And The Winner Is...

I was raised to believe that it is not ladylike or appropriate to boast or brag. My mother believed it was up to other people to sing your praises and that when they did, you were supposed to be humble and act with utmost humility. Thank goodness, most of that went in one of my ears and out the other. Don’t get me wrong, I am more self-deprecating than I am a braggart. I don’t have to tell you all that… you know. I write about my short comings all the time in my articles.

Ever since I was a young girl, I have always dreamed of winning a big award and making my family super proud of me. Always having been a huge fan of the Academy Awards, I have often fantasized about what it would feel like to hear my name called out from a list of nominees. What must it feel like to hold a golden statue and thank everyone who made it possible? I have practiced my acceptance speech in my head many times. Winning an Oscar has always sounded like such an unbelievable high. Sadly, there is really only one thing that kept me from becoming an actress and winning the most coveted award in that industry: I have absolutely no acting talent. Meryl Streep, if you are reading this, don’t worry.

I never missed a Miss America or Miss Universe Pageant when I was growing up. My parents understood my passion for these events and allowed me to stay up through the whole thing. Though sleepy-eyed, I always made it to the end to see the big announcement, the crowning and “The Walk” down the runway as the new reigning Miss Whatever. I never had any delusions about trying to compete in one of these contests. Oh, I could have aced the evening gown event and done fine in the bathing suit competition, but I came to terms early on that my greatest feat of talent was probably not good enough to bowl the judges over in the midst of prima ballerinas and operatic virtuosos. Listen, it isn’t easy to twirl two batons and hula hoop at the same time.

I never even won a spelling bee in school and there was no such thing as Student of the Month. Back then you might have gotten a cheesy gold star for good work, but I would have really felt like a winner if I had been awarded a certificate and been given a bumper sticker to take home to my parents.

I was a pretty successful Camp Fire Girl. I sold more Campfire Girl chocolates than any girl in Los Angeles County, but I didn’t get an award. I got a free trip to Disneyland, but all these decades later, I hardly remember it. All that hard work and not even a plaque to prove I was the best.

I bowled in a league for a while in the 80s. I did it for the camaraderie and because my friends asked me to. I had never bowled before, but that didn’t seem to matter. It turns out that they loved me for my handicap. It seems that if you are a crappy bowler on a team where everyone else is excellent at the sport, it is a good thing. We won the championship and I have a photo of me somewhere with the only trophy I ever got. It really never felt like a victory. They used me because I sucked and I had to wear this hideous shirt every week.

The time I won a Halloween costume contest felt pretty good. I worked really hard on my costume but it ended up costing a freaking fortune at the end. Again, I didn’t get an award. I won a cheese board with a set of cute little spreading knives with ceramic handles that looked like different vegetables. Considering that my Mae West costume probably cost upwards of $150 dollars and the only cheese my family was eating at the time came individually wrapped, my win didn’t feel like a big deal.

Even though you all seem to love my articles, I doubt that there is any chance of me winning a Pulitzer Prize in literature, right? I just thought I would ask.

Ok, in all fairness, I was the “Cougar of the Month” last December in Fast Lane Biker Magazine. The sweet people who publish the thing made it sound like I beat out some heavy competition for the title. The truth is, they like me. I did feel triumphant and it felt good, but I didn’t win because of astounding beauty. I won it because I don’t look too bad for someone so old.

My sweet mother meant well when she tried to teach me to be humble. Fortunately, until last week I never had a true honor bestowed on me, so it wasn’t difficult to not show off.

Right now I am bursting with pride and I want to tell the whole world! How can it be wrong? If I was on a winning Super Bowl team, I would have a ring the size of the moon to flaunt.

What has happened to me in the last seven days has truly brought me to my knees and taken my breath away all at the same time. The feelings of joy and pride are overwhelming. I have won the award of all awards.

Last Tuesday, my daughter and her husband gave birth to a gorgeous baby girl. She is beautiful beyond words. I know... all grandmothers say that, even if the baby looks like E.T., but she IS and she is healthy and pink and so pretty. My first granddaughter... and they named her after ME! When I first heard what her name would be, I was speechless. To know that this amazing little girl will make her way in the world with this part of me is the Grand Prize. I have to pinch myself when I think about the magnitude of this honor. I will close now for this week. I understand that tears are not good for my keyboard.

