Unwifeable Page 2

  I felt like a prisoner receiving a stay of career execution. I wrote back immediately: “Hey, Steve, I would love to write for you.”

  Of course, I had nothing in the way of recent clips (my last newspaper job after the Washington Post had been a short stint at the Des Moines Register from 1998 to 1999 covering cops and courts and drunkenly hooking up with fellow reporter Jeff Zeleny before he came out as gay and rose to fame in TV news). But I did have Steve’s curiosity on my side. Like any good Internet user in 2004, Steve had googled me and found something that showed where I was really at in my writing life beyond my oh-so-professional email signature that read “Assistant Director of Publications and Public Relations, Northwestern University Medical School.”

  In 2004, I had secretly started a blog.

  My relationship with my husband, James, was on the rocks, my career was going nowhere, and so for the first time in years, I tried writing for myself again—this time for fun. During this uncertain period, I somehow stumbled into chronicling the dissolution of my own marriage.

  “I learned something disheartening recently,” I wrote in one extremely coded, euphemistic blog post about finding out a woman who’d lobbied hard to be my best friend (“Hey, Mandy, love your blog, let me take pictures of you!”) was actually taking it in the ass from James all the while. “It disheartened me. I guess we covered that.”

  The minute I got the email from Steve, I obsessively checked my blog’s StatCounter and there I saw it: again and again, a News Corp IP address that showed someone who worked there had been checking what I was writing almost daily. I knew it had to be Steve.

  From that point forward, as I sat in my gray-fabric-lined little box at the medical school writing about science grants while I watched Comedy Central in the background, I would make it a priority to religiously update my blog.

  I treated it like a tryout session, an audition for him and anyone else who might be reading. At night, as I came home to my Gothic converted servants’ quarters turned guesthouse in Humboldt Park where my husband and I were still living, my arms were filled to overflowing with stacks of celebrity magazines to stay current.

  Daily, I searched to find a comedic angle on every fresh new pop culture obsession.

  When TomKat was huge, I stationed myself on top of our orange velour couch, which we’d found outside a Dumpster, and basically read every article on Scientology ever written. Then I wrote a satirical “day in the life” story about the couple. Emboldened by the emerging linking economy, I forwarded the post on to Mark Lisanti at Defamer, whom I had never communicated with before, with the subject line “For your consideration”—and a day later, he linked it. Soon after that, I made up a fake Martha Stewart catchphrase for her new Apprentice-style reality show. Linked again! I watched as hits on my blog climbed into the thousands. And still, StatCounter showed that News Corp IP.

  But then, just as quickly as my great career hope had arrived, Steve fell off the radar. Didn’t write back to my pitches. Didn’t run a sample thing I wrote for him. Nothing.

  When last minute my dear high school friend Siobhan Foley changed her wedding destination from Ireland to New York, I took a chance and emailed Steve again in early August.

  “Hey, Steve,” I wrote, “if you’re still alive, perhaps we can get together for a drink when I’m in New York Sept. 23–25 for a wedding.”

  Again . . . silence. By that point, I knew I needed to make dramatic changes in my personal life as my happiness and sanity continued to plummet. I made a resolution that I would:

  1. End my marriage to James.

  2. Move home to live with my mom, who said she was excited to have me back home in San Diego.

  Unfortunately, that plan quickly unraveled, too, when . . .

  1. My parents called to tell me they were getting back together after their five-year-long divorce.

  2. Hopefully I could figure something else out?

  A day before I was set to fly out to New York for my friend’s wedding, I checked my email one last time. There it was. Steve.

  “Am I too late for this?” he wrote. “I’ve been on jury duty and am seriously sorry and would like to see you.”

  While I had no hope that anything would come out of it, we made a plan to text while I was in the city. Emboldened by finally hearing back from Steve, I decided to test my cold-call-emailing luck and wrote a short note to the author Jonathan Ames, too. I had met him once after he spoke in Chicago as part of my friend Davonna’s thesis showcase.

