Lard

Nothing makes me miss the Midwest like autumn.    

Growing up, I loved the crisp air, changing leaves, and trying to figure out how to hide my snow pants under my Cinderella Halloween costume. 

Here in Los Angeles, it has been 90 degrees for the last week and autumn colors are only found on ad campaigns for Bloomingdales, not on actual trees.  

This always makes me a little sad, so to fight the melancholy (and for my boyfriend’s birthday) I decided to do something that always gets me in the fall spirit: Bake a pie. 

I dug out my grandma’s piecrust recipe and headed to the local grocery store for the ingredients.  Now, if the women in my family have taught me one thing, it’s that you cannot make a decent piecrust without lard.  

After a few unsuccessful attempts at finding this essential ingredient, I finally decided to call ahead to the next store to save myself a trip.

“Hi, I was just calling to check if you sold lard?”

There was a long pause at the end of the line.  Finally, the grocer responded. 

“Um, how do you spell that?”

“Lard.  L-A-R-D.  Like, animal fat.”

There was another long, much more judgmental, pause.

“…No, we definitely don’t have anything like that.”

I hung up the phone and was so frustrated that when I finally did find L-A-R-D (at a specialty grocery store hidden behind their last lamb chop) I had to resist the urge to hold it over my head and give some kind of Midwest war cry.

After that, I was on a mission. I was determined to have a lard-filled Midwest-style fall, despite the obstacles.  I wore scarves and leggings, I drank hot pumpkin spice lattes and defiantly put a pumpkin on my porch to wither in the sun. 

In the midst of my fervor, I decided I needed a garden. A garden would make me feel better, a garden would remind me of late autumn nights with my mom.  I pulled on my heavy black boots and my wool scarf and headed out into the 90-degree heat.

Two hours later, I was on my way back. I breathed in the scent of my back seat – beet plants, peas, winter tomatoes, and the flowers that reminded me of the farm. 

It felt good.  It felt right.  If I closed my eyes to the palm trees I could almost imagine I was home.

As I came over a hill, my breath caught in my throat.  From the top of the street, I could see the ocean sparkling in the sun.  It was beautiful, and stunning, and something I could only get in Los Angeles.

I pulled my car over and stared at the sea.  I sat there with the sun on my face and realized that what I was actually trying to recreate wasn’t about autumn at all.  It wasn’t about the changing leaves or the pies or even the weather. What I missed, what I sometimes felt desperate for, was the community.  The traditions that made me feel a part of something bigger – that made me feel at home. 

Sometimes mourning so deeply for things from the past stops you from seeing the future that is sparkling right in front you.  

I felt something inside me unlock and I pulled off my scarf and boots and rolled down the windows so I could breathe in the ocean.  The salty air mixed with the smell of tomato plants and I smiled.  This was something new and different – and it was just as lovely.

I drove home feeling lighter.  I had fall vegetables in my car, I had the ocean in front of me, and in my freezer were pie crusts made from lard.  

This piece was originally written for the Fargo Forum.  You can find them (and me) here.

Babies

Everyone is pregnant but me.

At least that’s what it feels like.

One cousin, four friends, about twenty-two Facebook friends, and my old roommate’s dog have all given birth in the last month. 

I’ve gotten used to the phone calls that begins with my friends asking, “How are you…” in a tone that says ‘Hurry up and tell me because when you find out how I am you are going to freak out.’

After the excitement of the pregnancy announcement dies down I never quite know how to segue back to normal conversation.

Congrats on creating a new life.  Speaking of exciting news, I bought a new brand of milk yesterday.

A few weeks ago my friend, Michelle had her baby shower.  I had known the date months in advance yet there I was on the day of the shower, clutching her registry and staring at rows and rows of bottles, burp rags, and diaper-genie-warming-sterilized-magic-something-wipes. 

My eyes zeroed in on an item called a “nipple brush” and I laughed to myself, grabbed it, and went to find a pastel bag in which to put it.

The shower was lovely, with the perfect amount of sweet (candy bar) and adult (free alcohol).  When we reached the gift opening, Michelle pulled out my gift and thanked me. I smiled and, wanting to detract from the fact I had obviously purchased it an hour before, made a joke.

Now every time you wash your nipples, you can think of me.

I waited for the laughter to follow but all I heard was the confused and shocked intake of breath from the future grandmother.

After much confusion, Michelle explained that by ‘nipple’ they meant the nipple on the bottle.  Not the nipple on the mother.

These moments have become a normal part of my life. I have moved seamlessly from the years of bridesmaid’s dresses and bad floral arrangements to baby bottles and giving gifts I don’t really understand.

Most of the time I don’t mind.  I can laugh along with the mothers and then go meet my friends for a martini because I don’t have a diaper to change.

But then, last week, I got a call from my youngest cousin with some news about his wife.

Hi, Dane!  What’s up?

Well…I’m just calling to tell you that Alicia is pregnant.

I took a breath.

Before getting excited, before doing the obligatory squealing and congratulating, I noticed that my heart constricted a little bit.

Here is another baby I won’t get to see grow up – another family member that won’t consider me a part of the normal routine. 

Even though technology lets me video chat and get instant photos of first steps, the fact is, it’s just not the same.

It’s not the same as holding a squirming, crying child in your arms and maybe crying a little yourself at how amazing life is. It’s not the same as looking at your friend who once danced on a table in the middle of a bar and who is now in charge of a human life.

I love my home here in Los Angeles.  I am proud and happy I decided to follow this path – a path in which I know a lot about building a career and a lot less about raising a child.  But there are a few times every year, during an excited phone call with a friend, that I’m reminded just how much I gave up to follow my dreams.

It’s always in the white space that I feel it most – the space that comes before my reaction, before my happiness has a chance to sink in.  It’s always most clear, and most painful, what the decision to live far away from home really means in the breath I take before smiling.  

