After I offered to send it to her, my mother became a Korean Terminator, seeking me out constantly and asking me when I was going to ship the phone. Two weeks ago, she called me when I was on my way to the hardware store to pick up a few items.

Me: “Hello?”

Mom: “Hi, honeyyyyyyyy. Whatchoo doing?”

Me: “I’m going to the hardware store to pick up a few things.”

Mom: “Oh, really?…I calling you to see if you still gonna send me EYE Phone.”

Me: “Yeah, I’ll send it to you next week.”

Mom: “Okay, good! I very excited to get new phone. I sound bad now, right?”

Me: “Yeah, the connection is terrible, I can barely hear you.”

Mom: “So bad. I need to get new phone. Send soon as you can, okay?”

Me: “Don’t worry, I will.”

Mom: “Okay, thank you bay-beeeeee. Love you. Bye.”

I got to Lowe’s, picked up my four items, paid for them, and was driving home when my phone started vibrating. I glanced down and saw it was my mom. Again. Confused as to why she was calling me 15 minutes after we had last spoken, I answered.

Me: “Uh, hello?”

Mom: “Rebecca! It’s Mom.” She often identifies herself on the phone as if I get loads of calls from various Asian-accented women and can’t correctly identify her by voice.

Me: “Yeah, I know. What’s up?”

Mom: “Don’t forget to send charger!”

Me: “What?”

Mom: “When you send EYE Phone, don’t forget to send charger with it!”

Me, laughing: “I’m not going to forget! Geez!”

Mom: “Okay. I sit here this whole time thinking about it.”

The thought of my mom hanging up the phone after our first conversation, sitting on the couch by herself for nearly 20 minutes thinking about the phone charger I may or may not remember to send along with my old phone, and finally feeling so doubtful I’d remember that she was compelled to call and remind me as if I were a four-year old being repeatedly told to wipe my nose instead of a self-sufficient woman who’s about to turn 30 left me both stunned and amused.

Me: “I will make sure to send any and all appropriate accessories with the phone.”

Mom: “Okay. Thank you. Send pry-or-it-tee. Bye.”

Early the following week, I received a voicemail from my mother asking how come the phone hadn’t arrived yet:

Mom: “Hi, honeyyyy, it’s Mom. I just wondering when EYE Phone gonna arrive. I haven’t received yet, and that makes Mommy sad…okay, call me soon, love you, bye.”

Good grief. To avoid receiving several more messages that would eventually segue from pathetic-sounding to inciting the Wrath of the Cha, I shipped the iPhone shortly after receiving the message. With the charger. Via “pry-or-it-tee” mail.

A few days later, my phone vibrated. It was my mom, of course, calling me at 11:00 am on a work day because she has no concept of time. Since I was appropriately indisposed, I let it go to voicemail. Later, I listened to the message she left (transcribed below):

Mom: “Hi, Rebecca! I just got a fancy EYE Phone! App-ulllllllllllllll. I so happyyyy!!…but I don’t know what to do so I plug it in…and, uh, figure out. Tomorrow I’m going John’s, so I take with me. Okay? I, uh, ohhhhh thank you again! I’m gonna talk to you later sweetie, you must busy working, okay? Okay, bye.”

Baby steps. Mom had finally gotten the iPhone, but she didn’t know what to do with it. I called her later that day.

Me: “So you got the iPhone?”

Mom: “Yes, thank you, honeyyyy! Thank you so much! Looks nice! I plug in for six hours, you think that’s enough?”

Me: “That is definitely enough.” I like that since she doesn’t know what to do with the phone, she just decides to charge it to death.

Mom: “It not working for calls, what I gotta do? Take to A-T-un-T?”

Me: “Well yeah, they have to activate it.”

Mom: “Hmmmm…..okay, I take to A-T-un-T and they switch on, right?”

Me: “Yes, they’ll activate it and then you can use it to make calls and get online.”

