He didn’t. And twelve years later he still hasn’t. After he’d been with me about a week, I told my eight-year-old niece that she could name my new kitten. She instantly came up with the name Lucky. Her attraction to that name wasn’t poetic—she happened to really like that brand of jeans. But my love for the name was a little deeper. He deserved that name, I knew, because every step of the way he could have not made it. He was a little survivor, and he was definitely lucky. And over time, I’d come to realize just how lucky I was to have him.
First, though, I had to get used to the demon that I had unleashed in my home. Every night at 1 A.M. he would jump all over the apartment—maybe I should have known, but no one told me that cats were naturally nocturnal. And kittens are insane. So there I was—the woman who’d never sought out heavy responsibilities in my personal life, who’d never had a single maternal yearning—and I had a living thing in my house who literally cried for my attention in the middle of the night. What had I done? Lucky didn’t even look like a domesticated cat. He’s got these huge eyes and this long, pink nose. I briefly wondered if the pet store had sent me home with an ocelot.
I would like to say that I fell in love with Lucky right away, but no. Despite the multiple wake-ups every night, he was a sweet, lovable little thing, introducing himself—and charming—every human who walked through the door. But at first I wouldn’t open up to him. Whether from fear or from long-held routine, I just couldn’t accept that there was a living thing in my home that it was my responsibility to love. So every morning when I went to work, I didn’t lavish him with attention before I left. I’d kind of nod at him and say, “Okay, cat, here’s your food, here’s your water, have a nice day.” I changed his litter box regularly and I spent hundreds of dollars on vet bills. I was doing all the things that a responsible pet owner should do. But the love part? That took some time.
Then one day, I noticed that Lucky couldn’t open one of his eyes. So I took him to the vet, who told me that Lucky had scratched a cornea. They could perform a procedure to fix it and he’d be as good as new, but they would need to keep him overnight. I would have to leave him there. Alone. In a cage.
That’s when I started to sob.
You would think that poor little Lucky was having open heart surgery, the way I was carrying on. All I could think about was how much he needed me, and how I’d nursed him to health, and how I couldn’t possibly lose him now—I couldn’t bear it. And there it was rising up inside of me: love. Lucky needed me, and I needed him.
Lucky’s cornea healed, and I eventually stopped sobbing. Flash forward about a year, and I noticed that Lucky was having these strange, spastic back spasms that looked like rapid ripples down his back. It frightened me, so I took him to the vet. My usual vet was on vacation, and the associate on call was Dr. Lawrence Putter, who would eventually become a dear friend of mine. He examined Lucky and said, “You know, I think this is something I read about in medical school—a rare kind of epilepsy.” Sure enough, one ridiculously expensive veterinary neurology visit later, it turned out that Dr. Putter was right. And now I am the proud owner of a cat that I adore who requires two doses of phenobarbital every day. Every single day. Which means that if I want to go away, I hire a cat sitter to give him his medicine twice a day. Yes, I have a cat nanny. And do I mind? Not at all.
I get teased now about being a cat lady, like I’m this pathologically animal-attached person who loves cats more than people. If those teasers only knew what a huge thing it was for me just to keep a cat alive—much less to love him as much as I do—they might think differently. But when they kid me that way, I just laugh along. I figure I’m not a cat lady—I’m a lucky lady.
Not too many people make biscotti at home. I think that’s because they assume that they’re going to be really hard to make, or that they won’t turn out well. Fear keeps us from taking chances, as I have learned more than once. And just like Lucky ended up being a risk worth taking for me, these biscotti are totally rewarding to make—and incredibly easy. You’ll make them, love them, and wonder why you waited so long. Like so many things in life.
CHOCOLATE CHIP BISCOTTI
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon cinnamon
4 tablespoons cold butter
3 large eggs lightly beaten (reserving 1 tablespoon)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
Decorative large sugar crystals (optional)
Parchment-lined cookie sheets
Pastry brush
Serrated knife
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix flour, sugar, baking powder, and cinnamon in large bowl. Cut in butter with two knives or a pastry blender until mixture looks like small crumbs.
Add beaten egg (minus reserved tablespoon) and vanilla. Stir until a moist dough forms. Stir in chocolate chips.
Divide dough into quarters. With floured hands, shape each quarter into a 9 x 2–inch log. Place the logs on parchment-lined cookie sheets. If baking two logs per sheet, be sure to place the logs at least 4 inches apart since the logs will spread as they bake.
With a pastry brush, brush the top of each log with reserved egg. If you like, sprinkle with large sugar crystals.
Bake 25 minutes. Cool for 10 minutes.
Place one log at a time on cutting board. With serrated knife, cut warm log crossways into ½-inch diagonal slices. Place slices upright on cookie sheets. Repeat process with remaining logs.
Bake 15 minutes, until biscotti turn just slightly golden.
Cool on wire racks.
Makes 5 dozen.