This piece was originally written for the Fargo Forum.  You can find them (and me) here.

Procrastination and Penguins

Exciting news.

I was recently hired by the Fargo Forum to become a columnist, writing about my life in Hollywood (based on this blog). That means two very important things.  One, my dream of becoming Carrie Bradshaw is slowly becoming a reality.  Two, I now have a deadline.

I wasn't too worried about the deadline at first.  Seconds after hanging up with my new editor, I sat down at the computer, eager to type out my first column.

I didn’t make it past the first sentence.

I stood up and stared at the first line. It was good.  I deserved a sandwich. Soon the sandwich became a soda and the list of things I did before sitting back down at my computer were:

     1.     Grabbed a can of Diet Coke

     2.     Decided the Diet Coke needed ice and needed to be in a cup

     3.     Checked my phone

     4.     Checked my Facebook

     5.     Checked Dooce.com

     6.     Checked nieniedialogues.blogspot.com

     7.     Checked surisburnbook.tumblr.com

     8.     Checked my phone

     9.     Checked hellogiggles.com

    10. Checked my bank account

    11. Got stressed about my bank account

    12.  Checked my phone

    13. Wrote an email that didn’t need to be written

    14. Stared at a blank wall and thought about what I could hang that would be inspirational and make       me stop procrastinating

    15. Checked my phone

If it were a competition, I would have gotten to the final round and won at least the “Miss Congeniality” of procrastinators award.  That would go perfectly next to my “Most Anxious About Getting Pregnant Despite the Fact She Takes Birth Control and Has No Boyfriend” award.

So….why?

When all my ideas are locked away in my brain they are so happy and safe.  It’s like a spa in my brain for ideas: Cucumber water, plush robes, soft lighting.  But out on the page they are no longer lying around getting a deep tissue massage.  Instead, they're on an exam table, their legs spread open, answering questions about their sexual partners.   

It’s fear. 

That’s what it is.  It is so easy to tell someone you have an amazing idea that will, you-don’t-mean-to-brag but probably change the makeup of our culture’s literary fabric.  It is a million times harder to give them something to read. 

Who was it that said, “The hardest thing about being a writer is writing”?  I just looked it up and apparently no one said that. 

But in my research I did learn that “penguins closer to the equator eat more fish.” 

I think I just proved my own point. 

I would rather research pointless facts about penguins than do my work.  It has also just occurred to me that if you are reading this you are most likely procrastinating.  Sorry.  I’m an enabler. 

While you're at it maybe you could check out my new website.

www.jessicarunck.com

And on Friday, May 10^th pick up a copy of the Fargo Forum and check out my debut column.  You’ll also be able to find it here.

Now, back to doing my work.  Right after this video about sloths.

Hi, Again

I love New Year’s Eve.

I’m not talking about the glitz of the party dress or the free flowing champagne (although I’ll take those too.) 


I’m talking about the chance to start over again.  Hit the reset button.

This year, in particular, I’m excited to say goodbye to what has been the hardest year of my life.

I know.  That’s quite a statement.   Especially taking into consideration the dark year of 1992 when I didn’t get the role of ‘Cowgirl #1” in our school play.

That is not to say that I haven’t had some good moments this year (hello all-expense-paid trip to Europe) but emotionally and mentally I have struggled. 

I stopped blogging in the spring blaming it on not having the energy or the time.  But there was a part of me that felt like nothing in my life seemed worth writing about. 

This year was also especially hard as I lost one of the most important people in my life, my grandfather. Although I had wanted to write something for him after his funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  As if putting down on paper that he wasn’t here anymore made it too real. 

Too final.

Even though he had been sick.  Even though he was older.  Even though everyone told me he was at peace now, it didn’t seem to matter.  The fact was that he was gone. That we would never again have this conversation for the thousandth time:

How’s my favorite granddaughter?

I’m your only granddaughter, Grandpa.


I know, but you’re still my favorite.

I lost someone who was in my corner.  Who always had my best interest in mind and who loved me unconditionally – no matter what crazy play I made him go to or how many times I broke his heart and moved a little further away. 

He was always a champion for my happiness.


It’s scary to realize that I might have to be that for myself now.  That a space in my life has opened up that no one can really fill.  That it’s now up to me to take all that wisdom and love that Grandpa dolled out over the years and wallpaper it on my heart.

For Christmas this year my grandma gave me Grandpa’s wedding ring that he had worn for forty-two years. 

For me, it’s not only a reminder of a man who was the touchstone of our family but also a reminder of where I came from and what kind of person I was raised to be.

The kind of person who welcomes the future with open arms, unafraid.

So welcome, 2013. 

I’ve been waiting for you all year. 

Stars

This week I had my stars read.

Don’t tell my grandfather or it will confirm that the ‘damn liberals’ have finally got me.

The reading was a Christmas present from my boss and the whole experience was much different than I thought it would be.

It was much less ‘woman-in-a-turban-reading-a-cracked-egg’ and much more like my reader was translating another language.

There was no guessing or card picking or palm reading. It was just based on facts.

Meaning, she simply looked at where the planets were at the exact time and place of my birth and gleaned meaning from those locations.

I was shocked at the accurateness of it all.

When I was a little girl, between the hole digging and the gymnastics, I thought a lot about my place in the world.

I wasn’t out on my roof with a crystal ball, but I was constantly aware that my life seemed…brace yourself…. pre-destined.

(Grandpa, it’s those ‘liberal commies’ talking again.)


In other words, I never felt like I was a mistake.

So, as I listened to a virtual stranger describe my inner soul better than I could have, I had an incredible feeling of validation.

Like I’d been right all these years. That I’m on a course I was meant for.

Sometimes in Los Angeles it feels a bit like I am floating around aimlessly. Trying to pay my bills, trying to book a job, trying not to dump wine onto a poor-tipping elderly woman.

