Mother

This won't be so much an article as it is just plain old fashioned musings. My heart and head are in a different place today and I just feel like talking. I hope that is OK.

If anyone were to ask me what is my biggest accomplishment in life, I would't hesitate for a minute. It's being a mother. I am very proud of my mothering skills and actually most everything else I have done in this life. OK, there was that one weekend in New Jersey all those years ago that wasn't my proudest moment, but the the statute of limitations for throwing up in someone's car console was up a long time ago.

With Mother's Day just around the corner, it brings up so many memories and quandaries all at the same time. My kids will be asking what I want to do. They won't want me to cook so that means going out to a crowded restaurant. Ugh. I just want to be with them. I want to be with my kids, their spouses and their kids. But then guilt sets in. Two of my daughters are mothers themselves. Maybe they would just like to hang out at home with their families. It's a dilemma. It's not that I don't want to celebrate the day or be worshiped by my children, but I don't want to take anything away from my daughters.

It's kind of a bittersweet day anyway, since my own mother is now gone. The ads on TV and the emails in my mailbox suggest that we mothers would like some tulips or chocolate or one of those seersucker zip-up gown thingies to lounge around in. The list of gifts I would like begins with help to clean my garage and ends with tickets to see the Rolling Stones when they go on tour next fall. I am not your typical mother or grandmother.

I don't go to the cemetery to visit my mom. For many, the cemetery is a happy place for folks who have lost their loved ones. Not for me. My mom was just the right amount of crazy. She could have given Lucy Ricardo tips on how to get into trouble. I remember fondly when I was a kid and our local fancy-dancy gift shop had a counter full of wind up alarm clocks for ladies' bedrooms. This was a lot of years ago, so stick with me if you don't remember clocks that had to be wound every day. There must have been 2 or 3 dozen clocks on display. My mother picked up each and every one of them while keeping the sales staff at bay with her "just looking" comments. I didn't pay much attention to what my mother was doing. I was just glad to be with her. Later that day at a few minutes before 6 p.m., my mom called the gift shop and asked for some help with an alarm clock she had seen earlier. The call was transferred and my mom was connected with a saleslady in that department. As she began to talk, a couple of dozen alarm clocks went off at the same time. My mother could not contain her delight. She had set them all to 5:55 p.m. just for fun. I probably told you this story before, but it's one of my faves. She did that kind of stuff every once in a while. It recharged her devilish side and was always amusing. Those are some of the best memories of my mom. Or the time my dad took a nap in the afternoon and she painted his toenails bright pink while he was fast asleep. One year there were sparklers left over from the fourth of July and she lit them and stuck them in the Thanksgiving turkey when she brought it from the kitchen to the table. She made life fun, so to sit by her grave just doesn't give me comfort. To short sheet someone's bed would be a better way to honor her.

One of the saddest times of my life was when my mom was fading and I wanted so desperately to ask her how she made particular dishes. Her cooking was remarkable and she never measured or wrote anything down. I never could bring myself to ask her any of the recipes I loved so much, because I didn't want her to think I was asking her these things before she died.

I still struggle to duplicate her fine cooking. She never used anything pre-made or fake. I remember one time when she looked into my refrigerator and saw light butter, light mayonnaise and light salad dressing among other "LITE" versions of food. She was in disbelief and shut the refrigerator door immediately exclaiming that it was a wonder we didn't all just float away with all that light food. My mommy was a complete character with a lot of character. I am so her daughter in so many ways. I miss her.

My mother was always so proud of me. She raised me to have good manners and social graces. She sent me to Cotillion to learn the Waltz and Foxtrot and proper behavior in a social situation, but I loved her madly anyway. She made sure I went to the best private schools and was taught French. I can conjugate French verbs like a champ to this day, but it doesn't do me a lot of good living in a state that is 50% Spanish speaking.

I know she thought I would grow up and marry Prince Charles and that would be it. Somewhere the plan went askew and I ended up selling crotchless panties for a living. (By the way, Spell-check kept insisting I meant "toothless panties" and fought with me to change it. I won.) She lived long enough to see my LoveFifi dream come true. She was proud of me and often commented that Prince Charles didn't turn out to be such a great husband anyway. It all turned out well.

So to all my mothers and grandmothers out there, I hope you have plans for a wonderful day on May 10th. My day will be a good one and all my kids will be there, I am sure. The good thing is that they tell me all year long what a great mother I am and how much they love me. I am one lucky lady.

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.

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.

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.

Falling In Love Again

I am feeling dreamy right now. Come along with me on the ride. You will love where we're going... I promise. I am deliriously happy and exhilarated right now. I am admittedly high. Have I taken some kind of potion or eaten some kind of wacky brownies? No, no, no. It's October! It's officially FALL.

I am mad for this time of year. Everything about it is fantastic. Considering that I live in Southern California where summer and hot weather hang on for as long as they can, snippets of the fall season to come break through the heat to let me know that my favorite time of year is arriving. Although the temperature was in the 80s yesterday, there was a cool breeze wafting through, starting in the late afternoon. By early evening it had cooled down into the 60s. The night was clear and crisp outside when I sat on my patio after dinner with my last cup of tea before bed.

What is it about fall that intoxicates me so? Let me tell you... you know you can't stop me.

It's the crisp air. It's the delicious aromas of logs being burned in fireplaces when you walk the dog. It's the exquisite colors of the leaves turning and so much more. I am not a big fan of football but you don't have to ask me twice to go to a game with a group of friends. Fall is all about football and tailgating and having a great time. I am actually pretty good at feigning excitement at football games. Even though I never know which inning it is, I am usually eating or drinking something and looking happy. I have had my friends fooled for years.