Mom: “Okay, I have John help me. Bye.”

After that weekend, she called again and left a message:

Mom: “Rebecca, it’s Mom. I call from EYE Phone. It’s good. Talk to you later. Bye.”

Success! Mom called me from my old iPhone and seemed to like it. All of her badgering and questioning finally paid off, as she was now well on her way to barely mastering 21st century technology.

And then my brother texted me the next day:

John: “Mom apparently wiped her ass with your iPhone and got her 4s on. She’s trying to figure out Siri with Lori [my sister-in-law] but Siri is having trouble understanding her.”

WHAT THE HELL! My mom badgers me for weeks to send my old iPhone to her, and when I finally do, she dumps it and just gets the iPhone 4?! Why didn’t she do that all along? GAHHHHHH.

I called Mom.

Me: “So you’re using the iPhone now?”

Mom, chipper: “Yup!”

Me: “What the hell! John said you’re not using mine, that you got the iPhone 4 instead!”

Mom: “I take to A-T-un-T and they said same price to activate. That I upgrade to EYE Phone 4 for forty dollars. Forty dollars! That’s good deal, right?”

Me, sighing: “Yeah, that’s a good deal. Okay. That makes sense. So do you like the iPhone?”

Mom: “Oh yeah, it’s real nice.”

Me: “Are you using Siri?”

Mom: “Lo-lee [Lori] showed me how to use but Sih-ree doesn’t understand me sometimes because of accent. She say [mimics a singsong voice], ‘I don’t un-der-sta-aaaaaaand.’”

Me, laughing: “So you stopped using her then?”

Mom: “No, I still use. I say, ‘Sih-ree’ — well, I don’t say ‘Sih-ree’ because she don’t understand me, so I say, ‘KOREAN RESTAURANT!’ and she gives me list of Korean restaurants!”

Mom sounded very pleased.

Me, laughing some more: “That’s good.”

Mom: “And Lo-lee plug my address into phone so I say, ‘Take me home!’ and Sih-ree say, ‘Oh-kay, turn right here!’”

Me: “You can plug our numbers into your address book and tell Siri to ‘call Rebecca,’ and then she’ll call me.”

Mom: “Oh yes, I tell her, ‘Call my husband!’ and she says, “Oh-kay, calling you husband now!’”

So to recap the technological abilities of my Korean mother, she can now send picture mail and has a somewhat decent understanding of how to use Siri. But is she still incapable of sending text messages? I asked her and she promised she’d learn. Shortly after our conversation, I received this text from my brother:

John: “I texted Mom and asked her if her phone was getting texts. She called back and said yes.”

Like I said, baby steps.

Mom: “So…you using crutches now? No walker?”

John: “Yeah, I’m feeling strong enough to get by with the crutches now.”

She fell silent, the gears turning in her head.

Mom: “…so whatchoo gonna do with walker?”

John: “Uhhh…do you…want it?”

Mom, happily: “Yeah! I use around house!”

Let me clarify something: my mom is not disabled. She’s got the strength and athleticism of Mr. Burns, but she’s otherwise able-bodied and self-sufficient. There is no legitimate need for her to use a walker.

John: “What the heck do you need a walker for?”

Mom, indignant: “Sometimes I sore. Walker help me around house.”

So there you go — my mom pouncing on an opportunity to maximize her laziness.

…until now. My brother texted me this picture of my mom modeling her latest creation:

Yes, those are maroon-colored pants with a built-in belt. And yes, my mother has paired her hand-knitted pants with a furry gray vest and black and white striped socks. If this ensemble doesn’t scream Korean Whoville, I don’t know what does.

According to John, here’s what my mom made for dinner Sunday night, which fed two adults, two children, and a 100-lb Asian woman:

• Steak
• Ribs
• Mashed potatoes
• Salads
• Asparagus
• Bulgogi
• Rice
• Homemade chicken soup

She also, quite amusingly, made my brother a “pre-surgery scarf.”

