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Med røde læber og sovegudinder i rotteræset – drømme, deadlines og diva-kaos
Med røde læber og sovegudinder i rotteræset – drømme, deadlines og diva-kaos
Lyt til Med røde læber og sovegudinder i rotteræset på Spotify - Tryk her Dansk udgave & Engelsk udgave
Hej, dig – tag en kaffe, måske noget stærkere, og sæt dig godt til rette. Du er dykket ned i en episode af Røde Læber-serien, en rå, uforsminket rejse gennem kaos, kærlighed og kvindelivets absurde teater. Jeg hedder Christina Helena, og det her er mit liv – eller måske også dit. Hvis du er her for ærlig humor, poetiske uppercuts og en fuckfinger til kønsdebatten, så er du landet det rigtige sted. Velkommen.
Let the phone ring, let's go back to sleep
Let the world spin outside our door
You're the only one that I wanna see
Tell your boss you're sick, hurry
Get back in, I'm getting cold
Get over here and warm my hands up
Boy, it's you they love to hold
And stop thinking about what your sister said
And stop worrying about it, yes, the cat's already been fed
Come on, darlin', let's go back to bed
—Jewel, "Morning Song"
Det er drømmen, ikke? At lade verden snurre, blive i sengen, bare dig og kærligheden. Ingen vækkeure, ingen rotter, der kræver middag. Men du kender spillet – rotteræset banker på, og vækkeuret tager ingen fanger. Det handler om de morgener, hvor vækkeuret føles som en blød anbefaling, mascaraen nægter samarbejde, og dine højglansprincipper fra SOME-kontoret bliver tæsket gule og blå af virkelighedens krav: skolelevering, mødetider, kold kaffe. Hvor sovegudinderne overtrumfer alt, overmander dig brutalt – og rotterne kræver tre retter, mens livets store spørgsmål bliver leveret fra passagersædet af en niårig med rugbrødsstandarder og nul filter.
Kender du de morgener? Hvor du er halv diva, halv katastrofe, klamrer dig til kaffen som en redningskrans og håber, din læbestift dækker kaosset i sjælen? Så bliv her. Grin med mig – af mig, måske lidt af dig selv. Græd, hvis du tør. Bliv forarget, vred, rørt – alt er velkomment. Jeg lægger det hele på bordet, og ærligt? Jeg giver ikke en skid for pæne reaktioner, polerede Insta-kontoer eller glansbilleder på Facebook. Det her er ikke en livsstilsdrøm – det er mandagsrealisme med røde læber og rod i hjertet. Virkeligheden i rødt og sort: med stiletter, kaffeånde og et halvhjertet forsøg på at ligne én, der har styr på det.
Det er rå virkelighed. Et kærligt stik til ligestillingen – og til os selv: kvinder, der bærer hele verden på skuldrene, bliver bitre bagefter, mister grebet om vores feminitet og længes, i al hemmelighed, efter bare at give slip. Lade mænd være mænd. Og os selv være kvinder. Det er en stille fuckfinger til kønsdebatten – til den absurde forventning om, at vi skal være både feminine divaer med læbestift og hofteholdere og dem, der sætter musefælder, jonglerer karriere, børn, familie, hus, kærlighed – og os selv. Det er livet. Hvor læbestiften holder bedre end selvtilliden – og alligevel går vi ud ad døren. Ud i mandens verden. Så kom med, kære læser. Lad os kaste os ud i rotteræset sammen.
Jeg sover aldrig over mig. Aldrig. Jeg er en tidsgudinde. Selvudnævnt, javist – men med hele overbevisningen. For mit indre blik står jeg som en iskold, magtfuld dominatrix i rødt læderundertøj, hænderne på hofterne, pisk i hånden og højt sat hestehale. Med et selvtilfreds nik erklærer jeg mig som hersker over minutter og sekunder – og svinger pisken med præcision. Jeg kører min tid hårdt og brutalt. Jeg kan klokken. Altid. Vækkeure? Det er for amatører. Jeg er tiden. Jeg styrer den. Jeg bøjer den. Jeg har gjort det til min identitet. Min religion. Mit kæphøje party trick.
Og nej, vi nævner ikke kalenderen – den er et helt andet mareridt. Og vi nævner slet ikke den mikropaniske frygt, der gemmer sig bag det selvsikre blik. Frygten for at tabe kontrollen. For at fucke op. For ikke at være hende, der har styr på det. Så jeg udfordrer det hele tiden – med hælen i gulvet og pisken i hånden. For hvis jeg tørster efter kontrol, hvorfor ikke gøre det teatralsk? Nogle gange tænker jeg, om det hele er en opvisning. Mig, der struttende som om jeg ejer sekunderne, mens jeg indeni kæmper mod den hvisken: Hvad hvis du ikke er nok? Kender du den følelse, læser? Presset for at være badass, mor, elskerinde, dronning – alt på én gang? Men jeg presser igennem, for hvis jeg går ned, så gør jeg det med stil.
Netop denne morgen, dog? Tiden besluttede at minde mig om, hvem der egentlig bestemmer. En våd klud i ansigtet. En magtdemonstration forklædt som forsinkelse. Men jeg er en diktatorisk herskerinde i rødt læder og med stædighed i blodet. Jeg rejser mig. Tager kampen. Ét forbandet minut ad gangen.
Og nu hvor vi er i gang med selviscenesættelsen, så lad mig smide en anden superkraft på bordet: Jeg kan drømme. Vildt. Filmisk. Med detaljer, der ville få Spielberg til at smugkigge fra instruktørstolen. DiCaprio burde ringe, hvis Inception får en toer. Mit drømmeunivers? Større end Madonnas garderobe og mere actionfyldt end hendes vildeste turnéer. Jeg kunne skrive bøger, der fik Harry Potter til at ligne en halvkedelig efterskoledagbog. Mit underbevidste er et teater, og jeg er stjernen, forfatteren, hele den forbandede produktion.
I nat var ingen undtagelse. Mus og rotter indtog hovedrollerne – og jeg jublede. Ikke de nuttede Disney-versioner, nej nej. Her kom de i menneskeskikkelse. Store. Voksne. Magtfulde. De bar brune jakkesæt med matchende lommetørklæder, bittesmå briller og frække blikke, der gled hen over mig, som om jeg var en snack og ikke en person. Maskuline manchetknapper blinkede i skæret fra loftlampen, og lakskoene var så blanke, at jeg kunne spejle min egen forvirring i dem. Et dekadent selskab af gamle sjæle og glatte replikker – som om Mad Men havde fået pels og hale.
