New Years REVOLUTION!

It’s the week of January 1st, and I have been thinking about the resolutions that I will be making. I am very good at coming up with good ones, I just suck at keeping them.

We all have the best intentions at this time of year. We vow to get thin, stop smoking, not swear, or be on time, save more money, etc. The idea of New Year’s resolutions is really a noble thought, but the timing is so stupid.

Think about it. We just got through a month of holiday craziness and turbo-shopping. We have decorated and wrapped ourselves into a blue funk. And if we did it right (and I can assure you that I did), we have ingested so many calories and fat grams that it would take 10 climbs up Mount Everest to burn them off.

So, do we stand back and take a deep breath after it’s all over? Do we rest and recharge? Do we reflect and relax? Hell NO! We turn our lives upside down and try to change a lifetime of bad habits overnight. I think that the idea of the whole world making New Year’s resolutions at the same time is ridiculous. Too many people trying to turn over a new leaf simultaneously just can’t work. There are just too many resolutions floating around in the universe for a significant number of them to stick. People needn’t be so hard on themselves. Baby steps, you know? Baby steps.

It’s time for a full scale revolt on that whole stupid concept of drastic New Year’s Resolutions. Someone needs to shake up this silly ritual and nobody is better at stirring things up than me, Miss Fifi.

Here’s my plan for what I like to call New Year’s Resolution “LITE”. Forget about “cold turkey”, except for the one that’s in the refrigerator.

If you like the idea of starting fresh on the first day of the year, then make a deal with yourself and make a plan to head in the direction of a desired goal. If you need to stop smoking, then look for some help. Try the patch or find a support group.

If you want to lose weight, you can absolutely count on me for tips on how to combine diet and exercise to slim down. You will, however, have to consult with someone else about how NOT to gain it back.

Now if you need help with being on time, I won’t be much help. I am hopeless. I will be late to my own funeral.

So, my sweet darlings, another year is upon us. Sure, we can all do things a little better or a little smarter, but we can e-a-s-e into it, we don’t have to torture ourselves to reach our goals in one fell swoop.

Now I am working on clearing out my kitchen of any “bad” foods that are still left from Christmas. I have already started. I finished off the pumpkin pie for breakfast and I figure I can polish off the chocolate truffles, the toffee and the European butter cookies by New Years Eve morning.

Happy New Year, my dear readers! 2015 is going to be marvelous.

A Love Letter To Our Troops

When people ask me what I want for Christmas, my standard answer is world peace.

I wish it were that easy.

I have been thinking about what to write in my Christmas message this year, and it wasn’t until the other day that it hit me like a ton of fruitcake. I was in the car, listening to my favorite oldies station and singing at the top of my lungs, when the old Shirelles’ song, “Soldier Boy” came on.

I started thinking about all the American soldiers that are not going to be home for Christmas this year. You know we at LoveFifi have a special soft spot for our men and women in uniform. We do what we can. That’s why we ship all orders to APOs and FPOs for free.

It’s not just that I am a proud American, but I have the honor of helping so many military people select some pretty fantastic lingerie for very special homecomings. It is a true privilege.

Just yesterday, a lovely soldier called from Iraq to order a huge amount of lingerie for his lady. He won’t even be home for 3 months, but the anticipation is obviously keeping him going and maybe even keeping him alive. We told him to be careful and stay safe. It was so great to talk to him and share in the excitement he felt to spoil his girl back in the States.

I grew up on Bob Hope’s Christmas Specials, so I have seen a little bit of how hard it must be to not only fight a war, but to be so alone, especially during times when your family is so important. Everyone who watches television gets caught up in the stories about our soldiers serving abroad, but do we think about and appreciate all they really sacrifice for us?

Saying “Thank You” to men and women protecting this great nation feels so hollow. I would like to add a big “I’m sorry” to go with that. I am sorry that you won’t be opening gifts with your family. I am sorry that you won’t be tasting your mama’s gravy or sleeping in your own bed for a very long time. I promise you that each and every time I get to do something that could easily be taken for granted, I will think of you with utmost respect and love.

There is more to being brave than most people think about. Yes, you have to be brave to defend our country, but the bravery and unselfishness it takes to give up seeing your baby’s first step, or celebrating your wedding anniversary with the love of your life to serve our nation in time of need, is completely overwhelming to me. I cannot imagine having a child serving in some dangerous, far off place. My daughter went to college 500 miles away in San Francisco and I was nauseous about her safety and well-being most of the time.

Believe me, my sweet readers in the military, I am so grateful for everything you do and so sorry for everything you do without while you are doing your job. I pray for your safety and hope that you will be home soon. You have my support, my love, and my respect. I will be here for you always. Please keep writing to me whenever you can. You must never doubt my profound admiration and gratefulness for all of you.

I have no singing talent whatsoever, but that old Shirelles’ song says it better than I ever could now, although, I had to change it a little because times are different. This one’s for you, my darlings. I’m singing it to you right now... so listen.

"Soldier Boy... and my precious Soldier Girls... I’ll be true to you”.

Merry Christmas.

Lottery Winner

What a week this has been. Last week I wrote about this man I am seeing and asked all of my dear readers to help me. He's a very lovely person, but very serious and under-emotional. I was trying so hard to get to know him and appreciate his mysterious ways, but I was having such a hard time with the way he says things and, in some cases, doesn't say anything at all.

As usual, you guys didn't fail me. I received an overwhelming amount of replies and opinions ranging from gentle to ferocious. I read every one of them and boy... are my eyes wide open now!

I was amazed to see how many of you really "get me" through my writings. I was so impressed that you understood completely that, although I am good at sorting out problems for others, that I was too close to see my situation clearly. That's why I always consult experts when I am out of my area of expertise. Thank you my sweet experts, you done good.

First of all, I was shocked that SO many people that I actually know read my articles. Many of those friends were surprised that I was seeing someone and they didn't know it. I received both letters of congratulations and hate mail asking why I hadn't mentioned him. Goodness gracious, I have only known him a short time. I was trying to figure out this relationship between the two of us before I started to expose him to my wacky friends and family. It seems that I actually upset some dear people in my life because they read about him in one of my articles instead of hearing it from me first. Holy crap, it appears that I am always pissing someone off! For those of you that I offended, I will get back to you as soon as I can. Please take a number.

Next there were those of you who felt that I must be ever so cognizant of our "cultural" differences. I appreciated this point of view, but he has lived in the U.S. for decades and my grandmother who helped raise me was a fine English lady. I don't think there are really any cultural difficulties between us. Oh wait! Maybe you were referring to that "Men are from Mars" theory. That would make me have cultural differences with every man in the universe. The fact that he had an English upbringing has nothing to do with it. If he were from Kuala Lumpur, I would agree. Both of us speak English as our first language. It's more a "joie de vivre" difference, than cultural diversity. I feel the "joie" of things long before he does and that creates some problems.

One reader thought that I should be grateful that he is attentive in restaurants. She told me very sternly that I am not perfect (really?) and that some men just cannot express their feelings and that I am needy if I require being told that he cares. She continued to say that a man who keeps my wine glass full all the time is a "keeper". That may be true, but I couldn't stop wondering if I could deal with him not saying he missed me when I eventually had to check into Betty Ford. Sorry, that's just the way my mind and heart think. I can't help it.

