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I’ve been fortunate to work for many wonderful writers in television and film. I’ve done several classic plays and musicals, performed a handful of works by Shakespeare, and—while in graduate school—studied the works of Chekhov and Ibsen in depth. Which is why I feel confident in my ability to assure you that, without a doubt, the most challenging line of dialogue that’s ever been conceived by an author to be performed by an actor is “Welcome to Chili’s!” Hamlet, schmamlet—go ahead right now and try that line at home.

In that short phrase, you must convey happiness, wholesomeness, hospitality, cleanliness, family values, and a potato that’s been well baked—all without a trace of cynicism. Undersell it and you risk coming off like a surly teen who was forced to take a job for the summer. Overdo it and you may seem haughty in a way that unintentionally conveys that you think this place is beneath you and that you’re still angry about being passed over for the hostess position at the Olive Garden.

For years before I was ever cast in a “real” part, I auditioned for, and ended up making, many commercials. Some actors I knew at the time thought commercials were a bad pursuit. They felt they weren’t artistic enough. Some worried the repetition of days spent holding up a jar of peanut butter and grinning crazily at it would give them bad habits as an actor. For me, I found that the routine of auditioning almost every day made me more able to handle my nerves when something bigger came up. I’d schlep into the city from Brooklyn with my giant book bag in which I always carried both a blue denim shirt (to play moms and other people who cared about detergent) and a black blazer (to play young professionals who tended to care more about cars and banks), and even if I didn’t get the job, I felt I’d done something that day. I liked the feeling that I was working, even if it wasn’t exactly Hedda Gabler. The only line I drew artistically was regarding feminine protection ads. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have any success as an actor, but even if not, I knew I didn’t want to be immortalized on film riding a horse on a beach as the sun set feeling “fresh.”

During this time, when I wasn’t playing someone whose biggest worry in life was her dishpan hands, I frequently worked as a background player. This involved being paid approximately a hundred dollars to pretend to read the label on a tuna fish can in a fake grocery store aisle in the very distant background of a shot of the person who actually had been hired to bemoan her dishpan hands. In every single commercial I ever auditioned for, we were advised by the casting people to speak into the camera “like you’re talking to your best friend.” In life, if I ever spent longer than ten seconds talking about my dry hands, or how delicious a certain line of frozen entrées was (even with one-third fewer calories!), or how truly bouncin’ and behavin’ my hair was lately, I’d have no friends.

At the time, it was a struggle to stay afloat in Manhattan. (How times have not changed!) Occasionally I’d have a commercial run on air long enough to pay the bills for a few months, but I made a rule that I’d keep some sort of day job up until the time when acting became enough of a conflict that I had to quit. But as I licked fake toothpaste off my teeth for the millionth time, I wondered if that day would ever come.

Over a Labor Day weekend a few years ago, Peter and I were invited to a party at the home of Larry Owen, a professor of his in college. In honor of the holiday, Larry had asked everyone to write down all the jobs they’d ever done to make money. At the party, everyone shared their lists, and it made for some lively conversation. Some of Peter’s jobs included snow removal, movie theater usher, and morning janitor at a place called the Chopstick Inn. He worked the fish-and-chips booth at the state fair, sold Time-Life books over the phone, and worked the night shift as a proofreader for Merrill Lynch. He delivered pizzas, worked as the pantry chef at a Bennigan’s, and tended lawns for a landscaper. His least favorite job was insulating houses—he always went home feeling suspiciously itchy. One of his favorites was bartending on Broadway, where he got to see free theater and work alongside an unknown aspiring writer named Aaron Sorkin. (I wonder whatever happened to that guy.)

One summer in Peter’s home state, Minnesota, he worked as a puppeteer with a mobile puppet stage. He’d hitch the puppet wagon to his car and drive from park to park, entertaining kids. One day the hitch came loose and the wagon tipped over, scattering puppets all across County Road C. The police arrived to survey the scene. “The paperwork on this is going to take a while,” one of them said. Peter, nervous he was going to be late to his next gig, asked why. The cop nodded at the scattered puppet bodies. “We’ve got a lot of casualties here,” he deadpanned.

In high school, I mucked out stalls at a barn in my neighborhood and drove a summer-camp school bus. (Yep, I replaced “drives a stick shift” with “licensed bus driver” on my résumé under special skills. Still—strangely—no takers.) One of my first steady jobs, the summer before my freshman year of college, was as a receptionist in a hair salon. That summer it was like I caught some sort of bug from watching people get their hair done all day. When I started that job my hair was down to the middle of my back, and by the time I was ready to head off to school I’d practically cut it all off. I’ve long since destroyed all the photos of me with that haircut—sadly for you—but to give you a sense of the situation, here’s the picture I gave the stylist as inspiration for what I wanted:

Decades from now, historians will still be debating whether it was the freshman fifteen or the razor-sharp sideburns that kept me completely date-free that year!

During college I waitressed, ushered at an Off-Broadway theater, and spent Saturday nights on a folding chair in a closet as a coat check girl. I was an aide at a kindergarten, where I was obviously in way over my head, since—as you may remember—I skipped kindergarten and still had no idea what they did there. And I stacked books in the law library at Columbia, a job I chose specifically to meet guys but which turned out to be a total bust since, unlike the undergraduate libraries I’d been in, people actually studied there.

After college, I worked at Barney’s New York, where I’d like to retroactively apologize for whatever you bought from me that I told you was the perfect thing to wear to your corporate law office. To this day I haven’t been in too many of those, and back then I probably thought the neon pink hoodie and tassel-covered wedges would show not only that you were a good lawyer but, most important, that you were still “fun.” I was also a cocktail waitress at a comedy club called the Improv on 46th Street. The excellent comic Dave Attell worked the door back then, and from the back of the dark room, in between slinging drinks, I watched a young Ray Romano perform stand-up. Now, whenever this comes up in conversation, Ray always asks me the same thing, forgetting that he’s asked me already: “Did I hit on you?” Why, no, Ray, you did not. Even though my sideburns had totally grown in by then.