Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me?

( 179 )

Overview

Jen Lancaster hates to burst your happy little bubble, but life in the big city isn't all it's cracked up to be. Contrary to what you see on TV and in the movies, most urbanites aren't party-hopping in slinky dresses and strappy stilettos. But lucky for us, Lancaster knows how to make the life of the lower crust mercilessly funny and infinitely entertaining.

Whether she's reporting rude neighbors to Homeland Security, harboring a crush on her grocery store clerk, or fighting-and...

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Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me?

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Overview

Jen Lancaster hates to burst your happy little bubble, but life in the big city isn't all it's cracked up to be. Contrary to what you see on TV and in the movies, most urbanites aren't party-hopping in slinky dresses and strappy stilettos. But lucky for us, Lancaster knows how to make the life of the lower crust mercilessly funny and infinitely entertaining.

Whether she's reporting rude neighbors to Homeland Security, harboring a crush on her grocery store clerk, or fighting-and losing-the Battle of the Stairmaster- Lancaster explores how silly, strange, and not-so-fabulous real city living can be. And if anyone doesn't like it, they can kiss her big, fat, pink, puffy down parka.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
In Bitter Is the New Black, politically incorrect Jen Lancaster charted her involuntary descent down the corporate ladder and explained why one should never carry a Prada bag to the unemployment office. The tone of this sequel is perhaps best typified in its subtitle: "Self-indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me?" Needless to say, Lancaster's outrageous rants won't edify advocates of positive thinking, but they will keep the rest of us chuckling.
Publishers Weekly

Lancaster (Bitter Is the New Black) is a plus-sized, downwardly mobile Republican. She makes fun of disabled people. She cracks nasty about Anna Nicole Smith (granted, she was still alive at the time). She annotates her text with footnotes cheering herself on. When she's feeling particularly mean, she writes in her own "pidgin Spanish." But in spite of all her politically incorrect rantings, there are times when Lancaster is just too on-target to ignore. People who worry about Bush imposing the Christian lifestyle on everyone, for instance, should take heart from how he's raised his daughters—those "twins are but a Jell-O shot away from starring in the presidential edition of Girls Gone Wild." Even if readers can't altogether sympathize when Lancaster has to downscale her shopping "Holy Trinity" from Bloomingdale's, Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus to IKEA, Target and Trader Joe's—they know what she means when she talks about the relentlessly cheerful sales staff at Trader Joe's, the tough-love staff at Target or how IKEA's going to take over America by keeping us all busy with Allen wrenches. Her humor is a bit like junk food—something you can enjoy when no one is looking. (May)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780451221254
  • Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/1/2007
  • Pages: 400
  • Sales rank: 203,407
  • Product dimensions: 7.94 (w) x 10.90 (h) x 0.84 (d)

Meet the Author

Jen Lancaster

Jen Lancaster is the author of Bitter is the New Black. She has lived in Chicago for ten years with her husband and pets, and has yet to get the hang of the subway or returning library books in a timely manner. Visit www.jennsylvania.com

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Read an Excerpt

In my former, auspicious career I addressed crowds ofthousands without breaking a sweat. I negotiated withdour, gray-suited hospital administrators so hostilethey’d drag me into the desert and leave me for dead given theopportunity, yet I stood my ground in demanding they acceptmy company’s contract, “Or else.” And I’ve guided corporateexecutives through the most dire of crises with a smile on myface the entire time. So you’d think chatting with a kindlymedical professional in the privacy of her office wouldn’t bebut a blip on my radar.

And that would be true.

If I were wearing pants.

Today I’ve got an appointment with the girlie doctor andI’m nothing less than terrified. I’ve put off my annual wellwomanexam for four years because I’m so cowardly aboutthis sort of thing, no doubt stemming from my Quaker-likesense of modesty. Sure, it’s all well and good to litter myconversations with every variety of f-bomb, but when itcomes to showing my unmentionables to a complete stranger? Regardless of her impeccable medical education, extensiveexperience, and board certification? I think not.

However, I’m really trying to act more like an adult lately, so I force myself to make the appointment. Of course, I haveto down a whole bottle3 of wine to do so. And then I cancel itthree times before Fletch, disgusted by my lack of courage,threatens to (a) drag me to the appointment on a leash like wehave to when we take Loki to the vet to have his nails clipped,and (b) check me into the Betty Ford Center if I don’t stop inhalingboxed wine every time I look at the phone.

