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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.
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Tuesday
Jul242007

Brought To You By The Letter Deeee (as in dog)

I've been busy living life as of late as opposed to writing about it. Quite honestly, I've been rising and shining every morning, jogging with Maxman and generally behaving in an exemplary fashion. I know! What the fuck? You'll be pleased to know, however, that despite the aforementioned early rising, I've also been drinking Bud Light into the wee hours as if it's going to be discontinued next week. Oh Bud, you stud. Red Wine seems like such an effeminate pussy in your bold shadow.

Like James Brown, I feel good! Same pep. Same verve. Except James is dead. But he obviously felt good at one point, and well, that's what I'm going for. Maybe all those well-meaning assholes who told me to exercise when I was depressed actually weren't assholes. Maybe there is something to those endorphins. Or the fact that I tried on my string bikini circa 1999 and I liked what I saw (why, hello thar you sexy young thang with only a roll-of-quarters-sized flab of painfully white skin hanging over your bikini bottoms...(SUCK IN! SUCK IN! YOU FAT WHORE, YOU!)... You from 'round these parts?) Yeah, fuck endorphins, bikini sexiness is waaay more conducive to mental well-being.

LEARNING THE ALPHABET FROM A MAN WHO OBVIOUSLY THINKS MY HEARING IS AS IMPAIRED AS HIS POOR, CONSTANTLY RINGING, RUINED-FROM-PLAYING-ROCK-MUSIC-FOR-A-LIVING SET OF EARS

Today Serge realized his plane ticket from NYC to Utah was booked for a week after his tour ends. Because he'd rather watch T.V. and pick his nose with Max and me in Utah instead of with his brother in Brooklyn, he wondered if I could call and find out how much money it'd cost to move up his flight.
"Sure." I said.
He calls me at work with a manifesto of digits and letters.
"Okay. Are you ready? Here is my confirmation number."
"Ready!" I say, phone sandwiched between ear and shoulder, fingers poised above keyboard ready to tap in the numbers for later reference.
"Okay" He says again. "Aaaaye as in apple, twooooo - fiiiiiive - Peee as in pear - Deee as in dog...."
"Serge! You can talk faster. I can nearly type a hundred words a minute for chrissakes."
"Oh. Okay." So he starts over again. "Aaaye as in apple, two-five - Peee as in pear.."

I am laughing my ass off. Looking around for any co-worker in hopes of putting my husband, the escaped Sesame Street retard, on speakerphone. I let him get a good eight letters in before I interrupt.
"Six - four - Esss as in Sam - Teee as in toboggan..."
"Serge. Did you say toboggan?"
"Yeah. So?"
"First, you don't need to say the letters. You aren't a Delta Airlines employee nor are you calling me from Croatia. I can hear you just fine. Secondly, toboggan?"
"What's wrong with toboggan?"
"How about Tom? Or Ted? Or Tire? Or Turd?... Toboggan?"
"I'm just making sure you get all the letters."
"Just say the letter. If I don't understand, I'll ask."
"Okay." He said after rattling off the rest of his confirmation number. "My original flight is for August seventh but I want to come home on August first. There is a flight from Newark to Detroit on the first, it's Delta one-seven-seven-niner. If I can get on that--"
"Did you just say niner?"
"Listen to me. If I can get on that flight outta Newark then I can get on the four-fifteen from Detroit to Salt Lake. The phone number is one-eight-hundred--"
"Serge."
"Yeah."
"What're you doing right now?"
"Having coffee."
"Can I ask why it seems easier that I call?"
"I don't know."
"Well, you have all the info there in front of you, it's your flight, why don't you call?"
"Yeah. You're right. That's probably easier."
"Seems to be."
"Okay. I'll call you back."
"Kay. Love you, ya idiot."
"What?"
"I said I ell as in Loooove you."