Bright Lights, Big Ass Part 17

I have bloodl.u.s.t.

Nope.

Psycho again.

I don't know; how do you judge? How about on a scale from one to ten, I'm somewhere around a million. I'm one of the most compet.i.tive people on the face of the earth. And yes, I know you're going to talk to a bazillion fame wh.o.r.es who will proudly march in and proclaim, "I'm the biggest loser!" However, when I say it, it will actually be true. I am as relentless as my pit bull Maisy when it comes to pursuing what I want. For example, at my last job there was a compet.i.tion that involved the company's entire sales force. My boss looked at me and said, "I expect you to win this thing." So I worked like never before, and you know what? I did win. I trounced more than five hundred salespeople to take the National Marketplace Leaders.h.i.+p Award. And like a West Point cadet, I didn't lie, cheat, or steal to get there. I just worked harder than anyone else. I'd do the same on The Biggest Loser, should NBC allow me the chance.

Besides, I've watched enough American Idol auditions to know simply pointing to oneself and announcing one is "the next American Idol" is no real indicator of success. See? I just said it to myself a second ago, but in no way, shape, or form is it reality. What I've got going for me is a track record of over-achievement and I hope I can convey this to the casting people.

What is the most outrageous thing you've ever done?

Excuse me, I didn't realize this was the elimiDATE application. And what do they consider outrageous? Should it be a time when I was brave? Took a risk? Made a stupid decision? Do they want to hear about my vacationing alone for the first time? Moving to a city fifteen hundred miles away from home with $30 in my pocket? Or do they want dirty? I bet they want dirty. Arrgghh.

You're looking for a s.e.x-in-a-public-place, everybody-gets-naked kind of answer, aren't you, you perverts! Well, I'm only PG-13 and that's because of language-there's no one without pants on around here. Instead, I'll tell you that my most outrageous story involves a homeless guy and the world's most perfect Coach briefcase. Let's just say I convinced him that my lunch for his gorgeous-but almost definitely hot-Coach briefcase would be an even trade. (Is telling a homeless person that wasabi peas are crack rocks actually a crime? If so, then, um, that may or may not have happened.8) Here's the thing, in this compet.i.tion I won't lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do. But I didn't say anything about manipulation. People, I am the puppet master in regard to making others do my bidding. And my plotting would make for some d.a.m.n fine reality TV.

How much weight do you want to lose?

A metric ton. And if I lost a metric ton, how much of it would be wine? I decide I'd be interested to know as I drain gla.s.s number three.

If I lost (redacted), I'd be the exact same weight I was when I competed in pageants. Although I never won a crown, I was Miss Photogenic on many an occasion. Never Miss Congeniality, though. Hmm...

Bottom line? Cast me on The Biggest Loser and I will concurrently be the most loved and hated person on reality TV.

Whew! That took forever. So, now I'll add a couple of recent snapshots, and an old one from when I was So Very Cute and I'll t.i.tle them Jen + NBC = The New Hotness, 2005. Yes, NBC should definitely be made aware of my HP.9 Okay, I'm a bit drunkety now with all the drinky-drinky wine. Must sleep. Zzzzzzz.

In retrospect, chugging an entire bottle of wine while working on my application was not the best plan. I wake up this morning with cotton mouth and a slight case of the spins, causing me to shriek down the stairs, "Fletch! Coffee! Now!"

Why do I suddenly think he might not mind if I went away for ten weeks?

I take special care applying makeup and straightening my hair, banking on the casting people appreciating good grooming. I put on my favorite Sigrid Olsen sweater, which is a pink plaid with a scoop neck surrounded by a kind of hairy fringe. I pile on the jewelry and practically bathe in Dior J'adore. After a little more coffee, I slide my application into a leather pad-folio and Fletch drives me to the audition.

The casting offices are in a cool loft building directly west of Michigan Ave. I ease myself into the tiny elevator and punch the b.u.t.ton for the second floor. As the doors open, I notice my hands are trembling. I can't determine if it's nerves or all the sweet, sweet booze.

