Yesterday's News

Fiorella had it all planned out. She woke up at 7:00 and packed all her stuff in a tote, then set off at 8:00 for her ophthamologist appointment in Austin at 9:20. The drive usually takes forty-five minutes, but Fio allowed for traffic slowdowns on the interstate. What she did not bargain for was almost three hours of claustrophobic inch-by-inch driving. She staggered into the doctor's office late, but the women at the desk understood and assured her they would be able to  fit her in within an hour, but Fio asked them to set the new appointment for 1:30 because she had another appointment at 11:30.

But the 11:30 appointment didn't work out. At loose ends, Fio picked up a Colonel Sanders lunch and drove around a little, then attended her 1:30 ophthamology appointment. As part of the exam, her eyes were dilated, so afterwards, so she waited about an hour until she thought the dilation had abated enough for her to drive. She  took off at about 3:00. Horror upon horror, she had trouble seeing the lane divides. Nothing to do but take the access roads, drive slowly, and pray. Needless to say, several drivers indicated their displeasure.

When Fio finally made it home and told Husband about her day, he wasn't at all sympathetic. In fact, he was horrified when she told him that after two hours of stand-still traffic, she had started screaming, banging her wheel, and honking her horn. For her part, Fio was not happy to see the house was in disarray and that, again, the front door had been left hanging open.

Husband went upstairs, and Fio heard a sound like someone falling hard. She ran up to the bedroom and found Husband face down, half on the bed, half on the floor, He told her that not only had he been dizzy for a couple of days, but he'd fallen earlier in the day when she was gone. With visions of a pneumonia relapse dancing in her head and getting angrier with every mile, Fiorella, still fighting left-over dilation, drove him to the emergency room. She already had enough on her plate, and now she was facing a repeat of the in-and-out horror of a couple of months ago. It was too much.

She threw a fit in the hospital, something she would have never believed herself capable of. She sees herself as the nice person, the one who keeps her head when all about were losing theirs. But the worm had turned. Enough was enough. She yelled. She cried, She cursed. She got escorted out by a security guard and a counselor.

The counselor talked with her as she sobbed her heart out. He was a nice guy who told her to be good to herself and relax, yada, yada, which is all well and good, but Fio, whose prime directive is action, doesn't want to relax. She wants to accomplish--to write books and paint pictures and learn languages. She wants, to save the world.

Is that too much to ask?

PS: The dilation left-over persisted and she had to drive all the way home  in the dark of night at a snail's pace, with every headlight, traffic light, and neon sign shattering into vibrant colors in front of her. Always have a designated driver with you when you go to the ophthamologist.

Yesterday's News

Fiorella had it all planned out. She woke up at 7:00 and packed all her stuff in a tote, then set off at 8:00 for her ophthamalogist appointment in Austin at 9:20. The drive usually takes forty-five minutes, but Fio allowed for traffic slowdowns on the interstate. What she did not bargain for was almost three hours of claustrophobic inch-by-inch driving. She staggered into the doctor's office late, but the women at the desk understood and assured her they would be able to  fit her in within an hour, but Fio asked them to set the new appointment for 1:30 because she had another appointment at 11:30.

But the 11:30 appointment didn't work out. At loose ends, Fio picked up a Colonel Sanders lunch and drove around a little, then attended her 1:30 appointment. As part of the exam, her eyes were dilated, and afterwards, she waited about an hour till she thought the dilation had abated enough for her to drive. She  took off at about 3:00, horror upon horror, had trouble seeing the lane divides. Nothing to do but take the access roads, drive slowly, and pray. Needless to say, several drivers indicated their displeasure.

When Fio finally made it home and told Husband about her day, he wasn't at all sympathetic. In fact, he was horrified that, an hour of stand-still traffic, she had started screaming, banging her wheel, and honking her horn. For her part, Fio was not happy to see the house was in disarray and discover that the front door was hanging open.

Husband went upstairs, and Fio heard a sound like someone falling hard. She ran up to the bedroom and found Husband face down, half on the bed, half on the floor and he told her that not only had he been dizzy for a couple of days, but he'd fallen earlier in the day when she was gone. With visions of a pneumonia relapse dancing in her head, Fiorella,  fighting left-over dilation the whole way, drove him lickity-split to the emergency room, getting angrier with every mile. She already had enough on her plate, and now she was facing a repeat of the in-and-out horror of a couple of months ago. It was too much.

She threw a fit in the hospital, something she would have never believed herself capable of--she'd always striven so hard to be a nice person, the one who kept her head when all about were losing theirs. But the worm had turned. Enough was enough. She yelled, cried, and cursed. She got escorted out by a security guard and a counselor.

The counselor stayed and talked with her as she sobbed her heart out. He told her to be good to herself and relax, yada, yada, which is all well and good, but Fio, whose inborn prime directive is action, doesn't want to relax. She wants to accomplish--to write books and paint pictures and learn languages, to walk into a neat, clean, organized house, and to save the world.

Is that too much to ask?

(PS: The dilation left-over persisted and she had to drive all the way home slowly, complete with honking cars, in the dark of night with every headlight, traffic light, and neon sign shattering into colors in front of her. And you wonder why she's tense.)

Restored

Fiorella has been in a very stressful situation lately which has resulted in her boiling over with anger, not being able to sleep, running around like a chicken with her head cut off--the works--so today she took the afternoon off and put up her Halloween decorations.  A big metal jack-o-lantern went on the wrought iron table in the yard, paper pumpkins were stuck to her front door and selected side windows, and a swirl of cardboard bats were arranged so they moved from one front window to the next one. In addition, a small plastic skeleton now hangs from the mailbox (buzon) out on the road (camino).

And Fiorella is happy.

On the Run

The good thing about this book is that Fiorella's lost ten pounds to stress.  The bad thing is that she's running behind and has two days to top it off.  Ah, the carefree life of an author.

Wish her well. See ya tomorrow.

Eating Chocolate

Aha!  Fiorella has figured something out. She is a stress eater, just like Sonia Dog.

Whenever Fio takes the leash off its hooks, Sonia gets excited and runs to her feeding station and starts gobbling down food and lapping up water like it's going out of style.  And whenever Fiorella is excited, or angry, or distressed, she picks up an extra treat at the grocery store or turns out the cupboards and refrigerator for something soothing to eat--preferably chocolate, but anything will do.

But grabbing for the Dove bar never really solves any problems.  Maybe it's that Fiorella isn't eating enough of them.

Stressed?

Fio had one of those horrible dreams last night in which, in typical Fiorella fashion, by trying to do everything right, even at her own expense, she ended up doing everything wrong and so the very people she tried to help were mad at her.

Fio has a lot on her plate right now and it's bound to happen. It's happened before, and Fio knows it's useless to try to defend or explain herself. Yeah, world. Here's Fiorella--aim all your paint balls at her.