I got some really sweet letters from ladies whose men, though flawed, were beyond wonderful. I heard accounts of rampant snoring, farting, and soup slurping guys whose gentle ways and endless thoughtfulness made them complete dreamboats in their women's eyes. I loved those letters especially. A friend of mine wrote to say that her boyfriend wasn't perfect, but that he calls every night before bed to tuck her in on the phone and say "I love you". Yes, Walt, we're talking about you. All I could do was swoon. Let me paint you a mental picture. Walt is a big "badass" biker guy. He is obviously also part teddy bear.

I was so flattered that many of you see clearly to my nurturing loving side. You came right out and said that you felt that I was way too tender-hearted to be with someone who chokes on words of endearment.

Well my precious readers, I took every word you wrote and measured the pros and the cons. I also factored in that I am not exactly a "walk in the park" when it comes to temperament. I have been called a hand full, a firecracker, and worse, so I have to make allowances for me being me.

Well, thanks to you I have sorted it all out and I am at peace. I also feel like I just won the Love Lottery. I put my money on my Fifi fans and you gave me exactly what I needed. You spoke to me frankly, you made me see the big picture from so many angles, you spoke to me with honesty and respect and most importantly, you put your arms around me and delivered the big hugs that I really needed. It doesn't matter that they could only be cyber hugs. I could feel every one. You showed concern for my conflicted feelings and urged me to follow my heart. You told me that you loved me.

I now know what's what and I know exactly what to do. Thank you.

One more thing... I love you,too.

Period Of Adjustment

I have some exciting news. I have this new man in my life and I really like him. We are in the first stages of getting to know one another, so it is interesting. Since you, my darling readers, know me pretty well after all this time together, I was hoping that you would tell me what you think. I know you will tell me the truth.

When you are 25 and dating, you don't need any help, but when you are older, have been previously married for ages and are a bit stuck in your ways, a little guidance would help. I know many of you out there are over 40 and been around the block more than once.

Okay, let me begin. He passes all my tests as far as integrity and depth of character. He doesn't get hinky when I talk about children or grandchildren, and I look forward to them all meeting. He is well dressed in a conservative sort of way. He is very pleasant to look at and he is warm and charming. He grew up in England and speaks with thick accent. For me this is not a problem. I grew up during the British Invasion and saw "A Hard Day's Night" a dozen times. I speak Beatle fluently. Understanding what he is saying to me is easy. Understanding why he said it and what he meant by it is much harder.

He's not a player and seems completely genuine and honest. He is considerate and attentive. To say that he is intelligent is an understatement. He is well educated and very successful in business. He is a great talker and a great listener. He is punctual and extremely well mannered. He is very knowledgeable about wine and never fails to bring fabulous bottles when he comes for dinner. He always helps clear the table afterwards and begins immediately on the dishes. We have a good time together and discuss everything under the sun. He describes himself as a Renaissance man and I believe that to be a very accurate description. He is not a snob, but is a bit stiff. I'm just sayin'...

I know that some of you ladies are saying to yourself, "Wow! Why can't I find a man like that?" and I agree. He is remarkable. Why am I confounded as to what to do next? Here's why.

Although he can quote Shakespeare and can spout ancient poetry, he is not romantic. We were discussing love relationships and I started describing what I thought every woman would like to hear. To be told that a man adores you and can't live without you were the perfect words to me. He immediately sat up a little straighter and quickly amended what I said. "That is just not true" he said. Okay, I get it, Mr. Semantic Pants! I knew where his exacting mind was going. Of course a man could certainly still live if his woman died or stopped loving him, but he is saying that he would rather not live without his woman by his side. I got the feeling that if my new man ever did fall completely in love with me, the best declaration of his undying love I would ever get would be something like "I am very fond of you, dear. I am extremely pleased that we found each other". I am stupid romantic and I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am wondering if this yearning for romance will get in the way of this relationship progressing. Too bad there isn't Viagra-like product for men to keep their romantic side erect.

I admit that he is conservative with his feelings, but I have always prided myself in being able to loosen up the most restrained of people. When I say something gushy, like "spending time together is so wonderful and feels so right", I know he feels the same way but why does he have to nod his head and say "I concur"?

I get it that we are very different, but that's what makes it so exciting. I am willing to make concessions, but the romance thing is really important to me. I am all about love and romance, as you all know. Hey! I saw the movie "Ghost", too... and I don't do "ditto" very well either.

The other night he took me to a lovely Italian restaurant. I watched him pour olive oil and balsamic vinegar onto his side plate. I then noticed that my side plate was already full. For a minute I thought I was having a senior moment and had forgotten that I had already done it, but realized that he had poured both onto my plate first. So sweet. I am not used to it and I thanked him. He got boyfriend points for that. He also keeps my wine glass filled and is always concerned that I am happy and comfortable. Good stuff!

I always tell him that he looks nice and he does. He never says much of anything about how I look. I swear that even if I were to meet him at the door in a scuba suit, I would get the same "good evening, ma'am" that I usually get.

When he comes to my home for the most casual dinner, he could go immediately to a job interview without changing his clothes. His idea of casual and mine are very different, but I find it refreshing to see a man nicely dressed and impeccably groomed. Last night he came over for a low key dinner and to watch my favorite show, "Project Runway". I noticed half way through that my man was dressed better than both of the famous men designer judges.

By now, you must be sensing my angst. I don't want to mess this up, but do a Free Spirit/1960s Wild Child and Renaissance Man/Slightly Stiff Englishman have a chance? I would give an enthusiastic "YES!" myself if it weren't for one big issue. We have very diverse views on a super sensitive subject. Oh, it's not politics or religion; we can figure all of that out easily. We are both civilized people who respect the opinions of others. The deal breaker might be my two little dogs. Don't misunderstand, he likes the dogs very much and they love him. The issue here is the fact that my dogs both have vast wardrobes and I dress them everyday. My dogs are happy when they are dressed up and the attention and treats they get from everyone makes their tails wag like crazy. If my puppies were uncomfortable, I wouldn't do it, but they not only hold still to be dressed they seem to know that they rock whatever outfit they are wearing. My man teases me about it constantly. He thinks that it is insane to put clothes on dogs. Usually he is open-minded about everything else and if he sees a valid reason for a change of heart on a subject, he will consider it. Perhaps if Brooks Brothers came out with a line of dog clothes, he would be more lenient with his harsh opinions. I even looked on the Internet to see if Queen Elizabeth ever dressed up her Corgi dogs. No such good luck, but a whole huge part of the population thinks that dogs look cuter dressed up. I am quite sure that most of the dogs think they look pretty hot as well.

Tell me what you think. Can this work? I don't want to blow it with this guy, but I have zillions of dollars wrapped up in doggy fashions.

Woman Of The Cloth

You already know that I am quirky, so you won't be shocked by my next admission. As I was ironing my cloth napkins over the weekend, I had sweet thoughts of my mother teaching me how to press them just so and stack them when I was a girl. Just in case you think I was preparing for the holidays, I wasn't. I use cloth napkins at my house every day, even though I am usually the only one dining.

Now when I say "dining" I am referring to any kind of eating at home. If I have a peanut butter sandwich, I use a cloth napkin. You have no idea how elegant a PB&J can be when you wipe your lips with real cloth.

Believe me when I tell you that switching to cloth can even make eating a Hot Pocket on the couch feel sophisticated.

