My son is a pagan and there are Russians in my bedroom

I have two Russians living upstairs in one of my bedrooms. I do not know their names. They've been here for a few weeks. They are my new boarders. I put an ad out on Craig's List, they showed up, liked the place, handed me some cash and moved in. I knew they were Russian and fostered a secret hope that they might have Russian mafia connections and I'd get my lucky break. No such luck. Instead, the guy appears to have gone on an all-out mission to break the world record on electric bills. He likes the A/C around 34. He washes his cars a few times weekly. He does a few loads of laundry a day.

I finally cornered him downstairs with his arms full of laundry. My boyfriend had by this time already formed a theory that he is a serial killer, hence the constant washing of vehicles and clothing. I can't say this wasn't at all disconcerting for me to contemplate. It's not like I'm bragging about not knowing their names. I just didn't think it was an important detail at the time, and since then too much time has gone by for me to get away with actually asking them. By now I'm supposed to know.

So I interrogated the Russian guy in my most friendly interrogation style, which, in spite of the fact that I've spent most of my time getting culturally softened to a malleable, pulpy milksop in the USA, still seems to bring out the pure German in me. It's been a while since I interrogated a person about their laundry habits, but this is my washer and dryer we're talking about, which have not seen this much action since just before I stole them from my ex-boyfriend, which is when I decided to run up his electric bill by churning out clean, cleaner and cleanest sheets during a maniacal “cleaning spree” that lasted about a week.

Back to the Russian, who has been cornered downstairs by the door that leads to the garage, where the washer and dryer are. I started in on him rather innocently, by asking him if he in fact did laundry every day. He acquiesced that indeed this was the case. At which point I laid into him like an angry drunk Mexican midget wielding a baseball bat (but only metaphorically, as I wasn't drunk, diminutive, South American or armed), explaining to him in as carefully controlled a tone of voice that I could possibly muster under the circumstances, that I have two children, two gerbils, two fish, a dog and a cat and that I only do 2 loads of laundry per week, and was it really necessary for him to do a load a day, and could he perhaps consolidate his laundry a little more effectively, etc, etc. The attempt here on my part was to just sort of mildly given him the impression that I and my children would most likely be homeless and driven to prostitution and pickpocketing (respectively) as a result of the electrical bill he was churning out in my name. Turns out his excuse was that he doesn't have many clothes and he doesn't want to be dirty. I didn't even have a response to that. I'm sorry, but I live on a daily budget of about 24 cents a day, but my closet is exploding with clothes. Total unreality here.

In any case, he got the point. He seemed a little pasty and shaken after our little tete a tete but not too much worse for the wear. I haven't seen him since (he's been hiding in his room, with the A/C at a very civilized 78), but I've been keeping my eagle eye on the washer and dryer and a full day has gone by without him touching either machine. Maybe he's been hiding because he's so dirty after one day of no laundry that he's scared to show himself to the world.

The other Russian is his girlfriend. She has tits like rockets and a face like an angel. My 10 year old son is in love with her. He doesn't know her name, either. She helped him one day with his homework. Since then, he's become a model student and in fact was tested for “gifted” just yesterday. I shit you not, this was the same kid who used to say that he couldn't do homework because boys aren't organized enough to write things.

Besides going from a "C" average student to "gifted" my son also became a pagan this week. Last week he was a Jew. This might be considered a little odd for someone whose great-grandparents included an American Indian and a spattering of German Nazis and whose rotating selection of grandparents (depending on who his dad or I were married to or cohabiting with at different times) included old-school Germans who think all religion is evil, a pot-smoking hippie whose current girlfriend was his tantric yoga teacher, a Mexican chilanga, a New Age multi-level marketing junkie and an ordained minister of the Church of Christ. Add to that two Scientologist parents, and being a Jew is about the most normal thing a kid could ever wish for.

So that conversation went a little like this: “Mom, I've decided I want to be a Jew”.

Me: “OK, great.”

Son: “Seriously? You're OK with that?”

Me: “Absolutely. You sure you're serious about this?

Son: “Yes, mom. This is an important decision for me and I'm gonna stick with it.”

Me: “All right then. Let's get you circumcised.”

