Hollywood Hotdish

Small Town Girl

2013-12-31T12:00:00.001-08:00

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.

"The Exes"

2013-12-31T11:57:00.003-08:00

A few weeks ago I filmed my first sitcom.

I’m going to be honest and say it was pretty exciting to just write that sentence.

It was even more exciting because this was a role I never thought I would play. “Ashely” was described as a “sexy, party-girl.”

I usually play that kind of girl’s nerdy, socially awkward, best friend.

But I tapped into that one time in college when my roommates and I threw a giant party (before I cried and left the house) and it went well. The producers must have thought so too because a week later I was walking onto the set of “The Exes” (watch it on TVLand!)

I was led to my dressing room and greeted by the cast (people I have watched and admired on TV for years.) I looked around at the cameras, the crew, the actors and I couldn’t help but remember the very first time I was ever on a studio lot. The very first time I ever auditioned for a big role. The very first time I ever came close to my dream.

And it hadn’t been like this at all.

I had just signed with my new manager and it was my first network audition. Before that, I had only been auditioning for student films and films that made sure to start every audition with the words, “we can’t pay you but…”

So I wanted everything to go perfectly.

The morning of the audition I rehearsed and rehearsed. I had chosen the perfect outfit - a salmon colored dress with short sleeves - and decided exactly how to wear my hair. But as I stood in my pre-planned outfit reciting my lines, I happened to glance in the mirror and realized my perfect dress highlighted something unfortunate: My sweaty arm pits.

I panicked. Changing my dress was not an option. I had planned on this dress after trying and rejecting everything else in my closet.

My audition was in an hour and I needed a solution immediately. Just before I thought I might have to go buy a new dress, I remembered something.

A minute later I was digging through my bathroom drawer. Finally, I pulled out exactly what I was looking for: Maxi-Pads.

I had read that you could use the pads to line the armpits of a dress. Plus, it said right there on the package they had “moisture-locking protection.” It was perfect.

As I crossed onto the Warner Brothers lot I was confident. I knew my lines, I had on the perfect dress, and I had moisture-free armpits.

I strolled to my audition and I noticed that everyone was being incredibly kind to me. An important looking man held the door, a producer I knew waved kindly at me, a a complete stranger said hello. If this was what big-time Hollywood was like, I thought, sign me up.

A few minutes before my audition I ducked into the bathroom to do a final check.

Teeth – check! Hair – check! Make-up – check! Armpits -

I stopped.

ARMPITS.

There, hanging out of the sleeve of my dress was one of the bright pink maxi-pads.

I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t even look at myself.

This was why people had been so nice to me. This was why people had smiled at me with, what I know realized, was sympathy - not kindness.

I stood there, staring at myself in the mirror, humiliated.

But now, as I stood in my dressing room about to film my scenes for “The Exes” I thought back to that day, almost three years ago.

I realized none of that mattered.

I may never be the girl who has it all together, who doesn’t get nervous and who never makes mistakes. I am not the sexy, party-girl with the perfect hair and the perfectly dry armpits.

But I play one on TV.

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

30

2013-12-31T11:55:00.003-08:00

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.

Lard

2013-12-31T11:50:00.002-08:00

Nothing makes me miss the Midwest like autumn.

Growing up, I loved the crisp air, changing leaves, and trying to figure out how to hide my snow pants under my Cinderella Halloween costume.

Here in Los Angeles, it has been 90 degrees for the last week and autumn colors are only found on ad campaigns for Bloomingdales, not on actual trees.

This always makes me a little sad, so to fight the melancholy (and for my boyfriend’s birthday) I decided to do something that always gets me in the fall spirit: Bake a pie.

I dug out my grandma’s piecrust recipe and headed to the local grocery store for the ingredients. Now, if the women in my family have taught me one thing, it’s that you cannot make a decent piecrust without lard.

After a few unsuccessful attempts at finding this essential ingredient, I finally decided to call ahead to the next store to save myself a trip.

“Hi, I was just calling to check if you sold lard?”

There was a long pause at the end of the line. Finally, the grocer responded.

“Um, how do you spell that?”

“Lard. L-A-R-D. Like, animal fat.”

There was another long, much more judgmental, pause.

“…No, we definitely don’t have anything like that.”

I hung up the phone and was so frustrated that when I finally did find L-A-R-D (at a specialty grocery store hidden behind their last lamb chop) I had to resist the urge to hold it over my head and give some kind of Midwest war cry.

After that, I was on a mission. I was determined to have a lard-filled Midwest-style fall, despite the obstacles. I wore scarves and leggings, I drank hot pumpkin spice lattes and defiantly put a pumpkin on my porch to wither in the sun.

In the midst of my fervor, I decided I needed a garden. A garden would make me feel better, a garden would remind me of late autumn nights with my mom. I pulled on my heavy black boots and my wool scarf and headed out into the 90-degree heat.

Two hours later, I was on my way back. I breathed in the scent of my back seat – beet plants, peas, winter tomatoes, and the flowers that reminded me of the farm.

It felt good. It felt right. If I closed my eyes to the palm trees I could almost imagine I was home.

