Dearest C,

Not sure if you managed to catch the inaugural episode of Commander in Chief (the drama about the first female President of the United States) yesterday, but watching it has left me with a couple of troubling questions. To whit:

1) Why is it that tall people (like Geena Davis) are assumed to automatically possess authority and gravitas?  Since when does a few extra inches give you the right to rule the world (although it depends where those extra inches are, I suppose)?

2) Would our husbands really be content to play First Lady in our lives?  I know they both talk a good talk when it comes to the idea of us being the main breadwinner, but would they really be able to take to sit back and shut-up while we commandeer the ship of state?  All I can say is, when you’re married to a man who tries to instruct his wife on how to give birth, your first act as President might just be to have him shipped to Abu Garaib.

Still, it’s good to see that in spite of all that power, Geena Davis still has to suffer the trauma that haunts all working moms – namely, having her children get close enough to be able to spill juice all over her dry-clean only blouse.  Hopefully, in future episodes, the Secret Service will ensure that never happens again.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

Oh my petite little friend, please don’t let the ways of the real world interfere with your fantasy that a good pair of stilettos is all that keeps you from the arms of Brad Pitt.  I know your professed interest is in running the free world but your more compelling suburban survival dream involves little more than a few inches on your stunningly delicate frame to put you in the arms of the man who only has eyes for Angelina.

What you little people don’t fully understand is that although height is certainly an asset it can also leave you feeling less than able to play damsel in distress, a skill mightily necessary for avoiding almost any domestic or professional chore.  In addition, my dearest, when one is blessed with the facial bones of a forty year old matron at twelve, as I have been, there is an assumption of competence which cannot be escaped in almost any situation. 

As I approach the real 4-0 in the next SEVERAL years, I may finally come into my own, in full facial bloom, so to speak.  Now, when I hear "madam" repeatedly I won’t angrily respond that I am but a dewey maiden.  Instead I will happily comply with any request one has for a dowager like me and wait only for the inevitable shrinkage, and perhaps hump in my back, that will diminish my own stature.

The good news is that all those plump faced maidens mistaken for twenty when forty years of age are headed in my own disintegrating direction as well.  At seventy we should all be even and, at last, this shrewish hunched over hag will have the last laugh.

Oh, and I too would be thrilled if Hillary were elected President.  That was your main point, wasn’t it, my dearest Republican friend?

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

Well, I thought the celebrated British stiff upper lip might finally be wobbling, after a second round of terrorist attacks in London.  What I had not reckoned on, however, was the ability of the average British teenager to thumb her nose at fear and concentrate on the truly important stuff in life.  I am speaking, dear C, of my friend’s fifteen year old daughter, whose response, yesterday, to the hurried evacuation of the art gallery we were visiting was to throw a tantrum worthy of a two year old upon discovering she had left her mobile phone inside.  Alas, her remonstrations to the armed police securing the area fell on deaf ears, as they apparently failed to appreciate the toll this loss would take on our precious teenager’s social life.  Her mother, unfortunately, proved a much softer target, being forced to provide assurances that a new pink phone would be purchased immediately, along with a written apology for having apparently distracted said daughter into mislaying the phone in the first place.

I only hope that you and I can prove as focused, when the inevitable happens and you and I find ourselves staring down danger back in DC.  Will we cut and run, do you think, dear C, or will we calmly return to wrestling with the other ladies in the sales bins at Neiman-Marcus, only to emerge, triumphant, with our bargain basement finds in hand?

Faithfully,

P.

P,

As one who was just today called a witch with a capital "B" by my not quite eleven year old son, I used to be one of those parents who thought it just couldn’t happen to them.  Oh dearest P, each time I think this parenting thing must ease up, as the cherubs should know mother cannot support another furrow in her brow, they strike out again and force me to continue my own little war on terror.

I had supposed that living in a state of constant fear might give the cherubs another target for their "affections" and allow their mother to live in peace.  Your friend’s experience makes clear that is just another hopeless fantasy.  It does occur to me, after all, that I still occasionally exhibit behaviors similar to the fifteen year old with my own mother.  Dearest P, I’m afraid, like the rest of the world, we are forced to fight our own personal war on terror for the rest of our lives.   

Would love to continue our engaging dialogue but am plotting my own retaliation against eldest.  Then have the conference call with Tony Blair to share newest ideas.  As we have common goals of destruction of will and containment, it should be productive. 

Faithfully,

C.   

Dearest P,

Seems my fellow feminists are quite unhappy that Sandra Day O’Connor has decided to retire, in large part b/c she plans to spend some time caring for her husband, ill with Alzheimer’s disease.  It occurs to me, P, this may be the reason we give for NOT retiring when our husbands need us in old age. 

At the risk of boring you again with my only "this close to greatness tale," I remind you yet again that I will never forget the day dear Justic O’Connor handed me a towel in the shower room after our aerobics class in the Supreme Court Building.  No, I wasn’t her clerk, but a lowly college intern in the Department of Documentary History.  Her gracious gesture made clear that, at least for the moment, she was one of us. 

Truly a cautionary tale.  What if, dear P, just as we are ready to fly far away from homebound tentacles, a spouse claims some lingering malady requiring our constant attention?   Though our instinct may be to lend them a hand, I warn you, dear comrade, against such action.  We may justifiably resist such a notion and speak loudly and often about furthering the cause of our daughters in the world.  We must remain too busy, if not truly gainfully employed, to notice.  After all, if we can’t be as clueless as the men, how can we possibly keep up with them?

Faithfully,

C.