Lights, Camera. . . Uh. . . .

What was I thinking? I hate being photographed more than I hate Jenny from The L Word, yet something possessed me to send in a resume when I saw an ad seeking a writer to appear on a reality road-trip show. Maybe it was the $4,000 they were offering for six days work. In fact, I'm sure that's what it was. Regardless of my motivation, I never expected them to call. Yet seconds after clicking "send," my phone rang.

And so began one of the more humiliating experiences of my life.

I picked up the phone and on the other end was a very nice casting lady who wanted to set up an audition. Er, what? She explained I'd be filmed answering some silly questions and wondered if I'd be comfortable in front of a camera. I wondered too, but said yes anyway. We made an appointment for that Friday. Uh oh.

For those of you who don't know me—I am not a perky, pretty, peppy, young Julia Allison type. I do not know how to "bring it for the camera." (In fact, some days I can barely "bring it" out of bed.) I am grouchy, decidedly "average" on the beauty scale, could lose several dozen pounds and have horrible teeth that I am wildly self-conscious about. And yet, here I was, auditioning for a television show.

What the fuck was I thinking? More importantly, what the fuck was I going to wear? My first order of business was a haircut. I left my hairdresser/friend a message, informing her of my hairdo-emergency. She never called back. I don't blame her. Who did I think I was? Paris Hilton in need of post-prison extensions? I dumped a box of Feria on my head and focused on my eyebrows instead.

Foolishly, I decided to forgo my normal threading place and instead went to a fancy salon to have them waxed. Mistake. The spazz in charge of hair removal wasn't monitoring the temperature and promptly burned my face with the wax. While I was examining the resulting blister in the magnifying mirror, I noticed that part of my right ear was stained blue from my inept home dye job. I was feeling prettier by the second.

Next stop: Sephora. Believe it or not, the only bright spot in my descent into madness. I don't wear much makeup, but needed to find something that would dull my freckles and camouflage the new festering blister over my eye. An unbelievably kind salesgirl named Tawana took me through the store and helped me find what I needed. She even volunteered to do my makeup the next day if I wanted. (I declined, but it's the thought that counts!)

New fancy-lady makeup in hand, I went home and tried on everything in my closet. Since there was absolutely no chance of losing 50 pounds overnight, I dug out this pricey Spanx foundation garment I'd bought but never worn. (More on that in a minute.) The idea is that the spandexy, bodysuit-like garment sucks you in, making you look ten pounds lighter. (In our mothers' day these things were called "girdles.") But even with the garment, nothing looked quite right. My large Greek boyfriend had plenty of suggestions and I'd like to say I took his ideas with grace, but the fact is, I spent a lot of time yelling at him. I reminded myself of one of those shrieking little bitches you see on My Super Sweet Sixteen. 

The morning of the audition was even worse. Not only was I nervous—which manifested itself by making me farty—but I was consumed by a looming sense of dread. It was like high school all over again. I wrestled my ass into the garment and decided on a pair of Levis, tank top and a linen shirt over that. I smeared some of my new Smashbox tinted moisturizer over my face, applied two coats of mascara and a little lipstick. I can't say I was at all comfortable or particularly thrilled with how I looked, but I didn't want to kill myself, so there you go. It's the little things. Off I toddled to my audition.

But first I had to pee. I had never worn anything like this particular Spanx garment before. It's basically a tight-fitting bodysuit with a slit in the crotch. The idea being that you just pull the fabric to the side of your business and let 'er rip. Except I know how messy I can be and didn't want to risk turning up smelling like the Second Avenue F stop. Off came all my clothes so I could have a worry-free wizz. Once I was done, I got re-dressed, carefully checking that I hadn't smudged my makeup. Being glamourous was already proving to be exhausting.

