Cyber Sale, Schmyber Sale!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seasonal Fortitude or Seasonal Reasoning

Maybe it's just me, but I swear someone pushes a button somewhere and makes the last three months of the year go into turbo mode. Where does the time go? Where does it escape to?

Here's what happens. By summer's end, the Halloween costumes and decorations dominate space nearly everywhere I shop. By the time Halloween actually gets here, we are besieged with everything Christmas.

Why does it feel like I have just disposed of the moldy jack o' lantern on my porch and the next week it is nearly Thanksgiving? Where does the time go? Where does it escape to?

Really, it was just Labor Day and, now, it is nearly Thanksgiving. This year it is coming as early as it possibly can on the calendar, and it sure came fast. I like Thanksgiving, but it also means that Christmas is only a month away. Yes, that joyous time of year is just around the corner... AGAIN.

I love this time of year, but as I get older and crankier, it becomes increasingly more difficult for me to get my butt in gear and keep up with these holidays.

Even though I always grouse about the retailers hauling out the Christmas stuff earlier and earlier each year, perhaps they were doing this just for me! Maybe if I didn’t blow off all these early holiday offerings as crass commercialism, I wouldn’t be standing in lines in department stores on December 21st huffing and puffing with anxiety and plotting the death of the sales clerk who always seems to be using the cash register for the very first time.

This year I am determined to get things done so I can actually HAVE a Christmas. I have always had such contempt for people who boast in mid-October that they have completed their Christmas shopping. Ugh...

In 2012, I am committed to being more organized and I am aiming to get most of my Christmas shopping done in November. This is going to be my “get it all together” month. I will ask for lists from my loved ones this weekend and that will be it. I am going to do it this year. Don’t laugh! I am woman, hear me roar.

No more stressing out. No more wandering around the mall doing what I call “zombie shopping”. That’s when you don’t know what to buy and you are so tired from looking you wouldn’t know a good gift if it hit you over the head. No more running around at the last minute. And absolutely no more wrapping packages with the 11 o’clock News Team. This year will be different!

How wonderful it would be to spend December just doing Christmas things. I want to bake things, I want to go caroling. I want to take my children and grandchildren to see The Nutcracker (even though they hate it). That’s the biggest reason for taking them, by the way. They will squawk endlessly about enduring a two-hour ballet with dancing mice NOW, but someday when I am dead they will tearfully tell beautiful stories about how I took them to The Nutcracker at Christmas. I will sit on my cloud in heaven and smile.

Although I am fairly well known for putting the “fun” in dysfunctional, I am quite sure my family and friends would enjoy not having Psycho Fifi around this year. I know I will love not being her. November is MY month to change the way I do things.

Why don't you join me in my effort to get it all out of the way this month? I know Thanksgiving will be even more enjoyable if I am not stressing about Christmas. Are you in?

And when my friends and family ask what I want for Christmas, I will make it easy as I have already carefully thought it out... I want crazy wild gypsy earrings and world peace. Come to think of it, I don't really need the earrings. I am a crazy wild gypsy already. And as for world peace? Yes, please.

Fifi And The Cowboy

I get lots of sweet emails from you, my readers, telling me how I made you laugh over Sunday coffee. I had one sweet lady write to say that I make her giggle so much that she had to keep from peeing her pants, which is the highest possible compliment you can give a silly person. So now I have a confession. I am not the only funny writer in the world. I wanted you to think as much so you will never leave me, but there are some very hilarious people out there who can also make you laugh with words.

A friend of mine sent me this piece that I thought was completely adorable. No one knows who the author is, but he is my kind of guy. I suggest that when you read it, you do it with your best country accent. It is really a cute little poem and reminds me of so many men who are timid about shopping for ladies intimate apparel. Y'all enjoy and I will catch up with you again at the end.

