Monthly Archives: January 2010

Michael Longely, You Are My Savior!

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In light of my week long stay in beautiful Las Vegas, I thought I would share a couple of my favortie stories from the city of sin…The first is my love affair with John Montgomery…

Although I had been there in high school, when my parents asked what I wanted for my 21st birthday, the words just came pouring out: Las Vegas. After a horrible 12:01 experience at The Claran, my parents arrived at Cozy the next day for a birthday dinner. With them they had birthday a card, which on the inside read: “Good for one 2-night stay in Las Vegas.” So I rallied the troops and a couple months later headed to the adult playground I’ve grown to love.

The trip was filled with everything I could have imagined…closing down the bars at 4am, Thunder From Down Under (which Hart’s gay ex-boyfriend hooked us up with), line dancing, penny slots for free drinks, roller coaster rides, yard margaritas and more!

After our first debaucherous night we spent the next day roaming the strip looking for trouble. Upon entering a sketchy little gift shop, I saw, under the scratched glass counter, a gleaming bright wedding ring (CZ of course)! This was it…for the duration of the trip it was no longer a birthday celebration, but instead a bachelorette party! I slapped on the ring and a pink princess vale and we hit up the the town for a second night.

To ensure no one would question the validity of my wedded bliss to be, we created a little white lie…The story was that I had met John Montgomery, my husband to be, in college at Santa Clara. He was a bit older and was graduating the next year to go off to law school. He had grown up in the San Francisco and went to all the local Catholic schools there. We had met at an SC Frat theme party: “Role Models.” He was dressed up as Bill Clinton and I was Monica Lewinsky…it was love at first sight. The story went on to include a wedding date, Gainza as my maid of honor, etc…

We were scheduled to head out Saturday night on the last flight, so we decided to make the most of our last day and my ring and vale. We hit up Coyoto Ugly at New York New,York Hotel while our bags sat at the concierge back at Excalibur. After several shots, purchased t-shirts and to go cocktails, we grabbed our bags and headed to the airport.

It’s no surprise that doing booty drops with to-go cocktails in the airport line would catch the attention of the airline staff. When Sue called us to the front desk and said “I can take care of you ladies all at the same time.” We, ignorantly, were thrilled with their level of service, however, this was not the case. Sue informed us it is illegal to board a place noticeably under the influence. We threw out our to-go cups and removed our cowboy hats and attempted to convince Sue that this was not the case and were actually completely sober. I even tried to tell her that my wedding shower was the next day and my mother was going to kill me if I wasn’t back in time.

Just across the way a lovely gentleman by the name of Michael Longely was simultaneously checking in for his flight. He of course had noticed us while in line and overheard my desparate plee to Sue to let us board the plane. He walked up to me and said “Sweetheart, you are too young to be getting married, but I hope it works out…I won big here in Vegas this weekend, so here’s $300 to stay an extra night here on me.” So I took the cash and gave him a HUGE hug!

We went back to the hotel and upon telling the room reservations lady our story, she upgraded our room. We spent 12 hours at the airport the next day, but it was totally worth it!

Getting Burned: Part 2

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Getting Burned: Part 2

Living in a 19th century San Francisco flat with four roommates and thin walls makes privacy a scarce commodity in terms of bedroom playtime. While we have closed doors, we all still have ears that work perfectly well, and sometimes the imaginary visual resulting from those slaps and moans is more haunting than actually seeing it. As such, any late night gentleman callers would have to wait until the wee hours of the evening for any type of foreplay to ensure the household audience was fast asleep, or, of course, wait until the house was actually empty. It’s really standard etiquette in a single household of twenty-something girls.

We abide by this etiquette without avail unless, of course, alcohol has anything to do with it. The last time I checked a bottle of vodka, the surgeon’s general warning never said I would have a blatant disregard of privacy and become a sexual exhibitionist, but I suppose it’s one of those unfortunate side effects that our favored vice tends to have.

Even with the alcohol, I always felt I was exceptionally adept at keeping my sexual clamor to a minimum, until I came across the delightful additional of a booty-call to my sex life. I never thought I would be the type to actually adopt such a person, but it seems to happen pretty naturally when you meet a man with whom the sex is pretty damn good, but the relationship logistics simply don’t work. My longest standing booty call to date came from the owner of a local bar in our neighborhood. The relationship lent itself perfectly to booty call standards; he was a nice enough guy, thirteen years older than I, never married, and absolutely okay with having no strings attached. He usually left his post as I was headed home absolutely smashed from the night’s frivolities and my place with literally a hop, skip, and jump away from his bar.

