papal grandfather, desk calendar

Awoke with a pounding headache from a very long dream in which the Pope was my grandfather. He was waiting for me to come back from a mission, for what else would the granddaughter of the Pope be but a secret agent? I didn't make it in time, and so when I returned to Vatican there was a letter waiting for me from him. I wailed, I remember, shocking amounts of grief and frustration all bundled up. One of the cardinals took me to his office and in hushed tones told me to take whatever I would from his desk before someone came to clear it all away. Flipping through a battered and worn desk calendar, I could see where his hand had written in my birthday.

I'm near to tears even as I type this, as the dream was exceedingly emotional. Despite my relatively even keel these days I think I must need to run off and cry every now and again. Safety valve I suppose. I'm going to blame British Boy and Alan for the conversation yesterday about the Pope and his (looming) death. It makes me sad, as I like John Paul II very much.

Thanks to the wealth of options provided by Vanityfair's post here I've been writing my dear elected officials since I woke up, and I'm really thinking I do need the Republicans For Voldemort shirt as it seems especially appropriate these days.

where are all my papers?

Made an appointment to have the dress taken care of at the end of the month. Now if I could just find the statements that show how much I owe on the flowers and the cake I would feel less frazzled. I thought it was all in one spot, but it doesn't seem to be the case. Argh. I would also feel better if all the boys would go get measured for their clothes.

Found the lovely itemized thing for the flowers. Phew.