Most of you have probably noticed the lack of posts in my Misadventures of a Single Girl blog.  It’s because I’m now engaged, and I’m sure Sam would not enjoy my continuation of the blog (I could rename it, but my life has also gotten boring and domestic, so I have seemingly fewer “misadventures” now).

So, thanks for reading, and hang on tight for a brand shiny new blog coming soon!


San Franciscans who don’t live in the Sunset or Richmond would probably like to disown the Sunset and the Richmond.  Because it’s “far.”  Actually, if you think about it, the city isn’t big at all, so nothing really is “far,” but when you add in 1) tourists who can’t drive, 2) Asians who can’t drive, 3) everyone else who can’t drive, 4) stop signs, 5) poor urban planning aka untimed stoplights, and 6) pedestrians who feel like they’re on top of the world when they jaywalk or cross the street at a snail’s pace, three miles will take you at least half an hour.  So, the Sunset is very “far.”

I never minded it much, because of what I liked about the Sunset:

1) Hot Pot Garden
2) Asian dessert shops (have you guys TRIED fluffy snow?!)
3) Mostly easy street parking, except on Irving

But now I have a reason to hate it, especially because I’m a Marina girl now.  Not even a zero wait at Hot Pot Garden can ameliorate the situation.

After Sam went off to London for a work trip, I went about with my daily life as usual, when one Friday around 4:30 PM, I received a phone call.  It was from my aunt B, who lives in the Sunset (like, edge of the city practically Daly City Sunset) and works as a nurse at Kaiser.  Very calmly, she asked how I was doing, then proceeded to tell me that she was in the ER, waiting to have surgery for appendicitis.


Of course I had a minor freak out, as being in the hospital (I guess she’s technically at work) waiting for surgery is KIND OF A BIG DEAL.  No worries, she assured me, she’ll be fine, but could Sam and I pick her up from the hospital tomorrow afternoon so one of us could drive her car back to her apartment?

This would be a grand plan, except for the fact that Sam was thousands of miles away, but I didn’t see why I couldn’t just hop a cap to the hospital, drive her in her car, and hail a cab back to my place.  She said that would be fine, so I told her that I would see her the next day around 3, and wished her a speedy, safe surgery.

Saturday afternoon rolled by, and I called a cab from my place.  Within minutes it had arrived, so he drove me over to Kaiser.  It was starting to drizzle a little, so I booked it inside and went up to find Aunt B.  She was sitting on the bed, fully dressed, and hopped off the bed and walked over to me when she saw me.  I asked her if she was okay, and if she needed a wheelchair or anything, like, hello, are you supposed to walk 12 hours after your surgery?!  Aunt B laughed and told me that she had already gone downstairs to the lobby to pick up her medication, and that she just couldn’t lift heavy things.  Strong woman she is.

So we walked to her car, and I drove her to the Sunset.  After hanging out with her for about an hour or so, making sure she had everything she needed (I swear, this woman is invincible – as soon as we walked in the door, she began unpacking her bag and tidying up her already-spotless place), I decided it was time for me to go home, as I had dinner plans with friends back in the Marina at 6:30 PM.

At 4:30, I called Yellow Cab.  No answer for 2 minutes.  I hung up, then tried to use a few of my taxi apps on my phone to book a ride.  No such luck either.  Aunt B offered to have her friend drive me home, but I declined, as her friend lived in Daly City and traffic in the rain would be pretty bad, and I didn’t want to inconvenience her.

So, around 4:40, I tried calling again.  This time, an operator picked up, so I gave them my address and they said between 5 and 20 minutes.

Half an hour later, I received an automated phone call telling me that they couldn’t locate a cab to send to me.  Awesome.  So I called a few more cab companies with the same result.

Finally at 5:30, I was getting a little desperate.  With about 15% of my phone battery left, I downloaded and signed up for Uber, and within 7 minutes, my ride was downstairs.  I bid Aunt B farewell, hopped in the car, and was driven home by a very nice gentleman who chatted with me on the way to my place.

