thank god it's friday...

After a harrowing day at work, I returned home to find Zoë standing at the front door. “The toilet’s broken and I don’t know what to do.”
Ugh. In our main bathroom, the one that divides the two bedrooms, the old Godfather-esque toilet has been nothing but a pain in the ass. While the whole “Pulling a chain to flush” is cool and old school, this goddamn commode hasn’t worked properly since prohibition.
I am not handy. I can barely screw in a light bulb. But let me tell you something, folks. We pulled out a ladder, I climbed up there, and with nothing but bare hands and common sense, I fixed that toilet.
Even I couldn’t believe it. We stood in the bathroom watching that toilet work, shocked into silence by the improbability of me actually fixing something, much less a very broken major household appliance. That called for wine, which I had the little lady run and open.
Delighted that Zoë didn’t have to work and was merely “on call”, we decided on having “Roommate Night”, which, translated, means dinner and a movie. Both craving Indian food, we headed over to Zoë’s old neighborhood for the fabulous Star India buffet. I don’t mind telling you, we were seated next to the hottest British guy this side of David Bell.
“We need to find him.” smirked Zoë in a sassy British accent, referring to the love of my life currently jumping out of Blackhawks in Baghdad. “I bet he’s about.”
“Oy, what I wouldn’t give for a little DB.”
We dove into naan and lamb and chutney while wildly fantasizing about British paratroopers coming to sweep us away. Stuffed with the culinary wonders of Indian delights, we headed over to AMC1000, having pre-bought our tickets to the opening night of The Interpreter.
The theater was packed to the gills and needles to say, we were seated next to the most annoying people ever conceived. We made it all the way to the opening credits, past the commercials, past the previews. I mean, the movie had started, people. Then, Zoë’s cell goes off. We nervously look at each other as she listens to the message.
Zoë leans in and whispers, “Oh my god. I just got called in to do costumes.”
Having “done costumes” for nearly 4 years, I know what this means. Zoë must leave immediately and go straight to work. You’d think she was a obstetric surgeon. You’d think she was an anesthesiologist. Nope. She’s a theater technician.
“Well, you should stay.” she said, as the opening credits began to roll. “Can you take a cab?”
“Yeah. Totally. God, this sucks. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” she said, as she shimmied past the highly annoying people next to me, already confused by the plot line which had yet to start.
I watched the rest of the movie alone, occasionally distracted by the clueless retards to my left, constantly discussing just who the body found in the bathtub was or announcing loudly a cameo by Sydney Pollack.
Oh my God, I hate you so much. Please have a heart attack and die before I have to hear you speak again.
The movie ended. (You’re going to want a review, now. It was okay. Sean Penn was surprisingly hot, Nicole Kidman was surprisingly unkempt. It was worth it, really only because I’ve decided to revamp my bangs as a result.)
Thousands of us poured out of the theater, fighting for elevator space and shoving each other through doorways. Solo, I walked out onto Van Ness Avenue, looking way too cute to go home. But I had no choice. I hailed a cab. Sitting low in the huge backseat, I watched the city lights whiz past me as I turned in before midnight.
“This blows.” I thought to myself. “I’m so wasted on a Friday night. I pulled out the good lip gloss, I’ve blow dried this hair, I’ve got nothing but witty remarks to make. How am I stranded and alone? My god. I can even fix a toilet…”