One such evening after a particularly copious amount of vodka tonics, I found myself dialing my favorite back-up, and being the trusty man he was, came over moments after I myself had stumbled up the stairs. Bless his heart, he tried to set the mood, shutting the door to my room, letting Jack Johnson croon from my lap top, and even lighting candles on the nightstand and dresser. True, I wouldn’t have known the difference between Jack Johnson and Metallica at that particular moment in time, and the candles could have been strobe lights for all I knew, but it was a nice thought.

You can imagine the completely un-sexy and brief foreplay that ensued, and all I really say that I remember are brief snippets of stripping off clothes, the sensation of the cold headboard against my back, and the scent of the burning wick growing stronger. Everything was blurry… almost smoky, even. Suddenly, Jack Johnson’s acoustics took on a whole new beat. A high pitched beat came into play, beeping repetitiously. Suddenly my bar owner was up and running around, and as I drunkenly swung my head to the right, I saw the cause of the interruption: one of my pillows had shifted onto the nightstand during the romp, falling onto the candle, and was now in full flame.

I remained completely useless in my drunken stupor, sitting these with a confused look on my face while my house guest took action. I watched him running around in the buff, trying to decide whether to put out the flames first or shut off the blaring smoke alarm which had just alerted all of my roommates to come check out the peep show. I think he must have put out the flames first (how this was actually accomplished, I can’t quite say), but ingeniously used the burning pillow itself to muffle the alarm.

Somehow, two of my four roommates remained sound asleep, but one poor soul woke up to find a nude Italian in her hallway with nothing but a charred pillow for a loin cloth. What happened next we will never know, but I woke up the next morning short one pillow plus one condom wrapper and enough shame to last me a while. The candles most certainly set the mood, but not the one we were hoping for.

“GBerg…You make me lose my keys!” aka The Weekend Before Vegas

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If ever I leave for the weekend or an extended destination vacation, I have this fear that I’m going to miss something really amazing here in San Francisco. This is a legitimate fear: A loss of even 24 hours can result in significant social changes (i.e. a break-up) and/or abandoned memories (i.e. a self-proclaimed pub crawl with friends that I’m not on). To prepare myself for the absence of good times while I’m away, I like to make the weekend prior to my travels a good one, hence, the weekend before Vegas.

Friday Night:

With Friday off of work and both my roommates out of town, I felt socially obligated to do dinner and cocktails for those poor schleps who had to work all day. CUE: Carnitas and Margaritas aka Mini-Fiesta! By the third pitcher of POM-Margaritas I was actually starting to believe Mary when she said, “You know these drinks are pretty good for us. I mean, we’re getting all of our anti-oxidants in for the week.” (For those of you who don’t know Mary, she is a nurse and a good nurse, but taking medical or health advice from her after several cocktails is not the best idea.)

Saturday Morning:

Mary and I woke up feeling like shiza, convinced that the late night pizza was covered in expired cheese. We were most certain is was not due to the tequila, nor the blow job shots Dave had so kindly sent to us from across the bar.

Unfortunately for us, Mary, Brooks, Blaire and I were scheduled for our Marine Mammal Center orientation at 10:00am. We strive to make good first impressions, so we only showed up 5 minutes late. (Lucky for us, a group of teens clearly assigned there for community service, showed up 15 minutes late, making us look like the good students again.) About 5 minutes into the 90 minute presentation, I realized I was most definitely NOT going to hug a seal that day. About 25 minutes later, I realized the closest I would probably ever come to hugging a seal , would be when I got to lay on top the seal holding it down for a tube feeding. Instead I settled for this:

The rest of the afternoon we spent recovering on the beach with Lola…

Saturday Night:

Since we’re all on a budget in preparation for Vegas, we decided to do a second night in and Mary made a delicious Spinach Fettucine.  What was planned to be an intimate dinner for five ended in a shit show game of Thunder with a whole mess of people. (Luckily I always have mass quantities of tequila on hand. I try to be prepared for any situation, with the exception of an earthquake. In that scenario I’m screwed.) For those of you who are unfamiliar with the game  of Thunder, here’s the scoop:

Step 1: All players form a circle with extra cocktail pitcher/beer in center.
Step 2: Play the song “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC.
Step 3: Going clock-wise, the first person starts to chug when they sing the word “Thunder.” Every time they sing the word “Thunder” the next person starts to drink and continues to do so until they sing it again.

