As I pulled into my gated, rain-free garage, my phone buzzed.
Oh no.
Mom.
Damn. I hadn’t called her in two weeks. I braced myself for the imminent onslaught of Korean mom guilt. Bullets of sweat sprouted on my forehead as I tried to cram my Nissan Sentra into the only parking spot available in my apartment building’s garage: a compact parking spot between an Escalade and a Honda Odyssey. I pulled in and backed out about fifty times. WHY did these fools park so close to the lines? Well, because they parked their fucking enormous cars in compact spots, that was why. None of my doors could open wide enough for a person to get out, so I had to climb out my passenger-side window.
While I shimmied out and banged my head on the metal window frame, Mom texted, Melody why you nOT CALL US? YOU WORKING TOO HARD YOU CANNOT FIND TIME FOR US. OR TO FIND HUSBAND.
For years, my mom and dad had pressed me so hard about getting married. I was only twenty-seven, for god’s sake! I had plenty of time to settle into a good career and could still wait on marriage. But to them, twenty-seven was too old to “play around” because I wasn’t, in their words, “a springing chicken anymore.”
Mom texted again. Never mind don’t boTHER CALL US WE are fINE!!!!!
My mom was like a really old teakettle on high heat: when in her low-boil stage, I needed to make contact before she became too hot to handle—because then the deafening screeches would annoy the hell out of everyone within earshot.
I unlocked my apartment and unloaded my computer bag and purse next to my shoe rack. As usual, it was dinner-for-one that night. I threw a lasagna brick in the microwave and poured myself a glass of cheap white wine. I liked my quiet nights in with my Lean Cuisines and Bagel Bites. And Chef Boyardee’s Beefaroni was so bomb. And cheap!
After I’d eaten a few bites of delicious microwave fare, I called my parents’ home phone. Mom picked up after the third ring.
“You calling too late. We are tired,” she said.
“Mom, I just got your text about five minutes ago.”
“Yes, I text five minute ago but I waiting for you calling many days.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry. I had back-to-back meetings today and I haven’t had time to do anything except work, eat late dinners, and go to sleep. I was planning to call you this weekend.” Okay, so that was a lie. I had no plans to call her. My girlfriends and I were heading to Portland on Friday night for a tax-free shopping jaunt, but maybe my white lie would make her feel better.
“I thought you go to Portland this weekend. You mention it in Instant-gram photo post and I like it with heart picture.”
Damn it.
Another lie? “I was going to call you on the drive down there.”
A few seconds passed. Would she hang up on me? She’d hung up on me before for calling her to wish her a happy birthday a day too early. It wouldn’t surprise me.
Instead, she said, “Your dad is here and want to talk to you.”
“Melody? It’s Dad.” I tried to stifle a laugh. Thanks for clarifying you were my dad, Dad.
“You upset Mom. She very worry when you not call.”
I sighed again after taking a bite of lasagna. “Yeah, I know, I know. I should have called. Things got superbusy at work. I promise, I’ll be better at checking in with you guys more often.”
He said, with a hint of disappointment in his voice, “When I was twenty-one, I came to United States with no family or friend. Not much money. And I still have time to write letter and call my home in Korea.”
Ouch. They threw down the Korean-Immigrant-American-Dream card. I had no doubt in my mind that they’d had a harder life than I did.
Apology time again. “I’m sorry, Dad. Can you put Mom back on the line?”
“Mom? I thought she go to grocery store. Call us this weekend.”
Click.
What had just happened? They had nothing urgent going on in their lives and probably decided to call me out of sheer boredom. Well, at least this time our conversation didn’t escalate into yelling, or silent treatments, or hurtful commentary about how I had no future because I wasn’t married. You know, our run-of-the-mill Korean parent-daughter exchanges.
My phone buzzed.
Mom: DID DAD HE TELL YOU WE GO TO ITALY? I WENT TO STORE TO BUY hiM CARNATION instant breakfast for our trip.
They were going to Italy? What? I had wanted to go to Italy since I was ten years old and found out that Chef Boyardee was Italian. I had never been, but now my parents were traveling there. Without me.
I texted back. When are you going?
Tomorrow. We gone for a month.
Well thanks for inviting me.
