Just Pick a Woman, Any Woman

Can't talk now...just been approached by Cindy McCain about becoming VP after Sarah Palin bows out of the campaign. (OMG!!!)

Hope I'm pretty enough for the job.
(Not that that matters to the pantsuit brigade. Good thing I have the ovaries to secure their vote!)

More later! Off to search for a good water bra - look out, Obama! Here I come!

Of Killer Squirrels and Bolus Lofting

I have been absent from the blogosphere for a short while, but I have a very good excuse: Killer Squirrels.

I know you're probably thinking, Killer squirrels? Oh God no. Please, not killer squirrels. Say it isn't so!

Sadly, killer squirrels exist, and most people have no idea about the evil that lurks in plain sight right in our own backyards, about the vicious little fur-covered demons who will gnaw off a human leg faster than you can say "Hey! Look at the cute little..."


Strolling through Boston's lovely public garden a few days ago, I had no idea, and my ignorance nearly got me killed.

But thankfully - thankfully - I caught onto their wily ways in about the time it took me to say, "Hey! Look at the...RUN!!! NOW!!!" I guess you could say that my time on tennis courts had prepared me well for that very moment, because it certainly required some fast and fancy footwork for me to beeline it to the Ritz, just in time for high tea.

Take it from me, nothing soothes the soul after a near-squirrel mauling than hot tea and clotted cream, cucumber and caviar-crowned smoked salmon sandwiches, and a multi-tiered tray of fruit tartlettes and other scrumptious, bite-sized desserts.

It's been rather traumatic as you might imagine, but despite my mild case of PTSD (post traumatic squirrel disorder), I am alive and well (fed) and back to the business at hand, which in the past 24-hours has included the following:

• Removing a live tick from the the head of a colleague. (Then encasing it in a tomb of scotch tape with some degree of guilt and tossing it in the trash.)
  
• Re-reading the scholarly review of literature about "Bolus Lofting" (aka poop throwing) sent to me by reader/professor "FM" from NY in response to a previous blog post on the topic. It's fascinating stuff. Here's an excerpt: Tracing back to the Carthaginians and the in­vention of the catapult, a modification named by the Romans during the rule of Augustus, "Voluti Boli," or "Bolus Launcher" is described...Instead of solid missiles that inflicted loss of life and limb and retaliation of like kind, bombardment of fecal matter produced confusion, demoraliza­tion and a significant reduction of aggressiveness.
• Chatting with a nice woman who appeared on my doorstep today, my day off, to talk to me about God, the bible, death, and the end of the world ("It's coming soon, do you know that?").
  
• Thinking about the movie Ironman and wondering if Ironman (played brilliantly by Robert Downey Jr.) would be any match for a bolus lofter.
  
• Marveling at the wondrous sight of my two darling offspring eating waffles this morning with chopsticks.
  

Life is a beautiful thing, people. Don't forget to live it. (Just keep an eye out for the squirrels!)

Straight Talk About Sects

We've all heard a little too much information lately about the lifestyle choices of a polygamist sect in Texas, and collectively, we're horrified. How dare those sick bastards make women wear Little House on the Prairie outfits! And for the love of God, what's up with those hairdos?

In all seriousness, I'm incensed by reports of sexual abuse under the guise of worship - a crime that seems to happen all too often.

And I truly fear for the child victims who will soon find themselves "saved" by a "normal" American family who will welcome them with McMeals, Hannah Montana bedroom decor, and plenty of home-schoolin' values instruction from the big screen TV. ("Bless yer heart, sweet child. Here, have some Cheetos and watch this television program. It's called The Biggest Loser and it's just so darn inspirational!")

The whole thing - all of it - makes me want to escape into a good book, or a series of books. Maybe something by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Then again, I might just start my own sect. (I hear the money's great!)

The Texas sect leaders (Rod? Dick?) were felled by their sex - or sect, as the case may be.

Not me. Here's what I'd do: I'd assemble a throng of illiterate men - straight from corporate America, or maybe Congress - and squire them away in my compound in the south of France. (What's not to like about the south of France?)

I'd outfit them in brown UPS uniforms, sweater vests and pocket protectors, and spandex unitards (because I can) and create a rotating schedule for their "duties" in serving me, their Queen Lordess and Protector.

It will be perfect.

"Dwayne, rub my feet before you tend to our organic vineyard."

"What's cookin' Jorge? I'm thinking blackened Ahi steaks, pink in the middle, and cucumber salad with fresh ginger."

"Tony, you're on kitchen clean-up and remember: cleanliness is next to godliness, and godliness is next to me. Kapeesh?"

"Lester, go make me some money."

"Ivan, tend to the animals." (We'd have animals.)