Example:


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Needless to say, after only one round of this game, the group was ready to head out for the night. As everyone exited the apartment I stood on the front stoop saying goodbye to people heading home and waiting for every one else so we could head to the bars. As the front door closes Hart says to me “Money, do you need to lock the front door?” I respond, “No, it locks automatically.” Which prompts me to check my purse, only to realize I don’t have my keys. Typically this isn’t a problem as I can rely on the boys for their keys, but they’re both NOT in the city. So Christie, who lives upstairs, gets us into the building to face the task at hand: Breaking into my own apartment.

There are two ways this can be done. The first is to climb through the six inch window gap into the bathroom and the second is to go to the roof and shimmy down the fire escape in the hopes my bedroom window is open.

Entrance #1: Here’s just a quick glance at how that went down involving Gberg and Gainza:

Entrance #2: Christie and Jen (who was heavily medicated on muscle relaxers at the time) chose the roof to fire escape method. This was dangerous for not only the obvious reasons, but for the single fact that our fire escape has a very narrow gap from the last ladder down to my bedroom window, which I know from personal experience can put you in a precarious situation. Only two years ago I was trying to break into my apartment for the same reason, using this same route. Coming through this small gap my pants were caught on the wheel which releases the ladder to the ground. As that ladder pummeled down, so with it went my pants. Leaving me trapped, pants around my ankles and mooning all of my neighbors. Ten minutes later my friend had used scissors to cut me out of my jeans so I could be released from the ladders’ grip. Having learned this lesson the hard way, the girls were warned and made it safely to my bedroom window and into the apartment.

Saturday night I learned two valuable lessons: First, although time consuming, it is FAR too easy to break into my own apartment and precautions must be taken. And second, whenever I’m with GBerg I lose my keys. GBerg- Something about you makes me lose my keys!

San Francisco’s Hidden Treasure (Pun Intended)

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If you haven’t already tried it, I highly recommend San Francisco’s Dine About Town. It’s this amazing concept where restaurants around the city design set menus at a fixed (and reasonable) price, enticing us in with their deliciousness, thereby building addictions we can’t afford. Literally. Well maybe it’s not that extreme, but you get the idea…anyway…

Last Thursday was my first experience and the girls, Danny and I got to taste San Francisco’s hidden treasure: Forbes Island.

As a result, this now ranks one of my favorite to do’s in San Francisco for the following reasons:
1. Once home to Forbes Thor Kiddoo, an architect from Sausalito, this houseboat has now been transformed to a public restaurant and party island, featuring a sandy beach, lighthouse, restaurant, bar and Pirate theme!


2. It is located at Pier 39 approximately 150ft from the sea lions, what few are left.
3. Forbes Thor Kiddoo, himself, drives you in a pontoon boat from Pier 39 to his very own island. (P.S. He’s like 70!)


4. The bathrooms are bedrooms! Yes, you heard me. Fully equipped with a bed, fireplace, shower, piano and nautical theme.
5. And most importantly, the entire island can be rented out for a private party. Fleet week on the water? Yes please.

I highly recommend you check this place out…Oh and a couple of you may be receiving postcards…no postage when you send them from Forbes Island!

Adrian Pretends to Be a Bartender for a Night

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So my friend Adrian is currently training to be a bartender. With my high hopes to open my own bar, I completely support this idea. In fact, for a brief moment I considered joining him for classes at the San Francisco Bartending School, until I realized how bad it would be for my liver and wallet to become a bartender aka professionally trained drunk.

I’m unclear if bartending classes are like real school where you earn credits for doing an internship but Adrian is earning his way by getting us drunk at our favorite watering hole: KT’s. I happened to have Thursday, Friday and Monday off of work…so this made for the perfect opportunity for me to enjoy this momentous occasion with no concern of a workplace hangover.

– On a side now Furlough (or mandatory PTO) is amazing. I know a lot of people aren’t a fan of being asked to take time off, but I love it. When these days come I try to make the most of it by peer pressuring my friends to call in sick. It’s genius really. –

So…since I had last Thursday off of work Mary and I spent the day running errands, visiting my very ill roommate and, of course, brainstorming complicated cocktails to test Adrian’s skill set for that night. We downloaded an amazing iPhone application with over 8500 cocktail recipes…we bookmarked our favorites and memorized their names (i.e. Absolute Heaven, Matt’s Tropical Punch and Colorado Rattlesnake) to order with ease.

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Joined by Danny and Milo, we headed out to that evening to the delicious new restaurant on Fillmore, Kasa. I was intimidated by the concept of combining burritos with indian food fillings like tika masala and curry, but it was delicious and, not to mention, the perfect base for the night ahead.