Speaking of eating and drinking, the food of fall is amazing. Traditionally harvest time, the cuisine turns from summer salads to warm foods that are hearty and robust. Soups, stews and freshly baked bread. Love it!

One of my favorite things about this time of the year are the clothes. I have more sweaters than I like to admit and I just took the bins down from the storage shelves and visited with every pullover and cardigan I own. Soon I will get to wear them and I can't wait. My dogs will be able to wear their many sweaters, too, and they can't wait either. There's something about wrapping yourself in a sweater that feels so special. And pulling on a pair of boots only makes it better. You just don't get that feeling when you throw on shorts, a tank top and flip flops. I'm sorry, but you just don't.

With fall comes Halloween and pumpkins and all that. People are decorating the outside of their houses more and more and it makes me smile. I will be in Virginia this Halloween so I will get a big dose of fall on the East Coast of the United States. It doesn't get any better than that. One of my dear friends who lives on a huge farm is having us to dinner followed by a bonfire and after dinner drinks. Dreamy!

I do love Halloween and it will be fun to experience it so far from home. People who know me know that I am a crazy good gramma and are probably wondering how I could possibly leave my grand babies on Halloween. They are 2 1/2 and just-turned-7. I always buy them their costumes so they are all set. I have already earned my stripes in the Trick or Treating department years ago with my girls, so I won't be needed there. When they are out gathering up goodies, I will be sitting on my best friends back porch sipping wine and listening to Mozart. My babies will FaceTime me in their costumes before they go out with their parents. I will get a slew of fabulous photos of my own little Elsa, from Frozen, and Spider-Man and will be able to share these images with all of Virginia. Everybody wins.

I want to warn the über-intellectuals who read my columns that my next fall favorite might not make any sense to either of you. I love the new Fall Television Season! I look forward to finding new shows to watch on the regular networks. You can't watch cable all the time. I need some drama and comedy to intermix with my regular diet of real life crime and house flipping.

At the top of my list of why I love fall is that soon I can come home in the evening and light a fire. There is something about a crackling fire that soothes me and makes me so content. The only thing that could make it better is if I had a fireplace. Just kidding! I have a great one but I made you laugh.

Taking a Tranquil-izer

I just finished my third week of yoga and I really love it. It has been a pretty life changing experience for me so far. One of the life lessons I never learned was how to relax, so the prospect of getting to the point of being “at one” with myself and the universe seemed nearly impossible for this crazy girl.

I owe a lot of my positive feelings about yoga to my yogi, my teacher. Before I met her, my only knowledge of a yogi was the one who was a bear and had a sidekick named Boo Boo. She is an older woman who speaks in poetry and never hesitates or falters. Her words are seamless and flow in continuous perfection every minute of class time.

On my first night, I got there what I thought was right on time. It was 10 minutes before the start of class. I was surprised when I found the room and there were already 15-20 pairs of assorted Birkenstocks, sandals and flip flops all lined up. I knew I was in the right place until I removed my shoes and added them to the rows of discarded footwear. When I looked at their shoes and then looked at mine, I thought for a moment that I might not belong.

“When I looked at their shoes and then looked at mine, I thought for a moment that I might not belong.”

I entered the dark-ish room and everyone was sitting in what I now recognize as the lotus position. The teacher welcomed me and beckoned me to find a place for my mat. Easier said than done, I want to tell you. I have had more luck finding a parking place at Macy’s on Christmas Eve day than finding a space in the makeshift yoga studio. It seems that the room is normally used as the playroom for child care. It’s carpeted, but all those places were taken. All that was left for me was a space in the linoleum lined “kitchenette” alcove behind the teacher. At least I was alone and wouldn’t be bumping arms and legs with anyone. Even the cushy new yoga mat I had just purchased at Marshall’s couldn’t protect my old body from the hard floor. As she began her melodious instructions, I had a hard time paying attention at first because the man in front of me was taking up two spaces on the carpeted area and it pissed me off. I quickly got a hold of myself and paid attention, although I was finding great pleasure in plotting the carpet hog's death.

The hard floor made everything hurt but I listened attentively to her direction. “Cultivate stillness in your life”, she purred. “With yoga you have the power to break through that which holds you back”. I liked the sound of that and did everything I could to emulate what everyone else was doing. She had us lie down and asked us to “flower” our toes. It didn’t take me long to realize that there was a yoga-speak that went along with the yoga routines. I had to listen really closely because the sweet yogi lady spoke very softly and the boom box with the accompanying yoga music was right over my head on the kitchen counter. She then asked us to raise our knees towards heaven with feet planted on the floor. “Establish a friendship with the floor”, she prompted. She then took us from the tops of our heads, down the back, hips and to the feet with feeling our relationship with the floor. I kept thinking that the floor and I could have gotten off to a better start if I were on carpet, but I did as she asked for the next hour. I muddled my way through the first class and she had only praise for all of us and thanked us all profusely for allowing her to teach us. Thank goodness she couldn’t see my sprattle-legged attempts to follow along. I may not have made friends with the floor, but the kitchenette cupboards and fridge and I are very well acquainted.

The next week was so much better. I got there 20 minutes early and got the best mat space in the room. I close enough to the teacher to see and hear her. Even though this was described as a class appropriate for beginners, most of the participants were obviously yoga veterans. When it came time to do the pigeon pose, my teacher promised it would be a gift to the hips. My hips probably won’t write her a thank you note, but I did feel things I have never felt before and I liked it. By the middle of the second night, I had thrown my heart and soul into trying to do yoga. I was feeling pretty good about it when all of a sudden the teacher rose to her feet and started to roam around the class room watching us. Who do you think she sought out first? Me. Oh crap, I thought. She is coming to personally escort me to Special Ed Yoga. But no, she just wanted to “align” my movements. As she looked directly, but very nurturingly at me, she told the class to draw attention to the core of our bodies, the epicenter of all movement. She smiled at me like she understood that my core had quite a little tummy that went with it and not to worry.

