so today's visit is actually about things going on in the Senate. But there was a problem with one of the cameras, so we had a chance to make small talk while it was being fixed.
"I read about your hospital visit, are you feeling better?" she asked.
"Yeah, once I rinsed the bisque out of my hair. But you should know it does make a wonderful conditioner."
She laughed as she leaned back in her chair. "I'm not surprised you passed out. I couldn't imagine getting up at that hour every day. Though if I run for President, I know it'll be a couple of years without a break and crossing so many time zones I won't even know who I am. I wouldn't want to be one of those candidates who gets up to make a speech and forgets where they are."
"Hey, we love those sound bites. Speaking of the campaign—"
"Ah, nice try, Veronica. No announcement today. I haven't decided."
"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."
"Look, I live in North Jersey and I've watched you for a long time. I know you're a solid reporter." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "As opposed to some other morning show hosts."
"Thank you, that's very kind."
"So what do you want to talk about—"
"Ah, nice try, Senator."
"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."
We shared a laugh, and I could see how the woman could charm even the most hard-boiled reporter.
Fifteen minutes later her interview was in the can. It was a spirited give and take; she didn't dodge any tough questions, I didn't lob any softballs, and she avoided anything that sounded rehearsed. She talked rather than recited. Again, I didn't agree with everything she said, but I couldn't help but like her personally as I walked her to the door.
"So, I was talking to Gavin," she said, "and he told me that should I decide to run you would be assigned to the campaign."
I nodded and smiled, thankful that Gavin was actually sticking to his word on something. "Yeah. So we could be tired together."
"Well, maybe by then you'll have learned some tricks and can give me advice. We redheads have to stick together. Although I'm not sure the rest of the media could deal with two spunky ones on the same plane."
"True. As far as attitude is concerned, we could have been separated at birth." We laughed as we reached the door. "Here's one piece of advice I can give you right now, Senator: be prepared to have no social life."
"Already there, honey. Sometimes I go weeks without seeing my husband."
"At least you have one."
"Don't worry, Veronica, Mister Right is out there."
I held the door open for her, revealing a waiting limo. "Thanks for coming by, Senator, and it was great to meet you."
She shook my hand and smiled. "Pleasure was mine. I'll see you again soon."
I watched her energetic walk to the limo, waving at a few pedestrians as she moved.
Funny, the carrot Gavin had dangled was a carrot top. Ironic, huh?
And suddenly the thought of a campaign and Air Force One gave me a shot of energy that topped anything in a coffee mug. Maybe I could do this after all.
Upon further review, maybe I can't do this after all.
Three months into the new job, and I've realized my old boyfriend was right. I still don't want him back, but he was right. I'm not a morning person and never will be. You can't force an owl to be a chicken. (That one's from Savannah.)
This truly has become the job from hell. Forbidden fruit, as Alexander would put it. I can almost hear him saying, "I told you so. You should have run off to Connecticut with me and you could be baking cookies, servicing me every night, and thanking me for the opportunity."
I've become a physical wreck. Oh, those great breakfasts at The Little Bakery get me through the show all right. But it's the other twenty-two hours of the day that are killing me.
Here's my typical day:
Get up at two in the morning after being jolted out of bed like I've been hit with a cattle prod by an alarm which, at that hour, sounds like a Chinese gong.
Start the coffee pot, which I've loaded the night before since during my first week on the job I attempted to make some java while bleary-eyed and filled the coffee machine with flour, thus creating the first paste cappuccino.
Take a ten minute hot shower, drink two cups of coffee, stagger down to the limo in jeans or sweats, chasing raccoons away from the door in the process. I look up at what I thought were birds, but which Charlie informed me were actually bats since birds don't fly at night. Appropriate for the vampire shift, so I wave at them. Professional courtesy.
Drink two more cups of coffee after arriving at the station.
Breakfast across the street, which perks me up just long enough to get through the show.
Home by ten. Close the black curtains I've purchased to block out every ray of sunlight and make my apartment look like a hangout for a coven. Eat bowl of cereal, careful to add blueberries instead of the olives I used my first week. (New! Lucky Charms! Now with a full days serving of olives!)
Resolve to stay up without taking nap so that I will fall asleep at six and get eight hours.
Despite the caffeine content of four cups of coffee, I pass out on couch at noon after watching The Price is Right. (I always overbid.)
Wake up at four, covered with drool and somewhat rested. Eat lunch or dinner, depending on what I decide to call it.
Crawl back into bed at six in an attempt to sleep.
Give up at eight and watch television or read.
Fall asleep at ten.
Rinse. Repeat.
Social life? Seriously? Weekdays are totally out of the question. Weekends are spent in bed trying to catch up on sleep. I haven't been out with anyone since I did my swan dive into the lobster bisque and got a nine-point-four from the tabloid judge. I seem to remember what sex was like, but the memory is fading. I'm lonely as hell. My friends still are my friends, but they're on a different schedule, along with the rest of the world.
Sunday nights are the worst. After two days of my body almost getting back to normal, I have to crawl back into my coffin.
I know, I know, there's a big brass ring waiting for me in two years, eight months and twenty-eight days (who's counting) but I'm not sure it's worth it. I might be dead before then.
So, after two weeks of deep thought I'd decided on a course of action. To hell with the evening anchor job. I want my life back.
