Desperate in DC

If a Tree Falls in the Village.......Will Anyone Hear it Over the Sound of my Twins?

Dear C,

So glad the twins came in useful being tethered to the endangered tree in your front yard and forced to sing (alright, yell) for their supper, until you finally took pity on them and took time out from your precious cocktail hour to bring them a plate of canapes. I could hear their cries of 'Death to the Tree-Killers!' from down the street, which was certainly an improvement upon having to listen to their sweet but incessant chatter around the house while in a fragile, jet-lagged state after our return from London yesterday. I do hope it also has the requisite effect of shaming the Village into sparing (or at least paying for) the destruction of the pox-ridden Elm on your front lawn.

As you can personally attest, the twins do have an alarming level of self-belief in the inherent interest of whatever it is they have to say, which can be endearing only to one's own blood relatives (and frankly, not even them). Unfortunately, my girls seem to be suffering under the illusion that you too might be fascinated to learn of the mating habits of the smaller primates, which I take to be testimony to your obvious maternal abilities. My girls seem to have mistaken you for their mother, or at least someone who cares, which we both know are not necessarily one and the same thing.

Given that you are so good at listening (or faking it), would you perhaps consider doing the same for the oldballandchain? I promise this job involves nothing more than asking him to remind you what he does for a living, then sitting back and nodding while mentally engaged in something else entirely - what you are going to have for dinner, say, or whether or not that fabulous little black Lacoste dress of yours also comes in pink. Rest assured, the OBC will never guess you are not on the edge of your seat, and he may well express his undying devotion on the strength of this attention, since Lord knows he gets precious little of it at home. Whether or not this is something you might want is a different matter, of course, but I promise to reciprocate by faking it with hubby some day soon.

P.

RE: If A Tree Falls in the Village....Will Anyone Hear it Over the Sound of My Twins

Dearest P,

I'm so glad not to have offended you with an honest dialogue about your treasured children who are, I assure you, no more challenging than my own darlings. I feel privileged to have a dear friend with whom such insights can be shared.  As is always too clear, in our little Village, it can sometimes seem that every child is more gifted than the next and it is always a surprise when they must, as young adults, be constantly shored up by those bulky trust funds.  Alas, I do suppose a work ethic is different than enormous potential.  Only wish I could provide more of all of it to my own.

In any case, your delightful daughters served their purpose well and I am grateful.  As far as the obc is concerned, however, since I have found servicing for my computer needs elsewhere, I have found little reason to ply him with my charming side--yes, occasionally I can muster one--of late.  This may be why he acknowledges me with little more than a snarl these days although since it's much the same with hubby, I've really barely noticed. 

Promise to make a better effort soon--at least with yours if not mine.  I do know all too well the consequences of a misplaced smile and am, after all, a little wary.  Can end up losing an entire afternoon tethered to a headboard all b/c I told hubby the hair gel he's now using is rather fetching. I can only hope the obc will only want to tether himself to my failing laptop until similar circumstances as I really can't imagine having the time to manage even my dearest friend's marital obligations too.

C.

Big Game Hunting in the Little Leagues

Dear C,

As your youngest cherub's year of pre-school at the local Village Elementary draws to a close, I wonder if you have had the fortune to become acquainted with Socially Ambitious Mom, the woman who never ceases to glance over your shoulder to find someone better to talk to? Over the course of our seven years together at said school, I have become used to her ditching me mid-sentence to schmooze with Alpha Mom or Dad with the Biggest Portfolio. I have endured awkward moments in the hallways, after my cheery Hellos and Goodbyes are met with a blank stare - or at best an inquiry to remind her, yet again, of my name. And I have stepped aside - literally - as she made a beeline for Teacher during the course of school field trips, presumably in the hopes by shining the apple herself, she would be nudging her child's scores up a grade or two (not that their child would need this, of course, being naturally a gifted, straight A student from the moment they took the Apgars).

But then something changed. My twins slowly inched their way up the social totem pole in their own right, and lo and behold, Socially Ambitious Mom became friendly. Suddenly, there were invitations to birthday parties, Sky boxes and exclusive book clubs. Thankfully, however, just as I was about to ditch you forever, dear C, and declare SAM my new BFF, she withdrew an invitation to a dinner party she was hosting as an early celebration for MY FORTIETH BIRTHDAY in favor of attending the recent Washington National Opera Ball with Billionaire Dad (aka, the dick with the good fortune to sell his company just before the credit crash) and his Long-Suffering Mate.

It's good to know that a cougar never really changes her spots.

P.

RE: Big Game Hunting in the Little Leagues

Dearest P,

I entirely sympathize with your plight but must take issue with your characterization as I may, perhaps, fall firmly into the category of the mother you describe.  But not on behalf of my children.  Rather than wasting ambition on my young, I find myself attempting connections just for me. Actually find it rather difficult to disparage those who are paying attention in a meaningful way to their offspring and not just dipping a toe when the mood suits, as I have no idea how they have either the attention span or endurance it requires.

