Dear C,

Ever wondered what it is exactly that doctors do while you wait for them in the examining room? You know the routine. First, the nurse asks you to strip down to your skivvies (or worse), then hands you a paper hospital gown, which you inevitably put on the wrong way round. Then she leaves, and you are left twiddling your thumbs for……….10, 15, 30 minutes or more. Eventually, you poke your head round the door, and find the hallway to be deserted. Finally, you resort to clutching the now shredded gown shut while you tip-toe barefoot (and bare-assed) down the hallway to the nurses' station, where they stare at you like you just demanded tea and hot-buttered scones with your pap smear. A few minutes later, the doctor shows up, and dismisses your concerns as the fevered imaginings of a woman with too much time, and internet access on her hands. Within nanoseconds, you are dressed and out the door  – except that you inevitably have to return for the prescription he's forgotten to write.

I like to think the doctors spend those intervening moments surveying the live streaming video from the examining rooms, sniggering at the granny panties and placing bets on which patient has less than a year to live. But of course I know doctors are all extremely important and very busy people, handling too many life or death emergencies to waste time like that. It's just weird how those emergencies always seem to happen every time I show up in my most sensible underwear. At least Grandma would be proud.

P.

P,

You know I promised, in our most recent conversation, to keep my response to your frequent and enlightening correspondence out of the realm of the nether regions, not always an easy thing for me.  But you send a missive discussing pap smears and granny panties.  Where can I possibly go with that but spiraling downward?

In the interest of lifting us to new heights, however, I will talk about a recent visit to a new kind of doctor for me: one who examines the mind.  Sadly, it wasn't even the type who gives you a pill to make it feel better, but one with whom you are expected to share your most intimate marital secrets in order to get closer to your spouse.  As you will immediately see, this is, of course, a ridiculous premise and one I discarded b/f entering his office.

Was floored, however, upon entering the therapist's inner sanctum to discover he was already waiting for us with a smile and a handshake (and even an air kiss for me).  Can only assume it is his way of putting clients (notice I will never be his patient) at ease.  Other doctors, I think, leave you naked and exposed as a way of assuming complete control necessary for their often less than thorough exam and diagnosis, but a therapist must do almost the opposite: convince you to expose yourself, voluntarily, to him.

I'm certain you can see where this is heading: yes, I was nearly ready to throw myself at the man by the time we left as he did seem to understand me in a way no man, especially hubby, ever has.  He listened and nodded and didn't even correct me, as hubby feels so often compelled to do, when my white mini-dress snaked a few inches higher than I intended and I exposed myself (and not in a psychologial sense) to him.

He recommended, in the end, that I might need some in-depth and separate therapy even though it was clear to me that only hubby brought any real issues to the gathering.  Left a little puzzled but guess I'll sort all that out next week when I meet him for our private session at the Chevy Chase Lounge. 

In sum, darling P, I hate to dismiss your concerns about the medical profession altogether but my own experience suggests it is worth seeking out someone examining your top end rather than your bottom to get the kind of satisfaction from doctors that we all really need.

C.

Dearest C,

Thank you so much for largesse in allowing me and mine to dip our toes in your newly-heated pool this past weekend. No doubt, you noticed the bailiffs at our door the other day, ripping the gameboy out of my eldest’s arms, and decided to take pity on your neighbors in their hour of financial distress. Just used the last of the our savings to pay for this month’s mortgage, while we wait for fame and fortune to befall the obc and his fabulous gizmo, but it’s quite all right – the doctors say our youngest may not need her leg operation for years!

In the meantime, I hope our example will serve as one of those all-important life lessons you so like to impart to your cherubs on just what happens to men and women who don’t marry for money – and don’t realize it until far, far too late. In your case, of course, dear C, you have always most sensibly gone for professional men when it comes to husbands, which explains how you are so kindly able to pass on your old garden recliners to yours truly, upon hearing we had recently been forced to take up sleeping on the floor.

