The Rain

The rain didn’t fall again today. It’s been almost a year with no rain and this place has become nearly unrecognizable. Things that use to be bright with life are no longer. All that remains are the leaves scattered around the floor. Fire red and a gorgeous orange. But, even those look like they are disappearing quick. Some have turned brown and have broken into many pieces, too many to put back together. Yet with our heads to the sky we wait for the rain. The kind of rain that will wash over us, wash away all the broken leaves and remnants of what once lived here; the kind of rain pure enough to pull back from the ledge what might have been strong enough to survive the drought thus far. See, we are at the last inch of our days, but we are holding on tight like all the world’s future depended on it. Oh, how we pray for the rain.

Apron or Suit

8:46 AM.

Random phone call.
Director of HR.
Market leader.
Global company.
Your name came up.
Interested?
Maybe.
Interview?
OK.
Tomorrow?
Alright.
Big money.
Alright.
Big power.
Alright.

Big…travel schedule.

Silence.

Apron or Suit?
Fork in Road.
Knife in Heart.

Fight Club

Today was one of those days. You know, the kind of day where you wake up and think, SHIT, things have been pretty great for a few weeks now………………what can I do to mess it up.

Now, I don’t like to think of myself as destructive, self-sabotaging, pain in the ass.

But, I honestly CAN’T help myself sometimes.

My husband calls it crazy.

My girlfriends call it feisty.

My parents call it impolite

I, I call it Brave.

I think it takes balls to say- Hey life isn’t perfect and neither are we, so lets start a fight!

Lets get down and dirty, empty out all that’s been bottled up, spilling over the brim and smash it against the nearest hard object.

Afterwards, I feel clean. I am flooded by the kind of honesty that only anger can bring. I feel like we start again, and realer, freer, more fragile but like clear glass.

I know your thinking, poor guy, poor Hubby.

Make-up sex.

A Declaration of Love.....To Myself

"I'm writing this blog to RECLAIM my INDIVIDUALISM!" I slammed my fist on the bed for added dramatic effect. I meant business.
"So you're writing about us to reclaim. . . yourself?" My boyfriend asked, confused.

Hmm. Good point. I best explain myself before going any further.

So many times we read about how to find a healthy and exciting love. Or, if that chapter in your life has already come and passed, these self-help books (that you pretend aren't in your home library) are about healing yourself after your break-up, learning how to be co-dependent no more, etc. etc. If it is not about how to get in love, it's how to get over love.

But who the hell talks about being in love with someone and staying in love with yourself?

What about having our cake and eating it, too? Does it have to be one or the other?

Let's get something straight here, people, before I start cueing up feminist stereotypes. I'm not some raging hippie-- I shave my legs, enjoy baking a chicken or two, and my online browsing history consists of Crate and Barrel and Pottery Barn.

But I was once a woman who loved hanging out with herself before she loved hanging out with her boyfriend. And somewhere, that woman still exists. We just need to find her again. Maybe she's hiding behind the several plans with girlfriends she's blown off.

So this blog, at least for me, is a girl's --a woman's-- story about being alone, being in love, and finally being strong enough to fall back in love with myself. Get ready, ladies-- it's going to be a wild ride.

Declaration of Independence

Today, I declare that I am putting my foot down, that I absolutely refuse, that I will no longer bare…………….to do both your laundry and make your dinner. I am standing on my feminine principles and there is nothing you can do about it!

Now, you may argue that I don’t actually do the laundry, but get it sent out AND that I don’t exactly cook dinner but order in.

And, do you know what I have to say to that?

Technicalities Shmecknacalities!

You will not change my mind on this- Hubby.

Because, ladies, we all know what’s going on here. This is where it starts; this is where they get us into those lace aprons and high heels, and then bare foot and pregnant- and there is no turning back from that.

After a long day of looking for jobs on the internet, all I want to do is to crawl up with a good show and unwind! Is that too much to ask?

But no, I have to make sure he has clean socks for work tomorrow (as if you just have to wear socks) and I have to make sure there is food on the table

…………SHIT I just burnt the pizza I was reheating in the oven- There goes another dinner- why do I even try?

I'm Normal: Cutting Onions Makes Me Cry

I am arched over the cutting board sobbing into the cold counter top, my hair dangling in raw bits of onion, my snot pooling into tonight's dinner.

So why am I crying?

Onions.

Cutting onions makes people cry.

Ok, that's a cop-out. Let's back it up. Don't worry I'll wipe the snot on my lace apron before I begin.

Here's the deal- I've got it all. I got the job, I got the house, I got the man. I have that kind of husband women sketch in the workbook of self-help books.

He's smart.

Not he can hold down a job smart -

he will run a corporation one day smart.

He's caring.

Not he sends me flowers on valentine's day caring -

he takes the time to give my dog filtered water caring.

He's responsible.

Not he pays the mortgage on time responsible -

this man remembers when we need to restructure our 401K and when we're low on toilet paper.

He's handsome.

Not the oh he's cute handsome -

the women, men, babies and animals stare at him on the street kind of handsome.

To disguise his perfect identity, let's call him Mr. Perfect.

So why am I crying?

Let's back it up a little further - pre-Mr. Perfect.

Let's just say confidence has never been my weak spot. I can walk into a room like I own it - I feel smarter than the pretty girls and prettier than the smart girls - which subsequently has left me girlfriend-less. But that's a blog post and a psychological dissection for another day. For now I'm trying to tell you this didn't happen to some waify, self-loathing, victimy kind of chick. So here it goes.

So why am I crying? Oh yeah, onions.

I'm crying because I am unable to cut an onion without overwhelming myself with the thought of, "Is this how Mr. Perfect would slice it?" "Cubed? Pole to Pole? Diced? Chunked? Julienned?" This from the girl that used to go to work like a corporate ninja, come home and prepare a four course meal for her friends wearing an apron and heels.

A glimmer of hope!

I lift my head. Perhaps I could wait until he gets home and seek his advice on this.

More tears.

When did I become incapable of making a decision? When did that voice coil into my brain that prefaces every thought with, "What would Mr. Perfect Do?"

Seriously, I need a WWPD bracelet - except I would have to ask him what color he thinks would work best.

I did everything right.

I caught the man.

Now how do I keep myself?