Now if you don’t mind, I have a half hour more on the treadie before bed. Kisses and sweet dreams, Stuart. In less than two months, I will be your blushing bride.
Amy
Amy Denise Jenkins
Director
Human Resources
The New York Journal
216 W. 57th Street
New York, NY 10019
212-555-6890
amy.jenkins@thenyjournal.com
This e-mail is intended only for the use of the individual to which it is addressed and may contain information that is privileged and confidential. If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that you have received this transmission in error; any review, dissemination, distribution, or copying of this transmission is prohibited. If you have received this communication in error, please notify us immediately by reply e-mail and delete this message and all of its attachments.
To: Amy Jenkins <amy.jenkins@thenyjournal.com>
Fr: Stuart Hertzog <stuart.hertzog@hwd.com>
Re: The Test
Darling! I can’t tell you how my heart swelled as I read your last e-mail. You really are the angel I’ve always suspected you were. An angel who fell down from heaven to live amongst us.
You’ve lifted me from the depths of despair to the height of giddy ecstasy. I’m the luckiest man in the world.
I love you, more than words could ever say. Good night, my sweet.
Stuart
Stuart Hertzog, Senior Partner
Hertzog Webber and Doyle, Attorneys at Law
444 Madison Avenue, Suite 1505
New York, NY 10022
212-555-7900
To: Courtney Allington <courtney.allington@allingtonenterprises.com>
Fr: Amy Jenkins <amy.jenkins@thenyjournal.com>
Re: Stuart
Get this: we went in for genetic testing, you know, to find out if whatever the FUCK is wrong with his FUCKED-UP family is genetic, and guess what? He’s a carrier for Tay Sach’s disease. Ever heard of it? No, you haven’t. Because only people of Eastern European—aka the Ashkenazis, aka JEWS—get it.
That’s right. Stuart’s a JEW. Somewhere along the line, somebody converted to Protestantism. But that doesn’t change the fact that once upon a time in some Russian village somewhere, the Hertzogs were running from the Cossacks.
I mean, with a name like Hertzog, I certainly had my suspicions.
So NOW what do I do? I mean, it was bad enough when the sister turned out to be a dyke. Now I find out they’re all Yids as well?
Really, how can this be happening? To ME??? I was the Pi Delt voted Most Likely to Marry Well.
He offered to let me out of it (the engagement), but I said no, because, hello, condos in Aspen and Scottsdale, not to mention the house in Ojai. And really, who is ever going to know? That he’s Jewish, I mean? Except for you, but I know you’ll never tell.
But now that I’ve had another workout, I’m wondering if I made the right decision. I mean, I know a lot of our friends would DIE if they found out I was marrying a Jew. Oh, sure, Miriam and Ruth would be all right with it. But they ARE Jewish. And of course we never see them anymore, now that we don’t have to live with them.
What do you think I should do, Court? I mean, do you think I shouldn’t settle? That I could do better? I think so, too, but the truth is, I’m not getting any younger—I had to switch from Dramatically Different moisturizer to Anti-Aging over at Clinique—and the truth is, I’m sick of the dating scene. It really eats away at a girl’s workout schedule.
Let me know what you think. Any thoughts—pro or con—would be greatly appreciated.
Ames
Amy Denise Jenkins
Director
Human Resources
The New York Journal
216 W. 57th Street
New York, NY 10019
212-555-6890
amy.jenkins@thenyjournal.com
This e-mail is intended only for the use of the individual to which it is addressed and may contain information that is privileged and confidential. If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that you have received this transmission in error; any review, dissemination, distribution, or copying of this transmission is prohibited. If you have received this communication in error, please notify us immediately by reply e-mail and delete this message and all of its attachments.
Journal of Kate Mackenzie
So I’m innocently sitting here watching MTVCribs when Dolly and Skiboy came bursting drunkenly in, and start making out right in front of me. I have no objections to people, you know, making out. I myself enjoy a good make-out session as much as the next girl.
But is it entirely necessary for them to loll around on the couch RIGHT NEXT TO ME, with their TONGUES DOWN EACH OTHER’S THROATS?
Because that’s what they’re doing at this moment, and it is really kind of gross. I mean, Dolly could easily go into her bedroom to stick her tongue down her boyfriend’s throat. I have a feeling they’d both be a lot more comfortable.
But NOOOOO, she has to do it here, right in front of me, and practically blocking my view of Mariah Carey’s palatial—
Journal of Kate Mackenzie
Sorry about that. As I was writing that last bit, the front door burst open, and Peter Hargrave came in. That’s right, Peter Hargrave, the owner and CEO of theNew York Journal,and Dolly’s boyfriend, the guy who set her up in this fabulous pad in the first place?
And did his face go all shades of purple when he saw Dolly on top of Skiboy!
But the thing is, even though I don’t approve of cheating—even if you aren’t married to the person—I owe Dolly a lot. I mean, she’s let me live in her place rent-free, and eat all the Rye-Krisps and drink all the Tab I want. Which is pretty generous, you know.
So when I saw Peter’s face, and how the veins were sticking out all over it and everything, I went, “Okay, okay, you made your point. You’re a better kisser than I am, Dolly. Now give me my boyfriend back. Oh, hi, PETER!”
When Dolly heard Peter’s name, she dropped Skiboy like he was a piping-hot thermal massage rock. She stood up and went, “Dahling!” and threw her arms around Peter like he had been away at the war or something.
Then I pulled Skiboy down next to me and put my arms around him, you know, to make it seem like we were a couple.
Peter just kept looking at Skiboy like he was Osama bin Laden, live in the flesh in his very living room.
“Playing a little game, are we, ladies?” he asked, in this kind of choked-up voice.
“Yes,” I said. “Dolly was just showing me that I don’t kiss right. Weren’t you, Dolly?”
“Absolutely,” Dolly said. Then she looked up at Peter, with her dewy, Botox-injected face, and went, “Katie doesn’t use enough tongue.”
Well, I guess there’s nothing that gets CEOs of major publishing corporations hotter than the use of the wordtongue, since Peter wrapped his arms around Dolly and said, “I’ve missed you so much,” and stuck his own big fat one right in her ear.
Which, you know, ew, but whatever floats your boat.
Then Skiboy—I swear, he has a real feel for the theatrical—stuck his own tongue right in my ear.
So now we’re all sitting here—me and Skiboy, Dolly and Peter—drinking Campari and watching B2K (what is with the all-white living rooms) onCribs . I’m waiting for just the right moment to bring up the whole How I Got Fired thing. Dolly said she’d work on it for me, but it’s clear Peter doesn’t know a thing. He’s too busy sniffing Dolly’s hair. Geez, it’s just Aveda.