As Seen on TV (21 page)

If we had a baby crawling around, it would definitely get tangled in the mess and suffocate itself.

I spend the next five minutes chucking out all superfluous hangers and plastic. Why does Steve have so much stuff? My things are coming tomorrow, so he’s going to have to wade through this all. Maybe I’ll use the extra room for storage.

Something in the kitchen smells. I clean out the fridge, in search of the offender. I throw out two yogurts dated July 21, three months ago, but neither seems to be the problem.

By the time Steve gets home, I’m cranky, exhausted, grubby and on all fours in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“I definitely like the look of that.”

“So not in the mood.” On the plus side he’s holding a bag of gifts. I sit on my butt. “Hi, sweetie. Are those for me?”

“For later, not now.” He lays the bag down on the kitchen table. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to stop the fridge from smelling. Why does it smell? Something smells and I can’t find it.”

Steve sits next to me on the floor. “Maybe it’s you?”

I punch him in the arm. “I’m going to shower. Then I’m going to try to figure out how to make fennel fusilli with chicken and pine nuts.” I can’t think of anything I want to do less than cook. The directions look scary. They involve cooking the pasta and the sauce simultaneously. How can you pay attention to both things at the same time? What are the chances I burn one or the other?

After I shower and dress, I find Steve in the kitchen cooking away. “What are you doing?”

“Making the pasta.”

As happy as I am to hear those magic words, I feel guilty. “You always make dinner. It’s my turn.”

“You did enough tonight. Your appetizer and salad look delicious.”

“But dinner was my present. Now I don’t have anything for you.”

He adds the pine nuts to the pan. “That’s not true. You got a fondue maker.”

Oh, yeah. There you go. I do have a present, after all. Hey. He wasn’t supposed to see that. “That was a surprise!”

“Then you should have wrapped it.”

I stand on tiptoe and take down two wineglasses. Then during my attempt to open the bottle, I manage to get half the cork stuck. Damn. After making a go to remove the remainder with a steak knife, I end up plopping it into the bottle.

Steve strains the pasta.

“Steve, can you pass me the strainer?”

“Did you break the cork again?”

“Yup.”

I pour the wine through the strainer, staining it red. We clink. “To eleven months,” I say.

“To eleven months.”

After a delicious dinner of perfectly cooked pasta, Steve tells me to wait in the living room while he prepares my gifts.

“Plural?” I ask, impressed.

When he opens the door, a black negligee and thong underwear are spread out on the bed.

“Ooh. Pretty,” I say, fingering the lingerie. Lacy and sexy.

“Now look at the panties,” he says, clapping his hands.

A tiny triangle of leather is attached to something barely more than a string. As soon as I pick it up, my hand falls to the bed under its weight. “Why is it so heavy?” I notice something odd. “Why do they have batteries in them?”

Abruptly, they begin to move. And hum.

“They’re vibrating panties!” Steve says, clapping his hands again. He’s holding a small white box. Apparently, the panties’ remote control.

My panties are alive.

Steve looks sheepish. “Don’t you like them?”

Do I need to feed them? “Sure,” I say quickly. “I bet they’ll be a lot of fun.” Are they for daily activities? Like next time I’m buying groceries? They’d certainly warm me up. Possibly electrocute me.

“Try them on.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“Because I have my period.” Okay, I’m wearing a tampon—not Purity—but there’s always the possibility of leakage, isn’t there? “I don’t want to get them dirty.” Who knows where he got this or what kind of salesgirls have handled it. This baby requires a serious disinfectant before going anywhere near my crotch.

Steve brightens and claps his hands. “I just thought of the funniest idea.”

Oh-oh. “What?”

“It’ll be hysterical. Our little secret.”

“What?”

“Ready? You’re going to love this—you can wear them while you’re filming!”

Is he on crack? He wants me to wear vibrating panties when I’m on national television? Maybe if I play dumb he’ll realize how moronic he sounds and come up with a new vibrating-panty worthy occasion. “Sorry?”

