The Tinsley Mortimer Report: A Head Of The Game
Tinsley had an extraordinary week, going where no socialite has gone before and pulling it off with the panache that only an ex-event-planner-turned-camera-bait could. While planning for the American Museum of Natural History's annual Winter Dance, she realized not only that the "Desert Hues" dress code would limit her own color palette, but also that it would limit everyone else's, thus potentially homogenizing the crowd and creating significantly fewer opportunities to stand out as a true Fashion Icon (for example, note that sister-in-law Minnie Mortimer, below right, also sports a light green ensemble). This thought, and the obvious pressures that accompany it, might have caused less resilient social fixtures to crumble, or at the very least, to accept the possibility of slinking about unnoticed amongst the masses. Not our Tinsley, however. Once she had selected her "hue," a delectably minty green, and a satiny, low-cut design that screams "Gobi" or "Sahara" to all whose ears are tuned to the key of T Major, she marched straight to the door of her botoxer/general aesthetic consultant and announced her predicament. After discussing at length the setting (Natural History Museum, African Mammals wing) , her natural body type (svelte), her dietary preferences (vegetable matter) and a fashion trend worth exploring that might provide an appropriately witty fashion statement (androgyny), they finally selected her spiritual "creature" counterpart and decided on a fairly radical procedure: Tinsley would have the first ever (at least the first ever documented) antelope horn implant. Within two days, a male specimen was shipped from Namibia and stripped of its impressive "headpiece," which was then grafted onto Tinsley's head using a cutting-edge procedure first developed by NASA for the welding of space station parts. Of course, being the discreet and tasteful Benefit Chairwoman that she is, Tinsley refused to say whether it was an impala, a puku, a lichtenstein's hartebeest, or some other even-toed ungulate entirely that sacrificed its life so that Tinsley's fashion legacy may live, but as you can see below, the results of her surgical enhancement were stunning.
Horny for Natural History
(photo from New York Social Diary)
The crowd simply couldn't get enough of Tinsley's "sharp" fashion observation, and needless to say, she may not have been the only attendee in the African Mammal Wing, but she was certainly the only attendee in African Mammal. Notice how the soft, draping curves of her gown brilliantly juxtapose the angular lines of the horns. Notice how feminine meets masculine in a bold new statement about the implications of gender identity, and man meets animal in a dramatic observation about the essence of humanity. Tinsley has truly outdone herself this week, and as her four-legged horn donor frolicks about the savannahs of Heaven, he undoubtedly rejoices in the knowledge that his contribution was not in vain. We all wait with bated breath to see what Tinsley brings to the Limoges and excellent silver-appointed table in March.
The Tinsley Mortimer Report: Spring Outlook
It's looking to be an exciting spring indeed for Tinsley Mortimer. She's been out and about in full force; in fact, this week brought a very exciting DOUBLE New York Social Diary shout-out for her. Let's have a look...
Wednesday's edition:
Here we see Tinsley making copious amounts of mirth at Peter Som's post-runway show at the offices of the 485 Fifth Avenue residences. Sharing the floor with fellow critically-acclaimed socialites Corralie Charriol, Amanda Hearst, Bettina Zilkha, and Dylan Lauren, Tinsley stands out in a gauzy, pink little piece of fabric heaven. Especially intriguing about her ensemble on this occasion is the midsection, which was clearly inspired by the Padaung tribes of northern Thailand. Long necks connote both beauty and refinement for the Padaung, almost as much as anorexia and Restylane do among New York's finest, so Padaung women accumulate neck rings and eventually attain giraffe-like proportions. With this dress, Tinsley is apparently attempting to stretch out her abdominal cavity in a similar fashion. And since anyone who's anyone takes her sartorial clues from Ms. Tinsley Mortimer, I think it's safe to make the following statement: elongated torsos are going to be the rage this spring, so keep those midriffs toned, ladies! It is also worth noting that in the first photograph, Tinsley's expression falls into the extraordinarily rare "open-mouthed smile" category. This divergence from the more typical "full deck of teeth" or "intense squint" is something to keep an eye on. Is this just an aberration, a moment of insuppressible delight precipitated by Peter Som's bitchy witticisms? Or does it signify something much more serious, perhaps even a tactical change in Tinsley's mad dash for the attentions of David Patrick Columbia's camera lens? Whatever the case, she's back in traditional squinting form again by the second photograph, demonstrating both the subtle-yet-slimming sideways pose and the ideal weight distribution so characteristic of this extraordinarily gifted social phenom. We'll see how things progress as the season unfolds...
