I was tearing up Chris Brown’s poster from my 2008 edition of “TeenBop” Magazine when I heard my doorbell ring. “I’ll get it, Mom!” I yelled down the stairs. I could not let my dysfunctional family embarrass her in front of my date. I’d been dreaming of this night since the 5th grade, when I watched “Pon de Replay” during the Grammys.
“I’m hay babe,” Rihanna announced, walking through my front door and handing me an appletini. “Don’t worreh,” she added, noticing the sunken look on my face, as I was trying to kick my apple addiction, “My drivers chilling root beer for you in the car.”
My freckled cheeks blushed, but I quickly turned my head to make sure my mother had left the room. Ri was one of the few people I’d ever revealed my root beer kick to. I lived in rural Philadelphia, and I was scared to come out to my family as a root beer lover. “We drink birch beer in this house,” I remembered my mother’s chilling words, her cold voice still echoing through my eardrums.
“Wass wrang?” Rihanna asked. “Is it the outfit?” She motioned to her get-up, consisting translucent crop top, fishnets, and eight-inch stilettos. Her hair was blue, as she hadn’t changed her dye job from Katy Perry’s wedding party.
“No you look…great,” I assured her. “It’s not that.” I glanced towards my mother, and Ri nodded. She was well aware of my mom’s disapproval of our relationship. It had nothing to do with us both being women, the seven and a half-year age gap, or the fact that Rihanna was a woman of color (we’re 1/16th Moroccan)- but because she didn’t approve of Rihanna’s career choices.
“I just can’t respect anyone who makes pop music,” she said, explaining her rejection to Rihanna’s suggestion that we host our Yom Kippur dinner at her mansion this year. “I mean, she’s worked with David Guetta, “ she scowled, lighting the menorah, “She might as well be communist.”
“Forget her,” Rihanna said grabbing my hand, “The limo awaits us.” 45 minutes, 3 cocktails, and a missing earring later we were arrived at our destination.
I gasped, in absolute awe, “No one’s ever done something like this for me before,” I said, on the verge of tears. As Rihanna escorted me into the Bertuccis in Bryn Mawr, I finally knew what she felt like to be “The Only Girl in the World.”
A sassy teenage waitress escorted us to our table, luckily unable to recognize that she was seating a celebrity through several layers of mascara. As I munched away through our endless breadbasket, and Rihanna chugged her way through our pitcher of Diet Coke mixed with Laxatives, we shared our stories. I admitted to her that I was initially apprehensive about our date, because I was worried that I’d never live up to past lovers. This is a woman who’d been with Chris Brown, Shia Labeouf, Nicki Minaj (allegedly)- The greats. How could little schoolgirl Caroline ever live up?
As I delved into my insecurities, Rihanna laughed. She’d been worried too. She was worried that I would be intimated; view her for image and not her true self. “I’m not dat girl in my music videos. I’ve never “shot a man down”…I prefer rain coats to umbrellas…and I’m not into S&M,” she laughed, before pausing, “Unless you are.” Rihanna had been so eager to impress me that she had insisted on reservations, even though it was a Thursday night and we’d probably have been fine. This is when I knew I’d met my dream woman.
I quickly gobbled up my chicken Cesar salad, as it was 6.45 and I wanted us to get good seats at the 7.20 showing of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” Ri said that she knew I wasn’t into romantic comedies, but that she’d been to the Hollywood screening of this one for Jay-Z’s birthday and that it was funny. I nodded, saying that I trusted that her taste in chick flicks was better than her taste in men. She insisted on paying, as she earned $900,000 a week, compared to my $20 giving swim lessons, but eventually we split the bill because of our feminist sentiments. She tipped the waitress $10 and a piece of Lady Gaga’s hair to sell on Ebay, and we were off.
We almost had to leave promptly after arriving at the theater, as I learned that Matthew Morrison was starring in the movie, and his character on Glee single-handedly ruined my sophomore year in high school. Luckily, my love for J-Lo and Chris Rock’s hair was enough to convince me not to buy as tickets to Avengers at the last minute. And (rude) boy, was that the best decision I’ve ever made. As the lights dimmed and the Twilight trailers rolled, Rihanna draped her arm over my swimmer’s shoulders. I had finally found love in a hopeless place (the suburbs), and my heart raced as our fingers touched while we shared our jumbo popcorn. The sound of our love was enough for me to tune out the comments from the ghetto girls in front of us. I swear to God it is the same two girls in front of me every time I go to the Manayunk Theater. Like they come to every single movie just to narrate everything that’s already being clearly explained in the movie in front of them.
“I don’t know Jerry, I don’t know.” OH DAYUM. SHE DON’T KNOW. WHAT SHE GON’DO? SHE DON’T KNOW. WAIT, IS THAT HER EX FROM EARLIER. OHHHH DAYUM. THIS IS GETTING’ DEEP. I giggled as Rihanna threw popcorn into their hair, and she chuckled as I leaned my chair back to annoy the elderly couple behind us. Rihanna might have the curves of a woman, but she had the sense of humor of a tween.
Time flew like Lindsay Lohan running away from her parole officer (quickly), and soon the movie was over, though Rihanna and I were too busy staring into each other eyes to be paying much attention to Elizabeth Banks. As the credits rolled, she held out her dainty hand to help me up, and I knew from the look in her deep green eyes what was to come. As we drove home, we were both excited and nervous; pondering what was to come of our relationship. Finally the limo approached my stucco house, and Rihanna helped me up to my door step.
“Rihanna-“ I started, but she stopped me. She looked around and gasped. We both were thinking the same thing- What was that flash, and why was Katy Perry holding a baseball bat?
Stay tuned for part 2: Rihanna gets Jay-Z to get Will Smith to get Obama to legalize gay marriage in PA for our spring nupitals