She laughs. “You don’t recognize me without a piece of food lodged in my esophagus?”
Karen. VP Programming, Women’s Network. Ah. “You’re the choking woman from Eden’s.”
“I owe you my life, Sunny. Please call me. Do you still have my card?” An impatient teenager is standing behind her, waiting to sign in. Karen is either oblivious, or doesn’t care. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a business card and hands it to me. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, let me know. Please.”
She waves, gives the kid behind her a dirty look and signs in.
When I get home, I file her business card in my Rolodex. I’m definitely going to call when this show is done. Maybe she can help me find a role on one of her TV shows?
I see Matt’s business card peeping out.
Should I e-mail him?
No.
Maybe.
No.
The phone rings, interrupting my internal debate. “Can you come by the office?” Carrie asks me.
“When?”
“In about an hour. Howard told me we’re having an emergency meeting.”
An emergency? No one likes an emergency. “Are they canceling the show?”
“I don’t think so,” she says, a nervous edge to her voice. “I don’t know. No one’s talking.”
“How have the ratings been?”
“Yeah. That could be the problem. Not great. Last night’s episode only ranked sixteenth overall, ninth with the eighteen-to thirty-four-year-olds.”
“Shit.” That’s it. It’s going to get canceled. I’m going to be out of work. And I’ve been totally slacking about looking for a new job. I haven’t looked on a job board for at least two weeks. I could call Karen of course. “Did you call the other girls yet?”
“Not yet. See you at the office in an hour?”
“Call me if you hear anything.”
That sucks. How am I supposed to find a new job when I’m going to be known as the tampon girl who had her show canceled? How will I get any good roles with that on my resume?
I call Miche to see what she thinks about the emergency. No answer. I leave a message.
Why am I looking at the glass as if it’s half-empty? Maybe something else happened. Maybe something good. Maybe they want to shoot a Party Girls Hawaii. Or a Party Girls/Party Boys. Maybe Matt will join the cast.
Should I e-mail him?
Yes. No.
18
The Sopranos
Carrie taps her fingernails on the boardroom table. “Apparently they’re planning on taping this meeting and using it on the show.”
What? No one said anything about being taped. It’s a weekday. My hair is in a ponytail, I’m not wearing any makeup and I’m sporting jeans and a sweatshirt. “You could have told me, Carrie. Any news about the show getting canceled?”
“They wouldn’t be taping us if we were getting canceled.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out foundation, a stick of blush, mascara, a lipstick and a hairbrush. “Go fix yourself up. The bathroom is down the hall.”
“I’ll go with you,” Miche says. “I look like a mess.” Her hair is piled on top of her head in a haphazard bun, and she’s dressed even more casually than I am, but still looks amazing. She’s wearing sneakers and a Juicy Couture zip-up sweatshirt and matching pants.
I leave the bathroom before she does. When I get back, Erin is gesturing with her arms. “So it’s not my fault, right?”
“What’s not your fault?” I ask, sitting down.
Carrie rolls her eyes, and I have a feeling that whatever it is, Erin’s not blameless. “The man that Erin hooked up with on Saturday night has a girlfriend,” Carrie says.
“He told you?” I ask Erin.
She shakes her head. “No. His girlfriend did. She came over to my apartment and started telling me off.”
I laugh. “How did she know where you live?”
She shrugs. “I’m in the phone book.”
Brittany laughs, too. “What did she say?”
Erin’s lips are pursed. “She said that Annikan was her boyfriend, and—”
I laugh even harder. “Annikan? As in Skywalker?”
“Who? I don’t know. Who cares? But how was I supposed to know he had a girlfriend? He didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend. She saw the show and was seriously pissed.”
“What kind of a moron cheats on his girlfriend on national television and doesn’t expect to get caught?” Brittany asks.
“Exactly,” Erin says. “A moron. It’s not my fault. Can you believe that jerk?”
Brittany puts her forehead on the table and stretches her arms. “Maybe he was too plastered to remember he was even cheating on her.”
Erin glowers at her. “You would know.”
Brittany’s head pops back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“You think I’m a drunk?”
“I just don’t understand why you drink so much when you have such a low tolerance. You get smashed after one drink anyway, why do you have to have ten?”
Brittany is about to answer when Howard walks in and everyone stops talking. He’s all dressed up for the occasion. What happened to his goatee and John Lennon glasses? Instead, he’s freshly shaven, in a silver shirt and black striped pants.
Pete walks in, nods hello and sets up the camera.
“What’s going on?” I mouth to him.
He mouths back, “No clue.”
Pete is terrific. I once asked him how he ended up on Party Girls.
“I won’t win any awards for this stuff, but it pays the rent.”
“What do you want to do? Movies?”
“Not necessarily, maybe some reporting. Something with a bit more depth.”
Pete smiles and I smile back.
“Howard, you’re looking spiffy,” Brittany says.
Howard ignores her, and rubs his hands together. “Where’s Miche? Anyone know where she is?”
“Where who is?” Miche says, sashaying in.
“Sit down,” he says, not looking up at her.
Hmm. Trouble in sleaze-ville? He’s found someone new to stalk?
