30

This week I turned 30.  

For any woman, this tends to be a big milestone.  

As a woman living in Hollywood, surrounded by other women who are young, and beautiful, and young, and YOUNG, it can feel like an even bigger deal.  

As an actor, I’m forced compete with young twenty-somethings for roles like “sexy roommate” or “hot friend.” The young twenty-something inevitably shows up wearing what appears to be a few rubber bands strung together while I’m in a dress that hides my soon-to-be thirty-something thighs.

I’m sorry, what?  Oh, no I haven’t thought at all about how turning thirty affects me. 

To be honest, I have spent a lot of the time leading up to my birthday pretending I was okay.  Pretending I was above all the cliche worry of moving into a new decade.  But as the day crept closer, I started to feel a squeeze of panic in the back of my chest.  As a distraction, I threw myself into planning my party.

I had thought a lot about how to celebrate the big 3-0 and it occurred to me that what I really wanted was to be home, celebrating in the Midwest.  So, I decided to bring the Midwest to me with a “Midwest Style” birthday party.  

To make it really authentic, my parents flew in with twenty-six pounds of deer sausage and five pounds of lefse.

The morning of the party my dad grilled up the meat, my mom made five of my favorite hotdishes and my best-friend Noah made meat cigars.

It was a big hit.

My LA friends were impressed with the “organic” deer meet and the “grass fed” beef and I floated around in a dirty martini and tater-tot hotdish dreamland. 

So when my boyfriend, Jason, started ushering everyone into the living room I was confused.  This was not part of the plan.  We were supposed to eat our weight in deer sticks and fall bloated into bed. 

Jason sat me on the couch, turned on the TV, and two of my very close friends appeared across the screen.  I immediately downed my martini and looked around for tissue.

As they screamed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” into the camera white letters flickered across the screen and straight into my heart.

“Jessica, you’ve often talked about missing a place that feels like home. But home isn’t a place.  It’s the people who love you. On your 30th birthday a few of those people wanted to remind you that home is already with you wherever you go.”

Oh no. I had not planned to cry on my birthday but I figured it’s my party and I’ll…well, you know.  My eyes burned as I watched friends from childhood, friends from LA, family back home, and roommates from college wish me a happy birthday.

I was stunned.

I thought about the secret panic I had felt, the worry about competing with rubber band-dressed women, and the emotion of leaving behind a decade that has been exhausting but also pretty great.  As I sat watching the video, I really thought about whether or not I was terrified to turn thirty. And the answer was so obvious.

Not at all.

If turning thirty means I have spent that time fostering these friendships, finding these people, and shaping my life into what it looks like now, then 30 is nothing but a gift. 

Sure my twenties were exciting and adventurous and life changing but they were also incredibly exhausting. And I’m ready.  I’m so ready for the next decade.  

As the last images faded from the screen I took a big bite of hotdish and smiled.  

Because I have a ton of friends who love me and a the perfect dress to hide my thighs.

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

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.

Love Life

Last week I moved in with my boyfriend.

If you are picking up the phone to call my grandmother, you can hang up.  I’ve already told her and she promptly proposed a double wedding with my cousin and his fiancé. 

I’ve never lived with a boyfriend before; in fact I hadn’t planned on living with someone I loved until I married them. It had nothing to do with my religious views or any moral compass issues but came down to one simple thing. 

That’s not how I was raised. 

Growing up on the farm, everyone around me got married before moving in.  Like getting the day off from school for the opening of Deer Hunting Season, it’s just what you did.

And now, even though I’m twenty-nine and Los Angeles is a long way from North Dakota, my heart had to really consider. This was an even bigger decision than when I chose to get serious with a man who didn’t know what lefse was. 

When I started to think about it (and put aside the obvious fact that I was madly in love) there was another truth that was much harder to admit.  

Los Angeles can be lonely.

After a particularly bad audition, a rejection letter, or even just bad traffic it can start to feel like it’s me against the city.  I come home to an empty apartment and there are times when watching Netflix in bed feels a little empty.

My grandfather knew a little about this too.

Before meeting my grandma, he had been a bachelor for forty-two years and knew what it meant to be lonely.  He knew that finding and fostering love took time and care.

