Desperate in DC

Little Blue Bliss

Darling P,

Desperation has finally occurred in my attempt to seek diversions in your absence.  Decided hubby might even be entitled to one night of true passion. In order to stay absolutely cutting edge, obtained some little blue pills for him.  Not that he needs them, you understand, but if the twenty-somethings are doing it for grins, why can't we?  And then, as only a quite mixed-up feminist could, I decided I was entitled to take one too.

I think hubby was satisfied enough as he did say something about having the best evening of his life or something like that.  I'm never really sure, however, as he has orgasms in the same quiet way he claims to want to take a bullet--stoically and with dignity.  As I'm not very familiar with those forms of expression, I barely pay attention.

The real issue, of course, is  how it was for me.  I'd like to back up claims they haven't found a "magic bullet" for women b/c, you know, we are all about our feelings and the moment, etc. etc. I think they've got it all wrong.  Every single woman (except those at high risk for a drop dead cardiovascular moment bc you may have one) should try one little blue pill.

Still, today, just now, I feel amazing.  Felt inspired enough, in fact, to make whole grain blueberry pancakes for the cherubs--and you do know how I loathe messy ineffiencies, such as homemade breakfast.  It's a new sensation entirely--as if--and pls don't laugh, I have my very own, well, package.  I now clearly understand why men parade around like peacocks so often, one hand clutched below for no apparent reason at all.  It's amazing to feel one's power far far below the brain. 

Frankly, this experience explains so much to me.  It's why most men have such confidence in their ideas and themselves when they are certainly far less brilliant than the women I know.  With blood flow diverted to a region having nothing to do with one's head, it's nearly impossible not to feel empowered.  So run, don't walk, dearest P, to the nearest Boots and grab your share of the glory.  I think, if we could only slip Hillary a little of this, she could, at last, rule the world.

C.

Re: Little Blue Bliss

Dear C,

So glad to hear you are continuing to drive the forward march for feminism in my absence. In fact, dear C, it sounds like you may have just taken the greatest leap forward in human development since homo erectus took his first step out of Africa. Who knew that thinking with one's penis could leave men with the impression that they are smarter and more competent than women, when in fact any dickhead should be able to tell that this notion is simply laughable. Then again, since when do facts ever matter in life? As every woman knows, it's only impressions that count. Hopefully, this pill will at least level the playing field on that front.

I'm sure it's only a matter of time, of course, before studies come out proving that little blue pills are far more dangerous for women than they are for men. No doubt, they will start with a study that 'proves' it is dangerous for women to take during pregnancy, for fear that labor will become orgasmic (highly dangerous, don't you know), or that  girl babies will be born with beards. Next, there will be talk of college coeds engaging in pill-popping orgies (literally) that will result in a significant drop in their grade point average - no matter if they go on to become President, like so many of our great leaders in the past. The greatest amount of research, of course, will be devoted to a report that solemnly proves a clear corrolation between pill-popping Cougars and heart disease - one that works in reverse correlation with the age of the male participant.

In anticipation of such oprobium, dear C, I propose we start our very own focus group to lobby for a report of our own: one that definitively demonstrates the relationship between the equal sharing of domestic duties, female contentment, and by logical extension, male sexual satisfaction?

By way of research, dear C, may I start by prevailing upon you for a supply of my very own little blue pills?

P.

Summer Blissed?

Dearest P,

I'm certain it's only been 24 hours since you made your hasty exit to London for the month long vacation only Europeans seem able to justify, but I really need your immediate opinion on a matter at home.  You most certainly know my firm belief that people who speak glowingly about children and time spent with them either don't have them or have only a hazy recollection of it.  You also know I have a strong commitment to summer camp for, well, all these reasons.  Why should my life be so radically different when the weather is warmer and the children become less educated by the minute?

That said, I somehow find myself with too many children home too many days this year.  My usually sharp organizational skills seem to find themselves occupied with the transplant of mon pere to the village and I now say, with tears in my eyes, that I am surrounded.  So, today, when teen cherub announced his intent to begin a project, I was thrilled.  It forced him out of bed by 11am and all he asked was that I drive him to a store not very far away so that he could purchase some supplies.  Dutifully, I rounded all those other cherubs in my family I could locate and began the trek northward.

What I failed to discover, having left the details to said son, was the store he desperately longed to enter no longer existed--having only a boarded facade and fading address.  He brightly suggested there was another location and it was "only" about 30 miles away.  As you do know, in DC, thirty miles requires the beltway and traffic and sheer insanity.  Which is why, naturally, I consented immediately as I so admired his tenacity (and mine) in the face of adversity.  This time I did have him call first.

Upon arrival at the store, and more specifically upon ascending the very creaky steps in my perfectly preppy Lacoste sundress, I suddenly awoke from my maternal slumber.  My teen son was intent upon a hydroponics store bc he wanted to build his own greenhouse. In a sudden flash, as I gazed upon the stoners surrounding us, it occurred to me that he must want to grow marijuana.  Remembering  my own parents' obliviousness to the trash can sized bong in my brother's room, I now knew how it could happen.  After all, most of us only want our children to learn to make their way in the world and, most fundamentally, perhaps, leave us alone to lead our own lives.  

