Diary of a Working Girl (5 page)

Why don’t you try back then?
Vogue
. Love is so last season, daahling. It’s all about bittersweet right now. But, of course, your name would have to be
instantly
recognizable to our readers in order to be considered. You’re not the one from that movie with Corey Feldman are you?
Woman’s Day
. We’ll get back to you in a few months and if you could somehow work that into a cookie recipe
and
get a really good celebrity to come and cook it with you . . . No, you know what? We already did that one.
Us Weekly
. I have just one question for you. Do pictures of J. Lo or Ben fit into this story anywhere?

It’s all feeling pretty hopeless until I get the
Cosmo
features editor on the phone. In a very uncomfortable split-second decision, I decide to use Lisa’s name to get in the door and hopefully prevent another railroading rejection. I feel horrible, but I just know she 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 31

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wouldn’t mind. She’s such a smart businesswoman, she’d probably be shocked I haven’t used it before.

“Oh, a friend of Lisa’s, eh?” After providing me with a gener-ous “fifteen seconds to describe your idea, start-inggggg—now!” I barrel my way through the pitch, feeling with every word that maybe the idea wasn’t as great as I thought and that I am the stupidest person on this earth and why, oh why, does anybody in the world let me speak, ever, and when I’m through I am absolutely shocked because Karen says, “Maybe. Yes, maybe. We’ll have to think about it.”

Although no
maybe
responses have, as yet, ever morphed into assignments for me, I have also never as of yet been known as a friend of Lisa McLellon’s and the laws of creatively applied positive thinking clearly state that I can apply “feelings” and “hunches” to motivate myself at any time I deem appropriate. It is just this sort of positive thinking that keeps me from stapling my fingers to the desk after quite definite and, well, abrasive “no’s” minus any “thank-you’s,” excuses, or similar pleasantries—and, in one case, the addition of a “how did you get this number?”—from
Bazaar, Shape, Glamour, Mademoiselle.
I’m thinking this all over, and decide, maybe I will take a break and begin calling about some of those jobs in the paper.

The first place asks that I fax over a resume. This means I have to get my resume in order. Shit. I forgot about this. Writing a resume is possibly the most irritating task one can perform. Since you just alter everything to make it say what you want anyway, I don’t see the point. It’s basically a page of lies. Everyone knows that. They should just do away with the resume altogether. I begin thinking about things I’d rather be doing. Going shopping. Going on a date. With a good-looking exec in a pinstripe suit. Kissing me in the taxi on the way to Daniel. Placing his hand on my back as he 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 32

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leads me to our table. Revealing a tiny turquoise box over a warm chocolate torte with crème fraîche.

Suddenly, I feel inspired to get a jump-start on the article. These romantic imaginings should not be wasted. I minimize the window with my resume on it. So far, I’ve changed the font, played with several type sizes for my name and address, decided to write out the word “apartment” rather than use the abbreviation, and changed the completion date of my last job from “to present” to

“January ’99” to “January 1999.”

I am so sure I will be able to use this dreamy stuff in my Working-Girl-Finds-Love article that I type in the bits I have thought up rather than concentrate on my resume. I read it over, remarking that I like the use of “thoughtful kisser,” and “elegant inappropriateness.” I am more “excited” about this project than ever, so much so that I am actually a bit embarrassed when my bell rings.

It’s a messenger with a press release and, I note with joy, a tiny shopping bag of beauty product samples. This is my favorite part of my job. I get lots of presents. Reading over the release and smelling the beautifully packaged bath and body products (This is so great, since I’m just running out of lotion), I press myself to think of an article idea from this faintly fig-scented collection.

But, there are so many bath and body lines already. What is different about this one? Fig is yesterday’s news. Where is the story? I look at the ingredients to see if there is anything new inside that may be of interest. But the list is printed in French. And, although I took French for eleven years, I have never learned any chemistry words, and so this is no help to me. After cursing my $120,000 education, which I am still (not) paying for, I smooth the lotion on to see if perhaps it feels any different from other lotions. Nothing. It is rather soft and creamy though. But they are all soft and creamy.

