Friday, July 15, 2005

California! Here We Come!

I dated Adam Brody from roughly 11:00 p.m. to 5:04 a.m., Eastern Standard Time. Then our romantic idyll was smashed to smithereens by my alarm clock.

I’m not entirely sure it would’ve worked out for Adam and I anyway, through no fault of his own. He is every bit as cute as one would believe him to be if one had accidentally watched four or five episodes of The OC while running one’s daily four miles on the elliptical machine. He is also very charming and, if my dream-memory serves me right, smells really nice. No, I think our relationship would’ve been doomed by my warped conception of “sweet nothings,” which, in my dream, turned out to be murmuring “Man, you’re the only reason I’d ever watch that lame show!” into his ear.

It’s rare that I have dreams starring celebrities. There was a series of dreams I had in seventh and eighth grade starring Eddie Vedder in a variety of cameo roles, strangest of which involved the pair of us painting a mural of black bears in their natural habitat all over the second floor of the Jefferson Valley Mall. Around the same time, Kurt Cobain once taught me my piano lesson, but I think that had more to do with leaving my radio on as I slept than a visit from beyond the grave. Besides, he knew very little about Bach.

It’s also rare that my dreams take place in my house. Most often, when I say I had a dream about having breakfast in my kitchen, I mean that I was eating toast at my kitchen table, which was in my grandma’s kitchen, which was in Mohansic Elementary School, which, when you went outside, was located in the middle of a frozen lake I had to cross in Fanhstock State Park during my fourth-grade Girl Scout Jamboree. My dream house is an amalgam of every place I’ve ever been. Having Adam Brody in my actual bed, in my actual room, in my actual house made the pain all that much more acute when he vaporized at the sound of my alarm and the first signs of dawn.

I suppose I can’t expect the most articulate and well-coiffed of Hollywood starlets to get up when I do. I’m not saying it wouldn’t have been great if he did, and then we took the train together, deigning, of course, to give an autograph or two to businessmen who recognized him from the photo collages on their daughters’ walls.

Then for the remainder of the ride we’d make out in the bathroom like thirteen-year-olds at the last camp dance.

Instead, I’m sitting on the train and my only seat partner is a middle-aged woman who’s Blackberrying like a bandit. She has also removed her shoes and is wiggling her toes against the seat in a way that would be highly seductive if the seat were a man (Adam Brody?) and I weren’t going to expel the contents of my stomach all over her sensual interlude. Feet and I do not mix well, and watching a dirty foot trace slow, romantic circles on a grimy seat is just about the last thing I want to be doing at 7:15 in the morning.

Adam Brody!

Come back! I didn’t mean it. I love your show. I love watching The OC more than I love most things, especially the man with nipples so large as to be medically fascinating, who is sitting across the aisle in a brown spandex turtleneck. Please, come back!

I’ll be waiting here, in my nursery school classroom, in my great-grandmother’s Yonkers apartment, on that island I stayed on off Alabama, okay? I’ll leave a light on.

Happy 200th post, y'all.


Anonymous - Jess M said...

Kathy - I have to admit that I read your blog everyday. I think that if the two of us had a "boring job" competition we'd require a photo-finish, perhaps even a frame-by-frame recap, in order to determine the winner. Anyway - I feel silly posting because it's almost voyeuristic to read your blog as faithfully as I do - but I had to tell you that I had a dream last night about you and Brad. Abby and I (do you know who I am now? :) somehow managed to run into the both of you (as geographically unlikely as such an incident may be) and through a series of dream-like events, ended up in what I was told was "Brad's basement". At this point in the dream you and Abby were giddily running in circles around an incredibly large table/work bench and Brad was showing me his collection of kitchen's that for a dream? I suppose that's what a broken air conditioner will do to a girl.

2:45 PM  
Anonymous brad said...

i also collect 50's diner memorabilia and snow globes from tropical locations.

3:17 PM  

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