I will tell you that when you get into to doing yoga you cannot be shy. You spend a great deal of time with your ass in the air and your legs fully apart like a human wishbone. None of my gynecological appointments ever made me feel as exposed or vulnerable. My biggest revelation is that even though I am a damn good dancer, I cannot coordinate yoga moves with breathing in and out. If we are supposed to be lowering our arms and legs on the exhale, you can be sure that I am on the inhale. But I am getting better and I must be really honest. Even though I am awkward and stupid when it comes to yoga, I feel fantastic afterwards.

Right now my favorite pose is Savasana, or the corpse pose. You lie down at the end of the session, close your eyes, hands at the side with palms up. You let your bones sink into the earth, allow your whole body to melt like ice on a sunny day and think to yourself “welcome into the world of bliss”. You get to stay like this and enjoy the peace until she gently rings little brass bells. It’s fantastic.

We all rise up into lotus, put our hands together prayer style pointed towards the sky and say Namaste. When I went home, I looked up the word and it translates as follows: Nama means bow; as means I; and te means you. I bow to you.

Your Miss Fifi is becoming “at one” with the world and it feels so good. Talk to you next week. Namaste, my dear readers, Namaste.

Health and Welfare

I went to the doctor a few weeks ago and prepared myself for the lecture about losing weight and getting more exercise. He’s like a broken record. No matter what I go to him for, it always gets back to losing at least 20 pounds and exercising regularly. I don’t know what he’s complaining about, I have lost 20 lbs... many times over. And I have actually been trying different exercise regimens all the time to try to find something that I like enough that I’ll stick with it. The problem is that his take on exercising regularly and mine seem to differ. He’s talking Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I have been actively searching for “cardio” programs more on the January, February, March kinda schedule.

So I was sitting in the examination room dreading his entrance, when in comes the nurse. Tell me, what is up with sending in a nurse beforehand who takes your blood pressure and asks you every freakin’ time what medications you are taking? You would think they'd know. "I take the ones the damn doctor prescribes", I was thinking to myself. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? But I didn’t want to make waves so I took out the little card I made with all my prescriptions and dosages and read them out loud so the nurse could make notes... AGAIN.

“Is your primary care physician allowed to call you a smart ass?”

Alone once more, there was a knock on the door. It was him. He always enters the same way. Reading my chart, shaking his head and mumbling. “ Miss Fifi... you’ve lost a pound and a half since your last visit”, he grumbled. Without hesitation, I exuberantly applauded myself for a job well done while he give me a very unkind look. Is your primary care physician allowed to call you a smart ass? Just wondering. He obviously wasn’t impressed with my weight loss, so I promised to work on it. And I always do work on it, but I also work on putting it back on with just as much conviction. He then asks me what I do for exercise. I knew this question was coming and I was prepared. “I started water aerobics”, I replied, hoping that would appease him. I avoided eye contact to try to keep the conversation from going any further. The truth is I actually stopped water aerobics the same day I started. I liked it except for the fact that I don’t like wearing a swimsuit and I hate getting wet. I did love it that I was the youngest person in the class, however.

“Water Arobics!” That’s not the kind of exercise you need!” he bellowed. “Listen to me!” he continued to bark. “If it were up to me, I would have chosen yoga for you!”. Was I dreaming? He would have frozen yogurt for me? When? Where? What flavors? Is this while I am exercising or after? It didn’t take me long to realize that he was recommending yoga. He felt that Hatha Yoga was something I would benefit from greatly, both in body and soul. I couldn’t disagree. I had dabbled in brief yoga sessions before on cruise ships and really did like it. Of course, heading to the buffet afterwards may have had something to do with it. I speak Yoga-ese enough to know that Hatha is the calming, stretching, get-in-touch-with-your-body-and-spirit kind of yoga. I almost got rooked into joining my youngest daughter for a yoga session a few years ago. I didn’t know about different kinds of yoga until she left a voice message reminding me about our date for “Pilgrim” Yoga. I called her back and inquired as to what Pilgrim Yoga was all about. It turns out that I misunderstood what she said and it is called Bikram Yoga. It involves doing yoga moves in a room that is heated to 105 degrees. I gently declined the invitation although my daughter insisted that I would find it to be a joyous and "freeing" experience. Bless her heart! All I could think about was what could be worse than exercise? Exercising in the DESERT, was my immediate thought. Whew! Talk about dodging a bullet.

My doctor and I discussed the virtues of yoga and I promised to give it a try. It couldn’t hurt me and it might even help my soul and my stress level. My appointment seemed to be going well and he was actually slightly delightful. I thought he was leaving, but instead he sat down, opened my folder and looked at the notes that the nurse had just taken. “So, are you still taking Sillystatin, Yadamycin and Gooberglycol?” he said with a straight face, making certain to include the dosages. It took everything in me to answer him calmly without affirming his “smart ass” diagnosis of me. I wanted to say “Nah, I don’t take them anymore. I just fill the prescriptions and what I can’t sell on the Black Market, I am able to get rid of in alley ways.” But I didn’t. I just smiled and promised to eat less cookies and look for a suitable yoga class.

I start tonight. I have a brand new yoga mat and I am waiting to see what everyone else is wearing so that if I continue, I have the cutest yoga clothes in the class. To be continued...

Vegas, Baby!

