Desperate in DC

Hot and Drunk? Yoga

Darling P,

I am a woman seriously considering a twelve step program.  Only, not really, b/c I just so couldn't do any of the amends stuff with anyone.  But I should.  You may recall that hubby, the cherubs and I were invited to the Country Club to attend fireworks with our generous friends who are members there.  Elder cherubs were actually asked to go as the hired help in order to assist dear friend with her much younger darlings.  Of course I was thrilled--making the cherubs earn their keep is, as you know, one of my not so secret pleasures.

Anyway, things proceeded quite nicely until the rain started to fall.  We were soaked and forced to move inside the CC where things were less warm and hospitable than one might imagine.  Eventually the sheets of rain lightened in intensity and we were able to move back outside.  But, of course, by this time, I had managed to consume at least three quite large cranberry and vodka drinks while watching my children chase after their own school mates they found at the Club, instead of minding their charges. 

Fireworks proceeded in all their glory and my almost teenage cherub actually spent the entire time snuggled in my lap.  With my five year with her grandparents out of town, I realized my elder girl may occasionally need physical affection.  Had another drink to force out thoughts of how often I had denied her same for so many years.

By the time bedtime finally arrived, I was fully convinced my usual 6:15 hot yoga class was still a stunningly good idea.  Once there, however, I realized that the vodka I had drunk just hours b/f might actually still be levelling off.  Not a particularly good fit with the headstand and wheel poses our nubile nineteen year old instructor chose for today.

So, dear P, you can see that your friend is in desperate need of help.  Instead of rehabilitation, however, I'm off to IKEA to furnish same elder daughter's new teenage bedroom.  I think this outing alone may convince me, even after the Excedrin have kicked in, that I should never drink again, or rather, I should never drink cheap vodka at the CC again. I think I can manage that far more successfully than a lifetime of sobriety.  Maybe.

C.

Re: Hot and Drunk? Yoga

Dear C,

Can't say I have attempted yoga after one too many, mainly because I would never dream of getting up at 5.45 a.m. after a going on a bender, but I do know the vodka and cranberry concoctions at the Club well. In general, I find they only improve my tennis game - or at least my perception of it - and they do lend a certain surreal feel to post-match drinks overlooking the putting green, which will often appear to levitate, after you've imbibed a few. The Club Cosmo is also the only way to survive the post match dinner in the Club dining room. How else could one stand to eat shrimp cocktail and prime rib (yet again) with Biffy, Muffin and Biggles, et al, while still dressed in sweaty tennis whites and shivering in the A/C?

But surely, dear C, the true test of the Club Cosmo's efficacy is its ability to persuade you to go through with your plans to hop in the family minivan and enjoy a fun day out at Ikea. Anyone lucky enough to have enjoyed this experience en famille will know that no-one in their right mind would attempt to embark on a journey that can only result in blood, sweat and the end of your marriage, after you attempt to maneuver Boxes 1, 2 and three into a car that's already teeming with cherubs. And that's even before you attempt to assemble your purchases, and discover that hubby failed to pick up Box number 4. Perhaps Ikea should sell Club Cosmos to go, along with their Swedish meatballs? Isn't that what they mean about drinking responsibly?

P.

Some Like it Hot; Others, Not So Much

Dearest P,

I write to you seeking your always good advice in a matter I find most puzzling, especially since settling in D.C.: a preponderance of couples in which one partner is lovely, charming and warm and the other is, well, not.

As you've come to know me so intimately these past few years, you know it would never occur to me to give people, generally, more than one chance to prove themselves and this could, most certainly, be part of the problem.  Over time, however, I have now learned to account for such issues as shyness and, also, those individuals who might take an instant dislike to me and therefore cannot possibly be bothered to spend any energy on their further interactions. 

But what about those couples, P, in which each is really quite lovely, individually, but the dynamic between them seems preoccupied with the one who tries too hard to please and the other who, well, doesn't?  It's obvious what the cold partner gets, right?  A mate constantly on (usually) his toes trying to satisfy the erstwhile demands of someone who seems to most want to be left alone.  But what, possibly, does the warm and wonderful partner take away from the relationship? 

My current theory, P, is that the lovely partner may, in fact, have a different kind of satisfaction.  Possible, isn't it, that the warm partner, instead of ever complaining to the demanding and stone cold spouse, simply feels a certain license outside the partnership?  That is to say, maybe their own bad habits, whether overeating or picking up hookers, can be rationalized by believing they get so few of their emotional needs met that they are justified in whatever they decide to do that doesn't directly involve their spouse?

A certain urgency suddenly pervades this correspondence, P, as it seems my own precious family thinks I may be entirely warm to everyone who doesn't really matter and deadly to those I most adore.  Unclear whether this means I am the warm or cold spouse, therefore, and if I may need to start perusing the want ads for a certain male masseur.

C.   

