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Time Ain’t No Beauty Specialist

This piece was submitted by guest blogger Ginny Callaway. Send us your story or short article and we’ll contact you if it works as a guest blog. Click here to share.

105 year old Aunt Zipora Rice from Sodom, North Carolina once said, “Time might be a great healer, but it ain’t no beauty specialist.”

That woman knew what she was talking about. As I march closer to the next era after our Fabulous 60s, that simple statement is proving truer by the minute.

Do you remember how we decorated for the prom with crepe paper? At seventeen, crepe paper was the sign of a good time. All the rich colors to choose from. We could twirl it and drape it from the bleachers to the stage, tie it in a bow to decorate the front of the punch bowl table and wrap it around the basketball poles, a simple camouflage.  Crepe paper could change a gymnasium into a magical, memory-making ballroom. If it got stretched out and lost its shape, you’d just throw it away and grab a new roll. Presto, a fresh start.


Who knew crepe paper would eventually become part of our anatomy? Yeah, that ugly, crinkly-looking skin that has moved in and forced its taut, firm predecessor to vacate the premises. I’m talking about the triceps area, the inner thigh, the back of our hands and the most ubiquitous of all, the turkey neck.


Short of going under the knife, a fresh start is not a possibility. Even with firm, toned muscles hovering just below the surface, the crepe paper effect persists. Just wave at a friend and those “Hi, Helens”, those “you who’s,” that free-wheeling skin dangling from our triceps gives us away. So halter tops, cute sleeveless sun dresses and strapless evening gowns have found their way to the Goodwill. I now welcome turtlenecks, long sleeve tops and slightly longer shorts. So be it.

Time ain’t no beauty specialist when it comes to our faces, either.  When I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, I’m startled. Who is that looking back? That’s not me. I’m twenty-two, thirty-four, forty-eight. My skin is firm and smooth, no divots between my brows or red and brown blotches. My eyes are clear and open without folded layers of skin on my lids that make me look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s first cousin. My smile is defined by pearly white teeth and full red lips, not deep-set grooves shaped like parentheses on each side and a string of quote marks curved across my upper lip.

looking in a mirror.jpg

Who is that in the mirror?

Now I remember.

Each line was born.

I came by them honestly.

Those lines springing from the ends of my eyes are reminders of the hours of laughter shared with my sisters until tears covered our cheeks and our sides hurt.

From squinting in the sunlight as the catamaran skimmed across the incredible blues and greens of the Caribbean Sea.

The parallel trenches engraved across my forehead are reminders of the fear I felt the Halloween night a sheriff’s car pulled into our driveway at 2:30 in the morning. Was our son okay?

The fear I felt the night I heard an enormous explosion in the direction of the airport just as my husband’s plane was scheduled to land. Was David okay?

The grooves bordering my mouth like a set of large-text parentheses are reminders of the years my mouth forgot how to smile. When grief pulled down every inch of my face, of my being, like a boulder around my neck. My daughter was not okay.

Yes, time has a split personality. It can heal and it can leave its footprints. Aunt Zip had it partially right. Time can also create a unique beauty that only years of living to the fullest can polish. When a friend says, “you look terrific,” I don’t say something to diminish or qualify that statement. I say “thank you” and let myself feel beautiful.

Aunt Zip.jpg

105 year-old Aunt Zip

I sometimes wonder about the clothes I relinquished to Goodwill. Hopefully a young girl is enjoying them. Maybe someone getting ready for the prom.


Fear Riding Fear

This piece was submitted by guest blogger Ginny Callaway. Send us your story or short article and we’ll contact you if it works as a guest blog. Click here to share.


Fear is scary.

Facing fear is scarier, especially at 64.

I know. I recently looked fear in the long-nosed face of a 1200 pound four-legged creature with hard-as-nails hooves and the potential power of a small locomotive.

The really scary part is that I CHOSE to face this intimidator, more commonly known as a horse.

In the summer of 2013 we were invited to spend a week at a guest ranch in Wyoming, 100,000 acres of the Medicine Bow Mountains and green grasslands. The poplar-lined Platte River flowed through the bottomland. Carved-out draws and canyons strewn with rocks and fallen trees dotted the landscape. Remember that last part.


A Bar A Ranch offered a variety of activities such as fly fishing, photography and painting. Most sane people opt for one of those. I heard “horseback riding” and my sanity left me.

