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.

Hi, Again

I love New Year’s Eve.

I’m not talking about the glitz of the party dress or the free flowing champagne (although I’ll take those too.) 


I’m talking about the chance to start over again.  Hit the reset button.

This year, in particular, I’m excited to say goodbye to what has been the hardest year of my life.

I know.  That’s quite a statement.   Especially taking into consideration the dark year of 1992 when I didn’t get the role of ‘Cowgirl #1” in our school play.

That is not to say that I haven’t had some good moments this year (hello all-expense-paid trip to Europe) but emotionally and mentally I have struggled. 

I stopped blogging in the spring blaming it on not having the energy or the time.  But there was a part of me that felt like nothing in my life seemed worth writing about. 

This year was also especially hard as I lost one of the most important people in my life, my grandfather. Although I had wanted to write something for him after his funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  As if putting down on paper that he wasn’t here anymore made it too real. 

Too final.

Even though he had been sick.  Even though he was older.  Even though everyone told me he was at peace now, it didn’t seem to matter.  The fact was that he was gone. That we would never again have this conversation for the thousandth time:

How’s my favorite granddaughter?

I’m your only granddaughter, Grandpa.


I know, but you’re still my favorite.

I lost someone who was in my corner.  Who always had my best interest in mind and who loved me unconditionally – no matter what crazy play I made him go to or how many times I broke his heart and moved a little further away. 

He was always a champion for my happiness.


It’s scary to realize that I might have to be that for myself now.  That a space in my life has opened up that no one can really fill.  That it’s now up to me to take all that wisdom and love that Grandpa dolled out over the years and wallpaper it on my heart.

For Christmas this year my grandma gave me Grandpa’s wedding ring that he had worn for forty-two years. 

For me, it’s not only a reminder of a man who was the touchstone of our family but also a reminder of where I came from and what kind of person I was raised to be.

The kind of person who welcomes the future with open arms, unafraid.

So welcome, 2013. 

I’ve been waiting for you all year. 

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.