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.

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.

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.

Valentine's Day. Many of you are looking forward to flowers, candy, lingerie, and LOVE. It’s all so dreamy... or is it?

I hate to be blunt (oh, I don't really, but it sounds nice), but what if you don't HAVE a Valentine at the moment? I don't have to tell you that in life (and dancing), timing is everything.

It can all be pretty depressing if you don't have a "significant other" right now. It's not like you can escape the reminders either...

I was at the supermarket the other day. There were signs and banners all over the store with little cupids reminding me to remember my Valentine. Forgive my stupidity, but what token of my undying love am I supposed to purchase from the grocery store? Let me see... "Darling, I love you. I got you a rump roast."

So, maybe you are in between sweethearts. It can happen. What are you supposed to do? Go into a hole until Valentine's Day passes and all the cooing and kissing are over? I think not. And besides, there is too much good chocolate floating around right now to even think about disappearing.

Don't tell her that I told you, but my sister just dumped her boyfriend. I am actually not sure if she was the dumper or the dumpee, but it doesn't really matter. She’s in a funk.

As it happens, my Valentine is out of town on February 14th, so I am taking this opportunity to teach my sister that being Valentine-less is not fatal.

She suggested that I come over to her house and watch "Wheel of Fortune" and order a pizza. Well, as enchanting as it sounds to eat dinner from a cardboard box and be cooped up with an angry woman and Pat Sajak, I took a big pass.

We are going out to dinner, just sister and me. She loves the ocean, so I have made a reservation at a lovely seaside restaurant. We will dress up and look beautiful. I will make the effort to mention to her how small her butt looks in the outfit she is wearing. If I am struck by lightning as the words come out, it will be worth it to make her happy. We will laugh and dine and do wicked fashion critiques on every unsuspecting person that walks through the door. No one will be safe!

The best part is that since I am her date, she won't have to do her "eat like a bird" routine. Being able to order two desserts without guilt makes up for a lot.

When it is all over, we will have laughed until our faces hurt, eaten up all of our fat grams through the month of April, and spent an evening with someone we love. It doesn't get much better than that!

Rethink Valentine's Day if you don't have sweetheart to dote on you and buy you overpriced roses. Statistics show that there are more break-ups right before Valentine's Day than at any other time of the year. Men aren't crazy about this holiday because there is so much pressure put on them to do the right thing. I am sorry guys, but if you are reading this, all my lingerie is 40% off at the moment. If you want to do the right thing, do it at LoveFifi. I am taking my sister out to a swanky seafood restaurant and I need the money.

I am getting older and I look so forward to life getting simpler and less complicated. Things don’t seem to be going my way, however. Here’s what I am talking about.

Remember how it used to be when you asked someone for their telephone number? You’d look for a little scrap of paper to jot it down. Well, not anymore. Nobody under 75 has an address book anymore. Everything is done on your smartphone. I can't type or text like a teenager, but I have small hands and am pretty adept on the phone keyboard. It's still not that easy because everyone these days has a home phone, an office phone, a cell, a fax, and, at least, one email address. I could write a person's biography in nearly the same time it takes for me to enter all the numerals in their contact information. But I'm not complaining, it is important to keep up with technology so you can be a part of this world.

“I didn’t like it much when they lengthened my zip code with a hyphen and four more numbers, but I didn’t say anything.”

But... in my opinion, this whole numbers deal is way out of control. I get up in the morning and my digital scale reports to me in big, fat red numbers not only how much I weigh, but what I weighed the last time. If I let it, it would also let me know my percentage of body fat, but I am smart enough to jump off before it has a chance.

Then I go to my cell phone to see if anyone has called since the night before. I obediently put in my SECRET CODE which prevents any reprehensible scoundrels from breaking into my system and hearing the messages from my sister about how her cat has diarrhea from something he ate or how she really likes the new lip gloss she bought. You can't be too careful.