Think of how it feels when you go to a fancy restaurant and the waiter takes your starched napkin, unfurls it dramatically, and places it in your lap. It's special... and you probably sit up straighter and look forward to your meal with greater anticipation. I get the same feeling when I use cloth napkins at home. I skip the unfurling part because it scares the dogs, but the feeling of cloth in my lap instead of paper makes me feel like a queen.

I really hate it that with most people, cloth napkins have become something for only special occasions or 5-star restaurants. Believe me when I tell you that switching to cloth can even make eating a Hot Pocket on the couch feel sophisticated.

It is really no big deal to throw a weeks worth of napkins in the washer. The ironing part takes no time at all and sometimes I can just kind of smooth them with my hands. It's all worth it when you sit down to eat. And when you have a guest? Just watch their faces when you hand them a cloth napkin to go with their coffee and bagel.

I guess I am just a tactile person. I love thick towels, soft sheets, and lofty comforters, as well. Thank goodness the same people who make paper napkins and paper towels didn't tinker with converting other cloth items into disposable paper. Can you imagine getting out of the tub and tearing off a big wide piece of perforated paper toweling from a big roll? I wince at the thought. The best part of bathing is the "hug" you get when you wrap a towel around yourself.

I had a dreadful experience once that proves that this is so true. I was staying in a friends guest house which was located about 100 yards from the main house. I was happily taking a hot shower and did not realize until I got out - dripping wet - that the host had forgotten to restock the bathroom with towels since the last visitor. Not wishing to damage the wood floors in the cottage, I turned to my survival instincts. I got back in the shower and shook my tailfeather and a few other things to get as much water off me as I could. I then stepped out and used most of the box of Kleenex on the counter. I got dry enough to race to the bedroom and finish up with my sweatshirt. I have worshiped the feel of bath towels since that day.

Granted, some things make much more sense made out of paper. Motherhood has become more convenient and less stinky with the advent of disposable diapers. Although good handkerchiefs are very old school and romantic for both men and women, I never liked the idea of carrying around a booger-y hanky all day. You can only use it once before it is disgusting. I like my tissues, thank you. Now, if you want to give paper a real round of applause, lets hear it for toilet paper! Before it's invention, people used everything from leaves to corn husks to do the job. French royalty used lace, which sounds nicer, but still terrible. I am grateful for my ultra thick, 2-ply, kitten soft, toilet paper, but I am still opposed to the use of paper napkins in the home.

I imagine that I hold on to some of "old school" ideas because I really don't love it that the whole world has gotten so casual and forgotten how some things can make simple everyday occurrences more pleasurable. Maybe I've seen too many 1940s movies where ladies do ladylike things like write their daily correspondence on real stationary with their initials embossed on it. Now women just dash off an email or a text message if they want to say something. They don't even take the trouble to write whole words these days. Is anybody THAT busy that they don't have time to write "you" instead of just "U"? I am pretty sure that I won't have much luck convincing these same people to use cloth napkins, but it's their loss.

Think about what I'm saying. Think about buying some napkins made of real cloth to use every day. I promise that you will see what wonders it does for your sense of well being. It will make you feel regal and elegant, even if you are eating a Lean Cuisine and watching Family Feud.

Trust me on this one.

Cyber Sale, Schmyber Sale!

It has been an exhausting week here at LoveFifi.com. I am just about to leave the office. It's late Wednesday evening and I didn't have another brain cell left to be clever, so there is no article, per se, but I do have a minute to chat. We are such good friends, after all.

Even though LoveFifi.com is a beloved lingerie destination with a loyal following, it has made my brain bleed to try to figure out how to compete with all of this "biggest shopping weekend of the year" hullabaloo. You can't turn on the TV or the radio without hearing about some fantastic deal for Black Friday or Cyber Monday or how some stores were opening at midnight on Thanksgiving. How am I supposed to make people think about buying a bra from me when they are standing in line at dawn to get a big screen TV for $19.99?

This whole thing has taken a toll on me. I am such a straight shooter, but I must admit that I had to tell a little, tiny fib about my big sale going on now. If you haven't caught it, I called it my Electronic Lingerie SALE. True, there were not really any electronics involved at all, but I knew the headline in your mailboxes would make you look. I don't have any iPads or iPhones... so iLied. Don't hate me.

I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving, and if you shopped, perhaps you took a look at my site. Maybe you even bought something. Fingers crossed!

I am going home now and I look forward to relaxing on this long weekend. No, I will not be standing in line at Macy's at daybreak or fighting my way through crowds at the Big Box stores. If you did any of that, I hope you got what you wanted and that you are unscathed. Did I mention that a new bra and a pair of panties are the perfect accessories for that new laptop? I'm just saying.

Forgive me for mentioning it, but there is one more day of my Electronic Lingerie SALE where the whole site is 30% off + Free Shipping over $30 (U.S. Standard Shipping Only). I apologize that there really aren't any electric underpants for sale. Now all I can do is hope for the best and think about next year's Black Friday/Cyber Monday extravaganza. It's difficult because my employees don't always like my brainstorms. Take last year for example. Not one of my staff members supported my naked carwash/bake sale idea. Life is not easy.

Seasonal Fortitude or Seasonal Reasoning

Maybe it's just me, but I swear someone pushes a button somewhere and makes the last three months of the year go into turbo mode. Where does the time go? Where does it escape to?

Here's what happens. By summer's end, the Halloween costumes and decorations dominate space nearly everywhere I shop. By the time Halloween actually gets here, we are besieged with everything Christmas.

Why does it feel like I have just disposed of the moldy jack o' lantern on my porch and the next week it is nearly Thanksgiving? Where does the time go? Where does it escape to?

Really, it was just Labor Day and, now, it is nearly Thanksgiving. This year it is coming as early as it possibly can on the calendar, and it sure came fast. I like Thanksgiving, but it also means that Christmas is only a month away. Yes, that joyous time of year is just around the corner... AGAIN.

I love this time of year, but as I get older and crankier, it becomes increasingly more difficult for me to get my butt in gear and keep up with these holidays.

Even though I always grouse about the retailers hauling out the Christmas stuff earlier and earlier each year, perhaps they were doing this just for me! Maybe if I didn’t blow off all these early holiday offerings as crass commercialism, I wouldn’t be standing in lines in department stores on December 21st huffing and puffing with anxiety and plotting the death of the sales clerk who always seems to be using the cash register for the very first time.

This year I am determined to get things done so I can actually HAVE a Christmas. I have always had such contempt for people who boast in mid-October that they have completed their Christmas shopping. Ugh...

In 2012, I am committed to being more organized and I am aiming to get most of my Christmas shopping done in November. This is going to be my “get it all together” month. I will ask for lists from my loved ones this weekend and that will be it. I am going to do it this year. Don’t laugh! I am woman, hear me roar.

No more stressing out. No more wandering around the mall doing what I call “zombie shopping”. That’s when you don’t know what to buy and you are so tired from looking you wouldn’t know a good gift if it hit you over the head. No more running around at the last minute. And absolutely no more wrapping packages with the 11 o’clock News Team. This year will be different!

