Through a Glass, Darkly

I read all the time, but I feel like it’s rare to read a book that is just a pleasure from beginning to end. I am glad to say, though, that I just finished one that qualifies for that (very small) category: Intuition by Allegra Goodman.

Back when Intuition first came into the library, I saw the glowing reviews and remarked to a coworker that I wanted to read it. “Yeah, have fun with that,” she said dismissively. So then I had to read it, because I had said I was going to, and because I wanted to prove her wrong. Why would she dismiss it? Well, I’ll be the first to admit that a book about scientists and the possibility of falsified results doesn’t sound like the most compelling premise. And I was worried that all the science stuff would be over my head, which is why I didn’t start it until now. Thankfully, though, that wasn’t the case. It was explained in enough detail that I thought I understood what was going on, but not so much that I felt bogged down. (I’ve alerted Andrea to the book, and she’s going to let me know if it’s horribly inaccurate.)

The best thing about the book was that all of the characters were sympathetic and flawed – I never felt like taking one side over the other. I felt bad for Robin, whose intuition told her that Cliff had done something wrong. Was she right, or was she just jealous of Cliff’s success, a bitter ex-girlfriend? I felt bad for Cliff, who earnestly defended his innocence. Was he innocent, or had he made a calculated move to finally get ahead? I liked the two directors of the lab, Sandy and Marion, each with their own short-sightedness, each with their own reasons compelling you to believe them, believe in them, and root for them. It’s a rare book that manages to walk that balancing act and still provide a satisfying ending, but this one did it beautifully.

The best thing about the ending was that, for me, it was in question the whole time. Was Robin delusional? Had Cliff cheated on his results? I honestly did not know. I had a guess, but I did not know. And I wanted desperately to find out.

I wouldn’t say this book is for everybody – if you can’t abide even the thought of having to read about science experiments (especially experiments on mice), you might give this a pass. But if the idea of scientists desperately (maybe too desperately) working to cure cancer, lab politics (like any office politics) and possible deception, well-developed characters, and an interesting story sound like your kind of thing, give Intuition a try.

To get to my parents’ house from my house, we usually take a side road that intersects with a four-lane highway that takes us to Liberty, which is the next town over from where my parents live. Simple enough, a 25-30 minute trip. Lately, though, some signs have appeared on the highway at our intersection, announcing plans to close said intersection. We assume they are closing all the intersections on that road in order to raise the speed limit to 65. It seems like a fair guess. However, it means that, sometime in the unspecified future, we’re going to have to come up with a different way to visit my parents. Being proactive people, we decided to go ahead and see if we could figure out what that route was going to be. I studied a map, came up with a plan, and, on Friday evening, Mike and I set out.

Despite the fact that some of the road names on our map seemed slightly different than the ones on the road signs, we were doing well until we hit Old Liberty Road. It was a wind-y road, with lots of curves. We thought, “This wouldn’t be the best road in the dark, or in the winter, but it seems to be okay, if we go slow.” And then. Then. Then we hit the one-lane bridge.

This is the year 2006, y’all. Did you know there were still one-lane bridges? On paved roads? Because I did not. I thought one-lane bridges were slowly going the way of the buffalo. And yet, there it was. It was a very small bridge, over a small creek, so it wasn’t as if navigating it was a problem, or that I was concerned about the safety or of being able to see approaching vehicles. It was paved, it had guard rails, it seemed very safe, and the speed limit on the curvy road wasn’t all that high anyway, so I am sure it was all fine. It just seemed . . . odd.

“No problem,” I said. “I think that I can find a way to get us around that next time. We’ll just come in on this road a little later. See, we can come in on this road here and avoid the one-lane bridge.”

And then we hit one-lane bridge number two. Two! Two one-lane bridges on one road!

This time I was not quite so optimistic. “I’m not sure what we can do here. I might be able to bring us in on this other road and drop us on Old Liberty Road just up there. That would mean we’d avoid all the wind-y stuff, too.”

And then we hit one-lane bridge number three.

By this point, I did not know what to think. How could there possibly, POSSIBLY be three one-lane bridge roads one one road? How could that be? This road is on the map, and it runs from Asheboro to Liberty, and it should be . . . a real road. Not a pretend road where they’re like, “Hey, we were just kidding about that road thing. Be careful on this bridge!”

Needless to say, we’re going to need a new plan. (We took the old way home.)

