Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons by Lorna Landvik

All of the books that I deem to be my all-time faves have caught me by surprise. All the Ugly and Wonderful Things was an impulse library selection based on it sort-of, kinda looking familiar from Instagram at some point in time. The Burning Air was a Dollar Tree find back when I bought any and every book because, well, they were a dollar. And The Nightingale was yet another Book of Instagram that I also selected at the library on impulse. Lorna Landvik's Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons was quickly headed on that same track: a book I've had for years but it only recently jumped out at me when I thought I was in the mood for Riley Sager's Final Girls. I had every hope that AHEBB would make it on to my All-Time Fave list, but sadly it fell short once I reached about the final third of the book.

There are several things I like about this book, relating, enjoying, and feeling like I should have been a 1960's housewife notwithstanding. And in that vein, like The Astronaut Wives Club, the story and characters become decidedly less interesting once it enters the 1980's. Faith, Slip, Audrey, Merit, and Kari are great characters who are very likable, charming, relatable, and real. But, again, once the '80's roll around, I was put off by Slip, and the random switching from First Person to Third Person for no real reason (as confirmed by the author in the discussion); usually this adds a certain element to the story and in this case that element is unnecessary confusion.

As an avid book-lover, and former book-clubber, I appreciate how Landvik creates the cocoon of the book club while simultaneously spinning each character's world to then orbit the Angry Housewives. And though it is a standing joke among many a clubber that discussions rarely include the actual book but center on local gossip instead, I appreciate that the Angry Housewives avoid this and use their book selections to analyze their own lives while also engaging in thoughtful, graceful, meaningful discussions on philosophy, religion, politics, and sex; mostly taboo topics that the ladies handle with aplomb, humility, and conviction.

Spanning the course of over 30-years in the Midwest, the drama of these ladies' lives aren't anything more traumatic than what most everyone deals with, which gives the story just the right amount of cheese to pair with a fine boxed wine (although, these ladies like their liquor!). But again, the story goes on too long and should have ended along with disco. By the end, the drama feels forced, like trying to whisk an egg into an already baked cake. And the cheese factor of the story that pulls at your heartstrings goes from Brie to Whiz and what was once making us feel good is now making us feel slightly sick.

While reading, I was invested in the characters, feeling like I was an Angry Housewife myself and that with each new chapter came a much-needed girlfriends gab-fest. Even more so, these ladies named their babies after authors and book characters, how could we not be BFFs?! But during the last third, the term "jumping the shark," usually reserved for television shows that have worn out their welcome, came to mind. Given that Landvik didn't seem too concerned with structural standards, while still presenting a decent story, I don't see why the book couldn't have ended with the 1970's, especially since most of the final information regarding the characters is in the epilogue.

Although Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons didn't end up on my favorites list, it's an enjoyable book with great characters and a setting that already fascinates me. While they don't open their book-laden arms to just anyone, Landvik makes it feel as if Faith, Audrey, Kari, Merit, and Slip are making a special exception for us readers and would not only open their arms but offer the creature comforts of a worn quilt. None of Landvik's books might make it on to my list, but I feel as though I have found a Macaroni and Cheese Author - like the warm comfort foods you always return to, knowing they will always be good and will always warm your soul. Mmmm books....

Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon

"[A] deliciously disturbing literary thriller...You'll be spellbound from start to finish." - People

"Stunning...Chaon succeeds in both creating suspense and making it pay off..." The New York Times

"A riveting thriller, chock-full of plot twists...There's a bristling momentum that develops, as in any great tale of suspense..." Los Angeles Times Book Review

"...Mysteries lurk in this hypnotic novel that you'll never guess." The Washington Post

Moments after finishing Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon my only thoughts on the above snippets of the book's advanced praise is that clearly none of these people actually read it. Or they were too big of literature snobs to praise the obvious elegance of the writing and ignore the giant hole where the plot should have been. Too wrapped up in the melancholy prose, and all too willing to praise it in the absence of any kind of substance, and for what? This is the kind of book that makes me cynically believe that people pay for good reviews. As someone who reads books with a fine-toothed comb, I can assure you that none of the above is actually true in Await Your Reply.

