Author: JennyTrout

Chapters five and six of The Boss kick off the new once-a-week release schedule. Except this week, you get two chapters. 

No links this week, let’s just get into this depressing train wreck, shall we?

If you’d been missing descriptions of how insufferably close these two idiots sleep, well, you’re in luck:

When I wake before the alarm the following morning, Christian is wrapped around me like ivy, his head on my chest, his arm around my waist, and his leg between mine.

So, if you had “ivy” in the “repetitive descriptions” pool, congratulations, you have to take a shot.

Oh, Fifty. He is so needy on some level.

Excuse me, on some level? Have you even met this person, Ana? This is the guy who, a few short months ago, wanted to control what you ate and wore.

Christian gets up for his shower, and they flirt, and it’s just as obnoxious as every other time they flirt. Of course they call each other Mr. and Mrs. Grey, and it’s just as clever this time as the forty-three-thousand, two-hundred and fifteen times they’ve done it before. Then they have to have sex instead of him going to the shower, because this is an erotic novel:

I squeal, and he crawls up my body, trailing little kisses on my knee, my thigh… my… oh… Christian!

“Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones greets me. I flush, embarrassed, remembering her tryst with Taylor the night before.

Tryst? Is that the word we’re going with here? It seems kind of strong for a kiss in a room with an open door, but whatever. Let’s roll.

I sit on the barstool beside my husband, who just looks radiant: freshly showered, his hair damp, wearing a crisp white shirt and that silver-gray tie. My favorite tie. I have fond memories of that tie.

So do I, Ana.

I stop, because Christian is grinning at me. “What?” I snap.

“Nothing. Just you,” he says.

This dude can eat a whole bag of extra salty unwashed dicks.

Ana asks Christian if he’s going to fly Charlie Tango to New York. Yes, Ana. He’s going to fly a fucking helicopter cross country. I know next to nothing about air traffic vehicles, and even I thought, “What are you, some kind of dumb ass?” when I read that question. Christian explains that the helicopter doesn’t have that kind of range, and besides, it won’t be fixed for another two weeks.

Hang on. The helicopter accident happened… at least three months ago, right? It’s hard to keep the crazy stupid timeline straight. At one point, I thought they’d said the helicopter was a loss. Even if they didn’t, that’s a long ass time to be working on repairing something. Why not just buy a new one, at that point? Did he lose his virginity in this helicopter or something? Is that why it has to be this specific one?

My smile is partly from relief, but also the knowledge that the demise of Charlie Tango has occupied a great deal of Christian’s thoughts and time over the last few weeks.

Except we’re only going to bring it up just now, near page two hundred. That’s how much it’s worried him.

Ana reminds him that the last time he flew his helicopter, they all thought he was dead. To reassure her, Christian says:

“Five people have been fired because of that, Ana. It won’t happen again.”

I love that E.L. James seems to think that a good business strategy for success is to fire everyone, all the time. Christian is always talking about people he’s going to fire, or how their jobs are on the line if this or that doesn’t happen. And in this case, it’s especially laughable because 1) the accident with Charlie Tango was due to sabotage and 2) as the pilot, it was his fault, for not doing a pre-flight check. He doesn’t do pre-flight checks, we’ve already seen that in the first book. Someone does those pre-flight checks before he arrives, then he hops in and flies. For all we know, the proper checks were done, but someone got in between that check and his arrival time. But sure, fire everyone for your mistake, because that’s how business works.

Oh shit, that really is how business works.

Whatever, I still hate this fucking guy.

Ana brings up the subject of the gun in his desk. Brace yourself for the bull shittery that results:

“It’s Leila’s,” he says finally.

“It’s fully loaded.”

“How do you know?” His frown deepens.

“I checked it yesterday.”

He scowls at me. “I don’t want you messing with guns. I hope you put the safety back on.”

I blink at him, momentarily stupefied. “Christian, there’s no safety on that revolver. Don’t you know anything about guns?”

His eyes widen. “Um… no.”

He probably knows about as much as E.L., but here, this is at least plausible. While there are some revolvers available commercially that have safety mechanisms, it’s a largely redundant feature on a firearm that has to be cocked or, in the case of a double action revolver, requires a significant amount of force to squeeze the trigger.

But look at this jackass. He has a gun. In his desk. Fully loaded. He doesn’t know how to use it. He didn’t even know if there was a safety or not. But Ana should not have been messing with guns, because her tiny, vulnerable female brain is clearly unable to comprehend the danger of them.

He has Leila’s gun. I am stunned by this news and briefly wonder what’s happened to her. Is she still in – where is it? East somewhere. New Hampshire? I can’t remember.

Um, that would be a pretty fucking important detail to me, if someone had broken into my house and tried to kill me. I wouldn’t obsess every second over them, but having an idea if they were still, you know, incarcerated or whatever, would be nice.

Then Taylor comes in, and Ana gets squirrelly about the fact Taylor saw her in stockings and a men’s shirt the night before. Because Taylor doesn’t have a Tumblr account. No, seriously about 98.4% of all pictures on Tumblr are women wearing black stockings and men’s dress shirts. It’s not a big deal.

“I am just going to brush my teeth,” I mutter. Christian always brushes his teeth before breakfast. I don’t understand why.

I don’t understand why that was the hook to end on before a section break, but who the fuck cares because at this point, 50 Shades the series is as unsalvageable as Charlie Tango should have been.

 “You should ask Taylor to teach you how to shoot,” I say as we travel down in the elevator.

“You should ask Taylor to teach you how to shoot you.” There, fixed it for you, E.L. No need to thank me.

“Ana, I despise guns. My mom has patched up too many victims of gun crime, and my dad is vehemently antigun. I grew up with their ethos. I support at least two gun control initiatives here in Washington.”

Without knowing anything about guns? SMART. You should definitely be involved in the lawmaking process regarding them. But more importantly, I’m glad your “vehemently antigun” parents instilled in you a sense of moral outrage over that and not, you know, ABUSING WOMEN.

“Oh. Does Taylor carry a gun?”

Christian’s mouth thins.

“Sometimes.”

“You don’t approve?” I ask, as Christian ushers me out of the elevator on the ground floor.

“No,” he says, tight-lipped. “Let’s just say that Taylor and I hold very different views with regard to gun control.” I’m with Taylor on this.

I love it. “Guns? Me? Oh, no, no, no. I’m very antigun. Unless it comes to my bodyguard. I act like it’s out of my hands that he carries, but let’s be honest, I fire people for shit they can’t control all the time. What I’m saying here is, ‘No one can be protected by guns… except me. Because I’m important.'”

In the last recap, I had someone leave a comment that they can’t follow my blog anymore because of my stance on guns. Which I find hilarious because a) I’ve made public my support for stricter gun laws (you know, that whole “well regulated” part of the 2nd Amendment), and b) I’m pretty moderate on the issue, which means that while I’m used to people getting pissed at me, I can never tell why they’re pissed at me on this one. For all I know, that person stopped reading the blog because I didn’t include an animated .gif of myself shooting two pistols into the sky, Yosemite Sam style. But no matter where you stand on the issue, I think we all have to agree that it’s fucking useless to hire a team of bodyguards to protect you from someone who is trying to kill you and then ask them to do it without using guns. On top of that, it’s hypocritical in the extreme to back anti-gun measures, but pay someone to protect you with guns.

