Desperate in DC

Le Malade Imaginaire?

Dearest C,

Thank you so much for largesse in allowing me and mine to dip our toes in your newly-heated pool this past weekend. No doubt, you noticed the bailiffs at our door the other day, ripping the gameboy out of my eldest's arms, and decided to take pity on your neighbors in their hour of financial distress. Just used the last of the our savings to pay for this month's mortgage, while we wait for fame and fortune to befall the obc and his fabulous gizmo, but it's quite all right - the doctors say our youngest may not need her leg operation for years!

In the meantime, I hope our example will serve as one of those all-important life lessons you so like to impart to your cherubs on just what happens to men and women who don't marry for money - and don't realize it until far, far too late. In your case, of course, dear C, you have always most sensibly gone for professional men when it comes to husbands, which explains how you are so kindly able to pass on your old garden recliners to yours truly, upon hearing we had recently been forced to take up sleeping on the floor.

BTW, just in case you are wondering, the ring-shaped red welts you no doubt spotted peeking out from under my bathing dress are not the latest manifestation of crop rings, nor the result of the oldballandchain resting his coffee mug on my backside one too many times. Believe it or not, they are the modern equivalent of leeching, as practiced by my acupuncturist, who assures me in perfect Mandarin that my imaginary ailments can be cured by the singular act of placing red hot suction cups on my ass. I have no idea if they are working, but I can't tell you how much I look forward to my bi-weekly sessions - so much so that I am thinking of selling the last of my children's baby pictures in order to up them to three times a week!

Bottoms up!

P.

Re: Le Malade Imaginaire?

P,

You can imagine my shock and surprise at hearing about your latest misfortunes, especially considering the recent sum you dropped at Urban Chic for that fabulous pair of blue jeans.  My own mother might suggest that such failure to conserve one's assets results in a well-deserved fall from grace, but I like to think it's really more important that your well-embroidered ass looks good while you're bumping along skid row.  Little did I know you've managed to cover all your bases in that regard--if the pants must go, the signs of acupuncture should act much like a designer emblem once did.

If it's only status you are seeking, however, I think you must consider purchasing a small plunger at the local Strosneiders.  As I discovered, quite accidentally in an encounter with my own plumbing, said marks can be had for much less expenditure of resources.  I do suppose I must start letting you in on my "fake it instead of make it" secrets as I fear my own fortunes, though appearing promising at the moment, seem to rest upon a man who, though dearly loved by most of his children, seems able to make huge sums of money for clients that translates into very little for us.  How unethical is that?

In the meantime, please don't worry about any of us, including R, exposing your dirty little secret.  I think it may instead be more appropriate to start a "Poor Little Mothers in the 'Hood" support group, an elite trifecta living steps from Gucci who are never included in their premiere events.  How many others like us are there, and how can we ensure those among us who have great riches are, at the very least, truly miserable?  All important agenda items for our monthly meetings which must, at the very least, include copious amounts of alcohol--at least enough for us to lure you into giving us a good look at that embellished rear end.

Faithfully,

C.

Your Greatest Supporter

P,

I was most distressed to learn that your orthopedic surgery visits have still failed to diagnosis what we have known all along: there is definitely something wrong with you.  I am frankly quite surprised as my previous involvement with a professional in this field, albeit more of a marriage than an appointment, reinforced that specialty's motto: If they can't cut you up, you aren't their type.  It's hard to believe he didn't manage to schedule you for at least one exploratory surgery--even if it was only intended to remove your heart and soul.

I am, perhaps, more concerned, however, by the conclusions resulting from said visit: you need to honor what your body is telling you and avoid spicy food and alcohol.  Dare I suggest this offers very little chance of happiness in your future, besides, if I may speak frankly, when you occasionally encounter your dearest godchild, also known as my youngest daughter.  I don't mean to infer that your focus upon your needs recently has in any way interfered with that most important relationship, but imagine my surprise when I found out your own eldest had strep throat and had just nearly french kissed my most precious one.  Much like a decades old belief in exposure as the best medicine (think chicken pox b/f it too was banned by medical authorities), I'm inclined to drop dearest one on your doorstep for the inevitable onslaught of bacterial hell.  Even though it was only an exchange of gifts which precipitated the contact, I must confess my personal disappointment in the matter.  Can you imagine what it means for my own schedule if my baby is sick?

