From Fuzz to Fuzzy

Most of you are aware that my younger sister (I mention our birth order only because it makes her feel so good to see it in print) works here along side of me. When my sister retired as a patrol officer from a large police department in California, I conned her into coming into LoveFifi.com 10 years ago. Before I go any further, I must give her kudos for being able to transition from a life filled with thugs and criminals and bad drivers to our world of pretties and dainties. She was a great cop and she’s a fabulous lingerie merchant. The road from there to here was not always easy for anyone concerned, but it was well worth it.

The first thing I did was to give her a lacy push up bra to get into the lingerie mood. She IS a gorgeous woman, so I figured that it wouldn’t take her long to get used to the idea that she now wears satin and lace instead of a bullet proof vest over a sports bra. I figured everything else would follow.

It didn’t take me long to realize that you can take the girl out of the police department, but it’s not so easy to take the police department out of the girl. I expected her to be a little more rigid than the rest of us and to have a different point of view, but she struggled in our environment at first. No briefings, no uniforms, no weapons. At LoveFifi, we do deal with some slightly shady salesmen and modeling agents, so there are still a few scoundrels in our midst for her to interrogate.

In the beginning , it was hard to get her to loosen up. I love my sister and I was so excited when she became a civilian and I could help her find her real self. Because she is so pretty, she looked very fashionable when she stopped wearing a uniform. The problem was, she still talked like a cop. She spoke in numbers and code. I had to gently teach her that if you think I am crazy, telling me that I am 5150 is not going to hurt my feelings. If she wanted to tell me “let’s go!” yelling 10-8 will not make me move an inch. I made her stop referring to my car as my vehicle, and if she was going to be late to work it was not necessary to call from the road to alert us that she is “en route” and give me an ETA. It took me years to get her to talk like a real girl, but she is fully cured. Now people react in disbelief that she was a cop who patrolled the mean streets. I am so proud to have turned her from fierce to fluffy.

In our personal family life, my sister’s years as a policewoman still put a dark shadow over some of our events. She was still wearing that uniform and badge in her head and the thought of acting silly in public was too much for her. Although she was trying hard to follow my “free spirit” ways, her years of law enforcement and being an example to the community hampered her ability to have real fun.

A couple of years ago, one of my kids thought it would be a hoot to spend a Sunday at an ostrich farm that was a few hours away. Sister tried everything to get out of it, but she is a sucker for nieces and finally agreed to go. As we entered the farm, I could see her posture go completely erect and rigid and the scowl on her face told me that she would rather be anywhere else in the world. I bought everyone a tin plate full of bird food and we proceeded to the pens where the ostriches and emus lived. As soon as the birds see the food, they go nuts! Before I knew it we were all laughing wildly at the antics of these funny looking birds who would go to any lengths to get the food. We have amazingly hysterical photos of all of us running from these goofy creatures who not only stole the food, but the whole plate. They were also after anything else you might have or be wearing, so you had to move fast. No one had more fun than my sister. If you ever meet her, you need to somehow work up the subject of ostriches. She will tell you about her antics at the farm and how fun it was like it was her idea.

I am also busting at the seams, no pun intended, to let you know that my sister’s street clothes are no longer just black, gray, and navy. She wears color with the confidence of a peacock.

The biggest news is that she now puts up a Christmas tree and is almost joyful about it. She stopped doing it when her son left home and it always bothered me. Her excuse would be that she lives alone and she is the only one who would see it. Thank you Miss Bah Humbug! I finally convinced her that being alone is one of the best reasons to come home to a lighted tree at the holidays. She finally gave in a few years ago, but complains about how much trouble it is to put up and take down her artificial tree. Fortunately, she has figured all that out too. This year she put it up early in November and she just took it down last Saturday before her son came to take her out for Mother’s Day. Go Sister! You certainly wouldn’t want your son, the cop, to think you are 5150.

The Mother Load

If you were to ask me what my greatest joy was in life, I would not have to hesitate a second with my reply. Being a mother and, eventually, a grandmother, without a doubt. My family has always been the most important thing in the world to me, but I really didn't understand the magnitude of what my parents gave to me until I became a mother.

The love you feel instantly for a child that comes into your life, is in a stratosphere of it's own. I am blessed to have become a mom in nearly every way humanly possible. I met, and, eventually married, a man with a three year-old and six year-old. Although I remember the enthusiastic anticipation I felt about being a part of their lives, I can only imagine what those sweet children were feeling when I was sprung on them after their dad's divorce.

