This post contains 90% truth.
I love my optometrist Dr. Tran. She got her degree at my alma mater, and she’s funny with family-friendly humor, in an Ellen Degenres kind of way. I went in her office this morning, and actually tried to sit in HER chair instead of the throne-like station with all the contraptions obviously meant for the patient.
“Oh wait, I’m sorry. I’m not completely awake yet. I just woke up like 30 minutes ago.”
“You got to sleep in? Isn’t that nice!” She’s a doctor who has two children. Pretty sure sleeping until 10:30 am is never in her agenda. I suddenly feel lazy and unaccomplished.
Directing one of those tiny intense lights on my eyeball, Dr. Tran asked “Hmm you have some deposit on your left contact. Did you forget to clean it properly last night?”
I laughed. “Most likely. I was drunk when I got home last night.” Dr. Tran stopped what she was doing and gave me a mischievous look.
“Oh.” She said very slowly, clearly fascinated by this TMI. “Where did you go out?”
That’s a lie. My friends went on to Elbo Room after going to a CNET TV party while I went home early. But does Dr. Tran really need to know that I got drunk from the free drinks offered at an industry event? Should I explain to someone who has given births that I had too many cocktails because I somehow ended up surrounded by three chicks who were all talking about their boyfriends at the party? And that the second I started to think getting slapped in the face would be a better alternative than listen to that conversation was when I realized I should just go home?
The annual exam lasted longer than I expected so I was unable to make it on time to my first dance class. On Saturdays I like to hone my swag in hip hop in case an occasion for me to perform as a Justin Bieber-esque drag king ever arises, and then pretend that I am even half as sexy as Shakira in belly dance.
It’s unusually sunny for this city today, and I am already in Outer Mission. With 1.5 hour to kill before I dance barefoot with incredible ladies whose hips don’t quit, I decided to cross Wise Sons Jewish Delicatessen off my list of places to eat.
The line was still long at noon, giving me plenty of time to drool over the entire menu. It’s weird how I know so little about Judaism, yet still really love Jewish food. I love my grandma, but unfortunately she can’t make latkes or matzo ball soup from scratch. When it was my turn, I asked the cashier “I have a stupid question: Is smoked trout salad the same thing as ‘white fish’?”
Turns out that they’re really similar but not the same. Dammit. I got the special instead: chicken schnitzel on homemade rye bread. To go. Now that I have finally ordered, my mind was no longer occupied by the thought of delicious food options, so I started to look around the place.
Pretty small. A few communal tables. Minimalistic besides for vintage portraits decorating the wall. A sign says they also have a stand at the Ferry Building farmers’ market. Used to be a pop-up…
Suddenly it hit me: Oh my god. I’m a single Asian girl wearing leggings and Converse shoes waiting alone for her takeout at a hipster Jewish deli in San Francisco! This would be perfect for a romantic comedy scene! Immediately I started contemplating whether I should cast Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Jake Gyllenhaal, or a young Jon Stewart in this meet-cute day dream.
5 minutes go by. Another 10 minutes pass. Nothing happens. I conclude that all the cute guys coming in this place were with their girlfriends or they were with their “hai gurlfriends.” Is it too much to ask for a Jesse Einsenberg type young man to accidentally get his to go order of pastrami Reuben mixed up with mine, and then we end eating together at a park somehow? Fine.
By the time my food is finally ready, I had given up on my original plan of going home to eat my lunch due to hunger, so I decided to sit on the lonely bench outside the shop. As soon as I opened my box, this cute dog leashed to the bench put his paws on my knees.
Welcoming this dining companion as a pleasant surprise, I bit into the three decadent layers. Pretty damn tasty. Who needs a man when comfort food can cuddle me from inside my stomach? I begun to take big chomps gluttonously. Then I choked on a piece of breaded chicken.
I panicked and thought, “This is so embarrassing! I am going to die because I am eating alone without any human friend to perform the Heimlich maneuver!” But that’s just me making sarcastic jokes inside my head. After some violent coughing, I was fine, but this is when the dog’s owner came over.
“Hey little buddy! Did you cause any trouble when I was gone?” I looked up.
Of course. It is a cute guy who is here the moment my face has reached an unusual hue of red from trying to survive. Are you serious right now, serendipity?!
I managed to still flash a flirty smile and told him that his pet did beg for food, but I didn’t want to feed it in fear that it might get sick.
“Oh yeah, totally. He’s been having digestive problems recently.” Cue his equally cute girlfriend who most likely parents that dog with the cute dude. Ugh, of course.
They left soon so I was able to eat the rest of my food in peace.
When I was about done, another couple with a dog appeared, except they were much older. And their dog was much bigger.
The wife assigned the husband the task of watching the dog on the bench while she were to wait in line to order food. The man yelled the dishes he wanted after her, but the woman was already out of earshot. Annoyed, he muttered angrily to the dog, “Why did she do that?…”
I chewed my last morsel and thought, well, at least I am not fighting with anyone like we’re an old married couple.