Dear C,

You may be glad to hear that the ‘New Man’ is alive and kicking – here in England, at least.  You can spot him in the playground with his children every  evening (looking rather defeated and out of place in his pin-striped suit), and at the supermarket every weekend, looking decidedly bewildered as he attempts to wrestle with the cart, his kids, and his wife’s complex Tampax requirements at one and the same time.

UK Man circa 2005 would never make hubby’s egregious mistake of claiming to be the captain of his familial ship, having learned from Britain’s post-colonial experience that The Man is the basic root of all evil in this world.  He knows his place, which is queuing up behind the other dads to change his toddler’s nappy in the bathroom at Mcdonald’s, and demonstrating his opposition to all acts of domination, by losing in the first round of Wimbledon.

Lest you find yourself hopping on the next plane to Blighty, however, dear C, I am here to reassure you that all is not bliss in this misty isle.  UK Man may never open a door for you, and will almost certainly insist on going dutch on the first date (although he would never call it that, ‘date’ being synonymous with commitment, of course, and therefore one of the shackles that capitalism creates to keep the proletariat in line).  As for marriage, UK Man runs screaming in horror from such a meaningless capitalist construct (see above), vastly preferring, instead, to shack up and procreate, before leaving you with the fruit of your womb in your mid-forties, while he heads off to Thailand to ‘find himself’, along with a nubile seventeen-year old wife.

Given the obvious flaws in this example I have described above, dear C, do you think I have inadvertently hit upon the best argument yet for more women to enter the sciences, if only to build a better prototype?

Faithfully,

P.

Dearest P,

Perhaps the oldballandchain could open a series of tutoring centers in the UK, helping the poor male slobs find their inner lesbian selves?  Soon, instead of acting like women have for endless generations, UK men will be convincing their women that hauling out the trash affirms their independent identities and helps them make their mark on the world.  Of course, it’s possible this type of male might also hit a mid-life crisis but is less likely to run away when clearly unprepared for basic daily tasks as toilet flushing and dental flossing.  Oh, dearest P, is there no happy medium?  Where are the independently wealthy hunks ready to serve our every whim, with an occasional surly retort so as not to lose our respect?

I’m afraid, dearest P, I must settle for the U.S. model of man his mother has so lovingly molded: he takes endless pleasure in creating offspring in his likeness, is capable of muttering the tender endearment when attempting to create additional offspring in his likeness, and is known to wade in a river with a stick and call it a sport. 

P, it’s clear we have only one place to go in placing blame for the current state of our men: our mothers and mothers-in-law.  As you know all too well, I am certainly not one who enjoys placing the bulls-eye on anyone, but sometimes the facts speak for themselves.  ‘Fraid there’s nothing science can do about it currently–but if more girls in the lab could tinker with this lot (and there’s certainly the motivation to do it), then maybe we’re on to something.

Faithfully,

C.

P,

Seems I’ve blundered into a camp for eldest cherub coordinated and run by the parental units involved.  It is to be a week of sports and other ten year old boy fun (what happened to staying home and doing chores for mom and dad during the summer anyway?).  As with any initial request, I was flattered to be asked.  "My son, oh yes, he’d love to, thanks for knowing he is as popular as we think he is." 

I immediately agreed to help–in the initial flush of abundant good cheer–and did not apply any actual good thinking.  I am not, if you haven’t noticed, dear P, a particularly "hands-on in a group" kind of parent.  Give me one kid and I can sustain a certain interest for a period not to exceed two hours.  More time or numbers than that and they’re likely to know Sponge Bob as their own personal Lord and Savior.

In any case, I soldier on, hoping my son is having fun and knowing I can spill my bucket of martyrdom upon his head in good time.  The straw that broke this bitch’s back, however, came just moments ago.  A sentimental email was sent thanking the "coordinator" and almost everyone else for their selfless and thankless participation.  Except me.  Possibly just an innocent oversight, assuming such a thing exists, but I think you know, dearest P, she has chosen to ignore the wrong woman. 

Fortunately, although I pride myself on being quite impulsive, I did not immediately plan to boil a bunny on her stove in the traditional "Fatal Attraction" manner.  Instead, by way of retaliation, I plan to serve no organic or preservative-free food at the cookout I am hosting and will refuse to cater to any "lactose intolerant" requests that will inevitably arise.  I know the parents will just have their nannies run to the market but at least I will have my dignity–or, perhaps even better, will never be asked to participate again.

Would love to continue with the endless details of my difficulties but gotta run now and explain to eldest why Sponge Bob will soon fill his days and nights. 

Faithfully,

C. 

Dear C,

So that’s why I haven’t seen you in days!  I was beginning to think I had done something wrong (was it the faux pas of wrestling in the pool with hubby?) but no, it seems you were just gainfully, though not perhaps joyfully, employed with your out-of-school children – a prospect that strikes terror into every mother’s heart.  Silly me – I thought summer camp was where you sent your kids to get them out of your hair!  Clearly, like everything else in DC, the city’s elite has managed to twist it into yet another opportunity to prove one’s parental superiority. 

Love your brilliant scheme for exacting revenge on the ungrateful lot of fellow camp counsellors, but think you might want to expand upon it further by hiring a personal assistant to respond to your emails and screen all your calls.  The additional expense might be worth it, considering the immediate respect it will garner among the status-conscious ranks of your private school peers.  It will also spare you the humiliation of having to re-negotiate schedules with their babysitter’s PA on their end.

Alternatively, you could simply announce your unilateral withdrawal from the whole insane scheme, on the grounds that you have just read a report in {name some obscure academic journal} that suggests children who spend time in summer camp, as opposed to the stimulating yet developmentally-appropriate home-classroom environment provided by their stay-at-home mothers, are almost 90% less likely to make it into Harvard.

Faithfully,

P.

Dear C,

Your recent travails with the absentee mother who nevertheless shows up for the last day of school, bearing gifts bags from Neiman-Marcus, has put me in mind of my own recent shopping bag faux pas.  On the Saturday in question, I arrived at my daughter’s soccer game, Safeway grocery bags in hand, feeling virtuous – dare I say a trifle smug – for having remembered that today was her team’s annual food drive for the homeless.  Imagine my distress when I saw that not just one but all the other soccer moms had chosen to purchase their donations from an entirely better class of grocery store – the kind that refuses to stock anything that isn’t entirely natural, fat-free and lacking in taste.  And I thought food drives were all about getting rid of those cans of lima beans that have taking up valuable cupboard space since 1982!

Next year, I will endeavour to do better, if only to look better to my peers (hey, I am still a Republican, after all), although it occurs to me that many of the most elderly items in my cupboard do in fact hail from that store.  Thus, with any luck, I can turn up at next year’s soccer drive, organic Cheetos, Cheerios and Coco Krispies (made with brown rice) in tow and play Lady Bountiful with the best of them, while continuing to kill two birds with one stone.

Faithfully,

P.