50 Shades of Grey? Meet the Gremlin.

The first thing I would like to say is, “Thank You!,” for not getting all up in my business after blogging about Magic Mike yesterday.

 

It’s almost like many of you were waiting for someone to speak out against the double-standard… I expected to get hateful comments but instead… much hurray-ing has ensued. Thank you.

 

In the process I’ve had a few people mention 50 Shades of Grey. I didn’t talk about it yesterday because I had this half-hearted hope people might not be reading the books… but then a couple of men referred to it and my hopes were crushed.

 

I’ve spent the last hour researching the 50 Shades trilogy (because I haven’t read it and won’t read it – but it’s also stupid to write a post about the books if I haven’t checked out the buzz). To be honest, I just got sick and tired of reading about it!

 

Women, if we get all hot under the collar and steamed up about being submissive to our husbands, ranting and railing our feminist propaganda… why on Earth are we buying a book that’s being hailed as “mommy porn” that’s all about a woman being submissive to a control freak man?

 

When I was dating if a man wanted me to sign my will away with a legal contract it would have been a sign of bad stinkin’ ju-ju.

 

So I don’t get it. I’m not going to talk about it tonight (maybe ever) and will instead count the last hour of my life as wasted.

 

I admit to being a grouch. I blame it on the gremlin in my stomach trying to gnaw his way through my flesh and squeeze his ridiculous self through my protruding belly button.

 

That evil little creature is the reason I’ve slept a generous four-to-six hours of the last three days, and those hours have been from a seated position.

 

My back is spasming. My stomach is clenching. My nose is stuffed up. My toes look like Cheetos Giant Puffs.

 

The milk in the refrigerator expires after my due date.

 

A customer asked me today how many children I have and if I’ve figured out what causes them to come into being. I was able to keep from throttling him, but only just.

 

It’s the home stretch of pregnancy, and I’m handling it with the grace of a hippopotamus with a toothache.

 

So, let me take my grumpy self away from blog land and leave you with this tidy nugget of wisdom:

 

The fictional BSDM of 50 Shades of Grey ain’t nothin’ on the torture you’ll experience if you get knocked up (or have to put up with your little lady and her potential, galaxy-destroying bad attitude while with child).

 

So keep your pants on, it’s safer.