I love to laugh.  Really laugh, as in from the diaphragm.  It feels really good. Sometimes I will become hysterical over the silliest things, like a crack Sofia makes on The Golden Girls or the funny faces Jim and Pam make on re-runs of The Office.

When I saw Bill Cosby’s Las Vegas show about 25 years ago, I  was practically rolling on the floor. Bill takes himself too seriously now, but he sure was funny back in the day.

It’s sometimes embarrassing to be walking down the street alone, think of something amusing and feel a big laugh coming on.  Thank goodness, that doesn’t happen too often.

I never thought clowns were funny as a kid, and I wasn’t a big fan of Abbott and Costello, Lucille Ball or The Three Stooges, but I adored Jackie Gleason Groucho Marx, Carol Burnett, Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks. My dad and I would listen to Brooks’ 2000 Year Old Man routines over and over and laugh every single time.

Yesterday my FOF friend, Leigh, emailed me a link to a You Tube video with this message: “Hi Geri, Just in case you haven’t seen this woman, laughed so hard ‘my water broke and I’m not even pregnant!’ What an FOF.”

Leigh was right. FOF Jeanne Robertson gave me six plus minutes of pure pleasure. I don’t know where this woman has been my whole life, but now that I’ve met her, I never want to let her go. Watch for yourself. I hope she makes your day.

How many times have we heard a survivor of a serious accident or disease say, “I have a new outlook on life.”

My 83-year-old aunt, who is debilitated from Stage IV colorectal cancer, said something else we also hear often from sick people: “I should have appreciated what I had more.”

We hear what these people say but we don’t really listen. We go back to our lives filled with routines and responsibilities and we lose sight of what’s important.

We take entirely too much for granted, things like a loving family, good friends, a roof over our head, food in our mouth, the air we take into our lungs. You get the point.

Life is filled with mishaps, missteps, miscommunications and miseries big and little. But if I’ve learned one thing on my way to being FOF, it’s not to let the bad times get you down. After all, everything’s relative.

I met my friend, Donna D,  for lunch at Saks today and started chuckling at the window displays. They weren’t designed to be funny, but they were amusing because each was promoting a different beauty brand promising to lift, lighten, regenerate, revive, restore and replenish. The beauty industry can come up with more promises than a used car salesman and more tricks than a magician.

Cosmetics manufacturers sell products for oodles more than what they cost to produce, so they can afford to spend oodles to package and advertise them. But snazzy packaging, clever copywriting and fancy windows on Fifth Avenue don’t a good moisturizer or eye cream make.

What’s a FOF woman to do? Which anti-aging formula should i choose among the 7,200 varieties on the market? Will that eye cream really take away the dark circles that I’ve had under my eyes forever? Which miracle mascara is the most miraculous?

I guess there’s no right answer. The beauty industry sells dreams. It hopes we don’t wake up.

P.S. Sephora just sent me, and millions of other dreamers, an email that touts “7 genius innovations.” That’s in addition to the thousands of other genius innovations already created. One promises to ward off underarm odor and sweat while minimizing hair growth. That’s definitely one for the books!

Addiction=compulsion, dependence, obsession, craving, infatuation. No matter how you say it, Martha Stewart wouldn’t call it “a good thing” and neither would I.

We know about all the garden-variety addictions: Work, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, shopping and food. But do you know it’s entirely possible to be addicted to a person?  Many of us turn to girlfriends, boyfriends or bosses who fill needs, much like drinking or smoking do. People can be as toxic to us as slugging down three martinis a night or inhaling one cigarette after another for years on end.

My neediness drew me to toxic people for decades. My friend, L, was beautiful, married to a rich man and connected to people in high places.  I couldn’t get enough of her. I wasn’t beautiful, my husband wasn’t a breadwinner and I was connection-less. But L was noxious to me since she thought only of herself 24/7.  She’d be two hours late to meetings we made, ask me to do her work and to run around doing chores for her.

