Desperate in DC

Call Me Madam

Dearest C,

Not sure if you managed to catch the inaugural episode of Commander in Chief (the drama about the first female President of the United States) yesterday, but watching it has left me with a couple of troubling questions. To whit:

1) Why is it that tall people (like Geena Davis) are assumed to automatically possess authority and gravitas?  Since when does a few extra inches give you the right to rule the world (although it depends where those extra inches are, I suppose)?

2) Would our husbands really be content to play First Lady in our lives?  I know they both talk a good talk when it comes to the idea of us being the main breadwinner, but would they really be able to take to sit back and shut-up while we commandeer the ship of state?  All I can say is, when you're married to a man who tries to instruct his wife on how to give birth, your first act as President might just be to have him shipped to Abu Garaib.

Still, it's good to see that in spite of all that power, Geena Davis still has to suffer the trauma that haunts all working moms - namely, having her children get close enough to be able to spill juice all over her dry-clean only blouse.  Hopefully, in future episodes, the Secret Service will ensure that never happens again.

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Call Me Madam

P,

Oh my petite little friend, please don't let the ways of the real world interfere with your fantasy that a good pair of stilettos is all that keeps you from the arms of Brad Pitt.  I know your professed interest is in running the free world but your more compelling suburban survival dream involves little more than a few inches on your stunningly delicate frame to put you in the arms of the man who only has eyes for Angelina.

What you little people don't fully understand is that although height is certainly an asset it can also leave you feeling less than able to play damsel in distress, a skill mightily necessary for avoiding almost any domestic or professional chore.  In addition, my dearest, when one is blessed with the facial bones of a forty year old matron at twelve, as I have been, there is an assumption of competence which cannot be escaped in almost any situation. 

As I approach the real 4-0 in the next SEVERAL years, I may finally come into my own, in full facial bloom, so to speak.  Now, when I hear "madam" repeatedly I won't angrily respond that I am but a dewey maiden.  Instead I will happily comply with any request one has for a dowager like me and wait only for the inevitable shrinkage, and perhaps hump in my back, that will diminish my own stature.

The good news is that all those plump faced maidens mistaken for twenty when forty years of age are headed in my own disintegrating direction as well.  At seventy we should all be even and, at last, this shrewish hunched over hag will have the last laugh.

Oh, and I too would be thrilled if Hillary were elected President.  That was your main point, wasn't it, my dearest Republican friend?

Faithfully,

C.

Thank Heavens for Teenage Girls

Dear C,

Well, I thought the celebrated British stiff upper lip might finally be wobbling, after a second round of terrorist attacks in London.  What I had not reckoned on, however, was the ability of the average British teenager to thumb her nose at fear and concentrate on the truly important stuff in life.  I am speaking, dear C, of my friend's fifteen year old daughter, whose response, yesterday, to the hurried evacuation of the art gallery we were visiting was to throw a tantrum worthy of a two year old upon discovering she had left her mobile phone inside.  Alas, her remonstrations to the armed police securing the area fell on deaf ears, as they apparently failed to appreciate the toll this loss would take on our precious teenager's social life.  Her mother, unfortunately, proved a much softer target, being forced to provide assurances that a new pink phone would be purchased immediately, along with a written apology for having apparently distracted said daughter into mislaying the phone in the first place.

I only hope that you and I can prove as focused, when the inevitable happens and you and I find ourselves staring down danger back in DC.  Will we cut and run, do you think, dear C, or will we calmly return to wrestling with the other ladies in the sales bins at Neiman-Marcus, only to emerge, triumphant, with our bargain basement finds in hand?

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Thank Heavens for Teenage Girls

P,

As one who was just today called a witch with a capital "B" by my not quite eleven year old son, I used to be one of those parents who thought it just couldn't happen to them.  Oh dearest P, each time I think this parenting thing must ease up, as the cherubs should know mother cannot support another furrow in her brow, they strike out again and force me to continue my own little war on terror.

