Eleventh Time's A Charm

I have had ten different addresses in five years.

TEN.

Now, I’m no good at math but I’m pretty sure that means the longest place I’ve ever stayed (on average) is six months.

And for a girl who claims to hate change – when I was four I cried behind the garage because my father sold the white Jeep – that’s a lot of moving around.

To clarify, some of those changes kept me in the same city but that still meant boxes, back spasms from the heavy lifting, and serious pimple outbreaks from all the stressing out.

And that brings me to my big “internet announcement.” I moved. Again.

So make it eleven.

But this time, folks, it’s feeling a little more permanent.

Maybe it’s because I can’t stand another zit (and neither can my agent.) Maybe it’s the fact that if I have to lift my mattress again in six months I might spontaneously combust.

Or maybe it’s because I really LOVE my apartment. Because I do. I really do.

True, traffic noise can be a little loud, the closest food to me is a name I can’t pronounce, and the most legitimate business I’ve been able to find boasts “Magic Insurance.” (Which raises the question – magic how?)

I love it because it’s mine. And there are wood floors. And a GIANT kitchen. And it’s across the street from Noah.

And when I come home from a crazy day of auditions, work, rehearsal, or getting my hair dyed an obnoxious blond color (pictures soon…) it feels peaceful. It feels like it’s saying…

Hey, you look stressed. Have a martini and a warm shower. Lie on your bed and stay awhile.

And I say…

I think I will.

Hanging On And Trying Not To Vomit

We opened the show!!

But that’s not where this story begins….

The night before we opened the show – also known as ‘The Night I Didn’t Sleep A Wink and Dreamt About Being Naked On Stage And Forgetting My Lines’ - I was speeding home in my Yaris and almost hit a man who was biking.

On the Freeway.

HE WAS RIDING HIS BICYCLE ON THE FREEWAY!

Now, I’m going to make a judgment call and guess that he was homeless. He looked exactly like Red Skelton’s Freddy the Freeloader. He was in a patchy tweed jacket, a beanie that was cocked to one side, and he was missing a few teeth. (Yes, I was able to see all that as I flew by at 80…ahem…65 mph.)

But the thing that caught me by surprise was his face. It was not the face of someone who had accidently taken what he thought was a sidewalk but turned out to be the entrance ramp to the 101. It was the face of someone who might as well have been biking down a sidewalk lined with daisies and ice cream.

His joy was unbelievable.

His head was tipped back and he was grinning a charming (and toothless) smile while his legs were moving at the speed of light.

He didn’t seem phased in the least that cars were narrowly missing him and for a brief moment I wanted to pull over and join him.

But I didn’t. Because my mom taught me that I should never get on the back of a strangers bicycle when he’s speeding down the freeway.

Anyway, back to opening night…

It was all going well, the nervous hives were under control, the armpits were fully deodorized, and I had remembered almost all of my lines. (If you ask the playwright I’m sure she will disagree.)

But with about five minutes of the show left I suddenly felt like I was going to get sick.

Not sick in a nervous way but in an “I think I ate some bad chicken” sort of way.

I stood there, holding a gun (you’ll have to come to the show to find out why) and when the other character asked..

Are you going to shoot me?

I wanted to say…

No, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw-up on you.

I frantically searched for an exit or a strategy to get me off the stage.

You can’t leave!!

I thought to myself.

You have LINES…and a big finish!

As the characters swirled around me and I tried to breath through my nausea, I thought about that man on the bike.

Lately I feel like my life is just like that crazy bicyclist (minus the missing teeth and the cute patch jacket.) It feels like things are speeding by me and I’m on a bike, trying to hang on and smile.

I have been living with a big ball of fear and stress bunched in my stomach for a while now. And finally, at the end of the first show, it was dissolving and trying to come up through my esophagus.

I know some of you really want this story to end with me spewing all over the stage in front of a lot of people.

Sorry to disappoint...it doesn’t.

It actually ends with a big breath, a bow, and a BIG glass of wine.

Oh yeah…and this.

And this.

A Bobby-Pins In My Tights Kind of Day

This morning I realized my tights, after wearing them around for two hours, had two bobby-pins stuck inside them.

It’s been that kind of a morning…and weekend. I’ve been a little busy. The kind of busy that you don’t realize there are hair pins stuck in your leggings.

Why am I so busy… Well, I moved apartments (which was a nightmare and a blessing all wrapped into one.) But more on that later….

The main reason for all the craziness is this little play I’m in…perhaps you’ve heard me mention it a thousand times. It’s called In the Company of Jane Doe and if you don’t go see it I will have to end our relationship (Dad, you’re off the hook since you are thousands of miles away.)
So…check this out….


See?? "Jessica Runck Invites YOU to" how can you say no to a personal invitation.

And now comes the part where I use my blog for a shameless plug. (I know, you thought I had already done that.)

I’M LOOKING FOR A MANAGER.

So please, if you know one, invite them!!

And invite your friends…or your Casting Director friends…or your big time producer friends.

Or Sam Mendes.

You know…If he’s available.

Click here for tickets!