Fifty Shades of Thrifty (a Parody) (3 page)

It's a little
different for those without a Y chromosome, and totally opposite in my case.
Here's the deal. When it comes to attracting the opposite sex, I am to my
friends what a puppy is to a single guy.

Ariel and my
circle of friends have dubbed me "Wing Girl" because I end up taking
one for the team every time. However, the strategy my friends use is backwards.
Since I am a very recognizable member of the media, it's a case of moths, meet
flame. (I being the flame in this equation.) I'm not sure if it's the fame
thing or the challenge of possibly nailing the Brass Cupcake, but it works,
drawing in attractive men who I naturally turn off, leaving my friends with
very delectable leftovers. My friends always end up with positive results while
I finish the evening without so much as a request for a phone number. My Wing
Girl moniker started out as a term of endearment, something fun, but lately
it's beginning to wear thin.

I don't mean to
repel men like a Star Trek force field. Really, I don't. But as I approach the
big three-oh, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever be able to drop my
"prosecutor from hell" persona when I'm off the clock. And I really
want to. Before that other clock, the biological one that's ticking louder
every day, strikes twelve.

Because, and
don't ever tell my boss this, beneath the brass lies a real cupcake looking for
her perfect icing.

***

"Cupcake,
you really nailed the Senator last night."

My boss, the
grizzled Harry Coyne, whose face is so wrinkled it would tie up a dry cleaner
for a day, smiled as I took a seat at the conference room table for the morning
meeting, his daily sit-down with the dozen reporters on the dayside staff.

"Thanks,"
I said.

Now before we get
the PC police involved in this, let me explain a little about newsroom
language. We usually call each other by last names, or, in my case, nicknames.
And you might think that a man calling a woman "Cupcake" in the
office would violate a litany of sexual harassment laws and cause thousands of
dollars of "emotional stress" to the recipient of said nickname. But
since I'm cool with it and the rest of the staff knows it, it's not a big deal.

Of course, the
first time Harry called me Cupcake the Human Resources troll happened to be
within earshot and her harassment sniffing dogs confirmed that this improper
term of endearment was, in fact, being used by men in the newsroom. I explained
to her that it originated in
The Post
,
we all thought it was funny (as well as dead-on appropriate), I actually liked
the nickname and considered it a compliment. The troll, a two hundred pound
fireplug, actually typed up a release form which I had to sign saying I
approved of the term and would not sue the station nor hold anyone accountable
should I suddenly decide to become offended. That night after the troll went
home, one of our photographers went down to her office with a chisel and added
the prefix "In" to the "Human Resources" nameplate outside
her door. Now she had the nickname "Inhuman Resources" which spread
through the station like wildfire and stuck like superglue.

Back to the
original comment, in which Harry highlighted the fact that I "nailed"
the Senator. While this might have meant something sexual had I been a
Washington, DC intern in a blue dress, the term "nailed" in the news
business meant that I exposed some serious shit about a politician, in this
case, a New York State Senator.

And you have to
understand where Harry's coming from. He broke into the business in the
dinosaur age, when smoke filled newsrooms were populated by nothing but men and
the only women in the building were secretaries. When the women's movement was
making inroads into the biz, the men lived by the mantra "keep the broads
out of broadcasting" as they fought an unsuccessful battle. Harry is still
old school on the subject of equality in the television news industry, thinking
most women are simply eye candy, but he loves me because he says I'm "one
of the guys."

You beginning to
see my problem?

Harry just turned
sixty, and doesn't look a day over seventy-five. The shock of white hair and
the closely cropped matching beard doesn't help. His gray eyes are framed by a
flock of crows feet. He's short and stocky, maybe five-six, with a bay window
from too many trips to the tavern across the street for a cold one after the
newscast. The trademark red suspenders harken back to a bygone era. He paced
around the glassed-in conference room channeling DeNiro with that baseball bat
in
The Untouchables
, whacking a ruler
into his hand as he recapped the previous newscast. "Yessir, damn fine
reporting." Tap, tap, tap. He stopped behind the reporter who would be
this morning's victim, fortyish general assignment reporter Bob Evanson, then
rested the ruler on the man's shoulder like he was knighting the guy. "She
woulda done a better job on
your
piece last night."