I have to honor the appointment this time and the onlyway that’s going to happen is if there’s an elaborate system oftreats and rewards in place. I decide my beforehand treat willbe a trip to the bookstore, so I ask Fletch to drop me off at theMichigan Ave Borders an hour before my appointment.

We’ve just gotten in the car when I start to hyperventilate.

“Funny, but Loki doesn’t start to panic until after we’veexited our parking lot,” Fletch observes. “You need to breathein a paper bag or something?”

“No.” Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. “I’ll (gasp) be (gasp) fine,” Ireply.

“I don’t understand your anxiety. Are they going to cutyou at all?”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, no!” I shriek.“Then they’re just going to look at stuff?”

Gasp. “Right.”

“Alone, in an exam room—just you and the doctor, and noone else, right?” We cross the bridge over the north branch ofthe river at Division and begin to drive past the projects.

“Yes.” Gasp.

He glances at the boarded-up buildings with their brokenwindows and concertina wire and poses a question. “Okay,which would you rather—to be dropped off in the middle ofCabrini Green at midnight with a handful of cash or to seeyour gynecologist for a routine visit?”

I don’t even have to consider the choice. “The Green.Definitely the Green.”

He turns to face me. “You’re kidding.”

“No, really—maybe Florida and J.J. still live there? AndThelma and Ralph, too. But not James. Poor James. He waskilled in a car accident before the family could move to Mississippifor his excellent new job. And that? Was not dy-nomite.” “I wouldn’t know. My racist parents refused to let mewatch Good Times. However, they were able to decipherfantasy from reality, which is more than I can say for youright now.”

I begin to hyperventilate again as we turn down MichiganAve and idle in front of Borders. “Okay, you’re here,” Fletchsays. “Good luck today.”

“Do—do—you have any last-minute advice for me?” Istammer.

He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Well?”

“You should try to be less of a pansy. See you later!”

I escape into the safe confines of the bookstore, secure inthe knowledge no one there is going to make me pull down mypants. I linger over the new releases and peruse the sale table.I go upstairs to the café and eschew coffee in favor of herbaltea, figuring the caffeine would make me even jumpier. Beveragein hand, I cruise the self-help section but don’t see any titlesthat might make me “less of a pansy.”

I buy a few new reads before heading down the street. Itrudge past many happy places—Cartier, Coach, Tiffany,and, of course, Garrett’s Popcorn, but window-shopping failsto make me smile because I feel like Dead Man Walking.

I pray to get hit by a bus as I turn down St. Clair Street,figuring the doctor could check out my girl parts while I wasunder sedation to fix my broken leg, but no such luck. I arriveat the office not only intact but early, damn it. As I climb thewide marble steps to the front door, I’m overwhelmed by thedesire to run. However, my inner adult forces me to press onand take the elevator to the eighth floor, likely because my inneradult fears running slightly more than pants-dropping.

With a quavering voice, I check in at reception. The officeis gorgeous—clean, sleek furniture, lush plants, and an unobstructedview of Lake Michigan through enormous picturewindows. The skies are steely gray and it’s windy today so thelake is choppy with whitecaps and is kicking up six-footwaves. Water crashes and foams over the concrete barriersprotecting Lake Shore Drive, launching huge plumes of icyspray all over the abandoned running path. If I didn’t know Iwas in Illinois, I’d swear I was looking at the Atlantic Ocean.This magnificent body of water is precisely one of the reasonsI choose to live here. Were I not about to show a stranger myyahoo, I’d be enthralled by the vista5 and likely to break into achorus of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” but todayit barely registers.

The receptionist gives me the insurance form clipboardand a pen sporting an Ortho-Novum logo. I feel like I’m goingto throw up and my hands are shaking so badly I can barelyscrawl my name on the paperwork. I’m about to toss the clipboard,dash out the door, and catch the first steamer toVenezuela when some girl comes in with a “problem.” I can’thear everything but I do catch the bit where she tells the receptionist,“I don’t know what it is, but I want it gone immediately.”I snicker so loudly the entire desk staff shoots memurderous looks, but I don’t care. Laughing at someoneelse’s misfortune makes me momentarily forget my fright andI remain in my seat, keeping a healthy distance between myselfand Miss Scratchy McUnderpants. (Because, really? What’s funnier than venereal disease?)