I had supposed that living in a state of constant fear might give the cherubs another target for their "affections" and allow their mother to live in peace.  Your friend's experience makes clear that is just another hopeless fantasy.  It does occur to me, after all, that I still occasionally exhibit behaviors similar to the fifteen year old with my own mother.  Dearest P, I'm afraid, like the rest of the world, we are forced to fight our own personal war on terror for the rest of our lives.   

Would love to continue our engaging dialogue but am plotting my own retaliation against eldest.  Then have the conference call with Tony Blair to share newest ideas.  As we have common goals of destruction of will and containment, it should be productive. 

Faithfully,

C.   

Looking Out for Our Own

Dearest P,

Seems my fellow feminists are quite unhappy that Sandra Day O'Connor has decided to retire, in large part b/c she plans to spend some time caring for her husband, ill with Alzheimer's disease.  It occurs to me, P, this may be the reason we give for NOT retiring when our husbands need us in old age. 

At the risk of boring you again with my only "this close to greatness tale," I remind you yet again that I will never forget the day dear Justic O'Connor handed me a towel in the shower room after our aerobics class in the Supreme Court Building.  No, I wasn't her clerk, but a lowly college intern in the Department of Documentary History.  Her gracious gesture made clear that, at least for the moment, she was one of us. 

Truly a cautionary tale.  What if, dear P, just as we are ready to fly far away from homebound tentacles, a spouse claims some lingering malady requiring our constant attention?   Though our instinct may be to lend them a hand, I warn you, dear comrade, against such action.  We may justifiably resist such a notion and speak loudly and often about furthering the cause of our daughters in the world.  We must remain too busy, if not truly gainfully employed, to notice.  After all, if we can't be as clueless as the men, how can we possibly keep up with them?

Faithfully,

C.

Re: Looking Out for Our Own

Dear C,

Phew - that was a close call!  Thank you for warning me that I simply must get my career back into gear before grandparenthood and elder care beckons. Far better to hang on till death do us part to the tail-end of a glorious career, a la Rehnquist, than retire and be left scrabbling for an excuse for why one cannot possibly be called upon to diaper one's nearest and dearest.  After all, as we both know, dear C, once a woman begins to lose her youth and her looks, pretty much the only way she can hope to engender any respect in the world is by engaging in an unseemly grab for power.

I like too your notion about aquiring 'sudden obliviousness to all others syndrome' (SOS), by the way, and suggest that it might be deployed in conjunction with the selective deafness men over a certain age seem to experience with regard to their wives' voice.  Funny how such disabilities never appear to impact their ability to watch sports.....a facility we can perhaps deploy to accept all offers of jewellry, while ignoring all pleas for blow jobs and other sundry chores?

Faithfully,

P.

Guantanamo Nights

Dear C,

In catching up with all the periodical reading I missed while down in Florida these past  few weeks, what struck me most was not the surprise engagement between AutomoTom (sic) Cruise and Katie Homely; nor even the battle for Brad, between Jennifer and Angelina, important though these stories are. 

No, what resonated with me the most was a short sidebar in the Economist of June 9, which  recounted in harrowing detail some examples of the 'brutality' inflicted upon detainees at Guantanamo Bay by their American interrogators.  According to the article in question, one 21 year old Saudi, who was suspected of taking flight training with two of the September 11 hijackers was accosted by a female interrogator who 'unbuttoned her blouse and began rubbing her breasts against him,' before asking: 'Do you like these big American tits?'

Now, I don't know about you, but if the oldballandchain found himself locked up on a Caribbean island, being abused this way, I suspect he might think he had died and gone to every non-Muslim male's idea of Paradise, but apparently the detainee in question did not agree.  When he refused to 'break' under the unbearable pressure and agony of this encounter, and spat in his interrogator's face instead, she proceeded to wipe red magic marker on his face, pretending it was menstrual blood. At this, apparently, our brave hero 'screamed but did not break.'

My questions for you now, dear C, are twofold:  Firstly, given the hardship endured by such detainees, why hasn't every last heterosexual male in the West signed up for Islamic jihad? Secondly, can the porn movie of the encounter (no doubt starring Lyndie England) be far away?

