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.

Queen of the Castle

I have been single now for 6 years and have lived alone for 3. After being married for so long and raising so many kids, it has taken me awhile to get acclimated to single life. On paper, it sounds very cool to be able to do whatever you want, whenever you want. But like everything in life, it takes getting used to.

During the whole period of adjustment, you can't really let on that the process affects you like a deer in headlights at times. Married people raising families are envious of your carefree existence and you have to keep the mystique going for their sake. The last thing you should do is complain or appear inept at being by yourself. You would never want anyone to know that you weren't as happy as a pig in poop with your single status.

I was never sad, but I really had problems getting used to things like grocery shopping for one. I have this race going on with milk and bread. In all the time I have lived by myself, I have never been able to finish either before they went sour or moldy.

Don't even talk to me about cooking for one. After cooking for 6 for decades, cooking for myself is so hard. I like homemade food and I like it fresh. My grandmother lived alone for the last 25 years of her life and kept everything in the freezer that she possibly could. She never put a date on anything and you took your life in your hands when you ate at her house. She boasted that nothing went to waste because she froze it all. I remember once asking her where all the bags of pecans came from at the bottom of her big Amana. She reminded me that her sister Johanna brought them back from her trip to Georgia. At that time, my great aunt Jo had been deceased for 3 years and her trip south was way before that. See what happens to women who live alone? I was not going to let this happen to me.

I loved my grandmother dearly but I don't want to be single and hoard antique food. It's because of this fear that I have forced myself to walk right up to the butcher counter and order one pork chop from the case.

“You can't really let on that the process affects you like a deer in headlights at times.”

It didn't take me long to appreciate not getting out of my pajamas all day on a Saturday or walking around the house completely nude. It would all be so totally liberating if I could do these things and believe that I was a hot single lady and not a crazy old woman. Lounging away your day in bed or prancing around your singles pad naked are instantly negated when you also talk to your dog. I am not talking about commands, or a "good doggy" here and there. I am talking about "Mommy has to go put some clothes in the washing machine, but I will be back in a minute and then we will have a treat. My baby will be just fine for a few minutes... I will miss you. Mommy loves her doggy so much!" It doesn't matter what you are wearing or not wearing. It doesn't matter that no one is there to hear. Crazy old woman, right?

Speaking of laundry, why do I have so much? You would think that with no kids or partner that my laundry life would be streamlined. Not so. When I began my life as a single girl, I got rid of anything that was so-so or average and kept everything fabulous for my new life. I still ended up with way too much clothing, linens, bedding, etc. I justified my abundance of fabulousness with thinking that part of being queen of my castle is having options. I could use anything I wanted any time. I could change my comforters and bedding to fit the season. I never had to wear the same outfit in the same month. You would think this lifestyle would have set me free and released my inner diva. Not so. I just have a lot of laundry. Fortunately, I live alone and have the time.

There is no doubt that when nobody is around, you tend to be different. I have already admitted to having long interpersonal conversations with the dog. That's not the worst of it. I have been talking to my plants since the '70s, so add that to my behavior. I also talk to myself.

I see things on TV and remark out loud that I think what I am watching is stupid. I go through the mail and critique each piece in my best on stage voice. "Junk, bill, junk, junk... oh look, Macy's is having a big sale!" Nobody ever jumps out of the woodwork and says "Great! I need some new towels... let's go!" Why don't I just think these things? Who am I talking to?

I look in the mirror and comment directly to my image in the glass on the state of my aging face like there is someone to hear my woeful complaints. I catch myself sometimes and imagine what it might look like if I were being secretly filmed when I speak aloud to no one but me. The word "loopy" springs to mind.

My neighbors are all older than I am. They think that I lead this fantastic life of a successful single woman with not a care in the world. I do admit that I lead them on a bit. I wave as I return from Saturday errands with my array of dry cleaning in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other as I close the car door with one sexy bump of the hip. I dash off inside leaving them to assume that my grocery bag must certainly contain imported cheese and French wine. They will never know what my bag really contained: some salad makings and one lonely pork chop.

The truth is that I have gotten used to the single life by being a legend in my own mind. I give off a little bit of a Hugh Hefner vibe and pretend that my life is a brilliant carousel ride filled with fun and excitement. No one ever has to know differently if you don't tell.

I am very happy. I love my life. It is only because I have sorted it out that I am able to be a content lady who lives alone. Here's what I have learned about being single later in life:

The BEST Things:

1. You don't have to tell anyone where you're going (the dog is optional).
2. You never have to state when you are coming back.
3. You have no one to please at home but yourself.

The WORST Things:

1. Nobody cares where you go.
2. Nobody is expecting you back.
3. You have no one to please at home but yourself.

I never promised you that life couldn't be bittersweet, but it is good.

Thank You, Tina Turner

Yesterday, I heard that great Tina Turner song "What's Love Got to Do With It?". After I stopped dancing, I thought about the question. If you were to ask me what the best thing about my life was, I wouldn't have to think twice. It's the amazing people who love me and let me love them back. Love has everything to do with my happiness. I am so lucky. Yes, I am feeling mushy. It's not Valentine's Day or Thanksgiving. It doesn't have to be a Hallmark holiday to feel sentimental. I have chosen the middle of July to do it.

Human beings are the only creatures that can feel true love. Even though you think your Schnauzer loves you, it’s not the same kind of love that people experience.

The word "love" is a little bit overused in my estimation. To give love and to be loved are two of the best gifts in life. I think we should be more selective about how we use the term. We don't ever want this word to get diluted in meaning. It is an awesome word that should be kept on a pedestal under lock and key.

“How do we KNOW when we are loved? It’s important to recognize it when love comes your way.”

In case you're not quite getting it, try this example... on Dancing With The Stars, most of the contestants on that show are not "stars" at all. In fact, some of them I have never even heard of. If they are stars... then what are Julia Roberts or Clint Eastwood? You see what I mean? Some words should never be thrown around willy nilly.

I think that we should say that we are crazy about chocolate and extremely fond of going to Hawaii. Love should be reserved for the people and things that live inside your heart and make you weak in the knees.

