I cried when I got my Emmy nomination. External validation is no way to go through life, but here we are. Decades of work was finally paying off, my contribution to a legacy brand, an international institution, cemented. The iconic gold statue with her impale-able wings was just outside my grasp.
What the hell was I going to wear?
I did what anyone balling on a budget (and short notice) would do and sprinted to the Fashion Nova app. Nothing says red carpet like fast fashion destined most famously for the pole. I had options. Sequined options.
It was our first year in our house and out of New York City, trading The Bronx for a quarter acre of our very own. Omar would travel to the city for production gigs, but had stopped acting. He tried a few local jobs too, and that December he was working retail. This being my first, and possibly only Emmy nomination, there was no way he wasn’t coming with me so he put in for the days off and we booked our flights. On the way to the airport he got a text that he had been scheduled anyway.
Capras: up 1 Emmy nom, down 1 job.
The ceremony was broken up into two nights. The first night was my night; the second night was many of the show’s other nominations and the gala. I made the grave error of wearing heels on night one, clutching Omar’s arm for dear life as I teetered along in the line. The pain in my feet was probably why I didn’t realized the people we were chatting with as we shuffled along were Raven-Symoné and her wife.
Jojo Siwa’s hosting was a fever dream of glitter and sound. We watched in captive amusement as she bounded around the theater stage. Our seats were close. Too close.
I hoped our award would be announced later in the night, that the magic and anticipation be allowed to linger. We were first. The Babysitter’s Club, favorite book series of my youth, won the day. I was devastated. Omar squeezed my hand and I forced my face to be gracious as the cameras turned on us once more. No pointy statue and hours of awards to go.
The writers present huddled to lick our wounds together over drinks. Producers bought rounds of snacks until a contingent of us broke off for a dive bar. Night one was a wash but the company was good.
The second night I didn’t have to sit through the ceremony with our other award nominees; we just had to show up for the gala. Having learned my lesson the night before, I opted for Docs over heels, concealed smartly beneath my floor-length gown.
The dance floor looked like an awkward CCD dance. All the too-cool-for-school types gathered at the edges. Their eccentric outfits that screamed fun and personality were exposed as a front.
Then Sesame Street rolled up.
Our merry band of actual weirdos took to the floor, some as pointy statue winners, some not, and we danced. My footwear choice came in clutch as we taunted the DJ into multiple encores at the end of the night.
We all tumbled out into the night, calling cars and making afterparty plans. Us being amongst true visionaries made the only possible correct choice for our splinter group: Pinks.
So in our sequined finery, tuxedos, and suites, hair and makeup sweated out on the dance floor, we feasted upon iconic hotdogs. As the lord intended.
I still have not won my prize. I wonder every year since if my name will be included in the nominations. I think of my fellow og writers who have dozens of Emmys. So many that they dress them in doll clothes and theme them for holidays in their home decor. I look ahead to my first full episode set to air next year and dare to hope maybe that will get me just one, perfect, pointy statue of my very own.
Jen Capra 