Scrappy Little Nobody (27 page)

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
.

N
ow 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.

The outside of my house would put the Griswolds’ to shame. The very nature of light-up outdoor décor is garish, so I support going all out. I’ve even got a Santa on the roof and a bunch of those animatronic reindeer on the front lawn. Fuck the environment, it’s Christmas! To get through the door, guests have to sing their favorite Christmas carol—just the first line, I’m not a monster—and then they are presented with an assortment of holiday beverage options: wassail (a.k.a. hot cider with booze), mulled wine, or eggnog with spiced rum. Served on a silver filigree platter by an attractive waiter, natch.

The inside of my place would be
decked out
. And not just the living room. Every inch of my house would look like a Christmas-themed playland. I’ve always hated that moment at holiday parties when you catch a glimpse into some nautical-inspired guest room and remember that Christmas is a farce designed to distract us from the existential dread and monotony of our pathetic, meaningless lives and—
Goooood King Wenceslas looked out! On the Feast of Stephen!

But that won’t happen at my party! Anyone could walk into any room to “put down their coat” or “snoop through my shit” (Nice try, suckers! I buried everything embarrassing in the backyard
in preparation for this party!) without breaking the holiday spirit.

The food would be inspired by
Game of Thrones
. Did you know there are websites dedicated to creating recipes inspired by the dishes described in the books and on the show? Obviously, I’ve hired someone who runs a
GoT
food site to cater. I’m too busy sexually harassing the waiters to cook anything myself. (Don’t worry, they all find me charming, not lecherous and entitled. No, really! It’s like how every guy I know has told me a story about going to Hooters and how the waitress seemed “grateful” to finally have a customer who was “cool and fun.” Definitely not bullshit!)

There’s a game of Yankee Swap with gag gifts once everyone is drunk enough to think a Shake Weight is hilarious. Then a Will Ferrell impersonator performs a scene from
Elf
once everyone is drunk enough to think it’s actually Will Ferrell. Even though it’s my fantasy, I don’t like the idea that the real Will Ferrell would be willing to come to some jerk’s Christmas party for money.

Everyone gets sent home with a gift bag of candy, the Michael Bublé holiday album, and a very tasteful, very delicate gold necklace in a box buried at the bottom, so they won’t discover it until they get home and then they’ll think what a thoughtful, generous friend I am. Is it extravagant? Yes. But it’s my imaginary money and I’ll spend it how I please. Since everyone’s hammered, the drivers take the guests home safely and work in teams through the night to return their cars by morning. There’s
a thank-you note on the windshield, because I have thought of EVERYTHING.

Valentine’s Day

I think the “single gals,” “anti–Valentine’s Day” thing is a little played out. The romantic Valentine’s thing is a little played out, too. I also know that every dude thinks this holiday is a trap; your lady says she doesn’t want to exchange gifts or do anything special, but secretly she wants you to surprise her with something anyway. (I don’t think ladies actually trap men like this, but if you are a lady who does: cut it out, you’re proving those boring dudes right.)

Perhaps a Valentine’s Day party should be left to someone better versed in romance. I’m sort of “the cooler” when it comes to hooking up. I don’t want you to think I’m not fun, I’m just the kind of gal who will find a book of anonymous World War I letters at a house party and sneak away from my crush to read them. Half an hour later he will find me weeping. He’ll tell me to rejoin the party and I’ll reply: “But it’s all just so
sad
.”

I think about that book more often than I think about that boy.

Nevertheless, I have a potential V-Day party plan. My imaginary Valentine’s Day party is a mock restaurant at my house. I cook a little something, dim the lights, and arrange some candles. It’s not like you can get a reservation anywhere else, so just come over, have a seat at a hastily decorated folding table, and don’t complain about the food, because the chef will spit in your dessert. Couples, singles, gay, straight, cats, dogs, and
well-trained lizards are welcome. No babies. If everyone feels like finishing the evening with an orgy, all the better.

St. Patrick’s Day

I grew up in a mostly Irish community and everyone took their heritage pretty seriously. I was plain shocked when I came to LA and found people treating St. Patrick’s Day like a Kermit-colored Mardi Gras.