It’s time to leave for work and I am off to the gas station. I put my card in the pump slot and, naturally, it wants numbers. I dutifully put in my PIN number, but it quickly asks for my zip code. Geesh! What's next... my bra size and zodiac sign? Just recently, I went through all of that and a digital message came up and said "see cashier". I was in kind of a dicey neighborhood, so I tried to be understanding about the extra security measures. When I got there he asked me for my license plate number. I don't have a vanity plate that says something cute, so I had to go outside to look at the numbers and then repeat them in my head over and over until I got back to the cashier. Of course, there was a line by then, and some moron in front of me was buying a Hot Pockets and a coffee with only coins that he kept counting and recounting out loud. Finally it was my turn and I spit out my licence plate letters and digits like projectile vomit. I wasn't going back! The cashier then asked me if I knew my VIN number. "Well I don't know it by heart," I said sarcastically, "that's why I had it tattooed on my ass. Let me check!" Thankfully, he knew I had had enough and sent me back to the pump to gas up.

When I get to work, I put the code number needed to disarm the alarm system. I settle into my leopard-lined office, but before I start my day, I decide to call my credit card company and resolve a billing problem. The first thing that the electronic operator wants me to do is enter my account number. I do so. After that, she wants me to enter the last 4 digits of my Social Security number. I follow her instructions obediently. Now, when the real person finally comes on the line, what do you think she wants to know? You guessed it! My account number and my SS#! So my question is, WHO is the electronic operator selling this information to? Someone needs to look into this immediately.

It’s down to business, and I go to my computer. First, I need to LOGIN with another set of numbers and letters. See, this is what gets me. If it was just a matter of having a password, that is fine. I like security as well as the next guy. But everything I do has different criteria for the secret code, so I can’t always use the same one. Some need only five or six digits, but others require more... and letters, too. Often times these added letters are also case sensitive, and you have to remember if you put your dogs name in caps or lower case. It is all way too much work. And don’t even get me started about all the places you have to log in a password on the Internet. I gave up long ago trying to sort out my Amazon login from my Orbitz. Wherever I go on a site, I just look for the link that says "Forgot Your Password?" and hit it. Of course I have forgotten my password! Albert Einstein couldn’t remember all these stupid numbers. Anyhow, it doesn’t take long and it is much easier on my brain.

I have tried to adjust and keep up with this high tech world, I really have. I didn’t like it much when they lengthened my zip code with a hyphen and four more numbers, but I didn’t say anything.

Look, I can deal with the passwords and secret codes. I can handle the fact that the world, including myself, has four phone numbers. I am proud to say that I have memorized my driver's license, passport and Social Security numbers. I even know my American Express number and security code by heart so I can order things that I don't need when sleep eludes me in the middle of the night. But please, let it stop here.

If we don’t watch out, this numbers madness could de-personalize the human race to the point where some day we might all have numbers instead of names. I am serious, it could happen!

Instead of Fifi, I could be 88437. But don’t worry, we will always be close, so you can just call me 88.

Until the Next Time.

Miss Fifi is off on one of her fabulous adventures, so we, her loyal staff, have chosen an article we love from the archives for you to enjoy!

I have two perfect sisters. I am the oldest of the three of us, but neither of them ever mentions it out loud. My sisters have been known to get giggly and stupid if a business offers a senior citizens rate on food or services. They always let me know how close I am to qualifying. How thoughtful.

The funny thing is that both of my sisters think that I am so damn accomplished and exciting. Just because I have told them that I am “The Queen of the World”, I didn’t actually think that they believed me.

The truth of the matter is, even though I obviously have them convinced that I am brilliant beyond words and completely fabulous in all ways, it is really me who is humbled by them.

We call my middle sister Del. It’s a shortened version of her proper name, but I still like to tell everyone that it’s short for “delicious”. She is taller than me with natural platinum blonde hair and devastating baby blue eyes. When she enters a room, she is always noticed, and it’s more than just her looks. It’s the way she carries herself. She has this regal air about her. Just recently I gave her a dark brown outfit of mine that I never wore. When she put it on, she was an elegant vision in espresso colored gauze. Gorgeous! I never wore it because I looked like a big bran muffin in it. She can carry off what others can’t.