Re: Some Like it Hot; Others, Not So Much

Dear C,

I too have long wondered why so many friendly and frequently good-looking people are married to cold fishes, but simply assumed that the frigid spouse in question recognized his or her own deficiencies, and sensibly married the opposite. As for the warmer, cuddlier party in the relationship, I concluded that their sweet nature either precluded them from seeing the true nature of the beast, or that their charm was sufficient to melt even the iciest heart, enabling them to see endearing qualities where others can't. Your explanation, however, while less wholesome, certainly rings more true. One only has to look at Bernie Madoff's wife to know that he must be happier snuggling up to his cellmate in prison. As for yours truly, I too tend to reserve my most visible PDAs for random friends and acquaintances, rather than family, which is why the OBC tends to laugh long and hard whenever anyone describes me as 'sweet.' Ironically, it's also probably the reason I'm the only person in America who thinks Kate Gosselin ISN'T a stone cold bitch; she's just doing what she has to, in order to survive.

P.

My Time is More Important than Yours

Dear C,

Ever wondered what it is exactly that doctors do while you wait for them in the examining room? You know the routine. First, the nurse asks you to strip down to your skivvies (or worse), then hands you a paper hospital gown, which you inevitably put on the wrong way round. Then she leaves, and you are left twiddling your thumbs for..........10, 15, 30 minutes or more. Eventually, you poke your head round the door, and find the hallway to be deserted. Finally, you resort to clutching the now shredded gown shut while you tip-toe barefoot (and bare-assed) down the hallway to the nurses' station, where they stare at you like you just demanded tea and hot-buttered scones with your pap smear. A few minutes later, the doctor shows up, and dismisses your concerns as the fevered imaginings of a woman with too much time, and internet access on her hands. Within nanoseconds, you are dressed and out the door  - except that you inevitably have to return for the prescription he's forgotten to write.

I like to think the doctors spend those intervening moments surveying the live streaming video from the examining rooms, sniggering at the granny panties and placing bets on which patient has less than a year to live. But of course I know doctors are all extremely important and very busy people, handling too many life or death emergencies to waste time like that. It's just weird how those emergencies always seem to happen every time I show up in my most sensible underwear. At least Grandma would be proud.

P.

Re: My Time is More Important Than Yours

P,

You know I promised, in our most recent conversation, to keep my response to your frequent and enlightening correspondence out of the realm of the nether regions, not always an easy thing for me.  But you send a missive discussing pap smears and granny panties.  Where can I possibly go with that but spiraling downward?

In the interest of lifting us to new heights, however, I will talk about a recent visit to a new kind of doctor for me: one who examines the mind.  Sadly, it wasn't even the type who gives you a pill to make it feel better, but one with whom you are expected to share your most intimate marital secrets in order to get closer to your spouse.  As you will immediately see, this is, of course, a ridiculous premise and one I discarded b/f entering his office.

Was floored, however, upon entering the therapist's inner sanctum to discover he was already waiting for us with a smile and a handshake (and even an air kiss for me).  Can only assume it is his way of putting clients (notice I will never be his patient) at ease.  Other doctors, I think, leave you naked and exposed as a way of assuming complete control necessary for their often less than thorough exam and diagnosis, but a therapist must do almost the opposite: convince you to expose yourself, voluntarily, to him.

I'm certain you can see where this is heading: yes, I was nearly ready to throw myself at the man by the time we left as he did seem to understand me in a way no man, especially hubby, ever has.  He listened and nodded and didn't even correct me, as hubby feels so often compelled to do, when my white mini-dress snaked a few inches higher than I intended and I exposed myself (and not in a psychologial sense) to him.

He recommended, in the end, that I might need some in-depth and separate therapy even though it was clear to me that only hubby brought any real issues to the gathering.  Left a little puzzled but guess I'll sort all that out next week when I meet him for our private session at the Chevy Chase Lounge. 

In sum, darling P, I hate to dismiss your concerns about the medical profession altogether but my own experience suggests it is worth seeking out someone examining your top end rather than your bottom to get the kind of satisfaction from doctors that we all really need.

C.

Post-Coital Disappointment

Darling P,

It's taken me far too many years, but I've at last realized how much more persuasive I am with hubby before he has achieved the most exulted state known to man: post-orgasm complacency.  Just today, he was murmuring far too many proclamations of love and adoration-- but only before fully satisfied by my affections.  Afterwards, barely attentive, he seemed interested only in knowing how long my droning would continue b/f he could, politely at least, excuse himself from my company.

I'd like to think hubby is unique but know only too well, from my previous though (as you must know) clearly limited experience, that this is not an uncommon occurrence.  I've known women to sail upon a raft of jewels while enticing their beloved with their siren song.  Once consummated, sadly, the relationship becomes a partial re-enactment of enticement and satisfaction for many years to come. Know one wife (whom I can only admire from afar) who actually creates a check-list of goals for her spouse to complete before their next act of love.  Do you suppose I could motivate hubby to sort those long-abandoned single socks in this way?

