Dear Lit Loves,
So recently I wrote a blog post regarding a contributing editor who perpetually ticked me off when she completed a blog post for a digital magazine in which she outlined what she automatically knows about a woman who wears anything related to Lilly Pulitzer. If you read my last blog post, I'm sure you will understand why I became blatantly angry with this contributing editor and decided to make my own rebuttal regarding her assumptions or "known facts" she adheres to when encountering women who wear Lilly Pulitzer. Now, I have come upon an author of a memoir who places herself within the same demographic as me, Generation X; however, I assure you I do not identify with this author and really found absolutely no humor in her memoir. So here goes. I recently attempted to read, and after putting the book down many times due to disgust, did finish the memoir entitled The Madwoman in the Volvo: My Year of Raging Hormones by Sandra Tsing Loh. To be fair, the memoir had gotten some good press and it was advertised as one of the 100 notable books of 2014 by The New York Times Book Review. And hence, there goes my faith in the book reviewers at The New York Times.
Let me try to explain this memoir in a nutshell: The author is a woman approaching the age of fifty and she's married to some "allegedly" major guitarist whom she refers to as "Mr. X". He is on the road quite a bit and they have two children together and apparently lived in a rather nice home in California. At this point, I think the author and guitarist had been married for maybe twenty years when essentially the author has some kind of hormonal whiplash and has an emotional and physical nuclear meltdown. Obviously, she was experiencing menopause, but it apparently didn't occur to her that this might be the case until she pulled her Volvo off the side of a road, found herself in a state of anger, tears, depression, panic, and then called a friend who told her about the concept of menopause. I just want to say that there were so many moments during the reading of this book that I wanted to yell, "Oh God! Don't be a nitwit, for Christ's sake! Put on your big girl panties, take a freaking Valium, see a gynecologist and pull yourself together!!"
Long story short, the author divorces the guitarist, who by the way I had never heard of, and she seemingly discovers the love of her life in a man who is somehow also managing her career. She calls him "Mr Y" and all this goes down when the two of them decide to go to some Burning Man refuge out in a desert. Personally, I think they had both been inhaling a few too many fumes. So the author sets out to find her some kind of refurbished house, splits time with her children on a fifty/fifty basis with her ex-husband, and also has "Mr. Y" move in with her. "Mr Y" then returns to his wife and kids briefly before I believe, though I can't' be sure, his wife throws him out and divorces him. Hence, he goes back to live with the author of the book.
In the meantime I'm learning as I continue reading, why I have no idea other than that I promised myself I would review this memoir, that the author's mother died of dementia at age 59. And her father has married umpteen Asian women, has rented the rooms of his home out to some questionable tenants, periodically goes through trash cans or dumpsters, and is eventually found at his home unresponsive by the author. The author, after calling her sister first to tell her she thinks their father is dead, finally calls 911. The father goes to the hospital and we discover that he is not dead, but dehydrated. I don't think this author was required like I was to take CPR before graduating high school; otherwise, I think she would have known what to check for regarding her father's health status when she found him at home unresponsive. And to beat it all, the author's father places his monies in bogus banking accounts and oftentimes forges his daughter's signature. I know what you're thinking, Grace would have had the "Come To God" meeting with that dadio right then and there, but this isn't my book dearest Lit Lovies.
So eventually the author and "Mr. Y" throw themselves into couples therapy because she's upset that he has taken on the role of executive producer of some play for six to eight weeks and he is never home. And then honest to Jesus, it was just a whine fest. He doesn't do his household chores, he doesn't remember appointments, his stuff is all over the house in "nests", he's not home to have supper at a decent hour, they barely see each other, etc. etc. I'm hoping by this point in the book that someone gets this woman to a gynecologist who will give her some copious amounts of Estrogen, Xanax, Prozac, and Restoril because honestly, I have legitimate reasons for taking all these drugs, but this author needs them more than I do and she needs them daily and not on an "as needed" basis as I do. Truly, reading this memoir brought me to the point of knowing for sure how some people manage to have so much success in their lives and are still terribly unhappy with life.
Finally, the author goes to spend time with a friend who lives in some extraordinary home in California and is married to a quite domesticated man. The author is ready to move in and proceed to possibly take up a residence with them. It dawns on me at this point in the book: This woman wants and probably requires a handmaiden, butler, or executive assistant as opposed to a husband or significant other. THANK GOD, the author finally sees a gynecologist who prescribes estrogen gel and the author also decides to find various books on how to survive menopause which she discovers is truly a revelation. Why On God's Green Earth She Didn't Do This To Begin With, I Have No Idea!!
In the end, the author starts giving tips on how we middle-aged, Generation Xers should handle menopause. Lord help her because she could have learned all this had she just Googled the word "Menopause". Okay Lit Loves, I am not claiming this author chick to be part of my Generation X. There, I've said it. I thought she needed to get over herself and her Texas-sized ego. And if I ever act or behave in any fashion as this author describes in this book, please, dear close friends or maybe my brother, smack me back into reality, throw a bucket of cold water on top of me, or have me jailed for a day until I get my compass pointed properly, okay?!
And hey, was it really necessary to diss other memoir writers in the book? I thought that was just suggestive of delinquent behavior, okay? And um no, fellow Lit Loves, I will not be recommending this memoir to you. I will be recycling this book in the very near future. It's not my cup of tea. I don't live in Orange County, California, have a television or radio show, was never married to a guitarist, and most certainly DO NOT feel I need a maid or servant. Oh, Hell To The No Lit Lovies! I clean my own house, regularly see medical specialists for all sorts of weird maladies, and most of all, I know how to find and make my own happiness. And for that I thank my Dad who is no longer here, but I sure as heck fire do reflect his humble, humorous, personable, curious, and wild-natured self.
Do with this memoir what you will Lit Lovies. I am now moving on to reading the memoir entitled Pieces of my Mother by Melissa Cistaro. Until my next review, update, or soap box rant, walk around proudly with a good book, read it, and then critically think to yourself, was this worth my time?
Peace,
Grace
(Amy)
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