American Hair-itage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See below... what do you think?

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.

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?

My Darling Readers

Wow, what a week! I have been in Las Vegas for the last 3 days shopping for new merchandise for LoveFifi. It’s been both exciting and exhausting. For those of you who have ever walked the endless aisles of a trade show, you know what I am talking about. Try 3 trade shows in 3 days. I am pooped.

I am on my way back to LA and I am texting this love letter to let you know what’s up. Don’t worry, I am not texting and driving. I completeIy let go of the wheel when I text in the car. Just kidding. I am being driven.

I have a funny article in the works, but I am afraid it will have to wait until next week. I hope your week was as successful and happy as mine. Have a lovely weekend. I plan to spend the entire weekend doing absolutely NOTHING. I can’t wait.

Hugs and kisses.

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.

Hello, my darling readers...

I am sitting here at the computer contemplating jumping out of the window onto the street below. Ultimately, I'll abandon the thought since my office is on the second floor; I would only be maimed.

I just wrote the funniest article about something that is going on in my life. I read it out loud to my sister/assistant and my graphic design goddess. It made them laugh out loud and they both know it is all true, so it's even better.

I was sending the document to the art department and even though I saved the damn thing, I evidently pushed something and poof! It disappeared. A little while ago, after much trying, it was deemed irretrievable by the IT department.

I am so sad because I love writing for you each week and this was an especially good one. From now on I will print out what I write before I attempt to send it electronically. I am not crazy about computers and they feel the same about me. I am so sorry. I made some notes and I will try to re-write it for next week.

I know we all make mistakes but this one really hurt. You are now stuck drinking a good cup of coffee and reading this pitiful letter instead of a funny article.

The great philosophers have written much about making mistakes.

Alexander Pope's line is probably the most famous.

"To err is human, to forgive divine."

You do forgive me, right?

Winston Churchill wrote,

"All of us make mistakes, but only the wise learn from their mistakes."

I learned... I promise you.

But I think it was one of my favorite comedians, Ron White, who said it best.

"You can't fix stupid."

To My Darling Readers

I hope you all had a fabulous 4th of July. I did! I cooked 12 racks of ribs, whipped up a big crock of baked beans, cut up 3 big watermelons, toasted a ton of garlic bread and made dozens of cookies. The family had an absolute blast and everyone was more than "Thanksgiving" full when they rolled out the door after the fireworks. It was wonderful.

We all returned to work Monday with a killer week ahead of us. Tuesday we began a marathon photo shoot for the Fall and Holiday season. You cannot even believe the magnificent new styles we have coming your way. The biggest news of all is that we photographed every style we have that comes in Plus Sizes on PLUS models. So many of you have requested this and we are doing it. We have rounded up the most gorgeous group of PLUS sized models from size 14 to 24.

It's so funny, the PLUS models are all so fun-loving and gregarious. They laugh and tease and were so much fun during the fittings. One day I happened to mention to one these models that the whole group of curvy models were crazy-cute and full of smiles all the time. Her response was that the "fluffier" models were the happiest because they're NOT hungry. I can relate!

Anyway, I am up to my eyeballs with things to do, so there won't be a regular article. I figured you wouldn't hate me if I told you what was going on. Y'all mean the world to me and I never want to disappoint. I will be back next week with some more of my mayhem and foolishness.

Hugs and Kisses...

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?

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

To My Darling Readers

There won’t be an article this week. I wish I had a brilliant excuse like I have been called to the White House to help solve pressing national problems or that I am on the list to be a kidney donor and I got the call that I was a match. I am sad to say that there is nothing so impressive or noble associated with the reason I couldn’t get it together and write something for my precious and loyal readers.

Although I am pretty good at multi-tasking, this week just kicked my butt and I ran out of time. I don’t believe in excuses, but mine are pretty fantastic, so please indulge me.

First, I had 2 charming house guests from Belgium stay with me this week. These two adorable young men were on a three week whirlwind trip through California, Arizona and Utah. Seven years ago, one of them worked here at LoveFifi on an apprenticeship through his college in Europe. When he left to go home, I told him that if he ever came to California again, he was more than welcome to stay with me. I was thrilled to be house mother to these charming lads. I put everything else aside to make sure they had a great time in my city.