As I came over a hill, my breath caught in my throat. From the top of the street, I could see the ocean sparkling in the sun. It was beautiful, and stunning, and something I could only get in Los Angeles.

I pulled my car over and stared at the sea. I sat there with the sun on my face and realized that what I was actually trying to recreate wasn’t about autumn at all. It wasn’t about the changing leaves or the pies or even the weather. What I missed, what I sometimes felt desperate for, was the community. The traditions that made me feel a part of something bigger – that made me feel at home.

Sometimes mourning so deeply for things from the past stops you from seeing the future that is sparkling right in front you.

I felt something inside me unlock and I pulled off my scarf and boots and rolled down the windows so I could breathe in the ocean. The salty air mixed with the smell of tomato plants and I smiled. This was something new and different – and it was just as lovely.

I drove home feeling lighter. I had fall vegetables in my car, I had the ocean in front of me, and in my freezer were pie crusts made from lard.

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

Love Life

2013-12-31T11:47:00.001-08:00

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.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia

2013-12-31T11:43:00.000-08:00

Two years after moving to Los Angeles to become a writer and an actor I became a server.

I had been working full-time at a technology company but as my auditions started to pick up I had to find a job that was more flexible. So I left my comfortable, salaried position, in a nice office with nice people and started to wait tables at an Italian restaurant.

When I tied on that apron for the first time I felt like I was doubling down on my dreams. It felt good – like I was proving to myself that I was willing to do anything to succeed. I was not out in LA to have a career at a technology company but to do something I had dreamed about since I was a little girl and waiting tables would allow me to do that.

Sure, I had two bachelors’ degrees and wasn’t going to be using them but I was determined to stay positive. Serving wouldn’t be so bad – and think of all the fun new people I was going to meet!

That was three years ago.

These days that technology company is looking better and better.

The noble notion of ‘doing anything for my career’ has worn off a little and it’s a lot more difficult to keep my chin up. True, I am closer to my dreams. But it’s also true that I am not close enough to quit my “day job.”

And I really want to.

A few weeks ago, I waited on four gentlemen in their early sixties and when I went up to their table for the first time I said what I always say.

“Hi gentleman. Welcome. My name is Jessica and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

I said my name a few more times throughout their dinner and at the end of the night, as they walked out of the restaurant, I opened the door and thanked them for coming.

One of the men patted my arm, looked right into my eyes and said sincerely, “Thank you so much, Marcia.”

Marcia.

Not even ‘Jennifer’ or ‘Ashley’ or any other common top-five girl name from the early 1980s.

I didn’t even correct him but just grinned and said, “You are SO welcome.”

A few days later, over some cocktails, I related this story to some of my friends. When I got to the big finish, instead of laughing, a giant lump rose in my throat and before I knew it I was crying into my gin martini.

I wasn’t upset about a stranger forgetting my name after too many glasses of wine. I was upset about the fact that I was still in a position where a stranger could forget my name after a few glasses of wine.

I moved to Los Angeles to write and act, not to wait tables and while I am lucky to have a job, there are times when the giant leap I took moving here can feel like a big mistake. Like I landed so far from my goals that I might not get there at all.

I’m embarrassed and tired. And worst of all, I feel a little like a failure.

A failure who knows entirely too much about Italian cheese and wine.

The next morning I woke up with puffy eyes, a massive headache, and an email from my manager. I had an audition.

With that simple email, I felt a little hope – hope that’s easy to lose in plates of pasta and demanding customers – creep back in.

That night at work I tied my apron on tightly, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. This will not be forever. This is temporary. This is a choice that I’m making because that’s how much I’m willing to bet on myself.

Because I believe – I have to believe – that one day my customers are going to turn on their TVs or open a book and see my face.

And they’ll think to themselves, “Wow. Marcia really made it.”

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

18 People - One Bathroom

2013-12-31T11:39:00.001-08:00

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

2013-07-12T23:49:00.003-07:00

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

2013-07-12T23:42:00.001-07:00

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

2013-07-12T23:37:00.004-07:00

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

2013-05-07T09:41:00.000-07:00

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

2012-12-31T16:45:00.000-08:00

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

2012-04-26T19:29:00.000-07:00

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.

A Red, Shiny Kind of Love

2012-02-14T08:32:00.000-08:00

As a kid, being in love was gross and candy was awesome.

Which is why I loved Valentine’s Day. There was so much free candy and very little thought given to all that yucky love business.

 But now that I’m older, love seems a lot less gross and candy a lot more harmful to my calorie count.

Which is really a bummer since I’m single and have access to a lot of candy.

This week, as Valentine’s Day approached, I tried to keep my head up. I tried to tell myself this was a fake holiday designed to sell cards. I tried to convince myself that I was going to make it about love in general (for my friends, for my family, for my apartment that has wood floors) but I just wasn’t feeling it.

 I was alone and it was a little sad.

Pass the candy.

By last night I had become officially bitter. After waiting on countless couples at the restaurant (who were beating the Valentine’s Day rush by dining out the night before) I was done. A girl can only gush about what a “cute couple you are” so many times before she wants to drown herself in a sea of chocolate-covered sea salt caramels.

