Revelations

Fiorella is the most creative creature on the face of the earth, and she's usually pretty self-secure about it too, but sometimes she needs someone to pat her on the head and say "good dog." Like about now, when she's desperate for someone to come over to the house, ignore the messes, and admire her Christmas decorations. AND SHE'S NOT GOING TO PACK AWAY SO MUCH AS A  STRING OF TINSEL UNTIL SHE GETS HER FILL OF OOHS AND AAHS!
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When it comes to keeping fires going, Fio is a great believer in rotten wood.
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An extensive analysis of the personalities of the hero and heroine are the basis of every romance your Fiorella writes. From then on, the characters make their own story.
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Strangely enough, Fio felt quite comfortable walking up the driveway to the mailbox yesterday when everyone else was complaining about the weather. Sure, the temperature was hovering at freezing, but the cold was still--no wind--and the sun was bright. Of course, Fio was clutching her mother's mink jacket around her, which also may have helped.
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Fio is gathering all the evidence on the dining room table in preparation for working on the taxes, one of her least popular chores, but it must be done. Luckily, she has a very nice CPA couple who tolerate her ignorance and stupidity. Thank you, Lisa and Blake.

Pulling Herself Together

Slowly but surely, Fiorella is repairing herself. She's come to terms with her friend's death, recovered from the gunk, and gotten her computer set back on its axis. In addition, her car now releases the ignition key on command, and she has the address and phone number of a cell phone repair shop in a shopping center in Round Rock. And while she's in the vicinity, she'll beard Eye Mart Express with the information that those last glasses whe got from them were bogus--the lenses were weaker than her previous glasses, and Fio doesn't think the ophthamologist was to blame.
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Yes, of course Trump is getting more awful by the moment. His dementia is on a rollercoaster ride, and the GOP is hanging on for dear life, trying to get everything it can out of him before he crashes.
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Fiorella loves cold weather, especially when she's sitting on the couch in front of a roaring fire.
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Busting down the Interstate at 80 mph relaxes Fio. Her eyes, ears, hands, and feet take over and drive automatically as her brain wanders into channels more interesting.
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Fiorella's telenovela had its last hurrah last night. Daniela and Gabriel are married, Eugenio and Blanca have come to a new understanding of their relationship, Julieta and Robert/Juan Pablo, who now have two children, will be moving out of the extended-family home to their own casa, Marisol and Xavi are heading toward some kind of accomodation, Audifaz's book is selling, Linda and Bruno are back together, and Hugo's cookie business is taking off so he and his wife are escaping from his mothe at last. And your Fiorella thinks she's picked up a little more Spanish. Gone are the days when she couldn't sort the characters' names out from the dialogue.

Under the Weather

This is getting old. Fiorella has a cold again, her second one for the winter, and it's the same old, same old--sneezing, snorting, coughing, scratchy throat, runny nose, tiredness, headache, and chills.
The clean up from the Christmas feast is going to have to wait a day or two.
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Fio can't belive the cold weather. Sure, she experienced it every winter when her family lived in Ohio, but below freezing in Texas? And they're predicting it for all week?
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Meanwhile Fio's telenovela is drawing to its inevitable close. Julieta and Juan Pablo have adopted a little boy, Eugenio and Blanka have resolved years of anger, Gabriel and Daniela are headed toward the altar, Linda is softening her snarky ways for the sake of Bruno, Marisol and Xavi have declared their love, and Amalia, a big girl, has finally snagged muscle-builder Enzio. Now all Fio has to worry about is whether or not Julieta and Juan Pablo will be able to retain custody of their son, how much trouble Gabriel's filthy rich family will make about their son marrying a tomboy from a middle class family, the way Marisol's ex is trying to turn their daughter against Xavi, and Belen's depression about living alone now that Amalia will be moving in with Enzio.

Covering the Waterfront

How would Fiorella ever manage without push pins, Scotch tape, and twisties?
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Doug Jones won in Alabama (thank you, God), which shows the nation and the world what Trump's endorsement is worth.
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Yesterday was Austin son's birthday, and Fio couldn't help but remember his actual birth day. It was fraught. He was two weeks late and so big that Fio had to have a C-section, which was no fun, but Fio was thrilled.
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The temps have been low enough the past few days that Fio has been wrapping herself in her twenty-year-old winter robe when she gets up every morning. It's a saturnalia miracle--her robe is in mint condition because most years there's no need for it.
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Fio's got to think of some clever way to fill the front porch urns now that the freeze (yes, a real live FREEZE) has killed the lavenders. Maybe a quick trip to Dollar Store or Hobby Lobby would give her an idea.

Change of Seasons

Fiorella heard the rustle of some leaves falling this morning, and wrote:
Be of good cheer
Autumn is here
Which means, my dear.
That winter is near

This little poem might not be as meaningful to Fiorella's friends in the northern reaches of the country as it is to her, but remember, where Fio lives, "cold" starts at 70 degrees and rarely sinks down to the freezing point.

