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Monica Bielanko
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Thursday
Jun252009

Five Year Plan

Oh, screw him. Harmonica Boy, I mean. That guy I'm married to in that video from the other day. On the phone on my way home from work last night I tiredly complained that I don't always want to be the full-time worker and would maybe like to stay home with my babies. This stresses him out, I know. After more than a decade on the road he just extricated himself from the most complicated relationship/career/lifestyle one can possibly imagine. A band. With his brother. He is still in the process of becoming a civilian and yet here I am, prattling on about five year plans and the like.
"But what is your five year plan?" I demanded.
I thought the phone went dead and muttered "He hung up on me! Fuck you!" As I was clicking off the work sponsored Blackberry I heard his voice. He hadn't hung up on me. But I hung up anyway and didn't call back. When I got home he quietly went about getting ready for bed while I sprawled on our bed and engaged in a major cuddle session with my boys, Max and Milo.

Serge went to sleep and I moved my session to the couch and invited David Letterman to join. Is better that we didn't continue our cell phone discussion regarding five year plans. Was a late night fight waiting to happen.

I got up this morning. My betrothed already at work, I brewed a fresh pot of coffee and noticed I had an email on the aforementioned Blackberry. It was from Serge.

Subject: 5 Year Plan.

In two years: lung cancer.

In three: dead.

In five: still dead.

Nice to know he's got one, anyway.