Friday's Edition:
Here we see Tinsley reveling at the Versace Flagship Store event with the likes of Claire Danes and Halle Berry. Not to be outdone, Tinsley traded her "casual, cascading ringlet" coif for a straightening iron and a healthy dose of 1985. The side ponytail is an interesting choice, emulating the clean lines of her simple, strapless number and black wrap, yet still providing a bit of contrast by pairing Darien Housewife with Rainbow Brite. And while her fully-frontal stance indicates a slight lapse in her typically flawless execution (perhaps she was caught unawares?), she still makes a heroic save with both the sultry gaze and the picture perfect, designer-revealing handbag placement. All in all, I think we can expect great things from Tinsley in the coming weeks. She's at the top of her game, and she's going to give the competition a run for its substantial amounts of money.
An Open Letter To My Boss
Dear *******,
S.C.U.B.A. is an acronym. L.A.S.E.R. is an acronym. "Fax," however, is not. We had this conversation a few months ago when you repeatedly left me Post-Its asking me to F.A.X. documents. I explained that "fax" was an abbreviation, not an acronym, but you wouldn't believe me. When I asked you to tell me what it stands for, however, you were stumped. Why was this? Was it because the words "friendly anthrax xylophone" were at the tip of your tongue? Or "free android x-rays?" Maybe. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the letters DON'T STAND FOR ANYTHING! Knowing that you have both a college degree and an MBA makes me fear for the state of this country's educational institutions. And just when I thought that you finally believed me, I found another note today asking me to F.A.X. something else. Perhaps you are a performance artist, and your latest "project" involves a restructuring of the English language and the creation of a 21st Century vernacular based on abbreviation and acronym, a commentary of sorts on postmodern society's insatiable desire for instant gratification and shortcuts, a statement about Ritual Mystification and the unintelligibility of language in a world devoid of meaning and continuity, a reference both to the potency of The Sign and to its inherent arbitrariness in relation to The Signifier. Or perhaps it is simply a matter of your IQ amounting to less than that of the Post-Its on which you are so fond of writing. A.N.D. I. T.H.I.N.K. I. K.N.O.W. W.H.I.C.H. E.X.P.L.A.N.A.T.I.O.N. I.S. T.H.E. L.I.K.E.L.I.E.R. O.F. T.H.E. T.W.O...
Love,
*********
PS- I can't "call the thearter" for you, because the word "thearter" does not exist. If you would like me to call the THEATER, let me know. Until then, I've got a very important crossword puzzle to finish, so please refrain from interrupting me again.
Nicole Richie Takes It Up A Notch
After handing out Diet Dr. Pepper “valentines” all over Manhattan today, Nicole Richie has decided to take her gift-giving endeavors to a new level. The success of the Dr. Pepper marketing campaign was gratifying, but according to Richie, it was only a small piece of her diet puzzle. “I realized that one can of soda was great and all, but if I’m truly going to spread the gospel of a calorie-free lifestyle, I need to be a little more comprehensive,” says the pint-sized celebutante. Consequently, starting tomorrow, Richie will be handing out Rexi-Paks from the back of a pickup truck. Each kit, designed both for the newly-minted anorexic and for the seasoned starver, will include diet soda, sugar-free gum, laxatives, hard candy, a Tasti-D-Lite gift certificate, caffeine pills and a calorie chart. For a small fee, recipients can purchase the Binge-N-Boot bonus pack, which includes a pint of ice cream, a bag of cheese puffs, chocolate bars, a box of Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies, two spoons (one for eating the ice cream and the other to induce gagging), and a box of breath mints. “I want to be a role model to young girls out there who might be feeling a little chubby and don’t know how to change it,” says Richie, adding “There was a time, somewhere between my heroin addiction and my severe eating disorder, when I felt lost. Not eating was an activity I could throw myself into, and I found out that I was quite good at it. And when someone has a gift, it’s his/her duty to share it with the world. That’s what I’m doing with my Rexi-Paks.” Following tomorrow’s handout tour in Manhattan, Richie will begin work on a cookbook, “Tyrannosaurus Rexi: Reigning Supreme Over Hunger Pangs,” which will feature recipes for delicious, wholesome dishes like “Lettuce with Vinegar” and “Air-Poached Chicken.” The book is scheduled to be published next fall.