Og mig? Jeg serverede. Naturligvis. Helt i rødt. En stram wiggle-kjole, der krammede mine kurver med intention. Røde læber, høje hæle, håret sat op i en elegant frisure, der ville få enhver 50’er-husmor til at tabe sit forklæde. Jeg trådte ind i stuen med stiletterne som rytmisk bagtæppe – klik, klik, klik – diva i maven, storm i blikket. Jeg hældte vin med ynde, præcision og et glimt i øjet, som om jeg elskede med glassene. Jeg smilede et frækt, lydigt smil.
Udadtil: den pæne pige. Hende jeg aldrig helt har været, men altid troet, jeg skulle være. Hende jeg har spillet hele livet – uden helt at få sminken vasket af. Men inde bagved bor hun – sirenen. Min indre forførerske, fandenivoldsk og frydefuldt fri. Hun elsker spillet. Fryder sig over den magt, en kvinde kan have over mænd. Hende har jeg først mødt sent i livet – men jeg elsker hende nu. Uden bly, uden undskyldning. Subtilt og feminint. Først inviterende. Så afvisende. Jeg er en magtliderlig – og lidt liderlig – dramadronning, og jeg elsker det.
Jeg så det afspejlet i rotternes blikke, mens de overværede min lille optræden med næsten religiøs opmærksomhed. Og der står hun, i mig, med stiletter og røde læber, et frækt, underfundigt serveringssmil, der gemmer på trods. I deres sultne blikke, de latterlige forventninger og det teatrale scenarie tændtes en gnist. En fræk fryd ved at blive reduceret til noget så simpelt som en smuk krop og en god servering. Bare et øjeblik. Ingen beslutninger. Intet ansvar. Kun røde læber, varme retter og et blik, der sagde: Jeg ved godt, hvad I tænker – og jeg spiller med. Og jeg kan lide det.
En husgudinde i en erotisk forestilling forklædt som selskabsmiddag. Midt i en absurd rottefarce med 50’er-vibe og seksuel undertekst. Har du nogensinde haft sådan en drøm, læser? Hvor du er både stjernen og oprøreren, spiller den rolle, samfundet forventer, men vender den på hovedet? Det var surrealistisk. Komisk. Selviscenesættende. Og – helt ærligt – 100 % mig.
Drømme kommer ikke ud af det blå. De er vævet ind i virkeligheden. Vi har faktisk mus. Ikke metaforiske – men helt reelle, pelsklædte, nattelige gæster, der huserer i huset og tager for sig af retterne som små ubudne gourmetgæster. Og jeg? Jeg har – åbenbart helt ufrivilligt, men i mangel på bedre kandidater – påtaget mig rollen som rottefænger. Selvudnævnt musefanger. En kvinde bevæbnet med remoulade og en naiv tro på, at jeg kan udmanøvrere skadedyr med charme og plastikfælder fra Harald Nyborg. Hver morgen sætter jeg fælderne op – sirligt, næsten rituelt – som en slags kulinarisk offergave til husets underjordiske herskere.
Imens står Nørden og griner. Med kaffe i hånden og hævede øjenbryn. Han leverer sine sædvanlige akademikerbetragtninger om, hvordan man egentlig bør gribe musebekæmpelse an – teoretisk, selvfølgelig. Han kunne skrive en artikel til Dagbladet Information. Men røre en fælde? Aldrig. Fucking cafelattedrikkende, intellektuel mandsplainer-lektor med sin evige „alle burde have en sekretær til det kedelige, monotone manuelle arbejde“-attitude. What the actual fuck. Jeg er mere mand end ham i ni ud af ti praktiske situationer. Det er mig, der tager action. Mig, der løfter. Mig, der googler „hvordan slipper man af med mus uden at ødelægge gulvet og psyken“. Mig, der fikser.
Men okay… han vinder i én – og kun én – disciplin: Han kan tage styringen. Fuldstændigt. Klapper mig i røven, knepper mig tam som en fucking viking, og forvandler mig fra kampklar Matrix-dronning til blød prinsesse med røde kinder og midlertidigt glemt kontrolbehov. Tankemylderet fordamper. Jeg holder kæft. Jeg overgiver mig. Bare et øjeblik. [Pause] Og lige dér – midt mellem fælderne og forførelsen – bliver det hele lidt sværere at have styr på. Kender du det, læser? Den kløft mellem at være hende, der styrer showet, og hende, der bare vil slippe tøjlerne? Det er en balancegang, og jeg vakler.
Tilbage i drømmen. Jeg står i køkkenet. Svedig. Let panisk. Småmanisk. Jeg laver en tre-retters menu med hjemmepisket béarnaise til mit ventende selskab af gnavere. Muse-/rottepublikummet sidder ved spisebordet, menneskestore og magelige, med arrogante blikke bag bittesmå briller. De taler højt. Griner højere. Banker i bordet og kommenterer på mit udseende, min timing, maden – som om jeg er en biperson i deres sort-hvide reklameverden. En, der skal stå skarpt og servere smil, ikke mening. Og selvom det er nedladende. Og latterligt. Og alt for tæt på det nedbrydende – så er der også noget… frækt ved det. Noget, der prikker til min indre diva.
Levende lys flimrer over krystalglassene, guldbestikket ligger snorlige, som poleret af en usynlig hushjælp med OCD. Scenen kunne være løftet direkte ud af en gangsterfilm fra 50’erne: stiliseret, absurd, næsten komisk teatralsk – hvis ikke den emmede af magt og latent trussel. Hvert grin gemmer på et stik. Hvert blik er en dømmende dom. De griner, ryger cigarer, drikker whisky, nyder magten. De ved præcis, at de provokerer mig. Og alligevel – jeg bliver stående. Jeg bukker. Jeg nejer. Jeg serverer. Som den pæne pige, jeg altid har været – og jeg nyder det.
