50 shades of twilight...

So I finally met Christian Grey, I mean Mr Grey, I mean Sir. Excuse me while I fan myself.

At first I thought it was just me as I found myself replacing Christian's name with Edward and Anastasia's name with Bella until I discovered that the Fifty Shades story began as a fan lit of the Twilight series. That made more sense but it still astounds me that this other worldwide reading phenomenon rests on the same fantastical dynamic. Super powerful, unnaturally handsome, wealthy, calm independent man who drives exotic sportscars unsuccessfully warns away super inexperienced, awkward, young, unwittingly gorgeous virgin from their dark embrace. Familiar? It's Twilight. Minus the vampire. Plus kinky fuckery.

Who knew that women wanted this? I certainly didn't know and to be honest, I'm confused. It was not long ago that we were all sexually empowered thanks to Sex and The City. Hang on a minute... cue another gorgeous, powerful, wealthy unattainable man ready to save our heroine from average sex and loneliness. I digress. Sexually empowered nay, encouraged to sow our sexual oats. Poor, inexperienced and awkward Charlotte was NOT the girl you wanted to relate to. No. Women wanted to dress like Carrie, fuck like Sam and practice law like the red head. But Charlotte? Not so much. Now, it seems that awkward is the new black. NOT knowing you're attractive is how we should be playing it. And if you can possibly bite your lip every time you talk to a gorgeous man, then get ready to explode in a flurry of orgasms against a wall in an elevator.

I was initially uncomfortable reading this trilogy. I'm not into that whole BSDM thing. The red room of pain does not float my boat and if someone takes a riding crop to my arse, they'd better make it worth it 'cause I guarantee it will be the last thing they do... but as I read through the trilogy, I did work out that it wasn't really about the sex. It couldn't be. Those scenes were poorly written and annoying to be honest. I would be lying if I didn't say that my heart rate didn't increase many times during the book but it was the development of their relationship that got me there... and maybe when they were in the shower and that time on the piano and in the front seat of the car... Ahem. It certainly was not Ana's infuriating 'inner goddess' that we had to keep hearing about. Or the fact that she referred to her vagina as her 'sex' or the weird way her inner dialogue would exclaim 'oh my' as his demand for her to come would be her 'undoing'... or the very fact that she could have an orgasm EVERY SINGLE TIME he told her to. huh??? 

So, as I was saying, at first I was uneasy. I didn't want to read about a submissive girl [she ain't no woman at only 22] being beaten and demoralised by anyone. As it turns out, I didn't have to. She never becomes his 'sub' though she does enjoy the role playing [shudder]. He does, in fact, love her and really the joy of the story is reading about how much he wants to protect her and cherish her. And THIS is what I think women are addicted to. 

Guys... hold your horses and don't order those handcuffs just yet. Yes, the books have been dubbed 'mummy porn' but the porn factor is in the way this man loves his girl. Picture this... an amazingly handsome, incredibly fit, unspeakably wealthy horn bag falls for your wife/girlfriend. Don't think he won't 'cause he doesn't expect her to be gorgeous or well-dressed or sophisticated or independent or wealthy or single herself. He falls for her and courts her by - wait for it - DEVOTING HIS TIME TO HER. By buying her clothes that suit and fit her. By remembering her favourite book. By making her playlists and delivering them to her on her own iPod. By interrupting his very busy day to write her emails. By always taking her call. By making sure she eats well. By begging to take her shopping. By washing, brushing and plaiting her hair. He buys her a couple of cars. The latest Apple hardware. Christian Louboutin heels. A publishing company. A mansion. When she complains, once, that she hasn't seen her friends in a while he flies all of them to his house in Aspen on his own private jet for the weekend. His favourite past time is watching her sleep, he loves his mum and he totally ignores all other women. 

He's old-fashioned and millions of women have voted that an alpha male is what they're yearning. They like that he tells her what to do. They like that he takes care of business. They like that he can fuck her up against a wall and then tenderly pick her up in his gorgeous arms and take her to bed to watch her sleep... while her plays the piano into the early hours of the morning in nothing but some low slung track pants. They like that he has a housekeeper to make that bed and keep her fed and do the laundry. They want what she's having... ALL OF IT.

Women are not leaving their husbands because they've suddenly discovered a penchant for anal plugs and nipple clamps. They have layed in bed, next to their snoring, overweight, disinterested, pissed-off-that-you-even-need-to-buy-clothes [let alone know what size you are], struggling-to-make-ends-meet, footy-watching, fantastically boring, selfish husbands reading the greatest fairytale ever written.

So if you want to save your marriage from the Fifty Shades of Grey breakdown, here's what you have to do. Remember when you first fell in love with your wife/partner. When you didn't want to fart in front of her. When her body delighted you and you couldn't get enough of it. When you would make time to call her. When getting a call from her during your work day was a welcome distraction and not a chore. When you would happily give up watching some crap on tv to share a glass of wine outside on a warm night. When making love to her took longer than seven minutes in the dark and you would scream out her name instead of grunting. When her laugh made you warm inside. When you yearned to be with her always. Then... let her see that woman in your eyes. 

