From Dunmanway to Dingle, summer vacation with Prudence and family is as unpredictable as the weather.

What on my Streetwise Dublin map looked like a ten minute stroll from the Grafton House B&B on Great George Street to the car rental agency across the Liffey River turned out to be a bit longer—45 minutes longer, to be exact. This wouldn’t have been a bad thing if the rain hadn’t blown in, turning a blue sky dotted with cotton ball clouds into a grey, oppressive canopy pushing pinprick rain into our faces.

“How cheap is this umbrella?” my husband asked as the mini-brella I bought back in the States turned inside out in front of Christ Church Cathedral and the medieval ruins of a Norman chapel built in 1230 A.D.

“Mom, how could you?” protested Casey, whose raincoat zipper went off track on a busy street corner and had to be fixed while being jostled by groups of tourists and umbrella-wielding Irish businessmen.

Ah, family vacations, where everything that goes wrong—including the weather—is mom’s fault, and everything that goes right goes unremarked.

What made the walk insurmountably worse for me, however, was that the pot of Irish breakfast tea I had polished off earlier was now demanding an exit strategy. I eyed some ancient tombstones just off the quay where cars whizzed by. But the iron gate was padlocked, so I gritted my teeth and put my head down against the rain.

Just in time, the car agency popped up and we dashed inside. The ginger-haired woman behind the counter smiled patiently at me, “No, dear, we don’t have a public toilet for customers.”

“What do you use, then?” I demanded querulously.

From her pinched face, I expect that she had no bodily functions at all, but she sweetly intoned that—if she ever had to go during business hours— she walked to the pub two blocks down the street.

“Doubt it,” I said loudly under my breath.

Pinch Face glanced at her watch. “It opens in an hour,” she smirked. “But you’ll be happy to know that I’ve upgraded you to an SUV. It’s the only automatic we have on the lot,” she beamed at us.

Great, just what we need, a giant, gas-guzzling monster car in a land of one-lane roads winding through hedgerows and ancient fishing villages.

“But, you’re Americans! I thought you’d be pleased!” she remonstrated when we voiced our protests.

If my bladder hadn’t been about to explode out of my nostrils, I would have told her that—because of our commitment to the environment—we experimented with being a one-car family for eight months. With two teens, one of whom just got his license, however, we finally threw in the towel and bought car #2.

“Oh, and one more thing. Your American insurance is no good here,” she said with obvious pleasure. “You’ll be wanting the collision damage waiver for eleven ninety-nine a day or the comprehensive for 20 euro a day.”

A full-bladder makes for curious choices and, after a modicum of arguing on my part, we drove a black Opel Antara—a cross between a GMC Yukon and a Jeep Grand Cherokee—off the lot, the seatbelt warning dinging loudly because I dare not put any pressure on my swollen abdomen. In the glove box was the hateful 200 euro comprehensive insurance policy that protected us against everything but a flat tire, “Which would be your fault, of course,” Pinch Face sneered.

Of course.

Not one who easily lets go of a good reason to stay angry, I finally let Pinch Face off the hook—but not because I forgave her, or had some kind of Eat, Pray, Love epiphany.

It happened in the little village of Dunmanway, halfway between Clonakilty and Macroom in the County Cork, while Tim was steering our six-foot wide behemoth between cars parked on both sides of a main street meant to accommodate a horse-and-cart.

“Honey, you’re a little close on this side.” The words were barely out of my mouth when ka-boom! Not only had we smashed the passenger-side mirror to smithereens, we’d taken out a parked car’s mirror, too. (Yes, we did leave a note.)

A brawny man in full crimson beard watched as I taped up the mirror with bright blue painters’ tape found in an ancient hardware store off the Macroom town square. Feeling somewhat victorious over Pinch Face, whose company would now have to pay for both mirrors, I smiled at the man, who nodded at the mirror, “Americans?”

I answered in the affirmative and told him the story of our 200 euro policy and how resentful I’d been—at first. He whistled softly through his teeth. “Two hundred euro?” he looked skeptically at the mirror. “Hell, I’d take a hammer to the damned car.”