From The "Not-Quite" Files: The Unpublished Runner-Up For Yesterday's NYT "Vows" Column
By Jesse McKinley
No one expects to meet his/her soul mate in the frozen-food section of the supermarket. Except for Kelly Sanders, that is. Three weeks before she actually met C. Myers Dillingworth IV at the D’Agostino on 76th and Lexington, she had already decided not to take any chances with fate. Their meeting, in her eyes, was only a matter of when, not if. “I knew that C. Myers was exactly what I was looking for. He was passably handsome, rich, and single,” says Ms. Sanders, 28, a
pretty brunette with an easy smile and yoga-enhanced triceps. She first saw Mr. Dillingworth, 38, the financier and heir to the Dillingworth banking dynasty, in a Forbes Magazine “40 Under 40” article. Says the lucky groom, an affable man with a mild paunch and an expanding bald spot, “I usually shy away from the press. The more you let them in, the more they want to know- and frankly, with my history of soliciting prostitutes, abusing various narcotics, and insider trading, I really didn’t want to call attention to myself.” A friend convinced him, however, that appearing in the feature would bring a fresh crop of gold-diggers to his door, which was exactly what the doctor ordered. “I was tired of women who liked me for who I was, not for my money,” he says. “I wanted someone who appreciated the cachet of my last name, someone as superficial as I am, only slightly more vacuous.” Fortunately for Mr. Dillingworth, Kelly Sanders was up to the challenge. Raised in a small town near Duluth, she was transformed at an early age by a chance encounter with Vanity Fair (the book) in English class and another chance encounter with Vanity Fair (the magazine) in her doctor’s waiting room. When she arrived in New York in 2000, she had one goal in mind: find a rich, socially respectable husband. She started by studying the Vows section of this newspaper for clues. “I wanted to know the average age of the brides, what they did for a living. I needed to increase the odds for myself,” she says. She took a part-time job at Sotheby’s and another as a substitute teacher at a private school, hoping to put herself in a more favorable position, at least statistically speaking. But things weren’t working out the way she’d hoped, and after several false leads and dead ends (as Mr. Dillingworth puts it, “those were her Aspartame Daddies- close to the real thing, but really just carcinogenic substitutes at the end of the day.”), Ms. Sanders was close to despair. That’s when she saw the 40 Under 40 list in Forbes, and when she did, she knew she had to act fast. “It was adorable- she found my address and started stalking me, memorizing my schedule, when I entered and left my building,” Mr. Dillingworth says. “And she knew that I stopped by the D’Agostino on Tuesdays after work to stock up on Tofutti, my favorite food of all foods.” Ms. Sanders is visibly moved when he talks about the Tofutti Encounter, as they call it. “I showed up one Tuesday, right when I knew he’d be there. I timed it so that I’d run into him just as he opened the Tofutti case. I’d decided that a conversation about the various flavors would be a perfect ice-breaker,” she says. “Excuse the pun!” chimes Mr. Dillingworth, also smiling fondly at the memory. After a date at The Four Seasons and a few drinks at The Carlyle, they both knew that something special was developing. As Mr. Dillingworth says, “I knew we both had a lot to offer each other. I could have an attractive, calculating wife whose financial dependence rendered her indifferent to my various infidelities, and she could have her handbags, her invitations to social events, and her Park Avenue apartment.” “It really was a match made in heaven!” exclaims Ms. Sanders. They wed at St. John’s Episcopal Church in Lattingtown and held a white tie reception at The Piping Rock Club in Locust Valley. “This is the fanciest place I’ve ever seen,”
gushed the bride’s mother, Angela Sanders, a bank teller in Duluth. The groom’s mother, Cecilia “CeCe” Dillingworth, was so choked up she couldn’t even respond. Minutes later, when she finally regained some composure, she managed to whisper, “I can’t believe this is happening to me.” For many a bride, truer words could never be spoken. For Ms. Sanders (now Mrs. Dillingworth), however, belief was never part of the equation. “I had my eyes on the prize,” she says, “and I wasn’t going home without a trophy.” Fortunately, neither was Mr. Dillingworth.