Make-Up Artist

How are you at make-up? No, I’m not talking about the mascara and lipstick kind; I’m talking about the “I’m sorry” kind. It confounds me that people stay mad at each other because no one will be the first to say something nice.

Get this. My girlfriend is planning her wedding, a process that should be filled with joy and anticipation. Instead, she spends way too much time figuring out the seating chart so that no feuding people have to sit next to each other! What kind of crap is that?

I can understand being miffed at someone you love. Significant others, family members and friends are not perfect, and neither are we. It’s okay to get mad, just get over it!

I read that only human beings can laugh, LOVE, or show remorse. Well, even though you will never convince me that my poodle doesn’t love me, the rest seems to be reasonable.

If we are so lucky as to be the only creatures that can apologize, I think we should start doing it. It sounds like something of a privilege.

Are you mad at someone right now? Don’t be. One of my best beauty secrets is to forgive and forget. Being mad at someone causes, not only heartache, but wrinkles. Not worth it, honey. I promise you. What’s so crazy is that most of the time people can’t even remember why they are fighting with someone. Life is too special to waste a minute on such nonsense. The new year is about to begin. Give 2014 a fresh start and make up with someone that used to be in your life but isn’t anymore... probably for some ridiculous reason.

Even the Hatfields and McCoys signed a truce after decades of bickering. If they can end the most famous family fight in history, you can forgive your husband for saying, (in front of everyone), that his sister’s spaghetti sauce is the best he ever tasted. He knows YOURS is, but his sister needed the compliment and he knew that you loved him enough to understand. Be grateful that you have such a sweet guy.

It feels great to kiss and make up. You won’t regret it for a minute. Alright, my sweeties, start puckering!

Peevish As A Second Language

I never want to become one of those cranky, old people who have no patience and find fault with everything and everybody. I am a big fan of the saying live and let live. As part of the over-50 population, I try to be an example to my age group and not be judgmental, especially of the young. I pride myself in being a free spirit with a positive outlook and a kind heart. Despite my zeal for being completely fair and open-minded, I must admit that I have my limits. Some things in life are just WRONG. As hard as I try to reconcile certain situations and try to see the other side, there are a group of subjects that have no explanation or reason for being and, to me, are just stupid. I suppose you could call these things my pet peeves, but that term is a bit strong for my taste. I prefer to think of myself as being a bit peevish.

Because I am a firm believer in getting things off of my DD chest, I thought if I shared these particular annoyances with you I might be able to move on. Maybe it’s just me. I know my loyal readers will let me know. Venting is good for the soul. So here goes...

Let’s start with Donald Trump’s hair. Here is a seriously successful, high-profile man, yet his hair-do defies both reason and gravity. His hair is often spoken of as the ultimate comb-over. I have no idea how he accomplishes this coiffure because I can’t even tell how much hair he actually has. I’m not sure if it’s just one long piece twirled around or knitted together like an afghan, but I do suspect that it takes an entire staff to create the dips and swoops and peaks that I have seen previously only coming out of a soft serve ice cream machine. I have tried to figure Mr. Trump's hair out for years, to no avail. He lacquers it so a hurricane couldn’t move it and you can’t really see where it starts and where it ends. I don’t think his tresses would disturb me so much if I saw other men copying The Donald’s 'do. You’d think a man as smart as he is would wonder why his hairstyle hasn’t caught on. I know why... it’s just WRONG.

I am not ganging up on men, but I did want to mention that I find bald men with ponytails a bit irritating. (Incidentally, one of my readers called me sexist last week when I was saying how amazing it is that most men can barbeque on a grill, yet they can barely heat up a Pop Tart in the kitchen. I stuck to my guns. Yes, there are lots of men who can cook, but there are millions of women who cook dinner every night for a family and hold down a job, too.) Ok, back to the bald guys with ponytails. Fellows, I understand that losing the hair of your youth is not a happy thing, but taking the remaining seven strands, growing them long, and pulling them back into a wimpy ponytail is not sexy. Totally bald is much sexier.

