For Once, I'm Not Interested in Shoes

In Her Shoes
by Jennifer Weiner
Published by Atria
2 1/2 Out of 5 Stars

***Some mild spoilers ahead***

Typically, this isn't my kind of book and, if the rating system allowed for half stars, I would have more accurately given it a 2 1/2. This is one of those it was the right book for the right time scenarios. I had just finished reading Nineteen Eighty-Four andFahrenheit 451 and, suffering a dystopian hangover, needed something light that didn't involve too much thinking. This certainly fit the bill. 

From the get-go we have a stereotypical plot: two sisters (one pretty but dumb and the other smart but plain) who are insanely jealous of one another despite their bond. However, this stereotype exists because there is a component of jealousy in many same-gender sibling relationships. No matter how much the two love one another, siblings often feel as though they are being compared to one another by parents, family, friends, society at large, and examined for deficiencies that become obvious when compared against their genetic foil. The smart one always wants to be pretty; the pretty one always wants to be smart. The athletic one secretly wants to be a book nerd; the book nerd always wants to be able to dunk a basketball. The one with curly hair always wants straight hair; the one with straight hair longs for curly locks. We end up envying precisely what the other hates or loathes in himself or herself. Maggie and Rose are no exception. There's some rich material to work with here, and Weiner does realistically portray the root causes of the sisters' envy for one another. She also takes some chances: further complicating their relationship is their mother, whose mental illness leads to her death while the girls are still young; the beautiful Maggie suffers from a debilitating learning disability that effectively limits her chances at success in the entertainment industry (she can't read the teleprompter during an MTV audition that she would have otherwise had in the bag); Maggie betrays Rose's trust to such a magnitude that their relationship may be beyond repair (no one can hurt you like a sister and Weiner takes advantage of the opportunity to challenge the sisters' relationship). Oh, and thank heavens she didn't take the route of making the overweight Rose thin by the end.

Having said all of that, there were certainly some things I did not love. There's a subplot involving the long-lost maternal grandmother that slowed down the narrative for me. Also, Maggie and Rose just weren't likable characters. These are not two women I would ever want to know in real life. They're self-involved and often petty. I'm also not buying that Rose quit her job to become a dog walker, nor that Maggie lives in the Princeton library and miraculously becomes a literary genius (by the novel's end, Maggie's reading every great literary classic she can get her hands on and spouting poetry like a water fountain). I'm not saying that someone with a learning disability is incapable of doing this, only that Weiner never plausibly made me believe Maggie was capable of doing this. If there was one perk of the inclusion of Maggie's reading of One Art by Elizabeth Bishop, i carry your heart with me(i carry it in by E. E. Cummings, and several classic literary texts, it's that it reminded me that there are certainly better books out there and, even though Weiner's work was somewhat humorous and mildly entertaining, maybe my time would be better served reading some of those. 

Here Comes the Bride . . . Now, Where's the Groom?

For Matrimonial Purposes
by Kavita Daswani
Published by Putnam Adult
4 Out of 5 Stars

Entering her mid-thirties, Anju has proven to be a failure as a daughter. Sure, she's well-educated. Sure, she has a successful career as a fashion publicist. Sure, she has remained a "good girl" despite living by herself in that den of iniquity known as New York City. But she's failed to do the one thing that would define her worth and ease the anxiety she's causing her ultra-conservative, ultra-orthodox parents: she still hasn't married.

And it's not Anju's fault. She's fasted, she's prayed, she's presented herself as meek and submissive. She's allowed her mother to drag her to every swami, fortune teller, and holy man she can find. She's had her birth chart read, her destiny foretold. She's tried to lighten her too-dark complexion. She's attended parties and reunions and the weddings of others, in the hopes of making a match--all to no avail. She's even tried online matchmaking for Indian couples only. What will it take for Anju to meet the man that others assure her has been born for her and, in the meantime, how can she balance her traditional Indian life with her increasingly independent American one?

Other reviews have listed two primary problems with this book: the lack of a clearly defined personality in the protagonist, Anju, and the perception of the novel as a piece of fluff with little to say. And, yes, this certainly isn't the type of novel that is going to deeply move you or offer profound insight into Indian culture. It also has an ending that is predictable and wrapped up a little too quickly and neatly. However, the aforementioned criticisms are a little harsh. 