Relieved that it worked out, and quite pleased with the convenience of Uber, I went to dinner and forgot all about how much I hated the Sunset for being so far away that I couldn’t even hail a cab, until I received my Uber bill in my email inbox.  The cost of getting me from the Sunset to my place in the Marina?  $50.

So now I’m $50 poorer, and I didn’t even get to have hot pot.  And this is why I will never go back to the Sunset.

In some ways, I am not a girly-girl.  I don’t like a lot of pink, I hate it when my boyfriend tells me all that love crap, and I don’t watch rom-coms (or any movies, for that matter).

But in some ways, I am a total girly-girl.  I love makeup, clothes, and purses.  Oh, and ridiculously cute, but most of the time ridiculously uncomfortable shoes.  Today I decided to wear a pair of sad uncomfortable shoes, because who can resist buying and subsequently wearing cheetah-print high heels?  That’s correct, no one.

Obviously, these shoes are made for sitting pretty at the office, not walking around.  I thought of asking my boyfriend to drop off a pair of flats for me on his way to work, but decided that since I would be just doing a whole lot of sitting around all day, I would be totally fine.

After I got settled in at work, I decided to make myself a nice hot mug of this Chinese peanut drink (if you’re SUPER Chinese, you know exactly what I’m talking about).  It’s basically like hot cocoa.. but with peanuts instead.  It’s really delicious.

About ten minutes later, I went to smooth down my shirt from the back, and felt bumps on my skin.  My initial reaction was that they were just creases from leaning back in my chair.  I went to the bathroom to check in the mirror, and nope, these weren’t creases; these were hives.

Slightly worried, I Googled “peanut allergy,” and sure enough, they could take place minutes after ingestion, and hives were a possible symptom.  Crap.

I fished out my insurance card and called Cigna’s member hotline to find out who my PCP was.  By the way, Cigna HMO is on my shitlist, and that’s a whole other story.  After finding out that the PCP I had was NOT accepting new patients (????!?!?!?!?!), I scored an appointment with another doctor, who, I later found out while at the clinic, was a 2nd year resident.

I left work a little early, walked three blocks to get to the bus stop, and my feet were starting to hurt a little from my heels.  No biggie – I luckily caught the bus as it drove through the intersection where I was waiting to cross.  I didn’t notice that it wasn’t the normal 1-California bus line that goes ALL the way to the Richmond district.

When we were about 5 or 6 blocks from the medical facility, the bus driver announced that he’d come to the last stop.  Well, shoot.  I was already late, since the bus took longer than I’d anticipated, and I had to get to the clinic stat.  I didn’t see a second bus coming, so I had no choice but to start power walking in my very cute, very uncomfortable heels.

After about a block and a half, I noticed a cab sitting at the light.  His “FOR HIRE” light wasn’t on, but I didn’t see anyone sitting in the back seat, so I decided to wave at him and ask if he could take me.  He shook his head, so I turned and kept walking.  Just my luck.  However, he rolled down his window and asked where I was going, and I told him I just wanted to go about another 4 blocks.  He agreed to take me, and it was the best $7 I’d ever spent in my life (I tipped him an extra few dollars because he was nice).

I went to the 3rd floor of the clinic, only to find out that I had to go check in at the first floor office first.  So I went back downstairs, checked in, and went back upstairs, where I was called almost immediately.

After the doctor/resident went through my symptoms, prescribed me an epi-pen and told me to go home, take Benadryl and knock myself out (not literally, but sleep), I left and tried to figure out what to do about getting home.  My feet were killing me at this point.

I decided to call a cab, after seeing that my chances of flagging down a cab in the middle of sleepy, peaceful Laurel Heights was slim to none, and after I’d walked down to California Street, I called for a cab.  The operator asked where I was, and I said California and Maple.  She asked for a building number.  Shoot, I’m not anywhere near where I can see a number.  I gave her the number of my medical clinic, which was a block away, and I trudged back up the hill one block to the facility.

