Titillating Conversation

I am very proud to say that I have long been considered an expert in the field of bras. This is both a point of pride and a curse all at the same time. No matter what I do or where I go, I look at women's breasts. I have to do it discreetly, of course, but I can't help it. So many women wear bras that are the wrong size, the wrong type for their body or too old to do their bustlines any good. Often times it is all the above.

For decades, I have been involved in changing all that, one set of boobies at a time. Once women know what I do, they tell me their bra woes no matter where we are having the conversation. Often they will pull their blouses up to their neck so I can get a first hand look at the problem. I have done bra critiques in elevators, hotel hallways and hundreds of Ladies' Rooms. I carry a tape measure always so I can do my bra missionary work at a moment's notice. Women are so grateful for my advice and recommendations.

I often will hear from them afterwards when they have followed my instructions as to the right bra and the right SIZE. I have been told that the experience was "life changing". It feels so good every time I add a new girl to my Fifi flock. The work I do is not extraordinary. It's what I do and I do it well, but I am not the Mother Theresa of my field, by any means. I am more of the Richard Simmons of bras. I get my followers motivated to find the support and shape they need to feel prettier and much of the time look thinner. I give women confidence and comfort with their bodies and that makes me very happy.

It is estimated that 75% of females are buying the wrong size bra. It's at least that much. I see it every day and I just want to go up to these poor ladies and whisk them away to the nearest broom closet and see what monstrosity they are wearing under their clothes.

I can't do that, of course, but I can certainly make sure that all my Fifi readers get educated. You see, my sweethearts, this is not your fault. The way stores merchandise bras these days is an atrocity. If you are not buying your bras from me, you have to "wing it" in the lingerie department. You must struggle through rack after congested rack of bras, all the while wrestling with those nasty little plastic hangers to look for what you think is your size. It's not fun.

Back in the Stone Age when I got my first bra,the Bra Department was a beautiful place with walls of built -in drawers that kept all the stock neatly nested in tissue, organized by size. A lovely and knowledgeable woman probably named Helen or Beatrice measured you, assessed your frame and then opened up each drawer with your size in it and made suggestions as to style. Then you tried them on and she came in and adjusted the back and the straps. When was the last time you tried on a bra in a department store? If you answered never, you are not alone. You'd try on a dress or a pair of shoes before you bought it, but rarely a bra. Here's where the problem lies and here's what we are going to do.

I am sending you all to Miss Fifi's Bra Academy. I want you all to meet me back here next week wearing your best fitting unpadded bra. You will need to bring something to write with and some paper. I am going to educate you, measure you, fit you and teach you the warning signs of an ill-fitting bra. After you learn the ins, outs, ups and downs of finding the right bra you will be forever looking at other women and noticing every bad bra in town. I told you it was a curse, but then you can help your circle of "sisters" get into a bra that does their body a big favor. And there is a BONUS to attending my short course next week. I will give you my personal contact information so we can talk. You give me the numbers and I will figure out your figure personally.

Next Saturday... same time, same place. Don't forget the tape measure! You need the cloth "seamstress" type, not the one from the garage.

Elephantastic

I am preparing to leave on what I feel is a well deserved vacation. My sister, two of my best friends in life and I are all going on a one week cruise together. We have been paying for it for a year, so when we step on board it will feel good to know that the trip itself is completely paid for.

I pulled out my luggage to prepare for the tedious job of packing. It's so much fun to pack to go on a ship because most everything you wear is comfortable but there is also a serious fashion show that goes on among the women passengers. It starts for me weeks before we leave. I have to get myself ready, but I am also my sister's "stylist". Before she retired and came to work with me at Lovefifi.com, she wore a dark blue police uniform for a couple of decades. Now that she is free to channel her inner fashionista, she worries constantly about what she is going to wear for everything. It took me years to get her to loosen up and wear color. She has progressed to letting her hair down considerably and even has a bit of a funky streak now and then. I am very proud. The trouble is that she has no faith in her own taste and makes me yay or nay every item she plans to wear on the trip. Our vacation is only a few days away and sister is now in the packing stage. Thank goodness!

I have done so much business traveling that I am a whiz at packing. Packing for cruise is easy because there is no limit to how many suitcases you can take. The only challenge comes with trying to put everything away in a tiny little room, with an even teenier closet. Then you have to multiply that amount by 2 for sister's stuff. Thankfully the suitcases fit under the beds, but space is limited.

I won't lie to you, I am a heavy packer. I bring the absolute most I can and still manage to have places to put it away. I am not one of those people who brings exactly the same number of outfits as there are days with a few additions for night time. I don't know what mood I will be in when I wake up. I need to go to my part of the closet and have choices. I always bring home lots of clothes that I never wore. That's OK with me. I'm happy the whole time knowing I could go with most any fashion whim and change several times a day if I cared to. Unfortunately, my sister has learned this from me and usually we have enough clothes to stay for a month.

So, I don't pack light. Shoot me. I am not changing. I am, however, very smart about luggage. I don't believe that people put any thought into luggage when they buy it. Just look at the carousel at baggage claim the next time you fly. You will see a preponderance of black suitcases going around interspersed with about a dozen Louis Vuitton bags. The rest are often gray, brown or navy with only a handful of distinctive bags that are easy to identify. This is so stupid to me. As prestigious and expensive as the Vuitton bags may be, they still look alike. If you're intent on having a brown suitcase with initials, why not stencil your own damn initials on it? OK, your name is not French and probably won't impress anyone, but you will probably be able to find your luggage without a hitch. They don't check you at the door anymore to see if you have the right bag. What do you think is the most stolen item off of luggage carousels? Louis Vuitton.

It is a mystery to me why people buy black luggage, or even gray or navy. Some of it is very expensive and high end. What is the point in spending a fortune for luxury luggage when you have to hang homemade yarn pom pom from it show that it is yours?

I have been in the lost luggage booth at the airport many times. They always show you pictures of different shaped bags and ask you to point to the one that is most like yours. They ask you the color and if there are any distinguishing features of the luggage to make it easier for them to find it. Knowing full well that what I see at the baggage claim pretty much all looks the same, I set out years ago to make my life as stress free as possible when I travel.

I buy new suitcases every 5 or 6 years. When I shop I always imagine what it will look like going around in circles in the sea of plain dark suitcases. I like to shop online and find the most attractive set I can that will stand out in the crowd. My current set is very handsome, but I don't think there are a lot of people who truly understood it's unique beauty like I did. It's navy blue with a snazzy contrasting trim and it has Indian Elephants printed on every square inch of it. When I wave down a porter to help me with my baggage and he asks how many bags and what my bags look like, all I have to say is that they are 2 and that they are navy blue with elephants. The minute they come out of the shoot, my elephant print bags are rock stars among the rest and I am out of there in a flash. If, heaven forbid, my luggage never comes to the carousel, my time with the lost luggage people is short and sweet. Navy blue elephant print. My cases are never lost for long because they are easy to spot even if they went to Cleveland instead of Chicago.

Now, imagine instead of 250 people on a flight with luggage waiting at baggage claim, you are on a ship with a couple of thousand over-packers at the terminal baggage claim. My luggage is never where it is supposed to be but it never takes long to find it. Those sweet elephants never fail to find me, one way or the other.