“That sounds like fun. Sign me up.” I couldn’t believe how easily those words spilled out of my mouth.

“All right then. See you at the stables 8:30 in the morning,” responded Lynn, the head wrangler.

Naiveté is a good thing. The next morning I donned my jeans and cowboy boots, cowboy shirt that made me look more like I was from Portland than Wyoming and a borrowed cowboy hat with a chin strap. I was at the stable at 8:30 sharp. Let’s get this show on the trail.

“Ginny, here’s your horse, Patch. Climb up in the saddle and Samantha will adjust your stirrups. She’ll be your trail guide, too.”

Patch was a pinto looking horse, at least that’s what I thought having no idea except from watching Bonanza and eating beans what a pinto horse might look like. Brown splotches with white splotches. Pinto worked for me.

Patch was about 15 hands high. That would make him 60’’ in people units. But once I was asaddle, from my eyes to the ground look more like 600”. It was a fer piece down. But off we went in a tail to nose line, 8 of us with Samantha in the lead and me somewhere in the middle. We moseyed along on a wide, flat dirt trail, plenty of grassland all round, a wide-open space.


Then Samantha took a right turn toward the mountains. The trail narrowed and started to rise. The trail narrowed some more and got steeper. I realized we were now in one of those previously mentioned draws. The smooth dirt trail became a landmine of rocks, broken off branches, even a few entire fallen trees. Although Patch was going at a snail’s pace, it was too fast. Plus, his hooves seemed to catch on every possible thing, causing us to stumble our way up the crevasse. I looked down at all the jagged rocks and spear-like branches that would pierce my skull leaving me drooling for life if I fell, if I survived the fall.


I now understood fear. My heart was pounding. My sweaty palms clutched the saddle horn in a death grip, the horn’s raison d’etre becoming entirely clear.

This “beginner’s ride” continued like this for what seemed like 20-30 miles before we turned around. Good god, really? There’s no other way back? Going downhill, my saddle horn was almost useless. I grabbed the back of the saddle with one hand and avoided looking down.

Eventually the wide, smooth trail greeted us like a long lost friend. We headed back to the ranch with me still in the saddle. David must be wondering where I am, I thought. I hoped they save me some lunch. You work up an appetite riding for hours. I could eat a horse (no offense, Patch.)

Lynn met us at the stable and helped me dismount.

“How was your first ride?” she asked all smiles, without a hint of irony.

Once my knees straightened out and some of the arthritic agony subsided, I gave a feeble “just fine” before hobbling off to the dining room. It was empty. The hostess came up and told me lunch wouldn’t start until noon. Noon? I finally looked at my watch. It was 10:15. The ride across the Great Divide was less than two hours? You gotta be kidding!


A week of similar trail rides did nothing to quell my fear, but I boarded Patch every morning. I wasn’t going to be defeated.

Once back in Asheville, I pondered that equine fear. I didn’t like it one bit. So I took the bull by the horns, or, in this case, the horse by the reins and signed up for horseback riding lessons.

For two years now, I climb back in the saddle Tuesdays and Thursdays and ride in a ring or head out on the trail with my excellent and patient and wise instructor. Remembering where I started two years ago, I’ve made good progress. I have more skill, confidence and horse awareness. But I’ve also learned that a horse can spook and become a wild creature at a moment’s notice. An out-of-place water bucket becomes a panther waiting to pounce. A flapping raincoat becomes a swooping pterodactyl with horse-grabbing talons.

Here’s the irony: a horse has more fear than I do! He fears everything. He is a total prey animal.

So, we’re quite a pair. Fear riding fear. But twice a week my lesson horse Randall and I team up to face our demons. Together we give each other the courage to deal with those lurking panthers head on.

Randall and Ginny

Has my initial fear disappeared? Hell no. Has it diminished? Some days yes, some days, not so much. Am I okay with that? Yes.

In a few weeks, we head back to Wyoming for another week of challenging trails. Every morning I’ll atop my trusty steed and head for the hills. We’ll stumble along rocky ravines, trot alongside the Platte, and even canter a bit along wide smooth parts of the trail, facing fear one ride at a time.



On This Father’s Day: Things I Wish I Knew About My Dad

It has been 27 years since I’ve had a dad to call on Father’s Day. He was 60 when he died of a massive heart attack. I was 38 years old and at my home in Pittsburgh when I received the call from a neighbor telling me about the ambulance. An hour later, there was a call from my brother.