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Maybe I can write about the fact that it is from France. But isn’t everything these days?

I toss the press release on the now three-foot-high pile of releases that I have never used for story ideas, but refuse to throw away on the principle that I will one day think of something to do with them.

It occurs to me that I need to finish my resume. It’s really done.

Well not
done
done. All I really have to do is spruce it up. It’s not that big a deal, honestly. But, then my stomach makes a sound, and I realize that I haven’t eaten yet today. You can’t work on an empty stomach! Everyone knows that. You’ll miss details. Forget the little things. What was I thinking? Not eating—really!

After indulging in a meal representing carbohydrates in each and every form that can in the best possible light only be described as escapist, I get back to my home office.

My desk is piled high with papers, folders, computer junk, notebooks, magazines, and an extraordinary number of pens bearing the brand name of everything from “Ralph Lauren” to “Galderma Labs”—most of which do not work. There are neat little officey things like Post-it notes that say, “Dr. Gesta is always available for interviews; remember him for lipo, microdermabrasion, and breast augmentation!”; stamps in a cute tin box with the words, “Remember to write to Maybelline when you’re writing a beauty story!”; a calculator which insists that “Covergirl is the leading cosmetics brand in the world. Numbers don’t lie!”; and paper clips in a box that says, “We’ll help you
bring it all together
with makeup artists and hairstylists from across the globe—Global Public Relations.”

All this stuff is positioned very close to my bed. Okay. It’s touching and spilling onto my bed, which sometimes results in office product findings in some very unwelcome areas.

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I ignore the mess and tell myself I will get right back to the resume, as soon as I check my phone messages. Ooh. But first I notice I have a little envelope on my computer screen, announcing a new e-mail message. I love that. There’s always a chance that it will be some big magazine saying, “We absolutely love the story idea you have sent in. You are a complete genius. We hope it will not be too inappropriate for us to offer you four dollars a word to write sixteen hundred words on the topic.” But, of course it never is.

It’s just another press release. “We would like to tell you all about Kim Holbrook, the Hair Color guru from France who is coming to America to open her very first stateside salon. We hope you will join us for cocktails and a free blow-dry to celebrate.”

Sure, I would love a free blow-dry. And maybe, instead of thinking of a bigger story idea, I will just pitch it as a small bit, announcing that the Hair Color guru from France is coming to the Big Apple.

Let’s see. “French Hair Color Guru Dyes the Big Apple Red, Blonde, and Even Gives a Head of Shimmering Highlights.” That sounds very cute. I’ll send it to the usual Nobody’s-Ever-Heard-of-Them publications I write for, and then maybe a couple of bigger ones.

I get started. Boy, I am a work machine today. I ignore the possibility that perhaps I am just motivated by the fact that I have no desire to finish this resume and take computer tests at a job placement agency.

It’s 4 P.M. by the time I have put together three packets pitching the idea to some of the big-name glossies, along with copies of other articles I’ve written for the no-namers, and my list of assignments, which is quite long, despite the fact that all of the publications are so unimportant. Gosh, how many magazines are there in this world? Unbelievable that I can’t make ends meet. Maybe I am at fault. Perhaps I am not meant to be a writer. Staggering to con-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 35

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sider that out of the millions of people who want to do this for a living I think I will make it.

I am feeling blah. Hopelessness overtakes me. The only thing that will make me feel better is chocolate. I quickly consider eating that fake frozen yogurt that has no calories and no fat and no carbs (what the hell is in there anyway?), but then remember reading that when you have cravings, you should just indulge in the real thing, otherwise you will be on your way to a binge of Grand Canyon proportions. Of course, I have been binging since I broke up with James, but, still, every opportunity to do the right thing is an opportunity for a fresh start. And, I’m going to the gym tomorrow.