She didn’t always stand up straight and tall and walk into a room like she owned the place. Growing up in a world of button-nosed size 5 “Gidget” girls had an effect on her self esteem. One day she explained to me why she sought the shadows rather than the spotlight. No... it’s not because I pushed her out of the way.

I will never forget that moment when she explained to me, quite tearfully, that her height and athletic shape made her feel awkward and unbeautiful amongst all the little petite girls. It came as such a shock to me. “But sister!” I told her, "You are SO beautiful. You are my palomino.” “Palomino?” she asked quizzingly. I went on to tell her that she has always reminded me of one of those gorgeous palomino horses. The very essence of magnificence... the palest gold in color with a silky flaxen mane that blows in the wind as this thoroughbred creature gallops gracefully through life. Powerful, beautiful and strong.

Del liked that. Now every time she is having a bad hair day, a fat day, or a generally crappy day, she asks me to tell her that “palomino thing” again.

Jackie is our baby sister. Soon she will turn 48. Since no one does denial better than she does, she refers to this upcoming birthday as turning 30/18.

Everyone loves Jackie. She is pretty and sexy and funny. She can dance and sing and will do so with all she’s got as if no one is watching. She is a free spirit who would rather be sitting on the back of a Harley than having tea with the queen, but there is a gentle feminine innocence to her that captivates and charms. Have you ever been outside and all of a sudden, out of nowhere comes this beautiful creature with iridescent multi-colored wings fluttering by? Every eye is watching as it flits poetically from flower to leaf. It’s like that when Jackie is around. Jackie spent a good part of her life in the security and darkness of her own personal cocoon. Even when she evolved from a caterpillar, there were times when even the ones who loved her most had trouble believing that she would ever find the courage to change and take flight. But just like the process of a caterpillar turning into a butterfly is a miracle of nature, so is our baby sister. When she finally emerged and faced the world, she discovered that she was one of the most beautiful things in it.

These are words I have wanted to write for a very long time. Today seemed like the perfect opportunity to pay tribute to my beautiful sisters. They mean the world to me. And besides, we have no idea who will die first, so if it’s not me, I have a great head start on their eulogies.

I love you, Dellie and Jacks. I love you both ridiculous amounts and I am so proud to be your sister. Oh sorry... your older sister. I know how much you love to hear me say those words!

I have begun a food program. You know the one I mean. They have celebrity spokespeople who used to be chubby bunnies and are now svelte. This famous plan has weekly meetings where you weigh in and then sit in a group and talk about what you ate all week. You are not allowed to call it a “diet” under any circumstances. I don’t know who they think they are kidding, because if I have to write down what I ate and do math, it’s a DIET. The whole concept revolves around the theory that you can eat anything you want, you just have to use portion control. It's a nice theory, but I really think that they should give you a thimble as part of the equipment so you can measure out the eclairs and beef stroganoff properly.

Well, I just completed my first month for the 27th time. I have joined this program so often that I am surprised that my photo isn't in the lobby. But, I know it works and hopefully this time it will.

"Our lecturer lost a whole person—148 lbs."

The weigh-in process is pretty interesting. You have to get in line with people who are saving each other’s places while they run into the bathroom one last time. I don't know how much pee weighs, but unless you are Clydesdale, I honestly don't think it matters that much. Besides that, people started disrobing before my eyes. Shoes, socks, jackets, watches, cell phones, earrings... you name it. One guy even took a pack of gum out of his pocket before getting weighed. They have little cubicles where a staff member weighs you in. This person is an ex-fatty who is there to commend your losses and explain away any gains. They will not allow you to feel bad if your weight should go up. It’s water weight, or the time of day, or the phase of the moon or the wind that is responsible. Thank goodness I didn't blurt out about the bag of cheese doodles and the Snickers bar. I was congratulated about my 1.2 lb. loss as if I had just won an Olympic Gold Medal.

They try to keep the whole weigh-in experience very private. It almost works except for the fact that they have digital scales that display your weight in huge digital numbers the size of the ones in Times Square.

