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
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
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