Rain, rain, come this way . . . .

Today, Fiorella's brain is as empty as the local lakes and as dry as the parched earth. Yes, for once, she has nothing to say. Except to plead for rain. She's tired of spending her evenings toting plastic milk bottles of water outside to her thirsty plants, the ones she can't reach with the hose by pumping last night's bath water out of the tub. But looking at the ten-day forecast, the weather ahead is going to be even hotter, up to 106 degrees.

Now she understands why those ancient southwestern Indians abandoned their pueblos when the weather cycled hot one too many times.

Ghost of a Chance

Sad to say, it's two thumbs down on Jim Butcher's new Harry Dresden book, Ghost Story.

Fiorella has long been a fan of the series, which features the only practicing wizard listed in the yellow pages of the Chicago phone book, and she loved the short-lived TV show, with which she drew Husband into the cult. She loved Butcher's quick turn of phrase, Harry's very human paranormal world, his adventure and relationships. Sure, the basic plot got a little old, and sure, Harry pulled way too many rabbits out of the hat by tortuous reasoning at the last minute, but his adventures and relationships kept Fio faithful.

No more. Ghost Story is a labyrinth of back story. Even the villain is recycled. And the plot is a treatise in metaphysics.

Too bad. Fio's going to miss Harry Dresden just like she misses Harry Potter. But Potter at least went out with a bang. Ghost Story barely whimpers.

HAPPY BD, DAUGHTER

Fiorella slept soundly last night. She and Husband took Daughter and her boyfriend out to dinner in pre-celebration of Daughter's birthday today, and all was well. The food was good, the service excellent, and the company made Fio's heart joyful.

God bless Daughter and grant her success in all her endeavors.

Please, Pray for Justice to Prevail

Even tending her garden, Fiorella hears something of what's going on in the world, and she's quite pleased that FLDS "prophet" Warren Jeffs is coming to trial at last. In fact, she wishes he were eligible for the death penalty.

The Mormon fundamentalists were weird enough to begin with, but, through brain washing, Jeffs has pushed them over the edge to rampant welfare fraud, flagrant child abuse, and institutionalized slavery of women. The FLDS men, beaten regularly as children, and the women, trained to be Stepford wives from the cradle on, go along with him because they don't know what else to do. Jeffs has defined their comfort zone, and its boundaries are limited to the walls that surround their compounds.

She just hopes the Texas jury doesn't pull a Casey Anthony out of the hat.

Garden Update

With the state of the world being what it is, Fio heeds Voltaire's advice and tends her own garden with a vengeance. Yesterday was the allowed watering day for the odd-numbered side of the street so she and Husband spent their evening nourishing the planting beds. He wielded the hose in the west beds while she took care of the large, sun-baked north bed.

Ironically, the plants seem to be doing better currently than when they were being watered three times a week by the now-verboten in-ground system. Husband's mulching is part of the reason, Fio thinks, but it's also that the beds are now receiving daily life support, thanks to milk bottle storage and the bath water gizmo.

The world may still a mess, but Fiorella's garden is doing quite well, thank you.

State of the World

Fiorella is sad about the world--about the mass murder in Norway, the hanging of an eight-year-old in Afghanistan, birthday party violence in Texas. She's sad about the unbridled hate that makes people hurt and kill.

Please don't be like that. Love each other, forgive, reconcile, enjoy. Life is too short to hate.

Mother of Invention

Fio came home from a meeting yesterday to find that Husband had rigged up the bathwater-siphoning system he'd been mulling over for the past week. And it didn't cost a cent. He used an old hose, some rank-looking tubing, and an old pond motor. According to Husband, it's all weatherproof and stores in a neat little corner of the balcony. Not only that, but it works! Fio was able to water the whole front planting bed--generously!

Little did Fio guess how important her nightly wallow would become to the local eco-system.

Her Honor, Judge Fiorella

Judging for a romance-writing contest is harder than it sounds. Fio's prime directive is to help, which means she does her best to explain what the problems in the submission are--and maybe even make suggestions to rectify them.

It's a lot like marking papers in Fio's previous profession, and she even gives a grade. But the judging is anonymous, which means Fio is freer to critique as she sees fit and the critiquees can accept her words of wisdom or dump them, as they see fit.

And a good time was had by all.

Lactic Consideration

Whole milk and skim milk were all that existed when Fio was growing up, and skim milk was blue and tasted funny. Nowadays she can choose between whole milk, two percent, one percent, or skim, which doesn't taste funny anymore. Yeah, the dairies have figured out how to beat the diet-driven anti-milk campaign by serving up different mixes of their product.

On the other hand, maybe skim milk comes from skinny cows.