But to believe that I have some kind of purpose, some kind of destiny, is reassuring in this shaky city.

The main piece of advice that stuck with me through the reading, the thing I thought about a lot today when I went to yet another audition for a ‘quirky blonde girl’ was this:

Lately you probably feel like you are banging your head against a brick wall. But you need to step back, look up at the wall and surrender. Just know that this is where you are supposed to be right now.

I think the universe has a wicked sense of humor if it thinks ‘where I’m supposed to be right now’ is eating cereal for dinner on my bed and trying to figure out if by ‘FINAL NOTICE’ the power company really just means ‘Happy New Year.'

But okay. I surrender. I will accept that this is where I need to be.

After all, it’s written in my stars.

My ‘Communist, liberal, peace-loving’ stars.

Thanksgiving Is So L.A.

This year for Thanksgiving the police came and we had a kitchen fire.

In other words, just a typical day.

Since I moved to Los Angeles (three-and-a-half years ago) I have only been able to go home once for Thanksgiving. Instead, with a few friends from college, we have forged our own tradition, trying as hard as we can to bring the comfort of the Midwest to Hollywood.

And by comfort I mean lots of butter and ‘salads’ with cookies in them.

One of my friends has a home and a little boy so we all headed over to his house this year to cook, eat, and (let’s be honest) drink lots of wine.

The police came right at the beginning of our day. Someone had hit my friend Ben’s parked car so hard that it had shattered the bumper.

Let me say that again.

Ben’s car was PARKED. But the woman still managed to hit his car so hard that it slammed into the car in front of him and also SHATTERED HIS BUMPER.

Did I mention this was in a residential area?

The police came, we gave them cookies, and they gave the woman a ticket.

After that, I figured we were done with drama for the day.

I was wrong.

About an hour later, as I was idly stirring gravy over the stove and contemplating if I should abandon my wine and move on to hard liquor, I started to smell something that didn’t fit in with the savory stuffing aroma or the distinct cinnamon smell of the pie.

No…it smelled like…plastic? Burning plastic?

I looked down.

There, burning below me were flames.

A LOT OF FLAMES.

Someone had placed a ladle between the gas burners. The ladle had caught fire which had then caught the plastic child-splatter guard on fire.

I kept calm.

FIRE!!!!! THERE’S A FIRE!!! GUYS!! FIRE!!!!!

I picked up the flaming ladle and ran to the sink. Someone else broke off the flaming child safety guard and did the same thing. The whole kitchen filled with smoke.

Yep, it was definitely time to move to hard liquor.

Despite the police and the flames, we finally made it to dinner.

And it was delicious.

We might not have pulled it off as flawlessly as my family had always seemed to do, but the end result was just as lovely.

That night, after we had let the food settle, a few of us took turns jumping on their family trampoline.


It was dark, and the ocean made the air wet and chilly. It almost…almost…felt like fall in North Dakota. And as I jumped and jumped I thought about traditions.

When I moved to LA I had to walk away from my grandmother’s Thanksgiving desserts and my cousins’ annual backyard Thanksgiving football game.

And I realized, that first Thanksgiving away, that it was up to me to make new memories in this new place.

That if I was really going to try and call this place home, I needed to put down some roots. Let go of how much I wished I was home, and embrace the fact that I'm not.

That night, on the trampoline, I looked around at my friends and into the warm house where some were still eating pie and I thought, we did it.

We created something that I look forward to every year. We created a whole new tradition in a whole new place.

It might be messy and filled with too much wine and too little snow but it's ours.

And I am so thankful.

Smothered

My friend was at an audition recently and the director interrupted her halfway through the read.

I feel like you have a lot of joy within you.

She smiled and heartily agreed.

He grimaced.

Okay, I’m going to need you to bury that.

When she related this story to me over drinks a few nights ago, I laughed. What a brilliant way to sum up what (if you’re not careful) Los Angeles can do to you.

But I’m starting to think it’s not so funny.

I’ve changed since I’ve moved here – I feel…older.

Sometimes, it’s a good feeling.

- I now know how many margaritas I can have before it turns ugly.
- I have now haggled for and purchased my own car.
- I’ve realized that not every one has to like me and I can still consider myself a nice person. (Right? RIGHT!?!)

But I’ve noticed that with all of this good change, there is one very specific thing I have to constantly keep track of to make sure it never disappears…

A strong belief in myself.

And to be honest, it’s been hard lately.

About a month ago, I listened to a speaker talk about dreams. Among the many smart things he said, one line in particular stuck with me.

When did it become okay to stop believing that our dreams will come true?

I sat there, staring up at him and felt tears forming. I was shocked I was having such a strong emotional reaction to a seemingly simple question. But judging from the amount of snot flowing out of my nose, this was a question I related to.

When I was a kid, a teenager, and even an early-twenty-something I had no problem with this. I would write things in my journal like “Someday my dream is happening” or “I just KNOW it…I can just FEEL it” or “They just couldn’t see past my giant glasses to my raw talent!”

But lately, I’ve noticed a certain absence of those sentiments.

The older I get, the more I realize there are some people who look at me and think it’s time to give up this ‘crazy’ dream of mine. That, as I inch towards my late late twenties I should start thinking of other (read: more practical) things to do with my life.

And ashamedly, in my weaker moments, I’ve thought they might be right.

But they’re not.

It was just easier to believe in myself when I was younger- when nothing smothered that belief like money issues, countless no’s, and (pointing the finger at myself here) doubt.

But despite the fact that I'm turning a whole year older next week, I'm hanging on.

With my crazy dreams. And my crazier stories.

But especially with my crazy joy that (much like my friend’s) will not be smothered.

Bingo

Last week I won $50 playing Black-Out Bingo at the Senior Citizens Center.

