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.

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.

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.

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.