Man Up! (9 page)

Perhaps we could even have a pajama party. Too soon?

D
o you believe in besties at first sight? I sure do. Why? Because I was BFFs with Oscar-winning actress Gwyneth Paltrow a full six years before I even met her. Let me explain.

She first appeared on my radar in 1996 when Brad Pitt thanked her at the Fifty-third Annual Golden Globe Awards after he won Best Supporting Actor for
12 Monkeys
, which I very much enjoyed even though I somehow missed the first eleven.

Now, I can’t remember my ATM PIN number or where I park my car at Home Depot (luckily, a kindhearted lesbian always helps me find my way), but I will never,
ever
forget the first time I laid eyes on Ms. Paltrow. I was in my parents’ living room, surrounded by my signature awards show buffet: Sour Patch Kids, Cool Ranch Doritos, and Mr. Pibb (it tastes just like Dr. Pepper at a fraction of the cost!).

When they cut to her in the audience, my heart skipped a beat. “Now
that’s
my kind of lady,” I thought to myself, licking precious Dorito dust from my fat fingers.

She looked breathtaking in a black-and-white sleeveless gown, her hair swept back in a sleek side part with a low bun. She was heavenly, yet down to Earth. A superstar, but totally approachable. The Goddess Next Door, you know what I mean?

Between you and me, I just YouTubed that particular Golden Globes moment again to relive the memory (and for fact-checking purposes) and, unlike presenter Alicia Silverstone, who resembled an extra on
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
, Gwyneth’s look was timeless and still stands up today. I mean, come on, she’s perfection!

From that moment on, I was obsessed. I eagerly gathered every tidbit of information on her I could find. Had I spent even half the time on school-related activities that I did studying Gwyneth 101, I could’ve sold more candy bars than anyone else in the school orchestra instead of that uppity bitch Maggie Lindstrom, who totally cheated because her dad bought, like, four whole boxes (karma’s a bitch, Maggie, and all the candy bars in the world won’t buy you an Oscar-winning best friend!).

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, my perfectly healthy obsession with a woman I’d never met…

Seriously, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I didn’t have a creepy shrine with a collage of cut-out pictures of Gwyneth surrounded by candles or anything. First of all, that would be plain ol’ weird. And second of all, my mom would never let me burn candles in my room. I did, however, convince my friend Becky to record the following as my outgoing voice-mail message:

“Hi, you’ve reached Ross’s phone. He’s not here right now, so leave a message after the beep. By the way, this is his best friend, Gwyneth Paltrow.”
BEEP!

I just knew that Gwyneth and I would eventually meet in real life and become the best of friends. I’m sure everyone thought I was crazy, but I was convinced that we’d be the biggest power couple since peanut butter and jelly.

Side note: I just had a PB and J last week for the first time in years, and let me tell you, there’s a reason this combination is a time-tested classic. They are simply meant to be together, just like Gwyneth and me.

Cut to March 2002. I had been on
The Tonight Show
for only a few months when I got my dream assignment: covering the red carpet at the
Vanity Fair
Oscar party. OMG. This was, like, a big freaking deal. Especially for someone as dorked out over awards shows as I’ve been my entire life.

I found myself smack-dab in the epicenter of entertainment on the night of the Academy Awards, and it was even more magical than I ever dreamed it could be. I met the biggest stars in Hollywood—everyone from A to Z, Angelina to Zellweger. And just when I thought my life couldn’t get any better, it
totally
did!

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. The oxygen was sucked out of my lungs and the ground fell out from beneath my rented tuxedo shoes as I attempted to make sense of the glowing vision before me. The rest of the world instantly became silent, nothing but a blur of flashbulbs reflecting off sequined gowns, loaned diamonds, and the golden muscles of giant Oscar statues. Of all the red carpets in all the world, she had to walk onto mine. There she was: the peanut butter to my jelly, Miss Gwyneth Paltrow.

I watched breathlessly as she made her way down the press line, kindly stopping to give quick interviews with other reporters and correspondents. The closer she got to me, the more nervous I became. It was official—after years spent dreaming of the moment we’d finally meet and our lifelong friendship would begin, it was happening.

There were so many ways this could go down, and all but one was horrible. What if she just dismissed me, passing by with a patronizing nod? What if I shut down, exactly like I had nearly a decade earlier during my big moment with Tiffani-Amber Thiessen (see chapter 7)? Or the very worst possibility: she could be a total fucking bitch.

We’ve all heard horror stories of someone’s idol toppling from their lofty pedestal, their sweet public image shattering into a thousand pieces with a single sneer or careless word. And what’s left behind our heroes as they sashay to the next photo op? A road paved with resentment and littered with the broken hearts of disappointed fans.

I was worried that I, too, might be abandoned on that lonely road. I mean, I’d built Gwyneth up so much that anything other than her total commitment to be my new best friend would translate into utter rejection in my mind. Looking back, I realize my expectations for Fantasy Gwyneth were so high that the Real Gwyneth was pretty much stepping into a no-win situation. But guess what? Despite the odds, she won. She won my heart.

