Someone tried, I think, to hotwire my car. This past Monday night. I only realized yesterday, well, because I was just in my car yesterday, and there was this pair of willy nilly needle nose pliers just laying there on the floor beneath my floor mat.
Now, I don't normally carry around a pair of needle nose pliers. And, let me tell 'ya, I don't just have them hanging hither nither in my BMW. No-sir-ee. The BMW has its own little tool kit right in the trunk with everything you should need for the roadside emergency. I am not missing a pair of worn-out, chipped-red-paint needle nose pliers from there.
So, it was odd to find these needle noses pliers peeking up on the floor. I thought to my self: "what the fuh...?!" Rewind.
I remembered Monday night. Monday night I had an evening meeting in the Old Neighborhood, the Haight Ashbury. I parked my car; I was early. I decided to visit a couple old haunts. I rumbled the streets. Then finally the hour of my appointment showed up, and I went into said appointment and had a grand olde time with some grande olde folkes with some good 'ole wine for the next two hours. Some colleagues and I walked me to My Desdemona afterward, my tragically beautifully ancient BMW parked on the street.
Whoops. In my excitement for the monthly meeting, I had neglected to lock the car. Initial review: all intact (only retards leave shit in their cars in SF). Phew. Get in, belt up. Roll.
And then yesterday I got in My Desi to go to work, and lo and behold! A booby prize: not new at all needle nose pliers. Cool. Fucked up, but cool. Must have been that someone that Monday night in the Haight Ash tested the doors and found them open. Popped in - BUT! Hold on there Fellow! Everyone sees you and YOU - quite honestly - do not own a Beemer. So, get scared you bastard and run, run! Run! That's right. My Desdemona is not a tragedy for your gain. Bi-atch. And now I have your tool, Tool.
January 16, 2007
January 09, 2007
Dumber Than a Box of Rocks
Why is it that, when I am face to face with Pocket Watch Guy, I become dumber than a box of rocks? Maybe, just maybe, it's because he is the epitome of the figment of my imagination of the guy I end up with. Ever. Since. I. Ever. Imagined. Him.
He is attuned to the fact that every person (including Men) has the capacity for, and a destiny of, Personal Growth. He is travel-adventurous. He is action-adventurous. He is career-adventurous. He is socially adaptable. I don't need to advise him on how to dress [much]. He doesn't have a flat screen because he barely ever watches TV. He reads stuff. He is funny. He is relaxed. He is aggressive in his career path. And! He has a pocket watch collection. Melt. I have no idea why that is attractive to me, but it is.
And so, because of all of these things, I cannot look him in the eye long, for fear he sees me melt, and I say really stupid stuff when I am a reasonably intelligent lady, I shuffle my feet, etc., etc. Dear Lord, what must he think of all that?
Because I have said such really stupid things to him (REALLY, I am not exagerating), I have all but given up on any chance of him being interested back. Which is a good thing, because when I care less about what one thinks of me I can be more myself. So, I should be myself by now; I've blown it at least four times with him already, which is enough for me to feel I've ended Scene I and I can relax now. But somehow I'm still as nervous as I was when I liked the coolest boy, Will M, when he was in the 7th grade and I was in 6th, and I was awkward in stature and just starting to get boobs. THAT'S how it feels when I am around Pocket Watch Guy. The horror!
One time Pocket Watch Guy saw me about to go to Starbucks, and he said "you're going into Starbucks?! I would have figured you for a Peet's girl." And in reality, I am a Peet's girl; the coffee is far superior. But I was new to the neighborhood and Starbucks looked to be more social than Peet's at the moment, and I was hoping to start making a community in my new hood, and I replied lamely... "..."... oh crap, it was such a lame response that I have blocked it entirely from my mind. Sorry to ruin a good reference point. But I will tell you that upon reciting the story to WR, she laughed and laughed and laughed into my cell phone, literally for minutes on end, and I was almost home by the time she stopped. I really wish I could remember now - I can assure you it was one of the most retarded things I have ever said. If I remember over night, I'll let you know. But fate is telling me it's probably a good thing I have blocked it, lest I be too harshly judged.
He is attuned to the fact that every person (including Men) has the capacity for, and a destiny of, Personal Growth. He is travel-adventurous. He is action-adventurous. He is career-adventurous. He is socially adaptable. I don't need to advise him on how to dress [much]. He doesn't have a flat screen because he barely ever watches TV. He reads stuff. He is funny. He is relaxed. He is aggressive in his career path. And! He has a pocket watch collection. Melt. I have no idea why that is attractive to me, but it is.