For jeg nyder drømmen. Her er der ingen skam. Ingen korrekthed. Her kan jeg slippe alt det løs, jeg ellers aldrig ville indrømme tænder mig: At blive betragtet. Beundret. Seksualiseret. Reduceret – med vilje. Bare være smuk, servicerende, en husgudinde i højhælede absurditeter, sat hår, matchende øreringe og en aura af uforløst hysteri. En køkkenfarce instrueret af Rat Pack. Har du nogensinde leget den leg, læser? Hvor du kaster dig ind i den rolle, de forventer, bare for at se, hvor langt du kan skubbe den, før du sprænger manuskriptet? Det er absurd. Komik på højt niveau. Og – også – 100 % mig.
[Lyd: vækkeur bipper voldsomt] Kl. 05:30. Argh! Solen banker mig direkte i panden – som en straf sendt fra en vred gud, pakket ind i morgenlys. NEJ! hvæser min indre sovegudinde. Jeg trækker den lyserøde dyne op over hovedet. Bare en halv time mere. En fucking halv time mere… Sort blackout. Stilhed. Væk. Næste gang jeg ånder, er klokken 07:30.
FUUUCK.
Alarmberedskab. Røde blink. Højeste potens. Russerne kommer! Trump tweeter! Eller… jeg er bare en time forsinket. Og det er røde læber-dag. Rød og sort. Mit eget koncept i et desperat forsøg på at lave en SOME-strategi, der holder og skaber sammenhold – i hvert fald stylings-sammenhold. Det kræver koreografi og præcision – ikke bare en hurtig hånd og et håb. Men jeg samler mig. Med en blanding af panik og diktatorisk ledelse smører jeg madpakker, lægger mascara og marcherer mig selv og mit barn ud i bilen i rekordfart – iført tylskørt, stikkende hårnåle og attitude som en general i glimmerkrise. [Lyd: bildør smækker]
En halv time senere sidder vi i bilen – prinsessekaffe i termokoppen, røde læber on point, håret højt som en advarsel. Vi er kun ti minutter forsinkede. Jeg er en diva-ninja, mumler jeg. En mor på koffein og krampagtig glittertro, med kronisk dårlig samvittighed – og stadig en ubegrundet tro på, at vækkeure er en slags blød anbefaling. Jeg vågner jo. Næsten. Kender du det, læser? Når du kører på damp, og alt, hvad du beder om, er, at facaden holder, bare lige til morgenen er ovre?
Min datter pludrer. Om legeaftaler – eller hvorfor hun ikke gider sove hos sin veninde. „Hendes far laver de værste madpakker. Fladt rugbrød. Leverpostej. Ikke engang agurk. Ingenting! Bare… madpakkehader.“
Hun ryster på hovedet, en lille Top Chef-dommer, og siger: „Jeg vil hellere hjem til dig. Dine madpakker har personlighed.“ [Pause] Midt i kaos og kaffe rammer det. Et lille mor-øjeblik, pakket ind i en niårigs ærlighed. Mit lavstatusliv løftet af hendes madros. Jeg smiler. Det er dagens højdepunkt. Madpakken. Hendes tillid. Hendes lille hånd i min, selv når jeg er en tornado af stress og stiletter. Det rammer mig, hvor skrøbeligt det hele er – hvor meget jeg bærer for hende, for os, for at holde det hele sammen, mens rotteræset brøler udenfor. Kender du også den vægt, læser? Kærligheden og pligten, der holder dig oppe, selv når du falder fra hinanden?
[Lyd: bilradio spiller sagte] Den blå anemone kører på Spotify. Samme rute, samme playliste. Sange du elsker… (Same procedure as every bloody morning, James.) Uden at tænke siger jeg: „Når jeg dør, spil den i kirken. For mig…“ Diva-dramatisk, jeg ved det. Jeg hører knap mig selv, fanget i mit mentale supermarked, hvor tankerne vælter ned fra hylderne, og tankemylderet er på tilbud.
Men min datter hører det – og det sætter gang i alle mulige og umulige scenarier i hendes univers. Og ud af det blå – eller helt forventeligt – spørger hun: „Mor, hvis du dør… kan jeg så stadig komme til Nørden hver anden uge?“ Stemmen lav, håbefuld. [Pause] SHIT. HVAD HAR JEG GJORT.
Min hjerne panikker. En 7/7-ordning med Nørden? Lige så sandsynlig som, at han tager hende en weekend uden at gå i panik-mode. Han er en sød legeonkel – i små doser. Men fuldtidsfar? Not on his bingo card. Han får stress af madpakker. Hverdagslogistik? Et mysterium. Hvordan han opfostrede to piger, er ren trolddom. Måske outsourcing. Måske fortrængning. Måske mirakler. Eller bare en tålmodig ekskone, der serverede lasagne – uden salat – i årevis.
„Du har din far… og jeg dør jo ikke,“ siger jeg. Men jeg stopper. Jeg kan ikke lyve. Mit hjerte gør ondt. En mental mavepuster – en af de tunge. Realiteterne banker på, og de ringer ikke engang først. „Jeg ved det ikke, skat,“ siger jeg stille. „Vi er ikke gift. Papkærester får sjældent børn, hvis moren dør. Men du har Mossie, mormor, dine brødre, far. En familie, der altid passer på dig.“ Sandt. Jeg ånder lettet. Meltdown afværget. For nu.
Men tanken nager. Nørden tager ikke ansvar – det ved jeg. Og nej, han vil ikke giftes. Måske derfor. Måske ikke. Klokken 08:03 på en mandag, midt i rotteræs, mascara og mentale efterrystelser fra forstyrrede sexdrømme, har jeg ikke energi til følelsesmæssig flueknepperi. Den slags hovedrum før klokken 8.30 mandag morgen? Det er sgu op ad bakke. Hvorfor skal det være så svært? Hvorfor skal jeg bære det hele – og stadig smile, som om det er en dans? Kender du den tanke, læser? Hvordan vi bliver ved med at balancere alle tallerkener og stadig får kritik for en enkelt vaklen?
Så spørger hun igen, som kun preteenagere kan: „Men hvornår skal I så giftes?“ „Jeg ved det ikke, skat,“ siger jeg. „Det gør mig lidt ked, når du spørger, for jeg har intet svar. Jeg regner ikke med at dø foreløbigt. Men spørg Nørden – den må han stå på mål for.“ For jeg magter det simpelthen ikke.