I don’t know why I’m so shocked at Chedward’s open hypocrisy here. I think I occasionally black out and forget what book I’m recapping, because nothing important has been consistent in these books, anyway.

Ana asks him one more time to learn how to shoot, and he tells her:

“No. End of discussion, Anastasia.”

So… let me get this straight. Chedward isn’t going to learn anything about the fully loaded gun he has in his desk drawer?

“Yes, I checked. She’s enrolled in an art school in Hamden. She started this week.”

So, obviously, Ana’s first thought should be, “WTF WHY IS SHE AT AN ART SCHOOL SHE TRIED TO MURDER ME LIKE A FEW MONTHS AGO, DUDE.”

Nope. Not our Ana. Not our “bright” “intelligent” “brilliant” Ana:

“You’ve spoken to her,” I whisper, all the blood draining from my face.

No, Ana, the reason all the blood should be draining from your face is that the woman who was so mentally broken just a few months ago that she came to your apartment with a gun is now just flitting around free as a bird because your husband didn’t want to call the police on his ex-girlfriend.

Christian continues, “I’m keeping tabs on her, checking that she stays on her side of the continent. She’s better, Ana. Flynn has referred her to a shrink in New Haven, and all the reports are very positive. She’s always been interested in art, so…” He stops, his face still searching mine. And in that moment I suspect that he is paying for her art classes. Do I want to know? Should I ask him? I mean, it’s not as if he can’t afford it, but why does he feel the obligation?

Perhaps it’s because he knows, somewhere deep down, that his continual emotional abuse is what ultimately broke her? Because that’s why I think he should pay for anything she might need. But we all know it’s so she won’t tell anyone about the kinky BDSM sex games he’s so super ashamed of (but photographs for posterity).

But let’s examine this “better” claim. First of all, is it possible for someone to get over a total psychotic break in a few months? Second, who decided Leila was “better”? The colleague of Dr. Flynn? Dr. Flynn the guy who was treating Christian and who suggested that Ana had the power to cure him with her love? Oh, well, as long as it’s that guy, I guess everyone is fine and no one should expect to get shot by a crazy ex any time soon. And also, wouldn’t this entire situation be a lot easier if Leila were, I don’t know, in jail? Or at least in a facility that had some kind of security? Because isn’t that what usually happens when you break and enter with the intent to commit murder?

There I go again, expecting that this book isn’t set in some badly constructed fantasy world of author intrusion and blind ignorance.

Then there are six pages of emails in which Christian and Ana pointlessly flirt and rehash everything that has happened in the last few chapters. I will spare you the utterly boring, useless, and not at all plot-furthering correspondence that I’m 100% certain was put in just to pad out word count. Which is totally unnecessary, because the book is way too fucking long as it is.

Section break, and it’s Thursday:

I cannot help my despondent mood as Sawyer drives me to the office on Thursday. Christian’s threatened business trip to New York has happened, and though he’s been gone only a few hours, I miss him already.

Despondent: low spirits from loss of hope or courage. Ana has lost hope because Christian has been gone a few hours. That’s not how she’s supposed to feel. That’s how I am supposed to feel, because I’m reading about it.

So then there’s about a page’s worth of emails again, in which we learn that Ana is going out:

I intend to have a few cocktails with Kate – that should help me sleep.

Awesome, glad you found another way to use your friendship to your advantage, even if she’s not paying your rent anymore.

Put on your bullshit waders, guys, it’s about to get deep. Ana gets a call from Christian when his plane lands, and the first thing he wants to know is what she’s doing with Kate:

Oh no. “We’re just going out for a quiet drink.”

Christian says nothing.

“Sawyer and the new woman – Prescott – are coming to watch over us,” I offer, trying to placate him.

“I thought Kate was coming to the apartment.”

“She is after a quick drink.” Please let me go out!

He’s not even in the same state, and he has this control over her. Healthy marriage!

Christian remains resolutely silent, and I know he’s not happy. “I’ve seen her only a few times since you and I met. Please. She’s my best friend.”

Name something you shouldn’t be arguing about with your husband.

“Ana, I don’t want to keep you from your friends.

Bullfuckingshit yes you do, turdbag.

But I thought she was coming back to the apartment.”

“Okay,” I acquiesce. “We’ll stay in.”

“Only while this lunatic is out there. Please.”

Which lunatic, Chedward? You? Seriously, have you guys noticed how conveniently “lunatics” pop up in their lives, causing these dramatic and unavoidable threats that mean Ana absolutely must stay at home or under Christian’s surveillance all the time? First it was Leila, now it’s Jack Hyde and the mystery woman driving the Dodge. I’m going to guess that this will become a regular thing. “Honey, don’t forget, I have Kate’s bachelorette party to go to.” “Oh, um, you can’t, because, uh, um, huh… uh… Bic… Mcpen… lamp…erson, yeah, that’s right! Bic McPenlamperson! My old nemesis Bic McPenlamperson is out to destroy us. So you can’t go.”

“Good,” he breathes, his relief evident. I feel guilty for worrying him.

“Well, Mr. Grey, I’m glad one of us is punctilious.”

He laughs. “Mrs. Grey, your gift for hyperbole knows no bounds.[…]”

That wasn’t hyperbole, though. Punctilious means you do things to the letter, your behavior is exact and precise… which is what he was doing. She wasn’t exaggerating at all when she said he was being punctilious. Either E.L. doesn’t know what one of those words means, or she doesn’t know what both of those words mean. I’ll leave it up to your merciful consciences to decide which is more likely.

They do about half a page of “No, you hang up,” and then right when I’m about to go hang myself, they switch to the email.

After a section break, Kate shows up at Ana’s place of business. There is hugging and eye rolling, and Ana tells Kate:

“Christian wants us to go back to the apartment.”

If I were Kate, the next thing I would be saying is, “Christian can go fuck himself,” but Kate tries a gentler tactic and suggests they go out for just one little bitty drink.

We’re followed by Miss Belinda Prescott, who’s new to the security team – a tall African American with a no-nonsense attitude. I’ve yet to warm up to her maybe because she’s too cool and professional.

Keep in mind how Taylor, Sawyer, and the rest of them act all the time. Ana has warmed up to them just fine, but they are, after all, white men.

When Ana gives Sawyer the name of the bar they want to go to, this happens:

“Mr. Grey requested you go back to the apartment,” Prescott pipes up.

“Mr. Grey isn’t here,” I snap. “The Zig Zag, please.”

“Ma’am,” Sawyer replies witha sideways glance at Prescott, who wisely holds her tongue.

Yes, woman of color, wisely hold your tongue when a white lady is speaking. Everyone, just take a second to imagine how this scene would have gone down if it were Taylor, a white man, and not Prescott, a black woman. Think of how many times we’ve seen this go down already and it never happens like this. Ana has routinely ignored Christian’s wishes and told the security team to do so, as well, but she’s always done it with a little bit of worry that she’ll get them in trouble. And she’s never, to my memory, been so strident about it. But it’s okay in this case because Prescott a) is a woman and b) is a black woman. Which is probably also why she’s allowed to be on the security team; if she were a white woman, she would be a threat, as we’ve already seen time and again.

