But, you know, Mom’s not exactly Ms. Open Minded. You can’t blame her, really. I mean, she just wants what’s best for us.

Oh, sorry, that was BS. I don’t know what I was thinking. Mom could care less what’s best for us. She just wants whatever makes her look good in front of the Antique Coalition.

Anyway, Jason and I were talking, and we thought it might be fun if you moved in with us for a little while. I know Mitch has got you covered, but, you know, our place is bigger, and we could let you have the guesthouse. Your own kitchen, so you can make those macrobiotic messes you like so much . . . the works. And Jason says you can use the Audi while you’re here.

I know there’s not tons to do in Greenwich, but we could still have a good time. The girls are dying to see their aunt Sean, and Mitch taught Little John some new words he’s just dying to try out on someone.

Think about it, okay? It’s just that I know Mitch works a lot, and I worry about you all alone in that apartment for hours on end. Come to Greenwich. You won’t be sorry. We have puppies. . . . Well, one. Jason finally caved, and it shouldn’t be too hard on Haley’s allergies, if we don’t let her sleep with it. The dog, I mean.

Call me.

Love,

Big Sis


To: Stacy Trent <IH8BARNEY@freemail.com>

Fr: Sean <psychodramabeautyqueen@freemail.com>

Re: Me

Hey, thanks for the invite. I’d love to come out and see you guys, but I kind of have other plans. Don’t worry about me, I’m good. I know Mitch wants me out of here so he can boff his new girlfriend (she’s really nice, by the way). But it’s all good . . . I’ve got a plan.

And no, it isn’t a suicide plan, God, would everyone just chill (though I’m sure Stuart would prefer a dead sister to a lesbian sister).

I’ll talk to you soon.

Love,

Sean


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

Fr: Stacy Trent <IH8BARNEY@freemail.com>

Re: Sean

Where are you? I’ve tried your office, home, your cell . . . I am resorting to Blackberry again.

Anyway, just wanted to let you know, I invited Sean out to our place, and she said she has “other plans.” Not sure what this means. She tells me she isn’t going to kill herself, however. Somehow, I don’t find this as reassuring as she might have hoped.

Call me when you get this and give me an update, okay? I’m really worried about her.

Stacy

P.S. I had to promise Jason all sorts of sexual favors to get him to let her move in. If she doesn’t, am I still obligated to perform? I need a lawyer’s perspective on this.


To: Amy Jenkins <amy.jenkins@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Stuart Hertzog <stuart.hertzog@hwd.com>

Re: The Test

Forgive me for writing, instead of phoning, or even speaking to you in person—but it’s late, and I know you’re working out.

Besides, if I had to hear your little voice, or look into your eyes as I say what I have to say, I might not go through with it. And I have to. I have to. So let me take the coward’s way out.

Darling, I honestly . . . I don’t know what to say. I wish I could have been more lucid in the geneticist’s office, but I was simply so stunned. You’ve got to try to see it from my perspective. I expected, as I think you know, for there to be some abnormalities. I mean, anyone who knows Mitch—not to mention Janice, and even Stacy, who at times can be incredibly difficult, if you remember the Mercedes trunk incident I told you about—would naturally assume that SOME sort of genetic disorder runs through the Hertzog family.

But I expected it to be manic-depression, or possibly even autism. Butthis . . . I never suspectedthis.

That’s why I’m writing. I couldn’t articulate my feelings back in the geneticist’s office. I simply was too stunned. But now that I’ve had some time to digest it, I can only come to one conclusion, and it’s one that I dread—oh, so very much.

I feel a moral obligation, Amy, to tell you that if you should choose to be released from our engagement, I would understand it. I would be devastated, of course. My life would lose all meaning. But I would understand, because I would never want to drag someone as young and lovely, with as much wit and talent as you have, down to my level. You have the right, Amy, to marry the kind of man you want—the kind I once thought I was . . . until today, when my hopes were brutally crushed.

But yours needn’t be, my sweet darling. You can go on to have the wedding . . . and the life . . . of your dreams. Sadly, however, I fear it will have to be with someone else.

Yours forever,

Stuart

Stuart Hertzog, Senior Partner

Hertzog Webber and Doyle, Attorneys at Law

444 Madison Avenue, Suite 1505

New York, NY 10022

212-555-7900

P.S. Pursuant to New York State law, an engagement ring is considered payment for fulfilment of a contract (marriage contract) and should the engagement be broken for any reason, the ring must be returned to the giver. I can have the firm’s messenger service retrieve it in the morning, if you choose to break the engagement.


To: Stuart Hertzog <stuart.hertzog@hwd.com>

Fr: Amy Jenkins <amy.jenkins@thenyjournal.com>

Re: The Test

Stuart, MUST you be so silly? Of COURSE I’m not going to break up with you. Over something like THAT? You must have been nipping at that thirty-year-old scotch you like so much.

Darling, the geneticist said our kids would be fine, remember? It would be different if I were a carrier, too, but I’m not. How can you be so silly as to think I would ever break up with you over something so ridiculous? That’s all in the past, darling. It has nothing to do with our future. Your ring is staying right on my finger, where it belongs.

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.