"Li Ming, tend to our organic vegetable garden." (We'd have an organic vegetable garden.)

"Hans, work my back. Oooh yeah. Just like that."

Aging male sectarians would be rotated out of the sect at my whim and outplaced into aluminum siding and insurance sales positions, or they'd return to their careers in Congress or corporate America. New sectarians would come from various sources - customer service call centers, professional sports teams, Wall Street - and as sect leader, I would enjoy them all at my discretion, along with a steady stream of new blood, cash, and free labor.

Yes. I think it's time for sects in my city.

Humblings: Shut Up and Go Back to Your Cubicle

I've been tongue-tied lately, but perhaps that's because I've always been taught that if you have nothing nice to say, you ought to say nothing at all.

Thus my silence.

It's not that I've been unhappy or distressed. I haven't been overburdened with my own commitments, or simply overwhelmed by life - as I'm wont to be. On the contrary, my family and I - or maybe just I in relation to my family - have experienced a sort of rebirth.

I've been getting to know my children, again - and my husband, that guy who does my laundry and helps my kids with their homework.

We've all been talking, playing, hanging out.

We've been to restaurants, the movies. We read. We bought a new car, together (and to quote the kids, "This is suh-weeeet!" and "Sooo much better than the van!").

They're happy. I'm happy. We're happy.

Content might be a better word. Content. They're happy - I'm content.

Because when I sit before this screen, this computer, I invariably end up drafting posts entitled, "Dial 666 for Thin Mints," a diatribe likening the Girl Scouts to the Devil himself - and not just because they suck you in with Lemon Chalet Cremes and Tagalongs.

I bang out essays on idiocy, and then I delete them. I remember how when I first contemplated a blog I thought about naming it something like, "People are Idiots." I realized right away that a title like that would be way too negative, and to be perfectly honest, I don't believe all people are idiots. A lot of people are idiots, I'll give you that. Heck, I'm a huge idiot most of the time - not a mean-spirited idiot, mind you. Just an idiot.

I can't say things like, "People are Idiots" out loud, of course, because then the next thing I'll hear will be the calm, mature voice of my husband saying something like, "Yes, all people are complete idiots. To you."

There's no use trying to defend myself, though I usually say, "Well, I don't think you're an idiot," qualifying that with, "most of the time, at least."

He is never amused by my idiot proclamations, and I can't say I blame him. Who am I to pass judgment on anyone else? Am I some sort of rocket scientist? A gene splicing clone astronaut magician? A research librarian nun scholar of all things earth-bound and divine?

No, like I said, I'm an idiot.

And idiots like me start posts about really sensitive topics - such as how terrible, tragic CRIMES are committed against single, older people in the early stages of dementia, people I know. People whose legally savvy, not so close "family" members lose all traces of their humanity when bestowed with a little power - of attorney.

Note to all you humans out there: designate a known and trusted human to be your power of attorney before you are unable to do so yourself.

If not, you, too, despite having more money than you could ever need, might be hauled away by paramedics in full view of your neighbors and under dubious circumstances and never return home again. Despite your "means," you might well spend the rest of your lucid days darkly depressed and praying for death while your family members rifle through your underwear drawer and pilfer your earthly possessions.

Idiots like me delete unpublished posts about (boo hoo waaah waaah) the realities of returning to the work force after you've been absent for a few years raising children.

Idiots like me will stop talking about this topic before I begin, except to offer some general words of caution.

Note to all you womens out there: think twice before you cut yourself off from the working world. Once you're out, it's not so easy to tip toe back in. And when you do, be sure to leave your ego at home - like on a shelf with all your past accomplishments.

Because the sad truth is that no one really cares what you did yesterday.

But since this is my blog, I will celebrate something I did yesterday. I started to write a post entitled, "One Thing Right." I deleted it, but I haven't forgotten it.

It was about my children: my nine-year old daughter and seven-year old son.

They're best friends. The best of friends.

They love each other - wholly, completely.

The other morning, Sunday, they awoke early. I watched as my son quietly padded into his sister's room. He crept up the ladder to her loft.

She turned her head in his direction. He smiled.

Together, silently, they climbed backwards off her loft, walked downstairs, and snuggled together on the couch. She lay down on her side, and he gently rested his head on her waist.

They stayed like this for more than one hour - two siblings, nestled together in warmth and safety, comforted by the other. A puzzle - completed.

The sight gave me pause, and I, for once, very unlike an idiot, paused.

I stopped to savor the moment, to appreciate a love, a bond, that would surely survive me. And when I did, the cacophony inside my head, the ramblings both edited and not, quieted to a purr, and the only thing I could hear was the sound of my heart smiling.

Ruthless Seas, Oscar Talk, and Blarney Blather

I had to call in seasick today for work.

