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.
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!