Of poop and popes

I haven't been writing like I used to, but I'm feeling a bit scattered. It's homecomingitis, I think, but nonetheless, I should try to write.

So, I shall tell you my opinions on several things.

On Heart Day*: Despite an invitation to go to St. Bona's (from Shane's girlfriend of three minutes), I don't feel like I'll be missing anything if I can somehow wrangle up a flaming cabbage this weekend.

On the Conclave: The cardinals should elect Michael Jackson. I'm pretty tired of child molestation jokes about both MJ and the Catholic church, and I think that both would come to a swift end if the Prince of Pop became the Prince of Pope.

On our longtime neighbor from El Victoir, Mrs. G, ramming her car into Tina's basement and surviving to tell the tale and seek therapy: Holy cow. I didn't know things like that could happen in real life.

On my brother Dan assuring me that he will be around all weekend while I'm home: HA! I'm not falling for THAT one...

On the Pea's uncanny ability to sense that we're three minutes away from leaving the house and carefully choosing that moment to blow three days of Gerber Peas out her butt: Wha? But how?

On the scary coincidence of my brother Dan and the Big U mentioning the same postcard to me: Not cool at all. NOT cool. The card, according to both boys, has a weird psychedelic purple design on one side. The card reads, "This is a very freaky card." The reverse says, "The kind you don't send home to mother." They're both right. I would love that card. ::Shudder:: It creeps me out when they prove they've been paying attention. And it's not like I can tell either of them that the other thought of it, too. Oh, I am all in a tizzy.

On the prospect of spending a weekend in July with dear Sus and dear jLiz: How did I ever get so lucky? And how will I ever get the money together...


* Heart Day is the anniversary of Shane's last heart transplant. On this day we imbibe, frolic, and let the old cabbage flame in honor of Shane Tamika himself. And we do not wear sunscreen. And we play softball. Poorly. And we dance in such a manner as could harm others and ourselves, preferably on a coffee table. And we celebrate the fact that we are alive, goddammit, simultaneously testing fate on that very matter.