Dear C,

Touching to see you taking the other side’s perspective. But I think even the most die-hard liberal would agree that the Vagina should always have the last word:

Vagina, at 4.03 am: Here we go again. Niagara Falls into my toilet bowl. He calls it peeing like a racehorse, but we all know it has nothing to do with being a stud, and everything to do with middle-age. Uh-oh, he’s coming back. Better pretend I’m asleep, before He thumps me awake….

Vagina, being thumped awake anyway: OK, deal is, I’ll open for business if you get the kids ready for school…surprise, surprise, He’s snoring before I can even say ‘Next time you miss the bus, I’m going to make you walk to school, even if it’s thirty below outside.’

Vagina emerging from the shower, 7 am: Oh what a beautiful morning! Oh what a beautiful day! I’ve got a wonderful feeling…..Oh crap, he’s seen me. Quick. Hide, before He can get any ideas. Hey buddy, I don’t have time for this, I’m all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for action…No, not that kind of action. What’s that? Any port in a storm, you say? I just brushed my teeth, Mister, and the day ain’t getting any younger.

Vagina, back in the shower, five minutes later: I know exactly how Sisyphus feels.

Faithfully,

P.

Dear C,

At the risk of sounding obsessed, I would ask you to consider, once again, the plight of the pandas in the DC zoo. Rather than opt for all that expensive in-vitro (currently not covered by any Panda PPO), why not explore some cheaper options first? Imagine, if you will, a couples counseling session between the unhappy pair:

She: All he does is lie around all day scratching his ass. Then, when I want him to do something, he mysteriously vanishes up a tree.
He: Nag, nag, nag. Why can’t a guy catch forty winks every now and then? I break my balls bringing home the bamboo, and this is the thanks I get.
She: All the thanks YOU get? What about me, having to clean up after your shit the whole time? How about warning me before you decide to crap in the bed next time?  Honestly, between the video cameras and all those people staring at us from behind that fence, you’d think we lived in a zoo.
Counselor: Well, I’m afraid your fifty minutes is up. Really, to get to the core of what’s really going on, I think we’ll need to increase our sessions to three times a week.
He: Won’t that be a barrel of laughs.

On second thoughts, perhaps in-vitro is cheaper after all.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

It was startling to see a nearly verbatim transcript of the last counseling session hubby and I had with our own therapist.  As we share such common sensibilities, I wonder whether Mrs. Panda would be better served understanding life with cubs by spending some time at my abode rather than in counseling.  We have, after all, produced four cherubs without in-vitro and, I might add, my very own fat panda ass.  I don’t think my family would notice the difference "I guess mom decided not to wax this week" as long as Mrs. Panda continued my standard of tossing food nuggets occasionally (and hubby might find he has definite cross-specie preferences).  As I have always longed for a little fame, it couldn’t hurt to have a few cameras aimed at my every angle while I bunked with Mr. Panda–only if, of course, I never have to watch the video.  Who knows, dear P, when compared to that of a big fat male panda’s rear end, perhaps my butt will even seem to be a little more attractive. 

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

Did you happen to read the story about the pandas in the DC Zoo? It seems they’re having trouble getting it on, which is why zoo officials have decided to go ahead and artificially inseminate the female. (I can just hear her angst now: ‘It’s my ass, isn’t it? Curse my mother’s cub-bearing hips!’) But I digress. Apparently, pandas in capitivity often have this problem. By the time the male has learned how to get his act together (presumably, by studying books on foreplay and buying the right kind of flowers), the female is usually too old to give birth to healthy offspring. Anyway, I don’t know about you, but reading it, I couldn’t help but see the disturbing parallels with our own generation’s protracted mating rituals. By the time we’re done acquring the education, status and money that enables us to buy the Panda House of our dreams, we females are usually too shattered to contemplate the act, while the male of the species has usually moved on to greener bamboo. Still, I can’t help feeling that the DC Zoo’s solution was a teensy bit premature, not to mention extravagant, given that the panda couple are only a few years into their relationship. Wouldn’t it have been better to invest some of that cash in a few lessons in the art of seduction first? I can just see it now: candlelit dinners for him; pole-dancing classes for her, so she can learn how to really work that bamboo. At the very least, I think, they should have rented a few adult DVDs. (‘Sing-Sing Eats, Shoots and Leaves’ and of course, the classic ‘Panda Whips Wall Street’ are particularly good, I’ve heard.) Who knows, a little hot panda-on-panda action might just have done the trick?

Faithfully,

P.

P,

As I have spent the weekend nursing sick hubby (yelling at him to get the hell out of the way if he can’t help counts as sympathy, doesn’t it?), I wasn’t able to dwell in the same way upon panda mating habits.  I can imagine, however, the life Mrs. Panda (they have tied the knot, surely) is getting once babies are produced.  Suddenly Mister will find all too many reasons to be away from home, hunting for additional bamboo, if you know what I mean.  If Mrs. thought it was hard to entice him previously, imagine her dismay to find out Mister doesn’t find babies hanging off her nipples the highest form of aphrodisiac.  Poor Mrs. has no idea what’s she in for–at least she’ll have an excuse for all that sagging fur once babies arrive. 

Faithfully,

C.