To: dmoss@whitehouse.gov
From: jlyman@whitehouse.gov
Date: Sat Feb 10, 2001 4:00 PM
Subject: EMERGENCY!
I thought you were kidding when you said the Secret
Service wouldn’t let me in the building. I went in
this morning (just to pick up some files, not to work,
you harpy) but they denied me access. Are you and Leo
in cahoots?
I resent your implications of last night that I can’t
enjoy myself in my free time. I enjoy myself plenty.
In fact, today I sat on my couch and watched
television. All day. I was the epitome of relaxation.
Until I turned the channel to CNN, that is. I told
them that Nelson’s interview was going to be a thing,
but did anyone listen? Oh no. I called CJ to gloat,
but she hung up on me. I think they gave us that
vacation just to get rid of me.
So, how was your flight? Everything okay? How’s Uncle
Vito?
Josh
*******************************************************
To: jlyman@whitehouse.gov
From: dmoss@whitehouse.gov
Date: Sat Feb 10, 2001 4:16 PM
Subject: Re: EMERGENCY!
I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but apparently I
need to control your ego even during my vacation. As I
remember it, *you* were the one who insisted that
Nelson’s interview wasn’t a big deal. CJ told you it
would be thing. I guess it’s good that she’s there and
you’re at home.
As for Leo and I being in cahoots, I can only tell you
that he is a very trusty ally. It helps to know people
in power. <grin>
Anyway, I’m glad someone’s enjoying themselves. I’ve
been home for two hours and already I’m huddled in the
linen closet with my laptop, hoping no one will hear
me typing. Ah, the joys of family. My flight was fine.
Not as comfortable as Air Force One, granted, but not
too bad for coach. Maybe if a certain someone paid me
more I could afford First Class, or at least extra
peanuts.
Uncle Vito sends his love.
Donna
Postscript: You must have been so distracted by your
‘EMERGENCY’ that you forgot to mention what it was
exactly.
*******************************************************
To: dmoss@whitehouse.gov
From: jlyman@whitehouse.gov
Date: Sat Feb 10 5:48 PM
Subject: Huddling?
Why on earth are you huddling in the linen closet? I
understand that family can be frightening, but what’s
so dreadful that it necessitates burying yourself
among old sheets and bath towels?
Come to think of it, you said last night that your
family hates me, something I simply cannot fathom. Are
they giving you grief about your job and my splendid
self? I can have the President send them a letter if
you want. You know, just a little something to let
them know that their daughter works for the most
powerful man in the free world. Not only that, but she
works for the President of the United States as well.
Heh heh.
Seriously, what’s up?
Josh
P.S. What emergency? I didn’t say anything about an
emergency.
*******************************************************
To: jlyman@whitehouse.gov
From: dmoss@whitehouse.gov
Date: Sat Feb 10 5:54 PM
Subject: Huddling? Did I say huddling?
You know how sometimes I get stuck on a subject and
just won’t let it go? How I bring it up every few
minutes, eventually driving people to the brink of
insanity? (Yo Yo Ma Rules!)
Well, take that and multiply it by a hundred and you
have my mother. It doesn’t matter that I have a
somewhat prestigious job and that I love every moment
of it (wipe that smirk off your face, it has nothing
to do with you) she considers it a waste because I
haven’t found the perfect husband yet. As far she’s
concerned, every second I squander at work would be
better spent hunting for a wealthy husband (a doctor
or a lawyer would be preferable, most definitely NOT a
politician).
Needless to say, the linen closet is a peaceful
alternative. We’re about to have dinner (which in this
household is a formal affair) so I’d better run if I
don’t want to be stuck sitting next to my great aunt,
who taught my mother everything she knows.
Stop worrying and go out and have some fun. Call Sam
and see if he wants to go out. No drinking, though. My
roommate is under orders to call the police if you
show up at our doorstep.
Suffocating happily under a pile of old, pungent
pillow covers,
Donna