This book had promise. It certainly started off with a bang, Ryan's severed hand resting comfortably in a Styrofoam cooler as it rushed from a remote rural cabin in Michigan to the nearest hospital. But like the setting in of Gangrene, the book quickly veered into vague territory, providing about 85% meaningless backstory with the remaining 15% dedicated to the plot. It was one of those books where I imagined taking a Sharpie to every pointless sentence and winding up with something only about 30-pages long and most-likely exponentially more interesting. Where the Reader's Guide at the end praised the unorthodox structure of the book, something that should have added dimension to the story, it actually ended up making the book a lot more effort than it was worth. There is a lot of information - and fragment sentences - for the reader to wade through with very little payoff in the end, which is disappointing because the surprises and plot twists have the potential to make an actual impact. Instead, the "big reveal," is clouded by, "Wait...wha...?" It might be most beneficial to read this book in a Reading Group so that, like driving in a dense fog, people might be able to see and explain things that might not be clear to others, and vice versa.

Also in the Reader's Guide, Chaon boasts of thinking of novels as puzzles that need to be completed, but, unfortunately, Await Your Reply fell drastically short and comes off like it's missing several pieces. It is an inelegantly disjointed depressing walk through the mostly random memories of over three people who are interconnected, but not really. The actual plot is built on a rocky foundation of assumptions and conjecture with shockingly little information for the reader that would move the story forward. Instead, we get an overage of information that we don't need, and already know, like the over-explanation of highway memorials.

Purchased from the Dollar Tree about a year ago, and chosen from my bookshelf because I was in the mood for a good mind-fuck, I was given one, but was left largely unsatisfied and like it was a pointless waste of time, especially since I chose it over a soon-to-be-due library book by my all-time favorite author. As the David Frost poem Chaon cleverly inserted, probably to up his literary game in the likes of something actually New York Times-worthy, goes: "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth-"

Thank goodness I will next travel down the path I should have taken in the first place...

The Last Winter of Dani Lancing by P.D. Viner

My husband asked me, "What is the book you're reading about?" And I said, "A college girl is found raped and murdered."

"Oh my God. And you won't even watch the news!"

But books like these - crime thrillers - aren't just about telling the tragedy. In The Last Winter of Dani Lancing by P.D. Viner, the story revolves around the ripples that perpetuate right after - and even long after - death and tragedy; the people affected, involved, and devastated are the eye of their self-inflicted storms. These books are usually always entertaining, page-turners, and creatively crafted, but The Last Winter of Dani Lancing is brilliantly different in the same way the TV show LOST was cleverly captivating.

Twenty years ago (well, according to 2010), Dani went missing. Several weeks later she was found dead in the most unpleasant of circumstances, and thus begins a chain of events that shock and awe even ten years into the new century. A story such as this is written to require changes in the time period, but Viner expertly does it by not making the switches overly long or overly complicated to where the reader is bogged down with too much information. It is easy to visualize while still maintaining the aura of deep mystery; the reader is able to follow along, reminded of important details in not-so-obvious ways, while still able to form their own theories. But more than just figuring out "whodunnit," Viner creates characters we grow to know, sympathize with, and care about.

As with any novel, especially a crime thriller, each character is deeply flawed and horribly haunted. And, like the Storm of Swords series (Game of Thrones, et al), it can be difficult to spot the so-called good guys from the bad guys, knowing they oftentimes switch (or wind up also dead). But Viner knows, and tragically showcases, that in life there are no good-guys and bad-guys; that we all are one in the same, doing good and loving each other, but also making magnificent mistakes. Through such a terrible story, Viner embraces our empathetic instinct, and the overwhelming desire to love and be loved.

Quickly written, The Last Winter of Dani Lancing has just a few too many pages to read in one sitting, but if you are able to do that, this book definitely won't disappoint.

The Girls by Emma Cline

Emma Cline's The Girls popped up on Reese Witherspoon's Book Club Instagram page and suddenly it had 49 holds at the library, which - in my mind - translates to it being one of the season's it books. So I used a Christmas gift card to pay full price at Barnes and Noble, and it sat on my shelf, determined to wait until actual, calendar summer to crack it open. But like that great, splendid family vacation you planned and looked forward to and ended up being a huge bust, The Girls is one, big, juicy double of Nothing Burger; what I've often equated to the ever-so-eloquent Elaine Benes: "It's like a big-budget movie that goes NO WHERE." And since The Girls is a Black Swan-like Freudian trip through masturbatory fantasies more than anything else, Ms. Benes description holds even more true.

