Boobies 101

Whether you call them hooters, headlights, knockers, ta-tas, or whatever, the world is fascinated by breasts. I get enough mail on the subject to know that most women are not completely satisfied with their breasts and that most men adore breasts. Believe it or not, I get lots of mail from men who ask me questions about bras. These guys are completely involved in the bra buying duties for their women. And, no, these men are not buying bras for themselves. I know how to tell the difference and that is a whole different conversation. Obviously these gentlemen like the bras on their girls to look a certain way and do a specific job, so they do the buying. This is way more common than you might think. I have never had a man who wanted to buy bras for me, but I think it's kind of cute.

The best breasts on a woman are the ones that come with a healthy body.

If we go back in bosom history, nearly 100 years, we will see that women were always trying to figure out what to do with their breasts. In the early part of the 20th century, a woman's bust was always covered and minimized. Waists were featured, but never bosoms. They were kept safely hidden. Then came the roaring 20s and the notion that a round bustline got in the way of the straight silhouettes that dominated fashion. Boyish figures were all the rage and women actually flattened their bust lines by binding them. Then in the 30s, screen siren Jean Harlow changed the perception of female bosoms. It was thought in the era of silver screen that the perfect size breast would fit exactly into a champagne glass (we're talking the "old school" shallow type, not the long, skinny flutes they use now). In the 40s, bigger breasts took center stage in the movies thanks to Rita Hayworth and Jane Russell, and in the 1950s and someone decided that pointy breasts were the shape of the day. Bras had cups like missiles. The 60s and 70s went the other way completely. Natural breasts and the first seamless bras came into style, then no bras at all under clothing rocked fashion culture. The 80s and 90s flipped it back the other way. Big boobage and the pushed up look became big business. The advent of NFL cheerleaders in revealing costumes, Pam Anderson in her Baywatch swimsuit, and models in angel wings and padded push up bras set a whole new standard for breasts and breast size.

A crazy thing happened at the same time. Cleavage became appropriate for daytime. Showing off "the girls" became commonplace and quite accepted. The trend continues today. If you think I am kidding, go stand in front of a high school at 3 o'clock and watch the girl students come out. You will see as much cleavage coming out of class as you would see at a Las Vegas casino on Saturday night. How times have changed. When I was in high school, the girls had to get on their knees so that the principal could check to see if their skirt touched the floor. If it didn't, it was deemed too short and you were sent home. Thankfully, yours truly had mastered the fine art of rolling and unrolling a skirt faster than the speed of light, so I never got caught and I always looked sassy.

Big breasts are more popular now than ever. Ice-T loves Coco for more than her cooking. I will tell you proudly that I designed some of the first padded D and DD push up bras. It was assumed that large breasted girls don't want to look bustier. I know better. That's why I am Miss Fifi. Today we carry bras that enhance bust lines up to 44G.

So what are perfect breasts? The artistic standard (in case any of you ladies out there are thinking about a career as a breast model) is that ideal breasts don't have to be big, but they need to be full and luscious. The nipples should tilt slightly upwards towards the heavens. They should be just pendulous enough as to not be taut against the body. The litmus test to determine breast perfection is to place a pen or pencil under your naked breast. If the writing implement stays on its own, then consider your bosoms to be in the "perfect" category. I did this test myself some years ago. The pencil stayed put and I was pleased, but to this day I find it hard to return to Office Depot.

If you ask me about what makes breasts perfect, my answer is quite different. The best breasts on a woman are the ones that come with a healthy body. They are the ones that your sweetheart finds sexy, the ones that punctuate your womanly hourglass shape and, most importantly, the ones that cushion your children's heads when you hold them in your arms. To me, it doesn't matter if breasts are large or small, saggy or firm. And from the mail I get from husbands and boyfriends, they like all of them too.

Okay, so your breasts aren't perky anymore and they point closer to Dallas than heaven. It shouldn't matter. Besides, I have all kinds of great bras, pads, and tricks up my sleeve to create a fantastic bustline. Just write to me if you need help.

Next month is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I waited until the end to bring it up. This is not a commercial and I am not nagging, but for those of you in the recommended age group, please get your mammogram. No, it's not fun having your breasts squeezed by a cold machine while someone fully-clothed is demanding that you hold your breath. I was overdue for my yearly test and made an appointment this morning. I hate doing the monthly breast exams even though I teach how to do it. But I do all the precautionary things and you should too. Teach your partner to do the exam. He's probably an expert by now anyway.

