Mrs. O'Dell Reads

 I have been dying to readBossypants but have been equally reluctant to shell out $25 for the hardcover. Since my local library doesn’t have it either, I resorted to borrowing it from a student. It was wellworth the borrow.

In many ways, it’s probably what you’re expecting — a series of strangely insightful funniness. Each chapter is like a little essay — a format I love that makes for super-speedy reading. I read more than half of the book waiting in the lobby of a doctor’s office.

While the memoir spans from her childhood, to UVa (!!!), to Second City in Chicago, to SNL and 30 Rock, my favorite bits were about her time working for Lorne Michaels at Saturday Night Live and, in particular, the epic adventure of being coerced into playing Sarah Palin on the show while simlutaneously raising a young daughter and getting 30 Rock off the ground.

For comedy memoir, this was a great book!

I love, love, love Jen Lancaster!  Such a Pretty Fat is the first book I ever laughed out loud at in my whole life. She’s just one of those writers whom I will always read whether or not I’m interested in the book at face value.  But I was nervous when I heard she was writing her first novel and making the jump to fiction. (Perhaps it’s just book snobbery — if it’s a memoir, it’s okay if I read it. If it’s a novel, then I really am reading chick lit.)

I was pleasantly surprised with If You Were Here,  though. Semi-autobiographical, there is a lot of the real Jen and Fletch in this book.  In the novel, the first of three, the fictional Mia and Mac buy a serious fixer-upper primarily because it was featured in John Hughes’ Pretty in Pink. The renovation (rebuild?) that ensues challenges their finances, friendships, and their marriage.

Nothing about this book was particularly stunning, and I might not have liked it so much had it not been written by Lancaster. The things fans love about her are not lost — her signature snark, her love of animals, the dynamics of her friendships and marriage. It feels very much like what we’re used to, and that will make me pick up the next in the series … even if it’s chick lit fiction and not a memoir.

I picked up this book at a very-sadly-closing Borders Friday night based solely on how hard the book’s promotional website made me laugh at work on Friday.  Let me say from the outset — I understand that this won’t be a book everyone rushes to read. It’s a niche book — a niche which happens to interest me — so, I won’t be offended if you don’t take my recommendation because it doesn’t interest you.

More sociology of religion than religon, McCracken undertakes a journalistic approach to dissecting the newest trend in Christianity — hipster Christianity. Mostly as a reaction to the capitalistic mass culture of WWJD bracelets and contemporary Christian music, the new wave of hipster Christians are much more invested in the traditions and history of the church — it’s mysticism rather than it’s sanitized, popular appeal. Rather than simplifying Christianity, hipster Christians seek to replace the mysteryand confusing conundrums of the faith, claiming that these are as intrinsic as the basics of the Gospel.

McCracken’s work is well-balanced, neither lauding or condemning the movement. Rather, he seeks to understand its underpinings and its reactionary nature. I think anyone interested in religion and religious culture would be interested in this read. The first three chapters on the “history of cool” are entirely skimmable, if not skippable, but overall this is a really interesting exploration of a faith movement.  I read it in one, short sitting.

I am alive and still reading … sort of.

I know I am committing reading blasphemy by saying this, but I’m having serious trouble finishing Abraham Verghese’sCutting for Stone.

And this is the second time I’ve picked it up without finishing it.

And I will finish it. It’s a great story. Two twins in Ethiopia, born against all odds, are adopted and raised by two doctors. The twins, in turn, grow up to be doctors.  It’s well-written. While I’m in the midst of reading it, I’m interested.  It’s not a difficult read in any way.

But I can’ seem to WANT to read it. At all.

And perhaps it’s not the fault of this book in particular. Maybe I’m just in a more general reading funk. Either way, I have 100 pages to go. 100 pages standing between me, a review, and you.

I’m still here. I’m still sort of reading.  Feel free to comment and yell at me for not being as completely wrapped up in this book as everyone else in the world. 

C’est vrai — I read a lot of memoirs about girls who move to Paris (See this) I suppose it is just testament to some kind of universal dream that so many memoirs are written on the same subject, and yet I pick up all of them. To me, this is ultimate escapist reading.

Delightfully, this was my book club’s January pick … and I didn’t even pick it (though I might have advocated for it a little bit.) 

There isn’t too much to tell by way of sheer plot that is original –  Turnbull meets a dashing, eccentric Parisian at a dinner party in Bucharest. After a few phone calls, she agrees (with some minor reservations … like the fact that he could be a serial killer) to stay with him in Paris for a week.  Frédéric is not a serial killer, and thus one week becomes two. After a brief four-month jaunt around Europe, Sarah finds herself back in Paris permanently. While it may have been amour avecFrédéric, adjusting to the City of Lights is not quite as easy. As it turns out, living in a foreign city is very different from visiting a foreign city, and Turnbull’s first couple of years are fraught with good intentions followed by loneliness and tears.  Eventually, Turnbull finds her footing, marries Fred, and ils vécurent heureux.

Though I was pretty thoroughly engaged in Turnbull’s story, I think that may initially have been more because I am a fan of the genre and a sucker for the storyline. Parts of the narrative felt over-written (and self-admittedly cliché) to me. For example, on one of Turnbull’s first nights in Paris she recounts,

I guess the circumstances are perfect for falling in love. Every skidding stop on the motorbike, each intimate garden, every candlelit café terrace conspires to spark romance. But is it the scene, the city or the man I’m succumbing to? A combination of all three? These question don’t even enter my mind. Who cares when it’s all so much fun? Yes, I admit, I ‘m carried away on a kaleidoscope of clichés straight of out a trashy romance novel. It is magic.

The beginning left me feeling cold, rather than oh-la-la-ing. Interestingly, the tone seems to shift around chapter ten, when each chapter focuses less on the linear narrative of her transition and reads more as a series of essays on French life, culture, and the challenges of assimilation. I wondered if these chapters were bits she had published before.

Still, these essay chapters mark the biggest difference between Turnbull’s story and the others I’ve read in the genre — it turns out that it isn’t all about her. She muses — often quite fascinatingly — on well-known facets of French culture with an insider-outsider’s perspective.  French fashion, food, and politics are all analyzed under Turnbull’s lens, which is the most effective and interesting part of the book. Turnbull as love-struck foreigner isn’t nearly as compelling as the journalist Turnbull  making sense of the French.

It’s a good book — not a rave, but worth reading if, like me, this is the kind of book you like to indulge in every so often.