Nic Tatano - Boss Girl

And they want that sitting on the anchor desk next to a woman…

Just.

Like.

Them.

They want to know a woman on the back nine still has a chance against the fembots.

Yes, we're still interested in sex. We're mature, not crypt keepers.

Our drivers’ licenses may say we're over thirty, but the libido is still in high school.

For years, male news executives had their casting couch.

Now it's our turn.

And when you've got an anchor in your stable like Scott Harry, well, membership has its, uh… privileges.

Weekly.

* * *

The female-owned network that hired me as Vice-President of the News Division gave me carte blanche my first day, but thanks to the incredible ratings spike provided by Scott Harry in his first month, I've been upgraded to platinum.

The powers that be want me to take the woman-on-top co-anchor theme national, opening chapters in our other three affiliates in Los Angeles, Chicago, and Dallas. (They don't know about my current "benefits package" regarding reference checking, and as long as the ratings stay up, they won't care.)

Thank goodness I was smart enough to hire women as News Directors for those stations.

All between 35 and 40.

All intelligent, attractive and single.

May as well give you a line-up card as I lead the gals who will change the face of the news business into our conference room, for those of you scoring at home. And if you're not, you should be. (If there were a drummer in my office, I would call for a rim shot after that one.)

"Tawk to me, Syd," said Rica, coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes searching my face for more information and somehow getting female-only telemetry that I'd gotten an infusion of Y-chromosomes the night before. "Did'ja have a pahty afta woik?" she asks, in an accent so sharp it makes fingernails on the blackboard sound like classical music. One perfectly plucked eyebrow goes up like an extra question mark. The girl does love details.

If a pastrami sandwich could talk, it would sound like Rica Carbone, who is the youngest at thirty-five and runs the chapter on the left coast. This petite, raven-haired Brooklyn paisan could slice Tony Soprano in two with her death stare, and has enough confidence in her body that she once marched up to a jukebox and played Brickhouse . Every man in the bar thought the lyrics fit perfectly as she strutted back to the table smiling like she not only ate the canary, but the canary thanked her for it on the way down. Everything on this woman's Pilates-whipped body points east and west without any Lycra scaffolding, with no indication of various parts heading south anytime soon. All that and she's a brilliant journalist to boot.

"Yeah, she's got someone new," said Jillian, using one hand to curl the ends of her straight, strawberry blonde, chin-length cut in towards her face. "Her skirt's on backwards." I snapped my neck down to check. "Made you look," said Jillian. "At least that answers the question."

Damned reporter's tricks. You'd think I'd know better.

Trust fund debutante Jillian Charles is the black sheep of her family. Because she actually has a job. With no desire to pitch Krugerrands with her Massachusetts Ivy League neighbors, Jillian actually went to a state school (such a scandal in the gated community!) and likes getting her hands dirty. She's an inch shorter than I am, but all legs and none of it fat. I think her age (thirty-seven) matches her inseam; meanwhile, not a wrinkle on her gently freckled face and no Botox receipts on her tax return. Beneath those soft blue eyes lurks an executioner who enjoys the sight of heads tumbling down the steps of the Mayan temple, which is a handy trait to have in a Chicago News Director.

"So, c'mon Syd. Y'all don't keep us waitin'. Dish." The whiskey two-packs-a-day Southern accent you just heard comes from Neely "Vodka" Collins, the former hard-boiled reporter from New Orleans who doesn't smoke but believes that Russian alcohol is to a liquor cabinet what WD-40 is to a toolbox. If you run out of either, you'll get rusty and won't be able to screw anything. She looks like Demi Moore, sounds like Demi Moore if Demi Moore had been cast in Gone with the Wind , and therefore logic dictates that she hangs out with younger men like Demi Moore while running our station in Dallas. Neely first went against the grain in the eighth grade, shoving a sixth grader into a coat closet and giving him a free tonsillectomy. Her long, dark hair and innocent emerald eyes might lead a guy to think she's the girl next door, but there's nothing but lust embedded in her vocal chords. Like a good Irish Catholic she goes to confession every week, the old-fashioned way, in a booth, and must take a legal pad with her. I can only imagine her saying, "Bless me… Father… for I have… sinned, " giving sinned three syllables with that scratchy drawl and having some priest on the other side breaking into a sweat while she enjoys torturing one of the few men in the state of Texas who can't load his gun.

"I've got good news. Take a seat," I said, as I grabbed the burgundy leather chair at the head of the long, mahogany table. Floor to ceiling windows on an entire wall turned the room into a greenhouse, which had the air conditioning blowing full blast. The gals sat down, all away from the sunny side of the room, backs toward the dark green wall that was covered with colorful posters of network shows. I grabbed a remote, swung my chair around, and fired it at the flat-screen monitor that hung on the wall behind me.

"We want details about last night, not more newscast airchecks," said Jillian.

"You're getting both," I said. The picture cleared and the face of Scott Harry filled the fifty-inch plasma screen.

"Hot damn," said Neely, though damn came out "day-umm."

"Damn hot," said Jillian.

"Fuhgeddaboudit," said Rica. (Which, depending on your interpretation of the term, can mean either hot damn or damn hot in Brooklynese.)

The video cut to a two-shot as Scott shared the desk with Caroline Jensen, a veteran brunette anchor in her early forties with laser beam ice-blue eyes.

" This is what's getting you a ratings spike?" asked Jillian.

" Madonne ," said Rica.

"I don't think I've ever seen a major market anchor team where the man is that much younger than the woman," said Neely. "How do the demos break out?"

"They're a hit with women 18-34," I said. "And 34-49 is off the charts. Check out our sweeps series on beach safety." I flicked the remote and the video cut to a shot of Scott Harry walking on the Jersey Shore in a bathing suit, talking about the importance of sunscreen.

"You don't need sunscreen if he's providing the shade," said Jillian. The other two still had their jaws hanging open like the mouth-breathing shoppers at Wal-Mart, as the shot tightened up for a high-def look at Scott's pecs.

"Are the guys watchin'?" asked Rica. "Not that it really matters."

"Incredibly, they're holding steady," I said. "They apparently don't miss the pageant fembots. And considering our network's prime-time lineup, it's nice to see people switching over to catch our news product."

"Yeah. Trailer Park True Confessions isn't exactly a great lead-in," said Jillian, cocking her head toward a poster that featured a rusted Camaro and a cheap blonde woman whose roots had been dyed brown.

"Enough with the ratings," said Neely, who was staring holes in the monitor. "Just how did you manage to hire this young buck for our fledgling network?"

I muted the sound and turned back to them. "His agent told me he couldn't get arrested by the big networks and he'd do anything to get to New York. So I appealed to his sense of ambition. Then I checked his… references."