As I enter the office a gorgeous plus-sized woman exits. We smile as we pa.s.s and wish each other luck while I say a silent prayer about her not also being funny. I peer around the office and am sorely disappointed to discover no donuts lying in wait.10 Seven other women are hunkered over the wooden benches, efficiently filling in their applications. I congratulate myself on my foresight to type out my answers and place them in the snappy plastic binder.11 Unfortunately, the other women are also pretty and vivacious. I'd kind of hoped my compet.i.tion would be straight off the short bus. I toss my hair and concentrate on determining what might set me apart.

When three of the ladies finish their applications, a casting agent invites us back to the interview area. My first thought is, Young man, does your mother know you're skipping school? In truth, he's likely mid to late twenties, but ever since I hit my late thirties, I think everyone in trendy jeans is a high school student. (What the h.e.l.l do I know?) Slightly disappointed I won't be interviewed alone, I proceed down the short hallway to a conference room where a female casting agent, also in trendy jeans, waits at a long table. Upon entering, I attempt to shake her hand, but she refuses. She says she's nursing a terrible cold and doesn't want to infect me.

I try not to take this as a bad omen.

The applicants gather in a semicircle, the vantage point allowing me to size up12 my compet.i.tion. On the far left, a young blonde girl perches in her chair. (Okay, she obviously hasn't had her roots done in six months. Score one point for Jen.) Next to her sits a forty-something soccer mom who was very helpful to the other applicants back in the waiting room. (d.a.m.n. Friendlier than me. Minus one point for Jen.) Her pal sits between us and her brown ponytail is pulled so tight it's making her eyes slant upward. (Good skin but what's up with the ponytail face-lift? Plus one point.) Head Cold Girl welcomes us and the other applicants launch into a diatribe about finding a parking s.p.a.ce. (s.h.i.+t, I've got nothing to add to this inane conversation! d.a.m.n it, why didn't I drive so I could b.i.t.c.h, too? That way they could see how much funnier I am when I'm complaining. Minus three points for Jen!) So I attempt to smile, sparkle, and radiate while feigning interest. Questions are posed about our marital status and the girl on the end is the only single ("but looking!") person in the group. The middle two have a pack of kids each and call themselves Baseball Moms, whatever that means.

Casting Guy asks Miss Roots why she'd be good on the show. She replies she's funny and compet.i.tive. To punctuate these facts, she giggles at herself. I roll my eyes at the agents, hoping this communicates our (a.s.sumed) shared "show, don't tell" philosophy. Head Cold Girl follows up by saying, "Uhhuh. And how, exactly, does this set you apart from everyone else?" Oooh, snap! I think I just developed a nons.e.xual crush on Head Cold Girl! Miss Roots answers something utterly forgettable. You're done. Thanks for playing.

Same question goes to Baseball Mom One. Before she can reply, Casting Guy interjects that he "loves her application essays." Looks like she filled in one-and two-word answers. Heh. Add Casting Guy to my new crush list. We catch each other's eyes and smile. I am so in.

Having learned from her friend's nonanswers, Baseball Mom Two puts on her game face. She explains she'd be good on the show because she's funny, smart, and could get along with any race, s.e.x, or creed. And how exactly is that good television? One more point for Jen by default. Head Cold Girl probes more and Mom Two admits she can't stomach bad parents. Oh, like the kind who'd leave their kids for ten weeks to appear on a reality show? Swing and a miss. Then Mom Two launches into a diatribe about child abuse, completely losing her audience.

And then they get to me.

When posed with the "Why you?" question, I answer I want to be on the show because I intend to win it. I back up my statement with many examples of prior successes and I give them the Brief History of Jennsylvania. I tell them about the book and elaborate on my application answers. I do my steamroller-talking thing and no one gets a word in edgewise until Head Cold Girl asks me if I'm doing this just to promote my book.

f.u.c.k.