  He was the closest thing to a real-life New York celebrity I had in my Rolodex, and I somehow thought meeting him might impress Steve and show him how connected I was.

  “Hey, I’m in NY this weekend for a wedding,” I emailed Jonathan. “Any chance of getting coffee or tea, or are you performing somewhere famous? That tall blond girl from Davonna’s thing. Yep.”

  I made sure to send him a link to my blog—which featured all my romantic dalliances—to show him that I was single, skinny, separated from my husband after five years of marriage, and very much dating. On the blog, I wrote stories and showed pictures of nights out with suitors who ranged from guys who at first seemed un-googlable (savvy friends quickly informed me this meant they were just using fake names and, oh yeah, married) to headache-inducing frat bros driving Hummers to an older lawyer named Scott who took me out on his yacht.

  Jonathan and I exchanged various emails, with him keeping me up-to-date on why he probably couldn’t meet up. Meanwhile, my short trip to New York already felt like a small personal victory in some minuscule way. I had arrived—at JFK International, almost divorced. I turned on my phone and saw that Scott with the Yacht had already called to say he missed me.

  I settled into my college roommate’s art deco apartment in Park Slope, where I was staying, introduced myself to her two cats, which I would be minding while she was away, and began frantically reaching out to all manner of old friends and acquaintances. “I’m in New York!” “What are you doing?” “I’m getting divorced!”

  The next morning, the day of Siobhan’s nuptials, I got Jonathan’s hypnotically lowercased invite: “going to a late party tonight in manhattan, but if you can’t sleep, maybe when i’m coming back from the party i’ll call you and we could meet for a late drink or something.”

  I blasted the Strokes from my iPod, put on my cleavage-baring black thrift-store slip dress, and blissfully attended Siobhan’s vows at St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral in Little Italy, snapping pictures of everything. The centuries-old weathered red bricks, stretched ten feet high and permanently leaning, seemed to offer stark comfort to my own teetering state of late. It wasn’t long before I was partying into the night at the Prince George Ballroom, twirling around the dance floor, drunk on sauvignon blanc. I checked my messages. One new voicemail from Scott with the Yacht. “Hope you’re having fun in New York!” I sure was. Now I just needed a date to prove to myself I belonged here.

  I grinned and texted Jonathan Ames. “Want to meet up?”

  He did. I fell into a cab and instructed the driver to take me to the Tea Lounge in Park Slope, chatting him up as he drove.

  “Hey, do you know what my friends say about me?” I gushed to the weather-beaten, old cabdriver, who had to suffer through all my intoxicated rambling. “I’m the ultimate slumber party girl. It’s really true, you know. I know how to create fun. Wherever I go, that’s what I do. Ultimate slumber party girl . . .”

  “Ultimate slumber party girl, huh?” he asked, glancing back.

  “Yep,” I said. “That’s me.”

  I waited at the Tea Lounge and in walked Jonathan, hesitant and sullen. I ordered a Ketel One and soda and he drank a tea. I leaned in close, spilling all about my friend’s ornate wedding along with the long-shot meeting I had coming up the next day and how weird it was to be getting divorced.

  “And right now,” I confided, “I’m dating this guy Scott who’s so different than my husband, and I like how he makes me feel.”

&
nbsp; I paused, shrugged my shoulders, and added, “I’m dating a lot of guys right now.”

  Jonathan took my promiscuity show-and-tell cue and began stroking my hand.

  “You are?” he asked.

  “Do you want to go back to my roommate’s place?” I asked.

  He did.

  We dropped onto the spare bed I was staying in and began kissing. He held my wrists and slapped me gently on the face, and I said I liked it.

  “I’ve never really done that kind of thing before,” I said.

  “Really?” he asked. “That’s surprising.”

  “It’s hot,” I said enthusiastically.

  He slapped me once more. This time I changed the subject. “I’m meeting with an editor from the New York Post tomorrow.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “I’m a little nervous,” I confessed, and then stopped myself.

  This level of vulnerability always felt a little too real for me. I didn’t want men to actually be able to see me. So instead, I slipped into a persona I discovered appeals to pretty much every man: The Whore.

