d-unknown

Planned Parenthood for the Soul

“So, what do you want to get checked?”

“EVERYTHING.”

It’s always good to be sexual responsible. The nurse asks if I want extra contraceptives.

“Sure.” I shrug.

She grabs a brown paper bag and counts out my prescribed year’s worth of birth control pills. Then she peruses the shelves and grabs a few boxes of Plan B and places them in the paper bag. The nurse asks if I use diaphragms. I just shake my head ‘no.’ I continue to sit and watch for what seems like slow, tick tocking minutes. She grabs a large handful of condoms from a Costco size box, puts them in the bag, and grabs more.

 I start to laugh hysterically and she looks at me bewildered.

“I really don’t need that many condoms!” I exclaim.

“You never know.”

“I’ll probably hand them out to my friends like I’m the condom fairy.”

I leave the clinic with my bag over flowing like I’ve won the lottery of contraceptives and thinking it’ll probably last me a loooong time.

Once I exit the doors on Valencia, I am relieved to see that it’s pretty dark outside now, shielding me from any possible familiar faces driving or biking down the street.

I take a few steps and hear my name.

I turn around and come face to face with an old co-worker who art directed at Apple.

“Oh, heeeeey.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks as his eyes dart to my bag.

Is that really a question? I clutch my paper bag bulging with condoms under my arm even more tightly.

“Uh, oh you know… for funsies… and making sure everything is all good.”

“You didn’t have to answer that.”

Then why the hell did you ask???

I awkwardly acknowledge that it was a pleasure to see him, nonetheless, and scurry home with red face in the dark evening. Once I get home I disperse a range of multicolored condoms to my roommates, who accepted them gleefully. The rest are still in the brown paper bag sitting under my bedside table.

Speed Dating and Smoking Crack

My old roommate asked me to attend a speed dating event with her one night. At a bar in the Marina. My initial reaction? “HELL NO!” But, actually with more thought and debate, perhaps it’d be a good evening entertainment to watch the tortuous spectacle, instead of participating.

So we trek to the Marina and peer into the bar. We see four girls sitting at tables and a line of men waiting to talk to them. Cringe. 

After some more hushed debate outside the door, my roommate just shoves me in and we sit at the bar and watch from afar.

Then a couple guys from the end of the line approach the bar and we stare at our glasses in hopes they don’t talk to us.

“Are you ladies here for speed dating?”

I look up. “Ahh… no, we’re just here for the alcohol.”

“Well, we’re going to head to a hookah bar, would you like to join?” one of them asks. 

“Hookah??” He starts to explain what a hookah is, because of my reaction.

“I KNOW what hookah is. But I don’t smoke it… I only like to smoke crack.”

“WHAT?” He looks perplexed.

 I can see my roommate turn away to stifle her laughter to my left peripheral vision.

“Where do you even get crack?” he asks.

“It’s sooo easy to buy crack in the Tenderloin or SOMA.”

“Ohhh…” I can tell the guys don’t know whether to believe me or not and my roommate is still trying very hard not to laugh, so she remains quiet.

“Well, okay, how about some food then?” He’s persistent. 

“Ohhh… I’m not eating. ‘Cause I’m running for Miss Chinatown next weekend.” This stems from seeing the Miss Chinatown pageant posters I saw earlier in the day posted around the city.

“Oh, really? Oh you know what, I think I saw your picture on the poster!”

Basically, all Asians look alike, right?

“Yup, that’s me! You should both come and vote for me!” I give my most toothy grin. 

They still try to get us to eat but I’m adamant about my supposed crack diet in preparation for my big competition. So eventually they storm out and we snicker our way back home soon after.

A few weeks later my roommate texts me from a dental conference she’s attending. “OMG that guy from speed dating is here! I’m ducking under my table, because if he sees me, he’ll think I’m a crack smoking dentist!”

David Choe, the Artist

Recently there has been news about well known eccentric artist David Choe acquiring $200 million from Facebook stocks. I walk into work and my co-worker looks up and says, “Dude, have you heard of David Choe? He’s getting $200 million ‘cause he did art for Facebook back in the day!”

“Yeah, I know him. He tried to hook up with me before.” 

“WHAT?”

So when I went to grad school in Boston years ago, my work sponsored a live art show by David Choe. I was intrigued by the art but also interested in the free Sparks they were serving.