It seems I've become quite excited by this cathartic missive and can't seem to remember why I began it at all.  Anyway, it's really more important to focus upon me and mine, isn't it?  Seems my cherub's orthodontist delivered a couple dozen roses to me today upon our now weekly visit.  Either his wife has stunning business acumen, or he is intent upon engaging one or another of we mothers in a messy affair.  As I choose to imagine the latter, I will quickly pass along his contact info, and hope you will soon find yourself in his grateful embrace as I am nearly certain that your current state of malaise results from the oldballandchain failing to meet all of your most important needs.  I hope you will quickly dispose of your female orthodontist and at least consider a retainer of your own.

Faithfully,

C.   

Re: Your Greatest Supporter

Dearest C,

Wait a minute - there was a hubby before hubby?! Did he die in a horror jet-ski accident before being miraculously coming back to life and marrying your evil step-sister who secretly gave birth to you in a cave and is therefore, unbeknownst to you, your biological mom?

While I admire how you choose to save such revelations for choice moments, dear C, I cannot help but feel a little hurt that you did not choose to confide this essential information to me earlier. I may have unjustly acquired the reputation for blurting out other people's deepest secrets at the drop of a Cosmo (or any kind of alcohol) but rest assured, I would never breathe a word to Number 2, as I feel I must refer to current hubby from now on, for fear that it may lead him to entertain dark thoughts about the paternity of 'his' children.

Come to think of it, while there can be no doubt about the swarthy origins of your middle two cherubs, when it comes to both the oldest and youngest, one cannot help but remark on the startling presence of golden curls. Forgive me for saying this, dear C, but isn't your own fairness a rather recent phenomemon?

Don't worry, I won't breathe a word - at least while I'm sober, which I fully intend on remaining, as part of my new health regimen. Of course, there is the little matter of dinner at the new Indian tomorrow night, but I fully intend to stick to Naan bread, and maybe a little boiled rice. Far be it from me to risk the break up of such an idyllic home - or worse, the revelation for hubby that the woman he married is not the blonde he thought she was - for the sake of a few beers and a plate of their (reportedly, delicious) murgh tikka masala.

Mum's the word,

P.

Out to lunch?

Dear C,

Ever have one of those days where you find yourself drowning in the minutiae of life? I was feeling so proud of myself for canceling 10AM meeting to discuss the burning issue of what to do for the end of year second grade party, only to spend the rest of the morning trading emails back and forth on the subject. No sooner had I sent off the first amendment to the fifth draft on the matter, when I was bombarded with emails from the girls' camp counsellor, demanding receipt of their complete medical records, including Apgar scores, developmental milestones and an account of every bowel movement they have had since birth. The final nail in the coffin, inevitably, came in the form of a missive from my father, asking for the eighth time whether or not I had tracked down the missing screw from his spectacles yet. This from the man who refuses to bother the oldballandchain at work, because he is apparently far too busy catching up with Celebrity Poker to deal with such mundane requests!

As I know you frequently find yourself attending to such matters instead, say, of attending to the pool boy, I believe the time has come, dear C, for you and I to fight back. An official title and a PA to announce we are permanently out to lunch and I think we would finally garner some of the respect that tending to one's family simply never garners. Are you in?

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Out to Lunch?

P,

Your approach, although filled with excruciating earnestness, won't get us much more than a little disdain in D.C.  I find it far better to simply focus on matters we find most pressing, like doing anything the summer camp counselor requests, as one's summer spa visits are especially important for aging skin, and ignoring, well, almost everything else. 

Never doubt, dearest P, there is always another mother, and almost never a father, willing to consider the pros and cons of the much complained about teacher's end of year gift and other such pressing concerns.  There are even some, I fear, who derive a sense of ego gratification from such tasks.  My advice when you find yourself immersed by accident, is to simply either offend all others involved (I wrote the manual on this so don't hesitate to ask for specific examples), or simply don't respond at all. 

Early on in your absence the brood will cluck about your whereabouts and perhaps even inquire about your health (something I know you love to discuss so this will require some restraint).  Simply ignore all calls and emails and, eventually, you will be forgotten.  Totally.  And completely.

I know it is hard for you to imagine there are those who have such a sucking void in their lives that they agree to help on useless and unimportant matters to fill it and then instantly regret participation when effort is required.  I know, like me, you'd like to avoid all effort from the beginning and simply try to numb the void with alcohol. 