I was a career woman, traveling around the country and caring intensely about things that from my current over-60 vantage point don’t seem very important. I was shocked at his death. I was a daddy’s girl from an early age and couldn’t believe he would no longer be around for me.


I hadn’t seen him for awhile. I moved away when I was 21 and began my life in St. Louis, then on to Detroit, then Pittsburgh. I visited twice a year, and called every couple of weeks. My dad would always answer, we’d have a happy, short conversation and then he’d say “Here’s your mom”.

He grew up in a large family of 7 … the oldest child … with a strict German father. He did well in school, but didn’t go to college. He worked hard. He loved his mom. He was a good son. He thought people should make their own way in the world and had no use for “slackers” or those who looked for handouts. He had a great voice, sang in the church choir and in a barbershop quartet, worked as a savings and loan manager, had a hearty laugh, drank Manhattans, loved bratwurst, enjoyed Cincinnati Reds baseball games, cut the grass with his push mower, went to church every Sunday, fell asleep on the couch watching football and enjoyed his two packs of Pall Malls every day.

And, he loved his middle daughter who shared his love of the English language, enjoyed going to the symphony, sang in the children’s choir, did well in school and wanted to go to college. We even ate Limburger cheese together!

He was also a mystery to me. He didn’t like to talk about himself. When I was young I didn’t care, of course, since life was all about me anyway.

Now, I wish I had known him better. I wish I had learned more about what his childhood was like. I wish I knew if he was happy with the life he chose. I wish I knew more about his friends, his relationships with his brothers and sisters and his father, his time in the service and his choice of my mom. I don’t know if he would have answered my questions, but I wish I had asked.

Francis Joseph (“Joe”) Pille on a trip to Hawaii, 1983

Francis Joseph (“Joe”) Pille on a trip to Hawaii, 1983

But, growing up, we didn’t ask things like that in our family. Dad was dad and that was it.

Once, when we were talking on the phone and he was having a coughing spell, I asked him in frustration   “Dad, why don’t you quit smoking? It’s going to kill you!” I will always remember that he laughed and said …”Honey, everyone has to die of something!” And, he did.

Every Father’s Day, I wish I could call him.

Interestingly, I married a man much like my dad. He doesn’t share a lot of information about himself with his two daughters.

I hope they get to know him better… before they can’t.man

Cathy Green

14 Reflections on 2014

1.) 2014 went faster than 2013 and it is clear this is an accelerating trend. Skip telling anyone under 60 this “fact” since they will not believe you and just think you are out of it and extremely annoying.


2.) We recognized every person in the People magazine issue on deaths of famous people during 2014 and extremely few of those in the ‘most famous’ or ‘best looking’ editions. Ouch.

3.) We always heard and believed that it was much safer to fly than to drive — we flew for business and fun all the time before and after 9/11. This year’s loss of three planes – one due to a terrorist act, one extremely mysterious and one due to weather makes us wonder if we haven’t been overly confident and should be considering another means of transportation soon.

4.) The mid term elections gave new meaning to the terms ridiculous, insulting, boring, meaningless and just plain silly. Don’t know if the Republicans should be thrilled or depressed — same for the Democrats — in any case millenials do not seem impressed by any party or candidate. We may be the last generation of voters who even care a little bit about left, right and center.

5.) A lot of FabulousOver60 women are excited about Hillary running — but whether we’re excited or not, none of us understand how she cares that much or has the energy and determination to spend it running the country.


6.) 60 is feeling younger every day as we near 65.

7.)We actually have had quite a few days in 2014 when we accomplished nothing particular. We hope to increase the number of those days without becoming certified underachievers, slackers and the curse worse than death: BORING.

8.) It is incredibly sad that we are still dealing with so much racial tension in our country. 2014 brought back the kind of strong feelings – on all sides of the issues – that we had in the 60’s. It was shocking to us. Did we think having a black president signaled an end to those problems? Not so.

9.) There were some real people whose names may not be ones everyone knows who made an incredible difference in people’s lives in 2014. Many were FabulousOver60 women: Janet Yellen, Chair of the Federal Reserve, 68; Dilma Rousseff, President of Brazil, 67; Irene Rosenfeld, CEO of Mondelez Int’l, 61; Helen Clark, Administrator for the United Nations Development Programme, 64; and Risa Lavizzo-Mourey, President and CEO Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, 60. For the total list see Forbes List of the 100 most powerful women.

