Sad Desk Salad (3 page)

“If you want them you can keep them,” my mother said faux-cheerfully. “But I can’t keep his stuff here.” This is the way she’s always dealt with things, by putting a positive gloss on them and moving on. “There are no problems, only challenges,” says the poster on her classroom wall. I pocketed the cuff links but sent everything else away.

I don’t really have time to talk to her right now, but I felt too guilty to send her straight to voice mail, so we have a quick chat. When my salad is ready I tell her I need to rush on back home.

“I’m so proud of you for your exciting job!” Mom says, which is what she always says when the topic of Chick Habit arises. When we hang up, I turn to Manuel and apologize for talking on the phone in the bodega.

He smiles at me and says, “Your voice brightens up the place.” I give him a ten for a seven-dollar salad and tell him to keep the change.

When I get back home I catch sight of myself in the mirror and grimace, hearing my mother’s sweet yet firm voice in my mind. If she could see me now, unwashed and underdressed, she would have trouble hiding a look of abject horror. I decide to sit at the desk that’s in the corner of the bedroom rather than slouching back on the decrepit couch. I eat my limp greens as I search my RSS feed once again. I check my Chick Habit e-mail account. Occasionally story tips will come through that way. Today all I see is spam from chirpy PR women trying to sell me on stories about eco-friendly makeup and an e-mail from someone who claims to know me from college.

“I’d always admired your work at school,” the note says, “and I’d love it if you’d link to a piece from my literary quarterly about the Langi women of Uganda. My writer spent six months living among them.”

I get e-mails like this all the time from acquaintances asking for link love. I am sure the piece is smart and worthy, but at this point I know that Moira will laugh me offline if I ask if I can post on some ten-thousand-word bit of earnestness from a journal no one’s ever heard of.

I listen to the air conditioner clanking in the window that faces the sidewalk, feel the clammy air pushing inside. I’m just about to cross the threshold into goose-pimpled anxiety when I find a new blog that’s getting a ton of attention today—a series of videos of people crying while eating.

I write a hundred words and post a quick link back to that site. “Who hasn’t cried into her ice cream after being dumped?” I ask the commenters. Moira schedules the post for twelve forty-five. Our readers respond by posting tales of weeping while eating pizza after their best friend ditched them and sobbing into their salad after fighting with their boyfriends.

This is when the commenters are at their most charming. Writing mini posts like this makes you feel like you’re hosting the sweetest virtual sleepover party ever thrown.

The love fest ends abruptly when the water birth post goes up fifteen minutes later. About a quarter of the commenters are on my side. Someone called rebekahb writes, “Ugh, I hate hippies. I would die if my upstairs neighbor was giving birth in her apartment. Isn’t that a violation of the lease?” And 75 percent of them want me fired: “I thought this site was supposed to be supportive of women and their choices. Giving birth the way nature intended is a choice that every woman should be able to make without getting made fun of. I’m appalled by this and writing a letter to the editor.” That one is at least civil. This one, from a frequent commenter with the handle Weathergrrrl, is not: “Alex Lyons is a fucking traitor.” You’d think I’d be more immune to mean comments by now, but it still feels like I’m trapped in a bathroom stall while a gaggle of girls stands at the sink, gossiping about what a terrible jerk I am.

Moira, of course, is delighted:

MoiraPoira (2:05:33):
Your birthing post already has 25,000 page views and 256 comments!

Alex182 (2:05:41):
I know, but have you read any of those comments? They want me crucified for crimes against womanity.

MoiraPoira (2:05:58):
You have nothing to feel bad about. You had a decidedly un-fuzzy response to that water birth article, and it was your honest response. They shouldn’t care what some 25-year-old ninny thinks about the fact that some woman in Brooklyn shot a baby out into a bathtub.

Alex182 (2:06:10):
I know, I just feel bad.

MoiraPoira (2:06:17):
Love, grow a pair.

Moira and I have some version of this conversation every time I write a controversial post. From what I’ve observed, she’s never had even a pang of guilt about anything she’s written, even when she broke the news about Lily Allen’s miscarriage back at the
Mews.
And Moira’s right. I can’t have it both ways—I need to stand by what I’ve written.

The comments affect me less than they used to. I try my hardest not to read them whether they’re positive or negative, though most days I break down and take a peek at a few. Okay, several. But I never read every single one of them late into the night until Peter forcibly removes the laptop from my hands. I’d never do that!

The positive ones are ego inflating, and the negative ones can be soul raping, but if you let them get to you too much, you start pandering to the audience. You write toothless, feel-good posts about everything so you’ll be above criticism. This involves lots of exclamation marks: “It’s so great that Britney has finally found a solid guy and is no longer flashing her business everywhere!!!!” Even when you’re writing about celebrities, this feels icky.

One of the reasons I look up to Rel is that she never seems to be affected by responses to her posts. Whenever commenters start attacking her, she starts attacking right back. “I can’t believe you care that I’m insulting one of the Real Housewives,” she’ll write. “Get a fucking life.” But reality stars are one thing—they put themselves out there as public figures. What about the girl in the background of that photo, the one caught in an odd grimace watching her sister give birth? Did she ask for her face to be plastered all over the Internet? I try not to think about these questions. It bogs down my posting schedule.

During the next hour I do two more short posts. One is about a woman who has found her long-lost cat seven years after it went missing. The other is about what size Marilyn Monroe
really
was (12, but a 1950s 12 is like a current 6). I’m just searching for a good image of Marilyn that we have rights to when Molly IMs me.

Prettyinpink86 (3:52:11):
I heard you’re working on a Marilyn Monroe post. Can I do some historical research for you? I have access to the Life archives. Or if you’re really slammed today I would be happy to write the post! I have seen every one of her movies and I dressed up as Marilyn last Halloween! LOL!

