How to annoy a journalist

My brother's girlfriend, Mary, was recently interviewed for a local newspaper I work for. I actually organized the interview for Mary, unbeknownst to her, by mentioning her name when a fellow reporter was working on a study abroad assignment.
Normally when I get a friend or relation of mine in the newspaper, I feel like I am doing a good deed by recognizing their achievements.
But today, Mary came to the house with only complaints.
"She called and said we could do the interview today or tomorrow."
"That must have been inconvenient for you," said my mother.
"It's like she didn't even give me a choice if I could do the interview or not!" Mary exclaimed.
"You know," I said, "we are given our assignments on Tuesday and we are expected to have them finished by Friday. So, it really was today or tomorrow."
"That's not my fault!"
"But was it really that painful for you? I mean it's more inconvenient for us if we don't get the interview because that means we piss off our editor, and get a sizable chunk out of our paycheck."
"Still it's not her fault," my mom said.
"Well it sounds kind of pathetic," I said.
"And then when she did the interview, she didn't even ask me questions. She just told me to talk about it, she didn't even ask me anything interesting."
"She didn't ask you any questions?" I asked skeptically.
"She was just like 'talk about it'. I bet she is only going to put in the dumb things I said," Mary said.
"Why would she do that?"
"Well people always get me wrong in papers," she said.
I rolled my eyes.
"All she could say was 'what was your first impression?' 'what was the food like?'"
"Those sound like questions to me," I murmured.
"It would have probably been better if she did the interview in person, but, then again, I wouldn't have wanted to actually go somewhere for it."
I had to leave the room. After being editor for my high school yearbook, working for a newspaper for an upwards of 6 months, and conducting over a 100 interviews, I had experienced almost every annoyance imaginable. And Mary named almost every one of them.
First off, people treat me like my time is meaningless. I normally have a three to four day window to do multiple interviews, cover events, and write the assignments.  And during the school year, I have an even smaller time window. Which means, the time we agreed on to do the interview is the time we need to do it. One time I scheduled a video interview with a group of people at my school. It was after school and I had planned to meet them in the parking lot. They said "fuck it" and left before I had time to walk there. Another time, I was scheduled to interview a kid going to military school. He delayed the interview 3 hours so he could sleep in before his work out.
Secondly, people take it as a personal affront when we make a slight mistake. I remember multiple people coming up to me the day the yearbooks were distributed to tell me about minor mistakes. One kid complained that I got his bible verse for a senior quote wrong (4:11, not 5:11). All I could picture, when he told me, were the little scraps of paper people submitted their senior quotes on, and a yearbook staffer having to sift through and hand type each one. One girl bitched me out on facebook for quoting her badly. The words from her lips, in the interview, were "If you don't have a tan, you don't have a chance". I didn't get one syllable wrong.
And thirdly, people think we are responsible for you talking eloquently. You saying something dull like "the experience was great", is not my fault. Normally, in that instance, I follow up with "why was it great?" and if you answer "I can't find the words to describe it" then it really is your fault. You are in an interview for christ sakes, you find the words. If you answer "I don't know" or "um sure" to every question then you won't sound that enlightening. All I can do is fluff up my descriptive prose, but otherwise it is you hanging dry. Also, if you are in an interview and the journalist doesn't ask the perfect question to what you are thinking, then just say it!

But I will say, in contradiction to my complaints above, I have met wonderful people through my interviews. Most people are thankful and eager to tell their story, and help me along the way. A kid at my school committed suicide this year, and through my interviews with his friends, I learned what kind of beautiful person he was. I talked to a local strawberry farmer, who took me with him on his land and gave me one of my most entertaining interviews to date. I interviewed a daughter and mother about a mission trip they went on, and although I didn't agree with the objectives of the mission trip, they still sent me a pie, a hand-made purse, a note, and multiple voice mails to express their gratitude for being interviewed.

I will keep writing and interviewing, but hell people! Get some manners!

Dad? Brother? What the hell?

I just ate dinner in front of the television with my mother and brother.

My mother walks over to the sink and starts to wash her plate off.

She tells me in an irritated voice, “Carmella, you need to look at the list I made for you. How about you start by cleaning off your desk.”

I am playing Angry Birds on the family Ipad, and I still have two more birds to throw. I make a small groan and launch a bird into a wooden fortress. I kill one pig.

In a similar voice of irritation, but much deeper, I hear, “Carmella, why don’t you get up and do what you are told.”

I look up from the Ipad to the armchair next to me. It’s empty. A few seconds ago my brother was sitting there lazily stretched out, pants unbuttoned, and twirling noodles into his mouth.

I look into the kitchen and my brother is helping my mother load the dishes. That’s odd, I think.  He steps over to the list my mom has written for me.

“Let’s see what you’ve done so far,” he says.

“What the fuck is your deal?” I interject.

My anger is immediate, which is unlike me and especially unlike me if I am directing it towards my brother. In the past, he would still be in the armchair, rubbing his belly, and looking for another Colbert Report on DVR. In the past, we would groan in unison and begrudgingly lift ourselves up from the armchairs.

He scans over the list.

“It looks like you haven’t done much of anything this week.”

“I cleaned out my shower, so you can cross that off,” I respond.

“No, you haven’t.”

“How the fuck would you know?”

“I was just in your shower.”

“Why the hell were you in my shower?”

“I was looking for you. Mom and I had no idea where you were.”

My mom brings a bowl to the sink and starts washing it.

“Yeah, we came downstairs and we had no idea where you were,” she says to me, “your car was still here, so we thought you were abducted by aliens or something.”

“I was walking the fucking dog!” I scream.

I normally don’t swear this often. I haven’t said fuck this much in concentration since my car broke down on the highway because my gas tank was empty.

My brother looks at me with disdain and says, “You are just trying to make an argument so you can avoid getting up.”

“I mean, really, Carmella,” my mother says in a tired voice, “guests will be here in a few days, and I really need your help.

I am fuming now. My brother is standing there, dishrag in hand, smugly looking at me. We are only two years apart but somehow he is acting the part of rational adult and me the screaming teenager.

The longer I sit in the chair, the more selfish I look. I can’t argue myself out of cleaning. I have to help my mom clean to get ready for all my relatives to come to my graduation, but I know if I budge from that chair I will give my brother authority paramount to my father.

I sat there in disbelief and in anger. I know my brother as the one who would risk anything to avoid sweeping the kitchen floor. I know my brother as the one who would dirty every pot and pan in the kitchen to make macroni and cheese, and when asked to clean it, his response would be, “fuck it.”

I point at my brother and say, “I’m not fucking listening to you.” Then I turn to my mom and say, “What do you need help with?”

“Why don’t you start by cleaning you desk, like your brother said.”

“Oh my god,” I groan. I storm off down the hallway. As I do this, I realize I am fulfilling another teenager cliché.

“I’ll be checking your progress in a few minutes,” my brother calls out.

“Fuck you!” I yell over my shoulder.

Now I am at my desk. I have moved some papers around, but other than that I have spent my time writing this.

It’s as if my brother stole my dad’s script for the evening---the tone, the words, the reasoning, everything. Since when does he care what my desk looks like, let alone care where I am? He struts around with the belief that “I’m the adult, so I can tell the kid what to do” just because he is two years older and living on his own.

My whole life my brother and I have been equals—equal in our resistance to chores, and equal in our punishment. Yet today he was handed parent authority, while my mom looked on proudly with a glimmer in her eye that said “you are my favorite child.”

I just keep thinking, I’m his sister after all, he’s supposed to be on my team.