Inside the Lyricist's Studio: Grammy Winner's Edition
A brief exploration of the important thematic veins running through the first three lines of Kelly Clarkson's delicious verbal cocktail, “Since U Been Gone”:
“Here's the thing
We started out friends
It was cool, but it was all pretend”
In these first lines, Kelly begins by introducing The Thing, which can be interpreted in this instance as a metaphorical prism through which the halogen light of Reality is refracted into its more ambiguous, scented candle-lit sub-parts. The Thing is the severed first half of an invalid categorical syllogism, an alleged truth, a truth serving as the dark, exogamous Other to its false Self. That Self becomes, ironically, Self-evident in the second verse, where the word “started” acts as a signifier, a referential device that propels our ears into a state of uneasy anticipation. A start, after all, portends an end, and we are reminded not only of this singular relationship, but also of the mortality that echoes down the halls of Man’s existence and screeches as feedback on the amplifier of our collective Voice. Are we not, after all, merely the dot on a universal question mark? Perhaps. But perhaps, instead, we are both periods of a colon, or the period and the comma of a semi-colon, or even an ellipsis. It is precisely these concepts of the Illusory and the Known that are introduced in the third line, where Kelly subtly nudges us to consider the “pretend” nature of that which was, at least prior to the pre-chorus, “cool.” The icy winds of artifice may freeze our assumptions and bring a small craft advisory to the oceans of our minds, but we must struggle to melt them, break them apart, dilute them, and reconstitute them as a Spam-like aggregate of wisdom. And then, armed with a significantly more structural-functionalist approach to our own reason, we must transform these Found Objects into the avant-garde masterpieces that they are, and we must place them in the galleries of our minds, and we must charge our souls a small admission fee for entry.
Sweetin Low: A Second One-Act Play
“The tabloid press reported a three-day bender as well as an intervention staged by her "Full House" castmates — including Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, John Stamos and Bob Saget.” – ABC NewsINT. JODIE’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHTJodie sits in front of the television watching a Proactiv infomercial and contemplating the possibility of extending her three-day bender into a fourth day, or perhaps even a fifth if she hasn’t finished creating her butter sculpture of the Last Supper by then. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Jodie picks up her shotgun and warily opens the door, only to find the Olsen Twins, John Stamos, and Bob Saget standing outside.
Jodie: (gesticulating excitedly with loaded gun) Ohmigod! This is so great, what are you guys doing here?? Come on in!
They file in, each expressing “caring, yet stern” with his/her own unique facial contortions, and take a seat in the living room.
Bob: Jodie, put the shotgun down. (She complies, but senses that something’s awry.) We need to talk to you about something very serious. Your ass looks amazing, by the way. Good thing you’re not really my daughter! But even if you were, I’d have a hard time-
John: Ok Bob, HAVE MERCY! Let’s focus here. Steph- I mean, Jodie- my divorce from Rebecca Romijn wasn’t easy. Having Jake In Progress cancelled wasn’t easy. There were times when I wanted to drown my sorrows in a pool of hair gel, or even ingest, smoke, snort, or inject a synthetic compound in the amphetamine family with “street names” such as crank, ice, tweak, amp or poor man’s coke.
Jodie: Wait a second…what are you all getting at here?