Following that conversation, my son was in spiritual crisis for about 4 days before he randomly decided to spout a bit of prophesy at total strangers at the airport last weekend and who, duly impressed, called him an “Indigo Child”. I looked this term up on the internet, and it basically means a kid who's really fucked up but whose parents have chosen to believe that he's generally misunderstood because he's actually psychic and really deep spiritually. So my kid really dug this for a few days and started writing a journal of prophesies, which sound really cool if you haven't heard them a hundred times before. I mean, kudos to my son for being drawn to the spiritual, I think it's great, but the shit he's coming up with ain't anything new, but I'm not going to be the one to cramp his style because I know he'll be done with it in a few days and be onto something new anyways.

Sure enough, this week he's a pagan. He's been a pagan for 5 days or so, which is pretty tenacious for him. The first three days were a bit rough because he kept forgetting the word “pagan” and kept having to ask me what he was, but by now he's settled into it quite nicely and is currently drawing watercolors of nude men and women dancing in nature. He decided that natural is best, and what's the big deal about nudity anyways, a concept my almost-2 year-old couldn't agree with more, especially when it's time for a walk, which she considers is best done in the buff anyways.

So the Russian girl with the rocket tits told me she'd had a job interview that morning with Walgreen's for a cashier job, which reminded me why she's actually living in one of my upstairs bedrooms in the first place: I don't really have a job that pays shit. I have numerous jobs that pay something, sometimes, but none that actually make it possible for me to purchase a tank of gas without silently panicking. Hence, the endless succession of strange roommates in the extra bedroom. The set-up reminds me not a little of Anne Frank, since my harboring a roommate is completely illegal, forget about two, forget about them being the 6th set of roommates in less than a year. To clarify, I don't own this place, I rent it. The landlord already freaked out when he found out I was harboring a dog. I wonder what he'd actually say if he knew I was hiding a couple of Russians in here too.

Back to the Russian girl interviewing at Walgreen's, apparently they actually asked her during the interview, “why do you want to work here?”

This question had me stumped. It's been bugging me for days. I don't know I'd have an easy answer for that if someone asked me why I wanted to work at Walgreen's. Because, unless you get brownie points for bullshitting, they wouldn't really want to know my answer.

“I want to work at Walgreen's because ---”

I can't even come up with a bullshit answer to this one. Why the fuck would anyone want to work at Walgreen's, you dumb fucking bitch? Because you're hiring, you fucking assfuck, and I need some fucking money right about now, and I talked myself into the idea that I can actually survive and raise a family off $7 an hour before taxes, when the babysitter wants twice as much so I can have the fucking privelege of working, that's what. I don't WANT to work at Walgreen's and either does anyone else, unless they're meth heads with a way of getting into your pharmacy after hours, and either do you, for that matter, and that's why you're asking me, to see if I can come up with one good reason why you're still here, because you're fresh out of answers. You sick, sick person.

If I'd been the interviewee, I guarantee you the Walgreen's manager would've walked out of that door right behind me, never to return.

Besides, the Russian chick had an interview lined up at Victoria's Secret at the mall, which pays $10 per hour starting, and she and her tits are going to be perfect for that job, so her head is probably in a pretty good place right now anyways.

Which of course got me to thinking of the whole job interview process. The last job interview I had, I lied my ass off, for about an hour – in German. I promised them I could do things I'd never even heard of. I assured them I could generate $200,000 in new business in 3 months, from scratch, in an area of business I had zero experience in. I told them about my incredible average production output, playing it off like it wasn't a big deal but literally having pulled the number out of my ever-tightening sphincter due to the fact that I had never produced a single one of what was being discussed (although my resume claimed I had 10 years' experience in the field). When asked what type of salary I had in mind, my answer was quite possibly on the order of millions of dollars a year, which I considered was an answer appropriately reflective of my supposed skills and previous accomplishments.

I retrospect, I'm pretty sure they had my number within the first 2 minutes, and the rest of the time they were just enjoying themselves, as Germans will, by casually torturing me, and watching me squirm (I had chosen the German lady's bra-less nipples as my focal points to help me keep my cool, but that may have backfired in its own way as well. One really lovely thing about Europeans in general is they are a lot less uptight about bras, which as an A-cup, suits me just fine personally, because I really don't have anything to lift or support. The only reason I wear bras is to cover my nipples, because in the US nipples are considered dangerous and distracting and quite possibly a sign of terrorist tendencies.)