I’m barely on the second page of the new Janet Evanovichwhen my name is called, so I gather up my sack of booksand head down the Hallway of Doom. The nurse is wearingDansko professional clogs and my loafer heels are rubber, sothe only noise I hear as I’m walking down the hall is that of myown pounding pulse.

The walls leading to the exam room are covered withbeastly graphic charts of internal workings. Squeamish as Iam, the idea of all those pipes and tubes and fluids makes meweak in the knees. I prefer to think of myself as having a thickpeanut-butter center. Or possibly creamy caramel.

Once I get to my room, the first thing I have to do is stepon the scale. “Well,” I tell the nurse, “you certainly know howto add insult to injury in this joint.” And it’s no surprise whenshe points out I’ve gained fifty pounds since my last visit.“Really,” I exclaim, “is that why I can no longer get my oldpants past my knees? Goodness, I’d simply assumed I’d hadtwenty-seven separate dry-cleaning incidents!”

Note to self for future reference: Tubby girls with smartmouths will be given paper robes, not cloth, by nurses who lacksenses of humor.

Nurse Ratched advises me to strip completely, and as Iundress I wonder if “completely” includes my socks. Erringon the side of caution, I toss them aside first, pleased withhaving the foresight to have given myself a fresh pedicure.Earlier this morning, I also brushed my teeth a second timeand flossed. Fletch noted my excellent dental hygiene andasked, “Is that the end they’re going to examine?”With much trepidation, I take off my sweater and bra andbegin to struggle into the miniature paper gown. Because ofmy rampant modesty, I’m trying in vain to keep everythingcovered. While I wrestle with the tiny plastic belt-tie, I burstout of the left side of the robe, thus exposing my long, flat,completely non-gravity-resistant breast to the wall of YourCervix and You brochures. Gah!

So, I do what any good little prude would do in this situation. . . I grab a stapler from the doctor’s desk and attempt toput the side back together in a panicked frenzy. While I twistaround to work on fixing the left shoulder, I burst out of theright side of the robe.

I begin to get very angry at the exploding clothing. Exactlywhen did I turn into the Jen-credible Hulk?

In my haste to cover my naked parts, I then staple the rightside of the robe all crooked. I glance at myself in the mirrorand see that what I’m wearing no longer resembles anythinglike a robe. Jagged bits of paper are sticking up everywhere,with random clumps of staples littering the sides and shoulders.I look like a mental patient who escaped to a paper factoryand crafted a paper suit before attempting to create apaper getaway car to drive to paper Mexico. All I’m missing isa touch of (paper) crazy about the eyes.

After inspecting my handiwork, I inadvertently bend overlaughing, thus causing the one untorn part of the robe to explode.And in trying to fix it, I accidentally staple the back ofthe robe to my khakis. I’m hunkered over in my paper straitjacket,struggling to remove staples from my pants, when mygynecologist enters.

The doctor then excuses herself while she tries to stopcrying.

Fortunately, when she returns she’s carrying a cloth gown,which I manage to put on upside down and backward. However,she’s got access to all the forbidden zones, so we leave itas is. She apologizes for giggling and says this sort of thinghappens all the time. Yeah. Of course it does. Ten bucks sayssix months from now an entire table of conference-going,Chardonnay-swilling, lobster-tail-eating OB/GYNs will belaughing at me when she recounts this scene.

To the good doctor’s credit, she senses how scared I am,although perhaps my inability to clothe myself tipped her off.Or possibly me shrieking, “I am fucking terrified!”

Which is why I’m not surprised her first question is, “Doyou use recreational drugs?”

I think for a moment before replying, “I don’t know. Doyou consider NyQuil recreational?”

“I guess that would depend on the frequency,” shereplies.

“Maybe every couple of months?”

“I’d say that’s okay. Any other drug usage? Marijuana?Ecstasy? Cocaine?”

