Dear C,

Could your vacation ennui be catching? No sooner did you return to the Village than we departed for the in-laws' country club in Florida, where the sun persists in shining and it's fried shrimp and prime rib on the menu everyday for the rest of your life. Even the landscape has been clipped, sprayed and tamed to within an inch of its life – that is, the part that hasn't already been turned into a golf course or strip mall. Even the people replenishing the free Tampax in the ladies' bathroom at the gym are white.

You'd think being surrounded by such orderly perfection would be relaxing, since everything has already been done for you, from picking up litter, to providing umbrellas, drinks and towels at the beach pool. So why do I feel like putting the pedal to the metal and driving the golf cart (at 15mph, no less) into the nearest alligator-infested swamp?

Could it be that you and I are just true contrarians at heart, or do we just have no idea how good we have it? All I know is that I can't wait to head back to the freezing north, and share a hot and spicy meal of dubious origin served in some sweaty ethnic dive located in some blasted corner of downtown DC. In the meantime, I guess I'll just have to make do with a hot and sweaty oldballandchain, as he returns from his daily workout on the tennis courts.

At least it's started to rain.

P.

Dearest P,

I can only confess that hearing you excited about the oldballandchain's sweaty self is enough to know how deeply disturbing the whole Everglades experience must be for you.  It seems your entire value system has been set askew.  Worry not, however, as I want to assure you that returning to the 'hood has brought with it an entirely new set of urgent tribulations. 

Can you believe I had to pretend to offer access to the new President in order to get youngest into a three hour gymnatics camp this week?  Nearly didn't work as there are so many desperate DC parents without suitable childcare during a time that spending precious hours planning for the inaugural is obviously de rigeur.  And by planning, obviously, I mean posting one's home at inauguralhomes.com for the maximum amount of tuition dollars to be gained.

And really, how can I be expected to get the house ready for guests when my housekeeper was more than a full hour late today b/c of a some sort of medically urgent scenario?  At least she arrived in time to wash a load of clothing b/f my teenage son returned to the shower for his seventh clothing change of the day.  I wish I could believe it was his own sweaty tennis escapades that sent him there each time. 

You will be pleased to know it is only your culinary expertise that keeps me sane.  I have decided to save your remarkable pesto (storged per your fantastically futuristic food storage system: baggies in the freezer) for New Year's Eve.  I know it's hard to imagine but hubby and I have no real plans for the evening.  Teenage son has asked to have a small soiree that night but systematically checking backpacks upon entry and permitting friends to enter and exit the house only one time per night don't equal the kind of fete I imagined.  However, rather than complain bitterly, I will save the whining for after the event and simply anticipate the garlic and basil combined on my willing palate at some point in the evening.  For this, I am eternally grateful and know you too will return home soon enough in order to reach your cuisinart and its miraculous powers.  Now only if you had a solution to those too frequent showers my darling eldest takes, I would post the house at a price high enough to fund tuition for your cherubs too.

C.

Dear C,

Thank you for your kind words of support and advice on how to deal with the oldballandchain. Must say, your recipe for guerilla warfare does sound devious in the extreme, and may actually require me to transplant myself to Jamaica with the twins immediately, in order to implement stage one of The Plan. May I borrow one or two of your nannies for the duration, as it's been years since I actively engaged with my children and I find it's generally better to ease back into such things? Once I have their full and undivided attention, I am quite sure, as you say, that the oldballandchain will quickly fall into line. Either that or the three of them may prefer to move house in the middle of the night, in which case I'd be sure to pursue them – in a year or two, you understand.

So sorry to hear that your return to the same carribbean resort for the second time in less than a year has turned into Paradise Lost. I know that some people might judge you for whining about the lack of hot water and oppressive requirement to have fun in what sounds, on the surface, like a tropical heaven, but believe me,  I have been there, done it, and even have the Jamaican relatives (legacy of a holiday romance) to prove it.

It may sound wonderful to have two nannies, a maid and a scuba instructor attending to one's every need (of which I know we have many), but in my experience, at least, it is done with such a palpable air of resentment that one almost feels one would be better off doing everything oneself. Note the word 'almost'. Much as I like to boast of my toilet-cleaning credentials, it's not a skill I plan to revive any time soon, even as the inevitable financial apocalypse looms. Thank God my housekeeper here in the Village doesn't speak English and appears not to have read Marx.

As for the oppressive requirement to frolic and have fun, I'm afraid you and I simply weren't designed for the season of good will, dear C. Our strength appears to lie in dealing with humdrum routine: calling the plumber; getting the cherubs' teeth cleaned; religiously attending our twice weekly Reformer's PIlates' class (and people say we lack faith!). Our shining moment comes in remembering to call our mother-in-laws on their birthdays, even it is through gritted teeth, and renewing our alarm permits with the Village Hall once a year, even if they can't be bothered to keep a record of such transactions.

All this goes by largely unappreciated by our nearest and dearest, let alone the wider world, which is why we end up picking fights over who does more dishes and why the oldballandchain probably insists on getting me the same new bathrobe every Christmas, rather than the Prada pumps whose specifications I basically tattooed onto his forehead the other day.

But rest assured, dear C. I notice and appreciate all that you do, and know that once December 26 rolls around, you and I will rise again. In the meantime, my friend, have that waiter bring you another margarita and allow me  to raise a toast to you and yours as you languish on the beach.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good fight!

P.

Dear C,

Now that the oldballandchain is about to hit the big 4-0, I’ve noticed he’s started huffing and puffing a tad more in the throes of passion (with me, anyway), which is why I felt it incumbent upon me to march him down to the bank this am, to discuss the delights of life insurance.  Seems you get some kind of coupon or discount for signing on the dotted line before the clock chimes and you are Officially Old; hence the sence of urgency – nothing to do with my recent fascination with knives, you understand.

Let me be the first to say that this visit turned out to be a surprisngly uplifting experience.  Not only was the chap at the bank skilled at the art of drawing pictures of buckets and writing upside-down; there is also something refreshing – nay, cheerfully – blunt about an entire industry devoted to calculating how close you are to snuffing it.  Ten years on, they expect you to be alive and kicking; by the time you hit 65, however, you are basically considered to be the insurance equivalent of a ticking bomb. I was particularly gratified to see that suicide is now covered, having feared accusations that I might have driven him to it, and that untimely deaths are only investigated for the first two years of the policy.  Nevertheless, a couple of troubling questions remain:

1) How would one’s (purely hypothetical) decision to switch off the spousal life support machine affect coverage?  Is proof of brain death enough, or does one physically have to unplug?
2) I keep trying to convince the obc that no amount of money could ever replace him, but in the meantime does twenty times annual income sound like enough?

Given your stellar legal background, I hope you can advise.

Faithfully,

P.

Dearest P,

First I must confess my shock and dismay that one could place a monetary value on any husband.  Aren’t they are all, frankly, priceless?

That said, it’s important to consider the lyrics of the old standby: "Nothing from Nothing Means Nothing, and You Gotta Have Something If You’re Gonna Be With Me."  In other words, it is extremely important to weigh, at convenient marital intervals, and the anniversary of one’s marriage is a convenient enough date, what the old man still offers.  If it’s less than the price on his head, start mentioning his depressed state to everyone you meet.

I do hope my legal expertise will never be required in such matters.  The collection of sums should occur so smoothly, and the widow’s dress should be so staid, that no one would dare breathe a word of inquiry.  Yes, that means only sensible pumps for the wake and nearly a year after, dear P.  Save the Ferragamos for dancin’ on the grave when no one’s lookin’.

Faithfully Yours in Black Widowhood,

C.