Here's another review for you while I run out and buy that Starbucks gift card

Bergdorf Blondes: A Novel by Plum Sykes

This book came in the mail today and I don't know why. Did I order it from half.com? Or one of Amazon.com's used book sellers? Did I win it in a Bloggy Giveaway? Is it a present? I have no idea.

However, I checked it for drugs, and it came out clean. No suspicious white powder. So I figured what the hell, I'll read it.

However. I'm only a couple of pages into it, and something about the rich, vapid women in "good buildings" on Park Avenue seems eerily familiar. Which leaves me wondering: has Chick-lit become so generic that it's become one big French-manicured blur--or have I actually read this book?

Only time will tell.

++++UPDATED++++

I'm very sorry to say this, because it means either Plum Sykes is a lousy writer or I have early-onset Alzheimer's, but I'm several chapters in, and I still can't tell whether I've read this before. Some parts of it seem familiar, like the passages about Brazilians.

But then, hasn't every single book about rich women in New York wasted gallons of ink obsessing about pubic hair? The only thing worse than the J. Sisters material in Bergdorf Blondes is a passage from a different book whose name I can't recall. Thankfully, it took place in London.

I say thankfully because in this book, the aging female protagonist decided, upon taking a new lover, that her nether 'do needed some touching up, so she got busy with a bottle of auburn hair dye and a toothbrush, and then finished things off with a spritz of some kind of hair sheen product that contained tiny bits of gold glitter--only to discover that it all rubbed off all over Mr. Wonderful's face.

And now, if you're mesmerized by a mental picture of a man walking around with the bottom half of his face stained a strange shade of orange-brown and twinkling with wee bits of fairy gold--in broad daylight, mind you--you'll know why I don't read more chick-lit than I do.

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Monty Python/Powerpuff Girls mash up.

I used to enjoy grocery shopping.

Way back when I was young, single, fun-loving, and didn't own a car, I had a boyfriend who, whenever I got crabby, used to offer to drive me to the grocery store. He knew nothing cheered me up more than having the chance to buy such glamorous items as: a five-pound sack of sugar, a couple of large packages of toilet paper, and a giant economy-sized-bag of cat litter, all in the same trip. Ordinarily I walked everywhere I went, so I had to make do with a small box of sugar, and a single roll of Scott tissue--otherwise I'd have no room in the bag for anything I actually, you know, ate.

I'm sure the sight of the back seat of his 1963 Corvette filled to overflowing with large, excrement-related consumer items filled me with a boundless gratitude. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if I had allowed him one or two sexual favors, because Audrey Hepburn gazing longingly into the windows of Tiffany had nothing on your Poppy's yearning when she spotted the 25-pound sacks of kitty litter, and remembered that she had a long walk home, and other groceries to buy.

Well, those days are over. Grocery shopping has lost its former allure. I don't own cats anymore, and I have two cars, so no one is getting any sexual favors for taking me to the grocery store. In fact, you're more likely to get them if you find a way to let me avoid grocery shopping altogether. Say, for example, by offering to take me out to dinner. Or by becoming the delivery guy from the local store that--very quaintly--still lets you call up and order groceries. (Note to That Stud Muffin I Married: I'm joking.)

I tend to avoid grocery shopping as much as possible, and when I do go to the store, I go to buy certain foods that know I need. And I go to the smallest store possible. But yesterday I broke down and went to a somewhat larger store because I needed paper grocery sacks to cut up and use to wrap all the books I'm getting rid of on half.com and bookmooch. I just listed another couple of shelves' worth of extremely dull academic books that I don't have time to read any more, because I'm too busy reading housekeeping manuals, etiquette books, and the fiction of P. G. Wodehouse. I'm expecting a flurry of eager emails from people who simply can't get enough of literary theory and cultural studies. When they arrive, I need to have my stack of brown paper grocery sacks ready, or I'll get all flustered.

So you see, I really wanted to get bags. But while I was there, I figured I'd buy some food. Milk, bread, eggs--and one or two other things.

So there I was, unpacking six or seven sacks of groceries, and it occurred to me that there were way too many items that only one member of the household eats. This struck me as terribly inefficient--all these random foodstuffs that almost no one likes, and yet, I must buy them, haul them into the house, put them away, and then, probably, cook them, and afterwards, do the dishes that held them. It seems so unfair!

But just when I was about to dissolve into tears of self-pity, I imagined what Terry Gilliam would do, if he were to animate pictures of these foodstuffs to tell a story--let's say, a typical Saturday afternoon in the life of The Buxoms.

Mr. Buxom, played by A Can of Guinness Stout,
is taking a nap. Mrs. Buxom, played by a Bottle of Stonyfield Farm Organic Yogurt Smoothie,
is blogging. Young Master Buxom, played by a Package of Sliced Pepperoni,
is watching cartoons in the sun room. And Little Miss Buxom, played by a Packet of Quaker Oats Instant Maple and Brown Sugar Flavored Oatmeal,
is in her room, reading.

Suddenly, an enormous bouquet of broccoli attacks! What will this random group of alcoholics, health food cranks, and junk food aficionados do to defend themselves? How can they work together? The studio audience gasps in dismay!

But wait! In a heroic display of family togetherness, the Buxoms decide to eat the same food. Thus, they eat the monster--cut up, steamed in the microwave, and dressed with a bit of butter and a sprinkle of salt.

Delicious.

The End.

This should be a meme. And now is.

I just figured out my perfect hiphop artist name: P. Biddy.

Isn't it just PERFECT???? I mean, with the connotations of being an elderly incontinent female (just so you know, I'm not there yet, OK?) so what could be better? Don't you love it?

So ... what's yours?

p.s. Today I'm over at Mamarazzi making fun of Posh Spice, yes, again. And if you head over there, you will realize why I'm currently obsessed with hiphop names. Peace out!