Dearest C,

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, dear C, which is why I have repeatedly chosen to take the higher road when it comes to the small matter of you copying me. 

First, there were the Juicy sweatpants, which show off your post-partum flat stomach with the insoucience that mine display my beer gut – not an intentional comparison, I hope?  Then came the Chanel sunglasses, which require us to call one another, prior to being seen anywhere in common, lest we come across as a middle-aged Mom version of Men in Black.  Finally, there is the disturbing matter of your ‘natural’ hair color, which seems to have changed as dramatically as Ashlee Simpson’s, albeit  without the unfortunate effect of highlighting the remaining glaring differences between her and Sis.  Far be it from me to accuse you of being a blonde these days, dear C, but I’m pretty sure your IQ has dropped twenty odd points in the time I’ve known you. 

And yet, none of this has bothered me in the least – until now.  Even the proprietorial tone you seem to have adopted with the oldballandchain lately is simply A-OK with me – especially if those orders you barked at him the other day have the trickle down effect of getting him to fix my collapsed dresser drawers.  No, the final nail in the coffin came when you proceeded to jet off for a romantic getaway with hubby exactly one week after the obc and I returned from ours.

This kind of getting the last word in simply isn’t on, dear C, no matter what kind of marital crisis it is intended to resolve.  I don’t care who you had to sleep with to justify a post-holiday Caribbean getaway a deux, to make up for the pre-Christmas  Caribbean getaway en famille.  One accidental slip of the hand does not trump ten years of marital hard time!  All I can say is, if there is any divine justice in the world, the Man upstairs will ensure that the fair skin which now surely accompanies your freshly fair hair will proceed to burn, freckle and dry out on vacation as easily as mine.

Faithfully,

P.

Dearest P,

I fear that your quite pointed criticism is merely that of a petulant three year old who wishes I wouldn’t pay attention to the other children in the sandbox.  Our holiday in the Caribbean, with other friends, was quite delightful.  And yes, I did parade about in all the designer looks to which you introduced me, without acknowledging any credit at all.  Unfortunately, dearest P, as much as I find your guidance extremely important as I build my DC life, I do need an occasional diversion from it. 

In any case, as long as we’re on the topic, I must confess I believed our constant back and forth was more mutual than you suggest.  How else would you know to lie about the occurrence of a high level corporate meeting to the school nurse, delaying your arrival by hours, if it wasn’t for me?  Or know that, perhaps, one day, your children’s education might occur in other than a public school?  I feel, frankly, rather awkward, pointing out the social opportunities I have given you, especially when you occasionally didn’t know enough to seize them–the invitations to embassies declined, dinner invites with power players deferred for tennis games, etc. 

If it’s not too pointed to say it, I do look forward to a long and mutually beneficial relationship.  It appears, perhaps, that you see my adopting of the few things you have offered as overstepping.  I think you must never forget that none of it is personal in any way.  I’m sure once my life is fully realized, I’ll hardly need your advice, or wardrobe, at all.  Until then, it is with some gratitude that I extend my own expertise, in matters you seem not even to recognize as relevant, to you and yours.  I can only hope your own cherubs, given a few more social outings, will come to see how it all does really matter.  There is, always, hope for the next generation.

Faithfully,

C.

Dearest C,

Whoops.  You mean I shouldn’t have mentioned anything to your children’s personal tutor when I ran into her on the street this morning?  Personally, I think the woman has the right to make an informed decision when you decide to jump her as she emerges from instructing your youngest in the ways of quantum mechanics. 

But seriously, my dear, I haven’t breathed a word about you and Headmistress to anyone except the oldballandchain….which, as you correctly deduce, is tantamount to broadcasting the news across the village via megaphone.  Mea Culpa, but my understanding is that there are to be no secrets between husband & wife (except about webcasting the sex tape he made with his ex, which goes with you to your grave).  And since we practically are husband, wife and wife these days – what hubby being so busy with his ‘trial’ or whatever he likes to call those self-important business trips he likes to take – you could hardly expect me to keep schtumm on something that threatens to destroy the moral fiber of our happy menage a trois.

Rest assured, I’m prepared to fall on my sword for this one, dear C.  I’ll tell the obc that you mistook HM’s innocent offer of assistance during a particularly tricky partner yoga pose for an offer to achieve nirvana the old-fashioned way.  All I can say is that I hope you do the same, metaphorically speaking, with hubby.  I’d hate for you to jeopardize a chance at climbing to the top of the greasy pole in this city by sleeping with the help.

Faithfully,

P.

P.S. After so many years, and so many children, have you ever considered it might just be cheaper to build your own school?  Think of the pleasure to be had in rejecting the offspring of fellow Washingtonians.  The President can only dream of
such power!)

P,

In hindsight, I recognize what a terrific mistake it was to suggest Headmistress and I had anything but truly spiritual contact with one another.  Besides recognizing that you and the obc are renowned for your ability to share any juicy tidbits at the speed of light, I also realized, during my brazilian wax today, when it nearly turned into a phenomenally pleasurable experience, that I may have misinterpreted the mere slip of a hand during a perfectly innocent massage.  HM is, after all, a newly divorced, clearly heterosexual woman with two adorable cherubs of her own.  She often mentions her desire for a normal relationship so that she can more fully represent the interests of the school, rather be bothered with on-line dating profiles and speed dating.  I can’t possibly believe I’m what she had in mind.

I hope, P, this can remain a careless moment between friends never to be mentioned again.  Headmistress and I really must stay focused on the welfare of the children, especially those yet to be admitted.  I just don’t see inflating a casual slip of the tongue, so to speak, into more than it was intended to be.  I know that I may count on your good grace in this and so many other matters.

Faithfully,

C.

P,

Did you hear the news?  Seems it’s been confirmed that brunettes, at long last, are more desirable than blonds.  Mr. Brad Pitt, the single most in-demand man on the planet, has not only chosen Angelina Jolie and her TWO children for himself but has managed to impregnate the young lass as well.  Hope springs eternal for every child brunette who thought she too would be impeded in her life plan by a Ms. Aniston or similar blond nymph. 

Although it’s clear that Ms. Jolie is completely insane, and Mr. Pitt has, in fact, bad skin, they soon will produce the child of the ages, one long-awaited by, well, the media.  Seems to confirm a long-held and secretly coveted belief that nice girls don’t always finish first and may, frankly, be simply annoying.  I don’t mean to suggest I know Ms. Aniston personally but I have always firmly believed keeping off those excess pounds she used to carry must make her extremely difficult. 

Finally, dearest P, it surely cannot go unnoticed that Ms. Jolie, already the mother of two, was willing to sacrifice her womb for the cause celebre.  It’s heavily rumored Ms. Aniston wanted to focus a bit longer on her career.  As a woman who has managed to get knocked up four times by the man of my dreams, who was always able to pursue his career uninterrupted, it is, I admit, slightly satisfying to see a woman with whom I have so little in common except hair color in a similar position.  Let’s see how good Brad looks to her in a few years when the children are wailing, the twelve nannies have the day off, and he is jetting off to a movie set.

However, in this moment, I claim this victory for me and all those dark headed vixens past their prime who have born too many children for the men they love. This moment may not last, but it is ours nonetheless.

Not to bring up a touchy matter at an awkward moment, P, but isn’t Nemesis a brunette?

Faithfully,

C.