False Assumptions: It's a Girl! Er...It's a Belly

I overheard someone at a kid's birthday party a few years ago make the dreaded mistake of asking a stranger the question, "When are you due?"

The woman to whom the question was directed was wearing what appeared to be a maternity shirt. It had an empire waist and tied in the back, and from beneath the fabric draped over the woman's midsection one could clearly discern a sizeable, rounded bulge.

Upon hearing the question, this woman replied, "I'm not pregnant."

The other woman hesitated for a moment and then, believing this woman to be kidding, said, "No really, when are you due?"

Needless to say, the woman with the shirt and the bulge repeated her reply in a manner that made it very clear that she was neither pregnant nor kidding.

Ouch.

Sometimes assumptions can really hurt, and that's why we've all been cautioned never to assume because why? [Repeat after me] When you assume, you make an ass out of u and me.

William Safire warned us about assumptions. Never assume the obvious is true , he said, and, We must never assume that which is incapable of proof.

But what about things that are capable of proof? What happens when we make assumptions about situations before we have proof? What happens when a doctor, for example, or even a team of medical professionals assumes a particular diagnosis - a potentially tragic, life-changing diagnosis - before they have definitive, scientific proof? And when this doctor or team of medical professionals shares these assumptions with a patient and her family, how, then, can they possibly refrain from making even more assumptions about what will happen next?

My friend Lisa and her family have been through a few very rough days this week. She's currently in the hospital undergoing a battery of tests, and from what I've read on her blog, Midwestern Mommy, the experience has been traumatic to say the least. Lisa is a sweet, beautiful, kind soul...please go offer her some words of support.

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[cue dancing monkey transition]

And now...let's talk about sex.

The sex is unavoidable.

It's there, on your street corner. It's the billboard, the condom wrapper, the outfit that just walked by. It's the ad on the side of the bus, the lyrics bellowing from a passing car. It's in your living room, screaming at you from television and computer screens, teasing you from magazine and book covers, daring you to look. See. Desire. Act.

[Is it getting hot in here?] Read more...

Grasping at Friends

I emailed Elizabeth Edwards the other night and asked her if she wanted to be my "friend" on Facebook - the social networking site on which I am perhaps the only person who still does not have a face.

I don't do this very often. I don't send email-merged "friend requests" to groups of people I don't know - yet, at least. I just saw this photo that sort of resembled Elizabeth Edwards on the profile page of one of my existing Facebook friends, and I impulsively decided to invite her to be my friend too. I had heard that she's a blogger, though in truth I have yet to find a blog unrelated to her husband's failed presidential bid. I just admire her for many reasons that have nothing to do with her husband, and seeing as she's coming to Connecticut in September to speak at an exciting event, I thought it downright appropriate to extend a virtual hand.

So I wrote:

Dear Elizabeth,

I'm a blogger and fan (for lack of a better word). I also work at (bla) and look forward to seeing you in September. Oh please won't you be my Facebook friend?*

Sincerely,

Ruth

*actual verbiage may differ oh so slightly

The next day I received an email with the subject line Elizabeth Edwards sent you a message on Facebook.

I was pretty excited. Not overly excited, like when Oprah called. Just...pleasantly tickled and eager to read her response. It read:

Dear Ruth,

I'm not the Elizabeth Edwards who is married to John who ran for president. Sorry!

You know, it was bad enough that I had sent a friend request to a complete stranger in the first place - albeit a complete stranger I felt close to, like a friend. I mean, there's no doubt that Elizabeth Edwards and I would be fast friends if only we had the opportunity to chit chat for awhile. I tend to feel this way about a lot of people, if truth be told. (George Clooney: I'm talking to you.)

But now I hit up a completely different stranger who I didn't know at all - until now, at least. And so...

Dear Elizabeth,

Now that I've visited your delightful blog and see that we do indeed have many friends in common, I feel as if I know you. At the very least, I know we would be fast friends if only we had the opportunity to chit chat for awhile.

If you can find it in your heart to forgive my misdirected email to your namesake, would you consider being my Facebook friend?

Sincerely,

Ruth Dynamite

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What will happen to Ruth's latest friend request? Will she be welcomed with open virtual arms, or shunned like a bad virus?

Who will she target next? Will it be Will Ferrell? Anthony Bourdain? Novak Djokovic?

Stay tuned!

In the meantime, you might want to take a friendly glance at Ruth's latest post on New England Mamas in which she divulges some of her very favorite Top Secret Hidden Gems in New England. And for those of you who live in New England or who are considering traveling here sometime in the near future, you really ought to check out some of the other fantastic recommendations on the site. Good stuff!

