Dorothea and Francisco: A Fairy Tale

Lavender harvest

The first bit of fiction to share with you since the writing camp I attended in July 2015, with Gail Anderson-Dargatz.

     Once upon a time, there was a maiden named Dorothea. She came from a family that was not wealthy, but was hard-working and lived comfortably. When she was very young, she had had a charming prettiness, but as she grew to be a young woman, her mother saw that her beauty was radiant and felt that Dorothea was in danger and so convinced her that she was unlovely and unlovable. Each day that Dorothea looked in the mirror, she heard her mother's words, and her reflection changed so that her hair lost its silky curl and became dull, her skin flaked with dryness and had no colour, and her eyes became cold and hard. In time, she herself said the words, "I am unlovely and unlovable," and looked in the mirror to see hair like broomstraw, skin rough and patchy and eyes that pierced the soul.

Mudslinging and Wordcraft

Dianne's hands

Don't you love it when travel and learning and experience collude to make a good experience excellent? That's what's happening to me this week.

Leave your ego at the door.

Potential cover for the possible novel I may or may not be writing. 

A while ago, I told you about an incredible opportunity I was taking to learn more about writing fiction. A one-week "writers' camp" led by Gail Anderson-Dargatz. It's mere weeks away now, and I'm getting nervous.

Fiction Friday: Knock at the Door

Clare Boothe Luce

Previously, in The Walker:

Carla, who lives alone in Toronto, sees a woman and a young boy walking along the side of a highway in rural Ontario. She stops to pick them up and ends up bringing them home to live with her temporarily, to rescue them from a violent home situation. The woman, Bettany, turns out to have a volatile temper and little motivation to get on with life. The boy, Michael, is worried that they'll be kicked out. Carla is torn with wanting them to stay (she has really connected with Michael) and wanting them out of her house (Bettany is clearly a freeloader). Bettany recently told Carla that she is moving out to share a house with Ben, a man she met in the park.

---

The following Friday, Bettany loaded her few things into Ben's car, buckled Michael into the back seat and left.

Fiction Friday: Out of the Frying Pan

Things improved slightly over the following weeks. Bettany was better about making dinner and pitching in to keep the house clean, but she still had no job and hadn't gone down to register for welfare.

I girded my loins to talk to her one night after Michael had gone to bed.

Fiction Friday: Release Me

I should probably have contacted the police immediately after reading the article about the dead man, but I didn't because I kept seeing those strangulation bruises on Bettany's neck and, not to say that Jim deserved to die for what he did (or threatened to do) to her, but I could understand how she might have done something in self defense. Especially given how volatile I knew her to be.

Fiction Friday: French Toast

When I came downstairs the next morning, Bettany was just serving up French toast and a pot of coffee.

"Morning, Carla! Thought I'd surprise you with a hot breakfast!"

Fiction Friday: Dead Weight

[This picture was staged.]

I hung my purse on the hook in the front hall and peeked into the living room where Bettany and Michael were draped on the couch watching TV. As expected.

A small collection of (my!) nail polish bottles and manicure tools smattered the coffee table, along with an old magazine, some flyers, and an issue of the local free tabloid. An assortment of bowls, plates, glasses, and cups perched precariously among the debris. I dreaded going into the kitchen, where I could be sure there was even more mess - and no signs of dinner being prepared (let alone planned).

"Oh! You're home!" She sounded surprised, as if this hadn't happened every ... single ... day. I keep to a very regular schedule, leaving and returning at roughly the same time every day, Monday to Friday. She was the roommate from hell.

Michael leapt off the couch and hugged me around my thighs and started to regale me with the details of Thomas the Tank Engine, to which I distractedly attended while trying not to pick up a dish and throw it in anger.

Fiction Friday: Maneater

I couldn't sleep that night. All I could think was: what have I gotten myself into?

After tossing and turning for twenty minutes or so, I turned on my bedside light and grabbed my book. I always have a book on the go. In fact, most nights, it's a struggle for me to close the book and go to sleep. I've been known to read all night, even on work nights.

Fiction Friday: Tapestry

Even with music playing, we could hear gentle snores from Michael in the back seat.

I was itching to ask Bettany more questions about her situation. Not because it would make any difference, but because I'm curious. I'm always trying to imagine people's stories, and here was one that had just landed in my lap. Besides, I might be able to help. Who could tell?

