Scrappy Little Nobody(57)

I didn’t want to be stabbed in my still-throbbing nose, but at that point anything seemed like a better alternative to more freezing spray.

I was wrong.

You know when a doctor says “This is going to hurt” and they do whatever they have to do and you think, This is un-f*cking-believable I can’t stand it f*ck f*ck f*ck, but you just sit there grimacing in silence? This was the only time I have shouted in front of a doctor. It was totally involuntary, and once it was over I was surprised to find tears had already reached my neck.

In terms of medical ailments, I count myself extremely lucky to have had something immediately treatable that had no long-term repercussions. But once he hooked me up to a drip of painkillers and the world came into logical (but loopy) focus, between the fact that I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth, I wasn’t wearing underwear, and pus was still draining from a cyst in my face, I abandoned any hope of making it to Santa Monica in time for an award show ninety minutes later.

Alex came into the room. I whimpered a little, both exhausted and stoned.

“Don’t smile, you still look weird. Okay, see, when you’re not smiling you look okay. I mean, you look like you’re hungover, and you’re very oily, but you don’t look like you’ve been crying in a hospital bed.” He threw my hoodie at me. “Let’s go.”

At least, that’s what I think he said. I could be wrong because I was high as f*ck. We got through the discharge paperwork as quickly as possible, and even though the sight of the bill made me want to flee the state and start a new life with the mole people, we raced home. In the car, my head bobbled back and forth, and I tried to say that we’d never make it.

Alex recoiled. “Your face looks weird when you talk, too, so don’t do that either.”

At home I brushed my teeth, put on underwear (I hope), and pulled on my dress. I put all the makeup I could find in a plastic bag and got back in his car. My eyes were still puffy, but I slapped on enough makeup to cover the dark circles. I hung my head out the window like a dog for the rest of the ride, trying to dry my sweaty hair and sober up.

I checked my face in the mirror again. “What do I do if people ask why I won’t smile for a photo? Should I try to explain the nose thing? Should I say I had dental surgery? I’ll say I had dental surgery.”

“Anna, listen to me, because this is important: there is no version where you should say anything to anyone.”

The next thing I remember is being pushed onto the carpet and hearing photographers shout, “Smile! Over here! Smile! What’s her name? Smile! Sweetie, how do you spell your name? Smile!” I was passed off to Jeff Blitz, the director of Rocket Science, who got me to my seat and force-fed me bread and water.

For a moment I considered what to do if I won. Would it be bad to mention it? Would it be worse to not mention it? Should I just hide my mouth by pressing myself too close to the microphone? Should I say I’m high? I’ll say I’m high. Yeah, that’ll be the best thing.

Cate Blanchett won. Of all the amazing contributions that woman has made to the world, beating me that day is the thing I’m most grateful for.

Jeff leaned in to me and quietly joked, “I demand a recount!”

I slowly turned to face him.

“I’m tripping balls.”

I stared at him for about twenty solid seconds, then turned back to the stage.

Here’s a picture of my stoned face, so you don’t have to Google it later.

Forty-five minutes after leaving my hospital bed and looking fly.





Sometimes, the Shoe Flies Too Far


The year Into the Woods came out, I was asked to perform at the Oscars. I got a call from Neil Patrick Harris and producers Craig Zadan and Neil Meron. Actually, I got an email from my publicist saying Neil and the producers wanted to set up a call; we arranged a time over a series of emails and eventually called in using a conference service. It was so unexpected!

I’m sure most people know this, but for those of you who missed the broadcast because of a family emergency or a Chilean coal mine–type situation, I was asked to be part of the opening number, in which Neil professes his love for movies while a series of famous film clips play behind him. The final clip would be Cinderella running down the steps of the palace, and I was to appear onstage, as if I’d burst out of the screen. Neil and I would sing for a while and be “rudely” interrupted by a curmudgeon in the form of the hilarious Jack Black.

I was over the moon about all this. They asked me if I would have a problem performing as Cinderella, and not as myself. If they’d asked me to perform a one-woman Puppetry of the Penis, I would have figured it out. I was beyond excited. An announcement was made, I started learning my music, I dusted off my Spanx. Then I got the following email from one Mr. Ben Affleck:

They want me to present at the Oscars, but we have this insane 3:30 a.m. call. So I couldn’t make it back. I read you are performing? How are you making it work?

Ben and I were in the middle of shooting The Accountant in Atlanta, and this email sent a hot spike down my back.

I frantically called my agent.

“Hey, so I just got an email from Ben and he’s saying that they won’t let him out of this crazy call time the day after the Oscars and it’s a scene that we’re both in and I assumed that I didn’t have a work conflict and I’m freaking out!”