I’m happy to announce that after writing about five drafts of my current light women’s fiction novel THE SEESAW EFFECT, I’m ready for other people to tell me what’s wrong with it! If you’re a writer and you’ve got some time to beta read, please let me know! A short synopsis is below, followed by the first chapter:
The Seesaw Effect
What happens when you’re on the high end of the seesaw, and your partner jumps off? A big, painful crash! When it comes to the work-life teeter-totter, Erin Murphy is a balancing-act expert. True, she works for Democrats while her husband Jack is a spokesman for Republicans, but at home they’re in sync. Their children -- 13-year-old animal-nut Jessica and 8-year-old Batman-obsessed Michael – come first. And her career is just as important as his. But on Election Day, everything changes. Suddenly, Erin is out of a job … and Jack is the new star of The Right Choice TV network! As Erin searches frantically for her next position, Jack begins to practice what he preaches. Their house turns into a battlefield: What’s wrong with saying “Merry Christmas” to their son’s Jewish teacher? How can there be global warming when it’s cold outside? Jessica takes her mother’s side (her father is a “disgusting planet murderer”), while Michael just thinks it’s cool that Dad’s on TV and he’s making a million dollars. And Michael’s not the only one impressed with the family’s new money: Who are all these new people floating around Jack, and what do they want? As Erin’s friends take sides about what she should do with Jack 2.0, the only person who understands is a fellow stay-at-home parent: Scott. Scott is easy to look at, and just as frustrated with his marriage as Erin is… But the biggest battle is Erin’s alone: Should she keep pounding the pavement? Or become a perfect trophy wife and mother that Jack now wants her to be? Without a title and a salary, how can Erin figure out who she really is?
Chapter One
Winston Churchill once said that democracy is the worst form of government except for all the others that have been tried. But Churchill was in D.C. during an election year. There were only seven days left until Election Day, and it was a miracle I still had hair. And about those other forms of government: Were they really all that bad?
Yes, it was “only” mid-terms, but for everyone I knew – including my husband Jack – that meant 60-hour work weeks, neglected spouses and children, lots of bad pizza and rumpled clothes. I had 200 unanswered emails, 42 texts and 17 unheard voice mails (Who the hell still leaves voice mails?).
Halloween was in four days and I still didn’t have a costume for our son, eight-year-old Michael. (Our daughter, Jessica, 13, was too old to trick-or-treat, but she was putting together an outfit that made me glad I had gotten her the HPV vaccine.)
And I hadn’t paid any of the bills that were due on the 1st.
I still had to write ten more press releases, twenty more letters-to-the-editor, and three more op-eds; not to mention proofing six speeches and approving the latest fundraising letter. Instead, I logged onto my bank’s web site to send out checks.
Erin's paycheck -- $2000 (net, two weeks.) That was the only item on the “plus” side.
Mercedes paycheck -- $600 (our Spanish-speaking, non-driving nanny. She made $300 a week. Extra if I needed her to stay late.)
Maid to Order -- $200 (a hundred a week. They did laundry, too.)
Kids Taxi -- $200 (a hundred a week to shuttle Jessica to her volunteer job at Second Chances Wildlife Rescue and her horseback riding classes, and Michael to soccer and baseball practice, because Mercedes -- despite her name – couldn’t drive. And frankly, while she was great with the kids and they could talk back to me in a language I couldn’t understand, I really didn’t want her behind the wheel with my precious cargo in her back seat.)
Takeout Taxi -- $350. I ordered from them at least three times a week. You could choose from any restaurant in town -- Hamburger Hamlet, Chili's, Fridays, etc., -- and they would deliver your food right to your door. If Jessica wanted a hamburger and I wanted seafood, they even made two trips. I couldn’t live without Takeout Taxi. I could live without spending about thirty dollars a meal.
Peapod -- $500. The grocery store that delivered. Yes, I knew I paid about thirty percent more for the food, not to mention the delivery cost, the fuel surcharge, and tipping the driver, but who had time to do the grocery shopping anymore? Plus, I could schedule them to deliver when Mercedes was home, and spare myself the chore of putting away all that food.
And those were just the expenses that showed up as monthly bills. Adding the cost of gas, parking downtown, (I know I should be environmentally conscious and take the Metro. But when your nanny calls in the middle of the day, babbling hysterically in Spanish, and the only word you can understand is "blood," you don't want to be waiting around the Farragut North metro station wondering when the next train will arrive.), wearing decent clothes, eating nice lunches, and not to mention paying taxes -- the truth became painfully clear: I wasn’t doing this for the money. Because I wasn’t making any.
I had just finished the concluding sentence of a Pulitzer-prize winning op-ed on why Minnesota should re-elect Representative Michael Fine when my boss, Ken Wharton, walked in. He shut my office door behind him – never a good sign.
“I hate to do this to you, Erin, but we’re pulling the plug on the Fine piece. The numbers just aren’t there, and the board doesn’t want to risk our reputation.”
“How does that risk our reputation?” I asked. “We’re a group that lobbies for environmentally conscious candidates. No matter what their polling says.”
“The board’s also worried about the budget. We’re a week out and money’s really tight.”
“It doesn’t cost anything to send an email to the Star-Tribune. Even with the attachment.”
“Just look at the numbers.” He handed me a poll showing that the Republican challenger, a business executive named Michelle Morgan, was up by nine points. This late in the game, that was an insurmountable lead.
“Why don’t you draft a release congratulating Morgan and saying we’re eager to work with her on her environmental initiatives.”
