Queen of Hearts

Well, here it comes again… February 14th… the national day of love.

Women have built Valentines Day WAY up. If you could read the letters I get from readers who are fretting over every detail of Valentines Day or worse yet, are worried sick about being forgotten, you would be astounded. You would not believe the angst associated with being someone’s Valentine. And by the way, these letters are never from men. February 14th seems to mean a great deal to the ladies and puts many guys into a cold sweat.

For every man who embraces his role as Prince Charming for a day, there is a much larger number of guys who would sooner choose being audited by the I.R.S. than deal with Valentine’s Day.

So, what happened? I think (and it pains me to admit it) that women are responsible for adding so much stress to this otherwise innocent little holiday.

I recently read somewhere that a group of men were surveyed on questions relating to “amour” and a whopping 38% admitted that they had considered ending a relationship just before Valentine’s Day. That’s NOT good.

Since we girls got ourselves into this mess, it is up to us to set it all straight. It really is our fault. We are victims of our upbringing. Even when we were little girls, Valentine’s Day was a huge deal. Remember the classroom Valentine exchange? The more cards you got, the cooler you were. There was something so exciting about getting that special recognition and feeling the love.

Nothing has changed except that being someone’s Valentine costs considerably more when you’re a grown up.

Can we talk about this? Flowers, for example, are such an extravagance. They are beautiful, but can long-stemmed roses that cost the same as a weeks worth of groceries really bring a person happiness? Yes, if you are a florist!

Candy is nice, but many of us are trying hard to get our fat butts into a swimsuit this summer, so chocolate is not always appreciated.

Every girl dreams of jewelry from her man and every guy sweats bullets thinking abut selecting it. Wait until March and make these decisions together. It will be on sale by then, anyway.

Sexy lingerie, now you’re talking! It’s not because I sell it that I think it is the perfect “love” gift, it’s because I love it and I think it’s magical, that I make it my life’s work. It doesn’t die, it isn’t perishable and you can wear it on February 15th, May 23rd or whenever.

And what if you don’t have someone special to buy you lingerie this year? Well that’s ridiculous... because you DO have someone very special who thinks the world of you. It’s YOU, silly. So go buy yourself something frilly and fabulous, look in the mirror and say “I love you” to that gorgeous creature looking back at you. Don’t let this holiday get the best of you, girlfriend. Don’t forget, you are WOMAN, I can hear you roar!

Warmest Regards

Most every morning of my life begins with a big mug of freshly brewed coffee. I then curl up on the sofa with my dogs to watch the news. The top stories for days have been about the heavy snows throughout most of the country and the crazy unseasonably warm weather in California. I watch the footage of bundled up people trying to make paths to their homes and cars and can’t even imagine what that is like. I have friends and family who live in the Midwest and on the East Coast, and I know they are struggling just to get to work. It all makes me feel so guilty.

First of all, let me tell you that I am not happy about this heat wave. It has been high 70s to low 80s for 2 weeks now. I want my winter! When I say my winter, I mean the kind I have always known. Cool, crispy, sweater weather. I was born in Los Angeles and the only snow I ever saw was when my mom and dad would take us on a day trip to the mountains to build a snowman and throw snowballs at my siblings. I have always liked the winter months. I appreciate winter food, like soups and stews and hot chocolate. It is by no accident that I have never even rented an apartment that doesn’t have a fireplace and of course, I bought a home with a lovely hearth. I make a fire every night I am home from fall through winter. Unfortunately, I have to turn the air conditioning on at the same time in recent days.

It really plays with your mind and your time when the seasons don’t cooperate. Right after Thanksgiving I painstakingly put all my sexy sandals and blingy flip flops in storage to make room in my closet. Now it’s 80 degrees outside and I keep thinking it’s only temporary, so I am stuck wearing closed toe shoes until this damn weather figures itself out. I shouldn’t complain. I don’t have to shovel snow, or defrost my car door locks or do anything that most of the country is forced to do. Right now, I can sit out on my back patio with very little clothing on in January without being the slightest bit chilly. It may sound lovely if you live in Buffalo, but I get more than enough warm weather in the summer months. I have adorable wool hats and scarves just waiting to be worn and I am fearful that it may not happen. This ridiculous warm weather doesn’t seem to have an end.

