by Judy Greer
You know how we wanted to be John Cusack’s girlfriend because we saw what a great boyfriend he was in Say Anything? Or how we’re convinced the world is wrong and Gwyneth Paltrow would be so much fun to be friends with? How we constantly romanticize the characters and celebs and assume that who they are on screen, or in magazines, translates to real life?
Well, I am the best friend of the girl who always plays the best friend—the girl in the movies that probably tons of girls think, “I’d totally be friends with her.” I am best friends with Hollywood’s go-to best friend.
But here’s the thing, you’re fucking better than all those snarky, quippy, perfectly-made-up-to-look-not-as-pretty-as-you-really-are characters. The real, unscripted you is a thousand times more interesting than any character you’ve ever played.
The real, unscripted you doesn’t always have the perfect comeback. You don’t always have good advice (remember when you told me to wear headphones to block out my baby’s crying?). You cry fifty-five times a day. You quit too easily. You love Subway. You don’t wash your hair enough. You frequently make people uncomfortable by walking around your house naked. You feel sorry for yourself, like, all the fucking time. And your car smells like dog.
You have your shit together but, girl, you are a disaster. And I love it.
I couldn’t be friends with Red Carpet you. Because Red Carpet you is just someone else’s version of you. I’ll take the real thing any day.
Crying now. Fuck.
Love to you my best-est best friend. Don’t start getting too good at life—or we’ll have a problem.
XOXO,
Janet
(AND THEN THERE WAS THIS TOO)
On Fri, Jun 14, 2013, at 11:44 AM, Judy wrote:
Now I’m crying for a 5th time today. 3 times in spinning this am, once in Old Navy. Why do you have to be so awesome? It makes me miss you more. Next week? Let’s get together and get emotional.
Oh, and these were really cute at Old Navy. Have them both now. http://oldnavy.gap.com/browse/product.do?cid=26193&vid=1&pid=385340002 in the lightest color. http://oldnavy.gap.com/browse/product.do?cid=26193&vid=1&pid=387492012
I got a 4 and it’s a little big, but your boobs are bigger so it would probably fit you. I’m going to have mine taken in because it was so cheap and so cute.
in tears,
judy
On Fri, Jun 14, 2013, 11:52:52 AM PDT, Janet wrote:
And the last, best reason I’m friends with you …
You just said my boobs are bigger than yours.
LOLA
OK, Lola hasn’t sent one in yet, because she’s being fabulous with her fabulous husband in Mexico, so I will write hers for her. In my fantasy, it would go something like this:
Judy is everything to me. More important to me than my husband, my children, my stepchild, even my parents. In fact, the only thing I love more than Judy is … never mind. There is nothing.
OK, fine, I’m taking a lot of poetic license here, but Lola has a way of turning even the simplest activities into something special, and for that I excuse her tardiness.
I did have a moment where I wasn’t going to print these e-mails and just save them so I could always read about how much my friends love me and tell them that I played the best joke on them by making them send me these e-mails. That would have been awesome. It especially would have been funny if there wasn’t even a best friend chapter in my book and I waited until it came out to tell them about my scheming. Janet was right, I do quit too easily. I’m gonna work on that one, but I will never, and I mean never, stop walking around the house naked.
Your Compliments Are Hurting My Feelings
IT’S HARD TO BE AN ACTRESS FOR SEVERAL REASONS, but one is that it’s really hard to be constantly scrutinized for things that are not under your control. For example, the way I look. Well, I guess I could get plastic surgery, but that feels cowardly. I have been told that I have a terrible voice. That I’m not pretty enough. That I look tired. That I look unhealthy. That I seem sad (that is mainly a comment I get from people on the street, even before I was an actress). That I have gained weight. That I am too skinny. That my nose is big. I guess if you are willing to put yourself out there, you have to be willing to deal with the consequences. But telling me I am much prettier in person, and why do they make me look so ugly in movies, is not really a compliment. You could stop after “you look so pretty in person.” I don’t need to know that you think I am ugly in my movies. That doesn’t make me feel good or want to take a photo with you. I once got stopped at a Super Bowl party by a girl who was gushing about how she just “couldn’t believe” that I was attractive because they made me look so ugly at work, and she wouldn’t drop it. She wanted to know how they did it and why I let them do it. You would think these answers were obvious, but I felt compelled to say, “Uh … it’s not up to me? This is just how I look?” And, by the way, in the movies she was talking about, I actually liked the way I looked.