I think I mentioned that I just returned home from a 3 day buying trip in Las Vegas. They hold these huge trade shows for women’s clothing and underclothing. For anyone who has been fortunate enough to never have attended a trade show, it’s pretty exhausting and at some point it all starts looking the same. Not complaining.. We found fabulously fantastic stuff for LoveFifi, so it’s more than worth it. I can’t wait to show you what’s coming.

Anyway, let’s talk about Las Vegas. I go there often for business and because it’s only 4 hours away from me by car, I also go there to have fun. It’s truly a fascinating place and it’s changed so much. When I was a kid, my parents would go to get away from us kids. My mom would pack her fanciest clothes and my dad would take a variety of outfits including a coat and tie. They may have taken swimsuits, but all the photos they brought back were of them at different places all dolled up. It seems that they looked pretty snazzy day and night. Even in their shots at Hoover Dam, they looked casually chic. To us kids, their weekend trips to Las Vegas were very mysterious, indeed. We always surmised that there must have been some monkey business going on because they came back in a great mood and always brought us back really cool stuff. If they felt guilty, I didn’t care. My first cardigan with rhinestone trim came from one of their Vegas getaways. I had the only "bling" in my 5th grade class and I was the envy of every girl. I think even my teacher lusted after that sweater. Good times.

Now it’s a whole different story. People don’t dress up during the day at all. It's all shorts and t-shirts and flip flops for the most part. I was of gambling age when people still got decked out on trips to Vegas. Sequins during the day were perfectly acceptable. Considering how over-the-top everything is in that town, it’s kind of odd to see people dressed like they are about to wash their car. The place is so damn glamorous; the people should match the whole ambiance. Don’t you think?

I was of gambling age when people still got decked out on trips to Vegas. Sequins during the day were perfectly acceptable.

As everyone knows, it’s easy to get married in Nevada because there is no blood test or waiting period. There are 16 wedding chapels on or near the strip. Somewhere around 10,000 couples a month tie the knot in Las Vegas. I have never been to an actual wedding at one of these chapels, but one of my best friends had a renewal ceremony on her 20th anniversary at the chapel where an Elvis impersonator officiates. It was so much fun. I don’t think anyone stopped giggling throughout the whole thing. They played the theme to 2001 A Space Odyssey just like they did for The King when he entered the arena. “Elvis” walked my girlfriend down the aisle. She had gone to the beauty shop earlier in the day and had her hair bouffant-ed out within an inch of its life to resemble Priscilla on her wedding day. If that wasn’t enough of a shock, you should have seen the look on the groom's face. He had no idea what she’d been up to.

The Elvis guy was great and really looked like the older, fluffier Elvis. My favorite part was during the actual vows when he asked the groom "Do you, Benjamin Stern, you hunka hunka burning love, take this woman to be your wife for the rest of your life?" Ben couldn’t even speak he was laughing so hard. It was so adorable. These friends always celebrate life’s milestones with an extravaganza and this one was spectacular. Elvis then sang them out of the chapel with "Viva Las Vegas!". My friends just celebrated their 35th anniversary, so their Elvis wedding seems to b working great.

Okay, getting back to the way people dress in Las Vegas, there is one exception to the casual dress rule and it drives me crazy. Of course Las Vegas is a popular place with the young, over-21 crowd. They come in droves over the weekends to party down. I actually stopped staying at the Hard Rock after I saw a girl in a thong bikini bathing suit in the taxi line in front of the hotel. I had an epiphany at the moment that I was really too old to stay there. What if I had decided to go swimming? How could I ever blend in with the crowd in my one-piece bathing suit with the skirt at the bottom?

These young party animals are unavoidable, but they are pretty interesting species to watch in action. The girls have kind of a uniform for going out at night. The dresses are as tight and short as possible and the must-have accessory for all of them are the platform 6” stiletto-heeled shoes. These ladies are easy to spot. They travel in groups and few of them can actually walk in their shoes. I sometimes am stuck behind a gaggle of them heading out for the evening and fantasize about what if one of the ones on the end tipped over on the girl next to her. It would be a domino effect extraordinaire, and the best part would be watching them trying to get up in those dresses. I know... I am mean.

Sometimes these ladies meet up with their boyfriends and this is what really bugs me. The guys are never dressed up. Only the women seem to have a dress code for clubbing, etc. The women are dressed borderline slutty and their guys look like they are off to play basketball at the park. What has happened to fashion? I keep flashing on those snapshots of my parents in Las Vegas so beautifully dressed from years ago.

As it turns out, when I am in Vegas, my normal 9:30 bedtime gets extended into the wee hours. Those same girls are now plowed and it isn’t uncommon to see one bare-footed, holding her skyscraper shoes and throwing up into the casino’s trash bin. Very sexy. They all end up carrying those stupid shoes at the end of the evening. Not one of those females seems to be able to make it through the night, even the ones who aren’t drunk.

On this last trip, my sister ran into the cutest couple. She was complaining about her shoes and he started teasing her about it. All of a sudden he threw off his sneakers, gave them to her to wear and he put on her “pole dancer” shoes to prove a point. My sister asked if she could take a photo. I love Vegas, this would never happen anywhere else. I hope the couple doesn’t really believe that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. This article is going out to 50,000 of you, so that’s not exactly true. Take a look below. Pretty cute, huh?

After Midnight

I never thought this would happen to me, but I have become an insomniac. I go to bed after a long day, curl up with my doggies, and drift into a deep sleep. Then, somewhere around 3:07, I wake up. Not the kind of "wake up" where you look around, check out the time, and then go back to sleep. The kind of wake up when you get out of bed and unload the dishwasher. It's annoying.