And so, because of all of these things, I cannot look him in the eye long, for fear he sees me melt, and I say really stupid stuff when I am a reasonably intelligent lady, I shuffle my feet, etc., etc. Dear Lord, what must he think of all that?
Because I have said such really stupid things to him (REALLY, I am not exagerating), I have all but given up on any chance of him being interested back. Which is a good thing, because when I care less about what one thinks of me I can be more myself. So, I should be myself by now; I've blown it at least four times with him already, which is enough for me to feel I've ended Scene I and I can relax now. But somehow I'm still as nervous as I was when I liked the coolest boy, Will M, when he was in the 7th grade and I was in 6th, and I was awkward in stature and just starting to get boobs. THAT'S how it feels when I am around Pocket Watch Guy. The horror!
One time Pocket Watch Guy saw me about to go to Starbucks, and he said "you're going into Starbucks?! I would have figured you for a Peet's girl." And in reality, I am a Peet's girl; the coffee is far superior. But I was new to the neighborhood and Starbucks looked to be more social than Peet's at the moment, and I was hoping to start making a community in my new hood, and I replied lamely... "..."... oh crap, it was such a lame response that I have blocked it entirely from my mind. Sorry to ruin a good reference point. But I will tell you that upon reciting the story to WR, she laughed and laughed and laughed into my cell phone, literally for minutes on end, and I was almost home by the time she stopped. I really wish I could remember now - I can assure you it was one of the most retarded things I have ever said. If I remember over night, I'll let you know. But fate is telling me it's probably a good thing I have blocked it, lest I be too harshly judged.
January 08, 2007
Gertie Goes Down
Everyone who knows me, including myself, considers me an athletically inclined person. Between the ages of 7-17, I played soccer, excluding a brief hiatus in Jr. High when my fascination with horses led me to a somewhat pathetic attempt at Equestrian riding.
In college I switched from soccer to the women's lacrosse team. I am known to be a somewhat formidable opponent in volleyball, tennis, racquetball and co-ed softball (catcher!). I am good with a Frisbee, and at kickball, and have been known to navigate the winds pretty well with a kite. If you can convince me to pay for a cabin-share, and pay for equipment rental, and pay for a lift ticket, I will begrudgingly swoosh down the intermediate slopes of a mountain in either skiis or on a snowboard. Begrudgingly, but capable.
What few people know, however, is that I am also incredibly klutzy. I feel the term "athletic klutz" best describes my excessively ridiculous brushes with breaking my bones and poking one of my eyes out. Because frankly, I've been "this close!" way too many times for a normal human lifespan.
Case in point: last Thursday. My office. ("My office" may sound like a bustling place. But because we are all sales people and sales is about getting out there and being with clients, rarely are there more than half a dozen of us in our 75-person office at a time.) Thursday was quiet. Until Gertie went down.
Unless one is a Partner salesperson in my line of business, you are up to your own devices to locate and be the consequence of parking. Because I have received more parking tickets than sales in the last year, I had begun a vigilant watch on my parking meters. The buzzer on my cell sounded and I rushed to move my car.
In the process, I can't recall now what it was, I remembered something very important on my desk. Whether it was an email to finish or double checking to make sure I had my cell as I turned the corner to exit, I don't recall. But whatever it was, it forced me to look back at my desk as I exited stage right toward the hallway. As an athlete, I felt the mojo of the path pulling me forward to an appropriate exit point. As a klutz, I got the turn wrong by about a foot and a half.
Instead of turning right into the corridor, I turned right into my colleague's ridiculously appropriately placed garbage can, which I leaned into with full walking force and motion, and cracked my upper shin upon. As I kicked the can and continued my forward movement, the can stopped hard against the cubicle wall, ricocheting all inertia back toward me. Upon receiving the new direction of force, Gertie was thrown askew to the right, lost all balance and landed rib cage to arm rest on the colleague's empty chair. A chair which happened to be a rolling chair on wheels, and once it felt the force of motion, propelled itself, with Gertie's weight and ribcage stuck to it, to the furthermost point of the cube, where it hit a wall and could no longer continue to travel. As quickly as science stopped the chair's motion, I equalized forces to counter-act a complete falldown.