I remember their first visit to my apartment and how baffling the whole situation must have been for them. I felt such attachment to them immediately and marrying this man became ever so much more exciting with the prospect of having these kids in my life.

I feel lucky that I got to become a step-parent first, although I despise that term. These were my first kids. This is when I became a mother for the very first time. I have adored these two since they were young, and I adore them even more now that they are adults and we are all the same age.

Their dad and I waited 4 years to have a child so that these two could be the center of our universe without any distractions. When I look at the photos of all the things we did, the four of us... I relive those special times in my head. I have to give kudos to their biological mom who let the kids follow their instincts and call me mommy from the beginning.

When I got pregnant and then had a child, it was my first experience having a tiny baby to cuddle in my arms. Although I was completely in love with this little angel and would do anything for her, I found that only the love part of mothering comes naturally. I was so nervous about doing everything perfectly, I even took the bassinet into the bathroom when I took a shower in the beginning. I checked her breathing every other minute and never left her side. As it turns out, she probably would have been safer if I had just left her alone.

“Every young mother does something by accident and has a story to tell, but doesn't.”

After she had been home for about a week, I decided it was time to give her a real bath in her little pink baby tub. I read the section in the baby care book about the "first bath" and ceremoniously laid out the tiny washcloth, the baby soap and the hooded ducky towel to wrap her in. I prepared the water to the perfect temperature and with the book still open to the bath page, I held my bundle of joy with both hands, kissed her sweet face for assurance and then lowered her into the water. She gave me that "back in the womb" look of happiness as I cradled her with one hand and washed her gently from nose to toes. Following the instructions, I then rolled her over and cradled her front mid-section as I washed her back and bottom. It all felt so nurturing and loving to both of us, and it wasn't until I heard a gurgling noise and saw bubbles that I realized that I wasn't holding her up high enough to keep her face out of the water. I was so horrified at my ineptness and my baby's near drowning that I gathered her up in the towel and sobbed as I watched this poor trusting little soul snort water out of her tiny nose. I ran to the phone hysterically and called my mother. I told her to get in the car and come and get the baby before Children's Services came and whisked her away. My mom laughed and assured me that babies are very resilient and I had done her no harm. She claimed that every young mother does something by accident and has a story to tell, but doesn't. I felt better and decided to keep my daughter for a little longer. It went pretty well.

A few months later, I got one of those fabric baby carriers that are like being pregnant on the outside. You can go about much of your daily routine with the baby strapped to your front. This worked out for the most part, except when I would misjudge doorways and whack her little feet as I was passing through or the time I was brushing my hair and dropped the hair brush on her head. I am glad to report that no permanent damage was done to my little infant while I was in baby training. She grew up to be healthy and very smart. She's also a great dancer, so the repeated door jamb smacks to her feet did no harm.

I came to the great realization that I love being a mother, but my maternal instincts run so deep that I really don't have to hatch these young-uns myself to be a mom. My next three kids were all adopted. The decision was easy when I learned that once a child becomes two years old, they fall into the hard-to-adopt category. It seems that people want newborns, except me. Besides the fact that I wasn't particularly spectacular at infants, I liked the idea of giving a little person a better life. I always have love to give. The first sweet thing was three and a half when we got her, the second one two and a half and the last one was 16. Yes, 16. Am I crazy? Yes. Thank you for asking.

My children are my world and I feel as though I have led a charmed life as the mother of six. My first two children were a lottery win, my third one was a miracle, and my last three were blessings too profound to describe. I am not saying that mothering this brood was always easy, but it was always worth the sleepless nights, the worry, the financial strain, and the endless effort.

To all you mothers (and grandmothers) out there, have a beautiful Mother's Day. We are truly the queens of the universe and it is our day to reign supreme. Speaking of reigning, that reminds me, I actually own a gorgeous pageant crown (are you surprised?) and I think I will wear it on Sunday. Rhinestones go with yoga pants, right? I do want to be comfortable.

Hair-itage

The other day I realized I had just too many bottles in my bathroom and shower, so I decided to cull it out and keep only what I need. How I accumulated this overwhelming mess of shampoos, conditioners, and hair care products is beyond me. I am obviously a victim of the media, because for all the dollars I've spent, my hair should look a lot better than it does. I had gels, finishing sprays, mousses, leave-in conditioners, hair polishes, de-frizzers and more.

