P,
And so I called you this afternoon to inquire about the possibility of carrying my already made cosmopolitan (in the fancy new glass) to your home to escape my own chaos. Hubby has indeed returned from the wilderness but is currently on an urgent conference call (I suspect w/ the woman who likes to fish).
Imagine my dismay to discover your parents with the cherubs (teaching them to knit no less) while you and the oldballandchain are playing tennis. May I assume the game is a euphemism for a drink at the Chevy Chase Lounge? Dearest P, I had nearly taken you into my heart when I was startled into the realization that your need for vigorous activity may exceed the bounds of cocktail hour. The other P would NEVER let that happen, I assure you. Of course, I’m not one to judge and know that R is probably feeding her children or some such nonsense at this hour, but can assure you I won’t be sucked into such domestic drudgery.
I’ve managed to drink alone, yet again, and am now off to eldest cherub’s cello encounter (calling it a lesson, I think, embellishes the effort he has put into his four years of study). In any case, as the mother-in-law will be there, I think I was well-served by the soothing liquid and am now fully capable of greasin’ the skids (it’s midwestern term I will explain later, my fleeting friend).
Faithfully,
C.