10.) If it were possible to love people more deeply, cherish friendships more completely, forgive and forget more quickly, work with focus and let irritations go more easily — we did all of that in 2014 — and we hope to keep doing more and more of each of these in the future because nothing is more important to us.

11.) People we loved died, people we loved had people they loved die, some were shocking and “out of the blue” while others were “expected” — we wish for everyone more acceptance and peace about aging and dying. There are no other viable options but we continue to look for them.

12.) We have not lost our interest at all in looking good and dressing well, being fit, being strong and most of all mentally healthy and vibrant. Hence we are taking a long holiday vacation and won’t be up and running full strength for at least another week or two.


13.) Yes, we are forgetting things even though we still do Lumosity or Fit Brains and are keeping current with the world — but the truth is more things we used to think were really important enough to remember simply aren’t.

14.) We are so happy that things are better for women and for people with various “differences”. We have increased our charitable giving and involvement in 2014. We are looking forward to a rainbow world of people filled with peace and joy — and a great plastic surgeon or at least a terrific makeup artist with reasonable rates for the years ahead — not in that order.

Happy New Year! Happy 2015! Continue to be fabulous — we plan to be!

Patty and Cathy

I Hate Bras

This piece was submitted by guest blogger Ginny Callaway. Send us your story or short article and we’ll contact you if it works as a guest blog. Click here to share.

Let me get that out of the way first thing.

I hate bras.

The first thing I do every day when I get home is take my bra off.

When I was in fifth grade, I was tall and very thin. Although I had already become a woman, I had no signs of physical maturity. All the places that would eventually become hairy were still smooth and my chest looked the same as it did when I was six.

Classmates were blossoming and budding, adding a rounded shape to our tailored shirtwaist uniforms. My uniform hung straight down from my wide shoulders to my small waist. No protrusions whatsoever.

Helen was in the same shape. We decided we’d do something about it, even if we got busted.

One Saturday, Helen and I walked from her house to a small shop specializing in clothes for young girls. We casually wandered through the dresses, blouses, sweaters, not wanting to seem too obvious in our mission. Slowly, indifferently, we made our way to the area where the bras were. We looked at them for a minute or two before actually touching one. Our eyes fell on what was called a “training bra.” Perfect. That’s just what we needed. Something to bring the reluctant dark pink circles on our chest to life. A bra to train our breasts how to behave. Now we’re talking.

We did have one problem. We only had enough money for one bra and there were two of us. But we didn’t see that as a problem. Helen would wear it for one week and I would wear it for the next week. It might take a little longer to train our buds to blossom, but we had time. A deal was struck and a bra was bought.

And it worked! By the end of fifth grade, little bumps were forming.

Then the unspeakable happened. My mother wanted to take me shopping for bras. As she said, “To cover your little marbles.”  Oh God, spare me. What could be more embarrassing? Marbles, Mom? Of all the words to choose…geez.


Off we went to Robinson’s department store in Pasadena. After a tête-à-tête with the sales lady, a sampling of bras appeared in a dressing room. I tried them on. Guess which one fit? The training bra. My marbles needed more training. Fine by me, just get me out of there.

By fifteen, my tatas did grow and I was able to fill an A cup and the top of a tiny bikini.

By twenty, I was a long-haired, tie-dyed hippie. I abandoned wearing a bra. I didn’t burn them, just shoved them to the back of my top dresser drawer.

It wasn’t until I became pregnant that bras re-entered the picture. These were not training bras or petite A cup lingerie items with delicate pink flowers. These were honking garments complete with three rows of hooks in the back, inch-wide straps and drop down front doors. I don’t remember if those bras had cups sizes. Let’s just size I was now wearing size huge.

As I grew older, bras came and went in my life. As I aged, my body went from lithe to luscious, or more accurately, post-menopausal fat.

My boobs grew with me. These days, at 65, I go to the gym three times a week and horseback ride twice a week. I need a bra. But finding one with straps that don’t end up three inches off my shoulders in five minutes or squeeze my chest with military-grade wire is impossible.

So, Ladies, let me hear from you. Do you have THE bra that meets the above demands? I need your support.