Five Factoids

Yep, your Fio is a delicate flower. As she confessed to you yesterday, she does not fare well in hot weather. Neither, she wants you to know, does Sonia dog. Poor baby follows Fio out the door, then, five minutes later, barks to be let inside again. Mastiffs aren't designed for Texas summers.
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Three words that Fiorella wants newscasters to memorize the pronunciation of: realtor, nuclear, and athletic. They are NOT re-la-ter, nu-cyu-ler, and a-tha-letic.
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Every life hangs by a thread. Anything can happen any minute, no matter your age, your health, or how careful you are. Fate is fate.
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The way one says "Good morning" in the Nigerian dialect that Tosin at the Verizon store speaks is "e-k-a-a-r-o," which is pronounced like a rainbow. starting at a lower pitch, rising in the middle, and settling at the end. Fio would have loved to have studied a pitch language at some time in her life, but maybe there's still time after she learns Spanish, reviews her Russian, and picks up Telugu again. And then there's her Latin that she'd like to renew, and her German, Fio's study of which was cut short after ein semester. Oops, she didn't mention the French, which she passed a reading a exam on long ago, but which she never did learn how to speak.
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Surely the circus act in DC cannot continue much longer.

Morning, Noon, and Night

Fiorella lives by lists and systems. Her major lista is the one she writes down for the next day (manana), but she also consults her calendario. Her sytems include such things as feeding la perra her daily pildoras--Fio puts a gob of peanut butter on the handle of una cuchara o tendedor (spoon or fork), sticks una pildora in the mess, and presents it to Sonia, who eagerly gulps it down.
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If there's a body count category for the Mexican telenovela awards, La Piloto will win it hands down. Not only have the extras died like flies, but several of the minor characters have also been killed off. Of course, our heroine is in peril--again. The only way she could save the life of la bebe de una amiga (who had been killed) was to surrender herself to the sadistic Santamaria. Of course, she was rescued by Dave and her friends, but not before Sanamaria, quien no es un santo, strung her up by her wrists and branded her with a red hot cattle iron. Her scream could be heard all the way to Hollywood.
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The day is surprisingly cool for central Texas in late June, and the house is quiet. Maybe Fio can get through a couple more chapters of her work-in-progress before anyyone gets back to the house. Ah, pandemonium, I know you well.

Fiorella vs.Nature

Fiorella is angry. She took her little red wagon to the creek and loaded it with several stones just the right size to line the porch-line edge of her raised planting beds, but she hit uneven ground as she was hauling the wagon along the fenceline toward the street and it overturned. Not to be thwarted, Fio put the rocks back in the wagon and started off again--but because she hadn't thought to straighten the wheels, the wagon overturned again. Fio was sweating like a pig, the day was so humid she could hardly take a breath, so she decided that, yes, she could be thwarted, deserted the wagon, and staggered back to the house.

Then there are the cast iron plants which won't stay planted despite Fiorella's herculean efforts. And the bayberries, which have betrayed Fiorella by allowing themselves to be ravaged by whatever eats bayberries, and the sages, which developed a stupid fungus and had to be jerked out by the roots, not to mention the dead bird Fio found stuck to the branch of the volunteer mulberry.

When did Mother Nature become such a bitch?

Eskimo Energy

Fiorella must have Eskimo genes somewhere along the line because she loves cold weather. It was 36 degrees outside yesterday afternoon when she put on her jacket and wound her way through the south woods down to the semi-dry creek to pull rocks (rocas) out from around a tree which she and Husband call, appropriately enough, the rock tree. She loaded the rocks into the garden cart, pulled it several yards uphill, and laid the rocks alongside the driveway (estacionamiento) to prevent washouts. Then she took the cart back down to the creek again and started pulling out more rocks, hurling them up toward the cart for this afternoon's pick up.

Reviewing the day, Fio is thinking (1) that she must have been a laborer in her past life because she LOVES tossing rocks, and (2) that if it were summer, there is no way in the world she could have been dragged out of the house.

August

You know it's hot out when the water that splashed on your shorts while you were trying to cool your steering wheel dries before you reach the next stoplight.

Snappy Snippets

Personal: Hot weather innervates, cold weather invigorates.

Trends: Mary Pickford curls are all the rage now, an example of the repetition of fashion.

GOP Convention: Where are all the hippies when you need them?

Hot Weather

Fiorella is such a wienie. The higher the temperature outside gets, the more she stays inside, where the air conditioning cools her body and the ceiling fan allows her to breathe.  Yes, she's aware that people all over the globe live year-around in much hotter temperatures, but they don't have a choice.  Fio does, and she chooses 70 degrees, winter or summer--although occasionally, when Husband isn't looking, she'll slip the summer temp down to 68..