First, the issue of Anju's personality, which to me is not a misstep on the part of the author, although it could seem that way to an American audience who would prefer a headstrong and fiercely independent protagonist eager to break the shackles enslaving her to a patriarchal society. But Anju is not American. While she has been raised in a family that loves her, she has also been raised to believe that who she is will always be defined by the man who protects her: first her father and later her husband. She has not been encouraged to become a fully realized person and therefore is waiting for her other half, who will define her existence by setting the boundaries of what her life will be. It should not be surprising that this protagonist hesitates to break with her religion and her heritage, despite sensing something is amiss with the expectations placed upon her. That she is uncertain, cautious, and hesitant makes her seem more real.

Second is the classification of the novel as mindless chick lit. Okay, I can't defend the chick lit part. And there are moments in the narrative when I became a little impatient with Anju's focus on designer shoes and the world of high fashion. But it could be argued that not accustomed to having a voice (or at least not confident enough to always use it), Anju is using fashion to communicate her values and her inner life to others. At home in Bombay, Anju tries to look the part of the fashionable and worldly expatriate, eager to show that she has become more independent, less constrained by social mores. Yet, while attending fashion shows in the U.S. and Europe, she opts out of the haute couture chic for traditional saris, demonstrating to Westerners her pride in herself as an Indian woman. Anju uses fashion in an attempt to attain balance and define herself: she does not want to lose that intrinsically Indian part of herself in America, but she does not want her desires and dreams to be subjugated to the search for a husband in her homeland.

And the novel, while perhaps simplistic in its presentation, is not mindless. Anju knows she is not just a disappointment because of her inability to marry; she knows it goes back to the day she was born: "And then I slid out, with a minuscule slit instead of the wormlike appendage [my mother] had been looking forward to seeing. Oh, God, she had delivered a daughter as a first-born. The unthinkable had happened" (102). Despite being a disappointment, Anju is not unloved and does not want to alienate her family by cutting all ties with her heritage and her customs. Her loneliness and alienation is real and will only worsen if she marries a white man, effectively becoming estranged from her family, or if she marries an Indian man whom she cannot love nor respect. And it's very easy for Americans (as just about every American character in the book does) to think that a family that would expect you to enter into an arranged marriage or to define yourself by who you marry doesn't really love you. But that's a bit hypocritical, no? 

For all of our supposed independence, isn't our culture just as marriage happy, just as eager to be one half of a whole? Think we're not as guilty? Say Yes to the Dress, The Bachelor, at least a dozen Disney princess movies, and a wedding industry that sells fairy tales for a price that could put your first born through college suggest otherwise. I knew and know plenty of women who can't wait to get married because that's what they're supposed to do. They believe that's when they'll become who they were always meant to be--wives and mothers. The "arranged" bit isn't necessarily there, but a woman in her twenties is perpetually asked questions about her relationship status: Seeing anyone serious? 

And this connection is what Daswani makes work for her in For Matrimonial Purposes. By presenting us with a protagonist with one foot in New York and the other in Bombay, we may see a bit more of ourselves in Anju's experience than we're comfortable with. All of the American superiority begins to deflate as we begin to realize much of Anju's plight may also be our own.

Stops Short of Enchanting

Garden Spells

by Sarah Addison Allen

Published by Bantam

3 Out of 5 Stars

In Bascom, North Carolina, everyone is destined to live up to their family name. Clark women are lascivious femme fatales, Mattesons will be wealthy and put family duty first, Hopkins men always marry older women, and the females of the Waverley clan always manifest a quaint magical talent. Fate is heavy-handed in Bascom. There's no escaping your name and there's no escaping your heritage, even though Sydney Waverley, just like her mother before her, has tried.

Sydney grew up a Waverley, but didn't embrace the stigma associated with her name in the way her sister, Claire, did. Sydney's been everywhere, man, but her free spirit has finally been trapped by an abusive husband and her commitment to her 5 year old daughter. When Sydney finally musters the courage to escape, there's only one place for her to go--back to Bascom and a sister who despises her. When Sydney returns, she must confront the past, mend her relationship with Claire, and embrace what it means to be a Waverley--all the while knowing that trouble is most likely following her and could threaten the very lives of those she loves the most.

