I belong to one of the largest and most militant groups in the United States. I am a coffee drinker. Those of you who don’t care about coffee probably have something else you are crazy about that you can relate to easily. My mother was a coffee drinker. We all knew that it wasn’t a good idea to talk to her before her first cup. It’s funny, when you are a kid and some grown up lets you taste a little sip, you think it is horrible and cannot imagine why people like it. Then you grow up and the thought of living without it is horrifying.

Seattle in the 70s started a new era of coffee consumption. No longer were people content with just a cup of Joe; we got used to special brews from around the world. With the advent of the chain coffee houses like Starbucks, we all succumbed to what is known as coffee culture. These coffee sanctuaries became a place to meet friends, embark on a new romance, study, do work on your computer, or just contemplate your navel while sipping your signature drink.

For all you coffee drinkers out there, you know what I am talking about.

If you have ever stood in a long line at Starbucks and listened to the ordering going on in front of you, it is pretty intimidating. You need to learn a different language to order coffee in one of these places. The clientele is pretty hip and you would never ask what anything means, so you have to learn the lingo the same way you learned about sex. You listen intently, pretend you get it, nod your head, and then you can eventually piece together all the facts and know what they are talking about. Once you get the jargon down, drinking coffee becomes less stressful and more enjoyable. Back in the day when I was new to the Starbucks routine, I remember the person ahead of me in line ordering a “1/2 caf/decaf cappucino, extra wet. I started to panic about being next. I had no idea how to order and I didn’t want to appear stupid. I was like a deer in headlights when it was my turn. A million thoughts dashed through my brain as I tried to unscramble what I just heard. “Extra wet?” Isn’t coffee already wet?

“How can I help you , Miss?”, asked the young man. “Oh”, I said, flinging my hair and attempting to look very casual. “I just want a regular brewed coffee”, I replied, disguising my angst with the best bored blonde look I could muster up. I was so relieved that he acknowledged my request and poised his fingers over the register keys to ring me up.“Whew!”, I said to myself. “They have just regular coffee here!” “Would you like our Sumatran Gold or the Himalayan Fog?” He queried. Oh, crap! I was terrible at geography in school. “Which region has the best coffee?” He was looking at me like I should know the difference between the two. I decided to look conflicted and it worked like a charm. “You know our House Blend is award winning and also my personal favorite.” I shook my head yes and now looked forward to my lovely cup of coffee. “Shall I make that a Venti?,” he inquired. “Absolutely!” I said with feigned authority. I had no idea what I was ordering until I picked up my schooner of black coffee when they called my name.

You live and learn. And I have learned plenty. When you order a cappuccino wet, it means you want more coffee than foam. To order it dry is just the opposite. Breve is with half and half instead of milk. Order your drink skinny and it’s made with skim milk and sugar free syrup. It’s not rocket science, but pretty close.

People have become so particular about the coffee they drink. I actually think that coffee snobs are worse than wine snobs. The whole thing has no socio-economic connection either. People who consider Cheetos hors d’oerves, are super snooty about their coffee. I have a good friend who roasts his own beans. Now that’s dedication. I must say that I truly understand the importance of coffee. It starts my day and often ends my evening meal. I am really glad that caffeine does not affect my ability to sleep. I would be miserable if I was one of those people who can’t drink a cup after 3 pm or they are up all night. I can pound back a double espresso at midnight and be asleep by 12:10.

I am the opposite of a coffee snob. I like it all. Give me a good hot mug of coffee shop coffee brewed in a Bunn machine. Fabulous! Whether it’s done in a French press, drip brewed, or percolated... it’s all good.

After my divorce, I treated myself to one of the Keurig coffer machines that use little individually packed “pods” to brew a single cup of coffee of your choice. Each serving is a work of art in a cup and since I live alone, sometimes that’s all I want to make. I have a little wooden drawer thing-y where my different varieties of pods, called K-cups, are kept. Each morning I ponder which exotic coffee I will have with the same deep thought as I would select a diamond ring from the jeweler’s case. Sometimes I even have tea. I have a plethora of different mugs from all over the universe on the shelf above my coffee maker, so I can match my coffee choice and my mood. Ok, it doesn’t take much to float my boat, but I love that damn machine. I love my coffee.

If, God forbid, I should ever become homeless and forced to live in the park, I would find a park with an electric outlet for my Keurig. I know they exist because the gardeners don’t use battery powered lawn mowers and hedge clippers, for goodness sake. I would make myself a sign that said “Please Help. Will Work for K-cups”. I will stand by the freeway on ramp during morning rush hour and graciously entertain offers of employment or donations for my coffee pods. You think I’m kidding, right?

For all you coffee drinkers out there, you know what I am talking about. A lot of the pleasure in a cup of coffee has to do with the ceremony of it all. The brewing, the cream, the sweetener... the way you swizzle it around to blend it just the way you like it. When your hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the warmth goes right down to your toes. That aroma of the roasted beans wafting upwards is purely intoxicating. Tell me something that tastes better than that first sip in the morning... divine!

Besides the taste and tradition of this beverage, don’t forget how many problems have been solved and relationships begun over a simple cup of coffee. Chances are some of you are reading this article over coffee... that pleases me greatly. I am drinking one as I write this. Cheers!