Then life got more complicated because my sister was scheduled to have her first colonoscopy this past Tuesday. I think you know by now she is not only my sister, but my trusted assistant. I was at work all alone on Monday and it was Hell for me trying to do both of our jobs. Actually, it could have been worse because I had quite a time convincing her that prepping for her procedure the day before at the office is not really do-able. I was already running behind for the week, but on Tuesday I was Sister’s official driver to and from the hospital. Nothing shoots a good Tuesday like a colonoscopy, even if it’s not your own.

On Wednesday I needed to act like the CEO person that it says I am on our letterhead and my business cards. We were having a "big all-company” meeting on Friday and I had a ton of analyzing to do to get ready so I could look smart in front of the partners and staff. By Thursday I was so over-my-head frantic with tasks, that I had to make some changes to my schedule and do some heavyweight prioritizing.

I also must mention that I have company coming again over the weekend and my housekeeper of over 20 years retired 3 weeks ago. Yes, I had to clean my own house. I tried to ignore it, but the dust bunnies were getting to be a menacing size and I was starting to have nightmares. My housekeeper was wonderful to me and worked a lot of years. She deserves to enjoy her life. I tried to keep that thought when I was plotting her death while mopping at 11:30 last night.

So it is almost the week’s end and time to be witty. I love writing my articles, but this week I am stressed out and tearing my hair out. If you can believe it, one of my best friends called me out and said I was a bitch. I was quite taken aback and informed her without hesitation that I am not a bitch... I am THE bitch, and don’t forget it.

I feel bad that there is no article to entertain you over coffee this week. I do apologize, my darlings. Life is not without sacrifices and I believe that my decision to forgo writing an article was the right thing to do for my mental health. I also found the courage to cancel my massage and Aqua Lift Facial, which actually would have taken the same amount of time as accompanying my sister to her colon photo shoot, but I am not complaining. Being unselfish comes naturally to me. Who needs to be rubbed with hot stones and have her tired face uplifted and refreshed? Not me.

Until Next Week,

Standard Operating Procedure?

I want to thank all of you who sent me “Get Well” wishes and prayers. I am happy to report that it all worked beautifully. My surgical experience was successful physically, but my hospital stay—if you can call it that—was very perplexing.

It has been over 30 years since I last had a serious operation. Things have really changed a lot in surgeryland. My stay 3 decades ago was 4 or 5 days and I was treated like a princess. There were floral tributes and a procession of visitors to help me with the healing process. This last stay was 4 or 5 hours long and the only flowers and visitors I saw were ones coming in the front door as I was being wheeled out. Don’t get me wrong, I was well taken care of, medically speaking, but the whole process is way different now.

In all fairness, I understand about progress and the amazing strides that the medical community has made, but some things just shouldn’t go so fast. Granted, my two surgeries were very different, but the reality is that for both they knocked me out and cut me open. My recent procedure entailed removing a funky gallbladder (the name of my new band, by the way) and with the one so many years ago, they sent me home with an adorable daughter.

I arrived at the hospital on surgery day bright and early, with my sister and middle daughter in tow. They were there to support me and also protect the hospital staff. Since I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink after 12 a.m., which meant that I could not have even a drop of coffee. Can you spell HELL? I was not in the best mood.

We were sent to the second floor Surgery Waiting Room for further instructions. That’s where they would be picking me up and also where my daughter and sister would wait. As we opened the door, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit my nostrils. Are they kidding? How mean! I knew it was for the benefit of the family members, but it still hurt. I didn’t have to endure the heavenly aroma for very long before someone called my name and took me to my surgical event. I must say that even though the staff was very nice, I still found them a little suspect. The same lady who called my name in the waiting area and then escorted me to my gurney, asked me my name and then wanted to know what I was having done. A little strange, I thought, since all my info was in their computer and my wristband clearly stated who I was. Though caffeine deprived and cranky, I went along with it obediently. I was then handed a paper hospital gown, a bag for my personal belongings and a pair of butt ugly socks with non-skid rubber stuff not only on the soles, but all over the tops as well. I could only deduce that the socks prevented me from escaping either by running or crawling. Let me jump ahead for a minute... when I was getting ready to leave the hospital, my sister and daughter wouldn’t let me leave the damn socks behind. They were both adamant that I would certainly have a use for harvest gold, stick-to–the–floor, mid-calf socks in my real life. I was too groggy to be insulted so I packed them up and smiled gratefully. I figured they probably cost me $250 anyway, so now they are mine.