Ha!” I reply. “Look at my butt; is this the ass of a cokefiend? I think not. However, sometimes when I’m tense, Ihave an OTC sleeping pill and follow it with a champagnechaser. Actually, it’s my signature drink and I call the combination‘The Judy Garland.’ ”

After the doctor explains why she can’t just “remove thewhole shootin’ match so I don’t ever have to suffer throughthis again,” she puts on her rubber gloves, at which point Imay or may not pass out.

When I snap to, I inform her, “My middle name is Ann,my favorite movie is Pulp Fiction, and I have a naughty pitbull named Maisy. Seems like if you’re going to poke arounddown there, you should know a bit more about me.”

She nods thoughtfully and tells me, “My middle name isElizabeth and I like Law and Order reruns. I backpacked inEurope after I finished undergrad and I adore Indian food.Now can you please uncross your legs so I can get a look?”The whole exam takes less than five minutes and . . . yes,I realize I probably overreacted. No matter how unpleasantthe circumstance, if I can hold my breath for the duration, itcan’t be so bad. After I dress,7 the doctor reenters the examroom and wants to discuss breast health. The only thingslightly less mortifying than being naked with a stranger istalking about it.

Stab me in the eye with a fucking fork, why don’t you?

Anyway, the doctor tries to give me a little kit that includes ajournal to document my monthly cancer-screening self-exam.

A journal?

What the hell am I going to record in a boob journal?

January 1—Got to second base with myself. Heh.

February 1—Got to second base with myself. Heh.

March 4—Forgot about the screening and only remembered

four days later when I almost slammedmy boob in the car door. Got to second base with myself.Heh.

Sorry, but I do not possess the kind of maturity required to writeabout me ol’ knockers on a regular basis. I politely refuse theoffer, claiming I couldn’t see me using it, what with all the giggling.Although I have to wait for the pap results to come backfrom the lab, everything else looks fine and I’m free to go,thank God.

Pants securely on, bags packed, and sock-free, I leave thescary, scary office with a spring in my step and a bit of aspeculum-induced waddle. I did it! It’s over! I congratulatemyself for being brave, so very brave,8 and decide it is treattime. Woo-hoo! But what to get? When I was a kid, my momwould take me to Dairy Queen after a particularly traumaticallergist appointment, but (a) she’s 150 miles away, and(b) it’s fourteen degrees today. So a Peanut Buster Parfait isprobably out.

I practically dance the ten blocks from my doctor’s officeto One Magnificent Mile and spend the whole time vacillatingbetween the idea of high tea or a cocktail. Sure, orange pekoeand finger sandwiches in the vast parlor at the Drake Hotelsounds lovely, but that’s really more of a shared experience.Also, my hands are still trembling and I’m not sure I couldkeep my tea in its bone china cup. Instead, I choose the warmembrace of my old friend alcohol.

I head to the gorgeously appointed mahogany-and-leatherbar at the Four Seasons on Delaware and I survey the array ofsquashy couches and brocaded chairs. Oh, how I love theFour Seasons! We used to come here all the time during thedot-com era, but now that we’re barely middle class we save itfor very special occasions.

I’ve always adored the service here; I guess I appreciateany place that lets me make an ass out of myself without raisingan eyebrow. One time a group of us came here after somedrinky-drinky event downtown. Right as we were about topour ourselves into a cab, I spotted a gigantic laminated“George Bush Is Hitler” poster and I thought, “Oh, hell no.”Sure, I get why people don’t like him and I’m fine with that. Iunderstand those who protest his decisions and can totallysee why folks might think he’s a dummy. However, I cannotagree with comparing him to the fiend who almost singlehandedlyexterminated an entire race of people. So I tore theposter off the telephone pole and was barely able to wedge itin the taxi with us.

Anyway, we spilled out of the cab and washed onto thesidewalk at the Four Seasons. Valets helped us up and out,gingerly handling my mammoth placard. “Here you are,miss,” they said without batting an eye. They acted as thoughdrunken girls carried giant posters of a swastika-covered presidentinto their facility ten times a day. We paraded past all thestaff—doormen, bellhops, concierges, etc., each of themsmiling graciously, while I struggled behind my colossal sandwichboard. We sloshed into the bar and the maître d’ met usat the door to show us to our seats.

And this bit? Right here? Is why the Four Seasons rocks.With nary a smirk, he asked, “Might I check that item foryou, miss?”