Mom: “It keep you warm and you feel better. I make Meechygan color.”

Here’s a picture of John enthusiastically modeling Mom’s handiwork (it is indeed maize and blue–go Wolverines!):

With “Meechygan” colors.

So with a belly full of food (hopefully outside the “Don’t eat 8 hours before your surgery” window) and a warm neck, my brother underwent surgery Monday afternoon. When he woke up, my mom was there to visit and smuggled in sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, and a donut tucked into a Ziplock bag, because nothing hits the spot after getting your hip bone hacked out like Chinese takeout and fried dough. That’s my mom, offering help and relief the only way she knows how: with knitted goods and insane quantities of food.

In addition to being an ace Korean food chef, my mom also cooks many delicious ‘western’ meals. At family gatherings, her dishes were always quick to empty while jealous Caucasian women watched in the background, begrudgingly eating while their own bland dishes sat untouched and collected a glossy, filmy sheen. If you visited our house and she was home, you didn’t leave hungry.

Eventually our friends caught on and would “randomly” show up around dinner time to catch a good meal. Mom was more than happy to have guests over, though. Even if she didn’t know you, she’d still make you eat. (Case in point: one time Mom fed leftover spaghetti to some delivery guys who were dropping off a package, and they happily ate it.)

Naturally, my mom went ridiculously out of her way to make meals just the way her kids liked them. She’d sooner die than let any of us go underfed, so as a result I got away with being a little asshole when I was younger because I was a picky eater. Since she worked nights at the Ford Motor Plant, a regular sight for me whenever I’d come home from school would be a separate plate covered in saran wrap that was labeled with the following message:

“Rebecca. Eat. Good. No onons.”

(The word “onions” was always misspelled.)

She made my school lunch for me every day through my senior year of high school. My friends were insanely jealous – one was always quick to point out that I had “the best lunches” out of anyone else. When my brother John got the stomach flu and told her he couldn’t eat anything, she still showed up at his house with a bag full of McDonald’s and force-fed him a Big Mac. She makes house calls regularly, stopping by to say hi to him and his family and to drop off some food that she made earlier that day.

My mom especially loves getting non-Koreans to eat Korean food, and she has hooked many a round-eye on it in the process. Kimchi is usually the litmus test.  As John so aptly put it:

Every girl I ever dated was offered kimchi in the same fashion as peyote was offered to the White Man by Native Americans. If a girl accepted the kimchi, then she got her foot in the door. If she didn’t? Then she was too “something” – “That girl have a big nose.” “That girl too big butt.” All while sneering the whole time.

She is delighted beyond belief that my boyfriend’s dad loves kimchi and makes me re-tell her how he used to make kimchi every once in a while, and whenever he did my boyfriend’s mom would make him store it in the garage fridge because it stank so much. Every time I tell her this story, which she’s heard a dozen times by now, she laughs her little Korean no-butt off.

I recently had a conversation with Mom about Jason’s lack of enthusiasm for kimchi, but she wasn’t willing to give up on him.

Me: “Yeah, Jason doesn’t really like kimchi.”

Mom: “No? Why not?”

Me: “He’s not a fan of things that are pickled.”

Mom: “Oh.”

The disappointment in her voice was palpable.

Me: “But there’s this kimchi quesadilla dish at a nearby Korean-taco fusion restaurant, and he likes that. So he sort of likes it when it’s in stuff, but he doesn’t like it by itself.”

Mom, perking up: “Oh, okay! That’s how starts!”

Me, laughing: “What, like the kimchi quesadilla is a gateway drug?”

Mom: “You make him kimichi fried rice, he like it. Then pretty soon he eat kimchi all the time!”

But above everything else, the one thing my mom loves even more than cooking food for you is watching you eat and enjoy it. The exchange typically goes like this:

Mom puts food in front of you. You take a bite.

Mom, with a big smile: “You like?”

