It is one of those exasperating things that I thought I had put an end to when I dragged the Ebook to my computer’s and my brain’s trash bins (lots of trash in there but this is the worst of them all) the second after I was done with it. Unfortunately, all the racket about 50 Shades of Grey from my workmates and friends has made it near impossible to hear one’s un-Christian Grey thoughts over lunch. Some had been losing sleep over the trilogy. Some are anticipating the movie and some are speculating about the cast. Some are just fantasizing (about what, I am not really sure. Maybe they all want to be Ana). Since then, Grey and sappy Ana have re-established their unwelcome presence in my thoughts.
I wanted to like the book so that we could have something to talk and giggle about other than tiresome employees and their dowdy wardrobe.
After I’ve read it, I couldn’t muster a fake giggle even just to be nice. Was I just suckered into reading “50 Atrocities Against Women”? Shame on me, said my INNER GODDESS. I felt so bad about the time I could have squandered on other shallow but more interesting matters.
The plot (for lack of a better term, haha): Girl meets Richie Rich, who’s all grown up and perfect-I’ve-got-everything-including-unruly-hair-and-blonde-minions-I-can-give-you-anything-you-want-such-as-a-MacBook-Pro- because-you’re- a-college-graduate-and-you-don’t-have-a-computer. Richie Rich says, hey, let’s get kinky, I want to punish you. Girl gets all hot and bothered, BLUSHES 500 times, and says OH, MY, YES, SIR, let’s get kinky, punish me, punish me. And together, they got kinky and the girl got punished… and then she BLUSHED some more.
The only thing I could think of when I got to the part where they went “soaring, tumbling, freewheeling” in Richie’s private theme park on every page (this is a wholesome blog so I have to resort to errr, wholesome metaphors) was: haven’t those machines and devices been used and reused quite a few times before, and by different, umm, patrons who “soared, tumbled, and freewheeled” as well? Whoever did the cleaning? But since I fast forwarded to the end to skip the tedious parts (which was majority of the book), I must have missed out on some really worthy sections, like that one about the crucial role that Irona, Richie’s robot maid, played in sanitation and hygiene. She’d never miss a gooey spot.
The guy was not sexy; he was sadistic and abusive. The girl was not innocent; she was ditsy (I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie’s world) which was evident after reading the first page, when she said that she had never heard of this “mega industrialist tycoon” who was an “exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor” of the University she was studying in. Right. I would have expected that a benefactor, especially someone as attractive as Mr. Grey, would be a major topic of conversation and gossip in a place full of teenagers.
And was she struck with some sort of respiratory disease? In every other page or so, whether before or after the, errr, roller coaster rides, she had to be reminded to use her lungs. BREATHE, ANASTASIA, BREATHE.
I would have thought it highly unlikely that people actually speak this way had it not been for my hubby telling me to do the same some years back. We were in, GASP, slippery, skin-tight spandex/neoprene suits… my face sealed with a mask, close to asphyxiation, my heart racing, my teeth clenched in excitement… around that rubber thingy at the end of the tube connected to the oxygen tank, as we went through the basics of scuba diving. It was the unprettiest and unsexiest thing: arms and legs flailing underwater as I struggled against my buoyancy, and all kinds of fishies peering at me with those creepy globulous eyes of theirs… but it was quite an ear-popping experience! (This isn’t one of those metaphors. I’m talking about my real scuba diving experience and hubby was a co-instructor.)
I wish I could make like Thursday Next and jump into the novel so I could steal her MacBook Pro slap and SPANK the girl to her senses. I’m sure her INNER GODDESS would have CHEERED.
I could go on and on. Yes, I know, I’m sulking. If someone could get published and become rich and famous for that kind of writing, then I should have just gathered all my high school diaries and submitted them to some publishing house. There’s nothing about BDSM in them (I could easily google that part and put that in because, yes, I have a laptop) but I guarantee pages and pages of silly schoolgirl crushes, BLUSHING and FAWNING and SIGHING and daydreaming.
Maybe if I were still in high school, I’d most likely be giggling over 50SoG. But I’m not. Age has lowered my giggling capacity… or more likely, has converted my INNER GODDESS into a crabby, sarcastic old hag. Reading the comments from fellow witches (yes, there is a reason why we are still friends after all these years) made me cackle.
Witch #1: “A friend of mine compared it to the typical romances where the guy is perfect and the girl is fawning haha.”
Witch #2: “I have read two of the 50 Shades trilogy… took me six months to finish them… I would skip parts of the book…so boring…don’t know if I can still read the last one.”
Witch #3: “The Christian Grey books are a complete waste of time. The grammar alone should scare you.”
Witch #4. (This is me): I will most certainly save my drool for something or somebody else.
Come to think of it, maybe I’m no different from ANASTASIA. I protest, I complain, but it’s just like a mental BDSM because I subjected myself to the PAIN of reading page after page. I rather enjoyed ranting about it, too. I didn’t know I could enjoy ranting this much. Sweet release. OH MY.
This is so much fun. If I have nothing left to do, I might just pore over the book again and rant about every paragraph.