I Don't Know What You Know Me From: Confessions of a Co-Star

by Judy Greer

  But there is a fear. A new feeling I have now that I haven’t had before. The fear of it all ending and regretting having wasted any small opportunity I might have had. Of what happens next. Of not appreciating the experiences, of not getting to go shoot movies anymore. I love it. I love making something out of nothing. It’s taken years for me to call myself an artist, and even as I write it, I’m not sure I believe that word describes what I do. I say words that other people write. I act in a space that other people find, build, and decorate. I wear clothes that someone else picks out, I don’t even do my own hair and makeup. I could even argue that I don’t make any choices for my character, depending on the director. I just talk and try to remember what to say. Acting is weird. I guess my art is being a mirror to people. I show them a person. Maybe themselves, maybe someone they know. I help tell a story so when you see it from the outside, you can understand your insides better. I also make you forget. Forget your shitty day, week, month, year, for a little while. That’s important, right? I give people a memory. Is it the movie we love or the memory of when we watched it? For years my family watched Planes, Trains, and Automobiles on Christmas Eve, and that movie will always mean so much to me. Or when you have a movie you love with another person. My mom and I love The American President, and when I go home for a visit, we always watch it—it’s “our” movie. She makes us popcorn and we quote it and it makes us feel connected. Maybe having a movie or TV show is like having a song when you’re a couple. I am working with this young actor right now who says he watches Two and a Half Men with his dad when they want to have some laughs. That makes me happy. It made me happy when the actor told me his dad was excited he was doing a movie with me because his dad associated me with laughing and having fun with his son. I like the idea that I can be a part of bringing people together. But does that make me an artist? I am working on believing it does. I’ve just always thought of what I did as a job. Maybe it’s my midwestern work ethic, but I never used to think of jobs as something I could choose, I let jobs choose me. Maybe that’s the difference between being an actress and being an artist. I am envious of my friends who make distinct choices in their careers. That they won’t play certain roles anymore, to do theater, to only do movies, to take themselves out of the game in some way, seems so decisive and punk rock. I feel boring when I compare myself with them. But that is my fear talking again, and being afraid it will all go away if I change my tactics now.

  Maybe I’m afraid of being broke, maybe I am afraid of change. The first time I can remember not taking a role that was offered to me was when I got serious with my husband, before we were married. He said I shouldn’t take that job, that I could wait for something better to come along, and if I needed money, he would help me figure it out. I have never had anyone offer that before. It felt really good to have someone tell me it was OK if I didn’t work on something that I wasn’t excited about. I’m not going to say what the job was, but it rhymes with “separate mouseflies.” I think since then my fear-based decision making is slowly subsiding, and I am getting a little more bold with my choices. I am learning to look for people to inspire me.

  I had an acting teacher, Eden Cooper-Sage, who told me, “We are what we spend our time doing,” and I want so badly to be an artist, so how can I transition from spending my time acting to spending my time making art? Or is it really one and the same? I like working and maybe it’s as simple as that. I am like the turtle in that stupid race. I may be slow, but I think I’m winning. Winning changes, and now, as I get older, I understand winning doesn’t mean what I thought it did. I am not a shooting co-star. I am a bright co-star, a steady co-star, a co-star you can depend on if you’re lost, flipping channels in the night. Except if you stumble on Marmaduke, that was purely a money gig.

  Single White Male

  MY LONGEST NONFAMILIAL RELATIONSHIP WITH A male has been eight years, and it’s still going strong. He is everything to me. He’s extremely masculine and has a sexy swagger and a really judgmental stare. I love the judgment, it appeals to the part of me that likes bad boys. He’s also very tired, which makes us a great match because so am I, and I tend to overbook and leave little time for our long walks. Yes, his teeth are falling out, but I don’t hold it against him. In fact, I think he still looks handsome without them. He doesn’t know this, but I keep them in my jewelry box. I don’t know what I’m ever going to do with them, but I have a friend who is a jewelry designer, so I am considering having a few dipped in gold and turned into a necklace or something. I think that would make me really happy, to have some of him with me all the time.

  If you haven’t already realized, I’m not some freak talking about her lazy, toothless ex-boyfriend (I wrote about that guy in a different chapter. Just kidding!). I’m talking about Buckley, my giant white American bulldog. The day I picked him up from the rescue, I almost changed my mind. He was bigger than I remembered, like way bigger. When I first met him, it was at a pet rescue outside a pet store, and he was sick and had been hit by a car, so he was lying down and couldn’t stand up. The Dog Rescue Lady had given him about eighteen pig ears to chew on, and the smell that was coming out of his asshole was otherworldly. I was entertaining the idea of taking home a petite pit mix named Jessie and had dragged my then boyfriend, Nick, to meet her. We were looking at Jessie when an odor wafted our way. It was thick. I had never experienced such a thick odor before. It was also rich—thick and rich is really the best way to describe it. When I asked said Dog Rescue Lady what the smell was, she pointed to Bucks and said, “It’s the big one in the corner. He’s sick and I am giving him pig ears nonstop to fatten him up.” When we walked over to him, he looked up at me and smiled, I swear.