Fiction Friday: Building a Mystery

Bettany absentmindedly flipped her hair over her shoulder, again revealing the bruises around her neck. This time I didn't look away fast enough and she caught me looking. She dropped her hair, hiding the marks as a flush rose to her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Is that the reason you're heading to your sister's?"

Bettany glanced at Michael who was still engrossed in his cars and food. His tiny dump truck was bringing him a serving of fries.

"Yah. That's the drill. He totally went off the deep end last night. It's never been that bad before. He just about gave me a black eye, which . . . Anyway. I can't go back."

"Won't he know you've gone to your sister's?"

"He won't come after me, if that's what you're worried about," she answered. "I just need to be somewhere safe."

Fiction Friday: The Walker

Mirage created by a hot blacktop road;
image by Brent Danley licensed under Creative Commons.

It was one of those stinking hot days when you could see illusions of water on the roadway ahead. The trees and hills in the distance shimmered in the heat waves.

I pushed a cassette tape into the player and felt my mood rise as Joni Mitchell strung a thousand syllables into a single note.

Fiction Friday: The Sweet Bully

Betty White as Sue Ann Nivens on The Mary Tyler Moore Show in the 1970s.

Medusa smiled, but it was one of those artificial smiles that hides all sorts of venom. She seemed to ascribe to the "Sue Ann Nivens" school of passive aggression: if you say it with a smile, it isn't cruel.

Fiction Friday: Spoiler Alert, Take Two

If you're like me, you sometimes skip to the second-last chapter of a book, just so you can find out how it ends. I always go back to where I've left off, because I'm interested in learning how the author gets to that climax, but I have NO PATIENCE.

Last week, I wrote a violent death for Agnes. This week, I'm taking a stab at the first scenario: a peaceful death as an elderly person. 

So here we go: The Death of Agnes, Take Two

Fiction Friday: Spoiler Alert

If you're like me, you sometimes skip to the second-last chapter of a book, just so you can find out how it ends. I always go back to where I've left off, because I'm interested in learning how the author gets to that climax, but I have NO PATIENCE.

Today, I'm letting you do that with Methuselah, for two reasons:
1. I'm kind of bored with Methuselah and need something to jump-start my writing.
2. On Pinterest, I came across the above writing prompt. (I've started a board for Writing Fiction.)

So here we go: The Death of Agnes

Fiction Friday: "Found" Short Story

I found this short story when I was digging through my files the other day. I have absolutely no recollection of having written it, though I recognize the characters. But yes, the name Kerry Anne is a portmanteau of my name and K.B.'s. The narrator is an amalgam of several middle-school friends.

Don't forget to enter the iTunes gift card giveaway!

---

My mother is the mother that all the other girls want. Or most of them. They tell me this when they come over to visit and there are fresh-baked cinnamon rolls on the counter. They say things like, “Wow, your mom is, like, the best! My mom just keeps frozen pizza snacks in the freezer and thinks that’s a big deal.” Or, “Your mom actually sewed you a gown? No way!”

And it’s not that she’s super permissive or anything. When we hang out at my place, we still have to follow basic rules. We aren’t allowed to drink or anything stupid like that. Or stay up all night, though we do stay up pretty late, as long as we aren’t loud and wake up my annoying brothers, Pete and Tim.

Methuselah: Retirement

For other posts in the series, visit the Methuselah page on this blog. 

Source: Wallpaper Converter

Looking out from her vantage point, Agnes could see infinity. The villa was on a crest of one of the mountains that ringed the lagoon, and her lounge area was a flagstone patio. A wrought-iron railing protected from falls without impeding the view - framing it, rather. A perfectly blue sky reflected turquoise in the ocean, gentle waves strolled in with an occasional foamy caplet of white. White sands dotted with lounge chairs and umbrellas.

Agnes put down her book and took a long draw of the fruit juice. She drew a happy face in the sweat that clung to the icy glass. Even in the shade it was hot, but it felt good. She sighed and turned back to her novel.

It was hard for her to sit still, though, even with her book. She felt restless, so she got up and slipped into the pool to do a few lengths. When she got out, it was time to get ready for the meet and greet, arranged by Mate-Match, the agency that had found this retirement destination for her. After tonight's introduction the couples would do a round-robin of dates to give everyone equal opportunity of finding their "true match" as Mate-Match liked to call it.

