Scrappy Little Nobody(61)
When I arrived in Seattle I saw my final leg into Vancouver was delayed. I found an empty corner of the airport—it wasn’t hard because at this point it was almost ten p.m.—and I sat still without any technology. I really cried for her then. Before, I had cried from discomfort and I had cried for my mom, but now, in an empty row of airport seating, I thought about my grandma. I’d be lying if I said we were extremely close. Both of my older cousins had spent more time with her as they grew up and I was envious of the relationship they had. But she had bathed me in her sink, and taught me to read, and she’d been a moral standard my whole life. She was a devout woman, and even though I am not, I fully expect that she is in the illustrated children’s Bible version of heaven. If she was on some plane now where she could see my soul laid bare, I wondered if she would be proud of me.
I got on my flight to Vancouver.
We landed, I got my work permit, made it through customs, and checked into my hotel. I’d been awake for thirty-two hours, but I still ordered a burger and a vodka, ’cause sometimes you can’t call it a day until something good happens.
The next day, Sunday, I filmed a scene with Shia LaBeouf and Terrence Howard. Those actors have reputations for being . . . eccentric, but both of them were sensitive, warm, and professional, which I needed more than they could have known. But in retrospect it’s kind of a disappointment.
Mr. Redford was equally lovely. In one shot at the end of the night my character is looking at an image of Redford as a young man. In between takes, he came up behind me, looked at the photo, sighed wistfully, and said, “God, I had fun.”
My stomach flipped and I hoped that if my grandmother was hanging out in my soul, she got a kick out of that.
That night I showered and got on a plane back to the Pitch Perfect set. When we touched down in Baton Rouge, it was Monday morning. I don’t actually remember if I went to my room and showered before going to set . . . I hope for the sake of my coworkers I had time. We were filming the finale performance and I was glad to have something physical to focus on. Some of the cast asked me how the Redford thing went, but it seemed most did not know anything else had happened.
Working regularly has only made it harder to get home. Even when I’m not shooting, I have so many side projects that I have to check with five different “departments” in my life to ask permission to visit.
Sometimes I fantasize about leaving LA and living on a little boat off the coast of Maine so I could see my family whenever I want. I doubt my hectic brain would let me do that. Plus I don’t think Seamless does maritime deliveries.
I used to joke about turning down certain movies that had explicit content because “my grandmother’s alive and I’d like to keep it that way.” I thought about it as we continued to film the movie. It was only a joke, of course, but the day I shouted, “THAT’S MY DICK,” I thought it was probably for the best that my grandma would never see Pitch Perfect.
fake parties i have planned with the detail of a real party
Now that I am doing my dream job, I fantasize about a social life. I know what you’re thinking: But Anna, everything you’ve said in this book makes you sound so fun to be around! You must have literally thousands of friends at your beck and call!
Sadly, even if that were true (it is—I am very well-liked, and anyone who tells you otherwise is just frightened by the power of their love for me), I barely have time to see anyone. Usually when I am at home, I’ve just come back from months out of town and I only have the energy to pick various essentials out of my oversize luggage day by day, leaving a trail of laundry, heat-styling tools, and half-empty bottles of face wash in every room. But even though my place is in a perpetual state of squalor, and I’ve got a maximum of three solid relationships in my life at any given moment, I’ve always dreamed of being a world-class hostess. I’m talking about chic-ass, highly detailed, “Suck on that, Pinterest”–style parties. These are just a few of the classy imaginary bashes I’ve thrown.
Christmas
Christmas is the ultimate party opportunity. It’s the only holiday that has whole categories of food, alcohol, and music dedicated to it. The décor can be elegant and traditional, modern and monochromatic, or whimsical and eclectic. If I could have my house decorated for Christmas year-round, I’d do it. In fact, if I could have nothing in my house BUT Christmas décor, that would be ideal. Seriously, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t even have furniture. Wait, it IS up to me? Oh crap.
So I’m really not interested in interior design beyond tiny lights and tacky snow globes. One day I might start faking a romantic madness like a rich spinster in a Victorian novel so I can live in a winter wonderland full-time. I hate Christmas itself—it’s nothing but a source of anxiety and disappointment—but, like getting naked with a hot guy, I like the idea of it.
My house is on a narrow, winding street off several other narrow, winding streets. It’s hard to find and parking is minimal. My neighbors are also so mean about parking that when I moved in, I thought they were doing a comedy bit. I playfully yelled back at them until the day I realized they legit hated me. This makes it complicated to throw my ultimate (imaginary) Christmas soiree, but I have a festive solution. I rent out a parking lot at the bottom of the hill and hire a team of drivers for the evening.
Did I mention that I spare no expense on my imaginary parties? Guests drop off their vehicles in the lot and get in one of a small fleet of town cars waiting to take them to my front door. Not only is preselected Christmas music playing in the car, but the interior is decorated to the nines. Lit garland along the windows, red velvet across the seats, tiny dishes of potpourri in the cup holders. The drivers will have a simple sprig of holly in their lapels. No Santa hats. A grown man in a Santa hat always looks like a dog in a sweater: they might put up with it, but you can tell they hate you for it.