Dear Diary;
This place stinks the big one. More rules than a freakin’ Turkish prison. Yesterday, I ordered chinese take-out and was told that ‘deliveries beyond gates of the Vatican are not permitted.’ Last night, I wanted to watch the director’s cut of The Godfather (that James Caan is such a hottie!), but was informed that ‘only PG13-rated films are permitted within the walls of Vatican City.’ WiFi is turned off precisely at midnight, I can’t wear my Pajama Jeans to Sunday Mass, and the kitchen staff still won’t let me have the good olives. Jesus!

They should rename this fuckin’ place VatiCANT City…


Dear Diary;
Still ironing out the kinks here in Vatican City. This week’s debacle: the mail room keeps getting my shit all mixed up with Jorge’s… Yesterday, he got my TV Guide and George Foreman grill and I got his Highlights magazine. Along with his electric bill, and a small package in plain brown wrapping marked PRIVATE, from the Everlasting Flames Adult Store. Looks pretty interesting! Think I’ll pretend I never saw that one and hang onto it. Actually, I’ll keep the Highlights too – at least until I find the sewing needle and candlestick in the Hidden Picture…

I’ll give him back the electric bill, though. And he’d better hand over my freaking grill…


Dear Diary;
Not sure if this living so close to the main office is gonna work out after all. Since I’ve moved in, Jorge’s been showing up for dinner. Every freaking night. The kitchen staff’s now automatically adding a place setting for him. It’s really starting to piss me off.

No shit – the ass wipe saunters in at 5:45 right on the nose, grabs a cold one outta the fridge without even asking, parks his fat ass in my La Z Boy man-chair and starts right in with the work questions. How would you handle the demands of the foreign diplomats, Bennie? What is your opinion on the male-only priesthood, Bennie? Should I wear the gold lamé mozzetta at Friday Mass, Bennie? What’s a five-letter word that rhymes with vagina, Bennie? He also chews with his mouth open… makes me wanna bitch-slap him halfway to the Sistine Chapel…

I just wish he’d go the hell home and tell it to his Twitter followers. I’m missing Honey Boo Boo, for crap’s sake!


Dear Diary;
MAN – I freaking LOVE being here!! Some tweaks are still needed; I can’t figure out where they unpacked my good pajamas, and the hot-tub jets are turned up so high I think my balls are gonna get blown off. But for the most part I’m happy as a clam in shit. Or something like that.

Some things are pretty odd though…  A tampon machine hangs on the wall in the ladies-room-turned-Confessional (makes it pretty fucking hard to feel penitent when a big fat TAMPAX sign is staring down at ya), the Chapel wreaks of stale Jean Naté, which makes me wanna hurl my communion wafer (don’t nuns use ANY other cologne, for crap’s sake?), and one of my dressers is packed full of old wimples, along with a stack of soiled, circa 1967 Altar Boy Monthly magazines (made me chortle!).

On the plus side, it sure is nice to have access to the Vatican Starbucks again. The espresso at Castel Gandolfo sucked donkey balls.


Dear Diary;
Thought I was gonna die before those shit-for-balls contractors finished, but here I finally am in my new home. Halla-fuckin-loo-yah!

It totally rocks too. The Sleep Number bed arrived, the bar’s stocked with the good shit, the hot tub’s open, and they transformed one of the extra libraries into a craft room for my garbanzo-beans-turned-rosary-beads business. Which, by the way, has been doing pretty well. Etsy, here I come!

I was also able to move the staff around a bit, to bring Sister Juanita to the new house. We’ve become… well, close over the past month, once she showed me precisely why she never gave back my Bullet. Which, by the way, hasn’t got a freaking thing to do with making breakfast shakes. Who knew??

Yup – we’ve moved waaaay beyond your average pope-meets-nun thing. Don’t want to write too many details here, except that I finally get what all those lay people have been bragging about.

Needless to say, most of my time has been split between her room and the Confessional box. Man; those rosary beads I’ve been making sure have come in handy…


Dear Diary;
Taking online poetry classes. So far, I’ve written three Haikus:

“You don’t quit: you die!”
So I faked sick and retired.
I got you, asswipes!

No Starbucks near here.
They won’t open the hot tub.
This sucks donkey balls.

When will you be done?
“Si, molto presto, Papa!”
Gonna die before…


Dear Diary;
Getting all kinds of shit about my expenses. They’re refusing to reimburse me for my Sleep Number bed, and keep switching my Hornitos orders to a well brand (fuckers!). Now they want me to return my HoverRound chair because ‘the Vatican does not provide product endorsements.’ Right – like that designer Holy Water in the gift shop doesn’t count for shit…

Pretty sure this is papal discrimination. Having someone drive me down to HR this afternoon, then marching straight into Jorge’s office if this bullshit doesn’t get settled. And just in case, I put The Enquirer’s number on speed dial…


Dear Diary;
Bored. Counting-my-teeth bored. Made a set of rosary beads today from leftover garbanzo beans I’ve been saving; they don’t look all that bad. Thinking about selling them on eBay (I’d even bless them for extra $$$) – or trading them for a Keurig (still no freaking clue why there’s no Starbucks around here)…

Meanwhile, the office rejected my last expense report. They say I gotta pay for my own ShamWOWs and Pajama Jeans. I’ve already told them these should go under ‘clothing allowance.’ Don’t they know I’m saving them a ton of money? Have they even seen the bill for Jorge’s designer underthings yet?? Cheap-ass fuckers…


Dear Diary;
Fun April Fools stuff going on here yesterday. Monsignor Flores covered the confessional kneelers with super glue, which sent screams of both terror and delight throughout the chapel all morning. And Sister Carla Mae replaced the leftover Easter candy with laxatives – which woulda been hysterical if I hadn’t grabbed a handful right before bed last night (I haven’t slept a wink and had no fucking idea I could run so fast). But the best prank of all was when the deacons replaced Bishop Ricci’s Mass vestments with a Jedi costume. Poor Alberto was so hungover from our all-night Easter-Rita Fiesta, he didn’t even notice until he looked down during the homily and saw the light saber hanging from his cincture! I’m telling ya, I laughed so hard I pooped a tiny bit in my undies (which made me really glad I didn’t send back the ShamWOWs after all…).

Meanwhile, Sister Juanita refuses to give back my bullet. Which is really pissing me off, but for some reason she seems happier than I’ve ever seen her…


Dear Diary;
Getting pretty pissed off at the contractors working on my house. Every fucking time I ask when they’re gonna be finished, all I get is “due settimane Santo Padre…” Two weeks my ass. In which alternate timeline? At this rate, I’m gonna die before I get to live there.

Meanwhile, they’re planning an Easter egg hunt here this afternoon. Which will be fun – but that means egg salad for lunch on Monday. Which gives me gas. (Not the egg salad; just lunch…)