SF Girl Lives Hollywood Dream, Doesn't Vomit

Once upon a time, there was a little girl from San Francisco. This little girl was what some called "persistent," others deemed "relentless," and still others considered "ruthlessly pushy to the point of mind-blowing exasperation." Utilizing all her magical powers of persuasion and highly irritating, recurrent, "Hi! Just checking in again..." emails, this little girl got just what she wanted. A trip to the 2009 MTV Movie Awards!

Yes, ladies and gentleman, after a month of agonizing uncertainty, incessant communication efforts, and the onset of several probable ulcers, I received my press credentials to the big show. Here's the play-by-play for all those fascinated by my endeavor into the world of popcorn statues, spray tans, and ridiculously good-looking British vampires:

Saturday, 5/30

2:00 PM - It's the day before the big show, and I've managed to not yet vomit. My parents insist on giving me a ride to SFO, which I gratefully accept, even though I object that I'm a strong, capable, adult woman (meanwhile, my mommy holds my hand the entire 30 minute trip). My aunt and uncle, visiting from New York, join us for the ride, and remind me that stars are just people. Really, really beautiful, rich, powerful, lucky people who are better than you and me. Okay, that last part I filled in myself. 3:30 PM - I board my luxurious Virgin America flight and proceed to spend the next hour watching back-to-back Disney shows starring the network's most popular tweens. First up is Sonny With a Chance, which I've never heard of, but it stars the adorably precocious Demi Lovato. Next, I finally catch an episode of Wizards of Waverly Place featuring the world's cutest kewpie doll, Selena Gomez. No wonder Taylor Lautner hit that. Lastly, Miley Cyrus effed it all up with an episode of Hannah Montana. Still wildly entertaining, but leaves me with a dirty feeling. In any case, I spend an entire 60 minutes thinking of nothing but the wonderful world of Disney, and manage to de-stress from Sunday's looming chaos. Until landing at LAX.

5:30 PM - Waiting for Melissa to pick me up, I stop into Starbucks with the full intention of shelling out cash for this week's Life & Style featuring my beloved vampire, Robert Pattinson. The dilemma however, lay in the fact that his cover story was a fabricated load of ridiculousness that paid homage to the famewhore blonde who sold her pictures with him from the Cannes Film Festival. (Only crazy fans know this stuff, don't feel bad if you're having trouble keeping up). Just as I was debating the moral implications of financially supporting the very publication that was destroying R. Patz's soul, there it was! Some kind fellow Starbucks patron (or complete idiot) had left the very magazine in question next to the napkins and straws! Ethical crisis averted!

7:30 PM - Melissa is off to watch Dane Cook at the Staples Center, and I'm left to panic solo. I successfully find Long's Drugs (okay, lie. My iPhone helped me navigate the 1.5 blocks that I feared were too geographically complex for my impaired sense of direction), and then locate a Rubio's Mexican Grill. I sheepishly place my ridiculously convoluted, unlisted order ("Is there any way you can add chicken to this veggie burrito, but make the tortilla whole wheat, take off the cheese, beans, rice, sour cream, and add a side of guacamole?") and am pleased to find that LA residents don't even bat an eyelash at eccentric food orders. Reason #4,251 I like this place.

9:00 PM - I spend the rest of the night breathing deeply, painting my nails, watching Drive Me Crazy, and researching tomorrow's nominees and presenters. I list about 2 questions for each person, just in case. And 12 for Rob. Just in case.

Sunday, 5/31

8:00 AM - I awake after a not-as-restless-as-expected night of Movie Awards dreams. Most of my unconscious visions include hard-hitting interview questions and pleasantly sweet celebrities. The valerian root I downed the night before really must have soothed me.

9:30 AM - I walk in my pajamas to Alberton's and buy a ridiculous amount of provisions in anticipation of a nonstop day. I'm still finding Cliff Bars tucked away in my luggage.

11:00 AM - I have 90 minutes to go from pajama-clad, glasses-sporting SF homebody to an LA glamazon draped in Michael Kors and armed with super savvy journalistic queries. Or, you know, a chick who looks like she can at least apply eyeliner. I wind up somewhere in the middle.

12:30 PM - We have to hit the road, but my hands are shaking so bad, I insist on downing one shot of vodka. Ever calm and patient, Melissa offers up her Absolut Peach. Instantly more composed, I grab my bag, and we're on our way. I only have to turn around once to retrieve a forgotten item (Ray Bans).

1:15 PM - We arrive at Universal Studios, and the scene could not be more surreal. Forget the fact that lil' ol' me is attending the awards show of my dreams, but I now have to deal with parking in the Jurassic Park lot, and facing life-size cardboard cut-outs of cartoon icons. That was just one shot of vodka, right?

