A hilarious memoir of 1960s single life, San Francisco style One broken nose, five roommates, and two years of spectacular disasters Fresh out of college with a broken nose, an English degree, and absolutely no practical skills, Susan and her friends descend on San Francisco with nothing but enthusiasm and a vow to reach the Top of the Mark by September. What could possibly go wrong? Everything—gloriously, hilariously, memorably. From their crumbling Victorian apartment (complete with a tippling landlord in a bathrobe and an elevator that rarely works) to disastrous temp jobs that include plumbing duties at Candlestick Park, Susan chronicles the misadventures of young women navigating independence for the first time. There are exploding dinner parties, romantic mishaps with doctors who diagnose deviated septums on first dates, camping trips that should never have happened, and the unforgettable incident involving leftover crab that nearly gets them evicted. Written in real time as these adventures unfolded—not decades later through the fog of nostalgia—this memoir captures the unfiltered voice of a young woman actually living it, mistakes and all. With wit, warmth, and perfectly timed self-deprecation, Darby captures a moment when young women were rewriting the rules—one spectacular failure at a time. Whether she's falling out of a chairlift, shipwrecking herself in San Francisco Bay, or watching her roommate press a dress with gin-filled water from the steam iron, Susan finds the humor in every humiliation and the humanity in every disaster. A time capsule of 1960s single life and a love letter to friendship, independence, and the beautiful chaos of finding yourself, DON'T PUT THE MARTINIS IN THE STEAM IRON is perfect for anyone who remembers—or wants to remember—what it was like to be young, broke, and gloriously, messily free. For fans of Nora Ephron and Erma Bombeck Sometimes the best stories come from the worst decisions. Susan K. Darby arrived in San Francisco in the 1960s with an English degree, a broken nose, and the ability to cook exactly one thing: fried egg sandwiches. Despite typing minus-five words per minute, she became one of the youngest women stockbrokers at Paine Webber Jackson & Curtis and later spent decades at Morgan Stanley. She lives in Chicago and still can't make a graph. CHAPTER V: THE CRAB — SMELL IS WORSE THAN ITS BITE It was a Friday night and it was Teddy's turn to have the twelve members of her opera group over for dinner. Katie and Kacy were to be gone for the weekend, which just left Janet and myself. We both had dinner dates and agreed to stay out of Teddy's way and to clean up for her afterwards, as Teddy was spending the rest of the weekend at her cousin's. Jan and I were leaving together at 8:30 and Teddy's group would be out of the apartment by 7:30. Teddy had a very simple, but elegant meal. Fresh crab, hard rolls, salad, wine and fruit with cheese and nuts for dessert. Her group arrived promptly at 6:00 and left just as promptly at 7:30. Jan and I rushed around, and a half hour later, we had the dishes done and the leftover food put away—or so we thought. Jan and I arrived home with our respective dates about 2:00. As we opened the door to our apartment, it was obvious that something had died. The smell was so strong that oxygen masks were in order. I muttered something about it being rather stuffy and Jan gagged once or twice and one of the boys mentioned that we could stay with his sister. At any rate, it was such that none of us could pass it off with much aplomb. The boys decided to stay and help investigate, so each took a room and methodically checked under each bed and threw open each window. The odor was strong when we reached the kitchen door. There on the sideboard was the crab, no longer fresh, waiting to be put in the icebox. Jan grabbed a paper bag, plopped it all in, and I raced with it to the back door and threw it down the golden garbage chute. The boys decided not to stay for scrambled eggs and departed. After they left, Jan and I grabbed perfume atomizers off the bureaus and sprayed each room. We fell into bed and the next thing I heard was a loud banging. I thought it was my head and rolled over, but Jan got up and answered the door. It was obvious that while the crab had left our apartment, it had not left the building. There stood Juanita Banner, wife of the owner. "There is a strange odor throughout the entire building," Mrs. Banner began, "and I am going to get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing I do!" Her voice was getting higher pitched as she went along. "I was awakened at 6:00 by Mrs. Simpson, who said the smell was so strong in her room she was forced to sleep with Mr. Simpson. And Mrs. Weaver spent most of the night in her bathroom. We have searched the entire building and have found no trace. I am calling a meeting of all tenants in the main lobby at 11:00, but in the meantime, I want you girls