Miche sticks out her tongue at me and slides into my neighboring chair. “What’s going on?” she whispers.
“No idea,” I whisper back.
Why didn’t she call me back? Why do I only get to see Miche when Miche wants to see me?
After motioning to Pete to start filming, Howard smiles a big toothy grin at the camera. Doesn’t he know that his teeth are blotchy? “We’ve decided to make some changes to the format,” he says. “Some exciting changes.”
Each episode will be in a different city? They’re inviting guys to be on the show?
We’re getting a salary?
“In the great tradition of Survivor,” Howard says, widening his eyes in what I’m assuming is his attempt to make them twinkle for the camera, “we will be adding a series of challenges. Next episode we’ll be breaking you up into two competing teams. The winning team will get to vote someone from the losing team off the show. In the following episode, there will be another series of challenges. The last-place contestant will be dismissed from the show. In the final episode, the remaining two girls will compete for the ultimate title. After a series of challenges, the audience will then vote for the Ultimate Party Girl.”
I’m going to be sick.
Erin slams her hands on the table. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Howard smiles at her.
Miche squeezes my arm. “Jeez.”
Brittany has turned white. She leans toward Carrie and says, “You never told us anything about getting voted off.” She looks like she’s about to cry.
That is so embarrassing. Getting voted off. I didn’t sign up for getting voted off. Losing on television? I lean into the table. “What kind of challenges?”
“Pete, can you please turn the camera off so we can discuss this properly?” Erin asks
.
Howard nods and Pete turns it off.
We all start talking at once.
Erin: “You’re such an asshole, Howard.”
Brittany: “I hate tests. I don’t want to take any tests.”
Miche: “Omigod.” She starts laughing. “Hilarious. He’s got to be kidding.”
Me: “What type of competition? Physical? Mental?”
I figure I can kick butt on a mental one, but I’m not sure I want to eat bugs or walk on glass or anything like that.
How can they kick me off? What about my tampon endorsements?
Howard shakes his head and starts rubbing his hands together again. He reminds me of Lady Macbeth, trying to wipe her hands clean of the blood. “Relax. It’ll be fun, and besides, I don’t have a choice. The network was going to can us and this was the only way they’d agree to keep us on.”
Erin slams her hands on the table again. “But we were supposed to be in ten episodes and now we’re only doing seven!”
“After Christmas we’re starting over with ten girls,” he says matter-of-factly. “We’ll vote off one each week.”
I better not have to walk on glass. That will definitely ruin my pedicure. “What are the challenges, Howard?”
He shrugs. “We haven’t come up with them yet. And anyway, they have to be a surprise.”
Brittany wraps a lock of her hair around her finger and sucks it. “But what do we get if we win?”
Howard smiles again. “You get to be the Ultimate Party Girl.”
Snort. “That hardly seems worth it,” I say.
“Plus five thousand cash and you get to be the host of Party Girls II, which will probably be filmed in L.A. this winter. Imagine that. Instead of spending the coldest months of the year shivering, you’ll be in sunny LosAngeles. We’ll put you up for three months, get you a car, pay for your food and continue your clothing allowance. Doesn’t sound so bad, now does it?”
My heart sinks at the mention of L.A. I can’t move across the country. I just moved across the country. To be with Steve. In New York. Could I move to L.A.? What about my relationship? This job was just supposed to be a means to an end. The end being Steve.
But shouldn’t my career be just as important as my relationship? If I don’t go for it, aren’t I becoming what I’ve always feared? My mother?
As I scan the faces of Erin, Miche and Brittany and observe their naked hunger and determination, I see how much they want this. And I realize: I don’t know when the means took on a life of its own—but it did.
I want this.
I want to be the host of my own show. My blood starts pumping faster and I clench my fists in determination.
It’s only three months. I could come back and visit during the week, or every other week if my schedule gets crazy.
Steve will have to deal.
On the subway home I take out a pad of paper, and brainstorm potential challenges and necessary preparations. I’m going to spend the rest of the week in training. Like when Luke returns to Yoda before he has to save Han. I decide my best strategy is to balance one mental potential activity with one potential physical one. I make a list.
Monday. Mental: bartending. I’ll stop at Barnes & Noble and buy a book about what goes in every type of drink. What exactly is in a Cosmopolitan? A Sex on the Beach? A Kir Royal? Physical: bug-eating. Don’t really want to practice this, so search on Internet for best ways to accomplish feat without throwing up.
Tuesday. Mental: statistics. Study all bar-related facts I can find on the Internet. Physical: dance-off. Make sure I know how to do all latest and historical dance moves. Robot, moonwalk, break dance, macarena? Limbo!
Wednesday. Mental: memory. Read up on best ways to improve faculties, in case we have to play match-the-shot-glass game. Physical: stamina. Practice holding breath under water in case of Jacuzzi dunk. Also, swim laps in case have to swim through pools of Cosmopolitan.
Thursday. Mental: geography. Memorize map of Manhattan and other boroughs in case of scavenger hunt. Physical: gymnastics. Practice balancing techniques. Might be a game of who can stand with one foot on a barstool the longest?