Turns out, the hammer was unnecessary. In Dingle, we further took advantage of our insurance investment by taking the paint off the entire length of the driver’s side and smashing the rear tail-light and bumper on a low concrete wall that abutted Mrs. Mary Russell’s Guest House. None of this was done on purpose, mind you. But I sure am glad I didn’t have to buy that hammer.

Excuse the language, but what I’m groovin’ on is the site called “Fuck You, Penguin, A Blog Where I Tell Cute Animals What’s What.” This may say more about my dark and twisted, and crude-language-loving sense of humor, but I think this guy is funny as hell. His blogs are very short—just a few lines—and they never fail to crack me up.

If anyone is offended by raw language, don’t go there. If anyone is offended by this site, please don’t write me off completely. People tell me there are other, very winning sides to my personality!

http://fuckyoupenguin.blogspot.com/

Dave Carroll adds new meaning to “sweet revenge”. This may not be everyone’s idea of an inspiring holiday video link, but it is mine, and I hope it makes you smile and sing along.

United Airlines broke Dave’s custom Taylor guitar and were not really sorry about it. During Dave’s final exchange with United Customer Relations, he said he had no alternative but to create a music video and post it on YouTube. The manager responded “Good Luck with that one pal.” After the video received almost 6 million hits and was featured on CNN, United contacted Dave and attempted settlement in exchange for pulling the video. And his response? “Good Luck with that one pal.”

A little bah humbug, but a lot of giggles too. A big Happy Holidays to all.

After 15 years of marriage, and too many misplaced items to count, Prudence Baird insists her husband consider a new approach.

When I say I married a loser, I don’t mean that kind of loser. I’m talking about the kind of loser who loses things. Like keys, hats, sunglasses, cell phones, parking lot tickets, wedding rings—and most of all, wallets.

Like the clueless wife who finds that her husband has a gambling problem only after the repo man takes away the family Volvo, I found out that (let’s call him “Tim”) was a misplacer (nicer word, huh?) after we married. The first time it happened, I had no idea that this was merely Point A in an ever-lengthening trajectory that would arc across the time grid of our marriage.

I was in my home office churning out press releases when I heard the front door slam and heavy, frantic steps on the staircase. I emerged to see a man I didn’t recognize—a red-faced man, his salt-and-pepper askew; a man who hollered in my face: “My wallet is gone!”

Amidst the frantic turning-over of couch cushions and papers flying off of horizontal surfaces, I managed to discern that Tim was looking for his wallet in our house—even though he had left the missing item on the roof of his car a full half-hour’s commute from our home.

“Uh, why are you looking for it here?” I asked logically.

Tim’s eyes were now pinwheels spinning in opposite directions and his hair was sending out sparks. “Because!” he foamed.

Okay.

And thus began a routine that is now as familiar to us as the three-quarters-time box step was to Fred and Ginger.

I order the new MasterCard and cancel the old one. I arrange for replacement health insurance and car insurance cards. He makes an appointment for a new driver’s license, orders a new ATM card, and cancels any checks. Like the one for $1,750 that was in his wallet last June in New York City and he was carrying—in his hands—his wallet, his keys, his cell phone, his sunglasses and the Saturday New York Times.

Somewhere between the ATM, where he withdrew $200 and put it in his wallet, and the hotel (a mere three blocks away), the wallet managed to disappear from this assortment of hand-held items.

So after we added “cancel both Merrill Lynch accounts” to our usual to-do list because he couldn’t remember which account the check was drawn on, I gave Tim an ultimatum. And this time I meant it.

The time had come for a man bag.

We had tried the fanny pack and failed. (“Embarrassing,” he had said).

And we had tried the black leather zippy thing that was thicker than a notebook but wasn’t quite a brief case because “writers don’t carry briefcases.” This last item was purchased after the incident where Tim spent the last ten minutes of an important meeting groping for his missing car keys under the couch of a puzzled executive who might have otherwise hired him. But he lost that black leather zippy thing almost instantly. (“Too thin,” he rationalized.)

I’m not sure if Tim agreed to the man bag because not long after the New York episode we saw a Sean Connery look-alike with one, or if he was simply sick of losing things. But, I’m happy to report that he now has the man bag, and more importantly he is trying to use it.