My point, dearest P, is that all this may require some patronizing tones and stares, but who, in the end, has the last laugh: the hens scurrying around to do others' bidding or us, as we lounge by the pool sipping pina coladas and reading trashy chick lit, crowing about our children and their budding independence?  They may later define it differently, but that is all for their therapists to bear, now isn't it?

Faithfully,

C. 

The Real Mother in My House

P,

As the mother-in-law was visiting this weekend, I took the opportunity to take her to lunch today for her Mother's Day gift.  I think the real present was my sincere expression of gratitude for helping her son become the man I love today--or most days, anyway.  What I failed to mention are the times I pejoratively call him by his mother's nickname and accuse him of taking her dark side to an extreme. 

You may not know that my mother-in-law and hubby are obsessed with tradition--you know, family habits that no one enjoyed the first time but must be replayed endlessly so they may be recounted in therapy later.  I prefer to set aside tradition and spend endless holidays in a morose and despairing state, roused only by a strong cosmopolitan. 

I'm fairly certain my way is better only b/c it prepares my children for all the failed expectation soon to follow in their lives.  Innocence and fun really only offer the naive the belief that things may turn out o.k. in the end.  Why not offer them a taste of reality while young and impressionable so they may be sent into the world cynical and slightly soured on life.  It seems, dearest P, that anything good that happens after that is only icing on the cake, right? 

Do tell me, P, if anything I've suggested is off base.  I'm headed right now to tell the cherubs dinner is canceled and they must forage for their meal.  Oh, won't they appreciate me more tomorrow night when I put any old thing on the table?

Faithfully,

C.

Re: The Real Mother in My House

Dear C,

Funny, 'cos the first time I met your mother-in-law, I thought she actually was hubby in a leisure suit and a tan..........Seriously though, while the Spartans may have approved of your hard-knocks school of parenting, I'm afraid I can't. Ingenious though it may be to teach your youngest to fend for herself by pan-handling outside the metro, I can't help but wonder how your educational consultant is going to be able to write up such skills in her application to private school. As for your elder daughter, the memory of how she hauled off and punched her big brother in the face, giving him a bloody nose, is one I will treasure forever, but do you really think she will be able to apply such life lessons during the course of an existence which, one trusts, will be spent a la Angelina Jolie, dispensing acts of charity and ordering around the help?

For my part, I cherish the innocent years of my daughters' youth, as they skip through the sunlit meadows of childhood, blissfully ignorant of all the hunger, poverty and wretchedness in the world . By which, I mean, of course, that for unfortunate public school types like themselves, it's probably the only time in their lives they can remain oblivious to the fact that the world is filled with people who are far richer, better-looking, and (worst of all) thinner than themselves.

Faithfully,

P.

Forty Love?

Dear C,

I believe I know the tennis-playing doyenne of whom you speak? Looks like Anna Kournikove from behind, all bronzed limbs and bouncing blond curls, but with a face like George Burns when you get close up? To be fair, I have not verified this last fact for myself, but we'll stick to this story for the oldballandchain's sake.

If she is the woman I am thinking of, then I believe she likes to tout her ball-playing skills on the local courts as a pro - and I use the term advisedly - as I see her there all the time tossing balls into the air before smacking them, more often than not, resoundingly into the net. Needless to say, this demonstrable lack of any skill has impeded her business not one iota, judging by the steady stream of boys to men lining up to pay hundreds of dollars an hour to put her to work on their own feeble shots. Can't say I've noticed any improvement among her students, as a result, but you should see the chaos one glimpse of her meaty thighs wreaks among the ongoing games on other courts.

My point is, dear C, that you can never judge a book by its cover. A woman who appears to be a member of the idle classes - much like our good selves, some would say - may in reality turn out to be an honest working girl whose need for a nanny is a necessity, not an indulgence - not to mention one of those blondes who look good only so long as you never attempt an approaching shot.

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Forty Love?

P,

Alas, the woman I speak of is not only beautiful in the face but also a brunette, so, I assume, she will also age quite well.  I've also discovered she is not, as I imagined, a second wife, bound to the children only by a step-mother's obligation, but has a husband nearly her age and actually bore his young.  Oh, the injustice that exists in this world.  It is truly, I think, our cross to bear, P, that we are forced to notice such inequities. 

Faithfully,

C.