I don’t get society’s obsession with celebrities — do we worship them for being flawless, or fixate on their flaws to make ourselves feel flawless? And I have never been one to obsess over hot celebrity guys… I don’t see all the hype about Brad Pitt, and I realize Mr. Big is a fictional character. But after my friend Jackie introduced me to the MTV show Rob Dyrdek's Fantasy Factory, I found myself wanting to date, fall in love and have babies with professional skateboarder Rod Dyrdek.
That man is an exact replica of the portrait of the perfect man I have painted in my head. He's creative, adventurously athletic, quirky, positive thinking, fun and funny, street (and business) smart, altruistic, sexy skater boy, surrounded by cool people, dog loving… all of which I picked up on by watching one episode.
I had to be sure that he was not a fictional-reality-character, and that he is for real… so I suggested to Jackie that we watch the entire season on her DVR. I fell in love that night… not necessarily with Rob Dyrdek, but with the idea that the perfect man does in fact exist — if in Hollywood, then definitely in real life. Maybe I won’t have to settle for less than the full package after all. And with that, Rob and his power animals became my first celebrity crush since Joey from New Kids on the Block.
Fast forward a year...
Now that I have deemed an unattainable man as the unrequited love of my life, you can imagine my reaction when I walked into East in Hollywood to eat with Patrycja, the girl with whom I switched cities with for the show Holidate, and there sat Rob Dyrdek at the bar, having a drink with his manager on the show.
I saw him immediately and it made me do a double-take so quickly it threw me off my balance and I stumbled over my own feet, which in turn made me swallow my gum and jerk my body back and forward so quickly it was obvious that I was either trying to refrain from tripping - or, in starstruck shock… either way, not a good first impression. Because as my luck would have it, he looked up at the very moment and we made eye contact.
Welp, there goes my chances of my fairytale ever becoming a reality-television-tale. But we’re talking about someone in the spotlight… he has more vaginas laced with hot bodies being thrown at him than balls at a batting cage. He could have a harem of models that serve coffee during the day, and the working models. But as I like to think the perfect man is a real life entity — I’d like to believe that he doesn’t. But regardless, I don’t stand a chance anyway. Let's just say I am more the Liz Lemon, than the Tina Fey…
I texted Jackie the scenario and she responded instantly from a whole other time zone ordering me to go strap some balls on and go talk to him. Patrycja agreed with her… and next thing I know the table was practically chanting my name “Brittney! Brittney! Brittney!” …
I have never been a shy girl. BUT, I’ve also never been the type of girl that approaches a man with the intentions of wanting to have his baby… let me rephrase that - wanting to just know him, and confirm his existence as fact or fiction. My faith in men as a species lies in Rob Dyrdek’s hands. I had to know if the epitome of my perfect man is real — or merely a modern day prince charming that only existed in fairytales, or, reality television. So I gave in to the peer pressure and moseyed my ass up to that bar to order a drink.
I am not an actress… but I was certainly trying to act cool. I got the bartender’s attention – and fortunately for me – the bartender was flirtatious and vivacious, so I was able to play off of that using my basic social skills.
“What can I get you … “
“Do you have cherry vodka?
“We just got it!”
“It’s my lucky day,” I said with genuine excitement. And that it was. Rob Dydrek was sitting within ear shot of me… fuck the cherry vodka.
“May I have a diet coke and cherry vodka?”
“That’s interesting,” the bartender said confused… the fictitious love of my life chimed into the conversation at this point because he turned in my direction with the same weirded out look on his face as the bartender… this I know and noticed because I was watching him like a government agent in my peripheral vision.
“It’s like an alcoholic cherry coke,” I said with confidence to imply that my drink is not the cocktail of a freak. The weird looks turned to smiles of agreement.
I am in… but now what? Is this where I tell him that I want him to sweep me up off my feet and lead me up the stairwell and then call the valet for his white horse so we can ride off down Sunset Boulevard. But I know I’m no princess… I’m not even a model. That doesn’t happen… not even in Hollywood.