No such luck. “You can wear them while you’re filming!” he repeats, thrilled with his insane idea. “Won’t that be a riot? No one else will know but us. You’ll be wearing them and I’ll have the remote. Fun, huh?”

He’s not kidding.

“But what about the remote? You won’t be at the restaurant? These things can’t have that good a frequency.” Tell me this motorized insane idea can’t be activated across town.

He scratches his head in contemplation. “You’re right. That sucks.”

I exhale in relief.

His eyes light up. “I got it. You’ll wear them and I’ll leave
work early. I’ll come to the bar and when I get there, I’ll turn it on. Turn
you
on. My secret message to you.”

No way, no way, no way.

“Don’t you think it’s a little sketchy that you want to turn me on in public? And you can’t come to the bar. Howard will figure out that we’re involved and I’ll get fired.”

“It’s not sketchy. It’s funny! No one will know. That’s what makes it cool—it’ll be just between us. For fun. Our secret. I won’t say a word to you. You’ll do your job and I’ll have a drink. I’ll bring Greg. I’m allowed to want to watch you work, aren’t I? It’ll be fantastic! Please? Please? Please?”

He sounds like Bart trying to get his way with Homer. I understand he’s feeling a little left out of my new life, but is this the best way for us to bond?

“Please? Please? Please? It’ll be fun.”

“What if someone hears the buzzing noise from my vaginal area?”

“The bar is loud! You can barely even hear yourself think. Anyway, I got the extra-silent pair. And even if someone heard a tiny hint of a buzz, they’d assume something was wrong with your watch. Who would think you were wearing robotic panties?”

“What if I’m
distracted?
I can’t have an orgasm on television.”

He waves away my concern. “I’ll watch you the whole time, and if you look like you’re having too much fun, eyes closed, head thrown back in abandon, little moans, nose scrunched up—”

“I don’t scrunch my nose when I come.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why don’t I videotape you next time and I’ll show you?”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He laughs. “If it happens—I’ll turn it off with the remote.”

“What if it causes interference with the camera or the mike? Isn’t that why you can’t use your laptop on airplanes when you take off? I bet you can’t wear vibrating panties when you’re
flying, either. What if the mike ends up vibrating and the panties pick up the sound?”

He cracks up. “Who cares? What fun is this show if you can’t laugh about it?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

His face clouds over. “Why not?”

“It just isn’t. I don’t want to screw up anything on the show.”

His face has set into something resembling stubbornness. “Well, I think it is. When did you start caring so much about this show, anyway? Didn’t you do it only because you thought it would be a trip?”

Oh-oh. What, has this stupid gag become a test? Is this Choice A my relationship, Choice B the show?

“Fine, I’ll wear them okay?” So I’ll wear the damn panties to the show. Big deal. If anyone can tell, I’ll take them off. At least I’ll have more fun than I did last week. “If it means
that
much to you.” Am I insane? What am I agreeing to?

He kisses me hard on the lips and slowly lowers me, hands on my back, onto the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Seducing you?”

“We can’t have sex. I have my period.” Does he not remember anything?

Why am I even worrying about the power panties? No way he remembers that he even bought me them by next weekend.

“So?” he says.

“What do you mean, so?”

“Are you sixteen? You can still have sex with your period. You have serious menstruation issues.”

“It’s so dirty.” Wait a second. “You’ve done that?”

“Um…no?” He lies on top of me.

“You’re full of crap.” I swat him. “Knowing you had sex with someone else when she had her period is revolting.”

“What’s so revolting about it?”

It’s like an unwanted blood transfusion. “I don’t want blood all over the sheets. I just changed them.”

“You did?” He takes a closer look at them. Does he not notice anything? “So we’ll put a towel down under us.”

“Only if you wear a condom,” I concede reluctantly.

“Why? Because of the pill thing? You can’t get pregnant when you have your period, can you? Condoms never work on me anymore.”

“With a condom,” I repeat. “We’ll try it again, okay? And don’t touch me down there, got it?”

I’m not sure what’s in all this for me. Sounds about as much fun as cooking fennel.

“Cool.” He sprints toward the linen closet. “I’m getting a towel. Go take out your tampon.”