Today I was telling my mom about the whole “closing our intersection” situation, and that we were trying to come up with a new path, and as soon as I mentioned the words, “Old Liberty Road,” she said, “Don’t take that! It’s awful!” No kidding.

When I was in high school, there was some kind of big project in which a lot of the dirt roads in my county (maybe in the whole state, I’m not sure) were paved. I would gladly trade a few of those roads for just three real, two-lane bridges on Old Liberty Road.

(The really funny part is that, even with the curves and low speed limit and crazy bridges, it took the same amount of time as our regular route. Doesn’t that seem wrong?)

So this is how it feels at the rock bottom of despair
When the house I built comes crashing down
And this is how it feels when I know the man that I say I am
Is not the man I am when no one’s around

This is how it feels to come alive again
And start fighting back to gain control
And this is how it feels to let freedom in
To break the chains that enslave my soul

The summer of 1999 was a hard one for me - some big plans had to change, I lived in a lot of fear and out of a sense of rejection. When things are hard, I am not good at remembering them, and what I remember about the summer of 1999 is kind of a blur. A cookout here and there, a trip to Fort Mill gone awry, late nights at Mike’s apartment. Nothing concrete. Without really thinking about it, I can’t tell you what I did for my birthday that year, I can’t tell you if we went on any kind of vacation. I just remember a sense of sadness.

Sometime that summer, the CDs we had to play at the store featured a song that was coming out in August, something about jail, something about freedom. Every time that song came on, I would try and soak it in, because what I heard resonated with me. I felt that, in many ways, I was refusing to live the way that certain people thought I should live, and I would sing the chorus as if I was singing it to them. “I refuse to be locked up in here like a prison cell.” I don’t know exactly where “here” was, but, to be honest, it felt like my own heart.

I refuse to be locked up in here like a prison cell
Where all I ever get is a meal and four walls
I used to be just fine in here but not anymore
Gonna break through these steel bars

I have been singing the song lately, for whatever reason, and I realized that, at some point, my focus shifted from the first stanza (rock bottom of despair) to the second (come alive again). The past few years have been about gaining confidence in who I am, in my abilities. I didn’t feel very loveable back in 1999 - in fact, many of the things that happened seemed to prove just the opposite. I wasn’t communicated with, and I took that as being deemed “not worthy of communication.” I was rejected for who I was, mostly because I was messy and I made mistakes. I wasn’t given a chance to rectify any of it, I was just rejected completely, and it’s taken me several years to crawl back out of the foxhole that all of that sent me into emotionally.

You would think that being married would help that, and, to some extent it has. But being married means letting your spouse into a lot of that mess, which, admittedly, is the way to start healing. It takes a lot of pain to get there, though, and it’s something I’m still learning. I can point to a few things, though, in the past two years that have been about me learning to stand up for myself. To believe that people like me and that I am capable of being in relationships without having to become a different person to meet expectations.

Not only have my relationships with people improved, but my relationship with God has improved. I am finally able to see how I was believing so many lies about God - I talked here about how I had this view that everything was about Teaching Me a Lesson. I don’t believe that anymore. Instead, I focus on seeing the strength and grace that God gives me, and using that as I learn about relationships and forgiveness and what it really looks like to love people.

At the time, I really believed that some of the hard things in the summer of 1999 were about refining me. And now I can see how that has come to pass.

So tell me how it feels when the tables start to turn
And you find yourself on the losing end
Tell me how it feels, you’re not welcome here
Cause I’m tired of pain and I’m tired of sin

I used to hear this song and cry because it was so much of what I wanted - to be free of hurt and the expectations I felt were placed on me. Now I hear it and I cry because I see how far I’ve come. A lot of the journal-burning came from that sense of moving on, and even though I claimed it wasn’t a deep ritual, it did give me a feeling of moving past that rejection, from being the person who was so caught up in her own misery that she couldn’t see straight.

Lyrics by Andy Gullahorn.

KARI: What are you doing?

MIKE: I’m looking up what the principal at this school looks like, in case I see her tomorrow.

KARI: That’s smart. So you’ll be at the school tomorrow?

MIKE: Yes. Now I have to try to remember her name. Principal Brady.

KARI: You need a mnemonic device.

MIKE: I was thinking, Brady like the guy who was hurt when Reagan was shot. The Brady Bill.

KARI: Wow, that’s . . . a lot more complicated than I would have gone. Have you heard of a little thing called The Brady Bunch?