In the car, Kate and Ana discuss the extra security that’s been put on the whole Grey family, and Ana begins to realize that she doesn’t have all the information, because Christian hasn’t told her a lot of stuff. But they can’t discuss it in the car because, I shit you not, Ana is worried that it will get back to Christian that she knows things she’s not supposed to:

I glance up to see Sawyer eyeing me in the rearview mirror. The red light turns to green and he surges forward, focusing on the road ahead. I hold my finger up to my lips and Kate nods.

How are people reading this shit and finding it romantic? “Careful, best friend, better not say too much in front of my husband’s spies.” THAT IS NOT OKAY.

Ugh, I seriously have a rage headache.

After a section break, Ana and Kate are already into their second drink of the evening, and they’re talking about Gia Matteo, the architect. They call her a bitch, a social climber, rag on her for having a “fling” with Elliot (hey Kate? Takes more than one person to fling), and then they literally raise their glasses to the fact that Ana told Gia off.

Prescott accompanies me. She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. Disapproval radiates off her like a lethal isotope.

Oh good, Prescott isn’t just a black woman, she’s an angry black woman, and her anger is making our white heroine uncomfortable.

“I haven’t been out on my own since I got married,” I mutter wordlessly at the closed stall door.

How the fuck did you mutter a full sentence wordlessly? As in, without words? You said the words, we can see them, they’re between the fucking quotation marks. And seriously, how did that sentence get into a final, printed book?

I make a face, knowing that she’s standing on the other side of the door, waiting while I pee.

You know what, Ana? This woman is probably going to lose her job because your husband is a fucking idiot and since he can’t fire you, he’ll probably fire everyone on the security team because they didn’t taser you, bind your wrists with zip ties, slap a bag over your head and stuff you in the trunk of the car for your own safety. She has a right to be mad at you and him both, because you’re both stupid and now she’s going to have to start sending out her CV again. Also, this is probably not her dream job, guarding you while you pee. So shut the fuck up.

Seriously, I’m so peeved about this, because it’s so blatant. When Ana is followed by the white male bodyguards, she’s annoyed, but she’s not openly hostile to them. She’s almost apologetic toward them, because she gets that they’re just doing their job. But a black female? Oh, good thing you’re here, because Ana is about to unload all of her frustration at her abusive husband onto you.

After another break, it’s 10:15, one drink has turned into four, and Kate is telling Ana that marriage obviously agrees with her because she seems so much more confident. Ana thinks:

Could I be any happier? In spite of all his baggage, his nature, his Fiftyness, I have met and married the man of my dreams.

First of all, your dreams are stupid and they suck dung-dipped donkey balls. Second, look at what you’re saying here. You’re saying that he’s the man of your dreams in spite of literally everything that makes up the sum total of his personality. It’s like saying, “I love Cadbury eggs, but it’s the chocolate and fondant I’m not into.” It makes no fucking sense, just like it makes no fucking sense to not love Cadbury eggs because they’re delicious and no, I will not make an exception for your diabetes, you better love those fuckers from afar, all unrequited and shit. But seriously, how does her rationale make any sense? In spite of the man he is, he is the man of my dreams. This is setting the bar pretty fucking low in terms of romantic hero standards. “As long as I can ignore who he really is, he is my Prince Charming.” Good job, Ana.

They leave the bar, and Ana can’t resist another dig at Prescott, because after all, she’s a woman and she’s there:

“I’m sure Miss Good-Two-Shoes Prescott has told Christian I’m not at home. He’ll be mad,” I mutter to Kate. And maybe he’ll think of some delicious way to punish me… hopefully.

Sawyer tells me that you are drinking cocktails in a bar when you said you wouldn’t.

Do you have any idea how mad I am at the moment?

You’re probably as mad about it as I am happy that it was SAWYER and not PRESCOTT who tattled. FUCK YOU ANA.

My heart sinks. Oh shit! I really am in trouble. My subconscious glares at me, then shrugs, wearing her you-made-your-bed-you-lie-in-it face. What did I expect?

You expected to go out with your friend for drinks like an adult woman with personal autonomy?

Then they get to the apartment and shit is all smashed up and Jack Hyde is there, beaten unconscious by one of the body guards. But I don’t really give a shit and I’m guessing you don’t, either. End of chapter.

In every generation there is a chosen one. She alone will eat all the salt and vinegar potato chips without sharing. She will also recap every episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer with an eye to the following themes:

1. Sex is the real villain of the Buffy The Vampire Slayer universe.
2. Giles is totally in love with Buffy.
3. Joyce is a fucking terrible parent.
4. Willow’s magic is utterly useless (this one won’t be an issue until season 2, when she gets a chance to become a witch)
5. Xander is a textbook Nice Guy.
6. The show isn’t as feminist as people claim.
7. All the monsters look like wieners.
8. If ambivalence to possible danger were an Olympic sport, Team Sunnydale would take the gold.
9. Angel is a dick.
10. Harmony is the strongest female character on the show.

This is madness. What can you have been thinking? You are the slayer. Lives depend upon you. I make allowances for your youth, but I expect a certain amount of responsibility and instead of which you enslave yourself to this, this cult?

Joyce: “Oh good. I’m glad you’re taking that up again. It’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Buffy: “I’m not in trouble.”

Joyce: “No, not yet.” 

Wow. #3 much? Joyce does go on to say that what she meant was that Buffy quit cheerleading right before she started getting in trouble, so it’s good she’s going back to it, but still. That’s fucked up, Joyce. Then Buffy mentions that Amy trains with her mom hardcore on the whole cheerleading thing, and it’s a direct hint to Joyce that Buffy wants her mother to be more involved in her life. But Joyce dismisses it, saying that it doesn’t sound like Amy’s mom has much to do, then she leaves the room. This scene was super painful to watch, because throughout the whole thing, Buffy is trying to make a connection with her mom, while her mom continually and actively rejects her. I know I’ve said it a lot, but #3 guys. Seriously, #3.

The next day at the rescheduled try-outs, Amy knocks Cordelia on her ass during a group performance. And Cordelia is adorably outraged. Seriously, I have no reason to post this photo except for OMG, cuteness!

Cordelia: “I have a dream. It’s me on the cheerleading squad, adored by every varsity male as far as the eye can see. We have to achieve our dreams, Amy, otherwise we… wither and die.”

Amy: “Look, I’m sorry ab – “

Cordelia: “Shh. If your supreme klutziness out there today takes me out of the running, you’re going to be so very beyond sorry. Have a nice day.” 

“Your own thing, whatever it is, got you kicked out of school and we had to move here to find a decent school that would take you.”

And then Buffy’s face looks like this:

“She said I was wasting my youth. So she took it.”

Amy tells Buffy and Giles that her mother targeted her for abuse after her father left them, and that she wanted to leave with him, but her mother wouldn’t let her contact him.

Giles breaks into Amy’s mom’s witch room and gets her book, then they head for the school, where a basketball game is already in progress. Giles carries Buffy into the science lab and sweeps all the junk off a table to lay her on it, and then he puts his jacket under her head for a pillow because he’s considerate like that. He tells Amy-in-her-mom’s-body that they only have a few minutes. So… why bother with putting your jacket under Buffy’s head? PRIORITIES, RUPERT.

It doesn’t take long for Giles’s spell to start working. While Buffy lays dying, Amy’s-mom-in-Amy’s-body flashes between seeing the crowd at the basketball game and seeing the stuff for the spell. Amy-in-her-mom’s-body says that the spell is working. When Amy’s-mom-in-Amy’s-body runs off the court, Willow  confronts her and tells her she can help with all of Amy’s witch stuff. She’s really trying to distract her while Xander sneaks up on her, and that doesn’t go too well.

