Consuela!!! We're Broke!

That can't be right, I say to myself as I look at the outstanding balance on my Visa card. They must have accidentally added an extra '1' in front of the real number. I'll have to call them. People are so stupid sometimes...

But, just to air on the side of caution for when I have my argument on the phone, I tally up the numbers. And then my heart sinks. The numbers are correct. I have single-handedly driven myself into the poorhouse. I look at the Visa statement and see all the post-break up charges that were suppose to make me feel better: a single ticket to Coldplay, this dinner, that show. But all they've managed to do was put me in a state of extreme anxiety. I look at my dwindling chequing account, then my visa statement, then my bills.

"Consuela!" I scream in sheer panic, "Consuela!!!".

Consuela is my "imaginary" Ecuadorean...no Peruvian...no Ecuadorian housekeeper. I live in a modest one bedroom apartment - so having a real housekeeper is impractical; plus (now) unaffordable. She is like the hologram doctor in Star Trek Voyager...she's real; but just kinda not. Anyhow, she makes me feel better even though we have a love/hate relationship. She's like the promise of things to come -- if I ever really make it in my industry. And even though I berate her when I get really down; she stays -- because I have promised to put her children through University.

"Consuela!!" I scream. Where is she?

"Wh-a-a-at Mia?" she says, begrudgingly from the other room. She calls me Mia. I have no idea why. She's annoyed because I've interrupted her telelatino soap opera.

"Consuela!!! We're broke!" I wail.

She comes out from the other room. She looks at me in disdain. Somehow I think Peru has a different interpretation of broke. "Mia," she coos, "dis is Canidah. Why don't you just go on dee Welfare or something?"

So I look up "Welfare, Benefits, Single" on Google. I follow the links (just out of curiosity) and scroll down to the magic number:

"Five Hundred and Thirty-six Dollars...per month...before taxes" I read. Is that right? How can that be right? How can anyone live off of a few hundred dollars a month? How do they maintain their rampant drug habits on that money alone? This is an atrocity! When I'm rich I'll have to figure out a way to fix the state of Welfare benefits in this country -- but for now I have other priorities.

My industry is in a massive slump right now. I have shows in development but they are locked in a state of limbo; and at this stage I'm basically wishing and praying that one of them will get picked up so I can pay my bills. I've gone too long without a contract and am on the brink of financial destruction. I thought I had it made; when the housing crisis hit last year I smirked. I was single -- I never had enough money to buy anything -- so for once, economically, I was actually doing alright in the grand scheme of things. But the trickle-down effect of the economy has put a state of panic in the pockets of the people who usually bankroll us -- and so, this morning; it has trickled down to me.

I used to be good with money. Not Jewish good, but good none-the-less. Maybe I should convert to Judaism...

The first Jewish boy that I ever knew was named Ezra and he was in my grade 5 class. We used to walk home from school together. The Indian kid that sat beside me in school told me that Jewish people pick up pennies from the street. So, at the age of 10, I used to taunt Ezra when we'd walk home together. It was a game. I had no idea what any of this meant because...I was only 10. But, I used to tell him "Hey, Ezra! Why don't you pick up a penny from the street?!" and then he'd turn around and chase me all the way to my front door screaming, "I'm gonna stick this umbrella up your ass!".

It was really fun.

But I realize now that my antisemitic comments at the tender age of 10 have finally caught up with me -- and the whole Jewish banking industry has now turned against me. I am ruined.

"Consuela!!! Bring me a drink!"

I go out onto the patio and slump into a chair. Consuela begrudgingly sits beside me and hands me a glass of something. I take a sip. Vodka!?! At 9 in the morning? She couldn't put some Bailey's in a coffee so I don't look like the white trash I am about to become?

"Oh, Consuela. Things are really bad. I was a Nazi when I was ten and I didn't know it. And now, the banking industry has turned against me".

She stares blankly at me. Her English isn't very good. She probably thinks I'm upset about a manicure -- or that she forgot to pick up more Starbucks for me last time I sent her grocery shopping.

"Consuela, I fear this may be the end for us!" I tell her. She rubs my foot in an act of kindness, but I can tell that she wants to get back to her soap opera; so I dismiss her. I will have to bear this stress alone.

I sit on the patio and take a deep breath. Think, Karen. Think. But my mind draws a blank. I remember an add on Craigslist for porn participants -- and I contemplate it for a millisecond; but then I remember about my ingrown hairs from my last bikini wax and decide against it.

Think, Karen. Think.

I walk into the kitchen to top off my glass. I see Perrier bottles in the recycling bin and grieve them. There will not be anymore Perrier for a while. I take the wine bottles out of the bin. I can return them to the Liquor Store for some change. And, while I'm walking, I might be able to pick up some pennies from the street.