MIKE: I bet she doesn’t want GUNS IN HER SCHOOL.

KARI: I bet she is A LOVELY LADY.

MIKE: Look at this woman. Do I want to imagine her in day-glo bellbottoms? I think not.

KARI: Oooooooh, good point.

MIKE: The Brady Bill it is.

KARI: . . . Surely there is something better.

MIKE: Oh, I don’t know . . . what about that quarterback?

KARI: *gasp*

MIKE: You know, the really handsome one.

KARI: Take that back!

MIKE: What’s his name again? Oh, that’s right, TOM BRADY.

KARI: The foul besmircher!

MIKE: Is that really the appropriate insult?

KARI: Do not speak his name in our house!

MIKE: What, TOM BRADY?

KARI: Take it back, take it back!

MIKE: No.

KARI: We hates him! Take it back, precious!

MIKE: I should never have gotten you to start watching football.

KARI: TAKE IT BACK!

MIKE: Good grief. I take it back.

Much later.

KARI: What was the principal’s name again?

MIKE: Ummmm . . .

KARI: Principal Beaver?

MIKE: NO! Principal BRADY!

KARI: Yikes. Sorry about that.

MIKE: Yeah, thanks a lot.

KARI: You? Are so screwed.

I am a little bit afraid that this journal is turning into “Kari Reviews Everything,” but . . . I saw a really great movie last night. I know, I know.

I think I enjoy documentary films so much because I enjoy stories about people. Steve Hartman has spent a lot of time on CBS proving that, no matter how boring we think we are, we all have a story to share, and many of those stories are just as (if not more) dramatic and heartfelt as the greatest novel or blockbuster movie. Fewer explosions, less beautiful people, less “perfect” dialogue, but the sincerity can’t really be compared. Part of my love for stories probably comes from my years in youth group and retreats in college – one thing we were taught is that the story of our relationship with God is a beautiful thing, no matter how boring we think that it is. That your story doesn’t have to have motorcycle gangs and drugs and dramatic conversions to be a story of God’s faithfulness and how you are growing in that. I think my story as a Christian honestly is kind of boring, but I also know that my leaders and friends were speaking the truth, which is one reason I have come to see people’s stories as . . . almost a holy thing. A way to connect to other people, to see their humanity.

I also, as you probably know, enjoy stories about relationships. I think a lot about my own relationships: with Mike, with my friends, with family, with friendships that didn’t work out or never got off the ground. I think about why they work or why they didn’t. In college, I started learning how relationships could be refining, how, if I let them, they could help smooth my rough edges. And marriage, of course, has taught me even more about that. I have been thinking lately about how my marriage and my friendships have given me confidence that I am someone worth being friends with. That some of the problems I’ve had with relationships in the past weren’t completely my fault. That I’m capable of loving and being loved. That I shouldn’t let some of the failures of the past overshadow the relationships that continue to grow these days.

But wasn’t I supposed to be talking about a movie? Well, Mike and I saw Wordplay last night, and we both loved it. More than we expected to, even. It’s a fun little documentary about crossword puzzles – the history, the construction, the people who do them, and, finally, the annual tournament. We meet some of the participants (many of whom are past champions) and get to know their stories as we build up to the tournament. And then, finally, it’s tournament time, and people are arriving at the hotel and hugging each other and catching up. And they compete the first day, and they have a talent show that night, and they play games, and Will Shortz is hanging out with them, and it looked like so much fun. I loved watching the community they had formed – one lady was introduced as a first-timer, and another lady quickly said, “Do you want to have dinner with us?” It looked like, yes, there were cliques, and, yes, there was some fierce competition, but . . . everyone was united by their love of crosswords and competition as well as their sense of fairness. One of the most moving scenes was a woman who had been the champion back in the 70s, and who lost her husband at the tournament one year – he had a heart attack on the Sunday afternoon of the tournament weekend. But she said she still comes because she knows he would want her to, and she talked about how there were other people who had also passed away, but she felt their presence, too. I thought that summed up the whole appeal of the movie for me – these people really care about each other, and that’s why they come back year after year.

And that’s not even touching on the incredible skill and knowledge that the people in this movie possess, which was the reason I wanted to see the movie in the first place. (Well, that and Jon Stewart.)