So I got weighed and went and sat down for the meeting. Our lecturer is fabulous. She lost a whole person, 148 lbs, so she knows what she is talking about. She is awesome.

It is really hard to get excited when the weight loss is less than extraordinary. The lady who signed me up had on a name tag that proudly proclaimed she had lost 12 lbs. I can lose more weight than that by just taking off my bracelets.

I really respect my lecturer, because I know how hard it is to stay focused on losing weight. I have been on many diets and the reason they don’t work for me is always the same... I get hungry.

The group then told stories of triumphs and challenges they had faced with fattening foods. One lady told this riveting account of a piece of 5 layer chocolate cake that she was offered and only ate a few bites. I joined the class in applauding her self-control while all the time fantasizing about what happened to the rest of that piece of cake.

We talked about goals. Some people wanted to wear a bikini again, some were getting smaller for an upcoming wedding or special event. Everyone had a dream of getting skinny and sexy. My dream? I would just be happy really weighing what it says on my driver’s license.

This really is a great program and gets easier every day. And I promise to faithfully keep at it until someone comes up with that Krispy Kreme Diet that I have been waiting for.

Until Next Time

I have such vacation fever, it’s crazy. I love to get away at this time of year because the kids are all back at school and some of the best places to go are reasonably quiet and inexpensive.

I sat down at the computer and started shopping for a place to get away from it all. I live in California, so sun is not a novelty to me. I wanted to go somewhere that I can just be me. No make up, no hair-dos, no muss and fuss. I just want to relax. I am planning on going alone, so I don't have to make anyone happy but me. Contrary to popular belief, I am not hard to please. I just need a comfortable bed and some peace and quiet. I don't ski or toboggan, but I do like the snow. Sitting by a nice fire and sipping cognac is sport enough for me. If I went somewhere tropical, that would be fine. As long as they have air conditioning and a pool where I can dangle my feet while drinking a mojito, I would be happy. I don't drink much in real life because I always have work to do or a place to go and alcohol doesn't fit into my life style. But I do enjoy cocktails when I don't have anything to do but take it easy.

Okay, so back to where I am going to go. I wanted something out of the ordinary. I don't have time to go to the Galapagos Islands or Katmandu. Going to Hawaii or Acapulco is too touristy. Where can I go that is unexplored, but not too primitive? What kind of vacation spot will I be able to talk about when I get back and have everyone fascinated? Here are some great REAL places I found. Wanna come along?

I bet we would have a great time in Happyland, CT. We could turn a frown upside-down in Smileyberg, KS. If we were especially hungry, we might visit Sandwich, MA. I love animals, so Hippo, KY, Chicken, AK, and Monkey’s Eyebrow, AZ could be fun. You know, if we just want something not too exciting, Okay, OK, Ordinary, KY, or Boring, OR would be perfect.

Alright, I am done being silly, but these are real places... no kidding. But when all was said and done, I have decided to spend a few days in Palm Springs, CA. It's close and the desert is lovely at this time of year. In Fifi speak, that means it's not hot. I hate to be hot. I am speaking of the temperature way, not the "oh baby, you look hot!" way.

You see, in the quiet of Palm Springs, I can take in the serenity of the desert landscapes, experience a sunrise, or perhaps even one of those magnificent desert sunsets that are so often captured in photographic art. I can explore my inner self, meditate and even begin a spiritual journey that may carry me the rest of my life.

On the second day there are shopping outlets, restaurants, and casinos. Woohoo! I am all set!

By the way, so many of you have asked what is going on with that new man in my life. He is still around and we still see each other, but we have decided to be friends. To be honest, he just wasn't husband material. Sadly, the only men I seem to meet that ARE husband material all have the same imperfection—they have wives. Well, I'm off to the springs!

I have spent years convincing you all that I am this amazing creature who has all the answers to everything. I have created the illusion that I can solve any problem and work through almost anything effortlessly. This is why I have become the advice lady at LoveFifi.com When I am given a problem to solve, I confront it, I discuss it, I analyze it and sort it out until I formulate the perfect solution. Then I deliver my answer, with confidence and wisdom, to my believers. I have to admit, I am pretty good at advice and my track record even impresses me.