OK, now comes the truly exciting part. The paper gown they gave me was amazing! Not your standard issue throw-away hospital gown, no sir-ee! This one had back ties, side ties, mysterious openings and flaps. It even had this curious thingy on the side that looked like the place where you hook up the bag to the vacuum. I returned to my gurney area only to be greeted by a new nurse, a man this time. Guess what he wanted to know... my name and the reason for my visit to the hospital. Don’t these people talk to each other or write anything down? I sweetly answered while he checked my wristband.

Then the fun began! They asked me if I wanted anything. “A non-fat latte with extra foam”, I replied. By then there were 2 more nurses and they all laughed. I told them I was cold and before I knew it, they had attached a hose that spits out hot air right into my gown! Do you remember the old fashioned bonnet hair dryer for home use? Same principle. As I laid there in my bouffant body bag, they put one pillow under my head and another under my legs. I was very happy and comfortable, but I was aware that I probably couldn’t look more hideous. I was wrong. At that very instant, someone put a poufy paper Martha Washington hat on my head. And then my adorable doctor arrived with a sweet reassuring tone of voice and a sweet smile on his face. I had every confidence in him until he asked me what my name was and what I was having done. Really?

Alright, I get it. This is some kind of safety measure so they don’t take the wrong organ out of the wrong person. Funny thing is, they seem to get the insurance “bill to” info and the co-pay collected on the first go-around.

My anesthesiologist was darling. We chatted for a brief moment as he inserted something into my IV. The next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. The attending nurse was very sweet and asked me if I would like something to eat or drink. I guess they lost my latte order, so we settled on Jell-O and graham crackers. Soon I was released, my sister and daughter showed up, and I was wheel-chaired out of there, gallbladder-less.

All and all , my surgery experience was easy and very efficient. However, I can’t help wondering what surgery will be like a few decades from now. When my sister had her gall bladder out 25 years ago, she spent nearly a week in the hospital. What will surgical procedures be like 25 years from now? Maybe drive-thru... who knows. Or perhaps the patient will just press their iPhone screen against the area to be treated. Maybe there’s already an app for that. My poor sister has a scar the size of tree branch down her belly and I have a 1” slit under my breasts and two little tiny ones on my torso. A big difference, let me tell you. The whole experience left me with a lot of questions, but none as burning as where can I get one of those body warmer machines and a good supply of those Jiffy Pop disposable gowns? Fabulous!

Natural Woman

It's a beautiful day here in California. Spring has officially arrived and I am beside myself with angst. It's not that I don't love the blue skies and new blossoms, but my whole world changes in spring.

If you haven't noticed, the garden centers are abuzz with customers. I was watching QVC a few weeks ago and they had a day of spring flower offerings that was amazing. I wanted everything that they were showing. I was especially taken with the Dinner Plate Dahlia's that have 10" blooms and the exquisite roses in exotic colors.They made it sound like growing the plants was easy-peasy and guaranteed them to be fully grown and blossoming within 90 days. Except at my house.

I have told you before that I do not have a green thumb, but I do have a gardener who tends my flowers. He has the magic to make things grow so I leave it to him after I have planned what to plant and decided what goes where. The result is spectacular and I love every minute of bloom time.

Now here's why spring is so exhausting for me. I live in the hills and there are many little creatures who do not consider my garden a thing of beauty. They view it as more of a salad. My very small backyard has a 3' fence and then a slope on the other side. I can't have the fence any taller or I would lose my view.

When I first moved to my little place, I foolishly planted rosebushes along the fence. When the bushes first bloomed I was in awe of my exquisite rose garden. A few days later I came out to a row of leafy plants with sticks jutting out at the top. That was the day I learned that deer think roses are delicious.

Deer are so beautiful and sweet, so I set out to find a way to discourage them from eating my roses. I did not want to put wire or anything that would hurt them, so I ordered this stuff called "Deer OUT". It's supposed to have coyote urine as a base and the deer smell danger and keep away. Unfortunately the smell of my roses trumped the coyote pee, because as soon as I got a new rose, the next day it would turn into a stick. I then bought some sensors that give off a vibe that deer are supposed to fear. I had them installed at great expense. My deer didn't fear them at all. I eventually took out the rose bushes and gave them away. I have been experimenting with a "deer proof" garden but it's not that pretty. Deer obviously have great taste in what they like to nibble on because they don't seem to fancy the plants that aren't pretty.