Friday. Mental: linguistics. Study appropriate bar words in other languages in case have to fly to foreign country. (Also, must learn how to use compass.) Physical: guzzling beer. Actually, should practice this every day to increase alcohol tolerance.
Saturday. Mental: review. Physical: review.
By the time we reach my subway stop, I am a nervous wreck. So little time, so many stupid things to practice.
I congratulate myself…on officially losing perspective.
After stopping at the bookstore to pick up a cocktail book, and then at the video store to pick up Cocktail and Coyote Ugly (undoubtedly there will be a bartending competition that will involve me having to throw shot glasses and catch them in my cleavage, and I should research the technique) I turn on my computer because I’ve made a decision.
If I get voted off, I’ll lose my chance to e-mail Matt forever. I’ll be a has-been. A television pariah. Why would a TV star want anything to do with a has-been? I have to e-mail him now. While I’m feeling pumped.
Two new e-mail messages.
I open the first one from Dana.
Hi Sun,
I know I said I wouldn’t bug you about the Purity thing, but you should read these notes I made. I’ve interviewed about five women about their horrible experiences and I included their comments in these notes. Please—
I’ll read that later. Right now I have to write Matt before I lose my nerve.
I hastily write up the perfect I’m-not-coming-on-to-you-but-I-think-we-should-be-friends e-mail:
Hey, Matt. Did you watch the show last week? You were a natural. Why don’t you become a regular? Sorry I missed your Halloween bash but I heard it was quite the par-TAY. Great meeting you, Sunny
There. It’s gone. In cyberspace. Nothing I can do now. Out of my hands.
I open my second new message.
To Sunny,
I’m not sure if you’ve moved to the city yet, but we have another job opening in my department at Soda Star. If you’re interested in applying, please give me a call. We’ll have coffee and discuss.
Best,
Ronald Newman
Soda Star? I don’t want to work at Soda Star now. I wanted to work there two months ago. Even the idea of writing up business plans for a new type of soda makes me tired. Taking the job at Soda Star would be taking a major move backward in my life.
Ding! One new e-mail.
Sunny, How ’bout I meet you after the show instead? Matt
It’s 11:00 a.m. and I wake up, eager to start my training.
No, no, no.
I feel a tingling sensation on my lip.
I slowly raise my finger to my mouth in the hope that I’m wrong, that it’s a mosquito bite, that it’s a pimple, that I scratched myself in my sleep.
No, no, no.
A miniature bump is perched on the left side of my top lip, right on the lip line.
“Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!” I scream, horror-film-like and begin kicking the mattress. I take out my teeth bleach trays and put them in a tissue on the coffee table. I bet it’s because of them. The chemicals aggravated my sensitive skin!
Steve pops into a sitting position. “What’s wrong?”
“My lip,” I say, almost crying. “My lip.”
He squints at my face. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You can’t see it yet, but it’s coming.”
He slouches back onto the mattress, and reaches out to touch my mouth. “What’s coming?”
I groan. “I’m ruined. It’s…it’s…” It’s too horrible to say. “It’s a cold sore.”
Steven laughs.
Yes, he laughs.
Is that an appropriate reaction? “How can you laugh when I’m so miserable?”
He tries to stop laughing and appear somber. “I’m sorry,” he says, a smile breaking through. “But
it’s kind of ironic, no?”
“Ironic? My getting a cold sore is ironic?”
“You humiliate some guy for having a cold sore and then two days later you get one yourself. Doesn’t it sound like someone’s trying to tell you something?”
“What are you talking about? I get them when I’m stressed. And I’m stressed. It’s not divine retribution.”
“You don’t think it’s coincidental?”
Oh, my. He thinks God sent me a cold sore to teach me a lesson? Thou shalt not speak ill of former dates. “No, it’s cause and effect. I’ve been worrying about the possibility of getting one since I ran into Cory, and I’ve inadvertently stressed one into fruition.”
He shrugs. “I can’t see anything anyway.”
I lie on my back so I can’t see myself in the new mirror above the new dresser (recent Stark’s purchases). “It starts small and then blows up. It’s horrible, Steve. Trust me. I know about this. I get them all the time. I’ve been getting them since I was a little girl.”
His eyebrows gather in confusion. “What are you talking about? We’ve been together a year, and you haven’t had one.”
Yes I did, I just didn’t tell you. “I used to get them all the time. Where’s my medication? I need to put on my medication.”
The earlier you put on the cream, the faster the abomination self-destructs. Where is it? I jump out of bed and search through the medicine cabinet, trying to locate it amidst Steve’s chaos. Two empty spray deodorant cans. Two? I toss them both into the garbage can. A razor without the cap. Does he not know how dangerous that is?
“Steve, do you think you could tidy your stuff in the medicine cabinet? I can’t find anything.”
I need to find my medication now. I have to apply the cream immediately or it won’t work. Every second counts! The instructions say to start using it when you first experience the tingling. What if the tingling started when I was asleep? What if it’s been tingling for hours?
“You have to relax,” Steve says from the other room.
“There’s no time to relax.” Here it is, sandwiched between the cotton balls and my never-opened bottle of nail polish remover. Why struggle with the removal myself when I can have a manicurist do it?
As Seen on TV Page 25