I admire the pioneer spirit of all the folks who carry on their lives during snow storms. I traveled to the East Coast for business every 2 months for decades. I have had my fair share of trying to get around a snowy city to do business. I am no stranger to canceled flights and icy sidewalks. I remember my first experience with “black ice”. You don’t know it’s there until you step on it. It’s bad enough when it’s you, but when you watch elderly people doing bad James Brown impressions down Madison Avenue, it’s really sad. Although I am German, English and Scottish, I am just not built for snowstorms. The only blizzard I can deal with is the kind that comes from Dairy Queen. I am too much of a candy-butt to power through the snow on a daily basis.

All of you who treat it like part of life deserve all the rewards that come with it. I will never wake up to a white Christmas at home, or be able lay down in my yard and make a snow angel. I can’t cuddle up with my husband and watch the snowflakes fall while the fire roars. I actually don’t have a husband OR snow where I live, but it is far more likely that I will have a snowmobile in my driveway before I have the other.

When you don’t grow up in cold weather, you miss out on a lot. A few years ago, one of my dearest friends and I were had dinner in NYC. As we walked to his car so he could drive me back to my hotel, we kept going in circles until we realized that his car had been stolen. I saw him the next day after the theft, and the police had already found the car, stripped to the frame. The only thing he was upset about was that his favorite snow scraper was in the trunk and now it was gone. He went on and on about how this scraper was the best one ever with all the bells and whistles. So I set out to find him the most deluxe, amazing state-of–the-art-snow-thingy ever. Sounds simple, right? I walked into this giant hardware place and realized that I had no idea what one of these gadgets even looked like. I timidly asked a clerk where the snow scrapers were. He immediately asked me if I wanted one with a chisel or a snow brush. I said “yes” and pretended that I knew what he was talking about. I did have on a very stylish wool coat and killer cute faux-fur-topped boots, so I looked like I belonged. I went to the aisle he told me and I was more confused than ever. I finally had to bare my soul and confess that I was from LA and that I needed the Star Wars equivalent of a snow scraper for a very dear friend. After he got finished chuckling, I got a comprehensive lesson in the finest tools available to remove ice and snow from car windshields. I bought my friend the most spectacular combination ice chisel/snow brush with a telescoping handle in the most gorgeous shade of fluorescent orange. My friend was completely delighted and also very amused. I sang “Ice, Ice, Baby” and danced while he opened up the bag. Presentation is everything, you know.

I have always thought that there is something very romantic about snowy conditions. Ever since I saw Dr. Zhivago, I have been enamored with the thought of falling in love in bone-chilling weather. A hug has to be twice as delicious when two shivering bodies embrace and create mutual warmth. In the movies, when you see lovers toast with glasses of fine spirits on a cold night, you can feel the passion ignite as they sip and look into each other’s eyes. It just doesn’t happen that way on a warm California day in freakin’ JANUARY.

So, to all of you who are wishing you were in Southern California instead of say... Minnesota, stop wishing. It’s not so great. The flowers are confused. They think it’s April. The news even said that the bears are messed up and coming out of hibernation early because of this crazy warm weather. What’s worse, is that I am confused. Do I pack up my sweaters and Ugg boots? Do I reclaim my flip flop wardrobe from the garage? For now I will just send all my dear readers who are battling the elements bunches of love. Keep warm and know that I think you rock.

Standard Operating Procedure?

I want to thank all of you who sent me “Get Well” wishes and prayers. I am happy to report that it all worked beautifully. My surgical experience was successful physically, but my hospital stay—if you can call it that—was very perplexing.

It has been over 30 years since I last had a serious operation. Things have really changed a lot in surgeryland. My stay 3 decades ago was 4 or 5 days and I was treated like a princess. There were floral tributes and a procession of visitors to help me with the healing process. This last stay was 4 or 5 hours long and the only flowers and visitors I saw were ones coming in the front door as I was being wheeled out. Don’t get me wrong, I was well taken care of, medically speaking, but the whole process is way different now.

In all fairness, I understand about progress and the amazing strides that the medical community has made, but some things just shouldn’t go so fast. Granted, my two surgeries were very different, but the reality is that for both they knocked me out and cut me open. My recent procedure entailed removing a funky gallbladder (the name of my new band, by the way) and with the one so many years ago, they sent me home with an adorable daughter.

I arrived at the hospital on surgery day bright and early, with my sister and middle daughter in tow. They were there to support me and also protect the hospital staff. Since I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink after 12 a.m., which meant that I could not have even a drop of coffee. Can you spell HELL? I was not in the best mood.

