Ooops, Dolly’s coming out of her room. I mixed up a big batch of pancake batter, so I can fix her breakfast. I figure it’s the least I can do because she’s been so nice to—

Oh, wait a minute. That’s not Dolly—


To: Kate Mackenzie <katydid@freemail.com>

Fr: Jen Sadler <sleaterkinneyfan@freemail.com>

Re: Paradise

Oh my God, you can’t leave me hanging like this. WHO IS IT?

Also, although you clearly aren’t missing us, we’re missing you. Craig’s first words when he stumbled out of the bedroom this morning were, “What? No pancakes?”

See? You’re missed.

So. Spill. Did you just have breakfast with PETER HARGRAVE, founder and CEO of the esteemed publication for which we work?

Tell me the truth: boxers or briefs?

J


To: Jen Sadler <sleaterkinneyfan@freemail.com>

Fr: Kate Mackenzie <katydid@freemail.com>

Re: Paradise

Um, no, I did not just have pancakes with Peter Hargrave. Because Peter Hargrave was not who just came wandering out of Dolly’s bedroom. The person who just came wandering out of Dolly’s bedroom was someone I’ve never seen before. He was about our age, with shoulders out to here, and probably one of the more attractive men I’ve seen in a while. Like model attractive. Which, if you like that kind of thing, can be nice. I guess. Although I wouldn’t want to go out with someone who was prettier than me.

He just went, “Uh, hi,” when he saw me . . .

AND THEN HE LEFT!!!

Just LEFT!!!!!!!!!!

I do not want to cast aspersions on Dolly’s reputation, but I think . . . well, I think Peter Hargrave might have some competition.

Oops, here’s Dolly. Explanation hopefully forthcoming.

Katie


To: Kate Mackenzie <katydid@freemail.com>

Fr: Jen Sadler <sleaterkinneyfan@freemail.com>

Re: Paradise

WHO WAS HE?????

And I just want to apologize for the fact that Craig and I were unable to provide you with plasma screens, the Travel Channel, your own bathroom, and a river view. Not to mention strange, broad-shouldered men wandering through the apartment on Saturday mornings.

Now. WHO WAS HE?????



To: Jen Sadler <sleaterkinneyfan@freemail.com>

Fr: Kate Mackenzie <katydid@freemail.com>

Re: Paradise

Um, Dolly doesn’t appear to know his name. She just calls him Skiboy. Because he is a skiing instructor.

She met him last night. SHE MET HIM LAST NIGHT!!!!! AND SLEPT WITH HIM ALREADY!!!!!!

I don’t want to sound like some girl from Kentucky, but excuse me, what happened to getting to know someone before getting horizontal with them? She could have at least found out his NAME, for crying out loud.

But when I mentioned this to Dolly, she just went, “Who cares about hisname , darling, when he’s got thoseshoulders?”

And so Skiboy I’m afraid he is destined to remain.

I asked Dolly what about Peter Hargrave, and she told me she and Peter have had an open relationship ever since his third marriage.

Dolly really likes my pancakes. After this we are going jogging (!) around the reservoir in order to keep our girlish figures. Then we’re going to some new opening at the Met. Want to join us?

Katie

P.S. Really, your place is much better than Dolly’s. All she has in the fridge is champagne and yogurt. Really. I had to use Better Butter to make the pancakes, so they are a bit runny.


To: Kate Mackenzie <katydid@freemail.com>

Fr: Jen Sadler <sleaterkinneyfan@freemail.com>

Re: Jogging

Um, thank you for the invitation, but I am trying to get pregnant, remember? The last thing I need is for my uterus to fall out, which is always what I fear is going to happen whenever I go jogging.

Have fun with your new little friend. Craig and I will probably just go to the movies, or something. Not all of us can lead glamorous jet-setting lives with Skiboys trailing in and out of our penthouse.

J

P.S. Dale left four messages on the machine and finally settled for throwing a can of Del Monte peaches with a note wrapped around it onto our fire escape. Do Del Monte peaches have some kind of symbolic meaning for the two of you? Or do you think he just couldn’t find a brick? Anyway, near as I can decipher—his handwriting is execrable, I suppose because he’s a musical genius, or whatever—the note says:

Katie, sorry about what happened at your office. Please don’t be mad. I swear I’ll never do it again. But I really need to know: Have you seen my bowling shoes? You know, those ones I accidentally wore home from Chelsea Piers that one night? Because I really need them for a gig. They go great with my plaid pants.

Love always,

Dale

P.S. Who was that guy in the Bugs Bunny tie, or whatever it was, who kept looking like he wanted to hit me? Is he like your new boss or something? What happened to the T.O.D.? Anyway, I don’t like that guy very much. That’s all. Dale

Such a charmer. Hey, maybe Dolly’ll share Skiboy with you! Have fun at the concert.

J

What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? The answer is: Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave.

So make it short.

(Tone)

Mitch. Oh my God. It’s Stace. I never in a million years expected him to just stop by like that. I mean, he’s never done it before. It must be

her

influence. I was totally at a loss. Trust Stuie not to think he has to call first. I mean, who wouldn’t want the great Stuart Hertzog to grace them with his presence? Anyway. What did he say to you, exactly, out in the garage? Jason said he walked in while he was putting his clubs away, and you two were going at it. Jason says he never saw anybody who looked more like he wanted to take a swing at someone. Stuart, I mean. At you. Oh . . . No, sweetie, I don’t know where Mermaid Barbie went. Did you leave her in the hot tub again? Check there. . . . Anyway, it was great to see you. You look good. Call me back so we can talk bad about her.

