The morning after I attended my first-ever Golden Globes, I dragged my ass in to work, hungover like a billionaire playboy post–Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show after-party. I sat at Donna’s desk in the Pawnee City Hall bullpen praying for an end to the pain when Hadley, Amy’s stand-in, asked, “Good time last night?”
“Oh yeah, it was fun,” I mumbled. So tired.
“I heard you met Robert Redford.”
“What?” I asked, thinking I’d heard her wrong.
“Robert Redford. I heard you met him last night.”
“No, I didn’t. Who told you that?”
“Jim,” she said. Either she heard him wrong or Jim was clearly fabricating because I for sure had not met Robert. Redford.
After blocking for what felt like an eternity, I had to head upstairs to our cast table read. I was suffering. Had to keep it moving. Needed food. Water. A week for recovery. I slunk into the writer’s room and plopped down in my regular chair. I felt a bunch of eyeballs on me.
Everyone else was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Hadn’t we all been to the same awards show and parties? Why was I the only one doing a Nick Nolte imitation?
“How ya feelin’, Retta?” asked Jim with a smile I didn’t think was at all friendly.
“I’ll give you one guess. Not good.” And then I remembered. “You told Hadley I met Robert Redford last night?”
“You don’t remember meeting Robert Redford?” he said, almost mad at me.
“Rob…? Nah. I didn’t meet Robert Red … wait … did I meet Robert Redford last night?”
“You drunk bitch!” Jim howled. “Yes!”
A wave of pseudo-memories and legit “oh shit”-ness came flooding over me and woke me from my zombie state faster than an ice-bucket challenge. I kinda remembered meeting Robert Redford last night, but what the fuck did I say to him? Did I embarrass myself? Did I embarrass the show? Did I embarrass NBC?
I’d worked so hard to get to where I was and it had paid off. I was now rubbing elbows with Hollywood royalty! In what alternate universe did I ever think that I would not only attend the Golden Globes, but actually talk to The Sundance Kid, Gatsby … Hubbell? I’d come a long fuckin’ way from watching my favorite stars on my favorite TV shows on the small box in my living room in New Jersey. Being on Parks opened up a whole new world to me. It was an admission ticket into the inner sanctum of Hollywood and so many surreal and unexpected experiences that left me scratching my weave, asking, “Did that really just happen?”
I’m not gonna lie, one of the best perks of being on an award-winning, critical darling like Parks and Recreation is all the cool shit you get invited to. Some F-list celebs get criticized for showing up to the opening of an envelope, but I’m not gonna judge. Believe me, I get it. It’s helluh fun. They say never meet your heroes because you’ll just be disappointed. But “they” haven’t ever seen Emmy winners tipsy on the dance floor. It is a gift from the gods. A gift that for me is ALWAYS perfect.
One of the first things I got invited to after landing Parks was the Critics’ Choice Television Awards (CCTA). The whole cast was invited and we sat at a table together, which helped me not feel like an imposter/fraud. I had to force myself to keep from staring in this room full of celebs who, for all intents and purposes, were just “hangin’ out.” I was just “hangin’ out” with celebs. ME. A girl who used to read People from cover to cover. A girl who used to pore over the “Stars—They’re Just Like Us” section of Us Weekly and think there’s no way they’re just like me. I’m pretty sure Barbra Streisand doesn’t use Krazy Glue and toilet paper to mend a breaking nail—a trick I learned from my mother.
But it’s true. Stars are just like us, that is the truth. Some need a ton of time in hair and makeup to achieve perfection, and some barely need powder. Some are vegan. Some are allergic to nuts. Some are particular about the octane of gas they put in their cars and some don’t give a shit. I don’t give a shit. I’ve seen it all. We all have our quirks and idiosyncrasies, so it should be no big deal. Right? Wrong. Because when Mad Men star Jon Hamm came over and sat at my table at the CCTAs to chat up Adam Scott, I lost my mind. It was a big fucking deal to me. My God, that is one handsome man in a suit. Jon Hamm is the reason why “tall, dark, and handsome” is a thing. He’s the perfect mix of smoldering sex appeal and boyish charm. He’s not only good lookin’ but has the nerve to have a fucking sense of humor. Come! On! Gimme a fuckin’ break here. I’m just a girl on a show trying to act normal in this star-studded room and this heavenly body sits at my table? I like to think I play it cool, but I couldn’t help myself. I tried to sneak a pic of him, as if he wasn’t familiar with cell phones and what they can do. Jon Hamm was sitting at my table and my friends needed to know.