Upon our arrival to KT’s, Mary and I immediately ordered two “Matt’s Tropical Punch” cocktails and, I believe, Danny and Milo ordered some ridiculous whiskey drink…needless to say Adrian required instruction on how to make them both. I have to give it to him though…they were mmmm, mmmm good!

After several of these drinks, however, we began to call them “Adrian’s Punch in the Face.” Notice how in the first photo these cocktails were made in highball glasses and in this next photo in pint glasses. F.U. Adrian. (The only upside: Mary and I managed to pay a total of $10 the entire night…not sure how, but why ask questions. I’m on a budget afterall.)

As the night went things did get a little hazy, but I do recall several of my most favorite people came out to support Adrian: Christie, Jen, Andy, Greg, Mark, Blaire and more! I love it when people come out on a Thursday night…it’s so unexpected and always ends on a high note.

FAVORITE MOMENT OF THE NIGHT: Milo attempts to punch Blaire. I’m telling you Blaire…Something about those adorable cheeks makes me (and apparently others) want to get violent!

And of course, it wouldn’t be a night out on the town if we didn’t stop at Mel’s, the restaurant my friends and I keep in business.

All in all, I don’t remember signing any sort of receipt aka proof that Adrian really did complete his internship that night, but I definitely give him an A+!

Getting Burned: Part One

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I can not say how honored I am to be a guest author on I Left My Dignity in San Francisco. Publishing my most embarrassing exploits online seems like a brilliant idea. Hope you enjoy.

My first story…Getting Burned: Part One

The title of this piece is a little misleading. I’m sure one might believe this to be a story about how I am all the wiser for falling too fast for an emotionally unavailable gent, but to assume I’ve learned anything from dating unavailable men proves you are giving me far too much credit. Indeed, I use the phrase, “getting burned” literally to elaborate on the number of times I have quite physically gotten burned while, pardon the pun, getting my own fire lit. I write this segment not to boast about my sexual exploits, but simply because I think the number of times I’ve injured myself in the way of fire and/or burning with regards to my sexual escapades is positively uncanny.

I’ll start with the most infamous. This little incident actually did not occur in our beloved bay city, but on the other side of the state all the way in Tahoe, Nevada. The story begins when a group of 26 of our closest friends and I went to Tahoe for New Years. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the vacation spot, Tahoe is like an adult playground, but smaller and healthier than Vegas and a hell of a lot closer for us Nor Cal kids to get to. Over this particular holiday, the casino strip in South Lake is swarmed by snowboard wielding urbanites looking to ride the slopes by day, and either get paid or get laid by night. The streets are blocked off in true Times Square fashion, and alcohol (thank god for Nevada’s loose moral standards) is free to roam the streets. I guarantee 9 out of 10 New Year Tahoe-goers vow to keep a ready supply of condoms on hand in their top 5 resolutions as a result.

This New Year’s we were up in Kingsbury Grade in a four story luxury vacation home a short drive from the strip and a long way from reality. The eight bedroom cabin was complete with your basic amenities of home… you know, a comfortable kitchen, standard living room, game room complete with a full bar, pool table, foosball gaming and 60 inch plasma screen TV, deluxe outdoor hot tub overlooking the Sierras, full indoor Jacuzzi and stone-heated sauna. I don’t mean to brag, but let’s face- we are pretty awesome.

In addition to already titillating excitement that New Years in luxury brings, I had the added bonus of knowing that one of my college crushes would be present and, for the first time in three years, without strings attached. This guy was one of those rare few with whom the sexual chemistry was absolutely tangible and even more irresistible. From the moment I walked into the house, I knew what was to come. Pun intended.

In a house of 26, you have to be a little clever with your choice of trysts if you have any hopes of being at all covert. Private rooms in this place were in high demand and, not wanting to be presumptuous about my plausibility of getting lucky, I hadn’t thought ahead to request one for myself. So now, only 3 hours after arrival, I was already frantically figuring out where I could make my first move. It was freezing outside, the bathroom with the double shower heads was pretty much in constant use, and any hopes of finding a room without at least three other people inside was really quite hopeless. Then I remembered: the sauna.

In the coyest and most unassuming fashion I could muster, I pulled my object of desire aside and commented as nonchalantly as I could after four glasses of champagne, “This place is awesome! Did you know hear there’s a sauna downstairs?”

In retrospect, my crush knew exactly what I was getting at, but played along I’m sure to humor me. “A sauna? No way! I didn’t even see it. Where did you say it was?”