No pun intended, but now let’s next jump right into dog poop, or the subject of, more exactly. I am a dog lover, but I am a hater of people who don’t clean up after their dogs. When I am out for a walk and see someone with a dog and no visible plastic bag in their hands or tied to the leash, I follow them like a stalker. I live in a gated community and most everyone has a dog. I clean up after my two babies and would never think to leave a mess. When I suspect that someone is letting their dog poop willy-nilly on the common area grass, I watch them and call them on it when I see a mess that I know their dog made. It’s amazing how these people are never guilty and even more amazing how many dog owners can distinguish their dog's pooping style and deny that their animal was responsible even if I watched it happen. Wrong... so wrong.

No rant would ever be complete without talking about my sister. I am not beneath being a bit annoying myself, according to her. I am her pet peeve. I hate to drive, and because she loves me, she will often offer to drive my car when we are going somewhere. She is taller than I am and every time she gets into the driver’s seat of my car, as soon as she plops her butt in the space that fit my body and legs perfectly, she goes nuts. In mock pain, she pulls her knees up to her chin and squishes her arms together to illustrate that it would have been nice if I had adjusted the seat since she agreed to drive. As she exaggerates her compressed state, she searches frenetically for the levers to release her from her agony, all the time rudely reminding me that I am short. She makes a huge deal of all this until she has released herself from the confines of the seat that was adjusted for me. Trust me... Houdini’s Suspended Straight Jacket Escape was done with less drama. I tell you this story only because I must be fair. I am not just the peevee, sometimes I am the peevor. My sister thinks this whole scenario should never happen and that I am WRONG. Could be...

I would now like to call your attention to my angst over children who are allowed to fuss and cry in restaurants. Many young parents never think to take these wailing kids outside as not to impede the dining enjoyment of others. This is WRONG beyond words. I never did it to others with six kids. The minute I heard a peep out of one of my young ones, I grabbed them, with my hand over their mouth, and ran to a place where they couldn’t be heard until they calmed down. A lot of parents don’t find it necessary to do this nowadays. If I am sitting close enough to these offenders to bother my party, I give the mother and father the Stare of Death until they do something. Sometimes they get it and sometimes they don’t. If they let their kids continue to shriek, I just smile inside... they will pay later when those children, who are being allowed to act up with no consequences, get older. Those parents will wonder what went wrong in 15 years when their teenagers are out of control. By the way, I am thinking of teaching the mother’s Stare of Death to these new parents. It used to be passed down from mother to daughter. My mother could give me one look and I knew my life was over as I knew it. What has happened with this world? Wrong... just wrong.

We can touch briefly on the morons who leave their Christmas lights up all year. No one has a harder time of letting go of the Yuletide season than I do, but it makes the whole neighborhood look shabby by not taking down your lights. It's just WRONG. If you had the strength to put them up, then take them down. Enough said. I feel better.

Okay, here comes a biggie. Why do women with nasty feet insist on wearing sandals? I cannot stand to see a woman with ugly feet wearing strappy open-toed shoes. There are two categories of ugly feet, by the way. First, there are the unkempt and un-pedicured feet. There is no excuse for this. Pedicures are very affordable or you can just do it yourself. Don’t put feet with cracked heels and chipped polish in pretty sandals. Not attractive and very unsexy. And then there are women who just have wicked-ugly feet. No amount of maintenance will help. If your toes cross over one another, are oddly configured or are longer than a chimpanzees, no one needs to see that. It is so odd to me that a woman will go to great lengths to cover the bad parts of her body and shy away from clothing that doesn’t flatter, yet she will not think twice about showing off her gnarly feet. Listen, if you had huge thighs and a fat gut, would you wear hot pants and a crop top? I know, I know. I’ve seen Jerry Springer, too. But, you get my point.

So, what are you peevish about? I can’t be the only one who gets annoyed. Write to me, my darlings. I want to know what irritates the crap out of you. Let’s dish!

Bar-B-Cuties

Men are just the most darling creatures in the world. I keep thinking about watching my neighbor last weekend as he was busily scrubbing down his Weber kettle in anticipation of the big holiday coming up.

Why is it that most men can't heat up a Pop Tart without help, but when it comes to barbecuing, they all have their black belts? My neighbor is a perfect example. He has every outdoor cooking "toy" you can imagine and is out there every weekend - weather permitting - grilling up a storm. He is an accountant and dresses very conservatively in real life, but when it comes to cooking outdoors, he is a fashion madman. Hawaiian shirt, cut off jeans, and an apron that has "King of the Grill" emblazoned across it.