I am so wide awake and bored. I turn on the TV and try to find something that will lull me back to sleep; I have to get up in the morning and go to work. The wee hours are filled with a lot of wacky stuff on television. I find the reruns of King of Queens and Everybody Loves Raymond hilarious even before dawn. The only trouble is... I find myself laughing out loud and that feels completely weird in the still of the night. And the worst part is that my dogs can't tell time yet and they think it's time to be awake and play. Before I know it, my day is in full swing and the sun is coming up. By the time I have to leave for work, I am exhausted.

This has been going on for months and it is messing with my quality of life. My doctor says that people over 50 don't need as much sleep. I need it, I'm just not getting it. I have tried taking a hot bath before bed and it works great. Until 3:07. Then I am wide awake. I had to stop watching QVC and HSN, because I think I need everything at that time of the morning. New make-up to brighten up my face? Yes, please. A 50-foot hose that shrivels up into a prune to make gardening easier? Count me in! Pots and pans that make cooking effortless and practically clean themselves? GOODNESS, YES! You can talk me into most anything at dawn when I can already feel fatigue setting in and the real day hasn't started.

The television keeps me company when I know that sleep is eluding me. I used to feel guilty and get up and start organizing a drawer or a closet. I would dig stuff out, discover treasures I hadn't seen in ages and then poop out in the middle only to wake up to a big pile of stuff that I would end up just putting back until another time. Sometimes I play casino games on my iPad and that helps make me sleepy. I just broke $200,000,000 on my slot game and if that were real money, I wouldn't have to worry about work ever again.

I have found that just staying in bed is the best thing to do, but it is important to be careful what I watch in the middle of the night. I used to favor shows like Forensic Files and SNAPPED, but those aren't the best going-to-sleep kind of shows for a woman alone. Being scared does not make for sweet dreams.

Speaking of scary, I found myself intrigued with an infomercial as I was scanning the stations a few weeks ago. It was nearly 4:30 a.m. and I was still awake. This blonde woman was thanking her millions of fans for being so loyal for so many years. She was obviously signing off, because she had stopped mentioning whatever the product was she had been pitching. She kept going on and on about all her years in front of the camera and how much she loved her devoted fans. I didn't have the vaguest idea WHO this woman was. I kept watching and listening to her and I wondering who in the hell this person was because I had sure never seen her before. She thanked her television audience one more time and then said the words that horrified me. The camera came in closer and she said "...for Yada-Yada Cosmetics, this is Suzanne Sommers. See you next time!"

Listen, I watched more episodes of Three's Company than I wish to admit, but what happened to my adorable Crissy Snow? The plastic surgery monster got her good, that's what happened. I couldn't stop thinking about it for weeks.

I am still not sleeping great, but I will now wear the bags under my eyes with pride. I'm not changing a thing. Think I'm making a big deal out of this? Scroll down.

Driving Me Nuts

I am going through an identity crisis and I am not happy about it. One would think that by the time you hit mid-life, you would be pretty much evolved and know exactly who you are. Not so.

The time has come for me to buy a new car. My Jaguar just had her 14th birthday, and although she is still very pretty and has only a little more than 100,000 miles on her, she does not suit my life anymore. I am tired of laying out garbage bags on the leather seats when I go buy new flowers for my garden.

I am constantly shopping for my next car. I haven’t been to a dealership yet, but I notice every car (and its driver) when I am out and about. I feel no shame when I peer inside a car I am considering in order to see the interior when at a parking lot. Because I never drive very far, I keep cars for a long time, so I need to do a really good job of choosing Ruby’s(she’s red) successor. I also have to buy a car that my sister likes. I am always happy to use my car when we go somewhere, but I like it best when she drives.She loves to drive and I hate it. It doesn’t even bother me that when I throw her the keys she rolls her eyes and calls me Miss Daisy. Sticks and stones, baby. I even considered buying a pre-owned Porsche. She’d want to drive that all the time and it would be great. But I have decided against a Porsche out of respect for the Porsche Corporation and their reputation for fast, precision sports cars. There would be a lot of times when I would be driving it myself. I imagine that they would not want to see one of their cars in the slow lane, my favorite, or plugging along behind a truck, never passing, because I don’t do that.

There is so much to consider when choosing a car. A conscientious consumer like myself must think about efficiency, eco-friendliness and the practicality of the vehicle. And when I get done with that, there’s how the car looks, what color it is and how will I feel when the valet drives up in it and nods to tell me my car is here. I am not going to lie to you, I want a car that is sexy.

It’s not that I don’t worry about my carbon footprint, I do. I just don’t think an electric car is for me. I can’t even remember to plug in my cell phone to stay connected to the world, so an electric vehicle is really out of the question. And do I dare say it without offending? They’re ugly. I am at a place in my life where I can drive any kind of car that I can afford. Driving around in a car that is shaped like the business end of a Dustbuster does not appeal to me.

When it comes to cars, I have paid my dues, for heaven’s sake. Please... I drove an apple green Gremlin in the '70s because that’s all I could afford. I will never forget the smile on that salesman’s face when I drove off in that thing. It served me well, but I had no privacy. I could be spotted from the moon and people were always telling me where they had seen me around town.

When I got married and had babies, I drove vans. I could carry a gaggle of kids, a pile of sports equipment and still have room for an ass-load of groceries in the back. It’s what I needed at the time and I never gave it a thought. Some of my favorite photos of my kids are of them doing the luggage handling on top of the van for family vacations. I was always such an overprotective mother; my kids were amazed that I actually let them get up on top of such a tall vehicle. I was there to catch them if they fell and I didn’t give a crap about what happened to the car... it was a van.

