Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

  It’s a messenger with a press release and, I note with joy, a tiny shopping bag of beauty product samples. This is the best part of my job. I get lots of presents. I read over the release and smell each of the beautifully packaged bath and body products (This is so great, since I’m just running out of body 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’s different about this one? Fig is yesterday’s news. Where’s the story? I scan the ingredients to see if there’s anything new that may be of interest. But the list is printed in French. And, though 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’s rather soft and creamy, but aren’t they all? Maybe I can write about the fact that it’s from France. But isn’t everything these days? Mon Dieu.

  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.

  I need to finish my resume. It’s really done. Well not done done. But all I really have to do is spruce it up. It’s not that big a deal, I think, my fingers hovering over the keys. But, then my stomach makes a sound, and I realize 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 of carbohydrates in each and every form that can best be described as escapist, I get back to my desk.

  My “home office” is piled high with papers, folders, computer components, note-books, 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 printed with, “Dr. Gesta is always available for interviews; remember him for lipo, microdermabrasion, and breast augmentation!” I’ve got stamps in a cute tin with the words, “Remember to write to Maybelline when you’re researching a beauty story!” and a calculator, which insists that “Covergirl is the leading cosmetics brand in the world. Numbers don’t lie!” It’s right next to my paperclip pyramid on a magnetic block that’s been engraved to say, “We’ll help you bring it all together with makeup artists and hairstylists from across the globe—Global Public Relations.”

  My apartment is so small that this stuff is jammed up against my bed, which means I have a lumpy footrest, but also results in office products findings in some unwelcome areas.

  I ignore the mess and tell myself I will get right back to the resume as soon as I check my phone messages. But first I notice a little envelope icon on my computer screen, announcing a new e-mail message. I love that. There’s always a chance it will be some big magazine saying, “We absolutely love the story idea you’ve 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 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’ll just pitch it as a small bit, announcing that the Hair Color guru from France is coming to the Big Apple. Let’s see. I whip out my notebook and jot down some notes. “French Hair Color Guru Dyes the Big Apple Red, Blonde, and Brunette…Even Gives a Head of Shimmering Highlights.” That sounds clever. 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’m a work machine today. I ignore the possibility that perhaps I’m just motivated by the fact that I have no desire to finish my resume and take computer tests at a job placement agency.

  It’s 4 P.M. by the time I’ve put together three packages pitching the idea to some of the big-name glossies, along with copies of 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. In the wake of yet another day of fruitless effort I wonder if perhaps I’m not meant to be a writer. Staggering to consider that out of the millions of people who want to do this for a living I think I will make it.

  I head downstairs to mail the packages.

  I’m just unlocking my door, chewing on the most delicious warm chocolate croissant, when I hear my phone ring. I try to say “hello,” but with the croissant jammed in my mouth it’s more like, “reh-ro.”

  “Is this Lane Silverman?” the voice asks. Oh, no. Which bill am I late on now? I look at the unopened pile on my desk and realize this call could be about any of them.

  “Who’s calling?” I say in the bitchy voice I reserve for bill collectors. I can’t believe they have the audacity to call me m 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 tune?”

  Oops. Okay, don’t panic. Cosmopolitan has just called me.

  Trying to be as nice as possible to make up for the not-so-nice opening, I defer to mortifyingly spineless ass-kisser mode. “No. not at all. How can I help you? I just want to tell you I’ve been reading Cosmo ever since we got off the phone and I absolutely love it so—”

  “Listen, I’m 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’s 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?” She says that all in one long sentence; no stops or pauses and so it takes me a moment to realize that she wants me to write the story.

  This is the story that I knew was somehow different, would somehow alter my life forever. The one my horoscope said would come, that I would have to decide upon immediately and, of course, correctly. And now that I’ve thought this through in the apparently contagious manner with which 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 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’ll love forever, and have two kids with before a lifetime of flying kites on the beach and posing in front of a mantel for holiday cards. May fifteenth. I haven’t even gotten my resume ready yet. I’d have to get a job, find a man-target, and make him fall in love with me in just two months. Even without the deadline, on this end of things, the idea seems slightly ridiculous.

  Oh. My. God.