A few days before I had suffered from mild heat stroke in my scarf and high boots as I refused to believe the weather was not the lovely, Midwest Fall I so desperately wanted it to be.

When I found out it was going to be 101 degrees last Wednesday I knew it was time for me to get out of town.

So, Noah (whose refusal to turn on his air conditioner made him almost as desperate as I was) and I packed a bag and headed for greener (and cooler) pastures. Enter, Big Bear, California where it dipped below 40 degrees every night.

After a winding, uphill battle for the Yaris, we arrived in beautiful – no, stunning – Big Bear. The mountains, the lake, the weather, the lack of honking cars! It was everything we had imagined.

If I squinted just right and ignored the BMWs, faux-fur jackets, and eight-pound lap dogs it almost felt like we were in the Midwest.

There were so many options of things to do, so many ways to soak up the local culture. We could hike, boat, visit the local shops, or walk through leaves. The options were endless but we knew the moment we saw the flyer taped to the door of the Tourism Building what we were going to do.

BINGO.

With the elderly.

The Big Bear Senior Citizens Center was hosting a four-hour game of Bingo and there was no place we would have rather been.

When we walked into the Center the two older gentlemen at the ticket booth looked at us skeptically. When we told them we were not lost but here to play Bingo I thought they were going to fall off their chairs and break a hip.

They eagerly explained the game and ushered us inside like we were royalty. They proudly showed us where we could get a boiled hotdog or some Folgers coffee.

The smell of sterile band aids, Aqua Net, and boiled meat reminded me of visitors day at the nursing home in Jamestown when I would go see my great-grandmother.
I squeezed Noah’s hand excitedly and whispered in his ear.

We’re home!!

As soon as we sat down we were surrounded by people making sure we had everything we needed, explaining to us how ‘Crazy Ts” and “Postage Stamp” Bingo work. Noah and I were overwhelmed with the kindness and the attention.

By the time the game got underway I was ready.

I had by dobber, I had my cards, and I had the moral support of seemingly every person in the building. I may not have been as serious as the woman who brought in her own Bingo podium (with an attached fan to keep her cool) but I was set to win.

A few games in I noticed two things:

- Beverly was on a winning streak.

- The woman sitting one table away was staring at me.

Now, Beverly had the animosity of most of the crowd so I didn’t worry about her. But the other woman was starting to unnerve me.

Every time I glanced up she stared, smiling as if I was the neatest thing to come to Big Bear since electricity. She was probably eighty with a blonde poof of hair in the front and the rest of her head dyed shock-red. I admired her style but wished she would stop staring.

Then, suddenly, she was beside me.

I don’t mean to bother you. Are you enjoying the game?

I smiled and assured her I was having a blast. She smiled again.

Well, I was going to ask for your autograph but… that’s probably silly.

I stopped dobbing my free spaces and looked up at her, taken aback.

You want MY autograph?

She nodded eagerly.

Well, you are HER, right? You are Taylor Swift!

Beside me, Noah snorted.

Oh…no. I’m not Taylor Swift. Sorry…

She was unfazed. As she started moving back to her seat for the next round, she winked at me like we were co-conspirators.

Okay, dear. Right. Mum’s the word.

Before I could say anything she was gone.

I looked at Noah, who shrugged.

Soon my attention was back to the game as my favorite kind of Bingo was up.

BLACK-OUT BINGO.

Immediately, I had every number called. I dobbed out half my card before I missed a number. I grabbed Noah’s arm and started to get excited.

I kept dobbing out numbers as my card became more and more full. Finally, I was ‘on’ (Bingo term for one number away.)

We must have been causing quite a stir because the people around us started noticing my excitement. They whispered to us and to others, asking if we were ‘on.’

Finally, as the ball rolled out of the machine I could see it was the one I wanted. I dug my fingers into Noah’s arm as the woman next to me kindly instructed me not to say anything until he called it or my Bingo would be invalid.

Finally, the caller said it.

B2.

BINGO!!!!

Noah and I leapt from our chairs and I held the winning card above my head.

Unlike the angry looks Beverly had received, everyone started clapping for us. Cheering as if they had all Bingoed too.

As the card checker read my card the blonde-haired/red-haired lady made her way over again. This time, with her camera.

She asked Noah to take a picture of her and I with my winning Bingo card. She smiled and squeezed my shoulder.

I can’t wait to send this to my granddaughter to show her that Taylor Swift plays Bingo too.

I gave up.

Yes, she will be so excited! Tell her I say hello.

When the games were all over and Noah and I made our way out of the building, we were stopped by countless people asking us if we could come tomorrow night for Bingo at the VFW or next week at the Eagles Club.

Finally in the car, the silence was punctuated by Noah who kept repeating one phrase.

They were so nice. Just…SO nice.

We both seemed shell-shocked at the kindness and warmth that the Big Bear Senior Citizens Center had showered on us.

When did it become shocking when someone was kind?

I realized that night, as I tucked my $50 safely into my purse, that I had told myself I was coming to Big Bear looking for Fall. But really, I had come looking for a reminder of home.

And I found, among the Bingo dobbers and the weak-coffee, the thing about home I actually missed.

A sense of community, a sense of joy, and the feeling that everyone was on your side.

It was refreshing to be surrounded by people who had lived longer than three decades and were proud of it.

Back in LA, I’m holding on to that feeling.

If I can feel that special and at peace among those people – I know I can feel it in Los Angeles too.

And Big Bear, for that, Taylor Swift thanks you.

On Hold

A few weeks ago I was one person away from booking a national commercial.

One person away from being able to move into an apartment with a bedroom.

One person away from proving to my commercial agents that I’m worth their time.

For the first audition I had been given no sides (script) and no idea as to who I was playing. I was bitter.

Bitter that I was on one more audition I didn’t feel right for.

