AN ADVENTURE BACK IN FIORELLA'S COLLEGE DAYS

                                                      An Adventure Between Acts WHICH YOUR GIRL CAN"T PULL TOGETHERS  TOGETHER)

In the intermission after the first act of Austin's version of Die Fledermaus way back when, your girl strolled out into the the lobby to take some medicine. Retrieving a shot glass from her purse and filling it from the water fountain, she wandered a table stacked with Fledermaus T-shirts while she fumbled for her pill box.

     "Would you like to buy a Fledermaus T -shirt?" a very earnest-looking young man sitting behind the table asked.

     "No. thanks," Fio said as her pill did a flip-flop and rolled into of the the rug.

      The young man, his, his eyes wide in alarm, came from behind his table.

    "Are all right? Will you be okay?

     Fio laughed. "Oh yeah, it's just vicodin and I still have the other half of the pill with me,  then took mercy on him and decided to explain. "I take half a vicodin  after the first act so my toes won't bother me with the rest of the opera." She grinned, "But if you find the other half, it's all yours. Enjoy!". 

I winked and turned it back to the auditorium.

END OF STORY

WILL DO BETTER NEXT TIME

"But if the find the other half, it's all years. Enjoyi'" I winked and double timed it back to the auditoriem.

 

TIME OUT

 My eyes are blurey. PRAY FOR ME!

Going Through Old Papers Again

     

             Fiorella was the wild child of the family, as her father once informed her. After all, she wore red Crocs in public, dove a Miata, supposedly ate steak so rare it mooed, dangled gypsy hoops from her earlobes,  moved with the music in the supermarket, and sang along in harmony.... if she could find it.

              Your girl likes fire so much that she put TWO fireplaces in the house that she designed....and she longs for it now, but (sigh) had to sell it when Husband died. I've heard that the new owners have cut down most of the trees trees. 😔

 Fire is surprisingly fragile, which is what Fio learned when she had to spend half an hour with a long match, two short matches, the stove burner, a candle, and the morning newspaper trying to  start a fire in the fireplace.

Nutrition is in the eye of the beholder. Every time Fiorella turns around, an old villain has been been redeemed and a former hero discredited. Thus red wine is in now and red meat is out.

Fio's maternal grandfather is supposed to have said that the difference between the Poles and the Galitsians is that the when a Pole makes money, he buys a showy horse, but when a Galitsian makes money, he buys a cow so the children can have fresh milk. (You can pretty well guess which ethnicity my family claimed. In fact, my father's father was so besotted with the nutritional value of milk that it is still the preferred  beverage  of not only Your Girl, but her five prenatal cousins.)

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

    `

MORE POEMS FROM TIMES PAST

 

      How about a poem called Cough, Snort, and Wheeze?

        Her dreams are bad

        And when she wakes,

       Her throat is raw,

       Her left ear aches

       Her mood is cranky,

       Her brain is soggy 

       Her body's hurting 

       Her movements loggy          

   

     As you can guess it?

     Fiorella's sick,

     And she darn well better

     Get well quick!                               Posted by Fiorella Plum at 8:53 am, January 31, 2009 

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Maternal Eternal

   As Fiorella was putting away groceries, she picked up a ten pound bag of birdseed and automatically cradled it in her arms to distribute the weight. Immediately a pang of longing raced through her. The birdseed felt exactly like a baby in arms. And it's a wonder she didn't start lactating. 

Fio adores babies, which is a little odd  because her mother didn't. "I prefer children when they're older and you can teach them things," Mother explained.

   Your girl likes people whatever, but she still has a special feeling for babies.

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      Nursing Home Visit  

     I am so tempted not to visit him,

The zombie in my father's form-- 

He does not know me

He does not miss me,    

He is not my father

     But oh, he is, he is                  

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SOME OLDIES

 Please forgive Fiorella for her absence and enjoy today's offering:

    

 The mothers in my neighborhood

      Are skilled with stake and twine--

      To brace the wilting saplings straight 

       And tie the erring vine

       

     The mothers in my neighborhood

      Are skilled with shears and string

      To prune the wayward leaning twig

      And nip the hands of spring

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                  Dieting

        I'll tell my story straight--

        I'm carrying too much freight:

        Maybe I'll lose some weight

        If I stopped stepping up to the plate--

        Oops--dinner bell--too late!

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         Ding dong, the book is done!

         I'd like to say that it was fun,

         But I bet that you could smell a rat

         'Cuz I'd be lying through a my hat--

          I rote and read and rote again

          I beat my brain and cursed my pen

          I yelled and screamed and threw a fit--

         But now that I am done with it --

              Yes, of course, I've begun

               To write myself another one!

        

AN OVERUSED POEM?

 Hooray! Fio walked the neighborhood cul-de-sac this afternoon, and IT WAS WARM! Guess that means the dregs of winter are over. Now if she can just get those teeny little black bugs out of her bathroom sink.....

This is a poem Dorothy rote long ago, and don't ask who "she is" is because Fio was still living at home back then:

                              Suicide

     Ah, Dorothy, your choice was much too rash:

There are other options I could recommend

Than poison, razors, nooses, guns, or gas

To bring about a graceful, private end

    The suffocation of the spirit's one--

On shallow breaths. hope is inclined to smother,

An assault on the heart can get it done

The strangulation of the soul's another

    Then you still could walk about, though dead--

 A lumbering, slack-jawed zombie, hollow-eyed

You'd grin and bow and nod your foolish head

With no one guessing you're a suicide

     Don't think that, knowing any would be grieved

     My own experience is, they'd be relieved

I've given you this poem before, but it can bare repeating

I AM SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO LONELY!