– Ginny Callaway, Fabulous Over 60 Reader/Guest Blogger

What We Learned In 2013

  1. We still love writing ‘Fabulous’ and are more excited than ever to be sharing our own discoveries of life in our 60s. We think we’ve just begun to get in the groove of this project.
  2. Losing people we love hurts even more than we thought it would. But, rather than just causing sadness, it is helping us to live with purpose.
  3. Millennial’s are the next Boomers. We are OK with that. Their tastes will prevail — except when it comes to the décor of “senior living” homes.
  4. We can say with absolute certainty we no longer look “hot” — but we still seem to “simmer” for a couple of guys — let’s call them Bill and Ray.
  5. Time has sped up. We know that’s true because we have a hard time keeping up with everything – even though there is less to keep up with.
  6. Letting ourselves off the hook is OK, as long as we don’t stop remembering birthdays of dear friends, celebrating the holidays with some style, and embarking on our perennial new year’s diet.
  7. Work is still fun and a hoot. But in small doses. We wish Hillary well — but we are too exhausted to even think about running for neighborhood association chair much less President.
  8. We care more about important things and less about nonsense – but the definitions of what those are keep shifting.
  9. There is always more good in the world than bad. Unfortunately, the bad seems to trend on social media more often than we like. (Miley Cyrus is the number one trend. No comment.)
  10. A new year is wonderful — we can still pretend we are starting all over again despite evidence to the contrary!



Patty and Cathy

Our FANTASY notes from readers – “if wishes were horses, beggars would ride!”

Hi Cathy and Patty: Been busy in the middle east and also trying to figure out next steps in my career in 2013 after the President found a great replacement for me. I’m so excited that you started FabulousOver60.com! With the plans I am considering it is clear that the 60s bring new opportunities that weren’t available earlier. I may be reaching out for help in a few years (and you know why!) — with all the readers you’ll have it is a place I need to keep an eye on! Good luck with your new venture! Hillary

Hi Patty and Cathy: I am Clara Normal Person. 63 and pretty good looking all things considered — and that is a lot. I never saw myself as anything “fabulous” — too busy being a mom and taking care of other people’s lives. But in the last 10 years things have changed — my husband passed away and I realized I did want to start dating again. I lost my “secure” job at a University and am now doing some independent consulting and thinking of starting a new firm with an old colleague of mine. Guess I am a more fabulous than I knew — getting laughs and some motivation and support from your blog — keep ‘em coming. Clara

Hi Cathy and Patty: Being a successful actress in one’s 60s wasn’t really possible decades ago in Hollywood — old and out was the simple norm — especially for women. But I have been very blessed professionally to be working now when it is possible to be 60 and fabulous — and that has helped me keep moving forward in my career rather than yearning for what was. Going to send your blog to a few of my friends as well as keep reading it myself — thanks for sending it along. Meryl (Streep)

Hi Patty and Cathy: I am Mary Jane Lawrence. Cathy/Patty — don’t you remember me? We went to kindergarten together in Cincinnati/Mt.Vernon, New York. GREAT TO SEE YOUR NEW BLOG. Never was and never will be that fabulous — but love your blog anyway! Keep at it. I know a couple of women who for real are truly fabulous over 60s — sassy, funny and risk takers. Something I am not. Going to keep reading and share it — hope you are sending this to everyone you ever went to school with — obviously they are mostly now fabulous women in their sixties. MJL

We did say if wishes were horses didn’t we? But maybe some of you will take a hint. Or, if we are not enough for you to write about — write yourself a note saying how great YOU ARE. One thing Fabulous Over 60 women know is that when something isn’t available — we CREATE it! So create your own praise as we have — then read it — it is like champagne — always delightful!

