A Stellar Reputation

Do you have any idea who has the very best Public Relations people in the world? As you know, it is the job of PR people to keep their clients’ image clean and pristine and to always have them shown in the best light. So, obviously the answer to my question is not Brad and Angelina or the Kardashians. You can keep guessing, but you won’t get it. For every famous name that comes to mind, no matter how flawless their reputation, there is always something that tarnishes their perfect image. Give up?

Whoever was handling the publicity and creating an image for bunnies did an amazing job. I went along with my son-in-law and daughter to take my 10 month old granddaughter to have her picture taken with the Easter Bunny. ADORABLE! And the bunny was cute, too. It got me to thinking about the reputation of bunnies. I could not think of one negative thing that had to do with them. They are totally cutie patootie in every way. Besides, there is nothing softer on the planet and they don’t just walk... they hop. You can be “as cute as a bunny” or “as quick as a bunny” and it’s a compliment. If you pull a rabbit out of a hat, you have pulled off something extraordinary. My graphic goddess, Miss Nora, has a sister named Bunny. And yes, she is as darling as they come.

Bunnies make you go “ahhh”. I have zillions of little white tailed ones that enjoy nibbling on the grass at my house. There is not a time when I catch them that I don’t stop and take in their adorable-ness and smile.

It was not by accident that a rabbit was chosen as one of the icons of the Easter season. Bunnies are the epitome of cuddliness and completely irresistible with those ears!

The worst dancer in the universe can still join in to do the Bunny Hop. Anything associated with bunnies makes people happy and can make them act silly. See, you just can’t say anything bad about them. I even had a boyfriend in college who called me his “funny bunny”. I loved it.

Bunnies also have a very special significance for me. They remind me of someone I love very much. My middle daughter, Jenni, was always a hard worker in school and later in her career. She was always there to help and was forever putting pressure on herself to make sure she got everything done. When I would ask her, for example, how she was going to finish a project, go to class, finish her homework, and be done in time to come help me cook dinner for the family, she would always give me the same answer no matter how much she had to accomplish: “Magic bunnies, Mommy. Magic bunnies.” Somehow those magic bunnies always came through. Jenni rarely failed at anything and never disappointed. The heartbreaking truth is that we lost Jenni at age 24, in 2009. I have probably told you this before, so forgive me. I do share most of my life with you and this part is still kind of a blur at times.

Bunnies are dear to me for many reasons. I honestly don’t know why I just went to the “Jennifer place” in this article. You all so sweetly put up with my crazy meanderings about this subject and that. I started talking about bunnies and ended up here. Thank you for letting me ramble. And by the way, the next time you have to power through a million tasks and you pull it off like the superstar you are, consider that you might just have some magic bunnies in your midst.

By the way, if you are a mother or a grandmother, you need to buy a copy of The Runaway Bunny. It’s the story of a mother bunny and her baby bunny. It encapsulates everything you ever need to know about the infinite power of mother love. Here’s a little bit... leave it to the bunnies to get such a precious message across so beautifully.

Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.
So he said to his mother, “I am running away.”
“If you run away,” said his mother, “I will run after you.
For you are my little bunny.”

“If you run after me,” said the little bunny,
“I will become a fish in a trout stream
and I will swim away from you.”

“If you become a fish in a trout stream,” said his mother,
“I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you.”

“If you become a fisherman,” said the little bunny,
“I will become a rock on the mountain, high above you.”

“If you become a rock on the mountain high above me,”
said his mother, “I will become a mountain climber,
and I will climb to where you are.”

And so the story goes. No matter what the bunny becomes, the mama bunny turns into whatever it takes to keep her baby safe. So sweet!

This is a big week with Passover and Easter. Families will be together and it doesn’t get better than that. I hope you all have times to treasure. Speaking of treasures, check out my 10 month old, Lulu. It’s her first Easter. And yes, I am responsible for the mini ball gown. I am not only her grandmother, I am her stylist.

Natural Woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting By Famously

I was away on a little vacation last week, and as it turned out, I learned more than the fact that Virginia is a beautiful state. I was at the airport newsstand fiddling away some time before boarding and stocking up on the necessities required to get me through my flight. Let’s see... bar-b-qued potato chips, Junior Mints and of course, something good to read. I scanned the magazine racks looking for just the right reading material to make my journey less dreary.