I remember the last bit, and looking out to the left, to see my left leg doing a high kick only equalled by the Rockettes. I quickly did the athletic elastic "I'm Okay!" gymnastic landing, arms up and everything. When I looked around, the five people in the office had seen none of it. But they heard it. Eyes peared from behind a few computer screens.
"You OK?"
"I'm fine!" Ouch. Ouch. My shin. My ribs. Shake it off. Shake it off! You're fine!
Even the receptionist heard it. And the clients of another colleague, who were waiting (eyes wide open in shock now) for the conference room. All of them heard it. But I shook it off.
Today is Monday. Don't make me laugh. Please. Every time I laugh, it feels like I have a gun shot wound in my ribs. Also, don't make me reverse my car. Parallel parking feels like I'm getting shot. Yes, my ribs are bruised. I cannot run. Fuck, I can't even laugh. Or reverse. Ouch. My GSW! Stop it! OUCH!
In college I switched from soccer to the women's lacrosse team. I am known to be a somewhat formidable opponent in volleyball, tennis, racquetball and co-ed softball (catcher!). I am good with a Frisbee, and at kickball, and have been known to navigate the winds pretty well with a kite. If you can convince me to pay for a cabin-share, and pay for equipment rental, and pay for a lift ticket, I will begrudgingly swoosh down the intermediate slopes of a mountain in either skiis or on a snowboard. Begrudgingly, but capable.
What few people know, however, is that I am also incredibly klutzy. I feel the term "athletic klutz" best describes my excessively ridiculous brushes with breaking my bones and poking one of my eyes out. Because frankly, I've been "this close!" way too many times for a normal human lifespan.
Case in point: last Thursday. My office. ("My office" may sound like a bustling place. But because we are all sales people and sales is about getting out there and being with clients, rarely are there more than half a dozen of us in our 75-person office at a time.) Thursday was quiet. Until Gertie went down.
Unless one is a Partner salesperson in my line of business, you are up to your own devices to locate and be the consequence of parking. Because I have received more parking tickets than sales in the last year, I had begun a vigilant watch on my parking meters. The buzzer on my cell sounded and I rushed to move my car.
In the process, I can't recall now what it was, I remembered something very important on my desk. Whether it was an email to finish or double checking to make sure I had my cell as I turned the corner to exit, I don't recall. But whatever it was, it forced me to look back at my desk as I exited stage right toward the hallway. As an athlete, I felt the mojo of the path pulling me forward to an appropriate exit point. As a klutz, I got the turn wrong by about a foot and a half.
Instead of turning right into the corridor, I turned right into my colleague's ridiculously appropriately placed garbage can, which I leaned into with full walking force and motion, and cracked my upper shin upon. As I kicked the can and continued my forward movement, the can stopped hard against the cubicle wall, ricocheting all inertia back toward me. Upon receiving the new direction of force, Gertie was thrown askew to the right, lost all balance and landed rib cage to arm rest on the colleague's empty chair. A chair which happened to be a rolling chair on wheels, and once it felt the force of motion, propelled itself, with Gertie's weight and ribcage stuck to it, to the furthermost point of the cube, where it hit a wall and could no longer continue to travel. As quickly as science stopped the chair's motion, I equalized forces to counter-act a complete falldown.
I remember the last bit, and looking out to the left, to see my left leg doing a high kick only equalled by the Rockettes. I quickly did the athletic elastic "I'm Okay!" gymnastic landing, arms up and everything. When I looked around, the five people in the office had seen none of it. But they heard it. Eyes peared from behind a few computer screens.
"You OK?"
"I'm fine!" Ouch. Ouch. My shin. My ribs. Shake it off. Shake it off! You're fine!
Even the receptionist heard it. And the clients of another colleague, who were waiting (eyes wide open in shock now) for the conference room. All of them heard it. But I shook it off.
Today is Monday. Don't make me laugh. Please. Every time I laugh, it feels like I have a gun shot wound in my ribs. Also, don't make me reverse my car. Parallel parking feels like I'm getting shot. Yes, my ribs are bruised. I cannot run. Fuck, I can't even laugh. Or reverse. Ouch. My GSW! Stop it! OUCH!
January 03, 2007
The Men Are Right
Wow.
Wow.
I just got an email from email guy. And here I'd gone and pretty much gave up on that playing out.
I"m rehiring my flirting consultant tout suite.
