Deanna Moffitt

Oh. My. God!! I am 38 years old and I am a cow. Not in the body conscience sense. Not in the way some women claim, when they’re actually fishing for a compliment. No, I’m dressed head to toe in cheap imitation fur.

But it appears that I’m a bit confused; I have horns, a cowbell, and what look like cat teats. I am apparently a new breed of animal called a bullcat. Well, Happy Easter everybody!

The worst part is my face is not covered in the slightest. There is nothing to hide behind. The costume covers absolutely everything except the shame and embarrassment exuding from my face.

It’s 8am, I’ve just driven 45 minutes in bitter cold Chicago April weather to the charming village of Schaumberg. I’m waiting with Farmer John and the Easter Bunny in a makeshift greenroom for our start time; the moment we’ll walk out onto the stage, greet our screaming fans and rock the uptight Chicago theater scene to its core. Except this theater is in truth a small tired conference room tucked in the back of Marshall Field’s second floor; past over priced shoes, past cosmetics and perfumes, past the junior section and children’s clothing, past young men’s, and just beyond a rack of Warner Bras and Bali underwear.

The screaming fans are in fact screaming, but that’s because they’re tired little bundles that have been dragged here by their parents to eat breakfast with the Easter Bunny. And there are only a few uptight fans, for the most part they’re overworked parents who are just trying to make memories for their kids in they’re already over-stimulated little lives.

“Here’s your breakfast” says Chip, the perky restaurant manager for Marshall Field’s Woodfield Mall, as he plops down three plates of cold waffle sticks, powdered reconstituted eggs and charred bacon. “The kids’ll be ready for you in just a few, Clara” As he heads out the door with that little smirk that says I’m glad it’s you and not me.

You little prick Chip, I could just twist your happy little neck right off. A year ago I was meeting with Sr. VP’s and IT consultants making decisions with million dollar consequences as an IT Project Manager. I had a corner cubicle with a magnificent view of Mt. Hood overlooking the Willamette River in Portland, OR. I was making a fantastic income on a four day work week; being wined and dined by potential consulting candidates. The Company I worked for profiled me in the company magazine as a “person who gets things done.” Don’t fucking mess with me Chip, I will take you out.

“You look adorable when you’ve got mad cow disease,” says Farmer John. I want to punch him but I won’t because he’s one of the main reasons I’m here in this hellish breakroom. Farmer John, aka Rance is my fiancé. He more than anyone understands the leap I’ve made to give up a secure job, my home and the only state in which I can remember living to come to Chicago to pursue my dream.

My dream. Is this it? Is this what makes up my dream? I am getting paid to act, but somehow I thought it would be different. I thought there would be brilliant scripts, beautiful lighting, symphonic music, huge theaters with packed houses. I thought there would be hours of discussing character motivation, dissecting meaning behind each well thought out word from the finest of playwrights. I thought there would be velour curtains, and middle-aged ushers in maroon blazers. I thought my face would be on the cover of Playbill. I did not ever think I would be Clara the Cow, not once.

Chip pops his fruit striped shirted torso in the door , “You guys have got to get out there, the kids are getting restless and we don’t have breakfast ready yet.”

Better put your game face on Clara you’re about to lose some self esteem. At least the Easter Bunny is fully covered; no one would ever know that underneath is a charming, hungover, sweaty mess of a comedian. If parents could see what was really under that bunny suit I’m positive no parent would let their child sit on the Easter Bunny’s lap.

Farmer John and I exchange knowing glances. At this point in our relationship we can read each other’s minds. At least this will be a great story when we sit down with James Lipton on the Actor’s Studio.

We are not expecting what happens next. A giant white bunny is like Michael Jackson for four year olds. Kids are either extremely excited about seeing the Easter Bunny or completely freaked out. I for one would be in the camp of the freaked out. One look at those dead-like mesh eyes that hide any kind of soul and I would be out the door. And that smile is always creepily perfect like a charming Ted Bundy. Farmer John and I quickly realize our job is to run interference for the Bunny. It’s hard to maneuver in that huge suit and kids either want to run screaming like a banshee or feel around as if they’re future urologists.

Farmer John and I lead Bunny around the tables to say “Hi” get pictures and ask them if they want anything from the Easter Bunny.

“I want to get a PS2!”

“I want new clothes!”

“I want a cell phone!”

“A cell phone? You’re only 7 years old who are you going to call on your cell phone?”
“I dunno.”

And that’s when we turned to see Jacob sitting with his mom and dad.

“Hi there, what’s your name?”

“My name’s Jacob”

Jacob had that twinkle in his eyes that tell you there’s something wonderful going on in his brain. That he’s going to grow up and be someone special. And hopefully he’ll make something wonderful of his life and make those around him happy.

“…Mommy I don’t think that’s a real cow. I think that’s just a lady in a costume.”

Or maybe he’ll just be that asshole that tells you you’re crazy for quitting your job to become an actor.