From Vocabulary to Poetry

This week, for the first time, Fio referred to Husband as "my late husband." It seemed as weird to say as "widow" did five months ago.
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Sonja Dog has a Cargo Cult mentality. She keeps trying to force Husband to reappear by trotting upstairs, making herself comfortable on the bed, and barking for him to come join her.
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Nothing like anger to gear up your Fiorella. She's still seething about the neighborhood get-together, and she spent a frustrating hour on the phone this morning with Capital One, which had notified her about a needed correction regarding her credit card, but kept giving her incorrect information until she finally gave up and figured out another way to alleviate the situation. Luckily, her next phone call was to Husband's stock brokerage, which cooperated beautifully. Of course, Fio is still hot under the collar over the attack on Lutheranism, and then there's the disgraceful video slander of Nancy Pelosi--may Trump roast in hell!
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Fio would never be able to find the turn to her Austin bank if it weren't down the street from the Dairy Queen.
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The curse of having a mother who loved poetry:  Fiorella cannot hear anyone asking "Who is xxxx?" without inwardly answering, "That all her swains commend her."

SORRY TO RUN LATE TODAY!