Walking, Watching TV, Wondering

Apparently 66 degrees, overcast, no wind is Fiorella's ideal walking weather.  She went twice around the driveway and realized she could easily have made two more rounds.
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Fio turns thumbs down on a new TV show, "Long Lost Family," which reunites adopted children with their birth parents.  There's a lot of yearning and weeping, but does anyone consider how the adoptive parents (the real parents) feel when the joy of their hearts finds them inadequate?
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Why are human beings individuals rather than clones?  Why are we all so different?  Think about it.

Questions about Politics, Health, Weather

Have you ever thought about how much Donald Trump resembles Kim Jong-un?
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HIV, Ebola, now Zika--no sooner is one threat contained than something else speeds down the pipe. God, are you trying to tell us something?
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It's going to be an ideal day--cool in the morning, up to seventy degrees at noon, then edging down to the fifties at night, but where is my snow?

Grumpy-pants

Fio awoke this this morning invigorated by a full night's sleep and planned her day as she lay drowsing in bed.  First, she'd take the dog--and herself--on a double walk around the drive.  then she'd read the newspaper and check out the internet.  Then she'd start in Phillipa's story again, which is going great guns since Fio backed it out of the blind alley she'd written herself into.

She walked down the stairs to a cold, sunny day, her favorite kind of weather, leashed Sonia dog, and started up the driveway.  But Sonia was more interested in investigating the premises than walking so Fiorella ushered her back in the house and called out to Husband to unleash her.

Fio's solo walk was great, but when she got back home, she learned the newspaper still hadn't been delivered, and looking, through the mail she'd picked up on her trek around the driveway, she learned that Chase Bank is STILL on their case about hazard insurance, of which Fio and Husband have several times submitted proof.

To top it off, Fio's laptop wouldn't fire up--and just when she had several clever ideas revolving in her head.

Fio is not as invigorated as she was when she woke up.  In fact, she's a grumpy-pants.

Brrrrrr

Has Fiorella told you how much she enjoys cold weather? She loves breathing cool air as she walks around the driveway, loves the fire burning in the grate every evening, loves to snuggle up in bed with a blankets and a comforter over her.  Of course, this is cold weather in Central Texas, and it's of very short duration.  Fio might feel differently if she lived in--say--Minnesota.

Of Fio's Baby Car, Fire in the Fireplace, and Mosquitoes

It's official.  Fio's thirteen-year-old  baby car, her beloved  navy blue Mazda Miata, is falling to pieces.  The window control broke inside the door panel and the dealership is repairing it for her, but advised against putting out the $$$ for replacing the front end panel. It's a quality of life decision, one might say.
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Fiorella is still running around in shorts, which means there's still no fire in the fireplace.  Let's hope all the firewood stacked across the driveway doesn't rot in place.
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Mosquitoes.  Fiorella is beloved by them.  Not a day goes by that she doesn't have a fresh bite.  The first freeze can't come early enough for her.

Outside Work

The weather was great--cool and still--so Fio and Husband put on their garden gloves and went outside to work on the yard again.  Specifically, they loaded two big garbage bags with last year's leaves, then dumped them further up the property on a barren area that needs a layer of decay in order to grow grass.  They had also planned to dig into an old mulch pile, but the tractor ran out of gas.

And so did Fio.  The weather had heated up, and the sun was too bright.

The yard work will have to wait till tomorrow.

Outdoor Update

The past two days, Fiorella and Husband have been spending time out in the invigorating spring air chainsawing fallen tree limbs into fireplace lengths.  Fio's goal is to be totally self-sufficient for firewood next winter. Okay, she'll admit that Husband bought about half the wood they now have stored in those metal hoops out front, but she wants all augmentation to be from their own forest.
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Bayberriess, Fio loves you.  After YEARS of trying to screen the air conditioner system with supposedly hardy, deer-resistant bushes, Fio and Husband finally planted bayberries.  Three years in, and they're taller than the compressor units.  Another year and Fio will start trimming them so they'll fill in more.
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Fio finally gave in and hired a once-a-month yard man.  The only problem is that Fernando's English is limited, but your ever-resourceful  correspondent has found a solution.  She writes out what she wants to say, uses Google to translate it into Espanol, then reads it off to Fernando in the best Spanish accent she can muster  Que?
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Sonia is a serious-minded adult dog now.  No more running into the bushes when she goes outside with Fio and Husband.  She either sleeps on the porch or--well--dogs our footsteps.
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The sun is shining, the trees are whipping in the breeze, and everything is glistening with last night's rain.  Who could ask for better?

Hill Country Update

We must have had a local politico move into our rural paradise. All of a sudden our narrow, two-lane road has been repaired and repaved.  What's next--a yellow stripe down the middle?
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The deer have gotten desperate enough to chew on the pansies in the urns outside the front door.  We never have found a totally deer-proof flower.  They'll even eat salvia if the mood strikes them.
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Whatever the weather is in Austin, it's cooler here--thank you, God.  But winter is nearly over, which makes Fiorella sad.
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