Post Surgery

Fio is having a blast
Her eyes are in full bloom
She knows it will not last
But she looks like a racoon

Read Straight Down, Left

Waddell
Hicks
Andrew McCabe
Tillerson

HuckAbee Sanders

McMaster
StEve Bannon
Scaramucci
Spicer

F&P DNA INC

Fio and friend Paula are thinking of taking advantage of the recent boom in fake news by setting up their own DNA research business.  For a measly few hundred dollars a shot, they could assure their clients that their ancestral lines include kings, queens, statesmen, scholars, artists, musicians, and all good things. For a mere few hundred bucks more, those of their clients who pine for more colorful heritages could be identified as, for example, one-fourth scalawag, half hustler, and possibly a minute percent hangman.

Anything for a profit, as our so-called president would say.

Ode to Napkins

I love the Starbucks napkins,
Pale brown and soft, yet strong
Enough to wipe up a latte spill
Or sketch a landscape on

I always grab some extras
When I leave the store
To blot my lipstick, swipe my nose
Once I am out the door

I like them for their texture
And durability
But most of all I like them 'cause
They're free, they're free, they're free!

Fiorella's Rock Tree

Some people have an apple tree, some have a peach tree, and some have a cherry tree. Fiorella has a rock tree. That's right--it grows rocks (rocas).  The tree, maybe sixty inches around, is located on the other side of Fio's dry creek, and the ground under its canopy is solid with rocks, a few of them too heavy for Fio to lift, but most of them a good size for carting up the slope to line the driveway (estacionamiento).

Why does Fiorella think the tree gave birth to the rocks, you ask? Because they pave the area under the tree in a circle, which obviously means that when the baby stones ripened and got too heavy for the tree limbs to support, they dropped off onto the ground below.

The apple never falls far from the tree.

Howard and Heyer

Fiorella has been concentrating so much on her writing lately that she hasn't done much reading, which she decided was as a mistake, so she revisited at couple of her old favorites--Linda Howard and Georgette Heyer.  Linda Howard wrote contemporary and Georgette Heyer wrote historical--in fact, she was the mother of the historical romance genre. But Fio digresses.  What she wants to tell you is that, now that she reads more analytically, she realized how much her own writing style has been influenced by Howard's use of inner dialogue and Heyer's subtle humor.

For a a good read, pick up a copy of these ladies' romances.  They've stood the test of time.

Review of Lucifer

Castle, etcetera, are cops and robbers shows with a love interest thrown in as a secondary plot. Lucifer is a romance built on a cops-and-robbers premise.

The show is sexy, edgy, and funny.  Forget the cops and robbers plots--and they've been forgettable so far--and concentrate on the relationship between the two leads, Lucifer and Chloe, a tough Hollywood cop. Lucifer is fascinated by her because she has no ulterior motive and she seem impervious to his charms, while Chloe would like him out of her life, but has discovered that he has his uses--like saving her life.

But what Fio likes best about the show is the humor.  She laughs, snickers, and giggles all the way through.

Sociopathology Revisited

Sociopaths are charming, clever, and have a wicked sense of humor.  They woo you with compliments, profess their loyalty, and say you are their best friend--until, of course, someone better comes along.

They murder the soul.

But forgive them.  They can't help it.  They were born that way--without a conscience.

One of Fio's Short Shorts

 Only the names were changed, to protect the author.

What Everyone Knows 

I turn right at Joe Bob’s pool hall, left at God’s Lighthouse, and right again at Della’s Quality Wigs, then proceed down the road through the low water crossing and turn right at the dead end.  This puts me in the faculty parking lot of Little Whitetail High School, where I’ll be teaching a dual credit college class this fall. The weather is nasty, but I’m in luck: there’s an empty space in the first row, near the back door to the school.

I ease into the space, half open my door, and turn to gather my necesaries from the seat beside me—purse, umbrella, satchel of books and hand-outs.

What sounds like the voice of God booms from above my half-open door.
 "MA'AM." 
I jerk around, only to have my vision blocked by a large male torso.  The head and shoulders are above my view.

            The voice continues in slow, measured syllables. “Ma’am, you’ve parked in my secretary’s place.  These two spaces are for the principal and the secretary,”

My head bobs like it is on a spring as I look around to check if there is something I missed.  “There isn’t any sign.”

“Everyone knows.”

I glance out of my back window to see where else I might park, but I must not be moving fast enough because the sepulcheral voice addresses me again. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what spots are open.”  What other local dignitaries would I inadvertently offend?  Who else has invisible dubs on choice parking spots?

“They’re all open, ma’am.”

If they're ALL open, why can’t I stay where I am? runs through my mind, but instead I just say “Oh,” close my door, and back out of the parking space.  I end up one row back, in Lord only knows who else’s spot.