I was addicted to Edgar.  He bought me clothes and jewelry. He was a sex machine. And he was a hugely successful businessman.  He gave me things I desperately needed, but he gave me something else: Misery.  He was a master liar, cheater and an alcoholic. Even if he hasn’t died of a stroke ten years ago (he was a stroke waiting to happen), I was weaning myself away from him. I would have been better off on painkillers than with him. As a matter of fact, I should have popped painkillers when I was with him.

People can give us intense highs and pitiful lows, having the same affect on us as cocaine and Camel cigs. Figuring out what it takes to stay away from the bad ones should be a requirement for all of us.

FOF friend D and  I were discussing a mutual male acquaintance who has a vile reputation with strong, smart women. They threaten him.

This man has a big job with a big company, but he isn’t especially talented and he prefers to surround himself at work with really vulnerable women. They’re so grateful he’s given them a job, they practically quake in his presence.

This man often makes sexual comments to women and acts like Mr. Macho, although he’s anything but macho.  “He stood in my way when we worked together,” said D, a uber succcessful woman. “He’s disgusting.”

God knows why, but I used to defend him until he showed his true colors to me, too. Fortunately, men like this are dwindling away and we are seeing more women in positions of authority and influence.

Strong FOF women have paved the way for our daughters and showed our sons we can be the boss.

I love men (well, many of them)  but I think women are the smartest creatures on the planet who can run any show, any time.  And the sooner all men realize this, the better off we’ll all be.

Story #1

Debbie, a high school classmate, had a prominent nose.  She was a slight girl, which made her nose even more pronounced.  She was very smart, as I remember, but I think she was extremely self-conscious. She’d walk around with her loose-leaf books and notes held up close to her face, as if she wanted to hide her nose. She was quiet. People made fun of her. We weren’t close friends, but I liked her.

When we returned from Christmas vacation during our sophomore year, Debbie was a new person, literally and figuratively. She had a nose job and she looked beautiful, really beautiful.  She no longer held her books up high. She also became a snob.  I guess you could say she “held her nose in the air.”  She probably resented all the kids who had derided her. I liked her better with her old nose.

I think Debbie went to one of the Seven Sister schools.  I lost track of her after we graduated.

Story #2

My mother, May, had a prominent nose. She was fond of telling us that when she was about twenty, her mother (grandma Rose) gave her a choice: Have a nose job or a get a fur coat. Mom didn’t hesitate. She chose the fur coat.

Mamma May was not the least bit self-conscious about her looks. She was outgoing and secure. Even when she was 86, she would brag about getting kisses from the security guards at the Y, where she attended a Sixty Plus program. I don’t believe a nose job would have changed her one iota. She met a handsome man, my dad, who loved every bit of her and she led a happy, content life.

Moral of the Stories

I am not against nose jobs, or any other types of cosmetic work. To each her own, I say.  My big question is, does changing our looks on the outside change how we feel about ourselves on the inside?  I don’t think so. When I was 41, I lost 50 pounds and couldn’t stop buying new size 8 clothes. I pranced around like a peacock, but guess what, thinner Geri didn’t mean happier Geri. I’m heavier now, but worlds happier.  I wouldn’t mind losing 20 pounds, but I’ll take being “lighter” on the inside any day.

If Debbie wound up half as happy as May, she’s a lucky girl, with or without a beautiful, small nose.

David and I went to my sister Shelley’s in Staten Island today for a July 5th barbecue to celebrate my nephew Adam’s 33 birthday.  Adam’s girlfriend, Nicole, was there, too. She just graduated from college and will begin working tomorrow for The Trump Organization as assistant manager of the Trump Store in Trump Towers (that’s a lot of Trumps!)

Two weeks ago, right after Nicole moved in with Adam, he told her to put on a suit, go to Manhattan and distribute her resumes to all the upscale shops on Madison Avenue. Nicole did as instructed, and within days, she had multiple interviews lined up, followed by multiple job offers.

It is exciting to see a beautiful young woman embarking on a career. I remember my job hunt a gazillion years ago and my first job offer as an editorial assistant at Where Magazine (which still exists, by the way). “Your salary will be $100 a week,” Miss Allen told me. “Can I get $105? I am getting married in a few months,” I asked.  Miss Allen readily agreed to my request. I walked out of the building on cloud nine. I got a job! I ran across the street to a restaurant called Schrafft’s and called my father to tell him the good news.

