Scheduling

Husband is insisting that he and Fio wash Fio's car today, but Fio thinks that's what rain is for. She doesn't wash floors either--because people walk on them. And what's the use of washing windows when Wendy Dog would just smear them up again?

No, Fio spends her time on useful things that will last forever--like this blog. Hello, Eternity!

Standing Room Only

The Texas Showboat--excuse me, the Texas Legislature--has a new performance on the boards: requiring voters to produce picture IDs.

Obviously this requirement is aimed at somebody, but who? The first thought is illegal Mexican immigrants, but they don't vote anyway. Staying under the radar is their modus operandi. The second thought is fraudulent voters who cast their ballots more than once. But all they have to do is run off another batch of driver's licenses in the back room. The third thought is political bosses who vote people from the cemetery. But political bosses that powerful can find ways to suborn picture ID requirements too.

The fourth possibility is that the Legislature wants to disenfranchise older people who no longer drive but like to clog up the voting booths. Aha! That's it! Golden Oldies might not want to go to the bother of asking someone to drive them to the nearest DPS outlet, often in the next county. And they might find it uncomfortable or physically painful to stand in line for things like ID cards.

On the positive side, I assume that requiring us all to produce picture IDs will eliminate the need for voter registration cards, which will save the State some money. Maybe even enough to pay for supervision of each voting precinct by picture ID police.

Slave of Destiny

Fio is spending a lot of time these days packing away Christmas decorations and, as you know, your Fiorella decorates A LOT. Why? Her mother decorated for the holidays, but in moderation, a word that Fio is not familiar with. Why not? Obviously because some distant ancestor passed on a special over-the-top gene that Fio tied with a red velvet bow. Thus Fiorella is merely fulfilling her heritage, her genetic destiny. Blame it on the DNA. Hey--we could write a song:

Don't blame me, it's the DNA--
Can't control what I do,
Can't control what I say,
And, tell you what--neither can you.

Triumph!

Fio's crashed Florida! Yes, one of her romances placed FIRST in a Florida romance-writing contest!

The folklore circulating in her own RWA chapter is that we can't win in Florida or California because they don't like Texans.

How, then, did Fio's entry beat the odds? Easy--she set the story in Minnesota.

Stealth Raid

Muffins, popcorn, and bread--
Wendy has been fed.
In fact, she fed herself
From the pantry shelf
While Fio was abed.
Fie, Wendy! Siggu! Shame!
Fio's mad, and you're to blame.

Morning Prayer

For the new day, I thank you
For the good night, I thank you
For boundless hope and endless memory
For what once was and what is yet to be
Thank you, God.


(Obviously, Fio's feeling better.)

Overwhelmed

The world is ganging up on Fio. The query letter is still hanging fire, her computer won't delete when it's supposed to, she discovered the top half of one of the expensive decorative trees the landscapers planted has been snapped off, the batteries in the TV changer won't charge, and none of her clothes fit right.

To top it off, after a harrowing one-hour drive to the Arboretum Barnes and Noble in near darkness last night (partially because she didn't realize she still had on her sunglasses), Fio accidentally walked out with Susan Elizabeth Phillips's newest novel, autographed but unpaid for.

So this morning she's calling the store to find out how much she owes. The check is in the mail.