Wow.
I just got an email from email guy. And here I'd gone and pretty much gave up on that playing out.
I"m rehiring my flirting consultant tout suite.
January 02, 2007
Ring It In
Happy New Year to all; I truly hope you had an extravagant time ringing in another year! I am still recovering... this is a long post, but if you skim I swear there is some really entertaining stuff in here...
To sum up my NYE 2006 - it was crazy. I preface my recap by admitting that I hate New Year's Eve (almost as much as I hate Halloween). I know, I know, hate is a strong word. But when you have spent the majority of the last 5 NYE's trying to get home alone very late at night, in the cold, in heels and with less than the appropriate amount of clothing, trying not to be insignificant from the perspective of all cab drivers and other revelers, well, you'd probably not like it very much, either. But I digress.
This year was different. I had a really good event to go to: my best friend's wedding. The wedding was at 8pm and the reception "immediately following" lasted till 1:30am. This was very special to me, as not only was it my best friend's wedding, but the groom was also a friend from the old college days, and the guest list was reminiscent of a collegiate reunion of the coolest kind. Friends descended on San Francisco from Singapore, Australia, DC, New York, Chicago, Denver, and a variety of other places. My parents were also guests, and the officiant of the wedding was a close friend of my parents' whom my best friend and her fiance had grown close to over years of holidays together.
My friend WR was also invited, and she got a comped room at Le Meridien in downtown S.F. for the night, to which, she invited me and our friend NC to share for pre-wedding-prep and after party/crash pad. Excellent!
Le Merid is awesome and high-end, with beds you never want to leave once you lay down in them, sound-proof walls (you'll see why this is important later) and uber-hip decor. WR, NC and I all met there, got ready and had some pre-festivity cocktails. Woo-hoo. My flat-iron crapped out and I had a serious meltdown. Think very cranky 5 year old child - that was me. WR and NC had to avoid me for a long time. I had to walk the halls and cool off. You don't know, people! You don't know what it's like to have thin hair that frizzes like it's all full-bodied! I was crushed!!!!
Looking as fabulous as one can without her flat-iron (although a bit macabre for a wedding - all black), we headed out to the wedding at City Club, an art deco building with an amazing mural by Diego Rivera scaling two levels. It was a beautiful wedding, and although my dear family friend The Officiant was charming, he wasn't exactly smooth; but the ceremony got done and we all started to party.
There was a smoking room at the Club, complete with bourbon, scotch (still almost full! I had to take it with me!), cigars and ashtrays for all. This was a blessing and then also not: many of us CU Buffs huddled in the stinky room to reminisce and so the dance floor was left less than full most the time. I heard several times that my mother was wondering wear I was and was cursing this smoking room under her breath. Damn it. Why was she invited again?
Although I wasn't an official Bridesmaid, I did have some significant responsibilities, which, after executed, left me a bit schizophrenic and displaced. First job: secure food plates for Bride and Groom from buffet and place at their seats. This meant that I had to cut the line on more than one occasion to get to the good stuff, lest my best friend not eat and get drunk too quickly (which she did anyway, but at least I did what I could). I tried not to cut the Old People, as they think all young women who use "it's for the bride and groom" as an excuse are liars.
I was also designated as the "alien consoler." OK, I just made that term up, but that exactly describes it. I was in charge of discovering shy, timid guests who couldn't start their own conversations, and pulling them into the mix. I did this quite well considering I'm a total tool. (The unfortunate fall-out from this job was multiple calls the next day from these "insociables" asking me to join them for tourism - fyi - never give your cell # to an insociable). And yes, this is why the majority of my photos from the night are of grey haireds.
3..2..1.. Happy New Year. We all celebrate, but then we are getting kicked out. We know it. All us cool kids suck up to the bar to get 2-fers before we are shut out. No dice. I fall down in front of the entire cool kid crowd and show everyone my panties. My male college buddies thank me. The girls pretend they didn't just see the most awesome pair of legs spread in front of their husbands,boyfriends and fiances. Shit. I make a mental note to go to the doctor and check my balance and the possibility of having MS.
Things are winding down. Aparantly, I am only on the fringes of "cool," because I notice most of them hitting the elevator. "We're all going to Cito's place at the Clift." Ding. Doors close. I check in with WR and NC and they have attached at the hip one French Man who is quite cool but a little odd at the same time. Not one of the cool kids. I say we are invited to Cito's room at the Clift, but we all take that as a gracious "you're not totally cool but you're allowed" invite and we decide to head back to Le Merid as a 4-some (ha ha ha!) and drink like the fishes. Because we can.