So, the next time you are in the market for a set of luggage, consider buying something that stands out. They still sell my set on wayfair.com. It's called Budapest, by American Flyer and I won't mind if you have a set a too. I always get super excited when I pull out the elephant bags and get ready for a trip. My pretty little pachyderms give me style and flair and let me know that we are going on an adventure. And the best part about it all? No yarn pom poms required.

In Good Taste

I have a good friend who is absolutely brilliant at wine. He dearly loves fine wines and has introduced me to some beautiful vintages through the years. Drinking wines that he has chosen is always a learning experience because he challenges you to identify the flavors with your eyes closed and your taste buds wide awake. I have actually gotten quite good at nailing some very exotic flavors that are subtle even to the wine aficionado, though I am not one.

I do know what tastes good and what is a lot of hype. For example, I love champagne dearly and a lot of the very expensive ones cannot compare to some that I have had from unknown makers. Magnificent taste does not always come with a high price. There are very affordable wines that are really good. All you need is a sophisticated palate, which is learned, and appreciative and discerning taste buds, which it helps to be born with.

This same friend took me to a Les Amis du Vin (The Friends of Wine) event in our city. This is kind of a fancy group of people who get together and drink and discuss great wine. OK, they don't just drink wine, they have an intimate affair with it. They swirl it, hold it up to the light, stick most of their face in the glass and inhale and then finally let it flow gently over their tongues and then down their hoity-toity throats. It's kind of fun to wait for the expressions that follow. Whether these tastes of the grape bring pleasure or disappointment, it is discussed. The members have their own lingo, so I just listened politely and smiled. I prayed that no one asked me my opinion. By the time I had sat through about three tastings, I was not only clueless as to what they were looking for, but I was a bit tipsy. Anyway, the evening was pleasant, if a little too snooty for me. It got me thinking... are you surprised?

There ought to be discussion groups for tasty pleasures that a lot of people enjoy. And then it came to me in a flash. I could easily lead regular group discussions on a subject that I dare say I am both an expert and a connoisseur. I thought about how much I could add to this world with my vast knowledge, teaching so many so much. I could start my own group and it might grow into international chapters. If people can gather to discuss wine, cheese, cigars and the like, wouldn't it be wonderful to get together and discuss CANDY? That's what I'm talkin' about.

I have loved candy for nearly as long as I have been on this earth. One of the best things about being a kid was when I earned money doing chores and could then ride my bike to the corner store and buy candy. It was always a special treat and it still is. I don't think anyone appreciates candy more than I do. I have had a lifetime to explore all the delicious varieties of candy confections. I can describe the taste, the aroma and the subtle nuances of every one of my favorite candies. Before we go any further, I am not only talking about exquisite Belgian chocolates or Italian nougat or German marzipan which I adore, but the candy every American child grew up on. The kind that is lined up on 3-tiered shelving on a solid aisle of yumminess in every drug store, supermarket and 7-11.

Of course, you can't simply trust the opinion of one person, although I am very qualified in this area. I set out to do research to find out what we all like to eat when it comes to candy. Fortunately I didn't have to dig too hard. USA TODAY did a fabulous job of coming up with the Top 50 Candies of All Time. When I read through the list, I agreed with many, disagreed with some and was downright shocked at others. I am convinced that there needs to be group tastings and discussions to sort this all out. My guess is that many candy lovers never venture outside their comfort zone and end up buying the same thing every time they indulge. Case in point: Werther's caramels came in number 50 while candy corn landed at the top. Number 13! Really? How in the hell did that happen? The Candy Corn Council obviously does a better job than the folks at Werther's. One of my personal faves, Necco Wafers, only made it to number 44. These delicious little discs of flavor that disintegrate into paper thin yumminess give pleasure to the taste buds and the tongue. Yet, Peeps made it to 23rd. place. Very confounding, indeed. Peeps are cute and they sell zillion of them at Easter, but I wonder how many of these fluffy sugar encrusted critters actually get eaten.

Below are the Top 10 candies that sell the most. I agree wholeheartedly with most of them, but if there was a Candy Society to assess the virtues and failures of big sellers, I think the list would change. People just don't know...

10. Hershey Bar. You will get no argument from me. Perfect. And without them there could be no S'mores. Unthinkable.

9. Twix. Not a big deal to me but I appreciate their fan base. Those who love them, love them. Good enough.

8. Butterfinger. Yes, baby! Messy to eat but heavenly.

7. Gummy Bears/Gummy Worms. OK, we have to have to let the kids have a say. I also know that dieters like these because they are low in sugar and a serving is a lot of pieces, I would much rather have a delicious Tootsie Roll Pop (# 15) that satisfies a sweet tooth, lasts a long time and is only 50 calories. If there was a group, you would know that already.

6. Kit Kat. Again, not my thing. More of a cookie than a candy and I am a purist. I know lots of people love them, so I cave to this confection's undeniable popularity.

5. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. A superstar in the candy world. Fabulous!

4. Twizzler's. Oh, come on! I will pit waxy tasteless Twizzler's against soft, chewy and flavorful Red Vines any day. No comparison. Red Vines are way better. This is what happens when there is no group that brings these details to forefront.

3. Snickers. Who doesn't like a Snickers? One of the greatest candy concoctions ever created.

2. Hershey's Kisses. Perfect name, perfect amount of chocolate to make your mouth happy.

1. M & M's. Created in 1941, these scrumptious little candy-coated milk chocolate morsels are at the top of my list, as well. I would rather have a bag of plain M & M's over of a truck load of Godiva Chocolates. That's just how good I think they are. The fact that they melt in your mouth, not in your hands has never mattered much to me. They are never in my hand long enough to get squishy. The DO, however, melt in my jeans pocket in the clothes dryer. Long story.

So, whenever you out there are ready to form a Candy Connoisseurs Club, I am ready, too. There is an imbalance in people's taste levels when it comes to candy and we can change all that. It is up to you and I to set the world straight. Milk Duds only made it to number 32. Very disturbing.

Stayin' Alive

As I hunker down in the bliss of middle age, there is one thing that has become extremely clear to me: I am very lucky to be alive. I have been babysitting my grandkids fairly regularly lately and though I figured that I was pretty good at mothering, it's a lot different now. I grew up in dangerous times and didn't even realize it until I became a grandmother. I raised my own children like I was raised. I thought my parents did a pretty good job with me, so I carried on their work with a few upgrades.

As I was strapping my 2 1/2 year old granddaughter into her car seat the other day, it all hit me as to how lucky I was to be walking this earth. I am pretty sure I didn't have a car seat or even seat belts when I was young. Oh, I take that back. I did have a seat belt. It was called Mom. When she had to hit the brakes suddenly, she would throw her extended arm across me to keep me from being hurled into the air. I don't think that kind of protection would prove effective in today's crash tests, but I am still here to tell the story.