Do you remember when you were a kid and watched cartoons? Remember when there was a gopher in the garden and the flowers were instantly sucked into the ground? I always thought that was an exaggeration before I lived on this hill. I have watched my hollyhocks and cyclamen literally vanish in the blink of an eye. I have been told that the only way to get rid of gophers is to put poison in their tunnels. I can't kill them or make them sick, so I will find the magic. I understand that fox urine is a deterrent. By the way, who are these people who gather up animal pee and sell it? Interesting job...

And let's not even talk about squirrels! I have watched them swing like Tarzan on my "squirrel proof" hanging bird planters until the whole thing (including the squirrel) falls to the ground. Once the feeder is broken in half, the seed spews out and my patio becomes the Ground Squirrel Cafe. My poor little birds get nothing until I buy a bigger and badder bird feeder.

And then there are the possums. I don't think they bother my garden, but they bother my sense of beauty. When I get to heaven, I plan to ask God what he was thinking when he created possums. Not some of his best work, in my opinion.

It's not like I am new to this battle against nature. I have been a hill dweller forever. In the house where my kids grew up, we had problems with raccoons. They would tear out the roof and live in the attic. Their favorite place to make little raccoons was right over the ceiling in the master bedroom. In the middle of the night, you could hear the mating calls and practically feel the house shake when they would chase each other. You may have never seen it, but I can tell you what raccoon love sounds like. It's noisy and not even me pounding the ceiling with the broom handle could stop the passion. And then it would get eerily quiet. I would lay in bed and visualize two raccoons relaxing and having little cigarettes. I hired a service to trap them and then drive them 35 miles away before I had raccoon babies living in my attic. I then repaired the roof. It was all very successful... sort of. I did it every spring for 20+ years.

So,that is my tale of woe. Spring has sprung and I will be very busy protecting my petunias and guarding my gardenias. If any of my readers have humane ideas for getting rid of my pests, please write. I really don't believe that poison and pee are my only options. Hmmmmm... poison and pee... isn't there a band by that name?

Cyber Sale, Schmyber Sale!

It has been an exhausting week here at LoveFifi.com. I am just about to leave the office. It's late Wednesday evening and I didn't have another brain cell left to be clever, so there is no article, per se, but I do have a minute to chat. We are such good friends, after all.

Even though LoveFifi.com is a beloved lingerie destination with a loyal following, it has made my brain bleed to try to figure out how to compete with all of this "biggest shopping weekend of the year" hullabaloo. You can't turn on the TV or the radio without hearing about some fantastic deal for Black Friday or Cyber Monday or how some stores were opening at midnight on Thanksgiving. How am I supposed to make people think about buying a bra from me when they are standing in line at dawn to get a big screen TV for $19.99?

This whole thing has taken a toll on me. I am such a straight shooter, but I must admit that I had to tell a little, tiny fib about my big sale going on now. If you haven't caught it, I called it my Electronic Lingerie SALE. True, there were not really any electronics involved at all, but I knew the headline in your mailboxes would make you look. I don't have any iPads or iPhones... so iLied. Don't hate me.

I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving, and if you shopped, perhaps you took a look at my site. Maybe you even bought something. Fingers crossed!

I am going home now and I look forward to relaxing on this long weekend. No, I will not be standing in line at Macy's at daybreak or fighting my way through crowds at the Big Box stores. If you did any of that, I hope you got what you wanted and that you are unscathed. Did I mention that a new bra and a pair of panties are the perfect accessories for that new laptop? I'm just saying.

Forgive me for mentioning it, but there is one more day of my Electronic Lingerie SALE where the whole site is 30% off + Free Shipping over $30 (U.S. Standard Shipping Only). I apologize that there really aren't any electric underpants for sale. Now all I can do is hope for the best and think about next year's Black Friday/Cyber Monday extravaganza. It's difficult because my employees don't always like my brainstorms. Take last year for example. Not one of my staff members supported my naked carwash/bake sale idea. Life is not easy.

Playing Footsie

I just had surgery and I need some sympathy. Oh, I am feeling fine, all went well in the operating room, but I barely survived the whole thing. Why am I so unhappy? Well, sit down, honey, and let me tell you.

It all started one day when I had this terrible pain in my foot, just where my big toe connects to my foot. It was pretty bad, so my doctor referred me to a specialist—a podiatric surgeon.

