When I was seven, I pretentiously (and endearingly) begged my parents for an agent for Hanukkah. I didn't want a Barbie. I only wanted an agent -- and not the kind that sells cars.
Yes, the Hollywood epidemic hit me early and it continued to stalk me through my formidable years. Like that ex-boyfriend clad in leather, smoking Marlboro cigs, and convincing you to ditch fifth period AP History so you can shotgun Busch Lights behind the high school dumpster. You know it's risky but your heart just can't say no.
So I couldn't resist it when I got an offer to work on the Oscars last fall. I was going to be a kid in the richest of candy stores, surrounded by everyone I wanted to work with (or for) in my near future. Producing the Oscars is the ultimate producing job. With over 40 million viewers, several hundred of the hottest A-list celebrities, and an audience waiting to rip you to shreds, it's an adrenaline rush almost parallel to Bradley Cooper popping NZT pills in Limitless (add Meryl Streep, remove the gun shots).
After five-six months of prep, we finally reached the big day:
6:00am: My hotel alarm clock blasted 102.7. Perfect timing as I was about to walk on-stage at the Dolby Theatre, wearing nothing but Costco-brand socks while dancing to "All That Jazz" alongside Catherine Zeta-Jones. Thank you, dreamland. My zombie hands knocked the clock over, praying I could freeze time like Sabrina the Teenage Witch. After working 8:00 a.m. -- 2:00 a.m. many days, I had moved into the Loews Hotel (conjoined with the Dolby) to maximize every extra second of sleep time and more importantly, to take advantage of their 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
7:30 a.m.: I walked into my office carrying a bag of spiked heels & countless unused jewelry options. I recently discovered that Nordstrom's has an incredible year round sale entitled: Their Return Policy. I quickly downed the Starbuck's red-eye coffee that my PA handed me. I buried my head into the hundreds of incoming emails while my office started resembling a pretentious flower shop due to preemptive congratulatory gifts.
9:40 a.m.: We began our final run-through 10 minutes late. Don Mischer directed from his truck outside the theatre, while I sat alongside the producers in the theatre to discuss notes. After 10 minutes, Seth beckoned me backstage to go over the script. I would add a joke that Seth loved, only if we could cut a joke that didn't stick with everyone else. I was the liaison between Seth and Bearded Teleprompter Dude, while running amid all the performers in the wings and texting the producers updates. The performers looked just as stunning up close; with airbrushed skin, designer outfits and probably existing solely off of Pressed Juicery diets. I hated Pressed Juicery. The designer I frequented the most was called Forever 21 and I just realized my Hanes t-shirt was on backwards.
12:45 a.m.: I snuck downstairs to seek professional help after we finished the run-through and was plopped into the hair and makeup chair. The previous week, I had confessed to our lovely head makeup artist that I didn't know the difference between a primer and toner, pomade and gel and I had no idea why I shouldn't buy my eyeliner from CVS. He gave me his contact at Sephora and also promised me I would be taken care of on Oscar day.
12:53 p.m.: I was summoned back to my office eight minutes later -- wearing one eye of mascara and two curled hairs -- and was assured I would have time to be beautified later. I sat down with Seth and the producers to discuss every script edit while I made sure the changes fit into the timing of our current rundown. Afterward, I went over some additional concerns with the producers regarding the sound, set and performers. Someone threw a Quest power bar at me for lunch, which I nibbled on while wondering if I could still lose five pounds by the evening.
2:25 p.m.: I returned to the hair and makeup chair, and meticulously emailed the crew notes from my trusty iPhone. The hair person asked me what look I wanted. I told her I trusted her. She told me to stop looking down and to keep my head still.
3:28 p.m.: My PA zipped up my dress that I had impulsively ordered online, but had yet to try on. Luckily, I discovered that I apparently have a generic sized body. After throwing on jewelry and heels, I frantically stepped out of my bathroom to find my boss' eyebrows raised while staring at me. "Which award are you presenting?" There are few things better than a gay man's approval.
3:31 p.m.: The show's publicist urged us to head to the red carpet so we wouldn't fall behind on our press interview schedule. As I walked onto the red carpet with the producers, blinding light bulbs were going off in every direction and press microphones were constantly thrown in my bosses' faces. I struggled to keep up amid the insanity -- trailing behind alongside the photographer -- and constantly glancing around, wondering who would end up on the US Weekly's "Worst Dressed" list that week.
3:52 p.m.: A reporter shoved a microphone in my face: "How do you keep your tiny waistline?" I replied, "With a strict diet of grilled cheese sandwiches."
4:42 p.m.: Seth was calling my cell to discuss additional changes to the script. As we were chatting, I paused for a moment. I was talking to the host of the Oscars while walking the red carpet with the producers, and I thought: It doesn't get more Hollywood than this. But then I looked down to find my heel had broken, and I knew some things would never change.
5:08 p.m.: I had 30 seconds to input some changes to the teleprompter when Mr. Nicholson walked into my office, wanting to edit his speech to the First Lady. The clock was ticking but you can't turn away Jack. In typical Jack fashion he smiled: "Why don't you read it for me?" I blushed. I banked on my Chekhovian knowledge and theatrically performed his speech, stopping every now and then for edits. Let me clarify that I don't get star-struck. But there are some stars who just have it. That unattainable, indescribable, irresistible quality. That ability to make a 20-something blush at the age 75. You can't learn it. You can't develop it. You either have it or you don't. And Jack Nicholson will never lose that star quality.
5:25 p.m.: I took my seat at the producers' table in the wings backstage, downing a water bottle and anxiously awaiting some inevitable catastrophe.
5:30 p.m.: Seth went on-stage to begin his opening number with the "We Saw Your Boobs" song. Finally someone other than my roommate would hear the song that I had been singing on repeat in my shower for months.
6:00 p.m.: At this point, the show was (mostly) out of our hands. So we sat back, relaxed, and chatted with the talent as they nervously walked through the wings. Apparently, even A-list celebrities get stage fright.
8:05 p.m.: I peeked my head into the luxuriously designed green room, filled with stars hiding from the camera's glare. This year had more stars than ever before, which left us wondering: where do we put them all? Luckily, several of them cozied up inside my office, alongside the appetizers, script notes, and my back-up deodorant. I cozied up next to presenter A, B, and C; grateful for the oversized couch to sit on, but not so grateful that God gave me the feet of an 80-year-old woman.
9:10 p.m.: The show ended and the audience slowly trickled out. And by slowly, I mean raced... to the after-parties. Some of the crew gathered on-stage -- taking photos, congratulating each other, but mostly being too exhausted to understand what was going on.
9:45 p.m.: While walking through security at the Governors Ball, I was about to yell at the person stepping on my dress. But then I turned around and it was Adele. So I let it slide.
10:15 p.m.: Wolfgang Puck (adorning his chef uniform) personally handed me a bowl of gourmet macaroni & cheese, which I graciously scarfed down while bobble-headed stars not-so-casually watched me with envy.
12:05 a.m.: Roads were blocked off, so we walked nearly a mile to get a cab to take us to Seth's after-party at The Lot in West Hollywood. It was a beautiful venue with an "old Hollywood" theme, true to his MO. Thanks to the 72-piece orchestra (and overflowing champagne), I danced the night away. Luckily it was dark enough that no one could witness how tone-deaf I truly am.
3:30 a.m.: While falling asleep at the Loews, I started thinking how hopefully the next time I'm at the Oscars I'll be carrying the little gold man himself. But at the very least, I've now learned how to correctly pronounce Christian Louboutin.
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