Set in California in the summer of 1969, The Girls is highly indicative of 2016/17, with the cultural upheaval and the general indifference to structure and authority. Evie Boyd finds herself adrift after her father leaves for his secretary and her mother flounders with the general survival of life. She finds herself drawn to Suzanne and the world she seemingly controls, a young girl who can burn down a house with a single glare. Though Evie makes it redundantly clear that she is aware of the Linus-esque grunge that follows Suzanne around, she repeatedly makes the decision to ignore it in exchange for what Evie can only assume are bigger and better things. Those "bigger and better" things are "Russell," his "Ranch," and what begins as the largest and most infamous cult phenomenon in history.

The description alone is what makes this book fly off the shelves. And though it is hauntingly written, cryptic, and darkly psychological, the writing, at most, creates a grim haze that, either purposeful or not, engulfs the entire story. Cline uses most of her word count to wax-poetic, which is obviously supposed to highlight the story, if there had been one in the first place. There is adequate imagery, mysterious, dismal, and, naturally, the stuff of horror movies, which would also lend nicely to a story line that isn't mostly about the time in between doing drugs, masturbating, and waiting for life to start. And given the premise of the book, it's not surprising that none of the characters are particularly likeable. Lacking base and any sort of substance, Cline's actors are very stoic and one-dimensional; like the robotic ducks you shoot at carnivals. Even highly sexual, angry, too-bitter-for-a-14-year-old-who-didn't-suffer-trauma-or-abuse Evie can't make a story appear where there is none.

Emma Cline's The Girls reeks of poor-little-rich-girl, out for excitement before being yanked back from the brink, and is a textbook case of childhoods lacking an appropriate father/male figure. Evie Boyd is a genius depiction of every adolescent, willfully naive, 14-year old girl spending her summer being too old for everything and being too young for everything. But where Cline goes full-speed ahead on language, the rest of the book is a lot of start-and-go before finally crapping out on the side of the highway. It is gruesome yet vague, and oddly descriptive without actually telling us anything. And though nothing really happens until the last 30 pages, what story line does materialize is obvious and cliche. I had been anticipating this book for an entire year and it was a major let-down. And while I appreciate and respect Cline's obvious writing talent, The Girls felt largely under-developed and mostly like I was reading Cline's diary interspersed with her own personal fantasies; like if the Black Swan danced through the Manson Murders.

(Shout-out to my Mom who recently told me she reads this blog. HI MOM!)

California by Eden Lepucki

Sometimes it feels like divine destiny when certain books enter into our lives, what I shall hereto forth refer to as "book-estiny." Or maybe it just seems that way to us over-analytical, bibliophile, Virgo types, but after reading Eden Lepucki's California, "book-estiny" is the only way to describe my interaction with this compelling, gripping, thought-provoking, haunting peek at a very real near future.

I first heard about California back in 2014 when it was a New Release and Lepucki stopped by The Colbert Report on her book tour. I don't remember any part of the interview but I accept any and all book recommendations, especially from one of my favorite TV personalities. I picked it up cheap with an Amazon gift card then it sat on my shelf for the next two years. Although California would have been as equally relatable back in 2014 as it is now, with the recent death of the Occupy Wall Street movement that's only accomplishment was the degradation of millennials, it couldn't possibly have predicted the political tide of the 2016 Presidential election. Or could/did it?

What could have easily been a cheesy, overly-dramatic homage to what could very well be our near future, is actually quite frightening when you realize it was written two years ago and you suddenly have flashbacks to reading 1984. But rather than distinguish an obvious hero and villain - the winners and loser of the last several years, if you will - Lepucki artfully crafts a desolate and untamed world in which everyone loses under the guise of victory and supreme rule (*cough* President Trump *cough, cough*). And although the story and landscape scream of apocalyptic end-times, it is actually only the result of a political apocalypse skillfully detailed by Lepucki as the best and worst principles to be born from any modern-day revolution. So while California may have gotten lost in the sea of Fifty Shades of Grey and Game of Thrones, Lepucki's startling portrayal of a world controlled by fear would make for excellent discussion material in any University Sociology course. While that was mostly what propelled me through this book, it wasn't why I picked it up in the first place, thus divine book-estiny.