No less than five minutes later, we had not only discovered the exact location of the sauna, how to turn work the controls, and where to fill the water bucket, but my fling also learned that my bra had exactly three snap clasps, that I don’t particularly enjoy wearing undergarments, and that I have a palm tree tattoo on my upper right cheek.  I was in euphoria…

Euphoria, that is, until I sobered up and came down from my adrenaline rush a couple hours later. As we lay in the standard post-coital embrace, I started to feel a suspicious stinging on my upper thigh. I curled up closer, trying to stay in the moment and ignore the bizarre sensation manifesting itself on my leg. But it kept growing. And growing. And really hurting. Excusing myself, I slipped into the restroom and, to my bewilderment, discovered a burn the size of a large skillet on my outer thigh. And I’m not talking a slight red abrasion; I had somehow positioned myself in our frenzied lust to gain a full-blown, four alarm, blistering third degree mutilation spanning across half my leg. Very sexy.

Logistically speaking, we later realized that it must have occurred in a rather aerobic position that involved one of my legs to be adjacent and apparently on top of the sauna rocks used to generate heat. On the bright side, I can officially say no other scar on my body has a more smoldering origin. From then on, however, I have since found new meaning in keeping arms and legs inside while on the ride.

Kelsey…I love you, but my dignity requests only one visit per year.

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So this past weekend my dear friend Kelsey came to visit for the weekend. She is studying to be a doctor, and despite having 18 hours worth of work every day, she is still technically in college. Needless to say I am four years out of practice and she is not.

Kelsey epitomized the phrase “Work Hard, Play Hard” at Santa Clara. She would spend the entire morning, afternoon and evening in the library, but by 10pm would be at your bedroom door pressuring you to go out. I guess that’s kind of what you want in a doctor though…She never gave up, no matter what excuse you gave her and I would assume that will be her approach when she’s got a patient on her table and under the knife.

Here’s a perfect example…a night I’m sure my roommates and I should have been studying, Kelsey is over and we’re having a dance party in our living room. (I miss have little to no responsibilities.)

Anyway, Kelsey proved herself determined this weekend and since I had Friday off of work, I was socially obligated to go along for the ride…I’d like to dedicate this video to Kelsey. I love you, but I don’t think I could handle a visit to Iowa.


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PS As a reminder, if there’s ever any footage posted you’d like me to remove, I’m more than happy to do so…I wouldn’t want this to affect anyone’s permanent flying record.

Meet Ephron Levi

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Ever get an email from me and wonder why the bottom states “Sent from my miPhone Ephron Levi”?

That’s my phone.

I thoroughly enjoy naming things…It gives them such a personality. When I first met Ephron, I learned he was Jewish and had all the answers, so I named him after Dolly Levi’s late husband from the musical starring Barbara Streisand, Hello Dolly!

(Bet you didn’t see that coming…IMBD that shit)

Does your phone have a name?

I bet you didn’t know…

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I LOVE seals! I’m not kidding. As a child I seriously had like 200+ seal “things” including stuffed animals, wood carvings, posters, t-shirts, figurines, a shower curtain and more! Up until this past year only a select few were aware of this childhood obsession, most of whom were family and were therefore obligated to keep this a secret.

Throughout my adolescence I made several trips to Sea World in the hope I would get to take one of those photos after the water show where you’re getting a kiss on the cheek from a seal…but I was never selected. One time, I even got in a terrible fight with my mother when I saw the San Diego Zoo “Adopt-a-Seal” campaign commercials. I though I would be able to fly down, select my seal, provide it a brilliant name like “brownie,” and bring it home to live in my pool…I didn’t realize it was actually just a paper certificate you get after donating a ridiculous lump sum of cold hard cash.

For whatever reason, this all surfaced last year and reared it’s ugly head as my 2009 New Year’s Resolution: To Hug a Seal. Well it’s officially 2010 and, like many of your new year’s resolutions, mine was unsuccessful and I was disappointed. However, Mary, in her ambitious ways, was determined to not keep me down and found this: The Marine Mammal Center

So after a delicious Saturday brunch we headed down to sign up to volunteer. The first question I asked, “Do I get to touch a seal?” Apparently this was a stupid question, as the docent at the front desk looked at me like I was crazy and said “Yes, you’re volunteering at a mammal center that saves seals.”

So on Saturday, January 23 I will attend my first training, where I hope to accomplish my 2009 resolution and will hug a seal lion or adorable harbor seal. This is me excited.

Kudos to Mary for always looking out for a friend…