All in the Attitude

As you've probably figured out, Fiorella is a serial self-improver.  Why else did she have the facelift?  Why else is she working with a voice pathologist?  Why else did she sign up for physical therapy to treat kyphosis?  Why else does she play the piano every day?

Which cleverly introduces her latest project--improving her attitude while tickling the ivories.  Fio's already admitted to you that she's a lousy pianist, but what she hasn't told you is that she browbeats herself the entire time she's playing, as if excoriation will make her fingers function better.  It doesn't, so she's trying to concentrate on the music more and not herself--visualizing people dancing to the minuet she's stumbling through, for instance.

She may not be playing any better, but she sure feels better when she gets up from the piano.

Too Much Excitement

Fiorella is weak and wobbly this morning, so weak that it took her several tries and a desperate prayer to finally heave herself up and over the side of her soaker tub.  That's what happens when you've had a heavy week, including a visit to a voice pathologist (who may be able not only to help Fiorella with vocal tremor, but restore her singing voice), then top it off with an outrageous rap at the San Gabriel Writers' League meeting.  That's what happens when you lie in bed planning your syllabus for the library-sponsored romance writing course that SGWL asked you to teach this fall.

Fiorella's caffeine is life, and, as usual, her cup runneth over because her candle burns at both ends.  Her calendar is clear today--let's hope the dogs let her nap a little.

Update:  Sonia slept on the couch beside Fiorella and Bosco slept at her feet on the floor.