Dear C,

For a moment there, I thought you were referring to your eldest daughter's increasingly obvious stage of development, but I see now that capitalism has come up with yet one more way for a woman to feel like she should be able to mimic her own daughter's body well into her dotage. As for saving your youngest cherub from seeing the unavoidable effects of gravity on the body in its natural state, I only wish my own mother had been so considerate. Were you not raised in the bra-burning seventies too, dear C? At the time, from what I recall, said appendages did not sag so much as announce their presence in an alarmingly forthright manner, like antennas that demanded to be twiddled. Indeed, it's only in the last ten years or so that my mother has felt the need to cover up; a late blessing for which I will eternally be grateful. Who knows, maybe she'll agree to stop going topless on the beach one day soon too?

As for myself, I have of course overcompensated for this childhood trauma by insisting on wearing corsets of industrial proportions in bed, bath and beyond. In addition to covering up the offending body parts at all times, I'm hoping these contraptions will have the added benefit of arresting or at least slowing down the inevitable slippage that comes with time. I'm hoping the customized chin bra I just purchased will achieve the same effect on my face. Oh, and in case you are wondering, I was expecting the oldballandchain to object to having to work his way under, over or around so many extra layers, but in practice he seems quite content not to go near me at all, as soon as I put them on.

Hopefully, the twins will thank me for conducting myself in a manner befitting a serious matron, and not the carefree, Joy of Sex addled hippy my mother once modeled herself on, too.

P.

Dearest P,

I know this Christmas journey was my idea.  Or rather hubby's grand plan, which I supported in the interests of avoiding the holiday at home.  Escape all that fa la la la la nonsense and such.  But here we are, back at the lovely resort we visited in March and I feel much like Bill Murray must have in his break-out role in Groundhog Day.  Rise and shine, breakfast, exercise, sun oneself, cocktails by 11(am–oops that's my new routine starting today), etc. etc. etc.  Who else but moi would ungratefully accept the hospitality of two nannies, fabulous scuba for the teens and a cleaning crew to get me through the day?  So, in no particular order are my list of teeny tiny little grievances:

1) No hot water.  Assume no further explanation required.

2) Allergic reaction causing face to swell like a balloon and noticed by no one else–apparently my family thinks I look like this all the time?  Mega doses of allegra and prednisone seem to alleviate a few symptoms but fear my dry scaly face may now join the rest of my bloated outer self for all eternity;

3) Activities director WAAAY too enthusiastic about possibility that I will know answers to trivia questions.  Already managed to lift his bottle of rum so have no need whatsoever for his presence in my life;

4) Too many pre-teen girls reading novels called "Model," while I grieve their lost youth and my own ancient feminist leanings;

5) Several families here for the 7th time extolling the virtues of Groundhog Day and explaining how content their children, spouses and annoyingly perkey selves are to be here;

My only hope is that I can help with your recent SOS.  Seems to me the only mistake your are making in battling the Oldballandchain about who does the dishes dishes is in degrees of subtly.  If I may be so bold as to suggest you simply need to take your battle underground to drive the OBC fucking crazy, I sincerely believe the children need not wake up crying about Mommy and Daddy fighting again in the middle of the night. 

First, and this is a trick, you should briefly overwhelm your own darling cherubs with attention–what do they want to do, eat, play etc.  Don't worry, it shouldn't last more than a few hours before they tire of you as they are so completely unused to this behavior.  In the meantime, do nothing overtly concerning the OBC's bad behavior–simply ignore him.  When he suggests a problem, muster all the self-righteousness you can manage (and I know it's a lot) and inform him that you are simply tending the needs of the family.  Later, when asked about dinner, laugh sweetly and mention your plans for heading out–with the children if it comes to that.  A single day of this, my sweet, and the man will be begging to scrub out your sink, I promise.  I fear the OBC has you in such a state b/c he knows you ultimately seek to please–a quite nice trait in a friend but deadly in a marriage.  Startle him out of this routine and I trust his most precious parts will soon be back in your clutches–to be stored in your purse or the refrigerator as you see fit.

Off to find that activities director.  Fear my greatest pleasure this week may be hiding his props while taking swigs from that bottle I mentioned.  Fa la la la la la la la la.

C.

Dearest P,

Think I've just uncovered the newest and best form of discipline for my cherubs: nightly butt inspections.  Since our best girl in the 'hood announced she may have exposed our precious ones to pinworms, I did some web research on the matter.  Discovered the most effective way to uncover the little bastards is surprise nighttime flashlight inspections of one's, well, nether regions.  Imagine my middle's surprise at having his mother uncover his rear as he drifts toward dreamland.  After reassuring him that there is indeed therapy for all this when he's older, he's actually able to retire again rather quickly.

Haven't spotted any vermin yet and am beginning to wonder how long I must continue this routine.  Seems the the month long incubation period practically ensures I can never let down my guard.  The unintended side effect seems to be better behavior on the part of my offspring, however.  They appear to think I'm intending to root out their uncovered sins in my nightly raids.  Best not to let them know it isn't their souls I see with my battery-operated light wand… 

C.

Dear C,

Must confess, I was more than a little alarmed to read that you had a case of ass lice running rampant through the family, until I realized you were talking about worms, and not something more sinister. Not that the two conditions are so dissimilar, I suppose, in the degree and location of the discomfort they cause, or the need to inform one's most recent play mates of what has transpired. As I know your youngest son, and Country Club Mom's daughter, V play dress up together almost every afternoon, I realize it must have been more than a little awkward to have to call her up and explain that the two of them were exchanging more than just outfits. Knowing her superior manner about these things, I hope you will at least take comfort in the fact it must have been harder for CCM to accept that her budding Prom Queen in reality loves nothing better than to shed her tutu and ballet slippers in favor of your son's football jersey and shoulder pads . Moreover, as I happened to see V being picked up from a play date with R's five year old only yesterday, I think CCM may soon find herself forced to make an awkward phone call of her own. Seems your son isn't the only kindergartener in the Village who could be accused of playing around.

P.

Oh C,

Surely you know me better than to believe I carry lust in my heart for only one man?  Now I don’t mean to boast, but as someone who perfected the art of the overlap in a previous dating life, and whose current spouse did the same, let me state for the record that I only ever stay in one relationship until something better comes along.  Having said this, my taste in men is thoroughly pedestrian – we conservatives are nothing, if not conventional – which is why my fantasy scenario with Brad Pitt (think sun-kissed Achilles, not toilet brush Ocean’s 11) is as follows:

Me, walking alone on desert island beach in bikini and sarong, family and most importantly all body fat having vanished with the convenience of celluloid.  In the distance, Brad & Angelina approach, little Maddox and a hoard of paparazzi in tow.  Miraculously, in real life Angelina turns out to have a backside that’s even bigger than her lips (something I’ve always suspected – there’s got to be some justice in the world, right?).  Also, Maddox keeps insisting on playing with Uncle Brad, and we all know how quickly that becomes tiresome, no matter how much we claim to want kids.  Suddenly, he spies me in the distance, and our eyes lock.  We know we have to have each other, right then & there, and everyone else vanishes from the picture as we proceed to romp in the surf….

My apologies for not including you and yours anywhere in this fantasy, but I’m afraid your presence would only remind me of my current obligations, and thus the unlikeliness of it coming true.  As for the oldballandchain’s fantasy fling, I believe I mentioned in a previous communique that it involves Steffi Graff, so the less said about it the better.

Faithfully,

P.