You: “Yes, delicious!”

Mom, satisfied, nods: “It’s good.”

You: “Yeah, it’s so good.”

Mom, affirming: “It’s so good.”

You: “Yeah, it’s great.”

Mom: “I cooked it slow.”

She’ll then go into a long story about how she picked out the ingredients, what she did with them, and the process of cooking it…none of which is in chronological order.

You: “Yeah…it’s great! Tastes so good.”

Mom: “You like, right?”

She will never call you out on eating too much, especially eating too much of her food. To her it’s the ultimate compliment. She didn’t grow up with a lot to eat, which is probably why as an adult she’s always been so eager to share what she makes with everyone. She has brought food to her doctors, physical therapists, coworkers, my brother’s coworkers, my teachers, you name it. But despite all this talent and generosity, her dinners for herself are often simple, one-pot Korean meals quietly cooking off to the side, which she’s all too happy to slurp down as my siblings and I go to town on a pork roast or a pile of mandu.

My mother’s love of food has shaped me into the person I am today (both literally, when I’m not watching what I eat, as well as figuratively). I’ve outgrown my pickiness and willingly embrace all types of cuisine. I’ll try anything and everything (except mustard–eff that ess) and simply love food, both eating it and cooking it, with a burning passion. I eat my meals faster than anyone I know because I grew up with a mother who kept piling more and more food onto my plate before I could even finish my first helping. I remember every time I slept over at a friend’s house or went somewhere for dinner, their parents would gawk and marvel at the skinny half-Asian girl who politely asked for seconds and thirds. (Thank science I’ve gotten into endurance racing; otherwise, I’d be the “chunky half-Asian girl” and would incur the wrath of my mother for being too fat.)

I will always, always love my mom for instilling a love of food in me. If I had one day left on Earth and had to choose my last meal, without hesitation it would be a Korean feast prepared by my mother. Her food is delicious, comforting, loving, happy, and has brought my family together under one supremely yummy common bond. Thanks, Mom. You and your food are the best.

…Except your baked goods. They are awful.

*Note*: I had to republish this post after my hosting company accidentally ate it. I was able to recover the content but not the comments.

The day before the race, I called Mom to remind her that I was racing.

Me: “My race is tomorrow.”

Mom: “Yeah?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m doing another Ironman, remember?”

Mom: “Really? Where?”

This woman never remembers anything I tell her.

Me: “The same place where I did my race two years ago.”

Mom: “…Toronto?”

Me: “No, Penticton.”

Mom: “Oh. What kind of race? Swimming, same thing?”

Me: “Yeah, swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26.2 miles.”

Mom: “Gahhhhhh. Better be careful. Really! Honestly.”

Me: “Don’t worry, I will.”

Mom: “Without break?”

Me: “No, it’s all back-to-back.”

Mom: “My gahhhh. Don’t forget to eat pasta…and beef…and chicken! Give you energy. If you were with me, I’d feed you good food.”

Me, laughing: “Okay, I’ll be sure to fuel up before my race.”

I did the race and posted an improvement over the last time I did it, but I also crashed early on in the bike leg and sustained some injuries (scrapes, bruised ribs, a concussion). Afterwards I put off calling my mom because I didn’t want to freak her out by telling her about my bike accident, so I kind of avoided the little Korean woman for about a week.

Unfortunately, my brother John is a gigantic butthole and ratted me out. I had sent him this picture of my shoulder via text message:

Yum.

The day after I sent it, he met my mom for lunch and showed her the damage. Shortly after that, I noticed a missed call from my mom. It was Labor Day weekend and I was in Vancouver for the holiday to do some post-Ironman R&R, so I didn’t check my voicemail until I was back across the border. When I finally listened to my mom’s voice message, my reaction was a mixture of horror, fear, and great amusement.

The following is a verbatim transcription of the message my mom left for me:

Mom: “REBECCA!!!!!!!”

