Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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And Her Happiness Made Her Boring

As is typical of me throughout my years on the planet... when I am not feeling like life has strung me up by my toes and is using the pliers from the toolbox of the devil himself to methodically yank out my fingernails, well, shit - I don't have a whole lot to say. Am I a cliche? Like, if I'm not feeling tortured, I have nothing to say? I've always been aware that, for me, writing happy is so much more difficult than writing sad. Although it bores me, I can wax poetic about depression for ages. But what do you say when you feel fine? And it ain't the ZOLOFT, bitches. For various reasons, I stopped that business about two months after I started. Besides, I don't have medical insurance. Didn't you wonder how I got my grubby paws on the stuff? Ahem.. Anyhoo...

This mind control thing I'm working on is fucking amazing. Seriously. I never realized I was in charge of what I think. I've always just assumed I'm a nutter whose mind routinely spins off its axis and I just have to go with it. Maybe that is why I don't have much to say today. Because I've been bitch slapping my mind into submission.. I've got a tight reign on her. And my God, the difference it makes.

Work? Is great! I know.. who the fuck is this typing to you? Some cheery bitch who has obviously ingested way too much coffee on this, Martin Luther King Jr. day (give it up for Civil Rights, ladies and gentlemen of The Internets!) But work? It really is good! I've been working full-time for ABC.. writing for Good Morning America and such. And the thing about network news? No tragic murder/car wreck/sad sad sad stories. Because if you've ever watched the news bit of Good Morning America? Each story is only about 15 - 20 seconds, tops. And the story has to be something the whole of America is aware of and can relate to. So that rules out the gory details of the latest NYC murder... and really the murder itself. Pop and Mom in the heartland aren't all that into the latest Manhattan rape or child abuse case - know what I mean?

So work is fantastic, The Surge is lovely. There was a tiny blip on the radar of contentment about a week ago. Just a very small, internet-related annoyance that freaked me out for about a day. .. but his wise words, and what common sense I've managed to hang onto lo these many years, ushered me quickly throught the ridiculosity (I think I just made up that word. Ridiculosity. I like it!) of the situation and all is well.

So. I'm baby hungry still. Of course, it's not the right time at all. Perhaps next year. 2007 is going to be a year of monumental changes for the Biegalskis Bielankos. For many reasons yet to be revealed. Lately, I've have this fantasy of saving enough money to buy a home in the mountains of Pennsylvania. I don't want to move, mind you.. but I'd like to buy a home there.. and maintain an apartment here in the city. It can be done. Property is cheap up thataway.. We can buy a fixer-upper... and slowly fix it up while I continue to work in the city. That way, on weekends, we can bolt from the madness for a gulp of country and fresh air and icy cold mountain spring water. And if... IF we ever decide to pack it in, we'll have a place to go that's still within a couple hours of the big, bad city. It's either all country or city for me. I don't think I can do the suburbs. I grew up in the suburbs. I want my nearest neighbor to be a quarter mile away, not looking in my window from his balcony. Although I certainly enjoy looking at him from my balcony. And listening, if I can catch a bit of an argument.

So, yes. I cut bangs. By myself. One might think I learned my lesson when I got liquored and died my hair pumpkin orange. Apparently I didn't. The Surge and I were watching Notes On A Scandal the other day, starring the loveliest of Brits, Ms. Cate Blanchette. What? You thought I meant Judy Dench? The move was engaging, as was the wine I was drinking.. but most of all I found myself enjoying Cate's bangs. A wonderful fringe that accentuated her eyes. You should have bangs, I told myself. Your forehead is bigger than Tyra Banks enormous skin canvas.. so if anyone should have a fantastic fringe, it should be you.

After the movie ended the kitchen scissors and I slipped into the bathroom together with another glass of wine. It had to be on the sly as The Surge observing me going into the bathroom with wine AND scissors (or hair dye) would end in a four-point tackle on the floor, him banging my hand on the tile until I relinquished the scissor.

Oh that he'd spotted me and my cohorts, the wine and scissors!! I emerged about thirty tries and an hour later with a rather drunk looking fringe. My bang looked as if it, and not me, had drank the wine and couldn't manage a straight line. In fact, initially, I rather looked like Johnny Ramone. I've spent the past week cutting my bangs. Every day I get up and try to style my mop and discover a lone strand of bang hair I missed. There it hangs, between the shorter fringe, as long as the hair used to be. So I'll scissor it off and yet, there'll be a fresh hunk tomorrow. I really should get myself to a professional. I'm progressing through the annals of rock'n'roll men. From Johnny Ramone, now I quite look like Joe Elliot from Def Leppard.

And The Surge? When he isn't busy invading Iraq he always knows just what to say.
"I LOVE your hair! Very sexy. Is that long hunk supposed to be hanging there like that right next to that bit that spikes up? So stylish! I LOVE IT!"