A few years ago I wanted to spend the summer reading non-fiction and now it's become habit; I find the season to be synonymous with WWII and getting lost in the jungle, thus I admit to committing the cardinal book sin of judging California by its cover.

There was very little jungle-roaming involved, nor was it a theme or anything Lepucki put any sort of focus on aside from describing the ravaged LA now-countryside. What did stand out for me, however, was the many possible ways to analytically dissect this novel. Like, the impact children have on a society, both biologically and in terms of culture, and how they alter our perceptions, reality, and the combining of the two; or the fundamentals of each prominent ideology and why no one idea is the perfect formula for a Utopian society; or how and why there is no such thing as a Utopian society, and that despite a revolution, history still has more to teach us, most importantly that we will always rely on each other if our species is to survive. But in spite of all of this, the book as a whole lacked structure and offered very little incentive for the reader to keep going.

I noted early on that although I didn't "feel" the usual "click," I did find myself blindly moving through the book, similar to the way Cal and Frida moved through their daily existence. But while they asked very little questions, I asked many, especially when the book neared the end and it became clear Lepucki had no intentions of wrapping everything up a nice, happy ending. It is hard to determine if she had aspirations of a sequel, or if she just realized that in order to wrap each story up in a nice, little ending package she'd need to write at least 100 more pages and just decided to quit instead. Or maybe that is the final lesson she is trying to teach us - that cycles will continue in the face of insanity; doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results no matter how much planning is involved.

While the lessons gleaned from California abound both in 2014 and in present-day, I felt the hitting to be too close to home, and as much doom and gloom as watching the news. It's possible I might have felt differently had I read the book two years ago but, like 1984, this book will probably always find a way to be culturally relevant.

Book-estiny.

Blind Your Ponies by Stanley Gordon West

Most novels make you wait for the inevitable explanation of the title in a miss-it-if-you-blink, blow-your-mind kind of moment. Blind Your Ponies by Stanley Gordon West waited no such time, revealing the meaning of the title in the sadness-packed, depressing, foreshadowing-of-self-loathing beginning that carried through the rest of the novel; well, at least the first 469 pages, which is about all I was able to stand.

Last year my good friend and fellow bibliophile and I decided to play Reading Bingo, in which one square was labeled, "A book a friend RAVES about." Having her - as well as others in my book club - speak its praises, I concluded there was no better book to satisfy that square than Ponies. While that still may be true, I definitely don't share their affinity for this particular work, and will be using it for the 500+ pages square instead.

Since I'm afflicted with the most common, yet most severe, mental illness known today - called Life - I found the immediate beginning of Blind Your Ponies to be an instant turn-off. Not only did my lips physically curl in disgust just looking at the cover - as I now knew what the title meant - but the very thought of reading the book became the last thing I wanted to do behind laundry, watching PBS Kids, or just staring off into space. I didn't even actually finish the book, not being the least bit interested in the assumed climactic ending, something that is supposedly guaranteed in all books. From skimming and reading the few paragraphs I could tolerate, I was able to gather that the ending would have provided little in turning the tide for me on whether or not I felt anything positive towards this book. Generally speaking, the ending lacked any sort of real conclusion beyond the ending of the basketball season.

Reading this novel reminded me of my high school days, only not those spent cheering on the basketball court, but those spent shoveling metaphorical bullshit into my English papers in preparation for blowing the minds of my future college professors. My Junior Year English teacher called me out on it, if only he had been available to West, he could have saved him an entire novel's worth of overly-contrived crap.

Old, hopeless competition - check!
Will-they-or-won't-they romance - check!
Tragic death - check!
Cancer - check!
Rape - check!