  “Lately, it’s fun to play these different characters,” I said. “Like, I could call you . . . No I don’t want to do it. I’d feel stupid.”

  “Do it,” he said.

  I couldn’t bring myself to say “daddy,” so I went in a different direction.

  “Do you think I’m a dirty little slut?” I asked.

  He looked down at my face and said with the gravity of a judge, “Yes. You stupid fucking cunt.”

  “Whoa!” I said. “Hey!”

  I shot up and immediately turned our light-kink sexual encounter into a college admissions exam. I told him how I got a 5 on the calculus AP when I was fifteen and even started rattling off my SAT scores.

  “It’s just bedroom talk,” he said. “I was trying to please you by amping it up.”

  “No, I know,” I said. “Just . . . wow. New York is really intense, huh?”

  We didn’t have sex, but stopped before.

  A few hours later, as he grabbed his cap and bag to go, I still felt intoxicated with bluster and pulled out my Girl Scout–green American Apparel dress to ask him if he thought I should wear that to my meeting with the editor from the Post.

  He looked at the microscopic outfit I was holding before him.

  “That’s a shirt,” he said.

  He left my friend’s apartment, and I’m sure never expected to see or hear from me again.

  After a few hours of restless sleep, I met Steve at a little Mexican place near where I was staying. My face flushed, I ordered a mango orange margarita and told him about the night’s adventure.

  “He’s like the literati, right?” I asked. “I think he gets written about in Page Six sometimes.”

  Steve just looked at me, amused. I was such a dumb child—in the body of a thirty-year-old.

  “Do you like working for the Post?” I asked.

  “I do,” he said. “I should have come to New York a long time ago.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t expect anything. I’m going to move home to California and become a comedy writer.”

  “You should,” he said.

  “Besides,” I continued, “I just read in Bloomberg that the Post loses fifteen to thirty million dollars a year.”

  I paused, then kept going, “I have a little tattoo that says that, actually.”

  This time Steve laughed out loud.

  “So I suppose I couldn’t interest you in a features-writing position?” he interjected.

  “Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” he said.

  “Okay, so how many stories a week?”

  “About one,” he said. “More or less.”

  My brain was melting down. I knew I shouldn’t appear too desperate.

  “Can I think about it?” I asked. “I mean, I haven’t written for newspapers in years.”

  “Yeah, but you can write,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

  I smiled, my face glistening now with the confidence of not only sex and drink but also New York and career.

  “Yep,” I said. “That’s all that matters.”

  And that was that.

  * * *

  NOW, TWO SHORT months later, I am face-to-face with Steve again, still unable to believe that he is taking such a huge gamble on me. I want instantly to prove myself to him and to anyone who has ever doubted me.

  I want to conquer the city, the newspaper, the industry as a whole.

  “So here I am at News Corp!” I say to Steve grandly, giving him a hug.

  “Corp,” he says, deliberately pronouncing the p—and correcting me.

  I know that. Shit.

  “So . . . where are you living?” Steve asks as he leads me through the security-guard-protected gates, the automatic metallic arms swooshing up when he presses his yellow badge down to the electronic red sensor.

  “Oh—Brooklyn,” I say. “Park Slope. With two lesbians.”

  “Nice,” he says. “And Park Slope, that’s a great area.”

  Walking into the building, past the giant Christmas tree on display in the lobby, I see the huge signs reading FAIR AND BALANCED and recognize faces I was watching on TV the night before. There’s Greta Van Susteren, bitching someone out. There’s . . . holy shit, is that Geraldo? That’s totally Geraldo.

  We take the elevators up to the tenth floor, and my swimming eyes absorb the electrified newsroom, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking down on Avenue of the Americas as put-upon reporters balance their phones with one shoulder while their whirring hands type at breakneck speed, scrambling to meet the day’s 5 p.m. deadline.

  “Mandy, meet Katherine Pushkar, my new deputy editor,” he says. “You’ll be sharing an office with her.”