How wonderful it would be to spend December just doing Christmas things. I want to bake things, I want to go caroling. I want to take my children and grandchildren to see The Nutcracker (even though they hate it). That’s the biggest reason for taking them, by the way. They will squawk endlessly about enduring a two-hour ballet with dancing mice NOW, but someday when I am dead they will tearfully tell beautiful stories about how I took them to The Nutcracker at Christmas. I will sit on my cloud in heaven and smile.

Although I am fairly well known for putting the “fun” in dysfunctional, I am quite sure my family and friends would enjoy not having Psycho Fifi around this year. I know I will love not being her. November is MY month to change the way I do things.

Why don't you join me in my effort to get it all out of the way this month? I know Thanksgiving will be even more enjoyable if I am not stressing about Christmas. Are you in?

And when my friends and family ask what I want for Christmas, I will make it easy as I have already carefully thought it out... I want crazy wild gypsy earrings and world peace. Come to think of it, I don't really need the earrings. I am a crazy wild gypsy already. And as for world peace? Yes, please.

Fifi And The Cowboy

I get lots of sweet emails from you, my readers, telling me how I made you laugh over Sunday coffee. I had one sweet lady write to say that I make her giggle so much that she had to keep from peeing her pants, which is the highest possible compliment you can give a silly person. So now I have a confession. I am not the only funny writer in the world. I wanted you to think as much so you will never leave me, but there are some very hilarious people out there who can also make you laugh with words.

A friend of mine sent me this piece that I thought was completely adorable. No one knows who the author is, but he is my kind of guy. I suggest that when you read it, you do it with your best country accent. It is really a cute little poem and reminds me of so many men who are timid about shopping for ladies intimate apparel. Y'all enjoy and I will catch up with you again at the end.

The Cowboy

I ain't much for shopping,
Nor even goin' into town -
Except at cattle-shipping time,
I ain't easily found.
But the day came when I had to go
And I left the kids with ma.
But before I left she asked me,
"Would you pick me up a bra?"
Without thinkin' I said "Sure,"
How tough could that job be?
I bent down and kissed her
And said, "I'll be back by three"
Well, when I done the things I needed,
I started to regret
Ever offering to buy that thing,
I was working up a sweat.
I crossed the street to the ladies shop
With my hat pulled over my eyes,
I wasn't takin' any chances
On bein' recognized.
I walked up to the sales clerk -
I didn't hem or haw -
I told the lady right straight out,
"Ma'am, I'm here to buy a bra."
From behind I heard some snickers,
So I turned around to see
A dozen women in the store
And they's all gawkin' at me!
"What kind would you be looking for?"
"Well," I just scratched my head.
I'd only seen one kind before
"Thought bras was bras," I said.
She gives me a disgusted look,
"Well sir, that's where you're wrong.
Come with me," I heard her say,
And like a dog, I tagged along.
She took me down this alley
Where bras was on display.
Well, I thought my jaw'd hit the floor
When I seen that lingerie.
They had all these different styles
That I'd not seen before
I thought that I'd go crazy
'fore I left that women's store.
They had bras you wear for eighteen hours
And bras that cross your heart.
There was bras that lift and separate,
And that was just the start.
They had bras that made you feel
Like you weren't wearing one at all,
And bras that you can train in
When you start off when you're small.
Well, I finally make my mind up -
Picked a black and lacy one -
I told the lady, "Bag it up,"
And figured I was done
But then she asked me for the size.
I didn't hesitate.
I knew them measurements by heart,
"A six-and-seven-eighths."
"Six and seven eighths, well sir,
That really isn't right."
"Oh, yes ma'am!
Yeah, I'm positive,
I just measured them last night."
I thought that she'd go into shock,
Musta took her by surprise
When I told her that my wife's bust
Was the same as my hat size.
"That's what I used to measure with,
I figured it was fair,
But if I'm wrong, I'm sorry ma'am."
This drew another stare.
By now a crowd had gathered
And they's all crackin' up
When the lady asked to see my hat,
To measure for the cup.
When she finally had it figured,
I gave the gal her pay.
Then I turned to leave the store,
Tipped my hat and said, "Good day."
My wife heard the whole story
'fore I ever made it home.
She'd talked to all her lady friends
Who'd called her on the phone.
She was still a-laughin'
But by then I didn't care.
Now she don't ask and
I don't shop for no more women's underwear.

Not that measuring for a bra with your husband's hat isn’t ingenious, but there are better ways. If you aren’t sure what size you really are, write to me. We are having a fabulous BRA EVENT next week and I want you to buy the right size. I recently printed the measuring instructions and they are always on the site, but here they are again so you can find out once and for all if you are really wearing the correct size. Send me the numbers and we will talk. It always helps to send your height and the size jeans you buy. Don't ask why... trust me. But before you do, put on one of your best fitting unpadded bras. Take a measuring tape and measure under your bustline, (make the tape tight—it should feel like the tightness you like your bras). Then measure over your bust across the nipples, (make this a more relaxed measurement, not tight). Make sure the tape is straight in back. Send me the numbers and the size you currently buy. I will give you a personal bra size analysis and send it to you. Or you can use a cowboy hat. It’s up to you.

Plant Parenthood

Did I ever tell you that I buy fresh flowers every weekend at the farmer’s market? I adore having newly cut flowers in my home. I do it for two reasons. Number one, there is just something wonderful and sophisticated about having flowers to come home to. Number two, it keeps my sister off my back. A few years ago, she helped me with my move and subsequent downsizing after my divorce. She tried with all her might to get me to part with some of my vast collection of vases of every shape and size. Her argument was that a woman living alone does not need 31 containers for flowers. Fortunately, I was able to save every single one of my precious vases from going to my yard sale because I convinced her that I, indeed, NEEDED them all. So I can be assured that she never thinks that she was right, I keep them filled and rotated. And besides, I have flowers in my garden that I like to cut and display and then there is the chance that some of my floral tributes from male admirers might need redistribution. I don’t think you can have too many pretty vases.

Speaking of my garden, I work hard to keep it pretty. When I say “work hard”, I don’t necessarily mean that I am on my knees with a straw hat digging in the earth. I work hard at keeping up a good relationship with my gardener. He knows that I love to be surrounded by flowers and greenery, but he also knows that I suck at growing things. When people admire my front or back garden, I just smile and say thank you and hope they don’t ask me about any particular plant or ask advice about the amount of sun that they need. I haven’t a clue. My two tiny gardens abound with color, no thanks to me. Edwin, my darling gardener, keeps things going and growing. I have an automatic watering system, so all I have to do is admire my blooms.

I wish I were better at gardening. I should be. My mother and grandmother were amazing at growing things. When I was little, my mother tried to encourage me by buying packets of seeds and giving me a bit of space to grow carrots and radishes. I really liked it, but, like with so many things, I had no patience. As soon as I would get a bit of green showing, I would pull them up and marvel at a little teeny weeny carrot or radish. I didn’t want my mom to know that I had prematurely harvested my crop, so I replanted them and they withered and died. She never caught on, but I got an early reputation for not being a great at growing things.

Even in the 70s when everyone was obsessed with houseplants, I couldn’t keep mine alive. So, after my Creeping Charlie or Wandering Jew would croak, I would just go and buy a bigger one to replace it. No one ever caught on that I wasn’t this great earth mother. Back then it was believed that you needed to talk to your plants to make them thrive. I did that, but I don’t think nagging counts. Chanting “please don’t die.. please don’t die” did no good.

