(Camera pans stylishly over the façade of a modest two-bedroom house in suburbia. Cue theme music, which is either Kanye West’s “Stronger” or Kanye West’s “Stronger (Remix).” The door opens to reveal a pregnant woman wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt and sandals. She smiles and waves.)
Woman : What’s up MTV! This is Sara Eckhart, and this is my crib. Come on in! Let me show you around.
(camera follows woman into the bathroom)
Sara : All my pregnant homies tell me, you ain’t a player unless you’ve got a solid gold toilet into which you can throw up each morning.
(goes into bedroom, playfully sprawls across bed, teasingly traces finger along pillow)
Sara : Aww yeah, MTV. This is where the magic happens. And by magic I mean my husband no longer finds me attractive.
**
Sara (opens refrigerator)**: Let me show you something real interesting: the foods I have. (Jump cuts over foods in fridge) This fridge is tricked out, yo! I got everything from pickles to ice cream to additional pickles—I got the hookup, man! It is never enough.
**
Sara (pointing to sink)**: This is where we’re gonna bathe my kid. We got one of those baths that tells you the temperature. It cost us a damn C-note, but that’s just how we roll. Scalding babies is for scrubs. So is making them cold. I can’t remember which is worse. I gotta read my b-b-b-baby books, son!
**
Sara**: This is where my little baby’s gonna go! (gives crib a quick jiggle, laughs) Chekkitycheck this shabby chic dust ruffle–we collaborated with an interior designer to create a gender nonspecific space for our unborn child, yo.
Husband : (whispering desperately at wife’s uterus) Boyboyboyboyboy…
**
Sara**: (opens closet) I got tons of clothes up in here, none of which fit because I’m so phat.
Husband : I think you want “fat,” honey.
Sara : . . . yes.
**
Sara**: So you’ve seen my baby stuff. Why don’t I show you my other baby: my mo’fuckin’ 2001 PT Cruiser.
(about a dozen seizure-inducing jump cuts of a purple PT Cruiser)
Sara : Yeah, I’ve got crazy stories about me and my bitches rollin’ through the city, hitting up clubs and dancing like it wuddin’ nothing. (sigh) But that was then. (more jump cuts fill the awkward silence)
