I heard her loud and clear, but I didn’t have a boyfriend. I was content to bide my time until I could date. Meanwhile, I made the Tinley Park High cheerleading squad as a freshman, and I was looking ahead to being a sophomore as the year when my entire life would come together: I’d be a cheerleader, old enough to get my driver’s license, old enough to date, and finally able to wear makeup. Notice the missing concern: academics. I was a solid A-B student who could’ve done better. Drama was one of the classes where I did achieve outstanding marks. I always came to life when we read and performed plays.
We didn’t have a big theater department that put on annual school plays, but if we had, I’m sure I would’ve gone out for it. When I stepped into a character, even if we were just reading a play in class, I found it fun and exciting to get outside of myself and try to create the nuances of another person. I didn’t have the tools or life experience I’d bring to the job later, but I had a willing, outgoing attitude, so whatever emotion was required, whether it was laughter, tears, or love, I did my best and went for it.
As I looked ahead to tenth grade, I saw myself as poised to blossom. All of the hurts and hardships of adolescent awkwardness, at least from the vantage of my perch at age fifteen, seemed to be safely disappearing in the rearview mirror. Indeed, as I skipped into the future, life could not have been set up any better for me. However, as I’d repeatedly find out over the years, every time you think you have life aced, something causes the ground to shift, dust to fly, and your head to spin; and that’s what happened to me.
It was a first for me, and though I sound melodramatic now, back then I was only fifteen, and everything having to do with dating, cheerleading, appearances, and social standing involved melodrama. To be real, as in real honest, it was that time in your life when every matter seemed like life or death and I didn’t know how I was going to survive.
So embarrassing, looking back. But true.
4
MY DAD WORKED for Illinois Bell, the phone company, climbing power poles and repairing broken or downed wires. It was hard but good, dependable work, and for the eight or nine months of the year the weather was nice or tolerable, so was the job. But the Chicago winters are extremely harsh, some of the worst in the country, especially when the wind whips up and drives the freezing temperatures even lower, and in those conditions, my dad’s job sucked.
One weekend in the dead of winter while viewing a Battle of the Network Stars special, he watched enviously as the celebrities ran around in shorts and T-shirts. He called my mom into the room and pointed it out, as he did the sunshine, the palm trees, and the stars in their swimming suits. Yes, it was mid-January, and they were swimming in Southern California. For the next couple of months, he started every day by opening the newspaper and checking the temperatures in Los Angeles and San Diego. Then he compared them to Chicago.
As far as he was concerned, there was no comparison. Sunshine versus snow? Forget it. He wanted to move. If my mom had been adamantly opposed to uprooting the family and leaving the house they had painstakingly remade, my sister and I wouldn’t have known. They were a team, and they made the decision to move our family. I know it was hard for her, given we could drive in any direction and eventually run into family or friends. To her, Southern California had little to offer other than warmer weather. But she was supportive of my dad, and for my dad, who knew the pain of being pelted by razor-sharp sleet while working atop a telephone pole, that was more than enough.
Soon my parents flew out west and scoured Southern California for a nice, affordable place to raise two teenage girls. After a week, they returned and explained they’d found an area they liked near the ocean, a little surfing village called Oceanside. With my dad carrying the conversation, I looked at my mom and I was getting upset; I did not want to move to California. I ran to my bedroom, slammed the door, and fell onto my bed. For the first time, but not the last, I thought my life was over.
I wasn’t alone. My sister didn’t want to go, either (as an adult I learned that my mom also wasn’t crazy about the move, but I love how she supported my father and never showed her true feelings about it in front of us). That summer, with my dad having landed a job with a telephone start-up and full of the promise of a better quality of life for all of us, we traveled to Oceanside. We packed our belongings, sold our house, and traded our faux-fur-lined winter coats for flip-flops. However, it was anything but paradise. Because home prices were beyond our reach, we moved into an apartment that was smaller than our old house. Then, to complicate matters, my dad’s new company hit hard times and paychecks were unreliable.
As tension rose and the dinner table conversation somehow always tended toward the stability we’d left behind, Michelle and I tried out for the cheerleading team, and only one of us was selected. I would’ve preferred both of us had been chosen, but when it wasn’t me, I was devastated and wanted to get on the next plane to Chicago, which, of course, wasn’t possible.
But the situation hit rock bottom one day when I came home and didn’t see the car parked out front. My mom avoided my questions, but once my dad came home, the truth came out. Our car had been repossessed. I’ll never forget the look on my dad’s face as my mom broke the news to him. He turned white and seemed for the first time in my life incredibly vulnerable, and that made a severe impression on me. It was one thing to mope like a self-centered teenager missing her friends, but entirely different to see someone you loved and cared about appear as wounded as my dad did that evening.
He had withstood months of us bashing his decision to move, and I have no idea of the criticism he heard from my mom in private, but he finally looked as if he couldn’t take any more. His spirit was nearly broken, and as we knew, his self-confidence was already cracked, and I hated seeing that in my dad. Over the next few weeks, I overheard talks he had with my mom where he questioned his decisions and beat himself up pretty good. It hurt me to know that he was suffering. I wondered how much I’d contributed to his pain.
