Everything is going better today--sort of. Fio spent all morning on the couch, sending healing messages to her bruised face and trying not to do anything that would make matters worse. She had to go out in the afternoon, but made it a short, sweet trip. Oh, one good thing--she discovered that the supposed hematoma on her left arm, the one that got skinned, is actually a spider bite.
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During her forced imprisonment at home, Fiorella has put together a couple more boxes of DUMP TRUMP buttons to send off to friends far and near. Hope the buttons take off, but may need extra funding if they do. Didn't realize postal expenses had gone up so much.
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Fiorella's father was a man of action--he loved sports. In high school, he played baseball and football, and as an adult, he was into golfing and bowling, frequently with teams he'd established. In later life, he played tennis. Strangely, though, he never taught Fio or her brother how to play any of them.
Mother was academic rather than athletic, and she resented the time Dad spent out of the house on sports. It was the only thing Fio can remember they ever quarreled about.
Come to think be of it, Dad had no idea how to be an at-home father because he'd never had one--his own father had been killed in a coal-mine accident when he was fourteen months old. Mother's father, on the other hand, was home quite a bit--he kept losing jobs because he came from a long line of alcoholics. Fio's cousin traced the family tree and discovered all the males from way back had died of cirrosis of the liver.
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