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.
“I guess not everyone agrees that TRS should be going after the eighteen-to thirty-four-year-old market,” Mia explains.
Carrie shakes her head. “But publicly criticizing your network’s own television show isn’t the best marketing campaign, right, Sunny?”
“That’s true,” I say.
Poor Betty. While the girls are waiting for the car, I head off to find the ladies room.
I push open the door and see Betty facing the sink, staring at herself in the mirror.
Her eyes look tired.
I begin retracing my steps.
“You don’t have to go,” she says.
I enter and let the door swing closed behind me. I stand next to her, at the sink beside her.
“You’re very articulate. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on a moronic show like that.”
“I…” I have no idea what to say to her.
While filling her cupped hands with water, she smiles at me. Then she splashes the water on her face and pats herself dry with a paper towel. Her cheeks look saggy and wrinkled, like she spent too many hours in the bath.
“Good luck,” she says, leaving me alone with my own reflection.
After a two-hour nap, I rewind and watch the taped interview four times in a row. Fine, she was a bitch…but I was great! I looked great, I sounded great…I was simply great.
I’m on my way to meet Miche for lunch in midtown, when I’m startled to see my father through the Kenneth Cole window, trying on a jacket. I go into the store and approach him. “Dad?”
He looks shocked to see me. “Well, hello there, stranger,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”
“Meeting a friend for lunch.”
“You were right near my office and you didn’t call to say hello?”
I did call to say hello. But I spoke to his secretary. As usual. I even speak to Carrie more than I speak to him. I’ve actually started speaking to Carrie at least once a day. She’s growing on me, kind of, like coffee. The first time you try it, you can’t possibly understand why anyone would ever drink it, never mind every single morning. Eventually your intake increases to three to six cups a day.
I wonder if my dad will marry Carrie. It’s been over three months. Maybe he’s serious this time. Maybe it will bring me closer to him.
“I should have left a message,” I answer. I didn’t realize he had so much free time. Does he usually go shopping in the middle of a workday? Nothing to consult today?
“Who are you meeting? Steve?”
“I’m meeting Steve after lunch, actually. I’m going to drop by the restaurant. But first I’m meeting a friend from the show—Michelle? Have you met her?”
“The redhead?”
“Yeah.”
“Carrie’s mentioned her, and I’ve seen her on the show, but we’ve never met. Where are you going?”
“To Comfort Diner.”
“Why don’t you let me take you girls out for lunch?”
A whole lunch with Dad? “You don’t have to do that.”
“My pleasure. Call your friend and tell her to meet us at Le Soleil instead. Now, what do you think of this jacket?”
An hour later, Michelle and I are drunk on Chardonnay and my dad is amusing us with stories about his wayward clients. “So I told him, shredding documents is not a good idea.”
“Very funny,” I tell him, giggling. I think I’m a bit drunk.
“Michelle thought it was funny,” he says.
“She’s just being nice,” I say, finishing off another glass. I look at my watch. “Do you always take two-hour lunches?”
He waves his hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry. I’m going to charge the whole day to the client anyway. But my secretary must think I’ve been kidnapped. I told her I was going to get a jacket and pick up a sandwich.” He looks at his watch. “Are you still planning on meeting Steve?”
Does he mention Steve to everyone? I’m suddenly a bit concerned about his loose lips. “Hey, Dad, you know you’re not supposed to talk about Steve in public, right? No one knows I have a boyfriend. I told Michelle, so you didn’t just blow my cover, but watch it, okay?”
Miche comes to my father’s defense. “He didn’t categorize your relationship with Steve as romantic. If I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Right,” my dad says. “Steve could be your brother or something.”
“Exactly,” Michelle says.
“You should come check out his restaurant, Dad. You can bring clients there for lunch.”
His mouth curves into a condescending smile. “Manna? I don’t think his restaurant is quite right for my clients.”
Well, excuse me.
“Anyway,” he continues. “I’m sure you don’t have to worry about the Steve issue,” he says. “I doubt the producer would care, frankly.”
“Carrie would kill you if she heard you say that,” I say.
Miche takes another sip of her wine. “As long as the media doesn’t find out, no one cares what you do with your personal life.”
“Exactly,” he agrees. “Although I think you’re broadcasting a little too much of your personal life as it is.”
I feel my cheeks redden. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He looks intently at me. “That whole women’s issue was a bit embarrassing.”
I sink into my chair. My face must be bright red. My father saw me get my period on TV.
“I didn’t do that on purpose,” I grumble. Why do I suddenly sound like a ten-year-old?
He shakes his head. “Your outfits have been a bit much, too. Couldn’t your shirt have been a little less revealing?” He reaches into his pocket for his money clip and pulls out five hundred-dollar bills. “Here,” he says. “Why don’t you go buy yourself something classy?” He turns to Miche. “More wine?”
I keep my mouth clamped shut, even though I’m fuming. As usual, here’s my father being a control freak, trying to use his money to shape the people in his life into what he wants them to be.
I will not let him turn me into my mother. I take the money to avoid making a scene. I’ll give it to Steve for rent.
“No, thanks,” Miche says. “I think I’ve had enough.” She looks at her watch. “Can you believe? It’s already three o’clock.”
I take a deep breath and turn to Miche. “What are you doing for the rest of the day?”
“Passing out, I think. I’m not in much shape to do anything but sit on my couch.”
“I was supposed to go to Steve’s,” I say, “but I should just go home and sleep.” I’m too angry to do anything but go home and fume.
The bill comes and my dad slips his credit card on it without even looking. What does he care? He’s just going to charge it to his client. “I think that’s a good idea,” he says. “I don’t think Steve would appreciate his drunk girlfriend showing up and scaring all those religious fruitcakes.”
Is a man who forced his ex-wife to convert allowed to make obnoxious comments about religion? “Thanks for lunch, Dad,” I say through tight lips.
I say goodbye to my dad and Miche and head to Grand Central. With each step I try to calm myself down. Maybe he’s just worried about me. Trying to protect me. He cares about me and wants what’s best for me, right?
I find a seat on the subway and close my eyes. When I open them, the woman sitting next to me is staring. I wonder if I have food on my face. Do I look like a drunk? Is it that obvious?
“Hey,” she says. “It’s you! Wow! From TV! I love Party Girls. You’re, like, my favorite actress.”
My spirits lift instantly. I’ve been recognized. Recognized! On the subway!
“Thanks,” I say in my most calm, nonchalant and friendly voice. I chat with my fan until my stop.
As Seen on TV Page 21