Bombed

Last week I bombed at an audition.

BOMBED.

It was the first time in a year or two that I have felt that poorly about a performance.

Earlier in the week, my manager had sent me the casting information; I would be auditioning for the role of the co-host in a hidden camera game show.

I was already dubious.

Hidden camera? Game Show? Co-Host?

Those were not words I was comfortable with.

But, as I told my manager, I would rather be working on camera in a game show than in a restaurant where the only cameras I’m on are for security purposes.

Now, it’s said that if you don’t care about an audition it will go better. That if you plan a trip, you will be put on hold. That if you already booked something you will book something else.

It happens every time.

So, I figured I was set.

I didn’t care at all – as much as I tried to convince myself I did. I had no right to be high-and-mighty about this audition but I couldn’t stop myself from snorting at the corny dialogue and turning up my nose at their request to ‘bring props.’ This was not the kind of audition I was used to.

When the day came, I drove to the studio, checked in, and sat in the waiting room across from a girl who had indeed brought her own props – an incredibly life-like cardboard TV.

I had brought a pen.

She smiled brightly at me and I returned the smile. After signing my name, I rehearsed my lines in the hallway – partly because this was a tradition of mine but mostly to avoid eating candy from the giant bowl they had set out for the actors.

Suddenly, the casting director came out and I heard the cheery girl tell her that I could go first.

I wasn’t ready but I figured that was all the better!

I stepped into the room, confident in my lack of caring.

They asked me to hit my mark, and told me to begin whenever I was ready. I smiled, took a deep breath, and started my lines.

Hi! I’m Jessica Runck. Welcome to (name protected.) Today on the show we are going to….to…

I stopped. What was my next line? I glanced at the casting director and she gave me a bright smile. I tried again.

Hi!! I’m Jessica Runck! Welcome to (name protected.) Today on the show we are going to…to…

I stopped again.

Shit.

What was my next line?

I panicked.

WHAT THE HELL WAS MY LINE?

I glanced wildly around as if the walls or the camera could give me some kind of hint.

This had never happened to me. I’m always prepared. I’m the girl who get’s straight A’s. I’m the girl who's been accused of being TOO PREPARED. I’m the girl who rehearses scenes to death.

WHERE WAS THAT GIRL?

Suddenly, I head the casting director’s voice cut through my panicked thoughts.

Umm, Jessica? It’s okay. Just breath through it. You will think of it, honey.

Oh God. She was talking down to me. Like it’s my first damn audition. Like I’ve never audition for this man. Or this one. What was happening?

I took another deep breath and tried it again. 

And this time I got through it. Barely. I don’t remember much about the rest of the audition.

When it was over, I raced from the room pausing just long enough to fill each pocket with candy before I slumped to my car. I sat behind my steering wheel and stared ahead. How could I have let that happen? And why did I feel so crummy about it?

After all, I didn’t really care about the audition. It wasn’t a job I had wanted. Not really.

But by the way I slammed on the gas pedal and peeled out of the studio, I realized I did care.

A lot.

Not about the job so much as I cared about how much I worked and how I performed.

And I had sucked.

Hard.

For the girl who took double the credit load every single semester in college this was unacceptable.

I sped up the canyon back to my apartment, berating myself the whole way.

You are not above this job. Sure, sure you think you are all high and mighty because you have auditioned for some big people but have they ever actually cast you? UM, NO!

I pulled into my driveway and fired off a hurried text to my manager. I tried to dull the blow.

Audition went….ok. (Understatement of the year) I’m not a host… But at least they gave me candy.

I waited her response, expecting that she probably got a call from the casting director asking her why she was representing such an untalented and unprepared actor.

How could I have let her down like this? She was taking a chance on me. When she sends me to these auditions it’s her name on the line too. I stopped breathing as I heard her response come through. She was probably just going to drop me right there, via text.

I looked down at my phone.

And then I smiled. Not a single word from her about how much I sucked or how I wasn’t worth her time. Only one sentence and it was all I needed to hear.

What is better than candy??

Soap Box

Lately, when people ask what I do, I tell them I’m a writer.

Period.

I skip the whole ‘I moved here to be an actor and it is and always will be my dream’ part and stick with just ‘writer.’

For a while I didn’t see it as a problem.

I noticed at the restaurant when people very smugly said, “Let me guess, you’re an actor,” I took great pleasure looking them dead in the face and saying that I’m actually a writer – (you smug a-hole.)

And my tips were always higher when I was a writer.

At least that was the excuse I gave myself.

But then, a few days ago, I was introduced to some new people and we came to the inevitable conversation about what ‘brought me to LA all the way from North Dakota.’

(I love when people say that – as if it was extra difficult for me to travel ‘all the way’ from North Dakota because it takes a long time in a horse and buggy.)

I smiled, took a sip of my beer, and before I knew what I was saying blurted out the familiar half-lie.

I’m a writer.

Not ‘writer-actor.’ Not even ‘writer but I occasionally audition.’ Just plain, old writer.