We were sent to the second floor Surgery Waiting Room for further instructions. That’s where they would be picking me up and also where my daughter and sister would wait. As we opened the door, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit my nostrils. Are they kidding? How mean! I knew it was for the benefit of the family members, but it still hurt. I didn’t have to endure the heavenly aroma for very long before someone called my name and took me to my surgical event. I must say that even though the staff was very nice, I still found them a little suspect. The same lady who called my name in the waiting area and then escorted me to my gurney, asked me my name and then wanted to know what I was having done. A little strange, I thought, since all my info was in their computer and my wristband clearly stated who I was. Though caffeine deprived and cranky, I went along with it obediently. I was then handed a paper hospital gown, a bag for my personal belongings and a pair of butt ugly socks with non-skid rubber stuff not only on the soles, but all over the tops as well. I could only deduce that the socks prevented me from escaping either by running or crawling. Let me jump ahead for a minute... when I was getting ready to leave the hospital, my sister and daughter wouldn’t let me leave the damn socks behind. They were both adamant that I would certainly have a use for harvest gold, stick-to–the–floor, mid-calf socks in my real life. I was too groggy to be insulted so I packed them up and smiled gratefully. I figured they probably cost me $250 anyway, so now they are mine.

OK, now comes the truly exciting part. The paper gown they gave me was amazing! Not your standard issue throw-away hospital gown, no sir-ee! This one had back ties, side ties, mysterious openings and flaps. It even had this curious thingy on the side that looked like the place where you hook up the bag to the vacuum. I returned to my gurney area only to be greeted by a new nurse, a man this time. Guess what he wanted to know... my name and the reason for my visit to the hospital. Don’t these people talk to each other or write anything down? I sweetly answered while he checked my wristband.

Then the fun began! They asked me if I wanted anything. “A non-fat latte with extra foam”, I replied. By then there were 2 more nurses and they all laughed. I told them I was cold and before I knew it, they had attached a hose that spits out hot air right into my gown! Do you remember the old fashioned bonnet hair dryer for home use? Same principle. As I laid there in my bouffant body bag, they put one pillow under my head and another under my legs. I was very happy and comfortable, but I was aware that I probably couldn’t look more hideous. I was wrong. At that very instant, someone put a poufy paper Martha Washington hat on my head. And then my adorable doctor arrived with a sweet reassuring tone of voice and a sweet smile on his face. I had every confidence in him until he asked me what my name was and what I was having done. Really?

Alright, I get it. This is some kind of safety measure so they don’t take the wrong organ out of the wrong person. Funny thing is, they seem to get the insurance “bill to” info and the co-pay collected on the first go-around.

My anesthesiologist was darling. We chatted for a brief moment as he inserted something into my IV. The next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. The attending nurse was very sweet and asked me if I would like something to eat or drink. I guess they lost my latte order, so we settled on Jell-O and graham crackers. Soon I was released, my sister and daughter showed up, and I was wheel-chaired out of there, gallbladder-less.

All and all , my surgery experience was easy and very efficient. However, I can’t help wondering what surgery will be like a few decades from now. When my sister had her gall bladder out 25 years ago, she spent nearly a week in the hospital. What will surgical procedures be like 25 years from now? Maybe drive-thru... who knows. Or perhaps the patient will just press their iPhone screen against the area to be treated. Maybe there’s already an app for that. My poor sister has a scar the size of tree branch down her belly and I have a 1” slit under my breasts and two little tiny ones on my torso. A big difference, let me tell you. The whole experience left me with a lot of questions, but none as burning as where can I get one of those body warmer machines and a good supply of those Jiffy Pop disposable gowns? Fabulous!

In The Mood

All you Bah Humbuggers out there can hate me if you like, but I really love the Christmas season. Of course, you must understand it doesn’t officially begin until I hear Jose Feliciano sing “Feliz Navidad” on the radio. It’s my rule and I’m sticking to it. I heard it early this year, before Thanksgiving, so I have been jolly for weeks now. It's so cute... most of my friends and family know how I am about this song, and they call and text me when they hear it.

As I was driving home last night and realized that the “elves” (aka husbands) in my neighborhood had worked hard—under protest, no doubt—over the last few weekends. Millions of lights were strung on houses everywhere I looked. I always get a kick out of how people hang Christmas lights and decorate the outside of their homes. Some houses are a work of art; the lights are planned in a well thought out design with no beginning or end. The bright lights define the structural highlights of the house and garden. Some of these outdoor light extravaganzas are such perfection, if I didn’t know better, I would swear Martha Stewart had something to do with it.