  Nick and I were on our way to lunch with his family, so we didn’t have a real conversation about the smelly dog in the corner. But halfway through the meal, we both admitted we couldn’t stop thinking about that giant stinker. As soon as we got home, we called the rescue, arranged the house checks, filled out a shit-ton of paperwork, gave him another week to mend, and I went to pick him up. When I saw Bucks for the second time, I was kind of freaked out. I didn’t remember him being so big, because I had never seen him standing up. He was freaking huge—like the size of a baby cow or small tiger. He even walks like a small tiger. The cost of rescuing the dog was two hundred dollars, but Dog Rescue Lady waived the fee because he was so sick that she said we were going to spend a fortune on vet bills so we could just have him for free. Free giant dog! Rad!

  When I finally brought Buckley home, he limped out of my car, up the steps, through the house to the backyard, and all the way to the far end of the yard, where he just sat, staring at me. He didn’t sniff around, he didn’t pee on anything, he just walked as far away from the door as physically possible, sat, and stared. That was the beginning, and he has been judging me ever since.

  He judges me when I drink too much wine. He judged who I brought home, what I wore out, when I danced to Madonna and played dress up before going to bed. He judged me when I broke up with Nick and when I started dating the new one. And all over again when I broke up with that new one. He judges when I cry at commercials, movies, books, dropping a pen. For a while after that breakup with Nick, I was convinced Buckley was depressed. My therapist told me I was projecting and there was no way that Buckley was depressed, but I could bring him in if I felt I needed to. I didn’t. I had to draw the line somewhere, I can’t be the girl who brings her dog to therapy, it’s a slippery slope, one day I’m bringing my dog to therapy, the next, I’m pushing two sweater-clad pugs around in a baby carriage. Besides, it’s nice to have that judgment I am always using on myself personified, or canineified, if you will. It means that I don’t have to work so hard reflecting and disapproving of my own actions and decisions. I can just look over at him after making them; he does the judging for me.

  But even with all that judgment, he is loving and downright human when he wants to be. One time, a vet sat down on the ground to examine him—there
was no way we were getting him up on that table—and my giant dog turned his back to the vet and sat right on his lap. The vet was at first silent and then finally said, “I’ve never had an animal do this before.” He loves to ride in the car with his head out the window. I’ve heard that’s bad for dogs, but he loves it so much, and I know we won’t be together forever, so shouldn’t he get to do what he loves with his short time on earth? He used to sleep in bed with me (pre-husband), with his head on the pillow, like a person. He stretches his shoulders by pushing his front paws together so it looks like he’s praying. One time we were watching TV together on the sofa. He was sitting up next to me facing the television, just like me. After a particularly stupid scene he looked at me, took a deep breath, held it, opened his mouth, as if he were going to say something … but then finally exhaled and turned his head back to the TV. I swear on everything, including him, that he was going to talk to me. I know he had something to say. Something major. Some kind of insight that would change my life. But, shit, even if he said, “This show sucks,” it would change my life. I would become the girl who swears her dog can talk. Which, who am I kidding, I kind of am anyway because I have pretty much told everyone I know this story, swearing that he can talk, but just decided I wasn’t ready yet.

  As I said, I brought him home and he just sat there, staring. This went on for about three months. I bought him a dog bed from L.L.Bean with his name embroidered on it. I figured he should at least be comfortable while he sat and stared. He seemed to like the bed, but he still didn’t do much of anything. He was too busted to go on walks, so we just let him lie there. He didn’t move except to eat, which was great, I guess. I had promised his rescuer I would cook him ground beef and rice for his meals every day while he healed. Which I did. I had never cooked a real meal in my life, but here I was cooking beef and rice every day for my new-to-me dog, trying to fatten him up. One time I mixed some broccoli florets in with his meal, and when he finished eating, I noticed all his food was gone. I was so thrilled he ate his veggies, until I bent down to pick up his dog bowl and saw that he had picked out every piece of broccoli and made a neat little pile of it next to the bowl. You see, Bucky had a hard life. He was found roaming the streets of East Los Angeles with a little Chihuahua. The dogcatcher brought them into the pound and put them in a cage together, which was the protocol when they catch a pair of dogs. Buckley’s rescuer specializes in American bulldogs, so all the local shelters call her first when they pick one up. She told them she would be in the next day to get the two dogs, and in the amount of time it took for them to finish that phone call, the Chihuahua died. They called her back and said never mind, the bulldog had killed the Chihuahua, and it was their policy to put any dog to sleep that had killed another dog, they had no choice. Dog Rescue Lady freaked out and said, “Wait! Did you examine the Chihuahua? Does it have broken bones or puncture marks? How do you know it was killed? Maybe it just died.” She convinced them to X-ray the little dead dog and check it for puncture wounds. She was right! There was no evidence of malice on the Chihuahua, and Buckley’s life was spared! However, at this time Buckley started to show signs of illness. He wasn’t able to walk well at all (it was decided he had been hit by a car), and when Dog Rescue Lady had her favorite vet, Dr. Werber, neuter him, Buckley started to bleed to death during the surgery. Turns out Buckley and his little friend were poisoned. A lot of restaurants put rat poison in their garbage, and a lot of stray dogs die from it. That poor Chihuahua was so little it died almost immediately, but Buckley is so big it took longer to invade his system, and that’s why he didn’t get as sick right away. Dr. Werber somehow stopped the bleeding and Buckley hung on, but it was touch and go there for a while. He lived at the animal hospital while they nursed him back to health. He was too skinny, he limped and needed a few more operations to clear out the damaged cartilage in his shoulder, but he was ready for a permanent home. Once I heard that story, I knew he had to be mine, and I understood why the rescue was taking such precautions with this creature and why I had to fill out more paperwork to adopt him than when I bought my house. They were taking no chances, he was special, he was exonerated, a prisoner sentenced to death row for a crime he didn’t commit, and I was waiting at the jailhouse gate when he was released.