Garden Spells is a nice little book. Just awfully darn nice. Everything's beautiful and brimming with Southern charm, the characters could have been pulled off the street in Mayberry and sprinkled with pixie dust, and we know there's a happily ever after awaiting everyone. I'll give Allen credit--there were some unexpected thorns and rough edges in a plot that was as insubstantial as an angel food cake (this also means that I laughed my ass off when I read the 1 star reviews on this book to find so many readers of "wholesome" novels were disgusted and couldn't go on when the first F bomb was dropped or during the first sex scene), but it was predictable and sweet and light-reading. It was the perfect book for vacation because I didn't have to think much and I could easily pick the plot line back up after being distracted. However, that's generally not what I'm looking for in a novel, so I don't think I'll seek out any more Allen books (although I already have The Sugar Queen on my shelf--it may go with me on my next vacation, but that will probably be my last encounter with Allen's particular brand of magical realism). There were some groan-worthy moments (such as when Ariel Clark is described as smelling like "peaches and cottonwood"--wtf kind of fragrance is that? Who smells like a cottonwood?), but there were some characters who held some undeniable charm for me. The most interesting character, unfortunately, wasn't a main character (I found the Waverley sisters to be rather tiresome). It is Evanelle, an elderly relative of the Waverley sisters, whom I found the most interesting. Evanelle's peculiar talent manifests itself as a compulsive need to give things to people--specific things which always turn out to have a purpose, though Evanelle never knows what that purpose is when giving (at one point she is overwhelmed by the need to give a woman a box of condoms, even though the woman's husband was left impotent after a WWII injury; however, she has been having an affair and ends up pregnant because she doesn't accept Evanelle's gift). The chain of events that occur after Evanelle presents a gift to someone are often the best stories in the novel.

Many of the other reviews have compared this novel to Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman, another magical realism book about two polar opposite sisters from a magical family, and some other readers have gone so far as to suggest that Allen has plagiarized Hoffman. I don't think that's quite the case, but the similarities are hard to ignore. However, I enjoyed Practical Magic immensely because there is an undertone of darkness and menace, which Garden Spells lacks. Also, Hoffman includes a little more magical realism while the magic in Allen's book is pretty light. In fact, Allen might be best labeled as "Hoffman-Lite." And that's why I think I'll stick with Hoffman from this point on.

Diabetics Need Not Apply

The Sugar Queen

by Sarah Addison Allen

Published by Bantam

2 Out of 5 Stars

The Sugar Queen is a book clearly written for a particular type of woman.  And that woman is not me.  I'm not immune to the charms of chick lit, but I do require it to be witty, have quirky characters, present a plausible and realistic relationship (notice I did not say a "romance") that is not the axis upon which the main character's world turns, and a strong female lead.  After reading Garden Spells by the same author last year, I knew that Sarah Addison Allen did not meet this criteria.  Alas, I had bought The Sugar Queen from the bargain bin before my disappointing experience with Garden Spells and felt compelled to at least give it a whirl.  After dutifully trudging through it, I can report that I was every bit as underwhelmed as I expected to be.

Josey Cirrini has a secret--a deep, dark secret.  One that could ruin her life.  She's embarrassed and humiliated by what she hides from the world.  Want to know what it is?  Come closer and I'll tell you.  It's--are you sure you can handle this?  I'll understand if you're not ready for such a shocking revelation.  Okay, well, you're still here, so it's . . . a closet full of candy and romance novels.  Hey, don't blame me if you weren't ready for that kind of dark and twisty.  You were forewarned!  And now Della Lee Baker, the lovable town skank has claimed squatter's rights on Josey Cirrini's closet.  You see, Della Lee is on the run from a man that she can't resist and, like one does in such a situation, she immediately runs to the nearest stranger's closet.  Della Lee professes her desire to help the shy, awkward Josey find a way to free herself from her overprotective mother and take charge of her life.  Secrets are revealed, new loves are forged, old loves are rekindled, and a kind of awkward magical realism is sprinkled throughout.  I could go on, but if you're rolling your eyes by now, then I think you get the gist of what Allen is peddling here. 

Allen's books have been described as "light" and "fluffy"; I would add "saccharine" and "predictable" to the list of adjectives.  I did not like nor identify with this group of characters and, while there's nothing offensive enough to warrant a one star rating, the novel certainly isn't exceptional in any way.  It's a romance, plain and simple, written for women in their 20's and 30's who have forgotten the thrill of a first love and want to vicariously reconnect with that, but preferably not in a way that involves a creepy emo vampire.  And, if that's your bag, baby, then groovy--go ahead, pick up a copy, make yourself a nice cuppa tea, grab a blankie and have an estrogen fest.  Right now, I'm going to try to restore balance in my reading life by seeing if there's anything on my bookshelf that might involve someone's jugular being ripped out.