“She doesn’t have any,” I sniped.
“This is the way the game is played. You know that.”
“The election’s still a week away!”
“And we need everything ready to hit the wires as soon as the races are called. So get to it.”
He walked out, leaving my door open and my spirit sagging.
It was hard to get excited for a mid-term election. Traditionally, Democrats were more likely to stay home when the White House wasn’t being decided. And traditionally, Democrats were the ones who cared about environmental issues. Even with the weather getting wackier every year, the economy made it difficult to run front-and-center on the green stuff. So we threw all our support behind those Democrats – incumbents and challengers -- who were willing to run on our issues. This year, we had twelve. We had identified seventeen, but five had contacted us via back channels and had asked us, no offense intended, to please stay the hell away from their race.
The ultimate irony was that our group was funded by corporations. Yep, “Corporate Citizens for Planet Earth” was a fully-owned subsidiary of Corporate America, Inc. It was a small group of companies that had decided that the higher costs they’d pay if, by some miracle, cap-and-trade or other environmental legislation actually passed was worth it for the PR value. Sure, I’d much rather work for the Environmental Defense Council, Save the Planet Now, or Resources for the Future. Those groups were the true believers – so much so, that they refused to work with us. But when I was looking, they weren’t hiring.
“He didn’t fire you, did he?”
I looked up. Robyn Needle stood in my doorway. Robyn was 15 years younger than me, a lawyer, and more driven than a Porsche. Around her, I always felt like I should be doing more; that I should get by on less sleep and maybe farm the kids out to their grandparents for a couple of decades.
“Not today. Why? Did you hear something?”
“We’re going to lose all these races, Erin, and Ken knows it. In fact, he and the board want it to happen.”
“That sounds just a little bit paranoid.”
“Think about it. They fund us because we make them look good, like they care. It’s good PR. But if it’s all Republicans on the Hill, they don’t have to try anymore. You think they really want to pay for cleaner water? Who was the last Republican who fully funded the EPA? Nixon?”
A chill crawled up my spine. She made perfect sense. In all my years on the Hill, I never went wrong betting on cynicism and self-interest.
“Just wait,” she predicted. “Come Wednesday morning, it’s going to be a whole new ball game.”
By 5:30, I was almost done with my overdue emails when my cell phone started singing “The Sound of Music.” It had to be my husband, Jack. He didn’t have a lot of hobbies, but one of them was changing his ring tone to a song he knew I hated.
“Which suit makes me look better?” he asked as soon as I clicked “answer.” “The blue or the black?”
Surprisingly, I did not have every item in his closet categorized and memorized.
I stalled. “It depends on the shirt and tie.”
“White shirt, right? White for TV?”
“Oh, it’s for a TV interview?” For a guy with a journalism degree, Jack had the annoying habit of burying the lede.
“Not just an interview.” He let those words hang in the AT&T-sponsored air for a minute. “Election night coverage. You’re talking to the host of ‘The Right Votes.’ Starting at six pm on The Right Choice Network.”
“Wow! That’s… I’m just… that’s fabulous news, babe.”
Oh my god, my husband was going to be on The Right Choice Network. TRC. Only a few years old, it was formed by tea-loving zealots who thought a certain news organization named for a cunning animal was too soft on liberals. I wanted to throw up.
“But… but…” How to say this gently… “Don’t they usually book people months in advance for this?”
“Yeah, it was going to be Senator Northridge. But apparently he’s fled to Singapore. Something about fifty pounds of heroin and twenty guns in his house… That guy was always a nut.”
Always a nut. Like Northridge was some frat boy caught toilet-papering a sorority house, rather than a drug dealer. Jack never did take things all that seriously.
“Anyway, they saw that takedown I did of that union stooge Tony Brock on Safari News last week, and I was their first and only choice. They want more businesspeople involved with the network.”
Technically, Jack was an association person like me. Neither of us had ever worried about a bottom line. But there was no point in arguing semantics. “Well, congratulations. That’s amazing.”
“I just hope I don’t come across as too big an idiot.”
“You’ll do great,” I assured him. “You’ve always done great.”
“On ten-minute interviews. This thing’s going to be at least five hours long.”
“There’s only about twenty races anyone really cares about. We’ll prep on them, and you’ll do fine.”
“Really? You’ll help me?”
“Of course I will.”
This question wasn’t as off-base as it appeared. Jack and I worked at opposite ends of the political spectrum. He was the vice president of communications for the American Business Association. Despite its innocuous-sounding name, that group was nothing but a mouthpiece for Republicans.
Republicans pay a lot better than Democrats. Even though Jack was only a level or two above me, his salary was three times what I brought home. Which made sense, because Jack was only in it for the money.
I was the true believer. Jack didn’t really believe anything. Some days it was because he was cynical; other days he just didn’t care. He worked for ABA because they offered him more money than the hospital people and the shipping people did. Maybe that’s why he was so good at his job. It’s easier to craft arguments for or against a position if you really didn’t care either way.
The other benefit to Jack’s not caring was that we didn’t take our work arguments home. Our house was about the kids’ afterschool activities; where we were going on vacation; have you seen my yellow tie. It was a place of peace; an oasis in a political jungle.
Oasis. That’s right. I was just about to leave when I remembered I hadn’t paid the gym fees. $150 for the Athletic Oasis. And just like that, my paycheck was gone.
It was a good thing I wasn’t in this for the money. Because I didn’t have any.
Can you help? Please email me at JDeise1002@gmail.com!
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