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
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
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