Photos have replaced paintings, typing has replaced hand-writing, and machines have replaced people at the supermarket check-outs, post offices, and gas stations, none of which Fiorella likes. Yep, you've got a full-fledged Luddite on your hands--although that she will admit that some of the above comes in handy from time to time. But replacing her nice, friendly coumadin clinic nurse with a cold-blooded machanism that reports into machine central is going beyond the Pale.
Ah well, Fio can always get a moment or two of human conversation from telemarketers before they hang up on her.
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A place for everything and everything in its place, Mother would say, and Fiorella tries to adhere to her dictum, but she also wants to be able to find things quickly without wasting time, which means that putting things "in their place" is, for Fio, like trying to roll a tsunami back out to the sea.again. Everything returns.
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It's September now, and the hay wagons are wobbling down the highway in Fio's neck of the woods. The hay isn't packaged like those box-like bails of yore, but rolled into bundles, six by six or more. (Oops, unintentional rhyme, but once it started, your girl couldn't stop.)
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Fiorella has started scouting advertising circulars for pictures of guys she might use in a story that's been forming in her mind for a while. She's also ripping pages out of the Lands End catalogues addressed to Husband to catch up on men's clothing styles. Junk mail is a boon to romance writers.
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When you slap a mosquito that's poised on your hand and your own blood squishes back at you....
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