I thought about buying a popular health and fitness magazine that featured an article on the 14 Super Foods. When I saw the first food on the list was legumes and the last was plain yoghurt, I didn’t hold out much hope that potato chips and peppermint candy would be included. Maybe another time.

Cosmopolitan is always interesting and often quite steamy in content. THAT would keep me amused over Salt Lake City! Only problem is, the last time I read Cosmo on the plane, the guy next to me in business class must have assumed that I was absorbing every one of those “how to” tips and adding them to my personal repertoire. His knee kept hitting mine and the “ooh baby” winks kept coming throughout the flight. He asked me if I would like to go have a drink with him when we landed. If I had been reading Field and Stream, would he have asked me to go bass fishing? I doubt it.

I only had a few minutes and I just needed something light and brainless, so I decided on a couple of tabloids and headed to my gate.Once on board, I settled in and built my invisible wall around me. I took out my snacks and began thumbing through my “tell all” magazines. They brought me a Diet Coke which, by the way, I believe negates the calories in potato chips and candy. I thought you might like to know that. Anyway, I was getting really comfortable and loving every minute of my precious down time all by my little self, when suddenly, there was a commotion up front. I stopped to pay attention. I always want to make sure that we are not going to die before I get really comfortable. I summoned the flight attendant and asked what was going on. She quietly told me that a very famous and handsome actor, she was quick to add, was in the first class cabin just a few rows ahead of me. With great relief that we weren’t on fire or being hijacked, I went back to my magazines and snacks.

I couldn’t concentrate because of the constant buzz and not-so-subtle motioning that had now spread through the entire aircraft. Mr. Hollywood was evidently sitting at the very front of the plane. It amazed me that grown up people traveling in first and business class were conjuring up excuses to go to the lavatories or visit the galley extra often just to have a look. I would not be part of this, I thought! They make you use the bathrooms in your own area, so at some point I was wiggling enough that I had to give in. I was so proud that I came and went and never looked to see who it was. When I sat back down, my neighbor who hadn’t as much as acknowledged me yet, leaned in and said “Did you see Cool Callahan?” (not his real name, duh!), ”I thought he was taller!” he continued. I just smiled like I didn’t speak English and went back to my treats and tabloids once AGAIN. As I turned the pages, there were endless articles with “grab you” headlines about celebrities and their lives. And then it hit me. How hard it must be to be famous! As I turned the pages, I scanned article after article about who’s sleeping with who, who’s bankrupt, gay, too fat, too thin, drugged out, possibly pregnant or secretly married. The telephoto-ed snapshots of famous folks being caught during their private moments or in a state less than glamorous were there for the world to see. This seemed so unfair. I won’t even let my kids take a candid photo of me without grabbing the camera and editing out the ones where I have too many chins.

I don’t know what it was, but after awhile I started getting this icky feeling. I started to think about what it would be like to live life under a microscope. I could certainly get into the privileged part of celebrity-ness, but having to deal with the gossip and the gawking and the paparazzi? I can’t even stand it when my Aunt Maggie follows me around with her digital camera all of Christmas day so she can share the photos with the relatives back home. I do it because I love her, but it drives me nuts.

When we landed and lined up to wait for them to open the airplane door to exit, all eyes were on Mr. MovieStarPants. I guess famous people get themselves ready to disembark an aircraft and collect their overhead luggage differently than us ”normal” people, because every eye was on him. I lowered my head in protest and stared at my newly pedicured and painted toes as I waited. All I could think about was that when I travel, I like to be invisible. I don’t like to chat and I revel in the peace and quiet. I actually border on being anti-social and it’s somewhat of a luxury.

As we started to move down the aisle, the lady standing behind me whispered “I am going to grab his pillow when I go by! Maybe I will put it on eBay”, she giggled. If you can have an epiphany in an airplane aisle, I did. I “epiphed” BIG time. As I walked through the terminal, I made a ceremonious stop at the trash bin and deposited my two tabloids. I will never buy them or read them again. PERIOD! I will not contribute another cent of my money or a minute of my time to reading that destructive sensationalistic crap. I am hoping that I can talk you, my faithful readers, into doing the same. Are you IN?

What I once thought was mindless fun is really shameful intrusion. And to be honest, not much of that stuff is even true.