After much hand-wringing and gut-clenching, I got to the audition. They took a polaroid and sat me down in front of some giant lights and a camera. I promptly froze. Then I had one of those out-of-body experiences that happen to me every so often. It was as though I was watching a procession of moronic, nonsensical drivel leave my lips, and yet I was powerless to stop talking. There were no brakes on this particular crazy train. The small sane part of me that remained wanted to run after the words, corral them up, and stuff them back in my face, but I couldn't. I just kept spouting more of them. Then the words started reproducing on their own and in typical inbred fashion, each generation was more freakishly stupid than the last.

A small sampling:
Interviewer: What to you personally embodies the American Spirit?
Me: It's not fair that female writers have to be pretty and perky—we should just be allowed to stay home and not wear makeup. Christopher Hitchens doesn't have to be cute—nobody cares that he's a fat gasbag.

Um, what?

The nice casting lady tried to remain upbeat, but it was clear she had decided she was dealing with a mental defective. I slunk out of there trying not to burst into tears. I needed a beer and I needed one fast.

The Large Greek got out of work early and took me bowling. I drained half a pitcher of Stella and then, predictably, needed to drain my bladder. Though the place is now all upscale, the Bowlmor bathroom is still not the most glam spot to take a pee. As I was disrobing, I happily realized that now that showbiz had chewed me up and spit me out, there was no reason to keep wearing the Spanx garment of torture. So I proceed to strip down naked in the stall. My jeans were kind of skinny at the bottom, so I even had to take off my shoes. My body thanked me as it broke free of the garment.

Just then, someone slid into the stall next door. I was butt naked when the first anal explosion went off. I pulled my jeans back on quickly, but was still two shirts down when she let loose with the loudest case of explosive diarrhea I've ever heard, not two feet from where I was standing, half-naked. Ack.

I know it's not nice, but I'd had a hard day and wanted to get a look at this broad. (Okay, mostly I just needed to embarrass someone like I'd been embarrassed earlier.) I heard her flush, so I quickly slid my feet back into the rented shoes, pulled both shirts on in a single motion, grabbed the torture garment and flung open the door just in time to see the ass-end of her fleeing the bathroom without even washing her hands. Thwarted.

As I washed my hands I thought about what had just transpired. Why was it so important that I humiliate some poor poopy girl who'd had nothing to do with my mortification? Was showbiz such a cruel mistress that just a single fifteen-minute exposure had turned me into a bitch? I eyed the sweaty garment of torture laying limp by the sink.

Nah, it wasn't showbiz. . . .

Comments

[val]

I'm speechless, for once

[Ihad to take a break..]

I was laughing and crying so hard I had to take a break half way through!

[beans]

you slay me.
just sitting here, eating some lentil soup and now considering the big fat burrito i had at 10 oclock last night.

i can't believe she didn't wash her hands.

[jules]

Oh my Christ! Worst. Day. Evah!!

And you were totally right about Christopher Hitchens.

[kate]

you slay me too!

[threetoedsloth]

I got a look at Christopher Hitchens in person the other month, and not only was he a fat gasbag, he was a drunk fat gasbag.

[Paul]

I'm comfortable with who you are. You should be, too.

[michelle]

omg. funniest post evar. please publish this somewhere where the entire world can read it. people WILL appreciate. xo

ps, sorry about hollywood. xo

[kate]

16 hours later, you're STILL slaying me.

[Shiny]

Seriously. Didn't wash her hands? As crappy as your whole day went at least you aren't the kind of woman who has explosive diarrhea and then doesn't wash her hands. Take some solace in that.

[Judy McCleanHands]

If I had a choice between escaping The Loudest Poop Ever without being seen and washing my hands, I'd run like the wind. I totally understand her motivation. One can only hope she had a handi-wipe in her bag.

[beans]

hmm.
you have a point. i've been known to seek private bathroom shelter for these kinds of events.
maybe she came back to the bathroom after you left to wash up. or maybe she was packing Purell.

[iamnotStarJones]

can't breathe because i'm laughing so hard.

so glad you said what you did about christopher hitchens.