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#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl

Returning to work in January! Details coming up!

@TwitterGirl

Eating lobster, shrimp, scallops, calamari, crab, sole and crawfish. Merry Christmas Eve!

“Can I be your intern?”

I knew the question was coming.

“It can be my Christmas gift. You don’t even have to wrap it.”

“That’s because you simply want to unwrap it,” I say.

“Hey, ‘tis the season.”

My best friend Ripley DeAngelo is drooling at the dinner table, and it’s not over the massive amount of seafood available at her family’s traditional Christmas Eve dinner.

She wants a shot at my new boss and the possibility of becoming the next First Lady.

Honey, take a number.

“Haven’t even met the guy yet, but I’ll see what I can do,” I say, as I reach toward the middle of the table and ladle another round of shrimp scampi onto my plate. “Boy, I really love this Italian tradition, Feast of the Seven Fishes.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she says, her caramel eyes narrowing as they fill with lust. “All I want for Christmas is a chance at Will Becker. I’ll work nights, weekends.” She licks her lips and raises both eyebrows. “Overnights.”

Her mother gently slaps her on the shoulder. “Young lady! It’s Christmas Eve!” she says, busy clearing one empty dish and replacing it with another.

“Ma, I’m entitled to a Christmas list. Besides, I’ve been nice all year. I wanna be naughty for a change.”

Ripley’s mom rolls her eyes while her dad laughs. I really want to get back to stuffing my face with crustaceans, so I need to keep her at bay. I fold my arms like Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie and snap my head down. “Poof, you’re an intern!”

She shoves her hair behind her ears and smiles. “Thank you, dear friend.”

And dear friend she is since high school. The girl with the booze and food heritage (half Irish, half Italian, one hundred percent Catholic) is named after Sigourney Weaver’s kick-ass heroine and seriously has the balls to take on acid-bleeding aliens. And with her looks she might actually turn Will Becker’s head. A five-nine stunner with chestnut tangles just past her shoulders, classic high cheekbones and a slender, stacked Barbie doll body that would put a twenty year old to shame, she’s a girl who could have her pick of the litter. But Ripley is so damn particular, she remains, like me, unmarried at thirty-five. She spends more Saturday nights with me or a bottle of wine (or frequently, both) than out on a date, and I can tell it’s getting to her.

Will Becker would be the ultimate catch for Ripley.

And for me as well. (Okay, so I’ve been daydreaming about giving a TV tour of the White House a la Jackie Kennedy. So sue me.) But I’m not even remotely in her league in the looks department. I’ll have to bring my “A” game to a “B” (padded bra) to get the attention of the Senator around her.

For a brief moment I find myself flashing back to high school, with two girls fighting over the same guy. I quickly shove the thought away.

Until, right on cue, Sam thoughtfully brings it up. “I haven’t seen you two look like this since I was eight.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Ripley.

“Remember that crush you both had on the quarterback?”

Ripley blushes, my freckles light up. “Ancient history,” she says.

“Really, dear brother, we’ve grown up since then. The Senator is just another guy. It’s not like I’m practicing the signature Cassidy Becker on top of my homework.”

“Yeah, right. You both have tells when it comes to men.”

Ripley furrows her brow. “Tells? What are you talking about?”

“Rip, whenever you talk about a guy who interests you, your eyebrows do this little jump.” He turns to me. “And you start twirling your hair. Like you’re doing now.”

I immediately drop my hand. “It’s a nervous habit. I do it all the time.”

“Hell,” says Sam, “if Becker was here for dinner tonight, you’d end up with a perm.”

***

Wednesday has been poker night for a few years, and I’m always the lone filly at the table. Since this particular Wednesday falls two days after Christmas, the usual beer and chips have been replaced with wine and enough leftover cookies and cakes to send anyone into a sugar coma.

Anyway, Sam always sits across from me, and despite the fact that he’s my brother he turns into a gunslinger when we play cards and cuts me no slack. Two veteran fortysomething photographers from my (former) network, Kevin Frost and Jake Helper, take up two seats while the fifth chair belongs to fifty year old network correspondent and my mentor, Dale Carlin.

And while I don’t have a poker tell, everyone has picked up on the fact that I’m upbeat about my new mystery job.

“Pot’s right,” says Sam, as he starts to deal. “Five card stud.”

“I hate this game,” says Kevin, leaning back and stretching out his lean frame while he smooths his thinning brown hair.

“That’s because you never win,” says Sam. He flips a card in front of me and I gently pull up the corner and see a king of hearts.

Dale turns to me as he runs his hand through his thick salt and pepper hair. “So, you’re not even gonna tell your mentor about your new job?”

I shake my head. “I’m a vault. I’m not allowed to tell.”

