Sisters Without Misters: A Romcom for Grown-Ups

Elinor Lipman's The View from Penthouse B is very much like her Ms. Demeanor.  Or, rather, Ms. Demeanor is very much like The View from Penthouse B because View came out first.  At any rate, both feature a luxe New York City apartment, second-chance romance, and the juxtaposition of the proper and the salacious, making for a tale that feels appealingly tongue-in-cheek Victorian.  

Fiftyish, widowed Gwen-Laura "Gwen" Schmidt moves in with her divorced big sis Margot at the suggestion of their banker baby sis Betsy.  Betsy thinks that her two near-destitute siblings should lean on each other financially -- and emotionally.  Gwen is subsisting on her late husband's teacher's pension, and Margot lost all her money to none other than Bernie Madoff, her only collateral the penthouse she purchased with her divorce settlement from her indicted doctor ex.  His crime?  Personally inseminating his infertile patients.  But it wasn't the sex that was the problem, as it was, oddly, consensual.  It was the fact that he was shooting (mostly) blanks.  

So the two sisters give it a go, Gwen's near-mousy reserve and Margot's fiery charm (mostly) complementing each other.  They even take in a boarder, the hip yet kind cupcake-baking Anthony, who happens to be unemployed too.  Yet although the three penthouse paupers (cue the Aerosmith) kibitz about nonstarter business ideas and the unexpected reappearance of Margot's ex, the crux of the story is Gwen's reluctance to get back out there.  Although it's been two years since her beloved Edwin died in his sleep due to an undetected heart defect, she can't imagine sharing even an entrée with anyone else.  Nevertheless, she sets up an online dating profile and, to the horror of her roommates, places an ad in The New York Review of Books.  I found her ad to be quaint and endearing.  As for the online bit, the responses she receives leave much to be desired.  But Gwen's journey is a worthwhile one, and I wanted her to get her happy ending.  (Margot not so much, at least not the ending she chooses.)  

Sophisticated, heartfelt, and witty, The View from Penthouse B is a (sometimes dark) matchmaking lark for anyone who never grows up -- or gives up. 

From Texas to LA to Phoenix: Never Judge a Book by its Lover

I'm unsure about the wisdom of promoting a pop princess post with an allusion to Aerosmith lyrics.  Then again, I never bought a Jessica Simpson album or watched MTV's Newlyweds either, so very little of what I'm about to say is vetted.  Still, of all the Y2K-era Top 40 songstresses, Jessica Simpson seemed like the most glamorous -- and the nicest.  Like if you saw her in an airport, she'd say hey instead of having her publicist give you resting bitch face while she slinked off behind her Gucci sunglasses.  Yet it wasn't until Simpson launched her fashion line that I became a genuine fan.  I'd see her clothes hanging in Macy's and think, respect.  Which is funny because the stuff I snagged comes from Boscov's, Marshalls, and ROSS.  Well, at least until last week when I ordered this top from Macy's:

  

Top: Jessica Simpson, Macy's

So, when I heard that Simpson had written a memoir called Open Book, I knew I would read it.  And I'm glad I did.  It's gotten many glowing reviews, but the one that speaks to me comes from Ronan Farrow: "I kind of feel like we all owe her an apology." You know.  For the Chicken of the Sea jokes and dumb blonde digs and other stereotypes that fame -- and we -- forced her to perpetuate.  I get that it's tempting to say that Simpson, like all celebrities, knew what she was getting into. 

But I'm not so sure.  

Open Book draws upon the journals that Simpson kept since she was fifteen, frequently addressing the reader and telling it like it is.  She takes us from her church-singing childhood in Texas to her failed Mickey Mouse Club audition with Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears to her struggles with anxiety and alcoholism after "making it."  Even as a kid, she wanted to fix her family's money problems.  (I once read an article about her having to keep the tags on her clothes because her parents couldn't afford them.  I always thought that was sad; little did I know it was the tip of the iceberg.)  That's a lot of pressure for a little girl, and I can't help but feel that her family -- especially her dad -- took advantage.  This cross, coupled with the sexual abuse Simpson silently endured for years (although not at the hands of her parents; let's not get it twisted) created the perfect storm to tornado through her adult life, leaving her to pick up the pieces. 

Shoes: Jessica Simpson, ROSS; Top: Jessica Simpson, Zulily 

Then there was her storied (but not storybook) marriage to Nick Lachey, which began when she was just twenty-two.  Nick was her first true love, but marriage showed her a new side of him -- and not in a good way.  He wanted a wife who remained in awe of him, who would stunt her own career to cook for him and let him shine.  Competition, jealousy, and plain old lack of common ground rounded out their mere three years and change as Mr. and Mrs.  Their split seems to be the result of what happens when a girl ties the knot before finding out who she is.  (And, okay, stars in a much-hyped reality show designed to pick apart a young marriage.)  That said, misogyny runs rampant through Open Book.  When Simpson was seventeen, her first record label insisted that she go from a healthy 118 pounds to an emaciated 103, planting the germ of the body image issues that would plague her for the next two decades.  And after her divorce, she fell prey to notoriously cruel playboy John Mayer and wolf in sheep's clothing Tony Romo.  Although she maintains that Tony's a good guy, he seemed like a slightly less chauvinistic Nick to me.   

Dress: Jessica Simpson, Marshalls

Anyway, Simpson relays it all with humor, grace, and candor, peeling away the layers of her public persona to show us who she is, flaws and all.  And the person she is seems so normal -- and vulnerable.  So when she reaches rock bottom and knows she needs help, we want her to rise up like the proverbial phoenix and shine.  When she does, she finally finds peace, making Open Book not a lurid Hollywood tell-all, but a brave account of growth and empowerment.  At the end of the book, Simpson writes:

"I knew that I would be ending this book tonight, and for a long time I feared this very moment.  There's a permanence to getting your thoughts down that can feel like a last testament.  . . . I worried that writing a book represented the end of something.  Now, I see my life is just beginning.  I have a better footing now for retracing the steps that got me here." (400)   

It's a heartfelt message for anyone, whether she (or he!) be a recording artist or a tone-deaf toll taker.

On that, ahem, note, here I am sporting a cruise-ship-meets-motorcycle ensemble featuring a Jessica Simpson top.  (Ptomaine-laden buffets being what they are, the bike is far less risky than the boat.)  It's the first (not to mention the most colorful) Jessica Simpson thing I bought, and as such is a much-treasured piece. 

         

Top: Jessica Simpson, Boscov's

Jacket: Candie's, Kohl's

Pants: True Freedom, Sears

Now I guess it's time to get on my bike and ride.  Even though I don't have a fat bottom (or a bike), and this isn't a post about Queen.