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3.72 AVERAGE
3.72 AVERAGE
I found the majority of this book to be kind of meh, but the last chunk of the book about pregnancy and fertility was super raw, funny, and relatable.
funny
inspiring
lighthearted
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
Absolutely hilarious. Jessi Klein is a gifted comedian & writer that comically recants stories of her life that are relatable for any woman. From being a kid, to bra shopping, breakups, proposals, and epidurals she found a way to make me laugh out loud with every story.
I thought this book was so refreshing. I have become somewhat of a celebrity memoir reader (or listener, rather) lately, and I found this book to be easily one of my favorites. I think Jessi’s essays are smart, funny, honest and relatable. I feel like Jessi wasn’t always concerned with making herself “likable”, which I feel hinders a lot of celebrity memoirs, and by not trying so hard she ended up making herself even more likable in the process. Would definitely recommend this book!
emotional
funny
hopeful
lighthearted
medium-paced
This was certainly a fast read. I enjoyed how the book first started out, and was expecting the whole story to go from a young age to how Jessi was a "Tom-man" as she coined the term. The first maybe half of the novel followed this flow and then the second half the stories were good and entertaining but seemed all over the map compared to the first half. I laughed a bit, and enjoyed reading about how everyone has fears of failure, and the unknown. I enjoyed her "voice" when reading this novel and would encourage anyone who wants to laugh a bit to pick this book up.
funny
lighthearted
medium-paced
Funny but blunt. Liked, but didn't love.
Fave lines (please note: a lot of these are chapter-enders because she was great at that, so, spoilers for sure):
p. 63: Standards are something you accumulate over a lifetime of interacting with potential romantic partners and figuring out, as you encounter new bullshit, what is bullshit you will tolerate and what is undeniably dealbreaker bullshit.
p. 85: He had described himself to me, over and over, as a wounded bird, and I took him seriously. I truly thought it was my responsibility to nurse him back to health.
I thought this until I once again turned to my dear friend Jim, who'd been skeptical since the beginning, for advice, and he wrote me the following wise words in an email:
"Take care of your own bird."
p. 97: In other words, he's nothing I thought I wanted. When we first started dating, I was confused. ... I thought for sure he would be the exception that proved the rule and soon I'd return to some kind of hipster, sugar-addicted rabbinical school dropout. But then something happened:
I loved him.
And he loved me.
He loved me so much that I decided it was time for me to grow the fuck up and make him my new type.
p. 134: That morning I'd started to feel the first little inkling of a cold coming on. This often happens to me in the week leading up to an event that might bring some kind of joy. My body rejects this foreign feeling and crashing.
p. 136: I closed the curtain and put on the medium thong. I looked like a groundhog wearing a tiny belt.
p. 203: Everyone wants a piece of a miss. Miss sounds like you're mostly air, like your body has the magic and delicacy of a wind chime and when you walk down the street everyone around you hears little bells.
Then one day everything changes.
p. 208: But there are also things I don't miss about being miss.
I don't miss being so vulnerable. I don't miss not knowing anything about anything. ... I don't miss people talking to me like I'm a foll-on idiot, even though I often deserved it because that's pretty much what I was. I don't miss not being able to see the most obvious red flags that silly narcissistic men were waving.
I don't miss feeling so horribly unsure about what my path should be in life and feeling deathly afraid of what making the wrong turn might mean.
p. 232: And it occurred to me that imagining death must have been to me on some level less frightening than imagining living--i.e., going forward into this risk, terrifying unknown despite the possibility of failure.
I thought about Joan, and thought about my fear of telling my story and having no one care, and then I thought, Fuck it. I care. I don't care if they care. It's my story.
p. 249: Much is made of the modern phenomenon of FOMO--the fear of missing out--spawned by millions of Instagram and Facebook and twitter photos of people having more fun than you being closer to the ocean than you, showing off better tints and ass than you, standing closer to celebrities than you. You think, I wish I was there, not here But then you get there. And you think, I thought there would be different. I thought it would be more like there. but it's more like here again.. And it never ends.
p. 257: "Natural." It sounds so... natural. So relaxing. So earth goddess. So feminine.