Bitter that all the other girls looked like they were exactly right for the role.

But especially bitter because I had to sit in the waiting room through conversations like this:

Shut up! You booked that Tide spot? I knew it! You loser. OMG.

Whatever, girl. I just saw you on the new Taco Bell spot.

Yeah, that casting director has a thing for me. But whatevs…

I gritted my teeth and took note of the giant difference between commercial and theatrical actors.

Finally they called me in, I read the lines, and thought they hated me.

Apparently I was wrong. My agent called me the next week and told me I had a callback.

And this time I was prepared. I made them laugh. I knew my lines. And I brought headphones to drown out all the Tide, Taco Bell, Playtex talk.

When I found out I was on hold (which means it’s between one other actor and myself) I was ecstatic.

But then I looked at the dates.

I had a ticket to go home for the days they were shooting.

Of course. Because that’s how things work in LA.

But as my father so wisely pointed out. If I booked this I could buy ten tickets home.
And I wanted it.

Badly.

I had dreams I booked it. And as people poured champagne on my head and confetti rained down from the ceiling I would shout jubilantly about how all the hard work was worth it.

When my agent called I tried not to sound too eager.

HELLO!?!?!?!

But I didn’t get it.

They went with a girl who was ten years older.

That’s the thing about commercials. You can do your absolute best but not have the right hair, or eye color, or wrinkles.

To say I was devastated would be an over statement.

But I did have wine for lunch.

But then, the very next day, I packed my suitcase and flew home.

For a whole blissful nine days.

I ate my way through most of my grandma’s kitchen, drank beer with my high school classmates (okay – I drank vodka – they drank beer) and swam in the lake with my brother.

It was invigorating being with people who thought I was just the right age, with the right wrinkles, and the exact right eye color.

And I realized that next time I am placed on hold it won’t be so devastating if I don’t get it.

Because back home, I’m the number one choice.

Behind The Times

This week I auditioned for the role of a milkmaid.

You’d think that blog would just write itself but actually it was surprisingly uneventful.

The only thing worth mentioning is that my commercial agent called me and told me I should wear “my milkmaid outfit” to the audition.

ME: My milkmaid outfit? I don’t think I have one of those.

HIM: Oh. You were never a milkmaid for Halloween or something?

ME: Um – no. What would make you think that?

HIM: I don’t know. Just that you’re from North Dakota…and you probably have one…and stuff.

I hung up feeling like I should send him the Wikipedia article about North Dakota and highlight the part describing when electricity was introduced to the state.

Sometimes I’m convinced that people assume just because I’m from North Dakota I’m behind the times. Essentially unhip. Lacking some kind of cool factor that every other kid is born with.

I thought about that as I headed to the ‘hip’ capital of Los Angeles – Silverlake – to listen to a super-cool new band for my friend, Lydia’s, birthday.

I was cool! I was with the times! I was wearing the right clothes and knew the right bands!

I did not own a milkmaid outfit!

My friend Noah rode with me and we met two of my other friends, Katie and Kristen, at the venue.

I walked in determined to be the hippest I’d ever been in my life. I was going to show those LA hipsters that I could be just as cool as them.

I got my drink and planted myself directly in the middle of the crowd. The “sweet spot,” as the birthday girl told me, where the sound was going to be the best.

I was ready. I was ready to look hip, sipping a hip drink, listening to a hip band.

I looked up eagerly as the they began to play.

This was going to be so good!!

Suddenly, the band’s “sound” shot out of the speakers and began its violent assault on my eardrums.

I felt like they were playing right next to me with the express purpose of trying to make my ears bleed.

I gritted my teeth and smiled.

No! It is NOT cool to move to the back of the room, curl up into a ball, and whimper. You can do this. YOU WILL BE HIP.

But slowly I realized that I couldn’t handle it. That my looking cool was not as important as my being able to hear.

And by “hear” I mean ever again.

Like, EVER.

I looked at Noah and Katie and they were wearing an expression similar to mine.

Without speaking (because it was impossible) we moved further and further back until we were pressed up against the back of the room.

Katie ripped up pieces of paper, which we rolled up and put in our ears.

At this point I was still trying to hang on to a scrap of being cool. I tried to shove the paper far into my ears so no one would see it.

I glanced at the other two and gave a thumbs-up.

But to be honest, the paper wasn’t working. The band was so loud I started to become concerned that my head might actually explode.

Finally, I sacrificed what little cool I had left.

I pulled the paper out , sat down, and plugged my ears with my fingers.

Seriously.

I did that.

In a super-cool club in one of the hippest areas of Los Angeles.

I looked like I was an eight-year-old girl refusing to listen to her mother but I didn’t care.

Being hip was not worth never being able to have a conversation that didn’t include the word, “WHAT?”

The band finally, MERCIFULLY, ended.

I felt like I might vomit.

Noah and I left shortly after and as we stepped outside he noted that it sounded like we were underwater.

“What???” I yelled at him.

I looked over and started to talk much louder than was probably appropriate.

I feel like I’m eighty-years-old. I’m so not cool.

Noah looked like he hadn’t quite heard me.

Jessica, you are not un-cool just because you value one of your five senses.

He had a point.

I did enjoy hearing things.

And I like other hip things like…cake.

Cake is hip, right?

And to be honest, there are some ‘cool’ things I just refuse to take part in.

Like cocaine.

And jeggings.

And that’s okay with me. I think being super-cool is overrated.

In fact, excuse me while I go scrounge up a milkmaid outfit.

Forward

Sometimes I feel like my friends are leaving me behind.

Their lives seem to be perpetually moving forward with marriages and house-buying and babies.

And I’m still here. In my little apartment trying to buy food.

My conversations lately have gone like this:

“So, friend, what have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. I got married and we just bought that house and, oh by the way I’m bringing life into the world – no biggie. What’s up with you?”

