Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? (22 page)

How competitive are you?

I have bloodlust.

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 competitive people on the face of the earth. And yes, I know you’re going to talk to a bazillion fame whores 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 competition 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 Leadership 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 sex-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.
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)

Here’s the thing, in this competition 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 damn 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 glass 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 title them
Jen + NBC = The New Hotness, 2005.
Yes, NBC should definitely be made aware of my HP.
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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 button 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 pass 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.
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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.
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Unfortunately, the other women are also pretty and vivacious. I’d kind of hoped my competition 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 hell 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 up
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my competition. 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.
(Damn. 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 space.
(Shit, I’ve got nothing to add to this inane conversation! Damn it, why didn’t I drive so I could bitch, 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 competitive. To punctuate these facts, she giggles at herself. I roll my eyes at the agents, hoping this communicates our (assumed) 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 nonsexual 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, sex, 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.

Fuck.

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 glass 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-assured 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 rehashing 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 cocky instead of confident? Did they think my sweater was cute?
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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 participate.”
(And not to be insensitive, but this is what happens when school districts decide gym class 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.”