I have never figured out why so many men can cook over an open fire. Maybe it's a cave man thing. I have always known that men are put together differently from us girls, but I suspect that a part of their standard equipment actually includes an extra long, charcoal-resistant spatula.

I love backyard cookouts, but I honestly don't know what I am going to do this July 4th. Last year, my family decided it would be a great idea for us to host a backyard cookout. I was all for it and began by assessing the condition of the backyard. Since the only ones who had been enjoying the chaise lounges during the previous months were 2 Malti-poos, I had to do a little hosing down to make things presentable for people. I then noticed that the garden could have looked better, so I raked, weeded and watered. I even bought a couple of Tiki torches at the garden center. I really got into it.

I then planned the menu and went to the market. The bill was over $200 for hot dogs and hamburgers. How does that happen? Once home, I lugged the giant bags of chips, the mega sodas, the six-packs of beer, the buns and everything else into the kitchen. I was pretty pooped, but managed to find the strength to haul the 20-pound sack of charcoal in before I collapsed. Isn't it ironic that no matter how long you take at the market, there is never anyone home when you arrive with the groceries? Why is that? I must be doing something wrong because my timing truly sucks on this one. If you figure it out, please have your people call my people. I need to know.

On the big day, I got up early and made the traditional truckload of potato salad. Every bowl in the house was put into service for snacks. I gave the grill a once-over until it sparkled like a new Cadillac. I then seasoned and assembled all the food like I was readying it for a cable cooking show. Lastly, I made an extra special batch of my special barbecue sauce. Whew!

The guests arrived and my dear friend Ben emerged from my kitchen in his chef’s hat and matching apron. The crowd at my house received him with the same appreciation and awe as they once would have given Pavarotti when he took center stage at the Met. My guy bowed ceremoniously and the grilling commenced!
It's wicked good fun to watch a man bar-b-que. Just as soon as the food hits the fire, all the other men congregate around the grill, beer bottles in hand, and start to tell bar-b-queing war stories and discuss over-the-flame cooking techniques. It's very adorable to behold since these are the same guys who eat cookies and potato chips for dinner when they are alone.

I remember that a good time was had by all and Ben is still getting rave reviews for his skills as outdoor chef extraordinaire and for that fabulous "secret sauce"!

I guess I could have felt hurt, but I am used to my behind-the-scenes role after all these years on this earth. I really couldn't expect anyone to applaud me for washing the dog hair off the patio chairs.

So what are we doing this 4th of July? I haven't prepared a thing. Maybe my family has planned a backyard party and all I have to do is show up. That will happen the same day that pigs learn to fly, but it's always nice to have a fantasy.

Be safe. Have fun. And please shop our 30% OFF the entire site SALE!

Fantastic Voyage

I just returned from a three-day cruise with my sister. It was just a quickie from Los Angeles to Ensenada, Mexico and back. The whole purpose was to take our grandson/great-nephew on his first vacation. He will be five years old in the fall.

Sister and I love to cruise together and live the life of luxury. Food, fun, gambling, and naps are easy to get used to. We always get a room with a balcony so we can sip coffee in the morning and watch the waves. This time we opted for a room with only a window. My grandson is part orangutan and climbs on and leaps from everything. Even with two of us taking care of him, we don’t move as fast as we did when we were raising our kids. We were taking no chances. His parents were clear that they wanted him back in one piece.

When we decided to take this trip, we couldn’t wait to tell the little one. When we told him that his grandmother and auntie were taking him on a boat, instead of big smiles we got serious frowns and anxious looks on his sweet face. It didn’t take us long to realize that he had no clue what a cruise ship was. He was worried about how the three of us were going to fit in the boat to sleep and he showed great concern over what we would take along to eat. The only boats in his realm of understanding were the ones in his coloring books that usually included a lone fisherman reeling in an undersized fish.

The big day finally arrived. As we approached the harbor, he was instantly awestruck when the ship came into view. As we made the long trek towards the gangway, each of us managed our own personal luggage. I bought him his own “big boy” suitcase on wheels. What was I thinking? He maneuvered it similarly to how he rides on his scooter and his bike. Fortunately, I also bought him an adorable little straw fedora hat, so when he crashed into the ankles of the poor cruisers ahead of us and they turned around to see who caused them pain, they were met with a darling and very stylish angel.

