“I swear to God,” she continued, “we’ll just keep taking these pathetic women down one by one. We should create a show where women have to get a license to have babies. We’ll put them through the ‘Ricky Dean Good Mother Test’! Great idea, huh?”
“Sure. Because you, of all people, know what it takes to be a good mother,” I said, shaking my head.
“What did you say?” She looked more than a little surprised.
“How the hell do you know what these women have been through? My best friend in Canada raised two kids by herself while putting herself through college and law school. Mother is the hardest job any human being can do, and it’s so easy to screw up. You don’t have a clue.”
Corinne glared at me. “Talk about ungrateful!” she said with a snarl, dashing toward the edit bays in her self-important way.
It was my first day back after what had seemed like an eternity—three days of not returning calls, of loafing around the beach house in my pajamas, of polishing off large quantities of mac and cheese, and whole boxes of chocolate Teddy Grahams. I also watched sophisticated nostalgia like Pink Panther movies, and listened to Sublime, which I played as loud as I liked.
It mattered not to me that the office “needed me.” They told me I had stories to edit and that I was supposed to be on a plane to Ohio on Wednesday, to which I countered, “I’m sick. Send someone else.” The thought of coercing another woman into divulging her deepest secrets for the sake of our show made me want to wretch.
By yesterday, I had garnered the strength to begin the resignation process, all hopes of bringing reform to Fix Your Life washed down the drain—not because of what Alex had said, but because I realized I didn’t want to work there anymore. I simply wanted me back: healthy, honest, and complete.
Resigning was not going to be easy, though. My signature on their iron-clad contract meant they could probably force me to stay. The only person I could initially turn to for insight was Gib, hoping that, given his recent fallen status, he might understand and offer me some sage advice. I sent him a private e-mail. Despite my anger at the system, I wanted him to hear it from me first. Plus, he was still technically my boss—at least no one had told me otherwise.
Dear Gib,
Please have a look at my issues below, for which I want to leave the show. Your thoughts would be appreciated before I talk to Meg.
Airplanes every day for 3 mos, 90-hour weeks, all-nighters. Is that legal?
No meal breaks! Say what? Humans must EAT—and sleep would be nice.
5 or 6G’s in hotel/cab/food expenses racking up interest. Not The Donald here!
No creative latitude. Drone girl, forced to execute orders, don’t defy script, don’t think! Say what? I’m a professionally trained and highly experienced journalist!
Being forced to make someone cry (interview or not) is journalistically unethical. And in my book immoral!
On a separate note: our guests. Who’s getting fixed? This isn’t help. It’s torture TV! Mr. Dean needs to spend time with these people—help them! I have some ideas on this if anyone cares. . .
It was already noon, I still hadn’t seen any of the senior staff, and Gib was noticeably MIA. I was hoping he would find me or at least offer some feedback on the e-mail. I couldn’t bear the thought of another week on the show. Suddenly, Meg’s assistant paged me over the intercom. Immediately, I called back. Meg answered, her voice surprisingly pleasant and forthright.
“Hi, can you come see me?”
I was expecting a different tone.
“Sure, I’ll be right there,” I said, a patch of nerves rumbling through my belly. What does she want? She doesn’t know I’m leaving. Maybe she’s calling to reprimand me for taking these sick days. Maybe it’s another Fat Forum shoot.
“Hello,” I said, shutting the door, fear swelling in my body.
Her finger pointed at the chair in front of her desk as she motioned for me to sit. My fingers began to tremble.
“So?” She looked at me as if she had just swallowed her morning kill. “Janey want a cracker?”
“Pardon me?” It wasn’t like her to be funny.
“I understand you’re starving. Never get time for lunch, or a sit-down dinner. I just thought you might want a cracker.”
“It’s true,” I said, a hint of defiance in my voice. Did Gib tell Meg about my e-mail?