When my grandson rides his bike or his scooter, he wears knee pads and a helmet. When I look back, I rode a bike and roller skated on the city streets without any kind of head gear or padding, I am astonished that I made it to this age. My younger sister skated too and she wasn't as good as I was and was prone to falling down pretty often. Obviously, Mom was ahead of her time in the field of childhood safety, because even though she never thought about protecting my sister's head, she started belting a bed pillow to sister's back side when we went outside to skate down the sidewalks. The pillow trick worked really well because my sister's butt was unharmed and is flourishing to this day.

Come to think about it, I am closer to being a senior citizen than a debutante, so how did I escape death when I grew up on white bread? I even ate Velveeta and Spam and I am here to talk about it. I don't eat it anymore, but I can assure you that in my youth I had my fill of gluten and trans fat. I am pretty sure that an Omega 3 oil never crossed my tongue as a kid unless it was found in fish sticks. Growing up, the closest I ever came to eating organic was when I decided to taste one of the mud pies I had created in the yard.

Thank goodness my brain was never corrupted from watching television in my early years. Although there was no such thing as Parental Control to block me from watching unfit things, there weren't actually a lot of unfit things on TV back then. How much trouble could Gilligan really get into to that I would need to be shielded from?

It's a miracle that I lived to be this old because I was spanked within an inch of my life for misbehaving. Kids today are not spanked or slapped anymore. Even if they try to touch something dangerous or run into the street, corporal punishment is considered wrong. Now parents discuss the wrong-doing with the child and make contractual agreements with 5 year olds about the consequences if the infraction should ever occur again. I was slapped on occasion, spanked from time to time and otherwise punished in addition to being put in solitary confinement to think about what I'd done. How did I ever escape childhood relatively unscathed?

And to think I played with cap guns, and pogo sticks and jump ropes. I could have been burned or impaled or strangled for goodness sake! I faced so much danger and yet... I made it.

I had mumps and measles and chicken pox and, except for the permanent little hole in my forehead from that spot I couldn't stop scratching, I came through all of it.

I feel very fortunate to have lived through so much despite the fact that I didn't have anything to keep me safe and healthy. I am one lucky lady.

Miss Fifi has yet another gift to be thankful for in this life... The privilege of getting older.

Senti-MENTAL Journey

I am writing this from this from Indialantic, Florida, which is right below Orlando. It is 6 o′clock in the morning and I am trying to put my thoughts down on this iPad from my guest bedroom without the benefit of coffee. I am here to help my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Micky and Alana, through a somewhat bittersweet process: selling their home by the sea and moving back to California, where most of the family resides. Their house is going on the market in 2 weeks or so, but before that, a giant estate sale had to take place so I came here to help, both physically and mentally. Just to clarify, I am divorced, but my ex-husband’s family is still MY family. Basically, they kept me and he got to have his girlfriend. I am the big winner in this deal.

“Estate sales are a very emotionally draining experience and it was up to me to be the voice of reason every step of the way.”

Getting ready for a move across country and downsizing considerably is very physically demanding even if you are 35, which we are not. Just setting up to sell a house full of stuff is a huge effort. I conducted estate sales as a sideline for many years, so I know the ropes as to how to get things sold. There is more to it than just the day of the sale. Before anything else can happen, you have to separate what is to be sold from the items that are keepers. This is where the real fun begins and why they really needed me. This is a very emotionally draining experience and it was up to me to be the voice of reason every step of the way. Parting with things you love can be so traumatic and can really mess with your head and heart.

I know from experience how hard this process can be. After my divorce, the family home was sold and I ran my own estate sale. I had lived in the house for 25 years and raised my babies there. I was moving into a place not even half the square footage of my house, so I knew I had to whittle down my belongings. Easier said than done. My poor sister had to be much more than "the voice of reason" with me. She had to perform an intervention on me every time she viewed what I was planning on keeping.

I couldn't imagine myself as a single woman living alone. I couldn't fathom not needing every mixing bowl, vase, platter and tablecloth that I owned. And what about the things that belonged to my loved ones who were no longer on this earth? And all the sweet gifts people had given me through the years? And my collections, for goodness sakes! I had been working on those for decades. My poor sister had to talk me down from the roof on every "treasure" that I insisted on keeping. She was an angel and was very patient with me. I know what Alana was going through and I was determined to get her through this sale with a feeling of relief from being out from under all her stuff and not regretting her choices.

I am the most sentimental fool I know of and my sister-in-law is not far behind me. I had to be gently persuasive when trying to get her to part with things and put them in the sale. She hadn't come to grips with the fact that many of the items she felt she couldn't live without were things she hadn't used in years. My dear brother-in-law, Micky, was no problem at all. He was in charge of getting rid of the endless tools, widgets, electronics, yard equipment and other "testosterone-ish" items that filled the garage and shed. He had way less attachment to his man stuff and was excited to turn them into cash. He kept out of our way and only appeared when he was needed to move something. Micky is a dream man. He made my job easier. Alana is another story.

She really loves and trusts me and listened to my reasoning. She let go of things she really wanted to keep and I was proud of her. I didn't even say anything when I noticed that some items had mysteriously made their way from the "sale" area to the "keep" room. When they go to pack it up, there will be another edit when everything doesn't fit in the moving van and yet another one when they find a place in California and discover they still own too much. It's the natural progression of things and it doesn't seem to end, at least not for me. I have lived in my place for nearly 7 years and I STILL have an ass-load of belongings to get rid of. So who am I to judge?

We held the sale for 3 straight days. We made a nice amount of cash and got rid of tons. Clean up was a breeze. Alana and I hauled an SUV filled with the leftovers to the Goodwill on the last day and she never looked back. Good girl!

This experience was a good one for all of us. I got to visit my beloved beach oasis one more time and be with people I adore. We proved that even old people can "Git 'er done!" with determination, love and a good amount of red wine.

I had such a good time, despite the long hours and hard work. And as a bonus, I get to have their fantastic curio cabinet that I have admired for ages. I kept all my little collections of Murano glass birds, my grandmother's tea cups, my mother's thimbles and so on and I will have a perfect place to display them. Boy, will my sister be surprised to see them again! Wink, wink.

American Hair-itage

I was looking through some photos of myself the other day and marveled at the how I have evolved over the years. Of course my clothes made me laugh and I truly had some of those "what was I thinking" moments as I went through the pictures. Even though my outfits were a sign of the times and my weight varied from decade to decade, the one thing that remained basically the same was my long hair. I have only had short hair 3 times in my life. Once, when I was born and my nearly white hair was almost invisible. My mother used tape to affix a bow to my head on my first birthday, I am told. When I was about 6, my mom decided that the thing to do with my hair was to cut it short and give me a home permanent. The pictures of me in my poodle-do are probably the reason that I insisted on letting my hair grow after that.

As a young adult in the '70s and '80s, I ran the gamut from long straight locks parted down the middle to my Farrah coiffure to my long layered curly gypsy hair. But it was always long. I entertained the idea of a short hairstyle when Dorothy Hamill made news with her famous "wedge" haircut. She was really cute and I considered going that route for a short minute until I realized that what the world had fallen in love with is the fantastic way her hair fanned out when she was twirling around on the ice. I knew this "do" was not for me because unless I was planning on doing a sit spin in the middle of the conference room, this style would do me no good in the business world.