Ba-boom!

Freight Elevator

Fio put her hip out toting plastic milk bottles full of bath water down the stairs to water the plants because Fio, being Fio, carried too many at once--several times. But Husband, whose ever-fertile brain is almost a match for Fio's, saved the day. He got some rope, tied several bottles together, and gently lowered them down to the first floor. All Fio had to do was move them--one by one, this time--to the front door so they were all ready for the next morning's watering.

Now Fio is mulling over attaching the rope to a sturdy cardboard box so Husband doesn't have to use Boy Scout knots to keep the individual bottles stable. And if she could get hold of a wagon, she wouldn't have to hand carry them to the door either. In fact, how about a winch to lower the bottle box?

Possibilities are endless in Fio's universe.

Bill and Jen $pend Money

Fio is a fan of The Little Couple, the reality show about 3'2" Jen and 4' Bill. It's interesting to watch them dealing with their lives as dwarfs in a world geared toward people a lot taller than they are. Jan and Bill both come across as charming and articulate, and, besides, she has a great dress sense.

But sometimes Fiorella is overcome by the fatuousness of the couple's upper middle class lives. They seem to spend most of their time indulging each other, most recently during their third wedding anniversary. Come on now--aren't the $800K house (which Fio bets is up to a mil by now), the designer clothes, and the expensive vacations enough already?

Fio's Bitchy Side

True Grit-itude

You are so kind to always think of me,
To let me know the error of my ways,
To guide me, chide me, Procrustes bed-ize me,
To nip my heels whene'er my footstep strays--
Five minutes alone in an alley, you snit,
And I'll show you how much I appreciate it!

Spot On

Fio doesn't like waste, which translates into trying to find uses for those ubiquitous plastic milk bottles that take up so much room in the trash can. Lately, she's been using them to store urine, which she and Husband sprinkle around the planting beds to repel foraging by deer and other wildlife, but now she's also using them to store bath water for spot watering of the landscape.

Yes, with the drought in full swing, watering restrictions are more stringent than ever. But Fio paid too much for those plants to let them die so out she trots every morning and evening, milk bottles of water in hand.

The verbenas lift their heads to greet her, and the mountain laurels sigh in relief.

Rooted

On the way back to Minnesota, Older son and wife stopped in Fairfax, Oklahoma, from whence Husband's father hailed. They asked around about the Palace Trading Post which Great-grandfather had owned and were guided to the town historian, who not only showed them pictures from the times, but RAN OFF COPIES FOR THEM!

The experience reminds Fio of how amazed she was at the depth of documentation available when she visited the history center in Osceola Mills, her father's small Pennsylvania home town. It's nice to know one has roots.

Masculinization of Historical Heroines

Fio is judging historicals for a romance-writing contest again, and she's up to her gills in dainty little heroines from centuries past who not only drink, smoke, and swear, but shoot, fence, engage in fisticuffs, wear men's clothing, and ride astride. And yet the wussy hero is madly in love with his lady fair because she is unbelievably beautiful.

Fio would advise him to cut bait because it's only a matter of time before she whacks off that gorgeous red/blonde/ebony black hair, starts calling herself "Chaz," and gets herself a girlfriend.

Character Development

Fiorella has been following the metamorphosis of Brad with interest. You know--Brad, Louann's brother in the comic strip.

He's shaped up physically, started smiling a lot, lost that strange indentation in the back of his head, and developed a better profile. Just yesterday she notice his jaw's become more angular and masculine from the front. Yeah, our Brad is a chick magnet in the making.

Good thing too, with the lovely Toni as his girlfriend--but Fio has a feeling that his pretty new boss at Wienie World might try to stir up that pot.

Aftermath

After Fiorella got that email from NY on Wednesday, she raced around the house for about two hours, washing and cleaning anything she could find that needed it--which, in her house, was a lot. Lifting and toting and running up and down the stairs like a madwoman, she was unheeding of her right hip joint, which means her step was duck-footed rather than pigeon-toed. Which means the next morning she could barely walk because of the pain.

Never fear. A couple of hours of turning her toes in and she was on the road to recovery. If only her heartbreak could be cured that easily.

Fio in Despair

Fiorella is praying for strength and guidance right now because she feels weak and clueless. That NY editor turned her down, saying she liked Fio's voice, pacing, and characters, but the story didn't have a hook to make it stand out on the the publisher's list.

What the heck does that mean and what does Fio do now? Wasn't "she knew everything about sex but nothing about pleasure while he knew everything about pleasure but nothing about love" enough?

Albert and Fio

Supposedly Einstein said that he wrote down everything he didn't feel was important enough to memorize. Fiorella herself lives by her lists. Starting in junior high, she kept track of her school assignments through written lists, and now she keeps track of her daily life the same way.

