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Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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Thursday
Jun152006

Cereal Killer


Thoughts of you pervade my brain throughout the day. Often, when darkness has cloaked the heavens in her violet mantle and stars are stitched throughout the night sky I lay in bed and think of you. Your satisfying crunch, your lovely toasted bits of goodness afloat in a sea of milk. Sometimes I can't hold back any longer and I must come to you. 3AM in the morning be damned! I MUST HAVE YOU. I love you in the morning, I love you in the afternoon and boy do I love you at night. You are the ideal entree, the perfect meal. You are everything. Cereal, will you marry me?

I just killed three bowls of cereal. In a row. One is never enough.. Two seems right.. but three? I blame it on the bowl. These fucking cereal bowls are never big enough. Portion, my ass. They're nearly as bad as the snack size cereal packages.. If I wanted a snack motherfucker, I woulda bought one. I want a bowl of CEREAL! You know the teeny, tiny packages of which I speak. Those mini-boxes Dad used to cart along on camping trips. I could kill four, maybe five of those boxes in one sitting. Cereal bowls are on par with the snack packages. Too damned small! Don't regulate my cereal consumption god dammit! I'm thinking of Ice Cubing it a la FRIDAY and just using a mixing bowl from here on out. Cereal, the other Super Bowl.

I'm told a serving of most sweetened breakfast cereals, is 30 grams. That comes out to about three-quarters of a cup, as listed on the label. So I figure I'm rocking maybe five servings per bowl. Which means, since I just housed three bowls, that I consumed 15 servings of cereal (oh snap! she can multiply!)

Obviously I've rediscovered my love for cereal. Oh, I never stopped loving my deliciously crunchy little buddies.. but we lost touch for awhile. I moved to New York, tried to branch out.. You know, attempting to be cosmopolitan and whatnot.. There was brunch.. and eatin' at exotic locales, cooking omelettes from gourmet books and such. Fuuuck that! I've recently concluded that when you're broke...it's either Ramen Noodles or cereal and I'm all about the Cheerios, baby.

When I was young I was strictly Lucky the Leprachaun's bitch... that paranoid motherfucker ("they're always after me Lucky Charms!") he must have been stoned and those marshmallows are totally the creation of someone suffering from a severe case of the munchies.

Of course, the main selling point for Lucky Charms has always been the marshmallows (or "marbits" as General Mills calls them - seriously!). I would suck those Lucky Charm marshmallows until they dissolved in a delicious puddle of sugar on my tongue. I lost my shit when purple horseshoes joined the roster of pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers in '84. Good times.

Lucky Charms have come a long way since that fortuitous day. Since the horseshoes, the good people at General Mills have added red balloons, rainbows, pots of gold, leprechaun hats and shooting stars to the marshmallow line-up. If they're smart (or stoned) they'll slowly phase out the toasted bits and just go with marshmallows. Fucking magically delicious, they are..

Oh, Lucky and I weren't monogamous. There was a brief flirtation with the Trix rabbit and the year I turned 10 I took time off to set sail on Cap'n Crunch's milky sea. For much of '89 I was into orgies, falling victim to the siren song of those kinky bastards Snap, Crackle and Pop and their Rice Krispies. Cocoa Puffs hold a special place in my heart, of course. Whats not to love about a cereal that doubles as chocolate milk? It's bittersweet, finishing a bowl of Puffs.. On the one hand you're sad the Puffs are gone but you've got all that chocolate milk to glug.

Eventually I grew up. Since Trix are for kids and I'm nothing if not a cereal policy follower, I left the Rabbit to his pedophilia pursuits... There were the "healthy" years just after college before Dr. Atkins ruined my granola loving, bread snarfing existence. The food season in which granola, saltine crackers and bagels were considered healthy.

I'd eat the shit out of all the granola cereals with fat/carb/ content that would explode your fat cells (Clusters and 'Healthy' Choice Almond Crunch I'm looking at you..) But it's healthy, right? It's granola...RIGHT?

