The Back of Your Car

I’m pretty sure when the world ends, I will be hiding under a mattress clutching Adam, crying and screaming my fool head off while I wait for the aliens to come and pick the flesh off of my bones (Can you tell I saw ‘War of the Worlds?’ And that it was Not Good. Not Good At All?). I think it is safe to say that I will not be in the back of a carwith some random wannabe rock star – of that much I am sure. Do I wish that’s what I could be doing? Today, the answer is hell oddly yes.

I am prone to celebrity crushes. Ever since the days of Teen Beat, when I plastered ripped-out photos of Jason Bateman and Ralph Macchio all over my wall, I have had a crush on at least one celebrity, and in particular, I have had a thing for rock stars. I went to college in the days of Dave Matthews, and spent an inordinate amount of time listening to “Crash” over and over and over on repeat thinking, “But I wear nothing so well too! And dude, you can look up my skirt anytime.”

And now, my rockstar lust has oozed into the world of reality TV: I have a crush on Ryan Star of Rockstar Supernova, and I am not ashamed! I don’t care who knows it!

Except, I am not rockstar girlfriend material. I have small boobs. I’m nerdy. I sometimes wear glasses and have a penchant for dairy farms and I’m kind of into fidelity and also? I get embarrassed when people sing live, and it’s why I hate concerts and musicals. Something about the passionate eye-closing and singing and everything and oh, I get hives just thinking about it, because I imagine that it’s me and then I feel faint. Which is why I married the antithesis of a rockstar, and although once, long, long ago, he had a burgeoning rap career, he is decidedly un-rockstaresque. (Please for the love of all that is holy, do not ask, but I will only say this: there was a time, once when we were in Stop n’ Shop, where someone screamed, “MC STORM!” and Adam turned around and waved, because yes, they were talking to him. There. Enough.) And so, I will content myself with the fantasy of a rockstar, happy with my warm dreams of a much-younger man in my bed, yet even happier with the technology geek I ended up marrying.

But seriously, um, I bought Ryan Star’s album on iTunes. And I listened to it all the livelong day. And it was good. And I still want to have sex with him, except not really, because, well, you know. Unless of course, the world is ending, in which case I will try to crawl out from my mattress to find his car! I will try!

*For those of you who do not watch the show (and I think that is most of you), he, um, sang an original song about having sex in the back of a car while the world is ending, and everyone else is totally in church. And I am pretty much so. freaking. there.

And now for a series of completely ridiculous non-sequiturs:

Today I was talking to someone who was hard of hearing – or so I hope – for when I asked him, “How is that volunteer project going?” He answered, completely earnestly, “Yes! We do have a lot of ducks in the lake! How did you know?”

And tonight while out at dinner, we met a couple from Massachusetts – Canton, to be exact – and I announced that “Our wedding is there in three weeks!” But of course, it is not OUR wedding, it is our friends’ wedding, and while we are going to it, we aren’t getting married. Except I didn’t realize that’s what I’d said and I spent a good ten minutes deflecting their squeals of “Oh my GOD! CONGRATULATIONS!” and trying to figure out why they were so excited that we’re going to a wedding. And then when they asked me where the wedding was, of course I had no idea, and the woman promptly asked, “How is that possible?” which left me more confused and then finally, they just walked away with a rather disgusted air about them.

And lastly, Sunny has acne. It’s my fault for using plastic dishes, I know, but she’s a teenager! With acne! And um, it’s taking every inch of me not to pop her zits for her. I know, I’m gross, but I CANNOT LET A PIMPLE LIE THERE. I can’t. It’s why I walk around with a scabby face shortly after a zit, and it’s also why every boyfriend I’ve ever had has been terrified of me picking at them like some sort of OCD monkey. If there is a whitehead in the room, I need to eradicate it, immediately, and I do not care whose face it’s on. I will pop that shit, if given the chance. Blackheads too. Sick. I’m sick.

And now, I’m projecting such horrific acts onto my dog. And also fucking rockstars and getting married. It’s been an exciting week.

*Dude. Ryan Star. Leave me alone. I know.

20 comments August 24th, 2006