CNBC may not rank among your favorite television networks. It has no Sportscenter, Larry King or Raymond (whom, by the way, NOT everybody loves). CNBC isn’t sports; it isn’t raunchy teen drama; it isn’t mass-appeal, visual eggnog — and I’ll tell you flat-out that even I am interested in almost nothing it has to say.
But ever since I started my full-time desk job in an office that radiates CNBC from no fewer than 10 TV’s, I have found a reason to watch. Nay, a reason to live.
Margaret Brennan isn’t a typical modern-day anchor/reporter. Unlike the majority I’ve seen, she would have a terrible time convincing me that she used to decorate the floor at college drinking parties. She’s the real girl next door: the one with whom you swing at a playground — not at a club. She’s the cutest girl on TV, and in my mind, her brand of cute is searingly, soul-stunningly hot.
A bit of research, furthermore, reveals a complicated woman underneath the adorable facade. And so begins my open love letter to Margaret Brennan, the current owner of my heart.
——————————————-
Dear Margaret,
Why do you so cruelly tease me? Your rare, two-minute appearances on Retail Detail, while informative, are grossly frustrating for someone who needs you in order to breathe. Of all the regulars on CNBC, you get perhaps the least air time; this is a clear injustice against the most brilliant, shining star not only at the network, but in — dare I say? — the universe.
Then again, your rarity is what makes you special. If they put you on the air for as long as they do most anchors, you’d have to make fake, fleeting comments like, “What a refreshing story that was,” or, “Intriguing insight, Bob.” And you’d probably have to feign interest in whatever that Cramer dude has to say, like poor Erin Burnett does. You’d risk being oppressive and boring like the summer sun while, in your current role, you’re more like a distant supernova: just visible enough to make us want a telescope.
Yes, it’s better this way. It’s better that you to appear only rarely, briefly… at least, that’s what I say before I cry myself to sleep. **sigh**
Anyway, Margaret — do you mind if I call you Margaret? I’ve never met you, but since I feel like we’ve known each other forever, my instinct is to call you by a nickname like Peg or Marge. We’ve shared some good times in my imagination, haven’t we, Marge? I’ll stick with Margaret; that’s most likely the name they’ll use when they declare your sainthood. Ah, what’s in a name…
Anyway, Margaret, back to business. When will I see you in person? I’m starting to waste a lot of food since you never come around to eat the dinner I make for you every night. Also, I can’t keep paying the stupid limo driver I hired to wait for you at the airport full-time; I’ve spent too much money on the Margaret Shrine. The Margaret Shrine, by the way, is going extremely under-appreciated. It’s like a church. You can decorate it and worship in it as much as you want, but without a visit from God, it’s just sad. Where is my God, Margaret? Where is my God?
The saddest part of your absence is how splendidly we’d get along if you were here. I read that you studied Arabic in the Middle East — that’s perfect! My sister is in Damascus doing the same thing right now, so I have a natural fondness for girls who study Arabic and have an interest in current affairs. You see? All we have to do is spend 16 years of our childhood and adolescence in the same household, and we’ll develop a connection similar to the one I share with my sister. I’m game if you are!
Well, Margaret, I look forward to the next 16 years we’ll be spending together. Wait. Now I’m reading that you won the George J. Mitchell Scholarship and will be studying for your graduate degree in Ireland in the upcoming years? That figures. You go and do something that makes you even dreamier, and by the drive and intelligence required to go through with the act, you end up farther away. Fate is cruel to us, my love. Fate is a dirty, four-letter word.
I don’t know what to say. Since you don’t have time for a serious relationship — clearly that’s the only reason you wouldn’t involve yourself in one with me — I will be graceful and bow out. Don’t worry about me; I’ll survive. I’ll scrape by on daydreams and two-minute retail updates while you prepare to fly away and marry an Irish millionaire.
I hope no potato famines accidentally happen while you’re there — just a thought.
Goodbye, my love. What little I had, while I had it, was to die for.
Love,
Frank
P.S. This love letter is redeemable for one dinner, my treat, if you’re ever in Los Angeles. Actually, I’ll be up-front with you: you can redeem it for whatever the hell you want.*
*Due to jealousy restrictions, offer may be void upon marriage.
——————————————-
I think we’ve all learned an important lesson from this love letter: Margaret Brennan is too good for me. Logically, it follows that she is too good for everyone else and is therefore the most sublime being to grace the airwaves. May you, like I, tune in to catch a rare taste of that which you can never possibly understand.
With that I bid the rest of you, the cruel world, adieu.