The third and final time that I had short hair was in the early '90s when my career was on fire and an image consultant told me that I needed to have a more business-like hairstyle, which translated into "shorter hair". I resisted, but when I looked around, all the really successful women had sleek, upscale haircuts that were perfect for their jet set lives. The only one that broke this rule was Hillary Clinton. If you remember, she had shoulder length hair and wore hair bands. And boy, did the press give her a lot of crap for it. Before long, one of those image consultant jerks must have taken her to the side as well, because in no time she, too, had joined the ranks of the short-haired "blow and go" professional women's club.

Even though I had considered chopping off my hair for a more executive image, I always hesitated and then chickened out. Then one day, I thought, maybe I come across too soft. Maybe a chiseled bob is what I need to look more powerful. It was a difficult decision for me as I was approaching my 40s and if I cut my hair now, would that be it for me? Would I then be one of the middle aged crowd with their look-a-like hair? As I grew even older would I end up as one of the blue-haired ladies with a teased-to-death Jiffy Pop hairdo? I remember being at a luncheon for women in business. I looked around the room and there were only 2 other women with long hair. Whether they were 35 or 75, they each had a short hair-do.

It was about 1993 and I decided to cut my hair. I went to one of those snooty patootie high-end salons where everything and everybody was too hip for words. I remember so vividly the conversation I had with Jean-Claude, my tres chic stylist. I told him I wanted something that was sophisticated but that would suit my bubbly personality. I wanted it to be easy to care for and have attitude. He suggested a very short close to the head style. He showed me a photo of a very angular rail thin model with the hair he was suggesting. I tried to be respectful, because he was the professional, but I have a face that's on the roundish cherub side and I could not imagine me pulling off a "pixie". It was a good call on my part because as the years have gone by, I have come to realize that only someone as beautiful as Halle Berry can pull of drastically short hair. Certainly not this girl with the Scooter Pie face. So monsieur decided that a "sassy bob" was what I needed. I liked the idea of being "sassy". It's kind of like sexy with a business vibe. I let him do it.

The third time for short hair was definitely not the charm. I left that salon un-sassy and fighting back tears. I had hoped to reinvent my image and look like a mover and a shaker in the man-dominated business world. Instead I looked like the mom on the Wonder Years. I hated it. I didn't feel powerful. I felt stupid. I have not had short hair since.

When I was raising my girls and even now, I have a mantra about hair. It's only hair and it will grow. When my kids did crazy things with their hair, I never said much. Even when my youngest surprised me with her royal blue Mohawk, I just let it pass. My kids have had purple hair and crazy haircuts and I just smile and tell them I love them. If I wanted to stop them from doing freaky things with their hair, all I would have to do is dye mine some unnatural Crayola color and it would all stop. I just might do it, but I'm not cutting it!

See below... what do you think?

Tweet Inspiration

I am so into tweeting. What a wonderful world this is, and I have discovered a fascinating part of, that has eluded me for too long. Before you start looking up my Twitter account, let me remind you that I am about a decade behind in social media, so it's not those "tweets" that I am referring too. If it wasn't for my Social Media Goddess, Miss Nora, LoveFifi.com would be up the creek without a paddle when it comes to the all the social media hoop-di-doo that is needed to be in business today. Thank you Nora. I would post my appreciation on Facebook and thank you publicly if I knew how.

What I am talking about are the real tweets. The ones that come from birds. Since I moved up into the hills, I have embraced my woodsy environment with great enthusiasm. Seeing a mother deer and her baby only feet away from me is a common occurrence. I have had to learn the hard way about the beautiful Bambi creatures that roam around my home. I was foolish enough to plant roses against my 4 foot back fence when I first moved in. Little did I know that roses were a deer delicacy. I was lucky to see any blooms at all because the next time I looked, I was the proud owner of stick bushes with not a rose in sight. I plant differently now but still leave something for my deer to munch on so I can have the pleasure of seeing them up close.

I have had to also learn how to coexist in harmony with the squirrels, possums, white-tailed bunnies, chipmunks, coyotes, and mountain lions (yes, mountain lions). But it is my relationship with birds that gives me joy every day. Even though I am a hopeless city girl, I always liked birds. My grandmother had a lovely yellow canary named "Beauty". I remember how ceremoniously she would cover him over at night and how he would sing when we uncovered him in the morning. She had him for as long as I could remember. It wasn't until recently that I realized that canaries don't live for 30 years, so she probably switched him out for a new one a few times. But "Beauty" always sang and it was a fond memory.

When I moved to the hills, I started a love affair with birds that is still going strong. I treasure my time on my back deck each morning. There are trees of every description all around me. The robins, doves and blue jays come to visit and dine on the special mix birdseed that I buy for them. The little finches use my fountain as a birdbath and don't seem to mind me watching them do their morning toilette. It is amazing that my presence doesn't scare the birdies away. They don't seem to fear the lady who just got out of bed who's hair is sticking straight up and who's eyes resemble a raccoon's from yesterdays mascara. I think the fact that I serve a virtual bird buffet keeps them coming back. And the hummingbirds... be still my heart. I have several feeders and I get herds of hummingbirds. Do they come in herds? Let me check. OK, I'm back and now I am really excited! A whole lot of hummingbirds is called "a charm". How cute is that? And while I was reading the online bird dictionary, I learned that a bunch of blue jays is "a band" and my finches in a group are "a trembling". The more I read the more I wanted to coax even more types of birds to my yard. I learned early on that if you give them what they like, they will find you. I guess word spreads fast and furiously in the bird world.

I started fantasizing about how I could make the back of my house a sanctuary and lure even more fantastic winged creatures to my yard. I will need some kind of a small pond so I can entice "a ballet" of swans to migrate to my property. I hear there are larks in my area and I need to find out what they like to eat so I can get "an exaltation" of larks to move my way. "A conspiracy" of ravens might be a little scary, but "a bouquet" of pheasants sounds like a divine addition to my bird community. At night I hear the owls but I don't see them. I know that they are out there and when they hang out in a group they are called "a parliament". I have to face the fact that although my personal space is pretty rural, I still live in L.A., so I guess I will never have "a flamboyance" of flamingos in my patio, but I really want one.

My neighbor next door always admonishes me for putting food out for the birds because it encourages squirrels. I think of it more as going with the flow of the balance of nature. Encouraging squirrels? Really, now. It's not like I am trying to get them to go to college and make something of themselves. Yes, they are precocious and they are piggish when it comes to stealing the bird food. They are fun to watch when they do their "Cirque du Soleil" acrobatics off the bird feeders. I have the squirrel-proof kind but the squirrels just laugh and steal the seed. They are very entertaining and I would never shoo them away. In fact, I am thinking of buying the t-shirt below. It makes me smile and it will drive my neighbor lady crazy.

Tipping

Those of you who regularly read my columns know that my brain is very special. The craziest thoughts get stuck in my blonde head and the longer that thought is running around in my brain, the more likely it is to go haywire in a variety of directions before I am done with it. These thoughts eventually turn into words and get sent to you to read over the weekend with morning coffee. This weekend will be no different, my dear readers, because I totally got hung up on practice of tipping and what it all means and how it got started.