At that point, something in me snapped and suddenly I began to see things not just from my selfish point of view but also from his vantage, too. I didn’t understand it as well as I do now, but I saw the risk my dad had taken in getting a new job, moving us to Oceanside, and hoping to create a more comfortable life for all of us, and as I thought about what it must have taken to make that decision, to actually roll the dice, I admired him more than ever. The first eight months hadn’t worked out, but we weren’t finished. If you looked at it another way, we were, in fact, still just getting started.
Following this epiphany, I had several long, emotional conversations with my mom and sister, and all of us agreed we had to do something to make my dad feel better. We all promised to do something in our own way. Mine was straightforward. I sat next to him one night as he watched TV, gave him a hug, and said, “Dad, I know you’ve been worrying about us. Don’t worry anymore. We’re going to get through this.” I let him know that I was back on the team. “I know it’s hard, but Mom and Michelle and I all talked, and we’ll make it work.”
We did. My mom got a job as an accountant at Albertsons grocery store, and soon I was hired there, too, as a bagger. When the boss found out I was underage, he let me go, but not before telling me that they’d hire me again after I turned sixteen. Sure enough, a few months later, I got my job back. In the interim, though, I’d gotten into long, acrylic fingernails, which slowed my productivity considerably. I fared better at my next job as a scooper at the local ice cream parlor. The owners hired cute girls, and it was packed with boys. Say no more, right?
The situation didn’t get easier for my dad, who continued to struggle. My sister and I gave part of our paychecks to our dad, and with my mom pitching in financially, bills got paid, our car was returned, and with better attitudes all around, some of the guilt he shouldered lightened, and the sparkle returned to his eyes. That was the man I knew and loved and wanted to see happy. I rejoiced when I saw him hold hands with my mom as they went
for a walk. Don’t get me wrong, it was better to have job security and financial solvency than not, and I missed my old friends, as well as opportunities I might’ve had, such as being a cheerleader, but complaining and sulking didn’t get us anywhere but down. It was more important to band together and have a home filled with love. I learned to value what I needed, not what I wanted, and I think all of us got a heavy dose of that during our first year in California.
After that first year, something remarkable happened. My mom’s hair began to grow back. Miraculously and mysteriously, her alopecia disappeared. Doctors were unable to explain it. We thought it might’ve been the year-round sunshine and change in climate, but no one ever figured it out. One day, with her thick hair just above her shoulders, she donated her wigs to charity, and in doing so she made a statement that resonated with all of us. We were now home, starting a new chapter of our lives. My dad had taken a big risk in moving across country, and while it took longer than anticipated for some parts to work out, there were other benefits, such as my mom’s hair. There would be more, too. My entire life would’ve been different if not for my dad’s vision of raising his family in the sunshine.
Every day entails decisions involving incertitude and risk. Do I take a job? Do I go on a blind date? Do I live in a neighborhood that’s convenient for me, or do I move where the schools are better for my girls? My whole life has involved risks that I may never have taken if not for the security my family provided with their support and love, the self-confidence my mom nurtured from an early age, and of course the example my dad offered in courage to go for what you believe will make you happy.
It’s fascinating to look back on this now, because I’ve put my girls in similar situations, though they’re younger. In creating a new, postmarried life, I had to take certain calculated risks, and I don’t know if I would’ve done them as readily if not for the precedent my dad set. I got the confidence I needed as a woman from my mom, and my dad gave me the courage to endure and carry on.
PART TWO
Hollywood
1
I’M A BIG believer that you should work at something you love, and also the reverse—love the work you do. But I’m also enough of a realist to know that’s not always possible, and putting food on the table and paying for a roof over your head often takes precedence. Modeling provided my entry into acting, but I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own. Credit goes to my mom, who came home from the mall one day having noticed the Esprit store was sponsoring a model search and suggested I try out.
Me, a model? Though people had come up to me every once in a while and said, “You should model,” to me, real models were named Cindy Crawford, Claudia Schiffer, Linda Evangelista, and Paulina Porizkova. Denise Richards didn’t exactly have that ring to it—not that I heard anyway. Nor did I have the figure; my boobs were tiny and my body was still more surfer girl than curvy young woman. But my mom said I should think in terms of having fun instead of worrying about becoming a supermodel, which was the kind of practical advice that I relied on and now dispense myself. In whatever I do, whether it’s decorating, skiing, acting, or cooking, I prepare as best I can, try hard, but realize I’ll find the level where I’m supposed to be. Not every flower in the garden blooms, if you get my drift. But that shouldn’t stop you from planting the seeds. Maybe the most interesting part about my mom’s recommending the contest to me is that we were going through a rough period then. During my junior and senior years of high school, we frequently butted heads. I had a steady boyfriend and pushed for more and more independence, while she attempted to calmly but firmly apply the brakes before her daughter veered out of control. Part of her plan included channeling my free time into activities, and if modeling turned into something where I received positive feedback, so much the better.