I was just as starstruck the first time I attended the Essence Black Women in Hollywood luncheon, if not more so. First of all, it was an honor just to be nominated … I mean, invited (I’ve always wanted to say that!). I mean, holy ever-loving shit, it’s like every famous black woman in one room! It was surreal. I felt like the redheaded stepchild in the corner, like, OMG, there goes Oprah, there goes Alfre Woodard, Iyanla Vanzant, Naomi Campbell, Diahann Carroll, Lorraine Toussaint, CCH Pounder, Loretta Divine! Seeing Oprah is not real. I know she’s a human being, because she takes on human form, but you can’t help but look at her as if you’re watching a film. It was fascinating. I didn’t even pretend that I might approach her. Everybody was stroking her, telling her, “You’re the best! You’re so important in my life!” My philosophy was, unless you have something new and interesting to say, just sit back and be glad they invited your simple ass. Because she hears that shit over and over again, and she’s been hearing it for a hundred years. Like when somebody comes up to me and says, “Omigod Treat Yo Self!” And in my head I know they are about to tell me how “Me and my best friend have a Treat Yo Self Day every year!!” I know it because everyone tells me the same thing. Almost every person I meet under the age of thirty has told me the same thing. So I get it. Simmer down, I’m not comparing myself to Oprah, I’m just not even gonna fake the funk and swing from her dick because it’s all Charlie Brown waan waan waan waaaan in her ear. I could tell she was over it.
So I played it extra cool with the Big O, but sometimes I play it so chill, I miss out on some epic shit. One year at Comic Con in San Diego, I was sitting on a low wall in the lounge area at Nobu, waiting for my friends to go into an Entertainment Weekly party, when I felt an elbow jab me in my back. I was about to swing around and fuck some shit up when I saw that the elbow belonged to a rather delicious ginger.
“Sorry,” I whispered, suddenly coy.
“Don’t be, I meant to do that,” this fine specimen of a man said in an indistinguishable accent.
Ooooooh, heee hee hee, somebody was tryna be flirty! Okay, I’ll play.
“Hi. I’m Michael. What’s your name?”
“I feel like I know you,” I said with a sense of déjà vu.
“Well I think I know you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Retta.”
“Say again.”
“See? You don’t know me.”
We made more chitchat. I asked where he was from.
“I’m Irish but I grew up in Germany,” he said.
“I live here but I’m from Russia,” I joked. Black Russian. Get it? The girl sitting next to him piped in uninvited.
“You are?” she said all doe-eyed.
“No.” Silence, cock-blocker!
After about another five minutes my friends signaled they were ready to head to the party. Before I left he smoothly climbed over the wall, gave me a hug and kissed me gently on the cheek. I was like, Alright, ginger-ginger.
Halfway through the lobby I had a moment of holy shit, I think I just met Michael Fassbender. I turned to my friend to tell her as much and she said nonchalantly, “You know he dates black girls.…”
Whaaaaaattttttttttttt?!
How did I not recognize Michael Fassbender?! I was in awe of his massive, enormously wonderful performance in Shame. Donna Meagle, my character on Parks, named her friggin’ car, a gold Mercedes-Benz SUV, Michael Fassbender because “they’re both German and they’re both sexy as hell.” God dammit, there were so many things I could have told him! Such a missed opportunity. I was pissed.