Since you know I am loathe to sling arrows, I will confess my own indiscretion just today: rather than take the opportunity to attend youngest cherub's ice cream party, I enjoyed a little self-pleasuring. You guessed it, I went shoe shopping.  And believe me, I truly treasure the opportunity to show same child the new pair of heels that have transformed her mother's life: all black, all heel and the ones that make mama feel like a million bucks.

Now, having told on myself, I fully own the possibility that other mothers, present for the hot sticky teacher thanking morass they dutifully call "quality time," deserve to be the favorites of nearly everyone in the universe.  As I have occasionally done such duty, I'd like to be regarded as a hero (but how many women ever are, really?) 

Even so, I would not give up one single second of my day to be so designated.  Frankly, dearest P, what have any other mothers, or their teachers, done for me lately?  On the hand, I can only begin to describe how much I love those shoes and, more to the point, what I imagine could begin to be done in them...I know my daughter will, one day, fully approve.  At least a mother like me can hope for it.

C.

Obama in the Hood

Dearest P,

I'm still trembling from my near miss with the President-Elect just last night.  Sadly, I wasn't included in that fab dinner invite just a few streets over where the leader of the free world rested his mighty haunches with one well-known conservative commentator (who, I might add was surely the same fuddy duddy at 25 as he is now that he's too old to care).  I write not to tell you my thoughts about the pairing, but rather to express my opinion that Obama would have had way more fun sharing the night with me and mine, or at least, it may have felt more like home to him.

I nearly took out his Secret Service detail (oops!) as they were crowding the very street I needed to navigate to pick up second son from a play date.  Upon my return I naturally took the same route to expose said son to the very real idea that people in power only go to the really nice houses in the neighborhood.  Upon returning home, I discovered hubby had done nothing to advance the plan for dinner but was happily ensconsed upon my favorite sofa--and you know I prefer none of the male species actually sit upon it--sipping a cocktail and relaxing.  Once he realized his mistake (was it the flying glass?), he promptly offered to cook the pasta.  We were interrupted in the process by a ringing bell.  Thinking Obama had come to his senses and decided to say hello, I flew to the door.  It was, unfortunately, just someone selling something I nearly didn't need. 

By the time I returned to the dinner staging area, hubby had taken certain liberties I know you'll find shocking.  Rather than just drain the noodles as instructed, he had actually taken the initiative to dress it with the pesto sauce I had waited all day to eat.  Now, you might guess he had no idea of the proportions, and this is bad enough, but he also decided to chop the pasta to bits with our kitchen scissors.  I think my shriek appropriately startled him, but I don't think he was quite ready to have me smash the dinner plates to bits.  After exiting the scene, I managed to calm down second son who entered the room at just the wrong moment and noticed mommy's little meltdown.  I put my young cherub in the tub and sent him to his dreams with some soothing foot and back rubs, murmuring that he should expect the same from his wife one day. 

Hubby thinks I was pissed to be close and yet so far from the center of power and was simply projecting my anger onto him.  He obviously doesn't know my appetite for good food far exceeds my taste for men in power.  And anyway, Obama has a chance to make it up to me.  I'd be happy to let him share in our nightly dinner rituals including, as hubby learned last night, the chance to eat alone, do all the dishes and retire to a wife perched in bed and still itching for a fight.  But really, besides actually washing the dishes, I suspect Obama already has a similar routine. I didn't see Michelle anywhere in sight last night, so you know she was home with the girls doing homework and the usual nighttime routine, while bemoaning the fact that her slightly less competent partner was, literally, the toast of the town.  Good thing she won't have much to do in the kitchen, as that could cost the taxpayers many sets of good china at a time when our nation can simply not afford it.

C.

Re: Obama in the Hood

Dear C,

Funny to think that the Annointed One was only a few blocks from our house last night, and yet my family and I were none the wiser. I'd like to think it is because we were absorbed in loftier matters - a family game of Scrabble, say, or an impromptu sing-a-long around the pianoforte. Alas, the truth of the matter is, the twins and I were all in horizontal position on the sofa, shoveling bucketloads of ice-cream into our mouths (the advantage of a cheap sofa being you don't care what happens to it), while offering an armchair critique of the new crop of hopefuls auditioning for the latest season of American Idol. Meanwhile, my own dear ballandchain was out doing his own bit to save the free world - although I have no idea why this should always involve a tennis racket, a jock strap, and a knee brace.

