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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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Wednesday
Sep262007

Bono Lied

Yeah. My computer is still broken and I still haven't bought a new one. Which is fine by me. Perhaps in not posting lo these many weeks I can shake the assholes. I am feeling brutal and unapologetic as of late. Also, I hate people. In general.

The snakes, they always have bones in my dreams. Which means I slash at them and slash at them but somehow their bony skeletons fortify them. One could argue that battling a single bony snake with its skin in bloody tatters is preferable to dealing with the obvious alternative dream scenario; cutting the snake in half and then watching in horror as both ends attack simultaneously. But the bones peeking through snake skin flaps? Ick.

In another snake nightmare the snake has swallowed my arm up to my shoulder. I turn my head slightly and am eyeball to eyeball with the giant, yellow-eyed anaconda. I can feel its muscles sliding grotesquely up and down my arm but it can't get ingest any more arm. My shoulder, which (luckily) is connected to my torso stops it from swallowing more Monica. And so I fling my arm about, madly trying to shake the snake loose. Far, far away, I can see its tail flipping around knocking holes through walls.

I don't mind spiders, bugs, what have you. Mice are cute and I even managed to make friendly overtures to the subway rats sloshing through the bowels of New York City, all hey there little fella and such... But snakes? Dear God. I am phobic. Mom is terrified of them as was her Mom before her. Could it be genetic? More likely a learned trait. What can be more terrifying when you are five than the thing that scares the shit outta the most important person in your world?

Earlier this summer Serge and I were hiking. As that all the time do-gooder Bono once opined, it appeared to be A Beautiful Day. Sun shining, birds chirping and we were slowly but surely making our way to the summit of a popular mountain in Salt Lake. About halfway up the trail we encountered a man on his way down.
"Hello. Beautiful day." He said in that Friendly Greeting way that appears to be all the rage amongst hikers.
"Yeah." I replied. "Have a good one."

He had almost disappeared around the corner when he shouted "Oh yeah! There are a couple big rattlers sprawled on the trail up there. No worries though, you'll hear them way before you see them! Have a good one!"

No worries? Is he out of his fucking mind? I nearly emptied my bowls on the trail. "That's it. We're done." I told my husband as my knees weakened and I crouched down in order to keep from fainting.
"But we're almost---"
"You obviously don't understand. I couldn't keep walking that way if I wanted to."

I cried the entire way down the trail. From nerves. Serge took sublime advantage of my girly demonstrations to feign seeing a snake at every turn. Fucker. Haven't been hiking since. I imagine rattlers at every turn, coiled in anticipation of my passage through their territory. Turns out both Bono and the hiker lied. It was not A Beautiful Day.