Not to mention that I have no game. My game makes Jake Delholme’s look good. I mean, I can initiate a conversation with a wall, but I had no idea what to say to a guy with whom I’ve projected all my fantasies on — I may have won “Biggest Flirt” as my senior superlative in high school, but I was about as smooth as an adolescent band geek trying to flirt with the senior cheerleader. So, this is how it feels.
The bartender filled my glass up with ¾ of cherry vodka and a splash of diet coke.
Rob noticed this. “The bartender likes you,” he pointed out.
“He’s trying to get me drunk… he’s just doing his job I guess.” This is something I would normally say as a joke, like a comedian. But the woman that possessed my body at that very moment responded in the voice of a phone sex operator.
He shot me a half-ass smile and sipped his drink.
What brilliant, ingenious response do I give in order to keep the conversation going? Did I come up with some kind of witty response to show that I am the kind of girl that’ll make him laugh… Or some intelligent remark to indicate that I can challenge him in educated conversation? Not so much…
“What 88.9% liquor drink are you drinking?” … gleeking as soon as I opened my mouth - my runaway saliva landing right on his hand, and what I noticed to be a tattoo’ed wrist. Way to go, Brittney… why don’t you just hock a loogie in his face?
The feelings I had as an insecure adolescent with braces re-surfaced. A guy hadn’t threatened my cool confidence like that since in sixth grade when one of the cool guys asked me out as a joke just to see if I’d say yes, and then laughed in my face when I did.
Either he didn’t notice I just spit on him or, he’s that much of a gentleman to pretend not to notice. He is perfect after all.
He responded generically to my generic question, “A cucumber margarita.”
Sometimes, my body lacks the filter that seperates thoughts between the mouth and the mind. But in this instance I could've used an all out mute button. “Cucumber margarita? Now that’s weird; I prefer lime flavored margaritas – or just fruits in general, versus vegetables with my tequila,” He doesn’t care Brittney, I thought to myself - but my mouth just kept speaking despite my thinking. “Do they have cucumber flavored vodka in LA and they’re depriving us on the east coast.”
I don’t even know what that means … but it came out of my mouth. I felt the need to slide in the fact that I am not the typical girl LA girl, despite the fact I was currently ACTING like one. Though he probably already figured that one out considering I was only acting like I wasn't an enamored fan, fighting the urge to take a picture of him with my blackberry.
“Just cucumber flavored I guess.” I lost him. He was bored.
I took a sip of my alcoholic diet coke and it was so strong that my face automatically shriveled up like I just took a shot of straight cucumber-flavored tequila followed by a sour patch kid rather than a lime. It took everything in me not to spit it out in his face, but swallow it painfully… with what I assume to be the most unattractive look on my face. I am not quite sure whether he was laughing at me, or with me, but he laughed.
“Strong?” he asked
“Holy Cherry Vodka!” I responded organically, in my high pitched southern accent that tends to come out in the most inopportune times. I proceeded to make the “I just sucked on a lemon” face as I was trying to cool the liquor burn.
“Would it be bad if I asked him for a side of soda?” I asked, scrambling for a way to recover the fumble.
“Well, you want to enjoy your drink,” he said, validating my party foul. He then proceeded to finish his conversation with his manager. And just like that, my game struck out.
Apparently, being in Hollywood can turn anyone into an actress. I have no idea who I was trying to portray, but I definitely wasn’t playing the role of myself… I sent in the second-string version of myself and got boo’ed out of the game.
And then it occurred to me, unless you’re trying to be an actress, you’ll never make it in any facet of life if you try to be anyone other than you ...Yet another reason to embrace who you are. Trying to act cooler than I am, I actually made myself appear a lot less cooler than even I know I am. When you send a representative of yourself out to sell you, you just end up looking like a used car salesman. And I meanwhile looked so stupid and insecure I’m surprised my boobs didn’t magically inflate and pop out of my dress, and my hair fade to bleached blonde right there before his eyes. And that, is definitely not me.
So, I left that person at the bar and went back to myself and back to my table. But regardless of the fact I am not going to be winning an Oscar for my acting performance as a cool girl with game to Rob Dydrek – I still find it cool that there under the Hollywood sky, I saw a real star. So, I made a wish upon a star… that a real life Rob Dydrek is out there - and will still be single in five years or longer when I’m ready to settle down.
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