I took a longer drag of my beer and looked away.

What was my problem?

And before my shame could choke me to death I blurted out the whole truth.

I’m actually an actor. Too. Actor-writer. But, you know, mostly actor. Right now. I mean, I write to….Book Club….and act. Anyway…actor…yeah….

I felt my face burning as the familiar look of pity mixed with dash of slightly-less-respect-than-was-there-before crowded into their eyes.

I didn’t even notice. I was too busy scolding myself.

Shame on me for balking in the face of ignorant people’s misconceptions.

Shame on me for not being proud that I’m out here pursuing my own Personal Legend. (The Alchemist…anyone?)

When had this shift happened?

And finally, on the night of the Emmy’s, I figured it out. Noah and I were drinking champagne and dreaming of the day we would hold that gold statue when sixty-year-old character actress Margo Martindale won for Best Supporting Actor in a drama series.

She was shocked.

And after tripping on her way up the stairs to accept her Emmy (something I probably would have done too) she was breathless and exuberant and I felt like her first words were aimed directly at me.

Sometimes things just take time. And with that time comes greater appreciation.

Margo, how did you know that’s exactly what I needed to hear?

In that elated speech she reminded me why I was here and the reason I’ve been avoiding being called an actor. Because I’m getting tired. Again.

Tired of the ‘poor you’ looks and the stereotypes that come with being a (struggling) actor in Hollywood.

But Margo’s right. It takes time. And patience. And above all, dedication to the dream. And denying and ignoring the real reason I’m here is not moving me forward.

SO HEAR THIS, INTERNET!

I’m an actor.

And that does not mean I’m uneducated.

I’m an actor.

And that does not mean I’m a model.

I’m an actor.

And that does not mean I don’t have other skills.

I’m an actor.

And pretty damn proud of it.

Twelve Items Or Less

I’m not a fan of grocery shopping.

I wait until I only have one pickle and a half stick of butter left to resign myself to the fact that I have to go to the grocery store.

And that’s after I have tried to make a butter soup with pickle garnish.

So I was already annoyed a few days ago when I pulled into the over-crowded Trader Joe’s, and made my way through the 105 degree temperature outside, to the mass of steaming, eco-friendly bodies inside.

Looking around, I knew immediately that I had made a fatal error. I should never have come to this particular Trader Joes – it always makes me feel like I am in a never-ending game of (fair-trade) sardines.

After a few good shoves, I finally filled my basket and pushed my way through to find a cash register. I situated myself in the “12 Items or Less” line and patiently waited my turn.

Finally, the attendant cheerily rang me up we and exchanged eye rolls about the heat. Suddenly she turned abruptly toward the end of the line and I heard someone talking to her although I couldn’t make out the words.

Then, with a serious face but eyes on the verge of laughter she looked back at me and said:

Ma’m. The lady behind you would like you to know that this is a ’12 Items or Less’ lane.

I stared at her.

What?

I glanced down at my items and then to the line behind me. The women directly behind me was staring at me and frantically mouthing:

It’s not me! You’re fine!! It’s the crazy lady behind me!!

My eyes slid to the ‘crazy lady’ behind her. The woman must have been eighty-years-old, wearing giant sunglasses (inside) and was pointedly not looking at me but instead studying a poster on the wall.

I glanced back at the cashier who had finished ringing me up.

How many items do I have?

She smiled.

14.

I couldn’t help but give a surprised giggle and with a voice much louder than it needed to be, I said:

Well, if that’s the worse thing that happens to her today, she is one lucky lady.

At that, the woman behind me started laughing and the distressed woman behind her gave an annoyed sigh.

As I took my offending groceries back into the heat, I thought about the things that really annoy me.

- Sunglasses inside
- People who wait for parking spots when there is a giant line behind them
- Glee

I guess not adhering to the strict guidelines of the “12 Items or Less” line was one of that woman’s things.

And that’s fine.

But next time – take your damn sunglasses off if you want to complain about me.

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.

8 Percent

I need to stop waiting tables.

Lately it’s been grating on my nerves more than usual. I’ve gone from the sweet, unassuming “I’m grateful for whatever tip you chose to give me” server to the server who will “accidentally” spill water on you if you tip her less than 18%.

The breaking point came a few months ago.

Auditions had slowed down as it was turning into summer. This meant, instead of looking at my serving job as a ‘thing I do on the side when I’m not auditioning” it turned into a “thing I do always, all the time, always, ALWAYS.”

This particular day I decided to try and make myself feel better so I wore my contacts, earrings, and a little extra eye shadow.

Clearly God is a feminist as this later proved to be a mistake.

The night started off normally. I was working with one other server and we decided to pool the tips we made and split them down the middle. A group of forty-something men came in for a business dinner and we both agreed I should take them (being the female I would probably be able to get a higher tip.)

They instantly perked up when I walked over and I noticed one man in particular slide his eyes up and down my ever-attractive buttoned up long-sleeved black shirt, long apron, and pinned-up hair.