And if all else fails... spank her. Apparently that's what women want too ;)

Breathing, boxes and chocolate

My kids ask the most random questions. Out of nowhere they'll ask me about snot. Or why does that man have boobs. Or why the skin-colour crayon isn't the colour of anyone's skin in our family. Or who makes cars. Or why do I wee sitting down, out of my bum. Or what's the word on the street and where is it.

Not long ago, Stefan threw this one at me from the back of the car while I was driving. It's where my boys and I have some of our best conversations. I suspect it's because I'm a captive audience. How do you handle the tough questions? I like to give just enough truth to feel as though I'm teaching them something, without feeling too uncomfortable and then distract them. With chocolate. Yes. I'm an awesome mum.


S “Mum, why do we breathe?”

M “Because the air has oxygen in it and we need oxygen in our body to keep us going” TICK

S “But you can’t breathe when you’re dead”

M “Well, no because that’s how we know when someone is dead. They stop breathing." TICK

S “No Mum, that’s not why. It’s because you’re underground in a box and you can’t breathe under the earth in a box”

M .....silence. UH OH

S “Is djido [grandpa] in a box?”

M “yes” SHORT AND DIRECT

S “Is he in the ground?”

M “yes” DO NOT ELABORATE

S “I want to get him out of the ground. What if he’s trying to breathe?”

M “He’s not trying to breathe honey. Djido is dead and it’s ok for him to be in the ground.” TICK [but hands are sweaty]

S “Well, I don’t want him there alone. I want to get him. Can we get everyone up out of the ground?”

M “No Stefan, we shouldn’t bother them. It’s why there’s a saying that goes “Rest in Peace”. OH FFS! HAVEN'T YOU HEARD OF PET SEMETARY????

S “Mum. They’re not resting and they’re not in peace. They’re dead”

M “Do you want some chocolate?” SIGH... JOB WELL DONE.

Go ahead... make my day

It’s probably ‘that’ time in my cycle but just lately, my kids have been annoying me. Not the usual, can’t stand that whingeing tone annoying but actually pissing me off. What have I done? Have I really spent the last 7 years raising ungrateful kids? My kids are so fortunate that it’s ridiculous. They have two parents, who live together and who love them entirely. They are extremely well-fed. They are clean. They are warm. They live in a beautiful home filled with more stuff than they could possibly need. They are paid attention. They are paid respect. They are healthy. They are fit. They are smart. They can see. They can talk. They can walk. They go to school every day with their friends and are taught by teachers who are invested in their growth and education. They have extended family who adore them and they have a broad network of family friends who enrich their lives also. They have travelled. By car. By ferry. By bus. By plane. They have a great life so it is infuriating to me when I hear them complain and I’ve had just about enough of it.

I’ve started a new regime in this house and things are gonna change. Yep, parenting is thankless, we all know it. I don’t mind so much that I’m not thanked for being a bloody fantastic mother but I do mind that I have to defend myself, that I have to beg for gratitude for the simplest things. It does not excite me to cook dinner every fucking night of my life. It doesn’t bring me joy. It doesn’t fulfill me as a person. It certainly doesn’t challenge my creative flair as I only have about 12 dishes I can choose from to ensure the entire family will eat healthily and on time. So when I am told ‘I hate this dinner’ I go a little bit Rambo.

"In town you're the law, out here it's me. Don't push it. Don't push it or I'll give you a war you won't believe."

 

When my kids complain that we do not have a Wii, Playstation, DS, Foxtel, X-Box blah, blah, blah as they’re sitting on their leather sofa, watching a DVD from their own personal library on a flatscreen tv playing a game they have downloaded onto my iPhone, my head dips down and I get a bit Dirty Harry.

 

"...you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

And when I get home from walking them to school in their clean uniforms, with their homework done and the excursion forms signed and their money orders for book club packed neatly in their school bags next to their homemade lunches and I trip over the pyjamas I ask them to put away in their bedroom instead of leaving them on the lounge room floor every fucking morning… well that sends me a little bit Falling Down.

 

"I am not a vigilante... if everyone will just stay out of my way, nobody will get hurt."

I spoke to another mum the other day who is an awesome woman. She’s an entrepreneur and a wife and has four kids. She’s young and dynamic and confessed that she has given up cooking vegetables for her kids. GIVEN UP. What are you kids doing to us? What are we LETTING you do to us?? The nightly battle to get good food into her kids is so hard for this amazing woman that she has surrendered. Cue every other mother’s confession of letting their 5 year old into their bed every night because they’re too tired to take them back to their own bed or bribing their kids with chocolate to keep them quiet in the trolley at the supermarket so they can get 15 minutes peace to buy them good food or giving in to their toddler’s tantrum for whatever it is that they insist they need just because they don’t have the fight in them that day. Our kids are wearing us down. My kids are wearing me down. And I’m not putting up with it anymore.

 

There’s a new sheriff in town boys. And her name is Rambo Harry Down. Don’t mess with her – she’s nuts.