It may seem that nothing confounds Miss Fifi. But after all, I have lived a full life and I have paid attention the whole time. I have survived marriage, babies, Corporate America, raising teenagers, middle-age spread, losing loved ones and more. I am still cool despite the fact that the government, the airlines, customer service call centers, traffic and even the ones I love annoy the snot out of me on a daily basis. I don’t fall apart or get myself in a big twirl. Whether it’s MY dilemma or someone else’s, I seem to be able to find my way to a sensible end.

How do I do it, you ask? How is it that no matter what the world throws at me, I can somehow figure it out? How can this Fifi person handle huge difficulties and giant messes without exploding? Is she super-human? Is she a saint or an angel? Is she on drugs? What?

Although I particularly like the saint/angel theory, my success in untangling problems and giving good advice stems from something far less heavenly. The truth of the matter is I handle life so well because I know how to curse and swear better than any longshoreman or pirate ever dreamed. That is my secret.

This infatuation with dirty words started years ago. I called my little brother “stupid” and my mother washed my mouth out with soap. I learned my lesson very well that day. No amount of nasty tasting castile soap or bubbles up my nose could take away from the adrenalin rush and pure joy I felt screaming “STUPID!” into my brother’s face. I pretended I learned my lesson to keep mommy happy and to not lose my dessert that night, but I knew I had found the key to life.

My skills in the area of profanity became finely tuned in high school when I attended a very prestigious college prep all-girls academy. We, the uniformed little ladies, were there to prepare for University and to be molded into elegant and well-mannered young women. Our headmistress and her “posse” watched us girls like hawks, so such things as smoking in the girls’ room or sneaking alcohol were impossible. But what came out of our mouths when no one was around... that was another story. It was there where I learned a vocabulary and technique that would carry me through a lifetime. I also learned to swear under my breath and silently to myself. It’s not quite as satisfying or dramatic as blurting curse words out loud, but sometimes there is no other choice. Part of the learning process to my system is to know when you can get away with doing it out loud and when you have to do it inaudibly.

Here’s how it all works. When a problem or question arises that takes you by surprise, if you use bad words in your head before you open your mouth, you can get a lot of the shock and frustration out. When you finally speak, the words come out as wise and you look like you have the world figured out. For example, if someone rushed into my office and said “Fifi, John just backed his truck into your new car!” Because I can swear in my brain, I run through “OH blank! NO blanking WAY! And SON OF A blank! before I ever utter a syllable. I would then look up thoughtfully and say “Oh goodness, is John alright,” followed by “well, that’s why they call it INSURANCE!”. I look like the smartest, kindest and most understanding human being and I ended up saying exactly what was really important.

Not everyone is good at swearing. Not all people can reap the benefit of cuss word therapy because they just won’t jump into the program with both feet. You know those people I am talking about. They say darn and SPIT!... and oh fudge. It just doesn’t work the same. If the “F” word allows you to instantly let off steam and simultaneously allow your brain to engage normally, then say it! Freakin’, flippin’ and effin’ don’t have the power. They sound like a silly law firm. “Good Morning, Freakin, Flippin, and Effin... how may I direct your call?”

I have a good friend who is British who doesn’t believe in swearing. No matter what happens to him he always reacts the same. If I were to say to him, “Anthony! Your hair is on fire!” He would reply “Oh, Golly Gosh... thanks for letting me know, luv” as he was beating out the flames with his bare hands. By the way, Anthony gets into fist fights on a regular basis, so something’s not working out. Scarlett O’Hara got by with a simple little “Fiddle dee dee” when she was mad or perplexed. You know how she ended up.

So, there you have it, my darling readers. Now you know my secret. It’s not that I am so brilliant or was born with magnificent powers or perfect wisdom. It’s actually pretty simple... I get it right so much of the time because I have lived through much and I know I can get out my frustrations with a repertoire of juicy words. It’s not blanking rocket science, you know.