After a few minutes, my cab arrived, and the driver told me that the operator had given him the wrong address, so he had to circle around until he could find someone who looked like Vicky.  The driver was a very large man who wore red pants, a red sweatshirt, and sang and danced along to Elvis’s “Where Do I Go From Here.”  When that song ended, he pushed some buttons on his CD player, and on came another Elvis crooner, which he sang and danced to while driving down the windy roads in the Presidio.

I was slightly amused until he neared my place, asked if I could pay cash, and I told him I didn’t have any.  He said fine, I could pay with a credit card, and when I asked how much, he saw that he’d forgotten to turn on his meter.  He immediately started cursing, so I told him I’d give him $15.

He turned on his meter, which starts at $3.50, and told me that he’d make the tip up so my total would be $15.  When I looked at the receipt, it said $17; he’d added the wrong amount for the tip.

Whatever.  I just wanted to get out of the cab and go home, so I paid, thinking that if I’d taken the bus, I wouldn’t have survived the three-block walk home, so it was all worth it.

And this is why peanuts and uncomfortable shoes will not come near me any longer.

For awhile, nothing weird was happening to me.  Much to the disappointment of many of you, I wasn’t meeting any crazy people, I stopped having many interesting bus stories, and I haven’t had a weird dating story in the past seven months.

Lucky you.  Some higher power has decided that my life just can’t go uninterrupted.

Today I decided to go to the dentist for a teeth cleaning.  I’d just changed insurance, and I was pretty excited to find a dental office a block from my office.  When I walked in, Gloria Estefan’s Conga was blasting so loudly I could barely hear the receptionist.

When the hygienist called me back, the music had changed to a soothing classical piece, although it was still playing at a pretty decent volume.  The hygienist was an Asian woman, probably in her late 30s or so.  She was pretty chatty, and she asked where I worked, where I lived, etc.

Finally, as she slowly reclined the chair, she looked at my file.

“Your last name has two Es in the Lee?”
“So that means you’re… Chinese?”
“You don’t look Chinese!”
“I.. get that a lot.”
“You look Filipino or Vietnamese.  Probably because of your eyes.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.  The Filipino one.”
“Are both your parents Chinese?”
“Do they look Chinese?”
“Um, yes.”
“Oh, then maybe you were, you know, at the hospital when you were born, they switched you.  Like, you know, in the movies!” *giggles*
“Uh, no, I look like both my parents…” *nervous laugh*

At this point, she started cleaning my teeth.  The music was now an old-school slow jam.

“You must have had braces before.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“No??  Then you are very lucky!”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You probably had your wisdom teeth pulled then.”
“No, they just never came in, and the dentist never saw a reason to extract them.”
“Wow, no wisdom teeth?  Ever?”
“Then you have a lot of room in your mouth!”

The music at this time became a very loud heavy metal song.  She continued cleaning, and as she finished up, she told me that the dentist enjoyed blasting the music, just in case I was wondering.  I sort of was, thanks for the explanation.

So, in the event that anyone is looking for a dentist or a teeth cleaning, I recommend Dr. Cox and his staff.

Disclaimer: this post talks about barfing.  A lot.

There’s a comedienne that I like – Lynn Koplitz – who once talked about New York children being “uppity pod children” because they were a little too posh and sophisticated for their age group.  Instead of liking chicken nuggets, they liked udon noodles.

When I think of my childhood with my two worldly, sophisticated, fashionable parents, I think I’m one of those pod children.  I loved sushi and udon, tiramisu, and raw oysters – lots of them.

Unlike a fine wine, my stomach apparently does not get better with age.  I’ve become lactose-intolerant, and my digestive system has decided to randomly reject foods.  Like oysters.

