Sandra Bullock Dries Her Tears... In Vermont 

A few days after Sandra Bullock took home the Oscar for best gal-next-door actress, it was revealed that her motorcyclist husband Jesse James was slumming it with a woman who has multiple facial tattoos and a fascination with White Power. Classy.

Naturally, our pal Sandy went into hiding after the philandering was revealed. What else do you do when your husband, whom you credit your career turnaround, has been caught engaging in a colossal act of scumbaggery?

But Sandy, sweet Sandy, didn't bury her head under a mountain of eiderdown pillows on her California king-size bed. No, the Blind Side sasspot repaired to the Vermont countryside where she could cry on the shoulder of her sister Gesine far from the long lenses of the Hollywood paps. Gesine used to own the eponymous bakery in Montpelier and currently peddles fancy French macarons (they're not macaroons, you philistine hayseeds) from somewhere in southern Vermont.

According to RadarOnline.com, Sandy (I call her Sandy because we're chummy like that) spent Easter noshing on Greek specialties at the Fair Haven Inn. Mihaela Ieremias, owner of the Fair Haven resto confirmed that in fact Sandy B., her sister Gesine Bullock Prado and Gesine's husband Raymond dined there with a few other folks on the day that Jesus rose from the dead. But Mihaela's lips were sealed beyond that.

"I don't want to give no more answers," Ieremias said when I called her yesterday to confirm the rumor. "We want to respect everyone's privacy so when they come back a second time, they can come back and be safe. And I don't want to say any more than that."

So there.

An anonymous "source" for online celeb gossip rag PerezHilton.com said "Her sister seemed very protective of her, but Sandra looked strong. She was far from a wreck." By strong, do they mean she looked jacked like a weight-lifter? What's she supposed to look like — a whipped dog?   

What I find so hilarious about this little bit of goss is that if Sandra Bullock was licking her wounds in St. Tropez or even St. Petersburg, we would hear about it. But once celebrities cross the force field that surrounds our little state, they seem to be safe from the prying eyes of the public. Or at least the public that cares about celebrity.

Bullock ate at the Fair Haven Inn on Easter, which was April 4 according to my 2010 Puppies of the World calendar. It took more than a week for that information to be disseminated, most likely via Pony Express, to New York and L.A. publications that actually care about this stuff.

Not one Vermont media outlet reported that one of the hottest movie stars of this decade currently embroiled in a tabloid-ready domestic meltdown stepped foot in our tiny nation-state. Either we suck at our jobs or we just don't care that much about them fancy Tinseltown cityfolk. I'd like to think it's the latter, however, since I am part of the media, I am compelled to admit the former. 

Vermont has a long history of celeb shielding. Where else could Paul Bettany and Jennifer Connelly tootle around in their Land Rover without anyone giving them so much as a passing glance? Where else could Karl Lagerfeld (Unkie Karl to me) bring a small platoon of rentboys without anyone batting an eyelash? Legions of other famous people from Whoopie Goldberg to Michael J. Fox to William H. Macy and Felicity Huffman have taken up temporary residence here with practically no fanfare. Just look at Rusty DeWees, the Logger — he lives in Vermont year-round and no one cares.

Vermont is like the Mustique of the north, minus the tanning potential. If you're famous, you can come here and be left alone. To that end, I'm extending a special invitation to celebrities of all stripes (except professional baseball players and Miley Cyrus) — come to Vermont. We won't even notice you're here.