How do we KNOW when we are loved? It’s important to recognize it when love comes your way. It arrives in so many forms and some of the most fabulous ways are very subtle. All the varieties of love are wonderful to reflect on. Do this little drill. Close your eyes and think about the special ways you have been loved. Start from your earliest recollections up until today. Review the ways that people have shown you love. It's an awesome trip and guaranteed to warm your soul. I am doing it right now. Come along and see how it works.

When I was a little girl, my parents told me every day that they loved me. Even if they hadn't said the words so often, I could feel it. My mom used to make pancakes on Sunday for the family and she always made these little teensy weensy pancakes just for me. She called them “dolly” pancakes. And when I would run through the sprinklers in the summertime, she would greet me at the back door with towels right out of the dryer. There was never a doubt that my Daddy loved me too. He taught me how to do so many things with so much patience. And most importantly, why else would a grown man let a 6 year old stand on the tops of his feet and dance madly around the living room? These were all beautiful acts of love.

When I was 16, my boyfriend gave me his class ring and was the first love of my life. He said “I love you” all the time, wrote me gooey notes and called me every night. I was sure that he truly loved me until some idiot spiked the punch at a school dance and I threw up in the center console of his prized 1964 Thunderbird. He never got over it and it was all downhill from there. I not only seriously questioned boyfriend/girlfriend love for a long time after that, I gave new meaning to " the scent of a woman".

When I was in college, my boyfriend rarely said that he loved me out loud. He was a starving student and worked 2 jobs. I liked music playing when I studied. He would quietly change the LP’s on the stereo so that my listening pleasure was seamless. He stayed up with me many long nights and helped me cram for tests. I can honestly say that he loved me, but I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I broke up with him when I graduated and broke his heart. Peter, if you are out there, I am so sorry. You deserved better.

As most of you know, my younger sister works with me here at LoveFifi.com. She will often pop into my office and bring me a cup of coffee or a little snack. She is pretty busy herself, but she always thinks of my needs. That’s real love.

Now that I am older, I know that there is so much more than just saying the words “I Love You”. Real love is not measured in gifts, or extravagances, although an occasional diamond never hurts to drive the point home. Love is better measured in things you do.

One of my dearest friends gave me the pill box that was his mother's. She lived until the age of 96 and carried this pill box all her life. Every time I open it, I think of how much he must have loved me to give me this treasure. My friend is also gone, so it means even more.

One of my middle daughters used to make sure that no one in the family got the chicken drumsticks because those were her baby sister's favorite. Considering that those two sniped at each other constantly, it was sweet to see this act of love.

Probably the most wonderful display of romantic love happened to me a some years ago. I was returning from a grueling business trip in Europe and I had a stop in Chicago on the way home to Los Angeles. As I was sitting in the airport waiting for my flight, I looked up and was stunned to see my man walking towards me. He knew I was exhausted and flew from LA to accompany me on the last leg of my trip. We held hands and I fell asleep on his shoulder. No words could ever speak as loudly as his surprise. I felt so loved.

So, now it's YOUR turn. I want to know your stories. Tell me about an unbelievably special experience with someone who loves you. Small or big... it's all good. Jump on this love train with me and let's go! I will print the best letters next week.

Good Grief

I know this is going to start off like a depressing article, but it’s really not. Stick with me on this one, please.

One of the facts of life is that we all eventually lose people that are dear to us. They say that nothing is as certain as death and taxes. Both hit you hard, but at least with taxes, you can pay them off in installments. When someone that you love leaves this earth, the avalanche of gut-level emotion and unthinkable loss buries you.

I know, I know. I promised that this would not be gloomy and it really isn’t. Hang in with me a little longer...

I don’t think of myself as a prophet or a sage, but I am a sponge. I learn from doing and I always keep my heart and eyes wide open. If I didn’t think that I had something genuine and good to impart, I wouldn’t waste your time.

I have had more than my share of shocking, heartbreaking losses. Through each of these painful journeys, I have learned much. Every time someone close to me experiences the death of someone they love, I try to pass on what I know. If nothing else, I am proof that a person can go on and smile again.

I am no stranger to grief. My parents are gone. One of my dearest friends died of cancer way before her time. In 2009, I lost my beautiful 24 year old daughter, Jenni. And you are right, no parent should have to endure the loss of their child. It’s not right, but it happens. What then?

My father died when I was 36 and I was inconsolable. I actually sought out grief therapy. I was a daddy’s girl and I had no idea how I would survive without him. At my first session, the therapist listened and handed me endless Kleenexes as I sobbed. When it was her turn to talk, she said something that laid the groundwork for my ability to cope with my dad’s departure and the tragedies that followed. She told me flat out that I would NEVER get over my father’s death and that I did not have to. She then went on to say that how I conducted my life and what I accomplished from here on out would be my living tribute to all that he put into me. After my 3rd of 10 scheduled sessons, she hugged me and said goodbye. No need to come back. I understood what I had to do.

“I am no stranger to grief. It's not right, but it happens. What then?”

I took her words seriously and jumped back into life slowly but steadily. I felt my daddy’s presence and proceeded with his love watching over me. Only one thing could break me down, and that was when I had something to tell him and reached for the phone. There just isn’t a 1-800-HEAVEN. You can’t call when something good happens or when you need advice. It was hard, but I did officially grow up that year and I began the process of learning how to handle the hardest thing in life... death. There may not be a direct line to heaven, but there is definitely a way to keep those who now live there remembered and honored forever.

When you lose someone you love, you have to cry EVERY TEAR. No sucking it up, no back burner-ing or holding back. The most ridiculous things will make you cry in the most ridiculous places. After my dad passed, I was in the supermarket. As soon as I saw a Sara Lee banana cake in the freezer section, I started to cry uncontrollably. That was my dad’s favorite! Why was it sitting there next to the frozen waffles when it should have been poised on a velvet pillow? I pulled myself together before I drew a crowd, put one in the basket and kept going. You shouldn't hold back the tears because they will have to come out eventually. The sooner you can talk about that person without crying, the sooner you can tell the stories about them all the way through.

It's understandable to feel tremendous sadness and emptiness, but don't ever get caught up in the woulda, shoulda, coulda syndrome. Thoughts that you could have changed things if you had done something different will be the undoing of you and your family.

It is very important to remember only the good things about a person after they die. It is my opinion that when a person reaches the status of angel that all the bad stuff vaporizes into oblivion and the good stuff shines like a beacon for all eternity.