  It took a while for Buckley to feel at home in our house, personalized dog bed or not; it seemed he was just going to keep sleeping until he got moved to a different place again. I worried that he would never assimilate, that I would never be able to make him feel safe and loved. Until one day. I ordered pizza a lot, and I would just leave the front door wide open and the pizza guy would usually just walk up to the door and say hi and I’d come running at him with a fistful of cash. The first time the pizza guy saw Bucky lying on his dog bed in the house, he reacted with an “oh, shit,” but when my massive beast didn’t budge, he wasn’t scared. Well, about three months in, the delivery guy showed up and Buckley stood up on his bed and barked. Really barked. I had never heard that sound before, so I came running. This time there was an all-caps “OH, SHIT” out of the delivery guy, and when I saw Buckley protecting the house and me in it, I was touched. I was really moved. I probably even cried a little, because that was the moment I could finally tell that Buckley knew he was home, and this was where he was staying.

  He lived a rough life on the Eastside. He was poisoned, hit by a car, maybe even shot—he has some weird scars. He still flinches sometimes when I reach to pet him, but at least since that day he barked at the pizza guy, he’s known he was here to stay. And I have always felt his presence made my house a home. It was hard to have people over at times, if Buckley’s stomach was acting up. If a date was dropping me off, I would have to go in alone first before inviting him in for a nightcap, just in case the smell was too putrid and it would reflect poorly on me. The girls in my book club would often request that he relax in the bedroom or out on the deck during our meetings. He farts audibly, belches out loud, and leaves a trail of coarse white hairs everywhere he goes. But it was always a good gauge. Could a date handle the other man in my life? Would Buckley turn his back as a sign of submission or just sit and stare in judgment? Would my book club demand a different location? How irritated would a new friend be requesting a lint brush before leaving my house? Buckley has a lot of qualities that I admire in a person. He’s mellow, likes to be outside, but is happy to just sit and watch TV as well. He is a good listener, honest, enjoys a good meal, patient, and he really likes to stop and smell the roses, literally. Who would have thought that eight years ago a dog fart would change my life, but it did, and in the best possible way.

  Love Not at First Sight

  HOW DO YOU WRITE ABOUT BEING SO IN LOVE WITH someone that you cry almost every day because you can’t believe it happened to you and you are so happy and you love him so much … without making people vomit their last four meals up? (I’m crying right now, by the way.) This is the most difficult essay to write because every time I think about it I cry and can’t see the computer screen. Also, I can’t write it in public, because people stare and ask me if I’m OK and it’s embarrassing. Are you vomiting yet? I don’t blame you. It’s annoying. I would be annoyed, too. In fact, I am often annoyed because the fact that I cry about it all the time has really been a problem. Disclaimer: I’m a crier. I have always been tear prone. I cry at auditions when I am not supposed to cry. I cry driving, a lot, I cry at the movies, I cry at commercials, I cry describing movies or commercials. The second season of Grey’s Anatomy? Forget it! I was a mess for weeks. You get it. It’s constant and a daily activity for me. However, since I met Dean Johnsen, it’s gotten really out of control. I can’t even use my tears for manipulative purposes with him anymore, because he’s immune. Everyone in my life is immune at this point. I get further by not crying. Still barfing?

  I have tried to figure out why I have this reaction to my relationship. I have always been emotional, but this is different. I don’t know exactly what to blame it on besides Dean Joh
nsen coming out of the woodwork and taking me by surprise. But it was a slow surprise, like if you walked into a surprise party and it took the guests a few months to yell the word “surprise.”

  I don’t believe in love at first sight. Love at first sight has historically gotten me in a lot of trouble. I have had long relationships that should have been one-night stands because of “love at first sight.” It’s not really love. How can you love someone you don’t even know? It’s chemistry, it’s hormones, it’s that time of the month, but it’s not love. I wish someone would’ve told me that—OK, a lot of people told me that, I just didn’t listen. But I spent a lot of time with men trying to get that feeling back after more sights. Or trying to justify jumping into a relationship because I wanted that feeling to be real, or I wanted it to mean something, or mostly because I didn’t want to feel like a slut. And I must have subconsciously figured that if I jumped into a relationship with a guy and then realized I’d made a mistake, I would be able to justify the mistake by saying it was something bigger than either of us—it was the universe, the gods, not Ketel One.