Normally when I get food poisoning, I throw it all up, feel better about it, and proceed to eat normally.  Yesterday, after a few friends and I decided to go to Tomales Bay, I ate ONE partially-cooked oyster, and my stomach decided to basically turn itself inside out on the drive home.

First, Sam pulled over to a restaurant and general store in Nicasio, where I promptly threw up outside the car, then went into the bar restroom, where I threw up some more.  After lying in the back seat for a bit, drinking a little water, which I threw up a few minutes later, and an absolutely dreadful pain in my stomach, we decided to head to the nearest ER, which, of course, was about 20 minutes away, at the end of a long, windy road.

While we were in the middle of the woods in Marin, driving down what seemed like an endless stretch of curvy roads, I decided to throw up again, so Sam quickly pulled over and handed me one of Huckleberry’s poop bags (empty and clean, obviously).  While I was trying to recover, Sam asked, “Hey did you see the bear?”

My brain didn’t really know how to process that comment in the midst of my gut-wrenching pain, so I sort of looked around, and realized that he was talking about a large wooden bear statue in a small clearing in the woods.

We kept driving, and I half-passed out until we reached the hospital in San Rafael.  Unfortunately, I had just discontinued my Kaiser insurance, and the hospital was a Kaiser facility.  At this point, I didn’t really care, and luckily there was little to no wait at the ER.

After struggling to tell the nurse what my symptoms were (what I’d really wanted to tell her was to just give me some sort of painkiller shot or to knock me out completely), she started me on some IV fluids after seeing that I was pretty dehydrated.  While she chatted with Sam about what triggered my symptoms, hearing the word “oyster” made me throw up again.  The nurse then gave me some anti-nausea medicine.

When I was fully hooked up to the fluids, the nurse told me that the doctor would be in to see me shortly.  I think I passed out at this point.  When I woke up again, the nurse poked her head in and asked if the doctor had come by yet.  No.  She looked a little puzzled, and told me that the doctor should have already been in to talk to me.

More moments of passing out, then the doctor came in and told me that he would be doing a blood test and giving me some pain killers.  A girl from the lab came in, drew my blood, and then the nurse was back to administer my medication, which made my entire body feel sore for a few minutes.

Then I passed out again, but this time because of the relaxation from the drugs.  Poor Sam sat by my side and did nothing for the entire time.  I felt bad, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

Four hours later, I asked if I could go home.  I didn’t feel much anymore, and after I could hold down some water and apple juice, the nurse told me she would go get the doctor to see if I could leave.  After a few minutes, a different nurse walked in and told me that the first nurse had gone home, and she would be here to help me.  I told her I wanted to go home, and she said she would tell the doctor.

The doctor came in, made sure everything was okay, and told me that the nurse would be in to disconnect the fluids from my arm.  This time, a different nurse walked in and said the previous nurse had gone to dinner.  It was almost comical at this point.

I threw up again once I walked into the waiting room (oh the irony), but I decided to leave instead of checking myself back in.  After all, Huckleberry had been home the whole day, and all I really wanted to do was sleep at home.

On the way back, I called my dad to tell him that everything was okay, as Sam had called my family earlier to tell them that I was in the ER.  My dad, after hearing that I was the only one out of 7 who had gotten sick from a single oyster, told me that I should go buy a lottery ticket.

And that, boys and girls, is how I found out that I’m allergic to oysters.

I used to love the Food Network.  I now have lukewarm feelings about it.

Know why?

Because the shows suck.  It used to actually be about cooking.  It’s where I learned to cook (seriously).  So during my week of funemployment, I decided to watch some TV.  And I felt little bits of my soul dying because of shows like:

– The Next Food Network Star.  This is a reality competition series that looks for famewhores and gives them their 15 minutes of fame.  Then they pick a winner and give them a really awful TV show.  Which leads me to my next point…

– Sandwich King.  Seriously you guys, there is a TV show about making sandwiches.  It’s by the guy who won the most recent NFNS.  He’s really annoying and tries to be hip (see: Guy Fieri).