The best way to keep someone’s memory alive is to take on their most positive attributes as your own. If they were prompt, be prompt. If they were good listeners, be one too. My Jennifer could get along with anyone. She could find the good in anyone. Before I lost her, half the people in my life pissed me off. Since she has been gone, I am so much more patient and forgiving as a tribute to my girl.

Never avoid experiencing the things that your loved one enjoyed. Listen to their favorite music, eat at their favorite restaurants, visit places they loved to go. And if there is something that they didn’t get to do and wanted to, do it for them. It is the job of us who are left behind to do the things on earth for them. This one is hard, but once you start, it will bring you peace.

You are probably asking yourself why is she writing about this? After all, you read these damn articles of mine to be entertained and now I have taken you down this road, over Sunday coffee, when you were expecting to laugh. Listen, I let you all inside of my life and my head and like the song goes... you have to take “All of Me”.

I did it for 2 reasons. First of all, I did it selfishly. I have people that I care very much about who are struggling with different stages of grief at the present time. They read my articles every week, because I make them, so they will get my message in the gentlest way. I know from your emails that many of you have suffered losses, so it seemed like the right time to share what has gotten me through.

Secondly, I did it for our angels. They are happy and pain free and only have one concern as they float around in the clouds. Our angels worry about us. I hope my words will help you when you need them. And to those we love who have gone to heaven, you can now concern yourselves with just being beautiful angels. I think I have it handled down here.

The Palomino and the Butterfly

I have two perfect sisters. I am the oldest of the 3 of us and the two younger ones never let me forget it. They delight in acting giggly and stupid if a business offers a discount for people over 55 on food or services. They always let me know about the “senior rates” on everything. How thoughtful.

The funny thing is that both of my sisters think that I am so damn accomplished and exciting. Just because I have told them that I am “The Queen of the World”, I didn’t actually think that they believed me.

The truth of the matter is, even though I obviously have them convinced that I am brilliant beyond words and completely fabulous in all ways, it is really me who is humbled by them.

We call my middle sister Del. It’s a shortened version of her proper name, but I still like to tell everyone that it’s short for “delicious”. She is taller than me with natural platinum blonde hair and devastating baby blue eyes. When she enters a room, she is always noticed, and it’s more than just her looks. It’s the way she carries herself. She has this regal air about her. Just recently I gave her a dark brown outfit of mine that I never wore because it didn’t look good on me. When she put it on, she was an elegant vision in espresso colored gauze. Gorgeous! I never wore it because I looked like a big bran muffin in it. She can carry off what others can’t.

She didn’t always stand up straight and tall and walk into a room like she owned the place. Growing up in a world of button-nosed size 5 “Gidget” girls had an effect on her self esteem. One day she explained to me why she sought the shadows rather than the spotlight. No... it’s not because I pushed her out of the way.

I will never forget that moment when she explained to me, quite tearfully, that her height and athletic shape made her feel awkward and unbeautiful amongst all the little petite girls. It came as such a shock to me. "But sister!" I told her. "You are SO beautiful. You are my Palomino." "Palomino?" she asked quizzingly. I went on to tell her that she has always reminded me of one of those gorgeous palomino horses. The very essence of sleek magnificence... the palest gold in color with a silky flaxen mane that blows in the wind as this thoroughbred creature gallops gracefully through life. Powerful, beautiful and strong...

Del liked that. Now every time she is having a bad hair day, fat day or a generally poopy day, she asks me to tell her that "Palomino thing" again.

Jackie is our baby sister. She will turn 48 in a couple of days. Since no one does denial better than she does, she refers to this birthday as turning 30/18.

Everyone loves Jackie. She is pretty and sexy and funny. She can dance and sing and will do so with all she’s got as if no one is watching. She is a free spirit who would rather be riding her Harley than having tea with the queen, but there is a gentle feminine innocence to her that captivates and charms. Have you ever been outside and all of a sudden, out of nowhere comes this beautiful creature with iridescent, multi-colored wings fluttering by? Every eye is watching as it flits poetically from flower to leaf. It’s like that when Jackie is around. Like the butterfly, Jackie spent part of her life in the not-so-pretty caterpillar stage. There were times when even the ones who loved her most had trouble believing that she would leave the security of the ground and emerge into a gossamer-winged beauty and take flight. But just like the process of a caterpillar turning into a butterfly is a miracle of nature, so is our baby sister.

These are words I have wanted to write for a very long time. Today seemed like the perfect opportunity to pay tribute to my precious sisters. They mean the world to me. And besides, we have no idea who will die first, so if it’s not me, I have a great head start on their eulogies.

I love you, Del. I am in awe of you.

Happy Birthday, Jacks. We are so proud of you. You are adored.

P.S. I hope you all have a fabulously fun and safe 4th of July. It is one of my favorite holidays and I can't wait for the great food and fireworks. Hopefully you will all be doing something with the family. If you are spending the holiday with your siblings or someone who is like a sister or brother to you, tell them how much they mean to you.

Bathing Suit Blues

Next week summer officially begins. It's time to get out last year's bathing suit and see if the fat has shifted. People from England call bathing suits "swimming costumes", which I think is a much more appropriate term. I don't really feel any less freakish wearing a yard of spandex on a hot day than I would if I were to put on a Wonder Woman outfit to go to the market. But the truth is, I love the beach. I love pools. Swimming feels so wonderful and free. I just wish you could do it in sweats without drowning from the weight.

It is possible that I am being too hard on myself. I don't want to give up the dream of having just one more summer as a bathing beauty, but I have to face the fact that the last time I felt great in a swimsuit, Bill Clinton was president. It's not like I have really high standards. I don't expect to look like the models in Sports Illustrated. I just want to be somewhere between Baywatch and whale watch. I try to be comfortable in a bathing suit, but until they make one with a matching blazer, I will never feel really good.

Bathing suit season sounds good on paper, but the reality is that unless you have a pretty good body, it can be hell. With all other clothing you can hide the bad parts of your figure, but swimwear is way trickier. As you know, I am an expert on the subject of creative dressing, but even the great guru of underwear can't figure out how to hide much of anything under such a small amount of fabric, even if it is stretchy. Look... the goal is to put on the smallest, briefest garment that a woman wears in public and make it look good. You all know that adage about trying to put 10lbs of potatoes in a 5lb bag. That's not easy, but nothing is impossible. I knew instinctively that my swimsuit fashion tricks had to be the best ever published in the history of mankind.