That wasn’t the only time I blew it with a famous hottie. Let me tell you a story about how I met Idris Elba. But before I do, let me give some context. By the time I was invited to my very first Emmy Awards, I felt like I could belong there. These are my people, this is my crowd, I thought. I am someone who walks the red carpet in a dress that was made for me by someone I never met (thank you Rani Zakhem).1 I am someone who Al Roker and Giuliana Rancic wish to converse with, as long as nobody better is within a few feet of me. I am someone who makes friends with the ladies from Orange Is the New Black and exchanges digits with Lena Dunham because we bond over the fact that we both have the same fake Chanel iPhone case. I am now asked to take selfies with Laura Carmichael, Lady Edith Crawley from Downton Abbey, because she … nay, the entire Downton cast are my peers. I’m part of this industry.
A part of the industry, but second tier for sure. And nowhere does that become more evident than in your party invites. Not just what you do and don’t get invited to, but what time. One of the biggest Emmy parties is called “The Evening Before.” The first time I was invited to this soiree was very exciting. My excitement was slightly diminished when I realized I was only invited to attend after 10:00 p.m. The party started at 8:00 p.m. but I wasn’t granted entrance until 10:00 p.m. Only A-listers like the Tom Cruises, Jerry Bruckheimers, and Amy Poehlers of the industry, all of who were on the host committee, and wealthy patrons who donate a ton of money to the event’s charity get to go early and mix with the elite of the entertainment industry. Then the riffraff like me come in on the tail end after 10:00 p.m. to pick at the remains of the DOZENS of buffet-style stations. All of them served food better than at any wedding I’ve ever attended. This party has a DJ, games, giveaways, and a particularly posh gift basket presented by Target. So as bootleg as it felt to get the 10:00 p.m. invite, it’s still the coolest pre-Emmy party I’ve ever been to.
All this and I haven’t mentioned the myriad stars who go to this thing. The host and executive-host committees are a who’s who of Hollywood so you know the guest list is bananas. The first year I went the DJ was Tom Cruise’s son, Connor. The line of people looking to meet Tom, who was at the DJ booth supporting his kid, was something out of a Six Flags theme park. You already know I think I’m too cool for school to try to jockey for position at a celebrity’s skirt hem, so I chose to avoid the madness. However, this was where I met Idris Elba; tall, dark, sexy British dreamboat Idris Elba. The Wire’s STRINGER BELL. Luther’s LUTHER. I didn’t want to meet him. When people are super-super-hot, I can’t look them in the face. It’s like looking into the sun. I get weirded out and start thinking and speaking on a third-grade level. I was perfectly content hanging out with Dexter’s Jennifer Carpenter and Parenthood’s Erika Christensen, who I met that night through my Parks pal Ben Schwartz. Many a laugh was had. You also have no idea how much fun it is to watch the famous clown amongst themselves. Martha Plimpton, from The Real O’Neals, was my favorite because she’s as brassy and bawdy as you’d expect her to be. She was sitting with friends, one of whom was Sophie Monk, and just going HAM on ’em. Straight clowning. I remember thinking she’d prolly kill it on Wild ’N Out. It was worth the price of admission (which was free for me and my 10:00 p.m. invite).
Anyway, I was just minding my own bizness, people watchin’ like a muhfuhkuh, when my friend Yvette Nicole Brown said, “I just met Idris, he’s really nice. Have you met him yet?” Uh, no, and I don’t intend to. She was like, “Come on!” and literally dragged me over to him.
“Idris, this is Retta. Retta, meet Idris.”
“Nice to meet you, love,” Idris said in that ridiculously charming British accent.
“Hummunahu agiotateerereeaerae bubjabibonbonfbi.”
Really? Instead of congratulating him on his Luther nomination, or telling him that I’d seen him on that one episode of Absolutely Fabulous, or even responding with a “Nice to meet you, too,” I could not SPEAK. I stumbled, I stammered. I think I might’ve gotten out a “Cool.” Somebody slap me. Slap me hard.
