50 Shades of Confusing

It’s already been a weird week for news.  Zombies are coming alive in Florida and eating each other’s faces, while another guy disembowels himself and throws his own intestines at the cops.  Body parts in the mail, Ronald Regan’s blood is up for auction and European naturalists are researching a suspected Bigfoot’s DNA.  Yup, it’s a crazy world folks.

It should have been no surprise then to find this on my kitchen counter the other evening:

‘Oh boy’…I mean, ‘OH BOY!’ Wait….

It’s either “Oh shit!”, or “Sweet Mother of Moses, YESSSSS!”…I’m not sure which yet.  Either way, my modest and humble household has now been inundated with “mommy porn”.  The bondage-inflected romance novel ‘50 Shades of Grey’  has topped the ‘New York Times’  bestseller lists for the past 10 weeks, followed at numbers two and three by its two sequels. Primarily, it’s been most popular with women (duh), especially moms, and this apparently, includes my own sweetheart.  Oprah and Ellen are all goo-goo for this stuff as well and, hey, Ellen’s a lesbo, isn’t she?  Hell, even the Human Resource ladies at work have admitted to having a copy stashed away under their desks.  Yeah, it’s a weird world alright.  How do I feel about all this?  I don’t know exactly.  I’m just as confused as every other male on the planet I suppose.

While I have no real issue with her indulging in a little romantic, steamy smut from time-to-time, and I’m certainly not anyone to critique popular literature, I’m still feeling kinda ‘wtf?’  about the whole thing.  Being the self-centered male douche I am, how is this going to reflect on me?  I mean, seriously, this could potentially mean either one of two things: a) I’m in for one hell of a week boudoir-wise, or b) I’ve been totally lacking in my manly duties lately and, apparently, need to step up my game a bit.  Either way, it’s definitely not an opportune time to develop any sudden ‘headaches’ so I’m increasing my daily Vitamin C intake just in case.  Oh, and hydrate…hydrate…hydrate!  Can’t be too careful can I?

Furthermore, this week has earmarked not only our nine month anniversary, but also our third month of living in blissful domestic harmony.  So what do I do now? Is she trying to send me a specific signal or something?  Do I need to invest in fuzzy handcuffs or what?  Do I have to send poor HRH  to bed with earplugs from now on?  Dammit, I want answers!  But only time will tell I guess.  In the meantime, perhaps this is an indication that it’s okay to renew my subscription to ‘Penthouse Letters’.

God help me.

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1 Comment

  1. Maybe it’s time to step up my game, or, errr, step down and just do as I’m told. Whatever.

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