Tipping

The practice of tipping the waitstaff in an eating establishment started in England and made its way to Colonial America. The term "tip" is thought to have originally been an acronym meaning "To Insure Promptness". Tipping servers in restaurants has long been customary in the United States, but how much to tip seems to confound some people. I recently went away for a few days with a group of friends. We ate in restaurants at every meal and it was very relaxing and quite fun to spend that time dining together. When the check came, we divided up the total by the number of people at the table. That's the easy part. My friends would never start taking inventory of who ate what because they simply are not like that. They also know that my head would explode. They wouldn't be my fiends if they were worried about who had what. The check was divided by six and that was it. Then came the discussion about the TIP and what the percentage should be, what kind of job the server did, and so on. Do we add on 15%, 20% or more because we were a party of 6? Was the fact that we had to ask for more butter twice a reason to subtract percentage points from what we leave our waiter? I listened carefully to what everyone was saying and kept quiet. I can't expect the rest of the world to embrace my philosophy on tipping in restaurants, so I just join in with what everyone else decides and if I don't think it's enough I add to it when nobody notices or slip extra to my server on the way out. I am a big tipper because I am so damn grateful that I never had to be a waitress and I appreciate what they do. I even tip well when they suck because I figure that they may not have a job for long. It's kind of my own little personal charity.

So, now I was curious about tipping in general. There's been a lot written about it so I looked it up. We tip in the U.S., but there are lots of places in the world where they don't. If you are not a fan of tipping, then a move a move to Austrialia, Croatia or Greece might be an option. They don't expect it in those places. Countries like France and Italy add it to your bill before you get it. There are also countries that find a gratuity to be an insult.

The fact that we tip our waiters and waitresses in America is a necessary custom. Did you know that waitstaff in this country depend heavily on gratuities to survive? The Wall Street Journal reported that 15% of waitstaff in this country live below the poverty level as compared to other hourly workers where only 7% fall into that category. When reading up on this subject I also learned that waitresses who are pretty earn more tips and strangely enough studies show that female servers who wear a barrette or flower in their hair make better tips. I was delighted to learn that a 20% tip is closer to the standard in restaurants these days, so people are paying up to be served. I read that tipping cab drivers 20% is considered the going rate, but here's where I get tough. If they don't willingly handle my luggage, or if they smoke in the car or talk on the cell phone instead of paying attention to the road, their tip dwindles with every infraction. I can deal with a disgruntled cab driver, but the people who handle my food and my dining experience are well taken care of.

Tip of the Iceberg

The words "tip" and "tipping" just wouldn't leave my head. Maybe because they are both pretty cute words. Whatever it is, my brain skipped around and landed on "tip of the iceberg". This refers to a small, noticeable part of a problem, the total size of which is really much greater.

How about tipping your hat? Where did that come from? When men wore hats as part of everyday dress, lifting the brim of the hat from the head for a moment was considered a polite, non-verbal way to show recognition, gratitude, or a simple greeting to another person. How adorable is that? My brain was still going and I thought about something being on the tip of my tongue or how mischievous it felt to be tip-toeing for some reason. Yep, I got hung up on tip/tipping and I dragged you along with me! I know I have to stop this madness, but not just yet. Stick with me through just one more!

Cow Tipping

Is it a real thing or just legend? Before I get off my journey on The Tipping Express, I have to know.

ow tipping is purportedly the activity of sneaking up on an unsuspecting upright sleeping cow and pushing it over for entertainment. I was relieved to find out that it's just an urban legend and does not really exist. Good to know. I like cows.

Well, I'm done for now and my mind is now empty for the time being. Whew! That was exhausting...

Talk to you next week. Love you. Mean it.

Hello, My Darlings...

By the time you read this, Christmas Day will be over and the last of the Hanukkah candles will have been lit. I hope your holiday was joyful and that you are enjoying these days leading up to the New Year.

I'm writing on this Christmas Eve Eve and the last of my expected Christmas purchases has arrived at the office. I will wrap it and get it under the tree tonight. I definitely have visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. I am pretty proud of myself for having such a good attitude. Yesterday, I drove my oldest daughter, her husband and my 2 1/2 year old granddaughter to the airport so they can spend Christmas in New York with my son-in-law's family. I was upbeat all the way and only cried when I got back in the car. I came back to work only to learn that Joe Cocker had died. Very sad for one of his biggest fans. When I got home, I got a bill in the mail that threw me for loop. I could have let all this get to me, but I didn't. I reflected on the fact that I will indeed have Christmas with my children and grandchildren when my oldest one returns. We have postponed our Christmas, present opening and all, to the day after New Year's Day. It just won't be on the 25th, but it will be Christmas. I also remembered that I got to see Joe Cocker in concert about 7 years ago. He couldn't have been more amazing. And the bill? I will take a big girl pill and pay it.

As I get older, it takes more and more to make me distressed. One of the gifts of maturity is knowing how to manage and sort out things that don't feel good. At the same time, I have come to appreciate things that elevate my good nature and make me smile. A sweet friend of mine gave me the best present recently. She had given the same gift, a special handmade pair of earrings, to another one of our friends and I admired the gift greatly. I may have even whined a bit. I absolutely loved these earrings, so before long I had my own pair. They make me so damn happy. There is something about them that makes me forget when I am feeling sad or bad or conflicted. They are magical. I wore them today because I needed to and since they are really Christmas earrings, I am probably going to have to stop wearing them at some point and go cold turkey. I will find some more magic somewhere else. I always do. That's the trick to staying happy.

I will certainly wear my special earrings on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, which will be very different for me this year. Because one child was away, I encouraged the others to spend time with the husbands/boyfriends family. Whatever happens, it is all good. I think I have this grown up thing down pretty well. It gets easier all the time.

Be happy, healthy and full of love.

A Loss Of Words

My panties are in a huge knot right now. Of course they are LoveFifi.com panties and they will be like new again after I have my say.

Here goes. I met a man at a friend's dinner party. He is attractive, accomplished, very well spoken and unmarried. We talked the evening away and there was truly a connection. It was nice. He asked for my phone number and email address and I obliged. I was surprised at myself. I have mentioned before that I loathe dating, especially that first one. I find going to my accountant for my yearly tax appointment more enjoyable than most first dates. But since the dinner party kind of got all that out of the way, I threw caution to the wind and gave him my contact information. After all, a handsome man with such impressive credentials, a sense of humor, the ability to speak knowledgeably on so many subjects may be the treasure of a man I had given up trying to find.

The next day I received a text message from Mr. Fabulous that said. "How r u? IMHO last night was GR8! I will call u tonight. xoxo PQ". I stared at this damn text in complete disbelief. How could so few words say so much about a person? "How r u?" Really? He is so busy he doesn't have time to write "are you". If he doesn't have time for four extra letters, could he have time for me? Now IMHO baffled me completely. It looked like some new medical insurance category like a PPO or an HMO, but that didn't make sense. Thank goodness for the Internet. I soon found out that it stood for "in my humble opinion" in texting-speak. I got the "last night was GREAT" part without looking anything else up. And he finished up his message by flattering my existence once again by referring to me as "u".