She screeched my name so loud that I winced and pulled the phone away from my ear, then checked to see if I had accidentally changed my phone to speaker setting. (I hadn’t.)

Mom: “How’s your boo boo?! MY GAHHHH, I KNEW IT!! I told you! You be careful! OH MY GAHH, I KNOW EVERYTHING!! You think I don’t know. I see the picture, everything. I couldn’t even eat after I see the picture. Oh my gahhhh. I hope you feel better. You better think twice, do that thing again, okay?!! Okay. I love you. Take care of that boo boo. Unnnhhhhh [distraught noise], okayyyyy, talk to you laterrrrrr [sad voice, sounds like she's pouting or crying], bye.”

She caught me red-shouldered (it’s like red-handed, only with more Asian mom guilt). All because my brother is a snitch.

*Note*: I had to republish this post after my hosting company accidentally ate it. I was able to recover the content but not the comments.

Damn good Korean BBQ wings.

She left a voicemail shortly after that, which I’ve transcribed verbatim:

Mom: “Rebeccaaaaa. We have big storm. I’m sitting here, dark. A little while ago, I see your, um, chicken. Gochujang chicken? That chicken. That’s a gochujang sauce. Chicken legs. Look good. So I re-ply, but I say ‘Justin’ ‘stead of ‘Jason.’ Oh my gahhh! I guess I’m getting old. So don’t tell him that, okay? Just say ‘Jason.’ I say ‘Justin,’ you know? So don’t tell him that!”

Three things:

1. Yes my mom said “re-ply” as if it were two words (“re” and “ply”).
2. Jason and I have been dating for nearly eight years. Before that I dated a guy named Justin. I can understand initial confusion considering the two names are similar, but really, after eight years she’s still getting them confused?
3. Speaking of “re-ply,” what’s this response she was talking about? I never got any sort of text message reply from her. I thought she didn’t even know how to send one.

I returned her call to get the story straight.

Mom: “You get my message?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Mom: “Oh my gahhhh, I say ‘Justin,’ not ‘Jason’! Don’t tell him I say that!”

Me, laughing: “I can see how you’d get confused. We’ve only been dating for eight short years.”

Mom: “…I say ‘Justin.’”

Me: “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that. What’s this reply you were talking about? I never got a reply.”

Mom, angry: “Mia say she don’t get my re-plies either! I don’t know what the deal is! Phone or something!”

Me: “I’m not so sure it’s the phone that’s the problem here…”

Mom: I send re-plies to you and I send re-ply to something Mia sent too. She never get it and you don’t get it. What the heck.”

Me: “You sure you sent a response to the picture mail I sent?”

Mom, indignant: “Yes, I’m sure! I write, ‘Mmmm mmmm, that looks good.’”

At this point I lost it, laughing my ass off over the contents of my mother’s super important text message.

Mom: “…then I write, ‘Jason is a good cook.’ But instead of JASON I write JUSTIN.”

Me: “Yes, you’ve made that quite clear.”

Mom: “My gah. Don’t tell him!”

I like her repeated pleas not to tell my boyfriend she got his name wrong, as if he’ll be highly offended by the actions of a woman who kept bringing up how big he used to be when she saw a slimmed-down version of him last October.

Me: “I won’t.” (I already did. He laughed.)

Mom: “This phone piece of junk. This fall I get eye…eye one.”

Me: “An iPhone?”

Mom: “Yeah, I get eye-phone in fall. Then I send re-plies.”

Oh goody.

(photo credit: (e)Spry via photopin cc)

Recently, however, my boyfriend has been pestering me about signing up for Ironman Wisconsin 2013. It’d be in September instead of November like Arizona, and the course is more appealing (rolling hills instead of numerous flat loops). I brought up Wisconsin to my mom to see how’d she react.

Me: “There’s another Ironman race in Wisconsin in September. I was thinking of doing that next year. Would you be able to come out and watch?”