I also had a real hard time doing press for a film called Barry Munday. In that movie I played Ginger Farley, who didn’t care how she looked. She didn’t bother to do her hair or makeup, she didn’t bother to buy flattering clothes or put together cute outfits. When I was doing press for this movie, I was floored at how the reporters reacted to my look in the film. I didn’t really do hair and makeup. The makeup artist just put on some tinted moisturizer, a few extra freckles, and cherry ChapStick. I washed my hair and let it air dry. I wore big glasses, and that was about it. All the questions they asked me were about the process to get me looking so ugly. “How many hours were you in hair and makeup to achieve that look? Did they use prosthetics? Was it a wig?” I mean, they might as well have been asking me if the creature creators from George Lucas’s compound were flown in for our eighteen days of shooting in order to help my transformation along. I mean, really? One couldn’t look at me and tell straightaway that the look of Ginger isn’t that far off from how I actually look? And, yes, maybe I should be flattered and take it as a compliment that I look so much better in person, but I don’t want to translate a person’s well wishes. I just want that person to say a nice thing to me or not say anything at all. Remember that saying? Remember learning it in kindergarten?
I know I’m probably extra sensitive, but there are a lot of stupid things that people say. Like, was that your real voice? Did you gain weight for that role? What’s your name? I can never remember it. Are you somebody? Why don’t you ever want to look pretty in a movie? Do you just not want to be the lead? Isn’t it weird that you are the one who gets to kiss (George Clooney, Ashton Kutcher, Gerard Butler, Jake Gyllenhaal)?
It’s hard to know what to say when you come across an actor you love from movies and television shows, I know, I’ve had it happen to me. You’re not prepared for a chance meeting with someone you recognize but don’t know her name or anything she’s been in. Well, here is a handy list of possible things to say to a recognizable person:
I like your work.
You are good at what you do.
It’s nice to see you in person.
It is so cool to bump into you.
I hope you have a great day.
Keep doing what you’re doing, I like it.
You’re great. Remind me of your name again?
What can I look forward to watching you in next?
Great work.
Memorize these phrases if you’re not cool on your feet (I am not, so I would never judge you) and it will help. One time an employee at Sephora slipped me a note—I still have it. It was sweet and said encouraging words about me being an inspiration to actors. That was nice. He didn’t draw attention to me. He didn’t ask me my name or what I was in, just kept it low-key and paid me a nice compliment. For all I know he didn’t know my name or my work, but wanted to say something nice and planned on figuring it out later.
“I like that you don’t try hard” is not someth
ing you should say to a stranger. A statement makeover might sound like this: “You seem mellow and cool about your career.” Also, please don’t ask me why I wasn’t in Bridesmaids. It’s not for lack of trying, I promise. I auditioned for that movie, like loads of other actresses, but I didn’t get the part. It’s like asking why I wasn’t at the most awesome party of the year so I can tell you I wasn’t invited. I will tell you that, believe it or not, I am glad I am not in that movie because if I was, I probably wouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do and watch it as often as I do. Although the residuals … No, I’m sticking with my answer.
Now, if you know what you know me from, and are excited about it, I’ll take that enthusiasm! Yell, clap your hands, squeal with delight, I love it! Tell me you love that movie and why. Show me your boobs and say, “Say good-bye to these!” I love to hear that I’m funny, wouldn’t you? I love that you like my work. I do want to know what movie or TV show I’ve been in that was your favorite. I’ll even take a “my cousin has a crush on you,” but unless you’re getting paid to interview me, please don’t ask me why I let them make me look ugly, because maybe I didn’t.
Bad Oscar!
IN 2012, I WAS INVITED TO THE OSCARS BECAUSE THE movie I was in for thirteen minutes, The Descendants, was nominated. As it turns out, I don’t kill it at the Oscars. So many embarrassing things happened in the course of an hour I almost don’t know where to start.