The Cowboy

I ain't much for shopping,
Nor even goin' into town -
Except at cattle-shipping time,
I ain't easily found.
But the day came when I had to go
And I left the kids with ma.
But before I left she asked me,
"Would you pick me up a bra?"
Without thinkin' I said "Sure,"
How tough could that job be?
I bent down and kissed her
And said, "I'll be back by three"
Well, when I done the things I needed,
I started to regret
Ever offering to buy that thing,
I was working up a sweat.
I crossed the street to the ladies shop
With my hat pulled over my eyes,
I wasn't takin' any chances
On bein' recognized.
I walked up to the sales clerk -
I didn't hem or haw -
I told the lady right straight out,
"Ma'am, I'm here to buy a bra."
From behind I heard some snickers,
So I turned around to see
A dozen women in the store
And they's all gawkin' at me!
"What kind would you be looking for?"
"Well," I just scratched my head.
I'd only seen one kind before
"Thought bras was bras," I said.
She gives me a disgusted look,
"Well sir, that's where you're wrong.
Come with me," I heard her say,
And like a dog, I tagged along.
She took me down this alley
Where bras was on display.
Well, I thought my jaw'd hit the floor
When I seen that lingerie.
They had all these different styles
That I'd not seen before
I thought that I'd go crazy
'fore I left that women's store.
They had bras you wear for eighteen hours
And bras that cross your heart.
There was bras that lift and separate,
And that was just the start.
They had bras that made you feel
Like you weren't wearing one at all,
And bras that you can train in
When you start off when you're small.
Well, I finally make my mind up -
Picked a black and lacy one -
I told the lady, "Bag it up,"
And figured I was done
But then she asked me for the size.
I didn't hesitate.
I knew them measurements by heart,
"A six-and-seven-eighths."
"Six and seven eighths, well sir,
That really isn't right."
"Oh, yes ma'am!
Yeah, I'm positive,
I just measured them last night."
I thought that she'd go into shock,
Musta took her by surprise
When I told her that my wife's bust
Was the same as my hat size.
"That's what I used to measure with,
I figured it was fair,
But if I'm wrong, I'm sorry ma'am."
This drew another stare.
By now a crowd had gathered
And they's all crackin' up
When the lady asked to see my hat,
To measure for the cup.
When she finally had it figured,
I gave the gal her pay.
Then I turned to leave the store,
Tipped my hat and said, "Good day."
My wife heard the whole story
'fore I ever made it home.
She'd talked to all her lady friends
Who'd called her on the phone.
She was still a-laughin'
But by then I didn't care.
Now she don't ask and
I don't shop for no more women's underwear.

Not that measuring for a bra with your husband's hat isn’t ingenious, but there are better ways. If you aren’t sure what size you really are, write to me. We are having a fabulous BRA EVENT next week and I want you to buy the right size. I recently printed the measuring instructions and they are always on the site, but here they are again so you can find out once and for all if you are really wearing the correct size. Send me the numbers and we will talk. It always helps to send your height and the size jeans you buy. Don't ask why... trust me. But before you do, put on one of your best fitting unpadded bras. Take a measuring tape and measure under your bustline, (make the tape tight—it should feel like the tightness you like your bras). Then measure over your bust across the nipples, (make this a more relaxed measurement, not tight). Make sure the tape is straight in back. Send me the numbers and the size you currently buy. I will give you a personal bra size analysis and send it to you. Or you can use a cowboy hat. It’s up to you.

Plant Parenthood

Did I ever tell you that I buy fresh flowers every weekend at the farmer’s market? I adore having newly cut flowers in my home. I do it for two reasons. Number one, there is just something wonderful and sophisticated about having flowers to come home to. Number two, it keeps my sister off my back. A few years ago, she helped me with my move and subsequent downsizing after my divorce. She tried with all her might to get me to part with some of my vast collection of vases of every shape and size. Her argument was that a woman living alone does not need 31 containers for flowers. Fortunately, I was able to save every single one of my precious vases from going to my yard sale because I convinced her that I, indeed, NEEDED them all. So I can be assured that she never thinks that she was right, I keep them filled and rotated. And besides, I have flowers in my garden that I like to cut and display and then there is the chance that some of my floral tributes from male admirers might need redistribution. I don’t think you can have too many pretty vases.