I only say “trying” because yesterday, I saw in our driveway a familiar black square lying just outside the car door where you might expect something to fall if the bag it was in happens to be unzipped and then perhaps turns upside down. This often happens when you impatiently yank your man bag hard because its straps have entangled themselves with the gearshift and you already have your hands full with your sunglasses, keys and The New York Times.

Hi. I’m Connie and I’m an F-Word addict. (Okay—Now you all say encouragingly, “Hi, Connie”.)

I guess my addiction began when I was a teenager in the late ‘60s. In fact, I’m sure that that word was so forbidden; I’d never even heard it spoken out loud till I was 16, thank you Frank Zappa, but once Pandora’s box was opened, I could not stop myself. I started in the car, in traffic, with the windows rolled up, in bars, at sporting events—well, everyone else was…. Then I amped it up, using a little at first in public, just to be naughty, and before I knew what was happening I was running with a wild crowd. You know, artists, musicians, theater people, users of Maryjane, and unapologetic, irretrievable aficionados of the F-bomb. My mother was aghast.

I began using the F-word as noun, an adjective, a verb, an adverb, anyway way I could torture it, twist it into a sentence, was okay by me. Soon, I couldn’t control myself. That word had become part of my vernacular. I had become a habitual pottymouth, a borderline “vulgar”, as my mother had predicted. I began hanging around dockworkers, construction sites, listening to rap music, went to David Mamet plays; I was an addict.

How did this F-ing happen to me? A nice middleclass girl who was raised to know better? My mother was disappointed. She tried to shame me by telling me that Grimm’s fairy tale where the one step-sister, blonde and pretty—you know, the good girl, and the other step-sister—brunette and of course, ugly, the bad one, (what the F is the title of that ridiculous story?) Anyway, the pretty one spoke sweet words and from her mouth spilled gold coins and the ugly one spoke harsh words (or maybe she was just telling the F-ing truth), and from her mouth leapt toads. Yeah Mom, I got the message. F-ing gag me. But I digress….

I told myself I could quit anytime I wanted, but well, you all know how that goes. I promise myself to clean up my act, but the F-bomb casually and unconsciously leaps from my lips—yes Mom, like toads. Every New Year’s Eve I make the same resolution to quit using, to use the F-word only when appropriate, in bed, or if I’m really, really pissed off in traffic, or at the DMV, or at that guy in my neighborhood who shoots off his F-ing gun three times a day and terrifies my little dog, or—Oh well, there I go again making excuses. F-ing Hell!

I want to thank you all for your support as I continue in my struggle to use my experience for the greater good and to be inspiration to those who wish to get off the word-junk. It is my sincerest desire to dedicate myself to putting an end to language pollution, and I know it all begins with me. Remember—Just take it one F-ing day at a time.

Nowadays, physicians whip out the prescription pad when women my age cross their thresholds. Hot flashes? Prozac! Empty-nest blues? Prozac! Husband suffering midlife crisis? Prozac. (Why the wife must medicate herself when Goofus makes a damned fool out of himself is beyond me, but hell, if being stoned helps women avoid committing manslaughter, I’m all for it!)

My first brush with Prozac came in 1989, after I had been unceremoniously dumped by a chinless mama’s boy. I’m not sure which depressed me more—that I had settled for a guy who still wet his pants, or the fact that said pants-wetter had dumped me first.

The next business day, I was first in line for legal drugs of any kind. The psychiatrist, who looked to be about 12 years old, pressed several samples of 150 mg. Prozac into my hands. “Take your first one after dinner tonight. You won’t feel any effects for two weeks,” he promised.

Like hell I won’t! 

The next day, my partner and I were in an elevator on our way to a new business presentation when it happened. I looked at the shiny panel of brass elevator buttons. So many glimmering choices! I grinned at them; they gleamed back. What floor did I want? Heck, I didn’t want any floor! I just wanted to stare at the dozens of reflections of me in the elevator’s mirrored paneling.

Sensing something was up, my partner steered me by the elbow into the conference room, where I perched on the edge of a swiveling chair, my hounds-tooth miniskirt easing up my well-aerobiscized thighs. I looked down into my lap and noticed that I hadn’t shaved above my knees. Several longish brown leg hairs were squished into various squiggly shapes by my Hanes Barely There pantyhose. I stood up and pulled the pantyhose away from my thighs and spent the next few minutes and a considerable amount of spit trying to make the hairs lie down in the same direction—knee bangs!