Cathy and Patty’s Top 10 Fabulous Lessons from 2012

  1. Being fabulous, or just being smart women in our 60s, is a lot more fun than we expected — especially now that we have created Fabulous Over 60. It is also a lot more awkward at odd times when we’re still hoping people think that we’re in our late 40s or 50s
  2. We know that taking care of our health – both mental and physical – is the key to looking good and doing good — the priorities of our age. Knowing this doesn’t always help us to do the work and have the discipline. Sometimes meditation, time with a needed therapist, a long walk or yoga doesn’t beat having a drink and watching something stupid and vapid on a device. (Now that’s new!)
  3. We have been out of our 20s for so long that multiple generations have been born; we shouldn’t be surprised by our age, but we continually are
  4. The election proved that manners matter and most don’t have them — or even understand the point of having them. If there is a movement for a one-term 6-8 year presidency — we’re in
  5. We will never be a size 4 or 6 again even if we cut off a leg — it’s easier to get home from the store and cut out the size tag in our clothes — a wonderful and important habit to form by 50
  6. 60 is no more the new 40 than cheesecake is the new rice cake — acceptance and handling things with grace at this point is critical
  7. Nothing is the new black and nothing ever will be – if we are buried in anything but black we will come back to haunt our tormentors
  8. We intend to hold in our stomachs ‘til the end … why stop something we’ve been doing since we were teenagers
  9. We go out of our way to compliment younger women — we remember that we didn’t believe how great we were at their age either — the fact that they are usually utterly shocked proves our point
  10. We realize that sometimes when a young, attractive-looking woman looks at us she is thinking: “oh my God, I will be her someday!” Yep, we did that too

Oh we could go on — but won’t. We would love to hear your own 10 list for 2012. Or your one biggest learning for 2012.

Caution: We are all fabulous in our own way. Feel good regardless. Maybe there is room for another blog out there for YOUR approach to aging. It’s all good. Happy New Year everyone!   – Cathy and Patty

We are Helen Gurley Brown’s Legacy

Helen Gurley Brown passed away August 13, 2012.  If you don’t know who she is you need to brush up on your ‘fabulous history’.  She brought us a new story line—we could have great jobs, great sex and be beautiful and funny and bold.  Children? Not really covered, discussed or focused on.  But for a big number of us, that was OK too.  We could review psychology 101 to discuss why that “childless thing” appealed to so many boomers (not the greatest generation anyone??) but that is for another blog – a later, more serious conversation.

Of course I was only 12 when HGB wrote Sex and the Single Girl. I never read it but lived it—or so I thought between say 1971 and 1979 (oh for the certainty of youth!).  Just saw a recently made (2010/11) movie about a woman being upset over having 20 lovers and not being married.  It was set in a time when motherhood has resurfaced as the new MUST do—and being single seen less as a good thing than a “loser” thing.  But already the tide is turning back on THAT—why can’t we just realize it is awesome for some women to be mothers, and not quite right for others and leave it there?

Some of us never counted lovers/boyfriends/acquaintances we slept with.  It was all innocent fun and experimentation and yes, liberation—our mothers may have been telling us “why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” But we were thinking—“why get married to some idiot just because we had sex together?”
But by the time I was in my early 20s I remember telling the mother of one of my friends who I taught school with that if a guy wasn’t great in bed he was not for me.  Now, with age and more sensitivity to others, I sort of blush thinking of my outrageous behavior –then, I felt it was mainstream and acceptable to say such things.  It was, at least for those of us sprinkled by Ms. Brown’s fairy dust.

Liberation was the theme.  Being our own woman was what we wanted and we didn’t care who cared!  Our mothers were shocked and worried we wouldn’t marry doctors; some friends who were engaged to the college guy they met the first week on campus were embarrassed for us but perhaps secretly jealous (sure hope so). And our grandmothers? Well we never got to the point of even letting our Nana’s in on the whole revolution that “the pill” was creating for us.  We acted appropriately always.  We were NOT friends with them.

It seems quaint doesn’t it?  So much of the ability to do what we did was not just the shifting cultural norms but of course the LACK of help, and the fact that we had jobs that were “relatively” easy to get—as long as we typed or poured coffee well—though we were having none of that and DETERMINED to go farther.

Ah, “divaness” was born back then. And to those of us still fabulous divas today—we all thank God for Helen Gurley Brown. The good of her philosophy lives on (deep, serious value clashes we may have had with some of the assumptions have been resolved individually and do not lessen its magic) and lets us live our lives protected from many of life’s realities. Many of which we absolutely know, understand and adjust to daily because “divaness” is all about PERSONAL responsibility. Her philosophy paved the way of having a concrete, yet somewhat silly/goofy approach to keeping excited, upbeat and positive in the face of life’s relentless REALITY.

That’s the point that has sustained us.  When all else fails we DO go shopping.  We DO think about makeup, making a difference, having our own ideas, being sexy, dating, sex, our husbands, partners, future partners and being funny grandmas or glamorous elders.  Fabulous women know how tough it all is but keep going—hey, I have to say Helen Gurley Brown looked awesome in her 70s and was even pretty cool at 90 despite being married, juggling, and working like crazy forever. Good for her. Good for us.

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