Now I'm wise to those granola pushers and their diabolical schemes ... Instead I just mainline Cheerios and Kix like they've been (God forbid) discontinued. These cereals are low in fat AND relatively low in carbs while maintaining their deliciousness.. Walking the fine line between Atkins and normalcy is fucking exhausting, isn't it? But if one is in love with cereal, one has to thumb one's nose at Atkins and his no carb obsession. And as MeatLoaf (ironically, an Atkins approved food) opines; I'd do anything for love... Er.. and food.
Wednesday
Jun142006

Chasing The Dream

I am stoned, watching the television program INTERVENTION on A&E. And it's FREAKING ME OUT! You go along, living life as a fairly productive citizen and suddenly you're a pot brownie away from an episode of INTERVENTION starring yourself. S'okay.. Am out of pot now. Future employers will be glad to know the binge is over.

Listen... I am having a crush of thoughts.. a big ol' crowd of thoughts jostling for attention up in my head. Cuh-razy thoughts that change the way I feel about life and my potential. My head aches with growing pains.

Not having a job affords one the time and the inclination to ponder what one really wants to do. The redundancy of a job can dull the senses and plug up the well that deep thoughts spring from. You tend to go through the motions, without giving them much thought. But you can go through the motions and wake up a divorce and four kids later and wonder how the fuck it all happened.

I graduated high school and set my sights on college. Once I realized I was moving faster in the 'real world' than college, I left college and accepted a full-time position at FOX news. Then I aimed for bettering my salary. Once that happened I settled into perfecting my skills as a producer. And then... and then.. Then what?

The job got old. Barring breaking news (which, unless some stupid bastard hiker gets stuck on a mountain prompting a 'major' rescue effort, isn't a pressing issue in Utah) the job was fairly routine. After awhile, even the breaking news gets routine. Same stories, different players.. I played my computer keyboard like a piano, often accomplishing what was supposed to last eight hours in two. Now what?

What's bigger and better than conquering New York City? So I landed my 'dream job' producing and writing news in the number one market in the country. But like ravenously biting into a much anticipated sandwich and discovering a hair that doesn't belong to you, I quickly discovered my dream job was just that; a dream. The reality is I lost my taste for producing. But the money kept rolling in and I told myself the gig was good as it was freelance and afforded me the option of trotting off to Europe with The Surge.. So I stuck with it until a month ago they made the decision for me.

So here I am... a panorama of options lay before me and I don't know what to do. I am paralyzed. Of course, I've sent out resumes (not one fucking response after sending out twenty odd resumes... and it was a proper I-am-a-responsible-employee resume chock full of self-aggrandizing lies) because that's what you do when you don't have a job.. But the lack of a prompt response (do you think maybe they googled me and found this blog and tossed my resume in the trash?) has given me time to think about me, my life. Is this what I really want? I don't know. If not, what do I want? Well, I want to be a writer.. a columnist, an author.. I just want to write. They say you need to find a way to get paid for doing what you love. I just can't seem to find a way.
Monday
Jun122006

Say No To Crack



"So this new moon rising isn't about freedom at all, it's just another sign that the sun is setting on women's power" - Shannon Rupp



When I was but a pre-teen with mosquito bites for breasts I was schooled in the proper way a young lady should wear a bra.
"Don't let your straps hang out!" Mom tutted whilst giving the offending strap a yank.
The fact that I wore the wrong size bra for nigh on ten years is evidence that size wasn't a huge concern during my teen years. My major concern? Dodging the bra saleslady. I'll be damned if I was going to let the handsy ol' gal in the pre-teen section of the department store get her mitts (or her measuring tape!) on my mosquito bites.

Instead I'd grab a few bra sizes (all white, of course) and hide myself away in the corner dressing room. As my chest was exploding outward at a rate similar to the number of zits developing on the faces of my male peers, I always bought the smallest size bra I could squeeze my torso into. The goal was to smash my chest (I had yet to discover the wonders a sports bra works in the chest smashing arena) so my evil brothers couldn't make fun of my 'bites' that were rapidly morphing into bona fide boobies.