After the show I walked up to the bar for more Sparks. David Choe is at the bar so I turned to him and said “Hey, I’m from the Bay Area too” to strike up some convo. He was interested that we come from the same hood and gave me some spiel about how giving away free Sparks is ruining the kids of America. I just nodded my head and said “But there are no kids in this bar.”

We exchanged numbers and agreed to hang out some more that later that night. He sends me texts in the meantime about tagging on walls and getting chased by the Boston police.

That night I met up with him at his hotel. We bantered about art, commercialism and his stint in a Japanese jail for graffiti. He picked up a hanging piece of art on the wall and showed me an illustration he drew behind it. Apparently he does that to many of the hotels’ art and furniture along his travels. My first thought was to steal and sell it.

“You’re so cute. You should stay the night,” he stated since we started making out.

“I actually have to get up really early and go to a corn maze with my friends.”

“WHAT? ARE YOU SERIOUS? C’MON JUST STAY!”

“Yes, I’m serious! I made these plans with my friends!”

I left shortly afterwards without doing much else with him. I did go to a corn maze and pumpkin picking the next day since it was a beautiful Autumn day in New England.

A month later I got a text from David, “I’m in NYC now. A bum is massaging my feet and it feels so good.”

Today, I’m watching an interview with him by Barbara Walters.

DAMNIT, I should’ve hooked up with him. 

Valentine’s Day

My mom calls me after dinner.

Mom: “What are you doing?”

Me: “I just ate dinner.”

Mom: “Oh, did a boy take you out?”

Me: “No, I made it myself.”

Mom: “Well, did a boy send you flowers?”

Me: “No.”

Mom: “… There is something wrong with you.”

Me: “WHAT?”

Mom: “What is wrong with you? Why don’t boys like you???” 

Water Cooler Conversation in Front of the Whole Damn Office

Earlier today, I’m sitting at my desk, minding my own business as I organize my emails and files. My creative director abruptly stands up in front of all of us, puts his hands on his hips and addresses me.

“Hey, I need your worldly advice.”

“Okay.”

 “You’ve hooked up with someone in your building before… would you recommend it?”

“Ummm…” Why the hell does he feel the need to announce this to the whole studio??

“Well, it’s pretty convenient but it can also get really awkward.”

“Yeah, I would assume so. I’m just wondering about the girl in the building I gave my number to.”

Our coworkers just look back and forth at us over their computer monitors.

“I was actually propositioned by another neighbor to hook up because it would be convenient, but I denied him. So he defriended and blocked me on facebook. When I run into him, he looks away and walks very quickly in the opposite direction.” This really did happen a couple weekends ago.

“Hmmm, okay. I’ll think about it.”

He then goes and gets the mail to distribute.

“Your Victoria’s Secret catalog is here!” He announces as he tosses it onto my desk.

Let’s go find boyfriends. Together.

My old roommate and I are walking briskly down Valencia one Saturday afternoon. We were on a mission to brunch. More importantly, a mission towards bottomless mimosas to soak up whatever happened the night before.

My phone rings and MOM pops up on the screen. 

Me: “Hello?” I say breathlessly as we cross the street.

Mom: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Going to get food.”

Mom: “With whoooo…?” My mom sounds accusatory, as if I’m with some secret lover. 

Me: “My roommate.” I’m not in the mood for 20 questions when champagne is on my mind.

Mom: “Does your roommate have a boyfriend?”

Me: “What? No… she doesn’t.”

Mom: “Do YOOOU have a boyfriend?”

Me: “What? NO!”

Mom: “You both should go find boyfriends. Right now. Together!”

She hangs up me. ::Click::

Goodwill Hunting

I like to make terrariums. People ask for them and sometimes I sell them. So one sunny afternoon this past summer, I walk into a large thrift store in the Mission and start shifting around endless amounts of glassware to make more terrariums.

I stare at all the clear glass on the shelf and suddenly feel a presence next to me. I look up and a guy is standing next to me. We look at each other for a good  two seconds and I look back down at the bowls, since that was kind of awkward. What’s this dude’s problem?

 “Hey, I have a question for you,” he says loudly.

Startled, I look back up. “Um, okay. Shoot.”

“Would you buy that painting?” He points to a watercolor painting of a waterfall that looks pretty cheesy.

“I can’t say, it’s not really my style.”

“I have a lot of more pop art and graphic art in my apartment, which is pretty modern, but I thought this was a good change of pace.”

That was too much info. But he is simply well dressed and well groomed; pretty handsome actually, probably works in the design and/or advertising industry. Since I do too, I can spot these guys a miiiiiile away.