Sådan en morgen, kære læser. Fra drømmekøkken til madpakker med personlighed. På under en time har jeg været igennem et følelsesregister, der ville sende en Too Hot to Handle-deltager i terapi. Fræk drøm, brat opvågnen, madpakke-himmel – til en mavepuster, der suger ilten ud. Og alligevel bliver jeg ved. Med røde læber som mit skjold og poesien som min rustning.
Og nu? Mascaraen er tør. Læberne røde. Jeg er kampklar. Kom an, verden. Jeg har prinsessekaffe, en niårig på passagersædet og rotter i underbevidstheden. Hvad kan gå galt?
Tak, fordi du læste med, du fantastiske sjæl. Hvis denne episode af Røde Læber ramte dig, så dyk ned i resten af serien på min hjemmeside – mere hverdagskaos, kærlighedsroderi og SOME-skam venter. Del historien med en kvinde, du elsker, og husk: du er ikke alene. Rotteræset er brutalt, men vi går det sammen – med læbestift, glimmer, en god portion trods og måske et stjålent øjeblik under dynen.
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With Red Lips and Sleep Goddesses in the Rat Race – Dreams, Deadlines, and Diva Chaos
With Red Lips and Sleep Goddesses in the Rat Race – Dreams, Deadlines, and Diva Chaos
Hey, you—grab a coffee, maybe something stronger, and settle in for a wild ride. You’re diving into an episode of the Red Lips series, a raw, unfiltered plunge into the chaos, love, and absurd theater of women’s lives. I’m Christina Helena, and this is my story—or maybe it’s yours too. If you’re here for gritty humor, poetic punches, and a middle finger to the patriarchy’s playbook, you’re in the right place. Welcome.
Let the phone ring, let's go back to sleep
Let the world spin outside our door
You're the only one that I wanna see
Tell your boss you're sick, hurry
Get back in, I'm getting cold
Get over here and warm my hands up
Boy, it's you they love to hold
And stop thinking about what your sister said
And stop worrying about it, yes, the cat's already been fed
Come on, darlin', let's go back to bed
—Jewel, "Morning Song"
That’s the dream, isn’t it? To let the world spin, stay tangled in the sheets, just you and love. No alarms, no deadlines, no rats demanding a damn banquet. But you know how it goes—the rat race crashes the party, and the alarm clock doesn’t negotiate. It’s about those mornings when the alarm’s just a polite nudge, mascara throws a tantrum, and your glossy social media agency principles get pummeled black and blue by reality’s demands: school drop-offs, meetings, cold coffee. Where sleep goddesses crush you flat, the rats expect a three-course meal, and life’s big questions hit from the passenger seat via a nine-year-old with sourdough standards and zero filter.
You know those mornings, don’t you? The ones where you’re half diva, half disaster, clutching coffee like a lifeline and hoping your lipstick hides the chaos in your soul. Stay with me. Laugh at me—hell, maybe at yourself too. Cry if you’re brave enough. Get pissed, get moved, get outraged—bring it all. I’m spilling every last drop of tea, and let’s be real: I don’t give a damn about curated Instagram feeds or polished Facebook facades. This isn’t a lifestyle fantasy—it’s Monday realism with red lips and a messy heart. Reality in red and black: stilettos, coffee breath, and a half-assed attempt to look like I’ve got it together.
This is raw reality. A love tap to equality and a not-so-subtle middle finger to the patriarchy’s playbook. To the batshit idea that we’ve gotta be both femme fatales with lipstick and garters and the ones setting mousetraps, juggling careers, kids, family, home, love—and ourselves. It’s life. Where lipstick lasts longer than confidence—and we walk out the door anyway. Into the man’s world. So, come along, reader. Let’s dive into the rat race together.
I never oversleep. Never. I’m a time goddess. Self-appointed, sure—but with unshakable conviction. In my mind’s eye, I stand as an ice-cold, powerful dominatrix in red leather lingerie, hands on hips, whip in hand, ponytail swept high. With a smug nod, I declare myself ruler of minutes and seconds—and swing the whip with precision. I ride time hard and brutal. I know the clock. Always. Alarms? For amateurs. I am time. I command it. I bend it. It’s my identity. My religion. My cocky party trick. [Pause]
Clocks? Don’t even start. My internal atomic clock never misses a beat. Calendars? We don’t talk about them—they’re paper-bound psychological thrillers dressed up as structure. And we sure as hell don’t mention the micro-panic lurking behind my confident gaze. The fear of losing control. Of fucking up. Of not being her, the one who’s always got it together, lipstick intact. So I challenge it constantly—heel to the floor, whip in hand. If I’m craving control, why not make it a goddamn show?
Sometimes I wonder if it’s all a performance. Me, strutting like I own the seconds, while inside I’m dodging that whisper: What if you’re not enough? You ever feel that? The pressure to be the badass, the mom, the lover, the queen—all at once? But I push through, because if I’m going down, I’m doing it with style.
This morning, though? Time decided to remind me who’s boss. A wet rag to the face. A power move disguised as a delay. [Sound: alarm blaring] But I’m a dictatorial queen in red leather, with stubbornness in my blood. I rise. I fight. One damn minute at a time.
Now that we’re deep in my self-staged glory, let me toss another superpower on the table: I dream. Wild. Cinematic. With details that’d make Spielberg sneak a peek from the director’s chair. DiCaprio should call if Inception gets a sequel. My dream world’s bigger than Beyoncé’s wardrobe, more action-packed than her Coachella set. I could write novels that’d make Harry Potter look like a half-baked diary from summer camp. My subconscious is a theater, and I’m the star, the writer, the whole damn production.
Last night was no exception. Mice and rats took center stage—and I was all in. Not the cuddly Pixar kind, hell no. These were human-sized, powerful, decked out in brown suits with matching pocket squares and tiny round glasses. Their cheeky gazes slid over me like I was dessert, not a person. Masculine cufflinks gleamed under the chandelier, their polished loafers so shiny I could mirror my confusion. A decadent crew of old souls and slick one-liners—like Mad Men sprouted fur and tails.
And me? I served. Naturally. All in red. A tight wiggle dress that hugged my curves with intent. Red lips, high heels, hair pinned up like a 50s housewife’s wet dream. I strutted in, stilettos clicking—click, click, click—diva in my gut, storm in my eyes. [Sound: glasses clinking] I poured wine with grace, precision, a glint in my eye, like I was making love to the glasses. I flashed a naughty, obedient smile.