I mean, yes, I was. I totally was. I wanted to get on the show so I could sell books and magazine articles. But somewhere between the first gla.s.s of wine and now, I've discovered some truths about myself and I realize how much I want this. I've already started planning my life as a thin person, mentally shopping for Rollerblades and the kind of sports bra I can wear when I skate by the lake. So it's with complete honesty that I answer, "No. I'm here because I want to be thin again." I imagine if I make it onto the show, I won't be allowed to discuss the book. And you know what? No problem! Being trim and being published can be mutually exclusive.

Our interview ends and the casting people tell us if we're to be called back, they'll phone us within the week. If we don't get a call, thanks and good luck. I head back down the teeny elevator and go home.

So, will I make it to the next round? I have no clue. I guess it all depends on what kind of "types" they are casting. By being a wholly self-a.s.sured borderline arrogant person, I may be just the gal to fill the "villain" role and they'll ask me back. But if they want touchy-squeezy, let's-all-hug-and-talk-about-food-issues-and-feelings people, I am so out it's not even funny.

I come home and immediately check out the message boards to see if anyone else had a casting experience like mine. I expect to read posts from others who'd been to the calls and are equally obsessed with rehas.h.i.+ng their auditions. Because I'm a perfectionist, I ruminate about my performance all day. Did I say the right things? Did I come across as c.o.c.ky instead of confident? Did they think my sweater was cute?13 Instead, I find a pack of losers. And yes, this time I mean in the pejorative sense. Granted, a few of the people are there to exchange information, such as "What time should I show up for the open call?" and "How long is the audition process-should I take a whole day off of work?" but the majority of the posts can be divided into a couple of categories.

First, the It's Not Fair folks: "I'm fourteen and I really need to be on the show because I weigh four hundred pounds. It's not fair you have to be a legal adult to partic.i.p.ate." (And not to be insensitive, but this is what happens when school districts decide gym cla.s.s is unnecessary.) "I'm Canadian and it's not fair you have to be a U.S. citizen to be on the show." Likely this has more to do with work visas than discrimination.

More insidious are the I've Done Nothing and I'm All Out of Ideas people: "I want to be on the show but I don't own a video recorder to make an audition tape. Please make an exception for me."

"I have to work late and I can't make the casting call. I know I'd be good on the show,14 so please make an exception for me."

"I'm overweight, unhappy, and unhealthy. But the show lasts ten weeks and I'd miss my dog. Please make an exception for us and allow me to bring him."

These people really make me sad. Getting on this show is an opportunity of a lifetime. I can't even guess how much ten weeks of room and board at a luxury spa with round-the-clock personal trainers would cost. And not only is the stay free, but NBC pays the partic.i.p.ants a stipend while they do nothing but take care of themselves. Best of all, they have a chance to win fabulous prizes and the big winner takes home a cool quarter of a mil. Yet the people on the message boards are letting relatively tiny obstacles stand between them and the promise of a fit future and I find it so frustrating. I know how easy it is to make excuses rather than changes, and I feel for them.

I want to shake all of them and convince them fighting for themselves is worth it. I want to say, listen, I understand procuring a video camera might be difficult. And maybe it's embarra.s.sing to have to borrow one and explain why you need it. Driving ten hours to a casting call is probably no one's idea of a good time. And personally, imagining my sweet little Maisy dog sitting by the front door for ten weeks while I'm gone makes me want to cry, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. Just being able to take her for a proper run down the street would make the experience worth it for both of us. I want them to understand if they want something badly enough, they have to find a way to fight for it.

Unfortunately, from what I'm reading on the boards, the majority of posters have decided to simply half-a.s.s the application, sending in no tape and a pa.s.sel of excuses, while spouting the plat.i.tude "I'll be selected if it's meant to be." They honestly believe NBC is going to cast them and spend millions to produce and publicize a show about people who aren't even willing to put forth the bare minimum for partic.i.p.ation. And when they aren't selected, they'll be overwhelmed by self-loathing at failing another of life's little tests and will be resigned to the fact that they're meant to be fat.

