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.

Eons ago when I was turning 45, I started thinking that it would be wise to prepare myself for the turning of 50. I joined Jazzercize. I loved the music, the dancing and the camaraderie. Now, this was back in the day when everybody wanted to look like Jamie Lee Curtis in Perfect. Of course, none of us, except our instructor, even came close; but there we were, middle-aged in our thong leotards, leg warmers and sweatbands bouncing our boobies and looking more like the cast of exercisers in Richard Simmon’s, Sweating to the Oldies. Still, it was fun and I did slim down and firm up. I did Jazzercize for about ten years before my knees and back really began to protest and I quit. Since then, I’ve done Pilates, Zumba, yoga, Curves and gone to the gym. I’m like the Where’s Waldo of the workout world; and still, between the menopause, the Jelly Bellies and The Food Network, I have slowly gained back all the weight I lost.

I’ve finally wrapped my head around my 60th birthday and I’ve become crystal clear about what’s coming down the pike. I’m grateful to have been born with good health, a strong body and a happy outlook on life, but the fact is no matter that good luck, I still may have only 20, 25 years in front of me. It’s hit me like a ton of lard, that if I don’t get my shit together over this, turning 70 is going to be hard and not just in a mental exercise sort of way. These ten years between turning 50 and 60 have sped by like a bullet train and I can only surmise that this coming decade will feel even more like a moment, a dream, like the snap of my fingers. So, I’m back in the saddle again, taking the reins, cowboying up, and all that other buckaroo bullshit and I’ve signed back on at Jazzercize for low-impact aerobics, dancing, sweating and smiling, and thank goodness all of us, even Jamie Lee Curtis, seems to be over that “perfect” thing.

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Jamie Lee Curtis in Perfect (1985) and Jamie Lee Curtis featured in More Magazine (2002)

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!” And given the most recent exposé regarding all things Weiner, (I wouldn’t want it said that because I’m a Democrat I’m soft on Weiner), I’m inclined to aver that she’s spot on. To be fair, if my sex organs were right in front of me every time I looked down, and had the magnificent hydraulics our brothers have, I guess I’d be equally stupefied, mesmerized, and enchanted by my own junk. But Egad, boys, is it really such a narcotic that touching it, getting it touched, talking about it, and taking pictures of it, (most women would never think to tweet their twats), is worth risking your job, your family, and more, your self-respect?

As yet another male politician, this time not a Republican, bites the rhetorical weenie, I’m left simply baffled. What are they thinking? That they won’t get caught, or maybe it’s more thrilling to think they will? Or maybe the little head just has a louder voice than the big head. Bringing to mind one other joke:

“Why does the penis have a hole at the top of its head? So that men can stay open-minded.”

Too bad that punch line doesn’t work with the word “mindful”. As an aside—I think it’s very interesting that a man created the concept of “penis envy”. Freud’s theory that women secretly hate and envy men because of their penises is so far from reality, that it makes me wonder how many pictures Freud would have taken of his pecker if only he’d had the technology.

I have a friend who has a much-envied reputation of being fabulous in the sack. When I asked her what her secret was she confessed that she wasn’t doing anything special, she simply told all her lovers that they had big giant cocks. She said that seemed to do the trick. They kept coming back for more because it’s all about the freaking peenie. Weiner risked it all for getting his peenie freak on. Really? Are men seriously that uncomplicated? Well, I know where I’m landing on the question. What do you think?

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.

I have been watching All My Children (AMC) since it’s black and white half-hour debut in 1970, along with One Life to Live (OLTL) and General Hospital (GH), and have given them up only when my work schedule interfered and when Vicki, played by the terrific Erika Slezak on OLTL died and went, for weeks, to the lost city of Eterna. (I mean, really, there is only so much silliness a soap fan can take). When I couldn’t watch I would quiz all of my stay-at-home pals for story updates in a game I liked to call, “Their lives are a living hell.” Who died, who came back from the dead? Who accidentally fell in to bed with whom? Who’s faking being paralyzed to get revenge on whatever nasty bit of business needs revenging? Why does Todd look so different? Because we’ve cast a new actor and Todd had a face transplant. That’s why! LOVE IT!!!!