Ironic to think that if I had only bothered to step outside to investigate the wailing sirens interfering with our viewing pleasure, I might have caught a glimpse of an actual, as opposed to wannabe, Celebrity. Indeed, the Obamasteria surrounding our New President is unlike anything I have seen since the early days of Priness Di, whom I also failed to recognize when she opened the door for me twice. (Reassuring to discover that self-absorption trumps voyeurism, don't you think?) Then again, in my limited experience of celebrity stalking (honest!), you generally line up for hours, hoping the heavens will part and your beloved will descend from the heavens, before catching one glimpse of you in the crowd and asking for your hand in marriage right then and there, only to catch a glimpse of the back of their head (if you are lucky), as the motorcade of tinted windows whizzes past.

As for Michelle, I prefer to think she spent the evening not dwelling on her husband's achievements, which come, as they always seem to, at the expense of her own, but that she instead slipped off her Loboutins and kicked back with Malia and Sasha while tuning into Simon, Paula, Randy and the annoying nobody that somebody in their wisdom decided to appoint as the new judge. And I like to think that Obama was just a teeny-weeny bit jealous.

P.

DC: Perfect Children or Deeply Flawed Parents?

Dearest P,

After your nearly constant need to "touch base" while we were both traveling for the holidays, I really thought we would have seen more of each other in the new year.  Perhaps you were a little concerned that my oldest cherub, who not only discovered vodka on New Years Eve, but foolishly thought his parents wouldn't notice its replacement with water, would badly influence your precious twins? 

And I really thought our even-handed approach to the situation, after missing our own cocktail hour on New Year's Day b/c of the ruined libation, deserved some sort of parenting medal of honor.  The fact that our son still lives to tell of a time b/f and after the event is remarkable.  My restraint with the actual bottle (the satisfaction of smashing it would not have been inconsiderable you understand) is deserving of sainthood, really.  Eldest is, I think, happy to be sent back to school as I do think he finally understands how tenuous is his mother's grip on reality when one's darling offspring messes with her daily spirits. 

What truly surprised me was how much the other parents of children involved did not want to know what occurred.  Although my son took the bullet for all, it was clear, from his lack of a raging hangover, that he had not in fact imbibed the entire half bottle of alcohol on his own.  So, even though probably seven of eight boys had some, very few other parents were willing to acknowledge same.  They offered apologies to others, who had to face this bad behavior in their sons, and recognized an opportunity to discuss the use of alcohol with their own little terror, something I had suggested might be very important to preserving their own supplies.  But only two served up their son like the sacrificial lamb mine had become.  My theory, and you know I am always lucky enough to have one, is that some parents in this town really believe all this nonsense will be saved for college applications.  And,  if they are just lucky enough to hide it all really well, Harvard will never know their child was actually a teenager.  The fact that their child may also not be a great thinker is, thankfully, easily hidden by a screen of tutors for tests and college applications. 

Alas, as you can see, my children's mother makes it nearly impossible to keep their foibles hidden.  I spend so much time doing it for my own substantial flaws that I can't possibly fake it for four other human beings.  And goodness knows, it might actually be good for them to recognize when they've made a mistake and own up to it.  Oh, silly me, I must have forgotten where we live.  Except for my own, I've never met a kid in DC who wasn't perfect all around.  How come they don't all go to school with the Obama girls anyway?

C.

Re: DC: Perfect Children or Deeply Flawed Parents?

Dearest C,

Sorry I've been rather incommunicado this past week, but I've been verrah, verrah busy since returning to DC from Florida. Doing what, I hear you ask? Suffice to say, it does not involve an affair (although the OBC has his suspicions); merely the merry round of thrice weekly bodily upkeep and attending to the general social whirl. But if anyone asks, let's just say that Obama is very grateful to have me on his team and leave it at that.

The only cause for concern I can see in eldest cherub's sorry tale is his naive belief that the hackneyed old 'water in the bottle of vodka' trick would fool his mother for even a nanosecond - and on New Year's Eve, no less! Hard to believe the boy knows nothing of his parents' proclivities, given that even your youngest cherub knows better than to interrupt your evening cocktail to request a bedtime story (thankfully, Nanny is there to oblige). What on earth are they teaching children in boarding school these days, if not how to discard empty bottles under beds and behind bookcases, where they will hopefully languish undiscovered for many years - or in my case, until the school principal carries out his annual inspection, at which point you naturally accuse your highly religious roommate of planting it. The other important lesson is to continue to deny all knowledge of said alcohol, even while displaying obvious signs of intoxication, not limited to dizziness, vomiting or, in the case of one particularly brazen schoolmate of mine, while presented with photographic evidence of herself swigging back a bottle of gin while standing in a liquor store dressed in a nun's habit (after all, all nuns do look alike). How else do you think the ruling classes are able to maintain a steady hand on the ship of state, if not for the character building they receive during their formative years at the nation's prep schools? Clearly, your fellow DC parents have received such training, which is why they are now so willing to leave your cherub high and dry (so to speak) in the matter of 'fessing up. The only exceptions to this rule may, in fact, be the Obama girls, who can probably drink and party their way through high school, secure in the knowledge that when the time for college and job applications comes, they have the kind of connections that really count.

Faithfully,

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.