Luckily I had those waiting at home.

As I left work, I remembered I had planned to make cookies to give to a few people for Valentine’s Day. Baking always makes me feel better and in a last desperate attempt to salvage this bunk holiday I turned into the nearest grocery store to get a few ingredients.

I pushed past people buying last minute boxed candy and teddy bears, becoming increasingly annoyed.

Stupid day. Stupid hearts. Stupid candy. STUPID LOVE!

I grabbed my milk and Crisco and headed for check out.

 I glanced at the person ahead of me in line. He was buying one thing.

A 2-liter bottle of Vodka.

Apparently I wasn’t the only person feeling lonely.

The man behind me was also purchasing one thing: A vase of roses with a stuffed bear hanging on it.

I felt my heart lurch but tried to cover it with much more comfortable bitter thoughts.

He’s clearly not really in love because he’s buying last minute. Who would want a teddy bear anyway? He is just feeding into the scam that is this stupid holiday.

But the roses were nice. In fact, they were beautiful. I had to swallow an urge not to stick out my nose and smell them.

 The man caught my eye and smiled. I smiled and turned away, focusing back on my Crisco and my disillusion. I paid and walked to my car thinking I too should have bought a giant bottle of vodka.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

It was the man who had bought the teddy bear. He was waving to me vigorously from the sidewalk.

Had I forgotten something? Had he come to shove the stupid gift in my face one more time? I stopped in the middle of the street and he ran up to my car.

Everything my mother had ever told me about strange men approaching my car ran through my head.

 This is how a mugging begins. He is going to wield a knife and I’m going to be on the news as the dumb girl who stopped for America’s Most Wanted Felon.

I opened my window just a hair.

Yes?

I am so sorry to bother you.

He spoke with a slight Eastern European accent.

It’s okay. Did I forget something?

No, no. I just…well. I am driving my motorcycle and so I can’t take this with me.

He pulled out a heart shaped helium balloon, the shiny kind that you can see yourself in.

I just wanted to give it to you…as a gift to say Happy Valentine’s Day.

I was surprised as I reached out to take the balloon. There was nothing sinister in the way he said it. Nothing overtly sexual or romantic. It was just…nice.

I rolled down my window a little more and he smiled and handed it to me.

I hope you have a very happy day tomorrow.

He ran back across the street and after a few shocked moments, I drove away with my shiny balloon.

After awhile, I started to smile. Grin actually. As my heart-shaped balloon bounced beside me I wondered what had possessed him to do such a thing.

Had he noticed that I was feeling lonely? Was there something in the way I looked at his roses that was a bit too full of longing?

The more I thought of it the more I smiled.

As I climbed my apartment steps, I it occurred to me that he hadn’t had the balloon when he was standing in line. Which meant that he bought it after I left. And furthermore, he obviously knew that he drove a motorcycle so why buy the balloon in the first place?

The more I mulled it over the more I realized - he had specifically purchased the balloon for me.

Maybe he thought I needed cheering up. Maybe he thought I needed to be reminded that this holiday can be about small, simple acts of love.

Whatever the reason, his little bit of kindness had warmed my heart.

That night, as I happily cut out cupid-shaped cookies, I smiled knowing that there are lots of versions of love alive in this city.

There is the kind of love that makes you spend your whole life with someone.

And then there’s the kind of love that makes you give a lonely stranger a red, shiny, heart-shaped balloon.

 This year, I’m celebrating that kind of love.

Reviewed

2012-01-28T11:59:00.000-08:00

Book Club received a bad review.

(It took me three shots of vodka to be able to write that sentence.)

Some of you may have heard me talk about, promote, Facebook, email, Tweet, shout from the window of my Yaris to the homeless man picking through the garbage, to WATCH BOOK CLUB!

(You can watch it here on Hulu!)

I’ve been obsessed with getting people to watch and (hopefully) love it.

 Well, somebody didn’t.

(More vodka!)

This person was a stranger with access to a small blog about ‘true bibliophiles’ (something Book Club, according to her, is not.)

Noah found it last night when I was at work. Between serving beef carpaccio to millionaires I would sneak back into the coatroom and read snippets of her blog in which this random woman tears my little show apart.

At first I was angry. (Just ask table twelve when they asked for more cheese.)

How dare she!? Does she not know that I worked for THREE YEARS on this?? That this project kept me from leaving Los Angeles, that I spent thousands of dollars of my own money, countless days of my life, and put my heart and soul into this project. Does she not realize how amazing our cast and crew was to work with? How many people gave up so much of their time???

And then I realized it.

No. Of course she doesn’t.

And she shouldn’t be expected to.

Because it doesn’t matter.

We were brave enough to create something. Put something out there, and welcome anyone’s feelings about it, good or bad.

When Book Club was first in my head it was safe. It was protected from the world and its opinions. It would have been easy to keep it like that, never forcing it out and exposing it to people who might hate it.

But that’s not who we are. We are much braver than that.

And as much as I hate to say this, she is welcome to her opinion.

But I am welcome to mine too.

And I think Book Club is fabulous.