Sometimes she even adds in Husband's commitments so he won't forget them, but lately she's noticed he's keeping his own lists.

Watch out--it's catching.

Fix-it Superman

Did Fio tell you that Older Son and his wife are visiting? That means that everything in the house that was broken is being fixed. Yes, Son is a mechanical/electronic genius, and he can't stand to see so much as a cabinet door hanging whacker-jawed.

He's also set up a new stereo receiver system for Husband, rewiring all the electronic components.

What else can you expect from someone who unlocked every carseat Fio tried to put him into when he was two years old?

INTO YOUR DREAMS

Ever wonder what your dreams mean? Then read psychologist Janece Hudson's new book, Into Your Dreams, which will be out on July 15.

Dr. Janece, an RWA friend of Fio's, has been collecting dreams for the past couple of years specifically for this book, and Fiorella has contributed. In fact, Fio told Janece that she was sure her dreams were much more interesting than anyone else's, and she wanted top billing. But, alas, Janece is keeping the dreamers anonymous.

The great thing is that Janece taught Fiorella how to interpret her own dreams--not as portents of things to come and not literally--but as reflections on what is going on in her life. And Janece can teach you how to do the same. Just check out Amazon or scurry on down to Barnes and Noble and pick up a copy Into Your Dreams. Fio recommends it.

Life as Usual

The bad news is that Casey Anthony gets out of jail in a week and another armadillo is rampaging Fio's yard.

The good news is that Older Son and his wife are visiting, Husband will go into the hospital on Tuesday for corrective heart surgery, and Fiorella will be sending her full ms of LEARNING PLEASURE through the ether to LaToya Smith tomorrow.

It's a balancing act.

A Bad Day for Good Hair

Fiorella's running a little behind, but she was glad to see the justice system works in a few cases, namely when Rod Blagojevich, who's as dirty as they come, got convicted. This despite his good hair.

Come to think of it, didn't Anthony Wiener have good hair too?

Watch your step, Rick Perry.

Misuse of Money

Fiorella is shocked by how much money people will pay for pop culture items--for instance, three mil for that dress blowing up above Marilyn Monroe's knees in the famous subway photo.

In the first place, an item such as this isn't of any lasting value, like, say, jewelry or art are. Who will remember Marilyn Monroe a hundred years from now?" In the second place, if people have that much money to toss into the ring, they should use it for the benefit of all, like setting up businesses that will aid the economy.

When Fio reads about people throwing money around on stupid collectibles, her IRS mantra becomes, "Soak the big spenders."

Dark Eyes

Fio has been watching My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding for two reasons: the first is that as a teenager she was enthralled by the seemingly romantic lifestyle (violins, campfires, colorful caravans, etc.) and the second is that she suspects her "Egyptian" great-great-great grandfather was really a gypsy.

After watching the British reality show, one thing Fio can tell you for sure--any remaining vestige of her Hollywood view of Gypsy life is GONE. In reality, Gypsies are rough, tough, and venal, and their culture is based on sexual stereotyping. The children are sexualized from birth, the males settling disputes with their fists and working physical labor while the women dress in sexy outfits even as toddlers and marry in their teens.

A messages flashes on during each show soliciting contact with American Gypsies and Travellers. Hmmm-guess what we have in store for us on American television next season?

Miscarriage

Casey Anthony found innocent? American justice is dead! Why not resurrect Ted Bundy and release him too?

Fio has had her own brush with the law and injustice also won out there--the case didn't even make it to court because the Texas judge deemed sexual and racial harassment unworthy of his concern. It seems that infanticide isn't a matter of concern to Florida juries.

Situations like this are why Fio has to believe in God. Somewhere,somewhere, she wants there to be ultimate justice.

Shopping in New York

Fio has left a trail of glasses, umbrellas, and pens everywhere she goes, but she did herself proud in New York. While her leopard-print folding umbrella managed to stay in her suitcase, she lost not only her sunglasses, but also the only lipstick she'd brought with her. That's a new one.

No prob. Just find a drugstore and plunk down her $8.50. But the nearest place that carried lipsticks, a shop called Sephora, was a block down and two blocks over. Credit card in hand, Fio braved the mean streets of NY and headed over there. She looked through the lipsticks until she found just the right bright red shade, then took it to the register in the rear of the store. The nice saleslady rang it up and handed her the ticket to sign. Fio glanced at the price and thought she'd been handed someone else's receipt--$26.50.

$26.50 for one lipstick? Fiorella queried the saleslady, and indeed, that was the price. Fio shut up and signed on the dotted line.

