She should never forgive me but she will because she's my best friend. Yesterday was Zoe's birthday and I didn't blog about it. Of course, I called at the break of dawn but you know my policy on birthday blogs. Everyone gets one. And by everyone, I mean people who complain when they don't get them.
So here it is. 24 hours tardy.
If you were to walk into Zoe's apartment, you'd think you were inside an interior design magazine. It's perfect. It's adorable. It's clean.
I've walked into that apartment a lot of times. Like the time we finished a hike then finished a bottle of Dom. Or the time we watched the entire MTV marathon of Made. Or the time my heart broke so loudly, Zoe heard it from across town. I spent that night on her couch with 87 bottles of Chardonnay, ruining her perfect, matching pillows with mascara tears and drool.
If I were a sailor or lobersterman or whatever, Zoe's apartment would be my lighthouse. It is the safest, warmest, most welcoming place I know. It is where I know I will always find a friend so true, she runs marathons but walks with me. A pal so sweet, she's a vegan but will serve me dead pigs. A compadre so patient, she will listen to the same story on repeat and act enthralled and surprised every time.
Zoe is what my brother would call a "tough nut to crack." She is not an indiscriminate liker of people. She's perfectly polite to every single one of God's children. But I can tell in 2 seconds when she disapproves of someone. Like the time I had a dinner party, inviting over a new fella who got way too drunk during a raucous game of Scattegories and screamed at my friend, "That's how the game is played, bitch!"
Zoe said not a word, but sat back in her hair, took a ladylike sip of her wine and shot me a look.
And with that, said fella was done.
Zoe's advice is the gospel to me. And she always gives it in such a non-judgemental way. "Well, how did that make you feel? Do you think you did that maybe because you were mad at Shithead? Well, I totally don't think you over-reacted, but do you?"
Zoe looks like a supermodel and has better clothes than me and I don't resent her.
When my dad fell down the stairs, Zoe entertained him and his cast with Presidential trivia games.
And when I was completely pretending I had my shit together but in reality, it had completely fallen apart, my computer suddenly didn't work. And soon after Zoe called as I was driving home to my internet-less house. Before I could help myself, I'd pulled over into a gas station and was doing the ugly cry.
The next day, her boyfriend arrived to fix my computer.
Not because he cares deeply about my internet connection.
But because he's no dummy.
He cares deeply about Zoe.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. If I some day find myself in the gutters of Calcutta, pregnant and drugged, confused and without a passport, Zoe would be on the next plane with a clean caftan, some forged documents and a freezer bag full of mini-booze.
I love you Zo!