Once the bra was purchased, like Mom counseled, "don't let your straps hang out!"
All one had to know about bra wearing at the time was simply this; if the public can see your bra, you're doing something wrong. Either the shirt doesn't fit right or you shouldn't be wearing a bra with that particular top. If you take off the bra are your bosoms flopping about beneath the blouse like a freshly caught fish tangled in net?... Then you shouldn't be wearing that particular garment. Ever. Really. Give it to good will or use it as a dust towel.. but don't wear it again.

I never thought of applying the bra strap policy to panties, but after spending a day in Central Park beneath a bright sun and behind the even brighter moon on display courtesy of a girl strolling in front of me, it seems I should avail myself of this golden opportunity to remind the ladies about the perils of crack.

I had hoped this tacky trend had died a quick death last year, but ass flash seems to have experienced a comeback a la Madonna. The Material Girl figures prominently in the popularization of tackiness as an expression of women's sexual freedom. Shit, after being told to hide my straps only to see Madge don a metallic cone shaped bra - my mind was as blown as Bill Clinton during the Lewinsky years. Interestingly, I've not yet seen Madonna sport ass crack, so maybe she does have a smidge of good taste. On second thought, nah.

Listen up girls! Butt crack is not now, nor will it ever be the new cleavage. Unless you're name is Giselle Bundchen or Heidi Klum and you find yourself on a photoshoot for Sports Illustrated in Bora-fucking-Bora, keep your crack to yourself. Your pants are supposed to cover your cheeks and your ass spilling over the edge of your jeans like a muffin top is not sexy. It sucks. Anyone who thinks public ass crack is hot also sucks.

Did we fight for the right to wear pants all those years ago so we could flash ass? How much class can you claim when you are letting your crack hang out like Billy Bob, the plumber who yanked the soggy clump of hair from my drain last month? Why would you want to advertise ass? It looks as if your hiney is being choked by your stringy underwear and your cheeks are trying to crawl out the tops of your jeans for a gulp of fresh air. Listen... air your ass out on your own time, preferably within the confines of your boudoir.

Finally, I've come up with a sassy little saying to help guide you along the perilous journey of clothing yourself before leaving your home. Similar to Nancy Reagan and her 'Just Say No' - you will do well to remember the following four words. Make it your mantra..

FLASH ASS = NO CLASS
Monday
Jun122006

Lazy Sunday

Yesterday we decided diner food was necessary. Turns out it was. A Carolina pulled pork sandwich, slaw and a side of sweet potato fries hit the spot. I enjoyed the sloppy sammy with my best girls; that dark haired mysterioso Kate and the always sunny blonde bombshell Anna of The Shalitas fame.. We spent the early afternoon gossiping in the kitsch environs of an old school diner right here in Brooklyn.. All red and white, relics from the fifties, checkered floors and chrome stools that swivel.

My only regret? I didn't order the dreamsicle shake that caught my eye during my fifteen minute perusal of the menu before deciding on the Carolina sandwich.
After lunch we strolled to the park to lay on warm, spongy, grass and chit-chat with Xmastime... There was the crack of a nearby bat as it collided with a meaty softball, the resulting cheers from the assembled, a butter yellow sun blazing across an azure sky, a delicate breeze that licked quietly at hair, grass and leaves.. But more importantly there were friends and good conversation..


And stuff...



And things...



Friends are the best

Saturday
Jun102006

Accentuate The Negative, Eliminate The Positive

She lets it all affect her. So much more than it should. She yearns to be carefree. Unconcerned. But like walking the streets of Manhattan, something always gets in the way. An analyzation, a nasty thought about someone else or a drizzle of self-doubt that steadily increases into a full blown London downpour. Before long she is drowning in self-hatred.

She accentuates the negative, eliminates the positive. Why does she do that? She's aware she does it. Knows full well that she has an innate inclination to dwell on the darker side of life but she doesn't know why.

Oh, she has an inkling. Sometimes she talks to a man on the telephone who has known her for 29 years, a few months and some change. This guy is funny, intelligent.. he's a charmer all right. But if he latches onto something, he can't let it go. He has a penchant for dwelling. On everything. He is a champion flogger of dead horses. On and on he drones. She listens to him complain and is annoyed. But she is the same way.

She hates that.