FABULOUS.

A large part of me would like to attack this person personally to see if I can make her feel like I did when I first read it. But that’s not who I am.

(But if it was, I would suggest to her that if you are going to write a bad review about something, you should get the name of the main character right. It’s MARLO not Harlo.)

The more I read the review, and re-read it, and then printed it out and wallpapered my walls with it, I started to realize something.

I don’t agree with her. In fact, I think she missed the whole point entirely.

And my opinion matters just as much.

She seemed to have wanted Book Club to be more about characters just sitting around reading. She wanted elitist bibliophiles in a real book club talking about the ‘right’ books. (Even the fact that she calls certain books the ‘right’ books tells me we are not on the same page.)

From the moment she criticized the ‘creatives behind the show’ for choosing a book (Ulysses) that no one would ever read in a ‘real’ book club because of its length, I knew she didn’t understand the show.

We tried to make a fun, silly, quirky, comedy. We wanted people to laugh, be engaged, and want to watch more.

We wanted everyone from non-readers to avid book lovers to love the show.

She’s right. This show is not just for elitist bibliophiles.

This is a comedy. It’s not going to be reality. That’s not what we wanted for it.

And I think she was looking for a serious show, which makes it obvious why she was so disappointed.

Because that’s not what it is.

And thank God because that show sounds boring.

In this business you have to have a tough skin.

I’ve never taken criticism that well. I think we all remember this incident.

But after reading the review for the twenty-second time I started to notice I was feeling something other than indignant.

I was relieved.

Because someone hated Book Club.

And miracle of all miracles I did not implode.

In fact, I’m still incredibly proud of it.

Her words don’t change the fact that my partners and I had an idea that we turned into a living breathing series on the biggest online network available.

And love it or hate it, you can’t take that away from us.

So I’ll tear down the words of her review that have been lining my heart all night and throw them away.

Because it doesn’t matter.

It’s inconsequential.

Now excuse me while I go find out where she lives.

Stars

2012-01-13T12:43:00.000-08:00

This week I had my stars read.

Don’t tell my grandfather or it will confirm that the ‘damn liberals’ have finally got me.

The reading was a Christmas present from my boss and the whole experience was much different than I thought it would be.

It was much less ‘woman-in-a-turban-reading-a-cracked-egg’ and much more like my reader was translating another language.

There was no guessing or card picking or palm reading. It was just based on facts.

Meaning, she simply looked at where the planets were at the exact time and place of my birth and gleaned meaning from those locations.

I was shocked at the accurateness of it all.

When I was a little girl, between the hole digging and the gymnastics, I thought a lot about my place in the world.

I wasn’t out on my roof with a crystal ball, but I was constantly aware that my life seemed…brace yourself…. pre-destined.

(Grandpa, it’s those ‘liberal commies’ talking again.)

 In other words, I never felt like I was a mistake.

So, as I listened to a virtual stranger describe my inner soul better than I could have, I had an incredible feeling of validation.

Like I’d been right all these years. That I’m on a course I was meant for.

Sometimes in Los Angeles it feels a bit like I am floating around aimlessly. Trying to pay my bills, trying to book a job, trying not to dump wine onto a poor-tipping elderly woman.

But to believe that I have some kind of purpose, some kind of destiny, is reassuring in this shaky city.

The main piece of advice that stuck with me through the reading, the thing I thought about a lot today when I went to yet another audition for a ‘quirky blonde girl’ was this:

Lately you probably feel like you are banging your head against a brick wall. But you need to step back, look up at the wall and surrender. Just know that this is where you are supposed to be right now.

I think the universe has a wicked sense of humor if it thinks ‘where I’m supposed to be right now’ is eating cereal for dinner on my bed and trying to figure out if by ‘FINAL NOTICE’ the power company really just means ‘Happy New Year.'

But okay. I surrender. I will accept that this is where I need to be.

After all, it’s written in my stars.

My ‘Communist, liberal, peace-loving’ stars.

Chez Moi

2012-01-03T13:37:00.000-08:00

It was a long year.

I'm pretty sure 2011 was specifically designed to see how much stress I could handle, how many call-backs I could get without getting cast, and how many times I could utter the phrase, I can't afford it.

(Answers: A lot, about 18, and every single day.)

The last blow was the LA arsonist. Nothing says goodbye 2011 like fifty fires (two around my apartment) in three days.

Bring on 2012! End of days here we come!

One of my resolutions this year is to enjoy my life more. If you know me you might think that sounds silly but to be honest I've been a little low these last few months.

And I have so much to be thankful for.

So this year, I am pledging to take stock of how lucky I am and really try to notice the beauty that's all around me.

That, and wear more earrings.

Hey, a girl has to have priorities.

And since I'm seriously considering moving to Santa Monica this year, I thought I would start with acknowledging just how thankful I am to have my apartment.

It was our two year anniversary in December.

I celebrated by almost paying my rent on time.

This little place has been just right for me. I feel lucky every time I walk in the door.

So...with the help of my iPhone and some serious Instagram action I wanted to share why I'm so thankful.

Happy New Year!

