My Gift To The Earth

Over the weekend I traveled home, was maid-of-honor in my friend’s wedding, got a horrible stomach flu, met my college roommate’s new baby, and was asked approximately forty-three times when I was going to “find that someone special” and “start having children.”

It was a long weekend.

And not just because of the flu.

I love my friends back home very much. I am so proud of them and celebrate the choices they make whole-heartedly.

But when I go home, I am often pressured to feel those are the choices I should be making.

In fairness, the pressure does not come from my friends. Usually, the people who clap me on the back and ask me if I’ve found that “special someone” are over sixty and think Sex and the City is pornography.

When these people look at me, they see a single woman who needs some encouragement.

But I think these well-meaning people would choke on their lefse if they knew I don't feel like my life is missing something just because I’m not a wife or mother.

Why don’t they clap me on the back and tell me congratulations for being a smart, confident, single woman who is chasing her dream?

I mean, there are so many milestones in a single person’s life that should be celebrated.

- Not marrying the wrong person.
- Getting a promotion.
- Figuring out how to light your circa 1938 gas stove (seriously, I deserve something for that!)
- Being brave enough to leave your friends and family behind and chase something you’ve dreamed of for years.

And how about the biggest accomplishment of all?

- NOT getting pregnant all those years I could have. (Mom, could you please check to see if Dad is still breathing.)

I should throw myself a party! I can just imagine the invitation:

Please join Jessica, as she celebrates never conceiving a child. A commitment ceremony to herself will be held at sunset on Malibu Beach, followed by a party in her studio apartment (which she found and pays for by herself) where there will be lots of alcohol.

She is registered at Pottery Barn.

I could finally get those sheets I’ve always wanted!

And to really make me confident I’m on to something, I found THIS.

I couldn’t believe it. My single person choices are even eco-friendly.

So, happy Earth Day everyone!

I’m not having a baby.

Tales From A Los Angeles Grocery Store

Despite what you might think, there are a few things I won’t write about on the Internet.

Relationships – Because that could get messy.

My Day Job – Because I’m not stupid.

Sex – Because my brother reads this.

Crystal Meth – Because I don’t know anything about it.

But one subject I am about to break the Hollywood Hotdish silence about is body image.

To be honest, I’ve been avoiding it.

A woman living in Los Angeles complaining about body image is just so cliché. It’s just so over-emphasized. It’s just so Hollywood.

But as I was trying on dress after dress yesterday at Urban Outfitters, staring at myself in the mirror, and mentally swearing off sugar, carbs, and all food that can be described as “delicious,” I decided it was worth a mention.

Because I do think about it. A lot.

Too much, actually.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl who originally wanted to be a model and then – with a bat of my eyelashes and a toss of my hair – fell into acting.

In fact, I have a hard time liking those actors.

In spite of the fact that I’m probably (and hopefully) more talented than those actors, I wrestle with one dominant emotion every time I'm sitting in an audition surrounded by them.

Inadequacy.

A terrible, crippling feeling of poor self-worth.

Even though I know I’m better than that.

Even though I try and repeat what my dad always tells me:

You have a better personality than her!

It’s hard not to feel self conscious about yourself when you’re sitting next to a model.

I mean, who the hell cares about my personality?! She was on the cover of Vogue for God’s sake!

In a town that places so much emphasis on how you look (and what you drive, and what you wear) it’s hard to drown those thoughts out.

Yesterday, a friend of mine even refused to go to the store because he (HE) was in sweatpants.

REALLY?

This is a man who loves sports, who wears a baseball hat the majority of the time, who drinks beer - and not the fancy kind!

I was so shocked at this that I decided to do a little experiment. Could I go to the store in sweatpants?

When I stopped to think about it, I don’t think I ever had.

Now, I’m sure most of you are thinking: IT’S JUST THE STORE.

But in Los Angeles, going to the grocery store is an event. (Remember the red carpet?) I have seen women pushing carts in 6-inch heels, men picking out hamburger in Prada suits, and children begging for candy in dresses that cost more than my rent.

But I was determined to try this out.

I wore my sweatpants that sagged in the ass.

I wore that mustard-yellow t-shirt that has an obvious stain across the chest.

I didn’t brush my hair, I wore my glasses, and I didn’t even put on one bit of make-up.

I held my head high and waltzed into that store!

And even though the whole time I prayed I wouldn’t run into Steven Spielberg in the frozen food aisle, I did feel incredibly free.

I didn’t care about body image because I didn’t care AT ALL!

I picked out pears and smiled at strangers. I pushed up my glasses and read my coupons.

I got to the checkout and I was feeling good. I was feeling sexy and strong and beautiful!

And I looked at the cashier, held up my bottle of salad dressing, and said proudly:

Is this fat free?

Big Dreams

A few nights ago I dreamt I fed a hot dog to a shark.