At least now she has a souvenir of the Big Apple that she can use every day.

Red, White, and Blue

Whew! What a relief! It looks like the GOP has a good potential candidate in Jon Huntsman, who's taking the high road. Fio supports Obama for four more years, but, from what she's seen of Huntsman, he's a good man. We'll see what happens come election time.

And elections are what the United States is all about. Sure, we won the right to have elections through a bloody rebellion, but it was what we did afterwards that was more important. Rebellions are easy and can happen at the drop of a hat. Libya revolted forty-some years ago and set up a multi-layered democracy, but political parties were banned, and presidents had no term limits. We all know what happened next: Gaddafi.

So hooray for the red, white, and blue, for the Constitution and Bill of Rights, for democracy, and for the two-party system. Happy Fourth!

Happy to Be Home

Happiness is coming home to the the varmint control techie having removed his traps because there have been no new armadillo incursions.

Happiness is coming home to Wendy Dog completely recovered from her surgery and leaping about like a young pup.

Happiness is coming home to see the house looking even better than when I left it.

Happiness is coming home to Husband, who said he missed me.

Learning Pleasure, cont.

She straightened her shoulders and thinned her lips. She’d ignored other men, other charming men with nice smiles, and she would do the same with this one. She refused to let herself think about him. In her world, he would simply cease to exist. The small ripple he had generated in her consciousness would soon dissipate, and her particular pond would be serene again.

Gathering up the four bills, she stuffed them in the pocket of her paint-smeared smock. The money would come in handy to pay on a few of Dad’s medical bills. Maybe they would even have enough left over to get the washer fixed. She was getting sick and tired of trekking off to the washateria every Saturday morning.

But no, they had more pressing needs than repairing the washing machine.

After looking at her watch, she began tidying the tables, returning the cardboard tubes and glue bottles to a big box in the art cupboard and moving the castles to the long drying rack in front of the windows. Aidan’s creation looked particularly impressive, she thought. He’d worked really hard on crenellating his towers evenly.

And despite herself, she also thought about Aidan’s father.

Good grief, she was just like any other stupid girl—caught by smooth talk and a handsome face!
*
Neil strode down the hall to the principal’s office to sign out.

Damn, what was wrong with that woman? People usually liked him, especially women, but this one--Ms. Ann McCoy, art teacher extraordinaire--she’d acted as if he was the devil incarnate. You’d think he’d threatened to throw her to the floor and have his wicked way with her.

But the psychologist had said Aidan needed her and Neil should take advantage of every opportunity for them to be together.

The school secretary, an over-the-hill blonde, smiled coyly at him as she handed him the logbook.

Guess that meant he still had it—except in Miss Prim’s eyes.

He’d wondered what she would be like, this teacher that Aidan thought hung the moon.

He’d pictured her as older, probably in her fifties, with rosy cheeks and a motherly manner, a comfortable woman who had children of her own, maybe grandchildren. Someone warm and welcoming--not this bristly little cactus who didn’t even seem to want to acknowledge that she was female.

Those heavy-framed glasses looked like something out of a Borscht Belt comedy routine. Groucho Marx reincarnated. Why not add a mustache and a cigar?

He picked up the ballpoint pen attached to the visitors’ book and checked himself out of the school. A flock of orange, yellow, and pink origami cranes hung from the ceiling behind the counter. Miss Ann, as Aidan referred to her, certainly kept her students busy.

How did she stay busy? Did Miss Ann have a real life? How old was she? Not as old as she tried to look, he would bet. It was odd for an artist, a person so involved with visual impressions, to deliberately disguise herself. Not just the glasses, but the way she pulled her mouse-brown hair back into an unflattering knot, and the fact that she didn’t wear even a smidgen of make-up. A little mascara would have gone a long way towards disguising those bulbous eyes. And that shapeless smock on top of wrinkled chinos—the woman didn’t have a curve to her body.

He grinned to himself. No wonder she wasn’t sporting a wedding ring, although Lord only knows why he noticed the lack of it. Probably just male reflex.

Yes, Ms. McCoy was more accurately Miss McCoy and would be till the day she died. A born old maid.

He just wished he knew what Aidan saw in her.

Pushing his way through the pneumatic front doors, he headed toward the parking lot
next to the playground.

On another level, he felt sorry for her. Aidan’s Miss Ann was too young to be so old. Not that he gave a damn. He’d learned taught his lesson twice over. The only way he was interested in women now was as casual playmates, and little Miss Prim certainly did not fall into that category.

But would it have killed her to smile? To smile at him?

