Dearest C,

Thank you so much for largesse in allowing me and mine to dip our toes in your newly-heated pool this past weekend. No doubt, you noticed the bailiffs at our door the other day, ripping the gameboy out of my eldest’s arms, and decided to take pity on your neighbors in their hour of financial distress. Just used the last of the our savings to pay for this month’s mortgage, while we wait for fame and fortune to befall the obc and his fabulous gizmo, but it’s quite all right – the doctors say our youngest may not need her leg operation for years!

In the meantime, I hope our example will serve as one of those all-important life lessons you so like to impart to your cherubs on just what happens to men and women who don’t marry for money – and don’t realize it until far, far too late. In your case, of course, dear C, you have always most sensibly gone for professional men when it comes to husbands, which explains how you are so kindly able to pass on your old garden recliners to yours truly, upon hearing we had recently been forced to take up sleeping on the floor.

BTW, just in case you are wondering, the ring-shaped red welts you no doubt spotted peeking out from under my bathing dress are not the latest manifestation of crop rings, nor the result of the oldballandchain resting his coffee mug on my backside one too many times. Believe it or not, they are the modern equivalent of leeching, as practiced by my acupuncturist, who assures me in perfect Mandarin that my imaginary ailments can be cured by the singular act of placing red hot suction cups on my ass. I have no idea if they are working, but I can’t tell you how much I look forward to my bi-weekly sessions – so much so that I am thinking of selling the last of my children’s baby pictures in order to up them to three times a week!

Bottoms up!

P.

P,

You can imagine my shock and surprise at hearing about your latest misfortunes, especially considering the recent sum you dropped at Urban Chic for that fabulous pair of blue jeans.  My own mother might suggest that such failure to conserve one’s assets results in a well-deserved fall from grace, but I like to think it’s really more important that your well-embroidered ass looks good while you’re bumping along skid row.  Little did I know you’ve managed to cover all your bases in that regard–if the pants must go, the signs of acupuncture should act much like a designer emblem once did.

If it’s only status you are seeking, however, I think you must consider purchasing a small plunger at the local Strosneiders.  As I discovered, quite accidentally in an encounter with my own plumbing, said marks can be had for much less expenditure of resources.  I do suppose I must start letting you in on my "fake it instead of make it" secrets as I fear my own fortunes, though appearing promising at the moment, seem to rest upon a man who, though dearly loved by most of his children, seems able to make huge sums of money for clients that translates into very little for us.  How unethical is that?

In the meantime, please don’t worry about any of us, including R, exposing your dirty little secret.  I think it may instead be more appropriate to start a "Poor Little Mothers in the ‘Hood" support group, an elite trifecta living steps from Gucci who are never included in their premiere events.  How many others like us are there, and how can we ensure those among us who have great riches are, at the very least, truly miserable?  All important agenda items for our monthly meetings which must, at the very least, include copious amounts of alcohol–at least enough for us to lure you into giving us a good look at that embellished rear end.

Faithfully,

C.

P,

I was most distressed to learn that your orthopedic surgery visits have still failed to diagnosis what we have known all along: there is definitely something wrong with you.  I am frankly quite surprised as my previous involvement with a professional in this field, albeit more of a marriage than an appointment, reinforced that specialty’s motto: If they can’t cut you up, you aren’t their type.  It’s hard to believe he didn’t manage to schedule you for at least one exploratory surgery–even if it was only intended to remove your heart and soul.

I am, perhaps, more concerned, however, by the conclusions resulting from said visit: you need to honor what your body is telling you and avoid spicy food and alcohol.  Dare I suggest this offers very little chance of happiness in your future, besides, if I may speak frankly, when you occasionally encounter your dearest godchild, also known as my youngest daughter.  I don’t mean to infer that your focus upon your needs recently has in any way interfered with that most important relationship, but imagine my surprise when I found out your own eldest had strep throat and had just nearly french kissed my most precious one.  Much like a decades old belief in exposure as the best medicine (think chicken pox b/f it too was banned by medical authorities), I’m inclined to drop dearest one on your doorstep for the inevitable onslaught of bacterial hell.  Even though it was only an exchange of gifts which precipitated the contact, I must confess my personal disappointment in the matter.  Can you imagine what it means for my own schedule if my baby is sick?

It seems I’ve become quite excited by this cathartic missive and can’t seem to remember why I began it at all.  Anyway, it’s really more important to focus upon me and mine, isn’t it?  Seems my cherub’s orthodontist delivered a couple dozen roses to me today upon our now weekly visit.  Either his wife has stunning business acumen, or he is intent upon engaging one or another of we mothers in a messy affair.  As I choose to imagine the latter, I will quickly pass along his contact info, and hope you will soon find yourself in his grateful embrace as I am nearly certain that your current state of malaise results from the oldballandchain failing to meet all of your most important needs.  I hope you will quickly dispose of your female orthodontist and at least consider a retainer of your own.

Faithfully,

C.   

Dearest C,

Wait a minute – there was a hubby before hubby?! Did he die in a horror jet-ski accident before being miraculously coming back to life and marrying your evil step-sister who secretly gave birth to you in a cave and is therefore, unbeknownst to you, your biological mom?

While I admire how you choose to save such revelations for choice moments, dear C, I cannot help but feel a little hurt that you did not choose to confide this essential information to me earlier. I may have unjustly acquired the reputation for blurting out other people’s deepest secrets at the drop of a Cosmo (or any kind of alcohol) but rest assured, I would never breathe a word to Number 2, as I feel I must refer to current hubby from now on, for fear that it may lead him to entertain dark thoughts about the paternity of ‘his’ children.

Come to think of it, while there can be no doubt about the swarthy origins of your middle two cherubs, when it comes to both the oldest and youngest, one cannot help but remark on the startling presence of golden curls. Forgive me for saying this, dear C, but isn’t your own fairness a rather recent phenomemon?

Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word – at least while I’m sober, which I fully intend on remaining, as part of my new health regimen. Of course, there is the little matter of dinner at the new Indian tomorrow night, but I fully intend to stick to Naan bread, and maybe a little boiled rice. Far be it from me to risk the break up of such an idyllic home – or worse, the revelation for hubby that the woman he married is not the blonde he thought she was – for the sake of a few beers and a plate of their (reportedly, delicious) murgh tikka masala.

Mum’s the word,

P.