Did some 14-year-old skate boarder kidnap my my articulate and successful new friend, Peter Quigley, and is now writing to me in his stead as some kind of sick prank? This guy earned an MBA and owns a successful consulting firm. He obviously enjoyed my company because he stuck to me like glue and wrote me the very next morning. But this mish-mash of goofy acronyms and abbreviated words left me disappointed and completely bewildered as to how to write back.

I like the English language. I like communication. I don't want to have to refer to some new age cyber glossary to try to figure out what he is saying. I realize that he thinks it's young and techie cute to speak in shortcuts and acronyms, but it really put me off. There are enough acronyms already in our language and for the most part, they make sense. They were created for efficiency not laziness.

Acronyms like these below were totally necessary. Too scientific to remember the whole thing!

SCUBA Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus

RADAR Radio Detection and Ranging

LASER Light Amplification by the Stimulated Emission of Radiation

JPEG Joint Photographic Experts Group

ZIP (Code) Zone Improvement Plan

Acronyms like these are forgivable because they get the point across quickly and are succinct. Very efficient, I would say.

DIY Do It Yourself

ETA Estimated Time of Arrival

AKA Also Known As

TBA To Be Announced

ATM Automated Teller Machine

RIP Rest In Peace

I am not offended when someone asks for my ID, or wants to know if they can use my PC or complains that their car keys are MIA. All are acceptable modern additions to our language. But when some man tries to woo me in a short text by making it even shorter and requires me to decode what he has to say, it makes me crazy. This guy graduated from HARVARD with honors. It so distresses me that people don't realize that taking these shortcuts is not flattering to the person on the receiving end, unless you are a teenager. I am not a teenager and I am going to stick to my infatuation with whole words and complete sentences. And I would also like to mention that many school districts in this country are no longer teach cursive writing. No more handwriting; you heard me.

There is no rhyme or reason to this epidemic of whittling down perfectly easy phrases to type. OK, I can live with LOL. It's cute enough to stay. But if you want to thank me very much, please refrain from typing TYVM. I can guarantee that I put effort into what I did for you and I deserve better. If I made your day better, please don't text me YMMD. It wouldn't feel as good as you spelling it all out.

So what am I going to tell the man who so romantically refers to me as "u"? I wrote to him in a way that is the complete opposite of what he wrote to me. I emailed him for one thing. I started with "Hello Peter". I channeled my Emily Bronte self and wrote lovely, ladylike complete sentences without an acronym to be found. I signed it "Warmest Regards, Fifi"

I've gotten nothing back so far, but my guess is that he either won't "get" it or won't like it. Whichever is fine with me. If he replies to my email and sounds like the man that I met at my friends house, then there may be something there between us. If he sends me another one of those "too cool for school" abbreviations-from-Hell texts, I probably will not ever reply.

Whew... My panties are officially unknotted and I am breathing normally once again.

P.S. If I am ever lost and you are on my search team, if you see this from the air, please disregard everything I just said.

Nap Dance

I just returned from the most fabulous road trip vacation. My sister did all the driving and I was the navigator. It was all so perfect, yet I returned home completely exhausted. One of these days I am going to go away and do nothing but relax, contemplate my navel and return home revived and refreshed. I was pretty stymied as to why I was so dog tired when I got home. I honestly did nothing but have a wonderful time. We got up when we wanted and we did our sightseeing at our own pace. No pressure. No place we had to be at a certain time. Our biggest decisions each day were what we felt like eating and what we felt like seeing. Life was aimless and mindless and delicious, yet we came back feeling like our Cousin Clint’s 18-wheeler had run us over. We saw him and his lovely wife, Millie, on our trip and it was the best. Clint is an avid reader of my articles and I am so grateful to him for his love and loyalty. It feels so good to have a fan even if he is a relative. He doesn't have to read this stuff at all and he does!

Anyway, Sister and I returned on a Friday and even though I had fully intended to unpack, do laundry, catch up with the mail and try to explain my absence to my traumatized dogs and give them quality time, I only got the latter accomplished. It was then that I realized why I was so freaking tired. I had gone nearly 2 weeks without a single nap. Yes, I nap. When I got divorced and started my life as a single woman, I discovered the true bliss of napping. On a typical Saturday I would rise early, get my chores and errands done and when I arrived back home in the early afternoon, there were these two furry babies waiting at the back door for me. They had their "where in the hell have you been?" sad faces going on. I learned a long time ago that the best way for me to make it up to them for being gone for 4 hours is to head for the bedroom for cuddling time. I would fall off to sleep and they would guard me and keep the flying monkeys away. It was heaven and when I awoke in the late afternoon, I was a new Fifi. I could hit the ground running and actually have a night life. What a revelation this was. What a life changer! Before this cathartic moment, my last nap was on a mini cot in Mrs. Gordon's kindergarten class. Funny how something that used to seem like punishment when I was 5 is a guilty pleasure as a grown up. I have to thank Twinkie and Beau for showing me the way.

If there was a Pro-napping Movement, I'd be at the front of the parade. This habit has completely changed this girl and made it very clear that I need my naps, even on vacation. We had fun non-stop on our trip, but I didn't get one nap in along the way. I couldn't doze while Sister was driving; that wouldn't be fair and plus... I had a job to do. I was the navigator, the DJ and the one in charge of opening the Cheese Doodles. And if I WERE to fall asleep, my sister would have nudged me and told me that it was OK because she was planning on taking a nap too... without stopping the car. It's kind of our little joke.

The practice of napping isn't just for babies and geezers anymore. Presidents of the United States and captains of industry have long ducked out into private quarters for a mid-day nap; they just fancied it up by calling it a POWER NAP. I must admit that when I plan to stay late at LoveFifi.com, I sometimes sneak off to my private Fifi cave and grab a little power nap. The best part is that I have fantastic support from some of the most important members of my company. See Below.

Branching Out

For the last 10 days I have had the luxury of sitting in the passenger seat of a very fancy SUV and watching the world go by. My sister did all the driving from Atlanta to Cleveland, where we arrived a few hours ago. We took our time along the way and stopped wherever we felt like stopping. Our route took us through two national parks, miles of pastoral scenery, alongside placid lakes and rushing rivers. I saw a million postcard-worthy views of this beautiful country. I had time to get lost in my thoughts and come down from a life at home that is wonderful, but often crazy busy and jam-packed with stress. Every day has been both an adventure and a dream. The whole trip was planned out perfectly so all we had to do was show up to our next destination and enjoy the sights in between. We shopped, we antiqued, we dined at local eateries and we took in the points of interest at our own pace.

If all that wasn't blissful enough, sister and I got lots of time together in the car to talk. Between the oohs and aahs of appreciation for the exquisite scenery, we talked and planned and even schemed a bit. We kept the CD player playing our favorite songs and we snacked on goodies we don't indulge in often. Skittles never tasted so good. We got up in the morning whenever we woke up. No alarms, no wake up calls. We followed our whims and did what we felt like doing. After over a week of living like this I can truthfully say that being irresponsible is highly underrated.

This is a trip I will never forget for many reasons. I think my brain and my body have finally learned to truly relax. Sitting there and appreciating the wonders of nature while traveling down the road with no demands on my time has been so good for me. All I had to do was suck in all the beauty of my surroundings and let my mind run with it. And that's just what I did.