(Click)

What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? The answer is: Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave. So make it short.

(Tone)

Mitchell. This is your mother speaking. I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing with your brother, but I can tell you I for one do not find it very amusing. Stuart is extremely, extremely hurt. I want you to call and apologize to him. It’s bad enough that you’re sullying Amy’s reputation by implying she dismissed this muffin lady wrongly or without just cause. But just what, exactly, did you mean today when you asked her—in front of your sister, and her in-laws, and everyone, if I hear correctly—if the Pi Delts were going to perform any sort of initiation rites on Stuart? Were you implying that Pi Delta is some sort of Satanic group? Just because no Greek society would ever accept you as a member is no reason to malign the organization. Especially given that your own father was a Delta Upsilon. I am tired of having to clean up your messes, Mitchell. I want you to call your brother and apologize not only for the slight against Amy, but also for making up this ridiculous rumor that she called you a nasty name. So I want you to say you’re sorry. That’s all. Just pick up the phone and call your brother and say you’re sorry. Don’t think your father isn’t going to hear about all of this, if you don’t.

(Click)

What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? The answer is: Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave. So make it short.

(Tone)

It’s Sean. Dude, you are in so much trouble. I’ve never seen Mom so pissed off. She says this is the last straw. She says you’re always putting her in the middle, and that she feels like she has to make a choice between you and Stuart, and she’s choosing Stuart, because she says you’re mentally unstable. Oh, and did Amy Jenkins really call you a fuckhead? Dude, that is just

so

sweet. Call me.

 

(Click)

What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? The answer is: Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave. So make it short.

(Tone)

I would thank you to keep your opinions on the Greek system and my engagement to yourself, Mitch. You don’t need to be sharing them with Stacy’s in-laws and everyone else in Greenwich. Nobody’s interested in your observations on the traditions of my fiancée’s sorority. Furthermore, your assertion that Amy did not follow proper protocol when dismissing that idiot pie lady is completely absurd. As director of Human Resources, Amy can hire and fire whomever she chooses. I think you’re forgetting just which side you’re working for in this case. You are being employed by Peter Hargrave, NOT Ida Lopez. I’d thank you to remember it. And don’t you ever, ever waltz into my fiancée’s office and demand to see paperwork, as if she were one of those common criminals you used to defend and with whom, I’m told, you still occasionally socialize. Amy is a far better person than the sort you’re used to, and deserves to be treated not just as a law-abiding citizen, but as a future member of your family. Understood?

God, I ask you to take on a simple case of wrongful termination, and you manage to turn it into some freaking conspiracy against the working man—my God, Mitch! Just do the job you were asked to do and stop overthinking everything, as you are so wont to do. Some people just deserve to lose their jobs, you know! Unless you want to be one of them, get off Amy’s case. And don’t even TRY to say that I couldn’t get Dad to let you go if I wanted to. We both know who Dad’s favorite is, and it’s not you, buddy.

(Click)


To: Stacy Trent <IH8BARNEY@freemail.com>

Fr: Mitchell Hertzog <mitchell.hertzog@hwd.com>

Re: Today

Tried to call but your line’s been busy. This wouldn’t have anything to do with Haley and Brittany’s discovery of the Powerpuff Girls’ hotline, would it?

Anyway, sorry to have caused tumult at Finca Trent. I don’t know why Stuart got so bent out of shape. All I meant was that, back at U of Michigan, the Pi Delts had this practice of stripping naked any man who became engaged to one of their own, and leaving him chained that way to the Pi Delta sign in their sorority house’s front yard, for the ogling of passersby. I just wondered, you know, if Amy’s Pi Delt sisters were going to perform a similar act on Stuart, for the benefit of New Yorkers. I merely suggested that Stuart might be stripped and chained to theNew York Journal sign outside 216 West 57th Street. I don’t have the slightest idea why that would upset her so much. Do you? I mean, if you can’t take the heat, hand back the lavaliere, is what I say.

Tell Jason I had a good time on the greens today . . . well, what you could see of them, beneath all the snow. Maybe going golfing in March isn’t the best idea I’ve had recently.

Won’t be around if you call later, I’ve got to go to some benefit at the museum for Dad. Can’t say I mind, really. Rubbing shoulders with people who have more money than they know what to do with beats hanging out with people who can’t stop talking about how adorable it was when little Taylor spat her ubby across the church at Richard Junior’s christening.

No offense.

Mitch

aka The Fucker

Welcome to the opening of the Gregory Shearson

French Nineteenth-Century Drawing Collection

at the Metropolitan Museum of Art

Why did I come to this? Oh my God, I’m so bored, I think I’m going to die. I mean it’s not like I

Entertainment provided by

the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center

 

would rather be back at Dolly’s watching the Travel Channel, because I wouldn’t. At least, I don’t

Gregory Shearson’s collection touches on many of the trends in French drawing of the time: the heroic Neoclassicism of David; the refined classicism of Ingres; Delacroix’s expressive Romanticism; the richly textured landscapes of the Barbizon School; Seurat’s luminous sheets of shaded crayon; and the jewel-like watercolors of Paul Signac and Henri-Edmond Cross.

 

think I would. I don’t know. If I were still with Dale, I’d be sitting in some smoky bar in the East Village right now, waiting for him to go on. Correction, I’d be running around the apartment, helping him find his bowling shoes, since the band wouldn’t be going on until after midnight, and no way would Dale be ready to go by now. And I’m not saying I wouldn’t rather be here, because this is way better than your typical East Village bar, I mean, no one smoking or asking if they can smell my hair. But I don’t feel like I fit in, even with Dolly’s borrowed duds.