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.
The selection captures another facet of the taste of a great American collector famous for the range and depth of his interest in the history of European art.
I mean, first of all there’s the fact that my hair is way bigger than anybody else’s here—but Dolly said it looks good curly. Iso should have blown it out. And second of all, well, I think I am the only person here with less than ten grand in my 401K. I might be the only person here who even HAS a 401K—besides Dolly, I mean. I seem to be the only one here without a DATE. I mean, Dolly didn’t exactly mention she was meeting up with Skiboy here. But there he was, waiting for her, right by the red carpet. And can I just say, his shoulders look even BROADER at nighttime.
This exhibition was made possible by
a grant from the Gregory Shearson Foundation.
Okay, one more champagne, and I am out of here. Where is that waiter? Where—OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, WHAT ISHE DOING HERE?
AND WHO IS THATWITH HIM? Oh my God, Mitchell Hertzog is here with a date. A DATE! Oh, and look at her. Just look at her. SHE had a blow-out. SHE didn’t take the advice of the style editor for theNew York Journal. She looks great. Well, if by “great” you mean seven feet tall and a hundred pounds. She actually looks like a praying mantis, if you ask me.
Oh God, why did I eat all those leftover cold sesame noodles for dinner?
Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center program
Maybe I can slip out before he sees me with my hair like this. If I get behind that pillar
Quintet for Clarinet and Strings in A Major,K. 581. . . . . . . . . . .Mozart
and slither over to the coat-check thingie, I can probably make it. Oh please God let me make it
Sextet for Clarinet, String Quartet and Piano. . . . . . . . . . .Copland
NOOOOOOO! He’s seen me! What do I—
Quintet for Two violins, Viola, Cello, and Piano in F Minor, Op. 34. . . . . . . . . . .Brahms
Journal of Kate Mackenzie
Why is it that every time I see Mitchell Hertzog I manage to make a total and complete ass of myself? If I’m not dribbling along about chicken in garlic sauce, I’m dealing with my lunatic ex-boyfriend or acting like I know something about art and classical music, when clearly, CLEARLY, I do not.
And he looked SO nice, too. I mean, really, really, really nice, in his tuxedo. He looked SKIBOY nice. Seriously, even Skiboy’s shoulders paled in comparison to Mitchell Hertzog’s.
He acted nice, too. He was all, “What are YOU doing here? I would’ve thought a girl like you would have something better to do than hang at a thing like this.”
Like I was too glam for the place, or something. Ha, I wish. I told him I’d just come to keep Dolly company, on account of her having an extra ticket.
He looked around for Dolly, but of course she had gone off with Skiboy. The two of them were behind the cellist with their hands down each other’s pants.
And then, me, idiot girl I am, I can’t leave it at that. Oh, no. I keep foaming away at the mouth:
Me: Oh, yes, well, Dolly and I, we go way back. In fact, right now we’re roomies, can you believe it?
Him: Roomies? Really? How did that happen?
Me: Well, you know, I’m between apartments right now, and Dolly, she has that big penthouse, way up on East Eightieth and East End Avenue and I don’t know, she asked and I jumped. . . .
LAME LAME LAME LAME I’m sure the Praying Mantis is a better conversationalist. At least until she bites his head off after they’re done mating (it’s praying mantises that do this, right?)
Then he went, “Well, it’s probably good you’re in the penthouse. That way your musical friend might find it a little harder to serenade you. Since you don’t seem to find his serenades all that appealing.”
Dale! God! I’d managed to forget all about Dale. I’d managed to forget for a minute there that the last time I saw this man, I was begging the NYPD not to use their nightsticks on my psychotic ex.
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound all—what’s the word?Je ne sais quoi, I guess. I’m sure the Praying Mantis would know. “That. Yes. Thanks so much for your help with that, by the way. Um, Dale and I, we, well, we broke up, and he’s not, um, taking it well.”
And he went, “So I gathered. Listen, if you need anything, any kind of legal help with that, a restraining order, or something—“
Oh my God! He wants to help me get a restraining order! Against Dale! I mean, I probably should. Only I don’t want Dale to go to jail. I just want him to go away.
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