Saturday, December 10, 2005

can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em...

It’s amazing how the world works. I woke up this morning with a profound distaste for the opposite sex and my self confidence at an all time low. I dragged myself to a 10am showing of Syriana, covering my eyes through most of it and lamenting the fact that of course, men would feel the need for a 20 minute torture scene. I hit Safeway on the way home and the misery continued. I not only found myself cut off from MY parking space by a goddamn man, but some dude cut me in the 15 items or less line, forcing me to count his 18 items and silently stew.
I returned home, wanting nothing more than to shower off the filth, eat my noodles and watch the 1989 Civil War epic, Glory. Of course, I returned home to a screaming alarm system and all electricity working, except for the fucking TV. Positive that my upstairs neighbor and his team of home renovators obviously had something to do with this, I opened my door to find “Brad” lugging 2 by 4s down the stairs.
“Uh, Hi. I’m Beth. I live right here.”
“Hi. I’m Brad. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Uh, okay. Anyway, all of my electricity is working except for my TV and my alarm.”
“Oh. Wow. Well, we could have cut a wire. Sometimes, wires get cut.”
“Oh, of course. Wires get cut. And I have no problem with any work going on upstairs. I totally don’t want to be a bitch. I just, you know, need my alarm and TV to work.”
“Okay, well let me put this in my truck and I look into it.”
“Um, okay.”
“No, I mean I’ll look into it immediately.”
The next thing I know, there’s a knock at my door.
“Is there an electrical box in here?”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m pretty sure there is.”
It is at this point that 2 things happen. Number One: I notice that Brad is the appropriate age, height and level of attractiveness for yours truly. And Number Two: I begin to giggle like an idiot woman, announcing how I know nothing about anything and am clearly the stupidest person in the world, who is obviously hung-over, un-showered and better looking with ambient lighting. The entire time I’m thinking, “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.” But I don’t.
Anyway, he finds the electrical box behind all of our suitcases and fur coats (don’t ask), flicks a switch and voila! Everything works again. Standing in my foyer (that’s using the term very loosely), he checks to make sure the battery in my alarm is okay and we then proceed to share a very awkward 3 minutes of me profusely thanking him and him smiling and saying no problem. He instructed me to come on upstairs if I needed anything else, I told him to have a lovely weekend... end scene.
Now, aside from the fact that I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon scheming all kinds of intros into further communication with Brad, which I think we all know will never come to fruition, there’s a larger point to this story. Men can suck. Men can tremendously, tremendously suck. But on occasion, one small act can reinstate my faith in testosterone. Brad could’ve dicked me around and told me to call the electric company and prohibited my much anticipated watching of Glory. But he didn’t. He rescued me.
Gentleman, I salute you.
Oh shit, that’s my doorbell…

2 comments:

roomie said...

aren't you glad we just cleaned out the sunporch? it's as if fate knew brad didn't need to see a basket full of vogues from 1997...

Elliot said...

“Is there an electrical box in here?”
“I doubt it.”
I really don't know what to say....