“Oh. Umm – well…I bought some bread yesterday.”

I hang up always feeling a little low.

And I hate myself for it.

I’m a determined, career driven, big-city girl. I’m single and proud and strong!

But sometimes I can feel my country-girl heart crying out for what all my friends back home have.

It’s probably not very feminist of me to say I feel that way and I’m not under any illusions that I’m old. But time is passing more quickly than I’d like. And sometimes I want it to just stop.

Stop and slow down and give me time to have both.

To give me the reassurance that I am not going to have to sacrifice one for the other.

That it is possible to have everything you want.

That’s probably why I’m so obsessed with Book Club. It’s like my baby. Or my marriage. Or my new house.

It’s my something that I’ve spent time and money and no sleep on.

I just want it to work so badly.

Because I want to stop saying that I just bought bread.

I want to start saying that I paid a cast and produced a show and people loved it.

Because those things make me feel like I’m moving forward. Like I’m going somewhere. Maybe it’s not having a baby or buying a house – but it’s putting something out there.

Contributing to the world.

Being brave enough to take a chance on myself.

And if that’s not moving forward I don’t know what is.

Boo Hoo

I’ve always wanted to be a “Serious” actor.

When I was six-years-old I had the solo in our Elementary Christmas concert (yes, Christmas – North Dakota doesn’t follow the rules of political correctness.)

I had beat out Jenny Clarys fair and square for the part when our music teacher pulled my name out of a hat – not hers. First grade is cruel. (Little did I know that was a pretty good indicator on how they cast things in Hollywood.)

I prepared for the role with seriousness. I was sure people were going to be impressed with my brilliant interpretation.

Our song was a cute, six-year-old-appropriate tune about kids riding a sleigh and falling off until there was only one child left. I was that child.

Clearly, this was going to change lives.

It came at the end, was set to the tune of “Shave and A Haircut,” and went a little something like this:

Nobody left. Boo-hoo.

I KNOW!

Are you weeping from being overwhelmed by brilliance?

Well, pull yourself together.

The big night came and I was ready. I wore my nicest dress, my glasses were polished, and my hair was pulled back with a giant bow.

The Kindergartners were the first to perform.

I scoffed at their childish rendition of “Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer” and resisted the urge to boo.

I glance over at the audience. They were clearly not prepared for the brilliance I was going to bring to this auditorium. A standing ovation was sure to follow.

We approached the stage and I took my place in the dead center.

The song moved along quickly and I was ready. I wasn’t even nervous. I knew I was going to bring the house down.

Finally, it was just me.

I heard my lead-in notes, stepped up to the microphone, and with all the pain, despair, and longing my six-year-old self could muster, sang my little heart out.

Nobody left!!! Boo-hoo!!!!

I waited.

Waited for the applause, the tears, the accolades.

Instead, they laughed.

LAUGHED.

And said things like, “Isn’t she sweet.” And “Oh, that was precious.”

PRECIOUS???

I’m pouring my heart out here people!!!

My face immediately changed from satisfaction to utter dismay and embarrassment.

Suddenly the lights were too bright and I wanted to hide away forever. I felt tears pushing at the back of my eyes and I struggled to get away.

I saw my mom in the audience and I could tell she knew exactly what was happening. I sniffled my way back to my seat to watch the rest of the pageant but couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

I had failed. I was going to quit acting. From that moment on I decided to pursue my backup plan:

Animal Trainer.

I know, solid planning, right?

On the car ride home, I was silent. I could tell my parents wanted to help but didn’t quite know how to talk their crazy, unrealistic, six-year-old daughter off the ledge.

Finally, my mom spoke up.

Jessica, you did such a good job tonight.

I grunted.

You are a very talented actress.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Well then why did everyone LAUGH AT ME?!?!?

I felt crocodile tears running down my face.

My mother, used to my drama, remained calm.

They laughed because you were funny. And sweet. And cute. I know you wanted a different reaction but they loved you. I promise.

I thought about that for a second.

It did seem that people had enjoyed my performance. And it wasn’t my fault if I was too cute to be taken seriously…

I decided that I was resilient enough to try it again. After all, I did have my eyes set on the role of Martha Washington in the third-grade play.

This year, during pilot season, I auditioned A LOT. And although I desperately wanted to go out for serious roles, I didn’t audition for a single one.

I always play “crazy girl” or “stalker girl” or – wait a second…something just made sense.

Anyway.

I would really love to be taken more seriously. But then I look at my life (and this blog) and the fact that my acting seems suddenly to be moving forward, and I think, I will take funny any day.

Funny got me here. To this place. To a place I really love.

And I feel like that audience back in North Dakota was trying to tell me something…

That I’m funny.

And that’s a good thing.

Number Five

I’ve been off the grid for a while.

I needed some time away from everything so I spent a week with my parents at the Lawrence Welk Resort in Escondido. We were the youngest people there by at least thirty years.

And it was exactly what I needed.

Lately I’ve been forgetting how lucky I really am to be in Los Angeles.

And how hard I worked to be here.

But one night at the resort, somewhere between my dad’s third beer and my seventeenth glass of wine, my father did what he’s so good at.

Reminded me of how I got here.

He didn’t mean how I graduated from college. And he wasn’t talking about surviving the cheap yet terrifying apartment I lived in in Omaha to save money.

No. He was talking about the time I lent my body to science.

The time I participated in a fourteen-day medical study to earn fast money so I could follow my dreams and move to Los Angeles.

A medical study in which I was given non-FDA approved drugs, and had my blood drawn sixty-four times.

It was three years ago…

I had just finished a national tour and had my sites set on Hollywood. But I was poor. Really poor. And had only one month to earn enough money to move. So when my mom told me about a medical study that paid $3,500 I leapt at the chance to participate.