Good thing my extra towels arrive tomorrow.

Happy anniversary.

O
n Tuesday morning, the Party Girls have our first interview. And it’s live.

A car service picks me up at six. I couldn’t sleep and now I have bags under my eyes. Not only that, my stomach hurts. I’ve never done an interview before. What if I can’t think of anything intelligent to say?

“Hey,” Erin says when I open the car’s back door. It’s only the driver and us. Erin is lying on the seat, the back of her head against the window.

“Scoot over,” I say. I’m pissed off at her about telling the camera about me getting my period, but after all the horrible things I said about her, I’ve lost my right to complain.

Her eyes are closed. “I’m in no mood for Mia.”

“Who’s Mia?”

“Our publicist. You haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting her?”

We have a publicist? Shouldn’t I know these things? “No. When did you meet her?”

“Before you came on. They sent press kits about the show to all the major magazines and TV shows. With Sheena the shoplifter.”

“Cool.” They were in magazines without me? What magazines? I am being eaten alive by jealousy.

“Not really. We got a ton of publicity in all the wrong places.”

“I thought there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“There is when it makes fun of the show. TRS got laughed at in
Variety, USA TODAY, Wall Street Journal, Forbes
and
The Hollywood Reporter
for being frivolous. TRS was also criticized for jumping on the bandwagon.”

“What bandwagon?”

“Both bandwagons. Reality TV and
Sex and the City.
No offense,” she adds, shrugging, “but they should have kept Sheena on the show and milked the shoplifting for PR. They could have made it an issue on air.”

“Excuse me for not being a criminal.”

“The real problem,” she says, ignoring me, “is that no other network wants to put us on their talk shows because they have their own stupid reality shows to promote. So instead, we’re on
American Sunrise.
Totally useless. Anyone who’s home at nine and awake isn’t exactly our target market. They should get us on Letterman. Putting us on
American Sunrise
is like posting a condom advertisement in a convent’s bathroom.”

“It’s still live national television.”

Live.
Live.
What if something crazy happens? Once it happens, it happened. No retakes. No editing. My pulse races. “What if something awful happens?”

“Like what? You get your period?”

Ha, ha.

At the door to the studio, we’re given fancy square badges to clip to our coats, and then we’re escorted to a private room.

Carrie, Miche and Brittany are sitting at a long table, drinking coffee.

“Is that Sunny? That must be Sunny!” a nasal voice says. The voice belongs to a short, toothpick-skinny woman wearing an aqua-blue fitted pantsuit. She’s also wearing at least four-inch platform boots, the kind you see in music videos that make you wonder how on earth anyone stands on them. They’re hideous, but I guess when you’re vertically challenged, you have no choice. I slouch down to see how awful the world is from five feet. It’s lower, sure, but no way is it worth those shoes.

“It’s terrific to meet you, finally. I’m Mia, your publicist.” She throws her arms around me, then pulls back and attacks Erin. “Erin! It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Her short brown hair, thick brown eyebrows and plump red lips make her look like a stylish Muppet.

“Sunny, Carrie told me she’s already reviewed the basics with you.”

Basics? What basics? “Um…yeah. What are they again?”

“One. If they give you water, do not drink it. Maintain eye contact. When looking at the camera dead-on, focus your eyes right above the lens so it appears that you are staring directly at the viewer. Never look down at your feet or let your gaze wander. Do not look in the air and do not look at the floor. Don’t blink excessively. Keep your posture. Don’t slouch. Imagine a hanger holding up your shoulders. Do whatever it takes to make you look animated, facial expressions, hand gestures. If you don’t animate yourself, you’re not going to look interesting on television. You want to look in control, though, so no fidgeting. No scratching, no twirling your hair, no twisting your rings around your fingers, no playing with your earrings. And no nodding. Sunny, I’ve noticed you have a bit of a nodding issue.”

I do? “You’re right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be so agreeable.”

I nod.

