It wasn’t so much a love affair as it was a love/hate relationship. And it wasn’t so much a relationship since Katie didn’t actually know about it.
Now I’m not talking about CBS Nightly News Couric:
Ish.
No, I’m talking about Today Show mornings with Matt Lauer Couric:
Ammiright?
Once upon a time I lived in Manhattan for like a year. During this time I watched the Today Show frequently (daily) partially to mock it, partially for the weather (I am Minnesotan after all) and partially because I simply couldn’t identify what the feelings I was having for Katie really were. It was like a combination of some weird desperate, non-sexual love and an innate desire to punch her in the face. I imagined this was how Matt Lauer felt every. single. day.
In New York, I worked at a smug little bookstore on the Upper East Side. This is it actually:
I worked in the office in the basement that you literally accessed through a trap door in the floor before winding down a rickety old stair case to my desk surrounded by shelves of books and a table for packing books for shipping to celebrities so they didn’t have to leave their house to get books. Nevermind that Barnesandnoble.com was readily available and amazon was flourishing. No, they called us (me), had us (me) package them up and ship them which also meant I had to make frequent trips to the post office carrying loads of books on foot. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.
It was all very glamourous.
Actually it was probably the worst job I ever had. The staff was pretentious, the owners were pretentious, the clientele was pretentious, even the bookstore cat was a pretentious asshole. Hampton, that little fucker. He’d sit atop the book shelves and swat at me as I walked by which everyone thought was tremendously funny “Look! The poor midwestern girl gets picked on by even the cat!!” As if I’d ridden up on a fucking tractor, plucked a piece of hay from my hair and said “well gosh! y’all sell books here?!”
When no one was looking I would bitch slap that whiskered fucker right in the face and watch him fall from the shelf landing, of course, on his feet, and saunter away, his tail poised to show is cat-butthole as if looking me directly in the eye and saying “I poop from here you cunt!”
This is him, actually. I found his goddamn picture on the internet. He’s a cat with his picture on the internet like he’s famous. See how evil he is?
God, I hated that place. I hated the whole neighborhood. There was a night and day difference from my Lower East Side shithole apartment to that Upper East Side whimsical arrogant land. I couldn’t afford anything up there. Not lunch, not coffee, not even an avocado at the shop down the block. I was basically a poor girl surrounded by people who were either rich or people who appeared to be rich because they were living in massive debt. Meanwhile I sat by eating my non-organic apple with non-organic Skippy counting the hours til I could crawl back through the trap door and head to my hovel 100 blocks away.
So Katie and me. Me and Katie.
One fall afternoon I skulked my way outside onto Madison Avenue for a break. Gazing around indifferently and muttering “fuckkkkk” to myself as I often did someone walking toward me caught my eye.
KATIE FUCKING COURIC.
Months and months I’d spent watching her, starting my day with her and there she was, Burberry coat, chatting up two cougars who were hanging on her every word.
OH MY GOD. KATIE FUCKING COURIC.
As we got closer I could tell she was deep into conversation with these MILF’s probably giving them some sort of spectacular life advice, paying no attention to me when all of a sudden there was a pause in conversation.
PAUSE.
Katie stopped talking, turned toward me and said: “Hello.”
HELLLLLO.
LIKE WE’RE FUCKING FRIENDS.
We both then continued on our respective ways. You know, cause we’d probably see each other later.
CAUSE WE’RE FUCKING FRIENDS.
I was sure I was going to explode or cry or laugh or scream or shit myself. Not unlike my feelings for Katie, I couldn’t tell which.
Despite having only about $17 to my name, a shit job, daily fights with a dickbag feline, coworkers who thought I milked pigs, and only about 2 friends — one of whom was my own ex-boyfriend so he didn’t even count — I decided this was a good day. It was a day to embrace the pomposity that is the Upper East Side and treat myself.
I got a large latte.
Okay, it was a small. And it was an au lait because it was cheaper. And it was all I had for lunch.
But it didn’t matter because I was fucking friends with Katie Couric.