Outwardly? The good girl I’ve never quite been but always thought I had to play. The one I’ve performed my whole life—without ever washing off the makeup. But inside? That’s where the siren lives. Reckless, joyfully free. She loves the game—the power a woman can wield over men. I met her late in life, and I’m obsessed. Subtle, feminine. Inviting, then aloof. A power-hungry—and slightly horny—drama queen, and I love it.
I saw it reflected in their gazes as they watched my little performance with near-religious focus. There she stands, inside me, with stilettos and red lips, a cheeky, subversive smile serving defiance. In the rats’ hungry stares, their ridiculous expectations, and the theatrical setup, a spark ignited. A wicked thrill at being reduced to something as simple as a gorgeous body, a perfect pour. Just for a moment. No decisions. No responsibility. Just red lips, hot dishes, and a look that says: I know what you’re thinking—and I’m playing along. And I like it.
A domestic goddess in an erotic act disguised as a dinner party, smack in the middle of an absurd rat farce with a 50s vibe and sexual undertones. You ever have a dream like that, reader? Where you’re both the star and the rebel, playing the role society expects but flipping it on its head? It was surreal. Comedic. Self-staged. And—honestly—100% me.
But dreams don’t just pop up out of nowhere. They’re tangled in reality. We’ve got actual mice. Not metaphors—real, furry, nocturnal pests who raid the pantry like uninvited food critics. And me? I’ve somehow—begrudgingly, with no better candidates—taken on the role of rat catcher. Self-appointed mousetrap queen. A woman armed with peanut butter and a naive belief I can outsmart vermin with charm and plastic traps from Home Depot. Every morning, I set the traps—carefully, almost ritually—like offerings to the house’s underworld lords.
Meanwhile, the Nerd laughs. Coffee in hand, eyebrows raised, tossing out Ivy League theories on pest control like he’s guest-lecturing at Harvard. He could pen a piece for The New Yorker, but touch a trap? Never. Fucking latte-sipping, mansplaining professor with his eternal “everyone should have an assistant for the boring, grunt work” attitude. What the actual hell. I’m more man than him in nine out of ten practical situations. I take action. Lift. Google “how to get rid of mice without trashing the floor or my sanity.” I handle it.
But here’s the thing—he’s got one move that knocks me out. Just one. He can take charge. Completely. Smacks my ass, fucks me tame like a goddamn Viking, and turns me from battle-ready Matrix queen to soft princess with flushed cheeks and a forgotten need for control. The mental noise vanishes. I shut up. I surrender. Just for a moment. [Pause] And right there—between the traps and the seduction—it gets messy. You ever feel that pull, reader? The clash between being the badass who runs the show and the part of you that just wants to let go? It’s a tightrope, and I’m wobbling.
Back in the dream, I’m in the kitchen. Sweaty. A little panicked. Borderline manic. I’m cooking a three-course meal with homemade béarnaise for my waiting rodent guests. The mouse-rat crowd sits at the dining table, human-sized and smug, napkins tucked into collars, paws heavy on the white tablecloth laid out with Michelin-star precision. They talk loud. Laugh louder. Bang the table and critique my looks, my timing, the food—like I’m a bit player in their black-and-white ad world, meant to look sharp and serve smiles, not substance. And though it’s demeaning. Ridiculous. Way too close to soul-crushing… there’s something cheeky about it. Something that pokes at my inner diva.
Candlelight flickers over crystal glasses, gold cutlery lined up razor-straight, polished by an invisible maid with OCD. The scene’s straight out of a 1950s gangster flick: stylized, absurd, almost comically theatrical—if it didn’t reek of power and latent threat. Every laugh hides a jab. Every glance is a judgmental verdict. They grin, puff cigars, sip whiskey, reveling in their power. They know they’re provoking me. And still—I stand tall. I bow. I curtsy. I serve. Like the good girl I’ve always been—and I love it.
I love my dream, because here there’s no shame. No correctness. I can unleash everything I’d never admit turns me on: Being seen. Admired. Sexualized. Reduced—on purpose. A domestic goddess in sky-high absurdities, pinned hair, matching earrings, and an aura of unspent hysteria, trapped in my own home, in a mental kitchen farce directed by the Rat Pack. It’s absurd. High-level comedy. And—also—100% me. You ever play that game, reader? Where you lean into the role they expect, just to see how far you can push it before you break the script?
[Sound: alarm blaring] 5:30 a.m. Ugh! The sun slaps my face like a punishment from a pissed-off god, wrapped in morning light. NO! hisses my inner sleep goddess. I yank the pink duvet over my head. Just half an hour more. One freaking half hour… Blackout. Silence. Out. Next time I blink, it’s… now. 7:30.
FUUUCK.
Red alert. Flashing lights. Full panic. The Russians are coming! Trump’s tweeting! Or… I’m just an hour late. And it’s red lips day. Red and black. My own desperate social media stunt to fake some styling unity. It takes choreography, precision—not just a quick swipe and a prayer. But I rally. With panic and dictatorial leadership, I slap together lunchboxes, slap on mascara, and march myself and my kid to the car in record time—wearing a tulle skirt, stabbing hairpins, and the attitude of a general in a glitter crisis. [Sound: car door slams]
Half an hour later, we’re in the car. Princess coffee in the thermos, red lips on point, hair piled high like a warning. We’re only ten minutes late. I’m a diva ninja, I mutter. A mom on caffeine and desperate glitter faith, with chronic guilt and a delusional belief that alarm clocks are just suggestions. I wake up. Always. Well… almost. You’ve been there, haven’t you? Running on fumes, praying the facade holds just long enough to get through the morning?
My daughter’s chattering. About playdates—or why she’s done sleeping over at her friend’s. “Her dad makes the worst lunches. Stale sourdough. Peanut butter. No dip. Not even a carrot stick. Nothing! Total lunchbox hater.”
She shakes her head like a pint-sized Chopped judge and says, “I’d rather come home to you. Your lunches have personality.” [Pause] Right there, amid the chaos and coffee, it hits. A little mom moment, wrapped in a nine-year-old’s honest praise. My low-key culinary life, lifted by her words. I smile. A bit. And think, this—this is my highlight today. The lunchbox. Her trust. Her little hand in mine, even when I’m a tornado of stress and stilettos. It hits me how fragile it all is—how much I carry for her, for us, to keep it all together while the rat race roars outside. You feel that too, don’t you? That weight of love and duty, holding you up even when you’re falling apart?