“Now voice. Modulate. Don’t mumble. Don’t swallow the ends of your sentence. Don’t be too loud. Don’t speak too
softly, either. Ready?” She smiles. “Now remember, the trick to an interview is answering whatever you want to say to whatever they ask. Michelle, you answer what the show’s about. Brittany, you talk about how it’s changed your life. Erin, you talk about the Party Girl lifestyle. Sunny, you talk about how much you love New York. Okay? Great! Good luck!”

Love New York? Why do I love New York? My mind is blank. As empty as a new Word document.

A bald man with a clipboard comes to the door. “They’re ready for you in makeup.”

We’re whisked off to another room where women fix our hair, and then into another room where women do our makeup. I’m in the Emerald City in
The Wizard of Oz.

On small screens above our heads, John Arnold and Betty McDonald are interviewing someone. The volume is on Mute, so I can’t tell who he is, but he is gesturing madly. Is that what Mia means by animate? Either he’s had too much caffeine or he’s an animal rights activist.

I’m so busy trying to figure out what’s on television that I only catch the end of the conversation between the woman doing my makeup and the woman doing Brittany’s.

“She’s only twenty-six. Can you believe it? A weather girl. Replacing her with a twenty-six-year-old weather girl. The old Bets is losing her mind.”

The old Bets? Betty?

The bald man with the clipboard pops his head into the door. “Two minutes.”

We file out the door and follow Carrie, Mia and the clipboard man down a narrow hallway, into a studio. The man with the clipboard tells us to be quiet, mime-style. He opens the door and we file inside. John and Betty are sitting comfortably on matching blue chairs, and the caffeine-crazed man is sitting on a beige couch between them.

Betty smiles at the camera. “Thanks again, John Moll, from Humans Against Animal Cruelty, for taking the time to talk to us.”

Am I good, or am I good?

She continues, “Right after these messages, we have the crazy ladies of
Party Girls.
Don’t go away.”

I get to meet fluffy-haired Betty and pursed-lipped John! I feel like we’re already old friends. I got to know them intimately when I was forced to watch the show while waiting desperately for a
Party Girls
commercial.

“Cut!” The cameraman says.

Betty scowls. “Can someone fix my hair please? It’s falling! Hello?” A hairstylist rushes over and primps Betty’s head.

Bald man with clipboard shuffles us to the couch. We try not to look squished. “Do you want some water?” he asks.

“No,” we all say in unison.

“Thirty seconds!”

We’re all staring at Betty, waiting for her to acknowledge our presence. She ignores us.

“Hello, girls!” John Arnold says, smiling broadly while running his fingers through his few remaining gray strands. He points to the camera. “They’re showing a clip of your show right now.”

What if we screw up? We won’t screw up. No water. No nodding.

“Five, four, three, two, one.”

Did I miss something? Suddenly Betty is all laughs as though we’re in the middle of a charming conversation.

John leans toward the camera. “Here today, we have the four beautiful—” we all smile “—actresses from
Party Girls.
How do you girls like your new sitcom?”

We’re dumbfounded. Actresses? Sitcom? Uh-oh.

Brittany, who’s sitting closest to him, leans forward. “We’re not actresses.”

“Oh,” he says, forehead scrunching, clearly confused. He looks at the bald clipboard man waiting for an explanation and then at Betty. “Are you the Mothers Against Drunk Driving women?”

The room is quieter than a school gym on S.A.T. day. How does he not know who we are? We’re on the same
network.

I decide to take control. “No, John.” Am I allowed to call him John? “We’re not from MADD. We’re from
Party Girls—
you were right the first time. But it’s a reality television show, not a sitcom. Although, John,” I continue, flashing him a wide smile, “at times it might seem like a sitcom. But isn’t that the way it is? Real life is made up of hilarious moments, don’t you think?” John’s puckered lips break into a smile. By George, I’ve done it! I’ve won him over! “We’re not actresses, we’re just four young single women living it up in the Big Apple. But thank you for the compliment.”

Oh, yeah, I’m good. Maybe I
should
be an actress.

Uh-oh. He’s no longer smiling. He’s resumed his normal poker-face disposition. “The cameras tape your
real
lives?”