In theory, the resort was the perfect place to meet her future husband. A number of young adults all interested in becoming parents, enjoying a leisurely vacation in a climate they all liked. That was the theory; reality could end up being wildly different, which is why she was dragging her heels. It had been decades since she'd found herself in a situation where people were intentionally looking to pair off.

How would her packaging compare to the next woman's? What if all the men were handsome assholes? What if she actually met someone she liked, but all the other women liked him too, and he didn't feel any chemistry?

She dried her hair, then pulled it into a simple braid. A touch of mascara and lip gloss brightened her face without making it look painted on. Then she slipped on a gauzy powder-blue sundress detailed with delicate embroidery, and a pair of simple sandals, and went down to the bar.

Agnes realized as she walked in that this was cocktail situation worse than ever before because, this time, it was being done without the aid of alcohol, that eternal social lubricant. Since everyone at this resort was pre-reproductive, alcohol was restricted. 

The cocktail lounge had been set up with several small round tables with different platters of canapes on them. A number of cocktails -- "virgin" versions of traditional bar drinks -- were already poured and waiting at the bar to be picked up. Forty or so people stood in clusters about the room.

Agnes picked up a large cocktail, adorned with tropical fruits, and scanned the room. Even though she knew that her ultimate objective was to meet a man, she gravitated towards a small cluster of women, where she felt more comfortable. She smiled nervously and snacked on a cheese wonton.

The women exchanged cocktail chatter about their clothes (all but one wore a dress and they all complimented each others' choices), their suites (all well appointed with just enough tropical flair to be suitable, but not so much that it was kitschy), and the weather (a little hot, but the glorious blue skies made up for the humidity). On the other side of a small cluster of tables, a small group of men spread out to fill the available space. It was like being at a high school dance!

Eventually Margot, their host, called for everyone's attention and introduced everyone to an ice breaker: to each person's back, she attached the name of a celebrity or famous person. The game was to try to find out whose name you had by asking other guests questions (with yes or no answers) about the person. It was a fun game and got everyone moving around. After 20 minutes, Margot had everyone reveal their names - to much laughter.

Next Margot had everyone sit around the cluster of tables and introduce themselves. Agnes recognized the faces and stories of some of the men whose profiles and videos she had viewed before coming on her trip. It was funny how people came across differently in real life than they did in any of the virtual forums.

Marco was one of the men she had previously found attractive, but she noticed that he had a habit of interrupting other speakers to make jokes at their expense or to highlight his exceptional achievements. She wanted to tell him to just shut up, but then she blushed a little wondering what the others were thinking about her. Another one gave the most minimalist answer possible then turned to the person next to him and effectively passed the conversational ball.

One of the women, Beth, made a point of thrusting her cleavage forward whenever she could, or of leaning so that her blouse drooped, revealing well tanned mounds. Agnes reflexively adjusted her dress so that it flattered her trim figure, but she'd never been particularly busty so didn't even try to reveal something she didn't have. She'd never approached dating as a competitive venture, but she'd never been in a rush before. Now she noticed how several of the men were jostling for positions closer to Beth. Even the women seemed to be mesmerized by the display.

Agnes couldn't help huffing at the maneuvering. Seriously? Is this what it was going to be like? Oh, dear god, would boys ever grow up?

She'd had enough. Agnes put her half-empty glass down on the nearest table and was about to leave when a man named Josh (or was it Justin?) approached her.

"Sadly predictable, isn't it?" he asked and nodded in Beth's direction.

"What? Beth?" Agnes played dumb. "Oh, well, she is attractive." A slight blush rose up Agnes' face as she felt she'd been caught out.

"To a certain type, I guess. But she doesn't exactly leave anything to be discovered, does she?"

Finally, Agnes pulled her eyes away from the mating dance across the room and looked at Josh/Justin.

"Are you into discovery?" she asked.

"I like a little mystery, it's true," he answered. "I'm James," he said and offered his hand.

"James. I'm Agnes." Nice handshake; not too firm, not limp. James, she repeated to herself. God, she wished she were better with names. King James, she hoped the mnemonic would help.

"Have you tried the chicken satay?" he invited.

She spent the next hour with James (James!) and a few others who joined them before they sat down for dinner. She tried to ignore the "popular" crowd dominated by Beth and Marco, though it was difficult to ignore the loud laughter.