As I sorted it all out and tried to part with as much as possible, I came to realize why my hair has been basically the same for the last 10 years. You have to USE these products for them to do you any good. I am always in such a big hurry that wash, condition, and blow dry is all I make time for. That $12.50 root lifter just doesn't jump out of the cupboard and perk up my hairstyle and the serum for my "frizzies" can't do it's magic if it stays in the bottle.

Why am I such a sucker for all this stuff? Because hair is every woman's crowning glory! I have pretty nice locks for an old girl and when my hair looks good, I feel my best. Hair is such an important part of a woman's appearance. I am completely age inappropriate because I still have long hair. I refuse to join my over 50 sisters with their bobs and cropped 'do's. Why will you never catch me with short hair? Three reasons. Number #1, "wash and wear" haircuts are really not so easy-peasy. I have had a couple through the years and they require way too much time to look so casual. Reason #2, there are no dirty hair hairdos for short hair. No ponytails, buns, or braids. And Reason #3 that I will never have short hair and probably the most important reason of all: I don't look like Halle Berry.

People in general really care more than ever about expressing themselves through their hair and it's not just about the haircut anymore. The use of non-traditional dye colors is popular with both men and women. At the present time, even one of my grown daughters has purple hair. I am actually pretty used to it and it is way better than when she shaved her head bald a few years ago and texted me a photo of her handiwork while I was on vacation. My daughters are always doing something new to their hair, I never know what I will be greeted with, but I have always contended that it is "only hair" and will grow back. Even when my second youngest had a blue Mohawk in her late teens, I held my tongue. Now that my girls are all women, I have nothing to say about their beauty choices. If I really wanted to stop them, all I would have to do is dye my hair hot pink or Bozo the Clown red to show them up. I will never do that, however. It's not that I don't have the guts, it's that I can't be assured that those wacky dye colors will cover gray.

Throughout the years, famous people have become even more famous because of their hairstyle. From Julius Caesar to Donald Trump, Cleopatra to Farah Fawcett, hairstyles have shaped history. Remember the Beatles and their radically "long" hair which really wasn't long at all? Compared to the crew cuts of the preceding decade, I can see why it was considered so controversial. After that, hairstyles went crazy.

I grew up in the 60s and as a very young teenager was taken to the Broadway production of "Hair". For those of who aren't familiar with the play, it was a musical about the social significance of hair in the groovy 60s. Long hair and curly Afros for both sexes on one extreme and the asymmetric precision cuts of the master, Vidal Sassoon, on the other end. It was a fantastic time and paved the way for how people express themselves today in their hairstyles.

As with everything else in life, there are heroes when it comes to hair and I have so much respect for what they do. There is a group of angels who grow their hair long for several years and then cut it and donate to Locks of Love so wigs can be made for people with cancer. I would love to do this, but they only accept "virgin" hair. Your hair cannot have been colored or chemically treated. Sadly, the "virgin" boat sailed for me a long time ago on all levels.

So back to getting rid of some of this hair crap I don't need. So far I have only parted with one bottle of goo that made your hair stand up straight on it's own. It's guaranteed to give you hair that helps you get your "freak on". I don't need any help, thank you.

Fifi of the Desert

First of all, I want to apologize for not sending an article out last Saturday. Writing these pieces just for you is definitely one of the best parts of my week, but life got in the way and I ran out of time.

I had promised to go away with my daughter, son-in-law and baby granddaughter to the Coachella Music Festival near Palm Springs, CA for a 4-day weekend, so my week was cut short. For those of you not familiar with this event, it is a music extravaganza that has been in existence for about 15 years. People come from all over the world to participate. For those of you in my age group, it's like Woodstock but way more organized. People come with their whole families, including the little ones in strollers.

We left early on Friday morning and headed out towards the desert. The kids had rented us a very nice, well-appointed condo in the heart of Palm Springs. The plan was that we would spend the days together and then they would go to the music events in late afternoon-early evening and I would stay with my little 10 month old Lulu. You didn't think I was going to the festival, did you? Heavens no! First of all, I hate heat. Even in April, the temperatures hover over 100 degrees in the Coachella Valley. Secondly, I may be the hippest granny around but I am not familiar with even one of the bands that was playing. I know I have young readers out there, but those of you my age... have you ever heard of Vintage Troubles, Infected Mushroom or Vampire Weekend? No, I didn't go. I was having my own music festival back at the condo with my granddaughter. Old MacDonald and Patty Cake are much more my taste in music. Lulu thinks I rock because I do choreography, as well. Nothing feels better than making her giggle.