We watched the movie in a tiny theater – at first we thought it was going to be just us and another couple, but then the seats started filling up, and by the end the theater was mostly full, about 25-30 people in a theater that seats no more than 40. We had the kind of movie experience you would want for a small movie about geeks – people laughing, applauding, and exclaiming at all the appropriate times. It was as if we formed a community of our own for the duration of the movie.

In college, we talked a lot about “sharing life” as being an important part of authentic Christianity, but I don’t think I knew what that really meant. I still don’t think I entirely know what that means, but I have a better idea than I did. Last night’s movie made me think of “sharing life” in terms of being in relationships with people who understand (and support) what makes you tick, of the importance of getting to be who you really are without having to put up any fronts or censor yourself, of the value of sharing your interests with the people around you. In a really good way, it made me lament some of my own lost relationships a little less – most of the time, they were lost because there was a lack of truly understanding one another, however that ended up playing out.

Often, seeing other people’s stories reminds me of the value of my own. Seeing Wordplay, a movie that celebrates ordinary people with many different gifts and talents who love crossword puzzles, made me remember that the best way to live is to be who I really am, to celebrate my quirks and embrace my passions. My story is only going to be boring if I try to make it fit some prescribed formula. But a life full of friends (“kindred spirits,” really) and interests (no matter how strange), of love and family, of knowing and being known . . . how could that be a boring story?

When we got married, one of the things we struggled with was hospitality. I don’t think that I’m inhospitable, but hospitality isn’t one of my gifts. It doesn’t come easily for me like it does for other people. I forget to ask you if you need a refill, and I forget that we shouldn’t just sit at the kitchen table and talk for hours when we could be sitting in softer chairs. I get stiff and awkward.

Mike, on the other hand, would be happy if we hosted a big Sunday dinner at our house every week. He grew up in a community that did that, that had Sunday dinners together with friends and family, and I think he feels the lack of it in his life. I spent a lot of years having my life be overly scheduled, so I shy away from planning something every week like that. Basically, what I’m saying is that having a big Sunday dinner every week is my idea of purgatory. To have to cook, to have to be in town, to have to have the house cleaned . . . I see all of that as stressful rather than a means to an enjoyable end.

I felt like I was beginning to make strides in the area of hospitality – we hosted a Thanksgiving dinner that went over well, and Scott and Kelly were visiting a lot. And then Mike had a rough spring semester, and, this is God’s honest truth, we didn’t have any visitors at our house from Christmas until May. Mike was busy with homework and I read more books than I thought possible. We were holed up here all spring, being anti-social, not because we intended to, but just because we didn’t take steps to keep it from happening. Susan came to see us before she moved and she was the first person who’d been to visit since Christmas. (My brother and my parents had been there, but family isn’t the same as “visitors.”) And when Susan was there, she and I sat at the kitchen table and talked for three or four hours. I forgot to go into the other room where there were softer chairs.

Every month in Real Simple, they have a question that they ask their readers, and recently an upcoming question was, “What’s your favorite thing about your kitchen?” I love my kitchen, so I had to think about it for a while. Is it the cabinet space? Is it the bright yellow color? Is it all the windows? But then I decided that, instead of being ashamed about all the hours spent at our kitchen table, that that was my favorite thing about the kitchen. In a burst of hospitality, we bought a kitchen table that seats six, and we have loved having people over to eat and sit for hours at it. I can stand in my kitchen and think of meals there with friends, of conversations that went long into the night, of card games and coffee, laughter and tears.

The past few years have caused me to learn a thing or two about hospitality, both in my house (from watching Mike) and in my heart. I have gotten better at trusting people, at letting my friendships be reciprocal, at letting people in my space without having so many walls. It’s not the traditional way that we think of hospitality, but letting my heart be more open has been a big step for me. What I really want as far as hospitality goes is for people to feel comfortable asking for a refill, or even getting up to get their own. I want people to let me know if I’ve forgotten to put something on the table. I want them to say, “Want to move to the den?” if I forget. I want our friends to know where the glasses and silverware are so that they don’t feel like visitors. Sometimes I get so stiff that I forget how to create that environment. But I’m working on it. I’m hopeful that having a more open heart will lead to having a more open home.

As I mentioned before, Mike and I have been working our way through the 18 episodes of Freaks and Geeks that he gave me for my birthday. We finished the last of them on Thursday, and we’ve been watching commentaries over the past few days.

