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.

Because I Didn't Send A Card...Again

When I was sixteen I went on my first date.

And by “date” I mean I went with a friend whose friend was going out with my friend and was too nervous to be alone.

Despite that I was E.X.C.I.T.E.D.

I bought a new dress, my mom did my makeup, and my friend came over to talk about how cool it was that we were going to the Perkins in Jamestown with two seniors!

Finally, my super-cool-senior-first-date walked in the door and I tried to act casual.

Hey. What’s up? Did you see Friends last week?

The evening was off to a good start.

But as we turned to leave, I heard my father yell after us.

Hey! Hold on just one second. I need to talk to you.

I froze. Oh. Dear. Lord.

My father proceeded to pull out a form entitled How To Date My Daughter, sat down with my date, and had him fill it out, step by step.

The questions included:

1. Do you own or have access to a van?
2. In 50 words or less what does LATE mean to you?

And my personal favorite.

3. Do you own a pickup with a mattress in the back?

I sat there as my date answered every single question.

Later that night, when he dropped me off, my father was waiting outside for me.

Holding a shotgun and grinning ear to ear.

Every time I share that story people listen with horror and then all ask the same question.

Were you so angry with your dad?

And I always say the same thing.

No. Not even a little bit.

In fact, I thought it was hilarious.

Because I am my father’s daughter.

From the moment I was born he has taught me to find humor in everything.

That the world will treat you better if you greet it with joy and kindness.

And that lesson was an important one when you were raising a kid like me. A girl who demanded, craved, and begged for attention.

A girl who pleaded with him to tape just one more movie she’d written and (of course) would star in. A girl who hissed at him through the side of her mouth, Zoom in, DAD!!! And begged him for just one more angle, one more shot, one more minute.

My dad was the only one who had enough patience to listen to me recite The Little Mermaid in its entirety (songs included!!)

He was the one who blared Michael Jackson records and encouraged my gangly flailing I called ‘dancing,’ telling me that I was a star.

He was the first one to show me that my dreams were not stupid by simply acknowledging them.

Instead of trampling on his daughter’s love for drama and imagination, he became an enthusiastic part of it.

And when he helped pack my car for Los Angeles what he didn’t realize was he’d already given me something more important than my earthquake kit or my color coded map of the city…

He’d given me his outlook on life.

Los Angeles is known to be a cutthroat, no-bullshit, drive or be driven on kind of town. But I trusted my father. And so, I greeted it with joy and kindness.

LA seems to value a lot of things: money, beauty, fast cars, and fast talkers.

And I don’t have any of those things. Not really. Not yet.

But what I do have – compliments of my dad – is a strong sense of self.

And with my father’s voice ringing in my ears, I have navigated a place for myself out here.

I have found that it does pay to be funny.

And it definitely pays to be kind.

In fact, everything positive in my career has happened to me as a result of treating people the way my father would.

Dad, you’re the reason I’m out here in Los Angeles and not falling apart.

You’re also the reason I always look out for matresses in the back of pick-ups.

I love you.

Swimmig Lessons

When I was five-years-old I almost drowned in three feet of water.

It was my first swimming lesson at our local YMCA (and by local I mean it was thirty miles away.)

I was terrified. In my short life I had not been around much water and I didn’t even know how to doggy paddle.

But what really exacerbated my fear was my swim teacher.

She was a large, elderly angry woman with frizzy red hair who wore a pink floral swimsuit with ruffles around the hips.

In other words, the perfect person to instill the terror and shame needed for children to be excited about getting in the water.

For our first lesson, as our little bodies were perched on an underwater dock to keep our heads above the three feet of water, she instilled this little gem of wisdom:

You are absolutely prohibited from plugging your nose underwater. If you do plug your nose you will look stupid and everyone will make fun of you.

Like I said, the perfect woman to teach a group of terrified five-year-olds.

As I stood shivering on the edge of the dock trying not to look my instructor in the eye, my left foot slipped off the slippery surface and before I knew it I was in the water.

I went under like a rock, flailing and crying and choking on the chlorine. As my head bobbed to the surface I heard the instructor – who had not moved an inch from her spot in front of the class – yelling at me as if I was an annoying insect.

SWIM! SWIM! KICK YOUR LEGS!

As my head bobbed to the surface for the last time I thought I didn’t need an instructor– I NEEDED AN F’ING LIFEGUARD.

As I sank below the water I began to think this was probably it. That my little life was over and that because of a heartless woman wearing a very out of date swimsuit, I would never get to build those cool rockets in the fifth grade.

Suddenly, my father, who had been watching from the sidelines, jumped into the water and scooped me up from the bottom of the pool.

I had never been so glad to see him – other than maybe the time he woke me up from a terrifying dream about the Bernstein Bears.

I clung to his neck and after regaining my breath shot my teacher the most hateful look my five-year-old self could muster.

She smirked back.

My father tried to pull me out of the pool but I stopped him.

NO. I would not let this women win.

I clung to the side of the pool and worked my way back to the dock. I stood up, took a deep breath, looked my teacher dead in the eye, and puffed up my little chest as if to say:

IT’S ON BITCH.

The next year that woman was fired.

And many years after that I became a lifeguard.

In other words – I don’t like being challenged. I don’t like being told that I can’t do something.

And lately, that’s how I’ve been feeling about Los Angeles. Like the city is trying to keep me from succeeding.

But I am not going to let Los Angeles win.

I came here to do something great. I came hear to succeed.

I will not drown. I will cling to the side and try again.

And again.

And again.

There have been a lot of road blocks lately – both with Book Club (ahem..lack of funds…) and as an actor.

But hear this LA – I’m not going home yet.

You can take your three feet of bullshit and your pink ruffled roadblocks and put them somewhere else.

Because I. Am. Swimming.

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.