I rolled down the passenger-side window and asked these strangers, “Are you trying to get to the U2 concert?”
“Yeah,” the guy yelled back. “How did you know?”
Y’all, if I had a mic, I would’ve dropped it; if I had on a heaux-ish miniskirt that exposed my vajeen, I would have popped it. But I didn’t, so I just told them it was a guess. Then Michelle and I waved them over, and the dude and his lady friend got into the car.
As we inched along in traffic, we quickly got to know each other—where they’re from, friends we had in common—and it turned out that the two of them had seen Michelle and me do stand-up before. Then Mishy pulled out a bunch of CDs and turned on some Jimmy Buffett, and the three of them rocked the hell out while I pulled a Jim from The Office and blank-stared at the camera that wasn’t there. Eventually, the clock struck 8 P.M. and not only was it officially three hours since we’d left Brooklyn, but we also missed the VIP lounge experience. Fuck! But the good news was we finally got to MetLife Stadium. Halleloo! Our car buddies jumped out to look for their friends while we went about finding a place to park and kept encountering a bunch of Sam Elliott–looking mofos who gave zero damns about the clusterfuck that was the parking situation. And I get it. Dealing with 65,000 demanding concertgoers is like eating an omelet made entirely out of eggshells. #Wut #WhoWouldEatThat #WhoWouldMakeThat #ImNotGoodAtAnalogies #IveWrittenABookBefore #How.
Anyway, I was now on the verge of tears because not only had I promised Michelle a VIP experience, but the Loom-Looms were onstage, I was missing my new friend Neyla perform, and I kept texting #BritishBaekoff (who, among hundreds of other tasks, had to oversee escorting Mishy and me inside the venue) false alarms about our parking situation. Michelle reassured me she was fine, but like any normal human being, she was tired and kind of ready to go home. And even I was starting to think none of this was worth the headache, and just when I was ready to throw in the towel after sixty minutes of driving around the parking lot, we finally saw an available spot and freaked out. We parked, our spirits lifted, and I texted the #BritishBaekoff to see when U2 was going on.
“I don’t know. Maybe five or seven minutes,” he responded.
I immediately start booking it. Michelle, who was in heels, did her best to keep up, but I had focus like Forrest Gump. I was determined. I rounded the corner of the stadium and eventually saw a white guy in a suit, whom I assumed was #BB, and I kept running towards him.
He stuck out his hand, and I detected a British accent. “Hi. I’m [name redacted].* Nice to meet you.”
“No, no, no. I’ve been in a car for the past four hours. You’re giving me a hug.” And then I ran into his arms and hugged him. Michelle finally caught up, I introduced them, and then I immediately returned my focus to U2.
Once inside MetLife, I gathered my bearings and felt I was pleasant enough to #BritishBaekoff while trying to move the proceedings along to get to the concert. Like I thought I was as nice as the average person is when they’re at a restaurant and the waiter wants to tell them about all twenty-six specials, so they smile politely, waiting for the monologue of elaborate dishes to be over, so they can just order basic-ass grilled chicken and veggies. That’s what I thought I was like. Apparently, I was not. I later learned that I was—cringe alert—rude. For instance, #BB gave me the tickets in an envelope, an envelope that he later told me he’d especially decorated for me because I was a U2 superfan (I didn’t notice the ‘lope). He wanted to show us around the VIP lounge, but I didn’t care and interrupted the tour to go to the bathroom. I came out of the restroom, and when he took us outside to a sea of people in the general admission section (aka nonseated but close to the stage), I said, “I need to find my friends,” and left him without saying thank you for anything he had done for Michelle and me. About ten minutes later, I realized I’d misplaced my tickets and sent him a text asking him what my seat numbers were in case Michelle and I got tired and wanted to sit in the stands for part of the concert. In short, I was a hot mess who was so concerned with the U2 of it all that I completely put my manners on snooze.
Michelle and I left #BB, found my homies, U2 put on a bomb-ass show, all us ladies sang along, and I inappropriately twerked to “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” It was a good-ass night, and towards the end of the concert, Neyla brought Michelle and me backstage since we hadn’t had a chance to eat any dinner, and there was #BB. The four of us chatted (I was much nicer and more charming as Michelle and I shoved food in our faces), and then Neyla asked, “Do you and Michelle want to go to the U2 after-party?”
Do I want to go to the U2 after-party? Do I want to go to the U2 . . . after . . . party?!?! Yaaaaaaas!
To be clear, I’m not an after-party person. After-parties are insanely loud, full of people getting sloppy drunk, and, especially in the case of industry get-togethers, so many of the attendees are just looking around you while in conversation with you in hopes of finding someone richer, more attractive, or more famous than you to hobnob with. Barf. I’m much more of a home-by-10:25-P.M.-and-watching-Nancy-Meyers-movies kind of person. So, as you’ve probably assumed at this point, I’ve typically abstained from the after-party life. However, this was U2, so I sniffed my armpits, in which the all-natch deodorant had worn off exactly twelve minutes after I left my apartment, and told Neyla and #BB that Michelle and I were game and we were going to drive to the party, which was in Manhattan, and meet them there. #BritishBaekoff told me to text him if we had any problems getting into the party, and then Michelle and I left.