In a laundry room.

While sitting on the dryer.

As you can imagine, it did not end well. Turns out, a great white shark's jaws are a lot bigger than an Oscar Mayer Weiner.

I narrowly escaped with my hand and apparently the shark was not satisfied becuase it flopped around (it was beached in the laundry room after all) and came after me.

It bit me in the inner thigh and then I woke up.

I know that this has nothing to do with Hollywood, or acting, or even is anything you want to read about.

But it's just SO WEIRD. And I've not been able to get it out of my mind since.

I mean, what does it mean??

So I thought I would turn to you, my readers (all seven of you) to give me your thoughts.

So, I ask of you:

What does it mean when you try and feed a hot dog to a shark in a laundry room?

B+

Last night for supper I had two dried out Easter Bunny Peeps.

I can’t remember what else I ate that day.

I am in the midst of working on a project with Noah. A big, time-consuming, career-driven project.

I feel like I’m back in college (without the quick metabolism and disillusions of grandeur.)

My freshman year, all I could think about was keeping up my grade average. Luckily, I had a roommate - Chelsea - who was the same kind of freak and became my best friend. There was even a weekend where we did nothing but homework.

36 HOURS OF HOMEWORK.

We would stare at each other across piles of papers, give a half-hearted thumbs-up, and say, “College is so awesome…”

That was also the year I almost accosted my history professor because he gave me a B+. When he told me a B+ was considered “excellent” by college standards I told him I had my own standards and could he please tell me how to get an A!

It’s amazing I didn’t become addicted to pills.

Chelsea and I later learned the word time management and were soon putting off homework to watch VH1’s “I Love The 80s” and taking late night trips to Coldstone.

Looking back on my freshman year I wonder what I was so afraid of.

Nowadays, I’m working like I worked in college. The same crazy hours, the same neglect to my diet, the same freakishly high standards.

But one major thing has changed.

If I had failed a class in college it wouldn’t have really mattered. Yes, I probably would have needed oxygen but it would not have affected the rest of my life.

Someone has yet to ask me about my college grades on a job interview or on a date.

Are you from around here? Are you a smoker? What grade did you get on your ‘Religions of Asia’ paper?

Not once.

The difference now is, if I don't work hard, there are real life consequences. Consequences like having to keep up my Ramen diet and having to wait until my fingers are numb to turn on the heat.

Real life success doesn’t just mean a mark on my transcript.

It means I was right to believe in myself.

It means I can stop eating Peeps for supper.

It means I can stop working three jobs (I’m lucky to have) but not passionate about and start working one job I am.

Success in the real world is not just about validation.

It’s about being able to provide for myself.

It’s about being able to get a one-bedroom apartment, travel to see my friend’s new baby, and being able to look back and think it was totally worth those years of struggle.

So here’s to real-world success!

And Doctor Sandgren, if you’re reading, thanks for giving me a B+ and some much needed perspective.

I hid under the bed for a week after that grade because I thought the world would cave in.

Surprisingly, it didn’t.

Something Old

Lately, I’ve been thinking about marriage.

I think somewhere in the distance I just heard my father load his shotgun….

Relax, Dad.

I’m thinking about marriage because I spent the weekend with my grandparents in Phoenix and they seemed determined to secure their only granddaughter’s future.

I wanted to tell them a couple million would make me feel nice and secure.

When I walked in the door the first thing they asked (after Grandma said my blond hair didn’t match my skin color and Grandpa asked if I still liked “that dictator in the White House who is friends with Castro”) was whether or not I was getting married any time soon.

For those of you on the edge of your seats – the answer is no.

My grandfather, in particular, was interested in the subject. Maybe it’s because he noticed my ever deepening smile lines or maybe my ovaries were giving some kind of “ANY DAY NOW” signal only grandfathers can hear.

Whatever the case, he wouldn’t let it go.

The conversation got so deep into marriage that when he started talking about me exchanging vows on his farm, I half expected him to open the closet door and shout excitedly “TO THIS MAN I FOUND ON THE STREET!”

On the long car ride back to Los Angeles I started to think about why I’m not even close to walking down the aisle.

Yes, it’s true. I think about it sometimes – when I’m not thinking about how I’m going to make rent or how I’m going to juggle two jobs or how I’m going to pay my taxes or how I am going to become a successful actor.

Somewhere…in the recesses of my mind…the thought of bringing someone else into my world occasionally crosses my mind.

But as I’m always reminded when I go home, I have made different choices than most my friends. I chose to pursue a career that demands a lot of selfishness and a lot of sacrifice.

I don’t have time to be a part of someone’s world because I hardly have time for my own.

I don’t have room for someone else because I live in a studio so I can afford headshots and – if I’m lucky – food.

And just when I think I’m happy with my choice. When I’m feeling very modern, and powerful, and forward thinking, I remember the last night I spent at my grandparent’s house.