Then the kids grew up and went off to college. My ex-husband decided that I needed a snazzy car for a change. He found this very beautiful Jaguar with every detail and extra they came with at the time and he insisted that I have it. He made me sit in it at the dealership to see what I looked like in the driver’s seat. Both he and the salesman had pretend heart attacks as I sat at the wheel. It was really cute and I experienced what it feels like to sit in a glamorous car for the first time. If anyone out there knows my ex-husband’s girlfriend, please feel free to tell her that story.

Anyway, I am so befuddled as to what to get. I don’t want a car that is too young for me and I don’t want one that has geezer written all over it. I don’t have to buy a giant vehicle that will hold a softball team or a certain one because I am Mrs. Somebody. I want to drive something that reflects the person I am now, but I just don’t know what that is. I am getting to the place with my car research where I now see cars on the road and mumble to myself what Consumer Reports had to say about it. I am ready to face the car salespeople. I am unafraid.

I am hoping that test driving cars is like trying on wedding dresses. It would be great if I just KNEW it was the one. All I want is a car that I can afford to drive that shines like a piece of jewelry on the outside and is sumptuous on the inside. My Jaguar has more polished wood than my dining room, so I am spoiled. I am terrified of buying something that I will regret. I have no trouble with buying a car that is “pre-owned and certified”. It doesn’t have to be new, just not 14 years old. The new cars all look like belly buttons these days. They don’t come in real colors unless they are bugs, Fiats, Smart Cars or half a million dollar sports cars. If I didn’t know what 50 Shades of Gray was about, I would think it was about the colors cars come in.

Now all I need is your help. If you are driving your dream car, tell me what it is and why it called to you. I am open to sedans, SUVs, jeeps.. you name it. Talk to me! Help me. Just one thing... no vans.

Vegas, Baby!

I am excited about this weekend. My favorite niece is getting married to the man of her dreams (and our dreams, too). He is a doll and we are thrilled to be going to watch the magic happen. These two kids fell in love 6 years ago and have been separated by 3000 miles for at least half of that time. They were each married before and their first responsibilities were to their children, so they suffered through a long distance arrangement and saw each other as much as they could. The stars finally aligned in their favor and they now live in the same city. Saturday is the wedding in Las Vegas and it is going to be fabulous.

They decided to have the wedding in Vegas because they wanted everyone to have a ball. They don’t want wedding presents; they just want the people who love them to be there. It’s going to be wonderful to see these two families become one big family. I will see friends and relatives that I haven’t seen in ages. Because it is Las Vegas, the fun and craziness will probably continue around the clock. You either love or hate Vegas. There is really no in between. I love it.

Las Vegas, Nevada is a pretty interesting place. Did you know that there are approximately 15,000 miles of neon tubing that light up the strip and downtown? Yep, and of the 20 largest hotels in the world, 12 are in Las Vegas. The largest hotel in the U. S. is the MGM Grand. It is also the 3rd largest in the world.

There are over 200,000 slot machines in Las Vegas. More than 60% of all gambling revenues come from the slots. I do my part, I can tell you. The largest slot jackpot ever won was at the Excalibur Casino and was just under $40 million dollars. Lovers love Las Vegas and have made it the wedding capital of the United States. The average number of weddings performed per day is around 315. Plenty of fun will be had this weekend. I can’t wait. There is nothing I like better than mayhem and foolishness. I will be a good girl as I am kind of a junior matriarch in this crazy family of mine. Although it is said that “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”, it does not apply to my family. Our motto is more like “what happens in Vegas will be posted on Facebook faster than you can say Elvis Impersonator." I will behave myself.

Service Call

I had such an epiphany the other day. What made me "epiph", you ask? Well, let me tell you. I was out doing my errands over the weekend. I had to return a skirt that must have shrunk in the bag. I was at a discount store, so I didn’t expect to be pampered, but I don’t really return items that often so I forget how much fun it is not. I had to stand in a special line for returns only. The vibe is very different than when it’s your turn at the checkout line and you have a basket full of stuff and an American Express Card in a holster ready to swipe. You get asked “How are you?” and there are lots of smiles. Sometimes I even get compliments on my choices. Not so in the returns line. They remove your item from the bag and inspect it with a grimace. There are no smiles and no girlie small talk. The lady unfolded my skirt and asked why I returned it. I lied and said I changed my mind. That should be good enough. “Something wrong with it?”, she asked with a bit of an attitude. “No", I said politely, "I just changed my mind.” Good grief, I am returning a $19.99 skirt, not a flat screen TV. Do you think for a moment that I was going to tell her that is was too tight and the shade of brown made me look like a bran muffin?

Then I went to my manicure place. You would think I was Julia Roberts the way they greeted me. "Oh Miss Fifi!" "So nice to see you!" The owner began to fill up the foot tub for my spa pedicure and set the massage chair in the rotation I like. Roll... kneed... pound... and back to roll. I sat down and put my feet in the warm, perfumed water and relaxed. I was then offered a cup of tea and magazines. They made me feel special and it was good.

My next stop was that infamous giant department store that shall go nameless. The shopping experience there was less than warm and fuzzy. It should be a great place to shop because they have everything including groceries and a Starbucks. It’s an awful place to shop for many reasons, but allow me to target my comments exactly. There are only cashiers who actually work there. The red clad “associates” only cruise the aisles with their walkie-talkies to make you think that they are there to help you. If you can walk fast enough to ask one a question, they never have an answer. They think what you are looking for might be “over that-a-way” as they point randomly towards the other end of the store. Their feet never stop moving as you are chasing trying them to try to get some information. When you ask them too much, they get on the walkie-talkie with another associate and pretend they have a crisis in another department.