Mom: “Wisconson? Oh yeah, Kuht and I drive. Meel-wok-eee?”

Me: “No, Madison.”

Mom: “How far is Madison?”

I pulled up Google Maps and mapped out a driving course.

Me: “Looks about seven and a half hours.”

Mom: “Yeah, okay. We can drive.”

Me: “So you’d want to come out and watch the race? Which one would work better for you, Arizona or Wisconsin?”

Mom: “Ummm, Wisconsin. Cuz we’d have our own car. Air-eee-jone-uh we have to rent car.”

Me: “Okay, cool.”

Mom: “We drive out and watch…WAIT!! Not September 9th!”

Me: “What?”

Mom: “Race September 9th? September 9th no good!”

Me: “Well…”

I pulled up the Ironman Wisconsin website. This year’s race was indeed on September 9th, but next year’s date wasn’t set yet.

Me: “This year the race is September 9th, yeah, but I’m talking about doing the race next year. 2013. It’d be around the first weekend of September.”

Mom: “Oh, good. I head of Korean-American Uh-So-She-A-Shun. We’re having meeting at my house September 9th. Very important! I serve vegetables from my garden and bulgogi. Next year good, this year I have meeting.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. My mom has become quite the important little Korean over in Michigan.

Me: “So you’re sure that next September would work? What about your peppers? I thought pepper season goes until like October.”

Mom, chiding: “Peppers be fine for a couple DAYS, Rebecca.”

Nice, I like how I’m made out to look like the asshole for jumping to unreasonable conclusions despite the fact that those damn peppers were the exact reason why she couldn’t watch me race Ironman Canada in August 2010.

So now I’m tentatively thinking about doing Ironman Wisconsin in 2013, provided my mom’s peppers or her very important position as the head of the local Michigan-suburb Korean-American Association doesn’t create a schedule conflict.

I’m diggin’ the gangsta lean.

I’m not entirely sure what to focus on here–there’s so much going on, from the odd hospital-issue slippers, the collared shirt and work apron combo, the weird stance, and what looks like a wide mouth bottle of Coors Light in a beer koozie. All I can say is that I’m enjoying these picture mails very, very much.

(photo credit: Abby Lanes via photopin cc)

Me: “Do you know what a cyst is?”

Mom: “Yeah.”

Me: “So I did a bike ride last weekend in Idaho and rode 80 miles, and I developed a cyst near my pubic bone so I had to go to the doctor.”

Mom: “Oh my gahhhhhhh!! What they do?!”

Me: “I went to the gynecologist and she drained it.”

Mom: “Oh my gahhhh!!! What, the cyst? What they drain? Drain the wha, liquid?”

Me: “Well yeah.”

Mom: “Oh my gahhhhhh. It hurt!”

Me: “Hell yeah it hurt, that’s what happens when a doctor uses a needle on your crotch!”

Mom: “Be careful when you riding the bike!…I think bike ride have something to do with it!” I could hear her Eureka! moment over the phone, and I’d be proud of her deductive reasoning if I hadn’t just told her how I had gotten the cyst at the beginning of our conversation.

Me: “I just told you it was from the bike ride!”

Mom: “Well you better get rest! Don’t walk around…and stuff.” I don’t want to imagine what she meant by “and stuff.”

Me: “Oh, it’s fine now. The doctor said I don’t need any recovery time or anything. I’m alright.”

Mom: “Oh my gahhhh…crappy church.”

Me: “What?” Where did this church come from? Was she driving?

Mom: “I watching Uh-mer-ee-kun Idol. This black guy Joshua go to home town. His father’s a preacher. It’s really crappy church.”

Me: “…oh.”

Mom: “So crappy. Anyway, I call you in couple days see how you’re feeling. I talk to you later, honey.”

And that’s how I found out a crappy church was more interesting to my mom than her daughter’s embarrassing health issues. Not that I blame her.