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.

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.

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.

BIG NEWS!

I recently lost some weight and everyone noticed, but not in the way I expected. It’s very different when you are 20-something and drop noticeable poundage. People assume it is vanity, or a big occasion or a reckless life style or a new man. When we get into our mid-30s through our 40s, we ladies fight the battles of a slower metabolism, hormonal changes, raising families and demanding careers that can pack on pounds. If you lose weight at this age, it can be credited to midlife crisis, finding yourself and making room for “me” time or being back in the dating game after a divorce.

Now if you are over 50, like yours truly, it’s a whole different ball game. I dropped some weight on purpose and the responses were so odd. A man friend who I have known for over 30 years, noticed immediately and gave me a congratulatory hug for my new look. But he ruined it all by adding that it will be easier for me to attract a man now that I am thinner. I was speechless. First of all, I was always proportionate and curvy. I am still built the same way only a bit smaller. Secondly, I have never had a minute’s problem attracting men no matter what my size or age. And to be brutally honest, attracting a man in my age group doesn't have as much to do with figure shape and beauty as it does with the ability to have stimulating conversations and enjoy common interests. And if a girl can cook and has ESPN, you are a virtual goddess.

I next encountered an acquaintance that threw her arms around me and whispered softly words that I never expected to hear. “Are you well, darling? I hope it’s nothing serious”. Good grief! She thought I was sick. She evidently has no idea how sick I would have to be to not be interested in eating. I am trying to think about that last statement and come up with an answer. Let’s see… how ill would I have to be to not want to eat? Unconscious is all I can come up with.

Only last week I ran into one of my neighbors who I had not seen for a while. She was quite surprised to see a smaller me. “Look at you! So how’s your business doing, honey?” she inquired with a concerned look on her face. Not “You look great”, or “You look younger” or healthier or anything close. She thought maybe I lost weight because I was so stressed out because the business was failing or I didn’t have money for groceries or some other ridiculous thought. “Everything is great. The business is doing wonderfully well, but thanks for asking”, I replied.

For the record, I lost weight for two reasons. My doctor nags me all the time about 15 or 20 lbs. I never hear the end of it. If I go see him because my knee hurts, it’s because I am too fat. If I am having trouble sleeping at night, it’s because I am too fat. If I have bronchitis, he tells me I’m too fat as he is writing out the prescription for Amoxicillin. It’s always the same no matter what I am there for. The second reason is that I decided it would be better for me all around if I lost a few pounds and actually fit into the clothes I own.

I have always been a curvy girl and I have always been happy with me. Maybe I was before my time, but I never felt compelled to diet into a size 6. The last time I was a size 6, I was 6. Been there, done that. Now I live in my size 14 world with great conviction.

I was something of a pioneer in my industry when it came to the plus sized body. I designed lingerie for the fuller figure decades ago. As you know, we have a fantastic array of plus size merchandise on LoveFifi.com. As a matter of fact, we are currently re-photographing our entire plus department on plus sized models. Yeah!

This girl has always been comfortable with being in the double digit size range my entire adult life. I have never been, or wanted to be, skinny and I have done a fine job of that never happening. There are times when I want to weigh less, but I preserve my curves and remain proud. When you’re beauti-FULL, as I call it, you have to have a thick skin to go along with your thicker figure. I don’t even mind some of the jokes. What is it called when fat people go skinny dipping? Chunky dunking… pretty cute, huh?

I am so excited about the new attitude and bold confidence of the plus sized girls in today’s world. They wear their fuller figures like badge of honor. They dress the way they want. They flaunt it and they know how to enter a room with panache like nobody’s business. They love their curves! One of my idols, Miss Mae West, was known for her hourglass body. Here’s what Miss Mae said on the subject. “Cultivate your curves-they may be dangerous, but they won’t be avoided”.

If you are not aware, there is a proud army of plus-sized women fighting hard to be recognized and counted with all the other beautiful women in the universe. There is a “curvy girl” revolution going on and I want to sign up for active duty. I say a big “BRAVO!” to those ladies who are true to themselves and fearless about their bodies. Whether you call it being self-assured, uninhibited or having swagger, it’s all awesome. I have to indulge once again in the words of my beloved Mae who wrote the book on how to “work it”.