Before he died, he was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to find love in Los Angeles among the “crazy hippie Democrats.”  Every time we spoke he would ask the same question. 

“How’s the love life?” 

And when I thought about answering that question now, I realized maybe taking this step was exactly how I was raised.  I was taught to move towards happiness and that when you are lucky enough to find love you wrap your arms around it and try not to let it slip away.

So I packed my boxes, painted my walls and said goodbye to my sweet little apartment. 

And so far, it’s been great.

Sure, all of his furniture is dark and heavy and looks like it washed up on a beach after being at sea for a hundred years and my furniture looks like a little old-lady named Loretta used it to cross-stitch doilies for her multiple grandchildren.   

But we’re working on it.

Now, if I’m having a particularly intense bout of writer’s block or a more-hurtful-than-normal audition I don’t come home to an empty house.  I come home to a man sitting in a dark, heavy chair who loves me. 

And yes, even though living with a man before I’m married might have made my grandpa shake his head, he would also have shaken my boyfriend’s hand. 

Because he would have known that finally, my love life is pretty great.

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

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia

Two years after moving to Los Angeles to become a writer and an actor I became a server.

I had been working full-time at a technology company but as my auditions started to pick up I had to find a job that was more flexible.  So I left my comfortable, salaried position, in a nice office with nice people and started to wait tables at an Italian restaurant.

When I tied on that apron for the first time I felt like I was doubling down on my dreams.  It felt good – like I was proving to myself that I was willing to do anything to succeed. I was not out in LA to have a career at a technology company but to do something I had dreamed about since I was a little girl and waiting tables would allow me to do that.

Sure, I had two bachelors’ degrees and wasn’t going to be using them but I was determined to stay positive.  Serving wouldn’t be so bad – and think of all the fun new people I was going to meet!

That was three years ago. 

These days that technology company is looking better and better.

The noble notion of ‘doing anything for my career’ has worn off a little and it’s a lot more difficult to keep my chin up. True, I am closer to my dreams.  But it’s also true that I am not close enough to quit my “day job.”  

And I really want to.

A few weeks ago, I waited on four gentlemen in their early sixties and when I went up to their table for the first time I said what I always say. 

“Hi gentleman. Welcome. My name is Jessica and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.” 

I said my name a few more times throughout their dinner and at the end of the night, as they walked out of the restaurant, I opened the door and thanked them for coming.  

One of the men patted my arm, looked right into my eyes and said sincerely, “Thank you so much, Marcia.”

Marcia.

Not even ‘Jennifer’ or ‘Ashley’ or any other common top-five girl name from the early 1980s.  

I didn’t even correct him but just grinned and said, “You are SO welcome.”

A few days later, over some cocktails, I related this story to some of my friends.  When I got to the big finish, instead of laughing, a giant lump rose in my throat and before I knew it I was crying into my gin martini. 

I wasn’t upset about a stranger forgetting my name after too many glasses of wine.  I was upset about the fact that I was still in a position where a stranger could forget my name after a few glasses of wine.  

I moved to Los Angeles to write and act, not to wait tables and while I am lucky to have a job, there are times when the giant leap I took moving here can feel like a big mistake.  Like I landed so far from my goals that I might not get there at all.

I’m embarrassed and tired.  And worst of all, I feel a little like a failure.

A failure who knows entirely too much about Italian cheese and wine.

The next morning I woke up with puffy eyes, a massive headache, and an email from my manager.  I had an audition.  

With that simple email, I felt a little hope – hope that’s easy to lose in plates of pasta and demanding customers – creep back in.  

That night at work I tied my apron on tightly, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.  This will not be forever.  This is temporary.  This is a choice that I’m making because that’s how much I’m willing to bet on myself.

Because I believe – I have to believe – that one day my customers are going to turn on their TVs or open a book and see my face.

And they’ll think to themselves, “Wow. Marcia really made it.”

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

18 People - One Bathroom

Here in Los Angeles, anxiety is my cardio.

And I’m in really good shape.

I wasn’t always this way. In college I may have stayed up all night writing a paper but I was pretty relaxed doing it. 

