And thus begins the latest edition of Goop:
So nearly two weeks ago, getting everyone settled in back to school mode, I woke up to a huge surprise: I had won a Creative Arts Emmy for my guest role on Glee! This was especially meaningful, as my father (who made great TV shows back in the day—”The White Shadow”, “St. Elsewhere”) had been nominated and lost the Emmys nine times. So I’m pretty chuffed about the whole thing. And my dad would have been over the moon. Anyway, I was asked to present at the big Emmy telecast so I hopped on a plane! And may I please thank Ryan Murphy for thinking up Holly Holliday and deciding to call me up about her. Wow. And thanks to the whole Glee family who are among some of the best people I’ve ever had the good fortune to work with.
Oh brother. I am sure that it’s very exciting to win an Emmy Award! Why not? But also Gwyneth Paltrow has been a movie star for 15 years and comes from a showbiz family. At a certain point, it’s just a thing that is part of your life. So what is this “aw shucks” business? I’m also not entirely clear how a Creative Arts Emmy (whatever that means) for a guest appearance on a TV show somehow vindicates your father’s ENTIRE LIFE AND BODY OF WORK? But that is between you and his ghost. (See also: CHUFFED.) Anyway, perhaps it would have been enough for Gwyneth to “humblebragly” gush about the wonderful surprise (right in the midst of being a mother of children, if you can even believe it. I don’t know how she does it just kidding yes I do millions of dollars and a job that is not a real job) but she decided instead that what people REALLY needed now was a minute-by-minute breakdown of the whole Emmys weekend. Siiiiick. Get ready. You ready? Here we go:
My journey to the Emmys starts Saturday morning in Paris where I stayed at the new and very gorgeous hotel Shangri-La Hotel, after a friend’s birthday dinner. Here’s the view from my room.
[Ed. note: good beginning. Very Emmys. I think we’re supposed to think that it’s incredible (or SOMETHING?!) that she was in Paris the day before the Emmys. (The part about how she goes all the way to Paris just for a friend’s birthday dinner, and spends the night in a hotel room that costs as much as your house, well, that’s just NORMAL STUFF.) This part of the diary is presumably for all the working moms out there struggling to keep it together. She’s almost TOO like you!]
Eurostar back to London
[Ed. note: Got it.]
Have a play at home with the kids before getting everyone ready to go to the airport.
[Ed. note: Did you think Gwyneth rushed home from an evening jaunt in Paris and then just RUSHED her way to the airport to head to Los Angeles for the 2011 Emmys? No way, guys. Come on. First she stopped off at her London Castle and PLAYED WITH HER CHILDREN. The Best Mom Ever mousepad is in the mail!]
[Ed. note: Powerful stuff.]
British Airways Flight #269 London Heathrow to LAX
[Ed. note: You know how frustrating and boring and exhausting and annoying airports are? They’re not actually like that for celebrities. Which is fine. That is literally the least of the problems with celebrities. But that is why when celebrities talk about traveling they just say stuff like “Airport” and leave out the rest of it. Don’t be gauche. Kudos to Gwyneth for including the fucking flight number, though. I wonder which publisher will be lucky enough to snatch up the book rights to this masterpiece.]
Arrive at LAX and head straight for my hotel. Lately, when I’m in Los Angeles for work, I’ve been staying at the beautiful and very centrally located Montage. Amazing service! Amazing! … I go right to bed as tomorrow’s an early wake-up.
[Ed. note: Rooms at the Montage start at $550 a night (suite pricing information is not available on-line, and you know GP stays in a suite, because she’s a mom) and the very first amenity they list on the front page of their website is an “in-house stylist.” Jesus Christ. This is just more of the useful, working mom information that Goop is all about!]
Up, jetlagged, and taking care of email.
[Ed. note: The super-common expression “taking care of email” definitely means that someone else “takes care” of the email, right?]
7:00 am – 9:00 am
I hit the Montage’s gym for a workout.
[Ed. note: Sure.]
I stop by Sonya Dakar’s skin clinic for one of her amazing facials so I’m ready for the red carpet. Her tips are at the end of the newsletter.
[Ed. note: Uh huh. Thanks!]
Prep for the Emmys begins with David Babaii on hair and Kate Lee on makeup.
[Ed. note: WAIT! What happened between 9:30AM and 2PM? That’s almost five hours of lost time! Uh oh. Either Gwyneth got a concussion, or the way she passed that time was so leisurely and luxurious that it would be of no use to anyone, much like this entire diary!]
David and I decide to go for super straight hair. He shares his method below.
Kate Lee does her red carpet thing, which she also shares below.
[Ed. note: When Gwyneth Paltrow wants to look nice, two highly-paid professionals come directly to her hotel room. Again, that is fine, she can afford it. But what are these tips going to be? “Star in Iron Man 2 and be a presenter at the Emmys.” Got it.]
