Yes. I read the book. All three in fact. I had to for my job as producer and host of a podcast about ideas that matter in culture. I got a lot of grief producing that show. We were known for plumbing the artistic and theological depths and how dare we give air time to the likes of "that" book? 

Of course, we did do a show on The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo with nary a peep of protest. A book which depicts brutal rape, gruesome detailed descriptions of sexualized murder, a nearing Boomer sleeping with every woman in his path, including the nubile, barely twenty-something Girl, and sprinkled liberally with multiple male fantasy lesbian sex scenes. 

Where was all the protest on that one? It was made in to films on each side of the Atlantic, with barely a whisper of offense. Indeed, author Stieg Larson was held up like Eddie Vedder above a mosh pit as a feminist poster boy. His heroine is bold, stands up to men, makes her own rules. And yet, Lisbeth Salandar is a shell of a human being, so hollowed out by horror that her only motivation for even breathing is violence and vengeance. The perfect picture of the modern women. How dare we call his book's sexual content in to question? It's art. He's a man, so he should know.

Which brings me to my frustration with all this 50 Shades of Grey hate: since it is a book about a woman enjoying lots and lots of sex, written by a woman, it is automatically wrong, wrong, wrong. Because woman are either virgins or whores and there is no in between. 

Even feminists are pouring on the hate. And I get it, we've been fighting against the misconception that domination by males is What Women Want. We don't want the Second Wave sexual revolution to be based on women "submitting." We want to be unshackled in our sexual freedom, not blindfolded and trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey for a man drooling like Wile-E Coyote.

And yet, if you read the books, the heroine's goal is to actually lift Mr. Grey out of his domineering ways and, of course, she eventually succeeds...along the way, she surprisingly enjoys an orgasmic spanking. Not my kinda hanky-panky, but, as my Nana used to say, there's no accounting for taste. Anastasia, while dabbling in Christian's fetish out of curiosity, is decidedly against the whole submission thing, and even takes to domineering Mr. Grey sexually. So what's all the shouting about?

I am not saying these Grey books are good, either artistically or as a guide for what a healthy relationship, sexual or otherwise, looks like. What I'm saying is, what scares me more than the thought that women and girls may want to emulate Anastasia is that, as a society, we continue to shame the weak, the less powerful. And women are still in that boat. We point to any women who got tingles in her pants upon reading The Elevator Scene as wanton sluts, to be shunned by misogynists and feminists alike. Did you know that women used to be put in asylums for enjoying sex? People thought the female orgasm was a disease and called it hysteria. Look at that whore. Who does she think she is? She's out of her mind.

Want to talk about unhealthy attitudes about women? What would our world be like if the unfettered hate that has been unfurled upon 50 Shades was turned upon the porn industry? Or sex trafficking? While the Superbowl was sad for the Seahawks, it was horrific for the women forced to service the throngs of disappointed or jubilant men...

But don't get me started.

We can criticize the sexual ethics of 50 Shades all we want, but in the same breath we must recognize the deafening silence when the same stale, pathetic, swoony women are continuously and unabashedly displayed in fiction, television, and film created by men. And for all those women who like their sex and their reading hot around the edges? I hope you painted your bedroom red and posted it on Pintrest. No shame, baby. Oh...my. 

If you're like me, you like to get the shivers every once in awhile, and no time like All Hallow's Eve to get your scare on. And seeing as it's a weekend night this year, why not do a double feature of freaky? 

I'm not into the slasher film, but if you do ghosts, vampires and zombies, I've got you covered. So put the kids to bed, heat up some mulled cider, break out the leftover mini-candy. Did I miss your favorite? Add to the list in the comments section!

I Vant to Zuck your Blood...

Honorable Mention:  These didn't fit nicely in any category, but they're delightfully spine tingling regardless.

Much to my chagrin, I was neither nominated for an Oscar, nor for President of the United States. Pouring ice on my head will have to do.

Oh and, by the way, anybody friends with Gerard Butler, Idina Menzel or George R. R. Martin? Sadly, neither am I. 

And CONGRATS go out to Sara from the Stuck In A Story fame, for naming the griffin on the cover of God & King! She gets an e-review copy! 

He's officially named Gadiel. And he sounds like a mix between Morgan Freeman & Sean Connery. Because I'm sure you were wondering. 