So if you find yourself in the same dilemma with summer vacation season upon us, here are some REAL fashion tips that will make you feel better about donning your swim wear:

1. 1. As soon as you get to the beach, find a person who is fatter than you and park your towel so that you can see them the whole time. If a bikini girl with 5% body fat prances by, look at the chubby person right away to ground yourself and bring you back to what is real and genuine.
2. Wear sunglasses and a hat with the biggest brim you can find. It is actually possible that people will think that the hat is casting a huge shadow on your body, making you appear fat, which, of course, you are not.
3. If you have kids and/or a dog, that is perfect! Take them with you whenever you plan to be wearing a bathing suit. When that moment arises that you feel like taking a dip, stand up quickly, hug a kid firmly on each side of you (this creates a slimming effect) then bolt towards the ocean. Dogs get excited and usually zigzag all around in goofy anticipation of family fun and divert the onlookers’ eyes away from your ass while you are making your way to the water.

So, there you go! This is all the fashion advice you will need this summer when it comes to bathing suits.

One more thing – and this is important. When you are wearing a swimsuit, THINK thin. It helps a lot. The "think it, be it" philosophy works. And here's the good news, neither beaches nor swimming pools have mirrors!

And The Winner Is...

I was raised to believe that it is not ladylike or appropriate to boast or brag. My mother believed it was up to other people to sing your praises and that when they did, you were supposed to be humble and act with utmost humility. Thank goodness, most of that went in one of my ears and out the other. Don’t get me wrong, I am more self-deprecating than I am a braggart. I don’t have to tell you all that… you know. I write about my short comings all the time in my articles.

Ever since I was a young girl, I have always dreamed of winning a big award and making my family super proud of me. Always having been a huge fan of the Academy Awards, I have often fantasized about what it would feel like to hear my name called out from a list of nominees. What must it feel like to hold a golden statue and thank everyone who made it possible? I have practiced my acceptance speech in my head many times. Winning an Oscar has always sounded like such an unbelievable high. Sadly, there is really only one thing that kept me from becoming an actress and winning the most coveted award in that industry: I have absolutely no acting talent. Meryl Streep, if you are reading this, don’t worry.

I never missed a Miss America or Miss Universe Pageant when I was growing up. My parents understood my passion for these events and allowed me to stay up through the whole thing. Though sleepy-eyed, I always made it to the end to see the big announcement, the crowning and “The Walk” down the runway as the new reigning Miss Whatever. I never had any delusions about trying to compete in one of these contests. Oh, I could have aced the evening gown event and done fine in the bathing suit competition, but I came to terms early on that my greatest feat of talent was probably not good enough to bowl the judges over in the midst of prima ballerinas and operatic virtuosos. Listen, it isn’t easy to twirl two batons and hula hoop at the same time.

I never even won a spelling bee in school and there was no such thing as Student of the Month. Back then you might have gotten a cheesy gold star for good work, but I would have really felt like a winner if I had been awarded a certificate and been given a bumper sticker to take home to my parents.

I was a pretty successful Camp Fire Girl. I sold more Campfire Girl chocolates than any girl in Los Angeles County, but I didn’t get an award. I got a free trip to Disneyland, but all these decades later, I hardly remember it. All that hard work and not even a plaque to prove I was the best.

I bowled in a league for a while in the 80s. I did it for the camaraderie and because my friends asked me to. I had never bowled before, but that didn’t seem to matter. It turns out that they loved me for my handicap. It seems that if you are a crappy bowler on a team where everyone else is excellent at the sport, it is a good thing. We won the championship and I have a photo of me somewhere with the only trophy I ever got. It really never felt like a victory. They used me because I sucked and I had to wear this hideous shirt every week.

The time I won a Halloween costume contest felt pretty good. I worked really hard on my costume but it ended up costing a freaking fortune at the end. Again, I didn’t get an award. I won a cheese board with a set of cute little spreading knives with ceramic handles that looked like different vegetables. Considering that my Mae West costume probably cost upwards of $150 dollars and the only cheese my family was eating at the time came individually wrapped, my win didn’t feel like a big deal.

Even though you all seem to love my articles, I doubt that there is any chance of me winning a Pulitzer Prize in literature, right? I just thought I would ask.

Ok, in all fairness, I was the “Cougar of the Month” last December in Fast Lane Biker Magazine. The sweet people who publish the thing made it sound like I beat out some heavy competition for the title. The truth is, they like me. I did feel triumphant and it felt good, but I didn’t win because of astounding beauty. I won it because I don’t look too bad for someone so old.

My sweet mother meant well when she tried to teach me to be humble. Fortunately, until last week I never had a true honor bestowed on me, so it wasn’t difficult to not show off.

Right now I am bursting with pride and I want to tell the whole world! How can it be wrong? If I was on a winning Super Bowl team, I would have a ring the size of the moon to flaunt.

What has happened to me in the last seven days has truly brought me to my knees and taken my breath away all at the same time. The feelings of joy and pride are overwhelming. I have won the award of all awards.

Last Tuesday, my daughter and her husband gave birth to a gorgeous baby girl. She is beautiful beyond words. I know... all grandmothers say that, even if the baby looks like E.T., but she IS and she is healthy and pink and so pretty. My first granddaughter... and they named her after ME! When I first heard what her name would be, I was speechless. To know that this amazing little girl will make her way in the world with this part of me is the Grand Prize. I have to pinch myself when I think about the magnitude of this honor. I will close now for this week. I understand that tears are not good for my keyboard.

Make-Up Artist

How are you at make-up? No, I’m not talking about the mascara and lipstick kind; I’m talking about the “I’m sorry” kind. It confounds me that people stay mad at each other because no one will be the first to say something nice.

Get this. My girlfriend is planning her wedding, a process that should be filled with joy and anticipation. Instead, she spends way too much time figuring out the seating chart so that no feuding people have to sit next to each other! What kind of crap is that?

I can understand being miffed at someone you love. Significant others, family members and friends are not perfect, and neither are we. It’s okay to get mad, just get over it!

I read that only human beings can laugh, LOVE, or show remorse. Well, even though you will never convince me that my poodle doesn’t love me, the rest seems to be reasonable.