I change into my dress and I literally get sewn into it, while Kate finishes up.
[Ed. note: Gwyneth Paltrow puts her pants on just like the rest of us: one tailor’s stitch at a time.]
Decisions, decisions … Which of these Neil Lane baubles should I borrow?
[Ed. note: Please go fuck yourself.]
[Ed. note: FINISH HER!]
David Babaii helps me get into my shoes. No task is too small for David!
[Ed. note: No task is too small for David! One time I made him clean up dog shit with his mouth! Guys, please just for a moment imagine the frame of mind that one must have to post about needing someone to help you put your fucking shoes on as if it is both interesting, fun, normal, and not the worst. WE’RE GONNA NEED A BIGGER IMAGINATION!]
In the car, almost there …
[Ed. note: Okayyyy!]
Some major Audi traffic upon arrival at the Nokia Theater.
[Ed. note: Hahaha. WHAT IS EVEN GOING ON ANYMORE? Is this an actual slideshow of someone’s boring vacation? Major Audi traffic? Cool. I wish this diary was LONGER.]
It’s red carpet time.
[Ed. note: Uh, we all know what a red carpet looks like. And we’ve seen people get interviewed on TV before? Like, I hate this whole thing so much, but I can imagine a scenario in which someone offers an interesting perspective on the first-person experience of an event like this. This is not that scenario.]
[Ed. note: You are the worst.]
Ryan Murphy and I talk Glee with Access Hollywood.
[Ed. note: That’s it? DON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO ACTUALLY SAY? You are literally just wasting everyone’s time now.]
It’s a minute to show time, and I find my seat in the second row (right behind the cast of 30 Rock!) The seat filler before me was sweaty … so my chair was wet. Gross!
[Ed. note: That IS gross. But so are you for complaining about it. Just let it go, you’re at the fucking Emmys in a million dollars worth of borrowed jewelry after a night in France for a friend’s birthday dinner. Someone else has a human body. Fucking get over it.]
The 63rd Primetime Emmy Awards begin, hosted by Jane Lynch from Glee!
[Ed. note: You’ve got to be kidding me. WE KNOW, GWYNETH! Just because we don’t all get to GO to the Emmys doesn’t mean we’re not even allowed to HEAR ANYTHING ABOUT THEM.]
I live for Tina Fey and I love Kenneth from 30 Rock! Wait … why does my arm look like that and since when do I have 9 chins?
[Ed. note: I really wish this was on Twitter so Humblebrag could retweet the shit out of you. You’re trying to be modest by making fun of your body, which we all know you have an entire STAFF to help you maintain, while having your picture taken with other celebrities who are not known for being incredibly fit or even necessarily attractive and you know also that you are easily the most famous person in the group. And also you don’t LIVE for Tina Fey you liar.]
I head backstage.
[Ed. note: How is this so much more boring and exhausting than the ACTUAL EMMYS?]
Last minute touch ups before getting on stage.
[Ed. note: Incredible photo. Incredible insight into the human experience. You should get a Nobel Prize for Everything.]
I present the award for “Outstanding Comedy Series.” The teleprompter clearly doesn’t work, so I ad lib.
[Ed. note: HAHAHAHA! What better way to show everyone how the teleprompter wasn’t working than to show a photo of what looks to be a perfectly functional teleprompter? Also, can you cool it with the whole “ad libbing” thing? You said that during the awards, too, as if somehow saying “And the nominees for Best Comedy are” is some Second City Touring Company Long Form Harold shit. Relax]
[Ed. note: Yay!]
The show’s over, and we head to an incredibly delicious dinner at Scarpetta. We did a big pasta tasting with some nice Pinot Nero. Just the thing.
[Ed. note: I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WERE FUCKING DONE! (Also: “just the thing.”)]
[Ed. note: You are an empty vessel, but also filled with ego. It’s a fascinating (but not THAT fascinating) paradox.]
Me the next morning, a bit worse for wear but hanging on to my blow out!
[Ed. note: I suppose you are hoping that people will consider you brave and honest, or something, for posting a photo of yourself in the morning, but you’re not. Nothing about you is brave or honest. Everything about you is self-indulgent and self-obsessed. Your idea of bravery and honesty is lazily posting the 100th picture of yourself in a lazy series of pictures of yourself. Get a grip.]
These beauties are going back to Neil Lane. Bye bye girls. I will miss you.
[Ed. note: Ugh.]
She needs to get whisked back to Paris.
[Ed. note: She needs to get whisked back to Paris. You know, a normal human being living two relatively boring days in their otherwise entirely typical life, if asked to describe how they spent 48 hours would inadvertently accidentally TRIP OVER some kind of interesting thought or insight into what it is like to be them at this given moment in time. But this famous woman leading what is by all accounts an extraordinary life managed to go from Paris to London to Los Angeles to the Emmy Awards and back to Paris without saying a single fucking thing. Incredible. UNSUBSCRIBE.]