“Well, I guess you could put it in your bathroom… you know, something calm to look at while you take care of business.”

He laughs and says “Yeah I guess, but I didn’t think girls pooped.”

“Oh, yes we do. I just pooped an hour ago.” This was the honest truth.

He stares at me a couple seconds to let that sink it. He laughs since he doesn’t know how to respond to that and I just smile.

 “I’m actually here to look for supplies to build terrariums. I want to start a side terrarium business.”

“Funny, that’s why I’m here too.” It does feel like a weird coincidence that now he is my terrarium competitor. I show him pictures of my terrariums on my phone and he gets REALLY excited. He runs around each aisle collecting different vases to show me that I should use.

“Look, this one would be AWESOME for succulents!!” as he shows me a grossly large vase that could house a small tree.

“Yeaaaaah…”

“But I’m keeping this one for myself, you can’t have it!”

“That’s fine, I can find more awesome succulent vases.”

Is this dude nuts?? Or just super friendly? You can never really tell the difference in San Francisco — some people are just outwardly insane or can be mental on the down low. Either way, it intrigues me.

I keep perusing the shelves but don’t really see anything that appeals to me. I look up to glance at the fervent terrarium dude every so often and chuckle to myself as he digs around. Once in a while he’ll hold up something excitedly to show me.

It’s been half an hour that I’ve been shopping with this stranger and I need to leave. I debate in my head if it’s worth getting to know him more or to ask for his number to make terrariums together.

“Hey, I’m taking off. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Oh, Chris. Well, good luck with your terrarium business.”

“Yeah, you too.”

We linger in the aisle but I decide not to pursue it since I can sense some hesitation on his part as well. I depart the thrift store and he follows me out with his ginormous vase. We look back and wave to each other, then walk in opposite directions down the sidewalk.

The Joy Luck Club on Steroids

My mom is the most overbearing little Asian woman ever.

Since she has no reason to nag about my education and career anymore, now it’s all about finding a man to take care of me. Every conversation we have, she sounds like a broken record spewing out ridiculousness in Chinese.

She wanted to go shopping one weekend so I meet her at the mall downtown. We grab a bite to eat at the food court since I try not to have prolonged conversations over meals.

“You don’t have time for a boyfriend?” my mom asks in Chinese.

“I’m really busy.”

“How are you going to find a boyfriend if you’re so busy?”

“I have more important things to worry about.”

“But you should have a husband. You know you have to get married by the time you’re 30, right?”

 I scoff so hard in my head it’s like a huge brain fart because I don’t think I’ll even have a boyfriend in the 1.5 years my mom says I should be married by.

“The weekends are for you to hang out with your husband and kids. And to take care of your yard.” she states.

I just stare at her. “I don’t have a yard at my apartment. I don’t think there are a lot of yards around downtown San Francisco.”

A guy that looks around my age puts his tray down and sits at the table next to us. My mom looks at him. OH HELL NO. Do the gods hate me right now? The world just has to put a guy in my mom’s line of sight at the very moment she’s lecturing me on how I need a man in my life? I instinctively look the opposite direction. 

My mom continues to talk about the benefits of having a family and that time is running out, but in English. Oh, NOW you decide to speak English? How convenient for him to overhear.

I don’t ever glance to my right and just keep eating, hoping that my mom will switch topics as I try to steer the conversation away. When I look up, my mom nudges her head in his direction over and over again. I still don’t twist my head at all and I feel like veins are popping on my forehead as I stare very intently at my basil chicken.

Then I feel my bladder telling me that I have to relieve it. IMMEDIATELY. Why is timing so bad right now?

I jump from my chair and run to the bathroom. I pee as fast as I can, praying to all the gods in every religion that my mom is not doing anything stupid out there. When I come back the table next to us is empty. Holy shit, did she say something that actually scared him away? 

“You should have talked to that guy! I was about to do it for you.”  

“DID YOU?!” I yell even though we’re surrounded by people dining. But the thought was that horrifying. 

“No. Do you even know how to talk to boys?” She shakes her puffed up hair at me, as if I need a guidebook in life, authored solely by her. 

“I’m done eating.”

Bryan - Part 1

I’m going to hell.

At least, that’s what my friends tell me.

Of all the crazy stories I have dealing with the male counterparts that come in and out of my life, this is the most recent case. Let’s call this case study Bryan and I’ll further explain why I’m doomed in my afterlife.

On a random Thursday night, I walk into a neighborhood bar to meet some friends. It turns out to be jam packed with drunk patrons and familiar faces.