“It isn’t what I do, but how I do it. It isn’t what I say, but how I say it, and how I look when I do and say it!”
~Mae West

Queen of Hearts

Well, here it comes again… February 14th… the national day of love.

Women have built Valentines Day WAY up. If you could read the letters I get from readers who are fretting over every detail of Valentines Day or worse yet, are worried sick about being forgotten, you would be astounded. You would not believe the angst associated with being someone’s Valentine. And by the way, these letters are never from men. February 14th seems to mean a great deal to the ladies and puts many guys into a cold sweat.

For every man who embraces his role as Prince Charming for a day, there is a much larger number of guys who would sooner choose being audited by the I.R.S. than deal with Valentine’s Day.

So, what happened? I think (and it pains me to admit it) that women are responsible for adding so much stress to this otherwise innocent little holiday.

I recently read somewhere that a group of men were surveyed on questions relating to “amour” and a whopping 38% admitted that they had considered ending a relationship just before Valentine’s Day. That’s NOT good.

Since we girls got ourselves into this mess, it is up to us to set it all straight. It really is our fault. We are victims of our upbringing. Even when we were little girls, Valentine’s Day was a huge deal. Remember the classroom Valentine exchange? The more cards you got, the cooler you were. There was something so exciting about getting that special recognition and feeling the love.

Nothing has changed except that being someone’s Valentine costs considerably more when you’re a grown up.

Can we talk about this? Flowers, for example, are such an extravagance. They are beautiful, but can long-stemmed roses that cost the same as a weeks worth of groceries really bring a person happiness? Yes, if you are a florist!

Candy is nice, but many of us are trying hard to get our fat butts into a swimsuit this summer, so chocolate is not always appreciated.

Every girl dreams of jewelry from her man and every guy sweats bullets thinking abut selecting it. Wait until March and make these decisions together. It will be on sale by then, anyway.

Sexy lingerie, now you’re talking! It’s not because I sell it that I think it is the perfect “love” gift, it’s because I love it and I think it’s magical, that I make it my life’s work. It doesn’t die, it isn’t perishable and you can wear it on February 15th, May 23rd or whenever.

And what if you don’t have someone special to buy you lingerie this year? Well that’s ridiculous... because you DO have someone very special who thinks the world of you. It’s YOU, silly. So go buy yourself something frilly and fabulous, look in the mirror and say “I love you” to that gorgeous creature looking back at you. Don’t let this holiday get the best of you, girlfriend. Don’t forget, you are WOMAN, I can hear you roar!

Fair Game

My adorable grandson turned 6 last week. This is a pretty big birthday for a kid. He is still a little boy, but not for long. He hasn’t lost his front teeth yet, so he still has that baby boy innocence. I know it is only a short time before he shoots up like a weed and is all BOY. Before I can adjust to the rough and tumble years to come, I need to make sure we celebrate the end of his sweet-little-boy period that I have grown to love.

I decided that it would be a great idea to make an especially big deal of his birthday this year. You see, I now have a 16-month-old granddaughter, who at times takes the spotlight away from her cousin. I adore them both and I really felt that commemorating being 6 was the thing to do. Although I am really good at planning parties and creating events to remember, I was running on empty when it came to thinking up something fabulous for my little guy’s birthday. I raised a gaggle of girls and am an official “girlie girl” myself, so even though I have made great strides in grandmothering a boy, I didn’t have the foggiest notion what to do for his birthday. With girls, it’s so easy. You get them a poofy pink dress and a plastic tiara, buy them dolls, stuffed animals and candy and they are in birthday heaven. Boys are way harder to figure out and it doesn’t get any clearer when they grow up, I would like to add.

I have a wonderful relationship with my grandson and I love to have him on weekends, just me and him. It didn’t take me long to realize that little boys are just big boys that are not ripe yet. When my grandson was about 2 ½ and could talk, I learned real fast that what little men like is good home cooking, having the latest toys to play with and watching TV on the couch until they fall asleep on my lap as I stroke their hair.

Somebody was watching over me and I got a random email from one of my credit card companies that told of an upcoming event at our county fair. The MONSTER TRUCK Spectacular was happening on the same weekend as my grandson’s 6th birthday. He loves trucks! When I take him to buy a toy, it’s always some kind of truck. He never seemed to be interested in anything but “twucks”. Damn, I hated it when he learned to pronounce his R’s a few months ago. Childhood is so fleeting...