My St. Patrick’s Day party would take authentic Celtic inspiration—none of this neon-green tomfoolery. Guests are required to wear an Aran Island cable knit, and they will be provided a flat cap and a wooden pipe at the door. A bartender will be present, but only to continually dry the inside of a glass with a rag and supportively nod his head. The beer will be self-serve (and brown, thank you very much—green beer looks like radioactive piss) and the food will be Italian, not Irish, because I don’t hate my friends.

If I invite family I’ll have to hide anything that looks valuable. They wouldn’t steal anything, but they would certainly get drunk and start throwing around terms like “hoity-toity” and asking if I thought I was better than them.

A confession booth will be available, but I’ll find some Unitarian minister and (s)he’ll hand out absolution like it’s flavored vodka at an Iggy Azalea album release party. It won’t get you into heaven, but it’ll be over quickly. Public urination will be acceptable, dirty limericks will receive much bigger laughs than they deserve, and no one can talk about their feelings until they’re blind drunk.

The party game will be a snake piñata to commemorate Saint Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland. Yes, I know he didn’t actually do that and that the snakes are druids or pagans or whatever and it’s all some big allegory JUST HIT THE PIÑATA, ALL RIGHT?! YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTAH THAN ME?!

New Year’s Eve

New Year’s Eve is the holiday that needs an “anti” party. Girls started doing anti-Valentine’s in protest of the outlandish expectations of that day, but for my money, NYE is the worst of the high-pressure, forced-fun offenders. Plus, champagne is the devil’s work and even the expensive stuff makes me weepy and bloated.

This imaginary event is not catered, valeted, or overly planned. Come over in sweats and slippers. If you don’t have any, I can provide them, not because I bought them in preparation, but because I love sweats and slippers and I happen to own enough to outfit a small, very comfortable army. No makeup, no champagne, no “You’re leaving already?” good-bye guilt, and absolutely NO glitter. There will be Jenga, jigsaw puzzles, wine, whatever I have in my fridge (condiments and an empty Brita), maybe a stand-up special on Netflix, and hopefully some decent gossip about whoever didn’t make it. I don’t know what we’ll do at midnight, because there will be no countdown. And if you’re cool with me falling asleep mid-party, you can stay as long as you want.

Thanksgiving

I adore an “Orphans’ Thanksgiving.” I love my family, but Thanksgiving with friends feels awesome because I grew up watching TV shows about people who seemed to have no connections outside of their friend group, office, or community college.

The magic comes from the “playing house” quality that makes you feel more grown-up and more childlike simultaneously.

In my dream version the menu is as follows:

Dinner

Individual Cranberry Baked Brie Puff Pastries

Brussels Sprouts with Caramelized Onions and Crispy Bacon

Fried Mac-and-Cheese Balls with Truffle Oil

Buttery Jalapeño Cornbread

Lobster Mashed Potatoes

Garlic-and-Herb-Stuffed Mushrooms

Roasted Butternut Squash with Maple-Glazed Pecans

Prosciutto-Wrapped Asparagus Spears

Cranberry Sauce Out of the Can

Turkey, I Guess

Desserts

Pumpkin Crème Brûlée

Pumpkin Cake with Honey Cream Cheese Frosting

Pumpkin Cheesecake Bars

Pumpkin Whoopie Pies

Pumpkin Swiss Roll

Pumpkin Pie

I will defend pumpkin until the day I die. It’s delicious. It’s healthy. I don’t understand the backlash. How did pumpkin become this embarrassing thing to love but bacon is still the cool flavor to add to everything? I don’t have anything against bacon; just don’t come after pumpkin like it’s a crime to love an American staple.

Activities will include pretending to help in the kitchen, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and saying you’re so full you’re going to throw up, then waiting ten minutes and getting more pie.

Once the sun has been down for a couple hours the Christmas season is technically upon us and it’s time for the first Harry Potter marathon of the year, starting with film number three (because, obviously) and ending with film five, when the filthy casuals are allowed to go home. The hard-cores can sleep at my place and in the morning we will finish films six, seven, and seven-but-where-stuff-happens. Pumpkin pie for breakfast.