Believe

2011-12-20T10:33:00.000-08:00

As a kid, I believed in Santa much longer than was socially acceptable.

I was in fifth grade when I learned for sure that Santa didn’t exist.

It was during a lesson about the difference between fact and fiction when my teacher looked up and rocked my world.

I don’t want anyone to burst into tears here fifth graders but I think we all know there is no Santa Claus.

Just like that.

As if this wasn’t the most shocking news I’d heard since I’d learned in Health class what a ‘red light’ touch meant.

I stared at her as tunnel vision started to overtake me.

As I white-knuckled my desk, I glanced around at my classmates who were joking and rolling their eyes as if to say, DUH.

I was clearly the only one who didn’t know.

My friend, Ashley Getslaff (who, incidentally, was also the first person to tell me about condoms) turned to me and scoffed.

How old does she think we are? 8??

I agreed and laughed a little too loudly.

Yeah. It’s not like we’re babies!

But truly, I was heartbroken.

Now, it’s not like I hadn’t had my suspicions. The year before I had done some serious handwriting analysis comparing a note from Santa to my mother’s signature on a check.

(It was inconclusive.)

But this was different. This was a cold hard fact from a teacher. And they knew everything.

 That night, I took a big dramatic breath, and confronted my mother.

Mom. Is Santa real? Just tell me. I can take it.

She smiled kindly and I could see it coming. She was giving me her ‘I’m going to let my overly-imaginative and underly-cynical daughter down easy’ smile.

Honey…Santa is more of a feeling…kind of the spirit of Christmas. It’s in your heart.

Well, that confirmed it.

The hell with what’s in my heart, I wanted a jolly elderly gentleman to bring me gifts!

That Christmas, when I raced down to see what "Santa" had brought me I noticed it didn't feel as fun. I stared at the cookie crumbs from the cookies I had half-heartedly left out the night before and realized grumpily that I had just wasted those cookies on my parents.

For years I had been begging to be treated like an adult and finally, when I was, I didn’t want it anymore.

I felt silly. Young.

I had figured the whole Santa thing was a sham but I had just wanted so badly for the magic to be true.

Wanted something that special and mysterious to actually exist in this world.

Eventually I got over it and replaced the mystery of Santa with the mystery of boys.

And now I’m in LA carving out a career that’s all about making people believe a different kind of fictitious magic.

This year when the holiday season rolled around I just wasn’t feeling it.

There was no snow, no homemade stockings, not even an angel for the top of the tree that my brother and I could fight over.

I was just working, auditioning, and sitting in traffic – just like every other day in Los Angeles.

Then last week, someone honked at me for no apparent reason and I screamed with venom out my open window, LAY OFF! IT’S CHRISTMAS!!!!

That was it. I needed some holiday joy.

Enter: Naples Island in Long Beach.

My friend Katie had told Noah and I about this magical island last year. Every house sits facing the canal ala Venice, Italy. Every year, for the holidays, they decorate their houses magnificently.

We’re talking, professional lights and themes.

Anyone can come and wander the paths through the canals, taking in the view.

So a few friends and I got together and headed over. From the moment we crossed the bridge into Naples I knew this was what I needed. It was impossible to resist the magic of this place.

We walked and walked, sipping our hot (and spiked) holiday drinks and oohing and awwing at the displays.

And then I felt it.

It was that feeling of joy and a little bit of wonder that I had always felt about Christmas and namely, Santa.

I looked around at my friends, laughing and skipping from one house to the next, and that magic started to creep back.

Who needs Santa when I had these people and this place?

This was Christmas.

And right there, surrounded by the ocean, twinkling lights, and my friends I put my practical, adult-self on hold for just a second and allowed myself to believe in a little magic.

Thanksgiving Is So L.A.

2011-12-08T11:17:00.000-08:00

This year for Thanksgiving the police came and we had a kitchen fire.

In other words, just a typical day.

Since I moved to Los Angeles (three-and-a-half years ago) I have only been able to go home once for Thanksgiving. Instead, with a few friends from college, we have forged our own tradition, trying as hard as we can to bring the comfort of the Midwest to Hollywood.

And by comfort I mean lots of butter and ‘salads’ with cookies in them.

One of my friends has a home and a little boy so we all headed over to his house this year to cook, eat, and (let’s be honest) drink lots of wine.

The police came right at the beginning of our day. Someone had hit my friend Ben’s parked car so hard that it had shattered the bumper.

Let me say that again.

Ben’s car was PARKED. But the woman still managed to hit his car so hard that it slammed into the car in front of him and also SHATTERED HIS BUMPER.

Did I mention this was in a residential area?

The police came, we gave them cookies, and they gave the woman a ticket.

After that, I figured we were done with drama for the day.

I was wrong.

About an hour later, as I was idly stirring gravy over the stove and contemplating if I should abandon my wine and move on to hard liquor, I started to smell something that didn’t fit in with the savory stuffing aroma or the distinct cinnamon smell of the pie.

No…it smelled like…plastic? Burning plastic?

I looked down.

There, burning below me were flames.

A LOT OF FLAMES.