Under One Roof: An Adventure in Bathroom Etiquette

My father summed up our family vacation to Nantucket the best: "This is straight out of Larry David."

And true, a Hollywood casting agent would have been duly impressed with the cast of characters - or caricatures - we had assembled under one roof, including the wry Jewish grandfather wearing an "I am the man from Nantucket" t-shirt, the easygoing Irish cop ever on the alert for terrorist activity, the Lilly Pulitzer clad pharmaceutical executive conducting conference calls from the beach, an Italian saint bearing a case of Very Fine Wine, and a sullen blind man - well, a man rendered virtually blind after forfeiting his spectacles to the Atlantic Ocean in a curious incident involving a skim board and a wave.

Then, of course, there was the loveable dyspeptic [Thank you, Anonymous, for correcting my misspelling.] host, ever swathed in sweat, two cackling sisters, a self-proclaimed island native wearing madras shorts and a whale belt, a medical miracle of a woman with a 4-week old kidney, the doting grandmother with a perma-smile, and four requisite giggling, squealing, over-tired and tireless little rugrats.

Oh - and two (2) bathrooms. Dos. Duex. Due. Zwei. Er. Ni. Wili. Dva.

Two bathrooms, four bedrooms. Don't do the math. Just roll off your rapidly deflating air mattress at 5AM and into your running shoes, tiptoe across creaky wood floors, and escape into the foggy ocean air. Listen to the symphony of birds, most notably the towhee soloists incessantly chirping, "Drink your teaaa...drink your teaaa." Make a game of counting all the wildlife you see as you navigate dusty roads and paved paths - 14.5 bunny rabbits, 11 guinea hens, 2 deer.

Recruit another friend or family member to join you on each passing day, so that by week's end a puffy-eyed team is waiting outside for you on the slick, dewy deck, stretching hamstring muscles and cursing the towhees. We run ourselves awake, debating how to quantify bits of rabbit road pizza and planning the day's activities. Beach then town? Town then beach? Clambake or steak? Gin and tonics or mojitos? All the minor annoyances and irritations that come with sharing a roof and two (2) bathrooms with too many people ooze out of our pores and soak our clothing wet before evaporating into nothingness. Forgotten.

We cool down with a walk on the beach - a long stretch of sand and surf that is ours and ours alone - for the moment, at least. We time our breathing to the rhythmic crash of waves, breathing it all in and savoring this time, this camaraderie.

Upon our return the most pressing matter to consider is whether or not to have coffee then shower? Shower then coffee? No shower, no coffee, and tea instead? [ $#@! towhees!]

Dishes clang, toilets flush, and the day's story begins to unfold. Will the blind man snap out of his funk and join us at the beach? Will grandpa carry out his threats to catch an early flight? Will a jellyfish sighting scare the children out of the water forever?

Now that we're all home back under our own roofs, the questions are pretty much the same: Will we ever recover from this adventure in togetherness? Will we ever do this again?

Of course we will. But first, we all need a good, long nap.

Summer Trade-Offs: Take My Brother, Please!

Last July I was frantically finishing up a book project just in time to miss my plane to the BlogHer conference in Chicago.

This July, I am firmly rooted in New England, though needless to say, my heart will be in San Francisco with my dear blog pals. I will be thinking of you, my blog compadres, as you enjoy this year's BlogHer conference. I wish I could join you in the worst of ways.

I will also be thinking of my dear friend Joy, who I haven't seen in ten years but came very close to seeing next week - the same week as the BlogHer conference - to be precise. About a month and a half ago my brother mentioned that he had some business in Arkansas, of all places. I immediately responded with, "Well then you must see my good friend Joy in Bentonville while you're there." He said, "My meeting's at Wal-Mart," and I said, "Well Joy's at Wal-Mart!" and he said, "Then you must go with me."

Oh Internets, if only you could imagine how fun it would be for my brother and I to take a trip to Arkansas together. We've traveled to some dusty roads in Oklahoma together - once, for a family reunion. And we spent a few years together at college in Geneva, New York at a place I fondly recall - from what I can recall - as Camp Ho Ho.

But Arkansas would be new territory for us and I was determined to make it happen, if only...for Nantucket.

In case you don't know, Nantucket is a glorious island off the shores of Massachusetts. It's an unspoiled paradise with pristine beaches, plentiful seafood, and homespun spirits aplenty. Nearly 11 years ago this July, I spent a fabulously carefree week on Nantucket Island with my brand new husband, Mr. Dynamite, celebrating our honeymoon.

This year, my Very Generous Sister (Dr. No) invited our entire family to join her on Nantucket for a week - which, as it turns out, is the very same week as both the BlogHer conference and my brother's trip to Arkansas.