I hope you enjoyed my little retrospect on the history of breasts in fashion. I am not just here to make you laugh. I am here to educate you and watch out for you whenever possible.

Until next time.

Therapy Or No therapy... That Is The Question

I don't know if you realize this by now, but I find it completely comfortable and ridiculously easy to confess my "sins" and shortcomings to you. It doesn't seem to bother you that I may be a little loopy by other people's standards. Many of you write back to me and tell me that you feel the same way and do the same stuff that I do. I figure that I either have the most understanding and supportive readership in the universe or that I just naturally attract other wack-a-doos like myself. Whatever it is, it works for me.

You already know that I am a bit eccentric. I have not been shy about admitting my deepest secrets. My weaknesses are an open book to you, my darling readers.

You know that I love to dine and am always on a diet. In all fairness, my dieting would be far more successful if it weren't for one thing - I get hungry.

You are well aware that I am very fashion conscious. Would you trust my merchandise if I were not? Fashion is my passion. I am not ashamed.

...what I like most is for my world to be basically divine at all times.

You know that I love animals madly. I am proud that the LoveFifi building has as many doggies as people running around here. Some think this is crazy. I think it’s crazy good. By the way, I do not consider the fact that my dogs have as many clothes as I do a bad thing.

You have probably also learned that I tend to exaggerate, I talk a lot, I love over-doing, and I don't like to do or watch sports. I love lobster and champagne or hot dogs with sauerkraut and a good beer equally. I am not a snob, but I like what I like. And what I like most is for my world to be basically divine at all times. It's a pretty simple concept.

This lifestyle does not come without drawbacks, dilemmas, or for that matter, self doubt. Not all things fabulous come without strings. Sometimes staying in control is difficult and that's why I look to you for help when I think I might be going over the edge.

I want to stop denying an addiction that seems to be getting worse with age, not better. This situation is so multi-faceted and complex. It's way worse than if I were dependent on chocolate or gambling or wine for my highs. This is much WORSE and an intervention may be necessary.

They say that admission is the first step to recovery. So OK, I admit it. I am a "decor whore".

I am not feeling guilty about the items I buy for my home or office. These places are my domains and I cannot be Fifi without proper ambiance. Admittedly, I may go a little overboard on buying home and garden and decorator magazines, but I need the inspiration. But I can't bear to throw them away and end up with stacks of home and garden and decorator magazines that take up space. I did actually buy a self-help magazine that teaches you to organize your stuff, but I can't find it. Anyway, I spend lots of time at flea markets and garage sales, as well as furniture stores and auctions looking for just the right things for my personal spaces. In my own defense, this is the first time in my life that I have lived alone since college. It's not that my 1970s cinder block bookshelves or my grandmother's hand-me-down loveseat weren't grand; they were...at the time. I loved my little place, but now I am a woman and not a starving student. I have a few nickels to rub together to make my spaces pretty and I am proud at how it’s all turned out. Everything around me says "ME" and that feels good. This, however, is not the BIG problem.

Having your home reflect your taste is sexy. What might be getting me into trouble (I depend on you to be honest with me) is that I am an absolute fool for HOLIDAY decor. Whenever I go shopping, my feet seem to move, as if by magic, to the "seasonal" department of whatever store I am in. I just can't seem to do any of my shopping until I check out what's new for the next event on the calendar.

Don't worry, my obsession with holiday-themed goodies won't take me to the poor house but I am worried that the funny farm may be looking for me. I am prudent with my purchases. For example, I made sure that my Halloween decorations transition seamlessly into a Harvest Festival theme after October 31st. My fantastically orchestrated sprays of autumn leaves and twigs take me right through until after Thanksgiving. The witches and ghosts go away and the gourds and ears of multi-color corn appear. This is normal behavior, right? I am only asking because no one would say a word if I still had a house full of kids, but I live alone with two poodles.

This issue is heavy on my mind because the hardest time of year for me is here. Christmas decorations are everywhere. What actually inspired me to write to you for validation of my sanity was that the other night I was struck by a huge thought when I pulled into my garage. Is it strange that a woman who lives by herself should have more than half of her garage designated to holiday adornments? Granted, most of that is Christmas, but I have at least one bin each for the other holidays. I don’t do sports, so there are no golf clubs or skis to take up room. I have to fill my garage with something, right?