Someone had placed a ladle between the gas burners. The ladle had caught fire which had then caught the plastic child-splatter guard on fire.

I kept calm.

FIRE!!!!! THERE’S A FIRE!!! GUYS!! FIRE!!!!!

I picked up the flaming ladle and ran to the sink. Someone else broke off the flaming child safety guard and did the same thing. The whole kitchen filled with smoke.

Yep, it was definitely time to move to hard liquor.

Despite the police and the flames, we finally made it to dinner.

And it was delicious.

We might not have pulled it off as flawlessly as my family had always seemed to do, but the end result was just as lovely.

That night, after we had let the food settle, a few of us took turns jumping on their family trampoline.

 It was dark, and the ocean made the air wet and chilly. It almost…almost…felt like fall in North Dakota. And as I jumped and jumped I thought about traditions.

When I moved to LA I had to walk away from my grandmother’s Thanksgiving desserts and my cousins’ annual backyard Thanksgiving football game.

And I realized, that first Thanksgiving away, that it was up to me to make new memories in this new place.

That if I was really going to try and call this place home, I needed to put down some roots. Let go of how much I wished I was home, and embrace the fact that I'm not.

That night, on the trampoline, I looked around at my friends and into the warm house where some were still eating pie and I thought, we did it.

We created something that I look forward to every year. We created a whole new tradition in a whole new place.

It might be messy and filled with too much wine and too little snow but it's ours.

And I am so thankful.

Guy Fawkes Day

2011-11-19T20:35:00.000-08:00

As a kid, I hated Guy Fawkes.

Probably much less than the English but I’m fairly certain I’m the only American six-year-old who carried around bitter feelings toward a 17th century English rebel.

I think I must have come across the story of Mr. Fawkes in one of those “See What Happened on Your Birthday” postcards they have at trinket stores. I found November 5, hoping to learn that it was the day Cabbage Patch Dolls had been invented or that I shared a birthday with Punky Brewster.

Instead, I learned that an English mad man had tried to blow up the House of Lords.

And now he gets his own day. With bonfires.

This was clearly a direct snub against my birthday.

After all, this was my day. It seemed ludicrous to me that someone was trying to take that away.

Every year I would do a mental comparison of my birthday against the festivities of the English National Holiday.

I soon learned that bowling at Safari Lanes and dinner at Paradiso did not compare to a nationwide celebration.

 It was clearly a stacked deck.

Eventually, somewhere in my early teens, I let the whole thing go and replaced it with excitement for my first boy-girl birthday, asking for Dock Martins, and deciding what color of corduroy pants I would wear that day.

But a few weeks ago, when I mentioned my birthday was approaching, someone recited the famous rhyme about Guy Fawkes Day.

Remember remember the fifth of November.

It got me thinking about my childhood obsession.

How devastated it made me to imagine that someone else outdid me every year.

Nowadays, although I love my birthday, I am constantly aware that maybe it’s a little silly.

In fact, I usually wish something would take away the pressure I feel for the day to be all about me.

It seems that somewhere along the line to adulthood we are taught that we’re too old, too mature to get a day all to ourselves.

Like we don’t deserve it.
 
So this year, on my birthday, I tried to push away the uncomfortable thoughts. And when I looked around at my mom, who had flow all the way from Minnesota to be with me, and my friends, drinking wine and listening to music in the warm Malibu sun, I didn’t feel uncomfortable at all.
 
In fact, I felt really lucky.

I spend every day as an actor and a writer trying to get people to pay more attention to me. To watch this or look at that. To cast me, hire me, or buy my show.

And there, sitting with me in the grass, were people who already think I’m special.

Who already think that I’m worth celebrating.

And that’s not silly at all. It’s just lovely.

As for Guys Fawkes, I think I can finally say it.

I win.

Calloused

2011-11-08T12:35:00.000-08:00

On my right hand I have a callus that reminds me of third grade.

That year, I had watched the Summer Olympics religiously and decided I wanted to be a gymnast. But more than that, I knew what gymnastic move I wanted to do more than any other. It was simple really. No flips, no crazy kicks, no acts of balance.

I wanted to fly.

Let go of the bars completely, and float through the air catching the other bar just in the nick of time.

I’d seen gymnasts do it all summer. How hard could it be?

When I returned to school in the fall I was ready.

Ready to become the Shannon Miller of my third grade class.

I practiced all through recess and at the end of the day I figured it was time. After all, I had practiced an ENTIRE RECESS.

In my eight-year-old head that seemed like most of my life.

I rubbed sand on my hands to get rid of unwanted palm sweat– something I’d seen Shannon do before she attempted the uneven bars. I ignored that she was actually rubbing special chalk on her hands while I was grinding sharp pebbles into mine.

Minor details.

I surveyed the bars.

There was a problem. The skinny ones I had been practicing on seemed too close together.   I would not get any air, any real sense of flying, if I let go in between those two bars.
 Then I had a brilliant idea.

I would use the thick outside bars (the ones used to keep the skinny ones together.)

Never mind the fact that those two bars were so big I could hardly get my little hands around them.   Again, minor details.

I jumped up, gripped the thick metal as well as I could and started to swing my legs.

