Tag: Why Did I Read This?

Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

In the last week I’ve read Stephen King’s Doctor Sleep and Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy and you know what? Blacklight is right (Blacklight: “I am? Really? About what?”)! Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy is the scariest thing ever. I would rather snuggle with a worm beast thing straight of out of Laird Barron’s The Croning. What the blue hell happened to the Bridget Jones I read over and over again? The Bridget Jones I tracked down UK papers to read?

Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy finds our Bridget as a single mum of two, eating grated cheese straight from the bag (gross) and guzzling wine. I guess the Independent columns of 2005/2006 aren’t canon (Bridget has Daniel’s baby-a son) because Bridget’s son is a miniature Mark Darcy and her five year old daughter Mabel is a lisping little troll who only charms me when she refers to something called a Sylvanian Mulberry Raccoon Family as the Fuckoon Family. Come on…FUCKOON! <Goggles Sylvanian Mulberry Raccoon Family> Ohhh…those…I’ve seen these creepy things at a posh toy and hobby shop… <shudders>

Now apparently the Internet imploded when people found out Bridget is a single mum because *****SPOILER ALERT**** HORNS SOUNDING**** SPOILER ALERT**** READ FURTHER AT YOUR OWN RISK*****OKAY WHATEVER I WARNED YOU***** Mark Darcy died in Darfur doing humanitarian work. How is this a problem? Mark Darcy has always been a decent and kind person and a happy relationship makes a boring book. Am I sad that Mark Darcy is gone? Yes. But Bridget Jones is the Queen of Romantic Bleep-Ups and is at her best looking for love, she NEEDS to be single. If you want silly mum with the perfect husband please feel free to stop reading this review and pick up Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series.

Okay, so you’re still with me. So our Bridget is a widow, fat (brace the floors because she’s….175 lbs!), and lonely. She’s also working on screenplay of Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekov. Now even my dim only reads weird books brain knows that’s wrong but Bridget? Well…what do you expect? It’s Bridget! Encouraged by her friends (where the bleep is Shazzer! I demand Shazzer!), Bridget plots to lose weight, be an excellent mum, get laid, etc. She discovers social media and oh Great Tulu if I thought Lola’s text speak in Marian Keyes’ This Charming Man was horrific, I apologize, I love you Lola, I truly do…because Bridget on Twitter aka @JoneseyBJ is worse. I really wish Bridget had discovered a working brain cell vs the joys of Roxster the youngster. And Roxster? Really?!??! Even Daniel is boring. Sex-On-A-Stick Daniel! Well except when he used a syrup covered fork to comb the tiny demon Mabel’s hair. Good on you Daniel!

It’s really not a good thing whenever you end a page you wonder just how big the advance check for the book was and if the author needed to pay off her mortgage or children’s private school ASAP. I certainly wasn’t caring a fig about this Bridget. Because to me, Bridget Jones Diary is awesome. The Independent columns of 2005/2006 are awesome. I want that Bridget Jones back.

If you adored the first two Bridget Jones’ novels and haven’t cried yourself to tears over dead Mark Darcy, then by all means snap up Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy. But if you’re not in the mood for How Bridget Jones Got Her Groove Back then do what I should have done at the library last week, back slowly away from the “F” section of the New Fiction Shelves and grab  the latest Lauren Willig Napoleonic-Era British spies book.

Tigers In Red Weather

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

Ever pick up a book because of cool cover art, read the inside flap and added it to your book bag, crawled onto your bed and read said book and then closed the covers after you’ve finished and asked “Why the bleep did I read this?”