I, too, need to gear up for some new interviews, however. After 4 years of pretending I was gainfully employed, I have finally acknowledged that I'm not just unsuccessful, but that I'm broke, I suck at what I do, and I am in the wrong part of the country and in the wrong line of business entirely. Being a realtor in Florida was easy money – for about 4 months. Getting distracted from my fledgling career path by going sailing in Portugal and gallivanting through the English countryside with my dashing new husband was, professionally speaking, perhaps not the smartest of all moves. Being left high and dry by the very same (albeit abruptly much less dashing) husband, who ingallantly and very suddenly decided to gallivant solo (in the Sahara desert, of all places, never to be seen this side of the pond again), threw me for a loop, but back then there was this thing called a home equity line of credit, which was a welcome temporary solution. Getting knocked up shortly thereafter by a guy I'd only met that same weekend was, in hindsight, also poor planning. OK, it was no planning. Fast forward to today, and my financial profile would make Stephen King scream with horror.

I've started filling out some online apps and sending out resumes. They want to know if I have any management experience. I want to say, listen pal, I'm a single mom, of course I know how to manage. I could run a small country better than anyone else who's currently doing it, while cooking dinner and wiping my kids' asses.

Do I have any sales experience? Sure I do. Do I work well under pressure? Fer fuck's sakes, you're looking at someone who's never worked any other way. You want proof? Here's a little anecdote for you, future employer: I was selling advertising some years back and took a phonecall at home while bathing my infant son in the kitchen sink. While fielding the call in the most professional manner imaginable, I watched in silent horror as my son found a turd (presumably his) in the bath water, picked it up and began maneuvering it towards his open rosebud mouth. Without the prospective client ever knowing that I wasn't sitting at a desk in a penthouse office suite, I deftly swiped the turd off the hand-to-mouth trajectory path it was on, causing it to take flight across the kitchen like a bird on the wing, and I closed the deal.

So yeah, I can do sales, and yeah, I work well under pressure. Next question, please. Just please don't ask me why I want to work for you.

Breaking News:
God, Founder of Christianity and CEO of Heaven, is abruptly fired
Face of the moral crisis 'terminated,' will stay on board of directors

Heaven’s boss, God, who led the giant 2000 year-old institution of Christianity into a steady decline over the last century, has been abruptly terminated. The immortal deity, who earned $484 million from the Vatican over the last eight years, won't receive a bonus or severance payments, but will keep his salaried post on the board of directors when he leaves as CEO at the end of the year, reports the New York Daily News.

The pope called God’s removal a "good first step" in safeguarding heavenly interests, and blasted "disastrous strategies" by God that led Christianity "toward ruin." Vatican indulgences funds hold nearly 5 million Go-Straight-To-Heaven shares. "The leadership that ran Christianity into moral bankruptcy should not be running Christianity during moral bankruptcy," said the pope, who filed a motion in court this week demanding God’s ouster.

The recession, unsatisfactory weather and failure to end the War in Afghanistan were also cited as reasons for God’s termination.

No word yet on who will take over the venerated post.

—Peter Dudley

If models could think

...and if purses could speak:

Walmart aisle lady

Hi Walmart aisle lady, no, I was not looking at you, correction, I'm not looking at you, well I guess I am now but it wasn't my intention to, I'm actually just looking for the fizzy water and some Funnyuns and was hoping it might be in that aisle. The one you're in and glaring at me from. Your aisle, I guess, from the way you're looking at me. Sorry. Sorry I looked at your aisle.

Uh, no, I am not stalking you. Nope, I am not a stalker. And if I were a stalker, why the fuck would I be stalking you. Oh -- I'm sorry -- you DO own the aisle. That's your aisle. All right, Walmart aisle lady, I get that now. I looked in your aisle without getting a permission slip first, and for that I am truly fucking sorry but I never got the fucking memo in the first fucking place that this is your fucking Walmart aisle. And no, you do not look like a bag of Funnyuns, so I'm just gonna be on my way right now.

Bye, Walmart aisle lady. Guess I'll see you again tomorrow.

