P,

It is with some trepidation that I broach a subject of some import.  Even yesterday, before sampling your homemade pumpkin soup, I was inclined to believe you and I would agree in this matter.  However, with your delivery of a delicacy surely taking hours of your precious leisure hours when the cherubs are schooled (that is all free time, I expect) you have surely upped the ante with me and our friendship.  Feeding same to your family in private is one thing but sharing it, even with an adoring neighbor, is surely another.  Is it possible you want me to know how long you spent roasting a pumpkin and scooping until it was suitably seedless for your concoction?

Perhaps it is my particular sensitivity at this moment that makes me judge you so harshly.  You see, dearest P, I have had yet another encounter with "Worthier Than Thou" mother.  Upon a sighting of her and her young charges, and a useless attempt to escape without being seen, I commented upon the less than darling new haircut of her daughter.  She responded not with "thank you" and a quick smile to indicate her satisfaction at a kind if charitable comment, but rather smirked back at me and exclaimed, "Oh yes, she donated her hair."  Now, I don’t mean to be so jaded, P, that I cannot appreciate the millions of needy children clamoring for this one child’s tresses, but in addition to the thousands of hours this woman spends engaged in bake sales for this same set, I wonder where she finds the time to coordinate such an activity. 

I fear, dear P, this may all she does.  In fact, my theory is that her central "joie de vivre" is creating a life of charitable acts that alleviate some of the endless guilt she carries for wealth without work.  It is, I fear, a common Northwest D.C. malady.  If only HHS could focus its efforts upon creating a vaccine for this apparent pandemic, I could rest more easily.  Instead I fear the disease is catching to another entitled generation and will result, yet again, in a class of society enjoying unearned status and another feeling slightly victimized by the "generosity" of these people.

Do reassure me, P, that my view of the world is not yet hopeless.  First I must know that you don’t view me as one of those in need, and second, that you haven’t crossed over to the other side.  Finally, reassure me there is still some good old-fashioned thinking that generous acts should not be so publicly aired.  Surely it is only the ins and outs of our intimate familial relationships which are suitable for public dissemination, right?

Faithfully,

C.      

Dear C,

What do you think the pumpkin soup was, if not an act of charity?  The fact of the matter is, you have been looking so THIN lately, dear C, I felt it incumbent upon me to try and put a little meat on those bones.  Could it be that class action lawsuits don’t pay as well as they used to?  With so many  mouths to feed, I can understand how a mother might prefer to deny herself, rather than deprive her youngsters the nourishment they need.  Just say the word, and the soup kitchen will keep flowing.  But if it’s a question of winning the coveted prize of Thinnest Mother on the Block, let me state for the record: Enough already: you’ve won.

Now, I know there are those who will scoff at the idea that anyone who can afford a Club Nude Vacation this Xmas could possibly be in need, but trust me, I understand…..As a matter of fact, it is my firm Republican belief that the rich are not so much richer, simply as regular people with much greater needs.  Take the small army of doulas, cooks, nannies, housekeepers, private tutors, therapists and kindergarten consultants required to shepherd their gilded youth through those critical early years.  Where is the charity to pay for all that?  And on a personal level, how on earth could you possibly be expected to compete with the Mother Theresa Heinzes of this world (not to mention hubby’s twenty-two year old receptionist), without regular servicing at the tanning salon, and day spa?  Do the poor ever stop to think how much time all that takes?

To paraphrase the late, great JFK (not an obvious hero of mine, but there we go), maybe it’s time you asked not what you can do for charity, but what charity can do for you.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to sell my youngest’s pony tail on E-Bay.

Faithfully,

P.

P.S. Broke the news about my solo trip to Blighty last night, and the obc seemed to take it surprisingly well.  Now, of course, I’m convinced it’s because he’s having an affair…..

Dear C,

Forgive my nosey neighborliness, but who was that virile young man I saw toiling away in your front yard this am?  At first, I must say, I mistook his broad shoulders and dogged stance for hubby’s, as I frequently see him doubled over and sweating as he tends to your lawn….but then it occurred to me this is Tuesday, which means hubby must has gone back to his double life as litigator extraordinaire and vanquisher of evil, which no doubt explains the cape, as well as the reason why he can’t possibly be expected to listen to all the mundane details of our petty lives.

Naturally, I was concerned that the young man in question might be about to embark on an unauthorized intrusion onto your property, which is why I headed over there, sharpish, on the pretext of bringing you a home-baked pie (OK, forget the ‘home’ part).  Alas, you appear to have been otherwise engaged – or at least not answering the door – so I inquired of this veritable Adonis what he intended to do with the gigantic electric saw in his hand.  Imagine my surprise when he claimed to be installing some kind of ‘invisible fence’ intended to electrocute your beloved pooch into staying on the property!  I mean, really: a fence that you literally cannot see?  Whatever will you Washington types fall for next?!

I must confess, it was on the tip of my tongue to demand of the young man whether he had ever actually set eyes on said canine, particularly since I had heard mutterings from you about getting the dog stuffed for Christmas after his last escape attempt.  But then it occurred to me that you might, in fact, be playing a much deeper game. 

Could it be that this so-called ‘fence’ is intended to deter any acts of straying on the part of hubby and cherubs, leaving you with the long-lost freedom to pursue the greatness that we both know is so rightfully ours?  Or is it simply that you got tired of the view outside your shuttered windows, and felt it was time you traded the old gardener in for someone new?

Mum’s the word, dear C, but do tell.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

Oh I saw you at the door, my friend.  I spent the morning just behind the bathroom blinds making sure my young help was managing all that sweaty labor without too much strain.  I hoped by not answering you would immediately remove your blond self from my property and NOT engage him in conversation.  Alas, it is too much to ask, isn’t it, when we are too often denied the sight of such biceps?

In any case, although you managed to force a slow down of work as my he-man watched you sashay your tiny little attributes home, I cannot claim any great success for myself.  Although I proceeded to ply him with my own homemade goods, he insisted upon addressing me as "mom" as I had my youngest cherub in tow.  You can imagine the remaining interaction was less than I hoped.

I did discover, in the end, that fence man used to be the carnie at the Ocean City Boardwalk who guessed everyone’s weight and age.  So although I wanted to assume his penetrating glance was meant to suggest my fence would require weekly maintenance, it’s clear he was sizing me up as "mom" with all the age and weight that moniker denotes.  Alas, in the end, this Empress was revealed in all her foolishness after all.

Faithfully,

C.