And then there are THOSE houses... you know the ones I mean. Lights of every shape and color are randomly twirled around bushes and beams, some strands barely attached within an inch of their lives to the shrubs and eaves. Sometimes there weren't enough lights to finish the whole front of the house, so the illuminated string abruptly stops as if no one would notice. And even worse, if the last strand is extra long, you will see a fairly symmetrically-done display, but at the end there is a frenetic clump of too many lights on the last bush. It’s kind of like if a cake decorator meticulously rendered every frosting rose and each lacy icing edge and then, just because there was some left, put a big pile of frosting in the corner of the cake as a finishing touch.

To assault the senses even further, these cattywompus light displays almost always seem to include one random string of lights that flash on and off like the sign on a diner that lets you know that they have "Good Food". I don't know why these people bother to illuminate their homes. I wish that there was some kind of law that would prohibit people from vomiting Christmas lights in their front yards. I will work on it for next year.

I really do enjoy the kind of unspoken competition that goes on between neighbors when it comes to the big lawn decorations. Lighted reindeer, Santas, choo-choo trains, candy canes all add fantasyland-like dimension to neighborhood lawns. I just love it, but I wish that people would think more about the “big picture” when placing those bigger-than-life props on their lawns. Some stuff just does NOT go together. If I am wrong, then please tell me this: just which part of Jerusalem is Frosty the Snowman from?

I finished the tree in my living room ages ago and it is GORGEOUS! My kids always tease me because they said my tree is TOO perfect. I was told it looks like a display tree at Macy’s and that I am obsessive about it. I have no idea why having a flawlessly decorated tree with precisely placed, hand blown Czechoslovakian ornaments, and perfectly timed, twinkling crystal white lights is a bad thing. My children say it has no “soul”. Soul, huh? I’ll give you soul. Gorgeous is good enough for me.

Back in the 70s I had this brainstorm of having an old fashioned Christmas tree. I painstakingly strung popcorn and cranberries on long pieces of brightly colored yarn. I made ornaments from acorns and pine cones. I spent hours cutting cloth strips and fashioning a patchwork chain to use as a garland. It was a total labor of love. I will tell you without a doubt that it was by far the butt ugliest tree in the history of Christmas.

Well my darlings... I must go now. I have errands to do. I need to order some sugar plums and pick up my boughs of holly.

Until Next Time.

Dough Balls

Few things in life are guaranteed. You’ve heard the saying about death and taxes being the only “sure things” we can look forward to.

In actuality, this statement is completely false. Oh, sure… we all have to pay taxes and we’re all going to die. Those facts are undeniably true. But while we are here, there is one sure-fire reality that exists for all of us, something far more pleasant than death OR taxes, but just as certain.

You probably don’t know about it, or haven’t thought about it, but Fifi will now teach you something that could very well change the way you live your life, so listen up.

If you have trouble remembering things, please make a little note of it. This is very important.

My darlings... Now hear this: there is no such thing as a bad dough ball. PERIOD!

What is a dough ball, you ask? A dough ball is simply any food made primarily of fat and flour. Cookies, muffins, biscuits, bread of any kind, dumplings, waffles, fritters and bagels are all stunning examples. It can be as simple as a soda cracker or as complex as a French GATEAU CHASSEUR (a delicate almond cake drizzled with black raspberry reduction), but it’s all dough balls.

Dough balls can be basic or complicated. The addition of sugar or filling or frosting doesn’t take away from the fact that a dough ball is a dough ball is a dough ball.

Every nationality on the planet has its own version. It doesn’t matter if it is Italian gnocchi, Chinese dim sum, French éclairs, Mexican tamales or English crumpets… they’re all dough balls and they’re all delicious. Shall I go on? Can you name a dough ball that isn’t yummy? I can’t, and I have the butt to prove that I have tasted them all.

Whether it is doughnuts, hush puppies, matzo balls or cupcakes, there are just no bad dough balls. So move over, death and taxes, and make room for something truly fabulous we can surely count on.

Oh, I am so glad I shared this with you; you are just going to love the challenge of dedicating just a little part of your life to trying to find a dough ball that isn’t great. And don’t try to convince me about the fruitcake thing, there are plenty of people who love it.

Now the next time you’re at the mall and you pass the soft pretzel place, you will say quietly to yourself “dough ball” and think of me. And then you’ll pass the Cinnabon store, and say “dough ball” and then Mrs. Fields, and so on and so on.

