Miss Independent

Women can do anything a man can do. I know some men will scoff at that and say, "Well, you can't pee standing up."

Actually, thanks to the SheWee, we can.

I've always been one of those girls who thinks sex doesn't really matter. Except when I lay down at night. Then it's all boys, boys, boys. Or, if I am telling the truth, man, man, man. Yeah, I like them older and...only one at a time. Because...

I don't think that needs explaining. I'm pretty sure most of you understand why gang-bangs and orgies aren't necessarily my bag. Not that I have anything against people who like to partake. I mean...

Crap.

How did I get so off subject?

As much as I like to sit by and watch a man hammer a nail (that sounds dirty!), I am perfectly capable of hammering a nail myself. You know, I remember a time when my ex and his father were sitting around laughing over how small my hammer was. Granted, the joke was on them, because my ex didn't even have a hammer. Who was inferior then? Yeah, that's right. And my tiny hammer still did the job. Like they say, it isn't the size of the hammer but how hard you swing it.

Okay, I may have just made that saying up.

I am fiercely independent which kind of goes against the whole damsel in distress thing. It can also put a damper on a relationship. My mother once told me guys like to feel needed. Which sort of is a problem when I don't think I need anyone. It would be like a prince trying to rescue the princess from the people-eating monster only to have her already slay the beast before he arrived. If it was me, I'd then push past the prince, climb down the rope and ask, "What took you so long?"

Blame my father. He never made any excuses when it came to sexes. Boy or girl, it didn't matter. I've done everything with my dad from car mechanics to demolition to holding a goat down and grinding out its hooves. Actually, I've always been the one to jump at the chance to do those things. Maybe it's because I wanted to prove I was just as good as a son, if not better.

Oh, and don't go all Freud on me. I don't have daddy issues. My father has openly admitted that without daughters his life would have been a heck of a lot harder. All the quality time with my father, building sheds and scooping dog crap, instilled in me the need to get things done and get them done right. When I think about my childhood, some of my favourite memories are the ones where I am helping my father. The most cherished are his looking over his glasses and asking me to tell him what colour a wire is. Nothing like a man who is colourblind trying to rewire something.

I moved out a very young age. Seventeen. Ever since then I've taken care of myself. I've always been the one to make sure I am clothed, fed, warm and clean. No one else is responsible for those things. I don't know anyone who would want to be responsible for those things.

To further drive home how independent I actually am I will tell you a little story.

Once upon a time, about five years ago, I'd just moved in with my ex and I was suffering financially. It was because I owed money on my last apartment and then the mortgage overlapped with the strata fees. Regardless, I found myself at the bare minimum when it came to the green. I had to do what I'd never done before...ask for money.

I went to my dad. All I needed was a couple hundred to get me through until payday, but asking for it devastated me. I felt like a failure. I remember crying as I asked him for it. Which, if anyone knows me, I'm not really a big fan of crying.

In the moment, it was the lowest part of my life, which is odd because a lot worse had happened to me. It wasn't that I thought my dad would think less of me. There was no way he would. It was because I thought less of myself. I had let myself down. That's how hard it is for me to ask for help. Even from my own father who thinks I'm great.

My dad didn't hesitate in giving me money. And, two weeks later, when I gave him the money back he was a bit insulted. I didn't need to repay him because I'd never asked for anything. I told him I had to pay him back. And I did. I forced him to take that money.

Of course, when my ex found out I'd gone to my dad and not him I was in a bit of trouble. But that's a story for another time.

Not too long ago, I thought asking for help was weak. This was right around the same time I thought crying was weak. Not for other people. No, I admired others who could cry and ask for help without batting an eye. Weak for me. I know neither of these things are weak. Actually, it's the reverse. Doing these things are an act of strength. Unless you're doing them every day, then they are back to being weak. Funny how that works.

Like a good cry-fest, you have to know the right time to bring in help.

This last Tuesday I would have loved to have called in help. I even entertained it, but then again, I am stubborn. And I like to do things for myself. Here's what happened:


And the truth is, just between us, I actually do want to be rescued. I'm sure my prince is out there. He's probably just waiting for the right moment to save me from the fire blowing dragon. Right? Right???