Jane Lynch - Happy Accidents

Chapter 1
Pontifical

I f I could go back in time and talk to my twenty-year-old self, the first thing I would say is: Lose the perm. Secondly I would say: Relax. Really. Just relax. Dont sweat it.

I cant remember a time when I wasnt anxious and fearful that the parade would pass me by. And I was sure there was someone or something outside of myself with all the answers. I had a driving, anxiety-filled ambition. I wanted to be a working actor so badly. I wanted to belong and feel like I was valued and seen. Well, now I am a working actor, and I guarantee you its not because I suffered or worried over it.

As I look back, the road to where I am today has been a series of happy accidents I was either smart or stupid enough to take advantage of. I thought I had to have a plan, a strategy. Turns out I just had to be ready and willing to take chances, look at whats right in front of me, and put my heart into everything I do. All that anxiety and fear didnt help, nor did it fuel anything useful. Finally releasing that worry served to get me out of my own way. So my final piece of advice to twenty-year-old me: Be easy on your sweet self. And dont drink Miller Lite tall boys in the morning.

Enjoying a Very Merry Breakfast, Christmas 1980.

I dont know why, but I was born with an extra helping of angst. I would love to be able to blame this on my parents, as Im told this is good for book sales. But I cant.

I grew up in a family that was pure Americana. We lived in Dolton, Illinois, one of the newly founded villages south of Chicago created to house the burgeoning middle class. We were like the subject of a Norman Rockwell painting, except it was the 1960 s and 70 s, so he would have had to paint us with bell-bottoms and a stocked liquor cabinet. I didnt settle into myself as a child, but the family I had around me was entertaining and embraced the life we had.

My dad, Frank, was a classic Irish-Catholic cutup. He was always singing a ditty, dancing a soft-shoe, or cracking wise while mixing a cocktail. He was almost bald by the time he was nineteen, and every day hed smear Sea & Ski sun lotion on top of his naked head, then slap a little VO 5 onto his hands and smooth the ring of hair around the sides with a flourish. How do you like that? hed say to himself in the mirror, and sing under his breath, Ive got things to do, places to go, people to see . And after that daily Sea & Ski ritual, damn if he still didnt end up getting skin cancer on his pate. However, it would be lung cancer that took my dad from us in 2003 , and I miss him every day.

I can remember my dad, when I was really youngso young, its like Vaseline over the memorydancing with me in the living room. Do you come here often? hed ask, twirling me around and singing along with Sid Caesar: Pardon me miss, but Ive never done this... with a real live girl...

My dad also did a bang-up Bing Crosby. I loved it when he sang, and we never had to wait very long for it. Hed sing while putting sugar in his coffee, while buffing his shoes, or for no reason at all. Hed make up songs about us, the more ridiculous the better: To the tune of Val-deri, Val-dera , hed sing Jane-eree, Jane-erah . My nickname became simply Eree-Erah . He added anikins or -erotomy to the end of anyones name. My older sister was Julie-anikins, my younger brother, Bob-erotomy. One of his favorite joyous exclamations was Pon-TIFF! Pon-TIFF! from the word pontifical, which was his way of saying fabulous. And My cup runneth over was boiled down to My cup! My cup! Speaking of cup, coffee was coffiticus , my mom was L.T . (Long Thing, because she was tall), and the phone was the telephonic communicator . We would roll our eyes or feign embarrassmentbut we all wanted to be the subject of Dads silliness, to be a part of his joy.