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Guantanamo Nights

P,

I hate to be the one to point out the error of your ways, dearest P, but I'm afraid, as usual, you are imposing your own Imperialist bias upon the rest of the world.  Personal experience suggests that Muslim males really are leg men.  I clearly share the sense of outrage.  How could we get it so wrong? 

I do wonder, though, as I ponder your thoughts about Guantanamo, how I might create my own little prison at home.  Just today one of my cherubs escaped into the larger world and caused quite an uproar until she was discovered, having slipped into the basement upon her return, unbeknownst to us all.  Although I'd like to believe a nearly nine year old child may not require the immediate deployment of an FBI agent for her daily dog walk, I don't quite believe it.

Therefore, my new approach to kid management, while waiting for implant of the microchip which tracks all movement (and includes a sotto voce voice muttering "Mother is All Knowing and All Things Good") is to only allow tv and video forms of entertainment.  There will be no outside pool, play or frolicking time.  Sure, they may become obese doughheads, but the house will be tidier and I will have some peace of mind.  Although I'm sure to be persecuted once my theory is "outed," I'll be too blissed out to care.  And then I'll just claim it's all in the name of my religious beliefs, rather like our friends in Gitmo.  Surely, I'll soon be a hero in DC and my bad acts completely forgiven.  I have, after all, learned a little something since I've moved to this town, dearest P.

Faithfully,

C. 

I'm Watching You

P,

Let’s say you’re a fairly significant DC type, perhaps even a political appointee, working in or near the White House (read here: a pain in the ass Republican). You spend your days being catered to, whether by an assistant or the sycophant fan club you seem to have generated. You return home to a Maryland suburb at day’s end and enjoy a cocktail or two, while waiting for the dinner your wife has so lovingly prepared. The children, if there are any, seem to be invisible, as they spend much time hiding from your self-righteous monologues. As you review the evening paper, your reverie is interrupted by the ominous words, “Honey, please walk the dog.”

Peaches, the dog, is a mere speck of a thing, not much bigger than the palm of your hand. You intend to resist, but fully realize the potential repercussions. You may be the master of your office domain but know what it takes to make the evening a success and it clearly involves helping care for this emasculating creature.

It just so happens you pass by my yard. And this is where Peaches decides to do her business.  I am hovering in the vicinity of the front window.  Peaches completes her mission and you pause: etiquette and city signs clearly dictate that you bag Peaches' poo and proceed on your merry way. You, aware of your important perch near the White House, and perhaps W himself, aren’t sure the rules apply to you. Make no mistake, they do (you aren't Dick Cheney after all).

I don’t want to take you down, but I will. The Village authorities and every Democrat in DC will descend upon you faster than flies upon Peaches’ business if you don’t comply with the prevailing norms. You stoop to scoop. I sigh a breath of relief. No calls to make, no interviews to give.

Another evening passes without incident. Perhaps the wife even performs her marital duty. But never forget that I am here, watching, and waiting. I know you’re an arrogant son of a bitch and the day will come when you won’t scoop the shit.   And it will, quite inevitably, hit the fan for you.

Good thing I don't spend my time sweating the small stuff, huh, dearest P?

Faithfully,

C.

Re: I'm Watching You

Dear C,

Oh those evil Republicans, taking time out from promoting Big Business and the Oil Interests to let little Peaches crap on your front lawn! Funny, 'cos I thought it was Democrats who didn't believe in shoveling shit themselves - they just think everyone else should have to. It's the same reason they believe in public transportation and public schools - only for other people, you understand. Somehow, when it comes to themselves, they invariably have a very good reason for sending the nanny out in the Humvee to drive little Chelsea to private school.

I'm afraid, dear C, the real problem with the incident of the dog poop in the night you describe lies not with Peaches or her master, but with the homowner involved. A Republican homeowner would have asserted his property rights immediately and forcefully down the barrel of a gun, circumventing the need for the constant surveillance you propose (although I quite understand your liberal impulse to control everyone else's every move). As for Peaches herself, I am sure she would make a very fetching hearth rug.

Faithfully,

P.