Run Run as Fast as You Can...

Sometimes, there is this constant scream in my head. It is an escape scream. It's telling me "run, run away from here until you can't breathe and your nose is running blood." Or it says, "Teach them all a lesson, clean out the bank account and fly to grandma's house in Florida for a while." I haven't responded to it yet.

Little Girl Thoughts in a Grown Woman’s Head

I don’t live here.

In my reality, home is a field of flowers,

And I drink buttermilk from buttercups all day long.

Other women in my station (married with kids in school and a job) seem to have it so together. They have a certain veneer about them that I can't seem to mirror.

They are all 10 years older than me, pulling into the parking space next to me in their SUV's. Usually Durangos now, often Limited Editions. I can't help but wonder if their homes and marriages are as sleek as their hair and acrylic nails.

There are moments when I feel jealous of their organized appearances, and I wonder if their laundry is piled up at home, or if their husband complains about their cooking and the clothes they buy for the kids.

Odd though, I wouldn't trade myself in for one of them. I don't mind my crazy that much, so I read instead of watching American Idol. I bang around on my computer hoping to learn something. I'm not judging them, just observing. They make good character studies.

After watching the parade of purses go by, the cloth patchy patch purses, the "named after some lady" purses, the hobo's and Coaches, I decided to make a statement by making my own. It took three nights, but I made myself a neat lined purse. It's red denim, with red and white fabric sewn "wrinkle style" across the front, with a hand stitched basted lip. One of the gals at work said she liked it, and I told her I made it. She said, "Are you one of those women who can do anything?" I replied "I am one of those women who will try to do anything."

I guess life is sort of like that. We are what we are willing to try.

Best wishes,

Rebecca Flys

Who is Rebecca Flys

I'm THAT girl.
The sweet one.
You know who I mean, the girl in high school who was nice to everybody. Never smoked pot. Helped the old lady up the road re-plant her gladiolas.
And never knew how good she looked in spandex bike shorts and a tank top.

I was the girl next door.

Till' I got caught up with a boy who drove, a black Firebird. The exact same model as the original KITT. Call it what you will, but we were bad in our day.

Isn't life funny.

Sooooo, I in 1994 graduated high school 2 months pregnant. My daughter is 14 now and I'm 33. My husband (her step-father) is just getting over a mid-life crisis, I'm raising 10, 12, & 14 year old kids, and a new Shiba Inu puppy who is tearing up roll after roll of good brand TP, I'm on unemployment, and Lexapro, and according to my adorable little henna painted therapist, who just resigned, I'm in a major depression.

Surgeon General's Warning: Broken Hearts do NOT cause death, only temporary serious injury.

I'm brutally honest, emotionally charged, border-line raunchy and at this time, very angry. As I strap on my push up bra and head out to buy the weeks groceries in my brand new thong, low cut jeans, and high heeled black ankle boots, with my chocolate glazed high lights gleaming (it was HIS mid-life crisis but here I am), It occurs to me I have something to say. Me, the good girl whose mother burned her bras and made hamburger helper for dinner but raised a drug free, knits her own scarves and makes pie crust from scratch daughter, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

So, What is a good broken Step-Ford wife who has lost her mojo to do? Well, it IS 2009. And I'm no Irma Bambach. Starting a blog sounds like a good plan. I have things on my mind. Thoughts I'd like to throw out there in the general anti-verse. Bear with me. Roll with me. Attempt to maintain your dignity while controlling your fiery inner fury and I'll be your partner.

Best wishes,
Rebecca Flys