  But, it’s Cosmo. And they really want me. 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 stagnant ideas I’ve had and tossed after massive rejection over the last couple of years.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” Since it has only been a second since I 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 pressure upon her to make the right decision immediately o
r 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.”

  Two dollars and fifty cents a word times three thousand words is… a boatload more than I’ve ever made before! “I’ll do it. Corporate world, here I come.”

  “Great. We’re so excited about it. I’m here for support if you need me. We’re actually all here for you. You’ve picked a topic that hits home for everyone here. This industry is impossible for meeting men. All those parties, all those drinks. The gift bags are great, but you can’t very well cuddle up with one of those, can ya?” And then, as if she realizes she’s showing too much emotion, she clears her throat and continues. “We’re rooting for you, Lane. But, remember, you have to meet somebody. No pressure. But that’s the story.”

  The first thing I do is consult my calculator. I do it again. This cannot be right. For one story—$7,500! I can pay off all of those bills, plus have some money to buy some new shoes and smart outfits. It’ll be great. And, I’m going to get paid an actual salary from the job I get, too. Cha-ching! I can’t believe this!

  I can’t believe this. I have to get a job. I have to meet a man. Not just any man. I have to meet The One. The One who, after twenty-six years, has still not shown his face. But now I only have two months in which to find not only his face, but the whole shebang. What have I gotten myself into?

  It’s 5 P.M. Too late to send in my resume today. I’ll finish it up tomorrow first thing, bright and early. A vision of myself, rising at the cock’s crow, facing the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed races through my mind’s eye. Then the girl in the image barks, “Who are you kidding with this?” So, I settle on first thing, whether or not it’s bright and early.

  My schedule for the following day all straightened out, I shift my energies to the present, where I have to take a shower and get ready to meet Joanne, so I can tell her how freaked out I am, have her advise me on why I should be happy, choose to ignore her, and continue freaking out.

  When I wobble into my apartment that evening, filled to the brim with the power of three cosmos, I call my voicemail. Actually, first I call some guy named Swen, whose number is quite similar to the voicemail number.

  “Late night again?” Swen asks. He recognizes me by the same question I always ask. “Why isn’t this working?” I never really listen. I just press the numbers, and then wait far the messages, until Swen says, “You’ve got the wrong number again honey.” I always picture Swen in a smoking jacket, all patience and fluidity, running his fingers through his shoulder-length blond hair, by a crackling fire after a long day on the slopes, though obviously there are no slopes in Manhattan.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I say. And that’s when I usually hang up. Except for when either Swen or I are feeling chatty. And. tonight both of us seem up for some company.

  “How are things, lovely?” he asks.

  “Swen, if you really want to know. I’ve made a real mess of things today.” I explain the whole story to him—the article, the fact that I’m doomed if history repeats itself and there’s nobody to claim the title of The One. I tell him about the resume I put together and the fact that it’s teeming with what some may construe as lies. Swen proves a good listener, which is to say, he doesn’t simply fit the “ahas” and “rights” into the proper pauses, but actually takes it all in and produces an opinion.

  “If you believe in your heart that you can do it, then you can,” he says. “You can do anything. It sounds to me like you have a warm, trusting heart, and that you just might be one of the last of a dying breed that believes in true love. And that is a fantastic place to be. And now, you’ll just have more of a reason to trust that heart of yours. Research this project the way you would research any article. And you’ll be prepared.” Like a horoscope, he sounds wise, but without specifics. Before he hangs up he says, “And if you’re really in a pinch finding Mr. Right, I’m right here for you, darling.”

  Sure, me and every other girl who dials his number rather than voicemail late at night. I shake the image from my mind. It’s nice to have him on hand for a fantasy or two.

  As if sensing my hesitation, he adds, “Don’t forget I’ll always be your M&M.”

  Just how many times have I called him?

  After I hang up with Swen, I try the voicemail again. This time I listen carefully. When I hear, “Please enter your password,” I key in the numbers. “You have six new messages,” the automaton says on the other end. Six? That is amazing. Perhaps wind of my success has gotten out and now everyone wants me to write for them. I’ll probably be sent directly to Paris and Milan to cover the fashion shows. I’ll have to get a vanity case and Evian Mist to travel with on the plane. By summer Anna Wintour will be emailing me, before anyone else, that gray is the new black. If I’m that busy, maybe I won’t have to do the Cosmo piece after all.

