Ode to My BDGs

In April tragedy struck me.

It was an average day on a routine trip to the grocery store. I loaded my groceries and got into the car with my sister. Then it happened–the horrifying sound of ripping as I sat down. I looked and there was a large tear in the upper thigh of my beloved BDG jeans.

As I held back the tears, my sister cried with laughter. She didn’t realize the enormity of the situation. My favourite jeans, the jeans I wore when I felt a fat and wanted to be comfy but still have a perky butt, had just become unwearable.

I had bought the jeans on a whim. I didn’t need them, but they were cute and on sale–which in girl world means you must buy them. So I did. Then my dear friend Jess who worked at the store said “The salesperson told you to buy them skin tight right? Because they get really lose when you wash them.”

I told her I hadn’t bought them skin tight. She gave me that look, you know the one where someone doesn’t want to tell you that you just made a mistake because they love you and don’t want to make you cry. Yeah she gave me that look.

I thought about exchanging them but I’m glad I didn’t. The jeans did sag once I washed them, making them the comfiest jeans ever.

But after two years of loving them they had died.

Then my genius friend Meg suggested we make DIY jean shorts together. We never had time to actually make them together but she inspired me to turn my favourite jeans into my favourite shorts.

I’m sure most people measure their jeans and are very precise when cutting them. That’s not how I roll. I got home from grad school for a three week vacation. I was leaving early the next morning to head to Kingston for a music festival and what better attire for a festival then denim shorts. So in a hurry I just started cutting.

My mom said I was going to look a little bit skanky since I had to cut the jeans really short because the rip was so high in the thigh. But in the end I looked more classy slutty than actually slutty. I then threw them in the wash to make the ends fray.

The best part was I found some old ribbon from a childhood hippie costume. I sewed it onto the back pockets to give my shorts more character. Though I got a little caught up in my Martha Stewart sewing prowess and sewed the one pocket shut. Oops. But really who needs more than one back pocket anyways.

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Martha’s job is probably safe from me but I did make a cute pair of shorts at no cost. Plus a flowy top, feather earrings and my beloved ampersand necklace paired with the shorts made the perfect festival outfit.

Stay tuned to find out how I made use of the leftover legs from my jeans…and no I did not make legwarmers, at least not yet.

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Make-up sex requires actually making up

I finished the Fifty Shades Trilogy a while ago. But I needed some time to let my thoughts simmer on the many degrees of fucked up these books present.

My first issue with the series is the way they present sex. Sex can be a positive thing, but in these books sex is not only a form of punishment but a way to escape a fight. This is not healthy. Having sex once to fix a fight is a way of getting out pent up emotions, but using sex to solve every single fight is not okay. Christian seduces Ana every time they fight. They never solve an issue and he never hears her grievances with him—and she has a lot of grievances. As the title of this post shows, make up sex actually requires making up, something Christian avoids because he doesn’t like to deal with his 50 shades of fucked upness. I know this book shouldn’t be an example to anyone of a healthy relationship, but I’m sure some women are using it as one. And that is terrifying to me. Couples may be having a lot more sex as a result of this book, but I’m sure divorce rates will increase too!

My second problem with the trilogy actually horrified me. 50 Shades Freed is dedicated to “my beloved Father. Daddy, I miss you every day.” This was sweet and made me tear up. Then you read a couple of pages of the book and there are anal plugs and bondage during pregnancy—not something I would ever want my father to know I do (I don’t for clarification!), let alone think about.

My dad is the smartest man I know and I would certainly dedicate a book to him. But if there was even a kissing scene in my book, I would not dedicate it to him. I’m his little girl; he doesn’t want to think of me kissing boys. I think he would genuinely have a heart attack if he found out I wanted a red room of pain!

No offence to E.L. James, I think the dedication is lovely. But is this trilogy really the appropriate place for a heartfelt dedication? Do you want people to connect this book and your father? Freud would have a field day with the connection between daddy issues and S&M.

A lot of people have taken offence to the poor writing in the books. There is a lot of it. But my bigger issue was with the connotations some of her phrases create. I have already complained about my beef with Ana’s inner goddess—Lizzie McGuire anyone. But I really got annoyed every time Ana called Christian “her Fifty.” It is the plague of my generation that someone says fifty and I sing “Go shorty it’s your birthday, we gonna party like it’s your birthday.” Ana screams out Fifty and I am thinking of 50 cent, a tattooed rapper with a lot of gunshot scars and a speech impediment. Not romantic and certainly not any women’s –excluding Chelsea Handler– idea of the perfect guy, which is what Christina Grey is suppose to be.

Though the more I think about it 50 Cent and Christian Grey have a lot in common…they will both take you to the candy shop and let you lick the lollipop. Both are PIMPS. Maybe James was onto something.

Another frequently used description was calling the red room of pain the playroom. I’m sorry but equating anything childlike with weird sex is not okay. I worked in a daycare so I hear playroom and I imagine blocks, a craft corner and giggling kids. After reading this trilogy a playroom brings about images of nipple clamps, spanking with a riding crop and submissive women. Not okay, now okay at all.

As an English student my brain is going in overdrive thinking about what it means that James connects playrooms with sex and a story of a dominant man with her father. But I graduated four months ago and don’t plan on writing a literary essay ever again. So it’s my present to you to analyse what this means to your heart’s content. Enjoy!

That is one more thing crossed of my list of surviving summer stress. I’m not sure if reading this trilogy improved my soul, but I certainly forgot about the stresses of daily life.