And, after this I will eat like a saint, or a celebrity rather, (in paint-ings those saints always seem to be surrounded by food) for the rest of my life.

I am just unlocking my door, chewing on the most delicious chocolate croissant I have ever eaten (still warm!), when I hear my phone ringing. I try to say “Hello,” but with the croissant still in mid-chew, it’s more like, “Re-ro.”

“Is this Lane Silverman?” the voice asks. Oh, no. Which bill have I not paid now? I look at the unopened pile on my desk and realize that this call could pretty much be about any of them.

“Who’s calling?” I say in that bitchy voice I reserve for bill collectors. I can’t believe they have the audacity to call me in the middle of my workday. Don’t they know how busy I am? I mean, really. How am I supposed to get anything done?

“This is Karen, from
Cosmopolitan
. Is this a bad time?”

Oops. Note to self: Refrain from using bitchy bill-collector voice until you are sure you are speaking with a bill collector deserving of bitchy bill-collector voice.
Cosmopolitan
. Okay, don’t panic.
Cosmopolitan
has just called
me
.

Trying to be as nice as possible to make up for the not-so-nice 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 36

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opening, I defer to mortifyingly spineless ass-kisser mode, “No, not at all. How can I help you? I just want to tell you that I have been reading
Cosmo
ever since we got off the phone and I absolutely love it so—”

“Listen, I am really busy and I don’t have time to chat but I’ve just gotten back from one hell of an editorial meeting—we had to pull a huge story on women who enjoy having sex with relatives called ‘Kissing Cousins’ because our biggest advertiser thinks the story is too racy and has threatened to pull their ad pages—no ad pages, no money, no magazine—so do you think you could have the story ready by May fifteenth for the August issue?” Really she says that all in one long sentence; no stops or pauses or anything and so it takes me a moment to comprehend the whole thing and realize that she wants me to write the story.

This is the story that I knew was somehow different, would somehow do something to alter my life forever, that my horoscope said would come and that I would have to decide upon immediately and, of course, that that decision had to be the correct one.

And now that I have thought this whole thing through in the apparently contagious frenzied manner that Karen has just presented it to me—no stops, no pauses—I realize the worst part of the whole thing. The day she wants the story is May fifteenth, which wouldn’t be too bad if today were December fifteenth or January fifteenth or even February fifteenth, for that matter. But it is not. It is now March fifteenth and that is just two months away from May fifteenth. That is just sixty-one days. In the past, this hasn’t proven nearly enough time to find my misplaced lacy black tank top, much less the man I will love for the rest of my life and have two kids with and fly kites on the beach with and pose in front of a mantel with for photo holiday cards. May 15. I haven’t even gotten my re-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 37

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sume ready yet. I’d have to get a job, find a man-target, and land him in just two months.

Oh. My. God.

But, it’s
Cosmo
. And they really want me. (And I have just, for the first time in my life, used the words “land him.”)
And
, if I’m honest with myself for just about two seconds, I will realize that if I don’t have the energy to pitch this story to anyone else right now, I am never going to have the energy to pitch this story again ever, and then it will just end up with the pile of other ideas I’ve had and tossed over the last couple of years.

“Hello? Are you still there?” Since it has only been a second since I last spoke, I figure she must be talking to someone in her office. I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Hello? Lane?” Lane, that’s me—the one who has the tiny pressure upon her to make the right decision immediately or suffer the consequences. The one whose shaking hand has landed croissant crumbs in a formation that, if looked at in the right way and slid around just a teensy bit, could look
exactly
like a heart (if with one hump up top, rather than two) and who, without time to be choosy, decides this “heart” will serve just perfectly as The Sign.

“Yes. Yes. I’m here. I’ll do it. How many words?”

“Three thousand. We want it to be a cover story. We can pay you two dollars and fifty cents a word.”