Evanson looked
over his shoulder as fear crept into his dark eyes. (Evanson, it should be
noted, is a product of Catholic school and therefore has an genetic fear of
rulers.) "All the facts checked out, Harry. What was wrong with it?"
he asked, voice cracking a bit.

"Oh, nothing
was
wrong
with it," said Harry,
continuing his parade around the room. "You didn't go for the kill shot.
You had the guy and you let him off with a slap on the wrist. Softball
questions." Tap, tap, tap. "Just lob the damn things over the plate
like it's a beer league."

"I thought
my questions were valid."

"Yeah, they
were valid, but soft. The Cupcake woulda nailed his ass to the wall and lit up
a cigarette afterwards on the set." (Interesting visual that would no
doubt land me on the front page of
The Post
.)
He stopped, then turned to face the reporter. "You know the difference
between you and her, Bob?" He pointed the ruler at Bob, then me.

Evanson rolled
his eyes and exhaled audibly. "No, Harry. What?"

"You're too
nice. You never go for the jugular. What makes her a great reporter is that
she's a bulldog with absolutely no social skills."

My head jerked
back like I was hit with a blow dart.

"Ouch,"
said feature reporter Stan Harvey, who was sitting next to me. "That one
left a mark."

Harry glanced at
me with his best attempt at a apologetic look. "No offense, Cupcake."

"None
taken," I said, lying through my slightly quivering lips.

And for the first
time in my eight years in the business, I almost showed emotion.

Almost.

But I felt it.

CHAPTER TWO

Most
interventions are surprises, hitting the target when he or she least expects
it. In most cases, the focus is on someone with a drug or alcohol problem.
Friends get together and confront the person, hopefully forcing that person to
take action and deal with the problem.

So I was
surprised when I walked into Ariel's impeccably decorated apartment on Saturday
afternoon and found her and my two other closest friends sitting in a circle
next to a whiteboard on an easel. It kinda stuck out amidst all the antique
furniture.

"Let me
guess," I said. "This is either an Amway meeting or you haven't
noticed this whiteboard clashes with your decor."

"Wing Girl,
we need to talk," said Ariel, who then patted the empty space on the dark
brown leather couch next to her.

"What the
hell is going on?" I asked.

"It's an
intuhvention," said Roxanne Falcone, the short but buxom raven-haired
sister from Brooklyn I never had.

"I don't
have a drinking problem," I said.

"No, you have
a
man
problem," said Serena Dash,
the tall, doe-eyed brunette lawyer who despite average looks manages to spend
her nights looking at more ceilings than Michelangelo.

My jaw hung open.
"So, what are you guys gonna do, list my bad qualities on the board?"

"No,
sweetie," said Ariel. "We're taking you to charm school."

My face
tightened. "Charm school? Are you implying I am without charm?"

All three looked
away from me, at each other, then down at the hardwood floor.

And then I heard
Harry's voice in my head.
Absolutely no social skills.

"I've had
boyfriends in the past," I said, in what I knew was a lame attempt at
defending said charm.

Roxanne rolled
her eyes. "Again with the college professuh."

"He was
nice," I said.

"He was an
illegal alien who wanted to marry you for a green card," said Ariel.
"And don't even bring up that fling with the student in that career day
class you taught who just wanted a job at your station."

I felt my lip
quivering a bit. Serena noticed, got up, put her arms around me and gave me a
strong hug. My eyes narrowed as I bit my lower lip, trying to keep my emotions
in check.

Serena pulled
back and looked at me. "Let it out, Wing Girl. For once, just let it
out."

"The Brass
Cupcake doesn't cry," I said, standing up straight, arms folded.
"There's no crying in news."

"Great, now
she's channeling Tom Hanks," said Roxanne.