All that, of course, would be the ridiculous part of soaps, but on the sublime side, are the social issues the daytime dramas have addressed over the years. All My Children alone has tackled anti-war sentiments during the Vietnam War, abortion—in 1973 Erica Kane underwent television’s first legal abortion, teenage prostitution, pregnancy after 40 (first time I ever heard the word, amniocentesis), domestic violence, gay teens, suicide, and same-sex marriage, sexual harassment, AIDS, drunk driving, alcohol and drug addiction recovery, bone marrow, heart, liver, kidney, and yes! face transplants, rape, racism, autism, and custody battles galore. Soap operas have reflected us back to ourselves through some the best and worst writing and acting anyone could hope for. How I wish I could re-run Luke and Laura’s wedding, or Jesse and Angie’s escape to new York City, or Adam Chandler deviously throwing poor, hapless Dixie Cooney into a mental institution, and then watching, thrilled, as Tad the Cad came to her rescue just before the lobotomy, and I’d love to see just one more Brooke and Erica cat fight before I die.

I guess I’m most disappointed in the death of television writing, and soap writers really have had a ball playing with the sublime and the ridiculous, but with soaps viewership declining and they cost a mint to produce, daytime will become yet another reality show wasteland filled with stupid games shows, Rachel Ray-type chat shows, Dr. Phil, and more Maury Povich. YEECH!

I’d like to thank my friend, Gail Dreifus, for hilariously providing me with my research material, All My Children—The Complete Family Scrapbook that she bought me for my birthday when All My Children celebrated it’s 25th anniversary. Who knew it would become a collector’s item?

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.

• Charlie Sheen, Christina Aguilera, Brittany Spears, Lindsay Lohan, and whomever self-entitled, spoiled, greedy, ungrateful, whining, snotty little train wrecks that have yet to derail in front of our very eyes; but I’m even more disgusted with their publicists, handlers, body guards, doctors, and the other sycophants who cash in on their weaknesses and sicknesses because there’s bank at the end of it all, even if they die.

• Royal Wedding Fever — We are no longer British subjects. Take two aspirins and get over it already.

• Precocious Brats who are Smarter than their Parents on TV — Yo, writers. STOP IT.

• Using Lizards and Ducks to try to sell me Insurance or using a cartoon to try to sell me anything.

• The Tea Bagger Party (Let’s not kid ourselves, these guys are really just a remix of The John Birch Society) — I am sick of all you mouth breathing, knuckle-dragging, climate change denying, homophobic, racist, compulsive nose-pickers that are trying to drag us back into a time that never existed except in the dark, dank, fetid basement mind of Glenn Beck. You think he’s growing mushrooms down there? (Ooh, I’m sorry. That was an insult to fetid things.)

• Civil War Re-Enactments — We have one up here in Mariposa, California where no Civil War battle was ever fought. And the South lost the war. Why does anyone ever want to re-enact something they didn’t win? Talk about picking a scab. Is this a seasonal thing? A circuit? Do aficionados go from The Civil War straight to a Star Trek/Avatar Convention then off to a Renaissance Faire? How many costumes can one closet hold? Don’t you guys ever want to get laid?

• 4 and 5 inch Heels — Now, I like a pretty shoe and being tall as much as the next girl, but these backache making, nose bleed inducing, ankle snappers have got to go. Or, put a Chiropractor on retainer.

• America’s Got Talent — I hate ventriloquists and “America decides…” Hey…I just said that without moving my lips.

• Diva Singing — Howzabout exercising the concept of self-control and just sing the damn note? Vocalists nowadays sing so many runs it’s like being stuck in a diarrhea ward. STOP IT.

Okay — I think I’ve gotten it out of my system for now. Thank-you for indulging me, I feel better already. And may I return the favor by asking you: What are you pig-sick of?