The next night was the Emmys, which meant Emmy after-parties. As I was leaving the Governors Ball I remember Amy asking if I was going to Fallon’s party. I said yeah but I had to stop by one or two other parties beforehand. I remember her saying, “No. Just go to Jimmy’s. Don’t waste your time.” It couldn’t have been better advice if it had come from Dr. Phil. Jimmy, who had hosted the awards that night, was having his party at a club on Sunset Boulevard.2 Jimmy’s party was off the muhfuhkin chizain. I got to the club with my friend Abbe and we immediately doubled up on champagne. We were early, as were Amy, Tina Fey, and Padma Lakshmi, so we were able to set up shop close to the dance floor. We met some guys who chatted us up and danced with us and were a fun time. Soon the place was PACKED and Questlove had the place J U M P I N G, and trust that I was putting in work on the dance floor. I’ve got two bad wheels but the right combination of cocktails, atmosphere, and dance hits makes me forget—for the time being—that I will regret that shit in the a.m.
I was in the moment, hardly intimidated by the celestial beings surrounding me. I don’t care what crowd I’m in—if the music’s good I’m bout it bout it. Jorma Taccone of Lonely Island fame came to my table to hang. With him were his wife, Marielle, and Michael Bolton and Pee-wee Herman. We were all at my table getting our party on. Well, Abbe and I were getting our party on. Michael and Pee-wee were taking it all in. If anyone had ever told me that one day I would be sharing the same groove space with Michael Bolton, Pee-wee Herman, and one-third of Lonely Island I’d have told ’em they should go sleep it off cuz … drunk.
At some point I ended up in the middle of the dance floor with Taye Diggs and next to Julianna Margulies, star of my fave show The Good Wife. I was double-fisting champagne and she was single-fisting her Emmy statue for Best Actress in a Drama.
“You did that shit!” I yelled to her over the music.
“Yeah, girl!” she yelled back.
I’d never met her in my life, but I had a moment with Alicia Florrick.
The next morning, Rashida, Rob, Jim, and I had an obscenely early call time on the set of Parks. I gingerly made my way to work, certain I smelled of day-old alcohol on three hours of sleep.3 I couldn’t have looked or felt worse. Once again, a bunch of eyes were on me, including the baby blues belonging to Mr. Rob Lowe.
“Heard about you and Taye Diggs,” Rob smirked.
WTF? He wasn’t even at the party! Jimmmmmm!
That was one of the most fun nights I’d had in my fourteen years in LA. I’ve attended the Emmys two more times since then, and each time is better than the last. The best part is I now get invited to the parties without having to sit through the awards show. Trust me, it’s ideal. I got to the party early with my friend Sandi McCree, who played Delonda Brice on The Wire, and we got a first-class seat at the bar. Two guys came up, ordered drinks, then started talking to Sandi. If you know Sandi, you know she can hold court with just about anyone. And she’s the type to call everyone “baby” and “sweetheart.”
“Where do I know you from?” asked the young guy, who had a British accent.
“I don’t know if you know me, I’ve only been in a couple of things,” Sandi answered. “I was on The Wire?”
“Shoot oop!” he marveled, his eyes wide and lit up like a pinball machine. “Can’t believe that’s you! I loove The Wire! It’s the only American telly I’ve watched in a bit. You’re so good!”4
Sandi was kinda feeling herself. This darling English boy (he was too young for either of us) was showering her with praise. When he walked away, Sandi, who wouldn’t recognize herself in a mirror, turned to me and said, “I recognize him, what is he from?”
“Oh, you recognize Robert Pattinson? Is that right? You RECOGNIZE him?” She’s the fucking worst. And the FUCKING best. You gotta love Sandi. She’s ride-or-die … and often clueless.
Later on, after we’d been drinking for a while, we headed out to the patio, because much of the party had moved out there. On the way out, the hallway got bottlenecked and I was pinned against the bar. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Jon Hamm swooped in.
“RETTTTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAA!” he bellowed like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. Kisses me on the cheek, kisses me on the other cheek, kisses me on the other cheek, kisses me on the cheek, kisses me on the other cheek.
a. He knows my name.
b. He thinks he knows me enough to be kissing me on the cheek.
“Heyyyyyy, Jon Hammmmmm,” I whispered.
“You having a good time?” he asked rhetorically and kept it moving.
I was legit stunned, like a zombie. Sandi came up.
“WTF is up with you and Jon Hamm?”
“It happened, right? It was real!” I was stunned.
