Desperate in DC

New Year's and Other Obamanations

Dear C,

Glad to see you have come back to life, full of your usual vim and vigor after the trials of a week in Montego Bay. My own exile here in Florida continues through the weekend, but the good news is that as we know absolutely no-one down here, there is no obligation to celebrate the New Year. Actually, that's not quite true: there is a  couple we play tennis with down here, but they seem if anything keener to avoid us than we are to avoid them. Always shocked and a little miffed when people I can't be bothered to see apparently feel the same way about me, but I find it's best not to dwell on such matters, don't you?

Congratulations on getting your youngest cherub into gymnastics camp. Whatever it took, I am sure it was worth it, as I gather you can actually win a gymnastics Fullbright for college these days. If only they had one for eating, my entire immediate family and I would be scholars too. After all, how many families can boast of being able to eat one meal while simultaneiously reminiscing about great meals past, or planning for the next? As a matter of fact, my one regret about voting for Obama is that the man apparently likes to fast on Sundays and eats protein bars washed down with iced tea for breakast. And this is the 90lb weakling I'm trusting with his finger on the trigger? Thank God for Michelle and her real food-loving rump, for bringing some much needed gravitas back to the White House.

Wish I had the solution to eldest son's 7-times a day bathing habit, but I trust that the communal cold showers at his boarding school will rapidly cure him of that. Either that, or he may be forced to seek the comfort of strangers in public bathrooms for the rest of his adult life, but it's all good character-building stuff, right? Do hope his New Year's Eve celebrations go well, and that if you confiscate any good stuff from his friends' backpacks, you'll be wiling to share.

Off to embrace my God given right as a forty year old to eschew occasions of forced jollity. Plan is to celebrate the New Year by staying in to watch a movie, then lights out by 10pm. If only we had a dime bag or two of pesto to mark the occasion, life would be perfect.

Happy 2009!

P.

RE: New Year's and Other Obamanations

Dearest P,

As we discussed earlier today, your constant correspondence from your forced retreat is really no more oppressive to me than any of my many other urgent obligations.  Although the children may suffer for it, you certainly know the ways I try to compensate for any time I must take my family's ever- present demands.  Although my preparations for the inauguration continues unabated (much like eldest son's showers), I fear my priorities fall short of those DC insiders jostling each other for the best view of Obama's right hand on the Koran (ooh, sorry, Bible).  Although I started the day with a sense of high-minded purpose, I fear I've fallen into a trap from which many midwestern housewives never recover: the trip to Target.

It all started innocently enough: the advertisement for the cubicle with bins at a hefty discount and a desire to hide youngest cherub's toys from all those fancy houseguests we soon expect to fill our humble abode.  Sadly, although it all began with a clear purpose, I was inevitably distracted by all the other bargains which I  knew would make my life, if not simpler, certainly more perfect.  Also had two cherubs with me on the occasion which meant not a single solitary complete thought was ever allowed to work its way through to my conscious mind.  So, naturally,  I ended the day with a second trip to said store to return the mistakes and purchase additional appropriate additions to the cubicle that I had neglected to notice the first time.

The point of all this, dearest P, is simply to suggest the measure of a life is certainly in the details.  Although my dear housekeeper stoically assembled all necessary parts of cubicle, I once again failed to take the giant strides in one day that I really feel I must in keeping with the progress we all expect now for the country.  Perhaps, like Obama, l will take to skipping meals and ingesting protein bars but I doubt it as I did manage to have a terrific little Vietnamese Pho in between all that ragged running.  I did, however, think about offering to bring some back next time for the housekeeper.  That is, I think, a real measure of progress to which I will cling quite proudly. 

C.

Thank God It's Raining

Dear C,

Could your vacation ennui be catching? No sooner did you return to the Village than we departed for the in-laws' country club in Florida, where the sun persists in shining and it's fried shrimp and prime rib on the menu everyday for the rest of your life. Even the landscape has been clipped, sprayed and tamed to within an inch of its life - that is, the part that hasn't already been turned into a golf course or strip mall. Even the people replenishing the free Tampax in the ladies' bathroom at the gym are white.

You'd think being surrounded by such orderly perfection would be relaxing, since everything has already been done for you, from picking up litter, to providing umbrellas, drinks and towels at the beach pool. So why do I feel like putting the pedal to the metal and driving the golf cart (at 15mph, no less) into the nearest alligator-infested swamp?

Could it be that you and I are just true contrarians at heart, or do we just have no idea how good we have it? All I know is that I can't wait to head back to the freezing north, and share a hot and spicy meal of dubious origin served in some sweaty ethnic dive located in some blasted corner of downtown DC. In the meantime, I guess I'll just have to make do with a hot and sweaty oldballandchain, as he returns from his daily workout on the tennis courts.

At least it's started to rain.

P.

