P,

As spring break concludes with Easter Sunday, I’ve had enough time to evaluate hubby’s role in our "let’s explore D.C." funfest.  It seems, dear P, that he is nearly a broken man.  Mind you, his usual week is filled with litigating against giant evil corporations (aren’t they all?) and desperately trying to bring justice to the little man in an environment overrun by Republicans (who I’m pretty sure have no experience with real people–but I digress).  This week we’ve only been doing battle with our own offspring, simply trying to quell their nearly insatiable need for constant entertainment and enrichment–you know, the usual housewife’s week. 

Yesterday, hubby took to his bed claiming he was completely exhausted by his children and may not rise until it was time to go to the office again.  I lured him out of bed with a promise of some twinkies or donuts if he did the grocery shopping with me (on what child or hubby does this not work).  It all began to fall apart, however, when he noticed the woman at the grocery talking into her bar of packaged cheese as if it were a cell phone.  I simply closed my eyes, said a silent prayer and muttered, "But for the grace of God…"  Hubby seemed agitated by the scene and flummoxed by my calm state.  I explained that although the predictable housewives on Wisteria Lane expressed their frustrations in sexual dalliances or catfights, real housewives tended more toward quirky habits.  In any case, I’m sure, dear P, you see my point.  Those who enter our world must be fearless and strong (or safely ensconced in a haze of prescription drugs). 

I once had a theory about biology as destiny that ultimately limited a woman’s place in the world of work and, most often, found her at home.  I can now safely conclude, however, that it is in fact the weaker sex’s inability to adapt to a more stressful environment that keeps them where they are.  As I don’t see that changing anytime soon, and I am a merciful wife, I will send hubby back to the office on Monday.

Faithfully,

C.   

Dear C,

Interesting to hear the conclusion of your fascinating scientific experiment; no doubt you will be publishing the results in Nature, along with diagrams detailing the precipitous decline of ‘homo domicilus’ during the course of the past week. I’m afraid, however, that I must disagree with both the method and conclusion of your study. Surely, no accurate evaluation of your subject’s ability to withstand the pressures of domestic life would be complete without an examination of the following:

a) his ability to clean up either vomit or urine deposited (sometimes simultanously) by his offspring in a public facility, such as a doctor’s office, bookstore or carpeted hallway;

b) his ability to conduct any and all phone conversations, including career-breaking negotations with high-level clients while continually being interrupted with urgent requests for drinks/snacks/intervention before one child stabs the other;

c) his desire to engage enthusiastically, and with vigor, in any nocturnal sexual activity suggested by spouse, after a day spent dealing with the above.

Even then, my friend, I’m afraid your conclusion might apply not just to the weaker sex, but also to anyone foolish enough to give up a personally-fulfilling, highly rewarding and comparatively relaxing career at the office, in favor of tending hearth and home. Certainly, I would include myself in that category.

Faithfully,

P.