Last night, my friend Holly was in town. We don’t often get to see each other, so we decided to go out and have a girl’s night together. The first stop we tried to make was at a seedy little dive bar in a neighboring town. Except, now it’s not a seedy little dive bar anymore, it’s a family restaurant. No place to party. So, Holly said, “Let’s go to the bar at the bowling alley.”

Let me tell you a little about my friend Holly. She is beautiful, in the Hollywood sense of the word. She is slim, blonde, she dresses clothes that showcase her figure and she has a sort of unconscious sexuality about her that makes her seem innocent and provocative at the same time. This isn’t a persona she’s created for herself, it’s just how she’s always been, for as long as I can remember. So, we walk into this bar, and immediately, the catcalls began. The men sitting at the bar turned around to openly stare at her, to say things like, “Oh, baby,” and “Look at this one! Hey! Hey! Check her out!”

Were they drunk? Yes. Does that make it okay? No.

We had one drink and decided to leave, because D-Rock was waiting for us up at the bar at the end of my road. We headed back there. This place is familiar territory, it’s comfortable, it feels safe. Also, you can drink and then just walk back to my house instead of driving. Pretty awesome. We went in, had a few drinks with D-Rock and her husband, then D-Rock said she would run him home and return to hang out.

Not two full minutes after they left, a man came over to our table. He was clearly intoxicated; not a huge problem, we were in a bar, after all. He wanted help with the digital jukebox, so I showed him how it worked. I started to suspect that he was maybe high on something other than beer or weed. He would lean in close, fix me with a really intense stare, and get agitated if I tried to return to my conversation with Holly.

When D-Rock came back (only a few minutes later, because our town is about two miles deep), she made a fairly innocuous comment about wanting him to leave us alone. I believe it was something along the lines of, “Hey, man, we’re just trying to catch up with our friend here, we’d like to be left alone.” When he kept hanging around, she tried a stronger tactic, complaining loudly about creeps being drawn to us. But he still didn’t leave. He pulled up a chair. Any time we tried to speak to each other, he would jump in and try to bring the conversation back to himself.

Then he hugged me. This was the tipping point for D-Rock, and for me. I never, at any point, insinuated that I would want to make any physical contact with this man. And he put his arms around me, despite my resistance. When I pushed away, he said, “Don’t act like I’m going to molest you or something!”

Uh, guy? I didn’t say anything about you molesting me. But clearly, it’s at the forefront of your mind.

D-Rock got into a verbal altercation with the creep, while I went up to the bar to pretend to pay. I told the bartender, who is a really nice guy, “I’m standing here, pretending to pay, because I think those two are going to get into a fight.”

Holly bought our drinks (because she’s amazing like that) and let the bartender know that the only reason we were leaving was to avoid that man, and his harassment was hurting their business. Then we noticed that the guy was no where around. Where was he?

He’d gone into the parking lot. Because we had said we were going to leave, he’d gone into the parking lot to wait for us.

Because she was super pissed off, D-Rock went ahead of us, probably intending to kill the guy with her car keys. Her two pit bulls were in her car. The man tried to approach her as she got in. She warned him to stop coming at her. He kept coming. She threatened to let her dogs out. He kept coming. She took off down the road to my house. At that point, she really didn’t have a choice to wait for us.

The bartender walked us out, and the guy was no where to be seen. We quickly got into Holly’s car and headed down the road. I do not condone drunk driving, but our original plan was to walk home. It was clear, based on this guy’s actions, that it would have been unsafe in the extreme to try and walk the tenth of a mile down the road, in the dark, with that guy still roaming around out there. We had to choose between breaking the law or… whatever this guy had planned when he’d gone out to wait for us in the parking lot.

It makes me angry that a man I didn’t know thought that me helping him with the jukebox was a contract of some sort. It makes me angry that he ruined our night, when all we wanted to do was have a good time. And it makes me angry that he perceived our desire to not include him, a stranger, in our evening, as rudeness that deserved open hostility.

You know how sometimes when you have a bad feeling about a person, and you don’t want to engage them because you don’t want to seem like you’re being rude? Fuck that. I’m sick of being treated as though being a woman and being in public means I’m an amusement for other people. We came into this bar to have a good time and drink and hang out. There were men doing the exact same thing, at the exact same bar, at the exact same time. But no one was acting like they were on display, or “open for business” so to speak.

Confession: I hate leaving my house. I hate it. I have hated it since an incident in New Orleans this past summer, when I was followed by a man who pretended to be a harmless drunk in the elevator, until he got me alone. I try to dress as androgynously as possible to avoid attention. But that seems to make it worse. It’s like my lack of confidence or my desire to hide myself makes a beacon for skeevy guys. Or maybe it’s because I am a bigger girl, and they’re trying to separate the weakest or the least resistant from the heard? I haven’t quite puzzled this part out.

All I know is, women are constantly having their personal space and sense of safety violated in public places, and it’s supposed to be flattering. Street harassment, guys who won’t take a hint and leave our table, all of this shit is supposed to be desired by us? Fuck that. I was considering not typing up this post, because I thought for sure someone would be like, “Well, it is a bar, that stuff happens there, no big deal,” but then I remembered that the people who read my blog on the reg have proven over and over that they’re insanely cool and smart, so you all probably understand what I’m driving at.

I’m just tired of feeling like if we go out in public, for any reason, we’re opening ourselves up to this behavior, and that if we want to avoid it, we should just stay inside. Because I’ve been staying inside. I’ve been staying inside for a while, unless I go out with my husband, because being with a man is literally the only thing that keeps this from happening. If you’re owned, if you’re clearly another man’s property, they keep their distance. But if you’re out on your own, or in a group? Open season, and you should be thankful for the attention.

As I was saying, I’ve tried the whole staying inside thing. And it sucks and it’s isolating and I hate being afraid to leave because I’m frightened that a man is going to make me feel ashamed of myself. That’s what I hate the most about it. The shame. The doubt I have deep down, that tells me, “Maybe all those other people are right. Maybe I shouldn’t be at a bar. Maybe I shouldn’t be in this elevator unsupervised. Maybe I am ‘asking for it.’ Maybe I’m a slut, or a tease. Maybe I should be ashamed of myself.” Even though I know, intelligently, that it’s wrong for women to have to deal with this, I still can’t apply that intelligent thought to myself. I would have no problem standing up for someone else, but when it’s me, there’s that doubt. Even as I type this, I’m terrified someone will think I’m bragging, and think I’m slutty, although I would never have those thoughts about another woman saying the same things. It’s not a lack of trust in you, the reader, but a lack of trust in myself, because I live in a culture that assigns shady motives to any woman who rejects male sexual attention.

At this point, I just don’t know what to do. I want to be able to have a drink with my friends without having this happen. That’s all I want.