When we first arrived, I made a trip to the grocery store to fill up our state-of-the-art kitchen. I liked the idea of cooking breakfast for everyone. I made it my business to divide the grocery list into 2 categories: snack food and healthy food. I figured with everyone nibbling on a combination, that I wouldn't just be feeding my family junk. Of course I bought cookies, potato chips, Cheetos, a little candy, a coffee cake. I bought a half dozen bagels and some whipped cream cheese. I also bought fresh apples and oranges, dried apricots and plums, pretzel sticks and a nice tray of pre-cut raw vegetables.

The weekend went great. I got a little time to relax and I got lots of time with my little girl. I sang to her, played "Horsey" with her, read to her and slept beside her when nap time came. For those of you out there who are grandparents, you know what I am talking about. It's so delicious and that child cannot do anything that annoys me. My mother, bless her, used to say that the true reason for ever becoming a parent is so you can be a grandparent. She may have been right. I so wish my mom were here to know Lulu. She would have been absolutely mad for her.

Since I basically had my days free, I got to live the desert life a bit. Palm Springs proper was filled with young people (for the festival) and old people (who live there). The middle aged people must have been hanging out somewhere else this weekend.

I know that there is a huge fascination with desert life. I try to appreciate it, but it escapes me a bit. I have been to Palm Springs in high season and in the winter and I still don't get it.

Don't get me wrong, I don't hate it, but it doesn't sing to me. Besides, they have scorpions and snakes and there's not enough tranquil beauty in the universe that can offset having to deal with those critters on a daily basis.

Everything is so far apart. You can't really "run" to the store. You have to drive quite a distance with not much in between. And the people all wear the same uniform... shorts, tee shirts, some kind of hat and always athletic shoes. I honestly don't think they really play any sports. It's too damn hot, for one thing.

Don't even try to go clothes shopping in Palm Springs unless you live there. No one dresses up and I actually think it is illegal for men to wear anything but golf shirts with some logo embroidered on the pocket. I visited one of my favorite discount chain stores only to find rack after rack of shorts and tank tops where the dresses and jeans should be. The Maxxinsistas look very different different in the desert. I did, however, find a very nice set of pink plastic party glasses with flamingos on them to use on my patio this summer, so the shopping trip was worthwhile.

Well, we headed home and a good time was had by all. I enjoyed my family and my grown kids enjoyed the festival. I felt very warm and fuzzy about our little getaway as I did my part and loaded up what was left in the refrigerator. Fresh apples and oranges, dried apricots and plums, pretzel sticks and the nice tray of pre-cut raw vegetables. I smiled. Not a Cheeto or Milk Dud in sight.

Bean There, Done That

I belong to one of the largest and most militant groups in the United States. I am a coffee drinker. Those of you who don’t care about coffee probably have something else you are crazy about that you can relate to easily. My mother was a coffee drinker. We all knew that it wasn’t a good idea to talk to her before her first cup. It’s funny, when you are a kid and some grown up lets you taste a little sip, you think it is horrible and cannot imagine why people like it. Then you grow up and the thought of living without it is horrifying.

Seattle in the 70s started a new era of coffee consumption. No longer were people content with just a cup of Joe; we got used to special brews from around the world. With the advent of the chain coffee houses like Starbucks, we all succumbed to what is known as coffee culture. These coffee sanctuaries became a place to meet friends, embark on a new romance, study, do work on your computer, or just contemplate your navel while sipping your signature drink.

For all you coffee drinkers out there, you know what I am talking about.

If you have ever stood in a long line at Starbucks and listened to the ordering going on in front of you, it is pretty intimidating. You need to learn a different language to order coffee in one of these places. The clientele is pretty hip and you would never ask what anything means, so you have to learn the lingo the same way you learned about sex. You listen intently, pretend you get it, nod your head, and then you can eventually piece together all the facts and know what they are talking about. Once you get the jargon down, drinking coffee becomes less stressful and more enjoyable. Back in the day when I was new to the Starbucks routine, I remember the person ahead of me in line ordering a “1/2 caf/decaf cappucino, extra wet. I started to panic about being next. I had no idea how to order and I didn’t want to appear stupid. I was like a deer in headlights when it was my turn. A million thoughts dashed through my brain as I tried to unscramble what I just heard. “Extra wet?” Isn’t coffee already wet?