Back at the room, I start snapping photos. I also start falling down again. Really. Go to the doctor! Because I'm not drunk; I just can't seem to catch my balance. Anyhoo. It feels like a really long time since I've had a cigarette, even though there was that smoking room (in which I left my full pack and came back to 2 cigarettes left - bastards), I co-erce all 3 non-smokers up to the roof to smoke with me and look at the skyline. Up to the 24th floor. Doors to the roof are locked. No dice.
But! What do we see happening here on the 24th floor? A big ass party. Sweet. I knock.
"Yes?"
"Uh, hi. Can we come in?"
Bouncer guy looks us up and down.
"Do you have an invitation?
"Well, we just heard about it."
"Lemme ask."
Door closes. I get excited! Big party at Le Merid! It's really big, it's a suite. But outside you hear nothing.
The door opens. A thin, ugly guy comes out in his silk boxer shorts. They are... tenting. I don't look down. Much.
Big smile from Gertie: "Hi! Can we come in?"
"You want to come in to the orgy?"
"Orgy!?"
"Yeah, we're having a fucking orgy in here. You gonna take off all those clothes? Then you can come in."
er...
NC butts into the conversation: "is that really your erection" she asks Ugly Guy. She's known to be bold.
"Hell yeah, this is my real erection!" And he pulls on the elastic waist band to show me a vary bald and very erect 10". Yes, 10". Right. In. Front. of. Me.
"This is an orgy! Goddamnit!" He licks the side of his lip as he smiles. We all just stand there a little grossed out. What the?!
I am staring at the 10". Holy cow. Why are my friends so far away? Anyway, he doesn't take any of us seriously, mumbles something, caresses his cock and closes the door.
WR gets all mad that we are left out of the action. At this point, I throw my calf-length wool coat and my scarf on the floor. I hand Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy my iPod Shuffle for safe keeping. WC hands over her coat and cell phone. And we are there, like at a starting line, ready to run in.
The door finally opens and a couple comes out. WR and I charge in. Big Music. Lights Out. Full floor suite. We navigate through the dark. There are naked people everywhere. If they aren't busy having sex, they are busy watching and stroking their own person. Every piece of furniture is filled with a form of fornitcation. Oh. My. God. I walk briskly through. I quickly exit with flushed cheeks. I am worried that, if I look too closely, I might actually see someone I know and get REALLY grossed out.
WR follows me out. She slaps me on the shoulder. "Why'd you walk so fucking fast?! I couldn't see anything!"
"Exactly," I replied. She was bummed. Uh. OK, now I am seeing how my friends are?
I found out the next day that the party really was an organized orgy via The Pleasure Zone. Holy Mother of God. Welcome to the shadows of San Francisco. In the fanciest of places, of all things. Geez. Never know what's under your nose in a sound-proof hotel, I guess.
Later I took an elevator down to the lobby and had my own smoke in my own space. Not because I didn't want anyone's company, but I had lost all of them on one of the four elevators. Finally Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy came down, found me, and gave me my stolen Scotch bottle. Which I proceeded take a sip from and then walk a mere few feet before falling down and losing a good portion of it. I really need to get this clumsiness checked out.
Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy left around 4am and I think WR and NC and I dove into the luxurious beds of Le Merid. Actually, I know now that WR and NC did another dive into the orgy, and found a lot fewer people but a lot crazier sex going on.
I was awakened the next day bright and early by calls from the "insociables," invitations to coffee and brunch, a walk on the beach, or a stroll over to the Golden Gate Bridge. Jesus, why did I have to tell everyone all the good stuff to do, and then say I'd come with them? Must be I'm retarded.
We called in for a late check out, finally got out at about 2:30pm and went to brunch, where again Gertie was cranky (probably still pining for her destroyed flat-iron), and I complained that the egg portion of the menu was over, and that the sandwiches came with salads not fries, and that I really wanted to get the onion soup and a side of fries but that was more expensive than anything else on the menu. Then I didn't believe that, after my two friends ordered decaf coffees that mine was actually caffinated. And then I ordered a fucking hamburger and anticipated it would come with a goddamn salad because the menu and our waiter were both assholes.