West cornered the market on sad story lines, which may have accounted for the unnecessary page-length, and was an excuse for the turgid, overly-dramatic, incredibly unrealistic plot-twists and accompanying metaphors that littered the story like so much garbage along a majestic mountain highway. (See.) About 150-pages in, I found myself confused as to why this book came so highly-recommended. And although it usually takes me about 60-pages to get hooked on a book, I held out Willow-Creekian-style hope and forged ahead.

Close to the halfway point is when I started to vaguely understand - though completely disagree with - why a lot of people would put this book on their Top-Ten list. West narrated the ebb and flow of life as someone who has lived it, but with particular focus on human suffering, even as he attempted to do the exact opposite. Unfortunately his message of "life sucks but there are moments worth celebrating," got lost amongst his obvious unseasoned abilities as a writer. West ended countless sentences with awkward prepositions, used an inordinate and pointless amount of sentence fragments, and let the cart run away with the horse in terms of metaphors. His imagery flowed well, but only in the places you don't want (Tom's horse, anyone?!?); and while the story, about love, life, taking a village, teamwork, and loss, is more than just about basketball, the execution came off more like a Hallmark-movie gone wrong. The only places where West put nose to the grindstone and propelled the story forward were the game scenes - at one point I actually found myself shoveling handfuls of popcorn into my mouth with excitement. But ultimately anything even remotely climactic could be seen a mile away and was met with an inevitable eye-roll and tall glass of wine to accompany the cheese. And after awhile, following the book's general theme of extreme excess, even the game scenes became too much.

My experience with Blind Your Ponies was similar to that of reading Outlander in that I found an uncontrollable desire to mark out every arbitrary sentence and/or word and watch the book magically (and blessedly) shrink by half and become remarkably more interesting. But that would mean I would need to put more focus into this book and I just can't do that; as West reminds us, life is just too short.

I rode off into the sunset on my pony with this book, hopeful for it's unfolding, but wound up plummeting (albeit slowly and boringly) off the cliff instead.

Me Talk Pretty One Day

Always late to the pop-culture party, I'm probably the last person on earth to pay any member of the Sedaris family any sort of attention. I vaguely remember the hoopla surrounding David Sedaris' latest release, Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls, but mainly just that all of my bookish friends were creaming themselves over it. Having had his Me Talk Pretty One Day taking up residence on my bookshelf (thus satisfying the criteria for Reading What Is Already On My Shelf), I thought it was high-time I see what all of the fuss was about. Turns out, not much.

What is described as a witty, sarcastic, artful re-telling of his weird adolescence is actually nothing more than Chelsea Handler with a smaller penis. But unlike Handler who seems to soften with age, Sedaris only hardens and becomes more bitter, and rapidly becomes the guy at the party you talk about later as, "Man, he was a real asshole."

Playing off the theme of his speech impediment - something that could have taken one good, lengthy chapter to cover, as opposed to the multi-chapter ramble he subjected us to -  we're taken on a bumpy ride through his self-described crappy life. Or maybe that's just his super-cheerful tone. *raises one eyebrow*

By the time he's found a partner who can stand him for longer than five minutes and followed him to France, Sedaris has become that friend we only talk to sporadically because they Debbie-Downer every situation. Against my honor as an avid book-reader, I actually skipped pages. (You're never going to learn French well enough, and the food in New York City is way too pretentious, I GET IT!)

To be fair, there were some parts - mostly in the beginning - where I found myself relating and even laughing out loud. I suppose that is what makes him even remotely appealing, as we often feel like our own lives are complete crap. But we generally don't feel that way 100% of the time, so having a book that contains 100% bitterness and negativity is discouraging.  While this book is in no way a reflection of his every day life, it can make you wonder: did this guy ever have an enjoyable moment that wasn't tinged with cynicism?

Regardless of your level of enjoyment as you read this (because everyone else seems to love these Sedaris people so much, I won't even waste word space and typing energy to tell you to skip this particular read), it's a quick read that won't take up too much room in your tote (though, it's not particularly worth hauling around).

I'll most likely read another of Sedaris' books if I ever find myself trapped on a deserted island and stumble upon it. When it comes to being bitter, having wonky childhoods and growing-up years, and indulging in negative reactions, we all can write our own essay-novels. Sedaris acts like he owns the market when, really, he's only perfected the art of whining.