I think you have to have a really scientific mind to be good with plants. When I go to the garden center, I am really intimidated. I look like I know what I am doing because I pick very nice flowering plants and I often get very approving looks from the other customers and even the staff. I always wear a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and I have my best Martha Stewart-esque game face on. Looking confident gets me in and out of there faster. I don’t ask questions because that leads to questions I can’t answer intelligently. They want to know things like the composition of my soil. “Dirty dirt” probably wouldn’t give them the information they need. Any conversation with the garden pros might lead to further questioning about whether I am looking for annuals or perennials. This is just WAY too much pressure. I don’t know what to say. I have a friend who is a gifted gardener. His yard is spectacular. He orders seeds and little “plantlings” from all over the world, but he has this curious sign in his garden that reads “Friends don’t let friends buy annuals". I know this is some kind of inside gardening joke, but it is over my head.

I was actually at the nursery last weekend. My friendly sales associate flat out asked me if I had ordered my bulbs yet. I tried not to fumfer for an answer, so I threw my head back and told him that I was still deciding. More pressure.

It’s not like I don’t try. A few years ago, I was watching QVC, and their garden expert had these gorgeous plants in a 3-pack called “Butterfly Plants”. They ran a video that showed a lady receiving her three potted baby plants. The next thing you saw was the plants all grown up with lovely flowers and a trillion butterflies flitting around each stalk. These plants were guaranteed to grow quickly and easily with very little care. I am really good at the “very little care” part, so I ordered them. Three years later, I still have three Butterfly Plants, each one scragglier than the other. One of the plants occasionally gets a flower, and one little butterfly who apparently lost his way, did flit for a brief moment last spring.

Thank goodness I have a wonderful gardener who makes sure that my world is beautiful. He fights off the aphids and gophers for me. I am lucky to have him.

Speaking of flowers, as promised, I am including a photo my four month-old granddaughter, Lulu, on Halloween. Her daddy dressed up like a gardener and she was the most beautiful flower in the world. I may not be able to grow real flowers, but I whipped up this costume for MY little flower. She wasn't as thrilled as we were... obviously. Pretty cute, n’est-ce pas?

P.S. Don't miss this amazing bargain!

Boobies 101

Whether you call them hooters, headlights, knockers, ta-tas, or whatever, the world is fascinated by breasts. I get enough mail on the subject to know that most women are not completely satisfied with their breasts and that most men adore breasts. Believe it or not, I get lots of mail from men who ask me questions about bras. These guys are completely involved in the bra buying duties for their women. And, no, these men are not buying bras for themselves. I know how to tell the difference and that is a whole different conversation. Obviously these gentlemen like the bras on their girls to look a certain way and do a specific job, so they do the buying. This is way more common than you might think. I have never had a man who wanted to buy bras for me, but I think it's kind of cute.

The best breasts on a woman are the ones that come with a healthy body.

If we go back in bosom history, nearly 100 years, we will see that women were always trying to figure out what to do with their breasts. In the early part of the 20th century, a woman's bust was always covered and minimized. Waists were featured, but never bosoms. They were kept safely hidden. Then came the roaring 20s and the notion that a round bustline got in the way of the straight silhouettes that dominated fashion. Boyish figures were all the rage and women actually flattened their bust lines by binding them. Then in the 30s, screen siren Jean Harlow changed the perception of female bosoms. It was thought in the era of silver screen that the perfect size breast would fit exactly into a champagne glass (we're talking the "old school" shallow type, not the long, skinny flutes they use now). In the 40s, bigger breasts took center stage in the movies thanks to Rita Hayworth and Jane Russell, and in the 1950s and someone decided that pointy breasts were the shape of the day. Bras had cups like missiles. The 60s and 70s went the other way completely. Natural breasts and the first seamless bras came into style, then no bras at all under clothing rocked fashion culture. The 80s and 90s flipped it back the other way. Big boobage and the pushed up look became big business. The advent of NFL cheerleaders in revealing costumes, Pam Anderson in her Baywatch swimsuit, and models in angel wings and padded push up bras set a whole new standard for breasts and breast size.

A crazy thing happened at the same time. Cleavage became appropriate for daytime. Showing off "the girls" became commonplace and quite accepted. The trend continues today. If you think I am kidding, go stand in front of a high school at 3 o'clock and watch the girl students come out. You will see as much cleavage coming out of class as you would see at a Las Vegas casino on Saturday night. How times have changed. When I was in high school, the girls had to get on their knees so that the principal could check to see if their skirt touched the floor. If it didn't, it was deemed too short and you were sent home. Thankfully, yours truly had mastered the fine art of rolling and unrolling a skirt faster than the speed of light, so I never got caught and I always looked sassy.

Big breasts are more popular now than ever. Ice-T loves Coco for more than her cooking. I will tell you proudly that I designed some of the first padded D and DD push up bras. It was assumed that large breasted girls don't want to look bustier. I know better. That's why I am Miss Fifi. Today we carry bras that enhance bust lines up to 44G.

So what are perfect breasts? The artistic standard (in case any of you ladies out there are thinking about a career as a breast model) is that ideal breasts don't have to be big, but they need to be full and luscious. The nipples should tilt slightly upwards towards the heavens. They should be just pendulous enough as to not be taut against the body. The litmus test to determine breast perfection is to place a pen or pencil under your naked breast. If the writing implement stays on its own, then consider your bosoms to be in the "perfect" category. I did this test myself some years ago. The pencil stayed put and I was pleased, but to this day I find it hard to return to Office Depot.

If you ask me about what makes breasts perfect, my answer is quite different. The best breasts on a woman are the ones that come with a healthy body. They are the ones that your sweetheart finds sexy, the ones that punctuate your womanly hourglass shape and, most importantly, the ones that cushion your children's heads when you hold them in your arms. To me, it doesn't matter if breasts are large or small, saggy or firm. And from the mail I get from husbands and boyfriends, they like all of them too.

Okay, so your breasts aren't perky anymore and they point closer to Dallas than heaven. It shouldn't matter. Besides, I have all kinds of great bras, pads, and tricks up my sleeve to create a fantastic bustline. Just write to me if you need help.

Next month is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I waited until the end to bring it up. This is not a commercial and I am not nagging, but for those of you in the recommended age group, please get your mammogram. No, it's not fun having your breasts squeezed by a cold machine while someone fully-clothed is demanding that you hold your breath. I was overdue for my yearly test and made an appointment this morning. I hate doing the monthly breast exams even though I teach how to do it. But I do all the precautionary things and you should too. Teach your partner to do the exam. He's probably an expert by now anyway.

I hope you enjoyed my little retrospect on the history of breasts in fashion. I am not just here to make you laugh. I am here to educate you and watch out for you whenever possible.

Until next time.

Therapy Or No therapy... That Is The Question

I don't know if you realize this by now, but I find it completely comfortable and ridiculously easy to confess my "sins" and shortcomings to you. It doesn't seem to bother you that I may be a little loopy by other people's standards. Many of you write back to me and tell me that you feel the same way and do the same stuff that I do. I figure that I either have the most understanding and supportive readership in the universe or that I just naturally attract other wack-a-doos like myself. Whatever it is, it works for me.

You already know that I am a bit eccentric. I have not been shy about admitting my deepest secrets. My weaknesses are an open book to you, my darling readers.

