The undeniable hot trilogy right now (no pun intended) is Fifty Shades of Gray by E.L. James. It seems that everyone everywhere is talking about this book. Curious like the rest, I downloaded a copy onto my iPad and gave it a whirl. Before making this decision, my curiosity was peaked when a woman at my gym admitted that a former boyfriend had “a room like that” in his house. If you’ve read the book, you know what I am talking about, and her comment needs no further explanation. If you haven’t…well…what is wrong with you? You’re so last month! In all seriousness, I find James to be on par with the writing style of Jackie Collins…mediocre at best (and I say this knowing full well that others might feel that way about my blog). I’ve made it halfway through the first book, and I’m done.
Fifty Shades of Gray is not my kind of porn. To start with, I don’t even have a mudroom in my house yet. Where on earth would I put an adult playroom? Can you imagine explaining a room like that to your kids? “Oh, mommy and daddy keep that room locked year-round. No need to go in there, kids because a very scary monster sleeps in there and it would be terrible if he ever got out” Never mind if it did somehow get opened…what a way to make headline news: “MINIVAN DRIVING MOM DISCOVERED WITH ADULT PLAYROOM IN HER QUIET SUBURBAN HOME. NEIGHBORS FLOORED THAT THIS FLIP-FLOP WEARING T.J. MAXX SHOPPER AND HUSBAND HAVE A DARK SIDE. PTO MOMS VOW TO BAN HER FROM UPCOMING WRAPPING PAPER FUNDRAISER.”
Secondly, as many of you know, I started Crossfit in March and I am often finding myself in uncomfortable positions that push my body to the point of sheer exhaustion. I often can’t wait to get home to my favorite house coat and kick back on the couch for a couple of hours after downing a couple of aleve and a tall glass of water. These days, even the tamest of romance must be tabled as I limp off to bed to roll out a sore hamstring or nurse a tender shoulder with a heating pad.
This leads me to the admission that I DO indeed have a problem with porn, and my husband confronted me about this not too long ago. My type of porn? House porn. I am absolutely obsessed with looking at homes online, and always have been. I love houses, and I love to daydream. Even now, when I can’t imagine actually physically selling my home and moving, I still love to look. Sometimes daily, and sometimes weekly,depending on how much alone time I have. I defended my position to him with two key points:
1- It’s really more like a hobby now (because I do it so much). HE is the one who encouraged me to develop some hobbies when I was a young and struggling mother.
2- He has a porn problem too so it really was the pot calling the kettle black. I’ll get to that next.
The infatuation with endlessly looking on-line at homes comes down to the fact that there is only one life, and only a certain number of homes that any of us can ever live in. For me, it’s really fun to look at houses and see all of the features that they have as well as the way each homeowner has laid out the rooms. This exercise can be a great source of decorating inspiration, and as well, houses photos for listings always look so unrealistically neat. Sometimes I’ll admit I feel envious when I read, “Chef’s kitchen with brand-new viking stove like the one they cook on at The Capital Grille, a mudroom the size of the Masco locker room, a fabulous Master Bath the size of a two-bedroom ranch, and a pool with an accompanying guest house that was recently featured on Martha Stewart.” Still, I love to dream, and what was initially a bit awkward has become a source of constant humor and teasing between my husband and I. I’ll often email him a listing at work with some kind of insinuating comment, and then let things go from there.
My husband isn’t innocent either. His issue is with cars. On several occasions, I’ve caught him looking on cars.com for a hot little roadster 500 miles away. Apparently his man-wagon is not fulfilling his wildest fantasies despite being incredibly practical while also serving as the perfect complement to his dad uniform of khakis and sneakers. While all men like cars, my hope is that mine fantasizes about being behind the wheel on a winding country road with the wind blowing through what’s left of his hair with me in the passenger set. The alternative image of him parking his dream coupe engine-out so that he can run for the hills in the middle of the night is not a good one, but with the way parenting goes sometimes I can’t say I wouldn’t be running down the street yelling, “Wait for me!”
I think it’s very obvious from what’s going on around here, that our life is hot and steamy enough, at least for now. I’m putting Fifty Shades of Lame back on the shelf, embracing the down-home goodness that is my life, and calling it a night.