I should probably mention here that I have an unreasonable fear of having my blood drawn. Like – restraints and alcohol need to be involved.

But I was determined I could do it. After all, it was only sixty-four times…

HOW BAD COULD IT BE?

I showed up the first day of the study and learned they were testing Xanax, in patch form.

In order to participate I had to be anxiety free (God knows how I made it past that test.) But somehow I qualified and found myself in a large room with fourteen other beds. I was given a number and called that number (Five) throughout the entire experience.

Some rules of the study included:

- I was not allowed to see or be in the sunlight
- I was not allowed to leave my bed for more than one hour at a time.
- I was not allowed to eat/drink anything other than the food they provided.

And the most important rule:

- I was not allowed to miss a blood draw.

So, I reminded myself why I was there and held out my arm every time with out a fight.

The first few draws weren’t too bad. I just closed my eyes and imagined what a big star I was going to become. The large dose of Xanax coursing through my veins probably helped too.

But as they started the “drawing blood every two hours for twenty-six hours” portion of the study, things really started to go downhill.

Not only did the phlebotomists seem to be getting younger and more inexperienced but the bruising on my arms was starting to make every blood draw more painful than the one before.

I tried to fall asleep that night beside fourteen strangers, knowing that I was going to be awoken two hours later to give away two more vials of my blood.

2am came around quickly and I stumbled out of bed bracing myself for another painful draw.

But something was different.

I was hungry.

Desperately hungry. More hungry than I’ve ever been in my life.

I mentioned it to Number Four and she told me I looked pale.

Suddenly my name was called.

Number Five!

I stood up and started to walk to the phlebotomist’s table. I was dizzy. All I could think about was eating a sandwich. Or ribs. Or an entire chicken.

I sat down and looked at the phlebotomist. My heart sank. It was the guy who chewed gum and listened to his iPod as he drew blood.

The guy who looked like he rolled up on his skateboard after Chem Lab to draw blood for extra credit.

He was the one who, earlier that day, spent five minutes painfully digging in my veins until he had thrown his hands up in the air and told me I had ‘like, impossible veins, dude.’

I got even more dizzy.

He tied the cord around my arm and jammed out to his iPod. He rubbed the alcohol on my arm and blew a bubble.

The smell of the rubbing alcohol, his gum, and the memory of the last time he’d tried to take my blood were just too much.

Suddenly there were two gum-chewing phlebotomists. Then there was two of everything.

And right before I passed out, as my eyes rolled back into my head and I started to fall off my stool, I had two thoughts.

I hope they don’t kick me out so I can still move to Los Angeles.

And.

I could eat a horse.

A few minutes later I woke up to find myself on the floor surrounded by people.

And a nurse was taking my blood.

I peeled my eyes open, looked up, and whispered to her groggily.

Please don’t make me leave. I have to get to Hollywood.

The nurse smiled at me and patted my head.

We won’t make you leave. As long as you can keep giving blood.

And I did.

During the next draw (two hours later) I was so weak I couldn’t even get out of bed. And the next one I hardly made it to a sitting position.

But I didn’t give up.

I wanted it too badly.

Eventually I became stronger. And when I left the study I was four pounds lighter, had arms that looked like I’d done a copious amount of drugs, and skin that was starving for sunlight.

But I was $3,500 richer.

I was one step closer to my dream of moving to LA.

And a month later I was driving past the Hollywood sign, the sixty-four blood draws a distant memory.

My dad’s right. I am lucky to be here. I worked so hard to get where I am.

I literally bled for Los Angeles.

I need to remind myself of that sometimes. I sacrificed a lot to move out here.

And I better appreciate every damn second of it.

It’s what Number Five would have wanted.

New Years Eve 1990

This is me.


New Years Eve, 1990.

It was the first time my parents had let me stay up to ring in the New Year.

Clearly, I’m pretty excited about it.

Note the adult-sized glasses and the bangs that don’t quit.

I had worked diligently to make the confetti. My mom had provided the party hats, and my parents had sacrificed one of the last adult holidays they had.

My father looks like he wishes it was New Year’s Eve 1981.

But all that aside, the thing that stands out most for me in this photo is my crazy joy. I mean, I look like I’m going to have a happiness seizure.

It was the excitement of staying up late and the promise that it was a new year. Who knew what would happen in 1991!

(Turns out, my first boyfriend would tell me he loved me and my mom would decide that a bowl-cut would really ‘bring out my eyes.’)

But all that was still unknown for me. The year had not yet begun and it could be anything I wanted it to be!

I miss that.

These days, I have a better haircut but a worse attitude. I’m cynical about resolutions and new beginnings. I just don’t have that hope like I used to.

But this year, I’m bringing it back.

Who knows! This could be the year I get the role that will change my life. This could be the year I
make more money as an actor than at all my other jobs combined.

This could be my year.

So here’s to the girl from 1990. To the girl who was convinced joy could be found in anything. To the girl who knew with all her heart that the future would be bright.

Twenty years later, I want to be that girl again.

Thanks!

I went back home for Thanksgiving.

It took me four planes and fifteen Dramamine but I finally made it to my grandparent’s farm in the middle of North Dakota.

It was 7 degrees. It was desolate. It was wonderful.

In between eating ‘salads’ made up of whipped cream and cookies, explaining to my grandpa that being unmarried in LA does not mean I’m a leper, and warming up the car for an hour before it’s warm enough to drive, I had time to think about all the things that I was really thankful for on this trip back home. (It was Thanksgiving, after all.)

And when I returned from all the peace of North Dakota to the bright, harsh light of Los Angeles the transition was a little rough.

My manager called and told me I did not get that role on Parks And Recreation and my health insurance company informed me they do not take IOUs. I needed a little pick-me-up and decided to pull out that list take a good hard look at it.

To remind myself of the clarity I seemed to have back home.

