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.

Are You There, Dog? It's Me, Ruth Dynamite

I called Dog the Bounty Hunter in my dream the other night and he answered the phone.

My sleeping brain takes me to some crazy places, and on this particular night I had convinced myself that some medical test results of mine would prove I had anal cancer, just like Farrah Fawcett. So I apparently called Dog the Bounty Hunter under the guise of chatting - which, in fact, I may well do on a regular basis while I'm asleep, because I must know that Dog is a good person to chat with when expecting Really Bad News, like anal cancer.

If you've ever witnessed the way Dog interacts with drug-addicted criminals on the lam once he's bagged them and is hauling them off to jail, then you know exactly what I mean. Dog has nothing but love in his heart, and he wants to help heal the world.

I believe this.

And if my imaginary conversation with Dog about my irrational fears of catastrophic illness is any judge, then let it be known that Dog answered my call. He was there to talk me off the ledge and re-direct my dream to less disturbing places.

Which led me, naturally, to Amy Sedaris' New York City apartment.

I had called Amy, too, in my dream, and somehow managed to persuade her to agree to an interview with me. Amy, by the way, is a versatile comic actress and author who is completely nuts (in a good way). She's also the sister of author David Sedaris, another very funny and smart and fantastically odd sort of duck.

I brought my daughter along for the trip to Amy's place - perhaps not unlike our recent foray into NYC. She offered us some of her famous cupcakes and then we left and I woke up...

a little tired from all my talks and travels, but healed (hallelujah!) and ready to face the world.

Good Old-fashioned Play

Something strange has been happening in my neighborhood since school let out last week, and it's got many eyebrows raised.

You see, a curiously large gaggle of kids of varying ages has come together to play - in a good, old-fashioned, spontaneous and creative, unstructured sort of way.

From dawn till dusk, children circle the block en masse on bikes and scooters. They assemble teams and play raucous games of kickball and wiffle ball. They jump on pogo sticks and shoot hoops. They collect insects and study their squirms, then run off in bathing suits to the nearest slip-n-slide or sprinkler.

Sometimes they just linger, READ ON...

Don't Come Knocking if this Van Starts Rocking

Until yesterday morning, all I really knew about the performer known as "Usher" was that he was a sweet-faced, seemingly articulate and nimble young singer/dancer who loved his mother.

But then I learned about "the club."

I was sitting in a Honda courtesy shuttle van with four other people: a buttoned-up, starched collar business man; a middle-aged, middle manager type woman with a dour expression; a faceless woman in the third row, made present only by her wheezing; and our driver, a 20-ish white male with the hint of a goatee.

The van was a virtual elevator on wheels, where people assumed the position - eyes and heads faced squarely to the front - and, but for the third row wheezing, didn't make a sound. The penetrating silence was broken only by the sound of brash radio DJs yammering on about this and that, the kind of mindless chatter you automatically tune out.

All this changed when we encountered a red light, which for me and perhaps everyone else in the van - except maybe the driver - proved to be the longest red light in the history of red lights anywhere in the universe since the dawn of time.

The mindless DJ chatter ended abruptly, and a sweet, seemingly articulate but conveniently ghetto voice started to croon from every speaker in the van at an uncomfortably loud volume.

You see you searching for somebody that'll take you out and do you right.
Well come here baby and let daddy show you what it feel like.
You know all you gotta do is tell me what your [sic] sipping on (sipping on)? Eh
And I promise that I'ma keep it coming all night looooooooong.

I wanna make love in this club eh.
in this club eh
in this club eh
I wanna make love in this club eh.
in this club eh
in this club eh
in this club yeah

At first, I was mildly amused. I mean, here were a bunch of random strangers thrown together in a van, united only by the fact that our cars, all Hondas, required service of some sort. We were all on our way to work - perhaps anxious that we were running late, or frustrated by the inconvenience of not having a car.

And then, while held captive by a shuttle van and a red light, we could not escape Usher's melodiously explicit crooning about how he wanted to "make love" in a "club."

That's a lot of romance before 9AM on a weekday.

Listen, if you got some friends rolling with you baby then that's cool.
You can leave them with my nigga's [sic], let 'em know that I got you. Eh
If you didn't know, you're the only thing that's on my mind.
Cuz, the way you staring makes me want to give it to you all night.

The light stayed red, the wheezing stopped, and no one made a sound. Not a peep.

I'm pretty sure the buttoned-up business man with the starched collar did not take a breath the entire time. All I could think was, Wow. This is awkward.