So what do movie stars owe us? Good movies and interviews they choose to give are all, in my opinion. If I am ever tempted to read those trash papers again, I will think of that actor (who happens to be one of my favorites, by the way... and he IS intoxicatingly handsome) and remember how much of his life he had to give up. I don’t think all the money and “stuff” in the world can make up for losing your privacy and probably some of your soul.

It’s funny, but I recently saw this star being interviewed on TV and he was saying that he had a profound fear of flying. I think I know WHY, and it doesn’t have much to do with being 30,000 feet off the ground.

I am so grateful that I was born a cartoon. Nobody really ever bothers us.

Baby Talk

Is there anything more precious than a newborn baby? I think not. I can remember my tiny ones smiling those toothless smiles at me. And, by the way, I never believed that “gassy” theory about newborns smiling. I always knew those loving grins were just for mommy.

Being pregnant is filled with wonderment. I honestly believe that a woman never feels more like a woman than when she is “with child”. The 9 months go by (sooooo slowly) and the baby is born! He or she arrives so soft and adorable with those darling little “nibble-able” hands and feet. Isn’t the smell of a baby (a bathed one, of course) one of the best scents in the world? I was thinking... the guys who formulated “New Car” smell, should work on “New Baby.” It would be a winner.

Yes, having children is perfectly divine. Well, it IS divine, but not exactly perfect.

Let’s see, you gained 50 lbs. and lost 8 pounds and 5 ounces. I‘m no math whiz, but something is wrong here. Your perky breasts have lost their “perk”, and your mid-section now has stretch marks that look like a road map of New Jersey.

It isn’t fair, but that’s the way it is. If it sounds all too familiar, don’t cry because there is hope. I am going to be straight with you: You probably won’t get your old body back. I have waited 20 years and mine hasn’t shown up yet. But, you CAN learn to be happy about being beautiful in a new way.

Okay, there is no way to make light of the saggy breasts or the wider hips that come with childbirth. There are ways to work around those little problems. Just write to me anytime at Fifi@LoveFifi.com. I can teach you how to perk up the "girls"' flatten your tummy, look a dress size smaller and more. Bodies can be re-balanced with a little advice and some padding and spandex.

Trust me, the first time this little angel plants a slobbery kiss on you and says, “Mama", you will fully understand that being a little rounder and ending up with breasts that look more like gym socks filled with sand is a small price to pay for such bliss.

You are probably wondering why I am so fixated on babies today. If the truth be known, I recently gave birth myself and I am brimming with pride. Don't gasp, I didn't have a real baby. That train left the station a long time ago. If I had just given birth, I would be on the phone right now with the National Enquirer making my deal as the oldest woman to have a baby in the history of man.

I have so many pregnant ladies and new mothers who don't want to give up their sexiness during pregnancy or after childbirth. I am always asked if it is appropriate to wear lingerie when one is expecting. Of course it is! The next question I get is from new moms who are nursing. The bras out there are functional but so ugly... until NOW!

I have created the sexiest nursing bra ever! It's called the Pretty Mommy Nursing Bra and it is comfortable, convenient and gorgeous. This bra was a long time in coming. I have actually been pregnant with the idea for years, but now the blessed event has happened and if you check tomorrow's email from LoveFifi.com, you can see this magnificent bra and also my darling grand daughter, Lulu, in her modeling debut.

I do apologize for this little commercial about my history-making nursing bra with lots of "ooh la la". We are very excited about it.

I am in Virginia for a few days to celebrate my best friend Claudia's birthday. A few days in the South is good for me and I am sure I will have lots to talk about next week. Take care, my loves.

PETER PAN-demonium

Some days being a grown up is way too complicated. Don’t misunderstand, I have never yearned to reclaim my youth. The truth of the matter is that when I was young I unfortunately refused to take good advice from the wise or learn by the mistakes of others, so an offer to go back in time and suffer from stupidity AGAIN does not turn me on.

But honest to goodness, there are days when it would be so great to be a kid again. When you are a grown-up, it is kind of expected that you are a bit invincible. You are supposed to be able to field any comment from another person with grace and without getting your feelings hurt. It is assumed that a grown-up will be logical and calm and have their wits about them at all times. Overwhelming disappointment is brushed off or put on the back burner before any tears have a chance to well up. That’s the grown-up way, yes indeed-y.

I don’t want to be a child again. There are way more minuses than pluses on this one. I don’t want a bedtime, or school uniform, or math homework. I wouldn’t ever want to relive the worry and fear of being the last one chosen when teams were being formed. One of the best things about being an adult is that you don’t have to fret about being asked to the prom or getting a D or any of that stuff that seems so earth-shatteringly important when you are growing up.