She was quite content where she was with the quieter group. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be so horrendous after all.

Fiction Friday: Methuselah: Truck Stop

For other posts in the series, visit the Methuselah page on this blog. 

---

"Thanks for the lift, man," Glen shook hands with his unnamed driver and hefted his rucksack onto his back.

"No worries. Be safe."

Glen walked away as the driver closed and locked the cargo doors. They were at the furthest end of the truck stop parking lot, an ill lit corner that gave them cover; a person climbing out of the cargo area of a truck tended to draw attention. Fortunately, they seemed not to have attracted any notice.

Because it was located near the border, it was a busy place. Lots of truckers would stop here for a quick sleep (four hours, max) before crossing the border first thing in the morning. They'd learned that border security agents were generally in a better mood in the morning. Night shifts tend to make even the most compassionate worker a little bitter and irritable.

This truck stop offered full services: showers, a greasy-spoon restaurant, convenience store, garage, fuel, and a gift shop. He was hungry, but grabbed a shower first - it felt like a sweet visit to heaven. He came out feeling less like a grub and more like a human. Plus, it would make it easier for him to hitch a ride if he didn't look like an ax murderer.

He put his rucksack down and grabbed a stool at the counter. He flirted with the waitress just enough to be sociable and ordered the Heart Attack Special: two eggs sunny side up, bacon, ham, fried potatoes, thick toast, beans and a slice of tomato. Most of the truckers left the tomato untouched.

Source: isfoodok.com

Glen dug into his food as soon as it arrived, washing it down with coffee ("Top 'er up!"). If this wasn't the best damned breakfast he had ever eaten, he didn't know what was. All that fat and protein, the eggs done just right, the bacon just crispy enough, but not burnt. The bitter coffee cleansing his palate.

Say what you want about truck stop food, but they knew how to cook a breakfast.

It was time for him to get serious about hitching his next ride. He glanced around to see if he could spot a conversation opener with one of the truckers. Most of them looked half dead, staring at today's paper or their phones as they shoveled food into their maws. Hard to find common ground there.

Then he spotted one guy with a teddy bear in a gift bag at his feet.

"You get that here?" Glen asked.

"Huh? Yah. For my cousin's little girl."

"I should check out the gift shop, then. My friend's going to have a baby." The conversation was about to die, if Glen didn't come up with something to feed it. "You get to see her often - your cousin?"

The guy sat back a little, opening his posture - an indication of interest, visually letting down his guard. "Not as often as I'd like. They live one state over. But she is the fucking sweetest little thing. Swear to god. You got kids?" Bingo! The conversation was moving forward.

"Not yet," Glen couldn't explain about the reproduction permit because it only applied within Sesqui communities. You didn't want to broadcast that you were part of this elite caste. "Kids're great, eh? When my nephew was born - he's a teenager now - I was amazed just watching him learn about the world. It was like everything was new. You'd put a spoonful of a new food in his mouth and his eyes would bug out. My name's Glen, by the way. Mind if I join you? Just killing time here."

"Sure. Have a seat. I'm Frank." They shook hands. "I know what you mean about the eyes bugging out . . ."

And so the conversation continued, exchanging stories about youngsters, which happened to be Glen's new favourite topic. Eventually, Glen directed the conversation towards hitching a ride.

"You heading south?"

"Yup. Got a load to deliver in Asuncion. You looking for a lift?"

"Sure am. Do you have room?"

"Sure. I'm just going to make a pit stop, then I'll hit the road. You're welcome to hitch a ride."

"Thanks, that'd be great! I'll just be in the gift shop."

Methuselah: Morning

For other posts in the series, visit the Methuselah page on this blog. 

---

Source

Glen leaned in close, his hands on either side of Agnes’ face, and kissed her, softly. Agnes responded hungrily and before she knew it, they were stretched out alongside each other over a blanket in a soft meadow.

Naked now, the sun shone warmly on her skin as Glen’s hand slid down her breast, her side, her hip. She felt the familiar pulsing as he

“Agnes, it’s time to wake up,” the cheerful voice intruded.

Agnes flung her arm wildly to turn off the alarm. Then she struggled to find that dizzy place again. Glen. Kiss. Hands. Sun.

Her blinds were open now (they automatically opened with the alarm) and the sun streamed in her bedroom window, triggering the serotonin release that regulated her circadian rhythm.