EDIT TO CLARIFY TWO POINTS: A few of you have expressed concern over the fact that we drove after drinking, and that we should have called a cab. I do not condone or excuse drunk driving, but I want to explain why we did not call a cab: there aren’t any. We live in an extremely isolated rural community, out of the service area for the nearest cab companies. Our choices were to either chance the drive or walk home in the dark, and start that walk in full view of the creeper. If it had been any other situation, even if there had just been a skeevy guy hitting on us, driving would not have been an option. We chose to drive because it was, at the time, the safest option. The guy had gone into the parking lot as soon as we’d said we were going to leave. We didn’t view that as a coincidence, but that he was planning something. We weighed the odds of us getting into a drunk driving accident against the odds that this man would assault us. But a taxi was never an option, because they just don’t exist out here (I have, however, seen horses hitched up outside this bar, and I’m beginning to think that might be a good investment).

The second point I’d like to clear up is that the bartender is in no way culpable for what happened. He could not kick the guy out, because by the time we complained about him, the dude had already left the building. There was nothing to kick him out of at that point. The bartender walked us out and kept and eye out for the guy once he was aware of the situation, so I think he did just about as much as he could reasonably do for us. I don’t blame the bartender in any way.

Are you reading The Boss? Are you dying at the wait between chapters? Then today’s Saturday Conversation over at That’s What I’m Talking About will be of particular interest to you! Head on over there and find out what the big news is, then stay and discuss chapter four!

Before D-Rock smashes me in the throat with her smartphone to fix my thyroid, watch this episode of Roadhouse, where we chew the fat and give you the skinny on body image problems.

That was a pun.

I’ll be closing the poll up today, but it looks like the results are pretty much in. Only two people strenuously objected to monetizing the blog, and so to those two people I say: sorry to disappoint you, but I understand completely that you must stick to your convictions. I’ll be adding an option for donations via Google wallet in the next few days, as well as a Flattr button, because while some of you have expressed a desire to donate without having to sign up for some other service, I like the idea of Flattr. Those of you who use Flattr can feel free to use it, otherwise, the other option will be there.

I will also be opening Troutmart, a Zazzle.com shop for all your snarky mug and t-shirt needs. More to come, because that shit is confusing and I’ve got some deadlines.

Annelia sent me these links, which are… phew. These are doozies, and will no doubt be enormously triggering to some of you, so… you know, warning, there are real images of domestic violence in progress in these links, and images of children witnessing domestic violence. The first is Photographer as Witness: A Portrait of Domestic Violence, and the other is I Am Unbeatable: Donna Ferrato’s Commitment to Abused Women.

*Subtly moves from DV links directly into recap*

So, if you don’t remember from last time, Ana was gearing up for this huge confrontation with the bitch architect who was going to steal her husband. Ana’s husband, not the architect’s – oh, never mind, you know what I was saying. But yeah, Ana got all tarted up to have some kind of vamp-off with this woman who… well, I’m getting ahead of myself. What are Gia Matteo’s defining characteristics, beyond the cardinal sin of being female?

Gia Matteo is a good-looking woman – a tall, good-looking woman.

So, that’s two strikes.

She wears her short, salon-blonde, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated crown.

I can’t decide if the blonde hair is a ball or a strike, since it’s “salon-blonde” and not “naturally blonde.” The latter indicates a genetic predilection towards evil man-stealing, while the former is merely the mark of a wannabe man-stealer, right? I can never keep my girl hate straight.

But it doesn’t matter, because she strikes out like the 2003 Tigers with her next sin:

Her clothes look expensive.

This is a really interesting theme that has run through all three books. Ana seems to have a very jaundiced view of people with money. She snarks Kate’s wealth and the generosity of her parents. One of her chief objections to dating Christian Grey was that he had too much money, and his wealth made her uncomfortable. She’s often saying how she doesn’t know if she’ll ever get used to having money. She passes all sorts of wacky judgement on other characters for having money, but most of them are helping her out financially. I wonder if Ana is just unable to face the reality that she hasn’t pulled herself up by her bootstraps, but has relied on the generosity of others.

She is well groomed – one of those women who grew up with money and breeding, though her breeding seems to be lacking this evening; her pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush.

Still not real clear on if Ana is trying to out-sexy Gia, or if she’s trying to have sex with her.

They do the standard greeting thing where Ana overanalyzes everything the other person does, a dig about the fact Gia is wearing mascara (unlike Ana who clumped that shit on in the last chapter) and then Christian puts his arm around Ana.

See… he’s mine. Annoying – infuriating, even – but mine. I grin. Right now, I really love you, Christian Grey.

Because she’s “winning” the “competition” (which I’m pretty sure Gia has no clue she’s participating in),  Ana can forgive everything Christian has done to make her mad. To further express her happiness and possession of another human being, Ana squeezes Christian’s butt.

How uncomfortable would that make you, if you were Gia? If I were Gia, it would make me very uncomfortable. I would wonder if they were going to offer to make me their third. And I definitely would not want to fuck them, thanks.

[…] I’m gripped by the uncanny feeling that Christian and I are putting on a show, playing a game together – but this time we’re on the same side pitted against Ms. Matteo. Does he know that she’s attracted to him and is being too obvious about it? It gives me a small rush of pleasure when I realize maybe he’s trying to reassure me. Or maybe he’s just sending a message loud and clear to this woman that he’s taken.

Mine. Yeah, bitch – mine. My inner goddess is wearing her gladiatrix outfit, and she’s taking no prisoners.

Is it just me, or is this excerpt making Ana sounding just as awful as Christian? The only value she places on him here is as an object. I suppose it would be easy to blame Christian in this one; he is, after all, the only romantic interest she’s ever had, and he is “guiding” her through how to be in a relationship. But we’ve seen Ana act selfishly about the people in her life before she was married to Christian. Is this a learned behavior? Or is Ana just as fucking terrible as Christian? Discuss.

So, they start to talk out the plans for the house, and Gia casually touches Christian. So, okay, she may be crossing the line or making a play. Or, she might just be naturally touchy. Some people are. She just touches his arm, but since we know Christian doesn’t like to be touched, he gets all stiff and formal.

She makes him uncomfortable. Why didn’t I see that before? That’s why I don’t like her.

Yeah, that’s why you don’t like her.

They talk about the plans for the house, which I am so fucking not interested in, so I’m skipping all of that part. I don’t think you guys care if they have a glass wall or an alfresco dining room, either. Christian actually lets Ana drive the plans, though, which is nice:

“Like the bright blue shutters in the South of France,” I murmur to Christian, who is watching me intently. He takes a sip of wine and shrugs, very noncommittal. Hmm. He doesn’t like that idea but he doesn’t overrule me, shoot me down, or make me feel stupid. God, this man is a mass of contradictions. His words from yesterday come to mind: “I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.” He wants me to be happy – happy in everything I do.

Unless you would be happy doing something he doesn’t want you to do. In that case, fuck you.

Notice the subtle misogyny in the fact that Christian considers the house Ana’s domain. He trusts her to decorate, but not run her own career or life. The house, though, that’s all her.

The entire exchange with Gia alternates between “Blah blah blah, boring house plan, blah blah blah stay away from my man, bitch.” Ana decides she’s going to have words with Gia:

When I turn to Christian, he’s still looking at me – not at her at all. Yes! I am going to have words with Ms. Matteo.

If he had been expressing sexual interest in Gia, would Ana refrain from having these words? Gosh, when will an opportunity pop up, where you can be alone with her?

There’s a discreet cough from the entrance to the great room. We three turn as one to find Taylor standing there.

“Taylor?” Christian asks.

“I need to confer with you on an urgent matter, Mr. Grey.”