As a side note, this is the first time in history of our travels that my sister and I have both “carried on” our bags. We decided that we might get better at overpacking if we were committed to a small overnight bag and a tote. It was only for three days and we had the baby in tow. Sister kept reassuring me that keeping it simple and casual was the way to go. I tried to be brave about the whole thing, but I really prefer to be prepared wardrobe-wise for any activity or mood. What if I don’t feel like wearing the three or four outfits that fit into one little bag? What if I get invited to the Captain's Table or meet a man who wants to marry me on board? Tell me... which tank top and cargo pant ensemble should I wear?

My sister made the reservations and explained to the booking agent that we would be sharing a room with a little kid and that we needed some guidance. We left it all in her hands. Imagine our surprise when we walked into our room with three twin beds; two of them stacked bunk style. The old girls were not used to such Spartan accommodations, but my grandson was so excited at getting to climb up a ladder and sleep high up with his grandmother underneath, we couldn’t be anything but pleased. Sister got the bed looking out the window to the sea, my little sailor was on top and I went back in time as I crawled into my lower bunk. When I woke up the first morning in my usual groggy state, for a moment I worried that I might be late to class. But seriously, it really was quite cozy. There was just enough space between the wall and the bed that my grandbaby could slide his tiny hand to meet mine and squeeze goodnight.

The one saving grace through all the discussions before we left was that he knew there was a pool and a water slide. I had bought him some children’s swim goggles shaped liked two dolphins for the occasion and he would have worn them the whole trip if we’d let him. He couldn’t wait to go swimming with his new gear. Sister and I dutifully took him to the pool area only to discover that the sun had forgotten to come out and the wind was blowing relentlessly. I was ready to call it all off—my grandson was shivering—but he was not to be discouraged. We are glad to report that they had a little kids water slide with only a few inches of water underneath. My sister takes her role as a great-aunt very seriously and took him by the hand and headed towards the little slide. In ankle deep water with her skirt flapping in the breeze, my sis led my grandson up the ladder to the top. I took my position to snap a photo as proof. He slid down quickly with ice cold water gushing from behind. He landed with a smile and my photo was perfect. You can hardly tell he was blue.

It didn’t take our little man long to get completely into the regime in the dining room. Our waiter treated him like a celebrity and he dined sumptuously. During one of our many trips to the bathroom during dinner, we passed by the ship's library. My grandson found this room to be fascinating, so we went in. The décor was very King Arthur-style with beautiful wood, beveled glass book cases, and leather wing-backed chairs. There was nobody in there, so I had to explain in my most reverent chapel voice, that this is where people come to think and spend quiet time. Evidently that didn’t sound like too much fun, so back to the dining room we went.

I think the best part of being on a cruise ship is when you go back to your stateroom at night. The lights are low, your bed is turned down and chocolates are on the pillow. But the absolute most joyous part is when you spot the animals that your room steward has crafted out of towels. High pitched squeals and tumultuous laughter broke out as we spied the terry cloth octopus on one of the beds. I am telling you, nothing tickles my sister more than those damn towel animals. They never get old with her. My grandson was too busy scaling up his ladder to his private crow’s nest to care or even notice that my sister was busy taking endless photos of the towel sea creature.

While we were away, I spent some nice time with my little guy in the evenings. It was just the two of us. Sister loves the casino and spent every moment there that she could. The baby kept asking where his aunt was. At first, I told him the truth. Then I realized that I probably shouldn’t let him know at his tender age that his aunt is a bit of a gambler. So the next time he asked where Auntie was, I told him the library. And every time after that, my answer was the same: the library. When he and I were on the way back to the room on the last night, he turned to me and said "My Auntie likes to think an awful lot... she must be very smart... huh, Grandma?” “Yes, darling”, I replied. “Your Auntie is one of the world’s great thinkers, indeed”. Hey, sister, I always have your back, even with an almost five year old.

Queasy Rider

Some of you may remember that I recently posed atop a motorcycle as “Cougar of the Month” in a very well-known East Coast motorcycle magazine. And then again, some of you may still be trying to forget. If you missed seeing a grandmother in a red negligee on top of a Harley, you can go to my archives and read “My Last Hurrah”. No laughing allowed.

The publishers of the magazine and I became good friends and I started advertising LoveFifi.com in their publication on a regular basis. After all, the women who ride on motorcycles are hot and sexy, so LoveFifi was a perfect fit.