This is in sharp contrast to my grocery store that is part of a giant national chain. The focus group fairy must have hit food chains hard, because if you ask where something is, they drop what they are doing and escort you to the item. And when you check out at the check stand, the checker person always asks if you found everything you were looking for and then inquires if you will need any help to your car. No one at that other place would ever ask you that. There are no people to help so you manage the load by yourself and push the cart out the door. It’s not so bad, but then when the wheels lock when you are 50 feet from your car, it’s not so good, either.

Even the nice department stores make it hard to shop. There is no personalized service anymore and that seems strange to me. If my grocery store can personally take me to the sauerkraut, why isn’t there someone at Macy’s to help me with an outfit? What is wrong with this world? And now they ask you how you would like to receive your receipt? Printed, email or both? Really? Let me think... I already get enough email, and I want my carbon footprint reduced so paper is bad. How would I like to receive my receipt? How about they get a Caribbean steel drum band to deliver my purchase summary reggae style? THAT I would like.

On the way home I decided to treat myself to a Starbucks. I have a drive-thru one close to my home so I swooped on in for a latte. They are always so friendly and ready to make you happy. The kid on the other end of the intercom made me feel like he had been waiting for little ol' me to show up all day. I ordered my iced coffee and by the time I got to the window I couldn’t wait to meet the sweetie who had taken my order. We completed our transaction and he sent me off with a big smile. It makes paying 5 dollars for something I could have made at home for practically nothing worth every penny.

You just can’t make any sense out of customer service today. Some retailers think it is important and others don’t give a crap. I am old enough to remember a time when sales people and restaurant people knew the names of their customers. Now you wait on yourself most of the time and wait in line for the privilege of paying for it. It is no wonder that online shopping has caught on like wildfire. You don’t have to find a parking place or deal with people. If you need help there are FAQs to guide you and reviews from other shoppers to help along the way. You can shop 24 hours a day and you can do it naked if you feel like it.

Dog Days

Just in case you're wondering, I have pretty much recovered from the plague I had last week. I was sick the entire Memorial Day weekend, but it wasn't bad. I had lots of good quality time with my doggies, who never left my side.

Unless you haven't been listening, you know that I love dogs. Dogs are everywhere in my life and I could not live happily without them. As you also know, we all bring our dogs to work, here at LoveFifi.com, and it is fabulous. We have a big, two story building and the pups are allowed to be wherever they want, with whomever they want. There are dog beds and water bowls everywhere. This is a world I created and I couldn't love it more.

I live a happy life at home with my two babies. I am never lonely because they follow me wherever I go. What's funny is that when you are at the stage of life when your kids are gone, your dogs become your kids. I can't believe I said that, but it's true. Nothing is too good for my dogs. They sleep next to me at night. By the way, 42% of all dogs in the US sleep in bed with their owners. I have little dogs that weigh 5 pounds each, yet they still take up most of the bed.

I know I am perceived by some as a weird dog lady, but I actually wonder at times if I am a little peculiar. I dress my dogs and they look adorable. Listen, if it were odd to do so, then why are there so many places to buy cute dog clothes? Huh? I not only buy my dogs Christmas presents, but I buy gifts for the dogs of my friends. Before you throw stones at me, just know that 80% of all dog owners buy their pets gifts for holidays. And half of that number signs letters and cards from themselves and their pets. So if I am crazy, I am in good company. Speaking of crazy people, did you know that rock star Ozzie Osborne saved his wife Sharon's Pomeranian by tackling a coyote and wrestling it until it released the dog? Ozzie may be a little whack-a-doo to some people, but he is a hero to me.

The most popular names for male dogs are Jake and Max. For girl dogs it's Maggie and Molly. Although there is constant competition for the smallest and the largest dogs, 4" Boo Boo and Giant George are pretty amazing contenders. The oldest dog is said to be an Australian cattle dog who lived to be 29 1/2 years old which is equal to a human living to 160 years old.

My dogs are fantastic company and I couldn't be more content. Oh, I still date from time to time, but the best part of the evening is usually when I arrive home and my two doggies are doing the Happy Snoopy dance and are twirling around madly in circles at my feet. What man can compete with that?

And speaking of men and dogs, let me share something with you that was emailed to me. Made me smile. Oh, by the way, don't smile any big toothy grins around your dog. They interpret a show of teeth as a sign of aggression. Just thought I would share. Grrr...

Anyway, my girlfriend sent me this and I think it's really funny. Don't anyone get offended on me now or I will have to make these articles squeaking Disney clean. Even though I talk to my dogs in baby talk, we are grown ups here in Fifiland. Enjoy.

How Dogs and Men are the Same

Both take up too much space on the bed.

Both have irrational fears about vacuum cleaning.

Neither one will ever tell you what's bothering them.

Both have inordinate fascination with women's crotches.

Neither of them notice when you get your hair cut.

Both fart shamelessly.

Neither understands what you see in cats.

Sick Isn't For Sissies

Today is Thursday. I almost always put my brain meanderings into words on Thursdays to get them to you on Saturdays. I "marinate" on my topic throughout the week and put it all to bed on Thursday. The problem with this Thursday is that I am trying to put my article to bed in bed.

I am sick. Nothing terrible, just some kind of bug that my flu shot doesn't cover. The angst associated with feeling crappy comes not from the fact that I couldn't muddle through at the office when I have the flu, but it isn't fair to make everybody else sick, so I stayed at home and am working from my bed. I want you to get the mental image before I continue.

You know how in those 1940s movies when the lovely lady of the house was under the weather, you saw her propped up in her grand poster bed on sumptuous satin pillows with gorgeous bed linens covering her up to her lap. She was often catching up on her correspondence using a bed tray as a desk and wearing a stunning satin bed jacket. Her hair was coiffed to perfection. The maid would often times bring her tea and then fluff those sumptuous pillows before asking if Madame needed anything else to make her comfortable. The maid would then announce that Dr. McMurphy should be arriving any minute to look after the ailing lady of the house. Get the picture? It's nothing like that here.