“How can I help you , Miss?”, asked the young man. “Oh”, I said, flinging my hair and attempting to look very casual. “I just want a regular brewed coffee”, I replied, disguising my angst with the best bored blonde look I could muster up. I was so relieved that he acknowledged my request and poised his fingers over the register keys to ring me up.“Whew!”, I said to myself. “They have just regular coffee here!” “Would you like our Sumatran Gold or the Himalayan Fog?” He queried. Oh, crap! I was terrible at geography in school. “Which region has the best coffee?” He was looking at me like I should know the difference between the two. I decided to look conflicted and it worked like a charm. “You know our House Blend is award winning and also my personal favorite.” I shook my head yes and now looked forward to my lovely cup of coffee. “Shall I make that a Venti?,” he inquired. “Absolutely!” I said with feigned authority. I had no idea what I was ordering until I picked up my schooner of black coffee when they called my name.

You live and learn. And I have learned plenty. When you order a cappuccino wet, it means you want more coffee than foam. To order it dry is just the opposite. Breve is with half and half instead of milk. Order your drink skinny and it’s made with skim milk and sugar free syrup. It’s not rocket science, but pretty close.

People have become so particular about the coffee they drink. I actually think that coffee snobs are worse than wine snobs. The whole thing has no socio-economic connection either. People who consider Cheetos hors d’oerves, are super snooty about their coffee. I have a good friend who roasts his own beans. Now that’s dedication. I must say that I truly understand the importance of coffee. It starts my day and often ends my evening meal. I am really glad that caffeine does not affect my ability to sleep. I would be miserable if I was one of those people who can’t drink a cup after 3 pm or they are up all night. I can pound back a double espresso at midnight and be asleep by 12:10.

I am the opposite of a coffee snob. I like it all. Give me a good hot mug of coffee shop coffee brewed in a Bunn machine. Fabulous! Whether it’s done in a French press, drip brewed, or percolated... it’s all good.

After my divorce, I treated myself to one of the Keurig coffer machines that use little individually packed “pods” to brew a single cup of coffee of your choice. Each serving is a work of art in a cup and since I live alone, sometimes that’s all I want to make. I have a little wooden drawer thing-y where my different varieties of pods, called K-cups, are kept. Each morning I ponder which exotic coffee I will have with the same deep thought as I would select a diamond ring from the jeweler’s case. Sometimes I even have tea. I have a plethora of different mugs from all over the universe on the shelf above my coffee maker, so I can match my coffee choice and my mood. Ok, it doesn’t take much to float my boat, but I love that damn machine. I love my coffee.

If, God forbid, I should ever become homeless and forced to live in the park, I would find a park with an electric outlet for my Keurig. I know they exist because the gardeners don’t use battery powered lawn mowers and hedge clippers, for goodness sake. I would make myself a sign that said “Please Help. Will Work for K-cups”. I will stand by the freeway on ramp during morning rush hour and graciously entertain offers of employment or donations for my coffee pods. You think I’m kidding, right?

For all you coffee drinkers out there, you know what I am talking about. A lot of the pleasure in a cup of coffee has to do with the ceremony of it all. The brewing, the cream, the sweetener... the way you swizzle it around to blend it just the way you like it. When your hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the warmth goes right down to your toes. That aroma of the roasted beans wafting upwards is purely intoxicating. Tell me something that tastes better than that first sip in the morning... divine!

Besides the taste and tradition of this beverage, don’t forget how many problems have been solved and relationships begun over a simple cup of coffee. Chances are some of you are reading this article over coffee... that pleases me greatly. I am drinking one as I write this. Cheers!

This Little Fifi Went To Market...

There is probably no task that I hate more than going to the grocery store. If I ever win the lottery, the first thing I will do is hire an assistant that goes marketing for me.

When I was raising a family, I took food shopping much more seriously than do now. It was part of being the mama lion and nurturing my family and nobody did it better than I did. I used to do the marketing with a shoebox full of carefully catalogued coupons. I was constantly clipping the cents-off coupons from every magazine and newspaper I could get my hands on.

