Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
That's What She Said
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Tuesday
Feb062007

Blood Butlers

I love my family. Fiercely. We hate each other. Fiercely. We are allowed to hate each other, berate each other, make fun of each other. Over the years, spent side by side in the trenches of familial battle, we have earned that right and we care not for your loved-up demonstrations with your functional family members.

Common folk would wince from the cursing and bad-tempered tones with which we use to address each other. Would perhaps try to intervene with the best of intentions.
"Now, now... "
"Can't we just be nice..."
"OOh, my goodness! That's not very...

We don't need your interventions. Your intentions. We don't need anyone. This is how we communicate. How we roll. We may scream, we may curse, violence may ensue but that is our right as Butlers. We are Butlers.

BrandonMonicaJordanShaun.

Butler.

Nobody knows what it was like except for us.

We might treat each other like prisoners of war, but you, you outsider - fuck with one of us and you fuck with all of us. And then? God help you.

Mess with me and three surly, scrappy boy-men will hunt you down and torture you if it's the last thing they do. They will. I've seen it done. They've all spent many months behind bars and would have no qualms about ripping the fingernails off some asshole that chooses to trifle with me, their psuedo "intelligent/successful" sister. Because anyone that chooses to mess with me is, of course, an asshole.

Oh, they hate/love me. Make no mistake about that. They glory in nothing more than embarrassing me, torturing me, mocking my clothing, my hair and the very air I breathe. Generally - just making my life miserable. But should you choose to treat me in a similar fashion - you will live to regret it. You can mock there, behind the anonymous safety of your monitor. You can laugh and think The Girl Who is donning some big britches and utilizing brave words to send the smack out. You anonymous pussy you behind the safety of your computer monitor, behind the locked door so your mother/spouse doesn't know what kind of horseshit you're up to on the internet. You can resort to your hoity-toity witticisms, sarcastic asides, thesaurus aided diatribes and even fall back on the ol' violence-is-never-the-answer soap box but that means nothing when you're staring one of my brothers in the eye. I dare you to stare one of my brothers in the eye. Double-dare.

The Girl Who knows of what she speaks. And she is secretly proud of her three badass brothers who care not for propriety and niceties and appropriate behavior. Laws and police officers? Please. The police officers in Utah know my brothers by name. And do not like to tangle. Blogs? The Brothers' Butler know not what blog means. And if you explained it to them (it's a place to share my thoughts and feeeeeelings) they would laugh at me and mock me and perhaps secretly be pleased that their sister is speaking about them so loquaciously on this frigid February day.

Writing about them comforts me. I get wrapped up in the bullshit of the internets, blogs, crazy strangers who write about me and email me and then I think about my brothers. Three men who have pledged a strange allegience to their only sister, three men who care not for the internet, blogs, (blogs? what the fuck is a blog). They laugh at such trivialities that don't mean shit in the course of living a real, non-virtual life.

My brothers, who've stormed through their years, facing the worst fate can lob at them and still, they tiredly soldier onward. I think of them, what they've been through, slashing through life, up close and personal with people and places that would reduce you to a screaming mass of tears and snot - and then I think of the internet and the words people hide behind and I laugh. And laugh.