And this completely breaks my heart.

The requisite week pa.s.ses, as does the next, and it's becoming abundantly clear I've not been selected to move on to the next round of casting.

Regardless, the experience helps me find my real X-factor and I'm inspired not only to join a gym but to actually go. I know if I finally commit myself, the weight will come off regardless of the presence of nutritionists, Beta cams, and gaffers.

So even if I'm not The Biggest Loser?

I can still be a loser.

Which is just fine with me.

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: Subject: hurricane season WTF, ladies?

Is this making any of the rest of you sensible gals crazy? I just saw yet another interview with the parents of a couple honeymooning in Cancun. I empathize with the families' concern; not knowing if their kids are safe has to be devastating. However, this empathy is overshadowed by annoyance.

Um, h.e.l.lo, people? This is hurricane season.

Which means conditions are favorable for hurricanes.

Which are bad.

So people might want to reconsider heading directly to the places they are most likely to hit during the time they are most likely to occur.

A $25 Cancun hotel room is not a bargain if you have to spend the week hunkered down in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a third-world city government building with six hundred other people precisely as stupid as you. (If you want a cheap room, why not head to Vegas off-season? It's supa-fun in any weather.) And if your dumb a.s.s accidentally gets killed because you're down there voluntarily vacationing during hurricane season? That's not bad luck; it's social Darwinism.

The kicker is that these particular honeymooners are from Alabama. Not Urbana, Illinois, or Fargo, North Dakota, or Las Vegas, Nevada, or anyplace else where hurricanes are nothing but exciting weekend television viewing. They come directly from Storm Country, USA. Um, aren't they probably still bailing out their bas.e.m.e.nts from Katrina and Rita? What the f.u.c.k were they thinking going to Cancun in October? How do they live in this world and still make the decision to go down there? Do they not have access to television? Or a newspaper? Or the Internet? Or a Farmer's Almanac?

If the couple was cognizant of the risk but decided to roll the dice anyway, why didn't they just go to Vegas? They could see the Chihuly gla.s.s display in the Bellagio and venture over to the Liberace museum. They could go from Paris to Venice to the Middle East to the Orient without ever crossing the street! They could dance in trendy clubs, watch shows, and attend concerts, each event more exciting than the last. Plus they could drink all the tap water they want and never get sick! In addition, the weather's totally perfect at least nine months out of the year, the dining and shopping are second to none, the accommodations are world-cla.s.s, and everyone speaks English. Plus, if you gamble and lose there, you'd still get free shrimp c.o.c.ktails.

Call me callous, but I just don't get it.

This e-mail brought to you by the Las Vegas tourism board.

I Love the Smell of Cardboard in the Morning "Yo? Fletch?" I call up the stairs to where he's installing my new antivirus program.1 "It's raining again."

"Yeah, I know. It's been sprinkling off and on all day."

Normally this would be an innocuous conversation, except for the fact that the rain is coming down on our breakfast bar from a gaping hole in the ceiling.

About a month ago something happened to the wax seal on our second-floor toilet and it began leaking sewage into our kitchen.2 After a few days of frantic phone calls, our landlord finally sent someone to cut a hole in the Sheetrock and remove the most offensive bits. Since then, neither the toilet nor ceiling have been touched. I'd worry our landlord was hurt or perhaps trapped under something heavy, but apparently he's been well enough to cash our rent checks. (Our landlord is Fletch's colleague and friend, but ever since Operation Brown Rain, not so much on the friend part.) The worst part isn't the very real possibility of catching cholera in my own d.a.m.n home; it's going up to the third floor to use the bathroom. Even though I've been religiously working out at the gym and doing up to eighty minutes of cardio at a time, there's something about navigating our stairs that just knocks me on my a.s.s. (And no, Fletch won't let me pee in the second-floor bathtub, and, yes, I asked.) Disconnecting the toilet has stopped about 90 percent of the water but our kitchen ceiling still leaks intermittently. I say this is G.o.d's way of telling us we should stop cooking and start eating more McDonald's, but Fletch disagrees. He says it's G.o.d's way of telling us we need a new grill. Regardless, we both agree if something doesn't change and soon, we're not renewing our lease.

