Writing,Spanish, Rocks, Politics, Art

Fiorella is clearing the deck to finish writing Phillipa's story, but she'll admit she's a little gun shy. Every time she got going on it, life interrupted--the auto accident, Husband's hospitalizations, holidays, the taxes, you name it. Please send good energy this way.
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Fio is concerned that her tenuous Spanish is slipping because she doesn't have a telenovela to watch anymore. She looks at La Piloto every now and then, but can't figure out why Yolanda prefers the drug lord to the ruggedly handsome DEA agent, and she doesn't like it that people are always shooting at each other. Fio prefers more sophisticated murders, like pushing people off balcones or witholding their aspirators.
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Now that Fiorella's wall along the driveway is nearing completion, Fio is spending more time exploring the acreage. She finds good rocks along the way, of course, and stockpiles them in cairns for later pick up.
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Don't think Fio has faded from the poitical scene. She's still infuriated by the things that are going on in DC, but there are so many things that she's a little dazed. How can our so-called president get away with all these shenanigans? How can anybody? On the other hand, she's pleased that forces are zeroing in on the Russian angle. As she has been saying, Putin smiles.
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The church art thing is drawing nearer and Fiorella is trying to decide what to submit. It's a show-off opportunity really, and Fio doubts if anyone ever buys anything, but she's still thinking of a new a painting, maybe of bluebonnets along a split-cedar fence. Or she might just take a portrait she did of Husband when they were newlyweds. We'll see.
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