You know that I love to dine and am always on a diet. In all fairness, my dieting would be far more successful if it weren't for one thing - I get hungry.

You are well aware that I am very fashion conscious. Would you trust my merchandise if I were not? Fashion is my passion. I am not ashamed.

...what I like most is for my world to be basically divine at all times.

You know that I love animals madly. I am proud that the LoveFifi building has as many doggies as people running around here. Some think this is crazy. I think it’s crazy good. By the way, I do not consider the fact that my dogs have as many clothes as I do a bad thing.

You have probably also learned that I tend to exaggerate, I talk a lot, I love over-doing, and I don't like to do or watch sports. I love lobster and champagne or hot dogs with sauerkraut and a good beer equally. I am not a snob, but I like what I like. And what I like most is for my world to be basically divine at all times. It's a pretty simple concept.

This lifestyle does not come without drawbacks, dilemmas, or for that matter, self doubt. Not all things fabulous come without strings. Sometimes staying in control is difficult and that's why I look to you for help when I think I might be going over the edge.

I want to stop denying an addiction that seems to be getting worse with age, not better. This situation is so multi-faceted and complex. It's way worse than if I were dependent on chocolate or gambling or wine for my highs. This is much WORSE and an intervention may be necessary.

They say that admission is the first step to recovery. So OK, I admit it. I am a "decor whore".

I am not feeling guilty about the items I buy for my home or office. These places are my domains and I cannot be Fifi without proper ambiance. Admittedly, I may go a little overboard on buying home and garden and decorator magazines, but I need the inspiration. But I can't bear to throw them away and end up with stacks of home and garden and decorator magazines that take up space. I did actually buy a self-help magazine that teaches you to organize your stuff, but I can't find it. Anyway, I spend lots of time at flea markets and garage sales, as well as furniture stores and auctions looking for just the right things for my personal spaces. In my own defense, this is the first time in my life that I have lived alone since college. It's not that my 1970s cinder block bookshelves or my grandmother's hand-me-down loveseat weren't grand; they were...at the time. I loved my little place, but now I am a woman and not a starving student. I have a few nickels to rub together to make my spaces pretty and I am proud at how it’s all turned out. Everything around me says "ME" and that feels good. This, however, is not the BIG problem.

Having your home reflect your taste is sexy. What might be getting me into trouble (I depend on you to be honest with me) is that I am an absolute fool for HOLIDAY decor. Whenever I go shopping, my feet seem to move, as if by magic, to the "seasonal" department of whatever store I am in. I just can't seem to do any of my shopping until I check out what's new for the next event on the calendar.

Don't worry, my obsession with holiday-themed goodies won't take me to the poor house but I am worried that the funny farm may be looking for me. I am prudent with my purchases. For example, I made sure that my Halloween decorations transition seamlessly into a Harvest Festival theme after October 31st. My fantastically orchestrated sprays of autumn leaves and twigs take me right through until after Thanksgiving. The witches and ghosts go away and the gourds and ears of multi-color corn appear. This is normal behavior, right? I am only asking because no one would say a word if I still had a house full of kids, but I live alone with two poodles.

This issue is heavy on my mind because the hardest time of year for me is here. Christmas decorations are everywhere. What actually inspired me to write to you for validation of my sanity was that the other night I was struck by a huge thought when I pulled into my garage. Is it strange that a woman who lives by herself should have more than half of her garage designated to holiday adornments? Granted, most of that is Christmas, but I have at least one bin each for the other holidays. I don’t do sports, so there are no golf clubs or skis to take up room. I have to fill my garage with something, right?

As I exited my car, I was still feeling guilty about the massive amount of holiday falderal that I own. Thankfully those thoughts were diverted as I got involved in carefully removing my new gold painted paper mache reindeer from the back seat. It was right there, at eye level, at my drug store as I waited to drop off my prescription. I swear he winked at me and said “take me home”. He will sit inside my front door and greet people with all his golden majesty during the Christmas season. I am only telling you this so you will understand that this purchase was a necessity and not an extravagance. I did it for my guests and besides, he is way too gorgeous to live another minute at Walgreens. Let’s just think of it as a paper mache reindeer rescue.

So, there you have it. I held nothing back. Tell me what you think. I can take it.

Before you decide, let me stress that the things I buy are beautiful and give me joy. I figured out last weekend that I wasn’t completely out of control when I walked by Christmas pillow cases, hand towels, and pot holders and winced. I had absolutely no interest. Who buys stuff like that anyway? None of it sparkles, for goodness sake.

You know, this whole love affair with holiday decorations might be my parents fault! When I was a little one, they always took me downtown to see the Christmas window displays at the big department stores. I would look through the glass in amazement at the brilliantly lit animated displays. There was always the sound of music box Christmas songs accompanying the magic. I stood there endlessly and wished I could live in that twinkly enchanted wonderland at Christmastime.

And now I do…

A Piece of My Heart

You have no idea what a rough year I have had. It is not easy being a Baby Boomer. Every time I turn around, somebody who was part of my life dies on me. Oh, I didn’t really know these people, but they meant a lot to me.

Let me just say, losing Don Cornelius and Dick Clark in the same year has taken its toll. I used to do my housework during Soul Train when I was a young bride. When the kids used to form an aisle and take turns dancing solo, I would do it right along with them, using my dust cloth to punctuate my dance moves.

And Dick Clark… the world’s oldest teenager… I started watching American Bandstand with my babysitter when I was very young. I watched the ball come down in Times Square with him on New Year’s Eve so many times. I was actually interviewed by Dick Clark in 2001, so I am doubly sad. What a darling man.

Richard Dawson kissed all those ladies on Family Feud. We never missed it at our house and my mom even bought the home game.

“It’s hard to be a Boomer and be strong in a year where we have lost a Monkee, 2 Sweathogs and a Bee Gee.”

Donna Summer’s early death really hit me hard. I had seen her at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles only the year before. She sounded the same as on her records and was beautiful. I have a special soft spot for Donna because my middle daughter used to sing along with her to the radio in the car. Do you remember her hit “She Works Hard for Her Money”? My 3-year-old daughter loved to sing along with Donna in the car. “She works hard for her mommy”, my little one would belt out. I never corrected her. I still sing it that way.

You probably think I am being silly, but it hurts when someone leaves that you spent time so much with. Let’s talk about Andy Griffith. I watched him as Sheriff Taylor, and I watched him as Matlock. We were together a long time.

The ladies up in Heaven must be looking pretty good these days; Vidal Sassoon is there now. My mom and dad wouldn’t spring for a Sassoon precision haircut back in 70s. It was $150 forty years ago. So my mother took me to get a Sassoon-ish haircut at her beauty parlor and had her stylist cut my hair. I was assured that everyone would think I had gone to Sassoon himself. Right... thank goodness there are no photos of that time in my life.

I don’t want to be depressing, but these past months haven’t been easy for me and I am hoping that you understand my pain. It’s hard to be a Boomer and be strong in a year where we have lost a Monkee, 2 Sweathogs and a Bee Gee.

To Don, Dick, Richard, Donna, Andy, Vidal, Davy, Horshack, Juan Epstein, and Robin Gibb. Thank you for the good times and inspiration. You made my life better. Rest in peace.