As we drove back to the city, I looked down at my phone at incoming text messages from #BB. “Michelle, why does he keep texting me? There’s literally nothing to talk about. He got me into the concert. End of transaction. We good.”
“Oh, my God, you idiot. He likes you.”
Y’all, I can be a real Oblivia Pope. #MomJoke. All kidding aside, I processed what Michelle said and responded with an “Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”
She laughed.
“Yeah . . . he is kind of cute.”
Then I immediately texted Neyla: “What’s the deal with your tour manager? He’s cute. Is he single and straight?”
She wrote back: “Yes and yes.” And I was pumped up.
Lmao forever. A mere five minutes ago, I was basically negative 17 percent interested in someone whose face I 3 percent remembered—#AndForThoseReasonsImOut #SharkTank—and then I find out #BritishBaekoff is available and immediately I become 2000 percent invested in him like I’m Lori Greiner trying to close on a business venture by talking about QVC deals. But truth be told, my reaction to #BB is typical trash that all current and former single people have been guilty of doing from time to time. Sometimes the reaction is because you think you might get a good story out of fraternizing with a fellow single person; sometimes it’s because you just want to get a little attention from/kill a little bit of time with a good-looking person; or sometimes you simply decide to not overthink things and just be open. I was probably a combination of all three that night, so with the confidence and slight BO of a hippie yoga teacher, I headed into the party with Michelle.
The party was surprisingly low-key. Don’t get me wrong, there were quite a few celebrities there, but it wasn’t an extremely crowded, bottle-popping, wild shindig. Instead, it felt like a laid-back and spontaneous barbecue that happened to take place indoors. Famous people milled about, reconnecting and laughing with each other; there was a reasonably sized buffet table covered with crudités, snacks, sliders, salads, and dessert; there was also an open bar, and Questlove was DJ’ing the best set I’ve ever heard a DJ do. Cool-people factor aside, it was a pretty calm affair.
And so was I. In the past, I might have been the UN representative of Desperation Nation, but at that point, I had been single for two years partially because I was so focused on my career, but also, I wanted to try to enjoy singledom for a change. Meaning not being single and secretly
hoping to meet “the One” while running errands or outwardly bitching about my relationship status/cracking jokes to hide the fact that I’m miserable or initiating girls’ night outs with the hidden agenda of meeting a cute guy. Instead, I wanted to be single, get to know myself, and spend time with my girlfriends (where the topic of conversation is not just about dudes and dating) because I love them and genuinely care what’s going on in their lives. So that night I was, instead, the UN representative of Wearing Very Comfortable and Loose (Because the Elastic Has Died) Undies Because I Just Wanna Party with My Girlfriends Nation.
Still, despite making my girls my number one priority and #BritishBaekoff still being on the clock for the Loom-Looms, he and I kept gravitating towards each other throughout the night. He was definitely key-oot aka cute, charming, funny, a bit on the shy side, and I learned he lived in Portland, Oregon. Again, due to my chilling in the Alone Zone, I figured we would probably make out and then never see each other again as he went off traveling the world with a band and I kept on splitting my time between New York and Los Angeles for work.
With this game plan in mind, I moseyed back over to Neyla (Mishy had gone home by this point) to hang some more. That’s when a drunk black woman came up to me, slightly slurring, “You’re Phoebe Roberson!”
“It’s Robinson, but sure.”
“It’s all the same. Whatever. Shut up! I knew it! I was hoping you were going to be here!” And then she punched me in my shoulder. I believe she was aiming for a “way to go, kiddo” punch, but it landed hard and made me stumble backwards a little.
Immediately, out of my periphery, I saw #BritishBaekoff stand up, surveying the situation. Neyla whispered to me, while the drunk woman was talking at me, that if at any point I was too uncomfortable, she would have #BB remove me from the situation. I nodded but didn’t want to cause a scene, and more importantly, I knew this woman was just an inebriated fan, so I carried on the conversation as if I hadn’t been hit. #BritishBaekoff, sensing my growing discomfort as this woman kept invading my space and speaking way too loud, walked over, grabbed my hand, and pulled me away. I thought, Oooh, he’s like the Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard to my Whitney Houston. Yaaaaas!*
But nothing romantical happened, y’all! No kiss or tender hug! #BritishBaekoff and I just kept talking/flirting until I tried to get him on the dance floor to no avail. So I left him and joined Neyla on the dance floor, and later that night, I got a text message from #BB explaining that he had to leave to help one of the Loom-Looms get back to his hotel, but he had a great time with me and if I’m ever in Portland, I should look him up.
When I read that text, all I could think was, Yeah, bitch, no. Ya had your chance, bro. I love how when I’m over a guy, I instantly sound like a Jersey Shore cast member. But for real, I had (and still do have) a busy schedule, no plans to go to the Northwest, and if I did have to go there for work, I was certainly not going to carve out time to see some dude I had a few flirtatious moments with who is just as swamped as I am with work. So I chalked up this text message to him politely blowing me off and I enjoyed the rest of my night.