But what really happened was that my friends were erroneously given caffinated coffee and my burger, which was excellent, came with fries. And this, my friends, indicates to me that 2007 will be a very good year!
To sum up my NYE 2006 - it was crazy. I preface my recap by admitting that I hate New Year's Eve (almost as much as I hate Halloween). I know, I know, hate is a strong word. But when you have spent the majority of the last 5 NYE's trying to get home alone very late at night, in the cold, in heels and with less than the appropriate amount of clothing, trying not to be insignificant from the perspective of all cab drivers and other revelers, well, you'd probably not like it very much, either. But I digress.
This year was different. I had a really good event to go to: my best friend's wedding. The wedding was at 8pm and the reception "immediately following" lasted till 1:30am. This was very special to me, as not only was it my best friend's wedding, but the groom was also a friend from the old college days, and the guest list was reminiscent of a collegiate reunion of the coolest kind. Friends descended on San Francisco from Singapore, Australia, DC, New York, Chicago, Denver, and a variety of other places. My parents were also guests, and the officiant of the wedding was a close friend of my parents' whom my best friend and her fiance had grown close to over years of holidays together.
My friend WR was also invited, and she got a comped room at Le Meridien in downtown S.F. for the night, to which, she invited me and our friend NC to share for pre-wedding-prep and after party/crash pad. Excellent!
Le Merid is awesome and high-end, with beds you never want to leave once you lay down in them, sound-proof walls (you'll see why this is important later) and uber-hip decor. WR, NC and I all met there, got ready and had some pre-festivity cocktails. Woo-hoo. My flat-iron crapped out and I had a serious meltdown. Think very cranky 5 year old child - that was me. WR and NC had to avoid me for a long time. I had to walk the halls and cool off. You don't know, people! You don't know what it's like to have thin hair that frizzes like it's all full-bodied! I was crushed!!!!
Looking as fabulous as one can without her flat-iron (although a bit macabre for a wedding - all black), we headed out to the wedding at City Club, an art deco building with an amazing mural by Diego Rivera scaling two levels. It was a beautiful wedding, and although my dear family friend The Officiant was charming, he wasn't exactly smooth; but the ceremony got done and we all started to party.
There was a smoking room at the Club, complete with bourbon, scotch (still almost full! I had to take it with me!), cigars and ashtrays for all. This was a blessing and then also not: many of us CU Buffs huddled in the stinky room to reminisce and so the dance floor was left less than full most the time. I heard several times that my mother was wondering wear I was and was cursing this smoking room under her breath. Damn it. Why was she invited again?
Although I wasn't an official Bridesmaid, I did have some significant responsibilities, which, after executed, left me a bit schizophrenic and displaced. First job: secure food plates for Bride and Groom from buffet and place at their seats. This meant that I had to cut the line on more than one occasion to get to the good stuff, lest my best friend not eat and get drunk too quickly (which she did anyway, but at least I did what I could). I tried not to cut the Old People, as they think all young women who use "it's for the bride and groom" as an excuse are liars.
I was also designated as the "alien consoler." OK, I just made that term up, but that exactly describes it. I was in charge of discovering shy, timid guests who couldn't start their own conversations, and pulling them into the mix. I did this quite well considering I'm a total tool. (The unfortunate fall-out from this job was multiple calls the next day from these "insociables" asking me to join them for tourism - fyi - never give your cell # to an insociable). And yes, this is why the majority of my photos from the night are of grey haireds.
3..2..1.. Happy New Year. We all celebrate, but then we are getting kicked out. We know it. All us cool kids suck up to the bar to get 2-fers before we are shut out. No dice. I fall down in front of the entire cool kid crowd and show everyone my panties. My male college buddies thank me. The girls pretend they didn't just see the most awesome pair of legs spread in front of their husbands,boyfriends and fiances. Shit. I make a mental note to go to the doctor and check my balance and the possibility of having MS.
Things are winding down. Aparantly, I am only on the fringes of "cool," because I notice most of them hitting the elevator. "We're all going to Cito's place at the Clift." Ding. Doors close. I check in with WR and NC and they have attached at the hip one French Man who is quite cool but a little odd at the same time. Not one of the cool kids. I say we are invited to Cito's room at the Clift, but we all take that as a gracious "you're not totally cool but you're allowed" invite and we decide to head back to Le Merid as a 4-some (ha ha ha!) and drink like the fishes. Because we can.