BTW, just in case you are wondering, the ring-shaped red welts you no doubt spotted peeking out from under my bathing dress are not the latest manifestation of crop rings, nor the result of the oldballandchain resting his coffee mug on my backside one too many times. Believe it or not, they are the modern equivalent of leeching, as practiced by my acupuncturist, who assures me in perfect Mandarin that my imaginary ailments can be cured by the singular act of placing red hot suction cups on my ass. I have no idea if they are working, but I can’t tell you how much I look forward to my bi-weekly sessions – so much so that I am thinking of selling the last of my children’s baby pictures in order to up them to three times a week!

Bottoms up!

P.

P,

You can imagine my shock and surprise at hearing about your latest misfortunes, especially considering the recent sum you dropped at Urban Chic for that fabulous pair of blue jeans.  My own mother might suggest that such failure to conserve one’s assets results in a well-deserved fall from grace, but I like to think it’s really more important that your well-embroidered ass looks good while you’re bumping along skid row.  Little did I know you’ve managed to cover all your bases in that regard–if the pants must go, the signs of acupuncture should act much like a designer emblem once did.

If it’s only status you are seeking, however, I think you must consider purchasing a small plunger at the local Strosneiders.  As I discovered, quite accidentally in an encounter with my own plumbing, said marks can be had for much less expenditure of resources.  I do suppose I must start letting you in on my "fake it instead of make it" secrets as I fear my own fortunes, though appearing promising at the moment, seem to rest upon a man who, though dearly loved by most of his children, seems able to make huge sums of money for clients that translates into very little for us.  How unethical is that?

In the meantime, please don’t worry about any of us, including R, exposing your dirty little secret.  I think it may instead be more appropriate to start a "Poor Little Mothers in the ‘Hood" support group, an elite trifecta living steps from Gucci who are never included in their premiere events.  How many others like us are there, and how can we ensure those among us who have great riches are, at the very least, truly miserable?  All important agenda items for our monthly meetings which must, at the very least, include copious amounts of alcohol–at least enough for us to lure you into giving us a good look at that embellished rear end.

Faithfully,

C.

P,

I was most distressed to learn that your orthopedic surgery visits have still failed to diagnosis what we have known all along: there is definitely something wrong with you.  I am frankly quite surprised as my previous involvement with a professional in this field, albeit more of a marriage than an appointment, reinforced that specialty’s motto: If they can’t cut you up, you aren’t their type.  It’s hard to believe he didn’t manage to schedule you for at least one exploratory surgery–even if it was only intended to remove your heart and soul.

I am, perhaps, more concerned, however, by the conclusions resulting from said visit: you need to honor what your body is telling you and avoid spicy food and alcohol.  Dare I suggest this offers very little chance of happiness in your future, besides, if I may speak frankly, when you occasionally encounter your dearest godchild, also known as my youngest daughter.  I don’t mean to infer that your focus upon your needs recently has in any way interfered with that most important relationship, but imagine my surprise when I found out your own eldest had strep throat and had just nearly french kissed my most precious one.  Much like a decades old belief in exposure as the best medicine (think chicken pox b/f it too was banned by medical authorities), I’m inclined to drop dearest one on your doorstep for the inevitable onslaught of bacterial hell.  Even though it was only an exchange of gifts which precipitated the contact, I must confess my personal disappointment in the matter.  Can you imagine what it means for my own schedule if my baby is sick?

It seems I’ve become quite excited by this cathartic missive and can’t seem to remember why I began it at all.  Anyway, it’s really more important to focus upon me and mine, isn’t it?  Seems my cherub’s orthodontist delivered a couple dozen roses to me today upon our now weekly visit.  Either his wife has stunning business acumen, or he is intent upon engaging one or another of we mothers in a messy affair.  As I choose to imagine the latter, I will quickly pass along his contact info, and hope you will soon find yourself in his grateful embrace as I am nearly certain that your current state of malaise results from the oldballandchain failing to meet all of your most important needs.  I hope you will quickly dispose of your female orthodontist and at least consider a retainer of your own.

Faithfully,

C.