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the volume of blood pounding in my ears. I resolve to speak the lines even more emphatically so they know I’m taking laundry more seriously than anyone ever has.
    “ I always make time for myself. Smelling like a fresh spring day makes it all a breeze.”
    The stick-straights are really laughing now; there’s no denying it. I must be doing a really bad job. I try to finish extra strong, so as not to let them see how disappointed I am. I have the cleanest laundry!
    “When my husband asks me how I do it, I tell him, ‘It’s easy!’ Every day I think of our honeymoon in Niagara, and let the waterfall take me away. Niagara. It’s like a honeymoon in a bottle.”
    I lower the paper and look up, defeated, only to see that the stick-straights are smiling, beaming, actually. They look at each other and share a nod.
    I’m totally confused.
    “Awesome!” one of them gushes. “SO funny.”
    “Really cute.”
    “Quirky!”
    I have no idea why they liked what I did, but I know I should play along.
    “Thanks!” I say, and then for no reason, “Any adjustments?” Stupid. Stupid. Don’t ask to do it again when you don’t know what you did in the first place .
    “Ummmm …” They both cock their heads at the same angle, like two puppies in a pet store window. Then they nod to each other again.
    “Sure, yeah, let’s do one more, just for kicks!”
    “Yeah! I mean, that was great! But let’s, in this one, like, really have fun with it!”
    “But also, take it seriously, like you did.”
    “Yeah! Serious, but fun, like you’re talking to your best friend.”
    “Yeah! Like you’re sharing a secret with your best friend.”
    “Yeah! It’s a big secret, but also it’s really casual. Like, it’s a secret, but also it’s no big deal.”
    “Yeah! Just throw it away.”
    “Yeah! But it’s important, too.”
    “Yeah! And could you, maybe, put your hair in a ponytail?”
    “Yeah!”
    I’m even less sure of what I did the second time, but the stick-straights laugh again anyway.
    “I think her hair is funnier down, don’t you?” one of them says to the other, who nods vigorously back.
    As I leave the room, I stuff the paper with the copy on it in my bag, even though you’re not supposed to take it with you, and bolt for the elevator.
    I walk a few blocks in I’m not sure what direction. I’m so excited that they seemed to like me that I’m dizzy and disoriented. Finally, I slow down a bit and, finding myself near Union Square Park, decide I’ll stop and sit down and try to analyze what just happened. It’s important to figure out why they thought it went well. A cigarette. I really want a cigarette. I think there might be one left in a crumpled pack in the bottom of my bag. I know there is, in fact, because I pretended to myself that I forgot about it but secretly know it exists.
    I retrieve the pack I fake-forgot about, but I can’t find a light. I keep digging in my bag, hoping something will appear. No matches, no lighter, nothing. I’m the worst smoker. I never have the two things you’re supposed to have at the same time. I hold the unlit cigarette in my hand anyway, for support, and uncrumple the paper from the audition. For the first time, I read the whole thing.
    I had assumed from the dialogue what the action would be: generic shots of someone being a great mom, playing with generic perfect kids, drinking generic perfect tea with generic perfect girlfriends, and other predictably generic-perfect-mom activities.
    That’s not at all what the description says.
    My stomach lurches.
    The action between each line is the exact opposite of what the line is. After “Kids are my number-one priority,” it says, “Rushing mom gets daughter to school just as the bell is ringing.” After the thing about always having time for friends, it’s “looks at answering machine guiltily and decides to screen the call.” At the end, the harried housewife stuffs an impossible amount of dirty clothes in the