Small Town Girl

A few weeks ago I flew home for a family wedding.  

I took my boyfriend, Jason because I needed to win an argument we’d been having. (I also love him but that’s not important to the story.)  For most of the year, he’s been insisting that he grew up in a small town, just like me.

The small town he’s referring to is Tucson - population 1.2 million. 

You can understand why I needed to take him to North Dakota - population 700,000.

We packed our winter hats, apologized ahead of time to our livers and arrived in Valley City, ND ready to celebrate.  The morning of the wedding, Jason and I drove to my hometown of Wimbledon - population 250 - so I could officially win the argument. 

After almost an hour in the car where we have not seen a single stoplight (or person) I could feel him beginning to concede.  We arrived in Wimbledon and pulled up to the local grocery store where I had once accidentally locked myself in the meat locker.

We walked in and were immediately greeted by my (surprised) elementary art teacher. She was working at the store now and showed us around, eventually leading us to the newly renovated cafe where five women sat around a table, chatting.  One of them looked up and blinked at me, confused.

“Jessica?”

It was the woman who used to babysit me.  The woman who let me collect eggs from the chicken coop and who taught me that purple cabbage was delicious.  And then all the women glanced up.  

I knew every single one of them. They sat us down, fed us hot coffee and homemade caramel roles and welcomed me home.

Eventually, we said goodbye and I took Jason around the rest of Wimbledon pointing out important places - the kickball field where I’d kissed my first boy, the whispering willow tree I used to ride my bike under, and the school that my grandfather, my father, and myself had all attended.

We left town and drove down the long gravel road to our families’ farm. Even though I had grown up here, I was startled how quiet it was. The cars and rush of Los Angeles seemed far away. 

On the way back to Valley City, Jason admitted I had won.  I’d like to say I hadn’t needed to hear that, but let’s be honest - if felt good. 

Later, surrounded by friends and family at the wedding, I danced to Journey with my cousins, polkaed with my Uncle and tried to save Jason from the men who kept warning, “You better take care of her…” 

I had forgotten what this was like.  To be known - deeply and for a long time - by most of the people around you. To be able to see a part of your history in the faces staring  back at you. Hollywood felt so far away.  I jumped up and down to John Mellencamp and things felt easier and warmer and more possible.

The next day at breakfast I bounced my little nephew on my lap and thought about how lucky he was to be growing up here. Yes, I had moved away from this place and no, I’m not sure I’ll ever move back but the groundwork this town set down for me gives me something to stand strong on in Los Angeles.

I realized as we flew back to California that Jason might be right.  I’m actually not from a small town at all.  I’m from a giant family.  

Population 250.  

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

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.

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.