Saturday Night Live – which I actually happened to watch, live, back in The Day when I could manage to keep my eyes open past 10 pm, and I remember thinking "Is that part of a skit?" Anyway, they went on to say that a few weeks later at a concert with someone-or-another (I can see his face, but I can’t think of his name), she was soundly booed by the audience and left the stage in tears. Oh! Kris Kristofferson, that’s who the concert was with. Or he was there, because they showed him giving her a comforting hug. Anyway, this cracks me up why? Well, because – DUH – if you’re going to deliberately do something to piss people off, you don’t get to be surprised when people are, y’know, pissed off. And further, you don’t get to be indignant and hurt when they act pissed off and boo you off the stage. Not, of course, that I’m any big fan of the pope, being a lapsed Protestant and all. To me, the pope is a doddering old man who’s doing his best to hold women down so that they’ll understand their "place" in the world. See? Now, I said something derogatory about the pope, so if I get a nasty email from one of y’all, I don’t get to be surprised or indignant, and I will be neither of those. I will, however, get to read it aloud to Fred so that we can mock it mercilessly before I delete it. And you don’t get to be surprised or indignant at THAT, because you’ve been warned. Where was I? Oh yeah, so thinking about the pope – who was all over CNN while I was reading the latest People Saturday morning – made me think of a time when I was probably fifteen or so and accused my father of thinking that he (my father, not the pope) was perfect. "No one is perfect," my father responded. "Except the pope." There was a long, long pause while I digested what he’d said, and then I realized something. "You," I told my father, "Are PROTESTANT."

And then we began a long discussion about whether or not the pope ever farted. My father, holding fast to the thought that the pope was a bastion of perfection, insisted that he did not. I, on the other hand, insisted that he must. I’m not sure where I got the idea that farting is a sign of imperfection. No one ever claimed the pope wasn’t human, did they?

* * *

Man. I’ve been sniffling and sneezing and blowing my nose all day long. I thought it was allergies – exacerbated by the bike ride I took this morning – but I took a Claritin, and it didn’t do much for me. If I’m developing a fucking COLD three days before we leave for Gatlinburg, I’m going to be mighty pissed. HEAR ME, lungs and nose? MIGHTY PISSED.

* * *

I was thrilled to finally receive my Mother’s Day present on Friday (you’ll recall Fred accidentally chose the wrong date when he ordered the flowers, and then there was a big kerfuffle with the 1800Flowers people screwing up), and the flowers are gorgeous: Fred went fishing Saturday afternoon, and when he came home, he had a bucket o’ crickets as bait, which was left over from what he’d bought. Does that sentence make any sense at all? I fear not, but I’m succumbing to cold-related fuzzy-headedness, so I’m going to let it stand as it is. Anyway, he came home with a bucket o’ crickets, and left it on the living room floor for the cats to sniff at. Miz Poo was the most interested, and kept sticking her paw in the bucket, while the other cats (except for Spot, who was probably upstairs hiding under the bed and contemplating having diarrhea for a week) kept a safe distance. And since you’ve now had your daily fill of cat pictures, I’m going to retire to the couch with a large cup of Diet Coke, a good book, and Poo.]]>