We're outside cooking the most gorgeous dill and b.u.t.ter-brushed tuna steaks on our rickety old grill when our next-door neighbor Holly comes home. She's one of two friends we've made in this sixteen-unit complex. Tommy is the other, and he lives two doors down in the extravagant corner unit with the $50,000 kitchen upgrade and hot tub, although I can't imagine why he likes us after I kind of accidentally reported him to Homeland Security. (What? He dresses like a thug, acts s.h.i.+fty, has no discernible source of income, and is always rolling into the parking lot in a variety of luxury cars-Ferraris, Mercedeses, Lamborghinis, etc. What was I supposed to think? Big time X dealer? Club promoter? Polish mafia? Terrorist, perhaps? Eventually, I found out that if you actually talk to your neighbor instead of just spying on him you'll learn all sorts of interesting stuff...like real estate developers often wear casual clothes and keep strange hours...and parents who own luxury car dealers.h.i.+ps often let their adult children borrow various vehicles...and sometimes "aloof" is another word for "shy." The kicker is he actually went to the same college as Fletch and I. Tommy's a Boilermaker, not a terrorist.3) Anyway, Holly's struggling to unload her groceries and manage her giant Rottweiler, so I run over to help. Yeah, yeah, I know-since when am I helpful? But Fletch and I have both gotten tight with Holly over the past couple of months. She's always so upbeat and silly and she reminds us of our friend Suz4 from college. If I ever want an adventure-taking the dogs to the lake, climbing over the side of the rail on the expressway to get an un.o.bstructed photo of the harvest moon, breaking into the construction site across the street to see if the new condos are really worth their $600,0005 asking price-Holly's up for it.

"Hey, baby, what's happening?" she calls by way of greeting. Her swingy black bob s.h.i.+nes in the sunlight. (Note to self: Ask what kind of conditioner she uses.) I grab Vaughn's leash. "You look like you're struggling. Thought I'd lend a hand." Vaughn couldn't be happier to see me and practically lunges at me. His enormous tongue reaches me a good fifteen seconds before the rest of him. Holly claims he's in love with me, and a lot of times he'll sit in the corner of her yard and stare wistfully in at me through our giant gla.s.s wall of windows, wagging his stub of a tail the whole time. When he stands on his hind legs he can reach my face, so I let him give me a couple of sloppy kisses and a big doggie hug before I pull on his leash. He immediately collapses at my feet and shows me his downy belly.

After I wipe off my face with my s.h.i.+rttail, I notice ten Trader Joe's bags in the trunk of Holly's tiny car. She's single, fit, and lives alone, so this seems like an awful lot of food. "Wow, are you having a party or are you developing an eating disorder?"

She replies, "None of the above. I have a girlfriend coming to stay with me for a while."

Fletch covers the grill and comes over to join us on the sidewalk that runs in front of our apartments. "That sounds like fun. Maybe you guys want to join us tomorrow? We're going to be grilling out again. We're having Coronas and margaritas and I'm cooking carne asada. Come over-we can make some noise and p.i.s.s off all the a.s.sholes on the condo board." Behind Fletch's back, I'm shaking my head, mouthing "No!" and "Run!" while pantomiming vomiting, gagging, and jogging. He sees me reflected in our windows and swats me with a fishy set of tongs.

Holly sucks air in through her teeth. "Oh, you're sweet to offer, but no."

"You probably want to get your shots before you eat Fletch's cooking again?" I nod knowingly.