Dear C,

Apologies for my long absence on the correspondence front. I've been busy trying to look busy, chasing several pie in the sky business ventures without much (or indeed any) success. The problem appears to be that I specialize in coming up with ideas that I then can't quite be bothered to pursue. There was the homemade fresh pasta shop idea, which sounded blissful until I realized I've never actually made pasta before, and certainly wasn't about to devote my every waking hour to doing so from now on. Then came pasta sauces, until I priced out the ingredients and realized that a 4oz tub of my organic pesto would cost almost as much as baggie full of Jamaica's finest (though one hopes it would be equally addictive). My latest idea is a business that would carry out other people's business ideas, but I'm sure you can guess the problem with that one.

Lest you fear that I have fallen into the trap of many a DC housewife, however, being cursed with just enough education and a husband in gainful employment to tinker around with entertaining but financially frivolous career hobbies like jewelry-making, or tending herds of sheep and flocks of chickens for slaughter in my own backyard, let me reassure you that I am in no such Marie-Antoinette position.

A recent incident involving our 15-year old Volvo made this perfectly clear. Normally, dear C, when forced to drive aforesaid vehicle in place of the family minivan, I endeavor to take take a sort of perverse pride in its downtrodden, care-worn state. Indeed, didn't you once tell me that a battered old banger is considered something of a status symbol when parked alongside all the Lear jets and stretch Priuses pulling into the carpool lane for pickup at the better DC private schools? Short of the Popemobile, you assured me, no car looks more high-minded and less flashy than a Volvo that has seen better decades. What you failed to mention, dear C, is the humiliation one might feel when that same Volvo decides to cough its last and expire in the driveway of DC's most beautiful home, blocking the entryway for the hordes of limousine liberals expecting to be dropped off at any moment for an elegant soiree in the estate's stunning (and entirely organic) grounds. I'm not sure what was more humiliating: watching the guests having to pick their way to the front door on foot (note to self: sheep and chicken droppings are particularly hard to avoid in high heels); or being handed a twenty for a cab at the end of the evening by my friend's handsome, kindly and yes, billionaire husband.

God forbid that it should come to this, but do you think it might be time to stop relying on the OBC and find myself a real job?

P.

Dearest P,

Since you mention broken down Vulvas (that is what you were talking about, right?), I must confess my own near-miss with the abyss.  You see, dear P, while you are still going to parties, I find myself the victim of my own foolish dreams.

As you must know, or surely should, I've suffered for years from the recurrent but insoluble malady of migraines.  Yes, yes, I've done it all: medication, massage and of course, the occasional male prostitue.  But the pain persists.  Recently discovered, courtesy of my Gyn that maybe, perhaps, I could benefit from the addition, during a particularly susceptible time of the month, of a particular hormone. 

Same said health care provider suggested the most efficient delivery system was an IUD which comes built-in with an efficient monthly delivery system. WOW!  A miracle and, just maybe, it will even work.  Which could mean I am delivered from the agony of dimming the lights and taking to the bed (except that never lasts b/c someone always needs some goddamn thing).

Totally willing to try it except that hubby is pissed.  Not just mad but major-league, what the hell are you thinking, I may have to kill my wife angry.  All b/c, I suggested a couple of years ago, after producing his fourth cherub, btw, that maybe, just maybe, we would be well-served by his vasectomy.  And god bless America, we have been.  Haven't produced one other child that I know about since the famous snip snip procedure of whatever the hell year that was–he can certainly recall it.  'Course, at the time, I mentioned that NOT taking birth control pills might help my headaches and failed to make clear my primary motivation–fail-safe birth control for me and, oh yeah, the fact that no whore from Las Vegas would ever lay claim to child support. 

So, anyway, back to the main thing, hubby wonders how it is at ALL possible that I might need a birth control device now.  Tried to explain, at least twice, that it was all entirely necessary and probable.  Naturally, he assumes I've taken a lover–cause the market for 40 something women mothers of four is, as you know, quite immense.  Anyhoo, after much grumbling, hubby concedes that less pain for me means less pain in his ass and I get the damn device inserted.

Only, it doesn't go as planned.  And, as a matter of fact, there is nearly as much pain as when I birthed last cherub in your presence.  And you do know how I scream, dear P.  Let's just say my doctor has suggested I could, perhaps, move along to another practice and she would not be entirely disappointed.  But, setting her needs aside, hubby apparently had some too.  After explaining my difficulties that day, I took to our bed for some much needed time away from all my people.  Not taking into account, of course, that hubby might come sniffing around for, well, sex with the wife who of course has the boyfriend b/c she has an IUD.  Talk about markin' your territory.  Such a distinctly male practice.

In any case, as you can imagine, it all ended rather badly and we have reached what I shall now call the "impasse."  The colloquial term, I think would be, "you ain't passin' here no more until you get a clue."

Would love to linger but have phone calls to return and homage to pay to those men who might actually leave me alone. Occasionally.  And, yes, of course, I will hook the hitch to our SUV and drag your sorry- ass Volvo home.  If only you promise to care for mine, should it come to that and I think, inevitably, it will.

C.

Dearest P,

As I've just returned from the Thanksgiving holiday, and spent time with more family than any one woman deserves, I can assure you I understand the meaning of depletion.  The remedy, it seems to me, is surely not more of it.  That is, if the world offers so little, it is really our duty to secret away what we know to be our entitled birthright–even if my own parentage suggests otherwise.  I've decided, quite naturally, to spend all remaining savings on my wardrobe.  If, as so many economists suggest, the worst is yet to come, don't I have the right to feel some comfort in my pitiful existence?  Unlike hubby or any of my cherubs, who care not a wit about their attire, shouldn't I take the opportunity to help all of us through this period by providing some small light in their darkness by dressing well?  I know every mother isn't willing to make these kinds of sacrificies but I stand ready to lead those willing to follow.  And, who knows, perhaps, like gold, good wardrobe choices will no longer be so undervalued.  So, don't hesitate, dear P.  Buy that black dress (with the right label of course) and you too may experience untold riches.  And, if all else fails, we may get more for it at that consignment shop on MacArthur Blvd. than for all of our stocks combined.