Birthday Girl

My birthday was last week and I am very proud to say that I celebrated it with panache. I love my birthday and don't understand why some people want it just to be another day. Where is it written that once you are a grown-up, birthdays don't mean as much? Besides loving my own birthday, I like other people's birthdays, as well. To me, birthdays are right up there with my other two favorites, Christmas and the 4th of July.

Maybe it's because I am a Leo. For those of you out there that don't know about Leos, we are the wild child, center of attention, luxury loving, nothing-is-impossible sign of the zodiac. Leo also rules the heart. We know how to love others and we know how to love ourselves. Here is an astrologers definition:

The Leo is the most dominant, spontaneously creative and extroverted of all the zodiacal characters. In grandeur of manner, splendor of bearing and magnanimity of personality, they are the monarchs among humans as the lion is king of beasts. They are ambitious, courageous, dominant, strong willed, positive, independent, self-confident and there is no such a word as doubt in their vocabularies.

Leos don't just have birthdays, we have birth months. The minute July turns from Cancer to Leo, it is our birthday. It stays that way until August 23.

Honestly, I am so grateful to get another year on this earth, why wouldn't I celebrate? Treat it like any other day? I think not.

I had a great time this year. I went to a comedy show with some friends. I chose this particular show because it is called the "Home By Ten" comedy show. It starts at 7:30 and goes until 9 p.m. Realistically, you could be home and in bed by 10. This was intended as a first stop on a night out on the town before dinner and clubbing. It works out really well for people over 50 who go to bed early. My son-in-law, the actor/comedian, runs this show. He is the master of ceremonies, and yes... he makes jokes about me. I am so proud of him. His career is going well. (He just did his first national commercial. Here's the link if you want to chuckle. He is the cute guy on the left side of the desk).

“Leos don't just have birthdays, we have birth months”.

The evening of laughs was such fun and then we went to one of my favorite restaurants and had delicious food and wine under the summer stars. None of us got to bed until after 1 a.m.. Thank goodness it was Saturday and we could sleep in. Old people are so funny. We all looked at our watches as we were waiting for the valet. "Wow! 12:35 in the morning!" was heard more than once. "Remember when we used to party all night and then go to work the next day?" one friend said. Isn't it hilarious that something that was once so cool sounds so hideous now?

Anyway, I feel sorry for people who don't celebrate birthdays. Many are not looking forward to being a year older. I am just so glad I made it another year, but I am not in love with all that happens as the years pile on. Life gets much harder in many ways.

For example, putting on make-up. As your face ages, make up doesn't just glide on anymore. I never thought the day would come that I would be seeking out eye shadow that doesn't have sparkles in it. I am all about bling, but had to give it up on my eyelids. Iridescent shadow makes your wrinkly eyelids look even wrinklier.

Shoe options become more limited. I once had a closet full of sexy high heels. As I got older, I wore the heels less and less. Comfort became more important than glamour. Now I am at a place where I don't like to go anywhere that flip flops are not accepted. I LOVE flip flops! I can wear them all day and my feet never get tired. I have over 75 pair and some of them are very dressy with fancy trim. I probably have one of the most amazing collections of flip flops in the universe. And if you were wondering, I wore flip flops to my birthday party. They were encrusted with stones and quite dazzling. Are you jealous?

I think Bette Davis said that old age was not for sissies. I couldn't agree more. I really only feel old in the morning. When I first get out of bed, I hate that "Tin Man" thing my body does during my first few steps. It doesn't last long and I don't let it hinder my journey to the coffee pot. Nothing keeps me from coffee.

You can't avoid getting older. Even if you pull it all back with surgery, and Botox the wrinkles, you are still the same age. There's a saying about the beauty of growing old gracefully. I don't know if that is possible since the older I get the stronger my glasses need to be. I trip over the dog a lot and bump into things on a regular basis, so I don't think "gracefully" is an option. I do, however, plan to keep celebrating each birthday as sensationally as I can for as long as I can . My plan is to keep my birthdays as kickass possible until it is time to take my dirt nap. I might even embroider those exact sentiments on a pillow.

Playing Footsie

I just had surgery and I need some sympathy. Oh, I am feeling fine, all went well in the operating room, but I barely survived the whole thing. Why am I so unhappy? Well, sit down, honey, and let me tell you.

It all started one day when I had this terrible pain in my foot, just where my big toe connects to my foot. It was pretty bad, so my doctor referred me to a specialist—a podiatric surgeon.

I called to make an appointment with this new foot doctor guy. In fact all the doctors in this medical group were foot doctors. There was even a great big picture of a foot on the card right next to the phone number. I felt confident that my foot would soon be in good hands, if that makes sense.

When I called and said I needed to make an appointment, the receptionist asked me why I needed to see the doctor. “Well”, I replied a bit skeptically, “because I am having trouble with my foot.” She then asked, without hesitation, “What is wrong with it?” If I knew that, I wouldn't have to call, I thought to myself. “It hurts right where the big toe is connected to the foot” I answered obediently and without any sarcasm. I guess I passed the test because she finally let me have an appointment. That’s when the real fun began.

I showed up at the receptionist desk. My foot was really killing me that day. She instructed me to go sit down. The waiting room was packed. There were at least 20 chairs, but the only vacant seat was at the rear of the waiting room. I hobbled over and took a seat. Not 60 seconds went by before the receptionist started bellowing my name while waving a clip board in the air. I got up and traipsed across the room to the front desk. “I need your insurance card,” she said. As I made my way back to my chair to retrieve my insurance card, I wondered if I was being unreasonable to think that it might have been nice if she had asked me about my card when I checked in or at least before I found my chair in the Siberia section of the waiting room. I returned only to be asked to fill out a "few papers".

I again returned to my seat and began to fill out a stack of sheets attached to a clip board. By the way, to call this a “few papers” would be like referring to the Bible as a pamphlet.

“My appointment was at 10. It was now 11 and I still hadn’t been called. I waited… and waited.”

“Why are you here today to see the doctor?” was the first question. “For a shampoo and blow dry, of course!”, I was dying to say. But I was good, and wrote “FOOT PAIN”. The questionnaire went on to ask me about everything ranging from diarrhea to insanity in my family. I went ahead and answered, but I wasn’t quite sure what my bowels and my crazy uncle Louie had to do with my foot.

I finally finished, but I was pooped and my foot was throbbing. I caught the eye of the receptionist and hoped that I could get her 30-year-old butt out of her seat to retrieve my clipboard. Of course not. She probably did 45 minutes of cardio-aerobics after work the night before, but would not think of walking across the waiting room so I wouldn’t have to get up again.

Now here is when I started to get cranky. My appointment was at 10. It was now 11 and I still hadn’t been called. I waited… and waited. Finally, the door from the inner sanctum opened up and I heard my name announced! Listen, I don’t mind waiting, and I know doctors overbook because people don’t show up. But, here is a hint for the medical community: If a patient is in a waiting room long enough to knit a sweater, it’s too long.

So, I am taken into a room where the walls are covered with charts of the human foot. There is a case of orthopedic shoes and Dr. Scholl’s products are on the shelves. Now we’re cooking! I am in FOOTLAND! Help is not far away.

The nurse comes in and wants to weigh me. WHY? Now I was not happy, but I didn’t want to wait another 2 hours to see the doctor, so I got on the scale and behaved myself. I didn’t even look when she kept tapping the little bar to get it to balance. Weighing only counts when you are naked.