To which I replied, “Ssshhank you, but I shhhannn’t berequiring your sssshhhhervichhes,” before hooting and snortingat my own savoir faire. And then Fletch, our friends, anunfortunately mustachioed photo of the commander in chief,and I spent the rest of the evening sitting on barstools swilling$14 cocktails.

As I settle into a plush couch in the corner next to a porcelainreading lamp, a waiter approaches with a dish of mixednuts and wasabi peas. “Miss, what might I be gettin’ you?” heasks in a melodious Irish accent.

“Hmm,” I say. “I’m not sure. I’ve had a really stressfulday. Doctor. Girl parts. Total nightmare. But I don’t want totalk about it. So, what can you suggest that might be hot,sweet, and full of liquor? And I don’t mean Tara Reid!”With a heroic amount of patience, he waits until I finishchortling myself stupid to detail the finer points of the winterdrinks menu. We settle on a cider-and-whiskey beverage,which I belt down in about thirteen seconds. After the firstcocktail, I begin to pace myself, spacing out my drinks withsips of water from my crystal goblet and nibbles from thegratis nut tray. (Whatever profit margin the Four Seasons mayhave realized from the overpriced ciders is neatly eclipsed bymy cashew consumption.)

Since I spend all my money on fancy drinks, I have to takepublic transportation home. Mumbling to myself about girlparts and shuffling, I make my way down to the Chicago Avenuestop. The bus and I arrive at the same time (how did thathappen?), and wafting whiskey fumes, I manage to staggerover discarded newspapers and empty Starbucks cups to theback of the vehicle.

And you know what’s nice?

Today I finally smell like everyone else on the midday bus.

Hooray for Tuesday Afternoon Drinking Club!

Before leaving the Four Seasons, I apparently call Fletch atwork and leave the following message: “Hi, iissch me! My girlypartschss are fiiiine and I’m drinking whooshkey! Bring homemany beers.” Smirking, Fletch informs me he and his workpals had a delightful time passing the phone around andlaughing at my expense.

Yes, har-de-har-har, fat boy. Laugh it up.

I hope you enjoy doing your own laundry when I checkmyself into the Betty Ford Center.

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Table of Contents

1 Yes, I only wore J'Adore Dior. But I had to smell everything to make sure it was still my favorite.

2 White and white only, thank you very much.

3 Really, with the schlepping? Oy.

4 Do not give me the "Oh, but most cashmere comes from China now" argument. My point remains the same.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 179 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(103)

4 Star

(49)

3 Star

(11)

2 Star

(7)

1 Star

(9)

Your Rating:

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 179 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 27, 2010

    NO footnotes on the ebook version!!

    I just downloaded the ebook version of this book only to find that an extremely important feature is not included. Jen Lancaster uses footnotes throughout her book (like on every page) that are extremely funny and make up a large portion of the humor. To read the book without the footnotes is a complete waste. I am very dissappointed!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 10, 2012

    Eleven-page sample, my ass

    The sample on nook contains NOTHING but publisher info, reviews, dedication page, and table of contents. Who can decide to buy a book on that? I hate that. Whoever sets up the samples like this ought to be fired. Surely the author isn't aware of this, right? I will not be paying money to read more. I will just go to the store and read some there. At least there I can choose what my "sample" consists of. Seriously, this s no way to sell a book.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 26, 2011

    There are footnotes

    FYI - there are footnotes on the nook...you just have to touch the number and it will bring you to the page. It's a little annoying because sometimes it doesn't work and just forwards the page...but they are there and they are funny. Also...the footnotes each have their own page...so, I loved the book and thought I was only half way finished when I realized it was over and all that was left were all of the footnotes that I already read. I would still recommend the book...but next time I read a Jen Lancaster I might buy the paperback instead.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 9, 2011

    Another good one!

    I haven't read one of her books that I didn't like. In fact, I can relate to much of what she has written! She has me laughing through the whole book. Loved it!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 14, 2015

    Test

    Ass.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 30, 2013

    Highly Recommended

    Jen Lancaster's books are hilarious. I read some books and things go so horribly wrong that I find it unrealistic. Now, I know those things can and do happen. It is how you deal with them that counts and Jen and Fletch handle them with a stiff drink and humor!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 12, 2013

    Kentaro

    He put a paralys poison on th tip of next arrow and takes down a bofalo and two more elk. He morphs into a giant and halls the meat back o the house

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 6, 2012

    Icedawn

    Locked out!!!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 12, 2012

    Bluemist

    *makes a nest for Froststar*

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 29, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    So Many Laughs!