The faster I swung, the better chance I knew I had of catching the bar. (The bar that suddenly seemed really far away.)

I swung harder.

When I swung back for the fourth time and was almost parallel to the ground I knew it was now or never.

I let go.

I was doing it! I was flying towards that other bar just like the gymnasts!

I stretched my arms as far as they could go. The bar got closer and I could feel my fingertips brush the cool metal.

But that was all they did.

Brush the metal.

 Despite my diligent and focused twenty minute practice, as my body (still parallel to the ground) headed for the hard sharp sand below I had the sinking feeling that maybe I should have given it one more recess.

I hit the ground like a plank, my arms still reaching for that elusive metal bar.

The wind instantly left my little body and my teeth bit down hard into my lip as my chin hit the sand.

I lay there for a moment – shocked that I was not as talented as Shannon Miller.

And then the tears started, not so much for my bleeding lip or my inability to catch my breath, but for the frustration that twenty minutes of practice had not been enough.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

Twenty years later, it’s the same here in Los Angeles.

Success in this town is harder than I thought.

Which brings me to something else that was harder than I thought.

Season 1 of Book Club is going to premiere on Hulu!

Finally.

Finally all of our (and many other peoples’) hard work is paying off.

It could not have come at a better time.

 Lately, I’d been moping around getting bitter that things weren’t happening faster.

That I wasn’t getting any younger and that my apartment wasn't getting any bigger or closer to the ocean.

But although it was difficult, I would not have had this success any other way.

Just like falling on my face taught me in third grade that if I wanted something, I needed to work at it.

That year, I practiced so much that the inside of my palms started to resemble an eighty-year-old farmer’s. My calluses were large, thick and a point of pride. I would wave them around when people doubted my dedication or abilities.
 
They were my battle scars.

I hadn’t minded the calluses in third grade, when I was working towards being the monkey bar champion so why should I mind them now, when I’m working towards the life I want to live?

Instead of feeling bitter that things aren’t happening faster, I should be proud of the work I am doing. The calluses I am building up that are making me stronger.

Even though I never tried to attempt the flying leap again, I got really good at the monkey bars.

And years later, after building up some serious calluses in Hollywood, I got something even better than ultimate success on the monkey bars.
 
I got one callus closer to my dream.

Smothered

2011-10-29T10:14:00.000-07:00

My friend was at an audition recently and the director interrupted her halfway through the read.

I feel like you have a lot of joy within you.

She smiled and heartily agreed.

He grimaced.

Okay, I’m going to need you to bury that.

When she related this story to me over drinks a few nights ago, I laughed. What a brilliant way to sum up what (if you’re not careful) Los Angeles can do to you.

But I’m starting to think it’s not so funny.

I’ve changed since I’ve moved here – I feel…older.

Sometimes, it’s a good feeling.

- I now know how many margaritas I can have before it turns ugly.
- I have now haggled for and purchased my own car.
- I’ve realized that not every one has to like me and I can still consider myself a nice person. (Right? RIGHT!?!)

But I’ve noticed that with all of this good change, there is one very specific thing I have to constantly keep track of to make sure it never disappears…

A strong belief in myself.

And to be honest, it’s been hard lately.

About a month ago, I listened to a speaker talk about dreams. Among the many smart things he said, one line in particular stuck with me.

When did it become okay to stop believing that our dreams will come true?

I sat there, staring up at him and felt tears forming. I was shocked I was having such a strong emotional reaction to a seemingly simple question. But judging from the amount of snot flowing out of my nose, this was a question I related to.

When I was a kid, a teenager, and even an early-twenty-something I had no problem with this. I would write things in my journal like “Someday my dream is happening” or “I just KNOW it…I can just FEEL it” or “They just couldn’t see past my giant glasses to my raw talent!”

But lately, I’ve noticed a certain absence of those sentiments.

The older I get, the more I realize there are some people who look at me and think it’s time to give up this ‘crazy’ dream of mine. That, as I inch towards my late late twenties I should start thinking of other (read: more practical) things to do with my life.

And ashamedly, in my weaker moments, I’ve thought they might be right.

But they’re not.

It was just easier to believe in myself when I was younger- when nothing smothered that belief like money issues, countless no’s, and (pointing the finger at myself here) doubt.

But despite the fact that I'm turning a whole year older next week, I'm hanging on.

With my crazy dreams. And my crazier stories.

But especially with my crazy joy that (much like my friend’s) will not be smothered.

Bingo

2011-10-18T16:49:00.001-07:00

Last week I won $50 playing Black-Out Bingo at the Senior Citizens Center.

A few days before I had suffered from mild heat stroke in my scarf and high boots as I refused to believe the weather was not the lovely, Midwest Fall I so desperately wanted it to be.

When I found out it was going to be 101 degrees last Wednesday I knew it was time for me to get out of town.

So, Noah (whose refusal to turn on his air conditioner made him almost as desperate as I was) and I packed a bag and headed for greener (and cooler) pastures. Enter, Big Bear, California where it dipped below 40 degrees every night.