CHAPTER 17
PERFECT IS BORING
A fter a few happy years of having my own company, I got a call to return to radio. The offer was to work on the Howard Stern Show on SiriusXM—really the Holy Grail of radio and the kind of opportunity you don’t even dare to fantasize about. Howard was creating a news department—he came up with the idea in the shower—and my radio rabbi, Walter Sabo (who was a consultant for the channel), recommended me. I went in and visited the station, and it felt like I’d walked into radio heaven. I was surrounded by people I’d always admired—it was like being recruited to play for the Yankees. I couldn’t believe so much talent was in one place. Over the years I’ve spent there I’ve had the opportunity to work with broadcasting pros like Gary Dell’Abate, Tim Sabean, Liz Aiello, and Brad Driver. Most of all, of course, there’s Howard himself. Working for him has made me fall in love with radio all over again. His show combines everything I’ve ever loved about radio—it’s challenging, a load of work, and full of people who make me laugh every day of my life. I feel so fortunate.
Because I respect Howard so much, from the start I felt a huge responsibility to do a great job and to always bring back amazing red-carpet audio from awards shows to use on our show. This was not easy. Despite the fact that Howard’s listeners were in the millions and some TV shows only had viewers in the tens of thousands (if that), having a camera gave the TV people pride of place on the red carpet, which then gave them the best access to the celebrities as they exited their limos. In addition, our news department was new and many publicists didn’t understand or know that we were a legitimate news team. Meanwhile, I was stuck way back in nowheresville, crammed against a metal police barrier. I’d be screaming my lungs out with my little digital recorder and trying to get the celebrities to notice me before their publicists shoved them into the event that they were already late for. To add further insult, I was actually given a worse position than reporters from every single website, no matter how rinky-dink. People representing websites with hits in the double digits were getting better access to celebrities than I was, representing the Howard Stern Show. When I covered one awards show, the cable network actually stuck me outside in the cold, while other reporters got to stand inside in a heated red carpet tent. Not only did I freeze my butt off, but I g
ot zero audio, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Here’s my view from outside the tent:
The network apologized for my placement and the apology was accepted. But still, I constantly had to contend with being shoved to the back of the red carpet. Often, by the time the celebrity got to the end of the carpet, the publicist would say to me—and the handful of reporters from never-heard-of-it dot-coms that I was stuck there with—that we’d have to do a group interview. This meant that they expected us to pull together in a pathetic scrum and all ask the same question and use the same audio. This drove me crazy, and I’d turn into a possessed loudmouth, for which I do not apologize. It was my job to get great audio, and I was not going to fail in that task. So I just pretended those other guys weren’t there, and I shoved my way to the front and asked my questions.
Aside from my lousy placement, the problem was that at five foot three in a chaotic crush like that, I was practically invisible and my screams and wails were not getting me the interviews I needed. I was crowded out by camera people who had to stand behind the barrier with me, and I was blocked by the on-camera reporters who actually got to stand in front of the barrier (do not even get me started on the unfairness of that). So I rigged a sign like the ones that limo drivers use at airports that said “Howard Stern” in capital letters, and when I held that up and added it to my screaming, I started to get more celebrities to stop for me.
One of the first was Matthew Morrison, who was just breaking out on Glee. He saw my sign, and even though his publicist was yanking him into the event, he insisted on coming over because he loved the show so much. That was always fun—the celebrities who stopped seemed so happy to see me, and they raved about how much they adored Howard.
At the Sex and the City 2 premiere, I was once again stuck way in the back of the red carpet when I saw Sarah Jessica Parker making her way down the line, about twenty yards away from me. I knew at that rate there was no way I would get anywhere near her. Meanwhile, I was immobilized behind the metal police barrier and there was security everywhere, not to mention so many people between me and Sarah that reaching her would be like shoving from one end to the other of a rush-hour subway car. But screw that. I was going to interview Sarah Jessica Parker if it was the last thing I did. Since I was at the very back, I managed to squeeze around the spot where the barrier met the entrance. With my VIP pass I knew that no one would think I was a petite, blond assassin, but still I was not where I should have been, and at minimum I was risking being decapitated by one of those crazy-long camera booms. I shouldered my way through the line, and just as Sarah was being ushered away by her publicists, thank God she saw me—and heard me screaming. She stopped, her face lit up, and she said, “Oh my God, I love Howard! Please tell him I said hello and I think he’s a genius!” She could not have been nicer or sweeter, and in the ten or fifteen seconds that I managed to get with her before her publicist physically dragged her way, she gave me exactly what I needed. Bless her heart. Celebrities like Sarah were shocked to see the Howard Stern Show reporter shoved to the back of the line—and they genuinely seemed concerned for me, like they would have invited me in and given me a cup of soup if they could have.
Hands down, the best red-carpet experience I ever had was at the premiere of Dinner for Schmucks. Paramount gave the show its very own platform at the end of the red carpet, so for the first time ever the celebrities were actually lining up to be interviewed by me. It was amazing, and all because of their respect for Howard Stern. Steve Carell stood next to me chatting away, and Zach Galifianakis is such a huge Stern fan that I think he would have stayed there all night. The only downside was that it was an incredibly hot and humid summer evening and my hair got frizzier by the minute.