Somewhere along the way – between struggling through LA traffic and facing constant rejection– anxiety started to creep into my daily life until it seemed as natural as my blonde hair.  (And there’s nothing natural about either one.)

It’s not until I go home that I remember the tightness in my chest isn’t supposed to be how breathing feels and I can relax.

This time was no different.  

Last month, I decided after almost a year of dating, it was finally time for my family to meet my boyfriend.  

The only place Jason (aforementioned boyfriend) had ever been in the upper Midwest was Minneapolis and, as my father pointed out, ‘that just doesn’t count.’  So we packed our bags, left my anxiety in a safe place, and flew to Minnesota for my family’s annual Lake Cabin Family Weekend.

I thought this would kill a lot of birds with one giant stone, not thinking that Jason might have some anxiety of his own meeting eighteen of my family members at one time. I happily chattered to him about the joys of the lake cabin as we flew toward Minnesota, describing each of my family members in vivid detail.  

I quickly sped through the part that included him sleeping in a loft, with no air conditioning and no walls, with my parents at his feet. I also made sure to breeze by the section about there being only one, very finicky toilet. 

That’s right, eighteen people, one bathroom – which will also be the title of the memoir Jason’s sure to write about this experience. 

As we rolled up to my aunt and uncle’s cabin I couldn’t contain my joy to be in the place that had shaped so many childhood memories.  I squeezed Jason’s knee as my family began to move toward our vehicle like a pack of Scandinavian wolves, curious about the newly imported meat from California.

“Isn’t this great!”  I kissed Jason’s cheek and pushed him out of the car.

And it was.  Even Jason will tell you that.

About five minutes after meeting everyone, my cousins decided to initiate Jason into ‘lake culture’ by taking him to Zorbaz and taking a group shot out of a ski – a shotski. 

That really set the tone for the whole weekend.  

Despite the lack of bathroom facilities, my warm, wonderful family accepted my warm, wonderful boyfriend like he was one of their own and I felt that last, secret piece of anxiety I’d been holding onto release.  

On the last night, we all sat around the low campfire as the lake lapped against the rocks and a few yards away a Loon called. I took a deep breath and the grassy, musky lake air smelled like happiness.

I tilted my head back and looked at the stars.  There were millions and the peace I always feel in this place washed over me.

And too soon, it was over.

When Jason and I arrived back in Los Angeles, my anxiety was right where I left it. The city was hot and noisy and so far away from the log cabin with one bathroom.

I slipped into a deep melancholy, which I tried to ease with cheap red wine and re-runs of “Sex and The City.”  I pushed my suitcase into a corner and couldn’t bring myself to unzip it.

After day number two of wine for breakfast and staring at my unpacked luggage, I decided maybe what I needed was a really long walk.  I grabbed my dog and headed out into the evening.

The city was quieting down and I could hear dishes being washed and families laughing through their open windows. A few blocks into our walk, I stopped and looked up at the sky.  I couldn’t see the stars and when I breathed in I didn’t smell the lake.

Then I realized, what I could see were the sparkling lights of the city.  And if I took a deep enough breath, it smelled like ocean.

And that’s something pretty special too.

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

Just A Plain Old Marriage

This weekend I went to a gay wedding. 

And I don’t mean it was excessively happy – although it was, especially in light of the recent Supreme Court decision.

I mean it was between two dudes.

If my grandfather were alive he would have just rolled his eyes, taken a sip of his Folgers coffee and said, "Sometimes I just don't understand you young people."  

And I would have taken a sip of my twelve dollar soy latte and said, "That's okay, Grandpa. Sometimes I don't understand you old people either." 

Then I would have told him this story anyway.

My college friend Jeremy and his partner Darren were getting married in Oakland.

In the weeks leading up to the big event, people would ask me if I had any Fourth of July plans and I would shout at them “GAY WEDDING” so loudly they’d duck and cover like I was warning them one was flying at their head.

It was my first so I was excited.

Being a woman who attended a liberal arts college and majored in Theatre, I have a lot of gay friends.  But until now, none of these friends had ever gotten married. 

So it was with great anticipation that I packed my bags and headed up the coast.

I had planned my trip so I could attend the double bachelor party being held a few days before the wedding, partly because I wanted to support my friend but mostly because it was being held at a “gender illusionist” bar. 