She then had me sit on the examination table and began to ask questions. “So why are you here to see the doctor?”, she said without flinching. Well, let’s see, I am at a podiatrists office, I am sitting in a room decorated completely with medical drawings of feet… "I am here for my PAP smear" I replied. I was laughing, but she wasn’t. “My right foot has been giving me trouble”, I said. “Right where my big toe is joined to my foot.” She continued to write, never looking up. She got up and left and assured me the doctor would be right with me.

I waited some more. It’s not that the Arizona Highways they had there in the exam room is not a riveting magazine, but I was in pain and really wanted to get on with it.

Finally, my doctor came in. I was not the least bit concerned when I realized I have 2 kids older than him, but I was a little baffled when he asked me the reason for my visit. Did he not even read what the nurse wrote? Did she use invisible ink? I tried to remain calm. I needed his help and didn’t want to upset him.

“My foot hurts when I walk”. I pointed to the spot. The nurse came back in and wrote as the doctor pulled and poked at my poor little foot and dictated to her in medical talk. When he was finished, I asked him what was wrong. He told me that I had a condition that causes pain in my big toe right where it connects to my foot. “Really?”, I said.

Anyway, he was very nice and super smart. He broke the news that I had to have surgery and that I would have a big scar across my foot and toe. I was not too sad because I had abandoned the idea of being a foot model years ago. He also added that Shaquille O’Neill had the same operation to improve his game. Wow! Imagine that!

It all came out great; I am walking better every day. The whole thing was made infinitely better because after all was said and done; my doctor was fantastic and handsome, too. Now I am just waiting to be completely healed so I can see if I am now great at basketball. I’ll let you know.

Fifi Tells All

I get questions everyday ranging from “what is charmeuse?”(it’s a drape-able satin) to “how can I get this boyfriend of mine to marry me?” I answer every letter myself, I swear. I do not have a big staff who pretends to be me. There is really only one Fifi. Anyway, there are certain questions that I get asked over and over again. So, I was thinking (I do this occasionally) how fun it would be to reveal the top 5 things that my readers just had to know. I hope you enjoy it and maybe learn something, too.

I think I'll do this David Letterman-style, so here goes!

FIFI'S 5 MOST ASKED QUESTIONS

5. Why do you sell plus size lingerie, but show it on little models?

The decision to photograph most of our styles on small size models is because if we like a style we will offer it in a full range of sizes, for example, in Small to 3X. Now, if we show it on a size 8 model, we are fairly sure a size 16 will have a pretty good idea of what it will look like on her. I, myself have been both a size 8 and a 16, so I would know. Now, would a size 6 girl be able to relate to what a garment looks like on a size 16? Studies show that the answer is clearly “no”. I get a lot of mail from ladies who are not happy that I don’t show very many big girls in our lingerie. Most of you know that I am not exactly built like a pixie, so if you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me. You know I believe that numbers don’t count when it comes to being beautiful and sexy. It’s not about age and it’s not about weight, when it comes to real life. This is about displaying and presenting the product so it is understood by the consumer. If you don’t stop whining, I will start modeling this stuff myself and then you will be sorry!

4. How can I get my wife/ girlfriend to wear lingerie for me?

I get this one all the time. Usually they let me know that she has put on a few pounds, or has just had a baby, etc. etc... and these sweet guys always explain that they think their girl is beautiful and sexy even though she is not happy with her body at the moment. I always write back and ask them if they have told her what they just told me. I always suggest that they need to do more than just buy her a lace chemise and hope she gets the hint. I try to let them know that he wants to get her to dress for the romantic occasion, not wear lingerie for him. The experience benefits the both of them. If she has cold feet about wearing something sexy, then he needs to remind her that she is always beautiful to him. Arrange for some uninterrupted time with her. Turn off the TV, light some candles in the bedroom and arrange the bed so it is inviting. I gently suggest that he take a shower and put on his best boxers and then call her into the romantic setting he has created. Women are smart and they react positively to inspiration. I am proud to say that I have gotten some wonderful letters from men who followed my “recipe” and not only had a wonderful romantic interlude with their significant other, but learned a little about re-building self esteem.

“I get mail from ladies who are not happy that I don't show very many big girls in our lingerie.”

3. I am in an all-male play and I am portraying a woman. Can you help me order some under-things for the production?

Of course I can, but can you stop telling me silly stories? This is Miss Fifi. You don’t have to tell me that you are in a play or that you lost a bet with your buddies and have to dress like a woman for a week. I have heard it all and I don’t care. If you like to wear my beautiful things, that is good enough for me. So save for stories for someone else, Sweetie. Just tell me your “boy” sizes and we will get you everything you need. I love ALL my customers, darling. You should know that by now.

2. How do I measure for a bra?

Follow these simple directions.

Fifi’s Perfect Fit Bra Size Finder
Getting Started, You will need the following:

• A full-length mirror
• Tape measure (use the soft cloth or plastic covered cloth kind like seamstresses use. Don't use metal, plastic or paper tape measures.)
• Your best fitting, unpadded bra
• You can measure yourself, but for best results, have a friend help you (Put that boyfriend, husband or significant other to work)
• Time to Measure!

Measurement #1: Under The Bust First measure around your ribcage, directly under your bustline. The tape should be snug and must be absolutely straight in the back. Use your mirror or your helper to ensure this. If you come up with a half measurement, like 32 1/2, round UP (in this case, to 33). If you measure between a whole number and a fraction, for example between 32" and 32 1/2", round DOWN (in this case, to 32). This is your frame size. Write it down.

Measurement #2: Across The Bust Stand up very straight. Measure at the widest part of your bustline, over the nipples. The measurement should be relaxed, not snug. Again, be sure the tape is straight across the back. If you come up with a fractional measurement, under 1/2", round down. If you measure 1/2" or more, round up. This is your cup size. Write it down.

Now... subtract your step 1 number from your step 2 number. If the difference is

• Up to 1" larger: A cup
• Up to 2" larger: B cup
• Up to 3" larger: C cup
• Up to 4" larger: D cup
• Up to 5" larger: DD cup
• Up to 6" larger: F cup
• Up to 7" larger: FF cup
• Up to 8" larger: G cup

Remember: every body and bustline are different. Measuring correctly may give you your size immediately, but sometimes there are conditions that affect your fit. If you answer "Yes" to any of the questions below, it is best to write me at fifi@lovefifi.com, and be sure to include your measurements and an explanation of your particular fit problems.

• Are you shorter than 5'2" or taller than 5'9"?
• Do you have an athletic or muscular build?
• Are your breasts set wide apart?
• Are your breasts different sizes?
• Are your breasts elongated, or do they appear "empty"?
• Do you like to wear your bras to fit loose around your rib cage?

You can also refer to my Easy-Peasy Measuring Intstructions, if you need a visual.

1. What is the difference between a thong and a G-String?

Believe it or not, these are the most confusing garments in the world of intimate apparel. A G-STRING was created in the early part of the 20th century for use in burlesque. It is basically a triangle of cloth with a string around the waist joined by one that runs up the back. Its sole purpose is frontal coverage with as little in the back as possible. The THONG, conceived in the early 70s, was created at a time when a perky bottom and "no panty lines" were big fashion news. A thong is similar to a G-String in front, but the back is wider and it is tapered and contoured to round out the behind.