As I exited my car, I was still feeling guilty about the massive amount of holiday falderal that I own. Thankfully those thoughts were diverted as I got involved in carefully removing my new gold painted paper mache reindeer from the back seat. It was right there, at eye level, at my drug store as I waited to drop off my prescription. I swear he winked at me and said “take me home”. He will sit inside my front door and greet people with all his golden majesty during the Christmas season. I am only telling you this so you will understand that this purchase was a necessity and not an extravagance. I did it for my guests and besides, he is way too gorgeous to live another minute at Walgreens. Let’s just think of it as a paper mache reindeer rescue.

So, there you have it. I held nothing back. Tell me what you think. I can take it.

Before you decide, let me stress that the things I buy are beautiful and give me joy. I figured out last weekend that I wasn’t completely out of control when I walked by Christmas pillow cases, hand towels, and pot holders and winced. I had absolutely no interest. Who buys stuff like that anyway? None of it sparkles, for goodness sake.

You know, this whole love affair with holiday decorations might be my parents fault! When I was a little one, they always took me downtown to see the Christmas window displays at the big department stores. I would look through the glass in amazement at the brilliantly lit animated displays. There was always the sound of music box Christmas songs accompanying the magic. I stood there endlessly and wished I could live in that twinkly enchanted wonderland at Christmastime.

And now I do…

A Piece of My Heart

You have no idea what a rough year I have had. It is not easy being a Baby Boomer. Every time I turn around, somebody who was part of my life dies on me. Oh, I didn’t really know these people, but they meant a lot to me.

Let me just say, losing Don Cornelius and Dick Clark in the same year has taken its toll. I used to do my housework during Soul Train when I was a young bride. When the kids used to form an aisle and take turns dancing solo, I would do it right along with them, using my dust cloth to punctuate my dance moves.

And Dick Clark… the world’s oldest teenager… I started watching American Bandstand with my babysitter when I was very young. I watched the ball come down in Times Square with him on New Year’s Eve so many times. I was actually interviewed by Dick Clark in 2001, so I am doubly sad. What a darling man.

Richard Dawson kissed all those ladies on Family Feud. We never missed it at our house and my mom even bought the home game.

“It’s hard to be a Boomer and be strong in a year where we have lost a Monkee, 2 Sweathogs and a Bee Gee.”

Donna Summer’s early death really hit me hard. I had seen her at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles only the year before. She sounded the same as on her records and was beautiful. I have a special soft spot for Donna because my middle daughter used to sing along with her to the radio in the car. Do you remember her hit “She Works Hard for Her Money”? My 3-year-old daughter loved to sing along with Donna in the car. “She works hard for her mommy”, my little one would belt out. I never corrected her. I still sing it that way.

You probably think I am being silly, but it hurts when someone leaves that you spent time so much with. Let’s talk about Andy Griffith. I watched him as Sheriff Taylor, and I watched him as Matlock. We were together a long time.

The ladies up in Heaven must be looking pretty good these days; Vidal Sassoon is there now. My mom and dad wouldn’t spring for a Sassoon precision haircut back in 70s. It was $150 forty years ago. So my mother took me to get a Sassoon-ish haircut at her beauty parlor and had her stylist cut my hair. I was assured that everyone would think I had gone to Sassoon himself. Right... thank goodness there are no photos of that time in my life.

I don’t want to be depressing, but these past months haven’t been easy for me and I am hoping that you understand my pain. It’s hard to be a Boomer and be strong in a year where we have lost a Monkee, 2 Sweathogs and a Bee Gee.

To Don, Dick, Richard, Donna, Andy, Vidal, Davy, Horshack, Juan Epstein, and Robin Gibb. Thank you for the good times and inspiration. You made my life better. Rest in peace.

Birthday Girl

My birthday was last week and I am very proud to say that I celebrated it with panache. I love my birthday and don't understand why some people want it just to be another day. Where is it written that once you are a grown-up, birthdays don't mean as much? Besides loving my own birthday, I like other people's birthdays, as well. To me, birthdays are right up there with my other two favorites, Christmas and the 4th of July.

Maybe it's because I am a Leo. For those of you out there that don't know about Leos, we are the wild child, center of attention, luxury loving, nothing-is-impossible sign of the zodiac. Leo also rules the heart. We know how to love others and we know how to love ourselves. Here is an astrologers definition:

The Leo is the most dominant, spontaneously creative and extroverted of all the zodiacal characters. In grandeur of manner, splendor of bearing and magnanimity of personality, they are the monarchs among humans as the lion is king of beasts. They are ambitious, courageous, dominant, strong willed, positive, independent, self-confident and there is no such a word as doubt in their vocabularies.

Leos don't just have birthdays, we have birth months. The minute July turns from Cancer to Leo, it is our birthday. It stays that way until August 23.