Over the loud music and the multiple cocktails, my friends and I agreed, even though this was, for all of us, our first gay bachelor party, it was the best gay bachelor party we’d ever been to.

The day of the wedding dawned and after a few ibuprofen and a lot of coffee, I was ready.

It was a gorgeous California day and the ceremony was held at a rooftop garden in Downtown Oakland. Armed with sunglasses and fresh squeezed lemonade that was provided for the guests, I found my seat.

Surrounded by trees and flowers, the wedding began like any other wedding I’ve been to. But when the pastors made a special note to welcome us to the legal MARRIAGE of Jeremy and Darren, someone started to clap. 

And then someone else. 

And soon everyone was cheering and shouting

I felt shivers run up my arm as I clapped louder. “I am a part of something here,” I thought.  “I am witnessing history.” 

I thanked god for my sunglasses because the tears in my eyes did not go well with my eyeliner.

Someday, it won’t matter whether it’s a marriage between two men, two women, or a man and a woman.

But for me, for all of us sitting there on that rooftop, this felt monumental.

I felt so privileged to be there.  So proud of my adopted state - a state that would allow my friends to have something I’ve taken for granted my whole life.

I took a sip of my lemonade and tried to compose myself.

As the ceremony continued and I watched my friends promise to love each other for eternity, I started to think about their future.  And I realized, when Jeremy and Darren tell their children about this day, it won’t be a story about a ‘gay’ wedding.

It will just be a story about a wedding.

Just a wedding with love, and friends, and some damn good lemonade.

And that is something to celebrate.

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.

But Who's Counting

Exactly four years, nine months, and thirteen days after moving to Los Angeles, I finally made it on TV. 

It was a small role, on the show Southland, but I was excited and so were my parents – especially after my father found out I would be ‘keeping my clothes on.’

On the day of the audition I hadn’t even been nervous.  I had walked through yet another studio, quietly reciting yet another set of lines, and the only feeling I’d had was that of exhaustion.

I was so tired.

After deciding to move to Hollywood to pursue a writing and acting career, I had packed up my car, grabbed one of my close friends, and driven cross country to the city of angels. I’d expected the road trip to be breezy and fun – like a Sweet Valley High novel. 

Instead, my little Grand Am had over-heated in the middle of the desert and I had experienced my first major panic attack in which I kept pointing out the window and repeating to my poor friend, “No one is ever going to come visit me if they have to cross THIS.”

I was off to a rocky start.

I had fostered high hopes for my first LA roommate but she turned out to be a non-functioning pot smoker who threw away her dog’s feces in our kitchen trashcan.  As a final disappointment, it took me only a month to burn through the money I’d earned doing a medical study and I’d realized that Steven Spielberg needed a little more time to discover me. I had to get a job.

To fund the pursuit of my dream, I worked every job possible – server, nanny, tutor, marketing assistant, personal assistant, sales person, background extra, theatre camp counselor, caterer, professional tweeter, and house-sitter.  Now, more than four-and-a-half years later, I was starting to feel that maybe I’d made a mistake. 

So when somebody finally wanted to pay me to act in their TV show, I was stunned.  I wasn’t used to success.  I was used to crying over a bottle of wine and reruns of Law& Order.

Instead of feeling proud of my accomplishment, I started to feel a bit silly.  After all the hard work and pain of moving away from home, having two lines on a TV show wasn’t big enough to celebrate, was it?

On the day of the shoot my friend Katey, who was working as the Second Assistant Director, greeted me with a hug.  She had pulled some strings and instead of the small waiting room usually assigned to actors with two lines, she led me to a giant trailer.

When she opened the door, I had to stifle a gasp.  It was nicer than my apartment.  There was even a shower – you know, in case I had forgotten to bathe that morning. I looked around my very own dressing room and I felt the embarrassment creep back in. For two lines, I didn’t deserve this.

After going through hair and make-up I walked back to my trailer and sat down to fill out my contract. But I couldn’t focus. I caught a glimpse of myself in the dressing room mirror and suddenly a voice from deep inside my heart roared into my ears.

You are sitting in a trailer waiting to shoot A TV SHOW!

