Last night, I just discovered why I am not an international success making millions of dollars a week.
I dreamed my own version of Fifty Shades of Grey.
The whole dream was dramatically lit and colored, rather like the previews to the new Sin City movie, which is actually proof that I am watching too much TV. But anyway.
In my version of 50 Shades, Anastasia Steele’s parents come to visit.
It is awkward.
Her father spends the whole dream looking stern and disapproving, while her mother tends to ask questions about their relationship that no one wants to answer.
There is not enough room in the mansion for these four people. Sleeping arrangements are cramped. No one can get into the bathroom because Christian is always in there, washing bloodstains out of his white shirts.
The whole thing begins to implode when he admits to having a subscription to Reader’s Digest, and Anna whispers in horror, “I am Joe’s Pancreas?”
Also, he has a collection of fuzzy puppet ventriloquist dummies under one of the beds, and announces “Well, I think they’re cute.”
When I woke up , it was pretty clear that he was never going to be dominant again, and Anna was seriously rethinking the whole relationship.