P,

Thanks so much for allowing me to pick-up the new silk pjs I left on  your doorstep this a.m.  As I noticed they languished, untouched, on your dining room table when I stopped by for tea this afternoon, I thought it best to consider them as a gift for my mother-in-law instead.  I assume you would have worn them immediately if you loved them as I noticed your spouse was still in his when I popped by at 3 o’clock.

I am thrilled you have agreed to become baby’s godparents and must confess that although we’re relatively new to D.C., we’ve noticed a trend in kids with trust funds.  Do know that we wouldn’t feel threatened in any way in our relationship with our daughter if you decided to create one for her.  Can only assume this is possible by the state of your lovely interior design–though I did wonder how it’s all possible with a husband at home.  I surmised that your stay-at-home mom image was supported by a wealthy, perhaps older, man and that I was the only working mom in the neighborhood.  Did I miss something?

As my own hubby is preparing for a six week trial out-of-town, I fear my own coping skills will soon be sorely tested.  Seems our lovely au pair isn’t quite as content as I imagined she should be: what more can we offer than her own suite, car, limited work hours and a promise not to allow any of the children to follow her home to Sweden at the end of her term?  I certainly confess I expected a bit more on her end–do you know she doesn’t even stay at playdates with the children?  In any case, I suspect you see a bit more of her than I might so do tell me what we might do to re-organize her attitude.  I’m certainly not in a position to tell clients I can’t meet a deadline because my sitter has unmet needs.

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

How clever of you to invent a whole new tradition!  First there was re-gifting, now there is de-gifting, by which you summarily wrest the present you just gave from the recipient’s arms, in favor of depositing it in the hands of someone more appreciative – or at least higher up the social food chain, as is the custom here in DC.  I do hope the trend catches on.

Thanks for the manicure, btw – at least that’s something which cannot be taken away by force – at least, not without some training by the CIA.

But pray, what is the etiquette governing extra-familial trust funds?  Are we obligated to your youngest, in the (unlikely) event that our own friendship does not survive?  Or may we pass on the promised millions to a more deserving child – say, the offspring of Donald Trump and Melania Knauss, whose friendship we are cultivating as we speak?  I ask only because it was touch and go there for a few days, when I wasn’t sure if you would choose us or your Kansas City intimates, P&K to the guardians of said cherub’s soul.  Now that you have chosen us, dear C, rest assured that I have nixed all plans to firebomb your house and spread rumors about your drinking.  Oh, and sure we’ll take of her religious education.  Always fancied finding out more about scientology myself.

Of course, all of this is dependent on my old man making the millions upon which our future happiness (yours and mine) so clearly depends.  In your case, however, as a busy litigator, in addition to wife and nominal mother of four (just kidding), you will probably earn this money yourself, by single-handedly defending some heart-warming corporation from the evil class-action sex discrimination suit brought by hubby, who rumor has it likes to bat for the other team.  In my case, unfortunately, the financial security of hearth, home, children and self are soley dependent on the work ethic of a man who rises from his bed only to greet my friends.

I wonder which of us made the better choice?

Faithfully,

P.

P.S.  Sorry to hear that the au pair is unhappy, although I can’t say I’m surprised.  She looked rather gloomy zipping past me in the Mercedes the other day.  Boyfriend troubles, perhaps?  Would you like me to have a chat with her?  It’s no trouble, honestly.  In fact, it might give us something to talk about on those occasions when she is required to hang around my house while your children play with mine.

P,

Your recent chat about considering interests outside my own inspired me to donate blood at the cherubs’ school blood drive yesterday.  Propelled by the notion that donating a pint is equivalent to burning sufficient calories to erase one pound, I offered my highly desirable blood type (that’s not arrogant, just so true) without another thought for my own welfare.  Of course I had no idea how much the Red Cross resembles the Soviet bureaucracy of days past.  I assumed I would be feted like a Queen by the way they solicited me, but the resulting morass made me realize how much I deserved a post-event pedi/manicure.

Unfortunately the questions now asked of innocent donors resemble a checklist I hope to administer to my own daughters’ first suitors.  How can I be certain whether hubby, really, has ever had sex with even one man?  I can only assume, based upon his retiscence to admit to a chewing tobacco habit, that it is entirely possible.  I even stumbled over questions about my intimate relations with the British.  Didn’t mention our recent correspondence as I was concerned that I would be denied the opportunity to shed the aforementioned calories but do feel slightly dirty now and strongly believe that you are entirely responsible.

In any case, as I wasn’t preliminary screened as an inappropriate donor, I was at last offered the coveted bleeder’s repose.  I must confess my enjoyment for the simple pampering of the actual donation process.  It suddenly becomes all about how one feels and great attention is paid to every slight nod of the head and sweat on the brow (hubby could take a few lessons).  Even the prepping of my arm was slightly sensual as the iodine was rubbed soothingly and nearly endlessly to assure, I suppose, a sterile field for the needle stick (you do suppose they do this to everyone, right?).

Unfortunately, although the giving was so good, the stopping was not.  Although never fettered with any problem in the past, seems I’ve become what they now term a bleeder.  Although the needle was removed, my precious life fluid continued to flow.  Although I relished the opportunity to drop another pound, it did occur to me as I became rather light-headed that maybe there were simpler ways to slim the waist.  I began to get quite comfortable as the personnel surrounded me and, in hushed and urgent tones, talked about a trip to the hospital.  Alas, within another thirty seconds, my platelets apparently received word of the need, and the clotting began.  Instead of an afternoon of doting care and attention, I was shortly asked to leave the chair for another.  And fetch my cherubs immediately.

I naturally spent the rest of the day telling my young about my great sacrifice on their behalf and spent the evening refueling my lost liquid (I assume cosmopolitans are best for this since they are blood red).  Although it’s pretty clear you and yours will not likely ever be eligible to donate (and hubby’s own attempt resulted in a less than manly fainting spell), I am happy to carry the burden of donating every six weeks or so.  Don’t worry if I become too thin as, much like Paris Hilton, I do it  all in the interest of a better world. 

Faithfully,

C. 

Dear C,

Offer up a pint of blood, and suddenly you want everyone to start calling you a saint!  Frankly, I don’t know what’s more tragic: the lengths a busy wife and mother has to go to these days to get a little TLC for herself; or the extreme measures she has to take in order to shed a pound.  Naturally, I’d be flat out on the cot bed next to you faster than you can say ‘Cosmo, anyone?’, if it weren’t for the unfortunate fact of my British nationality, which is seemingly enough to get you put on a bio-terrorist watch list this days.

But if you really think about it, who among us can really be sure they aren’t infected with just a touch of Mad Cow?  Only the other day, I found myself wondering the supermarket aisles, trying to remember why I had come, and what the point of it all was…..but then again, I have asked myself those questions for years.  Similarly, who hasn’t felt the sudden urge to invade Poland while waiting in line at the DMV?  As someone who has mysteriously put on weight in the last month or so – I think it’s the increase in atmospheric pressure – to be deprived of the chance to offload the odd extra pound or so via legalized blood-letting amounts to the kind of discrimination MLK fought so hard to eliminate.  I hope hubby is prepared to add my complaint to his list of pending class-action suits!

Speaking of weight gain, I have noticed that the women in my current yoga class are looking a little less skeletal than usual.  Not sure if it’s a result of achieving all that inner peace, or whether it’s time to switch loyalty to the studio you frequent, where I understand the pounds simply melt away in the Guantanamo-style studio heat.  Not that I’m against inner peace, you understand, just not at the expense of my outer ass.

Namaste,

P.