From the Publisher
"Jamie Shupak's TRANSIT GIRL is a ridiculously fun and funny ride. Her prose sparkles with warmth and wit. It made me wish to be stuck in traffic so I could keep reading!" --Julie Klam, New York Times bestselling author of LOVE AT FIRST BARK
"Jamie Shupak captures the Manhattan singles scene and media landscape perfectly in her hilarious and warm novel TRANSIT GIRL. You'll love this book as much as you love watching her on NY1 every morning." --Paula Froelich, New York Times bestselling author of MERCURY IN RETROGRADE
"A delightful tale of reinvention that reminds us our best laid plans are best left on the cutting room floor. You will laugh and cry with TransIT girl Guiliana Layne as she gives up on her fairy tale ending to rewrite her story her way. No other novel has made me want to take off my top and karaoke to Blurred Lines in quite the same way." --Jo Piazza, author of LOVE REHAB
"There is Jamie Shupak, on The New York Observer’s list of 50 Media Power Bachelorettes. There she is in a fashion spread in The New York Post, holding onto a subway pole while posing in a Marchesa chiffon dress and glittering Badgley Mischka peep-toe pumps, dark tresses tumbling down her shoulders. The headline: “Trans-it girl.'" --The New York Times
"Jamie Shupak is like a shot of espresso petite, potent and wakes up the Big Apple every morning." --The New York Post
"We like NY1's Jamie Shupak for how she brightens our dawns with what should also win New York's best smile. And the entertaining way she teases morning anchor (and best New York Canadian 2007) Pat Kiernan during her traffic updates. Cars could be slamming into one another left and right, tractor-trailers jackknifing and dangling from overpasses, but if it's Shupak reporting it, all is fine with the world." --The Village Voice
"It's reached the point where Jamie Shupak's work has elicited a sort of cult following...In person? The West Villager with the "coolest single girl apartment there ever was" is painfully cute, utterly charming, and in her spare time, a dating columnist for hip hop lifestyle mag Complex, to boot. Resistance is futile." --The New York Observer
"Steamier than a subway platform in July." --New York Daily News
"Better than a steamy SMS, in TRANSIT GIRL Jamie Shupak delivers a dreamy collision of modern romance and girly wit on this transit girl's road to finding real happiness." --Erica Domesek, P.S. I Made This
Read an Excerpt
Am I ever going to see Zelda again?
Her desperate whimpers for help from that cold, sterile cage are still ringing in my ears. My nine hours in the holding cell of the Sixth Precinct are up, but I wish they’d have let her go free instead. She didn't do anything wrong. She didn't ask for this.
Right now I feel almost as innocent as Zelda. Then again, she’s a twenty-two-pound French bulldog and I’m the girl who tore off her shirt in the middle of a spontaneous “Blurred Lines” karaoke session at Tortilla Flats. Did I mention there was a video camera?
I feel like such a failure, and I’m still not even sure how all of this happened. I wish everything could go back to the way it was just a week ago. I had a ring on my finger from a man I’ve loved for a decade, a dog, and an apartment we all shared in the West Village. But the damage is irreversible, and all of that is now gone, stripped from me by a twenty-two-year-old who I thought was my friend. Nothing makes sense anymore.
I’m ashamed, and I don’t even recognize myself. I thought I was doing everything right. I thought I had it all figured out. I met the man of my dreams in college, then we moved to New York and got great jobs. I adopted Zelda for us for his twenty-fifth birthday, and with her, we became a family. Then he asked me to marry him, and we started planning our dream life together. And then I find out he was sleeping with his assistant.
Wouldn't you fight for the dog too?
It felt like she was the only thing I had left. And now that she’s gone, and my fiancé is gone too, the only people waiting for me out here are my viewers.
I have to be on air in exactly fifty-seven minutes.
People always ask me, “How on earth do you wake up at 3:30 every morning to do the traffic?” I laugh, because to me, it’s simple: I roll out of bed. I throw on Spanx. I dry my hair. I apply my makeup. Then, I deliver the news to all of New York.
The question people should ask me would be much more revealing: “When you wake up at 3:30 in the morning to do the traffic, what on earth is your fiancé doing?”