Actually, I definitely know where to start: my dress. It was lent to me by the designer Monique Lhuillier, and it was pretty amazing. It was tight, black, and altered to fit my every curve, and there are a lot. It had a thick stripe of silver beads down the front. Tiny little silver beads. Those fucking beads started it all. My very first step on the red carpet, someone stepped on the hem of my dress and the beads just started unraveling. Everywhere. I’d like to take a moment to tell you what a red carpet at the Oscars is like, in case you don’t know. Imagine standing in front of bleachers on a high school football field. Now imagine the bleachers are full of people wearing black. Imagine they are all aggressively screaming your name and “Over here! Up here! In the front! To the right! To the left! Move out of the way! [Your name here]!!” as loud as they can. Now add to that image their cameras all flashing together. That’s close, but not as intense. The noise is deafening, and the flashes are blinding. Back to me … So there are now a hundred little silver beads on the carpet surrounding my dress, and Jessica Chastain is on the carpet behind me. She was nominated, so people were already screaming out her name. I was starting to get trampled due to the fact that I couldn’t move because my publicist was on all fours in front of me trying to sew my dress back together and stop any more beads from falling all over the place with the tiny sewing kit she kept in her purse for red-carpet emergencies. It was really hard to hold myself together; I couldn’t believe it was happening. I am not cool; I wanted to cry. It was my first Oscars, possibly my only Oscars, and my dress was falling apart right in front of my eyes, right in front of everyone’s eyes, and there was a woman on all fours in front of me as celebrity after celebrity walked past, looking beautiful and confident, wearing dresses that were able to stay in one piece for the twenty-foot walk from car to red carpet. My publicist told me that you couldn’t tell, but you totally could. I can tell when I look at the photos. Instead of one thick silver stripe, there are several. I stopped for photos but couldn’t do any interviews. I was afraid if I opened my mouth to speak, I would cry, because I was sobbing on the inside.
But I survived, as I knew I would, and I walked inside hoping to put it all behind me and have a great time. Commence the next terrible moment. Have you ever gone to a party alone? Have you ever worked up enough courage to go somewhere where you knew you wouldn’t know anyone but the host, only to realize upon walking into said party that you’d made a horrible mistake, and you immediately get a drink and stand alone at a cocktail table for what seems like an hour and no one talks to you or even smiles your way? In fact, you are so alone that you want to talk to the guy passing champagne or consider causing him to spill just so you will have something to occupy yourself with for a few minutes. Well, that’s phase two of my Oscar experience. I was deposited, by the publicist, at a lonely cocktail table upstairs and told to “have fun,” even though I’m still trying not to cry. Really? Have fun? I’m standing by myself at the be-all and end-all of parties. And I know no one. There were celebrities all over the red carpet, but where did they go? Where is the rest of my cast? I have been in over forty fucking movies, shouldn’t I be at least one degree from everyone here? Where is fucking anyone who looks familiar to me??!!! I grabbed two glasses of champagne hoping to make it look like someone was coming back to the table but planning to drink them both. Thank sweet Jesus and Steve Jobs for the iPhone. I started texting Janet, my best friend. I generally try not to rely on technology to get me through low-self-esteem moments, but I was desperate. She asked me what Tina Fey would do, and I said that Tina Fey would leave. (This was later confirmed by a director who works with Tina Fey a lot. I felt validated.) Janet felt that Tina would have another glass of champagne (that would have been my fourth) and try to make the best of it. I tweeted too: “At the Oscars!! Holy Shit!!!! (Still standing by myself drinking, like most parties I go to, but, hey, it’s the Oscars!)” That made me feel a little better. I was really trying to be positive, even though my dress had fallen apart and I was drinking alone. Still, I was at the Oscars wearing a dress that was falling apart and drinking alone, right? A while later I saw my friend Arianne Phillips (nominated that night for costume design for W.E.) walking toward me with her boyfriend and parents. I was so happy to see a familiar face I almost cried. And, of course, the first thing that Ari said was, “Don’t you love coming up to the seat-filler bar? It’s so amazing up here.” It suddenly made sense. I was in the wrong bar. That’s why I didn’t recognize anyone. Great. I asked Arianne where people I would know were drinking, and she told me, “Downstairs. Downstairs is the main bar. Everybody’s downstairs.” Well, glass half-full (er, more like four empty), at least I was buzzed and I got to see Ari.
