Why Not Me? (17 page)

BAD SPORT

I
AM A TERRIBLE
sport. By age eight, I had been banned from playing board games by my mother because of how competitive and intense I got. Relaxed after-dinner games of Monopoly deteriorated into tear-soaked affairs with accusations of cheating, favoritism, and veiled death threats. Extended family had to be apologized to; desserts were revoked.

I’ve chilled out a little as I’ve gotten older, but my “bad sport” streak still rears its head sometimes. Once, while living in New York City in the early 2000s, I was asked to leave a sports bar because the Yankees were playing my hometown Red Sox on TV and I lost my cool at a guy who was loudly dissing them. I yelled, “Derek Jeter is baseball’s Hitler!” This was in
New York City
. In a room full of
Jewish sports fans
. I don’t even really like baseball that much! I have problems.

In 2014, the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences asked me to announce the annual Emmy nominations. I was excited about it for one reason, and one reason alone: I thought, This might help me get nominated for an Emmy!

I should say here that although I love praise that is broadcast live to millions of people, receiving an Emmy nomination is not simply about the recognition. Any nomination, in any category, would help
The Mindy Project
enormously because, in a world where you are not getting huge ratings, every little bit of prestige helps to convince a network to keep you on the air. But also, I love praise broadcast to millions of people. And the helping-the-show thing.

The Emmy announcements take place at 5:30 a.m., Pacific Standard Time, because when we are finding out the top six contenders for best miniseries, movie, or dramatic special, it’s important that the whole nation watch as one. I woke up at two a.m. and drove to the Academy building in North Hollywood. Contrary to what you might think, North Hollywood is not in Hollywood, or even that close to it. It’s in the Valley. Actually, North Hollywood is to Hollywood as Newark is to New York; it really sounds like the other thing but it’s way, way different, to the point where you’re like, “Hey, man, are you trying to trick me? Because this place is
definitely
not like that other place.” North Hollywood is actually kind of nice during the day, but it is not a place you want to be at 2:30 a.m. in stiletto heels. Once I got inside the Academy building, I sat in the green room getting my hair and makeup done during the time that, on any normal night, I would be dreaming about Idris Elba’s and my honeymoon. (It’s in the Seychelles, we fight on the first night, make up the next morning, and never fight again for the rest of our lives.)

Carson Daly was presenting with me, and he arrived at 3:30 a.m. and popped his head in to say hello. I know Carson a little, and I like him a lot. I always marvel at his schedule. He hosts
The Voice
, which shoots in Los Angeles, then cohosts the
Today
show, which shoots in New York City, and that’s in addition to hosting
Last Call with Carson Daly
, which shoots in L.A. again. He seems to have this impossible schedule and
still
manages to be a funny and down-to-earth guy. Which means he is either a rare and wonderful person or he is twins who live on opposite coasts and have committed their lives to this low-stakes and marvelous hoax. I like either explanation.

We rehearsed on set at four a.m. Afterward, the president of the Academy, Bruce Rosenbaum, came by. He was very sweet, and greeted me, saying, “Hi, Mindy. Thanks for being here.” I thanked him for inviting me. That’s when it happened. Bruce looked away for a second, and his tone shifted ever so slightly. “You know, you’re in
such
a tough category,” he said kindly, patting my arm, then walked away to concern himself with other matters.

That’s when I knew I wasn’t going to get nominated. If I hadn’t been paying close attention, I wouldn’t have noticed it, but there it was, no mistake about it. Bruce was trying to tell me so I could prepare my reaction when I had to announce the news on live TV. The disappointment hit me fast, and it hit me hard. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how much I actually wanted it.

Did I think I deserved a nomination? I don’t know, yeah! Maybe it sounds egotistical, but if you’re a person who creates your own show and stars in it, shouldn’t you believe you deserve recognition for it? If you don’t, then why not? Worse yet, who will?

Then an even worse feeling quickly eclipsed my disappointment. I realized: Oh, no. Now I have to stand here on a stage in goddamn North Hollywood and announce these other people while everyone sees me not get nominated. I gave up Idris Elba honeymoon dream sex for this bullshit?

That’s when that old familiar feeling began to surge inside my veins. Bad sport. Hurt ego. Not wanting to stay and watch while my family kept playing Monopoly after I had gone bankrupt because I kept landing on “jail” and couldn’t buy my way out because I bought too many goddamn railroads and Dad wouldn’t lend me money because it was against the rules!

ARGGHH!!! SCREW EVERYONE. I WANNA WIN!!!

Photos taken of me just before the announcement

I battled two instincts:

1) To bail on the whole event so I didn’t have to read the names of a bunch of Poindexters whose shows I don’t care about, which would cause a massive PR disaster, and I would be considered a “Charlie Sheen” type problematic personality from now on, or,

2) To stay and be gracious so people would continue to think I’m professional and classy.

Instinct number 2 won out. But not by much. If Carson only knew how close he was to having to read all those names by himself. Although, I bet his secret twin would’ve shown up and helped him. Ugh. They probably would have done it effortlessly and been the heroes of the whole morning.

We read the names live at 5:30 a.m. and I was very nervous. It was a strange kind of nervousness. Now that I knew I wasn’t going to be nominated, I was nervous because everyone would be watching me, and I desperately needed to react in a calm and confident way when they
didn’t
call my name. There are enough people out there who would
love
to see my face falter at that moment, make a GIF about it, give it a mean caption, and send it out to all their friends.

So I wasn’t going to give it to them.

Before Carson read my category, “Lead Actress in a Comedy Series,” I unfocused my eyes on the teleprompter, and I pictured myself in 2002, in Brooklyn, wishing I knew a way to break into Hollywood and thinking, with no hope at all,
There is no way out of this situation.
I was so innocent and naïve—I probably still thought North Hollywood was close to Hollywood. As Carson started reading names, I tuned him out and thought about how the only reason I was even asked to present that morning was because I was the star of a show that was considered relevant and attention-getting, and how that anxious twenty-two-year-old in Brooklyn would have slept so much better knowing I would be standing here one day. It had an oddly calming effect, and by the time Carson was reading the last nominee—Melissa McCarthy—I stood next to him, looking positively serene on camera. The greatest crime is that I wasn’t nominated for
that
acting performance.

Carson and I finished the announcements; I stuck around for a few pictures and then bolted. The instant it was over I took off my heels, slipped sweatpants on under my dress, put on my glasses, and drove to the McDonald’s on Sunset and Crescent Heights, where I ordered two Egg McMuffins, hash browns, and a large orange juice, and ate them all in the parking lot. With a little time to distance myself from it, I was surprised by how genuinely happy I was for the friends whom I had been able to announce nominations for, like Lizzy Caplan and Stephen Colbert. I was also proud of myself, a notorious bad sport, for being a gracious grown-up, something I have never been.

Of course, people still wrote articles. But because there was no story, they wrote these sad little pieces about how there was no story. One website published a piece called “Watch Mindy Kaling Keep It Together as She Announces Her Own Emmy Snub.” I loved that one because it’s basically “Watch Nothing Happen but I Have to Write Something Mean and Today Is a Slow News Day.” After breakfast, I drove to work, where I have the best job in the world, lips greasy from my hard-earned McMuffin(s). I’m lovin’ it (them).

Throwing a tantrum feels good because you think you are ruining everyone’s good time when you feel your very worst. But the truth is, you’re not ruining their good time, you’re just giving them another good story. I would like to think this experience helped me to kick off a lifetime of grace and the ability to express happiness for people who are doing well when I am not. But I doubt I will always have a camera pointed at me, live, with millions of people watching to keep me honest. So we shall see.

SOUP SNAKES