I am now thinking about the course of my working life; the bosses I loved and despised, the things that came easy and those that didn’t come at all; the employees who exasperated me and the ones who wished I’d disappear. I wouldn’t want to go back to the beginning at all, and even if I could, I would do it all the same way, including the mistakes. I ‘m not done yet and I can’t wait to see what the next years will bring.

I wish Nicole, and every other young woman, great success in their careers. Women have made great strides since the day I called my dad with news of my job offer. I have no doubt that they will continue to forge ahead, as only women can do.

The first time I noticed Olivia Garay’s makeshift “shop” on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, I did a double take. Crammed into a few glass display cases, right out on the sidewalk, were gorgeous vintage bracelets, belts, necklaces, brooches and rings from Hermes, Chanel, Gucci, Tiffany, Cartier, Judith Jack and more. Joining other shoppers to peer into the cases like a little kid peeking at a candy store display, I tried on at least half a dozen pieces and bought a Bakelite bracelet from the fifties.

FOF Olivia told me she hit the streets almost 20 years ago, when the rent on her store was becoming unreasonable. “I was having a harder and harder time making a decent living, so I closed the shop, got a vendor permit and I was in business.

Besides her reasonable prices (thanks to low overhead), Olivia lets customers exchange their purchases any time. “Just keep it in good shape,” she told me when I bought a Gucci silver ring designed by Tom Ford. I’m not a label lover, but I loved the two Gs facing each other, since my maiden name was Geri Goldberg. You can also bring Olivia vintage pieces you didn’t buy from her, as a shopper next to me was doing. “If I don’t wear something for five years, I retire it,” the woman said.

The Gucci ring costs $250 (“new Gucci silver rings are $400” Olivia said), but it’s entirely possible to plop down thousands at her vintage paradise. She’s stationed at the NW corner of 70th Street and Third Avenue during the afternoons, whenever the weather is nice, expect when she’s at antique shows. If you’re coming to visit New York, make sure to include her “shop” on your must-see list.

FOFs have such entrepreneurial spirits, drive and creativity.  Not to mention great taste in jewelry.

*P.S. Olivia told me that if you mention Fab Over Fifty to her, she’ll give you 15 percent off your purchase. You can call her at 917-584-7171 to check if she’ll be in town when you are.

We should name Joan Rivers the official spokeswoman for FOF. Now, before you start to make faces and tell me I’m nuts, go to see  the documentary about her, “A Piece of Work.”  If you don’t walk out wanting to be Joan’s new best friend, I’d be dumbfounded. Simone, my 28-year-old daughter, texted me after we saw the movie, “I’m obsessed with Joan Rivers. I wish she was my grandma.”

I blogged about Joan a few weeks ago, after I read an article about her in New York Magazine, but I’m loving her even more now. At 75, she’s got the stamina, the energy and the drive of women half her age. She’ll tell her manager to book her in Minneapolis in the dead of winter if that’s what it takes to work. She’s a loyal friend, profoundly dedicated mother and a great boss.

One of the most revealing scenes in the movie takes place while she’s performing in mid America. When she tells a joke about Helen Keller, a man in the audience starts berating her. “I have a deaf son,” he shouts. Instead of being contrite, she shouts back at him, “This is what comedy is about, you —. It’s about making fun of everyone and everything…” She doesn’t let up. Her diatribe lasts at least three minutes. She’s determined to give her side.

Following the show, a reporter asks for her reaction to the man’s heckling, and she says, “I understand he’s hurt. He has a deaf child. Maybe this was a catharsis for him.”

You could tell that Joan Rivers felt bad for the man, just as she felt bad for a longtime manager she was forced to fire because he no longer pulled his weight. “He was the last person in my life who I could reminisce with about the old days,” she said, tears in her eyes.

I’ll reminisce with you, Joan. And I’ll never make fun of your excessive plastic surgery again. Your face has nothing to do with your heart, brains and soul. I think you’re beautiful.