It was surprising home much better it made me feel.

So…with no further ado:

I Am Thankful For…

1. The flight attendant who high-fived me after I accidentally hit a button that turned on all the
flashing lights on the plane.

2. The snow.

3. My grandpa who still asks me to recite the nursery rhymes he taught me when I was four.

4. The fact that I rarely laugh as hard as I do when I’m with my family.

5. My direct flight back to LA from Fargo.

6. People from my hometown who always ask, “So – are you famous yet?”

7. Lots and lots and lots of wine.

8. Lots and lots and lots AND LOTS of food.

9. The fact that despite serious turbulence our plane did not crash.
10. The clarity I seem to have back home.

And even though it’s harder to make a list of simple, thankful thoughts in Los Angeles I am thankful for one big thing.

That I’m here.

My Gift To The Earth

Over the weekend I traveled home, was maid-of-honor in my friend’s wedding, got a horrible stomach flu, met my college roommate’s new baby, and was asked approximately forty-three times when I was going to “find that someone special” and “start having children.”

It was a long weekend.

And not just because of the flu.

I love my friends back home very much. I am so proud of them and celebrate the choices they make whole-heartedly.

But when I go home, I am often pressured to feel those are the choices I should be making.

In fairness, the pressure does not come from my friends. Usually, the people who clap me on the back and ask me if I’ve found that “special someone” are over sixty and think Sex and the City is pornography.

When these people look at me, they see a single woman who needs some encouragement.

But I think these well-meaning people would choke on their lefse if they knew I don't feel like my life is missing something just because I’m not a wife or mother.

Why don’t they clap me on the back and tell me congratulations for being a smart, confident, single woman who is chasing her dream?

I mean, there are so many milestones in a single person’s life that should be celebrated.

- Not marrying the wrong person.
- Getting a promotion.
- Figuring out how to light your circa 1938 gas stove (seriously, I deserve something for that!)
- Being brave enough to leave your friends and family behind and chase something you’ve dreamed of for years.

And how about the biggest accomplishment of all?

- NOT getting pregnant all those years I could have. (Mom, could you please check to see if Dad is still breathing.)

I should throw myself a party! I can just imagine the invitation:

Please join Jessica, as she celebrates never conceiving a child. A commitment ceremony to herself will be held at sunset on Malibu Beach, followed by a party in her studio apartment (which she found and pays for by herself) where there will be lots of alcohol.

She is registered at Pottery Barn.

I could finally get those sheets I’ve always wanted!

And to really make me confident I’m on to something, I found THIS.

I couldn’t believe it. My single person choices are even eco-friendly.

So, happy Earth Day everyone!

I’m not having a baby.

Holiday Cheer...and A Cookie or Two

I've discovered Lactaid - a drug that allows people whose bodies hate lactose (that's me) to eat dairy. And now, since I'm home visitng, it's allowed me to have a truly authentic Midwest expierence.

Would you like cream in your coffee?
YES PLEASE!

How about some cheesey potatoes?
I'LL HAVE EXTRA!

More butter on that lefse?
YES! AND SPREAD IT ON THICK!

As you can imagine, the scale has not been kind. But as always, I will return to Los Angeles in a few days and begin taking yoga, eating salds, and stressing out so much the uclers in my stomach won't let me eat.

But for now, bring on the cheese! And the SNOW!

If there is one thing I miss about living in the Midwest, it is defintetly the snow (and the people, and the seasons, and the trees, and the food, and the...oh, sorry...)

I think if you have lived in California all your life you don't realize how beautiful it can be. All you can imagine is cold, and storms, and ice, and frost bite. But when it snows like it did yesterday (and the day before that, and the day before that...) it is worth all that other stuff.

So, enough from me. What follows are some photos of home and, of course, the snow.

This may be one of the only times I've ever seen my brother read a newspaper. And I've posted it on the internet for all to see!

An ornament I made when I was in First Grade out of a toilet paper ring. Can't you just see the artistic ability starting at such a young age? I mean look at those eyelashes!!

The coat is hiding the 17 cookies I had eaten before attempting to make this snowman.


Look at that form! If there was a comepetion for synchronized snow angel making, my mom and I would have clearly taken home the gold.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!!!

Older

Thanks to my father’s birthday gift of old home movies, I just spent the last hour reliving my birthdays from ages twelve to seventeen and I’ve come to one solid conclusion.

I’m older.

So. Much. Older.

The home movies took me back to a different time. A time of blunt-cut pageboy hair, jean hats, high wasted khaki pants, huge glasses (ohhhhhh the glasses) and high-pitched giggling about some secret crush.

In fairness, I still high pitch giggle about secret crushes.

I sat and watched myself get older and older. From the birthday that was for GIRLS ONLY to the birthday where I hosted a dance in my basement and we swayed to the tunes of Celine Dion and played Spin The Bottle with a Seltzer bottle.

As I watched myself wear too much blue glitter and make the classic white-girl hair mistake of cornrows, I thought about how far I’d come.

I’ve moved so many different places.

I’ve lived abroad.

I’ve climbed a mountain.

I’ve kissed a boy.

I don’t wear cornrows anymore.

And now glitter is just for special occasions.

But the younger version of me is still there…somewhere deep down. It’s present in my undying love for Spin The Bottle and it’s there in my pursuit of the dream that I promised myself I would chase when I turned 12.

That girl, that girl with the over-sized glasses and the farmer’s tan would be really proud of this girl. The one with the contact lenses and the pale skin (because she’s afraid of wrinkles and skin cancer.)

Because this girl is here, in Hollywood, pursuing what she promised she would. Despite setbacks and money issues, failed auditions and moment’s of complete self-doubt, I’m still here.

And so is the twelve-year-old who promised herself she would be.

That is the best birthday present ever.

Here’s to that girl…..