And suddenly the wall of embarrassment I’d built up since I’d booked this role came crashing down in a mad, relieved tumble of joy.

What was I doing? I needed to grab hold of this moment and appreciate it for what it was. The same little girl who grew up on a farm in the middle of North Dakota and made her mom sit through a one-woman show about Wynona Judd was also sitting here, in this trailer with the giant shower and the TV contract. 

And then it didn’t matter that it was only two lines.  It didn’t matter at all.

It only mattered that I had promised myself I would do this and I had done it.  I was going to be on TV.  My family would be able to turn on the television and see me standing there and maybe understand, just for a moment, why I had decided to break their hearts and move so far away from home.  And all those struggles now seemed worth it – even if it was for just one day.

I signed the bottom of the contract with the signature I’d practiced in my junior high journal and stepped out into the LA sun.

I had two whole lines to film. 

And I knew some people back home who’d been waiting a long time to hear them.

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.

Watch Me

Thanks to my father’s home videos, I’ve spent the last several hours watching my childhood flash before my eyes.

And the recurring theme is:

I. Loved. Attention.

Every time my parents would try and capture my younger brother doing something sweet or cute, I would zoom by in my big glasses, permed hair, and Zubaz and scream.

WATCH ME!!!!!

Sometimes I would take a more subtle approach by saying enticing things off camera.

Oh Boy. This is so crazy, guys!  Sure would make a GREAT video.

There is even a moment when I’m seven and the camera stops suddenly (after I had shouted many of the phrases above) and then reappears with me planted firmly in front of the lens.

This was clearly my moment.  I stared expectantly at my father and it looked like I was about to do something really amazing - really spectacular and worth all the fuss.

And then my father says his (clearly coached) line.

Now here is Jessica, crowing like a rooster.

Like I said, worth the fuss.

And boy did I crow.  I crowed my little heart out.

And that was it.  I ran happily away having proven to the world that I probably should have been on medication.

I haven’t written in a while. 

At first, I was busy.  Then more busy.  And then I was just pretending I was busy.

Somewhere about a week ago, I realized I was avoiding writing about my life because of a very specific reason.

I didn’t think it was worth it.

I didn’t think I was worth it.

Pass the Prozac.

Lately I’ve been wandering around in a strange pool of low self-esteem and copious amounts wine.

After a less-than-fruitful pilot season, it started to feel like all the ‘nos’ I’d been hearing were aimed right at my heart.

Right at the place where I hold the most important parts of myself.

And I started to believe I was only worth a ‘no.’

When you are pursuing a career where you face rejection every day, that is a very dangerous place to be.

And even though I’ve stuffed that little girl who will crow like a rooster behind better hair, contacts, and pants that have no geometric patterns, the nos were still getting in.

Every time I walked into a casting office I gave up all of my power and felt like I would die for just an ounce of their approval.

Surprisingly, this tactic wasn’t working.

Instead of seeing that confident, smart, talented, and funny girl I wanted them to see, they saw someone else completely:

A girl wearing Zubaz and making bird noises.

And no one wants to work with that girl.

In fact, I think I know that girl and she lives in the alley behind the McDonalds.

And finally, after a particularly hard audition where I drove snot-nosed and bleary-eyed home in the Yaris after a casting director looked me up and down and said “THAT’S an interesting outfit,” I had had enough.

I was done letting rejection in so deep.



It’s my party and I’ll crow if I want to. 

So, while I’m still asking people to watch me it now comes from a different place.

Watch me.

Watch me be enough.

A Red, Shiny Kind of Love

As a kid, being in love was gross and candy was awesome.

Which is why I loved Valentine’s Day. There was so much free candy and very little thought given to all that yucky love business.


But now that I’m older, love seems a lot less gross and candy a lot more harmful to my calorie count.

Which is really a bummer since I’m single and have access to a lot of candy.

This week, as Valentine’s Day approached, I tried to keep my head up. I tried to tell myself this was a fake holiday designed to sell cards. I tried to convince myself that I was going to make it about love in general (for my friends, for my family, for my apartment that has wood floors) but I just wasn’t feeling it.


I was alone and it was a little sad.

Pass the candy.

