I was riveted by the  machinations of the conclave that delivered the new pope to the world… a happening that will have virtually no impact whatsoever on my life, or on the life of my family. But I couldn’t turn away. All that marvelous pomp, circumstance, and sheer organization left me momentarily speechless… I watched that damned chimney for hours and the minute I pop out for a run, tada! — habemus papam. Bennett asked me why we don’t have a pope, and I told him that as a people we can’t even get all the members of a small congregation to agree to be nice to the rabbi. Supporting one supreme leader is waaaay above our democratic heads.

I took it as a personal nod of approval from His Holiness that he chose the name Francis, because, of course, we have a Frances of our very own. I hope he doesn’t suffer from the same barrage of awful nicknames as she does.
There are the usual suspects — Francie, Fran, Franny, and even Francie-pants. But M told me that it wasn’t right of me to choose a name that has the same first three letters as the word FART and not expect him to go berserk.
She therefore, also goes by Fartzel and, when he’s feeling particularly fancy, Fartocoles.
I think it’s Greek.
For some reason, she loves the nicknames, and even shared them with her friends. So, she is now Fartoloces to the whole world.
Or Pope Fartocoles, if you’re nasty. (Cue Janet Jackson music.)