On marketing day, I would spend hours going up and down the aisles stretching every dollar that I could. I often filled up two baskets to the brim. At the end, I turned in all my coupons and tried to guess what my savings would be. It was a game to me and I was good at it.

As I stood by the open tailgate of my “mom van” (yes, I had one of those, but please keep it to yourself) and watched the box person load bag after bag of discounted grocery items, I felt such pride. I stood there clutching my yards of register tape as triumphantly as if I had just won an Oscar.

I would spend hours going up and down the aisles stretching every dollar that I could.

Grocery shopping was a huge deal back in those days. It took the better part of a day to accomplish and you had to have an unstoppable rhythm. I also learned early on that your success as the household shopper had to have a set of stringent rules.

Rule #1 - You NEVER let your husband go with you. Despite the fact that he is good for any heavy lifting of 50lb. bags of dog kibble or the ginormous size laundry detergent, there is no amount of budgeting and coupon clipping that will offset what he sneaks into the basket. It does you no good to scrimp and save and wait for double coupon day, if you end up with garlic-stuffed cannonball olives, an extra large bag of beef jerky, and Macadamia nuts carefully concealed and then revealed at checkout. Men can’t help it, so leave them at home.

Rule #2 - Never ask if anyone needs or wants anything. When you shop with coupons and are a slave to sale items, no special requests. They get what’s on “special” and the fact that someone else is filling the cupboards for their eating pleasure is special enough. Let your family know not to fall in love with anything you bring home, because they might not get it again.

Rule #3 - If you are shopping for a lot of people, it’s a very tiring job. I believe that the shopper is entitled to at least one food favorite as a reward for all their good work. I love Fig Newtons and tried for years to find a hiding place that no one could find. I sucked at it, because when I was ready to relax with a cup of tea and some Newtons a few days later, I would go to the hiding place in the kitchen to find an empty Nabisco package. Kids and husbands have food radar. I should have hidden them behind the ironing board or behind the folded sheets in the linen closet. Not a chance anyone in my family would have found them. You live and learn.

Those days are all behind me now. It’s just me and the dogs. Although I haven’t clipped a coupon in a long time, I still hate going to the store for a whole different reason. Now instead of calculating how much I am paying per ounce to get the best bargain, I calculate if I will be able to eat it or use it before I die.

I usually only make myself go to the market if there is nothing for my dogs to eat and/or there is no creamer for my coffee. Once I am there, I am THERE, so I just move down the aisles as fast as I can. There are no bargains for people who live alone. I don’t need a multi-pack of anything and I don’t want to carry it. I get the essentials, fruit, vegetables, English muffins, milk, eggs, Brie, wine, etc.

Nowadays you bring your own bags for the groceries. I am grateful I did the family shopping in the paper or plastic days or I would have to have brought a complete set of Samsonite. I keep my purchases down to a minimum because I like the convenience and speed of the 15 items or less lane. Nothing aggravates me more than people who abuse this. Often times there is still a line but I keep myself occupied by counting exactly how many items each person puts on the conveyer belt and plotting their death if they go over. It’s not the healthiest thinking, but it keeps me completely amused until it’s my turn.

By the way, don’t ever get talked into doing Self Checkout. It’s some kind of plot. First of all, it’s not that convenient or easy. The people who do it easily think they are so cool and they think they are brilliant. If you look befuddled or don’t go fast enough, the Self Checkout “associate” comes around and flippantly pushes the start button and shows you how to swipe the bar code and then disappears. You start off fine and then you make the mistake of touching the bag at the wrong time and get scolded by some automated voice. I had tried to do this before, but if you don’t do it quickly, the guy behind you in the flip flops with a 12 pack of Corona gets antsy and makes you nervous.

The last time I tried to do this, I bought some kind of produce that was missing its sticker and I didn’t know how to continue. Out of nowhere comes the “associate” to help. I don’t know where the Self Checkout helpers fall in the hierarchy of grocery store employees, but these are not happy people. I described my produce problem and she gave me a look that clearly said “moron!”, shrugged her shoulders, and pushed me out of the way. She made a clicking noise with her tongue while rolling her eyes in disgust. Then she whipped through several screens, pushed too many buttons and asked me for my debit card. She “helped” me complete my transaction and gathered up my bags abruptly, handed them to me and motioned towards the door. Then that brat actually told me to “enjoy the rest of my day”. If I was going to clean the garage for the balance of my day, it would be much more enjoyable than my experience with those people in what I now fondly refer to as “Self Righteous Checkout”.