But she yearned for Glen and drifted back to sleep, trying and failing to recapture the moment.

“Agnes, this is your second alarm. You have a 10:00 appointment with MateMatch. Shall I start your coffee?” This e-sistant was persistent, you had to give her that.

“Yes, fine. No, not coffee. Green tea, please.”

“It’s been three weeks since you saw your mother, and you’re leaving on your retreat tomorrow. Would you like to invite her to dinner this evening?”

“Oh. Yes, good idea.” Much as Agnes was annoyed at the e-sistant, she had to admit, it did a good job.

* * *

Glen awoke with a start. The truck had stopped moving, and he heard muffled voices. A woman asking questions, a man answering in short phrases.

Glen’s legs were cramped, and he desperately needed to pee, but this was definitely not the right moment to start moving around. He kept himself still and breathed through his mouth so he would be even more silent. Not that they would be able to hear his breathing through the low rumble of the diesel engine, but it was good practice anyway.

The voices moved further away from him, and then he heard the cargo doors open, and a weak light reached the back, where he was hidden behind stacks of boxes on pallets.

The boxes bore the glam “Bliss” logo – luxury goods for the wealthy residents of Vicente Lopez. Handbags, jewelry, shoes. When you have a lifespan of centuries, not decades, you can acquire considerable wealth – and all that money had to go somewhere. The market for ridiculously overpriced goods was huge.

At least the elite could sleep easily knowing that the laborers who produced these goods were decently compensated and received comprehensive medical care. Maternal death rates in laboring countries had never been lower, and AIDS was now a mere footnote in Africa.

The woman who had asked all the questions opened one box and saw a collection of designer watches. They’d go for 50,000 pesos each in a boutique. Glen heard her fussing with something in a box.

“Mmm. This is pretty,” the woman spoke.

“I think that one’s defective,” the man replied. “The box is dinged. We won’t even be able to sell it.”

“Yah, I can see that,” the agent replied. "You should be more careful." There was more shuffling of boxes, it sounded like a smaller box was being opened. Then the cargo doors closed again.

Minutes later, the engine grew louder, and the truck moved again through the inspection area. The driver pounded three times on the wall that separated them.

Glen re-bundled his jacket and rucksack to make his improvised pillow a little more comfortable and fell back asleep to the steady rhythm of the road passing under the truck’s wheels.

* * *

Mara had been up for hours. She’d already done her yoga and had booked an appointment to have her hair cut. She’d made arrangements for her move to Arizona. She should probably tell Agnes.

She picked up her reader and picked up where she’d left off. Luisa Rey had just driven her car off a bridge.

Fiction Friday: Methuselah - Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match!

For other posts in the series, visit the Methuselah page on this blog. 

---

Source

Agnes winked to close the comm channel with her mother. She slumped in her chair and gazed dumbly at the monitor for a few seconds. That may have been the least satisfying conversation she had ever had with Mara. Possibly worse even than the vitriolic exchanges they had had during Agnes’ adolescence.

Those days were almost embarrassing for Agnes, though she recognized that they were a normal, healthy stage of rebellion and separation. And she had to admit that, even when she swore her mother was the most flawed woman on the planet, she never for one moment doubted that Mara loved her.

But today . . . today felt even worse. There had been no harsh words or disagreement; there had just been a certain emptiness, a superficiality to their conversation that left Agnes feeling like she’d been shortchanged. Like she’d been given a counterfeit.

I wonder, she thought, if this is what people feel when they think a loved one has been body-snatched. I just spoke with her, but I miss her.

She placed a mug under the beverage dispenser and spoke: "Hot green tea." Moments later an aromatic brew filled her cup. Grabbing her drink, she went to the living room and picked up her browser pad. She’d been procrastinating about her retirement trip. It was time to make a decision.

She hadn’t heard from Glen since his infuriatingly lame e-mail. Mara was saying all the right things but somehow was not convincingly sympathetic.

Fine, then. Moving on.

She opened Mate-Match, “Where families begin,” as their slogan promised, and began her request. First was the usual scanning of her fingerprint, which populated a dossier with her basic curriculum vitae information: name, date of birth, adjusted age, address, annual income, academic profile, careers to date, interests.

She verified all the information, added some personal notes (although she’d spent one sesqui in the service industry, she had not enjoyed that career path as much as the years she’d spent in the creative arts).