"You're not
an investigative reporter when you're with us," said Ariel. "You're
our dear friend who we know has a huge heart. The problem is, no man can see
it. It's locked away in some journalism vault by this Brass Cupcake alter ego
who thinks that if she lets it out her career will dive headfirst into the
shitter."

"Let it
out," said Roxanne.

"There's
nothing to let out!"

"We want you
to be happy," said Ariel.

"I
am
happy," I said. "My career—"

"With your
life
! Ariel got up and tapped me on the
head with one knuckle. "Hello! McFly! There's more to life than
work."

Serena took me by
one hand and led me to the couch. "Honey, if you keep going the way you're
going you'll end up like one of those crazy cat ladies."

I sat down on the
soft leather and let out an audible exhale. I knew they were right. I repelled
men. And I did like cats an awful lot. "Fine," I said. "So
what's the deal with this charm school?"

"First,"
said Ariel, as she moved to the white board and grabbed a magic marker,
"we're going to start with what you're looking for in a man."

"Pffft. I'll
settle for breathing at this point," I said.

"Be
serious," said Serena.

"Give us the
qualities you're looking for," said Ariel.

***

Ten minutes later
we all looked at the very long list compiled on the board. Bright sunshine
spilled through the large window, illuminating the room but shedding no light
on my problem.

Serena furrowed
her brow. "Guys, I'm not sure he exists."

"Fuhgeddaboudit,"
said Roxanne. "The only guys left are the Pope and Tim Tebow."

I shrugged.
"So I have high standards."

"You have
unreal
standards," said Ariel. "Your problem is
that you've spent your life going after politicians who are supposed to be
squeaky clean, and you expect the men you date to be that way. Everyone has
baggage. Some have a carry-on, others have more than a trophy wife on a
European vacation."

"Fine,"
I said. "So I need to lower my standards."

"You don't
have to lower them," said Serena, "you just have to learn to accept
the fact that there is no one out there with every single quality you
want."

I nodded,
realizing they were right. "Okay. So I become more open minded about men.
There, we're done. Let's go to dinner."

"Not so
fast," said Ariel. "And not dressed like that. You're not going out
in those outfits anymore."

I looked down at
my clothes, a pair of red and black plaid slacks and a bulky purple sweater.
"What's wrong with this?"

"It's fine
if you wanna pick up a guy at Home Depot," said Roxanne.

"I always
attract men," I said. "That's why you call me Wing Girl."

"The Brass
Cupcake attracts men," said Serena. "Belinda needs to learn how to
keep them."

"Really?"
said Ariel. "Pants and flats for a Saturday night?"

"They're
comfortable," I said.

"Men want
heels and skirts," said Serena. "We know you've got great legs under
there. We've been to the beach with you."

"And the
hair," said Roxanne, rolling her eyes as she pointed at my head.

"What?"
I asked.

"The bun is
done," she said.

"You're
blessed with that beautiful red and you tie it up in a bun of steel," said
Ariel. "Meanwhile, the glasses have got to go. We need to see that
green."

"I can't see
without glasses."

"As a
reporter you should know there's been a fabulous new invention called contact
lenses," said Serena. "Maybe you've read about it."

"So you're
giving me a total makeover."

"Yep,"
said Ariel.

"Right
now?"

***

As my friends
took inventory in my two bedroom closets, I wasn't sure how this makeover thing
was gonna come out. I mean, I've got three women who are all very different and
the combined advice might result in something out of a horror movie.

Ariel is my
oldest and closest friend. She's a tall drink of water from a wealthy section
of Connecticut who grew up with every privilege and ran off the trust fund
reservation by actually having a career. The horror! A Madison Avenue
copywriter, Ariel is clever at turning a phrase whether she has to pitch cars
or feminine hygiene products. She can also weave a tapestry of words into a
blanket under which a man becomes powerless.

Always impeccably
dressed in classic clothes and a strand of pearls, she's the proverbial
blue-eyed blonde with the high cheekbones, a sharp nose and full lips. Add her
customary four-inch heels to the five-ten frame, and you've got a girl who
could probably be a model if she wanted to.