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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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Friday
Sep072007

On Being A Pussy

I pad across the hardwood floor and peek between the cold, metal blinds. My friends, the blinds. Guardians that separate me from the rest of the world. Very often, I hate people. Not specific folks, well, sometimes specific folks but mostly just society at large. The normal hatred from which we all suffer; wanting to beat the slow driver senseless, barely restraining yourself from stepping on the toes of the bitch who keeps banging you with her giant bag on the L train or the fucker in the bank drive-thru who doesn't have shit ready when it's their turn. I can see you! Putting on your make-up, talking on your cell phone and at the last minute, when you should have been ready you frantically begin writing out your deposit slip whilst I seethe with rage and it is all I can do not to go Kathy Bates on your ass and ram the back of your car Fried Green Tomatoes-style.

I will call you a fucker, you fucking fuck. Because you cannot hear me. If I knew you could hear me I would probably smile demurely and tell you I like that adorable, lavender sweater set you're wearing while mentally sticking forks in your eyeballs. Because I am a pussy. Like an anorexic avoiding food, I shy away from confrontation as if it will make me fat.

As I peek between the blinds I see it. The van. Rusty, dented, it's obviously been on the giving and receiving end of a few fender benders. It's not silver nor would I christen it gray. The van is more like the color of the sky on a dreary, overcast day. Yes, that's the right color; overcast.

The van has been sitting in front of my house for the past week, blocking Max and my view. For sale, the sign says. Who parks their beater van in front of someone else's house to sell? The answer is an easy one to procure. Just call the number on the for sale sign, right? Tell the voice on the phone to go park their shitty van in front of somebody else's house, Godammit!

Except I can't. Because I'm a pussy. Screw up my order at the drive-thru and I will eat the fish burrito instead of the beef burrito I was craving. I will bitch about it the whole time, but I would rather bitch at loved ones instead of the dickhead who got my order wrong. Because I am a pussy.

But today I broke through my pussy barrier and I called the van-owning asshole and kindly asked him to sell his van elsewhere. My new mantra: I Don't Give A Fuck. I am tired of living apologetically. Worried what you think.

A recent incident filled me with rage. I was sobbing out of anger. Not sadness. I was pissed to the point of shaking. Of course it involved the disapproval of a Mormon. This stranger was able to silently karate kick me back to 13-years-old when I lived amongst Mormons and was made to feel ashamed over my crummy family. I allowed her to make me feel like shit, to make me feel embarrassed about myself, about who I am.

No more. You say I don't get it, I say you don't get it. Except you forget; I was you once, I read your scriptures and sat in your churches and prayed your prayers and believed your beliefs. I was you but you will never be me, I get you but you will never get me.

The van is gone. As is the pussy who used to cower inside this body.