happy birthday or whatever

From Happy Birthday or Whatever: Track Suits, Kim Chee, and Other Family Disasters by Annie Choi: (love this book! so funny!)

My mother doesn’t believe in coffee-flavored coffee. While I deliberated in agony between Supreme Holiday Pumpkin Cinnamon Cardamom Blend or Swiss Chocolate Raspberry Hazelnut Awakening, my father walked into the kitchen. He had on a red collared shirt and a yellow sweater, a gift I gave him last Christmas. He had on no pants. He did, however, have on underwear.

"Jesus Christ, DAD, put on some pants!"

"I can’t find any pants. I think they all dirty."

"How could they all be dirty?"

"No pants, I have no pants."

"Did you look in the laundry room? Can you at least wear a robe? Seriously, you’re killing me here."

I wrenched my eyes away from his scrawny, pale legs. As he’s gotten older, my father has lost weight in his legs, but gained in his belly. When he turns to the side, he looks like the letter P. He returned to the kitchen triumphantly, holding up a pair of blue and green plaid pants. They looked familiar.

"Uh, I think those are Mom’s pants."

"Really?"

He looked at the tag and went back to the laundry room, muttering to himself. My mother walked into the kitchen, fully dressed with hair and make-up in place.

"Anne, why you in pajama still?"

"I just woke up."

"Oh my gosh, it three o’clock! I already went church and come back. How you can sleep all day? Oh look you hair!"

I looked at my reflection in the oven. My dark hair was sticking straight out in a million directions. My head looked like a sea urchin.

"I just woke up, give me a break. Tell me, do we have any normal coffee?"

My father joined us in the kitchen, defeated. No pants.

"Ayoo," my mom groaned in Korean, "Have you no shame? Your daughter is standing here. Where are your pants?"

"He can’t find any," I answered in English, "Do you have any normal coffee? I don’t want pumpkin pie coffee; it’s disgusting."

"Anne, you can drink my coffee," my father said, skittering across the kitchen. As he reached up to open a cabinet, the bottom of his shirt raised to reveal a hole in the seat of his briefs.

"Oh. My. GOD! MY EYES! MY EYES! They burn!"

"Ayoo, shame! Shame!" My mother shut her eyes in horror and stamped her feet.

"What? What?" My father looked at us incredulously. "Everyone so LOUD! Stop scream!"

"Anne," my mother cried, "now you know what I see everyday. How I live like this?"

"I don’t know, but I’m glad I don’t live like this. You people are nuts. Dad, you really should wear pants when you come into the kitchen. It’s not sanitary."

My father scowled and handed me a jar of Sanka.

"Anne, you be nice. My coffee taste better than Mommy’s."

"Oh no way. This is instant coffee. I don’t do instant. No one should ever be in that much of a hurry."

"You complain too much," he told me.

"You’re not wearing any pants," I said flatly.

"Everyone so crazy, how I live?" my mother wailed. She looked up at the ceiling toward God, "How I live?"

"I bet God drinks regular coffee," I grumbled.

"Anne!" my mother cried.

"Where’s my pants?" my father demanded.

"Where’s the normal coffee?" I demanded. I felt a sharp pinching in my temples and a throbbing between my eyes. I started scratching my arms. I dug my nails deep into my forearms.

"Ok, everyone, pay attention," my mother snapped in Korean. She put on her drill sergeant face, the look that once instilled fear in my brother and me throughout our childhood. "We are leaving at five o’clock. Everyone get ready to go. Anne, you can wait until your uncle’s house for coffee. STOP SCRATCHING. They’ll have a bathtub full of coffee just for you. And you," my mother looked warily at my father, "I don’t know how you’ve lost all your pants. How do you lose pants?"

My mother marched out of the kitchen in search of pants.