But how often do people really want women to be or do anything "natural"?
It seems to me the answer is almost never. In fact, almost everything "natural" about women is consider pretty fucking horrific. Hairy legs and armpits? Please shave, you furry beast. And while you're at it, don't forget to remove your pubic hair, that's also an abomination. Do you have hips and cellulite? Please go hide in the very back of your shoe closet and turn the light off and stay there until someone tells you to come out (no one will tell you to come out).
It's interesting that no one cares very much about women doing anything "naturally" until involved them being in excruciating pain.
Fave lines (please note: a lot of these are chapter-enders because she was great at that, so, spoilers for sure):
p. 63: Standards are something you accumulate over a lifetime of interacting with potential romantic partners and figuring out, as you encounter new bullshit, what is bullshit you will tolerate and what is undeniably dealbreaker bullshit.
p. 85: He had described himself to me, over and over, as a wounded bird, and I took him seriously. I truly thought it was my responsibility to nurse him back to health.
I thought this until I once again turned to my dear friend Jim, who'd been skeptical since the beginning, for advice, and he wrote me the following wise words in an email:
"Take care of your own bird."
p. 97: In other words, he's nothing I thought I wanted. When we first started dating, I was confused. ... I thought for sure he would be the exception that proved the rule and soon I'd return to some kind of hipster, sugar-addicted rabbinical school dropout. But then something happened:
I loved him.
And he loved me.
He loved me so much that I decided it was time for me to grow the fuck up and make him my new type.
p. 134: That morning I'd started to feel the first little inkling of a cold coming on. This often happens to me in the week leading up to an event that might bring some kind of joy. My body rejects this foreign feeling and crashing.
p. 136: I closed the curtain and put on the medium thong. I looked like a groundhog wearing a tiny belt.
p. 203: Everyone wants a piece of a miss. Miss sounds like you're mostly air, like your body has the magic and delicacy of a wind chime and when you walk down the street everyone around you hears little bells.
Then one day everything changes.
p. 208: But there are also things I don't miss about being miss.
I don't miss being so vulnerable. I don't miss not knowing anything about anything. ... I don't miss people talking to me like I'm a foll-on idiot, even though I often deserved it because that's pretty much what I was. I don't miss not being able to see the most obvious red flags that silly narcissistic men were waving.
I don't miss feeling so horribly unsure about what my path should be in life and feeling deathly afraid of what making the wrong turn might mean.
p. 232: And it occurred to me that imagining death must have been to me on some level less frightening than imagining living--i.e., going forward into this risk, terrifying unknown despite the possibility of failure.
I thought about Joan, and thought about my fear of telling my story and having no one care, and then I thought, Fuck it. I care. I don't care if they care. It's my story.
p. 249: Much is made of the modern phenomenon of FOMO--the fear of missing out--spawned by millions of Instagram and Facebook and twitter photos of people having more fun than you being closer to the ocean than you, showing off better tints and ass than you, standing closer to celebrities than you. You think, I wish I was there, not here But then you get there. And you think, I thought there would be different. I thought it would be more like there. but it's more like here again.. And it never ends.
p. 257: "Natural." It sounds so... natural. So relaxing. So earth goddess. So feminine.
But how often do people really want women to be or do anything "natural"?
It seems to me the answer is almost never. In fact, almost everything "natural" about women is consider pretty fucking horrific. Hairy legs and armpits? Please shave, you furry beast. And while you're at it, don't forget to remove your pubic hair, that's also an abomination. Do you have hips and cellulite? Please go hide in the very back of your shoe closet and turn the light off and stay there until someone tells you to come out (no one will tell you to come out).
It's interesting that no one cares very much about women doing anything "naturally" until involved them being in excruciating pain.
What an incredible book of essays. I read this at the recommendation of Things I Bought and Liked, and it did not disappoint. I listened to the audiobook, and it was so relatable and hilarious.
emotional
funny
reflective
sad
medium-paced
adventurous
funny
inspiring
lighthearted
medium-paced