[Sound: car radio playing faintly] Sweet Caroline hums on Spotify. Same route, same playlist. Songs You Love… (Same procedure as every bloody morning, James.) Without thinking, I say, “When I die, play this at my funeral. For me…” Diva-dramatic, I know. I barely hear myself, lost in my mental Target, where thoughts crash off the shelves and my mind’s on clearance.
But my daughter hears it—and it sets off a whirlwind of scenarios in her universe. Out of the blue—or totally predictably—she asks, “Mom, if you die… can I still go to the Nerd’s every other week?” Her voice low, hopeful. [Pause] SHIT. WHAT HAVE I DONE.
My brain spirals. A 50/50 split with the Nerd? About as likely as him handling a full weekend without a meltdown. He’s a sweet play-uncle—in small, controlled doses. Full-time dad? Not on his bingo card. Lunchboxes stress him out. Everyday logistics? A total mystery. How he ever raised two girls practically is a damn enigma. Maybe outsourcing. Maybe denial. Maybe miracles. Or just a very patient ex-wife who cleaned up after the kids and his intellectual rants, serving lasagna—no sides—for years.
“You’ve got your dad… and I’m not dying,” I say. But I stop. I can’t lie to her. My heart hurts, physically. A mental gut punch—one of the heavy ones. Reality knocks, and it doesn’t even ring first. “I don’t know, kiddo,” I say quietly. “We’re not married. It’s rare for boyfriends to get custody if the mom dies. But you’ve got Mossie, Grandma, your brothers, your dad. An amazing family who’ll always take care of you.” That’s true. I can say it without blinking. I exhale. Meltdown averted. For now.
But it lingers. The Nerd won’t step up—I know it. And no, he doesn’t want to marry me either. Maybe that’s why. Maybe not. Honestly? At 8:03 a.m. on a Monday, mid-rat race, mascara, and mental aftershocks from screwed-up sex dreams, I don’t have the energy for emotional nitpicking. That kind of headspace before 8:30 a.m. on a Monday? That’s a steep fucking climb. Why does it have to be so hard? Why do I have to carry it all—and still smile like it’s a dance? You ever ask yourself that, reader? How we keep spinning all these plates and still get judged for a single wobble?
Then she asks again, like only a preteen can: “So… when are you guys getting married?” “I don’t know, sweetie,” I say softly. “And it actually makes me a bit sad when you ask, ‘cause I don’t have an answer. I’m not planning to die anytime soon. But go ahead and ask the Nerd if you need more answers—in my head, I’m thinking, Let him deal with it. I just can’t.”
That’s my morning, reader. From dream kitchen to lunchboxes with personality. In under an hour, I’ve run through an emotional gauntlet that’d send a Real Housewives star straight to therapy. Naughty dream, rude awakening, lunchbox high, to a gut punch that sucks all the air out. And still, I keep going. With red lips as my shield and poetry as my armor.
But now? Mascara’s dry. Lips still red. I’m ready to fight. Bring it, world. I’ve got princess coffee, a nine-year-old riding shotgun, and rats in my subconscious. What could possibly go wrong?
Thanks for reading, you glorious soul. If this episode of Red Lips hit home, dive into the rest of the series on my website—more everyday chaos, messy love, and social media shade are waiting. Share this story with a woman you love, and remember: you’re not alone. The rat race is brutal, but we walk it together—with lipstick, glitter, a whole lot of defiance, and maybe a stolen moment under the covers.
Red Lips and Sleep Goddesses in the Rat Race – Dreams, Deadlines, and Diva Chaos
Red Lips and Sleep Goddesses in the Rat Race – Dreams, Deadlines, and Diva Chaos
Hey, you—grab a coffee, maybe something stronger, and settle in for a wild ride. You’re diving into an episode of the Red Lips series, a raw, unfiltered plunge into the chaos, love, and absurd theater of women’s lives. I’m Christina Helena, and this is my story—or maybe it’s yours too. If you’re here for gritty humor, poetic punches, and a middle finger to the patriarchy’s playbook, you’re in the right place. Welcome.
Let the phone ring, let's go back to sleep
Let the world spin outside our door
You're the only one that I wanna see
Tell your boss you're sick, hurry
Get back in, I'm getting cold
Get over here and warm my hands up
Boy, it's you they love to hold
And stop thinking about what your sister said
And stop worrying about it, yes, the cat's already been fed
Come on, darlin', let's go back to bed
—Jewel, "Morning Song"
That’s the dream, isn’t it? To let the world spin, stay tangled in the sheets, just you and love. No alarms, no deadlines, no rats demanding a damn banquet. But you know how it goes—the rat race crashes the party, and the alarm clock doesn’t negotiate. It’s about those mornings when the alarm’s just a polite nudge, mascara throws a tantrum, and your glossy social media agency principles get pummeled black and blue by reality’s demands: school drop-offs, meetings, cold coffee. Where sleep goddesses crush you flat, the rats expect a three-course meal, and life’s big questions hit from the passenger seat via a nine-year-old with sourdough standards and zero filter.
You know those mornings, don’t you? The ones where you’re half diva, half disaster, clutching coffee like a lifeline and hoping your lipstick hides the chaos in your soul. Stay with me. Laugh at me—hell, maybe at yourself too. Cry if you’re brave enough. Get pissed, get moved, get outraged—bring it all. I’m spilling every last drop of tea, and let’s be real: I don’t give a damn about curated Instagram feeds or polished Facebook facades. This isn’t a lifestyle fantasy—it’s Monday realism with red lips and a messy heart. Reality in red and black: stilettos, coffee breath, and a half-assed attempt to look like I’ve got it together.
This is raw reality. A love tap to equality and a not-so-subtle middle finger to the patriarchy’s playbook. To the batshit idea that we’ve gotta be both femme fatales with lipstick and garters and the ones setting mousetraps, juggling careers, kids, family, home, love—and ourselves. It’s life. Where lipstick lasts longer than confidence—and we walk out the door anyway. Into the man’s world. So, come along, reader. Let’s dive into the rat race together.