From the moment that we hit the road, I have marveled at the trees. It's fall, so the trees along the way were particularly spectacular. The more trees I saw, the more I thought about them. No matter where we traveled, the trees were amazing. I thought about how long it took them to grow to be so tall and grand. I thought about the significance of trees in our lives. They shade us from the heat, they give texture and beauty to every landscape, they make a brilliant playground for kids and squirrels and their trunks provide a permanent monument for lovers carving their words of undying love.

This trip has opened up these green eyes to so much and I am so grateful for the experience. I have even seen the true meaning of what Brenda Bettencourt wrote in huge writing on the first page of my high school yearbook. I was a little insulted at the time but now realize what a fantastic compliment she gave me.

"Remember the mighty oak tree was once a nut like you."

These words are now music to my ears. Thank you Brenda for likening me to something so awesome.

Minimal Husbandry

I don't think it's any secret that I am divorced. I take care of everything myself or at least that's what people think. My house is in good order. Nothing is broken or in disrepair. My garden is lovely. My car is well-maintained. My finances are orderly. How do I do all this and still run LoveFifi.com? I couldn't do it without my husbands. That's right, my husbands... plural. Yes, I am indeed divorced. I was married for a very long time to a good man who honestly was best at making a living. He couldn't fix a thing. He didn't know a socket wrench from a screwdriver and had no desire to learn, so I figured out early on that if something broke, it was my job to find someone who could do the repair and not cost a fortune. It was kind of that way with everything. He was very important, so I took care of maintaining our life. I also had a career and a truck load of kids to take care of but I am not complaining. Actually in a weird way, my marriage prepared me for being single and on my own at this time of my life.

Back to my husbands. When you are in charge of a lot of "departments" let's call them, such as when running a household, you have to have a team of people that you can rely on at a moment's notice. I was always on the lookout for honest and talented people who could do the things we couldn't. I asked a lot of questions, nosed around a bit, and before long, I had quite a repertoire of butchers, bakers and candlestick makers who could take care of our needs. It got to the point that I had a killer list of plumbers, electricians, gardeners, handy guys and more who were tested and had my seal of approval. I was Angie's List long before Angie ever thought of it. If somebody I know needed a dependable person to fix or build something, or a good affordable mechanic or a tree trimmer, they would call me. The one thing that I was always most grateful for was that even when these guys got super busy because of my recommendations, they always took care of me and my family immediately.

Then comes 2007. I get a divorce. I buy a place of my own in another neighborhood. I am alone. It's not like I was married to a handyman and went through "fix it" shock as I was now used to finding someone else to do it. It turned out to be a blessing that I was married to the unhandiest man in the universe and it was then that I realized that I held the key to a happy life as a single woman. So once again, as I settled into my new life and my new home, I found talented and reliable guys to take care of the things that I can't do or don't care to do. Once I find someone great, I add them to my list, but this time I don't share them with the world. What I do is take care of them. I always offer coffee, cold drinks and food when one of my wonderful workers is doing something for me. I turn sports on the TV in every room in the house. They like to fix things for me and make me happy just like a husband does. That's what I have been told, but I have never been involved with a man who could fix anything so I wouldn't know for sure. But in apple pie America, that's what I hear goes on in homes.

So I affectionately call these men my husbands. It takes a lot of them doing everything really well to make me happy. No one man could ever come close and it works out well. I have my Handy Man Husband, Pete. He takes his coffee with heavy cream and two sugars. He has a key to my house and if something breaks, I can call him from work and he can fix it when I am not home. Sometimes I don't even see him and whatever it is gets fixed as if by magic. My Gardening Husband, Carlos (black coffee or Coca Cola... I stock both), not only trims, prunes, fertilizes my flowers, he fills up my bird feeders and waters for me when I am out of town. I have a Mechanic Husband, Sandy, who'd really like to be my husband, so I play it a little cooler with him. I don't know how he takes his coffee and I never will. I am just sweet and funny and give him lots of smiles and gratefulness. He has a giant crush on me and calls me personally to let me know when it's time for my car to be serviced. He has rescued me many times and done miracles so I wouldn't be without a vehicle. Believe it or not, I have a Manicure Husband, Kenny. Yep, the person who does my nails is a man. His beautiful wife Eve does my pedicures, so everything is Kosher. I do allow my husbands to have real wives, as long as they treat us both well. I have a Dog Groomer Husband, Jason. He delivers my dogs to me at the house if I need him too. I am his favorite customer because I have brought him a ton of business and he loves my dogs. I have a husband for every task a person has to endure to get things done. I don't know what collective noun you would use to describe my congregation of husbands. Well, it's a gaggle of geese, a pride of lions, a flush of ducks and a pod of whales. A herd of husbands, maybe?

Anyway, I am very well taken care of and I take very good care of my guys. All I need now is a husband husband who can devote his time to loving me, making me laugh, kissing me, hugging me and I will gladly do the same for him. And the good news is that he doesn't have to do much around the house. My husbands are all happily married, so I don't think much will change.

Honestly, finding a real husband for me is easier than finding, let's say... a good electrician. But finding a real husband would entail dating unless things have changed. I hate dating. You know, I think I will see if Angie can recommend a husband husband for me. Her recommendation service has come a long way and you never know.

Junk For Joy

The big garage sale extravaganza is over. After 3 weekends of hard labor to prepare the merchandise and stage all of our glorious crap, the big day finally arrived. Sister and I took a vacation day on Friday so we would be completely ready to face the crowds of bargain hunters on Saturday.

We advertised this as "the garage sale of the century" and the bargain hunters arrived in droves. Sister and I were dressed in proper attire for the event. You have to be easily identifiable as the bosses if you're going to make the best deals and the most money. Sissy and I exuded an "in charge" vibe with a touch badass thrown in, if I do say so myself. We were decked out in jeans, old concert t-shirts, cowboy hats and fanny packs. Ok, maybe we looked more like tourists from Texas, but people got it that we were running the show.

The customers dove into our merchandise and had arm loads of goodies in no time. It was amazing. You'd think we were giving it away for free. Actually, that is a pretty close to what they wanted to pay. One of the hottest items were the dozens of extra-plush, nearly new, (freshly washed) terry cloth bath towels. These weren't ours. We have a friend who's aunts neighbor died and she had a closet full of really deluxe towels in different color palettes that she would change around to suit her mood. We agreed to sell her stuff and take a cut of the proceeds. Every two minutes someone would hold up a towel and ask "how much?". "Two dollars each", I would reply thinking about what a great deal that was for such nice towels. Anyway, the reply from the prospective towel purchasers was always the same. "One dollar" and it was a statement, not a question. I was advised by many customers that they sell bath towels at Wal-Mart for only $2.50, so our towels were overpriced. I have watch too much QVC to let them get away comparing those towels with our fabulous, luxurious, dead-lady towels. I sprung into action and held up one of our towels then wrapped it around me to show how large they were. I then challenged them to feel the sumptuous thickness. I had to do this demo a bunch of times during the day, but we got two bucks for every one of those damn towels.

