Sexy in the City (Minus Unavailable Men)

So many amazing friends: Work friends, best friends, old friends, new friends, friends of friends. It takes so long to adjust to a new place, faces, ways of life, and then suddenly you look around and think: This is where I live.

The next time someone asks, in that inviting conversation way that polite people tend to ask questions, "Where are you from?" I'll respond with an enthusiastic gloat, "San Francisco." Though it's even more true than I realize; my great-grandparents--the oldest generation in my family that I ever knew--settled in SF after their long voyage from other countries. My ancestral roots have planted themselves firmly in this city.

Although after the delightful debauchery of this weekend, I'm not sure if those roots want to associate with me, or the likes of my friends for that matter. Okay, it wasn't so bad. Actually, it was really fun. There's nothing better than being around people who you know you can have a great time with, and who if you, say, fall over a couch or "lunge" on to a dance floor in a way that both simultaneously spills your drink on a person and damages your knee cap (possibly permanently), makes sure that the said incident is remembered as funny as opposed to what it might have been without your friends: pitiful.


And it was a riotously funny time, and yes, we rode a limo home on Friday night, and hell yes, we didn't have to buy one drink, not one.
(Though some of us couldn't partake in the free beverages because of concerned boyfriends, I mean, ahem, overly-zealous pre-partying). But it was still that good.

Big cheers to all of the gorgeous participants, those in the city, and those who actually had to make a real effort to enjoy it. Thank god we're finally wise enough to know the effects of shots, but young enough to take them anyways.

Dateway, & Getting Acquainted with the Neighborhood

Ah, the Marina. So glittery and shiny in the mornings. Almost as if the wealth of the multitudes living in it's cloistered walls oozes from their bodies at night, coating their front doors and sidewalks, their Beamers and nannies pushing strollers with the glean of gold and diamonds. I'm teasing. I love this neighborhood; I truly do. And I assume that it's negative reputation spawns more from envy than anything else. Well, at least, that's what I tell people. "You're just jealous" I say as a friend scolds the yuppies in the Marina for being, well, so yuppie-ish.

It's true that the familiar pseudonym for the local Safeway is "dateway," and it really is so appropo. When my roommate, Shirley, we'll call her, and I venture there after a long day of work wearing our bulky and so untrendy sweatshirts and slippers, we're faced with serious blows to the self-esteem. The girls are either decked out in their best Jeans for All Mankind and Prada shoes or matching sweatsuit/spandex ensembles complete with post-workout sweat beads on their collar--that actually make them look better!? I know, I know. It's unbelievable. But don't feel too sorry for me and Shirley, we're quite brilliant at drowning our sorrows in chips, salsa, and cheap wine.

Or we'll go out and get awesome Thai food (trendy or more authentic), pizza (pie or slice), sushi (bar or restaurant). Certainly there is always something to do in the Marina, day and night. And though I will not pretend that it could find me a decent burrito to save it's life, I appreciate it for giving me 24 hour donuts. In fact, sometimes I embrace the yuppiness myself, grabbing a latte and meandering down Marina Blvd. and Chrissy Fields on a Saturday morning. Watching the dogs frolic and the fog escape, reminding myself how lucky I am that I don't live in the Sunset where the fog doesn't dissipate know matter how much you will it away.

But it's not all sunshine and non-fat capps. I'm often frustrated by my fellow spoiled neighbors. Take the family that lives across the street for instance. They have a beautiful home, as in an actual house, with a yard and everything. They own a nice car, and have two very cute kids ( a boy and a girl). Their life appears to be the epitome of perfect, and yet, after only one night in my own humble basement flat across the road, I heard the makings of the classic dysfunctional family: Lot's of yelling and unkind words over a stupid thing (where the car - Land Rover - was parked). Then there was the time The BF's car was broken into (right on our block!) or all the numerous times we've been yelled at for parking too close to someone's driveway...at least THEY have one.

But the thing to remember is that all of the neighborhoods in SF suffer from these same problems, they just don't look as good doing it.

Better Luck Next Weekend, Guaranteed

Ah, Friday night. I bragged and boasted about it in my last blog, my first blog and yet, how did my Friday night go? It started out well enough. The BF and I some how managed to get dinner before 8:00pm, which is quite a feat. We ended up at this small slightly frightening – the bathroom doors were rotted through at the bottom – but all in all, surprisingly clean place in Japantown called Tampopo. Ramen, udon, soba…Three of my four most favorite noodle dishes (the missing being vermicelli). We dined well, and must of have hit a sweet spot, because the food was truly delicious (and cheap), and there wasn’t an empty table in the house as we walked out.

It was still beautiful outside and both The BF and I were looking forward to gourmet cocktails from Bourbon and Branch, one of the trendy bars in the Tenderloin that models itself after an old speakeasy, unlisted address and all. It was just our style (or so we hoped), pretentious but deservingly so. Of course, The BF was thrilled that I was going out with him and his friends, and I was thrilled just to be going out at all. But as we left there was a certain awful feeling deep, deep within me.

By the time we reached home there was no doubt that something was in fact wrong with me. My intestines had turned on me. The damn traitors. It was brutal, whatever it was, a bug, bad Vietnamese, a cruel joke, I don’t know. Mike left without me after I assured him that I would live, and should I be near death, I would call him immediately. The night was spent alone. not alone really; I had the TV, the computer, and my newest book I just delved into. Now that I write about it, besides the frequent “bathroom breaks”, it wasn’t all that bad. In fact, what I would give now, Sunday at 8:30pm for that Friday night again.

One of the most amazing people I've met, who also happens to be one of my best friends, will be with me this upcoming Friday. Thank the heavenly skies. I miss that girl. Only five more days, 120 hours (45 spent being tortured, 35, if I’m lucky, spent sleeping, 7.5 spent commuting, 37.5 spent either desperately wishing for sleep or dreading work) until our reunion begins. But at least this week I know they will be hours well spent.. Here’s to dance parties, sickeningly sweet shots, and finding the personal resilience to do it TWO nights in a row. Counting the days to another Friday (literally).

And So It Began (On Friday, of course)!

It's beautiful, and I'm not on vacation anywhere. I'm home. In San Francisco. And it's beautiful to the point that it should be declared a county-wide holiday, and we can all free ourselves from the cages we're bound to. Those cages with make-shift walls and optical computer mouses. But alas, there is no such day as "Finally it's Clear After Two Weeks of Socked in Fog" Friday or "It's the First and, Most Likely, Only Nice Day in August" Friday. How do I cope stuck in the office? With a glass of wine, a celebrity blog, and epicurious.com. Yes, yes, I know. I should be working, since I am I at work but it's a Friday...at 5:30pm....pacific time. I mean, my god, everyone else is at their local watering hole, trendy "It" bar, or at least trying to get home. It's unreasonable to expect me to be productive or diligent in any way. I complain, but the guilt does make this wine (in a plastic cup) taste that much better. And also, it's Friday night. Nothing can be that bad on a Friday night, it's like this unspoken law, that I, for one, always abide by.

So screw deadlines and disputes and complaints and bosses and responsibilities. It's Friday. I'm in the City, and I live for these weekends.