My grandfather is getting older. He needs my grandma more and more for simple things like taking off his socks or getting up from his chair. These two have never been big on showing each other affection – or even expressing it verbally – and my grandma cares for him patiently and silently.

And as I was falling asleep on the couch, after a particularly tough day for my grandpa, I heard him whisper to my grandmother as he lay next to her in bed.

You know, I love you.

And she whispered back.

I love you too.

And then I think maybe my studio apartment is big enough for that.

Pants On Fire

I was the George Washington of children.

I could not tell a lie. Seriously. Not one.

Some called it honest. My parents called it obsessive compulsive.

If you had met my 8-year-old self and had wanted to know the time you would have gotten the “correct” answer.

No, it’s not 12:00, it’s 11:59! No one likes a liar, DAD.

I was a treat to raise.

My obsession with the truth was not limited to telling the time. When I was nine, my babysitter drove really fast down the freeway so I could feel what it was like “to fly” and made me promise not to tell my parents. But that was against my 9-year-old moral compass.

Mom! At exactly 1:27 we drove 98 mph on the freeway!

I was also a treat to baby-sit.

These days I have the opposite problem.

I was recently on a trip to San Francisco for my “day job” and was shopping in Free People. The sales assistant was being friendly and asked me if I lived in the Bay Area.

No…I live in LA.

Oh great, what do you do?

I’m an actor.

Wow! That’s so cool. Are you up here for vacation?

No, I’m here for work.

Wow. That is SO COOL.

Now, did this Sales Assistant assume I was in San Francisco for acting work?

Of course.

And did I correct her?

Of course not.

I kept the lie going the entire time.

I tried on clothes and talked about how difficult it was to film all day.

I browsed the sale rack and told her how hard it was to memorize all those lines.

I waltzed out of that store with all traces of Mr. Washington gone. And just because I was feeling crazy, I looked at my watch, saw that it was 2:27, and shouted over my shoulder:

And by the way, it’s 2:30!

I was high on lies and it felt AMAZING! I was crazy! CRAZY WITH MY LIES!

That all changed when I got back to Los Angeles.

I was sitting in my tax prepares office and she looked at me in surprise.

So, you didn’t make ANY money as an actor this year?

I feigned cheeriness.

Nope!

Not even $100?

No…not even $1.

Oh, okay…

I smiled through her quiet judgment and tried to push it aside.

I later ate my weight in ice cream.

And in my Cookies N’ Cream haze, I realized that I had lied to that Sales Assistant because I needed a lie for myself.

I needed to live – even for 5 minutes – in the world I was working so hard to create.

And sometimes that world can seem really far away.

It’s easy to lose hope in Los Angeles. It’s easy for people to point at you and say that you are not successful.

But when I think about my last year here, I would disagree with those people. I may not have made money – but I’ve gained ground.

I’ve managed to clear a little more of a path for myself.

And I’ve managed to not give up one ounce of hope.

And that’s no lie.

I Better Have More Fun...

I am my father’s (and mother’s) daughter.

I am literally almost an exact blend of both their personalities and features. If you knew my family well, you could find distinct qualities of both my parents and my grandparents in me.

I’m not one of those kids who people think, “Where did that kid come from.” I clearly came from the Bollingberg/Runck lineage. (How is that for some last names!?)

I have been approached in public on two occasions by people I have never met and asked if I was Kim or Del Mari’s daughter. (I am.)

I have my father’s eyes (and his sense of humor.) I have my mother’s smile (and her determination to succeed.) I can thank Grandma Hopwood for my hair and Grandma Lottie Mae for the shape of my body (sometimes ‘thanking’ her is bit difficult.)

I’m sure you're saying, “We don’t care about your genes! Where is this going?”

I’m getting there!

As most of you know, I recently dyed my hair. I understand that people dye their hair all the time. But in my family, it was a crisis.

When I sent my mother photos she said the following.

You're not my little girl anymore.

In her defense, she said it in a sad, reflective way – not a bitter “cutting-me-out-of-the-will” kind of way.

There are no blonds in the family. We breed redheads or the ever-popular “dish-water brown” haired kids. Despite my predominantly Norwegian heritage (Uff-da) there is no place for golden locks in our tribe.

Which explains the outrage, the begging to change it back, the spontaneous – and sometimes hurtful – comments. (One person went so far as to say, “I just can’t get over looking at you and thinking ‘dumb’.”)

But, my agent likes it. As does my Manager (PS: Just signed with a manager…more on that later.)

So, I’m keeping it for a while. Sorry, Mom. And Dad. And Aunt Beth and Uncle Tim and Grandma and Grandpa Hopwood, and the little boy I nanny who said my hair was “too light.”

It’s staying. At least for a while….

(This one says, "I could beat you in Small Claims Court.")

Headshots taken by Amber Bella Photography.