She knew more than I did, so I shrugged and said, “Why not?” A few modeling classes followed before the competition. They were a rip-off. I don’t know what else to say. Fortunately, I didn’t put too much stock in the competition, which was held at a mall in Whittier, a suburb east of Los Angeles. My mom and dad drove me there and found seats in the audience while I checked in, along with the other girls, inside the Esprit store. The best part were the clothes we were given. I really enjoyed having professionals apply makeup and do my hair. That part was my idea of heaven. The rest, which included several trips down the runway in different outfits, happened on its own, with little nervousness compared to the concentration I put forth to walk and smile as we’d been instructed. At the end, I came in second place, a pleasant surprise to me, though the real surprise came as I stood with my parents. A representative from an L.A.-based modeling agency introduced himself and said he wanted to represent me. I glanced at my mom, who was busy trading skeptical looks with my dad. Though this had been her idea, she didn’t know whether the guy was legit and what I’d be getting into if we took the next step.
But we did. A short time later, my parents drove me to the company’s Los Angeles office for a meeting. We saw the agency was legit and grew comfortable as we met and spoke with the other agents there. The representative explained the business was mostly print work, with magazines and newspapers, and that with my looks, I’d fall into the young-adult and teen category. He painted a realistic portrait, from the long commutes to L.A. from Oceanside to the disappointment of not getting jobs for reasons that were beyond my control, and he asked if I thought I could handle it. I said yes, I supposed so. It was still a lark to me, after all, and in the back of my head I was also thinking it paid a lot better than scooping ice cream.
As we returned home, we marveled at the HOLLYWOOD sign in the hills above the agency’s office, the view of the coast, and how we were less than two years from living in Downers Grove, where such a situation would have been beyond our imaginations. It made me once again appreciate my parents’ attitude. It was rubbing off on me.
After working with several photographers to put my book together, the agency submitted my photos, and I was hired for a Teen magazine shoot. It was done in one day in an L.A. studio, and it was easy. My dad drove me up and back to make sure everything was okay; my dad wasn’t comfortable with me going alone with a strange photographer. More print jobs followed, including shoots for Seventeen magazine and L.A. Gear. All were teen-oriented. Other than confiding in a couple girlfriends and my boyfriend, James (more on him later), who drove me to the jobs, I kept my new career a secret. Talking about it seemed like bragging, and that wasn’t my style. Nor was drawing attention to myself.
When the ads came out over the summer, some of my classmates noticed and asked if that was me in the magazines. Otherwise it wasn’t a big deal. By my senior year, though, everyone knew I was modeling, and they accepted it as something I did, the same way others surfed, played volleyball, or became cheerleaders. Other than enjoying the money I was able to put into my bank account, I didn’t take modeling seriously and had no plans to make it a career until my geometry teacher threw me off the college track.
I was a pretty good student, but geometry gave me a hard time. Like so many things, you either got it or you struggled. I had a hard time understanding the concepts. I always thought it was developmental. No matter how diligently I studied, my brain didn’t get it. One day the teacher called me to his desk and said I probably couldn’t get into college if I didn’t pass geometry, and it didn’t look as if I was going to pass. The news upset me, but I quickly turned to Plan B—acting. Though I hadn’t been in any high school productions, I’d continued taking drama after we moved to Oceanside, and I still loved it. Ever since I’d seen the movie Grease as a kid, I’d wanted to be an actor. Don’t know what it was about that movie, but that’s what happened. When I was growing up in Illinois, it never seemed possible. But now we were much closer to Hollywood. Modeling consumed more and more of my free hours after school and weekends with the drive back and forth to Los Angeles. Still, I liked the idea of trying to act professionally in the future, and even better, I’d rea
d of numerous actors who went to Hollywood straight from high school, so college wasn’t a requirement. (Okay, anyone reading this who’s in high school, I highly recommend you go to college!)
Others didn’t share my enthusiasm or confidence. As my friends finalized their applications and some heard about early admission, a classmate asked what I planned to do after graduation. I said I was going to model and move to L.A. to become an actress. I’ll never forget her expression. She looked at me as if I was insane. “What’s your backup plan?” she asked. “I don’t have one,” I said. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
I suppose I was part realist and part dreamer, an admirable outlook for an eighteen-year-old, if you ask me. In fact, I would advise people of any age to look at the future with one eye focused on what’s practical and probable and the other eye on what might be possible if you take a few chances. Life is dull without hope—hope that life will contain opportunities for something new, whatever that may be. In my life, it turned out to be adventure.
On the day after my high school graduation, my agency sent me to Tokyo for two months, explaining that American girls did well there. I wanted to go, but I was scared shitless. Other than a family trip to Disney World and our move to California, my travel experience was limited to camping and ski trips and visits to my grandmother’s in Wisconsin. My parents took me to the airport, and I held back a reservoir of tears as I hugged them good-bye. Once on the plane, I spent the fifteen hours of flying time talking myself into being braver.
Real Girl Next Door Page 3