Chapter titles of the book I have yet to write

"If You Can't Be A Good Example, Then You'll Just Have To Serve As A Horrible Warning":

Chapter 1: If You're Going To Hitchhike 3000 Miles From NYC To California, Don't Do It In The Dead Of Winter

Chapter 2: When He Says "I Love You" While Pounding Your Head Into The Pavement, Chances Are He's Lying

Chapter 3: It's Actually Poor Form To Buy Live Maine Lobsters And 100 Pounds of Easter Candy With Food Stamps

Chapter 4: If You Want Someone To Look After You In Your Dotage, Don't Boil Your Child's Pet Turtles, Even If It Is An Accident

Chapter 5: If You Must Suffer Through The Heartbreak Of A Painful Divorce, Make Damn Sure You Were Actually Legally Married In The First Place

Chapter 6: Don't Get Pregnant While Having Phone Sex

Chapter 7: Avoid Giving Your Life Savings To Total Strangers

Chapter 8: If He's Fat and Ugly and Smells Bad and Lies, Chance Are He Wasn't Meant For You Anyways

Chapter 9: Don't Buy A Rolex When You're Broke, Unemployed, A Single Parent, And You Gave Your Life Savings To Total Strangers

Chapter 10: Accidents Happen, But Spilling Nacho Cheese Sauce All Over Your Prada Purse Is Downright Portentous

The miracle of childbirth

The birthing process is its own meditation. You do not have to worry about that part at all. You will be transported to the outer limits of your pain threshold without ever crossing it; and then you will be transported to nothingness, a total absence of any pain at all, to the point where you will wonder if you just imagined the whole thing. It will make you stand back from your own body with a sense of utter amazement for its perfection and capabilities.

And then you'll shit the bed.

I heart swine flu

I really ought to know better. I'm all about saving the world, but I really prefer to do it wearing Christian Laboutins. I don't own a pair of Laboutins, but I do consider their eventual acquisition a small but inevitable step (or maybe two) on the way to world domination. Fuck me if I'm going to fight the revolution looking like some clod-hopping, hairy-legged, communist bearded peasant.

The swine flu has had the US up in arms. Why? It's a flu, with a lousy nasty name, but at the end of the day it's a flu. No one would care about it except for its lousy nasty name, and for the fact that a lot of vaccines were made for it (thus creating a biological impetus for the flu virus to redesign itself into a stronger, better virus) and that it's an excellent way to pump the mainstream agenda that we are in dire need of the government shooting stuff up our veins to make us safe. It's a good precedent, in any case. If they manage to make progress on the road to forced inoculations, we'll be lining up in a few years to receive our anti-terrorism drugs. And one day, we can all look back at this and smile and say "the swine flu started it all".

But in the meantime, I fucking heart the swine flu. I finally managed to get my yearly debilitating seasonal flu, just in the nick of time. Due to the pressure of having to keep up with the Joneses, I decided it had to be be none other than the swine flu that had paid me a personalized visit. Thanks to the fact that I have no medical insurance and from all appearances would rather spend my money on a Rolex than on a doctor (unless I'm dilating) (can I just stress the word "appearances" for now, without getting further into it?), I didn't have to go through the red tape of having this confirmed by an expert medical opinion.

I had been having a hard time recently meeting my weight loss goals. Going to the gym, doing cardio stuff to bring my heart rate to 297 or so, plus weights, plus swimming, sauna and stretching really hadn't done anything at all, according to the scale. Trimming back on carbs, eating the good protein, etc etc made me feel a little more self-righteous but didn't even improve my skin in a noteworthy way. If this all sounds a little self-centered, let's not forget that I am an American girl, and my entire life's worth can be measured on a simple scale -- in pounds. US pounds. Anything over, say, 148, is already completely unmentionable. Unless you're 6'3", which I am not, and in which case, it's still unmentionable because one's height would already put one outside of the bounds of open discussion.

I never had a particularly hard time losing weight, because I tend to drop pounds like crazy when there is a major tragedy in my love life, which in the last several years I have had the good fortune of experiencing on a somewhat regular basis. You know, little things like the husband breaking up via email after he leaves the country -- for the fucking Sahara desert -- just to make sure I couldn't stalk him one last time to put a dead rabbit in his stew; or the [morbidly obese] father of my child spreading international rumors about me to his collection of married girlfriends -- and their husbands -- to prevent them from contacting me... While this is not the time and place to get into the nature of these events, let's just say that life's been on a major steady upswing for the past year and I had gained about 15 "love pounds" -- with no tragedies or prospects thereof looming on the love horizon whatsoever. So when I was touched by the divine hand of the swine flu, I was really quite tickled (*thank you Jesus*).