She clicked "submit," and a female face was superimposed on the screen. It was an artificially intelligent Mate-Match agent, a bot with a matrix of programmed questions and interactions designed to draw out Agnes’ personality.

“You can call me Beth,” the bot informed her.

Even knowing the bot was not human, Agnes found herself wanting it to like her, to find her attractive and charming. She made a few witty replies and the bot obligingly laughed.

“So, Agnes, excuse me for sounding like a wizened old granny, but I have to ask: why are you still single? I mean, a nice girl like you – pretty, bright, charming, accomplished – you should have been snapped up sesquis ago!”

Well! That was unexpected!

“Well, until pretty recently, I was ‘snapped up’,” Agnes laughed. “We actually applied for a reproduction permit together, but he didn’t get his, at least not quickly enough, so I went ahead with my renewal and implantation. Then he kind of, um, buggered off.”

“Oh no! How awful for you!” The bot’s sympathy took Agnes off guard. Maybe it was actually a person, not a bot after all. “What a schmuck!”

“Yah. It’s been pretty shitty,” Agnes allowed, and felt her eyes well with tears. “This was going to be a big adventure together and now . . .”

“Are you sure you really want to do this, Agnes? I mean, I can tell you’re still pretty heartbroken. It might just be bad timing, maybe wait a few months or a year?”

Agnes’ tears spilled over.

“I can’t.” And she explained once again why time was of the essence. “I’ve already sat on this decision for weeks, waiting to hear from Glen. He’s gone; I’m moving on. It’s time to make a baby.”

“Clearly you do want that, but I have to say, Agnes, a lot of men will find your recent breakup – and that’s what it is, really – to be a strongly negative factor. No one wants to enter into a twenty-year commitment on the rebound. I just don’t know.” The bot raised its eyebrows and wagged its head slowly side to side.

Tears gone now, Agnes was on the defensive.

“Look, why don’t you leave that up to the men?” Agnes challenged. “I am a good catch – you even said so yourself. I’m ready to start a family, and I do understand what a family is, whether you believe it or not.”

“I’m not sure you do,” the bot, Beth, replied condescendingly. “I mean, you do want a child, but I think the family you want to have is with Glen. It’s hardly fair to put some poor bloke who’s ready for real love through a sham marriage.”

“Sham? We are talking about arranged marriages here, aren’t we?” Agnes felt she’d been led into a trap. Her cheeks flushed. “Are you trying to tell me that none of the men out there come with baggage? It’s a seller’s market and I’m the buyer?

“I have thought long and hard about what I’m getting into,” she continued. “Believe me. It’s not the way I had planned this to happen, but it can – and I hope will – be a very fulfilling and loving relationship. In fact, there’s something to be said for having someone objective looking at bringing two people together, rather than just leaving it to chance. It would be great to have the passion along with everything else, but some of us don’t have the luxury to be choosey.

"Right now, I care more about finding someone who will be a good father and a good partner and - what's that old word? - a helpmate. Helpmates are seriously under-rated.” She was on a roll now.

Beth let Agnes continue in this vein for a few minutes, then broke in abruptly. “Thank you. You’ve given me a good indication of your personality and of your motivation for following this approach. I have enough to go on to prepare a selection of potential mates for you and to prepare your profile reel. I should have something for you by next week. From there we can talk about a process towards your retirement location.”

Agnes was struck dumb. She’d been played. The bot had honed in on her soft spot and had prodded just enough to get a reaction. Agnes had accidentally given her sales pitch. She tried to remember everything she'd said. Had she made any wild declarations that a potential partner would find offensive or might hold her to?

“Good. That’s good then,” Agnes stammered. “Thank you. I’ll watch for a message from you. Thank you. That’s, yeah, that’s good.” She forced herself to stop yammering.

“Have a good week, Agnes, and thank you for using Mate-Match, where families begin,” the bot signed off courteously.

Agnes winked the app closed and took a long drink of her tea. Her cold and insipid green tea. She wanted something stronger, but it was much too early in the day for a glass of wine. Besides, she needed to keep all toxins away from her pre-pregnant body.

No. What she really needed, after a morning like this one, was some fun. She made herself a fresh, hot cup of tea and gathered her paint supplies and got ready to re-learn how to paint watercolours.