Hollywood’s loss is Vermont’s gain, as Prudence celebrates her fourth anniversary and lessons learned in the Green Mountain State

For those of you who think that sparsely populated, Yankee-pure Vermont is the antidote to the ills of urban life, here is a quick set-up guide that will acquaint you with “how to Vermont.”

1. You kahnt get thay-yer from hee-yaw.
You can live full-time, own property and pay taxes in the Green Mountain State, but becoming a bona fide, card-carrying Vermonter is earned the old-fashioned way—you must be born here. Furthermore, your parents must have been born here; your grand-parents (both sides) must have been born here—and so on back for four generations. Seriously. Otherwise, you are considered a “flatlander,” even if you come from Machu Pichu or Boulder, Colorado.

2. “Massholes” are from Massachusetts.
Although Massholes come from the eponymous state to our south, you can also use this label whenever encountering an attitudinous anyone who is making an ostentatious show of wealth and power. Example: “That tailgater must be a Masshole.” (See “flatlander” above.)

3. Why the cold shoulder (and blank stare).
There is a waiting period of up to four years before a local shopkeeper, waitress or merchant will acknowledge that s/he has ever seen you before—even if you stop in every day to pick up your New York Times and latté. (See “don’t order a latté” below.)

4. Don’t order a latté, a “grandé” or a “skinny” anything.
In Vermont, you kahnt find a national caffeine-dispensing chain. So don’t use Starbucks-style language unless you want to identify yourself as a flatlander (or worse, a Masshole) worthy of an automatic five-minute delay for your order at any of our homegrown joints.

5. They’re called highways, routes and roads, not freeways and streets.
Using the term “freeway” will earn you ten flatlander points. There are only two major arteries in Vermont: 91, which goes north and south on the “east coast” of Vermont, and 89, which crosses over from New Hampshire and leads all the way to Canada, via our largest city, Burlington, population 43,000. With no more than four or five cars seen in a ten mile stretch, no in-your-face billboards (they’re against the law) and no annoying toll booths, the two lanes each way are undisputedly “free ways;” just don’t call them that.

6. No, this is not a statewide convention of Lesbians.
Eighty percent of all cars in Vermont are Subaru Outbacks, with a few Foresters thrown in for good measure. Never mind that the NY Times-owned “Top 10 Gay Cars” list regularly names the so-called “Lesbaru” as the number one car for Lesbians; about half of Outbacks in Vermont are driven by men. The other half are driven by women, some of whom may or may not be Lesbians. We are, after all, the first state to recognize same-sex marriage, so why wouldn’t you come here if you are LGBT? Just sayin’.

7. Throw out your gaydar.
Welcome to Vermont, where almost every woman over 25 will trigger a false alarm on your gaydar. For one, most women here look like a librarians, gym teachers, storybook witches (you know the type I’m talking about—with long, grey hair) or ski instructors. Chances are, if the woman is employed, she IS a librarian, a gym teacher or a ski instructor. There aren’t that many jobs in Vermont. There’s also a goodly chance she’s a witch, but more like the Wiccan type, not the Broomhilda type. But if you thought all physically fit women who walk and talk with confidence, who run Big Important Organizations, who farm, drive tractors, compete in marathons and don’t indulge in tortures like Botox, make-up, Spanx and stilettos—and, most importantly, appear as the great goddess intended them to—are Lesbians, you’re wrong. To paraphrase Gloria Steinem, this is what women look like. Which is why I’m staying here.

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?

Carine observes that some of life’s best lessons come from our four-footed friends

1. When you have an itch, scratch it. If something is nagging at you, insisting a certain person or circumstance just doesn’t feel right, go with it sooner than later. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief. Plus, your wallet may still be where you left it when you go to pay for your session with that shrink.

2. If you need to fart, just do it. If you are feeling bloated with the gaseous fumes of critical words that need to be said or important ideas which need to be expressed, let them out; you’ll feel a lot better. When you’re sick, do you try to repress your cough with syrup? Stop it! Cough up the mucus, baby. Blocking a bodily function has never been a good idea.

3. Show love with enthusiasm. If there is someone in your life who you just adore—be it a spouse, friend or special family member—show them you can’t live without them (you know, get all excited when they walk in the door, jump all over them, ask if you can sit on their lap, etc.). They’ll think you’re nuts but they’ll be thrilled, and you will have them eating out of your hand.

4. When you need to go for a walk, make sure somebody knows. If your needs are not being met and you’re not speaking up, wake up. Most human beings cannot read minds. In fact, they are very bad at it. So, say it loud! Otherwise you may just have to clean up that awful mess yourself.

5. If you confront a cat, expect to get scratched. Everyone knows about so-called “catty” people. No explanation needed.

6. When all else fails, bite ‘em. Sometimes being nice just won’t do. There are situations that call for aggressive action, like if someone is trying to stake claim to your brilliant idea, steal your money, or take away your rights. This is not the time to try a little kindness. Don’t attempt to show them the error of their ways; just bite their head off. If necessary, you can always offer to pay for the doctor’s bill.

7. Be open and shameless about wanting a treat. If you need to pamper yourself, and you can afford it, it doesn’t matter that there are starving children in America. You can always send a few dollars to your favorite charity if it makes you feel better. So go ahead, drink expensive champagne, buy a really good quality bra just because it gives your breasts that extra lift, or splurge on a weekend getaway with your favorite buddy because it’s exactly what you need to get out of your funk. Just make sure you look puppy cute when you tell your out-of-work friends.

8. If you want to run after squirrels, prepare to be outrun. If you are in your fifties but prefer significantly younger partners, they will eventually leave you for another equally energetic squirrel. If you go after them with full acknowledgement of this fact, you will enjoy the chase more, and when they do leave, you will resist the embarrassing and futile effort of leaping up repeatedly at the trunk of their tree.

9. Wag your tail to show you’re happy. I am talking about the fine art of flirting. Yes, even though I’ve been married a long time, I still remember how fun it is, and practice it whenever appropriate. You know how to do it, don’t you girls? Just put your two rear cheeks together and wiggle!

10. If you want to belong to someone, don’t worry if they put a collar around your neck. Just make sure it’s got diamonds in it!

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?

Cheers, to one and all, and joyous felicitations of the season.

If you’re just not feeling it this season, may I suggest you immediately watch this video:

May you be blessed with more belly laughs in the coming year.

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/