What happened next is so amazing, that I don’t need to embellish it in any way. I offer it to you, dear reader, unadorned, exactly as it happened, in script form. I am doing this because I am convinced that this will one day be a scene in a movie of the week on Lifetime Television for Women (and gay men).

And please do not argue with your friends over who gets to play Gwyneth and who has to play me. I suggest you cast the roles based on body type and/or hair color.

Okay, so that last part didn‘t really happen. The crowd didn’t applaud, and Gwyneth didn’t lift me onto her shoulders (not that she couldn’t have, the woman does Pilates!). But everything else, I shit you not, is all freakin’ true! Gwyneth Paltrow seriously just agreed to be my best friend, and she did it on camera for the whole world to see! That would hold up in any court in the land!

After our legally binding friendship was agreed upon, she asked me for my e-mail address and I gave it to her, along with my cell phone number and my dorm phone number and my mom’s phone number and…What can I say? I wanted to cover my bases. I remember how badly my hands were shaking as I wrote down my contact information for Gwyneth, scribbling every bit of personal information, short of my blood type. She gently took it from me and kept it in her hand. You can actually see it in publicity photos taken that evening.

As we continued chatting, our undeniable connection was beginning to draw a crowd. Everyone seemed fascinated by our giddy, schoolgirl exchange. It was clear to all present that they were witnessing the birth of a legendary friendship. Eventually, we parted ways, and she continued down the red carpet and into the party. It was hard letting her go, but almost poetic, like releasing a beautiful dove back into its natural habitat.

When I finally got home around 2 a.m., I felt just like Cinder-fella returning from the ball.
Is this a fairy tale?
I asked myself. I had not only met but also had an amazing conversation with the very person whose face was now staring back at me from posters and magazine clippings on my dorm room wall.
Nuts.

I immediately checked my voice mail—which, by the way, still featured my friend Becky’s faux Gwyneth outgoing message—but there was no call from the real thing (yet).

Cut her some slack,
I thought to myself.
Gwyneth is probably still rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème of Tinseltown.

I had to share the amazing news with someone, but it was definitely way too late to call my mom. So I did the only thing I could think of—I awoke my roommate and best friend Ryan by screaming these three words directly into his peacefully sleeping face:
“I MET GWYNETH!!!”

By the next morning, I had recounted the story at least a hundred times to anyone who would listen and they all had the same question: “Do you think you’ll actually hear from her?”

And my answer was always a grateful, “I dunno, but honestly, she’s given me so much already, I could die a happy boy even if we never see each other again.”

But that was a total lie. It was torture. Even though logic told me that a megastar like her reaching out to someone like me was a long shot, I constantly checked my e-mails and voice mails, and I picked up the phone every few minutes just to make sure it was working. I was still on cloud nine from our magic moment the night before, but I quickly came to terms with and accepted the fact that even though we had what I thought was a real connection, I would probably never hear from her again. You know those Hollywood types—they’re “busy,” which, of course, is French for “flaky.” I had all but given up.

That next morning, I was about to head out to the dining hall to drown my sorrows in a breakfast burrito the size of a newborn baby when something told me to check my e-mail one last time. And, you guys? OMG, there was
one
unread
e-mail
.

“Please God,” I prayed, “Let this not be an ad for penis enlargement or spam from a Nigerian Prince needing help to transfer his fortune from an overseas account.”

I took a deep breath and clicked on Inbox. There it was—
the
e-mail.

Again dear reader, there is no need to gild the lily or put an artistic spin on this. Would you throw glitter on the Declaration of Independence or add a fart joke to the script for
Steel Magnolias
? No, you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t dare change even one word of Gwyneth’s first e-mail to me. I offer it to you now, in all its simple, pristine beauty:

Umm, what?!?
Are we having an earthquake?!? Am I having a stroke?!? Did I just accidentally smoke some black tar heroin?!? Pinch me, smack me, punch me in the face. This. Cannot. Be. Real.

Needless to say, I e-mailed her back faster than you can say
Shakespeare in Love
 !

For the next few days we traded revealing e-mails back and forth, each of us giving the other a crash course in our backgrounds—everything from boys to parents to careers to fashion. In other words, pretty much everything that matters between a straight girl and her new gay bestie. You’ve heard the phrase
fast friends
? This was speed of light! And it was
fantastic
!

I was so wrapped up in our newfound friendship, I almost completely forgot that my brand-new pen pal was a bona fide superstar. I felt so at ease with her, but why? Maybe it was because I felt so comfortable behind the safety of my computer screen? Maybe it was because I had always been convinced we’d be friends if we ever met? Or maybe, just maybe, it was because part of me didn’t believe the e-mails were actually from Gwyneth at all.

A little voice in my head was pestering me, whispering,
Psst! Hey, moron! This is too good to be true! Did it ever occur to you that maybe someone is playing a cruel trick?