There is probably no task that I hate more than going to the grocery store. If I ever win the lottery, the first thing I will do is hire an assistant that goes marketing for me.

When I was raising a family, I took food shopping much more seriously than do now. It was part of being the mama lion and nurturing my family and nobody did it better than I did. I used to do the marketing with a shoebox full of carefully catalogued coupons. I was constantly clipping the cents-off coupons from every magazine and newspaper I could get my hands on.

On marketing day, I would spend hours going up and down the aisles stretching every dollar that I could. I often filled up two baskets to the brim. At the end, I turned in all my coupons and tried to guess what my savings would be. It was a game to me and I was good at it.

As I stood by the open tailgate of my “mom van” (yes, I had one of those, but please keep it to yourself) and watched the box person load bag after bag of discounted grocery items, I felt such pride. I stood there clutching my yards of register tape as triumphantly as if I had just won an Oscar.

I would spend hours going up and down the aisles stretching every dollar that I could.

Grocery shopping was a huge deal back in those days. It took the better part of a day to accomplish and you had to have an unstoppable rhythm. I also learned early on that your success as the household shopper had to have a set of stringent rules.

Rule #1 - You NEVER let your husband go with you. Despite the fact that he is good for any heavy lifting of 50lb. bags of dog kibble or the ginormous size laundry detergent, there is no amount of budgeting and coupon clipping that will offset what he sneaks into the basket. It does you no good to scrimp and save and wait for double coupon day, if you end up with garlic-stuffed cannonball olives, an extra large bag of beef jerky, and Macadamia nuts carefully concealed and then revealed at checkout. Men can’t help it, so leave them at home.

Rule #2 - Never ask if anyone needs or wants anything. When you shop with coupons and are a slave to sale items, no special requests. They get what’s on “special” and the fact that someone else is filling the cupboards for their eating pleasure is special enough. Let your family know not to fall in love with anything you bring home, because they might not get it again.

Rule #3 - If you are shopping for a lot of people, it’s a very tiring job. I believe that the shopper is entitled to at least one food favorite as a reward for all their good work. I love Fig Newtons and tried for years to find a hiding place that no one could find. I sucked at it, because when I was ready to relax with a cup of tea and some Newtons a few days later, I would go to the hiding place in the kitchen to find an empty Nabisco package. Kids and husbands have food radar. I should have hidden them behind the ironing board or behind the folded sheets in the linen closet. Not a chance anyone in my family would have found them. You live and learn.

Those days are all behind me now. It’s just me and the dogs. Although I haven’t clipped a coupon in a long time, I still hate going to the store for a whole different reason. Now instead of calculating how much I am paying per ounce to get the best bargain, I calculate if I will be able to eat it or use it before I die.

I usually only make myself go to the market if there is nothing for my dogs to eat and/or there is no creamer for my coffee. Once I am there, I am THERE, so I just move down the aisles as fast as I can. There are no bargains for people who live alone. I don’t need a multi-pack of anything and I don’t want to carry it. I get the essentials, fruit, vegetables, English muffins, milk, eggs, Brie, wine, etc.

Nowadays you bring your own bags for the groceries. I am grateful I did the family shopping in the paper or plastic days or I would have to have brought a complete set of Samsonite. I keep my purchases down to a minimum because I like the convenience and speed of the 15 items or less lane. Nothing aggravates me more than people who abuse this. Often times there is still a line but I keep myself occupied by counting exactly how many items each person puts on the conveyer belt and plotting their death if they go over. It’s not the healthiest thinking, but it keeps me completely amused until it’s my turn.

By the way, don’t ever get talked into doing Self Checkout. It’s some kind of plot. First of all, it’s not that convenient or easy. The people who do it easily think they are so cool and they think they are brilliant. If you look befuddled or don’t go fast enough, the Self Checkout “associate” comes around and flippantly pushes the start button and shows you how to swipe the bar code and then disappears. You start off fine and then you make the mistake of touching the bag at the wrong time and get scolded by some automated voice. I had tried to do this before, but if you don’t do it quickly, the guy behind you in the flip flops with a 12 pack of Corona gets antsy and makes you nervous.

The last time I tried to do this, I bought some kind of produce that was missing its sticker and I didn’t know how to continue. Out of nowhere comes the “associate” to help. I don’t know where the Self Checkout helpers fall in the hierarchy of grocery store employees, but these are not happy people. I described my produce problem and she gave me a look that clearly said “moron!”, shrugged her shoulders, and pushed me out of the way. She made a clicking noise with her tongue while rolling her eyes in disgust. Then she whipped through several screens, pushed too many buttons and asked me for my debit card. She “helped” me complete my transaction and gathered up my bags abruptly, handed them to me and motioned towards the door. Then that brat actually told me to “enjoy the rest of my day”. If I was going to clean the garage for the balance of my day, it would be much more enjoyable than my experience with those people in what I now fondly refer to as “Self Righteous Checkout”.

I think I have let off enough steam for one day. I think I shall now relax with a nice cup of tea... and Fig Newtons.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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 backburner-ed immediately 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.

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 just 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 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 be “suck it up” and act like it doesn’t hurt even though it really does. Grown-ups cover up emotions like about being scared to death of spiders. They don’t bother me, 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 and you wouldn’t lose 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 say “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. I would suggest that you don’t do it at Target like I did. It was really no big deal after all, 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.