Of course you do. Because like three paragraphs before, Ana was just thinking how she was going to “have words” with the architect. Christian is conveniently called away by the author, and Ana gets to have her confrontation.

“So… the master suite?” Gia asks nervously.

I gaze up at her,  pausing for a moment to ensure that Christian and Taylor are out of earshot. Then, calling on all my inner strength and the fact that I’ve been seriously piqued for the last five hours, I let her have it.

“You’re right to be nervous, Gia, because right now your work on this project hangs in the balance. But I’m sure we’ll be fine as long as you keep your hands off my husband.”

Wait, what? Hangs in what balance? I thought that was an expression you generally only used if you were mentioning two other things. So that there was a balance to hang in. I suppose “my husband” and “your work” would be those two things, but it seems weird to mention the two opposing things after the fact.

But there I go again, expecting waaaaay too much of the use of colloquial English in the best selling series of all time.

Ana warns Gia that she’s about to get her ass fired, and Gia is like, “But it isn’t him I want. It’s you.” And then they grab each other and hate fuck right on top of the plans.

Okay, that’s not what happens. But wouldn’t be awesome if that’s what happened?

What actually happens is that they have a stare-off. There’s some adverb or adjective that could be applied to the manner in which Ana conducts herself at this time, but fucked if I can remember which one it is…

But I hold my ground, gazing impassively into her widening brown eyes.

Don’t back down. Don’t back down! I’ve learned this maddening impassive expression from Christian, who does impassive like no one else. 

Fuck, I wish I could remember what adverb or adjective that could be used at a time like this, to describe an emotionless glare. I feel like it’s right on the tip of my tongue, too. I’m sure if I heard it, or some variation of it, several times in close succession, I might understand exactly how Ana is staring at Gia.

What is it with three letter names in this series? Ana, Gia, Mia. Ana Gia Mia. That sounds like an Italian car. “The Fiat Anagiamia’s production was halted, because too many of the plant workers were committing suicide.”

“Let me be clear. My husband is not interested in you.”

“Of course,” she murmurs, the blood draining from her face.

“As I said, I just wanted to be clear.”

And to totally not sound desperately in need of proving something to yourself.

Now that I have the upper hand, I feel myself relax for the first time since my meeting with Christian this afternoon. I can do this. My inner goddess is celebrating her inner bitch.

His eyes grow wide in alarm. “You’re not jealous, are you?” he asks, horrified.

It’s horrific that Ana is jealous? I guess I can see where he’s coming from. I mean, he has to be jealous. Ana is a woman, and therefore she’ll just relentlessly fuck every male in her path if she doesn’t have a man to be jealous at her whenever those rival males are in proximity. But Ana being jealous is just… well, that’s silly.

“Ana, she’s a sexual predator. Not my type at all. […]”

 I choose to believe the wording of the sentence was meant to imply that Gia isn’t Christian’s type of sexual predator. Because Christian certainly burns a fucking torch for Mrs. Robinson, didn’t he? And she wasn’t exactly not a sexual predator. She looked at a severely emotionally disturbed teenager and thought, “Ah, I can fuck that. He’s just broken enough to go for it.”

I thought Ana would jump directly on a chance to slam Elena, but Christian is still kind of stuck on this “how can you be jealous of me” thing and he’s not getting unstuck any time soon.

“How can you think otherwise? Have I ever given you any indication that I could be remotely interested in anyone else?” His eye blaze as he stares into mine.

Okay, here’s the thing, Chedward. Jealousy has nothing to do with the other person, and everything to do with the person experiencing the jealousy. You, Chedward, have no self-worth, hence your incessant and ridiculous posturing. Pro-tip? Ana has no self-worth, either. What little she might have had has been systematically destroyed by your “love,” so she’s constantly doubting she’s good enough to keep you from straying. You’re both in the same boat. Despite any evidence to the contrary, you believe she’s going to fuck around on you, so you treat her even worse, which in turn causes you to doubt she could ever love you, and, fuck it, you know what? This is hard to explain, let me provide a handy diagram:

“Oh, Christian” – my bottom lip trembles – “I’m trying to adapt to this new life that I had never imagined for myself. Everything is being handed to me on a plate – the job, you, my beautiful husband who I never… I never knew I’d love this way, this hard, this fast, this… indelibly.” I take a deep, steadying breath as his mouth drops open.

“But you’re like a freight train, and I don’t want to get railroaded because the girl you fell in love with will be crushed.

Let’s give E.L. a hand here, for not mixing a metaphor for the very first time in all three books. This calls for some kind of celebration.

And what’ll be left? All that would be left is a vacuous social X-ray, flitting from charity function to charity function.” I pause once more, struggling to find the words to convey how I feel. “And now you want me to be a company CEO, which has never even been on my radar. I’m bouncing between all these ideas, struggling. You want me at home. You want me to run a company. It’s so confusion.” I stop, tears threatening, and I force back a sob.

So, when I started recaping the first book, people would get furious with me. They would be like, “It’s a series! You have to read the whole thing to see how the characters develop! You must not understand how a series works!”

“I just want to give you the world, Ana, everything and anything you want. And save you from it, too. Keep you safe. But I also want everyone to know you’re mine. I panicked today when I got your e-mail. Why didn’t you tell me about your name?”

I flush. He has a point.

See? Immediately it becomes about him again. He wants to give her everything she wants – but what he really wants is to give her everything he wants for her, and to force her to want it, too. But instead of saying, “Hey, jackass, do you hear yourself?” she rushes to tell him how much she loves him – by quoting King Lear – and tries to reassure him that he’s the only one for her. She does, however, ask him if he would consider taking her name, if having the same last name means so much to him:

“Would you change your name to Christian Steele so everyone would know that you belong to me?”

Christian’s eyes fly open, and he gazes at me as if I’ve just said the world is flat. He frowns. “Belong to you?” he murmurs, testing the words.

He then agrees that he would, if it meant a lot to her. Spoiler alert? He doesn’t. And even if he did, it wouldn’t make up for aaaaaaall the other shit he’s done to her. The fact that he can’t even comprehend “belonging” to her the way he feels she “belongs” to him is a big, neon sign that he really does consider other people possessions instead of, you know. People.

“Does it mean that much to you?”

“Yes.” He is unequivocal.

“Okay.” I will do this for him. Give him the reassurance he still needs.

Boom. Right there. This is not a book about how a woman becomes empowered. This is a book about how a woman tricks herself into believing that she is empowered.

But hey, at least she’s going to get a reward:

“Mrs. Grey, do you know what this means to me?”

“I do now.”

He leans down and kisses me, his fingers moving into my hair, holding me in place.

“It means seven shades of Sunday,” he murmurs against my lips, and he runs his nose along mine.

See, this book isn’t anti-feminist at all! Stupid Jen, not understanding how the fact that he’s willing to pay lip service to her concerns by saying he would do something he ultimately doesn’t do and then rewards her by letting her have sex with him means this is the paragon of female enlightenment.

But just in case you think she’s earned this reward too easily…

“I need you to cut my hair. Apparently, it’s overlong, and my wife doesn’t like it.”

When Ana is all, hey asshole, I’m not a stylist, he says:

“Okay, good point well made. I’ll get Franco to do it.”

No! Franco works for the bitch troll!