Really hope you have a solution to this thousands year old dilemma, dearest P.  One complicating factor for me, frankly, is my inability to remember that sex is, after all, only to be used as a marital tool and not, utlimately, for one's own satisfaction.  Unlike that woman I mentioned, I do seem to have frequent needs of my own which make hubby, even through the glare of his unmatched socks, quite enticing to me. 

I do feel, however, it is really a matter of self-discipline, P, and will endeavor to fall in line with all those women I so admire who can, quite easily, resist the call of the wild.  They may not be sexually (or at all otherwise) sated, but I imagine their dresser drawers are well-organized.  And really, is there any greater satisfaction than that?

C.

Re: Post-Coital Disappointment

Dear C,

At first, I thought you were writing to me about an entirely different subject matter, but I am glad to hear that hubby at least pays attention long enough to meet your needs during the act itself. My problem is the opposite. I find it increasingly hard, if not impossible, to pay any kind of attention to the oldballandchain, sexual or otherwise. Between yoga, tennis, Pilates, drinks at the Club and, oh, of course, children, I barely have time to shower, let alone engage in any kind of physical activity that doesn't have its ultimate goal the preservation of my rapidly aging body. And what, precisely is all this frenetic effort to slow down the treadmill of time for, you might ask, if not to be able to present a respectible physical specimen to one's spouse between the marital sheets? As if! In fact, as any member of the female sex knows, women exercise in order to compete with their female peers, not to attract their husband's attention. Indeed, is there a married woman alive who wouldn't frankly prefer a relaxing massage to the prospect of a physical mawling from her mate?

As for your quaint notion of compiling a honey-do list that must be completed prior to the granting of sexual favors, it's a lovely idea, but one that quickly founders on the rocks of male procrastination (at least in my experience). Unless the consequences of non-compliance are ruthlessly and consistently enforced, such agreements rapidly degenerate into pissing matches about who failed to call the plumber, and why the aggrieved party sooner or later finds herself having to do everything around here. It's not exactly conducive to marital harmony or getting things fixed around the house, even if it does lead to some great hate sex.

P.

Big Game Hunting in the Little Leagues

Dear C,

As your youngest cherub's year of pre-school at the local Village Elementary draws to a close, I wonder if you have had the fortune to become acquainted with Socially Ambitious Mom, the woman who never ceases to glance over your shoulder to find someone better to talk to? Over the course of our seven years together at said school, I have become used to her ditching me mid-sentence to schmooze with Alpha Mom or Dad with the Biggest Portfolio. I have endured awkward moments in the hallways, after my cheery Hellos and Goodbyes are met with a blank stare - or at best an inquiry to remind her, yet again, of my name. And I have stepped aside - literally - as she made a beeline for Teacher during the course of school field trips, presumably in the hopes by shining the apple herself, she would be nudging her child's scores up a grade or two (not that their child would need this, of course, being naturally a gifted, straight A student from the moment they took the Apgars).

But then something changed. My twins slowly inched their way up the social totem pole in their own right, and lo and behold, Socially Ambitious Mom became friendly. Suddenly, there were invitations to birthday parties, Sky boxes and exclusive book clubs. Thankfully, however, just as I was about to ditch you forever, dear C, and declare SAM my new BFF, she withdrew an invitation to a dinner party she was hosting as an early celebration for MY FORTIETH BIRTHDAY in favor of attending the recent Washington National Opera Ball with Billionaire Dad (aka, the dick with the good fortune to sell his company just before the credit crash) and his Long-Suffering Mate.

It's good to know that a cougar never really changes her spots.

P.

RE: Big Game Hunting in the Little Leagues

Dearest P,

I entirely sympathize with your plight but must take issue with your characterization as I may, perhaps, fall firmly into the category of the mother you describe.  But not on behalf of my children.  Rather than wasting ambition on my young, I find myself attempting connections just for me. Actually find it rather difficult to disparage those who are paying attention in a meaningful way to their offspring and not just dipping a toe when the mood suits, as I have no idea how they have either the attention span or endurance it requires.

Since you know I am loathe to sling arrows, I will confess my own indiscretion just today: rather than take the opportunity to attend youngest cherub's ice cream party, I enjoyed a little self-pleasuring. You guessed it, I went shoe shopping.  And believe me, I truly treasure the opportunity to show same child the new pair of heels that have transformed her mother's life: all black, all heel and the ones that make mama feel like a million bucks.

Now, having told on myself, I fully own the possibility that other mothers, present for the hot sticky teacher thanking morass they dutifully call "quality time," deserve to be the favorites of nearly everyone in the universe.  As I have occasionally done such duty, I'd like to be regarded as a hero (but how many women ever are, really?) 

Even so, I would not give up one single second of my day to be so designated.  Frankly, dearest P, what have any other mothers, or their teachers, done for me lately?  On the hand, I can only begin to describe how much I love those shoes and, more to the point, what I imagine could begin to be done in them...I know my daughter will, one day, fully approve.  At least a mother like me can hope for it.

C.