I know – sexy.

I smiled and launched into my speech about our menu, our drinks, and our specials. They all ordered drinks and the man with the roaming eyeballs (let’s call him Dick) ordered a shot and a beer.

A shot. At a business dinner.

That one shot turned into five more and four more beers.

At first he was harmlessly flirting. It them became a little more aggressive, a little more inappropriate until finally, as I was walking away from the table, he shouted out for the entire restaurant to hear.

NICE ASS!

You could have heard a pin drop and I felt my face flush as the whole restaurant turned to look at me and – presumably – my ass.

I was livid. I felt the feminist inside of me screaming. I am a smart girl! I’m not just dyed blonde hair, gawky limbs, and slightly squinty eyes.

I AM A PERSON!

I pulled the other (male) server aside.

I’m not doing this anymore! You take the table. I’m DONE!

He tried to calm me down and to make me think about the money. The awesome, crazy tip they were going to leave me.

I thought about how I was late on my rent and decided to give it one more go.

Finally, mercifully, they were finished. I brought them their (very large) bill and skipped away. I had done it and it was going to be so worth it.

They left and the other server grabbed the tab, opened it, and looked shocked. I jumped up and down excitedly.

Is it big?? Am I going to be able to pay my rent AND my car insurance???

He had gone a little pale and I grabbed it from him and looked down at the bill.

I froze and all the color drained out of my face.

$20.

I blinked.

$20.

Less than 8% of the total bill.

Less than 8% for putting up with sexual harassment for two-and-a-half hours.

Less than 8% for compromising my ideals.

LESS THAN 8%.

I felt something in me snap.

Now, I’m a pretty passive girl but this had sent me over the edge. I looked out the window and saw them standing outside, drunkenly waiting for a cab.

I slammed the ticket book closed and marched into my manager’s office. I explained to her what had happened and what I wanted to do. She stared at me for a second and then nodded her head.

I was out her door in a flash and marched past the bar where all the regulars were shouting their support and clapping me on the back.

I pushed open the door and marched outside. They were still standing on the sidewalk so I threw my shoulders back and marched up to them with the bill.

They saw me coming and stopped their conversation. I took a big breath, and…

Smiled.

Sweetly.

Smiled and started talking.

Hi gentlemen. I’m so sorry to bother you but I’m just making sure everything was okay with your service. You see, I noticed you only left my 8% of the total bill which makes me think I did something to ruin your night. And here I thought we were all having such a nice time…

They stared at me, shocked.

I stared back at them, smiling.

The man who had paid for the meal handed me another $10.

Now we were up to a whopping 10%.

Suddenly, Dick reached in his pocket and slurred something about admiring my tenacity and handed me $40.

That was more like it.

I took the money, smiled, and marched back inside.

As I opened the door clutching the money the regulars cheered.

One point for Jessica’s pride.

It might have been a little desperate. It might have been a lot inappropriate but I felt great.

Finally, FINALLY I was not going to be pushed around. I was not going to give up all my power.

For the first time in a long time I felt I had control.

And that was worth at least 20%.

10,025

A few weeks ago I was getting up at 4am, eating a diet consisting mostly of coffee, teasing my hair to an inch of its life, and dressing like an adult Rainbow Bright who went on an all night bender.

Oh yeah, and I was shooting the entire first season of Book Club.

(Photo by Ben Kusler)

It was one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. It was also one of the hardest.

I’m not sure if you’ve seen me mention it (a million times) but we raised money to shoot the series.

In fact, we raised $10,025.

A GIANT sum especially considering most of that money came from $100 donations or less.

That’s a lot of money.

That’s also a lot of pressure.

In other words, Normal Jessica Sized Pressure x 10,025 = MENTAL EXPLOSION (minus Xanax = slightly smaller mental explosion.)

(Photo By Anne Marie Fox)

But I tried my hardest never to let anyone working on Book Club see I was stressed. I tried to walk around like I was in total control and that I was not going to have a mental breakdown at every little problem.

Once when I realized we were out of Starbursts at the snack table I momentarily blacked out and found myself on the floor of the bathroom trying to breathe and convince myself that the shoot would go on even if we had no Starbursts.

Like I said, total control.

I just couldn’t get out of my head that we had people who believed in us so much that they donated their own money.

Money that they worked hard to earn.

Money from people I didn’t even know. (Like the librarian from New Zealand who said she loved that we made a whole series around literature.)

Money from people I do know. (People who I also happen to know don’t have the money to spare.)

But they donated anyway – for us.

It’s an overwhelming and humbling experience to have so many people show support in such a clear way.

And I kept thinking, all through the shoot, we have to make this worth it. And after watching our amazing actors and our incredible crew make Book Club come alive I can tell you it most definitely will be.

(Photo by Ben Kusler)

And now I’m feeling $10,025 worth of gratitude.

So, thank you.

Thank you for believing in us enough to make it happen.

I owe you 10,025 hugs.

(And a few pounds of Starbursts)

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.