I'll be like your medicine, you take every dose of me.
it's goin down on aisle 3, I'll bag ya like some grocery's. [sic]
and everytime you think about it, you gonna want some more of me...
Have you ever made love to a thug in a club with his sights on, 87 jeans and a fresh pair of nikes on. On the couch, on the table, on the bar, on the floor.
you can meet me in the bathroom, ya you know im [sic] trained to go.

As it turned out, I exited the van at the same time the buttoned up, starched collar, non-breathing business man did. I suspect that he felt as dirty as I did, what with the inescapable images of "making love" at a club in a bathroom swirling around our brains. Try as I might to flush these images away, I couldn't help but ponder the love.

You might just wanna give me a kiss, we can keep touching like this
I know you scared baby, because you don't know what we doing.
It's ok, you can touch right here, keep doing that girl and I swear.
I'ma keep doing it to you non-stop.
And I dont care, who's watching watching watching watching watching Oooooh In this club on the floor
Baby lets make love

I also couldn't help but ponder what Usher's mother must be thinking about her sweet-faced baby boy and all this crooning about dirty club bathroom sex.

Me thinks someone needs a spanking.

Kit and Ruthie, Ruthie and Kit

It's no secret that the American Girl company is marketing directly to me.

They've been doing it for years now, right after some unsuspecting and well-meaning mother of mine bestowed upon my daughter her very first American Girl Doll: Bitty Baby.

[Incidentally, whenever I hear the word "bitty" I can't help but think of this hilariously disturbing Little Britain skit. Very very funny.]

As I recall, Bitty Baby came with a cute little Bitty outfit, a little Bitty book, and some little Bitty accessories that I probably sucked into the vacuum cleaner a short time later. My daughter played with the doll for about three minutes before tossing it head-first into a closet and moving onto a far more interesting toy - like a shoe box or paper towel roll.

Her interest in American Girl dolls was piqued once the catalogs started to arrive in the mail, seemingly by the dozen. She and her friends would scrutinize those catalogs, sizing up each doll's outfits, accessories, and historical genre before creating elaborate wish lists to present to anyone who might bite: parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, the Tooth Fairy. They went online and visited the American Girl website, and then, not surprisingly, pleaded for the opportunity to visit the mother ship store in Manhattan.

Of course we went.

It was a memorable if alarming first trip into A.G. Oz several years back, though I'm still clicking my heels and mumbling the words: there's no place like home...there's no place like home. Oh, we started with Afternoon Tea, a dainty little affair complete with waiters serving dolls, harp music, and enough polka dots to make one dotty. From there the visit was a blur, but I distinctly recall hearing a loud sucking sound coming from the vicinity of my wallet.

My daughter Ate It Up, and then, once home, promptly tossed her dolls in a heap in her closet while I vacuumed up the accessories.

Needless to say, we've ventured back to NYC several more times since then for the sheer thrill of being immersed in all things American Girl (my daughter) and having your wallet drained (me).

The last doll my daughter acquired was Kit Kittredge, a sweet little doll who looks very much like her, sporting a tea-party-ready outfit and a sassy blonde bob.

Kit's "story" is that of a tenacious, wannabe journalist living during the Great Depression, and through her story, my daughter learned enough about that period in American history to chat up and duly impress her grandfather, born in 1929.

We like Kit. Kit is good.

And we especially like Kit, the doll who resembles my daughter, for her choice in very best friends.

Meet Ruthie. [I told you they were marketing to me.]

So naturally, when a savvy NYC advertising firm presented me and my daughter with the opportunity a couple weeks ago to preview the upcoming, first ever big screen American Girl movie, Kit Kittredge, An American Girl, we went.

And naturally, after viewing the movie and visiting the Central Park Zoo and eating ice cream, we made our way to the mother ship whereupon we were greeted by two familiar faces.


We visited for awhile, the Kits and the Ruthies, fully immersing ourselves in all things American Girl, delighting in the gifts of each other's company, and ignoring all about the sucking sounds related to wallets and vacuum cleaners.

It was a most memorable and alarmingly pleasant day - especially for this Ruthie and her Kit.


[To read about the movie I wholeheartedly encourage you to see, please go check out my review of Kit Kittredge: An American Girl. It's a breath of fresh air and the subject matter couldn't be more timely.]

Honoring Tim Russert

What a terrible shock to hear of the sudden death at age 58 of Tim Russert. I so admired his intelligence and tenacity and was particularly moved by his outward display of love toward his family - and especially for his father, son, and wife. My heart aches for them.

It aches, too, for another loss that occurred under very similar circumstances just about ten years ago.

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