Mary-Kate: Grrrrmph brrrgh drrrggggghib brrrghhiiinig?
Jodie: What??
Ashley: Sorry, I have to translate for her- she accidentally blocked most of her face today with her various head and neck accoutrements, so you can't really hear what she's saying. You know how it is. Anyway, she says she thinks you might have a problem, and also wants to know if there’s a Starbucks nearby.
Jodie: A problem? A PROBLEM? What are you talking about? I’m FINE. Yeah, so maybe I have some fun now and then, but I’m totally ok. I can’t believe you guys are doing this to me! This is MY LIFE, so just butt out, ok?
Bob: Jodie, we can’t just butt out, we’re family. A fictional family, perhaps, with an uncanny knack for solving all major life crises in 30 minutes, including commercials, but a family nonetheless. And you need help. (He reaches over and begins to caress her leg) Not on these thighs, mind you, they’re looking-
John: ENOUGH, Bob. Steph- sorry, Jodie- we care about you, and we know what you’ve been using. And we can’t imagine why an attractive, talented actress such as yourself would want to put her life and career in jeopardy this way. Why are you doing this?
Jodie: GET AWAY FROM ME! I HATE YOU ALL! Why are you doing THIS? To ME?? (She bursts into tears) I do NOT have a problem!!
Mary-Kate: Gbrrrrrekkkkkkk vjjjsjfjhghghhh sbbbhhhhhlurfbb!
Ashley: She says there are much better ways to deal with your problems than consuming methamphetamines.
Jodie: (Sniffling) Like what??
Mary-Kate: fhjdskjjjjjjjjjfjhhhhhhhh!! Ahvhciuhsuihekjhgh!
Ashley: She says like cocaine, Jodie! Cocaine! Isn’t it obvious? And frankly, we all agree with Mary-Kate. I know your royalty checks from Full House might not be paying the bills anymore, but this is ridiculous. You’re throwing everything away, and we just can’t bear to watch it anymore. Get a job, steal, do whatever you have to- but please switch to cocaine. Before it’s too late.
Jodie: (Tears streaming down her face) I can’t! I can’t do it. It’s too hard.
John: We love you Steph-o...er...Jode-o, and we only want what’s best for you. You’re worth so much more than this. You don’t live in a trailer in rural Mississippi, you’re not a truck driver, you're not a stripper. I really have to ask...why? Why are you getting tweaky with it like this?
Bob: And you want to act again, don’t you? Do you think people will want to hire some has-been addict with Meth Mouth? I certainly wouldn’t. Unless you were hot, which you are, in which case I would at least-
Ashley: Look, what he means is, meth just doesn’t fly in Hollywood, ok?
Mary-Kate: Blfllfshhhhhhfs isfjifjjfjfi
Ashley: Exactly MK! She says that blow is your only respectable route as far as psycho-stimulant drugs are concerned. And if you don’t believe that you can live without crystal meth, use her for inspiration. She marches to the beat of a Bolivian drummer, and it works smashingly!
Kate Moss: Works for me too!
Dina Lohan: And for my daughter!
Bob: Kate Moss and Dina Lohan, what are you two doing here?? Hey, I sense a threesome!!
Kate Moss: We were concerned about Jodie, and we wanted to support her.
Dina Lohan: And give her some positive role models!
CUE SOFT, SLOWLY CRESCENDOING INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC
Jodie: Gee guys. I guess you’re right. I really DO have a problem, I just couldn’t see it clearly, especially since I scratched my corneas last night trying to examine the fibers of my bedroom carpet. I don’t know what I was thinking, and without you guys, I never would have asked for help. You're truly saving my life.
John: Of course we are, that’s what Family Tann- I mean we- are here for!
Mary-Kate: Bnfffffffffffffffffffffkekekk!
Ashley: MK says you can even have some of hers right now if you want, she can’t access her nose at the moment anyway. Gosh, we're all so proud of you, Jodie, we believe in you. I want you to look me in the oversized Chanel lens and tell me you’re going to stay strong, that you’re going to stay meth-free!