So needless to say, Nantucket won out - though I tried desperately to work out flights to Arkansas and San Francisco both to and from the island. The costs were absurd, and I know my dollars would be much better spent on sun block, oysters on the half shell, and Whale's Tail Pale Ale.

My apologies to Arkansas for not having the opportunity to visit you and pay tribute to my friend Joy, your Most Esteemed Resident. Please accept my brother in my stead; he's a Very Good Egg.

And to my Blog pals descending upon the lovelorn city of San Francisco: though I may be sinking my toes in the sand far away on a distant shore, I'll be thinking of sourdough bread, robust coffee, dark chocolate, pinot noir, and you. Some of my very favorite things.

Maybe next year.

America the Beautiful

I did not expect to get misty-eyed and contemplative after watching a local community fireworks display with my family last night, but there I was in Simsbury, CT at the Talcott Mountain Music Festival, eyes wide and lips quivering, awash with patriotism and pride.

Maybe it was the kahlua heath crunch ice cream I was eating, combined with the way I felt leaning back into my husband's arms with our children nestled by our sides, but when the Hartford Symphony Orchestra performed "Stars and Stripes Forever" and fireworks began to illuminate the night sky, I couldn't help but think about how lucky we are.

I looked around at the sea of families who had ventured out to share this experience, the children with mouths agape, fingers pointing to the sky. I looked at the lush green grass, the tall trees, and the ridge in the distance. I listened to the collective oohs and ahhs as brilliant bursts of color exploded through the air.

I breathed it all in and tried to absorb it through every pore. I told myself in no uncertain terms: remember this moment. READ MORE...


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Are you afraid of the dark or know someone who is? Is bedtime a struggle in your house? Well RUN, don't walk, over to my other blog and check out my review of a lovely new children's book called In a Blue Room.

God Works in Mysterious Ways

Today I met a friend for lunch at a popular local hot spot within walking distance from our respective workplaces. A mutual friend had planned to join us, but she got suddenly ill with the stomach flu and had to cancel.

I know you're probably thinking, Stomach flu? Isn't that what they all say? It's true that the stomach flu is a convenient excuse for just about anything. No one will ever question a purported case of the stomach flu because no one wants to hear the details. I woke up at 2AM dreaming about burned chili, and then I realized that something Very Unpleasant was on my pillow...

Maybe the prospect of dining out in public with me and this particular friend was enough to send our other friend running in the direction of the nearest latrine holding her mouth. Or maybe she did, in fact, get sick.

Regardless, my friend and I enjoyed a delightful lunch and thought it would be a good idea to snap a photo of our smiling, satiated selves and email it to our ailing friend - you know, to remind her about all the fun she was missing.

We struggled with her cell phone camera for a minute or two, trying to take a picture of our heads, and then opted to ask a stranger for help. Conveniently, a table of three seated next to us stood up to leave at that very moment.

"Excuse me," my friend asked politely, "Would you mind taking a picture of us?"

The question was mainly directed at a well-coiffed blonde woman in heels who stood facing us. Both of her companions had their backs to us, so naturally, we expected this woman to respond with, "Sure. Which button do I push?" and then, maybe even a, "Say cheese!"

Instead, the woman shot a pained grimace at her companions, as if to say, "Um, they expect meee to take a photo of themmmm?" It was either that or the fact that these people were aliens from another planet and were completely shocked and dumbfounded when spoken to by an actual human being.

It was a weirdly awkward moment, a pregnant pause in which my friend was compelled to repeat her request. "Would one of you guys mind taking a quick photo of us?"

The blonde woman pretended she didn't hear us and began to step backwards, prompting her male companion to reluctantly say, "Uhhh...OK." At the exact moment he stepped toward our table to grab hold of my friend's cell phone, the cowardly woman continued her blind retreat, managing to somehow sink her 4-inch spike heel into the cast iron planter behind her.

I saw the fall unfold in slow motion. The heel hooked on the planter. The woman's body contorted and she lost her balance. With foot ensnared, she not only twisted her ankle but came crashing down on her other hip.

She was lifted to a sitting position in a chair by her companions. She appeared to be shaking. Her foot and ankle were visibly scraped and starting to swell. Her hip must have been throbbing, but adrenaline was probably helping her maintain her composure.

The man left her side after about six seconds and walked right over to us and said, "Which button do I push?"

"Is she OK?" we asked, genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, I think so," the man answered nonchalantly.

I didn't think so, but that didn't stop me and my friend from smiling and saying cheese while the man snapped our photo and the blonde woman trembled and sat very still.

No doubt thinking: Next time I'll take the photo.