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.

And I feel heavy in my spirit as well. This is not easy for me to admit. I have always been the snap-out-of-it girl, the bounce-back kid. The “C’mon gang—we can put a show on in this barn” type. Truthfully, I’m just not feeling it. I’m in a menopausal malaise that feels like I’m moving through molasses. My tack right now is to keep on showing up as if I am fully engaged and energized, (there is tremendous juju in the as if), but I am dragging my ass to the party, ya know?

Aside from the physical bullshit, which, have I mentioned, I hate? I am also struggling with yet another “who am I” crisis. NOOO—not again!!! The self I’ve worked so hard on, so lovingly created is melting, melting like the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz, and I have to start all over—from scratch. Damn you, Dorothy Gale, you and your bucket of cold water! You cursed brat! Look what you’ve done! I’m melting, melting! Oh, what a world! What a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness? I just hate it when that happens. I’ve worked so hard on my beautiful wickedness. Oh—and now I find out that I’m not even a Libra anymore, but a Virgo. A VIRGO!!!! No wonder I feel so out of balance.

So how do I go forward with my gray hair, my bad knees and my elastic waistbands? My first order of mental health business is to stop beating myself up for gaining weight. It is what it is right now, and I know what I must do to change that, and self-flagellation is counter-productive. I am watching what I eat and drink, limiting sugar and flour, and increasing my commitment to exercise. Aside from good muscle mass and burning calories, exercise releases serotonin and endorphins, those feel-good chemicals; and depression is fattening.

But the real challenge is in the re-invention, to see myself through an unfiltered lens and be at peace with this newer, older Connie. Oh, and by the way, there is only forward. I know there is not a better path to the future but the one that leads straight in. Follow the yellow brick frikkin’ road, right?

Connie stays the course while Madison Avenue tries to mess with her mojo

I watch a lot of TV, I love TV, in fact the TV guy is here right now, even as I type, installing my brand new flat screen HD TV upstairs in my bedroom. Oh, I can hear you now—“TV in your bedroom??? A terrible idea, it’ll ruin your sex life”. Well, “pish-tosh,” says I, basketball season is upon us and the ol’ ball and chain will be occupied till May, so I’m delighted to have the company up there.

Because I do watch TV, I’ve been noticing a very interesting marketing trend. Advertisers are really hitting our age group hard. Instead of just producing commercials for Metamucil, Viagra, Depends, and that yogurt-like stuff Jamie Lee Curtis is shilling so we can all poop better; we are seeing trotted out, resplendent in their magnificent menopausal middle age, the big guns of the baby boomer generation.

Oscar winner/nominees Susan Sarandon and Julianne Moore are touching and hilarious starring in Revlon’s Age Defying Make-up. Experience Susan Sarandon’s deep emotional connection to us as she wraps her perfectly lipsticked mouth around the word “Botafirm”. Marvel as Andy MacDowell uses her limited acting chops to defend against PHOTO-AGING with “Revitalift”, because remember, “every time light touches your skin, it causes more wrinkles.” And there’s Cate Blanchette pleading with us to “touch the miracle” with SK-II, a “Miracle Water” with naturally derived Pitera to make our skin clearer, and more radiant looking in just two weeks.” Two weeks? Why, it took 59 years for me to get the skin I’m in right now. Gosh, that really is a miracle. I’ll buy it today. Funny though, Dr. Perricone, that the more “science-y” the words you use to hawk your beauty products are, the more expensive they are.

It goes on and on, of course. I’m studying my go-to resource materials at the moment, In Style magazine and Vanity Fair, and they’re chock-a-block with ads that claim, “You will no longer need concealer as a crutch”—Noxzema. “Kill crow’s feet with StriVectin—more science, less wrinkles.” Now you can have it all with one smart, multi-tasking beauty solution, Illumifill—More than just make-up.” Really? Oh, and here’s Julia Roberts looking like her skin is “lit-from-within” in her Lancome Teint Miracle. It couldn’t be that she was just born that way, could it? You mean it’s possible for me to look like Julia Roberts??? Where can I buy it NOW?

