Cleaning House!

A new and improved version of this site is coming soon...

MINUS the useless ads...

ABSENT the questionable links...

WITHOUT solicited reviews of any sort...

COMPLETELY DEVOID of leeches, ticks, and fleas.

Enough already.

See you soon! Ruth

May Day! May Day!

Thank God April is over, because I don't think I could bear yet one more day of quoting T.S. Eliot in my head.

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.

I don't know what it is about the month of April that brings us to our knees (Manic weather? Too many Peeps?) but year after year, without fail, April tests my resolve in every way and I find myself wondering, Can I do this all again?

Can I possibly brave the mall to refresh my spring wardrobe? Will I ever find the motivation to plant my garden? Fix up my house?

I wonder about my ailing dog - the overweight, blind, deaf, feeble, itchy creature with the long toenails and distinctly pungent aroma - and I think, Has April made you wonder if you can do it all again?

I'm sure she thinks about this, somewhere in her dog brain, and especially on weekday mornings when I'm forced to wake her with a nudge earlier than she'd like and then carry her 80+ pound frame down the stairs. Talk about a rude awakening. If she weren't so blind, she might actually bite me in self defense for carrying her around in heels.

But she doesn't, and somehow, miraculously, we both make it to May - the month of Maypoles and mothers, birds, bees, and bright red strawberries. As forsythias bloom and the sky brightens, I tell my dog, It's a beautiful day.

And for the first time in a long time, she hears me.

Mint julep, anyone?

Yes, It's about Poop

I didn't know whether to be flattered or offended when I received an unsolicited email yesterday that went something like this:

Hello Ruth,

Bla bla bla crap. Bla bla bla poop. Bla bla bla your name came up.

The story of my life, no?

Serves me right for, um, evacuating my thoughts about the phenomenon of withholding (and I'm not talking about taxes) in a blog post three years ago entitled The Excrementalist Speaks.

I remember feeling strangely liberated at the time - as if I had stepped out of a universal water closet and intentionally did not flush.

But those revealing insights paled in comparison to some other foul-smelling tidbits of mine that curiously made it into print through the years - tidbits I need not even elaborate on here but tidbits that nonetheless validate my status as an excrementalist extraordinaire. Plastic black flies and all.

Apparently, when one is a devoted student and philosopher of all things crap, shit gets around.

Still not sure how I feel about that, but I'm sure it'll pass.

Starting Seedlings Indoors: Tips for the Laissez Faire Gardener

Who needs seedling starter trays when all you really need is a kitchen cabinet?

Green onions, anyone?

I guess starting my garden this year will be easier than I thought.

Super Fool

A tennis pal of mine who works in TV often passes along "casting call" emails to a group of good-humored, tennis playing women of which I am a part.

One day a prominent television network might be "looking for people with annoying traits," and another day another network might be seeking "outgoing, fun-loving families with at least two kids between the ages of 10-16" for some new series. Not surprisingly, the sharing of these messages tends to prompt a chain of email banter about the annoying, outgoing and fun-loving candidates among our ranks.

So it came as no surprise when I received the following email message:

Casting Call for Tennis Teams: The Tennis Channel is looking for adult teams who compete in league play to be part of a reality series for the '09-'10 season entitled "Wimbledon Wannabes" hosted by Mary Carillo and John McEnroe. The eight episode series will follow four teams both on and off the court. Casting will take place in NY, LA, Chicago, Atlanta and San Francisco in May. Interested teams should contact Bud Collins Productions at (number).

Email banter ensued.

What are we waiting for?
Hey, why not?
Who's calling Bud?

I re-read the email several times, and in comparison to some of the other reality show ideas being floated around, this one seemed downright plausible. I mean, for me, playing USTA league tennis is comparable to some combination of Fear Factor, Survivor, and The Biggest Loser - with elements of The Weakest Link, The Gauntlet, and So You Think You Can Dance thrown in for good measure.

The game of tennis invariably includes High Drama - whether it's the confrontation that ensues after the third bad line call you receive, or the searing ace you deliver to punctuate the discussion. There's guts and glory (including wine guts in lycra), chest bumps of solidarity (but only on the rarest of occasions, I swear), and bonds of friendship and camaraderie that last a lifetime.

The more I thought about a tennis reality show featuring adults who do not necessarily resemble Anna Kournikova, the more I believed that my Kick Ace tennis team was uniquely and perfectly suited to be the next "Wimbledon Wannabe."

I shared the email with my colleagues and bosses, as much for their amusement as for my own due diligence in the event I had to take time off for the show. You know.

Then, while silently typecasting members of my tennis team in my head in preparation for the casting call for "Wimbledon Wannabes," I received an email about a Large, Unexpected Donation to my workplace from a surprising source - an odd man I inexplicably hugged after an event. I don't know why I hugged him. I guess I just thought the guy needed a hug, being so awkward and catatonic-like and all. I had hugged him and then, ever since, made a point of telling everyone who might chuckle or be disturbed, "I hugged So-and-So."

Now it seemed that the object of my wayward hug had borne fruit, and I could do little else but dart around the office declaring, "OH. MY. GOD. It's because of the hug."

