The moment you realize the random chick lit book you started reading because you thought it would be fun but is actually just terrible:


“Don’t be too funny, guys like funny but they don’t want to marry a comedian, right? The guy is supposed to be the funny one. Don’t overeat, if he orders for you, all the better. Don’t drink too much, at best he’ll think you’re an easy lush. At worst he’ll bail altogether.”

“You  mean it’s worse to have a man ditch me than sleep with me and never call again?”

“Oh, honey, this is New York,” Erin shook her head. “Getting him as far as the bedroom is half the battle – fingers crossed you’ve got some skills there, and then there’s a chance he’ll take you for a second spin. It’s hard, but if you’re a really great lay, you can change a first impression. Sometimes.”

God, WHAT. It might be okay if the narrator was then like, “Um..these dating rules are terrible.” But she’s just like, “Really? I obviously know nothing about dating! Wow, thank you for this wise information on how to get a dude to bone me at least once so that maybe he’ll think I’m just unfunny and skinny enough to bone again!” ALSO, ALL THE GIRLS IN THIS BOOK USE “HONEY” AND “SWEETHEART” AND VARIOUS OTHER CONDESCENDING WORDS I DESPISE BEING CALLED BY OTHER WOMEN. 

Bleh. This is why I shouldn’t/usually don’t read chick lit. Back to depressing Joyce Carol Oates stories now.

What book is this?  

About Janet Morris

I'm from Huntsville, Alabama. I've got as many college credits as a doctorate candidate, and the GPA of some of them, too. I have a boss by the name of Amy Pond. She's a dachshund. My parents both grew up in Alabama.