If we are so lucky as to be the only creatures that can apologize, I think we should start doing it. It sounds like something of a privilege.

Are you mad at someone right now? Don’t be. One of my best beauty secrets is to forgive and forget. Being mad at someone causes, not only heartache, but wrinkles. Not worth it, honey. I promise you. What’s so crazy is that most of the time people can’t even remember why they are fighting with someone. Life is too special to waste a minute on such nonsense. The new year is about to begin. Give 2014 a fresh start and make up with someone that used to be in your life but isn’t anymore... probably for some ridiculous reason.

Even the Hatfields and McCoys signed a truce after decades of bickering. If they can end the most famous family fight in history, you can forgive your husband for saying, (in front of everyone), that his sister’s spaghetti sauce is the best he ever tasted. He knows YOURS is, but his sister needed the compliment and he knew that you loved him enough to understand. Be grateful that you have such a sweet guy.

It feels great to kiss and make up. You won’t regret it for a minute. Alright, my sweeties, start puckering!

Peevish As A Second Language

I never want to become one of those cranky, old people who have no patience and find fault with everything and everybody. I am a big fan of the saying live and let live. As part of the over-50 population, I try to be an example to my age group and not be judgmental, especially of the young. I pride myself in being a free spirit with a positive outlook and a kind heart. Despite my zeal for being completely fair and open-minded, I must admit that I have my limits. Some things in life are just WRONG. As hard as I try to reconcile certain situations and try to see the other side, there are a group of subjects that have no explanation or reason for being and, to me, are just stupid. I suppose you could call these things my pet peeves, but that term is a bit strong for my taste. I prefer to think of myself as being a bit peevish.

Because I am a firm believer in getting things off of my DD chest, I thought if I shared these particular annoyances with you I might be able to move on. Maybe it’s just me. I know my loyal readers will let me know. Venting is good for the soul. So here goes...

Let’s start with Donald Trump’s hair. Here is a seriously successful, high-profile man, yet his hair-do defies both reason and gravity. His hair is often spoken of as the ultimate comb-over. I have no idea how he accomplishes this coiffure because I can’t even tell how much hair he actually has. I’m not sure if it’s just one long piece twirled around or knitted together like an afghan, but I do suspect that it takes an entire staff to create the dips and swoops and peaks that I have seen previously only coming out of a soft serve ice cream machine. I have tried to figure Mr. Trump's hair out for years, to no avail. He lacquers it so a hurricane couldn’t move it and you can’t really see where it starts and where it ends. I don’t think his tresses would disturb me so much if I saw other men copying The Donald’s 'do. You’d think a man as smart as he is would wonder why his hairstyle hasn’t caught on. I know why... it’s just WRONG.

I am not ganging up on men, but I did want to mention that I find bald men with ponytails a bit irritating. (Incidentally, one of my readers called me sexist last week when I was saying how amazing it is that most men can barbeque on a grill, yet they can barely heat up a Pop Tart in the kitchen. I stuck to my guns. Yes, there are lots of men who can cook, but there are millions of women who cook dinner every night for a family and hold down a job, too.) Ok, back to the bald guys with ponytails. Fellows, I understand that losing the hair of your youth is not a happy thing, but taking the remaining seven strands, growing them long, and pulling them back into a wimpy ponytail is not sexy. Totally bald is much sexier.

No pun intended, but now let’s next jump right into dog poop, or the subject of, more exactly. I am a dog lover, but I am a hater of people who don’t clean up after their dogs. When I am out for a walk and see someone with a dog and no visible plastic bag in their hands or tied to the leash, I follow them like a stalker. I live in a gated community and most everyone has a dog. I clean up after my two babies and would never think to leave a mess. When I suspect that someone is letting their dog poop willy-nilly on the common area grass, I watch them and call them on it when I see a mess that I know their dog made. It’s amazing how these people are never guilty and even more amazing how many dog owners can distinguish their dog's pooping style and deny that their animal was responsible even if I watched it happen. Wrong... so wrong.

No rant would ever be complete without talking about my sister. I am not beneath being a bit annoying myself, according to her. I am her pet peeve. I hate to drive, and because she loves me, she will often offer to drive my car when we are going somewhere. She is taller than I am and every time she gets into the driver’s seat of my car, as soon as she plops her butt in the space that fit my body and legs perfectly, she goes nuts. In mock pain, she pulls her knees up to her chin and squishes her arms together to illustrate that it would have been nice if I had adjusted the seat since she agreed to drive. As she exaggerates her compressed state, she searches frenetically for the levers to release her from her agony, all the time rudely reminding me that I am short. She makes a huge deal of all this until she has released herself from the confines of the seat that was adjusted for me. Trust me... Houdini’s Suspended Straight Jacket Escape was done with less drama. I tell you this story only because I must be fair. I am not just the peevee, sometimes I am the peevor. My sister thinks this whole scenario should never happen and that I am WRONG. Could be...

I would now like to call your attention to my angst over children who are allowed to fuss and cry in restaurants. Many young parents never think to take these wailing kids outside as not to impede the dining enjoyment of others. This is WRONG beyond words. I never did it to others with six kids. The minute I heard a peep out of one of my young ones, I grabbed them, with my hand over their mouth, and ran to a place where they couldn’t be heard until they calmed down. A lot of parents don’t find it necessary to do this nowadays. If I am sitting close enough to these offenders to bother my party, I give the mother and father the Stare of Death until they do something. Sometimes they get it and sometimes they don’t. If they let their kids continue to shriek, I just smile inside... they will pay later when those children, who are being allowed to act up with no consequences, get older. Those parents will wonder what went wrong in 15 years when their teenagers are out of control. By the way, I am thinking of teaching the mother’s Stare of Death to these new parents. It used to be passed down from mother to daughter. My mother could give me one look and I knew my life was over as I knew it. What has happened with this world? Wrong... just wrong.

We can touch briefly on the morons who leave their Christmas lights up all year. No one has a harder time of letting go of the Yuletide season than I do, but it makes the whole neighborhood look shabby by not taking down your lights. It's just WRONG. If you had the strength to put them up, then take them down. Enough said. I feel better.

