Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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A Bad Call On My Part

I don't write much about work because Mama gots to pay the bills, yo. And, well, I like my job. I get to hang out at a T.V. station, watch the tube, read what's going on in the world, write about it and listen, via police scanners, to the strange shit that goes down in Utah.

Like this and especially this. I mean, Gary Coleman living in Utah? Whatchoo talkin' 'bout Willis? What are the odds Gary Coleman moves to my brother's neighborhood? Gotta be less likely than a Mormon buying liquor. And, of course, there is always the awesome atrocity that is the continually unfolding drama of famed polygamist Warren Jeffs - HBO's Big Love personified. So yeah, Boss Lady knows about the blog and likes it. But I'd hate to push my luck.

So I have to use the loo. I head to the restroom and prepare to do my thing. Once inside the stall I discover I'm going to need a feminine product. Lucky for me, my benevolent employers see fit to keep a giant box of tampons under the sink to be used during emergencies only (which is the only time I avail myself of the massive tampon stock - I never, ever stuff a handful in my purse.) I need a tampon. But I've got this tricky button-fly, double loopedy-loop thing-a-majig keeping my pants on. A real bastard to monkey with.

Damn. I've gotta do up my pants, step two feet outside the stall just to grab a tampon, return to the stall, undo my pants again, do my dirty work and then do 'em up again. Lotta work, right? Most of the time, I don't run into folks in the bathroom so I figure I can hold up my pants, grab a tampon and return to the stall in about five seconds. Presto! Deed done and nobody the wiser.


Serge always tells me I rush through things without thinking. That this behavior is to blame for my contant glass-breaking, head-bumping, bad-driving (I'm a great fucking driver) existence. I'm not allowed to handle chicken in the kitchen anymore because I don't take proper care. He has a fear of Salmonella that rivals most people's very real apprehensions of sharks and snakes and death. But Serge? Wave raw chicken in his face and wait for the shit to hit the fan. Because it will. If he were the abusive husband type a small slab of poultry would deter him more effectively than a steak knife. Unless I had just used the steak knife to slice the chicken and then it would be equally as effective because MY GOD the Salmonella transfer! We're all going to diiiie!

Back in the restroom I bolt from the stall, holding up my unbuttoned pants with my left hand and reaching for the tampon cupboard with my right at the very second the restroom door swings inward.
It's a girl from the sales department. I don't know her personally yet there I stand, frozen, one hand clutching my pants the other sweaty fist triumphantly gripping a tampon.

I concede; my choice to bolt for a tampon in the work restroom with my pants hanging loosely around my ass was made in haste and I probably should have afforded the decision a bit more thought. But hey, lesson learned.