A gray-haired woman pulls up next to me, glares at me, and dings my door when she gets out.

When I reclaim my car at the end of the day, I notice, hanging from shiny new metals, are two laminated paper signs designating the principal’s and secretary’s parking places.  Their flap-flap-flapping holds up through several perfunctory autumn storms, but the signs finally blow away in a truly magnificent Thanksgiving gale. The next week they are replaced with metal signs. 

“Those signs are totally unnecessary,” I tell one of the teachers I’ve become friendly with.  “I’m the only one who didn’t know the local customs, and I don’t park in those two spaces any more.  I’m not even parked out back today.  I couldn’t get through the low water crossing so I parked in one of those yellow-striped spaces out front.”

My friend’s eyes bug out in horror. “Out front?  Those spaces are reserved for the coaches!”

"But there weren’t any signs.”  

“Everyone knows.”

Personally Speaking

Jealous of Mommy's attention, Sonya Dog regularly inserts her snout between Fio and her laptop, which means that Fio has to clean off the screen before taking it in for repair .  It's like being sure you have on  clean underwear when you go to the hospital.
*
While normal people look for paintings for their walls, Fiorella searches for walls for her paintings.  Yes, she still has several in storage.
*
When was it that Fiorella changed from a young filly to an old nag?
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Husband insists that Fiorella's tombstone will read, "She was easily amused," which would be fine with Fio.  In fact, it makes her laugh.  

There's something about rhymes that lends itself to humor,  and those are the words that Fio will use to introduce a talk she is planning to put together on poetic humor, one of her fortes.

Laugh a Little, Laugh a Lot

Fiorella wasn't born with a sense of humor--she doubts if any child is--but she remembers when she started to develop one.  It was in the first grade when the joke about the chicken crossing the road went viral.  Like everyone else, Fio laughed and laughed, although she didn't understand what was funny.  Question and answer jokes must have been in vogue back then because the next one she learned was "What's black and white and read/red all over?"  At least she understood the pun in that one, but she wasn't funny on her own till about junior high, thanks to years of watching comedians on TV.  By the time she started teaching, she had her students rolling in the aisles.

Another thing that separates us from the beasts--deliberate humor.

Running Late

Dental date
Running late
In a hurry
Gotta scurry
Wash up, eat,
Brush my teeth,
Hit the road
Crisis mode
Driving fast
There at last
In the door
Sit and wait
Ten minutes more.

St. Michele

St. Matthew tells us that the rain falls on the just and the unjust alike, but Michele Bachmann begs to differ. According to her, the earthquake along the Spotsylvania Fault and the hurricane that swept the Eastern seaboard are signals of God's dissatisfaction with the state of the union--gay marriage, national health care, inheritance taxes, environmental protection, etc.

Whoops--her spokesperson says it was all a joke. But then, that's our Michele. Not a serious bone in her body.

Murder Will Out

Fiorella is constantly amazed by the number of people who Google things like "How to kill your wife and get away with it," or "Poisons that can't be traced," then are surprised when the cops nail them for murder.

Do they think the Internet is anonymous? Don't they realize there's a helpful little list that tells them--and everyone else--what sites have been visited lately?

And what about the people who splash blood all over the place, then try to clean it off? (That should clue in the cops right there--a husband scrubbing the floor.) Haven't they ever turned on the TV when Luminal was being sprayed around a crime scene?

Or the ones who diagram their lethal plans on a Big Chief pad, leaving an obvious imprint on the page beneath?

How embarrassing--not only to be killed by one's spouse, but for him to be proved dumber'n dirt. Fio has already informed Husband that if he ever decides to do her in, she hopes he's gracious enough to be clever about it.

Hey, Lucy!

Lucille Ball has nothing on me.

Husband and I had a lot on our plates this weekend so we planned carefully to use our time and our gasoline to the best advantage. We planned to talk to the three offspring via long distance, as per usual for Saturday morning, pick up the house, leave when the maid came, drop by the bank to cash a check, gas up the car and fill up the lawn mower can, drive to Lowe's for bags of dirt to build up our planting bed, stop Husband's new glasses off at the optometrist's because something was wrong with them, run by the post office, then pick up groceries at HEB and drop off a prescription next door at CVS.

All three offspring were out of pocket when we called, which put our schedule back an hour. Two of them called back later, one flashing on top of the other, but we have yet to hear from the third one. Then, as I read the paper, I suddenly realized that there were 31 days in May, not 30, as I had supposed when I scheduled the blog I wrote yesterday to be posted on what I thought would be today but turned out to be tomorrow. At least I thought that was what had happened, but couldn't know for certain until I traced exactly what date I had scheduled the blog to be posted on. I searched the blogspot for half an hour and couldn't figure out how to find out what date I had specified.