No, I don’t want to go back to “more innocent times”, but damn... I wish I could visit once in a while. When I have to be brave, I always say that I need to take a big girl pill to get the job done. Why can’t there be a pretend pill that allows you to react like a kid? You shouldn’t be allowed to use one often, just for those times when being all grown up is simply not satisfactory. And if someone should happen to mention that you were acting childish, you would know that the pill worked perfectly.

“I don’t want a bedtime or math homework, but there are days when it would be great to be a kid again.”

Occasionally, reacting to painful things like you were 7 years old would come in so handy. For instance, when you whacked your head on the kitchen cabinet hard enough to see stars or stubbed your toe on the bed frame fighting with the duvet cover. Wouldn’t it be cool if it were OK to cry when you got injured, no matter how old you are?

If you could be a child once in a while you wouldn’t have to “suck it up” and act like it doesn’t hurt even though it really does. Grown-ups cover up emotions like a paralyzing fear of spiders. I don't have arachnophobia, but I can sense the fear in others. If a giant spider showed up and other people were around, I would turn into freaking Indiana Jones so they wouldn’t be afraid. It’s funny, some of the strongest people I know, are terrified of spiders.

It would be so good for one's mental health if you could be childish every so often without losing points in the mature world. Think about being at work at a big meeting. If things weren’t going your way, instead of endless tense words and angry debating, what if you could just get up and kick the other guy in the shins and shout “I hate you!” AND it wouldn’t count against you in corporate America?

And what if you don’t get to do something that you have planned and dreamed about? How liberating it would be to indulge in what I think must be the Holy Grail of going back to your childhood... throwing a tantrum.

If someone or something broke your heart, wouldn’t it help to pound on the floor with your hands and feet and scream your lungs out? I will confess I did just that the other day. It felt marvelous and I would highly recommend it to anyone, with the caveat that you don’t do it at Target like I did. It was really no big deal in the end, because just like usual on a Target trip, no one came to help me.

I feel so much better now that I have talked this over with you, my dear readers. I am going to go now and have a glass of champagne and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I have always found that compromise works best for me.

And The Winner Is...

I am not a big fan of awards shows, but I love the Oscars and look forward to seeing the 85th Annual Academy Awards tonight. Award shows have multiplied like bunnies because people like to watch celebrities in gorgeous clothes and like everything else in this world, it all boils down to money. Sponsors have deep pockets and these events sell product.

In the good old days, there were the Oscars and then with TV, came the Emmy Awards. When the Grammys began to be televised, the musical performances were worth the viewing. I even occasionally watched the Tonys to keep current in case I decided to fly off to New York for the weekend to see a show or two. I always opted for buying groceries and paying the mortgage instead, but I loved the idea of dashing off to see the hottest play on Broadway. The Academy Awards, the Emmys, the Grammys, and the Tonys covered the entertainment industry perfectly. In my opinion, awards shows should have stopped there, but as usual they didn’t ask me, so there are now a bazillion of them.

It seems like every time you turn around there is big hype for the latest and greatest awards show. There are around 60 entertainment industry awards shows televised annually. How much excellence should really be rewarded? It saddens me that the standards for outstanding achievement have drastically changed in so many areas. When I was in school, you had win a spelling bee or have straight A's to win an award. By the time my youngest was in school, she was “Student of the Month” twice in one school year. Let me assure you that with this kid we applauded her C minuses and she was always in trouble for talking in class. Although I gave her kudos and showed up to take photos at her awards ceremonies twice, I still don’t understand how she was the most outstanding student… twice. This kind of lowering-the bar philosophy has played havoc with the integrity of being the best in your field. This is painfully evident in not only what has happened to awards given out in the entertainment field, but also the 3rd grade at Ralph Waldo Emerson Elementary School. It’s very distressing.

I hate most of these copycat awards shows. There are too many awards given out for being best. How can you be best if everyone else is best? One show that really makes no sense to me is the Teen Choice Awards. Does anyone really trust the opinion of a teenager? I have never watched this event, but I can only imagine that the winners probably roll their eyes while making their acceptance speeches. Don’t think I hate teenagers, I don’t... I raised 6 of them. My dear friend, Mayra, always said that only God loves teenagers. I am curious to know if she is entirely correct on that one. I have my doubts.