1. Because I had just had a surreal Jon Hamm moment.
2. Because Sandi knew who the fuck he was. And I needed her to say that to me, otherwise I’d have gone through life thinking it was a waking dream. I rode that high and told that story for a full year. I even told it onstage once at a college and they put it in the school newspaper. I got a Google alert about it and immediately panicked. What if he saw it and thought I was lame for telling that story … onstage, no less? I felt a little bit crazy about it. But Jon obviously never saw it. Even better, the next year, he did the same thing. He and Amy hosted a “Loser’s Lounge” party at Soho House. They’d both been nominated several years in a row and, having not won, decided to celebrate that fact. Anyone who showed up with a statue, like Tina Fey and Ty Burrell, had to donate $1,000 to the Worldwide Orphans organization and check their award at the door. You couldn’t bring that shit into the party. P.S. The guest list was anything but losers.
I was sitting on some low-ass chair and Jon Hamm came up, screamed “RETTTAAAAAA!” and yanked me up out of the chair onto the dance floor. It was early, so the dance floor was empty and I was so stressed dancing with Jon Hamm, I almost couldn’t take it. Not just because I have raggedy-ass knees and was terrified they would buckle and leave me facedown on the dance floor, but because I’d have been facedown on the floor in front of Jon freaking Hamm! He started chatting with me and I almost said, “I’m gonna need you to back the fuck off, Jon Hamm, my heart can’t take it. Stop talking to me. Do you know who you are? Jon? Hamm?”5
But I played it cool with him and Vampire Diaries creator Julie Plec (I feel like I’ve been her nightmare ever since meeting her, I’m obsessed with that show) and most of all Shonda Rhimes, who knew me from my live-tweeting Scandal. She told me I was funny and I might have gone home and journaled about it. Might. I took the compliment graciously on the outside, but inside my head I was screaming, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME! That is the woman responsible for MerDer.” It was a legit moment for me.
The Emmys are cool but they don’t hold a candle to the Golden Globes, which I’ve been to once. It was the second time Amy and Tina hosted. The reason they are more exciting than the Emmys, for me, is because there are television AND film stars. And maybe even more important, There. Is. Alcohol. BUT, and this is a big BUT, let me tell you what happened to me on the red carpet. My publicist, Tej, announced me to the gallery. The first photographer on the line looked at me, put her camera down, and said, “I’m good.” She didn’t want to take my picture. When some of the other photogs recognized me and yelled, “Retta! Retta!” to get me to look their way, only then did that photographer aim her lens up at me.
I held my finger up at her and said, “Nuh-no, you’re GOOD.” I was so fucking pissed. Really, bitch? I HEARD you. All you had to do is hold up your camera and pretend to take my pic. And who was it gonna hurt if you DID take my pic? If you need to save the room on your memory card you could erase that shit as soon as I take a step down. Then you wonder why actors have substance-abuse problems. That kind of humiliation can drive a girl to drink. Which this girl did. Moët happened to be a Golden Globes sponsor and as soon as I finished the carpet, I saw a promo girl carrying a tray with mini-bottles of the bubbly.
“Want one?” my publicist asked.
“No. I want two!” I was hot, thirsty, and feeling vulnerable. I took ’em to the head like water. I wasn’t worried, I knew the Golden Globes served dinner. Rashida had gotten to the end of the carpet by this time, so we started talking. Then when I got inside the banquet room, I ran into Lena Dunham. I chatted with her for a bit until Jennifer Lawrence walked up.
“Do you know my friend Jen?” Lena asked.
“Why no, I do not know your friend Jen,” I said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Hi, Jen. I’m Retta.” I said it like we were peers and I tried to mean it!
As I turned to look for my table I saw Josh Charles. Josh and I had become friends on Twitter. I was live-tweeting The Good Wife, and he tweeted me to say he found me amusing. (I’ve made a handful of friends on Twitter. It’s like my nonsexual Tinder.) We were meeting for the first time and had a nice chat in person. By the time I got to the Parks table, dinner was being cleared. The hell? How’s that possible? Well, apparently, they serve dinner before the show so as not to have too much activity during the show. All that was left on the table was a basket of bread and a magnum of Moët so giant I thought it was fake. It wasn’t. I couldn’t even lift the bottle, so gentleman Jim poured me a glass of champagne. And I believe he was filling it up every time mamma got low. I don’t know. What I do know, what we all know from the very beginning of this chapter, is that I got fucking TRASHED.