I think I have let off enough steam for one day. I think I shall now relax with a nice cup of tea... and Fig Newtons.

A Stellar Reputation

Do you have any idea who has the very best Public Relations people in the world? As you know, it is the job of PR people to keep their clients’ image clean and pristine and to always have them shown in the best light. So, obviously the answer to my question is not Brad and Angelina or the Kardashians. You can keep guessing, but you won’t get it. For every famous name that comes to mind, no matter how flawless their reputation, there is always something that tarnishes their perfect image. Give up?

Whoever was handling the publicity and creating an image for bunnies did an amazing job. I went along with my son-in-law and daughter to take my 10 month old granddaughter to have her picture taken with the Easter Bunny. ADORABLE! And the bunny was cute, too. It got me to thinking about the reputation of bunnies. I could not think of one negative thing that had to do with them. They are totally cutie patootie in every way. Besides, there is nothing softer on the planet and they don’t just walk... they hop. You can be “as cute as a bunny” or “as quick as a bunny” and it’s a compliment. If you pull a rabbit out of a hat, you have pulled off something extraordinary. My graphic goddess, Miss Nora, has a sister named Bunny. And yes, she is as darling as they come.

Bunnies make you go “ahhh”. I have zillions of little white tailed ones that enjoy nibbling on the grass at my house. There is not a time when I catch them that I don’t stop and take in their adorable-ness and smile.

It was not by accident that a rabbit was chosen as one of the icons of the Easter season. Bunnies are the epitome of cuddliness and completely irresistible with those ears!

The worst dancer in the universe can still join in to do the Bunny Hop. Anything associated with bunnies makes people happy and can make them act silly. See, you just can’t say anything bad about them. I even had a boyfriend in college who called me his “funny bunny”. I loved it.

Bunnies also have a very special significance for me. They remind me of someone I love very much. My middle daughter, Jenni, was always a hard worker in school and later in her career. She was always there to help and was forever putting pressure on herself to make sure she got everything done. When I would ask her, for example, how she was going to finish a project, go to class, finish her homework, and be done in time to come help me cook dinner for the family, she would always give me the same answer no matter how much she had to accomplish: “Magic bunnies, Mommy. Magic bunnies.” Somehow those magic bunnies always came through. Jenni rarely failed at anything and never disappointed. The heartbreaking truth is that we lost Jenni at age 24, in 2009. I have probably told you this before, so forgive me. I do share most of my life with you and this part is still kind of a blur at times.

Bunnies are dear to me for many reasons. I honestly don’t know why I just went to the “Jennifer place” in this article. You all so sweetly put up with my crazy meanderings about this subject and that. I started talking about bunnies and ended up here. Thank you for letting me ramble. And by the way, the next time you have to power through a million tasks and you pull it off like the superstar you are, consider that you might just have some magic bunnies in your midst.

By the way, if you are a mother or a grandmother, you need to buy a copy of The Runaway Bunny. It’s the story of a mother bunny and her baby bunny. It encapsulates everything you ever need to know about the infinite power of mother love. Here’s a little bit... leave it to the bunnies to get such a precious message across so beautifully.

Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.
So he said to his mother, “I am running away.”
“If you run away,” said his mother, “I will run after you.
For you are my little bunny.”

“If you run after me,” said the little bunny,
“I will become a fish in a trout stream
and I will swim away from you.”

“If you become a fish in a trout stream,” said his mother,
“I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you.”

“If you become a fisherman,” said the little bunny,
“I will become a rock on the mountain, high above you.”

“If you become a rock on the mountain high above me,”
said his mother, “I will become a mountain climber,
and I will climb to where you are.”

And so the story goes. No matter what the bunny becomes, the mama bunny turns into whatever it takes to keep her baby safe. So sweet!

This is a big week with Passover and Easter. Families will be together and it doesn’t get better than that. I hope you all have times to treasure. Speaking of treasures, check out my 10 month old, Lulu. It’s her first Easter. And yes, I am responsible for the mini ball gown. I am not only her grandmother, I am her stylist.