No immediate reply. I texted again. Do you want me to do anything for you when you are gone?
She wrote back. Find boyfriend.
Did she think her haranguing about dating would help conjure up a guy who’d bend down on one knee and tell me he would love me till death do us part? None of my past boyfriends—okay, there were only three—passed the parent test. Mom and Dad had Mensa and Navy SEAL–level criteria. Gareth Hinman wasn’t ambitious enough (back in eighth grade, mind you). Patrick Garcia in high school was too chubby (“that mean he too lazy”). Jimmy Han from college was premed and Korean but turned out to be gay. My parents knew this, yet still asked every once in a while if he was available. Basically, aside from Jimmy, no one would be good enough for my mom and dad.
Mom called me just as I polished off my glass of wine. “You sure you don’t want to meet Philip Kwon? He graduate Yale and is tax lawyer in Seattle.”
Her voice sounded distant even though she was shouting.
I asked, “Uh, Mom, am I on speakerphone?”
I heard shuffling, and a bunch of beeping, and then the airy background sound disappeared. My mom continued. “Philip Kwon need a wife. He very nice, serious man. He lost lot of hair on head but he have very nice, expensive house. He is also very quiet, but maybe he like your too-loud voice.”
All the Korean guys she picked out for blind dates had excelled academically and reaped financial rewards as a result, but her curated selection of men were usually incompatible with my personality. Every single time I carried the entire conversation and eventually we’d disagree about something major, like he didn’t own a TV, or he hated cup-of-noodle ramen. Every. Single. Time. I had a long, heated argument with an accountant about Rolos. I loved them. He couldn’t stand soft caramel. WTF.
Financially speaking, I didn’t need a rich guy. I had made a decent salary as a copywriter and had nearly finished paying off my student loan debt. I gave myself an A in frugality and budget management, too. If I had listened to my parents and become a miserable corporate tax lawyer, I would have worked eighty-hour weeks and never seen daylight. My vitamin D deficiency would be even worse than it already was.
My mom said, “If you marry Philip Kwon, you have big house for big family. You can marry and have many boy children.”
“You mean sons?”
“Yes. Sons. Something I never have.” Here it was. A typical moment when my mom would remind me that she could never bear any more children because of me. When I came into this world, according to my mom’s folklore, I pulled her uterus out with me. “A childbirth placenta tear,” the doctor told her, but the way she told the story you’d think I had been born with my two little baby fists holding on to the inside of the uterine walls with all my might, clenching tightly, refusing to come out without bringing my placenta and lots of my mom’s other innards along with me.
I changed the subject. “So why are you going to Italy? I begged you guys so many times over the last few years to travel to Europe with me and you refused.”
“Excuse me! I need chocolate breakfast, not the ba-nilla one.”
“What?”
“I talking to grocery man. No chocolate Carnation instant breakfast at this store. Daddy will be upset. He need that in case he can’t eat the Italy food. And then he die from starve to death.”
“Mom, you shouldn’t joke about that. You might jinx him.”
“I not joke. He need chocolate instant breakfast. If he upset, the blood pressure go way up and then he shout at everyone. And maybe he die from the too much stress. His poor stressed-ful heart.”
I asked again, “So why did you choose Italy?”
“You don’t have chocolate kind? Chocolate malted kind be okay. No strawberry. He hate strawberry. It taste like air freshener.”
“Mom, it’s hard to talk to you because you keep talking to people at the store about breakfast food.”
“If you call me back earlier, I not be at the store. I am home with peace and quiet.” She grunted. “We go to Italy with church group. They have a mission trip.”
She had finally answered my question, just as my thumb hovered over the hang-up button. “I don’t understand. Why would you go to Italy on a church mission trip? Aren’t there other places in the world that aren’t as holy that need help? The pope lives in Italy. He should have that country covered.”
She blew a puff of air into the phone and changed the subject abruptly. “I forgot ask. Any Korean guy working at the toy company?”
“You mean the game company?”
“Yes, did you see any Korean boy?”
I snorted. “No Koreans at all.” Amazing. I admired her single-mindedness. “Oh wait, there was one Asian guy who might’ve been Korean who worked in the HR department. A fresh college graduate.”