Titillating Conversation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tweet Inspiration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Health and Welfare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?