It has been extremely quiet in my house for hours now. I think it is because I am still in shock that I have finished reading “50 Shades of Grey.” I did it. From cover to cover, I absorbed every word. It was, without a doubt, the longest Penthouse Forum letter I have ever read. I need to purge myself of the emotions and opinions the reading of this book has given rise to. And, since I am unfamiliar with the proper procedure required for a kona coffee colonic–I don’t even know where I would find kona coffee–please allow me to cleanse myself with this little essay, (although I am certain that a coffee colonic would give me much more energy. You drink those, right? (Note to self: Do further research on ‘colonics.’)) If I commit all my thoughts to the page, perhaps I will stop continually tweeting about the sheer awfulness of this novel. For the past few days all I have wanted to do is tweet snarky, spiteful, (albeit righteously inventive and hilarious), comments about this terrible book. I would like to go back to tweeting about my cats like a normal person, if you don’t mind.

I only have myself to blame for this. No one forced me to read this book. I CHOSE to endure this pain. So, in that respect, I am incredibly similar to the main character, (a woman I will forever refer to Anastasia Whats-her-Face, if only because her last name escapes me at the moment and I’m too afraid to open the book again to look it up.) You see, every once in awhile, if circumstances permit, I like to try and catch up on some of the pop culture that swirls around this morbidly obese, yes, I would like fries with that and, yes, I would like chili AND cheese on those fries country of ours. It helps me feel connected to this Vitamin Water-drinking, Spanx-wearing, Dancing With the Stars-watching society that typically leaves me feeling befuddled and slightly out of place. So, if everyone at the office is reading a bestseller, then, God help me, I’m gonna crack that book open and find out what all the fuss is about. The obvious flaw in this line of reasoning is that reading what “everyone else is reading to find out what all the fuss is about” only leaves me feeling more befuddled and confused by this world once I realize what a heaping pile of crap said best-seller is. (That lonely feeling of separation is not reserved for horrible literature, of course. I feel the same way when I’m surrounded by people excitedly talking about how much they enjoy the food at The Olive Garden. Really, people? Really? And I’m a woman who, when circumstances demand it, will eat Chef-Boy-Ardee ravioli straight out of the can…cold. Yet even I know that The Olive Garden is shit.) And EVERYONE in my office was, is, or has been planning on reading “Fifty Shades of Grey.” (So, Encyclopedia Brown, do I work in a office populated by MEN? For the answer, turn to page 68.)

Now.

I am not a stupid woman. Stubborn, thoughtless, tempermental, irrational and oh! so obese, yes. But stupid? No. I KNOW that some of you, (probably you), are dying to read this book, this “50 Shades of Grey.” It wouldn’t surprise me if at least one of you, (probably you), is masturbating to it right now. And for those of you that are going to be exploring this book in the near future, I assure you–I have no intentions of spoiling the “plot” for you. (I put the word plot in quotation marks because this novel has one in much the same way that an adult movie does. It’s not exactly “important.”) All I really want to do is take a brief moment of your time to explain in broad strokes why this novel makes me angry enough to want to forcibly sterilize any young woman caught reading it, so as to prevent her from spreading her clearly flawed genetic material, is all.

Please allow myself a moment to self-identify myself. (Tip of the cap to Mr. Mike Myers with that last sentence. (He said something similar in one of the Austin Powers movies.)Whatever happened to that crazy bastard, anyway? You make one, four of the worst movies of all time and all of sudden you’re relegated to doing voicework as a Scottish ogre. What? I’m digressing? Holy shit! I AM, aren’t I? Sorry! Where was I?) I am what I like to call “a lazy fucking feminist.” And, for those of you not “privileged” enough to live in my brain, a “lazy fucking feminist” is a rational human being with tits. (Copyright.) I tend to view people intellectually, not genitalialy. (Copyright.) (So, as you can see, right there I am clearly not a candidate for appreciating this particular style of book.) I strongly believe that women are the equals of men, allowing for some very natural, obvious differences in the sexes. (Men, for example, will for all time clearly dominate in the Peeing in a Bottle category. Women, on the other hand, will forever lead in the Ability to Squeeze a Bowling Ball out of Your Crotch category. So, it’s a wash.) And, were I a spiritual person, I would prefer to follow a religion that had a female creator, since a)women create all life and b)horrific, angry, powerful natural disasters like typhoons, tornadoes, volcanoes and floods could only possibly come from a female goddess on her period. (Am I right, ladies, or am I right? Up top!) The “lazy” part comes in from the fact that I don’t study feminism. Camille Paglia irritates the shit out of me for some reason. My feminism stems more from common sense and from admiring the lives of strong women such as Katharine Hepburn, Anna Quindlen, Molly Ivins, Rosanne Cash, Maria Bamford, etc. than from actually trying to educate myself intellectually. (Who has time for that?)

I DO NOT subscribe to the age-old, paternalistic notion that intelligent, outspoken women need confident, brazen, arrogant men to “tame” them. I do not subscribe to the notion that women secretly fantasize about being raped or dominated or controlled. I do not subscribe to the notion that a woman is not complete unless she has a man.

(That being said, I really need a man to come over and powerwash my house or replace the sparkplug on my lawnmower.)

I realize this is just a story. A shamelessly pornographic story about a wealthy, cold man who is into dominant/submissive sexual roleplay and the woman who loves him. Symbolically, though, this story chaps my hide more than that brown plaited leather riding crop she is so fascinated by.

Because, conveniently, this woman is Purity itself. (Does “Anastasia” mean purity or innocence in Russian? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.) So, her feminity is of the purest, most perfect kind. 1)She has never been in love before. 2)She is a virgin. 3)She is completely unaware of her own beauty which, apparently, is enough to stop the wealthiest man in the Pacific Northwest in his tracks. And, oh, 4)she has never been drunk, even though she has spent the past four years of her life at college. In PORTLAND.

And apparently, when Purity meets Carnal Desire…well. You get “50 Shades of Grey.” Which means that a 21 year-old woman can go from a virgin who has never once pleasured herself, (Really? Not even once, lady? What were you doing as a 13 year old?), to being able to masterfully control her own orgasms in three weeks time. Oh. And she can experience both external AND internal orgasms. One just as easily as the other. AND she has multiple orgasms with very litle down time. AND she can give professional-grade blowjobs AND successfully roll condoms on with no practice or previous experience.

I sound a little jealous.

And I am, of course, because all of that is preposterous. I certainly hope that no one who reads that yearns to be that ideal woman. The only thing that would make her sexual capabilities slightly more ridiculous is if she could also tie the perfect Windsor knot and make the most delicate blueberry crepes in bed WHILE being serviced from behind for her third orgasm of the night. (Of course, if she knew how to replace the sparkplug in a lawnmower, maybe I wouldn’t be so critical of her…but I digress.)

Anastasia Whats-her-Face clearly is representative of an ideal. And this novel chose to take that ideal and give it submissiveness and curiousity and obedience to some of the sickest, most degrading, controlling, domineering, arrogant behavior, displayed by a man who puts the freak in control freak…and then the author has the audacity to call that love. It is the same old story that has been told throughout the ages. And the lazy fucking feminist in me is sick of it.

I’ll let you know what I think of the second book in the series when I finish it.