Not only could I take him to the fair for the first time, but we would top off the day in our grandstand seats seeing life-sized trucks with gigantic tires flip, fly, and do wheelies in dirt. I got so excited and bought tickets for the family. I couldn’t wait to take him on the carnival rides and buy him cotton candy, but not in that order. MONSTER TRUCKS... this was a brilliant stroke of luck. What fun!

So we "kidnapped" him from school early last Friday and headed for the county fair. It was the last weekend of the fair and it was jam-packed with families and daters and a whole lot of idiots. I held his little hand for dear life and my sister was my back up as we made our way through the crowds. His excitement when we finally reached the FUN ZONE turned quickly to horror: there was nothing that wasn’t death defying. What happened to the circus train ride and the cute little caterpillar roller coaster for kids and the boats that went around in a circular pool of water with a bell kids could ring? When I was a child, I used to do all the kiddie rides and then get all my courage up to finally go on the Tilt-a-Whirl with my dad. I was game to go on anything that my grandson wanted to try but at that moment he was trying not to cry. Rides with calibrated neon lights flashing had names like Cliff Hanger, Dive Bomber, Turbo Drop and the Screaming Swing loomed all around us. Since my name is not Fifi Knieval, I found the FUN ZONE to be not even slightly fun. I told my little man that he wasn’t quite tall enough for the rides this year and suggested we move on to the carnival games. We spent a lot of money trying to win stupid stuffed toys that nobody really wanted but isn’t that part of the fun of the fair?

Finally it was time for the show. He still had no idea what was going on. The look on his face when the monster trucks roared onto the field was worth everything. He could not believe what he was watching! These crazy trucks screeched around the track and sped over ramps so they could fly through the air. One guy even drives backwards ONLY. Although I have never been to an event like this and would probably not admit to it ever, I liked it way better than I thought I would. Watching those giant trucks with wheels the size of the moon careen around corners and take flight off of piles of rubbish was really exciting. The crowd was into it big time. The hooting and hollering at all the antics on the track was worth the price of admission. At the very end of the show, one of the trucks went off the ramp and did a complete 360 flip, landed and bounced 10 feet up. If I didn’t know better, I would think my sister was giving these drivers driving lessons. Ha Ha! She will read this and roll her eyes, but if working at LoveFifi doesn’t work out for her, she could have a brilliant future in the monster truck business. She already knows the basics.

My grandson had the very best time, but he is only 6 and it was late. He was tired. As we headed out towards the exit, he wanted something to eat. I tried to entice him into the deep fried watermelon on a stick or a bacon wrapped dill pickle, but he just wanted a cup of gelato.

We were almost out when he spotted a blow up airplane on a stick and a light up plastic saber that glowed in the dark. He looked up at me with those puppy dog eyes and asked if he could choose one. I told him “NO” and then smiled and told him he must get both. It’s his birthday! That’s what grandmothers do. Deal with it. I didn’t even wince when I handed over $20 dollars for 2 toys with a life expectancy of 24 hours. All I could do was be grateful to be alive and know that this child loves me almost as much as I love him.

Happy Birthday, Xavier.

This Little Fifi Went To Market...

There is probably no task that I hate more than going to the grocery store. If I ever win the lottery, the first thing I will do is hire an assistant that goes to the market for me.

When I was raising a family, I took food shopping much more seriously than I do now. It was part of being the mama lion and nurturing my family and nobody did it better than I did. I used to shop with a shoebox full of carefully catalogued coupons. I was constantly clipping the cents-off coupons from every magazine and newspaper I could get my hands on.

On marketing day, I would spend hours going up and down the aisles stretching every dollar as far as I could. I often filled up two baskets to the brim. At the end, I turned in all my coupons and tried to guess what my savings would be. It was a game to me and I was good at it.

As I stood by the open tailgate of my “mom van” (yes, I had one of those, but please keep it to yourself) and watched the box person load bag after bag of discounted grocery items, I felt such pride. I stood there clutching my yards of register tape as triumphantly as if I had just won an Oscar.

I would spend hours going up and down the aisles stretching every dollar as far as I could.