I called to make an appointment with this new foot doctor guy. In fact all the doctors in this medical group were foot doctors. There was even a great big picture of a foot on the card right next to the phone number. I felt confident that my foot would soon be in good hands, if that makes sense.

When I called and said I needed to make an appointment, the receptionist asked me why I needed to see the doctor. “Well”, I replied a bit skeptically, “because I am having trouble with my foot.” She then asked, without hesitation, “What is wrong with it?” If I knew that, I wouldn't have to call, I thought to myself. “It hurts right where the big toe is connected to the foot” I answered obediently and without any sarcasm. I guess I passed the test because she finally let me have an appointment. That’s when the real fun began.

I showed up at the receptionist desk. My foot was really killing me that day. She instructed me to go sit down. The waiting room was packed. There were at least 20 chairs, but the only vacant seat was at the rear of the waiting room. I hobbled over and took a seat. Not 60 seconds went by before the receptionist started bellowing my name while waving a clip board in the air. I got up and traipsed across the room to the front desk. “I need your insurance card,” she said. As I made my way back to my chair to retrieve my insurance card, I wondered if I was being unreasonable to think that it might have been nice if she had asked me about my card when I checked in or at least before I found my chair in the Siberia section of the waiting room. I returned only to be asked to fill out a "few papers".

I again returned to my seat and began to fill out a stack of sheets attached to a clip board. By the way, to call this a “few papers” would be like referring to the Bible as a pamphlet.

“My appointment was at 10. It was now 11 and I still hadn’t been called. I waited… and waited.”

“Why are you here today to see the doctor?” was the first question. “For a shampoo and blow dry, of course!”, I was dying to say. But I was good, and wrote “FOOT PAIN”. The questionnaire went on to ask me about everything ranging from diarrhea to insanity in my family. I went ahead and answered, but I wasn’t quite sure what my bowels and my crazy uncle Louie had to do with my foot.

I finally finished, but I was pooped and my foot was throbbing. I caught the eye of the receptionist and hoped that I could get her 30-year-old butt out of her seat to retrieve my clipboard. Of course not. She probably did 45 minutes of cardio-aerobics after work the night before, but would not think of walking across the waiting room so I wouldn’t have to get up again.

Now here is when I started to get cranky. My appointment was at 10. It was now 11 and I still hadn’t been called. I waited… and waited. Finally, the door from the inner sanctum opened up and I heard my name announced! Listen, I don’t mind waiting, and I know doctors overbook because people don’t show up. But, here is a hint for the medical community: If a patient is in a waiting room long enough to knit a sweater, it’s too long.

So, I am taken into a room where the walls are covered with charts of the human foot. There is a case of orthopedic shoes and Dr. Scholl’s products are on the shelves. Now we’re cooking! I am in FOOTLAND! Help is not far away.

The nurse comes in and wants to weigh me. WHY? Now I was not happy, but I didn’t want to wait another 2 hours to see the doctor, so I got on the scale and behaved myself. I didn’t even look when she kept tapping the little bar to get it to balance. Weighing only counts when you are naked.

She then had me sit on the examination table and began to ask questions. “So why are you here to see the doctor?”, she said without flinching. Well, let’s see, I am at a podiatrists office, I am sitting in a room decorated completely with medical drawings of feet… "I am here for my PAP smear" I replied. I was laughing, but she wasn’t. “My right foot has been giving me trouble”, I said. “Right where my big toe is joined to my foot.” She continued to write, never looking up. She got up and left and assured me the doctor would be right with me.

I waited some more. It’s not that the Arizona Highways they had there in the exam room is not a riveting magazine, but I was in pain and really wanted to get on with it.

Finally, my doctor came in. I was not the least bit concerned when I realized I have 2 kids older than him, but I was a little baffled when he asked me the reason for my visit. Did he not even read what the nurse wrote? Did she use invisible ink? I tried to remain calm. I needed his help and didn’t want to upset him.

“My foot hurts when I walk”. I pointed to the spot. The nurse came back in and wrote as the doctor pulled and poked at my poor little foot and dictated to her in medical talk. When he was finished, I asked him what was wrong. He told me that I had a condition that causes pain in my big toe right where it connects to my foot. “Really?”, I said.

Anyway, he was very nice and super smart. He broke the news that I had to have surgery and that I would have a big scar across my foot and toe. I was not too sad because I had abandoned the idea of being a foot model years ago. He also added that Shaquille O’Neill had the same operation to improve his game. Wow! Imagine that!