Okay, here comes a biggie. Why do women with nasty feet insist on wearing sandals? I cannot stand to see a woman with ugly feet wearing strappy open-toed shoes. There are two categories of ugly feet, by the way. First, there are the unkempt and un-pedicured feet. There is no excuse for this. Pedicures are very affordable or you can just do it yourself. Don’t put feet with cracked heels and chipped polish in pretty sandals. Not attractive and very unsexy. And then there are women who just have wicked-ugly feet. No amount of maintenance will help. If your toes cross over one another, are oddly configured or are longer than a chimpanzees, no one needs to see that. It is so odd to me that a woman will go to great lengths to cover the bad parts of her body and shy away from clothing that doesn’t flatter, yet she will not think twice about showing off her gnarly feet. Listen, if you had huge thighs and a fat gut, would you wear hot pants and a crop top? I know, I know. I’ve seen Jerry Springer, too. But, you get my point.

So, what are you peevish about? I can’t be the only one who gets annoyed. Write to me, my darlings. I want to know what irritates the crap out of you. Let’s dish!

Bar-B-Cuties

Men are just the most darling creatures in the world. I keep thinking about watching my neighbor last weekend as he was busily scrubbing down his Weber kettle in anticipation of the big holiday coming up.

Why is it that most men can't heat up a Pop Tart without help, but when it comes to barbecuing, they all have their black belts? My neighbor is a perfect example. He has every outdoor cooking "toy" you can imagine and is out there every weekend - weather permitting - grilling up a storm. He is an accountant and dresses very conservatively in real life, but when it comes to cooking outdoors, he is a fashion madman. Hawaiian shirt, cut off jeans, and an apron that has "King of the Grill" emblazoned across it.

I have never figured out why so many men can cook over an open fire. Maybe it's a cave man thing. I have always known that men are put together differently from us girls, but I suspect that a part of their standard equipment actually includes an extra long, charcoal-resistant spatula.

I love backyard cookouts, but I honestly don't know what I am going to do this July 4th. Last year, my family decided it would be a great idea for us to host a backyard cookout. I was all for it and began by assessing the condition of the backyard. Since the only ones who had been enjoying the chaise lounges during the previous months were 2 Malti-poos, I had to do a little hosing down to make things presentable for people. I then noticed that the garden could have looked better, so I raked, weeded and watered. I even bought a couple of Tiki torches at the garden center. I really got into it.

I then planned the menu and went to the market. The bill was over $200 for hot dogs and hamburgers. How does that happen? Once home, I lugged the giant bags of chips, the mega sodas, the six-packs of beer, the buns and everything else into the kitchen. I was pretty pooped, but managed to find the strength to haul the 20-pound sack of charcoal in before I collapsed. Isn't it ironic that no matter how long you take at the market, there is never anyone home when you arrive with the groceries? Why is that? I must be doing something wrong because my timing truly sucks on this one. If you figure it out, please have your people call my people. I need to know.

On the big day, I got up early and made the traditional truckload of potato salad. Every bowl in the house was put into service for snacks. I gave the grill a once-over until it sparkled like a new Cadillac. I then seasoned and assembled all the food like I was readying it for a cable cooking show. Lastly, I made an extra special batch of my special barbecue sauce. Whew!

The guests arrived and my dear friend Ben emerged from my kitchen in his chef’s hat and matching apron. The crowd at my house received him with the same appreciation and awe as they once would have given Pavarotti when he took center stage at the Met. My guy bowed ceremoniously and the grilling commenced!
It's wicked good fun to watch a man bar-b-que. Just as soon as the food hits the fire, all the other men congregate around the grill, beer bottles in hand, and start to tell bar-b-queing war stories and discuss over-the-flame cooking techniques. It's very adorable to behold since these are the same guys who eat cookies and potato chips for dinner when they are alone.

I remember that a good time was had by all and Ben is still getting rave reviews for his skills as outdoor chef extraordinaire and for that fabulous "secret sauce"!

I guess I could have felt hurt, but I am used to my behind-the-scenes role after all these years on this earth. I really couldn't expect anyone to applaud me for washing the dog hair off the patio chairs.

So what are we doing this 4th of July? I haven't prepared a thing. Maybe my family has planned a backyard party and all I have to do is show up. That will happen the same day that pigs learn to fly, but it's always nice to have a fantasy.

Be safe. Have fun. And please shop our 30% OFF the entire site SALE!

Fantastic Voyage

I just returned from a three-day cruise with my sister. It was just a quickie from Los Angeles to Ensenada, Mexico and back. The whole purpose was to take our grandson/great-nephew on his first vacation. He will be five years old in the fall.

Sister and I love to cruise together and live the life of luxury. Food, fun, gambling, and naps are easy to get used to. We always get a room with a balcony so we can sip coffee in the morning and watch the waves. This time we opted for a room with only a window. My grandson is part orangutan and climbs on and leaps from everything. Even with two of us taking care of him, we don’t move as fast as we did when we were raising our kids. We were taking no chances. His parents were clear that they wanted him back in one piece.

When we decided to take this trip, we couldn’t wait to tell the little one. When we told him that his grandmother and auntie were taking him on a boat, instead of big smiles we got serious frowns and anxious looks on his sweet face. It didn’t take us long to realize that he had no clue what a cruise ship was. He was worried about how the three of us were going to fit in the boat to sleep and he showed great concern over what we would take along to eat. The only boats in his realm of understanding were the ones in his coloring books that usually included a lone fisherman reeling in an undersized fish.

The big day finally arrived. As we approached the harbor, he was instantly awestruck when the ship came into view. As we made the long trek towards the gangway, each of us managed our own personal luggage. I bought him his own “big boy” suitcase on wheels. What was I thinking? He maneuvered it similarly to how he rides on his scooter and his bike. Fortunately, I also bought him an adorable little straw fedora hat, so when he crashed into the ankles of the poor cruisers ahead of us and they turned around to see who caused them pain, they were met with a darling and very stylish angel.

As a side note, this is the first time in history of our travels that my sister and I have both “carried on” our bags. We decided that we might get better at overpacking if we were committed to a small overnight bag and a tote. It was only for three days and we had the baby in tow. Sister kept reassuring me that keeping it simple and casual was the way to go. I tried to be brave about the whole thing, but I really prefer to be prepared wardrobe-wise for any activity or mood. What if I don’t feel like wearing the three or four outfits that fit into one little bag? What if I get invited to the Captain's Table or meet a man who wants to marry me on board? Tell me... which tank top and cargo pant ensemble should I wear?