Before the show, many a famous person came up to our table to talk to Rashida, who is like the female version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. RaRa knows errybody. Drew Barrymore, Ryan Phillippe, even Dame Helen Mirren all popped by our table to pay their respects. “I’d love to do your show!” Helen told us all. I believe my response was, “Shut your freaking face, Queen!” An elegant homage to her stunning portrayal of Queen Elizabeth, wouldn’t you say?
About a quarter of the way into the show, I was hammered and I had to pee. The bathroom was right next to our table, which was gross but also exciting because everyone had to pass by our table to go tinkle. This included Emma Thompson, Jared Leto, and Leonardo DiCaprio. When I got there, there was a freaking huge line. It took forever and I was legit seeing double. Finally, I’m next and suddenly I see Taylor Swift, who’s been behind me the whole damn time, walk past me to go to the stall.
“TAYLOR!”
“What? Oh, were you next?”
“Yeah, bitch, we been standing in line together for the last ten minutes!” And I sashayed past her and went to the open stall. Now, here’s the rub. I was so drunk I didn’t realize I went to the bathroom during Amy’s category, Best Actress in a Comedy/Musical and whatever else is in that category’s title. But I’m thinkin’ Taylor Swift did it on purpose (of course I’m making this up—I have no proof) cuz the year before, Amy and Tina made that crack about her staying away from Michael J. Fox’s kid, who had been a Mr. Golden Globe. But Taylor didn’t think that was funny and, in a Vanity Fair interview, she spit out Madeleine Albright’s famous quote, “There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help each other.” I found this most curious because if you really want to help a woman out, you DEFINITELY don’t cut her in line for the bathroom at the Globes. That’s gotta be in the Girl Code, no? But as I said, I’ve got no proof of any of this. I’m just sayin’. When I walked back out to the table, everybody was like, “Amy won!” I was so pissed I missed it, and there’s a very sweaty picture of me somewhere on Glamour.com that captured this very moment.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I blacked out at some point at the table. After the show, everybody was milling around and leaving, and I had gotten up, sat in Sophia Vergara’s seat and turned my chair around to face our table. I had my feet out because I’m classy like that. This older man walked by and stepped on my foot and I was like, “Owwwww!”
Turns out it was Robert Redford.
I was like, “Bruh, you just stepped on my foot!”
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“It’s all good, homie.”
Yeah, I said that, or something close to that, to Robert Redford. But here’s why Robbie Red is cool as shit—he didn’t judge my drunk ass. I’m sure he’s seen it all. As a matter of fact, he found me amusing and stopped to chat.
“You like the show, Bobby? The girls did their thang.”
“Amy and Tina were great!”
Now, who should be watching this tomfoolery go down but Idris Elba! Intrigued by how animated I was with Robert Redford, he came over to get in on the party. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Oh, just having a bit of a chat with Robert here,” I slurred. “Sometimes he steps on your foot, you know. Hollywood legends can do that.”
I wish I could tell you what else we all talked about. I cannot. I only know what my costars saw and threw in my face the next morning. There is one more gem of information from that night that I have zero memory of but was happily reminded of by my executive producer Mike Schur. Schur told the table the best part of the night was when Michael Fassbender walked right up to me and said hello. As he walked past our table I turned with a sly smile and announced to the table …
“He likes black chicks.”
You guys, I nearly died. The HELL was I doing?? The only thing I can assume happened was that he must’ve been headed to the bathroom and in my drunken haze I likely stared at him with such focus that he felt compelled to say hi. Instead of basking in the beauty and wonder that is Mr. Fassbender, I felt obliged to share the single piece of information that I knew about him.
I’m not particularly proud of my actions, but I am delighted to have such colorful if not urbane tales to share with you all.