I never oversleep. Never. I’m a time goddess. Self-appointed, sure—but with unshakable conviction. In my mind’s eye, I stand as an ice-cold, powerful dominatrix in red leather lingerie, hands on hips, whip in hand, ponytail swept high. With a smug nod, I declare myself ruler of minutes and seconds—and swing the whip with precision. I ride time hard and brutal. I know the clock. Always. Alarms? For amateurs. I am time. I command it. I bend it. It’s my identity. My religion. My cocky party trick. [Pause]
Clocks? Don’t even start. My internal atomic clock never misses a beat. Calendars? We don’t talk about them—they’re paper-bound psychological thrillers dressed up as structure. And we sure as hell don’t mention the micro-panic lurking behind my confident gaze. The fear of losing control. Of fucking up. Of not being her, the one who’s always got it together, lipstick intact. So I challenge it constantly—heel to the floor, whip in hand. If I’m craving control, why not make it a goddamn show?
Sometimes I wonder if it’s all a performance. Me, strutting like I own the seconds, while inside I’m dodging that whisper: What if you’re not enough? You ever feel that? The pressure to be the badass, the mom, the lover, the queen—all at once? But I push through, because if I’m going down, I’m doing it with style.
This morning, though? Time decided to remind me who’s boss. A wet rag to the face. A power move disguised as a delay. [Sound: alarm blaring] But I’m a dictatorial queen in red leather, with stubbornness in my blood. I rise. I fight. One damn minute at a time.
Now that we’re deep in my self-staged glory, let me toss another superpower on the table: I dream. Wild. Cinematic. With details that’d make Spielberg sneak a peek from the director’s chair. DiCaprio should call if Inception gets a sequel. My dream world’s bigger than Beyoncé’s wardrobe, more action-packed than her Coachella set. I could write novels that’d make Harry Potter look like a half-baked diary from summer camp. My subconscious is a theater, and I’m the star, the writer, the whole damn production.
Last night was no exception. Mice and rats took center stage—and I was all in. Not the cuddly Pixar kind, hell no. These were human-sized, powerful, decked out in brown suits with matching pocket squares and tiny round glasses. Their cheeky gazes slid over me like I was dessert, not a person. Masculine cufflinks gleamed under the chandelier, their polished loafers so shiny I could mirror my confusion. A decadent crew of old souls and slick one-liners—like Mad Men sprouted fur and tails.
And me? I served. Naturally. All in red. A tight wiggle dress that hugged my curves with intent. Red lips, high heels, hair pinned up like a 50s housewife’s wet dream. I strutted in, stilettos clicking—click, click, click—diva in my gut, storm in my eyes. [Sound: glasses clinking] I poured wine with grace, precision, a glint in my eye, like I was making love to the glasses. I flashed a naughty, obedient smile.
Outwardly? The good girl I’ve never quite been but always thought I had to play. The one I’ve performed my whole life—without ever washing off the makeup. But inside? That’s where the siren lives. Reckless, joyfully free. She loves the game—the power a woman can wield over men. I met her late in life, and I’m obsessed. Subtle, feminine. Inviting, then aloof. A power-hungry—and slightly horny—drama queen, and I love it.
I saw it reflected in their gazes as they watched my little performance with near-religious focus. There she stands, inside me, with stilettos and red lips, a cheeky, subversive smile serving defiance. In the rats’ hungry stares, their ridiculous expectations, and the theatrical setup, a spark ignited. A wicked thrill at being reduced to something as simple as a gorgeous body, a perfect pour. Just for a moment. No decisions. No responsibility. Just red lips, hot dishes, and a look that says: I know what you’re thinking—and I’m playing along. And I like it.
A domestic goddess in an erotic act disguised as a dinner party, smack in the middle of an absurd rat farce with a 50s vibe and sexual undertones. You ever have a dream like that, reader? Where you’re both the star and the rebel, playing the role society expects but flipping it on its head? It was surreal. Comedic. Self-staged. And—honestly—100% me.
But dreams don’t just pop up out of nowhere. They’re tangled in reality. We’ve got actual mice. Not metaphors—real, furry, nocturnal pests who raid the pantry like uninvited food critics. And me? I’ve somehow—begrudgingly, with no better candidates—taken on the role of rat catcher. Self-appointed mousetrap queen. A woman armed with peanut butter and a naive belief I can outsmart vermin with charm and plastic traps from Home Depot. Every morning, I set the traps—carefully, almost ritually—like offerings to the house’s underworld lords.
Meanwhile, the Nerd laughs. Coffee in hand, eyebrows raised, tossing out Ivy League theories on pest control like he’s guest-lecturing at Harvard. He could pen a piece for The New Yorker, but touch a trap? Never. Fucking latte-sipping, mansplaining professor with his eternal “everyone should have an assistant for the boring, grunt work” attitude. What the actual hell. I’m more man than him in nine out of ten practical situations. I take action. Lift. Google “how to get rid of mice without trashing the floor or my sanity.” I handle it.
But here’s the thing—he’s got one move that knocks me out. Just one. He can take charge. Completely. Smacks my ass, fucks me tame like a goddamn Viking, and turns me from battle-ready Matrix queen to soft princess with flushed cheeks and a forgotten need for control. The mental noise vanishes. I shut up. I surrender. Just for a moment. [Pause] And right there—between the traps and the seduction—it gets messy. You ever feel that pull, reader? The clash between being the badass who runs the show and the part of you that just wants to let go? It’s a tightrope, and I’m wobbling.Back in the dream, I’m in the kitchen. Sweaty. A little panicked. Borderline manic. I’m cooking a three-course meal with homemade béarnaise for my waiting rodent guests. The mouse-rat crowd sits at the dining table, human-sized and smug, napkins tucked into collars, paws heavy on the white tablecloth laid out with Michelin-star precision. They talk loud. Laugh louder. Bang the table and critique my looks, my timing, the food—like I’m a bit player in their black-and-white ad world, meant to look sharp and serve smiles, not substance. And though it’s demeaning. Ridiculous. Way too close to soul-crushing… there’s something cheeky about it. Something that pokes at my inner diva.