What, is he deaf? Didn’t I just say this? “Yes. They show the way twenty-something women act on their nights out on the town. The cameras follow us to bars and capture all the fun.”

“Don’t you find it intrusive?”

“Not at all,” Michelle pipes up. “It’s fun.”

“It’s an experience of a lifetime,” Brittany says. “It’s amazing to be a part of something so special.”

Betty lets out a high-pitched snort. “Special?”

What was that?

“Sorry?” Brittany says.

Betty looks directly at the camera. “It’s not the most original idea for a show, is it?”

I inwardly gasp. Grandma Betty?

“What do you mean?” Brittany asks.

“Every network has a show about single women in the city. And every network has a reality show.”

This is not good. Not good at all. The other girls look scared. I have to say something. “Betty,
Party Girls
is not a ‘me, too’ show. TRS, as you know, is an established network. It has taken its time watching the reality TV genre develop. They have seen what the other networks have to offer and have come up with
an original, fascinating concept to move the genre to the next level. It’s called ALR, or Almost Live Reality. The show is broadcast the night after it’s filmed. Now that’s innovation.”

Hah! Take that.

Betty shakes her head, obviously not buying it. “Do you think people are sick of reality TV? Networks are drowning in them.”

“Look at the ratings,” I say with forced confidence. “There’s an entire generation of twenty-and thirty-something women who want their realities captured on television and reflected back to them, and
Party Girls
meets the demand while still adding a fresh and unique twist to the genre.”

I
am
good, what can I say?

“Yeah,” Erin says, pointing her finger at Betty. “Every network has a morning show. Don’t you think that’s a bit overdone?”

Oh, boy. Can’t everyone else just not talk?

Steam shoots from Betty’s ears. “Morning shows give people
information.
What does
Party Girls
do? Instruct young women on how to be superficial and amoral?”

Um…hello? Is she not on the same network as we are? Isn’t she supposed to be telling us how wonderful we are?

“We have morals,” Brittany adds defensively.

Great rebuttal, Brit.

Betty snorts again. “Didn’t you get drunk and spend most of the first episode vomiting?”

Brittany turns bright red.

Betty’s getting kicked off the show. For a twenty-six-year-old weather girl. At the moment Betty must see us as supple incarnations of the woman slotted to replace her. That must be why she’s being such a bitch. She’s practically standing in her seat. Isn’t she too old for this type of behavior? I don’t want her to have a heart attack. “Are you not concerned about the type of role model you’re projecting on our youth?”

Erin looks furious. “Why do we have to be role models? Can’t we be entertainment?”

Betty slits her eyes and burns a hole through Erin’s face. “Do
you know that one out of every five women in this city has a sexually transmitted disease? Would you say your behavior antagonizes or mollifies the situation?”

“My costars and I are all clean, Betty,” Erin says smoothly. “Are you saying that you’re the fifth?”

John’s face is white. He’s frantically eyeing the cameraman, trying to get him to stop filming. He’s gesturing so wildly, he could pass for an animal rights activist.

“I almost always use condoms,” Erin answers.

Oh, God.

“You slept with two different men on two different days. Men who don’t care about you. How do you explain this?”

“What are you saying? I should have slept with women?”

“You’re encouraging the objectification of women.”

Erin looks baffled. I have to intervene. “Betty, perhaps Erin is trying to encourage the sexual liberation of women.”

John claps his hands, apparently regaining consciousness. “Well, girls, thank you very much for coming to talk to us today. Your show brings up many exciting issues that deserve further attention.” He looks into the camera. “You can catch
Party Girls
on Sunday at 9:30 right here on TRS.” He smiles at the camera.

“Cut!” the cameraman yells.

“What the hell was that?” Erin asks angrily, hands out, ready for a neck to strangle. “Why were you such a bitch?”

Betty rolls her eyes and walks away from the stage. Bewildered, we file off the couch and out of the filming room.

“Sorry about that, girls,” Mia says cheerfully.

We’re back in our dressing room, getting our coats. We’re all still in shock.

“I wanted to smack her,” Erin says.

“Why was she so mean?” Brittany asks.