A few years ago on a vacation in Puerto Vallarta, my husband Lee and I spent a long, hot afternoon ambling and exploring the old colonial part of town. We visited craft stores, museums and art galleries, we walked up and down the cobbled streets, shopping and gawking, eating churros from vendors, listening to street music and doing other touristy type things until we were finally tired, steamy and thirsty. Read more
Connie channels Lorelei Lee: picture the breathless voice of Marilyn Monroe from 1953 classic Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
Well, wherever is a girl to start? Seeing the picture in the paper the other day of a committee of men discussing the reproductive rights of women, and hearing Republican candidate for President, Rick Santorum, weighing in on women in the military, and on sex and contraception by saying, “contraception is not okay because it is license to do things in the sexual realm that is counter to how things are supposed to be. They’re supposed to be within marriage. They’re supposed to be for purposes that are uh, yes, conjugal, but also procreative.” My goodness. I thought to myself, Lorelei, they must think we were born yesterday. Well golly, sometimes, given that we have to have this conversation yet again, there’s just no other possible explanation. Now, I long ago learned that men just love to be in the “sexual realm” with girls such as I, but they get so darn peevish when she shows up pregnant at their country clubs. Read more
Well, dear readers, our Fifty is the New summer vacation lasted so long, that while we were away, I climbed the proverbial hill, lurched over it, and landed smack into the shitsky—I mean sixty. 60. Yes—I’m up to my neck in a steaming pile of years. I’m happy to report that in the wake of this monumental event, the earth did not rend itself in twain, the seas did not turn red with blood, the crops did not wither and fail and the climate has not changed. Oh—wait a minute, yes it has but not because I turned 60.
I had been dragging my ass towards this birthday, really glum, and I thought I might greet the day by sitting in the dark alone with a half-gallon of ice cream, a fifth of vodka, a sharp knife and some Joan Crawford movies. Happily, it turned out, my nice husband rented a cabin on the east side of the Sierras and nine of us spent a weekend in Mammoth eating, drinking, hiking, laughing, enjoying the scenery and each other’s company. Our Cathy was there too, celebrating her birthday, and all of us had a grand good time. Read more
From humor to infidelity, Connie gets beneath the fig leaf for this investigative report
One of my favorite jokes goes something like this:
God pulls Adam to his side and says, “My son, my Creation, I have good news and bad news for you.” Adam lifts his countenance upon his heavenly father and says, “Lord? What’s the good news? The Lord says unto Adam, “I have blessed you, my Son, with both a brain and a penis.” Adam is grateful and with great awe says unto his Maker, “So, what’s the bad news?” The Lord responds, “Sadly, I could only manage to give you enough blood supply to work one thing at a time.”
I love this joke. I’d stroke it even further by saying God then tempted Adam by putting his penis on the outside of his body, close to his hand, then told him not to touch it and spill his seed. Talk about forbidden fruit. That God. What a kidder.
My good pal, Joann, whenever we’re all together and the subject turns to the differences between men and women, as it frequently will, wags her index finger above her head and states, emphatically, “It’s all about the peenie!” Read more
I always thought “The Sublime and The Ridiculous” would be a great title for a soap. Oh wait—there are no more soaps. ABC has canceled One Life to Live and All My Children, and I am shocked and saddened to my soap opera loving core. General Hospital is still with us, interesting, given it’s morally ambiguous and violent content. I’m not complaining, mind you; it has Maurice Bernard as crime boss Sonny Corinthos, and he’s just yummy. Maurice Bernard was also equally yummy, Nico Kelly, on All My Children. Remember when Nico and Cecily got married? It was a beautiful wedding. Oh, not as fancy as Cliff and Nina’s with the horse drawn carriages and all, but very nice, and in Hawaii. I must confess that I’ve had steamy recurring dreams where Maurice Bernard pleaded with me to leave my husband and shack up with him for some really hot sex in Port Charles. But since Vanessa Marcil came back from the dead, again, as Sonny’s soulmate, Brenda, I am not indulging that dream anymore. Destiny designed them to be together and even in my rich fantasy life, I would never mess with that. That would be soap opera evil. Read more
What’s got Connie so worked up? So many reasons to be ticked off — but in a good way.
The Oscars sucked this year. I do not like being disappointed with my Oscars. Whichever producer made the misguided judgment that Anne Hathaway and James Franco had the chops to host the Oscars really blew it and I hope he got sent to some Cyber-Siberia to think long and hard about pandering to a youth market.
It got me thinking about things I’m sick of:
• Appealing to a Younger Demographic (re: The Oscars)
When did we quit valuing sophistication, grace under fire, wisdom, class, confidence and wit? The young should be aspiring to be us, not the other way around. To paraphrase my pal Frank, we are the “A-dults” they are the “B-dults”. Get some real experience then we can talk about you being the Master of Ceremonies for something beyond Nickelodeon’s Kid’s Choice Awards.
• My “Coexist” bumper sticker — I’ve just taken the stupid thing off the back of my car — so use a turnout and get out of my way!
• Bristol Palin and her autobiography — What is she? 19? If she can write a book about getting knocked up as a teenager, then so can all my cousins on my father’s side. Read more
Faded Rose, daily painting #168 by John Farnsworth
From ennui to elastic waistbands, Connie’s singing the menopause blues
As I was gazing this morning into my 15x mirror, plucking here and there, the increasingly annoying black whiskers on my upper lip, I reflected upon the changes in my life, my change of life, my menopause, what I am now calling the” menoblahs”; and as I pluck, pluck, plucked, I thought long and hard about how much really I hate this shit.
I was one of those women who actually looked forward to menopause. I could not wait for the freedom and the neatness, for clear skin, and a steady weight. I believed Dr. Christiane Northrup when she wrote about the “Wisdom of Menopause” and I looked forward to the promise of “The Pleasures of Menopause”. May I just say, in response to those two urban myths, and with my middle finger fully erect, “PTHHHP”!! I have not found any pleasure in menopause, and the only wisdom I’ve gleaned is to quit believing once and for always, anything a size 2, blonde, nip/tucked TV/author/doctor has to say. While I acknowledge that indeed I do have freedom from the tampon, I’m hostage to the hot flashes. I am tidily not hemorrhaging all over my white jeans, but some juice from somewhere would be nice. My skin, though I’m not breaking out once a month, is itchy and dry, and my weight? Well, it’s steady all right—steadily going up. When I gained the first ten pounds I said I’ve gone all fluffy, now I’m just plain heavy, man. Read morekeep looking »