“I can tell,” says Sam. “She got a gig as a celebrity greeter at Wal-Mart. She’s going to enforce a strict four tattoo minimum.”

I crinkle my nose at him. “Very funny, dear brother.”

Kevin turns to Jake. “You watch. She’s going to another network and gonna kick our asses every night.” They turn and both look at me, their eyes widening as they study my face for any possible confirmation.

I shake my head again as my second card arrives, another king. “You’re not getting anything from me. If you see me out on a story in January, you’ll know you’re right. If not, I’ll be somewhere else.”

“Wish you were coming with us this year,” says Jake, as the huge teddy bear of a man takes a bite out of a peanut butter cookie with a Hershey kiss in the middle.

“Fifty cents,” I say, as I toss two blue chips into the pot. (Real high stakes game, huh?) “Why, where are you guys going?”

“Eleven wonderful months on Air Hump One,” says Kevin.

Both of my eyebrows shoot up. “You guys got the President’s campaign?”

Both photogs nod while wearing a look of disgust. “I can hardly wait for next week,” says Jake. “My travel agent tells me Iowa’s lovely this time of year.”

“And there’s so much to see and do,” says Kevin. He elbows Jake in the ribs. “Look, Jake, another cornfield!”

Sam smiles as he adds to the pot. “They really call the President’s plane Air Hump One?”

Everyone laughs as I turn to my brother. “Sweetie, our Commander-in-Chief makes Clinton look like an altar boy.”

Dale tosses his cards into the center and folds. “Yeah, and thanks to your little tweet, I get to join them in lovely Dubuque next week.”

“It was gonna be my assignment?” I ask.

He nods as his face turns red. “Sorry, kid, that slipped out. I know how much you wanted to cover a presidential campaign.”

Sam shoots me a wide-eyed look like a parent that tells me not to react.

“Yeah,” I say. “But the job I have is still going to be very enjoyable.”

“Would have been fun to watch,” says Jake. “President comb-over has a thing for redheads and he’s a leg man. He woulda been all over you like a cheap suit.”

My face twists like a dishrag at the thought of being groped by a sixty year old fireplug. “Guys, please, the thought of doing Jabba the President will make me throw up on the cards.”

Then it hits me. I have three close friends who will be covering a President they can’t stand.

Three close friends who wouldn’t mind helping me out when they find out what I’m doing.

It will be better than bugging the Oval Office.

***

“So, are we gonna have any ground rules on our campaign to be the candidate’s permanent running mate?” asks Ripley, as she refills my glass of champagne.

“Ah, so we really are back in high school.” I glance at the living room clock and see it’s five minutes till the new year. (Yep, dateless again as the Times Square ball gets ready to drop.) “What do you mean, rules?”

“Well, we both want him, and neither of us is the type to share. That’s too creepy, even if the guy being shared is Will Becker.”

“True. Though I think any final decision would be his. Let’s put it this way. If I don’t get him, I hope you do.”

“Same here, dear friend. It just doesn’t need to be like that time during senior year.”

She’s right. We were a couple of immature teenagers throwing ourselves at the star quarterback, and the competition strained our friendship for a short time. Of course, he ended up with the girl known as the head cheerleader anyway. (She wasn’t even on the squad, so you can probably guess the origin of her nickname.) So the flaunting of our wares went for naught. By the way, I googled said quarterback after that Christmas Eve dinner, and he’s now a bald, fat used car salesman. Gotta love it when the universe evens things up.

“He’ll go for you anyway,” says Ripley, “I don’t stand a chance if you wear a short skirt with those legs up to your neck.”

“Oh, bullshit. Have you forgotten you put yourself through college as a bikini model?”

“That was years ago.”

“And I’ll bet they still fit.”

Ripley smiles and sticks her nose in the air. “Of course they do. But you’ve got that gorgeous red hair and those cute freckles that make you look like a little girl. And you haven’t gained an ounce since high school either. You’re still skinny.”

“I needed to gain a few ounces above the waist. Just once I’d like to say My eyes are up here. Men never talk to my boobs. They have a complete conversation with yours.”

“You may be thin but you got the perfect mile long legs, so don’t complain. You can’t have everything.”

“You have everything.”

She shrugs. “Don’t have Mister Right. So are we going to spend the rest of New Year’s Eve arguing about how beautiful we are?”

“Don’t think we have enough booze. Tell you what, how about we do the opposite of what we did back then?”

“What, ignore him?”

“Ripley, you know that men always want what they can’t have. That’s one thing we have learned since high school.”

“Very true. So therefore he would have to make the first move.”

“Exactly. And then there would be no hard feelings between us.”

Ripley slowly nods and extends her glass. “Very well. May the lucky girl win.”

I clink her glass as the ball starts to descend in Times Square. “Just hope it’s one of us.”