Jodie: (Gazing earnestly into the large, black abyss of Ashley’s sunglasses) I will. I swear. I'm checking into Promises, and when I emerge, it's out with the ice skating, in with the skiing, if you know what I mean...
Bob: Like a one-woman Winter Olympics! I'm so glad we could help. You know what I think…I think this calls for a group hug! (He moves forward, arms outstretched)
John: Just watch the hair!
Dina: And watch my implants!
Mary-Kate: Bllllllllllllllllllllghdjdjdjdjkkkkkkkkkkkj
Jodie: I couldn’t agree more. I love you guys.
They all unite in a warm embrace as the music swells. Bob’s hand slowly gravitates toward Jodie’s backside, eventually coming to a rest there.
Jodie: HOW RUDE!!
Fade to black.
Sweetin-ing The Pot: A One-Act Play
“I was married to a police officer – we’re going through a divorce right now – HE HAD NO IDEA” – Jodie Sweetin on her crystal meth addiction
Int. Quiet Home in the Not-Quite-Hollywood-Hills – NIGHT
Jodie Sweetin is just finishing her afternoon project, an in-depth exploration of her left thumb. A car door slams outside. It’s her husband, Officer Oblivious, home from a long day of law enforcement! He enters the kitchen and finds Jodie at the table, armed with a magnifying glass and muttering softly to herself.
OO: How’s my little Sweetie?
JS: I’m so good! Honey, come take a look at my cuticle, it’s incredible.
OO: Always the curious one, that’s my Jodie Wodie! You have no idea how happy I am to see you, it’s been the worst day.
JS: (Now pulling out her arm hairs one by one) Oh baby, do you want to talk about it? Let’s talk. Talk to me. Tell me about it, all of it. Every single bit of it, baby. Talk! Here, youcantalkwhileIscrubthekitchenfloor.
OO: Pookie Pie, you truly are amazing. We must have the cleanest house in the county. Vacuuming at 4am, scrubbing the floors on the hour every hour…you haven’t even slept since last Thursday!
JS: (Donning rubber gloves and picking up scrub brush) Yeah, I’m just, like, really, really busy. Really busy with things, there’s like so much I have to do. (She now starts scrubbing furiously)
OO: Yeah, I know the feeling. Let me tell you about today. We had to do a sting operation to bust up this ring of meth cooks-
JS: (suddenly standing up) Meth cooks? What? Where? What are you talking about? I'm not on meth!
OO: Not YOU, silly! I think I would KNOW if my own wife was on meth! Anyway, there were these guys operating out of a trailer park. It was so shocking- did you know that they were distilling crystal meth from Sudafed, of all things?
JS: (Grabbing notebook and pen) Sudafed? Sudafed. Like Non-Drying Sinus? Or Cold and Cough? Or Severe Cold?
OO: Well gosh, I don’t know. I guess they learned how to do it over the internet, there are these websites-
JS: Websites? What website? WHATISTHEMOTHERF*CKINGWEBSITE?? (She rocks back and forth in place and starts picking at the line of scabs on her arm)
OO: My little student! Your thirst for knowledge is unquenchable, that’s one of the things I love so much about you. I don’t know what the website was, I guess I’d have to ask one of the boys. Let me get back to you on that one. By the way, I brought you some takeout. Chinese, your favorite!
JS: Baby, that’s great. I’msoexcited, YES!! YES! Put it in the fridge, ok? I gotta finish some stuff right now. Ok? Just. Gotta. Finish. Some. Stuff. NOW.
OO: I know how devoted you are to keeping our beautiful home clean, Sugar, but you can take a break for dinner. You must be starving, look how you’re grinding your teeth around.
JS: (Now bleeding from open scratch wounds) Not now, I have lots to do. Kitchen floor needs to be scrubbed again. I’m gonna rearrange the furniture in the living room after I finish alphabetizing your socks. ABCDEFGHIJK-
OO: Busy as a little bee! Ok then, into the fridge it goes. You’re so creative, that’s another thing I love so much about you. I didn’t even know socks could be alphabetized.