[Aside: On the subject of commentaries and DVD extras, can I just say that this is one area where I HATE being a Gilmore Girls fan? They never put anything good on their DVDs. Stupid Palladinos. Freaks and Geeks has 29 commentary tracks for their 18 episodes. Twenty. Nine. That was one reason Mike decided to get the DVD set for me - it's the gift that keeps on giving.]

At first I thought Mike enjoyed the show a little more than I did, but then, yesterday, we were watching some commentaries or something and I turned to him and said, “It’s a shame they were cancelled because there were so many more stories to tell!” I want to know more about Bill’s mom and Coach Fredericks. I want to know what’s going to happen with Neal’s parents. I want to know whether Lindsay will ever fal for Daniel. I want to know if Daniel will keep playing D&D with the geeks. I want to know if Nick will ever get over Lindsay. I want to know about Kim and Lindsay’s summer. There are so many unanswered questions, and they did such a good job of setting us up for years of stories that we won’t ever get to see. It took me a couple of episodes to warm up to the show (similar, I think, to how it took Mike a bit to warm up to Veronica Mars), but I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know these characters over the course of the past month.

As we were finishing up the series, what stuck out to me the most was that, though I was nerdy/geeky in high school, I didn’t seem to have the confidence that Bill, Neal, and Sam had. They were often unhappy at how they were treated and how they were perceived, but they knew who they were and they stayed true to that (powder blue jumpsuits aside). Neal didn’t apologize for his sweater vests, Bill knew the ladies loved his dancing, and Sam dumped Cindy Sanders, the hottest girl in school, because he knew it was the right thing to do. In high school, I was too busy worrying about what everyone else thought to have as much fun as these guys had with their sci-fi conventions and their Halloween costumes. That’s not to say that they had it easy, because they didn’t. I could relate to some of their pain, too - getting picked last for gym class (which is why “The Diary” is my favorite episode), getting teased about clothes, being rejected by the popular kids. I especially enjoyed how they showed the struggle between liking someone of the opposite sex and wanting to be true to your friends. Everyone goes through that, changing but not feeling the space to be able to change. I think it’s probably true that when you’re geeky, it’s easier to be a girl than a boy. Lindsay had the Mathletes, after all. (And, nice touch for the Mathletes being all girls. Girls can be good at math, too!)

Mike and I both thought that Lindsay’s choice at the end was disappointing, but true to what her character went through over the season. I could understand a tiny bit of what Lindsay went through - when I was a freshman in high school, I hung out when some of the stoners because they were nice and accepted me for who I was. I never got involved in their culture like Lindsay did, but I understood the appeal, because . . . they seemed so much more relaxed. They had so much more fun. Lindsay’s decision to embrace her new life and new friends made sense, even though my heart sank while I was watching it.

Even more fun than watching the show was getting to talk about high school with Mike, remembering long-forgotten stories about embarrassing clothes (not as embarrassing as the powder blue jumpsuit), the crowds we ran in (Quiz Bowl was pretty much the same thing as being a Mathlete), and, of course, getting picked last in gym class (I wouldn’t have minded forgetting that story forever). In a strange way, watching the show made me more confident that I can overcome my residual fears of being left out, of being rejected, of being afraid to be who I am. Being a geek, after all, is something to be proud of.

When I was in college, I worked at a bookstore, and occasionally customers would say, “You have the most beautiful skin.” I would look away, embarrassed, feeling like an impostor, knowing that I couldn’t confess that my skin was all thanks to a round of Accutaine. Not knowing what to say. After such a response, one lady looked at me and smiled knowingly, saying, “It wasn’t always that way, was it?” I was relieved that she knew my secret.

I’m feeling a little bit like an impostor today, too. Maybe that’s because I’ve always been “the girl with the big glasses” and . . . I’m suddenly not. (I guess I could be “the girl with the lens implants,” but . . . everybody is already freaked out by my bionic eyes, so I’d really like not to draw more attention to them.) Last night I got ready for bed and then stood there, looking at . . . seeing myself in the mirror, feeling the need to take out my contacts, but having no contacts to take out. I got in bed and actually reached for my glasses to take them off. I glanced over at Mike to see if he’d noticed what I’d done, trying to play it cool, and then I started laughing. “Did you see that?” I said.