It all came out great; I am walking better every day. The whole thing was made infinitely better because after all was said and done; my doctor was fantastic and handsome, too. Now I am just waiting to be completely healed so I can see if I am now great at basketball. I’ll let you know.

A Toy Story

I am a sophisticated adult. I attended college during the free love era with both eyes wide open. I am forward-thinking and non-judgmental when it comes to love and romance. Two people being in love and expressing themselves with each other mentally, emotionally, and physically is one of life’s most perfect pleasures.

I am bringing this entire thing up because of something that happened the other day. My sister accused me of being a “prissy butt”, whatever that means.

Sis and I went into a large lingerie shop in another city. We always shop the competitions’ lingerie to make sure we’re not missing something. Just as I thought we were ready to go, my sister motioned me over to the back section of the store. I was met with shelf upon shelf of what I assumed were bath and body products. Once I got there and started reading the labels, I knew I was in trouble. My sister took a step back with arms folded and a big grin on her face and just waited for me to squirm.

I would not be taunted, so I casually picked up one of the bottles of pink liquid and showed it the same respect I would a bottle of Chanel No.5. I admired the container and gave it a short, appreciative sniff. “This is very nice,” I said, trying to be as cool and worldly as possible. The words were barely out of my mouth when, out of nowhere, a saleslady with a purple mohawk and a ring in her nose appeared before me, as if by magic. “So, you like our Groove Lube, do you?” she asked. My sister was about to spring a leak, she was laughing so hard. “Uhhhh,” I sputtered, “I’ve heard good things about it.”

My sister accused me of being a “prissy butt”, whatever that means.

The salesperson then proceeded to dot my hand with the pink champagne-flavored goo and began massaging it into my palm. “It warms up on your body wherever you apply it”, she said with a wink. Oh good, I thought. The next time I am involved in an amorous interlude, I won’t need a sweater.

Then, without skipping a beat, she asked about my “personal massaging system”. She took my perplexed look as an indication that I might be considering an upgrade in this department. If she only knew that the closest thing to a personal massaging system that I have is a little wooden ducky thing on rollers for back rubs. I never used it for anything other than to tease the hell out of the cat.

Before I knew what hit me, she showed up with this contraption called “The Explorer”. As she whipped this cylinder-shaped thing out of the package, she began her sales pitch by explaining that it was designed to replicate a man’s most personal body part exactly. I have no idea who the model was for that damn thing, but Paul Bunyan must have been in town that day.

At this point in the demonstration, she started to explain all the different attachments that came with this vibrating wonder. It had a spiky thing, and a bumpy thing, a plunger looking gizmo, and even one attachment that looked like a hairbrush. I swear this apparatus could probably do everything but clean your carpets. It had multi speeds, came in three “fashion” colors, and was waterproof. “You can use it in the pool!” said the salesgirl excitedly. For a second I got caught up in her salesmanship and thought that since it could be used in the swimming pool that I should definitely go with the blue one to match my swim fins.

Thank goodness my sister brought me back to reality. By now she was gasping for breath and crying real tears. “Is she alright?” the saleslady asked. “Oh, she’s fine”, I said, regaining my composure. “It’s just that she has always dreamed of owning her own Explorer and she’s just a bit overwhelmed”. My sister’s look of horror felt nothing short of divine.

The salesperson sprang into action, pushed me aside like yesterdays garbage, and began wielding that crazy thing on my sister’s arm and shoulder, changing the speeds as she went along. As sister stood there, half-paralyzed from embarrassment, I shot her a sweet sisterly smile and reminded her about the old adage regarding pay back.

I hurriedly made my escape toward the door. My sister followed my lead and bolted right past me and raced towards the car. I was almost out of there when the saleswoman caught up to me and in a last ditch effort to make a sale asked if I had ever thought about nipple clamps.

“Got ‘em!” I said without hesitation.

“Well, what about an edible G-string?” she asked. “No thanks, too many carbs!” I replied, just before the door nearly swung back and hit her in the head. As I hopped into the car, my sister motioned madly for me to hurry up. “Let’s get out of this crazy place!” she whined. Spoken like a true prissy butt, I would say.