Recently my publisher friends invited me to come and mingle with the motorcycle crowd and talk about love, life, and lingerie at one of their big biker events. I was thrilled! I was a little nervous about going since I know as much about motorcycles and the biker lifestyle as I do about molecular biology. I didn’t lie, but I did kind of make them think that the motorcycle life was second nature to me. I didn’t want them to think I was some fluffy California cupcake who didn’t understand the adrenaline rush of riding on a Harley. I never admitted to these folks that the only bike I have ever been on said “Schwinn” on it, but if it counts for anything, when I was a kid, I used to clip playing cards to the spokes with clothespins so my bicycle would make a vroom vroom noise when I pedaled. I am not new to the sound of thunder between my thighs.

So, I headed for Spring Bike Week in Ocean City, Maryland. I was a little conflicted as to what to pack. I didn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb, but I wasn’t sure if the motorcycle community would understand my usual Fifi attire. I think that leopard print is a wardrobe basic, but not everybody else does. I didn’t want to look like an obvious outsider like the proverbial nun at an orgy, so I did what any self respecting “wannabe” would do... I Googled “biker chick”.

Wow! I not only got wonderful fashion tips, I realized that being a motorcycle mama is just like being a LoveFifi girl. Neither one is about numbers. Women of all sizes and age groups ride motorcycles!. Game on!

I looked at endless photos of sexy women on Harleys and other monster machines. Some were on the back of a motorcycle on the second seat, but many were on their own bikes. I especially appreciated the ladies whose helmets were painted to match their bikes. Fabulous! This was going to be easier than I thought.

Of course, I dragged my sister along on the trip. She is a retired police officer and she naturally protects me and keeps me out of trouble. She has actually ridden on motorcycles, so she would be indispensable at helping me blend in. So I packed up my bandanas, denim vests, and a couple pairs of boots. Ok, I won’t lie... all my bandanas matched my outfits and I BEDAZZLED them with rhinestones before we left. I go nowhere without my bling. Not even to a biker event.

When we arrived at the venue, we got to meet our new best friends, Walt and Caroline, from Fast Lane Biker Magazine DELMARVA. We had only known each other through emails and phone calls before this. It felt like we had been friends for ages and they made us feel instantly at ease. The hard rock music was blaring, the drinks were flowing, and the sea of custom motorcycles all around us was awesome. We were only there a short time before a hot–looking, leather-clad biker guy pointed to my boots, said they were “bad ass”, and high fived me. I couldn’t have been more excited if someone had just told me that I was looking a little too thin.

The party really got rocking later on in the evening. There was a frenzy of dancing and romantic cavorting. Mayhem and foolishness abounded... in a good way. I have only seen women dancing on tables in the movies, but at biker events it’s as natural as breathing. A really drunk guy approached me, winked, and then whispered in my ear that I looked like a movie star. He didn’t mention which one, but I will take it as a compliment and hope he wasn’t talking about Al Pacino. The crowd was very controlled and well-mannered, but they really knew how to have a good time. We had so much fun. My only misstep in blowing my cover was at the bar. When I tried to order a Sapphire martini straight up, dirty with extra olives, the bartender looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. Thank goodness the music was so loud he couldn’t actually hear me so I and just pointed to the Sam Adams spigot behind him and smiled. Whew, that was a close one.

The people were all very warm and receptive to my sister and me. Many already knew about LoveFifi through our ads and some had already ordered from us! We have already been invited to the next event in the fall. Woohoo!

During the three-day rally, I was asked numerous times to go on a ride. Paralyzed by fear, I graciously asked for a rain check and explained that I was recovering from an accident. I displayed the huge bruises on my leg and explained that I was taking it easy. I DID have an accident. Ok... I didn’t exactly fall off a Harley. I fell down the steps of the condo where we were staying. Let’s keep that between us.

Ok, here’s my big question. How many of my darling readers are into motorcycles? Do you own one? Do you like to ride on the back of one? Please write to me and tell me. Better yet, send me photos. Now that I am officially “bad ass”, I want to know everything!

Lady In De-Stress

Miss Fifi has been away this week on a fabulous adventure. She will tell you all about it in next week’s article, complete with photos!

In her absence, we, her loyal staff, decided to run one of our favorite Fifi Articles from a few years ago. Her daughters were in their late teens and early 20s and still living at home. Since Mother's Day is just around the corner, we thought this one would bring big smiles.

