Thoughtfully Yours

I know that men have difficulty trying to understand women and I can truly appreciate how mysterious we must seem. I am a women and I am often surprised by the cravings and notions that come to me out of nowhere and then become firmly planted in my consciousness as the gospel truth in no time at all.

These thoughts become firm directives as to how my life should proceed and I trust them completely. It has been this way my whole life. I have often wondered if men get these flashes. I honestly don’t think so. I do believe that women are basically intuitive beings and will give the tiniest whim a chance. I have learned that paying attention to these random thoughts often allows them to turn into full blown fantastic epiphanies. I really don’t think that men have epiphanies that much. They have to contemplate and formulate their thoughts and then toss out the ones they don’t like without a second thought. That’s where they go wrong. We women can sense the gift that even the most whacky idea can produce. We don’t dismiss ideas as frivolous or foolish, we embrace them and keep them safe for when we need to use them in our lives no matter how long it takes. Our method of resurrecting ideas from our “brain vault” lets us have more options.

If I’ve lost you, let me try to catch you up more simply. Let’s face it, women are the shoppers. Most of us can find items to buy whether at Wal-Mart or Saks. If you are anything like me, you might find me at any time wearing a $3.99 tank top from K-Mart with a $100 pair of pants from Bloomingdales and don’t be surprised if my cute little cardigan that tops it all off came from a neighborhood garage sale. See what I mean? A man on the other hand, would be more inclined to buy suits, shirts, ties, and socks all from the same store, all at the same time. I am sorry that I had to use shopping and clothing to get my point across, I honestly tried to come up with something more cerebral to explain all this, but there was no excerpt from a Shakespearean play or a quote from one of the master philosophers that even came close.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a queen. That idea never left my being. When I grew up, I realized that there were no countries needing my royal services, so I became the queen of bras and lingerie. See what I am saying? I knew I would be queen someday because it came into my head when I was hanging on the playground bars upside down at Toluca Lake Elementary School. It was a good idea when I was in the second grade and it is a good idea now. I took the queenly path and adjusted it to work for my life. The point is that I am still a queen. Period.

To my darling guys out there, I am not bashing you in any way. I respect your methods, but I don’t understand them. Men seem to be able to dismiss ideas systematically. They don’t give into thoughts that are not “do-able” in their estimation. It amazes me that these same creatures who can toss away a valuable idea that might serve them well in the future under different circumstances, cannot be forced to part with any of their zillions of decades-old sports and concert t-shirts. Any of you who have husbands or boyfriends can probably attest to having one of your ideas shot down in an instant without a moment’s thought, but just try asking him to throw out his three (plastic) bowling trophies from the '80s and see what happens.

So, what led me to this scrambled mess of a philosophy that will no doubt get me a morass of hate mail from my men readers? It was something that has been bouncing around in my head for a long time... you know, that little voice that won’t give up until you give in.

I am at a crossroads in my life; a good crossroads, but a complicated one. I have a lifetime of notions whirling around in head and the paths I can take are endless. I was feeling very grateful that I am one of those people who kept every good idea in her head for future reference. I even held on to the one about marrying Ringo Starr. He’s over 70 now, so even if he did ask me, I would have to evaluate whether or not he could keep up with me. I am against throwing away any of my thoughts, even the ones from the '60s. It’s those ideas that I have locked away for eons that will guide me towards… OK, I will say it… my Golden Years.

I can assure you that my Golden-freaking-Years will rock. And they will be blissfully peaceful, I can assure you. There is something to be said about keeping your worldly thoughts, experiences, and possessions stored away until the last chapters of your life. You have lived long enough to know exactly what to keep and what to throw away. Also, my priorities are changing by the minute and what is truly important is getting clearer and clearer. Thankfully, there is still a little time until I am an official old person, so I can still sort out and ponder each possible path with great care and attention. That little voice is guiding me with all the whos, whats, and wheres of the last and most glorious chapter of my life. I don’t have to hurry to decide. I am queen, so I don’t have to.

Pioneer Days

I was lying on the massage table at my spa over the weekend, having my troubles and woes kneaded out of my old body, when I realized that something was terribly wrong. My massage therapist was rubbing me just right, the oil was my favorite orange scent, the lights were low, the blanket over my body was pre-warmed, and the candles were flickering, but why was I not enjoying it like I usually do? OMG, there was no music! When I mentioned it, my masseuse apologized profusely and let me know that the system had gone out and would be fixed the next day. I didn’t say much but I couldn’t stop thinking. I was all out of sorts because there were no flutes and violins. No birds chirping, no sounds of the ocean blended with symphonic music. All I could hear was my massage girl breathing heavily as she pummeled my back and the occasional sound of the oil being “farted” out of the plastic bottle. Something inside of me wanted to be irate about not getting my monies worth, but the nice girl that my parents raised kept me from saying a word. I sobered up pretty fast in one terrifying moment when I realized that I could have been born in pioneer times and I would never know the bliss of being pampered at the spa. The only pampering I would have gotten back then was finally getting to sit down after a 14 hour day of spinning yarn, making soap from animal fat, and doing the laundry in a stream.

I laid there and had a silent talk with my inner self. Myself and I talked about how it was not a big deal that there was no music and I felt a little ashamed. I am a lucky girl to live now and push a button to do most anything. The pioneer image kept creeping back in my thoughts and I could only feel grateful for not being chosen to live during that time. Someone must have known that although I am a tough cookie, I would have completely sucked as a pioneer woman.

These ladies had to do everything from scratch. If the family was to have biscuits and butter and jam, they made the biscuits, often over a campfire. I can’t even imagine trying to bake biscuits over an open flame. It’s hard enough to get the dough completely out of the can no matter how exactly I whack the damn tube until it pops. They would churn the butter and make the jam out of berries they grew themselves. Think about it… no gas stoves, no refrigerators with ice and water windows, no dishwashers, no grocery stores. If the poor things actually did get to relax in the evening, they would use the time to mend the clothes or read over candlelight from candles they made themselves. And they did all this and more wearing voluminous skirts to the floor which was de rigueur pioneer chic. And yes, they made these ensembles themselves.

My massage was coming to an end and my masseuse laid her hands ceremoniously on my back to indicate the end of the session. I thanked her, and as she thanked me for being her loyal client, she again apologized for the absence of music. As I told her I barely noticed, a scary vision of me sweeping the floor of my covered wagon with a broom that I fashioned out of pine needles popped into my head. As I quickly pushed that mental image away, I assured her that the massage was perfect.

I get my life lessons from little things and I am changed forever. It is ok to be spoiled, but you need to appreciate it with your entire being. Soooo… if you ever get bratty, just imagine life on the prairie. No air conditioning, no water for a bath, mattresses made from scraps of cloth and chicken feathers, no TV, no iPad. Are you getting it? Good. End of sermon.

From Fuzz to Fuzzy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mother Load

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hair You Go!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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