Life With The BielankosMonica Bielanko
We were in the parking lot of the Super Target near our house. We had just purchased a dresser for KID B off Craigslist, and Serge had suggested we swing by Target for kicks. Oh boy. I wasn’t sure I could make it through a round of Serge Browsing at Target.
It never ends well.
Serge Browsing is intense, y’all. He was in a band for something like fourteen years. I forget. But it was a lot of years. Sometimes, his only joy during those long travel days was browsing truck stops or airport shops. He can browse for hours. Tchotchkes, baubles, trinkets, gadgets, nick-nacks, paddywacks, give a dog a bone.
I just mean he can browse for longer than most women can actually shop.
It has caused more than a few fights. Because I don’t like to shop. At all. I’m in and out. And I only go when I am in need of a specific item. So I end up standing at the end of the aisle staring daggers into his back as he picks up and handles this thingamajig and that gewgaw. This scenario is intensified when I’m carrying fifty extra pounds, prone to puking (still!) and just want to go lay on my side on the couch, cry and feel sorry for myself.
So we’re headed to Target when I feel a puke come on.
“Aw, screw it, let’s just go home.” Serge says.
“No! I just need to puke and I’ll be fine.” I say. I mean, the poor guy never does anything but work and listen to me bitch about thighs that rub together. The least I can do is slump around Target and complain about my thighs while he browses to his heart’s delight. “Here. Here’s a good spot.” I gesture.
He veers the Honda next to a snow bank at a remote spot at the side of Target and I jump out.
He, as per usual, turns up his beloved jazz music to drown out my retching and, as per usual, the jazz music makes me want to retch.
The puking commences.
Even though I hold my crotch as hard as Michael Jackson back in the day, I still wet my pants from the force of the pukes. In fact, so much that I can feel waterfalls of urine streaming down my leg toward my new Uggs. Well, my new imitation Uggs. They’re the only things my fat hoofers fit into these days. Can’t urinate on my only footwear! I glance back at Serge who is jazzing it up and chattering to Violet in the back seat and then remove my Uggs.
I’m standing there, barefoot, grabbing my crotch, heaving brown puke into a white snow bank.
“We better go home.” I tell a resigned Serge.
And so another day of life with the Bielankos draws to a cheery close.