My sister made the reservations and explained to the booking agent that we would be sharing a room with a little kid and that we needed some guidance. We left it all in her hands. Imagine our surprise when we walked into our room with three twin beds; two of them stacked bunk style. The old girls were not used to such Spartan accommodations, but my grandson was so excited at getting to climb up a ladder and sleep high up with his grandmother underneath, we couldn’t be anything but pleased. Sister got the bed looking out the window to the sea, my little sailor was on top and I went back in time as I crawled into my lower bunk. When I woke up the first morning in my usual groggy state, for a moment I worried that I might be late to class. But seriously, it really was quite cozy. There was just enough space between the wall and the bed that my grandbaby could slide his tiny hand to meet mine and squeeze goodnight.

The one saving grace through all the discussions before we left was that he knew there was a pool and a water slide. I had bought him some children’s swim goggles shaped liked two dolphins for the occasion and he would have worn them the whole trip if we’d let him. He couldn’t wait to go swimming with his new gear. Sister and I dutifully took him to the pool area only to discover that the sun had forgotten to come out and the wind was blowing relentlessly. I was ready to call it all off—my grandson was shivering—but he was not to be discouraged. We are glad to report that they had a little kids water slide with only a few inches of water underneath. My sister takes her role as a great-aunt very seriously and took him by the hand and headed towards the little slide. In ankle deep water with her skirt flapping in the breeze, my sis led my grandson up the ladder to the top. I took my position to snap a photo as proof. He slid down quickly with ice cold water gushing from behind. He landed with a smile and my photo was perfect. You can hardly tell he was blue.

It didn’t take our little man long to get completely into the regime in the dining room. Our waiter treated him like a celebrity and he dined sumptuously. During one of our many trips to the bathroom during dinner, we passed by the ship's library. My grandson found this room to be fascinating, so we went in. The décor was very King Arthur-style with beautiful wood, beveled glass book cases, and leather wing-backed chairs. There was nobody in there, so I had to explain in my most reverent chapel voice, that this is where people come to think and spend quiet time. Evidently that didn’t sound like too much fun, so back to the dining room we went.

I think the best part of being on a cruise ship is when you go back to your stateroom at night. The lights are low, your bed is turned down and chocolates are on the pillow. But the absolute most joyous part is when you spot the animals that your room steward has crafted out of towels. High pitched squeals and tumultuous laughter broke out as we spied the terry cloth octopus on one of the beds. I am telling you, nothing tickles my sister more than those damn towel animals. They never get old with her. My grandson was too busy scaling up his ladder to his private crow’s nest to care or even notice that my sister was busy taking endless photos of the towel sea creature.

While we were away, I spent some nice time with my little guy in the evenings. It was just the two of us. Sister loves the casino and spent every moment there that she could. The baby kept asking where his aunt was. At first, I told him the truth. Then I realized that I probably shouldn’t let him know at his tender age that his aunt is a bit of a gambler. So the next time he asked where Auntie was, I told him the library. And every time after that, my answer was the same: the library. When he and I were on the way back to the room on the last night, he turned to me and said "My Auntie likes to think an awful lot... she must be very smart... huh, Grandma?” “Yes, darling”, I replied. “Your Auntie is one of the world’s great thinkers, indeed”. Hey, sister, I always have your back, even with an almost five year old.

Queasy Rider

Some of you may remember that I recently posed atop a motorcycle as “Cougar of the Month” in a very well-known East Coast motorcycle magazine. And then again, some of you may still be trying to forget. If you missed seeing a grandmother in a red negligee on top of a Harley, you can go to my archives and read “My Last Hurrah”. No laughing allowed.

The publishers of the magazine and I became good friends and I started advertising LoveFifi.com in their publication on a regular basis. After all, the women who ride on motorcycles are hot and sexy, so LoveFifi was a perfect fit.

Recently my publisher friends invited me to come and mingle with the motorcycle crowd and talk about love, life, and lingerie at one of their big biker events. I was thrilled! I was a little nervous about going since I know as much about motorcycles and the biker lifestyle as I do about molecular biology. I didn’t lie, but I did kind of make them think that the motorcycle life was second nature to me. I didn’t want them to think I was some fluffy California cupcake who didn’t understand the adrenaline rush of riding on a Harley. I never admitted to these folks that the only bike I have ever been on said “Schwinn” on it, but if it counts for anything, when I was a kid, I used to clip playing cards to the spokes with clothespins so my bicycle would make a vroom vroom noise when I pedaled. I am not new to the sound of thunder between my thighs.

So, I headed for Spring Bike Week in Ocean City, Maryland. I was a little conflicted as to what to pack. I didn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb, but I wasn’t sure if the motorcycle community would understand my usual Fifi attire. I think that leopard print is a wardrobe basic, but not everybody else does. I didn’t want to look like an obvious outsider like the proverbial nun at an orgy, so I did what any self respecting “wannabe” would do... I Googled “biker chick”.

Wow! I not only got wonderful fashion tips, I realized that being a motorcycle mama is just like being a LoveFifi girl. Neither one is about numbers. Women of all sizes and age groups ride motorcycles!. Game on!

I looked at endless photos of sexy women on Harleys and other monster machines. Some were on the back of a motorcycle on the second seat, but many were on their own bikes. I especially appreciated the ladies whose helmets were painted to match their bikes. Fabulous! This was going to be easier than I thought.

Of course, I dragged my sister along on the trip. She is a retired police officer and she naturally protects me and keeps me out of trouble. She has actually ridden on motorcycles, so she would be indispensable at helping me blend in. So I packed up my bandanas, denim vests, and a couple pairs of boots. Ok, I won’t lie... all my bandanas matched my outfits and I BEDAZZLED them with rhinestones before we left. I go nowhere without my bling. Not even to a biker event.

When we arrived at the venue, we got to meet our new best friends, Walt and Caroline, from Fast Lane Biker Magazine DELMARVA. We had only known each other through emails and phone calls before this. It felt like we had been friends for ages and they made us feel instantly at ease. The hard rock music was blaring, the drinks were flowing, and the sea of custom motorcycles all around us was awesome. We were only there a short time before a hot–looking, leather-clad biker guy pointed to my boots, said they were “bad ass”, and high fived me. I couldn’t have been more excited if someone had just told me that I was looking a little too thin.