When someone famous dies, it somehow seems everyone wants in on the action. As if to say, "look at how sad I am about his death," contorting for one last time that celebrity's personal life into something that is our business, our personal right to own and frame.
And thus I hesitate to write this post, as Robin William's death is not about me. And yet, his death has brought to light a much needed deeper discussion on depression. Which is  about me. In the sense that I have depression.

Technically it's postpartum depression, but certainly there's some sort of statute of limitations on tacking on the postpartum bit. I mean, three years? C'mon. But somehow, saying "postpartum depression" get's me out of the "officially bonkers" category, like, "oh, it'll pass, it's just postpartum," the phrase silently mocking me like my pair of size 8 jeans. The only pair, mind you, that my toosh looks any good in. "Oh, that's just my postpartum flab, it'll pass. Speaking of passing, please pass the twice-baked almond croissants." 

And so, as with my baby gut, my depression lingers. But my need to caveat it with adjectives is where I think the problem lies. 

As a culture, we treat depression like it's just some type of bad mood or blip in hormones -something controllable with enough ice cream and rom-coms. People "struggle" with depression. Kind of like how people "struggle" with putting on Spanx. Or "struggle" with getting their kids to sleep.  

But I'm here to tell you, one doesn't "struggle" with depression any more than one "struggles" with appendicitis. Certainly, as with most health conditions, there are ways to help alleviate some of the symptoms through lifestyle choice, but the underlying disease is still there. 

And, since our culture has decided that depression is merely a struggle, implying one can just get over their sad-sack selves with a little gumption, chocolate and giggles, those of us with depression shy away from admitting our frailty. We try to laugh it off as a bad hair day or the all purpose standby, "stress."

But the countless deaths caused by depression, Mr. Williams' included, scream out for our culture to put away our judgement, our embarrassment, our polite dismissing. 

Yet all the same, I cringe under the idea that people would think there is something wrong with me - especially my mind. My self concept is of a competent, intelligent, hopefully witty person who may be a bit of a mess around the edges and stick her foot in her mouth so often her taste buds are rubberized, but ultimately has her s*%# together. 

And outing myself as depressed risks crushing my self concept. It risks admitting to friends and strangers alike that I have to be medicated to function. Well, to function without forcing my children to fend for themselves in the wilderness with nothing but gortex, some sticks and whining to save them, while I hide under my comforter binge watching British period dramas. 

To say this out loud feels like I'm admitting failure as a human being. I gather many with mental illness feel this way. If I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome, that too might be embarrassing and I'd hesitate to ever mention the word "bathroom" in mixed company, but it wouldn't mean I was somehow defective, somehow unable to cope with being alive. And I don't even have severe depression. I just get sad and angry for "no reason" - never suicidal. Escapist, yes, suicidal, no.

A lot of people are wondering how someone who was as funny as Williams could be clinically depressed. I'm guessing, among other things, his humor was a way he coped. I'm an extrovert, generally lively in social settings. I often speak, perform and do podcasts. I'm very good at my public personna. Rare is the person who sees the ugly underbelly. And yet, perhaps like Williams, all that extroversion, all that public performing, helps me. It takes me away from my spiraling inner world for awhile (well, that and Zoloft). It helps me focus on the joy of others. I need the life, the light, the laughter of others - I feed off it. And so to them, I look healthy. But that's because when we don't laugh, we die. And sometimes we die regardless.

So I think it's time we all decided there is no shame in depression. No failure in needing to take medicine or other measures to feel alive again. It's time for those of us with depression to let go of the self-imposed prison, and time for those who lack the "struggle" to lend an ear and a smile and still see a full person. Time to stop viewing those with mental illness as lessor, and perhaps start recognizing that those who struggle have a lot to teach the rest of us about living a life worth the effort. And I'll start with me. 

It’s the 4th of July! Time to fire up that grill, eat vast amounts of complex carbs in the form of mayonaised salads and flag cakes, and attempt to not blow off an appendage or set your neighbor's house on fire! 

But we all know you can’t be outside all weekend, so what’s a patriot to do? Watch a movie. Of course. So here’s my list of favorite patriotic movies for your viewing pleasure.

A couple of notes before we get started: I found it disturbing that the majority of the movies considered patriotic were about war. There’s a longer blog post in there somewhere, but suffice it to say, I tried to limit the war themes. Because, ya know, I don’t find killing people patriotic. Even if they are Nazis. 

Second, we love ourselves some Tom Cruise and Tom Hanks, people! Nary a “patriotic” film without a Tom. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Especially when a volleyball scene is involved.