“No. Did you try to take off your glasses?” And then we laughed together. But I still felt a little lost. A little like crying. They’re happy tears, but it’s still a strange new reality, to have the crutch I’ve depended on for as long as I can remember just be . . . unnecessary. It’s a miracle, a 21st-century miracle, sure, but a miracle nonetheless.

This time around was a different experience than the first - there were fewer nurses, I had to wait a little longer, and I wasn’t nearly as unconscious. I’ve had a little more pain this time, but I wasn’t as nauseated or woozy, though I did take a four-hour nap on Friday. And I’m actually seeing a little better on this eye than I did on the first at this point.

It’s just . . . strange. That’s all there is to it. Strange, but in the best kind of way.

Disclaimer: I know that the book posts are not the most popular posts here, and I know that this is a little long. I just needed to get it out of my system.

Literacy and Longing in L.A. by Jennifer Kaufman and Karen Mack is described on the back as, “Chick lit for bookworms.” If that’s the case, then why would the author go out of her way to offend the very people who are supposedly the target audience?

Let me start at the beginning – the library bought this book back in May, I noticed that Library Journal gave it a terrible review, and then Katie told me that she saw the authors on TV, and that it sounded like something I might like. I like Katie more than Library Journal, so I decided to read it. And, you know, I can definitely see how it could have been something I would like. It could have been discussed in a way that made me think, “I need to check that out!” So, Katie did a good sweet thing. I wish the book had been better, for her sake. As it was, I only finished it so that I could write a scathing blog entry about it.

My first problem with the book was that it seemed to want to be chick lit, but it also seemed to look down on readers of chick lit. I am not going to quote the whole passage, but let me give you some parts of the section on different kinds of readers:

“When Palmer and I first started dating we used to joke about the unspoken hierarchy of readers and the private way in which they tackle a book. At the top of the heap are the purists—people who read to soak up the elegantly constructed literary style and savor the brilliant metaphors, inventive characters, breathtaking imagery, and sparkling dialogue. The story is beside the point. I had a lit prof once who preached that one should always read the end of a novel first so the plot won’t be a distraction.

“Not far behind are the academics—readers who never quite got over how they read a book in their freshman English class, underlining or highlighting, turning down pages, looking up words they’re not familiar with , and scribbling pithy comments in the margins.

“The book worshipers come next. They keep their books covered . . . use bookmarks, and absolutely never let the book touch the floor . . .

“Then there are the readers who just want a good old-fashioned story and make no bones about it. They skip over long descriptive passages, skim through digressions, and zero in on who, what, and where to the nth degree . . .

“Or how about the multitask readers, those who read while cooking, cleaning, talking on the phone, or driving. Which is stupid—not that I haven’t done it.

“The bottom-feeders come next and include the status readers, a group of wannabees who don’t really want to read the book at all but want to be seen with it . . . Even worse are the people who listen to audio books, the new version of condensed books, or read novelizations of current movies. These people consider themselves readers, but they’re not . . . I group the narcoleptic readers in this nonreader category. People who use books as Ambien and have had the same book sitting on their bedside table for the last six months. Also the bathroom readers . . . I have never personally engaged in this activity because my mother insists that it gives you hemorrhoids . . .

“Then there are the readers who like to hang out in bookstore cafes nursing tepid cappuccinos, hogging the table for hours while they leisurely read unpurchased books, leaving them in piles on the table for the sales people to put away.

“And let’s not forget the hopeless unfinishers—people who like choosing books, buying books, starting books, but the one thing they can’t seem to do is finish books . . .

“The most frustrating category of all includes people who read a book and just don’t get it. I know, I’m a snob. I admit it.”

Maybe I “just didn’t get” this book, but, sorry, I don’t think that’s the case. Now, tell me, is someone at the “top of the literary heap” going to pick up a book like this? No. So everyone who’s reading the book is going to come into one of the lower categories. I am a reader who likes a good old-fashioned story (I don’t skip descriptive passages like I used to, though), a multitasker, and, yeah, I’ll admit it, a bathroom reader. Sometimes I read books at Barnes and Noble if the library doesn’t have them. I’ve even listened to audiobooks. I found this whole thing incredibly offensive because this character in a crap book is saying that there are right and wrong ways to enjoy books, and that I’m not a high-class reader. (You’d better believe I checked to see whether there was an audio version of this book. Unfortunately there isn’t, because I was so ready to lay the smackdown.) As someone who works with books every single day, I am here to tell you that book snobbery is ridiculous. People read for different reasons – to learn, to escape, for entertainment. They read different things when they are in different moods. No matter what, I firmly believe that somebody who is reading a literary tome isn’t better than someone reading the latest Nora Roberts. Reading fills different needs in their lives. No, I don’t think that Left Behind is a great book, but there are certainly worse things you could be reading or watching or doing. And I respect your right to read what you enjoy.