After some mingling and drink orders, I spot two guys standing near me. One is clearly European and the other is San Franciscan, but not from the typical crowd at this particular bar. The San Franciscan has dark features, a minor faux hawk and scruffy face with blue eyes. Pretty cute, I think to myself. I’ve targeted him.

I take off my long cardigan since the bar is cramped and stuffy. The people shoving through push me against the wall as I turn towards the guys I’ve spotted to chat with my friends standing near them. This catches the boy’s attention. He looks right at me for a few seconds, and I assume it is because I’m wearing a drapey tank top that pretty much reveals my bra size. The boy suddenly peers through my friends gathered in a gossip circle, grabs my arm and pulls me towards him.

“Hey, I like your tattoos. Can I look more closely?” he asks. His European friend grins and watches us interact. Strangers that stop me randomly to talk about my tattoos always annoy my friends trying to get somewhere, but this was definitely an excuse. He tells me his name is Bryan. Turns out they’re both chefs and met while cooking in Spain. Ah, that explains why they stick out in this small dive bar off of Market Street.

The boy and I keep grinning at each other at the expense of his European friend. But I break off to chat and dance with my friends some more with two cups of tequila with pineapple juice in my hands. I think to myself that he’ll come back before the end of the night.

My gay Asian friend suddenly shrieks and puts his palms to his face, “Omigawd I loooove him!” as he points to the dj. I turn and see a tall blond haired boy at the booth with a boyish face.

“Why don’t you tell him you love him?” I say.

“Ohhh, he knoooows. Believe me, I tell him all the time. He’s so my type… but he’s perfect for you too. I’ll introduce you.”

As promised, when the blondie stepped out of the booth, my gay Asian friend grabbed him and introduced me to John. He gives me a shy smile, mutters a hello and walks outside.

I decide to sit down to rest and people watch. I see motion behind the window next to me and look out to the street. It’s Bryan, pointing at me as he talks to John the dj. Oh great, they’re friends. He then comes back in and approaches me.

“Hey, want to go dance and make out?”

“WHAT?” I exclaim.

“Yeah, why not?”

I thought to myself, hey, yeah why not? He’s definitely cute enough to make out in public with. And I actually was appreciative of his bravery after two seconds of thought.

So I shrug, stand up and he grabs my hand to lead me to the dance area.

We dance for a couple minutes and then he starts making out with me. After hesitating a bit I got more into it because I can tell he’s definitely good at this. With tequila as my fuel, we make out all over the floor, the couch and against the wall. Sounds way grosser in text form than in reality.

My ears perk up when I hear a friend yell “Oh my God, is that really her?!?” but I don’t bother looking up or coming up for air. After a while, we stop and walk outside since the bar was closing and everyone was stumbling out.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks.

“I’m just going to go home. I have work in the morning.”

I can hear my friend telling him he must go home with me to cuddle. She obviously is thinking about the cobwebs encroaching in on my panties that I had said were forming. His European friend also shoved him towards me in an effort towards the cause. So I ask him to come back with me to hang out. He smiles and agrees.

Once we arrive at my apartment I realize how easy it was to talk to him. He asked me many questions about my job, my photography on the walls and plays with my dog. We stayed up until 5am talking until the hooking up part finally happened. He keeps staring at me and paying me compliments, which makes me squirm a bit. But in the back of my mind I ask myself, maybe he isn’t the typical sleazy SF dude…? Maybe.

In the morning we laid in bed. He said we should hang out more, since we got along so well, and that I should add him on facebook. I grab my iPhone and look him up. I scan through his profile photos and make sarcastic remarks. I peruse his info until something made my finger stop dead on the screen.

“In a Relationship” stated his status.

“WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?”

“Oh yeah, I have a girlfriend…”

“Why the fuck are you here then?”

“Obviously things aren’t going well if I’m here.”

“Ummm… but STILL.”

“But I like you.”

“You have a girlfriend.”

“I like you.”

I click on the girl’s name attached to the status. She is blond and wholesome looking, totally unaware of the whereabouts of her boyfriend. Two words pop up into my head: HOME WRECKER.

“She looks… nice. And very blond.” I stare at the ceiling a bit stunned.

He jumps out of bed and frantically puts on his clothes and explains he has to go home and check on his European friend crashing on his couch.

As he scurries out he says, “We’re gonna hang out again.”

Later, I tell a couple of friends of the happenings that Thursday night.

Their response was “You’re going to hell.”