1:45 PM - After checking in at the press table, we're escorted to the amphitheater and herded down the red carpet. THE red carpet. The one and only red carpet I've ever seen in my life. It's illuminated by blinding lights, lined with TV cameras, and littered with random MTV personalities that look remarkably life-like in person. Jessi and Dan from The Hills After Show?! I know you guys!

2:15 PM - We're instructed kindly but firmly to NOT MOVE from the Gibson Amphitheater lobby where all press is segregated into sections, according to their importance. We're dead last. I eye the locked-up liquor storage next to the concession stand. I instead opt for a Cliff Mojo Bar. Not the same effect, but the last nutrition I'll get for 6 or so hours.

3:15 PM - Christian Siriano (Project Runway season 4 winner) is the only celebrity I've seen thus far and I'm getting antsy. America's Next Top Model, cycle 7 winner, Caridee, enters the press area. Melissa is not impressed. Ben Lyons from E! joins the crowd. Melissa is super impressed.

3:30 PM - Finally, we're escorted out to the red carpet. To be fair, we're not dead-dead last. We're only circa-dead last. We're between About.com and Twilighters.org. I wish I were kidding. About 28 people trail us, and about 2,700 precede us. It could've been worse?

3:45 PM - A publicist approaches! He eyes my credential and informs me that I can have the opportunity to interview Kenny Ortega. Er...maybe my research wasn't extensive enough? He tells me Mr. Ortega directed High School Musical (1, 2, AND 3) and will direct Chase Crawford in the remake of Footloose. This man has touched Chase AND Zac "Zaquisha" Efron"? Sign me up!

4:00 PM - Justin Bobby from The Hills lingers near our end of the press line and proceeds to creep me out. Melissa attempts to take a picture of my horrified expression in the foreground and J.B.'s scruffy face behind me, but the photo doesn't turn out as planned: "Michelle, don't EVER make that face again. My god, I'm deleting this right now, seriously."

4:15 PM - In an effort to condense this post, I'll just say that the next hour and a half is spent gawking at stars and growing slowly accustomed to the complete absurdity of the situation. Despite the pre-show jitters, my hands stay relatively steady, and not once do I feel a panic attack threaten to incapacitate me. Whether this is comforting or infuriating, celebrities look exactly like you expect them to. Paris is skinny and a hazy shade of orange-bronze. Will Ferrell sort of looks like he'd eat a Subway sandwich and play basketball with my dad. Mario Lopez could save a burning village with the sheer power of his dimples. Nothing you wouldn't anticipate by flipping through an US Weekly once or twice (or 8,000 times if you're me). If you have any interest in seeing who actually stopped to chat, check out the interviews at 7x7.com: http://www.7x7.com/blogs/clamour/hitting-mtv-movie-awards-red-carpet I somehow managed to talk to Ashley Greene and Kellan Lutz from Twilight (Alice and Emmett Cullen), which may not mean much to the average adult, but because I have a 12-year-old teenybopper trapped inside my soul, it was pretty exciting.





5:45 PM - Just as the red carpet is closing, Taylor Lautner (a.k.a. Jacob from Twilight, a.k.a. the only 17-year-old on the planet I feel okay ogling because he's totally asking for it) saunters by. Right behind him is Bella Swan herself, Ms. Kristen Stewart, in all her angsty, twitchy glory. K.Stew speeds by us in a blur of pale skin and scrawny limbs, but all I can focus on is the gaping hole behind her. WHERE IS HE??? R. Patz is set to present the New Moon trailer with Kristen and Taylor, yet his amazingly wonderful, awkward presence is conspicuously absent from the carpet. Hope of a marriage proposal is dwindling, but not dead.



6:00 PM - The carpet closes and the big show starts inside. I bid adieu to Melissa, and apologize profusely again for only scoring one ticket. No worries: 15 minutes later, she texts me to say she's successfully made it into the show. Of course. Why did I ever doubt her? I stumble in the dark for my seat in section 15, row G. It turns out to be not ideal (in R. Patz's lap), but not terrible. I'm in the second section from the stage, and my seat is next to ANTM winner, Caridee. I introduce myself and she asks for my card to give to her publicist. Nice.

6:15 PM - The show is underway, and Andy Samberg is my hero. The first commercial break starts, and I fidget in my seat, text my sister, adjust my dress, and finally, look up just in time to see Robert Pattinson strutting the walkway in front of my section, performing his trademark hand-through-hair maneuver. Would it be too dramatic to say that time stands still? Well screw you, it's my blog. Time stands still! He walks to his seat, in the section directly in front of mine, and disappears into the mass of A-listers. My jaw remains on the floor until the next commercial break (the picture is not mine, unfortunately).