– Speaking of Guy Fieri, Diners Drive-Ins and Dives.  I’ve been to some of these places.  They suck.  Plus, hey Guy, frat parties from the 1990s called.  They want their bleached tips, sunglasses-on-the-back-of-your-head and bro antics back.

– Ten Dollar Dinners.  Not coincidentally, this is from the previous season winner of NFNS.  There is no way you can make a 3-course dinner for 4 people with just $10.  Actually, you can: Bagel Bites, instant ramen, and popsicles.

– Cupcake Wars.  Why.  Why.  Why.

– Worst Cooks In America.  See Next Food Network Star.

– Rachael Vs. Guy’s Celebrity Cookoff.  The name of this should be “Has-Been Z-Lister Cookoff.”  Basically you take the annoyingness of Rachael Ray and Guy Fieri, and then you throw in a bunch of people who aren’t relevant anymore (or ever).  Think Dancing With The Stars rejects (because DWTS is also turning into a show about has-beens.

– Down Home with the Neelys.  It’s like watching a really awful, cheesy softcore porn.  Oh, it’s a cooking show by the way.

– Sweet Genius.  This guy is creepy as shit, and I have no idea who he is or what he does.  All I know is that he pretends to be this evil genius while he gives people bizarre challenges.  Why people sign up for this show (or why it was renewed for a second season) I have no idea.

– Heat Seekers.  Yes, I love watching two “bros” travel around making O-faces as they try to beat each other in the game of “let’s see who can eat the spiciest food, because we love killing our taste buds and developing ulcers.”

– Pioneer Woman.  Your husband is a douchebag.  Also, wtf is up with your recipes?  Frozen fruit cups??  Thanks for giving me the recipe for combined canned fruit.  Don’t believe me?

– Anything Paula Deen.  Yes, let’s all continue to re-live her path to diabetes.

– Crave.  Some unknown tells us what he’s craving.

– Fat Chef.  This is like Biggest Loser, but with chefs.  At what point do you realize “shit I need help” and decide to sign up to be on a TV show?  400 lbs?  500?  600?

– Sugar High.  MOAR DIABEETUS.

So there you have it.  The shows that I will never watch ever again.  And you probably shouldn’t either.

I am not ashamed to admit that I was a Disney kid.  I loved all the movies.  I loved the theme park.  I even had the autograph book and would wonder why Donald Duck signed his name differently every single time.

But the older I get, the less I like Disney movies.  With the exception of a few, all movies are about finding Prince Charming and getting hitched.  One of those exceptions is Winnie the Pooh.

I have always been a fan of Pooh, from the books to the movies to the TV series.  In fact, I’ve seen every single Pooh movie that has been released.  Yes, this includes The Tigger Movie, Pooh’s Grand Adventure, and the latest Pooh movie in the theaters.  Before you judge me for being childish, let me tell you why I have no shame in being a staunch Pooh fan.

1. Everyone is a little imperfect.  Forget the huge batting Doe eyes and perfectly curvaceous figures of Disney princesses.  Screw those perfect princess dresses (or in Jasmine’s case, the slutty two-piece).  Winnie the Pooh and his pals don’t worry about size, weight, or character flaws.  In fact, has anyone wondered why Pooh is the only one who wears a shirt?

2. There is no love story in anything.  Know why?  Because it’s about friendship.  Bros before hoes, chicks before dicks.  Everyone helps each other out.

3. They’re relatable.  It’s okay if we all feel a little down like Eeyore every once in awhile, nervous/anxious like Piglet, or OCD like Rabbit (oh wait, that’s just me).  We all know someone who’s like Kanga.  And we all know the typical douchebag guy is basically Owl.

4. You cannot deny that you had imaginary friends when you were little.  We all used to be Christopher Robin, but without that cool British accent.

Your homework assignment for this year is to watch all the Pooh movies and fall in love with them all over again like I do.  Every single time.