As ferocious as I can be on the red carpet, I’ve settled down a lot in my personal life. My coworkers can’t believe it when I tell them what a wild child I used to be. They know me only as I am now, so they think I’m such a homebody—like all I do after work is go home, play with my cat, and practice my violin. And, yeah, sometimes that’s exactly what I do.
Now I play with a chamber group, and we give performances at the end of every semester. Once I was walking along to my performance with my violin tucked under my arm and a stranger asked me if I played for the Philharmonic. I smiled and said, “Why, yes, I do!” I let a few seconds pass before I admitted that no, I did not actually play for the symphony orchestra. But I loved that she made that mistake; I guess I carry my violin with a certain professionalism. I do practice every day, and not always because I want to. Sometimes I don’t really feel like it, but I practice anyway, because I don’t want to let down my fellow musicians.
You can find metaphors for life anywhere—in cookie recipes, in playing with an ensemble, in homeless cats. I’ve found lessons in all those things and more. So I’m going to end this book with a dozen of my favorites. Some I took from my romantic relationships, some from work, some from music, and some from my friendships:
1. Do what you love. You’ll be happier and healthier (and look younger because you won’t be frowning and stressing as much).
2. The right note at the wrong time is a wrong note (and vice versa). There’s no sense regretting the fish that got away. If he wasn’t ready, or you weren’t ready, the bottom line is, it wasn’t the right time. And if Mr. Right comes from the weirdest place, don’t get caught up in preconceived notions. Just play along.
3. Ask questions and listen to the answers. Especially in my romantic relationships, I was like an opera singer: me me me me me me me. It’s amazing how much I learned when I stopped singing that tune.
4. Enjoy today. For years I was like the little kid in the backseat of the car asking “How long till we get there?” every five minutes. Just recently I looked at my eighty-eight-year-old father and I realized how quickly time passes. Now I try to appreciate the ride and not always calculate the distance yet to travel.
5. It’s okay to cry over a job. If you follow mantra number one, then you already do what you love. So of course you’re going to be sad when it ends. There’s not a thing wrong with that. Now go find another job you love.
6. Titles are earned, not granted. Respect and love come from how you behave, not what you’re called.
7. Let them fall in love with you first. In my life, I’ve done lots of tryouts for jobs. It’s hard to think, Oh my God, I just have to get this job, without projecting all kinds of desperation. Instead, tell yourself to take things one project at a time. Do the best job you can as you go along, rather than obsessing over the big prize. The same goes for romance—don’t go into a first date thinking, Oh my God, I hope this is my next boyfriend. Instead think, Let’s have a nice evening. One date at a time.
8. Don’t shoot from the hip. Slow and steady wins the race. I’ve seen too many people grab at the first shiny object they saw—the big-paying job that was too good to be true, for example—and before they knew it, they were out of work or their show was canceled.
9. Nice people know nice people. You can really judge a person by the kind of people they attract to them. Kind people draw other kind people to them. Similarly, if your new friend or boyfriend is surrounded by jerks, you might want to think twice.
10. It all trickles down from the top. Same idea—if the big boss is a maniac, chances are there is some dysfunction in that organization. And if your new boyfriend seems to have drama in every quarter of his life—from work to friends to family—then chances are you’re going to end up being part of the drama.
11. Strike while the iron is cool. It took me a long time to figure this one out. It’s so easy to yell or get upset at someone (or something) when emotions are running high. Better to take a walk or sleep on a situation before blurting something out you didn’t mean to say. Also, people will be more likely to hear what you’re saying if you’re calm, rather than screaming at them.
12. Learn to like the word okay. Everything doesn’t have to be brilliantly stupendous all the time. When ever
ything’s okay, then that’s all right.
I’m not promising that if you follow all these mantras, your life will be perfect. Mine definitely isn’t. But who wants to be perfect? Perfect is boring. Boring is absolute death on the radio, and it’s no fun in life, either. I’d rather fall on my face once in a while than never to take a step up (or down). Accidents will happen when I’m taking chances, and usually the scrapes are minor. I just dust myself off and keep going. Because the reward of finding something amazing just around the next corner is way too irresistible to pass up.
This is a very easy cookie recipe to make and remember. I call it the 1, 2, 3 recipe. 1 cup sugar, 1 cup butter, 1 egg, 2 teaspoons vanilla, 3 cups flour. After all I went through to feel good about myself, I wanted something very easy and delicious to be the last cookie in the book. It’s a back-to-basics kind of recipe. But just because it’s straightforward doesn’t mean it’s boring—God forbid. What is richer and more satisfying than butter, sugar, and vanilla? With such wonderful ingredients, there’s really no need to further complicate things. Another lesson learned.
SUGAR COOKIES
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
1 egg
2 teaspoons vanilla
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 egg (for egg wash)
2½-inch round cookie cutter
Sprinkles or other toppings (optional)
Parchment-lined baking sheets
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg and vanilla and mix until incorporated. Now slowly add flour until it forms a dough.
Turn out dough on floured surface and divide into two portions. Cover both in plastic wrap and chill about 20 to 30 minutes, until firm.
Sex, Lies, and Cookies: An Unrated Memoir Page 16