Friday, March 30, 2012

Friday's Random Thoughts - The Dominant/Submissive Edition

My drawings aren't this good. At all.
New Addiction

Playing Draw Something is a lot like dancing: Your level of talent has absolutely nothing to do with your level of enjoyment. I have laughed so much this week while drawing horrible pictures of Bruce Lee (thank you, J.J., for saying it wasn't the worst) or - if I do say so myself - hilarious pictures of Beyonce (thank you, Chris, for finding it equally hilarious)  and while guessing the answers to pictures of a storm (Boom! James Spann!) and Shrek (big and blue and fabulous). It's highly addictive. Just like dancing.

Realization: I'm Not F*cked Up Enough!

I have gone about this publishing thing all wrong.

Instead of helping my children through their grief and making sure they always remembered the love their father gave them, I should have been forcing them onto diets and yelling at them when they ate snacks at school. I should have thrown cups of hot chocolate into Starbucks trash cans like a toddler throwing a big, damn tantrum. I should have been like this woman.

Or, after Charles died, I could have gained 100 pounds and then gone on The Biggest Loser to drop the weight and get a book deal like this woman.

I'm also pretty certain if I had gotten a second job as a stripper like this woman who used to work for the Houston Chronicle and I'd started a blog about the stripper job and if I'd been outed for having the stripper job while also still working at Southern Living (GASP! WHY I NEVER!!!),  I'd have agents calling me right now. I am waiting for the news of her book deal to hit the Internet any moment now.

Every day, piles and piles of shit "authored" by the likes of Kim Kardashian, Snooki, and even that damned dog from The Artist get shoveled into bookstores on a regular basis.

The only way I'm going to get to be a part of this shit shoveling is if I do something to make my life a massive train wreck. I'm not sure yet what that might be. I'm in pretty good shape, I think, but I can't strip because I cannot wear those stupid stripper heels. I am also unwilling to gain 100 pounds. I can't afford the new clothes I'd have to buy.

It's looking more and more like one of these kids is going to have to step up and let me torture them in some way. Please drop your ideas in the comment section. Hardcore diets? Sweatshop employment? Daily sessions of P90X?

Don't Tell Me What To Do

Romance novels from the '80s are totally disturbing. For some reason, this week, I decided to reread a romance novel that I read when I was a teenager. Whitney, My Love is the tale of wild and outspoken Whitney and the duke who must have her for his own. Good Lord, the man is a psychopath. He hits her with a horse whip. He "all but raped her." That's the phrase from the book. No, dude, you raped her. He is constantly grabbing her arms and yanking her into his chest and threatening her. Eek. Then he seeks her forgiveness and calls her "little one." Dumb Whitney believes the duke's excessive jealousy and violent outbursts are a sign of how much he loves her. Oh, Whitney, my love, get thee to a therapist, please.

Whitney, My Love is decades old, but this scenario is what people still want to read. Fifty Shades of Grey is the new publishing phenom. It's being referred to as "mommy porn." It's on the cover of Entertainment Weekly this week. The book is all about a man named Christian, a dominant who is looking for a submissive. It started out as Twilight fan fiction. If you know anything about Twilight, you know that whole relationship is sort of dominant/submissive, too. (You also know that's some more shoveled literary shit.)

This sort of thing reminds me of a conversation I had with my friend Emily awhile back about Don Draper on Mad Men. We were discussing how Don is incredibly good looking, but he's probably way too much work. We agreed we both like to be catered to. Or made to laugh. Dark, brooding, vaguely dangerous? No, thank you. We're Roger Sterling girls.

Guys like Don and Fifty Shades of Grey's Christian and Whitney's duke demand you drop down and service them at a moment's notice.

To which I'd probably say, "Is it your birthday? No? Then hand me the remote and go fix me a drink."

1 comment:

  1. Drop the kids at a fire station then put on an adult undergarment and drive all night to one of Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville Casinos w/ money you just stole from the PTA, who's president is in your trunk. Might make pg 10


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