7:00 PM - The rest of the show goes smoothly, including the obviously rehearsed Eminem/Bruno stunt that everyone is up in arms about for days. Audrina walks by, and ignores an "Audrina, I love your dress!" holler from someone in my row. Paris and her upstanding boyfriend (you know, that douchebag from The Hills), Doug Reinhardt, walk by. She skips in her high heels and makes O-face at no one in particular. Kristen Stewart drops her popcorn statue onstage and then has to wait in front of my section to be seated while Kings of Leon perform. She makes standing look like a horrendously nervewracking experience. R. Patz gets up and changes seats according to which award he's about to win. You mean this show is staged?!

8:00 PM - The show wraps up and I meet Melissa in front of the bathroom. After chatting up Chet from the Real World: Brooklyn (he immediately falls in love with my crafty friend, and I swear I foresee him renouncing Mormonism), Melissa quickly scores after-party tickets from a kindly gentleman. We immediately descend on the open bar and quickly move on to the decadent buffet ($90 macaroni and cheese, made with truffle oil? Yeah, seriously). I nervously chew on popcorn and down my drink, scanning the crowd for any signs of hot vampires.


9:30 PM - We find some friends and they inform me that the real celebs won't be attending. My heart breaks, but I don't give up hope. However, when Justin Bobby is still the biggest celebrity I've seen at 10 PM, I then give up hope. My toes no longer bend, thanks to 9 hours in heels.

10:30 PM - Melissa and I drive to the Roosevelt Hotel, where there is supposedly another after-party and a promise of movie-star make-outs (see how I've downgraded my dreams from marriage to one-time fling? It's best to be realistic in these situations). After 20 minutes in the warm car, and no call-backs from our party friends, we decide to head back to Santa Monica and call it a day/night. By 11:30 PM, I collapse into a ball of wounded toes, schoolgirl glee, and second-hand star fumes.

And that, my friends, is the story. Next time, expect less nerves, more scandal.

I Am Woman...

Can I just say what a promising, inspirational time it is to be a woman! Gone are the days of oppressive societal roles, cultural expectations, and crude critiques based solely on physical appearance and compliance with damaging constructions of feminine norms! No longer do women exist only to be perceived as objects to be gazed upon, stifled, and forced into rigid, unfulfilling molds! Oh no, wait a minute. That totally still happens.

I've avoided doing a "screw you, Media, for prioritizing the size of a woman's jeans over her accomplishments" post because, well, it's been done. To death. What hasn't been said about our society's gross fascination with thinness, hotness, youth, and femininity? But recent twitterings in the blog world have forced me to break my own ban and vent some much-pent-up frustrations about the way our little world works.

Exhibit A: Michelle Obama. Harvard Law graduate? Check. Pioneering community service program advocate? Check. Fearless defender of policies supporting families? Check. America's first ever African American First Lady? Check. But really, let's get down to what's important: her body and clothes!


Almost everything I've read about Michelle in the days following Barack's inauguration have focused primarily on her wardrobe and her biceps. Both, in my opinion, are stellar, but are we serious? I understand the long-standing tradition of First Ladies serving as fashion plates, a la Jackie O., but this is beyond ridiculous. The LA Times website asserts, "Some found Michelle Obama's dress breathtaking and sexy. Others said it looked like a chenille bedspread or like it was made of toilet paper." Breaking news, indeed.

But it goes so far beyond the typical "Hot or Not" shallowness we're all used to. Not only is it appropriate for the public to exclusively judge her based on appearance, but it's also perfectly okay to find fault with all possible facets of it. The Black Artists Association is attacking Michelle because she chose inauguration looks by Cuban and Taiwanese designers, but not an African American one. The nerve! Not only did her outfit strike some as a toilet paper art project, but it didn't equally represent every race, nation, and culture on God's green earth! What kind of First Lady are we dealing with here? Then of course there was the uproar that followed when the alleged toilet paper gown's designer, Jason Wu, revealed he'll be doing "a significant fur collection." Aha! Guilty animal murder by association! So now the media has reduced our Harvard Law whiz kid/community leader/family activist to a mink-killing, racist, toilet paper wearer. Awesome.

And don't get me started on the buzz surrounding her exposed and impressively toned arms.



Oh, but it gets better. I haven't even scratched the surface of how high a value our society places on the female sex. Well, except for when they're fat. And by fat, I mean approaching the average height and weight criteria for optimal health. Just yesterday, Jessica Simpson made it on to every blog, entertainment show, news site, and radio program because, (insert gasp - it's quite shocking) she dared to don a body skimming outfit on stage, even though she had no visible bones protruding! Who does she think she is!? The media was up in arms over the fact that Jessica seems to have "let herself go" and no longer resembles the walking masturbatory fantasy she was in Dukes of Hazzard. Of course, Jess has since admitted that getting that body required 2-hour daily workouts and an aversion to all things carby, but hey - what's a little compulsive exercise and malnutrition when you can achieve a headline-worthy ass? She may not be the most talented singer (yes, she sings), but she's built a considerable career and done some admirable charity work - all totally worthless, now that she can't wear size 00 daisy dukes - what a loser!