Or is it just me? It can’t be just me…

This afternoon, a book with cover showing a retro siren in red beach togs with a slash of matching red lipstick lured it’s way into my stack of library books. I could blame the general awfulness of the day (unexpected mission critical car repairs for Mr Saturn that drained my NecronomiCon 2015 savings and a big chunk out of our personal checking accounts, headache from dealing with said car repairs, feelings of failure for not being able to pay for everything myself and having to ask Blacklight to pay his share, etc) for picking up Liza Klaussmann’s Tigers in Red Weather. I could blame PMS. I could blame my brain being addled by finding the brand new Margaret Atwood just sitting in the general fiction stacks unmarked as brand spanking new vs in New Fiction where it truly belonged. Or I could blame the Agent of the Random because sometimes books just aren’t awesome or the right book for a reader. I firmly believe every book has it’s reader and Great Tulu knows I’m not going to love every book.

I’m sure for the right person (IE not me) Tigers in Red Weather would be a treat. It’s the tale of two cousins, the darkly handsome Nick (a lady) and lush (in more ways than one if you get my meaning hic hic hic) Helena. Nick is rich, bored, and non traditional lovely with flashing green eyes. The men just love themselves some Nick. Helena is the lovely blonde cousin who feels second best from their childhood days on Martha’s Vineyard (her mother didn’t marry as well as Nick’s mother). We first meet the cousins in fall 1945 as they break up house (Nick to head south to her Navy husband, Helena to Hollywood and a second marriage). We then skip to the late 1950s, meet their children (Nick’s daughter Daisy and Helena’s son Ed), bad stuff goes down one magic summer and then we skip-a-doodle to through the 1960s, learn some secrets (I would have totally pegged Nick’s husband Hughes as a deeply closeted homosexual vs the true secret) and then the book mercifully ends.

I plugged along through everything, wanting to shake Nick and Helena by the shoulders until their brains rattled. I also pictured Helena’s son, the not quite “right” Ed as a budding Norman Bates. The most shocking and interesting thing about the book was turning to the author info and discovering Liza Klaussmann is descendant of Herman Melville. Does my loathing of Melville extend to his distant family? If so, is my love of Monica Dickens, descendant of the dreaded Charles Dickens an aberration? These questions compel me more than the fates of Nick and Helena, Ed and Daisy.

In the right hands, again NOT MINE,  I firmly believe someone will adore Tigers in Red Weather. I imagine the right reader (NOT ME) to be someone who loves Downtown Abbey, cupcakes, wines and Martha Stewart. I can totally see Jen Lancaster reading Tigers in Red Weather on her Kindle by the pool and loving it to death.

In these undead raccoon paws?Eh…but kudos to the fine marketing geniuses at the Hachette Book Group and jacket designer Lindsey Andrews because I would have never picked up this book if it wasn’t for the cover, not even if I found it at the Simsbury Public Library book sale on $8 bag day.

Whiter Shades of Pale

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

Even though I coordinate the hot pink cover on Mr iPhone to the pink trim on my new Lands’ End tote with my initials in matching pink to a pink and green Lilly cotton scarf and pair THAT with slim gray pants, black ballet flats, white blouse and pink sweater tied around my shoulders, I know I come from THE WRONG KIND OF WHITE PEOPLE. Oh, calm down NASCAR and Toby Keith loving bio relatives! I know we’re not straight out of  The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia! But we’re certainly not the demographic who pick up Whiter Shades of Pale, flick through the chapters and nod sagely, let alone pick up a quick nibble from Whole Foods and wear NPR gear head to toe! And remember I’m the family member with the massive crush on NPR Music’s Stephen Thompson!

So what is Whiter Shades of Pale? Well, according to author Christian Lander, it’s things white (the right kind of white that is) like. Funny or Ironic tattoos. Me: Nope. Trivia. Me: Yes. Sea Salt. Me: Yes if it’s at a restaurant, I’m not paying $7-25 for a frosted pop tart jar of salt! Trader’s Joe. Me: It depends, kinda crunchy. Appearing to enjoy classical music. Me: frosted pop tart you, I like classical music and listen to it at work, just ask my former Barnes & Noble coworkers!. Camping. Me: ARE YOU HIGH? I HATE OUTSIDE! (bonus points if you got the Logan’s Run reference). Small batch soda. Me: rip my Diet Canada Dry out of my undead paws. American Apparel, Hummus, My So-Called Life, Mad Men, Alternative Newspapers, Ugly Sweater Parties, Bumper Stickers, Monty Python, Improv….Me: BLANKET NO!

