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

by Judy Greer

  When I ask people about their choice to have a second child, almost all of them say, “We just don’t want to have an only child.” Why? I can’t help but be slightly offended by this. People who seem already overwhelmed by their first baby are having another in order to ensure that they won’t have this freak-of-nature only child. I know that this fear doesn’t last, and often the second child is loved even more than the first, but still, I think I’m onto something. Is it that everyone is so obsessed with the love and excitement of the first baby that they are dying for another? Is it the same feeling you have after you get your first tattoo and then can’t wait to get more ink? Doubtful.

  I understand that I will never know the closeness of siblings and sharing family commitments, dramas, responsibilities, but still, I think I am right that most second children are initially desired as a companion for the first and as backup for the future care of the aging parent(s). And yes, they can play with each other. I hear that a lot: “I wanted little Magenta to have someone to play with.” Uh … what about getting friends? Do you have such little faith that number one will be able to make a friend on its own that you must provide one vaginally? I don’t remember ever being bored. I didn’t need constant entertainment. In fact, to this day I am pretty OK being on my own (solitary international vacations aside). My parents used to let me bring a friend or cousin on family vacations so I would have a playmate and they could have sex or whatever, but I was happy doing my own thing. I guess I am just wondering why the fear of just one? Does it seem sad or lonely? Are people afraid of being alone themselves, so they are projecting? Are they afraid that the first kid will be a stinker, so they want a backup? I am not a professional family-dynamicologist, but I think I make a decent argument for taking a chill pill, literally. Maybe go back on birth control until you really think this through.

  There is one downside that I will take time to mention here because I (clearly) have spent a lot of time thinking about this. Aging/​sick parents. I have been lucky so far, and my parents are still married and in general good health. So I don’t really worry about them being lonely or ailing, yet. Financially, they have told me not to worry, that they saved money for their golden years, but still, that can be a real burden on someone, financially, emotionally, and time-wise. To not have anyone to help, share the stress, share the cost of medical care, to have to go through all that alone does scare me. Again, I am lucky that my parents have taken care to ensure that I won’t be too financially burdened by their needs as they get older, but eventually I will be all alone with the memories of them and what our life was like as I was growing up. It feels a little depressing as I write it, but I have thought a lot about this, and again, there is no guarantee that if I had a brother or sister, he/​she would be any help or comfort anyway. How many times do you hear people complain about their siblings and how little they help or how overbearing and controlling they are? I guess the point is you just never know what you’re going to get, but I don’t think an only child is the worst possible scenario out there.

  Now, you might have already guessed, since I’ve been thinking so much about this, that the topic I’m grappling with right now is whether or not to make one baby of my own. Especially as I transition in my career from best friend to wife/​mom I can’t help but wonder if I should make that transition in real life as well. Is Hollywood trying to tell me something? My life is complicated. I have a husband. I have two older stepkids, two dogs, and a time-consuming career. I feel stretched so thin sometimes I don’t know if there’s time and space for a baby. But then what about not having one? Is it worth it to not have one just because I am so busy right now and pulled in so many directions? And is time a reason to have or not have a baby? Shouldn’t I be dying for one? I am not. I thought I would be married younger. I thought I would have kids when I was younger. I didn’t know I would be a late bloomer in every aspect of my life. Maybe if my stepkids were younger when I met my husband, they would have fulfilled my maternal instincts, but they were pretty much cooked when I came on the scene—though I like that they could potentially be scapegoats for my inability to make this most gigantic decision. I don’t know what to do, and I am waiting for a sign, since everyone and their baby tells me I will know when I’m ready. But I know there won’t be one, and I have to put on my big-girl pants (or take them off …) and make a decision. My husband has recently offered me two additional dogs if I don’t have a baby of my own, and I have to say I am seriously considering his offer, although I wouldn’t need two, one would be enough.

  Dear Diary

  I WROTE FORTY-TWO DIARIES TOTAL IF YOU ADD UP everything in the box my mom sent me from her basement and in my bookshelves in my current home. And, after reading most of them, I learned a few things about me, past and present. Past: I loved Jeff Hunt, like, a lot. I loved shopping. I loved cleaning out and reorganizing my possessions. I loved starting over and had great faith that things would be different starting Monday/​first day of school/​first day of school after holiday vacation/​once my closet was cleaned out. Present: Everything I just wrote about the past is still true if I replace the word “school” with anything else. Minus Jeff Hunt.