Also, I'd fallen off the "non-smoker" wagon, a fact I wasn't happy about at all. So in fact I got a two-fer with the swine flu: (1) I dropped 4 lbs in 4 days, and (2) it's a little difficult to worry about nicotine withdrawal when you can barely consider imbibing water.

The first day wasn't so hot. My bowels turned to liquid, which was a definite perk on the weight loss front, but combined with blacking out whenever I stood up, it was a rather unfortunate combination of symptoms. I pooped in my pants about 4 times that first day, but we all know that one must suffer to be beautiful, and scores of dirty underwear rinsed out hastily and draped like small victory flags in strategic areas of the house are but a small price to pay in America's War against Obesity. What with all my little victory flags waving high, the house started to look a little like a Tibetan monastery, but let's face it, I'm a fucking patriot, and these colors don't run.

The boyfriend, who was doing a fantastic job taking care of the children for me due to my delicate condition, found it rather amusing as well, once he was able to somehow compartment the "my girlfriend just shit in her pants" part in a category comfortably separated out from the "my-girlfriend-is-an-incredibly-alluring-sexy-fiend-at-all-times-when-she-does-not-have-poop-in-her-pants" category. For the first time in his 47 years, he even changed a diaper. Not mine. The two year-old's. Who, for the record, did not catch the flu because, among my other superpowers, I still make milk. My 10 year-old did catch it, which conveniently allowed him to catch up on hours of missed TV and make undue demands on his dying mother for foods he craved and which have not yet been invented, 2 activities which he appeared to enjoy very much from the relative comfort and security of the family couch.

Day 2 was a winner. I felt much better yet was still unable to consider the prospect of food, and my bowels continued to cooperate beautifully by turning layers of cellulite into water, or so I imagined. The scale was showing favorable results, indicating that I am a good person who does good things and that Jesus loved me very much. I was able to get out of bed a few times, I was drinking water to stay hydrated, I caught up on sleep, and at the tender age of 40 had already learned that important life lesson to "never trust a fart".

Day 3: more of the same. Was able to walk up or downstairs without blacking out or being completely exhausted. The boyfriend went down for the count (not a moment too soon: he is perfect in every way) and decided to take advantage of his swine flu by quitting smoking for the first time ever. I had been posting my recent Swine Flu Diet successes on Facebook and was getting good feedback (all from females), such as:

"Congrats on the swine flu! I think my son's got it (as of today) so I'm probably up next!!" and

"I am coming right over to make out with you! I LOVE a good flu - that quick 10 lb loss is soooo great"

which, in its turn, engendered a tremendously enthusiastic response from the male Facebook community, creating perhaps the first-ever erotic thread on the subject of swine flu.

Day 4: I learned why Pepto-Bismol doesn't have a big warning label on their cute little cherry-flavored tablets that screams
"WARNING! EVEN EXTREMELY LIMITED USE OF THIS PRODUCT MAY CAUSE BLACKENING OF TONGUE FOR UP TO 3 DAYS! DON'T WORRY, IT'S NOT THE BUBONIC PLAGUE, AND YOU ARE NOT TURNING INTO A CHOW HOUND -- IT'S THE CUTE LITTLE CHERRY-FLAVORED TABLET YOU ATE 3 DAYS AGO!"

Duh. You probably wouldn't take it either if you knew.

By day 4 I'd stabilized at around 4 lbs total weight loss and was feeling an appetite. Broke my 3-day fast with Flavor Blasted Xtra Cheddar Goldfish. Still disappointingly un-gaunt and un-waiflike, but quite frankly I couldn't afford to lounge around and play hooky much longer, and besides, I had to go shop for a new gerbil cage for my son (his gerbil actually chewed through the cage and has pulled several houdini's over the last weekend -- who knew how squirmy a gerbil can get, right?) and attend to various other functions of basic survival, including but not limited to making a living.

I got on the scale, which confirmed that I am in fact destined for greatness, that all my missteps are forgiven and that fame and fortune are awaiting me around the next corner.

Thank you, swine flu, for helping me get back on track with my weight loss goals and helping me -- and my boyfriend -- quit smoking. And if you are considering getting the swine flu vaccine -- especially if you are a woman over the age of 40 -- please read this first.

It reminds me of a cool church sign I saw on my way back from the childcare place this morning: "Praise the Lord anyway". Hallelujah. But that would be the subject of another blog.