Somehow I feel like her offer to write about Marilyn is not motivated by the goodness of her heart. Moira’s always talking about how adorable Molly is and how she doesn’t “know how we got along” without her. I think we got along just fine.

Alex182 (3:53:42):
I’m almost done with the post so don’t worry about it.

Prettyinpink86 (3:54:23):
Okey dokey!

I’m looking for one more longish post before I can start relaxing. I scroll through my RSS feed again; I see a story from one of the medical websites I subscribe to that looks promising, about a new study that shows how women are more likely to buy sexy clothes when they’re ovulating. That seems like a perfectly ridiculous premise to pick apart. I spend 378 words writing from the point of view of my eggs, describing how they ran up a $400 bill at Frederick’s of Hollywood the last time they busted out of my ovaries, how they can’t resist the stripper heels. I call the post “Your Ovaries Want You to Dress Like a Whore.” When Moira posts the piece, at four fifteen, I’m back in the commenters’ good graces: “OMG this is hilarious!”

Even silent Tina IMs me her approval:

TheSevAbides (4:20:11):
Nice one on that ovaries post. I LOL’d.

Alex182 (4:20:13):
Hey thanks! I was really into the one you did today about Michelle Obama’s state dinner fashion.

TheSevAbides (4:21:15):
Word.

I think I like Tina, though I’m still vaguely intimidated by her. She is this impeccably dressed black woman who used to work as a freelance stylist before she started at Chick Habit. She had a Tumblr called What Chloë Wore, in which she dissected the always-batshit outfits of the actress Chloë Sevigny. The blog was a side business until she designed a graphic that ricocheted around the Internet for months, of Chloë wearing high-waisted hot pants, suspenders, a Zen expression, and nothing else. Under that image was the simple tagline “The Sev Abides.”

The Sev Abides meme got Tina 674,530 readers in one day. Sure, they fell off after that, but it put her blog on the map. The
New York Times
Thursday Styles profile was next (“Fashion Don’t Becomes a Blogger Do”). Shortly after that, Tina stopped posting photos of the Sev every day. She started posting photos of what she was wearing instead. Moira says that it was the photo of Tina in spiky, lobster-clawish Alexander McQueen heels that got Tina the job at Chick Habit. Tina’s always polite to me, but she’s a bit of a cipher. I can’t tell whether she’s just being cordial or if she actually hates me.

At this point in the day I don’t need to have any more ideas; I merely need to read and condense. That’s because my last post of the day is always the same—a gossip roundup that culls links from the web. Since I’ve been doing this for half a year now I can tell you every single person that has dated any Kardashian for more than three days. I go to the website of every major tabloid and get URLs for the most recent stories. I write a sentence or two about each one. My favorite today is the quote from Bret Michaels’s wig stylist, who claims that his real hair is just as lustrous as the fake hair she manages for him. By the time I file to Moira it’s five fifteen—and I’m done.

I take stock of myself. I’ve migrated back to the dun-colored couch with my laptop. No matter where I start on the couch, I always end up slumping in the crack between the cushions. I’m sitting among the spare change and the crumbs from the toast I always eat here. It’s a near-perfect day outside.
Sally forth!
my inner camp counselor says.
Go for a run, or even just a walk. Go to the supermarket and get provisions for dinner! Breathe fresh, non-basement air!

Then Rel IMs me.

Wienerdog (5:20:49):
Dude.

Alex182 (5:20:51):
What?

Wienerdog (5:21:13):
Some asshole started a blog about us:
http://www.breakingthechickhabit.com

I can’t resist clicking on the link. The first thing I see when I go to the site is the headline: “Top 5 Things Alex Lyons Should Do Instead of Writing in Public.” I
can
resist finding out what they are. I click off the site and notice that my mouth is hanging open.

Alex182 (5:21:58):
Oh my fucking god.

Wienerdog (5:22:12):
We need to get drinks asap and figure this shit out. I’m calling the other chicks.

Alex182 (5:22:34):
Copy that.

I text Peter. He texts back immediately. “A hate blog about u? R u ok? Do u want to talk?”

I tell him I’m okay. “Going out 4 drinks with the chicks—call me when ur getting out of there.”

“K. Don’t be too late. Got to talk to u about something.”

I tell Peter I won’t be too late and finally get in the shower. I am in such a rush to see the girls that I don’t have time to consider an outfit. That’s right: I put the unwashed eyelet muumuu back on. But this time I also put on a bra (I
am
a lady), and deodorant, and, just to cover that musty old couch stink, a generous spritz of green tea perfume. I make sure I have my phone in case Moira e-mails with some late-breaking emergency news (e.g., Demi Moore had an affair with the least attractive Jonas brother; a beloved diva croaked). I throw it into an old
Paris Review
canvas bag along with my keys and my wallet and I run out the door.

Chapter Two

I spend the entirety of the ten-minute F train ride to the Lower East Side tugging at the too-short hem of my dress while my sweaty legs stick to the plastic seats. I periodically unstick my gooseflesh and hope that no one in my subway car notices the sucking sound.

As we whiz past East Broadway, I try to make sense of the hate blog. Chick Habit has become a phenomenon since I joined. Our traffic grows every week, and we have a reputation as the too-cool-for-school girls of the Internet—opinionated and just a tad bratty. Whenever a newspaper or magazine wants to know what women think about, say, some politician’s mortifying shirtless Twitter photos, they call us for a token comment. I think Rel may have been the first person to ever use the phrase “dong shot” on National Public Radio. Considering our current status, my mother’s explanation for the hate blogger would most certainly be: “Oh, they’re just jealous!”