What I should have remembered during all this excitement and hoo hah were the bristle marks I had noticed in my bar of soap at my bathroom sink that morning - bristle marks I had gazed at with curiosity as I picked up my toothbrush to brush my teeth.

Exhibit A: The soaped toothbrush.

With great pride I had yelled from the bathroom, "Nice try, son! Very nice try. And April Fools to you, too!" My little prankster was a chip off the old block and it tickled my soul.

But I didn't remember. I didn't remember anything about soaped toothbrushes or feigned Oprah appearances or salt in the sugar bowl.

I remembered nothing, and instead, I chose to believe.

And in those brief few hours of daydreaming about my own version of Wimbledon and philanthropic eccentric millionaires who appreciated hugs from strangers, my life got infinitely more exciting.

All I can say is, well done, my friends. Well done.

And April Fool's Day to you, too.

I Killed the Sea Monkeys, But at Least My Hair is Straight

Getting a moisturizing, straightening keratin treatment for my hair doesn't take away the fact that born-again child evangelists are after my son.

But it helps.

Straight, silky-smooth hair also helps numb the sting you feel once you realize that you've killed off your children's sea monkeys.

I totally should have let the sea monkeys go to "activity night" at a "church" instead of my highly impressionable eight-year old son. What was I thinking? That "activity night" would involve a little pizza and a couple games of basketball? That my son would run around and play with other boys his age for a couple hours? That the experience, offered by a seemingly stand-up place in a nice town, would be completely innocuous?

Yes. [Note to readers: some humans have sea monkey-sized brains.]

Alas, there is no such thing as free pizza and a couple games of basketball without a pitcher full of Kool Aid. Or Kook Aid, as the case may be.

And everyone knows that young kids will drink whatever Kool Aid you serve them, whether it's Tooth Fairy Kool Aid, Easter Bunny Kool Aid, or YOU'RE A SINNER Kool Aid. They'll gulp it down and ask for seconds.

Add pizza and games to the mix, and the Kool Aid goes down sickeningly fast.

You know, I used to hide from the Jehovah's Witnesses that came to my front door until one day my daughter asked me, "Mom, why were you hiding from that nice lady?" I didn't have a good answer, so I never hid again. To this day, I happily oblige the Jehovah's Witnesses who stop by to chat. I answer their questions the best I can, take their Watch Tower pamphlets, and wish them a good day.

It was in this spirit that I obliged my son to join his friend at "church."

Who knew? Certainly not me, but at least my hair is straight.

Where's Mall Cop When You Need Him?

While the rest of the country spent this weekend digging victory gardens and licking their 401-Ks, I joined JUST ABOUT EVERY RESIDENT OF CONNECTICUT at the mall.

Come rain, sleet, hail, snow, lack of credit, and the very real prospect of imminent financial ruin, we Connecticut folk flock to the mall on weekends like lambs to the slaughter. Baa.

First, we all nibbled on chicken lettuce wraps and slurped egg drop soup at P.F. Chang's China Bistro - no doubt lured there by the giant horse statue out front. Apparently I'm not alone in succumbing to the appeal of a giant cement horse statue over luminous sunshine and refreshingly crisp air.

Fully satiated with mono sodium glutamate and the guilt associated with eating overpriced mediocre food after being seduced by a giant horse, we all headed straight to Forever 21.

Of course.


If ever there was a need for a bouncer, it would be at the trendy, teenage crap fest known as Forever 21 - a store plagued by a clientele of bloated, middle-aged women desperately trying to prove that they "still got it."

Unfortunately, many of these women - myself included - "still got it." That is, we've "still got" leggings, over-sized striped sweaters, and ill-fitting tube tops left over from 1985. What we don't "still got" is the ability (read: body) to wear them.

And yet...there we are, jockeying for space before displays of jangly lead-painted earrings, and elbowing our way through "new" threadbare spring designs, if only for the sweet taste of nostalgia.

Jenny, I got your number.
I'm gonna make you mine.
Jenny, don't change your number.
8-6-7-5-3-0-9....

Thankfully, my teen and tweenage "covers" got me out of that store just in time to hit American Eagle Outfitters, a place so reeking of teen spirit I wouldn't have been surprised to see Zak Efron lounging on a display and puckering his lips at the throngs of teen, tween, and bloated, middle-aged female shoppers.


After what felt like puberty, we emerged anew from that store with our "it" merchandise all wrapped up in a semi-pornographic bag. I could not believe this bag. It was the kind of bag that one might expect to receive at a store like Good Vibrations. The bag needed a bag, is all I'm saying.

Blushing just a little, I suggested we beeline it to Sweet Factory. There's something inherently wrong with spending $10 on stale gummy worms, but at least stale gummy worms help to get the taste of bad Chinese food out of your mouth for the brief few moments before you arrive at Limited Too, now ironically renamed "Justice."

Trust me, there's no justice in that store. It's Forever 21 for eight-year-olds, except instead of spending $4.50 for leggings, you pay $29.99! And you get to hear Miley Cyrus screech in your ears while you do it! Overwhelmed by saccharine pop music and toxic melamine and bisphenol A fumes coming off the clothing, you succumb to the madness and the next thing you know you're singing along with ICarly and forking over your debit card!

Justice.

Maybe there's simply no justice to be found anywhere these days? At least not at the mall.