RE: Thank God It's Raining

Dearest P,

I can only confess that hearing you excited about the oldballandchain's sweaty self is enough to know how deeply disturbing the whole Everglades experience must be for you.  It seems your entire value system has been set askew.  Worry not, however, as I want to assure you that returning to the 'hood has brought with it an entirely new set of urgent tribulations. 

Can you believe I had to pretend to offer access to the new President in order to get youngest into a three hour gymnatics camp this week?  Nearly didn't work as there are so many desperate DC parents without suitable childcare during a time that spending precious hours planning for the inaugural is obviously de rigeur.  And by planning, obviously, I mean posting one's home at inauguralhomes.com for the maximum amount of tuition dollars to be gained.

And really, how can I be expected to get the house ready for guests when my housekeeper was more than a full hour late today b/c of a some sort of medically urgent scenario?  At least she arrived in time to wash a load of clothing b/f my teenage son returned to the shower for his seventh clothing change of the day.  I wish I could believe it was his own sweaty tennis escapades that sent him there each time. 

You will be pleased to know it is only your culinary expertise that keeps me sane.  I have decided to save your remarkable pesto (storged per your fantastically futuristic food storage system: baggies in the freezer) for New Year's Eve.  I know it's hard to imagine but hubby and I have no real plans for the evening.  Teenage son has asked to have a small soiree that night but systematically checking backpacks upon entry and permitting friends to enter and exit the house only one time per night don't equal the kind of fete I imagined.  However, rather than complain bitterly, I will save the whining for after the event and simply anticipate the garlic and basil combined on my willing palate at some point in the evening.  For this, I am eternally grateful and know you too will return home soon enough in order to reach your cuisinart and its miraculous powers.  Now only if you had a solution to those too frequent showers my darling eldest takes, I would post the house at a price high enough to fund tuition for your cherubs too.

C.

Jamaica Me Crazy

Dearest P,

I know this Christmas journey was my idea.  Or rather hubby's grand plan, which I supported in the interests of avoiding the holiday at home.  Escape all that fa la la la la nonsense and such.  But here we are, back at the lovely resort we visited in March and I feel much like Bill Murray must have in his break-out role in Groundhog Day.  Rise and shine, breakfast, exercise, sun oneself, cocktails by 11(am--oops that's my new routine starting today), etc. etc. etc.  Who else but moi would ungratefully accept the hospitality of two nannies, fabulous scuba for the teens and a cleaning crew to get me through the day?  So, in no particular order are my list of teeny tiny little grievances:

1) No hot water.  Assume no further explanation required.

2) Allergic reaction causing face to swell like a balloon and noticed by no one else--apparently my family thinks I look like this all the time?  Mega doses of allegra and prednisone seem to alleviate a few symptoms but fear my dry scaly face may now join the rest of my bloated outer self for all eternity;

3) Activities director WAAAY too enthusiastic about possibility that I will know answers to trivia questions.  Already managed to lift his bottle of rum so have no need whatsoever for his presence in my life;

4) Too many pre-teen girls reading novels called "Model," while I grieve their lost youth and my own ancient feminist leanings;

5) Several families here for the 7th time extolling the virtues of Groundhog Day and explaining how content their children, spouses and annoyingly perkey selves are to be here;

My only hope is that I can help with your recent SOS.  Seems to me the only mistake your are making in battling the Oldballandchain about who does the dishes dishes is in degrees of subtly.  If I may be so bold as to suggest you simply need to take your battle underground to drive the OBC fucking crazy, I sincerely believe the children need not wake up crying about Mommy and Daddy fighting again in the middle of the night. 

First, and this is a trick, you should briefly overwhelm your own darling cherubs with attention--what do they want to do, eat, play etc.  Don't worry, it shouldn't last more than a few hours before they tire of you as they are so completely unused to this behavior.  In the meantime, do nothing overtly concerning the OBC's bad behavior--simply ignore him.  When he suggests a problem, muster all the self-righteousness you can manage (and I know it's a lot) and inform him that you are simply tending the needs of the family.  Later, when asked about dinner, laugh sweetly and mention your plans for heading out--with the children if it comes to that.  A single day of this, my sweet, and the man will be begging to scrub out your sink, I promise.  I fear the OBC has you in such a state b/c he knows you ultimately seek to please--a quite nice trait in a friend but deadly in a marriage.  Startle him out of this routine and I trust his most precious parts will soon be back in your clutches--to be stored in your purse or the refrigerator as you see fit.

Off to find that activities director.  Fear my greatest pleasure this week may be hiding his props while taking swigs from that bottle I mentioned.  Fa la la la la la la la la.

C.

Re: Jamaica Me Crazy

Dear C,

Thank you for your kind words of support and advice on how to deal with the oldballandchain. Must say, your recipe for guerilla warfare does sound devious in the extreme, and may actually require me to transplant myself to Jamaica with the twins immediately, in order to implement stage one of The Plan. May I borrow one or two of your nannies for the duration, as it's been years since I actively engaged with my children and I find it's generally better to ease back into such things? Once I have their full and undivided attention, I am quite sure, as you say, that the oldballandchain will quickly fall into line. Either that or the three of them may prefer to move house in the middle of the night, in which case I'd be sure to pursue them - in a year or two, you understand.

