God had cursed Sarah Joseph Tortecelli with an imperfect beauty. For although she possessed a symmetrical oval face, a small nondescript nose (a rare quality in a Tortecelli), and liquid hazel eyes, her lips were found wanting.

"A little collagen and . . . mwah!" Her New York agent made a kissing sound over the phone. "You're ready for Madison Avenue."

Sarah shelled out $250, leaned back in the doctorís cushioned chair, and felt the stinging spread across her mouth. Still, she figured, this was nothing to cleaning up after six brothers and two uncles in their brown row house. Sarah didn't see why men who each outweighed her by 100 pounds couldnít lift up their plates at the end of dinner. "Women are stronger," her mother replied, rolling out sheets of fresh ravioli. After nineteen years, Sarah decided, she needed to be smarter.

One week later she took the Greyhound up from Manyunk and stood in line for her first New York casting session. She felt as if she had been thrown onto a copier machine; so many of the women were close variations on her own exotic looks. Finally her name was called and she stepped into the windowless room. A small video camera, duct-taped to a stand, faced a blank white wall. Cue cards sat propped on a folding chair. Sarah could make out a table with four people at the other end of the room. Two men and two women, all in fitted black suits, murmured on their cell phones, slurped coffee and rustled papers. No one looked up. The casting agent, a thin, overly-friendly man in pressed jeans, instructed Sarah to read from the cards.

She did her best to emote over Arrivah Avocados, "America's first branded avocados." She had never actually tried one - her mother refused to cook "Mexican." She also lisped with her newly inflated lips. But Sarah was an actress and could overcome such obstacles.

The next day her agent called her with feedback. "They think your name's a train wreck."

"What about my acting?" Sarah asked.

"Make it something snappy," he said. "Mwah!"

Three weeks, one lawyer, and $200 later, Sarah Snappy stood in a casting line again. This time blondes and redheads surrounded her. She had never seen so many beautiful women in her life. She ran her tongue over her newly capped teeth (which had set her back $2,500). She badly needed this gig to pay off her mounting acquisitions.

When her turn came up, Sarah gave herself over to Tridenty Tooth Whitener. She had sampled it in advance, to prepare for the role, and found its minty taste too strong to stomach. But she had learned to overcome her gag reflex at age twelve with her Uncle John. Standing in front of the agency team, she made sure to punch the product name with special attention.

"Nice teeth," enthused the casting director.

"Vaguely ethnic," nodded the producer.

"Tits too small," said the creative director. He whispered it to the producer, who mentioned it in passing to the casting director, who told her agent, who happened to know the perfect plastic surgeon for that very thing.

Four weeks, $3,000, and two stuff and stitches later (they hid the incisions underneath her aureole so that everything looked perfect. But although her breasts seemed ripe and luscious, she could no longer feel the caress of a hand brushed across her nipples), Sarah looked at the sea of women in the next casting line and realized that she had finally overcome all of her imperfections.

Sarah felt at one with the Swifty-Wifty non-mop cleaner in front of the agency and client. She pointed her brand new 38 D's at Mr. Swifty, ignoring the camera, and pursed her perfect lips. Mr. Swifty was so moved that he called her agent to ask Sarah back to his office for a special encore audition.

Sarah worked on her inflection and also on angling Mr. Swifty into the corner of his sofa, part of an office ensemble decorated entirely in Matilda Bay Persimmon. She wanted to capture him saying her new name, tonguing her white incisors, and fondling her firmly shaped breasts. He performed beautifully.

Sarah wept with genuine gratitude when accepting the role of spokeswoman for Swifty-Wifty, which held the promise of a long-term contract. She paid off her debts, hugged her mother goodbye, and even managed the down payment on a two-bedroom condo in Hoboken.

The next year they replaced her with a computer-generated talking cat.