  Message one: “Lane, pick up, it’s Mom.” Maybe I will have to do the Cosmo piece after all. Two: “La-aaane, c’mon. Just pick up the phone.” She never quite comprehends the fact that voicemail, unlike an answering machine, does not allow you to hear the person as they leave a message. Three: “Lane I’m getting worried about you. It’s bad enough that I have to worry about my daughter being all alone in the world. You who never thinks any man is good enough for her. I wish I could sleep soundly knowing that you are with James. I hope you’re happy because my heart is palpitating. I might wind up in the hospital. Pick up.” I smile. No matter how manipulative and over-the-top, it’s still nice to know somebody is worrying about you. Four: “Lane, I’ve called all of the police precincts in your area to find out if you are okay. Call your mother!” And six: “Lane, the hospitals haven’t heard anything from you either. Call me!”

  I don’t even consider a phone call. This is what my mother does. She’ll have forgotten all about it in the morning if she hasn’t already. She hasn’t really called the police or hospitals. She just says that for effect. This is her way of convincing me to get back together with James, and accept the fact that he is a good, decent man—the perfect type for marrying. She wants me to settle down already, instead of filling my head with “unrealistic fantasies named after chocolate candies.” I’m just ready to skip past message six, which, if history serves as any sort of indication, will probably have to do with the fire department, when Joanne’s voice comes on.

  “Lane, I’m on my way home, and I just want to make sure that you know—before you stay up all night worrying about this whole thing—that you can do this. You will do this. Just have confidence in yourself. I’m not saying the whole predicament isn’t a bit ridiculous—because it is—but I think it will do you good to get out among the living again and see that you are a fabulous, worthy woman. Now go to sleep.”

  How very un-Joanne. But, how very needed and appreciated. If I ever felt the urge to use that awful expression, now’s the time— Grrrl power!

  Despite Joanne’s fabulous advice, I’m not ready to go to sleep. I haven’t seen Chris in way too long, and the last few times I have, I’ve been horribly selfish, only thinking of myself and my problems. A visit is in order. I grab my keys and head up to his apartment. He doesn’t sleep, which serves as a thoroughly awful condition for him, but a wonderful condition for me, should I wake up in the middle of the night, unable to get back to dreamland.

  “Come in,” he screams when I knock at the door. He knows it’s me, because I’m the only one who comes to his door in the middle of the night.

  “Hey,” I say and we swap double air-kisses—not so much because we are fabulous, but because we are both part of the fabulous world and love/hate
it together. I drop into my spot on his cozy chair-and-a-half and slip off my shoes. “What’s shakin’ bacon?” he asks. “Oh this and that,” I say.

  “And which this are we upset about now?” He looks up from the photos he’s looking through on his table.

  “Actually, none at all.”

  He turns from the table and walks over to me. “Lane, am I sensing that you are happy?”

  You know what? I am. And although it’s somewhat to do with the possibility of meeting a man, it’s much more to do with a sense of purpose. I have a big responsibility, and an opportunity to prove myself, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a while—great. “Would you look at that? I am happy.”

  “Well, I’m uncorking the bubbly. It’s definitely cause to celebrate,” he says. Chris keeps these fabulous champagne flutes in his apartment, which he only uses on the most special occasions, and he pulls two down from the rack above his sink now.

  “The special flutes?” I ask.

  “My darling, I’m so glad to have you back.”

  It’s amazing how you take your friends for granted when you become wrapped up in your own issues. But, when you get out of that horrible stage and into life again, for some reason, they’re still there and willing to forget how insufferable you’ve been.

  I tell Chris the whole story and if it’s possible, he’s more excited about it than I am. And, unlike Joanne, Chris has been to the Traveler’s Building and has seen the throngs of men walking around. Eventually it becomes less strange to talk about them the way I do of lipsticks I’m rounding up for a beauty article.

  “You, my dear, are going to have a blast,” he assures me.

  The rest of the evening is spent in a thoroughly enjoyable fashion—playing poker with a currency of Polaroid shots of bare-chested male models Chris will be shooting next week.