  I have never been so disappointed in myself and my lack of growth as a person as I have been rereading my old journals. I had this (stupid) idea to go through them for this book, that I would find little gems in them, or some inspiration at least, so I could talk about my early years using my own words from those actual earlier years. At first I was excited to find all the old lists I used to make, to read my old thoughts, and to remember what my life was like and who I used to be. I had planned on using them for material. Maybe even copying them down word for word, thinking that they would be funny or charming, that they would provide some insight into what kind of person I had become. I guess that’s the reason one keeps a journal, isn’t it? To keep tabs on what was happening and to monitor self-development, keep track of memories? But mine have provided nothing short of utter disappointment. As I started to really read them, I realized that I haven’t changed at all from 1986 until about three years ago. That means that for twenty-four years I have been the exact same person, making all the same mistakes and all the same promises to myself. There was almost no growth, no change, no movement of any kind in a positive direction in any way. The only thing somewhat comforting is that I think I started out pretty mature for my age. The bad part is that I totally stopped maturing as a person at around thirteen. It’s depressing me. I don’t know how to handle this discovery. It’s kind of sent me into a tailspin. I like thinking of how far I’ve come as an adult. I like feeling so superior to the old me. I want to think that I am a really evolved person and that all the experiences I’ve had have propelled me toward the person I am now. I mean, I own a house and have a retirement account! That’s, like, really mature, right? But as I read and reread these old journals of mine, I realized that I had hardly evolved at all until I met Dean Johnsen.

  Now, I love my husband, he is the greatest person out there, as far as I’m concerned, but I am totally humiliated that I am one of those girls who needed the right man to straighten her out. And by the way, it’s not like Dean Johnsen did anything specific or intentional to get me to shape up. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. But as I read my old journal entries, I am appalled at my lack of growth. They start out with me, as a kid, making lists of what I bought when I went shopping with my mom, what boy I had a crush on, and who my current best friend was. As I got a little older, there were lists of what I bought when I went shopping with my friends, what boy I had a crush on, and who my best friend was. Once I left home for college, the entries turned into rants about boys. I devoted entire books to different boyfriends. Just going over and over my relationships, how I was going to be better, love more, stop him from treating me poorly, that I wasn’t going to take it anymore, yet, I noticed, never do I write about ending these dramatic relationships, just changing them and myself. There will be two pages about how much I love
a particular fellow, then three about how awful he is to me. It’s ridiculous. I was ridiculous. I can’t help but think, why didn’t I read these sooner? What if I would have read them immediately after writing them? Would I have realized how stupid I sounded? God, my friends must have hated listening to me.

  When I was younger, before I was boyfriend crazy, there were endless entries about who my best friend was and why. In addition to list making, ranking was clearly really important to me, knowing who was who and where they fit into my life. But the worst part of these entries is that I don’t even remember some of the names! I called my mom to help me remember, but she didn’t either. There is an actual blank in my mind, no face to name, it’s freaky. Tracey Vitkay, if you’re out there, do you remember me at all? Apparently, you and I were on-again/​off-again best friends in the mid- to late 1980s. Do you remember why we couldn’t keep it together? According to my diary, you really kept me on my toes, but I don’t know what happened to us. Perhaps if I had gotten Facebook, you would have reached out. Maybe not—maybe the past was too painful for you too.

  When reading through these diary entries, I seemed obsessed, at a very young age, with finding some contentment with who I was as a person. This is why I think I was into ranking and categorizing everything all the time. I wanted to always know where things stood. What my passions were, what I was devoted to, and how I was devoting myself to these passions. It seems that if everything was in its place, I would find that contentment I craved, yet I never, ever wrote about why I wasn’t content. On February 3, 1988, I wrote:

  Dear Diary,

  I’m real happy, and finally at ease with myself, I’ve been looking for this kind of peace for a long time.

  I was twelve.

  When I was out of college and living in L.A., in addition to the pages and pages devoted to whatever failing relationship I was committed to, I started to add notes from therapy. Yep, I did the L.A. thing and got a shrink, because I was determined to quit making such horrible mistakes, and if I didn’t develop new patterns on my own, I was going to spend money I didn’t have finding out why I was making these terrible decisions in the first place. When I look back, it seems so easy now. I could have saved myself thousands of dollars, hundreds of hours, and so many tears … if I would have just broken up with guys sooner. Here’s a tip I have gleaned from the past: if you’re not married and you’re writing about him in a blank notebook and spending money talking about him with an accredited psychologist, you should probably just break up with him. Seriously. It’s only going to get harder as time goes on, so save yourself the money and the time. Get a trainer instead and dump him. God, if I had followed that advice, I’d have the most rockin’ body right now. I know I’m simplifying things a bit, but I bet, for most cases, I am right. How long would you spend trying to fit a puzzle piece into a puzzle where it didn’t fit? More than a minute? Why do we spend years and hundreds of dollars on therapy and last-ditch-effort vacations trying to make relationships work out that just aren’t ever going to? At least I did. Hopefully, you are smarter than me.