    Full disclosure: I'm a huge Jen Lancaster fan. This woman makes me laugh and make a fool of myself while reading in public places. She is awesome. In a lot of ways, Jen Lancaster reminds me a lot of myself. We have some key differences but I think we'd be good friends. She's always getting herself into really funny and strange situations and telling the stories of the situations in such a funny way that you find yourself laughing out loud and having to read a couple pages to your husband to show...moreFull disclosure: I'm a huge Jen Lancaster fan. This woman makes me laugh and make a fool of myself while reading in public places. She is awesome. In a lot of ways, Jen Lancaster reminds me a lot of myself. We have some key differences but I think we'd be good friends. She's always getting herself into really funny and strange situations and telling the stories of the situations in such a funny way that you find yourself laughing out loud and having to read a couple pages to your husband to show him what you're laughing about.

    I can relate to this book on so many levels. My husband and I both grew up in the suburbs and both dreamt of living in the city. We're in the city now living our dream but unfortunately city living, as Ms. Lancaster, points out is not really as glamorous as Sex and the City would have us believe. I love my city but I've gotta say something happens every once in awhile that makes me think, "Gee, let's go back to Suburbia right now." I found myself nodding my head along with Jen throughout the book.

    Bottom line: If you're looking for a laugh, both suburbanites and city mice will find something to love about this book!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 22, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Has Multiple Glitches on NOOK

    Lancaster's witty content is hindered by glitches in its electronic version.

    When I click on many footnotes, it redirects to the wrong location.

    Also, after reading page 195, it redirects to page 180 in a frustrating loop.

    Good content, but save yourself the frustration and get the paperback version!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 23, 2011

    Very funny.

    Loved the book--love J. Lancaster's sense of humor. The book had me laughing out loud. I have recommended this book to all of my friends.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted February 28, 2011

    why did i press confirm?

    not funny at all, a waste of money. why does any girl in a city fancy herself bridgette jones or shopaholic?

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 6, 2011

    HILARIOUS!!!

    Jen doesn't disappoint in this book! My favorite part is when she talks about her fears of going to the gyno. I chuckled out loud many times throughout this book! I can't wait to read the next in the series!

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  • Posted January 23, 2011

    Recommended for anyone needing a light spin on life

    With each of the author's books, she provides quips and comebacks as she leads a somewhat normal life for a published author. This book will provide any reader with lighthearted look at life's situations.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 16, 2010

    Jen Lancaster kills...

    Everything Jen Lancaster writes is hysterical. She is a great observer of people, mostly of herself. She is glib, hilarious, and not afraid to cuss like a logger when the situation merits. This is a guaranteed great light read that you won't be able to put down.

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  • Posted March 20, 2010

    nook is missing the footnotes for Lancaster books!

    Luckily I've read other books by Jen Lancaster to know that there are witty footnotes at the bottom of many pages. The nook does not include this. Beware before downloading this. Despite the missing footnotes, I still read almost half of the book before getting frustrated and I'm now in search of the hard cover. I love this author's books and must read the whole book. Until then, I can't give a rating.

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  • Posted March 11, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    She's still the Queen of Snark!

    A wonderful followup to Bitter is the New Black! I laugh so hard reading Jen's books...I feel like I need to go through them with a highlighter so I can remember all of her snarky comments! This book starts where "Bitter" left off...she's learned her lessons about material possessions and is thankful to be gainfully employed, and her observations about her new status are hilarious. People actually submit resumes to catchall email addresses of huge companies? REALLY? Only Jen could discover these airheads and call them out...unfortunately, none of them probably posess the mental equipment to read and/or understand her books!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 20, 2010

    Fun, easy read

    Fun writing, easy to relate to her, makes you feel like you're talking to a friend.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 11, 2010

    I love her writing

    She's like the friend I've never met. V. Funny (the whole reason I had to buy this book is b/c I ruined my friend's copy & had to buy her another one-this book + drinking a glass of water - you get the picture). She's bold, sassy and snarky at times, but you will love her. You won't be disappointed.

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