Two hours after the maid was scheduled to arrive, we gave up on her and left the house. Three blocks down the road she passed us so we turned around and went back home to unlock the door for her and were off again. Husband was running low on gas and didn't want to stop at the bank so we went directly to the gas station, where he filled the tank and the gas can while I ran inside to get a lottery ticket (gotta pay the maid somehow) and a couple of bottles of Ozarka.

We drove toward the big shopping city ten miles away, missed our turn, and had to circle back about five miles. As we disembarked from the car at Lowe's, we smelled gasoline. The full can of gasoline in out trunk had fallen over and was now empty. We fled the car for Lowe's. Poor Robert was nearly asphyxiated when he packed our six bags of dirt into the trunk for us half an hour later. Then, with windows rolled down, we drove across to the optometrist's shop. I sat in the car for a few minutes while Husband took his glasses in. Then as the minutes ticked by and the gas fumes began to congregate inside the car, I escaped to the shop. It took ten more minutes until we left--minus the glasses, which won't be ready till Monday. Meanwhile I adjusted our list. The groceries could wait till tomorrow, but we did need to mail some bills and cash a check to pay the maid (I don't trust the lottery).

Then we headed home. The fumes must have gotten to Husband because he missed the turn to the post office and again we had to circle back. We tried to drop by the bank, but it was closed. At home, we parked the car outside the garage and opened everything openable. Then I had to make a mad dash to HEB to cash a check, stopping at CVS on the way to drop off my prescription.

I paid the maid, and Husband made waffles for supper. As I checked my blog once more, I realized all I had to do was go to the "edit" page to find out what day I had set my last blog for. It was June 1. I owe you one for today, so I have been typing madly for the past two hours, in between planting crape myrtle and cleaning up after dinner.

It was a day when everything that could go wrong did go wrong. As Robert Burns said, "The best laid schemes of mice and men/ Go oft astray." (Well, actually he said "Gang aft a-gley.") But the fact that people have said this sort of thing so often that it's become a truism is comforting to me. At least I know I'm not the only one in the world who has bad days. In other words, we're all in the same boat and misery loves company.

Mother Knows Best

I am in the process of inventing a new board game which, once Grand Theft Auto #103 has run its course, will take the country by storm. It's called "Guilt, the Fun Game Mothers Play with their Daughters," to be advertised as "You'll always be my baby."

I envision the playing field to be drawn in the shape of a giant uterus, with long, apronstring-like fallopian tubes snaking out from either side. In the middle of the organ is a great pulsating heart, on which is emblazoned in tremulous gold, "All I want is for you to be happy."

There are about ninety spaces marked off on the board, the starter labeled "womb" and the final stop, "tomb." The object of the game for the mother is to get all the way to the finale while never allowing the daughter to advance further than square twelve. In certain circumstances, Mother can even continue to dominate the game from beyond the grave.

Daughter's only objective is survival. There is no escape.

Mother always starts her token on at least square twenty and, of course, rolls the bones first. After taking as many steps as the dice have designated, she passes to Daughter--if she feels like it.

Daughter starts at "womb" and passes through such juvenile guilt squares as "Where did you learn THAT word," "What do you and your friends talk about when you close your door" and "Why do you find hidden meanings in everything I say?"

When daughter reaches square thirty, Mother redoubles her efforts, drawing a pink card which enables her to ask:
1. "Why are your children sick all the time?" (Ten extra points)
2. "Why isn't your garage as clean as your neighbor's?" (Ten extra points)
3. "Why are you so defensive?" (Jackpot--twenty-five bonus points)

On the other hand, any pink cards Daughter draws return her square twelve, minus the number of points Mother would have gained from the same card. Thus it is possible for Daughter to accumulate a negative score and dissolve to nothingness.

Yellow cards enable the mother to change the rules in any way at any time without the least notice, which is why all the yellow cards the daughter draws are automatically forfeit to Mother.

I have also thought about tokens for the players. A crystal teardrop seems appropriate for the mother player. The daughter, of course, doesn't need one--she isn't going anywhere.

The beauty of this game is that it uses familiar, everyday materials, is easily transportable, and has universal application. The daughter becomes more inept with every round as the mother increases her skill to a fine art. A seasoned motherplayer can get a special charge out of watching a daughter player work herself up to thirty or forty, then tumbling her back to twelve with one master motherstroke.

I'll give you an example:

"That's an awful lot of money to pay for a new transmission," my mother said in a suspicious tone of voice when I told her about the car repairs.

I started stewing. Was she right? Had I been taken? Could I have gotten a better deal somewhere else? I felt completely inadequate to a situation I had been handling with perfect confidence one hour earlier.

Twenty-five points! My mother doesn't even know how to drive!