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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Thursday
Feb282008

A Dog's Sigh

Sometimes, when my dog sighs, a hefty groan-sigh involving stretching paws and arched back, I can almost hear what his voice would sound like and it makes me happy. He is my best friend by a mile and I don't care if you think that is loser-ish.

Serge is gone. He will be on tour until April. Long time, I know, but I am good at being on my own. Better than anyone I know except maybe my Mom. We are alike that way. Some call it anti-social. I call it that too, but I prefer the term 'comfortable with myself'.

I do not enjoy answering to people or explaining my mood. Not that I have to answer to Serge, yet I often find even the question "how was work?" overwhelming. Do I issue the standard "fine" or is that a blow-off? Do I really get into some technical issues (we aired the wrong video, my reporter didn't have her mic turned on, my live shot went down) about why my newscast sucked? Does Serge really give a fuck about that? Likely he's just being a polite husband. Likewise, when I ask how a gig went do I really want a laundry list of information? If he digressed to how he jacked up a chord on his guitar, the sound was awful and and and... do I really care? I don't know. Anyway, I'm good at being alone.

I am drunk. Let's just get that out of the way right now. Drunk. 4 or 5 Bud Lights in. I don't feel drunk though because I am alone (she's drinking alone!) and when you are alone and don't have to present yourself to anyone you don't notice the effects of alcohol as much.

Hey! All of you. Thanks for your lovely emails and do not be put off when it takes me a week to get back to you. I read and treasure them all but it takes a bit to reply. Because I don't post here every day the readership of this blog has dropped significantly. I like that. It feels more intimate again. If you are reading you must really like me and so I think I've finally ditched all those weird, stalkerish, haters.

One time I heard an entertainment-type reporter talk about how Angelina Jolie is "estranged" from her dad and I thought, how fucked up... who is estranged from their Dad? Guess what? I am. I don't really know what more to say about that. There is rage. Yes, there is rage inside and perhaps the good doctor will prescribe me something lovely come time for the appointment.