When I am right I am RIGHT!

Miss Traditional

It’s Thanksgiving evening and I am alone for the first time today. I am tired, and ready for a hot bath and pajamas, but first I thought I would write my article. I am filled with sentimentality and warm fuzzy feelings, so here I go.

Okay, I confess, I never really got the significance of this holiday on a historical level. The Pilgrims and Indians thing is way over my head. But a holiday that gets families together and includes pie gets my vote.

I hope you all had a wonderful day with your families. I did. In case you are curious as to what Thanksgiving like at my house, let me explain.

Do you remember the TV show “The Waltons”? Think back on how mom and dad Walton and all the kids worked side-by-side preparing the traditional meal. Every family member did his or her part with a smile. And to make it even better, Dad always had an inspirational story of Thanksgivings past to share as they worked together in perfect harmony. Got the picture?

Thanksgiving at my house is absolutely NOTHING like that.

Are we the only family in America who always has to send someone to the market at the last minute to get some vital part of the meal? You’d think after spending nearly $300 in the first place that we would have everything we need. But not us, we always forget something and find ourselves at the mercy of the only open market in town. Is $14.99 too much to pay for a carton of whipping cream? Let me know.

Dinner is always good, although no one in my family is very good at carving. They need to teach this at university level, because obviously it is not intuitive. It seems to also be a “man” thing, by the way. My CPA brother-in-law did the honors, and though he meant well, the pieces were a bit large to manage. I honestly could have done a better job by simply just backing over the bird with my car, but I didn’t say anything. It was a really wonderful dinner, and though I didn’t think it was possible to use every dish, bowl and platter in the house, we did it.

I wish I could tell you that we entertained ourselves after the meal with the men teaching the young ones how to whittle while the women worked on a quilt, but I would be lying. The truth is we watched football on television. However the most fun of the day occurred when my mother-in-law discovered that her grandson had pierced his tongue. Now THAT’S entertainment!

I am going to bed now. My heart is happy. I spent the day with many of the people I love, and the ones I didn’t get to see today know that I love them and that they live in my heart every day.

I am off to my bath and my bed, but tradition dictates that I swing by the kitchen and make a turkey sandwich. How else would you end the national day of overeating?

Goodnight, my wonderful readers. Goodnight, my precious family and friends. Goodnight, John-Boy.

Sweet Inspiration

You will not hear me whining about Thanksgiving. I really am looking forward to it. I just wish it wasn’t next week.

I am never ready for these holidays on time, but I am trying my hardest to get into the mood. I just watched a cooking show where the French chef made a roast turkey injected with a white grape reduction and glazed with Jerusalem oranges. It was gorgeous. I was so inspired by his creativity.

The thing that tickles me is that somewhere in America, some family will actually be eating that very meal. Someone watching along with me will be inspired enough to recreate that culinary masterpiece for their loved ones. I miss those Thanksgivings of the olden days when I would prepare the feast for my family. Cooking for my loved ones when they were younger was a whole lot easier. Now I have a vegetarian daughter, one that doesn’t eat fowl, one that doesn’t like turkey and a son-in-law that is dreadfully allergic to onions. I can’t cook without onions. So to make a meal for my grown-up children and the rest of my clan, I would have to make 2 versions of the side dishes, a turkey, a roast beef and a Tofurkey. Then of course there are the older relatives who have dietary restrictions. Just shoot me. We’re going to a restaurant.

OK, I got off track... back to the subject of inspiration. To be inspired is a miraculous thing. Inspiration is what gives us the wings with which we can fly and visit our dreams. Oh yes! I want to be inspired and fly, but I would probably get a middle seat.

All kidding aside, I DO get inspired by the world around me, and believe me, I am grateful. It doesn’t need to be complicated or fancy to warm your soul. Just think about pumpkin pie. Does it ever taste better than at Thanksgiving? Have you ever had a slice in July? It’s good, but not the same.

I am not here to deliver a heavy Thanksgiving message. I just want to remind you all about the delicious things in this world that cost nothing and feel so good. If something inspires you like a song, a flower, a sunset... share it with someone. And keep your eyes and ears open when others tell you what rocks their world. You don’t want to miss anything! It doesn’t matter if you are the inspire-er or the inspire-ee. It’s all good.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving and don’t worry if you over eat a bit; I have a warehouse full of girdles, corsets, slimmers and sucker-inners.