Waste Not, Want Not

Just when you are feeling pretty fucking good about yourself some douche wad has to stroll up to you and throw yellow snow on your happy Christmas parade. It always happens that way. I was at Target for the fifth time this month buying Hanukkah candles and more storage boxes to complete my organizing redo. A few cool things for Otto made their way into the cart. A new rain/wind jacket, mittens that will never be used, an Elmo and a Cookie monster doll and an Elmo potty training seat. I was in line feeling like a good mom, a good shopper and still high from shooting a national commercial the day before and making the director laugh. That’s all you want. If the director laughs during one or all of your takes he might just hire you again and that is a good thing for you, your wallet, your kid’s tuition bill and for your mid level self esteem.

So, there I was unloading the cart and watching my precious child still covered in his breakfast of pancakes, eggs and beans eat Gold Fish crackers like they were his first meal in months. You would think I could wipe off his face but really, who has the time for such minute details in hygiene and appearance? A woman appeared behind us happy to be in a short line and ready to make friends. She began cooing and complimenting Otto on his looks and his lovely demeanor. Little did she know that just minutes earlier he had been on my last nerve throwing a ball out of the cart every few seconds and demanding I retrieve it like a sad, needy hunting dog. I turned around to face her after putting the last of my crap collection on the conveyor belt and this is what transpired, complete with thick, purring accent of unknown origin.

WOMAN: “Your son is beauuuuutiful.”
ME” “Thank you. He’s a great kid (sometimes…).”
WOMAN: “Oh, I see you are prrregnant with another.”

I look down at my belly and notice a small bump of insignificant size under my white undershirt and cover it in horror.

ME: No, no I’m not pregnant!! You think I look pregnant? Really?
WOMAN: Oh, sorrrry. Well, yesss, you do have little tummy there. Yes, you look prrregnant, yesssss.
ME: I can’t believe you said that. Really?

Inappropriate, jewel encrusted fatty with high waisted slacks and pancake make-up covering her acne prone face caresses her large belly.

WOMAN: You know that is what happens after C-section. Too hard to lose the weight here. It’s okay.

ME: --------------- (speechless for the first time in eons)

WOMAN: You need have nother child. They take care of each other.
ME: Everyone says that but I don’t see him (pointing to Otto who is blissfully ignoring the horror show) getting up at 2 a.m. to feed the baby.

WOMAN: (blank stare – clearly sarcasm and humor is lost on Imelda Marcos, here).

ME: Happy Holidays and if I find out I am pregnant it is all your fault.

I wheel away the cart disgusted in myself and ready to binge and purge. Little does this gargantuan blood diamond wearing, over processed skull cap sporting house frau know that I, barely working actress mother, has been constipated for three days and that that just might be the reason for the small bump on my otherwise average and aging body. When I book a job I get so excited that I cannot poop. I am going to be very honest here, folks and this is how it goes.

You get the call that they hired you and boom, no poo poo. Then you go to the fitting and squeeze into clothes you would never be caught dead in but are still so excited and again, you cannot go doody. Then the big day arrives, you inevitably have a very long drive to the set and you are harried and nervous getting prepared and no number two happens. You finally get to set in a torrential down pour, barely surviving the freeway conditions on the Grapevine, America’s most treacherous highway as massive big rigs weave all over the road and almost take you and your stool sample out for good.

You check in with the first A.D. who shows you your trailer that you will be sharing with two other actresses, one who is sleep deprived from having a small child and forgot to wear a coat and is close to hypothermia and the other who is so narcissistic and conceited that she really thinks you care about her douche bag ex-husband, her three bedroom, $1600 a month New York apartment that she just gave up or the house she owns in Los Angeles. She rattles on for what feels like hours about how much she works and how people think she’s cute while you try and memorize your lines with a huge dooky in your bum.

The toilet next door is in a honey wagon (large movie trailer) that everyone uses and has an unwritten rule that no fecal matter shall be deposited there under any circumstances all day. It is pouring rain, you are hungry and nervous and when you break for lunch you make the moronic decision to eat the Mexican Pot Roast AND spicy taquitos for lunch. Eight hours pass as you go over your lines a thousand times and finally at 7:30 p.m. you make nice in front of the camera and an exhausted crew of seventy-five staring at you, all the while trying not to have a B.M. in your tight, out of style Seven jeans.

You drive home triumphant and wired and take a half a Xanax to help you sleep, knowing full well it will constipate your bowels even more but sleep is more important than a poopsicle. The next morning you rush out of the house to get out of the way of the patronizing woman who cleans your toilet, the one that hasn’t been used in days and days. You have a large breakfast out as Otto makes a mess and cracks you up. You then go to ToysRUs and Target with crazy crowds to finish all your shopping for your dual religious celebrations, trying your best to save money while wanting your small child to experience his combined heritages of 8 days of garbage followed by one morning of bullshit. Then Molly McButter tells you that you look pregnant and all you really need is a shot gun and an enema. Ho ho ho!