Back at the room, I start snapping photos. I also start falling down again. Really. Go to the doctor! Because I'm not drunk; I just can't seem to catch my balance. Anyhoo. It feels like a really long time since I've had a cigarette, even though there was that smoking room (in which I left my full pack and came back to 2 cigarettes left - bastards), I co-erce all 3 non-smokers up to the roof to smoke with me and look at the skyline. Up to the 24th floor. Doors to the roof are locked. No dice.
But! What do we see happening here on the 24th floor? A big ass party. Sweet. I knock.
"Yes?"
"Uh, hi. Can we come in?"
Bouncer guy looks us up and down.
"Do you have an invitation?
"Well, we just heard about it."
"Lemme ask."
Door closes. I get excited! Big party at Le Merid! It's really big, it's a suite. But outside you hear nothing.
The door opens. A thin, ugly guy comes out in his silk boxer shorts. They are... tenting. I don't look down. Much.
Big smile from Gertie: "Hi! Can we come in?"
"You want to come in to the orgy?"
"Orgy!?"
"Yeah, we're having a fucking orgy in here. You gonna take off all those clothes? Then you can come in."
er...
NC butts into the conversation: "is that really your erection" she asks Ugly Guy. She's known to be bold.
"Hell yeah, this is my real erection!" And he pulls on the elastic waist band to show me a vary bald and very erect 10". Yes, 10". Right. In. Front. of. Me.
"This is an orgy! Goddamnit!" He licks the side of his lip as he smiles. We all just stand there a little grossed out. What the?!
I am staring at the 10". Holy cow. Why are my friends so far away? Anyway, he doesn't take any of us seriously, mumbles something, caresses his cock and closes the door.
WR gets all mad that we are left out of the action. At this point, I throw my calf-length wool coat and my scarf on the floor. I hand Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy my iPod Shuffle for safe keeping. WC hands over her coat and cell phone. And we are there, like at a starting line, ready to run in.
The door finally opens and a couple comes out. WR and I charge in. Big Music. Lights Out. Full floor suite. We navigate through the dark. There are naked people everywhere. If they aren't busy having sex, they are busy watching and stroking their own person. Every piece of furniture is filled with a form of fornitcation. Oh. My. God. I walk briskly through. I quickly exit with flushed cheeks. I am worried that, if I look too closely, I might actually see someone I know and get REALLY grossed out.
WR follows me out. She slaps me on the shoulder. "Why'd you walk so fucking fast?! I couldn't see anything!"
"Exactly," I replied. She was bummed. Uh. OK, now I am seeing how my friends are?
I found out the next day that the party really was an organized orgy via The Pleasure Zone. Holy Mother of God. Welcome to the shadows of San Francisco. In the fanciest of places, of all things. Geez. Never know what's under your nose in a sound-proof hotel, I guess.
Later I took an elevator down to the lobby and had my own smoke in my own space. Not because I didn't want anyone's company, but I had lost all of them on one of the four elevators. Finally Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy came down, found me, and gave me my stolen Scotch bottle. Which I proceeded take a sip from and then walk a mere few feet before falling down and losing a good portion of it. I really need to get this clumsiness checked out.
Monsieur Nightcap Le Frenchy left around 4am and I think WR and NC and I dove into the luxurious beds of Le Merid. Actually, I know now that WR and NC did another dive into the orgy, and found a lot fewer people but a lot crazier sex going on.
I was awakened the next day bright and early by calls from the "insociables," invitations to coffee and brunch, a walk on the beach, or a stroll over to the Golden Gate Bridge. Jesus, why did I have to tell everyone all the good stuff to do, and then say I'd come with them? Must be I'm retarded.
We called in for a late check out, finally got out at about 2:30pm and went to brunch, where again Gertie was cranky (probably still pining for her destroyed flat-iron), and I complained that the egg portion of the menu was over, and that the sandwiches came with salads not fries, and that I really wanted to get the onion soup and a side of fries but that was more expensive than anything else on the menu. Then I didn't believe that, after my two friends ordered decaf coffees that mine was actually caffinated. And then I ordered a fucking hamburger and anticipated it would come with a goddamn salad because the menu and our waiter were both assholes.
But what really happened was that my friends were erroneously given caffinated coffee and my burger, which was excellent, came with fries. And this, my friends, indicates to me that 2007 will be a very good year!
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