After a winding, uphill battle for the Yaris, we arrived in beautiful – no, stunning – Big Bear. The mountains, the lake, the weather, the lack of honking cars! It was everything we had imagined.

If I squinted just right and ignored the BMWs, faux-fur jackets, and eight-pound lap dogs it almost felt like we were in the Midwest.

There were so many options of things to do, so many ways to soak up the local culture. We could hike, boat, visit the local shops, or walk through leaves. The options were endless but we knew the moment we saw the flyer taped to the door of the Tourism Building what we were going to do.

BINGO.

With the elderly.

The Big Bear Senior Citizens Center was hosting a four-hour game of Bingo and there was no place we would have rather been.

When we walked into the Center the two older gentlemen at the ticket booth looked at us skeptically. When we told them we were not lost but here to play Bingo I thought they were going to fall off their chairs and break a hip.

They eagerly explained the game and ushered us inside like we were royalty. They proudly showed us where we could get a boiled hotdog or some Folgers coffee.

The smell of sterile band aids, Aqua Net, and boiled meat reminded me of visitors day at the nursing home in Jamestown when I would go see my great-grandmother.
I squeezed Noah’s hand excitedly and whispered in his ear.

We’re home!!

As soon as we sat down we were surrounded by people making sure we had everything we needed, explaining to us how ‘Crazy Ts” and “Postage Stamp” Bingo work. Noah and I were overwhelmed with the kindness and the attention.

By the time the game got underway I was ready.

I had by dobber, I had my cards, and I had the moral support of seemingly every person in the building. I may not have been as serious as the woman who brought in her own Bingo podium (with an attached fan to keep her cool) but I was set to win.

A few games in I noticed two things:

- Beverly was on a winning streak.

- The woman sitting one table away was staring at me.

Now, Beverly had the animosity of most of the crowd so I didn’t worry about her. But the other woman was starting to unnerve me.

Every time I glanced up she stared, smiling as if I was the neatest thing to come to Big Bear since electricity. She was probably eighty with a blonde poof of hair in the front and the rest of her head dyed shock-red. I admired her style but wished she would stop staring.

Then, suddenly, she was beside me.

I don’t mean to bother you. Are you enjoying the game?

I smiled and assured her I was having a blast. She smiled again.

Well, I was going to ask for your autograph but… that’s probably silly.

I stopped dobbing my free spaces and looked up at her, taken aback.

You want MY autograph?

She nodded eagerly.

Well, you are HER, right? You are Taylor Swift!

Beside me, Noah snorted.

Oh…no. I’m not Taylor Swift. Sorry…

She was unfazed. As she started moving back to her seat for the next round, she winked at me like we were co-conspirators.

Okay, dear. Right. Mum’s the word.

Before I could say anything she was gone.

I looked at Noah, who shrugged.

Soon my attention was back to the game as my favorite kind of Bingo was up.

BLACK-OUT BINGO.

Immediately, I had every number called. I dobbed out half my card before I missed a number. I grabbed Noah’s arm and started to get excited.

I kept dobbing out numbers as my card became more and more full. Finally, I was ‘on’ (Bingo term for one number away.)

We must have been causing quite a stir because the people around us started noticing my excitement. They whispered to us and to others, asking if we were ‘on.’

Finally, as the ball rolled out of the machine I could see it was the one I wanted. I dug my fingers into Noah’s arm as the woman next to me kindly instructed me not to say anything until he called it or my Bingo would be invalid.

Finally, the caller said it.

B2.

BINGO!!!!

Noah and I leapt from our chairs and I held the winning card above my head.

Unlike the angry looks Beverly had received, everyone started clapping for us. Cheering as if they had all Bingoed too.

As the card checker read my card the blonde-haired/red-haired lady made her way over again. This time, with her camera.

She asked Noah to take a picture of her and I with my winning Bingo card. She smiled and squeezed my shoulder.

I can’t wait to send this to my granddaughter to show her that Taylor Swift plays Bingo too.

I gave up.

Yes, she will be so excited! Tell her I say hello.

When the games were all over and Noah and I made our way out of the building, we were stopped by countless people asking us if we could come tomorrow night for Bingo at the VFW or next week at the Eagles Club.

Finally in the car, the silence was punctuated by Noah who kept repeating one phrase.

They were so nice. Just…SO nice.

We both seemed shell-shocked at the kindness and warmth that the Big Bear Senior Citizens Center had showered on us.

When did it become shocking when someone was kind?

I realized that night, as I tucked my $50 safely into my purse, that I had told myself I was coming to Big Bear looking for Fall. But really, I had come looking for a reminder of home.

And I found, among the Bingo dobbers and the weak-coffee, the thing about home I actually missed.

A sense of community, a sense of joy, and the feeling that everyone was on your side.

It was refreshing to be surrounded by people who had lived longer than three decades and were proud of it.

Back in LA, I’m holding on to that feeling.

If I can feel that special and at peace among those people – I know I can feel it in Los Angeles too.

And Big Bear, for that, Taylor Swift thanks you.

Bombed

2011-10-11T17:09:00.001-07:00

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

2011-09-21T18:08:00.000-07:00

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.