What really bugs me about some of these wannabe awards shows are the stupid categories. One of the other awards shows that is televised has a main category called Outstanding Visual Effects in an Animated Commercial or Video Game Trailer. I am sure the nominees are talented, but do we really need this show to be on television? If this trend keeps up we will be seeing the Insurance Professionals of the Year Awards on our big screen TVs. People, this is why we have banquet rooms and ballrooms in hotels, so you can have luncheons and give out rewards. Please don’t put this stuff on television. Surely there are still enough reruns of “Three’s Company” to fill the airways at much less cost. Think about it.

The Oscars are still the granddaddy of all awards shows. We used to watch it at home when I was growing up. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Academy Awards and all the beautiful fashions didn’t somehow inspire me to go to art school and become a designer. I look so forward to see what everyone is wearing. In fact, I will let you in on a little secret, I am having an Academy Awards party!

Before I started LoveFifi.com, I was lucky enough to work for 20 years at one of the most famous lingerie companies in the world. There was a fantastic team of women who created the garments and every year at Oscar time, we got together at one of our houses for a party. Ten years ago, we all went our separate ways, but will remain friends forever. One of our group wrote an email and lamented about the “good old days” and our fabulous Oscar parties. The next thing I knew, we were having one at my house this year.

I am really into it. Although I haven’t had time to see even one of the movies, I don’t care. We will have ballots that cost $5 bucks each, just like they used to. The winner will get the pot except for one five dollar bill. That goes to the one whose answers sucked the most.

Don’t tell anyone, but I bought a piece of red carpet to roll down my path to the front door. Everyone is bringing something for our potluck and my invitation states that they should dress comfortably, but must include one Oscar worthy piece of formal wear in their attire. I am waiting for my guests to arrive in their shorts and bowties, sweats and tiaras or whatever. It will be fun.

I hope you will all enjoy the awards. They are so Hollywood and there is nothing like it. The sports freaks have their Super Bowl and the rest of us have the Oscars.

Speaking of tiaras, I need to find mine and shine it up. See you next week and if you have a minute, write and tell me what you loved and didn’t love about the Academy Awards.

I'm Just Sayin'

One of my fondest memories of my sweet mother was at the end of her life when I bought her a few new t-shirts to go with her everday sweat pants. Although she suffered from Macular Degeneration, and at certain times of the day could only see shadows, she still had a reputation to keep up at her retirement village as the resident fashionista. In a world where most of the ladies wore old housecoats, this was not a difficult goal to attain. I bought her the two jazziest shirts I could find. Both were emblazoned with flowers and birds and were studded with rhinestones. I was sure she could see her new duds with all the sparkles, and I knew the other residents would see her and comment. When I unveiled my purchases, she held them up, smiled brightly and squealed. “You GO girl!” she said with delight. “I got me some bling!” I looked at my Boston-born, college educated, Renaissance-woman-of-a -mother in shock. Who is this woman What did you do with my grammatically correct mother who never swore or used a sentence with a dangling participle in her entire life?

I had forgotten that my mom spent much of her time listening to the TV and radio. Since her sight was often diminished, she could hear better than most. Whatever transformation took place, my petite little mom embraced American slang in her final days and I must say it was pretty adorable. My guess is that between listening to NPR and watching PBS, she must have seen a few episodes of Maury, Oprah, and Entertainment Tonight. By the way, when I put her to rest, she wore plenty of sparkles. I wouldn’t have dared to let her show up in heaven un-blingy.

Slang is such an interesting phenomenon. It just appears like magic and is spread like a virus. There are no slangmeisters who create this stuff. It just arrives and thrives until it fizzles out. The true gems stick around for decades and become part of our regular speech while the really stupid ones die off. I have discovered through my extensive slang research on the subject (this morning) that the life span of a slang expression usually appears, peaks, and wanes into oblivion over a two decade period.

It is said that slang words and phrases really took off in the 1950s. I think that is true, but history shows (yes, there is slang history) that American slang actually had it’s beginnings in the 1920s and 30s. You may not use these terms, but if you have seen old black and white movies, you know I am speaking the truth.