Graphic Details

I am thinking about getting a tattoo. I really missed the boat on the whole tattoo craze. When I was a young girl, the only people I saw with tattoos were released convicts and ex-military men. Usually their tattoo stories included amazing amounts of alcohol and waking up with a tiger inked on their arm. Oh yeah, there was also that lady in the Barnum and Bailey Circus who had tattoos all over her body. That was the extent of my exposure to tattoos.

Now tattoos are so commonplace. Nearly everyone I know has some sort of artwork indelibly inked somewhere on their skin. There are no socio-economic barriers when it comes to tattooing. The rich, the poor and the middle class are all into it. Men and women indulge equally. Every young actor in Hollywood has some kind of body art.

As for the women, I can understand that it might be sexy to have a little butterfly on your ankle or a rosebud on one breast. I don’t understand why anyone would want to have pictures up and down their bodies. What happens when you wear a spaghetti-strapped dress in the summer and it all shows? I find accessorizing challenging enough without having to consider if the dragon on my shoulder or the heart n’ dagger on my arm would conflict with the necklace I want to wear.

I just wondered why a big, strong guy would have a picture of a meatball on top of a smiley face on his arm...

I think that some of the flower tattoos I have seen on young women are really gorgeous. Elegant lilies, orchids and gardenias that fancifully trail up athletically- toned arms can look amazing. It’s a very provocative look... now.

But here’s my worry. I remember when I was a kid we had a neighbor named Carl, a retired Navy man. I was always intrigued by the faded, crinkly image on his forearm. My mother would jab me in his presence if she caught me staring at it. I was just a curious child that wondered why a big strong guy would have a picture of a meatball on top of a smiley face on his arm. You really couldn’t tell what it was and no one ever asked. It wasn’t until I was grown and Carl was dead that I knew the truth about his mysterious tattoo. In a collage of old photos at his funeral, there was a shot of him in a t-shirt. I immediately zoomed in on his red rose and anchor tattoo. Not a meatball and smiley face at all! That got me thinking.

What is going to happen to all these young people that are tatted up when they get older? The first problem is that they are probably not in love with the images they chose decades earlier. I don’t have the same boyfriend or furniture I had when I was in my twenties. Neither would fit my lifestyle now. The great thing is, neither of those things were PERMANENT.

A skull with fire coming out of the orifices might have been cool when you were 22, but what is it going to look like when you are 62? How will this tattoo affect your career? The last time I asked, you have to cover up your tats if you work at Starbucks. Imagine what the rules are in corporate America.

There are lots of you who are reading this who are thinking that I am a stuffy old bitch who doesn’t understand the deep meaning and commitment that comes with tattoos. The real truth is that I am just not enough of a visionary to ink a storyboard on my body that is nearly irremovable. I can stay in the shoe department for hours and cannot decide which pair to buy. How could I ever to trust myself to choose motifs to tattoo indelibly all over myself that will stay with me for a lifetime? And by the way, you are wrong about me being a stuffy old bitch. I am the stuffy old bitch.

Bunches of random tattoos on my body is just not an option for this girl. Believe me, I have the perfect body for it and am probably a tattoo artists dream. Acres of undeveloped pale skin... my ass alone is mural material. Besides that, I am not a big fan of pain, and I have the attention span of a 5 year old. I can barely sit in the salon chair for 30 minutes to get my hair cut without getting antsy.

But... the fact remains that I still want to have ONE perfect little tattoo. I am willing to put up with a modicum of pain to have something inked that is special just for me. But what?

My wrinkles are pretty much in place at this point and I think a good tattoo artist can make them work with the design. I don’t want anything trashy. It would hurt my feelings if anyone ever called it my “tramp stamp”.

I have been thinking about my tattoo a lot. I considered flowers, a bumble bee, my kid’s names... even a heart with the name of my own true love. The problem with the last one is that I would have to just do the heart and leave the middle part blank until my own true love shows up. A bluebird of happiness was even a thought.

C’mon Fifi! Think! What would be the quintessential tattoo for a smart, sophisticated older woman who is in love with experiencing the world? Then it came to me. No butterflies or flowers for me. I’ve got it!

I am going to have my younger sister’s phone number tattooed on me somewhere. That way, no matter what I do or where I go, I am guaranteed that if I get lost or forget where I am or who I am, I will be safely returned to my family. I can also hold my head up high as part of the cool tattoo culture.

And the best part, the next time somebody asks if I have a tattoo, I can confidently flip my hair to the wind and say “of course!”