Honestly, I am so grateful to get another year on this earth, why wouldn't I celebrate? Treat it like any other day? I think not.

I had a great time this year. I went to a comedy show with some friends. I chose this particular show because it is called the "Home By Ten" comedy show. It starts at 7:30 and goes until 9 p.m. Realistically, you could be home and in bed by 10. This was intended as a first stop on a night out on the town before dinner and clubbing. It works out really well for people over 50 who go to bed early. My son-in-law, the actor/comedian, runs this show. He is the master of ceremonies, and yes... he makes jokes about me. I am so proud of him. His career is going well. (He just did his first national commercial. Here's the link if you want to chuckle. He is the cute guy on the left side of the desk).

“Leos don't just have birthdays, we have birth months”.

The evening of laughs was such fun and then we went to one of my favorite restaurants and had delicious food and wine under the summer stars. None of us got to bed until after 1 a.m.. Thank goodness it was Saturday and we could sleep in. Old people are so funny. We all looked at our watches as we were waiting for the valet. "Wow! 12:35 in the morning!" was heard more than once. "Remember when we used to party all night and then go to work the next day?" one friend said. Isn't it hilarious that something that was once so cool sounds so hideous now?

Anyway, I feel sorry for people who don't celebrate birthdays. Many are not looking forward to being a year older. I am just so glad I made it another year, but I am not in love with all that happens as the years pile on. Life gets much harder in many ways.

For example, putting on make-up. As your face ages, make up doesn't just glide on anymore. I never thought the day would come that I would be seeking out eye shadow that doesn't have sparkles in it. I am all about bling, but had to give it up on my eyelids. Iridescent shadow makes your wrinkly eyelids look even wrinklier.

Shoe options become more limited. I once had a closet full of sexy high heels. As I got older, I wore the heels less and less. Comfort became more important than glamour. Now I am at a place where I don't like to go anywhere that flip flops are not accepted. I LOVE flip flops! I can wear them all day and my feet never get tired. I have over 75 pair and some of them are very dressy with fancy trim. I probably have one of the most amazing collections of flip flops in the universe. And if you were wondering, I wore flip flops to my birthday party. They were encrusted with stones and quite dazzling. Are you jealous?

I think Bette Davis said that old age was not for sissies. I couldn't agree more. I really only feel old in the morning. When I first get out of bed, I hate that "Tin Man" thing my body does during my first few steps. It doesn't last long and I don't let it hinder my journey to the coffee pot. Nothing keeps me from coffee.

You can't avoid getting older. Even if you pull it all back with surgery, and Botox the wrinkles, you are still the same age. There's a saying about the beauty of growing old gracefully. I don't know if that is possible since the older I get the stronger my glasses need to be. I trip over the dog a lot and bump into things on a regular basis, so I don't think "gracefully" is an option. I do, however, plan to keep celebrating each birthday as sensationally as I can for as long as I can . My plan is to keep my birthdays as kickass possible until it is time to take my dirt nap. I might even embroider those exact sentiments on a pillow.

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.

Fifi Tells All

I get questions everyday ranging from “what is charmeuse?”(it’s a drape-able satin) to “how can I get this boyfriend of mine to marry me?” I answer every letter myself, I swear. I do not have a big staff who pretends to be me. There is really only one Fifi. Anyway, there are certain questions that I get asked over and over again. So, I was thinking (I do this occasionally) how fun it would be to reveal the top 5 things that my readers just had to know. I hope you enjoy it and maybe learn something, too.

I think I'll do this David Letterman-style, so here goes!

FIFI'S 5 MOST ASKED QUESTIONS

5. Why do you sell plus size lingerie, but show it on little models?

The decision to photograph most of our styles on small size models is because if we like a style we will offer it in a full range of sizes, for example, in Small to 3X. Now, if we show it on a size 8 model, we are fairly sure a size 16 will have a pretty good idea of what it will look like on her. I, myself have been both a size 8 and a 16, so I would know. Now, would a size 6 girl be able to relate to what a garment looks like on a size 16? Studies show that the answer is clearly “no”. I get a lot of mail from ladies who are not happy that I don’t show very many big girls in our lingerie. Most of you know that I am not exactly built like a pixie, so if you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me. You know I believe that numbers don’t count when it comes to being beautiful and sexy. It’s not about age and it’s not about weight, when it comes to real life. This is about displaying and presenting the product so it is understood by the consumer. If you don’t stop whining, I will start modeling this stuff myself and then you will be sorry!