JS: (twitching uncontrollably) Well, I invented a new language yesterday. Mr. Woodchuck and me, and Ranger Joe, andUncle Jesse’sgoingtosingasongaboutitwithElvis. Have you seen DJ? Where is DJ?
OO: My little comedienne!
JS: WHAT DID YOU SAY? WHAT THE F*CK DID YOU DO WITH DJ? YOU KILLED HER, DIDN’T YOU?? YOU MURDERED HER! SOMEBODY CALL THE POLICE!!
OO: You are cute as a button, aren’t you. Always cracking me up. I dig roleplay games too...so let's see...ok...hello Ma'am. Police to the rescue! How can I be of service? (He winks)
JS: YOU F*CKING BASTARD! DAD! MICHELLE! KIMMY GIBLER! GET OVER HERE! THIS MAN KILLED DJ! (She picks up butcher knife and starts chasing him around the kitchen)
OO: (Dodging slashes) Jodie Baby, this is such a turn on. We need to do this more often.
JS: HOW RUDE!!
Fade to black.
Jennifer's Crisis: The Resolution (See below for Installments #1-#3)
Two more cocktails (and a rather scintillating discussion of Kantian Ethics, as applied to their friend Laura’s suspected implants) later, Jennifer glanced discreetly at her wrist to see if it was late enough to head Gynseng-wards. She couldn’t quite make out the time, however, as her watch was in its jewelry case at the hotel and the white, watch-shaped region left behind didn’t prove to be the adequate substitute she’d hoped it would be. Regardless, she could tell by her current state of intoxication that it was time to leave, and time, therefore, to face her fears and soldier on into the night. Jennifer and Lindsay paid for their own drinks when they realized that they’d lost the commodities trader somewhere between Laura’s self-esteem issues and Lindsay’s concern that her miniature dachshund, Chloe, was anorexic.
Gynseng was only three blocks away, but Jennifer insisted that they take a taxi. Showing up on foot was entirely gauche, and if they couldn’t have the comfort of Jared’s Escalade, at least they could have the beat-up yellow Ford and Tito, its friendly (yet vaguely malodorous) driver. It was about 12:30am when they finally pulled up in front of Gynseng, and already there was total chaos at the door. Men in wildly striped, un-tucked button-downs competed with women in skin-tight capris and halter-tops for the attention of the doormen. While Lindsay bent down to fix the heel on her shoe, Jennifer took a deep breath and marched right up to the front of the line. Flipping her hair and making a “model pout” expression culled long ago from the pages of Seventeen, Jennifer embarked upon the following verbal journey:
“Excuse me Sir, we’re friends of Jared Bromberg and Adam G-”
“The line is to your left.”
“But Sir, Jared said that we c-”
“I don’t know Jared. Do you have a reservation?”
“No, but Jared and Adam told us to speak with you, they usually l-”
“Well your friends Jared and Adam didn’t tell me that and they ain’t here now. The line is to your left, we’re reservations only.”
“ SIR, it’s just two of us and-”
(Silence, as the bouncer was busy moving the rope aside to let a pack of, in Jennifer’s opinion, heinous sluts inside)
“Sir, we work in public relations and my company does work f-”
“Please step aside, miss.”
Jennifer was practically in tears. People on line were staring with barely-suppressed hatred, silently admonishing her for her flagrant presumptuousness and reveling in the unflattering light of her failure. When she turned around to consult Lindsay about alternate plans of action, however, she realized that her friend was still by the road fixing her shoe and hadn’t even witnessed a moment of this utterly humiliating interaction! When Lindsay finally looked up and saw Jennifer waving at her, she hobbled over to the door (apparently her shoe had not taken well to emergency surgery and now faced a dim prognosis), apologizing profusely for the delay. But before Jennifer could begin to verbally lament the unfolding tragedy that would be their evening, Lindsay strode up to the bouncer and politely (yet firmly) informed him that she and Jennifer were on The List. Jennifer was shocked, and even more so when the same bouncer smiled and nodded before unhooking the velvet rope to let them through. She was so surprised, in fact, that she didn’t even have a chance to shoot a dirty look and a snide remark at the man who had, only moments before, threatened to demolish the fragile social structure that her equally fragile intellect had constructed. Jennifer, speechless with a delightful combination of confusion and pure joy, simply followed Lindsay into the dim and crowded expanse of Gynseng. No questions were asked, thanks to one Q’estion that already had been- and besides, Jennifer had more important things to worry about now, such as how to con some high-rolling gents into sharing their table and, more significantly, their bottle service. So, here we find ourselves parting ways with these two fine products of natural selection and professional styling assistance. And as we head back towards our respective day jobs, they head towards the welcoming cocoon of 100-decibel music and Brazilian models into which they’ll quickly disappear, never to be seen again.