Speaking of my garden, I work hard to keep it pretty. When I say “work hard”, I don’t necessarily mean that I am on my knees with a straw hat digging in the earth. I work hard at keeping up a good relationship with my gardener. He knows that I love to be surrounded by flowers and greenery, but he also knows that I suck at growing things. When people admire my front or back garden, I just smile and say thank you and hope they don’t ask me about any particular plant or ask advice about the amount of sun that they need. I haven’t a clue. My two tiny gardens abound with color, no thanks to me. Edwin, my darling gardener, keeps things going and growing. I have an automatic watering system, so all I have to do is admire my blooms.

I wish I were better at gardening. I should be. My mother and grandmother were amazing at growing things. When I was little, my mother tried to encourage me by buying packets of seeds and giving me a bit of space to grow carrots and radishes. I really liked it, but, like with so many things, I had no patience. As soon as I would get a bit of green showing, I would pull them up and marvel at a little teeny weeny carrot or radish. I didn’t want my mom to know that I had prematurely harvested my crop, so I replanted them and they withered and died. She never caught on, but I got an early reputation for not being a great at growing things.

Even in the 70s when everyone was obsessed with houseplants, I couldn’t keep mine alive. So, after my Creeping Charlie or Wandering Jew would croak, I would just go and buy a bigger one to replace it. No one ever caught on that I wasn’t this great earth mother. Back then it was believed that you needed to talk to your plants to make them thrive. I did that, but I don’t think nagging counts. Chanting “please don’t die.. please don’t die” did no good.

I think you have to have a really scientific mind to be good with plants. When I go to the garden center, I am really intimidated. I look like I know what I am doing because I pick very nice flowering plants and I often get very approving looks from the other customers and even the staff. I always wear a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and I have my best Martha Stewart-esque game face on. Looking confident gets me in and out of there faster. I don’t ask questions because that leads to questions I can’t answer intelligently. They want to know things like the composition of my soil. “Dirty dirt” probably wouldn’t give them the information they need. Any conversation with the garden pros might lead to further questioning about whether I am looking for annuals or perennials. This is just WAY too much pressure. I don’t know what to say. I have a friend who is a gifted gardener. His yard is spectacular. He orders seeds and little “plantlings” from all over the world, but he has this curious sign in his garden that reads “Friends don’t let friends buy annuals". I know this is some kind of inside gardening joke, but it is over my head.

I was actually at the nursery last weekend. My friendly sales associate flat out asked me if I had ordered my bulbs yet. I tried not to fumfer for an answer, so I threw my head back and told him that I was still deciding. More pressure.

It’s not like I don’t try. A few years ago, I was watching QVC, and their garden expert had these gorgeous plants in a 3-pack called “Butterfly Plants”. They ran a video that showed a lady receiving her three potted baby plants. The next thing you saw was the plants all grown up with lovely flowers and a trillion butterflies flitting around each stalk. These plants were guaranteed to grow quickly and easily with very little care. I am really good at the “very little care” part, so I ordered them. Three years later, I still have three Butterfly Plants, each one scragglier than the other. One of the plants occasionally gets a flower, and one little butterfly who apparently lost his way, did flit for a brief moment last spring.

Thank goodness I have a wonderful gardener who makes sure that my world is beautiful. He fights off the aphids and gophers for me. I am lucky to have him.

Speaking of flowers, as promised, I am including a photo my four month-old granddaughter, Lulu, on Halloween. Her daddy dressed up like a gardener and she was the most beautiful flower in the world. I may not be able to grow real flowers, but I whipped up this costume for MY little flower. She wasn't as thrilled as we were... obviously. Pretty cute, n’est-ce pas?

P.S. Don't miss this amazing bargain!

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.