Love at 11 (11 page)

Cellulite Sneakers
—Special sneakers help you lose weight while you walk.

Pudgy Pets
—Now it’s Fido and Fifi’s turn to go low-carb.

The Fast Food Diet
—Big Mac can mean BIG weight loss.

Nocturnal Positions
—The positions you sleep in can predict the future of your marriage.

Nail Salon Nightmare
—How acrylic nails can lead to amputated fingers.

We will also be kicking off our latest
Household Products That Kill
series. Maddy has been working on our first segment—“Cosmetics That Kill” which edits tomorrow. We’ll also be assigning Deadly Doorknobs, Kitty Killer, Bad Beanie Babies, and Suspicious Sinks. And we’re looking for additional ideas, so if you come across something that can kill, please pitch it to me ASAP.

When working on these stories, please keep in mind that we are not to name any brand names unless we are saying something GOOD about the product. And please make sure if you’re writing about an experimental new diet product that may or may not work, you add a quick sound bite at the end from some grumpy, old physician who doesn’t believe anything but old-fashioned diet and exercise will lose weight. (As if people have time for that! :))

Your Boss, Laura

Monday morning. Back at work. I had to write the “Cosmetics That Kill” story and get Terrance to record it. It amazed me sometimes to think how little I got paid to shoot, write, and edit a story and how much he got paid to read it. When I first started, my family always harassed me about when
I’d
be on air. Uh, that would be never.

It bugged me that most non-news people thought producers were all wannabe reporters. That we were all just sitting back, waiting for our big break. I had no interest in going live on the air. I liked working behind the scenes and never having to worry about getting fired because the latest surveys found that viewers trusted five-foot-two brunettes more than five-foot-six blondes. As a producer you got to do all the fun stuff and never had to worry about your hair and makeup or getting old and fired. The only downside was the pay. But I’d heard top
Newsline
producers made a good six figures, so at least I had a goal.

The mail icon popped up on my computer screen. I knew I should have closed the program before starting my script; it was too tempting to click over to see who had written, even though usually it was either spam, e-mail forwards, or pesky viewers who wanted to complain about a story I’d produced. Not that I minded viewer feedback, but nine times out of ten the viewer in question hadn’t actually viewed my story—just the promo—and were condemning me on the fifteen-second tease I didn’t even write.

This time there were two e-mails in my box. One from my dad and one from the promotions department. Both were bound to be equally upsetting.

I clicked open my dad’s first.

Hi Maddy,

How’s my little girl? How’s work? When are they going to let you on TV?

Anyway, Cindi and I were wondering if you’d like to come to her ultrasound appointment tomorrow at noon. I bet you’re just DYING to see your little unborn sister or brother. (Don’t tell anyone, but I’m hoping for a boy!)

Let me know if you want to come. It’d mean a lot to Cindi. She really wants to meet you! Oh, and she wanted me to ask you if you knew her older brother. She thinks he might have went to high school with you. Does the name Tad ring a bell?

Love, Dad

P.S. Is Lulu eating right? The girl is too skinny.

Ewh
. All I could say was
ewh
.

Why on earth would I want to go see photographic evidence of Dad cheating on Mom? To me, the ultrasound would be a live video starring the evil seed that broke up my parents’ marriage. Sure, technically the fetus would be my half brother or sister, but just because we shared a sperm donor didn’t mean I had to have anything to do with this unborn creature.

And how dare he ask about Lulu as if it were no big thing? He should be the one making sure she ate, not me! He or Mom, who was now equally pissing me off with her globe-trotting adventures. One of them needed to climb the hell back on the parental wagon and start acting like the adults they were supposed to be.

Lulu still wasn’t talking to me after Saturday night’s incident. She’d left the house before I woke up Sunday morning and for part of the day I’d sustained the hope that she’d gone back home. But late Sunday night she showed up again, drunk off her ass, and passed out on my couch. Like a good sister, I left her a glass of water and some Advil on the coffee table. I wanted to lecture her about underage drinking but didn’t want to set her off again. Besides, it wasn’t that big of a deal, was it? I mean, I drank when I was sixteen. Maybe not on Sunday afternoons, but still …

I guess I didn’t blame her for wanting to check out of reality. My parents’ marriage had broken up, and besides passing P.S. e-mails inquiring about her weight and school attendance, neither seemed interested in how she felt about the matter. I’d probably react the same way if I were her. Poor kid.

I closed Dad’s e-mail without responding and turned to the one from the promotions department. I knew from experience this one ought to be good.

Hi Maddy,

It’s Ron, your favorite Promo Boy! Here’s what we decided on for the promo for “Cosmetics That Kill.”

LURKING IN YOUR MEDICINE CABINET THEY SEEM INNOCENT …

HARMLESS.

BUT YOUR COSMETICS … CAN ACTUALLY KILL YOU!

TERRANCE TELLS ALL, TONIGHT AT ELEVEN.

What do you think? Awesome, huh? Ron

“Ugh” seemed the appropriate response. Nothing like a bad promo to ruin your day. Now I had to go argue with the promotions producer and beg him to change the promo to something that remotely resembled the story itself.

I picked up the phone. It’d take way too long to respond by e-mail.

“Ron speaking.”

“Yeah, hi Ron. It’s Maddy down in Special Projects. About that promo you e-mailed me …”

“Isn’t it great? I showed everyone up here and we all agree it’s one of our best promos ever.”

“Um, yeah. Very catchy. But you see, the thing is, it’s not exactly true.”

“True?”

Of course. The word was a foreign phrase to the promos department. Actually, to the whole newsroom if it came to that.

“Yeah. As in, cosmetics don’t actually kill you.”

“Of course they don’t actually kill
me
. I’m a guy. I don’t wear cosmetics. By ‘you,’ we mean the viewer. The twenty-four- to fifty-five-year-old soccer mom we call Abby who has two point four kids, a white picket fence and a ton of disposable income.”

I took a deep breath. “Right. But they don’t actually kill Abby either.”

“Hmm. Do they kill people who watch other stations besides News Nine? We might be able to work that in.”

“Uh, no. Sorry. The story is basically how certain lipsticks that contain lead may lead to brain damage to unborn babies.”

“Unborn babies can be considered viewers,” Ron said defensively.

I grimaced. “They can’t view. They’re blocked by a wall of mommy flesh.”

I could hear Ron’s annoyed sigh on the other end of the phone line. “Since when did you get so technical? I showed the promo to my boss Chris and he loved it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the promo. Except that what it says is not true.” I couldn’t believe I had to argue this point.

“Yeah, well, it took a day and a half to come up with this. We’re editing tomorrow and I have no time to rewrite my entire promo just because of some technicality,” he said in a huff.

It took him a day and a half to come up with five lines? It took me about an hour to write a four-page script. Promo producers had the best jobs in the world. I envisioned them having wild parties in their fourth-floor offices, laughing at the rest of the newsroom, who actually had to work. When an order came up for a promo they scribbled something out that took five minutes and then resumed the party.

“Look,” Ron said. “How about this? We change the line ‘your cosmetics can actually kill you!’ to ‘can your cosmetics actually kill you?’ with a question mark. That way if anyone says anything you can say it was a question not a statement and that the answer to the question happens to be no.”

I wondered if
Newsline
producers had to put up with this kind of bullshit.

“Fine. Whatever. Thanks, Ron.” I got off the phone quickly, my heart no longer into fighting the good fight. Why did I even care? In the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter one bit. So a few viewers might stay up a half hour later, worrying a bit about their killer cosmetics. When they saw the story they’d be relieved, right? It wasn’t like an incorrect promo would destroy the world.