4. How can I get my wife/ girlfriend to wear lingerie for me?

I get this one all the time. Usually they let me know that she has put on a few pounds, or has just had a baby, etc. etc... and these sweet guys always explain that they think their girl is beautiful and sexy even though she is not happy with her body at the moment. I always write back and ask them if they have told her what they just told me. I always suggest that they need to do more than just buy her a lace chemise and hope she gets the hint. I try to let them know that he wants to get her to dress for the romantic occasion, not wear lingerie for him. The experience benefits the both of them. If she has cold feet about wearing something sexy, then he needs to remind her that she is always beautiful to him. Arrange for some uninterrupted time with her. Turn off the TV, light some candles in the bedroom and arrange the bed so it is inviting. I gently suggest that he take a shower and put on his best boxers and then call her into the romantic setting he has created. Women are smart and they react positively to inspiration. I am proud to say that I have gotten some wonderful letters from men who followed my “recipe” and not only had a wonderful romantic interlude with their significant other, but learned a little about re-building self esteem.

“I get mail from ladies who are not happy that I don't show very many big girls in our lingerie.”

3. I am in an all-male play and I am portraying a woman. Can you help me order some under-things for the production?

Of course I can, but can you stop telling me silly stories? This is Miss Fifi. You don’t have to tell me that you are in a play or that you lost a bet with your buddies and have to dress like a woman for a week. I have heard it all and I don’t care. If you like to wear my beautiful things, that is good enough for me. So save for stories for someone else, Sweetie. Just tell me your “boy” sizes and we will get you everything you need. I love ALL my customers, darling. You should know that by now.

2. How do I measure for a bra?

Follow these simple directions.

Fifi’s Perfect Fit Bra Size Finder
Getting Started, You will need the following:

• A full-length mirror
• Tape measure (use the soft cloth or plastic covered cloth kind like seamstresses use. Don't use metal, plastic or paper tape measures.)
• Your best fitting, unpadded bra
• You can measure yourself, but for best results, have a friend help you (Put that boyfriend, husband or significant other to work)
• Time to Measure!

Measurement #1: Under The Bust First measure around your ribcage, directly under your bustline. The tape should be snug and must be absolutely straight in the back. Use your mirror or your helper to ensure this. If you come up with a half measurement, like 32 1/2, round UP (in this case, to 33). If you measure between a whole number and a fraction, for example between 32" and 32 1/2", round DOWN (in this case, to 32). This is your frame size. Write it down.

Measurement #2: Across The Bust Stand up very straight. Measure at the widest part of your bustline, over the nipples. The measurement should be relaxed, not snug. Again, be sure the tape is straight across the back. If you come up with a fractional measurement, under 1/2", round down. If you measure 1/2" or more, round up. This is your cup size. Write it down.

Now... subtract your step 1 number from your step 2 number. If the difference is

• Up to 1" larger: A cup
• Up to 2" larger: B cup
• Up to 3" larger: C cup
• Up to 4" larger: D cup
• Up to 5" larger: DD cup
• Up to 6" larger: F cup
• Up to 7" larger: FF cup
• Up to 8" larger: G cup

Remember: every body and bustline are different. Measuring correctly may give you your size immediately, but sometimes there are conditions that affect your fit. If you answer "Yes" to any of the questions below, it is best to write me at fifi@lovefifi.com, and be sure to include your measurements and an explanation of your particular fit problems.

• Are you shorter than 5'2" or taller than 5'9"?
• Do you have an athletic or muscular build?
• Are your breasts set wide apart?
• Are your breasts different sizes?
• Are your breasts elongated, or do they appear "empty"?
• Do you like to wear your bras to fit loose around your rib cage?

You can also refer to my Easy-Peasy Measuring Intstructions, if you need a visual.

1. What is the difference between a thong and a G-String?

Believe it or not, these are the most confusing garments in the world of intimate apparel. A G-STRING was created in the early part of the 20th century for use in burlesque. It is basically a triangle of cloth with a string around the waist joined by one that runs up the back. Its sole purpose is frontal coverage with as little in the back as possible. The THONG, conceived in the early 70s, was created at a time when a perky bottom and "no panty lines" were big fashion news. A thong is similar to a G-String in front, but the back is wider and it is tapered and contoured to round out the behind.

Queen of the Castle

I have been single now for 6 years and have lived alone for 3. After being married for so long and raising so many kids, it has taken me awhile to get acclimated to single life. On paper, it sounds very cool to be able to do whatever you want, whenever you want. But like everything in life, it takes getting used to.

