room and onto another floor of the dorm, where much damage-control had to be done, as she had been describing me to the other girls as the Devil Reincarnate.  It only took me a week in my new room to convince the girls that I was pretty fucking nice & cool, and, because why not?, I then turned those very girls- my new floor mates- against my former roommate.  Hey, I can be petty too if provoked enough.  And that was my chance to shine.

But, since I just gave a ridiculous synopsis of the very thing I was going to talk about, I suppose I’ll just entertain you with the “greatest hits.”  And although my Not Vanderbilt College friends already know the name of the person who became the first person I ever had to use the term “hate” towards, to do my part at protecting privacy, she’ll henceforth be referred to as Abalone.  Whether or not someone else reveals her, I suppose that’s the breaks.  But I did my part. 

For the sake of not rambling on, each instance will be presented via bullet-point.  Because I can ramble.  Even in bullet-point, incidentally.  But enough about me.  On to Abalone.

• Our first meeting started with introductions which were promptly followed by this question: “so, do you go to church?”  This is where the “some scary shit is about to go down” music would start to play.
• She told me that her fridge was like my fridge and that whatever I wanted, I could just grab.  The day I actually wanted a juice, I found that he fridge also had a lock- that she delightfully employed.
• One morning, I woke up with considerably shorter hair on a particular section of my head; after I moved downstairs, I learned that she slept with scissors under her pillow.  You do the math.
• After taking a shower one Sunday morning, I found that her entire freak show clan of a family was visiting.  I suppose I should take this time to mention that her family literally lived 15 minutes away from campus.  So at any point she could have gone home if she wanted to have some family fun time.  But those fuckers were always at the dorm for some bizarre reason.  But this one particular time was especially infuriating, because, again, post-shower.  I was wrapped in a towel & didn’t feel it was appropriate to just waltz in (although, looking back, I probably should have).  And although they had knowledge of my needing to get in, that whole circus act refused to budge.  So my Lady (who thankfully lived across the hall) had to go over & “politely” ask them to leave when Spineless, our R.A., refused to do so.  She is so named Spineless because obviously.  The dog-and-pony show finally got the fuck out, no doubt feeling particularly proud about their douche-like behavior.
• Remember, she’s the one who asked me about church the first time we met.  She’s supposed to be the super-Christian…
• The shower thing is even more upsetting because that was pretty much where were finally spiraling towards separation.  A week prior, she had complained that I kept my laundry basket next to my desk instead of in the closet like she kept hers because apparently we’re supposed to be lemming robots.  When I asked her why that mattered she responded, “because my brother saw your dirty jeans.”  Not my vast collection of thongs, g-strings or bras- my fucking jeans.  But, again, that means that her sideshow family was there too fucking much.
• Thennnnnnn…when I complained about the shower incident, she countered with, I shit you not, “well, you should have a robe like everyone else instead of just a towel.”  None of those Christian-like apologies I had been expecting.  The reason that I couldn’t enter my dorm room wasn’t because of her cave dwelling family taking up all of my private space- it was because of my cavorting around in an oversized bath towel.  I’m such a harlot.
• Her mother once tried to sympathize with my problems with being racially profiled by the local police with, “my son is profiled because he’s a ska-kid.”  Yeah, totally the same thing.
• The Straw that Broke that Stupid Camel’s Back: I once owned a ukulele.  My Lady once played an anti-Abalone song on said ukulele.  I may or may not have laughed at said song (I totally did).  Abalone overhears, gets upset that I didn’t defend her & demands that we meet with the hall director. 
• This is the meeting that forced me to move out. 

And so I did.  But, like I mentioned before, my first week on that floor wasn’t exactly a breath of fresh air, as everyone was going out of their way to avoid me (even my new roommate seemed to regard me with disdain).  After I finally got people to open up to me, I was told that Abalone had been telling them that I hung out with criminals (my super deliciously hot bobo boyfriend had, in fact, been to prison before, but he was as harmless as jello), I partied a lot (true story, but only with my closest friends), I slept around (false- again, super-hot boyfriend) and that I was dangerous (because I don’t own a robe). 

In the end I became happier and don’t regret that I had to be the one to move out.  My new roommate and I found ways to bond (watching “Third Watch” religiously; monthly Spam parties; cheese plate extravaganzas, etc.) and my Lady made that wretched Abalone suffer every day for the rest of the year, as she still lived right across the hall from her.  And all I could do was smile and think, “told you I wasn’t the bad one.”

(sorry...I rambled anyway)