Grocery shopping was a huge deal back in those days. It took the better part of a day to accomplish and you had to have an unstoppable rhythm. I also learned early on that your success as the household shopper had to have a set of stringent rules.

Rule #1 - You NEVER let your husband go with you. Despite the fact that he is good for any heavy lifting of 50lb. bags of dog kibble or the ginormous size laundry detergent, there is no amount of budgeting and coupon clipping that will offset what he sneaks into the basket. It does you no good to scrimp and save and wait for double coupon day, if you end up with garlic-stuffed cannonball olives, an extra large bag of beef jerky, and Macadamia nuts carefully concealed and then revealed at checkout. Men can’t help it, so leave them at home.

Rule #2 - Never ask if anyone needs or wants anything. When you shop with coupons and are a slave to sale items, no special requests. They get what’s on “special” and the fact that someone else is filling the cupboards for their eating pleasure is special enough. Let your family know not to fall in love with anything you bring home, because they might not get it again.

Rule #3 - If you are shopping for a lot of people, it’s a very tiring job. I believe that the shopper is entitled to at least one food favorite as a reward for all their good work. I love Fig Newtons and tried for years to find a hiding place that no one could discover. I sucked at it, because when I was ready to relax with a cup of tea and some Newtons a few days later, I would go to the hiding place in the kitchen to find an empty Nabisco package. Kids and husbands have food radar. I should have hidden them behind the ironing board or behind the folded sheets in the linen closet. Not a chance anyone in my family would have found them. You live and learn.

Those days are all behind me now. It’s just me and the dogs. Although I haven’t clipped a coupon in a long time, I still hate going to the store for a whole different reason. Now instead of calculating how much I am paying per ounce to get the best bargain, I calculate if I will be able to eat it or use it before I die.

I usually only make myself go to the store if there is nothing for my dogs to eat and/or there is no creamer for my coffee. Once I am there, I am THERE, so I just move down the aisles as fast as I can. There are no bargains for people who live alone. I don’t need a multi-pack of anything and I don’t want to carry it. I get the essentials, fruit, vegetables, English muffins, milk, eggs, Brie, wine, etc.

Nowadays you bring your own bags for the groceries. I am grateful I did the family shopping in the paper or plastic days or I would have to have brought a complete set of Samsonite. I keep my purchases down to a minimum because I like the convenience and speed of the 15 items or less lane. Nothing aggravates me more than people who abuse this. Often times there is still a line but I keep myself occupied by counting exactly how many items each person puts on the conveyer belt and plotting their death if they go over. It’s not the healthiest thinking, but it keeps me completely amused until it’s my turn.

By the way, don’t ever get talked into doing Self Checkout. It’s some kind of trick. First of all, it’s not that convenient or easy. The people who do it easily think they are so cool; they really think they are brilliant. If you look befuddled or don’t go fast enough, the Self Checkout “associate” comes around and flippantly pushes the start button and shows you how to swipe the bar code and then disappears. You start off fine and then you make the mistake of touching the bag at the wrong time and get scolded by some automated voice. I tried to do this before, but if you don’t do it quickly, the guy behind you in the flip flops with a 12 pack of Corona gets antsy and makes you nervous.

The last time I tried to do this, I bought some produce that was missing its sticker and I didn’t know how to continue. Out of nowhere comes the “associate” to help. I don’t know where the Self Checkout helpers fall in the hierarchy of grocery store employees, but these are not happy people. I described my produce problem and she gave me a look that clearly said “Moron!”, shrugged her shoulders, and pushed me out of the way. She made a clicking noise with her tongue while rolling her eyes in disgust. Then she whipped through several screens, pushed too many buttons and asked me for my debit card. She “helped” me complete my transaction and gathered up my bags abruptly, handed them to me and motioned towards the door. Then that brat actually told me to “enjoy the rest of my day”. If I was going to clean the garage for the balance of my day, it would be much more enjoyable than my experience with those people in what I now fondly refer to as “Self Righteous Checkout”.

I think I have let off enough steam for one day. Now I shall go relax with a nice cup of tea... and Fig Newtons.

Stupid Cupid

Valentine's Day. Many of you are looking forward to flowers, candy, lingerie, and LOVE. It’s all so dreamy... or is it?

I hate to be blunt (oh, I don't really, but it sounds nice), but what if you don't HAVE a Valentine at the moment? I don't have to tell you that in life (and dancing), timing is everything.