"Sorry, can't make it in. Too green, I'm afraid, and stranded on Long Island."

Actually, I didn't say that because if I did, people would roll their eyes and mutter something like, "Here she goes with the 'green' talk again."

My plan yesterday was to make a quick round trip ferry ride to Long Island to pick up my offspring, who had spent the weekend partying with their cousins and being spoiled by my parents. Unfortunately, my ferry, aka the "Park City," became the "S.S.Minnow" (think: Gilligan's Island) shortly after we set sail.

Suffice it to say, the weather started getting rough, the (not so) tiny ship was tossed, and Ruth almost tossed her cookies.

Fortunately, I had run into one of my parents' neighbors on board the ferry and she kept me distracted with People Magazine and the latest news from home.

"Did you hear that three Ward Melville High School graduates are nominated for Oscars this year?" she shared.

I had heard about one of my former classmates and was not surprised. In high school, Marco Beltrami was a nice, smart guy. We were in band together. I played the trumpet (oh yes I did and they called me 'hot lips') and the glockenschpiel (not a word, please) and Marco played the saxophone...or was it the oboe?

I think it was the oboe. And I'm pretty sure Marco also played percussion.

Regardless, Marco is currently nominated for an Oscar for his musical score for a movie called 3:10 to Yuma.

Now that I think about it, I probably was very instrumental in Marco's musical development, seeing as I practically blasted my trumpet into his ears. If he wins - and I sincerely hope he does - I'm going to consider it my Oscar too. (I'd like to thank the academy...)

"And Todd and Jedd Wider are nominated for Oscars too, but you probably didn't know them," my parents' neighbor added while I slunk down in my ferry seat and held my stomach in place.

Au contraire, madame.

I knew Todd from tennis - way back in the McEnroe days. I knew his brother Jedd better, both from tennis and from his friendship with a good friend of mine. Todd is now a plastic surgeon in NYC (good. to. know.) and I read that Jedd is a hedge fund attorney. Together this brotherly duo has produced several movies, including Taxi to the Dark Side, for which they are Oscar nominees.

I'm pretty sure, if pinned to the wall during an interview with Barbara Walters, both Todd and Jedd might tearfully acknowledge that all of their great successes can be credited to me. (It's OK to cry, guys. Just let it out.)

I'll be rooting for them on Oscar night.

"You know, I've been checking your blog and you haven't written in a while," my parents' neighbor continued. "Why don't you take credit for our local Oscar nominations?"

I suppressed the tide of bile percolating in my esophagus and mused, "Well, then I'd also have to talk about Mick Foley. Oh, and Kevin James. Did you know Kevin James went to Ward Melville too? I didn't."

I mean, I'm sure I gave Kevin James a few pointers about stand-up comedy, if only by example. I'm all about leading by example, and the truth is, one never truly knows the impact one has on others.

And though I never wrestled WWF-style in the halls of my high school, my brother wrestled with Mickey on the wrestling team***, and I used to wrestle my brother (and pin him) all the time.

By extension, therefore, I taught Mickey about toughness and perseverance, and how to perform a no-fail half nelson. Mickey's an author now, and frankly, I can't say I'm too surprised. Way to go, Mickey. You're awesome, and you're welcome.

"Why don't I give you a ride home?" my parents' neighbor offered, both of us bracing ourselves against heavy wind gusts and pelting snow as we staggered off the boat.

Yes. Please. Take me home.

It's good to be home, and especially surrounded by such fine, fine company.

***I have been informed by my parents that my brother did not, in fact, wrestle with Mickey (aka Cactus Jack and Mankind) on our High School wrestling team. Apparently, my brother's wrestling days peaked when he was in about 7th grade or thereabouts - which might explain my proficiency in pinning him. Nevertheless...

Oh Honey, Please Don't Arrest Me

I called 911 this morning after driving past a car accident involving a recent model Audi sedan, a snow plow, and a large oak tree.

In the midst of our big "Winter Storm" here in New England, the roads were understandably bad. Actually, they were terrible - a snowy, icy, mushy mess - and I shouldn't have been out in the first place. Even at 15-miles per hour, the wheels of my minivan tended to lose traction and skid, which is why I didn't stop to lend first-hand assistance at the accident scene. No doubt I would have added insult to injury by slamming into the back of the Audi and ramming it further into the tree. I didn't want to do that.

Instead, I picked up my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

Following an unusually long delay which prompted me to think I had mis-dialed, a voice that sounded just like my husband said, "Helloo?"

I could have sworn I dialed 9-1-1, but maybe somehow I dialed my husband, so naturally, I answered by saying, "Honey???"

Guess what? It was not my husband.

After another brief pause I heard, "Noooo..." and then, with authority, "9. 1. 1. What. Is. Your. Emergency?"

