An ode to Gigi
An early birthday piece
I’ve known Gigi for my entire life. That’s not an exaggeration. Not only was she in the room when I was born, she and my lovely godfather were on the trip in which, legend has it, I was conceived (too much information, I know, but if I was made to know that, you too must bear the burden of that knowledge).
Most of you reading this who have the pleasure of knowing her don’t know her as “Gigi,” you know her as “Carla.” That’s her name, after all. It makes sense that that’s what you know her as.
“Gigi” was (and remains) my nickname for her, a solution to the fact that I was born into a family with two Carla’s. My aunt Carla became “Tia” and my godmother, the Carla in question, became “Gigi,” short for “glamorous godmother.” She has held up to the name.
She is the single-most glamorous person I know. When I think of her, I think of the closet in her old house in LA, a massive room that I used to spend hours in, sitting on the floor and staring at all of the dresses, shoes, and various other clothing items that hung up on racks. It was my happy place. I used to ask her to save certain dresses for me (unfortunately for me, her teeny-tiny feet were smaller than mine from the time I turned twelve, so I couldn’t take her shoes) and she always did. She’d remember, years later, and hold onto dresses that I’d told her I liked just to give them to me when I was old enough to wear them without looking like I was playing dress-up.
Gigi has been my favorite person on the planet from day one. She’s the reason I wanted to act. She’s the reason I cut my hair off when I was ten (she had cut her hair short for a role and so I did too). (For my tenth birthday, I threw a party with the theme “actresses,” just so I could dress up as her). She used to take me back to school shopping every year, where she’d buy me outfits that I cherished and wore repeatedly, just because they were from her. I dreaded dreaded dreaded returning to school, but I always anxiously awaited my school shopping trips with Gigi.
When she lived in LA, we would have brunch as much as her often very full schedule would allow. Meals with Gigi are the greatest. Truly. If you haven’t had the pleasure of eating with her, I feel sorry for you. That must be rectified immediately. She has the unique skill of knowing the exact right things to order & orders the right amount of everything. I remember sitting next to her in the booth of Ammo, our brunch place that is now, sadly, no more, curling into her side as she made me a plate with the perfect piece of scone, the most appealing spoonful of scrambled eggs, and one or two other servings of food that I am still convinced only tasted as good as they did because she was the one who served them to me.
I am at my happiest when I’m with her. It’s the greatest feeling in the world to have her attention. When you’re with her, she makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. She has listened to me talk about school drama, boy drama, my crippling ambition, my crippling Bill Hader crush, everything, with such attention and kindness and openness that she makes my therapist (hi, Naomi!) seem like the shittiest listener in the world.
When I’m panicked, she’s my first call. When good news comes, she’s the one I want to share it with. When bad news comes, she’s the one I want to be comforted by.
She has been a constant source of support, dark chocolate, and generosity for my entire life. She has shaped me into who I am and if one day I can be half as good a friend and godmother as she is, I’ll know I did something right.
I feel endlessly grateful that she exists and even more grateful that I am lucky enough to call her family.
It’s her birthday in two days, but she deserves to be celebrated every day so I’m writing this now. There’s more to say, of course there is, but for now I’ll close with this:
Gigi, you are the greatest person I have ever known. You are the chocolate chip cookie of my life & I love you more than words can say.
Happy (early) birthday.
xx
Ava