Selfie at seat-filler bar
Terrible moment number three: I decided it was time to go to the bathroom to throw out my Spanx. Yes, I know that is wasteful, but I have to tell you in case you don’t wear Spanx, they fucking suck, and if you do wear them, then you totally know what I mean. However, they are a necessary evil; everyone wears them. My friend Natalya said once, at an event, “If everyone in this room right now took off their clothes, no one would be naked.” She’s right. They are so uncomfortable that I wear them for the red carpet only—it’s a little deal I made with myself—and if I ever get to carry a handbag that is larger than my fist, I will roll them in a small ball, save them, and not be so wasteful. But until that day, I toss them in the garbage after photos are taken and hope that they get rescued and worn by a woman who, like me, has some dimples on the other two cheeks she’d like to hide. Once in my stall, I started to pull my dress up from the bottom, only to realize that it wouldn’t fit over my hips. The dress had been too well tailored, and I couldn’t pull it up at all.
This was the moment I realized that for the entire evening every time I have to go to the bathroom, I have to take off my dress, completely. This is the reason I don’t like jumpsuits or one-piece bathing suits. It’s not that I have a fear of being naked. I have a fear of being naked in a bathroom at the moment we get “the big one,” and I get mortally crushed by the building falling in on me. And weeks later, when a rescue team uncovers my body, I will be naked, and the story (if there is one … there better be one) in the news will be “recognizable actress whose name we can’t place is found naked in the rubble that was once the bathroom of the Kodak Theatre.” I mean, would anyone understand that I had to take off my dress completely in order to pee? Perhaps the seamstress who tailored it for me would. But could she be trusted to spread the word after my death? Doubtful.
Beads were still falling on tile,
but I didn’t care anymore. Photos were over, my Spanx were in the garbage, and I was moments from sitting in my seat and watching the Oscars! I finally got really excited. I mean, what else could go wrong? I shall tell you, terrible moment number four: I was ushered in with my cast (I finally found them in the correct bar). And, of course, I had to walk past the front row and all the biggest and skinniest celebrities of the moment. I pass George Clooney, who is the star of the movie I was there for, Brad, Angie, Meryl—they’re all there and I’m there too and it was really starting to hit me how so supercool this is, when I saw my friend Suzan about five rows back waving at me, with a shadow of concern starting to appear in her eyes. I waved and went back to chatting up Stacy Keibler, when I saw Suzan again holding up her cell phone and pointing to it. Uh-oh. I hurry to my seat and get out my phone to read, “Your lingerie straps are hanging out of your dress.” Of course they are! You have got to be fucking kidding me forever. Can I die? Can I just have a do over? After everything else, I have this? Was I feeling sorry for myself? Yeah, probably. But come on! Beads falling off, drinking solo for a half hour, having to strip down completely to pee, and now my straps were hanging out? In front of Meryl?!
I was completely naked when I took this photo.
LESSONS LEARNED:
1. Sample dresses are potentially poorly made and need to be handled as such.
2. Have a bathroom strategy in place for the evening.
3. Load a book on my iPhone so I can at least read something interesting while I stand alone at parties from now on.
4. CUT OFF LINGERIE STRAPS FROM MY GARMENT BEFORE WEARING!
5. Don’t forget to have fun!
You may be wondering what I did with the dress, did I at least get to keep it? Nope. Months later, I got a box with a scented candle and one of those jars of oil with sticks in it. That was my thank you. I know it’s not the designer’s fault, but still, I’d like to put the woman who actually made that dress on a red carpet, surround her with celebrities, and slowly unravel the beads on her dress, while three tiers of photographers snap her picture and scream her name at the top of their lungs. I should just wear Puma from now on. I’ve run marathons in their stuff and it holds up just fine. Way to go, Puma!