Jennifer's Crisis: Installment #3 (See below for #1-#2)
Lindsay, on the other hand, was cool as a Certified Pesticide-Free cucumber. She had a plan, and if only she’d conveyed it articulately to Jennifer instead of sending emoticon-saturated text messages to her boyfriend, Ryan, she would have saved her best friend (and Theta sister) entire hours of unnecessary angst. You see, while Jennifer was busy on the beach contemplating her Numerology Horoscope from Cosmopolitan and the identity of the “mysterious hunky stranger” mentioned therein, Lindsay was calling Jessica, who went to school with Stacy, who knew Richie, who knew Q’estion, one of the owners of Gynseng. And this fourth-hand tree of knowledge appeared to be bearing fruits in the form of inclusion on Gynseng’s coveted List. Of course, Lindsay knew that even The List wasn’t foolproof. But neither was she, so she could empathize. And by the time she arrived at Sky Bar for our protagonists’ somewhat extended rendition of Happy Hour, she was fairly confident that the evening would survive midday’s crisis intact. Jennifer, however, was now so distraught that she couldn’t even bring herself to smile at the commodities trader who offered to buy her a drink. Exacerbating the situation was Jennifer’s natural aversion to ruffling feathers. Despite several cooking classes at the French Culinary Institute, she found live poultry rather repulsive, even in theory. More importantly, Jennifer didn’t like to be the source of anyone’s discontent, and she feared that Lindsay would take it far too personally if she expressed the full impact of Jared and Adam’s absence on her current state of mind. Thus, the two of them sipped away, oblivious to the miscommunication that hovered between them like a toxic cloud of CK 1. To be continued, and concluded…
Jennifer's Crisis: Installment #2 (See below for #1)
The problem was simple. Without Jared and Adam, there was no guarantee that Jennifer and Lindsay would successfully navigate the velvet rope jungle of Miami’s hottest, most exclusive club, Gynseng. Without Jared and Adam, they were just two more foundation-laden faces in the crowd, two more voices tinged with the lilting patois of a southern Long Island upbringing pleading with bouncers named Ice or Big Stu to gain admittance. Jennifer had grown accustomed to carousing with Jared and Adam, to the subtle glances, to the nods of recognition that allowed her to slip by the envious masses without so much as a moment’s hesitation at the door. She loved tossing her hair and its well-maintained highlights as she waltzed into a club, smirking the way any average person with an over-inflated sense of entitlement and a heady cocktail of alcohol and birth control in her bloodstream would. It made her shudder to think of waiting on line in her 3.5-inch Prada platforms, or even worse, of getting turned away. True, they were two comely females with low cellulite counts and high heels, which certainly improved their chances. But on a holiday weekend like this one, with photos from Jennifer’s vast collection of US Weekly and In Touch back issues materializing into living, breathing creatures all over town, Jennifer could see which way the wind was blowing. And even if she lacked both the literal and metaphorical tools to adequately gauge its velocity, she certainly knew that it could ruin the results of several carefully placed Frizz-Ease spritzes, not to mention half an hour with the straightening iron. This wasn’t good. Consequently, as Jennifer sat at the bar sipping her third $17 Appletini (her favorite species in the “Tini” genus of libations), her anxiety levels began to rise. To be continued...