I was having a bit of a heated conversation with one of my teenage daughters a couple of weeks ago (imagine that!), and just as I was making my point, she patted me on the arm and said, “Chill, Mom, you need to chill out”.

A few days ago, my “assister”, Del, (she’s my assistant, but also my sister... get it?) heard me on the phone giving up the last piece of my mind to someone I do business with. She hurried in after I slammed down the phone, held my hands and said “Breathe, honey... breathe”.

So maybe I don’t deal with stress well. I have a lot on my mind. It’s not like I am the only one or something. I have seen zillions of talk shows where they discuss how women can learn to deal with stress through yoga, aromatherapy, mountain climbing, knitting, and a myriad of other ways.

As I was standing in line at the market the other night, I was thumbing through one of those magazines that have the world “Women” in the title. An article caught my eye that claimed you could alleviate a week’s worth of stress in less than an hour by turning your bathroom into a spa. It sounded dreamy, so I threw the magazine down on the conveyer thingy with the rest of my groceries, being careful to toss it face down so no one would know what I was buying. I sure as hell wouldn’t want anyone to think I was going to be making the “spring bouquet” from egg cartons and pipe cleaners that they had on the cover. I may be a hot mess in the stress department, but I have some pride.

When I got home, I called my sweet daughters down to haul in the groceries (I love kids) while I hurriedly made my way to the bathroom and threw off my clothes. I gave a sigh as I opened my article and anxiously began the first paragraph.

Run a tepid bath, it advised. Tepid? What is tepid? I’ve heard the word before but I have gotten through a lot of years with cold, warm and hot being the only temperatures in my repertoire. No wonder this world is so stressed out. You need a dictionary to take a bath. I filled the tub with warm water and continued to read: Add 3 to 4 dozen fresh rose petals to the drawn water, it went on. Damn! How am I going to get fresh roses from the yard when I am already naked? And then I remembered the little vase of silk flowers that grace the back of the commode. These will do, I said to myself, as I sprayed the fake roses with perfume and threw them into my spa bath. They then suggested soft music to accompany the experience. Ah ha! I have a radio right here in the bathroom. I turned it on but nothing happened. Funny, it was working this morning when my daughters were taking their showers. At second glance, I realized that the cavity that holds the batteries was exposed and the AA batteries were gone. I was not happy, but I was not about to break my Zen-ny momentum by trying to find out who stole the batteries. It won't be any of my daughters who live here, I can assure you. They will all be innocent. So, it must be those same gypsies who come through and eat all the cookies and take all the pens and pencils. Mystery solved. As I slid into my bath, I was not about to be undone because of the radio. I decided that I would just sing my stress away. The article insisted on music, so I will just make my own.

The next step, according to the magazine, was to pull the plug in the tub and let very warm water “gush luxuriously” into the bath. The only trouble is that I live in an old house so you can’t take a shower or run the bathtub when someone is using the washing machine. Someone obviously was doing just that so the water was just dripping annoyingly on my toes.

Defeat is not in my vocabulary, so I closed my eyes, sunk into the warmth of the perfumed water, and sang the only song I know all the words to. For a moment I was delivered from the chaos of the real world. I became deliciously lost in my own private sanctuary. Heaven!

It wasn’t until I noticed a draft on my shoulder that I opened my eyes and saw that my two youngest daughters (18 and 19) were watching me in horror as I sat in a tub of fake roses, singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” with all I had in me.

Before I could say a word in my own defense, the girls were gone. As I arose from my bath feeling stupid, and cold, (I think I figured out what tepid is), I was bound and determined that I would emerge from this experience with a new sense of well-being despite a few setbacks.

I got dressed and decided to get in touch with my artistic side. I gathered up a few things from around the house, poured myself a glass of wine and retreated to a back bedroom and allowed my creativity to emote. You know, it’s amazing how attractive egg carton flowers can look if you know what you’re doing.

An afternoon devoted to my body and spirit was really good for me. Not even my girls were going to ruin my personal renaissance. I was never going to mention or explain what they had witnessed. This day belonged to ME. I honestly felt the stress of my crazy world float away. I felt renewed and completely marvelous.

It wasn't until I heard my daughters on the computer in the next room and the gales of giggles that followed that I realized that my stress free day was officially over. Crap! I forgot about Facebook...