Several men in suits came into the room—I waved. So happy to see you! My cheeks hurt from smiling. The lights overhead buzzed loudly. Outside the windows, the Pacific Ocean gleamed. I laughed. My leg hairs were in perfect alignment.

That evening, I flushed all the Prozac samples down the toilet, turning hundreds of fish, if not gay, extremely happy.

So when I broke my right arm in the dead of winter last year and the physician suggested Prozac to battle the gloom of both sunless days and the helplessness I felt at being unable to blow dry my hair, I was apprehensive. No longer in the business world, I couldn’t act the boardroom idiot again. And, thanks to the miracle of menopause, my legs are almost hair-free these days.

Just for the sake of argument, what would be an appropriate dose? The doctor considered my weight—roughly the same as in 1989, around 105 pounds. “Oh, about 10 milligrams will lift your spirits considerably,” she said.

I mentioned the episode with the 150 mg. capsules. Her eyes widened. “That’s enough for an enraged bull elephant!”

Aha! I pursed my lips. After all, I’m preaching a drug-free existence to my teenagers…

“Or,” said the doctor helpfully, “You could read this book, A New Earth, which really helped me. I was on Prozac, too—and loved it.” She looked furtively at me—the pusher confessing she nibbled at the wares. “But…” she shrugged.

I bit my lip, Clinton-style. Like our 42nd president, I knew what I wanted, but I didn’t want to admit it. Not yet anyway.

“I’ll tell you what,” continued the doctor. She scribbled two separate prescriptions and handed them over. On one was written, Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth; on the other, a prescription for Prozac, 10 mg.

“You decide,” she said, winking.

Photo by Pascal Giacomini

Can I just bitch for a moment about getting old? I know, I know, there are people starving in America, and I should just be grateful for my wonderful life. And, I am. But let’s face it. Regardless of bombs going off in the world and in the lives of people you love, if a missile has landed in your little universe, you can’t just wish it away. Pettiness and substance often occupy the same space. Life is like that. Okay, disclaimer taken care of. Now can I bitch?

I’ve written on this site before about going gray, and I thought I had a pretty good game plan in place: because it blends so well, start with platinum blonde around the crown, where it’s coming in at a speed rivaling the action in Charlie Chaplin movies; and, that’s been working very well. Until now. Who knew that my nice, soft curls would morph into coarse, wiry pubic hair? Gray pubic hair at that! Can someone tell me why, when I now look in the mirror, what I see is the equivalent of two pussy puffs where my ears used to be? No amount of conditioner helps. Just today I vaulted over to the beauty supply store in search of a keratin-based product because, according to beauty magazines, keratin is the end-all in the new wave of anti-aging hair products. No kidding, they use that term on labels. I am now sick to death of wearing hats and bandanas, and am in a panic because even if I cut it short, I’ll be walking around in that super attractive short pubic look!

The only thing keeping depression at bay, and me in stitches, is the stuff I hear my friends saying about their looks. So, in order not to leave you with my sad and alarming dilemma, instead I’ll leave you with some priceless overheard comments from women I know, (laughing as they talked) about their aging process:

“Yesterday I looked at my gray bangs in the mirror and thought I looked good. Today all I saw was an old sea hag that washed up on the beach.”

“I’ve stopped drinking and I’m walking everyday because when I go to Hawaii next month I don’t want mass evacuations at the beach when I walk out there in a bikini.”

“My face now looks like a zucchini; but not just any zucchini. I mean the long, yellow oval ones.”

“I’ve got that saggy, baggy elephant thing going on.”

“…but the skin around my chin is down to my knees now!”

Woman talking about her skin: “Yeah, I don’t know how it happened.”

After being told by a friend that she’s happy her husband doesn’t have his glasses on when they make love: “So, people our age who have their glasses on…do they see my big pores, and whiskers coming out of my chin?”

Thank God we have each other. Just this morning, looking like I will at 90, I ran into a woman I know as I walked the dog. “You look great!” she said. “You always do, but even more so today!”

What a liar!