So sorry to hear that your return to the same carribbean resort for the second time in less than a year has turned into Paradise Lost. I know that some people might judge you for whining about the lack of hot water and oppressive requirement to have fun in what sounds, on the surface, like a tropical heaven, but believe me,  I have been there, done it, and even have the Jamaican relatives (legacy of a holiday romance) to prove it.

It may sound wonderful to have two nannies, a maid and a scuba instructor attending to one's every need (of which I know we have many), but in my experience, at least, it is done with such a palpable air of resentment that one almost feels one would be better off doing everything oneself. Note the word 'almost'. Much as I like to boast of my toilet-cleaning credentials, it's not a skill I plan to revive any time soon, even as the inevitable financial apocalypse looms. Thank God my housekeeper here in the Village doesn't speak English and appears not to have read Marx.

As for the oppressive requirement to frolic and have fun, I'm afraid you and I simply weren't designed for the season of good will, dear C. Our strength appears to lie in dealing with humdrum routine: calling the plumber; getting the cherubs' teeth cleaned; religiously attending our twice weekly Reformer's PIlates' class (and people say we lack faith!). Our shining moment comes in remembering to call our mother-in-laws on their birthdays, even it is through gritted teeth, and renewing our alarm permits with the Village Hall once a year, even if they can't be bothered to keep a record of such transactions.

All this goes by largely unappreciated by our nearest and dearest, let alone the wider world, which is why we end up picking fights over who does more dishes and why the oldballandchain probably insists on getting me the same new bathrobe every Christmas, rather than the Prada pumps whose specifications I basically tattooed onto his forehead the other day.

But rest assured, dear C. I notice and appreciate all that you do, and know that once December 26 rolls around, you and I will rise again. In the meantime, my friend, have that waiter bring you another margarita and allow me  to raise a toast to you and yours as you languish on the beach.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good fight!

P.

Secrets Where the Sun Don't Shine?

Dear C,

Seems our delightful friend, R, has a wild side, as I discovered to my surprise at lunch the other day. She asked to meet downtown after her 'appointment', which I assumed, judging by her discretion in the matter, involved some kind of cosmetic or elective surgical procedure. Naturally, I scanned her complexion for signs of chemical or biological warfare, but R looked much the same as she always does, like a wholesome college freshman before her first kegger or lesbian tryst. It was only when she reached up to call the waiter that I noticed the telltale patch of gauze peeking out from the waistband or her (size 25) low-slung jeans. Naturally, I commented on how well she looked - positively glowing in fact, which was true, but as we know also happens to be a euphemism for 'how did you manage to lose so much weight/acquire that spectacular bosom overnight?' - at which point, R promptly cracked and 'fessed up. It appears, dear C, that while you and I have been harboring fantasies of finding the perfect washing machine or back massager that we can pass off to the children as such, R has been scouring the mean streets of downtown DC for a tattoo parlor where she can celebrate her impending fortieth birthday by turning her body into a work of art. As a result, she now sports a striking autograph of her husband's name right above the area that I personally would prefer to have sucked out of my body and banished to a vat of fat.

Quite apart from the disturbing level of confidence she is displaying in her own, not to mention her husband's affections, I simply cannot imagine what possessed the woman to engage in behavior that leaves such permanent results. Could it be that she is planning a tummy tuck down the road, or has she simply come to the realization that our bodies are going to hell anyway, so you might as well do something that gives you, and the mortician who preps you for the afterlife, a cheap thrill on the way out?

P.

Re: Secrets Where the Sun Don't Shine

Dearest P,

As much as I'd like to celebrate R's courage, I now feel the need to confess my own narcissistic obsession with beauty details.  While her feat can potentially be viewed as a radical empowerment of her own slightly aging self, I fear I made a cosmetic decision that may keep me from any additional intimate relationships if hubby decides to cast me into the darkness. 

You see, my friend, I took elective laser hair removal to its less than obvious conclusion and now sport so little hair "down there" that I may not ever be fit company for anyone who has reached puberty.  Worse yet, I think I require one more treatment for my dear little "pussy cat" to avoid looking like someone suffering the aftereffects of chemotherapy or radiation.  Oh sure, she's sleek and beach ready but do you think any man other than hubby is really into this scene? 

I suppose, in some ways, R has a similar predicament--how many men named Horace are there who might appreciate his name stamped on her all too sleek hipbone?  Perhaps both of us, while seeking female liberation, really only managed to once again shackle ourselves further to the demands of the patriarchy we so long to escape.  Or, maybe, and perhaps more rationally, it's just one more way we can blame the loves of our lives for oppressing us in ways they never could have imagined. 

C.