Candlelight flickers over crystal glasses, gold cutlery lined up razor-straight, polished by an invisible maid with OCD. The scene’s straight out of a 1950s gangster flick: stylized, absurd, almost comically theatrical—if it didn’t reek of power and latent threat. Every laugh hides a jab. Every glance is a judgmental verdict. They grin, puff cigars, sip whiskey, reveling in their power. They know they’re provoking me. And still—I stand tall. I bow. I curtsy. I serve. Like the good girl I’ve always been—and I love it.
I love my dream, because here there’s no shame. No correctness. I can unleash everything I’d never admit turns me on: Being seen. Admired. Sexualized. Reduced—on purpose. A domestic goddess in sky-high absurdities, pinned hair, matching earrings, and an aura of unspent hysteria, trapped in my own home, in a mental kitchen farce directed by the Rat Pack. It’s absurd. High-level comedy. And—also—100% me. You ever play that game, reader? Where you lean into the role they expect, just to see how far you can push it before you break the script?
[Sound: alarm blaring] 5:30 a.m. Ugh! The sun slaps my face like a punishment from a pissed-off god, wrapped in morning light. NO! hisses my inner sleep goddess. I yank the pink duvet over my head. Just half an hour more. One freaking half hour… Blackout. Silence. Out. Next time I blink, it’s… now. 7:30.
FUUUCK.
Red alert. Flashing lights. Full panic. The Russians are coming! Trump’s tweeting! Or… I’m just an hour late. And it’s red lips day. Red and black. My own desperate social media stunt to fake some styling unity. It takes choreography, precision—not just a quick swipe and a prayer. But I rally. With panic and dictatorial leadership, I slap together lunchboxes, slap on mascara, and march myself and my kid to the car in record time—wearing a tulle skirt, stabbing hairpins, and the attitude of a general in a glitter crisis. [Sound: car door slams]
Half an hour later, we’re in the car. Princess coffee in the thermos, red lips on point, hair piled high like a warning. We’re only ten minutes late. I’m a diva ninja, I mutter. A mom on caffeine and desperate glitter faith, with chronic guilt and a delusional belief that alarm clocks are just suggestions. I wake up. Always. Well… almost. You’ve been there, haven’t you? Running on fumes, praying the facade holds just long enough to get through the morning?
My daughter’s chattering. About playdates—or why she’s done sleeping over at her friend’s. “Her dad makes the worst lunches. Stale sourdough. Peanut butter. No dip. Not even a carrot stick. Nothing! Total lunchbox hater.”
She shakes her head like a pint-sized Chopped judge and says, “I’d rather come home to you. Your lunches have personality.” [Pause] Right there, amid the chaos and coffee, it hits. A little mom moment, wrapped in a nine-year-old’s honest praise. My low-key culinary life, lifted by her words. I smile. A bit. And think, this—this is my highlight today. The lunchbox. Her trust. Her little hand in mine, even when I’m a tornado of stress and stilettos. It hits me how fragile it all is—how much I carry for her, for us, to keep it all together while the rat race roars outside. You feel that too, don’t you? That weight of love and duty, holding you up even when you’re falling apart?
[Sound: car radio playing faintly] Sweet Caroline hums on Spotify. Same route, same playlist. Songs You Love… (Same procedure as every bloody morning, James.) Without thinking, I say, “When I die, play this at my funeral. For me…” Diva-dramatic, I know. I barely hear myself, lost in my mental Target, where thoughts crash off the shelves and my mind’s on clearance.
But my daughter hears it—and it sets off a whirlwind of scenarios in her universe. Out of the blue—or totally predictably—she asks, “Mom, if you die… can I still go to the Nerd’s every other week?” Her voice low, hopeful. [Pause] SHIT. WHAT HAVE I DONE.
My brain spirals. A 50/50 split with the Nerd? About as likely as him handling a full weekend without a meltdown. He’s a sweet play-uncle—in small, controlled doses. Full-time dad? Not on his bingo card. Lunchboxes stress him out. Everyday logistics? A total mystery. How he ever raised two girls practically is a damn enigma. Maybe outsourcing. Maybe denial. Maybe miracles. Or just a very patient ex-wife who cleaned up after the kids and his intellectual rants, serving lasagna—no sides—for years.
“You’ve got your dad… and I’m not dying,” I say. But I stop. I can’t lie to her. My heart hurts, physically. A mental gut punch—one of the heavy ones. Reality knocks, and it doesn’t even ring first. “I don’t know, kiddo,” I say quietly. “We’re not married. It’s rare for boyfriends to get custody if the mom dies. But you’ve got Mossie, Grandma, your brothers, your dad. An amazing family who’ll always take care of you.” That’s true. I can say it without blinking. I exhale. Meltdown averted. For now.
But it lingers. The Nerd won’t step up—I know it. And no, he doesn’t want to marry me either. Maybe that’s why. Maybe not. Honestly? At 8:03 a.m. on a Monday, mid-rat race, mascara, and mental aftershocks from screwed-up sex dreams, I don’t have the energy for emotional nitpicking. That kind of headspace before 8:30 a.m. on a Monday? That’s a steep fucking climb. Why does it have to be so hard? Why do I have to carry it all—and still smile like it’s a dance? You ever ask yourself that, reader? How we keep spinning all these plates and still get judged for a single wobble?
Then she asks again, like only a preteen can: “So… when are you guys getting married?” “I don’t know, sweetie,” I say softly. “And it actually makes me a bit sad when you ask, ‘cause I don’t have an answer. I’m not planning to die anytime soon. But go ahead and ask the Nerd if you need more answers—in my head, I’m thinking, Let him deal with it. I just can’t.”
That’s my morning, reader. From dream kitchen to lunchboxes with personality. In under an hour, I’ve run through an emotional gauntlet that’d send a Real Housewives star straight to therapy. Naughty dream, rude awakening, lunchbox high, to a gut punch that sucks all the air out. And still, I keep going. With red lips as my shield and poetry as my armor.
But now? Mascara’s dry. Lips still red. I’m ready to fight. Bring it, world. I’ve got princess coffee, a nine-year-old riding shotgun, and rats in my subconscious. What could possibly go wrong?
Thanks for reading, you glorious soul. If this episode of Red Lips hit home, dive into the rest of the series on my website—more everyday chaos, messy love, and social media shade are waiting. Share this story with a woman you love, and remember: you’re not alone. The rat race is brutal, but we walk it together—with lipstick, glitter, a whole lot of defiance, and maybe a stolen moment under the covers.
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