During the whole period of adjustment, you can't really let on that the process affects you like a deer in headlights at times. Married people raising families are envious of your carefree existence and you have to keep the mystique going for their sake. The last thing you should do is complain or appear inept at being by yourself. You would never want anyone to know that you weren't as happy as a pig in poop with your single status.

I was never sad, but I really had problems getting used to things like grocery shopping for one. I have this race going on with milk and bread. In all the time I have lived by myself, I have never been able to finish either before they went sour or moldy.

Don't even talk to me about cooking for one. After cooking for 6 for decades, cooking for myself is so hard. I like homemade food and I like it fresh. My grandmother lived alone for the last 25 years of her life and kept everything in the freezer that she possibly could. She never put a date on anything and you took your life in your hands when you ate at her house. She boasted that nothing went to waste because she froze it all. I remember once asking her where all the bags of pecans came from at the bottom of her big Amana. She reminded me that her sister Johanna brought them back from her trip to Georgia. At that time, my great aunt Jo had been deceased for 3 years and her trip south was way before that. See what happens to women who live alone? I was not going to let this happen to me.

I loved my grandmother dearly but I don't want to be single and hoard antique food. It's because of this fear that I have forced myself to walk right up to the butcher counter and order one pork chop from the case.

“You can't really let on that the process affects you like a deer in headlights at times.”

It didn't take me long to appreciate not getting out of my pajamas all day on a Saturday or walking around the house completely nude. It would all be so totally liberating if I could do these things and believe that I was a hot single lady and not a crazy old woman. Lounging away your day in bed or prancing around your singles pad naked are instantly negated when you also talk to your dog. I am not talking about commands, or a "good doggy" here and there. I am talking about "Mommy has to go put some clothes in the washing machine, but I will be back in a minute and then we will have a treat. My baby will be just fine for a few minutes... I will miss you. Mommy loves her doggy so much!" It doesn't matter what you are wearing or not wearing. It doesn't matter that no one is there to hear. Crazy old woman, right?

Speaking of laundry, why do I have so much? You would think that with no kids or partner that my laundry life would be streamlined. Not so. When I began my life as a single girl, I got rid of anything that was so-so or average and kept everything fabulous for my new life. I still ended up with way too much clothing, linens, bedding, etc. I justified my abundance of fabulousness with thinking that part of being queen of my castle is having options. I could use anything I wanted any time. I could change my comforters and bedding to fit the season. I never had to wear the same outfit in the same month. You would think this lifestyle would have set me free and released my inner diva. Not so. I just have a lot of laundry. Fortunately, I live alone and have the time.

There is no doubt that when nobody is around, you tend to be different. I have already admitted to having long interpersonal conversations with the dog. That's not the worst of it. I have been talking to my plants since the '70s, so add that to my behavior. I also talk to myself.

I see things on TV and remark out loud that I think what I am watching is stupid. I go through the mail and critique each piece in my best on stage voice. "Junk, bill, junk, junk... oh look, Macy's is having a big sale!" Nobody ever jumps out of the woodwork and says "Great! I need some new towels... let's go!" Why don't I just think these things? Who am I talking to?

I look in the mirror and comment directly to my image in the glass on the state of my aging face like there is someone to hear my woeful complaints. I catch myself sometimes and imagine what it might look like if I were being secretly filmed when I speak aloud to no one but me. The word "loopy" springs to mind.

My neighbors are all older than I am. They think that I lead this fantastic life of a successful single woman with not a care in the world. I do admit that I lead them on a bit. I wave as I return from Saturday errands with my array of dry cleaning in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other as I close the car door with one sexy bump of the hip. I dash off inside leaving them to assume that my grocery bag must certainly contain imported cheese and French wine. They will never know what my bag really contained: some salad makings and one lonely pork chop.

The truth is that I have gotten used to the single life by being a legend in my own mind. I give off a little bit of a Hugh Hefner vibe and pretend that my life is a brilliant carousel ride filled with fun and excitement. No one ever has to know differently if you don't tell.

I am very happy. I love my life. It is only because I have sorted it out that I am able to be a content lady who lives alone. Here's what I have learned about being single later in life:

The BEST Things:

1. You don't have to tell anyone where you're going (the dog is optional).
2. You never have to state when you are coming back.
3. You have no one to please at home but yourself.

The WORST Things:

1. Nobody cares where you go.
2. Nobody is expecting you back.
3. You have no one to please at home but yourself.

I never promised you that life couldn't be bittersweet, but it is good.