I love it when you call me Il Papa

Get out the good china! The pope’s one of two people in the world my mother would break out the good china for on a non-holiday. (The other correct answer is not me, her eldest daughter, but the queen of England for those of you playing at home.) And now he’s in my hood! Down the street, blessing up a storm and sprinkling holy water up the wazoo. (Fun fact: The Catholic Church will make you feel guilty for touching someone's wazoos.)

He was a mere four blocks away yesterday at a church seemingly pulled at random from a (tall pope's) hat. I was telling someone about my plans for the day and actually had to say the sentence, "I just hope the pope doesn't get in the way." In other news, I have absurd problems.

Even though I currently see Jesus as a distant relative to be obligingly visited on holidays, I'm all for seeing visiting dignitaries. I love me some pomp pope! and circumstance. I love parades too, and bogus holidays like Arbor Day. Anything that distingusishes one day from another really.

Thursday night the streets around the U.N. were already blocked off, but the cops let me cut through (hello, security? Damn this honest face of mine.) It was completely silent and empty besides me and was by far the most room I've ever had on a sidewalk. I loved it for two blocks, swinging my arms with wild abandon. Three minutes later I got creeped out and started missing people. Related: I would not do well on any sort of wilderness trek.

But seriously, Ratzinger? You couldn't stay in the country a full week? I don't expect you to tour like Motley Crue or anything, but don't be stingy with America. I know you're 81 and mostly a palate-cleansing pope after JP the 2, but just think of all that great time you'll get in the Popemobile. And the holy waving! You practiced in the mirror for weeks to get the arms at just the right angle.

But no matter how long you stay, you'll still be one of my favorite popes.

Just behind Sergius III, the dude who strangled his prececessor.

Where the hell is my ticker-tape parade?

Last night was kind of a big deal for me: I finished the last of a medium size container of fat-free sour cream. Huzzahs all around. Not all in one sitting, though I suppose that would have made me even more impressed with myself. No, the celebration here is that I powered through a single kind of food before it got moldy.

That’s the bad thing about grocery shopping for one: You have to commit to eating enough of one kind of food before it goes bad. Am I in the mood for a dozen eggs? Can I commit to a container of milk? The economical size yogurt tub? A bag of apples might work out to be cheaper per apple than picking up just a few. But it’s not wise. Or healthy.

Sour cream and I didn’t get off on the best foot, what with it having that “sour” misnomer. (It’s like the Greenland of food!) I gazed at it warily on many a taco night at Casa de Little Kate. But I’ve become a convert in recent years. Eating dry baked potatoes is no way to live your life.

I’ve yet to beat the mold spore clock with a loaf of bread. I’m ok until about two-thirds into the loaf, and I hit the wall. I don’t want toast, French toast, a sandwich of any form or egg in a hole. And I refuse to buy the short-bus loaves that they pawn off to shopper-for-ones. Hell no. I’ll go feed bread to ducks before that happens.