The next day, Neyla hit me up and let me know the entire band roasted him like peppers in fajitas for not making a move on me. She then suggested it could be a TBC aka a to-be-continued kind of situation. I tepidly agreed and went about living my life until a week later when I was talking about the U2 concert with Jessica (she did not ask about it) and I mentioned I met #BritishBaekoff. She asked what he looked like.
“Well, he’s white and British. Wears glasses . . . facial hair.” I couldn’t really recall what he looked like, but I was certain that he was a hottie. I felt like I was back in school and had an exam on Joan of Arc. I knew I read all about her achievements, but all I could write down is, “She sliced off her titty like it was a piece of turkey she was serving it up at Thanksgiving.” Basically, my description of #BritishBaekoff was garbage and vague as hell. So I decided to find him on Instagram, but his account is private*—#EyeRollEmoji—and I had to request him. He accepted my request and I found one picture of him (many of his photos are scenic from his travels), which turned out to be a group photo where everyone was lined up in two rows like class picture day in elementary school and he was in the back row. All we could see of him was his bearded face, but it was enough for her to agree that he was a cutie.
Later that night, he slid into my DMs while I was about to see a play with my friend Alison. #BB and I chatted for a bit. It was adorable, but again, I didn’t think much of it. After all, he was in Europe. I got home from the play and he was still awake, so we texted until he fell asleep on the tour bus. Shortly afterwards, I went to bed and woke up the next day to find a text message from him—a picture of a gorgeous sunrise in Italy. And on this went. We would text throughout the day until he fell asleep, and then when I woke up in the morning, I’d open iMessage and see there was a nice morning greeting and another picture from #BritishBaekoff. Then we’d text throughout the day, getting to know each other, coming up with inside jokes, etc. It was clear we liked each other, but I had no idea what it meant or where it could lead as he was on the road and I was about to leave America for two months to shoot Ibiza overseas, but I needed to find out. And I knew that staying in the texting zone for too long could be bad. So I suggested we FaceTime because I have dated enough to know that people can fake a personality over text. They can take their time to come up with a witty reply or look up something you’re into, get a crash course in it, and then write you back. But in person or FT, you have to be present and connect. You have to be in the moment.
#BritishBaekoff was down, so I quickly got myself situated by putting a stack of books in the frame of my laptop camera to show that I’m smart, and I sat with one of my living room windows behind me so I could be beautifully backlit like Faith Hill in her classic “Breathe” music video. Not going to lie, I was nervous, but as soon as we started FaceTiming, all fears went away. I was swooning over his neck tattoo; he was laughing as I pretended to know much of anything about the UK, and we ended up talking for two and a half hours. That’s right. We talked for the length of The Shawshank Redemption (#Callback) when it airs on TNT with limited commercial interruption. This texting/FaceTime routine continued for a few more days until I took a leap and offered to fly to Portland and see him on his next tour break. Lmao forever. Just a few weeks prior, I was all “hell to the no” about seeing him in Portland, yet there I was hunched over a trash can, trimming my pubes because I didn’t want to be hanging out with #BritishBaekoff while in a swimsuit that’s showing off my wild, down-there hair looking like it’s doing its best Bernie Sanders/Doc Brown cosplay. #IHopeMyParentsHaveStoppedReadingThisBookByNow.
Long story short, #BritishBaekoff and I had such a magical weekend in Portland that he flew to NYC to be with me until I left for Belgrade, Serbia. And by the end of the New York trip, he DTR aka defined the relationship, and we officially became boos. AWW! Right? Of course!
However, just because the story of #BritishBaekoff and me getting together is sweet, it doesn’t mean we’re straight chilling in Happily-Ever-After land. We’re in a long-distance relationship and only get to see each other every three to four weeks. We’re workaholics with thriving careers and are constantly figuring out how to do the whole work-life balance thing better. Almost every time we part ways, I’m crying as though he’s going off to war. It’s not easy to physically be apart from the person you love for huge chunks of time. And it certainly isn’t cheap to fly to see each other as much as we can. But we make it work. So, U2, if you’re reading this in your book club (lol), please know that if #BritishBaekoff and I end up going the distance, be on the lookout for that Amazon Echo, which will be sent via the groundest of mail and will take approximately three weeks longer to get to you than it took Lewis and Clark to make their way across the cunch aka country because I’m too cheap for Amazon Prime.
*Addendum to This Addendum
And it’s not #BritishBaekoff-related. Lol. Rude. ANYWAY! Remember the U2 concert. I went to in Cleveland with my sister-in-law, Liz? Great. Okay, while Bon-Bon, Liz, and I hung out, one of his assistants told him I was at the U2 after-party in NYC.
Bono stared at me for a beat. “Really?”
I couldn’t tell what kind of “really” this was, so I guessed it was a “how dis heaux end up at my after-party” kind of “really.” (Lol. He doesn’t talk or think like that.) So I assumed it was not cool that I crashed the party and nervously explained, “Oh, yeah, I’m friends with Neyla and she invited me, but I was barely there.”
Everything's Trash, But It's Okay Page 25