By last night I had become officially bitter. After waiting on countless couples at the restaurant (who were beating the Valentine’s Day rush by dining out the night before) I was done. A girl can only gush about what a “cute couple you are” so many times before she wants to drown herself in a sea of chocolate-covered sea salt caramels.

Luckily I had those waiting at home.

As I left work, I remembered I had planned to make cookies to give to a few people for Valentine’s Day. Baking always makes me feel better and in a last desperate attempt to salvage this bunk holiday I turned into the nearest grocery store to get a few ingredients.

I pushed past people buying last minute boxed candy and teddy bears, becoming increasingly annoyed.

Stupid day. Stupid hearts. Stupid candy. STUPID LOVE!

I grabbed my milk and Crisco and headed for check out.


I glanced at the person ahead of me in line. He was buying one thing.

A 2-liter bottle of Vodka.

Apparently I wasn’t the only person feeling lonely.

The man behind me was also purchasing one thing: A vase of roses with a stuffed bear hanging on it.

I felt my heart lurch but tried to cover it with much more comfortable bitter thoughts.

He’s clearly not really in love because he’s buying last minute. Who would want a teddy bear anyway? He is just feeding into the scam that is this stupid holiday.

But the roses were nice. In fact, they were beautiful. I had to swallow an urge not to stick out my nose and smell them.


The man caught my eye and smiled. I smiled and turned away, focusing back on my Crisco and my disillusion. I paid and walked to my car thinking I too should have bought a giant bottle of vodka.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

It was the man who had bought the teddy bear. He was waving to me vigorously from the sidewalk.

Had I forgotten something? Had he come to shove the stupid gift in my face one more time? I stopped in the middle of the street and he ran up to my car.

Everything my mother had ever told me about strange men approaching my car ran through my head.


This is how a mugging begins. He is going to wield a knife and I’m going to be on the news as the dumb girl who stopped for America’s Most Wanted Felon.

I opened my window just a hair.

Yes?

I am so sorry to bother you.

He spoke with a slight Eastern European accent.

It’s okay. Did I forget something?

No, no. I just…well. I am driving my motorcycle and so I can’t take this with me.

He pulled out a heart shaped helium balloon, the shiny kind that you can see yourself in.

I just wanted to give it to you…as a gift to say Happy Valentine’s Day.

I was surprised as I reached out to take the balloon. There was nothing sinister in the way he said it. Nothing overtly sexual or romantic. It was just…nice.

I rolled down my window a little more and he smiled and handed it to me.

I hope you have a very happy day tomorrow.

He ran back across the street and after a few shocked moments, I drove away with my shiny balloon.

After awhile, I started to smile. Grin actually. As my heart-shaped balloon bounced beside me I wondered what had possessed him to do such a thing.

Had he noticed that I was feeling lonely? Was there something in the way I looked at his roses that was a bit too full of longing?

The more I thought of it the more I smiled.

As I climbed my apartment steps, I it occurred to me that he hadn’t had the balloon when he was standing in line. Which meant that he bought it after I left. And furthermore, he obviously knew that he drove a motorcycle so why buy the balloon in the first place?

The more I mulled it over the more I realized - he had specifically purchased the balloon for me.

Maybe he thought I needed cheering up. Maybe he thought I needed to be reminded that this holiday can be about small, simple acts of love.

Whatever the reason, his little bit of kindness had warmed my heart.

That night, as I happily cut out cupid-shaped cookies, I smiled knowing that there are lots of versions of love alive in this city.

There is the kind of love that makes you spend your whole life with someone.

And then there’s the kind of love that makes you give a lonely stranger a red, shiny, heart-shaped balloon.


This year, I’m celebrating that kind of love.

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.

Chez Moi

It was a long year.

I'm pretty sure 2011 was specifically designed to see how much stress I could handle, how many call-backs I could get without getting cast, and how many times I could utter the phrase, I can't afford it.

(Answers: A lot, about 18, and every single day.)

The last blow was the LA arsonist. Nothing says goodbye 2011 like fifty fires (two around my apartment) in three days.

Bring on 2012! End of days here we come!

One of my resolutions this year is to enjoy my life more. If you know me you might think that sounds silly but to be honest I've been a little low these last few months.

And I have so much to be thankful for.