The Roaring 20s brought us “23 Skiddoo”, which meant to scram. There was also hotsy totsy, meaning very uptown and fancy. I am seriously thinking of bringing this one back as I am sick to death of glam. Who’s with me on this? One that thankfully was born and died in the 20s was the bees knees which referred to something that was beyond outstanding. The 30s brought us I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! which expresses disbelief. You may not have ever used that one, but I bet you know what skivvies are, don’t you. Yes, men’s underwear. You can thank the slangsters of the 1930s for that one.

With the 1940s there was a war going on. Girls were gals. If a man had a full wallet he had a lot of lettuce. If you conspired with someone, you were in cahoots. Old fashioned was old hat and if it was you that was old fashioned you were a fuddy duddy. I don’t use these words, but I sure as heck know what they mean. It must be because I hang around older people.

The 1950s were the beginning of the first hipster generation. The Beat Generation, it was called. Beatniks were the cool cats. The word cool is iconic in the world of slang. It described anything that was fantastic. If you liked something back in the rock n’ roll 50s, you were more apt to say that you dig it. And you didn’t have to be a father to be called Daddio.

In the 1960s all hell broke loose in the slang world. The surfer craze, the Beatles, free love and Hippies all added new words to pepper the English language. If it was great, it was bitchin’. I was forbidden to use it then, and now that I am old enough, it makes me sound stupid. Life is not always fair. Whether it was good music or drugs or just being happy that made you feel groovy, it was a good place to be. Good looking people were known as foxes. A breathtakingly gorgeous person was a stone fox. If you were feeling down, you were undoubtedly on a bummer. A person who was off in his own reality was trippin’. Young people in the 60s were always aware if something or someone had a good or bad vibe. Kissing was referred to as swapping spit and I must note that this era also gave us the words woody for a man’s erection and zits for pimples. Ok, it wasn’t La Belle Époque, but it was a very interesting time in history. If you agree with me, go ahead and say it along with me 60s-style. Ready? RIGHT ON! Now didn’t that feel righteous?

The 1970s and 80s brought us disco amongst other phenomena and a lot wonderful words that went with it all. People were encouraged to keep on truckin’ no matter how hard life got. If something was really good, it was dynamite. If someone was a jerk or an idiot, he or she was referred to as a turkey. I wonder how the turkey community felt about it. Thank goodness it didn’t last long. I was a young girl then and I loved to boogie. I am not just talking about dancing, but getting your butt in gear and getting going. It was a good time for me. I remember a day in 1980 when a cute man on a motorcycle called me bodacious as I passed by on the street. It felt pretty good since I had just given birth. It felt even better after I got home and took off my sweater. I discovered that I had leaked milk from nursing through my blouse. I will never forget that day that I passed for bodacious. As we proceeded into the 80s, we tried to relax, veg out and stay mellow. Too much stress might get us psyched out and that wouldn’t be good. The 80s were good for me. Although I honestly never understood what it meant when something was tubular, all things rad kept me pretty happy. I learned to get real and I have remained in that state ever since. I was never a wannabe or a yuppy. I never got mad enough to go postal. Sadly, I never had a boy toy, but as it happens, I am now interviewing for one in the year 2013. It’s not too late is it? Whoever it was that said “yes”... bite me!

The 90s were a blur to me and I missed a lot of pop culture. I was busy with my career and raising thousands of children. I didn’t have time to get jiggy with anything or anyone. I never used the 1990s extended version of the word sweeeeet when something was good. I was too tired to ever be considered da bomb and I didn’t have to much time to be chillin’ like a villian. Don’t diss me because I was oblivious during this period of time. I wanted to be kickin’ it with the others but life was chaotic for me. For those of you who flourished in the 90s, good for you. Whatever...

With the new millennium came ginormous changes in the way people talked. The term awesome from the 70s was still going strong. Cool was sometimes jazzed up to coolio. The cougar was born. For the 2 of you out there that don’t know what a cougar is, it’s an older woman who is into younger men. It’s kinda like a stone fox with mileage. What was once known as your posse 25 years ago, is now referred to as your peeps. I am particularly fond of this era because if I say something that is a little wacky or I am having a senior moment, my kids might just attribute it to me being so random. So much better than senile, don’t you think?

So, let’s examine the state of slang as we begin 2013. Cool is king. Since the early 1950s, anything cool is still cool.

I don’t mind slang. I think you have to be careful how you use it or you might as well have geezer tattooed on your forehead. I like to keep up with the times, but I don’t indulge in slang unless I feel it punctuates what I am saying with just the right amount of panache. But that’s just how I roll.