Stopping at the playground gate, Neil looked around to locate his son. Sure enough, there he was, all alone, sitting on a concrete step near the school entrance and reading, his backpack on the ground beside him. Five or six boys about his age were running all around the large, grassy yard and tagging each other, then lurching across the playground like zombies, but Aidan didn’t even look up to see what they were yelling about.

Neil leaned across the fence and used his hands as a megaphone: “Aidan.”

The boy glowered at him as if he resented being drawn out of his fictional world, but when Neil gave him the thumbs up, he smiled and his whole face transformed. Neil’s eyebrows lifted. If Miss Prim meant that much to the kid, he’d damn well buy her for him.

Learning Pleasure, cont.

She straightened her shoulders and thinned her lips. She’d ignored other men, other charming men with nice smiles, and she would do the same with this one. She refused to let herself think about him. In her world, he would simply cease to exist. The small ripple he had generated in her consciousness would soon dissipate, and her particular pond would be serene again.

Gathering up the three bills, she stuffed them in the pocket of her paint-smeared smock. The money would come in handy to pay on a few of Dad’s medical bills. Maybe they would even have enough left over to get the washer fixed. She was getting sick and tired of trekking off to the washateria every Saturday morning.

But no, they had more pressing needs than repairing the washing machine.

After looking at her watch, she began tidying the tables, returning the cardboard tubes and glue bottles to a big box in the art cupboard and moving the castles to the long drying rack in front of the windows. Aidan’s creation looked particularly impressive, she thought. He’d worked really hard on crenelating his towers evenly.

And despite herself, she also thought about Aidan’s father.

Good grief, she was just like any other stupid girl—caught by smooth talk and a handsome face!
*
Neil strode down the hall to the principal’s office to sign out.

Damn, what was wrong with that woman? People usually liked him, especially women, but this one--Ms. Ann McCoy, art teacher extraordinaire--she’d acted as if he was the devil incarnate. You’d think he’d threatened to throw her to the floor and have his wicked way with her.

But the psychologist had said Aidan needed her and Neil should take advantage of every opportunity for them to be together.

The school secretary, an over-the-hill blonde, smiled coyly at him as she handed him the logbook.

Guess that meant he still had it—except in Miss Prim’s eyes.

He’d wondered what she would be like, this teacher that Aidan thought hung the moon.
He’d pictured her as older, probably in her fifties, with rosy cheeks and a motherly manner, a comfortable woman who had children of her own, maybe grandchildren. Someone warm and welcoming--not this bristly little cactus who didn’t even seem to want to acknowledge that she was female.

Those heavy-framed glasses looked like something out of a Borscht Belt comedy routine. Groucho Marx reincarnated. Why not add a mustache and a cigar?

He picked up the ballpoint pen attached to the visitors’ book and checked himself out of the school. A flock of orange, yellow, and pink origami cranes hung from the ceiling behind the counter. Miss Ann, as Aidan referred to her, certainly kept her students busy.

How did she stay busy? Did Miss Ann have a real life? How old was she? Not as old as she tried to look, he would bet. It was odd for an artist, a person so involved with visual impressions, to deliberately disguise herself. Not just the glasses, but the way she pulled her mouse-brown hair back into an unflattering knot, and the fact that she didn’t wear even a smidgen of make-up. A little mascara would have gone a long way towards disguising those bulbous eyes. And that shapeless smock on top of wrinkled chinos—the woman didn’t have a curve to her body.

He grinned to himself. No wonder she wasn’t sporting a wedding ring, although Lord only knows why he noticed the lack of it. Probably just male reflex.

Yes, Ms. McCoy was more accurately Miss McCoy and would be till the day she died. A born old maid.

He just wished he knew what Aidan saw in her.

Pushing his way through the pneumatic front doors, he headed toward the parking lot next to the playground.

On another level, he felt sorry for her. Aidan’s Miss Ann was too young to be so old. Not that he gave a damn. He’d learned taught his lesson twice over. The only way he was interested in women now was as casual playmates, and little Miss Prim certainly did not fall into that category.

But would it have killed her to smile? To smile at him?

Stopping at the playground gate, Neil looked around to locate his son. Sure enough, there he was, all alone, sitting on a concrete step near the school entrance and reading, his backpack on the ground beside him. Five or six boys about his age were running all around the large, grassy yard and tagging each other, then lurching across the playground like zombies, but Aidan didn’t even look up to see what they were yelling about.

Neil leaned across the fence and used his hands as a megaphone: “Aidan.”

The boy glowered at him as if he resented being drawn out of his fictional world, but when Neil gave him the thumbs up, he smiled and his whole face transformed. Neil’s eyebrows lifted. If Miss Prim meant that much to the kid, he’d damn well buy her for him.