  Katherine smiles up at me, kind and relaxed, and sticks out her hand to shake mine. She is in her midthirties, beautiful, with shoulder-length brunette hair and warmth that radiates. She swoops her hand around her to welcome me into what is not so much an office as a converted coat closet, but I have never felt more grateful. It is a room to call—at least partially—my own.

  “Call HR, get all the paperwork taken care of,” Steve says, “and Katherine can get you set up on the computer. I’ve got to go deal with tomorrow’s cover.”

  When Steve retreats into the newsroom, I can feel my nerves starting to rattle. Katherine whips around.

  “I’m really glad you’re here,” she says. “I don’t know anyone either. I just came over from TimeOut.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Oh that’s so rad.”

  “Rad?” she repeats.

  “I’m from California,” I say. “So yeah. You’re definitely rad, dude.”

  Within the next hour, I make my way up to the fifteenth floor to meet with a tiny white-haired HR lady with huge black fashion eyeglasses to fill out a stack of forms. I look them over and realize that for the first time since I got married in 2000, I will now be marking “single.” Emergency contact? I have none. After running through the options (my ex-husband? my new roommates? my editor?), I finally scrawl my parents’ number in San Diego, 2,433 miles away. Screw it. If something happens to me, they can deal with it.

  I hand the forms back. Then it’s off to another floor for my photo ID. The bored office worker snaps my picture and prints out my canary-yellow ID badge. I hang it around my neck. In the picture and on my face right now, I am beaming with pride.

  * * *

  I TAKE THE F train home that night, interrogating strangers on the subway to look for any anecdote I can cannibalize for content (“Hey, so, what are the latest trends? Got any celebrity gossip? Oh, you just want to be left alone? Sorry about that.”). Everywhere I go, I am a heat-seeking missile on the prowl for story ideas, rumors—any kind of dirt. Until I arrive at the Seventh Avenue stop in my new yuppie neighborhood, which is the epitome of spotless—a health food store and yoga studio on every corner.

&nbs
p; My ID is still swinging around my neck—I can’t bring myself to take it off just yet. I walk up the stairs to the million-dollar brownstone, another small victory thanks yet again to a cold-call-emailing session.

  Sex, job, and shelter. What couldn’t a confidently worded query to a stranger do?

  Write it—and they will come. Or maybe you will.

  Juanita, a fellow Northwestern grad, had received my forwarded email plea a few months back when Steve sent my official offer. Turned out she and her girlfriend, Lola, had a spare room, which they were looking to rent for $895 a month. She sent me pictures of their mind-boggling Park Slope paradise: teak bathroom decor, movie-studio-quality views, and a state-of-the-art stainless steel kitchen that looked straight out of a TV commercial for high-end cookware. Was I interested? Yes. Yes, I was.

  “You’re back!” Juanita cheers when I walk through the door, and I see that a dinner party is in full swing with their friends—most of them coupled up—huddling around the kitchen to roll homemade sushi.

  “Drink?” one of their friends asks, handing me some sake, and I accept the expensive miniature wooden cup so as to not seem weird. Every day I write in my “morning pages” long screeds about how I thought maybe life would be better without alcohol, but when push came to shove (it seemed impossible that you could actually choose not to drink), I didn’t want to be the weirdo who didn’t know how to have a good time.

  “Not enough sex scenes!” one girl complains as someone pulls up an on-demand episode of The L Word in the background, and I introduce myself around the party. One girl wearing Ray-Bans and skinny jeans scopes me out and says she’d like to get to know me better, touching my arm, leaning in close. I have never been straight-up hit on by a woman before, and it is exhilarating and alienating all at once.

  I concentrate most of my energy on just sipping my sake rather than downing it, like I want to so badly. The partygoers scream with laughter, repeating inside jokes and whooping at inappropriate revelations. I don’t feel like I click with anyone the way I did with Katherine at work. Juanita and Lola are a power couple, whose careers are taking off. It’s hard for me to distinguish between the Showtime series playing in the background and the who’s-broken-up-with-who small talk being made over yellowfin tuna and rice rolls around me.