So, the first thing the book did was make me feel like a second-class reader for even picking up the book. That was the moment when I decided I was going to finish it just so I could talk smack about it.

The second thing I noticed was that the main character was really really unlikable. I know it’s pretty standard in chick lit for women to throw money around like it’s nothing, but she kept talking about her dwindling inheritance and then buying $300 shoes. She lives in an expensive month-to-month fancy community. She’s considering getting a facelift. None of those things make me feel very much like sympathizing with her. One of the things that is supposed to show her more human side is that she had a bad experience on the freeway and therefore has to take the long way around to get everywhere. I understand that – I had a bad experience on I-40 in the mountains that put me off driving there. Driving can be scary. But, you know, I don’t have a driver or a car service to take me where I need to go. I have to ride with someone else or cowboy up. It was awfully hard to feel sorry for her.

One area where I did relate to her was that, when she got a little down, she liked to read. I do that, too. But even that was frustrating, because I’m not a divorcee with an inheritance (not even a “dwindling” one), so I don’t get to wallow for days and days in the bathtub reading. I have to go to my job. Life goes on.

It was also ridiculous the way that the characters would have a “steamy” sex scene involving handcuffs and then quote literature and poetry at each other. It’s an idealized version of life. It’s just not how things are. The boyfriend was . . . not a caricature, but not a well-developed character in his own right, either. If you want me to explain why he would have asked our unlikeable protagonist out, I would have no idea what to tell you. She came off as pretentious, and nothing that she said about herself made me think she was particularly attractive. But, sure, she can get the hot bookstore guy. No problem.

The backstory with the mother was not well-developed at all. We learn right away that the mother was an alcoholic, and the jacket says that she’s “trying to make amends,” but I spent the first 98% of the book wondering when that was going to happen. Was it when she helped her daughter with a crossword puzzle? Because that was the only action we got in that area for most of the book. And crossword puzzles don’t really equal “amends for being an alcoholic and doing things like driving cars off bridges.” Then mom makes an appearance with 15 pages to go, apologizes for past wrongs, and I’m supposed to feel warm and fuzzy about it?

Another problem with the alcoholism story is that we learn that the boyfriend’s sister has a drug problem, and as the main character tries to help out the family, the boyfriend, who is sick of cleaning up his sister’s messes, claims that she doesn’t understand what it’s like to constantly clean up after an addict. So, why wouldn’t the main character point out that, yes, as a matter of fact, she did know a thing or two about it? She didn’t even seem to make a connection in her mind.

I touched on the pretentiousness of the literary quoting and poetry reciting, but I didn’t mention that the pretentiousness carries over into all kinds of book-related things. I think we’re supposed to think the character’s mother is “literary” because she likes going to authors’ houses and she named her daughters Dora (short for Eudora, as in Eudora Welty) and Ginny (short for Virginia, as in Woolf). It seems to me that what she really gave her daughters was some sense of being better than other people because they could toss around literary names and ideas.

What I got from the book was not a sense that the main character read for pleasure, and in the end I think her growth during the book was about enjoying books and not using them to sedate her feelings. Her big breakthrough at the end was about learning to appreciate books in moderation, and not so she could say the right things, so she could impress people, so she could avoid real relationships, so she could say she had read a book. But by then, I had lost all interest.

I said all this, when, really, I could have just quoted Library Journal:

One might think that Kaufman and Mack’s first novel, about a Los Angeles woman who escapes life’s problems by binge-reading and featuring a ten-page list of books and authors mentioned within, might be a natural choice for book clubs. But when the same novel contains a diatribe against the book club phenomenon and rails against all readers who don’t like the same types of books the superficial and judgmental protagonist favors, one would reconsider. Caught between a new romance with bookstore owner Fred and her unresolved feelings for her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Palmer (who conveniently disappears from the novel until the plot needs him), Dora spends most of her time reading, drinking, and shopping, until Fred’s family problems force her to take responsibility. Though Dora’s life does come together by the book’s end, readers will be turned off by her snide and superior attitude earlier on. Not recommended.