I laughed myself silly as I skidded and slid all the way to my destination: the tennis club.

Far be it for me and my compatriots to let some measly "Weather Event" involving snow, sleet, and freezing rain interfere with our weekly game.

But alas, the decent, sensible folks that run the place decided to close for the day, so I had no choice but to turn around and drive back past the accident scene, now illuminated by the flash and glare of lights from a police cruiser.

I called my husband.

"Helloo?" a voice answered.

"Honey???" I asked, feeling all deja vu-like.

"What?" the voice answered, slightly agitated.

For all he knew, I was sideways in a ditch, impaled by my tennis racquet.

I, on the other hand, felt reassured.

"If I'm not home in fifteen minutes, call 9-1-1, OK?"

"Yeah. Whatever honey."

Whatever indeed.

Chapter 12: Do What You Love and the Money Will Follow

After spending this past weekend on Cape Cod celebrating the marriage of one of my dearest, oldest friends, I’ve decided that my true calling in life is to be a party guest. Here's my rationale:

I'm good at it.

I like cheese.

I occasionally like to wear something other than sweat pants.

Come to think of it, I’ve always had a penchant for parties, much like Tiger Woods always had a penchant for golf or Bill Gates for technology.

Like rivers find the sea, I’ve always managed to arrive somewhere, somehow, when the corks fly and the blackened salmon hits the grill. One bite of mini quiche and I’m off and running. I sashay around living rooms and decks and back yards like I’m doing the waltz, chit-chatting with strangers about who knows what while holding a plate full of cheese cubes and a glass of cabernet. If ever I get ensnared in some yawn-worthy blather, I just interject something so shocking or ridiculous that stunned party guests snort liquid up their nostrils. While they grasp for napkins and catch their breath, I exit, stage left, to ferret out more cheese cubes or cocktail weenies.

It’s an art, really. A performance art. [Note to self: Add “Performance Artist” to resume.]

And I recognize that not everyone can do this well. Not everyone has the stamina. It takes practice - years and years of sashaying and chit-chatting and nibbling and sipping. Being a good party guest is as much nurture as it is nature, I'd say. It requires a sensitive ear, a deft tongue, and a keen sense of timing. Believe me, you simply don’t want to talk about things like sex or politics with certain folks, but with other folks? You simply don’t want to talk about anything else. Knowing how to gauge the difference and walk the line with grace and good humor? Therein lies the art.

Everyone has to be good at something, I guess.

Hey look! Seals!


The seals want to remind you that Ruth Dynamite, Professional Party Guest, is offering a PRIZE to whoever helps her figure out a good question BY WEDNESDAY (gulp) for the tech gurus. Please see this post for details.

It's a GREAT PRIZE. Very, um, inspirational. Your odds are EXCELLENT. Seriously! Cough up a question and you may very well be today's lucky winner.

Explosively Absorbent

Things invariably go wrong when I try to do them myself.

One minute I'm contemplating hair cuts and home improvements and graphic design, thinking how hard could it be? And the next minute I'm shuffling through the yellow pages while kicking myself in the shin.

In the frantic few days before the BlogHer conference, I decided to make my own business cards (how hard could it be?). For design recommendations, I consulted the expert and agreed that bright orange with white type would be very hip and vogue.

I modified an image of a dynamite stick to suit the design, and - voila - I had business cards.

Well - almost. I encountered a printing snafu, wherein my "easily perforated" do-it-yourself business cards perforated inside my printer, requiring me to perform delicate printer surgery using a tweezers and my bare hands. The printer almost died, not so much from the wads of card stock embedded within its bowels but because I came very close to smashing it on my driveway, all the while cursing the Avery company.

With hours to go before I was to miss my plane to Chicago, the nice people at Staples came to my rescue.

I was pleased with the result.



That is, until I started handing them out.

The very first person I met in the conference hall in Chicago was Debbie, the woman I'd only known through words on a screen for about a year, the "imaginary friend" who would be my roommate for the weekend.

I have always admired Debbie's brilliance and artistry, her stream of consciousness style, her poetic gift. She's multi-talented: a captivating actress; a luminous singer; an artiste with words and thread. (See her fun and fabulous designs HERE at Fadiddle.) She's one of those people who can do absolutely anything she sets her mind on doing, and unlike me, she does them right.

After quick introductions (Debbie? "Yes." I'M RUTH DYNAMITE!!!), I unearthed one of my shiny new business cards from my bag.

Debbie took one look at the card and then glanced over at me, her eyebrows beginning to arch with uncertainty and amusement. "That totally looks like a tampon."

And she was right. I couldn't have created a better tampon image if I tried.

See that folks? It's ruthless in the suburbs. Absorbent, too.