My bedding is very nice and fluffy, but my two dogs are blanket and pillow hogs and I am lucky they share at all. There are no bed trays in sight, but there are at least 4 glasses on my side table that have accumulated since I took ill last evening. Add to that the array of cough drops, DayQuil, NyQuil, Kleenex and a box of Wheat Thins. I can never get that "feed a cold, starve a fever" thing straight, so I like to be prepared. I am not wearing a satin bed jacket. I have on a Dr. Seuss "Cat in the Hat " t-shirt and yoga pants. My hair is as far from coiffed as you can get with random bits sticking straight up. Dr. McMurphy won't be stopping by the house to treat me, but I did call my doctor this morning to try to get some help with fighting this crud. He can see me next Tuesday at 3:45p.m. The nurse apologized, but reminded me that it was the Memorial Day weekend. Of course it is. When else would I get sick but right before a three day weekend?

I have spent the day feeling awful, watching stupid things on TV and trying to figure out what in the hell I was going to write about today. My readers mean everything to me and I hate disappointing you ever. So instead, I dragged you along to my pity party. We are in this relationship through good and bad, sickness and health... right?

Hopefully I will feel better shortly and next week will be much more fun for everybody. Right now, I am going a little stir crazy and am considering going downstairs to the patio and breathing some fresh air. I am torn, because the dogs will move into my warm spot and I will have to jockey for a place to lie down when I return. Nah... I'll just stay in bed. If I go downstairs, guilt will compel me to carry some of these drinking glasses to the kitchen. It might be the fever but I think my maid should be here any moment.

Hot Mama

It is only May and the weather here in Los Angeles is already steamy. It’s pushing into the 90s and I am not happy about it. I am a pretty poor excuse for a California girl because I just hate being hot. Don’t misunderstand; I am hot in the sexy way, at least for someone in my age bracket. My dry cleaner and my veterinarian still think I am a hottie, but they are not that young either, so I don’t know what that makes me. Since I am not a 40 year old, the cougar train left my station years ago. If anyone knows the answer to this, please let me know. Anyway, back to the weather.

I am not a sun worshiper. Anything over 80 degrees is too hot for me. I love fall to spring, but then comes summer, which seems to start earlier and earlier where the heat is concerned. It is also the season for weddings and graduations. If you have never sat in the torturous sun waiting through 300 graduates until your nephew, Zachary Zimmerman, collected his diploma, you haven’t lived. And those summer weddings are a delight. The community church (built in 1925) filled to the rafters with polyester-clad friends and relatives radiating enough heat to launch a rocket. Good times.

My dislike for being hot has intensified as I have gotten older. Hormone changes, global warming and the fact that I have gotten crankier has made it worse. I sweat in places that are unmentionable. My baby fine hair makes every day a bad hair day. Any attempt to use make-up in the heat usually melts down to a look somewhere between a raccoon and Marilyn Manson by the day's end. And let’s not even discuss the time it takes for all the extra grooming! Shaving your legs and armpits, pumicing your feet and of course, you can’t run around looking pale in the summer; you must look tan! I am pasty white, so instant tanner is my only choice. Granted, these products have gotten infinitely better in recent years, but it’s just another step to getting ready that I don’t love. I am getting really good at putting one leg at a time on top the toilet seat and foaming each leg with instant bronzer and rubbing it on evenly. The effect is very natural and worth the trouble. I always remember to wash my hands immediately so I don’t have tan hands. I never do this job naked anymore, however, because I nearly had a heart attack several summers ago when I removed my nightgown one morning before showering only to see that both of my breasts had sinister brown patches on them. I was horrified! What terrible disease had I contacted? Upon further examination in the mirror, I remembered that I had put on “fake bake” the day before and now portions of my breasts matched my legs.

When I was a youngster, we didn’t have central air for most of my childhood years. There were two window units that you had to stand right in front of to cool off. And I did. I also ran through the sprinklers every day, all day. I slept with damp towels over my body with the fan blowing on me. We finally got AC throughout the house, but just as Scarlett O”Hara swore she would never be poor again, I made the same kind of commitment to myself as far as being hot. In the summer months, my home is “movie theater” cool all the time. I pay the power company extra all winter so that my summer air conditioning bills don’t kill me. The offices AND THE WAREHOUSE at LoveFifi.com are completely air conditioned. I made our landlord spend $20,000 dollars before we would sign our lease when it was discovered that the air conditioning stopped at the warehouse area. Nobody is going to be hot in Fifi’s world. Can you imagine that he thought it was OK for the offices to be cool in the summer, but not the warehouse where my people are schlepping cartons and pulling orders and doing the real work? It was not going to happen.

The perils of summer are not completely about the high temperatures, but also what happens when it’s hot. I have written before about my phobia of un-pedicured feet in sandals. I think there should be a law that makes it a crime to expose ugly calloused feet to the world. There are more affordable nail salons than there are Starbucks, so there is really no excuse. Pretty feet on women are a sexy accessory. The polishes come in amazing colors. Sandals are definitely one thing I really like about the warm weather. Summer is not only the traditional time for backyard parties and bar-b-ques (love!) it is the annual celebration of people that wear shorts who shouldn’t. You don’t have to be thin to look good in shorts, but if you have legs that have more dimples than the Osmonds or appear to have a road map of Texas tattooed on them, perhaps capri pants might be a better look. Let’s keep America beautiful!

For now, I look forward to going from my air conditioned building to my air conditioned car to my air conditioned house to beat this heat wave. Some relief should be around the corner soon. June Gloom, can you hear me calling?