Maybe I could give him a trim. After all, I cut Ray’s hair for years, and he never complained.

I like how she says “after all,” like that’s totally a given that someone has been giving their dad his haircuts for years. Like, “everyone does this, right?”

So, Ana is going to sexily wash Chedward’s hair, but they just can’t keep their hands off each other. Their desire is painstakingly detailed by the author, who has a masterful grasp of the English language:

Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows exactly what to do with it.

Clearly, those words were chosen with the utmost care. “Sculptured, chiseled, whatever.” I’m going to start writing all my books that way. “He was gorgeous, or something, and I totally felt, I don’t know. Like I might want to fuck him. Or whatever.”

Christian doesn’t want to have sex with her, though, he really wants his hair cut:

“I want this,” he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some inexplicable reason. It’s disarming.

“Why?” I whisper.

He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. “Because it’ll make me feel cherished.”

Now, I hate to point out that yet again, Ana is doing something that she doesn’t want to do because it’s something Chedward wants. Or that there is a lot of needless drama surrounding a fucking haircut here. But what I really, really hate to call to anybody’s attention is that a haircut makes him feel “cherished.” Remember what Mrs. Robinson does?

Yeaaaaaah.

Right there, that could have been a more interesting conflict than the name thing, the architect, any of it. But guess what E.L. does with it?

That’s right. She ignores it and takes a self-indulgent trip to sexy haircut town.

Ana washes Christian’s hair, at one point getting water in his eyes.

“Hey, I know I’m an arse, but don’t drown me.”

Do it.

And then there’s more sexy hair washing I’m skipping because it’s sooooooooo goddamned long and pointless.

Who would have thought after our argument this afternoon he could be this relaxed? Without sex?

I like how Ana is already viewing sex as marriage maintenance.

I’m skipping the sex scenes from now on. They’re all exactly the fucking same. In this one, Ana has no idea what titty fucking is, but they don’t do it, they just talk about it, and it’s all the fucking same lines about fucking hard etc. until Chedward tells her to orgasm and she does, on command, and then of course she cries because it’s the most beautiful, emotional sex ever in the history of anything.

Ana ends up wearing Christian’s shirt, a garter belt and stockings, and then she scampers off to get the scissors so she can finish Christian’s haircut.

Guys, this haircut is fifteen fucking trade-sized pages long. You probably could go get a haircut, start reading about this haircut, and then still not be finished with it by the time your hair was done.

So, Ana goes to get the scissors, as I was saying, and…

Okay, do you have your cigarettes handy?

As I enter the main corridor, I notice the door to Taylor’s office is open. Mrs. Jones is standing just beyond the door. I stop, rooted to the spot.

Taylor is running his fingers down her face and smiling sweetly at her. Then he leans down and kisses her.

Wow! I’m reeling. I always thought Mrs. Jones was older than Taylor. Oh, I have to get my head around this.

Not, “Wow, how weird, my domestic servants have hooked up, Bates and Anna style.” No, she needs to get her head around the fact that a man would want to fuck an older woman. And yet, she’s super jealous that her husband might fuck Mrs. Robinson. CAN ANYONE IN THESE FUCKING BOOKS HAVE ANY LEVEL OF LOGICAL CONSISTENCY? AT ALL?

But then Ana opens a drawer in Christian’s office and finds a gun.

I open the top drawer and am immediately distracted when I find a gun. Christian has a gun!

You know how they say people who own a gun for home defense are more likely to be killed by their own gun than they are to kill an intruder? That claim is kind of bullshit, but whatever, I wish it was real now that I know Chedward owns a gun.

A revolver. Holy fuck! I had no idea Christian owned a gun. I take it out, slip the release, and check the cylinder. It’s fully loaded, but light… too light. It must be carbon fiber.

I’m not sure there are full carbon fiber revolvers you can just buy. If there are, someone leave a link in the comments, because I’m actually interested to know if there are. You can certainly get a carbon fiber grip for a handgun, probably for a revolver, but it seems like if you made a revolver completely out of carbon fiber it would be super expensive to produce and it would probably have a fucking crazy kick that would possibly affect your accuracy on repeat shots. I can’t imagine what the customer base would be for a totally carbon fiber revolver. They make sniper rifles with carbon fiber barrels, but it seems like it would just be super impractical for a mass produced revolver.

What does Christian want with a gun?

Wanna know how I know the author isn’t American?

I put the gun back and find the scissors.

I vote you use the gun to cut his hair, Ana.

Ana runs into Taylor in the hallway, and she’s embarrassed because she’s half undressed. So, of course the first thing Ana does is tell Chedward that his bodyguard has seen her dressed provocatively, because she likes to make everyone’s lives so super easy:

“I just ran into Taylor.”

“Oh.” Christian frowns. “Dressed like that?”

Oh shit! “That’s not Taylor’s fault.”

Christian’s frown deepens. “No. But still.”

“I’m dressed.”

“Barely.”

Demand for circumspection coming from the man who has his cleaning lady wash his buttplugs.

Ana asks Christian if he knew Mrs. Jones and Taylor were knocking the boots:

“Ana, they’re adults. They live under the same roof. Both unattached. Both attractive.”

Right, because everyone knows that two attractive people who are single MUST FUCK.

“Well, if you put it like that… I just thought Gail was older than Taylor.”

“She is, but not by much.” He gazes at me, perplexed. “Some men like older women – ” He stops abruptly and his eyes widen.

 I scowl at him. “I know that,” I snap.

I hope this book ends with an explosion in which everyone except Taylor and Mrs. Jones are killed.

“I was thinking we could convert the rooms over the garages for them at the new place,” Christian continues. “Make it a home. Then maybe Taylor’s daughter could stay with him more often.” He watches me carefully in the mirror.

“Why doesn’t she stay here?”

“Taylor’s never asked me.”

“Perhaps you should offer. But we’d have to behave ourselves.”

Christian’s brow furrows. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

You hadn’t thought that maybe Taylor didn’t want to bring his daughter, whom he has the occasional weekend custody of, to the apartment where his boss makes women kneel naked on the floor, waiting to serve him sexually, exclusively on the weekends? Why wouldn’t he want to bring his child into that environment?

Christian tells Ana that he pays for Taylor’s daughter’s schooling:

“Seemed the least I could do. Also, it means he won’t quit.”

ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? This is how Christian Grey gets loyalty from his employees?! He puts the happiness of their children at stake?! Christian Grey cannot get through life without controlling every aspect of every other person around him. And people let him? This isn’t about being left alone with his mother’s body. Christian Grey is a dangerous person who doesn’t understand personal boundaries or individual autonomy.

There is a reason Ana’s subconscious is constantly reading Dickens. Because Christian Grey is Ebenezer Scrooge. This isn’t Twilight fanfic, it’s A Christmas Carol fanfic. The prompt was clearly, “What if Scrooge was a young dude, and he had some dummy telling him it’s totally okay to ignore his conscience at every turn?” And Snowqueen’s Ice Dragon grabbed that prompt in her utterly incapable hands and made this.

This guy. This fucking guy.

I hate this guy.

So much.

Flames.

On the sides of my face.

Ana tells him basically that of course he doesn’t have to do stuff like that to keep people close to him, because Taylor really likes him and blah blah blah because Christian Grey is somehow the man everyone wants a piece of despite the fact that he’s truly horrible. Sometimes, when I’m really down in depression and telling myself I’m a piece of shit and no one loves me, I stop and think, “No. No, you’re not Christian Grey. If he deserves love, then so do you.”