The party really got rocking later on in the evening. There was a frenzy of dancing and romantic cavorting. Mayhem and foolishness abounded... in a good way. I have only seen women dancing on tables in the movies, but at biker events it’s as natural as breathing. A really drunk guy approached me, winked, and then whispered in my ear that I looked like a movie star. He didn’t mention which one, but I will take it as a compliment and hope he wasn’t talking about Al Pacino. The crowd was very controlled and well-mannered, but they really knew how to have a good time. We had so much fun. My only misstep in blowing my cover was at the bar. When I tried to order a Sapphire martini straight up, dirty with extra olives, the bartender looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. Thank goodness the music was so loud he couldn’t actually hear me so I and just pointed to the Sam Adams spigot behind him and smiled. Whew, that was a close one.

The people were all very warm and receptive to my sister and me. Many already knew about LoveFifi through our ads and some had already ordered from us! We have already been invited to the next event in the fall. Woohoo!

During the three-day rally, I was asked numerous times to go on a ride. Paralyzed by fear, I graciously asked for a rain check and explained that I was recovering from an accident. I displayed the huge bruises on my leg and explained that I was taking it easy. I DID have an accident. Ok... I didn’t exactly fall off a Harley. I fell down the steps of the condo where we were staying. Let’s keep that between us.

Ok, here’s my big question. How many of my darling readers are into motorcycles? Do you own one? Do you like to ride on the back of one? Please write to me and tell me. Better yet, send me photos. Now that I am officially “bad ass”, I want to know everything!

Lady In De-Stress

Miss Fifi has been away this week on a fabulous adventure. She will tell you all about it in next week’s article, complete with photos!

In her absence, we, her loyal staff, decided to run one of our favorite Fifi Articles from a few years ago. Her daughters were in their late teens and early 20s and still living at home. Since Mother's Day is just around the corner, we thought this one would bring big smiles.

I was having a bit of a heated conversation with one of my teenage daughters a couple of weeks ago (imagine that!), and just as I was making my point, she patted me on the arm and said, “Chill, Mom, you need to chill out”.

A few days ago, my “assister”, Del, (she’s my assistant, but also my sister... get it?) heard me on the phone giving up the last piece of my mind to someone I do business with. She hurried in after I slammed down the phone, held my hands and said “Breathe, honey... breathe”.

So maybe I don’t deal with stress well. I have a lot on my mind. It’s not like I am the only one or something. I have seen zillions of talk shows where they discuss how women can learn to deal with stress through yoga, aromatherapy, mountain climbing, knitting, and a myriad of other ways.

As I was standing in line at the market the other night, I was thumbing through one of those magazines that have the world “Women” in the title. An article caught my eye that claimed you could alleviate a week’s worth of stress in less than an hour by turning your bathroom into a spa. It sounded dreamy, so I threw the magazine down on the conveyer thingy with the rest of my groceries, being careful to toss it face down so no one would know what I was buying. I sure as hell wouldn’t want anyone to think I was going to be making the “spring bouquet” from egg cartons and pipe cleaners that they had on the cover. I may be a hot mess in the stress department, but I have some pride.

When I got home, I called my sweet daughters down to haul in the groceries (I love kids) while I hurriedly made my way to the bathroom and threw off my clothes. I gave a sigh as I opened my article and anxiously began the first paragraph.

Run a tepid bath, it advised. Tepid? What is tepid? I’ve heard the word before but I have gotten through a lot of years with cold, warm and hot being the only temperatures in my repertoire. No wonder this world is so stressed out. You need a dictionary to take a bath. I filled the tub with warm water and continued to read: Add 3 to 4 dozen fresh rose petals to the drawn water, it went on. Damn! How am I going to get fresh roses from the yard when I am already naked? And then I remembered the little vase of silk flowers that grace the back of the commode. These will do, I said to myself, as I sprayed the fake roses with perfume and threw them into my spa bath. They then suggested soft music to accompany the experience. Ah ha! I have a radio right here in the bathroom. I turned it on but nothing happened. Funny, it was working this morning when my daughters were taking their showers. At second glance, I realized that the cavity that holds the batteries was exposed and the AA batteries were gone. I was not happy, but I was not about to break my Zen-ny momentum by trying to find out who stole the batteries. It won't be any of my daughters who live here, I can assure you. They will all be innocent. So, it must be those same gypsies who come through and eat all the cookies and take all the pens and pencils. Mystery solved. As I slid into my bath, I was not about to be undone because of the radio. I decided that I would just sing my stress away. The article insisted on music, so I will just make my own.

The next step, according to the magazine, was to pull the plug in the tub and let very warm water “gush luxuriously” into the bath. The only trouble is that I live in an old house so you can’t take a shower or run the bathtub when someone is using the washing machine. Someone obviously was doing just that so the water was just dripping annoyingly on my toes.

Defeat is not in my vocabulary, so I closed my eyes, sunk into the warmth of the perfumed water, and sang the only song I know all the words to. For a moment I was delivered from the chaos of the real world. I became deliciously lost in my own private sanctuary. Heaven!

It wasn’t until I noticed a draft on my shoulder that I opened my eyes and saw that my two youngest daughters (18 and 19) were watching me in horror as I sat in a tub of fake roses, singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” with all I had in me.

Before I could say a word in my own defense, the girls were gone. As I arose from my bath feeling stupid, and cold, (I think I figured out what tepid is), I was bound and determined that I would emerge from this experience with a new sense of well-being despite a few setbacks.

I got dressed and decided to get in touch with my artistic side. I gathered up a few things from around the house, poured myself a glass of wine and retreated to a back bedroom and allowed my creativity to emote. You know, it’s amazing how attractive egg carton flowers can look if you know what you’re doing.

An afternoon devoted to my body and spirit was really good for me. Not even my girls were going to ruin my personal renaissance. I was never going to mention or explain what they had witnessed. This day belonged to ME. I honestly felt the stress of my crazy world float away. I felt renewed and completely marvelous.

It wasn't until I heard my daughters on the computer in the next room and the gales of giggles that followed that I realized that my stress free day was officially over. Crap! I forgot about Facebook...