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.