E-Book Overview
Meet Annie Choi. She fears cable cars and refuses to eat anything that casts a shadow. Her brother thinks chicken is a vegetable. Her father occasionally starts fires at work. Her mother collects Jesus trading cards and wears plaid like it's a job. No matter how hard Annie and her family try to understand one another, they often come up hilariously short. But in the midst of a family crisis, Annie comes to realize that the only way to survive one another is to stick together . . . as difficult as that might be. Annie Choi's Happy Birthday or Whatever is a sidesplitting, eye-opening, and transcendent tale of coping with an infuriating, demanding, but ultimately loving Korean family.
E-Book Content
happy birthday or whatever Track Suits, Kim Chee, and Other Family Disasters
ANNIE CHOI
F or my pa rent s
con tents
Ha p p y Bi r t h d a y o r W h a t e ve r.
1
An i m a l s .
15
Spel li ng B+ .
29
Cr i m e s of Fa shi o n .
45
St roke O rd e r.
63
Pe r i od Pi ec e .
77
Holy Cra p .
91
T h e Be s t D i e t .
109
Vege t a r i a n En o u gh .
129
T h e De v i l Mo i s t u r i z e s .
14 1
Fool W h o Pl a y Cool .
161
Ru l e s of Engage m e n t .
191
Ne w Yea r’s Ga m e s .
209
Ac k n o w le d g me nt s .
241
About the Author Credits Cover Copyright About the Publisher
Ha ppy Bir thday or W hatever
I
was going to have the best birthday ever. It would start with a parade—a dizzying spectacle of floats, prancing palominos, and the country’s loudest marching bands. There would be troupes of mimes and contortionists, foul-mouthed drag queens, and a man juggling little girls on fire. Monkeys dressed in powder blue tuxedos would throw candy and tiny bottles of whiskey to the hordes of my fans lined up along Sixth Avenue. A dozen Michael Jackson impersonators, from his pre-op “Rock with You” days to his
happy bir thday or w hatever
current noseless incarnation, would handle the sixty-foot helium balloon version of me. As the Grand Marshal, I would ride on the back of an elephant and wave as streamers, confetti, and twentydollar bills cascaded over me. After the procession, my friends and I would drink all the liquor in Manhattan, break tequila bottles over our heads, and pick fights with the Hell’s Angels. The next morning we would crawl into work at the crack of noon, nursing hangovers and picking glass out of last night’s clothes, and proclaim that the only birthday that could’ve been more historic was Jesus’ bar mitzvah. The morning of my twenty-seventh birthday, I received several e-mails from friends sheepishly bowing out of dinner, bar-hopping, and whatever mischief the night might bring. “No problem,” I replied, “more liquor for the rest of us.” Later, two more friends cancelled: “But maybe we’ll make it—call us later tonight.” No matter, I thought, the rest of us can still level every bar in the city. Then another friend explained he was “just too tired.” I called him a geriatric and crossed him off my list. Seeing the members of my posse dwindle, I called my remaining friends to confirm our night of debauchery. One got a last-minute ticket to something that wouldn’t be as exciting as my birthday—Madonna and her fake British accent in concert—and the other didn’t return my calls. A half-hour before party time, other friends decided that meeting deadlines outweighed meeting Jose Cuervo. What would have been a highly intemperate party with twelve of my closest friends ended up being a quiet group of four (myself included) dining at a restaurant where tables were set with too many forks. We split a bottle of wine and a