It can all be pretty depressing if you don't have a "significant other" right now. It's not like you can escape the reminders either...

I was at the supermarket the other day. There were signs and banners all over the store with little cupids reminding me to remember my Valentine. Forgive my stupidity, but what token of my undying love am I supposed to purchase from the grocery store? Let me see... "Darling, I love you. I got you a rump roast."

So, maybe you are in between sweethearts. It can happen. What are you supposed to do? Go into a hole until Valentine's Day passes and all the cooing and kissing are over? I think not. And besides, there is too much good chocolate floating around right now to even think about disappearing.

Don't tell her that I told you, but my sister just dumped her boyfriend. I am actually not sure if she was the dumper or the dumpee, but it doesn't really matter. She’s in a funk.

As it happens, my Valentine is out of town on February 14th, so I am taking this opportunity to teach my sister that being Valentine-less is not fatal.

She suggested that I come over to her house and watch "Wheel of Fortune" and order a pizza. Well, as enchanting as it sounds to eat dinner from a cardboard box and be cooped up with an angry woman and Pat Sajak, I took a big pass.

We are going out to dinner, just sister and me. She loves the ocean, so I have made a reservation at a lovely seaside restaurant. We will dress up and look beautiful. I will make the effort to mention to her how small her butt looks in the outfit she is wearing. If I am struck by lightning as the words come out, it will be worth it to make her happy. We will laugh and dine and do wicked fashion critiques on every unsuspecting person that walks through the door. No one will be safe!

The best part is that since I am her date, she won't have to do her "eat like a bird" routine. Being able to order two desserts without guilt makes up for a lot.

When it is all over, we will have laughed until our faces hurt, eaten up all of our fat grams through the month of April, and spent an evening with someone we love. It doesn't get much better than that!

For any of you who have not yet purchased anything for your special someone, please don't run out and buy something stupid at Walgreen's to try to keep out of trouble. There is nothing there that can save you. What you can do is trust in Miss Fifi to save the day. Go find some decent looking note paper and write your darling one a love letter. In this world of texts and informal communication, a love letter is a rarity. Tell that person in your own words why they mean so much to you. Remind them of special times you've had together. Channel your most romantic self and be generous with your words. When you hand them the letter, tell them that the day belongs to them and you want to do whatever they want to do. No Valentine is better than words from your own heart and hand. Nothing feels better than to spend a day doing whatever sounds like fun. It would also be nice if you bought some lovelies from my site. Surprise her by sending them or surprise him by wearing them. It's all good and I am taking my sister to a fancy seafood restaurant and I could use the money.

Happy Valentines Day!

The Secret Boys Academy

I love men... I honestly do! But I must be completely honest about something when it comes to you guys. You are really hard to understand. At least you used to be, until I figured it all out. You men people really had me stumped for a long time, but I finally broke your code. Aha!

There is some kind of Secret Boys Academy which you all attended, isn’t there? Yes, I knew it!

You all obviously go through basic training and have very strict rules. If this weren’t true, then why do so many husbands and boyfriends do and say the identical stuff all the time? Huh? Huh?

The one class I know you all take is Turbo Dressing. Otherwise, how can you explain how a man can get ready for a special occasion in less time than it takes to make a piece of toast? We girls have so many details to contend with while getting beautiful, but it really seems impossible that without special training that you men can get showered, shaved, and dressed for a big evening out and still have enough time to do a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle and balance your checkbook. See! I’m on to you!

It is now so clear to me that you are taught battle strategies when it comes to interpersonal relationships with women. An example of this is when a woman becomes upset with her guy, she might scream out something like “I can’t believe you did this to me! It hurts me so much that after I’ve asked you a million times not to do it, but you went ahead and did it again! I am so mad at you I can’t see straight!” A graduate of the “Academy” will look her right in the eye and say softly the words no woman knows what to do with. “I UNDERSTAND.” It’s so maddening…

It seems that you are also educated in the fine art of selective listening. When your woman speaks to you, you have been instructed to only retain the parts of the sentence that you particularly like. What a deal! That explains a lot.

I am not getting down on you fellows, believe me, but I am intrigued how you have gotten away with all of this for so long.

