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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.
That's What She Said
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Monday
Aug062007

Contacts, Tacos & Muumuus

I can feel my contacts perching angrily on my eyeballs sucking the juice from my head. Leeches. I hate contacts. But I hate my glasses more. Eyeball touching does not make me squirm but the very concept of a thin sheet of plastic (plastic?) draped over my eyeball annoys me. Like, I'm suffocating my eyes! They need to breathe! I do not like that I need assistance seeing. If I got lost in the desert, say, or was maybe stranded on a tropical island contacts and glasses would not be available. Without assistance I would be forced to squint all the time trying to see if that's a coconut up there or a pond over there. Although I'm not likely to get lost in the desert or end up on an island the thought that I would be at a disadvantage simply working with the eyes God gave me rankles.

Serge just text messaged me: Hi! Thanks for your interest in TEXT-MATCH! Here is my profile: I am 35 yrs old, heavy build and I enjoy Mexican food, The King of Queens, books about the nineteenth century fur trade, driving long distances, guitar and 75 minute showers. Text me back if you think we're a match! Thanks. From, TEXT-MATCH.

Where does he come up with this shit?

I am loathe to admit that a favorite evening for us involves making tacos, drinking beer and watching The King of Queens reruns. At least we'll get fat together. And love every Goddamned second of it. I can begin shopping for fat clothes at Wal-Mart and will maybe be able to finagle myself into one of those super-cool motorized carts so I don't have to walk. I will wear loud, floral-print muumuus the size of a king comforter and I will be happy.

Lindsay Lohan is in Utah. Poor thing. Finally checked into a decent rehab a few blocks from where I grew up. I just want to lock the lil' string bean in my basement. Max would curl up in her malnourished, freckled arms and I would feed her tacos and other lovely comfort foods, read her stories and brush her red hair until it crackles. No television for you, Lindsay! We will triumphantly give those zombies at E! and Entertainment Tonight the finger. We would take long walks along Utah's suburban streets and you would cry it all out and then for Godsakes get on with life away from Hollywood already.

Can you imagine the stress of her life? Sure she's got money but what does that really mean? Little woman-child is constantly under the microscope. Creepy, fucked up parents. Alleged "journalists" Geraldo and Sean Hannity speculating on her every move. Nobody to turn to but one Hollywood asshole after the other. I'll slit my wrists lengthwise before I'll let any child of mine near that kind of bullshit. I don't give a good Goddamn how cute they are when they're four, how much they love it when the camera is on them and that they beg me to let them audition for whatever it is. The answer will always be a resounding NO!

These stage moms need to be shot. Like the local lunch lady, they always serve up the same shit; "Britney just loooves to perform. Always has. Ever since she was a tiny girl she played to the camera". Or "Lindsay was the lead in the school play. She's always wanted to be the center of attention." Uh, lady? That's pretty much EVERY kid on the planet. Doesn't mean you pull 'em outta class and search for a record deal. Or slurp back vodka shots at Pure with your underage daughter. It's your job as a parent to steer them in the right direction. Hollywood? Huge left.