So this year, I am pledging to take stock of how lucky I am and really try to notice the beauty that's all around me.

That, and wear more earrings.

Hey, a girl has to have priorities.

And since I'm seriously considering moving to Santa Monica this year, I thought I would start with acknowledging just how thankful I am to have my apartment.

It was our two year anniversary in December.

I celebrated by almost paying my rent on time.

This little place has been just right for me. I feel lucky every time I walk in the door.

So...with the help of my iPhone and some serious Instagram action I wanted to share why I'm so thankful.

Happy New Year!

Believe

As a kid, I believed in Santa much longer than was socially acceptable.

I was in fifth grade when I learned for sure that Santa didn’t exist.

It was during a lesson about the difference between fact and fiction when my teacher looked up and rocked my world.

I don’t want anyone to burst into tears here fifth graders but I think we all know there is no Santa Claus.

Just like that.

As if this wasn’t the most shocking news I’d heard since I’d learned in Health class what a ‘red light’ touch meant.

I stared at her as tunnel vision started to overtake me.

As I white-knuckled my desk, I glanced around at my classmates who were joking and rolling their eyes as if to say, DUH.

I was clearly the only one who didn’t know.

My friend, Ashley Getslaff (who, incidentally, was also the first person to tell me about condoms) turned to me and scoffed.

How old does she think we are? 8??

I agreed and laughed a little too loudly.

Yeah. It’s not like we’re babies!

But truly, I was heartbroken.

Now, it’s not like I hadn’t had my suspicions. The year before I had done some serious handwriting analysis comparing a note from Santa to my mother’s signature on a check.

(It was inconclusive.)

But this was different. This was a cold hard fact from a teacher. And they knew everything.


That night, I took a big dramatic breath, and confronted my mother.

Mom. Is Santa real? Just tell me. I can take it.

She smiled kindly and I could see it coming. She was giving me her ‘I’m going to let my overly-imaginative and underly-cynical daughter down easy’ smile.

Honey…Santa is more of a feeling…kind of the spirit of Christmas. It’s in your heart.

Well, that confirmed it.

The hell with what’s in my heart, I wanted a jolly elderly gentleman to bring me gifts!

That Christmas, when I raced down to see what "Santa" had brought me I noticed it didn't feel as fun. I stared at the cookie crumbs from the cookies I had half-heartedly left out the night before and realized grumpily that I had just wasted those cookies on my parents.

For years I had been begging to be treated like an adult and finally, when I was, I didn’t want it anymore.

I felt silly. Young.

I had figured the whole Santa thing was a sham but I had just wanted so badly for the magic to be true.

Wanted something that special and mysterious to actually exist in this world.

Eventually I got over it and replaced the mystery of Santa with the mystery of boys.

And now I’m in LA carving out a career that’s all about making people believe a different kind of fictitious magic.

This year when the holiday season rolled around I just wasn’t feeling it.

There was no snow, no homemade stockings, not even an angel for the top of the tree that my brother and I could fight over.

I was just working, auditioning, and sitting in traffic – just like every other day in Los Angeles.

Then last week, someone honked at me for no apparent reason and I screamed with venom out my open window, LAY OFF! IT’S CHRISTMAS!!!!

That was it. I needed some holiday joy.

Enter: Naples Island in Long Beach.

My friend Katie had told Noah and I about this magical island last year. Every house sits facing the canal ala Venice, Italy. Every year, for the holidays, they decorate their houses magnificently.

We’re talking, professional lights and themes.

Anyone can come and wander the paths through the canals, taking in the view.

So a few friends and I got together and headed over. From the moment we crossed the bridge into Naples I knew this was what I needed. It was impossible to resist the magic of this place.


We walked and walked, sipping our hot (and spiked) holiday drinks and oohing and awwing at the displays.

And then I felt it.

It was that feeling of joy and a little bit of wonder that I had always felt about Christmas and namely, Santa.

I looked around at my friends, laughing and skipping from one house to the next, and that magic started to creep back.








Who needs Santa when I had these people and this place?

This was Christmas.

And right there, surrounded by the ocean, twinkling lights, and my friends I put my practical, adult-self on hold for just a second and allowed myself to believe in a little magic.