Let’s face it. Whiter Shades of Pale is your book if you love the IFC series Portlandia or read The Hipster Handbook to death. Got Judge John Hodgman on your iPod? (Dear Family, that was the fat dorky guy in the Mac & Windows commercials, cue Blacklight and Clan Gwendy going “ohhh him” and heading out to Dunkee Cup for an extra-large hot coffee and a double choccy donut) If this sounds like you, I bet you already own Whiter Shades of Pale. If you’re more like me, Judge John Hodgman almost caused you to have a ‘sode at work, you can go into Whole Foods and spend less than $10, Starbucks is a for special treat, then either read Whiter Shades of Pale in one of those nice comfy chairs at Barnes & Noble or go to the posh town’s library and check it out. You’re using the library system (very very very good) AND saving yourself $15.00! I get Whiter Shades of Pale is suppose to be quirky and ironic and meta and all that stuff but it’s not a book for me. If it’s your thing, more power to ya!

Eloise

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

Every ten years or so, like bouts of malaria, Kay Thompson’s demon spawn from the inner bowels of hell alter-ego Eloise resurfaces in my life. Heck, I can still remember the unholy fuss the Today show made over the 40th anniversary. And don’t get me started on dropping several copies of Eloise: The Ultimate Edition  (collection of the four original Eloise books) on my foot, my frosted pop tart right baby toe is screaming in pain as I type and that WAS ALMOST TEN YEARS AGO! The latest run in with the undead little demon parading in human form Eloise was almost stepping on Sam Irvin’s Kay Thompson biography at the Book Barn Downtown and a few days later coming across original editions of some of the later works at the N-w B-t-n library. So I figured it was time to welcome Satan’s love child the little angel back into my life. I should have listened to my poor right foot that went totally numb when I touched Eloise in Paris. But sadly, I didn’t.

For those lucky souls (Blacklight) who haven’t meet THE MOST FAMOUS RESIDENT OF THE PLAZA HOTEL EVER (the Dadster, sibling Tichy), the most evil creature on the planet ever and that means more evil than Justin Beiber Eloise is a lively six year old who lives in New York City’s world famous The Plaza Hotel with her doting Nannie. Nannie is English and likes to drink and order from Room Service. Nannie must get paid a fair whack from Mama Eloise because honestly would YOU want to be responsible for this child? Eloise, whose mother must have pictures of The Plaza’s owner with an eight ball, an underage donkey and a chainsaw, has free run of the hotel. She commandeers the elevator, she scamper dampers here, there and EVERYWHERE. She scribbles on walls, peeks her nose into places she has no business…hello The Venetian Room is FOR GROWNUPS ONLY YOU LITTLE BISH! Yet somehow there are other guests who stay at The Plaza. I think the manager must drink heavily. Either that or Mama Eloise has pictures of him with that underage donkey too!

Now “Gwen stop being a bitch” you might say. Or “Eloise is just the most wonderful child ever, so free and creative”. Or “The Poor Little Thing Is Just Acting Out Because Her Parents Abandoned Her”. Interesting points. You know what? I was a creative little monster who got spanked when she colored Barbie’s hair with magic markers and food dye. And cross dressed Ken and GI Joe. And yup, we never do see the two unholy creatures each responsible for half Eloise’s DNA. We never hear about Eloise’s father. And Mama Eloise is always far far far far away. But can’t Nannie discipline the little monster? Come on Nannie DO IT DO IT DO IT!

Eloise almost ten years after I spent several weeks flinching every time I had to stock the picture book section has the same effect on me. Pain…oh the pain.  I can’t WAIT to return this particular book to the library! Uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth be damned!