Ana cuts his hair, and of course it’s perfect because she does everything perfectly, all the time, nonstop perfection because she’s a fucking Mary Sue, and then there’s a section break and she goes to bed.

“What?” he says as he climbs into bed beside me wearing only his pajama pants.

Does he usually wear a three fucking piece suit to bed?

Ana tells him she doesn’t want to run SIP, and he argues with her about whether or not she wants to run SIP, because he obviously knows better than she does what she wants.

“You see,” he continues, “running a successful company is all about embracing the talent of the individuals you have at your disposal. If that’s where your talents and your interests lie, then you structure the company to enable that. Don’t dismiss it out of hand, Anastasia. […]”

Oh please, tell us more about how to successfully run a business, Mr. If-You-Fuck-Me-I’ll-Buy-You-A-Company.

Then Ana asks him something about tying him up during sex, and he wouldn’t be down with that, and then they’re going to have sex again:

And soon we’re lost… lost in each other again.

I wish you were lost at sea. I wish you were lost in a haunted castle with a murderer on the loose. But the good news is, the chapter is over, so we don’t have to see them get lost in each other.

Today I was feeling super unfocused, fatigued, and unproductive (because I have health problems, yo), and I decided the best way for me to feel productive would be to complete a simple task from my work to-do list today. Lucky for people who read The Boss, the only easy thing on the list was posting chapter four. So, chapter four is available now, here.

In every generation there is a chosen one. She alone will recap every episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Well, okay. Not really “alone” because a lot of people do it. Shut up, you don’t know her life. Anyway, in every generation there is a chosen one. She will recap every episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer with an eye to the following themes:

1. Sex is the real villain of the Buffy The Vampire Slayer universe.

2. Giles is totally in love with Buffy.

3. Joyce is a fucking terrible parent.

4. Willow’s magic is utterly useless (this one won’t be an issue until season 2, when she gets a chance to become a witch)

5. Xander is a textbook Nice Guy.

6. The show isn’t as feminist as people claim.

7. All the monsters look like wieners.

8. If ambivalence to possible danger were an Olympic sport, Team Sunnydale would take the gold.

“You’ve tasted it. I’m your faithful dog. You bring me scraps.”

The Master says he’s waited for “three score years” stuck in the Hellmouth (I don’t know how long that is) and when he ascends everybody better hope he’s in a better mood. Holy shit, I’m pretty sure I’ve had that argument with my husband before.

One thing that does perk The Master up a little is the knowledge that there could be a slayer close by. Then we cut back to the library, where Giles explains what a slayer is:

“Alright. The Slayer hunts vampires. Buffy is a slayer. Don’t tell anyone. Well, I think that’s all the vampire information you need.”

Buffy says that since she let Jessie get kidnapped, he’s her responsibility, even though Xander wants to go in all guns a-blazin’ and Willow wants to go to the police. Then we’re back in the Hellmouth, where Jessie is standing around listening to Luke and The Master talk. The good news for Jessie is, they’re not going to murder him right away. They’re going to use him as bait, to try and lure the slayer to them.

Back in ye olde school library that no students beside Buffy, Xander, and Willow go to, Willow finds some plans for the underground utilities in Sunnydale. The utility tunnels and sewers are basically an underground city for the vamps, who can move about freely without ever having to go into the blazing hot sunlight that would kill them. You know, like people who live in Houston scurry about underground to avoid the weather. Call me crazy, but the last thing I would vote for, were I on Sunnydale’s city council, is any improvement of modern civilization that would make it easier for vampires to get me. Of course, this is assuming that anyone in Sunnydale has ever actually noticed the vampires in their midst.

Xander: “So what’s the plan? We saddle up, right?”

Buffy: “There’s no ‘we,’ okay? I’m the slayer, and you’re not.”

Xander: “I knew you’d throw that back in my face.”

Buffy: “Xander, this is deeply dangerous.”

Xander: “I’m inadequate. That’s fine. I’m less than a man.”

No, Xander, you fucking prick. You’re not less than a man. You’re less than a slayer. And the slayer is always female, so you’ll always be less than a particular female. You can’t handle the idea that Buffy might be stronger than you because #5. If you’re not stronger than Buffy, you can’t save Buffy, thus making her beholden to repay you in sexual attention.

“This is just too much. Yesterday my life’s like, ‘uh-oh, pop quiz.” Today it’s ‘rain of toads.'”

I like this motivation a lot more than his previous, “I’m a man, therefore I should have my maleness constantly validated,” argument. I totally get and can sympathize with “I know something is wrong but there’s nothing I can do to fix it.” That should have been the angle the writers worked all along, instead of, “My maleness is diminished by letting a woman take charge.”

At the crypt, Buffy finds the secret entrance, and Angel finds Buffy. She asks him if he has a key, and he makes it clear that he’s not a part of The Master’s gang. Which is all well and good, but if he didn’t use the secret entrance, how did he get into the crypt in the middle of daylight in the first place? At this point Buffy doesn’t know that Angel is a vampire, the audience doesn’t know that Angel is a vampire, but still… when we do eventually find out halfway through the first season, it’s hard not to think back to this time when Angel was out wandering around in broad fucking daylight, since he couldn’t get through that locked door:

So, after getting some stern twitter words from some of you, and some emails, and some comments, and basically nonstop, Phillip J. Fry shouts of “Shut up and take my money,” I am ready to quite uncomfortably approach the subject of donate buttons and other forms of remuneration for my time.

In the past, when people have asked me, “How can I pay you for this,” I’ve said, “Go buy one of my books.” It’s only recently that people have started saying, “No. I mean I want to give you money.” And god love you for knowing how publishing works. But I’m quite uncomfortable with the idea of getting paid, even in donations, for blogging. When I started this blog, it was as a way to raise awareness of and further my own writing career. That’s why authors blog. For publicity. But when I started recapping 50 Shades of Grey, I was at a point where I was seriously considering that my career might be over. I hadn’t contracted a book with a New York publisher since 2009, reviews and sales for my fantasy series had been overwhelmingly disappointing (time will tell on that one, Melville style), and while Abigail Barnette was doing quite well for herself, she wasn’t doing quite as well as Jennifer Armintrout had done. I figured my writing days were somewhat over, so I could do whatever I wanted on my blog (which no one was reading, anyway). If you doubt the veracity of this claim, I urge you to check out the entries pre-50 Shades recaps, where I posted cupcake recipes and pictures of smiley fries that resembled James Carville. So, when the blog exploded and there was this renewed interest in what I was doing, my biggest hope was that I would end up getting a little more work thrown my way.

Holy cow, was more work thrown my way. In addition to my involvement in the 50 Writers on 50 Shades of Grey anthology, I’ve done interviews, launched The Boss, and embarked on an entirely new phase of my career writing YA. And on top of it all, I found this amazing tribe of weirdos. All of this should be thanks enough, right? But there are still some people totally like:

So, tl;dr, I’ve been resistant to the notion of putting up a donate button or anything like that. But enough of you have asked that I decided I would put this up for debate via poll, here on the blog. I’ll go with whatever you guys decide. If you could take a second and answer some brief questions, I’d be grateful. I guess I’ll give it a week and see what happens?
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