Now let’s talk about THE RULES. I know you have rules! The Academy rules clearly dictate that you never let a woman hold onto the TV remote for longer than 10 seconds, that you never ever ask a stranger for directions no matter how lost you are, and that you make every effort to buy all gifts at stores where you naturally find yourself. You might let your coaches (or whatever you have at the Academy) know that gifts bought at Auto Parts World and Big Bob’s Hardware are not THAT appreciated, even by the women who really love you.

Well, my handsome men out there, your Secret Academy is a secret no more! I don’t know everything yet, but I will. I don’t know whether you have a special handshake, but I think there may be some unifying symbolism to that leaving the toilet seat up “thing”. But, then again, not all of you do it. Maybe the guys who put it down are upper class men. Do you have a Graduate School? And if you have a uniform, I am not sure of that one either. Is it that shorts and flip-flop look that you are all so fond of? Oh well, I don’t have to know it all today. I have to absorb what I have already learned.

Love you, boys…I do!

Lost in Loveland

I just got back from spending a few days with one of my best girlfriends. She couldn’t wait for me to visit because she had big news to share. I thought maybe she finally got the partnership in her firm that she is waiting for or maybe some rich relative died and made her an heiress.

It turns out that the big news is that she is in love. It’s pretty amazing since she is in her late 40’s and they say the probability of a woman that age finding true love is more remote than being struck by lightening.

I am happy for her, and being the good girlfriend that I am, I listened enthusiastically to every word she had to say about her “Frankie”.

Remember what it was like when you were in high school and you were in love? Every breath, every thought revolved around that certain someone. My girlfriends and I would fantasize in class about getting married and practice writing our new name on endless sheets of lined notebook paper. To this day, I can still sign an elegant “Mrs. Ringo Starr”.

Just in case you think that falling in love when you are older becomes more toned-down and sensible, think again. After living with the lovebirds over a long weekend, I can assure you that just doesn’t seem to be the case at all. My friend Melanie is almost 50. Although Frank is even a few years older, the 2 of them (both executives) talk baby talk to each other. A little goes a long way, but I didn’t mention even a “wittle” word about it.

During my visit, Melanie and I were relaxing over morning coffee and enjoying some “girl talk”. The whole thing kind of reminded me of those old TV commercials where the 2 girlfriends got together for some giggly reminiscences about some guy named “Jacques” over French Vanilla flavored coffee and celebrated the times of their lives. It was a nice experience in an “80s” sort of retro way, but the mood was lost when in the middle of our chatting, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Oh! Do you know what today is?” she asked excitedly. I had no idea. “Today is our anniversary!” “Oh really?" I said, trying to figure out what milestone could have possibly taken place after only seven weeks. “Yes”, she blathered on…” One month ago today, Frankie told me that he loved me.” I gave her the appropriate “aahs” in my dreamiest voice just like the excellent friend that I am. Isn’t it crazy how people in love have anniversaries for everything? Can you imagine if people who had been together for a long time did that? There wouldn’t be time for anything else.

The 2 of us girls went shopping one afternoon. I thought it would be just like old times, just me and Melanie doing what girls do best… SHOP and eat lunch. Yeah, right! It turns out that Frankie just happened to be in the immediate vicinity of the mall and had the opportunity to join us for lunch. It was a real eye-opener because I got to see a Melanie I have never seen before.

She ordered a garden salad and sparkling water. Frankie remarked that his Melanie eats just like a canary. I smiled and thought wicked thoughts about how much Mel would pay me for those photos of her winning the pie eating contest at our college carnival.

When Frankie left to go back to his office, us girls took off to take on the mall. Woo hoo! Somehow, we never got around to trying on clothes we could never afford or cattily critiquing what the other shoppers were wearing like we used to. But I NOW know what Frankie likes (and doesn’t like) to wear. I know about his favorite colors, his preferred designers, his allergies to polyester blends, his preference to briefs over boxers and his love of Italian neckties. And just so you can be as creeped-out as I was at this piece of info, Frankie doesn’t wear anything to bed. Should I know all this about someone whom I have known less than a day?

My patience was wearing thin. I just wanted to be with my old friend Melanie. Where did she go? Where was my best buddy who showed me how to do Tequila shooters and play pool? Where was my sound-minded “sister” and confidante who was always so together in everything she did?