Now, I do not begrudge those fabulous ladies for appearing in commercials, for they surely got paid a small fortune, and a girl’s gotta work, ya know? But I wonder how many college educations, or trips to Europe, or plays, or artwork I’ve spent over the years because I’d rather look like Susan Sarandon than Dame Judy Dench?

I wonder if this “happiness gap” I keep reading about isn’t so much about the bad economy or that we’ve become so distracted by media, but that we’ve disconnected from our authentic selves. Maybe this endless infantile desire to stay young and/or skinny is at odds with the natural order of life. Maybe we’re dishonoring our mothers and grandmothers and fostering a dangerously unrealistic ideal in young women by not embracing where we are in our lives right now.

Be healthy, active, curious, and connected to family, friends, and community, and laugh a lot. That’s true beauty. OK. Now what’s on TV?

Connie reflects on recent tragedy, ongoing hate and hypocrisy

I just turned 59. I was going to write some funny thing moaning about being mooned by 60, but instead, I need to talk about how grateful I am. I’m grateful for something I have no right to be grateful for, and that is the status of my own birth.

Oh, I suppose I could have had it easier. I could have been born smarter, taller, thinner, blonder, male, but in conforming to a standard of acceptance, I guess I’ll be grateful to have been born white, blue-eyed, American, and straight in the society we are living in right now, oh, and Christian. That condition, happily, I have recovered from. Everything else just is what it is.

I am deeply troubled, shaken, and heartsick over the recent suicide of 18-year-old Tyler Clementi who jumped off the George Washington Bridge after being cruelly and publicly humiliated by fellow students, Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei. Those two miscreants are being charged with invasion of privacy and possibly for hate crimes and will do 5-10 years in prison if they are found guilty. So this evil “prank”, if you can call it that, (though I would love to know how that conversation went), cost the life of a beautiful, talented young man, the grief of friends and family, and the shame of a nation that cannot seem to wrap it’s head around HOMOSEXUALITY.

I simply cannot fathom why our nation is wrestling with this non-issue. Recently, Republican candidate for New York State Governor, Carl Paladino, gave a speech denouncing homosexuals as “pornographers and perverts” and said that “children ought not to be brainwashed into thinking that homosexuality was acceptable.” (Really? Oh, just come out, Carl). The GOP has once again blocked the repeal of that ridiculous policy, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and Democrats made only a feint at advancing that bill. Why not deny all people born with green eyes, or freckles, or a cleft chin, the opportunity to serve their country or to serve their God? It’s that arbitrary. Gay and lesbians are being denied the right to serve as soldiers, pastors, deacons, and heads of clergy—but not Catholic priests, apparently. I don’t even want to address the damage wreaked in that deep closet.

How many lives must be ruined and hearts broken by fear and self-loathing? How many families have been destroyed because we will not allow our gay and lesbian citizens to simply be who they are? How many more times must we watch, aghast, as another closeted gay politician is publicly outed while his devoted wife stands by, stoically watching, as the foundation of her life crumbles beneath her? How many more amazing, complex young human beings must be sacrificed, murdered, denied their civil rights, made to feel as if they’ve committed a crime against humanity, simply because of the way they were born to express their sexuality. Our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters no more chose to be gay than I chose to be short. It is the way we perfectly came into this world. I don’t know who said it, but it’s a good quote—“homosexuality is not a choice, but homophobia is.”

Our society must decide to let go of this backward, hateful, very un-“Christian” impulse to judge and shun and punish. We must decide that we can do better. We must reassess our values and vow to never again allow a tender heart, a young mind, to be ruined by ignorance and an unwillingness to change. We must have the courage to admit that we are deadly wrong on this issue. Enough.

Photo above by Davina Pardo, from the documentary Ask Not, a Vassar student protests the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy outside a U.S. Army recruiting center in Times Square