Joining Jess on the Hollywood fat train are Jennifer Lopez and supermodel Karolina Kurkova. You know, J.Lo - ridiculously beautiful artist, recent mother of twins, and Karolina - insanely hot underwear model who claims to have a thyroid disorder (and who's listed on dnamodels.com as being 5'11" with a 25" waist). Perez "Going Straight to Hell" Hilton wrote, "No one wants to see the rolls, mami!" after Lopez wore a super revealing dress to the Golden Globes and had the audacity to bend in such a fashion as to create a crease in her skin. If all new moms (of TWINS!!) looked as hideously fat as J.Lo, I think the rates of postpartum depression would decrease exponentially.



Karolina was torn apart in the Brazilian media for her "cellulite and love handles" after Fashion Week in Sao Paulo last year. Well, with a little more heartless prodding and condemnation, she could get down to an enviable 88 pounds like Brazilian model Ana Carolina Reston - oh, but wait - she died from complications due to Anorexia.

Thank goodness for that women's lib movement!

I'm a Slave 4 U

Guilty. Pleasure. Two words that have become so ingrained in my vocabulary, so instrumental to my daily life, that I'm often tempted to hyphenate them and pass the new word off as my middle name (as if my name needed any extra syllables). Nothing is as comforting, relaxing, tranquilizing as a walk down mindless entertainment lane. And last night really drove home how much I'd like to build a house, raise a family, and retire on said lane.


After refusing to drink the American Idol Kool-Aid for the post-Kelly Clarkson years, I sheepishly found my way back to Simon's magnificent V-neck t-shirts last season. And now that season 8 (?!) has officially kicked off with a string of tragic auditions, I'm fully invested. As is my Tivo. Fortunately, I opted for the non-bottom-of-the-barrel/non-actually-impressive recorder that can handle two shows at once, because 90210 was also on at 8 PM. Laugh all you want, but when a childhood obsession is reincarnated as an overacted CW mess, you watch it. My trusty Tivo was chugging along, dutifully recording both embarrassing trainwrecks, when I received a text from my forever-loyal BFF: "Nick Cannon just said Leo was coming up on the Inauguration Ball thing on Channel 7." A snag in the plan! An unexpected DiCaprio cameo?! No! Reliable as he is (and yes, he is a he), Tivo can't handle switching channels when he's busy recording two things at once. Beads of sweat began to form, and every muscle tensed, engaged in full fight or flight mode. What the hell could I do?

The story itself is pretty anti-climatic: I waited for a Leo appearance on snowy, non-cable basic TV while Tivo did his jobs (which Erin reacted to with an "Eww. You're like a poor person" text). But it really solidified the fact that guilty pleasures rank high on my Important Things in Life list (somewhere between family and well-Windexed glass surfaces). But I'm not the only one. For years, I faithfully, yet shamefully, clung to my guilty pleasure, while I assumed the rest of the world engaged only in significant and thought-provoking pastimes. Thank god recent events have proven how shallow and easily amused the rest of the population is. Just like me!

What is it about a guilty pleasure that is so long-lasting, so relentless? It's been almost 13 years since Romeo & Juliet came out, and I still can't quit Leo. A very close, very dear kindred spirit of mine hasn't, after all these years, been able to snuff out her Days of our Lives obsession. Does she appreciate the witty dialogue and the cast's true mastery of the acting craft? Um, are you kidding? She's the first one to ridicule the grandma/granddaughter/doctor love triangle, the pregnant-teen baby commissioning, the evil memory-erasing and subsequent disk storage of erased memories. But her awareness of D.O.O.L.'s (it's not really a guilty pleasure until you have an acronym for it) insanity does nothing to quell her addiction. If anything, each delightfully improbable storyline only fans the addictive flames. This is a woman who by day, assumes the role of a smart, successful, hot young professional. But by night, is consumed by thoughts of Stefano and Patch (I couldn't make those names up if I tried).

And she's not alone. My mom - my ridiculously beautiful, wise, talented mom - can't fully unwind until she catches up on her Russian soaps, which are so over-the-top and animated, even I can understand them - which means they must be really rudimentary. I know plenty of respectable adults that can't live without their US Weekly fix. And the perfect icebreaker for practically every awkward meeting is, "Hey, do you watch The Hills?" So, the moral of the story (or what I choose to designate as the moral because this is my blog, and you'll like it) is that everyone has a lame, lowbrow fixation that brings them unparalleled joy, and we should all learn to accept one another's unique guilty pleasures. And if I want to Windex my apartment while dancing to Britney on repeat, then you should probably learn to respect that too. Thank you.