Layers

Fiorella paints in layers. She'd like to get it perfect the first time, but she doesn't. So she tweaks and corrects and overpaints again and again.

That's the way she taught too, constantly repeating the same information to her students in different ways, then having them repeatedly answer it back.

And she writes like that, enhancing, minimizing, and adjusting over and over. It's like building an onion, layer by layer.

Come to think of it, that's how she deals with everything in her life.

Pardon Me

Fio is queen of the faux pas. Yes, she's taken enough false steps to supply a sit-com with material for years. She started at about age eight, greeting her fecund aunt, whom she hadn't seen in a year, by asking if she was pregnant again. This was back in the day when one never talked about such things.

Progressing onward, when she was about ten, Fio stared at her mother's face assessingly for a while, then announced to Mom that she must have been pretty when she was young. Fiorella's mother, not yet forty, graciously said thank you.

There have been more blunders along the way, but the one that stands out in recent years was when Fio met historical romance author Victoria Alexander and enthused about how thrilled she had been to see her walking across the stage at the national conference because then Fio realized heavy women also could be romance writers. Ms. Alexander avoided Fio for the rest of the evening.

Sometimes it's safer that way.

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Blue

Fiorella finally figured out how to adjust the controls so readers can comment if they wish to. But please be nice. Fio's always a little blue at the beginning of the new year. It's something about lost opportunities and dreams that never will come true. And fear of the ever-shortening future.

Afloat

Recently Fiorella confessed to friends Carol and Ashley that it took her three years of YWCA swim classes, at ages six, seven, and eight, to learn how to float on her face. She just couldn't trust the water.

She did get the hang of floating on her back right off, though, but she always had to keep sculling because otherwise her legs would sink lower and lower until she was virtually upright in the water. Apparently even back then her feet were heavier than her head--which gives one pause.

Happy BD to Me

On today, July 15, her birthday, Fio chooses to revisit one of her first memories, when she was about three, maybe even younger,

She fell down the stairs, but in that split second of falling, she realized that the fall itself, the momentary weightlessness, was really rather exciting and enjoyable, but the landing would hurt.

And that insight has stayed with her.

Helloooo, Cosmos

Fiorella is embarrassed. Older Son called her from Minnesota to inform her she had written "Michael JORDAN" instead of "Michael JACKSON" when she commented on the pop star's death. Son enjoyed the situation, but Fio did not. She had proofed the entry twice--was her father's senility catching up with her?

More to point, why hadn't anyone else noticed her error? IS ANYONE AT ALL OUT THERE READING FIO?

Sun Glare

Fiorella and Husband spent forty minutes outside in the midmorning sun working on the yard, and Fio is done in. Yes, sweaty, red-faced, and exhausted.

Husband wielded the mower down the center and sides of the north driveway while Fio gathered brush, trimmed it to fit, and stuck it in the trash can. Then, when husband had finished his task and Fio had the can stuffed full, they headed back toward the house, which seemed to Fio to have moved a hundred miles to the south in the meantime.

But Fio trucked on. After all, she wasn't really trudging in a can of brush to the garage, but pulling a load of pineapples to market to trade for food for her starving children awaiting her in their mountainside hut.

Maybe everyone fantasizes his/her life like this. Or maybe it was the sun. Or maybe it was just Fio.

365, Going on a Million

Today marks Fiorella's 365th entry--yes, one per day for a whole year.

She started this blog for three reasons. First, she was tired of writing clever things down on little scraps of paper that she immediately lost. Second, she wanted to get these unique ideas and observations out to the world while they were still relevant. Third, she hoped against hope that someone out there would be so impressed by her wit and wisdom that he/she would decide to publish her and Fiorella would live forever--in print, at least.

Ah well, there's always next year, which starts tomorrow.

Fio's Personal Fri 13

Lock me up in a padded room for the rest of the day!

So far, I've had a hard time with the crossword puzzle (which I usually breeze through), missed two of the anagrams (which I often get at a glance), accidentally ripped a road map, discovered I didn't loosen the violin bow last night, screwed up my piano practice, and somehow bonked myself on the head with my laptop.

Save me from myself!

Feral Fiorella

Fiorella was the wild child of the family, as her father once informed her. And she still is. Here's the proof:

She wears red Crocs in public, drives a little two-seater, eats her steak so rare it moos, dangles gypsy hoops from her earlobes, and even moves to the Musak in the supermarket, singing along in harmony if she can find it.

Obviously, Fio is a public menace.

Fiorella's Complete Profile

I am young, slender, and beautiful.

My eyes are sky blue, gray when life is cloudy, purple in passion. My golden hair ripples down past my waist--on good days, down to my ankles--and on really tremendous days, it's long enough to fling out the tower window for my lover to climb up.

I was not born, but sprang full-grown from my father's brow. On my left cheek, I have a small birthmark, my only connection to the imperfections of this mortal coil.

I am built much like a Barbie doll. My breasts are ripe melons that totally defy the laws of gravity. My waist is so tiny that you wonder how I breathe. And my shapely legs are not only incredibly long, but come equipped with naturally-pointed toes. No brains, of course, but that's not part of the package.

I am as graceful as a gliding swan, have a voice like angels singing, and walk in beauty like the night.

STOP! IGNORE THAT OLD, FAT, UGLY WOMAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN! I AM FIORELLA, THE YOUNG, SLENDER, AND BEAUTIFUL!