  Another obsession that seems to be a running theme throughout these entries and my life thus far is my addiction to simplification. I’m always striving to make my life simpler, yet I consistently add complications to it. I bought a book on how to simplify one’s life when I was in high school, and I have entire notebooks devoted to different ways I am going to get it down, once and for all—that once I do this closet clean out, things will change, life will be different, I will finally be a better person. Yet, in my journals, I never seem satisfied. There is a billboard I pass every day here in L.A. that says, “Be happy with nothing and you will be happy with everything.” It bummed me out because I realized that I have always been so preoccupied with changing things in order to enjoy my life that I never just enjoyed it. Maybe the real secret to simplifying is to stop buying shit. I should paint a billboard for my driveway that says, “Don’t bring home any more crap.” There, simplification complete.

  So I have forty-two stupid books filled with my discontent and three years of extreme happiness with no record of it at all (OK, there’s a lot of Instagrams and a wedding album I will hopefully have paid for and own by the time this book gets released). But some comfort I can find in it all is that I was always trying and willing to be the best me possible, that I wasn’t lazy and I didn’t give up on people easily, even when I probably should have. And Jeff Hunt, if you’re out there, thank you for not ever getting a restraining order, though I wouldn’t blame you if you had.

  The Manifesto

  PEOPLE TALK A LOT ABOUT GOALS. HAVING GOALS for the day, week, month, year. Five-year goals, ten-year goals. You get it. I have always been a very goal-oriented person, not because I like them, but because I learned a long time ago I need deadlines. I need to have dates by which I have to accomplish things. I need structure. So I have a particularly difficult time with the life I’ve chosen. I hate not having a job—not awesome for an actor. I hate the constant changes that come with my lifestyle—especially not awesome for an actor with stepchildren and two permanent residences.

  I’ve heard nine-to-five jobs called the daily grind. But parts of it seem nice, to know how much money you will make all the time. To be able to take time off to see your friends and family get married or buried. The work clothes have really tempted me—cute skirt suits and mixing up pants and blazers. Unless I have an audition to be a lawyer or business lady, I have no need for a suit in my life. I have an almost unhealthy addiction to The Mary Tyler Moore Show, her work looks were just the best, and I can lose myself in the spreads in fashion magazines that detail how to go from work-appropriate to going-out-sexy by just changing from sensible pumps to sexy stilettos, adding a red lip, and switching out your briefcase for a disco bag! Et voilà, you’re ready to go from cubicle to cocktails. Happy hour is another mystifying fantasy of mine. Not to say that I don’t go to happy hour, because, like, duh, four-dollar drinks and three-dollar apps? Yeah, I hit up a happy hour, but my reasons for doing it are financial, not because I just got off work and wanna get a few cheap well drinks with the cute guy from HR.

  I know I sound complainy, I know the grass is always … yeah yeah yeah. But I have my fantasies: I fantasize about performance reviews and office Christmas parties. Company softball games and calling in sick. Well, this is why I think I became obsessed with to-do lists and having specific goals. I was trying to get some more structure in my days off. I failed. I tried again. I failed again. Then I got (stole) the idea of writing a manifesto. A type of mission statement. I keep trying to pretend that I have a normal life, but I don’t. Like, at all. My life is confusing and crazy and busy and then boring, crickets. It’s all over the place. It’s hard to accomplish daily tasks when I get a call from my manager saying that I have to be on a plane tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. to go to Oakland for a meeting. I have bought countless plane tickets that don’t get used. Hotel rooms booked that get canceled. Wedding gifts getting sent because I couldn’t deliver them myself. A lot of canceling, days before the event. So, I have somewhat given up on having a to-do list, and that does not make me feel like a productive member of society. It makes me feel like a sloth.

  But then, years ago, Isabella Rossellini, an Italian treasure, came out with a makeup line called Manifesto. When you bought something from the line (or maybe it was a promo freebie), they gave you a little empty notebook on which to write your own manifesto. I wasn’t totally sure what a manifesto was, even though I knew what I thought the word meant. But I figured if I was going to try to write one, I at least owed it to myself to actually look up the meaning. After all, I went to acting school, so a good, traditional college education I did not get (another goal of mine was to educate myself, and Vogue does not count). Here is the Merriam-Webster’s definition of manifesto:

  a written statement declaring publicly the intentions, motives, or views of its issuer.

  This word excited me! It is so much more inspiring than a goal
. It’s like a goal, but in a better outfit. A manifesto is a mission statement. I want to be on a mission! Isn’t that so much better than having a lame to-do list? I think a manifesto should sum up how you want to treat your days, what your priorities are, how you deal with people, how you deal with the earth, and how you want to spend your time. It should be a document that teaches you how to slow down and when to speed up. It should inspire you when you read it. And you should read it often. I also feel that manifestos are allowed to change, to evolve. My life plan in my twenties was so different from my life plan for my thirties. Everyone makes New Year’s resolutions that last, how long? Really? But this is like a lifelong evolving resolution.