Garage sale customers are a breed of their own. One thing you can be sure of when you have one of these sales is that you will go through a laundry list of emotions. You will feel charmed, annoyed, sentimental, pissed off and amused. The folks that come to these things range from those who truly need basic household items, to the swap meeters who resell your junk, to recyclers who love other peoples used stuff to nut cases who don't need anything but love bargains. It is that latter philosophy that got sister and I into our current situation. Oh yeah, there's also the scrap gold guys who come around, look at your costume jewelry through a loop and leave in a huff. Love those jerks. One man even asked me if there was any real gold on the table. He was too lazy to look! I couldn't resist; I told him, in my best blonde "Clueless" voice, that I had just sold the bag of stuff that had 14k on it to someone who was just here. He left in a double huff.

Then there are the people who pretend they don't speak English. I had one lady who brought me a pile of clothes, many still brand new, and wanted to know the price for all. I counted out 25 hangers that I took from her. I was calculating in my head and trying to be fair. Even though the tags were still hanging off much of it, this stuff doesn't fit us and neither sister nor I are going to slim down 10 lbs to be able to wear any of it. That was the original plan. "Twenty dollars for everything," I said with a smile, thinking that she would be over the moon excited about all those new clothes for so little money. "Too much," she said with a scowl. She then flashed all the money she had, $15, and tried to get me to take it. I could see that she was playing me, so I made her take out some items and I took her money. She came back later and bought the other stuff. I felt triumphant as a business person. Then she pulled out a bag with two items from the first round that she wanted to exchange. Who does that? I let her. By then I was exhausted. She won.

There were so many neighborhood residents who came and told us how amazing our sale was. We sold lots of things to locals who will give our treasures a good home. We made a lot of people happy and all in all it was a very fun day. We got rid of so much stuff. Was it worth it? Was it a success?

Well, we made an impressive four figures. The pile of garage sale inventory is infinitely smaller, covered up and ready to go for when we do it one more time next month. My sister has her garage back and her car is happy. I need to mention that the friend that was going to help us bailed on us and we had to hire a helper. Also, after three weekends of manual labor our old bodies were in pretty bad shape, so we each had a long massage on Sunday. We were too tired to cook, so we ended up eating out most of the time for the last three weeks. So, was it a success? Hell yes! We made a little money and got rid of a ton of things we don't use. Best of all was that the two sisters got spend time together. We didn't whistle while we worked, but we yakked up a storm. We talked about everything and everyone and planned out all the great fun we're going to have in this life. And don't tell anyone, but each of us got to buy some fantastic things that we couldn't live without. The dead lady didn't just leave nice towels.

Garage Sale 101

My sister and I have been piling up unwanted items for the past year and planning the granddaddy of all garage sales. We usually do this a couple of times a year, but this time is different because we are seriously downsizing. We both have so much stuff that we don't use or need, it's time to let a lot of it go. Sister has a nice sized garage for storage and she also lives on the perfect street. It's a bit of a thoroughfare, so people naturally stop when they see the fabulous array of crap that we have for sale.

Last weekend we began the preparation. For two solid days we pulled down the stacks of boxes, sorted out the treasures by category, moved the furniture to key locations and set up a million folding tables. We know how to do this, because we got into this situation because we love to go to garage sales. We both are very pleased with the abundance of great stuff that we own and use that came from garage sales, flea markets and auctions, but right now we just have too much. My poor sister's garage was so full that there was barely room for her car, a Volkswagen bug. Need I say more? We've been waiting for summer to pass, because it's harder to run a good sale when it's too hot. Buyers don't like to shop for long when it's hot and this girl hates to be hot, so fall is perfect The big event is scheduled for two weekends from now.

“You want to grab the drive-by shoppers who are on the way to somewhere else and can't resist stopping.”

The goal is to slim down what we own, make some money for our upcoming vacation and give my sister her garage back. We will do all of that and then some. I am a merchant and I am determined to make this sale the "event extraordinaire". It is important that you stage these sales so that everything looks appetizing to the buyers. There is a way to categorize the clutter so it is irresistible. The trick is to make it look random, but organize it cleverly. You don't want your customers knocking into each other, so you create "departments" without being obvious. The front lawn is like the showroom floor of a car dealership. You want to grab the drive-by shoppers who are on the way to somewhere else and can't resist stopping. The lawn is where we will put some furniture, the bicycle, the outdoor tea cart with the yellow striped umbrella and the "art gallery" of framed pictures that will line the walls... everything big and flashy. We will put a long table of china, pretty glassware, lamps, picture frames, candlesticks, etc. to be sure to attract the women. I think we have at least one of everything in the world and we plan to show it off and bring in the buyers. We even have a brand new professional barber pole to sell... don't ask. I will be the cashier and checkout will be on the front lawn as well. There's MORE treasures beyond the lawn in the patio area and the garage. They can enter, but they can only get out by going by me and my security man, Andy. He's our dear friend and Sister's next door neighbor. He will be there to keep a watchful eye on the customers and make sure everyone pays. He is also in charge of feeding us, so his presence is invaluable.

The patio area is where we keep all the "pretties". The vintage stuff, the linens, the purses, the cute kitchen accessories, decorator items and basically stuff that woman love to buy. My sister and I couldn't not buy this stuff, so we brought it home but now it has to go! The last stop is the garage. This we call the "testosterone department". Men come looking for tools, etc., or get dragged along to these sales. We are setting up an area to keep them organized and out of the way while the ladies shop to their hearts' content. The garage is staged with everything utilitarian from tools, to basketballs to sleeping bags, electronics, poker equipment, a Shop Vac and a 1990s boom box just to name some of the goodies in our man trap. Sis and I have gathered everything up from past projects, past boyfriends and ex-husbands and created a garage sale "man cave" that should wow the guys and keep them busy.

There's still a lot of work to be done but it's coming along great. Wanna hear a funny story? We had to run out last Saturday to get some things we needed. On the way to Target, we ran into of all things... a big Garage Sale. It would have been ridiculous to stop, so we did. Sister and I came to the realization a long time ago that we are indeed ridiculous. We both spotted these two great pieces of older furniture, a French Provincial desk and an adorable dresser. We don't need either one for ourselves, but they would sure add some panache to OUR sale. The owners were obviously eager to unload these pieces, so Sis and I offered them $40 for both and talked them into delivering them to us later in the day. Sister has a VW bug, remember. Furniture sells really well if you know what you're doing, and we do. The truth is that their crap makes our crap look even better. I'll post photos next week. You'll see that buying two large pieces of furniture when you're trying to unload a lifetime of junk makes perfect sense.

This weekend is more of the same. We clean and dust and fold and make our goods look nice. The more you prepare what you're selling, the more money you will make. If you take a stack of freshly laundered gently used bath towels, tie them up with satin ribbon and a bow and slap a price on them that is fair, they will be gone in a flash. We make everything look as nearly new as we can. I know that's not what most people do, but that's how Sister and I roll.

I'll keep you posted on our progress. We are so excited about getting all this stuff out of our lives and turning it into cash. But I think what we are looking forward to the most is making some space in our garages and houses. How else are we going to be able to go out to garage sales on Saturdays again? Out with the old stuff and in with the NEW old stuff! Yeah!