She is lost in Loveland, I am afraid.

I was just about to pretend that I had to go home early to some sort of emergency, when all hell broke loose. Melanie and Frankie had a fight. It seems we were 20 minutes late getting back from the mall and he was less than patient about our disregard for promptness. I stuck by my friend through the whole ordeal and was truly saddened by how paralyzed life without Frankie made her. Thank goodness it didn’t last long. The next morning three dozen perfect white “I’m sorry” roses arrived at the door with a gooey love note. All was well again with the world. I had to think, however, that if the standard is three dozen rose for a little tiff, that the man in my life should be sending me one of those Rose Parade floral floats any day now.

It was finally time to go home. Once safe again in my own universe, I enjoyed sweet thoughts of Melanie and was genuinely happy for this new found love she had with Frank. This is not a change of heart or anything, its just way easier to love lovebirds when you don’t have to be around them.

And then I remembered. Renee just became a grandmother for the first time a few months ago. Kill me now…

Football Fantasies

I know that the course of my life would have been a lot different if I had only understood football. I have tried. From my earliest years I have made every effort to learn how this game was played. My daddy was a huge football fan. I would have loved to have sat right next to him and rooted for our favorite team. Throughout my growing up years, I ate every Thanksgiving meal at half time. I was an adult before I realized that this wasn’t normal.

My dad was a mathematician and he tried to draw me charts to explain the game. I paid attention as best I could, but every time he drew those lines of Xs and squiggles, I went into the same coma that I did when he helped me with my math homework. He never understood that creative people think in storyboards in their heads. Concepts, intangibles and details… those are the elements we understand. Numbers are for other people.

Trying to learn football from my dad’s diagrams always brought me back to those evenings from Hell when he would try to help me with those mathematical “thought problems” that the teacher would give us for homework. He would get so frustrated with me and I would always end up in tears. You remember those problems, right? If Mary drives 14 miles in 32 minutes, how much taller is Jane than Mary if Jane is a Presbyterian? Nothing made me feel dumber than those stupid problems. I only wish I knew then that none of that crap really comes up in life.

Football has eluded me for so long, I don’t really think there is any hope for me at this point. I was married for centuries and my ex-husband even tried to explain the game to me. Unfortunately he always did it during a football game. He would start out really great. Then someone on the field would do something amazing and he would stop in mid-sentence to yell or swear and jump up and down. When he began again, he often would lose his place and lose me completely. Then another play would grab his attention and screaming at the television became more important than teaching. I would sit there obediently and try to unscramble the mystery of football on my own. After all, I am an intelligent woman. How hard can this thing be?

As I would watch the men crashing into each other and act like I was taking it all in, my mind always drifted to thoughts that made more sense to me. Like… why did a team pick such a lame name? If I played football, I would rather be a Steeler than a Dolphin, no offense. I may not have learned football, but as I was pretending to watch the game all those times, I came to realize with complete certainty something that has gone unnoticed by those so absorbed by what’s happening on the field. Spandex is for the very few. I don’t think the players are at all aware of how huge their butts look in those uniform pants, and I made this observation long before HD.

I am a little sad that I can’t get too excited about the monstrously important bowl game that is coming up this Sunday. I live alone now, so there is no chili or dip to make. I have no hostess duties to keep me occupied. I felt very alone until I called my spa to book an appointment for late Sunday. They were completely booked. Imagine that...

Although the men in my life didn’t help me much to love and appreciate the All-American addiction of watching football, there is one thing that I DID learn from football and I think that it should be become a law or at least standard operating procedure.

This whole deal of Sudden Death is brilliant! How many times have I been left waiting because there were only 3 minutes left in the game? It didn’t take me long to learn that Sudden Death is anything but sudden and can take an eternity.

The first place I would suggest that this maneuver is adopted is when couples go shopping at the mall. When you haven’t found the perfect item yet and he wants to go home, you tell him “only 5 more minutes” and then proclaim Sudden Death! You can whip through endless retail shops... 20 seconds at a time! The great thing about this is that the clock doesn’t start until you have arrived inside the next store and are positioned to start shopping. What do you think of that idea, girls? I love it!

Have a divine time watching THE GAME. I will certainly join you for half-time. We can all “Vogue” together with Madonna. Is it a date?