11:00 A.M. I’m at a casting in midtown for an osteopenia drug. No, it’s not penis related. It’s the last stop, the green room, for osteoporosis.
Where did the glamour go, I ask you?
I’m surrounded by women in all shapes and sizes cackling like hens.
You almost expect to find eggs when they get up to pee for the umpteenth time.
I arrive at my appointed hour, LIKE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO, the way Wilhelmina, rest her chic soul, taught me. Nowadays, professional etiquette be damned, I’ll show up whenever I damn well please, which is why reception looks like Ben Hur.
The Breakdown: Natural yet well put together, not overly made up or fussy, Women should exude confidence and calm, comfortable in their own skin.
Here comes the twist: We will be asking women to wear a one piece bathing suit to be photographed in.
Talk about laying eggs.
Women of a certain age, lets say, have parts that are a bit worn. And just because they’ve had their face lifted, doesn’t necessarily mean their ass went along for the ride.
As they all disrobe, breasts hitting knees that wink scaring the shit out of the little deli delivery boy, I sit and wait.
I’m smart, wearing a pencil skirt over my black French maillot swimsuit (ho ho) I could easily step out of once in front of the camera. The others were draped like it was 1899, layers everywhere…a sorority party gone porn.
Here’s a tip. Don’t buy a suit from L.L. Bean. I know they’re reasonably priced, but that’s not a good enough reason to look like a fat feed bag.
That’s the other thing. Most of these ladies look like cafeteria workers in Arkansas, and believe me, one of them will book the job.
Doesn’t matter what I do, frumpy or dumpy, I will always look like a model despite various nooks and crannies.
But there I was anyway, thinking if I bought a Lottery ticket I’d have a better shot. But, as you learn in this shallow, unpredictable, why didn’t I go to college, business, you just never know.
“Miss Bianchi, you’re on deck.”
So now I’m standing in-between two gray-haired girls chirping across me as if I weren’t there.
Imagine Tweeting, LIVE.
Why do women talk so much, and about nothing. I mean…
I’m naming presidents under my breath so not to punch them, when the door swings open.
I step in.
Wiggling out of my skirt, I thank the young girl (20?) from the ad agency for asking to see me refraining from asking, why, as I’m led by a tattooed gal with fuchsia hair to the seamless white paper facing the camera, as if I were mentally retarded.
Apparently the woman before me had some trouble. Was she blindfolded? No I didn’t say that.
“Nice suit,” the ad girl says. And it should be, I heard my mother snap from the ether, it cost enough.
Hey ma, you’re the one who taught me, you get what you pay for.
Now I’m standing there looking like a fly swatter, with buttons, waiting since Tats was having some technical difficulties.
The fetus receptionist pops in to see, why the delay, since she’s getting backed up out there. Think Chevys on the Jersey Turnpike, in Bean bathing suits.
“Da ya need a robe?” asks the fetus.
I say no, despite my boobs sticking out like doorbells it was indeed, that cold.
I’m asked to copy 5 poses of diagrams displayed on the wall. I try to look as if I’m serving soup to students that, at best, make me look crazy.
Then, since there’s a video involved, she will now ask me questions.
“What makes ya feel, ya know, that you’re alive?”
My heart? No, I didn’t say that.
“Well, I love being with my grandson…
I don’t have a grandson.
and his Poodle, Bob.”
Never knew any dog named Bob, or any Bob for that matter. Was hoping my nose wasn’t getting bigger.
“Tell us why, Susannah.”
“Oh you know, dogs and kids…they live in the moment…they remind you to be happy where you are….to be grateful for everything, like the sun and the moon, and the sound of your beloved husband wishing you a good morning.”
I don’t have a husband.
“Are you crying?” I ask both girls.