You'll be proud to know I maintained my relatively calm demeanor and asked darling son what he intended to do with his grow light.  My sweet youth calmly pulled packets of hulless popcorn and catnip seeds from his pocket and said he really just wanted to know how things grew since he had so little connection to the earth living in the city. 

After I hugged him (we were miles away from home and none of his friends could possibly witness it), I was also a little sad.  Though I certainly didn't want this cherub growing or using marijuana, he has always been a very entrepreneurial kid and I realized that, just maybe, I secretly hoped he was attempting to create a budding empire in his very own bedroom.  Certainly I am not alone in this town for believing that my child has more potential than most but do you think, even by DC standards, I have carried a mother's passion too far?

C. 

Re: Summer Blissed

Dear C,

Wonderful to hear how the green shoots of economic regrowth are sprouting up in the Village in my absence, especially since the talk here in London is all doom and gloom these days, and that's not just when the locals are discussing the weather. May I be the first to place an order for the fruits of eldest cherub's first harvest? Speaking as someone who can barely keep her own children fed and watered, let alone a houseplant, I find it admirable that your son appears to take such a keen interest in horticulture; and even more so, that you would be so willing to drive him to the back of beyond in order to nurture his budding talent. Like me and everyone else in the Village, you must have noticed the strange, jungle-like growth and midnight lights emanating from the garage of our neighbor and renowned conservative columnist; the man who likes to preach the folly of government-sponsored bailouts for GM, while apparently engaging in a little healthy GM crop activity of his own? Surely, it would have been easier and cheaper to ask him to lend a hand to eldest son's admirable engagement in private enterprise, rather than bothering yourself? The latter approach might also have the additional advantage of absolving you of any responsibility, when the Village police call round, as they inevitably will, to inquire whether son has the necessary licensing and permits. I think even our columnist friend would agree that Mother Nature can more easily afford to lose an aspiring member of the local food movement than your father and the remaining cherubs can afford to lose the woman who does everything for them.

P.

Hot and Drunk? Yoga

Darling P,

I am a woman seriously considering a twelve step program.  Only, not really, b/c I just so couldn't do any of the amends stuff with anyone.  But I should.  You may recall that hubby, the cherubs and I were invited to the Country Club to attend fireworks with our generous friends who are members there.  Elder cherubs were actually asked to go as the hired help in order to assist dear friend with her much younger darlings.  Of course I was thrilled--making the cherubs earn their keep is, as you know, one of my not so secret pleasures.

Anyway, things proceeded quite nicely until the rain started to fall.  We were soaked and forced to move inside the CC where things were less warm and hospitable than one might imagine.  Eventually the sheets of rain lightened in intensity and we were able to move back outside.  But, of course, by this time, I had managed to consume at least three quite large cranberry and vodka drinks while watching my children chase after their own school mates they found at the Club, instead of minding their charges. 

Fireworks proceeded in all their glory and my almost teenage cherub actually spent the entire time snuggled in my lap.  With my five year with her grandparents out of town, I realized my elder girl may occasionally need physical affection.  Had another drink to force out thoughts of how often I had denied her same for so many years.

By the time bedtime finally arrived, I was fully convinced my usual 6:15 hot yoga class was still a stunningly good idea.  Once there, however, I realized that the vodka I had drunk just hours b/f might actually still be levelling off.  Not a particularly good fit with the headstand and wheel poses our nubile nineteen year old instructor chose for today.

So, dear P, you can see that your friend is in desperate need of help.  Instead of rehabilitation, however, I'm off to IKEA to furnish same elder daughter's new teenage bedroom.  I think this outing alone may convince me, even after the Excedrin have kicked in, that I should never drink again, or rather, I should never drink cheap vodka at the CC again. I think I can manage that far more successfully than a lifetime of sobriety.  Maybe.

C.

Re: Hot and Drunk? Yoga

Dear C,

Can't say I have attempted yoga after one too many, mainly because I would never dream of getting up at 5.45 a.m. after a going on a bender, but I do know the vodka and cranberry concoctions at the Club well. In general, I find they only improve my tennis game - or at least my perception of it - and they do lend a certain surreal feel to post-match drinks overlooking the putting green, which will often appear to levitate, after you've imbibed a few. The Club Cosmo is also the only way to survive the post match dinner in the Club dining room. How else could one stand to eat shrimp cocktail and prime rib (yet again) with Biffy, Muffin and Biggles, et al, while still dressed in sweaty tennis whites and shivering in the A/C?

But surely, dear C, the true test of the Club Cosmo's efficacy is its ability to persuade you to go through with your plans to hop in the family minivan and enjoy a fun day out at Ikea. Anyone lucky enough to have enjoyed this experience en famille will know that no-one in their right mind would attempt to embark on a journey that can only result in blood, sweat and the end of your marriage, after you attempt to maneuver Boxes 1, 2 and three into a car that's already teeming with cherubs. And that's even before you attempt to assemble your purchases, and discover that hubby failed to pick up Box number 4. Perhaps Ikea should sell Club Cosmos to go, along with their Swedish meatballs? Isn't that what they mean about drinking responsibly?

P.